Does not this remind you of the “Isoline” of Catulle Mendes?
Let me quote a few more lines:
All this literature will show what a brilliant fête it is.
There are, of course, besides, family meetings, parties, where wine and poetry help to bring the solemnity to its end indoors; while, in the streets, the pleasures of the joyous crowd are prolonged until the morning.
Lanterns have this advantage over gas and electricity, that they give a softer light and present more of that variety and irregularity with which life loves to surround itself, so as to escape as much as possible from the monotony and uniformity of ordinary existence. They lend themselves more readily to poetry, and realise in a small way what large illuminations do in a greater.
The members of the constituted bodies also take part in the illuminations. When officials go out at night, they are always accompanied by lanterns, on which are written in red the name and titles of the dignitary. On the evening of the feast, these lanterns decorate the house of the functionary, like so many visiting cards, welcoming the public.
In conclusion, let it be said that the little folk, without whom there is no real pleasure, have also their rôles to play and their part to take in the general gaiety. Fruits are cut up for them, especially oranges, and the children light these up with a little candle, and carry their make-shift lanterns round the streets. Some of these fruit-lanterns are wonderfully and beautifully carved and decorated.
Everything, in one word, is lighted up; so that could one take on that night a bird’s-eye view of China from the car of some balloon, she would show like a sky starred with thousands and millions of lanterns, and the dazzled aeronaut would be forced to admit, as he looked down on the last day of the feast of the New Year, that in China, at least, we never have a gloomy New Year’s Day.
CHAPTER V
THE FEAST OF THE TWO STARS
The two stars, called Niou-Lang, the Shepherd, and Tsi-Nu, the Weaver, are situated, the first on the eastern shore of the Milky Way—the Tien-Ho, as we call it, or River of Heaven—and the other on the western shore. According to ancient astronomical observations they only meet once a year, and this meeting is supposed to take place in the night of the seventh day of the seventh moon.
Legend pretends that the Shepherd was married to the Weaving Woman, and that to punish them for some fault committed in the celestial regions—a fault analogous to that of Adam and Eve—the sovereign of the skies separated them eternally. Once only in the year did he allow them to see each other for an instant by crossing the stream of water which, during the rest of the year, put an insurmountable barrier between their loves. On that day the magpies, carrying straw in their beaks, go and build a bridge over the river, which enables the lovers to cross over dry-footed. I will add that on that day the magpies moult. A quantity of other legends naturally have been grafted on to this one. Thus it is said that the rain which falls on the eve of this feast cleans the chariot of heaven; whilst if it rains on the day itself, it is said that that is the tears of joy of the two lovers; if on the morrow, it is their tears of sorrow at their fresh separation. The feasts celebrated on this occasion vary slightly according to the locality. The object of some of the celebrations is to beg of the Weaving Woman for skill at the loom; others take advantage of the fact that on the day of their reunion the two stars are more friendly disposed, and implore their pity.
A table is usually spread on these occasions on the balcony of the pavilion, and laid with fruits, flowers, wine, candles, and incense. Low prayers are whispered. Those who pray are young women whose husbands are absent. Those who wish to become skilful workwomen close a spider up in a box. When they open the box on the morrow they can tell from the appearance of the web, which the spider has spun in the meanwhile, whether the Weaving Woman has heard their prayers or not. If the web is neat and regular they may hope for skill also.
Formerly, under the reign of the Thangs, this anniversary was celebrated with considerable splendour in the palace of the Emperor. It is said that towers about 1000 feet in height—about that of the Eiffel Tower—were constructed of silk for the occasion, and that on these towers the favourites of the Emperor made music and song in honour of celestial loves. Girls vied with one another who should soonest thread, by the light of the moon, needles with nine eyelets, and the winner was proclaimed the most skilful of all.
A poem says:
There has been very much poetry written about this feast. Some of the poems are in praise of the skill of the Weaving Woman; others lament her too ephemeral happiness; but the most numerous are those in which the luckless in love envy the lot of the lovers untied in heaven, and pray them to favour them, so that they also may have a time of meeting, however short. The most celebrated of these poems is one written by a sceptical philosopher, who says:
In short, this feast is liked chiefly as a pleasant holiday, and as affording a theme for the poets.
