THE SIGNING OF THE TREATY
A day or two after--that is to say, on the seventh day of September
1904--the treaty was signed. If our peaceful arrival at Lhassa had been
the anti-climax of the Expedition, this--the signing of the
treaty--though peaceful also, was its true climax. One certainly did
have a feeling that day that one was witness of an event of imperial
importance.
The escort left camp at 1.30 P.M. Over the assembling of the troops
outside camp one of those typical--and to the onlooker highly
entertaining--muddles arose, which are always either the fault of some
one or no one or every one. Eventually we found ourselves, all except a
body of mounted infantry who were still unaccountably missing. Their
place was, however, adequately filled by a party of Kot-duffadars of
mule corps, who, mounted on transport riding ponies, and armed with
swords and staves or whatever obsolete weapon is nowadays issued to
them, took a prominent place in the procession and made a brave show. We
marched past that pleasant country seat known as 'Paradise,' where the
political mission had their quarters, and proceeded along a path lined
with troops, across a bog into the outskirts of the city, and up the
road which leads up the Pota-La hill into the Pota-La. We had eventually
to dismount, leave our ponies, and climb up a paved pathway, half
staircase. This pathway was smeared with the holy grease of ages and was
dangerously slippery. At the top we found some of the guard of the
Nepalese resident, looking very warlike in red secondhand tunics that
had once been the property of British soldiers, but were of a now
obsolete pattern. Ushered through a dark passage, we entered at last
into the throne-room or audience-hall of the Pota-La, where the ceremony
was to take place. When all that portion of the escort who were allowed
within the hall had taken their places Colonel Younghusband and General
Macdonald with their respective Staffs arrived. The room already held
the various contingents of Eastern officials of different nationalities
who were to assist at the function. After we had all stood up, there was
a great deal of handshaking between the representatives of East and
West. The Chinese Amban shakes hands in a manner that, when last I
frequented London drawing-rooms, was, I believe, considered fashionable.
One of the lay council of Tibet certainly thought so, for he tried to
imitate the particular method, but only partially succeeded. The party
then sat down to tea. A great deal of tea was drunk--that milkless tea
in handleless china cups with which we had most of us now become
acquainted. All sorts of Chinese sweetmeats were provided with it, and
these were followed by cigarettes (our old friend the 'Pedro'). These
dainties did not extend into the outer circles; those of us who were
behind contented ourselves by lighting up our own Pedros.
A glance round the room showed many bright colours and striking
contrasts. There, near to the throne, were our political officers in the
rich but not gaudy uniform of their service; next them the G.O.C. and
his Staff in the sober khaki, while all round the room in less prominent
places was more khaki. But next to Colonel Younghusband in robes of
bright blue silk sat the Amban. Next to the Amban was the Regent, who,
since the disappearance of the Dalai Lama, had been the officiating head
of the Tibetan Government, an elderly man with a sad ascetic face, and
dressed quite simply in the plain red robes of an ordinary lama. Next to
him was a row of Chinese officials, of whose uniform, as in the case of
the Amban, bright blue silk formed the chief part. Further away were
the seats of the Nepalese contingent, at the head of whom sat the Nepali
resident, a fierce-looking old man in a rather shabby and uncommonly
short jacket of plum-coloured brocade lined with fur. Alongside, but at
a different angle and facing the throne, sat the Tonsil Penlop and his
suite. These represented Bhutan and were all clad in striped yellow silk
robes, which one can only describe as barbaric. Their millinery was also
marvellous, the Tonsil Penlop himself wearing a kind of bonnet, on the
top of which was perched a whole stuffed bird, which in the distance
appeared to be a parrot. Immediately opposite the throne were the
Tibetan lay council of three. They affected plain yellow silk and yellow
hats, but the yellow was of a bright shade, and the general effect of
their appearance was as magnificent as that of any of the others. In
face they struck me as the least attractive of the various Eastern
officials present, being unhealthy-looking, rather fat, and wearing
what seemed a sulky cowed expression. Behind them stood a whole array of
monks.
The process of signing began almost at once. The number of documents
seemed never ending. Apparently there were several copies of the treaty
in every language spoken by any of the parties directly or remotely
concerned with it, and every one of these copies had to be signed, not
only by the chief authorities above enumerated, but also by various
lesser lights of Tibet, as, for instance, the heads of certain
monasteries. At one period the limelight flashed upon us, and we all had
our photographs taken from a corner of the room.
We saw many copies of the treaty being signed with great care, but
gathered nothing of its contents except from the speech which, when at
last the signing was over, Colonel Younghusband addressed to the
Tibetans in general, and to the 'council of three' in particular. The
latter sat bobbing their heads deferentially at each sentence, and
looking thoroughly ashamed while Colonel Younghusband addressed them
from his chair. The speech was translated sentence by sentence into
Tibetan for Tibetan benefit, and afterwards passed on in Chinese to the
Amban.
The speech was emphatically a 'straight talk,' the key-note seeming to
be that the Tibetans had been very foolish in opposing and flouting us
in the past, but that they were now going to be good boys. They were
going to be well treated when they came to visit us, and were not going
to misbehave themselves in any way, should we again come near them.
There was more said, about trade relations with India, in recognition of
the Chinese suzerainty, and in encouragement of the Tibetan traditional
methods of treating outsiders, when those outsiders did not happen to be
ourselves.
The council of three seemed to take it all 'lying down.'
More tea was drunk: the press correspondents busied themselves with the
telegrams that they were sending down by post to Gyantse, bringing the
wires there and then to the press censor, whose blue pencil I saw freely
wielded: more handshaking, and then the party broke up.
As we left the now close atmosphere of the audience hall, we felt that
we had just witnessed a matinee performance in a theatre. The
spectacular effects throughout had been impressive. The first act had
been brisk, the second had dragged, but the last had been thrilling. It
had indeed been a fine play that we had seen enacted--the simple sane
perseverance of British diplomacy fighting on its own ground a unique
section of the mysterious and gorgeous East, not bluffed by its
indignant protests, not deceived by its spurious promises, not wearied
by its endless delays, not impatient of its crass ignorance, but gaining
its objects slowly and surely, and coming out victorious.