Mr. Pan

By Emily Hahn

Mr. Pan is no highly-placed official. Mr. Pan is the Mr. Smith of China—an ordinary man with extraordinary reach—and China, like America, depends as much on its Mr. Pans as on its powerful and world famous officials. Here, in a series of linked vignettes, you'll get a glimpse into a new way of life—Mr. Pan at work, Mr. Pan with his father, Mr. Pan with his docile wife, Pei-yu. It is a rare glimpse into a time and place, as only Emily Hahn's perceptive pen could produce. This is fiction as delightful and penetrating as any truth.

Author of such celebrated and acclaimed works as The Soong Sisters, China to Me, and Fractured Emerald, Hahn has been called "a forgotten American literary treasure" (The New Yorker).

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Media
• Release date: Apr 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9781497619449

Emily Hahn

Emily Hahn (1905–1997) was the author of fifty-two books, as well as 181 articles and short stories for the New Yorker from 1929 to 1996. She was a staff writer for the magazine for forty-seven years. She wrote novels, short stories, personal essays, reportage, poetry, history and biography, natural history and zoology, cookbooks, humor, travel, children’s books, and four autobiographical narratives: China to Me (1944), a literary exploration of her trip to China; Hong Kong Holiday (1946); England to Me (1949); and Kissing Cousins (1958).   The fifth of six children, Hahn was born in St. Louis, Missouri, and later became the first woman to earn a degree in mining engineering at the University of Wisconsin. She did graduate work at both Columbia and Oxford before leaving for Shanghai. She lived in China for eight years. Her wartime affair with Charles Boxer, Britain’s chief spy in pre–World War II Hong Kong, evolved into a loving and unconventional marriage that lasted fifty-two years and produced two daughters. Hahn’s final piece in the New Yorker appeared in 1996, shortly before her death.   A revolutionary for her time, Hahn broke many of the rules of the 1920s, traveling the country dressed as a boy, working for the Red Cross in Belgium, becoming the concubine to a Shanghai poet, using opium, and having a child out of wedlock. She fought against the stereotype of female docility that characterized the Victorian era and was an advocate for the environment until her death. 

Book preview

Mr. Pan

Emily Hahn

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Heh-Ven as Sage

OH, THEY’RE NOT really inscrutable, I announced with tremendous assurance. People should not believe all that foolishness about the Chinese. Why, they’re just like us, actually, though they may seem a little peculiar sometimes.

This was rash of me, but two years ago I often spoke like that, being new to China. It all comes back to me now like some strange dream, especially the major on my right, who raised a grizzled old eyebrow and replied, with British caution, But just between ourselves, don’t you sometimes find our oriental friends just the least little bit—inscrutable?

I wish the major were still here, instead of sneezing his head off in some London club. I should like to answer him at last with a strong affirmative, inspired by Pan Heh-ven. Two years have passed since I thus lightheartedly contradicted the old-timer; two years since I first met Pan Heh-ven. In the ensuing time Heh-ven has remained just as he was and has always been, just as he will be until he gathers his funeral robes about him and takes his seat in the dignified and eternal conclave of Pan ancestors. It is I who have been transformed.

When I met him, when the enthusiastic little Mrs. Manners invited me to dine at a real Chinese restaurant with real Chinese guests in real Chinese clothes, I was a simple and eager seeker after the soul of things, delighted with every picturesque detail. Most especially was I charmed when Mrs. Manners persuaded Heh-ven to give us a brief demonstration of Chinese boxing, which, as she explained, is not boxing at all, nothing so crude, but a sort of lovely, flowing calisthenics full of the mysterious rhythm of nature. I should state here that Mrs. Manners’ passion for things Chinese has long since got beyond her control. Heh-ven had to be persuaded for a time, for he disclaimed any knowledge of the exercises; at last, however, his soft voice was shouted down. He stood up and made a few exotic gestures, shyly, while the other Chinese watched him gravely, in perfect silence, and Mrs. Manners beamed. The whole thing was portentously solemn.

Later I happened one day to see some professionals, that is to say athletes, doing their boxing exercises. It was nothing at all like the show Heh-ven had given us in the restaurant, and when I saw him I asked him about it. He smiled in that way he has, like a very good child who is also a little bit stupid.

