Trans-Himalaya: Discoveries and Adventurers in Tibet. Vol. 1 (of 2)

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TRANS-HIMALAYA

DISCOVERIES AND ADVENTURES
IN TIBET

BY

SVEN HEDIN

WITH 388 ILLUSTRATIONS FROM PHOTOGRAPHS, WATER-
COLOUR SKETCHES, AND DRAWINGS BY THE AUTHOR
AND 10 MAPS

IN TWO VOLUMES
VOL. I

New York

THE MACMILLAN COMPANY

1909

All rights reserved

Copyright, 1909,
By THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.

Set up and electrotyped. Published December, 1909.

Norwood Press

J. S. Cushing Co.—Berwick & Smith Co.
Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.

TO

HIS EXCELLENCY

THE EARL OF MINTO

VICEROY OF INDIA

WITH GRATITUDE AND ADMIRATION

FROM THE AUTHOR

PREFACE

In the first place I desire to pay homage to the memory of my patron, King Oskar of Sweden, by a few words of gratitude. The late King showed as warm and intelligent an interest in my plan for a new expedition as he had on former occasions, and assisted in the fulfilment of my project with much increased liberality.

I estimated the cost of the journey at 80,000 kronor (about £4400), and this sum was subscribed within a week by my old friend Emmanuel Nobel, and my patrons, Frederik Löwenadler, Oscar Ekman, Robert Dickson, William Olsson, and Henry Ruffer, banker in London. I cannot adequately express my thanks to these gentlemen. In consequence of the political difficulties I encountered in India, which forced me to make wide detours, the expenses were increased by about 50,000 kronor (£2800), but this sum I was able to draw from my own resources.

As on former occasions, I have this time also to thank Dr. Nils Ekholm for his great kindness in working out the absolute heights. The three lithographic maps have been compiled from my original sheets with painstaking care by Lieutenant C. J. Otto Kjellström, who devoted all his furlough to this troublesome work. The astronomical points, nearly one hundred, have been calculated by the Assistant Roth of the Stockholm Observatory; a few points, which appeared doubtful, were omitted in drawing the route on the map, which is based on points previously determined. The map illustrating my narrative in the Geographical Journal, April 1909, I drew roughly from memory without consulting the original sheets, for I had no time to spare; the errors which naturally crept in have been corrected on the new maps, but I wish to state here the cause of the discrepancy. The final maps, which I hope to publish in a voluminous scientific work, will be distinguished by still greater accuracy and detail.

I claim not the slightest artistic merit for my drawings, and my water-colours are extremely defective both in drawing and colouring. One of the pictures, the lama opening the door of the mausoleum, I left unfinished in my haste; it has been thrown in with the others, with the wall-paintings and shading incomplete. To criticize these slight attempts as works of art would be like wasting gunpowder on dead crows. For the sake of variety several illustrations have been drawn by the British artists De Haenen and T. Macfarlane, but it must not be assumed that these are fanciful productions. Every one of them is based on outline drawings by myself, a number of photographs, and a full description of the scene. De Haenen’s illustrations appeared in the London Graphic, and were ordered when I was still in India. Macfarlane’s drawings were executed this summer, and I was able to inspect his designs and approve of them before they were worked up.

As to the text, I have endeavoured to depict the events of the journey as far as the limited space permitted, but I have also imprudently allowed myself to touch on subjects with which I am not at all familiar—I allude in particular to Lamaism. It has been unfortunate that I had to write the whole book in 107 days, during which many hours were taken up with work connected with the maps and illustrations and by an extensive correspondence with foreign publishers, especially Albert Brockhaus of Leipzig, who never wearied in giving me excellent advice. The whole work has been hurried, and the book from beginning to end is like a vessel which ventures out into the ocean of the world’s tumult and of criticism with many leaks and cracks.

My thanks are also due to my father, who made a clean copy from my illegible manuscript; and to my mother, who has saved me from many mistakes. Dr. Carl Forstrand has revised both the manuscript and the proof-sheets, and has compiled the Swedish index.

The seven and thirty Asiatics who followed me faithfully through Tibet, and contributed in no small degree to the successful issue and results of the expedition, have had the honour of receiving from His Majesty the King of Sweden gold and silver medals bearing the portrait of the King, a crown, and an inscription. I humbly beg His Majesty to accept my warmest and most sincere thanks for his great generosity.

The book is dedicated to Lord Minto, as a slight testimony of my gratitude for all his kindness and hospitality. It had been Lord Minto’s intention to further my plans as Lord Curzon would have done if he had still been Viceroy of India, but political considerations prevented him. When, however, I was actually in Tibet, the Viceroy was free to use his influence with the Tashi Lama, and the consequence was that many doors in the forbidden land, formerly tightly closed, were opened to me.

Dear reminiscences of India hovered about my lonesome years in dreary Tibet like the pleasant rustling of palm leaves. It will suffice to mention men like Lord Kitchener, in whose house I spent a week never to be forgotten; Colonel Dunlop Smith, who took charge of my notes and maps and sent them home, and also forwarded a whole caravan of necessaries to Gartok; Younghusband, Patterson, Ryder, Rawling, and many others. And, lastly, Colonel Longe, Surveyor-General, and Colonel Burrard, of the Survey of India, who, with the greatest kindness, had my 900 map-sheets of Tibet photographed, and stored the negatives among their records in case the originals should be lost, and who, after I had placed my 200 map-sheets of Persia at the disposal of the Indian Government, had them worked up in the North-Western Frontier Drawing Office and combined into a fine map of eleven printed sheets—a map which is to be treated as “confidential” until my scientific works have appeared.

It is with the greatest pleasure that I avail myself of this opportunity of expressing my sincere gratitude for all the innumerable tokens of sympathy and appreciation which I received in all parts of the United Kingdom, and for all the honours conferred on me by Societies, and the warm welcome I met with from the audiences I had the pleasure of addressing. I shall always cherish a proud and happy remembrance of the two months which it was my good-fortune to spend in the British Isles; and the kindness then showered upon me was the more delightful because it was extended also to two of my sisters, who accompanied me.

Were I to mention all the ladies and gentlemen to whom I am especially indebted, I could fill several pages. But I cannot let this book go forth through the English-speaking world without expressing my sincere gratitude to Lord Curzon for the great and encouraging interest he has always taken in myself and my journeys; to Lord Morley for the brilliant speech he delivered after my first lecture—the most graceful compliment ever paid me, as well as for many other marks of kindness and sympathy shown to me by the Secretary of State for India; to the Swedish Minister in London, Count Herman Wrangel, for all the valuable services he rendered me during and after my journey; to Major Leonard Darwin and the Council and Members of the Royal Geographical Society, to whom I was delighted to return, not as a strange guest, but as an old friend; to the famous and illustrious Universities of Oxford and Cambridge, where I was overwhelmed with exceptional honours and boundless hospitality; to the Royal Scottish Geographical Society, where twice before I had received a warm reception. Well, when I think of those charming days in England and Scotland I am inclined to dwell too long upon them, and I must hasten to a conclusion. But there is one more name, which I have left to the last, because it has been very dear to me for many years, that of Dr. J. Scott Keltie. The general public will never know what it means to be the Secretary and mainspring of the Royal Geographical Society, to work year after year in that important office in Savile Row, to receive explorers from all corners of the world and satisfy all their demands, without ever losing patience or ever hearing a word of thanks. I can conceive from my own experience how much trouble I have caused Dr. Keltie, but yet he has always met me with the same amiability and has always been a constant friend, whether I have been at home or away for years on long journeys.

Dr. M. A. Stein started and returned from his splendid journey in Central Asia at the same times as myself. We crossed different parts of the old continent, but we have several interests in common, and I am glad to congratulate Dr. Stein most heartily on his important discoveries and the brilliant results he has brought back.

It is my intention to collect in a third volume all the material for which there is no room in Trans-Himalaya. For instance, I have been obliged to omit a description of the march northwards from the source of the Indus and of the journey over the Trans-Himalaya to Gartok, as well as of the road from Gartok to Ladak, and the very interesting route from the Nganglaring-tso to Simla. I have also had to postpone the description of several monasteries to a later opportunity. In this future book I will also record my recollections of beautiful, charming Japan, where I gained so many friends, and of Korea, Manchuria, and Port Arthur. The manuscript of this later volume is already finished, and I long for the opportunity of publicly thanking the Japanese, as well as our representative in Japan and China, the Minister Extraordinary, Wallenberg, for all the delightful hospitality and all the honours showered down on me in the Land of the Rising Sun.

Lastly, the appetite of young people for adventures will be satisfied in an especial work.

I am glad to be able to announce at the eleventh hour that the Madrassi Manuel, who in Chapter IX. was reported lost, has at length been found again.

In conclusion, I must say a few words of thanks to my publishers, and first of all to Herre K. O. Bonnier of Stockholm, for his valuable co-operation and the elegant form in which he has produced my book, and then to the firm of F. A. Brockhaus, Leipzig; the “Elsevier” Uitgevers Maatschappij, Amsterdam; Hachette & Cie, Paris; “Kansa,” Suomalainen Kustannus-O-Y, Helsingfors; the Robert Lampel Buchhandlung (F. Wodianer & Söhne) Act.-Ges., Budapest; Macmillan & Co., Ltd., London and New York; J. Otto, Prague; Fratelli Treves, Milan.

SVEN HEDIN.

Stockholm, September, 1909.

CONTENTS

ILLUSTRATIONS

MAPS

CHAPTER I

SIMLA

In the spring of the year 1905 my mind was much occupied with thoughts of a new journey to Tibet. Three years had passed since my return to my own country; my study began to be too small for me; at eventide, when all around was quiet, I seemed to hear in the sough of the wind a voice admonishing me to “come back again to the silence of the wilderness”; and when I awoke in the morning I involuntarily listened for caravan bells outside. So the time passed till my plans were ripened and my fate was soon decided; I must return to the freedom of the desert and hie away to the broad plains between the snow-clad mountains of Tibet. Not to listen to this secret voice when it speaks strongly and clearly means deterioration and ruin; one must resign oneself to the guidance of this invisible hand, have faith in its divine origin and in oneself, and submit to the gnawing pain which another departure from home, for so long a time and with the future uncertain, brings with it.

In the concluding lines of my scientific work on the results of my former journey (Scientific Results) I spoke of the impossibility of giving a complete description of the internal structure of Tibet, its mountains and valleys, its rivers and lakes, while so large a part of the country was still quite unknown. “Under these circumstances,” I said (vol. iv. p. 608), “I prefer to postpone the completion of such a monograph till my return from the journey on which I am about to start.” Instead of losing myself in conjectures or arriving at confused results owing to lack of material, I would rather see with my own eyes the unknown districts in the midst of northern Tibet, and, above all, visit the extensive areas of entirely unexplored country which stretches to the north of the upper Brahmaputra and has not been traversed by Europeans or Indian pundits. Thus much was à priori certain, that this region presented the grandest problems which remained still unsolved in the physical geography of Asia. There must exist one or more mountain systems running parallel with the Himalayas and the Karakorum range; there must be found peaks and ridges on which the eye of the explorer had never lighted; turquoise-blue salt lakes in valleys and hollows reflect the restless passage of the monsoon clouds north-eastwards, and from their southern margins voluminous rivers must flow down, sometimes turbulent, sometimes smooth. There, no doubt, were nomad tribes, who left their winter pastures in spring, and during the summer wandered about on the higher plains when the new grass had sprung up from the poor soil. But whether a settled population dwelt there, whether there were monasteries, where a lama, punctual as the sun, gave the daily summons to prayer from the roof by blowing through a shell,—that no one knew. Tibetan literature, old and recent, was searched in vain for information; nothing could be found but fanciful conjectures about the existence of a mighty chain, which were of no value as they did not accord with the reality and were not based on any actual facts. On the other hand, a few travellers had skirted the unknown country on the north and south, east and west, myself among the number. Looking at a map, which shows the routes of travellers in Tibet, one might almost suppose that we had purposely avoided the great white patch bearing on the recently published English map only the word “Unexplored.” Hence it might be concluded that it would be no easy feat to cross this tract, or otherwise some one would ere now have strayed into it. In my book Central Asia and Tibet I have fully described the desperate attempts I made in the autumn and winter of 1901 to advance southwards from my route between the Zilling-tso and the Pangong-tso. One of my aims was to find an opportunity of visiting one or more of the great lakes in Central Tibet which the Indian pundit, Nain Sing, discovered in 1874, and which since then had never been seen except by the natives. During my former journey I had dreamt of discovering the source of the Indus, but it was not then my good fortune to reach it. This mysterious spot had never been inserted in its proper place on the map of Asia—but it must exist somewhere. Since the day when the great Macedonian Alexander (in the year 326 B.C.) crossed the mighty stream with his victorious host, the question of the situation of this spot has always stood in the order of the day of geographical exploration.

It was both impossible and unnecessary to draw up beforehand a complete plan of a journey of which the course and conclusion were more than usually uncertain, and depended on circumstances quite beyond my control. I did, indeed, draw on a map of Tibet the probable route of my journey, that my parents and sisters might know roughly whereabouts I should be. If this map be compared with my actual route it will be seen that in both cases the districts visited are the same, but the course and details are totally different.

In the meantime I wrote to Lord Curzon, then Viceroy of India, informed him of my plan, and begged for all the assistance that seemed to me necessary for a successful journey in disturbed Tibet, so lately in a state of war.

Soon after I received the following letter, which I reproduce here with the consent of the writer:

Viceregal Lodge, Simla,

July 6, 1905.

My dear Dr. Hedin—I am very glad that you propose to act upon my advice, and to make one more big Central Asian journey before you desist from your wonderful travels.

I shall be proud to render you what assistance lies in my power while I still remain in India, and only regret that long before your great expedition is over I shall have left these shores. For it is my intention to depart in April 1906.

Now as regards your plan. I gather that you will not be in India before next spring, when perhaps I may still see you. I will arrange to have a good native surveyor ready to accompany you, and I will further have a man instructed in astronomical observations and in meteorological recording—so as to be available for you at the same time.

I cannot say what the attitude of the Tibetan Government will be at the time that you reach India. But if they continue friendly, we will of course endeavour to secure for you the requisite permits and protections.

Assuring you that it will give me the greatest pleasure in any way to further your plans,—I am yours sincerely,

Curzon.

It may easily be conceived how important this active protection and help on the part of the Viceroy was to me. I was especially pleased that I was allowed to take with me native topographers experienced in survey work, for with their co-operation the maps to be compiled would be far more valuable, while, released from this complicated work which takes up so much time, I could devote myself entirely to researches in physical geography.

