XML FeedsTHE UNKNOWN LIFE OF JESUS CHRIST
Nicolas Notovitch
Translated by J. H. Connelly and L. Landsberg
 |
Project Gutenberg, The Unknown Life of Jesus Christ by Nicolas Notovitch
One day, while visiting a Buddhist convent on my route, I learned from a chief lama, that there existed in the archives of Lhassa, very ancient memoirs relating to the life of Jesus Christ and the occidental nations, and that certain great monasteries possessed old copies and translations of those chronicles.
Preface
After the Turkish War (1877-1878) I made a series of travels in the Orient. From the little remarkable Balkan peninsula, I went across the Caucasus to Central Asia and Persia, and finally, in 1887, visited India, an admirable country which had attracted me from my earliest childhood.
My purpose in this journey was to study and know, at home, the peoples who inhabit India and their customs, the grand and mysterious archæology, and the colossal and majestic nature of their country. Wandering about without fixed plans, from one place to another, I came to mountainous Afghanistan, whence I regained India by way of the picturesque passes of Bolan and Guernaï. Then, going up the Indus to Raval Pindi, I ran over the Pendjab--the land of the five rivers; visited the Golden Temple of Amritsa--the tomb of the King of Pendjab, Randjid Singh, near Lahore; and turned toward Kachmyr, "The Valley of Eternal Bliss." Thence I directed my peregrinations as my curiosity impelled me, until I arrived in Ladak, whence I intended returning to Russia by way of Karakoroum and Chinese Turkestan.
One day, while visiting a Buddhist convent on my route, I learned from a chief lama, that there existed in the archives of Lhassa, very ancient memoirs relating to the life of Jesus Christ and the occidental nations, and that certain great monasteries possessed old copies and translations of those chronicles.
As it was little probable that I should make another journey into this country, I resolved to put off my return to Europe until a later date, and, cost what it might, either find those copies in the great convents or go to Lhassa--a journey which is far from being so dangerous and difficult as is generally supposed, involving only such perils as I was already accustomed to, and which would not make me hesitate at attempting it.
During my sojourn at Leh, capital of Ladak, I visited the great convent Himis, situated near the city, the chief lama of which informed me that their monastic library contained copies of the manuscripts in question. In order that I might not awaken the suspicions of the authorities concerning the object of my visit to the cloister, and to evade obstacles which might be opposed to me as a Russian, prosecuting further my journey in Thibet, I gave out upon my return to Leh that I would depart for India, and so left the capital of Ladak. An unfortunate fall, causing the breaking of a leg, furnished me with an absolutely unexpected pretext for returning to the monastery, where I received surgical attention. I took advantage of my short sojourn among the lamas to obtain the consent of their chief that they should bring to me, from their library, the manuscripts relating to Jesus Christ, and, assisted by my interpreter, who translated for me the Thibetan language, transferred carefully to my notebook what the lama read to me.
Not doubting at all the authenticity of this chronicle, edited with great exactitude by the Brahminic, and more especially the Buddhistic historians of India and Nepaul, I desired, upon my return to Europe, to publish a translation of it. To this end, I addressed myself to several universally known ecclesiastics, asking them to revise my notes and tell me what they thought of them.
Mgr. Platon, the celebrated metropolitan of Kiew, thought that my discovery was of great importance. Nevertheless, he sought to dissuade me from publishing the memoirs, believing that their publication could only hurt me. "Why?" This the venerable prelate refused to tell me more explicitly. Nevertheless, since our conversation took place in Russia, where the censor would have put his veto upon such a work, I made up my mind to wait.
A year later, I found myself in Rome. I showed my manuscript to a cardinal very near to the Holy Father, who answered me literally in these words:--"What good will it do to print this? Nobody will attach to it any great importance and you will create a number of enemies. But, you are still very young! If it is a question of money which concerns you, I can ask for you a reward for your notes, a sum which will repay your expenditures and recompense you for your loss of time." Of course, I refused.
In Paris I spoke of my project to Cardinal Rotelli, whose acquaintance I had made in Constantinople. He, too, was opposed to having my work printed, under the pretext that it would be premature. "The church," he added, "suffers already too much from the new current of atheistic ideas, and you will but give a new food to the calumniators and detractors of the evangelical doctrine. I tell you this in the interest of all the Christian churches."
Then I went to see M. Jules Simon. He found my matter very interesting and advised me to ask the opinion of M. Renan, as to the best way of publishing these memoirs. The next day I was seated in the cabinet of the great philosopher. At the close of our conversation, M. Renan proposed that I should confide to him the memoirs in question, so that he might make to the Academy a report upon the discovery. This proposition, as may be easily understood, was very alluring and flattering to my _amour propre_. I, however, took away with me the manuscript, under the pretext of further revising it. I foresaw that if I accepted the proposed combination, I would only have the honor of having found the chronicles, while the illustrious author of the "Life of Jesus" would have the glory of the publication and the commenting upon it. I thought myself sufficiently prepared to publish the translation of the chronicles, accompanying them with my notes, and, therefore, did not accept the very gracious offer he made to me. But, that I might not wound the susceptibility of the great master, for whom I felt a profound respect, I made up my mind to delay publication until after his death, a fatality which could not be far off, if I might judge from the apparent general weakness of M. Renan. A short time after M. Renan's death, I wrote to M. Jules Simon again for his advice. He answered me, that it was my affair to judge of the opportunity for making the memoirs public.
I therefore put my notes in order and now publish them, reserving the right to substantiate the authenticity of these chronicles. In my commentaries I proffer the arguments which must convince us of the sincerity and good faith of the Buddhist compilers. I wish to add that before criticising my communication, the societies of savans can, without much expense, equip a scientific expedition having for its mission the study of those manuscripts in the place where I discovered them, and so may easily verify their historic value.
The Unknown Life of Jesus Christ
Nicolas Notovitch
A Journey in Thibet
During my sojourn in India, I often had occasion to converse with the
Buddhists, and the accounts they gave me of Thibet excited my curiosity
to such an extent that I resolved to make a journey into that still
almost unknown country. For this purpose I set out upon a route crossing
Kachmyr (Cashmere), which I had long intended to visit.
On the 14th of October, 1887, I entered a railway car crowded with
soldiers, and went from Lahore to Raval-Pinidi, where I arrived the next
day, near noon. After resting a little and inspecting the city, to which
the permanent garrison gives the aspect of a military camp, I provided
myself with the necessaries for a journey, where horses take the place
of the railway cars. Assisted by my servant, a colored man of
Pondichery, I packed all my baggage, hired a tonga (a two-wheeled
vehicle which is drawn by two horses), stowed myself upon its back seat,
and set out upon the picturesque road leading to Kachmyr, an excellent
highway, upon which we travelled rapidly. We had to use no little skill
in making our way through the ranks of a military caravan--its baggage
carried upon camels--which was part of a detachment returning from a
country camp to the city. Soon we arrived at the end of the valley of
Pendjab, and climbing up a way with infinite windings, entered the
passes of the Himalayas. The ascent became more and more steep. Behind
us spread, like a beautiful panorama, the region we had just traversed,
which seemed to sink farther and farther away from us. As the sun's last
glances rested upon the tops of the mountains, our tonga came gaily out
from the zigzags which the eye could still trace far down the
forest-clad slope, and halted at the little city of Muré; where the
families of the English functionaries came to seek shade and
refreshment.
