III

But at Tun-huang we are within the frontiers of China proper; and

Chinese art during the T‘ang period, seventh to tenth century A.D.,

was at its grandest height of power. The extraordinary interest of

these paintings is that, though a great number of them are, as we might

expect, obviously provincial productions (e.g. Pls. XXIV and XXVI),

others belong to the central tradition of Chinese Buddhist painting;

and as scarcely any such paintings of the T‘ang period are known to

exist, the importance of this group, for the study of Chinese art, can

hardly be overestimated.

How do we know that these paintings belong to that central tradition?

We know it from the early Buddhist paintings of Japan, of which noble

masterpieces (some perhaps actually Chinese) are preserved in the

Japanese temples. Even if we did not know that the early Japanese

painters founded their style entirely on the T‘ang masters, the

Tun-huang pictures, sometimes so singularly close to the Japanese

Buddhist art of the same period, would prove it.

Plate III reproduces rather more than the left-hand half of a large

painting, which itself seems to be only the upper portion of a still

larger composition. The original offers extreme difficulties to

photography; and though the reproduction is more successful than

might have been anticipated, it is necessary to study the original to

appreciate the delicacy of the drawing, especially of the faces of

the Bodhisattvas. The serene grandeur of the design is enhanced by a

pervasion of grace in the delineation of every form. Here, surely, is

the hand of a master. Rivalling this in beauty is the large painting

of which a portion is reproduced on Plate I, and another portion on

Plate II. Here there is a similar delicate expressiveness of drawing,

combined with a glowing animation of varied colour. The picture is full

of exquisite detail. Note the life and charm, for instance, in the

figure seated with her back to us in the window of the high pavilion in

the upper right-hand portion, next the border (Pl. I). Here again is a

master of individual temperament.

In both of these pictures the artist has been able to control his

complex material and multitude of forms into a wonderful harmony,

without any restlessness or confusion; and we are taken into an

atmosphere of strange peace, which yet seems filled with buoyant motion

and with floating strains of music.

None of the other pictures is, as art, quite on this level, the

tendency being for the quality of the workmanship to be inadequate

to the conception and design. The two grand fragments illustrated

on Plates IV and V; the Avalokiteśvara (Pl. XX); the Vaiśravaṇa

crossing the ocean (Pl. XLV) are perhaps nearest. And next would come

such examples as the Avalokiteśvara in Glory (Pl. XVII) and other

representations of the same Bodhisattva (Pls. XVIII, XIX, XXI), and

some of the Paradise pictures, and banners; but as we gradually descend

the scale, an insensitive execution contrasts more and more with the

dignity and grandeur of the design. These were not great painters, but

they belonged to a great school. In such a picture as the Two Forms

of Avalokiteśvara (Pl. XV) we feel that if only the rather inanimate

workmanship corresponded to the grandeur of the design, we should be in

presence of a masterpiece. We have a hint at least of what majesty the

T’ang masters must have been capable.

This group of paintings gives to the collection found at Tun-huang an

artistic importance quite beyond that of any of the groups of works of

art discovered by various expeditions in Turkestān; and it is worth

while to examine them a little more closely.

The flooding wave of Indian religion and Indian art, after traversing

a region of inferior cultures, meets in China for the first time

an established art of original power and native genius. The Indian

religion, in spite of vicissitudes and rebuffs, takes a firm hold on

the Chinese. Buddhist paintings are demanded of the great masters. Of

what character is the resulting art?

We are unable to say what the earliest treatment of Buddhist themes by

Chinese artists was like. Buddhist images were introduced from India

as early as the first century A.D., and were eagerly sought for and

studied in succeeding times. Plate XIV—the original of which is, so

far as we know, unique—is of singular interest; for it consists of

a group of drawings after Indian Buddhist statues—just such as the

great pilgrim of the seventh century, Hsüan-tsang, might have brought

back from his long journeyings among the sacred sites of India. In

the fourth century the famous painter Ku K‘ai-chih painted, we know,

many Buddhist subjects, but neither the ‘Admonitions’ in the British

Museum, nor the _Ló-shen Fu_ in the Freer Collection, shows any trace

of Buddhist or Indian influence; on the contrary, they show the purely

native style of China in its integrity.

