Chapter 9

BACK TO SRINAGAR

Easter Day, _April_ 23.—We left the Erin district early in the morning following the bara singh fiasco, and punted and poled up the river to join the Smithsons in a last attack upon the duck. We found the bold Colonel,

“Rough with slaughter and red with fight,”

enjoying himself hugely among the jheels, and we prepared to join in the fray; but our _chasse_ was put an end to by the discovery that the 14th, and not the 15th, was the last legal day for shooting. So we packed away our guns and towed up to Srinagar, which we reached on Sunday afternoon.

Our brief experience of camping and “shikar” had proved to my wife that she was not cast in the heroic mould of a female Nimrod. Not being a shot herself—as Charlotte is—she saw that, as far as she was concerned, a shooting expedition with the Smithsons would entail a great deal of solitary rumination in camp, while the rest of the party pursued the red bear to his den, or chased the nimble markhor up and down the precipices. The joys of reading, knitting, and washing the family clothes might—probably would—pall after a time; and the physical exertion of “walking with the guns” in Kashmir is decidedly more of an undertaking than over a Perthshire grouse moor! Our original arrangement, before coming out to join the Smithsons, was that the time should be spent in camping, boating, “loafing,” and shooting. Being perfectly ignorant of the conditions of life out here, we were unaware of the fact that it is practically impossible to combine serious shooting with any other form of amusement. In Scotland one may stalk one day, fish the next, and golf the third, but out here it is not so. The worshipper of Diana must be prepared to sacrifice everything else at her shrine; he must go far afield, and be prepared to live hard and work hard, and even then it may befall that his trophies of the chase are none too plentiful. That will depend a good deal on his shikari and his own knowledge, together with luck.

Walter had the good fortune to come upon two fine stags not far from his camp almost as soon as he got there. He was within fifty yards of them as they were moving slowly in deep snow, and he killed them both; the best of these was a remarkably fine 10-pointer, length of horn 41 inches and span 38-1/2 inches. His wife spent an equal time in the same neighbourhood and never saw anything.[1]

[1] That lady subsequently killed a remarkably good 13-pointer bara singh and some bears in October.

When we talked over plans with Colonel and Mrs. Smithson at Pindi, the general idea had crystallised into a scheme for going into Astor to shoot, immediately upon our arrival in Kashmir, and, in order to reach Srinagar before April 1st—the date of issue of shooting passes—we had struggled hard to make our way into the country before it was really attractive to the ordinary visitor.

When we did reach Srinagar we found that our friends had abandoned all idea of an expedition to Astor, partly on account of expense, but principally on account of the backwardness of the season, which practically precluded ladies from crossing the Tragbal and Boorzil Passes for some time. The merits and demerits of the Tilail district and Baltistan came up for review, and then we almost decided to go to Leh until we reflected that the return journey over a bare and open country—arid and hot as an Egyptian desert—in the month of August might not be unmixed joy, and the Smithsons were assured that they would find no sport whatever _en route_, but would have to go several marches beyond Leh to obtain the chance of an Ovis Ammon or Thibetan antelope.

The Leh scheme thus having come to naught, and our friends being still wholly intent on “shikar” to the exclusion of all other pursuits, we decided to be independent, so we hired a nice-looking boarded dounga, whose fresh and clean appearance pleased us, for a term of three months. Nedou’s Hotel offered so few attractions and so many drawbacks that we were prepared to do anything rather than return to it, and, as a matter of economy, we scored heavily, as, on working it out, we found that the boat, including the cook-boat, would cost 60 rupees per month. Our food and the wages of those servants whom we should not have required at the hotel came to approximately 80 rupees per month, making a total of 140 rupees, or £9, 6s. 8d.; whereas our hotel bill would have come to 12 rupees per day, without extras—or 360 rupees (£24) per month—a clear saving in money as well as in comfort.

