“Each path with robes and various dyes bespread,
Seems from afar a moving tulip bed”
--_Tickell_
Our visit to Urga had been most fortunately timed, and we were
delighted to hear within a few days of reaching the capital that the
great semi-religious, semi-athletic festival of the Ts’am Haren, or
sacred dance, was to take place during the second week in July. A more
bewilderingly picturesque and fantastic sight than this presented day
after day--held at intervals it prolonged itself over a fortnight--I
never expect to see. Proceedings included the presentation of tribute
to the Hut’ukt’u, followed by an archery competition, continued with
the dance of the gods, a great wrestling tourney, and wound up with a
race meeting.
Reminiscent in some degree of their past glories, the Mongol princes
and their banner-men came from distant principalities of the dominion
to take part in these feats of strength and skill, and at the same time
to present their gifts and to do homage to their spiritual and temporal
chief. Bogdo, the Hut’ukt’u (“he who is born again”), the Living God
of Mongolia, is nominally the ruling spirit of these festivities, but
although his chair of state was always prominently in position, this
mighty ruler, whom his subjects believe to be the richest as well as
the most potent monarch in the world (has he not 2000 white ponies and
a 1000 white camels?), did not come to sit in it. On one occasion only
did “He that can do no wrong” put in an appearance, and that was when
lamas and princes assembled to hand over to him the money and presents
that had been begged from, and squeezed out of, his subjects throughout
the length and breadth of Mongolia. Great were the rejoicings when it
became known that Bogdo was to be present in person, to receive with
his own fair hands the offerings that had been brought to Urga. Bogdo,
the Djibson Dampa Lama (Holy Reverence) Edsen Han, as he is severally
styled, the chief of all the Hut’ukt’us, by birth a Tibetan, being
son of a steward to the Dalai Lama, is a man of middle age, already
decrepit, in appearance bloated, dissipated, uninspiring. The spiritual
head of the Mongolian Buddhists, he now lays claim, since Mongolia
is no longer subject to Chinese rule, to temporal authority as well.
Indeed the position of this lama pontiff is of unusual character, and
might almost be said to embrace a dual personality. On the one hand,
the celibate ruler of priests, the religious leader of the faith.
On the other, the crowned emperor of the Mongols; crowned with his
wife, and firmly insistent that their ten-year old son should be
crowned as his heir, that there should be no room for doubt as to his
intentions in regard to the succession to the Mongol throne.
[Illustration: BOGDO’S BODYGUARD]
[Illustration: LITTLE LAMA BOYS PLAY ‘TAG’ ROUND THE BARRIERS]
That all actions of the Hut’ukt’u must of necessity be right is
ingrained in the minds of his people, and taken quite literally by
his adherents. That he, the reincarnation of the sainted historian
Taranatha, should openly, and I use the word advisedly, for Mongolia is
a wonderful country for winking at things nominally taboo, take unto
himself a wife must, even though such action is a violation of all
Buddhistic principles, be right, because Bogdo can do no wrong. There
are many stories rife as to the iniquities of their ruler, and one that
I myself heard on good authority made him responsible for the cruel
murder of a well-known Mongol official, whom he is said to have forced
into drinking in his presence a cup of poisoned wine.
Into Bogdo’s house we did not penetrate. It would have been difficult
enough under ordinary circumstances to have obtained an audience, but,
as it was, the Hut’ukt’u was in a bad state of health, and moreover
it was rumoured that an addition to his family was daily expected. A
pleasant ride along the valley of the Tola River brought us to the
confines of Bogdo’s compound, and we were interested in the queer
mixture of styles the house presented. Built of wood, the main part of
the structure might have been an English farm-house, but out of all
character with this was the square green tower in the middle of it,
and the many little Chinese turrets and pavilions with yellow-tiled
roofs. The compound was surrounded by a rough fir tree fence and the
place presented an untidy appearance. There was nothing to suggest the
immense wealth with which Bogdo is credited, beyond the insignificant
fact of a small herd of antelope inside a neighbouring compound. Far
more picturesque, at a stone’s throw distant, was the residence of the
Choi Gin Lama, Bogdo’s brother, a well-planted garden surrounding a
number of small houses and a temple, all with green roofs and Tibetan
in style.
