VI Pekin
I
THE ARRIVAL
It is evening when I arrive in Pekin. The train stops outside the Tartar Wall. Darkness shrouds everything, and the place seems to be deserted. Not even a guard or porter is to be seen. Alongside the embankment a few coolies with gigantic lanterns are waiting for the passengers, and, in quaint procession, with innumerable balloons hanging from long bamboo sticks, are searching for their masters. They all shout, but no one seems to understand them. There is no trace of any vehicles or carriages, and I don’t see even a platform. I am standing in the midst of a desert; behind me, some sandhills and a pool are all I can distinguish, and in front, among the crowd of coolies, a tall figure is conspicuous, which approaches, and, by the yellow rays of a pumpkin-like lantern, I recognize an old acquaintance. Here he occupies the position of First Secretary of Legation, and brings me an invitation from his chief. My trunks are taken in charge by an attendant, and we walk towards my new abode, which my friend tells me is close by.
It is explained to me that the present railway station is only a temporary one; only since the occupation by the Allied Forces have trains been able to penetrate as far as the inner wall. They used to have to stop miles away, as no engine was allowed to desecrate the holy city of Pekin. At a short distance from the temporary station is a tunnel-like opening in the wall, and I am informed that it was made for the use of members of the legations and foreign settlement, and has ex-territorial rights granted to it. I pass through the so-called Gate of the Nations full of expectation, for I am most anxious for surprises, which certainly are not wanting.
I hope to see before me a fairy city and scenes like those on the stage; but instead of splendour and glitter I see mist. By the flickering light of a few paraffin lamps I begin to distinguish the famous international quarter, but I feel it would be better if they were not lit, for they only disclose ruins and débris. Among heaps of bricks and mortar we reach the edge of a ditch of stagnant water, which, as my companion informs me, not without some pride, is the so-called Canal of Jade. It is a magnificent name, which I have known for a long time. If I have pictured it to myself as different from what it is in reality, it is not the fault of an exaggerated fancy; and as we stumble along in the lane skirting the ditch—I beg its pardon; on the banks of the waters of Jasper—I still cannot perceive anything else but garden walls. I don’t even see the famous Jade Stream, for though long ago there may have been water in the ditch, there are now only puddles here and there. But if I can’t see, I smell all the more; smell all kinds of unimaginable and imaginable odours.
At last we approach a gate with a martial sentry in front of it. The password is given, and we are at last at home. In the courtyard, on the edge of the grass, are a number of lanterns. Large and yellow, they look like melons. The effect is charming, but as they give but very indifferent light, I can only distinctly discern some pillars and arches. Now we pass through some open halls and reach a garden-like square. To the right and left from the windows of small summer-houses the light of candles filters through. In front is another building in the same style, a few columns supporting a heavy roof; the columns are of red lacquered wood, and the tiles of emerald-green. Beyond this is another garden, and lastly the legation proper. The door is open and the hall ablaze with light. On the broad staircase are servants in red—pigtailed Chinese, dressed after the fashion of their country. They salute us, bowing low, with their hands folded.
The scene is interesting, the setting fine. By the light of the lanterns the roof of the old yamen appears even more gabled than it is, and its eaves the more bizarre than in reality. At last I have before me a truly Chinese picture, thousands of years old, artistic and brilliant. But the scene quickly changes as we go inside, and from the past we come to the present, from Oriental surroundings we step into a Western interior.
The rays of the rising sun wake me as they burst brightly into the courtyard of the yamen, filtering, rosy-coloured, through the embrasures of the crenellated walls.
My quarters have a verandah looking upon a small courtyard, the pillars of which are of ruby lacquer, its roof of emerald glaze. In the yard are many flowers planted in old china vases. Four cedars, ages old, stand in the corners, and their branches form a lovely shady tent under the canopy of a morning sky. The branches of the old trees and the eaves are swarming with birds which awake with me, and merry with their songs.
On opening my eyes I scarcely know whether I am awake or still dreaming. It takes me some time to realize my surroundings. In the little garden some one is noiselessly crossing the grass in paper shoes. He wears a light blue kaftan over a white tunic, and the colours harmonize well, for this slate-blue suits his yellow complexion, and a long pigtail hangs down his back.
This is reality. I am indeed in the Flowery Land. I am actually awaking in Pekin.
