KINCHINJUNGA
Aspiration is the root sentiment at the Heart of Nature as she
manifests herself in the forest--aspiration upward checked by
concentration upon the inmost centre. And the very emblem of the
aspiration of Nature kept in hand and under control is to be found in
that proud pinnacle of the Sikkim Himalaya, Kinchinjunga, as it is
seen from Darjiling rising from amidst the rich tropical forests
which clothe its base. To Darjiling, therefore, we should be wise to
go.
To reach it we must ascend the slopes of the outer ranges which rise
abruptly from the plains. A giant forest now replaces the stunted and
bushy timber of the Terai proper and clothes the steep mountain-sides
with dense, deep-green, dripping vegetation. The trees are of
great height, and are sheathed and festooned with climbing plants of
many kinds. Bauhinias and robinias, like huge cables, join tree to
tree. Peppers, vines, and convolvulus twine themselves round the
trunks and branches, and hang in graceful pendants from the boughs.
And the trees, besides being hung with climbers, are also decked
with orchids and with foliaceous lichens and mosses. The wild
banana with its crown of glistening leaves is everywhere
conspicuous. Bamboos shoot up through the undergrowth to a
hundred feet or more in height. The fallen trees are richly clothed
with ferns typical of the hottest and dampest climates. And
dendrobiums and other orchids fasten on the branches.
* * *
At Kurseong there is another striking change, for the vegetation now
becomes more characteristic of the temperate zone. The spring here
vividly recalls the spring in England. Oaks of a noble species and
magnificent foliage are flowering and the birch bursting into leaf.
The violet, strawberry, maple, geranium, and bramble appear, and
mosses and lichens carpet the banks and roadsides. But the species
of these plants differ from their European prototypes, and are
accompanied at this elevation (and for 2,000 feet higher up) with
tree ferns forty feet in height, bananas, palms, figs, pepper, numbers
of epiphytal orchids, and similar genuine tropical genera.
From Kurseong we ascend through a magnificent forest of chestnut,
walnut, oaks, and laurels. Hooker, when he subsequently visited the
Khasia Hills in Assam, said that though the subtropical scenery on
the outer Himalaya was on a much more gigantic scale, it was not
comparable in beauty and luxuriance with the really tropical
vegetation induced by the hot, damp, and insular climate of those
perennially humid Khasia Hills. The forest of gigantic trees on the
Himalaya, many of them deciduous, appear from a distance as
masses of dark grey foliage, clothing mountains 10,000 feet high.
Whereas in the Khasia Hills the individual trees are smaller, more
varied in kind, of a brilliant green, and contrast with grey limestone
and red sandstone rocks. Still, even of the forest between Kurseong
and Darjiling, Hooker says that it is difficult to conceive a grander
mass of vegetation--the straight shafts of the timber trees shooting
aloft, some naked and clean with grey, pale, or brown bark; others
literally clothed for yards with a continuous garment of epiphytes
(air-plants), one mass of blossoms, especially the white orchids,
coelogynes, which, bloom in a profuse manner, whitening their
trunks like snow. More bulky trunks bear masses of interlacing
climbers--vines, hydrangea, and peppers. And often the supporting
tree has long ago decayed away and their climbers now enclose a
hollow. Perpetual moisture nourishes this dripping forest, and
pendulous mosses and lichens are met with in profusion.
For this forest life, however, we cannot at present spare the attention
that is its due, for we want above all things to see the mountains on
the far side of this outer ridge. Tropical forests may be seen in many
other parts of the world. But only here on all the Earth can we see
mountains on so magnificent a scale. So we do not pause, but cross
the ridge and come to the slopes and spurs which face northward,
away from the plains and towards the main range of the Himalaya.
Here is situated Darjiling, which ought to be set apart as a sacred
place of pilgrimage for all the world. Directly facing the snowy
range and set in the midst of a vast forest of oaks and laurels,
rhododendrons, magnolias, and camellias, the branches and trunks
of which are festooned with vines and smilax and covered with ferns
and orchids, and at the base of which grow violets, lobelias, and
geraniums, with berberries, brambles, and hydrangeas--it is adapted
as few other places are for the contemplation of Nature's Beauty in
its most splendid aspects.
Its only disadvantage is that it is so continually shrouded in mist.
The range on which it stands being the first range against which the
moisture-laden currents from the Bay of Bengal strike, the rainfall is
very heavy and amounts to 140 or 160 inches in the year. And even
when rain is not actually falling there is much cloud hanging about
the mountains. So the traveller cannot count upon seeing the snows.
