THE UNKNOWN LIFE OF JESUS CHRIST

Ladak

Ladak formerly was part of Great Thibet. The powerful invading forces
from the north which traversed the country to conquer Kachmyr, and the
wars of which Ladak was the theatre, not only reduced it to misery, but
eventually subtracted it from the political domination of Lhassa, and
made it the prey of one conqueror after another. The Musselmen, who
seized Kachmyr and Ladak at a remote epoch, converted by force the poor
inhabitants of old Thibet to the faith of Islam. The political existence
of Ladak ended with the annexation of this country to Kachmyr by the
sëiks, which, however, permitted the Ladakians to return to their
ancient beliefs. Two-thirds of the inhabitants took advantage of this
opportunity to rebuild their gonpas and take up their past life anew.
Only the Baltistans remained Musselman schüttes--a sect to which the
conquerors of the country had belonged. They, however, have only
conserved a vague shadow of Islamism, the character of which manifests
itself in their ceremonials and in the polygamy which they practice.
Some lamas affirmed to me that they did not despair of one day bringing
them back to the faith of their ancestors.

From the religious point of view Ladak is a dependency of Lhassa, the
capital of Thibet and the place of residence of the Dalai-Lama. In
Lhassa are located the principal Khoutoukhtes, or Supreme Lamas, and the
Chogzots, or administrators. Politically, it is under the authority of
the Maharadja of Kachmyr, who is represented there by a governor.

The inhabitants of Ladak belong to the Chinese-Touranian race, and are
divided into Ladakians and Tchampas. The former lead a sedentary
existence, building villages of two-story houses along the narrow
valleys, are cleanly in their habits, and cultivators of the soil. They
are excessively ugly; thin, with stooping figures and small heads set
deep between their shoulders; their cheek bones salient, foreheads
narrow, eyes black and brilliant, as are those of all the Mongol race;
noses flat, mouths large and thin-lipped; and from their small chins,
very thinly garnished by a few hairs, deep wrinkles extend upward
furrowing their hollow cheeks. To all this, add a close-shaven head with
only a little bristling fringe of hair, and you will have the general
type, not alone of Ladak, but of entire Thibet.

The women are also of small stature, and have exceedingly prominent
cheek bones, but seem to be of much more robust constitution. A healthy
red tinges their cheeks and sympathetic smiles linger upon their lips.
They have good dispositions, joyous inclinations, and are fond of
laughing.

The severity of the climate and rudeness of the country, do not permit
to the Ladakians much latitude in quality and colors of costume. They
wear gowns of simple gray linen and coarse dull-hued clothing of their
own manufacture. The pantaloons of the men only descend to their knees.
People in good circumstances wear, in addition to the ordinary dress,
the "choga," a sort of overcoat which is draped on the back when not
wrapped around the figure. In winter they wear fur caps, with big ear
flaps, and in summer cover their heads with a sort of cloth hood, the
top of which dangles on one side, like a Phrygian cap. Their shoes are
made of felt and covered with leather. A whole arsenal of little things
hangs down from their belts, among which you will find a needle case, a
knife, a pen and inkstand, a tobacco pouch, a pipe, and a diminutive
specimen of the omnipresent prayer-cylinder.

The Thibetan men are generally so lazy, that if a braid of hair happens
to become loose, it is not tressed up again for three months, and when
once a shirt is put on the body, it is not again taken off until it
falls to pieces. Their overcoats are always unclean, and, on the back,
one may contemplate a long oily stripe imprinted by the braid of hair,
which is carefully greased every day. They wash themselves once a year,
but even then do not do so voluntarily, but because compelled by law.
They emit such a terrible stench that one avoids, as much as possible,
being near them.

The Thibetan women, on the contrary, are very fond of cleanliness and
order. They wash themselves daily and as often as may be needful. Short
and clean chemises hide their dazzling white necks. The Thibetan woman
throws on her round shoulders a red jacket, the flaps of which are
covered by tight pantaloons of green or red cloth, made in such a manner
as to puff up and so protect the legs against the cold. She wears
embroidered red half boots, trimmed and lined with fur. A large cloth
petticoat with numerous folds completes her home toilet. Her hair is
arranged in thin braids, to which, by means of pins, a large piece of
floating cloth is attached,--which reminds one of the headdress so
common in Italy. Underneath this sort of veil are suspended a variety of
various colored pebbles, coins and pieces of metal. The ears are covered
by flaps made of cloth or fur. A furred sheepskin covers the back, poor
women contenting themselves with a simple plain skin of the animal,
while wealthy ladies wear veritable cloaks, lined with red cloth and
adorned with gold fringes.

