Then the man who patted the painter on the back turned upon me

aggressively, and said: “This is the only painter who ever was, or will

be, and if you don’t agree with me you are a fool.” The painter,

smiling a sly Monna-Lisan smile of triumph, remarked: “Right you are,

John. I rather think this _will_ knock that rascal Claude,” and I

laughed so that I awoke; but the memory of the dream remained with me,

and it seemed to me that, perhaps, we poor amateurs might not be any

better able to compass aught but caricatures of this marvellous scenery

than the ghostly limners of my dream!

The hut just above ours was tenanted by a party of three young Lancers

on leave from Rawal Pindi, a gramophone, and a few dogs.

One of the soldiers was laid up with a bad ankle, and it soon became a

daily custom for Jane or me to play a game of chess or piquet with the

invalid.

Later on, when leave had expired for the hale, when the dogs had

departed, and the voice of the gramophone was no more heard in the

land, we came to see a great deal of the wounded warrior, and finally

arranged to personally conduct him off the premises, and return him, in

time for medical survey, to Rawal Pindi.

Many years ago I read a delightful poem called _The Paradise of

Birds_—I believe it was by Mortimer Collins,[1] but I am not sure. Now

the Poet (who, together with Windbag, sailed to this very paradise of

birds) deemed that this happy asylum of the feathered fowls was

somewhere at the back of the North Pole. He cannot have known of

Kashmir, or he would assuredly have sent the persecuted birds thither,

and placed the “Roc’s Egg” as janitor, somewhere by the portals of the

Jhelum Valley. Kashmir is truly and indeed the paradise of birds, for

there no man molests them, and no schoolboy collects eggs, and the

result is a fascinating fearlessness, the result of perpetual peace and

plenty.

[1] It is by Courthope, not Collins.

I regret exceedingly that my ornithological knowledge is extremely

limited. I could find no books to help me,[2] and, as I did not care to

kill any birds merely to enable me to identify their species, my notes

were merely “popular” and not “scientific.”

[2] See Appendix II.

Shall I confess that I began an erudite work on the birds of Kashmir,

but got no further than the Hoopoe? It began as follows:—

THE HOOPOE

_Early history of_.—Tereus, King of Thrace, annoyed his wife Procne so

much by the very marked attention which he paid to her sister

Philomela, that she lost her temper so far as to chop up her son

Itylus, and present him to his papa in the form of a ragoût.

This, naturally, disgusted Tereus very much, and he “fell upon” the

ladies with a sword, but, just as he was about to stab them to the

heart, he was changed into a Hoopoe, Philomela into a nightingale,

Procne into a swallow, while Itylus became a pheasant.

“Vertitur in volucrem, cui stant in vertice cristæ

Prominet immodicum pro longa cuspide rostrum;

N epops volucri.”

OVID, _Metam_. lib. vi.

_His crest and patent of nobility_.—Once upon a time, King Solomon,

while making a royal progress, was much, incommoded by the powerful

rays of the sun, and as he had ascendency over the birds, and knew

their language, he called upon the vultures to come and fly betwixt the

sun and his nobility, but the vultures refused. Then the kindly Hoopoes

assembled, and flew in close mass above his head, thus forming a shade

under which he proceeded on his journey in ease and comfort.

At sundown the monarch sent for the King of the Hoopoes, and desired

him to name a reward for the service which he and his followers had

rendered.

Then the King of the Hoopoes answered that nothing could be more

glorious than the golden crown of King Solomon; and so Solomon decreed

that the Hoopoes should thenceforward wear golden crowns as a mark of

his favour. But alas! when men found the Hoopoes all adorned with

golden crowns, they pursued and slew them in great multitudes for greed

of the precious metal, until the King of the Hoopoes, in heavy sorrow,

hied hastily to King Solomon, and begged that the gift of the golden

crowns might be rescinded, ere every Hoopoe was slain.

Then Solomon, seeing the misery they had brought upon themselves by

their presumption, transformed their crowns of gold to crowns of

feathers, which no man coveted (for the Eastern ladies didn’t wear

hats), and the Hoopoes wear them to this day as a mark of royal favour,

but all the feathers fell off the necks of the disobliging vultures.

_His amazing talent_.—In those dark ages … the Hoopoe was considered as

prodigiously skilful in defeating the machinations of witches, wizards,

and hobgoblins. The female, in consequence of this art, could preserve

her offspring from these dreaded injuries.

She knew all the plants which defeat fascinations, those which give

sight to the blind; and, more wondrous still, those which open gates or

doors, locked, bolted, or barred.

Aelian relates that a man having three times successively closed the

nest of a Hoopoe, and having remarked the herb with which the bird, as

often, opened it, applied the same herb, and _with the same success_,

to charm the locks off the strongest coffer.—_Naturalists’ Magazine_

(about 1805).

_His personal appearance_.—The beak is bent, convex and sub-compressed,

and in some degree obtuse; the tongue is obtuse, triangular and very

short, and the feet are ambulatory. As this bird has a great abundance

of feathers, it appears considerably thicker than it is. It is, in

fact, about the size of a mistletoe thrush, but looks, while in its

feathers, to be as large as a common pigeon.—_Naturalists’ Magazine_.

I had got _no_ further in my _magnum opus_, when I unfortunately showed

my notes to Colonel—well, I will not mention his name, but he is the

greatest authority on the birds and beasts of Kashmir. He besought me

to spare him, pathetically remarking that I should cut the ground from

under his feet, and take the bread out of his mouth, and the wind out

of his sails, if I went any further with my monograph on the Hoopoe. He

saw at a glance that I was conversant with authorities whom he had

never consulted, and possessed a knowledge of my subject to which he

could hardly aspire, so I gracefully agreed to leave the field to him,

and relinquished my _magnum opus_ in its very inception.

One of the chiefest charms of Kashmir, and one which is apt to be

overlooked, is the entirely unspoilt freshness of its scenery. No

locust horde of personally-conducted “trippers” pollutes its ways and

byways, nor has the khansamah of the dâk bungalow as yet felt

constrained to add sauerkraut and German sausage to his bill of

fare—for which Allah be praised!

The world is growing very small, and the globe-trotter rushes round it

in eighty days. The trail of the cheap excursionist is all over Europe,

from the North Cape to Tarifa, from the highest Alpine summit (which he

attains in comfort by a funicular railway) to the deepest mines of

Cornwall. Egypt has become his footstool, and the shores of the

Mediterranean his wash-pot. Niagara is mapped and labelled for his

benefit, and the Yosemite is his happy hunting-ground. He “does” the

West Indies in “sixty days for sixty pounds,” and he is now arranging a

special cheap excursion from the Cape to Cairo. “But,” it may be

remarked, “what were Jane and I but globe-trotters’? and am I not

trying to sing the praises of Kashmir with the avowed object of

inducing people to go out and see it for themselves?”

By all manner of means let us travel. Far be it from me to wish folks

to stay dully at home, while the wonders and beauties of the wide world

lie open for the admiration and education of its inhabitants.

But there are globe-trotters and globe-trotters. My objection is only

to those—alas! too numerous—vagrants who cannot go abroad without

casting shame on the country which bred them; whose vulgarity causes

offence in church and picture-gallery; who cannot see a monument or a

statue without desiring to chip off a fragment, or at least scrawl

their insignificant names upon it.

From these, and such as these, Kashmir is as yet free; but some day, I

suppose, it will be “opened up,” when the railway, which is already

contemplated, is in going order between Pindi and Srinagar, and cheap

excursion tickets are issued from Berlin and Birmingham.

Here is a specimen page of the Guide Book (bound in red) for 19—(?):

“Ascend Apharwat by the funicular railway. The neat little station,

with its red corrugated-iron roof, makes a picturesque spot of colour

near the Dobie’s Ghât. Fares, 4 an. 6 pi., all the way.”

“A local guide should on no account be omitted (several are always to

be found near the station leaning on their khudsticks, and discussing

controversial theology in the sweet low tones so noticeable in the

Kashmiri). See that he be provided with a horn, to the hooting of which

the Echo Lake will be found responsive.”

“From the balcony of the * Hôtel Baloo an unrivalled view of Nanga

Parbat should be obtained. Glasses can be procured from the

anna-in-the-slot machines which are dotted about.”

“This veritable king of the Himal—” (here follows a pageful of

regulation guide-book gush).

“Good sport is to be obtained from the obliging and enterprising

manager of the hotel, Herr Baer. A few rupees will purchase the

privilege of shooting at that monarch of the mountains, the markhor.

Start not, fair tourist, for no danger lurks in the sport. No icy

precipices need be scaled, no giddy gulfs explored, and the only danger

which menaces the bold hunter in the mimic stalk, is that which menaces

his shins in the broken soda-water bottles and sharp-edged sardine tins

with which the summit of Apharwat is strewn.”

“As a matter of fact, the consumption of mutton is considerable in the

Hôtel Baloo in the tourist season, and the worthy Baer conceived the

brilliant and financially sound scheme of attaching some old ibex and

markhor horns (bought cheap when the old library at Srinagar was swept

away in the last flood) to his live stock, and turning his decorated

flock loose on the mountain’s brow, where the sportsman saves him the

trouble of slaughter while enjoying all the excitement and none of the

difficulty of a veritable stalk.”

“Another brilliant invention of the good Baer is his ‘sunset

spectacles.’ These are made with the glasses in two halves—the upper

part orange and the lower one purple. These are simply invaluable to

those who have only a brief half-hour in which to ‘do’ Apharwat before

darting down to catch the 3.15 express for Leh (_viâ_ the newly opened

Zoji La tunnel), since for the modest sum of 8 a. a superb sunset can

be enjoyed at any time of the day.”

“Should, however, the leisured globe-trotter have unlimited time at his

disposal, he would do well to lunch at the Hôtel Baloo, in order to

taste the celebrated Kashmir sauerkraut (made of wild rhubarb) and

Gujar pie (composed of the most tempting tit-bits of the water

buffalo), before returning to the ‘Savoy’ at Srinagar by the turbine

tram from Tangmarg, or by the pneumatic launch which leaves Palhallan

Pier every ten minutes, weather permitting.”

“Should the tourist be a naturalist he can hardly fail to observe, and

be interested in, the mosquitoes of this charming and picturesque

locality. He will note that they rival the song-thrush in magnitude and

the Bengal tiger in ferocity. A coating of tar laid with a trowel over

the exposed parts of the body will be found the best protection,

especially as the new Armour Company’s patent hermetically sealed

bear-proof visor will be found too hot for comfort in summer.”

“The environs of Srinagar are charming. Notice the picturesque

‘furnished apartments’ for paying guests all along the water-side, and

the mixed bathing establishments, crowded daily by the Smart Set, whose

jewelled pyjamas flash in rivalry of the heliographic oil-tins which

deck the neighbouring temples.”

“By a visit to the Museum, and an inspection by eye and nose of the

quaint specimens of antique clothing exhibited there, the intelligent

and imaginative traveller may conjure up a mental picture of the

unpolished appearance of the old-time Mangi and his lady before he

adopted the tall hat and frock coat of civilisation, or she had

discovered the ‘swanbill’!”

CHAPTER XIII

THE FLOOD

Tuesday, _September_ 12.—A second edition of the Noachian deluge is

upon us! It began to rain on Saturday, at the close of a hot and stuffy

week, and, having succeeded in thoroughly soaking the unfortunate

ladies who were engaged in a golf competition that day, it proceeded to

rain abundantly all through Sunday and Monday.

