_Friday, April 7th_.—We are evidently somewhat premature here as far as

climate goes. The weather since our arrival has become cold and grey,

and we have seemed on the verge of another snowfall. However, the clerk

of the weather has refrained from such an insult, contenting himself

with sending a breeze down upon us fresh from the “Roof of the World,”

and laden with the chilly moisture of the snows. We have consumed great

quantities of wood, vainly endeavouring to warm up the den which Mr.

Nedou has let to us as a sitting-room. Fires are not the fashion in the

public rooms—probably because the only “public” besides ourselves

consist of one or two enterprising sportsmen, who doubtless are

acclimatising themselves to camp life amid the snows, and have implored

the proprietor to save his fuel and keep the outer doors open.

Yesterday, we went on a shopping excursion down the river, our “hansom”

being a long narrow sort of canoe, propelled and dexterously steered by

four or five paddlers, whose mode of _digging_ along by means of their

heart-shaped blades reminded me not a little of the Kroo boys paddling

a fish-canoe off Elmina on the Gold Coast.

We embarked close to the back of the hotel, at the Chenar Bagh, and

went gaily enough down the strong current of what we took to be an

affluent of the Jhelum. As a matter of fact, the European quarter forms

an island, low and perfectly flat, the banks of which are heaped into a

high dyke or “bund,” washed on one side (the south) by the main river,

and on the other by the Sunt-i-kul Canal, down which we have been

paddling.

The river life was most fascinating—crowds of heavy doungas lay moored

along the banks—their long, low bodies covered in by matting, and their

extremities sloping up into long peaked platforms for the crew.

These—many of them women and children—were all clothed in

neutral-tinted gowns, the only bit of colour being an occasional note

of red or white in the puggaree of the men or skull-cap of the

children. The married women invariably wore whity-brown veils over the

head. The wooden houses that lined the banks were all in the general

low scheme of colour, but a peculiar charm was added by the roofs

covered in thick, green turf.

Srinagar has been called the “Venice of the East,” and, inasmuch as

waterways form the main thoroughfares in both, there is a certain

resemblance. Shikaras (the Kashmiri canoes) are first-cousins to

gondolas—rather poor relations perhaps; both are dingy and clumsy in

appearance, and both are managed with an extraordinary dexterity by

their navigators.

Both cities are “smelly,” though Venice, even at its worst, stands many

degrees above the incredible filth of Srinagar.

Finally—both cities are within sight of snowy ranges; although it seems

hardly fair to place in comparison the majestic range that overhangs

Srinagar and the somewhat distant and sketchy view of the Alps as seen

from Venice.

Here, I think, all resemblance ceases. The charm of Venice lies in its

architecture, its art treasures, its historical memories, and its

interesting people.

Srinagar has no architecture in particular, being but a picturesque

chaos of tumble-down wooden shanties. It has no history worth speaking

of, and its inhabitants are—and apparently have always been—a poor lot.

Shopping in Srinagar is not pure and unadulterated joy. Down the river,

spanned by its seven bridges, amidst a network of foul-smelling alleys,

you are dragged to the emporiums of the native merchants whose

advertisements flare upon the river banks, and who, armed with cards,

and possessed of a wonderful supply of the English language, swarm

around the victim at every landing-place, and almost tear one another

in pieces while striving to obtain your custom.

Samad Shall, in a conspicuous hoarding, announces that he can—and

will—supply you with anything you may desire, including money—for he

proclaims himself to be a banker.

Ganymede, in his own opinion, is the only wood-carver worth attention.

Suffering Moses is the prince of workers in lacquer, according to his

own showing.

The nose of the boat grates up against the slimy step of the

landing-place, and you plunge forthwith into Babel.

“Will you come to my shop?”

“No—you are going somewhere else.”

“After?”

“Perhaps!”

“To-day, master?”

“No—no time to-day.”

“To-morrow, then—I got very naice kyriasity [curiosity]—to-morrow,

master—what time?”

“Oh! get out! and leave me alone.”

“I send boat for you—ten o’clock to-morrow?”

“No.”

“Twelve o’clock?” &c. &c.

After a short experience of Kashmiri pertinacity and business methods,

you cease from politeness and curtly threaten the river.

Certainly the Kashmiri are exceedingly clever and excellent workers in

many ways. Their modern embroideries (the old shawl manufacture is

totally extinct) are beautiful and artistic. Their wood-carving, almost

always executed in rich brown walnut, is excellent; and their _old_

papier-mâché lacquer is very good. The tendency, however, is

unfortunately to abandon their own admirable designs, and assimilate or

copy Western ideas as conveyed in very doubtful taste by English

visitors.

The embroidery has perhaps kept its individuality the best, although

the trail of the serpent as revealed in “quaint” Liberty or South

Kensington designs is sometimes only too apparent. Certain

plants—Lotus, Iris, Chenar leaf, and so-called Dal Lake leaves, as well

as various designs taken from the old Kashmir shawls, give scope to the

nimble brains and fingers of the embroiderers, who, by-the-bye, are all

male.

Their colours, almost invariably obtained from native dyes, are

excellent, and they rarely make a mistake in taste.

The coarser work in wool on cushions, curtains, and thick white numdahs

is most effective and cheap.

Curiously enough, the best of these numdahs (which make capital rugs or

bath blankets) are made in Yarkand; and Stein, in his _Sand-Buried

Cities of Kotan_, found in ancient documents, of the third century or

so, “the earliest mention of the felt-rugs or ‘numdahs’ so familiar to

Anglo-Indian use, which to this day form a special product of Kotan

home industry, and of which large consignments are annually exported to

Ladak and Kashmir.”

The manufacture of carpets is receiving attention, and Messrs. Mitchell

own a large carpet factory. Designs and colours are good, but the

prices are not low enough to enable them to compete with the cheap

Indian makes; nor, I make bold to say, is the quality such as to

justify high prices. The shop of Mohamed Jan is well worth a visit, for

three good reasons—first, because his Oriental carpets from Penjdeh and

Khiva are of the best; second, because his house is one of the first

specimens of a high-class native dwelling existing; and third, because

he never worries his customers nor touts for orders—but, then, he is a

Persian, and not a Kashmiri!

The famous shawls which fetched such prices in England in early

Victorian days are no longer valued, having suffered an eclipse similar

to that undergone by the pictures of certain early Victorian Royal

Academicians, and the loss of the shawl trade was a severe blow to

Kashmir. With the exception of occasional specimens of these shawls,

which, however, can be bought cheaper at sales in London, there are no

_old_ embroideries to be got.

The wood-carving industry, too, is quite modern; but, although of great

excellence and ingenuity in manipulation, it does not appeal to me,

being too florid and copious in its application of design. A restless

confusion of dragons from Leh, lotus from the Dal Lake, and the

ever-present chenar leaf, hobnob together with British—very

British—crests and monograms on the tops of tables and the seats of

chairs—portions of the furniture that should be left severely plain.

British taste is usually bad, and to it, and not to Kashmiri

initiative, must be ascribed the production of such exotic works as

bellows embellished with chaste designs of lotus-buds, and afternoon

tea-tables flaunting coats-of-arms (doubtless dating from the

Conquest), beautifully carved in high relief just where the tray—the

bottom of which is probably ornamented with a flowing design of raised

flowers—should rest!

The lacquered papier-maché work—often extremely pretty when left to its

own proper Cabul pattern or other native design—aims too often at

attracting the eye of the mighty hunter by introducing an inappropriate

markhor’s head. The old lacquer-work is difficult to get, and, when

obtained, is high in price; but comparison between the old and the new

shows the gulf that lies between the loving and skilful labour of the

artist and the stupid and generally “scamped” achievement of him who

merely “knocks off” candlesticks and tobacco-boxes by the score, to

sell to the English visitor—papier-maché being superseded by wood, and

lacquer by paint.

The workers in silver, copper, and brass are many, but their

productions are usually rough and inartistic. Genuine old beaten

metal-work is almost unobtainable, although occasionally desirable

specimens from Leh do find their way into the Srinagar shops.

Chinese porcelain is to be got, usually in the form of small bowls; but

it is not of remarkably good quality, and the prices asked for it are

higher than in London.

The jewellers’ work is very far behind that of India. Amethysts of pale

colour and yellow topaz are cheap. Fine turquoise do not come into

Kashmir, but plenty of the rough stones (as well as imitations) are to

be found, which, owing to a transitory fashion, are priced far above

their intrinsic value. They come from Thibet.

A great deal of a somewhat soft and ugly-coloured jade is sent from

Yarkand, also agates and carnelian; beads of these are strung into

rather uncouth necklets, which may be bought for half the sum first

asked.

Bargaining is an invariable necessity in all shopping in Kashmir, as

everywhere else in the East, where the market value of an article is

not what it costs to produce, but what can be squeezed for it out of

the purse of the—usually—ignorant purchaser.

Three things are essential to the successful prosecution of shopping in

Srinagar:—

(1) Unlimited time.

(2) A command of emphatic language, sufficient to impress the native

mind with the need for keeping to the point.

(3) A liver in such thorough working order as to insure an

extraordinary supply of good temper.

Without all these attributes the acquisition of objects of “bigotry and

vertue” in Srinagar is attended with pain and tribulation.

The descent of the river is accomplished with ease and rapidity, but

_revocare gradum_ involves much hard paddling, with many pants and

grunts; and it was both cold and dark when we again lay alongside the

bank of the Chenar Bagh, and scurried up the slippery bund to the

hotel, with scarcely time to dress for dinner.

_Sunday, 9th April_.—Friday was a horrible day—rainy, dull, and cold;

but a thrill of excitement was sent through us by the news that Walter

has shot two fine bara singh! Charlotte (who is nothing if not a keen

sportswoman) was filled with zeal and the spirit of emulation, so we

resolved to dash off down the river to Bandipur, join Walter—who has

now presumably joined the ranks of the unemployed, being only permitted

by the Game Laws to kill two stags—and take our pick of the remaining

“Royals,” which, in our vivid imaginations, roamed in dense flocks

through the nullahs beyond Bandipur!

All Friday and yesterday, therefore, were devoted to preparation. I had

already, through the kindness of Major Wigram, secured a shikari, who

immediately demonstrated his zeal and efficiency by purchasing a couple

of bloodthirsty knives and a huge bottle of Rangoon oil at my expense.

I pointed out that one “skian-dhu” seemed to me sufficient for

“gralloching” purposes, but he said two were better for bears. My

acquaintance with bears being hitherto confined to Regent’s Park, I

bowed to his superior knowledge and forethought.

A visit to Cockburn’s agency resulted in the hire of the “boarded

dounga” _Cruiser_, which the helpful Mr. Cockburn procured for us, in

which to go down the river; also a couple of tents for ourselves with

tent furniture, one for the servants, and a cooking tent.

The local bootmaker or “chaplie-wallah” appeared, as by magic, on the

scene, and chaplies were ordered. These consist of a sort of leather

sandal strapped over soft leather boots or moccasins. They are

extremely comfortable for walking on ordinary ground, but perfectly

useless for hill work, even when the soles are studded with nails. The

hideous but necessary grass shoe is then your only wear. The grass

shoe, which is made as required by the native, is an intricate

contrivance of rice straw, kept in position by a straw twist which is

hauled taut between the big and next toe, and the end expended round

some of the side webbing. The cleft sock and woollen boot worn

underneath keep the feet warm, but do not always prevent discomfort and

even much pain if the cords are not properly adjusted. However, the

remedy is simple. Tear off the shoe, using such language as may seem

appropriate to the occasion, throw it at the shikari’s head, and order

another pair to be made “ek dam”! Jane and I each purchased a yakdan, a

sort of roughly-made leather box or trunk, strong, and of suitable size

for either pony or coolie transport. Our wardrobe was stowed in these

and secured by padlocks, and the cooking gear, together with a certain

amount of stores in the shape of grocery, bread, and a couple of

bottles of whisky were safely housed in a pair of large covered creels

or “kiltas.”

