RAMBLES IN PEKIN
When the treachery of the Empress‐Dowager and the mad fanaticism of the
Chinese ringed in the Legations with a circle of fire and steel, all
the world trembled at the danger of the besieged Europeans. When Pekin
fell and relief came, the heroism of the garrison was lauded through
every nation. But few heard of a still more gallant and desperate
defence which took place at the same time and in the same city—when
a few priests and a handful of marines in the Peitan, the Roman
Catholic cathedral of Pekin, long held at bay innumerable hordes of
assailants. Well deserved as was the praise bestowed on the defenders
of the Legations, their case was never so desperate as that of the
missionaries, nuns, and converts penned up in the church and schools.
On the Peitan fell the first shock of fanatical attack; no armistice
gave rest to its weary garrison, and to it relief came last of all. For
over two months, with twenty French and eleven Italian marines, the
heroic Archbishop, Monseigneur Favrier, and his priests—all honour
to them!—held an almost impossible position against overwhelming
numbers. The _enceinte_ of the defence comprised the cathedral, the
residences of the priests, the schools, and the convent, and contained
within its straggling precincts, besides the nuns and the missionaries,
over 3,000 converts—men, women, and children. The buildings were
riddled with shot and shell. Twice mines were exploded within the
defences and tore away large portions of the protecting wall, besides
killing or wounding hundreds.
The Chinese occupied houses within a few yards of the cathedral, and
on one occasion brought a gun up within forty paces of its central
door. A few rounds would have laid the way open to the stormers. All
hope seemed lost; when the dauntless old Archbishop led out ten marines
in a desperate sally, drove off the assailants, and, capturing the
gun, dragged it back within the church. A heroic priest volunteered
to try to pierce the environing hordes of besiegers and seek aid from
the Legations, not knowing that they, too, were in deadly peril. In
disguise he stole out secretly from the defences, and was never heard
of again. One shudders to think what his fate must have been. It is
still a mystery. Under a pitiless close‐range fire the marines and
priests, worthy of their gallant leader, stood at their posts day and
night and drove back the mad rushes of the assailants. Heedless of
death, the nuns bore water, food, and ammunition to the defenders,
nursed the wounded and sick, and soothed the alarm of the Chinese
women and children in their care. Disease and starvation added their
grim terrors to the horrors of the situation.
Desirous of seeing the scene of this heroic defence, I set out one day
to visit the cathedral in company with some officers of the Fusiliers
and of my own regiment. The ground being dry, we chose rickshas for
our vehicles in preference to Pekin carts, which are as uncomfortable
a form of conveyance as any I know. Our coolies ran us along at a good
pace, for the Pekinese ricksha‐men are exceedingly energetic; indeed,
the Chinaman is the best worker I have ever seen, with the possible
exception of the Corean boatmen at Chemulpo. The Hong Kong dock
labourers are a model that the same class in England would never copy.
One day in Dublin I watched three men raising a small paving‐sett a few
inches square from the roadway. Two held the points of crowbars under
it while the third leisurely scratched at the surrounding earth with
a pickaxe, pausing frequently to wipe his heated brow and remark that
“hard work is not aisy, begob!” I wondered what a Chinaman would have
said if he had seen that sight.
Close to the Peitan we found ourselves in a broad street which was
being re‐made by the French, who had named it “Rue du General Voyron”
after their commander‐in‐chief. In it were many newly‐opened cafés and
drinking‐shops, placarded with advertisements of various sorts of
European liquors for sale within. Turning off this road into a narrow
lane, we suddenly came upon the gate of the Peitan.
The cathedral is a beautiful building of the graceful semi‐Gothic
type of modern French churches, lightly constructed of white stone.
