I

THE HEART OF ASIA
     Is the heart of Asia beating? Or has it been suffocated by the sands?
     From the Brahmaputra to the Irtysh, from the Yellow River to the Caspian Sea, from Mukden to Arabia—everywhere are terrible, merciless waves of sand. The cruel Taklamakan is a threatening extreme of lifelessness, deadening the central part of Asia. Under moving sands, the old Imperial Chinese road hides itself. Out of sandy hills, trunks of a once mighty forest lift their seared arms. Like deformed skeletons, the age-devoured walls of ancient cities stretch along the road.
     Perhaps near this very spot passed the great travelers, the migrating nations. The eye, here and there, glimpses isolated kereksurs, menhirs, cromlechs, and rows of stones—silent guardians of ancient cults.
     The extremities of Asia, to be sure, wage a gigantic struggle with the ocean tides. But is Asia’s heart alive? When a Hindu yogi arrests his pulse, his heart still continues its inner functions. So, too, the heart of Asia. In oases, in yurts, in caravans, dwells an unusual thought. The masses of people, entirely isolated from the outside world, who receive some distorted message of outside events only after a lapse of months, do not die. Each sign of civilization, as we shall see, is greeted by them as a benevolent, long-awaited message. Rather than reject possibilities, they try to adapt their religions to the new conditions of life. This is apparent when we see what the people in the most remote deserts say of the leaders of civilization and humanitarianism.
     The name of Ford, for instance, has penetrated into the most remote yurts and provinces.
     Amid the sands of the Taklamakan, a long-bearded Moslem asks: “Tell me, could a Ford negotiate the old Chinese road?”
     And near Kashgar they ask: “Can a Ford tractor plow our fields?”
     In Chinese Urumchi, on the Kalmuck steppes, throughout Mongolia, the word “Ford” is used as a synonym for motive power.
     A gray-bearded Old Believer in the wild Altai Mountains, or a youth of the cooperative, says enviously: “In America, you have a Ford. But unfortunately we have none” . . . Or, “If only Ford were here.”
     Even in the Tibetan highlands, they dream of carrying a Ford in parts, up through the mountain passes.
     Crossing powerful streams, they ask: “But could your Ford cross this?”
     Ascending steep slopes, they ask again: “And could a Ford also climb up here?”—as if they were speaking of some mythical giant, who can surmount all obstacles.
     And another American name has penetrated into the most secluded spots: in a far-away corner of the Altai, in a peasant’s hut, in the most venerated corner where the sacred images are kept, one may recognize a familiar face—a yellowish portrait, apparently taken from some stray magazine. Looking closer, you see that it is none other than President Hoover himself.
     The Old Believer says: “This is he who feeds the people. Yes, there exist such rare, remarkable persons, who feed not only their own nations, but also others. Yet the mouth of the people is not a small one.”
     The old man himself had never received an American Relief food package, but the living legend has crossed rivers and mountains, proclaiming how the generous giant kindheartedly distributed food and nourished the nations of the entire world.
     One would never expect that news from the outside world could penetrate to the outskirts of Mongolia. But in a forsaken yurt a Mongol again tells you that somewhere beyond the ocean there lives a great man, who feeds all starving people. And he pronounces a name in a rather strange way, sounding somewhat like Hoover or Koovera—the Buddhist Deity of wealth and good fortune. In the most unexpected places, a traveler who has mastered the local language can encounter inspiring legends about the great people working for the good of all.
     Through the Rockefeller Institutions, the name of Rockefeller has also reached even far-off cities. With pride and satisfaction, the people speak of their collaboration with these institutions and the way they have been helped by them. The generosity of this American hand has created a direct, widespread feeling of gratitude and friendship.
     The fourth outstanding cultural name widely known in the vastness of Asia is that of Senator Borah. A letter from him is regarded as a good passport everywhere. Sometimes in Mongolia, or in the Altai, or in Chinese Turkestan, you may hear a strange pronunciation of this name: “Boria is a powerful man!”
     In this way, popular wisdom evaluates the great leaders of our times. This is so valuable to hear. So precious is it to know that human evolution, in unexplainable ways, penetrates the future.
     Everywhere, the American flag accompanied us, fastened to a Mongolian spear. It accompanied us through Sinkiang, through the Mongolian Gobi, through Tsaidam and through Tibet. It was our standard during the encounter with the wild Panagis. It greeted the Tibetan governors, princes, and their generals. Many friends did it meet, and few enemies. And these few were of a special kind: the governor of the northern Tibetan fortress Nag-Chu, who assured us that there were only seven nations in all the world. Another was Ma, the Taotai of Khotan, who was a complete ignoramus and who is renowned for his murders.
     But the friends were numerous. If only the West could have seen with what intense interest all photographs of New York skyscrapers were examined, and how hungrily the people listened to our narratives of life in America, it would rejoice to hear how such masses of simple people are attracted to cultural achievements.
     Of course in a brief survey we cannot describe in detail the whole of Central Asia. But even in piecemeal fashion, we can still review the present situation of those vast lands and glance at the monuments of a heroic past as well as the untold riches of Asia.
     Here as everywhere, on one side you can see remarkable monuments, refined processes of thought based on ancient wisdom and the cordiality of human relationships. You can rejoice at beauty and can easily be understood. But do not be astonished to find, in the very same places, perverted forms of religions, ignorance, and signs of decay and degeneration.
     We must see things as they are. Without conventional sentimentality, we must greet the light and justly expose pernicious darkness. We must carefully separate prejudice and superstition from the hidden symbols of ancient knowledge. Let us greet all that aspires towards creation and construction and deplore the barbaric destruction of the treasures of nature and of the spirit.
     Of course, as an artist my main aspiration in Asia was towards artistic work, and it is even difficult to estimate how soon I can record all my artistic impressions and sketches—so generous are these gifts of Asia. No knowledge acquired in literature or in museums empowers one to express Asia or any other country, unless one has seen it with his own eyes and has made at least some notes and sketches at the sites themselves. Conviction, this magic and intangible property of creation, comes only in the continuous gathering of real conceptions. It is true, mountains everywhere are mountains, water everywhere is water, sky everywhere is sky, and men everywhere are men. But nevertheless, if seated before the Alps, you attempt to picture the Himalayas, something inexplicable but convincing will be lacking. In addition to its artistic aims, our Expedition planned to study the position of the ancient monuments of Central Asia, to observe the present condition of religions and creeds, and to note the traces of the great migrations of nations. This latter problem has always been of special interest to me. In the latest discoveries of the Koslov expedition, in the works of Professors Rostovtsev, Borovka, Makarenko, Toll and many others, we see the great interest in Scythian, Mongolian, and Gothic antiquities. The ancient discoveries in Siberia, the traces of the great migrations in Minusinsk, Altai, and Ural, add an extraordinarily rich artistic and historic material to the Pan-European Romanesque and early Gothic. And how close these themes are to present-day artistic creation—many of these animal and floral stylizations could have come from the best modern workshop.

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     The main route of the Expedition widely encircled Central Asia. The chief points to be mentioned were the following:
     Darjeeling, the monasteries of Sikkim, Benares, Sarnath, Northern Punjab, Rawalpindi, Kashmir, Ladakh, Karakorum, Khotan, Yarkend, Kashgar, Aksu, Kuchar, Karashahr, Toksun, the Turfan region, Urumchi, T’ien-Shan, Kozeun, Zaisan, Irtysh, Novonikolaevsk, Biisk, Altai, Oirotia, Verkhneudinsk, Buriatya, Troitskosavsk, Altyn-Bulak, Urga, Yum-Beise, Anhsi-chou, Shih-pao ch’eng, Nanshan, Sharagolji, Tsaidam, Neiji, Marco Polo range, Kokushili, Dungbure, Nagchu, Shentsa-Dzong, Tingri-Dzong, Shekar-Dzong, Kampa-Dzong, Sepo La, Gangtok, and back to Darjeeling.
     We crossed the following mountain passes. We have a list of thirty-five passes from fourteen to twenty-one thousand feet:
     Zoji La, Khardong La, Karaul Davan, Sasser Pass, Dabzang Pass, Karakorum Pass, Suget Pass, Sanju Pass, Urtu-Kashkariym Daban, Ulan Daban, Chakharin Daban, Khentu Pass, Neiji La, Kokushili Pass, Dungbure Pass, Thang La, Kam-rong La, Ta-sang La, Lamsi Pass, Naptra La, Tamaker Pass, Shentsa Pass, Laptse-Nagri, Tsang La, Lam-Ling Pass, Pong-chen La, Dong-chen La, Sang-mo La, Kyegong La, Tsug-chung La, Gya La, Urang La, Sharu La, Gulung La and Sepo La.
     While speaking of the crossing of the passes, it may be mentioned that, except on the Thang La, during the entire journey with its many passes, no one suffered seriously. Even in the case of the Thang La, the conditions were exceptional. There was a feeling of nervousness in the Expedition over the uncertain negotiations with the Tibetans. The conditions of the pass itself are also most exacting. George had such an exhausting heart attack there that he almost fell from his horse. Our doctor administered large doses of digitalis and ammonia and, expressing anxiety for George’s life, restored the blood circulation by massage. Lama Malonov also fell from his horse there and was found lying unconscious on the ground. Also, three more members of the caravan had serious attacks of “Soor,” or mountain sickness, which is evident in headache, poor blood circulation, sickness, and general fatigue. In any case, such weakness, in a varying degree, is characteristic during the crossing of the mountain passes. On the passes bleeding often sets in, first from the nose and later from other less protected organs.
     The same symptoms may also be seen with animals at altitudes of fifteen thousand feet. The caravan road through Kardong, Sasser, Karakorum, especially is covered with skeletons of all sorts of animals: horses, donkeys, mules, yaks, camels, and dogs. On the way we saw several weak animals, heavily bleeding, which had been left behind. Motionless and trembling, they awaited their end. Their death could not be averted. There would have been only one way to save them: to take them away from the altitude of seventeen or eighteen thousand feet, to an altitude of about seven or eight thousand, which was impossible. In our caravan we had cases of bleeding among the men and animals, but fortunately without any disastrous results. Probably the measures that we took each time before crossing a pass prevented this.
     Inexperienced travelers may think that before climbing difficult heights, it is advisable to fortify the body with meat, brandy, and smoke. But these three are the greatest enemies. Our experienced Ladakh guides firmly warned us that in crossing the passes, hunger was most beneficial to men and animals, and that nothing stimulating should be taken. At each pass, we always started out before dawn, drinking but a small cup of hot tea. The horses also were given no food. The lama who was with us bled several times, but the septuagenarian Chinese interpreter never had any trouble when crossing passes. Of course every superfluous movement or increased work caused weakness, giddiness and, with some people, even nausea, but a few minutes’ rest restores the circulation of the blood.
     We also suffered so-called mountain-blindness. Three of us had it in varying degrees—the Kalmuck, Khedub; the Tibetan, Konchok; and myself. This unpleasant trouble lasted five or six days. In my case, the right eye was affected and after two days I saw everything double, but quite clearly and distinctly. Khedub and Konchok saw everything even four times. We verified this with accuracy and repeatedly obtained the same results.
     Equally unpleasant, especially for Mrs. Roerich, was the so-called hot snow, when the snow, reflecting the sun’s rays, emits an intolerable heat, from which it is impossible to find escape.
     We had three other unfortunate occurrences in the caravan: attacks of heart failure, which carried away three people, and inflammation of the lungs, of which two more died. Several people in our caravan also suffered from scurvy, among them one European, the chief of our transport. It must be mentioned that in Northern Tibet we met with many severe cases of scurvy.
     In addition to the main core of the Expedition, consisting of Mrs. Roerich, our son George, and myself, besides the caravaneers and servants, from time to time during our long travels we had several collaborators. During our Sikkim journey, we were accompanied by our second son, Sviatoslav and Lama Lobzang Mingyur Dorje, the well-known scholar of Tibetan literature and teacher of most of the European Tibetologists. Every traveler in Sikkim is met with a cordial reception by the general of the Tibetan army, Laden-La, now in the British service, who in every way assists travelers. During our further passage, as Chinese interpreter, the septuagenarian officer of the Chinese Army, Tsai Han-chen, as well as a Kalmuck lama Lobzang, went with us. On the Altai mountains we met S. G. and M. M. Lichtmann. After Urga, the expedition was augmented by Dr. Riabinin, by the chief of our transport, Porten, and by two sisters, unusual helpers of Mrs. Roerich, Ludmila and Raya Bogdanova, local Cossack girls of whom the younger one, Raya, was only thirteen years old at the time they joined the expedition. I believe she was the youngest non-Tibetan that has ever crossed the severe uplands of Tibet. The presence of three women, who shared all the dangers of the terrible frosts and hardships of the way, must be definitely stressed. In Sharagolchi before Ulan-Davan, two members were added—Colonel K. and G. in charge of expedition supplies.
