Despite their colonial toe-hold on the continent (in Hanoi they even had an archaeological institute) the French were late in joining in the Central Asian treasure hunt, although they were not the last to try their luck. By the time Pelliot reached Chinese Turkestan in August 1906, the British, Swedes, Germans and Japanese had all been there at least once, the Beresovskys were nearing the end of their stay, and Stein was already back for more. The belated arrival of the French on the Silk Road is perhaps explained by their discovery, not long before, of a once-rich civilisation in the jungles of Indo-China – including the magnificent ruins at Angkor – which had been keeping their own orientalists busy. But whatever the reason for their dilatoriness, they were now determined to get their share. ‘If France was to do nothing,’ the distinguished French orientalist Sylvain Levi exhorted his fellow savants, ‘we would be betraying our glorious tradition.’ A powerful committee was set up, headed by Emile Senart, another leading oriental scholar and member of the French Academy, and backed by the Minister of Public Instruction. This had the support of no fewer than nine leading bodies devoted to scientific, geographical or cultural studies. It was decided to dispatch a three-man expedition to Chinese Turkestan as soon as possible. Chosen to lead this was a brilliant young sinologist of twenty-seven named Paul Pelliot, a former pupil of Levi’s now on the staff of Hanoi’s celebrated (but later to be embroiled in controversy) Ecole Française d’Extrême-Orient. His companions were Dr Louis Vaillant, an army medical officer and old friend of his, who would be responsible for mapping, collecting natural history specimens and other scientific work, and Charles Nouette, who was the expedition’s photographer.
In addition to Pelliot’s linguistic genius – he was at home in some thirteen languages – as a very young man he had won the Legion of Honour during the siege of the foreign legations in Peking in the summer of 1900. Trapped there at the age of twenty-one by the Boxer uprising while searching for Chinese books for the Ecole library, he was involved in two exploits which won him both praise and criticism. One was his daring capture, with the aid of two sailors, of a huge Boxer war standard, an act which greatly enraged the enemy. In his siege diary, published subsequently, there is a photograph of him proudly holding his trophy. The other exploit occurred during a temporary ceasefire when he climbed over the barricade announcing that he was going to have tea with the rebels. For several hours his fate was discussed, and his bravado condemned, by the besieged Europeans. But eventually, after being seen to take leave of the enemy with great displays of cordiality, he returned laden with gifts of fruit. He had told them, he said, that the Europeans’ morale was extremely high, but that they lacked fresh fruit.
Pelliot’s diary, much of it scribbled under fire, reveals a courageous but hot-headed young man always in the thick of the fray. He is fiercely critical of many of the senior diplomats, hinting at their cowardice and incompetence. It is not surprising, therefore, that some of them found him bumptious. (Even Stein, who greatly admired him as a scholar, described him some years later as ‘a bit too self-centred’.) One French officer, on the other hand, wrote: ‘Pelliot, the youngest of the volunteers, is adored by everybody, and, because of his youth and courage, we forgive him for getting carried away at times.’ Whether one liked him or was irritated by him, it seems that it was hard to ignore him. On his return to Hanoi, and still only twenty-two, he was made Professor of Chinese at the Ecole. At the same time he began to review – often very critically – the works of other sinologists in learned journals and in the Ecole’s own bulletin. ‘The gentle art of making enemies …’ he once called this. Here perhaps are clues as to why, some nine years later, he would find himself victim of a vicious and concerted campaign in France when he returned in triumph from his Central Asian expedition.
Their preparations now complete, Pelliot and his two companions left Paris on June 17, 1906, travelling by rail via Moscow to Tashkent where they were held up for two months awaiting the arrival of their heavy baggage. Pelliot had used the time to polish up his Russian and also, as we have seen, to study Turki (or Eastern Turkish, as some scholars then called it). Thanks to his amazing gift for languages and prodigious memory, he was soon able to converse easily in the latter. It was this near-unbelievable power of recall that later was to mislead Pelliot’s detractors into challenging some of his claims. The expedition finally reached Kashgar on the last day of August. There they stayed at the Russian consulate-general as guests of Petrovsky’s successor, making diplomatic and other official calls on those mandarins whose goodwill and help they would require. This caused something of a stir, for few western travellers who passed through Kashgar (and certainly none of Pelliot’s rivals) spoke Chinese. Dr Vaillant recalled long afterwards ‘how amazed these high officials were to hear Pelliot speaking fluent and elegant Chinese, quoting from their classics and reading with ease the sentences written on the long scrolls which, in China, adorn all reception rooms’. Above all, they were impressed by his familiarity with what the doctor calls ‘the refined ceremonial practised by a civilisation so proudly aware of its longevity …’. Although all this sounds suspiciously like the young hero of the barricades showing off once again to the natives, it was – as Vaillant points out – soon to pay dividends. For a start they had decided to take with them a yurt (the circular tent of Central Asia) and Pelliot asked the Prefect of Kashgar to try to obtain one for them. ‘When we mentioned this to the Russian consul,’ Vaillant recounts, ‘he laughed at our pretensions.’ He assured the three Frenchmen: ‘They are unobtainable and even if you did find one it would take you six months to get it.’ A week later, to the Russian’s astonishment, the yurt was delivered, whereupon – Vaillant adds – ‘Pelliot immediately got us used to erecting it and living in it in the consulate yard.’