Ordinarily, one can go in a tonga from Muré to Srinagar; but at the
approach of the winter season, when all Europeans desert Kachmyr, the
tonga service is suspended. I undertook my journey precisely at the time
when the summer life begins to wane, and the Englishmen whom I met upon
the road, returning to India, were much astonished to see me, and made
vain efforts to divine the purpose of my travel to Kachmyr.
Abandoning the tonga, I hired saddle horses--not without considerable
difficulty--and evening had arrived when we started to descend from
Muré, which is at an altitude of 5,000 feet. This stage of our journey
had nothing playful in it. The road was torn in deep ruts by the late
rains, darkness came upon us and our horses rather guessed than saw
their way. When night had completely set in, a tempestuous rain
surprised us in the open country, and, owing to the thick foliage of the
centenarian oaks which stood on the sides of our road, we were plunged
in profound darkness. That we might not lose each other, we had to
continue exchanging calls from time to time. In this impenetrable
obscurity we divined huge masses of rock almost above our heads, and
were conscious of, on our left, a roaring torrent, the water of which
formed a cascade we could not see. During two hours we waded in the mud
and the icy rain had chilled my very marrow, when we perceived in the
distance a little fire, the sight of which revived our energies. But how
deceitful are lights in the mountains! You believe you see the fire
burning quite near to you and at once it disappears, to reappear again,
to the right, to the left, above, below you, as if it took pleasure in
playing tricks upon the harassed traveller. All the time the road makes
a thousand turns, and winds here and there, and the fire--which is
immovable--seems to be in continual motion, the obscurity preventing you
realizing that you yourself modify your direction every instant.
I had quite given up all hope of approaching this much-wished-for fire,
when it appeared again, and this time so near that our horses stopped
before it.
I have here to express my sincere thanks to the Englishmen for the
foresight of which they gave proof in building by the roadsides the
little bengalows--one-story houses for the shelter of travellers. It is
true, one must not demand comfort in this kind of hotel; but this is a
matter in which the traveller, broken down by fatigue, is not exacting,
and he is at the summit of happiness when he finds at his disposal a
clean and dry room.
The Hindus, no doubt, did not expect to see a traveller arrive at so
late an hour of the night and in this season, for they had taken away
the keys of the bengalow, so we had to force an entrance. I threw myself
upon a bed prepared for me, composed of a pillow and blanket saturated
with water, and almost at once fell asleep. At daybreak, after taking
tea and some conserves, we took up our march again, now bathed in the
burning rays of the sun. From time to time, we passed villages; the
first in a superb narrow pass, then along the road meandering in the
bosom of the mountain. We descended eventually to the river Djeloum
(Jhelum), the waters of which flow gracefully, amid the rocks by which
its course is obstructed, between rocky walls whose tops in many places
seem almost to reach the azure skies of the Himalayas, a heaven which
here shows itself remarkably pure and serene.
Toward noon we arrived at the hamlet called Tongue--situated on the bank
of the river--which presents an unique array of huts that give the
effect of boxes, the openings of which form a façade. Here are sold
comestibles and all kinds of merchandise. The place swarms with Hindus,
who bear on their foreheads the variously colored marks of their
respective castes. Here, too, you see the beautiful people of Kachmyr,
dressed in their long white shirts and snowy turbans. I hired here, at a
good price, a Hindu cabriolet, from a Kachmyrian. This vehicle is so
constructed that in order to keep one's seat in it, one must cross his
legs in the Turkish fashion. The seat is so small that it will hold, at
most, only two persons. The absence of any support for the back makes
this mode of transportation very dangerous; nevertheless, I accepted
this kind of circular table mounted on two wheels and drawn by a horse,
as I was anxious to reach, as soon as possible, the end of my journey.
Hardly, however, had I gone five hundred yards on it, when I seriously
regretted the horse I had forsaken, so much fatigue had I to endure
keeping my legs crossed and maintaining my equilibrium. Unfortunately,
it was already too late.
Evening was falling when I approached the village of Hori. Exhausted by
fatigue; racked by the incessant jolting; my legs feeling as if invaded
by millions of ants, I had been completely incapable of enjoying the
picturesque landscape spread before us as we journeyed along the
Djeloum, the banks of which are bordered on one side by steep rocks and
on the other by the heavily wooded slopes of the mountains. In Hori I
encountered a caravan of pilgrims returning from Mecca.
Thinking I was a physician and learning my haste to reach Ladak, they
invited me to join them, which I promised I would at Srinagar.
I spent an ill night, sitting up in my bed, with a lighted torch in my
hand, without closing my eyes, in constant fear of the stings and bites
of the scorpions and centipedes which swarm in the bengalows. I was
sometimes ashamed of the fear with which those vermin inspired me;
nevertheless, I could not fall asleep among them. Where, truly, in man,
is the line that separates courage from cowardice? I will not boast of
my bravery, but I am not a coward, yet the insurmountable fear with
which those malevolent little creatures thrilled me, drove sleep from my
eyelids, in spite of my extreme fatigue.
Our horses carried us into a flat valley, encircled by high mountains.
Bathed as I was in the rays of the sun, it did not take me long to fall
asleep in the saddle. A sudden sense of freshness penetrated and awoke
me. I saw that we had already begun climbing a mountain path, in the
midst of a dense forest, rifts in which occasionally opened to our
admiring gaze ravishing vistas, impetuous torrents; distant mountains;
cloudless heavens; a landscape, far below, of wondrous beauty. All about
us were the songs of numberless brilliantly plumaged birds. We came out
of the forest toward noon, descended to a little hamlet on the bank of
the river, and after refreshing ourselves with a light, cold collation,
continued our journey. Before starting, I went to a bazaar and tried to
buy there a glass of warm milk from a Hindu, who was sitting crouched
before a large cauldron full of boiling milk. How great was my surprise
when he proposed to me that I should take away the whole cauldron, with
its contents, assuring me that I had polluted the milk it contained! "I
only want a glass of milk and not a kettle of it," I said to him.
"According to our laws," the merchant answered me, "if any one not
belonging to our caste has fixed his eyes for a long time upon one of
our cooking utensils, we have to wash that article thoroughly, and throw
away the food it contains. You have polluted my milk and no one will
drink any more of it, for not only were you not contented with fixing
your eyes upon it, but you have even pointed to it with your finger."
I had indeed a long time examined his merchandise, to make sure that it
was really milk, and had pointed with my finger, to the merchant, from
which side I wished the milk poured out. Full of respect for the laws
and customs of foreign peoples, I paid, without dispute, a rupee, the
price of all the milk, which was poured in the street, though I had
taken only one glass of it. This was a lesson which taught me, from now
on, not to fix my eyes upon the food of the Hindus.
