Passing onwards through a puzzling maze of courtyards, we reached at length the most interesting portion of the palace, the private apartments of the Emperor, the Empress‐Consort, and that notorious lady the Empress‐Dowager. Like all the rest of the Forbidden City, they were merely one‐storied, yellow‐roofed pavilions separated by courts.
The interior of the Emperor’s abode consisted of low, rather dingy rooms opening off each other. The appointments were of anything but regal magnificence. The furniture was of carved blackwood, with an admixture of tawdry European chairs and sofas. On the walls hung a weird medley of Chinese paintings and cheap foreign oleographs, all in gorgeous gilt frames. The latter were such as would be found in a fifth‐rate lodging‐house—horse races, children playing at see‐saw, conventional landscapes, and farmyard scenes. Jade ornaments and artificial flowers in vases abounded; but all around, wherever one could be hung or placed, were European clocks, from the gilt French timepiece under a glass shade to the cheapest wooden eight‐day clock. There must have been at least two or three hundred, probably more, scattered about the pavilion. The Chinese have a weird and inexplicable passion for them, and a man’s social respectability would seem to be gauged more by the number of timepieces he possesses than by any other outward and visible signs of wealth. What a costly collection of rare masterpieces of art is to the American millionaire, the heterogeneous gathering of foreign clocks apparently is to the Celestial plutocrat. The Imperial bed was a fine piece of carved blackwood; but the most magnificent article of furniture in the pavilion was a large screen of the famous Canton featherwork, made of the green and blue plumage of the kingfisher. The design, which was framed and covered with glass, represented a pilgrimage to a sacred mountain. On its summit stood a temple, towards which crowds of worshippers climbed wearily. As a work of art it was excellent. It was the only thing in the Imperial apartments which I coveted. The rest of the furniture and fittings were tawdry and apparently valueless.
The pavilion of the Empress‐Consort was rather more luxuriously upholstered than that of her husband and contained some splendid embroideries. In her boudoir, besides the inevitable collection of clocks, oleographs, and artificial flowers, were a piano and a small organ, both very much out of tune, presented, we were told, by European ladies resident in China.
The pavilion of the Empress‐Dowager, a much finer abode than that of the reigning monarch, contained a long, glass‐walled room crowded with bizarre ornaments of foreign workmanship. Musical boxes, mechanical toys under glass shades, vases of wax flowers, stood along each side on marble‐topped tables; and all around, of course, clocks. On the walls of her sleeping apartment hung a strange astronomical chart. The bed, an imposing and wide four‐poster, was covered and hung with rich embroideries. And, as tourists should do, we lay down in turn on the old lady’s couch, where I warrant she had tossed in sleepless agitation in those last summer nights when the rattle of musketry around the besieged Legations told that the hated foreigners still resisted China’s might. And little slumber must have visited her there when the booming of guns, during the dark hours when Russian and Japanese flung themselves on the doomed city, disturbed the silence even in the sacrosanct heart of the Forbidden City and told of the vengeance at hand.
Having thoroughly inspected the Imperial apartments, we visited a very gaudily decorated temple, crowded with weird gods and hung with embroideries, and then passed on to the small but delightful Emperor’s garden. It was full of quaintly shaped trees and shrubs, bizarre rockeries and curious summer‐houses, gorgeous flowers and plants, and splendid bronze monsters. These last absolutely blazed in the brilliant sunlight as though gilded; for they are made of that costly Chinese bronze which contains a large admixture of gold. The garden closed the catalogue of sights to be seen in the palace; and though we visited a few more of the dingy buildings of the Forbidden City, there was nothing else worthy of being chronicled. We passed out through the northern gateway and climbed up Coal Hill close by for a long, comprehensive look over Pekin from the pavilion on the summit.
All around us the capital lay embosomed in trees and bathed in brilliant sunshine, the yellow roofs of the Imperial Palace at our feet flashing like gold. To the right lay the pretty Lotos Lakes of the Empress‐Dowager, the white marble bridge spanning them stretching like a delicate ivory carving over the gleaming water. Through the haze of heat and dust the towers of the walls rose up boldly to the sky. And far away, beyond the crowded city, the country stretched in fertile fields and dense groves of trees to a distant line of hills, where the tall temples of the Summer Palace stood out sharply against a dark background.
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.