and surprising. This morning we woke to a perfect day—the sun bathing
the warm hillsides, the picturesque brown village, and the brilliant
masses of snowy blossoming fruit-trees with a radiant smile. And, but
for the tell-tale riot of the streams and the sponginess of the
compound, there was nothing to betray the past misdeeds of the clerk of
the weather.
At noon we set out to cover the short distance that lay between us and
Kunis, where we had made tryst with Satarah. The country was like a
series of English woodland glades—watered by many purling streams, and
bright with masses of apple blossom; the turf around the trees all
white and pink with petals torn from the branches by the recent storms.
Clumps of fir clothed the hills with sombre green—a perfect background
to a perfect picture.
The flowers all along our path to-day were much in evidence after the
rain. Little prickly rose-bushes (_R. Webbiana_) were covered with pink
blossoms just bursting into full glory; bushes of white may, yellow
berberis, Daphne (_Oleoides?_), and many another flowering shrub grew
in tangled profusion, while pimpernel (red and blue), a small androsace
(_rotundifolia_), hawks-bit, stork’s bill, wild geranium, a tiny
mallow, eye-bright, forget-me-not, a little yellow oxalis, a speedwell,
and many another, to me unknown, blossom starred the roadside. In the
fields round Kunis the poppies flared, and the iris bordered the fields
with a ribbon of royal purple.
We reached Kunis at two o’clock, and found the village half submerged,
the water being up and over the low shores from the recent rain. Our
boats were moored in a clump of willows, whose feet stood so deeply in
the water that we had to embark on pony-back! After lunch came the
usual difference of opinion with the Admiral, who seems to have great
difficulty in grasping the fact that our will is law as to times and
seasons for sailing. He always assumes the rôle of passive resister,
and is always defeated with ignominy. He insisted that it was too late
to think of reaching Bandipur, but we maintained that we could get at
any rate part of the way; so he cast off from his willow-tree, and
sulkily poked and poled out into the Wular, taking uncommon good care
to hug the shore with fervour.
Here and there a group of willows standing far out into the lake, or a
half-drowned village, drove us out into the open water, and once when,
like a latter-day Vasco de Gama, the Admiral was striving to double the
dreadful promontory of a water-logged fence, a puff of wind fell upon
us, lashing the smooth water into ripples, whereupon the crew lost
their wits with fright, and the lady mariners in the cook-boat set up a
dismal howling; the ark, taking charge, crashed through the fence, her
way carrying us to the very door of a frontier villa of an amphibious
village. With amazing alacrity the crew tied us up to the door-post,
and prepared to go into winter quarters.
This did not suit us at all, and
“The harmless storm being ended,”
we ruthlessly broke away from our haven of refuge, and safely arrived
at Alsu.
_Friday, May_ 19.—An ominous stillness and repose at 3 o’clock this
morning sent me forth to see why the windlass was not being manned. A
thing like a big grey bat flapping about, proved, on inspection, to be
that rascal the Lord High Admiral Satarah. He said he could not start,
as the hired coolies from Kunis had been so terrified by the horrors of
yesterday that they had departed in the night, sacrificing their pay
rather than run any more risks with such daredevils as the mem-sahib
and me. This was vexatious and entirely unexpected, as I had never
before known a coolie to bolt before pay-day. Sabz Ali and Satarah were
promptly despatched on a pressgang foray, while I put to sea with the
first-lieutenant to show that I meant business. A crew was found in a
surprisingly short time, and a frenzied dart was made for the mouth of
the Jhelum.
All day we poled round the shore of the lake, over flooded fields where
the mustard had spread its cloth of gold a short week ago, over the
very hedges we had scrambled through when duck-shooting in April, until
in the evening we entered the river just below Sumbal.
The towing-path was almost, in many places quite, under water, and the
whole country looked most forlorn and melancholy as the sun went down—a
pale yellow ball in a pale yellow haze.
_Sunday, May_ 21.—All yesterday we towed up the river against a current
which ran swift and strong.
The passage of the bridge at Surahal gave us some trouble, as the
flooded river brought our upper works within a narrow distance of the
highest point of the span, but we finally scraped through with the loss
of a portion of the railing which decorated our upper deck.
The strain of towing was severe, so, when a brisk squall and
threatening thunder-shower overtook us at the mouth of the Sind River,
we decided to tie up there for the night.
This morning we started at four o’clock, but only reached our berth at
Srinagar at two, having spent no less than six hours in forcing the
boats by pole and rope for the last three miles through the town! An
incredible amount of panting, pushing, yelling, and hauling, with
frantic invocations to “Jampaws” and other saints, was required to
enable us to crawl inch by inch against the racing water which met us
in the narrow canal below the Palace.
All’s well that ends well, and here we are once more in Srinagar, after
a trip which has been really delightful, albeit the weather latterly
has not been by any means all that could have been desired, and we have
slain no bears![2]
[2] Can it be that Bernier was right? “Il ne s’y trouve ni serpens, ni
tigres, ni ours, ni lions, si ce n’est très rarement.”—_Voyage de
Kachemire_.
CHAPTER IX
SRINAGAR AGAIN
We have spent the last three weeks or so quietly in Srinagar, our boats
forming links in the long chain that, during the “season,” extends for
miles along both banks of the river. A large contingent of amphibians
dwells in the canal leading to the Dal gates, and the Chenar Bagh,
sacred to the bachelor, shows not a spare inch along its shady length.
Not being either professional globe-trotters or Athenians, we have not
felt obliged to be perpetually in high-strung pursuit of some new
thing; and to the seeker after mild and modest enjoyment there is much
to be said in favour of a sojourn at Srinagar.
Polo, gymkhanas, lawn-tennis, picnics, and golf are everyday
occurrences, followed by a rendezvous at the club, where every one
congregates for a smoke and chat, until the sun goes down behind the
poplars, and the swift shikaras come darting over the stream like
water-beetles to carry off the sahibs to their boats, to dress, dine,
and reassemble for “bridge,” or perhaps a dance at Nedou’s Hotel, or at
that most hospitable hub of Srinagar, the Residency.
Polo is, naturally, practically restricted to the man who brings up his
ponies from the Punjab, but golf is for all, and the nine-hole course,
although flat, is not stale, and need not be unprofitable, unless you
are fallen upon—as I was—by two stalwart Sappers, sons of Canada and
potent wielders of the cleek, who gave me enough to do to keep my
rupees in my pocket and the honour of the mother country upheld!
On May 26th we took shikara and paddled across the Dal Lake to see
something of the Mohammedan festival, consisting in a pilgrimage to the
Mosque of Hasrat Bal, where a hair of the prophet’s beard is the
special object of adoration.
As we neared the goal the plot thickened. Hundreds of boats—from
enormous doungas containing the noisy inhabitants of, I should suppose,
a whole village, down to the tiniest shikara, whose passenger was
perched with careful balance to retain a margin of safety to his two
inches of freeboard—converged upon the crowded bank, above which rose
the mosque.
How can I best attempt to describe the din, the crush, the light, the
colour? Was it like Henley? Well, perhaps it might be considered as a
mad, fantastic Henley. Replace the fair ladies and the startling
“blazers” with veiled houris and their lords clad in all colours of the
rainbow; for one immortal “Squash” put hundreds of “squashes,” all
playing upon weird instruments, or singing in “a singular minor key”;
let the smell of outlandish cookery be wafted to you from the “family”
boats and from the bivouacs on the shore; let a constant uproar fall
upon your ears as when the Hall defeats Third Trinity by half a length;
and, finally, for the flat banks of Father Thames and the trim lawns of
Phyllis Court, you must substitute the Nasim Bagh crowned with its huge
chenars, and Mahadco looking down upon you from his thirteen thousand
feet of precipice and snow.
Half-an-hour of this kaleidoscopic whirl of gaiety satisfied us. The
sun, in spite of an awning, was a little trying, so we sought the quiet
and shade of the Nasim Bagh for lunch and repose.
Returning towards Srinagar about sundown, we stopped to visit the
ancient Mosque of Hassanabad, which stands on a narrow inlet or creek
of the Dal Lake, shaded by chenars and willows in all their fresh
spring green. A little lawn of softest turf slopes up gently to the
ruined mosque, of which a portion of an apse and vaulted dome alone
stand sentinel over its fallen greatness. Around lie the tombs of
princes, whose bones have mouldered for eight hundred years under the
irises, which wave their green sabres crowned with royal purple in the
whispering twilight.
Near by, the mud and timber walls of a ziarat stand, softly brown,
supporting a deeply overhanging, grass-grown roof, blazing with scarlet
tulips. Through its very centre, and as though supporting it, pierces
the gnarled trunk of a walnut tree, reminding one of Ygdrasil, the
Upholder of the Universe.
_May_ 27.—What an improvement it would be if a house-dounga could be
fitted with torpedo netting! Jane finds herself in the most
embarrassing situations, while dressing in the morning, from the
unwelcome pertinacity of the merchants who swarm up the river in the
early hours from their lairs, and lay themselves alongside the helpless
house-boats.
By 10 A.M. we have to repel boarders in all directions. Mr. Sami Joo is
endeavouring to sell boots from the bow, while Guffar Ali is pressing
embroidery on our acceptance from the stern. Ali Jan is in a boat full
of carved-wood rubbish on the starboard side, while Samad Shah,
Sabhana, and half-a-dozen other robbers line the river bank opposite
our port windows and clamour for custom. A powerful garden-hose of
considerable calibre might be useful, but for the present I have given
Sabz Ali orders to rig out long poles, which will prevent the enemy
from so easily getting to close quarters.
_June_ 17.—It is quite curious that it should be so difficult to find
time to keep up this journal. Mark Twain, in that best of burlesques,
_The Innocents Abroad_ affirms, if I remember rightly, that you could
not condemn your worst enemy to greater suffering than to bind him down
to keep an accurate diary for a year.
It is the inexorable necessity for writing day by day one’s impressions
that becomes so trying; and yet it must be done daily if it is to be
done at all, for the only virtue I can attain to in writing is truth;
and impressions from memory, like sketches from memory, are of no value
from the hand of any but a master.
The time set apart for diary-writing is the hour which properly
intervenes between chota hasri and the announcement of my bath; but,
somehow, there never seems to be very much time. Either the early tea
is late or bath is early, or a shikar expedition, with a grass slipper
in pursuit of flies, takes up the precious moments, and so the business
of the day gets all behindhand.
The fly question is becoming serious. Personally, I do not consider
that fleas, mosquitoes, or any other recognised insect pests
(excepting, perhaps, harvest bugs) are so utterly unendurable as the
“little, busy, thirsty fly.” It seems odd, too, as he neither stings
nor bites, that he should be so objectionable; but his tickly method of
walking over your nose or down your neck, and the exasperating
pertinacity with which he refuses to take “no” for an answer when you
flick him delicately with a handkerchief, but “cuts” and comes again,
maddens you until you rise, bloody-minded in your wrath, and, seizing
the nearest sledgehammer, fall upon the brute as he sits twiddling his
legs in a sunny patch on the table, then lo—
“Unwounded from the dreadful close “—
he frisks cheerfully away, leaving you to gather up cursefully the
fragments of the china bowl your wife bought yesterday in the bazaar!
