_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.”
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