The venerable prelate sat cross-legged on a bench fixed against the wall and covered with red cushions, and before him stood a small, yellow, carved table with silken material inserted in the top. He beamed with fat, inward complacence and goodwill, like any other cardinal; his features were finely cut, and his eyes indicated great intelligence. When I entered he rose with a polite smile and invited me to be seated on a chair by the table, whereupon the inevitable tea was served. Just as indispensable is it to exchange kadakhs and presents. I gave him an engraved dagger from Kashmir, and he presented to me a gilt idol—there is the difference between secular and ecclesiastical presents. We talked about an hour over one thing or another, and His Eminence begged me to excuse the delay, but the Panchen Rinpoche was absorbed in meditation and occupied with his daily prayers, and might not be disturbed till he himself gave a sign.
This moment came at length: a lama whispered to the cardinal that I was expected. We go still higher up smooth steep staircases to open landings, up more steps, higher and higher to the holiest of holies in the monastery of Tashi-lunpo. The conversation is carried on in lower, more subdued tones, one dares no longer speak loud; small groups of lamas stand in the corridors and passages, silent as statues, and look at me as I pass by. Lobsang Tsering tells me in a whisper that we are now in the last antechamber, where I can make myself ready and put on the black shoes. Here my servants are ordered to remain, except Robert and Muhamed Isa. If I could have dispensed with interpreters His Holiness would have seen me quite alone.
We enter, not without feeling solemn. I make a deep bow at the door, and two more before I stand before him. The Tashi Lama is sitting on a bench in a window recess and has in front of him a small table with a tea-cup, a telescope, and some printed sheets. He is dressed as simply as an ordinary monk, wears a cerise costume of the usual style, coat, waistcoat, vest, and the long scarf which is thrown over the shoulder and wound round the body like a toga; between its folds peeps out a yellow under-vest with gold embroidery; both arms are bare and the head is uncovered.
His complexion is fair, slightly inclining to yellow; he is somewhat below the middle height, is well proportioned, looks healthy, and at his twenty-fifth year, lately completed, has every prospect of attaining a good old age. In his small, soft, delicate hands he holds a rosary of red beads. His short-cropped hair is black, and there is scarcely any down on his upper lip; his lips are not thick and full like those of other Tibetans, but thin and gracefully formed, and his eyes are of a chestnut-brown colour.
Nodding kindly, he gives me both his hands and invites me to sit in an arm-chair beside him. The apartment, in which he spends the greater part of the day, is astonishingly plain, quite a contrast to that of the cardinal in the lower regions. It is small and consists of two parts: the outer is a kind of roofless ante-room, exposed to all the winds of heaven, to the snow in winter and the pouring rain in autumn; the inner is raised a step, and is again separated by a division ending in a grille, behind which his bedroom is situated. There is not a single idol, no wall painting or other mural decoration, no furniture except what has been already mentioned, not a thread of carpet, only the bare stone floor—and through the window his melancholy and dreamy, but clear and open, glances wander over the golden temple roofs, over the town below them with its dirt and sinfulness, over the dreary mountains which bound his earthly horizon, and away through the azure-blue sky to a Nirvana invisible to us, where his spirit will one day find rest. Now he descended from his heaven and became a man for a moment. But all the time he preserved a wonderful calmness, a refined, amiable politeness and dignity, and spoke in a charmingly soft and subdued voice, modest, almost shy; he spoke quickly and in short sentences, but in a very low tone.
What did we talk about? Why, about all kinds of things in heaven and earth, beginning from his own religion, in the Pantheon of which he himself takes the highest rank among living prelates, down to the yaks that roam wild over Chang-tang. He displayed an alertness, an interest in everything, and an intelligence that surprised me in a Tibetan. I have never been interviewed so thoroughly and with so much tact. Firstly, he inquired if I had suffered much from the cold and hardships in Chang-tang, and whether we had had great losses. Then he hoped I would excuse the sorry entertainment I had met with; it was all owing to my having arrived quietly and unnoticed, and no one knew whether I was the man who was expected and of whose probable arrival information had been received from India. But now everything possible should be done for my welfare and convenience, and he wished and hoped that I should carry back with me a pleasant remembrance of his country.