Their plan was to travel eastwards to Kucha where they proposed to excavate at some length. This would take them past Tumchuq, where Hedin had reported seeing some ruins which he had dismissed as Moslem and not old enough, therefore, to be of interest. After six weeks of preparation at Kashgar, the three Frenchmen set out on the first leg of their journey. A few marches short of Tumchuq an amusing incident occurred when they halted for lunch at the small sub-prefecture of Faizabad. After paying their respects to the sub-prefect, and apologising for being unable to receive a return call from him, they returned to the inn for a hurried meal before moving on. Vaillant picks up the tale: ‘But scarcely had we regained our camp than we heard the three shots from the cannon which meant that the mandarin had left his yamen.’ Moments later Ting, their servant, shouted: ‘Here is the mandarin!’ The Frenchmen were aghast. Vaillant writes: ‘We had nothing prepared for a visit. Pelliot greeted him with profuse apologies and invited him into the reception room. After the customary courtesies we sat down and tried not to show our anxiety. We then saw cups of tea arriving and plates laden with slices of melon and cakes.’ When the meal was over, the mandarin turned to Pelliot with a smile and said: ‘Really, you Europeans certainly know how to travel. I am full of admiration for the way you are able to organise such a reception in the middle of a journey. I am deeply honoured by your delicacy.’ When he had gone, Pelliot immediately began to congratulate Ting on having coped so well. ‘I did nothing,’ he replied. ‘Servants from the yamen brought everything.…’
The ruins at Tumchuq, far from being Moslem, proved to be those of an early Buddhist monastic city which had flourished until at least the year 800. It was mere chance which led Pelliot to discover this during their brief halt there. Idly prodding the ground with his riding crop, to his astonishment he turned up a figurine which was unmistakably Graeco-Buddhist. Although all their baggage, including their winter clothing, was already on its way to Kucha, Pelliot felt that they had no choice but to stay and excavate further. Six weeks later, numbed with cold but laden with painted sculptures and other finds, they hastened on to Kucha – and the comfort of their fur coats. They had been disappointed to learn that not only the Germans but also (as we shall see) the Russians and Japanese had preceded them to this archaeologically rich area. In the event they found plenty to do in the temples which their rivals had overlooked. Most important to Pelliot was their discovery of a large hoard of Buddhist documents, including many in unknown languages. Some of these proved later to be in the lost language of Kuchean, and were subsequently deciphered by Sylvain Levi.
After eight fruitful months in Kucha, the French expedition moved on to Urumchi to replenish their stores before making the desert crossing to Tun-huang. At this point their plan was merely to photograph and study the wall-paintings and sculptures in the Caves of the Thousand Buddhas, for word of Stein’s great discovery six months earlier had not reached them.
While they were in Urumchi, Pelliot met an old friend – or rather foe – from Peking days. Following the defeat of the Boxers, the Duke Lan, brother of the movement’s leader and himself deeply implicated in the uprising, had been exiled for life to Urumchi, where he devoted his remaining years to photography. ‘We had fought one another in 1900, but the passage of time heals all things,’ Pelliot wrote afterwards, adding: ‘We sealed our friendship with many a glass of champagne.’ When the day of their departure finally arrived, the Duke remarked sadly to Pelliot: ‘You are going, but I have to stay.’ Pelliot forbore from reminding the one-time Peking police chief that, some seven years earlier, there had been a day ‘when he had forced us to stay when we would have asked nothing better than to leave’.
