East than passports, the traveller will have an opportunity of passing
some charming evenings at the different legations, and in the houses of
the resident diplomatists, officers, priests, and so forth, and they
will be able to see how their compatriots live in exile and discuss the
last events that have occurred in the West, and, by the blue smoke of a
cigar, forecast the possibilities of the East.
VII
THE DOWAGER EMPRESS AND THE EMPEROR OF CHINA AT THE SUMMER PALACE
The glorious rays of the sun burst through it the eastern hills. From
night to day is but a moment. There is no lingering dawn. The country is
ablaze with colour, and yet the autumn is well advanced towards the
so-called St. Martin's summer. In spite of the early hour, the streets
of Pekin show unusual bustle. These endless thoroughfares, which on
ordinary mornings are so gloomy and deserted, have awaked to life. At
the doors of those quaint and attractive shops, full of the strange odds
and ends that are of perennial interest to the wanderer in the East, and
at the street corners, groups of people are talking vivaciously. Curious
eyes are peeping from little windows, and everybody is evidently in
expectation of some unusual sight. But what gives the most unfamiliar
aspect to the scene is that there are street-sweepers here and there,
more or less busy at their work, and a few policemen, in the most
fanciful uniforms. It is the day of the Imperial reception of the
diplomatic corps. It is an innovation in the functions at the Court of
the Dragon that the representatives of the Western nations should be
annually received in state, a favour which has been granted since the
Allies entered Pekin, one of the very few concessions, I am afraid, that
have been granted.
The Court passes the autumn in the beautiful residence some sixteen
miles from the city. We are compelled to travel all this way, and by any
means we may find convenient, as there is no railway. Some are riding,
some are carried in old-fashioned canopied palanquins. I see the
conservative representative of Portugal carried by a magnificent team of
stalwart Cantonese, with endless pigtails and rich harness--I ought to
say livery. Germany, on the contrary, rattles over the most
impracticable, neglected highway in a Tyrolean carriage, an object of
great wonder and interest to the natives, as it is the first and only
four-wheeler in the city.
It is a long journey, but not devoid of interest. We pass through a
series of villages and hamlets, each of them teeming with busy life. I
must say the energy and industry of the Chinese fill me with admiration.
All along the road we meet people bearing signs of trade or commerce.
Some are carrying huge baskets of fruit, of flowers, or grain. Others
are laden with many kinds of goods. Many push wheelbarrows burdened
with more than a European cart could bear. Caravans of heavy Mongolian
camels roped together travel to and fro in one never-ending, sinuous
line. But the greater part of the traffic is absorbed by the Imperial
household.
We must not forget that the Summer Palace is a town in itself, a city
inhabited by thousands of mandarins, Court functionaries, attendants,
servants, and labourers. The number, I believe, is estimated at ten
thousand, and the daily expenses at something incalculable. The country
all round is marvellously cultivated. It is interesting to watch the
people at work in the fields, and see by what primitive methods they
obtain such surprising results.
At last we arrive at the palace, and are met by such a crowd that it is
with difficulty that any progress can be made at all. Most of the
legations have sent out guards with tents, where the representatives can
put on their full dress. We gather afterwards before the palace gates in
a typical yamen, a choice specimen of Chinese domestic architecture,
simple in conception, but elaborate in detail.
Prince Ching, Minister for Foreign Affairs, arrives; unquestionably a
striking figure and an interesting personality. Slim, even fragile, his
yellow skin covers the bones of his face like an old parchment, pale and
wrinkled, and the brightness of his small, beady eyes makes a striking
contrast. The introductions at once begin; but as Prince Ching does not
speak either French or English, his secretary acts as interpreter.
If I remember correctly, this gentleman is a member of one of the
numerous Li family; but what I specially recollect is his exquisite
manner, exceptional refinement, and wide knowledge. He speaks perfect
French, has travelled all over Europe, has stopped in our capitals for
years, and taken a special interest in our scientific institutions. I
confess to very much surprise when he began to testify his personal
appreciation of my own national university of Buda Pesth. Perhaps it is
the old-fashioned Chinese dress, mandarin hat, or pigtail, that causes
Western people to feel astonished at finding among natives of the Yellow
Empire sometimes a more thorough knowledge of the West and a deeper
insight into our minds than we can realize.
