Part 4

There is a law prohibiting beggars from invading the Foreign Settlement, but the law is lax and beggars--the maimed, the halt, and the blind--are all too numerous. Parents often mutilate their young children or twist their little bodies out of shape by confining them in a deep earthen vessel, intended to hold water, in order to make them successful beggars. Yet the blind eyes can many times see, and the poverty-stricken frequently have stowed away snug little sums of money, quite sufficient to keep them in comfort the rest of their lives. Begging in Shanghai is a profession, like any other, and there are beggars’ guilds and beggars’ camps where the tribes congregate. To watch them about five or six at night, trooping home to their mat sheds, with the day’s earnings securely stowed away on their dirty persons, is something to be remembered. Formerly there was a Beggar King, a regal sort of personage in spite of his rags, who with a band of associates made laws, adjudged cases, etc., but of late years the organization has been less complete. Foreigners as a rule do not make a practice of dispensing charity on the street. A certain benevolently minded individual, however, on arriving in Shanghai decided that it was his duty never to refuse to give alms. It soon fell out in consequence that he scarcely dared venture away from his own dooryard, and life became a burden until he had wrought a complete change in his habits.

The majority of the Chinese people in the Foreign Settlement live in lanes that lead off at right angles from the highways. Only fifteen or twenty feet wide, they are not open to vehicle traffic, being paved with cement, and are squalid or measurably clean according to the locality and the community inhabiting them. The houses are almost precisely alike, except that some have two living rooms, one above the other, and some have four, with several very small ones at the back. In front is a tiny open court shut in by a cement wall reaching to the second story. Through a wide double door in this wall, which wall, while it protects, also keeps out light and air, the house is entered. The long line of connecting tiled roofs terminates at each end in the graceful, upturned gables the Chinese love so well. Crude handpainting and handcarved woodwork usually decorate the poorest of Chinese houses. The rental averages about fifteen dollars a month. Looking down one of these long alley-ways, that resemble good-sized cracks in the main thoroughfares, the effect is decidedly sombre, for the grey outside walls conceal the house fronts and the little courts, often made homelike and attractive with palms and flowering plants. It is the human element that saves from utter ugliness these populous alleys, which throb with life, but generally such a restless, high-pitched, uncontrolled life, that the better class of Chinese complain of the noise, and most foreigners would find them impossible places of residence.

IV

THE LURE OF THE SHOPS

Once upon a time an American missionary came to China with ten pairs of boots, enough to last till the period of furlough. As he was going into the interior it was doubtless a wise provision, although leather deteriorates rapidly during the “rainy season.” Until quite recently, foreigners living away from the coast depended for goods of foreign manufacture altogether on the home market. Now they are more and more sending to Shanghai for supplies, and people in Shanghai seldom send abroad for anything. A lover of London once remarked enthusiastically, “It is a storehouse of treasures, for what it does not possess in the original it has in casts.” So one may say of Shanghai, “What it doesn’t import it copies.” And the Chinese are wonderful adepts at copying. Take a woman’s tailor, for instance. Show him a picture in a fashion book (many of them subscribe themselves for fashion books), and he will evolve something, which if not an exact reproduction, comes incredibly near it. Shanghai has four foreign department stores, all on Nanking Road, and all under English management. They are especially popular with the women. Then there are numerous lesser lights, of various nationalities, most of them located on or near Nanking Road, though Broadway has its share. An Anglo-American Walkover shoe store is a boon, especially to resident Yankees. Several Parisian shops display behind plate glass, the latest designs in gowns, hats and fine lingerie. A German drug store enjoys the reputation of being the only place in town where Parke, Davis & Co.’s drugs can be bought, while an English chemist’s shop is much frequented in summer for its ice-cream sodas, a recent innovation in Shanghai. Bianchi’s ice-cream is famous, and so are Sullivan’s home-made candies. At many a counter may be purchased Huyler’s and Cadbury’s chocolates, so carefully packed that they are not a whit the worse for their journey across the briny deep. Two piano stores do a lucrative business keeping pianos in tune, and selling, besides Steinways, Chickerings, and other makes, instruments made in their factories with special reference to withstanding the climate of China. The East Indian and Japanese shops always attract, except when the Japanese are boycotted by the Chinese because of strained relations. Some Japanese began recently to fold their tents, like the Arab, and prepare to creep quietly away, when confidence was partially restored and trade revived.