There is no religious belief more muddled by the numbers of ceremonious
laws and commentaries prescribing its observances than the Brahminic.
While each of the other principal religions has but one inspired book,
one Bible, one Gospel, or one Koran--books from which the Hebrew, the
Christian and the Musselman draw their creeds--the Brahminical Hindus
possess such a great number of tomes and commentaries in folio that the
wisest Brahmin has hardly had the time to peruse one-tenth of them.
Leaving aside the four books of the Vedas; the Puranas--which are
written in Sanscrit and composed of eighteen volumes--containing 400,000
strophes treating of law, rights, theogony, medicine, the creation and
destruction of the world, etc.; the vast Shastras, which deal with
mathematics, grammar, etc.; the Upa-Vedas, Upanishads, Upo-Puranas--which
are explanatory of the Puranas;--and a number of other commentaries in
several volumes; there still remain twelve vast books, containing the
laws of Manu, the grandchild of Brahma--books dealing not only with
civil and criminal law, but also the canonical rules--rules which
impose upon the faithful such a considerable number of ceremonies that
one is surprised into admiration of the illimitable patience the
Hindus show in observance of the precepts inculcated by Saint Manu.
Manu was incontestably a great legislator and a great thinker, but
he has written so much that it has happened to him frequently to
contradict himself in the course of a single page. The Brahmins do
not take the trouble to notice that, and the poor Hindus, whose
labor supports the Brahminic caste, obey servilely their clergy,
whose prescriptions enjoin upon them never to touch a man who does not
belong to their caste, and also absolutely prohibit a stranger from
fixing his attention upon anything belonging to a Hindu. Keeping himself
to the strict letter of this law, the Hindu imagines that his food is
polluted when it receives a little protracted notice from the stranger.
And yet, Brahminism has been, even at the beginning of its second birth,
a purely monotheistic religion, recognizing only one infinite and
indivisible God. As it came to pass in all times and in religions, the
clergy took advantage of the privileged situation which places them
above the ignorant multitude, and early manufactured various exterior
forms of cult and certain laws, thinking they could better, in this way,
influence and control the masses. Things changed soon, so far that the
principle of monotheism, of which the Vedas have given such a clear
conception, became confounded with, or, as it were, supplanted by an
absurd and limitless series of gods and goddesses, half-gods, genii and
devils, which were represented by idols, of infinite variety but all
equally horrible looking. The people, once glorious as their religion
was once great and pure, now slip by degrees into complete idiocy.
Hardly does their day suffice for the accomplishment of all the
prescriptions of their canons. It must be said positively that the
Hindus only exist to support their principal caste, the Brahmins, who
have taken into their hands the temporal power which once was possessed
by independent sovereigns of the people. While governing India, the
Englishman does not interfere with this phase of the public life, and so
the Brahmins profit by maintaining the people's hope of a better future.
The sun passed behind the summit of a mountain, and the darkness of
night in one moment overspread the magnificent landscape we were
traversing. Soon the narrow valley of the Djeloum fell asleep. Our road
winding along ledges of steep rocks, was instantly hidden from our
sight; mountains and trees were confounded together in one dark mass,
and the stars glittered in the celestial vault. We had to dismount and
feel our way along the mountain side, for fear of becoming the prey of
the abyss which yawned at our feet. At a late hour of the night we
traversed a bridge and ascended a steep elevation leading to the
bengalow Ouri, which at this height seems to enjoy complete isolation.
The next day we traversed a charming region, always going along the
river--at a turn of which we saw the ruins of a Sikh fortress, that
seemed to remember sadly its glorious past. In a little valley, nestled
amid the mountains, we found a bengalow which seemed to welcome us. In
its proximity were encamped a cavalry regiment of the Maharajah of
Kachmyr.
When the officers learned that I was a Russian, they invited me to share
their repast. There I had the pleasure of making the acquaintance of
Col. Brown, who was the first to compile a dictionary of the
Afghan-pouchton language.
As I was anxious to reach, as soon as possible, the city of Srinagar, I,
with little delay, continued my journey through the picturesque region
lying at the foot of the mountains, after having, for a long time,
followed the course of the river. Here, before our eyes, weary of the
monotonous desolation of the preceding landscapes, was unfolded a
charming view of a well-peopled valley, with many two-story houses
surrounded by gardens and cultivated fields. A little farther on begins
the celebrated valley of Kachmyr, situated behind a range of high rocks
which I crossed toward evening. What a superb panorama revealed itself
before my eyes, when I found myself at the last rock which separates the
valley of Kachmyr from the mountainous country I had traversed. A
ravishing tableau truly enchanted my sight. This valley, the limits of
which are lost in the horizon, and is throughout well populated, is
enshrined amid the high Himalayan mountains. At the rising and the
setting of the sun, the zone of eternal snows seems a silver ring, which
like a girdle surrounds this rich and delightful plateau, furrowed by
numerous rivers and traversed by excellent roads, gardens, hills, a
lake, the islands in which are occupied by constructions of pretentious
style, all these cause the traveller to feel as if he had entered
another world. It seems to him as though he had to go but a little
farther on and there must find the Paradise of which his governess had
told him so often in his childhood.
The veil of night slowly covered the valley, merging mountains, gardens
and lake in one dark amplitude, pierced here and there by distant fires,
resembling stars. I descended into the valley, directing myself toward
the Djeloum, which has broken its way through a narrow gorge in the
mountains, to unite itself with the waters of the river Ind. According
to the legend, the valley was once an inland sea; a passage opened
through the rocks environing it, and drained the waters away, leaving
nothing more of its former character than the lake, the Djeloum and
minor water-courses. The banks of the river are now lined with
boat-houses, long and narrow, which the proprietors, with their
families, inhabit the whole year.
From here Srinagar can be reached in one day's travel on horseback; but
with a boat the journey requires a day and a half. I chose the latter
mode of conveyance, and having selected a boat and bargained with its
proprietor for its hire, took my seat in the bow, upon a carpet,
sheltered by a sort of penthouse roof. The boat left the shore at
midnight, bearing us rapidly toward Srinagar. At the stern of the bark,
a Hindu prepared my tea. I went to sleep, happy in knowing my voyage was
to be accomplished. The hot caress of the sun's rays penetrating my
little roof awakened me, and what I experienced delighted me beyond all
expression. Entirely green banks; the distant outlines of mountain tops
covered with snow; pretty villages which from time to time showed
themselves at the mountain's foot; the crystalline sheet of water; pure
and peculiarly agreeable air, which I breathed with exhilaration; the
musical carols of an infinity of birds; a sky of extraordinary purity;
behind me the plash of water stirred by the round-ended paddle which was
wielded with ease by a superb woman (with marvellous eyes and a
complexion browned by the sun), who wore an air of stately indifference:
all these things together seemed to plunge me into an ecstasy, and I
forgot entirely the reason for my presence on the river. In that moment
I had not even a desire to reach the end of my voyage--and yet, how many
privations remained for me to undergo, and dangers to encounter! I felt
myself here so well content!
