OMMONY CAPITULATES.
Dawa Tsering would say no more about his adventure among the women, but
it was plain enough that he had been made ridiculous. He was fortunate
not to have been caught and manhandled; he realized it.
“If it had not been for some Tibetans,” he grumbled, and then lapsed
into moody silence, sharpening his knife on the edge of the entrance to
Ommony’s cave.
They were left entirely alone, watching birds that moved like specks on
the infinite blue through the opening overhead, until night fell and the
gloom within the shaft grew solid. Sound died with the light, and one
lantern that a man set over the entrance to the Lama’s cave made hardly
any difference.
They brought food again, with some bones for the dog, and a candle to
stick on the floor of the cave; but nothing else happened until the
Lama’s sonorous voice called through the darkness and Ommony followed
him down the tunnel into the vast cavern he had crossed that morning. It
was already thronged with people seated on mats or on the bare floor,
who filled the place with whispers; a shuffling of feet like the sound
of wind and running water came from the entrance, where hundreds more
were coming down the long tunnel.
Such light as there was, came from little smoky lamps set on ledges in
the rock walls. A bell rang when the Lama appeared and the orchestra,
almost invisible in shadow, burst into tune such as Stravinsky never
dreamed of, filling the cavern with din that made the hair
rise—restless yearning noise, accentuated by the hoarse _radongs_.
Across one end of the cavern a strong stage had been erected and a very
rough curtain. The Lama led the way behind it, where the stage was
already set and the make-up man was busy with the last of the actors.
Tibetans pounced on Ommony and dressed him for his part by candle-light,
but in the improvised wings, where the girls waited, whispering and
laughing, there were batteries of acetylene lights all ready to be
turned on, in charge of a man who looked like a Parsee. Where the
footlights should have been there were mirrors arranged to throw the
light back in the actors’ faces. Everything was make-shift; yet
everything appeared to have been done by men who knew precisely what was
wanted and who had worked without confusion to provide it.
Just before the play began the Lama went before the curtain and the
music ceased. There was no light where he stood; to the audience he must
have resembled a shadow dimly outlined on the dark cloth.
He told a story interspersed with proverbs, and the only sound from the
enormous audience was in the pauses, when they caught their breath. The
moment his make-up was complete Ommony stood at the edge of the curtain,
where he could hear and look out at the thousands of eyes, on which the
faint light from the lamps shone like starlight on still water.
“. . . So they spoke to the god who had come among them. And the god
said, ‘Ye have a government; what more do ye want?’ Whereto they
answered. ‘But the government is bad, nor is it of our choosing.’ And
the god said, ‘Is the weather of your choosing?’ And they said, ‘Nay.’
Whereat the god laughed pleasantly, for he was one who knew the cause
and the effect of things. ‘As for the weather,’ he said, ‘ye make the
most of that. When it is hot ye wear lighter garments; and when it is
cold ye light fires. When it rains ye stay indoors, and when it is dry
ye sally forth. If a man complains about the weather, ye say he is a
malcontent who should know that all sorts of weather are of benefit to
some folk, and that all communities in turn receive their share of heat
and cold and drought and moisture. Is that not so?’ the god asked; and
they answered, ‘Yea.’
“So the god asked them another question. ‘If ye so adapt yourselves to
what ye say is not of your contriving, how is it that ye say the
government can not be borne? Can ye say that the rain and the snow and
the heat are good, but the government is not good?’ And the god laughed
loud at them saying, ‘Out of mischief and destruction no improvement
comes. Like comes from like. Improvement is the product of improvement,
not of violence. Ye have the government ye earn, exactly as the earth
receives the weather it deserves. For the weather, which comes and goes,
came and went before your time. Indeed, and also there were governments
before your time. The weather has altered the hills and the plains. The
governments altered your fathers and will alter you, and your sons after
you.’
