The Great Butter Festival

We had seen comparatively few Tibetans before reaching Sining, but there one met them almost daily on the streets. Whether rich or poor there was a something strangely attractive to us about these people — a look of questioning interest, a touch of the wilds, a sense of mystery due to their age - long seclusion from the rest of the world, and above all a consciousness of their deeply religious nature. It was with special interest, therefore, we found our¬ selves within reach of Kumbum just at the season of the greatest pilgrimage of the year. Despite the snows of winter, the fifteenth day of the first moon is the occasion when the great lamasery blossoms forth in the “Festival of Flowers,” all the wonderful productions that attract thousands to its shrines being made of nothing more nor less than butter — tons and tons of butter, given by Tibetan devotees, and wrought into artistic loveliness with the help of lavish gilding and colouring. There we should see Tibet in one of its most characteristic phases — a religious festival planned to replenish priestly coffers, combined with a popular fair and the special celebrations of the New Year season.

Up a frozen river toward snow-clad mountains our journey lay when we set out from Sining in company with Mr. Ridley, Dr. Kao, and other Chinese friends. Festivity was in the air, and the groups we met, gaily-dressed women and children on donkeys with men tramping beside them, were on their way to the city to pay New Year’s visits. From village after village on the banks of our ice-road came sounds of music. Behind their high mudwalls families were feasting and entertaining friends. It was a time of general rejoicing, the one holiday of the year, and we rejoiced too, to see everybody happy. The bells of our mules jingled cheerily. A faint tinge of green, the first suggestion of spring, spread over the trees, just distinguishing them from the brown hills on either side. The snow-covered mountains and the icy track before us gleamed white and dazzling under a cloudless sky, and the wonderful, frosty air was a joy to breathe, for the district lies at an altitude of seven thousand feet, and is as bracing as the Engadine.

“At the rate of three or four miles an hour,” one wrote as the day wore on, “our rumbling cart has brought us to the foot of those snow-covered mountains. The valley we have turned into, run¬ ning west, is different in character from the country nearer Sining. It is considerably higher. No trees are to be seen. Cultivated patches are few and small, and the low hills are sparsely covered with brown grass. We have left the river behind. Dust from the mud track fills the cart. Yet, as one looks ahead toward the not-distant frontier of Tibet, there is about it all a wonderful freedom and freshness that draw one on, till one longs to cross that mighty rampart and make for the blue expanse of Ko-ko-nor.

“Yes, this is Tibet rather than China! And here before us, crowning a sharp ascent, is the gateway of the little town (T’a-ri-si) whose lamasery rivals that of Lhassa itself. Threading our way through its narrow streets we catch glimpses of terraced buildings and temples covering a slope to the south, run¬ ning up a valley and overflowing to a nearer hill — the sacred precincts of the monastery (Kumbum) with its four thousand lamas of the Yellow or Reformed Sect.”

Mr. Ridley was no stranger in the town, and led us up a steep street to the premises occupied by a Chinese firm dealing in wool with the Tibetans. The young manager, a keen business man from Tientsin, was also a keen Christian. His welcome was as warm as his heart, and the best he had to give was soon at our disposal. It was a pleasure to see his well-spread table and efficient housekeeping, though there was no woman about the place, and still more so to realise that there was the testimony of such a life amid the darkness of T’a-ri-si.

From the flat roof of the house an extensive view was to be had of the town itself, deep gullies cut by unseen streams, the lamasery beyond and the surrounding mountains. So it was here the adventurous travellers, Gabet and Hue (Roman Catholic priests), sojourned for about a year on their journey disguised as lamas to Lhassa! Very different was the visit of the first Protestant missionary forty years later (1885), when George Parker preached on these streets and left Gospels and tracts in the monastery. Since then missionaries have come over from Sining from time to time, including the Cecil Polhills, who as bride and bridegroom found a home here and engaged, as their teacher of Tibetan, an old Mongol who had accompanied Gabet and Hue on their travels. And here in the monastery itself Mr. and Mrs. Rijnhart took refuge when the last Mohammedan rebellion swept the countryside with fire and blood. But it was less of these experiences one was thinking, as the sun set over the little town, than of the hopes and fears of thousands who wend their way hither year by year, muttering their meaningless prayers and seeking a peace they never find. What burdened hearts have come and gone in that long procession, and are coming and going still!

