Jean-Jacques Barthélemy for Le Petit Journal. Dated March 13th, 1912.
The beauty of Nanjing can hardly be described in simple words, as how could one describe the perfect serenity which encapsulates the city in it's entirety? To put into prose the infinite niceties of the capital city would be to attempt to describe the sensual Goddess Aphrodite, an impossible task for any mere mortal to comprehend. Here, where the smog and ash of European industry is hardly even heard of, where the clear blue skies and the smell of the morning grass seeps into every corner of the old metropolis, one can truly see the allure of the Orient, as I arrive at these places described in only the personal diaries of Portuguese captains and intrepid silk road merchants, braving storm and danger to reach the Far East.
I feel as if my own Marco Polo, traveling through these ancient lands unknowing of their languages or their customs, inspecting their wares which fetch astronomical prices in the West, yet which are commonplace in the capital and affordable to a humble writer such as myself. The merchants here are far too friendly to be merely ignorant, though, and I often find myself guarding and counting my wads of Francs with great zeal whilst swayed to purchase yet another strange contraption from these sly swindlers. Saint-Ouen would find it's own band of merry thieves strongly challenged by these intrepid capitalists, to be sure.
The brisk flowing of the willow trees which line the old Yangtze River, every so often catching a glimpse of a local riverboat passing under the beautifully constructed bridges of Chinese make, the intricate lines which form the railings of stone and copper excites the mind as ever before, as my fingers glide through the hunch of a sculpted dragon, catching onto carved indents which form the scale of this eastern behemoth from one side of the bridge to the other. Their dragons are not the huge beasts of European folklore, striking terror into the people, but instead slim and graceful giants gliding through the air, without the wings which drape the beasts of westerlore. They are terrifying still, yet that terror is coupled with a grace unmatched by the skill of Paris' most gorgeous ballerinas.
Suddenly, a great bellowing arrives from the right, as I am reminded of the reason for my short walk through the city, the reminder of western civilization as ever bringing this ancient city to the future. The great metal beasts which hulk across great stretches of nothing, atop steel beams made in smoke-belching and soot-ridden factories, in a matter of moments. As I look on towards the arrival of the train, making port from it's long journey within Nanjing Central Station, my mind wanders ever more to the west once again. The Chinese leader of the Xin Han, Duan Qirui, whom I had fortuitously met with during my travels, bequeathed for me countless blessings and tidings, speaking fondly of the French people. To be sure, he is a great man, often working in the Presidential Palace for hours at a time. He told me that, "The Chinese people stagnate in their peace, and it is our duty to propel them forward once more."
I often wonder if I agree with that latter part.
The smoke rises from the engine once more, as I depart for Shanghai's ocean-swept winds. It is black and all-consuming, taking away that blue sky which I had seen so oft. The city leaves me behind, a distant shadow of what China was, as the train's smoke hangs over it like the Sword of Damocles.
I hope, for once, that it does not drop so soon yet, for I shall miss that scenery so dearly should it do so.
A/N: A strange little idea for a look into the Xin Han. Hope you all enjoy it