Ports of the world - Canton/Coffins and Gongs
| COFFINS AND GONGS |
Visitors occasionally venture into Canton afoot, but seldom repeat the experience, inasmuch as many of the natives on the streets are stripped to the waist, and since the pedestrian is invariably jostled about in the narrow streets he finds his clothing the worse for wear after it has been in contact with the bodies of the half-naked Chinese.
The change from the wide thoroughfares, shaded by tamarind trees, of Shameen to the narrow evil-smelling streets and alleys of Canton is depressing for the traveler sensitive to odors: but the trip will have its redeeming features, for he will view sights more weird on his journey about that city than he viewed on his cruise up the muddy waters of the Chukiang River.
The traveler is prepared for one of the strangest of his many experiences in this city by the Chukiang River. Hardly is the trip through the heart of Canton begun when it is halted by the interruption of traffic on the street over which the coolies are proceeding, and by the now familiar clatter of gongs and the wail of oriental voices—some weak, some strong, some tearful, and some joyful.
A word of inquiry brings the answer that a funeral procession is passing through the streets, that all traffic is halted out of respect for the dead. The interruption of traffic appears, from an American viewpoint, to be the only mark of respect for the dead, inasmuch as the mourners conduct themselves in a manner that would he considered sacrilegious in an occidental country.
It appears that a funeral of a prominent merchant of Canton is taking place. As the procession comes into view the populace cranes its necks in morbid curiosity, not hesitating to make critical remarks about the appearance of the coffin, the price which must have been paid for it. and so on.
Ahead of the bier marches a Chinese band, the members playing on all sorts of alleged musical instruments, whose value is evidently determined by the noises produced through frenzied manipulation of the keys, slides, and strings. Several of the bandsmen are pounding on metal drums whose "music" suggests the din in a boiler factory, and every now and then the advance guard reluctantly abandons its playing on the instruments to let forth blood-curdling screeches, which send shivers frolicking up the backs of the bystanders.
Several coolies come next in the procession, staggering under the weight of great loads of flowers, whose fragrance drowns, for a moment, the odor of sewage
spectator remarks that he will never, never again permit the serving of roast pork at his table on Christmas day.
The male relatives of the dead merchant are next in line. They walk afoot and are followed by the female relatives in sedan chairs. The first contingent of mourners are fairly quiet, but its lack of assistance in making the welkin ring is more than made up for by the official mourners, who, although they are only interested in the funeral so far as it means the receipt of a few cents in the way of wages, are apparently overcome by grief. Next in line is an embroidered canopy, supported in the hands of ten or fifteen men, who appear to be the pallbearers. Under the canopy is the coffin, hidden from the public gaze by side curtains which drop nearly to the ground.
Behind the canopy march the official mourners, and the old fisher woman who called down the wrath of Heaven on the heads of the "foreign devils" on the steamer that morning would have bowed her head in shame had she been there to see how her ability for noise making was surpassed by the absolute talent, in that respect, of the official mourners. Neither the death chant of the American Indians nor the voodoo songs of the tribes of darkest Africa have ever reached such a pinnacle of weird melancholy as the funeral songs of Canton, and the traveler who hears the professional mourners ply their trade will have the picture indelibly imprinted on his mind, and even after the passage of years will find his ears ringing with the sound of screeching Chinese voices.
A number of the mourners in the procession carry towels of the generously proportioned, fuzzy, Turkish variety, and use them to wipe away copious tears which would otherwise actually pour in trickling streams on the street. They are the finest kind of crocodile tears.
"Ai-ai-ai-e-e-e-e-c-!" the mourners scream. And shed more tears, with a furtive glance now and then at the pedestrians lining the streets—as if they are anticipating something in the way of approval for their excellent acting.
The sound of music from the head of the procession has almost died away when a new chorus of rattles, bangs, and crashes enlivens the spectacle. More necks are craned, and the guides inform the travelers that the end of the funeral procession is in sight.
There is a fanfare of drums and then the most unrestrained, unmusical, and barbaric noise imaginable breaks out. The traveler is reminded of the steam
calliope at the end of the circus parade at home. The comparison is irreverent, of course; but still, is true, and that is the excuse for making it.
The din continues. It grows rather than slackens. "Gongs!" remarked the guide impressively. "Most glorious funeral!" And gongs they were, as the guide had said. Gongs of all sizes and descriptions, most of them made of brass and others, apparently, of tin. They were carried by perspiring Chinese, who stopped their clanging now and then to emit a most ferocious chorus of hair-raising yells, "Clang! Clang! Rattle-rattle! Bang!" The gong men, it appeared, were receiving a generous wage on this occasion and were so grateful as to make a brave effort to earn their money.
Finally, the gong men passed in the wake of the funeral procession, followed by one or two more bands, and as the ordinary activities of daily routine were renewed and the roar of traffic was once more heard on the streets, the guide volunteered the information that the corpse was being taken to the "City of Death," where, like the corpses on the river, it would be kept until the proper time for burial, probably some months ahead. The "City of Death"—a most interesting place to those morbidly inclined will be touched upon in a later chapter.