With this kind letter at starting I commenced my fifth journey to Asia. Lord Curzon had, indeed, when I reached India, already left his post, and a new Government was shortly to take the helm in England with Sir Henry Campbell-Bannerman as premier. But Lord Curzon’s promises were the words of a Cæsar, and I had not the slightest doubt that a Liberal Government would respect them.

On October 16, 1905, the same day on which I had started twelve years before on my journey through Asia, I again left my dear old home in Stockholm. This time it seemed far more uncertain whether I should see all my dear ones again; sometime or other the chain that binds us must be broken. Would it be granted me to find once more my home unchanged?

I travelled viâ Constantinople and the Black Sea, through Turkish Armenia, across Persia to Seistan, and through the deserts of Baluchistan to Nushki, where I reached the most western offshoot of the Indian railway system. After the dust and heat of Baluchistan, Quetta seemed to me a fine fresh oasis. I left this town on May 20, 1906, descended in four hours from a height of 5500 feet to a country lying only 300 feet above sea-level, and found in Sibi a temperature of 100° F. in the evening. Next day I passed along the Indus and Sutlej through Samasata and Batinda to Ambala, and I was now, in the hottest part of the year, the only European in the train. The temperature rose to 107°, the height I had shortly before recorded in Baluchistan, but it was much more endurable in the shady carriage, which was protected by a roof and hanging screens from the direct heat of the sun; it was well, however, to avoid touching the outside of the carriage, for it was burning hot. Two window openings are covered with a tissue of root-fibres which are automatically kept moist, and a wind-catcher sends a draught into the carriage through the wet matting. At a window like this the temperature even at noon was only 81½°, and therefore I had nothing to complain of. At some stations there are excellent restaurants, and natives travelling on the train sell on the way lemonade and ice as clear as glass.

Nevertheless in India’s sultry dried-up plains one longs for the mountains with their pure cool air. From Kalka a small narrow-gauge railway carries one in 6½ hours to a height of 7080 feet, and one finds oneself in Simla, the summer residence of the Viceroy and the headquarters of the Indian Army. The road is one of the most charming and magnificent in the world. The little railway climbs up the steep flanks in the boldest curves, descends the slopes into deep and narrow ravines, passes along steep mountain spurs, where the train seems as though it would plunge into space from the extreme point; then the train crosses bridges which groan and tremble under its weight, enters pitch-dark tunnels, and again emerges into the blinding sunshine. Now we run along a valley, catching a glimpse of the bottom far below us, then mount upwards to a ridge affording an extensive view on both sides, then again traverse a steep slope where several sections of the marvellously winding line can be seen below. The scene changes every other minute, new contours and landscapes present themselves, new points of view and lights and shades follow one another, and keep the attention of the traveller on the stretch. There are 102 tunnels on the route, most of them quite short, but the longest has a length of three-quarters of a mile.

We pass through one zone of vegetation after another. The flora of the plain is left far behind; now the eye notices new forms in new zones—forms characteristic of the various heights of the southern slopes of the Himalayas—and at last appear the dark deodar forests, the royal Himalayan cedars, with their luxuriant green foliage, amidst which are embedded the houses of Simla like swallows’ nests. How fascinating is this sight, but how much more imposing as a symbol of the power of the British Empire! Here the eagle has its eyry, and from its point of vantage casts its keen eyes over the plains of India. Here converge innumerable telegraph wires from all the corners and extremities of the British Empire, and from this centre numerous orders and instructions are daily despatched “On His Majesty’s Service only”; here the administration is carried on and the army controlled, and a host of maharajas are entangled in the meshes like the prey in the nest of a spider.

I approached Simla with some anxiety. Since Lord Curzon’s letter I had heard nothing more from the authorities in India. The singular town on its crescent-shaped ridge appears larger and larger, details become clearer and clearer, there remain only a couple of curves to pass, and then the train rolls into the station at Simla. Two servants from the Foreign Office, in scarlet liveries, took possession of my luggage, and I was welcomed in the Grand Hotel by my old friend Colonel Sir Francis Younghusband—we kept Christmas together in Kashgar in 1890, and he was just as friendly and pleasant as then. I was his guest at dinner in the United Service Club. During half the night we revelled in old reminiscences of the heart of Asia, spoke of the powerful Russian Consul-General, Petrovski, in Kashgar, of the English expedition to Lhasa, which was led by Younghusband, of life in Simla and the coming festivities in the summer season—but of my prospects my friend did not utter a word! And I did not ask him; I could believe that if everything had been plain and straightforward he would have told me at once. But he was silent as the grave, and I would not question him, though I was burning with impatience to learn something or other.

When I went out on to my balcony on the morning of May 23, I felt like a prisoner awaiting his sentence. Below me the roofs of Simla glittered in the sunshine, and I stood on a level with the tops of the cedars; how delightful it was here far above the heavy sultry air of the plain. To the north, through a gap in the luxuriant woods, appeared a scene of incomparable beauty. There gleamed the nearest ranges of the Himalayas covered with eternal snow. The crest shone white against the turquoise-blue sky. The air was so clear that the distance seemed insignificant; only a few days’ journey separated me from these mountains, and behind them lay mysterious Tibet, the forbidden land, the land of my dreams. Later on, towards mid-day, the air became hazy and the glorious view vanished, nor was it again visible during the few weeks I spent in Simla. It seemed as though a curtain had fallen between me and Tibet, and as though it had been vouchsafed to me to see only once from a distance the mountains over which the road led into the land of promise.

It was a sad day; at twelve o’clock I was to hear my sentence. Younghusband came for me and we went together to the Foreign Secretary’s Office. Sir Louis Dane received me with great amiability, and we talked of Persia and the trade route between India and Seistan. Suddenly he became silent, and then said after a pause:

“It is better you should know at once; the Government in London refuses you permission to pass into Tibet across the Indian frontier.”

“Sad news! But why is this?”

“That I do not know; probably because the present Government wishes to avoid everything which may give rise to friction on the frontier; the granting of your request throws responsibility on us should anything happen to you. Yes, it is a pity. What do you think of doing now?”

“If I had had any suspicion of this in Teheran, I would have taken my way through Russian Asia, for I have never met with any difficulties from the Russians.”

“Well, we have done out here all we could to forward your plans. The three native surveyors Lord Curzon promised you have been trained for six months, and hold themselves in readiness at Dehra Dun. But probably this too will be countermanded from London. Still, we have not yet given up all hope, and we expect the final answer on June 3.”

To have to wait eleven days for the final decision was unbearable. Perhaps a personal application might have a favourable effect. I therefore sent the following telegram to the English Prime Minister:

The friendly words, in which your Excellence referred two years ago in Parliament to my journey and my book, encourage me to apply direct to you, and to beg you in the interests of geographical science to grant me the permission of your Government to pass into Tibet by way of Simla and Gartok. I propose to explore the region, mostly uninhabited, to the north of the Tsangpo, and the lakes lying in it, and then to return to India. I am thoroughly acquainted with the present political relations between India and Tibet, and as I have held peaceful intercourse with Asiatics since my twenty-first year, I shall also this time behave with circumspection, follow the instructions I am given, and consider it a point of honour to avoid all disputes on the frontier.

And now we waited again; the days passed, my three native assistants held themselves ready in Dehra Dun for the journey, the Commander-in-chief, Lord Kitchener, assured me that he should be pleased to place at my disposal twenty armed Gurkhas—only the permission sought from the Secretary of State for India, Mr. John Morley, must first arrive; for it was he who held the keys of the frontier, and on him everything depended. Lord Minto, the new Viceroy of India (Frontispiece), did everything in his power. He wrote long complete statements of affairs and sent one telegram after another. A refusal could not discourage him; he always sent off another despatch beginning with the words: “I beg His Majesty’s Ministry to take once more into consideration that,” etc. When the assurance was given from London that the refusal was not intended for me personally, but that the same answer had been communicated to several British officers, Lord Minto in his last telegram begged that I might be permitted to accompany the British officer who was to travel to Gartok in summer to inspect the market there. But the Secretary of State kept immovably to his resolution, and I received the following reply to my telegram in a despatch of June 1, 1906, from the Secretary to the Viceroy:

The Prime Minister desires that the following message be communicated to Sven Hedin: “I sincerely regret that I cannot, for reasons which have doubtless been explained to you by the Indian Government, grant you the desired assistance for your journey to and in Tibet. This assistance has also been refused to the Royal Geographical Society in London, and likewise to British officers in the service of the Indian Government.”

The contents of the last London telegram intimated, then, that nothing was conceded to me. The Indian Government and the Viceroy could, of course, do nothing but obey, as usual, the orders from London. They were willing to do everything, and displayed the warmest interest in my plans, but they durst not help me. They durst not procure me a permit or passport from Lhasa, they durst not provide me with an escort, indispensable in the insecure country of Tibet, and I lost the privilege of taking with me three efficient topographers and assistants in my scientific observations, from which both sides would have derived advantage. But this was not all. Should I fall in with circumstances and cross the frontier with a party of natives on my own responsibility, the Indian Government had orders to stop me. Thus Tibet was barred to me from the side of India, and the English, that is, Mr. John Morley, closed the country as hermetically as ever the Tibetans had done. I soon perceived that the greatest difficulties I had to overcome on this journey proceeded not from Tibet, its rude climate, its rarefied air, its huge mountains and its wild inhabitants, but—from England! Could I circumvent Mr. John Morley, I should soon settle with Tibet.

Hope is the last thing one resigns, and so I still hoped that all would turn out well in the end. Failure spurred my ambition and stretched my powers to the uttermost tension. Try to hinder me if you can, I thought; I will show you that I am more at home in Asia than you. Try to close this immense Tibet, try to bar all the valleys which lead from the frontier to the high plateaus, and you will find that it is quite impossible. I felt quite relieved when the last peremptory and somewhat curt refusal came and put an end to all further negotiations. I had a feeling as though I was suddenly left in solitude and the future depended on myself alone. My life and my honour for the next two years were at stake—of course I never thought of giving in. I had commenced this fifth journey with a heavy heart, not with trumpets and flourishes as on the former expeditions. But now it was all at once become my pet child. Though I should perish, this journey should be the grandest event of my life. It was the object of all my dreams and hopes, it was the subject of my prayers, and I longed with all my soul for the hour when the first caravan should be ready—and then every day would be a full chord in a song of victory.

I do not venture to pass an opinion on the policy which then piled up in my way obstacles apparently insurmountable. It was at any rate prudent. For the future it will be necessary. If I had gone under British protection and accompanied by British subjects and then been killed, probably a costly punitive expedition must have been sent out to make an example; whether I were a Swede or an Englishman would have made no difference in this case. The view the English Secretary of State took of the matter is shown in his answer to Lord Percy’s question a month after I had received my answer: “Sven Hedin has been refused permission to penetrate into Tibet for political reasons, in accordance with which even British subjects are not allowed to visit that country. The Indian Government favours the expeditions of experienced explorers, but the Imperial Government has decided otherwise, and considers it advisable to continue the isolation of Tibet which the late Government so carefully maintained.”

During this time I received many proofs of sympathy and friendship. I had true friends in India, and they felt it hard that they could not help me. They would have done it so gladly. I durst not ask them for anything lest I should place them in an awkward, troublesome position. Sir Louis Dane had informed me that if my petition were granted I should have to sign a bond, but what this would have contained I have never found out. Perhaps it dealt with some kind of responsibility for the men who accompanied me, or a promise not to visit certain districts, and a pledge to place the results of my journey at the disposal of the Indian Government—I know not. But now I was absolved from all obligations; freedom is after all the best, and he is the strongest who stands alone. Still, it would be exaggeration to say that I had then any great affection for the name of Mr. John Morley. How could I foresee that I should one day reckon him among my best friends, and think of him with warm respect and admiration?

After my first visit to the Foreign Office, Younghusband (Illustration 2) conducted me to the Viceregal Palace, to enter my name in the visiting list of Lord and Lady Minto. Younghusband is a gallant man, a type of the noblest that a people can produce. He was more annoyed than myself at the refusal of the Government; but he had in this connection a far more bitter experience—his expedition to Lhasa, which ought to have thrown open Tibet to scientific exploration, had been in vain. He took me on the way to Lord Minto’s private secretary, Colonel J. R. Dunlop Smith (Illustration 3), in whom I found a friend for life. He is one of the finest, noblest, most generous, and learned men that I have ever met. He is well educated in many subjects, and has a thorough knowledge of India, for he has lived there four-and-twenty years. When we see such men in the most responsible posts, we can well conceive that the ruling race will weather many a violent storm, should they arise, among the three hundred millions of India.

My life at this time abounded in contrasts. How little did my sojourn at Simla resemble the years of solitude and silence that awaited me beyond the mountains veiled in dark masses of cloud! I cannot resist recalling some reminiscences of these extraordinarily delightful days.

Go with me to the first State dinner on May 24, 1906. Along the walls of the great drawing-room in the Viceregal Palace are assembled some hundred guests—all in full dress, in grand uniforms of various colours, and glittering with orders. One of them is taller than the rest by a whole head; he holds himself very upright, and seems cool-headed, energetic, and calm; he speaks to no one, but examines those about him with penetrating, bright bluish-grey eyes. His features are heavy, but interesting, serious, impassive, and tanned; one sees that he has had much experience and is a soldier who has stood fire. His uniform is scarlet, and a whole fortune in diamonds sparkles on his left breast. He bears a world-renowned, an imperishable name: Lord Kitchener of Khartum, the conqueror of Africa and Commander-in-chief of the Indian Army.

A gentleman comes up to me and asks if I remember our having sat together at a banquet of Lord Curzon’s. The Lieutenant-Governor of the Punjab is also one of my old acquaintances, and Sir Louis Dane introduces me right and left. A herald enters the room and announces the approach of the Viceroy, and Lord Minto, accompanied by his staff, makes the round of the room, greeting each one of his guests, myself only with the words, “Welcome to Simla.” The melancholy tone of the words did not escape me; he knew well that I did not feel as welcome as he and I should have wished. To the sound of music we move to the dining-room, are regaled with choice French dishes, eat off silver plate, and then rise again to take part in the levée, at which five hundred gentlemen are presented to the Viceroy, who stands at the steps of the throne. Their names are called out one by one as they pass rapidly in front of the throne. Each one halts and turns to the Viceroy, who returns his deep reverence: he bowed this evening nine hundred times! When Indian princes or Afghan ambassadors pass before him, he does not bow, but lays his hand on the hilt of his guest’s sword as a sign of friendship and peace.