Living in Shanghai is proverbially high, yet it is chiefly so in comparison with other parts of China. The market is good the year around; many competent judges assert it is the best in the world. Chinese mutton and beef sell for eight or nine cents a pound. Pork and veal are a trifle more. Game is plentiful. Eggs rarely go above ten cents a dozen. They are considerably smaller though than hen’s eggs at home. Fish, as might be expected, is abundant. A small variety of oyster, that makes excellent stew, is sold in bulk, and a large oyster in the shell, measuring often several inches across and weighing over a pound, brings ten or twelve coppers apiece, about six cents. Nearly every variety of fruit and vegetable known to the Western market, and many kinds peculiar to the Orient, are found here. Bamboo sprouts and water chestnuts are favorites with most foreigners as well as the Chinese. Grapefruit is imported from San Francisco, but is generally not so well liked as the native pumelo, which it resembles. Mangoes are shipped from the Philippines, and from Japan, Australia, and America come apples, much superior to those grown in China. On the other hand Chinese oranges, and particularly the loose-skinned, Mandarin oranges, are delicious. The fruit most common in the autumn is the golden-red persimmon. Cheap and luscious, without a suggestion of pucker except when under-ripe, the tempting piles, that seem to have caught and held the sunshine, are without a rival during their season. All canned and bottled goods--vegetables, fruits, pickles, olives, syrups, extracts--being imported, are expensive, but as they are more or less in the line of luxuries most of them may be dispensed with if necessary.

There is a canning factory in Shanghai, opened in 1907 by a Cantonese company. One would expect it to be Cantonese, for the southerners are the most wide-awake people in China. Besides making a variety of crackers, the factory turns out quantities of tinned foods. Among them are bamboo sprouts, shrimps’ eggs, spiced roast pork, chicken with chestnuts, frogs’ legs, native and foreign fruits, soups, and what appeals particularly to the palate of foreigners, the delicious candied ginger, for which Canton has a world-wide reputation.

Drugs are costly, and constantly needed articles, such as picture wire, and hooks, are for some reason absurdly highpriced.

“Sam Joe” on Broadway claims to be the leading Chinese grocer in the city. He is certainly one of the best known. Like other grocers he keeps no fresh vegetables and no fresh fruits except apples and lemons. His place is clean and inviting, and presided over by numerous clerks of low and high degree. Any one of these middle-aged men, of dignified mien and scholarly cast of countenance, will kindly deign to take an order, discuss the merit of goods, and even point them out if within sight. But when a piece of cheese is to be wrapped up, or a bottle taken down from the shelf, he waves his long-finger-nailed hand in a lordly manner to an underling, who hastens to perform the menial service. Sam Joe used to own an automobile, with “Sam Joe, Shanghai’s leading grocer,” prominent in large gilt letters on its back. It was a familiar object for some time on the streets, but its upkeep proved too great an expense, so the firm has reverted to the ordinary delivery wagon and horse. Still, a horse-drawn wagon is extraordinary enough in this city of man labor, and Sam Joe’s outfit is in advance of most Chinese grocers, who content themselves with box carts propelled by tricycles.

On a bright morning nothing is more delightful than a leisurely stroll up and down Nanking Road for a study of the shops. Some are shut in behind a door and show windows, like foreign stores, and others after the manner of the general run of Chinese shops have the entire front open to the street. Occasionally, in addition to the regular street crossings, a slit between the buildings leads to a narrow lane or alley, without sidewalks, long, narrow, and fearsome, yet possessing a compelling fascination for the wanderer. The Nanking Road shops are almost uniformly two stories high, with frequently a tall, fancy cornice giving the effect of a third. The most striking are the large silver shops. The façades of several stand out boldly, ornamented with coloured stucco in relief. One is resplendent with a gorgeous peacock of heroic size and spreading tail. Another shows two mythical figures disporting themselves on either side of a huge vase of flowers of wondrous hues, while a third, more recently built of plain brick, is dotted over with electric bulbs. On gala occasions, these shops, as well as others able to afford it, are lighted up at night with elaborate electrical designs, making Nanking Road the most brilliantly illuminated street in the city. In addition, it is customary at the time of an opening or anniversary to decorate the entire façade with gay-coloured cotton cloth or silk that is twisted, puffed, puckered, and curled into rosettes and other fantastic designs. Often a light bamboo scaffolding is erected in front of the shop and the trimmings attached to it instead of to the walls. When the sun fades the decorations they are taken down, re-dyed, and put in place again. Close against the show windows of the unforeignized silver shops are glass shelves ranged one above another and loaded with silver. Many of the pieces are massive and richly embossed, Buddhas, vases, jewelry cases, tea-sets, besides less ornate small pieces such as wine cups and bonbon dishes, all of native design and manufacture. Inside the shop the foreigner meets with a surprise, for there are no show cases, and no sign of silver is visible except away at the back where a glimmer can be discerned behind a glass door protected by a wooden or wire lattice. Panel mirrors and carved blackwood chairs at the sides give a drawing-room effect which is enhanced by the leisurely manner in which the numerous clerks move about or lean idly upon the counter, as if their main purpose in life was to pose as useless adjuncts of the firm employing them. Yet in reality a paying business is carried on from day to day, though it may be conducted quietly and unostentatiously over tea-cups and with true Oriental deliberation.