Our new habitation—the house dounga _Moon_—was owned and partly worked by Satarah, an astute old rascal, whose “tawny beard,” like Hudibras’—

“Was the equal grace Both of his wisdom and his face; In cut and dye so like a tyle A sudden view it would beguile: The upper part whereof was whey, The nether orange mixt with grey.”

His costume consisted of a curious sort of short nightgown worn over white and flappy trousers, below which were revealed a pair of big, flat naval feet. The first lieutenant, Sabhana—sleek and civil-spoken, but desperately afraid of work—was, we understand, son-in-law to the Admiral Satarah, having to wife the Lady Jiggry, eldest daughter of that worthy, who, with her younger sisters Nouri, Azizi, and “the Baba,” completed the ship’s company.

The _Moon_ differed from an ordinary house-boat in being narrower, and possessing a long bow and stern which projected far enough from the body of the boat to enable men to pole or paddle with ease; a house-boat can only be towed. On embarking by means of a narrow gangway—a plank possessed of an uncontrollable desire to “tip-up” at unexpected and disconcerting moments—one entered first a small vestibule, or “ante-cabin,” which held our big boxes and opened into the drawing-room—quite a roomy apartment, about fifteen feet by ten feet, fitted with a fireplace, a rough writing-table, and overmantel, surmounted by a photograph—something faded—of Mrs. Langtry! A small table and a couple of deck chairs graced the floor, while upon the walls a heterogeneous collection of pictures, including a coloured lithograph of a cottage and a brook, a fearful and wonderful portrayal of an otter, and a very fancy stag of unlimited points dazzled the eye. The ceiling was decorated with an elaborate and most effective design in wood—a fashion very common in Srinagar, consisting of a sort of patchwork panelling of small pieces of wood, cut to length and shape, and tacked on to a backing in geometrical designs. At a little distance the effect is rich and excellent, but close inspection shows up the tintacks and the glue, and a prying finger penetrates the solid-looking panel with perfect ease.

The drawing-room was separated from the dining “saloon” by a sliding door—which frequently refused to slide at all, or else perversely slid so suddenly as to endanger finger-tips and cause unseemly words to flow. This noble apartment of elegant dimensions (to borrow the undefiled English of the house-agent) could contain four feasters at a pinch. Sabz Ali having cooked the dinner, the cook-boat was laid alongside, and Sabz Ali, clambering in and out of the window, proceeded to serve the repast, a black paw, presumably belonging to Ayata, the kitchenmaid-man, appearing from time to time to retrieve the soiled plates or hand up the next course.

A funny little sideboard and cupboard contained a slender stock of knives, forks, and glasses, and part of a broken-down dinner set, while the fireplace easily held three dozen of soda-water.

Then came Jane’s bedroom, fitted with a cupboard and shelves, which were a constant source of covetousness to me, who had none. A small bathroom completed our suite of apartments, and, after the bare boards of the _Cruiser_, the _Moon_ seemed to overflow with luxury.

We have been taking life easily here for the last week. The Smithsons intend going into Tilail as soon as the Tragbal becomes feasible; we propose to remain in Srinagar for a while. The weather has not been very fine—cold winds and a good deal of rain, varied by thunderstorms, being our daily experience. The spring is, I am told, exceptionally backward, and, although the almond is in full and lovely flower, the poplars and chenars are barely showing a sign of life.

My wife having gone to lunch at the Residency this afternoon, I walked half-way up the Takht-i-Suleiman, whose sharp, rock-strewn pyramid rises a thousand feet above Srinagar.

The view of the Kashmir plain, through which the river winds like a silver snake; the solemn ring of mountains, enclosing the valley with a rampart of rock and snow; the innumerable roofs of the city, glittering like burnished scales in the keen sunlight, densely clustered round the fort-crowned height of Hari Parbat, went to make up such a picture as Turner would have kneeled to.