The outlook from our hut is dispiriting; through a thick grey veil of

vapour the gleam of water shines over the swamp that was the

polo-ground. The little muddy stream in which so many erring golf-balls

lie low is up and out for a ramble over its banks. The lower

golf-greens resemble paddy-fields, and round the marg the spires of

dull grey pines stand dripping in a steadfast shower-bath.

Sometimes the heavy cloud folds everything in its leaden wing, blotting

out even the streaming village at our feet, and reducing our view to

the immediate slope below us where the wilted ragwort and rank weeds

bend before the tiny torrents which trickle everywhere. Then comes a

break, falsely suggestive of an improvement, and lo! soaring above the

cloudy boil, the lofty shoulders of Apharwat sheeted in new-fallen

snow!

After the somewhat oppressive heat of last week, the sudden raw cold

strikes home, and Jane and I take a great interest in the fire, the

“Old Snake”[1] is an accomplished fire-master, and it is pleasant to

watch him squatting like an ungainly frog in front of the hearth, and

sagaciously feeding the flame with damp and spitting logs.

[1] Our pet name for Shikari Mark II., who reigns in the stead of Ahmed

Bot, sacked for expensive inefficiency.

It is amazing what lavish expenditure of fuel one will indulge in when

it costs nothing a ton!

We are just beginning to find out the exact spots where chairs may be

planted so as to avoid the searching draughts which go far to make our

happy home like a very airy sort of bird-cage.

Well! we might have been worrying through all this in a sodden tent,

where even a boarded floor would barely have kept out rheumatism, and

where one would have been liable to alarms and excursions at all sorts

of untoward times when drains wanted deepening and guys slackening. The

mere thought of such things sent us into a truly thankful state of

mind, and we discussed from our cosy chairs the probable condition of

the party from the Residency which set forth, full of high hope, on

Saturday morning to attack the markhor of Poonch.

Here it has rained with vehemence ever since they left; up in the high

ground it has doubtless snowed; and although they were well armed with

cards and whisky, yet it would appear but a poor business to play

bridge all day in a snow-bound tent on the top of the Pir Panjal!

Nothing short of a hundred aces every few minutes could make the game

worth the candle!

This spell of bad weather has greatly interfered with the movements of

a large number of the folks who were to leave Gulmarg early this week.

Many got away betimes on Saturday, and a few faced the elements on

Sunday, and a painful experience they must have had.

We had intended to leave next Thursday, and had ordered boats to meet

us at Parana Chauni, but the road will be so bad that I wired this

morning to put off our transport till further orders.

The end of the season at Gulmarg sees the bazaar stock at low water.

Eggs, fowls, cherry brandy, and spirits of wine are “off,” also butter,

but the latter scarcity does not affect us, as we make our own in a

pickle jar. The bazaar butter became very bad, probably because the

large numbers of visitors to Gulmarg caused an additional supply to be

got from uncleanly Gujars, so we, by the kindness of the Assistant

Resident, had a special cow detailed to supply us daily with milk at

our own door.

That cow was very friendly; I first made its acquaintance one forenoon.

While I was sitting below the verandah sketching, with a dozen lovely

peaches spread by me on the hoards to obtain their final touch of

perfection in the sun before lunch, the cow strolled up. I was much

interested in the sketch, and believed that the cow was too; but when I

looked up at last, expecting to see its eye fixed upon the work in

silent approbation,

“The ‘cow’ was still there, but the ‘peaches’ were gone.”

In the afternoon the weather showed signs of a desire to amend its

ways. The clouds broke here and there, and, though it still rained

heavily, it became apparent that the clerk of the weather had done his

worst, and the supply of rain was running short. Clad in aquascutic

garments, and surmounted by an ungainly two-rupee bazaar umbrella (my

dapper British one having been annexed by a covetous Mangi)—

“Ombrifuge, Lord love you, case o’ rain,

I flopped forth ’sbuddikins on my own ten toes.”

The whole slope in front of the hut was a trickle of water, threading

the dying stalks of dock and ragwort, and hurrying down to add its

dirty pittance to the small yellow torrent rushing along the greasy

strip of clay that in happier days was the path.

The whole marg was become lake or stream—lake over the polo-ground and

half the golf-links—fed by the weeping slopes on every side, whence

innumerable rills rioted over the grass, emulating in ferocity and

haste, if not in size, the tawny torrents which drained the sides of

Apharwat.

The road from the bazaar to the club was all but impassable, but as it

had still a few inches of freeboard, I followed it to the foot of the

church slope, and, skirting the hill, inspected the desolation which

had been wrought at the Kotal hole, where the stream had torn through

its banks and wrecked the green.

During a visit of condolence to Mrs. Smithson, whose unfortunate

husband is pursuing markhor in Poonch, the sky cleared—a splendid

effort in the way of a “clearing shower” being followed by a decided

break-up of the pall of wet cloud in which we have been too long

immersed. Not without a severe struggle did Jupiter Pluvius consent to

turn off the tap, but at length the sun broke through the hanging

clouds and sent their sodden grey fragments swirling up the Ferozepore

Nullah to break in foamy wreaths round the ragged cliffs of Kulan.

Finding the road across to the post-office altogether under water for

some distance—a lake extending from the twelfth hole for nearly a

quarter of a mile to the main road—I wandered back towards the higher

ground, joining a waterproof figure, a member of the Green Committee,

who was sadly regarding the water-logged links with the disconsolate

air of the raven let loose from the ark! We agreed that this was a

remarkably good opportunity for observing the drainage system, and

taking notes for future guidance, and in company we went over as much

of the links as possible, finishing below the second hole, where the

cross stream which comes down from the higher ground had torn away the

bridge and cut off the huts beyond from civilisation.

The homeward stroll at sunset was perfectly beautiful, and showed

Gulmarg in an absolutely new guise. The lower part of the marg, being

all lake, reflected the lustrous golden sky and rich dark pine-woods in

a faithful mirror. Flying fragments of cloud, fleeces of gold and

crimson, clung to the mountain-sides or sailed above the forests, while

beyond Apharwat, coldly clad in a pure white mantle of snow, new

fallen, rose silhouetted against the darkening sky.

_Saturday, September_ 16.—After the Deluge came the Exodus, everybody

trying to leave Gulmarg at once. We had always intended to go down to

Srinagar about the 15th, but, finding that the Residency party meant to

move on that day, we arranged to migrate a day earlier in order to

avoid the pony and coolie famine which a Residential progress entails

on the ordinary traveller.

On Wednesday afternoon the ten ponies, carefully ordered a week before

from the outlying villages, were congregated on the weedy slope which

falls away from our verandah, picking up a scanty sustenance from

decaying ragwort and such like.

Secure in the possession of the necessary transport, Jane and I

strolled forth for a last look at Nanga Parbat, should he haply deign

to be on view. He did not deign, however, preferring to remain, like

Achilles, when bereft of Briseis, sulking in his cloudy tent. So we

consoled ourselves with an exceedingly fine view of the snow-crowned

heights at the head of the Ferozepore Nullah. Upon returning to our

beloved log cabin we were met by Sabz Ali—almost speechless with

wrath—who broke to us the distressing news that six of our ten

weight-carriers had departed from the compound. The entire staff, with

the exception of our factotum, were away in pursuit, and there was

nothing for it but to possess our souls in what patience we might until

they returned.

As we had arranged for a four o’clock start next morning, it was most

disconcerting to have all our transport desert so late in the evening.

An urgent note to the Assistant Resident, and some pressure on the

Tehsildhar, produced promise of assistance.

Early on Thursday morning came an indignant chit from an irate General,

complaining that my servants were trying to seize his ponies, for which

he had paid an advance of two rupees, and would I be good enough to

investigate the affair. Here was the murder out. His chuprassie had

obviously bribed my pony wallahs, and a letter, stating my case pretty

clearly, produced the ponies and an apology.

This delay kept us till after midday, when, stowing our invalid snugly

in a dandy, we left Gulmarg and began the descent to Srinagar. I

remained behind to see the hut clear and make a sketch, and then

hurried down the direct path, which drops some 2000 feet to Tangmarg.

Here I found Jane and the invalid comfortably disposed in a landau, but

the baggage spread about anywhere, and the usual clamour of coolies

uprising in the heated and dust-laden air.

No ekka—the one which had been ordered with the landau having

apparently got another job and departed. Presently a stray ekka, drawn

by a sorely weary-looking mule, appeared on the scene, and we seized

upon it instantly, loaded it up with most of the baggage, and

despatched coolies with the rest.

After the storm came a holy calm, and we settled down to a light but

welcome lunch before starting down the long slope into the valley.

We had heard most disquieting tales of floods; the water had burst the

bund at Srinagar, and there was said to be ten feet over the

polo-ground. The occupants of Nedou’s Hotel were going in and out by

boat, and Srinagar itself was said to be quite cut off from all access

by road.

The Residency party have countermanded their intended move to-morrow.

At the post-office I was told that only a small part of the mail had

been brought into Srinagar, the road being “bund” between Baramula and

that place, while an unusual number of landslips and bridges have come

down in the Jhelum Valley.

Nevertheless, we had made a push to get on; things in Kashmir are often

less gloomy than their reports would make one believe, and so we bowled

quite cheerfully down the road from Tangmarg, basking in the hot and

sunny air, which seemed to us really delicious after the raw

cheerlessness of the last few days at Gulmarg.

From Tangmarg to the dâk bungalow at Margam, a steady descent is

maintained by an excellent road over the sloping Karewa, for about ten

miles, of which we had just about travelled half when a series of yells

from the syce behind, a wild swerve, and a heavy plump brought us up

just on the edge of the steep and rocky bank, which fell sharply from

the roadside.

Alas! the axle of the off hind wheel had snapped, and the wheel itself

was hopelessly lying in the thick white dust, and our landau looked

like an ancient three-decker in a squall.

The horses being unharnessed, we sent the drivers with one of them

forward to look for help, and Hesketh and Jane proceeded to make tea

while I sat by the roadside and sketched.

Presently an empty dandy came “dribbling by” on its return journey to

Gulmarg, and it was immediately impressed for the benefit of the lame.

Hardly had we packed him in, when a wandering tonga hove in sight, and,

being promptly requisitioned, we rattled off the five miles which lay

between us and Margam in no time.

Here we found a large party assembled in the little rest-house. Colonel

and Mrs. Maxwell (who had kindly sent us back the tonga on hearing of

the breakdown); Mr. and Mrs. Allen Baines, whose dandy had been the

means of bringing Hesketh along; and Sadleir-Jackson, and Edwards of

the 9th Lancers.

The bungalow was full, but I found out that one room was appropriated

by a coming event, who had cast his shadow before him in the guise of a

bearer. This being contrary to the etiquette as observed in dâk

bungalows, I gently but firmly cleared out the neatly arranged toilet

things and ready-made bed; while Hesketh was taken over, somewhat

shattered by his tedious though exciting day, by his fellow Lancers.

The resources of the little place were severely strained; dinner was a

scanty meal, and soda-water gave out almost immediately: nevertheless,

a cheroot and a rubber of bridge sent us contented to bed.

Yesterday (Friday) the question of how to proceed arose. The road was

reported to be impassable after about five miles, the remaining ten

being under water.

We set out after breakfast, Jane perched on a pony which Sabz Ali had

raised or stolen, Hesketh in the dandy, and I on foot. After a warm

five miles’ march we came upon signs of a block. Vehicles of many and

strange sorts were drawn up in the shade of a chenar, under whose wide

branches the Baines family was faring sumptuously on biscuits and

brandy and water.