     Let us begin with Sikkim:
     This blessed country, full of reminiscences of the illumined leaders of religions, leaves an impression of great calmness. Here lived Padma Sambhava, the founder of the Red Cap sect. Atisha, who proclaimed the teaching of Kalachakra, crossed this country on his way to Tibet. Here, in the caves, dwelt many ascetics, filling space with their powerful thoughts.
     Behind Kanchenjunga, in subterranean caves, still live hermits, and only a trembling hand, stretched out for food in answer to a pre-arranged knock, indicates that the physical body is still alive. All seventeen peaks of the Himalayas shine above Sikkim. From West to East, they are Kang Peak, Jannu, Little Khabru, Khabru, Dom Peak, Talung Peak, Talung saddle, Kanchenjunga, Pandim, Jubonu, Simvoo, Narsing, Siniolchu, Pakichu, Chomiomo, Lama Andem, Kanchenjhau.
     It is a whole snowy realm, altering its outlines with every variation of light! Verily it is inexhaustible in impressions and unceasingly evocative.
     Nowhere else on earth are expressed two such entirely different worlds. Here is the earthly world, with its rich vegetation, brilliant butterflies, pheasants, leopards, panthers, monkeys, snakes, and the innumerable other animals that inhabit the ever-green jungles of Sikkim. And above the clouds, in unexpected heights, shines the snowy kingdom, which has nothing in common with the busy ant-hill of the jungles. It is an eternally moving ocean of clouds, with untold varieties of mist.
     Kanchenjunga has attracted the attention equally of Tibetans and Indians. Here was created the inspiring myth about Shiva, who drank the poison of the world for the sake of humanity. Here, from the churning of the clouds, rose the brilliant Lakshmi, for the joy of the world..
     In general, a beneficent atmosphere is also maintained in the monasteries of Sikkim. On every hill, on every summit, as far as the eye can reach, white points can be seen—these are all strongholds of the teaching of Padma Sambhava, the official religion of Sikkim. The Maharajah of Sikkim, who lives in Gangtok, is deeply religious. The Maharani, his wife, is of Tibetan descent, and her education is quite exceptional compared to the usual Tibetan.
     All monasteries of Sikkim are associated with some relics and ancient traditions. Here lived Padma Sambhava himself. Here the Teacher meditated upon a rock. When this rock splits anew, it means that the life of this place has diverted from the path of righteousness.
     The Pemayangtse monastery is the official center of religion in Sikkim. Near the monastery are still seen ruins of the ancient palace of former Maharajahs. But far greater spiritual importance is attached to the old monastery Tashi-ding, which is one day’s march away from Pemayangtse. Every traveler should visit this remarkable place, despite the difficult path by a bamboo bridge over a wild torrent.
     We were in Tashi-ding in February, at the time of the Tibetan New Year, when thousands of visitors from the neighboring villages lend an exceptional picturesqueness to the ancient place. At that season in Tashi-ding is also performed the annual miracle of the Chalice. Every year an ancient stone chalice is half filled with water and sealed in the presence of the lamas and representatives of the Maharajah. The following year, also on New Year’s Day, the casket in which the chalice is kept is unsealed. The old silk in which the chalice is wrapped is removed and, according to the amount of water remaining in the chalice, the future is predicted. The water either decreases, or, as is told, sometimes increases. Thus it was said to have considerably increased in 1914, before the Great War, and such increase always means calamity and war.
     In all monasteries of Sikkim you can feel a friendly attitude toward foreigners and the hospitable atmosphere is undisturbed. The head lamas readily show you their treasures, among which are many old objects of fine workmanship.
     We were in Sikkim at the time of the third ill-fated Everest Expedition, and the lamas told us: “We wonder why the pelings—foreigners—take such trouble in climbing. They will not be successful. Many of our lamas have been on the top of Mount Everest, but they were there in their astral bodies.”
     In these places many things seemingly strange to the European appear quite natural. Recently in Darjeeling, a strange episode took place with an old lama. During a disorder in the street, the lama, a casual spectator, was arrested by the police together with the guilty agitators of the disorder. The lama did not protest and together with all the others was sentenced to a certain term of imprisonment. When the term was over and the lama was to be released, he asked permission to remain in prison, because it was quiet and most suitable for concentration!
     Sikkim also provided us with wonderful, beneficent legends. In the temple, for instance, while the gigantic trumpets roared, the lama asked:
     “Do you know why the trumpets of our temples have so resonant a tone?”
     Then he explained: “The ruler of Tibet decided to summon from India, from the places where dwelt the Blessed One, a learned lama, in order to purify the fundaments of the teaching. How to meet the guest? The High Lama of Tibet, inspired by a vision, gave the design of a new trumpet so that the guest should be received with unprecedented sound; and the meeting was a wonderful one—not by the wealth of gold but by the grandeur of sound!” . . .
     “And do you know why the gongs in the temple ring out with such great volume? With silver clarity resound the gongs and bells at dawn and evening, when the higher currents are tense. Their sound reminds one of the beautiful legend of the Chinese emperor and the great lama: In order to test the knowledge and clairvoyance of the lama, the emperor made him a seat out of sacred books, and covering them with fabrics, invited the guest to sit down. The Lama said certain prayers and then sat down.
     “The emperor demanded of him: ‘If your knowledge is so universal, how could you sit down on the sacred books?’
     “ ‘There are no sacred volumes,’ answered the lama. And the astonished emperor, instead of his sacred volumes, found only empty paper.
     “The emperor thereupon gave to the lama many gifts and bells of liquid chime. But the lama ordered them to be thrown into the river, saying: ‘I will not be able to carry these. If they are necessary to me, the river will bring these gifts to my monastery.’
     “And indeed the waters carried to him the bells, with their crystal chimes, clear as the waters of the river.”
     About talismans, the lama also explained:
     “Talismans are regarded as sacred. A mother many times asked her son to bring her a sacred relic of Buddha. But the youth forgot her request. A half-day’s journey from his house, he recalled his mother’s request. But where can one find sacred objects in the desert? There is nought. But the traveler espied the skull of a dog. He decided to take out a tooth and, folding it in yellow silk, he brought it to the house.
     “The old woman asked of him: ‘Have you again forgotten my last request, my son?’ He then gave her the dog’s tooth wrapped in silk, saying: ‘This is the tooth of Buddha.’
     “And the mother put the tooth into her shrine, and performed before it the most sacred rites, directing all her worship to her holy-of-holies. And the miracle was accomplished. The tooth began to glow with a pure ray and many miracles and sacred objects resulted from it.”
     Even briefly I cannot refrain from mentioning evidences of will power, which occur in these places. During the visit of the Tashi Lama to India, he was asked whether it was true that he had some special psychic powers. The spiritual leader of Tibet smiled, and did not reply. But within a few minutes the Tashi Lama disappeared. All present began to search for the Tashi Lama, but in vain. Then a newcomer entered the garden where this had occurred and was surprised at the unusual sight: the Tashi Lama was sitting quietly under a tree and round him, anxiously and in vain, many people were searching for him!
     Or another case of will power: In the train of the Bengal railway was found a Sadhu without a ticket. He was put off the train at the next station. The Sadhu sat on the platform, not far from the engine and remained motionless. The signal was given for the train to leave but the train did not move. The passengers, already displeased at the treatment accorded the Sadhu, paid special attention to this fact. The signal was given again—and again the train did not move. Then the passengers demanded that the Sadhu be brought back. The holy man was solemnly reinstated on his seat, and then the train was sent on safely.

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     I will not pause to speak of Benares, or its Sanskrit pandits, or the sacred ceremonies on the Ganges. Let us not be surprised that a great part of Sarnath, the memorial site where Buddha began his sermons, is, below the surface, still unexplored. Even those ruins, which one may now see, have also been excavated only recently. A strange fate follows most of the places connected with the personal activity of the great founder of Buddhism. Kapilavastu and Kushinagara, the places of birth and death of the Lord Buddha, are in ruins; Sarnath is not yet completely excavated. There is some special significance in this fact. Until recently, several scientists tried to prove that Gautama Buddha never existed.
     In spite of the facts in the voluminous Buddhist literature, in spite of the inscriptions on the ancient columns of King Ashoka, the French scientist Senart, in his book, has tried to prove that Buddha never existed and was nothing more than a solar myth. But here, also, our exact knowledge has provided the evidence of the human existence of Gautama Buddha. For soon after, there was excavated in Piprava, in Nepalese Terrai, the urn, dated with an inscription, containing the ashes and bones of Lord Buddha. A similar historical casket, with part of the relics of the Teacher, buried by King Kanishka, was found near Peshawar and also testifies definitely to the existence of the Great Teacher. It is curious to note that the last discovery was made in accordance with chronicles of old Chinese writers noted for the accuracy of their narratives. We had occasion to convince ourselves more than once of this.

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      The Northern Punjab, as for instance Harapa, north of Lahore, provides much historic material concerning the most ancient epoch of India, and also Buddhism and medieval India of the 7th century. Buddhism is not forgotten here. Gautama Rishi, as the local Punjabi and Pahari name the Lord Buddha, is greatly venerated. The ruins of ancient Buddhist temples, with typical Buddhist images, indicate that here, on the ancient road from Tibet, Buddhism flourished for ages. In the Kulluta (or Kullu) Valley alone, 363 Rishis are locally worshiped. This place in general is connected with the greatest names. It is said that Arjuna laid a subterranean passage from Kullu to Manikaran. Here also, in Mandi State, is the famous Ravalsar Lake, connected with the name of Padma Sambhava. Even now, many lamas descend into the valley from Tibet over the Shipki and Rothang passes, to worship the memory of the Teacher. The places are filled with reminiscences, for Mani and Kullu form the miraculous land, Zahor, to which such tribute is paid in Tibetan literature. The experienced scientist, Dr. A. H. Franke, in his book “Antiquities of Ancient Tibet”, quotes the following:
     “Let me now add a few words about Mandi, collected from Tibetan historical works. There can exist no reasonable doubt as regards the identification of the Tibetan Zahor with Mandi; for on our visit to Ravalsar we met with numerous Tibetan pilgrims, who said that they were traveling to Zahor, thereby indicating the Mandi State, if not the town. In the biography of Padma Sambhava, and in other books referring to his time, Zahor is frequently mentioned as a place where this teacher (750 A. D.) resided. The famous Buddhist teacher Santa Rakshita, who went to Tibet, was born in Zahor. Again in the days of Ral-pa-chan (800 A.D.) we find the statement that during the reigns of his ancestors many religious books had been brought to Tibet from India, Li, Zahor and Kashmir. Lahor was then apparently a seat of Buddhist learning and it is even stated that under the same king, Zahor was conquered by the Tibetans. But under his successor, the apostate King Langdarma, many religious books were brought to Zahor, among other places, to save them from destruction.
     “Among the Tibetans there still prevails a tradition regarding the existence of hidden books in Mandi, and this tradition in all probability refers to the books above mentioned. Mr. Howell, Assistant Commissioner of Kullu, told me that the present Thakur of Kulong, Lahul, had once been told by a high lama from Nepal where the books are still hidden.”
     You see what remarkable traditions are connected with Kullu and Mandi, the ancient Kulluta and Zahor. The scientific world up to now, hopes in vain to find the most ancient copies of Buddhist books.
     Not only Buddhist antiquities, not only the name of Arjuna, is connected with Kullu Valley, but even the Manu—the First Lawgiver, himself—gave his name to the village, Manali.
     In Kullu valley resided Vyasa, the famous compiler of the Mahabharata. Here is Vyasakund, the sacred place of fulfillment of all wishes. On the border of Lahul, in the rocks, there are two carved images of a man and a woman about nine feet high. The same legend is told about them as about the gigantic images of Bamian in Afghanistan, that their height corresponds to that of the original inhabitants of this place.
     In the same way, Kashmir is full of antiques. Here is Martand and Avantipur, connected with the flourishing of the activity of King Avantisvamin. “Here are many ruins of temples and cities of the Sixth, Seventh and Eighth Centuries, in which the architectural detail surprises one by its similarity to the early Romanesque. Of the Buddhist times, almost nothing has survived in Kashmir, although here lived such pillars of the old Buddhism as Nagarjuna, Asvaghosha, Rakshita and many others, who afterwards suffered during the change from Buddhism to Hinduism. Here is the “Throne of Solomon” and on the same summit, the foundation of the temple laid by the son of King Ashoka. I will not speak of Srinagar itself. True, in the rough laying of the quay stones of the river, and the foundations of the building, one can trace singular stones with beautiful carving, belonging to the best time. But these are partial fragments, which have nothing in common with the present sad position of the city.
