accomplished the last twenty-four miles of my long railway journey
across the two continents. As I neared my final destination, Pekin, and
passed through the flat and barren country I could hardly realize that I
had traversed such an enormous distance during the last few months. I
tried to recall to mind the different countries I had passed through and
their inhabitants, the prosperous towns and the miserable villages I had
visited; the centres of civilization and the primitive solitudes.
Then I began to comprehend all I had seen. Much of my previous
conceptions of this part of the world had been vague, for the difference
between what one imagines and what actually is, is great! One may gather
the most reliable information, listen to the most explicit descriptions,
or study the best books, but how far all this falls short of personal
experience! The best references, the most accurate figures, the most
lucid writings, will never produce the same effect as reality, and it is
not upon those somewhat abstract notions that our faculties are
exercised with the greatest profit. What one feels has even more weight
than what one sees, and psychological studies are of greater value than
statistics. To know a country, it is the life, the everyday existence,
of its inhabitants that we have to study. Life in all its varied
expressions, in labour and in rest, in its fundamental principles and
its manifold manifestations, this it is which reveals to us the deep
source from which the energizing elements flow in diverse directions.
It was growing dark as we neared the end of our journey. On the
platforms of the small stations we passed, I saw foreign soldiers
belonging to the Allied Forces; here fair Teuton giants, there short,
brown _bersaglieri_. And at each succeeding station there was more
movement, more confusion, till we reached the metropolis. The sun was
setting as we skirted the imperial deer park. Every moment the light
effects increased in beauty. The sombre masses of foliage, framed by the
blue lines of the eastern hills, formed an enchanting picture.
Outlines and colours were so unexpected, so strangely blended, that it
looked like a painting from the magic brush of some great Chinese
master. The forests stood out dark and menacing, as if still sheltering
the monsters and dragons of ancient folk-lore, and the hills were like
so many pointed sugar-loaves, heaped up by some awful giants.
It was as perfect a Chinese landscape as I could have wished to see, and
to crown all, the sun went down in a blaze of light; it was as if fiery
darts were being shot across the flaming sky. I have seen many sunsets
in the tropics, and in the East, but never anything to equal this. The
brightness of it flooded with saffron the clouds of dust always hanging
over the capital, and illumined all the million atoms which rise from
the Mongolian desert....
At an unexpected turn in the road it seemed as if the golden veil was
torn aside to give me a glimpse of the mysterious city. The stage effect
was perfect; the curtain might have been drawn by a clever manager's
hand to reveal the great Hatamen Gate in all its magnificence. The
famous crenellated walls; the lofty towers and proud pagodas, first
described by Marco Polo; the heavy bastions, and the marble bridges,
were but indistinctly visible, and therefore all the more suggestive and
beautiful. In fact, my first impression of Pekin was of a fancy or
dream. What the city really looked like was as yet mercifully hidden
from me; my imagination could have full play, untrammelled by the
disillusions of knowledge and experience. Afterwards I saw things
differently, but that first day the great city of the mighty Khan seemed
as a mirage to me.
The crumbling citadel of a great nation, nay, of the whole glory of a
mighty race, the monument of its art, the Walhalla of its history, shone
in the dazzling splendour of the afterglow, like a golden city floating
on golden clouds.
VI
PEKIN
I
THE ARRIVAL
It is evening when I arrive in Pekin. The train stops outside the Tartar
Wall. Darkness shrouds everything, and the place seems to be deserted.
Not even a guard or porter is to be seen. Alongside the embankment a few
coolies with gigantic lanterns are waiting for the passengers, and, in
quaint procession, with innumerable balloons hanging from long bamboo
sticks, are searching for their masters. They all shout, but no one
seems to understand them. There is no trace of any vehicles or
carriages, and I don't see even a platform. I am standing in the midst
of a desert; behind me, some sandhills and a pool are all I can
distinguish, and in front, among the crowd of coolies, a tall figure is
conspicuous, which approaches, and, by the yellow rays of a pumpkin-like
lantern, I recognize an old acquaintance. Here he occupies the position
of First Secretary of Legation, and brings me an invitation from his
chief. My trunks are taken in charge by an attendant, and we walk
towards my new abode, which my friend tells me is close by.
