the small woman 1972

8/12/2019 The Small Woman 1972

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T H ES M A L LW O M A N

ALAN BURGESSThe International Bestsellerthat inspired the filmHE INN OF THE SIXTHHAPPINESS


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Th e S mal l W omanBefore the war Alan Burgess was a mem ber of the crew of AdrianSeligman's Cap Pilar which circumnavigated die world under saiLFrom 1939-1946 he served in die Merchant N av y and die R A F .Since then he has been work ing m ainly for die B B C as a featuresproducer turning out many series and travelling all over die world todocument and dramatize stories of international importance orparticular human interest. O n e of the se stories - that of G lady sA ylw ard - becam e an international bestseller as The Small Woman andw as later film ed as The Inn of the Sixth Happiness starring Ingrid


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Also by Alan Burgessin Pan BooksDayl ight Must Come


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THESMALL W OM ANALAN BURGESS

Pan BooksLO ND ON , SYDNEY tod AUCKLAND


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First published 1957 by Evans Brothers LedPublished 1959 by P in Books Ltd,Cayaye Place, London sw to 9PGRented edition (12th printing) 197219 28 17 16 25 24 23 22 21 20© Alan Burgess, 19J7,1969 , 1971IS1N o 330 1019* xSet, printed and bound in Great Britain byCox & Wyman Ltd, ReadingThis book is sold subject to the condition that itshall not, by way of trade, or otherwise, be lent, re-sold,hired ou t or otherwise circulated withou t the publisher's priorconsent in any form o f binding or cover other than that in whichit is published and without a similar condition including thiscondition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser


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ILLUSTRATIONSI N P H O T O G R A V U R EGladys Aylward, London parlourmaidGladys A ylward, China missionary for *o yeanWith some of the converts at prayer over Mrs Lawsoa'scoffin. In the back row, m uleteers who visited die Inn ofEight HappinessesWith some of die children before they crossed themountains to SianO ne of die 'children', Ii a n Ai, sent Gladys Aylward thispicture, taken on her wedding dayBandaged feet One of Gladys Aylwatd's first duties asFoot Inspector was to ntewk down the F̂ *'" ift olncustomLocal Chinese farmer with grandsonTow n crier calling villagers to the west gate o f YangchehgThe village fruit marketGladys Aylward tells a Bible story to die convicts atChengtuHappy ending in Shanghai for "Niaepeoce' and her smallsonPhotostat of part of a letter received by Miss Arhrard'scarentsThe 'Sw Tl W oman's' i^rffifn** o f Chinese nataratfsadonWW» die Bible which accompanied her on her travels, M issAyhvard preached dw Gospel aD over England ;


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A ? R I CA

1MAP OFTHEJOURNEVLONDON t»\W*GCH£N


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oca 'e of mifes


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CHAPTER ONETHE WHOLE affair of the small woman both intrigued andconcerned the senior physician. Her nearness to death; thefact that out of one quarter of the human race inhabitingthe enormous Chinese continent, the tiny, dried-up husk ofa woman with an ebbing pulse of a heartbeat should washup against his door, and depart beyond his help, as great anenigma as when she arrived, aroused in him an interestbeyond his professional concern.That she was dying he did not doubt. Who she, was, noone knew, but in China in those autumn days of 1941, withthe Japanese invader pressing in on many fronts and onehalf of the world trying hard to destroy the other in afurious holocaust of tanks and planes, guns and ships,violent death was such a near neighbour that the departurefrom this life of one small, unknown woman was of littleconcern to anyone.The few English-speaking staff at the Scandinavian-American Mission at Hsing P'ing, far off in North-westChina, knew neither her name nor where she came from. TwoChinese peasants had delivered her to the front gate, heavingher out from the back of an ox-cart as unceremoniouslyas if she had been a rag doll. With a fatalistic lift of theirshoulders, they had admitted to the gateman that had shebeen Chinese they would have left her to die. They knewshe was a foreigner, even though she was dressed in Chineseclothes and carried a Chinese Bible; therefore they thoughtit more seemly that she should die close to her friends, hersoul consigned to her own gods. The gateman was notinterested in either their philosophy or their corpse—thebody looked close enough to death to be mistaken for acadaver—and he did not inquire where they had found it,or even where they themselves came from; so the peasantsretreated into the unknown, and the gateman went to tellhis masters that they had a body on their hands.


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The Scandinavian-American Mission sent a wire at onceto the Baptist Mission Hospital at $ian, asking if a doctorcould come; and with a generous humanity which in thenext few weeks was to be so freely given by all at thathospital, the senior physician caught the next train. Hearrived late in the afternoon, and examined the patient. H erbody was thin and undernourished; crow's feet of intenseweariness and suffering pencilled dark lines from thecorners of her eyes; she bore the scar of a fairly recentbullet-wound across her back; and although it was notapparent, she was also suffering from internal injuriescaused by a brutal beating up which had taken place somemonths earlier.Her temperature was in the region of 105 degrees; shewas in a raving delirium, and she was quite certain that thesenior physician was a Japanese officerHis experience told him that she was probably sufferingfrom relapsing fever. He took an immediate blood-slide,and sent it back by special messenger to the BaptistH ospital. A second messenger return ed next day w ith ne wsthat the blood-film confirmed that he had diagnosedcorrectly. At once he gave her an intravenous injection,which he knew would lessen the fever; as by this time aSwedish-American nurse named Miss Nelson had alsoarrived, he felt that he could now leave the patient in herhands, for the fever would abate within forty-eighthours, and only time and good nursing could effect acure. He returned to Sian, con tent tha t he had do ne all h ecould.Five days later a letter arrived at the Baptist Hospitalinforming the senior physician that the unknown womanwas again in a raving d elirium ; tha t althoug h her tempera-ture had indeed dropped to near normal, it had suddenlyshot up again to 105 degrees, and she was m ost dangerouslyilL

He caught the next train, and found his patient justbreaking out in the rash of that most dreadfully perilousdisease, typhus, which she must have been incubatingwhile suffering, from relapsing fever A s three doctors at

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the Baptist Hospital had died of typhus during the past fewyears, and as the resistance o f this wom an, due to malnutri-tion, shock and fatigue, was negligible, in his ow n mind thesenior physician held out n o hope for her at all. Especiallywhen further examination revealed that a patch of pneu-monia had developed on one lung IBy a God-given coincidence, however, one of theSwedish-American missionaries who had just returnedfrom furlough in the U SA had about twenty tablets of thenew drug sulphapyridine in his personal kit; he gladlyoffered them to the senior physician as treatment for thewom an's illness. Using the tablets he managed to curb thepneumonia; but it was quite clear to him that, if the smallwoman was to have the slightest chance of survival, shewould have to be moved at once to the hospital atSian.The senior physician had been in China for nearly tw entyyears; he had survived the siege of Sian, when the armiesof two local warlords had fought for the city and 20,000people had died of starvation; he had many contacts andsome influence in the district, and for this small, unknownwoman he d id not hesitate to use both . H e rang up a friendof his who controlled that section of the railway and,addressing him by his nickname, said:

"Rails ? Tomorrow I w ant a special carriage attached tothe first train that leaves. W e've a patient we shall carry tothe train on a camp bed, and we shall have four helpersto hold it steady during the journey. Will you do this forme? It's urgent "'Rails' said he would. Had the small woman, in herdelirium , know n that a special carriage was being arrangedfor her benefit alone, she would certainly have laughed untilshe cried.

A t Sian the train was m et by bearers, and the unconsciouswom an was taken to hospital. One of the lady doctors hadwillingly m oved out of her own room so that the desperatelysick woman could have the benefit of a large and airychamber. Miss N elson and the hospital matron, Miss Major,continued to nurse her.

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It was fifteen days later, when the small wom an was stillmentally deranged, although the typhus fever was begin-ning to abate, that the Japanese, after several weeks ofinactivity, decided that they wou ld bom b Sian. The seniorphysician sat with his patient as the bombs began to falLHer thin , wasted form jerked and twitched in agony as eachbomb whistled down and the rumble and crash shook theroom. Her whole body ran with a cold sweat, and thedoctor, who in all his experience had never seen such anagony of delayed shock, held her wrists and tried to comforther.