In fact, although the Duke probably did not realise it, it was an act of generosity by him which made Pelliot even more eager to get away from Urumchi and reach Tun-huang. During their stay in Urumchi they had heard vague stories about a mysterious cache of manuscripts that had been found in the Caves of the Thousand Buddhas. Pelliot knew at once that this was more than a mere bazaar rumour when the exiled Duke presented him with a manuscript which he said had come from Tun-huang. ‘Pelliot had hardly unrolled this,’ Vaillant recounts, ‘when he realised that it dated from before the eighth century.’
When the three men reached Tun-huang and the Caves of the Thousand Buddhas they found, just as Stein had, the manuscript cave locked and Wang absent. However, before long, they ran the priest to earth in the town. Dazzled no doubt by Pelliot’s Chinese, he agreed to show the Frenchman his finds. In view of the prolonged struggle that Stein and Chiang had had with Wang before being allowed to see the manuscripts, it may seem surprising that Pelliot managed it so relatively easily. Indeed, his enemies were to find it unbelievable. However, fear of discovery had been Wang’s great dread, as he repeatedly told Stein and Chiang. Now, because this new visitor from Europe did not even mention Stein (Pelliot still did not realise, it seems, that his rival had beaten him to the secret chamber), it must have appeared to Wang that the Englishman had kept his vow of secrecy. The discovery that these ‘foreign devils’ could be trusted not to talk must have been very reassuring to him. Furthermore, he had already begun to spend Stein’s ‘donation’ on his garish restorations, and now, no doubt, was looking for further contributions.
But even Pelliot was made to bide his time. He recounts in a letter written from Tun-huang on March 26, 1908: ‘Wang arrived rather late and said he had left the key behind at Tun-huang. I had to wait again.’ It was then that Pelliot learned to his disappointment that Stein had already visited the secret chamber, but – he was assured – had spent only three days there. Had he known the true length of Stein’s stay he might have been less sanguine about his own prospects. As it was, he feared that in the eight years since its discovery much of the library inevitably would have disappeared. After all, the manuscript presented to him by Duke Lan, some four hundred miles away in Urumchi, was unlikely to be the only one to have escaped thus from the cave.
Finally the key arrived from Tun-huang and nearly a month after their arrival at the great ming-oi Pelliot was allowed into the secret chamber. ‘I was stupefied,’ he wrote. He estimated that there were between fifteen and twenty thousand manuscripts in the cave. To unroll each one and examine it properly, he realised, would take him a minimum of six months. However, his mind was quickly made up. ‘If only cursory, examination of the entire library was essential,’ he wrote. ‘I must at least open everything, recognise the nature of the text and see whether it offered anything new.’ He decided to make two piles : first the cream, which he must obtain at all costs, and then the desirable but less essential manuscripts.
Working by the light of a single candle, and crouched uncomfortably in the tiny space resulting (though he did not realise it) from the removal of Stein’s great haul, Pelliot spent three long and claustrophobic weeks sifting through the dusty bundles. In the Pelliot gallery at the Musée Guimet in Paris there is a memorable photograph of him at work in the secret chamber taken by Nouette. Behind him, as he crouches, can be seen a daunting mountain of tightly packed manuscripts. ‘During the first ten days,’ Pelliot wrote in a long letter to Senart in Paris, ‘I attacked nearly a thousand scrolls a day, which must be a record …’ He likened himself, somewhat flippantly, to a philologist travelling at the speed of a racing-car. It was an analogy that his critics were to fasten onto with glee.
At the end of each long session in the cave, Pelliot would rejoin his two colleagues – ‘his greatcoat stuffed with his most interesting finds … radiant with joy’, Vaillant recalled years afterwards. ‘One such evening he showed us a Nestorian Gospel of St John; on another a description, dating from the year 800, of the curious little lake … situated in the high dunes south of Tun-huang; another time it was the monastery accounts.’ Pelliot ruled out any hope of persuading Wang to part with the entire collection, for the discovery was too well known in the district. ‘Mongol and Tibetan pilgrims came to read some of these precious documents as part of their pilgrimage,’ Vaillant explains. Pelliot’s great fear, however, was of leaving behind, or not recognising, any key document. ‘All the same, I do not think I overlooked anything essential,’ he wrote. ‘I handled not only every scroll, but every scrap of paper – and God knows how many bits and pieces there were.…’
Now came the most anxious moment of all, when Pelliot had to persuade the little priest to sell him the two piles of manuscripts which he had set aside. The negotiations were conducted between the two men amid great secrecy. ‘We ourselves’, Vaillant recalled, ‘were compelled to speak of the discovery in only the most guarded fashion, even in our letters.’ Finally the figure of 500 taels (about £90) was agreed and the hoard was carefully and discreetly packed for shipment to France. Vaillant wrote: ‘Only when Nouette had embarked on the steamer with the crates containing our collections did Pelliot mention them openly and leave for Peking with a box containing samples of the manuscripts.’ He added: ‘They were a revelation to Chinese scholars, who could scarcely believe that such a find had been made.’ But as a result, a telegram was immediately sent by the Peking authorities to the sub-prefect at Tun-huang ordering him to place an embargo on whatever remained in the cave. Vaillant observed wryly: ‘The good monk must have had a bad quarter of an hour, and perhaps repented that he had accepted Pelliot’s money.’
