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Here my feet trod Buddhist ground. The inhabitants are of a very
simple
and mild disposition, seemingly ignorant of "quarreling." Women are
very
rare among them. Those of them whom I encountered were
distinguished
from the women I had hitherto seen in India or Kachmyr, by the
air of
gaiety and prosperity apparent in their countenances. How could it
be
otherwise, since each woman in this country has, on an average, three
to
five husbands, and possesses them in the most legitimate way in
the
world. Polyandry flourishes here. However large a family may be,
there
is but one woman in it. If the family does not contain already more
than
two husbands, a bachelor may share its advantages, for a
consideration.
The days sacred to each one of those husbands are determined
in advance,
and all acquit themselves of their respective duties and respect
each
others' rights. The men generally seem feeble, with bent backs, and
do
not live to old age. During my travels in Ladak, I only encountered
one
man so old that his hair was white.
From Karghil to the centre of
Ladak, the road had a more cheerful aspect
than that I had traversed before
reaching Karghil, its prospect being
brightened by a number of little
hamlets, but trees and verdure were,
unfortunately, rare.
Twenty miles
from Karghil, at the end of the defile formed by the rapid
current of the
Wakkha, is a little village called Chargol, in the
centre of which stand
three chapels, decorated with lively colors
(_t'horthenes_, to give them the
name they bear in Thibet). Below, near
the river, are masses of rocks, in the
form of long and large walls,
upon which are thrown, in apparent disorder,
flat stones of different
colors and sizes. Upon these stones are engraved all
sorts of prayers,
in Ourd, Sanscrit and Thibetan, and one can even find among
them
inscriptions in Arabic characters. Without the knowledge of my
carriers,
I succeeded in taking away a few of these stones, which are now in
the
palace of the Trocadero.
Along the way, from Chargol, one finds
frequently oblong mounds,
artificial constructions. After sunrise, with fresh
horses, I resumed my
journey and stopped near the _gonpa_ (monastery) of
Moulbek, which seems
glued on the flank of an isolated rock. Below is the
hamlet of Wakkha,
and not far from there is to be seen another rock, of very
strange form,
which seems to have been placed where it stands by human hands.
In one
side of it is cut a Buddha several metres in height. Upon it are
several
cylinders, the turning of which serves for prayers. They are a sort
of
wooden barrel, draped with yellow or white fabrics, and are attached
to
vertically planted stakes. It requires only the least wind to make
them
turn. The person who puts up one of these cylinders no longer feels
it
obligatory upon him to say his prayers, for all that devout
believers
can ask of God is written upon the cylinders. Seen from a distance
this
white painted monastery, standing sharply out from the gray
background
of the rocks, with all these whirling, petticoated wheels, produce
a
strange effect in this dead country. I left my horses in the hamlet
of
Wakkha, and, followed by my servant, walked toward the convent, which
is
reached by a narrow stairway cut in the rock. At the top, I was
received
by a very fat lama, with a scanty, straggling beard under his
chin--a
common characteristic of the Thibetan people--who was very ugly,
but
very cordial. His costume consisted of a yellow robe and a sort of
big
nightcap, with projecting flaps above the ears, of the same color.
He
held in his hand a copper prayer-machine which, from time to time,
he
shook with his left hand, without at all permitting that exercise
to
interfere with his conversation. It was his eternal prayer, which
he
thus communicated to the wind, so that by this element it should
be
borne to Heaven. We traversed a suite of low chambers, upon the walls
of
which were images of Buddha, of all sizes and made of all kinds
of
materials, all alike covered by a thick layer of dust. Finally
we
reached an open terrace, from which the eyes, taking in the
surrounding
region, rested upon an inhospitable country, strewn with grayish
rocks
and traversed by only a single road, which on both sides lost itself
in
the horizon.
When we were seated, they brought us beer, made with
hops, called here
_Tchang_ and brewed in the cloister. It has a tendency to
rapidly
produce _embonpoint_ upon the monks, which is regarded as a sign of
the
particular favor of Heaven.
They spoke here the Thibetan language.
The origin of this language is
full of obscurity. One thing is certain, that
a king of Thibet, a
contemporary of Mohammed, undertook the creation of an
universal
language for all the disciples of Buddha. To this end he had
simplified
the Sanscrit grammar, composed an alphabet containing an infinite
number
of signs, and thus laid the foundations of a language the
pronunciation
of which is one of the easiest and the writing the most
complicated.
Indeed, in order to represent a sound one must employ not less
than
eight characters. All the modern literature of Thibet is written in
this
language. The pure Thibetan is only spoken in Ladak and Oriental
Thibet.
