THE CITY AND ITS TEMPLES
By the first week in September I had visited all the most important
temples and monasteries in Lhasa. We generally went in parties of four
and five, and a company of Sikhs or Pathans was left in the courtyard in
case of accidents. We were well armed, as the monks were sullen, though
I do not think they were capable of any desperate fanaticism. If they
had had the abandon of dervishes, they might have rushed our camp long
before. They missed their chance at Gyantse, when a night attack pushed
home by overwhelming numbers could have wiped out our little garrison.
In Lhasa there was the one case of the Lama who ran amuck outside the
camp with the coat of mail and huge paladin's sword concealed beneath
his cloak, a medieval figure who thrashed the air with his brand like a
flail in sheer lust of blood. He was hanged medievally the next day
within sight of Lhasa. Since then the exploit has not been repeated, but
no one leaves the perimeter unarmed.
I have written of the squalor of the Lhasa streets. The environs of the
city are beautiful enough--willow groves intersected by clear-running
streams, walled-in parks with palaces and fish-ponds, marshes where the
wild-duck flaunt their security, and ripe barley-fields stretching away
to the hills. In September the trees were wearing their autumn tints,
the willows were mostly a sulphury yellow, and in the pools beneath the
red-stalked _polygonum_ and burnished dock-leaf glowed in brilliant
contrast. Just before dusk there was generally a storm in the valley,
which only occasionally reached the city; but the breeze stirred the
poplars, and the silver under the leaves glistened brightly against the
background of clouds. Often a rainbow hung over the Potala like a
nimbus.
On the Lingkhor, or circular road, which winds round Lhasa, we saw
pilgrims and devotees moving slowly along in prayer, always keeping the
Potala on their right hand. The road is only used for devotion. One
meets decrepit old women and men, halting and limping and slowly
revolving their prayer-wheels and mumbling charms. I never saw a healthy
yokel or robust Lama performing this rite. Nor did I see the pilgrims
whom one reads of as circumambulating the city on their knees by a
series of prostrations, bowing their heads in the dust and mud. All the
devotees are poor and ragged, and many blind. It seems that the people
of Lhasa do not begin to think of the next incarnation until they have
nothing left in this.
When one leaves the broad avenues between the walls of the groves and
pleasure-gardens, and enters the city, one's senses are offended by
everything that is unsightly and unclean. Pigs and pariah dogs are
nosing about in black oozy mud. The houses are solid but dirty. It is
hard to believe that they are whitewashed every year.
Close to the western entrance are the huts of the Ragyabas, beggars,
outcasts, and scavengers, who cut up the dead. The outer walls of their
houses are built of yak-horns.
Some of the houses had banks of turf built up outside the doors, with
borders of English flowers. The dwellings are mostly two or three
storied. Bird-cages hang from the windows.
The outside of the cathedral is not at all imposing. From the streets
one cannot see the golden roof, but only high blank walls, and at the
entrance a forest of dingy pillars beside a massive door. The door is
thrown open by a sullen monk, and a huge courtyard is revealed with more
dingy pillars that were once red. The entire wall is covered with
paintings of Buddhist myth and symbolism. The colours are subdued and
pleasing. In the centre of the yard are masses of hollyhocks, marigolds,
nasturtiums, and stocks. Beside the flower-borders is a pyramidical
structure in which are burnt the leaves of juniper and pine for
sacrifice.
The cloisters are two-storied; on the upper floor the monks have their
cells. Looking up, one can see hundreds of them gazing at us with
interest over the banisters. The upper story, as in every temple in
Tibet, is coated with a dark red substance which looks like rough paint,
but is really sacred earth, pasted on to evenly-clipped brushwood so as
to seem like a continuation of the masonry. On the face of the wall are
emblems in gilt, Buddhist symbols, like our Prince of Wales's feathers,
sun and crescent moon, and various other devices. A heavy curtain of
yak-hair hangs above the entrance-gate. On the roof are large cylinders
draped in yak-hair cloth topped by a crescent or a spear. Every
monastery and jong, and most houses in Tibet, are ornamented with these.
When one first sees them in the distance they look like men walking on
the roof.