The empty compliments have been exchanged--and empty indeed they are. At
last an escort of palace guards and mandarins arrives, to lead us
towards the inner palace gate.
I wish I could have fixed the picture then unrolled before my eyes; or
have possessed a lantern of real magic, that could picture now all I
saw, outline and colour and haze, all that was bright and all that was
shadow!
It was a scene never to be forgotten.
A crowd dressed in all the hues of the rainbow, carrying silken flags,
embroidered banners, painted inscriptions, gauze-covered lanterns, and
glittering trophies: all the emblems of power, all the symbols of the
Celestial Empire. The wondrous crowd stretches into a scattered
procession and winds across the narrow lane like a giant serpent, with
shimmering scales, in a fairy tale.
A more fitting pageant could not approach the Dragon's Court. The huge
scarlet gate, studded with golden nails, swings open on its groaning
hinges. Soldiers, like the fantastic creations of an uncanny dream,
present their strange medley of arms--long spears, crescent-shaped
scythes, threatening spikes, and grim battle-axes, are silhouetted
against the peaceful sky.
We enter the huge courtyard, and there is another surprise. A large
square, paved with white marble, enclosed on the four sides by four
marble terraces supporting each an open hall, covered with yellow tiles,
and the whole domed by the sapphire firmament of the Eastern sky. The
open space is filled with mandarins, all dressed in dark blue silk
embroidered with gold; at first sight all very much alike, and yet in
the embroidery very different, each minute detail expressing some
distinction. Through the central hall we get to another great courtyard,
apparently a copy of the first, larger, finer, and more magnificent,
but in style always the same; four open halls, white marble terraces,
white marble pavements, golden roofs, and sapphire dome. All the inmates
are clad in sapphire and gold, the only colours I could perceive. The
whole picture is painted in the gradations of these hues. It was a
perfect harmony of colour, so artistic and refined that it compelled
admiration.
I have been at many great receptions, but I can remember none more
impressive than the reception at the Summer Palace. That suppliants at
the throne must arrive through many gates and courts and halls enhances
the effect. As you approach, each gate is more magnificent, each
courtyard larger, each hall loftier, all combining to add grandeur to
the ceremony.
In each court there are suave courtiers and silky mandarins. As we
advance the rank is higher, until in the inner court there are assembled
the highest Viceroys and Princes of the Imperial blood.
But I have no leisure to observe the glory of the place--gold, jewels,
and sunshine are too much together. I can only see a dark blue carpet
that leads us to the steps of the central hall--or pagoda, as I would
prefer to call it--one of those fancy structures we read about in
nursery tales.
The hall seems indeed strange to us; marvellous to Western eyes. It
takes me some time to distinguish between colour and shape, what is
reality and what is fiction. At first I perceive flowers gathered into
wreaths and hung in rich festoons. They are chrysanthemums of many
shapes and shades, some exceedingly small, some exceptionally large,
some resembling the rose, some like huge spiders; from pale sulphur to
dark bronze, there is every hue of gold. They are placed in bowls and
vases, marvels of age, of incomparable beauty and priceless value,
which, as I hear from my friend Li, were rebought at extortionate
figures from the Europeans who looted them.
And in this perfect garden of flowers there are mounds of magnificent
fruit piled up in brightly enamelled cloisonne dishes, fresh peaches,
luscious pears, bright oranges; but again, all of them in the tints of
gold. Each fruit and flower, of which there are so many standing
isolated, has its symbolic meaning in China--the peach, longevity; the
plum, youth; the cherry, affection; and the chrysanthemum, everlasting
beauty.
But I do not want to read the language of fruits and flowers. What
interests me is the artistic beauty of the decorations and the perfect
stage management of the surroundings.
From the point of view of the artist or the organizer it is perfect. It
is an exquisite harmony, limited to the tones of gold, the sapphire, and
the emerald, with the rich hues of a peacock's feather carried to its
climax in decorations, paintings, embroidery, dresses, flowers, and
fruit.