Of course it is simply futile to compare one magnificent view with another which differs entirely in kind. All that one can do is to lay by in the memory a mental picture-gallery of recollection; and as I sat in the shelter of a big rock, gazing out over the level plain stretching below, where the changing shadows as they swept by turned the amber masses of the trees to gold, I conjured up in my mind’s eye other scenes whose beauties will remain with me while life shall last:—The purple and gold of a glorious sunset over Etna, the Greek theatre of Taormina in front of me, with the sea below—a shimmering opal that melted away in the haze beyond Syracuse; the awful rapids raging furiously below Niagara, a very ocean tortured and maddened to blind fury, pouring its irresistible torrents through the chasm above the whirlpool; and again, a cloudless October morning, with just the keen zest of early autumn in the air, as I lay high up on a hillside in Ardgour watching for deer—with the hills of Lochaber and Ballachulish reflected in all their glory of purple and russet in the waters of Loch Linnhe, windless and still!

Chills can be caught amidst the most glorious scenery—the little tufts of purple self-heal at my feet were shivering and shaking in a biting breeze that swept down from the snows to the north-east, and although I am an admirer of Kingsley, I do not hold with him in his wrong-headed admiration for a “nor’-easter”—so I quitted my perch in search of tea.

_Easter Monday_.—The Smithsons scuttled away in a great hurry to-day, their shikari, Asna (the best shikari in Kashmir), having heard that, owing to the lateness of the season, the bara singh have not even yet all shed their horns—so Charlotte is filled with high hope. The bears, too, are said to be waking from their winter’s doze and poking around in warm and balmy corners.

Armed to the teeth and thirsting for blood, the hunter and the huntress cast loose their matted dounga and paddled away merrily down the Jhelum to Bandipur, thence to pursue the royal bara singh, and later, if possible, scale the snow-barred slopes of the Tragbal and penetrate the lonely Tilail Valley to assail the red bear and the multitudinous ibex.

Jane and I having decided that a purely shikar expedition into the more difficult parts of the country was not suited to our prosaic habits, remained to enjoy the effeminate pleasures of Srinagar till the weather should grow a few degrees warmer.

As we are bidden to a sort of state luncheon to-morrow, given by the Maharajah, it appeared to me to be but right and seemly to go and inscribe my name in the visitors’ book of His Highness, and also to call upon his brother, the Rajah Sir Amar Singh. I went with the more alacrity as I thought it might prove interesting. Strolling across the big bridge above the Palace, I soon found myself in the purely native quarter, immersed in a seething crowd of men and beasts, from beneath whose passing feet a cloud of dust rose pungent. The water-sellers, the hawkers of vegetables and of sweets, the cattle, the loafers and the children got into the way and out of it in kaleidoscopic confusion. By the side of the street, money-changers, wrapped in silent consideration, bent over their trays of queer and outlandish coins. Bright cottons and silks flaunted pennons of gorgeous colours. Brass, glowing like gold, rose piled on low wide counters. In front stood the Palace, looking its best from this point, and showing huge beside the huddle of wooden and plaster huts which hem it in.

General Raja Sir Amar Singh lives in a sort of glorified English villa. Were it not for the flowering oleanders and hibiscus in front and the silvery gleam of temple domes beyond, one might suppose oneself near the banks of Father Thames. And were it not for the group of stalwart retainers at the door, the illusion need not be lost on entering the house.

The hall and staircase were decorated with a profusion of skins and horns, somewhat modern and brilliant rugs, and tall glasses full of flowers closely copied from Nature; while the drawing-room was of a type very frequently seen near London.

Like so many British reception-rooms, it shone replete with _objets d’art_, rather inclining to Oriental luxury than Japanese restraint.

My host, who came in almost immediately, was charming, speaking English with fluency, although he has never been in England.

He is essentially a strong man, and remarkably well posted in everything, both political and social, that occurs in the state, mixing far more freely than his brother with the English, towards whom his courtesy is proverbial.

His elder brother, the Maharajah of Jammu and Kashmir, is in many respects of a different type. Keeping more aloof from the English colony, he spends much of his time in devotion and the privacy of the inner Palace.

