Foreign Devils on the Silk Road

by Peter Hopkirk

  By now they had been working continuously at Karakhoja for nearly four months. Although only the end of February, it was already getting hot in the Turfan depression. Feeling that they had more or less exhausted the site’s possibilities, the two men decided to move north to a series of stupas perched above the grim Sangim gorges. Here, although cooler, they were imperilled by frequent avalanches of stones and mud unleashed by the melting mountain snows. But these risks were quickly to prove worth while, for the men soon brought to light two entire manuscript libraries in different stupas, one discovered by Bartus and the other by von Le Coq. One alone was large enough to fill ‘several corn sacks’, the latter records.

  To the Germans’ astonishment they realised one day that they were not the only people excavating there. Across a stream they spotted two old women busily digging into a mound, clearly looking for treasures. Bartus and von Le Coq had found nothing that day. To their chagrin they observed that the two lady treasure-seekers opposite were enjoying considerable success, unearthing sculptured demons’ heads and quantities of fine manuscripts. To add insult to injury, the crones turned out to be hard bargainers, forcing the Germans to pay extortionate prices for their booty.

  Since their arrival at Karakhoja, von Le Coq had been making regular reports to Berlin on their progress. From letters he received in reply, he was disturbed to discover that the sponsoring committee seemed to have magnified the importance of the finds. Even the Kaiser was showing overmuch enthusiasm for relics that von Le Coq knew to be largely of academic interest. It must be remembered that, due to Grünwedel’s ill-health, his own position as expedition leader was temporary. He knew that at any moment he might be replaced, and therefore had only limited time in which to make his name. He was hampered in this by Grünwedel’s instructions to leave alone what, in effect, were the best sites. To add to von Le Coq’s frustration, his superior’s plans seemed to change with every post. When a letter now arrived saying that Grünwedel was still not coming to take over from him, von Le Coq decided to risk his displeasure and head for the nearby Buddhist cave complex of Bezeklik (meaning ‘Place Where There Are Paintings’) – despite instructions to the contrary. It was a gamble that paid off, for he and Bartus were soon to be rewarded by a series of dazzling finds.

  9. Von Le Coq Spins a Coin

  * * *

  The Buddhist monks who a thousand years ago built the great monastery complex at Bezeklik chose its position with ingenuity. Even in von Le Coq’s day a visitor to this remote and dramatically barren region could pass quite close to the site without realising it was there. Its hundred or so temples, mostly hewn out of the rock, occupied a long narrow terrace perched high on a cliff face. The only approach was by climbing a winding pathway leading to, and then along, the cliff-top. From there a precipitous stairway descended to the monastery some thirty feet below. Only from one spot could it be seen, and to ensure both security and privacy the architects had built a wall to block this view from the eyes of passers-by. Today this vast honeycomb of temples still stands, leaving a profound impression on the visitor brave enough to face the rugged drive there. But the name of Albert von Le Coq is not one to conjure with locally.

  On arrival, the two Germans set up their headquarters in an old temple building, at one time inhabited by goatherds, at the southern end of the monastery complex. The walls of this, and other temples around it, had once borne murals, but these had been ruined by smoke from the goatherds’ fires. Von Le Coq and Bartus decided therefore to investigate those temples at the northern end of the terrace. For these had been protected from occupation by the sand which over the centuries had cascaded down from the hills above, filling them from floor to ceiling. Entering one of the largest, von Le Coq clambered unsteadily along the heap of sand piled high against the wall. Immediately, the movement of his feet started a small avalanche beneath him. ‘Suddenly, as if by magic,’ he wrote, ‘I saw on the walls bared in this way, to my right and left, splendid paintings in colours as fresh as if the artist had only just finished them.’ He shouted excitedly to Bartus to come and see this amazing chance discovery. After examining what could be seen of the frescoes, the two men solemnly shook hands, for here was something they knew was likely to prove momentous. ‘If we could secure these pictures,’ von Le Coq wrote in Buried Treasures of Chinese Turkestan, ‘the success of the expedition was assured.’

  After laboriously removing quantities of sand, they found themselves staring at six, larger-than-lifesize paintings of Buddhist monks, three on either side of the entrance. More followed as they dug further into the sand-filled temple. Some of the figures were distinctively Indian, wearing yellow robes, and with their names recorded in Central Asian Brahmi script beside them. Others, in violet robes, were clearly from Eastern Asia, their names being written in Uighur and Chinese. Von Le Coq observes in his book that these thousand-year-old portraits were not the usual stereotypes done with stencils, but were attempts at achieving real likenesses.

