<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_VI">CHAPTER VI</h2></div>
<p class="caption3">THE SACRED CITY OF THE LIVING BUDDHA</p>
<p>Far up in northern Mongolia, where the forests
stretch in an unbroken line to the Siberian frontier,
lies Urga, the Sacred City of the Living Buddha. The
world has other sacred cities, but none like this. It is
a relic of medieval times overlaid with a veneer of twentieth-century
civilization; a city of violent contrasts and
glaring anachronisms. Motor cars pass camel caravans
fresh from the vast, lone spaces of the Gobi Desert;
holy lamas, in robes of flaming red or brilliant yellow,
walk side by side with black-gowned priests; and
swarthy Mongol women, in the fantastic headdress of
their race, stare wonderingly at the latest fashions of
their Russian sisters.</p>
<p>We came to Urga from the south. All day we had
been riding over rolling, treeless uplands, and late in
the afternoon we had halted on the summit of a hill
overlooking the Tola River valley. Fifteen miles away
lay Urga, asleep in the darkening shadow of the
Bogdo-ol (God's Mountain). An hour later the road
led us to our first surprise in Mai-ma-cheng, the Chinese
quarter of the city. Years of wandering in the
strange corners of the world had left us totally unprepared
for what we saw. It seemed that here in Mongolia
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_63">- 63 -</span>
we had discovered an American frontier outpost
of the Indian fighting days. Every house and shop was
protected by high stockades of unpeeled timbers, and
there was hardly a trace of Oriental architecture save
where a temple roof gleamed above the palisades.</p>
<p>Before we were able to adjust our mental perspective
we had passed from colonial America into a hamlet
of modern Russia. Gayly painted cottages lined
the road, and, unconsciously, I looked for a white
church with gilded cupolas. The church was not in
sight, but its place was taken by a huge red building of
surpassing ugliness, the Russian Consulate. It stands
alone on the summit of a knoll, the open plains stretching
away behind it to the somber masses of the northern
forests. In its imposing proportions it is tangible
evidence of the Russian Colossus which not many years
ago dominated Urga and all that is left of the ancient
empire of the Khans.</p>
<p>For two miles the road is bordered by Russian cottages;
then it debouches into a wide square which loses
its distinctive character and becomes an indescribable
mixture of Russia, Mongolia, and China. Palisaded
compounds, gay with fluttering prayer flags, ornate
houses, felt-covered <i>yurts</i>, and Chinese shops mingle in
a dizzying chaos of conflicting personalities. Three
great races have met in Urga and each carries on, in
this far corner of Mongolia, its own customs and way
of life. The Mongol <i>yurt</i> has remained unchanged; the
Chinese shop, with its wooden counter and blue-gowned
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_64">- 64 -</span>
inmates, is pure Chinese; and the ornate cottages proclaim
themselves to be only Russian.</p>
<p>But on the street my wife and I could never forget
that we were in Mongolia. We never tired of wandering
through the narrow alleys, with their tiny native
shops, or of watching the ever-changing crowds.
Mongols in half a dozen different tribal dresses, Tibetan
pilgrims, Manchu Tartars, or camel drivers from far
Turkestan drank and ate and gambled with Chinese
from civilized Peking.</p>
<p>The barbaric splendor of the native dress fairly makes
one gasp for breath. Besides gowns and sashes of dazzling
brilliance, the men wear on their heads all the types
of covering one learned to know in the pictures of
ancient Cathay, from the high-peaked hat of yellow and
black—through the whole, strange gamut—to the helmet
with streaming peacock plumes. But were I to tell
about them all I would leave none of my poor descriptive
phrases for the women.</p>
<p>It is hopeless to draw a word-picture of a Mongol
woman. A photograph will help, but to be appreciated
she must be seen in all her colors. To begin with the
dressing of her hair. If all the women of the Orient
competed to produce a strange and fantastic type, I do
not believe that they could excel what the Mongol matrons
have developed by themselves.</p>
<p>Their hair is plaited over a frame into two enormous
flat bands, curved like the horns of a mountain sheep
and reënforced with bars of wood or silver. Each horn
ends in a silver plaque, studded with bits of colored glass
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_65">- 65 -</span>
or stone, and supports a pendent braid like a riding
quirt. On her head, between the horns, she wears a silver
cap elaborately chased and flashing with "jewels."