The Ladak woman, whether walking in the streets or visiting her
neighbors, always carries upon her back a conical basket, the smaller
end of which is toward the ground. They fill it with the dung of horses
or cows, which constitute the combustible of the country. Every woman
has money of her own, and spends it for jewelry. Generally she
purchases, at a small expense, large pieces of turquoise, which are
added to the _bizarre_ ornaments of her headdress. I have seen pieces so
worn which weighed nearly five pounds. The Ladak woman occupies a social
position for which she is envied by all women of the Orient. She is free
and respected. With the exception of some rural work, she passes the
greatest part of her time in visiting. It must, however, be added that
women's gossip is here a perfectly unknown thing.

The settled population of Ladak is engaged in agriculture, but they own
so little land (the share of each may amount to about eight acres) that
the revenue drawn from it is insufficient to provide them with the
barest necessities and does not permit them to pay taxes. Manual
occupations are generally despised. Artisans and musicians form the
lowest class of society. The name by which they are designated is Bem,
and people are very careful not to contract any alliance with them. The
hours of leisure left by rural work are spent in hunting the wild sheep
of Thibet, the skins of which are highly valued in India. The poorest,
_i.e._, those who have not the means to purchase arms for hunting, hire
themselves as coolies. This is also an occupation of women, who are
very capable of enduring arduous toil. They are healthier than their
husbands, whose laziness goes so far that, careless of cold or heat,
they are capable of spending a whole night in the open air on a bed of
stones rather than take the trouble to go to bed.

Polyandry (which I shall treat later more fully) causes the formation of
very large families, who, in common, cultivate their jointly possessed
lands, with the assistance of yaks, zos and zomos (oxen and cows). A
member of a family cannot detach himself from it, and when he dies, his
share reverts to the survivors in common.

They sow but little wheat and the grain is very small, owing to the
severity of the climate. They also harvest barley, which they pulverize
before selling. When work in the field is ended, all male inhabitants go
to gather on the mountain a wild herb called "enoriota," and large thorn
bushes or "dama," which are used as fuel, since combustibles are scarce
in Ladak. You see there neither trees nor gardens, and only
exceptionally thin clumps of willows and poplars grow on the shores of
the rivers. Near the villages are also found some aspen trees; but, on
account of the unfertility of the ground, arboriculture is unknown and
gardening is little successful.

The absence of wood is especially noticeable in the buildings, which are
made of sun-dried bricks, or, more frequently, of stones of medium size
which are agglomerated with a kind of mortar composed of clay and
chopped straw. The houses of the settled inhabitants are two stories
high, their fronts whitewashed, and their window-sashes painted with
lively colors. The flat roof forms a terrace which is decorated with
wild flowers, and here, during good weather, the inhabitants spend much
of their time contemplating nature, or turning their prayer-wheels.
Every dwelling-house is composed of many rooms; among them always one
of superior size, the walls of which are decorated with superb
fur-skins, and which is reserved for visitors. In the other rooms are
beds and other furniture. Rich people possess, moreover, a special room
filled with all kinds of idols, and set apart as a place of worship.

Life here is very regular. They eat anything attainable, without much
choice; the principal nourishment of the Ladak people, however, being
exceedingly simple. Their breakfast consists of a piece of rye bread. At
dinner, they serve on the table a bowl with meal into which lukewarm
water is stirred with little rods until the mixture assumes the
consistency of thick paste. From this, small portions are scooped out
and eaten with milk. In the evening, bread and tea are served. Meat is a
superfluous luxury. Only the hunters introduce some variety in their
alimentation, by eating the meat of wild sheep, eagles or pheasants,
which are very common in this country.

During the day, on every excuse and opportunity, they drink "tchang," a
kind of pale, unfermented beer.

If it happens that a Ladakian, mounted on a pony (such privileged people
are very rare), goes to seek work in the surrounding country, he
provides himself with a small stock of meal; when dinner time comes, he
descends to a river or spring, mixes with water, in a wooden cup that he
always has with him, some of the meal, swallows the simple refreshment
and washes it down with water.

The Tchampas, or nomads, who constitute the other part of Ladak's
population, are rougher, and much poorer than the settled population.
They are, for the most part, hunters, who completely neglect
agriculture. Although they profess the Buddhistic religion, they never
frequent the cloisters unless in want of meal, which they obtain in
exchange for their venison. They mostly camp in tents on the summits of
the mountains, where the cold is very great. While the properly called
Ladakians are peaceable, very desirous of learning, of an incarnated
laziness, and are never known to tell untruth; the Tchampas, on the
contrary, are very irascible, extremely lively, great liars and profess
a great disdain for the convents.

Among them lives the small population of Khombas, wanderers from the
vicinity of Lhassa, who lead the miserable existence of a troupe of
begging gipsies on the highways. Incapable of any work whatever,
speaking a language not spoken in the country where they beg for their
subsistence, they are the objects of general contempt, and are only
tolerated out of pity for their deplorable condition, when hunger drives
their mendicant bands to seek alms in the villages.

