Tibetan men are not fighting men, and are, perhaps, the most contemptible cowards in face of danger. Curiously enough, it is not fear of death which makes them pusillanimous, but apparently the notion of getting hurt and the absolute lack of resolution. If ordered by his superiors and impressed with the idea that if killed by the enemy he will find himself in heaven, whereas if he bolts and returns to camp he will be beheaded and go to a hell of ice and snow—yes, the Tibetan hell is a cool place; but their heaven is warm, with splendid grazing for yaks!—then, indeed, a Tibetan will stand helplessly to be shot without defending himself, while Maxim guns and [[180]]shrapnel and other things of the kind are playing upon him. The carnages of the British Tibet Mission, of which we importers of civilisation should not feel too proud, are a good instance of this.
So, again, although a contemptible coward, he does not fear death. I myself, while in Tibet, could confirm this statement by many personal experiences. When officials came to induce me to leave the country they maintained, and it was true, that they had strict orders from Lhassa to drive me away. If they returned unsuccessful from their mission they would, they declared, be beheaded. When I insisted on continuing my journey they frequently handed me their sword, requesting me to cut off their head then and there, which would save them the dishonour of degradation and a public execution.
A Picturesque Old Fellow
Once or twice, as the Tibetans on my first journey had given me a taste of what it felt like to be taken out to the execution ground and have a sword flourished round my neck, I thought that I was fully entitled to try a practical joke and see what effect the similar sensation would have on Tibetan officers. Only, of course, in my case I had not asked to be beheaded, and therefore the process came more as a surprise, besides being [[181]]carried out in dead earnest up to, but fortunately with a postponement of, the last stroke.
To go on with my narrative, I pretended to accept the offer of the Tibetan officers, and, calling all my men, lined them up to witness the execution. The Tibetan officers knelt down, somewhat trembling but quite resigned, and cleared their necks to make my work easy. Many of them did not flinch, but some did when I approached, brandishing the sword in their own fashion; and, by Jove! the latter proved themselves to be the champion runners of the country. Naturally, I never injured these fellows in any way, and when they showed any determination at all I always gave them a suitable present of some sort or other.
After the performance was over they fully entered into the humour of the joke themselves, and we used to have very hearty laughs over it, and endless cups of tea.
When you travel in Tibet you see, in the daytime, men and women garbed in heavy skin coats; only one sleeve at a time is put on while half the chest and the other arm are left bare. This, to any one not suspecting the reason, looks very incongruous, and has led to all sorts of ridiculous [[182]]explanations from the usual theoretical scientists at home. The real explanation is simple and is this.
As I have elsewhere explained, the heat of the sun is in Tibet very great—especially in Southern Tibet,—the latitude not being many degrees north, and the power of the sun’s rays is even intensified by the clearness of the rarefied air. On the other hand, owing to the immense elevation, the cold is intense wherever the sun does not strike, so that it is not uncommon to feel absolutely roasted on the sunny side and frozen on the other. Hence the necessity of having winter clothing to cover half your anatomy, while the other half demands nothing more than tropical bareness.