The favorite meat in China is pork, popularly known as the “Great Meat.” From the number of shops where cured hams are sold, often nothing at all but ham lining the walls and suspended from the ceiling, it would seem as if the people’s whole diet consisted of pork. The pork shops on Nanking Road are very clean. Sometimes one side of a shop is devoted to hams and the other to ducks and sweetmeats. Roast ducks are sold everywhere in Shanghai. The turned-back neck of the duck forms a loop by which the fowl is attached to a hook fastened to a bamboo rod several feet long, and this is hung in the front of the shop in full gaze of the passerby, where no intervening window dims the allurements of the savory delicacy. It surely does look good enough to eat, glossy, of a rich reddish brown colour, and done to a turn in the oven of a Chinese chef. Back a few steps from the street, in a dimly lighted room, the curious stranger, if tactfully polite, may witness the preparation of the fowl for the market. On one side of the contracted space are live ducks, in a pen, while near by the cook’s assistant is busily plucking dead ones. They are roasted on top of a Chinese stove under a huge iron basin, and then comes the painting, the grand finale in the process. A small quantity of red vegetable matter is added to sesame oil, and with this mixture the cook carefully smears the fowl, using a reed brush. The coating soon hardens like varnish when the duck is exposed to the air, and besides giving it an appetising appearance, keeps the flesh impervious to the dust from the road.

Nothing captivates more than the bake shops where cooking is done close to the street. Chinese stoves are simplicity itself, a bed of charcoal on a foundation of brick or cement, and an iron grating through which the ashes fall to the floor. Large but shallow iron basins are placed over the red hot coals, and in them are fried or boiled all sorts of remarkable viands. It is a common saying that the best cooks in the world are the French and the Chinese, and it is easy to believe it. The way in which many a common fellow will roll and knead his dough, fashion it into some extraordinary shape with a dexterous flip and twist, then fry it to exactly the right shade of brown, and all without an instant’s thought or effort, proves him to be in his own line an artist of no mean order.

Customers young and old frequent the shop, sometimes carrying bowls of their own which they get filled with nutritious food for a few coppers and take home to furnish, it may be, a meal for an entire family. Perhaps a woman drops into the shop with a nest of wooden trays. She says something to the shopkeeper, who begins laying into them wonderful little cakes, sticking into each one a wee cluster of artificial flowers. This choice collection of dainties is to form part of a wedding feast. The year round, at certain hours of the day, but especially in the early morning, women and children, provided with kettles, wend their way to the restaurants to buy hot water for tea. Hot water is cheaper than fuel, and besides to buy it saves trouble.

Chinese candy shops never want for trade. Those on Nanking Road are much patronized by foreigners, for some kinds of Chinese candy fairly melt in the mouth. The only drawback to a full enjoyment of it is the realization that too often instead of being protected under glass it has lain for hours on an open counter exposed to dust, flies, and dirty hands.

Fine teas from Hangchow, put up in pretty coloured paper boxes, are seen in the windows of tea shops, and beside them other fancy boxes containing small dried flowers. One or more dried rosebuds placed in a cup of tea impart a delicate flavor to the beverage and are said by the Chinese to aid digestion. They, however, are a luxury indulged in only by the well-to-do epicure, but this class is numerous.

Silk shops are pre-eminently the most popular shops in Shanghai as silk is the commodity for which it is most celebrated. Many silk shops are found on the “Great Horse Road,” the largest and showiest being in a three-story building well down toward the Bund. But the two of special repute and reliability do a thriving business a block south of the busy thoroughfare. No goods are displayed in their windows as is the case with those on Nanking Road. The more conspicuous one has behind each sheet of plate glass a single potted plant on a stand. The other, across the road, disdains to indulge in even that much decoration. Its windows are the small, old-fashioned kind that fold in like blinds with little panes of glass, and up and down over each one stretch protecting iron bars. The reputation of the aristocratic house of “Laou Kai Fook” is too well established to need the help of advertisements. While neighbouring firms may boast of a business career of a few decades, this one points back proudly three quarters of a century to the date of its founding. Though nothing on the exterior of the shop attracts the eye, there is an abundance within to draw on the purse-strings. Laou Kai Fook’s clerks are gravely dignified but wide-awake. It was not one of them but an employee in a lesser shop who, when a would-be purchaser indicated a piece of silk in a showcase that she wished to see, after making a feeble and abortive effort to unlock the case, turned his long finger-nails out, remarking unconcernedly, “It won’t open,” and let the customer walk away. The shelves lining the walls of the silk shops from top to bottom are heaped with rolls of silk wrapped in light brown paper, the rolls lying crosswise on the shelves. From each roll depends a white paper tag marked with Chinese characters, and these tags, seen on every side, produce a curious effect but give to the uninitiated no clue to the wealth they represent. Some of the finest silks, with the paper coverings removed, are kept in showcases to decoy the unwary.

