Silhouettes of Peking

by L. de Hoyer; D. de Martel; Sapajou; D. de Warzee

  A long silence ensued; then all at once he began to talk, his head thrown back, his gaze fixed on the far off stars. He spoke as if in a dream. “After my death I do not wish my body washed with water, nor embalmed with precious ointments, but I ask that it should be cleansed with fine old Burgundy … And that is my first wish. I want no candles nor incense placed before my bier but I ask that opium may be burnt so that blue smoke-spirals of the soothing drug may float over my body and that is my second wish. At my funeral, let a choir of boys sing the De Profundis, so that the warm alto of the breaking voice may mingle with the clear treble of the child. Let an introit of sheer purity ring out before the Lord for me … and that is my last wish.”

  It was past midnight. Lucy and Maugrais were still sitting on the threshold of Hsiang Fee’s pavilion. The American’s face bore not the slightest trace of triumph nor of satisfied desire. She was gentle and grave as if an unavoidable event had come to pass in which she had only taken part because impelled by fate’s irresistible force. Maugrais talked warmly to her for a long time. Certain corners of his being, hidden from him so far, had been revealed tonight. He had found himself again in the unwholesome and burning passion that assailed him. Everything shapeless had materialized; even hazy dreams dating back to far distant childhood’s years had simply and suddenly become clear. Doubt had left him. Scruples had vanished; the secret, most intimate recesses of his heart, which up to now he had not dared to probe, seemed all at once quite clear, as if a light had dropped to the bottom of a vault; all his life appeared as a venturesome race towards this final unfolding. His eyes haggard, his voice hoarse, he seemed delirious and torrents of words tumbled from his lips.

  “Again and again and for ever I must say to you, I love you, love you, love you. I want to tell you that as a little child I already loved you. When in the sunlit fields I chased the dainty butterfly and when I played with my ball, tossing it into the air, towards the blue sky, I loved you. As a young boy, I already loved you; bending over my Greek lesson, translating Homer and the learned Xenophon, I loved you. As a young man, greedy for love and longing for what life would hold, I loved you. During my travels, in my dreams, gentle or wild, I loved you. As my youth leaves me, I love you still with the anguish of a heart growing old, of a heart that is dying yet burns with a crueller and more devastating flame than the hottest fire that ever kindled round me. Listen to me, I love you, love you, love you. Falling at your feet, I shed tears for my wasted life, my misspent life, my useless life; in its despair, my bleeding heart, all steeped in love, calls to you. My beloved, I know that centuries are passing over our heads like a flight of birds flying to happier climes, but I want to stay here, motionless, tied to your material being, nailed to your sinful soul, dragging through endless ages the weight of my crime and the folly of my love. I want every thing to perish, to die, to vanish. I thirst for the abyss of the dark night, to love you no longer with the love that is worse than death, for I love you, love you, love you, and my love flames like Lucifer himself come straight from Hell.”

  Millions of stars twinkled in the dark and solemn sky, speaking to each other through the infinite space in a mute luminous language of flashes of light. They called up the memory of ages buried forever in the unfathomable mystery of the past and announced the coming of centuries of unrelenting time.

  And all appeal from Here Below was unanswered. No sound reached the bottomless pit where for countless years human pain and misery had been swallowed up, where oceans of blood and floods of tears will be shed until the end of all time.

  Lying on the grass his eyes fixed on the dark firmament, Maugrais was now quite still and the immensity of his love soared in communion with the infinite.

  After a sleepless night, Miss de Frissonges rose; her face was pale and her features looked drawn. Her neighbour, Mme. de Wolf still slept on her camp bed; the sun had hardly crossed the horizon above the yet sleeping city of Peking.