Surmounting this is a "saucer" hat of black and yellow.
Her skirt is of gorgeous brocade or cloth, and the jacket
is of like material with prominent "puffs" upon the
shoulders. She wears huge leather boots with upturned,
pointed toes, similar to those of the men, and when in
full array she has a whole portière of beadwork suspended
from the region of her ears.</p>
<p>She is altogether satisfying to the lover of fantastic
Oriental costumes, except in the matter of footgear, and
this slight exception might be allowed, for she has so
amply decorated every other available part of her
anatomy.</p>
<p>Moreover, the boots form a very necessary adjunct
to her personal equipment, besides providing a covering
for her feet. They are many sizes too large, of
course, but they furnish ample space during the bitter
cold of winter for the addition of several pairs of socks,
varying in number according to the thermometer. During
the summer she often wears no socks at all, but their
place is taken by an assortment of small articles which
cannot be carried conveniently on her person. Her pipe
and tobacco, a package of tea, or a wooden bowl can
easily be stuffed into the wide top boots, for pockets are
an unknown luxury even to the men.</p>
<p>In its kaleidoscopic mass of life and color the city is
like a great pageant on the stage of a theater, with the
added fascination of reality. But, somehow, I could
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_66">- 66 -</span>
never quite make myself believe that it was real when a
brilliant group of horsemen in pointed, yellow hats and
streaming, peacock feathers dashed down the street. It
seemed too impossible that I, a wandering naturalist of
the drab, prosaic twentieth century, and my American
wife were really a living, breathing part of this strange
drama of the Orient.</p>
<p>But there was one point of contact which we had with
this dream-life of the Middle Ages. Yvette and I both
love horses, and the way to a Mongol's heart is through
his pony. Once on horseback we began to identify ourselves
with the fascinating life around us. We lost the
uncomfortable sense of being merely spectators in the
Urga theatricals, and forgot that we had come to the
holy city by means of a very unromantic motor car.</p>
<p>We remained at Urga for ten days while preparations
were under way for our first trip to the plains, and returned
to it often during the summer. We came to
know it well, and each time we rode down the long street
it seemed more wonderful that, in these days of commerce,
Urga, and in fact all Mongolia, could have existed
throughout the centuries with so little change.</p>
<p>There is, of course, no lack of modern influence in the
sacred city, but as yet it is merely a veneer which has
been lightly superimposed upon its ancient civilization,
leaving almost untouched the basic customs of its people.
This has been due to the remoteness of Mongolia.
Until a few years ago, when motor cars first made their
way across the seven hundred miles of plains, the only
access from the south was by camel caravan, and the
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_67">- 67 -</span>
monotonous trip offered little inducement to casual travelers.
The Russians came to Urga from the north and,
until the recent war, their influence was paramount
along the border. They were by no means anxious to
have other foreigners exploit Mongolia, and they wished
especially to keep the country as a buffer-state between
themselves and China.</p>
<p>Not only is Urga the capital of Mongolia and the
only city of considerable size in the entire country but
it is also the residence of the Hutukhtu, or Living
Buddha, the head of both the Church and the State.
Across the valley his palaces nestle close against the
base of the Bogdo-ol (God's Mountain), which rises in
wooded slopes from the river to an elevation of eleven
thousand feet above sea level.</p>
<p>The Sacred Mountain is a vast game preserve, which
is patrolled by two thousand lamas, and every approach
is guarded by a temple or a camp of priests. Great
herds of elk, roebuck, boar, and other animals roam the
forests, but to shoot within the sacred precincts would
mean almost certain death for the transgressor. Some
years ago several Russians from Urga made their way
up the mountain during the night and killed a bear.
