Among the manuscripts in the ancient Chinese watch-towers were found dictionaries and the biographies of famous women. Such was the modernity of ancient peoples.
When you already know the beauties of Asia, and are accustomed to all the richness of its colors, nevertheless they again astonish you, and again elate your feelings, so that you feel able to accomplish the impossible.
Flies, mosquitoes, fleas, earwigs! All possible gifts has Kashmir. Our departure was not without bloodshed. In Tangmarg a band of ruffians attacked our caravan and began to beat our men with iron rods; seven of our men were hurt. It was necessary to preserve order with revolvers and rifles. In Ghund, our hostlers fed the horses with poisonous grass; the horses began to shiver and finally lay down. The entire night they had to be walked up and down. My horse, Mastan, suffered especially, and also Sabsa, that of George. The drivers made fires around the ammunition box. A wildcat crept into the tent under George’s bed.
Sattar Khan (our caravan leader) brought five ragamuffins: “This is a special guard from the village. For in the neighborhood many Afridi (from Afghan) are wandering. They may rob.” The ragamuffins slept near the tents. Nobody came to rob.
Did the ancient Goths not compare Kashmir with the Tyrol? Or with the Rhine? Transparent, ephemeral, flitting is the beauty of Kashmir. It is difficult to imagine oneself in mighty Asia. Further, further—beyond, to the rocks and amber sands.
Wet, rainy Baltal. We had not yet succeeded in spreading the wet tents when there arose a new provocation. A policeman came with a report that our people had at that moment just destroyed a sanitary post and had seriously insulted the doctor. Fortunately, the guard at the railway station did not confirm this evil invention. We again bid our men not to answer any insults. The caravaneers insisted upon our spending an extra day in Baltal because of their fear of avalanches on Zoji. We discussed, walked, reconnoitered on the mountain and with hesitation decided to move on. There were no avalanches, although as always on the edges of the mountain, there may have been separate falling stones. Upon the pass, as usual, was an icy wind. The fur coats became lighter than gauze!
The Balti had a stomach ache. Thoughtlessly, we gave him cognac. At once, three more “became sick”; and when we gave them laxatives they began to demand the same medicine as we gave to the first one.
In the field near Dras remarkably beautiful women were working. They were of an Arabian type, dressed in black shirts with black bands on their heads. We thought these were Dards but were told they were Afridi, who came to the summer pastures from Afghan; these are the ones of whom the people are afraid.
There are stories of how caravans were looted: one Tibetan caravan was captured by the Amban of Sining. The other was destroyed completely by a Mongolian Ja-lama, who, beginning his career as a statesman, finished as a feudal bandit. Hiskhoshuns, up to now, are marauding in Tsaidam.
There are stories about the high interest which is extorted by the Sinkiang officials and army officers. All loan money on interest, exacting up to twenty per cent per month. It is terrible.
We encounter the passing caravans. All sorts of people—Dards, Baltis, Ladakis, Astoris and Yarkandis. The tongues are completely different. It is like an exodus of nations.
After Zoji all changed. Kashmir remained behind with all its poisonous herbs, cholera and insects. Crossing the icy bridges over a thundering river, we seemed to cross into another country. People seem more honest; the streams seem more health-giving; the herbs are more curative and the stones are multi-colored. And the air itself seems exhilarating. Mornings are brisk—as of the first autumn frosts. In the afternoon there is a clear dry heat. The rocks are purple and green of hue. Grasses are golden like rich carpets. And the recesses of the mountains as well as the slime of the river-bed and the healing aromatic herbs—all are prepared to contribute their gifts. Here verily great decisions are possible.
Beyond Dras we encounter the first Buddhist message. Near the road are two stone stelae representing Maitreya. Nearby, a stone with the image of a rider. Is this rider not upon a white horse? Is this not a messenger of the new world? It is remarkable that this first Buddhist emblem happens to be just the image of Maitreya.
In Maulbeck, we visited a typical Tibetan home of the old order. We climbed up on a slanting ladder as on a raised bridge. Within was the house chapel, and an odor of incense. We found a portly hostess—a widow. From the balconies is a wondrous view, encompassing all the mountains and a fantasy of sand formations. The rooms are peaceful. Upon the floor near the door, a girl squeezes out vegetable oil for lamps. Behind her is the skin of a yak, and her head is crowned by a weighty headdress of turquoise.
