Journeys on the Silk Road

by Joyce Morgan

  Stein’s antiquities were initially housed at the Natural History Museum in South Kensington, then part of the British Museum. They were not destined to stay there long. Instead, space was being made available at the British Museum in Bloomsbury. However, when Stein saw the rooms he had been allocated, he was furious. He and his antiquities—obtained at so high a human cost—were to be consigned to a basement. The space, previously used to store newspaper files, was dark and cramped. In short, it was a cave. The usually measured Stein protested bitterly.

  “Neither during my official career in India nor in the course of my explorations have I been called upon to work in what without exaggeration may be designated a sort of cellar,” he wrote.

  In the course of my explorations I have been obliged to expose myself to a good deal of physical hardship and I believe that the strain incurred in the interest of my scientific tasks has not failed to affect my constitution to a certain extent. But I may safely assert that I could face these hardships more willingly than daily imprisonment for prolonged hours in a confined room partially below ground and devoid of adequate light and air. I believe that after the sacrifices I have made in the interest of the scientific tasks entrusted to me by Government, I ought not in fairness be called upon to work in conditions which apart from direct physical discomfort would make my tasks during my Deputation here unnecessarily irksome and trying.

  He toyed with shifting the collection elsewhere, even out of London. He considered the Ashmolean Museum in Oxford. His plea to remain in the Natural History Museum was rejected, as was his attempt to relocate to its neighbor, the Victoria and Albert Museum. So seven months after arriving in London, the much-traveled collection was on the move again, across to Bloomsbury and into the British Museum’s basement. Andrews reassured Stein: “The cellar has been made as habitable as such a place can be, with large writing tables, armchairs, writing materials, mats, hand basins, soap & towels, dusters etc. The lock . . . has now been altered so that only our key and the master keys will open it.”

  Stein kept a tight rein on who could access the rooms. Although the scrolls and other finds were based at the British Museum, they were not yet part of its collection. This couldn’t occur until his backers agreed on a division—and that would take many acrimonious years. In any case, Stein didn’t spend a great deal of time in the basement cave poring over his finds. With Andrews left to the grinding work of sorting, Stein traveled in Europe, lectured and, in 1910, accepted an offer of rooms at Oxford’s Merton College, where Percy Allen was a research fellow. Stein was happy to do so. He disliked cities in general, London in particular, and the enclave of Bloomsbury most of all. His bay window at Merton College looked out on a meadow that was far different from his alpine vista at Mohand Marg, but his second-floor rooms provided the peace and solitude he needed to write an account of his expedition.

  They also afforded him the companionship of Percy and Helen Allen, not to mention Dash, who would spend the rest of his life in their care. Dash’s arrival in England had even been reported in the press. The little fox terrier had covered the 10,000 miles of the expedition mostly on foot, during which he survived on scraps from the camp larder, according to the Daily Mail. Dash was described as a useful watch-dog whose chief recreation was chasing wild donkeys and yaks and hunting hares. The report concluded on a patriotic note: “He has true British terrier blood in his veins, although India was his birthplace.”

  Stein lived amid Oxford’s dreaming spires as though still camped in the desert. He kept his camp chair, which had accidentally been dropped on his perilous crossing of the Taklamakan Desert. Incredibly, a Chinese official recovered the seat and posted it to Macartney in Kashgar, who ensured it eventually reached Stein. No one could accuse Stein of living extravagantly. He inquired about getting a cheap wooden writing-table made similar to his folding camp table. He even retained his well-traveled Jaeger wool blanket—although he did have it cleaned of bloodstains from his amputation.

  Once settled, he turned to writing an account of his second expedition, Ruins of Desert Cathay. At the same time, he kept a close eye on the progress of his collection in Bloomsbury and everyone associated with it, right down to clerical assistants. He was impressed by a young Scottish woman, Florence Lorimer, a bright Oxford graduate who had been recommended by Helen Allen. Lorimer, then aged twenty-five and with a background in classics, was capable, intelligent and seemed able to take on some of the cataloguing. Lorimer began work in October 1909, leaving behind Oxford’s Bodleian Library, where she was one of its first female employees. This was the beginning of a thirteen-year association with Stein. It is a mark of how much Stein valued Lorimer that she soon acquired a nickname, for such monikers were confined to his inner circle. She was dubbed the Recording Angel.