  Continuing their advance along the corridor they next brought to light from beneath the sand fifteen giant-sized paintings of Buddhas of different periods. Other figures, shown kneeling before the Buddhas offering gifts, were of particular interest to von Le Coq since they depicted individuals in costumes of different nationalities. They included Indian princes, Brahmins, Persians – and one puzzling character with red hair, blue eyes and distinctly European features.

  In the temple cella, or central shrine, they came upon frescoes of grotesque-looking Indian gods, six-handed demons, some human-headed birds which had seized a child and were being pursued by hunters, and a king on a hunting expedition accompanied by his attendants. In the cella’s four corners, dressed in suits of armour, were the four legendary Guardians of the World. Other figures included the temple’s human benefactors, the men on one side, women on the other, with faded names still inscribed beside some of them.

  This was their most exciting coup so far, and von Le Coq was determined at all costs to remove every one of the paintings and transport them to Berlin. ‘By dint of long and arduous work,’ he wrote later, ‘we succeeded in cutting away all these pictures. After twenty months of travelling they arrived safely at Berlin, where they fill an entire room of the museum.’ He added, ‘This is one of the few temples whose sum-total of paintings has been brought to Berlin.’

  A Czechoslovak scholar, Professor Pavel Poucha, who in 1957 was allowed to travel through Chinese Turkestan, claims that the Germans used a sword to remove these delicate paintings. This is certainly not what we are told by von Le Coq. According to him each painting was first carefully cut around with a very sharp knife, the incision being deep enough to penetrate the clay, camel dung, chopped straw and stucco on which it was painted. Next a hole had to be made in the rock beside it with a pick-axe or hammer and chisel to allow a fox-tail saw to be inserted. ‘When the surface-layer is in a very bad condition, men are sometimes employed to keep boards covered with felt pressed firmly against the painting that is to be removed,’ von Le Coq explains. ‘Then this painting is sawn out; and when this process is complete, the board is carefully moved away from the wall, the upper edge being first carried out and down, bearing the painting with it, until at last the latter lies quite horizontal on the board.…’ He adds: ‘The physical exertion connected with this work is exceptionally great.’ The most exhausting task, as even Bartus – with his ‘Herculean strength’ – found, was using the fox-tail saw.

  Each painting was then laid face downwards on a board which had first been covered with dry reeds, next with felt and finally cotton wool. Another layer of cotton wool was placed on the back of this painting, then a second fresco laid face upwards on top of this. Finally, more padding and a second protective board was placed on top of the uppermost painting, thus completing the ‘sandwich’. The boards were cut large enough to overlap the paintings and so give them added protection. Straw flax was stuffed into the space thus left, and the whole package then bound with ropes. Up to half
a dozen wall-paintings were sometimes secured thus between one pair of boards. The package was then placed in a crate lined with straw flax to prevent any movement during transportation home. ‘We have never had the least breakage in cases packed in this way,’ von Le Coq claimed with pride. Large paintings were first sawn into several pieces, care being taken to cut around faces and other features of aesthetic significance.

  It is interesting to note the slightly different technique evolved by Sir Aurel Stein, after much experiment, during his three expeditions. Like the Germans, he also used a saw, carefully inserted behind the frescoes, to cut them down from the wall. They were then backed with stout canvas saturated with glue. The paintings, each of them on average between one-and-a-half and two inches thick, were next placed face to face, but with a cushion of cotton wool, a sheet of Khotan paper, and then another layer of cotton wool between them. When Stein’s supplies of cotton wool ran out, he used raw sheep’s wool. Each pair of paintings was then bound round with rushes before being clamped together between wooden battens and secured with ropes. Finally they were placed in wooden cases stuffed with more rushes. Like those of the Germans, Stein’s larger paintings, some of which were up to ten feet tall, could not be transported in one piece and had first to be cut into pieces, later to be carefully reunited after their long and arduous journey home by camel, pony, yak or other means.

  It was at Bezeklik, half a century later, that the British writer Basil Davidson was shown by aggrieved officials the excisions left by von Le Coq and Bartus when removing frescoes. Each time they halted opposite a gap which had once contained a painting, Davidson’s escorts uttered just one word – ‘Stolen!’

