CHAPTER V

RAMBLES IN PEKIN

When the treachery of the Empress‐Dowager and the mad fanaticism of the Chinese ringed in the Legations with a circle of fire and steel, all the world trembled at the danger of the besieged Europeans. When Pekin fell and relief came, the heroism of the garrison was lauded through every nation. But few heard of a still more gallant and desperate defence which took place at the same time and in the same city—when a few priests and a handful of marines in the Peitan, the Roman Catholic cathedral of Pekin, long held at bay innumerable hordes of assailants. Well deserved as was the praise bestowed on the defenders of the Legations, their case was never so desperate as that of the missionaries, nuns, and converts penned up in the church and schools. On the Peitan fell the first shock of fanatical attack; no armistice gave rest to its weary garrison, and to it relief came last of all. For over two months, with twenty French and eleven Italian marines, the heroic Archbishop, Monseigneur Favrier, and his priests—all honour to them!—held an almost impossible position against overwhelming numbers. The _enceinte_ of the defence comprised the cathedral, the residences of the priests, the schools, and the convent, and contained within its straggling precincts, besides the nuns and the missionaries, over 3,000 converts—men, women, and children. The buildings were riddled with shot and shell. Twice mines were exploded within the defences and tore away large portions of the protecting wall, besides killing or wounding hundreds.

The Chinese occupied houses within a few yards of the cathedral, and on one occasion brought a gun up within forty paces of its central door. A few rounds would have laid the way open to the stormers. All hope seemed lost; when the dauntless old Archbishop led out ten marines in a desperate sally, drove off the assailants, and, capturing the gun, dragged it back within the church. A heroic priest volunteered to try to pierce the environing hordes of besiegers and seek aid from the Legations, not knowing that they, too, were in deadly peril. In disguise he stole out secretly from the defences, and was never heard of again. One shudders to think what his fate must have been. It is still a mystery. Under a pitiless close‐range fire the marines and priests, worthy of their gallant leader, stood at their posts day and night and drove back the mad rushes of the assailants. Heedless of death, the nuns bore water, food, and ammunition to the defenders, nursed the wounded and sick, and soothed the alarm of the Chinese women and children in their care. Disease and starvation added their grim terrors to the horrors of the situation.

Desirous of seeing the scene of this heroic defence, I set out one day to visit the cathedral in company with some officers of the Fusiliers and of my own regiment. The ground being dry, we chose rickshas for our vehicles in preference to Pekin carts, which are as uncomfortable a form of conveyance as any I know. Our coolies ran us along at a good pace, for the Pekinese ricksha‐men are exceedingly energetic; indeed, the Chinaman is the best worker I have ever seen, with the possible exception of the Corean boatmen at Chemulpo. The Hong Kong dock labourers are a model that the same class in England would never copy. One day in Dublin I watched three men raising a small paving‐sett a few inches square from the roadway. Two held the points of crowbars under it while the third leisurely scratched at the surrounding earth with a pickaxe, pausing frequently to wipe his heated brow and remark that “hard work is not aisy, begob!” I wondered what a Chinaman would have said if he had seen that sight.

Close to the Peitan we found ourselves in a broad street which was being re‐made by the French, who had named it “Rue du General Voyron” after their commander‐in‐chief. In it were many newly‐opened cafés and drinking‐shops, placarded with advertisements of various sorts of European liquors for sale within. Turning off this road into a narrow lane, we suddenly came upon the gate of the Peitan.

The cathedral is a beautiful building of the graceful semi‐Gothic type of modern French churches, lightly constructed of white stone. It is crowned by airy pinnacles and looks singularly out of place among the squalid Chinese houses that crowd around it. At first we could not discern any marks of the rough handling it had received, and marvelled at its good preservation. But on approaching closer, we saw that the masonry was chipped and scarred in a thousand places. Scarce a square yard of the front was without a bullet or shell‐hole through it. The walls were so thin that the shells had passed through without exploding; and it seemed almost incredible that any being could have remained alive within them during the hellish fire to which they had so evidently been subjected.