Each of the party provided him or herself with a khudstick, consisting

of a strong and tough shaft about five feet long, tapering slightly

towards the base, where it is shod with a chisel-shaped iron end.

Our staff of retainers had now been brought up to five—the shikari,

Ahmed Bot, having procured a satellite, known as the chota shikari, a

youth of not unprepossessing appearance, but whose necessity in our

scheme of existence I had not quite determined. Ahmed Bot, however, was

of opinion that all sahibs who wanted sport required two shikaris, so I

imagined that while I was to be engaged with one in pursuit of bara

singh, the other would employ himself in “rounding up” a few tigers for

the next day’s sport in another direction. Ahmed Bot agreed with me in

the main, but did not feel at all sure about the tigers—he proposed

ibex.

The fifth wheel to our coach was a strikingly ugly person, like a

hippopotamus, whose plainness was not diminished by a pair of enormous

goggles; this was the harmless necessary sweeper, that pariah among

domestics, whose usefulness is undreamed of out of India.

After dinner last night we left the hotel, truly thankful to shake the

dust of its gloomy precincts from our feet, and sought our boats, which

were moored in the Chenar Bagh. How snug and bright the “ship” seemed

after the murky corridors of Nedou! And yet the _Cruiser_ was not much

to boast of, really, in the way of luxury.

Let me describe a typical boarded dounga. Upon a long, low,

flat-bottomed hull, which tapered to a sharp point at bow and stern,

was raised a light wooden superstructure with a flat roof, upon which

the passengers could sit. The interior was divided off into some

half-a-dozen compartments, a vestibule or outer cabin held boxes, &c.,

and through it one passed into the dining or parlour cabin, which

opened again to two little bedrooms and a couple of bathrooms. There

was no furniture to speak of, but we had hired from Cockburn all that

we required for the trip.

The servants, as well as the crew of the dounga, were all stowed in a

“tender” known as the cook boat—no one, except for navigating duties,

having any business on board the “flagship.”

Charlotte Smithson had a smaller ship than ours—a light wooden frame,

which supported movable matting screens or curtains, taking the place

of our wooden cabins. The matted dounga looked as though it might be

chilly, particularly if a strong wind came to play among the rather

draughty-looking mats which were all that our poor friend had between

her and a cold world!

CHAPTER VI

OUR FIRST CAMP

The fleet, consisting of four sail (I use this word in its purely

conventional sense, a dounga having no more sails than a battleship),

got under way about 5 A.M., while it was yet but barely daylight, and

so we were well clear of Srinagar when we emerged from our cosy cabins

into a world of clean air and brilliant colour.

The broad smooth current of the Jhelum flowed steadily and calmly

through a level plain, bearing us along at a comfortable four miles an

hour, the crew doing little more than keep steerage-way with pole and

paddle.

Beyond the green, tree-studded levels to the south, the range of the

Pir Panjal spread wide its array of dazzling peaks, while on the right

towered the mountains which enclose the Sind Valley, culminating in the

square-headed mass of Haramok. In the clear air the snows seemed quite

close, although we knew that the snow-line was really some three

thousand feet above the level of the valley.

A day like this, as we sit on the little roof of our floating home

watching the silent river unfold its shining curves, goes far to

obliterate the memory of the fuss and worry inseparable from the exodus

from Srinagar. After lunch we tied up for a while, and I took my gun on

shore to try and pick up a few of the duck that dotted the waters of

the little lakes or jheels which lay flashing amid the hillocks beyond

the river banks. The shores of these being perfectly bare and open, it

was obviously impossible to escape the keenly observant eyes of the

duck, which appeared, unlike all other birds in Kashmir, to retain

their customary wariness.

Crouching low amid the furrows of a newly-ploughed field, I sent the

shikari with a knot of natives to the far side of the water, whence

they advanced in open line, splashing and shouting.

Presently, with much fuss and indignant quacking, a cloud of duck rose,

and, circling after their fashion, as though reluctant to quit their

resting-place, gave me several chances of a long shot before, working

high into the air, they departed with loud expostulation to some

quieter haunt.

Later in the afternoon we tied up to the bank for the night near a

large jheel, where we all landed, Charlotte to try a rifle which she

had borrowed, and I, if possible, to slay a few more duck, while Jane

sat peacefully on a bank and enjoyed the glorious sunset.

The bag having been swelled by the addition of another dozen

“specimens”—obtained by the same manoeuvres as before—we strolled back

to our ships in the luminous dusk, visions of roast “canard” floating

seductively before our mental vision.

There proved to be several varieties of duck among the countless flocks

which I saw, notably mallard, teal, pochard, and shoveller. Likewise

there were many coots, while herons, disturbed in their meditations by

the untoward racket, flapped heavily away with disgusted squawks.

Jane is getting along remarkably well with her Hindustani. I have just

found her diary, and hasten to give an extract:—

“Woke up very early; much bitten by pice. Tom started off to try and

shoot a burra sahib, as he hears and hopes they’ve not yet shed all

their horns.”

“He really looked very nice in his new Pushtoo suit, with putty on his

legs and chaplains on his feet…. His chickory walked in front, carrying

his bandobast.”

“9 A.M.—Sat down to my solitary breakfast of poached ekkas and paysandu

tonga, with excellent chuprassies (something like scones). After

breakfast, tried on my new kilta, which I have had made quite short for

walking. I generally prefer walking to being carried in a pagdandy.”

“Then took another lesson in Hindustani from my murghi, though I really

think I hardly require it! My attention a good deal distracted by the

antics of a pair of bul-buls (not at all the same as our coo-coos) in

the jungle overhead.”

“7 P.M.—T. returned after what he called a blank blank day. He found

some bheesties (one of them a chikor ram or wild ghât) chewing the khud

on a precipitous dâk.”

“They were rather far off, about a mile he thinks, but he couldn’t get

any nearer owing to a frightful ghari-wallah with deep piasses which

lay between, so he put up his ornithoptic sight for 2000 yards and

‘pumped lead’ into the bheesties for half-an-hour.”

“He says he _thinks_ he hit one, but they all went away—as his chickory

remarked—‘ek dam,’ and Tom agreed with him.”

“He fell into a budmash on his way home and was half-drowned, but the

chickory, assisted by a friendly chota-hazri, managed to pull him out …

quite an eventful day!”

“10 P.M.—The body of the ram chikor has just been brought in. It looks

as if it had been dead for weeks, but the doolie, who found it, says

that in this climate a few hours is sufficient to obliterate a body….

Anyhow the head and tail seem all right…. Tom says the proper thing to

do is to measure something—he can’t quite remember whether it is the

horns or the tail, but the latter seems the more remarkable, so we

measured that, and found it to be 3 feet 4 inches.”

“By a little judicious pulling, the chickory, who knows all about

measuring things, elongated it to 4 feet 3 inches.”

“This, he says, is a ‘_Record_’—how nice!”

_Wednesday, April 12._—The place where we tied up was not far from the

point where the Jhelum expands into the Wular Lake—a broad expanse of

water, some seven or eight miles wide in places, which holds the proud

record of being the largest lake in all India.

The mountains rise steeply from its northern shores, and from their

narrow glens, squalls swift and strong are said frequently to sweep

over the open water, particularly in the afternoons. The bold sailormen

of Kashmir are not conspicuous for nautical daring—in fact their

flat-bottomed arks, top-heavy and unwieldy, destitute alike of anchor

and rudder, are not fit to cope with either wind or wave; they

therefore aim at punting hurriedly across the danger space as soon

after dawn as may be—panting with exertion and terror, they hustle

across the smooth and waveless water, invoking at every breath the

protection of local saints.

Long before we had left our beds, and blissfully unconscious of our

awful danger, we were striking out for Bandipur, which haven we safely

reached about 8 A.M. on a still and glorious morning.

Then came the business of collecting coolies and ponies, and loading

them up with the tents and lesser baggage under the direction of Sabz

Ali and the shikari.

By nine o’clock we were off. Charlotte and Jane, mounted astride a

brace of native ponies, led the way, and, in ragged array, the rest of

the procession followed. A quarter of a mile from the landing-place,

clustered at the foot of a steep little hill—a spur from the higher

ranges—lies the village of Bandipur, dirty and picturesque, with, its

rickety-looking wooden houses, and its crowded little bazaar. It is a

place of some importance in Kashmir, being the starting-point for the

Astor country and Gilgit—and here the sahib on shikar bent, obtains

coolies and ponies to take him over the Tragbal Pass into Gurais. A

post and telegraph office stands proudly in the middle of the little

village, and behind it lies a range of “godowns” filled with stores for

the use of a flying column should the British Raj require to send

troops quickly along the Gilgit road.

Passing through into the open country, we found ourselves on a good

road—good, that is to say, for riding or marching, as no roads in

Kashmir are adapted for wheeled traffic excepting the main artery from

Baramula to Srinagar, and the greater portion of the route from

Srinagar to Gulmarg. This road we followed up a gradually narrowing

valley, and over a brawling little river, until at Kralpura the Gilgit

road begins the steep ascent to the Tragbal by a series of wide zigzags

up the face of a mountain. The pass which we should have had to tackle,

had we carried out our original intention of going into Astor for

markhor and ibex, is nearly 12,000 feet above sea level, and is still

securely and implacably closed to all but the hardiest sportsmen. A

short cut, which we took up the hill face, led us through a rough scrub

of berberis and wild daphne (the former just showing green and the

latter in flower) until, somewhat scant of breath, we regained the

road, and followed it to the left up a gorge. As the mountains closed

in on either side, we began to look out for the camp, which we knew was

not far up the nullah. Presently, turning off the Gilgit road, along a

track to the left, we came upon Walter—bearded like the pard—a pard

which had left off shaving for about a week. He was pensively sitting

on a big sun-warmed boulder, beguiling the time while awaiting us by

contemplating the antics of a large family of monkeys, which he pointed

out to Jane, to her great joy.

Tender inquiries as to camp and consequent lunch revealed the sad fact

that some miles of exceedingly rough path yet lay betwixt us and the

haven where we would be.

So we pricked forward, along a sort of cattle track, across dirty

snow-filled little gullies, and over rock-strewn slopes, until the

white gleam of Walter’s tent showed clear on its perch atop of a

flat-roofed native hut.

Crossing the stream which tumbled down the valley, by a somewhat

“wobbly” bridge, and picking our way through the mixen which forms the

approach to every well-appointed hut, we arrived upon the roof which

supported the tent. This we achieved without any undue trouble, the

building, like most “gujar” homes, being constructed on the side of a

hill sufficiently steep to obviate the necessity for any back wall—the

rear of the roof springing directly from the hillside. A Gujar village,

owing to this peculiarity of construction, always looks oddly like a

deposit of great half-open oysters clinging to the face of the hill.