The boat glided rapidly and the landscape continued to unfold new
beauties before my eyes, losing itself in ever new combinations with the
horizon, which merged into the mountains we were passing, to become one
with them. Then a new panorama would display itself, seeming to expand
and flow out from the sides of the mountains, becoming more and more
grand.... The day was almost spent and I was not yet weary of
contemplating this magnificent nature, the view of which reawakened the
souvenirs of childhood and youth. How beautiful were those days forever
gone!
The more nearly one approaches Srinagar, the more numerous become the
villages embowered in the verdure. At the approach of our boat, some of
their inhabitants came running to see us; the men in their turbans, the
women in their small bonnets, both alike dressed in white gowns reaching
to the ground, the children in a state of nudity which reminded one of
the costumes of our first parents.
When entering the city one sees a range of barks and floating houses in
which entire families reside. The tops of the far-off, snow-covered
mountains were caressed by the last rays of the setting sun, when we
glided between the wooden houses of Srinagar, which closely line both
banks of the river. Life seems to cease here at sunset; the thousands of
many colored open boats (dunga) and palanquin-covered barks (bangla)
were fastened along the beach; men and women gathered near the river, in
the primitive costumes of Adam and Eve, going through their evening
ablutions without feeling any embarrassment or prudery before each
other, since they performed a religious rite, the importance of which is
greater for them than all human prejudices.
On the 20^th of October I awoke in a neat room, from which I had a gay
view upon the river that was now inundated with the rays of the sun of
Kachmyr. As it is not my purpose to describe here my experiences in
detail, I refrain from enumerating the lovely valleys, the paradise of
lakes, the enchanting islands, those historic places, mysterious
pagodas, and coquettish villages which seem lost in vast gardens; on all
sides of which rise the majestic tops of the giants of the Himalaya,
shrouded as far as the eye can see in eternal snow. I shall only note
the preparations I made in view of my journey toward Thibet. I spent six
days at Srinagar, making long excursions into the enchanting
surroundings of the city, examining the numerous ruins which testify to
the ancient prosperity of this region, and studying the strange customs
of the country.
* * * * *
Kachmyr, as well as the other provinces attached to it, Baltistan,
Ladak, etc., are vassals of England. They formerly formed part of the
possessions of Randjid Sing, the Lion of the Pendjab. At his death, the
English troops occupied Lahore, the capital of the Pendjab, separated
Kachmyr from the rest of the empire and ceded it, under color of
hereditary right, and for the sum of 160,000,000 francs, to Goulab-Sing,
one of the familiars of the late sovereign, conferring on him besides
the title of Maharadja. At the epoch of my journey, the actual Maharadja
was Pertab-Sing, the grandchild of Goulab, whose residence is Jamoo, on
the southern slope of the Himalaya.
The celebrated "happy valley" of Kachmyr (eighty-five miles long by
twenty-five miles wide) enjoyed glory and prosperity only under the
Grand Mogul, whose court loved to taste here the sweetness of country
life, in the still existent pavilions on the little island of the lake.
Most of the Maharadjas of Hindustan used formerly to spend here the
summer months, and to take part in the magnificent festivals given by
the Grand Mogul; but times have greatly changed since, and the happy
valley is today no more than a beggar retreat. Aquatic plants and scum
have covered the clear waters of the lake; the wild juniper has
smothered all the vegetation of the islands; the palaces and pavilions
retain only the souvenir of their past grandeur; earth and grass cover
the buildings which are now falling in ruins. The surrounding mountains
and their eternally white tops seem to be absorbed in a sullen sadness,
and to nourish the hope of a better time for the disclosure of their
immortal beauties. The once spiritual, beautiful and cleanly inhabitants
have grown animalistic and stupid; they have become dirty and lazy; and
the whip now governs them, instead of the sword.
The people of Kachmyr have so often been subject to invasions and
pillages and have had so many masters, that they have now become
indifferent to every thing. They pass their time near the banks of the
rivers, gossiping about their neighbors; or are engaged in the
painstaking work of making their celebrated shawls; or in the execution
of filagree gold or silver work. The Kachmyr women are of a melancholy
temperament, and an inconceivable sadness is spread upon their features.
Everywhere reigns misery and uncleanness. The beautiful men and superb
women of Kachmyr are dirty and in rags. The costume of the two sexes
consists, winter and summer alike, of a long shirt, or gown, made of
thick material and with puffed sleeves. They wear this shirt until it is
completely worn out, and never is it washed, so that the white turban of
the men looks like dazzling snow near their dirty shirts, which are
covered all over with spittle and grease stains.
The traveller feels himself permeated with sadness at seeing the
contrast between the rich and opulent nature surrounding them, and this
people dressed in rags.
The capital of the country, Srinagar (City of the Sun), or, to call it
by the name which is given to it here after the country, Kachmyr, is
situated on the shore of the Djeloum, along which it stretches out
toward the south to a distance of five kilometres and is not more than
two kilometres in breadth.
Its two-story houses, inhabited by a population of 100,000 inhabitants,
are built of wood and border both river banks. Everybody lives on the
river, the shores of which are united by ten bridges. Terraces lead from
the houses to the Djeloum, where all day long people perform their
ceremonial ablutions, bathe and wash their culinary utensils, which
consist of a few copper pots. Part of the inhabitants practice the
Musselman religion; two-thirds are Brahminic; and there are but few
Buddhists to be found among them.
It was time to make other preparations for travel before plunging into
the unknown. Having purchased different kinds of conserves, wine and
other things indispensable on a journey through a country so little
peopled as is Thibet, I packed all my baggage in boxes; hired six
carriers and an interpreter, bought a horse for my own use, and fixed my
departure for the 27^th of October. To cheer up my journey, I took from
a good Frenchman, M. Peicheau, the wine cultivator of the Maharadja, a
big dog, Pamir, who had already traversed the road with my friends,
Bonvallot, Capus and Pepin, the well-known explorers. As I wished to
shorten my journey by two days, I ordered my carriers to leave at dawn
from the other side of the lake, which I crossed in a boat, and joined
them and my horse at the foot of the mountain chain which separates the
valley of Srinagar from the Sind gorge.
I shall never forget the tortures which we had to undergo in climbing
almost on all fours to a mountain top, three thousand feet high. The
carriers were out of breath; every moment I feared to see one tumble
down the declivity with his burden, and I felt pained at seeing my poor
dog, Pamir, panting and with his tongue hanging out, make two or three
steps and fall to the ground exhausted. Forgetting my own fatigue, I
caressed and encouraged the poor animal, who, as if understanding me,
got up to make another two or three steps and fall anew to the ground.
The night had come when we reached the crest; we threw ourselves
greedily upon the snow to quench our thirst; and after a short rest,
started to descend through a very thick pine forest, hastening to gain
the village of Haïena, at the foot of the defile, fearing the attacks of
beasts of prey in the darkness.