Generally one ascends steps from the outer courtyard to the temple, but
in the Jokhang the floors are level. We enter the main temple by a dark
passage. The great doorway that opens into the street has been closed
behind us, but we leave a company of Pathans in the outer yard, as the
monks are sullen. Our party of four is armed with revolvers.
Service is being held before the great Buddhas as we enter, and a
thunderous harmony like an organ-peal breaks the interval for
meditation. The Abbot, who is in the centre, leans forward from his
chair and takes a bundle of peacock-feathers from a vase by his side. As
he points it to the earth there is a clashing of cymbals, a beating of
drums, and a blowing of trumpets and conch shells.
Then the music dies away like the reverberation of cannon in the hills.
The Abbot begins the chant, and the monks, facing each other like
singing-men in a choir, repeat the litany. They have extraordinary deep,
devotional voices, at once unnatural and impressive. The deepest bass of
the West does not approach it, and their sense of time is perfect.
The voice of the thousand monks is like the drone of some subterranean
monster, musically plaintive--the wail of the Earth God praying for
release to the God of the Skies.
The chant sounds like the endless repetition of the same formula; the
monks sway to it rhythmically. The temple would be dark if it were not
for the flickering of many thousands of votive candles and butter lamps.
Rows upon rows of them are placed before every shrine.
In an inner temple we found the three great images of the Buddhist
trinity--the Buddhas of the past, present, and future. The images were
greater than life-size, and set with jewels from foot to crown. As in
the cloisters of an English cathedral, there were little side-chapels,
which held sacred relics and shrines.
There were lamps of gold, and solid golden bowls set on altars, and
embossed salvers of copper and bronze.
A hanging grille of chainwork protected the precincts from sacrilege,
and an extended hand, bloody and menacing, was stretched from the wall,
terrible enough when suddenly revealed in that dim light to paralyze and
strike to earth with fright any profane thief who would dare to enter.
In the upper story we found a place which we called 'Hell,' where some
Lamas were worshipping the demon protectress of the Grand Lama. The
music here was harsh and barbaric. There were displayed on the pillars
and walls every freak of diabolical invention in the shape of scrolls
and devil-masks. The obscene object of this worship was huddled in a
corner--a dwarfish abortion, hideous and malignant enough for such
rites.
All about the Lamas' feet ran little white mice searching for grain.
They are fed daily, and are scrupulously reverenced, as in their frail
white bodies the souls of the previous guardians of the shrine are
believed to be reincarnated.
In another temple we found the Lamas holding service in worship of the
many-handed Buddha, Avalokitesvara. The picture of the god hung from
pillars by the altar. The chief Lamas were wearing peaked caps
picturesquely coloured with subdued blue and gold, and vestments of the
same hue. The lesser Lamas were bare-headed, and their hair was cropped.
When we first entered, an acolyte was pouring tea out of a massive
copper pot with a turquoise on the spout. Each monk received his tea in
a wooden bowl, and poured in barley-flour to make a paste.
During this interval no one spoke or whispered. The footsteps of the
acolytes were noiseless. Only the younger ones looked up at us
self-consciously as we watched them from a latticed window in the
corridor above.
Centuries ago this service was ordained, and the intervals appointed to
further the pursuit of truth through silence and abstraction. The monks
sat there quiet as stone. They had seen us, but they were seemingly
oblivious.
One wondered, were they pursuing truth or were they petrified by ritual
and routine? Did they regard us as immaterial reflexes, unsubstantial
and illusory, passing shadows of the world cast upon them by an
instant's illusion, to pass away again into the unreal, while they were
absorbed in the contemplation of changeless and universal truths? Or
were we noted as food for gossip and criticism when their self-imposed
ordeal was done?
The reek of the candles was almost suffocating. 'Thank God I am not a
Lama!' said a subaltern by my side. An Afridi Subadar let the butt of
his rifle clank from his boot to the pavement.
At these calls to sanity we clattered out of this unholy atmosphere of
dreams as if by an unquestioned impulse into the bright sunshine
outside.