In the seventh moon the great heats have passed away, and advantage is taken of the soft zephyr and the purity of the sky, which is generally to be noticed at this season of the year, to sit out on the balcony of the house, and to enjoy the cool air whilst drinking rice-wine. The hypothesis of these two invisible beings inhabiting the two stars is rather a pretext than a belief, I am inclined to think. Long separations, always so sad, and the meeting again, which is all the more delightful because it is so unfrequent, are symbolised in this legend. The two stars meeting across the Milky Way in a clear sky, under the burning and envious gaze of the other stars, and the light of the crescent-moon, form a graceful picture, which, by a pretty celestial dream, charms our spirit, greedy as it always is of the ideal, and glad to escape for a while from the truer but often more disappointing images of worldly realities.
CHAPTER VI
THE FEAST OF FLOWERS
This feast falls on the fifteenth day of the second moon, but is, in practice, prolonged until the end of spring. It is also called “the feast of mild warmth.” This is the best season of the year, the mildest and the most charming. The trees, almost all in bloom at that time, alternating with the weeping willows, drooping down their long branches laden with green leaves, form, together with the picturesque pavilions, perspectives which over and over again have inspired the poet’s song. There is not a private garden in the land which is not then transformed into a horticultural exhibition. Poles of different colours are set up, ornamented with flags and laden with little bells, and in the middle all sorts of games are played, amongst others the game of butterflies. This game is unknown in Europe, and, therefore, merits a description here. Butterflies are caught, and a hair is attached to them; this hair is weighted with a scrap of paper, to prevent them from flying away out of reach, and then they are pursued by the women armed with their fans.
Other families go out into the country to pick flowers, to run in the fields, and to play the game we call the “lawn game.” We have had emperors who were poets, and who, on that day, used to distribute verses composed by them on different kinds of plants. It was on this occasion that the Minister of Agriculture used to present to the Sovereign seeds of every plant under cultivation in his empire. In private houses, this is the day chosen for making rice-wine. The people of Su-Tcheang march out on this day in solemn procession, to the sound of music, to the rice-fields, amidst crowds of spectators. This fête used to be very brilliant under the dynasty of the Thangs, emperors who delighted in simple pleasures in the midst of flowers. One of them used to give his favourites pieces of silk, having the colours of the spring flowers, on this feast. The silks were afterwards made into light spring dresses.
One year, when the feast fell in the midst of late winter weather, the Emperor had a glass house constructed, and had all the plants brought in to develop in the heat, and to the sound of the drum. This is the origin of glass houses.
One of our novelists relates that one of the favourites of the Emperor fell in love with a young man of letters who lived in the capital, and whose garden was traversed by a brook which flowed out of the imperial park. The young woman being shut up in the palace, jealously watched, had no means of corresponding with him whom she loved. But love will always suggest ways and means, and it came to her to write a poem on the petal of a peony and to confide it to the stream. The young man of letters was lucky enough to find the peony-petal, and thus learned that in spite of the separation he was still loved. This feeling gave him so much courage that he set to work with great diligence and an extraordinary ardour, so that he was soon able to pass all his examinations, and to become a celebrated statesman. In reward of numerous services, he asked the Emperor to accord him the hand of the young woman, a request which his sovereign was unable to refuse. Thus a simple flower gave a great minister to the empire, and united two beings who thought themselves for ever separated.
CHAPTER VII
NEW YEAR’S DAY
This is the Feast of the Three Beginnings—that of the year, the months, and the days.
From break of day, which is saluted in every house with formidable detonations of crackers, all the functionaries of the capital betake themselves to the Imperial Temple to present their respective congratulations to the Sovereign in person before the tablet which bears the name of His Majesty. This duty accomplished, they present their homages in order to the temples of Heaven, of Confucius, of the God of Literature, and of the God of War. After this they pay calls to each other, an exchange of courtesies which lasts for four or five days.