Next day I was invited to transfer my quarters to the palace (Illustration 4), and henceforth I was the guest of Lord and Lady Minto. The time I spent with them I shall never forget, and these weeks seem to me now like a dream or a fairy tale. Lord Minto is an ideal British gentleman, an aristocrat of the noblest race, and yet simple and modest. In India he soon became popular owing to his affability and kindness, and he does not think he occupies so high a position that he cannot speak a friendly word to any man out of the numerous tribes of the immense Empire committed to his rule. Lord Minto formerly served in India, and took part in the campaign against Afghanistan; after various experiences in three continents he was appointed Governor-General of Canada. In 1904 he returned to his estate of Minto in Scotland, intending to spend the remainder of his life there; then the King of England and Emperor of India invested him with the office of Viceroy and Governor-General of India. He is not the first Earl of Minto who has held this post, for his great-grandfather was Governor-General of the British possessions in the Indian peninsula a hundred years ago. Then one had to sail round the Cape of Good Hope in order to reach the country of the Hindus, a long, troublesome voyage. Therefore the first Lord Minto left his family at home. The letters exchanged between himself and his wife are still extant, and display an affection and faithfulness quite ideal. When his period of service in India had at length expired, he embarked on a vessel which carried him over the long way to his native land, and he hurried with the first coach straight to Minto. There his wife expected him; she looked along the road with longing eyes; the appointed time had long passed, and no carriage could be seen. At length a rider appeared in a cloud of dust, and brought the news that Lord Minto had died only one post stage from his house. A small label on the packet of letters bears the words “Poor fools.” They were written by the first Lady Minto.

But now a new Minto family has blossomed into life. Comfort, simplicity, and happiness prevail in this charming home, where every member contributes to the beauty of the whole. A viceroy is always overwhelmed with work for the welfare of India, but Lord Minto preserved an unalterable composure, and devoted several hours daily to his family. We met at meals; some guests were usually invited to lunch, but at dinner we were frequently alone, and then the time passed most agreeably. Then Lady Minto told of her sojourn in Canada, where she travelled 116,000 miles by rail and steamer, accompanied her husband on his official tours and on sporting expeditions, shot foaming rapids in a canoe, and took part in dangerous excursions in Klondike. We looked over her diaries of that time; they consisted of thick volumes full of photographs, maps, cuttings, and autographs, and were interspersed with views and descriptions of singular interest. And yet the diary that Lady Minto had kept since her arrival in India was still more remarkable and attractive, for it was set in Oriental splendour and the pomp and gorgeousness of Eastern lands, was filled with maharajas bedecked with jewels, receptions in various states, processions and parades, elephants in red and gold, and all the grandeur and brilliancy inseparable from the court of an Indian viceroy. Three charming young daughters—the Ladies Eileen, Ruby, and Violet—fill this home with sunshine and cheerfulness, and, with their mother, are the queens of the balls and brilliant fêtes. Like their father, they are fond of sport, and ride like Valkyries.

Is it to be wondered at that a stranger feels happy in this house, where he is surrounded daily with kindness and hospitality? My room was over the private apartments of the Viceroy. On the ground-floor are State rooms, the large and elegant drawing-rooms, the dining-room, and the great ball-room decorated in white and gold. The various rooms and saloons are reached from a large antechamber adorned with arms and heavy hangings; here there is a very lively scene during entertainments. An open gallery, a stone verandah, runs round most of the ground-floor, where visitors, couriers, chaprassis, and jamadars, wearing red viceregal uniforms and white turbans, move to and fro. Behind is the courtyard where carriages, rickshaws, and riders come and go, while well-kept paths lead to quiet terraces laid out from Lady Minto’s designs. Behind these terraces begins the forest with promenades in the shadow of the trees (Illustration 5).

From the great hall in the middle of the house a staircase leads to the first storey, where the family of the Viceroy occupy rooms which surpass all the rest in the tastefulness of their decoration. Two flights up are the guest-rooms. From an inner gallery you can look down into the great hall, where the scarlet footmen glide noiselessly up and down the stairs. Outside my window was a balcony, where every morning I looked in vain for a glimpse of the mountains on the borders of Tibet. The highest official of Peshawar, Sir Harold Deane, with his wife, and the Maharaja of Idar, were guests in the palace of the Viceroy for a couple of days. Sir Harold was a man one never forgets after once meeting him; strong, tall, manly, and amiable. The half-savage tribes and princes on the frontier of Afghanistan fear and admire him, and he is said to manage them with masterly tact. This meeting was very important to me, for Sir Harold gave me letters of introduction to the Maharaja of Kashmir and his private secretary, Daya Kishen Kaul. At my return to India, Sir Harold was, alas! dead. In him India has lost one of its best guardians.

The Maharaja of Idar was a striking type of an Indian Prince: he had a very dark complexion, handsome features, and an energetic bearing; he dressed for entertainments in silk, gold, and jewels, and altogether made an appearance which threw all Europeans quite into the shade. Yet he was exceedingly popular with them, and always a welcome guest. He is a great sportsman, a first-rate rider, and an exceedingly cool-headed hunter. He owes his great popularity to the following incident: Once when an English officer died in the hot season near his palace, there was difficulty in finding a man to bury the corpse. As every one else refused, the Maharaja undertook the odious task himself. Scarcely had he returned to his palace when the steps were stormed by raving Brahmins, who cried out to him, with threats, that he had forfeited his rank, must be ejected from his caste, and was unworthy to have rule over the state. But he went calmly up to them and said that he knew only of one caste, that of warriors; then he ordered them to go away, and they obeyed.

I met many men in Simla whom I shall always count among my best friends—Generals Sir Beauchamp Duff and Hawkes, with their amiable consorts, and Colonel Adam and his wife, who spoke Russian; he was Lord Minto’s military secretary, and died during my absence; also Colonel M’Swiney and his wife. I was their guest at Bolaram, near Haidarabad, in 1902, and I had met the Colonel in the Pamirs in 1895; he, too, has been called away by death, only a month before he would have received his expected promotion to the command of the Ambala brigade. He was an exceptionally excellent and amiable man. I also made acquaintance with many members of Younghusband’s Lhasa expedition, one of whom, Captain Cecil Rawling, ardently wished he could get back to Tibet. We often met and concocted grand plans for a journey together to Gartok—hopes which all ended in smoke. The German Consul-General, Count Quadt, and his charming wife were also especial friends of mine. Her mother belonged to the Swedish family of Wirsén, and we conversed in Swedish. I shall never forget a dinner at their house. Dunlop Smith and I rode each in a rickshaw along the long road to Simla, through the town and as far again on the other side, to Count Quadt’s house, which was the Viceregal residence before Lord Dufferin built the new palace, the “Viceregal Lodge,” in the years 1884-1888. The road was dark, but we had lamps on the shafts; our runners strained at the carriage like straps, and their naked soles pattered like wood on the hard earth. We were late; Lord Kitchener was there already, and every one was waiting. After dinner the guests were invited to go out into the compound forming the summit of the hill on which the old palace is built. The light of the full moon quivered through the mild intoxicating air, the hills around were veiled in mist and haze, and from the depths of the valleys rose the shrill penetrating rattle of grasshoppers. But this hill, where lively laughter resounded and conversation was stimulated by the effects of the dinner, seemed to be far above the rest of the world. Here and there dark firs or deodars peeped out of the mist with long outstretched arms like threatening ghosts. The night was quiet, everything but ourselves and the grasshoppers seemed to have gone to rest. Such an impression is never effaced. Etiquette forbade that any one should leave before Lord Kitchener—he had to give the signal for breaking up the party; but he found himself very comfortable here, and we talked in French with the wife of Colonel Townsend, drawing comparisons between the matrimonial state and the advantages of uncontrolled freedom. It was after midnight when the dictator of the feast rose, and then ladies and their cavaliers could make for their rickshaws. Silence reigned on the moonlit hill; only the shrill song of the grasshoppers still rose to heaven.

A couple of State balls also took place during my stay in the Viceregal Lodge. Then an endless succession of rickshaws streams up to the courtyard, winding like a file of glow-worms up Observatory Hill. One is almost astonished that there are so many of these small two-wheeled vehicles in Simla, but only the Viceroy, the Commander-in-chief, and the Governor of the Punjab are allowed to use horse carriages, because of the narrowness of the roads. Then elegant ladies rustle in low dresses of silk, with agrafes of diamonds in their hair, and pass through the entrance and hall escorted by cavaliers in full-dress uniforms. One is frightfully crushed in this flood of people who have spent hours in adorning themselves so brilliantly, but the scene is grand and imposing, a non plus ultra of gala toilets, a kaleidoscope of many colours, of gold and silver; the red uniforms of the officers stand out sharply against the light silk dresses of the ladies in white, pink, or blue. Here and there the jewelled turban of a maharaja hovers over a sea of European coiffures. Then there is a sudden silence, a passage is opened through the crowd; the herald has announced the advent of the Viceroy and his party, and the band plays “God save the King.” The Viceroy and his lady walk slowly through the ranks, saluting on both sides, and take their seats on the thrones in the great ball-room; then the first waltz is played. The illustrious hosts summon first one and then another of their guests to converse with them; there is a rustling of silk, a humming and buzzing, shoe-soles glide with a scraping noise over the floor, and the dance-music hurries on its victims with irresistible force. The guests flock in small parties or large groups into the adjoining dining-room, and there sup at small tables. At length the ranks grow thin, the hosts retire, the wheels of the last rickshaw rattle over the sand of the courtyard, the electric lights are extinguished, and the palace is quiet again.

Lord Kitchener’s residence stands at the end of the town of Simla, and is called Snowdon. The visitor enters first a large ante-room, which, with its tasteful arrangement and decoration, makes rather the impression of a reception room or a hall of honour bedecked with trophies. A fine portrait of Gordon Pasha is placed on an easel; opposite stand busts of Alexander and Cæsar. In the wainscot of the staircase is inserted the arm of the presidential chair which Uncle Kruger used in Pretoria, and on the tables, shelves, and friezes are valuable Chinese vases of the Kang-hi (1662-1722) and Kien-lung (1736-1795) periods; for Lord Kitchener is an enthusiastic collector of old Chinese porcelain, but only the very finest finds favour in his eyes. But what strikes the stranger most in this unique hall, and above all attracts his attention, are the trophies and flags from Lord Kitchener’s victories in the Sudan and South Africa. They hang down from their staves from an upper gallery, among them the standards of the Mahdi and the dervishes of Omdurman and Om Debraket, besides several Boer flags from the Transvaal and the Orange Free State. In the inner drawing-room we find the same luxurious decoration with Chinese porcelain vases and rare ethnographical objects, among which certain Tibetan temple friezes carved in wood are of great value; they were brought by Younghusband’s Lhasa expedition. On the tables lie albums of photographs of Lord Kitchener’s numerous tours of inspection in India, and of his journey through the cold Pamir. At receptions the table is adorned with costly services in solid gold, gifts of the English nation to the victor of Africa (Illustration 6).

My time in Simla came to an end; it was useless to stay any longer after I had received the last decisive answer from London. On June 9 I took leave of the Viceroy and his youngest daughter, who were going to ride to Mashroba and pass the Sunday there. I cannot describe the leave-taking; it was so warm and hearty. Lord Minto wished that I might still carry out my intentions, and he hoped sincerely that we should again meet in India. I could not on the point of departure express all the gratitude I felt. He had done all that was in his power to help me, and had exposed himself to unpleasantnesses on my account. He had played an important part in my life’s course, and I knew that I had gained in him a lasting friend. It was a trial to have to say good-bye to him. He was more grieved than myself that our plans had miscarried, and for my part I felt that my honour now demanded that I should do my best.

On Sunday morning Lady Minto and her two eldest daughters also drove off to Mashroba. I bade them a last farewell, and thanked them for the boundless hospitality I had enjoyed in the Viceregal Lodge. The moment of parting was fortunately short; bitter it certainly was. Two fine carriages drove up with outriders, and escorted by native cavalry soldiers in red and gold, carrying lances in their hands. The ladies, in light bright summer toilets and hats trimmed with flowers, took their seats—the group of ladies of bluest blood, which through centuries and generations had been ennobled and refined, seemed to me like a bouquet of flowers themselves. I remained on the lowest step as long as I could catch a glimpse of the waving sunshades, but soon the red uniforms of the soldiers disappeared among the leafy trees of the avenue which leads down to the main guard, and the romance was at an end.

When I again entered my room the royal palace seemed lifeless and desolate, and I had no heart to remain any longer. I packed my things, hurried into the town and paid a couple of short farewell calls, made arrangements for my heavy luggage, and was soon ready to start. On the 13th I went off. The number thirteen plays a rôle of some importance in this journey: on November 13 I left Trebizond on the Black Sea; on December 13 I reached Teheran, the capital of Persia; and on June 13 I left Simla; but I was not superstitious. Younghusband was the first to welcome me and the last to say good-bye; I was soon to see him again in Srinagar. Then the train sped downwards through the 102 tunnels. From a bend in the road I caught sight of the Viceregal Lodge with its proud towers and lofty walls, the scene of so many joyful reminiscences and disappointed hopes.

CHAPTER II

DEPARTURE FROM SRINAGAR

Manuel was a singular fellow. He was a Hindu from Madras, small, thin, and black, spoke good English, and with his parents had joined the Roman Catholic Church. He had presented himself at the last moment with a huge packet of testimonials and declared confidently: “If the gentleman thinks of making a long journey, the gentleman will want a cook, and I can cook.” I took him into my service without looking at his testimonials (Illustration 15). He behaved well, was honest, and gave me more satisfaction than annoyance. The worst he did was to get lost in Ladak in some mysterious way, and to this hour I have heard nothing more about him.

In my compartment we sat as close as herrings in a barrel. The air became hotter and hotter; from the pleasant coolness of the heights we came again into the oppressive heat of the Indian plains. Passing Kalka, Ambala, and Lahore I came to Rawalpindi, where I put up at a passable hotel. But the room was hot and stuffy, and the punkah, the great fan hanging down from the ceiling, was in motion all through the night, but did not prevent the gnats from paying me importunate visits.

On June 15 a tonga and three ekkas stood before the hotel; I took my seat in the former, and the baggage was securely packed on the latter—and Manuel. The road runs between fine avenues of trees straight to the foot of the mountains. The traffic is lively: carts, caravans, riders, tramps, and beggars. Before us lie slopes of no great height, and beyond the higher mountains of the Himalayas. Are they walls erected across my path by hostile spirits, or do they await my coming?