In the bazaar there is a gay crowd. The streets are thronged by as
good-natured a mob as I have met anywhere. Sullenness and distrust have
vanished. Officers and men, Tommies, Gurkhas, Sikhs, and Pathans, are
stared at and criticised good-humouredly, and their accoutrements
fingered and examined. It is a bright and interesting crowd, full of
colour. In a corner of the square a street singer with a guitar and
dancing children attracts a small crowd. His voice is a rich baritone,
and he yodels like the Tyrolese. The crowd is parted by a Shapé riding
past in gorgeous yellow silks and brocades, followed by a mounted
retinue whose head-gear would be the despair of an operatic hatter. They
wear red lamp-shades, yellow motor-caps, exaggerated Gainsboroughs,
inverted cooking-pots, coal-scuttles, and medieval helmets. And among
this topsy-turvy, which does not seem out of place in Lhasa, the most
eccentrically-hatted man is the Bhutanese Tongsa Penlop, who parades the
streets in an English gray felt hat.
The Mongolian caravan has arrived in Lhasa, after crossing a thousand
miles of desert and mountain tracks. The merchants and drivers saunter
about the streets, trying not to look too rustic. But they are easily
recognisable--tall, sinewy men, very independent in gait, with faces
burnt a dark brick red by exposure to the wind and sun. I saw one of
their splendidly robust women, clad in a sheepskin cloak girdled at the
waist, bending over a cloth stall, and fingering samples as if shopping
were the natural business of her life.
On fine days the wares are spread on the cobbles of the street, and the
coloured cloth and china make a pretty show against the background of
garden flowers. At the doors of the shops stand pale Nuwaris, whose
ancestors from Nepal settled in Lhasa generations ago. They wear a flat
brown cap, and a dull russet robe darker than that of the Lamas. The
Cashmiri shopkeepers are turbaned, and wear a cloak of butcher's blue.
They and the Nuwaris and the Chinese seem to monopolize the trade of the
city.
British officers haunt the bazaars searching for curios, but with very
little success. Lhasa has no artistic industries; nearly all the
knick-knacks come from India and China. Cloisonné ware is rare and
expensive, as one has to pay for the 1,800 miles of transport from
Peking. Religious objects are not sold. Turquoises are plentiful, but
coarse and inferior. Hundreds of paste imitations have been bought.
There is a certain sale for amulets, rings, bells, and ornaments for the
hair, but these and the brass and copper work can be bought for half the
price in the Darjeeling bazaar. The few relics we have found of the West
must have histories. In the cathedral there was a bell with the
inscription 'Te Deum laudamus,' probably a relic of the Capuchins. In
the purlieus of the city we found a bicycle without tyres, and a
sausage-machine made in Birmingham.
With the exception of the cathedral, most of the temples and monasteries
are on the outskirts of the city. There is a sameness about these places
of worship that would make description tedious. Only the Ramo-ché and
Moru temples, which are solely devoted to sorcery, are different. Here
one sees the other soul-side of the people.
The Ramo-ché is as dark and dingy as a vault. On each side of the
doorway are three gigantic tutelary demons. In the vestibule is a
collection of bows, arrows, chain-armour, stag-horns, stuffed animals,
scrolls, masks, skulls, and all the paraphernalia of devil-worship. On
the left is a dark recess where drums are being beaten by an unseen
choir.
A Lama stands, chalice in hand, before a deep aperture cut in the wall
like a buttery hatch, and illumined by dim, flickering candles, which
reveal a malignant female fiend. As a second priest pours holy water
into a chalice, the Lama raises it solemnly again and again, muttering
spells to propitiate the fury.
In the hall there are neither ornaments, gods, hanging canopies, nor
scrolls, as in the other temples. There is neither congregation nor
priests. The walls are apparently black and unpainted, but here and
there a lamp reveals a Gorgon's head, a fiend's eye, a square inch or
two of pigment that time has not obscured.
The place is immemorially old. There are huge vessels of carved metal
and stone, embossed, like the roof, with griffins and skulls, which
probably date back to before the introduction of Buddhism into Tibet,
and are survivals of the old Bon religion. There is nothing bright here
in colour or sound, nothing vivid or animated.
Stricken men and women come to remove a curse, vindictive ones to
inflict one, bereaved ones to pay the initiated to watch the adventures
of the soul in purgatory and guide it on its passage to the new birth,
while demons and furies are lurking to snatch it with fiery claws and
drag it to hell.
