XII

“This is very kind of me,” thought Wilfred Chew, as he sat in the Seoul-bound train. The train lurched through the black world with an open-throated, gasping roar. “I really seem to be a kind of guardian angel to these Russians.⁠ ⁠… What would they do without me?”

As he thought of the Reverend Oswald Fawcett, who had warned him against every sin except complacency, the hundred and fifty yen that Ostapenko had given him seemed to lie not exactly heavily but perceptibly on his bosom. The money was a foreign body in his conscience, like a splinter of shell in a soldier’s flesh. “There is nothing wrong in being paid for one’s services,” Wilfred replied to the shadow of the Reverend Oswald Fawcett. Poor Wilfred! his conscience was already a naturalised alien in his Chinese body. And now must his Chinese lips turn traitor and serve this Wesleyan conscience? His brain⁠—Chinese born⁠—London trained⁠—sought a compromise. “Men are sometimes made use of, surely, by God for His purposes⁠ ⁠… used, in fact, as angels or heavenly messengers, in answer to the prayers of unhappy people. Yet those men, so used, still have stomachs that must be filled⁠—futures that must be provided for.⁠ ⁠… Why, don’t you remember, Mr. Fawcett? there was a time when we prayed for more blankets for the school, and that very afternoon, in walked a coolie with a present of army blankets from the Dutch Consul. That gift was none the less Heaven-sent because we had to tip the coolie for bringing it. Money must pass⁠—even between angels⁠—especially when honestly earned.⁠ ⁠… What else is money for? Money isn’t always mammon⁠—it is sometimes just simple food and lodging. To continue upon the earth at all, we guardian angels to simple barbarians must be paid⁠—must be fed⁠—must be kept alive.⁠ ⁠… Of what use is a dead guardian angel to anyone?”

Wilfred, as a sort of challenge to the impassive ghost of Mr. Fawcett, elaborated this heavenly-messenger idea, which his mission training showed him in quite a literal aspect. An angel was to him as concrete as, say, a duck-billed platypus; he had been taught to believe in the actual existence of both, though neither had, in fact, crossed his path. “Perhaps,” thought Wilfred, suddenly beginning to combine his mission-bred trustfulness with a sort of homemade mysticism, “I am literally an instrument of Heaven, born exclusively for that purpose, brought into the world to straighten out the lives of these good Russians. How could you prove the contrary? Perhaps the angel that came to the Virgin Mary was an angel in the body of the local equivalent of a prenatal-care district nurse (no, Mr. Fawcett, it is not an irreverent thought⁠—an angel in such a manifestation would be none the less an angel⁠—why not?). For an angel to be visible, a body is necessary, and a body, being a worldly garment, must have a worldly justification. A minister, who lives, eats, is paid his salary, dies, rots away in the grave, you say is God’s representative in any community⁠ ⁠… how then should God clothe His messengers⁠—His materialized answers to prayer⁠—in any other than a human body? How could those blankets have reached our school without a coolie to carry them⁠—probably a coolie who was looking forward to his dinner. How could old Mr. Malinin receive his money from Seoul, or acquire a beautiful heiress for a daughter-in-law, without me? In all probability, many prayers rose up to heaven at the same time, and combined to elicit me, the common answer to all these prayers⁠—old Mr. Malinin’s prayer for his money; his prayer to be cured of his blindness (for the rubbing with putrefied fish is a tried remedy and may yet be successful); young Saggay Saggayitch’s prayer to see the world; Mr. Ostapenko’s prayer that his daughter after seven failures might find a suitable husband; Miss Ostapenko’s prayer that the curse of unwomanly coldness might be taken from her⁠ ⁠… all these prayers, probably, rose in one breath to the Throne, and God sent one ingenious combined answer⁠—me.⁠ ⁠…”

Wilfred threw himself back on the vibrating railway cushions, defying the shadow of the Reverend Oswald Fawcett to find a fallacy in this modern and lucid argument.

“And if I⁠—Wilfred Chew⁠—was born, educated in the Wesleyan Academy, enabled to study law in the Middle Temple, London, and be called to the Bar, simply to accomplish God’s purposes for these poor helpless Russians⁠—if this was God’s idea of a suitable education for His messenger⁠—shall I be ashamed of supporting myself by means of the wits and the education that He has given me? Shall I refuse fair payment⁠—prostitute the advantages God gave me⁠—become a beggar? You will be saying next that I should have refused the rather ample traveling expenses Saggay Saggayitch handed to me on starting. Traveling expenses are necessary, even to an angel⁠—if that angel happens to be traveling in human form on wheels.⁠ ⁠… Just so, similarly, God meant me to receive this commission”⁠—he smacked the wad of notes on his bosom⁠—“for drawing up the agreement and arranging the marriage⁠—just as much as He created me⁠—an answer to prayer⁠—in human form and adorned me with education.”

There was no one else in that section of the compartment, and Wilfred took out the wad of notes and began counting them. The money, he was sure, was well earned; the notes had a righteous texture against his finger tips; and yet, as he ruffled them, he had a feeling that the shadow of the Reverend Oswald Fawcett in front of him was counting something beyond the notes in Wilfred’s hand⁠—and counting that something with a reproachful eye⁠—counting the intentions, the financial hopes of Wilfred⁠—ghosts of notes not yet paid. “And what I say about this money I have in my hand,” persisted Wilfred to the reproving shadow, “applies with equal reason and force to the commission I intend to charge on the money I have been empowered to secure in Seoul. A just commission is in no way open to criticism. What is it but a dividend paid on that capital which we call education? Yes, it is true that the people I am acting for are ignorant people, incapable of checking my transactions.⁠ ⁠… For that very reason I feel that the trust is sacred⁠—that I am a mouthpiece for babes and sucklings⁠—that it is for me alone to appraise⁠—justly and temperately⁠—the value of my services, and to reimburse myself with an honest moderation. If I were to leave the amount of my commission to that old Mr. and Mrs. Malinin⁠—the one so confused and senile, the other so ardent and exaggerated⁠—they would almost certainly offer me far too much⁠—probably the half of their fortune. Even at that they would, definitely, gain by their association with me. But no⁠—I will refuse everything that the unthinking ardor of gratitude may inspire them to offer me; I will turn away my face, kindly but firmly, as a messenger of God should, from all extravagant offers of reward. ‘No⁠—no,’ I shall say, and nothing will turn me from my determination. Now⁠—to enable me to afford this perfectly correct attitude⁠—what am I to do? What but pay myself, on a logically worked out basis, my exact commission on whatever I may get over and above old Mr. Malinin’s expectations⁠—my exact commission⁠—and not a sen more. The trust of these innocent barbarians in me is a challenge in itself; I would not betray it for all the silver in the Bank of Chosen. I intend to secure, on their behalf, as in honor bound by my divine trusteeship, every sen that I can. I am perfectly aware that old Mr. Malinin would be quite satisfied⁠—quite unsuspicious⁠—if I returned to him with the original two hundred yen plus perhaps five and twenty yen as interest. He has no knowledge of the workings of compound interest. Shall I content myself with satisfying his innocent and humble hope? A thousand times no. I will make a rich man of him⁠—the comfortable founder of a prosperous family. My errand shall be successful beyond his wildest dreams. As an answerer of prayers I will give good measure, pressed down and running over. And who shall say that, for this useful service, I am not entitled to a fair percentage⁠ ⁠… purely as a defense against the old man’s extravagant gratitude? ‘No, Mr. Malinin, no⁠—I do not need a sen more than what I have earned. Keep your money. Prosper righteously. Goodbye.’⁠ ⁠… I shall then withdraw like the heavenly messenger I truly am, leaving behind me all prayers answered, all troubles smoothed away.⁠ ⁠…”