We were met at the entrance by Monseigneur Favrier’s courteous coadjutor‐bishop, who received us most hospitably, took us over the cathedral and round the defences, and explained the incidents of the siege to us. He showed us the enormous hole in the compound and the breach in the wall caused by the explosion of one of the Chinese mines, which had killed and wounded hundreds. The ground everywhere was strewn with large iron bullets and fragments of shells, fired by the besiegers. The Bishop smiled when we requested permission to carry off a few of these as souvenirs, and remarked with truth that there were enough to suffice for visitors for many years. We inspected with interest the gun captured by the Archbishop. Then, as he spoke no English, and I was the only one of the party who could converse with him in French, he handed us over to the care of an Australian nun, who proved to be a capital _cicerone_ and depicted the horrors they had undergone much more vividly than our previous guide had done. Her narrative of the sufferings of the brave sisters and the women and children was heartrending. Before we left we were fortunate enough to have the honour of being presented to the heroic prelate, whose courage and example had animated the defenders. A burly, strongly built man, with genial and open countenance, Monseigneur Favrier is a splendid specimen of the Church Militant and reminded one of the old‐time bishops, who, clad in armour, had led their flocks to war, and fought in the forefront of battles in the Middle Ages. His bravery was equalled by his modesty, for he resolutely declined to be drawn into any account of his exploits during the siege. Long may he flourish! A perfect specimen of the priest of God, the soldier, and the gentleman. As we parted from him we turned to look again on the man so modestly unconscious of his own heroism, that in any army in the world would have covered him with honours and undying fame.

When we looked at the extent of the defences and compared it with the paucity of the garrison, we could scarcely understand how the place resisted attack for an hour. By all the rules of warfare it was absolutely untenable. It is surrounded on all sides within a few yards by houses, which were occupied by the Chinese who from their cover poured in an unceasing and harassing fire upon the garrison. The defenders were too few to even attempt to drive them out,[5] and so were obliged to confine themselves to defeating the frequent assaults made on them. Their successful and gallant resistance was a feat that would be a glorious page in the annals of any army. “Palmam qui meruit ferat!”

Not the least remarkable of the many curious phases of this extraordinary campaign was the rapidity with which, when order had been restored, the Chinese settled down again in Pekin. A few months after the fall of the capital its streets, to a casual observer, had resumed their ordinary appearance; but the wrecked houses, the foreign flags everywhere displayed, the absence of the native upper classes, and the presence of the soldiers of the Allies marked the change. Burly Russian and lithe Sikh, dapper little Japanese and yellow‐haired Teuton roughly shouldered the Celestial aside in the streets, where formerly the white man had passed hurriedly along in momentary dread of insult and assault. But in the presence of the strict discipline of the troops after the first excesses the Chinaman speedily recovered his contempt—veiled though it was now perforce—for the foreign devil. Ricksha coolies argued over their fare, where not long before a blow would have been the only payment vouchsafed or expected. Lounging crowds of Chinese on the sidepaths refused to make way for European officers until forcibly reminded that they belonged to a vanquished nation.

Shops that had any of their contents left after the fairly complete looting the city had undergone opened again, the proprietors demanding prices for their goods that promised to rapidly recoup them for their losses. Vehicles of all kinds filled the streets, which were soon as interesting as they had been before the advent of the Allies—and a great deal safer. Pekin carts rattled past strings of laden Tartar camels, which plodded along with noiseless footfall and the weary air of haughty boredom of their kind. Coolies with streaming bodies ran their rickshas over the uneven roadway. Heavy transport waggons, drawn by European and American horses or stout Chinese mules, rumbled through the deep dust or heavy mud. And, thanks to the cleansing efforts of the Allies, the formerly most noticeable feature of Pekin was absent—its overpowering stench.

Engaging the services of a guide and interpreter, a party of us set out one afternoon to view the shops, with the ulterior purpose of purchasing some of the famous pottery and silks. We went in rickshas to Ha‐ta‐man Street, which is a good commercial thoroughfare. Arrived there, we discarded our man‐drawn vehicles and strolled along the high side‐walks, pausing now and then to gaze at the curious pictures of Chinese street life. Here peddlers sat surrounded by their wares. An old‐clothes merchant, selecting a convenient space of blank wall, had driven nails into it, and hung on them garments of all kinds, from the cylindrical trousers of the Chinese woman to the tarnished, gold‐embroidered coat of a mandarin, with perhaps a suggestive rent and stain that spoke all too plainly of the fate of the last owner. Another man sat amid piles of footgear—the quaint tiny shoes of women that would not fit a European baby, the slippers of the superior sex, with their thick felt soles, the long knee boots for winter wear. Here a venerable, white‐haired Chinaman, with the beard that bespoke him a grandfather, dozed among a heterogeneous collection of rusty knives, empty bottles and jampots, scraps of old iron, and broken locks of native or European manufacture. Another displayed cheap pottery of quaint shape and hideous colouring, or the curious, pretty little snuff‐bottles, with tiny spoons fitted into the stopper, that I have never seen anywhere but in China. Another offered tawdry embroidery or tinselled fan‐cases. Piles of Chinese books and writing‐desks, with their brushes and solid blocks of ink, were the stock‐in‐trade of another.