Beyond Malepur the tonga, drawn by two spirited horses, passes through the first hills with dark and light tints of luxuriant green. The road winds up among them, and I am glad to leave the fiery glow of the plains behind; certainly the sun is still burning, for the air is clear and the first forerunners of the cloud masses of the south-west monsoon have not yet appeared. Thus we pass one stage after another. We have often to drive slowly, for we meet long trains of native soldiers in khaki uniforms with forage and munition waggons, each drawn by two mules—how glad I should have been to possess a couple of dozen of these fine animals! Cool winds blow in our faces and conifers begin to appear among the foliage trees. We leave the summer station Murree behind us, and now the snow-clad mountains at Gulmarg are visible. After crossing a pass near Murree we ascend again. Beyond Bandi we reach the right bank of the Jhelam, but the river lies far below us; the scenery is beautiful, and its grandeur and magnificence defy description. Lower and lower we go, drive close along the river’s bank, and pass the night in the dak bungalow of Kohala.

Next day we cross a bridge and slowly mount the slopes of the left bank. The morning is beautifully fine, and the not over-abundant vegetation of the hills exhales an agreeable summer perfume. On our left rushes the stream, often white with foam, but its roar strikes our ears only when we make a halt; at other times it is drowned by the rattle of the tonga. I follow with the closest attention the changes of scenery in this wonderful country. The road is carried through some of the mountain spurs in broad vaulted tunnels. The last of these is the longest, and opens its gaping jaws before us like a black cavern. Within it is delightfully cool; the short warning blasts of the signal horn reverberate melodiously in the entrails of the mountain.

In Gurie we breakfast, and rest a quarter of an hour on a comfortable couch in the verandah. Here, four years previously, I spent a memorable hour with Sir Robert and Lady Harvey. The wind whistles through the same poplars, elms, and willows to-day; I feel extraordinarily forlorn and melancholy. Then I had come from a great journey, now the future seems to me hopelessly dark. Before me rise the softly rounded but steep slopes of the wooded mountains on the right side of the valley; down yonder the village of Gurie lies on both sides of the river. The air is mild. I dream of eternal spring and forget my cares. Beyond Chinawari tall conifers are again seen on the cliffs. My driver, who speaks Persian, points to a huge block of stone embedded in the margin of the road; ten days ago it fell and killed a man and two horses. At dangerous spots, where landslips may be expected, small white flags are stuck up. The mountain landscape becomes wilder, and its sharp outlines become more distinct in the shades of evening. We come to Urie and Rampur and often drive through dense forest. When we arrive at Baramula we have covered 106 miles in fourteen hours.

On June 17 it rained in torrents, but we determined in spite of it to travel the last six stages to Srinagar. We canter along the straight road between endless rows of poplars. The mud splashes up, the rain beats on the roof of the tonga, heavy clouds involve us in semi-darkness, and there is not a trace of the mountains to be seen. The weather suits the mood in which I arrive at Srinagar, the capital of Kashmir on the bank of the Jhelam. Here I had to make several preparations for my journey—to Turkestan, it was stated officially; there was no more talk of Tibet. The persons whom I called upon on the first day of my sojourn in the capital of the Maharaja were away, but at last I found the superintendent of the Mission Hospital in Srinagar, Dr. Arthur Neve. In 1902 he had treated my sick cossack, Shagdur, and rendered me many other services, for which I owe him an eternal debt of gratitude. One of my best friends in India had advised me to try to persuade Dr. Arthur’s brother, Dr. Ernest Neve, to accompany me, but now I learned that he too had applied for permission to visit western Tibet, chiefly in connection with missionary work round about Rudok, and had likewise met with a refusal; he was now on his way back from the Tibetan frontier above Leh. Dr. Arthur Neve is one of the men I most admire. He has devoted his life to the Christian Mission in Kashmir, and his hospital is one of the best and most completely equipped in India. There he works indefatigably day and night, and his only reward is the satisfaction of relieving the sufferings of others.

This day everything seemed to go wrong, and out of spirits I returned to Nedou’s Hotel just as the gong announced eight o’clock. I sat down at the long table among some thirty ladies and gentlemen, all as strange to me as I to them. But in some of the parties the conversation turned on me.

“Have you heard that Hedin is in Srinagar?”

“No, really? When did he come?”

“To-day. Of course he wants to go to Tibet.”

“Yes, but he has been forbidden, and the Government has orders to prevent him crossing the frontier.”

“Well, then, he can pass round Tibet and enter it from the north.”

“Yes, he has done it before, and can of course find the way again.”

It was exceedingly unpleasant to have to listen to this conversation, and I almost drowned myself in my soup-plate. I could scarcely understand how I could be thus spoken of. It seemed as though the dreams and illusions of my soul were sorted out, named, and ticketed, while my corporeal part sat at the table d’hôte and swallowed soup. When we had happily arrived at the coffee I quietly withdrew, and thereafter always ate in my own room. My position was such that I had to avoid all contact with Englishmen; they could do me no service, and I would on no account reveal my real designs. What a difference from any former journeys, which I had always commenced from Russian soil, where every one, from the Czar to the lowest chinovnik, had done everything to facilitate my progress!

Next day I called on the private secretary of the Maharaja, the Pundit Daya Kishen Kaul, a stately, distinguished man who speaks and writes English perfectly. He carefully read through my letter of introduction, and kindly promised to get everything ready for me as quickly as possible. During the conversation he took notes. His agents were to receive his orders on that same day, mules would be procured, four soldiers be told off to accompany me during my whole journey, provisions, tents, and pack-saddles be bought, and he would find a pleasure in fulfilling all my wishes. No one would have an inkling that all this was done for me; every outlay would be lost among the heavy items entered under the heading “Maintenance of the Maharaja’s Court.” And Daya Kishen Kaul kept his word and became my friend. The business proceeded slowly, but still it did go forward. Not a word was spoken of Tibet. I was ostensibly getting ready for a journey to Eastern Turkestan, but his meaning smile told me that he divined my intention.

Even at a base of operation where one has full liberty it is not quite easy to get a caravan ready for the march; how much more difficult here where I was in the midst of intrigues and political vexations. But my self-respect and energy were stimulated, and I felt certain of succeeding in the end. The whole affair reminded me of a drama with an interminable list of rôles; the complications were great and I longed only for action. One act of the play was performed at Srinagar, and I cannot pass it over, as it had a sequel later on. When everything else had been denied me from London the road to Eastern Turkestan still lay open.

On June 22 I received from the Resident, Colonel Pears, the following letter:

The Indian Government has ordered me by telegraph not to permit you to cross the frontier between Kashmir and Tibet. They have no objections to your travelling to Chinese Turkestan, taking it for granted that you have a Chinese passport. But as you have lately informed me that you do not possess such a document, I have telegraphed to the Indian Government for further instructions.

Now I telegraphed to the Swedish Minister in London, Count Wrangel, and begged him to procure me a passport for Eastern Turkestan, a country I never thought of visiting, and then informed the Government in Simla of this step and of the satisfactory reply. Nineteen days later I received the following letter from Sir Francis Younghusband, who meanwhile had arrived in Kashmir as the new Resident:

I have received a telegram from the Government informing me that you may set out before the arrival of the Chinese passport, but on the condition that you do not travel beyond Leh. As soon, however, as the Chinese Government, or the Swedish Minister (in London), telegraphs that your passport is drawn out, you may cross the Chinese frontier at your own risk; your passport will then be sent after you.

Then I telegraphed to Count Wrangel again, asking him to assure the Indian Government that the passport had really been granted me and was already on the way. It was already awaiting me in Leh when I arrived there. It was a pure formality, for I did not need it, and it would have to be decided first where the boundary lay between Eastern Turkestan and Tibet. The representative of China in London subsequently expressed his astonishment to Count Wrangel that I was travelling about in Tibet with a passport made out for Eastern Turkestan, but Count Wrangel replied very justly that he could not possibly control me and the roads I followed in Asia. The English Government had done its best to prevent my travelling through Tibet, and so there was no resource left but to outwit my opponents. How I succeeded will appear in the pages of this book.

On one of the first days, accompanied by Daya Kishen Kaul, I called on the Maharaja of Jammu and Kashmir, Sir Pratab Sing, whose brother, Emir Sing, was also present. His Highness is a little middle-aged man of dreamy, melancholy aspect (Illustration 7). He received me with great friendliness, and promised to meet my wishes in every respect. He had heard of my journey through the desert in 1895, and when I had narrated its incidents I had won him over to my side; he would be pleased, he assured me, to see my new expedition start from his territory.

On June 29 I was invited to a great fête at the Maharaja’s palace in honour of the Emperor’s birthday. The birthday of the King of England falls on November 9, but the Emperor of India was born on June 29. How that happens I do not know. At the appointed time I went to Younghusband, and at the quay of the Residence we were taken on board a shikara of the Maharaja—a long, elegantly decorated boat, with soft cushions and an awning with hanging fringes and tassels, and manned by about twenty rowers in bright red clothing. We glide swiftly and noiselessly down the Jhelam, see palaces, houses, and thick groves reflected picturesquely in the swirling ripples, sweep past numerous house-boats and canoes, and come to a halt a little below the bridge at the staircase to the palace, where Emir Sing received us on the lowest step in the red uniform of a major-general. On the platform above the steps the Maharaja awaited us. And then we mingled with the varied crowd of Englishmen and natives, all decked out in their best. Then a court was held; all the guests filed past in slow single-file, and His Highness distributed friendly shakes of the hand and nods. Then in the same order all sat down in rows of chairs, just as in a theatre. But we did not rest long, for soon dinner was announced, and we made free with what kitchen and cellar provided. After the feast was over, the Maharaja, his brother, and his little nephew, the heir to the throne, entered the hall and took their places at the middle of the table at which we sat. The Maharaja called for a cheer for the King-Emperor, another toasted Younghusband, who returned thanks in a neat and partly humorous speech. Then the guests were invited to go out into an open gallery with thick pillars, where they witnessed a display of fireworks. Between suns and Bengal fires, rockets and serpents flew into the air from boats lying on the river, and on the further bank “God save the King-Emperor” was spelled out in red lamps. Taste and elegance had been less studied than noise; there were detonations and sprays of fire in every nook and corner, and the whole gave an impression of unswerving loyalty. When we went down to our boat again all around was veiled in darkness; brilliant light streamed only through the colonnade of the palace façade. We rowed upstream and enjoyed a more beautiful and quieter illumination; the moon threw sinuous lines of gold across the ripples of the river, and flashes of blue lightning darted over the mountains on the horizon.

The Pundit Daya Kishen Kaul Divan Sahib was unwearied in his kind efforts. He procured me forty mules, which he bought from the Raja of Poonch. I rejected four; the rest were in good condition, but they were of a less sturdy breed than the Tibetan, and all foundered in Tibet. He also furnished me with an escort of four soldiers who had been in the service of the Maharaja. Two of them, Ganpat Sing and Bikom Sing, were Rajputs, and spoke Hindustani; they had certificates of good conduct, and the former wore a service medal. Like the cook Manuel, they declared themselves prepared to sacrifice their lives for me, but I calmed them with the assurance that our campaign would not be so bloody. Fortunately both belonged to the same caste, so that they could mess together; but, of course, they could not eat with other mortals. In camp I always saw them seated at their own fire a good distance from the others. The two others were Pathans, Bas Ghul from Cabul, and Khairulla Khan from Peshawar. Daya Kishen Kaul provided all with guns and ammunition at my expense, and their pay was fixed. They also received money for their outfit, and I prepared them to expect cold. My amiable benefactor looked after tents for me, saddles, pack-saddles, and a number of other necessary articles. Meanwhile I made purchases myself in the bazaars. I got about twenty yakdans, small leather-covered wooden boxes such as are used in Turkestan; kitchen utensils and saucepans; furs, ordinary blankets and frieze blankets; a tent-bed with mattress and a gutta-percha undersheet; warm material and bashliks; caps, Kashmir boots, cigars, cigarettes and tobacco for a year; tea, and several hundred boxes of preserved meat; also woven stuffs, knives, daggers, etc., for presents, and no end of other things (Illustrations 10, 14).

In all my purchases and transport arrangements I received invaluable help from Cockburn’s Agency. It provided me with stores of rice, maize, meal and barley; for it was impossible to get together sufficient quantities in Leh. It also looked after the transport of this heavy baggage, and I had every reason to be satisfied with its arrangements. I had myself brought a boat with oars, rudder, mast, sails, life-buoys and centre-board, in the large chests I had sent out to India. Then I had the same scientific instruments as before: an alt-azimuth, two chronometers, meteorological instruments, compasses, photographic apparatus and plates, writing-blocks, sketch-and note-books, writing materials, field-glasses, hunting-rifles, revolvers, etc.

Burroughs and Wellcome of London had been so kind as to present me with an unusually complete medicine-chest, which was in itself a tasteful and elegant work of art, and contained drugs specially selected for a high, cold, and dry climate. All the remedies were in tabloids, well and orderly packed, and could easily be found with the aid of a printed catalogue. The whole was carefully stowed in a pretty aluminium chest which shone like silver. The medicine-chest was from the first exceedingly popular in the caravan; every one had a blind confidence in it. I had a suspicion that many ailments were feigned just to get another look at the chest. At any rate it contained the best portable medical outfit I have ever seen.

I had some difficulty in finding an assistant for meteorological observations. There was none at the Central Institute in Simla, and therefore I applied to the Meteorological Station in Srinagar. The chief recommended a youngster to me who had been assistant at the station and had been baptized under the name of Rufus, but he was a fat Bengali, who always walked about with an umbrella even when it did not rain. I was not troubled about his corpulence; he would soon be cured of that on the mountains; but, what was worse, he had certainly never seen an aneroid barometer, and I could not, try as I would, teach him to read it. I therefore dismissed him, for at the worst I could read the instruments, though I had a superabundance of other things to do.

Then just at the right moment a Eurasian, three-and-twenty years old, presented himself, named Alexander Robert. In his first letter to me he gave himself no other title than the very correct one of a “stranger in Srinagar”; this indicated modesty. He came to my hotel, showed me his testimonials, which were all excellent, and he struck me as a pleasant, strong, and healthy man. Among other employments he had worked on the railway at Peshawar and had been an assistant in Dr. Neve’s hospital. Dr. Neve recommended him most warmly, and as, besides, he acquired a good knowledge of the instruments after a single lesson and needed only a few days’ practice in Srinagar in handling and reading them, I was very glad to engage him. He left his mother and young wife at home, but they were in no straits, and a part of his wages was paid to him in advance. I did not regret taking him, for he had a knowledge of many things, was capable, cheerful, and ready for work of any kind. When I knew him better I entrusted all my cash to his care, and could do it without hesitation, for his honesty was beyond suspicion. He was a companion to me during the long winter evenings, was a favourite in the caravan and among the Tibetans, and carefully watched that every one did his duty. Robert was only once a cause of grief to me, when he left me in December 1907, in consequence of sad news he received of his family through Gartok (Illustration 13).

