A Holiday in the Happy Valley with Pen and Pencil Part 11

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 s.h.a.ggy steeps mirrored in its peaceful surface.

On the lower slopes strong patches of yellow mustard and white ma.s.ses 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 ca.n.a.l 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 _via_ 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 gra.s.sy 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 gra.s.s 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 l.u.s.tre 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 gla.s.s flower-vases s.p.a.ced 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 _pot 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 la.s.s 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 s.l.u.ts, 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 Here.

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 gra.s.sy 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.

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

CHAPTER VIII

THE LOLAB

_May_ 1.--The pear and cherry blossom has been so lovely in and around Srinagar that we determined to go to the Lolab Valley and see the apple blossom in full flower.

We started in some trepidation, for the warm weather lately has melted much snow on the hills, and Jhelum is so full that we were told that our three-decker would be unable to pa.s.s under the city bridges--of which there are seven. We decided to see for ourselves, so set forth about eleven, and soon came to the first bridge, the Amira Kadal, which carries the main tonga road into Srinagar, tying up just above it, amid the clamour and jabber of an idle crowd.

The Admiral solemnly measured the clear s.p.a.ce between the top of the arch and the water with a long pole, consulted noisily with the crowd, yelled his ideas to the crew, and decided to attempt the pa.s.sage.

Hen-coops, chairs, half-a-dozen flower-pots containing sickly specimens of plants, and all other movables being cleared from the upper deck, we set sail, and shot the bridge very neatly, only having a few inches of daylight between the upper deck and the wooden beams upon which the roadway rests.

_Ce nest que, le premier "pont" que coute_.

The other bridges were all easier than the first, and we shot them gaily, spending the rest of the day in floating quietly down the river, and finally anchoring--or rather mooring, for anchors are, like boat-hooks, masts, sails, rudders, and rigging, alike unknown to the "jollye mariners"

of the Jhelum--some two or three miles above the entrance to the dreaded Wular Lake.

This awful stretch of water, so feared by the Kashmiri that his eyes goggle when he even thinks of it, is an innocent enough looking lake, generally occupied in reflectively reproducing its surroundings upside down, but occasionally its calm surface is ruffled by a little breeze, and it is reported that wild and horrible squalls sweep down the nullahs of Haramok at times, and destroy the unwary. These squalls are said to be most frequent in the afternoons, and are probably the accompaniments of the thunderstorms.

It is only considered possible to cross the Wular between dawn and 10 or 11 A.M., and no persuasion will prevail upon a native boatman to risk his life on the lake after lunch.