Yan Xishan Former Residence—Between Wenshan and Tuoshui, a Qing-gray imprint of the Republic of China
In Hebian Village, Dingxiang County, the Hutuo River flows calmly in front of the village, while Wenshan silently rests behind. Nestled between the mountains and waters is a courtyard of Qing-gray color, like a copper coin worn smooth by time—heavy, unassuming, yet impossible not to weigh in your hand. This is the Yan Xishan Former Residence.
Stepping through the gate, you are greeted by a screen wall with red walls and golden characters that read “Yan Xishan Former Residence.” Not far inside, there is a small stone-carved well, modest in size, built from bluestone. The surrounding railings are carved with floral and human patterns, and a coiled dragon stone pillar stands four meters tall in the center. Unlike ordinary wells, this design is said to symbolize the “transformation of fish and dragons,” subtly echoing the rise and fall of its owner’s life. Unfortunately, most of these stone carvings were damaged during the Cultural Revolution, and what remains now can only hint at their former appearance through the surviving outlines.
The fate of this residence was destined to be turbulent from the day it was built. Construction began in the second year of the Republic of China and took fourteen years to complete. It includes twenty-seven courtyards such as the Governor’s Mansion, Deyi Tower, and the General’s Mansion, covering more than 33,000 square meters.
The East Garden courtyard is the largest in the residence, with halls on all four sides and a flower bed in the center. The ground is paved with cobblestones and blue bricks arranged in geometric patterns. At the very center of the courtyard stands a prominent screen wall with a blue background and golden characters spelling “Universal Love”—these words were penned by Sun Yat-sen himself. Yan Xishan studied in Japan in his early years and, by chance, joined the Tongmenghui, having some contact with Sun Yat-sen. This stele stands there, neither biased nor misplaced, like a historical coordinate linking a warlord’s private home with the ideals of the 1911 Revolution.
Heading east from here, you enter the Governor’s Mansion. The large courtyard faces south, with two courtyards in sequence, covering 580 square meters and containing thirty-two rooms. Above the main gate hangs a plaque inscribed “Governor’s Mansion,” and in the rear courtyard are plaques reading “Gentlemen Nurture the Source” and “Cautiously Uphold Virtue.” The gate and the halls above feature traditional Chinese carvings blended with ancient Roman arches and ribbon patterns. Yan Xishan was highly suspicious and always prepared for danger. The Governor’s Mansion adjoins a secret tunnel connecting the entire complex. The tunnel reportedly extends over ten kilometers like an underground river, allowing escape to the Western Hills in emergencies. Yan Xishan’s life was somewhat like a “cunning rabbit with three burrows”: while fiercely fighting Chiang Kai-shek on the Central Plains battlefield, he also kept a secret retreat hidden in the mansion’s bedroom and the tunnel’s far end.
In a corner of the rear courtyard stands a towering pavilion with blue bricks and gray tiles, flying eaves, and upturned corners, about thirty meters tall—the highest point in the entire Yan residence complex. The plaque reads “Deyi Tower,” a name derived from the Dao De Jing: “In ancient times, those who attained the One, Heaven attained the One and became clear, Earth attained the One and became peaceful.” Yan Xishan’s ranks and titles rose step by step with Yuan Shikai’s ennoblement, and this tower was built higher and higher, ultimately becoming the eyes overlooking the entire estate. From the top, you can see the lush Wenshan nearby and the winding Tuoshui River, with the rooftops and cooking smoke of the riverside village all in view. Sadly, history does not always stand high to admire the scenery. He spent his life searching for that “One,” but in the end, he could not even hold onto his own “One.”
In a corner of the courtyard wall stands a stone stele engraved with the words “Commander and Governor Yan Shi.” Though not tall, the inscription is powerful: “Corrupt officials, evil gentry, and local bullies are a great harm to the people. According to legal procedures, they must be eliminated.” The tone is plain and direct, without any literary pretension or bitterness, sounding like a local “tyrant” issuing a fierce warning. While promoting commerce, industry, railway construction, and schools in Shanxi, he tightly controlled both the gun and the ballot box.
In the northeast corner of the courtyard is an exquisite embroidered tower with red pillars and carved railings. Upstairs is a wax figure of Yan Huiqing. Her childhood name was Wuxian, known as “Fifth Miss” or “Fifth Sister,” Yan Xishan’s cousin. She lived here and was literate and perceptive, taking care of Yan Xishan’s daily life for many years. There have been various speculations about their relationship among the public, but according to Yan Xishan’s secretary’s recollections, she was merely a “housewife type” and not a political figure. Later, she married Yan Xishan’s trusted aide Liang Huazhi. Liang was from Shijiawan Village, Dingxiang County, personally promoted by Yan Xishan from his hometown and a key figure in Yan’s administration.
On April 24, 1949, just before the liberation of Taiyuan, Liang Huazhi and Yan Huiqing, in despair, fled together into the air-raid shelter beneath the clock tower of the Taiyuan Pacification Office and committed suicide by poison. Guards doused their bodies with gasoline and burned them. This was the last time Yan Xishan saw them before leaving Taiyuan. The once powerful “King of Shanxi” ultimately could not take them with him. The embroidered tower stands empty, guarding an ending that can never be returned to.
I stepped back down the blue brick stairs, and the carved beams and painted rafters of the courtyard slowly sank away—each courtyard, each pavilion, those rooms once filled with anxious discussions and festive noise, now only the wind chimes at the eaves softly ring in the autumn sunset. The old residence is silent, the stone stele wordless. Only when you stand atop the Deyi Tower can you hear the faint whisper of the wind, like history murmuring to every passerby: people once came here, they lived, fought, struggled, and lost, and in the end, took nothing away.