How he manages to congregate in his legions in this ship is a mystery.
Every window is guarded by “meat safe” blinds of wire gauze; the doors
are, normally, kept shut; and yet, after one has swept round like an
irate whirlwind with a grass slipper, and slain or desperately wounded
every visible fly in the cabin, and at last sat down again to pant and
paint, hoping for surcease from annoyance, not five minutes pass before
one, two, nay, a round dozen of the miscreants are gaily licking the
moisture off the cobalt (may they die in agony!), or trying to swim
across the glass of water, or playing hop-scotch on the nape of my
neck.
From what mysterious lair or hidden orifice they come I know not, but
here they are in profusion until another massacre of the innocents is
decreed.
It is a sound thing to go round one’s sleeping-cabin at night before
“turning in,” and make a bag of all that can be found “dreaming the
happy hours away” on the bulkheads and ceiling. It sends us to bed in
the virtuous frame of mind of the Village Blacksmith—
“Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night’s repose”
There are other microbes besides flies in Kashmir which are
exasperating—coolies, for instance.
I had engaged men through Chattar Singh (the State Transport factotum
at Srinagar) to take us up the river, and decreed that we should start
at 4 A.M. yesterday.
We had been to an _al fresco_ gathering at the Residency the night
before, and so were rather sleepy in the early morning, and I did not
wake at four o’clock. At six we had not got far on our way, and at ten
we were but level with Pandrettan, barely three miles from Srinagar as
the crow (that model of rectilinear volition) flies.
I was busy painting all the forenoon, and failed to note the sluggish
steps of our coolies, but in the afternoon it was borne in upon us that
if we wanted to reach Avantipura that night, as we had arranged, a
little acceleration was necessary.
Then the trouble began. The coolies were bone-lazy, the admiral and
first-lieutenant were sulky, and the weather was stuffy and threatened
thunder—the conditions were altogether detrimental to placidity of
temper.
By sunset we had the shikari, the kitchen-maid, and the sweeper on the
tow-rope, and even the great and good Sabz Ali was seen to bear a hand
in poling. Much recrimination now ensued between Sabz Ali and the
Admiral, and the whole crowd made the air resound with Kashmiri
“language,” every one, apparently, abusing everybody else, and making
very nasty remarks about their lady ancestors.
At 10 P.M. I got four more coolies from a village, apparently chiefly
inhabited by dogs, who deeply resented our proximity, and at 2 o’clock
this morning we reached the haven where we would be—Avantipura.
This morning I discharged the Srinagar coolies and took a fresh lot,
who pull better and talk less.
How differently things may be put and yet the truth retained. Yesterday
we reclined at our ease in our cosy floating cottage, towed up the
lovely river by a picturesque crew of bronze Kashmiris, the swish of
the passing water only broken by their melodious voices. The brilliancy
of the morning gave way in the afternoon to a soft haze which fell over
the snowy ranges, mellowing their clear tones to a soft and pearly
grey, while the reflections of the big chenars which graced the river
bank deepened us the afternoon shadows lengthened and spread over the
wide landscape. Towards evening we strolled along the river bank
plucking the ripe mulberries, and idly watching the terns and
kingfishers busily seeking their suppers over the glassy water; and at
night we sat on deck while the moon rose higher in the quiet sky, and
the dark river banks assumed a clearer ebony as she rose above the
lofty fringe of trees, until the towing-path lay a track of pure silver
reaching away to the dim belt of woodland which shrouded Avantipura.
That is a perfectly accurate description of the day, and so is this:—
It was very hot—and there is nothing hid from the heat of the sun on
board a wooden house-dounga. The flies, too, were unusually malevolent,
and I could scarcely paint, and my wife could hardly read by reason of
their unwelcome attentions.
The coolies were a poor lot and a slack, and as the day grew stuffier
and sultrier so did their efforts on the tow-path become “small by
degrees and beautifully less.”
That irrepressible bird—the old cock—refused to consider himself as
under arrest in his hen-coop, and insisted upon crowing about fifteen
times a minute with that fidgeting irregularity which seems peculiar to
certain unpleasant sounds, and which retains the ear fixed in nervous
tension for the next explosion of defiance or pride, or whatever evil
impulse it is which causes a cock to crow.
Driven overboard by the cock, and a feeling that exercise would be
beneficial, we landed in the afternoon, and plodded along the bank for
some miles. The innumerable mulberry trees are loaded with ripe fruit,
the ground below being literally black with fallen berries. We ate
some, and pronounced them to be but mawkish things.
After dinner we sat on deck, as the lamp smelt too strongly to let us
enjoy ourselves in the cabin, and the coolies on the bank and the
people in our boat and those in the cook-boat engaged in a triangular
duel of words, until the last few grains of my patience ran through the
glass, and I spake with _my_ tongue.
There is certainly some curious quality in the air of this country
which affects the nerves: maybe it is the elevation at which one
lives—certain it is that many people complain of unwonted irritability
and susceptibility to petty annoyances. And, while travelling in
Kashmir is easy and comfortable enough along beaten tracks, yet the
petty worries connected with all matters of transport and supply are
incessant, and become much more serious if one cannot speak or
understand Hindustani.
It takes some little time for the Western mind to grasp the fact that
the Kashmiri cannot and must not be treated on the “man and brothel”
principle.
He is by nature a slave, and his brain is in many respects the
undeveloped brain of a child; in certain ways, however, his outward
childishness conceals the subtlety of the Heathen Chinee.
He has in no degree come to comprehend the dignity of labour any more
than a Poplar pauper comprehends it, but fortunately his Guardians,
while granting certain advantages in his tenure of land and payment of
rent, have bound him, in return, to work for a fair payment, when
required to do so by his Government, as exercised by the local
Tehsildhar.
The demand made upon a village for coolies is not, therefore, an
arbitrary and high-handed system of bullying, but simply a call upon
the villages to fulfil their obligation towards the State by doing a
fair day’s work for a fair day’s pay of from four to six annas.
I do not, of course, propose to entangle myself in the working of the
Land Settlement, which is most fully and admirably explained in
Lawrence’s _Valley of Kashmir_.
The coolie, drawn from his native village reluctant, like a periwinkle
from its shell, is never a good starter, and when he finds himself at
the end of a tow-rope or bowed beneath half a hundredweight of the
sahib’s trinkets, with a three-thousand-feet pass to attain in front of
him, he is extremely apt to burst into tears—idle tears—or be overcome
by a fit of that fell disease—“the lurgies.” Lest my reader should not
be acquainted with this illness, at least under that name, here is the
diagnosis of the lurgies as given by a very ordinary seaman to the
ship’s doctor.
“Well, sir, I eats well, and I sleeps well; but when I’ve got a job of
work to do—Lor’ bless you, sir! I breaks out all over of a tremble!”
CHAPTER X
THE LIDAR VALLEY
We were glad enough to leave Srinagar, as that place has been
undoubtedly trying lately, being extremely hot and relaxing. The river,
which had been up to the fourteen-foot level, as shown on the gate
ports at the entrance to the Sunt-i-kul Canal, had fallen to 9-1/2
feet, and the mud, exposed both on its banks and in the fields and
flats which had been flooded, must have given out unwholesome
exhalations, of which the riverine population, the dwellers in
house-boats and doungas, got the full benefit.
Jane has certainly been anything but well lately, and I confess to a
certain feeling best described as “slack and livery.”
We had not intended to remain nearly so long in Srinagar, but the
continuity of the chain of entertainments proved too firm to break, and
dances and dinners, bridge and golf, kept us bound from day to day,
until the _fête_ at the Residency on the 15th practically brought the
Srinagar season to a close, and broke up the line of house-boats that
had been moored along both banks of the river.
We had arranged to start with a party of three other boats up the
river, visiting Atchibal with our friends, and then going up the Lidar
Valley, while they retraced their way to Srinagar.
The most popular bachelor in Kashmir was appointed commodore, and
deputed to set the pace and arrange rendezvous. He began by sending on
his big house-boat, dragged by many coolies, to Pampur, a distance of
some ten miles by water, and, following himself on horseback by road,
instituted a sort of “Devil take the hindmost” race, for which we were
not prepared.
On reaching Pampur we heard that the “Baltic Fleet” had sailed for
Avantipura, so we followed on; but, alas! having made a forced march to
this latter place, we found that Rodjestvenski Phelps had again escaped
us and “gone before.”
We consigned him and the elusive “chota resident,” who was in command
of the rest of the party, to perdition, and decided to pursue the even
tenor of our way to the Lidar Valley.
The upper reaches of the Jhelum tire not wildly or excitingly lovely.
The narrowed waters, like sweet Thames, run softly between quiet
British banks, willow veiled. The wide level flats of the lower river
give place to low sloping hills or “karewas,” which fall in terraced
undulations from the foothills of the higher ranges which close in the
eastern extremity of the Kashmir Valley.
It was well into the evening, and the sun had just set, throwing a
glorious rosy flush over the snows which surround the Lidar Valley,
when we came to the picturesque bridge which crosses the stream at
Bejbehara.
The scene here was charming—a grand festa or religious tamasha being
toward; the whole river was swarming with boats—great doungas, with
their festive crews yelling a monotonous chant, paddled uproariously
by. Light shikaras darted in and out, making up for want of volume in
their song by the piercing shrillness of their utterances. The banks
and bridge teemed with swarming life, and all Kashmir seemed to have
contributed its noisiest members to the revel.
Beyond the bridge we could see through the gathering dusk many
house-boats of the sahibs clustering under a group of magnificent
chenars, over whose dark masses the moon was just rising, full orbed.
The piers of the bridge seemed to be set in foliage, large willows
having grown up from their bases, giving a most curious effect. We
marked with some apprehension the swiftness of the oily current which
came swirling round the piers, and soon we found ourselves stuck fast
about half-way under the bridge, apparently unable to force our boat
another inch against the stream which boiled past. An appalling uproar
was caused by the coolies and the unemployed upon the bridge, who all,
as usual, gave unlimited advice to every one else as to the proper
management of affairs under the existing circumstances, but did nothing
whatever in support of their theories. The situation was becoming quite
interesting, and the “mem-sahib” and I, sitting on the roof of our
boat, were speculating as to what would happen next when the Gordian
knot was cut by the unexpected energy and courage of the
first-lieutenant, who boldly slapped an argumentative coolie in the
face, while the admiral dashed promiscuously into the shikara,
and—yelling “Hard-a-starboard!—Full speed ahead!—Sit on the
safety—valve!”—boldly shot into an overhanging mulberry tree, wherein
our tow-rope was much entangled. The rope was cleared, the crew poled
like fury, the coolies hauled for all they were worth, every one yelled
himself hoarse, and we forged ahead. We crashed under the mulberry
tree, which swept us from stem to stern, nearly carrying the hen-coop
overboard; while Jane and I lay flat under a perfect hail of squashy
black fruit which covered the upper deck.