The general arrangements for the Ts’am Haren were carried out with
great forethought and method; the discipline and general order as
one event followed another would really rival the management of like
festivities in the Western world. Our main difficulty was that we
could seldom ascertain within a few hours as to when the performances
began, and in consequence of this we were always up to time and had
a good deal of waiting about. For the presentations to Bogdo great
preparations were made; the approaches to the temple were well
protected by southern soldiers who supplement the body-guard of the
Hut’ukt’u, and the barriers around which the little lama boys played
“tag,” or a Mongolian form of it, fenced off great spaces across which
the unwary foreigners might otherwise have cantered their horses in
disrespectful light-heartedness.
The Temple of the Gods, situated on the north side of the stony expanse
between the Consulate and West Urga was the centre of a brilliant
scene. The body-guard in royal blue silk damask coats with black velvet
facings outlined with silver braid, prune coloured waistcoats and pale
lemon cummerbunds, formed a valiant looking band enough; their weapons
were modern in type, and their clothes apart from being picturesque
were, what is far rarer in the extreme East, smart, clean, and in
good condition. Quite satisfied with the impression their appearance
produced upon me, they showed no little keenness to be photographed.
Inside the barriers the ground was lined on one side with a number of
marquees, under which in deep shadow sat the Mongol mandarins, silently
contemplative and out of the glare, the richness of the blue-purple
and chocolate of their silken garments looking all the richer in the
half light. Opposite them, at a distance of 150 yards or so, the rank
and file of the lama community were herded together, squatting on the
ground and standing in the back rows, thousands of them, from whom
from time to time darted forth some naughty boy with the object of
exchanging his seat for a better one. A mass of dull Indian red was the
effect they produced, unrelieved but for the wonderful banners that had
been erected on great frames of wood opposite the temple entrance. The
mob was kept within bounds by angry lamas who cut at the people if they
pressed forward or got out of place with sharp little switches. The
faces of these men were quite diabolically hideous; their expressions
evil and cruel. There is some idea, no doubt, that the uglier the face
the more alarming it is.
A group of high lamas in gorgeous vestments of orange and scarlet sat
enveloped in their loose folds out of the sun beating down upon an
archway, their hard gilded hats, in shape reminding one of the tops of
raised pies, glittering where the light filtered through the roof with
a metallic brilliance. The crowds are moving now, lamas and “black men”
are mingled, although it is an essentially lamaistic occasion and the
predominating tones range from lemon to vermilion.
Final preparations are now being made, yards upon yards of Imperial
yellow cloth are stretched in a golden pathway from the yourts hidden
away inside an inner compound, through the great p’ailou, under which
the priests shelter from the sun, and away and beyond to the main
entrance to the Temple of the Gods. The yourts behind the palisade form
the robing and refreshment rooms for the Hut’ukt’u, and we note a cart
drawn by a magnificent bullock pull up outside in order that the huge
pots of mares’ milk may be lifted from it. Bogdo is within the gates,
and none but prelates and princes have access to the sacred precincts.
At the portals high lamas sit, and two tall figures support the great
state umbrellas of silken embroidery on either side. The heat is
intense, and a row of sleepy dignitaries doze uncomfortably on the long
benches under the portico. There is a drowsiness about the day, and the
hum of conversation is subdued and soothing.
