blue Sung ceramics, paintings in tinted inks preserved for more than a thousand years, lacquers in which the cold and lovely detail of fairyland was not so much depicted as orchestrated. A world of incomparable refinements still fingered tremulously in porcelain and varnish, yielding an instant of emotion before its dissolution into purest thought. There was no boastfulness, no striving after effect, no concentrated attack upon the feelings of the beholder. These delicate perfections had an air of having fluttered into existence like petals from a flower. They would have maddened a collector, but Conway did not collect; he lacked both money and the acquisitive instinct. His liking for Chinese art was an affair of the mind; in a world of increasing noise and hugeness, he turned in private to gentle, precise, and miniature things. And as he passed through room after room, a certain pathos touched him remotely at the thought of Karakal’s piled immensity over against such fragile charms.
The lamasery, however, had more to offer than a display of Chinoiserie. One of its features, for instance, was a very delightful library, lofty and spacious, and containing a multitude of books so retiringly housed in bays and alcoves that the whole atmosphere was more of wisdom than of learning, of good manners rather than seriousness. Conway, during a rapid glance at some of the shelves, found much to astonish him; the world’s best literature was there, it seemed, as well as a great deal of abstruse and curious stuff that he could not appraise. Volumes in English, French, German, and Russian abounded, and there were vast quantities of Chinese and other Eastern scripts. A section which interested him particularly was devoted to Tibetiana, if it might be so called; he noticed several rarities, among them the Novo Descubrimento de grao catayo ou dos Regos de Tibet , by Antonio de Andrada (Lisbon, 1626); Athanasius Kircher’s China (Antwerp, 1667); Thevenot’s Voyage à la Chine des Pères Grueber et d’Orville; and Beligatti’s Relazione Inedita di un Viaggio al Tibet . He was examining the last named when he noticed Chang’s eyes fixed on him in suave curiosity. “You are a scholar, perhaps?” came the enquiry.
Conway found it hard to reply. His period of donhood at Oxford gave him some right to assent, but he knew that the word, though the highest of compliments from a Chinese, had yet a faintly priggish sound for English ears, and chiefly out of consideration for his companions he demurred to it. He said: “I enjoy reading, of course, but my work during recent years hasn’t supplied many opportunities for the studious life.”
“Yet you wish for it?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say all that, but I’m certainly aware of its attractions.”
Mallinson, who had picked up a book, interrupted: “Here’s something for your studious life, Conway. It’s a map of the country.”
“We have a collection of several hundreds,” said Chang. “They are all open to your inspection, but perhaps I can save you trouble in one respect. You will not find Shangri-La marked on any.”
“Curious,” Conway made comment. “I wonder why?”
“There is a very good reason, but I am afraid that is all I can say.”
Conway smiled, but Mallinson looked peevish again. “Still piling up the mystery,” he said. “So far we haven’t seen much that any one need bother to conceal.”
Suddenly Miss Brinklow came to life out of a mute preoccupation. “Aren’t you going to show us the lamas at work?” she fluted, in the tone which one felt had intimidated many a Cook’s man. One felt, too, that her mind was probably full of hazy visions of native handicrafts, prayer-mat weaving, or something picturesquely primitive that she could talk about when she got home. She had an extraordinary knack of never seeming very much surprised, yet of always seeming very slightly indignant, a combination of fixities which was not in the least disturbed by Chang’s
The lamasery, however, had more to offer than a display of Chinoiserie. One of its features, for instance, was a very delightful library, lofty and spacious, and containing a multitude of books so retiringly housed in bays and alcoves that the whole atmosphere was more of wisdom than of learning, of good manners rather than seriousness. Conway, during a rapid glance at some of the shelves, found much to astonish him; the world’s best literature was there, it seemed, as well as a great deal of abstruse and curious stuff that he could not appraise. Volumes in English, French, German, and Russian abounded, and there were vast quantities of Chinese and other Eastern scripts. A section which interested him particularly was devoted to Tibetiana, if it might be so called; he noticed several rarities, among them the Novo Descubrimento de grao catayo ou dos Regos de Tibet , by Antonio de Andrada (Lisbon, 1626); Athanasius Kircher’s China (Antwerp, 1667); Thevenot’s Voyage à la Chine des Pères Grueber et d’Orville; and Beligatti’s Relazione Inedita di un Viaggio al Tibet . He was examining the last named when he noticed Chang’s eyes fixed on him in suave curiosity. “You are a scholar, perhaps?” came the enquiry.
Conway found it hard to reply. His period of donhood at Oxford gave him some right to assent, but he knew that the word, though the highest of compliments from a Chinese, had yet a faintly priggish sound for English ears, and chiefly out of consideration for his companions he demurred to it. He said: “I enjoy reading, of course, but my work during recent years hasn’t supplied many opportunities for the studious life.”
“Yet you wish for it?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say all that, but I’m certainly aware of its attractions.”
Mallinson, who had picked up a book, interrupted: “Here’s something for your studious life, Conway. It’s a map of the country.”
“We have a collection of several hundreds,” said Chang. “They are all open to your inspection, but perhaps I can save you trouble in one respect. You will not find Shangri-La marked on any.”
“Curious,” Conway made comment. “I wonder why?”
“There is a very good reason, but I am afraid that is all I can say.”
Conway smiled, but Mallinson looked peevish again. “Still piling up the mystery,” he said. “So far we haven’t seen much that any one need bother to conceal.”
Suddenly Miss Brinklow came to life out of a mute preoccupation. “Aren’t you going to show us the lamas at work?” she fluted, in the tone which one felt had intimidated many a Cook’s man. One felt, too, that her mind was probably full of hazy visions of native handicrafts, prayer-mat weaving, or something picturesquely primitive that she could talk about when she got home. She had an extraordinary knack of never seeming very much surprised, yet of always seeming very slightly indignant, a combination of fixities which was not in the least disturbed by Chang’s
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