Having taken all the trouble to get her into the hospitalat Sian, he realized that he would now have to take a lotmore trouble to g et her out again to some quieter place, forthe raids, now that they had started, would m ost certainlycontinue, and the small woman would most certainly die.Already it seemed she was only lingering in the corridor ofdeath waiting for the last door to open .She was still almost a complete enigma. A s a nurse stoodby her next day a spasm of pain crossed her face, and awhisper came from her lips. "My children?" she said."Where are my children? The Japanese are all round us.They'll kill us. I know they'll kill us."The whisper m ounted to a scream, and then abruptly shewas raving in an uncouth Chinese dialect which no onecould understand, but which later someone recognized ascoming from a wild mountain region far to the north. Thespasm of delirium passed. A faint smile formed on her face.There was such nostalgic reminiscence in the painfullyarticulated words: "Remember that first night of UlaeTime} That little tune that went, pom-pom-pom tiddley-

o m - p o m - p o m . . . "From the constricted throat, slowly into the hot room ofthe hospital, where the flies buzzed lazily against the white-washed ceiling, dropped the short, uncertain notes of thetune which had generated a hundred errand-boys intowhistling activity a decade, or was it a lifetime, ago ? W ithequal slowness the disordered mind of the sick womangrasped or was eluded by the images around her. Flies?12


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There were flies on the races o f the dead at Yangcheng. Andthis clinically-smelling gentleman who bent over her andwith such gentle insistence, day after day, week after week,probed into her past. It was not unpleasant to lie there in aworld of darkness and colour and delirium and let one'smind drift back dow n the years.They had been g ood years. N o one could take them awayfrom her. Her name ? they asked. What was her name ? Buteveryone knew her name. In a province as big as the wholeof England everyone knew her name. Ai-weh-deh, thevirtuous onel They did not want her Chinese name, but herEnglish name, her European name? She did not tell themthat straight away. . . . You did not reveal such secrets inw a r ti m e .. . . You never told who you were nor where youcame from.That night when she met General Ley in the mountainvillage, for example. She remembered him g oing away intothe darkness, his black robe flapping about h is legs, go ingback t o his rifle and to join his band o f armed guerillas. Hewas a Roman Catholic priest, but she never knew his realname; she only guessed that he was Dutch. He had satacross the table from her, the yellow light from the flick-ering castor-oil lamp stencilling black shadows into hisrace; they had talked hour after hour of the immensedilemma in their hearts; then he'd gone away over themountains to . . . to k i l l . . . ?

And the Mandarin, that splendid person in his gown ofscarlet sculptured silk, living far off in his mountain jamenamong the wild peaks of Shansi; he had never wanted toknow her Christian name; and Sualan, the pretty one, shewith the pale skin and hands as restless and delicate asbutterflies, dedicated from birth to be a smiling slave-girlto all the Mandarin's retainers; or Feng, the Buddhistpriest, shaven-headed, condemned to years in the filthygaol; or the muleteer whose wife and children they hadburnt to death; or even Linnan—Linnan the man she loved ?N o t even he had used the name she had brought from herown country.

Th e gentle voice in her ear was insistent: "Tell us your


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name," it said. "Don't be frightened. There's no need to befrightened now."Frightened I She could tell them that being frightened didnot concern her any more. She had been frightened sleepingin the snow among those dark Russian pines; frightened ofthe man who had trapped her in that hotel bedroom inVladivostok; frightened in that dreadful Chinese prisonwhen the maniac with the blood-stained axe turnedtowards her; frightened in the mountain cave when thewolves howled and the brilliant green flints of their eyeswere tiny reflected lights in the darkness; frightened whenthe Japanese cried "H alt", and the bullets ricocheted fromthe tombstones all around h e r . . . ."Your nam e," said the small, insistent voice in her ear."What is your name? Where do you come from ?"It seemed such a silly question to ask. Surely they knewher name was Gladys Aylward. That she had been born inEdm onton. Surely they had heard of Edm onton, in NorthLondon? In those days the fields had flowed right up to itsboundaries; but that was before the grey stone, the redbrick and the grime of London Qty had imprisoned it.They had moved to Cheddington Road when she was verysmall. A row of red-brick houses, lace curtains, privethedges. Aspidistras in the windows. Grey pavements. Eachmorning an unending procession of cheerful milkmen,greengrocers, bakers and their horse-drawn carts down thestreets. A happy childhood. She remembered her fathercoming hom e, clumping up the road in his heavy postman'sboots, wearing his dark uniform with the red piping. Mumwould be in the kitchen getting the tea, and she and Violet,her sister, would be screaming around the house or runningwild with the other children in the street.When the Zeppelins came over to bomb London in theFirst W orld War, she remembered how she'd first discov-ered the antidote to being 'frightened'. She would bring allthe children in the street into the front parlour and sit themdow n against the inside wall. Then she would sit at the tinyold foot-operated organ, pedal furiously and scream out ahymn at a decibel scale calculated to reach almost as high as


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those ominous silver cocoons droning through the sky.Her belief in the morale-raising qualities of a good lustyhym n sung a t four-engined jet acoustic never deserted he r.In all the years in China she had d iscovered how i t cou ldlift their hearts, no matter how depressing the circum-stances. Hadn't they sung as they marched over themountains, all those tired and footsore children, marchingnot on Jordan or on Georgia, but down to the immense,untam ed, ancient configurations of the Yellow R iver? A ndthe disappointment there. Was there ever a disappoint-ment to equal it ? M aybe tha t time in Lo ndon at the ChinaInland Mission? Maybe that disappointment would equalit. She remembered the black winter branches swayingagainst the pale London sky outside the study window.The Principal, a tall, thin, scholarly man with a domedforehead, had faced her across the table. The edges of hiskindly blue eyes were arrival points for a network of deep,inter-comm unicating lines; loom ing above were buttressesof bushy grey eyebrows. She remem bered how he 'd loo kedat he r, oh so seriously. Tw enty-six years old, very smalland slender, a neat figure, dark brown eyes, an oval face,dark hair parted in the middle, and gathered uncom prom is-ingly into a b un at the back. Perhaps he discerned some ofthe inherent stubbornness and inner strength in the tight-ening of her lips. But also he would see the tension in herface; tension that wou ld soon be replaced by disappointm ent,for he had known that she was unwilling to relinquish allhope until he deliberately and finally destroyed it.

H e had spread the reports in front of him and pursed hislips."Y ou 've been with us now for three mo nths, I see, MissA y l w a r d ? " h e s a i d ."Yes , s i r .""Theology, now ?"" I wasn 't very goo d a t theology, was I ?" she had saidquietly.H e had looked up under his eyebrows. " N o , you w eren' t .N ot good at a lL"


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She remembered how she sat with her fingers tightlyclenched in her lap. She hardly heard the voice whichreiterated her list of failures. She knew she could nevermake him understand. She knew she lacked the persuasive-ness to argue with him or the education to pass his ^rat^ina.tions; she knew she hadn't the 'background'; she knewshe had no chance. But she knew also, with a single-minded, agonizing clearness, that she must go to China 1"You see, Miss Aylward, all these scholastic short-comings are important," he said sympathetically, "butmost important o f all is your age. If you stayed at the ChinaInland M ission Centre for another three years and then wesent you out, you would be about thirty by the time youarrived." He had shaken his head doubtfully. "Ourexperience tells us that after the age of thirty, unless pupilsare quite exceptional, they find it extremely difficult tolearn the Chinese language.

"In view of all this, you will understand, I'm sure," hehad continued, "that there seems to be little point in yourcontinuing w ith your studies here. We accepted yo u to betrained in go od faith, on triaL If you went on, it wo uld be awaste of everyone's time and money . .." He left the restof the sentence unfinished."I understand," she said quietly. "Thank you for lettingme come. It's not your fault that I couldn't do all thesethings."The Principal had tried to soften the disappointment."You mustn't be too distressed at this . . . er . . . setback.There is so much other useful work to be done in Britainby people like yourself." He had paused. "Have you anyidea what you will do now ?"

" No ," she said.He glanced at her papers. "I see you were in . . . er . . .service before y o u . . . "Her eyes lifted abruptly to meet his. "I don't want to g oback to being a parlourmaid unless I have to," she saidquickly."No, I understand that." H e paused. "There is one otherway you could help us, Miss Aylward."

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"Yes? H ow ?""Two missionaries have just returned from China. Anold married couple w ho need som eone to look after them.They have borrowed a house in BristoL Would you beprepared to consider the job?"She remembered how that offer had chilled her. She hadunlocked her fingers and examined the palms o f her hands.Such a sad hum iliation Housekeeper to t w o retired mis-sionaries too old to care for them selves If that was theclosest she was ever going to get to China, then perhaps itwas better if she did go back to her job as a parlourmaid.But she had to consider the harsh economic facts of life.She was a woman, and it was mainly a man's world. Shewas a spinster of twenty-six, and the society into which shehad been born expected her to work towards some first-floor lodging o f security. It was usual in those days betweenthe two w orld wars that a young wom an wh o craved G od ,sublimated that urge into Sunday attendances at church: a

sort of genteel insurance policy that could be reclaimed atthe gates of the heavenly kingdom . But she also knew withcertitude that the G od to w hom she ow ed allegiance wantedmore from her than this milk-and-water reaction. In thosegrim slump days, if you had a job you stuck to it. But shewas determined to make something of her life. She hadgone straight from school into service. She had movedfrom one parlourmaid job to another, and unemploymentwas still something to be feared.