Dr. Kao met one on the road to-day — an old, old woman, leaning on a stick, too weary to go any further. Stopping his mule beside a big stone, he persuaded her to mount and ride, and walking by her side began to talk of common things to see whether she understood his Chinese; for she was an aboriginal from the mountains north of Sining.

Yes, she had sons and grandsons, and had been three days on the journey. She could understand his words.

So he went on to speak about true happiness and the way to heaven. The old lady did not seem to take in very much until he began to teach her a

1 Mr. George Parker, one of the pioneers of the China Inland Mission, went out from Dr. Grattan Guinness’ Missionary-Training Institute in London in 1876. He and Mrs. Parker are still at work in China, having long been stationed at Kintzekwan in Honan.

hymn, every other line of which brought in the refrain:

I beseech Thee, Lord Jesus, to save me.

This awakened her interest, and through frequent repetition she learned the first verse and chorus. Then Dr. Kao sang it for her in his full, natural voice, and she was delighted.

“Hao t’ing, hao t’ing teh-hen,” she exclaimed. “It is beautiful to listen to!” Adding pathetically, ‘’Far more beautiful than our ‘ Om mani.’” 1

But on reaching the town she was eager to make her way to the golden-roofed temple, for had she not come on purpose to kotow before the splendid idol?

“Shadows are creeping across the valley,” one wrote a little later, “and pilgrims are coming back from the temples, but there is still time to go over before nightfall, though we may not see much of the lamasery. It is quite a little walk through the streets, across the frozen stream and up the hillside over which many paths are trodden. At every step one is tempted to stay and watch the crowd. How picturesque many of these figures — the men especially, with tall fur hats and savage-looking knives stuck in their girdles! Plenty of women are here, Mongols and Chinese as well as Tibetans, the latter in sheepskin gowns like the men, only longer, their hair parted in the middle and hanging in a hundred and eight tiny plaits, because that is the number of volumes in the Tibetan sacred canon. Here on the hill-top the fair is held which to-morrow will be

1 “Om mani padmi hum,” the Sanscrit phrase which is the Tibetan’s great magical formula and prayer.

THE GOLD-ROOFED TEMPLE.

I he photograph is taken from above the Prayer Hall. Dr. Kao is standing in front of a golden ornament.

a scene of indescribable animation. It is noisy enough even now, with flaring lights, food-shops, and late buyers and sellers. Leaving the stalls behind, we enter the main gateway of the lamasery as dusk is falling, and quietly approach the outer buildings and temples. But what is this — this long, moving line on the dusty road before us?

“‘See,’ whispers Mr. Ridley, stopping us, ‘ look! ’

“We are already looking. It needs a little while for the eye to distinguish and the mind to take it in. Writhing, grovelling in the dust, can it be people we are watching? Yes, three women and a man; we see them as they rise, one behind the other, the women pushing the long plaits back from their faces. They are poor, all of them, dressed in the rough skins that form the one Tibetan garment, bare-headed, dust-covered, and looking so weary! They are moving slowly toward the gold-roofed temple, measuring their length all the way, as they probably have done for days since leaving their home encampment. See them stand reverently with hands upraised, then kneel and fall prostrate on their faces — hands outstretched as far as they can reach, foreheads on the ground. A mark is made with the fingers, then they rise, walk two or three steps to the mark, stand again with hands upraised, then kneel and fall again on their faces, chanting all the time in low monotonous tones — and so on and on painfully, more dusty, more weary, more virtuous at every step. It is a sad, sad sight — a young man and woman and two older women, probably related. There are other groups also. Why are they doing it, if not because of some inward fear or need?”