In Dras is the first sign of Maitreya. But in ancient Maulbeck, a gigantic image of the Coming One powerfully stands beside the road. Every traveler must pass by this rock. Two hands reach toward the sky, like the summons of far-off worlds. Two hands reach downward like the benediction of earth. They know that Maitreya is coming. Is it not about this gigantic image that Fa-hsien wrote in his diaries? So it would seem.
The Monastery, Maulbeck, with two temples and endless ruins, crowns the rocks with an unusually heroic chord. As a precious bronze wedge! And the country of forgotten heroism is asleep. Forgotten is the legend of Herodotus about ants bringing gold from the shore of the Indus. But some remember about this gold. And Gessar-Khan promises to open the gold fields upon a certain date to the people who will be worthily able to meet the coming tide of Maitreya—the age of universal unity ordained by Buddha himself.
Ladaki drivers, who are Buddhists, wash their hands and heads, and rinse their mouths before each meal. And they sing resoundingly and joyously. And my black hostler begins a dance on the road. We go merrily. We observe the colors and silhouettes of the rocks.
Whoever built Lamayuru and Maulbeck knew what was true beauty and fearlessness. Before such expanse, before such decorations, Italian cities pale. And these solemn rows of stupas are like joyous torches upon tourmaline sands. Where will one find such decoration as the castle of “Tiger’s Peak,” or the endless ruins of the castles crowning all the slopes near the Tibetan Kharbu? Where lies a country equal to these forsaken spots? Let us be just and bow before such true beauty.
It is amazing. Here in Lamayuru, in this very stronghold not only of the Red sects but even Bon-po, among the row of images stands a great image of Maitreya. It was placed here about two hundred years ago. Even here did this knowledge penetrate. Maitreya alone binds firmly the Mahayana and Hinayana including Ceylon. In this reverence are united Yellow and Red sects. There is magnificence in this reverence of the future.
The caravans, meeting, greet each other. They always inquire, “Whence do you come?” They never inquire, “Who are you?” Movement has already effaced personality. Above the caravans sound the calls, “Shabash” (good way ahead) or “Kabarda” (danger, attention). And truly, on the steep banks of the yellow, thunderous Indus, there is always danger of a cruel, swift tide, a sweep of sharp stones which can brush the horse into the whirlpool of the torrent.
Saspul is an open, merry place. Around it are many monasteries. At the very road is a small monastery, and within it a gigantic image of the seated Maitreya. On the side also stand giants, Manjushri and Avalokiteshvara. In the front temple is an ancient stone stela with the same images, which dates from the tenth century or earlier. The lama of the temple talks with knowledge about Maitreya. This temple has been little noticed in descriptions.
Maitreya stands as the symbol of the future. But we also perceived the signs of the past. Upon the rocks are images of deer, of mountain goats with twisted horns, of horses.
Where did we recall similar images? Why, on the stones of North America; upon Siberian rocks; the same technique, the same stylization, and the same reverence for animals. Few are the human images. We saw only one—an archer and several rows of people, perhaps representing a ritual. Through these images, America and Asia stretch hands to each other. On the wall of a semi-grotto where we paused for rest, the hands of some unknown travelers had also left the figures of animals.
Basgo is an ancient monastery upon the sharp cliffs. Such a whimsical and variegated line, without any minuteness, is seldom seen.
The Ladaki villages are not ill-smelling. On the contrary, one often smells incense, wild mint, sage, apples and apricots.
We passed Kalatse. There upon the bridge was nailed the hand of the “robber,” Sukamir, who attempted to conquer Ladak for Kashmir. A cat had devoured this venal hand—and in its place it was found necessary to borrow the hand of a dead lama, lest the symbol suffer. Already missionaries are in Kalatse.
Encampments from Srinagar to Leh: Ganderbal, Kangan, Ghund, Sonamarg, Baltal (Zoji), Matayan, Dras, Kharbu, Kargil, Maulbeck, Tibetan Kharbu, Lamayuru, Nurla, Saspul (Basgo), Nyimu. The last may be omitted if the night-lodging is prepared in Leh.
Wheat does not fear an altitude of twelve thousand feet, and barley is adaptable as high as fifteen thousand feet. Horses are fed with barley instead of oats. A certain veterinarian attempted to prove that barley was very harmful for horses but all Tibet in practice has proved the opposite.