We went on shore for a moonlight stroll after dinner. The place was
like a glorified English park; chenars of the first magnitude, taking
the place of oaks, rose from the short crisp turf, while a band of
stately poplars stood sentry on the river bank. Through blackest shadow
and over patches of moonlit sward we rambled till we came upon the
ruins of a temple, of which little was left but a crumbled heap of
masonry in the middle of a rectangular grassy hollow which had
evidently been a tank, small detached mounds, showing where the piers
of a little bridge had stood, giving access to the building from the
bank. An avenue of chenars led straight to the bridge, showing either
the antiquity of the trees or the comparatively modern date of the
temple.
_June 19_.—Yesterday afternoon we left Bejbehara, and went on to
Kanbal, the port of Islamabad. A hot and sultry day, oppressive and
enervating to all but the flies, which were remarkably energetic and
lively. The river below Islamabad is quite narrow, and hemmed in
between high mudbanks.
Here we found the “Baltic Fleet,” but, knowing that our fugitive
friends must have already reached Atchibal, we held to our intention of
going up the Lidar.
Having tied up to a remarkably smelly bank, which was just lofty enough
to screen our heated brows from any wandering breeze, we landed to
explore. A hot walk of a mile or so along a dusty, poplar-lined road
brought us to the town of Islamabad, which, however, concealed its
beauties most effectually in a mass of foliage. Although it ranks as
the second town in Kashmir, it can hardly be said to be more than a big
village, even allowing for its 9000 inhabitants, its picturesque
springs, and its boast of having been once upon a time the capital of
the valley. The first hundred yards of “city,” consisting of a
highly-seasoned bazaar paved with the accumulated filth of ages, was
enough to satisfy our thirst for sight-seeing, and after a visit to the
post-office we trudged back through a most oppressive grey haze to the
boat. Crowds of the _élite_ of the neighbourhood were hastening into
Islamabad, where the “tamasha,” which we came upon at Bejbehara, is to
be continued to-morrow.
We had a good deal of difficulty in getting transport for our
expedition, as the Assistant Resident and his party had, apparently,
cleared the place of available ponies and coolies. An appeal to the
Tehsildhar was no use, as that dignitary had gone to Atchibal in the
Court train. However, a little pressure applied to Lassoo, the local
livery stablekeeper, produced eight baggage ponies and a good-looking
cream-coloured steed, with man’s saddle, for my wife.
The syce, a jovial-looking little flat-faced fellow, was a native of
Ladakh.
We made a fairly early start, getting off about six, and, having
skirted the town and passed the neat little Zenana Mission Hospital, we
had a pretty but uneventful march of some six miles to Bawan, where,
under a big chenar, we halted for the greater part of the day.
Here let me point out that life is but a series of neglected
opportunities. We were within a couple of miles of Martand, the
principal temple in Kashmir, and we did not go to see it! I blush as I
write this, knowing that hereafter no well-conducted globe-trotter will
own to my acquaintance, and, indeed, the case requires explanation.
Well, then, it was excessively hot; we were both in bad condition, and
I had ten miles more to march, so we decided to visit Martand on our
way down the valley. Alas! we came this way no more.
Little knowing how much we were missing, we sat contented in the shade
while the hot hours went by, merely strolling down to visit a sacred
tank full of cool green water and swarming with holy carp, which
scrambled in a solid mass for bits of the chupatty which Jane threw to
them.
A clear stream gushed out of a bank overhung by a tangle of wild
plants. To the left was a weird figure of the presiding deity, painted
red, and frankly hideous.
We were truly sorry to feel obliged, at four o’clock, to leave Bawan
with its massy trees and abundance of clear running water, and step out
into the heat and glare of the afternoon.
I found it a trying march. The road led along a fairly good track among
rice-fields, whence the sloping sun glinted its maddening reflection,
but here and there clumps of walnuts—the fruit just at the pickling
stage—cast a broad cool shadow, in which one lingered to pant and mop a
heated brow e’er plunging out again into the grievous white sunlight.
The cavalcade was increased during the afternoon by the addition to our
numbers of a dog—a distinctly ugly, red-haired native sort of dog,
commonly called a pi-dog. He appeared, full of business—from nowhere in
particular—and his business appeared to be to go to Eshmakam with us.
As we neared that place the road began to rise through the loveliest
woodland scenery—white roses everywhere in great bushes of foamy white,
and in climbing wreaths that drooped from the higher trees, wild indigo
in purple patches reminding one not a little of heather. Above the
still unseen village a big ziarat or monastery shone yellow in the
sinking sunlight, and overhead rose a rugged grey wall of strangely
pinnacled crags, outliers of the Wardwan, showing dusky blue in the
clear-cut shadows, and rose grey where the low sun caught with dying
glory the projecting peaks and bastions.
In a sort of orchard of walnut trees, on short, clean, green grass, we
pitched our tents, and right glad was I to sit in a comfortable
Roorkhee chair and admire the preparations for dinner after a stiff
day, albeit we only “made good” some sixteen miles at most.
_June_ 20.—A brilliant morning saw us off for Pahlgam, along a road
which was simply a glorified garden. Roses white and roses pink in wild
profusion, jasmin both white and yellow, wild indigo, a tall and very
handsome spiraea, forget-me-not, a tiny sort of Michaelmas daisy, wild
strawberry, and honeysuckle, among many a (to me unknown) blossom,
clothed the hillside or drooped over the bank of the clear stream, by
whose flower-spangled margin lay our path, where, as in Milton’s
description of Eden,
“Each beauteous flower,
Iris all hues, roses, and jessamine
Reared high their flourished heads.”
Soon the valley narrowed, and closer on our left roared the Lidar,
foaming over its boulders in wild haste to find peace and tranquil flow
in the broad bosom of Jhelum.
The road became somewhat hilly, and at one steep zigzag the nerves of
Jane failed her slightly and she dismounted, rightly judging that a
false step on the part of the cream-coloured courser would be followed
by a hurried descent into the Lidar. I explained to her that I would
certainly do what I could for her with a dredge in the Wular when I
came down, but she preferred, she said, not to put me to any
inconvenience in the matter. We were asked to subscribe, a few days
later, at Pahlgam to provide the postman with a new pony, his late
lamented “Tattoo” having been startled by a flash of lightning at that
very spot, and having paid for the error with his life.
A halt was called for lunch under a blue pine, where we quickly
discovered how paltry its shade is in comparison with the generous
screen cast by a chenar; scarcely has the heated traveller picked out a
seemingly umbrageous spot to recline upon when, lo! a flickering shaft
of sunlight, broken into an irritating dazzle by a quivering bunch of
pine needles, strikes him in the eye, and he sets to work to crawl
vainly around in search of a better screen.
Nothing approaches the great circle of solid coolness thrown by a big
chenar. The walnut does its best, and comes in a good second. Pines
(especially blue ones) are, as I remarked before, unsatisfactory.
But if the pine is not all that can be wished as a shade-producer, he
is in all his varieties a beautiful object to look upon. First, I
think, in point of magnificence towers the Himalayan spruce, rearing
his gaunt shaft,
“Like the mast of some tall ammiral,”
from the shelving steeps that overhang the torrents, and piercing high
into the blue. In living majesty he shares the honours with the deodar,
but he is merely good to look upon; his timber is useless and in his
decay his fallen and lightning-blasted remains lie rotting on these
wild hills, while the precious trunks of the deodar and the excelsa are
laboriously collected, and floated and dragged to the lower valleys,
producing much good money to Sir Amar Singh and the best of building
timber to the purchaser.
The road towards Pahlgam is a charming woodland walk, where the wild
strawberries, still hardly out of flower, grow thick amidst a tangle of
chestnut, yew, wild cherry, and flowering shrubs. Overhead and to the
right the rocky steeps rise abruptly until they culminate in the crags
of Kohinar, and on the left the snow-fed Lidar roars “through the
cloven ravine in cataract after cataract.”
About four miles from Pahlgam, on turning a corner of the gorge, a
splendid view bursts upon the wayfarer. The great twin brethren of
Kolahoi come suddenly into sight, where they stand blocking the head of
the valley, their double peaks shining with everlasting snow.
It needed all the beauty of the scene to make me forget that the
thirteen miles from Eshmakam were long and hot, and that I was woefully
out of condition, and we rejoiced to see the gleam of tents amid the
pine-wood which constitutes the camping-ground of Pahlgam.
We sat peacefully on the thyme and clover-covered maiden, amongst a
herd of happily browsing cattle, until our tents were up and the
irritating but needful bustle of arrival was over, and the tea-table
spread.
Pahlgam stands some 2000 feet above Srinagar, and although it is not
supposed to be bracing, yet to us, jaded votaries of fashion in stuffy
Srinagar, the fresh, clear, pine-scented air was purely delightful, and
a couple of days saw us “like kidlings blythe and merry”—that is to
say, as much so as a couple of sedate middle-aged people could
reasonably be expected to appear. The camping-ground is in a wood of
blue pines, which, extending from the steeper uplands, covers much of
the leveller valley, and abuts with woody promontories on the flowery
strath which borders the river. Here some dozen or so of visitors had
already selected little clearings, and the flicker of white tents, the
squealing of ponies, and the jabber of native servants banished all
ideas of loneliness.
About half a mile below the camping-ground is the bungalow of Colonel
Ward, clear of the wood and with Kolahoi just showing over the green
shoulder which hides him from Pahlgam. I was fortunate enough to find
the Colonel before he left for Datchgam to meet the Residency party,
and to get, through his kindness, certain information which I wanted
about the birds of Kashmir.
An enthusiast in natural history, Colonel Ward has given himself with
heart-whole devotion for many years to the study of the beasts and
birds of Kashmir, and he is practically the one and only authority on
the subject.
We were very anxious to cross the high pass above Lidarwat over into
the Sind Valley, having arranged to meet the Smithsons at Gangabal on
their way back from Tilail. Knowing that Colonel Ward would be posted
as to the state of the snow, I had written to him from Srinagar for
information. His reply, which I got at Islamabad, was not encouraging,
nor was his opinion altered now. The pass might be possible, but was
certainly not advisable for ladies at present.
_Friday, June 23_.—We were detained here at Pahlgam until about one
o’clock to-day, as Colonel Ward, as well as two minor potentates, had
marched yesterday, employing every available coolie. The fifteen whom I
required were sent back to me by the Colonel, and turned up about noon,
so, after lunch, we set forth.
Camels are usually unwilling starters. I knew one who never could be
induced to do his duty until a fire had been lit under him as a gentle
stimulant. He lived in Suakin, and existence was one long grievance to
him, but no other animal with which I am acquainted approaches a
Pahlgam coolie in _vis inertiâ_.
Whether a too copious lunch had rendered my men torpid, or whether the
attractions of their happy homes drew them, I know not, but after the
loads (and these not heavy) had been, after much wrangling, bound upon
their backs, and they had limped along for a few hundred yards or so,
one fell sick, or said he was sick, and, peacefully squatting on a
convenient stone, refused to budge.