After a welcome lunch, the ladies both pronounced decidedly against

remaining in or near the highly-scented precincts of the village. The

argument that there was no flat ground excepting roofs to be seen was

overruled; so Walter and I climbed a neighbouring ridge, and selected a

site on the crest.

It was not, certainly, a very good site for a camp, as it was so narrow

that the unwary might easily step over the edge on either side, and

toboggan gracefully either back on top of the aforesaid roof, or

forward into a very rocky-bedded stream which employed its superfluous

energy in tossing some frayed and battered logs from boulder to

boulder, and which would have rejoiced greatly in doing the same to a

fallen nestling from the eyry above.

Neither was the ridge level, and our tents were pitched at such an

angle that the slumberer whose grasp of the bed-head relaxed

“In the mist and shadow of sleep”

was brought to wakefulness by finding his toes gently sliding out into

the nipping and eager air of night.

The holding-ground for the tent-pegs was not all that could be desired,

and visions of our tents spreading their wings in the gale and

vanishing into space haunted us.

No—it was not an ideal camping-ground, and Jane, whose rosy dreams of

camping in Kashmir had pictured her little white canvas home set up in

a flowery mead by the side of a purling brook, gazed upon the rugged

slopes which rose around—the cold snow gleaming through the shaggy

pine-trees—with a shiver and a distinct air of disapproval.

It grew more than chilly too, as the sun dipped early behind the ridge

that rose jealous between us and the western light, and an icy breeze

from the snow came stealing down the gorge and whispering among the

taller tree-tops in the nullah at our feet.

We were about 1500 feet above the Wular Lake, and snow lay in thick

patches within a few yards of our tents, and had obviously only melted

quite recently from the site of the camp, leaving more clammy mud about

the place than we really required.

As it is reasonable to suppose that the bilingual lady who composes the

fashion columns of the _Daily Horror_ is most anxious to know how the

fair sex was accoutred at our dinner party that night, I hasten to

inform her that Charlotte was gowned in an elegant confection of Puttoo

of a simply indescribable nuance of _crême de boue_—the train,

extremely décolletée at the lower end, cunningly revealing at every

turn glimpses of an enchanting pair of frou-frou putties.

The neat bottines, _à la_ Diane Chasseresse, took a charming touch of

lightness from the aluminium nails which decorated the “uppers” with a

quaint and original Dravidian cornice.

She carried a spring bouquet of wild onions _en branche_—ornaments (of

course), diamonds.

Every one remarked that Jane was simply too lovely for words, as, with

the sweet simplicity of an _ingénue, en combinaison_ with the craft of

a Machiavella (I beg to point out that I know my Italian genders), she

draped her lissom form in the clinging folds of an enormous habit _de

peau de brebis_—portions of ear and the tip of her nose tilted over the

edge of the deep turned-up collar, which, on one side, supported the

coquettish droop of the hairy “Tammy” that, dexterously pinned to the

spikes of a diamond fender, gave a _clou_ to the entire “_sac

d’artifice_.”

Walter, having already shot two bara singh and a serow, came under the

“statute of limitations” of the Kashmir Game Laws, and had to sound the

“cease firing” as regards these animals; but Charlotte and I, having

“khubbar” of game, started at 7 A.M. in pursuit. She, attended by

Walter and in tow of Asna (the best shikari in all Kashmir), followed

up the nullah which lay to our right, while I deflected to the north.

Having donned grass shoes, I started off up a very steep slope which

rose directly behind the camp. Reaching snow within a few minutes of

leaving my tent, I was glad to find it hard and the going good, the

early sun not yet having had time to soften and destroy the crisp

surface.

Up and up we toiled, I puffing like any grampus—partly by reason of not

yet being in good condition, and partly on account of the height, which

was probably nearly 9000 feet above sea level. As we rose to the

shoulder of the hill the gradient became much easier, and I had leisure

to admire the panorama that stretched around the snowy ridge, which

fell away abruptly on either side through dense pine forests. The day

was quite glorious…. The sun, blazing in a cloudless sky, cast sharp

steel-blue shadows where rock or tree stood between the snow and his

nobility. The white peaks that rose around in marvellous array seemed

so near in the bright air that it seemed as though one could see the

smallest creature moving on their distant slopes. But there was little

life observable in this still and silent world—nothing but an

occasional pair of crows flapping steadily over the woods, or a far

vulture circling at a giddy height in the “blue dome of the air.”

Silence everywhere, except for the distant and perpetual voice of many

waters murmuring in the unseen depths below.

To the south—showing clear above the serrated back of the ridge beyond

the camp—stood the Pir Panjal; pale ivory in the pale horizon below the

sun. At the foot of the valley up which we had come yesterday, and

partly screened by the intruding buttresses of its enfolding hills, the

Wular Lake lay a shimmering shield of molten silver.

In front, the sheeted mountains which guard Gurais and flank the icy

portals of the Tragbal stood, a series of glistening slopes and

cold-crowned precipices, while to the east Haramok reared his 17,000

feet into a threefold peak of snowy majesty.

It was a sight to thank God for, and to remember with joy all the days

of one’s life. Doubtless there are many views as wonderful in this

lovely land, but this was the first, and therefore not to be effaced

nor its memory dimmed by anything that may come after.

The shikari had not climbed the mountain’s brow to waste time over

scenery; so, having apparently gone as far as he wanted on the ridge,

he plunged down among the silver firs to the right, and I, with my

heart in my mouth, went after him. At first it seemed to the

inexperienced that we were slithering down the most awful places, and

that, should the snow give way, I should have to swiftly embrace the

nearest tree to avoid being shot down, a human avalanche, farther than

I cared to think. However, I soon found it was all right. A welcome

halt for lunch brought the tiffin coolie to the front. A blanket spread

upon the hard snow at the foot of a fir made an excellent seat, and a

cold roast teal, an apple, and a small flask of whisky were soon

exhumed from the basket. Water, or rather the want of it, was a

difficulty, for I was uncommonly thirsty, and no sign of any water was

to be seen. A judicious blending of the dry teal with bits of succulent

apple overcame the drought, and the half-hour for refreshment passed

all too quickly.

The men considered it now time to get up some “shikar,” so they

invented a bear. This was exciting! They had separated (there were four

of them) in search of traces of bara singh, &c., and some one found the

bear, or its den, or a lock of its wool—I really couldn’t quite

ascertain which—but fearful excitement was the immediate result.

A consultation took place in frenzied whispers. My rifle was peeled

from its case, and we proceeded to scramble stealthily down a horribly

steep face much broken by rocks. The shikari being in front with my

rifle over his shoulder, I was favoured with frequent glimpses down its

ugly black barrel as I, like Jill, “came tumbling after,” and I

rejoiced that all the cartridges were safely stowed in my own pocket.

Well! we searched like conspirators for that bear, peeped round rocks

and peered into holes, and anxiously eyed all possible and impossible

places where a bear might be supposed to reside, but there was no bear;

and at length we arrived on the bank of the torrent which rioted

noisily down the bottom of the nullah.

I now began to realise that plunging about in snow, often over one’s

knees, and scrambling among the fallen tree-trunks and great rocks

selected by the torrent to make its bed, was distinctly tiring work!

Presently we came to a bridge over the river. It consisted of a single

log, and appeared extremely slender. The stream was not deep enough to

drown a man, but, all the same, a slip, sending one into the foaming

water among a particularly large and hard collection of boulders,

seemed most undesirable, and I stepped across, like Agag, delicately,

carefully balancing myself with a khudstick. The men came prancing over

as if they were on a good high-road, the careless ease with which they

made the passage bordering on impertinence! I reflected, however, that

sheep, and such like beasts of humble brain, can stroll upon the brink

of gruesome precipices without any fear of falling, and my self-respect

returned.

After another half-hour of stiff scrambling I sat down to rest awhile,

leaving the men to spy the neighbourhood. Of course they had to find

something, so this time they found a “serow”—a somewhat scarce beast. I

awaited the coming of the serow at various coigns of vantage where they

said it was bound to pass, while the four men surrounded it from

different directions. Finally, like the Levite, it passed by on the

other side—at least I never saw it. The shikari afterwards informed me,

in confidence, that it was, like the inexcusable baby in _Peter

Simple_, “a very little one.”

We now made the best of our way down the nullah, and when an apology

for a path became apparent I rejoiced greatly, and followed it along

its corkscrew course until the camp came suddenly into view as we

topped a spur, which gave the path a final excuse for dragging me up a

stiff two hundred feet, and then sending me down a knee-shaking

descent, for no apparent reason but pure “cussedness.”

Charlotte had got home just before me, having seen nothing to shoot at.

She, too, seemed anxious for tea!

During the day Sabz Ali had been doing his level best to improve the

position in our sleeping-tent. The camp-beds had stood at such an angle

that it was almost impossible to avoid sliding gradually into the outer

darkness, but S.A. had scraped out earth from the head, and filled up a

terrace at the foot, in a way which gave us hope of sound sleep. Our

things had been carefully stowed, too, and a sort of hole scooped for

the bath. Luxury stared us in the face!

The sunset certainly was a little dull last night, but we were quite

unprepared for the dreary aspect of Dame Nature to which we awoke this

morning. It was raining very heavily, and a dense pall of mist hung low

among the pines, giving an impression of melancholy durability.

There was obviously nothing to do but exist as cheerfully as might be

until the weather improved. The wet had shrunk canvas and rope gear

till the tent-guys were as taut as fiddle-strings; and as it did not

seem to have occurred to any of the servants to attend to this, an

immediate tour of the camp had to be undertaken, in “rubbers” and

waterproofs, to slack off guys and inspect the drainage system, as we

had no wish to have our earthen floor—already sufficiently cold and

clammy—turned into an absolute swamp.

These things done, we scuttled and slid down to the mess tent, and

breakfasted as best we might; and the best was surprisingly good,

considering the difficulties the wretched servants must have had in

cooking anything in their wet lair, where the miserable fire of damp

sticks produced apparently little but acrid smoke.

We passed a dismal day, as, wrapped in our warmest clothes, we sat upon

our beds watching the rain turn to snow, then to hail and sleet, and

finally back to rain again; while the ever-changing wisps of grey mist

gathered thick in the glens, or “put forth an arm and crept from pine

to pine.”

Towards evening the clouds broke a little, and the forest-clad steeps

appeared through them, powdered thickly with new snow. Walter and I

sallied forth from our sodden tents and held a council of war in the

mud. It was decided to quit our somewhat unsatisfactory and precarious

position early to-morrow, if fine, as the weather looked so nasty, and

a squall of wind might have awkward consequences.

_Friday, April_ 14.—A very fairly fine morning enabled us to strike

camp yesterday, and get the baggage off in good time. The Smithsons

decided to make for the jheels near the river, in order to give the

duck a final worry round before the season closes on the 15th.

My shikari having reported a good bara singh in a small nullah off the

Erin, I arranged to go in search of him. The march down to Bandipur was

a short and easy one, and we got comfortably settled on board our boats

early in the afternoon. About sunset the clouds gathered thick over the

hills which we had left, and a thunderstorm broke, its preliminary

squall throwing the crews of our fleet into a fearful fuss, and sending

them on to the bank with extra ropes and holdfasts to make all secure.

An elderly lady, with a dirty red cap and very untidy ringlets,

superintended the business with much clamour. We take her to be the

wife or grandmother (not sure which) of the skipper.