  She sat for a while on the stretched cloth of her narrow bed, her hands folded on her lap, her eyes fixed on the paper that replaced the panes on the windows of her room. A large black spider hung down from the roof by a thread so fine that it appeared to be hanging from the air and she said softly: “Spider in the morning, great sorrow.” Then rising, she dressed with haste to precede the others. When she left the pavilion, all was still quiet and she could have fancied herself alone in the Wan Hei Lo. She went into the garden. Her first impression was one of surprise at finding nothing changed, at seeing the old fir trees still as dark and dignified round the small tumble-down pavilions, and at feeling a great calm that spread itself over the green covering of Nature. The summer house struck her especially, it was abandoned now, only an empty bottle lay forgotten on the stone table. Her eyes sought the water and the pavilion opposite, towards which Mrs. Brixton and Maugrais had gone, to appear no more last evening. There was something severe and simple in the unadorned walls of the pavilion, its roof with upturned angles, pointing to the sky. The building had its back to the lake and to the summer house, as if it wished to turn away, annoyed at being watched.

  Miss de Frissonges felt plainly how simple are the important things in life and how very indifferent Nature is to the drama of humans. She went to the gate, sighing deeply. The country looked fresh and radiant stretching out gaily under the yet timid rays of the sun. There was such a contrast between the healthy strength of this life just awaking and the death that filled her heart. The birds were twittering overhead, the cry of the cicada rang out. Voices from a village across the marshes reached her; a pony grazing peacefully on a bank raised his head, snorted and resumed his absorbing occupation. The impression she had had of Nature’s indifference to human suffering increased, a clear feeling of the complete isolation of human beings struck her forcibly. “We are born alone, we live alone and we die alone,” she said to herself, “And everything else, nature, men and beasts, is only the accidental frame in which useless human life moves and struggles.”

  A violent desire to lie down on the still damp, dewy grass seized her; a desire to lay her head on the ungrateful earth, to vanish and to melt into oblivion. She was now walking across country towards the Mongol Tombs, dragging her riding skirt through the damp grass. The desire to sink into oblivion was so great that her heart throbbed painfully as if the hand of death had already touched her. She came up to a solitary hut, surrounded by a few trees and she suddenly saw near her, a shapeless black form wriggling in the grass. Mechanically she approached and saw it was a big black sow; it was lying full length there breathing heavily; its enormous belly rose and fell like the bellows of a forge and quite close to her, something small and indefined moved about like larvae attacking a large body.

  The sow, overwhelmed by the happiness and the pain of her maternity, was farrowing before her sty. Her snout buried in the ground, she heeded naught around her, the supreme effort of her being was applied to bringing fresh life into the world. And before this picture of eternal fecundity, this clear sunshiny morning, the girl felt so violent a need of happiness, so sharp a desire to live spring up in her bruised heart, that, seized with giddiness her legs gave way beneath her and she sank to the ground, her whole body shaken by a storm of sobs which ended in a flood of tears. Quite close to her, the sow was still breathing heavily, indifferent, to everything but the one object of her dull life, now realized in the bosom of Mother Earth, while overhead the sun, now high in the Heavens, advanced triumphantly to the conquest of the day.

  Half an hour later, Miss de Frissonges returned to Wan Hei Lo, had her pony saddled and rode slowly along the road to Peking. She was alone, her pale, thin face was lit up by a calm smile of resigned pain and over there near the Chinese hut the black sow was sleeping calmly, her snout buried in the ground and beside her played her little ones, pink and white like petals from a large flower sent by Nature as the supreme gift of maternity achieved.

  Almost at the same hour, Maugrais left Wan Hei Lo and paused on the old stone bridge. Some
naked urchins were playing in the yet cool water and their shrill cries rose above the noise of their splashing. Tanned and droll, they looked like large brown frogs.

  Maugrais crossed the bridge and climbed the bank. The green plain of Peking lay before him, stretching out gaily to the Western Hills. However, he did not linger to contemplate this smiling landscape he loved so much. He walked on, his head bent, buried in thought.

