“Oh so the poor thing is tired, how funny, how extremely funny.”
She sought for words to wound him. “Why don’t you follow Immersteht’s advice and go in for a little healthy gymnastics?”
Jean did not answer, he was too tired. He hoped vaguely that she would overcome her rage. But his silence only seemed to exasperate her more. Standing up and still laughing nervously, she tried to find more offensive things to say, things that would be biting and cruel. But he lifted his head and said slowly: “In my childhood, when I did wrong or committed a sin of omission, I asked to be forgiven in these words, forgive me, I did not do it on purpose. Shall I do an act of contrition for this sin of omission?”
“If you mean you will never do it again, I can assure you of that,” said Mrs. Brixton, “at least not with me. But, that will do, give me your arm and let us join the Baroness.” The journey back was dreary. The American walked quickly; there seemed something firm and resolute in her step. Maugrais thought of his smoking room and his library. He cursed his stupidity for having been led into accepting this dinner party. They approached the orchestra and as the sounds of the music drew nearer and the crowd thickened, Mrs. Brixton seemed to unbend. When they reached the gaily lighted esplanade, she even went so far as to make some amiable remark.
“Thank you,” she said to Maugrais, taking her hand from his arm and loud enough to be heard by every one. “You have been very amusing to-night, very amusing indeed.”
“I did my best, Mrs. Brixton,” he answered.
“I noticed it,” she retorted, her eyes flashing suddenly. A few minutes later they were in the midst of their friends.
The Argentina Minister approached. He was small, refined looking, elegant but melancholy.
“How boring it is here,” he said, “this is the first time I have been here this year, and it is certainly the last.”
“That’s not very nice to us,” said Baroness de Beaurelois.
“Oh I appreciate your company but I dislike this crowd, this hubbub, this infernal music. Wait, though, I have an idea,” and coming close to the Baroness he whispered a few words in her ear. She laughed and drawing him aside, they began to conspire. Seizing the opportunity Maugrais moved quietly away and looked over the gap in the Wall towards Chien Men Station and the Chinese city. He perceived that, unfortunately, he was not alone. Standing a few feet from him was the slender figure of a woman who seemed to be watching the movements in the station. He began to move away so as not to disturb the solitary dreamer when he heard a well known voice call him.
“It’s you, Monsieur Maugrais, I recognized you in spite of the darkness.” And the figure came towards him; it was Melle de Frissonges.
“Whatever are you doing here all alone, where are all your admirers. Queen, where is your Court?”
“I have left them. If you only realized how they bore me, all of them.” There was a note of bitterness in her voice, almost a sound of despair.
“Good heavens, what has happened? Since when this disillusion?”
“Since when? Always. They are so stupid, all those people, they are so boring they send me to sleep.” Maugrais looked at her; he was surprised at her attitude. She leant on the gap in the Wall, her form bent like a young reed and her heavy blonde hair waving in the wind. Her long bare arm against her dark frock seemed like a broken twig hanging from a black tree trunk. “Now then,” he said, “you were certainly not bored at dinner to-night. I heard Maxwell telling you some shocking stories that were strong enough to make a trooper blush.”
“Yes, and I even laughed so as not to show that I had already heard the story. Young Vladowsky told it to me last night at the Russian Legation.”
“But after dinner I saw…. .”
“After dinner Graziolli, pretending to show me a new Italian dance, put his arm round my waist and manoeuvred his legs in the most astonishing way. At first I let him continue because I didn’t care what he did, but when I saw it was going to last too long, I made him stop and sent him away telling him he didn’t know how to dance.”
“But if all that does not amuse you, why do you go out into society?”
Melle de Frissonges looked at him out of her great black eyes.
“What else is there in Peking for a girl to do? If we lived in France, I should still be at school, I should have friends of my own age, interesting books, music,—oh, I forgot, we are at a concert now—the theatre, in fact all the amusements one gets in Europe. And above all I should have something I haven’t got here, something I may never get.”
“What is it?”
