'I thought she heralded the Spring of a new era,' he said. 'She was but the last flower of this great nation's Fall.'
From a drawer in his roll-top desk he took a few cash, and handing them to her, sent her away.
'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.'
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 multicoloured 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 entrust 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.
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.
'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.'
I protested that the recollection of my visit was in itself a priceless gift. He smiled.
'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.'
He looked at me with an amicable perplexity. I had an inspiration.
'Give me a sample of your calligraphy,' I said.
'Would you like that?' He smiled. 'In my youth I was considered to wield the brush in a manner that was not entirely despicable.'
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 the 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 behaviour; and only his strong sense of filial duty prevented him from reproaching the libertine with severity. I daresay 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.
He finished. To dry the ink he scattered a little ash on the paper and rising handed it to me.
'What have you written?' I asked.
I thought there was a slightly malicious gleam in his eyes.
'I have ventured to offer you two little poems of my own.'
'I did not know you were a poet.'
'When China was still an uncivilised country,' he retorted with sarcasm, 'all educated men could write verse at least with elegance.'
I took the paper and looked at the Chinese characters. They made an agreeable pattern upon it.
'Won't you also give me a translation?'
'Tradwtore -- 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.'
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.
You loved me not: your voice was sweet;
Your eyes were full of laughter; your hands were tender.
And then you loved me: your voice was bitter;
Your eyes were full of tears; your hands were cruel.
Sad, sad that love should make you
Unlovable.
I craved the years would quickly pass
That you might lose
The brightness of your eyes, the peach-bloom of your skin,
And all the cruel splendour of your youth.
Then I alone would love you
And you at last would care.
The envious years have passed full soon