  His whole being was submerged in such intense and complicated feelings that he had an urgent need of solitude. A giddiness seized him each time he searched his heart, an instinctive fear possessed him before which, terrified, he retreated. All his life he had been seeking happiness, and at last he had found it, under the skies of a beautiful summer night. Did he then fear, at dawn, to have grasped but a shadow? Was he not like a man who, tired of life, had thrown himself into the sea and diving into unfathomable depths, suddenly opens his eyes and sees rising from the bottom of the ocean, strange gigantic plants, silent fish with greedy eyes glide by him? He had only sought for oblivion and death and he had discovered an unknown underseas life!

  “I love her, I am quite certain,” he said aloud. “I have found untold treasure in my great love for her.” Then without any apparent reason, a small picture of his past life came to his memory. It had happened in Burmah, he was only visiting the gardens of a Palace in Mandalay. A little girl was working among the fantastic and exotic flowers there. He stopped to watch her and perceived on her finger the most beautiful ruby he had ever seen. Even in this country of gems he was surprised to see such a costly and lovely stone on the finger of a peasant. He drew near to examine it closely. And then he discovered it was a great drop of blood.

  “This naughty cactus pricked me,” said the child raising her soft, exotic eyes. Her whole bronze face lit up with the calm smile of the East.

  Maugrais was now walking quickly through the fields, crossing villages, passing by tombs, jumping ditches and sunken road; he was madly racing away from Peking in his haste to be alone in the brilliant sunlit country. Some peasants saw him pass through Yuan Tsai Tsung and continue towards Tsai Pu Chuang. He was seen going by the Guan Ding Hsi tombs; some small children cried, Tah Laoie after him as his mournful figure appeared behind the old neglected Pa Li Chuang Pagoda. He went on, his head held low, waving his whip as if pursued by the ghost of Peking and attracted by the joyous sight of the Hills looming large to the West and peopled with ruined temples. There was the energy of despair in his resolute air; he was making the last effort of an already broken spirit. This tragic figure in its rush to the West recalled the race of a great captain who, abandoned by his retreating army and seeing the battle decidedly lost, advances alone towards the frontier, brandishing his conquered sword in a supreme effort to grasp the victory eluding him.

  CHAPTER VIII

  CHATOURS had now been Marchioness Ting’s lover for about a month. She was a little Chinese lady, born in London where her father had been Ambassador. Having lived for a dozen years in the different European Capitals she had been an object of a curiosity forming the basis of her successes there.

  Her husband had been sent by the Wai Chiao Pu on a mission to the United States to settle the emigration question. During his absence, he had left her in Peking. She consoled herself easily, and was always to be seen at the Hotel de Pekin Saturday dances, where the people usually found there had nicknamed her “the Merry Widow.” She was said to be of easy virtue and to have had many adventures. Her origin was Manchu; her height was superior to that of most of her race and her slight figure made her appear even taller. Her eyes slanted but little and her skin was only moderately tinted; she spoke English and French with equal fluency having learnt them during her father’s sojourn in Europe. She could even dance the tango and at first sight gave the impression of being a half caste from Macao.

  One evening, Chatours was amusing himself watching her turn in the arms of a young secretary from the Foreign Office; recently returned from some Legation abroad, he was trying unsuccessfully to master the complicated steps of the Argentine dance. A friend, seeing he was interested, had introduced him. The Marchioness, flattered at having attracted the attention of this young man supposed to be rather unsociable, had made herself extremely amiable. Amused by her chatter, Chatours had accepted an invitation to tea. He had gone again several times, visiting her in her German-colonial Palace near the Bell Tower. One day, pursued by Mme. de Beaurelois’s reproaches, he had succumbed to temptation and had justified his friend’s jealousy.

  He had led the attack boldly and his adversary had only defended herself for pure form’s sake easily accepting her defeat.

  Their first meeting had left him under the impression of being with a delicate, little, fragile person whose movements were insipid but whose figure was pleasing. An unsuspected passion had been an agreeable surprise to him and helped to make him forget Blanche with rapidity. For her well regulated and quiet intimacy began to seem very tasteless to a palate now accustomed to something spicier.

  The first period passed, he still felt real pleasure in caressing that pretty body with its amber velvet skin which quivered under his touch. Her rather childish chatter still amused him; he liked to make her tell him impressions of Europe. On her side, she asked the pretty “foreign devil” as she called him, for details of the sentimental life of young men in Paris.