A level and good road leads from Srinagar to Haïena, going straight
northward over Ganderbal, where I repaired by a more direct route across
a pass three thousand feet high, which shortened for me both time and
distance.
My first step in the unknown was marked by an incident which made all of
us pass an ugly quarter of an hour. The defile of the Sind, sixty miles
long, is especially noteworthy for the inhospitable hosts it contains.
Among others it abounds in panthers, tigers, leopards, black bears,
wolves and jackals. As though by a special misfortune, the snow had
covered with its white carpet the heights of the chain, compelling those
formidable, carnivorous beasts to descend a little lower for shelter in
their dens. We descended in silence, amid the darkness, a narrow path
that wound through the centennary firs and birches, and the calm of the
night was only broken by the crackling sound of our steps. Suddenly,
quite near to us, a terrible howling awoke the echoes of the woods. Our
small troop stopped. "A panther!" exclaimed, in a low and frightened
voice, my servant. The small caravan of a dozen men stood motionless, as
though riveted to the spot. Then it occurred to me that at the moment of
starting on our ascent, when already feeling fatigued, I had entrusted
my revolver to one of the carriers, and my Winchester rifle to another.
Now I felt bitter regret for having parted with my arms, and asked in a
low voice where the man was to whom I had given the rifle. The howls
became more and more violent, and filled the echoes of the woods, when
suddenly a dull sound was heard, like the fall of some body. A minute
later we heard the noise of a struggle and a cry of agony which mingled
with the fierce roars of the starved animal.
"Saaïb, take the gun," I heard some one near by. I seized feverishly the
rifle, but, vain trouble, one could not see two steps before oneself. A
new cry, followed by a smothered howling, indicated to me vaguely the
place of the struggle, toward which I crawled, divided between the
ardent desire to "kill a panther" and a horrible fear of being eaten
alive. No one dared to move; only after five minutes it occurred to one
of the carriers to light a match. I then remembered the fear which
feline animals exhibit at the presence of fire, and ordered my men to
gather two or three handfuls of brush, which I set on fire. We then saw,
about ten steps from us, one of our carriers stretched out on the
ground, with his limbs frightfully lacerated by the claws of a huge
panther. The beast still lay upon him defiantly, holding a piece of
flesh in its mouth. At its side, gaped a box of wine broken open by its
fall when the carrier was torn down. Hardly did I make a movement to
bring the rifle to my shoulder, when the panther raised itself, and
turned toward us while dropping part of its horrible meal. One moment,
it appeared about to spring upon me, then it suddenly wheeled, and
rending the air with a howl, enough to freeze one's blood, jumped into
the midst of the thicket and disappeared.
My coolies, whom an odious fear had all the time kept prostrated on the
ground, recovered little by little from their fright. Keeping in
readiness a few packages of dry grass and matches, we hastened to reach
the village Haïena, leaving behind the remains of the unfortunate Hindu,
whose fate we feared sharing.
An hour later we had left the forest and entered the plain. I ordered my
tent erected under a very leafy plane tree, and had a great fire made
before it, with a pile of wood, which was the only protection we could
employ against the ferocious beasts whose howls continued to reach us
from all directions. In the forest my dog had pressed himself against
me, with his tail between his legs; but once under the tent, he suddenly
recovered his watchfulness, and barked incessantly the whole night,
being very careful, however, not to step outside. I spent a terrible
night, rifle in hand, listening to the concert of those diabolical
howlings, the echoes of which seemed to shake the defile. Some panthers
approached our bivouac to answer the barking of Pamir, but dared not
attack us.
I had left Srinagar at the head of eleven carriers, four of whom had to
carry so many boxes of wine, four others bore my travelling effects; one
my weapons, another various utensils, and finally a last, who went
errands or on reconnaissance. His name was "Chicari," which means "he
who accompanies the hunter and gathers the prey." I discharged him in
the morning on account of his cowardice and his profound ignorance of
the country, and only retained four carriers. It was but slowly that I
advanced toward the village of Gounde.
How beautiful is nature in the Sind pass, and how much is it beloved by
the hunters! Besides the great fallow deer, you meet there the hind, the
stag, the mountain sheep and an immense variety of birds, among which I
want to mention above all the golden pheasant, and others of red or
snow-white plumage, very large partridges and immense eagles.
The villages situated along the Sind do not shine by their dimensions.
They contain, for the greatest part, not more than ten to twenty huts of
an extremely miserable appearance. Their inhabitants are clad in rags.
Their cattle belongs to a very small race.
I crossed the river at Sambal, and stopped near the village Gounde,
where I procured relay horses. In some villages they refused to hire
horses to me; I then threatened them with my whip, which at once
inspired respect and obedience; my money accomplished the same end; it
inspired a servile obedience--not willingness--to obey my least orders.
Stick and gold are the true sovereigns in the Orient; without them the
Very Grand Mogul would not have had any preponderance.
Night began to descend, and I was in a hurry to cross the defile which
separates the villages Gogangan and Sonamarg. The road is in very bad
condition, and the mountains are infested by beasts of prey which in the
night descend into the very villages to seek their prey. The country is
delightful and very fertile; nevertheless, but few colonists venture to
settle here, on account of the neighborhood of the panthers, which come
to the dooryards to seize domestic animals.
At the very exit of the defile, near the village of Tchokodar, or
Thajwas, the half obscurity prevailing only permitted me to distinguish
two dark masses crossing the road. They were two big bears followed by a
young one. I was alone with my servant (the caravan having loitered
behind), so I did not like to attack them with only one rifle; but the
long excursions which I had made on the mountain had strongly developed
in me the sense of the hunter. To jump from my horse, shoot, and,
without even verifying the result, change quickly the cartridge, was the
affair of a second. One bear was about to jump on me, a second shot
made it run away and disappear. Holding in my hand my loaded gun, I
approached with circumspection, the one at which I had aimed, and found
it laying on its flank, dead, with the little cub beside it. Another
shot killed the little one, after which I went to work to take off the
two superb jet-black skins.
This incident made us lose two hours, and night had completely set in
when I erected my tent near Tchokodar, which I left at sunrise to gain
Baltal, by following the course of the Sind river. At this place the
ravishing landscape of the "golden prairie" terminates abruptly with a
village of the same name (Sona, gold, and Marg, prairie). The abrupt
acclivity of Zodgi-La, which we next surmounted, attains an elevation of
11,500 feet, on the other side of which the whole country assumes a
severe and inhospitable character. My hunting adventures closed before
reaching Baltal. From there I met on the road only wild goats. In order
to hunt, I would have had to leave the grand route and to penetrate into
the heart of the mountains full of mysteries. I had neither the
inclination nor the time to do so, and, therefore, continued quietly my
journey toward Ladak.
* * * * *
How violent the contrast I felt when passing from the laughing nature
and beautiful population of Kachmyr to the arid and forbidding rocks and
the beardless and ugly inhabitants of Ladak!
The country into which I penetrated is situated at an altitude of 11,000
to 12,000 feet. Only at Karghil the level descends to 8,000 feet.