  In Buried Treasures of Chinese Turkestan, von Le Coq describes vividly the austere beauty of the landscape around Bezeklik. ‘In the death-like silence that always reigns there, the splashing of the rushing stream, as it fell over the rocks at the foot of the gorge in the mountainside, sounded like scornful laughter,’ he wrote. Despite its beauty, the region possessed an atmosphere that at times made both Germans feel uneasy. There was something about it that struck them as ‘weird and uncanny’, and which perhaps had inspired the hideous-looking demons which glared down from so many of the temple walls.

  One moonlit night at Bezeklik, ‘when all was still as death, ghastly noises suddenly resounded as though a hundred devils had been let loose’. The two men leaped out of bed and, grabbing their rifles, rushed onto the terrace. Von Le Coq goes on: ‘There, to our horror, we saw the whole horse-shoe gorge filled with wolves that, head in air, were baying at the moon with long-drawn-out howls.’ However, he and Bartus were reassured by their men that the wolves of this region were harmless. ‘After a few shots, one of which hit one of the visitors,’ von Le Coq adds, ‘the animals left us after they had eaten their dead comrade.’ They heard of one instance only of wolves killing a human being. The victim was a pretty, twelve-year-old Karakhoja child, known to both the Germans, who was betrothed against her will to a man of sixty. She ran away across the desert in the direction of a neighbouring oasis. Exhausted, she evidently stopped beside a spring and fell asleep and here the wolves discovered her. “All that was found later were blood-stained fragments of her clothing and her long top-boots with her legs still inside,’ von Le Coq relates.

  After briefly exploring another Buddhist temple site nearby which yielded more frescoes, dating from the seventh century, as well as embroideries and manuscripts, they moved on to the village of Tuyoq, which means ‘carved out’. This region, von Le Coq informs us, was famous for its oval-shaped, seedless grapes which were sold, as raisins, as far away as Peking, nearly four months’ journey to the east. Upstream from the village they found scores of temples, but all of them in ruins. Also, clinging like ‘a swallow’s nest on to the almost perpendicular slope of the mountainside’, they came upon a huge monastery. Eleven years later, in 1916, the entire monastery plunged into the gorge when a severe earthquake convulsed the area. In one cave temple in this winding valley von Le Coq found a monk’s cell whose architectural plan showed distinct Iranian influences and which, when cleared, turned out to contain quantities of religious texts. An unsuccessful attempt had been made to burn these, and the Germans were able to rescue sufficient to fill two sacks. Many dated from the eighth and ninth centuries. They also found what von Le Coq described as ‘wonderful embroideries’.

  Moving on once again, von Le Coq sent Bartus to investigate some ruins lying to the north of Turfan at Shui-pang while he set out for Urumchi with the large consignment of packing cases containing their finds. There, with the help of the Russian consul, he hoped to hire a reliable man to escort the heavily laden wagons to the nearest railhead across the Russian frontier. He took with him 6,000 roubles (about £650) in gold which he proposed to convert into Chinese money. Wisely he slept with it under his pillow, for one night while staying at a caravanserai at Dabanching they were the victims of thieves who broke in by first wetting – thereby weakening – the mud wall and then cutting their way through it with a sword. Fortunately they were disturbed and only got away with saddles and clothes for which von Le Coq received compensation from the authorities in Urumchi.

  On returning to Karakhoja, where he and Bartus had agreed to rendezvous, he found that his colleague had dug from the ruined walls of Shui-pang ‘a marvellous booty’ of early Christian manuscripts. These included a fifth-century psalter, fragments of St Matthew’s Gospel and the Nicene Creed in Greek, and texts dealing with the finding of the True Cross by the Empress Helena, and the visit of the Three Kings to the infant Christ. So excited was Bartus by his find that he had heaped the manuscripts on to a mappa, the two-wheeled, springless cart of China, and ridden non-stop with them to Karakhoja.

  By now it was the beginning of August, and the furnace heat of the Turfan depression had become unbearable. Both men were suffering from prickly heat, a skin condition affecting Europeans in hot climates which causes intense itching. To escape from it they decided to move camp to Hami, some two hundred miles to the east. Lying on the edge of the Gobi, but in the foothills of the T’ien Shan, it would at least be cooler than Turfan (although Colonel Bell reported in 1887 that summer temperatures there reached 122 degrees in the shade). It took them twelve days to reach this former capital of Genghis Khan, stopping each night in one of the bug-ridden wayside inns. Nobody has much to say for this particular stretch of the Gobi. To Mildred Cable and Francesca French, who were not given to overstatement, it was one of those regions ‘which surpass all others in power to horrify’.