He threw himself back in his seat again, licking his gold tooth almost as though he were delicately showing the tip of his tongue to the ghost of the Reverend Oswald Fawcett.

“Oh nonsense!” he thought. “Why all this talk? After all, I am Chinese. Commission is the very lifeblood of China, yet Chinese are the most honest and trusted business men in the world; the honesty of Chinese business men is proverbial⁠—even in Bloomsbury I have heard talk of it⁠—yet every Chinese business man takes his commission as a matter of course.”

He scanned the ghost again, and still his expatriated heart was not satisfied. “Why, can’t you see how pure my intentions are toward the poor idiots? I like them⁠—I am genuinely fond of that lumpy young Saggay Saggayitch. I really do mean well, and will do well by them.⁠ ⁠… Why, look, I am traveling second class at this moment⁠—not first.⁠ ⁠… Well, no, of course I shan’t exactly give back the difference⁠—not in so many coins⁠—yet traveling second in this way will allow me to spend more in Seoul on my employer’s behalf. This in itself shows how disinterested I am. I know that I am sent by God to help them. I have proof of it, as follows: I have received direct promptings from Heaven. For instance, that fish⁠—even while Saggay Saggayitch was in the water catching that fish, I suddenly felt quite clearly that I had already dreamed that very scene; I knew at once that the heart, liver, and gall of the fish were to be preserved as gifts from Heaven. God sent that fish⁠—having caused it to be miraculously caught round the waist (a most exceptional method) by Saggay Saggayitch, and I was warned in advance of the miracle by means of a dream. What does this prove? Does it not prove that I am God’s messenger to them? And not only that; I am genuinely fond of them; I wouldn’t do them out of a sen. No, I wouldn’t.⁠ ⁠…”

The first light of dawn gave a curious false emphasis to various insignificant details in the compartment⁠—to inequalities in the stuffing of the cushions⁠—to spittoons⁠—to smears on the window-glass⁠—to dust and dreary ornamentation. The ghost of the Reverend Oswald Fawcett faded from Wilfred’s moral sight as the light grew stronger and picked out more and more prosaically the details of his surroundings. He leaned back, feeling justified and sophisticated, and looked out of the window. Brown batwing villages, shadeless and lightless in the diffused drowned light of dawn, clung to the miles of dry green and yellow land. The first cooking-fires were being kindled in the clay stoves outside the cottage doors; smoke breathed in a cool blue haze through roofs. Scarlet peppers, spread out to dry on the roofs, looked almost grape-blue with the dew on them⁠—though when the sun should touch them they would wake to a Christmasy vermilion. Mountains⁠—their earth wine-red as though clothed in heather⁠—cut the intensifying line of the horizon into a jagged zigzag. Out-of-doors always seems more essentially out-of-doors at dawn⁠—not, as in the busy afternoon, a mere extension of man’s indoors. There was that aloofness⁠—unstained by humanity⁠—about the cold paling twilight of the land, that one sees in a wild animal’s eyes.

Wilfred had replaced his well-earned money in his breast pocket, but he still held upon his knee four papers that armed him for his errand. Now, by that same first ray of the sun that lighted the eastern aspects of the western mountains as though they were candles, he reread these papers, in order to clarify his anticipation of the next few busy hours.

The first paper was a Power of Attorney signed by Old Sergei in favor of Seryozha. It had been drawn up by Wilfred himself from memory. Wilfred, of course, had only a haughty barrister’s recollection of such a pettifogging paper as a Power of Attorney, yet, as he ran his eye over it, he congratulated himself on having composed an impressive echo of the real thing.

Know All Men by these presents that I Sergei Dmitrivitch Malinin of Chi-tao-kou retail merchant Do Hereby Constitute and Appoint my son Sergei Sergeievitch Malinin of Chi-tao-kou timberworker my true and lawful Attorney for the purposes hereinafter expressed that is to say In my name to receive the moneys deposited by me with Gavril Ilitch Isaev of Seoul hotelkeeper in July one thousand nine hundred and eighteen for investment in his business namely two hundred yen and interest accruing thereto and to give an effectual receipt therefor. And I hereby declare that this Power of Attorney shall be irrevocable for Twelve Calendar Months from the date hereof.

In Witness whereof I have hereunto set my hand and seal this fourteenth day of September One thousand nine hundred and twenty eight. Signed Sealed and Delivered by the abovenamed Sergei Dmitrivitch Malinin in the presence of Anna Semionovna Malinina of Chi-tao-kou housewife.

Of the other papers, one was a note in Russian from Pavel Ostapenko to Gavril Ilitch Isaev, introducing Wilfred as the trusted friend, legal adviser, and man of affairs of Pavel’s cousin, Sergei Dmitrivitch Malinin, explaining young Seryozha’s nonappearance in Seoul, inviting Isaev to come to Mi-san for a few days and drink the health of Pavel’s newly married daughter, and cordially hoping that the news from Isaev’s traveling son, Petya, was good.