Horses, goats, and cattle strayed around, and a chattering mob of

natives, busily engaged, as usual, in doing nothing, completed the

picture.

Hesketh was reduced to despair; after two months in bed, this could not

but be a trying journey under the most favourable circumstances, and

the prospect as held out by his pessimistic bearer was pretty gloomy—no

boats available, and no signs of our doungas.

I pushed on to the break in search of my shikari, whom I had sent on by

pony early in the morning, and soon found that estimable person, who is

not really the blithering idiot he looks!

In the first place, he had appropriated the only two shikaras he could

find, and our baggage was already being stowed in them; secondly, he

had discovered both Juma and Ismala, our Mangis, who reported the

doungas moored below Parana Chaum, about four miles away over the

flooded fields.

This was good news, and we ate a cheerful lunch under a tree densely

populated by jackdaws.

The Maxwells got away somehow in search of their house-boat, which was

supposed to have left Baramula some days ago. They started cheerfully,

but vaguely, down the Spill Canal, and we trust they found their ark

somewhere!

Promising to send back a boat for the Baines, we paid and dismissed

coolies and ponies, and paddled away over the flood water. The country

was simply a vast lake, the main road merely marked by a dense row of

poplars. Trees rose promiscuously out of the calm and sunlit water,

wisps of maize and wreckage clinging to their lower boughs. Presently

the road showed in patches, a broad waterfall breaking it every here

and there as the imprisoned waters from above sought the slightly lower

channel of the Jhelum.

We passed a party of natives bivouacking near the roof and upper storey

of their wooden hut, which, floating from above, was held up by the

Baramula road. Sounding now and then with our khudsticks, we found no

bottom over the submerged rice crops, though we could see plainly the

laden ears waving dismally down below. This is nothing less than a

great calamity for the owners, as the rice was just ready for

gathering.

Towards dusk we arrived at our ships, calmly lying moored to poplar

trees by the roadside, and right gladly did we clamber on board, for

our invalid was pretty well fagged out.

This morning we cast loose from our poplars, and brought the fleet up

to within half a mile of the seventh bridge, or, rather, of the spot

where the seventh bridge used to be, for all but a fragment has been

washed away! The strong current prevented us from getting any higher up

the river in our doungas. Jane and I, however, were anxious to see what

appearance Srinagar presented, so we manned the shikara with five

able-bodied paddlers and pushed our way upwards. Turning into a side

canal we passed a demolished bridge, and tried to force our way up a

small but swift stream.

Failing to make anything of it, we landed and had the boat carried over

into a wider channel. Three times we were obliged to get out and leave

our stalwart crew to force the boat on somehow, and they did it

well—hauling, paddling, and shouting invocations to various saints,

particularly the one whose name sounds like “jam paws!”

The water had already fallen some four or five feet, but there was

plenty left. A great break in the bund between Nusserwanjee’s shop and

the Punjab Bank allowed us to paddle into the flooded European quarter,

past the telegraph office, standing knee-deep in muddy water, up over

the main road to Nedou’s Hotel, where boats lay moored outside the

dining-room windows, then across the lagoon, lightly rippled by a tiny

breeze, beneath which lay the polo-ground, to the Residency, where we

landed to inspect damages.

The water had been all over the lower storey, but a muddy deposit on

the wooden floor, and a brown slimy high-water mark on the door jambs,

alone remained to show what had happened. The piano had been hoisted

upon a table, carpets and curtains bundled upstairs, and everything,

apparently, saved. The poor garden, with its slime-daubed shrubs,

broken palings and torn creepers, trailing wisps of draggled foliage in

the oozy brown pools, was a sad and pitiful sight, especially when

mentally contrasted with the glowing glory of asters and zinneas which

it should have been.

The flood has been nearly as bad as the great one of 1903. Fortunately

the Spill Canal, cut above Srinagar to carry off the flood water, took

off some of the pressure; the bund, also, is three feet higher than it

was then, but it gave way in two places—one somewhere near the top, and

the other just below the Bank, letting in the river to a depth of ten

feet over the low-lying quarter. The stream is now falling fast, and,

after doing a little shopping and visiting the post-office, which is

temporarily established on the bund in the midst of an amazing litter

of desks, boxes, and queer pigeon-holes admirably adapted to lose

letters by the score, we spun swiftly down the rushing stream to tea

and our cosy dounga.

_Monday, September_ 18.—It was impossible to get our boats up the river

yesterday, so I spent the day sketching amidst the most picturesque,

but horribly smelly, part of the town; much quinine in the evening

seemed desirable as a counterblast to possible malaria.

The sunsets lately have been really magnificent; the poplars and

chenars, darkly olive, reflected in the flooded fields against a red

gold sky, in the foreground the black silhouettes of the armada.

The days are almost too hot, but the nights are cool and delicious, and

the mosquitoes are only noticeable for a brief period of sinful

activity about sundown, after which the wicked cease from troubling and

the weary are at rest.

At half-past ten this morning we set sail; that is to say, we hired

nine extra coolies and a second shikara to tow, and advanced on

Srinagar. Hesketh’s boat, being the lighter, kept well ahead (here let

me note that “bow” in that boat is quite the prettiest girl we have

seen in Kashmir, and the minx knows it!), but we had good men, and

worked along slowly and steadily up the main river, the side canals

being all choked by broken bridges and such like. We crept past the

Amira Kadal, or first bridge, about two o’clock, and tied up for lunch,

revelling in the most perfect pears, peaches, and walnuts. As a rule

the Kashmir fruit is disappointing; abundant and cheap certainly, but

not by any means of first-rate quality.

Strawberries, cherries, apricots, melons, and grapes might all be far

better if properly cultivated, and scientifically improved from

European stock.

The pears alone defy criticism, and the apples, I am told, are

excellent also.

Vegetables are in great plenty, but, like the fruit, would be much

improved by good cultivation.

_Wednesday, September_ 25.—The abomination of desolation wrought by the

flood is borne in upon one more and more as an inspection of the town

reveals the damage done more fully—the houses standing empty, their

lower storeys dank and slimy, the ruined gardens, and muddy, slippery

roads. The wrecked garden of the Punjab Bank is one of the saddest

sights, and must be a painful spectacle to Mr. Harrison, whose joy it

was to spend time and money on importing exotic and improving

indigenous plants.

One cannot help reflecting how desperately depressed Noah, and the

probably more impressionable Mrs. Noah, must have been when, discarding

their aquascutums for the first time, they sallied forth, a primeval

party, to observe the emerging country.

Mrs. Noah, tucking up the curious straight garment that is a memory of

our childhood, went ahead with feminine curiosity; Noah, bare-legged,

slithering along in the rear and beseeching the ladies to note the

slipperiness of the alluvial deposit, and for goodness’ sake not to

make a glissade down the side of Ararat.

I feel confident they must have taken great precautions, for Sabz Ali

slipped up on the shelving bank of the Jhelum, and, had he not caught

the gunwale of our dounga in his descent, would most certainly have had

to swim for his life—which I doubt if he can do!

Now, Shem and Co. were as valuable to Noah as Sabz Ali is to us, and I

should not be surprised if he made them travel on all-fours in the

risky places. Fathers were very dictatorial in those days, and there

was nobody about to make them consider their dignity.

One can imagine the scene. Ararat, a muddy pyramid dotted here and

there with olive trees—curious, by the way, to find olives so high!—in

the receding waters the vagrant raven cheerfully picking out the eye of

a defunct pterodactyl. The heavy clouds rolling off the sodden

world—they must have indeed been heavy clouds, nimbus of the first

water—as they had raised the world’s water-level 250 feet per day

during “the flood” … surely a record output!

The primeval family party, sadly poking about along the expanding

margin of the world, noting how Abel Brown’s tall chimney was beginning

to show, and how Cain Jones’ wigwam was clean gone. Mrs. Shem said she

knew it would, the mortar work had been so terribly scamped.

And Naboth Robinson’s vineyard—well, _it_ was in a pretty mess, to be

sure, and serve him right, for Mrs. Noah had frequently offered him two

of her (second) best milch mammoths for it; yet he had held on to his

nasty sour grapes, like the mean old curmudgeon that he was.

And now Hammy must set to work and tidy it up; and oh! what lots of

nice manure was floating about, all for nothing the cartload … And so

the primeval family felt better, and went back to the ark to tea,

feeling almost cheerful, but rather lonesome.

Fortunately this great flood did little injury to life or limb. A

certain amount of destruction of crops and other property was

inevitable, but on the whole the loss was not so great as was at one

time feared, and much was saved that at first seemed irreparable.

A well-known lady artist came near to giving the note of tragedy to the

British community, and losing the number of her mess (to use a

nautical, and therefore appropriate expression) by reason of a big

willow tree, beneath whose shady boughs she had moored her floating

studio. This hapless tree, having all its sustenance swept from beneath

by the greedy water, came down with a crash in the night upon the

confiding house-boat, and all but swamped it.

The cook-boat, occupied as usual by a pair of prolific Mangis and their

large small family, was saved by the proverbial “acid drop”—the

children crawling out somehow or anyhow from among the branches of the

fallen tree.

The fair artist, having with shrieks invoked the aid of a neighbour, he

promptly descended from his roof or other temporary camp, and helped

her with basins and chatties to bale out the half-swamped boat. The

lady is now safely moored to the mudbank on the other side of the river

where willow trees do not grow.

The whole bund is in a very unsafe state: it was raised three feet

after the last flood, but its width was not increased correspondingly.

Now that the water has fallen, great fissures and subsidences have

appeared, and in many places large portions of the bank have fallen

away, carrying big trees with them.

CHAPTER XIV

THE MACHIPURA

Wednesday, _September_ 27.—We left Srinagar yesterday, very sorry

indeed to part from the many good friends we have made and left there.

Truly Kashmir is a hospitable country, and we have met with more kind

friendliness in the last six months than we could have believed

possible, coming as we did, strangers and pilgrims into a strange land.

Our consolation is that every one comes “Home” sooner or later, so that

we can look forward to meeting most of our friends again ere very long,

and recalling with them memories of this happy summer with those who

have done so much to make it so.

Farewell, Srinagar! Your foulness and inward evilness were lost in the

background behind your picturesque and tumble-down houses as we floated

for the last time down Jhelum’s olive waters, where the sharp-nosed

boats lay moored along the margin or, poled by their sturdy Mangis and

guided by the chappars of their wives and daughters, shot athwart the

eddying flood, breaking the long reflections of the storeyed banks.

Past the Palace of the Maharajah, its fantastic mixture of ancient

fairness and modern ugliness blending into a homogeneous beauty as

distance lent it enchantment.

Past the temples, their tin-coated roofs refulgent in the brilliant

sunlight; under the queer wooden bridges, their solid stone piers

parting the suave flow of water into noisy swirl and gurgle.

Past the familiar groups of grave, white-robed men solemnly washing

themselves, then scooping up and drinking the noisome fluid; past their

ladies squatting like frogs by the river-side, washing away at clothes

which never seem a whit the cleanlier for all their talk and trouble.

Past the children and fowls, and cows and crows, all hob-nobbing

together as usual.

Past all these sights—so strange to us at first and now so strangely

familiar—we floated, till the broken remnant of the seventh bridge lay

behind us, and the lofty poplars that hem in the Baramula road stood

stark and solemn in their endless perspective.

