“Is it much farther Wan Hei Lo?” Mme. de Beaurelois’ soft voice was heard asking.
Lolling back in her rickshaw she already looked tired and seemed to beg a comforting answer. Her frock, which showed every curve of her body, was perfectly cut but a trifle too elegant for a picnic in the country. She was hidden under a flaming red parasol, a moving light to lead the excursionists.
“At least another half hour,” replied Maugrais riding slowly along the edge of the road.
The Baroness pouted. “I am anxious to arrive. I am dying of thirst for this rickshaw jolts me up terribly.”
Maugrais smiled at this; he appreciated at its just value the logic of women. He answered cheerily, “How I wish I might carry you in my arms, dear lady.”
“Beware of trying to do that, for you would antagonize two people at the same time,” retorted the Baroness, delighted to touch, even so lightly, on the subject of love.
Maugrais became serious again; he said nothing but pressed his pony who jumped a ditch.
At that moment two women rode up. They looked very smart and both were perfect horsewomen. They were Mrs. Brixton and Miss de Frissonges. Their ponies, one black and the other chestnut, were so close to each other that they almost seemed to touch; their two heads one fair and the other dark, were also very near together as if they were exchanging confidences.
Chatours, striding across country, raised great clouds of dust. As he went, he discussed with Dr. Borioni, the eminent Chinese scholar, the age of the marble tortoises who sleep overwhelmed by the weight of the commemorative columns hoisted on their backs.
Mrs. Immersteht, forced by her husband to go on horseback, a thing she hated, stuck to Brixton, and tried to prove she could be intelligent even on the back of a “fourteen hands.” Graziolli, Vladowsky and Maxwell surrounded Mme. de Wolf’s rickshaw, telling inconceivably scandalous stories to which she listened, impassive and unbending, like a queen on her throne. Count de Cordobas, in a rickshaw, his eyes closed, turned his face to the sun and his chilly little person seemed to delight in the warmth of the sun bath. Old de Frissonges and Beaurelois followed, quietly talking business as if they had moved their offices into these burning plains. And behind, all alone, his immense stature shewing up in the midst of the fields, Immersteht flourished his whip, urging on his horse and uttering vague exclamations that could only be addressed to the crumbling bricks of the graves or to the white tortoises, motionless in the sun.
“Here is Wan Hei Lo,” exclaimed Chatours, who, having passed rickshaws and horsemen, appeared to be advancing to take possession of an enemy post.
“Look at those huge fir trees behind the walls, Wan Hei Lo is there, the mysterious country Palace of the Ming Emperors.”
At a short distance away, to the West, in the midst of kaoliang fields, a little enclosure was visible. The old stones had acquired a rosy colour, the work of ages. A clump of trees peopled the spot; ancestral and dignified black firs, sad and resigned willows bending towards the dried bed of a canal. The gaps in the walls were smothered in wild vegetation, the outline of tumble-down pavilions shewed up the painted angles of their falling roofs, making a last effort to stand against the sky. Everything had that aspect of desolation, neglect and profound melancholy of survivors of past ages, which, amid the vain hideousness of our time, seems to continue mutely an ancient solitary and noble dream.
“Wan Hei Lo, Wan Hei Lo,” repeated Chatours. The words sounded like soft Oriental music. “Ladies and gentlemen, before entering this sanctuary, look at it well, it sleeps in peace in the sunlight, lost in an ocean of kaoliang.”
The rickshaws halted, the riders came up and the whole group stayed a moment in silent contemplation.
An old peasant passed, mounted on a small donkey. Seated almost on the tail of the intelligent animal — so unjustly flouted by man’s stupidity — he had left the reins loose knowing full well the beast would pick its own way. His eyes roaming, he sang in a high soprano a Chinese song; its melancholy tune and magnetic rhythm seemed to call up from their graves white spectres, dripping with sweat and tears. He did not notice the gay company a few paces from him. He passed almost touching them, without turning his head, as we often pass blindly by some great events and magnificent opportunities, feeling probably by some instinct that, before the unfathomable depths of our souls, they are puerile and worthless.
