Then a low bare roof, a strange tabernacle, dark clothes and hidden faces, long slender candles, throwing out a yellow light and a harsh guttural, imperative voice calling to the Prince of Darkness. Finally a horrible den, its light dimmed by opium fumes, a scent of bad wine spilt, where among drunken sailors, workmen in filthy blouses, and sickening prostitutes, a malevolent phantom of murder and lust seems to flit. Maugrais saw all this; he closed his eyes to keep the impression of these horrid visions under his lids. When a little later, he opened them, Mrs. Brixton had turned and seemed to be listening attentively to her neighbour’s conversation. An indefinite period passed; Maugrais had a feeling that he was no longer at the Wan Hei Lo among this joyous company. He thought he had suddenly been carried away to some vague spot, so remote from this earth, that even the voice of hopes that kindled and sounds of suffering experienced here, came to him only as a distant echo or as a wave rising from the immense ocean to dissolve into creamy foam on the welcoming shore. Then he heard through the mist of his dream which was gradually fading away, the plaintive voice of the Baroness complaining softly to Chatours: “Dear friend, I feel you are no longer the same, you love another. I know that look of abstraction in the eyes of the man who is betraying me in his heart, those polite attentions of the lover who is thinking of abandoning me. Have the courage to break with me loyally; be frank and confess and although I may suffer a great deal, I think I shall find enough love in my heart to forgive.”
Maugrais did not catch the answer, but it must have been politely evasive for the Baroness gave a deep sigh and glanced wearily round the table. He followed that glance and examined the guests one by one as some one just arrived from a distant place and who wants to get once more into touch with his surroundings of the present moment. He saw de Wolf, very gay, passing his wrinkled hand through his abundant white locks, speechifying, plotting some new business, founding societies, breaking up Consortiums, joining by means of an electric railway the Bay of Biscay to the China Sea. He saw the wan, resigned smile on de Frissonges’ face, who had some time ago buried his illusions in the goldfields of Northern Korea; he saw Mme. de Wolf, icy and stately, peeling a pear and offering a quarter to Vladowsky. The latter betrayed clearly by the way he was bending over the table that his hand had strayed far under the white skirts of his neighbour. By the fixed stare on Brixton’s face, Jean knew that Vladowsky’s manoeuvres had not escaped him, for he was watching, with the eye of an amateur, the effect of them on the always impassive and solemn countenance of Mme. de Wolf. He saw the paternal look of Cordobas, trying to forgive Mme. Immersteht her empty chatter as one forgives a baby for crying in church. He saw Beaurelois’ honest eyes fixed on an annoying insect that he was trying to drive away without hurting. He saw old Borioni drowsing in his chair under the burden of his knowledge of Chinese and with closed eyes discovering that the 80,000 Chinese hieroglyphics he knew, had already been used for 3,000 years to express all the human passions experienced by this brilliant company.
Suddenly they all rose from the table, talking and laughing. Chatours proposed they should sit on the grass at the water’s edge and tell stories. The boys could bring whiskey and soda. This idea pleased them all and they raced gaily down to the pool sleeping quietly at the foot of the hill. As soon as they were all settled, Mme. de Beaurelois, addressing herself to Borioni, asked him to tell them the history of Wan Hei Lo. Rumour said it was a romantic legend dating from Emperor Chien Lung’s reign, but no one knew the details. The old Doctor tried to be let off at first, saying he had forgotten it, that he was tired. But they all insisted so he finally consented. There was a long silence. Then his pipe lit, his eyes staring into the undergrowth, he began:
“During his first campaign in Sungaria, the Emperor Chien Lung learnt the most dangerous and most unconquerable enemy of the Son of Heaven was the Chief of a powerful Mahometan tribe, Ali Arslan. His wife was supposed to be the most beautiful woman in Turkestan; all over the Central Tableland and even to the borders of Kukunor and Kansu she was known by the flattering appellation of ‘Model of Beauty’. Chien Lung, who loved and appreciated the fair sex, sent word to his Chief of Staff Tchao Hui, that he would bestow special honours on him if the woman was brought captive to Peking. After a bloody struggle, Tchao Hui conquered the heroic tribe; Arslan was hanged on a gibbet erected before his deserted and looted camp; his family was put to death and his wife captured. Heralds proclaiming the great news were sent to the Emperor. Upon hearing it, he caused grand preparations to be made. A magnificent pavilion in the Western Palace on the borders of Lake Nan Hai was put in order to receive the beautiful captive. It was arranged with all the splendour and luxury of an Eastern harem. The prisoner was renamed Hsiang Fee, signifying Sweet Perfume, and afterwards she was always known as the Concubine of Sweet Fragrance. Scarcely had Tchao Hui reached Peking than he sought out his master to warn him of the great difficulty he had experienced in preventing her from putting an end to her life. He had been obliged to watch her constantly. So Chien Lung went to visit his new Concubine in the Western Palace himself, accompanied by a numerous suite of women and eunuchs. Her great beauty struck him immediately. Slender and fragile as a young palm tree she looked like a little girl. Her skin was extremely transparent and delicate, two serpents’ eyes burnt in her restless nomad’s head.”