It was with an undoubted sense of solid comfort that we lay in our cosy

beds under a wooden roof, whereon the fat rain-drops sputtered, while

the thunder still crackled and banged in the distance!

We shifted before dawn to a small village a couple of miles to the

east, and at 6.30 Jane and I set out to attack the bara singh, of which

the shikari held out high hope. My wife, mounted on a rough pony, was

able to accomplish with great comfort the two miles of flat country

which we had to traverse before turning off sharp to the right along a

track which led steeply upwards through the scrub that clothed the

lower part of the nullah.

There is something unusually charming in the dawn here—the crisp,

buoyant air, the silent hills, their lower slopes and corries still a

purple mystery; on high, the silver peaks—looking ridiculously

close—change swiftly from their cold pallor into rosy life at the first

touch of the risen sun.

The first part of our day’s work was easy enough. The sun was still

hidden from us behind the mountain flange on our left; the snow patches

on the sky-line ahead seemed comparatively near, and the diabolical

swiftness of the shikari’s stealthy walk was yet to be fully realised.

Up and up we went, first through a thick scrub or jungle of a highly

prickly description, over a few small streams, then out upon a grassy

ridge, up which we slowly panted. The gradient became sharper, and I

began to feel a little anxious about Jane, as the short, brown grass

was slippery with frost—a slip would be very easy, and the results

unpleasant. However, with the able assistance of the shikari, she did

very well, and, having crossed a shelving patch of snow by cutting

steps with our khudstick, we found ourselves, after an hour and a

half’s stiff climbing, on the sky-line of the ridge that had seemed but

an easy stroll from below. The heights and distances are most

deceptive, partly on account of the crystal clearness of the air, and

partly because of the magnitude of everything in proportion. The

mountains are not only high themselves, but their spurs and foothills

would rank as able-bodied mountains were they not dwarfed by peaks

which average 15,000 feet in height above the sea. The pines which

clothe their sides, the chenars and poplars in the valley, are all

enormous when compared with their European cousins.

The view was most remarkable as we gained the crest of the ridge—a sea

of white cloud came boiling up from the valley to the east, and,

pouring over the saddle upon which we stood, gave only occasional

glimpses of snow and pine and precipice above, or the glint of water in

the rice-fields far below. Once, between the swirling cloud masses, the

near hills lay clear in the sunshine for a few moments and revealed a

party of five bara singh hinds, crossing the slope in front of us, and

not more than 150 yards away. Alas! there was no stag.

This was not satisfactory weather for stalking. However I was hopeful,

as I have noticed that in the fine forenoons a thick white belt of

cloud often forms about the snow level—roughly, some 8000 feet above

the sea, or 3000 above the Wular Lake—and hangs there for an hour or

two, to disappear entirely by midday. And so it came about to-day;

after a halt for tiffin, I set forward in brilliant sunshine, while

Jane remained quietly perched on the hillside, as the shikari said the

road was not good for a lady. The shikari was right, as, within ten

minutes of starting, we had to drop from the crest of the ridge to

circumvent a big rock which barred our way, to find ourselves

confronted by a very unpleasant-looking slope of short brown grass,

which fell away at an angle of about 50° to what seemed an endless

depth. This grass, having only just become emancipated from its winter

snow, had all its hair—so to speak—brushed straight down, and there was

mighty little stuff to hold on to! Carefully digging little holes with

our khudsticks, and not disdaining the help of my shikari, I got

across, and thankfully scrambled back to the safety of the ridge.

Now we reached snow, and the going became easier, whereupon Ahmed Bot

promptly set a pace which left me struggling far behind. As the sun

grew stronger the surface-crust of the snow became soft, and at every

few steps one went through to the knees, until both muscles and temper

became sorely tried. For an hour or so we kept climbing up what was

evidently one of the many steep and rugged ranges which, radiating from

Haramok, on this side flank the Wular with their lofty bastions. Having

apparently attained the height he deemed necessary, and got well above

the part of the pine forest in which he expected to find game, Ahmed

Bot turned to the left of the ridge, and we were immediately involved

in the deep drifts which covered the pine-clad slope of the nullah.

Over snow-covered trunks of prostrate trees, over hidden holes and

broken rocks, we toiled and scrambled until, emerging breathless on a

bare knoll—smooth and white as a great wedding-cake—we obtained a

searching view into the neighbouring gullies. Still no sign or track of

any “beast,” so we worked back until, tired and hot, I regained the

place where Madame lay basking beneath her sunshade. The shikari and

his myrmidons departed to “look” another bit of country, while I,

nothing loth, remained to await events in the neighbourhood of the

refreshment department.

On the return of the men, who had of course seen nothing, we set off

for home, climbing down the edge of the ridge where yellow colchicum

starred the turf. It was steep—verging on the precipitous in places—and

Jane frankly expressed her satisfaction when we accomplished the worst

part and entered a dense jungle of scrubby bushes, all of which seemed

to grow spines of sorts. A bear was said to have been seen here

yesterday, so we kept our weather eyelids lifting, but were not

favoured with a sight of him. We had almost gained the bottom of the

hill, with but two short miles to dinner and a tub, when weird shrieks

and whistles were exchanged between our people and an excited villager

below. The shikari, his eyes gleaming with uncontrollable excitement,

announced that the “big stag” was waiting for me at that very

moment!—and therewith Ahmed Bot dashed off down the hill, leaving me to

follow as best I might. Leaving my wife in charge of the tiffin coolie,

I tumbled off after the shikari, whom I found gloating with the

messenger over the inspiriting particulars of the monarch of the glen,

which, I understood, crouched expectant some paltry 2000 feet above us,

near the top of the nullah!

It was past six o’clock, and the light already showing signs of waning,

so we lost no time in attacking the hill again. I was pretty well

“done,” and had to accept a tow from the shikari, and hand in hand we

pressed up that accursed hill until, at seven o’clock, the sun set and

it began to grow dusk. Lying down near the edge of the snow, to gain

breath and let the shikari crawl round and “look” the face of the hill,

I was soon moved to activity by the news that the stag was lying under

a pine tree within a few hundred yards. A short “crawl” brought me

within sight of the beast, who lay half-hidden by a rock. It was now so

dark that even with my glasses I could only make sure that it was a

“horn beast” and not a hind; there was no time to lose, so, putting up

my sight for 150 yards, I let him have it, and was nearly as much

surprised as gratified to see him roll out on the snow to the shot. My

vexation and disgust may be imagined when I found the noble beast to be

a miserable 8-pointer, which I would never have fired at if I could

have seen its head properly. Heartily consigning the shikari, together

with the mendacious villager and all his kind, to a hot place, I

dolefully stumbled away downhill again in the gathering dark, and

finally deposited my weary and dejected self on board the boat, after

fourteen hours of the hardest walking I have ever done.

There is a confused tale prevalent that the bear, taking a mean

advantage of my absence, has been down to the village and eaten a few

ponies, or frightened them—I can’t make out which.

CHAPTER VII

BACK TO SRINAGAR

Easter Day, _April_ 23.—We left the Erin district early in the morning

following the bara singh fiasco, and punted and poled up the river to

join the Smithsons in a last attack upon the duck. We found the bold

Colonel,

“Rough with slaughter and red with fight,”

enjoying himself hugely among the jheels, and we prepared to join in

the fray; but our _chasse_ was put an end to by the discovery that the

14th, and not the 15th, was the last legal day for shooting. So we

packed away our guns and towed up to Srinagar, which we reached on

Sunday afternoon.

Our brief experience of camping and “shikar” had proved to my wife that

she was not cast in the heroic mould of a female Nimrod. Not being a

shot herself—as Charlotte is—she saw that, as far as she was concerned,

a shooting expedition with the Smithsons would entail a great deal of

solitary rumination in camp, while the rest of the party pursued the

red bear to his den, or chased the nimble markhor up and down the

precipices. The joys of reading, knitting, and washing the family

clothes might—probably would—pall after a time; and the physical

exertion of “walking with the guns” in Kashmir is decidedly more of an

undertaking than over a Perthshire grouse moor! Our original

arrangement, before coming out to join the Smithsons, was that the time

should be spent in camping, boating, “loafing,” and shooting. Being

perfectly ignorant of the conditions of life out here, we were unaware

of the fact that it is practically impossible to combine serious

shooting with any other form of amusement. In Scotland one may stalk

one day, fish the next, and golf the third, but out here it is not so.

The worshipper of Diana must be prepared to sacrifice everything else

at her shrine; he must go far afield, and be prepared to live hard and

work hard, and even then it may befall that his trophies of the chase

are none too plentiful. That will depend a good deal on his shikari and

his own knowledge, together with luck.

Walter had the good fortune to come upon two fine stags not far from

his camp almost as soon as he got there. He was within fifty yards of

them as they were moving slowly in deep snow, and he killed them both;

the best of these was a remarkably fine 10-pointer, length of horn 41

inches and span 38-1/2 inches. His wife spent an equal time in the same

neighbourhood and never saw anything.[1]

[1] That lady subsequently killed a remarkably good 13-pointer bara

singh and some bears in October.

When we talked over plans with Colonel and Mrs. Smithson at Pindi, the

general idea had crystallised into a scheme for going into Astor to

shoot, immediately upon our arrival in Kashmir, and, in order to reach

Srinagar before April 1st—the date of issue of shooting passes—we had

struggled hard to make our way into the country before it was really

attractive to the ordinary visitor.

When we did reach Srinagar we found that our friends had abandoned all

idea of an expedition to Astor, partly on account of expense, but

principally on account of the backwardness of the season, which

practically precluded ladies from crossing the Tragbal and Boorzil

Passes for some time. The merits and demerits of the Tilail district

and Baltistan came up for review, and then we almost decided to go to

Leh until we reflected that the return journey over a bare and open

country—arid and hot as an Egyptian desert—in the month of August might

not be unmixed joy, and the Smithsons were assured that they would find

no sport whatever _en route_, but would have to go several marches

beyond Leh to obtain the chance of an Ovis Ammon or Thibetan antelope.

The Leh scheme thus having come to naught, and our friends being still

wholly intent on “shikar” to the exclusion of all other pursuits, we

decided to be independent, so we hired a nice-looking boarded dounga,

whose fresh and clean appearance pleased us, for a term of three

months. Nedou’s Hotel offered so few attractions and so many drawbacks

that we were prepared to do anything rather than return to it, and, as

a matter of economy, we scored heavily, as, on working it out, we found

that the boat, including the cook-boat, would cost 60 rupees per month.

Our food and the wages of those servants whom we should not have

required at the hotel came to approximately 80 rupees per month, making

a total of 140 rupees, or £9, 6s. 8d.; whereas our hotel bill would

have come to 12 rupees per day, without extras—or 360 rupees (£24) per

month—a clear saving in money as well as in comfort.

Our new habitation—the house dounga _Moon_—was owned and partly worked

by Satarah, an astute old rascal, whose “tawny beard,” like Hudibras’—

“Was the equal grace

Both of his wisdom and his face;

In cut and dye so like a tyle

A sudden view it would beguile:

The upper part whereof was whey,

The nether orange mixt with grey.”

His costume consisted of a curious sort of short nightgown worn over

white and flappy trousers, below which were revealed a pair of big,

flat naval feet. The first lieutenant, Sabhana—sleek and civil-spoken,

but desperately afraid of work—was, we understand, son-in-law to the

Admiral Satarah, having to wife the Lady Jiggry, eldest daughter of

that worthy, who, with her younger sisters Nouri, Azizi, and “the

Baba,” completed the ship’s company.