H ow the desire to g o to China first arose she hardly knewherself. It could have originated from that evening when,rather bored, and with nothing else to do , she had seen abanner proclaiming a religious revival displayed outside alocal church. Inside, a dynamic young clergyman hadexhorted his small audience to serve God. All the othergirls, seeing which way her inclinations were turning,declared quite bluntly that she was 'barmy'. "Don't besilly, G lad," they protested. "Com e with us to the pictures,or to a dance, or to the theatre, or let's g o and see those n icechaps we m et in the park, who want to take us for a row onthe Serpentine." Suddenly, however, Gladys wanted more17


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from life than that. She had joined a local evangelicalsociety, and gradually the urge to go to China hadeased into her mind. Eventually she had been accept-ed as a probationer at the China Inland MissionCentre.Although she tried to hide it, what a disappointment herfailure had been At the memory o f that day all those yearsago, the tears began to roll down her cheeks. The youngChinese nurse at her bedside tried to comfort her as shewept. Then, almost as quickly as the tears came, solaughter returned. It really was very, very funny. Only afew months later and there she w as, twenty-six years old, a'Rescue Sister' on the Swansea Docks in South Wales. Herlaughter echoed through the ward, and the small Chinesenurse looked at her in perplexity. She'd got the job shortlyafter she went to help the old missionaries in Bristol. Arescuer of fallen w om en, and at twenty-six she hardly knewhow they 'fell' or what she was supposed to be rescuing

them from. Night after night she patrolled the dock area,seeking to dissuade young women from the fate whichVictorian tradition insisted was worse than death, but aboutwhich there seemed to be a general disagreement among thegirls. That she was only five feet tall and weighed abouteight stone, and that drunken sailors under the blotchyyellow street lamps—the beer and the songs and the relieffrom the sea singing in their heads—were just as likely tomistake her for a prostitute, and act accordingly, did notreally worry her.The younger girls, who had come by train down fromtheir dark valley villages for a gay night out in the b ig cityof Swansea, were usually grateful Outside the pub they

were sick dow n her frock and bleated incoherent intimaciesabout their sailor boy friends or 'being afraid to go hometo Mam '; but they were grateful to be suddenly befriendedwhen Gladys put her thin arm around them and guidedthem off to a bed at the mission hosteL Nex t morning theywhispered their white-lipped thanks as she gave them a fewcoppers and put them on the train, to go home to facebiblical parental wrath in small cottages back in the Welsh18


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mountains. H ie older prostitutes, time-hardened by theeconomic pressures of the slump, were quite different. Theycame to regard the young welfare worker, so eager and sofull of the Lord, with tolerant amusement Occasionallythey even capitulated to her appeals, and several times onSunday evenings she was able, triumphantly, to lead a partyof them to Snellings Gospel M ission. Here, if not reformed,at least, for a transient m om ent, they were transfigured bythe thunder and rattle of the full-throated Welsh hymnsagainst the tin roof o f the chapel, and lifted gloriously awayfrom the harsh physical world o f beery breaths, clutchinghands and the urgent passions of Argentines, Greeks,Lascars, West Indians, sailors, stewards and stokers, andall w ho ply in ships to the port o f Swansea,She knew, however, that although these experiencesstrengthened her spirit, they added nothing to her corporealbank balance. It was becoming increasingly obvious thatif she was ever going to get to China—and she wasdetermined to get there in some capacity or other, nomatter what anyone might think—she would have to payher ow n fare.The only way she knew of earning money was to goback into service again. She was reluctant to do this, butas a 'Rescue Sister' she spent or gave away the little sheearned. She said goodbye to her friends and returned toLondon.A n employment agency found her a post in the L ondonhousehold of Sir Francis Younghusband, the eminentsoldier, author and explorer. It was ironical perhaps that,as she dusted the book s in the library of his stately Belgraviaresidence, the man who first crossed the heart of CentralAsia by traversing the Muztagh—the great mountainbarrier between Kashmir and China—was not evenconscious of her presence. Yet she was to cross humanand geographical terrain as formidable as any he everfaced.She remembered vividly her entry into the household.Dispirited after the long journey from the suburbs ofEdmonton , she knocked at the front door, and was show n


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to her bedroom by the butler. It was small and neat andcomfortable, but still a servant's bedroom. It was notChina. She sat on the bed and looked at the suitcases shehad lugged up the stairs. She took out the black, well-thumbed Bible and put it on the dressing table. She turnedout her purse, which^contained all the money she possessed.There were two pennies and one ha'penny. She placed thecoins on top of the Bible. She felt like weeping. She wasback where she had started—in service—and China seemedso far away. A nd, suddenly conscious of her deep need, shecried out, "O h God, here's my Bible Here's my moneyHere's me Use me, G od l"The door opened. A rather puzzled fellow-housemaidwho had been approaching and heard the appeal, pokedher head in."You Gladys ?" she said. "Missus wants to see you in thedrawing room. Always wants to see all the new staff as soonas they arrive."

"Thank you," said Gladys.She walked slowly down the stairs. Her mistress regardedthe small, dejected figure with curiosity."Miss A y lw a rd .. . isn't it? I hope you'll be happy withme. Now, tell me, how much was your fare fromhome?""Two and ninepence," said Gladys. She did not under-stand the point of the question.Her mistress reached for her purse."I always pay the fares of my maids when I engage them,"she said. "Here's three shillings. The housekeeper willexplain your duties later. . . ."Tiny spurts of jet-propulsion lifted Gladys's heels as shesoared back up die stairs. Exultantly, she spread out thethree coins on her Bible. The bright silver shone against theblack leather cover. Three shillings and twopence ha'pennyAll to be hoarded against her fare to China. In spirit she washalfway thereShe chuckled again as she remembered her first encounterwith the ticket people. The elderly booking-clerk atMullers, the travel agency in the Haymarket, was quite

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certain she was mad. It seemed that in all his years of ad-vising upon the pleasures of foreign travel he had neverheard such an outrageou s dem and. Ha d he no t just finishedpatiently explaining that the cheapest boat fare to anyportion of China was ninety pounds ? H ad he not pointedou t, in passing, that although the cheapest and quickest rou tewas overland through Europe, Russia and Siberia toTientsin via the Trans-Siberian railway—the fare for thisjourney be ing only forty-seven po un ds ten shillings— it wasquite impossible to travel by that route? Yet this youngperson facing him across the counter had chosen deliber-ately to misunderstand his words. She thrust three poundnotes across a t h im , said sh e'd hav e a ticket on the railway,and w ould h e please accept this on accou nt? H e had tappedhis slender fingers on th e coun ter and adjusted his pince-nezto regard her more closely. A journey round the globe, asafari in Africa, a discreet weekend in Le Touquet; theycould all be managed, bu t this . . . this

"As I was going to say, madam," he had said severely,"the journey by Trans-Siberian railway is quite impossiblebecause a conflict between Russia and China is raging atthe eastern end.""I couldn't really care about a silly old war," she hadsaid. " It 's the cheapest way, isn't i t? T ha t 's wh at I w a n tNow, if you'll book me a passage, you can have this threepou nds on account, and I'll pay you as m uch as I can everyweek .""We do not," the clerk had replied, choosing his wordswith the pedantic care of the extremely irritated, "like todeliver our customers—dead "She had stared up at him. His acidulousness had noeffect whatsoever. She was quite logically feminine abouti ta lL"O h, they w on ' t hur t m e ," she said . ' T m a wom an.They won ' t bother about me."I t was three o'clock in the afternoon. M ullets was almostempty. He had time therefore to explain gently and dis-passionately how important a communication link theChina Eastern Railway was to both the forces of Russia

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and China. He explained that the Chinese, spurred on bya young warlord named Chang-Hsueh-liang, were tryingto force the Russians to abandon all claims to the link-linewhich crossed Manchuria and connected with the Trans-Siberian Railway. An undeclared war was in progress. Noguarantee would be possible for the safety of one youngwoman, even armed with that magical document, a Britishpassport.At the end of his speech her dark brown eyes still re-garded him steadily; the small hand in the worn glove stillpushed the three pound notes in his direction."I t'll be all over by the time I get the rest of the money,I'm sure," she said. "If you'll order me a ticket, I'll bringin my money every week until I've paid the balance. Is thatall rig ht?"The elderly clerk looked at her carefully. Then he sighed,picked up the three pounds and, defeated, reached for hisreceipt book."Very well, madam," he said. "I don't know what themanagement would think about this, but I expect it will beall right."Exactly what she thought she would be able to do whenshe arrived in China without a penny in her pocket, under-standing not one word of the language, she hardly knewherself; but she was determined that, even if she could notpass through the scholastic eye of the China InlandMissionary needle, she could at least equip herself as anevangelist and know the Bible intimately. "I must learn topreach," she said to herself. "I must learn to talk to thepeople."With the essential simplicity which characterized her, in

every moment of spare time she went to Hyde Park, or toany street corner, where she mounted, literally, a soap box,and preached mainly to an iconoclastic, and often a jeeringaudience. Tired Londoners, bearing the tribal insignia ofbowler hat, folded newspaper and rolled umbrella, movingTubewards in the evenings, were startled on street comersto find themselves exhorted by a small girl in a black dressto turn, not homewards, but to God. Against the clamour

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of London's traffic, her thin starling treble argued andpleaded, and although not much more notice was taken ofher than of the small black birds which festooned Nelson'sColumn, she was not disheartened.Then she had her first piece of luck. From a friend sheheard of Mrs Lawson. "A dear old soul, my dear. Seventy-three years old this year, and still working away as amissionary in China. She came back to England last year toretire, but she just couldn't stand i t So she returned toChina; she said she'd sooner end her days out there. Shewrote only a few days ago saying she wished she couldfind some younger woman who could carry on with herwork."Gladys Aylward remembered how her mouth droppedopen in astonishment, how all she could do was whisperweakly, "T hat's mel That's me I"She wrote off at once. Could she help her? Could shejoin her? Could she come to China ?