The clerks in these stores, as in fact in most of the shops, are to all appearances greatly in excess of the number required. While some are kept busy, many seem to be paid merely to lounge about and tread on each other’s toes. They are keenly sensitive to the superiority of their high calling and will brook no slights apparent or unintentional. An American lady, new to China, was being waited on one day by a very youthful clerk and in the course of conversation innocently addressed him as “boy,” the usual form of address among the servant class. Instantly the young man drew himself up proudly and corrected her with grave displeasure, “I am not a ‘boy,’ I am Mr. Smith.” Two characteristics of the Shanghai silk shops of the better class are especially appreciated by foreign women. First, prices are fixed and uniform; no time need be wasted in bargaining. Second, if a sample needs to be matched the danger of failure is small. When roll after roll has been laid on the counter and the sample placed against them without success the clerk will be certain to observe politely, “We can dye a piece for you.” “How long will it take?” “Only three days if the sun shines. How many yards do you want?” “Four.” “We don’t usually dye less than ten yards, but we will dye four for you if you wish to have us.” In most cases the silk proves to be entirely satisfactory and no extra charge is made for the dyeing.

Changes are going on continually all over the city. Day by day old buildings, rotten and unsanitary, are disappearing and modern ones rising in their place. It is to be feared that many of the ancient landmarks dear to the antiquarian will soon be gone. Last year an Englishman said to a friend, “I can take you to a street in Shanghai that I believe looks just as it did a thousand years ago.” But in a few weeks he wrote to his friend, “The street is gone. Every old building has been torn down and the rubbish cleared away.” On Nanking Road a handsome block has just been erected by the Chinese on a conspicuous site, bearing the ambitious title of “The New World,” written in gilt Chinese characters on its front. Soon a wealthy Cantonese company is to build a great department store on Nanking Road that in size and elegance promises to outrival all others. It will contain a theatre, restaurant, and tea-room, elevator and roof garden, accessories to which even the most select of the foreign department stores have not aspired.

But Nanking Road does not possess a monopoly in interesting shops. Many of the most fascinating are the very small unpretentious ones on the side streets, for it is there that Chinese life and customs may be studied most intimately. The common people regard with good nature and tolerance the inquisitive stranger and rarely object to his advances. Pawn shops tell their own story and are discovered at almost every turn. They are known by a particular Chinese character painted in black on the white cement of the front wall or on the wooden screen just inside the entrance.

Shanghai would not be Shanghai without its Money Exchange shops. Though perfectly respectable, they do business mostly on the unfashionable side streets. Nanking Road in the main scorns them. They do not lack patronage, for “small money” is necessary to every thrifty body. The Exchange Shops give silver for gold and paper money, and for one of the current silver Mexican dollars, the customer receives one hundred and thirty-eight or so coppers, or eleven dimes and several coppers according to whatever the exchange happens to be on the day in question. Shop bills amounting to less than a dollar can ordinarily be paid in “small money,” and as for car fare, a dollar’s worth of coppers goes much farther than the even hundred contained in a “big dollar.” The Exchange shops make their money by drawing money from the Exchange Banks at a little higher rate of exchange than they allow to their customers. It must be confessed though that the mysteries of Chinese currency are well nigh beyond the power of the ordinary human mind to fathom.

Coffin shops are of necessity very numerous, and have open fronts directly on the street. The shopkeeper performs none of the duties of an undertaker. His sole business is to make and sell coffins. Chinese coffins are extremely large and heavy, and in a foreigner’s eyes ugly even to the point of gruesomeness. The costly ones are made of blackwood and camphor wood and their glossy tops and ends decorated with pictures done in coloured paint and gilt. The shopkeeper’s home is usually at the back of the premises, but the family find it agreeable to pass much of the day in the shop where the unfinished coffins that chance to be left standing about prove convenient in many ways. The wife may perch on one while she eats her bowl of rice, or the master himself drop down on another for his noonday nap, while the children frolic in and out around them like squirrels. But to a Chinese there is nothing objectionable in a coffin. As with the old Shanghai mother, whose son returning from a journey presented her with a coffin as the handsomest and most welcome gift he could offer, so it is generally felt that to have one’s coffin bought and set up in the house ready for use is a most desirable provision. In the meantime it is a convenient article of furniture to have at hand, and no harm is done if while waiting for the hour of decease the coffin is utilized as a clothes press or perhaps as a pantry.