The third paper was written in English by Wilfred and signed by Seryozha. It ran:

Dear Mr. Isaev. Since it is impossible, for reasons explained by my father-in-law Mr. Ostapenko, for me to proceed to Seoul in person to discuss with you the final settlement of the transaction that took place between you and my father in July, 1918, I am placing my Power of Attorney in the hands of my father’s friend and legal adviser Mr. Wilfred Chew of the Middle Temple, London, and should be much obliged if you would consider him as my father’s agent in my stead, and either place in his hands the two hundred yen which you most kindly invested for my father on his last visit to Seoul and the interest accumulated during the interval, or else (and this would give me much pleasure) come yourself to Mi-san thus killing two birds in one bush, namely settling the financial transaction in person and enjoying my father-in-law’s unstinted hospitality.

The fourth paper was a greasy and laconic memorandum of receipt in Russian. Anna had translated it for Wilfred as simply, “Received from Sergei Dmitrivitch Malinin on July 12, 1918, two hundred yen for safe keeping. Gavril Ilitch Isaev.”

Seoul looked excited and glittering in the morning light. The sight of large, efficient-looking buildings and large efficient-looking English and American tourists made Wilfred strut, feeling himself a man of the world returned at last to his world.

He found his way, without difficulty, in a rickshaw to the Isaevs’ hotel, a transformed Japanese inn. Like all Japanese houses lived in by non-Japanese, it had lost its light, kite-like look⁠—it was an architectural bird with clipped wings. Wilfred strolled up the steps, an upslanting cigarette in his mouth, and found Isaev in the hall, reading a Russian newspaper.

It was Wilfred’s misfortune always to remember people much better than they remembered him. He remembered Isaev as a human frog, a squatting pyramidal person with a moist shiny skin, and an immense slit-like mouth always gasping obscurely for air. Olga, Isaev’s wife, was not present, yet Wilfred remembered her with an equal exactness⁠—a padded person, plump breasts padding her neat dress, secret cushions padding her neat hair, puffed smiles padding her cheeks. On her devolved all the acquiescences that Isaev never uttered; his attitude was a chronic No and hers a constant Yes. Wilfred had counted on laying his business before man and wife together. To find only Isaev present set him back a little, but he began with his usual affability, “We have met before, Mr. Isaev. My name is Chew, Wilfred Chew, barrister, of the Middle Temple, London. I hope I am fortunate enough to find a room disengaged once more in your comfortable hotel.”

Isaev nodded uncertainly. All Chinese looked alike to him. His spectacles were made of very thick convex glass. He had a very thick and conspicuously shiny face; everything about him was thick and shiny. Attention was called to his surface in every way. Somehow Isaev could scarcely be imagined as hollow like other people; there could hardly be room for a brain between the thick walls of that skull, or space in that square inflexible breast for a heart to bound or flutter. His nose was a simple mass of shiny flesh, pierced by only the smallest and most rudimentary nostrils. He held his head back to look at Wilfred over his newspaper, under his spectacles, and across his wide sallow polished cheekbones.

“We have a room,” he said in English. “How long for?”

“I have business in Seoul that should not keep me long. My business, as a matter of fact, Mr. Isaev, is with you. Can you spare me half an hour now? Excellent. We have, as I mentioned above, met before.⁠ ⁠… I was in Seoul only a few weeks ago, acting as secretary-companion to an English baronet. Sir Theo Mustard⁠—you may have heard of him. However, in order to give our acquaintanceship a more personal flavor, allow me to hand you this note⁠—a letter of introduction from Mr. Pavel Ostapenko of Mi-san.”

Isaev took the letter with distaste and, holding his head up and the letter down, read it across the intervening area of his face.

“I hates Pavel Ostapenko,” he said, simply, when he had finished it.

“Really!” exclaimed Wilfred, pleasantly. “Well, I can understand that there might be room for more than one opinion about his peculiar personality. He is a man of very strong character and such men commonly make a strong impression one way or the other. However, his letter will at least show you that I am no man of straw, being recommended by a substantial member of the community such as Mr. Ostapenko, you will admit, is, though his personality may not have a universal app⁠—”

“His daughter is a bitch,” said Isaev in the same flat remote voice.

“Well well,” said Wilfred, still courageously bright. “As to that, again, there might be a difference of opinion between friends on the subject of Miss Ostapenko, who is, like her father, an individuality both marked and⁠—”

“She is a bitch.”

“You really think so? Well, your decided and original views on Miss Ostapenko’s charm will no doubt add interest to the news I believe Mr. Ostapenko gave you in his letter. Miss Ostapenko was married only two days ago to my young friend Saggay Saggayitch Malinin. The name Malinin is, I believe, famil⁠—”

“This bitch treated my son very bad,” said Isaev.

“Indeed I am deeply sorry to hear it, my dear sir,” said the tireless Wilfred. “I remember hearing Mr. Ostapenko describing your son as a particularly fine young man. He is, I am sure, a credit to you, and though he may temporarily have fallen a victim to what is called in London ‘Cupid’s darts’ he will⁠—”

“Because of this bitch,” said Isaev, “my son have joined the Chinese army.”

“Indeed! Well, you know, boys will be boys. Your son is not the first fine young man who has turned from disappointed love to a military career, and⁠—mark you⁠—made good.⁠ ⁠… The soldier’s profession is, after all, considered an honorable one, especially in your country, and I have no doubt that your son will distinguish himself and rapidly gain promotion. Perhaps, indeed, he will some day be able to look back with self-congratulation on his association with the Ostap⁠—”

“He is losed,” said Isaev. “We have losed our son. From the Chinese army Russians never come back. She is a bitch. The whole Ostapenko family is a bitch.”

“Ah,” said Wilfred. He clicked in his throat and a baffled tragic expression filled his face. Then, like a railway engine that has bumped against buffers, he drew several breaths and, having shunted himself out of this unpromising siding, started briskly off again on a new line.

“But this is all by the way. Perhaps I had better come to the business which brought me here. I will take a chair, if I may. How delightfully the morning sun illuminates this room! I referred just now to young Saggay Saggayitch Malinin. His name⁠—or rather his father’s name⁠—is, I believe, familiar to you.”

“Never in my life.”

“It will occur to you in a minute, I am sure, when I recall the circumstances. A busy man, I know, cannot afford to overstock his memory with unnecessary details. This Saggay Dmitrivitch Malinin, now a retail merchant in Chi-tao-kou, Manchuria, once paid a visit to you a long time ago⁠—ten years ago, to be exact, in July, 1918.”