“When the Emperor drew near to kiss her, she sprang to her feet and drawing a short dagger, cried, ‘Satan, do not dare to soil me by your touch’.”
“From that day the Emperor, entirely conquered by his concubine’s beauty, tried to tame her by every means in his power. The science of his advisers, the experience of his women were brought into consultation to win her heart. Hsiang Fee remained silent and unmoved. She only answered his too earnest entreaties by a look more icy and more cutting than the blade of her short dagger.”
“Thus a year passed.”
“One night some eunuchs came to tell the Emperor that the Concubine of Sweet Fragrance had lain on her couch all day with her head turned to the West crying bitterly. It was the Mahometan New Year. Chien Lung then understood the sickness of her Islam soul! He generously caused a mosque to be built exactly opposite the western Pavilion. Less than six months later, a beautiful white minaret faced the Pearl Moon Tower where Hsiang Fee loved to dream long hours away, her eyes towards the Kebla. Small white flat roofed houses, strange shops and bazaars grew up around the mosque. Soon an Eastern crowd appeared; none could tell from whence it came. An entirely Mahometan little town sprang up within a few feet of the Imperial Palace. Day and night the sad melodious voice of an old Mahometan priest called the faithful to prayer from his minaret. Under the burning Southern sun, women, their faces hidden, came from the houses of the shuttered windows and went down the narrow passages that were covered with matting and where turbaned merchants sold carpets, perfume, precious stones, weapons and sweetmeats.”
“The Emperor had hoped this vision of a corner of her home land would make Hsiang Fee happier. The Concubine did indeed seem gentler and more resigned. But if her anger had abated, her sadness increased. The Emperor loved to pass long hours with her; he looked at her in silence. She lay on a Bokhara rug spread over a divan.”
“Among the many cushions, she seemed overwhelmed with despair.”
“ ‘Hsiang Fee’, he would say sometimes, ‘Tell me why you are so cruel. Don’t you see I have entire kingdoms at my feet. Say the word and I will change the face of the earth’.”
“She replied with scorn, ‘It is written in the Eternal Book, God alone created the world, heaven and earth, He alone can change its face. There is but one God and Mahomet is His Prophet’.”
“ ‘Hsiang Fee’ he said, ‘be kind and good to me. If I have caused your husband and family to be put to death it is because they were enemies of the State. And Confucius has said, ‘destroy the enemy of social order’.”
“ ‘Ignorant being,’ answered Hsiang Fee, ‘Do you not know there is no other reign but the Eternal’s, th
e Greatest, the only One. As for your infidel States, they will be delivered into the fire and the Angel of Death will fly over your perishable cities’.”
“ ‘Hsiang Fee, remember the words of the wisest of Men. Be patient and indulgent, do not render evil for evil’.”
“ ‘The Prophet has said, the law of retaliation is commanded for murder; a free man for a free man, a woman for a woman. You killed my husband, you will perish by the sword’.”
“A great uneasiness reigned over the Emperor’s Court. He no longer busied himself with State affairs; even when seated on his throne he seemed lost in thought; his gaze turned to the West. His mother, the old Empress Niuhulu, who was more than 80 years of age and famed for her virtues, went to him one day and commanded him to send away the Concubine, Hsiang Fee. Chien Lung answered: ‘I prefer death to separation from her.’ And he seemed at that time to be seeking death.”
