(This is chapter 18 of the Nicholas Roerich's book
Shambhala.)
A LETTER
Large
banners. A great many multicolored banners of various shapes: some oblong, some
triangular, some square-shaped. Most of them are red, with huge golden, black
and white Chinese inscriptions. From behind the banners, one hears the beating
of gigantic drums.
Here marches the army
of the terrible Yang-t’u-tu!
The
ruler of Turkestan is preparing to defend the people of Sinkiang from the
Sining Amban. There are rumors that the old Sining Amban intends to take
reivenge for the murder of his brother, the old Ti-tai of Kashgar. By order of
Yang-t’u-tu, the Ti-tai of Kashgar had been murdered in a most brutal manner by
the Tao-tai of Khotan. And now the Dungans of Sinkiang are full of the thought
of revenge. But, according to other rumors, Yang-t’u-tu has recruited ten
thousand men in order to repel the possible attacks of Feng. Be this as it may,
an army is gathering to march on Hami, or to be more exact, as much of the army
as may reach Hami.
It
is a strange army: ragged, limping, crooked-handed, mole-eyed, with all
evidences of being opium smokers, and gamblers, and beggars. But it is no
wonder, for these soldiers are recruited at the bazaars. They collect them
everywhere they can. The gambling dens, and opium haunts supply a majority of
the soldiers. Every one who cannot prove promptly that he owns property or
cannot buy his freedom with the customary bribe—as if by a magic nod of
Yang-t’u-tu, is transformed into a soldier.
Of
course, where “magic” is available, there is no use for the usual technical
procedure. Why is it necessary to have long-continued target practise and
military training, if without these, an extensive army can be made to appear
from the ground? What does it matter, if even before reaching the town gates,
this army begins—also as if by magic—to dwindle away? Walking beside the army
one sees several boys, and each one of them carries two or three rifles. Of
course these rifles are of different make and mechanism.
But where are the
soldiers themselves?
Of
course they do not miss any opportunities and have already disappeared into the
narrow alleys and into hidden corners of the clay court yards, having just had
time to give their rifles to some casual, gaping passer-by. If a tenth part of
the army reaches Hami, it is already an amazing thing. But for this
circumstance even, the Yang-t’u-tu has his own considerations. Sometimes the
army travels along on carts, and then one sees round the edge of the cart whole
rows of sticks, on each of which hangs a soldier’s cap!
.
. .
Why
must a soldier have hands and feet? A soldier has a head and the main part of
this head is his cap apparently. If the soldier disappears, or even if he has
never as yet materialized, there is still a wonderful remedy: the war
department hangs out caps, each of which is supposed to be a soldier! And for
these, the industrious Yang-t’u-tu receives the corresponding maintenance.
Besides,
Yang-t’u-tu is aware that the army of Sining Amban is recruited in a similar
fashion. Thus, habits of life equalize the forces of the opponents.
As
I have already mentioned, Yang-t’u-tu is an experienced ruler. He knows how to
transfer in due time to foreign banks, all his accumulated millions of taels
and he decides the fate of his subjects by the aid of a cock fight… With the
gods, as you know, Yang-t’u-tu is very harsh. He flogs them, and drowns them
and cuts off their hands and feet. And then he replaces the guilty god by a
local devil, whom he has just raised to this new dignity.
The
stern ruler of Sinkiang has managed to remain head of the province for sixteen
years; he knew how to escape poison, demotion and destruction from war with his
neighbors. A crude brass statue of Yang-t’u-tu has been erected, even during
his lifetime. Of course, it was presented by the “grateful” subjects of
Sinkiang, who received a special note from the local ambans.
The
officials say of Yang-t’u-tu:
-
“He
is cunning, our Yang-t’u-tu.”
Other
officials say:
-
“Our
governor has a very small heart.”
And
the people add heartily:
-
“Anyhow,
he will not live very long.”
But
strangely enough, in the street there appears a detachment of horsemen, quite
unlike the ragged army that has just passed. They have not the huge goiters so
characteristic of the inhabitants of Sinkiang. They are better dressed and one
feels from their riding posture that they are horsemen from birth. They are
Kalmuks, a detachment of the Toin-Lama, Khan of the Torguts.
The
old Khan of the Torguts, owner of the Karashar lands, also fell under the
domination of Yang-t’u-tu, the all-powerful, and in a moment of strange
impulse, handed over the succession to the Chinese official who had been sent
to him. The official hurried home to the capital of Sinkiang with these
precious documents, but the Kalmuks discovered the strange behavior of their
Khan.