There is no certainty that as he tops the ridge or turns the corner he
will see Kinchinjunga in the full blaze of its glory. He cannot be as
sure of seeing it as he is of seeing a picture on entering a gallery.
During the month of November alone is there a reasonable surety.
All the rest of the year he must take his chance and possess his soul
in patience till the mountain is graciously pleased to reveal herself.
Perhaps because of the uncertainty of seeing Kinchinjunga the view
when it is seen is all the more impressive. The traveller waits for
hours and days, even for only a glimpse. One minute's sight of the
mountains would satisfy him. But still the clouds eddy about in
fleecy billows wholly obscuring the mountains. Six thousand feet
below may now and then be seen the silver streak of the Rangit
River and forest-clad mountains beyond. Around him are dripping
forests, each leaf glistening with freshest greenness, long mosses
hanging from the boughs, and the most delicate ferns and noblest
orchids growing on the stems and branches. All is very beautiful, but
it is the mountain he wants to see; and still the cloud-waves collect
and disperse, throw out tender streamers and feelers, disappear and
collect again, but always keep a veil between him and the mountain.
Then of a sudden there is a rent in the veil. Without an inkling of
when it is to happen or what is to be revealed, those mists of infinite
softness part asunder for a space. The traveller is told to look. He
raises his eyes but sees nothing. He throws back his head to look
higher. Then indeed he sees, and as he sees he gasps. For a moment
the current of his being comes to a standstill. Then it rushes back in
one thrill of joy. Much he will have heard about Kinchinjunga
beforehand. Much he will remember of it if he has seen it before.
But neither the expectation nor the memory ever comes up to the
reality. From that time, henceforth and for ever, his whole life is
lifted to a higher plane.
Through the rent in the fleecy veil he sees clear and clean against the
intense blue sky the snowy summit of Kinchinjunga, the culminating
peak of lesser heights converging upward to it and all ethereal as
spirit, white and pure in the sunshine, yet suffused with the
delicatest hues of blue and mauve and pink. It is a vision of colour
and warmth and light--a heaven of beauty, love, and truth.
But what really thrills us is the thought that, incredibly high though
it is, yet that heaven is part of earth, and may conceivably be
attained by man. It is nearly double the height of Mont Blanc and
more than six times the height of Ben Nevis, but still it is rooted in
earth and part of our own home. This is what causes the stir within
us.
Hardly less striking than its height is its purity and serenity. The
subtle tints of colour and the brilliant sunlight dispel any coldness
we might feel, while the purity is still maintained. And the serenity
is accentuated by the ceaseless movements of the eddying clouds
through which the vision is seen. There is about Kinchinjunga the
calm and repose of stupendous upward effort successfully achieved.
A sense of solemn elevation comes upon us as we view the
mountain. We are uplifted. The entire scale of being is raised. Our
outlook on life seems all at once to have been heightened. And not
only is there this sense of elevation: we seem purified also.
Meanness, pettiness, paltriness seem to shrink away abashed at the
sight of that radiant purity.
The mountain has made appeal to, and called forth from us all that is
most pure and most noble within us, and aroused our highest
aspirations. Our heart, therefore, goes out lovingly to it. We long to
see it again and again. We long to be always in a mood worthy of it.
And we long to have that fineness of soul which would enable us to
appreciate it still more fully. Glowing in the heart of the mountain is
the pure flame of undaunted aspiration, and it sets something aglow
in our hearts also which burns there unquenchably for the rest of our
days. We see attainment of the I highest in the physical domain, and
it stirs us to achieve the highest in the spiritual. Between ourselves
and the mountain is the kinship of common effort towards high ends.
And it is because of this kinship that we are able to see such lofty
Beauty in the mountain.
For only a few minutes are we granted this heavenly vision. Then
the veil is drawn again. But in those few minutes we have received
an impression which has gone right down into the depths of our soul
and will last there for a lifetime.
* * *
On other occasions the mountain is not so reserved, but reveals itself
for whole days in all its glory. The central range of the Himalaya
will be arrayed before us in its full majesty from one horizon to the
other without a cloud to hide a single detail. We see the lesser
ranges rolling up, wave after wave, in higher and higher effort
towards the culminating line of peaks. And along this central line
itself all the lesser heights we see converging on the supreme peak
of Kinchinjunga. The scene, too, will be dazzling in the glorious
sunshine and suffused with that purply-blue translucent atmosphere
which gives to the whole a fairy-like, ethereal aspect.
And on this occasion we have no hurried glimpse of the mountain.