It is crowned by airy pinnacles and looks singularly out of place
among the squalid Chinese houses that crowd around it. At first we
could not discern any marks of the rough handling it had received, and
marvelled at its good preservation. But on approaching closer, we saw
that the masonry was chipped and scarred in a thousand places. Scarce
a square yard of the front was without a bullet or shell‐hole through
it. The walls were so thin that the shells had passed through without
exploding; and it seemed almost incredible that any being could have
remained alive within them during the hellish fire to which they had so
evidently been subjected.
We were met at the entrance by Monseigneur Favrier’s courteous
coadjutor‐bishop, who received us most hospitably, took us over the
cathedral and round the defences, and explained the incidents of the
siege to us. He showed us the enormous hole in the compound and the
breach in the wall caused by the explosion of one of the Chinese
mines, which had killed and wounded hundreds. The ground everywhere
was strewn with large iron bullets and fragments of shells, fired
by the besiegers. The Bishop smiled when we requested permission to
carry off a few of these as souvenirs, and remarked with truth that
there were enough to suffice for visitors for many years. We inspected
with interest the gun captured by the Archbishop. Then, as he spoke no
English, and I was the only one of the party who could converse with
him in French, he handed us over to the care of an Australian nun,
who proved to be a capital _cicerone_ and depicted the horrors they
had undergone much more vividly than our previous guide had done. Her
narrative of the sufferings of the brave sisters and the women and
children was heartrending. Before we left we were fortunate enough
to have the honour of being presented to the heroic prelate, whose
courage and example had animated the defenders. A burly, strongly
built man, with genial and open countenance, Monseigneur Favrier is
a splendid specimen of the Church Militant and reminded one of the
old‐time bishops, who, clad in armour, had led their flocks to war, and
fought in the forefront of battles in the Middle Ages. His bravery was
equalled by his modesty, for he resolutely declined to be drawn into
any account of his exploits during the siege. Long may he flourish! A
perfect specimen of the priest of God, the soldier, and the gentleman.
As we parted from him we turned to look again on the man so modestly
unconscious of his own heroism, that in any army in the world would
have covered him with honours and undying fame.
When we looked at the extent of the defences and compared it with
the paucity of the garrison, we could scarcely understand how the
place resisted attack for an hour. By all the rules of warfare it
was absolutely untenable. It is surrounded on all sides within a few
yards by houses, which were occupied by the Chinese who from their
cover poured in an unceasing and harassing fire upon the garrison. The
defenders were too few to even attempt to drive them out,[5] and so
were obliged to confine themselves to defeating the frequent assaults
made on them. Their successful and gallant resistance was a feat that
would be a glorious page in the annals of any army. “Palmam qui meruit
ferat!”
Not the least remarkable of the many curious phases of this
extraordinary campaign was the rapidity with which, when order had
been restored, the Chinese settled down again in Pekin. A few months
after the fall of the capital its streets, to a casual observer, had
resumed their ordinary appearance; but the wrecked houses, the foreign
flags everywhere displayed, the absence of the native upper classes,
and the presence of the soldiers of the Allies marked the change. Burly
Russian and lithe Sikh, dapper little Japanese and yellow‐haired
Teuton roughly shouldered the Celestial aside in the streets, where
formerly the white man had passed hurriedly along in momentary dread
of insult and assault. But in the presence of the strict discipline of
the troops after the first excesses the Chinaman speedily recovered his
contempt—veiled though it was now perforce—for the foreign devil.
Ricksha coolies argued over their fare, where not long before a blow
would have been the only payment vouchsafed or expected. Lounging
crowds of Chinese on the sidepaths refused to make way for European
officers until forcibly reminded that they belonged to a vanquished
nation.
Shops that had any of their contents left after the fairly complete
looting the city had undergone opened again, the proprietors demanding
prices for their goods that promised to rapidly recoup them for their
losses. Vehicles of all kinds filled the streets, which were soon as
interesting as they had been before the advent of the Allies—and a
great deal safer. Pekin carts rattled past strings of laden Tartar
camels, which plodded along with noiseless footfall and the weary air
of haughty boredom of their kind. Coolies with streaming bodies ran
their rickshas over the uneven roadway. Heavy transport waggons, drawn
by European and American horses or stout Chinese mules, rumbled through
the deep dust or heavy mud. And, thanks to the cleansing efforts of the
Allies, the formerly most noticeable feature of Pekin was absent—its
overpowering stench.