“Forward,” shouted Immersteht, “I hope we don’t mean to spend all night here. Follow me.”
He urged his horse along the canal to a curious old bridge. The stone supports, breaking through the rotten planks, made it look like a toothless jaw. A squat, quadrangular turret, studded with loop-holes and pierced by a low door, guarded the entrance to the grounds. Leaving the ponies and rickshaws, they all entered Wan Hei Lo. It was just a large garden where, here and there, in the wilderness of an undergrowth, little pavilions were scattered. They were half in ruins, the discoloured walls were reflected in the stagnant waters of a lake. A hill rose in the centre; on the crest stood a round summer house and further on, a second wall disclosed another more intimate garden, in all probability in former times the residence of the proprietor.
It was decided to visit the grounds first, then to look at the pavilions. Tea in the summer house on the hill and afterwards a rest on the grass at the water’s edge would pass the time until the dinner hour.
Chatours, who had already often visited the Wan Hei Lo offered himself as a guide. Every one followed him. Maugrais walked beside Miss de Frissonges. For a long time neither spoke. Then he murmured, “Look at this old corner of the East, it is like a faithful image of China in the past, the China that is disappearing.”
She raised her pretty fair head, looked about her at the pavilions which seemed to tremble as if shaken by some strong scent escaping from the flowers hidden in the undergrowth, and said gaily, “Well, I am quite confident.”
Maugrais seemed to understand the sense of her words, for he replied at once: “With you I am quite confident too.”
They turned down a path and disappeared among the vegetation, keeping close to each other, like brother and sister strolling in their father’s garden.
Old de Wolf, robust for his sixty years, followed them walking a little stiffly. He was proposing a plan for converting the Wan Hei Lo into a hotel for tourists. De Frissonges listened to him; precise and melancholy, he seemed to have left his youth behind him and forgotten the pleasures of the world in the Korean mines; only from force of habit was he continuing to lead the normal life of an engineer and a man of the world. M. de Beaurelois searched the undergrowth with his honest eyes and declared swarms of mosquitoes would descend on them at night-fall; Brixton, smoking a large cigar, stayed behind, tired of this garden which bored him, and concentrating all his ideas on some selfish and absorbing project, which the whole wide world was fated always to ignore. Mrs. Brixton approached the Baroness and took her gently by the arm. Blanche’s elegant costume catching on every briar, was not at all suited to the age and decay around her. She had just sent Vladowsky from her; he had evidently paid her rather too crude a compliment, for her face was suffused with red and the indignation in her voice sounded almost sincere. He took to flight like a school boy in disgrace.
“I wish I could still blush like you, it is so becoming,” said the American.
Her voice seemed melancholy; the Baroness noticed she looked absent and her eyes were dim.
“Let us go in here,” she said, “and sit down for a bit.”
They entered a small square courtyard, surrounded on three sides by narrow galleries, shaded by great trees whose trunks were covered with creepers.
“Do let’s stay here, I am so tired.”
They seated themselves on a heap of stones picturesquely arranged, forming grottos and recesses, Chinese fashion. Neither woman spoke. From a distance, the voices of the joyous band exploring the grounds reached them. The sun was sinking rapidly now, and a great calm, forerunner of twilight, spread over the ea
rth. The Baroness had a vague impression that the American wanted to tell her something, but did not know how to begin. Scenting a confidence, she tried to encourage her.
“You seem preoccupied, even sad, tell me what is the matter?”
Mrs. Brixton looked at her for a minute, a melancholy expression in her eyes.
“Due allowances made, I feel, at the bottom of my heart, the same sadness that Christ must have experienced before deciding to mount Calvary or that Satan certainly must have felt before denying God.”
She bowed her head and continued as if to herself: “The despairing courage of timid people has often been remarked upon; it is decidedly true. But on the other hand, the boundless fears and the disturbing weakness which so often paralyse the boldest, should also attract attention.”
She was silent for a while, then she went on:
“As a tiny child, on Christmas Eve, when the doors, into the room where the tree was illuminated, were thrown open, I always wanted to burst into tears. And in after years, the day that the man I loved came to speak to my parents, I understood for the first time that death could be sweet.”