In the time of war and revolution the trade of Turkestan and India was increased. In Leh the former political inspector of Gilgit is stationed as special trade agent.
Bearded vultures, white-tailed eagles and European falcons of brownish-gold are perching upon the sapphires and tourmalines of the mountains.
On New Year the Tibetans bring to Buddha freshly blossoming greens, because the Tibetan New Year is at the beginning of February. And in Lhasa at that time they prepare for work in the fields. What then is there better and fresher and more symbolic of striving to offer to Buddha than the fresh seedlings, this first message of the awakened life?
Either one must accept what exists in its full reality or find recourse in personal superstitions. Of course, reality is precious. But then, one must take the actual living facts. These facts will bring their offering of tender verdure to Buddha; they also will evoke dreams of the unity of the peoples. They will give rise to the structure of the new unions. But these facts one can verify only in the desert beyond the accessible boundaries, outside of the sphere of influence; where there are no slanderers, no liars; where one thinks all afresh; where decisions do not depend upon any outlined regulations.
We are looking upon the inexhaustibly rich rock formations. We note where and how were conceived the examples of symbolic images. Nature, having no outlet, inscribed epics with their wealth of ornamentation, on the rocks. One perceives how the forms of imagery blend with the mountain atmosphere. Just those forms, thought out in the West, here begin to live and become convincing. One may expect the appearance of Kuan Yin; or Lhamo prepares the element of destruction; or the image of Mahakala may issue from the mass of the cliff. And how many enchanted stone knights await their liberation! How many enchanted helmets and swords are hidden in the chasms! This is not the unlifelike Durandale from Rockamadura. This is the real tragedy and achievement of life. And Bruguma of Gessar Khan is kin to Brunhilde of Siegfried. Crafty Locke runs along the fiery rocks. And under a tremendous banyan tree, in an orange mantle, sits a Sanyasin, in all ways and manners the same as in the times of Gautama Buddha.
Over the mountains rings out the “Forging of the Sword” and the “Call of Valkyrie” and the “Magic Fire Music” and the “Roar of Fafner.” I remember Stravinsky once was ready to annihilate Wagner. No, Igor, this heroic realism, these harmonies of achievement are not to be destroyed. And the music of Wagner is also true, and rings remarkably in the mountains. Ragtime and fox-trots will not supplant Wagner. Upon the Tyrolian rocks and in the Villa at Pisa, Wagner became filled with a true enthusiasm and his sweep is fit for the heights of Asia. Humanity still lives by beauty.
An unusual fire in the village Nyimu! I was awakened by the exclamation of E.I.: “Fire! Fire!” I awoke and saw the silhouette of E.I. against a background of undulating bluish flame; gradually the fire died out. It appears that E.I. approached the bed and touched the blanket. The bluish flame, warm, odorless, flashed up. E.I. tried to extinguish it with her hands but the flame spread more and more strongly. Then she called me. The fire ceased as it began, without leaving the slightest trace on anything. Unforgettable was this leaping flame, unconsuming and vivid. The tent was entirely illumined. As always during phenomena, only afterwards we could talk over all the unusual details of this fire.
Dr. Francke relates the words of his Tibetan fellow traveler at the source of the Indus, in view of certain heights: “Behind them lies Ba-yul, the country of tall beings. Only highly developed people can find out something about the life in this Ba-yul. But if a simple man approaches the snowy boundaries he sometimes hears only voices incomprehensible to him.”
A Ladaki song:
Through the gates of the east entered the Hindu Faith.
Say, did you pass by way of the sacred word?
The Persian kingdom erects the gates of the south.
Did you pass through them?
The celestial message of China opens to us the western gates.
How did you pass the way of the Chinese sign?
And the gates of the north belong to Gessar Khan.
How did you pass the way of the sword stroke?
Did you pass the gates leading to Lhasa, where lies the way of the seekers of truth?
The east—the gates of India. There, hallowing the sacred word and custom, we rested.
The Persian kingdom possesses the gates of the south.
There we revered the border of the noble ones.
The celestial message of China opened to us the western gates.
Affirming the dates it gave us happiness.
The gates to the warrior, Gessar, are on the north.
By the clash of swords we passed these nations.
And through the gates of Lhasa, seeking for truth,
We passed, testing in silence our spirit.