“I don’t know if I should tell you, I am afraid you may not understand.” For a few minutes she was silent, then in a soft monotonous tone, she continued: “I was twelve when my father went to France on leave and took me with him. It was my first visit to what should be my native land; you know I was born in Korea at the Pi Yang mines. For eight months we lived with my uncle in Provence, it was a revelation to me. The gay, cheerful landscape fascinated me immediately. How could that strong, healthy nature be compared with the washed out places in Japan, the savage sadness of Korea, haunted as it is with the white spectres of the natives, or even with the wild beauty of China speaking of death and memories? I was so fascinated that I had to be torn away by force, but I brought back with me buried in the bottom of my heart a vision of Europe… From my windows I could see the green fields through which ran a silver stream and where an old wind mill turned patiently. Opposite there was the dark line of the sea; behind, cottages which shewed white in the sunshine. To the left and right on the horizon, the Alps, laden with years, stood out.” She turned towards Maugrais and her voice grew stronger, “I hate Peking, China, the Far East and I am not at all in the swim here. Oh if only I could live in France in the country far from the world, if I could wander bare footed in the fresh grass and bathe in the clear water of a stream.”
The young man looked at her, at a loss what to answer. He was astonished at this burst of passionate love for a country she hardly knew. But he felt he must defend the ancient land of China. However she silenced him immediately. “Tell me, have you read Kipling? You must know his theory on the Call of the East. Well, what surprises me is that no one has replied to this painful call with the urgent call of the West.” She stiffened and looked wildly into the night. “You are all contaminated by the depressing and morbid atmosphere of the East and you will all be victims of it if you do not listen to the call of Europe, the call of the West which you persist in stifling.”
Suddenly they saw a shadow detach itself from the crowd and approach them discreetly. “Leave me now,” said Melle de Frissonges, “there comes Vladowsky to tell me he desires me without caring for me, that he wants me without being in love with me. Leave us alone, we will continue this conversation another time if you wish but I must ask you not to mention it to anyone.”
“Very well,” answered Maugrais gravely, as he left her. The next minute he was among his friends, Mrs. Brixton, Baroness de Beaurelois, the Argentina Minister and Chatours were all there.
“These ladies have promised to come home with me for a while to drink champagne and to smoke a few pipes, while their husbands finish discussing the fate of China to the soothing accompaniment of this orchestra. Will you join us?” Maugrais, who appreciated Count de Cordoba’s refined taste and distinguished manners, accepted, and they started on their way down the slope.
“This way,” said the Count, “we need not follow the Jade Canal; I am taking you to the native city. We are going to my bachelor quarters, not to the Legation. We go through the Sino-Bulgar Bank garden; the manager is a very busy man, so he lives in a temple three miles from town. Therefore he is not at home just now and we shorten our journey considerably.”
They all got into rickshaws and quickly crossed Legation Quarter. Reaching the Tartar City, they passed through the dark hutungs where the wheels of their vehicles sunk into the mud and branches of huge trees overhanging the gutters brushed again
st their faces. The streets were empty; only solitary hawkers passed occasionally, swaying as they went, carrying baskets suspended from bamboo poles, and crying their wares before the closed doors. Here and there, very high up, above the roofs, red lanterns, the sign of bath houses, shone through the night like eyes of fire. After two or three turnings, the rickshaws stopped before a small door in a wall. The Count alighted and struck the bell, a kind of metal slab hanging in the centre of the panel. An old porter opened the door. Crossing two small courtyards, flanked by Chinese pavilions and surrounded by stonebordered flower-beds whence escaped the scent of invisible flowers, the procession penetrated a large sheltered pavilion and entered first a vast room. The ceiling was painted with medallions representing the dragon, symbol of the astral world; shades of green, blue and red were intermingled. Large pillars, also multicoloured, supported this high ceiling. The room was furnished partly in Chinese, partly in European style. English furniture stood beside Cantonese blackwood chairs, a Yunnan stone inlaid in the backs of the latter. The veins of these stones recalled the ranges of mountains and the rush of the waterfalls. Japanese kakemonos hung from the walls; Kosseu screens hid the corners of the room and an old Buhl clock ornamented the mantel piece which was covered with yellow tiles taken from the Imperial Palaces. But the Count did not linger here; he led his visitors through a low door into the next room. It was smaller, and was long rather than broad; the carpet-hung walls were covered with the rich colours of Asia Minor, the beautiful Persian tints and the velvety shades of the Bokhara; numerous cushions lay about the floor which was spread with skins of all kinds. At the far end of the room, there was a very broad Turkish divan; here and there, on all the tables and stands were Chinese vases and near the divan a Korean chest had been transformed into a book case filled with specially chosen richly bound books. The chamber was lit with candles in lanterns hanging from the ceiling. A huge gilt and lacquered Buddha seated on a lotus flower occupied one corner, a silent witness of the useless torments and perishable pleasures of mankind. Its right hand pointed to the floor, its left arm was raised to Heaven, a twofold gesture symbolizing the Hermetic Mystery.