They were brought back in chains by a mob of frenzied
lamas. Although the hunters had been beaten nearly to
death, it required all the influence of the Russian diplomatic
agent to save what remained of their lives.</p>
<p>The Bogdo-ol extends for twenty-five miles along the
Tola Valley, shutting off Urga from the rolling plains
to the south. Like a gigantic guardian of the holy city
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_68">- 68 -</span>
at its base, it stands as the only obstacle to the wireless
station which is soon to be erected.</p>
<p>The Hutukhtu has three palaces on the banks of the
Tola River. One of them is a hideous thing, built in
Russian style. The other two at least have the virtue
of native architecture. In the main palace the central
structure is white with gilded cupolas, and smaller
pavilions at the side have roofs of green. The whole is
surrounded by an eight-foot stockade of white posts
trimmed with red.</p>
<p>The Hutukhtu seldom leaves his palace now, for he
is old and sick and almost blind. Many strange stories
are told of the mysterious "Living God" which tend to
show him "as of the earth earthy." It is said that in
former days he sometimes left his "heaven" to revel with
convivial foreigners in Urga; but all this is gossip and
we are discussing a very saintly person. His passion
for Occidental trinkets and inventions is well known,
however, and his palace is a veritable storehouse
for gramophones, typewriters, microscopes, sewing
machines, and a host of other things sold to him by
Russian traders and illustrated in picture catalogues
sent from the uttermost corners of the world. But like
a child he soon tires of his toys and throws them aside.
He has a motor car, but he never rides in it. It has been
reported that his chief use for the automobile is to attach
a wire to its batteries and give his ministers an electric
shock; for all Mongols love a practical joke, and the
Hutukhtu is no exception.</p>
<p>Now his palace is wired for electricity, and a great arc
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_69">- 69 -</span>
light illuminates the courtyard. One evening Mr. Lucander
and Mr. Mamen, who sold the electric plant to
the Hutukhtu, were summoned to the palace to receive
payment. They witnessed a scene which to-day could
be possible only in Mongolia. Several thousand dollars
in silver were brought outside to their motor car, and
the lama, who paid the bills, insisted that they count it in
his presence.</p>
<p>A great crowd of Mongols had gathered near the palace
and at last a long rope was let out from one of the
buildings. Kneeling, the Mongols reverently touched
the rope, which was gently waggled from the other end,
supposedly by the Hutukhtu. A barbaric monotone of
chanted prayers arose from the kneeling suppliants, and
the rope was waggled again. Then the Mongols rode
away, silent with awe at having been blessed by the
Living God. All this under a blazing electric light beside
an automobile at the foot of the Bogdo-ol!</p>
<p>The Hutukhtu seemed to feel that it became his station
as a ruling monarch to have a foreign house with
foreign furniture. Of course he never intended to live
in it, but other kings had useless palaces and why
shouldn't he? Therefore, a Russian atrocity of red brick
was erected a half mile or so from his other dwellings.
The furnishing became a matter of moment, and Mr.
Lucander, who was temporarily in the employ of the
Mongolian Government, was intrusted with the task of
attending to the intimate details. The selection of a
bed was most important, for even Living Buddhas have
to sleep sometimes—they cannot always be blessing
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_70">- 70 -</span>
adoring subjects or playing jokes on their ministers of
state. With considerable difficulty a foreign bed was
purchased and brought across the seven hundred miles
of plains and desert to the red brick palace on the banks
of the Tola River.</p>
<p>Mr. Lucander superintended its installation in the
Hutukhtu's boudoir and himself turned chambermaid.
As this was the first time he had ever made a bed for a
Living God, he arranged the spotless sheets and turned
down the covers with the greatest care. When all was
done to his satisfaction he reported to one of the Hutukhtu's
ministers that the bed was ready. Two lamas,
high dignitaries of the church, were the inspection committee.