We have ample time to contemplate it, looking at it, turning away
from it to rest our souls from so deep an emotion, looking at it again,
time after time, till we have entered into its spirit and its spirit has
entered into us. And always our eyes insensibly revert to the
culminating-point--the summit of Kinchinjunga itself. We note all
the rich forest foreground, the deep valley beneath us, the
verdure-covered subsidiary ranges, and the strong buttresses of the higher
peaks. But our eyes do not linger there. They unconsciously raise
themselves beyond them to the summit ridge. Nor do we look long
on the distant peaks on either hand. They are over 24,000 feet in
height. But they are not the _highest._ So our eyes pass over peaks
of every remarkable form--abrupt, rugged, and enticing, and we
seek the highest peak of all. And Kinchinjunga is a worthy
mountain-monarch. It is not a needle-point--a sudden upstart which might
easily be upset. Kinchinjunga is grand and massive and of ample
gesture, broad and stable and yet also culminating in a clear and
definite point. There is no mistaking her superiority both in
massiveness and height to every peak around her.
And thick-mantled in deep and everlasting snow though the whole
long range of mountains is, the spectacle of all this snow brings no
chill upon us. For we are in latitudes more southern still than Italy
and Greece--farther south than Cairo. The entire scene is bathed in
warm and brilliant sunshine. The snows are glittering white, but
with a white that does not strike cold upon us, for it is tinted in the
tenderest way with the most delicate hues of blue and pink. They are,
indeed, in the strictest sense not white at all, but a mingling of the
very faintest essence of the rose, the violet, and the forget-me-not.
And we view the distant mountains through an atmospheric veil
which has the strange property of revealing instead of hiding the real
nature of the object before which it stands. It does not conceal the
mountains. It reveals them in their real nature--the spiritual. Each
country has an atmosphere of its own. There is a blue of the Alps, a
blue of Italy, a blue of Greece, and a blue of Kashmir. The blue of
the Sikkim Himalaya, perhaps on account of the excessive amount
of moisture in the air, has a special quality of its own. It seems to me
to have more _colour_ in it--a _fuller_ colour, a bluer blue, a
purpler purple than the atmosphere of these other countries. From
this cause and from the greater brilliance of the sun there is a more
satisfying _warmth_ even in the snows.
So besides beauty in the form of the mountains there is this exquisite
loveliness of colour. In the immediate foreground are greens, fresh
and shining and of every tint. And these shade away into deep
purples and violets of the supporting ranges, and these again into
those most delicate hues of the snows which vary according to the
time of day, from decided rose-pink in the early morning and
evening to, perhaps, faintest blue or violet in the full day. And over
all and as a background is a sky of the intensest blue. What these
colours are it is impossible to describe in words, for even the violet,
the rose, and the forget-me-not have not the delicacy which these
colours in the atmosphere possess. And assuredly no painter could
do them justice, simply because paints and canvas are mediums far
too coarse in which to reproduce the impression which such
brilliance of light acting on a medium so fine as the thin air produces.
The great Russian painter Verestchagin once visited Darjiling, and
took his seat to paint the scene. He looked and looked, but did not
paint. His wife kept handing him the brush and paints. But time after
time he said: "Not now, not now; it is all too splendid." Night came
and the picture never was painted. And it never _could_ be painted,
though great artists most assuredly could at least point out to us in
their pictures the subtler glories which are to be seen, and which we
expect them to indicate to us.
* * *
So the view of the snows from Darjiling, grand and almost
overpowering though it is, has warmth in it too. The main
impression is one of magnitude and amplitude, of vastness and
immensity, and withal of serene composure. The first view of the
mountain seen through a rent in the clouds was perhaps more
uplifting, though this view excites a sense of elevation also, for the
eye is continually being drawn to the highest point. But in this full
view the impression of breadth and bigness of scale is combined
with the impression of height. The _dimensions_ of life in every
direction seem to be enlarged. We seem to be able to look at things
from a broader, bigger point of view, as well as a higher. We
ourselves and the world at large are all on a larger scale than we had
hitherto suspected. And while on a broader scale, we feel that things
are always working _upward_ and converging towards some lofty
but distinct, defined summit. This also do we feel, as we look upon
the view, that with all the bigness and massiveness and loftiness
there is the very finest tenderness as well--such delicacy as we had
never before imagined.