Not knowing how to reply, Mme. de Beaurelois took her hand and kept it in her own. Mrs. Brixton raised her eyes, in them burnt a dull flame like a light at the bottom of a well.
“I swear if you took my arm this minute and led me wherever you wished, even the uttermost ends of the world, I would follow you without turning my head and I would spend the rest of my life trying to satisfy your slightest desire.”
In the depths of her eyes the dull light flickered and died.
The Baroness said nothing. She did not quite understand what the American meant but felt instinctively she was passing through a painful crisis. Blanche contented herself with stroking the small nervous hand she held in her lap. Suddenly, Mrs. Brixton rose and walked up and down in the small courtyard. Now and then some English words escaped her. As she approached the cloisters, she seemed to grow faint or else a pang of despair must have shot through her for she grasped one of the wooden columns and leant her forehead against it; then she straightened herself, broke a twig off a tree near her and swished it in the air like a whip.
“Come,” she said, “let us join the others.”
She brushed down her dress, hitting it sharply with her cane.
As they joined the group, every one was getting ready for tea in the summer house. The American’s face showed no trace of her recent emotion. She asked for the necessary ingredients for making cocktails and mixed them with such art and skill that every one congratulated her.
The conversation skipped from one subject to another; from Yuan Shi Kai and his policy to a discussion on the outrageousness of the latest dress worn by Mrs. Ettinguer, the banker’s wife; from the success young Porter of the Salt Administration had in the gymkhana to the scandal caused by the Brazilian Santafé being blackballed for the Peking Club.
“Yuan Shi Kai’s strength lies in his being not only complete master in the North but also in the strong support he can command in Canton,” said Brixton.
“Ettinguer is a Frankfort Jew and his wife is of the same race; that is the reason for their snobbishness,” said Mme. de Wolf. Being vaguely of Jewish extraction herself, she was inexorable on that subject.
“Porter wins all the steeplechases because he does not know how to ride,” said Graziolli. “Obviously,” he explained, “he does not realize the danger so he takes any sort of obstacles.”
“The Brazilian Santafé was blackballed and rightly too,” said Maxwell raising his voice, “it is time the air of the Peking Club was purified.”
Count de Cordobas listened with an indulgent paternal smile. Never having experienced the joys of paternity, he was apt to treat them all as his dear prodigal children.
“Well, Mr. Chatours, what is your opinion on this question,” asked Mme. Immersteht in the tone of a school master questioning a recalcitrant schoolboy.
Chatours, busy looking at Mme. de Beaurelois’ plump white arms, turned to her. “Which question? I have heard three or four being discussed at once. If it is about Yuan Shi Kai and China’s future, I don’t mind confessing I am absolutely indifferent because I can see that China is irretrievably condemned to the noble fate of all old countries, decline and oblivion. It is as logical and as unavoidable as the death of an aged person. If you are discussing Mme. Ettinguer’s dress I will tell you I do not blame her for her immodesty but for her ugliness. In the most ancient times of the sixth Egyptian dynasty under King Pepia I, the women covered their right breast with their tunics, leaving the left one bare. The young women exposed firm round breasts, the old ones, wrinkled and flabby: this excellent fashion certainly lasted longer than will the feeble creations and stupid conventions of our modern dressmakers. In olden days the beauty or ugliness of a dress was judged according to the shape and freshness of the exposed part. As for Porter and his laurels I will permit myself to guess that he wins races because his ponies are quicker than other people’s. Finally we come to the regrettable case of the blackballed Brazilian; I am extremely sorry about it, because I have heard that Santafé is a great scoundrel. I have always had a weakness for scoundrels and it would certainly have amused me more to see him about the Club than to meet at the bar the faces of the Anglo-Saxons which are always steeped in morality and branded with common sense.”
This little speech aroused general indignation rather flattering to the orator. Only Mrs. Immersteht was annoyed and turned away looking for another victim.
