While we were conversing with them, we took occasion to observe our hosts. Each of them made a very good impression. Their humble origin expressed itself in an attractive simplicity, but their bearing and demeanor were aristocratic. It was a big step from a small peasant’s house in a distant province to a dukedom in the capital. They now owned the palace they lived in and large properties in the country. But they seemed to have survived the sudden revolution in their lives without deterioration.
The boy whom we met, Lobsang Samten, was lively and wide awake. He was full of curiosity about us and asked us all manner of questions about our experiences. He told us that his “divine” younger brother had charged him to report on us exactly. We felt pleasantly excited by the news that the Dalai Lama was interested in us, and would have liked to learn more of him. We were told that the name Dalai Lama is not used in Tibet at all. It is a Mongolian expression meaning “Broad Ocean.” Normally the Dalai Lama is referred to as the “Gyalpo Rimpoche,” which means “Treasured King.” His parents and brothers use another title in speaking of him. They call him “Kundün,” which simply means “Presence.”
The Holy Parents had, in all, six children. The eldest son, long before the discovery of the Dalai Lama, had been recognized as an Incarnation of Buddha and invested with the dignity of a lama in the monastery of Tagtsel. He too was styled Rimpoche, the form of address applied to all lamas. The second son, Gyalo Thündrup, was at school in China. Our young acquaintance Lobsang was destined for a monastic life. The Dalai Lama himself was now eleven years old. Besides his brothers he had two sisters. Subsequently the Holy Mother gave birth to another Incarnation, Ngari Rimpoche. As the mother of three Incarnations she held the record for the Buddhist world.1
Our visit led to cordial relations with this adaptable, clever woman, which were to continue until she fled before the invasion of the Reds to India. Our friendship had nothing to do with the transcendental worship that the Holy Mother received from others. But though I have a fairly skeptical attitude toward metaphysicalmatters, I could not but recognize the power of personality and faith with which she was invested.
It gradually became clear to us what a distinction this invitation was. One must not forget that, with the exception of his family and a few personal servants holding the rank of abbot, no one has the right to address the God-King. Nevertheless, in his isolation from the world he had deigned to take an interest in our fate. When we rose to leave, we were asked if we needed anything. We thanked our hosts, but preferred modestly to ask for nothing, in spite of which a line of servants marched up with sacks of meal and tsampa, a load of butter, and some beautiful soft woolen blankets. “By the personal desire of the Kundün,” said the Holy Mother, smiling, and pressed into our hands a hundred-sang note. This was done so naturally and as if it was a matter of course that we felt no shame about accepting.
After many expressions of thanks and deep obeisances, we left the room in some embarrassment. As a final proof of friendliness, Lobsang, on behalf of his parents, laid the scarves once more on our necks as we bowed to him. He then took us into the garden and showed us the grounds and the stables, where we saw some splendid horses from Siling and Ili, the pride of his father. In the course of conversation, he let drop the suggestion that I might give him lessons in some branches of Western knowledge. That coincided with my own secret wishes. I had often thought that I could manage to keep myself by giving lessons to the children of noble families.
Loaded with gifts and escorted by servants, we returned to Thangme’s house. We were in high spirits and felt that now our fortunes were on the mend. Our hosts awaited us with impatient excitement. We had to tell them everything that had happened, and our next visitors were informed in detail of the honor that had been done to us. Our stocks rose considerably!
The next day, when the brothers of the Dalai Lama came to visit us, our hostess at first concealed herself out of reverence and appeared only when the whole household had been mustered to greet them. The young lama, Rimpoche, now five and twenty years old, had actually come from his monastery to see us. He laid his hand in blessing on each member of the household. He was the first Incarnated Lama whom we came to know. People are accustomed to think of all Tibetan monks as lamas. In fact, this name is only given to Incarnations, and a few other monks distinguished by their ascetic lives or the miracles they have performed. All lamas have the right to give their blessing and are revered as saints.
8
Calm Waters
Ten days after our arrival, we received word from the foreign ministry that we could move about freely. At the same time, we were supplied with the splendid full-length cloaks of lamb-skin for which we had lately been measured. For each of these, sixty skins were used. On the same day, we went for a walk in the town and in our Tibetan cloaks attracted no attention. We wanted to see everything. The inner town is composed of nothing but stores. Shops extend in unbroken lines and the dealers overflow into the street. There are no shop windows in our sense of the word. One finds numbers of general stores containing a large range of goods from needles to rubber boots, and near them smart shops selling draperies and silks. Provision stores contain, as well as local produce, American corned beef, Australian butter, and English whisky. There is nothing one cannot buy, or at least order. One even finds the Elizabeth Arden specialties, and there is a keen demand for them. American overshoes, dating from the last war, are displayed between joints of yak meat and chunks of butter. You can order, too, sewing machines, radio sets, and gramophones, and hunt up Bing Crosby’s latest records for your next party. The gaily dressed crowds of shoppers laugh and haggle and shout. They find a special pleasure in bargaining, which to be enjoyed must be long drawn out. Here you can see a nomad exchanging yak hair for snuff, and nearby a society lady with a swarm of servants wallowing for hours in a mountain of silks and brocades. The nomad women are no less particular in selecting Indian cotton lengths for their prayer flags.