II
THE FIRST DRIVE THROUGH THE TOWN
It is eight o’clock in the evening. I have just returned from Pei-tang; it takes nearly an hour to come from there. And what a road! Imagine a brilliant stereoscope with living figures rushing forward upon you as you gaze—a gigantic kaleidoscope in which, among multitudinous and dazzling fragments a heap of ants are busy. And if we look at these through a magnifying glass, the effect will be somewhat similar to one’s first impression of Pekin. Bedlam, uproar, chaos; and all this half concealed by a veil of whirling dust. It would be difficult to recount what I have seen, and even more difficult to explain what my sensations were. I was amazed by the brilliant spectacle.
It is early in the morning when I set out on my exploring expedition. From the street in which the legation stands we suddenly turn into the grand Imperial Square. The yellow-roofed palace in front of us may be called the focus of Pekin, nay, the centre of the whole Yellow Empire, for every road leads thither.
The principal street is broad, crossing the wall of the Tartar city. A few miles farther to the south it strikes the Chinese town, and through gates like triumphal arches, and over bridges, across moats, and skirting bastions, reaches the open. This is the perspective before me: my eyes penetrate in a straight line, almost any distance, to the sea at the farthermost point of the realm, but the crowd is so dense and the traffic so thick, and there are such clouds of dust, that we can hardly see what is going on within a yard of us. Caravans of camels, people on horseback, carriages, and carts follow each other incessantly. Every moment we narrowly escape a collision. It is a wonder that numbers of the shaky little vehicles do not get smashed, for there is a continuous stream of fresh phantom-like objects.
The palace is surrounded by a high wall painted red, and roofed with yellow tiles. Red likewise is the large gate studded with yellow nails. In fact, there are three gates side by side—in China everything is threefold—but they are all closed. In front of them are sentries, for the palace is sacred, and entrance into it means decapitation. On the other side are small shops and stores, in the windows of which are exhibited motley wares, while the façades are carved with a hundred and one very quaint pictures. What they represent I am at a loss to know.
We escape into one of the many side streets. It is narrow, dark, and seems to be endless, running along between the houses like a river, to right and left.
Now we reach something like a desert. I cannot call it a common, because there is no grass; there is nothing but dust and dirt. Farther away are some ruins, and still farther a red wall can be seen. It is again the wall of the Imperial city, that gigantic structure that follows us wherever we go. It is either in front of us or behind us, on one side or the other. Beyond the wilderness are rows of houses. Behind huge walls the tops of some shadowy trees are visible now and again, the gabled roofs of yamens and a few flagstaffs.
A little more wilderness is followed by a few rows of houses, and beyond them come some streets; shops crowded with customers, and, lastly, the ubiquitous red wall again.
In the middle of the wall is the gate, a wooden structure, with gabled towers and aggressively golden dragons painted on it, and little bells hanging down from the corners. Crowds are streaming from the archway; sunburnt coolies endeavouring to get their light carts over the marble steps. Now we face the broad Imperial street. The shops on both sides are still more carved and gilt than the others. The gables are like umbrellas blown inside out by the wind, and the edges do not lack ornament, being decorated with carved tassels and lace and every conceivable trimming. The signboards are well worth studying. Some are of wood, others of metal, cast iron, or paper; but all display glaring colours. No wonder they attract the attention of passersby. The shoemakers’ wooden signs are of unusually large size, showing the latest fashion in foot-gear either painted or carved, and apparently floating in the clouds or in higher spheres. The sign is generally suspended in the claws of some grinning monster or lion by a chain that is fastened to the eaves. Next in point of merit are the signs of the Pekin apothecaries, who in this respect decidedly excel us; and the pawnbrokers’ symbols deserve even more attention than the others from an artistic point of view.
The pavement is occupied by stalls and booths, their only protection from the sun being a sheet of canvas fixed to a pole. The wares are spread out on the ground. Street kitchens abound, consisting of little earthenware stoves or small iron grates which are used for cooking. Half-naked workmen are huddled round the tables, which are covered with little mugs about as large as teacups, each containing something different, hundreds of delicacies with sauces both bitter and sweet at once. Long thin sticks are used instead of forks, and the skill shown in the handling of them is simply astonishing. I have never seen people eat more daintily. A dinner of eight or nine courses can be had for about one farthing. With their chopsticks they pick out some of the solid dishes, seasoning them with four or five different sauces. The Chinese are the greatest gourmets in the world, for I notice that the ordinary meals of labourers are more complicated than the choicest menu of a French chef.
The end of the street is enclosed by a wall—the usual red wall—the inner defence of the Imperial city. Here stands the Western Gate, and the monumental quarter, with yellow tiled roofs, begins. In front of it is a sentry, the entrance to the garden being strictly prohibited.
