Trans-Himalaya: Discoveries and Adventurers in Tibet. Vol. 1 (of 2) — Background and Themes

and every one was waiting. After dinner the guests were invited to go out into the compound forming the summit of the hill on which the old palace is built. The light of the full moon quivered through the mild intoxicating air, the hills around were veiled in mist and haze, and from the depths of the valleys rose the shrill penetrating rattle of grasshoppers. But this hill, where lively laughter resounded and conversation was stimulated by the effects of the dinner, seemed to be far above the rest of the world. Here and there dark firs or deodars peeped out of the mist with long outstretched arms like threatening ghosts. The night was quiet, everything but ourselves and the grasshoppers seemed to have gone to rest. Such an impression is never effaced. Etiquette forbade that any one should leave before Lord Kitchener--he had to give the signal for breaking up the party; but he found himself very comfortable here, and we talked in French with the wife of Colonel Townsend, drawing comparisons between the matrimonial state and the advantages of uncontrolled freedom. It was after midnight when the dictator of the feast rose, and then ladies and their cavaliers could make for their rickshaws. Silence reigned on the moonlit hill; only the shrill song of the grasshoppers still rose to heaven.

A couple of State balls also took place during my stay in the Viceregal Lodge. Then an endless succession of rickshaws streams up to the courtyard, winding like a file of glow-worms up Observatory Hill. One is almost astonished that there are so many of these small two-wheeled vehicles in Simla, but only the Viceroy, the Commander-in-chief, and the Governor of the Punjab are allowed to use horse carriages, because of the narrowness of the roads. Then elegant ladies rustle in low dresses of silk, with agrafes of diamonds in their hair, and pass through the entrance and hall escorted by cavaliers in full-dress uniforms. One is frightfully crushed in this flood of people who have spent hours in adorning themselves so brilliantly, but the scene is grand and imposing, a _non plus ultra_ of gala toilets, a kaleidoscope of many colours, of gold and silver; the red uniforms of the officers stand out sharply against the light silk dresses of the ladies in white, pink, or blue. Here and there the jewelled turban of a maharaja hovers over a sea of European coiffures. Then there is a sudden silence, a passage is opened through the crowd; the herald has announced the advent of the Viceroy and his party, and the band plays "God save the King." The Viceroy and his lady walk slowly through the ranks, saluting on both sides, and take their seats on the thrones in the great ball-room; then the first waltz is played. The illustrious hosts summon first one and then another of their guests to converse with them; there is a rustling of silk, a humming and buzzing, shoe-soles glide with a scraping noise over the floor, and the dance-music hurries on its victims with irresistible force. The guests flock in small parties or large groups into the adjoining dining-room, and there sup at small tables. At length the ranks grow thin, the hosts retire, the wheels of the last rickshaw rattle over the sand of the courtyard, the electric lights are extinguished, and the palace is quiet again.

Lord Kitchener's residence stands at the end of the town of Simla, and is called Snowdon. The visitor enters first a large ante-room, which, with its tasteful arrangement and decoration, makes rather the impression of a reception room or a hall of honour bedecked with trophies. A fine portrait of Gordon Pasha is placed on an easel; opposite stand busts of Alexander and Cæsar. In the wainscot of the staircase is inserted the arm of the presidential chair which Uncle Kruger used in Pretoria, and on the tables, shelves, and friezes are valuable Chinese vases of the Kang-hi (1662-1722) and Kien-lung (1736-1795) periods; for Lord Kitchener is an enthusiastic collector of old Chinese porcelain, but only the very finest finds favour in his eyes. But what strikes the stranger most in this unique hall, and above all attracts his attention, are the trophies and flags from Lord Kitchener's victories in the Sudan and South Africa. They hang down from their staves from an upper gallery, among them the standards of the Mahdi and the dervishes of Omdurman and Om Debraket, besides several Boer flags from the Transvaal and the Orange Free State. In the inner drawing-room we find the same luxurious decoration with Chinese porcelain vases and rare ethnographical objects, among which certain Tibetan temple friezes carved in wood are of great value; they were brought by Younghusband's Lhasa expedition. On the tables lie albums of photographs of Lord Kitchener's numerous tours of inspection in India, and of his journey through the cold Pamir. At receptions the table is adorned with costly services in solid gold, gifts of the English nation to the victor of Africa (Illustration 6).