The common people generally wear the nambu, a sash made of pure home-woven wool, which is practically untearable. This sash or belt is about eight inches in width. Bales of material used for these nambus are displayed in the stores. The wool is either pure white or dyed mauve with a blend of indigo and rhubarb. The white nambu is hardly worn except by donkey drivers, as absence of colors is reckoned a sign of poverty. Since tape measures are not used here, they measure cloth by the length of one’s arm. Thanks to my long limbs I have always profited by this custom.
Then we found an enormous store full of European felt hats, which are the dernier cri in Lhasa. A smart felt hat over Tibetan dress certainly looks odd, but Tibetans value broadbrimmed European hats as a protection against the sun. Sunburnt faces are not an attraction here. Native Tibetan hats go much better with Tibetan dress and look more attractive in the street, and, in fact, the government was trying at that time to stem the influx of European fashions, not with any idea of interfering with individual liberty, but in order to preserve the beautiful native style of dress.
The Tibetans are also addicted to umbrellas and sunshades, which you can find in all sizes, qualities, and colors. The monks are the best customers for these articles since, except at solemn festivals, they go bareheaded.
When we got home we found the Secretary of the British Legation waiting for us. He was a personal friend of Thangme, and his call was by no means an official visit. He said that he had heard much of us and was greatly interested in our journey and our experiences. He had himself been British trade representative in Gartok and knew something of the country through which we had traveled. We found him an opportune visitor as we very much wanted to send news to our families at home, who must have long given us up for lost. Only the British representative had direct communication with the outside world, as Tibet does not belong to the World Postal Union and its postal arrangements are somewhat complicated.
Our visitor encouraged us to apply personally for assistance in this matter and so the next day we set out
for the legation, which we had already noticed on our way into the town. Servants in red livery showed us first into the garden, where we found Reginald Fox, the wireless operator, taking his morning stroll.2 Fox had lived for many years in Lhasa and was married to a Tibetan lady. They had four enchanting children with fair hair and large, black almond eyes. The two eldest were at a boarding school in India.
Fox was the only man in Lhasa who possessed a reliable motor, and in addition to his duties at the legation he was regularly occupied in charging all the radio batteries in the town. He could communicate by wireless telephone with India and was much appreciated in Lhasa for his ability and thoroughness.
Meanwhile, the servants had announced us, and we were conducted to the first floor of the building. The Chief of the British Legation greeted us cordially and invited us to a good English breakfast, which had been prepared on the veranda. How long it seemed since we had last sat on comfortable chairs and seen table decorations, flowers in vases, and books in a real European setting. We let our eyes wander in silence around the room. It seemed, somehow, as though we had come home. Our host understoodwhat we were thinking. When he saw us looking at his books, he kindly offered to let us use his library. Soon we began to talk freely. The question that worried us most, namely whether he still regarded us as prisoners of war, was tactfully avoided. At last we asked him bluntly whether our comrades were still behind the barbed wire. He could not say but promised to obtain information from India. He then spoke frankly of our situation and told us that he had been informed in detail of our escape and subsequent journey, and inferred that he had learned from the Tibetan government that we would soon go back to India. This prospect, we said, did not appeal to us, so he asked us if we would be interested to find work in Sikkim. We made no secret of our wish to stay on in Tibet, but said that if that was not possible we would gladly consider his offer.
The importance of the question we were discussing did not spoil our appetites, and with encouragement from our host we did more than justice to the good food we were offered. When we had finished, we thought the time had come to submit our request to be allowed to send word to our families. Our host promised to arrange for a message to go through the Red Cross. We were later allowed to send letters now and then through the legation, but for the most part we had to use the complicated Tibetan post, sending our letters to the frontiers in double envelopes, the outside one bearing a Tibetan stamp. At the frontier we arranged for a man to remove the outer envelope, put an Indian stamp on the inner one, and post it on. With luck it took only a fortnight for a letter to get to Europe. In Tibet the post is carried by runners who work in relays of four miles each. Along all the highroads are huts in which relays wait ready to relieve the runners as they arrive. Postal runners carry a spear with bells attached as a sign of their office. The spear can, if necessary, be used as a weapon, and the bells serve to frighten off wild animals at night. Stamps are printed in five different denominations and are on sale in the post offices.
OUR VISIT to the British Legation had done much to relieve our minds. We had been welcomed there and had reason to hope that the English now realized we were harmless.
On our way back, we were stopped by some servants who told us that their master desired us to visit him. When we asked who their master was, we learned that he was a high monastic official in the government service, one of the four Trünyi Chemo, in whose hands authority over all the monks in Tibet is concentrated.