[Illustration: CHURCH AND STATE: MONGOL PRINCE AND HIGH LAMA]
Suddenly there is a stir, and a thrill of expectation runs through
all of us. A crowd of princes and mandarins and their sons hurries
forth from the little tents and forms up in lines on either side of
the golden pathway. Lama officials come forward and thrust lighted
joss-sticks into each of the outstretched hands. Space is left between
the long rows for three people to walk abreast. A look of intense
eagerness, even of anxiety, spreads over the bronzed faces, for their
god is but a sick man. A harsh trumpeting presages the approach of
their incarnate deity; continuous and raucous. Two heralds, each
holding what we suppose to be a glorified “hatag” on his upturned
wrists but made of leopard’s skin stuffed in the form of an elongated
sausage, made their appearance. Following them are the trumpeters,
first one and then the other producing a long unbroken wail from his
copper and brass instrument which resembles that which I bought as a
war trophy months past in Peking.
A posse of lamas in robes and the mitred headdress of high ceremony,
looking for all the world like a perambulating bed of nasturtiums in
full bloom, precede their pontiff, who, fat, pallid, and ponderous, his
diseased eyes protected by round black glasses, supported (held up, it
seemed to us) by a priest on either side, walks labouringly along the
yellow cloth. The bearers of the embroidered umbrellas are close upon
his heels, and the crowd of privileged persons, priests, and laity,
jostling each other for priority, follow in his train to the Temple of
the Gods. Humbler lamas from remote corners of Mongolia stand about in
little groups. They are there to watch the passing of their god. The
feeling is tense. Fervid adoration shines from their straining eyes.
Clasped hands stretch forth in expression of profound emotion as the
procession winds its way into the temple, up to the tribute throne.
There is silence, save for the sound of the heavy footsteps of the
central figure as he stumps over the yellow tissue covering the boarded
pathway. In an ecstasy of worship the monks prostrate themselves near
the threshold of the sanctuary. They have beheld him whom they would
fain see: him whom they have travelled footsore and hungry so many
miles, for so many weeks, to honour. They are happy. Their faces are
sublime. They have reached the haven of their desire.
[Illustration: THE GREAT STATE UMBRELLA OF SILKEN EMBROIDERY]
[Illustration: IN AN ECSTASY OF WORSHIP THE MONKS PROSTRATE THEMSELVES
NEAR THE THRESHOLD OF THE SANCTUARY]
Lined up along a wall not far from the great gateway to the temple,
waiting with radiantly expectant countenances, and bearing their
gifts in their hands, are some hundreds of ragged pilgrims. Fifty men
of Bogdo’s guard are in attendance here, ready when the time comes
to marshal them into the Presence. They have been waiting since
dawn, but in a state of supreme exaltation. They have drawn the lucky
number amongst their fellows, and carry their offerings on trays and
platters--little ornaments for the temple altars, sometimes even food
have they brought to lay at the feet of their spiritual sovereign.
But their turn is not yet. Precedence has been given to the princes
and rich men in fine raiment, and these, holding aloft in both hands
costly tribute hidden from sight in silken coverings of daffodil
yellow, make a wonderful procession as the crowd opens out for them,
and they pass from a blaze of sunshine into the dimly mellow light of
the great temple interior. A low droning chant rises and falls from the
throats of Urga’s priests as the doors open and close on the bearers of
treasure, gold, frankincense, and myrrh. They are so numerous that they
can only be admitted in sections of a hundred or so at a time.
Less stirring perhaps, but every whit as picturesque, was the meeting
of the archers held on the great grassy expanse between the sacred
mountain and the city. I rode out to it to find a scene which suggested
a herbaceous flower-bed in bright autumn sunshine. A background
of wooded hills rose up in the distance across the Tola River to
some 1500 or 1600 feet. The garments of the crowds--the laity were
in preponderating forces to-day--were indeed a study in contrasts
and harmonies. Pointsettia scarlet vied with pure turquoise and
lapis-lazuli blue; lavender and rich violet, sober mouse colour, pale
lemon chrome ranging to vivid orange--the brilliance of a field of
parrot tulips such as brought back to my memory the bulb farms in full
bloom which surround Haarlem. Cup day at Ascot would seem pale and
anæmic as compared with this Mongolian toxophilite display.
