THE SACRED CITY OF THE LIVING BUDDHA
Far up in northern Mongolia, where the forests stretch in an unbroken
line to the Siberian frontier, lies Urga, the Sacred City of the Living
Buddha. The world has other sacred cities, but none like this. It is
a relic of medieval times overlaid with a veneer of twentieth-century
civilization; a city of violent contrasts and glaring anachronisms.
Motor cars pass camel caravans fresh from the vast, lone spaces of the
Gobi Desert; holy lamas, in robes of flaming red or brilliant yellow,
walk side by side with black-gowned priests; and swarthy Mongol women,
in the fantastic headdress of their race, stare wonderingly at the
latest fashions of their Russian sisters.
We came to Urga from the south. All day we had been riding over
rolling, treeless uplands, and late in the afternoon we had halted on
the summit of a hill overlooking the Tola River valley. Fifteen miles
away lay Urga, asleep in the darkening shadow of the Bogdo-ol (God's
Mountain). An hour later the road led us to our first surprise in
Mai-ma-cheng, the Chinese quarter of the city. Years of wandering in
the strange corners of the world had left us totally unprepared for
what we saw. It seemed that here in Mongolia we had discovered an
American frontier outpost of the Indian fighting days. Every house and
shop was protected by high stockades of unpeeled timbers, and there
was hardly a trace of Oriental architecture save where a temple roof
gleamed above the palisades.
Before we were able to adjust our mental perspective we had passed from
colonial America into a hamlet of modern Russia. Gayly painted cottages
lined the road, and, unconsciously, I looked for a white church with
gilded cupolas. The church was not in sight, but its place was taken by
a huge red building of surpassing ugliness, the Russian Consulate. It
stands alone on the summit of a knoll, the open plains stretching away
behind it to the somber masses of the northern forests. In its imposing
proportions it is tangible evidence of the Russian Colossus which not
many years ago dominated Urga and all that is left of the ancient
empire of the Khans.
For two miles the road is bordered by Russian cottages; then it
debouches into a wide square which loses its distinctive character
and becomes an indescribable mixture of Russia, Mongolia, and China.
Palisaded compounds, gay with fluttering prayer flags, ornate houses,
felt-covered _yurts_, and Chinese shops mingle in a dizzying chaos of
conflicting personalities. Three great races have met in Urga and each
carries on, in this far corner of Mongolia, its own customs and way of
life. The Mongol _yurt_ has remained unchanged; the Chinese shop, with
its wooden counter and blue-gowned inmates, is pure Chinese; and the
ornate cottages proclaim themselves to be only Russian.
But on the street my wife and I could never forget that we were in
Mongolia. We never tired of wandering through the narrow alleys, with
their tiny native shops, or of watching the ever-changing crowds.
Mongols in half a dozen different tribal dresses, Tibetan pilgrims,
Manchu Tartars, or camel drivers from far Turkestan drank and ate and
gambled with Chinese from civilized Peking.
The barbaric splendor of the native dress fairly makes one gasp for
breath. Besides gowns and sashes of dazzling brilliance, the men wear
on their heads all the types of covering one learned to know in the
pictures of ancient Cathay, from the high-peaked hat of yellow and
black--through the whole, strange gamut--to the helmet with streaming
peacock plumes. But were I to tell about them all I would leave none of
my poor descriptive phrases for the women.
It is hopeless to draw a word-picture of a Mongol woman. A photograph
will help, but to be appreciated she must be seen in all her colors.
To begin with the dressing of her hair. If all the women of the Orient
competed to produce a strange and fantastic type, I do not believe that
they could excel what the Mongol matrons have developed by themselves.
Their hair is plaited over a frame into two enormous flat bands, curved
like the horns of a mountain sheep and reënforced with bars of wood or
silver. Each horn ends in a silver plaque, studded with bits of colored
glass or stone, and supports a pendent braid like a riding quirt. On
her head, between the horns, she wears a silver cap elaborately chased
and flashing with "jewels." Surmounting this is a "saucer" hat of black
and yellow. Her skirt is of gorgeous brocade or cloth, and the jacket
is of like material with prominent "puffs" upon the shoulders. She
wears huge leather boots with upturned, pointed toes, similar to those
of the men, and when in full array she has a whole portière of beadwork
suspended from the region of her ears.
