LIST OF ARTICLES

LETTER FROM NICHOLAS ROERICH TALKING ABOUT CHINA


(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.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

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