Oh yes, he said; "but of course that was simply nonsense. I cannot do boxing, but Mrs. Manners wanted to see boxing so much, you must know, so I just did a few kestures—you say kestures? … It was very funny. We all thought it very funny. Mrs. Manners was so pleased."

I recalled those pink-and-ivory faces watching him so gravely, without a flicker to show how funny they thought it, and my blood ran cold. I stared at him, but his dreamy eyes were fixed on the sky. Mrs. Manners is a very nice lady, he continued, "and she does not understand that each Chinese cannot do all those things that all the Chinese do. She sometimes asks me to act Chinese theater, or to show those Peiping puppets, or to get Chinese dancers for her parties. Now, I do not act, and I do not know anything about puppets and about those dancing girls. I am not supposed to know dancers unless I pay them much money, and then, of course, it is different. I am not an actor. I am a gentleman. Mrs. Manners does not quite understand."

He paused sadly, and then he laughed. "You know what we call that, what I did in that restaurant? You will please not to be angry? We say ‘kidding the ocean people.’ We say ‘Chi yang ren—pull the foreigners’ legs.’ I have told you before?"

I said he had. But I thought you call us foreign devils?

He was shocked and pained and assured me that nobody ever does use such old-fashioned, heathenish insults any more. He said we are all friends now, and the present-day Chinese do not believe in devils anyway. He was all velvet and silk. But I remembered those pink-and-ivory faces.

Sometimes, among the tourists who storm my gate, demanding my very life on the strength of some letter of introduction given hastily at a cocktail party in New York by someone I never knew very well anyway, sometimes there comes one who disdains the common night life of Shanghai. To my wearily mechanical proffers of Russian or Korean girls, Del Monte and the Venus, or the neon lights of Bubbling Well Road, the tourist replies, "Oh no, I can do all that in Paris. No, show me the real China. We’ve got six hours. Don’t you know any interesting Chinamen?"

I used to get Heh-ven for these people, but I have stopped the practice, or Heh-ven has stopped it, which amounts to the same thing. Not that he isn’t just what the doctor ordered for tourists; he is. Pale and wraith-like, bearded with a few wisps of real Chinese hair, gowned in sober brown, his long, narrow eyes blank and faraway, he is calculated to make the most hardened tourist gape and gasp. In the beginning he would quote Confucius, with one eye on me for my approval, and he talked real Chinese with the waiters, and because he had been trained by Mrs. Manners, he never failed to say after some dull evening at a restaurant, You are the first foreigner who has ever been there, do you know? So sightseeing with Heh-ven was very satisfactory as long as he was obliging, but he grew restless after a time. He talked briefly and hopefully of turning an honest penny at the game—I will grow a pigtail and forget all my English, and you can learn a little Confucius—just memorize the easy ones—and translate for me, and they will then pay to us thousands of dollars, of which I shall give you half—but I knew he didn’t mean it. The inevitable time came when Heh-ven was an hour late for a party of schoolteachers from New Jersey, and again he was two hours late, and then one evening he didn’t turn up at all until the boat had sailed away with my tourist. After that we tacitly forgot the whole thing, and nowadays when I must meet a boat, I bring along a smart young Chinese who lives at the Y.M.C.A. The picturesque Heh-ven I leave in peace.

Mrs. Manners, however, is not so easily settled. She never tarries in her ceaseless search for Art, and because she is so kind, and because Heh-ven is so kind, complications ensue. And sometimes Heh-ven’s friends add to the trouble; I could say a good deal about Heh-ven’s friends, and someday I shall, but for the moment I may speak only of Mr. Zee. He was at my flat one day, with Heh-ven and some other gentlemen, for luncheon. We had eaten; the boy was dashing between kitchen and living room carrying tea; the air was filled with the smoke of Turkish cigarettes and with Chinese words; opinions on books were bandied about. Mr. Zee is an infrequent visitor to Shanghai, and his friends were stimulated and happy to have a fresh audience. They talked at great speed: gossip, scandal, and scholarly malice, which is much the same anywhere in the world. Then Mrs. Manners happened to drop in, and everyone became polite and quiet.

