“And now it is finished,” he said aloud.
“What is finished?” asked Mrs. Brixton, standing before him. Slender, energetic, sweet and obstinate, she looked at him, crumpled up on the sofa. She sat down beside him and suddenly held out both her hands. In this gesture, there was a mixture of comradeship and some sporting element. Then Maugrais tried to remember all he meant to say in this supreme moment, all he had cherished in his heart during long days of solitude. But all his ideas had flown, he felt only a great emptiness seized him. However he made an effort to speak. “Lucy, Lucy,” he said, “I must speak to you.”
She interrupted him and holding his hands tightly in both of her:
“Jean, I want to ask something of you…”
There was an earnest prayer in her eyes.
“I want you not to say a word… but to take that suit case out of the rack because otherwise it will fall on my head as soon as the train moves.”
Mechanically Maugrais obeyed. As he got off the seat, the husband appeared in the doorway.
“Lucy, the train is about to start,” he said without seeming to notice the young man. “I am coming,” she answered and followed Brixton, leaving Jean where he was, the suit case in his hands. A moment later, the shrill whistle blew, the train began to move, the band struck up, handkerchiefs waved and a surging mass of people went down the station after the carriage on the platform of which Mrs. Brixton stood smiling. Her modest and generous smile spoke of triumph, of forgetfulness and pardon.
And now leaning on the bridge over the Jade Canal Maugrais recalled all the details of Mrs. Brixton’s departure, a great bitterness entered his soul. He closed his eyes, seized with a violent desire to feel no more, to live no longer. A few minutes afterwards, he crossed the wooden bridge opposite the British Legation and went off in the direction of Legation Street.
“What changes there have been these last few weeks,” he said to himself. “The Brixtons have gone, the Wolfs are on their way to South America, the Beaurelois are on leave, the de Frissonges have left with the Dutchman, Axel; so much in love with the girl.”
He recalled the tender and melancholy outline of Melle de Frissonges; he could see her fragile body possessed of such a strong soul, loving and shy; he could see her with her great blue eyes, trying to understand life so as to be able to love it and to believe in it. He had a wild hallucination of a happy home in the Alps opposite an immense blue sea.
He saw all his friends had gone and he received the impression that life had taken a step forward, leaving him behind, abandoned and useless. He walked quicker, his heart wrung with anguish. He wanted to meet some one he knew, to shake a friendly hand, to be no longer alone with his grim thoughts and his vivid regrets. As he neared Legation Street, he saw a man rush out of the Wagons Lits Hotel, pause on the steps and make mad signs to him with a piece of paper or a card which he flourished in the air, at same time he whirled his stick above his head. Jean recognized Chatours.
“Oh, yes, he has not left us yet. Suppose I go and see him.” That was his first thought.
“Jean, Jean,” called Chatours, “come here at once; look at this and congratulate me.”
His somewhat eccentric face, his whole changeable expression shone with glee. “But whatever is the matter,” asked Jean, trying to see what it was that Chatours still waved wildly over his head. “Did you win the Chinese Internal Loan Lottery?”
“Not a bit of it,” cried Chatours I booked my passage, “as the English tourists say. Look at this pocket book, it represents 120 days of travel across two oceans, calling at ports in the green islands of Polynesia, halts in the Brazilian harbours burning with passion and fever, passing though the Straits of Magellan between enormous rocks covered with ice; and finally the immense expanse of new horizons, skies studded with new constellations, vast mines of unknown sensations. It means space, it means freedom.”
He shouted all this, standing on the steps of the hotel, frantically brandishing his cane. Tourists, coming out to get into the motors waiting to take them to the Summer Palace, stopped, uneasy but happy to think they were witnessing some scandalous scene. Maugrais paused, thunderstruck. He knew of course that Chatours was leaving; he knew he had broken with the Baroness and that he was tired of Marchioness Ting, but somehow he expected Chatours would be sorry to go and that before his departure he would pass long hours dreaming on the Wall over the Imperial City, make pilgrimages to favourite temples, where, in the shadows, Bodisatwas stretched forth their arms towards the vast Heavens and Kuan Yin looked down upon mournful humanity from between their drooping eyelids. He pictured him going to the beloved tombs where, buried in deep vaults below magnificent yellow roofed ruins, sleep forever in peace the remains of Imperial tyrants whose short life had been an oriental medley of murder and lust. He expected a heart-rending leave-taking, poignant farewells … instead he saw before him a Chatours bubbling over with joy!
It was the black ingratitude of the passing soul who has already escaped to other climes, leaving behind it only its earthly wrapping to go through the formalities of a hasty departure. He could see those eyes which not so long ago reflected the traditional poses of Buddha seated in the shadow of the temple, the tottering old palaces in ruins by the sacred lakes, those lakes full of lotus under whose large leaves the mortal remains of some abandoned Princess or some jealous eunuch rested in the mud. Those eyes had reflected the sombre and sad line of the wall along which the caravans of camels wending their way through the golden lanes, finished their dreams in the arid sand of the Gobi desert. Those eyes seemed to burn now with a new flame, kindled by the phosphorescent light of a tropical sea.