It is explained to me that the present railway station is only a
temporary one; only since the occupation by the Allied Forces have
trains been able to penetrate as far as the inner wall. They used to
have to stop miles away, as no engine was allowed to desecrate the holy
city of Pekin. At a short distance from the temporary station is a
tunnel-like opening in the wall, and I am informed that it was made for
the use of members of the legations and foreign settlement, and has
ex-territorial rights granted to it. I pass through the so-called Gate
of the Nations full of expectation, for I am most anxious for surprises,
which certainly are not wanting.
I hope to see before me a fairy city and scenes like those on the stage;
but instead of splendour and glitter I see mist. By the flickering light
of a few paraffin lamps I begin to distinguish the famous international
quarter, but I feel it would be better if they were not lit, for they
only disclose ruins and debris. Among heaps of bricks and mortar we
reach the edge of a ditch of stagnant water, which, as my companion
informs me, not without some pride, is the so-called Canal of Jade. It
is a magnificent name, which I have known for a long time. If I have
pictured it to myself as different from what it is in reality, it is not
the fault of an exaggerated fancy; and as we stumble along in the lane
skirting the ditch--I beg its pardon; on the banks of the waters of
Jasper--I still cannot perceive anything else but garden walls. I don't
even see the famous Jade Stream, for though long ago there may have been
water in the ditch, there are now only puddles here and there. But if I
can't see, I smell all the more; smell all kinds of unimaginable and
imaginable odours.
At last we approach a gate with a martial sentry in front of it. The
password is given, and we are at last at home. In the courtyard, on the
edge of the grass, are a number of lanterns. Large and yellow, they look
like melons. The effect is charming, but as they give but very
indifferent light, I can only distinctly discern some pillars and
arches. Now we pass through some open halls and reach a garden-like
square. To the right and left from the windows of small summer-houses
the light of candles filters through. In front is another building in
the same style, a few columns supporting a heavy roof; the columns are
of red lacquered wood, and the tiles of emerald-green. Beyond this is
another garden, and lastly the legation proper. The door is open and the
hall ablaze with light. On the broad staircase are servants in
red--pigtailed Chinese, dressed after the fashion of their country. They
salute us, bowing low, with their hands folded.
The scene is interesting, the setting fine. By the light of the lanterns
the roof of the old yamen appears even more gabled than it is, and its
eaves the more bizarre than in reality. At last I have before me a truly
Chinese picture, thousands of years old, artistic and brilliant. But the
scene quickly changes as we go inside, and from the past we come to the
present, from Oriental surroundings we step into a Western interior.
* * * * *
The rays of the rising sun wake me as they burst brightly into the
courtyard of the yamen, filtering, rosy-coloured, through the embrasures
of the crenellated walls.
My quarters have a verandah looking upon a small courtyard, the pillars
of which are of ruby lacquer, its roof of emerald glaze. In the yard are
many flowers planted in old china vases. Four cedars, ages old, stand in
the corners, and their branches form a lovely shady tent under the
canopy of a morning sky. The branches of the old trees and the eaves are
swarming with birds which awake with me, and merry with their songs.
On opening my eyes I scarcely know whether I am awake or still dreaming.
It takes me some time to realize my surroundings. In the little garden
some one is noiselessly crossing the grass in paper shoes. He wears a
light blue kaftan over a white tunic, and the colours harmonize well,
for this slate-blue suits his yellow complexion, and a long pigtail
hangs down his back.
This is reality. I am indeed in the Flowery Land. I am actually awaking
in Pekin.
II
THE FIRST DRIVE THROUGH THE TOWN
It is eight o'clock in the evening. I have just returned from Pei-tang;
it takes nearly an hour to come from there. And what a road! Imagine a
brilliant stereoscope with living figures rushing forward upon you as
you gaze--a gigantic kaleidoscope in which, among multitudinous and
dazzling fragments a heap of ants are busy. And if we look at these
through a magnifying glass, the effect will be somewhat similar to one's
first impression of Pekin. Bedlam, uproar, chaos; and all this half
concealed by a veil of whirling dust. It would be difficult to recount
what I have seen, and even more difficult to explain what my sensations
were. I was amazed by the brilliant spectacle.