In all other parts of the country are employed dialects formed by
the
mixture of this mother language with different idioms taken from
the
neighboring peoples of the various regions round about. In the
ordinary
life of the Thibetan, there exists always two languages, one of
which is
absolutely incomprehensible to the women, while the other is spoken
by
the entire nation; but only in the convents can be found the
Thibetan
language in all its purity and integrity.
The lamas much
prefer the visits of Europeans to those of Musselmen, and
when I asked the
one who received me why this was so, he answered me:
"Musselmen have no point
of contact at all with our religion. Only
comparatively recently, in their
victorious campaign, they have
converted, by force, part of the Buddhists to
Islam. It requires of us
great efforts to bring back those Musselmen,
descendants of Buddhists,
into the path of the true God. As regards the
Europeans, it is quite a
different affair. Not only do they profess the
essential principles of
monotheism, but they are, in a sense, adorers of
Buddha, with almost the
same rites as the lamas who inhabit Thibet. The only
fault of the
Christians is that after having adopted the great doctrines of
Buddha,
they have completely separated themselves from him, and have created
for
themselves a different Dalai-Lama. Our Dalai-Lama is the only one
who
has received the divine gift of seeing, face to face, the majesty
of
Buddha, and is empowered to serve as an intermediary between earth
and
heaven."
"Which Dalai-Lama of the Christians do you refer to?" I
asked him; "we
have one, the Son of God, to whom we address directly our
fervent
prayers, and to him alone we recur to intercede with our One
and
Indivisible God."
"It is not him of whom it is a question, Sahib,"
he replied. "We, too,
respect him, whom we reverence as son of the One and
Indivisible God,
but we do not see in him the Only Son, but the excellent
being who was
chosen among all. Buddha, indeed, has incarnated himself, with
his
divine nature, in the person of the sacred Issa, who, without
employing
fire or iron, has gone forth to propagate our true and great
religion
among all the world. Him whom I meant was your terrestrial
Dalai-Lama;
he to whom you have given the title of 'Father of the Church.'
That is a
great sin. May he be brought back, with the flock, who are now in a
bad
road," piously added the lama, giving another twirl to
his
prayer-machine.
I understood now that he alluded to the Pope. "You
have told me that a
son of Buddha, Issa, the elect among all, had spread your
religion on
the Earth. Who is he?" I asked.
At this question the
lama's eyes opened wide; he looked at me with
astonishment and pronounced
some words I could not catch, murmuring in
an unintelligible way. "Issa," he
finally replied, "is a great prophet,
one of the first after the twenty-two
Buddhas. He is greater than any
one of all the Dalai-Lamas, for he
constitutes part of the spirituality
of our Lord. It is he who has instructed
you; he who brought back into
the bosom of God the frivolous and wicked
souls; he who made you worthy
of the beneficence of the Creator, who has
ordained that each being
should know good and evil. His name and his acts
have been chronicled in
our sacred writings, and when reading how his great
life passed away in
the midst of an erring people, we weep for the horrible
sin of the
heathen who murdered him, after subjecting him to
torture."
I was struck by this recital of the lama. The prophet Issa--his
tortures
and death--our Christian Dalai-Lama--the Buddhist
recognizing
Christianity--all these made me think more and more of Jesus
Christ. I
asked my interpreter not to lose a single word of what the lama
told me.
"Where can those writings be found, and who compiled them?" I
asked the
monk.
"The principal scrolls--which were written in India
and Nepaul, at
different epochs, as the events happened--are in Lhassa;
several
thousands in number. In some great convents are to be found
copies,
which the lamas, during their sojourn in Lhassa, have made, at
various
times, and have then given to their cloisters as souvenirs of the
period
they spent with the Dalai-Lama."
"But you, yourselves; do you
not possess copies of the scrolls bearing
upon the prophet Issa?"
"We
have not. Our convent is insignificant, and since its foundation
our
successive lamas have had only a few hundred manuscripts in
their
library. The great cloisters have several thousands of them; but
they
are sacred things which will not, anywhere, be shown to you."
We
spoke together a few minutes longer, after which I went home, all the
while
thinking of the lama's statements. Issa, a prophet of the
Buddhists! But, how
could this be? Of Jewish origin, he lived in
Palestine and in Egypt; and the
Gospels do not contain one word, not
even the least allusion, to the part
which Buddhism should have played
in the education of Jesus.