The conversation followed the same channel for some time and no one noticed that night had fallen suddenly, as it always does in this country. In a small pavilion to one side, the boys, waking from their nap, could be heard hammering at cases and getting the crockery unpacked. The rattle of dishes, the tinkling of glasses and the popping of corks made an extremely Chinese noise. However, soon the voice of the cook could be distinctly heard above it; his sleeves rolled up, his apron on, he took command as a masterhand conscious of his importance. Fifteen minutes later, at the stone table made longer by the addition of a few stools, the places were laid. Chinese lanterns, hanging from the summer house beams, shed their light on a cloth covered with flowers, glass and silver. It all looked very inviting to the hungry company who sat down and began on the hors d’oeuvres.
The dinner was gay. Chatours, as usual, talked a lot; he was very animated. Beaurelois joked pleasantly with the ladies; Wolf, in a cheery mood, gave full rein to the robust enthusiasm of his sixty years, while Immersteht drowned the general chatter with his hearty laugh, which fell like a blow on the voices of the speakers. Maugrais sat between Mme. de Beaurelois and Melle de Frissonges, the former having Chatours on her right and the latter Brixton on her left. Mme. Immersteht presided over the table from one end between de Frissonges and Wolf; at the other end Mme. de Wolf sat enthroned between Immersteht and Vladowsky. Beaurelois and Borioni occupied the remaining seats and Graziolli, sitting astride the bannisters, put his plate on the rail.
“You have been sent to the small table because you behaved so badly before dinner,” said Mme. de Beaurelois.
All the smart set of Peking was assembled round the table. Only the de Maricourts were missing. They had left for the Shansi the day before. They had gone to look for a Han bronze they had been told about. It was supposed to be in the hands of a dealer in Taiyuanfu.
While both ends of the table were very gay and shouts of laughter rang through the air, falling in a torrent of gaiety, the centre remained calm and aloof.
Between Maugrais and Melle de Frissonges reigned one of those sweet eloquent silences known to lovers in the first moments of their happiness, when each look, each gesture and even each heart-beat are in tune. The girl bent over her plate seemingly entirely absorbed by its contents. She only turned her head to Maugrais to answer quietly some insignificant questions that were yet so full of meaning. Maugrais, observing her attentively, admired from an artist’s point of view her delicate profile of iv
ory and mother of pearl. He took a psychological interest in discovering in her the timid confidence of the maiden who is giving herself and the generous conscious strength of a woman who is sacrificing herself. He admired the great heart hidden in this fragile little body. At the same time an immense tenderness crept over his whole being, an almost irrepressible desire to place his head, so heavy with dreams, in her lap. He wanted to seek shelter in her virgin yet maternal bosom. At this moment she raised her eyes. As if expressing aloud some idea that had come to them both she said with a shy, gentle glance at him:
“Yes, and those moments are never forgotten.”
“Never,” he echoed. Then he raised his eyes and saw Mrs. Brixton who was facing him. She was neither eating nor talking. She gazed at him fixedly, both her elbows on the table. It was not a brutal stab from a dagger that he received, but he felt a long sharp blade sinking stealthily into his heart. It reminded him of the twisted steel of the Malay knife which, with its poisoned tip and its bloodstained blade, slips into the victim’s breast, spreading fire and death. He shuddered but could not take his eyes from hers. Many incoherent visions passed before his mental vision. At first he thought he was in a narrow cage descending rapidly a deep well, where twinkling lamps threw red shadows as of blood on coal-blackened walls. At the end of a long corridor the wild song of the Carmagnole mingled with the noise of picks and shovels.
This vision disappeared suddenly, like a mine plunged into darkness by the explosion of fire damp. Then under a burning noon-day sun, he saw the brilliant colours of a cuadrilla, heard the noisy ovations of a delirious mob, followed by the profound silence, impelled by the sight of blood soaking up the thirsty sand in an arena. An espada’s beautiful and still youthful body was being carried away, the wide-opened astonished eyes seeming to fix themselves despairingly on an amphitheatre overflowing with people in holiday attire, and looking up at the immense deep blue sky.
Silhouettes of Peking Page 10