“That the wicked have plenty to eat is no indication of the approval of
heaven”
--_Chinese proverb_
It would be unkind to recommend any sensitive person to make a first
experiment in camping out among such a friendly, but inquisitive
crew as the natives hereabouts, and I could but be thankful to have
served my apprenticeship in this respect in China. After travelling,
very much off the beaten track, sometimes for eighteen months in his
country, the Chinese, wherever I met him, in Mongolia or in Russia,
or in Russo-Japanese Manchuria, seemed far more to me like “a man and
a brother” than the inhabitants of any of the latter countries. The
casual manner in which the Mongol would walk into one’s tent was, to
say the least of it, embarrassing; and I have heard it said that quite
a little grievance exists among those who from time to time visit
Peking for trading purposes or on official business because the houses
of Europeans are not open to them as are their hospitable yourts to the
traveller in their country.
[Illustration: METHUSELAH AND HIS DAUGHTER-IN-LAW]
[Illustration: ONE OF THE LARGEST CAMEL CARAVANS THE AUTHOR HAD EVER
SEEN]
An old, old man dropped in one day to see me, stone deaf, and
dumb. I had been hearing a good deal and in great variety about
their superstitions regarding devils, and when this wrinkled old
leather-face, overshadowed by a sheepskin cap black with the dirt of
ages, silently approached me in the half-light of late afternoon, it
was as though the evil one had materialised. Very thin--there is no
soft corner in the Mongol heart, as in the Chinese, for the aged--very
tattered, and with bleared eyes, Methuselah gently fingered all my
belongings, passing his filthy fingers up and down the bristles of
my hair- and tooth-brushes with evident enjoyment. My interest, to
say nothing of my astonishment, was far too great for me to think of
raising any objection. Poor old man!
Far from being venerated on account of advancing years the old people
in Mongolia run a very good chance of being crowded out of their
yourts by the younger generation, and left to live or die with no more
possessions than a bit of felt covering and a meagre allowance of food
on the dust heaps surrounding the settlements.
A son of my old visitor had been a lesser mandarin in this part, but
was dispossessed as the result of having been altogether too grasping
in his “squeeze” of the soldiers whom he was supposed to pay with money
that was provided for that purpose. Four or five fairly well-to-do
yourts were the fruit of his ill-gotten gains, and his chief wife,
the T’ai-t’ai, showed me with pride her beautiful headdress which she
said was worth over one hundred taels, which it was not difficult to
believe. A number of relations crowded into the yourt when I went to
pay my call--an astonishingly picturesque crowd in blue, purple, and
lavender coats, mingling with the bright orange and dull red of the
lamas’ habits--all more or less dirty, and some very ragged. The men
with their shaggy fur caps and silver-mounted hunting knives, ivory
chopsticks hanging in cases, and flint and tinder purses slung on
silver chains round their waists or attached to their girdles; the
women with elaborate headdresses of the same metal, richly studded with
jade, coral, and sometimes pearls, are all really very imposing.
Nothing would satisfy them but that I should go to call upon the little
bride of the family and their son, her boy husband. Escorted by the
mother-in-law, I made my way to a very new-looking yourt covered with
clean white felt and with a newly painted red door. It formed quite a
landmark among the others, which were in varying stages of dirtiness
and decay. We were received by the young bridal couple, who, arrayed in
all the splendour of their wedding garments in my honour, had omitted
to tidy up their habitation, which presented a sorry spectacle of
thriftless disorder. I gathered that some of the wedding presents had
been of a practical nature, for I noticed--incidentally by hitting
them with my head--haunches of antelope and joints of mutton hanging
from the roof just inside the entrance. The marriage did not seem to
me to promise particularly well, for although amply endowed with
such worldly goods as the Mongol heart could desire, the boy and girl,
children that they were, seemed distinctly snappy with each other, and
each kept his or her own key of the red lacquer chests which contained
their respective treasures.
[Illustration: A MONGOL BRIDE]
The girl’s bridal coiffure was quite wonderful, and back and front
her strings of coral and silver chains, with their massive ornaments,
reached almost to the bottom of her coat. I noticed that the older
women’s strings of beads seemed to grow shorter with age, and gathered
that, as the girls of the family married, their headdresses were
contributed to by the senior generation. A bride, therefore, in a poor
family possesses much finer jewels than does her mother, who, like many
a mother at home, has been impoverished by the wedding.