“Talking one day to Hsiang Fee, he drew near the divan on which she rested. ‘The Emperor Shun’, he said, ‘may certainly be considered the most virtuous and wisest man in history. He loved good but did not ignore evil. Between good and evil, he used to say, let us choose the golden mean and apply it to all we do. These are truly the words of a great sage.’ ”
“ ‘The words of a fool,’ answered Hsiang Fee ‘for the Prophet has said, despise the luke warm and the weak; desire only the unattainable, believe only in the impossible and yearn only for the infinite.’ ”
“ ‘Desire the unattainable, yearn for the infinite,’ repeated Chien Lung slowly. Gently he slipped down on to the rug; burying his head in the cushions, he offered his back to the vengeance of her whom he had offended. A long silence followed. Then Chien Lung raised his head. Hsiang Fee was lending over him, her dagger motionless in the air. She looked like a snake poised ready to strike.”
“Her whole being quivered like a young palm tree shaken by the warm breath of the desert.”
“ ‘Well, strike,’ said Chien Lung gently as if imploring a favour.”
“But Hsiang Fee’s arm fell heavily to her side and she said: `No, for your hour has not yet come’.”
“For a few days the Emperor wandered like a madman in the immense grounds of the Forbidden City on the borders of the Three Lakes.”
“A week later, the day of great sacrifice, Chien Lung went to the Temple of Heaven. After having presented his offerings, he was obliged, according to the ritual, to spend the night in the Long Fasting Hall. The old Empress sent her favourite eunuch to fetch the Concubine, Hsiang Fee. When she appeared she talked lengthily of her adored son, of the badly governed state, of the people who were dissatisfied and uneasy, of the war broken out in the South. She implored the young concubine to torture the Emperor no longer. It is even said that the haughty Niuhulu went so far as to throw herself at the feet of the Concubine. But Hsiang Fee raised her, and looking straight into the old woman’s eyes, she bent her head and whispered something in her ear. The Empress gave a cry of great joy mingled with astonishment. But Hsiang Fee continued immediately. ‘That is the reason why I would beg a last favour of your Majesty. I would die as died my husband and lord, hanging from a gibbet. The old Empress remained silent for a time as if searching in her heart the key to some riddle. Then this venerable lady whose name was composed of 18 characters praising her virtues, placed without a word a kiss of admiration on the Concubine’s brow. Opening a door leading to the inner apartments, she bade her enter.”
“The next morning, when Chien Lung returned to his Palace, his aged mother came to meet him. At once he understood the Irreparable had been accomplished.”
“A gilt lacquered wood gibbet had been erected in the room next to the Empress; his beloved’s fragile body was swinging from it. In her last sleep her small childish face had regained the calm and peace of the desert night. On her dainty lips forever closed a smile hovered, such as wear the angels guarding the gates of Paradise. Without a tear, Chien Lung knelt before her in dumb adoration; then rising, he laid on her pure cold lips his first kiss, the kiss of a brother and a lover.”
“The funeral rites were as beautiful as those of a Princess of the Blood. The body of the Concubine of Sweet Fragrance was to be laid in a vault in the Hsi Ling Tombs.”
“The procession set out towards evening, leaving the Imperial City by the Hsi Hua Men and going towards Pa Li Chuang and the western Hills. In spite of the custom of the country, the Emperor refused to use his chair, but dragging his splendid Imperial robes in the dust of the roads, followed on foot the coffin borne by 72 serving men. Dead tired and worn out by grief, he stopped the procession some way from the city walls and ordered a night’s rest in the Wan Hei Lo Palace. It was here, in these grounds, amid this wild vegetation and these tumbling pavilions that the Imperial procession passed the first night on its way to the Hsi Tombs.”
“The coffin was placed in a small isolated pavilion on the other side of the lake. The Princes, wives and concubines passed the night in the second enclosure; the ministers and generals were in the pavilion near the entrance tower. The reminder of the people went to the neighbouring village. The Emperor refused to rest but insisted on spending the night by the coffin of his beloved.”