On entering a relation’s house, it is the rule, first of all, to salute the tablets which represent the ancestors. If the visitors are newly married, besides tea and cakes, a bag of oranges and water-melon seeds is offered to them. Both these signify that it is hoped they may be blessed with a large family.
Parties are given every day in turn at the different houses of friends, and these are made the occasion for games of every description. At the same time presents are distributed amongst the servants of one’s friends and relations, whilst to the children of one’s acquaintance one gives ingots of silver or pieces of silver coin wrapped up in red paper, or coins threaded on red strings, which are called lucky coins. I may mention here, since I am speaking about children, a striking peculiarity, which is specially noticeable in the case of very young children; that is, that in China we don’t count people’s ages by the number of their days, but from year to year. Thus a child born on the 31st of December is two years on the evening of the next day, that is, on January 1st of the following year.
The fourth day of the first moon is the Feast of the God of Wealth and of Happiness. All the drawing-rooms are then lighted up in honour of these divinities, which are represented either by images or by a simple piece of writing on paper.
The seventh day is consecrated to the Feast of Man, and the ninth to that of God, and so on; for the feasts almost daily follow in quick succession up to the end of the Feast of Lanterns.
During this time all that the people think about is to organise pleasures, and to give themselves up to enjoyment. Debts have all been paid off at the end of the old year, and the public and private holiday, which is general, gives all the liberty needed. The season of the year is not favourable to travelling, and so all that remains for pastimes are the indoor games which are best adapted for killing time. There is a great deal of playing in China at the time of year under consideration. Games are played with cards, with dominoes, with dice, and with the twelve beasts. There is also a more instructive game, which represents the steps of official promotion. I need hardly say that music is not wanting at these fêtes.
Many families do not eat meat on New Year’s Day. According to Lie-Tseu, this custom originated as follows:
“‘The people of Han-Tang,’ says this author, ‘had offered a pigeon as a New Year’s gift to a certain philosopher. He accepted the present, and giving wing to the bird, said, “All things should live happily on this day.”’”
This is a pretty tale with a delicate sentiment. Superstition is not, however, wanting. With regard to the crackers which one might suppose are only let off for fun, or in invitation to noisy revelry, it appears that a good many people fancy that they serve to frighten off evil spirits, who would never dare to knock at doors behind which such terrible explosions are taking place.
But there is more than this. Many people paint a charm on their doors, or draw a cock, or two guardians, which are thought to be capable of swallowing whole any demon who might take it into his head to show himself.
The astronomical works published under the dynasty of the Han family state that one can judge from the wind that is blowing at daybreak on New Year’s Day what kind of weather one is going to have throughout the ensuing year. Thus a south wind means general dryness, a south-westerly wind partial drought, and so on. An easterly wind on New Year’s Day morning means war, a north-westerly wind a good harvest, a north wind a moderate harvest. A north-easterly wind indicates a peaceful year, wind from the west warns one of coming floods, and from south-east of epidemics.
In the same way, the first word that one writes on New Year’s Day gives its character to the whole year, good or bad. So, to make sure, people always begin their letters on that day with such words as, Happiness, Wealth, Felicity, Long-Life, and so on.
This manner of ensuring a happy New Year has inspired a woman philosopher with the four following lines:
I may add, that in spite of this excellent advice everybody continues to ask for what is unobtainable—the pauper for a little wealth, the rich man for more than he can have.
Fables which take something from superstition know how to mingle with it a certain amount of wisdom. I will give in proof the following story:—
“A poor man of letters, who had not the wherewithal to celebrate the change of the year, was fast asleep. In China, as elsewhere, it is true that he who sleeps dines. In the cottage where he lived there was neither fire, nor food, nor wine, nor light, nor pleasure in any form.
“Meanwhile his neighbours were celebrating the feast with joyous revelry; the feast that was so sad for the solitary man that we are speaking about.
“All of a sudden, at about midnight, somebody knocked at his door.