My way is not in that direction, but to the north. In the centre of the park, which has recently been replanted, stands the cathedral, finished a few months ago.
The work of the Chinese Missions is written on one of the latest pages of universal history. The events of two years ago are still vividly impressed on our memories, when the few hundred Christians who had sought refuge at the Mission in Pei-tang seemed to be doomed. No one believed that they could stand the siege of the frantic mob, for, except a garden wall a few feet high, there were no means of defence. It was due to the most resolute courage and valour that the little flock did not surrender. Old and young, priests and soldiers, fought side by side in the breaches from morning to night.
During the weary weeks of the siege many fell under arms, and many more among the orphans and sisters of charity died of exhaustion.
The recent graves forming the small cemetery in the inner garden were dug to receive the bodies of these new martyrs.
But, after all, Christian faith triumphed over pagan hatred, and finally the hour of deliverance struck. And today Pei-tang and its cathedral stand finer and stronger than before, to the benefit of humanity and the glory of God.
III
THE NEW LEGATION QUARTERS
It is now a month since I arrived in Pekin. The autumn has passed quickly—and October is the finest time during the whole year in the yellow capital, for the weather is mild and clear. In the morning it is cool, and frosts are not rare at night. But later in the day the skies are cloudless, and the sun is often as hot as in summer. As regards climate—which, by the way, is an important factor in the life and progress of a nation—Pekin is a bundle of contrasts. The summer is hot, the winter extremely cold, the spring wet, and the autumn very dry. Since my arrival there has been no rain, but occasionally it has become cloudy, and as dark as if the sun were eclipsed. The wind, when blowing from the north, sweeps sand from the desert of Gobi before it, and shrouds the whole town in a veil as it were. This sand spreads over the whole atmosphere like a dense fog, through which one can hardly see a yard’s distance. It penetrates windows, doors, even cracks, and buries the whole district like a stream of lava. After a sand-storm the sky clears, and becomes bluer than the blue dome of the Mediterranean, smooth and translucent as though cut out of a gigantic sapphire. This contrast between dull and bright weather seems to create two distinct towns; in the one all is gloomy, in the other all is bright. That is the reason why those who have described Pekin have either found everything sombre, or have looked upon it through rosy spectacles. The truth lies between the two extremes. I go so far as to say that each is correct—but only relatively.
The traveller who would describe Pekin ought to make daily notes of what he has seen and heard when he sees and hears it, and use light and shade as an artist on his canvas. He who adopts this method will be more successful than those who merely restrict themselves either to recording salient points, or matters of historical importance, or to advocating some political idea.
The longer I live within the walls of Pekin the more am I convinced that, in spite of her decadent condition, she is yet full of vitality and, like Constantinople, embodies a national ideal.
In the afternoon I stroll over to the international area and pay a visit to all the legations. My amiable guide, who was here during the siege, when so many of the defenders perished, can supply information as to many dark episodes of the Boxer rebellion, and shows me where the most serious attacks were made, how they bombarded the legations from the city wall over there, how they used to throw blazing torches on to the roofs of these houses, and how they tried to blow up that quarter.
Looking at the place now, it seems incredible that the garrison—a mere handful—should have been able to withstand the frenzied crowd; but one must not forget that it was a mob, not a disciplined army.
As to the French and English legations, the former was reduced nearly to ruins, while the latter suffered comparatively little damage, but lost more lives.
The so-called European quarter is a large area of about a mile and a half square, lying between the Imperial city and the Tartar wall, and crossed by the Rue des Legations.
I start on my round at the Legation Yamen. In front of the royal palace on the right are the new American barracks, before the gates of which a number of soldiers of every nationality are lounging. Opposite is the International Hospital, a two-storeyed building painted light blue; an uglier erection I have never seen, but I am pleased to find the interior arrangements excellent.
The Dutch and American legations came next, adjoining each other, as do also the Russian and English, but of these only the garden walls are visible. Architecturally the American legation is decidedly unattractive, and therefore it does not matter much that it is hidden from view, but the Russian and English legations are typical Chinese dwellings. The architecture of the latter is interesting, for the house itself belonged to one of the Imperial princes, and was built in a style worthy of his rank. On the opposite bank of the canal the Italian and Japanese concessions form a square. A new wall has been built quite recently, and is fortified at the corner by a turret. The German legation is on the other side of the Rue des Legations. The barracks have just been completed, and if they were built for vindictive reasons, Germany has more than attained her end, so hideous are they. Built in Gothic style, they are the most conspicuous of all, and utterly destroy the harmony of the Oriental forms around them. The Austro-Hungarian legation is still in course of erection, in the style of a villa with porticoes; its chief merit lies in its simplicity, but it would certainly have harmonized better with its surroundings had the architect adhered to the style of the old yamens. Though the walls and slender pillars may appeal to the æsthete, it reminds one of a castle of cards, which will easily collapse in future troubles.