Now it became imperative that she save the money forthe train ticket. In the Belgrave Square household she waswilling to do anything. No chore was too long or arduous.She besieged other employment agencies offering herservices to w ork on her day off, to work weekends, to serveat banquets, to carry trays at society patties, to w ork all dayand all night if necessary. By now the clerk a t Mullets wasan old friend, accustomed to the enthusiastic young womanwho appeared at his desk every Friday, bearing sums whichwould be counted out in pennies and shillings and enteredagainst that magical total—forty-seven pounds ten shillings.Then came that wonderful morning when the letterbearing the bizarre and brightly-coloured Chinese stampsdropped with a plop on the hall floor. It told her that if shecould manage to get to Tientsin by herself, a messengerwould meet her there and guide her to wherever MrsLawson was working.The excitement 1 She had to get a passport at once I Shehad to finish paying for the ticket She had to plan whatshe was going to takcl "I'm going to China," she said toall her friends. "I'm going to China 1" Oh, the thrill of that


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moment She laughed aloud at the mem ory; excitedly shetried to lift herself up in the hospital bed.The young Chinese nurse turned to an orderly who hadjust come in. "She is mad in the head," she said quietly."She is mad in the head, this dying one "


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CHAPTER TWOEXPEDITION 'GLADYS ATLW ARD' assembled o n the platformat Liverpool Street Station on Saturday, 18th October,1930. It must be numbered amongst the m ost ill-equippedexpeditions ever to leave the shores o f England, possessingin currency exactly ninepence in coin and one two-poundCook's travellers' cheque. The cheque was sewn carefullyinto an old corset given to the expedition by its mother, inthe severe belief that even horrible foreigners would notdare to pry too closely into such an intimate, and intimi-dating, feminine accessory. The corset, in tact, was atreasure house. It contained, besides the travellers' cheque,her Bible, her fountain pen , her tickets and her passport

She kissed her mother, and father, and sister, goodbye,and settled herself into the comer seat of her third-classcompartment The whistle blew, the train hissed andpuffed; she waved through the window until her familywere out o f s ig h t She dried her eyes, sat back and spreadout on the seat beside her the old fur coat which a friendhad given her and which her mother had cut up and madeinto a rug. Her tw o suitcases were on the rack. O ne con-tained her clothes, the other an odd assortment of tins ofcorned beef, fish and baked beans, biscuits, soda cakes,meat cubes, coffee essence, tea and hard-boiled eggs. Shealso had a saucepan, a kettle and a spirit stove . The kettleand the saucepan, with a sort o f gay insouciance, were tiedto the handle o f the suitcase with a piece o f string.

Soon they were out of the city, past the suburbs. Shelooked at the identifying symbols of the English landscapewith a perception she had never felt before. The square-towered church behind its screen of autumn trees; theblack-and-white timbered cottages; the fawn-colouredfields ploughed into rolling arabesques and sown withwinter wheat; the brow sing cattle in the pale green fields;the thin drift o f b lue sm oke from the leaf fires burning at

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the hedge-sides; the black crows circling above die high,bare elms against the pale blue sky. She wondered if shewould ever see her native countryside again? She pressedher face against the cold, misted window and whispered,"G od bless you, England". She did not know— she wouldnot have wished to know—that it would be twenty longyears before she saw that landscape again.She disembarked at The Hague, tipped the porter whocarried her bags the ninepencc in coppers and secured acorner seat From Holland the train rattled across Germany,Poland and into the great steppes of Russia. She sat 'facingthe engine', cocooned in her fur rug and watched theContinent slide past. In Russia she was shocked by whatshe saw: the crowds of apathetic people waiting on thebare, cheerless stations, surrounded by their bundles;women working in gangs; poverty and peasantry on ascale she had never imagined.The main station at Moscow was full of soldiers. Theycarried their bread ration under their arms, broke off apiece to munch when they felt hungry. To the meticulousMiss Aylward cooking herself an egg with a Ryvita biscuitspread with a little butter for breakfast, and having'elevenses* of an Oxo cube in the hot water she boiled inher kettle, the rough-looking, bearded men who spat onthe ground and blew their noses on their ringers werealien and a little horrible. She wrote in letters which reachedher mother that she could not believe that Russia washappy—she believed the people to be downtrodden andwretched, and the sight of small children working on theroads both saddened and sickened her. Once or twice a dayshe took gentle exercise along the corridor o f the train, andoccasionally, when the engine stopped to take on w oo d, allthe passengers disembarked to stretch their legs andreplenish their water supply.

Ten days after leaving England the train crossed intoSiberia, and she w as at once enchanted by the grandeur o fthe scenery: the towering mountains, the great belts ofdark pines, the endlessly stretching snow, the bright sun-shine and the immense loneliness. At one halt a man came26


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into her compartment who could speak a little English, andthrough him the other people, who had long ago tired oftrying to ask her questions in sign language, now began tosatiate their curiosity. He was a kindly man, and he con-veyed to Gladys that the conductor of the train who hadexamined her tickets wished to tell her that no trains wererunning to Harbin, and that she would probably be heldup at the Siberian-Manchutian border. If this were true—and she concentrated on trying hard not to believe it—thenher chances were remote of proceeding onwards throughHarbin to Dairen, and so by steamer to Tientsin.To increase her fears, at each station halt m ore and moresoldiers crowded on to the train. Two officers shared hercompartment now, and although they could no t talk to herexcept by gesticulation, they were quite pleasant. At Chitathe train emptied of all civilians, except Gladys. The con-ductor came along and with fantastic signs tried to enticeher out on to the platform. Gladys, however, now firmly

rooted in the compartment, was having none of it; shebelieved that every mile forward was a mile towards China.She stayed put.The train filled up with soldiers and rumbled onwards.A few hours later in the darkness it halted again at a tinystation and the soldiers got ou t, formed up on the platformand marched off up the line into the darkness. The trainlights went out. She took a short walk up the corridor andsatisfied herself that she was the only person left aboard.Then, bome on the thin, freezing wind, came a noisewhich, even although she had never heard it before, sherecognized immediately. The sound of gunfire 1 Rumbling,ominous, terrifying She poked her head out of the carriagewindow and saw the distant flashes light the sky. Shescrambled her belongings together. She realized a littleshamefacedly that the elderly clerk at Mullers had beenrigh t after all. There was a war on 1 She had a quick mentalpicture of him shaking his head at her across the counterand saying reprovingly, "But I did tell you, madam, thatwe do not like to deliver our customers, deadl"

Laden down by bags and rug, she wandered along the27


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platform and, in a small hut by the track, found four menclustered round a stove: the engine driver, stoker, thestationmaster and the conductor who had unsuccessfullyurged h er to g et off the train at C hita. Th ey m ade her a cupof strong coffee and with a running commentary amplifiedby gymnastic gesticulations reiterated the fact that she had,indeed, reached the end of the line. Beyond was thebattlefield.This brief undeclared war between China and Russiaover possession of the China Eastern Railway receivedlittle publicity in the W estern Press. I t lasted a few m on ths ,resulted in many casualties and the Chinese eventuallywithdrew their forces. The train, they said, would remainat this halt for days, perhaps weeks, until such time as itwas needed, then it would take wounded back to hospitalsbehind the line. They po inted d ow n the track the way theyhad come. " G o b ack ," they said.The line wound drearily through snow-covered pines.It ducked thro ug h dark tun ne ls; it was hemm ed in by highm ou nta ins; the sno w in between the sleepers was thick andsoft; icicles hu ng from th e pine con es. Bu t to walk back toCh ita, they said, was her only h op e.She set off. N o t many miles from th e Man churian bo rde r,the Siberian wind gusting the powdered snow around herheels, a suitcase in either hand, one still decorated ludic-rously w ith k ettle and saucepan, fur ru g ov er her shou lders,she crunched off into the night, a slight, Chaplinesquefigure, dwarfed by the tall, sombre trees, the toweringmountains, and the black sky, diamond bright with stars.G o d obviously d id n o t mean her to be eaten by the wolves,for there were plenty ab ou t. Occasionallyin the forest a hand -ful of snow w ould slither to the gro un d w ith a sudden noiseor a branc h wo uld crack unde r th e weigh t of snow , and shewould pause and peer uncertainly in that direction. Butnothing m oved. There was l ight , no w armth— nothing butendless loneliness.

