THURSDAY, October 18.
It is a surprise to awaken to a dark and sombre sky. We counted upon
having, as on the preceding mornings, the almost never clouded autumn
and winter sun, which in China shines and warms even when everything is
frozen hard, and which has, up to this time, helped us to support the
gruesome sights of our journey.
When we open the door of the junk just before dawn, our horses and cart
are there, having just arrived. On the forbidding shore some Mongolians
with their camels are crouched about a fire which has burned all night
in the dust; and behind their motionless groups the high walls of the
city, of an inky blackness, rise to meet the low-hanging clouds.
We leave our small nomadic equipment in the junk, in the care of two
marines of the Tong-Tchow division, who will look after it until our
return, and also our most precious possession, the last of the bottles
of pure water given us by the general.
The last stage of our journey is made in the company of the French
consul-general at Tien-Tsin and of the chancellor of the legation, who
are both bound for Pekin, under the escort of a marshal and three or
four artillerymen.
Our long, monotonous route leads us across fields of sorghos reddened
by the early frosts, and through deserted villages where no one is
stirring. It is a cold, gray morning, and the autumn country, upon
which a fine rain is falling, is in mourning.
At certain moments I almost fancy myself on the roads of the Basque
country in November, amid the uncut maize. Then all at once some
unknown symbol arises to recall China,--either a tomb of mysterious
shape or a stele mounted upon enormous granite tortoises.
From time to time we meet military convoys of one nation or another, or
lines of ambulances. In one place some Russians have taken shelter from
a shower in the ruins of a village; in another a number of Americans,
who have discovered some hidden clothing in an abandoned house, go on
their way rejoicing, with fur mantles on their backs.
Then there are tombs, always tombs, from one end to the other; China is
strewn with them; some are almost hidden by the roadside, others are
magnificently isolated in enclosures which are like mortuary thickets
of dark green cedars.
Ten o'clock. We should be approaching Pekin, although as yet nothing
indicates its nearness. We have not seen a single Chinese since our
departure; the whole country is deserted and silent under a veil of
almost imperceptible rain.
We are going to pass not far from the tomb of an empress, it seems, and
the French chancellor, who knows the neighborhood, proposes that he and
I make a détour to look at it. So, leaving the others to continue their
route, we take a side path through the tall, damp grass.
A canal and a pool soon appear, of a pale color, under the indefinite
sky. There is no one to be seen anywhere; the sad quiet of a
depopulated country prevails. The tomb on the opposite bank scarcely
peeps out from its cedar wood, which is walled about on all sides. We
see little but the first marble gates leading to it and the avenue of
white stele which is finally lost under the mysterious trees. It is
all rather distant, and is reproduced in the mirror of the pool in
long inverted reflections. Near us the tall leaden stems of some lotus
killed by the frost bend over the water, where the rain drops have
traced faint rings. The whitish spheres seen here and there are heads
of the dead.
When we rejoin our company they promise that we shall enter Pekin in
half an hour. After the complications and delays of our journey we
almost believe we shall never arrive. Besides, it is incredible that so
large a city could be so near in this deserted country, such a little
way ahead of us.
[Illustration:
_Copyright, 1901, by J. C. Hemment_
THE GREAT WALL SURROUNDING THE OUTER CITY OF PEKIN]
"Pekin does not proclaim itself," explains my new companion. "Pekin
takes hold of you; when you perceive it you are there."
The road passes through groups of cedars and willows with falling
leaves, and in the concentration of our effort to see the City
Celestial we trot on in the fine rain, which does not wet us at all, so
drying are the northern winds, carrying the dust always and everywhere;
we trot on without speaking.
"Pekin!" suddenly exclaims one of our companions, pointing out an
obscure mass just rising above the trees,--a crenellated dungeon of
superhuman proportions.
Pekin! In a few seconds, during which I am feeling the spell of this
name, a big gloomy wall, of unheard-of height, is disclosed, and goes
on endlessly in the gray, empty solitude, which resembles an accursed
steppe. It is like a complete change of scene, performed without the
noise of machinery or the sounds of an orchestra, in a silence more
impressive than any music. We are at the very foot of the bastions and
ramparts, dominated by them, although a turn in the road had up to this
moment concealed them. At the same time the rain is turning to snow,
whose white flakes mingle with the suspended dirt and dust. The wall
of Pekin overwhelms us, a giant thing of Babylonian aspect, intensely
black under the dead light of a snowy autumn morning. It rises toward
the sky like a cathedral, but it goes on; it is prolonged, always the
same, for miles. Not a person on the outskirts of the city, not a green
thing all along these walls! The ground is uneven, dusty, ashen in
color, and strewn with rags, bones, and even an occasional skull! From
the top of each black battlement a crow salutes us as we pass, cawing
mournfully.
The clouds are so thick and low that we do not see clearly; we are
oppressed by long-looked-for Pekin, which has just made its abrupt
and disconcerting appearance above our heads; we advance to the
intermittent cries of the crows, rather silent ourselves, overpowered
at being there, longing to see some movement, some life, some one or
some thing come out from these walls.
From a gate ahead of us, from a hole in the colossal enclosure, slowly
emerges an enormous brown, woolly animal like a gigantic sheep; then
two, then three, then ten. A Mongolian caravan begins to pass us,
always in the same silence, broken only by the croakings of the ravens.
These enormous Mongolian camels, with their furry coats, muffs on their
legs, and manes like lions, file in an endless procession past our
frightened horses. They wear neither bells nor rattles, like the thin
beasts of the Arabian deserts; their feet sink deep into the sand,
which muffles their footsteps so the silence is not broken by their
march.
Perceived through a veil of fine snow and black dust, the caravan has
passed us, and moves on without a sound, like a phantom thing. We find
ourselves alone again, under this Titanic wall, from which the crows
keep watch. And now it is our turn to enter the gloomy city through the
gates by which the Mongolians have just passed out.