“‘Who is there?’ asked the man of letters, disagreeably wakened just at the moment when he was dreaming about victuals, drink, and luxurious apartments.
“‘It’s I, the God of Wealth.’
“‘I am sorry to say that I cannot receive you.’
“‘And why so?’
“‘Because I have no luck.’
“In spite of the insisting of the God of Wealth, the poor man absolutely refused to open the door.
“A few moments later another knock was heard at the door.
“‘Who are you?’ cried the sleeper, again awakened from his dreams.
“‘’Tis I, the God of Luck.’
“The man of letters sprang out of bed, and received the visitor with open arms in the dark cabin. The excellent god then wrote something with the tip of his finger on the poor man’s forehead and then disappeared.
“The cottager had hardly time to get back to bed when the God of Wealth again announced himself.
“This time, he was received in the most cordial manner, and at once placed in the poor man’s hand treasures of great value. He then asked the poor man to tell him why, after having at first refused to receive him, he now gave him so cordial a reception.
“‘Oh, it’s simple enough. Now I have got luck, which I hadn’t a short while ago. I knew that you always follow the God of Luck, and so it was him that I waited for.’”
It is evident that this means that without luck, fortune itself is worth nothing.
The God of Wealth, whose good works we have just related, is nowhere more fêted than in the town of Canton. Every evening, after the shops are closed, candles are lighted and incense is burned before his altars, which are fitted in niches on the outside of the shops. The whole town is illuminated and perfumed. This is an universal adoration to which no inhabitant of the Chinese empire gives himself up more fervently than the Cantonese, who are the most commercial of the Chinese. Now, the God of Wealth is also the God of Commerce, and that is as it should be, for commerce is money after all; at least, money is the object of trade and of traders. Plutus is the complement of Mercury.
The spring equinox, which we call the beginning of spring, often falls on the first days of the new year. Then, there is a great fête.
A veritable procession is organised in each town. At the head come the prefects and sub-prefects, and all the members of their official staff in gala uniform. Each holds in his hand a spray of artificial flowers, representing the peony, the flower of the spring. They ride in their open sedan-chairs, escorted with music and soldiers. By their side are carried tablets, on which are written their titles and the services they have rendered.
This is the procession of the spring ox.
Behind the official procession is carried the gigantic statue of an ox, made of clay, which is plastered over with papers of many colours. Each colour stands for some atmospheric change—fine weather, drought, change, and so on.
Behind this statue comes the real ox, all gay with ribbons and rosettes. A statuette is stuck up on its back, which represents the coming year. Its dress also portends the weather that is going to be prevalent throughout the coming year. If it has shoes on its feet, that means that the year will be a dry one; if it has clogs, that the year will be rainy. A clog on one foot and a shoe on the other, mean that the year will be a temperate one.
The whole procession makes its way towards the temple of the God of Agriculture, where the sacrifices take place. The ox is slaughtered and its flesh is distributed amongst the crowd.
Thus in the extreme East the “spring ox” is being led in procession at about the same time that the Parisians are leading round their Carnival “fat ox.” The two ceremonies are evidently agricultural feasts, such as formerly were celebrated in Egypt with the ox Apis. Man is the same everywhere; his customs, languages, and institutions are different, but those are only differences of form, the substance is everywhere the same.
CHAPTER VIII
THE END OF THE YEAR
The holidays begin ten days before the end of the year, so that everybody may have time to prepare for this great solemnity. For in China there are no legal holidays, and busy people only get a rest during the three great feasts of the Dragon, the Moon, and the change of the Year. There are five days holiday during each of the first two feasts, and thirty days during the last.
It is on these dates that bills usually fall due, and when they must be paid.
The last feast that we have spoken about includes several religious ceremonies. These consist in offering banquets to each one of the gods in thanksgiving for the good things he has accorded during the year that has passed. On the twenty-fourth day of the twelfth moon a touching ceremony is performed in the richest and the poorest houses alike. It is that of the adieu addressed to the household god and the reception given to the new-comer. It appears that this god only holds his tutelary office during one year, and has then to make place for a successor.
