THE SUMMER PALACE
Eight or ten miles from Pekin lies the loveliest spot in all North
China, the Summer Palace, the property of the Empress‐Dowager. When
burning heat and scorching winds render life in the capital unbearable,
when dust‐storms sweep through the unpaved streets and a pitiless sun
blazes on the crowded city, the virtual ruler of China betakes her to
her summer residence among the hills, and there weaves the web of plots
that convulse the world. When the feeble monarch of that vast Empire
ventured to dream of reforms that would eventually bring his realm
into line with modern civilisation, the imperious old lady seized her
nominal sovereign and imprisoned him there in the heart of her rambling
country abode. Twice, now, in its history has the Summer Palace fallen
into the hands of European armies. English and French have lorded it in
the paved courts before ever its painted pavilions had seen the white
blouses of Cossacks or the fluttering plumes of the Bersagliere; when
Japan was but a name, and none dreamt that the little islands of the
Far East would one day send their gallant soldiers to stand shoulder
to shoulder with the veterans of Europe in a common cause.
Passed from the charge of one foreign contingent to another in this
last campaign, the Summer Palace was at length entrusted to the care
of the British and Italians. Desirous of visiting a spot renowned for
its natural beauty as for its historical interest, a party of us sought
and obtained permission to inspect it. And so one morning we stood in
the principal courtyard of Chong Wong Foo and watched a procession of
sturdy Chinese ponies being led up for us. The refractory little brutes
protested vehemently against the indignity of being bestridden by
foreigners; and all the subtlety of their grooms was required to induce
them to stand still long enough for us to spring into the saddles.
And then the real struggle began. One gave a spirited imitation of
an Australian buckjumper. Another endeavoured to remove his rider by
the simpler process of scraping his leg against the nearest wall. A
third, deaf to all threats or entreaties, refused to move a step in
any direction, until repeated applications of whip and spurs at length
resulted in his bolting out of the gate and down the road. After a
preliminary circus performance, our steeds finally determined to make
the best of a bad job; and, headed by a guide, we set out for the
palace.
Our way lay at first through a very unsavoury part of the capital.
Evil‐smelling alleys, bordered by open drains choked with the refuse
of the neighbouring houses; narrow lanes deep in mire; squalid streets
of tumbledown hovels—the worst slums of Pekin. Gaunt and haggard men
scowled at us from the low doorways; naked and dirty babies sprawled
on the footpaths and lisped an infantine abuse of the foreign devils;
slatternly women stared at us with lack‐lustre eyes; and loathsome
cripples shouted for charity. Splashing through pools of filthy water,
dodging between carts in the narrow thoroughfares, we could proceed
but slowly. The heat and stench in these close and fetid lanes were
overpowering, and it was an intense relief to emerge at last on one of
the broad streets that pierce the city and which led us to a gateway in
the wall. One leaf of the wooden doors lay on the ground, the other was
hanging half off its hinges. Both were splintered and torn, for they
had been burst open by the explosion of a mine at the taking of Pekin.
The many‐windowed tower above was roofless and shattered. On either
hand, on the outer face of the wall, deep dints and scars showed where
the Japanese shells had rained upon them in the early hours of that
August morning, when the gallant soldiers of Dai Nippon[6] had come to
the rescue of the hard‐pressed Muscovites.
When the Allied Armies arrived at Tung‐Chow, thirteen miles from Pekin,
a council of war was held by the generals on the 13th August, at which
it was decided that the troops should halt there on the following day,
to rest and prepare for the attack on the capital which was settled for
the 15th. For the stoutest hearts may well have quailed at the task
before them. A cavalry reconnaissance from each army was to be made on
the 13th, with orders to halt three miles from Pekin and wait there for
their main bodies to reach them on the 14th.
But the Russian reconnoitring party, eager to be the first into the
city and establish their claim to be its real captors, pushed on right
up to the walls and attacked the Tung Pien gate. They thus upset
the plans for a concerted attack, and precipitated a disjointed and
indiscriminate assault. For they stumbled on a far more difficult task
than they had anticipated, and it was indeed fortunate for the wily
Muscovites that the Japanese, probably suspicious of their intentions,
were not far off. For the Chinese flocked to the threatened spot and
from the comparative safety of the wall poured a devastating fire upon
the Russians. The fiercest efforts of their stormers were unavailing.