It is early in the morning when I set out on my exploring expedition.
From the street in which the legation stands we suddenly turn into the
grand Imperial Square. The yellow-roofed palace in front of us may be
called the focus of Pekin, nay, the centre of the whole Yellow Empire,
for every road leads thither.
The principal street is broad, crossing the wall of the Tartar city. A
few miles farther to the south it strikes the Chinese town, and through
gates like triumphal arches, and over bridges, across moats, and
skirting bastions, reaches the open. This is the perspective before me:
my eyes penetrate in a straight line, almost any distance, to the sea at
the farthermost point of the realm, but the crowd is so dense and the
traffic so thick, and there are such clouds of dust, that we can hardly
see what is going on within a yard of us. Caravans of camels, people on
horseback, carriages, and carts follow each other incessantly. Every
moment we narrowly escape a collision. It is a wonder that numbers of
the shaky little vehicles do not get smashed, for there is a continuous
stream of fresh phantom-like objects.
The palace is surrounded by a high wall painted red, and roofed with
yellow tiles. Red likewise is the large gate studded with yellow nails.
In fact, there are three gates side by side--in China everything is
threefold--but they are all closed. In front of them are sentries, for
the palace is sacred, and entrance into it means decapitation. On the
other side are small shops and stores, in the windows of which are
exhibited motley wares, while the facades are carved with a hundred and
one very quaint pictures. What they represent I am at a loss to know.
We escape into one of the many side streets. It is narrow, dark, and
seems to be endless, running along between the houses like a river, to
right and left.
Now we reach something like a desert. I cannot call it a common, because
there is no grass; there is nothing but dust and dirt. Farther away are
some ruins, and still farther a red wall can be seen. It is again the
wall of the Imperial city, that gigantic structure that follows us
wherever we go. It is either in front of us or behind us, on one side or
the other. Beyond the wilderness are rows of houses. Behind huge walls
the tops of some shadowy trees are visible now and again, the gabled
roofs of yamens and a few flagstaffs.
A little more wilderness is followed by a few rows of houses, and beyond
them come some streets; shops crowded with customers, and, lastly, the
ubiquitous red wall again.
In the middle of the wall is the gate, a wooden structure, with gabled
towers and aggressively golden dragons painted on it, and little bells
hanging down from the corners. Crowds are streaming from the archway;
sunburnt coolies endeavouring to get their light carts over the marble
steps. Now we face the broad Imperial street. The shops on both sides
are still more carved and gilt than the others. The gables are like
umbrellas blown inside out by the wind, and the edges do not lack
ornament, being decorated with carved tassels and lace and every
conceivable trimming. The signboards are well worth studying. Some are
of wood, others of metal, cast iron, or paper; but all display glaring
colours. No wonder they attract the attention of passersby. The
shoemakers' wooden signs are of unusually large size, showing the latest
fashion in foot-gear either painted or carved, and apparently floating
in the clouds or in higher spheres. The sign is generally suspended in
the claws of some grinning monster or lion by a chain that is fastened
to the eaves. Next in point of merit are the signs of the Pekin
apothecaries, who in this respect decidedly excel us; and the
pawnbrokers' symbols deserve even more attention than the others from an
artistic point of view.
The pavement is occupied by stalls and booths, their only protection
from the sun being a sheet of canvas fixed to a pole. The wares are
spread out on the ground. Street kitchens abound, consisting of little
earthenware stoves or small iron grates which are used for cooking.
Half-naked workmen are huddled round the tables, which are covered with
little mugs about as large as teacups, each containing something
different, hundreds of delicacies with sauces both bitter and sweet at
once. Long thin sticks are used instead of forks, and the skill shown in
the handling of them is simply astonishing. I have never seen people
eat more daintily. A dinner of eight or nine courses can be had for
about one farthing. With their chopsticks they pick out some of the
solid dishes, seasoning them with four or five different sauces. The
Chinese are the greatest gourmets in the world, for I notice that the
ordinary meals of labourers are more complicated than the choicest menu
of a French chef.