Engaging the services of a guide and interpreter, a party of us set
out one afternoon to view the shops, with the ulterior purpose of
purchasing some of the famous pottery and silks. We went in rickshas
to Ha‐ta‐man Street, which is a good commercial thoroughfare. Arrived
there, we discarded our man‐drawn vehicles and strolled along the
high side‐walks, pausing now and then to gaze at the curious pictures
of Chinese street life. Here peddlers sat surrounded by their wares.
An old‐clothes merchant, selecting a convenient space of blank wall,
had driven nails into it, and hung on them garments of all kinds,
from the cylindrical trousers of the Chinese woman to the tarnished,
gold‐embroidered coat of a mandarin, with perhaps a suggestive rent
and stain that spoke all too plainly of the fate of the last owner.
Another man sat amid piles of footgear—the quaint tiny shoes of women
that would not fit a European baby, the slippers of the superior sex,
with their thick felt soles, the long knee boots for winter wear. Here
a venerable, white‐haired Chinaman, with the beard that bespoke him a
grandfather, dozed among a heterogeneous collection of rusty knives,
empty bottles and jampots, scraps of old iron, and broken locks of
native or European manufacture. Another displayed cheap pottery of
quaint shape and hideous colouring, or the curious, pretty little
snuff‐bottles, with tiny spoons fitted into the stopper, that I have
never seen anywhere but in China. Another offered tawdry embroidery or
tinselled fan‐cases. Piles of Chinese books and writing‐desks, with
their brushes and solid blocks of ink, were the stock‐in‐trade of
another.
And true Oriental haughty indifference marked the demeanour of these
cheapjacks when we searched among their curious wares for souvenirs of
Pekin. They evinced not the least anxiety for us to buy, although they
knew that the lowest price that they would extract from us was sure to
be much more than they could obtain from a Chinese purchaser. Their
demands were exorbitant for the commonest, most worthless article; and
they showed no regret if we turned away exasperated at their rapacity.
One asked me fifteen dollars for a thing which he gave eventually,
after hard bargaining, for one, and then probably made a profit of
fifty cents over it.
Farther on we stopped to gaze at a small crowd assembled round a
fortune‐teller. A stout country‐woman was having her future foretold.
The prophet, looking alternately at her hand and at a chart covered
with hieroglyphics, was evidently promising her a career full of good
fortune and happiness, to judge from the rapt and delighted expression
on her face.
A bear, lumbering heavily through a cumbrous dance to the mournful
strains of a weird musical instrument, was the centre of another small
gathering. Farther down the street a juggler had attracted a ring of
interested spectators, who, when the performer endeavoured to collect
money from them, melted away quite as rapidly as a similar crowd in the
streets of London scatters when the hat is passed round.
We had noticed many peepshows being exhibited along the side‐walk, with
small, pig‐tailed urchins, their eyes glued to the peepholes, evidently
having their money’s worth. Curious to see the spectacles with which
the Chinese showman regales his audiences, we struck a bargain with
one, and for the large sum of five cents the whole party was allowed
to look in through the glasses. The first tableau represented a troupe
of acrobats performing before the Imperial Court. Then the proprietor
pressed a spring; by a mechanical device the scene changed, and we drew
back from the peepholes! The Chinese are not a moral race. None of us
were easily shocked, but the picture that met our gaze was a little too
indecent for the broadest‐minded European. We moved on.
Outside a farrier’s booth a pony was being shod. Two poles planted
firmly in the earth, with a cross‐piece fixed between them, about six
feet from the ground, formed a sort of gallows. Ropes passed round the
animal’s neck, chest, loins, and legs, and fastened to the poles, half
suspending him in the air, held him almost immovable. The most vicious
brute would be helpless in such a contrivance.
