SUNDAY, April 21.
My easy mission over, there is nothing for me to do but to return to
the _Redoutable_.
But the general is kind enough to invite me to remain with him for a
few days. He proposes that we pay a visit to the tombs of the emperors
of the present dynasty, which are in a sacred wood about fifty miles
southwest of Pekin,--tombs which never had been seen before this war,
and which probably never will be seen after it is over. In order
to accomplish this it is necessary to write in advance to warn the
mandarins, and especially the commandants of the French posts stationed
along the route, and there is quite an expedition to organize. So
I asked the admiral for ten days, which he kindly granted me by
telegraph, and am still here, a guest of the palace for much longer
than I expected.
This Sunday morning I go over to Monsignor's cathedral to take part in
the grand mass for the Chinese.
I enter at the left of the nave, which is the side for men, while the
right side is reserved for women.
When I arrive the church is already packed with Chinese, both men and
women, kneeling close together, and humming in an undertone a sort of
uninterrupted chant that resembles the buzzing of an immense hive.
There is a strong smell of musk, for both cotton and silk robes are
saturated with it; and besides that there is the intolerable odor that
belongs to the yellow race, and which is something indescribable. In
front of me, to the farthest ends of the church, men with bowed heads
are kneeling. I see backs by the hundreds with long queues hanging
over them. On the women's side are bright silks,--a perfect medley of
colors; chignons, smooth and black as varnished ebony, with flowers and
gold pins. Everybody sings with mouths almost closed, as if in a dream.
Their devotion is obvious, and it is touching, in spite of the extreme
drollery of the people; they really pray, and seem to do so with fervor
and humility.
* * * * *
Now comes the spectacle for which I confess I came,--the coming out
from mass,--a great opportunity to see some of the beautiful ladies of
Pekin, for they do not show themselves in the street, where only women
of the lower classes walk about.
There were several hundred elegant women who slowly came out, one after
another, their feet too small and their shoes too high. Oh, the line
of strange little painted faces and the finery that emerged from that
narrow doorway! The cut of the pantaloons, the cut of the tunics, the
combination of forms and colors, must be as old as China, and how far
it seems from us! They are like dolls of another age, another world,
who have escaped from old parasols or decorated jars, to take on
reality and life this beautiful April morning. Among them are Chinese
ladies with deformed toes and incredibly small, pointed shoes; their
stiff, heavy masses of hair are pointed too, and arranged at the nape
of the neck like birds' tails. There are Tartar ladies, belonging to
the special aristocracy known as "the eight banners;" their feet are
natural, but their embroidered slippers have stilt-like heels; their
hair is long, and is wound like a skein of black silk on a piece of
board placed crosswise back of their heads, so that it forms two
horizontal cones with an artificial flower at each end.
They paint themselves like the wax figures at the
hairdressers',--white, with a bright pink spot in the middle of each
cheek; one feels that it is done according to custom and etiquette,
without the least attempt at creating an illusion.
They chatter and laugh discreetly; they lead by the hand the most
adorable babies (who were as good as little porcelain kittens during
mass), decked out, and their hair dressed in the most comical fashion.
Many of the women are pretty, very pretty; almost all seem decent,
reserved, and _comme il faut_.
The exit from the church was accomplished quietly, with every
appearance of peace and happiness, in complete confidence in these
surroundings so recently the scene of massacre and other horrors.
The gates of the enclosure are wide open, and a new avenue, bordered
by young trees, has been laid out over what was not long since a
charnel-house.
A great number of little Chinese carts, upholstered in beautiful silk
or in blue cotton, are waiting, their heavy wheels decorated with
copper; all the dolls get in with much ceremony, and depart as though
they were leaving some festive performance.
Once more the Christians in China have won a victory, and they triumph
generously--until the next massacre.
* * * * *
At two o'clock to-day, as is the Sunday custom, the marine band plays
in the court at headquarters,--in the court of the Palace of the North,
which I had known filled with strange and magnificent débris in a cold
autumn wind, but which at present is all cleared up as neat as a pin,
with the April green beginning to show on the branches of the little
trees.
This semblance of a French Sunday is rather sad. The feeling of exile
which one never loses here is made all the keener by the poor music,
to which there are but few listeners; no dressy women or happy babies,
just two or three groups of idle soldiers and a few of the sick or
wounded from the hospital, their young faces pale and wan, one dragging
a limb, another leaning on a crutch.