     In Srinagar we first encountered the curious legend about Christ’s visit to this place. Afterwards we saw how widely spread in India, in Ladakh and in Central Asia, was the legend of the visit of Christ to these parts during his long absence, quoted in the Gospel. The Moslems of Srinagar told us that the crucified Christ—or, as they call Him, Issa—did not die on the cross, but only lost consciousness. The disciples took away His body, secreted it and cured Him. Later, Issa was taken to Srinagar, where He taught the people. And there He died. The tomb of the Teacher is in the basement of a private house. It is said that an inscription exists there stating that the son of Joseph was buried there. Near the tomb, miraculous cures are said to take place and fragrant aromas to fill the air. In this way, the people of other religions desire to have Christ among them.

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     The ancient caravan road from Srinagar to Leh is covered in a seventeen days’ march. But it is usually advised to take a few days more. Only cases of extreme need can induce the traveler to make this journey without interruption. Such unforgettable places, as Maul-beck, Lamayuru, Basgu, Kharbu, Saspul, Spithug, arrest one and retain themselves forever in one’s memory, both from an artistic and a historical point of view.
     Maulbeck—now already a declining monastery, to judge by the ruins—must have once been a real stronghold, boldly occupying the summit of a huge rock. Near Maulbeck, on the main road, you are startled by an ancient gigantic image of Maitreya. You feel that not a Tibetan hand, but probably a Hindu, carved this image at the time of Buddhist glory.
     Fa-hsien, the Chinese traveler, in his chronicles, mentions a huge image of Maitreya here. We wonder whether his mention refers to this relief. When we were already approaching Khotan we heard, quite by chance, that at the back of this rock is an ancient Chinese inscription. In this place we might have expected a Sanskrit, Tibetan and even a Mongolian inscription, but Chinese is quite a surprise. Let the next explorer study the back of the rock of Maitreya. Further on the way, you become accustomed to these gigantic monuments and structures which, like eagles, hold in their grip these high waterless summits. But the first impression, as usual, is the most striking.
     One must have a sense of beauty and of fearless self denial to build strongholds on such heights. In many such castles, long subterranean passages, leading to a river, were hewn in the rocks, so that a loaded donkey could just manage to pass there. This fairy-tale of subterranean passages, as we shall see, has created many of the best sagas. As in Sikkim, the Ladakh lamas turned out to be kind, tolerant of other faiths and hospitable to travelers, as Buddhists should be.
     All three of the main teachings of Lamaism can be found in Ladakh: Gelukpa—the yellow faith, proclaimed by Tsong-kha-pa. The Red cap sect, the followers of Padma Sambhava, and even the oldest Bon-po, the so-called Black faith, of pre-Buddhist origin. These worshippers of the gods of Svastika still remain for us an inexplicable enigma. From one side they are sorcerers, Shamans, perverters of Buddhism. But, on the other hand, in their teaching can be found faint traces of Druidic fire and nature worship. The literature of Bon-po has not yet been translated, is not interpreted and deserves, in any case, thorough research.
     With even more interest we approached Lamayuru. This monastery is considered a stronghold of Bon-po. Of course, the Bon-po of Lamayuru is not a true Bon-po. It is already considerably mixed with Lamaism and Buddhism. In the monastery there is an image of Buddha and also one of Maitreya. This is of course quite incompatible with the basic principles of the black faith. But the monastery itself and its situation is quite unique in its fairy-like beauty. We thought to ourselves, that if we encountered such beautiful sights in Ladakh (Little Tibet), then what could we not expect in Tibet!
     An equally romantic impression of majesty is conveyed by Basgu, where the present-day temples are intermingled with ancient ruins. These ruins are attributed to Zorawar and other Kashmir conquerors, who invaded Ladakh, mercilessly destroying Buddhist monasteries. All these half-ruined towers and endlessly long walls, crowning the peaks of rocks, speak of the ancient glory of Ladakh and of the valiant spirit of its founders. The name of the great hero of Asia—Gessar Khan—rings over these places.
     In Kalatse, near the old fort, on a shaky bridge across the yellow thundering Indus, you hear the story of how the hand of Sukamir, the Kashmir invader, defeated by the Ladakhs, was nailed to the bridge as a sign of warning. “But”, adds the story-teller, “a cat ate the hostile hand, and in order to keep up the moral lesson, the hand of a dead lama had to be nailed to the bridge.” Such is the play of fate.
     In Saspul we again find a remarkable temple with most ancient images of Maitreya. The literature of Ladakh is extensive. But one feels that still more may be discovered here, restoring the lost milestones of many an ancient path.
     On the rocks, half-way up to Kashmir, some ancient carvings may be seen. They are regarded as Dard images and are ascribed to the ancient inhabitants of Dardistan. On more closely studying these typical carvings on the surfaces of the rocks, one may distinguish two different types: One is new, drier in its technique. On them one may see suggestions of Buddhist objects, stylizations of suburgans and so-called fortunate signs of Buddhism. But near them, sometimes on the same rocks, one may see a rich soft technique, reminding one of Neoliths. In these ancient images one may distinguish ibexes with huge, powerfully curved horns, yaks, hunters, archers, round dancers and rituals. The character of these carvings merits careful attention, because one may find similar designs on the rocks near the oasis Sanju in Sinkiang, in Siberia, in the Trans-Himalayas, and one remembers them in the Halristningar of Scandinavia. Let us not hurry with conclusions, but let us study and compare.
     In Nimu, a small village before Leh, 11,000 feet high, I we had an experience which can under no circumstances be overlooked. It would be most interesting to hear of analogous cases. It was after a clear, calm day. We camped in tents. At about 10 p. m. I was already asleep, when Mrs. Roerich approached her bed to remove the woolen rug. But hardly had she touched the wool, when a big rose-violet flame of the color of an intense electric discharge shot up, forming a seemingly whole bonfire, about a foot high. A shout of Mrs. Roerich, “Fire, fire!” awoke me. Jumping up, I saw the dark silhouette of Mrs. Roerich and behind her, a moving flame, clearly illuminating the tent. Mrs. Roerich tried to extinguish the flame with her hands, but the fire flashed through her fingers, escaping her hands, and burst into several smaller fires. The effect of the touch was a slightly warming effect, but there was no burning, nor sound, nor odor. Gradually the flames diminished and finally disappeared, leaving no traces whatsoever on the bed cover. We had occasion to study many electric phenomena, but I must say that we never experienced one of such proportions.
     In Darjeeling, a spheroid lightning passed only two feet from my head. In Gulmarg, in Kashmir, during an uninterrupted thunderstorm of three days, when hail fell as big as a pigeon’s egg, we studied a great variety of lightning. In the Trans-Himalayas, we repeatedly experienced the effect upon ourselves of different electric phenomena. I remember how in Chunargen, at an altitude of 15,000 feet, I awoke at night in my tent, and touching my bed-carpet, was surprised at the blue light flashing from my fingertips as though enwrapping my hand. Believing that this could occur only in contact with woolen material, I touched the linen pillowcase. The effect was again the same. Then I touched all kinds of objects—wood, paper, canvas; in each case the blue light flashed up, intangible, soundless and odorless. The entire Himalayan region offers exceptional fields for scientific research. Nowhere else, in the whole world, can such varied conditions be concentrated: peaks up to almost thirty thousand feet; lakes at an elevation of fifteen thousand feet; deep valleys with geysers and all types of hot and cold mineral springs; the most unsuspected vegetation—all this vouches for unprecedented results in new scientific discoveries. If one could compare scientifically the conditions of the Himalayas with the uplands of other parts of the world, what remarkable analogies and antitheses would arise! The Himalayas are a veritable Mecca for a sincere scientist. When we recalled the book of Professor Millikan, “The Cosmic Ray”, we imagined the wonderful possibilities which this great scientist would find on these Himalayan heights. May these dreams become true, in the name of true science!
     The city of Leh, the residence of the former Maharajah of Ladakh, now conquered by Kashmir, is a typical Tibetan town, with numerous clay walls, temples and long rows of Suburgans, which lend a solemn silence to the place. This city, on a high mountain, is crowned by the eight-story palace of the Maharajah. At the latter’s invitation, we stopped there, choosing for our dwelling the top floor of the stronghold, which trembled under the violent gusts of wind. During our occupancy a door and part of the wall collapsed. But the wonderful view from the roof made us forget the instability of the castle.
     Below the palace, lies the whole city: bazaars crowded with noisy caravans, fruit orchards and, around the city, great fields of barley from which garlands of merry songs resound at the close of the day’s work. The Ladakh women walk about picturesquely in their high fur caps, with turned up earpieces. Down their backs hang long head-bands decorated with a great amount of turquoise and small metal ornaments. Across the shoulders, like an ancient Byzantine korsno, is generally worn the skin of a yak, fastened on the right shoulder with a fibula. Among the richer women, this korsno is of colored cloth, resembling still more the real Byzantine icons. And the fibulae on their right shoulder might have been excavated in Nordic and Scandinavian tumuli.
     Not far from Leh, on a stony hill, are ancient graves, believed to be prehistoric and recalling Druidic antiquities. Not far away is also the place of the old Mongolian Kham, which tried to conquer Ladakh. In this valley also are Nestorian crosses, once more recalling how widely spread in Asia was Nestorianism and Manicheism.
     In Leh, we again encountered the legend of Christ’s visit to these parts. The Hindu postmaster of Leh, and several Ladakh Buddhists told us that in Leh not far from the bazaar, there still exists a pond, near which stood an old tree. Under this tree, Christ preached to the people, before his departure to Palestine. We also heard another legend of how Christ, when young, arrived in India with a merchant’s caravan and how He continued to study the higher wisdom in the Himalayas. We heard several versions of this legend which has spread widely throughout Ladakh, Sinkiang and Mongolia, but all versions agree on one point, that during the time of His absence, Christ was in India and Asia. It does not matter how and from where the legend originated. Perhaps it is of Nestorian origin. It is valuable to see that the legend is told in full sincerity.
     The entire atmosphere at Ladakh seemed to be under benevolent signs for us.
     We gathered our caravan to cross to Khotan over the Karakorum pass, without much difficulty. Two roads were possible, one over seven passes, and the other, along the River Shayok, with less passes, but with a long stretch in water. The men of the caravan preferred the first route over the mountain passes, rather than to wade through the fairly deep Shayok in September and risk catching cold.
     So we left Leh on the 19th of September. And it was high time, for the monsoon of Kashmir, turning into snowy clouds, drove us northward.

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     As we left the town, the local women met us on the road, carrying consecrated yak’s milk, with which they anointed the foreheads of people and animals, wishing us a happy journey. And they had cause, for the mountain passes can be most severe. Afterwards, in Khotan, we saw people who had been carried down from the passes with their limbs frozen black, and we heard how a year ago near Khardong a whole caravan, with about a hundred horses, was found frozen. Men were found standing up, seemingly alive, some of them with their hands to their mouths, apparently uttering their last cry. And, indeed, on the heights, on frosty mornings, the limbs and hands freeze very quickly. The Ladakhs occasionally ran up to us, offering to rub our feet and hands.
     Of the seven passes of this road—Khardong, Karaul Davan, Sasser, Dapsang, Karakorum, Suget and Sanju—Sasser turned out to be most dangerous, especially the rising of the glacier slope, smooth and spherical, where George’s horse slipped.
     The last pass, Sanju, is also most unpleasant, because here one has to jump over a pretty wide crevice. One should not touch the reins, but give the experienced hill yak his own way.
     The Suget Pass, quite unexpectedly, afforded us an unpleasant experience. The ascent from its southern side, is quite easy. But a terrible snow storm arose and, approaching the descending slope, we saw that the narrow zigzagged path was completely obstructed by snow. Near the precipice four caravans had collected, comprising about 400 horses and mules. A party of very experienced old mules was sent down ahead without riders and the careful animals, struggling through the deep snow, felt their way along the narrow path. Then the other caravans followed, stumbling and slipping. Of all the seven passes, Karakorum turned out to be the easiest, although the highest. Karakorum means “Black Throne” and is called so because of the black rock which crowns the crest.
     To describe the beauty of this snowy realm, where we spent many days, is quite impossible. Such variations, such expressiveness of outline, such fantastic cities, such multicolored streams and torrents, and such memorable purple and moon-like cliffs!
     And at the same time one feels the astounding silence of the desert! People stop their disputes, all differences disappear, and all, without exception, sense the beauty of these no-man’s heights. On the way, we encountered touching caravan traditions. Often we saw bales of goods, left behind, unguarded, by unknown owners. Perhaps the animals fell or became too fatigued to carry the goods, which were left for another occasion. And nobody would touch this property. Nobody would dare to transgress this ethic of the caravan. We smiled, imagining what would happen if one left unguarded property in a city street. Yes, in the desert one enjoys greater
     Nobody knows exactly where is the frontier between Ladakh and Chinese Turkestan. It is there, somewhere between Karakorum and Kurul! In Kurul is the first Chinese outpost. It is as if nobody owned the beautiful desert! As if it was an unknown land! There are even few animals there. We also met only a few caravans. Among them were Moslem pilgrims bound for Mecca, with their wares, to earn a green turban and the honorable surname of “Haji”.
