URGA, THE SACRED CITY
Urga the Sacred City, the home of the Gigin, the Living God, third in
the Buddhist hierarchy, is not so much one city as three, all located on
a high ridge above the Tola. Each is distinct, separate, entrenched.
Arriving from the south, the one you reach first is Mai-ma-chin, the
Chinese trading settlement, a tangle of small houses and narrow lanes
hemmed in by stockades of wooden slabs and unbarked fir trees. Here are
the eight or ten thousand Chinese who control the trade of North
Mongolia. Apparently they make a good living, for there is a prosperous
bustle about the place, and as you pick your way over the mud and filth
of the streets, through open doorways you catch glimpses of courts gay
with flowers and gaudily decorated houses such as the well-to-do Chinese
build. But for the most part dull blank walls shut you out--or in. The
Chinese is an unwelcomed alien in Mongolia, and he knows it.
A strip of waste, treeless land, bare of everything save a group of
"chortens," that look like small pagodas, and a few yurts and sheds,
separates Mai-ma-chin from the Russian settlement which occupies the
highest part of the ridge, dominating everything in a significant way.
It centres in the consulate, a large white building surrounded by high
walls, but more prominent is the tall red Russo-Asiatic Bank close by.
Other buildings are a church and a few houses and shops. The Russian
Consulate also is well fortified, with the last contrivances for
defence,--walls, ditches, wire entanglements,--and it looks fit to stand
a siege.
Before reaching Urga proper, the Mongol or lama city, which lies about
three miles farther west, shut off from the others by a branch of the
Tola, you pass the headquarters of the Chinese governor, and he, too,
has entrenched himself behind strong earthworks. Ta Huren, the "Great
Encampment," as the Mongols call Urga, which is not a Mongol word at
all, but merely a modification of the Russian "urgo," a camp or palace,
is a network of palisaded lanes enclosing, not comfortable houses and
offices and banks, as in Mai-ma-chin, but temples and lamasseries. And
well within these is the most sacred spot of all, the lamassery where
dwells enthroned Bogdo or the Gigin, the Living Buddha ranking after the
Dalai Lama and the Tashi Lama only.
To Bogdo the Mongol millions look up as a god; he is the living
representative of the divine one; and the city where he lives is the
goal of thousands of pilgrims each year. And what do they see?--until
late years, just a feeble, untaught child. When the Bogdo dies, his soul
is reincarnated in the body of a newly born male child. For a hundred
years or more that child has been always Tibetan, not Mongolian;
probably the Chinese Government knows why. And the lamas who swarm the
sacred encampment, debased representatives of a debased religion,
probably could tell, if they would, why, in the past, the child has
never lived to be a man. Furthermore, the Russian Consul-General at Urga
probably knows the secret of the long life of the present incumbent, who
is well past the time that has proved so fatal to his predecessors.
Politics sordid and gruesome are active within the gaily decorated walls
of the sacred lamassery. But all that the outsider sees is a weak,
debased-looking man whose vices should soon end his days even if he
escapes the lamas' villainy. Formerly he amused himself with Western
toys, photography, and especially motor-cars. It is true the millions of
Mongols look to the Gigin as their divine leader, but after all there
are ranks even in divinityship, and when the Dalai Lama, fleeing from
Lhasa before the Younghusband expedition in 1904, took refuge here, they
promptly forgot the smaller god to worship at the shrine of a first-rate
one, and the Gigin's nose was put out of joint, and stayed so until his
distinguished guest had departed. It was to appease his wounded vanity
that a Russian official presented him with a motor-car which had been
brought to Urga at vast expenditure of effort and money. When I asked
what he could have been expected to do with it, for roads there were
none, the answer was that to the divine one with fifteen thousand lamas
to do his bidding, anything was possible. A road was, indeed,
constructed to the Bogdo's summer retreat, a few miles away, but alas!
no chauffeur was supplied with the motor-car, and it would not run of
itself. When I passed through Urga last year I was told that the
undaunted Bogdo had ordered a second car, fully equipped with chauffeur
and all, from America, which was even then at Tientsin, so by now he may
be getting stuck in the muddy lanes of the Sacred City,--unless he has
put away such childish things to take up the farce of governing Mongolia
under Russian guidance.
[Illustration: A LAMA BOUND FOR URGA]
[Illustration: A MONGOL BELLE, URGA]
For more than three hundred years Lamaism has held Mongolia in its grip,
checking the development of the country, sapping the vitality and
self-respect of the people. More even than every other man you meet is a
lama, for it is estimated, by those who know the situation best, that
five eighths of the men are lamas, red or yellow, and the evil is on the
increase. At least, two generations ago Abbe Huc placed the proportion
at one in three. But lamas are not all of one sort. There are those who
live in community, permanently attached to some one of the hundreds of
lamasseries. They represent probably the abler or more ambitious in the
priesthood, and are better versed and more regular in the observances of
their order, living a life perhaps not unlike that in Western
monasteries in their period of decline. It is this class that rules
Mongolia--under Russia. Still another group might be compared to the
begging friars when their brief, glorious day was past; they wander
about the country, east, west, south, to Lhasa, to Omei Shan, to Peking,
with little purpose or plan. As Huc says, "vagabondizing about like
birds of passage," finding everywhere food and a tent corner, if not a
welcome. They neither teach nor heal, and represent the most worthless
though perhaps not the most vicious among the lamas.