General Vasilievski fell wounded. In vain the bravest officers of the
Czar led their men forward in desperate assaults. Baffled and beaten,
they recoiled in impotent fury. Retreat or annihilation seemed the
only alternatives; when the Japanese troops attacked the Tong Chih
gate. There, too, a terrible task awaited the assailants. Again and
again heroic volunteers rushed forward to lay a mine against the
ponderous doors, only to fall lifeless under the murderous fire of the
defenders. But the soldiers of the Land of the Rising Sun admit no
defeat. As men dropped dead, others stepped forward and took the fuses
from the nerveless fingers. The gate was at length blown open. Fierce
as panthers, the gallant Japanese poured into the doomed city. The
pressure relieved, the Russians again advanced to the assault. An entry
was effected at last; and, furious at their losses, they raged through
the streets, dealing death with a merciless hand, heedless of age or
sex.
Meanwhile the other Allies, roused by the sound of heavy firing, were
lost in amazement as to its meaning; and dawn came before the truth was
known. The British and Americans then attacked the Chinese city and met
with a less stubborn resistance. An entry effected, the Indian troops
wandered through the maze of streets until met by a messenger sent out
from the Legations to guide them. He led them through the water‐gate,
the tunnel in the wall between the Tartar and the Chinese city, which
serves as an exit for the drain or nullah passing between the English
and the Japanese Legations, and so right into the arms of the besieged
Europeans. Thus they arrived first to the relief, while the Japanese
and Russians were still fighting in the streets. But every nation whose
army was represented in the Allied Forces claims the credit of being
foremost of all into the Legations. I have read the diary of the
commander of the Russian marines in the siege, in which he speaks of
the arrival of the Czar’s troops to the relief and completely ignores
the presence of the other Allies. And in pictures that I have seen in
Japan of the entry of the relievers, the besieged are shown rushing
out to throw themselves on the necks of the victorious Japanese, whose
uniform is the only one represented. But, while the brunt of the
fighting fell on them and the Russians, the Indian troops were actually
the first to reach the Legations.
As we rode up to the gate through which the soldiers of Japan had
fought their way so gallantly, a guard of their sturdy little
infantrymen at it sprang to attention. For it and the quarter near was
in the charge of their contingent, and their flag, with its red ball on
a white ground, was to be seen everywhere around. The sentry brought
his rifle to the present with the jerky movement and wooden precision
of an automatic figure. Returning the salute, we clattered through the
long tunnel of the gateway and emerged beyond the walls of the city.
Here began a wide road, paved with large stone flags, which runs for an
immense distance through the country, stopping short at the threshold
of the capital. It was bordered in places by hedges of graceful bamboos
with their long feathery leaves. Elsewhere a narrow ditch divided
the roadway from the fertile fields, where tall crops of _kowliang_
(a species of millet) rose higher than a mounted man’s head, almost
completely hiding the houses of tiny hamlets. Over the stone flags,
sparks flashing from under our ponies’ hoofs, we clattered past crowds
of coolies trudging towards the city, long lines of roughly built carts
laden with country produce, or an occasional long‐queued farmer perched
on the back of his diminutive steed.
By fields of waving grain, past groves of thick‐foliaged trees, through
trim villages that showed no trace of the storm that had swept so close
to them. But here and there signs of it were not wanting. A wayside
temple stood with fire‐scorched walls and broken roof. On the threshold
lay the shattered fragments of the images that had once adorned its
shrine. But from the doorways of the houses we passed the inhabitants
looked out at us with never a vestige of fear or hate, and as little
interest. In the stream of travellers setting towards Pekin came a
patrol of Bengal Lancers, spear‐point and scabbard flashing in the sun
as they rode along with the easy grace of the Indian cavalryman, their
tall chargers towering above our small Chinese ponies as the _sowars_
saluted. Farther on we passed two men of the German Mounted Infantry,
their tiny steeds half hidden under huge dragoon saddles. A brown dot
in the distance resolved itself into a British officer as we drew near.
He was Major De Boulay, R.A., who had charge of the treasures
of the Summer Palace. For when the English took the place over these
were collected and locked up for safe keeping in large storehouses.
When the palace was handed back to the Chinese, the Court sent a
special letter of thanks to this officer for his careful custody of the
valuables. This campaign was not Major De Boulay’s first experience
of the Far East. As an authority on the Japanese army, when few in
Europe suspected its real efficiency as a fighting machine, he had been
appointed military attaché to it when it first astonished the world in
the China‐Japan War; and he accompanied the troops that made the daring
march that ended in the capture of Wei‐hai‐wei.