The geographical oddities of the song evidently result from the accumulations of different races.
Another beautiful Ladaki song:
One is visited by wisdom and one is only an onlooker.
Some can achieve wholly naught, therefore one must test himself here.
But to him who already comes with wisdom, there is special bliss.
Does the High One need the wisdom of nine signs?
And does the mediocre one need the same?
Are you coming as friend of high estate or do you only desire a purse?
Did you come without threats?
Do you wish the covenant of friendship?
There are three kinds of enemies.
There are three kinds of friends.
Would you enumerate them?
There are three enemies:
An enemy who induces sickness,
An enemy who hates the spirit,
An enemy who avenges in bloodshed.
We did not come as enemies,
We are friend to you.
We name three friends:
Our Liberator Buddha,
The union of a harmonious family,
The union of love and blood.
Here are the three friends.
Verily, it is so.
The geographical oddities of the song evidently result from the accumulations of different races.
We recall the beautiful little book of Claude Bragdon, “Episodes of an Unwritten History.” We could furnish him with several more episodes. It is always pleasant to meet Bragdon. All that he does is so sincere and fine.
Pay attention to the blending of Kuan Yin, Aryabalo—Avalokiteshvara. Gessar insists upon the structure of the temple, Aryabalo.
The name of Gessar has reached as far as the Volga (Astrakhan).
Gessar is being identified with Assur.
The temple of Gessar Khan was built upon the site of the manifestation of Avalokiteshvara.
The people of Ordoss place before the house five colored banners, the colors of the rainbow, awaiting the coming of the great being—“Tengiras Ochirtai.”
The abbot of the monastery Wu-t’ai shan in the book, “The Red Path to Shambhala,” describes many details of the way into this forbidden place. At the end of it there is a characteristic detail, to the effect that the traveler saw on the very edge of the safeguarded place, a caravan of Mongols with salt, although they did not suspect the nearness of the dwelling.
A Buriat lama gives the information that when he went to Shambhala he was led by an underground passage. The passage sometimes became so narrow that one could hardly push through the thoroughbred ram, which was being led into the forbidden place.
Mongolian lamas indicate several “safeguarded” places in the boundaries of Khangai and Gobi. There came several hurried messengers from the Himalayas.
Near Kalatse many places are pointed out which are dedicated to the name of Gessar Khan: 1. Garuda—of Gessar Khan. 2. Saddle of Gessar. 3. Tambourine of Bruguma, wife of Gessar. 4. Spinning wheel of Bruguma. 5. Castle of Gessar Khan—a high rock—a white spot indicates the sign of a door.
On Sumur upon the rock is an image of a crowned lion. This lion is upon Tibetan and military banners.
Mongols speak about the coming of “Meru.”
In the spring in Ladak is a festival of Gessar, celebrated with singing and archery. From the names of the songs one may weave a complete garland about Gessar.
Let us remember the names: Gessar the Conqueror; Gessar and the Treasury of the Giants; The Wisdom of Bruguma; Father and Mother, the All-powerful; The Return of Gessar and Bruguma; The Voices of Heaven; The Conjuration of the Arrow; The Four Victories of Gessar; The Prayer of Gessar; Upon the Peak Shrar; Gessar the Ruler of Lightning; The Victory Song of Gessar; Praise to Gessar.
These titles alone proclaim the path of folk-consciousness, of the national dignity and the dream about the hero of freedom.
Both Ladakis and Mongols await fighters and builders of life. They endow them not only with a leonine courage but with serpentine cunning and the tirelessness of a stag. How wondrous it is to observe the growth of the consciousness and its forging of heroic symbols!
The images upon the rocks can be ascribed to three periods: the Neolith, the ancient faith of Bon-po and the superstition of a later period. In the technique of the images themselves one can distinguish the firm, succulent stylization of antiquity and the restrained, sharp line of later drawings.
The name of Orion is often connected with the narrative about Gessar Khan, On Altai, the mountain Beluha is called Outch-Sure. Outch means Orion; Sure, the dwelling of Gods; thus correlating to the Mongolian Sumer and Hindu Sumeru. Upon the mountain Outch-Sure one ascends by a White Khatik. The heavenly bird upon the mountain Outch-Sure has conquered the dragon. Tsagan Ubugun, white old man, is always near to the Great Bear.