“Sit down, on the couches, on the cushions, anywhere, please. I have ordered champagne and the pipes are almost ready.” A slender boy, pale and elegant brought in a tray with glasses, a bottle of Brut Imperial and a strange looking flask. Then he vanished.
“He won’t return unless we call him,” said the Minister. “Here are my pages.” As he spoke, the door opened and two young boys entered. They were about fifteen or sixteen years of age and wore pigtails and were dressed in long white tunics. One carried three opium pipes and the other had two small trays on which were all the necessary utensils. One of the boys sat down on the divan, the small trays in front of him. The other boy slid on to the rug. Without a word, they commenced their task with slow, traditional gestures. On the point of a long needle, they drew a piece of soft brown paste out of an ivory box. This they held over the flame of the lamp, a dark ball formed immediately. It wriggled and swelled and stretched itself towards the flame; with a deft movement it was withdrawn and kneaded in the palm of the hand or against the bowl of the pipe and again held to the flame. A drop like a black baroque pearl bubbled up seeming to attempt to throw itself into the fire, but, at the last minute, it was snatched away, softened and kneaded once more. It became docile, roasting on the point of the needle; it made a gentle sizzling sound and a strange smell like burnt cream and stale drugs filled the room.
“I must thank you for your silence, friends,” said the Count, “I am convinced you felt that the moment of the preparation of a first pipe is a solemn one and should not be profaned by vain speeches. The pipes are now ready. Will the ladies do me the favour of beginning?” After a little fuss for the form, Mrs. Brixton, lying on the divan, started to inhale the heavenly drug. The boy, probably the elder of the two, served her. He looked grave and sad; his eyes were the eyes of a dreamer; his hands were slender and transparent and he looked like the prince of an Eastern Tale.
Ensconced among the cushions on the rug, the Baroness was being waited upon by the younger boy. His face was roguish, but he appeared malleable; his admirable white teeth laughed, while his sophisticated eyes respectfully watched the boiling of the black ball. The women smoked badly, they allowed the opium to burn; they blew down the pipe, blocking the narrow tube, and prevented the air from passing. Patiently and with slow gestures, the boys thrust their needle through the obstruction and offered the newly prepared pipes to the women, who, bending over the lamp, continued to inhale the poison. The men’s turn came. Chatours smoked furiously, as if he wanted to swallow the bamboo pipe as well as the smoke. Maugrais smoked in silence, more expert than one would have imagined. The Minister took a pipe too, it was a plain bamboo, old and ugly, without any embellishments, very large and coloured by the smoke. The bowl, instead of being of porcelain or enamel, was of terra cotta. The Minister settled his slight body among the cushions, his ugly pipe between his fingers. He hesitated as if in secret communion with it. Then, raising it to his lips, he proceeded to inhale its contents without removing it and a few minutes afterwards he took another pipe. Impassively he collected his thoughts and fixed his sad wide-open eyes on the dark face of the Buddha opposite him. Maugrais looked at him and was struck by the resemblance between the vacant stare of the Count and the deep unfathomable look with which the Buddha contemplated humanity through a million cycles. Some time after, Cordobas rose and offered champagne, biscuits and a strange liqueur whose name he did not mention, but which sparkled in the mouth and scattered a series of strange sensations through the imbiber. The boys distributed more pipes and the real business of opium smoking began. Chatours appeared to float in an atmosphere of happiness. His tongue became loosened; he smoked, talked and drank. He passed his hand over the boys’ pigtails. Maugrais took a volume of Baudelaire and read The invitation to travel. “My child, my sister, think of the sweetness of living there together, to love at leisure, to love and to die, in the country that looks like you.”