They agreed that it <i>looked</i> all right, but the
question was, how did it <i>feel?</i> Mr. Lucander waxed eloquent
on the "springiness" of the springs, and assured
them that no bed could be better; that this was the bed
<i>par excellence</i> of all the beds in China. The lamas held
a guttural consultation and then announced that before
the bed could be accepted it must be tested. Therefore,
without more ado, each lama in his dirty boots and gown
laid his unwashed self upon the bed, and bounced up
and down. The result was satisfactory—except to Lucander
and the sheets.</p>
<p>Although to foreign eyes and in the cold light of
modernity the Hutukhtu and his government cut a somewhat
ridiculous figure, the reverse of the picture is the
pathetic death struggle of a once glorious race. I have
said that unaccustomed luxury was responsible for the
decline of the Mongol Empire, but the ruin of the race
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_71">- 71 -</span>
was due to the Lama Church. Lamaism, which was introduced
from Tibet, gained its hold not long after the
time of Kublai Khan's death in 1295. Previous to this
the Mongols had been religious liberals, but eventually
Lamaism was made the religion of the state. It is a
branch of the Buddhist cult, and its teachings are
against war and violent death.</p>
<p>By custom one or more sons of every family are dedicated
to the priesthood, and as Lamaism requires its
priests to be celibate, the birth rate is low. To-day there
are only a few million Mongols in a country half as
large as the United States (exclusive of Alaska), a
great proportion of the male population being lamas.
With no education, except in the books of their sect,
they lead a lazy, worthless existence, supported by the
lay population and by the money they extract by preying
upon the superstitions of their childlike brothers.
Were Lamaism abolished there still would be hope for
Mongolia under a proper government, for the Mongols
of to-day are probably the equals of Genghis Khan's
warriors in strength, endurance, and virility.</p>
<p>The religion of Mongolia is like that of Tibet and the
Dalai Lama of Lhassa is the head of the entire Church.
The Tashi Lama residing at Tashilumpo, also in Tibet,
ranks second. The Hutukhtu of Mongolia is third in the
Lama hierarchy, bearing the title <i>Cheptsundampa Hutukhtu</i>
(Venerable Best Saint). According to ancient
tradition, the Hutukhtu never dies; his spirit simply
reappears in the person of some newly born infant and
thus comes forth reëmbodied. The names of infants,
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_72">- 72 -</span>
who have been selected as possible candidates for the
honor, are written upon slips of paper incased in rolls
of paste and deposited in a golden urn. The one which
is drawn is hailed as the new incarnation.</p>
<p>Some years ago the eyesight of the Hutukhtu began
to fail, and a great temple was erected as a sacrifice to
appease the gods. It stands on a hill at the western end
of Urga, surrounded by the tiny wooden dwellings of
the priests. "The Lama City" it is called, for only those
in the service of the Church are allowed to live within
its sacred precincts. In the temple itself there is an
eighty-foot bronze image of Buddha standing on a
golden lotus flower. The great figure is heavily gilded,
incrusted with precious stones, and draped with silken
cloths.</p>
<p>I was fortunate in being present one day when the
temple was opened to women and the faithful in the
city. Somewhat doubtful as to my reception, I followed
the crowd as it filed through an outer pavilion between
a double row of kneeling lamas in high-peaked hats and
robes of flaming yellow. I carried my hat in my hand
and tried to wear a becoming expression of humility and
reverence. It was evidently successful, for I passed unhindered
into the Presence. At the entrance stood a
priest who gave me, with the others, a few drops of holy
water from a filthy jug. Silent with awe, the people
bathed their faces with the precious fluid and prostrated
themselves before the gigantic figure standing on the
golden lotus blossom, its head lost in the shadows of the
temple roof. They kissed its silken draperies, soiled by
the lips of other thousands, and each one gathered a
handful of sacred dirt from the temple floor. From
niches in the walls hundreds of tiny Buddhas gazed impassively
on the worshiping Mongols.</p>
<p class="tdr">PLATE VI</p>
<table summary="Plate">
<tr>
<td>
<div class="figleft"> <ANTIMG src="images/plate_via.png" width-obs="356" height-obs="456" alt="" /> <div class="caption4">THE GREAT TEMPLE AT URGA</div>
</div>
</td><td>
<div class="figright"> <ANTIMG src="images/plate_vib.png" width-obs="359" height-obs="455" alt="" /> <div class="caption4">A PRAYER WHEEL AND A MONGOL LAMA</div>
</div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td colspan="2">
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/plate_vic.png" width-obs="455" height-obs="284" alt="" /> <div class="caption4">LAMAS CALLING THE GODS AT A TEMPLE IN URGA</div>
</div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td colspan="2">
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/plate_vid.png" width-obs="456" height-obs="277" alt="" /> <div class="caption4">MONGOL PRAYING AT A SHRINE IN URGA</div>
</div>
</td>
</tr>
</table>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_73">- 73 -</span></p>
<p>The scene was intoxicating in its barbaric splendor.
The women in their fantastic headdresses and brilliant
gowns; the blazing yellow robes of the kneeling lamas;
and the chorus of prayers which rose and fell in a meaningless
half-wild chant broken by the clash of cymbals
and the boom of drums—all this set the blood leaping
in my veins. There was a strange dizziness in my
head, and I had an almost overpowering desire to fall
on my knees with the Mongols and join in the chorus
of adoration. The subtle smell of burning incense, the
brilliant colors, and the barbaric music were like an intoxicating
drink which inflamed the senses but dulled the
brain. It was then that I came nearest to understanding
the religious fanaticism of the East. Even with a
background of twentieth-century civilization I felt its
sensuous power. What wonder that it has such a hold
on a simple, uneducated people, fed on superstition from
earliest childhood and the religious traditions of seven
hundred years!</p>
<p>The service ended abruptly in a roar of sound. Rising
to their feet, the people streamed into the courtyard
to whirl the prayer wheels about the temple's base.
Each wheel is a hollow cylinder of varying size, standing
on end, and embellished with Tibetan characters in gold.
The wheels are sometimes filled with thousands of slips
of paper upon which is written a prayer or a sacred
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_74">- 74 -</span>
thought, and each revolution adds to the store of merit
in the future life.</p>
<p>The Mongol goes farther still in accumulating virtue,
and every native house in Urga is gay with fluttering
bits of cloth or paper on which a prayer is written. Each
time the little flag moves in the wind it sends forth a
supplication for the welfare of the Mongol's spirit in
the Buddhistic heaven. Not only are the prayer wheels
found about the temples, but they line the streets, and
no visiting Mongol need be deprived of trying the virtue
of a new device without going to a place of worship.
He can give a whirl or two to half a dozen within a hundred
yards of where he buys his tea or sells his sheep.</p>
<p>On every hand there is constant evidence that Urga
is a sacred city. It never can be forgotten even for a
moment. The golden roofs of scores of temples give
back the sunlight, and the moaning chant of praying
lamas is always in the air. Even in the main street I
have seen the prostrate forms of ragged pilgrims who
have journeyed far to this Mecca of the lama faith.
If they are entering the city for the first time and crave
exceeding virtue, they approach the great temple on the
hill by lying face down at every step and beating their
foreheads upon the ground. Wooden shrines of dazzling
whiteness stand in quiet streets or cluster by themselves
behind the temples. In front of each, raised
slightly at one end, is a prayer board worn, black and
smooth by the prostrated bodies of worshiping Mongols.</p>
<p>Although the natives take such care for the repose of
the spirit in after life, they have a strong distaste for
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_75">- 75 -</span>
the body from which the spirit has fled and they consider
it a most undesirable thing to have about the house. The
stigma is imposed even upon the dying. In Urga a
family of Mongols had erected their <i>yurt</i> in the courtyard
of one of our friends. During the summer the
young wife became very ill, and when her husband was
convinced that she was about to die he moved the poor
creature bodily out of the <i>yurt</i>. She could die if she
wished, but it must not be inside his house.</p>
<p>The corpse itself is considered unclean and the abode
of evil spirits, and as such must be disposed of as quickly
as possible. Sometimes the whole family will pack up
their <i>yurt</i> and decamp at once, leaving the body where it
lies. More usually the corpse is loaded upon a cart
which is driven at high speed over a bit of rough ground.
The body drops off at some time during the journey, but
the driver does not dare look back until he is sure that
the unwelcome burden is no longer with him; otherwise
he might anger the spirit following the corpse and
thereby cause himself and his family unending trouble.
Unlike the Chinese, who treat their dead with the greatest
respect and go to enormous expense in the burial,
every Mongol knows that his coffin will be the stomachs
of dogs, wolves, or birds. Indeed, the Chinese name for
the raven is the "Mongol's coffin."</p>
<p>The first day we camped in Urga, my wife and Mrs.
MacCallie were walking beside the river. Only a short
distance from our tent they discovered a dead Mongol
who had just been dragged out of the city. A pack of
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_76">- 76 -</span>
dogs were in the midst of their feast and the sight was
most unpleasant.</p>
<p>The dogs of Mongolia are savage almost beyond belief.
They are huge black fellows like the Tibetan mastiff,
and their diet of dead human flesh seems to have
given them a contempt for living men. Every Mongol
family has one or more, and it is exceedingly dangerous
for a man to approach a <i>yurt</i> or caravan unless he is on
horseback or has a pistol ready. In Urga itself you will
probably be attacked if you walk unarmed through the
meat market at night. I have never visited Constantinople,
but if the Turkish city can boast of more dogs
than Urga, it must be an exceedingly disagreeable place
in which to dwell. Although the dogs live to a large extent
upon human remains, they are also fed by the
lamas. Every day about four o'clock in the afternoon
you can see a cart being driven through the main street,
followed by scores of yelping dogs. On it are two or
more dirty lamas with a great barrel from which they
ladle out refuse for the dogs, for according to their
religious beliefs they accumulate great merit for themselves
if they prolong the life of anything, be it bird,
beast, or insect.</p>
<p>In the river valley, just below the Lama City, numbers
of dogs can always be found, for the dead priests
usually are thrown there to be devoured. Dozens of
white skulls lie about in the grass, but it is a serious
matter even to touch one. I very nearly got into trouble
one day by targeting my rifle upon a skull which lay
two or three hundred yards away from our tent.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_77">- 77 -</span></p>
<p>The customs of the Mongols are not all as gruesome
as those I have described, yet Urga is essentially a
frontier city where life is seen in the raw. Its natives
are a hard-living race, virile beyond compare. Children
of the plains, they are accustomed to privation and fatigue.
Their law is the law of the northland:</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0">".... That only the Strong shall thrive,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">That surely the Weak shall perish and only the Fit survive."</div>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>In the careless freedom of his magnificent horsemanship
a Mongol seems as much an untamed creature of
the plains as does the eagle itself which soars above his
<i>yurt</i>. Independence breathes in every movement; even
in his rough good humor and in the barbaric splendor of
the native dress.</p>
<p>But the little matter of cleanliness is of no importance
in his scheme of life. When a meal has been eaten, the
wooden bowl is licked clean with the tongue; it is seldom
washed. Every man and woman usually carries through
life the bodily dirt which has accumulated in childhood,
unless it is removed by some accident or by the wear of
years. One can be morally certain that it will never be
washed off by design or water. Perhaps the native is
not altogether to blame, for, except in the north, water
is not abundant. It can be found on the plains and in
the Gobi Desert only at wells and an occasional pond,
and on the march it is too precious to be wasted in the
useless process of bathing. Moreover, from September
until May the bitter winds which sweep down from the
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_78">- 78 -</span>
Siberian steppes furnish an unpleasant temperature in
which to take a bath.</p>
<p>The Mongol's food consists almost entirely of mutton,
cheese, and tea. Like all northern people, he needs an
abundance of fat, and sheep supply his wants. There is
always more or less grease distributed about his clothes
and person, and when Mongols are <i>en masse</i> the odor
of mutton and unwashed humanity is well-nigh overpowering.</p>
<p>I must admit that in morality the Mongol is but little
better off than in personal cleanliness. A man may have
only one lawful wife, but may keep as many concubines
as his means allow, all of whom live with the members
of the family in the single room of the <i>yurt</i>. Adultery
is openly practiced, apparently without prejudice to
either party, and polyandry is not unusual in the more
remote parts of the country.</p>
<p>The Mongol is <i>unmoral</i> rather than immoral. He
lives like an untaught child of nature and the sense
of modesty or decency, as we conceive it, does not enter
into his scheme of life. But the operation of natural
laws, which in the lower animals are successful in maintaining
the species, is fatally impaired by the loose family
relations which tend to spread disease. Unless
Lamaism is abolished I can see little hope for the rejuvenation
of the race.</p>
<p>In writing of Urga's inhabitants and their way of
life I am neglecting the city itself. I have already told
of the great temple on the hill and its clustering lama
houses which overlook and dominate the river valley.
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_79">- 79 -</span>
Its ornate roof, flashing in the sun, can be seen for
many miles, like a religious beacon guiding the steps of
wandering pilgrims to the Mecca of their faith.</p>
<p>At the near end of the broad street below the Lama
City is the tent market, and just beyond it are the black-smith
shops where bridles, cooking pots, tent pegs, and
all the equipment essential to a wandering life on the
desert can be purchased in an hour—if you have the
price! Nothing is cheap in Urga, with the exception of
horses, and when we began to outfit for our trip on the
plains we received a shock similar to that which I had
a month ago in New York, when I paid twenty dollars
for a pair of shoes. We ought to be hardened to it now,
but when we were being robbed in Urga by profiteering
Chinese, who sell flour at ten and twelve dollars a sack
and condensed milk at seventy-five cents a tin, we roared
and grumbled—and paid the price! I vowed I would
never pay twenty dollars for a pair of shoes at home,
but roaring and grumbling is no more effective in procuring
shoes in New York than it was in obtaining flour
and milk in Urga.</p>
<p>We paid in Russian rubles, then worth three cents
each. (In former years a ruble equaled more than half
a dollar.) Eggs were well-nigh nonexistent, except
those which had made their way up from China over the
long caravan trail and were guaranteed to be "addled"—or
whatever it is that sometimes makes an egg an unpleasant
companion at the breakfast table. Even those
cost three rubles each! Only a few Russians own chickens
in Urga and their productions are well-nigh "golden
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_80">- 80 -</span>
eggs," for grain is very scarce and it takes an astounding
number of rubles to buy a bushel.</p>
<p>Fortunately we had sent most of our supplies and
equipment to Urga by caravan during the winter, but
there were a good many odds and ends needed to fill our
last requirements, and we came to know the ins and outs
of the sacred city intimately before we were ready to
leave for the plains. The Chinese shops were our real
help, for in Urga, as everywhere else in the Orient, the
Chinese are the most successful merchants. Some firms
have accumulated considerable wealth and the Chinaman
does not hesitate to exact the last cent of profit
when trading with the Mongols.</p>
<p>At the eastern end of Urga's central street, which is
made picturesque by gayly painted prayer wheels and
alive with a moving throng of brilliant horsemen, are
the Custom House and the Ministry of Foreign Affairs.
The former is at the far end of an enormous compound
filled with camel caravans or loaded carts. There is a
more or less useless wooden building, but the business
is conducted in a large <i>yurt</i>, hard against the compound
wall. It was an extraordinary contrast to see a modern
filing-cabinet at one end and a telephone box on the felt-covered
framework of the <i>yurt</i>.</p>
<p>Not far beyond the Custom House is what I believe
to be one of the most horrible prisons in the world. Inside
a double palisade of unpeeled timbers is a space
about ten feet square upon which open the doors of
small rooms, almost dark. In these dungeons are piled
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_81">- 81 -</span>
wooden boxes, four feet long by two and one-half feet
high. These coffins are the prisoners' cells.</p>
<p>Some of the poor wretches have heavy chains about
their necks and both hands manacled together. They
can neither sit erect nor lie at full length. Their food,
when the jailer remembers to give them any, is pushed
through a six-inch hole in the coffin's side. Some are
imprisoned here for only a few days or weeks; others
for life, or for many years. Sometimes they lose the
use of their limbs, which shrink and shrivel away. The
agony of their cramped position is beyond the power of
words to describe. Even in winter, when the temperature
drops, as it sometimes does, to sixty degrees below
zero, they are given only a single sheepskin for covering.