On leaving Sir Amar Singh, one of his henchmen conducted me across the iron bridge spanning a cut from the Jhelum, and into the warren-like precincts of the Palace; presently we emerged from an obscure passage, and found ourselves at the “front door,” where, in the visitors’ book, by means of the stumpy pencil attached thereto, I inscribed my name and condition.

_April_ 27.—His Highness the Maharajah having invited us to a luncheon given by him in honour of Colonel Pears, the new Resident, we prepared to cross the famous Dal Lake to the Nishat Bagh, the scene of the present feast, which we fondly hoped might recall the glorious days of the Moguls when Jehangir dallied in the historic Shalimar with the fair Nourmahal.

“Th’ Imperial Selim held a feast In his magnificent Shalimar:— In whose saloons … The valleys’ loveliest all assembled.”

Our shikara, a sort of canoe paddled by four active fellows, with the stern, where we sat on cushions, carefully screened from the sun by an awning, was brought alongside the dounga at about 11.30, as we had some seven or eight miles to accomplish before reaching the Nishat Bagh.

Leaving the main river just above the Club, we paddled down the Sunt-i-kul Canal, which runs between the European quarter and the Takht-i-Suleiman, the rough brown hill which, crowned with its temple, forms a constant background to Srinagar.

The canal was closely lined with house-boats and their satellite cook-boats, clinging to the poplar-shaded banks. The golf-links lay on our left, and on a low spur to the right stood the hospital, which the energy and philanthropy of the Neves has gained for the remarkably ungrateful Kashmiri. It is told that a man, being exceedingly ill, was cared for and nursed during many weeks in the Mission Hospital, his whole family likewise living on the kindly sahibs. When he was cured and shown the door, he burst into tears because he was not paid wages for all the time he had spent in hospital!

Just before entering the waterway of noble chenars, known as the Chenar Bagh (a camping-ground reserved for bachelors only), we ported our helm (or at least would have done so had there been any rudders in Kashmir), and pushed through the lock-gate, which gives entrance to the Dal Lake, against a brisk current.

This gate, cunningly arranged upon the non-return-valve principle, is normally kept open by the current from the Dal; but if the Jhelum, rising in flood, threatens to pour back into the lake and swamp the low ground and floating gardens, it closes automatically, and so remains sealed until the outward flow regains the mastery.

A sharp bout of paddling, puffing, and splashing shot us into the peaceful waters of the Dal Lake, over which every traveller has gushed and raved. It is difficult, indeed, not to do so, for it is truly a dream of beauty.

A placid sheet of still water, its surface only broken here and there by the silvery trails of rippled wake left by the darting shikaras or slow-moving market boats, lay before us, shining in the crystal-clear atmosphere. On the right rose the Takht, his thousand feet of rocky stature dwarfed into insignificance by holy Mahadeo and his peers, whose shattered peaks ring round the lake to the north, their dark cliffs and shaggy steeps mirrored in its peaceful surface.

On the lower slopes strong patches of yellow mustard and white masses of blossoming pear-trees rose behind the tender green fringe of the young willows.

As we swept on, the lake widened. On the left a network of water lanes threaded the maze of low-growing brushwood and whispering reeds, and round us extended the half-submerged patches of soil which form the celebrated “floating gardens” of the lake. From any point of view except the utilitarian, these gardens are a fraud. A combination of matted and decaying water-plants, mud, and young cabbages kept in place by rows and thickets of willow scrub, is curious, but not lovely; and our eyes turned away to where Hari Parbat raised his crown of crumbling forts above the native city, or to the mysterious ruins of Peri Mahal, clinging like a swallow’s nest to the shelving slopes above Gupkar.

“Still onward; and the clear canal Is rounded to as clear a lake;”

and we emerged from the willow-fringed water lanes, and saw across the wider shield of glistering water the white cube of the Nishat Bagh Pavilion—the Garden of Joy, made for Jehangir the Mogul—standing by the water’s edge, and at its foot a great throng and clutter of boats, amidst whose snaky prows we pushed our way and landed, something stiff after sitting for two hours in a cramped shikara.