All these beings must be appeased by magic rites. So in the Ramo-ché
there is no rapture of music, no communion with Buddha, no beatitudes,
only solitary priests standing before the shrines and mumbling
incantations, dismal groups of two or three seated Buddha-fashion on the
floor, and casting spells to exercise a deciding influence, as they
hope, in the continual warfare which is being waged between the tutelary
and malignant deities for the prize of a soul.
In the chancel of the temple, behind the altar, is a massive pile of
masonry stretching from floor to roof, under which, as folk believe, an
abysmal chasm leads down to hell. Round this there is a dark and narrow
passage which pilgrims circumambulate. The floor and walls are as
slippery as ice, worn by centuries of pious feet and groping hands. One
old woman in some urgent need is drifting round and round abstractedly.
Elsewhere one might linger in the place fascinated, but here in Lhasa
one moves among mysteries casually; for one cannot wonder, in this
isolated land where the elements are so aggressive, among these deserts
and wildernesses, heaped mountain chains, and impenetrable barriers of
snow, that the children of the soil believe that earth, air, and water
are peopled by demons who are struggling passionately over the destinies
of man.
I will not describe any more of the Lhasa temples. One shrine is very
like another, and details would be tedious. Personally, I do not care
for systematic sightseeing, even in Lhasa, but prefer to loiter about
the streets and bazaars, and the gardens outside the city, watch the
people, and enjoy the atmosphere of the place. The religion of Tibet is
picturesque enough in an unwholesome way, but to inquire how the layers
of superstition became added to the true faith, and trace the growth of
these spurious accretions, I leave to archæologists. Perhaps one reader
in a hundred will be interested to know that a temple was built by the
illustrious Konjo, daughter of the Emperor Tai-Tsung and wife of King
Srong-btsan-gombo, but I think the other ninety and nine will be
devoutly thankful if I omit to mention it.
Yet one cannot leave the subject of the Lhasa monasteries without
remarking on the striking resemblance between Tibetan Lamaism and the
Romish Church. The resemblance cannot be accidental. The burning of
candles before altars, the sprinkling of holy water, the chanting of
hymns in alternation, the giving alms and saying Masses for the dead,
must have their origin in the West. We know that for many centuries
large Christian communities have existed in Western China near the
Tibetan frontier, and several Roman Catholic missionaries have
penetrated to Lhasa and other parts of Tibet during the last three
centuries. As early as 1641 the Jesuit Father Grueber visited Lhasa, and
recorded that the Lamas wore caps and mitres, that they used rosaries,
bells, and censers, and observed the practice of confession, penance,
and absolution. Besides these points common to Roman Catholicism, he
noticed the monastic and conventual system, the tonsure, the vows of
poverty, chastity, and obedience, the doctrine of incarnation and the
Trinity, and the belief in purgatory and paradise.[18]
[18] It is interesting to compare Grueber's account with the journal
of Father Rubruquis, who travelled in Mongolia in the thirteenth
century. In 1253 he wrote of the Lamas:
'All their priests had their heads shaven quite over, and they are
clad in saffron-coloured garments. Being once shaven, they lead an
unmarried life from that time forward, and they live a hundred or
two of them in one cloister.... They have with them also,
whithersoever they go, a certain string, with a hundred or two
hundred nutshells thereupon, much like our beads which we carry
about with us; and they do always mutter these words, "Om mani
pectavi (om mani padme hom)"--"God, Thou knowest," as one of them
expounded it to me; and so often do they expect a reward at God's
hands as they pronounce these words in remembrance of God.... I
made a visit to their idol temple, and found certain priests
sitting in the outward portico, and those which I saw seemed, by
their shaven beards, as if they had been our countrymen; they wore
certain ornaments upon their heads like mitres made of paper.'
We occasionally saw a monk with the refined ascetic face of a Roman
Cardinal. Te Rinpoche, the acting regent, was an example. One or two
looked as if they might be humane and benevolent--men who might make one
accept the gentle old Lama in 'Kim' as a not impossible fiction; but
most of them appeared to me to be gross and sottish. I must confess that
during the protracted negociations at Lhasa I had little sympathy with
the Lamas. It is a mistake to think that they keep their country closed
out of any religious scruple. Buddhism in its purest form is not
exclusive or fanatical. Sakya Muni preached a missionary religion. He
was Christlike in his universal love and his desire to benefit all
living creatures. But Buddhism in Tibet has become more and more
degenerate, and the Lamaist Church is now little better than a political
mechanism whose chief function is the uncompromising exclusion of
foreigners. The Lamas know that intercourse with other nations must
destroy their influence with the people.
