Journeys on the Silk Road Page 12
As Wang brought the first of the bundles to Stein’s “reading room,” the explorer’s excitement mounted. They were Chinese sutras, neatly rolled, about a foot high and some more than thirty feet long. The thick paper rolls, enclosed in protective cotton wrappers, even retained their yellow dye despite signs of having been much handled. The strong paper was astonishingly well preserved. Other scrolls had lost their wrappers and were fastened with rough cords, but even these were undamaged. The dry desert air, the darkness within the cave and even the insulating sand had all combined to provide a perfect tomb in which they had lain undisturbed for centuries.
“No place could have been better adapted for preserving such relics than a chamber carved in the live rock of these absolutely barren hills and completely shut off from any moisture that the atmosphere of this desert valley ever contained,” Stein wrote. “Enclosed by thick rock everywhere, except for the narrow walled-up entrance, and that, too, covered up by drift-sand for centuries, the air within the small chapel could have undergone but slight changes of temperature. Not in the driest soil could the relics of a ruined site have been so completely protected from injury as they had been here.”
With the documents finally in their hands, exactly what they were looking at was hard to say. Chiang had no understanding of Buddhist literature and Stein, to his immense frustration and regret, could not read Chinese. Not that they had time for more than a cursory look. Chiang’s attempt to make a rough list of the findings was soon abandoned as Wang, having overcome his initial reluctance, began dragging out bundle after bundle from the cave. “It would have required a whole staff of learned scribes to deal properly with such a deluge,” Stein wrote. As Wang clambered across the cave’s mountain of documents to remove bundles, Stein feared the priest would be buried under an avalanche of tumbling manuscripts.
Each bundle contained about ten rolls, mostly Chinese scrolls. But there were also documents in Tibetan, Sanskrit, Uyghur, and Sogdian. Soon Wang began hauling not just paper scrolls but delicate paintings on silk and linen. He brought huge silk banners of graceful Buddhas and bodhisattvas that appeared to have once hung from temple entrances. To Stein’s surprise, Wang apparently attached little value to the exquisite silks. The abbot had even used some of them as padding to level the floor of the cave. Wang kept bringing more and more bundles of the painted silks and other written material. Stein suspected they were a smokescreen to divert his attention from the sacred Chinese sutras.
By the end of the first day, Stein set aside the most promising manuscripts and paintings for what he euphemistically called “further study.” These were the rolls he desperately wanted to acquire. Wang had already given away some manuscripts to curry favor with local officials. Stein feared the rest of the precious hoard would similarly dribble away and be lost to scholarship forever.
It was almost dark when Stein and Chiang emerged from the makeshift reading room with Wang. The three tired men stood on the loggia with its image of Xuanzang bringing sacred manuscripts from India. This was not the time to raise directly the question of selling the hoard, but there could be no more ideal backdrop for Stein to drop hints that would subtly reinforce the omens. He again invoked Xuanzang, whose guidance had surely led him to this magnificent hidden store of sacred relics—some of which may even have been the result of the ancient pilgrim’s journey—within a temple tended by so devoted an admirer.
Chiang remained behind with Wang to press the point. Surely continued confinement in a sealed cave was not the reason the great Xuanzang had led the abbot—and Stein—to this precious Buddhist lore, Chiang argued. And given that Wang could not study the works himself, it would be an act of great religious merit to allow Stein, Xuanzang’s great devotee, to make them available for the benefit of Buddhist scholars in that great “temple of learning in Ta-Ying-kuo”—England. And, Chiang hinted, it would be an act of merit that would be supported by a generous donation of silver to assist his restorations.
Chiang’s powers of persuasion worked more quickly than he or Stein had dared hope. Around midnight, when Stein was about to retire to bed, he again heard footsteps outside his tent. Again it was Chiang, who had come to ensure the coast was clear. He returned a short time later carrying all the bundles Stein had set aside earlier in the day. Wang had agreed to allow the removal of the material—provided no one other than the three men knew. While Stein was on Chinese soil, he must not breathe a word about their dealings. This was hardly an onerous condition for a man such as Stein, who by nature kept his own counsel. And it was in his own interest; he might want to acquire more manuscripts.
The abbot could not risk being seen outside his quarters at night, so Chiang offered to fetch the material. For the next seven nights, Chiang’s slight figure crept along the river bank to Stein’s camp. He struggled under the weight of increasingly heavy loads made up of the most promising bundles set aside each day in the reading room. The days were spent hastily examining scrolls and silks. Stein was elated and oppressed by the volume of material that kept emerging from what he termed the “black hole,” constantly anxious that Wang might change his mind.
Should we have time to eat our way through this mountain of ancient paper with any thoroughness? Would not the timorous priest, swayed by his worldly fears and possible spiritual scruples, be moved to close down his shell before I had been able to extract any of the pearls? There were reasons urging us to work with all possible energy and speed, and others rendering it advisable to display studied insouciance and calm assurance.