My time in Simla came to an end; it was useless to stay any longer after I had received the last decisive answer from London. On June 9 I took leave of the Viceroy and his youngest daughter, who were going to ride to Mashroba and pass the Sunday there. I cannot describe the leave-taking; it was so warm and hearty. Lord Minto wished that I might still carry out my intentions, and he hoped sincerely that we should again meet in India. I could not on the point of departure express all the gratitude I felt. He had done all that was in his power to help me, and had exposed himself to unpleasantnesses on my account. He had played an important part in my life's course, and I knew that I had gained in him a lasting friend. It was a trial to have to say good-bye to him. He was more grieved than myself that our plans had miscarried, and for my part I felt that my honour now demanded that I should do my best.

On Sunday morning Lady Minto and her two eldest daughters also drove off to Mashroba. I bade them a last farewell, and thanked them for the boundless hospitality I had enjoyed in the Viceregal Lodge. The moment of parting was fortunately short; bitter it certainly was. Two fine carriages drove up with outriders, and escorted by native cavalry soldiers in red and gold, carrying lances in their hands. The ladies, in light bright summer toilets and hats trimmed with flowers, took their seats--the group of ladies of bluest blood, which through centuries and generations had been ennobled and refined, seemed to me like a bouquet of flowers themselves. I remained on the lowest step as long as I could catch a glimpse of the waving sunshades, but soon the red uniforms of the soldiers disappeared among the leafy trees of the avenue which leads down to the main guard, and the romance was at an end.

When I again entered my room the royal palace seemed lifeless and desolate, and I had no heart to remain any longer. I packed my things, hurried into the town and paid a couple of short farewell calls, made arrangements for my heavy luggage, and was soon ready to start. On the 13th I went off. The number thirteen plays a rôle of some importance in this journey: on November 13 I left Trebizond on the Black Sea; on December 13 I reached Teheran, the capital of Persia; and on June 13 I left Simla; but I was not superstitious. Younghusband was the first to welcome me and the last to say good-bye; I was soon to see him again in Srinagar. Then the train sped downwards through the 102 tunnels. From a bend in the road I caught sight of the Viceregal Lodge with its proud towers and lofty walls, the scene of so many joyful reminiscences and disappointed hopes.

DEPARTURE FROM SRINAGAR

Manuel was a singular fellow. He was a Hindu from Madras, small, thin, and black, spoke good English, and with his parents had joined the Roman Catholic Church. He had presented himself at the last moment with a huge packet of testimonials and declared confidently: "If the gentleman thinks of making a long journey, the gentleman will want a cook, and I can cook." I took him into my service without looking at his testimonials (Illustration 15). He behaved well, was honest, and gave me more satisfaction than annoyance. The worst he did was to get lost in Ladak in some mysterious way, and to this hour I have heard nothing more about him.

In my compartment we sat as close as herrings in a barrel. The air became hotter and hotter; from the pleasant coolness of the heights we came again into the oppressive heat of the Indian plains. Passing Kalka, Ambala, and Lahore I came to Rawalpindi, where I put up at a passable hotel. But the room was hot and stuffy, and the punkah, the great fan hanging down from the ceiling, was in motion all through the night, but did not prevent the gnats from paying me importunate visits.

On June 15 a _tonga_ and three _ekkas_ stood before the hotel; I took my seat in the former, and the baggage was securely packed on the latter--and Manuel. The road runs between fine avenues of trees straight to the foot of the mountains. The traffic is lively: carts, caravans, riders, tramps, and beggars. Before us lie slopes of no great height, and beyond the higher mountains of the Himalayas. Are they walls erected across my path by hostile spirits, or do they await my coming?