They say in the caravan that the Mongolian soldiers—tseriks—carry special banners and sing a hymn composed by them about the approach of the time of Shambhala.
From border to border, from mouth to mouth.
One does not care to give to the local images any ethnographical or geographical character. Let them go as banners: “Sanctuaries and Citadels.” Let them, by their general tone of heroism and attainment, themselves speak for this country.
Spitug is a powerful monastery, the first, according to the teachings of Tsong-kha-pa. Here are not ruins, but a living and working community. The abbot of the monastery and his coworkers are learned and strikingly keen men. Before one has yet completely spoken, they are ready to continue your finished thought correctly. In Spitug lies the image of Maitreya and the knowledge of the prophecies. In one of the divisions of Spitug in Leh in a special compartment stands a great image of Dukar, Mother of the World, with numberless eyes of omniscience, and with the arrow of justice. At her right, stands Maitreya—the Coming One. At her left, the many-armed image of the Avalokiteshvara, this conclave of the Brotherhood of the Great Unity. One should remember the correlation of these three symbols. This correlation has never been remarked upon or explained.
In both branches of Spitug, the murals are excellent, with strong tones and feeling of balance. They have promised to procure for us the same artist who painted these stirring walls.
To our camp came riding a missionary from Yarkand. On yaks, he had just crossed Khardong Pass, losing all sense of days and dates. His watch had stopped. He repeated constantly: “It is a staggeringly hard journey.” He told us that the worst spots were Khardong and Sasser Pass, while Karakorum, though higher was easier. He praised highly the people of Turkestan. He informed us that the Amban is already awaiting us and considers us his guests.
The monastery Sheh, seven miles from Leh, is wonderfully laid out. In it is a tremendous, two-storied image of Buddha, the finest mural of any seen by us thus far.
In Trikshe also are the great images of Buddha, Maitreya and Manjushri. The paintings are somewhat simpler. We did not see friendly lamas there. There was only an old Mongolian lama who, judging by his erratic laughter, was not quite normal.
One must also see the reverse side of Buddhism—let us go to Hemis. On approaching one already feels the strange atmosphere of darkness and dejection. The stupas have strange fearful images—ugly faces. Dark banners. Black ravens fly above and black dogs are gnawing at bones. And the canyon tightly incloses itself. Of course, the temple and the houses are all huddled together. And the objects of service are heaped together in dark corners like pillaged loot. The lamas are half-literate. Our guide laughs. “Hemis, a big name, but a little monastery.” Of course, small, not according to size, but to inner meaning. Here is apparent prejudice and greed. The only fine thing about it was that upon the neighboring sharp rocks, at morning, the stags appeared and, standing long upon the cliffs, turned their heads to greet the sun.
It is an old monastery founded by a great lama who left a book about Shambhala and these manuscripts are lying down below, out of sight, probably feeding the mice.
Regarding the legends of Jesus—first there was a complete denial. To our amazement denial first comes from the circle of missionaries. Then slowly, little by little, creep in fragmentary, reticent details, difficult to obtain. Finally it appears that the old people in Ladak have heard and know about the legends.
Such legends about Jesus and the Book of Shambhala lie in the “darkest” place. And the figure of the lama—the compiler of the book of Shambhala—stands like an idol in some sort of fantastic headgear. And how many other relics have perished in dusty corners? For the Tantrik-lamas have no interest in them. It was necessary to see this other side of Buddhism.
And how simple it is to brush aside this grime and dust of fanaticism! How simple to restore the stirring mural paintings! How easy to purify and to cleanse the finely wrought statues! Nor is it difficult to bring the monastic organizations back to the full meaning of the working order, according to the teachings of the greatest Lion (Sinha)—Buddha.
“I am the King of Ladak”—thus the slender, slight man in Tibetan garb, approached us. He is the former King of Ladak, who was conquered by Kashmiris. His is a fine, intellectual face. Now his means are very limited. And so we speak at tea, and we tell him we love his country and his people who are remarkable for their calmness and honesty. We speak of the teaching and the guest in a fine, subtle way, remarks that the Yellow and Red Sects are now almost alike in many observances. We speak of ancient things, of the finesse of the work. The king invites us to see his palace, which rises high upon the rocks overlooking Leh.