Here a jangling note, out of tune and harsh, was struck by the dobie,

with whom we had a grave difference of opinion regarding the washing.

That gentleman having “lost by neglect” certain articles of my kit—to

wit sundry shirts and other garments—and having rendered others

completely _hors de combat_ by reason of his sinful method of washing,

I decided to “cut” three rupees off his remuneration.

This decision seemed to have taken from him all that life held of

worth, and he implored me to spare his wife, children, and home, all of

whom would be broken up and ruined if I were cruel enough, to enforce

my awful threat. Seeing that I was obdurate, being well backed by the

infuriated Jane, whose underwear showed far more lace and open work

than nature intended, the wretched dobie melted into loud and tearful

lamentation, and perched himself howling in the prow. This soon became

so boresome that I deported him to Hesketh’s boat, where he underwent

another defeat at the hands of that irate Lancer, whose shirts and

temper had suffered together; finally the woeful washerman, still

howling lugubriously, was landed on the river bank, and we saw and

heard him no more!

Down the gentle river we swiftly glided all day, while the Takht and

Hari Parbat grew smaller and bluer, and Srinagar lay below them

invisible in its swathing greenery.

Reaching Sumbal at sunset, we turned to the left down a narrow canal,

and soon the Wular lay—a sheet of molten gold—upon our right; and by

the time we had moored alongside a low strip of reedy bank, the

glorious rosy lights had faded from the snows of the Pir Panjal, and

their royal purple and gold had turned to soft ebony against the

primrose of the sky.

A few hungry mosquitoes worried us somewhat before sunset, promising

worse to follow; but the sharp little breeze that came flickering over

the Wular after dark seemed to upset their plans, and send them

shivering and hungry to shelter among the reeds and rushes.

This morning we crossed the Wular, starting as the first pale dawn

showed over the eastern hills.

Before the sun rose over Apharwat, his shafts struck the higher snows

and turned them rosy; while the lower slopes, their distant pines

suffused with strong purple, stood reflected in the placid mirror of

the lake.

“Full many a glorious morning have I seen

Flatter the mountain tops with sovran eye,”

but seldom a more lovely one than this—our last on the Wular Lake.

The active figures of the propellent Mangis, and the quiet ones of

their ladies at the helm, completed a picture to be recalled with a

sigh when we are parted by thousands of miles from this entrancing

valley.

Sopor we had understood to be but an uninteresting place, but we were,

perhaps, inclined to regard things Kashmirian through somewhat rosy

spectacles. Anyhow, we rather liked Sopor. Mooring close alongside a

remarkably picturesque building standing in the midst of a smooth green

lawn, which was once, I believe, a dâk bungalow, we halted to make

arrangements for the hire of coolies and ponies to take us inland, and

I went off to the post-office for letters and to make inquiries as to

the probable depth of water in the river Pohru.

Our skipper, Juma, affirmed that there was no water to speak of; but

Juma probably—nay, certainly—prefers the _otium_ of a sojourn at Sopor

to the toil of punting up the Pohru.

The postmaster declared that there was lots of water, but qualified his

optimism by saying that it was falling fast. So we arranged for our

land transport of ponies for ourselves, and a dandy for Hesketh, to

meet us one march up the river at Nopura, while we ourselves set

forward in our boats to Dubgam, three or four miles down the Jhelum,

where the Pohru joins it. At the entrance are large stores of timber,

principally deodar, which is floated down from the Lolab, stored at

Dubgam, and sent thence down country and otherwhere for sale. The great

boom across the river to catch the floating logs had been carried away

in the flood, and merely showed a few melancholy and ineffectual spikes

of wood sticking up above the now calm and sluggish river.

We towed up easily enough, through a quiet and peaceful country, which

only became gorgeous under the alchemy of sunset, reaching Nopura in

good time to tie up before dinner.

_Friday, September 29_.—On Thursday morning we started, as usual, at

dawn, and proceeded to pole and haul our way up the devious channel of

the Pohru. Some four or five miles we accomplished successfully,

although there were ominous signs of a gradual lack of water, until we

came upon a hopeless shallow, where the river, instead of concentrating

its energies on one deep and narrow channel, had run to waste over a

wide bed, where the wrinkling wavelets showed the golden brown of the

gravel just below the surface. Our big dounga stuck hard and fast at

once, and Captain Jurna promptly gave up all hope of getting farther.

He was, in fact, greatly gratified to find his prophesies come true,

and an insufferable air of “I told you so” overspread his face as he

wagged his head with mock sorrow, and gently poked the bottom with his

pole to show how firmly fixed we were.

Having an invalid with us, however, it was important to gain every easy

mile we could, and it was not until all the fleet in turn had attempted

to cross the shallow, and failed, that we made up our minds to take to

our land transport. It was uncommonly hot in the full glare of the sun

as Hesketh in his dandy, Jane on her “tattoo,” and I on foot set

forward for the forest house at Harwan, which lay some five miles away

across the fields, where the rice is now being busily cut.

At the foot of a very brown and parched-looking hill stood the little

wooden hut, facing the valley of the Pohru and the Kaj-nag range. Hot

and thirsty, we blessed the good Mr. Blunt, the kindly forest officer,

who had so courteously given us permission to use the forest huts of

the Lolab and the Machipura. Our blessings of Blunt turned swiftly to

curses directed towards the chowkidar, who was not to be seen, and who

had left the hut firmly fastened from within. An attempt to force the

door brought upon us the resentment of a highly irritable swarm of big

red wasps, who plainly regarded us as objectionable intruders; and Jane

was really getting quite cross (she says—she always does—that it was I

who lost my temper)—before the bold sweeper, prying round the back

premises, found an unbarred window, and the joy bells rang once more.

The Colonel turned up from the Malingam direction, and pitched his tent

in the rest-house compound; and, as the afternoon grew cooler, he and I

sallied forth to select a few chikor for the pot.

The chikor is extremely like the ordinary European redleg or Barbary

partridge, not only in colouring, but in habit, loving the same dry,

scrub-covered country, and preferring, like him, to run rather than fly

when pursued. The chikor, however, is certainly far superior in the

capacity of what fowl fanciers call “a table bird,” being, in fact,

truly excellent eating.

He is not an altogether easy bird to shoot, owing to his annoying

predilection for the steepest and rockiest hillsides, and those most

densely clothed in spiny jungle, wherein lurking, he chooses the

inopportune moment when the sportsman is hopelessly entangled, like

Isaac’s ram, to rise chuckling and flee away to another hiding-place.

Without dogs, he would be often extremely hard to find; but unluckily

for himself, being a true Kashmiri bird, he cannot help making a noise,

and thereby betraying his presence. His corpse, when dead, is hard to

find in the jungle, and a runner is, of course, hopeless without canine

help. It is well, therefore, to kill him as dead as possible, and to

that end I used No. 4 shot, with, I think, a certain advantage over

Walter, who shot with No. 6, and who, in consequence, lost several

birds.

The friendliness and sociability of the beasts and birds of Kashmir has

been a great joy to us. The thing can be overdone, though, and both the

wasps and the rats of Harwan were inclined to overstep the bounds of

decorum.

The latter were obviously overjoyed to see visitors, and visions of

unlimited plunder from our festive board would, of course, put them

somewhat above themselves. Still, they should have refrained from

rioting so openly around our beds as soon as the lights were out, and

Jane was naturally indignant when a large one ran over her feet!

On Friday morning we left Harwan, pretty early, as usual, for it is

still somewhat too warm to travel comfortably in the middle of the day.

The Colonel (always an early bird) got away first, followed by our

invalid in his dandy, while Jane and I remained to hunt the loiterers

out of camp. A glorious morning, and the cheering knowledge that

breakfast was in front of us, sent us merrily along for a mile or two,

until branching paths led us to inquire of an intelligent Kashmiri, who

appeared to be busily engaged in reaping rice with a penknife, as to

the road taken by our precursors, especially the tiffin coolie!

The industrious one had seen no sahibs at all pass by. This was a blow,

and Jane and I sat down to review the situation. We finally decided

that the son of the soil was indulging in what the great and good

Winston Churchill has called a “terminological inexactitude,” as the

others must have gone by one of the two roads; so, putting our fortunes

to the touch, we took the left-hand path, and were in due time rewarded

by reaching Sogul, and there finding our pioneers peacefully seated

under a tree, and breakfast ready.

Leaving Sogul, we skirted for some miles a bare ridge which rose on the

right, and which looked an ideal ground for chikor, and then turned

into a beautiful valley drained by the Pohru, now quite a small and

insignificant stream.

Drogmulla, our objective, lies about fourteen miles from Harwan, and

the forest house is a full mile beyond the village, at the end of a

somewhat steep and winding path.

A welcome sight was the snug rest-house, perched upon a hillock above a

fussy little stream and surrounded by a fine clump of deodars.

A tiny lawn in front was decorated with an artificial tank full of

water-plants, and through the opening, among the trees, we saw the

snowy crest of Shambrywa and the Kaj-nag rising over the deeply-wooded

foothills.

Drogmulla was so fascinating a spot, and the weather was so remarkably

fine, that we made up our minds to remain here for a few days. That old

red-bearded snake, the shikari, has sent the Colonel into a seventh

heaven of anticipation by pointing to the encircling forest with

promise of “pul-lenty baloo, sahib, this pul-lace.” We straightway

ordained a honk.

Our sick soldier is so much better since leaving Gulmarg that he is

able to hop “around” with considerable activity on his crutches.

_Saturday, September_ 30, 4 P.M.—Walter and I have been bear-honking

all day in a district reputed to be simply crawling with bears. I love

bear-honking; it is such a peaceful occupation.

After a stiff and very hot scramble up a rugged hillside covered with

the infuriating scrub through which nothing but a reptile could crawl

easily, the spot is reached within short range of which (in the opinion

of the “oldest inhabitant,” backed up by the “Snake”) the bear _must_

pass.

Here the battery of rifles and guns is carefully arranged, and I

proceed to wipe my heated brow and settle down to the calm enjoyment of

the honk. Drawing forth my cigar-case, I am soon wreathed in the

fragrant clouds engendered by the incineration of a halfpenny cheroot,

and, with a sigh of satisfaction, I spread out my writing or sketching

materials and proceed to scribble or paint, calm in the knowledge that

nothing on earth is in the least likely to disturb the flow of ideas,

or interrupt the laying on of a broad flat wash. Now and again, lazily,

I lean back to watch the witless hoverings of a big butterfly, or

sleepily listen to the increasing sound of the tom-toms and the yells

of the beaters, whose voices, as those of demons of the pit, rend the

peaceful air and add to my sense of Olympian aloofness!

A feeling of drowsiness steals over me; that succulent cold chikor,

followed by a generous slice of cake upon which I so nobly lunched,

clouds somewhat my active faculties, and the article—“A Bear Battue in

the Himalayas”—which I am engaged in writing for the _Field_—seems to

flag a little.

Come, come! Begone dull sloth—let me continue—

“As the sound of the beaters swells upon the ear, and the thunder of

the tom-toms grows more insistent, the keen-eyed sportsman grasps more

firmly the lever of his four-barrelled Nordenfeldt and prepares to play

upon the bears his hail of stinging missiles. Hark! The plot is

thickening, behind yon dense screen at the end of the cover the ph——

bears are beginning to crowd, the pattering of their feet upon the dead

leaves sends a thrill through the beating heart of the expectant

sportsman. A few bears break back amid wild yells from the coolies. One

or two odd ones dart out here and there at angles of the covert.