That purely native style is found in the paintings we are examining,

but not as a rule in the treatment of the main subjects. Many of the

large pictures of Paradise have borders on either side, divided into

compartments, in which are painted scenes from the Jātakas or stories

of the former lives of Buddha. One is reminded of the predella pictures

of an Italian altar-piece. Plate I affords a good example, showing

part of the right-hand border of the picture. And here the figures,

the dresses, the landscape, the style of drawing, the spacing, are all

Chinese. Were it not for the subject-matter, no one would dream of

suggesting any influence from India. In the small banners, these Jātaka

episodes form sometimes the entire subject, three or more scenes being

usually painted one above the other. Examples are reproduced on Plate

XII, Plate XIII, and Plate XXXVII. On these banners we find scenes

from the legend of Śākyamuni in his last life on earth; his conception

by his mother, his birth in the Lumbinī garden, his first steps, his

athletic feats as a boy; his first meeting with death and sickness; his

flight from the palace at midnight. Even here everything is Chinese:

types, costume, architecture, pictorial conventions; it is only

after Gautama has taken up his mission and begun to teach that he is

represented in Indian guise, according to the traditions derived from

Gandhāra.

How comes it, then, that in portraying the Buddhas and Bodhisattvas,

the saints and Lokapālas or Demon Kings, the Chinese painters

follow so closely the Indian formula? We may suppose that just

as fifteenth-century painters in Italy and the Netherlands, in

representing Gospel scenes, portrayed Christ and his disciples dressed

in a conventional, supposedly Oriental garb, but painted secular

persons and spectators in the costume of their own time and place,

so it was with these Chinese artists. And perhaps this is sufficient

explanation. Yet, when we remark what fidelity to Gandhāran models

was observed, once the Chinese artists had come to know them; when

we remember that the Jātaka scenes were frequent subjects of the

school of Gandhāra and were of course treated in the same style as the

Bodhisattvas; and when we consider that Buddha himself, in his youth,

is portrayed in these banner paintings as a Chinese boy in Chinese

dress, we may be tempted by another hypothesis. We may suppose that

when the Buddha-legends were first illustrated by Chinese painters they

were known by written and oral tradition only, and that the painters,

having no models to fall back upon, painted the chosen scenes in

their own way and according to their own lights; and this style, this

treatment, once fixed, remained. It might be that the tradition thus

formed (which, be it noticed, is continued in Japanese art throughout)

represents an earlier phase of Buddhism, when the Buddha-legend was

more prominent in the mouths of missionaries than the worship of the

Bodhisattvas. But all this is conjecture, and the simpler explanation

may be the right one.

At any rate, what we have to note is the fact that Chinese painting had

already developed a powerful genius of its own, and, however much it

borrowed, was able to fuse its borrowings in its own style. But before

dealing with this question of the fusion of Indian subject-matter in

Chinese style, let us complete what there is to say about the purely

Chinese features in the Tun-huang paintings.

Besides the illustrations of Jātaka-legends, there are at the foot

of many of the pictures portraits of their donors. These are most

valuable documents for the student of Chinese painting; for they give

us portraits of people actually living at a certain date, they show

us what costume they wore—thereby often helping us to determine the

approximate date of undated pictures—and they afford more than a hint

of the prevalent style of drawing in secular art.

Every one who has studied the earlier art of China knows how difficult

it is to find a really trustworthy starting-point for dating pictures

and arriving at a sound conception of the style of a given period.

We have usually only an ancient tradition, at the best, of date and

authorship. But here we have dated work, from which we can start.

Among the paintings reproduced is one, ‘Four Forms of Avalokiteśvara’

(Pl. XVI), which bears a date corresponding to the year A.D. 864. This

is the earliest date found on any of the paintings. Others bear dates

of the late ninth and early tenth centuries.

Comparing the picture reproduced on Plate XVI with other pictures

which are not dated, we can have little hesitation in assigning the

great majority of the paintings to the second half of the Tang dynasty

(seventh to tenth centuries) and towards its close, though it would be

rash to attempt any minute determination of dates, for reasons already

given.

We know nothing certain of Chinese painting before Tang times, except

the painting in the British Museum, ‘Admonitions of the Instructress

in the Palace’, and the ‘Ló-shen Fu’ in the Freer Collection, both

ascribed to Ku K‘ai-chih. Whether either of these be allowed to be

an original of the fourth century or not, there can be no doubt that

they represent the style of that period in its main characteristics:

they show a great mastery of expressive drawing of the human figure,

an extraordinary command of finely modulated, sinuous line, a love of

it both for its own sake and as expressive of movement, and a quite

primitive and rudimentary treatment of landscape.

The paintings we are now considering afford no adequate material

for comparison; but one thing is at once noticeable, and that is

the altered ideal of the human form; in place of the tall, slender

proportions of Ku K‘ai-chih, T‘ang art substitutes shorter and more

massive proportions. An ideal of power has superseded an ideal of grace.

Hints of the treatment of landscape, primitive by comparison with the

mature Sung art, but decidedly more advanced than Ku K‘ai-chih’s, are

also of much interest.