Every
mountain pass is well known to the Kalmuk horsemen. And where a Chinese takes
several days—the Karashar horsemen can overtake him in a day. The caravan of
the Chinese envoy disappeared, and so also did the envoy himself with all
letters and documents. For great is Tien Shan, the heavenly mountains, and not
only a caravan, but a whole army can be buried within its passes. Thus the
Kalmuk horsemen have sought to maintain their independence.
On
returning home, the Elders decided that a Khan, who voluntarily gives away his
power, must have lost his reason. So they administered to their Khan a soothing
drink which soothed him forever.
After
this unsuccessful Khan, there remained his young son. Hence, instead of the
Khan, the reins were assumed by his uncle, the Toin-Lama—the same Toin-Lama in
whom was incarnated the spirit of the Tibetan minister, Sangen-Lama. As a
physical identification of this incarnation, the Toin-Lama had a
characteristically deformed knee, exactly like the deceased Tibetan minister.
Even now the Torguts are considered semi-independent.
The
Toin-Lama has trained a special detachment in all the maneuvers of the Siberian
Cossacks. And yet the Lama turned out to be timorous, for when Yang-t’u-tu
demanded that he should send him his complete detachment, this only security of
the independence of the Tor-guts was sent at his demand. Yang-t’u-tu then also
ordered that Toin-Lama himself should come over to live in the capital of
Sinkiang and a special palace was built for the honorary prisoner. And again
the demand of Yang-t’u-tu was carried out.
Yang-t’u-tu
also once asked:
-
“From
where do all the displeasures of the ruler come?”
His
adherents replied:
-
“From
newspapers.”
Yang-t’u-tu’s
decision was ready as always:
-
“Therefore
prohibit all newspapers.”
Yang-t’u-tu
asks:
-
“What
causes unnecessary outer communications to be brought into the country, and
what may clear the huts of their refuse?”
Again
there comes the reply:
-
“Motorcars
agitate the people with their speed and it is difficult to keep an eye on the
boats.”
The
remedy is self-evident: prohibit in all Sinkiang the use of motorcars and
boats, excepting only the ruler himself.” In spite of this, the postmaster of
Sinkiang, an Italian named Cavallieri, by some miracle retained his car. He
also supplies Peking and Shanghai newspapers to the officials of Yang-t’u-tu.
But of course this is done quite privately.
How
long will American and German firms continue to trade in guts and skins in
Sinkiang?
They
have to be very careful indeed to avoid all the hidden rocks planted by this
capricious ruler, who presents a strange sight, with his typical narrow Chinese
gray beard, and his thunder-like coughing that drowns out all contradictions.
He is ready for another world.
Destined
for strange countries are these bales of wool, sewn into white skins and rolled
up near the resting camels:
-
“Who
is coming?”
-
“A
caravan of the Belian Khan.”
-
“Where
are you going?”
-
“Directly
to Tien-Tsin.”
-
“How
long will you be on your way?”
-
“Probably
six months.”
And
the bells of the camels ring gaily, telling, in their inarticulate way, of
far-off America.
-
“What
is this America?”
-
“It
is a far, far-away land, a land taken from a fairy tale, a land where anything
is possible—where for sausages there are not enough guts from sheep of the
Sarts, and where wool is wanted from all over the world; where people move and
speak and write with the aid of machines; where people do not count the money
on counting boards, but where machines themselves do all the counting.”
Every
Sart dreams of trading with America: silk, wool, sheep gut, dried fruit—all
these which constitute his only riches, the Sart would like to offer to
America, but again that same Yang-t’u-tu prevents him. The Sarts ask:
-
“Have
you no pictures of America?”
And
struggling with each other, they snatch the pictures of New York from our
hands. And it pains them that they cannot keep these pictures. It seems to them
that in these gigantic skyscrapers there must live giants, which fly through
the air like a flash on gigantic iron birds. The local population still
recollects the old teaching that some time there will fly steel birds and that
iron dragons will unite all countries. These men have also heard of the
mysterious cities of saintly beings, who know everything. And again they ask:
-
“But
can you give us a book about America?—a book that is written either in Turkish
or in Arabian? Otherwise our mullah will not be able to read them. Let us keep
the pictures of America!”
And
not only is every photograph of the skyscrapers cherished, but even every
colored label is kept and guarded as a sign from far-away America.
In
the sands of Khotan, a long-bearded Moslem asks: “But tell me, could a Ford
pass here, on the old Chinese road?” And in Kashgar people inquire: “Could not
the area of old loess be lifted with a Ford?” And the Kalmuks question whether
a Ford runs quicker than their horses. And the gray-bearded old-believer
(starover) on the Altai dreams: “Oh, if we could but have a Ford here!”
