China -- History -- 20th century -- Fiction; Missionaries, Medical -- Fiction
"No, I can only imagine you rescuing them in the orthodox manner."
But the truth was she did not want to imagine Bates in China at all,
and it was a matter of complete indifference to her what he did or
did not do.
In the lobby he tried to persuade her to go on to some other place
with him. There was a Russian club just outside the Settlement where
they had real vodka and served the meat on a bayonet, and another
place where they had a roulette wheel.
He was like a child in his desire for entertainment and in his
dependence on some one else for it. He was even dependent on Megan
now that they had had dinner and a few drinks together. But she
would not stay.
When he deposited her at the house she found Mrs. Jackson sitting up
for her.
"Did you have a nice time?" she asked.
Megan admitted that she wished she had not gone.
In her own room she decided to have a bath and turned on the water so
that the little bathroom was a cage of steam. She had an idea of
washing away the unpleasant impression the evening had left with her,
but in the tub she felt more depressed than ever. Clothes are more
of a protection to us than we realize until we take them off. When
we take off our clothes we take away at the same time all the
evidences of the rôle we have chosen; we are very apt to lose our
dignity and even our purpose, and for the moment to sink tack into an
indistinguishable humanity. Megan lay in the warm water feeling that
this poor stripped creature that was herself was not worthy of her
vocation.
In her bed she propped up the pillows and picking up the account of
the early Jesuit Missions ruffled the pages back and forth, thinking
of the view she had just had of the European excrescence on China.
It was obvious that white Shanghai must be chiefly composed of homes
full of honest citizens like any other city, like Indianapolis, like
Dijon, like Brighton, probably as nearly like them as it could
possibly be made. But the dulness of the entertainment she had taken
part in was doubly dull, seen as a transplanted thing, just as the
stoves and sewing-machines of the refugees had seemed particularly
pitiful as things one felt compelled to drag with one from place to
place.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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