The series of legations is closed by the Belgian. The Russo-Chinese and Shanghai Banks are also in the Rue des Legations, the former supported by Russian, the latter by English capital. Their operations spread far and wide.
Such are the main features of the so-called international territory, that famous and historic spot, the theatre of the recent Chinese troubles. Every inch of it was most gallantly defended by its feeble garrison, day and night, for many months. These heroes were decimated by the bullet, sickness, or famine.
The great distance between Europe and China was probably the reason why the outer world knew so little of the serious nature of the siege, and the isolation of the legations made matters worse.
At the time of my visit it was barely two years since it all happened, but, during that short time, a new city had arisen on the ruins of the European concession. To get a better view I ascend a bastion, and wherever I look busy workmen meet my eyes. The Powers seem to be vying with each other; one patronizes gables, another prefers towers, or adorns its walls with bastions; but all is with the view of overshadowing their neighbours. My eye was at first offended by the artistic shortcomings of these buildings, but now it is their practical defects that are conspicuous. It looks as if the oft-quoted and melancholy chaos which followed the victory of the Powers has found visible expression in this new quarter. There seems to be neither uniformity of plan nor advantage of position.
But this is not the only weak point of the Treaty of Chefoo. Its provisions fixed the war indemnity, established commercial treaties of dubious worth, and made a few concessions valuable only for the moment, and this at a time when the Powers were absolute masters and in a position to dictate reforms, not only of local and temporary importance, but of universal, historical, and moral value.
The Boxer movement of 1900 came as a great surprise, at any rate to the majority of the Powers, and during the outbreak the sole aim of some of the legations seemed to be to secure their own advantage and defeat the aspirations of the rest. This might partly explain how the most guilty persons escaped punishment, and the old state of affairs in China soon returned.
The foreign ministers came back and occupied their new quarters, protected by thicker walls, which the Boxers would have more difficulty in pulling down. I do not know whether I ought to take all I was told about these fortifications seriously, but the garden walls seemed to have been built in the belief that they were indestructible. A few hundred soldiers are kept here by the respective Powers to protect their subjects in case of war. They might suffice in the event of a street riot, but if this nation of four hundred millions should some day determine to act in unison, these walls and the ornamental sentries would, I am afraid, make a very poor defence. In fact, it is hardly to be believed that, if China were once more to attack the European legations, she would employ a mob for the purpose. It is more likely that she will wait until her army is reorganized and armed with modern rifles and Krupp guns.
The new quarter exhibits the same defects as the old. The walls, indeed, are a little higher and the barracks have additional wings, but they remain isolated as before.
It is always a difficult task to throw up defensive works within a city—even the value of the most efficient is questionable; but, if these precautionary measures were absolutely needful, it would certainly have been better to enclose the entire European quarter with a stronger common wall, as is the case with the Imperial city. This would have made it possible for the garrisons of the legations to defend any point attacked conjointly. And it would have had the further advantage that a really pretty, shady town would have been built in the Anglo-Indian style, amongst earthworks planted with trees, instead of a number of insanitary separate walled prisons.
Or would it not have been better to build the European town outside the city gate, between the canal and the railway, where the movement of Pekin is least felt? Neither money nor concessions were wanting, and, both for hygienic and strategical reasons, it would have been far better. The air is purer there, and, in the event of danger, the chances of escape or of obtaining assistance from without are far greater.
The present European quarter in Pekin reminds one of a town which has been rebuilt, after violent earthquakes, on the same spot and in the same way, on that most unsubstantial foundation—chance.
IV
THE TARTAR CITY
The outward appearance of the city, with the exception of the European quarter, is the same as of yore. The ground plan of Pekin is very regular, and is formed of two squares, one the Tartar, the other the Chinese town, each surrounded by a separate wall, with a total number of thirteen gates, with gigantic double-roofed towers.
The centre is occupied by the Imperial city, within which is the Purple or Forbidden City, and inside this we come at last to the Emperor’s palaces, private mansions, villas, tea-houses, and temples. The Imperial Palace is itself intersected by gardens, lakes, and streams, and looks more like a city than a palace, nay, like a miniature picture of this whole-walled country.