The altar of this god is always placed in the kitchen; candles are lighted before him every day, and incense is burned. At night a night-lamp, which is called the fire of long life, burns before his altar.
On the evening of the twenty-fourth, a grand dinner, with cakes of the most varied descriptions, and fruits of every sort, is spread out before this altar for the guests to partake of.
After having poured out the wine of libation and let off the crackers, without which no fête is complete in China, oats and corn are thrown on the roof of the house for the horses of the god to feed upon, and it is at that moment that he is supposed to take his departure.
The table is then cleared, and a fresh repast is laid out before the altar for the refreshment and welcome of the new-comer. His name is at once inscribed in the place of that of his predecessor, or it is the images of himself and his wife that are placed in the stead of those of the gods of the previous year.
This is our Christmas Day, after a fashion. It is this day that the children look forward to, in the expectation of fruits and sweets.
Preserves are made of the dishes that are left over from these two repasts, and these sometimes last over the whole of the first month of the new year. The richer a family is, the more of these preserves will it make. Parties and fêtes follow each other in unbroken succession.
On the last day a large pot of rice is put out of doors. The rice is garnished with cypress leaves, on which imitation ingots of gold and silver are placed. These are in paper, which is covered with lettering, meaning long life, honour, health, happiness, and so on, cut out in red paper. On the rice are heaped various kinds of fruit, symbolic of prosperity.
This rice remains standing on a table in the open air until midnight. It is called the “rice of the old year.” At midnight it is replaced by another pot of rice, garnished in the same way. This is the rice of the new year, and it is allowed to stand in position for two or three days. A lucky day is then chosen in the calendar, and on this day the rice is removed and eaten.
It is unnecessary to say that the same sacrifices take place every day before the tablets of the ancestors, who are never or on any occasion forgotten.
Formerly a number of superstitious customs were observed. According to an old handbook of hygiene, a man had to lie down secretly by the side of the family well on the New Year’s Eve, holding in his hand a flowering branch of the pepper tree, and, when midnight struck, to throw this branch into the well, if the family wanted to have pure and microbeless water to drink during the ensuing year.
Under the reign of the dynasty of the Han family, a procession of one hundred and twenty children, aged from ten to twelve years, and dressed in grey clothes with red hats, used to march through the streets, each child being armed with a drum, with the beating of which he was supposed to drive away all evil spirits.
This procession was much more imposing under the Shungs in the sixth century. The military took part in it, dressed in bright uniforms, and carrying gilt lances and the banners of the dragon. These marched at the head of the procession, all more or less hideously masked. Meanwhile, out in the country the farmers used to form a torchlight procession, with torches stuck in the end of long bamboos, and went running through all their fields, begging the gods for a good rice-harvest and an abundance of silkworms. In some provinces children used to run about the streets, saying that they had their stock of intelligence for sale, and, of course, found none to buy of them. All these things have now been done away with. Only the religious ceremonies, of which I have spoken above, remain in force to-day, as well as the vigils for seeing the new year in. I do not speak of certain eccentric customs, which only form exceptions to the general habit. Thus, for instance, the poets will sometimes place their works on an altar in their house and make sacrifices before them. Others melt their gold and pour it into water, predicting the future from the curious shapes of the metal as it cools.
There is a literary piece by Han-Wong-Koung, an adieu to the God of Wretchedness, which is very much read in China during the feast of the end of the year. It is too long to be quoted here, but can be read by all with great satisfaction. It gives excellent advice to the poor, and teaches them how to fight against the demon of poverty. Some read it to learn how to remain happy, others how to console themselves for their wretchedness and how to get out of it.
CHAPTER IX
PROCESSIONS
In China the Taoists alone have religious processions, which is logical enough, as it is their custom to represent their gods in human figures. To mention only the principal ceremonies, I may allude to the procession of the god Tai-Tchang, of the god Tcheng-Houang, of the gods of epidemic diseases, and the goddesses who protect women in labour and little children.