After Robert joined me matters went on more easily. He superintended the packing of the baggage and the weighing of it out into equal loads, and helped me in stowing and distributing the heavy money-bags which held 22,000 silver and 9000 gold rupees. Thus the days passed, and at last the hour of release struck. I had longed for it as for a wedding feast, and counted the intervening hours. I took leave of my old friend Younghusband, who at the last moment recommended to me a caravan leader, Muhamed Isa of Leh, and bade farewell to the Maharaja, Emir Sing, and Daya Kishen Kaul; and Mrs. Annie Besant, who on several occasions had shown me great kindness, expressed the best and most sincere wishes for the success of my journey.

My people were ordered to be ready on the morning of July 16, 1906, in the courtyard of the hotel (Illustration 16). The start should be delayed not a day longer; I had now waited long enough. It was evident that some hours would be required to get all in marching order for the first time. At eight o’clock the men from Poonch came with their mules, but only to tell me that they must have 5 rupees each for new clothes. The purchase of these articles of clothing took up four more hours, and in the afternoon the preparations had progressed so far that there was only the loading-up to see after. Some hours elapsed before the pack-saddles and loads had been adjusted. The mules were very excited, danced round in circles, and kicked so that the boxes flew about, and at last each animal had to be led by a man (Illustration 17). The hired horses were more sensible. Manuel on his steed presented rather a comical appearance: he had never mounted a horse in his life, and he looked frightened; his black face shone in the sun like polished iron. The whole company was taken by at least half-a-dozen amateur photographers (Illustration 18). At length we moved off in detachments, exactly twelve hours behind time; but the long train was at any rate on the way to Gandarbal and Tibet—and that was the main thing. What did it matter what time it was? Feeling as though my prison doors were opened, I watched my men pass along the road (Illustration 10), and the whole world lay open before me.

Of all these men none knew of the glow of delight within me; they knew me not, and I did not know them; they came from Madras, Lahore, Cabul, Rajputana, Poonch, and Kashmir, a whole Oriental congress, whom chance had thrown together. They might as well be robbers and bandits as anything else, and they might think that I was an ordinary shikari sahib whose brain was filled with no other ideal but a record in Ovis Ammon’s horns. I watched the start almost pitifully, and asked myself whether it would be vouchsafed to them all to return home to wife and child. But none was obliged to follow me, and I had prepared them all for a trying campaign of eighteen months. What would it have profited me to have made them anxious by anticipating troubles? Trying days would come soon enough.

I was most sorry for the animals, for I knew that famine awaited them. As long as there were opportunities they should satiate themselves with maize and barley that they might subsist as long as possible afterwards on their own fat.

At length I stood alone in the yard, and then I drove to Dal-dervaseh, where a long, narrow, five-oared boat awaited me at the stone steps, and placed myself at the tiller, when the boat put off and I was at last on the way to the forbidden land. All the long journey through Persia and Baluchistan had been only a prologue, which had really no result except to land me in the spider’s nest in which I found myself caught in India. Now, however, I was free, out of the reach of all that is called Government; now I could rule, myself.

The canal, on the bright mirror of which we now glided along, was varied by water plants, ducks, and boats, almost sinking under their loads of country produce. On the banks washerwomen crouched, and here and there a group of merry children were bathing; they scrambled up projecting points and mooring places, let themselves tumble into the canal, splashed and threw up the water like small whales. The canal becomes narrower, only a few yards broad, our boat takes the ground, and the oarsmen get out and draw it over the shallows. The waterway is very winding, but runs on the whole to the north; the water is shallow, but the current is with us. On either side stand picturesque houses of wood and stone as in a street of Venice. At every corner the eye encounters a new charming subject for the brush, which gains additional effect from the motley figures, the vegetation, and the light lancet-shaped boats. The lighting up of the picture is also fine now that the sun is setting, bathing everything in its warm glowing beams, and causing the outlines to stand out clearly against the deep shadows. Between the houses the water is as black as ink. We draw near to a small projecting height, behind which the road runs to Kangan and Leh. Side branches debouch into the canal, but we make for a lake called Anchar; its water is greyish blue, and comes from the Sind, or Send as they here pronounce the name of the river.

After a while eddies and sandbanks show that we are in the river. The sun has set; the summer evening is quiet and peaceful, only the gnats buzz over the water.

12. My Three Puppies.	13. Robert, the Eurasian.
14. Ganpat Sing, the Rajput.	15. Manuel, the Cook.
Prominent Members of the First Expedition.

Though the rowers work steadily, putting forth all their strength, we make slow progress, for the current is strong against us. I have therefore opportunity to peep into the domestic affairs of a whole series of English families in the house-boats. It is just upon nine o’clock and the inmates are gathered round the table in dress coats and elegant toilets. At one table sat three young ladies; I thought that they had spent too much trouble over their toilet, for there was nowhere any sign of a cavalier to be charmed with their appearance. Through the open windows the glaring lamplight fell on the water; they saw us pass, and perhaps puzzled their heads over the reason of so late a visit. Now the century-old planes of Gandarbal appear, we row into a creek of stagnant water and go on shore.

This was my first day’s journey, but the day was far from being over. Scouts were sent out, but not a soul was to be found at the appointed halting-place. We settled down between mighty tree-trunks and lighted a blazing signal fire. After a time Bas Ghul comes like a highway pad into the light of the flames; he leads a couple of mules, and at ten o’clock Robert and Manuel also lie beside our fire. But the tents and provisions are not yet here. At eleven scouts are sent out again, and we do not see or hear of them again before midnight; they report that all is well with the caravan and that it will soon be here. But when one o’clock came another scout vanished in the darkness and it was not till a quarter to three that my people arrived, after I had waited quite five hours for them. But I was not at all angry, only happy to be en route. New fires and resinous torches were lighted, and illuminated brightly the lower branches of the plane trees, while through the crowns the stars twinkled above our first bivouac on the way to Tibet.

What noise and confusion in this throng of men and baggage animals! The place was like a fair where all scold and scream and no one listens. The escort tried in vain to get a hearing, the Rajputs were quieter, but the Pathans abused the disobedient Kashmiris and the saucy men from Poonch as robbers and murderers. The animals were tethered with long cords to the foot of the trees, and on a small open space my tent pegs were for the first time driven into the ground. The tent was a present from my friend Daya Kishen Kaul, and was my home for a long time. The baggage was piled up in walls of provision sacks and boxes, and Manuel got hold at length of his kitchen utensils and unpacked his enamelled ware. The animals neighed and stamped and occasionally gave their neighbours a friendly kick, but when the barley nose-bags were carried round and hung on their necks only a whinnying was heard, which signified impatience and a good appetite. And then these children of the East, this gathering of dark-skinned men who strode about in the red firelight with tall white turbans—what a fine striking picture on the background of a pitch-dark night! I smiled to myself as I saw them hurrying hither and thither about their numerous affairs.

But now dinner is ready in the lighted tent, and a box lid serves as a table. A carpet, a bed, two boxes for daily use, and the young dogs are the only furniture. There are three of the last, of which two are bitches. They are pariahs; they were enticed away from the street in Srinagar and have no trace of religion (Illustration 12). Robert and I, who always speak English, call the white and the yellow ones simply “Puppy”; the third soon received the name of “Manuel’s Friend,” for Manuel and he always kept together.

And all this company which the sport of fortune had collected around me was to be scattered again, one after the other, like chaff before the wind. I was the only one who, six-and-twenty months later, reached Simla again, and the last of all the men and animals who now lay in deep sleep under the planes of Gandarbal.

But I was not the last to lay myself down to rest on this first night, for when I put out my light at three o’clock the firelight still played on the side of the tent, and I seemed to feel the brisk life out in Asia like a cooling breath of pine forests and mountains, snowfields and glaciers, and of broad open plains where my plans would be realized. Should I be tired of it? Nay, should I ever have enough of it?

CHAPTER III

THE ROAD TO LEH

The day ended late. Next morning I was awaked late, and the sun stood high in the heavens before we were ready to start. It took four hours to get the whole camp under weigh, to pack up and load the animals; but the work would be done more expeditiously when all knew their parts.

The long train begins to move, troop after troop disappears among the trees. On both sides of the road country houses and villages peep out between willows, walnut and apricot trees, and small channels of water murmur through the rice-fields, where men are hoeing, moving in regular order, and singing a rhythmical encouraging song; the singing lightens the work, for the weeds are torn up in time with the air, and no one likes to be behind another.

A bridge crosses the Sind, which rolls its greyish blue water, rushing and roaring, through several large arms. Now the road ascends the valley of the river, then we turn eastwards, and soon the broad valley of Kashmir with its level country disappears behind us. The rise is already noticeable, and we are glad of it, for the day is warm. Trees become fewer, and we ride for greater and greater stretches in the blazing sun; but all around us is green and abundantly watered, the mild air is full of life and productive energy, and the whole valley resounds with the roar of the river and the echo it calls forth. I have passed this way twice before, but on both occasions the Sind valley was covered with snow; now summer reigns in the deep hollows and on the heights.

At Kangan we pitched our tents in a thick copse. This time the camp was marked out and the tents set up fairly expeditiously. The Numberdar of the village procured us everything we wanted—we did not wish to touch our own stores until it became impossible to obtain local supplies. The four coolies who had carried the boat were here relieved by four others, who were to carry it up to Gunt.

So we had accomplished another day’s journey. We all delighted in the free, active life. But the day was declining, the shadows grew longer, the sun disappeared an hour sooner than usual, for it was concealed by the mountains, and after we had listened for a while to the plaintive bark of the jackals we also went early to rest. In the stillness of the night the roar of the stream sounded still louder; its water came from the heights which were the goal of our hopes; but with still greater longing would my eyes one day watch these eddies on their way to the sea.

When I came out of my tent in the cool of the morning the rest of the caravan had already set out, and the camp looked empty and deserted. The new day was not promising, for it rained hard, and thunder growled among the mountains; but the summer morning gave forth an odour of forest and fresh green vegetation, and after a good breakfast my detachment, to which Robert and Manuel belonged, started on its march.

The sun soon came out, and with the warmth great swarms of flies, which tortured our animals and made them restive. The road ran down to the river and through the trees on its right bank. On the crest of the left flank of the valley some patches of snow still defied the summer sun, and the wood opposite was much thicker than on our side. Here and there a conifer raised its dark crown above the lighter foliage. At the village Mamer, where a mill-wheel swished through the waterfall, and an open booth invited the traveller to refresh himself, Khairullah remained awhile behind in company with a smoking narghilé. At Ganjevan we crossed the river by three shaking bridges. In the background of the narrowing valley rose a mountain covered with snow. The scenery was fine, and we enjoyed a ride really elevating in a double sense. Our caravan had to halt several times when a mule threw off its load; but the animals were already quieter, and I looked forward with anxiety to the time when they would become meek as lambs, and when no objurgations would induce them to move on.

The camp at Gunt was already in order when we arrived. My first thought is always for the puppies; in the morning, during the first hours of the march, they whine, finding the movement of the mule very uncomfortable, but the rocking soon sends them to sleep. But as soon as they are taken out of the basket they fall foul of one another, and then they wander all the evening among the tents, gnawing and tearing at everything.

Even with a temperature of 52.2° F. I felt so cold in the night, after the heat of the plains, that I woke and covered myself with a fur rug. The river in the morning marked only 46.2°. Upstream the view became ever finer. Sometimes we rode through narrow defiles, sometimes up steep dangerous slopes, sometimes over broad expansions of the valley with cultivated fields. Then the precipitous rocks drew together again, and cool dense shadows lay among willows and alders. The roar of the stream drowned all other sounds. The river had now become smaller, so many tributaries having been left behind us, but its wild impetuosity and its huge volumes of dashing water were the more imposing; the water, greenish blue and white, foaming and tossing, boiled and splashed among huge blocks of dark green schist. In a gully, close to the bank, a conical avalanche still lay thawing, and up above small waterfalls appeared on the slopes like streaks of bright white paint. When we came nearer we could perceive the movement, and the cascades that resolved themselves into the finest spray.

Then the valley spread out again, and conifers alone clothed its flanks. We bivouacked at Sonamarg, where I set out some years before from the dak bungalow on a winter’s night, with lanterns and torches, for a venturesome excursion over the avalanches of the Zoji-la Pass.

The Governor of Kashmir had sent a chaprassi with me, and at a word from him all the local authorities were at our service. But it was not easy to keep some of the members of the caravan in order. Bas Ghul and Khairullah proved to be great brawlers, who began to quarrel with the others on every possible occasion. Bas Ghul evidently considered it his chief duty to appropriate a coolie for his own service, and Khairullah thought himself much too important to help in unloading. The others complained daily of annoyance from the Afghans, and I soon saw that this escort would give us more trouble than help. Among the rest, also, the Kashmiris and the men from Poonch, there were petty pilferers, and the Rajputs were ordered to watch that none of our belongings went astray. In Baltal there was a great commotion, for people from Sonamarg appeared and declared that my servants had stolen a saucepan as they passed through. And it was actually found among the Poonch men. The complainants received their pan back again as well as compensation for their trouble (Illustration 19).

The state of the road from Baltal over the Zoji-la Pass was very different now from what it was in the year 1902. Then the whole country was covered with snow, and we slided almost the whole way down over glaciated slopes. Now some five hundred workmen were engaged in mending the road up to the pass. Their industry was indicated by thundering blasts, and now and then great blocks of stone fell down uncomfortably near to us.

Now our heavily-laden caravan had to cross the pass. Slowly and carefully we march up over hard and dirty but smooth avalanche cones, in which a small winding path has been worn out by the traffic. Water trickles and drops in the porous mass, and here and there small rivulets issue from openings in the snow. After a stretch of good road comes a steep slope along a wall of rock—a regular staircase, with steps of timber laid across the way. It was a hard task for laden animals to struggle up. Now and then one of them slipped, and a mule narrowly escaped falling over—a fall from the steep acclivity into the deep trough of the roaring Sind would have been almost certain destruction, not a trace of the unfortunate beast would have been found again. From our lofty station the river looked like a thread. After some sacks of maize had fallen overboard, each of the animals was led by two men.