Four hours later, when the cold and exhaustion becameto o m uch for h er, she sat do w n o n th e icy rail, lit he r spiritstove and boiled some water for her coffee essence. She ate

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two soda cakes, and felt miserable. She decided she mustsleep, at least for an ho ur o r two . She arranged h er suitcasesinto a windbreak, scooped up snow to fill the cracks,wrapped herself firmly into her old fur rug and lay down.Drowsily, she listened to the noise of far-off howling, andwith the childlike innocence attributed as a rule only toyoung babies with large blue eyes, said to herself, " N o wI wonder who let all those big dogs out at this time ofnight? Noisy lot I" Not until a couple of years later inChina did she realize that she had heard a hunting wolfpack.A pale daw n was lighting th e m ountains w hen she w okeup, stiff but refreshed. She made herself more coffee, ateanother soda cake, gathered up her luggage and set offagain along the interminable railway track. She decidedthat it was going to be a long walk to China. Late thatnight, staggering along, almost unconscious with cold andweariness, she saw the lights of Chita gleaming far downthe track. It gave her new streng th. She struggled onw ards,lifted herself wearily on to the platform, dropped hersuitcases into a heap and draped herself on top of them.There seemed to be nothing else to do. Several othergroups of Russians were doing the same thing. It seemedto be an occupational disease in the USSR.During the night no one came near her, and Gladysdozed intermittently under her fur rug. Next morning asuccession of station officials came to lo ok a t her , n o d thei rheads and depart.Anything they said made no sense to her. She con-tinued to camp out on the platform in the bitter cold. Noone seemed to care. She dozed occasionally, but now shewas getting colder and stiffer. As it seemed quite absurdto freeze to death on a Russian railway platform afterbraving the terrors of the Siberian forest, in the forenoonshe decided to do something about it. Obviously, the onlyway to get anything done at all was to start a riot.She eyed an official in a red cap coming along the plat-

form towards her and wondering whether to kick him onth e shin or kno ck off his im posing ha t. Th en she perceived29


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that violence was unnecessary, for die official was accom-panied by three soldiers, and his objective was obviouslyAylward. In mime, he conveyed to her that she was underarrest and must come with him. She had never been morehappy to be arrested in her life. Gathering up her baggage,she followed him along the platform and into a side room.It was so filthy and stank so abominably that she wasalmost sick. The door was locked and there she was left.She preferred the Siberian cold of the platform. Later thatday the door was opened and she was led into anotherroom. An interrogator managed to make her understandthat he spoke English. Gladys was pleased to understandthis, but it didn 't seem to get them any farther. He talkedfor a long time. She could make out almost nothing ofwhat he was trying to say. Eventually he left her. Gladysgot out her bedroll—this room didn't smell so much—andunder the incurious eye of the soldier who had been left toguard her, she went fast asleep.

Next day the interrogation continued. They crammedher shiny new passport and spent an interminable timediscussing the entry that read: P rofess ion—Missionary. Thisthey seemed to be suggesting had something to do with'machinery'. They also seemed to be hinting that shemight like to stay in Russia; they had need of people likeher.It is well known that during these years many youngCommunists from all over the world were flocking toSoviet Russia anxious to play their part in building aproletarian Utopia. That Gladys Aylward was mistakenfor one of them is not unusual, but the mistake terrifiedher. Frantically, she thumbed through her Bible, whichhad a coloured picture text inside it, and showed themscenes of biblical times. It seemed to do some good, forafter some more discussion they handed her a piece ofpaper with official stamps on it which appeared to be anew visa; also, what looked like tickets for anotherjourney.

That afternoon they escorted her to a train and managedto convey to her that she must change at a place called3°


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Nikolshissur Junction, and then catch a connection toFogianilchnai, and so continue to Harbin.A few hours later she disembarked at Nikolshissur. Theconnection to Pogranilchnai? No one spoke Rnglish; noone understood a word of her request She tried the stationofficials, she tried the man in the red hat. No one under-stood. It was now late. Surrounded by her baggage, shesettled down to spend another night on the station plat-form. It was so bitterly cold she thought she would freezeto death. Next morning she brewed her morning coffee onher spirit stove, ate two of the inevitable soda cakes,parked her luggage at the station cloakroom and went offin search of some sort of Government office. She felt certainthat once there, at least she would find someone who spokea word or two of English. She found the Governmentoffices, but nobody spoke English. She was shown even-tually into an office, and a man interviewed her. Gladys, bynow, was used to exhibiting her Bible and drawing pictures,but on this occasion in a moment of inspiration, she pulledout a picture of her brother, Laurie. It showed him in thefull dress of a drummer in the British Army. By Russianstandards of army uniform, he looked like a major-general.Whether or not they thought she had high Army con-nections, she never found out, but the picture producedinstantaneous and electrifying results. With a sudden spurtof understanding they seemed to know exactly what waswanted. She was whisked off first o the station cloakroomto collect her baggage, and then to a hotel, where she spentthe night. The next day she was escorted to a train, hertickets were altered and she was re-routed to Vladivostok.As she jolted through the interminable Siberian landscapeshe offered up a little prayer of gratefulness to brotherLaurie.

On the platform at Vladivostok no one took muchnotice of her. The collector examined her ticket and let herout through the barrier. On the station wall she saw aposter advertising 'Intourist Hotel', and decided to gothere. By trying various phonetical intonations on passers-by she eventually reached its doors; it was not far from the


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station. The hotel clerk signed her in. A thick-set man w itha pale M ongolian face, a creased suit and no collar examinedher passport and pocketed i t As far as Gladys could under-stand he was something to do with the police. The lettersOGP U meant nothing to her.From then onwards he attached himself to her with afondness that Gladys found rather embarrassing. He insistedupon showing her the sights o f V ladivostok, and what shesaw horrified her: the filthy, unpaved roads full of water-filled potholes, the long food queues; the women in kim-onos, eyes dark w ith hunger and weariness, babies on theirbacks; the shabby, unpainted buildings; the clatteringtrams packed with unwashed, ragged passengers. Thatafternoon she stood with him at a com er and watched oneof these trams draw to a standstill. A thin, half-starved-looking w oman ran to get on. T he reason for the altercationGladys never understood, but she saw the packed crowd ofmen threatening the new passenger; then she saw them,just as the car was m oving off, pick up the wom an bodilyand throw her into the roadway.

The wom an fell w ith a thud and rolled over in the mud.The men screamed and jeered at her. Slowly the woman go tup. She was weeping in such silent and bitter distress thatGladys's heart moved out to her. She took a step in herdirection, but the man's hand on her arm restrained her.Her head bowed low, the woman trudged up the windystreet after the tram. The impression of her body stillremained in the m ud; the rain would wash it away.The cicatrix of the memory incised on Gladys Aylward'smind was there for ever. For her the cold wind which siftedthrough the streets carrying on its breath the desolation ofSiberia epitomized Russia. She felt in her bones thebewilderment and hopelessness of so many of its people.She could n ot canalize her feelings into a coherent, criticalappraisal; she only knew how desperately she wanted toleave this country.

The next m orning the pale-faced interpreter was waitingoutside her bedroom door. She sensed somehow that hisunctuous attitude had changed. As they went down the

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stairs, she said, "Shall I soon be able to get my connectionto Harbin?" He looked at her sideways, "Why do youwish to go to the barbaric land of China ? In this country ofimmense revolution you have a future. You are young,you could work here. We need people with skill like you."She looked straight ahead, tried to make each movementof her limbs a normal, ordinary reaction. She tried toconceal the sudden quickening fear his words hadstarted in her. "But I have no skilL I only want to be amissionary." She added with the frankness she could notalter, "Besides, I don't like Russia; all this poverty, thepoor, thin, underfed women, the dirt."His dark eyes turned towards her. "How can you get toChina, anyway? You have no money to buy tickets."Gladys was angry. "I paid my fare from London toTientsin. If your railway people were honest they wouldsee that I got there ," she said indignantly."But what is the point of proceeding farther? You canwork here just as well as China. We need people like youwho can handle m a c h in es .. . .""Machines 1 I've never worked a machine in my life.""You should stay here," he said. "China is a long way off.We will see that you are taken care of."Gladys saw very little as she walked through the streetsof Vladivostok that m orning. She was now more worriedthan she had been since the journey started. It seemed plainthat this man had received instructions from someone todelay her. But why? There were millions of people inRussia. They did not need her.As she entered the hotel foyer on her return, she wasconscious that someone was walking close behind her. TheOGPU man had gone back to his post at the desk. Sheglanced over her shoulder. She saw a girl, dark, plainlydressed, but attractive. The girl drew level with her.Without turning her head she whispered in good, ifstrongly accented English, " I must speak to you now. It isimportant. Follow me "In mesmerized fashion Gladys allowed the girl to precedeher, and followed her into the corridor. The girl took her

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arm and steered her into a dark corner. "I 'waited until Iwas sure the O G PU man had left yo u ," she said."But I don't understand. Who are you?"'It doesn't matter now. What matters is that you are indanger."The little black raven of fear sitting on Gladys's shoulderflapped its wings."But what can I do?" she said anxiously.The girl's voice was quick with urgency. "You want toget out, don't you? If you don't get out new, you neverwill."

Gladys's tightly compressed lips seemed to stick together.Again she felt the quick shock o f fright"I'm a British subject. I've got a passport.""Where is it?""Here in my bag .""Take it o u t . . . open it."Gladys fumbled in her bag, and suddenly remembered.The man at the desk; he had put it in his pocket and notreturned itThe girl's eyes were fixed on her, reading her thoughts."They still have it. You must get it back I T hey need skilledfactory workers desperately. If they decide to, they cansend you off somewhere in the middle of Russia and you'llnever be heard of again. Examine your passport when theyreturn it"There was utter horror in Gladys's voice n ow . "But whatam I to d o? ""I can help y ou .""Help m e? Ho w can you help m e?""Listen. Tonight after midnight be dressed and haveyour baggage ready. A knock will come on your door. Openit and follow the man outside. D o not speak to him. Simplyfollow him. You understand? And ask them for yourpassport back."