The tribe of this region is the Chakhar of South or Inner Mongolia, and
owing to the proximity of China they are, I believe, the least pure
bred of any. In the main a nomadic people, they move their settlements
under normal conditions but twice in the year, the principal object
being, of course, fresh pasture for their cattle. They also, however,
attach some importance to tradition, and will move their yourts just
a few yards sometimes just for the sake of having done so. A fairly
well-watered country, the locale of the yourts is to some extent
determined by the wells, but the areas are relatively circumscribed,
and there is little difficulty in discovering at any given time the
whereabouts of any particular family one may be seeking.
The great lamaseries are necessarily of permanent structure, and
fine temples surrounded by a number of yourts and rough houses of
Chinese type form villages of considerable size. One comes upon them
unexpectedly like oases in the desert. Once a most warlike tribe and
foes greatly to be feared by their Chinese neighbours, the Chakhars
appear to be now a more peaceable folk than their cousins of the North,
and have not, in unison with the Khalkhas, sought to throw off the
Chinese yoke with the downfall of the Manchu dynasty. I have heard it
said that the Chakhars are cleaner than other tribes, but for the truth
of this statement I am unable to vouch; and truly, in view of the fact
that it would be difficult to be dirtier than they, I myself find it
hard to believe it. Mongols, generally speaking, are an extraordinary
dirty people, and one of their superstitions is that if they have too
much to do with water in this life they will become fish in the next
incarnation. They suffer much from contagious diseases, on account of
their habits as well as owing to their lack of morality.
[Illustration: A TYPICAL CHAKHAR]
The Mongols are, I am told, some of the most frankly immoral people in
the world, and this is not the result of the absence of moral code,
for theoretically this latter is of the strictest possible character.
The lamas certainly have an extremely bad reputation; certain orders
of them are allowed to marry, but the great bulk of the immense
population of priests is nominally celibate. Among the various orders
of the priesthood are some whose mission it is to travel about the
country to collect money for the temples. When one of these holy men
(the greatest villains unhung, would be my honest opinion) visits
a settlement he is invited to stay in the richest yourt, given the
best of everything to eat, and the chief wife, or, if he prefers her,
the daughter, is offered to him as a matter of course. There is no
question, I believe, of these women, who belong to the lamas, being
looked down upon--far from it. But as far as I could observe and
understand, women entering into this irregular alliance do not wear the
distinctive and very beautiful headdress of the married woman.
Lamas throughout Mongolia have their heads clean-shaven, and in this
region their ordinary dress consists of long tunics of coarse cotton
in varying tones of terra-cotta and yellow, bound round the waist
with sashes of dark red, as well as long folds of the same material
which, worn ordinarily across the chest, are on ceremonial occasions
and whilst officiating unwound and used in shawl fashion. Even were
there no other distinguishing feature between the Mongol and Chinese,
by their boots you would know them all the world over; clumsy,
loose-legged affairs, coming two-thirds of the way up to the knee,
the dignity of the Mongol is very greatly diminished if he has to
walk or run in such a footgear. Toes upturned, the sole is thick and
cumbersome, the boot fits nowhere at all, and the walk degenerates
into a shuffle in consequence. For purposes of differentiation the
laity are called black men, their hair being worn in long handsome
pig-tails, the front of the head shaved in Chinese fashion. I was
present on the occasion of the inauguration of the first Parliament
of China’s Republic in Peking in the spring of 1913, when the Mongol
representatives, three of them from Inner Mongolia, were conspicuous
in that ultra modern and newly cropped assembly by their _queues_, by
their high boots, and by their old-world satin-brocade, fur-trimmed
coats of a richness and quality now seldom seen in Peking.
Men and women are extremely fond of dress and ornaments; the former
run to beautiful and valuable snuff-bottles, elaborate decoration of
their hunting knives, tobacco pouches, chopsticks, and flint and tinder
boxes. Extremes seem to me to meet in the cherished possessions of an
old Mongol mandarin. He showed me with much pride an up-to-date rifle,
a splendid pair of Zeiss field-glasses, and then his flint and tinder
box.
Ta-Bol, the meaning of which, “five mountains,” suggests a somewhat
distorted view of the slight elevations which surround it, proved to
be a pleasant centre for my short sojourn in the Chakhar country, and
I managed to get a variety of experiences into the time I was there.
In a north-westerly direction and distant some 60 li from Ta-Bol lies
Hankarawa, an important citadel of lamaism and the largest temple of
Inner Mongolia. In perfect weather and over the most delightful riding
country imaginable, with a good track across undulated prairie, an
early start was made in order to have plenty of time on arrival. My
star seemed in the ascendant, and it was truly a lucky day that I chose
for the expedition.