Other guests—some thirty in all—were arriving, either like us by boat, or by carriage _viâ_ Gupkar, and we strolled in groups up the sloping gardens, which still show, in their wild and unrestrained beauty, the loving touch of the long-vanished hand of the Mogul.

Down seven wide grassy terraces a series of fountains splashed and twinkled in the sun. Broad chenars, just beginning to break into leaf, gave promise of ample shade against the day when the blaze should become overpowering. So far so good, but the grass that bordered the path was not the sweet green turf of an English lawn, and the way was edged by big earthen pots, into which were hastily stuck wisps of iris blooms and Persian lilac. The topmost terrace widened out, enclosing a large basin of clear water, in the middle of which played a fountain. On one side was raised a marquee, revealing welcome preparations for lunch. On the opposite side of the fountain a profusion of chairs, shaded by a great awning, stood expectantly facing a bandstand. Here we were welcomed by His Highness, a somewhat small man with exceedingly neat legs and an enormous white pugaree, in his customary gracious manner.

It was now half-past two, and we had breakfasted early, so that a move towards the luncheon tent was most welcome. Finding the fair lady whom I was detailed to personally conduct, and the ticketed place where I was to sit, I prepared to make a Gargantuan meal. Was it not almost on this very spot that

“The board was spread with fruit and wine, With grapes of gold, like those that shine On Casbin’s hills;—pomegranates full Of melting sweetness, and the pears And sunniest apples that Cabul In all its thousand gardens bears. Plantains, the golden and the green, Malaya’s nectar’d mangusteen; Prunes of Bokara, and sweet nuts From the far groves of Samarcand, And Basra dates, and apricots, Seed of the sun, from Iran’s land;— With rich conserve of Visna cherries, Of orange flowers, and of those berries That, wild and fresh, the young gazelles Feed on in Erac’s rocky dells.. Wines, too, of every clime and hue Around their liquid lustre threw; Amber Rosolli.. And Shiraz wine, that richly ran.. Melted within the goblets there!”

This reckless, but unsubstantial and very unwholesome meal, was not for us, and while waiting patiently for the first course to appear, I glanced down the long table to admire the decorations. They were delightful, consisting of glass flower-vases spaced regularly along the festive board, and filled to overflowing with tufts and clumps of flowers. Innumerable plates filled with fruit and sweetmeats graced the feast, and a magnificent array of knives and forks gave promise of good things to come.

Presently the expected dainties arrived, resembling but little the lately-described poetic feast; a strict attention to business enabled us to keep the wolf from the door, and a very cheerful party finally emerged from the big tent to stroll by the fountains that flashed under the chenars.

The Maharajah, of course, did not lunch with us, but held aloof, peeping occasionally into the cook-house to satisfy himself that the lions were being fed properly, and in accordance with their unclean customs.

Finally, he and his chief officers of state vanished into a secluded tent, where he probably took a little refreshment, having first carefully performed the ablutions necessary after the contamination of the unbeliever.

His Highness reappeared from nowhere in particular as his guests strolled across the terrace, and, after a little polite conversation, we took our leave and set forth for Srinagar.

It was a glorious afternoon, and we deeply regretted that time would not permit us to visit the neighbouring Shalimar Bagh, which lay hidden among the trees near by. The excursion must remain a “hope deferred” for the present, as we had again to thread the maze of half-submerged melon plots and miniature kitchen gardens which, even in the golden glow of a perfect evening, could not be made to fit in with our preconceived ideas of “floating gardens.” Jane was frankly disappointed, as she admitted to having pictured in her mind’s eye a series of peripatetic herbaceous borders in full flower, cruising about the lake at their own sweet will and tended by fair Kashmirian maidens.

By-the-bye, here let me expose, once for all, the fallacy of Moore’s drivel about the lovely maids of fair “Cashmere.” _There are none!_ This appears a startling statement and a sweeping; but, as a matter of fact, the Eastern girl is not left, like her Western sister, to flirt and frivol into middle age in single “cussedness,” but almost invariably becomes a respectable married lady at ten or twelve, and drapes her lovely, but not over clean, head in the mantle of old sacking, which it is _de rigueur_ for matrons to adopt.