Although the acquisition of the Tun-huang manuscripts represented a great personal triumph for Pelliot – whatever one may think of the ethics involved – his two companions had also been far from idle during nearly four months there. Nouette had taken hundreds of black and white photographs of everything that Pelliot considered worthy of interest, and these were published later in six volumes. Although Pelliot never got around to writing an accompanying text, this corpus remains today the principal source of information on the paintings and sculptures, mainly because of the vandalism which was to occur only a few years later when White Russian soldiers were interned in the caves.
When Pelliot finally reached Paris on October 24, 1909, he had been away for three years. He returned to a hero’s welcome, but also to find trouble brewing. This was to develop into a vicious campaign embracing not only himself but also Professor Chavannes and the Ecole Française d’Extrême-Orient in Hanoi. During his absence, the long and often graphic letter he had written from Tun-huang to Senart in the first flush of excitement had been published in the widely read journal of the Ecole, where he was still officially employed. He might well have written differently had he known what capital his foes would make of it, and almost certainly would have omitted some of his more candid, and sometimes light-hearted, comments. We have already noted how Pelliot’s intellectual arrogance – as some saw it – had earned him enemies in the academic world. His letter to Senart gave them the opportunity they had been waiting for.
That part of the campaign which involved Chavannes and the Ecole does not concern us here, but in essence it sought to cast doubts upon the former’s scholarship and upon the competence of the entire staff of that prestigious institution. It was waged initially as a whispering campaign, but before long it had spread to the columns of some newspapers and periodicals, especially those concerned with Indo-China. Pelliot’s involvement was on two counts. As Professor of Chinese at the Ecole, he, like all other members of the staff, had to face general accusations of élitism and – more serious – of having to rely on local interpreters for assistance with the publication of their works. But in addition to this, as leader of the highly successful expedition to Chinese Central Asia, Pelliot found himself singled out for special attention. For this triumph by one so young had inevitably aroused envy in some other French orientalists who felt, perhaps, that they instead should have been chosen.
Among his principal detractors was a senior librarian in the oriental department of the Bibliothèque Nationale in Paris, where the Tun-huang manuscripts had been deposited by Pelliot in a locked room to which only he had a key. Clearly furious (and perhaps understandably so) at being denied access to them, the librarian wrote a caustic letter to a French newspaper in which he endeavoured to cast doubts on the authenticity of Pelliot’s manuscripts as well as upon the young scholar’s capabilities as a sinologist. On the pretext of wishing to safeguard his own reputation as conservator of the Bibliothèque’s oriental manuscripts – which those in the locked room were due to join – he announced that he was forthwith disclaiming all responsibility for Pelliot’s Tun-huang purchases. Meanwhile, the other works of art brought back by the expedition – paintings, sculptures, textiles, wooden figures and terracottas – were put on public view in the Louvre, in a specially named Salle Pelliot. These, too, his detractors endeavoured to belittle. ‘One wonders how it is possible that a room in the Louvre, however small, should be devoted to so little,’ wrote one.
In December 1910, this ‘malevolent campaign’, as one French scholar has called it, reached its climax in a particularly virulent attack on Pelliot, Chavannes and the Ecole in the anti-colonial journal La Revue Indigène. A mixture of the unctuous and the vitriolic, and filling twenty-three pages of the magazine, it purported to analyse the Pelliot ‘scandal’. The author – M. Fernand Farjenel, an old China hand and himself a Chinese speaker – first disposed of Chavannes, whose translations, he claimed, ‘were inaccurate on every line when not in every word’. His main target, however, was Pelliot. The ‘young explorer’, as he repeatedly calls him, was accused of frittering away public money in two years of ‘wandering’ which, Farjenel claimed, yielded nothing of any value. He implied that by the time Pelliot reached Tun-huang he was so desperate to justify his mission that his critical judgement was seriously impaired.