Forming a suburb to the lamasery were half a dozen or less yourts near
the entrance, and these I found on closer inspection were primitive
little stores kept by the Chinese for supplying the lamas--who here, as
in most other places, do no work at all and produce absolutely nothing
for their own use--with the necessities of life. The courtly owner of
one of them pressed me to enter, when he at once offered me the best
tea that I had had since I left South China. In stumbling phrases, I
expressed my appreciation and enquired whether the tea was not from
the Bohea hills of Fukien. This let loose a flood of conversation (of
which, I must confess, I hardly understood a word), out of which I
disentangled the fact that my host had come from that province and
was delighted to speak with one who knew and admired his native city,
Foochow. As to paying for my entertainment, they scouted the idea, and
when I departed I felt that at least I had now one friend in Mongolia.
As I approached the entrance to the place it all seemed abnormally
quiet and deserted. I knew there were hundreds of lamas there, but
no one was about and not a sound was to be heard. It was all very
mysterious. It was not until I had tentatively opened many doors and
peered into the gloom of sundry temples, in one of which a very old
lama sat quite alone, droning his prayers in the Tibetan tongue,
clashing a pair of cymbals and beating a big drum with his hands and
feet respectively all at the same time, that I heard sounds as of
clapping and applause. I found them difficult to locate. Chancing on
the entrance to an unpromising looking and, as far as I could see
deserted, compound, I leaned my weight against the great painted
wooden doors, which giving way with a loud creak, precipitated me
most unexpectedly into the midst of an unlooked-for entertainment. My
own surprise can hardly have been less than the combined astonishment
of some two to three hundred lamas, ranging from little boys to old
hoary-heads, all squatting on the ground in the sunny forecourt of a
temple.
[Illustration: TWO OR THREE HUNDRED LAMAS SQUATTING ON THE GROUND IN
THE SUNNY FORECOURT OF A TEMPLE]
[Illustration: HANKARAWA]
My sudden appearance with a camera in their midst was apparently most
disconcerting, and one and all they covered their heads with the dark
red sashes. To take a snapshot on the spur of the moment was literally
a reflex act on my part, and had my life been at stake in the doing of
it I could not have refrained. As it was, for a moment or two perhaps
the situation was a trifle strained, and whether my intrusion would
be resented, as it might well have been in that out-of-the-way
corner of the earth, was exceedingly uncertain. Scowls and anger were
expressed all too plainly on the debased faces of many of the younger
men, but at a sign from one of the leaders they seemed quickly to
recover their equanimity, resumed their occupation, and offered not the
slightest objection to my presence, when, by signs, I asked permission
to walk round the outskirts of the gathering.
The deep red, vivid orange, and pale cinnamon of their clothes
suggested great borders of parrot tulips ranged on either side of a
wide flagged path leading up to the chief lama, who quite possibly
had seen, what probably few of the others had, white faces visiting
the temples in Peking. He allowed me to take a photograph at close
quarters, smiling (at his own cowardice, I presume) the while. The
little boys made hideous faces at me as I strolled round, and the
young men of twenty or so, an age at which I always feel there is most
to fear from devilment and cruelty, looked at me in an unmistakably
hostile manner.
A little group of men stripped to the waist formed the centre of
operations, and these it transpired were candidates for a degree. They
were being examined by the seniors and cross-examined by their junior
colleagues of all ages. Each side backed its fancy apparently and all
indulged in wild clapping and gesticulation, some of them rising from
the ground in their excitement and yelling approbation or the reverse
to the victim of the moment. The brown-faced old chief lama sat suave
and imperturbable throughout. The scene was as picturesque as it was
interesting and fraught with mystery.
Soon afterwards the assembly dispersed, and, freed from the restraint
of their elders, the young lamas hustled round me in an aggressive and
pugnacious sort of mood. I have found in my limited experience that to
meet this kind of thing good-humouredly, but never to show the least
sign of embarrassment, usually has a placating effect. I allowed one
or two of the more objectionable youths to look through my camera, for
instance, but when one of them wished to take it from me for a closer
inspection I smacked his hand away as I would have done a child’s,
whereat they laughed. Not more than five per cent of the uninitiated
seem able to see anything through the lenses of a camera, but if one
or two can be made to do so the others are placed at a disadvantage,
which, to some extent gives one the whip hand.
In the same way with the Chinese. On rare occasions I was faced with
the type of swanking young man who conceives it to be his mission in
life to make the foreigner “lose face”. He usually begins by calling
attention to one’s limited knowledge of his language, but I succeeded
more than once in turning the tables by enquiring if he knew “English
talk,” “French talk,” “Russian talk,” and so forth. A contemptuous
shrug of the shoulders and an expressive movement of the hands, with a
well-there-you-are look on your face, and the crowd laughs with you,
while the swanker retires to reflect on the fact “that they don’t know
everything down in Judee”.