She is altogether satisfying to the lover of fantastic Oriental
costumes, except in the matter of footgear, and this slight exception
might be allowed, for she has so amply decorated every other available
part of her anatomy.
Moreover, the boots form a very necessary adjunct to her personal
equipment, besides providing a covering for her feet. They are many
sizes too large, of course, but they furnish ample space during the
bitter cold of winter for the addition of several pairs of socks,
varying in number according to the thermometer. During the summer she
often wears no socks at all, but their place is taken by an assortment
of small articles which cannot be carried conveniently on her person.
Her pipe and tobacco, a package of tea, or a wooden bowl can easily be
stuffed into the wide top boots, for pockets are an unknown luxury even
to the men.
In its kaleidoscopic mass of life and color the city is like a great
pageant on the stage of a theater, with the added fascination of
reality. But, somehow, I could never quite make myself believe that
it was real when a brilliant group of horsemen in pointed, yellow hats
and streaming, peacock feathers dashed down the street. It seemed
too impossible that I, a wandering naturalist of the drab, prosaic
twentieth century, and my American wife were really a living, breathing
part of this strange drama of the Orient.
But there was one point of contact which we had with this dream-life
of the Middle Ages. Yvette and I both love horses, and the way to a
Mongol's heart is through his pony. Once on horseback we began to
identify ourselves with the fascinating life around us. We lost the
uncomfortable sense of being merely spectators in the Urga theatricals,
and forgot that we had come to the holy city by means of a very
unromantic motor car.
We remained at Urga for ten days while preparations were under way
for our first trip to the plains, and returned to it often during the
summer. We came to know it well, and each time we rode down the long
street it seemed more wonderful that, in these days of commerce, Urga,
and in fact all Mongolia, could have existed throughout the centuries
with so little change.
There is, of course, no lack of modern influence in the sacred city,
but as yet it is merely a veneer which has been lightly superimposed
upon its ancient civilization, leaving almost untouched the basic
customs of its people. This has been due to the remoteness of Mongolia.
Until a few years ago, when motor cars first made their way across the
seven hundred miles of plains, the only access from the south was by
camel caravan, and the monotonous trip offered little inducement to
casual travelers. The Russians came to Urga from the north and, until
the recent war, their influence was paramount along the border. They
were by no means anxious to have other foreigners exploit Mongolia, and
they wished especially to keep the country as a buffer-state between
themselves and China.
Not only is Urga the capital of Mongolia and the only city of
considerable size in the entire country but it is also the residence
of the Hutukhtu, or Living Buddha, the head of both the Church and the
State. Across the valley his palaces nestle close against the base of
the Bogdo-ol (God's Mountain), which rises in wooded slopes from the
river to an elevation of eleven thousand feet above sea level.
The Sacred Mountain is a vast game preserve, which is patrolled by two
thousand lamas, and every approach is guarded by a temple or a camp of
priests. Great herds of elk, roebuck, boar, and other animals roam the
forests, but to shoot within the sacred precincts would mean almost
certain death for the transgressor. Some years ago several Russians
from Urga made their way up the mountain during the night and killed
a bear. They were brought back in chains by a mob of frenzied lamas.
Although the hunters had been beaten nearly to death, it required all
the influence of the Russian diplomatic agent to save what remained of
their lives.
The Bogdo-ol extends for twenty-five miles along the Tola Valley,
shutting off Urga from the rolling plains to the south. Like a gigantic
guardian of the holy city at its base, it stands as the only obstacle
to the wireless station which is soon to be erected.
The Hutukhtu has three palaces on the banks of the Tola River. One of
them is a hideous thing, built in Russian style. The other two at least
have the virtue of native architecture. In the main palace the central
structure is white with gilded cupolas, and smaller pavilions at the
side have roofs of green. The whole is surrounded by an eight-foot
stockade of white posts trimmed with red.