At one end of the ground were half a dozen little marquees, light or
dark blue linen _appliqué_ with yellow and white devices. Under them,
upon comfortable square cushions, sat the princes and princesses, the
mandarins and their wives, with sundry other officials. Surrounding
them were the crowds, and again, like a wall beyond, hundreds and
hundreds of ponies were tethered, for no one ever dreams of walking in
Mongolia. In front of the tents at the south end of the ground were
half a dozen stances for the archers. They shot in pairs, princes and
peasants alike, and undistinguished save for the badge of office in
the form of the peacock’s feather which protrudes horizontal from the
crown of the round pork-pie hat with red streamers, and by the richer
material of the garments. They had four shots apiece, and their range
was about seventy to seventy-five yards distance.
[Illustration: THE MEETING OF THE ARCHERS ‘RANGED THEMSELVES IN COUPLES
AT THE STANCES’]
[Illustration: SCORING THE HITS AT THE BUTTS]
The competitors were in great force, and coming out eight or ten at a
time they ranged themselves in couples at the stances, bowed low to the
magnates in the marquees, saluted the butts likewise, and let fly their
heavy, ivory-tipped arrows--not at targets, but at birch-bark rings
piled loosely as a child might build a “castle” with his bricks one on
top of the other, and making little low walls of perhaps ten or twelve
feet in length by eighteen inches high. At the butts were a number of
men scoring the hits, and as the arrows flew they flapped their long
arms above their heads and chanted a sort of dirge-like incantation,
not dissimilar to that with which our sailors accompany the hauling in
of anchor cables.
The song rose and fell, crescendo and diminuendo, in harmony with the
success or failure of the competitors. A gentle swaying movement of
the crowds as their eyes followed the arrows was like a corn-field
shivering in waves as the breeze stirs it. The umpires stood right
in the line of the hurtling missiles, and little lamas in embryo,
bare-footed and bare-limbed, gathered the arrows as they fell, tripping
back with them to the archers like sun-kissed amorini with their
quivers full. The utmost order prevailed, and this event, as were also
the others, was organised to perfection.
The Dance of the Gods which took place in the spacious outer courtyard
of the temple was similar in effect to the Devil Dances I had watched
with such interest at the lama temple in Peking in the previous spring.
The ground was marked out in sections and all operations were directed
towards a canopy of yellow silk ornamented with conventional devices
in blue, beneath which the throne of the Hut’ukt’u was placed. That
he would be present in _persona proprîa_ nobody expected, but in
his absence all honour was paid to the space which should have been
occupied by him.
The status of Russia was officially recognised by the erection of a
special marquee not far from that of the Bogdo, and under this the
Russian Consul sat cross-legged and perspiring, supported by a number
of officials, an interpreter, and his handsome Persian valet at his
elbow. A large number of Russians also stood and looked on at the weird
gyrations of the masked dancers which continued untiringly hour after
hour beneath a fierce sun beating mercilessly down upon the thousands
of spectators fringing this gritty and treeless expanse. Picturesque
and novel though the dancing was, it became monotonous after a while as
troop after troop of actors, concealed beneath the most grotesque masks
which covered their heads and shoulders, issued forth in turn, and
went through what appeared to us to be the same evolutions one after
the other. It is very difficult to arrive at any exact interpretation
of such religious dances, but the most likely explanation is that the
scenes gone through are a representation in pantomime of incidents in
the early history of Buddhism. The dancers are masked to represent
the gods, mythological animals, and hideous devils, and they prance
about the chalked-in area to the strains of Tibetan trumpets and
other weird sounds. The gods, whose amiable and pallid countenances
very naturally bear strong resemblance to the sublime expression of
contemplation admired by the Chinese, overcome the devils in due
course, but to our disappointment by the means of peaceful exorcism and
not by muscular conflict. This sort of thing continued for the best
part of a day, and it was easy to see that the spectators grew bored,
for the majority were as ignorant, we were told, as we ourselves as to
what it was all about.