On one occasion in Mongolia it became essential for me to assert
my position. The lad who had insisted, against my wishes, upon
accompanying my caravan up country (I discovered afterwards that
he was actually the owner of and alone could manage the pony which
helped to draw my cart) declined to carry out my instructions in some
small matter or other one day, and, moreover, when I insisted, he
was cheeky, imitating me in the way I spoke Chinese almost before my
face. This could not, of course, be permitted for an instant. I waited
my opportunity, and later in the day on returning from an expedition
I asked a missionary to explain his misdeeds very carefully to him,
and to help him to realise that though I might not be able to speak
his language I did not intend to stand any nonsense from him. I
stepped in at the end of the harangue and seizing him by the pigtail I
administered the severest chastisement I have ever given, boxing his
ears soundly several times. The crucial question had arisen. Was I to
lose face, or was he? I have to admit that I was not “hitting a man of
my own size,” but the effect on the Mongol onlookers was excellent, and
as for the lad himself--well--he and I and a young Mongol spent the
greater part of next day together hunting for eagles’ eggs, far away
from the camp. That I taught him the approved Western method of blowing
eggs with one hole only (some of them were in an unpleasantly mature
condition) sealed our relationship, which remained friendly until I
left China.
One romantic evening in South Mongolia comes back to my remembrance
in Europe as it were in a dream. I had arranged to accompany my old
friend the Finn on a visit to a distant settlement in order to see
whether these people there with whom he was totally unacquainted would
give him a hearing at all. After a ride of some twenty li or so, we
arrived late one Sunday afternoon at a group of tents sheltered from
the north and easterly winds by a belt of low hills, and came to a halt
a hundred yards away from the most important looking yourt with a shout
of “Nuhuoi”.
The people emerged from the surrounding tents and restrained the very
savage dogs who were howling for our blood. Women controlled them,
kneeling on the ground and holding them in by their collars. The moment
the dogs see that strangers are given a friendly reception there is no
more trouble with them until the time for departure comes, when the
same performance has to be repeated. The owner of the yourt we had
selected for our visit was a Mandarin of some standing, and his fine
manners greatly impressed me as he offered us the snuff-bottle in the
most courtly fashion imaginable. With him was a very handsome man who
might from his gentle and learned appearance have been--what one likes
to imagine they are--an Oxford don. This was the Mandarin’s secretary,
and having lived from time to time in Peking, he had acquired something
of the culture and refinement of the Chinese upper class. Through him,
the Finn addressed most of his remarks to the Mandarin who was keenly
entertained until the subject of Western religion was broached, when he
completely changed his aspect, becoming palpably indifferent, if not a
little sulky, remaining with us only because good manners compelled him
to do so.
People from neighbouring tents swarmed in, crowding and jostling each
other at the entrance in order to catch a glimpse of the foreigners.
The atmosphere became not a little thick, the doorway being absolutely
blocked up by a solid little mass of humanity, little faces even
peering in between the ankles of the older folk. A motley crew indeed,
the sun streaming in like a brilliant shaft through the hole in the
roof, the rest of the interior in deep shade, the colours of their
clothes and the whimsical faces of the people making altogether a
fascinating study. The Finn suggested that I, as a new-comer to
Mongolia, would like to hear some of the music of the country, and
there was a great pow-wow as to who should perform for my benefit.
After a prodigious wait, two young lamas disappeared, soon to return,
the one with a long multi-stringed instrument of wood distantly
related, perhaps, to the zither family; and the other bearing a
banjo-like affair provided with four strings.
In the dim light from the setting sun, and with a shyness charming
to behold in these usually somewhat truculent youths, they twanged
their strings in pretty little minor chords, and from time to time
one of them would sing quietly and very bashfully of the prowess of
his historic forebears. The singer of the settlement, a girl, was, I
gathered, too shy to appear at all. It was all so weird and barbaric,
so remote from life as I had known it, and so extraordinarily like a
dream. The Mongols, as I learnt during my months in Peking, are totally
unlike the Chinese in their relation to music. While I was in Peking
the last of the Manchu empresses departed from the disturbed life of
her country, and the lamas, of course, played an important part at
the funeral ceremonials. Grouped in a little temple-like structure
to one side of the platform upon which the obeisance to the memorial
tablet of the dead empress was made, some forty or fifty priests in
brilliant togas of Imperial yellow satin intoned a solemn dirge which
was absolutely in harmony with the atmosphere of mourning. Many people
who deny entirely the least suggestion of musical sense to the Chinese
were, I remember, greatly struck with the extraordinarily deep and
rich tones that came from the Mongol throats in their Gregorian-like
chanting.