Isaev was silent. Language had been given to him for the purpose of obstructing his fellow-men⁠—not cooperating with them.

“As I think I have already mentioned, Mr. Isaev, I am a barrister, of the Middle Temple, London. Mr. Malinin has constituted me his man of affairs. Having, by my advice, executed a Power of Attorney in favor of his son, Mr. Malinin commissioned me to accompany this son to Seoul in the capacity of legal adviser⁠—since young Saggay Saggayitch has had no experience in business matters⁠—in order that I might make everything clear to you, and satisfy you as to the details and authenticity of his business with you. I hope I make myself clear?”

There was a long silence.

“I hope, Mr. Isaev, that you take my meaning.”

“I not understand one word what you speak,” said Isaev, looking at him craftily.

Wilfred suddenly became wholeheartedly discouraged. The language bar again. He had no doubt whatever of his capacity to achieve anything at all that a fluent use of the English language could bring about. But remove words from a talker and where is he? This stopping of ears, by means of incompatibility of language, against a talker, is like the stopping of earths against a homecoming hunted fox.

Luckily, at this moment a half-seen piece of furniture, upholstered in striped linen, just inside an inner doorway, suddenly quivered, became human, advanced toward them and turned into Mrs. Isaev. She said something hastily in Russian to her husband and then remarked cheerfully in English to Wilfred: “Ah⁠—you were here before, staying with us. Wait⁠—I remember your name⁠—Mr. Chew, is it not? We are glad of seeing you again, Mr. Chew.”

Wilfred, although he realized she had been listening and might have gleaned this information from what had been said, preferred to feel that he had made an enduring impression during his last visit. “A charming woman,” he thought, building up her, as we all do, from that single flattering aspect of her that faced himself.

Just as a palaeontologist builds up a whole mountainous prehistoric beast from one bone, so we reconstruct our neighbors from a mere glimpse of a ghost. We are doomed to live among ghosts just as surely as we are doomed to see through our own eyes only. All are ghosts⁠—these lovers⁠—these enemies⁠—these passersby.⁠ ⁠… We see them through the distorting lens of vanity. We traduce our neighbors by the senseless names of friends⁠—of enemies; we divorce them from their realities, bereave them of body, cut them off from their destinations and starting-places, make homeless ghosts of them. If they love us, they are darling ghosts to us; if they injure us, they are bogeys. Yet all the time something that is not a ghost lives at home⁠—far from our sight⁠—dark, changeless men and women built of blood and bone and burning egoism, creatures that neither love us nor hate us⁠—nor even know our names⁠—things that are, not things that are seen by us to be.

Wilfred lived his life largely backwards. The scenes his optimism anticipated glowed so gloriously, sparkled with so flattering a success, that the reality was almost always a diminishing, an anticlimax, a dim and inexact rendering of the bright foreseen event⁠—like the creation of a defective memory, or like the telling of a good story by one who has forgotten the point.

This, the entrance of the acquiescent Isaeva, was the point at which the curtain rose on a scene that Wilfred had already rehearsed on the stage of his hopeful fancy. There had been nothing wrong with the rehearsals; here was the first public performance. Wilfred’s forward-hearing ear could hear his own voice reasonably explaining the circumstances of his mission⁠—Old Sergei’s loan and his wish for its return; he could hear Isaev’s voice grunting agreement, Isaeva’s voice confirming and gracing the accord. Wilfred could never anticipate counterarguments to his own logic; it was too faultless. He was not, therefore, surprised to hear the expected sound of success beginning⁠—a coo of agreement from Olga Isaeva in reply to a grunt in Russian from her husband.

“Of course we remember Sergei Dmitrivitch Malinin very good,” she said in English. “My husband has not at first understanded your pronouncing of the name. Sergei Dmitrivitch⁠—how good did he behave to us!” It was almost impossible for Olga to speak without a smile, it seemed. “My husband knows business very good, but he speak English not so good. I can help you perhaps with my so poor English. You speak English so very good yourself.”

“It is no merit,” beamed Wilfred. “I have been educated at the Wesleyan Academy in Yueh-lai-chou. I have also studied law for many years in London, and was called to the Bar there. I carry papers from Mr. S. D. Malinin which I should like to bring to the notice of Mr. Isaev and yourself. I am sure you will remember that, ten years ago, when Mr. S. D. Malinin visited Seoul last, Mr. Isaev was so kind as to take charge of two hundred yen which he undertook to invest for Mr. Malinin in whatever way he thought fit. This was because Mr. Malinin did not think it safe to carry his money in cash back to Chi-tao-kou (where there are no banking facilities), the times being then troublous.”

The couple murmured together in Russian for a moment, the wife’s face still armored by a smile and the husband’s by flat stupidity.

“My husband remembers this time quite good, Mr. Chew, but it was not quite as you think, he says. Sergei Dmitrivitch, who has been the brother of my husband’s oldest friend in Vladivostok, has gived us this sum⁠—about two hundred yens⁠—in gratitude for my husband’s friendship with Mr. Malinin’s brother who has died. When Sergei Dmitrivitch comes here we are very poor⁠—our life is not good⁠—we have runned away from the Bolsheviks⁠—we have nothing. We live in a small room here in Seoul and we say, ‘What to do⁠—how to live?’ Then Sergei Dmitrivitch says, ‘You shall make a hotel. I shall give you two hundred yens because you are friends of my brother who has died. You shall borrow from the bank. Your hotel shall be good; you, Gavril Ilitch, are good with business⁠—you, Olga Ivanovna, can cook good. Your hotel shall therefore be altogether good.’ Oi! it was goodness that caused the good Sergei Dmitrivitch to give us this money. It has been the beginning of our hope.”

