Intimate China: The Chinese as I Have Seen Them

by Mrs. Archibald Little

All the temples on the mountain's top were burnt down a few years ago. But the exquisite Bronze Temple, on the edge of the precipice, to which every province in the empire contributed, has never been rebuilt after its sad destruction, beautiful fragments alone remaining; and the rough pine-wood temples round it appeared all at daggers drawn. Our Golden Temple was bringing an action against another for placing a golden pinnacle as the centre ornament of its roof, thus building up a pretext to filch from it its immemorial golden title; whilst another temple accused ours of having intentionally lit the fire that consumed it. We did not believe this of our temple, for even its boy priests were hard-working, good little boys, who knelt and burnt incense with reverence too; whilst the young priests of the adjoining temples were bold, bad youths, of ribald laughter, importunate curiosity, and great effrontery. There was, however, one temple where the priests appeared always wrapped in devotion, whenever I looked in. They had not yet begun rebuilding, perhaps were still praying for funds, as they knelt among their burnt and charred images.

There were outlying temples on distant points of vantage, each inhabited by a solitary priest. One had long attracted us by its exquisite neatness, and the propriety and cleanliness of its arrangements. Its occupant was away on a pilgrimage, but he returned before we left the mountain, and we were not surprised to find him a young man of great gravity and much courtesy. We had already studied his kitchen, with its kettle hanging from the rafters by a chain and a jointed stick; also observed his closet-bed, which, in accordance with the stricter rule, was but a wooden seat, so that neither day nor night could he lie down. We now saw how carefully washed were the feet in his straw sandals; also what superior straw sandals he had brought up to sell to pilgrims who had worn out theirs; and how particular he was to make no profit upon the transaction, when we bought a pair, and inadvertently slightly overpaid for them. But our acquaintance was not long or intimate enough to arrive at anything of the spiritual life beneath that exterior propriety. He it was who told us there was a way down the back of the mountain into the Wilderness, where the wild cattle roam, and that, though bad, he could not say other than that it was possible, seeing he had just passed along it—this though he could see our coolies' imploring gestures, and hear their rather audibly muttered curses. They had every one of them sworn there was no path. But there was, and the young hermit could not say otherwise. We often thought of him, as we all fell headlong going down that path, that certainly did exist, and enabled us to proceed to our next sacred mountain without descending into the burning, cholera-stricken country.

There were only three priests at the temple on the Sai King Shan. One was old and useless; one was shivering with ague, which seemed strangely out of place on the mountain; but we did not learn how long he had been there—only relieved him with quinine. And the whole work and administration seemed to be carried on by the young priest, who had led us up the mountain, and who by various begging excursions had amassed enough money to buy it for four hundred gold dollars, so as to save it from the havoc of the wood-cutters, who had for years past been cutting down all the trees. This young priest took care of the potatoes, collected the mushrooms that made such an exquisite symphony in cream and brown when spread out in the sunshine to dry, and did everything, it seemed, that was done. But we could not find out that religious services were among the number. It was the aged priest who lit sticks of incense before the images in the morning.

Since then, however, we have stayed in a monastery with which his and the Golden Temple on Omi both are associated. The Monastery of the Particoloured Cliff is only about fifteen miles from Chungking. The entrance is at once striking, from the perspective of the carefully planted shrubs, the flights of steps, the carvings, and careful adjusting of the path, with sudden corners, so that it never leads straight onward, admitting free access to evil spirits. This is a prevalent Chinese superstition, leading to the almost universal practice of placing screens across their entrances either within or without. It is a part of their Fung shui, their wind and water religion.

ENTRANCE TO MONASTERY.
By Mrs. Archibald Little.

Much etiquette was observed in the method of our admission into Hoa Ngai. We brought gifts, as we were told was the usage. And polite monks received us, and bade us wait first in one reception-room, then in another, whilst higher and higher dignitaries were brought to parley with us. Finally we were conducted through a long outlying wing, the strangers' quarter, and led through one or two bedrooms, all full of beds, carefully curtained, and each bed with rolls of most comfortable-looking wadded quilts, evidently quite new and fresh, from the brightness of their scarlet colour—a gift from some recent wealthy guest, we were informed. The floors were clean; everything was in order—no dust anywhere; and the attendants at once swift and quiet in making all those last final arrangements, that must be deferred till the arrival of guests. But best of all was the view from the window—the peaceful sunset framed in a setting of trees, the chastened lights and shadows, with the fresh country air coming in so clean and pure through the open window. But one must have lived in a Chinese city to appreciate that as we did. The priests came to and fro to inquire if we were content. Only after some time did they signify that by their rules I must not share that room with the wide-open window and the peaceful outlook, but retire to the women's quarter, all along the long corridor again, down an outside staircase, along the corridor below, then through a great door with many bolts into one bedroom leading on into another, both full of beds, but otherwise untenanted, and as clean as the rooms above, only without a view, and with the dank smell of the earth outside, instead of the fresh country air. Presently we were asked to take tea with the priests—tea and many sweets. A few priests were told off each day to prepare special food for the guests—generally, of course, pious pilgrims, come to pray. There were over fifty priests in all, and we saw the orders for the day hung up on the wall, as if for a regiment. We also saw all the others sitting at their severely simple meal, never occupying opposite sides of the same table, but always the same side of several tables; and in the midst to the back on a raised seat the chief priest, not eating with the others—he always ate apart—but sitting there whilst they ate.

In the early dawning we had been each day wakened by the call to prayers and the solemn chanting. One day I sprang out of bed, and followed the sound, which seemed to come from farther down the corridor beyond my room, out of a side temple. Only a few had assembled already, but priests continued to come in till the chapel was full. None but a few of the priest-boys paid any heed to my unaccustomed presence, excepting the chief priest, when he came in. He was an old man of over seventy, and had now sat by at our evening meal more than once, and talked with us—a great mark of condescension, we were told, only shown to honoured guests. Presently he came forward with a kindly smile, and, taking me by the two shoulders, very kindly but firmly pressed me into the place he desired me to occupy. And the next minute I saw the reason of this. For, still chanting, the monks began to procession round and round the chapel, and in and out among the seats, forming the most curious figures, and ever quicker and quicker, ever with bowed heads, and fingers and palms pressed close together. The wild, simple chant rose and waned as they processioned, close on fifty Chinese Buddhist priests, moving as fast as ordinary people when they dance the Caledonians, all chanting and not looking up. At last I felt as if I could bear no more. It may have been the early hour, the strange chant, the quick moving to and fro. Anyhow, I tried to go to my husband's room, and fell insensible on the stone passage just as I reached the top of his staircase. I recovered consciousness in an agony as to what Buddhist priests might think suitable treatment for a fainting lady, if they any of them found me there; and that gave me strength to drag myself along to my husband's room. They were chanting still, the sweet, wild music of the chant softened by distance now, or I might have thought it was all a dream, as I looked out upon the gentle hills and sky framed in their setting of trees, and breathed the fresh country air again.

They were very strict in that monastery; they would not hear of our cooking anything for ourselves in our own room, beyond boiling water for tea; but their vegetarian diet quite satisfied all our wants. There was some sort of chanting all day in the principal temple—a droning kind of chanting, from certain priests told off for the purpose. We often looked in; for, uncommon enough, the central image was beautiful, with a certain grave serenity. It was very ancient, they told us. And we believed this. For the images of to-day are made for money, and lack the air of sanctity. This image recalled Byzantine pictures in Russian churches—very set, very firm, yet withal so kind, and above all so holy.