Far, Far The Mountain Peak Read online

  ‘And meet Peter?’

  ‘Oh, yes, I suppose so. Don’t know whether there’ll be any tigers or elephants where he’ll be.’ The stones crunched rhythmically under their boot-nails for a few moments as they came to a level place. ‘Travel--I’d like to climb in the Caucasus. Harry Walsh thinks he could take six months off next year or the year after. South America. The Andes. I won’t be able to go far afield after I inherit. Won’t want to.’

  He stopped and turned to face her. ‘I mean, I’d want to stay at home. With you. I mean, would you like to marry me?’

  ‘Now?’ Emily said. The sun was hot, and she was sweating, the salt, hot drops bitter in her eyes. She felt cold.

  ‘Now? Well, if you like, of course,’ he said. ‘Of course--I’d thought of getting more fit for it. Worthy. Growing up. Finding something to do, something big.’

  She stood looking carefully at him, and her gaze reflected straight back from his worried eyes so that she was looking at and into herself. If she accepted it must be for ‘now,’ so that he and she could come to grips with their life together before they had settled into different ways, before the years and other friendships had changed them both. But there was in her this same doubt of purpose. If she were a good, proper girl, Gerry himself would be her purpose; but she couldn’t accept that now. She didn’t love him--everything else, perhaps, but surely not love. If he took her in his arms now and kissed her hard, passionately, she would laugh, because she would know that it was not what he really felt. Nor she.

  Then to say: ‘Yes--some time?’ That would be the easy way. She couldn’t do it.

  She said: ‘I think we’d better wait, Gerry. Ask me again when you mean “Now.” ‘

  He said: ‘Exactly. That’s best.’ He turned round with a last shy, embarrassed smile, and strode on down the path. Soon he began to throw words and phrases back over his shoulder at her. ‘No life for a woman to sit at home while her husband goes off to the Caucasus, India--no life out there, either. Bugs. Fever. Snakes.’

  True enough, she thought, but what you mean is that if you have a woman with you, you can’t try out the limits of your own strength and skill, and that’s what is important to you now, because Peter has made it so.

  Gerry said: ‘I used to think being Manningford, later Wilcot, was enough--good and sufficient reason for living. Now I’m not so sure. Got to get that out of my system. Dash it, I’ll feel completely at a loose end when Peter’s gone. That’s not right, is it?’

  ‘No,’ she said.

  She thought angrily: Gerry never used to think there was any need to define a purpose for his life, but he probably could have if he had tried. Now he could not, and he was uneasy and doubtful of himself because of it. For over two years he had been close to Peter Savage, to whom nothing was going to come of its own--and if it should, Peter might use his will to force it away and wrench his life towards some other purpose (how much merely to exercise and increase the power of that will?); the way lie had given up cricket, at which he was already in the first class, in order to face the unknown peaks of mountaineering, was an ominous example and portent.

  Well, one thing was certain: Peggy would come to Peter without any effort on his part. So he might deliberately sweep her out of his way? He would not do that; Peggy was a rich girl, and would be richer when she was twenty-one.

  She said to herself: ‘Cat!’ and wished that thought had not come to her. She was as rich herself, perhaps richer, for she was an only child, and her father had inherited industries as well as land. She could not know what it felt like to a man like Peter to be poor. The sooner Peter went to India the better.

  When he came back Peggy would be waiting for him, grown up and calm as a freckled madonna. She herself would wait for Gerry, but it would not be the same. She was like Peter in this at least--she could not accept something only because it was coming to her. Now she was supposed to wait for Gerry to find a purpose so that he could see in himself the same kind of worth that he recognized in Peter Savage.

  How could she help him there? By urging him to go to an agricultural college and fit himself to run the Wilcot estates by himself? Perhaps, but Peter had turned his mind away from the unspectacular victories of a farmer and landowner. By firing him with political ambition, so that he would aim his life at the prime ministership or the Foreign Office? Perhaps. Only, Gerry would never be a politician. Eton and Cambridge were behind him, Peter going away, herself standing aloof. He was like a climber without a map, in a strange country.