“It was certainly the act of a friend,” agreed Wilfred, a slight shadow crossing his face as he heard this unrehearsed interpolation. “Nothing in this life is more encouraging than the way in which⁠—if we live Christian lives⁠—our friends come forward when we are in trouble and reward us for our past good deeds by trusting in our schemes sufficiently to invest in them. Without such friends, what should we do? How true is the Gospel saying, ‘It is better to give than to receive.’ Yet in this case, Mr. Malinin saw that it was better still to invest than to give⁠—since, in investing, one enjoys the combined pleasures of giving and receiving. His timely investment in your future placed your delightful hotel on its feet or rather foundations. I am very glad that you so deeply appreciate the friendliness and faith that he expressed in your business soundness by placing his savings in your care. This friendly spirit makes business so much easier. His was certainly a Christian act, and, since we are all Christians here⁠—Greek Orthodox being no doubt but another expression of similar great truths to the Wesleyan faith in which I was brought up⁠—I am sure you will be sorry to hear that Mr. S. D. Malinin, who was such a good friend to you in time of need, is now in very poor circumstances himself. He is a victim of blindness, and also of the local unrest in Chi-tao-kou which has caused his shop to be looted and his business most seriously affected. In fact, he has scarcely a bean, and it is for this reason that he is obliged to employ me in order to withdraw from your business the capital he invested in it ten years ago, together with interest accruing to same. Up to now he has been more than satisfied to leave the sum accumulating, at compound interest, in your competent hands. A sum of money⁠—I see by this little ready-reckoner of compound interest which I bought at a money-changer’s on my way here from the station⁠—doubles itself in ten years. Mr. Malinin’s capital, therefore, must by now amount to over four hundred yen.”

“It is a mistake,” said Olga, her smile becoming a little fixed, as though there were an invisible clamp at each end of her mouth. “Sergei Dmitrivitch, a so good man, must not wish to take away his good gift from us.”

“Mrs. Isaev, the mistake⁠—a quite unimportant one among friends, but one that needs to be rectified at once⁠—is on your side. I have here a paper, signed by your husband and given to Mr. Malinin, acknowledging the receipt of the money ‘for safe keeping.’ Your husband will remember signing this, I am sure. No one would sign such a paper in acknowledgment of a mere gift.”

Olga referred this to her husband in Russian, and, since he did not reply, she understood that he could not deny the authority of the receipt.

“May I please see this paper?” she said, charmingly. “You explain all so very good, Mr. Chew, yet it is good also to see, in order to understand yet more good.”

Wilfred spread the crumpled ten-year-old piece of paper on the table, pinning it down with a delicate finger and thumb, since, even among smiles and Christians, a man of law is always prepared for the worst.

“Ai⁠—two hundred yens⁠—good⁠—good,” she cooed, vaguely, as she leaned over the paper. Her fingers made a curious snarling gesture towards it which surprised Wilfred. “A charming and sensible woman,” he thought, “but a little nervous.”

Isaev got up heavily and walked with a straddling gait across the room to look. The receipt was just as he remembered⁠—just as he feared.

“Two hundred yens⁠ ⁠… to keep safe⁠ ⁠…” he sighed after a long silence, during which he returned to his chair. The clumsy impersonal settling of his wide buttocks in his chair looked as though some solid shiny Buddha in a large invisible grasp were being balanced on its pedestal again.

“Two hundred yens⁠ ⁠…” repeated Olga, turning her smile upon Wilfred again after a murmured word or two with her husband. “Well, perhaps we have make little mistake about the good gift⁠—we have thought Sergei Dmitrivitch a so good friend; he has said, ‘It is a gift,’ and we could not believe he shall ask to take away his gift. Now we understand. This is not friendship⁠—to give a gift and then to take away. It has not been love or gratefulness. It has been business. Our mistake has been because we have loved Sergei Dmitrivitch.”

“It was the beginning of your prosperity, my dear Mrs. Isaev,” said Wilfred, throwing his hands apart and looking round as though to reintroduce her to all the family possessions in sight⁠—the spittoons, the ornate buffet crowded with bright bottles, the pots of ferns, the wobbly wicker tables, the blackwood chairs, the posters of the South Manchurian Railway and the British American Tobacco Company on the walls.⁠ ⁠… “What more could a friend do than help you to reach this luxury?”

“To say this is not good, Mr. Chew,” said Olga archly. “We have not luxury. We are poor. Yet my husband will, perhaps, when he is able to do without so much money, send two hundred yens to Chi-tao-kou, if Sergei Dmitrivitch, poor man, is now not in good position. Perhaps next year we shall try to afford to do this.”

Wilfred, by some freak in the angles of two mirrors in the room, had just caught sight of his own neat seated form in profile. Some of us, when we do this, have the feeling that we have caught ourselves out, that we have accidentally trespassed behind our own vanity. Not so Wilfred. He never caught himself out. All that he saw in that reflected Wilfred Chew who sat over there unconscious, as it were, of being looked at, pleased and encouraged him, buttressed him in his confidence. English clothes⁠—a neat auburn tie just showing under the profile of the round chin⁠—English Panama hat held in a refined hand upon the knee⁠—English words parting those superior smiling lips⁠—in that encouraging mirror Wilfred saw before him truly an angel on a mission of guardianship, a success among failures, a water-lily among frogs⁠—all, in fact, that he hoped to be.

“Mr. and Mrs. Isaev,” he said, in a rather sharper voice, “there is no use in this beating about of birds in the bush. I speak now as Mr. S. D. Malinin’s man of business. If you will think again, you will see that this is not a matter of two hundred yen to be sent in charitableness, when it can be spared, to a poor chap in China. This is a matter of the immediate withdrawal of a certain sum of money, Mr. S. D. Malinin’s capital, from your thriving business, together with the interest that has accumulated in ten years. You have used this money, successfully and skillfully, in the building up of your business, but it is not your money and never was. It is perfectly easy for me to prove that hitherto there has been no consideration given in return for Mr. Malinin’s two hundred yen. It was not a gift, and was never mistaken for a gift⁠—the terms of the receipt preclude that. Therefore it was an investment on which, though dividends have been earned, none have as yet been paid, and none demanded up till now. Here is this little book on compound interest which I mentioned before. According to that, since the time expired since the investment was made is just three months over ten years, the sum in question should now amount to four hundred and nine yen sixty-five sen. In the name of Mr. S. D. Malinin, therefore, and of his son, Mr. S. S. Malinin, who holds his Power of Attorney, I demand the immediate return of this money⁠—namely, four hundred and nine yen sixty-five sen. There is no matter of opinion⁠—nothing good-natured or bad-natured⁠—this is simply a business matter, and we are business men and woman who know that what must be must, and what doesn’t want to be can be made to be.”

Both Isaevs looked at Wilfred astounded, Olga’s amiable mouth dropping open and her husband’s grim slit welded more tightly shut. From now on, a curious contradiction began to make itself felt⁠—that Olga’s radiant acquiescence somehow obstructed settlement, while Isaev’s superficial intransigeance had the effect of advancing matters.

