HIGH SOLITUDES
From these scenes of tropical luxuriance and teeming life I would
transport the Artist to a region of austerest beauty, far at the back of
the Himalaya, where only one white man as yet has penetrated:
where no life at all exists--no tree, no simplest plant, no humblest
animalcula; where, save for some rugged precipice too steep for
snow to lie, and save also for the intense azure of the sky, all is
radiant whiteness. A region far distant from any haunt of man,
where reigns a mountain which acknowledges supremacy to Mount
Everest alone. A region of completest solitude, where the solemn
silence is unbroken by the twitter of a single bird or the drone of the
smallest insect, and is disturbed only by the occasional thunder of an
avalanche or the grinding crunch of the glacier as a reminder of the
titanic forces which are perpetually though invisibly at work.
Freezing this region is and full of danger. And there is no short cut
to it and no easy means of transport. Only men in the prime of health
can reach there and return. And it is only men whose faculties are at
their finest who are fit to stand the austerity of its cold, stern beauty.
It lies at the dividing line between India and Central Asia where the
waters which flow to India are parted from the waters which flow to
Central Asia, and where the Indian and Chinese Empires touch one
another. It may be approached from two directions--from Turkistan
or from Kashmir and the Karakoram Pass. The Artist had better
approach it by Kashmir, for he will see there certain beauties which
even Sikkim does not possess, and this will make him further realise
the variety of beauty this earth displays.
Kashmir is altogether different from Sikkim. In Sikkim the valleys
are deep, steep, and narrow, and markedly inclined, so that the rivers
run strong and there is no room or level for lakes. In Kashmir the
main valley is from twenty to thirty miles broad and ninety miles
long. Over a large portion it is nearly dead level. So the river is even
and placid. And there are tranquil lakes and duck-haunted marshes.
The climate is different, too. It is the climate of North Italy.
Consequently there are no tropical forests, and the mountain-sides
are covered with trees of the temperate zone--the stately deodar
cedars, spruce fir, maples, walnut, sycamore, and birch; while in the
valley itself grow poplars, willows, mulberries, and most beautiful
of all, and a speciality of Kashmir, the magnificent chenar tree--akin
to the plane tree of Europe, but larger, fuller, and richer in its foliage.
In Kashmir there is also far more variety of colour than there is in
Sikkim. And in the spring, with the willows and poplars in freshest
green; the almond, pear, apple, apricot, and peach trees in full
blossom, white and pink; the fields emerald with young wheat, blue
with linseed, or yellow with mustard; and the village-borders purple
with iris; or in the autumn when the chenars, the poplars, and
apricots are turning to every tint of red and yellow and purple,
Kashmir is in a glow of colour. And the famous Valley is all the
more beautiful because it is ringed round with a circle of snowy
mountains of at least Alpine magnitude, with a glimpse here and
there, such as that of Nanga Parbat, of much more stupendous peaks
beyond; and because the sky is so blue, the atmosphere so delicate in
its hues, and the sunshine so general throughout the year.
In this favoured land there is many a variety of beauty, but all is of
the easy, pleasant kind. All the colours are soft and soothing. It is a
land to dream of, a gentle and indulgent land of soft repose, and
calm content, and quiet relaxation; a dreamy, peaceful land where
life glides smoothly forward, and all makes for enjoyment and
idleness and holiday.
From the pleasant Vale of Kashmir the Artist would have to make
his way up the Sind Valley--a valley, typical of those beautiful
tributaries which add so much to the whole charm of Kashmir.
These are comparatively narrow, and the mountain-sides are steep,
but the valleys are not so narrow nor the sides so steep as the valleys
of Sikkim, nor are the forests anything like so dense. The scenery is,
indeed, much more Swiss in appearance with open pine forests,
picturesque hamlets, grassy pasture-lands, flowery meadows, and
clear, rushing rivers; and with the rocky crests or snow-capped
summits of the engirdling mountains always in the background.
But when we emerge from this delightful valley of the Sind River
and cross the Zoji-la Pass, we come upon a very different style of
country--bare, dreary, desolate, monotonous, uninteresting. The
forest has all disappeared, for the rainfall is here slight. The
moisture-laden clouds have precipitated themselves upon the
seaward-facing slopes of the mountains we have already passed
through. And because of this lack of rainfall the valleys are not cut
out deep, but are high and broad. It is a delightful experience to pass
from this brown, depressing landscape to the rich beauties of the
Sind Valley and Kashmir. But to make the journey the other way
round, and to pass _into_ the gloomy region after being spoilt by the
luxuries of Kashmir, is sadly disheartening at first.
The experience has, however, its advantages, for it makes us throw
off all ideas of soft ease we may have harboured in Kashmir, and
reminds us that we have to prepare ourselves to face beauties of a far
sterner kind. So we insensibly alter our whole attitude of mind, and
as we plod our way through the mountains we summon up from
within ourselves all the austerer stuff of which we are made.
We cross some easy passes of 13,000 feet or so in height. We cross
the River Indus. We reach Leh. We cross a 17,000 feet pass and then
a glacier pass of 18,000 feet, and then the watershed of India and
Central Asia by the Karakoram Pass, nearly 19,000 feet in height.
We are six hundred miles from the plains of India now, and in about
as desolate a region as the world contains. Then, bearing westward,
we make for the Aghil Pass. We have now got right in behind the
Himalaya, and as we reach the top of the Aghil Pass we look
towards the Himalaya from the Central Asian side, on what is
known as the Karakoram Range, and here at last is the remote,
secluded glacier region which has been the object of our search.
Its glory bursts upon us as we top the last rise to the Aghil Pass.