Our meeting him on his way in to Pekin was a distinct disappointment to
us; for the keys of the godowns in which the treasures of the palace
were stored never left his keeping, and in his absence we had no chance
of seeing them. With many expressions of regret for this unfortunate
circumstance, he continued on his way to the capital.
Trotting on, we reached a long village bordering the road on each side.
It was quite a populous and thriving place. The inhabitants looked
sleek and content; and shops stocked with gay garments or weird forms
of food abounded. Half‐way down on the left‐hand side a narrow lane
led off from the highway. At the corner stood a sign‐post with the
words, “Au palais de l’été.” It was our road. We turned our ponies down
it, nothing loth, I warrant, to exchange the hard stone flags for
the soft ground now underfoot. We were soon clear of the houses and
among the fields. Passing a belt of trees that had hitherto obstructed
our view, we saw ahead of us a long stretch of low, dark hills. Far
away to our left front, from a prominent knoll a tall, slender pagoda
rose up boldly to the sky, and straight before us, standing out on
the face of the hills, was a confused mass of buildings—the Summer
Palace. We broke into a brisk canter, the canter became a gallop, and
we raced towards our goal. As we drew nearer, and could more clearly
distinguish the aspect of the buildings, we slackened speed. On the
summit was a temple which, so one of our party who had visited the
place before told us, was known as the Hall of Ten Thousand Ages.
Below it stood a curious circular edifice, with a triple yellow roof.
It was built on a huge square foundation, on the face of which were
the lines of a diamond‐shaped figure. These we afterwards found to
be diagonal staircases ascending to the superstructure which was the
Empress‐Dowager’s own particular temple. Trees hid the lower portion
and concealed from our view a lovely lake that lies at the foot of the
hills. Passing onwards by a high‐walled enclosure, we reached a wide
open space, at the far end of which were the buildings of the palace
proper. Out in the centre of it stood one of those Chinese paradoxes—a
gateway without a wall, similar to the one at the Great Lama Temple.
It was gaily painted with weird designs in bright colours. We rode
past it and reached the entrance to the outer courtyard. At it was a
guard of an Indian infantry regiment which was quartered in the Summer
Palace. Dismounting, we passed through the gate and found ourselves in
a large court. Facing us was a long, low building of the conventional
Chinese type. It was a temple. On the verandah stood large bronze
storks and dragons. We had seen too many similar joss‐houses to care
to visit it; so we secured a sepoy to guide us through the labyrinth
of courts to the pavilion that was occupied as a mess by the officers
of the troops garrisoning the palace—a British Field Battery and
the Indian regiment. Here we were warmly welcomed and ushered into a
building of particular historical interest; for in this very pavilion
the Emperor had been confined.
The interior was elaborately furnished. Large mirrors covered the
walls. Marble‐topped tables with the inevitable clocks and vases of
artificial flowers were placed round the sides. European chairs and
Chinese blackwood stools stood about in curious contrast. But the
_pièce de résistance_ was a lovely screen. An inner chamber was used
as a mess‐room; and a long table covered with a white cloth, on which
stood common Delft plates and glass tumblers, looked out of keeping
with the surroundings. But, more regardful of the thirst induced
by a hot ride than artistic proprieties, we threw ourselves into
comfortable chairs and quaffed a much‐needed, cooling drink.
In front of the pavilion was a square, paved yard, in which stood a
curious scaffolding of gaily painted poles, which had served to spread
an awning above the court. For here the imprisoned Emperor had been
permitted to walk; and as we sat on the verandah and gave our hosts
the latest news of Pekin, we gazed with interest on the confined space
in which the monarch of the vast Empire of China had paced in weary
anticipation of his fate.
As it wanted an hour or two to lunch‐time, one of the officers of the
garrison volunteered to guide us round the palace. We eagerly accepted
his offer and were led out into a maze of courts surrounded by low
houses. He brought us first to his quarters in a long, two‐storied
building. From the upper windows on the far side a lovely view lay
spread before our eyes. Below the house was a large lake, confined
by a marble wall and balustrade that passed all round it. Close
to us, on the right, the long, tree‐clad hill, on which stood the
Empress‐Dowager’s temple and the Hall of Ten Thousand Ages, rose almost
from the brink. To the left a graceful, many‐arched bridge stretched
from the bank to a tiny island far out in the placid water. On it stood
a small pavilion. Near the shore a flotilla of boats was anchored. It
comprised foreign‐designed barges, dinghies, and a half‐sunken steam
launch. Patches of lotus leaves lay on the tranquil surface. And away,
far beyond the lake, a line of rugged and barren hills rose up from the
plain.