And Tibet is really ruled by the Lamas. Outside Lhasa are the three
great monasteries of Depung, Sera, and Gaden, whose Abbots, backed by a
following of nearly 30,000 armed and bigoted monks, maintain a
preponderating influence in the national assembly.[19] These men wield a
greater influence than the four Shapés or the Dalai Lama himself, and
practically dictate the policy of the country.
[19] 'It may be asked how the monastic influence is brought to bear
on a Government in which three out of the four principal
Ministers (Shapé) are laymen. The fact seems to be that lying
behind the Tak Lama, the Shapés, and all the machinery of the
Tibetan Government, as we have hitherto been acquainted with it,
there is an institution called the "Tsong-du-chembo," or
"Tsong-dugze-tsom," which may reasonably be compared with what we
call a "National Assembly," or, as the word implies, "Great
Assembly." It is constituted of the Kenpas or Abbots of the three
great monasteries, representatives from the four lings or small
monasteries actually in Lhasa city, and from all the other
monasteries in the province of U; and besides this, all the
officials of the Government are present--laymen and ecclesiastics
alike--to the number of several hundreds.'--Captain O'Connor's
Diary at Khamba Jong (Tibetan Blue-Book, 1904).
The three great monasteries are of ancient foundation, and intimately
associated with the history of the country. They are, in fact,
ecclesiastical Universities,[20] and resemble in many ways our
Universities of Oxford and Cambridge. The Universities are divided into
colleges. Each has its own Abbot, or Master, and disciplinary staff. The
undergraduates, or candidates for ordination, must attend lectures and
chapels, and pass examinations in set books, which they must learn from
cover to cover before they can take their degree. Failure in
examination, as well as breaches in discipline and manners, are punished
by flogging. Corporal punishment is also dealt out to the unfortunate
tutors, who are held responsible for their pupils' omissions. If a
candidate repeatedly fails to pass his examination, he is expelled from
the University, and can only enter again on payment of increased fees.
The three leading Universities are empowered to confer degrees which
correspond to our Bachelor and Doctor of Divinity. The monks live in
rooms in quadrangles, and have separate messing clubs, but meet for
general worship in the cathedral. If their code is strictly observed,
which I very much doubt, prayers and tedious religious observances must
take up nearly their whole day. But the Lamas are adept casuists, and
generally manage to evade the most irksome laws of their scriptures.
[20] I have derived most of my information regarding the discipline
and constitution of Depung from 'Lamaism in Tibet,' by Colonel
Augustine Waddell, who accompanied the expedition as Archæologist
and Principal Medical Officer.
Soon after our arrival in Lhasa we had occasion to visit Depung, which
is probably the largest monastery in the world. It stands in a natural
amphitheatre in the hillside two miles from the city, a huge collection
of temples and monastic buildings, larger, and certainly more imposing,
than most towns in Tibet.
The University was founded in 1414, during the reign of the first Grand
Lama of the Reformed Church. It is divided into four colleges, and
contains nearly 8,000 monks, amongst whom there is a large Mongolian
community. The fourth Grand Lama, a Mongolian, is buried within the
precincts. The fifth and greatest Dalai Lama, who built the Potala and
was the first to combine the temporal and spiritual power, was an Abbot
of Depung. The reigning Dalai Lama visits Depung annually, and a palace
in the university is reserved for his use. The Abbot, of course, is a
man of very great political influence.
All these facts I have collected to show that the monks have some reason
to be proud of their monastery as the first in Tibet. One may forgive
them a little pride in its historic distinctions. Even in our own alma
mater we meet the best of men who seem to gather importance from old
traditions and association with a long roll of distinguished names.
What, then, can we expect of this Tibetan community, the most
conservative in a country that has prided itself for centuries on its
bigotry and isolation--men who are ignorant of science, literature,
history, politics, everything, in fact, except their own narrow
priestcraft and confused metaphysics? We call the Tibetan 'impossible.'
