My Tibetan Friends and Benefactors.
To go back a little in my story, my prosperity as a doctor obliged
me to buy much medicine, and I often went to Thien-ho-thang, a drug
store which was kept by Li Tsu-shu, a Chinese from Yunnang. In China
they make decoctions of their medicines, but the Tibetans take every
medicine in powdered form. Every medical herb and root is pulverised,
as well as some kinds of horns and stones. To get some of these
medicines I was often obliged to stop a couple of days in his house;
and as I bought great quantities of medicine, I came to be treated
very civilly as a good customer. He lent me a book on medicine, the
reading of which added not a little to my small knowledge, and I boldly
undertook every kind of patient. I know I made a very dangerous doctor,
but I was obliged to go on as a pedant domineering over a society of
ignoramuses. Still, I admit I possessed more knowledge of physiology
than most of the doctors in Lhasa, and I was in consequence more
trusted than they.
I frequently went to this druggist, who owned the largest of the three
Chinese drug stores in Lhasa. Li Tsu-shu was about thirty years old and
had a very fine house. He lived with his wife, a son and a daughter, a
mother-in-law and three maids. They treated me as if I were a member
of the family, probably because I was kind to them and gave them all
sorts of things that I received from my friends and clients. When,
for instance, somebody gave me too much cake, sugar, milk or grapes,
for my own use, I used to take them to the druggist to give them to
the children, who were consequently quite impatient to see me. If I
happened not to visit the house for a couple of days, they became
anxious about me. I was soon so much beloved by the children that we
seemed to have been friends for over ten years, and I was sometimes
asked if I had known them in China. This acquaintance with the children
helped me very much afterwards, when I was leaving Tibet.
This _Gyami Menkhang_ or Chinese druggist had his house in the street
of Wan-dzu Shing-khang, in Lhasa. Among those who used to come to his
store was Ma Tseng, Secretary to the Chinese Amban. He was a great
scholar and a man of worldly knowledge. He had a Tibetan mother and
was born in Tibet. He spoke Tibetan without a shade of Chinese accent,
while he spoke and read Chinese quite as well. He had read much in
Chinese, and had been twice in Peking. Three times he had gone to
India, visited Calcutta and Bombay as a peddler, and come back with
a great store of knowledge about foreign affairs. His office hours
being very short, he had much time to spare, and as he was a great
friend of the druggist’s, he came to him very often. This led me to
get acquainted with him, and I found him very amusing. He told me many
Tibetan secrets and many of their habits and customs both good and
bad. I soon found that what was told by him was always true. Being the
Secretary of the Chinese Amban, he was also acquainted with the secret
relations of the Tibetan and Chinese Governments. He was so talkative,
that he would tell me anything before I asked. His acquaintance pleased
me so much that when I was tired of reading I would take a walk to the
druggist’s, with no other object than to talk with this Secretary.
Once while standing at the door of the druggist’s, I saw a man
apparently of quality come towards me with his servant. The store
stands at the corner where the streets leading to Panang-sho and
Kache-hakhang meet, and this man came along Ani-sakan street toward
Panang-sho. He passed a few steps by me, when he turned and looked at
me. Then I heard his servant say that I must be the man. Walking to me
the nobleman said “Is it you?” I looked at him and found him, though
much thinner than before, to be the son of Para the Premier, whom I had
met at Darjeeling. He did not look like a man out of his senses, as I
had been told. He said that he was much pleased that I had come to his
country. He was on some important business, but went with me into the
house of the druggist. The wife of the druggist, who knew him, gave him
a chair, and the young noble seemed to be desirous to talk with me.
I hinted that it was not good for us to let it be known that we had
seen each other at Darjeeling, and began our talk by saying that it
was about half a year since we had met each other at Gyangtze. He also
was aware that his staying at Darjeeling should be kept a secret, and
carefully avoided talking about our having met in that town.
From what he said and did there, I could not find anything in him that
showed him to be an idiot; on the contrary, he was evidently a man of
much sense. Among other things he told me that three months before,
one of his servants committed theft and, when reproved severely, had
pierced him through the side with a sword with the result that a part
of his intestines could be seen. This, he added, made him so haggard.