“Oh, travel, travel,” he said, throwing down the book. “To leave one country and go to an unknown one is certainly one of the greatest pleasures in life. To travel through tropical countries, live with nature, to learn about strange human races, to seek new horizons and to die, one day, in an unknown land. What can compare to the feelings of anguish and flaming hope which we have when the boat hoists its anchor and starts on its way across the seas. Mallarmé says it so well: ‘the flesh is sad, alas, and I have read every book. Let us fly over there, let us fly, I feel all the birds are drunk with the foam of unknown seas and the skies.’ “
Little by little, the opium made him drunk; his dilated pupils made him look like a prophet and he rambled on … “Oft at night lying on my matting, I have visions. I see myself dying under unknown skies. Under a torrid midday sun, a palm tree spreading its branches over me, I see myself lying there on bare white stones and dying of thirst and of lassitude. A few feet away, black and beautiful as the God Krishna, a native, swaying his body rhythmically, draws sad sounds from a thin reed. From his sphinx-like eyes, I drink the poison which kills more surely than the venom of a snake; already a heavy drowsiness creeps over me and vanquished, I roll slowly down into the darkness, my eyes turned upwards to the tropical skies.”
The Count bent down to Baroness de Beaurelois and addressed her in gentle tender tones. The Baroness, slightly drunk, burnt visibly with passion and loving kindness. She seemed to offer herself with every movement, to give herself unreservedly with each word she spoke. The Count looked at her out of his good, kind eyes and treated her as a child to be coaxed. Mrs. Brixton had finished her pipe and was quietly sitting on the divan. Maugrais, turning suddenly, found himself looking right into her eyes. He shivered slightly, her gaze was so charged with blunt hate, with violence and passion. She looked at him without moving a muscle, then all at once she spoke, “Come here.” He came nearer. She fixed her eyes
on him for some time, his mouth, his forehead, his eyes, his hair, all arrested her attention. There was something penetrating and acute in her gaze. Mentally Maugrais compared it to the needle which was used for holding the opium to the blaze. In a hoarse voice she said, “If I were to fall at your feet, in front of every one here, if I kissed your knees, if I begged you to love me during perhaps only one second of your life, if I give up my husband, my family, all other men and even God in Whom, in spite of everything, I still believe, tell me, could you love me?” As she slowly pronounced these words, savage hate gleamed from her eyes and streamed in fiery torrents from her mouth. In spite of himself Maugrais could not help admiring her and therefore he said “No”.
“Very well,” and she smiled a smile that was triumphant though deathly. Then she lay back on the divan and said no more for the rest of the evening.
The Baroness floating in a sea of love and kindness, her dress open, her beautiful bosom bare, said to the Count “No, my friend, I am afraid of growing old, afraid of the old age of ugliness and death. I want to live, to love, to bestow myself endlessly, to be born again, to live again, to bestow myself on the whole world.”
“You will be born again and live anew,” said the Count gravely, “for death does not exist.”
“I know,” said the Baroness, “but I, myself, my own personality, I , Baroness de Beaurelois, my faults and my virtues, my pet vices, I, my hands, feet, breasts and hair will disappear.”
Suddenly she came nearer.
“I must tell you a dream I had last week. I came home very tired from the Italian Legation and immediately fell asleep. I saw myself as a little girl, of thirteen years of age. Looking at the water of the canal which goes into the sea, I took a paper boat from my brother’s hands, my brother who was killed in the brush. I placed the little boat on the water and followed its movements with my eyes. Then I heard a window open behind me and the voice of my mother who has been dead for ten years calling to me. I sprang up to go to her when suddenly my eyes opened and I saw opposite my bed, my porcelain Koanyin cold and white. I cried silently for a long time in the lonely night and my pillow was wet with tears.”
Silhouettes of Peking Page 5