Tai-Tchang is the god of the mountain of the same name, a function which he combines with that of seventh high judge in Hades, which has ten such judges.
The processions of Tai-Tchang take place during the third moon. The terrible figure is brought on the appointed day, surrounded by an imperial pomp. He deserves all these splendours, seeing that his title is that of sovereign of the mountain.
He is preceded by his colleagues, the other grand judges, his sons and godchildren, who are all reputed princes of his family. Each of these divinities has its special escort, with two large lanterns and a number of tablets, on which are inscribed the various titles of the god.
Next come the orchestra and the followers, all dressed in gala clothes. Some carry a vase full of flowers, others a smoking incense-bowl.
Besides these, the procession is followed by numbers of private individuals, carrying in their hands reduced models of the various instruments of torture—handcuffs, chains, hooks, &c. They hope by this means to draw down on their devoted heads the punishments which the god may be intending to inflict on those dear to them.
At Fou-Tcheou young girls also take part in this manifestation, but in the other cities women are forbidden to do so.
The procession takes its way to a vast building situated on the outskirts of the town, which is called the Prison of the Ghosts. There is such a prison near every city. The object of this visit is to release from their captivity the spiritual captives, so that during the Feast of the Dead they may be able to take part in their family celebrations, and perform the sacrifices which are expected of children to their ancestors.
The same procession is repeated on a smaller scale a few days later. This time its object is to bring back to their prison the ghost who had been temporarily released.
All along the way down which the procession passes, the faithful place before the door of their houses tables on which lighted candles and incense are burning, with flowers and fruits. Everybody comes out of the house to admire the immense march past, which is, moreover, a kind of walking exhibition, as the members of the different societies which take part in it, and which all belong to different trades, carry with them all the new productions of the year. The crowd covers at least from two to four kilomètres with its long moving column; for each god has his subalterns, and each of these subalterns has the right to a magnificent escort. Toy and sweet merchants profit by the occasion to display their wares in the streets, offering their goods to the children, who always take a very large share in festivities of this sort.
At Fou-Tcheou there is a peculiarity which is particularly interesting. The feast lasts two days, and the second day’s ceremony is an exact repetition of the first. However, on the second day an excursion is made out to the suburbs of the town, where Tai-Tchang’s mother-in-law is supposed to live, the god being brought as a respectful son-in-law to pay his respects to the good lady. Happy god, happy mother-in-law!
Legend relates that a young peasant-girl, daughter of a butcher, having witnessed the procession, went home and died immediately. During her short agony she told her parents that the god, only recently having become a widower, had noticed her great beauty, and had chosen her for his wife. She was an only daughter. Her death threw her family into despair, and in their rage her parents set out to revenge themselves on the god by setting fire to his temple. Tai-Tchang, however, taking human shape, appeared to them, and pacified them by saying that he had married their daughter, and that he owed her parents all the respect due from a good son-in-law. As a proof of this, he gave orders that a procession should take him every year to the house where the butcher’s wife, the mother of his divine companion and queen, lived. This shows that Tai-Tchang was a very sensible god, free from all aristocratic prejudices, and the very type of the cunning son-in-law, diplomatic enough to be able to soften down the anger of a mother-in-law, who in her rage had nearly become an incendiary.
In the summer, similar processions take place in honour of the gods of the epidemical diseases. We enjoy in China the sad privilege of owning five epidemics, which are local and indigenous. The figures of these gods, which never vary in appearance, can be seen in every street, and in every quarter there is a temple consecrated to these terrible divinities. The processions in their honour are, in consequence, daily occurrences, as each part of the town performs this ceremony in turn.