The Hutukhtu seldom leaves his palace now, for he is old and sick and
almost blind. Many strange stories are told of the mysterious "Living
God" which tend to show him "as of the earth earthy." It is said that
in former days he sometimes left his "heaven" to revel with convivial
foreigners in Urga; but all this is gossip and we are discussing a very
saintly person. His passion for Occidental trinkets and inventions
is well known, however, and his palace is a veritable storehouse for
gramophones, typewriters, microscopes, sewing machines, and a host of
other things sold to him by Russian traders and illustrated in picture
catalogues sent from the uttermost corners of the world. But like a
child he soon tires of his toys and throws them aside. He has a motor
car, but he never rides in it. It has been reported that his chief use
for the automobile is to attach a wire to its batteries and give his
ministers an electric shock; for all Mongols love a practical joke, and
the Hutukhtu is no exception.
Now his palace is wired for electricity, and a great arc light
illuminates the courtyard. One evening Mr. Lucander and Mr. Mamen, who
sold the electric plant to the Hutukhtu, were summoned to the palace to
receive payment. They witnessed a scene which to-day could be possible
only in Mongolia. Several thousand dollars in silver were brought
outside to their motor car, and the lama, who paid the bills, insisted
that they count it in his presence.
A great crowd of Mongols had gathered near the palace and at last a
long rope was let out from one of the buildings. Kneeling, the Mongols
reverently touched the rope, which was gently waggled from the other
end, supposedly by the Hutukhtu. A barbaric monotone of chanted prayers
arose from the kneeling suppliants, and the rope was waggled again.
Then the Mongols rode away, silent with awe at having been blessed
by the Living God. All this under a blazing electric light beside an
automobile at the foot of the Bogdo-ol!
The Hutukhtu seemed to feel that it became his station as a ruling
monarch to have a foreign house with foreign furniture. Of course he
never intended to live in it, but other kings had useless palaces
and why shouldn't he? Therefore, a Russian atrocity of red brick was
erected a half mile or so from his other dwellings. The furnishing
became a matter of moment, and Mr. Lucander, who was temporarily in
the employ of the Mongolian Government, was intrusted with the task
of attending to the intimate details. The selection of a bed was most
important, for even Living Buddhas have to sleep sometimes--they
cannot always be blessing adoring subjects or playing jokes on their
ministers of state. With considerable difficulty a foreign bed was
purchased and brought across the seven hundred miles of plains and
desert to the red brick palace on the banks of the Tola River.
Mr. Lucander superintended its installation in the Hutukhtu's boudoir
and himself turned chambermaid. As this was the first time he had
ever made a bed for a Living God, he arranged the spotless sheets and
turned down the covers with the greatest care. When all was done to
his satisfaction he reported to one of the Hutukhtu's ministers that
the bed was ready. Two lamas, high dignitaries of the church, were
the inspection committee. They agreed that it _looked_ all right, but
the question was, how did it _feel?_ Mr. Lucander waxed eloquent on
the "springiness" of the springs, and assured them that no bed could
be better; that this was the bed _par excellence_ of all the beds
in China. The lamas held a guttural consultation and then announced
that before the bed could be accepted it must be tested. Therefore,
without more ado, each lama in his dirty boots and gown laid his
unwashed self upon the bed, and bounced up and down. The result was
satisfactory--except to Lucander and the sheets.
Although to foreign eyes and in the cold light of modernity the
Hutukhtu and his government cut a somewhat ridiculous figure, the
reverse of the picture is the pathetic death struggle of a once
glorious race. I have said that unaccustomed luxury was responsible for
the decline of the Mongol Empire, but the ruin of the race was due to
the Lama Church. Lamaism, which was introduced from Tibet, gained its
hold not long after the time of Kublai Khan's death in 1295. Previous
to this the Mongols had been religious liberals, but eventually Lamaism
was made the religion of the state. It is a branch of the Buddhist
cult, and its teachings are against war and violent death.
By custom one or more sons of every family are dedicated to the
priesthood, and as Lamaism requires its priests to be celibate, the
birth rate is low. To-day there are only a few million Mongols in a
country half as large as the United States (exclusive of Alaska), a
great proportion of the male population being lamas. With no education,
except in the books of their sect, they lead a lazy, worthless
existence, supported by the lay population and by the money they
extract by preying upon the superstitions of their childlike brothers.
