As he shifted the heavy honey to his other shoulder, a bent little man of forty-three, growing bald, with rheumatism already nibbling at his joints, a bough of jessamine flailed him on the cheek. The garden had seldom been so lovely: that, also, he owed to Maria-Veronica. Admitting some adroitness with his hands, he could not remotely claim to have green fingers. But Reverend Mother had revealed an unsuspected skill in growing things. Seeds had arrived from her home in Germany, bundles of shoots wrapped tenderly in sacking. Her letters, begging for this cutting and for that, had sped to famous gardens in Canton and Peking – like his own swift white doves, importunate and homing. This beauty which now surrounded him, this sun-shot sanctuary, alive with twittering hum, was her work.
Their comradeship was not unlike this precious garden. Here, indeed, when he took his evening walk, he would find her, intent, coarsely gloved, cutting the full white peonies that grew so freely, training a stray clematis, watering the golden azaleas. There they would briefly discuss the business of the day. Sometimes they did not speak. When the fireflies flitted in the garden they had gone their separate ways.
As he approached the upper gate he saw the children march in twos across the compound. Dinner. He smiled and hastened. They were seated at the long low table in the new annex to the dormitory, two-score little blue-black polls and shining yellow faces, with Maria-Veronica at one end, Clotilde at the other. Martha, aided by the Chinese novices, was ladling steaming rice broth into a battery of blue bowls. Anna, his foundling of the snow, now a handsome girl, handed round the bowls with her usual air of dark and frowning reserve.
The clamour stilled upon his entry. He shot a shamed boyish look at the Reverend Mother, craving indulgence, and placed the honey jar triumphantly on the table.
‘Fresh honey today, children! It is a great pity. I am sure no one wishes it!’
Shrill, immediate denial rose like the chatter of little monkeys. Suppressing his smile he shook his head dolefully at the youngest, a solemn mandarin of three who sat swallowing his spoon, swaying dreamily, his soft small buttocks unstable on the bench.
‘I cannot believe a good child could enjoy such monstrous depravity! Tell me, Symphorien –’ It was dreadful the way in which new converts chose the most resounding saint names for their children – ‘ Tell me, Symphorien … would you not rather learn nice catechism than eat honey?’
‘Honey!’ answered Symphorien dreamily. He stared at the lined brown face above him. Then, surprised by his own temerity, he burst into tears and fell off the bench.
Laughing, Father Chisholm picked up the child. ‘There, there! You are a good boy, Symphorien. God loves you. And for speaking the truth you shall have double honey.’
He felt Maria-Veronica’s reproving gaze upon him. She would presently follow him to the door and murmur: ‘Father … we must consider discipline!’ But today – it seemed so long since he stood outside the buzzing classroom, troubled and unhappy, afraid to penetrate the chill unfriendly air – nothing could restrain his manner with the children. His fondness towards them had always been absurd, it was what he named his patriarchal privilege.
As he expected, Maria-Veronica accompanied him from the room but, though her brow seemed unusually clouded, she did not even mildly rebuke him. Instead, after some hesitation, she remarked: ‘Joseph had a strange story this morning.’
‘Yes. The rascal wants to get married … naturally. But he is deafening me with the beauties and convenience of a lodge … to be built at the mission gate … not, of course, for Joseph or for Joseph’s wife … but solely for the benefit of the mission.’
‘No, it isn’t the lodge.’ Unsmiling, she bit her lip. ‘The building is taking place elsewhere, in the Street of the Lanterns – you know that splendid central site – and on a grander scale, much grander than anything we have accomplished here.’ Her tone was strangely bitter. ‘Scores of workmen have arrived, barges of white stone from Sen-siang. Everything. I assure you money is being spent as only American millionaires can spend it. Soon we shall have the finest establishment in Pai-tan, with schools, for both boys and girls, a playground, public rice kitchen, free dispensary, and a hospital with resident doctor!’ She broke off, gazing at him with tears in her troubled eyes.
‘What establishment?’ He spoke automatically, stunned by a presage of her answer.