The train advanced slowly up. Piercing cries were constantly heard when one of the animals was almost lost. But at last we got over the difficulties, and travelled over firm snow and level ground. The thawed water from a huge cone of snow on the south side flowed partly to the Sind, partly to the Dras. The latter increased with astonishing quickness to a considerable river, and our small and slippery path followed its bank. A treacherous bridge crossed a wild tributary, with agitated waters of a muddy grey colour. One of the mules broke through it, and it was only at the last moment that his load could be saved. Then the bridge was mended with flat stones for the benefit of future passengers.

The Dras is an imposing river; its waters pour over numerous blocks that have fallen into its bed, and produce a dull grinding sound. And this mighty river is but one of the thousand tributaries of the Indus.

We reached Matayun in drizzling rain, and had scarcely set up our camp when the caravan-men came to loggerheads. We here overtook a hired contingent of 30 horses with forage. Their drivers had received orders to travel as quickly as possible to Leh; but now it appeared that they had remained stationary for several days, and wanted to be paid extra in consequence. The authorities in Srinagar had done their best to make my journey to Leh easy, but there is no order in Kashmir. In Robert I had an excellent assistant; he did everything to appease the refractory men. I now saw myself that stringent measures must be resorted to, and I waited impatiently for a suitable occasion for interference. About three-fourths of the Poonch men reported themselves ill; they wished to ride, and that was the whole cause of their illness. The mules, when not wanted, were to go unloaded, in order to economize their strength, and on that account we had hired horses in Srinagar. Some men had been kicked by our hot-tempered mules, and now came for treatment.

Then we go on to Dras and Karbu. On the heights above the Dras we pass the famous stone figures of Buddha, and then we descend a narrow picturesque valley to Karbu. The river constantly increases in volume, and presents a grand spectacle; small affluents fall between the rocks like silver ribands, and spread out over the dejection fans. The pink blossoms of the hawthorn wave gracefully in the wind, which cools us during the hot hours of the day. Fine dark juniper bushes, tall as cypresses, adorn the right bank.

In front of the station-house in Karbu an elderly man in a white turban came up to me. “Good day, Abdullah,” I said to him, for I immediately recognized the honest fellow who had helped me up over the snowfields of the Zoji-la on the former occasion.

“Salaam, Sahib,” he answered, sobbing, fell on his knees and embraced my foot in the stirrup, after the Oriental custom.

“Will you go on a long journey with me?” I asked.

“Yes, I will follow you to the end of the world, if the Commissioner Sahib in Leh will allow me.”

“We will soon settle that. But, tell me, how have you got on since we last saw one another?”

“Oh, I am the Tekkedar of Karbu, and provide passing caravans with all they want.”

“Well, then, think over the matter till to-morrow, and if you wish to accompany me, I have a post free for you among my people.”

“There is no need of consideration; I will go with you, though I only get a rupee a month.”

But Abdullah was too old and infirm for Tibet, and the conditions which he afterwards put before Robert were much more substantial than he had represented them in the first joy of meeting me again: 60 rupees monthly, everything found, his own horse, and exemption from all heavy work were now his demands. Consequently next morning we bade each other an eternal farewell.

Now a traveller turned up from the preceding station, and complained that the Poonch men had stolen a sheep from him. As they denied it, I made the plaintiff accompany us to Kargil, where the case could be tried before the magistrate.

We approached the striking spot, where two valleys converge and the Dras joins the Wakkha, passed the sharp rocky angle, and rode up close by the bank of the Wakkha. The valley has a very great fall, and the powerful stream rushes down in wild commotion, swells up and leaps over the blocks in its way, or breaks into foaming, tumultuous surge. Several old acquaintances and the Vezir Vezarat himself came to meet us, and before we reached Kargil we were accompanied by a whole cavalcade. We bivouacked in a cool grove of poplars and willows, and intended to rest the following day (Illustration 20).

This day brought some picturesque scenes. Surrounded by the authorities of Kargil with the pundit Lashman Das and the Vezir Vezarat at their head, I held judgment over the heterogeneous rabble which had caused so much embarrassment in the first week of my journey. Firstly, all the Kashmiris, with their leader Aziza, were dismissed. Then came the turn of their fellow-countrymen, who had transported hither on hired horses the maize and barley for our animals, and lastly we came to the Poonch men. As regards the sheep-stealing the following procedure was adopted. The suspected men were tied to a couple of trees, and though there was a cool shade, they grew weary, and after waiting three hours for a rescuing angel, confessed all, and were thereupon sentenced to pay double the value of the sheep. Then Khairullah stepped forward and interceded for his friend Aziza; as his request was not granted he was annoyed, and positively refused to undertake the night watch. So he, too, was dismissed, and was allowed to take with him the other Afghan, Bas Ghul, who suffered from periodical fits of insanity, and was moreover a rogue. It was quite a relief to me to get rid of these esquires of our bodyguard. Of the original “Congress of Orientalists” in Srinagar only four men now remained, namely, Robert, Manuel, Ganpat Sing, and Bikom Sing.

When we left Kargil on July 26 we took with us 77 hired horses with their leaders, and the forage of the animals formed 161 small heaps. A native veterinary surgeon was to accompany us to see that the mules were well tended. After we had bought all the barley we could get hold of, our caravan had much increased, and the weeding-out effected in Kargil made the succeeding days of our journey to Leh much more agreeable than the previous.

At Shargul we passed the first lama temple on this route; beyond Mullbe they gradually became more numerous. At every step one finds evidence that one is in the country of the lamas; the small white temples in Tibetan style crown the rocky points and projections like storks’ nests, and dominate the valleys and villages below them. But a monk in his red toga is seldom seen; the temples seem silent and abandoned among the picturesque chhorten monuments and manis. The whole relief of the country is now much more prominent than in winter, when the universal snow-mantle makes all alike and obliterates all the forms. The fantastic contours of the mountains stand out sharply with their wild pinnacles of rock and embattled crests, which above Bod-Karbu mingle with the old walls and towers, of which only ruins are now left.

On July 28 we crossed the river by a tolerably firm bridge, and continued to ascend the valley which leads to the Potu-la. Just beyond the pass the authorities of Lamayuru came to meet us with flowers and fruits, and each one, according to the custom of the country, offered a rupee, which, however, we needed only to touch with the hand. A little further the first chhorten appeared, followed by a long row of others; the stone heaps pointed towards the famous monastery of Lamayuru. Passing round a projecting corner a little farther on, we had a clear view of a small valley between lofty mountains, and here rose a precipitous terrace of detritus, on which the monastery is built. Some white buildings up there stood out sharply against a grey background, and in the depths of the valley cultivated fields spread out among a few groups of trees (Illustration 21).

As soon as our party was visible from the valley, music was heard, and long brass drums boomed from the temple roofs with a deep, solemn, organ tone, which was joyously echoed among the mountains. Would the lama monasteries of Tibet give us such a friendly welcome? As we entered the village, there stood there about thirty women in their best clothes, in fur-trimmed coloured mantles, with blinkers firmly plaited into the hair, and with turquoises on the top. All the inhabitants had turned out, and formed a picturesque group round the band, which started a deafening tune with its flutes and drums (Illustration 22).

In the afternoon we went up to the monastery, where the prior and the monks received us at the main entrance. They led us into the open court of the monastery, surrounded by old buildings, chhorten, and flagstaffs. From here one has a grand view of the valley which slopes down to the Indus. Under dark masses of cloud, and in fine rain, seven monks executed an incantation dance; they had tied on masks of wild animals, evil spirits, and monsters with laughing mouths, tusks for teeth, and uncanny staring eyes. Their motley coats stood out like bells as they danced, and all the time weird music was played. How the monks must be wearied in their voluntary imprisonment! Evidently their only relaxation is to display their religious fanaticism before the inquisitive eyes of passing strangers.

Immediately beyond the village we descend a dangerously steep road in the small, narrow, and wild ravine which leads to the Indus. The deep trough of the Dras is crossed by small, neat wooden bridges, and after a couple of hours’ journey one rides as through a portal into the great, bright valley of the Indus, and has the famous river before one. It is a grand sight, and I halt for some time on a swinging wooden bridge to gaze at the vast volume of water which, with its great load and its rapid current, must excavate its channel ever deeper and deeper. The station-house, Nurla, stands just above the river, which tosses and roars under its windows.

The day had been broiling hot; the rocks and soil of this grey, unfruitful valley seem to radiate out a double quantity of heat, and even in the night the thermometer marked 61°. Even the river water had a temperature of 54° in the daytime, but still, though dirty-grey like porridge, it was a delicious drink in the heat.

As far as Saspul we rode along the right bank close to the river. Here the road is often dangerous, for it is cut like a shelf in the steep wall of rock, and one feels at ease only when the valuable baggage has passed safely. The danger is that a pack-horse on the mountain-side may thrust itself past another, and force this one over the edge of the rock, so that one may in a moment lose one’s instruments, photographic apparatus, or sacks of rupees.

At Jera a small emerald-green foaming torrent dashes headlong into the Indus, and is lost in its bosom—the clear green water is swallowed up instantaneously by the muddy water of the Indus. One is delighted by the constantly changing bold scenery and the surprises encountered at every turn of the road. The eyes follow the spiral of a constantly moving vortex, or the hissing spray which the wind whips off the crests of the waves. One almost envies the turbid eddies of this water which comes from the forbidden land, from Gartok, from the regions north of the Kailas mountain, from the unknown source of the Indus itself, whither no traveller has yet penetrated, and which has never been marked down on a map.

The bridge of Alchi, with its crooked, yielding beams, seemed just as dangerous as on my last visit, but its swaying arch boldly spans the interval between the banks, and during a pleasant rest in the shade the bridge was reproduced in my sketch-book. The waves dashed melodiously against the stone embankment of the road, and I missed the sound when the route left the bank and ascended to Saspul, where we were received with the usual music and dancing-women (Illustration 26).

Basgho-gompa has a fine situation in a side valley of the Indus. The monastery is built on the left side of the valley, the white walls of three storeys, with balconies, effective cornices and pennants, standing on a long cliff. A quantity of chhortens and manis surround Basgho. The sacred formula “Om mani padme hum” is carved on a slab of green slate, and lizards, as green as the stone, dart about over the words of eternal truth.

The first of August was the last day of our journey to Leh. A bright, peaceful morning; the rays of the sun crept warm and agreeably through the foliage of the apricot trees, and threw green reflexions into the station-room. We rode near the Indus as far as where the monastery, Spittol, stands on its hill, beyond which the road turns aside from the river and runs straight up to Leh, which is visible from a distance, surrounded by verdant gardens. Mohanlal, a merchant of Leh, who had undertaken a large part of the final equipment of the expedition, came to meet us, and, as we rode past an enclosed field of fine clover, told me that he had bought it for my mules.

We dismounted at the gate of a large garden, and went in. In the midst of the garden stands a stone house among poplars and willows. It is usually the residence of the Vezir Vezarat, the representative of Kashmir in Ladak, but now it was to be my headquarters for twelve days. Here I had a roof over my head for the last time for two long years, and I found myself very comfortable in my study up one flight of stairs. Robert occupied another room, and an open, shady balcony was fitted up as a meteorological observatory. Manuel and the two Rajputs had the control of the ground-floor; in the courtyard purveyors and new servants were continually coming and going, and adjoining the garden was our stable, where the newly obtained horses were posted in the open air.

Leh is the last place of any importance on the way to Tibet. Here our equipment must be finally completed. Nothing could be omitted; if we forgot anything we could not obtain it afterwards. Here the silver stream of rupees flowed away without intermission, but I consoled myself with the thought that we should soon be in a country where, with the best will in the world, we could not spend a farthing. A large caravan sucks up money, as a vampire blood, as long as it remains in inhabited cultivated lands; but when all contact with human civilization is cut off, it must live on its own resources; consequently, it gradually dwindles and approaches its dissolution. As long as it is at all possible we let the animals eat all they can; the best clover to be had must be procured, and both horses and mules must be so well tended that they can afterwards live on their own fat and endure the hardships that await them.

CHAPTER IV

THE LAST PREPARATIONS

Captain Patterson was now Joint-Commissioner of the province of Ladak. He received me from the first with the greatest hospitality and kindness, and was one of the finest men I have ever come in contact with. Having a thorough knowledge of India, Ladak, and Tibet, he was able to give me valuable hints and advice, and was untiring in assisting to equip the great caravan, the object of which was still, officially, Eastern Turkestan, without overstepping his instructions by a hair’s breadth. I found in him a true friend, and after dinner, which I always took at eight o’clock in the evening, we often sat together till long after midnight, talking of the future of Asia and the doings of the world.

Sir Francis Younghusband had recommended to me a well-known caravan leader, Muhamed Isa. I had seen him in Kashgar and Srinagar, and knew that he had been present at the murder of the French explorer, Dutreuil de Rhins, on June 5, 1894. During about thirty years he had travelled in most parts of Central Asia, and was also acquainted with many parts of Tibet. Besides a number of shorter journeys which he had accomplished in the service of various sahibs, he had also been Carey’s and Dalgleish’s caravan leader on their great march through Central Asia, and had served a couple of years under Dutreuil de Rhins. He accompanied Younghusband on his famous march over the Mustagh Pass (1887), and had been his caravan leader in the campaign to Lhasa (1903-1904). On Ryder’s and Rawling’s journey in the valley of the upper Brahmaputra he had had the management of the baggage caravan. During all these journeys he had acquired experience which might be very useful to me, and I gratefully accepted Younghusband’s proposal, especially as Captain Patterson, in whose service Muhamed Isa then was, did not hesitate to place him at my disposal. Besides, Muhamed Isa spoke fluently Turki, Tibetan, and Hindustani, and wished for nothing better than to accompany me. Without knowing that he had been warmly recommended, he had earnestly begged his master to allow him to enter my service (Illustration 30).

His father was a man of Yarkand, his mother a Lamaist of Leh. The mixed race of such unions is called Argon, and is generally distinguished by physical power and extraordinarily well-developed muscular structure. Muhamed Isa also was a fine man, tall and strong as a bear, with great power of endurance, reliable and honest, and after a few days’ journey with him I found that my caravan could not have been entrusted to better hands. That the first crossing of Tibet was so successful was due in great measure to his services. He kept splendid discipline among the men, and if he were sometimes strict, it was for the good of the caravan, and he permitted no neglect of duty.