Is
it a man they refer to—is it a machine, is it a building, or is it an abstract
concept? For Asia it is a moving power. Ford is the carrier of a new motion, of
new possibilities, of a new life. His first name has long been lost. The depths
of Asia have no information of the everyday life of this amazing person, but
their conception of him has been blended with a conception of motive power,
thus widening far beyond the scope of a definite idea. And so it has happened
that in the minds of Asia, Ford can do everything.
And
yet another American name has entered the minds of the peoples in the depths of
Asia.
In
a remote section of the Altai Mountains, in the most revered corner, where old
sacred images are kept, our attention was drawn to the reproduction of a
familiar face, cut from some magazine. Before we had time to draw nearer, and
to recognize it as Hoover, the old-believer remarks:
-
“This
is he who feeds the people. Yes, there are such wonderful persons in the world,
who feed not only their own people, but can even feed other nations.”
The
old man himself had not received any message from the A.R.A., but this living
legend has found its way across rivers and mountains, telling of the generous
Giant who kindheartedly distributes sufficient food for the starving people of
all the world.
And
even in far-off Mongolia where one might think this legend could not penetrate,
a forsaken yurta, a Mongol, again tells you that somewhere there lives a great
man, who can feed whole starving nations—and with great difficulty he
pronounces a name which resembles something between Hoover and Kuvera, the
revered Buddhist deity of good luck and wealth. Even into these vast deserts
some interested traveler has carried the uplifting legend about the great man,
who works for the “Common Good.”
The
third outstanding cultural name—widely known in the spaces of Asia—is that of
Senator Borah. A letter from him is considered as a good passport everywhere.
Sometimes in Mongolia, or in the Altai, or in Chinese Turkestan you can hear a
strange pronunciation of his name:
-
“Boria
is a powerful man!”
In
this way the people wisely value the great leaders of our times.
This
is so precious to hear. So precious is it to know that human evolution by
untold paths forces its way into the future.
* * *
And
suddenly there arrived your letter from America, having successfully survived
all the trials of the Chinese mail. Of course the letter had been opened and
very clumsily closed again, but in it the Amban could see nothing terrible. The
Amban did not consider it injurious that you, my friends, are beginning the
construction of a new building. Of course it may have appeared rather strange
to him that this building will be twenty-four stories high, whereas there is no
necessity for the mighty yamen of the T’u-tu himself to be higher than one story.
Of course he considers all your propositions about the school, lectures and
books pretty dangerous, but he passed over them with a smile.
The
people in America have a lot of money and they can occupy themselves with
paintings. But the amban of today does not engage himself with such empty
things and he does not even know a single name of any scientist or of any
artist of contemporary China. And should you continue to question him more
persistently, you would fall considerably in his opinion. Let him rather think
that there are all sorts of queer persons in this world, busying themselves
with most strange matters.
-
“But
these occupations are harmless as far as Yang-t’u-tu is concerned; why should
we therefore destroy these queer fellows; let us return them their letters.”
Thus thinks the Amban.
Maybe
with the help of some Sart or Turkish merchant, or through a Chinese
interpreter, the Amban will also read this letter. And maybe he will not like
what I have said about the Kalmuks and about the cock fights arranged by
Yang-t’u-tu. But seeing that every Amban considers it his duty to hate
Yang-t’u-tu, he may smile as he reads the letter, and may say: “Well, let them
know in America about our old man—he has a small heart.”
But
now the Amban will be quite perplexed; we will speak a language entirely
unknown to him.
My
dear friends, at New Year, had you turned back or were you striving forward? A
good year! Not a wish, but a command must be in this call! It must be good, for
those who desire to work, who devote themselves to educational work.
December
17th, 1916, late at night the train left. It was unheated. Our relatives
thought our departure was madness. Sviatoslav remembers exactly how we wrapped
ourselves in all our blankets, at twenty-five degrees below zero. The dream of
action! And the snow-covered rocks of Finland rose before us as the first
messengers of the future Himalayan heights. E. I. was so impatient to go; she
knew well the hardships of the way but nothing could stop her.
And
you have now become so flexible, and all-armed to encounter obstacles and
attacks, as though they were only inevitable stones and dust on the path. And
before you are manifest the image of slander and distortion. You are becoming
hardened and do not take to heart attacks in the press. You know that all this
has its specific meaning. And the main reason—ignorance, that ignorance which
permits entrance to darkness and calumny. In 1918 I had an amusing experience:
I was apparently buried in Siberia; I was not even there at the time. Requiems
were chanted and obituaries were written. Of course, during our remote journey,
one may imagine how many false interpretations took place. I was shown a
clipping of an interview with A. N. Benois. Even Benois was led astray and
repeated the Parisian gossip and told of the anathema of the Pope. At the time
when, according to the interview of Benois, I was in Lhassa, I was really
passing Altai. Amusing!
