“Thereafter I besought him earnestly that I might remain with him in Lhassa until his death, because I was his chela, and that is no commonplace relationship. Its roots lie deeper than the roots of trees. But he answered: ‘The first duty of a chela is obedience.’ ”
Tsiang Samdup paused and stared through the open window at the sky for several minutes. Eyes and sky were so exactly the same color that it looked as if the substance of the sky had crept within him and appeared through slits amid the walnut wrinkles of his face.
“It was midwinter,” he said after a while, “and no light task to cross the passes. But the route the Tashi Lama gave me was this way, through the Ahbor Valley, and I lay for a month in this monastery, recovering from frost-bite and exhaustion. And as I lay between life and death, one came to me who had a pilgrim’s staff, and no outward appearance of greatness, who considered me in silence for a long while; but the silence appeared to me like the voice of the universe, full of music, yet without sound. He went away. But in three days’ time, when I was already far recovered (for I was ever strong), he returned and led me to what I will show you to-night and to-morrow. And I saw myself within myself.”
He paused again, and again the far-away look in his eyes searched the sky and seemed to blend with it.
“He carried me forth,” he said presently, “I lying like a dead man in his arms. His voice in my ear was as a mother’s speaking to a child. ‘It is well,’ said he. ‘Now set forth on your journey, and remember. For you know now what you have to overcome, and also what is yours wherewith to overcome.’
“So after certain days I set forth, and in due time I came to Delhi, where I studied English. Thereafter I went to England.”
The wrinkles moved in silent laughter, and the old eyes twinkled reminiscently as they looked into Ommony’s.
“My son, that was no light experience! It was warfare, and myself the battle-field. Warfare, and loneliness. Curiosity, contempt,—courtesy, discourtesy, indifference—all these were shown toward me. And there were very generous men at Oxford, whose pride was racial, not intellectual, who were as patient in the teaching as the sun is patient to the growing grass—most worthy and laughter-loving men, mistaken in much, but as sure of the reward of generosity as there is surely good will in their hearts. They did not know I was Tibetan; they believed I was Chinese, because I speak and write that language, and none knew anything about Tibet.
“I came to understand that the cycles of evolution are moving westward, and that the West is arrogant with the strength it feels within itself. I saw, my son, that the West is deceived by the glitter of results, knowing nothing of causes, and that the East is in turn deceived by the wealth and ostentation of the West—for this is Kali Yuga,[[44]] when delusion and a blindness overspreads the world. I knew—for none had better right to know—that strength can be guided into the grooves of destiny, and that knowledge is the key. But I perceived that great harm can be done by interference. There is danger in another’s duty. Also I saw that my voice, however reasonably raised, could accomplish nothing, because of the racial prejudice. The West is curious about the East, but proud—contemptuous—and most cruel when it most believes it is benevolent. The West sends missionaries to the East, who teach the very culture that is poisoning the life-springs of the West itself. The strength of the West and its generous impulse must be guided. Its rapacity must be restrained. But it was clear to me that I could not accomplish that, since none would listen to me. The few who pretended to listen merely sought to use my teaching for their own enrichment and advantage.
“I met a certain one in London. He appeared to be English, but that meant nothing. He had the Ancient Wisdom in his eyes. I had taken my degrees at Oxford then, and I was sitting in the Stranger’s Gallery of the House of Parliament. I remember I grieved; for I saw how eager those debaters were to rule the whole world wisely—yet how ignorant they were of the very rudiments of what could possibly enable them to do it. I said to him who was in the corner next to me: ‘These men boast of what is right, and they believe their words; but they do not know what is right. Who shall save them?’ And he answered, after he had considered me a while in silence: ‘If you know what is right, you will attend to your own duty.’