I was greeted at Peking Airport by the Chinese Foreign Minister, Huang Hua, before being driven into Peking itself. It was the middle of the dry season — hot and dusty, with so much static that I had been warned not to bring silk dresses. That evening I was guest of honour at a banquet in one of the side halls of the Great Hall of the People. A Chinese orchestra played a succession of Western old favourites, including the inevitable ‘Greensleeves’. I had more or less mastered the advanced use of chopsticks, but I Still found some Chinese delicacies unappealing. On this occasion, I allowed the sea slugs and fish bellies to pass me by. The Chinese habit, which I was glad to see the British journalists present appreciated, of drinking innumerable toasts of Mao-Tai, a strong grain spirit, posed a more hazardous social problem. Fortunately, however, I gathered that women were permitted to sip rather than down the lethal spirit.
The anti-Soviet rhetoric of Vice-Premier Li Hsien-nien was equally strong. He described the Soviets as ‘sharpening their swords on the sly and stepping up their arms expansion and war preparations’. After this, my own comments about the need for strong defence sounded almost pacifist. This first banquet set one of the themes which was to continue throughout the visit — a fierce verbal assault by the Chinese against the Soviet Union. The following morning’s meeting with various local politicians provided the second theme — a scathing denunciation of the misdeeds of the real ‘Gang of Four’ headed by Mao’s widow. Mao had died in September the previous year, and the disgrace and imprisonment of his widow and the three other radicals the following month dominated the political scene.
Again and again I heard almost identical speeches made on these themes. This itself was significant. The Chinese knew that they had been weakened by the Cultural Revolution at the very time that the Soviets were embarking on an expansion of their influence. In spite of the apparent smiling self-assurance of those I met, there was also an underlying insecurity: would they be purged next, or would the Gang of Four return and wreak revenge? Two days before my arrival official ceremonies to mourn past leaders — ‘The Day of the Dead’ — were cancelled in case demonstrations in favour of the ousted leaders were made under the guise of demonstrations mourning Mao.
It was unclear how many supporters the disgraced radicals still had. Deng Xiao Ping, the symbol of opposition to the Cultural Revolution, though released from prison, was still in internal exile. Official posters showed the late Mao Tse Tung saying to China’s present supreme leader, Hua Guo Feng ‘With you in charge my heart is at ease.’ The Government had allowed people to put up their own posters expressing their views, though only in permitted places and within limits. In fact, though there seemed to be general agreement that the bad old days must not return, no one was quite sure as yet what would succeed them.
The most important talks I had were, naturally, with Chairman Hua Guo Feng. An enamel spittoon was placed between our two chairs, but neither of us, I am glad to say, had occasion to use it. The talks concentrated on the international situation and we found ourselves in broad agreement. The Chinese wanted to see Britain and Western Europe support the United States in balancing Soviet power. There was even a touch of humour, when Chairman Hua complimented me on my energy when visiting the Great Wall of China.
‘He who cannot climb to the top of the Great Wall of China is no true man,’ he said.
I ventured to correct this thought of Chairman Mao: ‘I prefer no true leader.’
I came away feeling that Hua’s position in China was probably secure, and indeed he survived long enough to be one of my first official visitors as Prime Minister. Although in the end he was too closely identified with the old regime and was ousted in 1981, the policies of anti-Sovietism and allowing a measure of free enterprise were not only continued, but intensified.
After three days I flew south to the city of Soochow, a beautiful historic city of parks and gardens, famed for its cuisine which featured the ancient art of carving vegetables. It was good to get out of the heat and bustle of Peking. Thousands of people turned out to greet me in the tree-lined streets. I saw women making silk portraits of Mao, fed the ducks and wandered in the appropriately named Garden of the Futility of Politics. But the peaceful and contemplative atmosphere was deceiving. That evening as we left a banquet given by the Soochow City Revolutionary Committee some photograph displays caught my eye and we left our guides for a moment to look at them. The pictures showed the denunciation of a former local official. A crowd was ‘cross-examining’ him — cat-calling and spitting at the terrified man. The guides quickly bustled us away.
From Soochow I flew to Hangchow, the scene of riots during the Cultural Revolution and full-scale fighting the previous year. Perhaps I was invited there to show to the outside world how thoroughly peace had been restored. It was certainly peaceful enough boating there on the West Lake, where Mao had had a country villa.
From Hangchow I went by train to Shanghai. My first appointment was a visit to a university. Before I left for China two disillusioned former communists who had spent some time in that country had come to see me. They told me that everything I saw on my trip would be specially set up and quite unrepresentative of reality. By chance I was able to put this to the test. I knew that some British students were on an exchange programme at the university. I asked about them and one duly appeared. Everywhere we went the floors were swept and the furniture brightly polished. The university library displayed copies of The Economist and even Hansard. It all seemed too good to be true. And of course it was. I suddenly asked my companion to show me the dormitory in which she lived, and so I left the beaten track. The dormitory was highly uncomfortable and extremely dirty. So were the other rooms. My companion had sheets only because they had been sent from home. She washed them herself. She had never seen a copy of The Economist in the library before.
In appearance, Shanghai was the most Western of the cities I visited: our party was taken up the river by boat and we were all very struck by the Western-style buildings of the old International Settlement, looking much as they must have done when the Japanese invasion effectively ended the colonial concessions in 1941. But the atmosphere in the city was disturbing and alien. There were microphones in the trees blaring out political messages. Shanghai had been the home of three members of the ‘Gang of Four’, but the new regime had been able to establish its authority there with surprising ease. I had lunch with the new mayor who was busy rooting out political opponents; he spoke with a bland ruthlessness. When I raised the question of dissidents he said: ‘We try to show them the error of their ways.’ I remembered the photographs of Soochow.
Through all the excesses of the Cultural Revolution — which included the burning of the British Embassy library, with its irreplaceable collection of Chinese books and manuscripts — some of the greatest treasures had been quietly preserved. My interest in Chinese drawings led me to ask to visit the city museum and gallery. The scrolls and hangings I was shown were too fragile to be on view in sunlight and I saw them in a darkened room. There was also ancient porcelain, which had a special appeal to me, and metalwork. After all the upheavals of Maoism something of the essential China had survived.
AFTERTHOUGHTS
As I read these pages, I notice with some disquiet that I seem to have established amicable relations with a number of rulers whose record on human rights will not bear too close an examination. Indeed, if I had been the Leader of the Opposition in some of these countries, I might not have retained my life, let alone my liberty. How, then, did I contrive to be on reasonably good terms with them?