University of Virginia Library

JOHN CHINAMAN.

THE expression of the Chinese face in the
aggregate is neither cheerful nor happy. In
an acquaintance of half a dozen years, I can
only recall one or two exceptions to this rule.
There is an abiding consciousness of degradation,
— a secret pain or self-humiliation visible in the
lines of the mouth and eye. Whether it is only
a modification of Turkish gravity, or whether it
is the dread Valley of the Shadow of the Drug
through which they are continually straying, I
cannot say. They seldom smile, and their laughter
is of such an extraordinary and sardonic nature
— so purely a mechanical spasm, quite independent
of any mirthful attribute — that to this
day I am doubtful whether I ever saw a Chinaman
laugh. A theatrical representation by natives,
one might think, would have set my mind at ease
on this point; but it did not. Indeed, a new difficulty
presented itself, — the impossibility of determining
whether the performance was a tragedy
or farce. I thought I detected the low comedian
in an active youth who turned two somersaults,
and knocked everybody down on entering the

stage. But, unfortunately, even this classic resemblance
to the legitimate farce of our civilization
was deceptive. Another brocaded actor, who represented
the hero of the play, turned three somersaults,
and not only upset my theory and his fellow-actors
at the same time, but apparently run
a-muck behind the scenes for some time afterward.
I looked around at the glinting white
teeth to observe the effect of these two palpable
hits. They were received with equal acclamation,
and apparently equal facial spasms. One or two
beheadings which enlivened the play produced
the same sardonic effect, and left upon my mind
a painful anxiety to know what was the serious
business of life in China. It was noticeable, however,
that my unrestrained laughter had a discordant
effect, and that triangular eyes sometimes
turned ominously toward the “Fanqui devil”;
but as I retired discreetly before the play was
finished, there were no serious results. I have
only given the above as an instance of the impossibility
of deciding upon the outward and superficial
expression of Chinese mirth. Of its inner
and deeper existence I have some private doubts.
An audience that will view with a serious aspect
the hero, after a frightful and agonizing death,
get up and quietly walk off the stage, cannot be
said to have remarkable perceptions of the ludicrous.

I have often been struck with the delicate pliability
of the Chinese expression and taste, that
might suggest a broader and deeper criticism than
is becoming these pages. A Chinaman will adopt
the American costume, and wear it with a taste of
color and detail that will surpass those “native,
and to the manner born.” To look at a Chinese
slipper, one might imagine it impossible to shape
the original foot to anything less cumbrous and
roomy, yet a neater-fitting boot than that belonging
to the Americanized Chinaman is rarely seen
on this side of the Continent. When the loose
sack or paletot takes the place of his brocade
blouse, it is worn with a refinement and grace that
might bring a jealous pang to the exquisite of our
more refined civilization. Pantaloons fall easily
and naturally over legs that have known unlimited
freedom and bagginess, and even garrote collars
meet correctly around sun-tanned throats. The
new expression seldom overflows in gaudy cravats.
I will back my Americanized Chinaman against
any neophyte of European birth in the choice of
that article. While in our own State, the Greaser
resists one by one the garments of the Northern
invader, and even wears the livery of his conqueror
with a wild and buttonless freedom, the Chinaman,
abused and degraded as he is, changes
by correctly graded transition to the garments of
Christian civilization. There is but one article of

European wear that he avoids. These Bohemian
eyes have never yet been pained by the spectacle
of a tall hat on the head of an intelligent Chinaman.

My acquaintance with John has been made up
of weekly interviews, involving the adjustment of
the washing accounts, so that I have not been able
to study his character from a social view-point or
observe him in the privacy of the domestic circle.
I have gathered enough to justify me in believing
him to be generally honest, faithful, simple, and
painstaking. Of his simplicity let me record an
instance where a sad and civil young Chinaman
brought me certain shirts with most of the buttons
missing and others hanging on delusively by
a single thread. In a moment of unguarded irony
I informed him that unity would at least have
been preserved if the buttons were removed altogether.
He smiled sadly and went away. I
thought I had hurt his feelings, until the next
week when he brought me my shirts with a look of
intelligence, and the buttons carefully and totally
erased. At another time, to guard against his
general disposition to carry off anything as soiled
clothes that he thought could hold water, I requested
him to always wait until he saw me.
Coming home late one evening, I found the household
in great consternation, over an immovable
Celestial who had remained seated on the front

door-step during the day, sad and submissive, firm
but also patient, and only betraying any animation
or token of his mission when he saw me coming.
This same Chinaman evinced some evidences of
regard for a little girl in the family, who in her
turn reposed such faith in his intellectual qualities
as to present him with a preternaturally uninteresting
Sunday-school book, her own property.
This book John made a point of carrying ostentatiously
with him in his weekly visits. It appeared
usually on the top of the clean clothes,
and was sometimes painfully clasped outside of
the big bundle of solid linen. Whether John believed
he unconsciously imbibed some spiritual
life through its pasteboard cover, as the Prince in
the Arabian Nights imbibed the medicine through
the handle of the mallet, or whether he wished to
exhibit a due sense of gratitude, or whether he
had n't any pockets, I have never been able to
ascertain. In his turn he would sometimes cut
marvellous imitation roses from carrots for his little
friend. I am inclined to think that the few
roses strewn in John's path were such scentless
imitations. The thorns only were real. From the
persecutions of the young and old of a certain
class, his life was a torment. I don't know what
was the exact philosophy that Confucius taught,
but it is to be hoped that poor John in his persecution
is still able to detect the conscious hate
and fear with which inferiority always regards the
possibility of even-handed justice, and which is
the key-note to the vulgar clamor about servile
and degraded races.