His whole education teaches him to be so, and the more educated he is
the more 'impossible' he becomes.
Imagine, then, the consternation at Depung when a body of armed men rode
up to the monastery and demanded supplies. We had refrained from
entering the monasteries of Lhasa and its neighbourhood at the request
of the Abbots and Shapés, but only on condition that the monks should
bring in supplies, which were to be paid for at a liberal rate. The
Abbots failed to keep their promise, supplies were not forthcoming, and
it became necessary to resort to strong measures. An officer was sent to
the gate with an escort of three men and a letter saying that if the
provisions were not handed over within an hour we would break into the
monastery and take them, if necessary, by force. The messengers were met
by a crowd of excited Lamas, who refused to accept the letter, waved
them away, and rolled stones towards them menacingly, as an intimation
that they were prepared to fight. As the messengers rode away the tocsin
was heard, warning the villagers, women and children, who were gathered
outside with market produce, to depart.
General Macdonald with a strong force of British and native troops drew
up within 1,300 yards of the monastery, guns were trained on Depung, the
infantry were deployed, and we waited the expiration of the period of
grace intimated in the letter. An hour passed by, and it seemed as if
military operations were inevitable, when groups of monks came out with
a white flag, carrying baskets of eggs and a complimentary scarf.
Even in the face of this military display they began to temporize. They
bowed and chattered and protested in their usual futile manner, and
condescended so far as to say they would talk the matter over if we
retired at once, and send the supplies to our camp the next day, if they
came to a satisfactory decision. The Lamas are trained to wrangle and
dispute and defer and vacillate.[21] They seem to think that speech was
made only to evade conclusions. The curt ultimatum was repeated, and the
deputation was removed gently by two impassive sepoys, still chattering
like a flock of magpies.
[21] The highest degree which is conferred on the Lamas by their
Universities is the Rabs-jam-pa (verbally overflowing
endlessly).--Waddell, 'Lamaism in Tibet.'
In the meanwhile we sat and waited and smoked our pipes, and wondered if
there were going to be another Guru. It seemed the most difficult thing
in the world to save these poor fools from the effects of their
obstinate folly. The time-limit had nearly expired, the two batteries
were advanced 300 yards, the gunners took their sights again, and
trained the 10-pounders on the very centre of the monastery.
There were only five minutes more, and we were stirred, according to our
natures, by pity or exasperation or the swift primitive instinct for the
dramatic, which sweeps away the humanities, and leaves one to the
conflict of elemental passions.
At last a thin line of red-robed monks was seen to issue from the gate
and descend the hill, each carrying a bag of supplies. The crisis was
over, and we were spared the necessity of inflicting a cruel
punishment. I waited to see the procession, a group of sullen
ecclesiastics, who had never bowed or submitted to external influence in
their lives, carrying on their backs their unwilling contribution to the
support of the first foreign army that had ever intruded on their
seclusion. It must have been the most humiliating day in the history of
Depung.
It must be admitted that it was not a moment when the monks looked their
best. Yet I could not help comparing their appearance with that of the
simple honest-looking peasantry. Many of them looked sottish and
degraded; other faces showed cruelty and cunning; their brows were
contracted as if by perpetual scheming; some were almost simian in
appearance, and looked as if they could not harbour a thought that was
not animal or sensual. They waddled in their walk, and their right arms,
exposed from the shoulder, looked soft and flabby, as if they had never
done an honest day's work in their life.
One man had the face of an inquisitor--round, beady eyes, puffed cheeks,
and thin, tightly-shut mouth.
How they hated us! If one of us fell into their hands secretly, I have
no doubt they would rack him limb from limb, or cut him into small
pieces with a knife.
The Depung incident shows how difficult it was to make any headway with
the Tibetans without recourse to arms. We were present in the city to
insist on compliance with our demands. But an amicable settlement seemed
hopeless, and we could not stay in Lhasa indefinitely. What if these
monks were to say, 'You may stay here if you like. We will not molest
you, but we refuse to accept your terms'? We could only retire or train
our guns on the Potala. Retreat was, of course, impossible.