Gladys nodded her head weakly. N o word could pass herlips. She stood in the dim corridor for a few moments afterthe girl had gone trying to formulate a plan o f action. Shebad to get the passport back. That was essential. She walked

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to the desk in the foyer. The O GPU man was sitting on atilted chair smoking a cigarette. H e looked contemptuouslyup at her."My passport?" said G ladys. "I w ould like my passportback."H e rocked his chair back to floor leve l, took the cigaretteout of his mouth, and blew out smoke. "It is still beingexamined. I will bring it back to you—this evening.""Thank you," said Gladys. She walked away quickly,not know ing what her next action should be. She must pullherself together. Could that girl possibly be right? Theidea seemed absurd, an episode out of a not-very-well-written thriller.That night she sat in the cold bedroom after eating hersupper. She hadn't enjoyed the biscuits and the tinned fishvery much. A knock came on the door. She walked acrossand opened it. It was the OGPU man, grinning, wavingthe passport tantalizingly in one hand. He put his foot inthe door. Instinctively warned, with a quick movementGladys reached up and snatched the passport from his hand,and flicked it over her head into the bedroom. The bitter,sardonic grin on his face frightened her. He forced the doorwide open and stepped inside.

"Don't you dare come in here," said Gladys simply."Get out Get out ""I am coming in, and you won't stop me," he saidgutturally. His slitted eyes flicked across to the bed andback to her.With eyes dilated, she stared at him. Her vicariousexperience warned her that here was the absolute, thefundamental horror: a beast of a man forcing his way intoher bedroom at dead of night aflame with lust and desireShe had read about such things in women's magazines allher life. Every second m ovie she had ever seen featured theexploits of Pearl White or Lilian Gish escaping fromexpress trains, ice-floes and foul gentlemen with twirlydark moustaches. A whole Victorian folk-lore had beenfashioned around the fiend and the female, and Gladys hadimbibed enough of it to know that the next reel, or the next

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chapter, always showed the heroine weeping in a corner,or thrown out into the snow carrying a small yowlingbundle.Now it was happening to her. It was unbelievable. Shewas so petrified with astonishment that she allowed himto take three steps towards her, before she leapt backwardslike a small scalded cat. With inspired rhetoric, she de-claimed wildly:"God will protect m e G od will protect m e "The man stopped. He looked puzzled. He stared at thesmall embodiment o f virtue, rooted dramatically in front ofhim and started to grin. T he grin turned into a laugh, theninto a roar of laughter. Astonished, but implacable, Gladysglared at him. Abruptly bis mood changed. He swore ather savagely, cursed her in Russian and English. H e liftedhis hand threateningly, thought better of it and took a fewsteps backwards out of the door. He slammed it behindhim. Gladys dived at the bolt and thrust it home. She couldhardly breathe, so intense was her shock. She leant backagainst the door, pressing her palms against it in an agonyof relief. She had to get out of the hotel that very night.At once I

She raced across to pick up her passport. What had thegirl said? Something about examining it? She opened it,flipped through the pages. Her finger trembled with frightas she saw what they had done. The word Missionary inthe line marked Profession* had been altered to Machinist .She closed it, crammed it into her bag, hauled her suitcasesfrom under the bed and began to pile in her belongings.She had to leave that night; she must escape somehow orother. She finished her packing and sat on the bed tremb-ling, waiting for midnight, praying that the knock on thedoor would rescue her. Was the girl telling the truth, orwas the story some part of an artful plan to trap her? Shedidn't care. She had to take a chance. She had to getaway.

The knock was so gentle that she hardly heard i t Shehesitated before unlocking the door, then decided she mustgo through with it. A strange man in a drab mackintosh

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and a trilby hat stood outside. It was so dark she couldhardly see his face. He motioned to her to come out andheld the door open while she bundled through with hersuitcases. Then he went on ahead, and she followed himalong the corridor, down the stairs and past the receptiondesk. The clerk was nodding in his chair by the stove;there was no sign of the O GP U man. The revolving doorgrated a little as it spun round and Gladys had more difficultywith her cases. Then they were out in the cold night air,and she walked briskly after the stranger. The streets wereunlit and she stumbled continually into potholes. As theyhurried through the dark side-streets she had a feeling theywere approaching the sea. Against the night sky she couldsee the thin shape of dockside cranes. Soon they werestumbling over railway lines embedded in cobblestones.From the shadow of a pile of packing cases another figurestepped out. It was the girl, and with a sigh of thankfulnessGladys hurried towards her."I am glad you have com e," she said."What do I do now ?" asked Gladys anxiously."Y ou sec that ship ." The girl pointed to the black bulkof a ship loom ing beyond the dark sheds and cranes."Yes?""It is a Japanese ship. It sails for Japan at dawn. Youmust be on it.""But Japf n I've go t no m o n e y . . . " Gladys's voice roseinto a waiL"You'll find the captain of the ship in that small woodenhut over there. Y ou must g o and see him. Plead with h im ,tell him you are in great trouble. You must leave on thatship "

"All right, I'll try." Gladys's voice was doubtfuLThe girl stood there in the darkness, and Gladys did notknow how to thank her."What about you ? I haven't even thanked you for whatyou have done. Why have you helped me like this?""You needed help." The girl's voice was low and sad."But y o u . . . ?""I live here. I shall be all r ig h t"

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"B ut h ow can I than k you ? W hat can I give you ? I h aven o m o n e y . . . . ""I t does not matter ."Gladys sensed the hesitation in the girl 's voice."T here is som ething ?""You have perhaps . . . clothes ?"Ev ery ga rment Gladys possessed she was wearing againstthe bitter cold. She had no thing except w hat she w ore , bu tshe had to show her gratitude somehow. She whipped offher gloves."Here, take these, please. And these stockings." She

fumbled in her coat pocket and produced a pair she hadthrust there in her hu rry."They're old and darned, but please have them."The girl took them. "Thank you," she said quietly."G o o d lu ck "Th eir hands touched for a m om ent in the darkness. The nshe turned on her heel and walked away, her feet echoingon th e cobblestones.Gladys picked up her cases and walked slowly towardsthe h ut. She realized, as she picked a path across th e m ud dyground, that she would never find her way back to theIntourist Hotel in the dark. She pushed open the door ofthe little hut. A naked electric bulb hung from the roof.Th ere was a bare w ood en table piled w ith papers. O n theother side of it sat a young Japanese in Merchant Marineuniform. He looked up gravely as she came in.She p u t do w n her bundles and looked at him ."Please," she said, "are you the captain of that boat ?I 'm En glish, and I m ust get on it. I must get on i t "He looked at her impassively. Then he said in excellentEnglish, "Good morning. Please speak slowly. What is ity o u w i sh ?""I want to go to Japan on your ship.""IndeedI Have you the money to pay your fare?"" N o . N o t h i n g "H is black eyes were un blinking and q uite incurious.

"No valuables of any sort?"" N o , no thing at all. But I mu st leave here. I m u st "38


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The Captain nodded his head. His face had shown notthe slightest sign of emotion."You say you are a British subject? You have a pass-p o r t ? "Gladys fished her passport out of her bag and handed itto h im . H e leafed th roug h it carefully. As she watched him ,Gladys had a feeling that he had d on e this many times."A British subject in trouble. We really cannot have th at,can we? Yes, I will take you on my ship. There are somepapers you m ust sign, tha t is alL If you will come with m e,I will find you a cabin."

Six ho urs later, daw n was colouring the bare red hillsidesalong the coastline of the Golden Horn as the Japanesesteamship slowly slid out towards the open ocean, withVladivostok a smudge of smoke behind them. At the railGladys Aylward looked back with tired but relieved eyes.She felt as if she had spent a lifetime crossing the greatcontinent of Russia and Siberia. Now a sense of freedomwashed through her like a fresh spring of water. Shewondered w ho the girl was w ho had helped her. T h e m anw ho had knocked at her do or ? She knew she w ould nevermeet either of them again; that they would always remaineternal enigmas in her past. She was glad that there weresome good people in Russia. She wished them luck. Shefelt that, already, she herself had received a fair allowanceof that glittering, fateful currency.

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CHAPTER THREETHREE DAYS after leaving Vladivostok they steamed intowards their destination, the small port of Tsurugaoha onthe east coast. Farther to the south was Kobe, and fromthere, the Captain explained, she would be able to catch aboat to China. He also informed her that she would haveto wait on board while he got in touch with the BritishConsul or his representative.Not long after they docked, therefore, a rather discon-certed but extremely pleasant young Englishman, whoseimportance at the Consulate Gladys never discovered,arrived to interview her. After a few questions, he conveyedboth her and her baggage to a small restaurant near thedock area "where they could talk properly". He wasobviously embarrassed by the encounter. H e said, "It's allrather difficult. I wonder what we can do for you now?"

"I shall be quite all right when I reach K obe," said Gladysfirmly. After her adventures in the USSR she was confidentof the value o f repeating statements firmly. Experience toldher that if you repeated your desire often enough and con-vincingly enough, something was bound to happen.The young man's surprise showed in his face. "In thatcase I'll get you a ticket to Kobe, and put you on a trainstraight away," he said quickly. His gratefulness showedall the way to the station. As she leaned out of the carriagewindow to chat with him, Gladys could sense that hisrelief was so great, she was almost surprised when he didn'tattempt to kiss her good bye.On the train, in the inevitable corner seat, she watchedthe countryside go by. She contrasted the beauty anddelicacy of the landscape with the savage disorderlinessof the continent she had just left.