‘Another mission. Protestant. The American Methodists.’
There was a long pause. Secure in the remoteness of his situation, he had never contemplated even the possibility of such intrusion. Reverend Mother, recalled to the refectory by Clotilde, left him in painful silence.
He walked slowly towards his house, all the brightness of the morning dimmed. Where was his mediaeval fortress now? In a quick throwback to his childhood, he had the same sensation of injustice as when, out berry-picking, another boy had encroached upon a secret bush of his own discovery and rudely begun to strip it of its fruit. He knew the hatreds which developed between rival missions, the ugly jealousies, above all, the bickerings on points of doctrine, the charge and countercharge, the raucous denunciation which made the Christian faith appear, to the tolerant Chinese mind, an infernal tower of Babel where all shouted at lung-pitch: ‘Behold, it is here! Here! Here!’ But where? Alas! When one looked, there was nothing but rage and sound and execration.
At his house he found Joseph, duster in hand, idling about the hall, in pretence of work, waiting to bemoan the news.
‘Has Father heard of the hateful coming of these Americans who worship the false God?’
‘Be silent, Joseph!’ The priest answered harshly. ‘ They do not worship the false God, but the same true God as we. If you speak such words again you will never get your gate-house!’
Joseph edged away, grumbling beneath his breath.
In the afternoon Father Chisholm went down to Pai-tan and, in the Street of the Lanterns, received the fateful confirmation of his eyes. Yes, the new mission was begun – was rising rapidly under the hands of many squads of masons, carpenters, and coolies. He watched a string of labourers, swaying along a strip of planking, bearing baskets of the finest Soochin glaze. He saw that the scale of operations was princely.
As he lingered there, with his thoughts for company, he suddenly discovered Mr Chia at his elbow. He greeted his old friend quietly.
As they talked of the fineness of the weather and the general excellence of trade, Francis sensed more than the usual kindness in the merchant’s manner.
Suddenly, having appeased the proprieties, Mr Chia guilelessly remarked: ‘It is pleasant to observe the excess growth of goodness, though many would consider it a superfluity. For myself I much enjoy walking in other mission gardens. Moreover, when the Father came here, many years ago he received much ill-usage.’ A gentle and suggestive pause. ‘It seems highly probable, even to such an uninfluential and lowly-placed citizen as I, that the new missioners could receive such execrable treatment on their arrival that they might be most regretfully forced to depart.’
A shiver passed over Father Chisholm as an unbelievable temptation assailed him. The ambuiguity, the forced understatement, of the merchant’s remark was more significant than the direct threat. Mr Chia, in many subtle and subterranean ways, wielded the greatest power in the district. Francis knew that he need only answer, gazing into space: ‘ It would certainly be a great misfortune if disaster befell the coming missioners … But then, who can prevent the will of heaven?’ to foredoom the threatened invasion of his pastorate. But he recoiled, abhorring himself for the thought. Conscious of a cold perspiration on his brow, he replied as calmly as he could:
‘There are many gates to heaven. We enter by one, these new preachers by another. How can we deny them the right to practise virtue in their own way? If they desire it, then they must come.’
He did not observe that spark of singular regard which for once irradiated Mr Chia’s placid eye. Still deeply disturbed, he parted from his friend and walked homeward up the hill. He entered the chur
ch and seated himself, for he was tired, before the crucifix on the side altar. Gazing at the face, haloed with thorns, he prayed, in his mind, for endurance, wisdom, and forbearance.
By the end of June the Methodist mission was near completion. For all his fortitude, Father Chisholm had not brought himself to view the successive stages of construction; he had sombrely avoided the Street of the Lanterns. But when Joseph, who had not failed as a baleful informant, brought news that the two foreign devils had arrived, the little priest sighed, put on his one good suit, took his tartan umbrella, and steeled himself to call.
When he rang the door bell the sound echoed emptily into the new smell of paint and plaster. But after waiting indeterminately for a minute under the green-glass portico, he heard hastening steps within, and the door was opened by a small faded middle-aged woman in a grey alpaca skirt and high-necked blouse.