We were still close to some of the scattered huts of Pahlgam, so an
authority, in the shape of a lumbadhar or chowkidar, or some such, came
to our help, and promptly collected for us an elderly gentleman who was
tending his flocks and herds in the vicinity. Doubtless it was
provoking, when he was looking forward to a comfortable afternoon tea
in the bosom of his family, after a hard day’s work of doing nothing,
to be called upon to carry a nasty angular yakdan for seven miles along
a distinctly uneven road; but was he therefore justified in blubbering
like a baby, and behaving like an ape being led to execution?
The first half-mile was dreadful. At every couple of hundred yards the
coolies would sit down in a bunch, groaning and crying, and nothing
less than a push or a thump would induce them to move. We felt like
slave-drivers, and indeed Sabz Ali and the shikari behaved as such,
although their prods and objurgations were not so hurtful as they
appeared, being somewhat after the fashion of the tale told by an
idiot,
“Full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.”
Presently we became so much irritated by the ceaseless row that we
decided to sit down and read and sketch by the roadside, in order to
let the whole mournful train pass out of sight and earshot.
Now, I wish to maintain in all seriousness that I am not a Legree, and
that, although I by no means hold the “man and brother” theory, yet I
am perfectly prepared to respect the _droits de l’homme_.
This may appear a statement inconsistent with my acknowledgment that I
permitted coolies to be beaten—the beating being no more than a
technical “assault,” and never a “thrashing!”—but my contention is that
when you have to deal with people of so low an organisation that they
can only be reached by elementary arguments, they must be treated
absolutely as children, and judiciously whacked as such.
No Kashmiri without the impulsion of _force majeure_ would ever do any
work—no logical argument will enable him to see ultimate good in
immediate irksomeness.
It is very difficult for the Western mind to give the Kashmiri credit
for any virtues, his failings being so conspicuous and repellent; for
not only is he an outrageous coward, but he feels no shame in admitting
his cowardice. He is a most accomplished thief, and the truth is not in
him. He and his are much fouler than Neapolitan lazzaroni, and his
morals—well, let us give the Kashmiri his due, and turn to his virtues.
He is, on the whole, cheerful and lively, devoted to children, and kind
to animals.[1]
[1] This is incorrect, the European Residents having frequently
attempted, but hitherto vainly, to induce the native authorities to
curb Kashmiri cruelty.
Here is a story which is fairly characteristic of the charming
Kashmiri.
During the floods which nearly ruined Kashmir in 1901, a village near a
certain colonel’s bungalow was in danger of losing all its crops and
half its houses, the neighbouring river being in spate. My friend, on
going to see if anything could be done, found the water rising, and the
adult male inhabitants of the village lying upon the ground, and
beating their heads and hands upon it in woebegone impotence.
He walked about upon their stomachs a little to invigorate them, and,
sending forthwith for a gang of coolies from an adjacent village which
lay a little higher, he set the whole crowd to work to divert part of
the stream by means of driftwood and damming, and was, in the end, able
to save the houses and a good part of the crops.
When the hired coolies came to be paid for their labour, the villagers
also put in a claim for wages, and were desperately vexed at my
friend’s refusal to grant it, complaining bitterly of having had to
work hard for nothing!
You will find a good description of the Kashmiri in _All’s Well that
Ends Well:_—
_Parolles_. He will steal, sir, an egg out of a cloister…. He professes
not keeping of oaths, in breaking them, he is stronger than Hercules.
He will lie, sir, with such volubility, that you would think truth were
a fool: drunkenness is his best virtue; … he has everything that an
honest man should not have; what an honest man should have, he has
nothing.
He excels his brother for a coward, yet his brother is reputed one of
the best that is: in a retreat he outruns any lackey; marry, in coming
on he has the cramp.
We had not long sat sketching and basking in the genial glow of a
summer afternoon among the mountains, when it began to be borne in upon
us that the weather was going to change, and that the usual
thunderstorm was meditating a descent upon us. Black clouds came
boiling up over the mountain peaks, and the too familiar grumble of
distant thunder sent us hurrying along the lovely ravine, through which
the path leads to Aru. Only a seven miles’ journey, but ere we had gone
half-way the storm broke, and a thick veil of sweeping rain fell
between us and the surrounding mountains.
Presently we found a serious solution of continuity in the track,
which, after leading us along a precarious ledge by the side of the
river, finished abruptly; sheared clean off by a recent landslip.
We were very wet, but the river looked wetter still, and it boiled
round the rocky point, where the road should have been but was not, in
a distinctly disagreeable manner.
However, Jane dismounting, I climbed upon the cream-coloured courser,
and proceeded to ford the gap. The water swirled well above the syce’s
knees, but the noble steed picked his way with the greatest
circumspection over and among the submerged boulders, till, after
splashing through some hundred yards of water, he deposited me, not
much wetter than before, on the continuation of the high-road, whence I
had the satisfaction of watching Jane go through the same performance.
Hoping against hope that the coolies, by a little haste, might have got
the tents pitched before the storm came on, we plodded on, until, wet
to the very skin, we slopped into Aru, to behold a draggled party
squatting round a central floppy heap in a wet field, which, as we
gazed, slowly upreared itself into a drooping tent.
In dear old England this sort of experience would have spelt shocking
colds, and probably rheumatism for life, but here—well, we crawled into
our tent and found it, thanks to a couple of waterproof sheets spread
on the ground, surprisingly dry. A change of clothes, a good dinner,
produced under the most unfavourable circumstances from a wretched
little cooking-tent, and a fire burning goodness knows how, in the
open, showed the world to be quite a nice place after all.
After dinner a great camp-fire was lit in front of our tent, the rain
cleared off, and I sat smoking with much content, while all our soaking
garments were festooned on branches round the blaze, and Jane and I
turned them like roasting joints, at intervals, until the steam rose
like incense towards the stars.
The coolies, too, had quite got over their homesickness, and were
extraordinarily cheerful, their incessant jabber falling as a lullaby
on our ears as we dropped off to sleep.
_Saturday, June_ 24.—We got away in good time for our short eight-mile
march to Lidarwat. The coolies went off gaily—the day was warm and
brilliant, and the views down the valley towards Pahlgam superb.
We had camped on the low ground at Aru, just across the bridge, but
about half a mile on, and upon a grassy plateau there is an ideal
camping-ground facing down the Lidar Valley, towards the peaks which
rise behind Pahlgam. Want of water is the only drawback to this spot,
but if mussiks are carried, water can easily be brought from a small
nullah towards Lidarwat.
Tearing ourselves away from this spot, and turning our backs upon one
of the most gorgeous views in Kashmir, we plunged into a beautiful
wood. Maidenhair and many another fern grew in masses among the great
roots which twined like snakes over the rocky slopes. Far below, with
muffled roar, the unseen river tore its downward way.
By-and-by, the path emerging from the wood shelved along a green
hillside, where bracken and golden spurge clothed the little hollows,
while wild wall-flower, Jacob’s Ladder, and a large purple cranes-bill
brightened the slopes where happy cattle, but lately released from
their winter’s imprisonment, were feeding greedily on the young green
grass.
I fancy the cattle have a remarkably poor time here in winter. Hay is
not made, and very little winter forage seems to be collected. As the
snows fall lower on the hills, the flocks and herds are driven down to
the low ground, where they drag through the dark days as best they can,
on maize-stalks and such like.
I noticed early in May the water buffaloes just turned out to graze in
the Lolab, and more weakly, melancholy collections of skin—and—bone I
have seldom seen.
Now, however, up high in every sunny grassy valley, the Gujars may be
found camping with their flocks—cattle, ponies, buffaloes, and goats,
working upwards hard on the track of the receding snow, where the
primula and the gentian star the spring turf.
A series of grassy uplands brought us close to Lidarwat, when a sharp
shower, arriving unexpectedly from nowhere in particular, sent us to
eat our lunch under the shelter of some fairly waterproof trees in the
company of a herd of water buffaloes of especially evil aspect.
One hoary brute in particular, with enormous horns and pale blue eyes,
made me think of the legend concerning the origin of the buffalo.
When the Almighty was hard at work creating the animals, the devil came
and looked on until he became filled with emulation, and begged the
Deity to let him try his hand at creation. So the Almighty agreed,
asking him what beast he would prefer to make, and he said, “A cow.” So
he went away and created a water buffalo, which so disgusted the
Creator that the devil was not permitted to make any more experiments.
As soon as the rain held up and the thunder had rolled off up the
valley, we packed the tiffin basket, had one more drink from an icy
spring, and left the shelter of the friendly trees, followed by the
glares of all the buffaloes, who appear to have a decided antipathy to
the “sahib logue.”
We soon came to Lidarwat, passing several tents there, pitched by the
edge of a green lawn, and sheltered by a deep belt of trees. Crossing
to the right bank of the river by the usual rickety bridge, we
continued our way, as the farther up the glen we get to-night, the less
shall we leave for to-morrow, when we intend to visit the Kolahoi
Glacier.
The cream-coloured courser nearly wrecked my Kashmir holiday at this
point, owing to the silly dislike of white folk which he possesses in
common with the buffaloes. As I was incautiously handing Jane her
beloved parasol, he whisked round and let out at me, and I was only
saved from a nasty kick by my closeness to the beast, whose hock made
such an impression upon my thigh as to cause me to go a bit short for a
while.
We camped in rather a moist-looking place, where the wood begins to
show signs of finishing, and the slopes fall steep and bare to the
river.
A rather rank and weedy undergrowth was not inviting, and was strongly
suggestive of dampness and rheumatism. It was fairly chilly, too, at
night, as our camp was some 11,000 feet above the sea, and the little
breezes that came sighing through the pines were straight from the
snow.
_Sunday, June 25_.—A most glorious morning saw us start early for an
expedition to the Kolahoi Glacier. The sombre ravine in which we were
camped amid the pines lay still in a mysterious blue haze, but the sun
had already caught the snow-streaked mountain-tops to our left, and
gilded their rugged sides with a swiftly descending mantle of warmth
and light.
A very fine waterfall came tumbling down a wooded chasm on our right,
and as fine waterfalls are scarce in Kashmir we stopped for some time
to admire it duly.
The track now led out into a wide and treeless valley, flanked by
snow-crowned mountains, and we pushed on merrily until we arrived at
the brink of a rascally torrent, which gave us some trouble to ford,
being both exceeding swift and fairly deep. Luckily, it was greedy,
and, not content with one channel, had spread itself out into four or
five branches, and thus so squandered itself that Jane on her pony and
I on coolie-back accomplished the passage without mishap. For some
miles we held on along an easy path which curved to the right along the
right bank of the river, which was spanned in many places by great snow
bridges, often hundreds of yards in width. We lunched sitting on the
trunk of a dead birch which had been carried by the snow down from its
eyrie, and then left, a melancholy skeleton, bleaching on the slowly
melting avalanche. Some two miles farther on we could see the end of
the Kolahoi Glacier, its grey and rock-strewn snout standing abrupt
above the white slopes of snow.