The acclivity of Zodgi-La is very rough; one must climb up an almost
perpendicular rocky wall. In certain places the road winds along upon
rock ledges of only a metre in width, below which the sight drops into
unfathomable abysses. May the Lord preserve the traveller from a fall!
At one place, the way is upon long beams introduced into holes made in
the rock, like a bridge, and covered up with earth. Brr!--At the thought
that a little stone might get loose and roll down the slope of the
mountain, or that a too strong oscillation of the beams could
precipitate the whole structure into the abyss, and with it him who had
ventured upon the perilous path, one feels like fainting more than once
during this hazardous passage.
After crossing the glaciers we stopped in a valley and prepared to spend
the night near a hut, a dismal place surrounded by eternal ice and snow.
From Baltal the distances are determined by means of daks, _i.e._,
postal stations for mail service. They are low huts, about seven
kilometres distant from each other. A man is permanently established in
each of these huts. The postal service between Kachmyr and Thibet is yet
carried on in a very primitive form. The letters are enclosed in a
leather bag, which is handed to the care of a carrier. The latter runs
rapidly over the seven kilometres assigned to him, carrying on his back
a basket which holds several of these bags, which he delivers to another
carrier, who, in his turn, accomplishes his task in an identical manner.
Neither rain nor snow can arrest these carriers. In this way the mail
service is carried on between Kachmyr and Thibet, and _vice versa_ once
a week. For each course the letter carrier is paid six annas (twenty
cents); the same wages as is paid to the carriers of merchandise. This
sum I also paid to every one of my servants for carrying a ten times
heavier load.
It makes one's heart ache to see the pale and tired-looking figures of
these carriers; but what is to be done? It is the custom of the country.
The tea is brought from China by a similar system of transportation,
which is rapid and inexpensive.
In the village of Montaiyan, I found again the Yarkandien caravan of
pilgrims, whom I had promised to accompany on their journey. They
recognized me from a distance, and asked me to examine one of their men,
who had fallen sick. I found him writhing in the agonies of an intense
fever. Shaking my hands as a sign of despair, I pointed to the heavens
and gave them to understand that human will and science were now
useless, and that God alone could save him. These people journeyed by
small stages only; I, therefore, left them and arrived in the evening at
Drass, situated at the bottom of a valley near a river of the same name.
Near Drass, a little fort of ancient construction, but freshly painted,
stands aloof, under the guard of three Sikhs of the Maharadja's army.
At Drass, my domicile was the post-house, which is a station--and the
only one--of an unique telegraph line from Srinagar to the interior of
the Himalayas. From that time on, I no more had my tent put up each
evening, but stopped in the caravansarais; places which, though made
repulsive by their dirt, are kept warm by the enormous piles of wood
burned in their fireplaces.
From Drass to Karghil the landscape is unpleasing and monotonous, if one
excepts the marvellous effects of the rising and setting sun and the
beautiful moonlight. Apart from these the road is wearisome and
abounding with dangers. Karghil is the principal place of the district,
where the governor of the country resides. Its site is quite
picturesque. Two water courses, the Souron and the Wakkha, roll their
noisy and turbulent waters among rocks and sunken snags of uprooted
trees, escaping from their respective defiles in the rocks, to join in
forming here the river Souron, upon the banks of which stands Karghil. A
little fort, garrisoned by two or three Sikhs, shows its outlines at the
junction of the streams. Provided with a horse, I continued my journey
at break of day, entering now the province of Ladak, or Little Thibet. I
traversed a ricketty bridge, composed--like all the bridges of
Kachmyr--of two long beams, the ends of which were supported upon the
banks and the floor made of a layer of fagots and sticks, which imparted
to the traveller, at least the illusion of a suspension bridge. Soon
afterward I climbed slowly up on a little plateau, which crosses the way
at a distance of two kilometres, to descend into the narrow valley of
Wakkha. Here there are several villages, among which, on the left shore,
is the very picturesque one called Paskium.
Here my feet trod Buddhist ground. The inhabitants are of a very simple
and mild disposition, seemingly ignorant of "quarreling." Women are very
rare among them. Those of them whom I encountered were distinguished
from the women I had hitherto seen in India or Kachmyr, by the air of
gaiety and prosperity apparent in their countenances. How could it be
otherwise, since each woman in this country has, on an average, three to
five husbands, and possesses them in the most legitimate way in the
world. Polyandry flourishes here. However large a family may be, there
is but one woman in it. If the family does not contain already more than
two husbands, a bachelor may share its advantages, for a consideration.
The days sacred to each one of those husbands are determined in advance,
and all acquit themselves of their respective duties and respect each
others' rights. The men generally seem feeble, with bent backs, and do
not live to old age. During my travels in Ladak, I only encountered one
man so old that his hair was white.
From Karghil to the centre of Ladak, the road had a more cheerful aspect
than that I had traversed before reaching Karghil, its prospect being
brightened by a number of little hamlets, but trees and verdure were,
unfortunately, rare.
Twenty miles from Karghil, at the end of the defile formed by the rapid
current of the Wakkha, is a little village called Chargol, in the
centre of which stand three chapels, decorated with lively colors
(_t'horthenes_, to give them the name they bear in Thibet). Below, near
the river, are masses of rocks, in the form of long and large walls,
upon which are thrown, in apparent disorder, flat stones of different
colors and sizes. Upon these stones are engraved all sorts of prayers,
in Ourd, Sanscrit and Thibetan, and one can even find among them
inscriptions in Arabic characters. Without the knowledge of my carriers,
I succeeded in taking away a few of these stones, which are now in the
palace of the Trocadero.
Along the way, from Chargol, one finds frequently oblong mounds,
artificial constructions. After sunrise, with fresh horses, I resumed my
journey and stopped near the _gonpa_ (monastery) of Moulbek, which seems
glued on the flank of an isolated rock. Below is the hamlet of Wakkha,
and not far from there is to be seen another rock, of very strange form,
which seems to have been placed where it stands by human hands. In one
side of it is cut a Buddha several metres in height. Upon it are several
cylinders, the turning of which serves for prayers. They are a sort of
wooden barrel, draped with yellow or white fabrics, and are attached to
vertically planted stakes. It requires only the least wind to make them
turn. The person who puts up one of these cylinders no longer feels it
obligatory upon him to say his prayers, for all that devout believers
can ask of God is written upon the cylinders. Seen from a distance this
white painted monastery, standing sharply out from the gray background
of the rocks, with all these whirling, petticoated wheels, produce a
strange effect in this dead country. I left my horses in the hamlet of
Wakkha, and, followed by my servant, walked toward the convent, which is
reached by a narrow stairway cut in the rock. At the top, I was received
by a very fat lama, with a scanty, straggling beard under his chin--a
common characteristic of the Thibetan people--who was very ugly, but
very cordial. His costume consisted of a yellow robe and a sort of big
nightcap, with projecting flaps above the ears, of the same color. He
held in his hand a copper prayer-machine which, from time to time, he
shook with his left hand, without at all permitting that exercise to
interfere with his conversation. It was his eternal prayer, which he
thus communicated to the wind, so that by this element it should be
borne to Heaven. We traversed a suite of low chambers, upon the walls of
which were images of Buddha, of all sizes and made of all kinds of
materials, all alike covered by a thick layer of dust. Finally we
reached an open terrace, from which the eyes, taking in the surrounding
region, rested upon an inhospitable country, strewn with grayish rocks
and traversed by only a single road, which on both sides lost itself in
the horizon.