     Caravans meet on most friendly terms by night. They help each other with their smaller needs and over the red campfires ten fingers are raised in lively narrations of unusual events. The most dissimilar and varied people meet in this way: Ladakhs, Kashmiris, Afghans, Tibetans, Astoris, Baltis, Dards, Mongols, Sarts, Chinese, and every one has his own tale, nurtured in the silence of the desert.
     Kurul is the first Chinese outpost on the Yarungkash-darya, the river of black nephrite. It forms a square, bound by dented clay walls. Inside is a dirty yard with small clay buildings, leaning against the wall of the fort. In a tiny clay hut lives the Chinese officer. On the wall hangs a long single-barreled gun with a large single cock. This constitutes the entire arms of the officer. With him are a Kirghiz interpreter and about twenty-five men from the Kirghiz militia. The officer himself turns out to be a Chinese of good type. He examines our Chinese passport, issued by the Chinese Ambassador in Paris, Cheng-Lo, by order of the Chinese Government. Our old Chinese thoughtfully repeats: “Chinese soil”. Is he pleased or sorrowful about something?
     From Kurul one may go either by a round-about route through Kok-yar, or across the last pass, Sanju, to Sanju Oasis and Khotan. We chose the more difficult but shorter way. On approaching the Sanju pass itself, we found Buddhist caves which have not been described heretofore and which the local inhabitants call “Kirghiz dwellings.” The approach to the caves was obstructed by land slides and we looked up longingly to the high dark openings, cut off from the road. There are perhaps frescoes and other antiques.
     Near Sanju Oasis, the hills become smaller, and finally change into a sandy desert. Whoever has seen Egypt, will understand the character of this land with its rosy reflections. On the last rock we saw a neolithic design of the same ibexes and daring archers, which we saw in Ladakh. And in front of us, was the rosy mist of Taklamakan and the welcoming dastarkhan of the elders of the local Sarts. On the next day, already behind the Sanju Oasis, we noticed in the very desert itself, a solitary rider approaching. He stopped, gazed sharply around, dismounted and set something on the ground. Approaching, we saw a white cloth, and on it a pumpkin and two pomegranates. A truly enchanted table: the greeting of an unknown friend.”
     We moved along barkhans of quicksand, often without trace of a road, and it was difficult to imagine that we were on the great Chinese Imperial highway, the so-called silk road, the main western artery of old China. The picturesque mazars, the burial sites of the hill . Kirghiz, ended and the mosques of the Sarts began, simple and plain as the clay houses of Sarts, gathered in small oases amid the threatening sands.
     When we were in the open sands, three doves came flying up to the caravan and continued flying before us, as though calling us somewhere. One of the local men smiled and said: “You see, the sacred bird is calling you. You must visit the old mazar, guarded by the doves.”
     So we turned from the road, and went to the old mazar and mosque, around which thousands of pigeons hovered, protected by the legend that he who dares to kill one of these birds, perishes immediately. According to tradition, we bought grain for the birds, and continued our travels.
     It was the tenth of October, but the sun was still so hot, that the stirrups burned the foot through the boots.

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     A day’s march from Khotan, grass began to appear on the sandy barkhans, and the clay houses became more numerous. We entered the Khotan oasis, a region which Fa-hsien in 400 A. D. described as follows:
     “The land is rich and happy. The people prosper. They are all Buddhists. Their greatest recreation is religious music. There are several thousand priests and they belong to the Mahayana. They all receive food from the communal food-stores.” Of course, present-day Khotan does not correspond in the slightest to the description of Fa-hsien. Long dirty bazaars and demolished clay houses do not convey the impression of wealth and prosperity. Of course, there is no evidence of Buddhism either. The few Chinese temples are very rarely open and the Confucian gongs did not sound once during the entire four-months’ period of our involuntary stay there.
     Of 150,000 Sarts, there are but a few hundred Chinese, and the masters of the land have become the guests. Old Khotan was about six miles away, where the village Yotkan, stands to-day. The old Buddhist sites have now been covered by mosques, mazars and Moslem dwellings, so that further excavations in these places are quite out of question.
     Khotan itself is at present in a transitory state. It had already turned away from the old. The high quality and finesse of the old workmanship has disappeared, although they have not overtaken contemporary civilization. Everything is without form, unstable, and somehow transitory. The jade carvings are coarse. The Buddhist antiques, which up to recently were brought to Khotan from the neighborhood, have almost all disappeared. But to our surprise, we saw many imitations, which were sometimes very accurately made and showed taste. All antiquities from Khotan should be well examined. In Khotan we also saw imitations of rugs, very well made, copying the editions of the British Museum. If these rugs are called imitations, it is quite all right; but if they follow customary procedure and pass into the hands of antique dealers, this would be very unfortunate. In its essence, Khotan still remains a rich oasis. The loess of the soil is very fertile, and the yield of grain and fruit is abundant. Permit these places at least the elementary conditions of culture, and prosperity may be restored at once. The people are very sympathetic, but in this large oasis, with over 200,000 inhabitants, there is no hospital, no doctor, no dentist. We have seen people perishing from the most hideous diseases, without any help whatsoever. The nearest assistance, also only a voluntary one, is the Swedish Mission in Yarkend, an entire week’s journey from Khotan.
     One must say that the present rulers of China care very little, if at all, to attract useful cultural elements to these parts.
     While approaching Khotan, we heard the story of how a year ago the Khotan Tao-tai Ma, acting on the orders of the governor-general of Sinkiang, Yang-Tutu, crucified and then murdered the old Titai of Kashgar. On the way people told us: “Better do not go to Khotan, the Tao-tai there is a bad man.” Their warnings afterwards turned out to be prophetic.
     After the first friendly official meeting, the Tao-tai and Amban of Khotan informed us, that they did not recognize the passports issued by order of the Peking Government and that they could not permit us to leave Khotan; they seized our arms, prohibited scientific work of any kind, and also forbade our painting. It appeared that the Tao-tai and Amban could not distinguish a plan from a painting. I will not lose time over these unpleasantnesses that demonstrated the stupidity of the Tao-tai. I will only mention that, instead of the short stay as we intended, we were detained in Khotan for four months and only at the end of January, thanks to the assistance of the British Consul in Kashgar, Major Gillan, could we continue our journey to Yarkend, Kashgar, Kuchar, Karashahr and Urumchi. The journey took seventy-four days.
     The first part of the journey was along the snow-covered desert, but in Yarkend, at the beginning of February, the last patches of snow disappeared, and again there rose clouds of choking sand dust. But we were happy on the other hand to see the first leaves of the fruit trees. The Amban of Yarkend was a man of far greater education than the Khotan authorities. He expressed his deep indignation at the absurd actions of Khotan, and approved of our passports, which, he said, were the usual ones, according to which he had to assist us in every possible manner. In Yarkend, in Yangihissar and in Kashgar, we met the friendly aid of Swedish missionaries, who supplied us with much information about the extraordinary fertility of the region and about the colossal mineral wealth, which lies absolutely untouched.
     Kashgar, with its triple walls and sand cliffs, along the high river bed, gives the impression of a typical Asiatic town. Both the Chinese Tao-tai and the British consul there met us heartily. And again everything unrecognized in Khotan, was accepted as fully valid. Even our arms were returned to us, that is, we were permitted to carry them ourselves, in a closed box, to the governor-general in Urumchi. Incidentally, during our entire journey to Urumchi, we had not one occasion to regret that our arms were sealed.
     In Kashgar it was most instructive to visit what was apparently the oldest part of the city, on the opposite shore of the river, where a considerable part of an old Stupa may still be seen. This Stupa is about as large as the great Stupa of Sarnath. Below Kashgar, are several ancient Buddhist caves, which have already been explored and which are connected with poetic legends. About six miles from Kashgar is the Miriam Mazar, the so-called tomb of the Holy Virgin, Mother of Christ. The legend relates that, after the persecution of Jesus in Jerusalem, Miriam fled to Kashgar, where the place of her burial is marked by a mazar, worshipped up till today.
     From Kashgar to Aksu the road is most tedious, partly due to, the all-penetrating dust, and also to the deep quicksand and lifeless forests of gnarled desert poplars, half-burnt. It is the custom of travelers to set a tree on fire, instead of building a camp fire.
     In Aksu, we met the first Chinese Amban to speak English. The young man dreamt of escaping from that sandy place as soon as possible. He showed us a Shanghai English newspaper, which he had received from Mr. Cavaliere, the postmaster in Urumchi, an Italian. I was surprised that the Amban did not subscribe to a newspaper himself, but later discovered that the all-powerful Yang-tutu had prohibited his subjects from reading newspapers. Later on we shall see the somewhat original methods which this ruler of all Sinkiang adopted in governing his country.
     The neighborhood of Kuchar is full of the ancient Buddhist cave temples, which provided so many of the beautiful monuments of Central Asiatic art. This art, with full merit, has received a high place among the monuments of ancient cultures. But despite the attention accorded to this art, it seems to me that it has not yet been fully valued, especially from the point of artistic composition.
     The site of the former cave-monastery, close to Kuchar, makes an unforgettable impression. In a gorge, rows of different caves are set like an amphitheatre, all decorated with mural paintings and showing traces of many statues, which have either been destroyed or removed. One may well imagine the solemnity of this place at the time when the kingdom of the Tokhars was at its height. The mural painting has partly remained.
     One often has cause to resent the actions of European explorers, who have removed whole parts of architectural ensembles to museums. One can sanction the removal of separate objects which have already lost their identity with any definite monument. But is it not unjust, from the local stand-point, to hack apart arbitrarily a composition which still stands? Would it not be a pity to cut in pieces Tuanhuang, the best preserved of the monuments of Central Asia? We do not dismember Italian frescoes. Of course, there is this consideration: The majority of Buddhist monuments on Moslem lands have been and still are, exposed to iconoclastic fanaticism. In order to destroy the images, fires are built in the caves, and as high as the hand can reach, the faces of the images have been scratched with knives. We have seen traces of such destruction. The labors of such distinguished scholars as Sir Aurel Stein, Pelliot, Le Coq, Oldenburg, have safeguarded many of the monuments, which otherwise would have suffered the greatest danger of destruction, because of the carelessness of the Chinese administration.
     The old Central Asiatic artist, besides his knowledge of valuable iconographic details, showed a highly developed decorative feeling and great ability to combine wealth of detail with general composition, in covering large surfaces. You can well imagine, how many impressions one may gather, when each day one makes additional observations, and when the generosity of antiquity, together with nature, provides inexhaustible artistic material.
     Kuchar is a large city, entirely Moslem, and there is nothing to recall the departed kingdom of the Tokhars with its highly developed literature and education. It is said that the last Uigur king, when threatened by his enemies, fled from Kuchar, carrying with him all his treasures. Perceiving the endless, winding mountain ridges, one may imagine that there is enough room for these treasures to be hidden. In any case, the old treasures of this land have gone. But the richly laden fruit trees convince one that with but slight efforts, new treasures could easily be accumulated again.
     On the entire journey from Kuchar to Karashahr, we were accompanied by Buddhist memories. On the left of the road, there appeared, as though in faint mist, the mountain branches of the magnificent T’ien-Shan, the heavenly mountains. Someone appreciated their ethereal blue tone and named them fittingly. In these hills already can be found the permanent and nomadic monasteries of the Kalmucks. Karashahr, Olut and Khoshut horsemen are seen instead of Sart Moslem towns.
     On the way, riders approached us, already on Kalmuck saddles, and began a conversation with George and our lamas. Up till now the Kalmucks consider themselves independent and relate the following tale of how they retained their independence, during the time of the last Khan. They say:
     “The Chinese set evil charms upon the late Khan and he transferred to the Chinese official the sovereignty over his people. The official hurried to Urumchi to report his success to Yang-Tutu. But the Kalmuck elders came to know of it and sent horsemen in pursuit of the Chinese caravan, overtaking it in the T’ien-Shan mountain passes. It came to pass that no one ever again heard of this caravan and no trace of it was ever discovered. The old Khan was surrounded by the elders and died soon, and Toin Lama took over the reign, because the prince was not yet of age.”
     Of course, the Kalmuck “independence” is only apparent to themselves. Actually, they are under the thumb of the Yang-Tutu, and their last cavalry detachment, formed by the Toin Lama, has even been removed to Urumchi. And even the Toin Lama himself became a voluntary or involuntary guest of Urumchi.
     The Kalmuck steppes with their high grass, the golden-canopied yurts of nomad monasteries, the purely Scythian garb of the riders, all make a distinct differentiation between the Sarts and Chinese of Sin-kiang and the entirely individual habits of the Kalmucks.
