When the spring came, the Norbulingka was a vision of loveliness. The peach and pear blossoms were in full bloom. Peacocks strutted proudly through the grounds, and hundreds of rare plants stood in pots in the sunshine. In one corner of the park, there was a small zoo, but most of the cages were empty. Only a few wildcats and lynxes remained. Formerly there were panthers and bears, but these had soon succumbed in their narrow dens. The Dalai Lama received many presents of wild animals, especially injured ones, which found a safe refuge in the Jeweled Garden.
In addition to the temples there were many small houses scattered about under the trees. Each was used for a special purpose—one was for meditation, another for reading and study, and others served as meeting places for the monks. The largest building, several stories high, stood in the center of the garden and was half a temple and half a residence for His Holiness. The windows were too small for my liking, and I found the title “palace” too flattering for this ordinary house. It was certainly more attractive as a residence than the Potala, which was more like a prison than a palace, but it was rather dark. So was the garden. The trees had been allowed to grow untended for many years, and in places they resembled a dense jungle. No one had ever attempted to clear them out. The gardeners complained that flowers and fruits simply would not grow in the shade of the big trees. I would have been very happy if they had allowed me to tidy up and rearrange the Inner Garden. There were many gardeners, but none with a sense of style. I did succeed in convincing the high chamberlain that certain trees had to be cut down, and I was allowed to supervise the work of felling them. The gardeners had little understanding of this sort of thing, and occupied themselves mainly with cultivating pot flowers, which were left out in the open all day and placed under cover at night.
One of the doors in the wall of the Inner Garden led directly to the stables, which housed the favorite horses of the Dalai Lama and an onager that had been presented to him. These animals lived a contemplative, peaceful life tended by many grooms. They grew fat and soft as their master never rode or drove them.
The teachers and personal servants of the Dalai Lama lived outside the yellow wall in the Norbulingka park. They and the bodyguard, five hundred strong, lived in comfortable and (for Tibet) extraordinarily clean blocks of houses. The thirteenth Dalai Lama had taken a personal interest in the welfare of his troops. He had dressed them in uniforms of European cut and used to watch them exercising from one of his pavilions. I was struck by the fact that these soldiers had their hair cut in Western fashion, in contrast to all other Tibetans. The thirteenth Dalai Lama had probably been favorably impressed by the appearance of British and Indian troops during his stay in India and had modeled his bodyguard on them. The officers lived in nice little bungalows with flower beds blooming all around them. The duties of officers and men were easy. They consisted mainly in mounting guard and turning out to march in ceremonial processions.
Long before the Dalai Lama moved into the Summer Residence, I had finished my building. I wondered if he would be pleased with the theater. I could count on learning his opinion of it all from Lobsang Samten, who was certain to be present at the first performance. The Dalai Lama would probably call on the film man of the Indian Legation to work the apparatus. The legation used frequently to show films, Indian and English, at its pleasant parties, and it was a joy to see the childish enthusiasm with which the Tibetans watched these performances, especially the films showing scenes from distant lands. The question was how the young ruler would react to the pictures.
I was naturally present with my moving-picture camera to see the procession from the Potala to the Norbulingka. I had the usual difficulty in finding a suitable place from which to film the ceremony, but my attendant, a pockmarked giant of formidable aspect, made things easier for me. He carried my cameras, and the crowds opened to let us through. He looked forbidding but was, in fact, a very gallant fellow, as the following anecdote shows.
It sometimes happens that leopards stray into the gardens of Lhasa. They must not be killed, so the people try to lure them into traps or catch them by any sort of device. One day a leopard got through into the Garden of Jewels. Harried on all sides and wounded in the foot by a bullet, it was driven into a corner, where it stood at bay, spitting at anyone who dared to approach it. Suddenly my attendant went for it with his bare hands and held it until other soldiers rushed up with a sack into which they forced it. The man was badly chewed, and the leopard was lodged in the Dalai Lama’s zoo, where it soon died.
When the Dalai Lama passed by me in his sedan chair and found me filming, he gave me a smile. My private thought was that he was congratulating himself on his little motion-picture theater, but I am sure that no one else thought as I did; though what could be more natural for a lonely fourteen-year-old boy? Then a look at the humble and rapturous face of my attendant reminded me that for everyone else except myself, he was not a lonely boy but a god.
15
Tutor to the Dalai Lama
Afterfilming the scenes in Norbulingka, I was riding slowly home when, a little way out of Lhasa, I was overtaken by an excited soldier of the bodyguard, who told me that they had been looking for me everywhere and that I must at once ride back to the Summer Garden. My first thought was that the motion-picture apparatus was out of order, as I could hardly imagine that the young ruler, still a minor, would override all conventions and summon me directly to see him. I immediately turned around and was soon back at the Norbulingka, where everything was now peaceful and still. At the door of the yellow gate, a couple of monks were waiting. As soon as they saw me, they signaled to me to hurry up, and when I reached them they ushered me into the Inner Garden. There Lobsang Samten awaited me. He whispered something to me and put a white scarf in my hand. There was no doubt about it. His brother was going to receive me.