When we were seated, they brought us beer, made with hops, called here
_Tchang_ and brewed in the cloister. It has a tendency to rapidly
produce _embonpoint_ upon the monks, which is regarded as a sign of the
particular favor of Heaven.
They spoke here the Thibetan language. The origin of this language is
full of obscurity. One thing is certain, that a king of Thibet, a
contemporary of Mohammed, undertook the creation of an universal
language for all the disciples of Buddha. To this end he had simplified
the Sanscrit grammar, composed an alphabet containing an infinite number
of signs, and thus laid the foundations of a language the pronunciation
of which is one of the easiest and the writing the most complicated.
Indeed, in order to represent a sound one must employ not less than
eight characters. All the modern literature of Thibet is written in this
language. The pure Thibetan is only spoken in Ladak and Oriental Thibet.
In all other parts of the country are employed dialects formed by the
mixture of this mother language with different idioms taken from the
neighboring peoples of the various regions round about. In the ordinary
life of the Thibetan, there exists always two languages, one of which is
absolutely incomprehensible to the women, while the other is spoken by
the entire nation; but only in the convents can be found the Thibetan
language in all its purity and integrity.
The lamas much prefer the visits of Europeans to those of Musselmen, and
when I asked the one who received me why this was so, he answered me:
"Musselmen have no point of contact at all with our religion. Only
comparatively recently, in their victorious campaign, they have
converted, by force, part of the Buddhists to Islam. It requires of us
great efforts to bring back those Musselmen, descendants of Buddhists,
into the path of the true God. As regards the Europeans, it is quite a
different affair. Not only do they profess the essential principles of
monotheism, but they are, in a sense, adorers of Buddha, with almost the
same rites as the lamas who inhabit Thibet. The only fault of the
Christians is that after having adopted the great doctrines of Buddha,
they have completely separated themselves from him, and have created for
themselves a different Dalai-Lama. Our Dalai-Lama is the only one who
has received the divine gift of seeing, face to face, the majesty of
Buddha, and is empowered to serve as an intermediary between earth and
heaven."
"Which Dalai-Lama of the Christians do you refer to?" I asked him; "we
have one, the Son of God, to whom we address directly our fervent
prayers, and to him alone we recur to intercede with our One and
Indivisible God."
"It is not him of whom it is a question, Sahib," he replied. "We, too,
respect him, whom we reverence as son of the One and Indivisible God,
but we do not see in him the Only Son, but the excellent being who was
chosen among all. Buddha, indeed, has incarnated himself, with his
divine nature, in the person of the sacred Issa, who, without employing
fire or iron, has gone forth to propagate our true and great religion
among all the world. Him whom I meant was your terrestrial Dalai-Lama;
he to whom you have given the title of 'Father of the Church.' That is a
great sin. May he be brought back, with the flock, who are now in a bad
road," piously added the lama, giving another twirl to his
prayer-machine.
I understood now that he alluded to the Pope. "You have told me that a
son of Buddha, Issa, the elect among all, had spread your religion on
the Earth. Who is he?" I asked.
At this question the lama's eyes opened wide; he looked at me with
astonishment and pronounced some words I could not catch, murmuring in
an unintelligible way. "Issa," he finally replied, "is a great prophet,
one of the first after the twenty-two Buddhas. He is greater than any
one of all the Dalai-Lamas, for he constitutes part of the spirituality
of our Lord. It is he who has instructed you; he who brought back into
the bosom of God the frivolous and wicked souls; he who made you worthy
of the beneficence of the Creator, who has ordained that each being
should know good and evil. His name and his acts have been chronicled in
our sacred writings, and when reading how his great life passed away in
the midst of an erring people, we weep for the horrible sin of the
heathen who murdered him, after subjecting him to torture."
I was struck by this recital of the lama. The prophet Issa--his tortures
and death--our Christian Dalai-Lama--the Buddhist recognizing
Christianity--all these made me think more and more of Jesus Christ. I
asked my interpreter not to lose a single word of what the lama told me.
"Where can those writings be found, and who compiled them?" I asked the
monk.
"The principal scrolls--which were written in India and Nepaul, at
different epochs, as the events happened--are in Lhassa; several
thousands in number. In some great convents are to be found copies,
which the lamas, during their sojourn in Lhassa, have made, at various
times, and have then given to their cloisters as souvenirs of the period
they spent with the Dalai-Lama."
"But you, yourselves; do you not possess copies of the scrolls bearing
upon the prophet Issa?"
"We have not. Our convent is insignificant, and since its foundation our
successive lamas have had only a few hundred manuscripts in their
library. The great cloisters have several thousands of them; but they
are sacred things which will not, anywhere, be shown to you."
We spoke together a few minutes longer, after which I went home, all the
while thinking of the lama's statements. Issa, a prophet of the
Buddhists! But, how could this be? Of Jewish origin, he lived in
Palestine and in Egypt; and the Gospels do not contain one word, not
even the least allusion, to the part which Buddhism should have played
in the education of Jesus.
I made up my mind to visit all the convents of Thibet, in the hope of
gathering fuller information upon the prophet Issa, and perhaps copies
of the chronicles bearing upon this subject.
* * * * *
We traversed the Namykala Pass, at 30,000 feet of altitude, whence we
descended into the valley of the River Salinoumah. Turning southward, we
gained Karbou, leaving behind us, on the opposite bank, numerous
villages, among other, Chagdoom, which is at the top of a rock, an
extremely imposing sight. Its houses are white and have a sort of
festive look, with their two and three stories. This, by the way, is a
common peculiarity of all the villages of Ladak. The eye of the
European, travelling in Kachmyr, would soon lose sight of all
architecture to which he had been accustomed. In Ladak, on the contrary,
he would be agreeably surprised at seeing the little two and three-story
houses, reminders to him of those in European provinces. Near the city
of Karbou, upon two perpendicular rocks, one sees the ruins of a little
town or village. A tempest and an earthquake are said to have shaken
down its walls, the solidity of which seems to have been exceptional.
The next day I traversed the Fotu-La Pass, at an altitude of 13,500
feet. At its summit stands a little _t'horthene_ (chapel). Thence,
following the dry bed of a stream, I descended to the hamlet of
Lamayure, the sudden appearance of which is a surprise to the traveller.
