GODS MANY AND LORDS MANY.
Over our stove was a paper figure of the kitchen god. He presides all
the year round over the cooking arrangements, and listens carefully to
all that is said. A few days before the close of the year he goes up to
heaven to report all he has heard to the gemmy emperor, his master. He
must have had a lot to tell about our house; so my mother-in-law took the
precaution to daub his lips with sticky treacle so that he could not open
his mouth and tell of her doings. Most of our neighbors did this, too; so
I suppose they didn’t feel any too comfortable about his report of them.
At the new year he came down again—at least we put up a new one in the
place of the one we had burned, which, I suppose, comes to the same thing.
The goddess of smallpox was much dreaded in our district. She usually got
to work at the beginning of the summer, and unless big gifts were given
to her, she revenged herself by killing large numbers of little children
as well as grown-ups. I remember well how she came one summer. One by
one of the children fell ill of “heavenly flowers,” as the disease was
called, and the temple was thronged with worshippers, while every house
had its image of Niang-niang, to which incense was burned to ward off her
anger. As nothing availed, a great procession was arranged for, in which
many children took part. They were gaily dressed and carried aloft on the
shoulders of men to call forth the pity of the cruel goddess.
Then we had a great theatrical performance which Niang-niang watched from
her shrine opposite the stage. It lasted for over a week, and crowds came
from far and near. The only result I know of was that the disease was
carried into a number of villages near and many more died. The expenses
were paid by the people round, and during the performances the gambling
and opium dens reaped a rich harvest. I was too busy to care for any of
these things, and so miserable that I prayed Niang-niang to come and end
my weary life by sending me the “heavenly flowers.”
But a worse calamity than the smallpox was to come upon us. All the year
but little rain had fallen, and the fields were parched and dry. It was
the time for planting out the rice. This rice is our staple food, and if
anything happens to the rice harvest we are in the greatest difficulty.
The rice is sown on flooded fields, and when planted out has to be well
watered for a month or more, or the plants will dry up.
In spite of all the prayers at the temples, the processions, and the
crackers, the rain refused to fall, and ruin stared us in the face. The
following winter was dry and cold, and prices went up so that the poor
began to be in great want. Still it was hoped the spring rains would put
things right again. The farmers sowed what little grain they had left;
but the heat set in earlier than usual, and the fierce sun scorched up
all, and men prayed in vain for the rains that never came. In their
place came famine, gaunt and relentless.
Our family was one of the very first to suffer. Gradually clothes and
goods were sold, for my father-in-law’s opium craving had to be satisfied
somehow, and with it all my miseries increased. Yet I dare not run away,
for that meant certain death. In the wake of the famine came fever.
Weak with constant opium-smoking, my father-in-law was an early victim,
and we buried him hastily outside the village. The two eldest sons left
secretly, and bitterly my mother-in-law cursed them for leaving her thus
in her distress.
There should have been some help obtainable from the Benevolent Halls;
but though many subscriptions had been given in the good years, the money
could not be accounted for now that it was wanted, and the man in charge
committed suicide when faced by the angry people. The wealthy hid their
money lest it should be stolen by the bands of fearless robbers who
prowled everywhere. Our home was now sold, and as we soon used up the
money, there was nothing for it but to join the crowds of starving people
going into the cities to seek for help.