Lu Xun Complete Works/en/Wuchanghui
The Fair of Five Fierce Gods
What children look forward to most, apart from New Year and other festivals, is probably the time of the processions and temple fairs. But our home was in a remote location, and by the time the procession passed our way, it was always already afternoon; the paraphernalia had been reduced to almost nothing, and what remained was exceedingly sparse. Often we craned our necks and waited for a long time, only to see a dozen or so men carrying a gold-faced or blue-and-red-faced idol rush past. And then — it was over.
I always harbored this hope: that the next procession I saw would be grander than the last. But the result was invariably "about the same," and all that was ever left was a single souvenir — bought for one copper cash before the idol was carried past — a whistle made of a bit of clay, a bit of colored paper, a bamboo stick and two or three chicken feathers, called a "toot-toot," which I would blow shrilly for two or three days.
Looking now at Zhang Dai's *Dream Memories of Tao'an*, I realize that the temple fairs of those days were truly extravagant beyond measure, although the prose of Ming writers is perhaps not free from some exaggeration. Praying for rain by parading the Dragon King is still practiced today, but the procedure has become very simple — merely a dozen or so men twisting about with a dragon, plus village boys dressed up as sea ghosts. In those days, however, they also enacted stories, and the performances were truly spectacular to behold. Zhang Dai describes the enactment of characters from *Water Margin*: "... thereupon they dispersed in all directions, seeking a short dark man, seeking a tall gaunt man, seeking a mendicant monk, seeking a fat Buddhist monk, seeking a stout woman, seeking a slender beautiful woman, seeking a green face, seeking a crooked head, seeking a red beard, seeking a fine beard, seeking a dark hulk, seeking a red-faced man with a long beard. They searched throughout the city; failing that, they went to the suburbs, to the villages, to the remote mountains, to neighboring prefectures and counties. They hired them at great expense, and obtained thirty-six men. The heroes of Liangshan Marsh — each one brought to life, lined up in perfect order, men and horses marching in splendid array ..." Such a vivid tableau of living ancients — who could fail to be moved to take a look? Alas, such grand spectacles vanished long ago, together with the Ming dynasty.
Although temple fairs were not, like Shanghai's cheongsams or Beijing's political discussions, banned by the authorities, women and children were not allowed to watch, and scholars — the so-called literati — mostly disdained to go. Only idlers with nothing better to do would run to the temple or the magistrate's gate to see the excitement. Most of my knowledge about temple fairs came from their accounts, and was not the "direct observation" prized by textual scholars. Yet I do recall seeing a rather grand procession once with my own eyes. First came a boy on horseback, called the "courier"; after a long wait, the "tall lantern" arrived — a very long banner raised on a tall bamboo pole, held up by a sweating, burly man using both hands. When he was in a good mood, he would balance the pole on the top of his head, or on his teeth, or even on the tip of his nose. Then came the "tall stilts," the "raised platforms," and the "horse-heads"; there were also people dressed as prisoners, in red clothes and wooden cangues, among whom were children too. At that time I felt all these were glorious undertakings, and that everyone involved was immensely fortunate — I suppose I envied them for being in the limelight. I wondered: why don't I fall seriously ill, so that my mother would go to the temple and make a vow to have me "dress up as a prisoner"? ... Yet to this day I have never had any connection with a temple fair.
We were going to Dongguan to see the Fair of the Five Fierce Gods. This was a rare grand event of my childhood, for it was the grandest fair in the entire county, and Dongguan was very far from our home — beyond the city gates there were still more than sixty li of waterway. There stood two unusual temples. One was the Temple of Maiden Mei, the very one recorded in *Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio*: a maiden who preserved her chastity, became a goddess after death, yet usurped other women's husbands. On the divine seat were indeed sculpted a pair of young lovers, beaming and smiling — quite at odds with "propriety." The other was the Temple of the Five Fierce Gods, a curious name in itself. According to those with a penchant for textual research, this was the cult of the Five Penetrating Spirits. Yet there was no definite proof. The divine images were of five men, showing no sign of fierceness whatsoever; seated behind them were five wives, and they were not "separately seated" — far less strict than the segregation in Beijing theaters. In truth, this too was quite at odds with "propriety" — but since they were the Five Fierce Gods, there was nothing to be done about it, and naturally it must be "treated as a separate matter."
Because Dongguan was far from the city, everyone rose very early. The large boat with three rows of bright mica windows, reserved the night before, was already moored at the river landing. Boat chairs, food, tea urn, snack boxes — all were being carried down one after another. I laughed and skipped about, urging them to hurry. Suddenly, the workers' faces turned solemn. I sensed something was amiss; looking around, I saw my father standing right behind me.
"Go fetch your book," he said slowly.
The "book" in question was the *Jian Lüe*, the primer I had been studying, since I had no other book. In our parts, children usually started school at an odd-numbered age, which is how I know I was seven at the time.
My heart pounding, I fetched the book. He made me sit beside him at the table in the center of the hall and had me read it out, sentence by sentence. With my heart in my throat, I read on, sentence by sentence.
After perhaps twenty or thirty lines of two characters each, he said:
"Learn it by heart. If you cannot recite it, you will not be allowed to go to the fair."
Having said this, he stood up and went into his room.
I felt as if a basin of cold water had been poured over my head. But what could I do? Naturally I read, and read, and memorized by force — and had to be able to recite it from memory.
"Since Pangu of old, born in the primordial waste,
"First he emerged to rule the world, opening up the primal chaos."
It was that sort of book. I can now remember only these first four lines; the twenty or thirty lines I memorized by force at the time have naturally all been forgotten along with them. I recall hearing people say that studying the *Jian Lüe* was far more useful than studying the *Thousand Character Classic* or the *Hundred Family Surnames*, because it gave one a general knowledge of events from ancient times to the present. A general knowledge of events from ancient times to the present — that was certainly a fine thing. But I did not understand a single word. "Since Pangu of old" simply was "Since Pangu of old" — read on, memorize it. "Since Pangu of old!" "Born in the primordial waste!" ...
The things that needed loading had all been carried aboard. The house, which had been in a bustle, grew quiet and still. The morning sun shone on the western wall; the weather was bright and clear. My mother, the workers, and Mama Chang — that is, A Chang — were all powerless to come to my rescue. They just waited in silence for me to finish memorizing and recite the passage. In the stillness, I felt as though iron clamps were reaching out from inside my head to seize hold of "born in the primordial waste" and the rest. I could also hear my own voice, reciting rapidly and trembling, like a cricket chirping in the late autumn night.
They all waited. The sun climbed higher.
Then suddenly I felt I had a firm grasp of it. I stood up, took my book, and went into my father's study. In one breath I recited it straight through, as if in a dream.
"Correct. You may go," said my father, nodding.
Everyone sprang into action at once, smiles appearing on every face as they walked toward the river landing. A worker lifted me high in the air, as if celebrating my success, and strode ahead of everyone else at a brisk pace.
But I was not as happy as they were. After the boat set off, the scenery along the waterway, the snacks in the boxes, and even the bustle of the Fair of the Five Fierce Gods at Dongguan — none of it seemed to hold much interest for me.
Even now, everything else has been completely forgotten, without a trace remaining — only this episode of reciting the *Jian Lüe* is still as vivid as if it were yesterday.
To this day, when I think of it, I am still puzzled as to why my father chose that moment to make me recite my lessons.
May 25.