Our guide, on being reminded that we desired to make some purchases,
stopped outside a low‐fronted, dingy shop, and informed us that it
belonged to one of the best silk merchants in Pekin. We entered, and
found the proprietor deep in conversation with a friend. The guide
addressed him, and told him that we wished to look at some silks.
Hardly interrupting his conversation, the merchant replied that he had
none. Irritated at his casual manner, our interpreter asked why he
exhibited a sign‐board outside the shop, which declared that silks were
for sale within. “Oh, everything I had was looted. There is nothing
left,” replied the proprietor nonchalantly; and he turned to resume his
interrupted conversation as indifferently as if the plundering of his
goods was too ordinary a business risk to demand a moment’s thought.
Not a word of complaint at his misfortune. How different, I thought,
from the torrent of indignant eloquence with which the European
shopkeeper would bewail the slackness of trade or a fire that had
damaged his property!
We were more successful in the next establishment we visited, for a new
stock had been laid in since the capture of the city. But the silks
were of very inferior quality, the colours crude and gaudy, and the
prices exorbitant. So we purchased nothing.
We next inspected a china shop, which was stacked with pottery from
floor to ceiling. To my mind the patterns and colouring of everything
we saw were particularly hideous, though some of our party who posed as
connoisseurs went into raptures over weird designs and glaring blues
and browns.
I was equally disappointed in a visit to a fan shop. China is
pre‐eminently the land of fans, and I had hoped to find some
particularly choice specimens in Pekin. But all that were shown me were
very indifferent—badly made and of poor design. The prettiest I have
ever seen were in Canton, where superb samples of carved sandal‐wood
and ivory can be procured at a very reasonable price. But Canton is far
ahead of the capital in manufactures, and its inhabitants possess a
keen commercial instinct. Its proximity to Hong Kong and the constant
intercourse with foreigners have sharpened their trading faculties, and
there are few smarter business men than the Canton shopkeeper.
[Illustration: GROUNDS OF THE BRITISH LEGATION, PEKIN]
Strolling along the street we reached a market‐place filled with
open booths, in which food of all kinds was exposed for sale. Dried
ducks, split open and skewered, hung beside sucking‐pigs. Buckets
of water filled with wriggling eels stood on the ground. Salt fish,
meat, and vegetables lay on the stalls, which were surrounded by a
chaffering crowd. Sellers and buyers argued vehemently, and the din
of the bargaining so dear to the Oriental heart filled the street.
Women, with oiled hair twisted into curious shapes and wound round
long, flat combs that stood out six inches on either side of the back
of their heads, toddled up on tiny, maimed feet, and plunged into
heated discussions with the dealers. Beggars exhibited their hideous
deformities to excite the pity of the crowd, and clutched insolently at
the dresses of the passers‐by to demand charity.
Close by, a group of urchins drew water from a well. It was in the
middle of the side‐walk, and was covered with a large stone slab,
pierced with four holes only just large enough to permit of the passage
of the buckets.
On our way back to Chong Wong Foo that afternoon we passed close to the
Legation quarter, and stopped to watch the progress of the wall which
was being built around it as a protection against future attacks. It
is simply a high wall constructed of the enormous Pekin bricks, easily
defensible against infantry attack, but I should doubt if it would long
resist artillery fire.
The most famous place of Buddhist worship in Pekin is the Great Lama
Temple, which was, perhaps, the wealthiest monastery in China until
Buddhism fell out of fashion. As it is still well worthy of a visit,
I made an excursion to it one day in company with a small party. The
monks had the reputation of being extremely hostile to foreigners;
and although Europeans could now go in safety to most places in the
capital, I was warned not to venture on a visit to this temple alone.