Although the procession is less imposing than the one that follows Tai-Tchang, it is nevertheless of great richness in the larger quarters. At the head come the five gods, each preceded by his subalterns. Behind them is carried an immense paper-boat, very skilfully made. It is mounted by the same gods, also in paper, who are placed in the cabin in the centre, whilst in another cabin are shut up paper-images of all the other demons. A man walks at the side of this boat, carrying on his shoulder, by means of a water-carrier’s pole, two buckets filled with débris of meats and offal of all kinds that are known to engender disease. These buckets are called ironically the buckets of happiness. The procession goes straight to the sea-shore, or to the banks of the river. Once there, the buckets are flung into the water, and the ship and its passengers are set fire to and burnt. The epidemics are then supposed to have been driven right out of the town. Mutual congratulation and a banquet terminate the fête. This is doubtless doubly symbolical. The buckets represent hygienic measures, the boat and its gods and demons figure the expulsion of all diseases, carried away by the river or destroyed by the fire.
Tcheng-Houang is the god of the provinces. His image may be seen everywhere, just as in Paris we see on the Place de la Concorde the statues of the chief citizens of France. The difference is that Tcheng-Houang is a real personage, not merely a personification. His ceremony is about identical with that of Tai-Tchang, except for the fact that Tchang-Houang has only right to the title of Governor.
The procession of the goddesses who protect women in labour and children usually takes place at the beginning of the year. The chair on which the statue is seated is all covered over with flowers, and as it is carried round by its bearers all the childless women of the town come crowding round imploring the divinity to give them children. The women take from the chair the first flower that comes into their fingers. If it is a red flower, they may hope to have a daughter; if it is a white flower, that means that they will have a boy. At the same time, the would-be mothers make vows to present the goddess with tapestry or clothes, or some decorative object, should she hear their prayer.
Rich people often invite the goddess into their houses as she passes their doors. Fireworks are then let off, and flowers are added to those on the chair. Then tea and cakes are handed round to the members of the procession, and after this the Chinese Lucina is allowed to resume her peregrinations, to visit other houses if she be so disposed. Throughout the month women crowd into the sanctuary of the goddess in an unceasing stream, some to fulfil their vows and bring their votive offerings, and others to implore, in their turns, the intervention of the Chinese Genitrix goddess.
CHAPTER X
A BUDDHIST SOLEMNITY
It is on the eighth day of the fourth moon—which corresponds to the month of May of the Gregorian calendar—that the great ceremony of the ordination of the Buddhist priests, also called the Feast of the Bath of Buddha, is performed.
On the eve of this day all the candidates gather together in the monastery in each town to prepare themselves for the solemnity of the morrow. At about eight o’clock in the evening a bell is rung. The priests are in their places, each on his knees before the statue of Buddha. First a prayer is recited, and then hymns are sung. After this the chief priest takes down off its lofty pedestal a little idol—a statuette of Buddha, places it on a platter of gold or of carved silver, and pours over it water out of another platter. During this bath, which lasts for half-an-hour, the priests are in adoration, and all the musical instruments are heard. Then comes a rather lengthy pause. At midnight the ceremony of consecration begins. The candidates who, either by vocation or by sudden impulse, have chosen this career, have to live two or three years in one of the monasteries, and after this, before being qualified to exercise the function of minister, must submit themselves to a somewhat painful formality.
The great hall of Buddha is brilliantly lighted up. On tables placed side by side are set out the images of the different Buddhist apostles, and all kinds of religious emblems. Before each of these statues there is placed a kind of prie-dieu stool, to which the name of one of the candidates is attached, and it is on this stool that, after a long hour of meditation, the candidate kneels down. His head is shaven completely bald, and on the naked skin are placed three pieces of tinder soaked in incense, to which the chief sets light. The candidate continues praying quietly whilst the conical-shaped tinder candles on his head burn out, burning away the skin of his head withal. This is the reason why one always sees cicatrices on the heads of the Buddhist priests. Some have three, some six, some nine, some even more, according to the degree of their devotion.
On the morrow another ceremony takes place, that of the reception of the priests. The old give welcome to the new.
I relate all this because this sight is one in which in China a great deal of interest is taken. It is considered quite a pleasure to be able to witness it.
When I was a boy of nine years, the chief of the Buddhists who was to officiate at the ordination that year being a friend of my father’s, I asked to be allowed to be present at the ceremony.