A third class, and the largest, has no parallel, I think, in any Western
church at any period. These are the lamas who, sent like the others to
the lamasseries at an early age, after having received the prescribed
training,--taking their "degrees," as Huc calls it,--return to their
homes to live the life of the ordinary Mongol, in no wise to be
distinguished from the "black man" save by their shorn heads and the red
and yellow dress, which they do not always wear. They marry after a
fashion, at least they take wives, though without even the ordinary
scanty formalities, and probably the tie is as enduring as the "black
man's" marriage. In Southwest Mongolia I was told a lama marries just
like other people, while in some northern districts he has no right to
his wife, and if a "black man" takes her away he has no redress. The
Mongol who attended me on the first stages from Kalgan was a lama with
wife, children, and home, faithful and hard-working, at least for a
Mongol, and a useful member of society.
The question one naturally asks is, Why do these men become lamas; do
they do it willingly or under compulsion? Apparently the matter is
decided for them by their parents, who send them when boys to some
lamassery where they are duly and meagrely trained; but they do not seem
to chafe at their condition when they grow up, for the advantages are
very real. The parents save in not having to buy wives for their sons,
while the lama himself is always sure of support if he goes back to his
lamassery, and he is free from all demands by the Government for
military service.
It is said that the Chinese Government has encouraged Lamaism with the
idea of keeping down the population; in this way it would avert the
danger of Mongol invasion. But Lamaism has already done that in another
way, by killing the vigour and warlike temper of the people. The memory
of Genghis Khan still lives in the land where he was born; tradition
holds that the Great Conqueror lies buried on the summit of Bogda Ola,
the mountain that towers over Urga, and no one may climb the height lest
his sleeping be disturbed. But it is the vicious weakling who holds
uncertain sway in the Sacred City, not the spirit of the mighty warrior,
that dominates the Mongol of to-day.
Buddhism takes on many forms. On one side you have the gentle,
intelligent monk of Burma, and the kindly superstitious bonze of China.
But that black travesty of Buddhism, Lamaism, seems to offer no
redeeming feature; brutish in Ladakh, vicious and cruel in Tibet, it is
debasing and weakening in its effects upon the Mongol, who comes of
finer and stronger stock than either Ladakhi or Tibetan. But he
sometimes succeeds in being a good fellow in spite of his religion.
The first day of my stay in Urga I devoted to repairing the damages of
the journey across the desert. Oh, the luxury of plenty of hot water, of
leisure, of privacy. I scrubbed and I mended, but above all I rested.
And if I tired of that, there was always plenty to see just outside my
door. The house where I was so kindly entertained was the home of a rich
Mongol trader, a man of many deeds and few words. It was built around a
large courtyard enclosed in a strong stockade some twelve feet high, the
buildings forming part of the enclosing wall. On the long side of the
court was a roofed-over space where carts and horses and fuel were kept.
To the right hand and to the left were kitchen, godowns, servants'
quarters, while on the side facing the great entrance gates boldly
decorated with the swastika symbol were the family and guest rooms.
Along this front was a narrow verandah roofed by the overhanging eaves
of the one-story buildings. Most of the windows were of the ordinary
Chinese style,--wooden lattices covered with paper,--but a few were
glazed. My room was about fourteen feet by ten in size, one half or more
of the space being taken up by a platform some three feet high, on which
were a large gaudy rug and two or three tiny tables and chests of
drawers. The rest of the furnishing was a rough bench and two decorated
cabinets. The ceiling of the room was covered with a gaily flowered
European paper, and on the walls hung some cheap Chinese kakemonos.
The state rooms, which were next to mine, were evidently held in great
esteem, and my hostess displayed them with the reverent pride of a good
New England woman showing her parlour. There were three of them, opening
one into the other. In each there was the invariable platform covered by
rugs, and big Chinese vases stood about on small tables.
The life that went on in the courtyard was simple and rather
patriarchal. Servants, children, horses, everything was under the eye of
the master, a good-looking, dignified man. I found it rather difficult
to distinguish servants and family; everybody seemed to be on a familiar
footing. But the joy of the place was a small boy, the son and heir, who
played with Jack or sat in my room inspecting my things by the
half-hour. According to Western ideas children in the East are not
"brought up," and it is true they are abominably spoiled, but at least
one's heart is not often wrung by seeing them slapped and beaten.