From the large gate a broad street leads through the Imperial and Tartar towns to the great Southern Gate, one of the strangest thoroughfares in the world. The innermost wall is set in a square of broad moats. Four arched marble bridges lead to the four gates. The jagged wall, the pagoda-like towers of the bastions, the arches of the bridges, all are decorated with finely carved dragons, as rigidly prescribed by law. Walls, moats, towers, and palaces, are repeated in all parts of the gigantic palace; the walls of all buildings being painted red. The shape of the yellow-tiled roofs is that of booths. Everything is planned in accordance with traditions thousands of years old. The threshold must not be larger than that which Confucius crossed, nor must the door be wider than the length of the great teacher’s arms.
Every detail of the dwelling, to the minutest ornament, has some symbolic or mythical significance; for instance, at the entrance one never fails to find the wall which tradition demands to protect the peaceful inhabitants from evil spirits, while the ceiling of the house must not be higher than any of the goblins would care to ascend.
In the same way the trimming or embroidery of the dress of an official or courtier has its particular meaning. This likewise applies to private individuals, and the innermost chambers of their homes, simply because it is required by law.
It is this rigid system that makes China appear so uniform, at any rate outwardly. This same system, too, gives her her great interest from a psychological point of view.
There is hardly any nation or people, throughout the whole history of civilization, whose life has been so profoundly and lastingly influenced by doctrine as the population of the Yellow Empire has been by the teachings of Confucius. From the celestial altar (representing the centre of the universe), where only the Son of Heaven may worship his Father, down to each separate temple, yamen, and stone of sacrifice, everything expresses one and the same ethical idea. It is this gigantic moral system, with its organic life penetrating to the minutest detail, that keeps China strong, even in her present decadence, and makes Pekin, even amidst its ruins, one of the greatest cities on earth. It is the plan, or let us say conception, which makes us wonder. The metaphysical qualities of this people fascinate us; their ancient traditions are still their strongholds, and their old systems, however degenerate, the source of moral strength. But I hope to deal more fully elsewhere with the psychological side of China. At present I only want to give a hasty sketch of its capital.
One can scarcely imagine a more systematically laid out city than Pekin. The throne is in the centre; thence radiates every street, thither leads every road. It is the focus of the city, the heart of the empire, but—forbidden ground. The man who sets foot therein forfeits his life, so sacred and inviolable is it. Within the second wall the Imperial Family and the Court reside, precious stones set in gold, as the bards say.
Next comes the so-called Imperial city. The extensive Lotus Lake, the long marble bridge, the Maisan hill, the summer residence of the Dowager Empress, are all contained in that vast area—a number of little towns whose wonders would take whole chapters to describe. Each of them has its own mysterious history.
There was a time when, among the clusters of the lotus, more blood flowed than water. Upon one of the islets stands a summer-house, a very homely building, looking as though its only purpose must be to shelter happiness; but fate made a most gloomy prison of it. There the young Emperor was confined, in anguish, like a criminal, and never knowing whether the morrow would find him alive or lying at the bottom of the lake.
Poor young Emperor! Though he has regained his liberty—if leaving the island for the palace walls can be called freedom—his mind is wrapped in darkness. His youthful dream of making his people happy has vanished for ever. His lofty ideals have crumbled to dust, and of his early counsellors, some are in exile, others in the eternal silence.
The new town residence of the Empress is along the south-eastern wall, and there are other houses enclosed in gardens, all exhibiting the same architectural uniformity—red walls and yellow roofs. The only decoration is the marble staircase with carved dragons. In the adjacent gardens are the quarters of the household staff, and close by the old Foreign Mission and the cathedral. The Mission exchanged those quarters for a fine site farther off, where it is now established.
The Maisan (meaning “mount of coal”) is an artificial hill in front of the principal Northern Gate. Its five peaks are adorned with fine summer residences of unequalled beauty, and roofed with enamelled tiles, displaying a number of the porcelain towers so familiar to us from our school-books.
Many versions have come down to posterity as to the origin of the Maisan, but I am inclined to think that originally it was erected for the same purpose as the walls round the gates—that of protection against evil spirits. My assumption is rather confirmed by the fact that in the grove extending along the side of the hill stands the great death-chamber, a hall supported on colossal pillars, wherein is deposited the coffin of a deceased Emperor. The funeral procession passes through the large Northern Gate in front of the graves of the Emperors. In China, where everything has a meaning, it would be fallacious to assume that the Maisan did not symbolize something, and the uncertainty and mystery only enhance the beauty of the evergreen groves of the place. It is like the Roman Testaccian Hill in this respect, the only interesting feature of whose barrenness lies in its mysterious origin.