Were Lamaism abolished there still would be hope for Mongolia under a
proper government, for the Mongols of to-day are probably the equals of
Genghis Khan's warriors in strength, endurance, and virility.
The religion of Mongolia is like that of Tibet and the Dalai Lama of
Lhassa is the head of the entire Church. The Tashi Lama residing at
Tashilumpo, also in Tibet, ranks second. The Hutukhtu of Mongolia is
third in the Lama hierarchy, bearing the title _Cheptsundampa Hutukhtu_
(Venerable Best Saint). According to ancient tradition, the Hutukhtu
never dies; his spirit simply reappears in the person of some newly
born infant and thus comes forth reëmbodied. The names of infants, who
have been selected as possible candidates for the honor, are written
upon slips of paper incased in rolls of paste and deposited in a golden
urn. The one which is drawn is hailed as the new incarnation.
Some years ago the eyesight of the Hutukhtu began to fail, and a great
temple was erected as a sacrifice to appease the gods. It stands on
a hill at the western end of Urga, surrounded by the tiny wooden
dwellings of the priests. "The Lama City" it is called, for only those
in the service of the Church are allowed to live within its sacred
precincts. In the temple itself there is an eighty-foot bronze image of
Buddha standing on a golden lotus flower. The great figure is heavily
gilded, incrusted with precious stones, and draped with silken cloths.
I was fortunate in being present one day when the temple was opened
to women and the faithful in the city. Somewhat doubtful as to my
reception, I followed the crowd as it filed through an outer pavilion
between a double row of kneeling lamas in high-peaked hats and robes
of flaming yellow. I carried my hat in my hand and tried to wear
a becoming expression of humility and reverence. It was evidently
successful, for I passed unhindered into the Presence. At the entrance
stood a priest who gave me, with the others, a few drops of holy water
from a filthy jug. Silent with awe, the people bathed their faces with
the precious fluid and prostrated themselves before the gigantic figure
standing on the golden lotus blossom, its head lost in the shadows of
the temple roof. They kissed its silken draperies, soiled by the lips
of other thousands, and each one gathered a handful of sacred dirt from
the temple floor. From niches in the walls hundreds of tiny Buddhas
gazed impassively on the worshiping Mongols.
PLATE VI
[Illustration: THE GREAT TEMPLE AT URGA]
[Illustration: A PRAYER WHEEL AND A MONGOL LAMA]
[Illustration: LAMAS CALLING THE GODS AT A TEMPLE IN URGA]
[Illustration: MONGOL PRAYING AT A SHRINE IN URGA]
The scene was intoxicating in its barbaric splendor. The women in their
fantastic headdresses and brilliant gowns; the blazing yellow robes
of the kneeling lamas; and the chorus of prayers which rose and fell
in a meaningless half-wild chant broken by the clash of cymbals and
the boom of drums--all this set the blood leaping in my veins. There
was a strange dizziness in my head, and I had an almost overpowering
desire to fall on my knees with the Mongols and join in the chorus of
adoration. The subtle smell of burning incense, the brilliant colors,
and the barbaric music were like an intoxicating drink which inflamed
the senses but dulled the brain. It was then that I came nearest
to understanding the religious fanaticism of the East. Even with a
background of twentieth-century civilization I felt its sensuous power.
What wonder that it has such a hold on a simple, uneducated people, fed
on superstition from earliest childhood and the religious traditions of
seven hundred years!
The service ended abruptly in a roar of sound. Rising to their feet,
the people streamed into the courtyard to whirl the prayer wheels about
the temple's base. Each wheel is a hollow cylinder of varying size,
standing on end, and embellished with Tibetan characters in gold. The
wheels are sometimes filled with thousands of slips of paper upon which
is written a prayer or a sacred thought, and each revolution adds to
the store of merit in the future life.