* * * * *

Polyandry, which is universally prevalent here, of course interested my
curiosity. This institution is, by the way, not the outcome of Buddha's
doctrines. Polyandry existed long before the advent of Buddha. It
assumed considerable proportions in India, where it constituted one of
the most effective means for checking the growth of a population which
tends to constant increase, an economic danger which is even yet
combatted by the abominable custom of killing newborn female children,
which causes terrible ravages in the child-life of India. The efforts
made by the English in their enactments against the suppression of the
future mothers have proved futile and fruitless. Manu himself
established polyandry as a law, and Buddhist preachers, who had
renounced Brahminism and preached the use of opium, imported this custom
into Ceylon, Thibet, Corea, and the country of the Moguls. For a long
time suppressed in China, polyandry, which flourishes in Thibet and
Ceylon, is also met with among the Kalmonks, between Todas in Southern
India, and Nairs on the coast of Malabar. Traces of this strange
constitution of the family are also to be found with the Tasmanians and
the Irquois Indians in North America.

Polyandry, by the way, has even flourished in Europe, if we may believe
Cæsar, who, in his _De Bello Gallico_, book V., page 17, writes:
"_Uxores habent deni duodenique inter se communes, et maxime fratres cum
fratribus et parentes cum liberis._"

In view of all this it is impossible to hold any religion responsible
for the existence of the institution of polyandry. In Thibet it can be
explained by motives of an economical nature; the small quantity of
arable land falling to the share of each inhabitant. In order to support
the 1,500,000 inhabitants distributed in Thibet, upon a surface of
1,200,000 square kilometres, the Buddhists were forced to adopt
polyandry. Moreover, each family is bound to enter one of its members in
a religious order. The firstborn is consecrated to a gonpa, which is
inevitably found upon an elevation, at the entrance of every village.
As soon as the child attains the age of eighteen years, he is entrusted
to the caravans which pass Lhassa, where he remains from eight to
fifteen years as a novice, in one of the gonpas which are near the city.
There he learns to read and write, is taught the religious rites and
studies the sacred parchments written in the Pali language--which
formerly used to be the language of the country of Maguada, where,
according to tradition, Buddha was born.

The oldest brother remaining in a family chooses a wife, who becomes
common to his brothers. The choice of the bride and the nuptial
ceremonies are most rudimentary. When a wife and her husband have
decided upon the marriage of a son, the brother who possesses the right
of choice, pays a visit to a neighboring family in which there is a
marriageable daughter.

The first and second visits are spent in more or less indifferent
conversations, blended with frequent libations of tchang, and on the
third visit only does the young man declare his intention to take a
wife. Upon this the girl is formally introduced to him. She is generally
not unknown to the wooer, as, in Ladak, women never veil their faces.

A girl cannot be married without her consent. When the young man is
accepted, he takes his bride to his house, and she becomes his wife and
also the wife of all his brothers. A family which has an only son sends
him to a woman who has no more than two or three husbands, and he offers
himself to her as a fourth husband. Such an offer is seldom declined,
and the young man settles in the new family.

The newly married remain with the parents of the husbands, until the
young wife bears her first child. The day after that event, the
grandparents of the infant make over the bulk of their fortune to the
new family, and, abandoning the old home to them, seek other shelter.

Sometimes marriages are contracted between youth who have not reached a
marriageable age, but in such event, the married couple are made to live
apart, until they have attained and even passed the age required. An
unmarried girl who becomes _enceinte_, far from being exposed to the
scorn of every one, is shown the highest respect; for she is
demonstrated fruitful, and men eagerly seek her in marriage. A wife has
the unquestioned right of having an unlimited number of husbands and
lovers. If she likes a young man, she takes him home, announces that he
has been chosen by her as a "jingtuh" (a lover), and endows him with all
the personal rights of a husband, which situation is accepted by her
temporarily supplanted husbands with a certain philosophic pleasure,
which is the more pronounced if their wife has proved sterile during the
three first years of her marriage.

They certainly have here not even a vague idea of jealousy. The
Thibetan's blood is too cold to know love, which, for him, would be
almost an anachronism; if indeed he were not conscious that the
sentiment of the entire community would be against him, as a flagrant
violator of popular usage and established rights, in restraining the
freedom of the women. The selfish enjoyment of love would be, in their
eyes, an unjustifiable luxury.

In case of a husband's absence, his place may be offered to a bachelor
or a widower. The latter are here in the minority, since the wife
generally survives her feeble husbands. Sometimes a Buddhist traveller,
whom his affairs bring to the village, is chosen for this office. A
husband who travels, or seeks for work in the neighboring country, at
every stop takes advantage of his co-religionists' hospitality, who
offer him their own wives. The husbands of a sterile woman exert
themselves to find opportunities for hospitality, which may happily
eventuate in a change in her condition, that they may be made happy
fathers.

The wife enjoys the general esteem, is ever of a cheerful disposition,
takes part in everything that is going on, goes and comes without any
restriction, anywhere and everywhere she pleases, with the exception of
the principal prayer-room of the monastery, entrance into which is
formally prohibited to her.