He could rarely do more than glimpse at what he called this “embarras des richesses.” But somewhere among the cave’s vast contents was a well-preserved scroll, fully intact with an elaborate image of a disciple kneeling before the Buddha. Unlike most of the other documents, this wasn’t handwritten but had been printed with a block of wood. Unfurled, it spanned nearly sixteen and a half feet and contained a Chinese date equating to 868. It was the Diamond Sutra, the world’s earliest dated printed book.
Strolls at dusk up the valley with Dash trotting alongside were Stein’s only relief from full days in the reading room that segued into long evenings writing up notes, letters, reports—and awaiting the late-night arrival of Chiang and the manuscripts. On his return from one such evening walk Stein was overjoyed to discover Turdi, the dak runner, had arrived with two huge bags of mail, having made another epic journey: 1,400 miles from Khotan in thirty-nine days. It was the first mail Stein had received since February. Although some of the letters from Europe were already five months old, he sat up until after midnight poring over 170 letters. He was quick to write back to Allen to tell him of his “harvest, rich beyond expectations,” but urged him to keep the news to Stein’s inner circle. Even amid what would be the greatest success of his life, he had pragmatic worries and was mindful that he lacked the money to ensure his continued explorations. Like Wang, he would have to continue to rattle the begging bowl. “Independence, the only protection against needless struggles & bureaucratic wisdom, is still far off; for I cannot claim a pension until 8 years hence (even allowing for furlough) and not until about the same date can I hope for my savings to increase sufficiently to assure to me that freedom for travel etc, which I am eager to enjoy still while life lasts.”
Thrilling as the days were, the work was exhausting. The long hours, his anxieties about Abbot Wang and a recurrent bout of malaria were taking their toll. He confided to his diary: “Very tired with low fever.”
A week later, Stein’s heart sank when he arrived early one morning at his reading room. The scrolls had vanished. Just when he had finally convinced Wang to empty the Library Cave, the rolls, which had been carefully piled outside the cave, had disappeared overnight. Chiang had not carried them away in the night, so what had happened? The answer, he soon learned, was that Wang had shifted them back into their “gloomy prison of centuries.”
Perhaps Stein should not have bee
n surprised. Wang had appeared increasingly nervous during the previous couple of days, not least over the possible loss of the Chinese sutras. Relations had become strained, even as the tricky question of the size of the “donation” to the temple became more pressing. Wang had been allowed little opportunity to think as he had emptied the cave over the past week. “He had already been gradually led from one concession to another, and we took care not to leave him much time for reflection,” Stein wrote.
To the explorer, it seemed Wang had been overcome by scruples and baulked. Stein described the abbot’s mood as “sullen” when he encountered him that morning. All of this may well be true, but only Stein’s version of the events survives. Given the timing of the priest’s behavior, he might not have been as naive and credulous as Stein portrays him. Wang’s action came at a crucial stage. A couple of days earlier, the priest had raised the issue of money and seemed keen to resolve the matter. But then Stein deliberately strung out the negotiations so he could see the entire contents of the emptied cave. It may be that Wang recognized Stein’s delay for what it was and opted to force a resolution. If so, Wang was far more adept at negotiating than Stein realized. With the glittering prize seemingly within the explorer’s grasp, he found it snatched away. It is easy to imagine the effect of such a move: it would increase the treasure’s desirability, elevate anxiety about losing it forever and possibly raise the price. They are tactics familiar to any experienced negotiator. The natural response would be to close the deal as soon as possible.
Which appears to be exactly what happened. Within hours of Stein discovering the scrolls had been locked away, he and Wang agreed on a price and on what Stein could take. Wang felt sufficiently satisfied with the deal that he not only let Stein take all the material previously removed to his camp, but also agreed to part with further bundles of Chinese and Tibetan rolls. “Transaction settled by 11:30 a.m. to mutual satisfaction,” Stein noted in his diary on May 29, 1907.
He would not give Wang time to change his mind. The extra rolls needed to be moved quickly and the job was too big for Chiang alone. Stein conscripted two of his most trusted men, Ibrahim Beg and pony man Tila Bai, to undertake the nightly trip to the caves. They transferred scrolls and silks by the sackful from the temple to Stein’s camp.
The deal done, Wang was eager to resume the begging tour he had delayed when Stein arrived at the caves. Nervous, but relieved to have completed the difficult negotiation, Wang left for Dunhuang. He may have wanted to ensure that no word of their transaction had spread among his patrons in the oasis. He returned to the caves a week later sufficiently confident that their secret was safe, and sold Stein additional manuscripts.
For four horseshoes of silver, Stein acquired treasures beyond his dreams. He knew they were a bargain: “I secured as much as he possibly dared to give,—& for a sum which will make our friends at the [British Museum] chuckle,” he wrote candidly to his friend Fred Andrews, whom he also urged to secrecy. “It would be a mistake to let the news get about, & I must ask you & all other friends who may see this, for discretion.” A pittance it may have been to Stein, but perhaps Wang chuckled too. He had obtained money to restore his beloved caves and he now knew he had a valuable resource, one he would tap as other foreigners arrived in the months and years that followed.