“You are a so good man, Mr. Chew,” said Olga. “I know you will not be angry when I tell you how much you mistake. We are not prosperitous. We are full of misfortunes. That fire in our kitchen last year⁠—oi! how misfortunate. We have losed three hundred yens’ worth of our kitchen properties⁠—saucepan, boiler, dishes, icebox⁠—all losed. Truly this is Sergei Dmitrivitch’s money that is losed.⁠ ⁠… When he has given the money, he has said, ‘This two hundred yens will pay your kitchen properties.⁠ ⁠…’ Now kitchen is burnt⁠—Sergei Dmitrivitch’s money is losed. Poor Isaev⁠—poor Malinin⁠—it is truly misfortunate for both.⁠ ⁠…”

Wilfred smiled a little insolently as he sat leaning forward, swaying his hat between his knees with his right hand, like a snake-charmer at work. He made no reply to Olga’s appeal. “A pleasant enough woman,” he thought, “but rather a fool.”

Olga rose from the arm of her husband’s chair and fetched three glasses and a bottle of port wine. “Mr. Chew, you must please arrange this matter more good for us. You are our friend, too⁠—see, now, you will drink with us. My husband cannot give this large number of yens⁠—even if enemy puts him in prison, he cannot give. But you are not enemy⁠—you are friend. I drink⁠—Za Vashe zdorovye⁠—I drink to you. It is business of lawyer and friend to arrange matters for his friends.”

“Well, well,” laughed Wilfred, a little self-consciously. “I admit that the few odd yen and sen make the business a little petty. Mr. Malinin has given me carte blanche in the matter, and I should feel justified, I dare say, in accepting on his behalf the round sum⁠—four hundred yen. Mind you, in a court of law I could easily establish a claim for the full amount⁠—but this is not a court of law, it is simply a business matter discussed between two friendly parties who have no wish to injure each other by the bloody chopping off of a legal pound of flesh like Shakespeare.”

The Isaevs started nervously at this sudden change to the butcher’s vocabulary. They watched his mesmeric swinging hat.

“Four hundred yens not,” said Isaev, after a moment.

“Where is Sergei Sergeievitch?” cooed Olga. “Did you not speak that he has come with? I am sure he is good friend like his father⁠—like his uncle.⁠ ⁠… He will ask you, Mr. Chew, to arrange this matter more good for poor us. Why is he not here?”

“As to that,” said Wilfred, buoyantly, “nothing can be easier to explain. Here is his letter. He is at Mi-San, having been married on Thursday, and hopes you will come and attend the subsequent festivities.”

“Married to Tatiana Pavlovna,” said Isaev. “The bitch.”

Olga’s white teeth showed in a widening smile. “Then he is married to a not good girl, Mr. Chew. Because of Tatiana Pavlovna our son is now not good boy⁠—gone away from us⁠—soldier in Chinese army. Surely Mr. Chew, you shall not ask us to help with our moneys to pay for this marriage⁠—to help a not good girl who has behaved not good to our son⁠—that she may have a husband.” Olga laughed, an open-throated laugh as though she had been outlining a delightful program. “Must our family’s money help Tatiana Pavlovna who has harmed our family? Surely, Mr. Chew, you are too good and too clever a man to say this.”

“To begin with,” said Wilfred. “It is not your family’s money. It is Mr. Malinin’s. To continue with, even if it were a fact that the money might help toward Saggay Saggayitch’s wedding expenses, you should surely be the last to complain. Surely your dearest wish should be to hear of the marriage of this young lady you do not like, and her departure from Korea. Miss Ostapenko, having become Mrs. S. S. Malinin and taken up her residence in Manchuria⁠—in a remote and inaccessible village, Chi-tao-kou⁠—what then prevents your son from returning to his home? He went away to escape her⁠—he will return once she is removed.”

“Petya return?” said Olga, putting her knuckles to her mouth with an incredulous gesture.

“Without a doubt. She has been a rose in his flesh. Or, as the proverb says, a rose between two thorns⁠—one thorn being removed, he turns to the other.⁠ ⁠…”

Once more the exuberance of his vocabulary baffled his hearers. A butcher at one moment⁠—a botanist the next⁠—and yet, all the time, a lawyer really. Still, what he had just said made a great impression. It was a fact that Petya had said that Korea was not large enough to hold himself and Tatiana Pavlovna. Emptied of Tatiana, presumably, it would be just the right size for their son.

Isaev reread Ostapenko’s letter and, with the murmured help of his wife, Seryozha’s English note. Olga sat upon the arm of his chair, her round cheek leaning toward his sparse hair. Wilfred walked over to show them the Power of Attorney. Their three heads bent together and they looked like an affectionate family group. The Isaevs could make nothing of the Power of Attorney, and still less after Wilfred had explained it. Isaev now realized that he was going to pay that money⁠—or most of it. His slow brain was like a ship that does not answer readily to the helm, but which, when the continued insistence of the helmsman’s hand affects her course at last, applies herself with an obstinate and heavy exaggeration to the new direction. Isaev’s mind was obsessed now by the necessity for haste⁠—by the fact that the bank would close early on Saturday. Only by going to the bank soon would he be able to conclude this tiresome necessity for talk and thought, and be left in peace to finish this Harbin newspaper account of a delicious scandal in the family of an ex-general.

Olga also knew now that the money must be paid, and she could scarcely endure the knowledge without screaming. Underneath this comfortable and well-filled outer woman was a straining, insatiable emptiness⁠—a sort of spiritual sucking in, like the inhaling draught at the mouth of a sea cave. Olga had never given a gift or consented to a surrender in her life. Her charming and gentle eyes⁠—always alert behind their charm⁠—wove a kind of web about her as she walked the world⁠—a web into which a flying miscellany blundered⁠—in which nothing came amiss⁠—and from which nothing ever escaped. Nothing ever went out of her predacious heart or hands. Even her love for her son, her tolerance of her husband, were predatory. Unswerving and ravenous purpose had arranged her face in those attractive and receptive contours, just as nature gives some tropical flowers a sensuous yet implacable appeal that lures insects into their trap. All Olga’s cupboards were filled with a great treasure of rubbish; her heart was stored with accepted gifts⁠—willingly or unwillingly given, but never returned and never paid for. Nothing came amiss⁠—a bribe, a compliment, an act of reluctant obedience, a gift of money, a gift of old newspapers, a declaration of love, a couple of celluloid hairpins left behind in a drawer by a guest.⁠ ⁠… She went through her cupboards by day, thinking, mine⁠—mine⁠—mine; she went through her heart by night, still thinking, mine⁠—mine.⁠ ⁠… And every time her eyes rested on her ugly husband, she saw him as a fixture in her house, a symbol of property. She saw his hand as an extra hand of hers⁠—a hand that must, on her behalf, receive money from strangers, carry that money to the bank, and push it over the counter into safety⁠—but never write a check unless that check were written to earn more money.