[Illustration: A MASK AT THE DANCE OF THE GODS]
[Illustration: A MONGOL PRINCESS WEARING A HEAD-DRESS OF GOLD]
Attendance at the sacred dance may to some extent have been a matter of
obligation on the part of a considerable proportion of the audience,
but for the subsequent event, the annual wrestling competition, it was
a very different story, and the approaches to the ground were thronged
by men, women, and children, about whose keenness there was little
room for doubt. As far as the arrangement of the ground was concerned,
proceedings followed to a large extent those of the previous occasions.
The main difference, as far as I was able to observe, seemed to be that
all the princesses in Urga (if they were all princesses) were present
in order to lend encouragement to their swains. Seated demurely enough
in rows, these charming little ladies displayed their wonderful jewels
and clothes to vast advantage. Beneath their hats was to be discerned
the gold headdress that is worn only on very special occasions. In
shape similar to an inverted finger-bowl and of open-work design, many
of them were made of gold and must have been uncomfortably heavy on
this hot day. Suspended from the frame were strings of pearls, and a
modest estimate of these suggested that some of these grand ladies wore
from 300 to 400 pearls, many of them as large as peas and quite perfect
in colour. In this great mixed assembly they doubtless felt that their
dignity behoved them to present a formal appearance, but the brown eyes
and rosy lips looked merry enough, and one caught mocking and seductive
glances shooting backwards and forwards in spite of all their primness.
The loose long coats worn habitually by the Mongol men conceal
successfully their proportions and claims to physical development, and
it was with some interest that we watched the wrestlers prepare for
the ring. Their faces, burned alternately by the strong sun and rasped
by icy winds, are usually weathered to the colour of old copper, and
one is astonished to see when they are stripped that their bodies are
as fair as those of the average Englishman. Strong rather than agile
in appearance, these braves, lamas and laymen alike, practice from the
time they are little boys and train seriously when the opportunity
offers; they are as hard as nails when the time comes for their prowess
to be put to the test.
The signal is given, and four pairs of competitors enter the
gladiatorial ring, each being arranged at a given point and closely
watched by a couple of umpires, who, acting as backers into the
bargain, never cease pouring advice and encouragement upon them,
occasionally even punctuating their sentiments by administering
resounding smacks on the softer portions of their anatomy. Before
getting to work, however, convention has prescribed, doubtless from
time immemorial, that salutations shall be offered to the gods, or
to the presiding deity, be he who he may. Alas for the influence of
Western ways! The feet of the deity who should have presided have
developed perhaps just a shade too big even for his Mongol boots, and
salutations must be made instead to that empty symbol of sovereignty,
the unoccupied throne of the absent Hut’ukt’u.
Moving in single file towards the northern end of the ground,
exclaiming as they go, the gladiators advance one by one to the empty
chair literally by leaps and bounds. Their prancing action brings the
knees up to the stomach with every step, and they present the most
ludicrous sight imaginable. Arrived at the dais, the braves leap in
the air, fall on their knees, and touching the ground three times with
their foreheads, perform profound obeisance.
The bout began, and to the eyes of the uninitiated it appeared in some
instances a trial of brains rather than of muscles. A smart trick would
send one man down with lightning celerity, and at once the victor
would prance off again to tell that vacant throne that he had won. In
other cases a pair would remain in close embrace for several minutes,
motionless, and apparently thoughtful. Here one could only suppose that
endurance was playing its part, since for no apparent reason one of
the men would suddenly collapse, and the other would fly off to tell
the story. Notwithstanding my lack of technical knowledge, I found
this an absorbingly interesting form of entertainment, and rejoiced to
hear from the Norwegian, German, Russian, and Englishman that these
well-made specimens of humanity were sportsmen in every sense of the
word, that they played the game as well as any Westerner. Indeed they
may be said in one respect to set an example to the Western world in
the total disparity of the reward to the merit that had attained it.