Heartsick, we went no further than the bridge. Sometimes these poor pilgrims, Mr. Ridley toJd us, fail to win the approval of the Fuh-ie (the lama who is worshipped as an Incarnation, or “Living Buddha”), and he will command them to make the circuit of the entire lamasery thus three times over, a sentence that means days of exhausting labour. Oh, how the earnestness of these people puts our indifference to shame! They seem willing for any sacrifice, any suffering. Three young Tibetans we spoke to before leaving the lamasery had come a journey of four months, begging their way, to this festival, over mountains infested with robber tribes, where their lives were in constant danger. Any sacrifice, any suffering — think of the hermits in these Tibetan mountains, living in caves at an altitude higher than Mont Blanc, in cold, hunger, solitude, and peril from wild beasts. Think of the immured monks in not a few Tibetan monasteries, never seeing the light of day or the face of a fellow-creature. Voluntarily they go into the darkness to be entombed for life, their only occupation the turning of a prayer-wheel, their only food a little bread and water for which they reach up a hand swathed in rags when the stone above them is tapped once a day and a glimmer of fight struggles in. This alone can help them to keep count of the slow passing of months and years, and some of them five on through a long lifetime. Any sacrifice, any suffering — yes, to obtain the merit that alone can deliver from the

1 See Appendix A for a graphic account of a visit to a monastery of the Nying-ma sect, whose monks are thus immured, by Percival Landon, Correspondent of the London Times.

miseries of existence present and to come. And Buddhism keeps up this system, permitting the deceptions and oppressions of the lamas, who terrorise the people and hold them in bondage.

One man out of every three is said to be a lama in Tibet, and the enrichment of the monasteries that overshadow every town and almost every village is their common aim. The darker and more terrible the horrors they depict and the mystery with which they surround their demon-gods, the better can they prey upon the fears of the people. Thus every monastery flames with pictures of the torments of hell, and in addition to the usual placid-faced Buddha and other idols, they have hidden and terrible gods, so fearsome and indeed obscene that they are kept in secret chambers, or draped in robes that cover all but their inhuman faces. Though they never see them, the people know about them, and fear their power so much that they propitiate them from afar, kneeling outside the monasteries and worship¬ ping towards the place where they are concealed. A dear friend belonging to another mission, who lived for months in a Tibetan monastery, saw this pathetic sight, and found an opportunity of visiting the upper story of the building where these dreaded gods were hidden, though warned by the lamas that it was dangerous to enter that special chamber. We ourselves saw one temple in a city north of the Great Wall, which the lamas had actually destroyed, smashing the idols with their own hands, because the Chinese were so enraged at what they heard of these gods that they were determined to see what they were really like.

Rather than have them seen, the lamas themselves destroyed them.

This and much else was in our minds as we slowly made our way back to the town and gathered round the supper -table with our Chinese friends. How great the contrast of that Christian circle with the heathenism without! When the meal was over our host suggested evening prayers, and as hymn after hymn was sung it did one good to see his face. Thinking himself unobserved, a little behind the rest, he sang through verse after verse of one of Pastor Hsi’s hymns with closed eyes, making it indeed a prayer:

When Thou wouldst pour the living stream,

Then I would be the earthen cup,

Filled to the brim and sparkling clear.

The fountain Thou and living spring,

Flow Thou through me, the vessel weak,

That thirsty souls may taste Thy grace.

When Thou wouldst light the darkness, Lord,

Then I would be the silver lamp,

Whose oil-supply can never fail,

Placed high to shed the beams afar,

That darkness may be turned to light,

And men and women see Thy face.

With the refrain:

My body’s Thine, yea wholly Thine,

My spirit owns Thee for its Lord.

Within Thy hand I lay my all,

And only ask that I may be,

Whene’er Thou art in need of me,

Alert and ready for Thy call.

1 For a beautiful translation into English of some of Pastor Hsi’s best-known hymns, see The Songs of Pastor Hsit by Miss Francesca French, published by the C.I.M. at a shilling, or thirty cents, a copy.

It was just the reassurance one needed.

The crowds in the lamasery next morning were so great that it was with difficulty we could move along; yet the festival was poorly attended, we were told, in comparison with former years. Passing the fair with all its tents and stalls we found the throng much more dense as we neared the golden temple. And what a crowd — vivid with colour, each figure a picture in itself, each face a study!