The end of the street is enclosed by a wall--the usual red wall--the
inner defence of the Imperial city. Here stands the Western Gate, and
the monumental quarter, with yellow tiled roofs, begins. In front of it
is a sentry, the entrance to the garden being strictly prohibited.
My way is not in that direction, but to the north. In the centre of the
park, which has recently been replanted, stands the cathedral, finished
a few months ago.
The work of the Chinese Missions is written on one of the latest pages
of universal history. The events of two years ago are still vividly
impressed on our memories, when the few hundred Christians who had
sought refuge at the Mission in Pei-tang seemed to be doomed. No one
believed that they could stand the siege of the frantic mob, for, except
a garden wall a few feet high, there were no means of defence. It was
due to the most resolute courage and valour that the little flock did
not surrender. Old and young, priests and soldiers, fought side by side
in the breaches from morning to night.
During the weary weeks of the siege many fell under arms, and many more
among the orphans and sisters of charity died of exhaustion.
The recent graves forming the small cemetery in the inner garden were
dug to receive the bodies of these new martyrs.
But, after all, Christian faith triumphed over pagan hatred, and finally
the hour of deliverance struck. And today Pei-tang and its cathedral
stand finer and stronger than before, to the benefit of humanity and the
glory of God.
III
THE NEW LEGATION QUARTERS
It is now a month since I arrived in Pekin. The autumn has passed
quickly--and October is the finest time during the whole year in the
yellow capital, for the weather is mild and clear. In the morning it is
cool, and frosts are not rare at night. But later in the day the skies
are cloudless, and the sun is often as hot as in summer. As regards
climate--which, by the way, is an important factor in the life and
progress of a nation--Pekin is a bundle of contrasts. The summer is hot,
the winter extremely cold, the spring wet, and the autumn very dry.
Since my arrival there has been no rain, but occasionally it has become
cloudy, and as dark as if the sun were eclipsed. The wind, when blowing
from the north, sweeps sand from the desert of Gobi before it, and
shrouds the whole town in a veil as it were. This sand spreads over the
whole atmosphere like a dense fog, through which one can hardly see a
yard's distance. It penetrates windows, doors, even cracks, and buries
the whole district like a stream of lava. After a sand-storm the sky
clears, and becomes bluer than the blue dome of the Mediterranean,
smooth and translucent as though cut out of a gigantic sapphire. This
contrast between dull and bright weather seems to create two distinct
towns; in the one all is gloomy, in the other all is bright. That is the
reason why those who have described Pekin have either found everything
sombre, or have looked upon it through rosy spectacles. The truth lies
between the two extremes. I go so far as to say that each is
correct--but only relatively.
The traveller who would describe Pekin ought to make daily notes of what
he has seen and heard when he sees and hears it, and use light and shade
as an artist on his canvas. He who adopts this method will be more
successful than those who merely restrict themselves either to recording
salient points, or matters of historical importance, or to advocating
some political idea.
The longer I live within the walls of Pekin the more am I convinced
that, in spite of her decadent condition, she is yet full of vitality
and, like Constantinople, embodies a national ideal.
In the afternoon I stroll over to the international area and pay a visit
to all the legations. My amiable guide, who was here during the siege,
when so many of the defenders perished, can supply information as to
many dark episodes of the Boxer rebellion, and shows me where the most
serious attacks were made, how they bombarded the legations from the
city wall over there, how they used to throw blazing torches on to the
roofs of these houses, and how they tried to blow up that quarter.
Looking at the place now, it seems incredible that the garrison--a mere
handful--should have been able to withstand the frenzied crowd; but one
must not forget that it was a mob, not a disciplined army.
As to the French and English legations, the former was reduced nearly to
ruins, while the latter suffered comparatively little damage, but lost
more lives.
The so-called European quarter is a large area of about a mile and a
half square, lying between the Imperial city and the Tartar wall, and
crossed by the Rue des Legations.