The
main thing concerns friends. I rejoice at your information about Zuloaga,
Mestrovic, about Takeuchi, this unseen active friend! How does “Adamant” look
in Japanese? Greetings to Stork for the idea of an international literary
contest.
Friends,
you are all so different, yet all striving. America, South America, India,
China, Egypt, all unite and lose their casual frontiers. Your sudden paths to
Asia, and my last sudden coming to America! All this in manifold episodes
becomes indescribable but tensely unforgettable.
Remember
the furious rains on Altai, when S., although valiantly acknowledging the
necessity of the trip, all wet and plaintively silent, asked of space: “Will it
end?” Or Nettie on the “sea of ice” in Chamounix. And the coming of Franc,
among the dances of the American Indians in Santa Fe. And the falcon-like
decision of L. in Monhegan. And O. valiantly deciding in Geneva. And S. M. with
the coin of Elijah. Or Sv. marching on horseback through the mountain path of
Sikhim with a book in his hands. Or the parting on the railroad station of
Berlin and Tch. asking: “And thus it happened?” And Tat. and Georg. in Paris on
the Rue de Messine, “could they wait?” Or W., who although he agreed to meet
the unexpected, nevertheless, in India awaited the roar of the tiger. Or the
tension of Sh. on the Lyons Railroad Station. And the Philosopher-warrior R. in
Rome. And the anxiousness of Newb.: his apparatus spoiled at the crossing
through Yarkent-Daria. And Av. who courageously walked the deck of the ship
during the “mountainous” sea. And the caressing approach of B.
And
you remember the evening of December 9th, 1924, and all that happened around
the statue of St. Roque?
So
it evolved, incident upon incident; and so it blossomed. To all friends
greetings! And you, build constantly! Build high towers!
Again
we go away beyond mail communication, and wish to see all your work directed
only into the future. Directed toward those masses among whom art penetrates
with such difficulty. Toward universities, schools, the people’s and workers’
clubs, libraries, village communities, railroad stations, prisons, hospitals,
orphan asylums. There the new consciousness is growing. There they await. And
creation is growing together with labor. And all obstacles are only the birth
of possibilities.
Speak
to the people about creation in all work. Say that nothing should impede them,
that each obstacle should be turned into a happy possibility. I used to say to
pupils:
-
“Imagine
for a minute that you are Raphael and I am the Pope. I shall set up all kinds
of conditions for your composition, and you will retain everything and by your
free consciousness will create above all obstacles. If the consciousness lives
freely in you, nothing will diminish it.”
And
let all pupils create in all branches—in art, in ballet and in singing. Until
suddenly they will sing their own song and give their own dance. By all
measures let them sharpen the creative gifts.
In
1924 the article “Star of the Mother of the World” ended:
“Not reclining on clouds, nor playing upon
harps, not hymns of inertia, but constant and illumined labor is predestined.
Not a magician, not a teacher beneath the tree; not the folds of the toga, but
the workman’s garment of the true toil of life will lead us to the resplendent
gates, will lead in full readiness and inconquerability.”
Since
then two years have elapsed. You are fighting on the entire, varied educational
front. The work calls you forward. Not desire, but assurance must be
transmitted to your work; you will never cease; in other words, never grow old!
But
do not think, my friends, that having begun the letter about China, I count
myself among the enemies of China. You know well my admiration of the old
Chinese art and philosophy, as well as of the wonderful Confucian chants, which
not so long ago we heard in New York. But if, on the back of a passer-by, you
see a scorpion or a tarantula, it is your duty to tell him. Today the Chinese
sea is so stirred, that in the formless foaming of the storm you cannot see the
pillars of foundation; and instead of deep clear water everything is muddy. But
I continue to believe that sincere demonstrations of all the outgrown forms and
superstitions will bring only good.
May
the Amban, if he likes, read these wishes of mine. No doubt he will also
understand soon, that when we speak of art, science, and of beauty and culture,
we touch the very best and most living, motive powers of humanity. I hope that
this letter, even if not very soon, will reach you sometime and that we again
will feel as if united, and distances will again seem non-existent.
Greetings
to all Friends!
Ulan
Bator Khoto, January, 1927.
No comments:
Post a Comment