Maugrais, finding nothing to say, mutely held out his hand. But Chatours, without noticing the gesture, had already jumped into a rickshaw and, kicking the coolie to make him hurry, turned round for the last time, his pocket book in his hand and shouted his favourite verses from Mallarme: “Fuir là-bas, fuir, je sens que les oiseaux sont ivres d’être parmi l’écume inconnue et les cieux ….”
The remainder was interrupted by the hooting of a horn. A large motor car pulled up before the hotel; still humming, it discharged a noisy crowd of American tourists. Chatours had vanished. Maugrais cast a miserable glance about him, a glance that seemed to try and catch a friendly eye, then he slowly went back towards the Chinese city.
He soon reached the narrow hutungs of the Western city, walking in a dream and pausing mechanically from time to time before the fruit-seller’s stall and the shop windows of a curio dealer, keeping to one side to allow some slow and stately camels to pass. He was surprised to find himself suddenly in front of Count de Cordobas’ door. He hesitated, should he knock? Then he struck the metal plate. The old kai men ti came to open, without undue haste, a kind fatherly smile on his lips. A crowd of children followed him; they greeted Maugrais with shrill cries of joy. He remembered giving a dollar to those children, more than a year ago. He crossed the two small paved courtyards and found himself before the peaceful and shady pavilion at the end. He opened the door. Crossing the first room which was in solemn semi-darkness, he knocked on the door of the next room where five months ago Mrs. Brixton had smoked opium! A well known voice bade him enter. Cordobas clad in a dark silk kimono and a black haori, was standing in front of a cage containing a magnificent multi-coloured parrot; he had bought it years ago outside Shun Chih Men. The bird climbed up the bars of its cage with the help of its hooked beak; every now and again he gave shrill guttural cries. His master seemed to understand them. He smiled at Jean and pointing to the bird: “As talkative as a woman but so much more intelligent, more faithful, and above all, more independent in its opinions.”
“Do you understand what it is saying,” asked Jean, ensconcing himself among the many cushions of the Turkish divan.
“Of course,” replied the Count I have just donned this kimono and he is thanking me because he knows it means I am staying at home. But when I put on my evening clothes he utters piercing scream
s and beats his wings against the bars of his cage because he knows I shall be absent for some hours.”
The Count scratched the bird’s neck, ruffling its feathers with his nail.
“He has loved this ring for years,” he went on, showing a magnificent emerald he wore on his fourth finger. “When he is annoyed or nervous, I need only pass the ring between the bars of his cage, and he calms down at once and his blue green eyes, so false yet so soft, gaze at the stone and he murmurs gently to it. The soul of the beast is closer to the soul of a mineral than ours. It is possible there is some silent communion between them.”
He lighted a cigarette and took a chair opposite the great Buddha. A long silence ensued and then Maugrais said as if to himself. It was here, lying on this sofa that she smoked opium so madly; her lips closed, her eyes fixed on the ceiling, she was planning her revenge and I know now that her heart was in a whirl of hatred and passion, of desire and despair. Only a few months have gone by, but good Heavens, how short yet how long the time seems. A whole lifetime is contained in those five months, a whole long life. And I have neither the desire nor the strength to begin another. But I am forced to live on, I am obliged to drag myself from place to place, to talk, to think, to eat, when I only want to sleep, to sleep the sleep of Nature. What is there in life to interest me? To whom can I attach myself? To what can I aspire, what can I desire when all around me is bleak and dreary?”
From the depths of his armchair, Cordobas answered gravely: “Often when we are nearest salvation we feel more hopeless; often when the soul is already in a state of grace it throws itself desperately back into the shadows, dazzled by the radiant light flooding it. My child, the mystics of the Middle Ages knew of this state and in their tender forcible language they called it ‘the soul’s dark night.’ Once past that crisis the neophyte has a glimpse of mystic joys, those unforgettable joys that can only be attained after the renunciation of all desires and the suppression of all passion. The Masters of the Indies also experienced this dark depression, it precedes the entry of the new disciple into the third of the seven portals — the Kshanti — on the road leading to unutterable bliss, perfect peace, the Samyak Samboddhi.”
As he pronounced these words he rose. Coming towards the sad faced Buddha he said “Perfect peace, incomparable bliss. Anuttera Samyak Samboddhi.” Turning to Maugrais, he murmured, “Purify your heart and spirit. When you have made tabula rasa of your soul and driven out from your heart every vain desire, you will stand upon the first rung of the ladder that leads man to Heaven. Quite empty must be your brain and the Great Understanding will make its home there. You will become as a volcano in the moon, then love will flood you with a burning tide. When you shall no longer have within your brain a thought, no longer a spark of passion in your flesh then and then alone, will Peace, the Queen of the Universe, set up her Throne within your heart.” He walked straight up to Maugrais, pale, dark, almost threatening. “When you desire no more riches, honours, love, nor men’s esteem, when you long no more for happiness, when your ears have become deaf even to the prayers of men, then you will hear the voice of Brahma. When your eyes become blind to the beauty of nature, to the deeds of mankind, when they no longer shed a tear, then you will behold the Eternal. When your heart has ceased to beat and such dark shadows drown your soul that it desires not even Nirvana — that age-long, blissful trance — then, my son, you will have entered the path of Truth that leads to Eternal Peace.”
