90 KINCHINJUNGA 



Around him are dripping forests, each leaf glisten- 

 ing with freshest greenness, long mosses hanging 

 from the boughs, and the most delicate ferns and 

 noblest orchids growing on the stems and branches. 

 All is very beautiful, but it is the mountain he 

 wants to see ; and still the cloud-waves collect and 

 disperse, throw out tender streamers and feelers, 

 disappear and collect again, but always keep a veil 

 between him and the mountain. 



Then of a sudden there is a rent in the veil. 

 Without an inkling of when it is to happen or what 

 is to be revealed, those mists of infinite softness 

 part asunder for a space. The traveller is told to 

 look. He raises his eyes but sees nothing. He 

 throws back his head to look higher. Then indeed 

 he sees, and as he sees he gasps. For a moment 

 the current of his being comes to a standstill. 

 Then it rushes back in one thrill of joy. Much he 

 will have heard about Kinchinjunga beforehand. 

 Much he will remember of it if he has seen it before. 

 But neither the expectation nor the memory ever 

 comes up to the reality. From that time, hence- 

 forth and for ever, his whole life is lifted to a higher 

 plane. 



Through the rent in the fleecy veil he sees clear 

 and clean against the intense blue sky the snowy 

 summit of Kinchinjunga, the culminating peak of 

 lesser heights converging upward to it and all 

 ethereal as spirit, white and pure in the sunshine, 

 yet suffused with the deli cat est hues of blue and 

 mauve and pink. It is a vision of colour and 

 warmth and light — a heaven of beauty, love, and 

 truth. 