Behind rose the fine peak of Harbagwan, in as yet undisputed splendour,
Kolahoi being still hidden behind the cliffs which towered on our
right.
Distances seem short in this brilliant air, but we walked for a long
while over the short turf, flushing crimson with primulas and golden
with small buttercups, and then over snowy hillocks, before we reached
the solid ice of the great glacier.
It was so completely covered with fragments of grey rock that Jane
could hardly he persuaded that it really was an ice slope that we were
scrambling up with such difficulty, until a peep into a cold mysterious
cleft convinced her that she was really and truly standing upon 200
feet of solid ice.
The sight that now burst upon us was one to be remembered. Kolahoi
towered ethereal—a sunlit wedge of sheer rock some six thousand feet
above us—into the crystal air. From his feet the white frozen billows
of the great glacier rolled, a glistering sea, to where we, atoms in
the enormous loneliness, stood breathless in admiration. Around the
head of the wide amphitheatre wherein we stood rose a circle of stately
peaks, their bases flanged with rocky buttresses, dark amid the long
sweeps of radiant snow, their shattered peaks reared high into the very
heavens. A great silence reigned. There was no wind with us, and yet,
even as we watched, a white cloud flitted past the virgin peak of
Kolahoi—ghostly, intangible; and immediately, even as vultures assemble
suddenly, no one knows whence, so did the clouds appear, surging over
the gleaming shoulders of the mountain ridges, and up and round the
grim precipices. We turned and hurried down the face of the glacier,
and made for camp, as we knew from much experience that a thunderstorm
was inevitable.
Over the beds of dirty snow, down by the side of the new-born torrent,
which leaped full-grown to life from the womb of a green cavern below
the glacier; over patches of pulpy turf just freed from its wintry
bondage, and already carpeted with masses of rose-coloured primulas, we
hastened, keeping to the left bank of the stream, in order to avoid the
torrent which had so troubled us in the morning, which we knew would be
deeper in the afternoon owing to the melting of the snows in the
sunshine.
We had got but a bare half of our journey done when the storm burst,
and in a very short time we were reduced to the recklessness which
comes of being as wet as you can possibly be.
“The thunder bellows far from snow to snow
(Home, Rose and Home, Provence and La Palie),
And loud and louder roars the flood below.
Heigho! But soon in shelter we shall be
(Home, Rose and Home, Provence and La Palie).”
Crossing the river on a big snow-bridge below the point where our old
enemy came thundering down the mountain-side, we tramped gaily through
mud and mire and over slippery rocks until we were gladdened by the
sight of our camp, dripping away peacefully in the midst of the weeping
forest.
The rain, as usual, ceased in the evening. A great camp-fire was lit,
and the neighbouring buffaloes of Gujar-Kote having kindly supplied us
with milk, we dined wisely and well and dropped off to sleep, lulled by
the roaring of the Kolahoi River, which raced through the darkness
close by.
_Tuesday, June 27_.—Being still hopeful of achieving the pass over into
the Sind, we struck camp early yesterday and marched down to Lidarwat,
only to find that the party which we knew had camped there with a view
to crossing, had given up the idea and retreated down the valley; so I
sent a swift messenger to countermand the three days’ supply of
“rassad” which I had ordered from Pahlgam for my men, and we marched on
to Aru. Upon the spur which overlooks Aru we found Dr. Neve encamped,
and proceeded to discuss the possibility of crossing into the Sind
Valley _viâ_ Sekwas, Khem Sar, and Koolan. The Doctor, who is an
enterprising mountaineer, was himself about to cross, but he did not
encourage Jane to go and do likewise, as he said it would be very
difficult owing to the late spring, and would probably entail a good
deal of work with ropes and ice-axes.
This absolutely decided us, our valour being greatly tempered by
discretion, and we camped quietly at Aru, and came on into Pahlgam this
forenoon. The river, for some reason best known to itself, was so low
that we got dry-shod past the corner which had worried us so much on
the way up.
CHAPTER XI
GANGABAL
Friday, _June_ 30.—The last few days have been somewhat uneventful. We
left Pahlgam at early dawn on Wednesday, just as the first
lemon-coloured light was spreading in the east over the pine-serrated
heights above the camp.
The rapids below Colonel Ward’s bungalow, which had been fierce and
swollen as we passed them on our upward way, were now reduced to
roaring after the subdued fashion of the sucking dove; so we hardly
paused to contemplate either them or the big boulder, red-stained and
holy, at Ganesbal, but hastened on to the point where, just before
turning a high bluff which shuts him from sight for the last time, we
got the view of Kolahoi, with the newly-risen sun glowing on his upper
slopes. An hour flew by much too fast, and it was with great reluctance
that we finally turned our back on the finest part of the Lidar Valley,
and sadly resumed our march to Sellar, crossing the river and following
a rather hot and dull road. Sellar itself is not nearly as pretty as
Eshmakam, and we grew rather tired of it by evening, as we arrived soon
after one o’clock, and found little to do or see.
Yesterday we left Sellar and marched to Bejbehara, the hottest and
dullest march I know of in Kashmir. A shadeless road slopes gently down
across the plains to the river. All along this road we overtook parties
of coolies laden with creels of silk cocoons, whose destination is the
big silk factory at Srinagar, small clouds of hot red dust rising into
the still air, knocked up by the shuffling tread of their grass-shod
feet.
In the fields, dry and burnt to our eyes after the green valleys,
squatted the reapers, snipping the sparse ears, apparently one by one,
with sickles like penknives. They seemed to get the work done somehow,
as little sheafs laid in rows bore witness; but the patience of Job
must have been upon them!
The chenars of Bejbehara threw a most welcome shade from the noonday
sun, which was striking down with evil force as we panted across the
steamy rice-fields which surround them.
Hither we came at noon, only to find that our boats were not awaiting
us as we had directed. A messenger bearing bitter words was promptly
despatched to root the lazy scoundrels out from Islamabad, while Jane
and I camped out beneath a huge tree and lunched, worked, and sketched
until four o’clock, when the Admiral brought the fleet in and fondly
deemed his day’s work done.
This was by no means our view of the case, and the usual trouble
began—“No coolies”—“Very late”—“Plenty tired,” &c. &c.
Of course Satarah was defeated, and was soon to be seen sulkily poling
away in the stern-sheets, while his son-in-law still more sulkily
paddled in the bow.
We made about eight or ten miles, having a swift current under us,
before a strong squall came up the valley, making the old ark slue
about prodigiously, and inducing us to tie up for the night.
This morning we slipped down stream to Srinagar, only halting for a
short while to obtain some of the native bread for which Pampur is
celebrated.
The river seemed exceedingly hot and stuffy after the lovely air which
we have been breathing lately, and we quite determined that the sooner
we get out of the valley the better for our pleasure, if not for our
health.
We have been greatly exercised as to how best dispose of the time until
September, for, during the months of July and August, the heat in the
valley is very considerable, and every one seeks the higher summer
retreats. The Smithsons suggested an expedition to Leh, which would,
undoubtedly, have been a most interesting trip, but which would in no
wise have spared us in the matter of heat. Had we started about this
time for Leh we should have reached our destination towards the end of
July, and would therefore have found ourselves setting out again across
an arid and extremely hot country on the return journey somewhere about
the middle of August.
The game did not seem to be worth the candle, and the Smithsons
themselves shied at the idea when it was borne in upon them that there
would be little or no shooting to be done _en route_.
The alternatives seemed to lie between Gulmarg, where most of the
beauty and fashion of Kashmir disports itself during the hot weather,
Sonamarg, and Pahlgam.
Sonamarg, from description, seemed likely to be quiet, not to say dull,
as a residence for two months. One cannot live by scenery alone, and
even the loveliest may become _toujours pâté de l’anguille._
Pahlgam suffered in our eyes from the same failing, and our thoughts
turned to Gulmarg. Here, however, a difficulty arose. It is a
notoriously wet place. We heard horrid tales of golf enthusiasts
playing in waders, and of revellers half drowned while returning from
dinners in neighbouring tents.
We thought of rooms in Nedou’s Hotel, but our memories of this hostelry
in Srinagar were not altogether sweet, and we did not in the least
hanker after a second edition; moreover, every available room had been
engaged long ago, and it was extremely doubtful, to say the least of
it, if the good Mr. Nedou could do anything for us. The prospect of a
two-month sojourn in a wet tent wherein no fire could ever be lighted,
and in which Jane pictured her frocks and smart hats lying in their
boxes all crumpled and shorn of their dainty freshness, was far from
enticing!
Tent existence, when one lives the simple life far from the madding
crowd, clad in puttoo and shooting-boots, or grass shoes, is
delightful; but tent life in the midst of a round of society
functions—golf, polo, with their attendant teas and dinners—was not to
be thought of without grave misgiving.
Sorely perplexed, and almost at our wits’ end, the Gordian knot was cut
by our being offered a small hut which had been occupied by a clerk in
the State employ, now absent, and which the Resident most kindly placed
at our disposal for a merely nominal rent. Needless to say we
gratefully accepted the offer, in spite of the assurance that the hut
was of very minute dimensions.
_Sunday, July_ 2.—Yesterday we toiled hard in the heat to get
everything in train for a move to Gulmarg. Subhana, that excellent
tailor and embroiderer, arranged to have all our heavy luggage sent up
to meet us on the 10th, and from him, too, we arranged for the hire of
such furniture as we might require, for we knew that the hut was bare
as the cupboard of nursery fame.
This morning we set off down the river to keep tryst with the Smithsons
at Gangabal, where we hope to meet them about the 5th on their way back
from Tilail. The usual struggle with the crew resulted, also as usual,
in our favour, and we got right through to Gunderbal at the mouth of
the Sind River, where we now lie amid a flotilla of boats whose
occupiers have fled away from the sultriness and smelliness of Srinagar
in search of the cool currents, both of air and water, which are
popularly supposed to flow down the Sind.
As Jane and I returned from a visit to the post-office along a
sweltering path among the rice-fields, from which warm waves of air
rose steaming into the sunset, we failed to observe the celebrated and
superior coolness of Gunderbal’
_Thursday, July_ 6.—The lumbadhar of Gunderbal, in spite of his
magnificent name, is a rascal of the deepest dye. He put much water in
our milk, to the furious disgust of Sabz Ali, and he failed to provide
the coolies I had ordered; I therefore reported him to Chattar Singh,
and sent my messengers forth, like another Lars Porsena, to catch
coolies.
This was early on Tuesday morning, and a sufficient number of ponies
and coolies having been got together by 5.30, we started.
I may here note that, owing to a confusion between _Gunderbal_ (the
port, so to speak, of the Sind Valley, and route to Leh and Thibet) and
_Gangabal_, a lake lying some 12,000 feet above the sea behind Haramok,
our arrangement to meet the Smithsons at Gangabal was altered by a
letter from them announcing their imminent arrival at Gunderbal! This
was perturbing, but as the mistake was not ours, we decided not to
allow ourselves to be baulked of a trip for which we had surrendered an
expedition to Shisha Nag, beyond Pahlgam.