  Up to now the Marchioness had always received Chatours in the large European house she occupied during her husband’s absence. The furniture too loud and flashy, made the place look like one of those hastily built temporary palaces at an exhibition; there were too many electric lamps and mirrors. Chatours had told her so one day jokingly and had insisted he should be shown her father-in-law’s house; he had heard Prince Luo owned some wonderful things.

  She had always avoided consenting, saying a Chinese interior was not interesting, and that the Prince lived a very retired life. But tired of arguing and unable to resist any longer she had promised to tell him of Chatours’ desire. Finally to-day he was going with her at five o’clock to call on the old man.

  He had scarcely been more than a few minutes in the little boudoir, furnished like a hotel for tourists where he had been waiting, when she appeared.

  Contrary to her usual custom, she had abandoned her tailor made suit and was wearing Chinese robes. A short dark silk skirt, disclosed her slender ankles, a kind of tunic buttoned at one side and made of light coloured material, outlined discreetly her bust and fell loosely a little below the waist. The collar, slightly starched and open in front, hid the nape of her neck; she wore a large pearl rosace at each side of her head like the ornaments seen on Assyrian statues. They made a white spot against her tightly drawn black hair. She wore no other jewels save round her right wrist, a circlet of jade, deep green like an emerald.

  “You look delightful,” said Chatours kissing her hand. “Why on earth do you usually wear European clothes? You see how wrong it is not to wear the national costume. I am so sorry I did not come to China in the time of the Empire. I should have loved to see you wearing your hair Manchu style with the multi coloured enamel bar raising it skillfully. Fancy you, draped in a ceremonial robe of gaily patterned kosseu! You would have appeared to me as a great Empress of whom I should have been the most faithful subject and slave.”

  “You are joking, my friend. You would have found me perfectly ridiculous. How can you compare your delightful Paris fashions to our horrible garments? But let us go or we shall be late.”

  The motor was at the door, they went swiftly to the North of the town in the direction of the Yellow Temple.

  The Palace in which the old Prince resided had long been a family possession. Emperor Kang Hsi had bestowed it as a gift on an ancestor of the present owner in recognition of services rendered.

  After having driven for a quarter of an hour down Hatamen the chauffeur turned to the left, then he stopped, they had reached their destination.

  As is usually the case in the houses of p
rinces, two imposing stone dragons guarded the entrance. The roof over the door was slightly curved; on the ends were earthenware animals of all sorts, like unicorns. Opposite the opening was a piece of wall built exactly in front of the door, thus respecting the letter if not the spirit of the Chinese etiquette which forbids the commoner to let his unworthy gaze rest on the door of a house sheltering the great of the world. On each side, in a sort of rack, red halberds with horse hair tails at the top also indicated the high rank of the old Prince.

  The kai men ti hurriedly came to the door of the car. He took respectfully the card Chatours handed to him. Holding it to his head as a sign of respect he hastened to announce the visitors. The young man and his companion waited outside in the car. He soon returned however, making signs for them to follow him. Chatours and the Marchioness crossed a series of courtyards all decorated differently. Cleverly disposed pieces of rock making a landscape and miniature mountains ornamented the first, then the scene changed, green plants covered the ground, lace-like marble bridges joined the banks of a small canal, whose waters almost vanished under the large flat lotus leaves, their straight stems growing skywards, and holding out as offerings, the white or pink petals just showing the emerald green pistil in their centre. A last door passed, the couple found themselves in a carved wood gallery which led to the Reception Hall.

  As the young man mentioned his surprise at the round about road they had been brought, his companion explained this winding way was necessary, according to a superstition the Chinese architects are obliged to take into account, for the house must be protected against evil spirits. These evil spirits always move in a straight line and would soon take away everything of value if the openings were facing one another all the way through; but the slightest bend is sufficient to debar them so it is simple to mislead them. What is lost in symmetry is gained in safety.