The Mongol goes farther still in accumulating virtue, and every native
house in Urga is gay with fluttering bits of cloth or paper on which
a prayer is written. Each time the little flag moves in the wind it
sends forth a supplication for the welfare of the Mongol's spirit in
the Buddhistic heaven. Not only are the prayer wheels found about the
temples, but they line the streets, and no visiting Mongol need be
deprived of trying the virtue of a new device without going to a place
of worship. He can give a whirl or two to half a dozen within a hundred
yards of where he buys his tea or sells his sheep.
On every hand there is constant evidence that Urga is a sacred city. It
never can be forgotten even for a moment. The golden roofs of scores of
temples give back the sunlight, and the moaning chant of praying lamas
is always in the air. Even in the main street I have seen the prostrate
forms of ragged pilgrims who have journeyed far to this Mecca of the
lama faith. If they are entering the city for the first time and crave
exceeding virtue, they approach the great temple on the hill by lying
face down at every step and beating their foreheads upon the ground.
Wooden shrines of dazzling whiteness stand in quiet streets or cluster
by themselves behind the temples. In front of each, raised slightly at
one end, is a prayer board worn, black and smooth by the prostrated
bodies of worshiping Mongols.
Although the natives take such care for the repose of the spirit in
after life, they have a strong distaste for the body from which the
spirit has fled and they consider it a most undesirable thing to have
about the house. The stigma is imposed even upon the dying. In Urga a
family of Mongols had erected their _yurt_ in the courtyard of one of
our friends. During the summer the young wife became very ill, and when
her husband was convinced that she was about to die he moved the poor
creature bodily out of the _yurt_. She could die if she wished, but it
must not be inside his house.
The corpse itself is considered unclean and the abode of evil spirits,
and as such must be disposed of as quickly as possible. Sometimes the
whole family will pack up their _yurt_ and decamp at once, leaving the
body where it lies. More usually the corpse is loaded upon a cart which
is driven at high speed over a bit of rough ground. The body drops off
at some time during the journey, but the driver does not dare look
back until he is sure that the unwelcome burden is no longer with him;
otherwise he might anger the spirit following the corpse and thereby
cause himself and his family unending trouble. Unlike the Chinese, who
treat their dead with the greatest respect and go to enormous expense
in the burial, every Mongol knows that his coffin will be the stomachs
of dogs, wolves, or birds. Indeed, the Chinese name for the raven is
the "Mongol's coffin."
The first day we camped in Urga, my wife and Mrs. MacCallie were
walking beside the river. Only a short distance from our tent they
discovered a dead Mongol who had just been dragged out of the city. A
pack of dogs were in the midst of their feast and the sight was most
unpleasant.
The dogs of Mongolia are savage almost beyond belief. They are huge
black fellows like the Tibetan mastiff, and their diet of dead human
flesh seems to have given them a contempt for living men. Every Mongol
family has one or more, and it is exceedingly dangerous for a man to
approach a _yurt_ or caravan unless he is on horseback or has a pistol
ready. In Urga itself you will probably be attacked if you walk unarmed
through the meat market at night. I have never visited Constantinople,
but if the Turkish city can boast of more dogs than Urga, it must be
an exceedingly disagreeable place in which to dwell. Although the dogs
live to a large extent upon human remains, they are also fed by the
lamas. Every day about four o'clock in the afternoon you can see a cart
being driven through the main street, followed by scores of yelping
dogs. On it are two or more dirty lamas with a great barrel from which
they ladle out refuse for the dogs, for according to their religious
beliefs they accumulate great merit for themselves if they prolong the
life of anything, be it bird, beast, or insect.
In the river valley, just below the Lama City, numbers of dogs can
always be found, for the dead priests usually are thrown there to be
devoured. Dozens of white skulls lie about in the grass, but it is a
serious matter even to touch one. I very nearly got into trouble one
day by targeting my rifle upon a skull which lay two or three hundred
yards away from our tent.
The customs of the Mongols are not all as gruesome as those I have
described, yet Urga is essentially a frontier city where life is seen
in the raw. Its natives are a hard-living race, virile beyond compare.
Children of the plains, they are accustomed to privation and fatigue.