A handful of little cakes, the greater part of which were distributed
among his friends by the victor, formed the entire “purse” for which he
fought. The honour of the thing is good enough for these uncivilised
Mongols.
[Illustration: A MONGOL GLADIATOR]
The closing event of the festival of Ts’am was most enjoyable of
all, and I feel that I cannot improve upon the description given by
Mr. Gull in the paper which he read before the Central Asian Society
on his return to England. “The race meeting was held in a beautiful
green valley a little east of Urga. We rode out to it in a merry
party of Mongols and their wives, who, though in gala array, rode
astride. There were thirty entries for a race over flat open country
for five miles. The jockeys were little boys and girls, the youngest
eight, the oldest not more than fourteen. The ponies, their riders
up and singing in chorus, paraded in a circle between tents coloured
light and dark blue. Presently a lama in flowing robes of yellow with
a pennon at the end of a lance placed himself at the head of the
line, and the slow parade broke into a trot. Four or five times the
circle was completed till the trot momentarily quickening became a
fast canter. Then the excitement of the ponies worked up to a pitch,
the lama gave the signal. With a sweep of his lance he shot off at a
gallop the circle behind him uncoiling like a lasso. It spread out
towards the plain racing towards a bend in the hills, the actual
starting-point. We followed for a little and then dismounting we waited
until in straggling file, flanked by those who had gone all the way,
the competitors reappeared. The first home was a girl with a sash of
orange bound round her jet black hair. A mounted lama caught her bridle
and led her up to each of the tents in turn. Before each he intoned a
prayer, and at the last the girl was handed a bowl of milk, and milk
was poured over her pony’s head. Each of the competitors was then taken
up to the tents in turn, and each pony anointed in the same way. At the
end of the afternoon the owners and others stripped off their clothes
and wrestled until the sun, crowned with a floating splendour of flame
sank behind the hills.”
* * * * *
The friendliness of the Mongols towards Europeans was on this occasion
decidedly marked, and in company with half a dozen Russian officers
who had brought over a number of their men to see the sport, we
were entertained “at tea” in one of the pale blue tents near the
winning-post. We all sat on the ground in a row, cross-legged, and the
lamas handed round queer little Chinese cakes and bowls of mares’ milk.
The latter looked dirty but was really not at all bad to taste.
Our meeting under these strange but pleasant circumstances with
the Russian officers led to the establishment of cordial relations
between us, in spite of the fact, which surprised us not a little,
that one only of their number knew any language other than their own.
This great burly fellow, a Captain in a Siberian rifle corps, was
hail-fellow-well-met directly he saw us, and, coming from the Baltic
provinces, spoke German fluently. We took advantage a few days later of
his invitation to ride over to his quarters that we might see something
of the extensive new barracks which are being built by the Russians.
The soldiers are at present mainly housed in barracks which were begun
by the Chinese, who in 1910 proposed to keep a small force there.
Anyone more hospitable than these gallant Russians I have seldom met,
but their notions of entertainment did not run on lines exactly
parallel with our own, and it was impossible to persuade them that I
really did not like my tea half-and-half with neat brandy, and that in
view of a very solitary ride home across dangerous country there were
limits to my capacity for drinking vodka.
[Illustration: A WRESTLING BOUT]
[Illustration: YOUNG LAMAS.]
I fancy that some of these officers, though nominally this Mongolian
exile is very distasteful to them, manage to amuse themselves and
to take advantage of the great possibilities of sport that this
region offers; they extended to us a variety of inducements such as
expeditions after bear, lynx, and wolves, to say nothing of wild-fowl
shooting, if we would remain in Urga long enough. There is plenty of
bird and animal life both in South and North Mongolia, harrier eagles,
vultures, sheldrakes, bustards, geese, ducks, magpies, crows and larks
abounding, while in North Mongolia beautiful herons, always seen in
couples, were so tame that they allowed one to get within very short
range before spreading their wings and sailing away.