“What about yourself ?” Conway asked. “How did it work out in your case?”
“Ah, my dear sir, I was lucky enough to arrive when I was quite young – only twenty-two. I was a soldier, though you might not have thought it; I had command of troops operating against brigand tribes in the year 1855. I was making what I should have called a reconnaissance if I had ever returned to my superior officers to tell the tale, but in plain truth I had lost my way in the mountains, and of my men only seven out of over a hundred survived the rigors of the climate. When at last I was rescued and brought to Shangri-La I was so ill that extreme youth and virility alone could have saved me.”
“Twenty-two,” echoed Conway, performing the calculation. “So you’re now ninety-seven?”
“Yes. Very soon, if the lamas give their consent, I shall receive full initiation.”
“I see. You have to wait for the round figure?”
“No, we are not restricted by any definite age limit, but a century is generally considered to be an age beyond which the passions and moods of ordinary life are likely to have disappeared.”
“I should certainly think so. And what happens afterwards? How long do you expect to carry on?”
“There is reason to hope that I shall enter lamahood with such prospects as Shangri-La has made possible. In years, perhaps another century or more.”
Conway nodded. “I don’t know whether I ought to congratulate you – you seem to have been granted the best of both worlds, a long and pleasant youth behind you, and an equally long and pleasant old age ahead. When did you begin to grow old in appearance?”
“When I was over seventy. That is often the case, though I think I may still claim to look younger than my years.”
“Decidedly. And suppose you were to leave the valley now, what would happen?”
“Death, if I remained away for more than a very few days.”
“The atmosphere, then, is essential?”
“There is only one valley of Blue Moon, and those who expect to find another are asking too much of nature.”
“Well, what would have happened if you had left the valley, say, thirty years ago, during your prolonged youth?”
Chang answered: “Probably I should have died even then. In any case, I should have acquired very quickly the full appearance of my actual age. We had a curious example of that some years ago, though there had been several others before. One of our number had left the valley to look out for a party of travelers who we had heard might be approaching. This man, a Russian, had arrived here originally in the prime of life, and had taken to our ways so well that at nearly eighty he did not look more than half as old. He should have been absent no longer than a week (which would not have mattered), but unfortunately he was taken prisoner by nomad tribes and carried away some distance. We suspected an accident and gave him up for lost. Three months later, however, he returned to us, having made his escape. But he was a very different man. Every year of his age was in his face and behavior, and he died shortly afterwards, as an old man dies.”
Conway made no remark for some time. They were talking in the library, and during most of the narrative he had been gazing through a window towards the pass that led to the outer world; a little wisp of cloud had drifted across the ridge. “A rather grim story, Chang,” he commented at length. “It gives one the feeling that Time is like some balked monster, waiting outside the valley to pounce on the slackers who have managed to evade him longer than they should.”