  Eighteen years before von Le Coq’s visit, Colonel Bell had been badly received at Hami by Chinese officials who, having penetrated his Chinese disguise, had denounced him (perhaps not unreasonably) as a ‘foreign devil’. He explained away this ungentlemanly behaviour by dismissing them as ‘the scum and overflow’ from the frontier towns. But von Le Coq and Bartus had an altogether happier experience of Hami. On hearing that they were coming, the Khan had sent provisions, including eggs, meat and fruit, to all the inns they halted at on the way. This did much to alleviate the attentions of the bugs.

  On arrival they had an audience with the Khan in his sumptuous palace, some rooms of which, von Le Coq tells us, ‘were furnished with exceptional beauty’. He continues: ‘We saw on all sides splendid, fast-dyed Chinese and Khotan carpets, beautiful silk embroideries, both in Chinese style and also in that practised in Bokhara; valuable jade carvings from Khotan, side by side with Chinese porcelain; French clocks for the mantelpiece and, O horrors! terribly ugly Russian paraffin lamps of the cheapest and commonest kind.’ On one wall was a cuckoo-clock which, von Le Coq adds, ‘delighted us with its homely note’.

  The one-time wine-merchant from Darmstadt was astonished to find in the home of this Moslem ruler, in the very heart of Central Asia, a cellar filled with the best French champagnes and Russian liqueurs. With these the Khan liberally plied both himself and his guests, repeatedly toasting them, but afterwards showing no trace of ill
-effects. The inhabitants of Hami had for centuries enjoyed a reputation for good living and hospitality. Marco Polo wrote of them: ‘They live by the fruits of the earth which they have in plenty, and dispose of to travellers. They are a people who take things very easily for they mind nothing but playing, singing, dancing and enjoying themselves.’ But within a year or two of von Le Coq’s death this richly furnished palace would be razed to the ground and its treasures plundered. For this town of bon-viveurs was to suffer terrible punishment at the hands of the Chinese following an abortive uprising.

  Von Le Coq’s visit to Hami, although a pleasant diversion, was archaeologically disappointing. Although eighteen years earlier Younghusband had reported seeing more ruined buildings than occupied ones in the vicinity, most of these transpired to be of recent date (casualties of an earlier insurrection) and not relics of the region’s Buddhist past. Even so, the Germans managed to discover, in the foothills to the north-east, two Buddhist temples. Alas, they arrived far too late. The sculptures and other works of art, whose remains could still be seen protruding from the sodden ground, had over the years been reduced to a shapeless mass by melting snow from the mountains above. But von Le Coq could hardly complain. Only a year previously he had been merely a volunteer in the Indian department of his museum. By an accident of pure fate – Huth’s death and Grünwedel’s illness – he had been chosen to lead this expedition to Chinese Central Asia. The Kaiser, who had personally contributed to its cost, had already expressed satisfaction with the expedition’s progress. Since then there had been the triumph of Bezeklik. The crates containing those spectacular frescoes were even now trundling across Siberia on their way to Berlin. Von Le Coq could feel confident that his reputation was made.

  But there now began a series of events which were to rob him of the greatest of all the Silk Road prizes. While he and Bartus were in Hami they had heard from a Turkoman merchant a remarkable story about a discovery which had been made five years before at the oasis of Tun-huang, a town lying some two hundred miles due south across the Gobi. According to his version, a Chinese priest had stumbled upon a vast library of ancient books and manuscripts which had lain hidden for centuries there in a secret chamber. That Tun-huang had since earliest times been a centre of Buddhist worship and study was well known to von Le Coq, although only a handful of European travellers had ever been there. Unlike Karakhoja and Bezeklik, its decorated chapels were still regarded as sacred by the local people. To attempt to saw out its frescoes, therefore, was unthinkable. But the library, if it really existed, might be another matter. It was certainly worth looking into. While von Le Coq and Bartus were discussing it, an unwelcome telegram arrived from Berlin. Grünwedel was at last on his way. He expected to reach Kashgar in six weeks’ time and asked them to rendezvous with him there. Von Le Coq now found himself in a quandary. To reach Tun-huang would take them seventeen days. Clearly they could not visit Tun-huang and still reach Kashgar – twelve hundred miles to the west – in time to keep their appointment with Grünwedel. But Grünwedel had been vacillating for months and might easily change his mind again. What were they to do? Von Le Coq decided to spin a coin. It was a Chinese silver dollar, and it came down tails. Bartus saddled the horses and they set out together for Kashgar.