Another night falls on the earth. Impenetrable darkness surrounds us, and only in the zenith a few stars sparkle. The swell still roars against the strand, but Tso-mavang is gently falling asleep. Above us towers the monastery on its steep wall like a fortress, and the monks have retired to rest. The falcons are heard no more, and the pigeons have sought their nests.
CHAPTER XLVII
ON THE ROOF OF THE GOSSUL MONASTERY
In the middle of the night I was awaked by a terrible row; a dog from the monastery had crept under my men’s half of the boat to see what it could find, but chanced to fall into the hands of Shukkur Ali, and got a good thrashing. The temperature fell to 37.4°. Rabsang came riding up at sunrise. The men had feared that we must have perished in the waves. He brought provisions and a packet of letters from Thakur Jai Chand, the British commercial agent in Gartok, who was at the time in Gyanima, where the fair was being held. He wrote that Colonel Dunlop Smith had directed him on June 27 to try to obtain news of me. Guffaru had performed his task satisfactorily, and all my baggage was safely deposited in Gartok, and my voluminous correspondence had been forwarded to Simla. From Mr. Sherring, who had made a journey to Manasarowar some years previously, I received a very kind letter; he had also had the kindness to send me his interesting book on western Tibet, while his wife had added a whole packet of English and French newspapers, literature the more acceptable that the extensive library presented to me by O’Connor had long been read through and dispersed to the four winds of heaven. It was a singular coincidence that where I had suffered shipwreck I was so unexpectedly brought again into contact with the outer world.
I was deeply moved by Rabsang’s information that the monks in Tugu-gompa, when they saw the storm burst over our frail boat, had burnt incense before the images of the lake-god and implored him to deliver us from the waves. They had done it of their own accord, and not at the request of any one. They said it would be deplorable if we were lost; they had a heart, and were not so unfeeling as might be supposed. Few proofs of sympathy have touched me like this.
Accompanied by Rabsang, I ascended in the early morning the winding path up to the monastery. At the turns and projections stand cubical chhortens and votive cairns, and here and there a streamer flutters on a mast. A samkang, a hermit’s dwelling, hangs over a cavern produced by the fall of a huge mass from the slope of the pebble terrace eleven years ago. I told the monks that they should not put too much confidence in the ground on which their monastery stands. They reckon millions of years for the soul’s wanderings, but their earthly dwellings are not built for eternity. They answered calmly that the monastery had already stood for one hundred years, and that it would certainly stand as long as they were living there; for in general the monks are changed every three years, and they come here from the monastery Shibeling in Purang, by which they are maintained. There are only three of them, but I saw also four novices, seven, nine, ten, and eleven years old respectively, running about as actively as mice, and waiting on the monks. Their mother, a nun from Purang, also lives in the monastery. She had been married before she “took the veil,” and when her husband died she dedicated herself and all her children to the Church. I afterwards learned that one of the “boys” was a girl; they were so like one another that I could not distinguish between them. At first they were shy and timid, but after I had given them a few silver coins they were soon at ease with me. They appeared small and stunted for their age, but the abbot told me that they had mourned so much at the death of their father that their growth was checked. Almost all the day they were bringing water from the lake in clay jugs, which they carried in a basket suspended by a strap round their forehead; they carry therefore with the muscles of the head and neck, which are consequently so much developed that they seem too large for the body. But they also receive instruction and take their first uncertain steps in the domain of wisdom; the eldest is said to have already acquired considerable knowledge.
I went into the temple and studied it thoroughly. I remained there twelve hours, drew, took measurements, made all kinds of inquiries, and took notes. Every part is handsome, interesting, and well-kept. The lhakang is like an old armoury, a museum of fine, rare articles, which show great artistic skill, and have been designed, carved, modelled, and painted with unwearied patience and real taste. The hall, supported by eight pillars, has two red divans; a statue of Buddha in gilded bronze, and a number of other idols; drums hanging in stands, lacquered tables with the usual religious objects, and a large quantity of votive bowls in the brightest brass and of uncommon, tasteful forms. On both sides of the pillars hang tankas in four rows, which are as long as standards and triumphal banners, and are so arranged that they do not prevent the light from playing on the faces of the gods. In a corner surely waves a Swedish flag? Ah, it is only a blue and yellow tanka, but it reminds me of the golden period of our fame and victories.
The lhakang of Gossul is not built on the usual plan; the skylight is wanting, and instead there are three windows in the façade facing the lake. But the gods do not see the lake, for the windows are pasted over with paper on a trellis-work of laths. Why is the beautiful view concealed and the daylight excluded? To enhance the mystical gloom within and excite the greater wonder and reverence in the minds of the pilgrims who come in half-blinded from the daylight, and that they may not see that the gold is only gilded brass, and that the marks of the brush and the chisel may not be too profanely evident. The poorer a monastery, the darker are its temple halls; the darkness hides their poverty and helps the monks to impose on the faithful.