One of my first rides abroad was to the Russo-Asiatic Bank where I met
much courtesy and helpfulness. Thanks to the bank officials in Peking I
was expected, and I found a warm welcome, and a house ready prepared for
me, which, however, I could not use, as I was already settled where I
was. There is a community of about five hundred Russians in Urga, mostly
traders and officials, and a fifth as many soldiers protecting them. The
look of the Russian quarter takes you across the sea, for many of the
houses are of logs set in a grass yard, the whole surrounded by a high
board fence, almost a stockade in strength. Far East and Far West have
met, and the homes of the Russian pioneer and American frontiersman are
much alike.
For many decades Russia has been extending her influence into North
Mongolia, patiently and persistently, and now through trade and
employment she has the country in her grasp. Almost the only foreign
people the Mongol knows are the Russians, and as a rule he seems to get
on with them rather well, although a Russian official told me he doubted
if there was much to choose between the Chinese and the Russian traders;
both fleeced the poor nomad. However, European onlookers, who know
Mongolia well, declare that if it came to war between China and Russia,
the Mongols would take sides,--and with the Russians.
[Illustration: MY MONGOL HOSTESS]
[Illustration: THE MONGOL HOUSE WHERE I STAYED IN URGA]
When I was in Urga there was much talk among the Chinese about the
railway that was surely coming, and the Kalgan officials said the same
thing. One only wonders that it was not done half a dozen years ago;
there are no serious difficulties. Once outside the Great Wall, the
rails could be laid down on the top of the ground almost as fast as a
man could walk. Only as you approach Urga, north of the desert, would
there be much in the way of bridging and embanking. And it would soon
pay for itself, for the millions of taels' worth of trade done between
North Mongolia and China would easily be doubled if once freed from the
handicap of the costly and uncertain journey of to-day. But more
important than all else is the political side of the question. The
Chinese Government must have known for years that its hold on North
Mongolia was insecure; it has pushed forward colonization by the Chinese
with much more than its usual vigour, and, given time, that would have
settled the matter. But it had no right to count on having time, while a
railway across the desert, taking not long to build, would have bound
all Mongolia to the empire with bands truly of steel, that even the
Russians could not break. And now--is it too late?
* * * * *
The hours were quite too short which I had to spend in Urga, the Urga of
the Mongols; the other settlements were merely frontier posts, one
Chinese style and the other Russian, new and uninteresting. But Urga, Ta
Huren, was another story. To reach it we forded the river, the strong
current washing my feet as we rode through. There may be some other way,
but that sort of thing is part of the ordinary day's work with the
Mongol, and I believe he is rather shy of the one or two bridges the
Russians have built.
Ta Huren has a temporary look that suits its name; fire or flood could
easily sweep it away. And there is nothing of any architectural interest
save two or three temples and lamasseries, and having seen one you have
seen all, for there is little of beauty or fine workmanship about them.
The broad main street and the open spaces above the river were much more
attractive, for there the life of the settlement had gathered, and again
you had the impression of a holiday. There was too much leisure, too
much jollity, and too much colour for the work-a-day crowd of the West
or of China. People came and went, stopped to talk, stopped to stare. No
one seemed in a hurry except one or two self-important officials and
their white-jacketed retinue. Only in the horse-market was there any
real business going on. There the crowd seemed really intent on
something, but buying and selling horses is a serious matter the world
over, in Kentucky or in Mongolia. Indeed, the whole scene reminded me of
nothing so much as "Court Day" in Kentucky, done in colour. But the
colour made all the difference. Everywhere there were lamas, of
course,--lamas in red dress and red hats, or lamas with blue-black
shaven heads set off by yellow or flame-coloured garments. Women came
and went on foot or on horseback, alone or in groups, just as much at
home in the motley crowd as the men. Some of them were gorgeously
attired, and the flashing of their silver headgear was quite dazzling.
Now and then I caught sight of one more soberly clad and with a shaven
head, a widow, perhaps, or an old woman who had become the family priest
to the extent of performing the daily simple observances.
Mingling with the gay, happy-go-lucky throng of Mongols were two alien
elements: one, the quiet, purposeful, observant, blue-gowned Chinese,
each intent on his business; the other, the blue-eyed Cossacks in white
caps and the big, bearded, belted Mujiks, looking tremendously
substantial as they lounged heavily along, lazily watching the shifting
crowd. I thought of the Afghan Amir Abdur Rahman's comparison of Russia
to an elephant, "who examines a spot thoroughly before he places his
foot down upon it, and, when once he puts his weight there, there is no
going back and no taking another step in a hurry until he has put his
whole weight on the first foot and smashed everything that lies under
it." But the Chinese are like the tide, coming in noiselessly, gently,
filling each hole and crevice, rising unnoticed higher and higher until
it covers the land. Will it sweep away the elephant?