     For a time we turned aside from the T’ien-Shan, and plunged into the suffocating air of Toksun, the Turfan region. We encountered scorpions, tarantulas, subterranean canals—arycks—and an unbearable heat, during which even the local people cannot walk more than two miles. Besides remarkable monuments, besides the Mother of the World, these places provided us with many legends and a tradition of travel: It is customary in Turfan to send the young people to travel under the leadership of experienced men, for the Turfans say “travels mean victory over life.”
     In Karashahr and in Toksun, we noticed beautiful types of horses of the Karashahr breed. Whoever recalls the ancient Chinese terra-cottas of horses from the T’ang epoch, should not imagine that this breed has disappeared. The Karashahr horses especially recall these. Most interesting are the horses with zebra-like stripes; perhaps this breed was once crossed with wild khulans.
     Urumchi is the capital of Sinkiang. Here lives the terrifying Yang-Tutu, who for seventeen years, despite all changes, rules over all Chinese Turkestan with its variety of inhabitants. The governmental methods employed by Yang-Tutu should be remembered as one of the curiosities of history. Yang-Tutu considers himself an educated man and has the degree of Magister. He constantly faces the contradictory interests of the Chinese, Sarts, Kirghiz, Kalmucks, Mongols. Sometimes the ruler proclaims himself a friend of the Kalmucks, circulating the news that the Tashi Lama, who is in China, has been elected Emperor of China. Having won the sympathy of the Buddhists, Yang-Tutu goes over to the side of the Chinese Dungans, even stipulating in his will, to be buried in the Dungan cemetery.
     In case of an insoluble racial dispute, he proclaims his inability to decide to whom to accord his sympathy, and he then stages a cock-fight to decide the matter. For this purpose, Yang-Tutu keeps several cocks of different colors. The ruler knows their qualities, and on the day of the fight, he personally chooses which of the cocks is to represent the opposing sides. The black cock may be the Dungan; the white, a Sart; a yellow cock, a Kalmuck. Thus, according to Tutu’s wish, the favored nationality wins through the seeming valor of the cock. Then the ruler, raising his eyes to heaven, proclaims that his heart is open to all, but that destiny has awarded preference to the Sarts or Dungans, as is need, at the moment.
     During our stay the “Magister of Philosophy” punished a god for the continuous drought. The god of water and rain was flogged. But since he still persisted in withholding rain, his hands and feet were cut off and he was drowned in the river. And in his place, a local “devil” was solemnly installed. The numerous methods of execution are apparently familiar to the “Magister of Philosophy”. He generously applies them to personal enemies and disobedient officials. In Octave Mirbeau’s “Garden of Torture”, two subtle inventions were omitted: one is the insertion of a horse hair in the eye ball, with which the nerve is sawn through. Or a disobedient official is sent on a mission and on his way, faithful men of Yang-Tutu overtake him and plaster his face with Chinese paper, until he meets his eternal rest. Stories are related of how the murders of undesirable statesmen were cleverly staged. For some reason, these usually occurred after a generous dinner, when the executioner appeared behind the victim and unexpectedly cut off his head. In Imperial times, it was also customary to inform the victim first of the award of a new title to him!

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     In the streets of Urumchi, with loud drum-beats and with innumerable bright banners, marches a ragged crowd, which under your very vision disperses, disappearing in the narrow alleys: this is the army of Yang-Tutu. The army is estimated by the number of caps, and for this reason one often sees two-wheeled carts, with poles on which are hanging numerous soldiers’ caps. This is the invisible army! And Yang-Tutu, drawing the pay for the number of caps enlisted, sends large quantities of silver to distant banks through foreign representatives, by means of cunning manipulations. Incidentally the ruler had no opportunity to use his wealth, as he was killed by Fan, the commissioner of foreign affairs, in 1928. It was strange in our day to see these medieval customs with the terror of torture and deep superstition. New China must send specially educated men to its provinces.
     And another condition greatly astonished us in Sin-kiang. I refer to the open trade in human beings—children and adults. Already in Khotan it was seriously proposed to us not to hire servants, but to buy men and maids for good, as we were assured that this was much easier and much more economical. A good maid costs 25 sars, which is less than $20. A sais may be bought for 30 sars. Children are quite cheap—two to five sars. In Toksun, a Cossack woman from Semipalatinsk, who had married a Chinese, showed us a little Kirghiz girl, whom she bought for three sars. This was a fortunate case for the girl, because the childless woman had bought the girl as a daughter. But in general, you hear of terrible cases here and there. Insufficient attention is paid to this sad fact, as well as to the destructive habit of opium smoking. Distributors and addicts of this scourge should be subject to most severe penalty, if their consciences are so deadened that they cannot realize the crime they commit both towards themselves and towards the future generations.
     But let us not leave Chinese Turkestan with these dark impressions. Before me rise four pictures recalling ancient times:
     A horseman rides along and on his hand, as ages ago, sits a falcon or a trained hawk, with a small cap over its eyes.
     In the desert we were overtaken by a traveling minstrel—a teller of legends and fairy tales—a Baksha. Over his shoulder hangs a long sitarah, and in his saddle bags are several varied drums. “Baksha, sing us something!”—and the traveling singer, loosening the reins of his horse, sends out into the silence of the desert, a song of Shabistan, of its beautiful princes and good and evil witches.
     And another small, but significant episode: Between Aksu and Kuchar, near the town of Bai, a peculiar looking individual in shackles asked to join our caravan. It appeared that the local authorities had given orders to send the criminal with our caravan. We forbade such an addition. The criminal slackened his pace and remained in the rear. But for many days, we could see him following the caravan far behind, without any guard.
     About four miles out of Urumchi, a Chinese mafa overtook us. It appeared that the Chinaman, Sung, who had been in our service as far as Khotan, could not let us go without at least another farewell. Before our departure he had wept for several nights, because the governor had forbidden him to accompany us beyond Urumchi. And the kind heart could not resist the desire to see us once more. It is always pleasant to remember such people.

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     Beyond Urumchi there comes a strip of land, interesting not only from an artistic, but also from a scientific and ethnographic point of view. Here we touch a region, with remnants of the great migrations of nations, such as kurgans and different burial places and stone images. On the other hand, these ranges of the Tarbagatai mountains, especially since the revolution, are infested with robbers. The Kirghiz, whose lands begin here, although outwardly resembling the Scythians and seeming like silhouettes from the vases of Kul-oba, are of little use in present day civilization. Their habitual robbing, “baranta”, makes culture rather difficult. Besides, there is plenty of gold in the region of the black Irtysh and hence wandering masses of prospectors have invaded the place, and it is better not to sit round one camp-fire with them.
     One is again surprised at the fertility of the country and how little it has been studied and exploited.
     Altai or, as it is now called, Oirotiya, is equally concealed and neglected. The Oirots are a Finno-Turki tribe, at a very low state of evolution. Their outworn kaftans of sheepskin and their unkempt hair compared with some of the Tibetans. The Old Believers, who settled long ago in this remote country, are of course, the only strong masters of the place. It was pleasant to see, that the Old Believers have considerably advanced, rejecting many of their old religious prejudices. They now think correctly of domestic affairs, of American machines, and they welcome foreigners, although this was not previously the case.
     Of course, the old way of living, with its picturesquely carved wooden houses, with brocaded sarafans and old icons, has also disappeared. We wished that in the new forms of life, antiquity should not give way to the mediocrity of the bazaars. For in Siberia, where there is such mineral wealth and other natural treasures, the people have the heritage of highly artistic Siberian antiques, the heritage of Yermak and fearless pioneers. When we passed the place on the Irtysh, where Yermak—the hero of Siberia—was drowned, an Altayan said to us: “Never would our Yermak have drowned, if it were not for the heavy armor, which dragged him to the bottom!”
     Meeting the Old Believers in the Altai, it was astonishing to hear of the numerous religious sects, which exist there even now.
     The Popovtsy, the Bezpopovtsy, the Striguny, the Pryguni, the Pomortsi, the Netovtse (not recognizing any of the beliefs, but considering themselves of “the old faith”)—how many incomprehensible discussions they occasion! And toward Trans-Baikal among the Semeiski (Old Believers exiled to Siberia with their entire families), also are added the Temnovertsy and the Kalashniki. Each of the Temnovertsy has his own ikon, closed with little doors, to which he alone prays. If anyone else should pray to the same ikon, it would become unfit! Still stranger are the Kalashniki. They pray before the ikon through a little opening in kalach (a loaf of bread). We have heard much, but such obscure beliefs we have never seen nor heard of—and that in the summer of 1926! Here are also Hlysty, Pashkovtsy, Stundisty and Molokans—a great variety of different beliefs, which entirely exclude each other.
     But even in these forsaken corners a new conception already begins to stir and the long-bearded Old Believer speaks with enthusiasm of agricultural machinery and compares the quality of manufactures of various countries. Although the beliefs have not yet been quite obliterated, in any case the prejudice against innovations has already evaporated and sound domestic principles have not diminished, but have encouraged new sprouts. This new building up of agricultural methods, the untouched riches, the great radio-activity there, the abundance of its grass (which is higher than a man on horseback), its streams, inviting electrification—all this gives to Altai an unforgettable meaning.
     In the region of Altai one can also hear many significant legends connected with vague reminiscences of tribes that passed here long ago. Among these incomprehensible tribes, are mentioned the “Blacksmiths of Kurumchi”. The name indicates these people as fine metal workers, but whence did they come and whither did they go? Perhaps the popular memory alludes to the creators of the metal objects, for which the antiquities of Minusinsk and Ural are so famous? When you hear of these blacksmiths, you involuntarily recall the legendary Nibelungen, who drifted far to the west.
     In this melting pot of nations, it is most instructive to observe how sometimes under your very eyes, a language may be changed. In Mongolia, we heard of the most curious combinations of expressions, made up only recently from many languages. Chinese, Mongolian, Buriat, Russian and slightly modified foreign technical words, already afford quite a new conglomeration. A new problem will arise for philologists from this creation of new expressions and even entirely new local dialects.
     Altai played a most important part in the migration of nations. The burial places of huge rocks—the so-called graves of Chud—as well as the inscriptions on rocks, all bring us back to the important epoch, when from the far south-east, impelled by glaciers, or at times by sands, nations collected themselves as an avalanche to over-run and regenerate Europe. From the prehistoric and historic point of view, Altai is an untouched treasure, and the ruler of the Altai, snow-white Beluha, who nurtures all rivers and fields, is ready to yield her treasures.

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     If it was important to become acquainted with the Oirots and Old Believers, then it was still more important to see the Mongols on whom at present, with justification, the world turns its eye.
     It is the same Mongolia, whose very name impelled the inhabitants of the ancient Turkestan towns to flee their houses in terror, leaving behind an inscription: “God save us from the Mongols.” And because of them, even fishermen in far-away Denmark feared to venture into the open sea. Thus was the world awed by the name of the terrible conquerors.
     When hearing the stories about the Mongols, one is astonished by their irreconcilable contradictions. On one hand you hear, that the Mongolian army chiefs even now, on capturing an enemy, cut out his heart and eat it. And one commander even stated that if you cut out the heart of a Chinese, he only grits his teeth, but the Russians scream terribly. There are also tales of Shaman conjurers, and of how, in the darkness of the yurts of the Shamans, you can hear the trampling of whole droves of horses, the sound of coveys of eagles in flight and the hissing of innumerable snakes. At the will of the Shaman, snow falls inside the yurt. Such manifestations of will power indeed exist. Incidentally, is it not possible that the word “Shaman” is a depraved form of the Sanskrit “Shraman”, just as “Bokhara” is nothing but the altered Buddhist word “Vihara”?
     In Urga they related to us the following episode, showing the will power of certain lamas: a certain man received word from a revered lama that after two years of prosperity, great danger would befall him, if he would remain in Urga after a given date. Two years passed in full prosperity, and as is often the case, the successful man entirely forgot the warning. Unexpectedly, the revolution broke out and the opportunity to leave Urga safely was missed. Terrified, the man hurried to the lama again. The latter, reproving him, promised to save him once again and ordered him to depart the next morning with his whole family. “But”, he added, “should you meet soldiers, do not try to run away, but remain absolutely motionless.” The man did as the lama told him. On the way a detachment of soldiers approached. The family stopped and remained silent and motionless. As the soldiers passed near them, they heard one of them say to another:
     “Look, what’s that? People?”
     But the other man replied: “What’s the matter? Are you blind? Can’t you see they are stones!”
     When you visit the Mongolian printing press in Urga and speak to the Minister of Education, Batukhan, and to the well-known Buriato-Mongolian scholar, honorary secretary of the Scientific Committee, Djemsarano: when you become acquainted with lamas, who translate Algebra and Geometry text books into Mongolian, you see, that the seeming contradictions combine in the potentialities of the people, which justly turn toward its glorious past.