‘Good afternoon. I am Father Chisholm. I took the liberty of calling to welcome you to Pai-tan.’
She started nervously and a look of quick apprehension flooded her pale blue eyes.
‘Oh, yes. Please come in. I am Mrs Fiske. Wilbur … my husband … Dr Fiske … he’s upstairs. I’m afraid we are all alone, and not quite settled yet!’ Hurriedly, she silenced his regretful protest. ‘No, no … you must step in.’
He followed her upstairs to a cool, lofty room, where a man of forty, clean-shaven, with a short-cropped moustache, and of her own diminutive size, was perched on a stepladder methodically arranging books upon the shelves. He wore strong glasses over his intelligent, apologetic, short-sighted eyes. His baggy cotton knickers gave his thin little calves an indescribable pathos. Descending the ladder, he stumbled, almost fell.
‘Do be careful, Wilbur!’ Her hands fluttered protectively. She introduced the two men. ‘ Now let’s sit down … if we can.’ She unsuccessfully attempted a smile. ‘It’s too bad not having our furniture … but then one gets used to anything in China.’
They sat down. Father Chisholm said pleasantly:
‘You have a magnificent building here.’
‘Yes.’ Dr Fiske deprecated. ‘ We’re very lucky. Mr Chandler, the oil magnate, is most generous with us.’
A strained silence. They so little fulfilled the priest’s uneasy expectations he felt taken unawares. He could not claim gigantic stature, yet the Fiskes, by the very sparseness of their physical economy, silenced the merest whisper of aggression. The little doctor was mild, with a bookish, even timid air, and a smile, depracating, about his lips, as though afraid to settle. His wife, more clearly distinguishable in this good light, was a gentle, steadfast creature, her blue eyes easily receptive of tears, her hands alternating between her thin gold locket chain and a frizzy pad of rich, net-enclosed, brown hair which, with a slight shock, Francis perceived to be a wig.
Suddenly Dr Fiske cleared his throat. He said, simply: ‘How you must hate our coming here!’
‘Oh, no … not at all.’ It was the priest’s turn to look awkward.
‘We had the same experience once. We were up-country in the Lan-hi province, a lovely place. I wish you’d seen our peach trees. We had it all to ourselves for nine years. Then another missionary came. Not,’ he inserted swiftly, ‘a Catholic priest. But, well … We did resent it, didn’t we, Agnes?’
‘We did, dear.’ She nodded tremulously. ‘Still … we got over it. We are old campaigners, Father.’
‘Have you been long in China?’
‘Over twenty years! We came as an insanely young couple the day we were married. We have given our lives to it.’ The moisture in her eyes receded before a bright and eager smile. ‘Wilbur! I must show Father Chisholm John’s photograph.’ She rose, proudly took a silver-framed portrait from the bare mantelpiece. ‘This is our boy, taken when he was at Harvard, before he went as Rhodes Scholar to Oxford. Yes, he’s still in England … working in our dockland settlement in Tynecastle.’
The name shattered his strained politeness. ‘ Tynecastle!’ He smiled. ‘That is very near my home.’
She gazed at him, enchanted, smiling back, holding the photograph to her bosom with tender hands.
‘Isn’t that amazing? The world is such a small place after all.’ Briskly she replaced the photograph on the mantel. ‘Now I’m going to bring in coffee, and some of my very own doughnuts … a family recipe.’ Again she silenced his protests. ‘It’s no trouble. I always make Wilbur take a little refreshment at this hour. He has had some bother with his duodenum. If I didn’t look after him who would?’
He had meant to stay for five minutes; he remained for more than an hour.
They were New England people, natives of the town of Biddeford, in Maine, born, reared and married in the tenets of their own strict faith. As they spoke of their youth he had a swift and strangely sympathetic vision of a cold crisp countryside, of great salty rivers flowing between wands of silver birches to the misty sea, past white wooden houses amidst the wine of maples and sumac, velvet-red in winter, a thin white steeple above the village, with bells and dark silent figures in the frosted street, following their quiet destiny.