Surprised for a moment by the crowd, Mrs. Manners grew openly delighted at her good fortune. This was China, these were philosophers. She settled down in the best chair, beaming, and proceeded to be One of Them. She was Broad-Minded; she was a Good Sport; she was Hands Across the Sea and marvelously international. The party turned imperceptibly into a high-toned affair, and sadly, dispiritedly, everyone followed Mrs. Manners’ lead and talked of Art. Mrs. Manners told us how she loved the Chinese theater, and what a shame she thinks it that the young Chinese maidens have taken to curling their hair, and of how they should all wear the old Peiping silks instead of newfangled patterns. She shook her finger severely at Heh-ven for using English shoes instead of Chinese slippers; it spoiled the effect, she said. Heh-ven said he was sorry.

Then Mr. Zee took his leave, and at the door he turned and spoke to Mrs. Manners with an eagerness she found very charming.

I shall be in Shanghai soon again, he said, and Mrs. Manners urged him to call on her when he came. I will be delighted, said Mr. Zee. I shall bring my wife with me. My wife, he said distinctly, has very small feet. Like this. He placed his two forefingers before his nose about two inches apart. Then he went out.

"Sweet!" said Mrs. Manners to me over the heads of the gentlemen.

Now that is all very well, but—Mr. Zee is not married.

I don’t know, I don’t know. Yesterday a British vice-consul met Heh-ven at my house for tea and began asking him questions about Chinese mentality. He, too, seems to think that one Chinese can be all Chinese things to all men. He is making notes for a statesman like book, so his questions were very careful.

Now, Mr. Pan, he began, what effect would you say that the English type of education has upon the minds of your compatriots?

Heh-ven, looking rather small and poetic, replied vaguely.

But is it not true, continued the vice-consul, that the Japanese are encouraging your young men to gain their education in Japan? A very clever method of propaganda, eh? He looked heavily arch.

Heh-ven brightened. Oh, those Japanese schools, he said lightly. Yes, they are so good. The Japanese, you must know, are wonderful; they have arranged all knowledge in the world, like a cyclopedic. You say cyclo—? Oh, encyclopedia. Thank you. Everything in little books all the same color—wonderful! Thus in a short time one knows everything, and so our young men like to go to Japan for their degrees. Though I myself prefer England. I bought very good clothes in Cambridge.

The vice-consul was grievously shocked. Knowledge? he repeated bleakly. Clothes? But surely, Mr. Pan, such an attitude on the part of your students is very dangerous for China’s future welfare.

Heh-ven’s eyes were blank.

"No wonder the Japanese— began the vice-consul, and he stopped and looked reproving. Then the Chinese are, I can only say, lazy," he said. He snapped his mouth shut.

Heh-ven slowly selected a cigarette, smoothed his gown over his knees, and struck a match. He inhaled delicately.

That is just it, he said at last, purring. "We Chinese … are … lazy."

He spoke no more, and on his face was an expression which was definitely inscrutable.

Richelieu in Shanghai

SHANGHAI and a certain amiably aimless manner of living are slowly being expounded to me by Pan Heh-ven and his friends. Americans who translate Chinese poetry or interest themselves in the ancient theater or collect jade—these people tell me that my Chinese friends are being spoiled by something known to editorial writers as the Impact of Western Civilization. By Western Civilization they mean anyone from the outside who does not translate Chinese poetry, collect jade, or interest himself in the classical theater. Pan Heh-ven, however, does not care what foreigners say of him. He retains the Chinese dress because he likes it, he wears English shoes because they are more comfortable, and he refuses to speak English with his countrymen, but he is not narrow-minded. As proof of this he comes to see me, and he tells me stories to which I listen in a mist of confusion which grows thicker and thicker.

Heh-ven’s visits are always confused affairs, because he’s never as tranquil as I had been led to expect from reading about Buddha and the wisdom of the East. He’s never still for a moment: swooping about after cigarettes and matches, looking at books and putting them down, his robe fluttering in the breeze he himself creates. Also, the phone rings a lot while he is there, and when I answer it somebody Chinese says, Waa. Hello. May I please speak to Mr. Pan Heh-ven, please? and Heh-ven swoops down on the phone and has a long conversation in his incomprehensible language.