Children know only their mother, and do not feel the least affection for
their fathers, for the simple reason that they have so many. Without
approving polyandry, I could not well blame Thibet for this institution,
since without it, the population would prodigiously increase. Famine and
misery would fall upon the whole nation, with all the sinister
_sequellæ_ of murder and theft, crimes so far absolutely unknown in the
whole country.

A Festival in a Gonpa

Leh, the capital of Ladak, is a little town of 5,000 inhabitants, who
live in white, two-story houses, upon two or three streets, principally.
In its centre is the square of the bazaar, where the merchants of India,
China, Turkestan, Kachmyr and Thibet, come to exchange their products
for the Thibetan gold. Here the natives provide themselves with cloths
for themselves and their monks, and various objects of real necessity.

An old uninhabited palace rises upon a hill which dominates the town.
Fronting the central square is a vast building, two stories in height,
the residence of the governor of Ladak, the Vizier Souradjbal--a very
amiable and universally popular Pendjaban, who has received in London
the degree of Doctor of Philosophy.

To entertain me, during my sojourn in Leh, the governor arranged, on the
bazaar square, a game of polo--the national sport of the Thibetans,
which the English have adopted and introduced into Europe. In the
evening, after the game, the people executed dances and played games
before the governor's residence. Large bonfires illuminated the scene,
lighting up the throng of inhabitants, who formed a great circle about
the performers. The latter, in considerable numbers, disguised as
animals, devils and sorcerers, jumped and contorted themselves in
rhythmic dances timed to the measure of the monotonous and unpleasing
music made by two long trumpets and a drum.

The infernal racket and shouting of the crowd wearied me. The
performance ended with some graceful dances by Thibetan women, who spun
upon their heels, swaying to and fro, and, in passing before the
spectators in the windows of the residence, greeted us by the clashing
together of the copper and ivory bracelets on their crossed wrists.

The next day, at an early hour, I repaired to the great Himis convent,
which, a little distance from Leh, is elevated upon the top of a great
rock, on a picturesque site, commanding the valley of the Indies. It is
one of the principal monasteries of the country, and is maintained by
the gifts of the people and the subsidies it receives from Lhassa. On
the road leading to it, beyond the bridge crossing the Indus, and in the
vicinity of the villages lining the way, one finds heaps of stones
bearing engraved inscriptions, such as have already been described, and
_t'horthenes_. At these places, our guides were very careful to turn to
the right. I wished to turn my horse to the left, but the Ladakians made
him go back and led him by his halter to the right, explaining to me
that such was their established usage. I found it impossible to learn
the origin or reason of this custom.

Above the gonpa rises a battlemented tower, visible from a great
distance. We climbed, on foot, to the level on which the edifice stands
and found ourselves confronted by a large door, painted in brilliant
colors, the portal of a vast two-story building enclosing a court paved
with little pebbles. To the right, in one of the angles of the court, is
another huge painted door, adorned with big copper rings. It is the
entrance to the principal temple, which is decorated with paintings of
the principal gods, and contains a great statue of Buddha and a
multitude of sacred statuettes. To the left, upon a verandah, was placed
an immense prayer-cylinder. All the lamas of the convent, with their
chief, stood about it, when we entered the court. Below the verandah
were musicians, holding long trumpets and drums.

At the right of the court were a number of doors, leading to the rooms
of the lamas; all decorated with sacred paintings and provided with
little prayer-barrels fancifully surmounted by black and white tridents,
from the points of which floated ribbons bearing inscriptions--doubtless
prayers. In the centre of the court were raised two tall masts, from the
tops of which dangled tails of yaks, and long paper streamers floated,
covered with religious inscriptions. All along the walls were numerous
prayer-barrels, adorned with ribbons.

A profound silence reigned among the many spectators present. All
awaited anxiously the commencement of a religious "mystery," which was
about to be presented. We took up a position near the verandah. Almost
immediately, the musicians drew from their long trumpets soft and
monotonous tones, marking the time by measured beats upon an odd-looking
drum, broad and shallow, upreared upon a stick planted in the ground. At
the first sounds of the strange music, in which joined the voices of the
lamas in a melancholy chant, the doors along the wall opened
simultaneously, giving entrance to about twenty masked persons,
disguised as animals, birds, devils and imaginary monsters. On their
breasts they bore representations of fantastic dragons, demons and
skulls, embroidered with Chinese silk of various colors. From the
conical hats they wore, depended to their breasts long multicolored
ribbons, covered with inscriptions. Their masks were white
death's-heads. Slowly they marched about the masts, stretching out their
arms from time to time and flourishing with their left hands
spoon-shaped objects, the bowl portions of which were said to be
fragments of human crania, with ribbons attached, having affixed to
their ends human hair, which, I was assured, had been taken from scalped
enemies. Their promenade, in gradually narrowing circles about the
masts, soon became merely a confused jostling of each other; when the
rolling of the drum grew more accentuated, the performers for an instant
stopped, then started again, swinging above their heads yellow sticks,
ribbon-decked, which with their right hands they brandished in menacing
attitudes.