And yet there are moments when it does suggest home; the going and
coming of the marines and of the good Sisters reminds one of some
little corner of France; beyond the glass galleries which surround this
court rises the slender Gothic tower of the neighboring church, with
a large tricolored flag floating from the top, high up in the blue
sky, dominating everything, and protecting the little country we have
improvised here in the haunts of the Chinese emperors.
* * * * *
What a change has taken place in this Palace of the North since my stay
here last autumn.
With the exception of the part reserved for the general and his
officers, all the galleries and all the dependencies have become
hospital wards for our soldiers. They are admirably adapted to this
purpose, for they are separated from one another by courts, and stand
on high foundations of granite. There are two hundred beds for the poor
sick soldiers, who are most comfortably installed in them, with light
and air at pleasure, thanks to the way this fantastic palace is built.
The good Sisters with their white pointed caps move about with short,
quick steps, distributing medicines, clean linen, and smiles.
A small parlor is set apart for the head-nurse,--an elderly woman,
with a fine, wrinkled face, who has just received the cross, in
the presence of all the troops, for her admirable services during
the siege. Her little whitewashed parlor is altogether typical and
charming, with its six Chinese chairs, its Chinese table, its two
Chinese water-colors of flowers and fruits that hang on the wall,--all
chosen from amongst the most modest of the Sardanapalian reserves of
the Empress; added to these is a large plaster image of the Virgin,
enthroned in the place of honor, between two jars filled with white
lilacs.
White lilacs! The most magnificent bunches of them grow in all the
walled gardens of this palace; they are the sole joyful signs of April,
of real spring under this burning sun; and they are a boon to the
Sisters, who make regular thickets of them in honor of the Virgin and
saints, on their simple altars.
I had known all these mandarins' and gardeners' houses, which extend
on among the trees, in complete disarray, filled with strange spoils,
filth, and pestilential smells; now they are clean and whitewashed,
with nothing disagreeable about them. The nuns have established here a
wash-house, there a kitchen where good broth is made for the invalids,
or a linen room, where piles of clean-smelling sheets and shirts for
the sick are ranged on shelves covered with immaculate papers.
Like the simplest of our sailors or soldiers, I am very much inclined
to be charmed and comforted by the mere sight of a good Sister's cap.
It is no doubt an indication of a regrettable lack in my imagination,
but I have much less of a thrill when I look upon the head-dress of a
lay nurse.
* * * * *
Outside of our quarters, in these unheard-of times for Pekin, Sunday
is marked by the great numbers of soldiers of all countries who are
circulating about its streets.
The city has been divided into districts, each placed under the care of
one of the invading peoples, and the different zones mingle very little
with one another; the officers occasionally, the soldiers almost never.
As an exception, the Germans come to us sometimes, and we go to them,
for one of the undeniable results of this war has been to establish
a sympathy between the men of the two armies; but the international
relations of our troops are limited to this one exception.
The part of Pekin that fell to France--several kilometres in
circumference--is the one where the Boxers destroyed most during the
siege, the one that is most ruined and solitary, but also the one to
which life and confidence soonest returned. Our soldiers take kindly
to the Chinese, both men and women, and even to the babies. They have
made friends everywhere, as may be seen by the way the Chinese approach
them instead of running away.
In the French part of Pekin every little house flies the tricolor as a
safeguard. Many of the people have even pasted on their doors placards
of white paper, obtained through the kind offices of some of our men,
on which may be read in big, childish handwriting: "We are Chinese
protected by French" or "Here we are all Chinese Christians."
And every little baby, naked or clothed, with his ribbon and his queue,
has learned, smilingly, to make the military salute as we pass.
* * * * *
At sunset the soldiers turn in, the barracks are closed. Silence and
darkness everywhere.
The night is particularly dark. About two o'clock I leave my quarters
with one of my comrades of the land force. Lantern in hand, we set
forth in the dark labyrinth; challenged at first here and there by
sentinels, then, meeting no one but frightened dogs, we cross ruins,
cesspools, and wretched streets that breathe death.