The _Moon_ differed from an ordinary house-boat in being narrower, and

possessing a long bow and stern which projected far enough from the

body of the boat to enable men to pole or paddle with ease; a

house-boat can only be towed. On embarking by means of a narrow

gangway—a plank possessed of an uncontrollable desire to “tip-up” at

unexpected and disconcerting moments—one entered first a small

vestibule, or “ante-cabin,” which held our big boxes and opened into

the drawing-room—quite a roomy apartment, about fifteen feet by ten

feet, fitted with a fireplace, a rough writing-table, and overmantel,

surmounted by a photograph—something faded—of Mrs. Langtry! A small

table and a couple of deck chairs graced the floor, while upon the

walls a heterogeneous collection of pictures, including a coloured

lithograph of a cottage and a brook, a fearful and wonderful portrayal

of an otter, and a very fancy stag of unlimited points dazzled the eye.

The ceiling was decorated with an elaborate and most effective design

in wood—a fashion very common in Srinagar, consisting of a sort of

patchwork panelling of small pieces of wood, cut to length and shape,

and tacked on to a backing in geometrical designs. At a little distance

the effect is rich and excellent, but close inspection shows up the

tintacks and the glue, and a prying finger penetrates the solid-looking

panel with perfect ease.

The drawing-room was separated from the dining “saloon” by a sliding

door—which frequently refused to slide at all, or else perversely slid

so suddenly as to endanger finger-tips and cause unseemly words to

flow. This noble apartment of elegant dimensions (to borrow the

undefiled English of the house-agent) could contain four feasters at a

pinch. Sabz Ali having cooked the dinner, the cook-boat was laid

alongside, and Sabz Ali, clambering in and out of the window, proceeded

to serve the repast, a black paw, presumably belonging to Ayata, the

kitchenmaid-man, appearing from time to time to retrieve the soiled

plates or hand up the next course.

A funny little sideboard and cupboard contained a slender stock of

knives, forks, and glasses, and part of a broken-down dinner set, while

the fireplace easily held three dozen of soda-water.

Then came Jane’s bedroom, fitted with a cupboard and shelves, which

were a constant source of covetousness to me, who had none. A small

bathroom completed our suite of apartments, and, after the bare boards

of the _Cruiser_, the _Moon_ seemed to overflow with luxury.

We have been taking life easily here for the last week. The Smithsons

intend going into Tilail as soon as the Tragbal becomes feasible; we

propose to remain in Srinagar for a while. The weather has not been

very fine—cold winds and a good deal of rain, varied by thunderstorms,

being our daily experience. The spring is, I am told, exceptionally

backward, and, although the almond is in full and lovely flower, the

poplars and chenars are barely showing a sign of life.

My wife having gone to lunch at the Residency this afternoon, I walked

half-way up the Takht-i-Suleiman, whose sharp, rock-strewn pyramid

rises a thousand feet above Srinagar.

The view of the Kashmir plain, through which the river winds like a

silver snake; the solemn ring of mountains, enclosing the valley with a

rampart of rock and snow; the innumerable roofs of the city, glittering

like burnished scales in the keen sunlight, densely clustered round the

fort-crowned height of Hari Parbat, went to make up such a picture as

Turner would have kneeled to.

Of course it is simply futile to compare one magnificent view with

another which differs entirely in kind. All that one can do is to lay

by in the memory a mental picture-gallery of recollection; and as I sat

in the shelter of a big rock, gazing out over the level plain

stretching below, where the changing shadows as they swept by turned

the amber masses of the trees to gold, I conjured up in my mind’s eye

other scenes whose beauties will remain with me while life shall

last:—The purple and gold of a glorious sunset over Etna, the Greek

theatre of Taormina in front of me, with the sea below—a shimmering

opal that melted away in the haze beyond Syracuse; the awful rapids

raging furiously below Niagara, a very ocean tortured and maddened to

blind fury, pouring its irresistible torrents through the chasm above

the whirlpool; and again, a cloudless October morning, with just the

keen zest of early autumn in the air, as I lay high up on a hillside in

Ardgour watching for deer—with the hills of Lochaber and Ballachulish

reflected in all their glory of purple and russet in the waters of Loch

Linnhe, windless and still!

Chills can be caught amidst the most glorious scenery—the little tufts

of purple self-heal at my feet were shivering and shaking in a biting

breeze that swept down from the snows to the north-east, and although I

am an admirer of Kingsley, I do not hold with him in his wrong-headed

admiration for a “nor’-easter”—so I quitted my perch in search of tea.

_Easter Monday_.—The Smithsons scuttled away in a great hurry to-day,

their shikari, Asna (the best shikari in Kashmir), having heard that,

owing to the lateness of the season, the bara singh have not even yet

all shed their horns—so Charlotte is filled with high hope. The bears,

too, are said to be waking from their winter’s doze and poking around

in warm and balmy corners.

Armed to the teeth and thirsting for blood, the hunter and the huntress

cast loose their matted dounga and paddled away merrily down the Jhelum

to Bandipur, thence to pursue the royal bara singh, and later, if

possible, scale the snow-barred slopes of the Tragbal and penetrate the

lonely Tilail Valley to assail the red bear and the multitudinous ibex.

Jane and I having decided that a purely shikar expedition into the more

difficult parts of the country was not suited to our prosaic habits,

remained to enjoy the effeminate pleasures of Srinagar till the weather

should grow a few degrees warmer.

As we are bidden to a sort of state luncheon to-morrow, given by the

Maharajah, it appeared to me to be but right and seemly to go and

inscribe my name in the visitors’ book of His Highness, and also to

call upon his brother, the Rajah Sir Amar Singh. I went with the more

alacrity as I thought it might prove interesting. Strolling across the

big bridge above the Palace, I soon found myself in the purely native

quarter, immersed in a seething crowd of men and beasts, from beneath

whose passing feet a cloud of dust rose pungent. The water-sellers, the

hawkers of vegetables and of sweets, the cattle, the loafers and the

children got into the way and out of it in kaleidoscopic confusion. By

the side of the street, money-changers, wrapped in silent

consideration, bent over their trays of queer and outlandish coins.

Bright cottons and silks flaunted pennons of gorgeous colours. Brass,

glowing like gold, rose piled on low wide counters. In front stood the

Palace, looking its best from this point, and showing huge beside the

huddle of wooden and plaster huts which hem it in.

General Raja Sir Amar Singh lives in a sort of glorified English villa.

Were it not for the flowering oleanders and hibiscus in front and the

silvery gleam of temple domes beyond, one might suppose oneself near

the banks of Father Thames. And were it not for the group of stalwart

retainers at the door, the illusion need not be lost on entering the

house.

The hall and staircase were decorated with a profusion of skins and

horns, somewhat modern and brilliant rugs, and tall glasses full of

flowers closely copied from Nature; while the drawing-room was of a

type very frequently seen near London.

Like so many British reception-rooms, it shone replete with _objets

d’art_, rather inclining to Oriental luxury than Japanese restraint.

My host, who came in almost immediately, was charming, speaking English

with fluency, although he has never been in England.

He is essentially a strong man, and remarkably well posted in

everything, both political and social, that occurs in the state, mixing

far more freely than his brother with the English, towards whom his

courtesy is proverbial.

His elder brother, the Maharajah of Jammu and Kashmir, is in many

respects of a different type. Keeping more aloof from the English

colony, he spends much of his time in devotion and the privacy of the

inner Palace.

On leaving Sir Amar Singh, one of his henchmen conducted me across the

iron bridge spanning a cut from the Jhelum, and into the warren-like

precincts of the Palace; presently we emerged from an obscure passage,

and found ourselves at the “front door,” where, in the visitors’ book,

by means of the stumpy pencil attached thereto, I inscribed my name and

condition.

_April_ 27.—His Highness the Maharajah having invited us to a luncheon

given by him in honour of Colonel Pears, the new Resident, we prepared

to cross the famous Dal Lake to the Nishat Bagh, the scene of the

present feast, which we fondly hoped might recall the glorious days of

the Moguls when Jehangir dallied in the historic Shalimar with the fair

Nourmahal.

“Th’ Imperial Selim held a feast

In his magnificent Shalimar:—

In whose saloons …

The valleys’ loveliest all assembled.”

Our shikara, a sort of canoe paddled by four active fellows, with the

stern, where we sat on cushions, carefully screened from the sun by an

awning, was brought alongside the dounga at about 11.30, as we had some

seven or eight miles to accomplish before reaching the Nishat Bagh.

Leaving the main river just above the Club, we paddled down the

Sunt-i-kul Canal, which runs between the European quarter and the

Takht-i-Suleiman, the rough brown hill which, crowned with its temple,

forms a constant background to Srinagar.

The canal was closely lined with house-boats and their satellite

cook-boats, clinging to the poplar-shaded banks. The golf-links lay on

our left, and on a low spur to the right stood the hospital, which the

energy and philanthropy of the Neves has gained for the remarkably

ungrateful Kashmiri. It is told that a man, being exceedingly ill, was

cared for and nursed during many weeks in the Mission Hospital, his

whole family likewise living on the kindly sahibs. When he was cured

and shown the door, he burst into tears because he was not paid wages

for all the time he had spent in hospital!

Just before entering the waterway of noble chenars, known as the Chenar

Bagh (a camping-ground reserved for bachelors only), we ported our helm

(or at least would have done so had there been any rudders in Kashmir),

and pushed through the lock-gate, which gives entrance to the Dal Lake,

against a brisk current.

This gate, cunningly arranged upon the non-return-valve principle, is

normally kept open by the current from the Dal; but if the Jhelum,

rising in flood, threatens to pour back into the lake and swamp the low

ground and floating gardens, it closes automatically, and so remains

sealed until the outward flow regains the mastery.

A sharp bout of paddling, puffing, and splashing shot us into the

peaceful waters of the Dal Lake, over which every traveller has gushed

and raved. It is difficult, indeed, not to do so, for it is truly a

dream of beauty.

A placid sheet of still water, its surface only broken here and there

by the silvery trails of rippled wake left by the darting shikaras or

slow-moving market boats, lay before us, shining in the crystal-clear

atmosphere. On the right rose the Takht, his thousand feet of rocky

stature dwarfed into insignificance by holy Mahadeo and his peers,

whose shattered peaks ring round the lake to the north, their dark

cliffs and shaggy steeps mirrored in its peaceful surface.

On the lower slopes strong patches of yellow mustard and white masses

of blossoming pear-trees rose behind the tender green fringe of the

young willows.

As we swept on, the lake widened. On the left a network of water lanes

threaded the maze of low-growing brushwood and whispering reeds, and

round us extended the half-submerged patches of soil which form the

celebrated “floating gardens” of the lake. From any point of view

except the utilitarian, these gardens are a fraud. A combination of

matted and decaying water-plants, mud, and young cabbages kept in place

by rows and thickets of willow scrub, is curious, but not lovely; and

our eyes turned away to where Hari Parbat raised his crown of crumbling

forts above the native city, or to the mysterious ruins of Peri Mahal,

clinging like a swallow’s nest to the shelving slopes above Gupkar.

