Journeys on the Silk Road (28 page)

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 congratulatory 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
yamen
s 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.