Steady! Steady! Here they are, following the lead of yon fine old cock;

with a whirr and a rush the bouquet is upon us. The shikari, mad with

excitement, presses the second Gatling and the light Howitzer into our

hands as he screams: ‘Bear to right, sahib!—Bear over!!—Bear behind!!!

Bang—bang!’”

“Eh? What? Oh, all right, shikari. Honk finished? Is it? Saw nothing?

Dear me! how very odd. Very well, then gather up my guns and things,

and we’ll go on to the next beat.”

_Sunday, October 1_.—To-day being Sunday, we have been idle and

happy—sketching, loafing, and enjoying the scenery and the glorious

weather. Our bear-honk yesterday was only productive of annas to the

beaters, but we picked up some chikor on the way home, and we have

found mushrooms growing close to the hut, so that our lower natures are

also satisfied. After lunch I mustered up energy sufficient to take me

down to the village to sketch a native hut which, surrounded by a patch

of flaming millet, had struck me on Friday as an extraordinary bit of

colour. Jane and Walter, after many “prave ’orts” about climbing the

ridge behind Drogmulla, contented themselves with a minor ascent of a

knoll about fifty feet high, while the Lancer, reckless in his

increasing activity, managed to trip over his crutches and give himself

an extremely unfortunate fall.

_Monday, October 2_.—There was a man who, during our bear-honk on

Saturday, rendered himself conspicuous, partly by reason of his

likeness to my shikari, and also because of his complete knowledge of

the whereabouts of all bears for many miles around. He was quite glad

to impart much information to us, and so won upon the sporting but too

trustful heart of the brave Colonel, that he was retained by that

officer in order that he might show sport to the Philistines, and annas

and even rupees were bestowed upon him; and he and the old original

“Snake” were sent forward on Saturday evening, as Joshua and Caleb, to

spy out the promised land in the neighbourhood of Tregam.

Lured by rumours of many bears, Walter and I set forth at daylight for

Tregam, leaving Jane and the youthful Lancer (once more, alas! reduced

to stiff bandages and a painful relapse) in possession of the hut. We

“hadna gane a mile—a mile but barely twa,” when the old shikari met us

with the painful intelligence that two sahibs were already at Tregam,

and had killed many bears there, grievously wounding the rest; so we

altered course eight points to port, crossed the Pohru, and made for

Rainawari.

A sharp climb over a wooded ridge (on the top of which we halted for

breakfast), followed by a steep descent, brought us into a flat and

well-cultivated plain, which sloped gently from the foothills of the

Kaj-nag to the bed of the Pohru. Everywhere, in the glowing sunlight,

the villagers were busily engaged in reaping the rice, which lay in

ripe brown swathes along the little fields. The walnuts, of which there

are a great plenty in this district, have been lately gathered, some

few trees only still remaining, loaded with a heavy crop, but the main

produce lay drying in heaps in the villages as we rode through.

The road to Rainawari seemed curiously devious. A Kashmiri track seldom

shies at a hill, but pursues its way, heedless of gradient, for its

objective; but this path imitated a corkscrew in its windings, and

reduced us to the utmost limit of our patience before, passing through

a small village whose dull-coloured houses were enlivened with gorgeous

festoons of scarlet chilies, we climbed a steep little hill and found

ourselves upon a park-like lawn or clearing, and facing the cluster of

rough wooden shanties which compose the Rainawari forest bungalow and

its outhouses. Behind the huts the densely-wooded hill drops sharply to

where a stream of good and pure water riots among the maidenhair and

mosses.

A large and inquisitive company of apes came up from the wood to take

stock of us, and I sat for a long time watching them as they played

about quite close to me, feeding, chattering, and quarrelling, entirely

unconcerned by the presence of their human spectator.

_Friday, October 6_.—All Tuesday was spent in honking bear in the lower

woods which stretch far towards the Pohru. The high hills which rise

above, covered with jungle, are said to be too large to work, and I can

well believe it! For the first drive I was posted on a steep bank

overlooking a most lovely little hollow, where the shafts of sunlight

fell athwart the grey trunks and heavy green masses of the pines,

lighting up the yellow leaves of the sumachs till they glowed like

gold, and casting a flickering network of strong lights and shadows

among the tangled mazes of undergrowth. A happy family of magpies,

grey-blue above, with barred tails and yellow beaks, flitted about in

restless quest, their constant cries being the only sound which broke

the peaceful stillness, until the faint and distant sound of shouts and

tom-toms showed that the first act of the farce had begun.

Towards the end of the third beat, while I was drowsily digesting

tiffin, and, truly, not far from napping, I was electrified by the

report of a rifle, followed by yells and a second shot! The beaters

redoubled their shouts, and the tom-tommers seemed like to burst their

drums.

My shikari, writhing with extreme excitement, hissed, “Baloo, sahib,

baloo!” and began aimlessly running to and fro, apparently hoping to

meet the bear somewhere. It was truly gay for a few minutes, but as

nothing further occurred, and the beaters grew very hoarse with their

prodigious efforts, I hurried on to Walter’s post to learn what had

happened.

A bear had suddenly come out of the cover some 40 yards off, and stood

to look. The Colonel missed it, whereupon it dashed forward, passing

within a few yards of him, and he missed it again. It departed at top

speed across some open ground behind him, and gained the great woods

which stretch away to the Kaj-nag, and never shall we see that bear

again! The Colonel was much disgusted, and if language—hot, strong, and

plenty of it—could have slain that bear, he would have dropped dead in

his tracks.

The beaters brought up a wonderful tale of how another bear, badly

wounded in the leg, had charged through their lines and gone back. They

stuck to their story, and either a second bear actually existed or they

are colossal liars. I incline to the latter theory.

We had wasted all our luck. No more bears came to look at us, and so,

late in the afternoon, we sought the rest-house and consolation from

Jane and Hesketh, who had arrived from Drogmulla.

I had occasion to deplore the bad manners of the rats at Harwan, but

their conduct was exemplary compared with that of the rats of

Rainawari! I had been writing my journal, according to my custom,

before going to sleep, and hardly had “lights out” been sounded than a

rat went off with my candle, literally from below my very nose. Then,

from the inadequately partitioned chamber where the invalid vainly

sought repose, came sounds of strife—boots and curses flying—followed

by an extraordinary scraping and scuffling. A large rat, having fallen

into the big tin bath, was making bids for freedom by ineffectually

leaping up the slippery sides. At last he contrived to get out, and

peace reigned until we managed to get to sleep.

Wednesday was spent honking in the forlorn hope of a bear, I have now

spent more than fourteen days in pursuit of black bear, and I have only

seen one. Every one said to me in spring, “Oh, go to the Lolab, it’s

full of bear,” I went, and was informed that it was a late season and I

was too early—the bears were not yet awake. I was consoled by learning

that later on, when the mulberries were ripe, the berry-loving beasts

jostled one another in the pursuit of the delicacy so much, that they

were no sport I went down from Gulmarg for three days, honking among

the mulberries, but saw none. Then I was told the maize season was

undoubtedly the best. Now the maize is full ripe; the maize fields are

tempting in their golden glory, and the only thing wanting to complete

the picture is a big, black bear.

Either my luck has been particularly bad (and I think it has, as the

Colonel got a fine bear below Gulmarg, and had another chance at

Rainawari), or else there are not so many bears in real life as exist

in the imaginations of those who know. My own theory is, that, unless

he has remarkable luck, a stranger, in the hands of an ignorant

shikari, and knowing nothing of the language, has but a remote chance

of sport. If the shikari does not happen to know the district

thoroughly, he is necessarily in the hands of the villagers, and has to

trust to them to arrange the beats and place the guns. The villagers

want their four annas for a day’s shouting, but do not know or care if

a bear is in the neighbourhood, so, having planted the gun (and shikari

with him), they proceed to beat after their own fashion, in other words

to stroll, in Indian file, like geese across a common, along the line

of least resistance, instead of spreading out and searching all the

thickest jungle.

Much yelling serves both to cheer the sahib, and frighten away any bear

which might otherwise haply frighten them.

I cannot say I regret the time I have spent looking for bear. The

scenery has always been fine—sometimes magnificent, and there has

always been a certain cheering hope, which sustained me as I lay hour

after hour in the Malingam Nullah, or sat expectant amid ever varying

and always beautiful glades and passes, watching the bird life, and

storing up scenes and memories which I know I shall never forget.

Alas! we have but a very few days yet before us in Kashmir, and it is

lamentable, for now the climate is simply perfect, the air clear and

clean, and without the haze of summer; the first crispness of coming

autumn making itself felt most distinctly in the early hours of morning

ere

“Nor dim nor red, like God’s own head,

The glorious sun uprist;”

and each dawn saw us up and out to watch these sunrises, whose

splendour cannot be expressed on paper. This morning it was more than

usually wonderful, the whole flank of Nanga Parbat and his lesser

peaks, turning from clear lemon to softest rose, stood radiant above

the purple shades of the great range which lies around Gurais. In the

middle distance, rising above the level yellow of the plain, still dim

and shadowy below the morning light, rolled wave upon wave of the blue

hills which hold in their embrace the fruitful Lolab. At our feet the

deodars, still dark with the shadow of night, crept up the dewy slope

upon whose top we stood. Then suddenly

“The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes,”

flamed over the eastern ridges, and in a flood of glory the soft

shadows and pallid lights of the dawn became merged in the brilliance

of a Kashmir autumn day.

Our march yesterday from Rainawari to Kitardaji was charming. I had no

idea that this Machipura country, which is not much visited by summer

sojourners in Kashmir, was so fine. The district lies along the lower

shoulders and foothills of the Kaj-nag, and, while lacking the savage

grandeur of the Lidar or Upper Sind, yet possesses the charm of

infinite variety and, in this early autumn, a climate in which it is a

pure joy to live. On leaving Rainawari we followed up a river valley

for some distance, and then wound through richly cultivated hollows and

past well-wooded hills, where the dark silver firs and the deodars were

lit up by splashes of scarlet and orange, and the deciduous sumach and

thorn-bushes hung out their autumn flags. Walnuts—the trees in many

places turning yellow—were being gathered into heaps, and the apple

trees, reddening in the autumn glow, hung heavy with abundant fruit.

Turning into a narrow gorge, where the trees overhung the path and

shaded the wanderer with many an interlaced bough; where ferns grew in

great green clumps, and the friendly magpies chattered in the luminous

shade, I hurried on, having stayed behind the others to sketch. Up and

up, till only pines waved over me, and the track, leading along the

edge of a deep khud, opened out at last upon a plateau, hot and sunlit;

here an entrancing panorama of Nanga Parbat and the whole range of

mountains round Haramok caused me to stop “at gaze” until a mundane

desire for breakfast sent me scurrying down the dusty and slippery

descent to Larch, where I found, as I had hoped, the rest of the party

assembled expectant around the tiffin basket, while the necromancer,

Sabz Ali, had just succeeded in producing the most delightful stew,

omelette, and coffee from the usual native toy kitchen, made,

apparently, in a few minutes with a couple of stones and a dab of mud!

It has been an unfailing marvel to us how, in storm or calm, rain or

fine, the native cook seems always able to produce a hot meal with such

apparently inadequate materials as he has at his command. Give him a

fire in the open, screened by stones and a mud wall, a _batterie de

cuisine_ limited to one or two war-worn “degchies,” and let him have a

village fowl and half-a-dozen tiny eggs, and he will in due time serve

up, with modest pride, a most excellent repast.

