Three Years in Tibet. Ekai Kawaguchi
waiting to be taken to the white one. During my stay I noticed that a similar scene took place every morning, the visitors passing the night before in their tents, pitched at the foot of the mountain, on the top of which the caves are situated. Outside the hours I mentioned before, the Lama was under no circumstance whatever to be seen.
Shortly before noon I walked up to the white cave, together with the waiting crowd. I found the entrance to the cave barred by a fence and a closed gate. Soon after, a grey-haired old priest, of seventy years of age, made his appearance, and, unlocking the gate, walked out to where were the expectant devotees, each of whom gave an offering or offerings, either of money or in kind, as his or her turn came to receive maṇi. The maṇi is a formula pronounced by the aged Lama, who spoke the sacred words: “Om maṇi padme hum,” the recipient repeating them. The maṇi came after a brief sermon. Then followed the imparting by the Lama of various instructive precepts to the audience; but just previous to that, each person individually went up to a table, on the other side of which sat their venerable teacher. After three bows, they proceeded with bent body and the tongue stuck out—the mark of profound obeisance—and, stopping in front of the table, held their heads close to the Lama. The latter, with the palm of his right hand, gently touched their heads by way of blessing, in acknowledgment of their courtesy. In the case of an individual of social position, the Lama used both hands in administering the blessing. I may explain here the Tibetan mode of blessing. Tibetan Lamas use four kinds of blessing, according to the rank of the person to whom it is administered. These orders of blessing, which are at the same time those of greeting, which they call chakwang in Tibet, are first the ‘head to head blessing,’ which consists in touching the other’s head with one’s own forehead; second the ‘double-handed blessing;’ third, the ‘single-handed blessing;’ both of which are self-explanatory. The fourth is resorted to by a Lama of the highest order toward his inferiors and laymen, and consists in touching the head of the recipient with the tufted end of a stick, which constitutes a special article used in Buḍḍhist ritual. This last ceremony is performed only by the Dalai Lama in Lhasa, and Paṇchen Rinpoche in Shigatse. Gelong Rinpoche received me with the double-handed blessing. I found in him a stoutly built, strikingly-featured, grey-haired old man of noble bearing, who, because of his well-preserved physique, did not at first glance look like a person who had passed the best part of his life in religious meditation. But closer observation of what he did and said convinced me that he was a man of true charity, dearly loving his fellow-creatures, and I approached him with a feeling of profound respect. The first thing he said to me was that I was not a man to wander about in a dreary wilderness, and he asked me what had brought me to him. The dialogue that then followed between Gelong Rinpoche and myself was substantially as below:
“I am a travelling priest making a pilgrimage through different countries in quest of Buḍḍhist truths. I have heard of your fame, and have come to be taught one thing.”
“What can that be, friend?”
“You are saving the souls of the multitude, and I wish to learn the grand secret which serves so well for your purpose.”
“Friend, you know that well enough yourself. All Buḍḍhism is in you, and you have nothing to learn from me.”
“True, all Buḍḍhism is in the Self, but in ancient days Jenzai Dōji travelled far and wide in search of fifty-three wise men, and we, the Buḍḍhists, are all taught to derive lessons from the great hardships then undergone by him. I am far from being a Jenzai Dōji, and yet I am privileged to imitate him: it is thus that I have called on you.”
“Good! I have but one means to guide me in saving souls, and the ‘Grand Gospel of Salvation’ is that guide of mine.”
“May I have the pleasure of seeing that Gospel?”
“Most certainly.” The Lama here went into his cave, and, fetching out a volume, kindly lent it to me. On asking what was the gist of the Gospel of Salvation, I was told that it resolved itself into teaching that the three yānas (vehicles) were but one yāna. I then withdrew and went back to the grey cave, taking with me the borrowed volume, and I spent the rest of the day in reading through the Gospel, which I found to be a compilation, resembling in its tenets the Hoke-kyo—the Sūṭra Saḍḍharma Puṇdarīka—and in some places it even read like extracts from the last mentioned Gospel. The next day I turned cobbler, and mended my boots. On the morning following, I revisited Gelong Rinpoche and returned the Gospel. In so doing, the Lama and I had quite an argument, which, in short, was an exchange of views, based on the Tibetan school of Buḍḍhism on the part of the Lama, and on Japanese and Chinese schools on mine.
On the 7th of July I made a parting call on the holy dweller of the white cliff, when the good man presented me with considerable quantities of baked flour, butter, and raisins, saying that without a full and good supply of them I might die on the journey. This was all very nice, but it increased my load by twenty pounds, an addition which always counts a great deal to a solitary peddler, going a long distance over difficult roads, as I was to do. Back in the grey cave, I once more set myself to repairing my boots, but the work was new to me, and I was more successful in sticking the needle into my finger than in progressing with the job. The upshot was that the occupant of the cave, taking pity on me, kindly did the greater part of the work for me. Early on the 8th I bade good-bye to the kind-hearted disciple of Gelong Rinpoche, and relaunched myself on my journey, with eighty-five solid pounds on my back, which in no time began to ache under the weight.
CHAPTER XV.
In helpless Plight.
Some hours after leaving the grey cliff I reached a river about 180 yards wide. Before plunging into it to wade across, I took my noon-meal of baked flour: it was then about eleven o’clock. The river was the one of which I had been informed, and I knew it could be forded. After the repast I took off my boots and trousers, and having also tucked up the other portions of my dress, went down into the river. Oh! that plunge! it nearly killed me; the water was bitingly cold, and I saw at once that I could never survive the crossing of it. I at once turned round and crawled up the bank, but the contact with the water had already chilled me, and produced in me a sort of convulsion. What was to be done? I happened to think of ointment as a remedy, as well as a preventive, under the circumstances. I took out a bottle of clove oil I had with me, and smeared it in abundance all over my body. What with the sun shining and my giving myself a good rubbing all over, I felt better. Then, equipped as before, I made a second plunge. The water was cold, indeed cold enough to make my feet quite insensible before I had gone half-way across, and the rest of the fording I managed simply by the help of my two staves. The river was about hip-deep and the stream quite rapid, and when I reached the opposite bank I found myself almost a frigid body, stiff and numb in every part.
The next thing to be done was, of course, to recover the circulation of blood in the almost frozen limbs; but I discovered this to be no easy task, for my hands were too stiff to do anything, and it took full two hours to put myself in shape to resume the journey. As it was, when I started out at about two o’clock, my legs were so flabby that I felt as if they were going to drop off. And my increased luggage weighed so heavily on my back, that I was now compelled to take it down and devise some new way of carrying it. This I did by dividing the baggage into two equal parts and, tying one to each end of my two staves (which I had tied together), I slung them across my shoulder. But two rough round sticks grinding against the untrained flesh of the shoulder, with eighty pounds of pressure, were not much of relief for a novice at this method of carrying burdens, and at every hundred or two hundred yards of my progress, which was tardy enough, I had to alter my mode of conveyance. In the two hours which followed, I made an ascent of half a mile and then a descent of about a mile, and when I had arrived at the bank of a river at about four o’clock, exhaustion made further progress impossible for me for the day.
A NIGHT IN THE OPEN AND A SNOW-LEOPARD.