And true Oriental haughty indifference marked the demeanour of these cheapjacks when we searched among their curious wares for souvenirs of Pekin. They evinced not the least anxiety for us to buy, although they knew that the lowest price that they would extract from us was sure to be much more than they could obtain from a Chinese purchaser. Their demands were exorbitant for the commonest, most worthless article; and they showed no regret if we turned away exasperated at their rapacity. One asked me fifteen dollars for a thing which he gave eventually, after hard bargaining, for one, and then probably made a profit of fifty cents over it.

Farther on we stopped to gaze at a small crowd assembled round a fortune‐teller. A stout country‐woman was having her future foretold. The prophet, looking alternately at her hand and at a chart covered with hieroglyphics, was evidently promising her a career full of good fortune and happiness, to judge from the rapt and delighted expression on her face.

A bear, lumbering heavily through a cumbrous dance to the mournful strains of a weird musical instrument, was the centre of another small gathering. Farther down the street a juggler had attracted a ring of interested spectators, who, when the performer endeavoured to collect money from them, melted away quite as rapidly as a similar crowd in the streets of London scatters when the hat is passed round.

We had noticed many peepshows being exhibited along the side‐walk, with small, pig‐tailed urchins, their eyes glued to the peepholes, evidently having their money’s worth. Curious to see the spectacles with which the Chinese showman regales his audiences, we struck a bargain with one, and for the large sum of five cents the whole party was allowed to look in through the glasses. The first tableau represented a troupe of acrobats performing before the Imperial Court. Then the proprietor pressed a spring; by a mechanical device the scene changed, and we drew back from the peepholes! The Chinese are not a moral race. None of us were easily shocked, but the picture that met our gaze was a little too indecent for the broadest‐minded European. We moved on.

Outside a farrier’s booth a pony was being shod. Two poles planted firmly in the earth, with a cross‐piece fixed between them, about six feet from the ground, formed a sort of gallows. Ropes passed round the animal’s neck, chest, loins, and legs, and fastened to the poles, half suspending him in the air, held him almost immovable. The most vicious brute would be helpless in such a contrivance.

Our guide, on being reminded that we desired to make some purchases, stopped outside a low‐fronted, dingy shop, and informed us that it belonged to one of the best silk merchants in Pekin. We entered, and found the proprietor deep in conversation with a friend. The guide addressed him, and told him that we wished to look at some silks. Hardly interrupting his conversation, the merchant replied that he had none. Irritated at his casual manner, our interpreter asked why he exhibited a sign‐board outside the shop, which declared that silks were for sale within. “Oh, everything I had was looted. There is nothing left,” replied the proprietor nonchalantly; and he turned to resume his interrupted conversation as indifferently as if the plundering of his goods was too ordinary a business risk to demand a moment’s thought. Not a word of complaint at his misfortune. How different, I thought, from the torrent of indignant eloquence with which the European shopkeeper would bewail the slackness of trade or a fire that had damaged his property!

We were more successful in the next establishment we visited, for a new stock had been laid in since the capture of the city. But the silks were of very inferior quality, the colours crude and gaudy, and the prices exorbitant. So we purchased nothing.

We next inspected a china shop, which was stacked with pottery from floor to ceiling. To my mind the patterns and colouring of everything we saw were particularly hideous, though some of our party who posed as connoisseurs went into raptures over weird designs and glaring blues and browns.

I was equally disappointed in a visit to a fan shop. China is pre‐eminently the land of fans, and I had hoped to find some particularly choice specimens in Pekin. But all that were shown me were very indifferent—badly made and of poor design. The prettiest I have ever seen were in Canton, where superb samples of carved sandal‐wood and ivory can be procured at a very reasonable price. But Canton is far ahead of the capital in manufactures, and its inhabitants possess a keen commercial instinct. Its proximity to Hong Kong and the constant intercourse with foreigners have sharpened their trading faculties, and there are few smarter business men than the Canton shopkeeper.