I used to think they were speaking—unflatteringly —of me, but now I know it is about the Market. Heh-ven and his friends all speculate. I found that out as soon as I got here, one evening when a learned man, Dr. Han Yung-chu, didn’t come to a large dinner and Heh-ven and six or seven others kept leaving the table and going somewhere to telephone people about it. It developed that Dr. Han had lost all his money and his wife’s money and his wife’s family’s money speculating in Gold Bars, and now he had disappeared and everyone was worried. Well, not terribly worried. The worst that could have happened, his friends assured me, was that he had killed himself. They went on eating dinner, telephoning at intervals, and in the morning Dr. Han returned home looking dissipated and proud, and he borrowed money from various people and went on speculating.

It was last week Heh-ven told me about his father. This was not the first time I had heard of the old man, who is not, after all, very old, but who has for me the mystery of ancient legends, since I shall never meet him. He is a rake, but his ways are not the ways of the Shanghai rakes I have met, who dance at the Majestic and the Paramount, who play tennis and speak English with each other, and go to Paris once in a while, and take their favorite wives out. Heh-ven’s father is an old-fashioned, die-hard rake, and he wins and loses large sums speculating, and smokes opium, and makes his concubines stay at home. Once he was modern and owned one of the first automobiles in China and tried to buy a rather small white elephant from a visiting circus, just to give to Heh-ven, who was then four years old. Now he seldom sees his eldest son except on such occasions as birthdays and lawsuits. Grown up, his children bore him.

It was a lawsuit which sent Heh-ven, distracted and despairing, to see George Arliss in Cardinal Richelieu. Afterward, refreshed by the example of that resourceful priest, he dropped in for a cup of tea with me. It is an affair of my father, he said. In my home province my father was one of the directors of a big bank—a very important bank. Now, this bank crashed—you say smashed? No, crashed—and my father forgot to do anything about it, and of course I had to talk to the depositors and make arrangements with them. I came to an agreement with most of them, to pay 20 per cent on their deposits, but there was one group who would not agree. This group was of my relatives, headed by my sister, who is not really my sister, but my cousin, because I have been adopted by my uncle. You understand?

I did not understand, but I nodded wisely. Satisfied, he continued, after charging about the room and collecting one box of cigarettes, a copy of the Spectator, and half-a-dozen ash trays.

This group of depositors, then, were not satisfied with 20 per cent, he continued, a faint note of indignation in his voice. They said since they are relatives of ours, they should get more than 20 per cent. Of course I did all the talking for my father, because he had gone away. At last I promised them 25 per cent. I gave them checks for the money, which was something like fifty thousand dollars, and they went away.

The telephone rang; it was for Heh-ven. He chattered for several minutes and came tack and picked up his teacup. After a hearty sup he went on.

That was my brother, who is worried about this affair, he said. It is very troublesome, really. We have many talks about it.… Well, all those checks were dishonored. He paused.

Dishonored? Why?

But of course, because they were no good, he said gleefully. "I knew they were no good. I did it on purpose. I said to my sister, ‘It is to teach you all a lesson, to teach you you should not ask for more money simply because you are our relatives. It is wrong to do that. Because you are our relatives, you should not ask for money at all.’ "

Yes, yes, I said, but don’t you know you’ll go to prison?

Wait, said Heh-ven, leaning forward. Of course I did not sign the checks. My name was not on them, nor was my father’s. You understand? Oh, excuse me, please, he added, as the phone rang. I think that is for me. My third brother was to call me here.

This time he wasn’t very long. He came back immediately, sleeves fluttering in the wind. All this was some years ago, he continued, smoking. Now comes the end. Today I have found out something terrible. My father did something without my knowledge. He forgot to tell me. He has written a letter to this group of depositors, saying he will pay back the money for the checks! He sat back, shaking his head despairingly. You see, it spoils everything. I was very clever and he has spoiled my cleverness.

But— I began.

"I went to see Richelieu, he continued, and I have decided perhaps something can be done. My brother is coming here to see me. You do not mind? It is my third brother."

The third brother arrived in a few minutes. He was fatter than Heh-ven; he wore a gray robe and a straw hat and had much dignity. He bowed to me, said in careful English, How do you do? and sat down, whereupon he and Heh-ven embarked upon a torrent of Chinese, and I, giving up, sat in the corner and read the Omnibus of Crime. After half an hour the third brother stood up, bowed to me, said, Thank you, good-by, and departed. Heh-ven looked relieved.

It is not so bad now, he said. "Perhaps we are saved. The checks and the letter are in the hands of a lawyer and I know him. Perhaps