Much as Stein might have wished to empty the Library Cave of all its scrolls and silks, he knew if he left Dunhuang with such a vast amount of material, it would not go undetected. Questions were being asked about what he was up to during his long visit at the Caves of the Thousand Buddhas. It is one reason why Stein commissioned a clay statue of Xuanzang for a cave temple. A Dunhuang sculptor produced what Stein regarded as an “artistic eyesore,” but the statue helped allay suspicions. Wang, who saw the statue as evidence of a shared reverence for their mutual patron saint, was at pains to spread word of this commission during his trip into Dunhuang.
There were other reasons that would hasten Stein’s departure. A diphtheria epidemic was rife in Dunhuang, and it came close enough to Stein and his men that a young local boy who kept a watch on his camp died of the illness. In addition, civil unrest over taxation was brewing in the oasis.
But his haul needed to be packed with great care and spirited away from Dunhuang without attracting attention. Stein knew that suddenly placing a large order for packing cases would cause alarm. Once again, he had thought ahead. Anticipating such a problem, he had bought some empty cases early on and secured others in discreet installments. He filled seven cases with manuscripts and a further five with paintings, embroideries, and other material. His camels were brought back from their grazing and five carts drawn by three horses each arrived from Dunhuang. On the morning of June 14 the caravan left the caves and he said farewell to Wang. “We parted in fullest amity,” Stein wrote. It would not be his last dealing with the pious Abbot Wang.
You should know that all of the teachings I give to you are a raft.
Verse 6, The Diamond Sutra
9
The Hidden Gem
Beneath a jeweled canopy in a leafy garden, the Buddha sits cross-legged on his lotus throne. Monks and bodhisattvas surround him. At his feet kneels an elderly barefoot disciple named Subhuti, his black slippers neatly beside him on a prayer mat. Subhuti’s palms are together in supplication and he directs a reverential gaze toward the Enlightened One in a quest for answers to life’s greatest questions. That image forms the frontispiece of the Diamond Sutra discovered in the Library Cave. At the opposite end of the scroll is the answer to a different question: how do we know the age of this singular document? There, a brief note reveals the answer: on the thirteenth day of the fourth moon of the ninth year of the Xiantong era. On the Chinese calendar, this corresponds to May 11, 868. It is this colophon which has established the Diamond Sutra’s unique claim: that this complete scroll is the oldest dated printed book in the world. It was created 600 years before Gutenberg got ink on his fingers. And it was made of a material—paper—that in 868 was unknown in the West.
The scroll is sixteen feet five inches long and eleven inches high, and explicitly says it was produced to be given away for free. It is woodblock printed, so it is possible hundreds of copies were made, although this is the only one known to have survived. As well as the date, the colophon tells who commissioned the sutra and why. It reads: “Reverently made for universal distribution by Wang Jie on behalf of his two parents.” Who this devoted son was, no one knows. He was probably wealthy to have commissioned the creation of a scroll with such an intricate frontispiece. But we do know he had it made as an act of merit, a good deed.
Between the ends of the famous scroll is one of Buddhism’s most popular and revered teachings. It begins, as sutras typically do, with the phrase “thus I have heard.” These are the words of the disciple Ananda, who is said to have memorized the Buddha’s every teaching. The sutra then tells the circumstances in which the sermon was delivered. It relates how one morning, before noon, the Buddha put on his monk’s robe, picked up his bowl and went into the nearby city of Sravasti to beg from house to house for his food.
The Buddha returned to the Jetavana Vihara where he lived with 1,250 monks. The Buddha ate the food he had been given, put away his bowl, washed his feet and sat down. A number of monks approached him and sat at his side. Among them was the Venerable Subhuti, and the sutra unfolds as a dialogue between the two. Subhuti is said to have been the nephew of Sudatta, the wealthy layman who covered Prince Jeta’s park with gold to create the garden in which they sat. Although an intelligent young man, Subhuti had a temper so furious he was shunned by those who knew him. He cursed humans and animals alike. Even the Buddha is said to have told him that his short temper was written on his face. After hearing the Buddha’s teachings, Subhuti was transformed; he developed a calm mind and became a prominent disciple.
In the sutra, Subhuti asks the Buddha questions about the practice of gener
osity, about enlightenment, and about how to be rid of attachment, the cause of all suffering. Subhuti wants to know whether, 500 years on, anyone will understand and practice the Buddha’s teachings and is reassured they will. On contemplating the answers the Buddha gives him, Subhuti is moved to tears. Subhuti also asks what this teaching should be called. This is often translated as the Diamond Cutter or the Diamond That Cuts Through Illusion. The Buddha, too, asks questions of Subhuti that test how well his disciple has understood their conversation.
The Buddha is said to have first taught the Diamond Sutra toward the end of his life, and it is considered a distillation of earlier teachings. At its core, the sutra is about the nature of reality, how things actually exist. Nothing is what it seems, he says. When stripped of our illusions, we realize everything, including ourselves, is constantly changing and that nothing exists independently. When we look at a book, for example, we typically think it has never been anything else. But a book, even one as enduring as Stein’s copy of the Diamond Sutra, was once just blank paper. Before then, it was a tree, a sapling, and a tiny seed that fell from another tree and so on. The implications of seeing the world in this way are far-reaching. The failure to do so leads ultimately to suffering.