Outside the principal entrance stands a fine specimen of those curious
Chinese structures, half gateway, half triumphal arch. The lower
portion was of stone, the superstructure of wood. It was crowned
with three small towers, roofed with yellow tiles, and painted with
gaudy designs in glaring colours. On either side, on stone pedestals,
were enormous lions that looked like the nightmare creations of a
demon‐possessed artist. On passing through the front gate, we found
ourselves in a paved courtyard surrounded by low, one‐storied temples
standing on raised verandahs. In the centre was a double‐roofed
square belfry with a small gate in each side. On entering the court
we were at once surrounded by a clamorous crowd of shaven‐headed,
yellow‐robed men of a villainous type of countenance. These were the
famous—or infamous—Buddhist monks. Their dress consisted of a long,
yellow linen gown, confined at the waist by a sash, trousers, white
socks, and felt‐soled shoes. A more repulsive set of scoundrels I have
never seen. Their former truculence was now replaced by a cringing
servility. They crowded round us, demanding alms, or, holding out
handfuls of small coins, offered to change our good silver dollars
into bad five‐and ten‐cent pieces. Since Buddhism has ceased to be the
fashionable religion in China, its ministers have fallen upon evil
times, and subsist on charity and the offerings of the comparatively
few followers of their creed. So visitors are vociferously assailed for
alms; and the wily monks, with a keen eye to business, had hit upon the
idea of making a little money by tendering small coins of a debased
currency in change for good silver pieces. Shouldering the clamorous
crowd aside, our interpreter seized on one ancient priest to act as
our guide. This worthy cleric aided us to drive off his importunate
fellows, and led us through several courts to the principal temple.
Like all the other buildings around, it was covered with a quaint,
yellow‐tiled roof, and on the corners of the gables and the projecting
eaves were weird porcelain monsters; while below hung small bells,
which clanked dismally when moved by the wind. The temple was high and
the interior particularly large and lofty; for it contained a colossal
image of Buddha, seated in the traditional posture, with crossed legs
and hands holding the lotus flower and other sacred emblems. On its
face was the abstracted expression of weary calm that is supposed
to represent the attainment of Nirvana—content. Stairs led up to
galleries passing round the interior of the building to the level of
the head of the deity, so that one could gaze into his countenance at
close range. The statue is not so large or artistically so meritorious
as the similar images of Daibutsu at Kamakura or Hiogo in Japan,
each of which is hollow and contains a temple in its interior. On the
walls of the staircase, ranged on shelves, were thousands of little
clay gods, crudely fashioned and painted. Our priestly guide refused
to sell us any of these figures, though evidently sorely tempted by
the sight of the almighty dollar. He evidently refrained from doing so
only through fear of being found out, not through any respect for his
sacred images. Having gazed into Buddha’s face and vainly endeavoured
to experience the feeling of rapture that it is supposed to produce, we
passed out to a balcony that ran round the exterior of the building.
We were high up above the ground, and we looked down upon the jumble
of quaint, yellow gables, the courtyards with their lounging groups of
bullet‐headed priests, and away over the panorama of Pekin to where the
tall buildings of the Imperial city rose above a sea of low roofs.
On descending again into the temple, we looked at the altars with
tawdry ornaments, artificial flowers, faded hangings, and fantastic
gods, and then passed out to the court. Our guide, having extracted
alms from us, led us to another but smaller temple, and handed us over
to its custodian priest, who unlocked the door and led us within.
Round the walls were life‐sized gilt images—all of one design, and
an exceedingly indecent design it was; and we had little respect for
the morals of the ancient Chinese deified hero it represented. After
visiting several other buildings containing little of interest, we
induced some of the monks to let us photograph them. They were pleased
and flattered at the idea, and posed readily; indeed, one who had been
standing at the other side of the courtyard, seeing what was going
on, rushed across and insisted on joining the group, anxious that his
features, too, should be handed down to posterity. Throwing them a
handful of small coins, which caused a very undignified scramble, we
passed out of the gate. Seating ourselves in our rickshas, we drove to
the Temple of Confucius, close by. It is devoted to the present Chinese
faith, which is a mixture of ancestor‐worship and Confucianism, and
consists of several buildings standing in pretty, tree‐shaded courts.