The fourth wall is that of the Tartar city, which is almost square, and has altogether ten gates—three to the north, three to the south, two to the east, and two to the west. The wall is about seventeen miles long and fifty feet high, and so wide that a dozen soldiers abreast can ride on it comfortably. At its four corners are four three-storeyed bastions with double-gabled, green-tiled roofs. Over the gates are towers with similar roofs, and everywhere the same Imperial emblems, the same dragons and ornamentation. Everything bears the stamp of uniformity, embodying one canon of taste and one idea.
One can hardly imagine a grander and more sombre structure than the symmetrical, harmonious walls of Pekin, and the more we see of them the more we are charmed.
The wall of the Chinese town was added to that of the Tartar city to form a parallelogram; it is similar to the former, though somewhat more modest. To the north the three gates of the Tartar city serve as entrance, while on its eastern and western sides are two gates respectively, and to the south is the principal entrance to Pekin. Then come the moats and ditches and the ubiquitous bridges. So any one desiring to approach the throne must pass altogether through five cities, seven gates, and five bridges, and in the Imperial city one must walk through five halls and five courts ere the throne itself is reached.
The conception of all this is as grand as it is masterly. Nowhere is the idea of majesty enhanced so infinitely, and nowhere is power adorned to such an extent as in China. The Winter Palace and Windsor Castle are merely private dwellings, and even Versailles loses much of its grandeur when compared to the Imperial Palace in Pekin.
It is only a few months since the Court returned from its protracted exile to the deserted palaces; and what a brilliant and magnificent spectacle that grand procession afforded on the long route through five cities and so many gates and bridges! although the uniforms of the soldiers must have looked rather shabby and the coats of the mandarins somewhat worn. The pageant must have been one of the most striking ever seen.
V
THE CHINESE CITY
The skill of the mechanics and industry of the Chinese artisans are proverbial, and it is a never-ending source of interest to watch them, or to study the commercial spirit of the people. I have lately seen a good deal of the commercial life of Pekin, though I am more familiar with that of Niu-chwang. The long rows of caravans, coming from the western frontier and Tibet, and laden with merchandise peculiar to those regions, are characteristic of the former.
The centre of trade is in the Chinese city; but how can I convey an idea of this to those who do not know this people and this part of the world? What a blending of colours! what noise and dust! what an infinity of light and shade! what a wonderful mosaic! Who could ever grasp the total effect in all its splendour? Who could ever understand it in all its mystery?
Every detail is so novel, and everything I see comes as a surprise. During my prolonged stay I go out every afternoon on some extended walk of exploration, and the greatest charm of my wanderings is that I come across famous monuments when I least expect them. I divide the city into different portions, and each day I visit another quincunx. My task is the easier owing to the fact that the town is built on a chess-board plan, like a military encampment. Strictly speaking, it is composed of several towns, each having its own distinct characteristics and purpose, and each a peculiar architecture, while each is inhabited by a different caste. The so-called Tartar city is the home of all the Manchus, who followed the present dynasty from their native land. They are mostly public officials, or enrolled in the Imperial army.
The Inner, or Imperial city, is reserved for mandarins and higher Court dignitaries, and encloses the more restricted area with the three consecutive cities—the Purple, Forbidden, and Sacred. One part of the Purple City is entirely reserved for the Empress Dowager, and the other part contains the abodes of the Court and their guardians. The centre of this marvellous maze is the Emperor’s sanctuary.
On the southern side of the Tartar city extends the Chinese city, set apart entirely for commercial purposes, where all the Chinese live, whence its name. All the famous shops are there, and there a bustling trade is carried on from morning till night.
“Are the Pekin sights worth seeing?” is the universal question of new arrivals. It would be easier to give an answer if one were asked, “What is not worth seeing, and what can be omitted in Pekin?” Among my many excursions there was not one devoid of some striking discovery—a fine building, unknown spot, or quaint scene; and even when I did not come across any regular sight, I was always surrounded by a world full of interest, a world by itself.