“Still onward; and the clear canal

Is rounded to as clear a lake;”

and we emerged from the willow-fringed water lanes, and saw across the

wider shield of glistering water the white cube of the Nishat Bagh

Pavilion—the Garden of Joy, made for Jehangir the Mogul—standing by the

water’s edge, and at its foot a great throng and clutter of boats,

amidst whose snaky prows we pushed our way and landed, something stiff

after sitting for two hours in a cramped shikara.

Other guests—some thirty in all—were arriving, either like us by boat,

or by carriage _viâ_ Gupkar, and we strolled in groups up the sloping

gardens, which still show, in their wild and unrestrained beauty, the

loving touch of the long-vanished hand of the Mogul.

Down seven wide grassy terraces a series of fountains splashed and

twinkled in the sun. Broad chenars, just beginning to break into leaf,

gave promise of ample shade against the day when the blaze should

become overpowering. So far so good, but the grass that bordered the

path was not the sweet green turf of an English lawn, and the way was

edged by big earthen pots, into which were hastily stuck wisps of iris

blooms and Persian lilac. The topmost terrace widened out, enclosing a

large basin of clear water, in the middle of which played a fountain.

On one side was raised a marquee, revealing welcome preparations for

lunch. On the opposite side of the fountain a profusion of chairs,

shaded by a great awning, stood expectantly facing a bandstand. Here we

were welcomed by His Highness, a somewhat small man with exceedingly

neat legs and an enormous white pugaree, in his customary gracious

manner.

It was now half-past two, and we had breakfasted early, so that a move

towards the luncheon tent was most welcome. Finding the fair lady whom

I was detailed to personally conduct, and the ticketed place where I

was to sit, I prepared to make a Gargantuan meal. Was it not almost on

this very spot that

“The board was spread with fruit and wine,

With grapes of gold, like those that shine

On Casbin’s hills;—pomegranates full

Of melting sweetness, and the pears

And sunniest apples that Cabul

In all its thousand gardens bears.

Plantains, the golden and the green,

Malaya’s nectar’d mangusteen;

Prunes of Bokara, and sweet nuts

From the far groves of Samarcand,

And Basra dates, and apricots,

Seed of the sun, from Iran’s land;—

With rich conserve of Visna cherries,

Of orange flowers, and of those berries

That, wild and fresh, the young gazelles

Feed on in Erac’s rocky dells..

Wines, too, of every clime and hue

Around their liquid lustre threw;

Amber Rosolli..

And Shiraz wine, that richly ran..

Melted within the goblets there!”

This reckless, but unsubstantial and very unwholesome meal, was not for

us, and while waiting patiently for the first course to appear, I

glanced down the long table to admire the decorations. They were

delightful, consisting of glass flower-vases spaced regularly along the

festive board, and filled to overflowing with tufts and clumps of

flowers. Innumerable plates filled with fruit and sweetmeats graced the

feast, and a magnificent array of knives and forks gave promise of good

things to come.

Presently the expected dainties arrived, resembling but little the

lately-described poetic feast; a strict attention to business enabled

us to keep the wolf from the door, and a very cheerful party finally

emerged from the big tent to stroll by the fountains that flashed under

the chenars.

The Maharajah, of course, did not lunch with us, but held aloof,

peeping occasionally into the cook-house to satisfy himself that the

lions were being fed properly, and in accordance with their unclean

customs.

Finally, he and his chief officers of state vanished into a secluded

tent, where he probably took a little refreshment, having first

carefully performed the ablutions necessary after the contamination of

the unbeliever.

His Highness reappeared from nowhere in particular as his guests

strolled across the terrace, and, after a little polite conversation,

we took our leave and set forth for Srinagar.

It was a glorious afternoon, and we deeply regretted that time would

not permit us to visit the neighbouring Shalimar Bagh, which lay hidden

among the trees near by. The excursion must remain a “hope deferred”

for the present, as we had again to thread the maze of half-submerged

melon plots and miniature kitchen gardens which, even in the golden

glow of a perfect evening, could not be made to fit in with our

preconceived ideas of “floating gardens.” Jane was frankly

disappointed, as she admitted to having pictured in her mind’s eye a

series of peripatetic herbaceous borders in full flower, cruising about

the lake at their own sweet will and tended by fair Kashmirian maidens.

By-the-bye, here let me expose, once for all, the fallacy of Moore’s

drivel about the lovely maids of fair “Cashmere.” _There are none!_

This appears a startling statement and a sweeping; but, as a matter of

fact, the Eastern girl is not left, like her Western sister, to flirt

and frivol into middle age in single “cussedness,” but almost

invariably becomes a respectable married lady at ten or twelve, and

drapes her lovely, but not over clean, head in the mantle of old

sacking, which it is _de rigueur_ for matrons to adopt.

The good Tommy Moore did not know this, but, letting his warm Irish

imagination run riot through a mixed bag of Eastern romancists and

their works, he evolved, amid a _pôt pourri_ of impossibilities, an

impossible damsel as unlike anything to be found in these parts as the

celebrated elephant evolved from his inner consciousness by the German

professor!

As I traversed the main, or rolled by train,

From my Western habitation,

I frequently thought—perhaps more than I ought—

Upon many a quiet occasion

Of the elegant forms and manifold charms

Of the beautiful female Asian.

For the good Tommy Moore, in his pages of yore,

Sang as though he could never be weary

Of fair Nourmahal—an adorable “gal”—

And of Paradise and the Peri,

Until, I declare, I was wild to be where

I might gaze on the lovely Kashmiri.

Through the hot plains of Ind I fled like the wind,

Unenchanted by mistress or ayah,

The dusky Hindu, I soon saw, wouldn’t do,

So I paused not, until in the sky——Ah!—

Far upward arose the perpetual snows

And the peaks of the proud Himalaya.

But in Kashmir, alas! I found not a lass

Who answered to Tommy’s description—

For the make of such maid I am sadly afraid

The fond parents have lost the prescription,

And I murmured; “No doubt, the old breed has died out,

At least such is my honest conviction.”

In the horrible slums which form the foul homes

Of the rag-covered dames of the city,

I saw wrinkled hags, all wrapped in old rags,

Whose appearance excited but pity.

Beyond question the word which it would be absurd

To apply to these ladies is “pretty.”

In the high Gujar huts were but brats and old sluts,

These last being the plainest of women;

Then I sought on the waters the sisters and daughters

Of the Mangis—those “bold, able seamen”

(I have often been told that the Mangi is bold,

And as brave as at least two or three men).

One lady I saw—I am told her papa

In the market did forage and “gram” sell—

Decked all over with rings, necklets, bangles and things,

She appeared a desirable damsel;

And I cried “Oh, Eureka! I’ve found what I seek:

Tell me quick—Is she ‘madam’ or ‘ma’mselle’?”

It was comical, but to this question I put—

A remarkably innocent query—

I received but a sigh or evasive reply,

Or a blush from the modest Kashmiri;

And I gathered at last that the lady was “fast,”

And her name should be Phryne, not Heré.

Toddled up a small tot—her hair tied in a knot—

Who remarked, “I can hardly consider

You’ve the ghost of a chance on this wild-goosie dance

Unless you should hap on a ‘widder!’

For our maidens at ten—ay, and less now and then—

Are all booked to the wealthiest bidder.”

“My dear man, it’s no use to indulge in abuse

Of our customs, so be not enraged, sir—

No woman a maid is—we’re all married ladies.

Our charms very early are caged, sir—

I’m eleven myself,” remarked the small elf,

“And a year ago I was engaged, sir!”

Ah, well! The country is the loveliest I ever saw, and that goes far to

make up for its disgusting population.

Here, indeed, it is that

“Every prospect pleases, and only man is vile.”

We stopped to look at the ruins of an ancient mosque, built in the days

of Akbar by the Shiahs. Its remains may be deeply interesting to the

archaeologist, but to me a neighbouring ziarat, wooden, with its grassy

roof one blaze of scarlet tulips, was far more attractive. Moving

homeward, we floated under a lovely old bridge, whose three rose-toned

arches date from the sixteenth century—the age of the Great Moguls. The

extreme solidity of its piers contrasts strongly with the exceedingly

sketchy (and sketchable) bridges manufactured by the Kashmiri.

In fairness, though, I must point out that, as the bridge in Kashmir

usually spans a stream liable at almost any moment to overwhelming

floods, it would appear to be a sound idea to build as flimsily as

possible, with an eye to economical replacement.

The Kashmiri carries this plan to its logical conclusion when he fells

a tree across a raging torrent, and calls it a bridge, to the

unutterable discomfiture of the Western wayfarer.

CHAPTER VIII

THE LOLAB

_May_ 1.—The pear and cherry blossom has been so lovely in and around

Srinagar that we determined to go to the Lolab Valley and see the apple

blossom in full flower.

We started in some trepidation, for the warm weather lately has melted

much snow on the hills, and Jhelum is so full that we were told that

our three-decker would be unable to pass under the city bridges—of

which there are seven. We decided to see for ourselves, so set forth

about eleven, and soon came to the first bridge, the Amira Kadal, which

carries the main tonga road into Srinagar, tying up just above it, amid

the clamour and jabber of an idle crowd.

The Admiral solemnly measured the clear space between the top of the

arch and the water with a long pole, consulted noisily with the crowd,

yelled his ideas to the crew, and decided to attempt the passage.

Hen-coops, chairs, half-a-dozen flower-pots containing sickly specimens

of plants, and all other movables being cleared from the upper deck, we

set sail, and shot the bridge very neatly, only having a few inches of

daylight between the upper deck and the wooden beams upon which the

roadway rests.

_Ce nest que, le premier “pont” que coute_.

The other bridges were all easier than the first, and we shot them

gaily, spending the rest of the day in floating quietly down the river,

and finally anchoring—or rather mooring, for anchors are, like

boat-hooks, masts, sails, rudders, and rigging, alike unknown to the

“jollye mariners” of the Jhelum—some two or three miles above the

entrance to the dreaded Wular Lake.

This awful stretch of water, so feared by the Kashmiri that his eyes

goggle when he even thinks of it, is an innocent enough looking lake,

generally occupied in reflectively reproducing its surroundings upside

down, but occasionally its calm surface is ruffled by a little breeze,

and it is reported that wild and horrible squalls sweep down the

nullahs of Haramok at times, and destroy the unwary. These squalls are

said to be most frequent in the afternoons, and are probably the

accompaniments of the thunderstorms.

It is only considered possible to cross the Wular between dawn and 10

or 11 A.M., and no persuasion will prevail upon a native boatman to

risk his life on the lake after lunch.

Before turning in, I gave orders that a start should be made next

morning at five o’clock, but a heavy squall of rain and thunder during

the night had the effect of causing orders to be set at naught, and at

breakfast-time there was no sign of “up anchor” nor even of “heaving

short.” An interview with the Admiral showed me that the Wular, in his

opinion, was too dangerous to cross to-day—in fact he wouldn’t dream of

asking coolies to risk it. He was given to understand that we intended

to cross, and that the sooner he started the safer it would be.

No coolies being forthcoming, I inhumanly gave orders to get under

way—the available crew consisting of the wicked Satarah, the first

lieutenant, and the Lady Jiggry. Sulkily and slowly we wended our way

past the wide flats which border the Wular, all blazing golden with

mustard in full pungent flower.

Before entering the lake the Admiral meekly requested to be allowed to

try for coolies in a small village near by. He was allowed quarter of

an hour for pressgang work, and sure enough he came back within a very

reasonable time with a few spare hands, and then—paddling and poling

for dear life—we glided swiftly through the tangled lily-pads and the

green rosettes of the Singhara, and soon were _in medias res_ and

fairly committed to the deep.