In support of this, Farjenel quoted Pelliot’s letter to Senart in which he admits to being ‘stupefied’ at what he saw when he entered Wang’s secret chamber. So stupefied was he, Farjenel claimed, that he swallowed the priest’s tale ‘with credulous confidence’, apparently unaware that, shortly before, Stein had removed ‘twenty-nine cases’ of manuscripts and paintings from the chamber. ‘This must have pretty well emptied it,’ the writer argued. But Pelliot, he went on, ‘full of joy at the thought that he had just discovered a priceless treasure took no precautions whatever and made no attempt to check the monk’s claims’. The obvious conclusion, he added, was that the cave had been refilled with forged and other worthless manuscripts by the local people who knew that Europeans liked to buy such things. He reminded his readers that the Far East abounded with clever rogues, as Stein’s unmasking of Islam Akhun had shown. A scholar who, by his own admission, had to examine some thousand scrolls a day (Farjenel calculated that this meant two a minute) was a natural victim for such forgers, he added. The fact that the manuscripts remained even now behind locked doors, out of reach of other oriental scholars, could only reinforce his and others’ suspicions. He demanded that in view of ‘the very large sum that the expedition has cost’, Pelliot should reply at once to his critics. But Pelliot did not reply, confident that his detractors would have to eat their words sooner or later.
The French public, of course, had no way of telling who was right. If Stein had cleaned out the secret chamber, then where had all these manuscripts come from? Anyway, why were they still under lock and key, unavailable to other scholars, a full year after being deposited in the Bibliothèque? It was not until 1912, when Stein’s Ruins of Desert Cathay came out, that Pelliot’s critics were finally put in their place. Had Farjenel been able to read it before launching so confidently into print, he would certainly have thought twice. For a start Stein made it perfectly clear that he had only been able to purchase part of the Tun-huang library, leaving behind him ‘masses of manuscripts’. Moreover, he had not been allowed to choose freely – as Pelliot had – from the secret chamber, being limited to the bundles that Wang brought him. Furthermore, unlike Pelliot, who – as Stein put it – had been ‘aided by his exceptional mastery of Chinese literature and bibliography’, he himself had been gravely handicapped by his lack of Chinese. Clearly aware of the campaign to discredit his young French colleague, Stein went out of his way to praise the excellence of Pelliot’s scholarship as well as to express admiration for his methods of excavation, evidence of which he had seen at Kucha.
Although the campaign had failed signally to damage Pelliot’s reputation where it really mattered – in the world of learning – it had not been for want of trying. But did Pelliot’s detractors genuinely believe the charges they brought so vituperatively against him, or were they seeking to destroy a man whom they clearly loathed or perhaps envied? Today, some seventy years later, and with all the witnesses long dead, it is impossible to say. But a comment by Vaillant perhaps provides the answer. During their expedition, he recounts: ‘Pelliot made brief notes whose accuracy and detail astonished their recipients in France. They could not understand how, in the wilds and far from a library, he could possibly recall certain facts or texts … His prodigious memory enabled him to do without all reference material.’ This is confirmed by others. ‘When Pelliot has read a book, the whole thing remains in there,’ one colleague declared, pointing to his own forehead.
The fact that his enemies found him too clever by half is perhaps thus explained. Until they learned, too late, just how clever he really was, they simply assumed that he was a braggart. To some extent Pelliot appears to have brought it upon himself. Like many other archaeologists, he found it difficult to get down to the drudgery of classifying and publishing his material. As we have seen, his detractors made much of the fact that, a whole year after arriving at the Bibliothèque Nationale, the manuscripts were still in their packing cases, and that Pelliot had not so much as produced an inventory. This had enabled them to suggest that he must have something to hide – the dreadful discovery, perhaps, that his Tun-huang purchases were all forgeries.
Nor was this the only row in which he was to become embroiled, although it is the only one which concerns us here. Pelliot, who went on to carve out a brilliant career for himself as France’s foremost Chinese scholar, never again excavated in Central Asia – the only one of our principal characters not to return for more. But this was not because of any lack of interest on his part. When serving as French military attaché in Peking during World War I, he told the American archaeologist Langdon Warner that he had ‘several new sites up his sleeve’, but no money to work them. By the time there was money available it was too late, for the Chinese had finally shut the door in the face of western archaeologists.
FOREIGN DEVILS ON THE SILK ROAD
The Search for the Lost Treasures of Central Asia
Peter Hopkirk