The train puffed and jolted round the coastline, and shewatched the vistas of shore and coastline slip behind her.O n the landward side, far away, hig h snow-covered peaks

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shaded d ow n t o green h ills and fertile fields. O n the other,green islands toppled into a blue, sun-bright sea. Tinylattice sail-boats poised in silhouette against the glare ofsea and sky. They passed shady villages of tiled-roofedhouses which were hung with banners and flags, and wherethe trees named w ith scarlet blossom , and shouting childrenfrolicked in the clear shallows of the beaches. In the fieldsthe rice was golden ripe, each stem bent with the w eight ofits kernels, waiting for the sickle. And at every haltchattering groups of Japanese people in dean, brightshirts and kimonos bundled on and off the train.During her stay in Japan she never could reconcile, orequate in mind or memory, the attractive, happy peopleshe met then, with the outrageous warriors she was toknow with such horrifying intimacy in later years.On the platform at Kobe she saw a sign in Europeanlettering which said JAPANESE TO URIST BUREAU. She walkedin and approached the counter clerk. Although she could

not get much sense out of him, she did change her two-pound travellers' cheque and received a bewilderingassortment of yen. She walked out into the dazzle of brightautumn sunshine. At the station entrance, before she couldprotest, she was seized by a rickshaw boy, piled into hisflimsy two-wheeled vehicle, festooned with her luggageand then borne at speed through the traffic-filled streets ofKobe. The yen notes crackled in her pock et She submittedto this treatment w ith equanimity. She felt like a new specieso f Western millionaire.

With intense pleasure she looked at the crow ds, the openbazaars, the narrow alleyways hung with bright bannersinscribed with the gold and scarlet arabesques of Japaneselettering. And suddenly into her mind sprang the con-viction that while she was in London she had heardsomething about a Japanese Christian organization. "TheJapanese Evangelistic Band That was what it was called,"she said to herself. W hile she was still trying to recall otheraspects of the organization, she saw, hanging outside onehall, among the alien shop signs, a notice board nailed witha cross and above it the words, KOBE MISSION HALL.


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It is possible that her rickshaw boy, with the instinctiveknowledge of humanity shared by psychiatrists, taxi-drivers, waiters and policemen, had deliberately taken herin this direction, for at her shrill exclamation of recognitionhe trotted obediently over to the front door. She dis-mounted. A pleasant Japanese inside spoke a little English.He directed her rickshaw boy to the house of the Englishmissionaries who he felt would be happy to receive her.Indeed, the Dyers, the English missionaries at K obe, weredelighted to meet their unexpected caller. They listened tothe story of her adventures. Mr Dyer frowned as he heardof the circuitous way in which she had reached Japan."But if you paid for tickets to Tientsin, the travel peopleshould get you there, no matter how you were diverted,"he said seriously. "Give me all the tickets you have left,and I'll see the agency people here tomorrow."They gave her a bath in a large wooden tub, Japanesestyle, which nearly boiled her to death, and then put herto bed in a pretty room lit by a lantern of red and blue.It was the first good night's sleep she had had since leavingEngland.The next morning, after a session with Cook's TouristAgency, Mr Dyer reappeared bearing an envelope contain-ing a steamship ticket from Kobe to Tientsin, which theyhad agreed to exchange for Gladys's unused vouchers fromChita. She was almost sorry to leave Japan. It was so sunnyand quaint, and the Dyers most friendly.Three days later, from the deck of a neat little Japaneseship, she stared across muddy yellow sea at a dark smudgeon the horizon. Behind it the sun was setting with gaudyflamboyance. The Japanese Captain had asked her up tothe bridge specially to see the landfall. It was dark purplein colour. It could have been a cloud formation and held noparticular beauty or interest, but Gladys stared at it untilall the colour had shredded out of the sky and the darkbank of land was swallowed by the n ig ht That was China.With such eyes Sir Galahad must have searched for theHoly Grail.


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At Tientsin she found a large mission with a Europeanstaff where they trained many Chinese converts. Yes, theyhad heard o f Mrs Lawson. A s far as they knew she was inthe territory of Shansi in north China at a mission stationin an old w alled tow n called Tsehchow. It was north o f theYellow River in very wild and mountainous territory. Itw ou ld take many weeks to reach there. They would see ifthey could scout around and find a guide who could takeher part of the way into the hinterland. Meanwhile theywo uld be glad to put her up.

Seven days later, as the train drew out o f Tientsin stationaway from the sprawl o f Westernized suburbs, Gladys feltthe pulse of the train wheels echo her own excitement.Ninety miles to Pekin, and then o n for days and days intothe wilderness 1 Mr Lu, a sober young man in a darkChinese robe and a trilby hat, was to accompany her forsome of the journey. H e had business in Shansi; he was alsoa Christian. She had changed her last few yen in order tobuy a Chinese pass which permitted her to go inland. Ithad cost twelve sh illings. All the money she now possessedwas six sh illings. This fact did not worry her in the slightestas the train jogged , slowly at first, across the flat, uninterest-in g, featureless landscape. It was a bright day in late autumnand the fields, denuded of the harvest, shone with a shortgolden stubble. Soon along the western horizon an im-mense semicircle of purple mountains tumbled againstthe sky. The countryside lost its flat dullness, and the trainchugged across fertile agricultural country, past farms andmud-walled villages backed by clumps of trees. There werecemeteries enclosed by grey stone walls and entered bymagnificent ornamental gates, where lay the generationsof well-loved, worshipful ancestors. Along open roadssunk in the soft, fruitful earth the blue-garmented, pigtailedpeasants drove their heavy two-wheeled carts drawn byshaggy Mongolian ponies. The ponies, in their fashion,were almost as famous as the generations o f w ell-loved andlong-dead ancestors.

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Mounted on these beasts, the horde of Genghis Khan'sTartars had driven south to extend their empire. It wasagainst successive waves of similar invaders that the 1400-mile-long Great Wall of China had been built. Men mightscale the wall; horses never. Mounted, the Tartars raidedas swiftly and devastatingly as locusts. Deprived of horsesthey were small men with bandy legs, and the Chinese werea match for them.Gladys Aylward was enchanted by the countyside. Atthe halts as they neared Pekin, flower-sellers hrust bunchesof pink or white lotus blossoms through the windows.The feeling of immemorial continuity and dignity over-whelmed her. Yes, it was alien: that still-distant barrier ofsavage mountains, the occasional swaying, tan-colouredcaravans of Gobi camels, and eventually the soaring,square-bastioned walls of Pekin, a city of temples andpagodas, statues and calm pools reflecting the leaves of thelotus flower. But every new scene excited her.That night they spent at a Chinese inn in Pekin, and wenton again by train the next morning. The line petered outthree days later at Yutsa. From there on they made progressby means of ramshackle old buses. Each night now theystopped at a Chinese inn. Privacy had disappeared; every-one slept on the Rang—the communal brick bed underwhich flowed ho t air from the stove. N o one undressed;everyone endeavoured with philosophical calm to preservea few inches of flesh from the foraging and hungry fleasand lice. They feasted upon Gladys as gourmets enjoysome exotic rarity from far away.The province of Shansi is cut off in the south and west bythe mighty Hwang-Ho, the Yellow River, which rises inthe distant province of Kansu, and forces its colossalsnake-like configuration across 3000 miles of China's soilbefore it spews into the ocean at Shangtung with suchpower that ships' crews sixty miles out notice the turgidyellow coloration. T o the north and east it is protected byhigh masses of barren mountains. Shansi is the home ofChinese agriculture, the cradle of Chinese civilization.Here in the valley of Wei and Fen-ho the people first

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"My dear, the only way is by mule through the moun-ta ins ," she said. "The road ends here. Only tracks leadonwards. It 's very rough going and there are immensestretches of lonely country. It 's a day's journey to Chow-tsun, the first village, and then another day on to Yang-chcng .""I 'll start tomorrow if I can," said Gladys.M rs Smith looked at her thoughtfully. " I w ou ldn 't wearthose European clothes either, if I were you, my dear,"she suggested kindly.Gladys looked down at her soiled red frock and coat."But i t 's all I 've got.""W e'll f ind you o th er s," said M rs Smith. "Y ou see, thereare bandits in the mo untains. Th ey wo uld kno w yo u are aforeigner and might think you were rich. We can fit youou t w ith the blue jacket and trousers tha t everybod y w ears.Where you are going, they've never seen a Europeanwoman before. They're very simple, primitive people;they think all foreigners are devils 1 It 's better not to drawtoo much attention to yourself."A t first light next m or nin g, seated uncom fortably insidea mu le litter, a canopied platform secured u po n th e anim al'sback, Gladys started on the last leg of her journey. Fornine miles they travelled over the plain, and then thenarrow, flinty path turned up into the mountains. Beforedark they had reached Ch ow tsun, where they were b reakingtheir journey.N o one travelled at nigh t. T he paths were to o steep andprecipitous, and travellers trusted neither bandits norwolves in the high country. Chowtsun, secure within itswalls—for all the villages in the province are walled—wasfull of inns and shouting children and teams of mules andmuleteers. There was a chill in the air that night, and thestars between the dark peaks seemed brighter and nearer.At dawn they were off again, winding along a narrowpath which had been hacked from the mountainside. Asthe grey light peered down into the cracks and fissures ofthis lunar landscape, she saw the marbled faces of themountains, the tumbling streams racing through the rocky

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valleys. The clip clop of the mule's hooves on the flintytrack echoed in the dear air. H igh overhead a pair of eaglessoared lazily in the first sunlight Seven hours later,rounding a bend in the trail, the muleteer pulled hisanimals to a halt and pointed with a grimy forefinger:"Yangcheng".It stood far off on its mountain peak like a castle in afairy story. Its high walls grew from the natural rock likea tooth from a jaw. Delicate pagodas and temples, still onlysilhouettes, but made more mysterious by distance, rosehigh above the walls. Against the satin sky of late afternoonit gave her an impression o f unattainable beauty. Weary asshe was, she felt her spirit lifted up at the sight. As theydrew nearer she saw that amongst the barren mountains,two quite dose to the city were covered with trees anddense foliage. T he trail passed over one , tunnelling throughgreen shades until it came out into the hard sunlight againand the path climbed steeply to the East G ate. On all sides,from that altitude, glorious panoramas of mountain andvalley rolled away into the distance. Gladys was enthralledby the natural grandeur. She had never for one momentsuspected that such a place existed.