I at once went toward the motion-picture theater, but before I could enter the door opened from the inside, and I was standing before the Living Buddha. Conquering my surprise, I bowed deeply and handed him the scarf. He took it in his left hand and with an impulsive gesture blessed me with his right. It seemed less like the ceremonial laying on of hands than an impetuous expression of feeling on the part of the boy who had at last got his way. In the theater three abbots were waiting with bowed heads—the guardians of His Holiness. I knew them all well and did not fail to observe how coldly they returned my greeting. They certainly did not approve of this intrusion into their domain, but they had not dared openly to oppose the will of the Dalai Lama.
The young ruler was all the more cordial. He beamed all over his face and poured out a flood of questions. He seemed to me like a person who had for years brooded in solitude over different problems, and now that he had at last someone to talk to, wanted to know all the answers at once. He gave me no time to think over my answers but pressed me to go to the projector and put on a film that he had long been wanting to see. It was a documentary film of the capitulation of Japan. He came with me to the apparatus and sent the abbots into the theater to act as spectators.
I must have seemed slow and clumsy in handling the projector, as he impatiently pushed me on one side and, taking hold of the film, showed me that he was a much more practiced operator than I was. He told me that he had been busy the whole winter learning how to work the apparatus and that he had even taken a projector to pieces and put it together again. I observed then, for the first time, that he looked to get to the bottom of things instead of taking them for granted. And so, later on, like many a good father who wishes to earn the respect of his son, I often spent the evening reviving my knowledge of half-forgotten things or studying new ones. I took the utmost trouble to treat every question seriously and scientifically, as it was clear to me that my answers would form the basis of his knowledge of the Western world.
His obvious talent for technical things astonished me at our first meeting. It was a masterly performance for a boy of fourteen years to take a projector to pieces and then to reassemble it
without any help, for he could not read the English prospectus. Now that the film was running well, he was delighted with the arrangements and could not praise my work too highly. We sat together in the projecting room and looked at the picture through the peepholes in the wall, and he took the greatest pleasure in what he saw and heard, often clasping my hands excitedly with the vivacity of youth. Although it was the first time in his life that he had been alone with a white man, he was in no way embarrassed or shy. While he was putting the next film on the reel, he pressed the microphone into my hands and insisted on my speaking into it. At the same time, he looked through the peepholes into the electrically lit theater in which his tutors sat on carpets. I could see how keen he was to observe the wondering faces of the worthy abbots when a voice should suddenly come out of the loudspeaker. I did not want to disappoint him, so I invited the nonexistent public to remain in their seats as the next film would present sensational scenes from Tibet. He laughed enthusiastically at the surprised and shocked faces of the monks when they heard my cheerful, disrespectful tones. Such light, unceremonious language had never been used in the presence of the Divine Ruler, whose gleaming eyes showed how he enjoyed the situation.
He made me turn the film that I had made in Lhasa while he looked after the switches. I was as curious as he was to see the results, as this was my first full-length picture. An expert could have picked out faults in it, but it seemed quite satisfactory to us. It contained my shots of the “little” New Year Festival. Even the formal abbots forgot their dignity when they recognized themselves on the flickering screen. There was a burst of laughter when a full-length picture appeared of a minister who had gone to sleep during the ceremonies. There was no malice in their laughter, for each of the abbots had sometimes to struggle to keep awake during these endless festivities. All the same, the upper classes must have got to know that the Dalai Lama had witnessed his minister’s weakness for afterward whenever I appeared with my picture, everyone sat up and posed.
The Dalai Lama himself took more pleasure than anyone in the pictures. His usually slow movements became youthful and lively, and he commented enthusiastically on every picture. After a while I asked him to turn a film that he had made himself. He very modestly said that he would not dare to show his apprentice efforts after the pictures we had already seen. But I was anxious to see what subjects he had chosen for filming and persuaded him to put his roll onto the screen. He had not, of course, had a large choice of subjects. He had done a big sweeping landscape of the valley of Lhasa, which he turned much too fast. Then came a few underlighted long-distance pictures of mounted noblemen and caravans passing through Shö. A close-up of his cook showed that he would have liked to take film portraits. The film he had shown me was absolutely his first attempt and had been made without instructions or help. When it was over, he got me to announce through the microphone that the performance was over. He then opened the door leading into the theater, told the abbots that he did not need them anymore, and dismissed them with a wave of the hand. It was again clear to me that here was no animated puppet but a clear-cut individual will capable of imposing itself on others.
When we were alone we cleared away the films and put the yellow covers on the machines. Then we sat down on a magnificent carpet in the theater with the sun streaming through the open windows. It was fortunate that I had long acquired the habit of sitting cross-legged, as chairs and cushions are not included in the Dalai Lama’s household furniture. At the start I had wished to decline his invitation to sit down, knowing that even ministers were not supposed to sit in his presence, but he just took me by the sleeve and pulled me down, which put an end to my misgiving.