The remaining half of our twelve-mile march lay along a continually

rising track, which finally brought us to Kitardaji, a cosy pine-built

hut, perched upon a hill clothed with deodars, at the foot of which ran

the inevitable stream.

This, alas! is our last Kashmir camping-ground, and it is one of the

most charming of all.

At 8.15 this morning we bade farewell to Kitardaji. We had got up

before dawn to see the sunrise, but afterwards took things leisurely,

as the march is short to Baramula, and our boats were to be in waiting

there, and we had made all arrangements for a landau and ekkas to be in

readiness to take us down to Rawal Pindi, while the Colonel returned up

the Jhelum for more shooting before rejoining his wife at Bandipur.

The march of about thirteen miles from Kitardaji to Baramula is

fine—the views of Nanga Parbat in the early hours, before the sun’s

full strength cast a golden glow over the distance, were magnificent,

and long we lingered upon the last ridge, gazing over the great valley,

ringed with its guardian mountains, ere we sadly turned our backs for

the last time on the scene, and wended our way downward to Baramula and

our boats.

Kashmir seems to be as difficult to get out of as to get into! What was

our amazement and disgust to find neither landau nor ekkas, nor,

apparently, any chance of getting them!

Baramula was in a ferment, and wild confusion reigned because the

Viceroy, having somewhat suddenly determined to come to Jammu, the

Maharajah and all his suite, together with the Resident and his

belongings, were to start down the road at once, and all transport was

commandeered by the State. Here was a coil! Officers innumerable, who

had stayed in Kashmir until the limit of their leave, were struggling

vainly to get on, and had got to Baramula only to find all transport in

the hands of the State officials. Some few had, by fair means or foul,

got hold of an ekka or two and hidden them; others had seized ponies,

but nothing to harness them to. A few of the younger men set forth on

foot, and others had their servants out in ambush on the roads to try

and collect transport.

It was most important that we should get on, as Hesketh had to be in

Pindi to go before a medical board on the 14th, in order to be

invalided home to England; and as he was most anxious to catch a

steamer sailing on the 25th, he had no time to spare.

I telegraphed to Sir Amar Singh for authority to engage ekkas, and I

sent for the Tehsildhar of Baramulla to complain of my ekkas being

taken. He appeared in due course—a somewhat pert little person—who

promised to do what he could, which I knew would be nothing. A farewell

dinner on board Walter’s ship concluded a fairly busy day.

_Saturday, October 7_.—A strenuous day, to say the least of it. Sir

Amar Singh most courteously met my wishes, and himself directed the

local authorities to assist me. Armed with this power, I again sent for

the Tehsildhar, who promised many ekkas, but appeared to have some

difficulty in fulfilling his promises. I spent the forenoon in hunting

transport, sending out my servants also in pursuit. The Tehsildhar

produced one ekka with great pomp, as earnest of what he could and

would do later on.

During the afternoon the landau turned up from Srinagar, and at 6 P.M.

one of my myrmidons rushed in to say that two ekkas had arrived at the

dâk bungalow.

It was but a few yards away, and in a couple of minutes I was on the

spot. The ekkas had come up from Pindi, and the sahib who had lured

them to Baramula seemed astonished at my method of taking them over. In

an uncommonly short while the ekkas were parked, with the landau, close

to the boats and under strict watch, while all harness was brought on

board my dounga, just in time, as native officials of some sort romped

up and claimed the ekkas, and threatened to beat my servants. It was

explained to them gently, but firmly, that if they touched my ekkas or

landau they would taste the waters of the Jhelum. We were then left in

peaceful possession.

_Tuesday, October 10_.—On Sunday morning we really saw our way to

making a start. We had three ekkas collected, and the Tehsildhar

produced a fourth with a great flourish, as though in expectation of a

heavy tip. The landau was being piled with odds and ends while the last

bits of business were being got through. Juma and his crew were paid

and tipped (grumbling, of course, for the Kashmiri is a lineal

descendant of the horse-leech). The shikari went to Smithson, and the

sweeper and permanent coolie were transferred to the assistant forest

officer, while Ayata (in charge of Freddie, the blackbird) scrambled

into the leading ekka.

By noon all was ready, and amid the rattle and jingle of many harness

bells and the salaams of the domestics, we bowled out of Baramula, and

set forward down the valley of the Jhelum.

CHAPTER XV

DELHI AND AGRA

The journey down was uneventful, and quite unlike the journey up, when

we had been briskly occupied in dodging landslips for days. A good

road, white and dry, and sloping steadily downward; a good pair of

ponies, strong and willing; a roomy landau, wherein Hesketh—still

suffering from his fall at Drogmulla—could stretch himself in

comparative comfort, combined to bring us to Kohala this afternoon in a

state of excellent preservation. Here we crossed the bridge, which

brought us to the right bank of the river—from Kashmir to British

territory.

Kohala is the proud possessor of one of the very worst dâk bungalows

yet discovered. This seems disappointing when stepping under the folds

of the Union Jack full of high hope and confidence.

Climbing up through a particularly noisome bazaar to the bungalow, I

was met with the information that it was already full. I said that was

a pity, but that room must be found for my party.

Room was got somehow, a dâk bungalow being an extraordinarily elastic

dwelling. Hesketh was stored in a little tent. I lodged in the

dining-room, and Jane took up her quarters in a sort of dressing-room

kindly given up by a lady, who bravely sought asylum with a

sister-in-law and a remarkably strong-lunged baby. I believe more

travellers arrived later, for—although, thanks to Sir Amax Singh and

good luck, we gained a good start at Baramula—now the tongas are

beginning to roll in and the plot to thicken.

I cannot think where the last arrivals bestowed themselves—not on the

roof, I trust, for a thunderstorm, accompanied by the usual vigorous

squall of wind, fell upon us during the night, and raged so furiously

that I was greatly relieved to see the Lancer’s little tent still

braving the battle and the breeze in the morning.

We had a long day before us, so started in good time to make the

tedious ascent to Murree. It rained steadily, and a cold wind swept

down the river valley as we began to make our slow way up the long,

long hill.

I never knew milestones so extraordinarily far apart as those which

mark the distance between Kohala and Murree. There are twenty-five of

them, distributed along a weary winding road which extends without an

apparent variation of gradient from Kohala to the Murree cemetery. The

rise from the river level to Murree is 5000 feet, and this, in a heavy

landau over a road often deep in red mud, is a heavy strain on equine

endurance and human patience.

We had a fresh pair of horses waiting for us half-way up the hill, but

they proved absolutely useless, being obviously already dead tired and

quite unable to drag the carriage through any of the muddier places

even with every one but the invalid on foot. So we apologetically put

the gallant greys in again, poor beasties, and they took us up well.

From the cemetery the road runs fairly level to where, upon rounding a

sharp corner, the hill station of Murree comes into sight, clinging to

its hill-tops and overlooking the far flat plains beyond Pindi.

I cannot imagine how anybody would willingly abide in Murree who could

go anywhere else for the hot weather. There being no level ground,

there is no polo, no cricket, and no golf. There is no river to fish

in, and I do not think that there is anything at all to shoot.

Doubtless, however, it has its compensations. Probably it abounds in

pretty mem-sahibs, who with bridge and Badminton combine to oil the

wheels of life, and make it merry on the Murree hills.

Leaving the station high on the left, we dipped in a most puzzling

manner down a slope through a fine wood giving magnificent views

towards the hills of our beloved Kashmir, and presently came to “Sunny

Bank,” whence a steep road seemed to run sharply hack and up to Murree

itself. It was late, and both we and our unfortunate horses were tired,

but a hasty peep into the little inn showed it to be quite impossible

as a lodging, and a biting wind sent us shivering down the hill as fast

as might be to seek rest and warmth at Tret.

The good greys took us down the eleven miles in a very short time, and

we pulled up at the dâk bungalow at 7.30, having been just twelve hours

doing the forty miles from Kohala.

The dâk bungalow and all the compound in front was crowded, detachments

_en route_, from Murree to Pindi having halted here for the night.

Hesketh was lucky enough to share a room with a brother Lancer, and a

mixed bag of Gunners and Hussars made up a cheery dinner-table.

The only member of the party showing signs of collapse was the

unfortunate Freddie, who, shaken up in his small cage for three days in

an ekka, seemed in piteous plight, feathers (what there were of them)

ruffled and unkempt, and eyes dim and half closed. Poor dear, it was

only sleep he wanted, for next morning he showed up, as his fond owner

remarked, “bright as a button!”

_12th_.—The road from Tret to Pindi seemed tame to us, but probably

charming to the horses, first down a few gently sloping hills, and then

for the remainder of its six-and-twenty miles it wound its dull and

dusty length along the level.

We halted for our last picnic lunch in a roadside garden full of loquat

trees and big purple hibiscus. The only curious thing here was a pi-dog

which refused to eat cold duck! Certainly it was a _very_ tough duck,

but still, I do not think a pi-dog should he so fastidious.

A few more level dusty miles, and we rattled into Rawal Pindi, where,

after depositing our sick man safely in his own mess precincts, we

proceeded to ensconce ourselves in Flashman’s Hotel, which is certainly

far better than the Lime Tree, where we stayed before. Indian hotels

are about the worst in the world. We have sampled rough dens in Spain,

in Tetuan, and in Corsica—especially in Corsica, but then they are

unpretentious inns in unfrequented villages, whereas in India you find

in world-famous cities such as Agra or Delhi the most comfortless dens

calling themselves hotels—hotels where you hardly dare eat half the

food for fear of typhoid, and will not eat the rest because it is so

unsavoury!

It may be argued that the hotels, if bad, are cheap, and that one

cannot reasonably expect much in return for five or six rupees per day;

it seems, however, that in a country where food and labour cost next to

nothing, a good landlord should be able to “do” his customers well upon

five rupees, and make a substantial profit into the bargain.

Probably, as the facilities for travel are rapidly increasing, and

India is now as easy to reach as Italy was in days not so long by, the

hotels will soon improve. Hospitality, which is still to-day greater in

the East than in our more selfish Western regions, and which has, until

quite recently, obviated for strangers and pilgrims the necessity for

hotels, is now unable to cope with the increasing flood of visitors and

wanderers; as the need becomes more pressing, so will the supply,

consequent upon the demand, improve both in quality and quantity; and

we have already heard of the new Taj Mahal Hotel at Bombay, the fame of

which has been trumpeted through India, and which is said to rival in

luxury the palaces of Ritz!

The real and serious difficulty, and one which at present seems

insurmountable, is to secure cleanliness and safety in that Augean

stable—the cook-house. Until the native can be brought to understand

the inadvisability of using tainted water and unclean utensils, and of

permitting the ubiquitous fly to pervade the larder—until, I say, that

millennium can be attained, the danger of enteric and other ills will

always be very great in Indian hotels.

_Friday, October_ 13.—Lunch with Dr. Munro, who surprised us somewhat

by having married a wife since we played golf and bridge together at

Gulmarg only a few weeks ago. Tea, a farewell repast with our

invalid—who goes before a medical board in a few days, and who will

then be doubtless sent home on long sick leave—and the despatch of our

heavy luggage direct to Bombay, occupied us pretty fully for the day;

and in the evening, after dinner, we took up our residence in a

carriage drawn up in a siding to be attached to the 6.30 mail in the

morning. Our last recollection of Pindi was a vision of the faithful

Ayata, paid, tipped, and provided with a flaming “chit,” flapping along

the road in the bright moonlight, with all his worldly possessions, _en

route_ for Abbotabad and home.