     To the casual passer-by, Mongolia reveals its outer self, which astonishes one by its wealth of color, its costumes, in which age-old traditions are blended with brilliantly-staged ceremonials. But on closer acquaintance, you will find among the Mongols serious scientific work, a careful investigation of their own country and a desire to send their youth abroad to absorb the methods of contemporary science and technical knowledge. The Mongols go to Germany. They would also like to visit America, but the cost of the journey and of living here, and chiefly, also, their ignorance of the language, are serious obstacles. I must say that during our stay in Mongolia we saw much good in the Mongols. Among many other things, I was pleasantly touched by their serious attitude towards the remains of Mongol antiquity, by their efforts to retain these monuments and by their strictly scientific study of them.
     The remarkable discovery by Kozlov’s expedition on Mongol territory opened a new page in, the history of Siberian antiquity. The same animal designs, which we knew only on metal objects, were discovered on textiles and other material. On the Mongolian territory there are large numbers of kurgans, kereksurs, so-called “deer-stones” and “stone-babas”. All these await further study.
     In Urga we had to decide the further movements of the expedition. One possibility was to go through China, for, in addition to our passport from the Peking Government, Yang-Tutu had also issued for us a second passport, exactly my height in length! But another circumstance intervened: In Urga we met the representative of the Government of the Dalai Lama, Lobzang Cholden, who proposed to us that we go through Tibet. Not wishing to intrude, we asked him to confirm his invitation by the written consent of the Lhasa Government. He sent two letters to the Dalai Lama in Lhasa through Tibetan caravans and also asked the Tibetan representative in Peking to communicate with Lhasa. Three months passed, and Lobzang Cholden, who also was acting consul, informed us that he had received a positive reply via Peking and that he could issue the official passports to us and give us a letter to the Dalai Lama. As we learned afterwards, these passports are indeed entirely valid. Under the circumstances, we naturally preferred to go through the Gobi and Tibet, instead of risking chance attacks by the Hunhuses in China.
     A curious incident should be mentioned. When we were preparing to depart, my son George, drilling our Mongols to use their rifles, took them to the outskirts of the town. As they crept up a slope it appeared that on the other side, a Mongolian infantry detachment was going through the same drill. The sight of both sides meeting each other unexpectedly on the ridge of the hill was most extraordinary. This drill proved to be not at all unnecessary—as our later encounters with the Panagis proved.
     On the 13th of April, 1927, our expedition, with the assistance and goodwishes of the Mongolian authorities, set out in a southwestern direction towards the Mongolian frontier post, the Yum-Beise monastery.
     A part of the way from Urga, now called Ulan-Bator-Khoto, to Yum-Beise, we covered by motor. The heavily freighted automobiles looked like battle-tanks, and on the top, in yellow, blue and red attire, with coned caps, sat our fellow-travelers, the Buriat and Mongol lamas.
     At first we intended to use motors beyond Yum-Beise also. The people told us that we could easily cross the Gobi on them. But this was untrue. The 600 miles more or less, up to Yum-Beise, we covered with difficulty in twelve days, and some days even we did no more than ten to fifteen miles, because of breakages, difficult crossings of rivers and stony ridges. Even here, there was no actual road. Here and there was a camel path, but most of the way was through virgin land, and we had to scout. Two conditions must be remembered. The first, that all existing maps are very indefinite. The second, that one cannot very well trust the local guides. Our guide, an old lama, took us, not to the present-day Yum-Beise, but to an ancient destroyed city, fifty miles to the west. The old man had been confused!
     It was evident that we had to abandon our motors in Yum-Beise. We engaged a caravan from the local monastery which undertook to take us in less than twenty-one days to Shih-pao-ch’eng, between Ansijau and Nanshan. The road from Yum-Beise to Anhsi was interesting, because no traveler before us had used it. It was instructive to investigate how fit it was for travel, in the matters of water supply, fodder and safety. Only the old lama from Yum-Beise knew this road, he assured us, that this direction was far better than the other two, one of which is round about, from the western side, and the other, along the present Chinese road to the east. Recommending this way, he insisted that the one danger of this road—namely the powerful brigand Jalama—had been killed by the Mongols two years ago. And, indeed, in Urga we had seen Jalama’s head in alcohol and had heard many tales about this remarkable man. The Mongolian deserts will guard the legends about Jalama, but no one will ever ascertain what inner motives impelled his strange actions. Jalama was a law graduate from a Russian university, showing unusual abilities. He then went to Mongolia, where he distinguished himself for his activities against the Chinese. He then spent several years in Tibet, studied Lamaism, and also the control of will-power, for which he was naturally equipped. Returning to Mongolia, Jalama received the title, Gun, a title of the Khoshun prince. But he got into difficulties with a Cossack officer and soon found himself in a Russian jail. In the revolution of 1917, he was released. Then followed invasions and activities within Mongolia, after which he gathered round himself a large body of helpers, fortified himself in the Central Gobi and built a city, using as laborers the prisoners of numerous caravans which he had captured. In 1923, a Mongolian officer approached Jalama, as though offering him a friendly gift of a khatik. But under the white silk scarf was a Browning, and the ruler of the desert fell dead, pierced by several bullets. The head of Jalama was carried on a spear around the Mongolian bazaars. After a while his men scattered. With some excitement, our caravan approached the place where the city of Jalama stood. On the stony slope from far away one can see the white Chorten, made of pieces of quartz—thus Jalama made his prisoners work. The lama advised us to dress in Mongolian kaftans, in order not to attract the attention of any undesirable people we might meet. Tempei-Jaltsen, the city, must be quite near. In the dark night we encamped. In the morning, before sunrise, we heard an unusual commotion. They shouted: “Here, we are right in front of the city!”
     We all rushed from our tents and behind the next sandy hill we clearly saw the towers and walls. Neither the Buriats nor the Mongols consented to go and investigate what was in the city. So George and Porten, with carbines, went themselves. The rest awaited, fully ready for battle, watching with field-glasses. Shortly afterwards the two were seen on a tower. This was the sign that the city was deserted. During the day the entire expedition visited the city, in several groups. We all were amazed at Jalama’s fantasy in laying out a completely fortified city in the midst of the desert! Certainly he was not a mere brigand! Many songs are being sung about him. And his men have assuredly not disappeared.
     The next day some suspicious-looking riders approached our caravan, inquiring about the amount of our arms. But apparently the reply did not encourage them and they dispersed behind the hills.
     The region of Mongolia and the Central Gobi awaits explorers and archeologists. Of course, the discoveries of the Andrews Expedition, and the last expedition of Sven Hedin, judging by news accounts, gave excellent results. But the place is so vast, that not one, not two, but only numerous expeditions could completely cover it.
     On the way, we encountered many beautiful pieces of so-called “deer-stone”, high menhir-like granite or sandstone blocks, sometimes ornamented. We also saw numbers of unexcavated kurgans, large and carefully constructed. The base of the kurgans was symmetrically surrounded by rows of stones, and on the top, also were stones. Near the kurgan, as if forming a second row, were small stone elevations. Especially interesting were the stone “babas”, of exactly the same character as those of the southern Russian steppes.
     In one case there was a long row of oblong stones, extending almost a whole mile up to a stone “baba”, facing the East. We noticed that the carvings even now are smeared with grease and we heard a legend that one of the images was a powerful brigand, who, after his death, was transformed into a protector of this place. Our Tibetan, Konchok, who was attached to us as an attendant by the Tibetan representative in Urga, addressed long prayers to the protector of the region, demanding a happy journey for us. In conclusion, he threw a handful of grain at the image.

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     Draw a line from the South Russian steppes and from the northern Caucasus across the steppes of Semipalatinsk, Altai and Mongolia, and then turn South, and you will have the main artery of migration.
     The twenty-one days of our travel from Yum-Beise to Shih-pao-ch’eng passed in complete solitude. Besides two or three forsaken yurts, besides the destroyed Tenpei-Jaltsen and half a dozen suspicious riders, we met only one caravan, which crossed our road on its way from Karakhoto to Hami. The encounter with this caravan almost turned out tragically, for the Chinese head of the caravan, mistaking our camp fires for Jalama’s encampment, became alarmed and fired a shot at us from his only rifle.
     One thing was quite clear, that the direct way from Yum-Beise to Anhsi-chou is provided with enough water and fodder for the camels and is at present quite safe, although stories of recent robberies are still plentiful. We rejoiced to find in the Gobi numerous most interesting artistic subjects. Firstly, the far-reaching ranges of the Chinese Altai mountains, then the auriferous Altyn-Tagh, give many colorful combinations. One does not see the merciless depression of the Taklamakan, but the multi-colored stone surfaces lend a decisive resonant tone. All springs and wells were in good condition, except one, which was blocked, up by the carcass of a khainyck (a kind of yak). On the entire road, beginning with Ladakh, the question of water was always most important. The most crystalline streams were filled with carcasses of dead animals, and in the ponds of Sin-kiang towns, floated such refuse, that the greatest thirst could not have induced us to drink this concoction.
     Outside of Mongolia, we were astonished everywhere by the frequency and monstrous size of goiters, which are caused by the water. We could not ascertain to what extent the boiling of the water helps to obliterate this evil, but certainly this terrible prevalence of goiter must greatly undermine the working capacity of the population.
     The clay walls of Anhsi-chou appeared in the distance. A narrow strip of orchards was set near the great Chinese road, which leads from Anhsi-chou to Suchow, and we entered the mountain ranges of Nan-Shan. There already appeared the yurts of Mongols, who belonged to the Kukunor district. Flocks of cattle were seen. Then the clever Elder of the village, Machen, appeared and under various pretexts extracted quite a lot of money from us. He especially cheated us in exchanging Chinese Dollars to Tibetan Norsangs. We had to buy animals for our new caravan, because the lamas from Yum-Beise were returning home. We also had to buy provisions. Machen assured us that he could only sell for Tibetan Norsangs, which, he said, were far more valuable than the Chinese Dollars. But it turned out afterwards that things were exactly the opposite and that the value of Norsangs was much lower.
     I will not pause to give particulars, of how five of our Buriats, apparently turning insane without reason, went to denounce us to the representative of the Sining Amban, who happened to pass us on the way. The Buriats told him that we were crossing Chinese territory without a Chinese passport and that we went around Anhsi-chou without entering it, for some special purpose. The result of this libel was, that the grey-haired Dungan in his red turban with fifteen soldiers personally came to our camp, and after a long conversation asked to inspect our passports. We satisfied his wish and explained that Anhsi-chou was simply not on our road. The old man became very friendly and offered to beat our accusers with sticks. The slanderers were driven away and their places easily filled by local Mongols.
     Of the Mongols of the Kukunor district, whom we met during our stay at Shih-pao-ch’eng, and then at Sharagolji, at the foot of the Humboldt ridge, I can say only good things. When we approached Shih-pao-ch’eng, we met the first Mongol from Kukunor, Rin-chino, who raised both hands upwards and greeted us with an unforgettably hearty gesture. Under the same happy sign we lived with the Mongols and parted from them. No difficulties, no quarrel, did they bring to our caravan. True, after our encounter with the Panagis, the old Senge-Lama got frightened and wanted to leave us. But he was so terrified and murmured something in such a friendly way that he soon allowed us to dissuade him.
     Mentioning the Mongols, it is necessary to point out some signs of an ancient physical bond between America and Asia. In 1921, when I became acquainted with the Red Indian Pueblos of New Mexico and Arizona, I was forced to exclaim repeatedly: “But those are real Mongols!” Their features, details of their dress, their way of riding, and the character of some of their songs, all carried me away in imagination across the ocean. And now, having the opportunity to study the Mongols of outer and inner Mongolia, I was involuntarily reminded of the Pueblo Indian. Something inexplicable, fundamental, beyond all superficial theories, unites these two nations.
     From the Mongols I heard a fairy tale, which emanated from the heart of Mongolia. In a poetic form is related how there lived two brothers on neighboring pieces of land, and how they greatly loved each other. But the fiery Dragon underneath the earth stirred, and the land split and separated both brothers. Their souls yearned for each other. Then they asked the birds to carry their message to their kin. And now they await the heavenly fiery bird to take them across the precipice and to unite the separated ones. In such poetical form is given the tale of cosmic upheaval, which the folk relate in symbols.
     With me I had many photographs of the Indians of New Mexico and Arizona and I showed them in faraway Mongolian encampments. And the Mongols exclaimed: “But those are Mongols!” Thus, the separated brethren recognize each other!