  Oh, dear.

  Four years might not be enough. Or too long.

  Chapter 7

  LETTERS FROM INDIA

  January 5th, 1904

  D.C.’S CAMP RUDWAL DISTRICT

  PUNJAB

  Dear Gerry,

  The address above will always reach me. If we are not actually in camp, which we seem to be during a large part of the year, the letters will be delivered to me in Rudwal City. I have a small bungalow there, but have hardly seen it since I arrived. The train got in at midnight and by noon the next day I was on horseback, riding hard across country, trying to reach the D.C.’s camp before nightfall. He was on his cold-weather tour of the Southern Tehsils, and if you don’t know what that means, nor did I!

  You asked me in your letter to tell you about my work. It will not be easy, because there are no real limits to it. At the moment I am ‘under instruction,’ which means that I do anything that seems to need doing, or that Philipson tells me to do. Philipson is the D.C., and so my lord and master for the next year. He has been here a long time and does not seem too fit. I cannot tell yet whether he is efficient or not, as I do not know the ropes myself, but I should say not. He seems to be a slow thinker, a plodder and pipe-smoker, and one would say that ‘Anything for a quiet life’ was his motto, except that he is apparently always on tour, when he might be living in great comfort back in Rudwal (where he has a huge bungalow and fine garden), and things do somehow seem to get done. Mrs Philipson is here in camp with us. She is tall, thin, and dried up, and has no other interest than Philipson.

  The third day after I joined the camp--I hadn’t learned a word of Hindustani, let alone of the Punjab dialect they use here--Philipson took his pipe out of his mouth and suggested I go and judge a couple of cases. I felt like protesting, not because I was afraid to give a ruling but because I didn’t see how I could do justice when I couldn’t understand what anyone was saying. Philipson must have guessed what I was thinking, because he said: ‘Ahmad Ali is a good interpreter. Just do your best.’ Then he put his pipe back in his mouth, got on his horse, took his gun, and rode off to a snipe jheel twelve miles away. The court was in the open air, under a huge tree, and as I walked over to it, and realized that I was alone, I felt better. I had something to do, on my own, and it was a beautiful morning. The people’s faces all shone in the sun and the Maghra--we were camped on the bank--was like a river of beaten gold behind them. Ahmad Ali and the rest of them thought I was going to fumble and stumble. I could see it in their faces--just as Emily and Mr Fenton and even you did, that first day on Cader Brith, so--I showed them!

  Most days I go round with the patwaris, who are a kind of junior official, while they check the field records. The records show what crop is grown in every field in this district. I also inspect liquor shops, count the money in the sub-treasuries, listen to complaints, decide what to do about them--and do it. Philipson never asks what I have done or offers any advice, and, when he is dealing with these things and I am there, he never discusses them with me but just gives his decision and leaves me to guess why he gave that one and not some other. I think that when I get a district I shall make my views clearer to people who are working under me. As it is, I do not know what Philipson is trying to achieve here--if anything.

  I have met Adam Khan once or twice. His father was furious with him for not going into the I.C.S., and the row has not really died down yet. Adam looks strange, at first sight, in his Punjabi dress, but after
a time you get used to it, and certainly it is what he should wear if he is to keep touch with the peasants and townspeople here. You know we have a plan to work together when I finally get this district myself. Well, we’ve been discussing the details. He will form a group, ostensibly to discuss politics and local problems, but really to explain what I want and ensure that everyone works together to get it done. His father will be a snag, though, and would have to be dealt with somehow. He is about sixty-five and is called the Old Captain everywhere, though his real name is Ghulam Afzal Khan, Khan Bahadur. He is easily the most influential person in the district. I have not talked with him about our plans, of course, but it is clear that he is against all change of any kind, and cannot understand why Adam Khan wants to talk with lawyers and clerks and peasants ‘with ideas above their station,’ as he says. He is a magnificent-looking man, with a bright orange beard and white eyebrows. His house is a great rambling affair with courtyards and outhouses and scores of babies and servants, sitting in the middle of his thousand acres, about four miles west of Rudwal. I didn’t see Adam Khan’s wife, as the Old Captain insists on full purdah in his house--they all live there--but I saw his son, who is just five. He’s a good-looking, strong child, and the Old Captain is obviously a good deal prouder of him than he is of Adam. He orders Adam about pretty roughly, and made him fetch and carry for me during my visit. Adam will have to make up his mind not to be bossed about, or he will not be of as much use to me as I had hoped.

