Chin-Chin; Or, The Chinaman at Home

by Ki-tong Tcheng

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: