Who hath desired the Sea—the immense and contemptuous surges?<BR>
The shudder, the stumble, the swerve ere the star-stabbing bowsprit merges—<BR>
The orderly clouds of the Trades and the ridged roaring sapphire thereunder—<BR>
Unheralded cliff-lurking flaws and the head-sails' low-volleying thunder?<BR>
His Sea in no wonder the same—his Sea and the same in each wonder—<BR>
His Sea that his being fulfils?<BR>
So and no otherwise—so and no otherwise hill-men desire their hills!<BR>
The Sea and the Hills.<BR>
'Who goes to the hills goes to his mother.'
They had crossed the Siwaliks and the half-tropical Doon, left
Mussoorie behind them, and headed north along the narrow hill-roads.
Day after day they struck deeper into the huddled mountains, and day
after day Kim watched the lama return to a man's strength. Among the
terraces of the Doon he had leaned on the boy's shoulder, ready to
profit by wayside halts. Under the great ramp to Mussoorie he drew
himself together as an old hunter faces a well-remembered bank, and
where he should have sunk exhausted swung his long draperies about him,
drew a deep double-lungful of the diamond air, and walked as only a
hillman can. Kim, plains-bred and plains-fed, sweated and panted
astonished. 'This is my country,' said the lama. 'Beside Such-zen,
this is flatter than a rice-field'; and with steady, driving strokes
from the loins he strode upwards. But it was on the steep downhill
marches, three thousand feet in three hours, that he went utterly away
from Kim, whose back ached with holding back, and whose big toe was
nigh cut off by his grass sandal-string. Through the speckled shadow
of the great deodar-forests; through oak feathered and plumed with
ferns; birch, ilex, rhododendron, and pine, out on to the bare
hillsides' slippery sunburnt grass, and back into the woodlands' coolth
again, till oak gave way to bamboo and palm of the valley, the lama
Glancing back in the twilight at the huge ridges behind him and the
faint, thin line of the road whereby they had come, he would lay out,
with a hillman's generous breadth of vision, fresh marches for the
morrow; or, halting in the neck of some uplifted pass that gave on
Spiti and Kulu, would stretch out his hands yearningly towards the high
snows of the horizon. In the dawns they flared windy-red above stark
blue, as Kedarnath and Badrinath—kings of that wilderness—took the
first sunlight. All day long they lay like molten silver under the
sun, and at evening put on their jewels again. At first they breathed
temperately upon the travellers, winds good to meet when one crawled
over some gigantic hog's-back; but in a few days, at a height of nine
or ten thousand feet, those breezes bit; and Kim kindly allowed a
village of hillmen to acquire merit by giving him a rough blanket-coat.
The lama was mildly surprised that anyone should object to the
knife-edged breezes which had cut the years off his shoulders.
'These are but the lower hills, chela. There is no cold till we come
to the true Hills.'
'Air and water are good, and the people are devout enough, but the food
is very bad,' Kim growled; 'and we walk as though we were mad—or
English. It freezes at night, too.'
'A little, maybe; but only enough to make old bones rejoice in the sun.
We must not always delight in soft beds and rich food.'
'We might at least keep to the road.'
Kim had all a plainsman's affection for the well-trodden track, not six
feet wide, that snaked among the mountains; but the lama, being
Tibetan, could not refrain from short cuts over spurs and the rims of
gravel-strewn slopes. As he explained to his limping disciple, a man
bred among mountains can prophesy the course of a mountain-road, and
though low-lying clouds might be a hindrance to a short-cutting
stranger, they made no earthly difference to a thoughtful man. Thus,
after long hours of what would be reckoned very fair mountaineering in
civilized countries, they would pant over a saddle-back, sidle past a
few landslips, and drop through forest at an angle of forty-five onto
the road again. Along their track lay the villages of the
hillfolk—mud and earth huts, timbers now and then rudely carved with
an axe—clinging like swallows' nests against the steeps, huddled on
tiny flats half-way down a three-thousand-foot glissade; jammed into a
corner between cliffs that funnelled and focused every wandering blast;
or, for the sake of summer pasture, cowering down on a neck that in
winter would be ten feet deep in snow. And the people—the sallow,
greasy, duffle-clad people, with short bare legs and faces almost
Esquimaux—would flock out and adore. The Plains—kindly and
gentle—had treated the lama as a holy man among holy men. But the
Hills worshipped him as one in the confidence of all their devils.
Theirs was an almost obliterated Buddhism, overlaid with a
nature-worship fantastic as their own landscapes, elaborate as the
terracing of their tiny fields; but they recognized the big hat, the
clicking rosary, and the rare Chinese texts for great authority; and
they respected the man beneath the hat.
'We saw thee come down over the black Breasts of Eua,' said a Betah who
gave them cheese, sour milk, and stone-hard bread one evening. 'We do
not use that often—except when calving cows stray in summer. There is
a sudden wind among those stones that casts men down on the stillest
day. But what should such folk care for the Devil of Eua!'
Then did Kim, aching in every fibre, dizzy with looking down, footsore
with cramping desperate toes into inadequate crannies, take joy in the
day's march—such joy as a boy of St Xavier's who had won the
quarter-mile on the flat might take in the praises of his friends. The
hills sweated the ghi and sugar suet off his bones; the dry air, taken
sobbingly at the head of cruel passes, firmed and built out his upper
ribs; and the tilted levels put new hard muscles into calf and thigh.
They meditated often on the Wheel of Life—the more so since, as the
lama said, they were freed from its visible temptations. Except the
grey eagle and an occasional far-seen bear grubbing and rooting on the
hillside; a vision of a furious painted leopard met at dawn in a still
valley devouring a goat; and now and again a bright-coloured bird, they
were alone with the winds and the grass singing under the wind. The
women of the smoky huts over whose roofs the two walked as they
descended the mountains, were unlovely and unclean, wives of many
husbands, and afflicted with goitre. The men were woodcutters when
they were not farmers—meek, and of an incredible simplicity. But that
suitable discourse might not fail, Fate sent them, overtaking and
overtaken upon the road, the courteous Dacca physician, who paid for
his food in ointments good for goitre and counsels that restore peace
between men and women. He seemed to know these hills as well as he
knew the hill dialects, and gave the lama the lie of the land towards
Ladakh and Tibet. He said they could return to the Plains at any
moment. Meantime, for such as loved mountains, yonder road might
amuse. This was not all revealed in a breath, but at evening
encounters on the stone threshing-floors, when, patients disposed of,
the doctor would smoke and the lama snuff, while Kim watched the wee
cows grazing on the housetops, or threw his soul after his eyes across
the deep blue gulfs between range and range. And there were talks
apart in the dark woods, when the doctor would seek herbs, and Kim, as
budding physician, must accompany him.
'You see, Mister O'Hara, I do not know what the deuce-an' all I shall
do when I find our sporting friends; but if you will kindly keep within
sight of my umbrella, which is fine fixed point for cadastral survey, I
shall feel much better.'
Kim looked out across the jungle of peaks. 'This is not my country,
hakim. Easier, I think, to find one louse in a bear-skin.'
'Oah, thatt is my strong points. There is no hurry for Hurree. They
were at Leh not so long ago. They said they had come down from the
Karakorum with their heads and horns and all. I am onlee afraid they
will have sent back all their letters and compromising things from Leh
into Russian territoree. Of course they will walk away as far to the
East as possible—just to show that they were never among the Western
States. You do not know the Hills?' He scratched with a twig on the
earth. 'Look! They should have come in by Srinagar or Abbottabad.
Thatt is their short road—down the river by Bunji and Astor. But they
have made mischief in the West. So'—he drew a furrow from left to
right—'they march and they march away East to Leh (ah! it is cold
there), and down the Indus to Hanle (I know that road), and then down,
you see, to Bushahr and Chini valley. That is ascertained by process
of elimination, and also by asking questions from people that I cure so
well. Our friends have been a long time playing about and producing
impressions. So they are well known from far off. You will see me
catch them somewhere in Chini valley. Please keep your eye on the
It nodded like a wind-blown harebell down the valleys and round the
mountain sides, and in due time the lama and Kim, who steered by
compass, would overhaul it, vending ointments and powders at eventide.
'We came by such and such a way!' The lama would throw a careless
finger backward at the ridges, and the umbrella would expend itself in
They crossed a snowy pass in cold moonlight, when the lama, mildly
chaffing Kim, went through up to his knees, like a Bactrian camel—the
snow-bred, shag-haired sort that came into the Kashmir Serai. They
dipped across beds of light snow and snow-powdered shale, where they
took refuge from a gale in a camp of Tibetans hurrying down tiny sheep,
each laden with a bag of borax. They came out upon grassy shoulders
still snow-speckled, and through forest, to grass anew. For all their
marchings, Kedarnath and Badrinath were not impressed; and it was only
after days of travel that Kim, uplifted upon some insignificant
ten-thousand-foot hummock, could see that a shoulder-knot or horn of
the two great lords had—ever so slightly—changed outline.
At last they entered a world within a world—a valley of leagues where
the high hills were fashioned of a mere rubble and refuse from off the
knees of the mountains. Here one day's march carried them no farther,
it seemed, than a dreamer's clogged pace bears him in a nightmare.
They skirted a shoulder painfully for hours, and, behold, it was but an
outlying boss in an outlying buttress of the main pile! A rounded
meadow revealed itself, when they had reached it, for a vast tableland
running far into the valley. Three days later, it was a dim fold in
the earth to southward.
'Surely the Gods live here!' said Kim, beaten down by the silence and
the appalling sweep and dispersal of the cloud-shadows after rain.
'This is no place for men!'
'Long and long ago,' said the lama, as to himself, 'it was asked of the
Lord whether the world were everlasting. On this the Excellent One
returned no answer ... When I was in Ceylon, a wise Seeker confirmed
that from the gospel which is written in Pali. Certainly, since we
know the way to Freedom, the question were unprofitable, but—look, and
know illusion, chela! These—are the true Hills! They are like my
hills by Suchzen. Never were such hills!'
Above them, still enormously above them, earth towered away towards the
snow-line, where from east to west across hundreds of miles, ruled as
with a ruler, the last of the bold birches stopped. Above that, in
scarps and blocks upheaved, the rocks strove to fight their heads above
the white smother. Above these again, changeless since the world's
beginning, but changing to every mood of sun and cloud, lay out the
eternal snow. They could see blots and blurs on its face where storm
and wandering wullie-wa got up to dance. Below them, as they stood,
the forest slid away in a sheet of blue-green for mile upon mile; below
the forest was a village in its sprinkle of terraced fields and steep
grazing-grounds. Below the village they knew, though a thunderstorm
worried and growled there for the moment, a pitch of twelve or fifteen
hundred feet gave to the moist valley where the streams gather that are
the mothers of young Sutluj.
As usual, the lama had led Kim by cow-track and by-road, far from the
main route along which Hurree Babu, that 'fearful man', had bucketed
three days before through a storm to which nine Englishmen out of ten
would have given full right of way. Hurree was no game-shot—the snick
of a trigger made him change colour—but, as he himself would have
said, he was 'fairly effeecient stalker', and he had raked the huge
valley with a pair of cheap binoculars to some purpose. Moreover, the
white of worn canvas tents against green carries far. Hurree Babu had
seen all he wanted to see when he sat on the threshing-floor of
Ziglaur, twenty miles away as the eagle flies, and forty by road—that
is to say, two small dots which one day were just below the snow-line,
and the next had moved downward perhaps six inches on the hillside.
Once cleaned out and set to the work, his fat bare legs could cover a
surprising amount of ground, and this was the reason why, while Kim and
the lama lay in a leaky hut at Ziglaur till the storm should be
over-past, an oily, wet, but always smiling Bengali, talking the best
of English with the vilest of phrases, was ingratiating himself with
two sodden and rather rheumatic foreigners. He had arrived, revolving
many wild schemes, on the heels of a thunderstorm which had split a
pine over against their camp, and so convinced a dozen or two forcibly
impressed baggage-coolies the day was inauspicious for farther travel
that with one accord they had thrown down their loads and jibbed. They
were subjects of a Hill Rajah who farmed out their services, as is the
custom, for his private gain; and, to add to their personal distresses,
the strange Sahibs had already threatened them with rifles. The most
of them knew rifles and Sahibs of old: they were trackers and
shikarris of the Northern valleys, keen after bear and wild goat; but
they had never been thus treated in their lives. So the forest took
them to her bosom, and, for all oaths and clamour, refused to restore.
There was no need to feign madness or—the Babu had thought of another
means of securing a welcome. He wrung out his wet clothes, slipped on
his patent-leather shoes, opened the blue-and-white umbrella, and with
mincing gait and a heart beating against his tonsils appeared as 'agent
for His Royal Highness, the Rajah of Rampur, gentlemen. What can I do
for you, please?'
The gentlemen were delighted. One was visibly French, the other
Russian, but they spoke English not much inferior to the Babu's. They
begged his kind offices. Their native servants had gone sick at Leh.
They had hurried on because they were anxious to bring the spoils of
the chase to Simla ere the skins grew moth-eaten. They bore a general
letter of introduction (the Babu salaamed to it orientally) to all
Government officials. No, they had not met any other shooting-parties
en route. They did for themselves. They had plenty of supplies. They
only wished to push on as soon as might be. At this he waylaid a
cowering hillman among the trees, and after three minutes' talk and a
little silver (one cannot be economical upon State service, though
Hurree's heart bled at the waste) the eleven coolies and the three
hangers-on reappeared. At least the Babu would be a witness to their
'My royal master, he will be much annoyed, but these people are onlee
common people and grossly ignorant. If your honours will kindly
overlook unfortunate affair, I shall be much pleased. In a little
while rain will stop and we can then proceed. You have been shooting,
eh? That is fine performance!'
He skipped nimbly from one kilta to the next, making pretence to adjust
each conical basket. The Englishman is not, as a rule, familiar with
the Asiatic, but he would not strike across the wrist a kindly Babu who
had accidentally upset a kilta with a red oilskin top. On the other
hand, he would not press drink upon a Babu were he never so friendly,
nor would he invite him to meat. The strangers did all these things,
and asked many questions—about women mostly—to which Hurree returned
gay and unstudied answers. They gave him a glass of whitish fluid like
to gin, and then more; and in a little time his gravity departed from
him. He became thickly treasonous, and spoke in terms of sweeping
indecency of a Government which had forced upon him a white man's
education and neglected to supply him with a white man's salary. He
babbled tales of oppression and wrong till the tears ran down his
cheeks for the miseries of his land. Then he staggered off, singing
love-songs of Lower Bengal, and collapsed upon a wet tree-trunk. Never
was so unfortunate a product of English rule in India more unhappily
thrust upon aliens.
'They are all just of that pattern,' said one sportsman to the other in
French. 'When we get into India proper thou wilt see. I should like
to visit his Rajah. One might speak the good word there. It is
possible that he has heard of us and wishes to signify his good-will.'
'We have not time. We must get into Simla as soon as may be,' his
companion replied. 'For my own part, I wish our reports had been sent
back from Hilas, or even Leh.'
'The English post is better and safer. Remember we are given all
facilities—and Name of God!—they give them to us too! Is it
'It is pride—pride that deserves and will receive punishment.'
'Yes! To fight a fellow-Continental in our game is something. There
is a risk attached, but these people—bah! It is too easy.'
'Pride—all pride, my friend.'
'Now what the deuce is good of Chandernagore being so close to Calcutta
and all,' said Hurree, snoring open-mouthed on the sodden moss, 'if I
cannot understand their French? They talk so particularly fast! It
would have been much better to cut their beastly throats.'
When he presented himself again he was racked with a
headache—penitent, and volubly afraid that in his drunkenness he might
have been indiscreet. He loved the British Government—it was the
source of all prosperity and honour, and his master at Rampur held the
very same opinion. Upon this the men began to deride him and to quote
past words, till step by step, with deprecating smirks, oily grins, and
leers of infinite cunning, the poor Babu was beaten out of his defences
and forced to speak—truth. When Lurgan was told the tale later, he
mourned aloud that he could not have been in the place of the stubborn,
inattentive coolies, who with grass mats over their heads and the
raindrops puddling in their footprints, waited on the weather. All the
Sahibs of their acquaintance—rough-clad men joyously returning year
after year to their chosen gullies—had servants and cooks and
orderlies, very often hillmen. These Sahibs travelled without any
retinue. Therefore they were poor Sahibs, and ignorant; for no Sahib
in his senses would follow a Bengali's advice. But the Bengali,
appearing from somewhere, had given them money, and could make shift
with their dialect. Used to comprehensive ill-treatment from their own
colour, they suspected a trap somewhere, and stood by to run if
Then through the new-washed air, steaming with delicious earth-smells,
the Babu led the way down the slopes—walking ahead of the coolies in
pride; walking behind the foreigners in humility. His thoughts were
many and various. The least of them would have interested his
companions beyond words. But he was an agreeable guide, ever keen to
point out the beauties of his royal master's domain. He peopled the
hills with anything thev had a mind to slay—thar, ibex, or markhor,
and bear by Elisha's allowance. He discoursed of botany and ethnology
with unimpeachable inaccuracy, and his store of local legends—he had
been a trusted agent of the State for fifteen years, remember—was
'Decidedly this fellow is an original,' said the taller of the two
foreigners. 'He is like the nightmare of a Viennese courier.'
'He represents in little India in transition—the monstrous hybridism
of East and West,' the Russian replied. 'It is we who can deal with
'He has lost his own country and has not acquired any other. But he
has a most complete hatred of his conquerors. Listen. He confided to
me last night,' said the other.
Under the striped umbrella Hurree Babu was straining ear and brain to
follow the quick-poured French, and keeping both eyes on a kilta full
of maps and documents—an extra-large one with a double red oil-skin
cover. He did not wish to steal anything. He only desired to know
what to steal, and, incidentally, how to get away when he had stolen
it. He thanked all the Gods of Hindustan, and Herbert Spencer, that
there remained some valuables to steal.