CHAPTER II

_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.