And to anyone who really knows them the littleness of man in
comparison with these mighty mountains is not the impression made
upon him. He is not overawed and overcome by them. His soul goes
out most lovingly to them because they have aroused in him all the
greatness in his soul, and purified it--even if only for a time--of all
its dross and despicableness. And he loves them for that. He does
not go cringing along, feeling himself a worm in comparison with
them. There is warm kinship between him and them. He knows what
is in their soul. And they have aroused in his soul exactly what he
rejoices in having aroused there, and which but for them might have
remained for ever unsurmised. So he revels in their Beauty.
* * *
Another aspect in which we may see Kinchinjunga is in its aspect at
dawn. It will be still night--a starlit night. The phantom snowy range
and the fairy forms of the mountains will be bathed in that delicate
yellow light the stars give forth. The far valley depths will be hidden
in the sombrest purple. Overhead the sky will be glittering with
brilliant gems set in a field of limpid sapphire. The hush of night
will be over all--the hush which heralds some great and splendid
pageant.
Then, almost before we have realised it, the eastward-facing scarps
of the highest peaks are struck with rays of mingled rose and gold,
and gleam like heavenly realms set high above the still
night-enveloped world below. Farther and farther along the line, deep and
deeper down it, the flush extends. The sapphire of the sky slowly
lightens in its hue. The pale yellow of the starlight becomes merged
in the gold of dawn. White billowy mists of most delicate softness
imperceptibly form themselves in the valley depths and float up the
mountain-sides. The deep hum of insect life, the chirping of the
birds, the sounds of men, begin to break the hush of night. The
snows become a delicate pink, the valleys are flooded with purple
light, the sky becomes intensest blue, and the sun at last itself
appears above the mountains, and the ardent life of day vibrates
once more.
In the full glare of day the mountains are not seen at their very best.
The best time of all to see them is in the evening. If we go out a little
from Darjiling into the forest to some secluded spur we can enjoy an
evening of rare felicity. On the edge of the spur the forest is more
open. The ground is covered with grass and flowers and plants with
many-coloured leaves. Rich orchids and tender ferns and pendant
mosses clothe the trees. Graceful vines and creepers festoon
themselves from bough to bough. The air is fragrant with the scent
of flowers. Bright butterflies flutter noiselessly about. The soft purr
of forest life drones around. Rays from the setting sun slant across
the scene. The leaves in their freshest green and of every shade
glitter like emeralds in the brilliant light.
Through the trunks of the stately trees and under their overarching
boughs we look out towards the snowy mountains. We look over the
brink of the spur, down into the deeps of the valleys richly filled
with tropical vegetation, their eastward-facing sides now of purplest
purple, their westward-facing slopes radiant in the evening sunshine,
with the full richness of their foliage shown up by the dazzling light.
Far below we see the silver streak of some foaming river, and then
as we raise our eyes we mark ridge rising behind ridge, higher and
higher and each of a deeper shade of purple than the one in front.
The lower are still clothed in forest, but the green has been merged
in the deep purple of the atmosphere. The higher are bare rock till
the snow appears. But just across them floats a long level wisp of
fleecy cloud, and apparently the limits of earth have been reached
and sky has begun. We would rest content with that. But our eyes
are drawn higher still. And high above the cloud, and rendered
inconceivably higher by its presence, emerges the snowy summit of
Kinchinjunga, serene and calm and flushed with the rose of the
setting sun. As a background is a sky of the clearest, bluest blue.
These are the chief elements of the scene, but all is in process of
incessant yet imperceptible change. The sunshine slowly softens, the
purples deepen, the flush on the mountains reddens. The air
becomes as soft as velvet. Not a leaf now stirs. A holy peace steals
over the mountains and settles in the valleys. The snow mountains
no longer look cold, hard, and austere. Their purity remains as true
as ever. And they still possess their uplifting power. But they now
speak of serenity and calm--not, indeed, of the unsatisfying ease of
the slothful, but of the earned repose of high attainment. Great peace
is about them--deep, strong, satisfying peace.
The sun finally sets. Night has settled in the valleys. The lights of
Darjiling sparkle in the darkness. But long afterwards a glow still
remains on Kinchinjunga. Lastly that also fades away. And now
night spreads her veil on every part. But here night brings with it no
sense of gloom and darkness, much less death. Far otherwise, for
now it seems as if we were only beginning our intenser and still
wider life. The fret of ordinary life is soothed away in the serene
ending of the day. The quietness, profound and meaningful, yet
further calms our spirit. Every condition is now favourable for the
life of that inmost soul of us, which is too sensitive often to emerge
into the glare and rubs of daylight life, but which in this holy peace,
in the presence of the heavenly mountains, and with the stars above
to guide it, can reach out to its fullest extent and indulge its highest
aspirations.