We climb the steep, uncertain staircases. We pass along the dark crossings. We pause, rapt in joy, upon the terraces and balconies, from which, before us, spreads the vista of all mountains and sand-mounds. We must bow in order to enter the low, tiny doors which lead into the house temple. The temple is dedicated to Dukar, the resplendent Mother of the World. In the center again stands her image. On her right hand—Buddha.
Although the king now lives in Stog, the summer palace, nevertheless, before these images are fresh flowers. On the walls hang many finely colored banners. The general feeling of the paintings here is finer than in Sikhim, and one feels the great influence of Tashi-lhunpo.
Near the palace, in a separate temple, is placed the gigantic image of Maitreya. The wall painting there is very majestic. Often, the murals of Italy or of Russian churches, were either too detailed or too general in parts. But here one is startled by the unusual combination of breadth of understanding of the general parts, with their richness of detail. The figure of Maitreya is two stories high—up to the waist in the lower floor, and on the higher floor, the Image itself. Perhaps this division of the statue was done as an afterthought, but its idea is quite remarkable. It is as though the common man should not perceive at once the entire grandeur of the symbol. One must ascend the upper way in order to reach the Image—as though of a higher world. The lower floor is bathed in twilight while above, through the narrow windows without glass, the rays of the bright, all-penetrating sun pour in. And near you are great number of stupas and the glistening sand and fantastic networks of the gates.
The Mongolian lama has arrived and with him a new wave of news; they await our arrival in Lhasa. In monasteries, he says, all are discussing the prophecies. He is an excellent lama and has already traveled from Urga to Ceylon. How far this organization of the lamas is penetrating everywhere!
We are talking with the lama about what happened to us near Darjeeling. It must be recorded. We were going in an automobile near the monastery Ghum. Approaching us there appeared a porte-chaise, carried by four servants in white garments, while the lama himself sat in a remarkably beautiful garment with a crown upon his head. He had a bright, welcoming face, with a small black beard. The automobile had to slow down, and the lama smiled and joyously nodded his head. We thought that this was the important abbot of a large monastery. But afterwards we discovered that lamas are not carried in porte-chaises, nor do they wear crowns when traveling. Nor do lamas in Sikhim appear in such beautiful garments. No one ever heard of such a lama—and a face like his we found nowhere. The chauffeur slowed up the automobile while driving before the lama, which enabled us sharply to observe his face.
The last flight of the Tashi Lama had a heroic character. Three hundred armed lamas accompanied the visionary refugee. Each of them, and the Tashi Lama himself, led an extra horse by the bridle, because the flight was hurried—and pursuit threatened them from all sides. A message was brought to them, just in time, that five hundred Lhasan horsemen were hastening to cut off escape on the Nagchu Pass. The Tashi Lama succeeded in turning to the side and escaping through a gorge. A snowstorm rose and the pursuit was cut off.
So, full-armed, amidst an incessant galloping, an historic flight occurred—the fulfillment of the ancient prophecies, so important for the future, took place. According to an eyewitness, the monk-artist Gelong Champa Tashi, the Tashi Lama took with him from Tashi-lhunpo only the pictures of Shambhala. Out of them, on the way, he gave two to well-known Khutukhtas; and here in Ladak was Rinpoche, from the Chumbi, who told us that now the shortest way is only through Shambhala! In many monasteries the images of Maitreya are being raised and restored!
From hand to hand among the local inhabitants the prophecies and new commands are traveling. With excitement they are comparing the dates which have already been fulfilled. And they prepare and await, await, await. . . .
Someone comes in the evening and whispers about a new manuscript of Shambhala. We ask him to bring it.
One must be in these places to understand what occurs! One must look into the eyes of these coming ones, in order to realize how vitally important for them is the meaning of Shambhala. And the dates of events are not a curious oddity for them but are connected with the structures of the future. Though these structures are sometimes dust-ridden and perverted, their substance is vital and stirs the thought. Following the development of thought you realize the dreams and hopes. And out of these fragments has been pieced together the real departure of the Tashi Lama—an important one. The new web of the world!
Three years before his departure, the Tashi Lama ordered that frescoes be painted on the walls of his inner chambers. In these frescoes in clear symbols are represented all the wanderings of the Tashi Lama through various countries.
Throughout Ladak are scattered stones with images of a cross, apparently Druid or Nestorian. The most ancient and now forgotten country preserves the Druid signs and all possible later symbols.
