_RELIGIOUS AND NATIONAL FÊTES_
It is terribly hot, forty degrees in the shade, and summer has only just
begun. It is the fifth day of the fifth moon, the date on which the Fête
of the Dragon is celebrated.
The town changes its aspect completely. This is owing to the numberless
red papers which are stuck on every door, and on which can be read wishes
of happiness formulated in the most diversified manner. At the side of
these papers are two bunches of Indian grass, with the roots tightly tied
up with red strings, nailed to the door. It is a popular belief that this
plant, with its sword-shaped leaves, drives away all evil spirits.
After having performed the usual sacrifices before the tablets of our
ancestors, we feast _en famille_ on ceremonial dishes, and drink that
wine, tinctured with orpiment, which, according to a very general
opinion, destroys the germs of epidemic diseases for the whole ensuing
year.
When noon strikes we hasten to put bowls of water in the courtyard to
catch the rays of the sun, which is in the centre of the sky. It is said
that the water thus irradiated renders excellent services to women in
labour.
After breakfast we go to the West Lake to see the dragon canoe races.
These are very long flat boats, manned by from twenty to thirty oarsmen.
The figure-head is either a colossal dragon or a prancing horse. A sailor
astride on the animal holds in his hands a large flag, the movements of
which serve as commands to the helmsman, who is standing motionless at
the stern. Behind the dragon is an orchestra, which fills the air with
the rolling of drums, mingled with the thunder of the tam-tams.
The goal is seen far off; sometimes it is a living duck. When the boat
approaches the bird dives under and tries to escape, but it is usually
caught after a short chase, and brought up in triumph, struggling and
squealing. More often, however, it is a large piece of bamboo, to which
is fastened a piece of rich silk stuff, the offering of some society. The
winner keeps this as his prize.
As soon as the signal has been given the struggle begins; flags fly,
waving now to the left, now to the right, indicating the way to be
followed to the human statue, who, seated at the helm, guides the effort
of the sailors. Urged on by the numerous oars, the canoes glide rapidly
over the water, like gigantic centipedes, amidst the cries of the
spectators, crowding together on the banks, or on the decks and in the
cabins of the pleasure-junks anchored along the river side.
Then may be seen the fluttering of a thousand fans, beating in unison
with the hearts of the spectators. The waves, driven up by the canoes
running to the banks, bury, for the moment, the lotus flowers and
water-lilies, which soon, however, reappear fresher and more pure for
their short immersion; the broad leaves of the nenuphar rising up again,
bring with them some of the water of the river, and let it fall off again
in cascades of glittering pearls. Now they are again immersed, once more
to rise; in a continual coming and going, which lasts for many hours.
This is the Chinese nautical Grand Prix, and the aspect of the lake is
really fairy-like. Imagine the boxes at the Grand Opera in Paris, or the
grand stand at Longchamps, placed on floating flower barges in the middle
of a river, with panes of glass of every colour; add to this picture
ladies in grand toilettes, and men with radiant faces, and you will have
a fairly accurate idea of this very popular fête.
After the races the foot-passengers disperse and the people disembark
from the junks. The sun not having yet set, everybody uses the rest of
the afternoon in taking a little rest, or in enjoying the fresh air of
the country. Some go to the monastery near the lake, others repose under
the great trees which are round an old tomb.
The latter is the burying-place of an ancient and celebrated man of
letters of the town, who, during his lifetime, had his last abode
constructed in an admirable site on the banks of the water. Instead of
the usual inscriptions which celebrate the virtues of the deceased, the
man of letters caused to be graven on the stones of his tomb his own
poems and those of his friends.
Here are two of the best-known lines of his:
“Behind the carpet of the cornflowers and under the shade of the
pine trees,
I shall receive throughout all time the perfume of the incense which
my children will bring to me in offering.”
I went with some friends to the monastery, where we were received in the
most hospitable fashion. The Buddhist priests offered us first of all a
cup of delicious tea, and afterwards invited us to dine with them. It
was a dinner without meat—for the Buddhist priests do not eat meat—but
an excellent dinner for all that. First of all because it was a change
from what we were accustomed to, and then because, in spite of the fact
that no meat is used, the cuisine of these priests fully deserves its
reputation of exquisite delicacy. They prayed us to come again in a
month to taste the Lichi fruits, for, said they, their garden possessed
eighteen trees of the best kind, which they called “the eighteen young
ladies.”
To depict to you the picturesque situation of this monastery, it will be
sufficient for me to quote a passage from a celebrated poem, which is
engraved on a rock behind the altar to Buddha:
“Whilst the sound of the bells draws itself out and seems to be lost
in the green mist of the twilight,
The dreaming poet walks all alone amongst the ten thousand trees.”
As it is getting late, we have made up our minds to sleep at the
monastery.
I may as well mention here that in China the monasteries are a kind
of hotel. There is always a large number of rooms set aside for the
reception of visitors. We took advantage of this, because at night-fall
the gates of the city are locked, and accordingly we were locked out. We
had no reason to regret this, because in the evening we were able to be
present at the religious service of the Buddhists, and could convince
ourselves that once they have finished with their religious duties
these monks are quite ordinary mortals, very gay, fond of laughter and
amusement. We made verses together, as we sat drinking rice-wine, and we
all came to the conclusion that these priests have nothing in common with
their Puritan colleagues in Europe.
In our conversation, as well as in the poems we composed, not an allusion
was made to religious or even philosophical subjects. Nothing was written
or spoken about but the moon, flowers, and the beauties of Nature. These
good people understood that there is nothing more detestable than “to
talk shop.”
One of my friends asked one of these priests how he could live without
any family, the Buddhist priests not being allowed to marry. The priest
answered him in verse, saying:
“I do not wish the mud to soil the leaves of the lotus.
I have a very sharp knife to cut the threads of the nenuphar with.”
In short, they were all very gay, and our conversation lasted after this
fashion until break of day. A most harmless and _comme il faut_ debauch.
And that evening, seated on his lotus-flower, with his bald head and his
stereotyped smile, Buddha did not sulk.
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[Illustration]