Across the deep valley is arrayed in bold and jagged outline a series
of pinnacles of ice glistening in the brilliant sunshine, showing up in
clearest definition against the intense blue sky, and rising abruptly
and incredibly high above the rock-bound Oprang River. They are
the mighty peaks which group around K2--the noblest cluster in the
whole Himalaya.
There are here no inviting grassy slopes and no enticing forests. The
mountain-sides are all hard rock and rugged precipices. And the
summits are of ice or with edges sharp and keen direct from Nature's
workshop. But the sight, though it awes us, does not depress us or
deter us. We are keyed up by high anticipation when we arrive on
the threshold of this secluded region, and a fierce joy seizes us as we
first set eyes on these mountains. We know we have before us one
of the great sights of the world--something unique and apart,
something the like of which we shall never see again. And awed as
we are by the mountains' unsurpassed magnificence, we do not bow
down in any abject way before them. We are not impressed by our
littleness in comparison. They have, indeed, shown us that the world
is something greater than we knew. But they have shown us also that
_we_ too are something greater than we knew. The peaks in their
dazzling altitude have set an exacting standard for us. They have
incited us to rise to that standard. Their call is great, but a thrill runs
through us as we feel ourselves responding to the challenge,
collecting ourselves together and gathering up every stiffest bit of
ourselves to rise to their high standard. We feel nerved and steeled;
and in high exhilaration we plunge down into the valley to join issue
with the mountains.
Arrived on the Oprang River we can turn either to the left or the
right. If we turn to the left we get right in under a knot of stupendous
peaks. Towering high and solitary above the rocky wall which
bounds the valley on the south is a peak which may be K2, 28,250
feet in height, which must be somewhere in the neighbourhood. But
the investigations of the Duke of the Abruzzi throw a doubt as to
whether this can be K2 itself. If it is not, it must be some unfixed
and unnamed peak. At any rate it is a magnificent, upstanding peak
rising proud and steep-sided high and clear above its neighbours.
Then beyond it, farther up the Oprang Valley, we catch glimpses of
that wondrous company of Gusherbrum Peaks--four of them over
26,000 feet in height, with rich glaciers flowing from them.
But if we turn to the right on descending from the Aghil Pass, and if
we turn again in the direction of the Mustagh Pass, we come to an
icy realm which has about it, above every other region, the impress
of both extreme remoteness and loftiest seclusion. As we ascend
right up the glacier--either the one coming down from the Mustagh
Pass or the one to the east running parallel with the general line of
the Karakoram Range--we feel not only far away from but also high
above the rest of the world. And we seem to have risen to an
altogether purer region. Especially if we sleep in the open, without
any tent, with the mountains always before us, with the stars
twinkling brightly above us, do we have this sense of having
ascended to a loftier and serener world.
At the heads of these glaciers there is little else but snow and ice.
The moraines have almost disappeared--or, rather, have hardly yet
come into being. And the mountains are so deeply clothed in ice and
snow, it is only when they are extremely steep that rock appears.
The glacier-filled valley below and the mountain above are therefore
almost purely white. The atmosphere, too, is marvellously clear, so
that by day the mountains and glaciers glitter brightly in the
sunshine, and at night the stars shine out with diamond brilliance.
The effect on a moonlight night is that of fairyland. We see the
mountains as clearly as we would by the daylight of many regions,
but the light is now all silver, and the mountains not solid and
substantial but ethereal as in a vision.
The pureness of the beauty is unspotted. It is the direct opposite of
the voluptuous beauty of Kashmir. No one would come here for
repose and holiday. But we like to have been there once. We like to
have attained even once in a lifetime to a world so refined and pure.
Cold it may be--and dangerous. But we soon forget the cold. And
the dangers only string us up to meet them, so that we are in a
peculiarly alert, observant mood. And we have a secret joy in
watching Nature in her most threatening aspects and in measuring
ourselves against her.
White it may be, but not colourless. For the whiteness of the snow is
most exquisitely tinged with blue. The lakelets on the glacier are of
deepest blue. They are encircled by miniature cliffs of ice of
transparent green. The blue-ness of the sky is of a depth only seen in
the highest regions. And the snowy summits of the mountains are
tinged at sunset and dawn with finest flush of rose and primrose. So
with all the whiteness there is, too, the most delicate colouring.
Standing thus on the glacier and looking up to the snowy peaks all
round us, we think how, wholly unobserved by men, they have
reared themselves to these high altitudes and there remain century
by century unseen by any human being. From deep within the
interior of the earth they have arisen. And they are only touched by
the whitest snowflakes. They are only touched by snowflakes
fashioned from the moisture which the sun's rays have raised off the
surface of the Indian Ocean, and which the monsoon winds have
transported in invisible currents, high above the plains of India, till
they are gently precipitated on these far-distant heights.
"Blessed are the pure in heart," we are told, "for they shall see God."
And blessed are they who are able to ascend to a region like this, for
here they cannot but be pure in heart, and cannot _help_ seeing God.
For the time being at least, they _have_ to be pure. In the spotless
purity of that region they cannot harbour any thought that is sordid
or unclean. And they pray that ever after they may maintain what
they have reached. For they know that if they could maintain it they
would see beauties which in the murky state of common life it is
impossible to perceive. In the white purity which this high region
exacts they are forced to pierce through the superficial and
unimportant and they catch sight of the real.
They are in a remote and lofty solitude, and in touch with the naked
elementals of which the world has built itself. But they do not feel
alone. They feel themselves in a great Presence, and in a Presence
with which they are most intimately in touch. And it is no dread
Presence, but one which they delight to feel. Holiness is its essence,
and their souls are purged and purified. They are suffused with it; it
enters deeply into them, and translates them swiftly upward.