He told me that he had long been planning this meeting, as he had not been able to think of any other way of becoming acquainted with the outside world. He expected the regent to raise objections, but he was determined to have his own way and had already thought up a rejoinder in case of opposition. He was resolved to extend his knowledge beyond purely religious subjects, and it seemed to him that I was the only person who could help him to do so. He had no idea that I was a qualified teacher, and had he known this it would probably not have influenced him. He asked my age and was surprised to learn that I was only thirty-seven. Like many Tibetans he thought that my “yellow” hair was a sign of age. He studied my features with childish curiosity and teased me about my long nose, which, though of normal size as we reckon noses, had often attracted the attention of the snub-nosed Mongolians. At last he noticed that I had hair growing out the back of my hands and said with a broad grin, “Henrig, you have hair like a monkey.” I had an answer ready, as I was familiar with the legend that the Tibetans derive their descent from the union of their god Chenrezi with a female demon. Before coupling with his demon lover, Chenrezi had assumed the shape of a monkey, and since the Dalai Lama is one of the Incarnations of this god, I found that in comparing me with an ape he had really flattered me.
With remarks such as this, our conversation soon became unconstrained, and we both lost our shyness. I now felt the attraction of his personality, which at our earlier fleeting contacts I had only guessed at. His complexion was much lighter than that of the average Tibetan. His eyes, hardly narrower than those of most Europeans, were full of expression, charm, and vivacity. His cheeks glowed with excitement, and as he sat he kept sliding from side to side. His ears stood out a little from his head. This was a characteristic of the Buddha and, as I learned later, was one of the signs by which as a child he had been recognized as an Incarnation. His hair was longer than is customary. He probably wore it so as a protection against the cold of the Potala. He was tall for his age and looked as though he would reach the stature of his parents, both of whom had striking figures. Unfortunately, as a result of much study in a seated posture with his body bent forward, he held himself badly. He had beautiful aristocratic hands with long fingers, which were generally folded in an attitude of peace. I noticed that he often looked at my hands with astonishment when I emphasized what I was saying with a gesture. Gesticulation is entirely foreign to the Tibetans, who in their reposeful attitudes express the calm of Asia. He always wore the red robe of a monk, once prescribed by Buddha, and his costume differed in no way from that of the monastic officials. Time passed swiftly. It seemed as if a dam had burst, so urgent and continuous was the flood of questions that he put to me. I was astounded to see how much disconnected knowledge he had acquired out of books and newspapers. He possessed an English work on the Second World War in seven volumes, which he had translated into Tibetan. He knew how to distinguish between different types of airplanes, automobiles, and tanks. The names of personages like Churchill, Eisenhower, and Molotov were familiar to him, but as he had nobody to put questions to, he often did not know how persons and events were connected with each other. Now he was happy, because he had found someone to whom he could bring all the questions about which he had been puzzling for years.
It must have been about three o’clock when Sopön Khenpo came in to say that it was time to eat. This was the abbot whose duty it was to look after the physical welfare of the Dalai Lama. When he gave his message, I immediately rose to my feet meaning to take my leave, but the God-King drew me down again and told the abbot to come again later. He then, very modestly, took out an exercise book with all sorts of drawings on the cover and asked me to look at his work. To my surprise I saw that he had been transcribing the capital letters of the Latin alphabet. What versatility and what initiative! Strenuous religious studies, tinkering with complicated mechanical appliances, and now modern languages! He insisted that I should immediately begin to teach him English, transcribing the pronunciation in elegant Tibetan characters. Another hour must have passed when Sopön Khenpo came again and this time insisted that his master should take his dinner. He had a dish of cakes, white bread, and sheep’s cheese in his hand, which he pressed on me. As I wanted to refuse it, he rolled the food up in a white cloth for me to take home with me.
Bu
t the Dalai Lama still did not want to end our conversation. In wheedling tones he begged his cupbearer to wait a little longer. With a loving look at his charge, the abbot agreed and left us. I had the feeling that he was as fond of the boy and as devoted to him as if he had been his father. This white-haired ancient had served the thirteenth Dalai Lama in the same capacity and had remained in the service. This was a great tribute to his trustworthiness and loyalty, for in Tibet when there is a change of masters, there is a change of servants. The Dalai Lama proposed that I should visit his family, who lived in the Norbulingka during the summer. He told me to wait in their house till he should send for me. When I left him he shook my hand warmly—a new gesture for him.
As I walked through the empty garden and pushed back the gate bolts, I could hardly realize that I had just spent five hours with the God-King of Lama Land. A gardener shut the gate behind me, and the guard, which had been changed more than once since I came in, presented arms in some surprise. I rode slowly back to Lhasa and, but for the bundle of cakes which I was carrying, I would have thought it was all a dream. Which of my friends would have believed me if I had told him that I had just spent several hours alone in conversation with the Dalai Lama?
Needless to say, I was very happy in the new duties that had fallen to my lot. To instruct this clever lad—the ruler of a land as big as France, Spain, and Germany put together—in the knowledge and science of the Western world, seemed a worthwhile task, to say the least.
On the same evening I looked up some reviews that contained details of the construction of jet planes, about which my young pupil had that day asked me questions to which I did not know the answers. I had promised to give him full explanations at our next meeting. As time went on, I always prepared the materials for our lessons, as I wanted to introduce some system into the instruction of this zealous student.