He entertained Robert and myself, and even the caravan men, for hours together with tales of his fortunes and his adventures in the service of other Europeans, criticising some of his former masters without much reserve. The remembrance of Dutreuil de Rhins especially seemed to affect him; he frequently returned to his account of the attack made on the unfortunate Frenchman. He was also a good boaster, and declared that once in midwinter he had carried a letter in ten days from Yarkand to Leh, with all his provisions on his back—a journey that an ordinary mortal takes a month to accomplish. But there was no harm in his exaggerations; he was always witty and amusing, always cheerful and ready for a joke, and kept up the spirits of the rest in depressing circumstances. Poor Muhamed Isa! How little we suspected, when he and I set out together, that he would never return to his wife and home!

I had scarcely taken possession of my new dwelling in Leh when Muhamed Isa appeared with a pleasant, kindly “Salaam, Sahib.”

“Peace be with you,” I answered; “you have not changed much in all the years since we met in Kashgar. Are you disposed to accompany me on a journey of two years through the high mountains?”

“I wish nothing better, and the Commissioner Sahib has allowed me to report myself to you for service. But I should like to know whither we are to travel.”

“We are going northwards to Eastern Turkestan; you will hear about our further movements when we have left the last villages behind.”

“But I must know the details of your plan because of the preparations.”

“You must take provisions for horses and men for three months, for it may happen that we shall be so long without coming into contact with human beings.”

“Then, surely, we must be making for Tibet—that is a country I know as well as my house in Leh.”

“What are your terms?”

“Forty rupees a month, and an advance of two hundred rupees to leave with my wife at starting.”

“All right! I take you into my service, and my first order is: buy about sixty strong horses, complete our store of provisions so that it may last three months, and get together the necessary equipment for the caravan.”

“I know very well what we want, and will have the caravan ready to march in ten days. But let me suggest that I be allowed to choose the servants, for I know the men here in Leh, and can tell which are fit for a long trying journey.”

“How many do you want to manage the caravan?”

“Five-and-twenty men.”

“Very well, engage them; but you must be responsible that only useful, honest men enter my service.”

“You may depend on me,” said Muhamed Isa, and added, that he knew it to be to his own interest to serve me well.

During the following days Muhamed Isa was always on his feet, looking out for horses. It was not advisable for many reasons to buy them all at once—for one thing, because the prices would then rise; so we bought only five or six each day. As, however, the peasants from the first asked exorbitantly high prices, a commission of three prominent Ladakis was appointed, who determined the real value of the horses offered for sale. If the seller were satisfied with the assessment, he was paid at once, and the horse was led to his stall in our open stable. Otherwise, the seller went away, but usually returned next day.

Altogether 58 horses were bought, and Robert made a list of them: 33 came from various villages in Ladak, 17 from Eastern Turkestan, 4 from Kashmir, and 4 from Sanskar. The Sanskar horses are considered the best, but are difficult to get. The Ladak horses, too, are good, for, being bred in the mountains, they are accustomed to rarefied air and poor pasture; they are small and tough. The Turkestan horses have, as a rule, less power of endurance, but we had to take them for want of better, and all ours had crossed the Karakorum Pass (18,540 feet) once or oftener.

As the horses were bought they were numbered in the list, and this number on a strip of leather was fastened to the mane of the horse. Afterwards I compiled a list of the dead, as they foundered, in order to ascertain their relative power of resistance. The first that died was a Sanskar, but that was pure chance—he died some days after we marched out of Leh, of acute disease. Later on the losses were greatest among the Yarkand horses. The prices varied considerably, from 37 to 96 rupees, and the average price was 63 rupees. A horse at 95 rupees fell after three weeks; another, that cost exactly half, carried me a year-and-a-half. The commission was very critical in its selection, and Muhamed Isa inspected every four-legged candidate before it was accepted. As a rule we did not hesitate to take horses ten or twelve years old; the tried horses were more reliable than the younger ones, though these often appeared much more powerful. But not one of them all was to return from Tibet; the lofty mountains let none of their prey escape. “Morituri te salutant,” said Captain Patterson forebodingly, as the first caravan passed out of Leh.

The caravan, then, consisted of 36 mules and 58 horses. It is always hard at the last to make up one’s mind to start; after a few days we should find ourselves in country where we could procure nothing but what grows of itself on the ground. Certainly we were in the very best season; the summer grass was now in the greatest luxuriance, but it would soon become more scanty, and in about ten days we should reach a height where there was no pasturage. Therefore it was necessary to take as much maize and barley as possible with us, and here a difficulty came in: we durst not overburden the animals with too heavy loads, for then the strength of the caravan would be broken in the first month, while, in the second month, it would come to grief if we should find ourselves, as was most probable, in a barren country. And as the days pass, the stores diminish and come to an end just when they are most wanted. In the first weeks we had the ascent to the border region of the Tibetan plateau before us, and had consequently to expect the most troublesome country to traverse just at the commencement of the journey. Therefore our first marches were short, and all the shorter because the loads were heavier. This is a pretty complicated problem for an army commissariat.

After consultation with Muhamed Isa I resolved to hire an auxiliary caravan of 30 horses from Tankse to accompany us for the first month and then return. Hence arose a financial problem. The men of Tankse asked 35 rupees a month for each horse, or 1050 rupees in all; of course they ran great risk, and I must therefore undertake to pay 30 rupees for every horse that fell on the outward journey, and 10 rupees for one that fell on the return home. In the worst case, then, the cost would amount to 1950 rupees. On the other hand, if I bought these horses at 60 rupees a head, the total expenditure would be 1800 rupees, and the horses would belong to me. Then the old problem was repeated: I should have to take fodder for these thirty horses, and engage ten men to attend to them, and for these men provisions must be obtained. After many pros and cons we at length decided to hire the horses only, for then their owners would accompany them at their own risk and supply themselves with rations carried by seven yaks. The provisions for the first month were to be taken from our own animals, to lighten their loads and economize their strength; for a horse or mule always gets tired at the beginning of the journey, and must be spared. But if one of the hired horses became exhausted, its owner was at liberty to send it home before the expiration of the month.

As forage and grazing was dear in Leh, we sent off as early as August 10, 35 mules and 15 horses with their loads, and 15 men and a chaprassi, to Muglib, which lies beyond Tankse and has good pastures. Sonam Tsering, whom Captain Rawling had strongly recommended, was chosen as leader of this caravan. He received 100 rupees for the expenses of the caravan. Muhamed Isa accompanied it part of the way to see that everything went on smoothly.

A few days after his engagement Muhamed Isa presented to me 25 men, who, he proposed, should enter my service. There was no difficulty in finding men willing to come; all Leh would have followed me if wanted. The difficulty was to make a proper choice, and appoint only serviceable men who could fill their posts and understood their duties.

It was a solemn moment when the main body of the caravan assembled in my garden, but the spectacle had its humorous side when Muhamed Isa, proud as a world-conqueror, stepped forward and mustered his legions. At my request Captain Patterson was present to have a look at the fellows; he now delivered a short address, and impressed on them how important it was for their own sakes to serve me honestly. Their pay was fixed at 15 rupees a month, and half a year’s pay was advanced to them. The Rev. Mr. Peter was so kind as to undertake to distribute the money to their families. Lastly, I promised each a present of 50 rupees for good behaviour, and bound myself to guarantee their journey home to Leh, with expenses, from whatever place we might separate.

In the course of my narrative I shall have abundant opportunities of introducing these men individually to my readers. Besides Sonam Tsering, already mentioned, who had served under Deasy and Rawling, I will here name old Guffaru, a greyheaded man with a long white beard, who thirty-three years ago accompanied Forsyth’s embassy to Jakub Bek of Kashgar. He had seen the great Bedaulet (“the fortunate one”) in all his pomp and state, and had many tales of his experiences on Forsyth’s famous journey. I at first hesitated to take with me a man of sixty-two, but he begged so earnestly; he was, he said, Muhamed Isa’s friend, and he was so poor that he could not live if I did not employ him. He had the forethought to pack up a shroud that he might be buried decently if he died on the way. That everything should be properly managed in such case, and that his outstanding pay might be transmitted to his family, he took his son, Kurban, with him. But Guffaru did not perish, but was in excellent condition all the time he was with me (Illustration 31).

Another, on whom I look back with great sympathy and friendly feeling, was Shukkur Ali. I had known him in 1890 in Kashgar, where he was in Younghusband’s service, and he, too, remembered that I had once drawn him in his master’s tent. He was so unconsciously comical that one almost died of laughter as soon as he opened his mouth, and he was my oldest acquaintance among this group of more or less experienced Asiatics. He had taken part in Wellby’s journey, and gave us the most ghastly descriptions of the sufferings the captain, who afterwards fell in the Boer War, and his caravan had to endure in North Tibet, when all the provisions were consumed and all the animals had perished. A year later he shared in my boating trips on the holy lake, Manasarowar, and was as useful as he was amusing. Shukkur Ali was an honest soul, and a stout fellow, who did his work without being told, quarrelled with no one, and was ready and willing for any kind of service. He was always in the highest spirits, even during a violent storm in the middle of the lake, and I saw him weep like a child on two occasions only—at the grave of Muhamed Isa, and when we said the last good-bye.

These three were Mohammedans, as their names show. The caravan contained eight sons of Islam in all; the leader, Muhamed Isa, was the ninth. The other seventeen were Lamaists. Then came two Hindus, a Catholic, Manuel, and two Protestants, Robert and myself. I will not vouch for the religious convictions of the Lamaists. As regards some among them, I found that they sometimes changed their religion. For instance, Rabsang, when he travelled to Yarkand, was a Mohammedan and shaved his head, but on the way to Tibet he was just as zealous a believer in Lamaism.

The oldest of my companions was Guffaru, sixty-two, and the youngest Adul, twenty-two, and the average age of the whole company was thirty-three years. Eleven of these men came from Leh, the others from different villages of Ladak. Only one was a foreigner, the Gurkha Rub Das from the frontier of Nepal. He was quiet and faithful, and one of my very best men. It was a pity he had no nose; in a hot scuffle in Lhasa an opponent had bitten off that important and ornamental organ.

I may pass quickly over the equipment; it is always the same. For the men rice, flour, talkan, or roasted meal, which is eaten mixed with water, and brick tea in bulk were taken. For myself several hundred tins of preserved meat, tea, sugar, tobacco, etc., all provided by the merchant Mohanlal, whose bill came to 1700 rupees. New pack-saddles, ropes, frieze rugs, horse-shoes, spades, axes and crowbars, bellows, cooking-pots, copper cans, and the cooking utensils of the men with other articles cost nearly a thousand rupees. The pack-saddles we had bought in Srinagar were so bad that we had to have new ones made, and Muhamed Isa enlisted some twenty saddlers, who sewed all day under the trees of the garden. But everything was ready in time and was of first-rate quality. Captain Patterson declared that a better-found caravan had never left Leh. How stupid I had been to linger so long in Srinagar and associate with the lazy gentlemen of the Maharaja. Everything that came from there was either exorbitantly dear or useless. Only the mules were good. Yet I always remember my sojourn in Srinagar with feelings of great thankfulness and pleasure.

The Moravian missionaries in Leh rendered me invaluable service. They received me with the same hospitality and kindness as before, and I passed many a memorable hour in their pleasant domestic circle. Pastor Peter had endless worries over my affairs; he managed both now and afterwards all the business with the new retainers. Dr. Shawe, the physician of the Mission, was an old friend I had known on my former journey, when he treated my sick cossack, Shagdur, in the excellent Mission Hospital. Now, too, he helped me both by word and deed. He died in Leh a year later, after a life devoted to suffering humanity.

Many of my dearest recollections of the long years I have spent in Asia are connected with the Mission stations, and the more I get to know about the missionaries the more I admire their quiet, unceasing, and often thankless labours. All the Moravians I met in the western Himalayas are educated to a very high standard, and come out exceptionally well prepared for the work before them. Therefore it is always very stimulating and highly instructive to tarry among them, and there is none among the Europeans now living who can vie with these missionaries in their knowledge of the Ladak people and their history. I need only mention Dr. Karl Marx and Pastor A. H. Francke as two men who are thoroughly at home in strictly scientific archæological investigation.

Some young coxcombs, to whom nothing is sacred, and whose upper storeys are not nearly so well furnished as those of the missionaries, think it good form to treat the latter with contemptuous superiority, to find fault with them, to sit in judgment on them, and pass sentence on their work in the service of Christianity. Whatever may be the result of their thankless toil, an unselfish struggle for the sake of an honest conviction is always worthy of admiration, and in a time which abounds in opposing factors it seems a relief to meet occasionally men who are contending for the victory of light over the world. In Leh the missionaries have a community which they treat with great gentleness and piety, for they know well that the religion inherited from their fathers has sunk deep into the bone and marrow of the natives, and can only be overcome by cautious, patient labour. Even the Ladakis who never visit the Mission stations always speak well of the missionaries, and have a blind confidence in them, for apart from their Mission work they exercise an effect by their good example. The Hospital is made great use of, and medical science is a sure way of access to the hearts of the natives.

During the last days of my stay in Leh I saw my old friends again, Mr. and Mrs. Ribbach, in whose hospitable house I had spent many pleasant winter evenings four years ago.

One day Captain Patterson proposed that I should go with him to call on the wealthy merchant Hajji Nazer Shah. In a large room on the first floor, with a large window looking over the Indus valley, the old man sat by the wall, on soft cushions, with his sons and grandsons around him. All about stood chests full of silver and gold-dust, turquoise and coral, materials and goods which would be sold in Tibet. There is something impressively patriarchal about Hajji Nazer Shah’s commercial house, which is managed entirely by himself and his large family. This consists of about a hundred members, and the various branches of the house in Lhasa, Shigatse, Gartok, Yarkand, and Srinagar are all under the control of his sons, or their sons. Three hundred years ago the family migrated from Kashmir to Ladak. Hajji Nazer Shah is the youngest of three brothers; the other two were Hajji Haidar Shah and Omar Shah, who died some years ago leaving numerous sons behind them.

The real source of their wealth is the so-called Lopchak mission, of which they possess a monopoly. In accordance with a treaty nearly 200 years old, the kings of Ladak sent every third year a special mission to the Dalai Lama, to convey presents which were a token of subjection to the supremacy of Tibet, at any rate in spiritual matters. However, after Soravar Sing, Gulab Sing’s general, conquered Ladak in 1841 and annexed the greater part of this country to Kashmir, the Maharaja of Kashmir took over the duty of carrying out the Lopchak mission, and always entrusted it to one of the noblest, most prominent families of Ladak. For some fifty years this confidential post has been in the family of Nazer Shah, and has been a source of great profit to them, especially as several hundred baggage animals are provided for the mission gratis, for the journey from Leh to Lhasa. A commercial agent is also sent yearly from Lhasa to Leh, and he enjoys the same transport privileges.