Their law is the law of the northland:
".... That only the Strong shall thrive,
That surely the Weak shall perish and only the Fit survive."
In the careless freedom of his magnificent horsemanship a Mongol seems
as much an untamed creature of the plains as does the eagle itself
which soars above his _yurt_. Independence breathes in every movement;
even in his rough good humor and in the barbaric splendor of the native
dress.
But the little matter of cleanliness is of no importance in his
scheme of life. When a meal has been eaten, the wooden bowl is licked
clean with the tongue; it is seldom washed. Every man and woman
usually carries through life the bodily dirt which has accumulated in
childhood, unless it is removed by some accident or by the wear of
years. One can be morally certain that it will never be washed off by
design or water. Perhaps the native is not altogether to blame, for,
except in the north, water is not abundant. It can be found on the
plains and in the Gobi Desert only at wells and an occasional pond, and
on the march it is too precious to be wasted in the useless process
of bathing. Moreover, from September until May the bitter winds which
sweep down from the Siberian steppes furnish an unpleasant temperature
in which to take a bath.
The Mongol's food consists almost entirely of mutton, cheese, and tea.
Like all northern people, he needs an abundance of fat, and sheep
supply his wants. There is always more or less grease distributed about
his clothes and person, and when Mongols are _en masse_ the odor of
mutton and unwashed humanity is well-nigh overpowering.
I must admit that in morality the Mongol is but little better off than
in personal cleanliness. A man may have only one lawful wife, but may
keep as many concubines as his means allow, all of whom live with the
members of the family in the single room of the _yurt_. Adultery is
openly practiced, apparently without prejudice to either party, and
polyandry is not unusual in the more remote parts of the country.
The Mongol is _unmoral_ rather than immoral. He lives like an untaught
child of nature and the sense of modesty or decency, as we conceive it,
does not enter into his scheme of life. But the operation of natural
laws, which in the lower animals are successful in maintaining the
species, is fatally impaired by the loose family relations which tend
to spread disease. Unless Lamaism is abolished I can see little hope
for the rejuvenation of the race.
In writing of Urga's inhabitants and their way of life I am neglecting
the city itself. I have already told of the great temple on the hill
and its clustering lama houses which overlook and dominate the river
valley. Its ornate roof, flashing in the sun, can be seen for many
miles, like a religious beacon guiding the steps of wandering pilgrims
to the Mecca of their faith.
At the near end of the broad street below the Lama City is the tent
market, and just beyond it are the black-smith shops where bridles,
cooking pots, tent pegs, and all the equipment essential to a wandering
life on the desert can be purchased in an hour--if you have the price!
Nothing is cheap in Urga, with the exception of horses, and when we
began to outfit for our trip on the plains we received a shock similar
to that which I had a month ago in New York, when I paid twenty dollars
for a pair of shoes. We ought to be hardened to it now, but when we
were being robbed in Urga by profiteering Chinese, who sell flour at
ten and twelve dollars a sack and condensed milk at seventy-five cents
a tin, we roared and grumbled--and paid the price! I vowed I would
never pay twenty dollars for a pair of shoes at home, but roaring and
grumbling is no more effective in procuring shoes in New York than it
was in obtaining flour and milk in Urga.
We paid in Russian rubles, then worth three cents each. (In former
years a ruble equaled more than half a dollar.) Eggs were well-nigh
nonexistent, except those which had made their way up from China over
the long caravan trail and were guaranteed to be "addled"--or whatever
it is that sometimes makes an egg an unpleasant companion at the
breakfast table. Even those cost three rubles each! Only a few Russians
own chickens in Urga and their productions are well-nigh "golden
eggs," for grain is very scarce and it takes an astounding number of
rubles to buy a bushel.
Fortunately we had sent most of our supplies and equipment to Urga by
caravan during the winter, but there were a good many odds and ends
needed to fill our last requirements, and we came to know the ins and
outs of the sacred city intimately before we were ready to leave for
the plains. The Chinese shops were our real help, for in Urga, as
everywhere else in the Orient, the Chinese are the most successful
merchants. Some firms have accumulated considerable wealth and the
Chinaman does not hesitate to exact the last cent of profit when
trading with the Mongols.