  I have definitely decided that this is the district I want, not because of Adam so much as for the mountains in the Northern Tehsils, and over the border in Parasia. It is not generally considered a ‘promotion’ district, I find. Philipson is only the fourth D.C. since we took over the Punjab from the Sikhs in 1849, and of the other three, two died in harness and one retired after twenty-six years in the district. This suits me well. I could change the face of this district in ten years, and then get a transfer or promotion on my own terms, with something actually done to point to. This is a much stronger position than to allow oneself to be picked as a ‘promising youngster,’ after three or four years, and put into the secretariat, because one will then never be able to get the respect and support of the men one will have to rely on to get things done--the D.C.s. Philipson positively hates the secretariat and all the quill-pushers in it, as he calls them. It is the only strong emotion I have ever seen him express, and there will be many Philipsons to work through. I doubt, incidentally, if Philipson’s health will stand up more than another three or four years, which might suit very well, as I should then be ready for a district.

  I do not know when I will get long leave, but when I do I promise you we’ll have a long season in the Alps together. I will get shorter leaves before then, of course, and will spend them in the Himalaya. I have a feeling that the Alps are going to be merely a training-ground in future, and that real fame will come only to men who find and conquer new peaks here. When you see the view from the foothills of the Southern Tehsils, you will understand.

  I wrote to Peggy yesterday. I hope you all had a good Christmas at Llyn Gared, and thought of me eating Christmas pudding in a tent, with the Philipsons wearing paper hats, at a temperature of 75°.

  Yours aye, Peter

  January 6th, 1905

  D.C.’S CAMP, RUDWAL DISTRICT

  PUNJAB

  Dear Gerry,

  I have three letters of yours, dating back to September, which I have not answered, and now I fear this must be a short letter, too, as I am packing up to leave the shelter of the Philipsons’ wing and set up on my own. Philipson has been asking for twelve years for a resettlement of the Southern Tehsils, and now they have given in, and appointed me settlement officer for the duration. Settlement is the process by which we map the district, try and find out who every piece of land belongs to, and decide what its basic rate of tax should be. For fifty years we have been working off a very rapid settlement made by the first D.C., one of the old school, who knew a lot more about fighting and Punjab-style wrestling than he did about law or mathematics. It has worked in a rough and ready fashion ever since, but there have been endless disputes, and now Mr Peter Savage, I.C.S., is going to put it right. It will take about three years of fieldwork, I estimate. The Lt. Governor told me, rather pompously, that I was the youngest officer ever to be appointed to settlement work, and that I could thank Philipson’s report for getting such a chance so early in my career, even before passing my departmental exams. I thanked him politely, and later Philipson also, but have privately made up my mind that I shall use the job to make sure that I get Rudwal when they see fit to give me a district. It would be a criminal waste, which even the secretariat must see, to send me somewhere else when I shall have gathered such a unique knowledge of Rudwal. My address, till further notice, will therefore be Settlement Officer’s Camp, Rudwal Dist., Punjab.

  Adam Khan is still trying to form his group of people interested in good government, and is getting in worse favour with his father the Old Captain. The latter does not believe in democracy. When you look at people and see what fools most of them are, I don’t see how any sensible person can, but the Old Captain does not realize that in the long run you achieve more by getting the people, fools and all, to work for you than by just having the power to force them to do what you tell them to.

  You ask what I think about the idea of your going to an agricultural college and then taking over the full management of the estates from your agent, Mervyn. It would cut into your mountaineering quite a bit--you remember telling me that Mervyn never found a minute to leave Wilcot except for a week or two in mid-winter--but of course a duty is a duty, even though you didn’t ask to be born with the title hovering over your head. Mervyn would be pretty cut up for a spell, too, I suppose.