_Saturday, October_ 14.—A prodigious amount of banging, whistling, and

yelling seemed to be necessary before we could be coupled up to the

early train, and sent flying towards Lahore. It was impossible to

sleep, and I was peacefully watching the landscape as it slid past,

first in the pink flush of early dawn, and gradually losing colour as

the sun, gaining in strength, reduced everything to a white hot glow,

when, scraping and bumping into a wayside station, we were suddenly

informed that, owing to hot bearings or heated axles or something, we

must quit our carriage at once, and so, half dressed and wholly

wrathful, we were shot out on a hot and exceedingly gritty platform,

with our hand luggage and bedding all of a heap, and with the whole

length of the train to traverse to attain our new carriage. Sabz Ali

being curled up asleep in an “intermediate,” was all unwitting of this

upheaval. The officials were impatient, and so Jane and I were in a

thoroughly unchristian frame of mind by the time we were stowed, hot

and greatly fussed, into a stifling compartment, whose dust-begrimed

windows long withstood all endeavours to open them.

We reached Lahore about noon, and, having some six hours to dispose of

there, we spent them in calm contemplation, sitting on the verandah of

Nedou’s Hotel. It was really too hot to think of sight-seeing.

_Thursday, October 19_.—Another night in the train brought us to Delhi

at dawn, and we drove up to the execrable caravansary of Mr. Maiden. I

do not propose to write much about Delhi. Every one who has been in

India has visited the capital of the Moguls, whose wealth of splendid

buildings would alone have rendered it a supreme attraction for the

sight-seer, even had it not played the part it did in the Mutiny, and

been memorable as the scene of the storming of the Kashmir Gate and the

death of John Nicholson.

We, personally, carried away from Delhi an uncomfortable sense of

disappointment. It was very hot, and Jane fell a victim to the heat or

something, and took to her bed in the comfortless hotel, while I

prowled sadly about the baking streets, and tried to work up an

enthusiasm which I did not feel.

As soon as Jane was fit, we joined forces with a young

fellow-countryman and his sister, who were the only other English

people in the hotel, and drove out to see the Kutab Minar. On arrival

we found a comfortable dâk bungalow, and, having made an excellent

breakfast, sallied forth to view the Kutab. May I confess that I was

again a little disappointed? I do not really know exactly why, but the

great tower, whose fluted shaft, dark red in the sunglow, shoots up

some 270 feet into the air, did not appeal to me. It is like no other

column—it is unique, marvellous,—but it leaves me cold.

The splendid arch of the screen of the old temple, and the lovely

columns of the Jain temple opposite, attracted me far more than the

Kutab Minar.

Jane and young Buxton went off to see a native jump down a well fifty

feet deep for four annas. The performance sounded curious, but

unpleasant. The sightseers were much impressed! Meanwhile, Miss Buxton

and I discovered a very modern and exceedingly hideous little Hindu

temple, painted in the most appalling manner—altogether a gem of

grotesqueness, and truly delightful and refreshing.

Tea in front of the dâk bungalow, in a corner blazing with “gold

mohurs” and rosy oleanders, while the driver and the syce harnessed the

lean pair of horses, a final visit to the Kutab and the great arch, and

we fared back over the eleven bumpy miles that lay between us and

Delhi.

A good deal of my spare time, while Jane was _hors de combat_, was

spent in the jewellers’ shops of the Chandni chowk, the principal

merchants’ quarter of Delhi. I do not think that anything very special

in the way of a “bargain” is to be obtained by the amateur, although

stones are undoubtedly cheaper than in London. I saw little really fine

jewellery, probably because I was obviously unlikely to be a big buyer,

but many good spinels, dark topaz, and rough emeralds. The stones I

wanted I failed to get. Alexandrites were not, and pink topaz scarce

and dear. The dealers generally tried to sell pale spinels as pink

topaz. Peridot are cheaper, I think, at home, and certainly in Cairo,

and the only amethysts worth looking at are sent out from Germany. The

pale ones of the country come from Jaipur. By-the-bye, the

best-coloured amethysts I ever remember seeing were in Clermont

Ferrand.

Delhi has always been connected with gems in my mind. I am not certain

why. Partly, perhaps, because the famous Peacock Throne of Shah Jehan

stood in the Palace here. I cannot resist giving the description of it

in the words of Tavernier, who saw it about 1655, and who describes it

as follows:—

“This is the largest throne; it is in form like one of our field-beds,

six foot long and four broad. The cushion at the back is round like a

bolster; the cushions on the sides are flat. I counted about a hundred

and eight pale rubies in collets about this throne, the least whereof

weighed a hundred carats. Emeralds I counted about a hundred and

forty.”

“The under part of the canopy is all embroidered with pearls and

diamonds, with a fringe of pearls round about. Upon the top of the

canopy, which is made like an arch with four paws, stands a peacock

with his tail spread, consisting entirely of sapphires and other

proper-coloured stones;[1] the body is of beaten gold enchased with

several jewels; and a great RUBY upon his breast, to which hangs a

pearl that weighs fifty carats. On each aide of the peacock stand two

nosegays as high as the bird, consisting of various sorts of flowers,

all of beaten gold enamelled.”

[1] “Au dessus du ciel qui est faite en voûte à quatre pans on voit un

Paon, qui a la queue relevée fait de Saphirs bleus et autres pierres de

couleur.”—TAVERNIER, livre ii. chap. viii.

“When the king seats himself upon the throne there is a transparent

jewel, with a diamond appendant of eighty or ninety carats weight,

encompassed with rubies and emeralds, so hung that it is always in his

eye. The twelve pillars also, that uphold the canopy, are set with rows

of fair pearl, round, and of an excellent water, that weigh from six to

ten carats apiece.”

“At the distance of four feet, upon each side of the throne, are placed

two umbrellas, the handles of which are about eight feet high, covered

with diamonds, the umbrellas themselves being of crimson velvet,

embroidered and fringed with pearl.”

“This is the famous throne which Tamerlane began and Shah Jehan

finished; and is really reported to have cost a hundred and sixty

millions and five hundred thousand livres of our money.”

One can picture the enraptured diamond merchant examining this

masterpiece of Oriental luxury with awe-struck eye, appraising the size

and lustre of each gem, and taking the fullest notes with which to

dazzle his countrymen on returning to the more prosaic Europe from what

was then indeed the “Gorgeous East!” This world-famous throne was

seized by Nadir Shah, when he sacked Delhi in 1739, and carried away

(together with our Koh-i-noor diamond) into Persia. Dow, who saw the

famous throne some twenty years before Tavernier, describes _two_

peacocks standing behind it with their tails expanded, which were

studded with jewels. Between the peacocks stood a parrot, life size,

cut out of a single emerald!

_Friday, October_ 20.—Yesterday at 6 A.M. we spurned the dust of Delhi,

hot and blinding, from our feet and clambered into the train, which

whirled us across the sun-baked plain to Agra.

There has been a woeful shortage of rain in the Punjab and Rajputana,

and a famine seems imminent—not a great and universal famine, as, the

monsoon having been irregular, only some districts have suffered to a

serious extent, and they can be supplied from elsewhere, whereas in the

great famine of 1901 the drought parched the whole land, and no help

could be given by one State to another, all lying equally under the

sun’s curse. Not a great famine, perhaps; yet, to one accustomed to the

genial juiciness of the West, the miles and miles of waterless hot

plains, stretching away to where the horizon flickered in the glare,

the brown and parched vegetation, the lean and hungry-looking cattle,

tended by equally lean and famished herds, caused the monotonous view

from the carriage windows to be strangely depressing.

This is the very battle-ground of Nature and the British Raj. We have

given peace and, to a certain extent, prosperity to the teeming

millions of India, and they have increased and multiplied until the

land is overburthened, and Nature, with relentless will, bids Famine

and Pestilence lay waste the cities and the plains. Then Science, with

irrigation works and improved hygiene, strives hard to gain a victory,

but still the struggle rages doubtfully.

Agra we liked as much as we disliked Delhi. To begin with creature

comforts (and the well-being of the body produces a pair of _couleur de

rose_ spectacles for the mental eye), Laurie’s Hotel at Agra is very

much more comfortable than the den we abode in at Delhi, and after a

good tiffin we set forth with light hearts to see the Fort.

This, the accumulated achievement of the greatest of the Mogul

Emperors, is a magnificent monument of their power and pride. The

earliest part, built by Akbar, is all of rich red sandstone. The great

hall of audience and other portions show his broad-minded tolerance and

catholicity of taste in being almost pure Hindu in style and

decoration. Later, with Jehangir and Shah Jehan, the high-water mark of

sumptuousness was attained in the use of pure white marble, lavishly

inlaid with coloured stones.

As we wandered through halls and corridors of marble most richly

wrought, while the sun-glare outside did but emphasise the cool shade

within, or filter softly through the lace-like tracery of pierced

white-marble screens, one longed to reclothe these glorious skeletons

with all the pomp of their dead magnificence—for one magic moment

replace the Great Mogul upon his peacock throne, surround him with a

glittering crowd of courtiers and attendants, clothe the wide marble

floors upon which they stand with richest carpets from the looms of

Persia and the North, and drape the tall white columns with rustling

canopies of silk.

Before the great audience hall let the bare garden-court again glow

with a million blooms; there let the peacocks sun themselves, their

living jewels putting to shame the gems that burn back from aigrette

and from sword-hilt; see and hear the cool waters sparkling once again

from their long-dried founts, flashing in the white sunlight, and

flowing over ducts cunningly inlaid with zigzag bands to imitate the

ripple of the mountain stream.

The dead frame alone is left of all this gorgeous picture. The

imperishable marble glows white in the sunlight as it did in the days

of Shah Jehan. The great red bastions of the Fort frown over the same

placid Jumna, and watch each morning the pearly dome of the Taj Mahal

rise like a moon in the dawn-glow, shimmer through the parching glare

of an Indian day, and at eve sink, rosy, into the purple shadows of

swiftly-falling night, as they did when Shah Jehan sat “in the

sunset-lighted balcony with his eyes fixed on the snow-white pile at

the bend of the river, and his heart full of consolation of having

wrought for her he loved, through the span of twenty years, a work that

she had surely accepted at the last.”[2]

[2] _The Web of Indian Life_

We spent a long afternoon in the Fort, and drove out finally through

the monstrous gateway in a little Victoria, feeling all the time that

none but elephants in all their glory of barbaric caparison could pass

through such a portal worthily.

The moon was full almost a week ago, unfortunately, so we determined

that, failing moonlight, our first visit to the Taj should be at

sunset.

The two miles’ drive along an excellent road was delightful, and the

approach to the Taj has been laid out with much skill as a beautiful

bit of landscape garden. This care is due to Lord Curzon, who has taken

Agra and its monuments into his especial keeping.

A very small golf-course has been laid out, and the familiar form of

the enthusiast could be seen, blind to everything but the flight of

time and his Haskell, hurrying round to save the last of the daylight.

Beneath a tree was laid out a tea equipage, and a few ladies indolently

putting showed that, after all, the game was not taken too seriously.

I have no intention of trying to describe the Taj Mahal. The attempt

has already been made a thousand times. I may merely remark that the

detestable Indian miniatures, and little ivory or marble models that

are, alas! so common, are incapable of giving an idea, otherwise than

misleading, of this wonderful building, which is not—as they would

vainly show it—glaring, staring, and hard, nor does its formality seem

other than just what it should be.

