_GARDENING_
A rather curious coincidence exists in the two antipodes of the globe. In
France, when a man retires from business or from official life, he says,
“I am going to plant cabbages.” In China we say, “I am going to retire
into the mountains, or into the forest.” This is another way of saying
that he is going to give himself up to gardening. This coincidence is
caused by the fact that the same tastes exist everywhere. When a man has
had enough of the occupations of an active life, he is glad to withdraw
completely from them, and to devote himself to innocent pleasure, which
provides exercise for the body and rest for the mind, and charms with
peace the last days of his life. What is called the world differs but
little. When one is tired of its battles, it is that other world, the
world of nature, that alone one yearns after.
In our history, as in our poetry, we are constantly reading of men of
the widest fame who only lived in the hope of being able to retire at
last. They often used to be heard saying that their gardens were running
to waste for want of cultivation; and this thought is so popular a one,
that even those who cling to their offices follow the example of the
others, and constantly repeat that they are dying with the longing to
go and cultivate their gardens. A philosopher thus characterises this
contradiction between the word and the act:
“Everybody expresses the desire to retire,
But in the middle of the forest I never meet anybody.”
However this may be, it is certain that a number of people do caress this
dream of a rural life, and do finally put it into execution.
“O rus quando te aspiciam,” is true in every age, and in every land;
on the banks of the blue river, as well as in the severe landscapes of
ancient Rome, or on the sunny landscapes of modern France.
The poet Tou-Fou himself, when his functions at Court allowed him a few
moments of leisure, took great delight in donning gardener’s clothes, as
is shown by the following lines:
“I met Tou-Fou at the foot of the Fan-Kou mountain, wearing a straw
hat in the full heat of the sun.
‘Why are you so thin?’ I asked him.
‘Because,’ he answered, ‘I have been making too many verses of late.’”
Tao-Yen-Ming, the man of letters, is the author of a long piece, entitled
“Back in the Country,” of which the following is the principal passage:
“My garden was just beginning to run wild,
But happily there still remain pines and chrysanthemums.
Having cultivated myself I return home,
Where my young boy jumps into my lap,
And a vase of wine awaits me on the table.”
And this man of letters, in spite of repeated invitations from the
Emperor, contented himself with living and dying in the midst of his
chrysanthemums, which he loved passionately.
We are not, however, satisfied in China with mere cultivation, but have
succeeded in developing our gardening operations into a real work of art.
What with watering, grafting, the selection and scientific combinations
of species, the great varieties both of our plants and our skill in
shaping them into the most varied and most fantastic shapes, our gardens
are veritable masterpieces of the art. The Chinese gardeners know how
to transform their gardens into zoological gardens, cutting and bending
their trees, as they do, into lions, dragons, and every other kind of
animal. We are so fond of flowers, that a single spray is considered
sufficient for a bouquet. One never sees those round bouquets of several
kinds of flowers, which are fashionable in Europe, at home.
Listen to the following verses written by an amateur gardener:
“What an admirable sight is this sunset,
Which like Bengal fire shows everything ‘en rose,’
The flowers seem much prettier,
And the birds hop about, chirping on the branches of the bamboo.
The wind has calmed down, the trees are wrapped in silence,
And shades are stealthily creeping over all the land.
My breast swells, but as much with fresh air as with gladness.
But, alas, the day, approaching its end, holds no further prospect
of happiness.”
Do not think that to be happy the Chinaman must have a large estate. It
is the quality of the philosopher to be satisfied with very little. A
small plot of land is all-sufficient for his happiness, provided he has a
few square yards of soil in which to plant his bamboo and his favourite
flowers.
The following is a poem written by a man of letters, who lived in a
cottage, and consoled himself in this wise:
“There is no reason why the mountain should be lofty;
It is celebrated by the genius who inhabits it.
Water need not be deep, if it is inhabited by a dragon.
My home is only a cottage, sheltering my virtue and my person.
Moss covers the steps; and the green of the lawn
Is reflected through my window-blinds;
But only men of letters come to laugh and to talk with me.
