In moments of complete despair, when it seems that all is for the worst
in the worst of all possible worlds, it is cheering to discover that
there are places where stupidity reigns even more despotically than in
Western Europe, where civilization is based on principles even more
fantastically unreasonable. Recent experience has shown me that the
depression into which the Peace, Mr. Churchill, the state of
contemporary literature, have conspired to plunge the mind, can be
sensibly relieved by a study, even superficial, of the manners and
customs of Tibet. The spectacle of an ancient and elaborate civilization
of which almost no detail is not entirely idiotic is in the highest
degree comforting and refreshing. It fills us with hopes of the ultimate
success of our own civilization; it restores our wavering
self-satisfaction in being citizens of industrialized Europe. Compared
with Tibet, we are prodigious. Let us cherish the comparison.
My informant about Tibetan civilization is a certain Japanese monk of
the name of Kawaguchi, who spent three years in Tibet at the beginning
of the present century. His account of the experience has been
translated into English, and published, with the title _Three Years in
Tibet_, by the Theosophical Society. It is one of the great travel books
of the world, and, so far as I am aware, the most interesting book on
Tibet that exists. Kawaguchi enjoyed opportunities in Tibet which no
European traveller could possibly have had. He attended the University
of Lhasa, he enjoyed the acquaintance of the Dalai Lama himself, he was
intimate with one of the four Ministers of Finance, he was the friend of
lama and layman, of all sorts and conditions of Tibetans, from the
highest class to the lowest—the despicable caste of smiths and butchers.
He knew his Tibet intimately; for those three years, indeed, he was for
all practical purposes a Tibetan. This is something which no European
explorer can claim, and it is this which gives Kawaguchi’s book its
unique interest.
The Japanese, like people of every other nationality except the Chinese,
are not permitted to enter Tibet. Mr. Kawaguchi did not allow this to
stand in the way of his pious mission—for his purpose in visiting Tibet
was to investigate the Buddhist writings and traditions of the place. He
made his way to India, and in a long stay at Darjeeling familiarized
himself with the Tibetan language. He then set out to walk across the
Himalayas. Not daring to affront the strictly guarded gates which bar
the direct route to Lhasa, he penetrated Tibet at its southwestern
corner, underwent prodigious hardships in an uninhabited desert eighteen
thousand feet above sea-level, visited the holy lake of Manosarovara,
and finally, after astonishing adventures, arrived in Lhasa. Here he
lived for nearly three years, passing himself off as a Chinaman. At the
end of that time his secret leaked out, and he was obliged to accelerate
his departure for India. So much for Kawaguchi himself, though I should
have liked to say more of him; for a more charming and sympathetic
character never revealed himself in a book.
Tibet is so full of fantastic low comedy that one hardly knows where to
begin a catalogue of its absurdities. Shall we start with the Tibetans’
highly organized service of trained nurses, whose sole duty it is to
prevent their patients from going to sleep? or with the Dalai Lama’s
chief source of income—the sale of pills made of dung, at, literally, a
guinea a box? or with the Tibetan custom of never washing from the
moment of birth, when, however, they are plentifully anointed with
melted butter, to the moment of death? And then there is the University
of Lhasa, which an eminent Cambridge philosopher has compared with the
University of Oxford—somewhat unjustly, perhaps; but let that pass. At
the University of Lhasa the student is instructed in logic and
philosophy; every year of his stay he has to learn by heart from one to
five or six hundred pages of holy texts. He is also taught mathematics,
but in Tibet this art is not carried farther than subtraction. It takes
twenty years to get a degree at the University of Lhasa—twenty years,
and then most of the candidates are ploughed. To obtain a superior Ph.D.
degree, entitling one to become a really holy and eminent lama, forty
years of application to study and to virtue are required. But it is
useless to try to make a catalogue of the delights of Tibet. There are
too many of them for mention in this small space. One can do no more
than glance at a few of the brighter spots in the system.
There is much to be said for the Tibetan system of taxation. The
Government requires a considerable revenue; for enormous sums have to be
spent in keeping perpetually burning in the principal Buddhist cathedral
of Lhasa an innumerable army of lamps, which may not be fed with
anything cheaper than clarified yak butter. This is the heaviest item of
expenditure. But a great deal of money also goes to supporting the
Tibetan clergy, who must number at least a sixth of the total
population. The money is raised by a poll tax, paid in kind, the amount
of which, fixed by ancient tradition, may, theoretically, never be
altered. Theoretically only; for the Tibetan Government employs in the
collection of taxes no fewer than twenty different standards of weight
and thirty-six different standards of measure. The pound may weigh
anything from half to a pound and a half; and the same with the units of
measure. It is thus possible to calculate with extraordinary nicety,
according to the standard of weight and measure in which your tax is
assessed, where precisely you stand in the Government’s favour. If you
are a notoriously bad character, or even if you are innocent, but live
in a bad district, your tax will have to be paid in measures of the
largest size. If you are virtuous, or, better, if you are rich, of good
family and _bien pensant_, then you will pay by weights which are only
half the nominal weight. For those whom the Government neither hates nor
loves, but regards with more or less contempt or tolerance, there are
the thirty-four intervening degrees.
Kawaguchi’s final judgment of the Tibetans, after three years’ intimate
acquaintance with them, is not a flattering one:
The Tibetans are characterized by four serious defects, these being:
filthiness, superstition, unnatural customs (such as polyandry), and
unnatural art. I should be sorely perplexed if I were asked to name
their redeeming points; but if I had to do so, I should mention first
of all the fine climate in the vicinity of Lhasa and Shigatze, their
sonorous and refreshing voices in reading the Text, the animated style
of their catechisms, and their ancient art.
Certainly a bad lot of vices; but then the Tibetan virtues are not
lightly to be set aside. We English possess none of them: our climate is
abominable, our method of reading the holy texts is painful in the
extreme, our catechisms, at least in my young days, were far from
animated, and our ancient art is very indifferent stuff. But still, in
spite of these defects, in spite of Mr. Churchill and the state of
contemporary literature, we can still look at the Tibetans and feel
reassured.