And now, to think of something labeled mine suddenly changing its label to yours⁠—to think of that cramped auxiliary hand of hers forced to detach two or three hundred yen from the darling accumulation, to receive nothing in return except a dirty little forgotten slip of paper, made Olga’s heart swell with helpless fury. Yet still her smile corked up the ferment within her.

“I could give,” said Isaev, slowly, “one hundred and fifty yens today and, after not many months, perhaps, a hundred other yens. More than two hundred and fifty yens not.”

These words hardly seemed to Wilfred to make sense at all. Forgetting for a moment that he was a heavenly messenger, he wondered how the old frog could not understand that eventual repayment was not⁠—from Wilfred’s point of view⁠—repayment at all; that money handed over to the Malinins when Wilfred should be not there but in Shanghai, perhaps⁠—London, perhaps⁠—Timbuktu, perhaps⁠—might just as well be peanut-shells, for all the good it would do to the principal in the case⁠—Wilfred Chew.

“My dear Mr. Isaev,” said Wilfred, licking his gold tooth between puckered lips, “let us talk sense, please. You are not now buying a pianola on the instalment plan; you are returning to an investor his capital, with the interest due. Due, I repeat, that is to say, to be paid now. It is not a matter of next year or some time. Here I have a little piece of paper which it is to your interest to redeem. The moment my client’s money is in my hands I give you this piece of paper. You burn it. You are free of debt. You snap your fingers on the nose of the world. If you do not choose to hand over the money, I replace the little piece of paper in my pocket and have recourse to the law. I am a lawyer, your friend as well as Mr. Malinin’s, and I assure you that you will have to pay in the end. Well, why not now? Why this undignified haggling? As I said before, Mr. Malinin would adjust his convenience to yours to the point of suggesting a round sum⁠—four hundred yen⁠—instead of his exact rights. This sum I should take the responsibility of accepting on his behalf, but⁠—”

“I should⁠—I advise⁠—I accept” Olga archly mimicked him. Just as the work of a camera is, some think, a glance from the evil eye, so this sweet vehement parody of Wilfred’s voice seemed like the subtle curse of an evil tongue. “Mr. Chew, it is not our friend Sergei Dmitrivitch which speaks; it is you; it is you that wish to take the money from poor us; it is you that speaks⁠—that has power to arrange how much. Sergei Dmitrivitch is many far miles away from us⁠—”

Isaev interrupted her; “Da-da-da, Olga, he speaks. Why should he not speak? He is friend of Sergei Dmitrivitch⁠—he speaks for him. Sergei Dmitrivitch is our friend. I hope then Mr. Chew will be so kind to be our friend, too. Mr. Chew, please think⁠—like our friend⁠—like Sergei Dmitrivitch’s friend⁠—how this matter can be finished. I treat you like friend. You are my guest here⁠—my friend. As long as you stay here⁠—two day⁠—three day⁠—I charge nothing. You are a friend.”

“It is most hospitable of you,” said Wilfred, rather frostily. “But on second thoughts, when we have settled this business I think I will not stay in Seoul. If we can reach the bank before it closes, I feel I ought to take tonight’s train back to Mi-san.”

Isaev’s face was quite animated now. He was like a pyramid tipped with sunrise.

“Well, whether yes or no, I invite you like friend. If you speak no, still remember my hospitality has money value and what I offer to friend I do not take back. One week in my hotel I offer⁠—one week, I think, twenty-five yens. See, I make you my guest if you go away⁠—if you stay⁠—it is all the same⁠—you are my guest and friend.” He laid twenty-five yen on the table beside him. “We shall better finish this matter now because the bank will shut door. Did you speak two hundred and seventy-five yens?”

“My dear Mr. Isaev, I did not. On the contrary. You misheard me. I may have mentioned the sum of three hundred and seventy-five yen. This would I think be a reasonable compromise.”

“Oi-oi! Mr. Chew⁠—remember how rich Sergei Dmitrivitch will be soon; he has now very rich son, married to that bitch. Plenty money⁠—I think Pavel Nicholaievitch pay plenty money to have his daughter married at last. Sergei Dmitrivitch⁠—now so rich⁠—will not be made angry by little matters. Fifty yen more⁠—fifty yen less⁠—it is nothing to a man whose daughter is rich bitch. I also am business man⁠—I am not made angry by small matters. If you come to bank now, I give you three hundred and twenty-five yens⁠—thus all are glad⁠—all are still friends.”

Isaev got up. Wilfred got up. Olga remained sitting on the arm of Isaev’s chair, her fine eyes fixed on the two ten-yen notes and the five-yen note on the table. Wilfred, his affectedly wandering attention having been recalled by a murmur from Isaev, picked up these notes with a polite embarrassed laugh and, after flipping them about in the air for a moment to show that they were entirely irrelevant⁠—in fact, nothing at all⁠—put them in his pocket. Olga’s eyes were thus released from their spell. She looked wildly round the room for a minute and then followed the two men to the door.

“Are you also coming to the bank with us, Mrs. Isaev?” asked Wilfred, cheerfully. “It is indeed a fine morning for a little constitutional (as we call a walk in London).”

Olga gave a vague laugh and followed them into the street.

Wilfred and Isaev walked side by side, Olga a dozen paces behind. She looked intent, like a spaniel scenting game⁠—she was following the scent of receding money.

“I still hope,” said Wilfred, “to persuade you to accept the invitation of Mr. Ostapenko and Saggay Saggayitch to return with me to Mi-san and take part in the marriage rejoicings⁠—and to satisfy yourself by eye that the dangerous young lady, Miss Ostapenko, is securely spliced.”