Each object in the hall has its purpose in the magnificent scheme. It
may be a simple chrysanthemum or a flag on the canopy over the throne
itself, but they all emphasize the same grand central idea.
Whatever our opinions of Chinese art may be, we cannot fail to admire
its vigour and its refinement. During my repeated visits to that land,
it gave me continuous interest and constant surprises. It is always
grand, always strong, and always refined.
These same features strike me here today in the Summer Palace. The
greatness of the architectural conception, the marvellous plan of the
surroundings, the amplitude of the accessories, all contribute to make
the Summer Palace of Pekin more royal and imperial than any other palace
in the world. And again, as to refinement, I cannot imagine anything
more charming than the decorations and embellishments, which are
modulated like a symphony.
What is the Dowager Empress like? What do you think of the young
Emperor? are questions everybody will ask. In the first place, the
Empress is of average height, strongly built, and completely
self-possessed. As for her dress, I am afraid I cannot describe ladies'
attire as I can objects of art. She was, I remember, clad in some dark
blue colour, embroidered with golden thread. What struck me most was the
Manchu head-dress, which causes the hair to project from the head like
the long wings of a bat, each decorated with a bunch of chrysanthemums.
The Empress is a Manchu, and clings to her national garments and
fashions, which, if they have no other advantage, at least permit the
children's feet to be at liberty, contrary to the Chinese custom.
She was seated on a high throne, elaborately carved, heavily gilded, and
covered by a magnificent canopy. Before her was a table, on which she
rested her long-nailed fingers. On her left, one step below, the Emperor
was seated, making in his meek appearance a striking contrast to his
imperious aunt.
It cannot be denied that the Dowager Empress of China has a commanding
appearance. Nearly seventy years of age, she looks younger, and her
strong features have kept all their mobility. The square forehead,
strong nose, and firm mouth, are the most prominent features; but I
think her character is best seen in the drooping twitch of the mouth,
and her searching gaze. Nothing seems to escape her. During the whole
reception her keen glance followed every movement, and examined
separately every individual.
[Illustration: THE EMPRESS DOWAGER OF CHINA Reproduced by kind
permission of Mr Eveleigh Nash, from Miss K. A. Carl's volume "With the
Empress Dowager of China" To face page 184]
We stood in a long row before the steps of the throne, and the _doyen_
of the diplomatic body stepped forward to deliver his official greeting.
It was a cordial speech; taking recent events into consideration, almost
too cordial, and I am afraid, as translated by Prince Ching, it assumed
an even more complimentary tone.
Even so it did not rise to this proud woman's expectations. She heard it
unmoved, without any visible sign of emotion, I venture to say without
interest.
Her mouth retained its sceptical curve, her glance was cold and haughty;
and when old Prince Ching had kow-towed for the last time to the ground
the Empress gave the order by a commanding sign that the answer should
be read, but without uttering a syllable.
The answer was read, and listened to in perfect silence. The fall of a
leaf could have been heard. It was not long, and merely said, "Her
Majesty the Empress was glad the representatives of the Powers had had a
favourable day for their visit."
Was it meant to be a compliment or was it sarcasm? It would be difficult
to judge. It was ambiguous, but it gave a certain insight into the
speaker's character. It might have served to explain a little bit more
of this extraordinary mind which has manifested itself in such manifold
ways, and led to so many paradoxical actions. Of the dark stories that
are whispered of the palace, I would not like to speak. Whether they are
true or false must always remain in doubt.
If the Empress is not talkative when receiving a diplomatic body, if she
is silent on a state occasion, it only shows her great caution. It was
by her personal ability and hard work she rose step by step to the
highest position of the empire. To attain it undoubtedly hard work and
strength were required, and to keep it all her life must have called for
even greater efforts. And this is so much more the case on account of
the insignificance of the part played by women in Chinese life. What
ways and means she employed must be left for history to narrate.