I made up
my mind to visit all the convents of Thibet, in the hope of
gathering fuller
information upon the prophet Issa, and perhaps copies
of the chronicles
bearing upon this subject.
* * * *
*
We traversed the Namykala Pass, at 30,000 feet of altitude, whence
we
descended into the valley of the River Salinoumah. Turning southward,
we
gained Karbou, leaving behind us, on the opposite bank,
numerous
villages, among other, Chagdoom, which is at the top of a rock,
an
extremely imposing sight. Its houses are white and have a sort
of
festive look, with their two and three stories. This, by the way, is
a
common peculiarity of all the villages of Ladak. The eye of
the
European, travelling in Kachmyr, would soon lose sight of
all
architecture to which he had been accustomed. In Ladak, on the
contrary,
he would be agreeably surprised at seeing the little two and
three-story
houses, reminders to him of those in European provinces. Near the
city
of Karbou, upon two perpendicular rocks, one sees the ruins of a
little
town or village. A tempest and an earthquake are said to have
shaken
down its walls, the solidity of which seems to have been
exceptional.
The next day I traversed the Fotu-La Pass, at an altitude of
13,500
feet. At its summit stands a little _t'horthene_ (chapel).
Thence,
following the dry bed of a stream, I descended to the hamlet
of
Lamayure, the sudden appearance of which is a surprise to the
traveller.
A convent, which seems grafted on the side of the rock, or held
there in
some miraculous way, dominates the village. Stairs are unknown in
this
cloister. In order to pass from one story of it to another, ropes
are
used. Communication with the world outside is through a labyrinth
of
passages in the rock. Under the windows of the convent--which make
one
think of birds' nests on the face of a cliff---is a little inn,
the
rooms of which are little inviting. Hardly had I stretched myself on
the
carpet in one of them, when the monks, dressed in their yellow
robes,
filled the apartment, bothered me with questions as to whence I
came,
the purpose of my coming, where I was going, and so on, finally
inviting
me to come and see them.
In spite of my fatigue I accepted
their invitation and set out with
them, to climb up the excavated passages in
the rock, which were
encumbered with an infinity of prayer cylinders and
wheels, which I
could not but touch and set turning as I brushed past them.
They are
placed there that they may be so turned, saving to the passers-by
the
time they might otherwise lose in saying their prayers--as if
their
affairs were so absorbing, and their time so precious, that they
could
not find leisure to pray. Many pious Buddhists use for this purpose
an
apparatus arranged to be turned by the current of a stream. I have
seen
a long row of cylinders, provided with their prayer formulas,
placed
along a river bank, in such a way that the water kept them constantly
in
motion, this ingenious device freeing the proprietors from any
further
obligation to say prayers themselves.
I sat down on a bench in
the hall, where semi-obscurity reigned. The
walls were garnished with little
statues of Buddha, books and
prayer-wheels. The loquacious lamas began
explaining to me the
significance of each object.
"And those books?" I
asked them; "they, no doubt, have reference to
religion."
"Yes, sir.
These are a few religious volumes which deal with the primary
and principal
rites of the life common to all. We possess several parts
of the words of
Buddha consecrated to the Great and Indivisible Divine
Being, and to all that
issue from his hands."
"Is there not, among those books, some account of
the prophet Issa?"
"No, sir," answered the monk. "We only possess a few
principal treatises
relating to the observance of the religious rites. As for
the
biographies of our saints, they are collected in Lhassa. There are
even
great cloisters which have not had the time to procure them.
Before
coming to this gonpa, I was for several years in a great convent on
the
other side of Ladak, and have seen there thousands of books, and
scrolls
copied out of various books by the lamas of the monastery."
By
some further interrogation I learned that the convent in question was
near
Leh, but my persistent inquiries had the effect of exciting the
suspicions of
the lamas. They showed me the way out with evident
pleasure, and regaining my
room, I fell asleep--after a light
lunch--leaving orders with my Hindu to
inform himself in a skillful way,
from some of the younger lamas of the
convent, about the monastery in
which their chief had lived before coming to
Lamayure.
In the morning, when we set forth on our journey, the Hindu
told me that
he could get nothing from the lamas, who were very reticent. I
will not
stop to describe the life of the monks in those convents, for it is
the
same in all the cloisters of Ladak. I have seen the celebrated
monastery
of Leh--of which I shall have to speak later on--and learned there
the
strange existences the monks and religious people lead, which
is
everywhere the same. In Lamayure commences a declivity which, through
a
steep, narrow and sombre gorge, extends toward India.