Then followed inquiries about my name, my age, my caravan, the routes by which I had come; my country, its size and population, its position with regard to Russia and England; whether Sweden was dependent on a neighbouring country or had a king of its own; the best way to travel to Sweden, how long it took to travel there, and what season was the most suitable—just as if he intended to return my visit. Then he asked about the various European countries and their rulers, their relative power and extent; about the war between Russia and Japan, about the great naval battles and the armoured vessels which had sunk; the effect the result of the war would have on Eastern Asia; about the Emperor of Japan and the Emperor of China—apparently he had the greatest respect for the latter. He asked what countries I had visited, and whether I had seen much of India, where he had been so well received a year ago. He spoke with pleasure of his impressions of India, of the large cities with their fine buildings, of the Indian army, the railways, the splendour and wealth everywhere apparent, and the hospitality shown him by the Lord Sahib (the Viceroy). “Promise me to greet the Lord Sahib from me when you write, and tell him that I still think of his kindness, and greet Lord Kitchener;” and then he showed me a photograph with the autograph of the great General. He was particularly pleased at having been able to visit the holy places he knew so well from descriptions and pictures, which were connected with the great founder of his religion, Buddha, especially Buddh Gaya in Magadha, where Prince Sarvarthasidda, the son of Buddha, had passed six years in solitude and meditation, overcome Mâra, the tempter, the ruler of the world of lust, and had attained to perfect wisdom.
To the Tashi Lama, then, the journey to India had been of the nature of a pilgrimage, though from the English point of view the invitation had been rather connected with political considerations. It was, of course, important to the English in India to have a neighbour on their northern frontier on whose faith and friendship they could rely in unsettled times. As long ago as the year 1774 the great Warren Hastings had sent Bogle as ambassador to the third Tashi Lama, to obtain information about the country, and, if possible, to establish commercial relations. And in 1783 he had sent Turner to the fourth Tashi Lama. Now, 120 years later, the sixth Tashi Lama had been invited to visit India himself, that he might observe with his own eyes the wealth, might, and prestige of the English. No efforts were spared to make a lasting impression on the influential ecclesiastical prince. Later events have proved that this project has failed. The journey of the Tashi Lama to India met with great opposition in Tibet, and gave rise to much suspicion. And great was the joy when he returned in safety; for the Church could not afford to lose, perhaps, the Tashi Lama also, when the Dalai Lama had disappeared from the country. What would become of the re-incarnation when no one knew where the two popes were dwelling?
Then he turned the conversation to the European Powers, and thought that Europe was a singular mosaic of states. He brought out a picture showing all the more powerful supreme rulers of the earth. Under each portrait the name and country were written in Tibetan characters. He put many questions about each monarch, and showed the liveliest interest in their fortunes—he who is more powerful than all the kings of the world, for he rules over the faith and the souls of men from the Kalmucks on the Volga to the Buryats on Lake Baikal, from the shores of the Arctic Ocean to the burning sun of India.
I am not the first European whom Tubden Chöki Nima Gelég Namgyal, the sixth Tashi Lama, has received in the Labrang at Tashi-lunpo. After Younghusband’s expedition, Major W. F. O’Connor was admitted to an audience in the autumn of 1904 as representative of the Indian Government, and on this occasion he was accompanied by four officers of the Gartok Mission, Major Ryder, Captains Rawling and Wood, and Lieutenant Bailey. O’Connor, who knows the Tibetan language, was Younghusband’s interpreter in Lhasa and the Tashi Lama’s in India, and in his capacity as British Trade Agent in Gyangtse had frequently occasion to negotiate with the pope in Tashi-lunpo. Also, immediately after his return home in 1906, the Tashi Lama received Captain Fitzgerald, Lord Kitchener’s aide-de-camp, and Mr. David Fraser.