The lower part of the Sind Valley is in nowise interesting; the way was
both tedious and hot, and we rejoiced greatly when, having crossed the
Sind River, we found a lovely spring and halted for tiffin. After an
hour’s rest we followed the main road a little farther, and then,
passing the mouth of the Chittagul Nullah, turned up the Wangat Valley.
The scenery became finer, and the last hour’s march along a steep
mountain-side, with the Wangat River far below on our right, was a
great improvement on what we had left behind us.
The little village of Wangat, perched upon a steep spur above the
river, was woefully deficient of anything like a good camping-ground.
We finally selected a small bare rice patch, which, though extremely
“knubbly,” had the merits of being almost level, moderately remote from
the village and its smells, and quite close to a perfect spring.
Yesterday we achieved a really early start, leaving Wangat at 4.15, the
path being weirdly illuminated by extempore torches made of pine-wood
which the shikari had prepared. A moderately level march of some three
miles brought us to the ruined temples of Vernag and the beginning of
our work, for here the path, turning sharply to the left, led us
inexorably up the almost precipitous face of the mountain by means of
short zigzags.
It was a stiff pull. The sun was now peering triumphantly over the
hills on the far side of the valley, and the path was (an extraordinary
thing in Kashmir) excessively dusty. Up and on we panted, Jane partly
supported by having the bight of the shikari’s puggaree round her waist
while he towed her by the ends.
There was no relaxation of the steep gradient, no water, and no shade,
and the height to be surmounted was 4000 feet.
If the longest lane has a turning, so the highest hill has a top, and
we came at last to the blissful point where the path deigned to assume
an approach to the horizontal, and led us to the most delightful spring
in Kashmir! The water, ice-cold and clear, gushes out of a crevice in
the rock, and with the joy of wandering Israelites we threw ourselves
on the ground, basked in the glorious mountain air, and shouted for the
tiffin basket.
Only the faithful “Yellow Bag” was forthcoming, the tiffin coolie being
still “hull down,” and from its varied contents we extracted the only
edibles, apricots and rock cakes.
Never have we enjoyed any meal more than that somewhat light breakfast,
washed down by water which was a pure joy to drink.
Alas! There were but two rock cakes apiece! Another half-hour’s
clamber, along a pretty rough track, brought us to a point whence we
looked down a long green slope to our destination, Tronkol—a few Gujar
huts, indistinct amidst a clump of very ancient birch-trees, standing
out as a sort of oasis among the bare and boulder-strewn slopes.
The view was superb. To the right, the mountain-side fell steeply to
where, in the depths of the Wangat Nullah, a tiny white thread marked
the river foaming 4000 feet below, and beyond rose a jagged range of
spires and pinnacles, snow lying white at the bases of the dark
precipices. “These are the savage wilds” which bar the route from the
Wangat into Tilail and the Upper Sind.
Over Tronkol, bare uplands, rising wave above wave, shut out the view
of Gangabal and the track over into the Erin Nullah and down to
Bandipur.
On our left towered the bastions of Haramok, his snow-crowned head
rising grimly into the clear blue sky.
We pitched our camp at Tronkol about two o’clock, on a green level some
little way beyond the Gujar huts, and just above a stream which picked
its riotous way along a bed of enormous boulders, sheltered to a
certain extent by a fringe of hoary birches.
We had never beheld such great birches as these, many of them, alas!
mere skeletons of former grandeur, whose whitening limbs speak
eloquently of a hundred years of ceaseless struggle with storm and
tempest.
I saw no young ones springing up to replace these dying warriors. The
Gujars and their buffaloes probably prevent any youthful green thing
from growing. It seems a pity.
Towards evening we observed baggage ponies approaching, and at the
sight we felt aggrieved; for, in our colossal selfishness, we fancied
that Tronkol was ours, and ours alone. A small tent was pitched, and
presently to our surly eyes appeared a lonely lady, who proceeded
solemnly to play Patience in front of it while her dinner was being got
ready.
A visit of ceremony, and an invitation to share our “irishystoo” and
camp-fire, brought Mrs. Locock across, and we made the acquaintance of
a lady well known for her prowess as a shikari throughout Kashmir—
“There hunted ‘she’ the walrus, the narwal, and the seal.
Ah! ’twas a noble game,
And, like the lightning’s flame;
Flew our harpoons of steel”
I cannot resist the quotation, but I do not really think Mrs. Locock
hunts walruses in Kashmir, and I know she doesn’t use a harpoon. No
matter, she proved a cheery and delightful companion, and we entirely
forgave her for coming to Tronkol and poaching on our preserves.
We were extremely amused at the surprise she expressed at Jane’s feat
in climbing from Wangat. Evidently Jane’s reputation is not that of a
bullock-workman in Srinagar!
This morning we all three went to see Lake Gangabal. An easy path leads
over some three or four miles of rolling down to our destination, which
is one of a whole chain of lakes—or rather tarns—which lie under the
northern slopes of Haramok.
We came first upon a small piece of water, lying blue and still in the
morning sun, and from which a noisy stream poured forth its glacier
water. This we had a good deal of trouble in crossing, the ladies being
borne on the broad backs of coolies, in attitudes more quaint than
graceful. A second and deeper stream being safely forded, we climbed a
low ridge to find Gangabad stretched before us—a smooth plane of
turquoise blue and pale icy green, beneath the dark ramparts of
Haramok, whose “eagle-baffling” crags and glittering glaciers rose six
thousand sheer feet above. In the foreground the earth, still brown,
and only just released from its long winter covering of snow, bore
masses of small golden ranunculus and rose-hued primulas.
An extraordinary sense of silence and solitude filled one—no birds or
beasts were visible, and only the tinkle of tiny rills running down to
the lake, and the distant clamour of the infant river, broke, or rather
accentuated, the loneliness of the scene.
We had brought breakfast with us, and after eating it we made haste to
recross the two rivers, because, troublesome as they were to ford in
the morning, they would certainly grow worse with every hour of
ice-melting sunshine.
Once more on the camp side, however, we strolled along in leisurely
mood, staying to lunch on top of the ridge overlooking Tronkol. I left
the ladies then to find their leisurely way back among the flowery
hollows, and made for a peak overlooking the head of the Chittagul
Nullah. A sharp climb up broken rocks and over snow slopes brought me
to the top, a point some 13,500 feet above the sea. In front of me
Haramok, seamed with snow-filled gullies, still towered far above;
immediately below, the saddle—brown, bare earth, snow-streaked—divided
the Chittagul Nullah from Tronkol. Far away down the valley the Sind
River gleamed like a silver thread in the afternoon light, and beyond,
the Wular lay a pale haze in the distance.
To the northward rose the fantastic range of peaks that overhang the
Wangat gorge, and almost below my feet, at a depth of some 1500 feet,
lay a sombre lakelet, steely dark and still, in the shadow of the ridge
upon which I sat.
The sun was going down fast into a fleecy bed of clouds, amid which I
knew that Nanga Parbat lay swathed from sight. To see that mountain
monarch had been the chief object of my climb, so, recognising that the
sight of him was a hope deferred, I made haste to scramble down to the
tarn below, stopping here and there to fill my pith hat with wild
rhubarb, and to pick or admire the new and always fascinating wild
flowers as I passed. Large-flowered, white anemones; tiny gentian, with
vivid small blue blossoms; loose-flowered, purple primulas, and many
strange and novel blossoms starred the grassy patches, or filled the
rocky crevices with abundant beauty.
By the lake side the moisture-loving, rose-coloured primula reappeared
in masses, and as I followed down its outgoing stream towards the camp,
I waded through a tangle of columbine, white and blue; a great purple
salvia, arnica, and a profusion of varied flowers in rampant bloom.
_Saturday, July_ 8.—An early start homewards yesterday, in the cold
dawn, rewarded us by the sight of the first beams of the rising sun
lighting up the threefold head of Haramok with an unspeakable glory, as
we crossed the open boulder-strewn uplands, before descending into the
nullah, which lay below us still wrapped in a mysterious purple haze.
The downward zigzags, with their uncompromising steepness, proved
almost as tiring as the ascent had been, and we were more than ready
for breakfast by the time we reached the ruined temples of Vernag.
These temples, built probably about the beginning of the eighth
century, are, like all the others which I have seen in Kashmir, small,
and somewhat uninteresting, except to the archaeologist. They consist,
invariably, of a “cella” containing the object of veneration, the
lingam, surmounted by a high-pitched conical stone roof. In structure
they show apparently signs of Greek influence in the doorways, and the
triangular pediments above them. Phallic worship would seem to have
been always confined to these temples, with ophiolatry—the nagas or
water-snake deities being accommodated in sacred tanks, in the midst of
which the early Kashmir temples were usually placed.
Any one who wishes to study the temple architecture of Kashmir cannot
do better than read Fergusson’s _Indian Architecture_, wherein he will
find all the information he wants.
To the ordinary “man in the street” the ancient buildings of Kashmir do
not appeal, either by their aesthetic value or by the dignity of size.
Martand, the greatest, and probably the finest, both in point of
grandeur and of situation, I regret to say, I did not see; but the
temples at Bhanyar, Pandrettan, and Wangat resemble one another closely
in design and general insignificance. The position of the Wangat ruins,
embosomed in the wild tangle
“Of a steep wilderness, whose airy sides
With thicket overgrown, grotesque and wild,
Access denied; and overhead up grew
Insuperable height of loftiest shade,
Cedar, and pine, and fir,”
and seated at the base of a solemn circle of mountains, gives the group
of tottering shrines a picturesqueness and importance which I cannot
concede that they would otherwise have had.
I do not remember ever to have seen it noted that all buildings which
are impressive by the mere majesty of size are to be found in plains
and not in mountainous countries. This is probably due to two causes.
The one being the denser population of the fat plains, whereby a
greater concourse of builders and of worshippers would be sustained,
and the other being the—probably unconscious—instinct which debarred
the architect from attempting to vie with nature in the mountains and
impel him to work out his most majestic designs amid wide and level
horizons.
The fact remains, whatever may be the cause, that architecture has
never been advanced much beyond the mere domestic in very mountainous
regions, with the exception of the mediaeval strongholds, which formed
the nucleus of every town or village, where a _point d’appui_ was
required against invasion, for the protection of the community.
Breakfast, followed by a prowl among the ruins and a short space for
sketching, gave the sun time to pour his beams with quite unpleasant
insistence into the confined fold in the hills, where we began to gasp
until the ladies mounted their ponies, and we took our way down the
valley, crossing the river below Wangat, and keeping along the left
bank to Vernaboug, where we camped, the only incident of any importance
being the sad loss of Jane’s field-glasses, which, carried by her syce
in a boot-bag, were dropped in a stream by that idiot while crossing,
he having lost his footing in a pool, and, clutching wildly at the
pony’s reins, let go the precious binoculars.