  Give my regards to Emily, and let me know whether you are still hoping to get out here after big game next cold weather. We have nothing larger than leopard in Rudwal, but they’re exciting enough for anyone. I shot two last month, which had been taking goats and sheep in the foothills. The mahseer in the Maghra run up to 65 lb., and fight like salmon (only I’ve never fished for salmon!). I’ll write again soon.

  Yours aye, Peter

  July 26th, 1906

  P.O. HARKAMU

  RUDWAL DISTRICT

  PUNJAB

  Dear Gerry,

  There is no need to tell you what I have been doing, as you saw for yourself during the cold weather. I won’t tell you again how wonderful it was to see you out here, because I told you at the time, and in all my letters since. I was on resettlement then, wasn’t I? Well, I still am, but I have taken a month’s leave and am living in the Forest Rest House here in Harkamu. It is the ‘capital’ of the Northern Tehsils, and contains at least 1,000 people in the winter. In the summer 700 of that number go higher still with the flocks. Harkamu is just under 8,000 feet, in the upper valley of the Chakdi. The Philipsons were up here a week ago, the old man trying to shake off another go of malaria. I have escaped that so far.

  Thanks for sending the Alpine Journals on to me when you have read them. That was an interesting piece of Harry Walsh’s in the last number. He seems to be making a considerable name for himself, while I sit here in a log hut in Harkamu. Still, I have been over 19,000 feet on the mountains immediately north of here, and suspect that sheer altitude is going to raise problems which the Alps will not prepare one for. You must keep right up level with Walsh, Gerry, so that when I get back you can show me what’s been done, and how, and we can go after him. Whatever he’s done, we’ll do one better.

  I find myself wishing again and again that you were here--or I there. I’ve met a lot of people, Gerry, but I’ve only got one friend.

  I think, and am beginning to hope, that we’ll have a special reason for getting ourselves to the top of the heap. A Survey of India man who came through Rudwal a year ago dropped mysterious hints about Parasia, and now more light is beginning to emerge. Parasia is an enormous area, officially a pr
ovince of Western Tibet but actually just about as much without a ruler as it is without a population. The Survey of India apparently seized the opportunity, while Younghusband was beating some sense into the Tibetans’ heads a couple of years ago, to send a pair of agents into this end of the country. They confirmed what everyone has suspected for years--that Parasia is the most desolate, wild, and useless country in the world; but they also reported that they had seen and measured a very high mountain in the middle of it--27,000 feet. They have tentatively called it Meru. There have always been legends in Asia about a sacred mountain somewhere in Western Tibet, and it has always been called Meru, though no one has ever definitely found it, and many people have thought it was another name for Kailas; but Kailas is too far to the east (81° 18’E, 31° 04’N). So they are going to call this one Meru, in the hope of settling the controversy, perhaps. They have not mapped it properly, as they can’t get closer than fifty miles without a lot of trouble. From Government’s point of view they have found out all they want to know, but for us--this may be it, Gerry, our private mountain. The best thing of all is that its mere existence is going to remain a matter of gossip for a few years yet, as Government doesn’t want it spread abroad that agents have been all over Parasia. So be sure not to breathe a word of this to anyone at all, or I will get into trouble.

  Peggy writes regularly. She seems to be very bored with life in London, and is always longing to be in Llyn Gared or Zermatt, and holds quite a grudge against Mrs Fenton for not letting her come out here with you. I hope Emily is well. I have not seen much of Adam Khan since you left, which is probably as well, as it is beginning to be clear that he must not seem to be too close to me if he is to have real influence with his group. They have got a name now--the Rudwal Committee for Good Government.

  I was fool enough to give Philipson a hint of our plan for using the group--we call it the C.G.G.--as a lever to get things done. As I might have guessed, he was dubious about where it might lead. The Old Captain would send you his salaams if he knew I was writing to you. After you had gone he told me that you were a real bahut bahut pakka sahib, and why didn’t you come to India as Viceroy? Do you remember my mentioning something like that, years ago? It’s an idea, you know. If you haven’t found anything else to do, why not think of it seriously?