Before we came to the monastery of Tirtapuri we had to cross several of the rivers which bring their tribute from the Trans-Himalaya to the Sutlej. Three of them were enormously swollen after the continuous rains, and rolled their volumes of greyish-brown foaming water over treacherous blocks. It boiled and seethed between the cliffs, and it carried along and overturned the slippery boulders. How I trembled in mortal anxiety lest the harvest so laboriously gathered in the last long winter should all be lost by a single false step.
We came to the temple of Tirtapuri in pouring rain. Lobsang, Gulam, Kutus, Tubges, Suen, and Kunchuk were to accompany me hence to Simla, but Abdul Kerim and the other five received their pay and gratuities, and took their way home to Leh through Gartok. I did not know the road to Simla, but on the map it seemed to be nearer than to Ladak, and therefore I expected that my party would arrive first at its destination. But this road is very wild and romantic, and the land is deeply excavated by the affluents of the Sutlej, and one might imagine that one had suddenly been transported to the cañons of the Colorado. One day we marched rapidly up an ascent of 3000 feet, and the next we went down as far, so that the distance was at least double as great as it appeared on the map, and Abdul Kerim reached Leh long before I was near Simla. Therefore the first news of us came from him, and not from myself, and in some quarters the worst fears were entertained for my safety. It seemed strange that my servants reached their home safe and sound while I myself was still missing.
| 385. My Puppy. |
| 386. Takkar in his New Home with the Missionaries in Poo. |
We parted with floods of tears on August 1, and my party travelled past the three monasteries, Dongbo, Dava, and Mangnang (Illust. 382), and came to Totling-gompa on the 13th, near which Father Andrade, three hundred years ago, lodged in the now decayed town of Tsaparang. Here I met the Hindu doctor Mohanlal, who gave me the first news of the outer world. Through him I heard, with deep regret, of the death of King Oscar, which had occurred more than eight months before. Mohanlal also informed me of the growing unrest in India and of the anxiety my friends felt on my account. Thakur Jai Chand had been instructed by the Indian Government to spare no efforts to find out whether I was still living or not. He had sent out some Tibetan freebooters in various directions, and promised 50 rupees to any one who could furnish any certain information of my fate—this is the price he valued me at. Abdul Kerim had reached Gartok in the best of health, and was summoned to the Garpun, who exclaimed: “Your Sahib is a dreadful man; he will not be satisfied until I lose my head!” Old Hajji Nazer Shah, who had so conscientiously equipped my last caravan, had died the preceding winter.
When we left Tokchen on July 24 we were delighted at the thought that we should at every step be nearer to lower country and a denser and warmer atmosphere. A month later we were at a greater height than at Tokchen, and saw the country covered with snow, and heard the hail patter on our dilapidated tents. But at Shipki we again set them up in a garden dressed in the rich beauty of summer, and heard the wind murmur in the spreading crowns of the apricot trees. Shipki is the last village in Tibet. From this garden oasis begins the steep ascent to the Shipki-la, which is reached after attaining a height of six Eiffel Towers one upon another. Here we stood on the frontier between Tibet and India. I turned and let my eyes roam once more over these awfully desolate and barren mountains where my dreams had been realized, and my lucky star had shed a clearer and more friendly light than ever before. Farewell, home of wild asses and antelopes, holy land of the Tashi Lama, of Tso-mavang and the Tsangpo, into whose mysterious valleys the stranger has found his way only by enduring two Arctic winters and by driving a flock of refractory sheep! I seemed to take farewell of the best of my youth and the finest chapter in the story of my life.
On August 28 we encamped in the village of Poo (Illusts. 383, 384), and I spent two memorable days in the hospitable house of the Moravian missionaries. Messrs. Marx and Schnabel and their amiable families overwhelmed me with kindness, and now I was deluged with news from the outer world—it was like listening to the breakers on the coast of the ocean. I had not seen a European for more than two years, and I looked myself like a Tibetan footpad. But the missionaries rigged me out at once in European summer clothes and set an Indian helmet on my head.
A few days later we came to Kanam-gompa, where Alexander Csoma Körösi eighty years ago studied Lamaist learning as a monk, and more than any one else communicated to the scholars of the West the occult mysteries of this religion. How silent and quiet our life had been up on the expanse of Chang-tang! Now the dizzy depths of the valley are filled with the roar of the falling stream, and the thunder of the water is re-echoed from the precipitous cliffs. How bare and scanty was the soil of Tibet, and now we listen daily to the whisper of mild breezes in the deep dark coniferous forests that clothe the slopes of the Himalayas.
Still lower runs the road, still warmer is the air. My trusty friend, big shaggy Takkar, looks at me with questioning eyes. He loves not the summer’s perfumed garlands nor the variegated zone of meadows. He remembers the free life on the open plains, he misses the fights with the wolves of the wilderness, and he dreams of the land of everlasting snowstorms. One day we saw him drink of a spring which poured its water across the path, and then lie down in the cool shade of the forest. He had done so many times before, but we should never see him repeat it. He turned and galloped up towards lonely Tibet. He parted with sorrow in his heart from his old master, I knew; but he thought he would ask the missionaries in Poo to send me a greeting. One morning he was found lying outside the gate to the court of the Mission-house, and, true to his old habit, he would let no one go in or out. He was hospitably received, and started a new life with a chain round his neck. I still receive from time to time, through Mr. Marx, greetings from old Takkar, who so faithfully defended my tent when I travelled in disguise through his own country (Illust. 386).
| 387. Simla. |
In the Club des Asiatiques in Paris I once dined with Madame Massieu, who has accomplished so many wonderful journeys in Asia. Roland Bonaparte and Henry of Orléans were present, as I vividly remembered when on September 7 I met the far-travelled Parisian lady in the station-house of Taranda. We had much to talk about when we contributed to the cost of a common dinner. Untouched by years, youthful and enthusiastic, Madame Massieu afterwards undertook a bold journey to Khatmandu.