The Wular lay like a burnished mirror, reflecting the buttresses of

Haramok on our right, and the snowy ranges by the Tragbal ahead, its

silvery surface lined here and there with the wavering tracks of other

boats, or broken by bristling clumps of reeds and tall water-plants.

Our transit was perfectly peaceful, and by lunch-time we were safely

tied up to a bank, purple with irises, just below Bandipur.

A visit to the post-office and a stroll up the rocky hill behind it,

where we sat for some time and watched a pair of jackals sneaking

about, completed a peaceful afternoon.

_May_ 3.—We were up with the lark, and, having moved along the coast a

few miles to the west of Bandipur, left the ship before six of the

clock in pursuit of bear. I had “khubbar” of one in the Malingam

Nullah, and, after a brisk walk over the lower slopes, we entered the

nullah and clambered up about 1500 feet to a quiet and retired spot

under a shady thorn-bush, where we breakfasted.

We thereafter climbed a little higher, and then sat down while the

shikaris departed to spy, their method of spying being, I believe,

somewhat after this fashion:—Leaving the sahib with his

belongings—notably the tiffin coolie—in a spot carefully selected for

its seclusion, the miscreants depart hurriedly and rapidly up the

nearest inaccessible crag; this is “business,” and throws dust, so to

say, in the eyes of the sahib, by means of an exhibition of activity

and zeal. Passing out of sight over the sky-line, the hunters pause,

wink at one another, and, choosing a shady and convenient corner,

proceed to squat, light their pipes, and discuss matters—chiefly

financial—until they deem it time to return, scrambling and breathless

with excitement, to relate all that they have seen and done.

So, while the shikaris unceasingly spied for bear, for nine mortal

hours Jane and I camped out on a remarkably hard and unyielding stone,

varied by other seats equally tiresome.

Fortunately we had brought books with us, and we relieved the monotony

by observing the habits of a pair of “kastooras,” a hawk, and a brace

of chikor at intervals, but it was truly a tedious chase.

At four o’clock the sons of Nimrod returned, declaring that the bear

had been seen, but that as we had on chaplies and not grass shoes, it

would be impossible for us to pursue him. I asked the shikari why the

—— goose he had let me come out in chaplies instead of grass shoes if

the country was so rough? His reply was to the effect that whatever it

pleased me to wear pleased him!

_May_ 4.—Armed _cap-à-pie_ so to speak, with pith helmets and grass

shoes, we again set forth at dawn of day to hunt the bear. Breakfast

under the same tree, sitting on the same patch of rose-coloured

flowers—a sort of fumitory (_Corydalus rutaefolia_)—followed by another

nine-hour bivouac, brought us to 5 P.M. and the extreme limit of

boredom, when lo! the shikaris burst upon us in a state of frenzied

excitement to announce the bear! Off we went up a steep track for a

quarter of an hour, until, at the foot of a rough snow slope, the

shikari told the much disgusted Jane that she must wait there, the rest

of the climb being too hard for her, and, in truth, it was pretty bad.

Up a very steep gully filled with loose stones and rotten snow,

scrambling, and often hauling ourselves up with our hands by means of

roots and trailing branches, we slowly worked our way up a place I

would never have even attempted in cold blood.

Twenty minutes’ severe exertion brought us to a shelf, or rather slope,

of rock on the right, sparsely covered with wiry brown grass from which

the snow had but very recently gone, and crowned by a crest of stunted

pines. Up this we wriggled, I being mainly towed up by my shikari’s

cummerbund, and, lying under a pine, we peered over the top.

A steep gully divided us from a rough ridge, upon a grassy ledge of

which, about 200 yards off, a big black beast was grubbing and rooting

about.

The shikari, shaking with excitement, handed me the rifle, urging me to

shoot. I did nothing of the sort, having no breath, and my hand being

unsteady from a fast and stiff climb.

I regret to be obliged to admit that, not realising that it would be

little short of miraculous to kill a bear stone-dead at 200 yards with

a Mannlicher, and being also, naturally, somewhat carried away by the

sight of a real bear within possible distance, I waited until I was

perfectly steady, and fired. The brute fell over, but immediately

picked himself up again and made off. I saw I had broken his

fore-shoulder and fired again as he disappeared over the far side of

the ledge, but missed, and I saw that bear no more.

We had the utmost difficulty in crossing the precipitous gully to a

spot below the ledge upon which the beast had been feeding—the ledge

itself we could not reach at all; and the lateness of the hour and the

difficulty of the country in which we were, prevented us from trying to

enter the next ravine and work up and back by the way the bear had

gone. A neck-breaking crawl down a horrible grass slope brought us to

better ground, and I sadly joined Jane to be well and deservedly

scolded for firing a foolish shot. The lady was very much disgusted at

having been defrauded of the sight of a bear “quite wild,” as she

expressed it—a certain short-tempered animal which had eaten up her

best umbrella in the Zoo at Dusseldorf not having fulfilled the

necessary condition of wildness.

Next day I sent out coolies to search for traces, promising lavish

“backshish” in the event of success, but I got no trustworthy news,

“and that was the end of that hunting.”

_May_ 6.—Jane took a respite from the chase, and I sallied forth alone

at dawn up a nullah from Alsu to look for a bear which was said to

frequent those parts. A brisk walk of some four miles over the flat,

followed by a climb up a track—steep as usual—to the left of the main

track to the Lolab, brought us to a grassy ridge, where I sat down

patiently to await the bear’s pleasure. I took my note-book with me,

and whiled away some time in writing the following:—

Let me jot down a sketch of my present position and surroundings; it

will serve to bring the scene back to me, perhaps, when I am again

sitting in my own particular armchair watching the fat thrushes hopping

about the lawn.

Well, I am perched in a little hollow under a big grey boulder, which

serves to shelter me to a certain, but limited, extent from the brisk

showers that come sweeping over from the Lolab Valley. The hollow is so

small that it barely contains my tiffin basket, rifle, gun, and self—in

fact, my grass-shod and puttied extremities dangle over the rim, whence

a steep slope shelves down some 200 feet to a brawling burn, the hum of

which, mingling with the fitful sighing of the pines as the breeze

sweeps through their sounding boughs, is perpetually in my ears. Across

the little torrent, and not more than a hundred yards away, rises a

slope, covered with rough grass and scrub, similar to that in the face

of which I am ensconced.

Here the bear was seen at 7 A.M. by a Gujar, who gave the fullest

particulars to Ahmed Bot (my shikari) in a series of yells from a

hill-top as we came up the valley. We arrived on the scene about seven,

just in time to be too late, apparently. It is now 3 P.M., and the bear

is supposed to be asleep, and I am possessing my soul in patience until

it shall be Bruin’s pleasure to awake and sally forth for his afternoon

tea.

There is certainly no bear now, so I pass the time in sleeping, eating,

smoking, writing, and observing the manners and customs of a family of

monkeys who are disporting themselves in a deep glen to the left.

Beyond this ravine rises a high spur, beautifully wooded, the principal

trees being deodar, blue pine (_Excelsa_) and yew. This is sloped at

the invariable and disgusting angle of 45 degrees. Beyond it rise

further wooded slopes, with snow gleaming through the deep green, and

above all is the changing sky, where the clear blue gives way to a

billowy expanse of white rolling clouds or dark rain-laden masses,

which pour into the upper clefts of the ravine, and blot out the

serried ranks of the pines, until a thorough drenching seems

inevitable—when lo! a glint of blue through the gloomy background, and

soon again,

“With never a stain, the pavilion of Heaven is bare.”

The immediate foreground, as I said before, slopes sharply from my very

feet, where a clump of wild sage and jasmin (the leaves just breaking)

grows over a charming little bunch of sweet violets. Lower down I can

see the lilac flowers of a self-heal, and the bottom of the little

gorge is clothed with a bush like a hazel, only with large, soft

whitish flowers.

My solitude has just been enlivened by the appearance of a cheerful

party of lovely birds. They are very busy among the “hazels,” flying

from bush to bush with restless activity, and wasting no time in

idleness. They are about the size of large finches—slender in shape,

with longish tails. They are divided into two perfectly distinct kinds,

probably male and female. The former have the back, head, and wings

black; the latter barred with scarlet, the breast and underparts also

scarlet. The others—which I assume to be the females—replace the black

with ashy olive, the wings being barred with yellow, the underparts

yellowish. The very familiar note of the cuckoo, somewhere up in the

jungle, reminds me of an English spring.

4 P.M.—I knew it! I knew that if the wind held down the nullah I should

be dragged up that horrible ridge opposite. Hardly had I written the

above when I was hunted from my lair, and rushed down 200 steep feet,

and then up some 500 or 600 on the other side of the stream, through an

abattis of clinging undergrowth that made a severe toil of what could

never have been a pleasure. There can be no doubt but that a pith

helmet—a really shady, broad one—is a most infernal machine under which

to force one’s way through brushwood.

Well, all things come to an end—wind first, temper next, and finally

the journey.

My shikari is a fiend in human shape. He slinks along on the flat at

what _looks_ like a mild three-miles-an-hour constitutional, but unless

you are a _real_ four-mile man you will be left hopelessly astern; but

when he gets upon his favourite “one in one” slope, then does he simply

sail away, with the tiffin coolie carrying a fat basket and all your

spare lumber in his wake, while you toil upward and ever

upwards—gasping—until with your last available breath you murmur

“Asti,” and sink upon the nearest stone a limp, perspiring worm!

5.30 P.M.—That bear has taken a sleeping draught!

I am now perched on a lonely rock, my hard taskmaster having routed me

out of a very comfortable place under a blue pine, whose discarded

needles afforded me a really agreeable resting-place, and dragged me

away down again through the pine forest and jungle; hurried me across a

roaring torrent on a fallen tree trunk; personally conducted me hastily

up a place like the roof of a house; and finally, explaining that the

bear, when disturbed, must inevitably come close past me, has departed

with his staff (the chota shikari, the tiffin coolie, and a

baboon-faced native) to wake up the bear and send him along.

After the first flurry of feeling all alone in the world, with only a

probable bear for society, and having loaded all my guns, clasped my

visor on my head and my Bessemer hug-proof strait-waistcoat round my

“tummy,” I felt calm enough to await events with equanimity.

6.15 P.M.—A large and solemn monkey is sitting on the top of a thick

and squat yew tree regarding me with unfeigned interest. The torrent is

roaring away in the cleft below. Nothing else seems alive, and I am

becoming bored——What? A bear? No! The shikari, thank goodness!

“Well, shikari—Baloo dekho hai?” No, it is passing strange, but he has

_not_ seen a bear. “All right! Pick up the blunderbuss, and let us make

tracks for the ship.”

_Wednesday, May_ 10.—Beguiled by legends of many bears, detailed to me

with apparently heartfelt sincerity by Ahmed Bot, I have been pursuing

these phantoms industriously.

On Monday we quitted our boat, and started upon a trip into the Lolab

Valley. The views, as the path wound up the green and flower-spangled

slope, were very beautiful, and, when we had ascended about 1500 feet

and were about opposite to the supposed haunt of Saturday’s bear, we

determined to camp and enjoy the scenery, not omitting an evening

expedition in search of our shy friend.