  With manuscripts in so many languages, including Chinese, Tibetan, Sanskrit, Uyghur, and Sogdian, Stein drew on the expertise of scholars across Europe. For the Chinese manuscripts, he turned to his one-time rival Paul Pelliot. In September 1910, Stein proposed that the French scholar make an inventory of the Chinese manuscripts. Pelliot, eager to see what Stein had acquired, agreed, and two crates containing more than four hundred manuscripts were sent to him in Paris—a not uncommon practice at the time. It is probable the Diamond Sutra was among the precious scrolls sent across the English Channel. Stein seemed happy with Pelliot’s initial progress, noting the Frenchman made many interesting discoveries among the Chinese manuscripts.

  A small private viewing of Stein’s finds was held at the British Museum in 1910, and the first public exhibition was at London’s Crystal Palace in 1911. The latter event was part of the Festival of Empire to mark the coronation of the new king, George V. The objects selected from Stein’s material consisted mostly of silk paintings of Chinese and Tibetan deities but also included a manuscript wrapper, a fragment of damask, an embroidered miniature Buddha, and an embroidered cushion cover. Stein’s disapproval of exuberant Tibetan Buddhist imagery was reflected in the small catalogue accompanying the exhibition. He noted with relief that none of the figures showed the “extravagant multiplication of limbs nor the other monstrosities in which the imagery of Tibetan Buddhism delights . . . there are found but very few figures which are of a form not altogether human; it is evidence of the sober sense and good taste of the Chinese donors, and of the monks under whose direction these votive pictures were prepared.” The Times described the collection as of “epoch-making importance” for the study of Chinese religious art. But the Diamond Sutra—still to make its first public appearance—was not among the sixty-eight items displayed.

  As work continued on the finds, Stein was busy in Oxford completing Ruins of Desert Cathay. The published “populist” account of his journey to Turkestan ran to two volumes, each a door-stopping 500 pages. Stein was reserved in his manner but prolix in his writing. He finished the huge work on July 5, 1911, and by the end of the year, with his three years of special leave almost over, he sailed again for India and planned another foray into Turkestan.

  His book, published in 1912, contains the first brief description and photograph of the Diamond Sutra. He calls it simply a roll. With what passes for scholarly exuberance, Stein wrote: “Greatly delighted was I when I found that an excellently preserved roll with a well-designed block-printed picture as frontispiece, had its text printed throughout.” And the usually meticulous Stein gets its date wrong—twice. The scroll dates neither from 864 nor 860, as the text and a caption state, but 868. Such uncharacteristic errors suggest he was yet to grasp the printed scroll’s full significance.

  In June 1912, within months of returning to India, Stein received unexpected news at his alpine camp on Mohand Marg. He had been awarded a knighthood. He wrote to Allen:

  Late last night a heavy Dak bag arrived & to my utter astonishment brought a letter from the Viceroy’s hand announcing the K.C.I.E. [Knight Commander of the Indian Empire], with a bundle of congratulat
ory telegrams from Simla. I scarcely believed my eyes, for how could I as a simple man of research foresee this more than generous recognition . . . It seems in some ways an overwhelming attention.

  Later in the same letter, he sought Allen’s advice on a tricky matter of protocol: would it be acceptable, he wondered, to call himself Sir Aurel, rather than, say, Sir Marc—his unused first name—or the more awkward Sir Marc Aurel? He was known as Sir Aurel Stein from then on. It is an indication of his acceptance by the establishment that, Hungarian-born and Jewish, Stein was accorded such a rare honor.

  Stein was swamped with congratulations, the most amusing of which was penned by Allen on behalf of Dash II, who had just been replaced in Kashmir by a puppy, Dash III.

  Many congratulations, dear Master. Am wearing my collar of achievement. If I had known this was coming, I should not have cried on the Wakhjir. Whip the young one & keep him in order. Bow wow. (Have assumed this title) SIR DASH, K.C.I.E.

  The other notable tribute came from Chiang, still employed in Kashgar by George Macartney as his secretary at Chini Bagh. Stein had been eager for news from his devoted assistant, to whom he sent a copy of Ruins of Desert Cathay.

  I cannot express on paper how glad I was to hear the grant of the title of K.C.I.E. on you. An honour well merited and bestowed on a deserving servant of the Govt . . . I received your book too in two volumes. The company of this book is to me as if I was in your company and marching in your train in the great plain-like Taklamakan . . . Please accept my best thanks for the kind thought of remembering by the gift of this book.

  By then, Stein knew Chiang had suffered a serious illness that had left him profoundly deaf. But Chiang was quick to reassure him. “Mr. Macartney has been kind to me and is patiently putting up with the inconvenience of shouting at the top of his voice occasionally and trying to make me hear what he wants me to write for him.”

  Macartney updated Stein on his secretary’s health. Stein arranged for an expensive ear trumpet to be sent from London. Despite his hearing loss, Chiang still proved invaluable to Macartney. “Deaf as he is, poor old Chiang-ssu-yeh manages somehow to hear what is going on in the Yamens and keeps me well posted,” Macartney wrote. Chiang’s deafness was not the only change in Kashgar that Macartney reported. Revolutionary fervor swept across China in 1911 and 1912 and led to the collapse of the Qing dynasty, the abdication of Emperor Puyi, the last emperor, and the establishment of the Republic of China. Eventually the revolutionary zeal reached the Turkestan oases.

  “Chiang-ssu-yeh can’t quite make up his mind as to the respective merits of the old, and of the new, regime and his indecision is reflected in his head-dress. His queue [pigtail] has certainly gone; but now and then when a reactionary wave sweeps over the Chinese in Kashgar with murder in the air, he wishes he still had his appendage. One day he puts on an English cap and another a Chinese hat, just according to how he is influenced by the political weather. Today the English cap is in favour with him,” Macartney wrote.

  Although Macartney made light of Chiang’s response to the political change, the violence would reach Chini Bagh’s gates. Across the Turkestan oases, Chinese officials had been murdered and their yamens looted. In Kashgar, officials had been beheaded and their bodies left in the streets as a warning. The Macartneys provided shelter within Chini Bagh’s garden for terrified refugees fleeing the slaughter. “Massacres of Chinese officials by Chinamen in the old & new cities of Kashgar started,” Macartney wrote. “You know old Yuen Taotai, well he was set upon at night by 15 assassins and cut to pieces.”

  Back in London, work was underway at the British Museum for the first major exhibition of Stein’s great discoveries from Turkestan. Paul Pelliot, who had been examining the Chinese scrolls for two years, was helping to select material for the show. If there was a eureka moment as the Diamond Sutra was slowly unwound and the realization dawned that here was the world’s oldest printed and dated book, Stein makes no reference to it. But by late 1912, the work had been identified. That was when Pelliot wrote to the museum about the items to be included in the forthcoming exhibition, saying: “Finally there is the substantial printed roll that Stein has already put aside, the Diamond Sutra of 868.” Although Stein won the race through the desert, it may have been his greatest rival, Pelliot, who first recognized the significance of Stein’s most celebrated find.

  The exhibition was planned for spring 1914 to celebrate the opening of the British Museum’s new wing. After nearly a thousand years in a cave and a perilous journey across continents, the Diamond Sutra was at last to be revealed to the public.

  Neither Stein nor Andrews would see this event. Soon after returning to India, Stein started lobbying his friend to leave the Battersea Polytechnic “mill” and join him. Stein helped sow the seeds of discontent in a letter—by turns disparaging of London and flattering of his friend—that reveals much about his attitude to life: “The more I see of this glorious land the more I pity those who live & work in London whatever their pay, etc. For a pleasant existence in England one must have independence, plenty of money—or else tastes not too artistic or intellectual. Yours are!” Stein’s persuasion worked. Andrews accepted a role as head of a new art institute in Srinagar and, with his wife Alice, readied to leave London for Kashmir. Stein’s friend from his youthful Mayo Lodge days in Lahore would soon be back with him on Indian soil.