Among the Tun-huang paintings there is at least one (Pl. XXXVIII) which

seems to be in an earlier style than the rest. This painting of Buddha

attended by divinities of the Planets comes nearer to the style we find

in Ku K‘ai-chih, both in its finer, drier line, in its proportions of

the figure, its generally more primitive aspect, and its comparative

freedom from Indian influence. The bannered chariot may be compared

with the chariot in the Ku K‘ai-chih picture in the Freer Collection.

And yet this picture is dated with a year corresponding to A.D. 897,

actually later than the ‘Four Forms of Avalokiteśvara’. Similarly a

woodcut, dated A.D. 947, is much ruder and more primitive-looking

than another dated A.D. 868. These facts and comparisons warn us of

the danger of attempting to assign dates too confidently. It may well

be that the paintings which are actually the earliest have the least

primitive aspect. Another example which has an archaic air is the

small picture of Kṣitigarbha enthroned, on blue silk (Pl. XXXIX); but

here, too, we may doubt whether the primitive features may not be due

to provincial style preserving old tradition rather than to actual

antiquity. At the same time it must be remembered that dates going as

far back as the fifth century A.D. are found among the manuscripts

heaped in the Caves of the Thousand Buddhas; there is no reason

therefore why some of the paintings should not be considerably older

than the earliest dated specimen.

One or two paintings in the collection seem to have been added to the

hidden store at a later date. Such is the painting reproduced on Plate

XXXVIII of Avalokiteśvara conducting a soul. This is exceptionally well

preserved, and both the style and the costume of the woman point to a

date more recent than late T‘ang. It is a painting of great beauty.

We may now return to the question of the way in which Indian

subject-matter was fused in Chinese style.

As we have seen, the narrative-pictures, depicting episodes from the

Jātakas, were originally painted in a purely native manner, the whole

theme being bodily translated into Chinese terms; and this tradition

persisted, and even in Japan the Buddha legend is given a Chinese

dress. But with the devotional pictures it was different. As early as

the fifth century, Chinese artists, as we know from the sculptures at

Yün-kang, were copying the Gandhāra types of the Bodhisattvas, though,

as M. Petrucci has observed, the Gandhāra tradition appears at Yün-kang

‘à l’état de débris, comme une chose finissante’. We may suppose that

the copying of Gandhāra models went on for a time side by side with

the complete translation of Indian story into Chinese formula. But by

degrees the Chinese genius asserted itself; and probably the advent of

Wu Tao-tzŭ and a few other men of genius gave a fresh character to the

Buddhist art of T‘ang.

The Chinese genius is strong just where the Indian genius is weak. The

bent of the Indian artist is to pour out his emotions and imaginings in

a torrent, shaping them to form and colour as they come; he delights

in exuberance and a fine excess; he cannot bear to leave a corner of

his space unfilled. If we compare the Ajaṇṭā frescoes with the best

of the Tun-huang paintings, say with that partly reproduced on Plate

III, we feel a different instinct at work. The Indian painters draw

their figures and animals with an admirably expressive power and sense

of life; they have freshness of vision, and spontaneous vigour, and

directness of emotion. And it is part of their spontaneousness that

in grouping figures together they accept the accidental appearances

of form, with a result that is often restless to the eye. In the

Tun-huang painting we feel that the artist obeys an instinct which

controls the complex lines of many grouped figures into a continuous

reposeful harmony; a subtle relation between form and form and between

group and group is set up; these relations rather than delineation

of objects engross the painter. There is a sense of movement in the

passage of the great Bodhisattva on his pacing elephant, preceded and

attended by blessed beings, but it is as if they moved to music; and

the sinuous streaming of the cloud on which a cluster of happy souls is

borne enhances this effect of serene and rhythmic motion. This subtle

unifying instinct of design inheres in the Chinese genius.

Look, again, at the small paintings of Jātaka scenes at the side of

Plate I, and note even there the use of spacing. In contrast with

Indian artists, the Chinese understand to the full the power of

suggestion and the value of reticence. They know how to foil forms in

movement with forms in repose, rich detail with empty space, so as

to stir in the spectator the intensest appreciation of each particular

element. Space is not, in Chinese painting, something left over and

unfilled; it is a positive power and an integral factor in design.

In the typical classics of Chinese art these special powers in the

control of ordered, fluent line, and in mastery of spacing, are

magnificently displayed. But even in these Tun-huang pictures, where

the subject-matter, the imagery, and the canons of ideal form are taken

over from India, we feel how all this is being fused in the fire of a

different genius. And in such a picture as the large Paradise (Pls. I

and II) how potently this genius is at work, controlling all these many

groups of crowded figures, and this built-up composition, with all its

various colours, in the spell of a single mood of immaterial felicity

and peace!