Dr. Borioni rose and with his unlighted pipe he pointed out the dilapidated pavilion drooping over the dark water.
“Alone that night by the bedside of his adored one, his head, heavy with the destiny of a whole country, rested on the coffin. Was he speaking softly to her of his love, great as the world, strong as death? Or was he imploring her as he watered with his scalding tears the cedar wood and the rich brocades, to forgive him now death had robbed him of her beautiful body, and not to pursue her vengeance after death? In the silence of the night did he pronounce words that were wild and great, tragic and sacrilegious, or did he perhaps commit deeds that the blind and stupid world would condemn? No one will ever know. But when at early dawn, the procession started, crossing the old stone bridge over the canal, the Emperor had become white as snow and his gaze, formerly so proud and domineering, contained sharp flames and the blue lights of a visionary.”
Dr. Borioni said no more, and his thin outstretched arm pointed in the direction where 150 years ago, the Imperial funeral had passed on its way to the Western Tombs.
Every one remained silent and it seemed as if the very soul of Wan Hei Lo had suddenly revealed itself to these people so greedy of impressions and pleasures.
“Wan Hei-Lo, Wan Hei Lo!” repeated Chatours as if he wished to inhale the drugged and morbid scent of this Eastern name.
But suddenly a figure loomed out of the night. It was Mrs. Brixton. She had risen and was standing up motionless. Slender and fragile she looked like a young girl and, in the eyes of her friends still under the influence of the story of the heroic concubine, she seemed the incarnation of the dead woman. Without a word, slowly and stiffly she walked automatically towards the pavilion where Hsiang Fee’s coffin had lain. She looked like a somnambulist walking alone in the night.
Silent and resigned, Maugrais rose and followed her. They crossed the little bridge over the water and found themselves opposite the old pavilion. Half in ruins, the door open into the darkness, it was infested with bats. An odour of death, of putrefaction came from these abandoned walls, a whiff of the irrevocable past floated in the air. It was like the entrance to a tomb. On the threshold Mrs. Brixton paused. Maugrais drew nearer, he saw she shivered as if with fever and again the vision of a slender palm tree shaken by the warm breath of the desert flitted before his eyes. He seized her in his arms, she turned to him all at once, supple and soft like a snake ready to strike.
“Lucy,” he breathed passionately.
“Yes,” she answered putting her arms around him, “Yes, your hour has come.”
A deadly silence fell on Wan Hei Lo. Only the shrill cry of a toad from the water gave a tragic note to the night. A strong scent of marshy reeds and poisonous weeds filled the air; from the stagnant water rose an unhealthy mist which, float
ing hither and thither, formed strange human shapes as if the phantom of the concubine, Hsiang Fee, followed by a ghostly retinue, was visiting once more this park of love and death.
Gradually the crowd broke up into groups or tête-à-tête, in the summer house, at the water’s edge, on the ruined steps of the small pavilions. The night was so beautiful that no one thought of sleeping. Here and there through the holes in the walls the shadows of the “boys,” settling the camp beds could be seen. Lights flickered and from afar came the mournful cries of the night watchman protecting the orchards from beggars and thieves.
Mme. de Beaurelois had long been attempting to get Chatours away alone with her; but he had displayed as much astuteness in avoiding this tête-à-tête as she had in seeking it. He had finally attached himself to Mr. de Frissonges and was questioning him about Korea before the Japanese occupation. The old engineer at first answered in monosyllables, but he soon warmed to the subject as it called up memories of the country where he had spent his youth.
“Ancient Seoul,” said he, “sleeping at night in its valley between the hills like a child in its cradle! The air is so soft that the breeze blowing about you, covers you with scented caresses, like a bunch of flowers thrown by a woman as she passes. And those white shapes of the Koreans as they flit by! They seem to come from a fairy tale in which ghosts walk smiling among men. Poor dear Korea, Kingdom of the Calm Morning, country of indolence and lust, of dreams and gloom, where art thou, sad white vision of the East?”
The Baroness, taking shelter by the Count’s side, had seized his beringed hand and was talking to him of death. “I would like three words engraved on my tomb. Thou hast loved. What would you like on yours?”
“I don’t know,” replied Cordobas. “Perhaps, Thou hast lived.”
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