The good Tommy Moore did not know this, but, letting his warm Irish imagination run riot through a mixed bag of Eastern romancists and their works, he evolved, amid a _pôt pourri_ of impossibilities, an impossible damsel as unlike anything to be found in these parts as the celebrated elephant evolved from his inner consciousness by the German professor!

As I traversed the main, or rolled by train, From my Western habitation, I frequently thought—perhaps more than I ought— Upon many a quiet occasion Of the elegant forms and manifold charms Of the beautiful female Asian.

For the good Tommy Moore, in his pages of yore, Sang as though he could never be weary Of fair Nourmahal—an adorable “gal”— And of Paradise and the Peri, Until, I declare, I was wild to be where I might gaze on the lovely Kashmiri.

Through the hot plains of Ind I fled like the wind, Unenchanted by mistress or ayah, The dusky Hindu, I soon saw, wouldn’t do, So I paused not, until in the sky——Ah!— Far upward arose the perpetual snows And the peaks of the proud Himalaya.

But in Kashmir, alas! I found not a lass Who answered to Tommy’s description— For the make of such maid I am sadly afraid The fond parents have lost the prescription, And I murmured; “No doubt, the old breed has died out, At least such is my honest conviction.”

In the horrible slums which form the foul homes Of the rag-covered dames of the city, I saw wrinkled hags, all wrapped in old rags, Whose appearance excited but pity. Beyond question the word which it would be absurd To apply to these ladies is “pretty.”

In the high Gujar huts were but brats and old sluts, These last being the plainest of women; Then I sought on the waters the sisters and daughters Of the Mangis—those “bold, able seamen” (I have often been told that the Mangi is bold, And as brave as at least two or three men).

One lady I saw—I am told her papa In the market did forage and “gram” sell— Decked all over with rings, necklets, bangles and things, She appeared a desirable damsel; And I cried “Oh, Eureka! I’ve found what I seek: Tell me quick—Is she ‘madam’ or ‘ma’mselle’?”

It was comical, but to this question I put— A remarkably innocent query— I received but a sigh or evasive reply, Or a blush from the modest Kashmiri; And I gathered at last that the lady was “fast,” And her name should be Phryne, not Heré.

Toddled up a small tot—her hair tied in a knot— Who remarked, “I can hardly consider You’ve the ghost of a chance on this wild-goosie dance Unless you should hap on a ‘widder!’ For our maidens at ten—ay, and less now and then— Are all booked to the wealthiest bidder.”

“My dear man, it’s no use to indulge in abuse Of our customs, so be not enraged, sir— No woman a maid is—we’re all married ladies. Our charms very early are caged, sir— I’m eleven myself,” remarked the small elf, “And a year ago I was engaged, sir!”

Ah, well! The country is the loveliest I ever saw, and that goes far to make up for its disgusting population.

Here, indeed, it is that

“Every prospect pleases, and only man is vile.”

We stopped to look at the ruins of an ancient mosque, built in the days of Akbar by the Shiahs. Its remains may be deeply interesting to the archaeologist, but to me a neighbouring ziarat, wooden, with its grassy roof one blaze of scarlet tulips, was far more attractive. Moving homeward, we floated under a lovely old bridge, whose three rose-toned arches date from the sixteenth century—the age of the Great Moguls. The extreme solidity of its piers contrasts strongly with the exceedingly sketchy (and sketchable) bridges manufactured by the Kashmiri.

In fairness, though, I must point out that, as the bridge in Kashmir usually spans a stream liable at almost any moment to overwhelming floods, it would appear to be a sound idea to build as flimsily as possible, with an eye to economical replacement.

The Kashmiri carries this plan to its logical conclusion when he fells a tree across a raging torrent, and calls it a bridge, to the unutterable discomfiture of the Western wayfarer.