After making a salute to the chief lama, they approached the door
leading to the temple, which at this instant opened, and from it another
band came forth, whose heads were covered by copper masks. Their dresses
were of rich materials, embroidered in various bright colors. In one
hand each of them carried a small tambourine and with the other he
agitated a little bell. From the rim of each tambourine depended a
metallic ball, so placed that the least movement of the hand brought it
in contact with the resonant tympanum, which caused a strange,
continuous undercurrent of pulsating sound. There new performers circled
several times about the court, marking the time of their dancing steps
by measured thumpings of the tambourines. At the completion of each
turn, they made a deafening noise with their instruments. Finally, they
ran to the temple door and ranged themselves upon the steps before it.

For a moment, there was silence. Then we saw emerge from the temple a
third band of performers. Their enormous masks represented different
deities, and each bore upon its forehead "the third eye." At their head
marched Thlogan-Poudma-Jungnas (literally "he who was born in the lotus
flower"). Another richly dressed mask marched beside him, carrying a
yellow parasol covered with symbolic designs. His suite was composed of
gods, in magnificent costumes; Dorje-Trolong and Sangspa-Kourpo (_i.e._,
Brahma himself), and others. These masks, as a lama sitting near me
explained to us, represented six classes of beings subject to the
metamorphoses; the gods, the demigods, men, animals, spirits and demons.

On each side of these personages, who advanced gravely, marched other
masks, costumed in silks of brilliant hues and wearing on their heads
golden crowns, fashioned with six lotus-like flowers on each, surmounted
by a tall dart in the centre. Each of these masks carried a drum.

These disguises made three turns about the masts, to the sound of a
noisy and incoherent music, and then seated themselves on the ground,
around Thlogan-Pondma-Jungnas, a god with three eyes, who gravely
introduced two fingers into his mouth and emitted a shrill whistle. At
this signal, young men dressed in warrior costumes--with ribbon-decked
bells dangling about their legs--came with measured steps from the
temple. Their heads were covered by enormous green masks, from which
floated triangular red flags, and they, too, carried tambourines. Making
a diabolical din, they whirled and danced about the gods seated on the
ground. Two big fellows accompanying them, who were dressed in tight
clown costumes, executed all kinds of grotesque contortions and
acrobatic feats, by which they won plaudits and shouts of laughter from
the spectators.

Another group of disguises--of which the principal features were red
mitres and yellow pantaloons--came out of the temple, with bells and
tambourines in their hands, and seated themselves opposite the gods, as
representatives of the highest powers next to divinity. Lastly there
entered upon the scene a lot of red and brown masks, with a "third eye"
painted on their breasts. With those who had preceded them, they formed
two long lines of dancers, who to the thrumming of their many
tambourines, the measured music of the trumpets and drums, and the
jingling of a myriad of bells, performed a dance, approaching and
receding from each other, whirling in circles, forming by twos in a
column and breaking from that formation to make new combinations,
pausing occasionally to make reverent obeisance before the gods.

After a time this spectacular excitement--the noisy monotony of which
began to weary me--calmed down a little; gods, demigods, kings, men and
spirits got up, and followed by all the other maskers, directed
themselves toward the temple door, whence issued at once, meeting them,
a lot of men admirably disguised as skeletons. All those sorties were
calculated and prearranged, and every one of them had its particular
significance. The _cortège_ of dancers gave way to the skeletons, who
advanced with measured steps, in silence, to the masts, where they
stopped and made a concerted clicking with pieces of wood hanging at
their sides, simulating perfectly the rattling of dry bones and gnashing
of teeth. Twice they went in a circle around the masts, marching in time
to low taps on the drums, and then joined in a lugubrious religious
chant. Having once more made the concerted rattling of their artificial
bones and jaws, they executed some contortions painful to witness and
together stopped.

Then they seized upon an image of the Enemy of Man--made of some sort of
brittle paste--which had been placed at the foot of one of the masts.
This they broke in pieces and scattered, and the oldest men among the
spectators, rising from their places, picked up the fragments which
they handed to the skeletons--an action supposed to signify that they
would soon be ready to join the bony crew in the cemetery.

* * * * *

The chief lama, approaching me, tendered an invitation to accompany him
to the principal terrace and partake of the festal "tchang"; which I
accepted with pleasure, for my head was dizzy from the long spectacle.

We crossed the court and climbed a staircase--obstructed with
prayer-wheels, as usual--passed two rooms where there were many images
of gods, and came out upon the terrace, where I seated myself upon a
bench opposite the venerable lama, whose eyes sparkled with spirit.

Three lamas brought pitchers of tchang, which they poured into small
copper cups, that were offered first to the chief lama, then to me and
my servants.

"Did you enjoy our little festival?" the lama asked me.

