The husband of one of the women--a miserable, emaciated
specimen for a Shan--came forward, asking whether I could cure his
disease. I fear he will never be cured. His arm and one side of his body
was one mass of sores. Before it could be seen four layers of Chinese
paper had to be removed, one huge plantain leaf, and a thick layer of
black stuff resembling tar. I was busy for some thirty minutes dressing
it with new bandages. I then gave him ointment for subsequent dressings,
whereupon he put on his coat and walked out of the room (leaving the
door open as he went) without even a word of gratitude.
The Chinese pride themselves upon their gratitude. It is vigorous
towards the dead and perhaps towards the emperor (although this may be
doubted), but as a grace of daily life it is almost absent. I have known
cases where missionaries have got up in the middle of the night to
attend to poisoning cases and accidents requiring urgent treatment, have
known them to attend to people at great distances from their own homes
and make them better; but never a word of thanks--not even the mere
pittance charged for the actual cost of medicine.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote BD: The Chinese name for the Shan.
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