Strolling along the street we reached a market‐place filled with open booths, in which food of all kinds was exposed for sale. Dried ducks, split open and skewered, hung beside sucking‐pigs. Buckets of water filled with wriggling eels stood on the ground. Salt fish, meat, and vegetables lay on the stalls, which were surrounded by a chaffering crowd. Sellers and buyers argued vehemently, and the din of the bargaining so dear to the Oriental heart filled the street. Women, with oiled hair twisted into curious shapes and wound round long, flat combs that stood out six inches on either side of the back of their heads, toddled up on tiny, maimed feet, and plunged into heated discussions with the dealers. Beggars exhibited their hideous deformities to excite the pity of the crowd, and clutched insolently at the dresses of the passers‐by to demand charity.

Close by, a group of urchins drew water from a well. It was in the middle of the side‐walk, and was covered with a large stone slab, pierced with four holes only just large enough to permit of the passage of the buckets.

On our way back to Chong Wong Foo that afternoon we passed close to the Legation quarter, and stopped to watch the progress of the wall which was being built around it as a protection against future attacks. It is simply a high wall constructed of the enormous Pekin bricks, easily defensible against infantry attack, but I should doubt if it would long resist artillery fire.

The most famous place of Buddhist worship in Pekin is the Great Lama Temple, which was, perhaps, the wealthiest monastery in China until Buddhism fell out of fashion. As it is still well worthy of a visit, I made an excursion to it one day in company with a small party. The monks had the reputation of being extremely hostile to foreigners; and although Europeans could now go in safety to most places in the capital, I was warned not to venture on a visit to this temple alone.

Outside the principal entrance stands a fine specimen of those curious Chinese structures, half gateway, half triumphal arch. The lower portion was of stone, the superstructure of wood. It was crowned with three small towers, roofed with yellow tiles, and painted with gaudy designs in glaring colours. On either side, on stone pedestals, were enormous lions that looked like the nightmare creations of a demon‐possessed artist. On passing through the front gate, we found ourselves in a paved courtyard surrounded by low, one‐storied temples standing on raised verandahs. In the centre was a double‐roofed square belfry with a small gate in each side. On entering the court we were at once surrounded by a clamorous crowd of shaven‐headed, yellow‐robed men of a villainous type of countenance. These were the famous—or infamous—Buddhist monks. Their dress consisted of a long, yellow linen gown, confined at the waist by a sash, trousers, white socks, and felt‐soled shoes. A more repulsive set of scoundrels I have never seen. Their former truculence was now replaced by a cringing servility. They crowded round us, demanding alms, or, holding out handfuls of small coins, offered to change our good silver dollars into bad five‐and ten‐cent pieces. Since Buddhism has ceased to be the fashionable religion in China, its ministers have fallen upon evil times, and subsist on charity and the offerings of the comparatively few followers of their creed. So visitors are vociferously assailed for alms; and the wily monks, with a keen eye to business, had hit upon the idea of making a little money by tendering small coins of a debased currency in change for good silver pieces. Shouldering the clamorous crowd aside, our interpreter seized on one ancient priest to act as our guide. This worthy cleric aided us to drive off his importunate fellows, and led us through several courts to the principal temple. Like all the other buildings around, it was covered with a quaint, yellow‐tiled roof, and on the corners of the gables and the projecting eaves were weird porcelain monsters; while below hung small bells, which clanked dismally when moved by the wind. The temple was high and the interior particularly large and lofty; for it contained a colossal image of Buddha, seated in the traditional posture, with crossed legs and hands holding the lotus flower and other sacred emblems. On its face was the abstracted expression of weary calm that is supposed to represent the attainment of Nirvana—content. Stairs led up to galleries passing round the interior of the building to the level of the head of the deity, so that one could gaze into his countenance at close range. The statue is not so large or artistically so meritorious as the similar images of Daibutsu at Kamakura or Hiogo in Japan, each of which is hollow and contains a temple in its interior. On the walls of the staircase, ranged on shelves, were thousands of little clay gods, crudely fashioned and painted. Our priestly guide refused to sell us any of these figures, though evidently sorely tempted by the sight of the almighty dollar. He evidently refrained from doing so only through fear of being found out, not through any respect for his sacred images. Having gazed into Buddha’s face and vainly endeavoured to experience the feeling of rapture that it is supposed to produce, we passed out to a balcony that ran round the exterior of the building. We were high up above the ground, and we looked down upon the jumble of quaint, yellow gables, the courtyards with their lounging groups of bullet‐headed priests, and away over the panorama of Pekin to where the tall buildings of the Imperial city rose above a sea of low roofs.