This morning we were up betimes, Mrs. Locock having ordained a bear
“honk”! This was, to me, a new departure in shikar, and truly it was
amusing to see the shikari, bursting with importance, mustering the
forty half-naked coolies whom he had collected to beat. A couple of men
with tom-toms slung round their necks completed the party, which
marched in straggling procession out of the village at dawn.
A mile of easy walking brought us to the rough jungly cliffs, seamed
with transverse nullahs, narrow and steep, which bordered the river.
Here we were placed in passes, with great caution and mystery, by the
shikari and his chief-of-the-staff—the “oldest inhabitant” of
Vernaboug; and here we sat in the morning stillness until a distant
clamour and the faint beating of tom-toms afar off made us sit up more
warily, and watch eagerly for the expected bear.
The yells increase, and the tom-toms, vigorously banged, seem
calculated to fuss any self-respecting bear into fits. We watch a
narrow space between two bushes some dozen yards away, and see that the
Mannlicher across our knees and the smooth-bore, ball loaded in the
right and chokeless barrel, lie handy for instant use.
Hidden in the dense jungle, some hundred yards below, sits Mrs. Locock
on the matted top of a hazel, while Jane, chittering with suppressed
excitement, crouches a few paces behind me.
The beaters approach, and pandemonium reigns. A few scared birds dart
past, but no bear comes; and when the first brown body shows among the
brushwood we shout to stop the uproar, and all move on to another beat.
Four “honks” produced nothing, so far as I was concerned; but a
bear—according to her shikari—passed close by Mrs. Locock, so thickly
screened by jungle that she couldn’t see it. This may be so, but
Kashmir shikaris have remarkably vivid imaginations.
After a delightful morning to all parties concerned—for we were much
amused, the coolies were adequately paid, and the bear wasn’t
worried—we returned to breakfast, and then marched fifteen hot miles
into Gunderbal, where we found the Smithsons, with whom we dined. They
have been in Gurais and the Tilail district ever since they left
Srinagar on the 24th April, and have had an adventurous and difficult
time, with plenty of snow and torrents and avalanches, but somewhat
poor sport.
This is not according to one’s preconceived ideas of shikar in Kashmir,
as they went into a nullah which no sahib had penetrated for five
years; they had the best shikari in Kashmir (he said it, and he ought
to know); they worked very hard, and their bag consisted of one or two
moderate ibex and a red bear.
_Tuesday, July_ 11.—On Sunday morning the combined fleet sailed for
Palhallan. The Smithsons had a “matted dounga,” and she “walked away”
from our heavier ark down the winding Sind at a great pace. We reached
Shadipur at 11 A.M., but the Smithsons had “gone before,” so, crossing
the Jhelum, we made after them in hot pursuit, and reached them and
Palhallan at sunset.
A narrow canal, bordered by low swampy marshland, allowed us to get
within a mile of the village and tie up among the shallows, whereupon
the mosquitoes gathered from far and near, and fell upon us.
The final packing, effected amid a hungry crowd of little piping
fiends, was a veritable nightmare, and yesterday morning we rescued our
mangled remains from the enemy, and, having paid off our boats,
hurriedly clambered on to the ponies which had come—late, as usual—from
Palhallan to convey what was left by the mosquitoes to Gulmarg.
The unfortunate Jane—always a popular person—is especially so with
insects; and if there is a flea or a mosquito anywhere within range it
immediately rushes to her.
She paid dearly for her fatal gift of attractiveness at Palhallan—her
eyes, usually so keen, being what is vulgarly termed “bunged up,” and
every vulnerable spot in like piteous plight!
We quitted Palhallan as the Lot family quitted Sodom and Gomorrah, but
with no lingering tendency to look backward; we cast our eyes unto the
hills, and kicked the best pace we could out of our “tattoos,” halting
for breakfast soon after crossing the hot, white road which runs from
Baramula to Srinagar.
As we left the steamy valley and wound up a rapidly ascending path
among the lower fringes and outliers of the forest our spirits rose,
and by the time we had clambered up the last stiff pull and emerged
from the darkly-wooded track into the little clearing, where perches
the village of Babamarishi, we were positively cheerful.
Once more the air was fresh and buoyant, the spring water was cool and
“delicate to drink,” and from our tents we could look out over the
valley lying dim in a yellow heat-haze far below.
Babamarishi is a picturesquely-grouped collection of the usual
rickety-looking wooden huts, no dirtier, but perhaps noisier than
usual, owing to the presence of a very holy ziarat much frequented by
loudly conversational devotees. We spent the crisp, warm afternoon
peacefully stretched on the sloping sward in front of our tents, and
making the acquaintance of the only good thing that came out of
Palhallan—a charming quartette of young geese which Sabz Ali had bought
and brought.
These delightful birds evinced the most perfect friendliness and
confidence in us, and we became greatly attached to them. They and the
fowls seemed excellent travellers, and after a long day’s march would
come up smiling, like the jackdaw of Rheims, “not a penny the worse.”
This morning we had but a short and easy march from Babamarishi to
Gulmarg, along a good road, through a fine forest of silver fir.
CHAPTER XII
GULMARG
Somehow one’s preconceived ideas of a place are almost always quite
wrong, and so Gulmarg seemed quite different from what I had expected.
It seemed all twisted the wrong way, and was really quite unlike the
place which my imagination had evolved.
Turning through a narrow gap, we found ourselves facing a wide, green,
undulating valley completely surrounded by dense fir forest. Beyond, to
the left, rose the sloping bulk of Apharwat, one of the range of the
Pir Panjal; while to the right low, wooded hillocks bounded the valley
and fell, on their outward flanks, to the Kashmir plain.
Immediately in front of us a small village or bazaar swarmed with
native life, and sloped down to a stream which wound through the
hollows.
All round the edge of the forest a continuous ring of wooden huts and
white tents showed that the “sahib” on holiday intent had marked
Gulmarg for his own.
As we rode through the bazaar the view expanded. Apharwat showed all
his somewhat disappointing face; his upper slopes, streaked with dirty
snow, looked remarkably dingy when contrasted with the dazzling white
clouds which went sailing past his uninteresting summit. The absence of
all variety in form or light and shade, and the dull lines of his
foreshortened front, made it hard to realise that he stood some five
thousand feet above us.
Near the centre of the marg, on a small hill, was a large wooden
building surrounded by many satellite huts and tents: this we rightly
guessed to be Nedou’s Hotel. Below, on a spur, was the little church,
and to the right, in the hollow, the club-house faced the level
polo-ground.
A winding stream, which we subsequently found to be perfectly
ubiquitous, and an insatiable devourer of errant golf-balls, ran
deviously through the valley, which seemed to be rather over a mile
long, and almost equally wide.
The Smithsons rode away vaguely in search of a camping-ground; while
we, having found out where our hut was, turned back and climbed a knoll
behind the bazaar, and found ourselves in front of our future home, a
very plain and roughly-built rectangular wooden hut, containing a small
square room opening upon a verandah, and having a bedroom and bathroom
on each side.
Such was our palace, and we were well satisfied with it.
The cook-house and servants’ quarters were in a hut close by, and I
could summon my retainers or chide them for undue chatter from my
bedroom window—a serviceable short cut for the dinner, too, in wet and
stormy weather!
Life at Gulmarg is extremely apt to degenerate into the “trivial round”
of the golf links varied by polo, or polo varied by golf, with
occasional gymkhanas and picnics. There are, doubtless, many delightful
excursions to be made, but upon the whole it seems difficult to break
far beyond the “Circular Road,” a fairly level and well-kept
bridle-path, which for eight beautiful miles winds through the pine
forest, giving marvellous glimpses of snowy peaks and sunlit valleys.
The “Circular Road” is always fine, whether seen after rain, when, far
below in the Ferozepore Nullah, the
“Swimming vapour slopes athwart the glen,
Puts forth an arm, and creeps from pine to pine,”
or when in the evening sunlight the whole broad Valley of Kashmir lies
glowing at our feet, ringed afar by the ethereal mountains whose pale
snows stand faint in the golden light, until beneath the yellowing sky
the clouds turn rosy, and from their midst Haramok and Kolahoi raise
their proud heads towards the earliest star.
The expedition to the top of Apharwat is, in my opinion, hardly worth
making, but then I was not very lucky in the weather. Major Cardew,
R.F.A., and I arranged to do the climb together, and duly started one
excessively damp and foggy morning towards the middle of July.
Taking our ponies, we scrambled up a rough path through the forest to
Killanmarg, a boulder-strewn slope, some half a mile wide, which lies
between the upper edge of the forest and the final slopes of the
mountain.
Sending our ponies home, we set about the ascent of the 3500 feet that
remained between us and our goal. The whole hillside was a perfect wild
garden. Columbines, potentillas—yellow, bronze, and crimson—primulas,
anemones, gentian, arnica, and quantities of unknown blossoms gave us
ample excuse for lingering panting in the rarefied air, as we struggled
through brushwood first, and then over loose rocks and finally slopes
of shelving snow, before we found ourselves on the crest of the
mountain, shivering slightly in the raw, foggy air.
Our view was narrowed down to the bleak slopes of rock and snow that
immediately surrounded us, for our hope that we should get above the
cloud belt was not fulfilled, and beyond a dismal tarn, lying just
below us, in whose black waters forlorn little bergs of rotten snow
floated, and a very much circumscribed view of dull tops swathed in
flying mist, we saw nothing.
Had the sky been clear, I am told that the view would have been
magnificent, but I should think probably no better than that from
Killanmarg, as it is a mistake to suppose that a high, or at least too
high, elevation “lends enchantment.” As a rule the view is finer when
seen half-way up a lofty mountain than that obtained from the summit.
We did not stay long upon the top of Apharwat discussing the best point
of view, because Cardew sagaciously remarked that if it grew much
thicker he wouldn’t be answerable for finding the way down, and as I
have a holy horror of rambling about strange (and possibly precipitous)
mountains in a fog, we set about retracing our own footsteps in the
snow until we regained the ridge we had come up by.
A remarkably wet couple we were when we presented ourselves at our
respective front doors, just in time for a “rub down” before lunch!
The golf at Gulmarg is very good, the 18-hole course being exceedingly
sporting, and tricky enough to defeat the very elect. Jane and I had
conveyed our clubs out to Kashmir, knowing that they were likely to
prove useful. I had also taken the precaution to pack up a box or two
of balls, but I found my labour all in vain, as “Haskells” and
“Kemshall-Arlingtons” were supplied by the club at precisely the same
price as in England—viz., 1 r. 8 an., or two shillings.
New clubs are also cheap and in plenty, but repairs to old favourites
are not always satisfactory. My pet driver, having been damaged, was
very evilly treated by the native craftsman, who bound up its wounds
with large screws!
The mountains of Kashmir have been a constant joy to us. Varying with
every change of light and shade, custom cannot stale their infinite
variety; but as yet I had not seen the great monarch of Chilas, Nanga
Parbat.