Not far from the site of Buddha stand most ancient tombs called ancient Dard graves. Their age is of course considerably more than a thousand years.
Three items of information reached us in one day about the legends of Jesus. A Hindu said to us: “I have heard from one Ladaki official that according to the words of the former Abbot of Hemis, there was a tree and a small pool in Leh beside which Jesus taught.” (This is some new version about a tree and a pool, unheard before.)
The missionary says: “A nonsensical invention composed by a Pole who sat in Hemis several months.” (One may ask why invented, when it coincides with other versions and proofs.)
Another says: “Is it not a Nestorian legend? Among them were many legends and true ones. But missionaries know nothing about it.”
So the subject is being discussed. Thus slowly the news begins to leak out. The chief thing is the unusual depth of the legend and the wonderful meaning it has to the lamas throughout the entire East.
A good and sensitive Hindu spoke meaningly about the manuscript of the life of Issa. “Why does one always place Issa in Egypt during the time of his absence from Palestine? His young years of course were passed in study. The traces of his learning have naturally impressed themselves upon his later sermons. To what sources do these sermons lead? What is there in them of Egyptian? And why does one not see traces of Buddhism—of India? It is difficult to understand why the wandering of Issa by caravan path into India and into the region now occupied by Tibet, should be so vehemently denied.”
The teachings of India were famed far and wide; let us even recall the description of the life of Appolonius of Tyana and his visits to Hindu sages.
Another speaker reminds us that in Syria a slab was found with an inscribed governmental edict about the persecution of the followers of Jesus as enemies of the government. This archaeological find must be curious for those who deny the historicity of Jesus the Teacher. And how does one explain the tiny coins used by the early Christians in the catacombs? And the first catacombs themselves still exist.
There are always those who love scornfully to deny when something difficult enters their consciousness; but then, knowledge is transformed into seminaristic scholasticism and slander is cultivated as a fine art. In what possible way could a recent forgery penetrate into the consciousness of the whole East? And where is the scientist who could write a long treatise in Pali and Tibetan? We do not know such a one.
Each day the lama rejoices and astonishes us. He has seen so much and knows so much and is able so keenly to discriminate among the people. Just now he has brought us the information that a name very close to us is mentioned in the most ancient prophecies. There is not the slightest bigotry in the lama and for the defense of the foundations he is even ready to take arms.
He will whisper: “Do not speak to this man—he will babble everything.” . . . “And now I had better leave you.” And there is nothing personal felt behind his motives. And how ready he is to move farther!
Leh is a remarkable site. Here the legends connected the paths of Buddha and Christ. Buddha went through Leh northwards. Issa communed here with the people on his way from Tibet. Secretly and cautiously the legends are guarded. It is difficult to sound them because lamas, above all people, know how to keep silent. Only by means of a common language—and not merely that of tongue but also of inner understanding—can one approach their significant mysteries. One becomes convinced that every educated Gelong knows much. Even by his eyes one cannot guess when he agrees or inwardly laughs at you, knowing more than yourself. How many stories these silent ones can tell of the passing “savants” who have found themselves in the most ridiculous positions! But now has come the time of the illumination of Asia.
Wonderful voices have the Ladakis. Their robes strangely recall the Russian Byzantine ornaments. Often instead of the fur slung behind the shoulders, there is a short mantle of cloth with embroidered designs, which gives the impression of the ancient corsno (Byzantine mantle-cloak). Their high embroidered hats are like those of Boyars. In their girdles are metal depositories for a pen and a pair of reed pipes, and with these latter they fill the evening with ringing melodies. During the hours of their work in the fields the Ladakis wear on their heads wreaths of barley and flowers. And the songs—such ringing joyous sound—are like the nature of Ladak itself!
Once again came the King of Ladak. As a result we are to live in his palace. From this site of the sermons of Issa, from its high terraces, one must paint a series of all that can be seen from here. In these high places, purified by winds, occurred the signs of great communions. Of course the places have changed. Destructions and constructions succeeded one another. The conquerors have brought new accumulations, but the basic silhouette remains unchanged. The same heavenly frames as formerly are crowning the earth—the same glowing stars and the tides of sand like a sea congealed. And the deafening winds, sweeping up from the earth. . . .