No vulgar man ever sets his foot here.
We can have nice games of skill.
We can read nice Buddhist books.
No sound of music troubles my ears.
No political element absorbs our minds.
I compare my cottage to the celebrated cottage of Nan-Yang,
Or to the historical pavilion of Si-Seu.”
Moreover, has not Confucius written as follows?—
“There is no misery where there is no complaint.”
I pause here to tell an anecdote:
“A foreign diplomat told me one day, whilst we were sitting
chatting and smoking cigarettes in his study, that under the
reign of Frederick the Great a Chinese dignitary came to
Berlin. He was well received at Court, and introduced forthwith
to a professor, who enjoyed a great reputation in the German
capital for his translations of Chinese literature and his
lessons in the Chinese language.
“The mission of this Chinese dignitary lasted several years, at
the end of which time a real professor arrived from abroad. He
was at once brought into the presence of the Chinese professor.
“Imagine his stupefaction when he discovered that this
individual was not a professor at all, and that his real
profession was that of a gardener. He had been forced to play
the rôle of professor against his will. He was taken to be a
savant, and a savant he had to be. On his arrival in Germany he
had been at once considered a man of letters on the strength
of his appearance only, without having to give any proof of
his capacities, or to pass any examination. Not to injure this
victim of a mistake, and to take advantage of his talents, he
was appointed gardener at Sans-Souci, where, as it happens, I
noticed several specimens of Chinese gardening operations.”
I cannot vouch for the truth of the preceding anecdote, but, true or
false, the story is amusing enough to be related. After all, the man
only had to change the course of his studies, and from being a professor
of Chinese, developed into a professor of Chinese gardening.
A man of letters, named Ko-To-Tao (To-Tao means the humpback, a
soubriquet given to the man whose real name nobody knew, and who seemed
to enjoy his nickname), used to dwell in the village Foun-Lo (fertility
and joy), which lies to the west of Tchiang-Nyang. He used to cultivate
trees, which were so beautiful that they were the envy of all the rich
people of the province, and all the traders bought from him. All the
incomparable plants which came from his garden flourished and grew much
quicker than any others. Some one asked him what was the secret of his
success. He answered that there was no secret in the matter. All that he
did was merely to study the individual character of the plant, and to
treat it accordingly.
“When you plant a tree,” he said, “you must make it comfortable, give
it plenty of room to grow in, and see that the soil in which it is
planted is rich and solid. Then you must leave it alone, not move it
about. From time to time, treat it with the care that you would show
to your own child. Don’t spoil it, when it is in want of nothing. Thus
brought up the tree is free, and thrives, as it is its nature to do. I
do not prevent its development, which comes of its own accord. Others
who plant trees often change the earth round it, making it sometimes too
strong, sometimes too poor, and spoil their pupils by too much care. Not
satisfied with looking at them, they touch them; sometimes even they cut
into the bark to see if they are living or dead. No sooner have the buds
sprouted, than they examine them to see if they will turn into fruit.
The tree is not free, and its character changes. You think that you are
showing love, but you are destroying. You are trying to show care, and
you are dealing death. That is why my system is superior to all others.
But in all that I have no particular merit.”
He was asked if the same system could be applied in government offices.
“No; I know nothing about anything but trees. It is not my trade to
govern nations. I have seen good governments, who, instead of leaving
people free to work, took them under their protection. Then each day
brought with it its sheaf of decrees and laws, ordering people into the
fields and to their trades, and regulating their customs and ways of
living. The people, being no longer master of itself or of its movements,
comes to no good. As for myself, I am old and infirm, and occupy myself
with my trees alone.”
The person who had been talking with him, delighted to have learned the
true system of government, whilst endeavouring to learn how to plant
trees, wrote down the conversation for the instruction of the government
officials.
After all, there is little difference between the education of a tree and
of a man. Our forefathers used to say that it takes a century to complete
the education of a man, and that the proper education of a tree lasts at
least ten years.
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