There was once an old Lama who lived in a small house at the very top
of a hill in a lonely part of Tibet. He was a very holy man and spent
his time entirely in religious contemplation, and the only person whom
he allowed about his house was a certain young man of low birth, who
acted as his Servant and used to cook his meals and perform other
household duties. This man was a great character in his way. He was an
amusing fellow and very fond of his joke, but was quite unreliable and
incapable of performing any regular work.
Now the old Lama’s diet, in accordance with the tenets of his religion,
was a very small one, and he refrained entirely from taking the life of
any living creature. So his food consisted chiefly of barley-flour,
butter, and so on, and he abstained from meat of any kind. This mode of
life, however, was not at all pleasing to the Servant, Rin-dzin, who
had a healthy appetite and greatly missed his daily dish of meat, and
he was constantly trying to persuade the Lama to allow him to kill a
sheep or a goat in order that he might have a satisfactory meal. This,
however, the Lama always sternly refused to do, and forbade his Servant
on any account to destroy the life of a living being.
One day the Servant noticed a fine fat sheep, which, having become
separated from the rest of the flock, was wandering about near the
Lama’s house. So he pursued it and caught it, and carrying it into the
ground floor of the house, he went up into the room above, and letting
down a rope through a hole in the floor he hitched a slip-knot at the
other end of the rope round the sheep’s neck. Having made these
arrangements he went into the next room, where the Lama, as usual, was
sitting alone wrapt in religious contemplation, deaf to all mundane
affairs.
“Oh! Lama,” said the Servant, addressing the old man, “I have come to
tell you that I have just found a sheep belonging to our neighbours,
who live in the valley below, wandering about near the house; so, for
fear he should be eaten by wolves, I have caught him and tied him up in
a room below. But he is a very violent sheep and is struggling
desperately to escape. Will you be so kind as to hold the rope for a
short time while I go and inform the owner where his sheep is?”
The old Lama, who never refused a reasonable request, at once proceeded
to do as he was asked, and, rising from his seat, he followed the
Servant into the next room.
“Pray hold this rope,” said the Servant, handing the Lama the loose end
of the rope to which the sheep was secured, “and if the sheep begins to
struggle, pull it as hard as you can to prevent him from escaping.”
The Lama accordingly took hold of the rope, and the Servant went down
into the lower storey as if he intended to leave the house. Instead of
doing so, however, he went into the room where the sheep was tied and
began to poke the animal with a sharp stick, and the sheep began to
struggle violently, trying to escape from its tormentor. The more the
sheep struggled below the more the Lama pulled above, and at last, when
the tug-of-war had lasted for some minutes, the sheep was strangled by
the slip-knot round its neck.
After the lapse of an hour or two the Servant returned to the Lama in
the upper room and informed him that the sheep had died a natural death
while he had been away seeking for its owner, and, in the
circumstances, he supposed that they might as well cut it up and cook
it for food. The unsuspecting old Lama agreed to this, and for several
days the Servant was able to eat his fill of excellent mutton.
It chanced, however, that the shepherd boy who was in charge of the
sheep had come to the Lama’s house looking for the one which was lost,
and peeping in through the window had seen all that had happened. He
told the story to his parents, who were very angry, and came to
complain to the Lama of the conduct of his Servant. The old Lama was
very much incensed at the treachery and wickedness of his attendant,
and dismissed him on the spot, telling him to go away and never come
back again. So Master Rin-dzin, with his few belongings on his back,
marched off into the world to try and make his fortune.
He was a good deal cast down at first, but being naturally a volatile,
light-hearted fellow he soon recovered his spirits and marched along
the road singing blithely, and keeping a sharp look-out for anything
that might turn up. He had not proceeded very far when he fell in with
another young man going in the same direction as himself, and the two,
joining company, fell into conversation. Rin-dzin soon related to his
young friend all his recent adventures, and informed him that he was
anxious to make a little money.
“Very good, brother,” replied the Stranger, “I am the very man to help
you, for you must know I am a thief by profession, and I am always on
the look-out for what fortune may bring me. So we will join company,
and it will indeed be bad luck if we cannot succeed in hitting upon
something profitable before many days have passed.”
So they went along together and towards evening they came upon a large
house standing in a fertile valley. The Thief went forward alone to
make enquiries, and he soon returned to Rin-dzin with the information
he had gathered. The servants of the house had told him that the owner
had died the day before, and was now awaiting burial in his own room.
His only relation was his daughter, who was heiress to the whole of the
property, and she was now mourning for her father all alone in the big
house. Further, the Thief had learned that the old man had once had a
son, who had run away from home many years before and had never been
heard of again.