As I mentioned before, she seemed to be a keen observer. All she saw,
the whole reception, must have been so new to her, if we consider that
to be seen by ordinary human eyes is to the Celestial Imperial Family
like a crime. Each time the Court moves from the Summer to the Winter
Palace, along the whole length of the road each door and shutter is
heavily closed, and the punishment of decapitation hangs over anybody
discovered gazing at her.
It must seem even harder to have to receive a body of men in the privacy
of her home, for such a proceeding is utterly repugnant to all Eastern
conceptions.
But it might interest people to know that, on one occasion, when she
invited only the ladies of the foreign legations, her reception of them
was most cordial. She took tea with them, and showed unlimited interest
in all their domestic affairs. She wanted to know the number of their
children, the exact amount of their incomes; but what seemed to interest
her most of all was their age. She admired some of their jewels, and
went so far as to ask as a souvenir a very costly fan, and returned, as
the greatest sign of her regard, one of her own. Its value was small, as
it merely consisted of a few square inches of rice-paper, on which were
painted a few chrysanthemums. But, as the Empress explained with a witty
smile, the painting was the work of her own hands, and she hoped that
would be an ample reward.
There is no question, the Dowager Empress is a clever woman and a
skilful politician. The best proof of her diplomatic ability is that she
is seated before us on her golden throne. The day on which the rescuing
force was led into the besieged city to relieve the famishing legations
and help the tortured Christians, the Empress and all her Court were
fleeing through a devastated country in a lumbering wooden car. The
mighty Empress took refuge in humble houses, hid herself in stables, and
crawled for concealment into caves. Who would have believed that those
deserted beings, that scattered Court, would return to the palace under
the protection of the same allied force that arrived to avenge outraged
Justice and set her once more on her throne?
The life of the young Emperor is familiar to all. His struggle for
freedom and progress failed utterly, and he now seems, morally and
physically, a wreck. I was told that when his ideas had been discovered
he was separated from his entourage, shut up in a pavilion, and kept as
a prisoner. He sat in his armchair, immovable, almost as if he were
asleep. It was a sad spectacle, and one to arouse the deepest sympathy.
We remained for the whole of the day as guests of Their Majesties,
wandering in the wonderland of their favourite grounds, going from
palace to pagoda, from temple to hall, each a separate gem of Chinese
art, and each bearing evidence of wanton mutilation by the allied
troops. I felt grieved that such monuments of history and pieces of art,
which should have been a cherished possession of all the world, should
have been destroyed by what we call civilized white men.
We strolled over marble bridges, climbed pagodas built of china, were
shown the marvellous orchard, planted with dwarf trees, the favourite
resort of the Princess, and had tea served on the Marble Boat.
[Illustration: THE SUMMER PALACE "We remained for the whole day as
guests of their Majesties, wandering in the wonderland of their
favourite grounds" To face page 188]
But the great feature of the day was the state banquet, where we were
served with, I dare say, a hundred courses of unimaginable dainties:
sharks' fins, water-sparrows, eggs of great age, nests of sea-birds, and
puppy chops. But I will not weary my readers with such details.
I only want to tell of my journey back along the dusty highway to Pekin.
I was so worn out and faint with hunger, not having been able to
appreciate the Chinese cooking, that I stopped for rest and a dish of
boiled rice at our orphanage at Pei-tang, where the popular hooded nuns,
so well known for their heroic sacrifices on battle-fields, in plague
hospitals and leper homes, maintain an asylum to save the lives of
little children who would otherwise sometimes be killed by their own
parents.
These children are brought up to be good men and useful citizens; and I
can only wish that the Empress, instead of giving banquets of a hundred
courses at the Summer Palace, would send some crumbs to the little
starving babes.
And never have I appreciated a meal more than on that evening, after so
much gold and glitter and external show, in the humble abode.
VIII
KOREA OF BYGONE DAYS AND ON THE EVE OF THE WAR
I
The history of Korea reads like a fairy tale. The Land of the Morning
Calm beyond the seas is so quaint, so very much out of the common, that
we can hardly realize that all we hear of it is reality and not mere
fiction.