Here is some one of importance, apparently — a tall, big man, wearing a purple silk gown, a yellow sash or girdle, a green velvet coat, velvet top-boots, and a red satin hat bordered with fur. He carries a rosary in his hand, but is not using it, being as much taken up with us as we are with him for the moment. He seems to be a merchant, but whether Mongol or Tibetan, Mr. Ridley cannot say.

Caught in the whirl we are carried on, passing many equally striking figures, including Tibetan ladies in beautiful simple gowns, girdled at the waist, fur-lined and made of silk in rich shades of green and blue. The jewelry they wear is amazing — gold and silver, amber, jade, and coral, enriched with precious stones and pearls. But most of the crowd are in the usual greasy garments, sheepskins that once were white, with the wool turned inside. This is the universal dress of the poorer class, men and women alike — the one and only article of cloth¬ ing, worn year in and year out until the skin is black and polished with grease and dirt.

Very fierce-looking are these “wild Tibetans,” who are here in numbers. Untamed sons of the mountains, they are easily distinguishable by their matted locks and defiant, brigand-like appearance. They are robbers of the worst type, yet generous and faithful to those who once win their friendship. And they are among the most earnest of these pilgrims, going from shrine to shrine.

How wonderful this chief temple with its tiles of solid gold must be to these ignorant, superstitious multitudes! Round it are grouped other temples, each with its special idols, but this one contains the colossal Buddha before which six hundred butter-lamps are burning and the lamas are chanting in full chorus. The figure is so immense that one only sees the lower part of it from the ground. It rises amid the gloom of the vast building, surrounded by galleries to which long flights of steps must be climbed. The galleries are not open to-day on account of the crowds, so that we can only imagine the gilded face with placid features and immutable smile.

More impressive to us by far is the sombre Prayer Hall, lighted from above by unseen windows. A forest of pillars support the massive roof, on which there are silent, sunny cloisters and great chambers filled with smaller idols. The Prayer Hall itself has none. The cloisters are beautiful — just a glow of painting and gilding from which one can see the golden roof of the chief temple close at hand. The Prayer Hall is as vast and gloomy as the darkest aisles of some great forest. Eighteen immense pillars support the central part of the roof, each one encased in a carpet from floor to ceiling, woven in one piece throughout. Between these pillars, rich

TIBETAN WOMEN OF CHONI.

“The long plaits of many of them are covered with a broad strip of red material gorgeous with embroidery which hangs right down their backs.’

To face page 129.

in soft colouring, long, low seats cross the hall from side to side, leaving a space in the middle where a sort of divan is placed. Here sits in Buddha-like attitude one of the lamas worshipped as an Incarnation. He is young, robed in yellow satin, inscrutable, immovable. The light is so arranged as to fall upon his figure, which is as much like a golden Buddha as it is possible for a living person to be. Slowly the hall fills up with red-robed lamas, who take their places cross-legged on the long, low seats. A group in the middle, facing the yellow throne, are chanting in solemn resonant tones; those on either side respond. Outside the crowds come and go, but all within is quiet as the droning chant goes on.

Oh, those crowds, as we again come out into the sunlight! We cannot speak to them; they do not understand Chinese. But they chatter away about us and watch our every movement with eager interest. Faces bright, shrewd, clever, sensual, heavy — all are there, and the girls and women who stand in groups apart interest us specially. The long plaits of many of them are covered with a broad strip of red material, gorgeous with embroidery, which hangs right down their backs, decorated with great white shells like those in which children listen to the sound of the sea by our firesides at home. Four or five of these shells, each big enough to fill one’s hand, must be a pretty heavy weight to carry by the hair of one’s head, but even in Tibet il faut souffrir pour etre belle! The Mongol

1 For an explanation of this peculiar feature of Tibetan Buddhism see Appendix B.

K girls wear silver ornaments almost equally large and heavy, and dress in brilliant colours. Many of them seem to carry the family wealth on their persons.