He stood before Maugrais, an hour passed, neither spoke. Then Jean lifted his head, up to now buried in the cushions and murmured softly, “Cordobas, Cordobas.” The Count, lost in thought, did not reply. “Cordobas, like a frightened child fallen at your feet, I cry to you, Cordobas, is there a God?” A long, mournful silence ensued. The autumn afternoon was drawing to a close and twilight was creeping over the room. The great Buddha, seated on his lotus flower, pointed with his uplifted arm to the far off, mute, inexorable sky.
Jean rose, he tried to distinguish Cordoba’s features.
“Cordobas, you have not answered me. I knocked and you did not open.”
He fell back again on to the sofa, his head in the cushions. Then the voice of the Count, gentler and more solemn, sounded in his ears: “One day Milinda, all powerful King of the Indies tortured by doubt, worn out by passion, visited Ananda, who lived in the Himalayas. Forgetting his royal state, the laws and customs of his country, he threw himself at Ananda’s feet and cried: ‘Ananda, the entire Indies acclaims you as their Spiritual Head. You are alive in the three worlds and you have crossed the Threshold more than 10,000 years ago. Prompted by a desire to help suffering mankind, you chose to return to this world of misery when you might be sleeping peacefully in the Great Resting Place of the World, the Nirvana of the Sages. Mahatma, you have attained perfect knowledge. See, I am at your feet devoured by passion, tortured by doubt, consumed by desire, and you, by a word, can give back peace to my mind and tranquility to my soul. The King of the Indies is your slave, but answer his question, Ananda, is there a God Creator of the World and Men, an all powerful, merciful God?’ “
“He ceased speaking. Ananda did not reply. The King put the question a second, then a third time, but Ananda did not heed. The King, mournful and angry, rose: ‘Ananda, did you not hear? Why refuse to speak? Is it perhaps because you cannot answer?’ Then the Sage spoke: ‘King Milinda, I have heard your question, I have replied, but you did not understand.’ He turned his back to the King and disappeared into his cave cut in the rock.” Maugrais rose and stared open-eyed at the Count. A few minutes went by, then staggering like a drunken man he left the room, crossing the hall, the two small courtyards and found himself in the street.
He walked along the Hutungs, his head low, staring at the paving stones; his brain was numb, his heart empty. He felt as if the great void mentioned by Cordobas had begun to invade him. He reached the Wall, climbed it and went towards the West.
There was no one about, the grass had been cut and he could see as far as the tower which forms the South West angle of the city. He was glad to be alone. He stopped, raised his head and took deep breaths, inhaling the fresh evening air. Then he went slowly on, leaving behind him the Legation Quarter. Night was approaching, dark and dignified night. He paused and looked about him. A deep peace seemed to descend from the blue sky with the twilight and spread over the Peking plain, that country of a beauty so unassuming, so gay yet so sad, that plain where sleep, in their tombs, the humble generations that are no more. The sun was sinking gloriously into its couch of purple and gold, behind the hills now all blue. On the other side of the Wall, Peking was stirring, Peking so gentle at evening when the half ruined houses and the old trees bending over the walls become shrouded in shadows as if falling into oblivion. The mysterious tragic cry of Peking, that cry of a thousand sounds, calls of merchants, squeaking of carts, tam-tam of temple gongs, braying of donkeys, singing of beggars that cry of Peking, that is life and music, rose from the still animated streets below.
Maugrais seated himself on the edge of the Wall, his eyes closed. He seemed to absorb all that life of Peking, he could hear buzzing so near, yet so distant.
An hour passed, he did not move; his whole person seemed glued to the spot, then his eyes opened and he murmured Cordobas’ words: “Peace, everlasting peace.” He closed his eyes again and any one seeing him thus, his legs crossed, his hands folded, his gaze vacant, would have taken him for a Fakir come from some Indian Temple to meditate silently on this wall above the Imperial Palace, that city of a past splendour, that city of dreams, of death, of passion.
Lost in contemplation Maugrais sat motionless on the Wall. A flight of pigeons rose over Peking and came towards him. On the white birds small pipes, fluting through the air, gave out thin harp like notes. It was as music from Heaven. And this gentle flock scattered over Maugrais’ head like petals from a great white lotus; then forming a line, the birds circled in graceful curves round him like a silver halo. They came lower and lowe
r, brushing against him with their wings mistaking him belike, so still he sat, for one of those marble statues that guard the ancient tombs of Kings or for some image of a Buddha seated, mute and solitary, meditating upon the sufferings of men.
Shedding a benediction from their snowy wings, the doves soared slowly into the air and homed back to Peking already shrouded in the dusk, and behind them, filling the limpid evening air trilled the bell-like music of their flight.
Silhouettes of Peking Page 15