The country, the people, and the life are all strange, and totally
different from what we see and meet with in other parts of the world. I
can scarcely imagine anything more impressive than for a traveller
coming straight from some Western port to land in this country--one of
the remotest in the East. It is as though he had set foot in a
topsy-turvy world; everything is the reverse of what he has been
accustomed to. Facts and ideas are antagonistic to ours; things material
and spiritual seem to be governed by other rules and other natural laws.
The origin of Korea is buried in myth and mystery; its past is so
varied, such an ever-changing chiaroscuro, that we look upon it as
legendary. Its present remains true to tradition.
Within the limits of this chapter I would like to deal with Korea from a
more utilitarian point of view, and not merely to describe the
traditions, quaint customs, and picturesque features of the land. My
desire is to represent Korea not only as one of the quaintest countries
on the surface of the globe--a land of old-world type--but as a country
in the first stage of transition.
The difference between ancient and modern Korea is stupendous; a few
years seem to have done the work of centuries. Korea of the past is
undoubtedly the more attractive to the traveller, but Korea of the
present does not lack interest for one anxious to find in this corner of
the earth something more than panoramic scenery.
The old order still catches the eye everywhere; new reforms are lost in
the crowd. Outwardly everything is old, but an inward change is being
effected day by day. The ancient cut and faint colour of the garb have
been preserved, but new ideas are being constantly interwoven and are
obliterating the old. Ancient habits and customs are dying out hourly
and irretrievably, and have to give way to modern utilitarianism. The
days of old Korea are numbered.
The appearance of the whole country is altered. Railways now intersect
the quiet, dreamy countryside; buildings of architectural beauty, as
well as humble cottages, are disappearing to make room for modern houses
and factories. The charm of the scenery will inevitably vanish in face
of the commercial and industrial progress. The world is moving on; it is
necessary that it should, and change must follow the flight of time.
But I am glad that I am here today and not to-morrow; glad that I know
Korea as it has been in the past. For who knows what future awaits her?
I shall never be able fully to describe my first impressions. Everything
that meets my eye is new, that which surrounds me is unintelligible,
almost mysterious. Korea and Tibet are the most isolated countries in
Asia, and have, therefore, most completely preserved their ancient
traditions and customs. It is only a quarter of a century since Korea
first opened her gates to foreigners. Radical changes can hardly be
expected to take place within a few years; the remodelling of a country
and its people is the work of many generations.
II
Korea, as we see on the map, lies at the furthest eastern extremity of
the Asiatic continent. It is a peninsula in the shape of an irregular
oblong. Its frontiers on three sides are formed by the Japanese and the
Yellow seas, and only on the north does a short strip of land divide it
from Manchuria. Its area is eighty thousand square miles. The aspect of
the country is of great variety, extremely mountainous, just here and
there intersected by valleys. Some of the peaks are over seven thousand
feet high; but what is more striking than their height is their
formation. They are all very rich in mines, and the valleys are
extremely fertile, and yet Korea has been, within the memory of man, one
of the poorest countries of the world. The mines have never been worked,
and the ground yields just enough for daily food. Various reasons for
this have been assigned. The mines have not been worked because the
Government feared that the gathering together of so many workmen at
far-away districts would be favourable to revolutions. A crowd was
considered a danger to the reigning family. And I have been told that
the cause of the scanty cultivation of the fields is that it is not
worth while to have much grain stored in the granaries, for in that
case it would surely be confiscated by the Government officials.
The larger rivers, like the Yalu and the Han, would afford excellent
means of communication, but navigation is as yet practically unknown.
The natural bays could easily afford harbour accommodation for all the
fleets of the world, but, except the few open ports, they are only
visited by some miserable native wooden junks, and a few Japanese or
Chinese fishing-boats.
The climate is excellent; cold, of course, in the winter, but bright and
dry; and the heat is never as oppressive in summer as it is in the same
latitudes further inland. The natural advantages are plentiful in every
respect: the rainfall is sufficient to secure the watering of the
fields, the snow in winter protects the ground for several months, and
there is bright sunshine in the summer to ripen the most beautiful fruit
and grapes; but the refreshing sea-breezes prevent it from being too
hot.