"I found it very enjoyable and am still impressed by the spectacle I
have witnessed. But, to tell the truth, I never suspected for a moment
that Buddhism, in these religious ceremonies, could display such a
visible, not to say noisy, exterior form."

"There is no religion, the ceremonies of which are not surrounded with
more theatrical forms," the lama answered. "This is a ritualistic phase
which does not by any means violate the fundamental principles of
Buddhism. It is a practical means for maintaining in the ignorant mass
obedience to and love for the one Creator, just as a child is beguiled
by toys to do the will of its parents. The ignorant mass is the child of
The Father."

"But what is the meaning," I said to him, "of all those masks, costumes,
bells, dances, and, generally, of this entire performance, which seems
to be executed after a prescribed programme?"

"We have many similar festivals in the year," answered the lama, "and we
arrange particular ones to represent 'mysteries,' susceptible of
pantomimic presentation, in which each actor is allowed considerable
latitude of action, in the movements and jests he likes, conforming,
nevertheless, to the circumstances and to the leading idea. Our
mysteries are simply pantomimes calculated to show the veneration
offered to the gods, which veneration sustains and cheers the soul of
man, who is prone to anxious contemplation of inevitable death and the
life to come. The actors receive the dresses from the cloister and they
play according to general indications, which leave them much liberty of
individual action. The general effect produced is, no doubt, very
beautiful, but it is a matter for the spectators themselves to divine
the signification of one or another action. You, too, have recourse
sometimes to similar devices, which, however, do not in the least
violate the principle of monotheism."

"Pardon me," I remarked, "but this multitude of idols with which your
gonpas abound, is a flagrant violation of that principle."

"As I have told you," replied the lama to my interruption, "man will
always be in childhood. He sees and feels the grandeur of nature and
understands everything presented to his senses, but he neither sees nor
divines the Great Soul which created and animates all things. Man has
always sought for tangible things. It was not possible for him to
believe long in that which escaped his material senses. He has racked
his brain for any means for contemplating the Creator; has endeavored to
enter into direct relations with him who has done him so much good, and
also, as he erroneously believes, so much evil. For this reason he began
to adore every phase of nature from which he received benefits. We see a
striking example of this in the ancient Egyptians, who adored animals,
trees, stones, the winds and the rain. Other peoples, who were more
sunk in ignorance, seeing that the results of the wind were not always
beneficent, and that the rain did not inevitably bring good harvests,
and that the animals were not willingly subservient to man, began to
seek for direct intermediaries between themselves and the great
mysterious and unfathomable power of the Creator. Therefore they made
for themselves idols, which they regarded as indifferent to things
concerning them, but to whose interposition in their behalf, they might
always recur. From remotest antiquity to our own days, man was ever
inclined only to tangible realities.

"While seeking a route to lead their feet to the Creator, the Assyrians
turned their eyes toward the stars, which they contemplated without the
power of attaining them. The Guebers have conserved the same belief to
our days. In their nullity and spiritual blindness, men are incapable of
conceiving the invisible spiritual bond which unites them to the great
Divinity, and this explains why they have always sought for palpable
things, which were in the domain of the senses, and by doing which they
minimized the divine principle. Nevertheless, they have dared to
attribute to their visible and man-made images a divine and eternal
existence. We can see the same fact in Brahminism, where man, given to
his inclination for exterior forms, has created, little by little, and
not all at once, an army of gods and demigods. The Israelites may be
said to have demonstrated, in the most flagrant way, the love of man for
everything which is concrete. In spite of a series of striking miracles
accomplished by the great Creator, who is the same for all the peoples,
the Jewish people could not help making a god of metal in the very
minute when their prophet Mossa spoke to them of the Creator! Buddhism
has passed through the same modifications. Our great reformer,
Sakya-Muni, inspired by the Supreme Judge, understood truly the one and
indivisible Brahma, and forbade his disciples attempting to manufacture
images in imaginary semblance of him. He had openly broken from the
polytheistic Brahmins, and appreciated the purity, oneness and
immortality of Brahma. The success he achieved by his teachings in
making disciples among the people, brought upon him persecution by the
Brahmins, who, in the creation of new gods, had found a source of
personal revenue, and who, contrary to the law of God, treated the
people in a despotic manner. Our first sacred teachers, to whom we give
the name of buddhas--which means, learned men or saints--because the
great Creator has incarnated in them, settled in different countries of
the globe. As their teachings attacked especially the tyranny of the
Brahmins and the misuse they made of the idea of God--of which they
indeed made a veritable business--almost all the Buddhistic converts,
they who followed the doctrines of those great teachers, were among the
common people of China and India. Among those teachers, particular
reverence is felt for the Buddha, Sakya-Muni, known in China also under
the name of Fô, who lived three thousand years ago, and whose teachings
brought all China back into the path of the true God; and the Buddha,
Gautama, who lived two thousand five hundred years ago, and converted
almost half the Hindus to the knowledge of the impersonal, indivisible
and only God, besides whom there is none.

