The Call of the Ruins

The setting sun of winter shines feebly upon the field. It is just afternoon, and yet the contour of the crescent moon is already visible over the Observatory of Qinghua University nearby. Walking along the newly paved road, I see on my left dry and cracked land, here and there dotted with crumbling stones and broken tablets. On the right where there once used to be a series of lotus ponds in summer, all that is now left is the desolation of winter. The road winds round a small hill, and then vast stretches of ruins appear before me. Suddenly I feel as if time has retreated into the period of ancient Greece and Rome. I feel as if fluttering among the jumbled mass of ruins could be seen the graceful figures of Daji, imperial concubine of King Zhou, last ruler of the Shang Dynasty, and of Baosi, queen-consort of King You, last ruler of the Western Zhou Dynasty. Because of the unusual "stability" of Chinese society, the tradition of thousands of years has been handed down all the way to the Empress Dowager Cixi and is now still being passed on.

The ruins here were once part of Changchunyuan within Yuanmingyuan, a grand imperial garden destroyed by the Anglo-French Allied Forces in 1860. From east to west, the remains of foundations of round platforms, rectangular open-air terraces, halls whose shapes cannot be identified, and small but exquisite square pavilions lie scattered about. Originally, they were built in the European style, and were therefore customarily referred to as the Western Buildings. In the field, this group of ruins is just like a stranded ship, the dense weeds like seaweeds, and the chaotic mass of stones like foam, riding upon this vast and desolate sea. When I was here for the first time more than thirty years ago, I thought that the ship would surely sink the next time I was here. It should leave a space free for the construction of something new. However every time I am here again, it is still anchored in the field. Under the grayish blue sky, the solitary broken stone column of Yuanyingguan only stands to highlight the surrounding emptiness. The arched stone gate of Grand Waterworks is still swept by waves carved into its surface. On the stone screen of Viewing the Grand Waterworks, the engravings of arms and armor are still distinct and appealing. But the waves carved on the stone do not move, and the engraved soldiers are motionless. The ruins which have suffered galling shame and humiliation are simple anchored there leisurely, as if nothing had ever happened.

Here time becomes stagnate and solidified, like the carved stone. Architects say that architecture is solidified music. Then what are the ruins of architecture? History solidified? The stone ornaments in front of the Hall of Peaceful Sea form a semicircular structure, like a bowl. When I was young, I once had a picture taken inside it together with several of my friends. Although now the stone "bowl" looks as if did before. I of course do not feel like climbing inside it. But I am still gratified, because the changes in me are no more than the effects of the laws of nature. After all, I am not solidified…

Disappointed, I have only to gaze at this part of solidified history to find solace. In the big open space between the Grand Waterworks and Viewing the Grand Waterworks, there used to be two large fountains. The fountains were called "Fa" because the bushing spring water was so graceful as to have reached the ultimate standard of beauty. Walking westwards, I see a vast piece of ruin, perched like a pyramid turned upside down. Standing quietly under the "pyramid," I feel that human beings are so insignificant, heaven and earth so vast, and history so long…

The big stone tortoise on the roadside is still squatting on its heels, with a blank expression on its face. The stone tablet which should have stood tall and upright on the back of the tortoise is now lying on the ground nearby. Who knows, perhaps the tortoise is anxious to discharge its duty and carry the tablet on its back. A wind is whistling through the woods on the other side of the road, sometimes high and sometimes low, weeping and pouring out its heart. I seem to hear the words "Stay, stay…" drifting from the ruin.

I am surprised, and turn round. It is twilight, and the square-shaped stones are distinctly white. Several big stones are piled up together, with a gap in the middle as if it were a mouth speaking, as if telling me about the huge fire here which burned to the sky? Or about how time should be measured here? Or are you going to tell me your yearnings and expectations?

The wind is blowing through the ruins again and making human sounds "Stay, stay…" Suddenly I realize what it is saying. It is calling! It is calling people to stay and to transform this solidified history. The ruins would not like to be anchored forever!

And yet have I not made endeavors towards this end? It was just by the side of this big stone tortoise that several of us once had a heated argument. At the time we were so impassioned, full of enthusiasm. Compared with the whole of mankind, one's personal life is such a minor concept. But each of us had a right to a different interpretation. I only want to stress that although the state of Chu in the Warring States period has long since become the province of Hubei, yet is it not true that the glory of the Elegies of Chu will resonate between heaven and earth forever?

The cawing of crows is heard in the sky. I raise my head and see a myriad of crows, carrying the setting sun on their backs, fly over the withered forest and disappear into the western sky. The sunset is at its most beautiful moment. In the receding light, the Western Hills are coated with a layer of red whose contours are increasingly clear. The red is dotted with blue here and there, lending an air of pensiveness to the view, in perfect keeping with the chill in the air.

That is a familiar sight. I cannot help closing my eyes.

"All the stone tablets are left to the gray dusk and the setting sun," the young man by my side said to himself. After an interval of more than thirty years, I am arguing with young people again. I do not blame them. They are not to blame! I speak haltingly, not with perfect assurance. "Stay here! It is just because they are ruins that each of you is needed."

"Every man has a share of responsibility." The young man is sharp, and he says outright what I tried to convey haltingly. "But how is each person to shoulder his share of responsibility? How to make the environment more favorable for each person to the discharging of his duty?" He is smiling with an air between coldness and bitterness.

I suddenly asserted myself. "Isn't this part of the responsibility?"

He does not reply and I also stopped talking, gazing at the glow of the setting sun. Winding my may down, I arrive at the margin of the lake. The water is already frozen, and the ice is punctured by lotus stems which, though withered, still have a lingering charm. In the distance, the hilltops are all aglow. Several withered trees on the bank serve as a picture-frame for the setting sun. The whole scene appears as if the sun were shining again after a shower. But there is still a faint light illuminating the ice outside the picture-frame, reminding people of the desolateness of the winter moonlight.

Rustling sounds are heard among the jumble of grass near the trees, and someone is seen painting. He is dipping his paint brush into his palette, painting colors and wiping them off again, as if not knowing how to capture that strange hue on paper.

"He is no painter," the young man commented. "He merely loves the scenery."

The Broken Bridge, still tall and erect, is the only surviving bridge in the whole of Yuanmingyuan. Seen from a distance, the bridge is like a pile of disorderly stones. But at a closer look, the pattern of a bridge is still discernible. The bridge arch is very high, and only a small part of it remains. However, the stream under the bridge is shrunken to a thread, and as far as one can remember, people never had to climb the bridge to cross the stream.

"Maybe I can think it over, think over the call of the ruins," the young man smiled suddenly, with an air between coldness and bitterness.

We are still looking at the setting sun; the red ball of fire gradually disappears, leaving the distant hills in different shades of purple. The dark purple is like liquor, and the light purple like a dream. The shade in-between reminds me of wisteria in spring. How many wisterias would be needed to form these rose-tinted clouds which cover the sky?

It is said that Yuanmingyuan is going to be renovated. I wonder if it is possible to leave some of the ruins as they are. It would be best if the area around Yuanmingyuan at least could be left as it is. And just as well to leave this Broken Bridge.

Why? To evoke a sense of the past by looking at this piece of solidified history. For bearing in mind the call of the ruins.