“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.