Without having
the least idea of the dangers which the descent
presented, I sent my carriers
in advance and started on a route, rather
pleasant at the outset, which
passes between the brown clay hills, but
soon it produced upon me the most
depressing effect, as though I was
traversing a gloomy subterranean passage.
Then the road came out on the
flank of the mountain, above a terrible abyss.
If a rider had met me, we
could not possibly have passed each other, the way
was so narrow. All
description would fail to convey a sense of the grandeur
and wild beauty
of this canon, the summit of the walls of which seemed to
reach the sky.
At some points it became so narrow that from my saddle I
could, with my
cane, touch the opposite rock. At other places, death might be
fancied
looking up expectantly, from the abyss, at the traveller. It was
too
late to dismount. In entering alone this gorge, I had not the
faintest
idea that I would have occasion to regret my foolish imprudence. I
had
not realized its character. It was simply an enormous crevasse, rent
by
some Titanic throe of nature, some tremendous earthquake, which
had
split the granite mountain. In its bottom I could just distinguish
a
hardly perceptible white thread, an impetuous torrent, the dull roar
of
which filled the defile with mysterious and impressive sounds.
Far
overhead extended, narrow and sinuously, a blue ribbon, the only
glimpse of
the celestial world that the frowning granite walls permitted
to be seen. It
was a thrilling pleasure, this majestic view of nature.
At the same time, its
rugged severity, the vastness of its proportions,
the deathly silence only
invaded by the ominous murmur from the depths
beneath, all together filled me
with an unconquerable depression. I had
about eight miles in which to
experience these sensations, at once sweet
and painful. Then, turning to the
right, our little caravan reached a
small valley, almost surrounded by
precipitous granite rocks, which
mirrored themselves in the Indus. On the
bank of the river stands the
little fortress Khalsi, a celebrated
fortification dating from the epoch
of the Musselman invasion, by which runs
the wild road from Kachmyr to
Thibet.
We crossed the Indus on an
almost suspended bridge which led directly to
the door of the fortress, thus
impossible of evasion. Rapidly we
traversed the valley, then the village of
Khalsi, for I was anxious to
spend the night in the hamlet of Snowely, which
is placed upon terraces
descending to the Indus. The two following days I
travelled tranquilly
and without any difficulties to overcome, along the
shore of the Indus,
in a picturesque country--which brought me to Leh, the
capital of Ladak.
While traversing the little valley of Saspoula, at a
distance of several
kilometres from the village of the same name, I found
"_t'horthenes_"
and two cloisters, above one of which floated the French
flag. Later on,
I learned that a French engineer had presented the flag to
the monks,
who displayed it simply as a decoration of their
building.
I passed the night at Saspoula and certainly did not forget to
visit the
cloisters, seeing there for the tenth time the omnipresent
dust-covered
images of Buddha; the flags and banners heaped in a corner; ugly
masks
on the floor; books and papyrus rolls heaped together without order
or
care, and the inevitable abundance of prayer-wheels. The
lamas
demonstrated a particular pleasure in exhibiting these things, doing
it
with the air of shopmen displaying their goods, with very little
care
for the degree of interest the traveller may take in them. "We must
show
everything, in the hope that the sight alone of these sacred
objects
will force the traveller to believe in the divine grandeur of the
human
soul."
Respecting the prophet Issa, they gave me the same
account I already
had, and I learned, what I had known before, that the books
which could
instruct me about him were at Lhassa, and that only the
great
monasteries possessed some copies. I did not think any more of
passing
Kara-koroum, but only of finding the history of the prophet Issa,
which
would, perhaps, bring to light the entire life of the best of men,
and
complete the rather vague information which the Gospels afford us
about
him.
Not far from Leh, and at the entrance of the valley of the
same name,
our road passed near an isolated rock, on the top of which
were
constructed a fort--with two towers and without garrison--and a
little
convent named Pitak. A mountain, 10,500 feet high, protects the
entrance
to Thibet. There the road makes a sudden turn toward the north, in
the
direction of Leh, six miles from Pitak and a thousand feet
higher.
Immense granite mountains tower above Leh, to a height of 18,000
or
19,000 feet, their crests covered with eternal snow. The city
itself,
surrounded by a girdle of stunted aspen trees, rises upon
successive
terraces, which are dominated by an old fort and the palaces of
the
ancient sovereigns of Ladak. Toward evening I made my entrance into
Leh,
and stopped at a bengalow constructed especially for Europeans, whom
the
road from India brings here in the hunting
season.
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
seiks, 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 schuttes--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 _cortege_ 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. |
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