As we saw it first—opalescent in the soft, clear light of sunset—the

chief impression it made upon us was that of size; for this we were

quite unprepared.

As we approached it from the great red entrance arch, along a smooth

path bordering the central stretch of still, translucent water, the

lovely dome rose fairy-like from the masses of trees that, in their

turn, formed a background of solemn green for gorgeous patches of

colour, in bloom and leaf, which glowed on either side as we advanced.

Ascending a flight of steps to the wide terrace, all of whitest marble,

upon which the Taj is raised, we realised that the detail of carving

and of inlay was as perfect as the general effect of the whole.

High as my expectations had been raised, I was not disappointed in the

Taj, and that is saying much, for one’s pre-formed ideas are apt to

soar beyond bounds and to suffer the fate of Icarus. At the same time,

I cannot agree with Fergusson that the Taj Mahal is the most beautiful

building in the world. I do not admit that it is possible to compare

structures of such widely divergent types as the Parthenon, the

Cathedral of Chartres, the Campanile of Giotto, and the Taj Mahal, and

pronounce in favour of any one of them. It is as vain as to contend

that the “Rime of the Ancient Mariner” is a finer poem than Keats’ “Eve

of St. Agnes,” or that the “Erl Konig” is better music than “The

Moonlight Sonata.”

Perhaps it is not too much to say that it is the loveliest tomb in the

world, and the finest specimen of Mohammedan architecture in existence.

If I dared to criticise what would appear to be faultless, I should

humbly suggest that the four corner minarets are not worthy of the

centre building, reminding one rather of lighthouses.

We spent a second day in Agra, revisiting the Fort and the Taj rather

than seeing anything new. We could have hired a motor and rushed out

for a hurried visit to Fatehpur-Sighri, and there was temptation in the

idea; but we decided to content ourselves with the abundant food for

eye and mind which we had in these two wonderful buildings, and in the

evening we took the train for Jaipur.

_Saturday, October 21._—One is apt to be cross and fussed and generally

upset on being landed on a strange platform in the dark at 5.30 A.M.,

as we were at Jaipur, but much solace lay in the fact that a

comfortable carriage stood waiting us and a most kind and genial host

received us on the broad verandah of his bungalow, and the cheering

fact was borne in upon us that we shall have henceforward but little to

do with Indian hotels.

How one appreciates a large, cool room, good servants, good food, and

last, but not least, the society of one’s kind, after two or three

weeks of racket and discomfort by road and rail.

A restful morning enlivened us sufficiently to enjoy a garden party at

the Residency in the afternoon, where not only the English society, but

a large number of native gentlemen, were playing lawn-tennis with

laudable energy.

After Kashmir, where Sir Amar Singh is the only native who mixes at all

with the English, it was interesting to see and meet on terms of

good-fellowship these Rajput aristocrats.

_Sunday, October_ 22.—The city of Jaipur is, I think, principally

interesting as being modern and enlightened among those of the native

states.

When the ancient city of Ambér was abandoned, principally on account of

its scanty water-supply, Jaipur was built upon a regular and

prearranged plan, having a great wide street down the centre, crossed

by two large thoroughfares at right angles, thus dividing the town into

six rectangular blocks.

We drove into the city in the afternoon, and were much impressed by its

airiness and cleanliness. The houses are all coated with pink stucco,

picked out with white, which, in the bright atmosphere, has, at a

little distance, a charming effect. On closer inspection the real

tawdriness and want of solidity of the work become painfully apparent,

and the designs in white upon the pink, in which the wayward fancy of

each householder runs riot, generally leave much to be desired, both in

design and execution.

The broad, clean main streets were a perfect kaleidoscope of colour and

movement. Men in pink pugarees—in lemon-coloured—in emerald green;

women in blood-red saris, bearing shining brass pots upon their heads,

all talking, shouting, jostling—a large family of monkeys on a

neighbouring roof added their quota of conversation—calm oxen, often

with red-painted horns and pink-streaked bodies, camels, asses, horses,

strolled about or pushed their way through the throng. No Hindu cow

would ever dream of making way for anybody. Yes, though! Here comes an

elephant rolling along, and the holy ones with humps discreetly retire

aside, covering their retreat before a _force majeure_ by stepping up

to the nearest greengrocer’s stall and abstracting a generous mouthful

of the most succulent of his wares.

Rising in the midst of a lovely garden, just outside the city, is the

Albert Hall, a remarkably fine structure, built in accordance with the

best traditions of Mohammedan architecture adapted to modern

requirements by our host, the designer. It contains both a museum of

the products of Rajputana, and also an instructive collection of

objects of art and science, gathered together for the edification of

the intelligent native.

We would willingly have spent hours examining the pottery and brass

work for which Jaipur is famous, or in making friends with the denizens

of the great aviary in the garden, but time is short, and even the baby

panther could only claim a few minutes of our devotion.

The Palace of the Maharajah is neither particularly interesting nor

beautiful, and we did not visit it further than to inspect the ancient

observatory built by Jey Singh, with its huge sundial, whose gnomon

stands 80 feet above the ground! What we are pleased to call a

superstitious attention to times lucky or unlucky has given to

astronomical observations in the East an unscientific importance which

they have not had for centuries in Europe.[3] A slight attack of fever

prevented me from going to Ambér; so I stayed at home, peacefully

absorbing quinine, subsequently extracting the following from Jane’s

diary:—

[3] I fear this is somewhat misleading. Jey Singh was, _par

excellence_, an astronomer, not an astrologer,—T. R. S.

“‘Tea ready, mem-sahib.’ The familiar and somewhat plaintive sound of

Sabz Ali’s voice roused me, as it so often has in tent, forest hut, or

matted dounga;”

but this time I was really puzzled for a moment, on awaking, to find

myself in a real comfortable spring bed, white-enamelled and

mosquito-netted, while for roof I only saw the clear, pale, Indian sky.

Then it was I remembered that, at my host’s suggestion, my bed had been

carried out into the shrubbery, and that I had fallen asleep, lulled by

the howling of the jackals and the rustle of the flying squirrels in

the gold mohur-tree overhead.

“Springing on to the cool, grassy carpet, and dressing quickly, to gain

as much time as possible before the rising of the hot October sun, I

was soon ready for breakfast, which Miss Macgregor and I had in the

garden among the parrots and the pigeons, and the dear little

squirrels. We were ready for the road before seven, and were soon

trotting along between dusty hedges of gaunt-fingered cactus, shaded

here and there by neem trees and peepuls.”

“Our smart victoria was lent by a Rajput friend of Sir Swinton’s, and

he had also sent us his private secretary as guide and escort—a very

thin young man in a black sateen coat and gay-flowered waistcoat.”

“Through the pink-stuccoed streets of Jaipur we threaded our

way—slowly, on account of the holy pigeons breakfasting in thousands on

the road, and the sacred bulls, who barely deigned to move aside to let

us pass.”

“It appears to be the custom, when a man dies, for his relatives to let

loose a bull _in memoriam_, and the happy beast forthwith sets out to

live a life of sloth and luxury. The city is his, and every

green-grocer in it is only too much honoured if the fastidious animal

will condescend to make free with his cabbages.”

“Once clear of the crowded streets, we got on quicker, and about six

miles out we found the elephant which had been sent out from the royal

stable to carry us to Ambér. We climbed upon her (it was a lady

elephant) in a great hurry, by means of a rickety sort of ladder, as we

were told that an elephant, if ‘fresh,’ was apt to rise up suddenly, to

the great detriment of the passenger who had ‘not arrived.’ She was a

very friendly-looking creature though, and her little eyes twinkled

most affably; her face was decorated in a scheme of red and green, and

her saddle was a sort of big mattress surrounded by a railing.”

“I am no judge of the paces of elephants, but this one seemed

uncommonly rough; and we held on vigorously to the railing until we

reached a ridge and saw the dead city of Ambér before us, dominated by

the white marble palace, standing on a steep cliff, and reflected in

the water of the lake which laps its base.”

“Up a steep and narrow path we mounted until we reached the courtyard

of the ancient palace of the ruler of Ambér, and there we alighted from

our steed, and set out to explore the ruins. First we came to a small

temple, ugly enough, but interesting, for here a goat is sacrificed

every morning to Kali—a particularly hideous goddess, if the frescoes

on the walls and the golden image in the sanctuary are in any way

truthful! Formerly a human sacrifice was customary, but the unfortunate

goat is found to fulfil modern requirements, since goddesses are more

easily pleased or less pampered than of yore.”

“The Palace, which dates from the seventeenth century, is chiefly

remarkable for its magnificent situation, and for its court and hall of

audience of marble and red sandstone.”

“This work was so fine as to excite the jealousy of the Mogul Emperor,

so the Prince of Ambér had it promptly whitewashed—and whitewashed it

remains to this day. Some of the brazen doors are remarkably fine, as

also those of sandal-wood, inlaid with ivory, in the women’s quarters.”

“We climbed to the marble court on the roof, where, canopied only by

the sky and lighted by the moon, nocturnal durbars were held. Now, in

the glare of the noonday sun, we fully appreciated the value of an

evening sitting, for it was impossible to remain grilling there, even

though the view of the silent city below, falling in tier after tier to

the lake—the glare only broken here and there by patches of green

garden—was superb. On either side rose the bare, rocky ridges,

fort-crowned and looking formidable even in decay, while in front the

dusty road stretched away into the haze of the dusty plains below. Of

course, we should have visited the great Jain temples and other things

worthy of note; but, alas! a green garden, whose palms overhung the

lake, proved more attractive than even Jain temples, and a charming

picnic on fruits and cool drinks strengthened us sufficiently to enable

us to face the hot road home, buoyed up each mile by the nearer

prospect of a tub.”

Jaipur is celebrated for its enamelling on gold, so our host kindly

sent for an eminent jeweller to come and show us some trifles.

Expectant of a humble native carrying the usual bundle, we were much

impressed when, in due time, a dignitary drove up in a remarkably well

turned out carriage and pair. His servants were clad in a smart livery,

and he himself was resplendent, with uncut emerald earrings, and the

general appearance of a certain Savoy favourite as the “Rajah of Bong”!

Our spirits sank as he spread himself and his goods out upon the

drawing-room floor, which speedily became a glittering chaos of gold

and jewelled cups, umbrella handles, boxes, scent-bottles, and

necklaces. Jane divided her admiration between a rope of fat pearls and

a necklace of uncut emeralds, either of which might have been hers at

the trifling price of some 7000 rupees, but we finally restricted our

acquisitions to very modest proportions, and the stout jeweller

departed, apparently no whit less cheerful than when he came.

The modern brass-work of Jaipur is somewhat attractive, and we bought

various articles—a tall lamp-stand, an elephant bell, and a few

ordinary bowls of excellent shape.

I have remarked before on the extreme tameness of, and the confidence

shown by, wild creatures out here. A titmouse came and perched on the

arm of my chair while sitting reading on the verandah at Gulmarg.

The rats and mice, who own the forest houses in the Machipura, have to

be kicked off the beds at night. But the little grey squirrels in Sir

Swinton Jacob’s garden are—_facile princeps_—the boldest wild-fowl we

have yet encountered.

Every afternoon about three, when tea was toward, the squirrels

gathered on the gravel path, and prepared to receive bread and butter.