A convent, which seems grafted on the side of the rock, or held there in
some miraculous way, dominates the village. Stairs are unknown in this
cloister. In order to pass from one story of it to another, ropes are
used. Communication with the world outside is through a labyrinth of
passages in the rock. Under the windows of the convent--which make one
think of birds' nests on the face of a cliff---is a little inn, the
rooms of which are little inviting. Hardly had I stretched myself on the
carpet in one of them, when the monks, dressed in their yellow robes,
filled the apartment, bothered me with questions as to whence I came,
the purpose of my coming, where I was going, and so on, finally inviting
me to come and see them.
In spite of my fatigue I accepted their invitation and set out with
them, to climb up the excavated passages in the rock, which were
encumbered with an infinity of prayer cylinders and wheels, which I
could not but touch and set turning as I brushed past them. They are
placed there that they may be so turned, saving to the passers-by the
time they might otherwise lose in saying their prayers--as if their
affairs were so absorbing, and their time so precious, that they could
not find leisure to pray. Many pious Buddhists use for this purpose an
apparatus arranged to be turned by the current of a stream. I have seen
a long row of cylinders, provided with their prayer formulas, placed
along a river bank, in such a way that the water kept them constantly in
motion, this ingenious device freeing the proprietors from any further
obligation to say prayers themselves.
I sat down on a bench in the hall, where semi-obscurity reigned. The
walls were garnished with little statues of Buddha, books and
prayer-wheels. The loquacious lamas began explaining to me the
significance of each object.
"And those books?" I asked them; "they, no doubt, have reference to
religion."
"Yes, sir. These are a few religious volumes which deal with the primary
and principal rites of the life common to all. We possess several parts
of the words of Buddha consecrated to the Great and Indivisible Divine
Being, and to all that issue from his hands."
"Is there not, among those books, some account of the prophet Issa?"
"No, sir," answered the monk. "We only possess a few principal treatises
relating to the observance of the religious rites. As for the
biographies of our saints, they are collected in Lhassa. There are even
great cloisters which have not had the time to procure them. Before
coming to this gonpa, I was for several years in a great convent on the
other side of Ladak, and have seen there thousands of books, and scrolls
copied out of various books by the lamas of the monastery."
By some further interrogation I learned that the convent in question was
near Leh, but my persistent inquiries had the effect of exciting the
suspicions of the lamas. They showed me the way out with evident
pleasure, and regaining my room, I fell asleep--after a light
lunch--leaving orders with my Hindu to inform himself in a skillful way,
from some of the younger lamas of the convent, about the monastery in
which their chief had lived before coming to Lamayure.
In the morning, when we set forth on our journey, the Hindu told me that
he could get nothing from the lamas, who were very reticent. I will not
stop to describe the life of the monks in those convents, for it is the
same in all the cloisters of Ladak. I have seen the celebrated monastery
of Leh--of which I shall have to speak later on--and learned there the
strange existences the monks and religious people lead, which is
everywhere the same. In Lamayure commences a declivity which, through a
steep, narrow and sombre gorge, extends toward India.
Without having the least idea of the dangers which the descent
presented, I sent my carriers in advance and started on a route, rather
pleasant at the outset, which passes between the brown clay hills, but
soon it produced upon me the most depressing effect, as though I was
traversing a gloomy subterranean passage. Then the road came out on the
flank of the mountain, above a terrible abyss. If a rider had met me, we
could not possibly have passed each other, the way was so narrow. All
description would fail to convey a sense of the grandeur and wild beauty
of this cañon, the summit of the walls of which seemed to reach the sky.
At some points it became so narrow that from my saddle I could, with my
cane, touch the opposite rock. At other places, death might be fancied
looking up expectantly, from the abyss, at the traveller. It was too
late to dismount. In entering alone this gorge, I had not the faintest
idea that I would have occasion to regret my foolish imprudence. I had
not realized its character. It was simply an enormous crevasse, rent by
some Titanic throe of nature, some tremendous earthquake, which had
split the granite mountain. In its bottom I could just distinguish a
hardly perceptible white thread, an impetuous torrent, the dull roar of
which filled the defile with mysterious and impressive sounds.
Far overhead extended, narrow and sinuously, a blue ribbon, the only
glimpse of the celestial world that the frowning granite walls permitted
to be seen. It was a thrilling pleasure, this majestic view of nature.
At the same time, its rugged severity, the vastness of its proportions,
the deathly silence only invaded by the ominous murmur from the depths
beneath, all together filled me with an unconquerable depression. I had
about eight miles in which to experience these sensations, at once sweet
and painful. Then, turning to the right, our little caravan reached a
small valley, almost surrounded by precipitous granite rocks, which
mirrored themselves in the Indus. On the bank of the river stands the
little fortress Khalsi, a celebrated fortification dating from the epoch
of the Musselman invasion, by which runs the wild road from Kachmyr to
Thibet.
We crossed the Indus on an almost suspended bridge which led directly to
the door of the fortress, thus impossible of evasion. Rapidly we
traversed the valley, then the village of Khalsi, for I was anxious to
spend the night in the hamlet of Snowely, which is placed upon terraces
descending to the Indus. The two following days I travelled tranquilly
and without any difficulties to overcome, along the shore of the Indus,
in a picturesque country--which brought me to Leh, the capital of Ladak.
While traversing the little valley of Saspoula, at a distance of several
kilometres from the village of the same name, I found "_t'horthenes_"
and two cloisters, above one of which floated the French flag. Later on,
I learned that a French engineer had presented the flag to the monks,
who displayed it simply as a decoration of their building.
I passed the night at Saspoula and certainly did not forget to visit the
cloisters, seeing there for the tenth time the omnipresent dust-covered
images of Buddha; the flags and banners heaped in a corner; ugly masks
on the floor; books and papyrus rolls heaped together without order or
care, and the inevitable abundance of prayer-wheels. The lamas
demonstrated a particular pleasure in exhibiting these things, doing it
with the air of shopmen displaying their goods, with very little care
for the degree of interest the traveller may take in them. "We must show
everything, in the hope that the sight alone of these sacred objects
will force the traveller to believe in the divine grandeur of the human
soul."
Respecting the prophet Issa, they gave me the same account I already
had, and I learned, what I had known before, that the books which could
instruct me about him were at Lhassa, and that only the great
monasteries possessed some copies. I did not think any more of passing
Kara-koroum, but only of finding the history of the prophet Issa, which
would, perhaps, bring to light the entire life of the best of men, and
complete the rather vague information which the Gospels afford us about
him.
Not far from Leh, and at the entrance of the valley of the same name,
our road passed near an isolated rock, on the top of which were
constructed a fort--with two towers and without garrison--and a little
convent named Pitak. A mountain, 10,500 feet high, protects the entrance
to Thibet. There the road makes a sudden turn toward the north, in the
direction of Leh, six miles from Pitak and a thousand feet higher.
Immense granite mountains tower above Leh, to a height of 18,000 or
19,000 feet, their crests covered with eternal snow. The city itself,
surrounded by a girdle of stunted aspen trees, rises upon successive
terraces, which are dominated by an old fort and the palaces of the
ancient sovereigns of Ladak. Toward evening I made my entrance into Leh,
and stopped at a bengalow constructed especially for Europeans, whom the
road from India brings here in the hunting season.