Isaev made no reply. The necessity for affability was over. He walked with an effort, heaving his heavy body, breathing asthmatically⁠—not only through his mouth and nose, but also, apparently, through his goggling eyes. Bicyclists, the most insidious danger to life in the Japanese Empire, slithered and glittered round him like eels round a rock. As he waddled across the wide shadow of one of the old serene squat gateways of Seoul, one could imagine that just so would the gateway itself advance behind its massive shadow, should those great red plaster bowlegged flanks be spurred with life.

The door of the bank was a triumphal arch for Wilfred. He was genuinely delighted to have secured a reasonable sum of money for that innocent old dotard, Sergei Malinin. He was pleased to have done well for himself, too⁠—twenty-five yen here, a hundred and fifty yen on the marriage, his expenses during these weeks, and fifty sen a day, and finally the promised ten percent on the unexpected hundred and twenty-five yen he should bring back. Over two hundred yen altogether⁠—and all earned in a perfectly correct Wesleyan manner, thought Wilfred, looking defiantly right and left along the hygienic perspectives of the bank. And he saw, drooping courteously over the far end of the counter, in conversation with one of the Japanese clerks⁠—the Reverend Oswald Fawcett! To be sure, Wilfred knew as certainly as he could know anything that Mr. Fawcett was at present on a walking tour in the English lake country. Yet there he was⁠—or at least here, in the bank, was one⁠—an angel⁠—a ghost⁠—clad in the limp duck suit affected by Wilfred’s dear pastor⁠—wilting, stooping, seeking support, giving, even across these wide spaces, the impression of being defective in eye, in teeth, in complexion, in hair, yet somehow armored with a sort of pale pre-Raphaelite brightness.⁠ ⁠… “A vision⁠—a vision,” thought Wilfred, and stood frozen, face to face with his conscience across the throne-room of Mammon. By a sort of divine imperialism, the foreign conscience, sitting uneasily in Wilfred’s Chinese nature, armed itself, just as Shanghai⁠—that anomalous growth grafted upon a Chinese mudbank⁠—in time of trouble, blossoms forth with Aldershot machine-guns. So, in the brain behind Wilfred’s narrow bright eyes, the still small voice of conscience said, with the faint Lancashire accent that distinguished Mr. Fawcett, “Wilfred Chew, what would Jesus say?” There was, unfortunately, no doubt what Jesus would say. Jesus was an Oriental like Wilfred himself, as Wilfred had often thought⁠—but an Oriental who never seems to have had any idea of the value of money. With one’s brain, which is Mammon, one earns money; with one’s heart, which is Jesus, one gives it back. It is lucky, thought Wilfred’s slightly mutinous brain, that the voice of the heart is still and small, and not too often heard, for to obey it is expensive⁠—and when that still small voice is heard, it is heard above all greater noises⁠—across wide spaces filled with the clinking of money.

Wilfred hurried, borne on charmed feet, to the side of Isaev, who was leaning his iron diaphragm against the mahogany flanks of the counter.

“Take this twenty-five yen, Mr. Isaev,” mumbled Wilfred in an uncertain hurried voice. “I made a mistake. It is part of Mr. Malinin’s capital. Three hundred and fifty yen⁠—that is the sum due to my client.”

Isaev’s brain moved slowly, but his hand accepted the money and laid it upon the sheaf of notes already on the counter.

“Be so kind as to give us an envelope,” said Wilfred to the Japanese cashier. And when the envelope was brought, he added, between lips still slightly trembling, “Be so kind as to give us a stalk of sealing wax.”

The flaming stick of wax, like the flaming sword of the angel of Eden, barred Wilfred away from his treasure. “Now I will write,” he said, and he wrote on the sealed envelope, “Contents: three hundred and fifty yen, being Sergei D. Malinin Esq.’s capital returned in full, with interest, by G. I. Isaev, Esq. Signed, Wilfred Chew.” He put the bulging envelope in his breast pocket and handed Isaev the original receipt. Only then did Wilfred’s eyes seek along the counter for the vision of his conscience. The figure was gone. A slight radiance seemed to Wilfred to remain. But on the steps outside the tall figure of a stranger stood, wagging a ridiculous sunshade at a rickshaw⁠—obviously the figure of a Frenchman, with a long drooping mustache and the pulled-down bloodshot eyes of a bloodhound. Wilfred saw at once that this was his angel; from within that crumpled duck suit, that sallow skin, his vision of the Reverend Oswald Fawcett had glowed. “Certainly⁠—certainly⁠—it was a vision; a miracle purposely dazzled my eyes⁠—otherwise I could not have made such a mistake. Ah, I have been good, I have been good.” Wilfred’s happy heart chanted. “It shall be said of me⁠—‘Well done, thou good and faithful servant.’ ” His happy heart, washed by the sacrifice, sang, as it were, in its bath.

At the foot of the steps Olga Isaeva stood, her eyes glowing at the two men from a rigid face. “The money is paid?” she asked in a high soft voice of her husband.

“Da-da-da,” said Isaev calmly, and showed her the returned receipt.

“Tschah! you filth!” shouted Olga suddenly, and spat at Wilfred’s waistcoat. She turned to her husband and slapped his face, shouting a few shrill confused insults in Russian. Then words failed her. “Ah⁠—ah⁠—ah!” she screamed, and swayed about, wringing her hands. Several rickshaw coolies, foreseeing that this curious seizure would end in physical collapse, came and laid the shafts of their vehicles invitingly at her feet. About forty Japanese bicyclists alighted and stood round the party. The Frenchman, thanking God that he was French, bowled away in a rickshaw; the thin prancing brown legs of the coolie, seen from behind, seemed to be attached, in skittish incompatibility, to the long drooping torso of the passenger.

Olga disregarded her public. She strode over the rickshaw shafts and hurried away down the street, still ejaculating, Ah⁠—ah⁠—ah! and slapping her clenched knuckles of one hand into the palm of the other.

Wilfred was paralyzed with astonishment. Feeling quite sure that Olga Isaeva liked him, he could only suppose that she was suffering from some kind of fit or convulsion. Isaev stood looking mildly at the tattered receipt in his hand, as though wondering whether something in its wording had provoked her. He remained on the lowest step of the bank for a few minutes, as though built there, the thin, craning coolies standing round him like scaffolding. “My wife is sometimes a little bit angry⁠ ⁠…” he said.

After a moment he began. “Tonight my wife will⁠—” and stopped, evidently feeling that what he had begun to say was not worth finishing. Then he said, firmly, “I think I come with you to Mi-san tonight, Mr. Chew, yes⁠—no?”