“Now,” said he to Rin-dzin, “I have a plan to propose to you. Do you
climb in through the window into the room where the old man’s body lies
awaiting burial, and conceal yourself somewhere. As soon as you are
ready I will go to the young lady of the house and inform her that I am
her brother, who has returned home after many years’ wandering. She
will probably disbelieve my story, and I will propose that we should
consult the corpse of her father on the matter. When we come into the
room where the corpse lies I will address it, and ask whether I am not
the long-lost son, whereupon you must reply that I am. On this evidence
I shall secure at least one-half of the property, which, of course, I
shall share with you. But be careful on no account to leave the room
before morning, otherwise you are sure to be detected by the dogs which
roam about the house by night.”
Rin-dzin agreed to this proposition, and climbed in by the window into
the dead man’s room, and, concealing himself near the corpse, he
awaited the arrival of his friend. Meanwhile the Thief went boldly up
to the front door and gave a loud knock; and being admitted by the
servants, he went straight to the chamber of the young lady of the
house.
“Who are you?” said she; “and what do you want?”
“Oh! sister,” he replied, “I am your long-lost brother; do you not
recognise me?”
“No,” said she, “it would be impossible for me to recognise you, as I
was only a little child when you ran away. No one but my father could
know you and he, alas! died yesterday.”
“That is very sad,” replied the Thief, “for indeed it will be difficult
for me to prove the truth of my story. Let us, however, go into the
room where my father’s corpse is lying, and ask it whether or no I am
his long-lost son.”
The girl agreed to this, and the two went together into the chamber
where the old man’s corpse was sitting trussed-up for burial, in
accordance with the Tibetan custom.
“Are you there, father,” said the Thief, as he entered the darkened
room; and Rin-dzin, in a sepulchral voice replied, “Ah.”
“I have come to ask you,” went on the Thief, “whether or no I am your
long-lost son.”
“You are,” replied Rin-dzin.
And on hearing this the Thief at once retired, followed by the young
girl, who was now completely convinced of his identity.
“Now, sister,” said the Thief, addressing her when they were alone
together, “you see that my story is true, but, unfortunately, I am
unable to stay here as I am called away this very night on urgent
business. I will therefore make over to you the house and the whole of
the landed property, and all I ask from you as my share of the estate
is a bag of gold, as big as I can carry with me.”
The girl accepted these conditions, and handed over to the Thief a
heavy bag of gold. He then bade her farewell and started off with his
booty as fast as he could, leaving Rin-dzin behind him in the same room
as the corpse.
Early next morning Rin-dzin climbed down from the window, and coming
round to the front of the house he asked the lady where her brother
was.
“Oh!” said she, “I gave him a big bag of gold last night, and he at
once started off with it as fast as he could.”
When Rin-dzin heard this he was very angry indeed at the Thief’s
treachery, and was determined to follow and punish him. So, borrowing a
horse from the lady of the house, he galloped off down the road as fast
as he could. About mid-day, as he was galloping along, he saw the Thief
some distance ahead, sitting under the shade of a tree resting; for not
knowing that Rin-dzin had a horse, he did not consider it necessary to
go very fast.
When Rin-dzin caught sight of the Thief, he first thought that he would
at once go up to him and demand his share of the gold, but on second
thoughts he remembered that while he himself was unarmed, the thief
possessed both a sword and a musket, so that if it came to a quarrel
between them he would probably get the worst of it. So, leaning down
over his horse’s neck, he pretended not to see the Thief, and galloped
past him down the road, as if in mad pursuit. As soon as he was out of
sight of the place where the Thief was sitting he pulled his horse up
to a wall, and taking a new boot out of the bundle on his back, he
dropped it in the middle of the road, and then pursued his way for some
little distance further, when he took the fellow boot out of his bundle
and dropped it also in the middle of the road. Having done this he
turned aside from the roadway and concealed himself and his horse in a
thicket near by.
As soon as Rin-dzin had galloped out of sight, the Thief congratulated
himself at not having been seen, took up his bag of gold and continued
his journey. After walking some little way, he came upon a new boot
lying in the centre of the road.
“Ah!” thought he, “that foolish fellow has dropped one of his boots in
his haste. But one boot isn’t worth picking up; it is of no use at all.
What a pity it is he did not drop them both.”
So leaving the boot where it lay, he resumed his journey. The sun was
now very hot, and the Thief, carrying his heavy bag of gold, was
getting pretty tired, and by the time he reached the place where the
other boot was lying he was nearly worn out.
“Hallo,” said he to himself, when he caught sight of the second boot,
“here is the other boot. This is really too good a chance to be lost; I
must certainly go back at once and pick up the first boot, and then I
shall have a pair of new boots for nothing. But I can’t carry this
heavy bag of gold all the way back with me.”
So thinking, he concealed the bag of gold under a tuft of grass by the
roadside, and started off to retrace his steps to pick up the first
boot. No sooner was he out of sight than Rin-dzin emerged from his
hiding-place, and picking up the bag of gold, strapped it to his saddle
and rode on his way.
STORY No. XIX.