[Illustration: A STREET IN THE TARTAR CITY, PEKIN, AFTER HEAVY RAIN]
Emerging from the building, we walked along by the low wall and carved
balustrade bounding the water, towards the side above which stood the
Empress‐Dowager’s temple. At the corner of the lake was a gateway, at
which stood a guard of Bersagliere, clad in white with cocks’ feathers
fluttering gaily in their tropical helmets. The Italians, as I have
said, were joined with the English in the charge of the Summer Palace.
Returning the sentry’s salute, we passed on and found a roofed and
open‐pillared gallery running along beside the lake. Its shelter was
grateful in the burning sun; for the breeze was cut off by the hill
that rose almost perpendicularly above us. The slender, wooden columns
supporting the tiled roof were painted in brightly coloured designs. On
the cornices were miniature pictures of conventional Chinese scenery.
Here and there the gallery widened out or passed close to pretty little
summer‐houses built above the wall of the lake. We reached the square
white mass of masonry on which stood the temple. Before it massive
gates, guarded by bronze lions, opened on a broad staircase leading
to the foot of the substructure. But reserving the sacred edifice,
which towered above us at an appalling height, for a later visit after
lunch, we passed on around the lake until we reached the strangest
construction in the Summer Palace.
[Illustration: THE MARBLE JUNK
[_page_ 127]
One of the former Empresses, whose life had been passed far from
the sea, complained that she had never beheld a ship. So a cunning
architect was found, who built in the lake close to the bank an
enormous marble junk. The hull, which has ornamented prow and stern
and small paddle‐boxes, rests, of course, on the bottom. On the deck
he erected a large two‐storied pavilion; but as the Chinese are seldom
thorough, this he constructed of wood painted to look like marble. It
formed an ideal and picturesque summer‐house, for the sides, between
the pillars, were open or closed only by blinds. But at the time of our
visit it looked dismally dilapidated; for the paint was blistered and
peeling off. The Marble Junk resembles a white house‐boat at Henley,
and at a little distance across the water looks quaint and graceful.
Close to it, spanning a small stream that runs into the lake, is a
lovely little covered bridge with carved white marble arches and
parapets. Venice can boast no more perfect gem of art on its canals.
Our conductor, looking at his watch, tore us from our contemplation of
this masterpiece and insisted on our returning to the mess for lunch.
And in the pavilion where the powerless monarch of a mighty empire had
lain a helpless prisoner, a victim to the intrigues of his own family,
British officers sat at table; and the conversation ranged from the
events of the campaign to sport in India or criticisms of the various
contingents of the Allied Army.
A recent occurrence, thoroughly typical of the readiness with which
the Court party snatched at every opportunity to “save face,” was
alluded to. The British Minister in Pekin, at the humble request of Li
Hung Chang, who was negotiating about the return of the Summer Palace
to the Chinese, had removed the Field Battery garrisoning it to the
capital. An Imperial Edict was immediately issued, which stated in
grandiloquent terms that the Emperor had _ordered_ this removal. Sir
Ernest Satow, who was fast proving himself a far stronger man than
had been anticipated and well fitted to cope with Oriental wiles,
promptly commanded the return of the battery as the fitting answer to
this impudent declaration. It was almost the first strong action taken
by our diplomats in a wearisome series of “graceful concessions”; and
great satisfaction was occasioned among the officers of the British
forces, who hailed it as a hopeful prelude to a firmer policy.
After lunch we ascended the tree‐clad hill on which stood the Hall
of Ten Thousand Ages. From the summit a beautiful view over the
surrounding country was obtained. Below us was the confused jumble of
yellow‐roofed buildings that constituted the residential portion of
the Summer Palace. At our feet lay the gleaming lake, hemmed in by
its white marble walls, the tiny island united to the shore by the
graceful arches of the long bridge. The bright roof of the pretty
little pavilion on it shone in the brilliant sunlight. Along the far
bank stretched a tree‐shaded road that ran away to the right until lost
in thick foliage or fertile fields. A thin line marked the crowded
highway to the capital. The plain was dotted with villages or lay in a
chessboard‐pattern of cultivation interspersed with thickets of bamboos
or dense groves of trees. Far away the tall towers of the walls of
Pekin rose up above the level sea of roofs, broken only by the lofty
buildings of the Imperial city, the temples or the residences of the
Europeans in the Legation quarter. Over the capital a yellow haze of
smoke and dust hung like a golden canopy. Away to the right lay a
long stretch of dark and sombre hills, among which nestled the summer
residence of the members of the British Legation. Here in the hot
months they hie in search of cooling breezes not to be obtained in the
crowded city.