And here is the site of Buddha. It is eroded by time. A legend speaks of a “great and very ancient structure.” But now the abutments of cliffs and rugged stones speak only of destruction. The old hewn stones have gone to the structure of later stupas, which in their turn have already crumbled. One fact is evident—you stand upon a place of ancient habitation. Not far off is an old village and a sharp-peaked heap of ruins—remains of an ancient fortress merged together like a monolith.
The days are filled with our settling in the Ladaki palace. Crowds of people are coming: envoys from Lhasa, Tibetan merchants, Ak-sakal the Elder, Tasildar from Kashmir (the district chief) and, again, the King of Ladak.
The old King Lama came himself. In spite of his poverty he brought with him about ten accompanying lamas and relatives. From the conversation it became apparent that the family of the king knows of the manuscripts about Issa. They also informed us that many Mohammedans would like to possess this document. Then followed conversation about prophecies connected with Shambhala, about the dates and about that which fills reality with beauty. The old King Lama departs and the crowd in white kaftans bow before him in reverence, simply and beautifully.
As simply yesterday in the street did a woman, walking out of the field of stubble, approach and stretch out a hand of greeting. They are now harvesting the golden barley. Rows of people with flower wreaths on their heads, carry on their backs sheaves of golden wheat and sing stirringly and joyously, in golden full-voiced garlands of song.
And so we live in a Ladaki palace. The ruins of Italian castles pale in comparison with this picturesque pile, this mass which rises in the chalice of the many-colored mountains. Where have we seen such lofty roof-terraces? Where have we previously walked upon such ruined alleys? Of course in the painting of Mehesky—the Moon people. Of course, these are the very same towers. Only here are dwelling not the Mehesky, but descendants of Gessar Khan. All Kings of Ladak trace their descent from the heroic Gessar Khan.
How wonderful that George knows all necessary Tibetan dialects. Only without a translator will people here speak about spiritual things. Now one must absorb, with full knowledge, with clear, true approach. Curiosity is not fitting. Only insistent love of knowledge!
The eighth of September. Letters from America. Many messages will miss us here. The letters traveled for six weeks—but successfully reached the steamer.
Upon the walls of the room chosen as the dining-room are painted vases with many-colored plants. On the bedroom walls are all the symbols of Chintamani—the stone of the treasure of the world. And the carved pillars, black from age, support the dusky ceiling with its big Berendey-like balusters. Little doors are above a high threshold and the narrow windows are without glass. And before nightfall the wind blows freely through the passageways. The floor is covered with bright felting from Yarkand. And upon the lower terrace a black dog barks—Tumbal, and the white dog, Amdong, are our new fellow travelers. During the night the wind whistles and the old walls shake.
I am painting in the upper chamber which has its exit upon all the roofs. Its doors have broad carved casements and the pillars have intricately frescoed capitals. Stairs, steps and dark ceilings are patterned by age. Where have I seen this chamber before? Where have these bright colors sparkled? Of course in the “Snowmaiden” in the Chicago setting. My dear ones enter and say: “Well, here is verily the true Berendey in his own chamber.”
Berendeyevka ended sooner than we thought—the fall does not tarry. One must pass Karakorum before the autumn northeast wind approaches. The way to Shayok is passable only a week longer. Moreover, the people already have taken the bridges apart for fuel, and the water has risen to the height of a man. There remains the path through the Khardong and Sasser passes. Many varied imperative considerations cause us to hasten the date of departure. With a large caravan one becomes a subject.
Hence with horses, with mules and yaks, with rams and with dogs, we go on the old trail—but with the signs of new possibilities, we will walk upon the mountains. And then down to the deserts. Is it possible to descend from the mountains? But the element of the sand is also beckoning and the desert nights and sunrises are also glowing. And in this glimmer of beauty lies the whole conception and hope.
Karakorum—the black throne. Beyond lies China—again the old patrimony of Buddha.
On a red steed, unbridled, with flaming banner, rushes the Great Rider, in armor and blowing upon the sacred conch-shell. From him are darting tongues of flame and before him fly messengers—birds. Behind him lie the mountains—Beluha. Snows and the White Tara send blessings. Above him exultingly is held the gathering of the Great Lamas. Beneath him are the guardians and herds of domestic animals as the symbols of the site. This ancient Tibetan picture was brought to us on the last day of our life in Ladak.
In the courtyard they complete the loading of the yaks. We are now setting out! And the day is sparkling.