When, after a long talk, he went on his way, the wife of the druggist
told me that the young man had hoodwinked me about the wounds, which
really were given him for wrong-doing on his side. She told me that
everything concerning his family was known to her, for she had before
been wife to his brother, who, not being allowed to live long with her,
simply because she was of birth too humble for his family, divorced
her and was now adopted at Namsailing. The young man, she told me, was
very prodigal, and deeply in debt, on account of which he was wounded.
To my question whether he was then beside himself, she answered that
he was mad or otherwise as it suited him, and not a man to be easily
trusted, for he was very good at taking money from others.
In Tibet, when people go out to enjoy the flowers (for the
flower-season is very short there) they pitch tents in the wheat-fields
or in a forest, and have every sort of merriment. This is called a
picnic of _lingka_, or forest party, and forms one of the merriest
amusements in Tibet. I was invited once to one of these villas in the
wheat-fields. I found there an old nun of about sixty years of age,
with seven or eight nun-attendants beside her. Hers was not a tent, but
a splendid house of wood, the walls of which were covered over inside
with painted cloth and outside with white cloth. Though temporary,
the building was well furnished. This old lady had been ill for over
fifteen years, and was aware that she was sinking. She said she knew
that her disease was incurable, but nevertheless desired to have such
a famous doctor as myself to feel her pulse, and would be satisfied
if I could only relieve her a little of her pain. I examined her and
found that her trouble was rheumatism, so I gave her a little tincture
of camphor, besides some medicine for her stomach, which was a little
out of order. Faith works wonders. My medicine told well and, her pain
of fifteen years gradually abating, she was soon able to enjoy sound
sleep, which had long been desired by her. Finally she became so well
that she could walk a little. Her raptures can be imagined, and she at
once reported the condition of her health to her family. It seems that
she was married, though not legally, to the Ex-Minister of Finance,
who was also a priest of the New Sect. Shame on Buḍḍhism therefore
that he was living with the nun. Priest nobles are generally supposed
to have wives, though not legally married to them; most of them keep
such women somewhere, and the nuns are the best class of women to be
their wives--at least so had thought the Ex-Minister of Finance. This
particular nun was old now and bent with age, though she was stoutly
built.
When one of the man servants in the residence of the Minister of
Finance fell ill, I was sure to be summoned, for they put great faith
in me and I could not but believe that the Lord Buḍḍha was working
through me to cause me to succeed so wondrously among them. In this
wise I became acquainted with the Ex-Minister of Finance, who was a
deeply learned scholar, as well as an experienced diplomatist. Aged
sixty-two, he was about seven feet six inches in height--taller than
any other Tibetan I saw.
His dress took twice as much cloth as that of an ordinary person.
He knew men well, and was shrewd in business, exceedingly kind and
faithful and never deceitful. His only fault was his living with the
nun. While talking with me, they often repented with tears of the
folly they had committed with each other when young. He was not bad at
heart, but his passionate behavior soiled what should have been his
stainless purity, and also he was much influenced by worldly thoughts.
He had great sympathy with my condition, and often said that he was
very sorry for me to have to see a patient, who had been sent to me
from Lhasa, when the patients in Sera were keeping me so busy. Besides
being sorry for my lack of time for study, he warned me to be on my
guard. Upon my asking him what he meant, he disclosed his fear that I
might be poisoned like many other envied persons, for I had already
robbed many doctors of their business. When I expressed my concern,
he asked me if I should be contented with a moderate living. Being
assured that I should be quite satisfied if I could only obtain a mere
living, he said that he would support me, and offered me a dwelling in
his residence. It was not pretty, he said, but quiet and comfortable.
It was situated out of the way, so that few patients, except those who
were very dangerously ill, would be likely to trouble me, and I could
then study more devotedly. Not only, he said, could I give more time to
study, but I should also be on better terms with the city physicians,
if at the cost of some inconvenience on the part of general patients. I
was very glad to accept this kind offer, for I had been much regretting
the little time and opportunity I had to study Buḍḍhism, which was the
sole object of my coming to Lhasa through so many hardships.