The empty compliments have been exchanged—and empty indeed they are. At last an escort of palace guards and mandarins arrives, to lead us towards the inner palace gate.
I wish I could have fixed the picture then unrolled before my eyes; or have possessed a lantern of real magic, that could picture now all I saw, outline and colour and haze, all that was bright and all that was shadow!
It was a scene never to be forgotten.
A crowd dressed in all the hues of the rainbow, carrying silken flags, embroidered banners, painted inscriptions, gauze-covered lanterns, and glittering trophies: all the emblems of power, all the symbols of the Celestial Empire. The wondrous crowd stretches into a scattered procession and winds across the narrow lane like a giant serpent, with shimmering scales, in a fairy tale.
A more fitting pageant could not approach the Dragon's Court. The huge scarlet gate, studded with golden nails, swings open on its groaning hinges. Soldiers, like the fantastic creations of an uncanny dream, present their strange medley of arms—long spears, crescent-shaped scythes, threatening spikes, and grim battle-axes, are silhouetted against the peaceful sky.
We enter the huge courtyard, and there is another surprise. A large square, paved with white marble, enclosed on the four sides by four marble terraces supporting each an open hall, covered with yellow tiles, and the whole domed by the sapphire firmament of the Eastern sky. The open space is filled with mandarins, all dressed in dark blue silk embroidered with gold; at first sight all very much alike, and yet in the embroidery very different, each minute detail expressing some distinction. Through the central hall we get to another great courtyard, apparently a copy of the first, larger, finer, and more magnificent, but in style always the same; four open halls, white marble terraces, white marble pavements, golden roofs, and sapphire dome. All the inmates are clad in sapphire and gold, the only colours I could perceive. The whole picture is painted in the gradations of these hues. It was a perfect harmony of colour, so artistic and refined that it compelled admiration.
I have been at many great receptions, but I can remember none more impressive than the reception at the Summer Palace. That suppliants at the throne must arrive through many gates and courts and halls enhances the effect. As you approach, each gate is more magnificent, each courtyard larger, each hall loftier, all combining to add grandeur to the ceremony.
In each court there are suave courtiers and silky mandarins. As we advance the rank is higher, until in the inner court there are assembled the highest Viceroys and Princes of the Imperial blood.
But I have no leisure to observe the glory of the place—gold, jewels, and sunshine are too much together. I can only see a dark blue carpet that leads us to the steps of the central hall—or pagoda, as I would prefer to call it—one of those fancy structures we read about in nursery tales.
The hall seems indeed strange to us; marvellous to Western eyes. It takes me some time to distinguish between colour and shape, what is reality and what is fiction. At first I perceive flowers gathered into wreaths and hung in rich festoons. They are chrysanthemums of many shapes and shades, some exceedingly small, some exceptionally large, some resembling the rose, some like huge spiders; from pale sulphur to dark bronze, there is every hue of gold. They are placed in bowls and vases, marvels of age, of incomparable beauty and priceless value, which, as I hear from my friend Li, were rebought at extortionate figures from the Europeans who looted them.