Jane joining me, we had a most charming ramble down a narrow track to

the bed of the stream which rushes down from the snow-covered ridge

guarding the Lolab. Here we crossed into a splendid belt of gaunt

silver firs, the first I have seen here; whitish yellow marsh-marigolds

and a most vivid “smalt” blue forget-me-not with large flowers were

abundant, also an oxalis very like our own wood-sorrel.

Emerging from the pines, we crossed a grassy slope covered with tall

primulas (P. _denticulata_) of varying shades of mauve and lilac, and

sat down for a bit among the flowers while the shikaris looked for

game. (I need hardly remark that the noble but elusive beast had

appeared on the scene shortly after I left on Saturday; a Gujar told

the shikari, and the shikari told me, so it must be true.) When we had

gathered as many flowers as we could carry, we strolled back to the

camp to watch the sunset transmute the snowy crest of Haramok to a

golden rose.

Yesterday, Tuesday, I left the camp at dawn, and went all over the same

ground, but with no better success, only seeing a couple of bara singh,

hornless now, and therefore comparatively uninteresting from a “shikar”

point of view. After a delightful but bearless ramble I returned to

breakfast, and then we struck camp, and completed the ascent of the

pass over into the Lolab. Arrived at the top, we turned off the path to

the right, and, climbing a short way, came out upon the lower part of

the Nagmarg, a pretty, open clearing among the pines where the grass,

dotted thickly with yellow colchicum, was only showing here and there

through the melting snow. Choosing a snug and dry place on some

sun-warmed rocks at the foot of a tree, we prepared to lunch and laze,

and soon spread abroad the contents of the tiffin basket.

There is something, nay much, of charm in the utter freedom and

solitude of Kashmir camp life. There is no beaten track to be followed

diligently by the tourist, German, American, or British, guide-book in

hand and guide at elbow. No empty sardine-tins, nor untidy scraps of

paper, mar the clean and lonely margs or village camping-grounds.

The happy wanderer, selecting a grassy dell or convenient shady tree

with a clear spring or dancing rivulet near by, invokes the tiffin

coolie, and if a duly watchful eye has been kept upon that incorrigible

sluggard, in short space the contents of the basket deck the sward.

What have we here? Yes, of course, cold chicken—

“For beef is rare within these oxless isles.”

Bread! (how lucky we sent that coolie into Srinagar the other day).

Butter, nicely stowed in its little white jar, cheese-cakes (one of the

Sabz Ali’s masterpieces), and a few unconsidered trifles in the form of

“jam pups” and a stick of chocolate.

Whisky is there, if required, but really the cold spring water is

“delicate to drink” without spirituous accompaniment.

Hunger appeased, the beauty of the surrounding scenery becomes

intensified when seen through the balmy veil of smoke caused by the

consumption of a mild cheroot, and peace and contentment reign while we

feed the sprightly crows with chicken bones and bits of cheese rind.

Shall we ever forget—Jane and I—that simple feast on the Nagmarg?

The sloping snow melting into little rills which trickled through the

fresh-springing flower-strewn grass; the extraordinary blue of the

hillsides overlooking the Lolab Valley seen through the sloping boughs

of the pines; the crows hopping audaciously around or croaking on a

dried branch just above our heads; and above all, the glorious sense of

freedom, of aloofness from all disturbing elements, of utter and

irresponsible independence in a lovely land unspoiled by hand of man?

The afternoon sun smote us full in the face as we descended the bare

and not too smooth path that led into the valley, and we were right

glad to reach the shade of a grove of deodars that covered the lower

slopes of the hill. The Lolab Valley, into which we had now penetrated,

is a rich and picturesque expanse of level plain, some fifteen miles

long by three or four broad, apparently completely surrounded by a

densely-wooded curtain of mountains, rising to an elevation of some

3000 feet above the valley on the south and west, but ranging on the

other sides up into the lofty summits which bar the route into Gurais

and the Tilail. The mountain chain is not really continuous, the river

Pohru, which drains the valley, finding outlet to the west e’er it

bends sharply to the south and enters the Wular near Sopor.

Perhaps the most noticeable objects in the Lolab are the walnut trees;

they are now just coming into full leaf, and their great trunks, hoary

with age and softly velveted with dark green moss, form the noble

columns of many a lovely camping-ground. We pitched our tents at

Lalpura in a grove of giants, the majesty of which formed an exquisite

contrast to the white foam of a cluster of apple trees in bloom.

It has been so hot to-day that we have stayed quietly in camp, reading,

sketching, and enjoying the _dolce far niente_ of an idle life.

_Sunday, May_ 14.—On Thursday we left Lalpura and marched to Kulgam, a

short distance of some eight or ten miles. Mr. Blunt, the forest

officer,[1] had most kindly placed the forest bungalows of the Lolab at

our disposal; but, as they all lie on the other side of the valley, we

are obliged to camp every night. We have been working along the north

side of the Lolab, as the shikari is full of bear “khubbar,” and as

long as the weather remains fair we really do not much care where we

go! Skirting the foot of the wooded ridge on our right, and with the

flat and populous levels of the valley on our left, we marched along a

good path shaded in many places by the magnificent walnuts and snowy

fruit-trees for which the Lolab is justly famed, until, crossing the

Pohru by a rickety bridge, and toiling up a hot, bare slope, we reached

Kulgam, nestling at the foot of the hills.

[1] Commonly called the “Jungly-sahib.”

After tiffin and a short rest we set forth up the nullah behind the

village to look for (need I say?) a bear. The gradient was stiff, as

usual, and the path none too good. Feeling that our laborious climb

deserved to be rewarded by, at any rate, the sight of game, and Ahmed

Bot having sent a special message to the Lumbadhar at Kulgam directing

him to keep the nullah quiet, we were justly incensed when, having

toiled up some couple of thousand weary feet, we met a gay party of the

_élite_ of Kulgam prancing down the hill with blankets stuffed with

wild leeks, or some such delicacy.

Ahmed Bot showed reckless courage. Having overwhelmed the enemy with a

vituperative broadside, he fell upon them single-handed, tore from them

their cherished blankets, and spilt the leeks to the four winds.

I expected nothing less than to be promptly hurled down the khud, with

Jill after me, by the six enraged burghers of Kulgam. But no. They

simply sat down together on a rock, and blubbered loud and long; we sat

down opposite them on another rock and laughed, and laughed—tableau!

On Friday I went for a delightful walk through the pine and deodar

forests, the ostensible objective being, of course, a bear. Putting

aside all ideas of sport, I gave myself up to the simple joy of mere

existence in such a land; noting a handsome iris with broad red lilac

blooms, which I had not seen before; listening to the intermittent

voice of the cuckoo, and pausing every here and there to gaze over the

fair valley, backed by its encircling ranges of sunlit mountains.

The chota shikari is a youth of great activity, both mental and

physical. He almost wept with excitement on observing the mark of a

bear’s paw on a dusty bit of path. He said it was a bear which had left

that paw-mark, so I believed him. Late in the dusk of the afternoon he

_saw_ a bear sitting looking out of a cave. I could only make out a

black hole, but he saw its ears move. I regarded the spot with a

powerful telescope, but only saw more hole; still, I cannot doubt the

chota shikari. The burra shikari saw it too, but was of opinion that it

was too late to go and bag it. I think he was right, so we went back to

camp without further adventure.

Yesterday we left Kulgam, and followed up a track to a small village

which lies at the foot of the track leading over to Gurais and the

Tilail country. Here we camped in a grove of walnuts, which stood by an

icy spring. Jane and I went for a stroll, watched a couple of small

woodpeckers hunting the trunk of a young fir within a few feet of us,

but retreated hurriedly to camp on the approach of a heavy

thunderstorm. This was but the prelude to a bad break in the weather;

all to-day it has rained in torrents, and everything is sopping and

soaked. The little stream which yesterday trickled by the camp is

become a young river, and it is a perfect mystery how Sabz Ali manages

to cook our food over a fire guarded from the full force of the rain by

blankets propped up with sticks, and how, having cooked it, he can

bring it, still hot, across the twenty yards of rain-swept space which

intervenes between the cook-house and our tent.

_Monday, May_ 15.—The deluge continued all night, and only at about ten

o’clock this forenoon did the heavy curtain of rain break up into

ragged swirls of cloud, which, torn by the serrated ridges of the

gloomy pines, rolled dense and dark up the gorges, resonant now with

the roar of full-fed torrents.

The men are all beginning to complain of fever, and have eaten up a

great quantity of quinine. Considering the dismal conditions under

which they have been living for the last couple of days, this is not

surprising; so, with the first promise of an improvement in the

weather, we struck camp, determined to make for the forest bungalow at

Doras and obtain the shelter of a solid roof. Many showers, but no

serious downpour, enlivened our march, and we arrived at the snug

little wooden house just in time to escape a particularly fine specimen

of a thunderstorm. The Doras bungalow seemed a very palace of luxury,

with its dry, airy rooms and wide verandah, all of sweet-smelling

deodar wood. The men, too, were thankful to have a good roof over their

heads, and we heard no more of fever.

_Wednesday, May_ 17.—Yesterday it rained without ceasing, until the

valley in front of us took the appearance of a lake—A party of terns,

white above and with black breasts, skirled and wrangled over the

“casual” water. It was still very wet this morning, but as it cleared

somewhat after breakfast, we made up our minds to quit the Lolab and

get back to our boat.

Doras has sad memories for Jane, for here died the “chota murghi,” a

black chicken endowed with the most affectionate disposition. It was

permitted to sit on the lady’s knee, and scratch its yellow beak with

its little yellow claw; but I never cared to let it remain long upon my

shoulder—a perch it ardently affected. Well! it is dead, poor dear, and

whether from shock (the pony which carried its basket having fallen

down with it _en route_ from “Walnut Camp”), or from a surfeit of

caterpillars which were washed in myriads off the trees there, we

cannot tell. Sabz Ali brought the little corpse along, holding it by

one pathetic leg to show the horrified Jane, before giving it to the

kites and crows. He has many “murghis” left; baskets full, as he says,

for they are cheap in the Lolab, but we shall never love another so

dearly.

We had a shocking time while climbing to the pass which leads over to

Rampur, the road being deep in slimy mud, and so slippery that the

unfortunate baggage ponies could hardly get along. Jane, who is in

splendid condition now, toiled nobly up a track which would have been

delightful had the weather been a little less hideous.

Reaching the ridge which divides the Lolab from the Pohru Valley, we

turned to the left, along the edge, instead of descending forthwith, as

we had hoped and expected to do. It was raw and cold, with flying

wreaths of damp mist shutting out the view, and we were glad of a

comforting tiffin, swallowed somewhat hurriedly, under a forlorn and

stunted specimen of a blue pine. Then on along a rough and slippery

catwalk that made us wonder if the baggage ponies would achieve a safe

arrival at Rampur.

Crossing a steep, rock-strewn ridge, covered with crown imperial in

full flower, we began a sharp descent through a wood of deodars; and

now the thunder, which had been grumbling and rumbling in the distance,

came upon us, and a deafening peal sent us scurrying down the hill at

our best pace; the lightning-blasted trunks stretching skywards their

blackened and tempest-torn limbs in ghastly witness of what had been

and what might be again.

At last we cleared the wood, and, plunging across a perfect slough of

deep mud, crawled on to the verandah of the Rampur forest-house, where

we sat anxiously watching the hillside until we saw our faithful ponies

safely sliding down the hill.