We were taken to a large, stately mansion, scrupulously clean and well kept. One really could have eaten off the stone floors. The servants were all monks. We were greeted by a kindly, elderly gentleman and offered tea and cakes. After the usual courtesies we fell into conversation and soon became aware of the reason why our host was interested in us. He stated frankly that Tibet was a backward country and that men like us could be made good use of. Unfortunately, everyone did not hold the same opinion. However, he would see what he could do and would say a good word for us. Meanwhile, he asked us what our professions had been in our own country and what subjects we had studied. He was particularly interested in the fact that Aufschnaiter was an agricultural engineer. No one in Tibet was an expert in this branch, and what scope there was in this great country!
The next day we paid official visits to each of the four cabinet ministers. Responsible only to the regent, these men represent the supreme authority in Tibet. Three of them are civil dignitaries and the fourth a monastic official. They all belong to the highest families and live in great style.
We wondered with whom we should begin. We ought to have started with the minister-monk, but we decided to bypass the protocol and call on the youngest minister first, Surkhang by name. He was thirty-two years old and was considered more progressive than his colleagues. We hoped for counsel and understanding from a young man.
He welcomed us with frank cordiality, and we were immediately on good terms. He was astonishingly well informed about events in the outside world. He entertained us at a princely dinner, and when we took our leave we felt that we had known each other for years.
The next minister we visited was Kabshöpa, a corpulent and somewhat self-important gentleman, who treated us with a certain condescension. He made us sit down on two chairs in front of his comfortable throne and then overwhelmed us with a flood of eloquent phrases. He punctuated his most effective passages by clearing his throat noisily, at which a servant hurried forward and offered him a golden spittoon. Spitting is not a breach of etiquette in Tibet, and small spittoons are placed on every table, but it was new to us to see one presented to the spitter by a servant.
At this first meeting it was hard for us to know what to make of Kabshöpa. He held forth, and we passively submitted to his eloquence, at the right time replying courteously to his politenesses. We drank the ceremonial cup of tea in exemplary fashion. As he had not realized that we spoke Tibetan, his nephew was asked to interpret. This young man’s knowledge of English had secured him a post in the foreign ministry, and we often had dealings with him later. He was a typical example of the younger generation. He had studied in India and was full of plans for reforming Tibet, though he had not yet ventured to stand up for his theories in the presence of the conservative monks. Once when we were alone he caused me to remark that Aufschnaiter and I should have come to Lhasa a few years later, for if he and some of the other young aristocrats had been ministers, there would have been work for us in plenty.
The minister-monk who lived on the Lingkhor, the five-mile-long Pilgrims’ Road that goes around Lhasa, received us with less formality. He was no longer young and had a nice little white beard of which he was very proud, for beards in Tibet are a rarity. In a general way he seemed very detached, and in contrast with the other ministers avoided expressing any definite opinions. His name was Rampa, and he was one of the few official monks who belonged to the aristocracy. The way in which the political situation was developing must have been causing him secret anxiety. He was much interested in our views on Russia’s policy and told us that in the old scriptures it was prophesied that a great power from the north would overrun Tibet, destroy religion, and make itself master of the whole world.
Finally we called on Pünkhang, the oldest of the four ministers. He was a little man compelled by shortsightedness to wear thick-lensed spectacles. This was something quite unusual in Tibet, where spectacles are disapproved of as “un-Tibetan.” No official was allowed to use them and even wearing them in the house was discouraged. Our minister had received special permission from the Dalai Lama to wear them in the office. At important ceremonies his poor sight rendered him quite helpless. Pünkhang’s wife was present when he received us. He was, it is true, of higher rank than she, but it required no great penetration to see that it was madame who wore the trousers. After the first words of greeting Pünkhang spoke hardly a sentence, whereas his lady drenched us with a shower of questions.
Later he showed us his domestic chapel. He was a scion of one o
f the families that had produced a Dalai Lama and prided himself on it. He showed us a figure of the Holy One in his dim and dusty chapel.
In course of time I came to know Pünkhang’s sons. The eldest of them was Governor of Gyantse and was married to a princess of Sikkim, who was, however, Tibetan by descent. She was more interesting than her husband and was, to boot, one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen. She possessed the indescribable charm of Asian women and the stamp of age-old oriental culture. At the same time she was clever, well educated, and thoroughly modern, and had been taught in one of the best schools in India. She was the first woman in Tibet to refuse to marry her husband’s brothers, because this did not conform with her principles. In conversation she was the equal of the most intelligent woman you would be likely to meet in a European salon. She was interested in politics, culture, and all that was happening in the world. She often talked about equal rights for women . . . but Tibet has a long way to go before reaching that point.
When we said good-bye to Pünkhang, we begged him to support our request to be allowed to reside in Tibet. He of course offered to do all in his power to help us, but we had been long enough in Asia to know that nobody ever bluntly refused anything.
In order to assure our position from all sides, we tried to get on good terms with the Chinese Legation. The chargé d’affaires received us with the politeness for which his people are famous, and when we asked about the possibility of being admitted to China and finding an occupation there, he promised to submit our question to his government.