If I were to give my opinion, I should advise the foreigner, before everything, to examine this quaint world which surrounds him, and to seek to understand its exuberant life; and it would be a great advantage to visit the different parts of the city at different hours of the day, to watch the sun rise from the city walls when the town seems to awake with the sudden burst of light, and to pass the morning hours in the narrow lanes, overcrowded with shops; at midday to pay visits to the official yamens and to local grandees, or to drive in the afternoon to one of the temples, or make an excursion to the neighbouring shrines and watch the sun set from the eastern hills, or the top of the famous pagodas, lost amidst the country.
From an artistic standpoint there are a great many gems to be found, while so far as nature is concerned, the surrounding hills are unsurpassed in their scenery.
The Imperial deer-park is very fine too, and in its quiet melancholy offers a charming haunt for solitary rides. Another place for an outing is the famous Princesses’ Tombs, which are worth while visiting in every respect. And there is the charming old Portuguese cemetery, with its sad graves of the first Christians, who played such a leading part at the Emperor’s Court in the seventeenth century. The inscriptions on the monuments and white marble crosses are so many records of the first missionaries’ work. And farther on is one of Pekin’s architectural marvels, the well-known so-called Thirteen-storeyed Pagoda. Its walls are richly carved with uncanny figures, and it is covered with an indescribable roof, looking like thirteen umbrellas put one on top of the other.
There are, moreover, the two Summer Palaces, one of rich French rococo, but now lying in ruins, and the other, which still serves as a summer abode, occupying a vast area, scattered over with many kiosks, tea-houses, and yamens, laid out with marvellous gardens, artificial fishponds, and marble bridges. Unluckily, entrance to it is strictly forbidden, and a trespasser would be punished by decapitation. Until quite recently permission was never accorded to a foreigner to penetrate this forbidden paradise. Now on certain occasions the diplomatic body is received within, and at such a function I was an invited guest; but as I have endeavoured, in another chapter, to give a description, however inadequately, of this wonderland of china pagodas, hanging gardens belonging to the modern Semiramis, and forests planted with miniature orchards and pines, I will not enlarge upon them here. It would indeed be impossible to depict in words what can only be realized by sight. I can only hope that others may have the same privilege.
I would give the same advice with regard to the Imperial Palace in Pekin, which, after all, is the greatest wonder of this wondrous city.
While rambling in Pekin, no one should omit to explore the main thoroughfares of both cities, to visit the side lanes, nor to stop before the great Chinese Gate, or Ta-chin-men, and look straight down and enjoy the marvellous panorama of the Ch’ien-men, or Great Street. Sitting on the marble balustrade of the Ch’ien-men San-tau Bridge, one could spend hours in watching the extraordinary scene. The whole population of this gigantic city seems to assemble here at certain hours of the day. Rich mandarins on horses with elaborate trappings and humble coolies, princes coming from Mongolia, carried in splendid litters, are stopped by the half-naked members of the celebrated Beggars’ Guild. There are shops on both sides and booths in front of each shop, displaying more modest wares; and besides this double row of shops, there is a third row of goods for sale; but this department consists merely of mats or sheets of paper spread out in the gutter, where ragamuffins offer the treasure-trove of the preceding night. Behind the Ch’ien-men Street is a maze of alleys, packed with warehouses and richly carved fronts, which form the most marvellous bazaar ever seen. And the effect of this fairyland built of cardboard and tinsel is enhanced by the sun coming through the open spaces in the awnings in shafts of light. Indeed, I would strongly recommend every one to take his first reconnoitring walk through the Ch’ien-men quarter.
As for sights and architectural treasures, there is such an amazing number of them that it is necessary to employ a little discrimination and to put aside the ambition of the average sightseer, which is to say, “I did them all.”
Among the temples, the Hall of the Classics, or Pi-yung-kung, also called the Temple of Confucius, which contains the complete text of the nine King or Classical Books, the foundation of ancient Chinese literature, is one of the most remarkable. There are several interesting buildings in its shady grounds, and the entrance arch, covered with beautiful yellow porcelain, is a triumph of Chinese art. Kwo-tsze-chien is another fine pile, and its foundation dates from the time of the Yuan dynasty, which reigned in the thirteenth century. The main hall contains a most interesting wooden tablet, with a characteristic inscription as follows: “The tablet to the soul of the most holy ancestral teacher, Confucius.”
The best known and most often described temple is that of the famous Lama monastery, which is a town in itself, composed of many buildings and still owning many art treasures, some very good pieces of cloisonné, and excellent jade work. At certain hours of the day the monks have services with wonderful ritual, and a procession of the Great Lama, clad in royal purple and saffron-yellow, followed by his silk-draped staff, wearing helmets and crests bristling with feathers. It is a spectacle of unquestionable novelty to a European.