“Thus said the god. And they answered, ‘Aye. But what if we alter the
government?’ And the god said, ‘Ye can change the name by which ye call
it, and ye can slay those in authority, putting worse fools in their
place, but change its nature ye can not, ye being men, who are only
midway between one life and another. But as the hills are changed, some
giving birth to forests, some being worn down by the wind and rain, the
weather becomes modified accordingly. And it is even so with you. As ye,
each seeking in his own heart for more understanding, purge and modify
yourselves, your government will change as surely as the sun shall rise
to-morrow morning—for the better, if ye deserve it—for the worse if ye
give way to passion and abuse of one another. For a government,’ said
the god, ‘is nothing but a mirror of your minds—tyrannical for
tyrants—hypocritical for hypocrites—corrupt for those who are
indifferent—extravagant and wasteful for the selfish—strong and
honorable only toward honest men.’ And having spoken to them thus, the
god departed, some remembering his words and some forgetting them. To
those who remembered, life thereafter was not so difficult, because of
hope that brought tolerance so that they minded each his own business,
which is enough for any man to do. But to those who forgot, there was
trouble and confusion, which each created for himself, but for which
each blamed the government, which therefore persecuted him. Because a
government is only the reflection of men’s minds. May peace, which is
the fruit of wisdom, perfect you in all your ways.”
The _radongs_ roared, drowning the last echo of the sonorous
benediction. The orchestra crashed into the overture. The Lama stepped
behind the curtain with a glance to right and left to make sure every
one was in his place, sat down behind the well and signaled for the play
to begin.
As before, Dawa Tsering danced on first, but in no other respect was the
play quite the same as on the previous night. The Lama’s signals, made
at unexpected moments, changed things as if he were making music with
the actors for his instrument. _Sotto voce_ he prompted, and no one on
the stage dared to slacken his attention for a moment for fear of
missing a changed cue. He seemed to know how to adapt and modify the
play to fit the different environment and, in keeping with the solemn
gloom of the huge cavern, he subtly stressed the mystery. The acetylene
lights threw a weird, cameo-like paleness over everything; the Lama made
the most of that, instead of struggling to overcome it.
Toward the end of the last act the audience was spell-bound, for the
moment too interested to applaud; and the Lama took advantage of that,
too. He hurried in front of the curtain and stood with both hands
raised, the messenger of climax.
“Peace!” he boomed. “Peace is born within the womb of silence! Go in
silence. Break not the thread of peace! Ye have conceived it! Bring it
forth!”
The orchestra played softly, blending sounds as gentle as falling rain
with the burble of streams and the distant boom of waterfalls. There
were bird notes, and the sighing of wind through trees—half-melancholy,
yet majestic rhythm with an undernote of triumph brought out by the
muffled drums.
“And if they would not talk for a day or two, they might perhaps
remember!” said the Lama, pausing as he walked past Ommony, who was
being stripped of his _saddhu’s_ costume. “There is virtue in silence.”
“Listen, O Captain of Conundrums!” said Ommony, trying to speak with
emphasized respect but failing, because a Tibetan was rubbing his face
with a towel to remove grease-paint. “I can see I was too hasty to
suspect you of wrong-doing. I capitulate. From now on, I’m your friend
for all I’m worth.” It was the most emotional speech he had made in
twenty years, but emotion gripped him; he could not help himself.
The Lama smiled, his wrinkles multiplying the shrewd kindness of the
bright old eyes.
“For all you are worth? If you knew, my son, how _much_ that is, you
might be less extravagant. Jump not from one emotion to another, lest
you lose self-mastery!” He passed on, beckoning to Samding.
There was the same swift, exactly detailed rush to pack up and depart;
the same apparent flight for no apparent motive—this time in covered
bullock-carts that creaked through dimly lighted streets, until they
came to a pitched camp on the outskirts of town, where camels and horses
waited. Thereafter, cloaked beyond recognition, everybody except the
Lama rode horseback, he sitting on a camel at the head of the procession
looking like an old enormous vampire, his head drooped forward on his
breast.
The girls rode surrounded by hooded men, who let no other men except
Samding come near them. Ommony tried to draw abreast to see whether they
sat their horses skilfully or not, but two Tibetans rode him off and,
saying nothing, held his rein until the girls had a lead of a hundred
yards. After that they kept two horses’ lengths ahead of him, and even
drove Diana back when Ommony Bent her forward just to see what would
happen.
There was only a thin new moon, and the road ran for most of the
distance between huge peepul trees that rendered the whole caravan
invisible. Two hours after midnight they reached a village, where a
change was made back to bullock-carts, which conveyed them to a town
that they entered shortly after daylight and now, for the first time, no
precautions were taken to prevent Ommony from learning where he was. The
Lama had taken him at his word.