A very dubious-looking house is our goal. The watchmen at the gate, who
were on the lookout, announce us by a long, sinister cry, and we plunge
into a series of winding passageways and dark recesses. Then come
several small rooms with low ceilings, which are stuffy, and lighted
only by dim, smoky lamps; their furnishings consist of a divan and an
arm-chair; the air, which is scarcely breathable, is saturated with
opium and musk. The patron and the patroness have both the _embonpoint_
and the patriarchal good nature which go along with such a house.
I beg that my reader will not misunderstand me; this is a _house of
song_ (one of the oldest of Chinese institutions, now tending to
disappear), and one comes here simply to listen to music, surrounded by
clouds of overpowering smoke.
Hesitatingly we take our places in one of the small rooms, on
a red couch covered with red cushions embroidered with natural
representations of wild animals. Its cleanliness is dubious and the
excessive odors disturb us. On the papered walls hang water-colors
representing beatified sages among the clouds. In one corner an old
German clock, which must have been in Pekin at least a hundred years,
ticks a shrill tick-tock. It seems as though from the moment of our
arrival our minds were affected by the heavy opium dreams that have
been evolved on this divan under the restraint of the oppressive dark
ceilings; and yet this is an elegant resort for the Chinese, a place
apart, to which, before the war, no amount of money would admit any
European.
Pushing aside the long, poisonous pipes that are offered us, we light
some Turkish cigarettes, and the music begins.
The first to appear is a guitarist, and as marvellous a one as could
be found at Granada or Seville. He makes his strings weep songs of
infinite sadness.
Afterwards, for our amusement, he imitates on his guitar the sound of
a French regiment passing, the muffled drums and the trumpets in the
distance playing the "March of the Zouaves."
Finally, three little old women appear, stout and rather pale, who are
to give us some plaintive trios with minor strains that correspond with
the dreams that follow opium smoking. But before beginning, one of the
three, who is the star,--a curious, very much dressed little creature,
with a tiara of rice-paper flowers, like a goddess,--advances toward me
on the toes of her tortured feet, extends her hand to me in European
fashion, and says in French, with a Creole accent, and not without a
certain distinction of manner, "Good evening, colonel."
It was the last thing I expected! Certainly the occupation of Pekin by
French troops has been prolific in unexpected results.
MONDAY, April 22.
My journey to the Tombs of the Emperors takes some time to organize.
The replies that come to headquarters state that the country has been
less safe for the past few days, that bands of Boxers have appeared
in the province, and they are waiting further instructions before
consenting to my departure.
In the meantime I make another visit in the hot spring sunshine to the
horrors of the Christian cemeteries violated by the Chinese.
The confusion there is unchanged; there is the same chaos of melancholy
marbles, of mutilated emblems, of steles fallen and broken. The human
remains which the Boxers did not have time to destroy before they were
routed lie in the same places; no pious hand has ventured to bury them
again, for, according to Chinese ideas, it would be accepting the
proffered injury to put them back in the ground; they must lie there,
crying for vengeance, until the day of complete reparation. There is
no change in this place of abomination, except that it is no longer
frozen; the sun shines, and here and there yellow dandelions or violet
gillyflowers are blossoming in the sandy soil.
As to the great yawning wells which had been filled with the bodies
of the tortured, time has begun to do its work; the wind has blown
the dust and dirt over them, and their contents have dried to such an
extent that they now form a compact gray mass, although an occasional
foot or hand or skull still protrudes above the rest.
In one of these wells, on the human crust that rises nearly to the top
of the ground, lies the body of a poor Chinese baby, dressed in a torn
little shirt and swathed in red cotton,--it is a recent corpse, hardly
stiff as yet. No doubt it is a little girl, for the Chinese have the
most atrocious scorn for girls; the Sisters pick them up like this
along the roads every day, thrown while still alive upon some rubbish
heap. So it was, no doubt, with this one. She may have been ill, or
ill-favored, or simply one too many in a family. She lies there face
downward, with extended arms and little doll-like hands. Her face,
from which the blood has been running, is lying on the most frightful
rubbish; a few of the feathers of a young sparrow lie on the back of
her neck, over which the flies are meandering.
Poor little creature in her red woollen rags with her little hands
outstretched! Poor little face hidden so that no one shall see it more
before its final decomposition!