[Illustration: THE LEGATION QUARTER "Long rows of caravans coming from
the western frontier and Tibet" To face page 152]
I start on my round at the Legation Yamen. In front of the royal palace
on the right are the new American barracks, before the gates of which
a number of soldiers of every nationality are lounging. Opposite is the
International Hospital, a two-storeyed building painted light blue; an
uglier erection I have never seen, but I am pleased to find the interior
arrangements excellent.
The Dutch and American legations came next, adjoining each other, as do
also the Russian and English, but of these only the garden walls are
visible. Architecturally the American legation is decidedly
unattractive, and therefore it does not matter much that it is hidden
from view, but the Russian and English legations are typical Chinese
dwellings. The architecture of the latter is interesting, for the house
itself belonged to one of the Imperial princes, and was built in a style
worthy of his rank. On the opposite bank of the canal the Italian and
Japanese concessions form a square. A new wall has been built quite
recently, and is fortified at the corner by a turret. The German
legation is on the other side of the Rue des Legations. The barracks
have just been completed, and if they were built for vindictive reasons,
Germany has more than attained her end, so hideous are they. Built in
Gothic style, they are the most conspicuous of all, and utterly destroy
the harmony of the Oriental forms around them. The Austro-Hungarian
legation is still in course of erection, in the style of a villa with
porticoes; its chief merit lies in its simplicity, but it would
certainly have harmonized better with its surroundings had the architect
adhered to the style of the old yamens. Though the walls and slender
pillars may appeal to the aesthete, it reminds one of a castle of cards,
which will easily collapse in future troubles.
The series of legations is closed by the Belgian. The Russo-Chinese and
Shanghai Banks are also in the Rue des Legations, the former supported
by Russian, the latter by English capital. Their operations spread far
and wide.
Such are the main features of the so-called international territory,
that famous and historic spot, the theatre of the recent Chinese
troubles. Every inch of it was most gallantly defended by its feeble
garrison, day and night, for many months. These heroes were decimated by
the bullet, sickness, or famine.
The great distance between Europe and China was probably the reason why
the outer world knew so little of the serious nature of the siege, and
the isolation of the legations made matters worse.
At the time of my visit it was barely two years since it all happened,
but, during that short time, a new city had arisen on the ruins of the
European concession. To get a better view I ascend a bastion, and
wherever I look busy workmen meet my eyes. The Powers seem to be vying
with each other; one patronizes gables, another prefers towers, or
adorns its walls with bastions; but all is with the view of
overshadowing their neighbours. My eye was at first offended by the
artistic shortcomings of these buildings, but now it is their practical
defects that are conspicuous. It looks as if the oft-quoted and
melancholy chaos which followed the victory of the Powers has found
visible expression in this new quarter. There seems to be neither
uniformity of plan nor advantage of position.
But this is not the only weak point of the Treaty of Chefoo. Its
provisions fixed the war indemnity, established commercial treaties of
dubious worth, and made a few concessions valuable only for the moment,
and this at a time when the Powers were absolute masters and in a
position to dictate reforms, not only of local and temporary importance,
but of universal, historical, and moral value.
The Boxer movement of 1900 came as a great surprise, at any rate to the
majority of the Powers, and during the outbreak the sole aim of some of
the legations seemed to be to secure their own advantage and defeat the
aspirations of the rest. This might partly explain how the most guilty
persons escaped punishment, and the old state of affairs in China soon
returned.
The foreign ministers came back and occupied their new quarters,
protected by thicker walls, which the Boxers would have more difficulty
in pulling down. I do not know whether I ought to take all I was told
about these fortifications seriously, but the garden walls seemed to
have been built in the belief that they were indestructible. A few
hundred soldiers are kept here by the respective Powers to protect their
subjects in case of war. They might suffice in the event of a street
riot, but if this nation of four hundred millions should some day
determine to act in unison, these walls and the ornamental sentries
would, I am afraid, make a very poor defence. In fact, it is hardly to
be believed that, if China were once more to attack the European
legations, she would employ a mob for the purpose. It is more likely
that she will wait until her army is reorganized and armed with modern
rifles and Krupp guns.