Yangcheng has sat there on its mountain saddle, a tinycrock o f Confucian civilization astride the ancient trackbetween Hornan and Horbay, longer than man can remem-ber, or history has recorded. The mule track passes inthrough the East Gate and out through the W est. On threesides the country falls away steeply, but there are inns andcave dwellings on the slopes. On the south side it tailssheerly, thousands of feet to the wild valley bdow, andstanding on the city wall one can look out towards thedistant mountain ranges. At nightfall all gates are locked,and mule trains arriving after that hour are refusedadmittance to the city. They cannot pass forward, and findshelter for the night in one of the inns in the shadow of thewalls and on the slopes.

At the East Gate, Gladys's muleteer halted and ques-tioned one o f the old men sitting there in the sun. He poin t-ed to the narrow roadway that turned down left outside

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the city wall. The muleteer urged the beasts towards it.A hundred yards dow n the track, lined o n both sides by theblank courtyard walls of private houses and inns, he stoppedand indicated a building. The tired mules, with the sagacityof their breed, nosed in towards the narrow entrance to thecourtyard, their ho oves clattering on the stones.Out of the door to meet them came a small lady withpure white hair and the bluest eyes Gladys had ever seen.She was dressed in a plain blue robe and trousers. Shelooked up at Gladys and screwed up her eyes in the brightlight."Well, and who are you?" she asked abruptly.'Tm Gladys Aylward. You're Mrs Lawson?""Yes, I am. Well, come on in."The brusque reception did not startle Gladys; she wasaccustomed to the extraordinary by now. The muleteerhelped her off the litter and she followed Mrs Law son intothe house.Like m ost Chinese dw ellings, it w as square, enclosed byfour high walls. From a square recess in the front wall, asmall door led inwards to a large courtyard. The rooms ofthe double-storey dwelling opened on to balconies whichlooked down on to the courtyard. This house was almostderelict Practically every door was off its hinges; there were

piles o f rubble o n the flagstones, gaping holes in the tiledroof; dirt everywhere."I've only just managed to rent it," said Mrs Lawson."Got it cheap because it's haunted. Bit rough, but it'll beall right when it's cleaned up."She hopped about like a chirpy bird, darting from roomto room . Gladys follow ed her into w hat appeared to be the

only habitable place. In the room stood a table and a coupleof chairs. There was no other furniture except a few oddpacking cases and soap boxes."Are you hungry?" asked Mrs Lawson."Famished," said Gladys weakly.Mrs Lawson called o ut in Chinese, and an old man camein. He was introduced as "Yang, the cook".Yang smiled at her, an old Chinese with a toothless smile.

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Gladys warmed to him immediately. A few moments laterhe brought a large bowl of the inevitable boiled doughstrings into which some chopped vegetable had beenmixed. She ate it ravenously. After the meal she went outto get her baggage and to look at the view. As she turnedthrough the courtyard doorway a group of Chinese infantssaw her and fled, howling. Some older children appearedover a wall, surrounded her and began to jeer in sing-songvoices. Two women farther down the street picked uppieces of dried mud and flung them in her direction. Inconsternation Gladys walked quickly back to Mrs Lawsonand told her what had occurred."It happens to me every time I go out," said Mrs Lawsoncalmly. "I usually come back covered from head to footwith the filth and mud they've thrown at me. So far, ithasn't been stones, thank goodness. They hate us here.They call us lao-j/ang-Juva, foreign devils. It's somethingyou'll have to get used to ."

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C H A P T E R F O U RJEAKNIE LAWSON was five feet tall, seventy-four years oldand in appearance rather fraiL It was a deceptive appear-ance. He r m op of pure white h air, an od d phenom enon inChina, convinced every peasant in Yangcheng that notonly was she a foreign devil, but also an evil spirit. Thisha ir terrified the life o u t of them wherever she wen t, a factwhich did not trouble Jeannie Lawson in the slightest. Shehad arrived in China as a yo un g g irl of tw enty-o ne, m arriedanother missionary, bore her children and saw her first-born die of the black fever; watched them all grow up andgo off into the w o rld ; and she had outlived h er husband bymany years.

She was Scottish. Her ancestors had wielded claymoreand dirk for centuries against the invading English, andspiritually she was determined to brandish the word ofGod in the face of all unbelievers. Like her gloweringcountryman, John Knox, 'able in one hour to put morelife in us than five hu nd red trum pets co ntinually blusteringin our ears ' , her blood ran hot for the Lord. Not for herthe tame Christianity of the plains with its Bible classes,needlework and issues of aspirin; in these mountains therewere heathens to be shown the ligh t of Go d, and Jeannie'sself-appointed task was to seek them out and show it tothem, even though it meant dragging them to the kirk bytheir qu eues. If Chinese urchins followed them in m ock inggroups every time they walked in the streets, and womenslammed their doors and spat, and men hurled mud atthem, it would all be endured in true Christian fashion;eventually she would find a way to come to grips withthem. If there was ever a militant Christian abroad in themountains of Shansi, it was Jeannie Lawson.

Poo r G ladys, in tho se early few weeks, found life hard erto bear. Possessing a personal fortune of precisely sixshillings, many thousands of miles from her homeland,


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speaking no word of the language, spat upon and reviledevery tim e she m ove d from th e ho use , she often came ho m ein tears to wash the mud off her clothes. She rememberedwith nostalgia those scores of neat little Japanese convertsin Kobe; clean and smiling and virtuous, singing theirpsalms and hym ns as prettily an d confidently as if each hadhad a personal interview with the Almighty.Yangcheng was not remotely like that. One day, quiteearly in her stay, the difference was made plain to her. Shewas walking through the city. Within the walls the towns-people had becom e more or less accustomed to the 'foreigndevils' by now, and while they still moved out of theirpath, it was too much trouble to keep throwing mud. AsGladys walked towa rds the m arket square she saw a crow dgathering. Then she saw the Chinese woman who lived inthe house next door and smiled at her occasionally. Thewoman beckoned her excitedly, and as Gladys, pleased bythis sudden indication of friendship, came up to her, shegrabbed her wrist and hurried w ith her throu gh the crow d.'Jugglers, ' thought Gladys excitedly, 'or perhaps a manwith a performing bear I' Je n n i e Lawson had told h erthat it was fairly common to see such strolling playersperforming in the market square.

The impetus of their rush took them right through thecrowd to the front rank. Gladys was puzzled by what shesaw. A man, shaven-headed, his pigtail looped round hisforehead, stood there. He was bent forward, his shouldershunched in a queer, almost pathetic manner. A soldier, hisback to Gladys, stood close to him. In bewilderment shestared, sensing the tragic, suddenly wide-eyed at th e b rig htflash of steel as a curved execution sword swung high inthe air. Petrified, she glimpsed the blade poised aloft,burnished by the su n; shocked beyond com prehension shewatched it slash downwards. Rigid, in utter horror, shesaw the blade strike home, and the jetting man-spurt ofscarlet blood arch upwards and splash on the flagstones.A gusty moan of suppressed excitement came from thecrowd as the head bou nced and rolled. Gladys clamped hereyes shut, screwed up her face in an effort to blot out the


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nightmare memory- She jerked her wrist free from thehand of the Chinese 'woman w ho was completely obsessedby the scene, turn ed an d forced her way frantically th ro ughthe twilling, jabbering onlookers. She broke into a trot,then in to a ru n ; she raced back th ro u gh th e streets, desertednow, for everyone had hurried to see the execution. Withtears streaming down her face, she doubled round throughthe East Gate and ran down to the house.Jeannie Lawson was sitting at the table writing in herjournal when she burst in, almost incoherent with griefand shock."Whatever 's the matter?" said Jeannie, surprised."I've just seen a dreadful thing, a most dreadful thing,"sobbed Gladys. "They've killed a man in the marketsquare with a sword."With deliberation, Jeannie, veteran of over fifty years inCh ina, placed her pencil do w n at the side of her no teb oo k.

" W e l l ? " she demanded, curtly.Gladys's face was muddy with tears. She blinked withastonishment."But they cut off his head with a sword "Jeannie's gaze was still steady. "It is the law for certaincrimes. H e was probably a bandit, o r a thief, or a m urderer.H e mu st have been tried before the Mandarin in theyan t en .If they're found guilty, they chop off their heads straightaway, more often than no

the small woman 1972

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