At the eastern end of Urga's central street, which is made picturesque
by gayly painted prayer wheels and alive with a moving throng of
brilliant horsemen, are the Custom House and the Ministry of Foreign
Affairs. The former is at the far end of an enormous compound filled
with camel caravans or loaded carts. There is a more or less useless
wooden building, but the business is conducted in a large _yurt_,
hard against the compound wall. It was an extraordinary contrast to
see a modern filing-cabinet at one end and a telephone box on the
felt-covered framework of the _yurt_.
Not far beyond the Custom House is what I believe to be one of the most
horrible prisons in the world. Inside a double palisade of unpeeled
timbers is a space about ten feet square upon which open the doors of
small rooms, almost dark. In these dungeons are piled wooden boxes,
four feet long by two and one-half feet high. These coffins are the
prisoners' cells.
Some of the poor wretches have heavy chains about their necks and
both hands manacled together. They can neither sit erect nor lie at
full length. Their food, when the jailer remembers to give them any,
is pushed through a six-inch hole in the coffin's side. Some are
imprisoned here for only a few days or weeks; others for life, or for
many years. Sometimes they lose the use of their limbs, which shrink
and shrivel away. The agony of their cramped position is beyond the
power of words to describe. Even in winter, when the temperature
drops, as it sometimes does, to sixty degrees below zero, they are
given only a single sheepskin for covering. How it is possible to live
in indescribable filth, half-fed, well-nigh frozen in winter, and
suffering the tortures of the damned, is beyond my ken--only a Mongol
could live at all.
The prison is not a Mongol invention. It was built by the Manchus and
is an eloquent tribute to a knowledge of the fine arts of cruelty that
has never been surpassed.
I have given this description of the prison not to feed morbid
curiosity, but to show that Urga, even if it has a Custom House, a
Ministry of Foreign Affairs, motor cars, and telephones, is still at
heart a city of the Middle Ages.
In Urga we made a delightful and most valuable friend in the person of
Mr. F. A. Larsen. Most foreigners speak of him as "Larsen of Mongolia"
and indeed it is difficult for us to think of the country without
thinking of the man. Some thirty years ago he rode into Mongolia and
liked it. He liked it so much, in fact, that he dug a well and built a
house among the Tabool hills a hundred miles north of Kalgan. At first
he labored with his wife as a missionary, but later he left that field
to her and took up the work which he loved best in all the world--the
buying and selling of horses.
During his years of residence in Mongolia hundreds of thousands of
horses have passed under his appraising eyes and the Mongols respect
his judgment as they respect the man. I wish that I might write the
story of his life, for it is more interesting than any novel of romance
or adventure. In almost every recent event of importance to the Mongols
Mr. Larsen's name has figured. Time after time he has been sent as
an emissary of the Living Buddha to Peking when misunderstandings or
disturbances threatened the political peace of Mongolia. Not only does
he understand the psychology of the natives, but he knows every hill
and plain of their vast plateau as well as do the desert nomads.
For some time he had been in charge of Andersen, Meyer's branch at
Urga with Mr. E. W. Olufsen and we made their house our headquarters.
Mr. Larsen immediately undertook to obtain an outfit for our work upon
the plains. He purchased two riding ponies for us from Prince Tze Tze;
he borrowed two carts with harness from a Russian friend, and bought
another; he loaned us a riding pony for our Mongol, a cart horse of
his own, and Mr. Olufsen contributed another. He made our equipment a
personal matter and he was never too busy to assist us in the smallest
details. Moreover, we could spend hours listening to the tales of
his early life, for his keen sense of humor made him a delightful
story-teller. One of the most charming aspects of our wandering life is
the friends we have made in far corners of the world, and for none have
we a more affectionate regard than for "Larsen of Mongolia."
PLATE VII
[Illustration: MONGOL WOMEN BESIDE A "YURT"]
[Illustration: THE HEADDRESS OF A MONGOL MARRIED WOMAN]
[Illustration: THE FRAMEWORK OF A YURT]
[Illustration: MONGOL WOMEN AND A LAMA]