Beyond Malepur the _tonga_, drawn by two spirited horses, passes through the first hills with dark and light tints of luxuriant green. The road winds up among them, and I am glad to leave the fiery glow of the plains behind; certainly the sun is still burning, for the air is clear and the first forerunners of the cloud masses of the south-west monsoon have not yet appeared. Thus we pass one stage after another. We have often to drive slowly, for we meet long trains of native soldiers in khaki uniforms with forage and munition waggons, each drawn by two mules--how glad I should have been to possess a couple of dozen of these fine animals! Cool winds blow in our faces and conifers begin to appear among the foliage trees. We leave the summer station Murree behind us, and now the snow-clad mountains at Gulmarg are visible. After crossing a pass near Murree we ascend again. Beyond Bandi we reach the right bank of the Jhelam, but the river lies far below us; the scenery is beautiful, and its grandeur and magnificence defy description. Lower and lower we go, drive close along the river's bank, and pass the night in the _dak bungalow_ of Kohala.

Next day we cross a bridge and slowly mount the slopes of the left bank. The morning is beautifully fine, and the not over-abundant vegetation of the hills exhales an agreeable summer perfume. On our left rushes the stream, often white with foam, but its roar strikes our ears only when we make a halt; at other times it is drowned by the rattle of the _tonga_. I follow with the closest attention the changes of scenery in this wonderful country. The road is carried through some of the mountain spurs in broad vaulted tunnels. The last of these is the longest, and opens its gaping jaws before us like a black cavern. Within it is delightfully cool; the short warning blasts of the signal horn reverberate melodiously in the entrails of the mountain.

In Gurie we breakfast, and rest a quarter of an hour on a comfortable couch in the verandah. Here, four years previously, I spent a memorable hour with Sir Robert and Lady Harvey. The wind whistles through the same poplars, elms, and willows to-day; I feel extraordinarily forlorn and melancholy. Then I had come from a great journey, now the future seems to me hopelessly dark. Before me rise the softly rounded but steep slopes of the wooded mountains on the right side of the valley; down yonder the village of Gurie lies on both sides of the river. The air is mild. I dream of eternal spring and forget my cares. Beyond Chinawari tall conifers are again seen on the cliffs. My driver, who speaks Persian, points to a huge block of stone embedded in the margin of the road; ten days ago it fell and killed a man and two horses. At dangerous spots, where landslips may be expected, small white flags are stuck up. The mountain landscape becomes wilder, and its sharp outlines become more distinct in the shades of evening. We come to Urie and Rampur and often drive through dense forest. When we arrive at Baramula we have covered 106 miles in fourteen hours.

On June 17 it rained in torrents, but we determined in spite of it to travel the last six stages to Srinagar. We canter along the straight road between endless rows of poplars. The mud splashes up, the rain beats on the roof of the _tonga_, heavy clouds involve us in semi-darkness, and there is not a trace of the mountains to be seen. The weather suits the mood in which I arrive at Srinagar, the capital of Kashmir on the bank of the Jhelam. Here I had to make several preparations for my journey--to Turkestan, it was stated officially; there was no more talk of Tibet. The persons whom I called upon on the first day of my sojourn in the capital of the Maharaja were away, but at last I found the superintendent of the Mission Hospital in Srinagar, Dr. Arthur Neve. In 1902 he had treated my sick cossack, Shagdur, and rendered me many other services, for which I owe him an eternal debt of gratitude. One of my best friends in India had advised me to try to persuade Dr. Arthur's brother, Dr. Ernest Neve, to accompany me, but now I learned that he too had applied for permission to visit western Tibet, chiefly in connection with missionary work round about Rudok, and had likewise met with a refusal; he was now on his way back from the Tibetan frontier above Leh. Dr. Arthur Neve is one of the men I most admire. He has devoted his life to the Christian Mission in Kashmir, and his hospital is one of the best and most completely equipped in India. There he works indefatigably day and night, and his only reward is the satisfaction of relieving the sufferings of others.

This day everything seemed to go wrong, and out of spirits I returned to Nedou's Hotel just as the gong announced eight o'clock. I sat down at the long table among some thirty ladies and gentlemen, all as strange to me as I to them. But in some of the parties the conversation turned on me.

"Have you heard that Hedin is in Srinagar?"

"No, really? When did he come?"

"To-day. Of course he wants to go to Tibet."

"Yes, but he has been forbidden, and the Government has orders to prevent him crossing the frontier."

"Well, then, he can pass round Tibet and enter it from the north."