     In the lonely yurts c4-the”“Kukunor Mongols one is especially surprised at the paucity of household utensils. Their dress is most effective. Their kaftans remind one, in their picturesque folds, of the Italian frescoes of Gozzoli. The women, with their numerous plaits, with turquoise and silver ornaments, with their red conical hats, look extraordinarily decorative. From their distant encampments, the Mongols came riding on their small horses, to visit our camp. They looked in amazement at our photographs of New York skyscrapers and exclaimed: “The Land of Shambhala!”, and they rejoiced at every pin, button or empty fruit tin. Every little household article is a real object of pride for them. And the hearts of these men of the desert are open towards the future!
     When the heat of the day grows intense, the guide of the caravan begins to whistle quietly some strange melody. He calls the wind! What a wonderful subject for the theater: “The Seller of Winds”! One also meets the same custom, in the customs of ancient Greece.
     In Sharagolji, together with all Mongols of the neighborhood, we experienced the calamity of a flood from the hills. It was the end of July and our camp was near a very small and seemingly most peaceful stream. For three successive nights, from the direction of Ulan Daban on the Humboldt ridge, we continuously heard some unexplainable dull noise. We thought it was the wind. But on the twenty-eighth of July at five p. m., when we were just ready to have our dinner, down the gorge came tremendous torrents, transforming the peaceful little stream into a muddy rumbling force, flooding the whole neighborhood with waves about three feet high. The power of the flood was tremendous. Our kitchen, the dining tent, the tent of our Buriats, were carried away in no time with all their contents. Our boxes were set floating down stream and George’s tent was flooded knee-deep. A great variety of our things disappeared on the water, never to be found again. The yurts of the local Mongols were also destroyed or severely damaged. About two hours later, the river fell and next morning we saw a wet site, entirely transformed. Instead of the barkhans, were deep, water-eaten holes, and instead of level places, were new heaps of sand and stone.
     This incident once more confirmed our observations of the alluvial layers of Central Asia. In investigating the profiles of the soil, one is surprised at the comparatively recent origin of many of the upper strata and also at their strange mixture. But such characteristic disturbances as we ourselves have seen, easily change the profiles of the surface. During excavations, such conditions may cause much surprise.
     On August 19th, 1927, our caravan preparations were completed. The camels nourished by the grass and bushes, had by then begun to grow new wool. We started across Ulan Daban, deciding to cross dangerous Tsaidam in the shortest direction, thus establishing a new route over Ikhe-Tsaidam and Baga-Tsaidam, to the Neiji Pass. This new route spares the traveler from the western road to Makhai, with its scarcity of water which is so perilous for caravans, and also from the eastern roundabout way, which is very long and which is usually followed by the pilgrims to Lhasa. We were warned that three days of the march would be unpleasant and dangerous, and that for the last twenty-four hours we would have to proceed without a stop, because stopping on the thin surface of the salt deposits is dangerous and also useless, since there is no forage for the animals there. Crossing Tsaidam, we were convinced first, that the complete green outline on the maps does not correspond to reality. The same inaccuracy is also apparent in regard to the names of villages, etc. These places have each a Chinese, Mongolian and Tibetan name, all of which are quite different. Naturally only one of these names gets into the maps, depending on the nationality of the interpreter of previous expeditions. But especially strange are the European names superimposed on ancient places, which have long had their local names. The European names of the mountain ridges of Marco Polo, Humboldt, Ritter, Alexander III, Prejevalski, have of course no meaning for the local population as they have their own names for these ridges since times immemorial.
     Another original circumstance militates against obtaining precise names. The Mongols and Tibetans believe that one should not pronounce the names of places in the desert, otherwise the gods will be attracted by the name and become angry.
     We also had to mark in our maps omitted mountain ridges, sandy plains and dry land covered with sharp salt blocks and gaping black openings of swampy water. The green marshes are characteristic only of the lakes of Ikhe and Baga-Tsaidam. Fat horses belonging to the Tsaidam prince graze on these rich meadows. I must mention, that the Tsaidam Prince, who has had some altercations with travelers, showed us complete friendship and even wrote us offering his camels up to Lhassa; but by that time our caravan was already collected.
     The crossing of the salt surface of Tsaidam deeply impressed us all. Our guides apparently were fully aware of its dangers, although the season was a favorable one since there are few flies and mosquitoes and very little water in autumn. It felt strange to cross the waterless sandy desert, knowing that to the west began the Kun-Lun upland, which has been so little explored. By and by the sand changed into hard deposits of salt, a heritage of the lake that was here before. The caravan entered into a seemingly endless cemetery of massed sharp salt slabs. The most dangerous part was crossed in darkness, and then, in moonlight. The Mongols shouted: “Don’t move from the path!” Indeed, on both sides, among the sharp edges of the salt-slabs could be seen gaping black holes. Even the road was full of holes, and the animals could easily have broken their legs in such holes. The horses walked with great caution. Only one camel fell through the crust. It was pulled out with great difficulty. By morning the salt slabs gradually changed into whitish powdery residue and then the sand began again. Soon the first bushes and tall grass appeared and were greedily seized by our hungry animals. Far in front of us, in blue tones, appeared the mountains. This was Neiji, the geographical border of Tibet, although the frontier outposts were much further.
     The march of the blue mountains was through a comparatively fertile region of Teijinor, meaning the land governed by the Council of Elders. The vegetation seemed rich, and the fields were cultivated, but still we noticed deserted encampments, and in the few yurts we observed commotion. It appeared that a war was on between the Mongols and the Goloks, who lived behind Neiji. We were told that on the road we would see dead bodies. And the people awaited with trepidation, attacks of Tibetan bandits.
     There were even vague hints about an attack against our caravan. We recalled the strange incident in Sharagolji: One evening a Mongol came galloping up to our tents at full speed. He was dressed with extraordinary richness. His gold-embroidered costume and his yellow hat with red tassels were most impressive. He quickly entered the nearest tent, which was our doctor’s, and, speaking in haste, said that he was our friend, that on the Neiji Pass fifty hostile horsemen were waiting for us. He advised us to go cautiously and to send a patrol ahead. He left as quickly as he had entered, and galloped away, without revealing his name. As we heard the stories about the Panagis and Goloks, we recalled this unexpected, friendly warning.
     On the following day, we saw three dead Mongols and the carcass of a horse on the road. On the sandy surface, the traces of a furious race were clearly visible. Taking military precautions, we moved at first along the River Neiji, and then toward the Neiji Pass. In a valley covered by thick brushes three of us noticed the silhouette of a rider and we found a recently built fire and a pipe. We decided not to advance towards the usual pass, a very sandy one affording obstacles, but to change our route and to use the next pass, a few miles further, which bears the same name. This unexpected decision turned out to be a salvation.
     The next morning, we started out before sunrise. Mrs. Roerich, who has an extraordinarily sharp ear, heard the distant barking of a dog. But everything remained still. We were about to descend into a narrow gorge between two hills, when peering sharply into the morning mist, we noticed the silhouettes of riders in the gorge. We could distinguish long spears and rifles with gunrests. They were laying for us at the exit of the gorge. But instead of moving on, we retreated to the top of the hill and thus held a commanding position, surprising the enemy. Behind us came our Torguts, the best shooters. From the top of the hill, we saw a group of horsemen, and taking a most advantageous position, we sent our Mongols to warn them, that should they continue hostilities, we would spare neither their lives nor their yurts. The negotiations were successful.
     The Panagis again spoke of having sent for fifty men, and a few hours later we saw their herds coming back from the mountains to their yurts, which meant that measures had been taken just in time. The next day, in full battle formation and followed by suspicious looking horsemen, we crossed the Neiji Pass. Here a terrible thunderstorm and heavy snowfall broke out, quite unusual for the month of September. The Mongols said: “The Mountain-god Lo is angry because the Panagis intended to harm great people. In the snow they will never attack us, because traces would remain on the ground.”
     In front of us was the Marco Polo ridge, the stern Angar-Dakchin, and beyond, the picturesque Kokushili and the mighty Dungbure. One might write an entire volume about these places alone; of the huge herds of wild yaks numbering many hundreds; of white-collared bears which come up most trustingly; of wolves attacking wild goats and antelopes. One may notice mineral springs, hot geysers and other surprises of this unusual nature which amaze one.
     From Tsaidam, which is eight to nine thousand feet high, we ascended the Tibetan upland to about fourteen to fifteen thousand feet.
     Here occurred characteristic episodes in our negotiations with the Tibetans, which I will now describe:
     On the twentieth of September our caravan noticed with some excitement the tent of the first Tibetan post. Several ragged people, in dirty sheep-skin kaftans, approached us and demanded our passport. In the presence of numerous witnesses we handed them our Tibetan passport, and they allowed us to proceed. The passport was sent to their chief.
     On October sixth, the Tibetans proposed that we stop in a small place named Shindi, to await further sanction from the Tibetan General Khapshopa, the high commissioner of Hors and the Commander of the northern Tibetan frontier. Two days later our camp was moved closer to the general’s headquarters, on the river Chunargen.
     This place will forever remain in our memory. The dull upland, arctic in character, was full of small mounds and was bordered by the drear outlines of sliding hills. The general’s first welcome was the acme of kindness and friendliness. He told us that in consideration of our passports and letter, he would permit us to proceed to Lhasa via Nagchu. Nagchu is the northern fort of Tibet and is three days from Chunargen. The general asked us only to stop for three days and to move our camp nearer to his headquarters, as he wanted personally to inspect our things. “The hands of small people”, he explained, “should not touch the belongings of great people!”
     He then said, that he would remain with us until the sanction to proceed arrived and in my honor he ordered a special solemn retreat to be played by his band every evening. Apparently the general had more musicians with drums, clarinets and Scotch bagpipes, than soldiers. When we visited him, they gave us a cannon salute and paraded all their banners. The strange soldiers, in dirty jackets with torn buttons, held their rifles in every-which direction. In all, our meetings with the general were very friendly, and probably he was not guilty of what followed. When a week passed, still without reply, the general informed us that he had to depart on duty, but that he was leaving a major and five soldiers with us and would give all necessary instructions to the local elders of the Hors.
     The general left, and instead of three days we remained in this dull place, at 15,000 altitude, for five months. The situation became catastrophic. A severe winter set in, with whirlwinds and snow. What had happened, and where, we could not discover, for all letters sent by us to the Dalai Lama and the Governor of Nagchu, were returned to us and often torn up. We repeatedly wrote to the American Consul in Calcutta, to the British Resident, Colonel Bailey in Gangtok and to our Institutions in New York, requesting the Governor of Nagchu to send all this by wire from Lhasa to India. And we were told that the telegraph between Lhasa and India no longer existed—a downright lie!
     Through the major, we asked permission either to return back or to proceed to the general’s headquarters, but were refused permission either to go forward or back, as if they actually wished our destruction. Our money was exhausted. Of course the American dollars which we had with us were absolutely useless. Moreover, we had no more medicine and our provisions were at an end. Under our very eyes, the whole caravan perished. Each night the freezing, starved animals approached our tents, as though knocking for the last time before their death. And in the morning we found them dead, near our tents. Our Mongols dragged them beyond the camp, where packs of wild dogs and condors and vultures were already awaiting their prey. Of a hundred-and-two animals, we lost ninety-two. On the Tibetan uplands, we also left the bodies of five of our fellow-travelers: three lamas, one a Buriat and two Mongols, then Champa, the Tibetan, and finally the Tibetan major’s wife, who died of inflammation of the lungs. Even the natives could not withstand the severe conditions. Our caravan had only summer tents, as we never imagined we would pass the winter in Changthang, which is considered the most severe site in Asia. Mrs. Roerich’s pulse reached 145, and our doctor called it “the pulse of a bird”. My pulse was 130, instead of the usual 64. The pulses of George and the two Bogdanovs remained about 120. The doctor prophesied the most dark prospects and wrote medical certificates, stating that to detain an expedition under such conditions was equal to an attempt at murder.
     Of this stay in Nagchu I could write a whole book, full of the saddest reminiscences.
     There were two governors of Nagchu, one of whom was considered a trusted aide of the Dalai Lama and was himself a lama, although he had a family. To describe them, it is sufficient to relate two short episodes which they themselves told us:
     One episode concerns General Laden-La, a general of the Tibetan army, an undoubtedly gifted personality, to whom at one time was entrusted the reform of the mixed troops of Tibet. The lama-governor informed us that Laden-La had been dismissed from the army because he introduced “red” customs by recommending European uniforms for the soldiers and ordering the saluting of officers.
     The same governor explained the Russian revolution thus: “There lived a man named Nenin, who did not like the white Tsar. Nenin took a pistol and shot the Tsar, and then climbed a high tree and proclaimed that the customs would be red and that the churches would be closed. But there was a woman, the sister of the Tsar, who knew both red and white customs. She took a pistol and shot Nenin!”