The mission had left eight months before under the charge of one of the Hajji’s sons. Another son, Gulam Razul, was to repair in September to Gartok, where he is the most important man in the fair. I asked him jokingly if I might travel with him, but Hajji Nazer Shah replied that he would lose the monopoly if he smuggled Europeans into Tibet. Gulam Razul, however, offered me his services in case I should be in the neighbourhood of Gartok, and I afterwards found that this was not a mere polite speech. He will play a most important part in this narrative. After my return to India I had an opportunity of drawing attention in high quarters to the importance to English interests of his commercial relations in Tibet, and I warmly recommended him as a suitable candidate for the much-coveted title of Khan Bahadur, which he, indeed, received, thanks to the kind advocacy of Colonel Dunlop Smith.

Now, too, he rendered me many valuable services; perhaps the greatest was to take a considerable sum in Indian paper in exchange for cash, part of which consisted of a couple of bags of Tibetan tengas, which proved very useful four months later.

The old Hajji was a fine Mohammedan of the noblest type. He obeyed faithfully the commands of the Koran, and five times daily tottered into the mosque to perform his devotions. He had more than enough of the good things of this world, for his extensive business connections brought him in yearly a net profit of 25,000 rupees, and his name was known and respected throughout the interior of Asia. Before my return he had left the stage and taken possession of his place, with his face turned towards Mecca, in the Mohammedan graveyard outside the gate of Leh.

The small town itself is full of the most attractive and fascinating examples of Tibetan architecture. On all sides are seen quiet nooks with motley figures, temple portals, mosques, houses rising one above another, and open shops, whither customers flock; and the traffic became brisker every day after the summer caravans from Yarkand over the Kardang Pass began to arrive at Leh. Round the town stands a crescent of bare, lumpy, sun-lighted hills; to the south and south-east the dry gravelly plain slopes down to the Indus, where a series of villages among green fields and woods impart some life to the picture. On the farther side is seen the Stokpa, a lofty summit, below which the village Stokpa peeps out of a valley mouth. Here resides an ex-king of the third generation, the Raja of Stok, whose grandfather ruled as king of Ladak but was deprived by Soravar Sing of his dignity and State.

The Raja of Stok, or, to give him his full name and title, Yigmet Kungak Singhei Lundup Thinlis Zangbo Sodnam Nampar Gelvela, Yagirdar of the state of Stok, awakes one’s sympathy in his somewhat sad position; he is evidently painfully sensitive of the loss of the honour and power which fate has denied him. He was on a visit to Leh, for he owns an unpretending but pretty house in the main street. The Tibetans still look upon him as the true and rightful king, while the ruler of the country, the Maharaja of Kashmir, is only a usurper in their eyes. We therefore concluded that a letter of recommendation from this Raja of Stok might be very useful some day or other. He was evidently flattered by my request and quite ready to grant it. In his open letter he ordered “all men in Tibet of whatever rank, from Rudok, Gartok, and Rundor to Shigatse and Gyantse, to allow Sahib Hedin to pass freely and unmolested, and to render him all necessary assistance.” This highly important document, with the date and the red square seal of the Raja affixed, was afterwards read by many Tibetan chieftains, on whom it made not the slightest impression. They quietly answered: “We have only to obey the orders of the Devashung in Lhasa.” (Illustration 32.)

The old palace of Leh stands on its rock like a gigantic monument of vanished greatness. From its roof one has a grand view of the town, the Indus valley, and the great mountains beyond the river. In the foreground stretch fields of wheat and barley, still staringly green amidst the general grey, small groups of garden trees, groves of poplar, farm-houses, and small knobly ridges, while the dreary Mohammedan graveyard stands out sharply and obtrusively in the evening sunshine. Immediately below us lies a chaos of quadrangular houses of stone or mud, with wooden balconies and verandahs, interrupted only by the main street and the lanes branching out of it. On the point of a rock to the east is seen a monastery, for which a lama gave the name of Semo-gungma. Semo-yogma stands in the palace itself. The temple hall here is called Diva, and the two principal images Guru and Sakya-tubpa, that is, Buddha. The portal of the palace with its pillars has a very picturesque effect. Through this portal you enter a long, dark, paved entrance and then pass up a stone staircase and through gloomy passages and corridors, with small offshoots running up to balcony windows; in the interior, however, you roam about through halls all equally dark. No one dwells now in this phantom castle, which fancy might easily make the scene of the most extravagant ghost stories. Only pigeons, which remain for ever young among the old time-worn monuments, coo out their contentment and cheerfulness (Illustrations 28, 29, 33, 34).

Still the palace, in spite of its decay, looks down with royal pride on the town far below, with its industry and commercial activity, and on this central point on the road between Turkestan and India. The wind sweeps freely over its roof, its flat terraces, and breastwork with prayer strips flapping and beating against their sticks. A labyrinth of steep lanes lead up to it. Wherever one turns, the eye falls on some picturesque bit: whole rows of chhortens, one of which is vaulted over the road, small temples and Lama houses, huts and walls.

On the hill behind Captain Patterson’s bungalow lies a burial-ground with the graves of five Europeans: the names Stolicza and Dalgleish especially attract our attention. Over Stolicza’s grave a grand monument has been erected. The inscription on a tablet in front informs us that he was born in June 1838 and died in June 1874 at Murgoo, near the Karakorum Pass. The Indian Government erected the memorial in 1876 as a mark of respect and gratitude for the service which Stolicza had rendered during the journey of Forsyth’s embassy. The same inscription is repeated on the other side in Latin. Dalgleish’s tombstone is simpler, but is also adorned with a tablet of cast-iron. He was born in 1853 and was murdered on the Karakorum Pass in 1888. Both terminated their life pilgrimage in the same country high above the rest of the world, and both sleep their last sleep under the same poplars and willows. Now the evening sun gilded the mountain crests, reddish-yellow light fell on the graves and the trunks of the poplars, a gentle wind murmured softly through the tree-tops, and spoke in a melancholy whisper of the vanity of all things; and a short time later, when the lamps in the Government buildings had been lighted, champagne corks popped at the farewell dinner given by Captain Patterson to another pilgrim who had not yet ended his lonely wanderings through the wide wastes of Asia (Illustration 36).

CHAPTER V

THE START FOR TIBET

The time at Leh passed quickly, as we were working at high pressure, and the result of our efforts was a splendid caravan in excellent order for the march. Robert and Muhamed Isa seemed to be infected by my eagerness to start, for they worked from morning to night and saw that every one did his duty. I took leave of Captain Patterson, who had helped us in so many ways, and on August 13 the loads of the second great caravan stood in pairs in the outer yard, and had only to be lifted on to the pack-saddles of the horses.

Muhamed Isa started at four o’clock next morning, and I followed a few hours later with Robert and Manuel, four riding horses, and nine horses for our baggage. Hajji Nazer Shah and his sons, our numerous purveyors, the officials and pundits of the town, and many others, had assembled to see us off, and sent us on our way with kind wishes and endless “Salaams” and “Joles.”

A crowd of beggars escorted us along the main street, the merchant Mohanlal bowed to us from the steps of his house, and we passed through the gate of the town into the lanes of the suburbs. At the first turn the horse which carried my boxes of articles for daily use became tired of his burden and got rid of it at once. They were put on another horse, which seemed quieter and carried them as far as the Mohammedan burial-ground, when he, too, had enough of them, shied, broke loose, disappeared among some chhortens, and flung the boxes so violently to the ground that it was a marvel that they did not fly to pieces among the pebbles and blocks of stone. The jade got clear of all the ropes in a second, and galloped, with the pack-saddle dragging and dancing behind him, among the tombs in which the Mohammedans sleep. That the boxes might not be quite destroyed we hired a quiet horse for the day. This is always the way at first, before the animals have got used to their loads and pack-saddles. Here a couple of buckets rattle on the top of a load, there the handle of a yakdan, or, again, a pair of tent-poles jolt up and down and knock together at every step. The rest in the stable had made the horses nervous, the fragrant trusses of juicy clover had made them sleek and fat, strong, lively, and ready to dance along the road. Every horse had now to be led by a man, and at length we came to the open country, and our companions left us one after another, the last to say farewell being the excellent, noble-hearted Mr. Peter.

Then we went down from Leh past innumerable mani ringmos and through narrow gullies between small rocky ridges, and so drew near to the Indus again. A rocky promontory was passed, then another close to a branch of the river, and then Shey came in sight with its small monastery on a point of rock. The road runs through the village, over canals by miniature stone bridges, over grassy meads and ripening cornfields; here and there lies a swamp formed by overflowing irrigation water. To our left rise granitic rocks, their spurs and projections ground down and polished by wind and water.

After we had lost sight of the river and ridden through the village, where the people almost frightened our horses to death with their drums and pipes, we found ourselves in front of the monastery Tikze on a commanding rock, with the village Tikze and its fields and gardens at the foot. The tents were already pitched in a clump of willows. The highway and its canal ran past it, and here stood our mules and horses tethered in a long row before bundles of fresh grass. The puppies were released immediately; their basket was already too small for them; they grew visibly, could bite hard, and began already to guard my tent—barking furiously when they smelled anything suspicious.

Barely half an hour after the camp is set in order comes Manuel with my tea and cakes. He is rather sore after his day’s ride, and looks dreadfully solemn, dark-brown and shiny; he is darker than usual when he is cross. Robert is delighted with his horse, and I have every reason to be content with mine—a tall, strong, dapple-grey animal from Yarkand, which held out for four months and died on Christmas Eve. At Tikze we are much lower than at Leh, and then we begin to mount up again. The day had been very hot, and even at nine o’clock the thermometer stood at 70° F. Muhamed Isa is responsible for my twenty boxes; he has stacked them up in a round pile and covered them with a large tent, and here he has fixed his quarters with a few other chief Ladakis. Robert and Manuel have a tent in common; the kitchen, with its constantly smoking fire, is in the open air; and the rest of the men sleep outside (Illustration 39).

Now the new journey had begun in real earnest—we were on the way to the forbidden land! I had had to fight my way through a long succession of difficulties and hindrances before reaching this day. Batum was in open insurrection; in Asia Minor Sultan Abdul Hamid had provided me with a guard of six mounted men to protect me from robbers; in Teheran revolutionary tendencies were even then apparent; in Seistan the plague was raging fearfully; and in India I encountered the worst obstacle of all—an absolute prohibition to proceed into Tibet from that side. Then followed all the unnecessary complications in Srinagar and on the way to Leh, and the stupid affair of the Chinese passport which I did not need, but had so much trouble to obtain. Does not this remind one of the tale of the knight who had to overcome a lot of hideous monsters and hindrances before he reached the princess on the summit of the crystal mountain? But now at last I had left behind me all bureaucrats, politicians, and disturbers of the peace; now every day would take us farther and farther from the last telegraph station, Leh, and then we could enjoy complete freedom.

On August 15, exactly twenty-one years had elapsed since I started on my first journey in Asia. What would the next year bring? the culminating point of my career or a retrogression? Would opposition still continue, or would the Tibetans prove more friendly than Europeans? I knew not: the future lay before me as indistinct as the Indus valley, where dark masses of cloud swept over the mountains and the rain beat on the tent canvas. We let it rain, and rejoiced to think that, if the precipitation extended far over Tibet, the pasturage would be richer and the springs would flow more freely.

After a short march we come to the village Rambirpur, reconstructed thirty years ago, and to the right of the road the small monastery Stagna-gompa stands on a pinnacle of rock. On the left bank is seen the village Changa, and a little higher up the well-hidden, small, and narrow valley where the famous temple of Hemis lies concealed. Thunder rumbles over its mountains as though the gods stormed angrily on their altar platform.

At a corner where a small, shaky, wooden bridge spans the Indus, stand some more long mani ringmos; they are covered with well-cut stone flags, on which the letters are already overgrown by a weathered crust, and stand out dark against the lighter chiselled intervals. Former kings of Ladak caused them to be constructed as a salve to their consciences, and to gain credit in a future life. They are a substitute for the work of the Lamas; every one is at liberty to propitiate the divine powers by this means. Thus the monks acquire a revenue, and every one, travellers and caravans included, rejoices at the pious act, while the stone slabs speak in their silent language of bad consciences and manifold sins, in rain and sunshine, by day and night, in cold and heat.

Now we leave the Indus for good and all. “Farewell, thou proud stream, rich in historical memories. Though it costs me my life I will find some day thy source over yonder in the forbidden land,” I thought, as, accompanied by jamadars and chaprassis of the Kashmir state and some of my men, I turned the rocky corner into the side valley through which the road runs up past the monasteries Karu and Chimre to the Chang-la Pass. The road now becomes worse; every day’s journey it deteriorates, sometimes changing into an almost imperceptible footpath, and at last it disappears altogether. The great road to Lhasa along the Indus and to Gartok was closed to us.

Our company makes a grand show; a sheep is killed every evening, and the pots boil over the fires in the centre of the various groups which have combined into messes. I make no attempt to learn the names of my new servants; coolies and villagers are always moving about among them, coming and going, and I scarcely know which are my own men. It must be so in the meantime; the time will soon come for me to know them better, when all outside elements are removed. A melancholy air is heard in the darkness; it is the night watchmen who sing to keep themselves awake.

At Chimre we are at a height of 11,978 feet, and we ascend all the day’s journey to Singrul, where we find ourselves 16,070 feet above sea-level. The road keeps for the most part to the stony barren slopes on the left side of the valley, while the brook flows nearer to the right side, where bright green fields appropriate so much of its water that little is left to flow out of the valley. A path to Nubra follows a side valley on the right. In Sakti we wander in a labyrinth of narrow passages and alleys between huts and chhortens, boulders and walls, mani ringmos and terraces which support cultivated patches laid out in horizontal steps. Above us is seen the Chang-la, and we are quite giddy at the sight of the road that ascends to it with a tremendously steep gradient (Illustration 42).

Tagar is the last village before the pass; here I had halted twice before. Its wheat-fields extend a little distance further up the valley and then contract to a wedge-shaped point, continued by a narrow winding strip of grass along the central channel of the valley bottom. The sections of the caravan climb higher and higher, some are already at the goal, and we have overtaken the hindermost. The path runs up steeply between huge blocks of grey granite, so that our Ladakis have to take care that the boxes do not get banged.