"Yes, he has done it before, and can of course find the way again."

It was exceedingly unpleasant to have to listen to this conversation, and I almost drowned myself in my soup-plate. I could scarcely understand how I could be thus spoken of. It seemed as though the dreams and illusions of my soul were sorted out, named, and ticketed, while my corporeal part sat at the _table d'hôte_ and swallowed soup. When we had happily arrived at the coffee I quietly withdrew, and thereafter always ate in my own room. My position was such that I had to avoid all contact with Englishmen; they could do me no service, and I would on no account reveal my real designs. What a difference from any former journeys, which I had always commenced from Russian soil, where every one, from the Czar to the lowest _chinovnik_, had done everything to facilitate my progress!

Next day I called on the private secretary of the Maharaja, the Pundit Daya Kishen Kaul, a stately, distinguished man who speaks and writes English perfectly. He carefully read through my letter of introduction, and kindly promised to get everything ready for me as quickly as possible. During the conversation he took notes. His agents were to receive his orders on that same day, mules would be procured, four soldiers be told off to accompany me during my whole journey, provisions, tents, and pack-saddles be bought, and he would find a pleasure in fulfilling all my wishes. No one would have an inkling that all this was done for me; every outlay would be lost among the heavy items entered under the heading "Maintenance of the Maharaja's Court." And Daya Kishen Kaul kept his word and became my friend. The business proceeded slowly, but still it did go forward. Not a word was spoken of Tibet. I was ostensibly getting ready for a journey to Eastern Turkestan, but his meaning smile told me that he divined my intention.

Even at a base of operation where one has full liberty it is not quite easy to get a caravan ready for the march; how much more difficult here where I was in the midst of intrigues and political vexations. But my self-respect and energy were stimulated, and I felt certain of succeeding in the end. The whole affair reminded me of a drama with an interminable list of rôles; the complications were great and I longed only for action. One act of the play was performed at Srinagar, and I cannot pass it over, as it had a sequel later on. When everything else had been denied me from London the road to Eastern Turkestan still lay open.

On June 22 I received from the Resident, Colonel Pears, the following letter:

The Indian Government has ordered me by telegraph not to permit you to cross the frontier between Kashmir and Tibet. They have no objections to your travelling to Chinese Turkestan, taking it for granted that you have a Chinese passport. But as you have lately informed me that you do not possess such a document, I have telegraphed to the Indian Government for further instructions.

Now I telegraphed to the Swedish Minister in London, Count Wrangel, and begged him to procure me a passport for Eastern Turkestan, a country I never thought of visiting, and then informed the Government in Simla of this step and of the satisfactory reply. Nineteen days later I received the following letter from Sir Francis Younghusband, who meanwhile had arrived in Kashmir as the new Resident:

I have received a telegram from the Government informing me that you may set out before the arrival of the Chinese passport, but on the condition that you do not travel beyond Leh. As soon, however, as the Chinese Government, or the Swedish Minister (in London), telegraphs that your passport is drawn out, you may cross the Chinese frontier at your own risk; your passport will then be sent after you.

Then I telegraphed to Count Wrangel again, asking him to assure the Indian Government that the passport had really been granted me and was already on the way. It was already awaiting me in Leh when I arrived there. It was a pure formality, for I did not need it, and it would have to be decided first where the boundary lay between Eastern Turkestan and Tibet. The representative of China in London subsequently expressed his astonishment to Count Wrangel that I was travelling about in Tibet with a passport made out for Eastern Turkestan, but Count Wrangel replied very justly that he could not possibly control me and the roads I followed in Asia. The English Government had done its best to prevent my travelling through Tibet, and so there was no resource left but to outwit my opponents. How I succeeded will appear in the pages of this book.

On one of the first days, accompanied by Daya Kishen Kaul, I called on the Maharaja of Jammu and Kashmir, Sir Pratab Sing, whose brother, Emir Sing, was also present. His Highness is a little middle-aged man of dreamy, melancholy aspect (Illustration 7). He received me with great friendliness, and promised to meet my wishes in every respect. He had heard of my journey through the desert in 1895, and when I had narrated its incidents I had won him over to my side; he would be pleased, he assured me, to see my new expedition start from his territory.