It was a beautiful afternoon. After crossing fields bordered with high trees, and where the cry of the crickets could be heard on every side, we entered into a wood, in the centre of which stood the monastery. We were well received by the priests, who told me that no child of my age had ever been present at the feast. The scene that I was to see was one which might turn me either into a fanatical Buddhist, or a bitter enemy of that religion. However, my father insisted, and I was allowed to enter. We first of all partook of a dinner without meat, consisting of bamboo sprouts, salt vegetables, and a purée of beans, all of which seemed delicious to me. We were afterwards allowed to be present at the great dinner of the priests. Their immense dining-room resembled very much that of a barracks, with this difference, however, that during the meal the strictest silence was observed. This silence was only broken by the prayers that were sung before and after each course. I was very surprised to see how healthy these monks looked in spite of their bad food. I have since learnt, however, that a vegetable diet is quite as nourishing as meat, and now understand what at the time puzzled me. On leaving the dining-room I took a turn in the passage of meditation. Each priest was seated with his legs crossed under him, his eyes closed, and his hands locked together, on a bed placed in an alcove, which was separated by screens on either sides from those of his neighbours. The priests seemed to be lost in the most profound meditation. Child that I was, and not knowing what importance they attached to their silence, I tried to get the monks to speak to me, in spite of my father’s forbidding me to speak to them. But not one of them gave me any answer, not one of them moved a hair. Some time was spent in this way, after which we betook ourselves to the great hall of consecration, where the ordination ceremony, as described above, took place.
The net result of my excursion was that I passed a very unpleasant night, and that I have still before my eyes the horrible sight of hundreds of Buddhists in their grey robes, with their bald heads flaming hideously.
As soon as ever day broke I begged my father to take me away from this sinister spot, and in spite of the heavy dew that lay on the grass, and the chilliness of the spring morning, we set out at once. As we reached a little pathway which separated two fields, I just escaped treading on two snakes, who were wriggling in battle together, and who passed from one field into another between my very legs.
The impression that I carried away was so deplorable a one that, but for an incident which, happening some days later, showed me that their fanaticism was far from being so absolute as I had imagined, I should never have felt anything but aversion to these fanatical madmen, as I then considered them. One day, some time after our visit to the monastery, one of the priests whom we had met there paid us a visit at our house, and stayed to dinner. I cannot express the stupefaction I felt in seeing him partake of the dishes of meat that were served, with the greatest relish and appetite. I could not understand. I knew that the Buddhists were strict vegetarians, and that they forbid the use not only of flesh and fish, but even of eggs, fat, milk, and butter. I could not help expressing my astonishment, child that I was. The priest merely smiled, and said, “Buddha is such a kindly god, my child, that he pays no attention to these minor details.”
Buddha, indeed, is the god of gladness. I need only look at his face to be convinced of that fact. This face, with the fat cheeks, lighted up with an eternal smile; this well-fed body, comfortably seated on the lotus-flower, that flower that the god holds in his hand; that quiet attitude of happy bon vivant—all these things made one think rather of some fat monk from Rabelais than of an ascetic emaciated with prayer and self-inflicted punishment.
The Buddhist story relates, moreover, that the first Buddha was a man of kindly feelings towards his fellows, whose only mission it was to save all mortals from their wretchedness, and to make them enter the “western heaven,” which is that of pleasure.
The other day my friend Cernuschi gave a children’s ball in Paris. There was a large Buddha in the drawing-room. I happened to be present; and when I was asked whether I was not horrified at seeing such frivolities taking place before the statue of a god, I answered in the negative. “Ah,” they cried, “you are more tolerant than we are. Our priests would never permit us to dance before a crucifix.”
“That is quite different,” I answered. “Christ was a martyr, and it would certainly be wrong to indulge in frivolous gaieties before His image. Buddha, on the other hand, has only one desire, and that is, that each and all should be happy. Besides, this excellent god is on a holiday in Europe, and that is all the more reason why he should be glad to see people amusing themselves, since he is here for amusement.”