Outside the wall one must not omit a visit to Hwang-ssu, where, in the centre court, stands a white marble monument, erected by the Emperor Kien-lung to the memory of the Teshoo Lama, who was the uncle of the one in Lhassa, the Dalai Lama, and who, during a visit to the Imperial city, where he was the guest of the Emperor himself, died suddenly, as the inscription says, of malignant smallpox. Not less famous is the Ta-chung-ssu, or Temple of the Great Bell. It was built in the sixteenth century, and contains the largest bell in the empire, which a century and a half before was cast by order of Yung-Lo.
But among all the temples, as its name indicates, the finest is the so-called Temple of Heaven, where only the Emperor has the right to offer sacrifice. It stands in a grove, occupying over a square mile, in the south-eastern quarter of the Chinese city, and although it consists of but a few buildings only, each is one of the marvels of the East.
The main hall is a rotunda, a kind of pagoda built on top of a platform, which, with its balustrade and the flight of steps skirting it all round, are of finely carved marble. The colonnade, supporting the umbrella-like roof, is of purple lacquered timber, the tiles being of blue porcelain; and I think it is the only building which is permitted to be covered with the colour of the sky. From this unique shrine, across the grass and through the grove, leads a marble pathway to the Imperial altar.
This altar, if so it can be called, is really another platform like the previous one from which we came, but it is even more imposing, higher, and surrounded by more elaborate stairs and finer balustrades. It has no shrine and no pagoda on the top of it; its colonnade is formed by the cedars and cypresses of the grove which surround it, and the dome of this spotless white marble pedestal is the cloudless blue sky.
It would be vain to try to make the beauty of this spot comprehensible. Besides, my aim is not to trespass on the domain of a guide-book, which very likely would give a whole chapter to this place, and even so, I am afraid, would never succeed in conveying the poetic impression of the unique shrine.
I must, however, mention a few other places of interest. The Temple of the Earth, for instance, which is also very extensive, has some very fine buildings, a delightful old sundial, and an emblematic well. In an open space there is a field of rice, the symbol of fertility, where the Emperor ploughs the first furrow of the year.
Of course, the two huge towers which look down upon us at a distance through all our wanderings should not be omitted either. One is the Tower of the Gong or Bell, and the other that of the Drum. They are, in fact, two belfries, for announcing all good or evil news to the citizens.
I would also recommend everybody to go where the two Gothic spires lift their graceful forms towards heaven, and to pass an afternoon at the Mission of Pei-tang, where they will meet with an excellent reception and be offered sincere hospitality. They may still see traces of the Boxer vandalism, ruins and shells piled up in pyramids, a small cemetery where all the martyrs are buried—soldiers and priests, starving children and helpless women—and a small commemorative chapel. It will unquestionably please them to see that most of the ruins have been restored, and that the extensive orphanage houses several hundred children. Pei-tang is a centre, not only of faith but of work, and the children go through hard training schools before they are able to earn their daily bread. The boys as a rule become artisans or tradesmen, and those who show greater aptitude become silversmiths, or cloisonné makers. Those who like study can enter the adjoining grammar school or the seminary. Needlework is the main occupation of the little girls, who make beautiful lace and fine embroideries, and their products find an easy market in the European or Legation quarter.
Pei-tang is certainly worth visiting, and most edifying, and not only co-religionists will find satisfaction in all they see, but any one interested in history, art, education, charitable work, and civilization in general, will gather useful information and find valuable documents.
As for the evenings in Pekin, even the best guide-book will fail to give advice. At sunset everything is closed and everybody retires; the city gates are barred, and traffic is stopped. Even the famous theatres are deserted, and the plays, which begin early in the morning, must finish at dusk. During the night Pekin is wrapped in silence and darkness. It is only in the European quarter that lights are to be perceived, and loud talk, hoarse laughter, or a hackneyed chorus, issues from a newly opened bar—sad recreation ground for the Allied Troops, giving the Chinese but a sorry example of the European idea of amusement.
Furnished with letters of introduction, which are more necessary in the East than passports, the traveller will have an opportunity of passing some charming evenings at the different legations, and in the houses of the resident diplomatists, officers, priests, and so forth, and they will be able to see how their compatriots live in exile and discuss the last events that have occurred in the West, and, by the blue smoke of a cigar, forecast the possibilities of the East.
← Back to Empires and Emperors of Russia, China, Korea, and Japan