  Stein’s regret at missing the forthcoming exhibition was fleeting. His interest was exploring, not working behind the scenes to prepare a show. “In a way I am sorry that neither of us will see the exhibition, on the other hand we shall both be saved from spending time over what is scarcely to be regarded as altogether productive work. Our experience at the ‘Empire Exhibition’ was enough for a long time,” he wrote to Andrews. Lorimer was left to oversee the details, sending weekly updates to Stein from the museum “cave.”

  The museum’s new wing, due to be opened by King George V, was much anticipated. The Times of May 2, 1914, noted Stein’s antiquities would be on show and singled out a star attraction. “[The collection] contains some of the most remarkable curiosities of literature hitherto discovered. Among them is a complete printed roll of Chinese workmanship. It is 16 ft long and was printed in 868 by Wang Chieh [Wang Jie]. This is the oldest specimen of printing known to exist.”

  The same day as The Times published its report about the Diamond Sutra, a death threatened to derail the public unveiling. The ninth Duke of Argyll, a former governor-general of Canada, died at Kensington Palace. The long-awaited opening planned for five days later might be delayed, Lorimer wrote.

  Late on a spring morning, two open landaus, each pulled by four horses, left Buckingham Palace. The royal party, King George V and Queen Mary and their daughter Princess Mary, made the short journey along Pall Mall, Regent Street, Shaftesbury Avenue and Charing Cross Road before arriving at the museum, where they were met by a guard of honor provided by the Artists Rifles, a volunteer regiment initially raised among painters, musicians, and actors.

  Although the royal visitors wore mourning dress to mark their bereavement, the official opening went ahead on May 7 as planned. The Queen’s outfit was somber, but nonetheless impressed The Times correspondent, who noted approvingly that “the Queen wore a hat covered with black jet and a string of magnificent pearls.” In another newspaper, the Daily Sketch, the entire event was overshadowed by the appearance of the teenage princess and the sign of her growing maturity. Its headline the next day read: “Princess Mary makes her first public appearance since she put her hair up.”

  The Archbishop of Canterbury, the museum’s principal trustee, was waiting on the steps. No doubt security was tight. Just a few weeks earlier, a suffragette had taken a meat cleaver to Velazquez’s The Toilet of Venus (The Rokeby Venus) in the nearby National Gallery, and the British Museum itself had been warned to expect similar attacks. The Prime Minister, Henry Herbert Asquith, politicians,
ambassadors, and the building’s architect, John James Burnet, were among those gathered to hear the Archbishop’s opening address—“needlessly long,” according to The Manchester Guardian. After unveiling a bust of the late King Edward VII, the royal party toured the new galleries.

  “The King and Queen showed especial interest in the astonishing collection of finds brought home by Sir Aurel Stein from Chinese Turkestan. These pictures and manuscripts—vestiges of civilisations hardly known to the experts in these matters—are arranged with strange effect in the wide bleak spaces of the great ground floor gallery,” the same paper noted.

  The Times also singled out Stein’s collection, calling it the most exciting part of the opening exhibitions of museum treasures, which also included works by William Hogarth and Leonardo da Vinci. “His two greatest finds were, first, the remains of a very ancient Chinese frontier wall, with towers and guard-houses, the whole of which was absolutely unknown; and secondly, in a region that is still inhabited, the marvellous contents of a certain walled-up cell in the caves known as the ‘Caves of the Thousand Buddhas.’”

  After the morning’s pomp and ceremony, a private viewing was held in the afternoon. It took place in an elementally charged atmosphere. Clouds blackened the sky making it hard for visitors to see the Diamond Sutra or any of the other material in the thirty-two cases. Lorimer updated Stein: “There was a succession of heavy thundershowers and it became extremely dark. After a time they put on the big lights in the gallery but the lights at the top of the cases themselves were not yet finished, so that one could not see anything at all well.”

  Among those peering into the cases was Stein’s one-time rival Albert von Le Coq. The German had arrived back in Europe two months earlier after another eight-month trip to Turkestan with his assistant, Bartus. Von Le Coq had returned with more than 150 cases of antiquities, but few of these matched the treasures he saw before him.