How it is possible to live in indescribable filth, half-fed,
well-nigh frozen in winter, and suffering the tortures of
the damned, is beyond my ken—only a Mongol could
live at all.</p>
<p>The prison is not a Mongol invention. It was built
by the Manchus and is an eloquent tribute to a knowledge
of the fine arts of cruelty that has never been surpassed.</p>
<p>I have given this description of the prison not to feed
morbid curiosity, but to show that Urga, even if it has
a Custom House, a Ministry of Foreign Affairs, motor
cars, and telephones, is still at heart a city of the Middle
Ages.</p>
<p>In Urga we made a delightful and most valuable
friend in the person of Mr. F. A. Larsen. Most foreigners
speak of him as "Larsen of Mongolia" and indeed
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_82">- 82 -</span>
it is difficult for us to think of the country without
thinking of the man. Some thirty years ago he rode
into Mongolia and liked it. He liked it so much, in fact,
that he dug a well and built a house among the Tabool
hills a hundred miles north of Kalgan. At first he labored
with his wife as a missionary, but later he left
that field to her and took up the work which he loved
best in all the world—the buying and selling of horses.</p>
<p>During his years of residence in Mongolia hundreds
of thousands of horses have passed under his appraising
eyes and the Mongols respect his judgment as they respect
the man. I wish that I might write the story of
his life, for it is more interesting than any novel of romance
or adventure. In almost every recent event of
importance to the Mongols Mr. Larsen's name has
figured. Time after time he has been sent as an emissary
of the Living Buddha to Peking when misunderstandings
or disturbances threatened the political peace
of Mongolia. Not only does he understand the psychology
of the natives, but he knows every hill and plain
of their vast plateau as well as do the desert nomads.</p>
<p>For some time he had been in charge of Andersen,
Meyer's branch at Urga with Mr. E. W. Olufsen and
we made their house our headquarters. Mr. Larsen immediately
undertook to obtain an outfit for our work
upon the plains. He purchased two riding ponies for
us from Prince Tze Tze; he borrowed two carts with
harness from a Russian friend, and bought another; he
loaned us a riding pony for our Mongol, a cart horse of
his own, and Mr. Olufsen contributed another. He
made our equipment a personal matter and he was never
too busy to assist us in the smallest details. Moreover,
we could spend hours listening to the tales of his early
life, for his keen sense of humor made him a delightful
story-teller. One of the most charming aspects of our
wandering life is the friends we have made in far corners
of the world, and for none have we a more affectionate
regard than for "Larsen of Mongolia."</p>
<p class="tdr">PLATE VII</p>
<table summary="Plate">
<tr>
<td>
<div class="figleft"> <ANTIMG src="images/plate_viia.png" width-obs="354" height-obs="451" alt="" /> <div class="caption4">MONGOL WOMEN BESIDE A "YURT"</div>
</div>
</td><td>
<div class="figright"> <ANTIMG src="images/plate_viib.png" width-obs="356" height-obs="453" alt="" /> <div class="caption4">THE HEADDRESS OF A MONGOL MARRIED WOMAN</div>
</div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td colspan="2">
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/plate_viic.png" width-obs="453" height-obs="272" alt="" /> <div class="caption4">THE FRAMEWORK OF A YURT</div>
</div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td colspan="2">
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/plate_viid.png" width-obs="456" height-obs="296" alt="" /> <div class="caption4">MONGOL WOMEN AND A LAMA</div>
</div>
</td>
</tr>
</table>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_84">- 84 -</span></p>
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