"Buddhism is divided into many sects which, by the way, differ only in
certain religious ceremonies, the basis of the doctrine being everywhere
the same. The Thibetan Buddhists, who are called 'lamaists,' separated
themselves from the Fô-ists fifteen hundred years ago. Until that time
we had formed part of the worshippers of the Buddha, Fô-Sakya-Muni, who
was the first to collect all the laws compiled by the various buddhas
preceding him, when the great schism took place in the bosom of
Brahmanism. Later on, a Khoutoukhte-Mongol translated into Chinese the
books of the great Buddha, for which the Emperor of China rewarded him
by bestowing upon him the title of 'G-Chi--'Preceptor of the King!'
After his death, this title was given to the Dalai-Lama of Thibet. Since
that epoch, all the titularies of this position have borne the title of
Go-Chi. Our religion is called the Lamaic one--from the word 'lama,'
superior. It admits of two classes of monks, the red and the yellow. The
former may marry, and they recognize the authority of the Bantsine, who
resides in Techow Loumba, and is chief of the civil administration in
Thibet. We, the yellow lamas, have taken the vow of celibacy, and our
direct chief is the Dalai-Lama. This is the difference which separates
the two religious orders, the respective rituals of which are
identical."

"Do all perform mysteries similar to that which I have just witnessed?"

"Yes; with a few exceptions. Formerly these festivals were celebrated
with very solemn pomp, but since the conquest of Ladak our convents have
been, more than once, pillaged and our wealth taken away. Now we content
ourselves with simple garments and bronze utensils, while in Thibet you
see but golden robes and gold utensils."

"In a visit which I recently made to a gonpa, one of the lamas told me
of a prophet, or, as you call him, a buddha, by the name of Issa. Could
you not tell me anything about him?" I asked my interlocutor, seizing
this favorable moment to start the subject which interested me so
greatly.

"The name Issa is very much respected among the Buddhists," he replied,
"but he is only known by the chief lamas, who have read the scrolls
relating to his life. There have existed an infinite number of buddhas
like Issa, and the 84,000 scrolls existing are filled brim full of
details concerning each one of them. But very few persons have read the
one-hundredth part of those memoirs. In conformity with established
custom, every disciple or lama who visits Lhassa makes a gift of one or
several copies, from the scrolls there, to the convent to which he
belongs. Our gonpa, among others, possesses already a great number,
which I read in my leisure hours. Among them are the memoirs of the life
and acts of the Buddha Issa, who preached the same doctrine in India and
among the sons of Israel, and who was put to death by the Pagans, whose
descendants, later on, adopted the beliefs he spread,--and those beliefs
are yours.

"The great Buddha, the soul of the Universe, is the incarnation of
Brahma. He, almost always, remains immobile, containing in himself all
things, being in himself the origin of all and his breath vivifying the
world. He has left man to the control of his own forces, but, at certain
epochs, lays aside his inaction and puts on a human form that he may, as
their teacher and guide, rescue his creatures from impending
destruction. In the course of his terrestrial existence in the
similitude of man, Buddha creates a new world in the hearts of erring
men; then he leaves the earth, to become once more an invisible being
and resume his condition of perfect bliss. Three thousand years ago,
Buddha incarnated in the celebrated Prince Sakya-Muni, reaffirming and
propagating the doctrines taught by him in his twenty preceding
incarnations. Twenty-five hundred years ago, the Great Soul of the World
incarnated anew in Gautama, laying the foundation of a new world in
Burmah, Siam and different islands. Soon afterward, Buddhism began to
penetrate China, through the persevering efforts of the sages, who
devoted themselves to the propagation of the sacred doctrine, and under
Ming-Ti, of the Honi dynasty, nearly 2,050 years ago, the teachings of
Sakya-Muni were adopted by the people of that country. Simultaneously
with the appearance of Buddhism in China, the same doctrines began to
spread among the Israelites. It is about 2,000 years ago that the
perfect Being, awaking once more for a short time from his inaction,
incarnated in the newborn child of a poor family. It was his will that
this little child should enlighten the unhappy upon the life of the
world to come and bring erring men back into the path of truth; showing
to them, by his own example, the way they could best return to the
primitive morality and purity of our race. When this sacred child
attained a certain age, he was brought to India, where, until he
attained to manhood, he studied the laws of the great Buddha, who dwells
eternally in heaven."

"In what language are written the principal scrolls bearing upon the
life of Issa?" I asked, rising from my seat, for I saw that my
interesting interlocutor evidenced fatigue, and had just given a twirl
to his prayer-wheel, as if to hint the closing of the conversation.

"The original scrolls brought from India to Nepaul, and from Nepaul to
Thibet, relating to the life of Issa, are written in the Pali language
and are actually in Lhassa; but a copy in our language--I mean the
Thibetan--is in this convent."

"How is Issa looked upon in Thibet? Has he the repute of a saint?"