The main temple contains long altars, on which are nothing but tablets
with Chinese inscriptions—maxims of the worthy sage. Larger tablets
hang on the walls. Confucian chapels are not interesting; and we were
disappointed at the bareness of the interior. Similar but smaller
buildings stood at the end of avenues in the grounds, but none repaid a
visit.
The _cloisonné_ of Pekin is famous, and specimens of it command a good
price throughout China. It is, however, decidedly inferior to Japanese
work, which is much better finished and of far greater artistic merit.
As I had never seen how the _cloisonné_ is made, I paid a visit to the
principal factory in the capital. I was received by the proprietor, a
very amiable old gentleman, who took our party round his establishment
and showed us the process through all the stages from the raw material
to the finished article. The place consisted of a number of small
Chinese houses, some of which served as workshops, some were fitted
up with furnaces for firing, others occupied as residences by the
employees and their families. In the first courtyard two men were
seated before a small table, making European cigarette cases. In front
of them lay the design to be reproduced, flanked by small saucers
containing liquid enamel of various colours and tiny brushes. One man
held a square plate of copper, and with a sharp scissors cut very
thin strips from its edges. These he seized with a pair of pincers
and deftly bent and twisted them into patterns to correspond with the
lines of the design before him. They were then fixed on to the side
of the case with some adhesive mixture. As soon as they were firm,
the other man filled in the spaces between these raised lines with
the coloured enamels by means of a fine brush. The work was then left
to dry before being fired in the furnaces to fix the colours. With
their rude instruments these artists—for such they were—fashioned
the most complicated designs of foliage, flowers, or dragons with a
marvellous dexterity, judging altogether by eye, and never deviating
by a hair’s breadth from the pattern given them. We entered a room,
in which others sat round long tables, fastening designs on copper
vases, plates, or bowls. Ornaments of all kinds, napkin‐rings, and
crucifixes—these, needless to say, for foreigners—were being made.
Show‐cases with specimens of the finished work stood round the walls,
and the proprietor exhibited with pardonable pride the triumphs of his
art. With rude appliances in dimly‐lit rooms, these ignorant Chinese
workmen had achieved gems that the European artist could not excel.
He then showed us the large blocks of the raw stone which had to be
ground up to form the enamel, and explained the processes it had to
undergo before it became the brightly coloured paste that filled the
saucers on the tables. We were then shown articles being placed in the
furnaces or withdrawn when the firing was complete. Before leaving we
purchased some specimens of the work as souvenirs of an interesting
visit, and bade good‐bye to the grateful proprietor.
Such were our rambles through the vastness of that wonderful city so
long a mystery to the outside world. Even in these days of universal
knowledge its inmost recesses were a secret till fire and sword burst
all barriers and the victorious foreigner ranged where he listed. The
gates of palace and temple flew open to the touch of his rifle‐butt.
The abodes of monarch, prince, and priest sheltered the soldiers of
the conquerors, and the proudest mandarin drew humbly aside to let the
meanest camp‐follower pass.
To me the most fascinating spectacle in Pekin was the ever‐changing
life of the streets. The endless procession of strange vehicles,
from the ricksha to the curious wheelbarrow that is a universal form
of conveyance for passengers or goods on the narrow roads of North
China. The motley crowds—Manchu, Tartar, white man, black, and
yellow, dainty, painted lady of high rank and humble coolie woman,
shaven‐crowned monk and long‐queued layman, all formed a moving picture
unequalled in any city in the world. And above their heads floated the
flags of the conquering nations that had banded together from the ends
of the earth to humble the pride of China.
[Footnote 5: They had only forty rifles all told.]