But the Fiskes had chosen another and harder path. They had suffered. Both had almost died of cholera. During the Boxer rebellion, when many of their fellow missioners were massacred, they had spent six months in a filthy prison under daily threat of execution. Their devotion to each other, and to their son, was touching. She had, for all her tremulousness, an indomitable maternal solicitude towards her two men.
Despite her antecedents, Agnes Fiske was a pure romantic whose life was written in a host of tender souvenirs she so carefully preserved. Soon she was showing Francis a letter of her dear mother’s, a quarter of a century old, with the formula for these doughnuts, and a curl from John’s head worn within her locket. Upstairs in her drawer were many more such tokens: bundles of yellowing correspondence, her withered bridal bouquet, a front tooth her son had shed, the ribbon she had worn at her first Biddeford Church Social …
Her health was frail and presently, once this new venture was established, she was leaving for a six months’ vacation which she would spend in England with her son. Already, with an earnestness that presaged her goodwill, she pressed Father Chisholm to entrust her with any commissions he might wish executed at home.
When, at last, he took his leave, she escorted him beyond the portico, where Dr Fiske stood, to the outer gate. Her eyes filled up with tears. ‘I can’t tell you how relieved, how glad I am at your kindness, your friendliness in calling … especially for Wilbur’s sake. At our last station he had such a painful experience – hatreds stirred up, frightful bigotry. It got so bad, latterly, when he went out to see a sick man he was struck and knocked senseless by a young brute of a … missionary who accused him of stealing the man’s immortal soul.’ She suppressed her emotion. ‘Let us help one another. Wilbur is such a clever doctor. Call on him any time you wish.’ She pressed his hand quickly and turned away.
Father Chisholm went home in a curious state of mind. For the next few days he had no news of the Fiskes. But on Saturday a batch of homebaked cookies arrived at St Andrew’s. As he took them, still warm and wrapped in the white napkin, to the children’s refectory, Sister Martha scowled.
‘Does she think we cannot bake here – this new woman?’
‘She is trying to be kind, Martha. And we also must try.’
For several months Sister Clotilde had suffered from a painful irritation of her skin. All sorts of lotions had been used, from calamine to carbolic, but without success. So distressing was the affliction she made a special novena for a cure. The following week Father Chisholm saw her rubbing her red excoriated hands in a torment of itching. He frowned and, fighting his own reluctance, sent a note to Dr Fiske.
The doctor arrived within half an hour, quietly examined the patient in Reverend Mother’s presence, used no resounding words, praised the treatment that had been given and, having mixed a special physic to be taken internally every three hours, unobtrusively departed.
In ten days the ugly rash had vanished and Sister Clotilde was a new woman. But after the first radiance she brought a troubling scruple to her confession.
‘Father … I prayed to God so earnestly … and …’
‘It was the Protestant missionary who cured you?’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘My child … don’t let your faith be troubled. God did answer your prayer. We are his instruments … every one of us.’ He smiled suddenly. ‘ Don’t forget what old Lao-tzu said – “ Religions are many, reason is one, we are all brothers”.’
That same evening as he walked in the garden Maria-Veronica said to him, almost unwillingly:
‘This American … he is a good doctor.’
He nodded. ‘And a good man.’
The work of the two missions marched forward without conflict. There was room for both in Pai-tan, and each was careful not to give offence. The wisdom of Father Chisholm’s determination to have no rice-Christians in his flock was now apparent. Only one of his congregation betook himself to Lantern Street, and he was returned with a brief note: ‘ Dear Chisholm, the bearer is a bad Catholic but would be a worse Methodist. Ever, Your friend in the Universal God, Wilbur Fiske. MD PS If any of your people need hospitalization send them along. They’ll receive no dark hints on the fallibility of the Borgias!’
The priest’s heart glowed. Dear Lord, he thought, kindness and toleration – with these two virtues how wonderful Thy earth would be!