"The people are not even aware that he ever existed. Only the principal
lamas, who know of him through having studied the scrolls in which his
life is related, are familiar with his name; but, as his doctrine does
not constitute a canonical part of Buddhism, and the worshippers of Issa
do not recognize the authority of the Dalai-Lama, the prophet Issa--with
many others like him--is not recognized in Thibet as one of the
principal saints."

"Would you commit a sin in reciting your copy of the life of Issa to a
stranger?" I asked him.

"That which belongs to God," he answered me, "belongs also to man. Our
duty requires us to cheerfully devote ourselves to the propagation of
His doctrine. Only, I do not, at present, know where that manuscript is.
If you ever visit our gonpa again, I shall take pleasure in showing it
to you."

At this moment two monks entered, and uttered to the chief lama a few
words unintelligible to me.

"I am called to the sacrifices. Will you kindly excuse me?" said he to
me, and with a salute, turned to the door and disappeared.

I could do no better than withdraw and lie down in the chamber which was
assigned to me and where I spent the night.

* * * * *

In the evening of the next day I was again in Leh--thinking of how to
get back to the convent. Two days later I sent, by a messenger, to the
chief lama, as presents, a watch, an alarm clock, and a thermometer. At
the same time I sent the message that before leaving Ladak I would
probably return to the convent, in the hope that he would permit me to
see the manuscript which had been the subject of our conversation. It
was now my purpose to gain Kachmyr and return from there, some time
later, to Himis. But fate made a different decision for me.

In passing a mountain, on a height of which is perched the gonpa of
Piatak, my horse made a false step, throwing me to the ground so
violently that my right leg was broken below the knee.

It was impossible to continue my journey, I was not inclined to return
to Leh; and seeking the hospitality of the gonpa of Piatak was not, from
the appearance of the cloister, an enticing prospect. My best recourse
would be to return to Himis, then only about half a day's journey
distant, and I ordered my servants to transport me there. They bandaged
my broken leg--an operation which caused me great pain--and lifted me
into the saddle. One carrier walked by my side, supporting the weight of
the injured member, while another led my horse. At a late hour of the
evening we reached the door of the convent of Himis.

When informed of my accident, the kind monks came out to receive me and,
with a wealth of extraordinary precautions of tenderness, I was carried
inside, and, in one of their best rooms, installed upon an improvised
bed, consisting of a mountain of soft fabrics, with the
naturally-to-be-expected prayer-cylinder beside me. All this was done
for me under the personal supervision of their chief lama, who, with
affectionate sympathy, pressed the hand I gave him in expression of my
thanks for his kindness.

In the morning, I myself bound around the injured limb little oblong
pieces of wood, held by cords, to serve as splints. Then I remained
perfectly quiescent and nature was not slow in her reparative work.
Within two days my condition was so far improved that I could, had it
been necessary, have left the gonpa and directed myself slowly toward
India in search of a surgeon to complete my cure.

While a boy kept in motion the prayer-barrel near my bed, the venerable
lama who ruled the convent entertained me with many interesting stories.
Frequently he took from their box the alarm clock and the watch, that I
might illustrate to him the process of winding them and explain to him
their uses. At length, yielding to my ardent insistence, he brought me
two big books, the large leaves of which were of paper yellow with age,
and from them read to me the biography of Issa, which I carefully
transcribed in my travelling notebook according to the translation made
by the interpreter. This curious document is compiled under the form of
isolated verses, which, as placed, very often had no apparent connection
with, or relation to each other.

On the third day, my condition was so far improved as to permit the
prosecution of my journey. Having bound up my leg as well as possible, I
returned, across Kachmyr, to India; a slow journey, of twenty days,
filled with intolerable pain. Thanks, however, to a litter, which a
French gentleman, M. Peicheau, had kindly sent to me (my gratitude for
which I take this occasion to express), and to an ukase of the Grand
Vizier of the Maharajah of Kachmyr, ordering the local authorities to
provide me with carriers, I reached Srinagar, and left almost
immediately, being anxious to gain India before the first snows fell.

In Muré I encountered another Frenchman, Count André de Saint Phall, who
was making a journey of recreation across Hindostan. During the whole
course, which we made together, to Bombay, the young count demonstrated
a touching solicitude for me, and sympathy for the excruciating pain I
suffered from my broken leg and the fever induced by its torture. I
cherish for him sincere gratitude, and shall never forget the friendly
care which I received upon my arrival in Bombay from the Marquis de
Morés, the Vicomte de Breteul, M. Monod, of the Comptoir d'Escompte, M.
Moët, acting consul, and all the members of the very sympathetic French
colony there.

During a long time I revolved in my mind the purpose of publishing the
memoirs of the life of Jesus Christ found by me in Himis, of which I
have spoken, but other interests absorbed my attention and delayed it.
Only now, after having passed long nights of wakefulness in the
coordination of my notes and grouping the verses conformably to the
march of the recital, imparting to the work, as a whole, a character of
unity, I resolve to let this curious chronicle see the light.

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