The grandiloquently named Hall of Ten Thousand Ages was a rectangular,
solidly constructed building with thick walls. But inside a sad scene
of ruin met our eyes. Enormous fragments of shattered colossal statues
choked the interior, so that one could not pass from door to door.
Huge heads, trunks, and limbs lay piled in fantastic confusion. The
temple had contained a number of giant images of Buddha. Some troops,
on occupying the palace, had been informed that these were hollow and
filled with treasures of inestimable value. The tale seemed likely; so
dynamite was invoked to force them to reveal their hidden secrets. The
colossal gods were hurled from their pedestals by its powerful agency;
and their ruins were eagerly searched by the vandals. But it was found
that the interiors of the statues, though indeed hollow, were simply
modelled to correspond with the internal anatomy of a human being,
all the organs being reproduced in silver or zinc. And the gods were
sacrificed in vain to the greed of the spoilers.
The Empress‐Dowager’s temple had escaped such rough treatment, as
it held nothing that tempted the conquerors. Under its huge shadow
lay a lovely little structure, the Bronze Pagoda. On a white marble
plinth and surrounded by a carved balustrade of the same stone, stood
a delicately modelled, tiny temple about twenty or thirty feet high.
Roof, pillars, walls—all were of the same valuable material. From
the corners of the spreading, upturned eaves hung bells. The whole
structure was a perfect work of art; and one sighed for a miniature
replica of the graceful little building.
But while we wandered among these quaint temples we had failed to
notice dark masses of clouds that had gradually climbed up from the
horizon and overcast the whole sky. One of the heavy storms of a North
China summer was evidently in store for us. So, anxious to regain
the capital before it could break, we returned to the palace, bade
a hurried farewell to our kind hosts, and mounted our ponies. Back
through the fields and on to the paved highway we rode at a steady
pace, our ponies, refreshed by the long halt and eager to reach their
stables, trotting out willingly. The storm held off, and as we came
in view of the gate of Pekin, we congratulated ourselves on our good
fortune. But suddenly, without a moment’s warning, sheets of water
fell from the dark sky. In went our spurs, and we raced madly for the
shelter of the gateway. But long before we reached it we were soaked
through and through. Our boots were filled with water, the broad brims
of our pith hats hung limply over our eyes, and we were as thoroughly
wet as though we had swum the Peiho.
Under the tunnelled gateway we dismounted. The water simply poured
from us, and formed in pools on the stone flags where we stood. We
found ourselves in a damp crowd of jostling, grinning Chinamen, who
were cheerfully wringing the moisture from their thin cotton garments
or laughing at the plight of others caught in the storm and racing for
shelter through the ropes of rain. Coolies, carts, ponies, mules, and
camels were all huddled together under the archway. Jests and mirth
resounded on every side; for the Celestial is generally a veritable
Mark Tapley under circumstances that would depress or irritate the
more impatient European.
We waited for an hour beside our shivering ponies for the deluge to
cease; then, seeing little prospect of it, we mounted again and rode
on into the city. But short as was the time the rain had lasted,
the streets were already almost flooded. The ditch‐like sides were
half filled with rushing, muddy torrents; and in crossing one of the
principal roads the water rose up to our saddle‐girths in the side
channels. In one place my pony was nearly carried off his feet and I
feared that I would be obliged to swim for it. From the shelter of the
verandahs of the houses along the streets crowds of Chinese laughed at
our miserable plight, as our small steeds splashed through the pools
and their riders sat huddled up in misery under the pitiless rain. With
heartfelt gratitude we reached at last the welcome shelter of Chong
Wong Foo. So ended our visit to the famous Summer Palace, which is once
more in the possession of its former owner. The courts that echoed to
the ring of artillery horses’ hoofs, the rumble of our gun‐wheels, the
deep laughter of the British soldier, or the shriller voices of his
sepoy comrades, are now trodden only by silent‐footed Celestials. The
white man is no more a welcome guest.
[Footnote 6: Japan.]