Ommony laughed as he recognized the inevitable effect of that. He would
almost have preferred continued mistrust. He must now regard himself as
the Lama’s guest. Intensely curious still, immensely interested, as much
puzzled as ever, but satisfied that the Lama was, as he expressed it to
himself, “a pukka sportsman,” he had to make up his mind to learn
nothing that he might be called on to explain (for instance to McGregor)
later on.
“I hate this business of condemning a man on mere suspicion. The old
boy’s entitled to the benefit of doubt. From me, from now, he gets it.
I’m ashamed of having doubted him. Damn! I hate feeling ashamed!”
Obstinacy has its good side. Having made up his mind that the Lama was
entitled to respect, Ommony could no more have helped respecting and
protecting him than he would have dreamed of not protecting, for
instance, Benjamin in the old days when Benjamin was a fugitive from
rank injustice.
He began deliberately to shut his eyes to information. The advice of the
Chinese prince-poet, not to watch your neighbor too closely when he is
in your melon patch, about defined his attitude. And it is surprising
how much a man can avoid seeing, if he is determined not to expose
another’s secrets.
He laughed at himself. He could not resist the impulse to continue in
the Lama’s company, although it was likely enough that sooner or later
his presence in disguise might endanger the lives of the entire troupe.
He was perfectly aware that he had received no definite proof of the
Lama’s honesty, pretty nearly sure that his own change of attitude was
due to the same psychology that had won the applause of the crowd, and
finally excused himself (with a laugh at his own speciousness) on the
ground that he and Dawa Tsering and the dog were indispensable.
But when he had been shown into a small room at the rear of a temple
enclosure, that seemed to have been deserted by its Hindu owners and, by
some mysterious means, reserved for the Lama’s use, the Lama came to
him, accompanied as usual by Samding, and after looking at him for a
moment seemed to read his mind, and promptly blew the argument to
pieces.
“My son, I do not need you, or the dog or Dawa Tsering. All three are
good, but I am not the molder of your destiny. Is there another way you
would prefer to take?”
“I’ll go with you,” said Ommony, “if you’ll accept my word that I’m not
spying on you.”
The Lama looked amused. His wrinkles moved as if he had tucked away a
smile in their recesses.
“My son, to spy is one thing; to absorb enlightenment is something else.
A man might spy for all eternity and learn nothing but confusion. For
what purpose did you spy on me in the beginning?”
Ommony jumped into that opening. Here was frankness at last!
“I think you know without my telling. I began with the sole intention of
finding my way into the Ahbor Valley to look for traces of my sister and
her husband, who vanished in that direction twenty years ago. The piece
of jade fell into my hands, and you know how that led to my meeting you.
Then I heard a story about little European girls smuggled into the Ahbor
Valley. I have seen these girls you have in your company. Explain them.
Clear up the mystery.”
The Lama seemed to hesitate. “I could talk to you about the stare,” he
said presently. “Yet if you should meditate about them, and observe, you
would learn more than I could tell you. My son, have you meditated on
the subject of your sister?”
“On and off for twenty years,” said Ommony.
“And you now pursue the course your meditation has discovered? It
appears to me that is the proper thing to do.”
“You mean, if I follow you I’ll find out?”
“I am no fortune-teller. Electricity, my son, was in the world from the
beginning. How many million men observed its effects before one
discovered it? Gold was in the world from the beginning. How many men
pass where it lies hidden, until one digs and finds it? Wisdom was in
the universe from the beginning, but only those whose minds are open to
it can deduce the truth from what they see.”
“Do you _know_ what became of her?” Ommony asked abruptly. The tone of
his voice was belligerent, but the Lama ignored that. He answered with a
sort of masked look on his face as if he himself were still pondering
the outcome:
“If I were to tell you _all I know_, you would inevitably draw a wrong
conclusion. There are pitfalls on the way to knowledge. Suspicion and
pride are the worst; but a desire to learn too quickly is a grave
impediment.”
During about three breaths he seemed to be considering whether to say
more or not; but he leaned an arm on Samding’s shoulder and walked out
of the room without speaking again.
Sooner or later we must learn all knowledge. It is therefore
necessary to begin. And for a beginning much may be learned from
this: that men in pain and men in anger are diverted from either
sensation by a song—and very readily.
From the Book of the Sayings of Tsiang Samdup.