In July and early August he is rarely visible from Gulmarg, owing to
the haziness of the atmosphere. One clear morning, however, towards the
end of July, after a night of rain and storm, I was strolling along the
Circular Road when, lo! far away in the north-west, soaring ethereal
above the blue ranges that overlook Gurais, above the cloud-banks
floating beyond their summits, the great mountain, unapproachable in
his glory, stood revealed.
The early morning sun struck full on his untrodden snows, making it
hard to realise that eighty-five miles of air separated me from that
clear-cut peak. Soon, very soon, a light cloud clung to his eastern
face, and within ten minutes the whole vision had faded into an
up-piled tower of seething clouds.
Later in the season, as the air grew clearer, Jane and I made almost
daily pilgrimages to the point, only a few minutes’ walk from our hut,
whence, framed by a foreground of columnar pines, Nanga Parbat could
generally be seen for a time in the morning.
_Tuesday, August_ 1.—Society in Gulmarg is particularly cheery, as
indeed might be expected where two or three hundred English men and
women are gathered together to amuse themselves and lay in a fresh
store of health and energy before returning to the routine of duty in
the plains.
There have been many picnics lately, the little glades or margs, which
are frequent in the forest slopes, being ideal places of rendezvous for
merrymakers on horse or foot. Picnics of all sorts and sizes, from the
little impromptu gatherings of half-a-dozen congenial young souls
(always an even number, please), who ride off into the romantic shades
to nibble biscuits and make tea, to the dainty repasts provided by a
hospitable lady, whose official hut overlooks the Ferozepore Nullah,
and who, in turn, overlooks her cook, to the great gratification of her
guests.
How small a thing will upset the best-laid plans of hospitality! It is
said that a most carefully planned picnic, where all the little tables,
set for two, were discreetly screened apart among the bushes, was
entirely ruined by a piratical damsel undertaking a cutting-out
expedition for the capture of the hostess’ best young man.
Our evenings are by no means dull. On many a starlit night has Jane
mounted the noble steed which, through the kindness of the Resident, we
have hired from the “State,” and ridden across the marg attended by her
slaves (her husband and the ancient shikari, to wit), to dine and play
bridge in some hospitable hut, or dance or see theatricals at Nedou’s
Hotel.
Last week we tore ourselves away from our daily golf, and joined the
Smithsons in a futile expedition to the foot of the Ferozepore Nullah
for bear. Three days we spent in vain endeavour to find “baloo,” and on
the fourth we wended our toilsome way up the hill again to Gulmarg.
_Monday, August_ 27.—There are drawbacks as well as advantages in being
perched, as it were, just above the bazaar. Its proximity enables our
good Sabz Ali to sally forth each morning and secure the earliest
consignment of “butter and eggs and a pound of cheese,” which has come
up from Srinagar, and select the best of the fruit and vegetables. It
affords also an interesting promenade for the geese, who solemnly march
down the main street daily for recreation and such stray articles of
food as may be found in the heterogeneous rubbish-heaps.
It possesses, however, a superabundance of pi-dogs, who gather together
on the slope in front of our hut in the watches of the night, and
serenade us to a maddening extent.
The natives, too, have a sinful habit of chattering and shouting at an
hour when all well-conducted persons should be steeped in their beauty
sleep.
A few nights ago this culminated in what Keats would have called a
“purple riot.” The sweeper and his friends were holding a meeting for
the purpose of conversation and the consumption of apple brandy.
Having fruitlessly sent the shikari to try and stop the insufferable
noise, I was fain to sally forth myself to investigate matters.
Then to a happy and light-hearted party seated chattering round a
blazing fire there came suddenly the unwelcome apparition of an
exceedingly irate sahib, in evening dress and pumps, brandishing a
khudstick.
A wild scurry, in which the bonfire was scattered, a few remarks in
forcible English, a whack which just missed the hindmost reveller, and
the place became a deserted village.
Next morning Sabz Ali came to me in a towering rage to report that the
sweeper—that unclean outcast—had dared to say most opprobrious things
to him, being inspired thereto by the devil and apple brandy. Nothing
less than the immediate execution of the culprit by hanging, drawing,
and quartering would satisfy the outraged feelings of our henchman.
I promised a yet severer punishment. I said I would “cut” the wretched
minion’s pay that month to the amount of a rupee. Vengeance was
satisfied, and the victim reduced to tears.
It is good to hear Jane—who for many years has been accustomed to
having her own way in all household matters—ordering breakfast.
“Well, Sabz Ali—what shall we have for breakfast to-morrow?”
“Jessa mem-sahib arder!”—with a friendly grin.
“Then I shall have kidneys.”’
“No kidney, mem-sahib! Kidney plenty money—two annas six pice ek. Oh,
plenty dear!”
“I’m tired of eggs. Is there any cold chicken you could grill?”
“Chota murghi one egg lay, mem-sahib, anda poach. Sahib, chicken grill
laike!”
“Oh, all right! But I thought of a mutton-chop for the major sahib.”
“Muttony stup” (mutton’s tough). “Sahib no laike!”
“Very well, that will do—a poached egg for me and grilled chicken for
the sahib.”
“No, mem-sahib—no ’nuf. Sahib plenty ’ungry—chicken grill, peechy
ramble-tamble egg!”
“Have it your own way. I daresay the major sahib _would_ like scrambled
eggs, and we’ll have coffee—not tea.”
“No, mem-sahib. No coffee—coffee finish!”
“Send the shikari down to the bazaar, then, for a tin of coffee from
Nusserwanjee.”
“Shikari saaf kuro lakri ke major sahib” (cleaning the golf-clubs).
“Tea breakfast, coffee kal” (to-morrow).
And, utterly routed on every point, Jane gives in gracefully, and makes
an excellent breakfast as prearranged by Sabz Ali!
The news is spread that there will be an exhibition of pictures held in
Srinagar in September. Every second person is a—more or
less—heaven-born artist out here, so there promises to be no lack of
exhibits. I dreamed a dream last night, and in my dream I was walking
along the bund and came upon an elderly gentleman laying Naples yellow
on a canvas with a trowel. The river was smooth and golden, and
reflected the sensuous golden tones of the sky. Trees arose from golden
puddles, half screening a ziarat which, upon the glowing canvas,
appeared remarkably like a village church. “How beautiful!” I cried,
“how gloriously oleographic!” and the painter, removing a brush from
his mouth, smiled, well pleased, and said, “I am a Leader among
Victorian artists and the public adores me!” and I left him vigorously
painting pot-boilers. Then in a damp dell among the willows of the Dal
I found a foreigner in spectacles, and the light upon his pictures was
the light that never was on sea or land; but through a silvery mist the
willows showed ghostly grey, and a shadowy group of classic nymphs were
ringed in the dance, and I cried “O Corot! lend me your spectacles. I
fain, like you, would see crude nature dimmed to a silvery perpetual
twilight.” And Corot replied: “Mon ami moi je ne vois jamais le soleil,
je me plonge toujours, dans les ombres bleuâtres et les rayons pâles de
l’aube.”
Then upward I fared till, treading the clear heights, I found one
frantically painting the peaks and pinnacles of the mountains in weird
stipples of alternate red and blue.
“Great heavens!” I exclaimed, “what disordered manner is this!”
The artist glanced swiftly at me, and said disdainfully: “I am a modern
of the moderns, and if you cannot see that mountains are like that, it
is your fault—not mine. Go back, you stand too close.”
And as I went back I looked over my shoulder, and, truly, the flaring
rose-colour had blended amicably with the blue, and I admitted that
perhaps Segantini was not so mad as he looked.
A little lower down a stout Scotchman painted a flowery valley. The
flowers were many and bright, but not so garish as they appeared to
him, and I hinted as much; but he scorned my criticism.
“Mon,” he shouted, “I painted the Three Graces, an’ they made me an
Academeesian. I painted a flowery glen in the Tyrol (dearie me, but
thae flowers cost me a fortune in blue paint), and it was coft for the
Chantry Bequest, and hoo daur _you_ talk to me?”
Then I departed hurriedly and came upon four men, two of them with long
beards, and all with unkempt hair, laboriously depicting a blue pine,
needle by needle, and every one in its proper place. I asked them if
theirs was not a very troublesome way of painting.
They looked at one another with earnest blue eyes, and remarked that
here was evidently a Philistine who knew not Cimabue and cared not a
jot for Giotto; and the first said: “Sir, methinks he who would climb
the golden stairs should do so step by step;” and the second said,
sadly: “We are but scapegoats, truly, being cast forth by the
vindictive Victorians of our day.”
The third murmured in somewhat broken English.
“Victoria Victrix,
Beata Beatrix,”
whereby I recognised him to be a poet, if not a painter.
But the fourth—an energetic-looking man with a somewhat arrogant
manner—said briskly: “Perchance the ass is right; these pine needles
are becoming monotonous, and I have seventeen million four hundred and
sixty-two thousand five hundred and eleven more to do. Beshrew me if I
do not take to pot-boiling!”
Down by the water-side a lady sat, sketching in water-colours for dear
life; around her lay a litter of half-finished works, scattered like
autumn leaves in Vallombrosa. I approached her, quite friendly, and
offered to gather them up for her—at least some of them, saying
soothingly, for I saw she was in a temper—
“Dear, dear, Clara, why, what _is_ the matter?”
“I am painting the Venice of the East,” she cried petulantly, “but for
the life of me I can’t see a campanile, and how can I possibly paint a
picture without a campanile?”
I understood that, of course, she couldn’t, so I stole away softly on
tip-toe, leaving her turning doungas into gondolas for all she was
worth.
A dark, dapper man, with an alert air and an eyeglass, sat near the
seventh bridge, writing. Beside him stood an easel and other
painting-gear. I asked him what he was doing, and he answered, with a
fine smile, “I am gently making enemies;” so, to turn the subject, I
picked up a large canvas, smeared over with invisible grey, like the
broadside of a modern battleship, and sprinkled here and there with
pale yellow blobs.
“What have we here, James?” I inquired cheerfully, and he, staying his
claw-like hand in mid-air, made reply—
“A chromatic in tones of sad colour, with golden accidentals—Kashmir
night-lights.”
“Ah! quite so,” I exclaimed; “but have I got it right side up?”
He looked at it doubtfully for a moment, then, pointing to a remarkable
butterfly (_Vanessa Sifflerius_) depicted in the corner, cried: “It’s
all right; you’ll never make a mistake if you keep this insect in the
_right bottom corner_. It is put there on purpose.”
Lastly, on an eminence I saw a man like an eagle, sitting facing full
the sun, and upon his glowing canvas was portrayed the heavens above
and the earth beneath and the waters under the earth, and behind him
sat one who patted him upon the back, and looked at intervals over his
shoulder at the glorious work, and then wrote in a book a eulogy
thereof; and I, too, came and looked over the painter’s shoulder, and I
muttered, with Oliver Wendell Holmes,
“The foreground golden dirt,
The sunshine painted with a squirt.”