On descending again into the temple, we looked at the altars with tawdry ornaments, artificial flowers, faded hangings, and fantastic gods, and then passed out to the court. Our guide, having extracted alms from us, led us to another but smaller temple, and handed us over to its custodian priest, who unlocked the door and led us within. Round the walls were life‐sized gilt images—all of one design, and an exceedingly indecent design it was; and we had little respect for the morals of the ancient Chinese deified hero it represented. After visiting several other buildings containing little of interest, we induced some of the monks to let us photograph them. They were pleased and flattered at the idea, and posed readily; indeed, one who had been standing at the other side of the courtyard, seeing what was going on, rushed across and insisted on joining the group, anxious that his features, too, should be handed down to posterity. Throwing them a handful of small coins, which caused a very undignified scramble, we passed out of the gate. Seating ourselves in our rickshas, we drove to the Temple of Confucius, close by. It is devoted to the present Chinese faith, which is a mixture of ancestor‐worship and Confucianism, and consists of several buildings standing in pretty, tree‐shaded courts. The main temple contains long altars, on which are nothing but tablets with Chinese inscriptions—maxims of the worthy sage. Larger tablets hang on the walls. Confucian chapels are not interesting; and we were disappointed at the bareness of the interior. Similar but smaller buildings stood at the end of avenues in the grounds, but none repaid a visit.

The _cloisonné_ of Pekin is famous, and specimens of it command a good price throughout China. It is, however, decidedly inferior to Japanese work, which is much better finished and of far greater artistic merit. As I had never seen how the _cloisonné_ is made, I paid a visit to the principal factory in the capital. I was received by the proprietor, a very amiable old gentleman, who took our party round his establishment and showed us the process through all the stages from the raw material to the finished article. The place consisted of a number of small Chinese houses, some of which served as workshops, some were fitted up with furnaces for firing, others occupied as residences by the employees and their families. In the first courtyard two men were seated before a small table, making European cigarette cases. In front of them lay the design to be reproduced, flanked by small saucers containing liquid enamel of various colours and tiny brushes. One man held a square plate of copper, and with a sharp scissors cut very thin strips from its edges. These he seized with a pair of pincers and deftly bent and twisted them into patterns to correspond with the lines of the design before him. They were then fixed on to the side of the case with some adhesive mixture. As soon as they were firm, the other man filled in the spaces between these raised lines with the coloured enamels by means of a fine brush. The work was then left to dry before being fired in the furnaces to fix the colours. With their rude instruments these artists—for such they were—fashioned the most complicated designs of foliage, flowers, or dragons with a marvellous dexterity, judging altogether by eye, and never deviating by a hair’s breadth from the pattern given them. We entered a room, in which others sat round long tables, fastening designs on copper vases, plates, or bowls. Ornaments of all kinds, napkin‐rings, and crucifixes—these, needless to say, for foreigners—were being made. Show‐cases with specimens of the finished work stood round the walls, and the proprietor exhibited with pardonable pride the triumphs of his art. With rude appliances in dimly‐lit rooms, these ignorant Chinese workmen had achieved gems that the European artist could not excel.

He then showed us the large blocks of the raw stone which had to be ground up to form the enamel, and explained the processes it had to undergo before it became the brightly coloured paste that filled the saucers on the tables. We were then shown articles being placed in the furnaces or withdrawn when the firing was complete. Before leaving we purchased some specimens of the work as souvenirs of an interesting visit, and bade good‐bye to the grateful proprietor.

Such were our rambles through the vastness of that wonderful city so long a mystery to the outside world. Even in these days of universal knowledge its inmost recesses were a secret till fire and sword burst all barriers and the victorious foreigner ranged where he listed. The gates of palace and temple flew open to the touch of his rifle‐butt. The abodes of monarch, prince, and priest sheltered the soldiers of the conquerors, and the proudest mandarin drew humbly aside to let the meanest camp‐follower pass.

To me the most fascinating spectacle in Pekin was the ever‐changing life of the streets. The endless procession of strange vehicles, from the ricksha to the curious wheelbarrow that is a universal form of conveyance for passengers or goods on the narrow roads of North China. The motley crowds—Manchu, Tartar, white man, black, and yellow, dainty, painted lady of high rank and humble coolie woman, shaven‐crowned monk and long‐queued layman, all formed a moving picture unequalled in any city in the world. And above their heads floated the flags of the conquering nations that had banded together from the ends of the earth to humble the pride of China.

[Footnote 5: They had only forty rifles all told.]