It is on the eighth day of the fourth moon—which corresponds to the month of May of the Gregorian calendar—that the great ceremony of the ordination of the Buddhist priests, also called the Feast of the Bath of Buddha, is performed.

On the eve of this day all the candidates gather together in the monastery in each town to prepare themselves for the solemnity of the morrow. At about eight o’clock in the evening a bell is rung. The priests are in their places, each on his knees before the statue of Buddha. First a prayer is recited, and then hymns are sung. After this the chief priest takes down off its lofty pedestal a little idol—a statuette of Buddha, places it on a platter of gold or of carved silver, and pours over it water out of another platter. During this bath, which lasts for half-an-hour, the priests are in adoration, and all the musical instruments are heard. Then comes a rather lengthy pause. At midnight the ceremony of consecration begins. The candidates who, either by vocation or by sudden impulse, have chosen this career, have to live two or three years in one of the monasteries, and after this, before being qualified to exercise the function of minister, must submit themselves to a somewhat painful formality.

The great hall of Buddha is brilliantly lighted up. On tables placed side by side are set out the images of the different Buddhist apostles, and all kinds of religious emblems. Before each of these statues there is placed a kind of prie-dieu stool, to which the name of one of the candidates is attached, and it is on this stool that, after a long hour of meditation, the candidate kneels down. His head is shaven completely bald, and on the naked skin are placed three pieces of tinder soaked in incense, to which the chief sets light. The candidate continues praying quietly whilst the conical-shaped tinder candles on his head burn out, burning away the skin of his head withal. This is the reason why one always sees cicatrices on the heads of the Buddhist priests. Some have three, some six, some nine, some even more, according to the degree of their devotion.

On the morrow another ceremony takes place, that of the reception of the priests. The old give welcome to the new.

I relate all this because this sight is one in which in China a great deal of interest is taken. It is considered quite a pleasure to be able to witness it.

When I was a boy of nine years, the chief of the Buddhists who was to officiate at the ordination that year being a friend of my father’s, I asked to be allowed to be present at the ceremony.

It was a beautiful afternoon. After crossing fields bordered with high trees, and where the cry of the crickets could be heard on every side, we entered into a wood, in the centre of which stood the monastery. We were well received by the priests, who told me that no child of my age had ever been present at the feast. The scene that I was to see was one which might turn me either into a fanatical Buddhist, or a bitter enemy of that religion. However, my father insisted, and I was allowed to enter. We first of all partook of a dinner without meat, consisting of bamboo sprouts, salt vegetables, and a purÉe of beans, all of which seemed delicious to me. We were afterwards allowed to be present at the great dinner of the priests. Their immense dining-room resembled very much that of a barracks, with this difference, however, that during the meal the strictest silence was observed. This silence was only broken by the prayers that were sung before and after each course. I was very surprised to see how healthy these monks looked in spite of their bad food. I have since learnt, however, that a vegetable diet is quite as nourishing as meat, and now understand what at the time puzzled me. On leaving the dining-room I took a turn in the passage of meditation. Each priest was seated with his legs crossed under him, his eyes closed, and his hands locked together, on a bed placed in an alcove, which was separated by screens on either sides from those of his neighbours. The priests seemed to be lost in the most profound meditation. Child that I was, and not knowing what importance they attached to their silence, I tried to get the monks to speak to me, in spite of my father’s forbidding me to speak to them. But not one of them gave me any answer, not one of them moved a hair. Some time was spent in this way, after which we betook ourselves to the great hall of consecration, where the ordination ceremony, as described above, took place.

The net result of my excursion was that I passed a very unpleasant night, and that I have still before my eyes the horrible sight of hundreds of Buddhists in their grey robes, with their bald heads flaming hideously.

As soon as ever day broke I begged my father to take me away from this sinister spot, and in spite of the heavy dew that lay on the grass, and the chilliness of the spring morning, we set out at once. As we reached a little pathway which separated two fields, I just escaped treading on two snakes, who were wriggling in battle together, and who passed from one field into another between my very legs.

The impression that I carried away was so deplorable a one that, but for an incident which, happening some days later, showed me that their fanaticism was far from being so absolute as I had imagined, I should never have felt anything but aversion to these fanatical madmen, as I then considered them. One day, some time after our visit to the monastery, one of the priests whom we had met there paid us a visit at our house, and stayed to dinner. I cannot express the stupefaction I felt in seeing him partake of the dishes of meat that were served, with the greatest relish and appetite. I could not understand. I knew that the Buddhists were strict vegetarians, and that they forbid the use not only of flesh and fish, but even of eggs, fat, milk, and butter. I could not help expressing my astonishment, child that I was. The priest merely smiled, and said, “Buddha is such a kindly god, my child, that he pays no attention to these minor details.”

Buddha, indeed, is the god of gladness. I need only look at his face to be convinced of that fact. This face, with the fat cheeks, lighted up with an eternal smile; this well-fed body, comfortably seated on the lotus-flower, that flower that the god holds in his hand; that quiet attitude of happy bon vivant—all these things made one think rather of some fat monk from Rabelais than of an ascetic emaciated with prayer and self-inflicted punishment.

The Buddhist story relates, moreover, that the first Buddha was a man of kindly feelings towards his fellows, whose only mission it was to save all mortals from their wretchedness, and to make them enter the “western heaven,” which is that of pleasure.

The other day my friend Cernuschi gave a children’s ball in Paris. There was a large Buddha in the drawing-room. I happened to be present; and when I was asked whether I was not horrified at seeing such frivolities taking place before the statue of a god, I answered in the negative. “Ah,” they cried, “you are more tolerant than we are. Our priests would never permit us to dance before a crucifix.”

“That is quite different,” I answered. “Christ was a martyr, and it would certainly be wrong to indulge in frivolous gaieties before His image. Buddha, on the other hand, has only one desire, and that is, that each and all should be happy. Besides, this excellent god is on a holiday in Europe, and that is all the more reason why he should be glad to see people amusing themselves, since he is here for amusement.”