A nomad woman from Kamba had the right arm and shoulder bare, and was as powerfully and muscularly built as a man, but was so horribly dirty that it was impossible to perceive her complexion. She had no head-dress; but the dark hair was plaited into innumerable thin rat’s tails hanging over the shoulders, and tied together on the forehead into a mane of cords. She would have been good-looking if her features had not been so masculine; she sat still and solemn as a statue of Buddha. A fifteen-year-old girl had a parting in the middle, and her hair frizzed in two pads down to the ears, which were combed, oiled, and shiny like those of a Japanese, and she wore a diadem studded with coral. She was dainty and clean and had rosy cheeks (Illustrations 157, 158, 159).
Burtso was a little Shigatse lady of seventeen summers, and bore the dirt of those seventeen summers on her face. Like most of the others her features had the sharply marked characteristics of the Mongolian race—oblique narrow eyes contracting to a point at the sides, and the lower part of the eyelid telescoped into the upper so that a slightly curved line is formed and the short lashes are almost covered; the iris is dark chestnut brown, and appears black within the frame of the eyelids; the eyebrows are usually only slightly marked, are thin and irregular, and never form the finely curved Persian and Caucasian arch like a crescent. The cheek-bones are rather prominent, but not so high as with the Mongolians; the lips are rather large and thick, but the nose is not so flat as among the Mongols. Faces with handsome features are seen among the male Tibetans. But the differences between individual Tibetans are often as great as between Tibetans on the one hand and Mongols, Chinamen, and Gurkhas on the other. The nomads of the Chang-tang are apparently a tribe of themselves, and seldom, if ever, intermarry with the others. Otherwise the Tibetan people is undoubtedly much mixed with neighbouring elements. Chinamen living in Lhasa and Shigatse marry Tibetan women. In the Himalayas, south of the Tibetan frontier, live the Bothias, a mixed people, sprung partly from Indian, partly from Tibetan elements. The people of Ladak have mingled to a large extent with their Aryan and Turkish neighbours, because they have been in closer and more active contact with them. The Tibetan people present remarkable and peculiar problems in anthropological, ethnographical, and linguistic science, which must be solved by future investigation.
I drew on and on, and one type after another found its way into my sketch-book. The expression of my models is listless and devoid of animation; they seem absent-minded and passionless. They take little interest in the proceedings; all they care about is to pocket the rupees after the sitting. They sit motionless, without laughing or complaining. They are rather too solemn, and not a smile plays round the corners of their mouths when their eyes meet mine. I passed the greater part of the day in this silent, apathetic female society.
Now and then comes a party of inquisitive people to watch me, Tibetans, Chinamen, or pilgrims who want to have something to tell when they get home again to their black tents. They stand round me, wondering whether it is dangerous to be drawn by a European and what is the object of it. Of course there are many spies among them. There is an endless variety of types and costumes, and as I ride through the streets and see the inhabitants at their various occupations, I feel oppressed by the thought that I have not time to draw them all. Here stands a man splitting wood, there come two young fellows driving before them asses laden with twigs and branches. There go a couple of women with large water-jugs on their backs, while small girls collect cattle dung from the street. Here a group of officials approaches in yellow garments on fine horses, while some lamas stroll slowly towards the monastery. All is so picturesque, so charming for the pencil; one is constantly delighted with attractive subjects, genre pictures of unusual character, strikingly grouped parties of salesmen and customers; one could spend months here, drawing again and again. I am grieved at the prospect of an early departure.
| 154. Lecture in Tashi-lunpo. Sketch by the Author. |
In the afternoon a company of dancers, male and female, frequently appears in the court and gives no despicable performances, reminding me strongly of the dances in Leh. They are always introduced by our little old mother Mamu, who has the management of the garden, and hops about smiling and friendly as a sparrow. She speaks Urdu, so Robert employs her as interpreter. Then come caravans, bringing hay, firewood, chaff, and barley for our remaining animals, or provisions for ourselves, and people are constantly coming to sell all kinds of goods—chickens, eggs, butter, or fish from the Tsangpo; milkmen run with their clattering metal cans, and stringed instruments and flutes make music in our groves. A beggar comes up like a troubadour to my tent with a lute, and sings a melodious air. When I look at him he stops singing and puts out his tongue. Barefooted boys, who could be no blacker if they were drawn twice up a chimney, run about laughing loudly, and peep out from among the trees. Three of them perform on a tight rope, dance like professional rope-dancers, and beat drums, while they turn summersaults all mixed up together (Illustration 164).
Pious visitors also frequent my courtyard: two nuns, for instance, with a large tanka representing a series of complicated episodes from the holy scriptures. While one chants the explanation, the other points with a stick to the corresponding picture (Illustration 165). She sings so sweetly and with so much feeling that it is a pleasure to listen to her. Or a mendicant lama comes with his praying mill in his hand and two hand-grooves hung by a strap round his neck. In these he pushes his hands as in a curry-comb, when he prostrates himself on the ground in making a circuit of the temple. They are much worn, and this moves the hearts of the people to generosity, so that his alms bowl is filled daily.
These pious men are the parasites of Tibet, living at the expense of the working population. And yet they are endured and treated by every one with the greatest consideration and respect. To give them a mite brings a blessing on the giver. The people are kept by the lamas in spiritual slavery, and the lamas themselves are docile slaves to those tomes of narrow-minded dogmas which have been stereotyped for centuries, which may not be interfered with or criticised, for they are canonical, proclaim the absolute truth, and stand in the way of all free and independent thought. The clergy form a very considerable percentage of the scanty population of this poor country. Without the Peter’s pence Tibet could not make both ends meet. Tashi-lunpo is, then, a huge savings-box, in which the rich man places his pile of gold, the poor man his mite. And with what object? To propitiate the monks, for they are the mediators between the gods and the people. Scarcely any other land is so completely under the thumb of the priests as Tibet. And while the people toil, the monks gather round their tea-pots and bowls of tsamba at the summons of the conch.
On three evenings in succession large numbers of wild-geese have flown low over our garden from north-west to south-east. The ravens are as bold as usual; of other birds only sparrows roost in our trees. Our camp within the wall is quiet, but we have posted a night-watch outside, for in a town like Shigatse, full of all sorts of vagabonds, there are many scoundrels. Two monks, who were with me one evening to answer my inquiries, durst not return to Tashi-lunpo in the dark, unless I sent some of my men armed with guns to take them home. Recently a lama was attacked at night between the town and the monastery and stripped to the skin.
On February 20, after only 17.6 degrees of frost, it snowed all day long, the wind howled dismally through the poplars, and the snow fell on my tent. Nothing was to be seen of the golden temple roofs, and the ground and the mountains were white; there was no one in the bazaar, and no inquisitive visitors pestered us. It was just as in the Chang-tang.