1705041479

1705041480 My host lit a cigarette. His voice at first had been thin and tired, but as he grew interested in what he said it gained volume. He talked vehemently. There was in him none of the repose of the sage. He was a polemist and a fighter. He loathed the modern cry for individualism. For him society was the unit, and the family the foundation of society. He upheld the old China and the old school, monarchy, and the rigid canon of Confucius. He grew violent and bitter as he spoke of the students, fresh from foreign universities, who with sacrilegious hands tore down the oldest civilization in the world.

1705041481

1705041482 “But you, do you know what you are doing?” he exclaimed,“what is the reason for which you deem yourselves our betters? Have you excelled us in arts or letters? Has our civilization been less elaborate, less complicated, less refined than yours? Why, when you lived in caves and clothed yourselves with skins we were a cultured people. Do you know that we tried an experiment which is unique in the history of the world? We sought to rule this great country not by force but by wisdom. And for centuries we succeeded. Then why does the white men despise the yellow? Shall I tell you? Because he has invented the machine gun. That is your superiority. We are a defenseless horde and you can blow us into eternity. You have shattered the dream of our philosophers that the world could be governed by the power of law and order. And now you are teaching our young men your secret. You have thrust your hideous inventions upon us. Do you not know that we have a genius for mechanics? Do you not know that there are in this country four hundred millions of the most practical and industrious people in the world? Do you think it will take us long to learn? And what will become of your superiority when the yellow man can make as good guns as the white and fire them as straight? You have appealed to the machine gun and by the machine gun shall you be judged.”

1705041483

1705041484 But at that moment we were interrupted. A little girl come softly in and nestled close up to the old gentleman. She stared at me with curious eyes. He told me that she was his youngest child. He put his arms round her and with a murmur of caressing words kissed her fondly. She wore a black coat and trousers that barely reached her ankles, and she had a long pigtail hanging down her back. She was born on the day the revolution was brought to a successful issue by the abdication of the emperor.

1705041485

1705041486 “I thought she heralded the Spring of the new era,” he said. “She was but the last flower of this great nation’s Fall.”

1705041487

1705041488 From a drawer in his roll-top desk he took a few cash, and handing them to her, sent her away.

1705041489

1705041490 “You see that I wear a queue,” he said, taking it in his hands. “It is a symbol. I am the last representative of the Old China.”

1705041491

1705041492 He talked to me, more gently now, of how philosophers in long past days wandered from state to state with their disciples, teaching all who were worthy to learn. Kings called them to their councils and made them rulers of cities. His erudition was great and his eloquent phrases gave a multicolored vitality to the incidents he related to me of the history of his country. I could not help thinking him a somewhat pathetic figure. He felt in himself the capacity to administer the state, but there was no king to intrust him with office; he had vast stores of learning which he was eager to impart to the great band of students that his soul hankered after, and there came to listen but a few wretched, half-starved, and obtuse provincials.

1705041493

1705041494 Once or twice discretion had made me suggest that I should take my leave, but he had been unwilling to let me go. Now at last I was obliged to. I rose. He held my hand.

1705041495

1705041496 “I should like to give you something as a recollection of your visit to the last philosopher in China, but I am a poor man and I do not know what I can give you that would be worthy of your acceptance.”

1705041497

1705041498 I protested that the recollection of my visit was in itself a priceless gift. He smiled.

1705041499

1705041500 “Men have short memories in these degenerate days, and I should like to give you something more substantial. I would give you one of my books but you cannot read Chinese.”

1705041501

1705041502 He looked at me with an amicable perplexity. I had an inspiration.

1705041503

1705041504 “Give me a sample of your calligraphy,” I said.

1705041505

1705041506 “Would you like that?” He smiled. “In my youth I was considered to wield the brush in a manner that was not entirely despicable.”

1705041507

1705041508 He sat down at his desk, took a fair sheet of paper, and placed it before him. He poured a few drops of water on a stone, rubbed the ink stick in it, and took his brush. With a free movement of his arm he began to write. And as I watched him, I remembered with not a little amusement something else which had been told me of him. It appeared that the old gentleman, whenever he could scrape a little money together, spent it wantonly in the streets inhabited by ladies to describe whom a euphemism is generally used. His eldest son, a person of standing in the city, was vexed and humiliated by the scandal of this behavior; and only his strong sense of filial duty prevented him from reproaching the libertine with severity. I dare say that to a son such looseness would be disconcerting, but the student of human nature could look upon it with equanimity. Philosophers are apt to elaborate their theories in the study, forming conclusions upon life which they know only at second hand, and it has seemed to me often that their works would have a more definite significance if they had exposed themselves to the vicissitudes which befall the common run of men. I was prepared to regard the old gentleman’s dalliance in hidden places with leniency. Perhaps he sought but to elucidate the most inscrutable of human illusions.

1705041509

1705041510 He finished. To dry the ink he scattered a little ash on the paper and rising handed it to me.

1705041511

1705041512 “What have you written?” I asked.

1705041513

1705041514 I thought there was a slightly malicious gleam in his eyes. “I have ventured to offer you two little poems of my own.”

1705041515

1705041516 “I did not know you were a poet.”

1705041517

1705041518 “When China was still an uncivilized country,” he retorted with sarcasm, “all educated men could write verse at least with elegance.”

1705041519

1705041520 I took the paper and looked at the Chinese characters. They made an agreeable pattern upon it.

1705041521

1705041522 “Won’t you also give me a translation?”

1705041523

1705041524 “Traductore—tradittore,” he answered. “You cannot expect me to betray myself. Ask one of your English friends. Those who know most about China know nothing, but you will at least find one who is competent to give you a rendering of a few rough and simple lines.”

1705041525

1705041526 I bade him farewell, and with great politeness he showed me to my chair. When I had the opportunity I gave the poems to a sinologue of my acquaintance, and here is the version he made. I confess that, doubtless unreasonably, I was somewhat taken aback when I read it.

1705041527

1705041528 “You loved me not: your voice was sweet;

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