But the wonderful part of the festival was still to come when darkness fell and we returned to the lamasery after supper. The frost of the winter night was in the air, and the lamas were not afraid to bring out their works of art, which in any case would perish before morning. One night, one brief night only, was the Flower Festival to last in all its glory. Before morning, the bas-reliefs, which had taken weeks if not months to prepare, would be scraped off the boards on which they were displayed and thrown into a heap of discoloured butter. But to-night — well, what shall be said of their radiant and wholly unexpected beauty!

Hardly could we believe our eyes when, in the light of rows of little butter-lamps, we stood before the first of these peculiar shrines. For each bas-relief, large or small, has an idol for its centre¬ piece, before which incense is burned and worship offered. To us they were simply wax -works, but wax -works of a delicacy and beauty that exhibitions at home might well envy, even Madame Tussaud’s.

That one most beautiful chef -d’ oeuvre, how we did want to see it again! But the crowds were too great to permit of going back. The frame of the picture must have been some twenty-five feet long by eight or ten feet high. The background was black, as smooth as a fine blackboard. In the centre a life-sized figure of Buddha stood out, rich in gilding and embroidery in every colour of the rainbow. A glittering crown studded with jewels completed its glory — all made of butter! To right and left were elaborate scenes, figures and animals, birds and flowers, while at either end a wonderful dragon lashed its tail high in the air and raised a fearsome head. The light, fantastic border round the central figure was artistic in the extreme. It stood out a foot or more beyond the rest, and was composed of intertwined dragons in a graceful scroll, wonderfully coloured and lifelike. Then, over the whole, rose a lofty pyramid, tier above tier of great round plaques, each covered with a beautiful design. The entire structure on its black background must have been forty feet high, or with the floating canopy above it some fifty feet. It formed one side of a great square, roofed in with silk and enclosed in fragile walls, made of four tiers of beautifully embroidered banners, held together with a network of silken leaves of all colours and finished at the bottom, six feet above the ground, with a fringe of strips of silk richly embroidered — the whole thing a glowing dream of silk and colour, hanging from unseen supports more than fifty feet high.

Inside it was aglow with the soft light of scores of butter-lamps, three tiers of which were arranged beneath the pictured scene one has attempted to describe. Strains of weird and sombre music seemed to come from the Buddha or the dragons, somewhere behind that shining screen of lamps. The musicians must have been hidden under the wooden staging, and the result was most effective.

Another silken pavilion of the same kind was also the centre of a large crowd. The wax (or butter) works were almost equally fine, and the silken walls and canopy were higher. Then all round the main temple with its golden roof were smaller shrines, each lighted with three rows of butter-lamps and with its special figure of a god. All these were crowned with gold and jewels in most beautiful designs. These crowns, indeed, amazed one more than anything else. It seemed impossible to believe that the lovely filigree work was not real gold, and that the stones were not real jewels. Yet, like all the rest, they were nothing but Tibetan butter!

Opposite the main entrance to the gold-roofed temple were two specially lovely shrines. It was a never-to-be-forgotten experience to stand there in the moonlight, with the shadows cast by closely grouped buildings all round, and to see beyond the crowd of eager faces — Tibetan men and boys and red-robed lamas — those regularly rising and falling figures, facing the image behind the great closed doors. They took no notice of us, but under the eaves of the temple continued their absorbing prostrations. Hours before we had seen them in that same spot, where the boards have frequently to be changed because worn through by pilgrims. We noticed the grooves this morning, two or three inches deep, where the hands slide as they fall and the feet grip as they rise with almost the regularity of clockwork. Accumulating merit, with every sounding thud of the head upon the ground. Accumulating merit: the lamas have nothing more for hungry hearts.

Photos by Frederick Frown.

THE BUTTER FESTIVAL.

(1) Tapestry erected at the Kumbum Lamasery for the Butter Festival.

(2) Main courtyard of Kumbum Lamasery, showing tapestry and small tent in which the Living Buddha presides.

(3) Tibetans prostrating themselves outside the “Holy of Holies” at Kumbum.

To face page 132.

Watch them as they rise and fall, their bodies ever more weary, their foreheads more bruised and painful. Immense prayer-wheels are turning, turn¬ ing, under the broad eaves as other pilgrims pass — and over all the silent stars look down.