     It would be too long to relate all our negotiations with the drunken major, and later with the governors of Nagchu. In any case, on March sixth we finally started for India, compelled to go by the most difficult, circuitous way. With us went also the unsolved problems as to how the Government of Lhasa could refuse to recognize the passport issued by its own official and whether one could detain a peaceful American expedition, including three women, an entire winter in summer tents at the most disastrous heights, and why it was necessary for the Tibetans to imperil our health, starve the entire caravan to death and destroy all our cinema films through acute changes of temperature. Changthang—the northern upland of Tibet—truly deserves its fame as the coldest spot in Asia. Terrific storms increase to a tremendous degree the effect of the frost, and the rare atmosphere at fifteen to sixteen thousand feet makes the conditions exceptionally severe. One may imagine the temperature, when our brandy froze in a closed bottle! What temperature is required to freeze strong alcohol? Of course, by eleven o’clock in the morning the sun warms the atmosphere considerably, but after sunset and at night, and especially in the early hours before sunrise, the frost is unbearable. Our doctor had the unusual opportunity to investigate from a medical point of view the conditions on these exceptional uplands.
     After Nagchu-Dzong our route passed Tengri-Nor to Shentsa-Dzong, and then across several passes to Saga-Dzong. From there we went along the Brahmaputra River to the border of Nepal to Tingri-Dzong. Shekar-Dzong and Kampa-Dzong were the last points of our two-and-a-half months’ trip to the Himalayan pass, Sepo La. After passing through Sepo La, we descended by way of Thangu to Gangtok, the capital of Sikkim, where we were greeted most heartily by the British Resident, Lt.-Colonel Bailey, his wife, and the Maharajah of Sikkim. On the 26th of May, 1928, we arrived in Darjeeling, staying again in the villa Talai-Pho-Brang, to compile the artistic and scientific material we had gathered.

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     Now let us cast a brief glance at the nature of contemporary life in Tibet and at its art. Tibet offers a most astonishing combination of contradictions.
     On one side, we saw profound knowledge and remarkably developed psychic energy. On the other, complete ignorance and limitless darkness.
     On one side, there is devotion to religion, even in its limited form. On the other side, we noticed how the money donated to monasteries was concealed and how false oaths were given in the name of the “three Pearls of the Teaching”.
     On one side, we saw respect toward women and their exemption from hard work. On the other side, there exists the institution of polyandry, so absurd in our times; it is strange to think that polyandry can exist side by side with Buddhism, even with its lamaistic form.
     On one side, we saw, instead of palaces, poor clay huts. But, on the other hand, the Tibetan governors call these huts beautiful, snowy palaces, unashamed of such hyperboles.
     On one side, the government of Lhasa calls itself the “government victorious in all directions”. But on the other side, we see this inscription on the miserable copper coins—the sho. We saw neither gold nor silver, either in the dzongs, or in the hands of the people. It is also curious that the half and quarter sho, which are also copper, are larger than the sho itself. The entire population prefers silver rupees or silver Mexican dollars to their own Tibetan sho. The people even quote two prices when selling goods: a higher price if payment is made in Tibetan shos and a considerably lower one if paid in rupees and Chinese silver. But with Chinese silver it is not always easy either. In some places they demand Imperial coins; in other places, the Republican coins with six letters, or with seven. Thus, a whole assortment of various currencies is required!
     But we were not surprised, as we were already accustomed to strange currency since our visit to Sin-kiang, where the wooden signs issued by the gambling houses in some places are valued more highly than the local paper money. In Sinkiang, the greater part of the notes often consists of advertisements of soap and other products glued underneath. We even received such notes from the governmental Treasury, which the neighboring Amban acknowledged were not valid.
     The entire life of Tibet seems to be made up of contradictions.
     After the picturesque cities and monasteries of Ladakh, we looked in vain for something more beautiful in Greater Tibet. We passed ancient dzongs, monasteries, and villages. If from afar, the silhouettes at times looked good, on approach we were grieved to see the poverty and shoddiness of Tibetan structures. It is true that on the mountains and along the river bed of the Brahmaputra are towers dating from the time of the ancient Tibetan kings. In these structures one feels the power of creative thought. And one frequently sees these ruins. Near them are usually the remains of once-cultivated fields. But that is all of the past. It all speaks of a life now gone, now passed.
     Saga-Dzong is a poor village with brittle clay walls. Black tents, like spiders, are pitched on long black ropes. And like a spider’s web over the village hangs a mass of torn and dirty flags. There is as much dirt as in Nagchu-Dzong. I remember how in Nagchu, when we pointed out the dreadful dirt of the city, the donier of the governor replied: “If you consider this dirty, what would you say of Lhasa?” Tingri-Dzong, though considered the largest fortress on the Nepalese frontier, amazed us by its wretchedness and uselessness for defense. Tinkiu, Shekar, and Kampa-Dzong are impressive only in those parts where something is left from ancient times. But the things of antiquity decay and are replaced by clay walls. Dzong-pens, the commanders of the castles, no longer live on the summits, but seek shelter lower on the hill.
     Regarding the local life, our compulsory five months* stay in the land of the Hors, and the long journey in Northern, Western, Central, and Southern Tibet, provided us with a mass of material. For the first time an expedition had no need of an interpreter, as even the Tibetans themselves affirm that George knows Tibetan better than Sir Charles Bell, who is considered an authority on the language. Without personal knowledge of the language, it would of course be rash to judge the conditions of the country. The journey from Chunargen to the Sikkim frontier might fill an entire volume.
     We went on so-called Urton (locally hired) yaks. We were able to see for ourselves the entire range of contradictions between the people and the officials of Lhasa. And the impression strengthened that a part of the lamas and the people are on one side and the group of Lhasa officials are on the other. Of the latter, even the Tibetans themselves said that “their hearts are blacker than coal and harder than stone.”
     We set up our camp not far from the camps of the Golokis. Both camps distrusted each other. The entire night one could hear the call: “Ki-hoho!” from the side of the Golokis. And our Hors reply “Khoi-khe!” Thus, through the entire night, they warned each other of the sleepless vigilance of the camp.
     In Tingri-Dzong, which is considered the second largest fort after Shigatse, our chief of transport discovered on one of our yaks a strange object, wrapped in red silk. We examined his discovery and it turned out that with our caravan had been sent an arrow, on which was wrapped an order for mobilization of the local troops, to suppress a riot in Poyul, in Eastern Tibet. Instead of sending the urgent order by special courier, the people attach the order to the yak of a private caravan, which may perhaps do but ten miles a day.
     Near Saga-Dzong the elders refused to recognize the passport of the Dalai Lama, sent to us from Lhasa. They stated that they had nothing in common with the Government of Lhasa. One can remember endless similar circumstances taken from life, and recounted around the caravan camp fires, when the Tibetans ate their raw meat.
     The Dalai Lama is regarded as an incarnation of Avalokiteshvara and a guardian of the true Teaching of Buddha. At the same time, throughout Tibet is related a prophecy which emanates from the Tenjye-ling monastery, stating that the present and thirteenth Dalai Lama is the last one.
     Concerning the omniscience of the Dalai Lama, many funny stories are told by the people and lamas. For instance, a high lama, who had free access to the Dalai Lama, once visited the Dalai Lama, and had just stepped over the threshold when the Dalai Lama asked, “Who is there?” Then the lama stretched out his hand inside the door. Again the Dalai Lama asked, “Who is there?” Thereupon, the lama entered with a bow, saying: “Your Holiness uselessly takes the trouble to ask this question. Given your omniscience, you should have known who was behind the door.”
     During our negotiations with the governors of Nagchu, in answer to their queries, we told them several times, “But you have a State oracle in Lhasa, why not ask it about us?” Whereupon both governors looked at each other and laughed.
     An entirely different attitude may be noticed everywhere toward the Tashi Lama, whose name is always pronounced with deep reverence.
     “The customs of Panchen Rinpoche are entirely different,” the Tibetans used to say.
     The Tibetans await the fulfillment of the prophecy about the return of the Tashi Lama, when he will reconstruct Tibet and the precious teaching will again flourish.
     Of the flight of the Tashi Lama from Tibet in 1923, people speak everywhere with special significance and reverence. They tell of remarkable incidents which accompanied this heroic exodus. It is told that when the Tashi Lama was being pursued near the northwestern lakes, an armed detachment from Lhasa almost overtook and captured him. A long road around the lake faced the Tashi Lama, and his men became excited. But the spiritual Leader of Tibet remained undisturbed and gave instructions that the caravan should stop overnight before the lake. During the night a severe frost set in and the lake was covered by thick ice, over which they crossed, thus shortening their way considerably. Then the sun rose, the ice melted, and when the pursuers reached the lake, it was impossible to cross and the Lhasa detachment was delayed for several days.
     Following the road indicated to us, we went for some time along the same way, by which the Tashi Lama had fled, and it was interesting to hear the rumors of the people and the general anticipation of the return of the spiritual Ruler of Tibet. For it is the Tashi Lama whose name is connected with the concept of Shambhala.
     The Tibetans themselves tell you all this and point out that the Lhasa officials afford prosperity neither to the people nor the religion.
     Let us glance at several pictures from life, in order to understand how the present state of religion in Tibet needs purification.
     Here high lamas make their pecuniary calculations on their sacred rosaries. Is this permitted? They turn their prayer wheels by water, or windmills, or even clockworks, releasing themselves from expending any energy. Does this represent the commandment of Buddha?
     Not far from the government dzong stands an object of the latest idol worship—a high stone smeared with fat. It appears that the Lhasa government itself has sanctioned this place of prayer in honor of the government oracle!
     It is prohibited to kill animals. This is splendid. But the storerooms of the monasteries are filled with carcasses of mutton and yak. We were told of the sinless method of killing cattle,—driving the animals to the edge of steep cliffs, where they fall down and kill themselves.
     In the corner of a shop sits a lama, the owner, and turns his prayer wheel. On the wall are images of Shambhala and Tsong-Kha-pa. And right next to them are huge earthen pots full of the local wine, which the lama makes to intoxicate his people.
     Some one connected with a high personage offers us a talisman for sale, with “complete guarantee” of its protection against firearms. He offers it to us for three hundred rupees. In view of the complete guarantee he offers, we suggest that the fortunate owner should try it out on himself. But the believer from Lhasa proposes to convince us with the aid of a goat, continuing to assure us of the miraculous powers of the talisman. When we do not agree to let him try it on the poor goat, the Tibetan walks off indignantly.
     To deprive a criminal of further incarnations is considered the severest form of punishment. To effect this, the heads of the worst criminals are cut off and dried in a special place where an entire collection of similar remains is preserved.
     Near the sacred mendangs and temples are scattered dead dogs, and sacred inscriptions are covered with human excrement. On the road and on the fields are thrown the sacred inscriptions. Many stupas have crumpled to pieces and many temples have been forsaken.
     Not far from Lhasa is a place where corpses are hacked apart and thrown to vultures, dogs, and pigs to be devoured. It is customary to roll naked on these remains to preserve one’s good health. The Buriat Tsibikoff, in his book on Tibet, assures his readers that His Holiness the Dalai Lama has himself performed this absurd ritual.
     Most remarkable is the testimony of the Tibetans about “Rolang”—the resurrection of the dead. Everywhere one hears of revived corpses, which jump up and, possessed of extraordinary strength, kill people.
     The Tibetans claim that whoever poisons a person of high estate himself receives the wealth and happiness of the poisoned person. There exist families in which the right to poison is handed down as a privilege of birth. These families preserve the secret of a special poison. For this reason, friendly Tibetans always advise one to be extremely cautious with gifts of other people’s food. One can hear of cases, where people were poisoned with tea and food that was sent to their homes as a sign of special esteem. This reminds one of old tales of poisoned objects and especially rings. We saw daggers and rings with special devices for carrying poison.
     Of such pictures from the real life of Tibet, one can mention many. They all reveal how many aspects of the religion must be cleansed and reformed. But we know many highly distinguished lamas and we hope that they can effect an enlightened reform of Tibet.
     “Why do our people lie so much?” worries a Tibetan on the banks of the Brahmaputra. This vice must also be erased.
     It is said that the Tashi Lama is at present in Mongolia, corroborating a Mandala of the Buddhist Teaching. From this one should expect good results, as Tibet is much in need of spiritual purification.
     In speaking of religions in Tibet, one should mention also the Black Faith, inimical to Buddha. As we were able to convince ourselves, in addition to the Gelugpa, to the Red Cap Sect of Padma Sambhava, and also many other branches, the Bon-po or Black Faith is also spread considerably in Tibet. And it is much more widely spread than one would imagine. We have even heard that Bon-po is on the increase. We saw a great many monasteries of the Bon-po in different parts of Tibet. They all are apparently very wealthy. In Sharugen we were received most cordially in the Bon-po monastery, and were even admitted into the temple and shown the sacred books. It was proposed to George that he read them. But then suddenly their attitude changed. It appeared that the Bon-po had heard of our interest in Buddhism and therefore regarded us as their enemies.
     The Bon-po say that the Buddhists