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If, at about the time that Marcus Aurelius was sending embassies to China, there had not been the strange essay at sculpturing the walls of the temple of Hiao-tang-chan with flat silhouettes that look like shadows on a wall, or if we had not begun our acquaintance with certain archaic figures that date back at least to the beginning of our era, we might still believe, as we did for a long time, that not a stone had been sculptured in this land until the conquerors of the northern provinces had, in the fifth century, introduced the moral contagion of the religion of Buddha. Here, as in the Indies, we find mountains hollowed out and rocks submerged by the great wave that rose from hearts filled with hope to overflowing. When the flood had receded, it left behind it colossal figures with pure faces and lowered eyelids, seated giants whose two hands lie open across each other; palm branches and fans are waved over the processions that pass with mighty rhythm across the walls of the temple, ten thousand gods, smiling, silent, and gentle live in the darkness.
If, at about the time that Marcus Aurelius was sending embassies to China, there had not been the strange essay at sculpturing the walls of the temple of Hiao-tang-chan with flat silhouettes that look like shadows on a wall, or if we had not begun our acquaintance with certain archaic figures that date back at least to the beginning of our era, we might still believe, as we did for a long time, that not a stone had been sculptured in this land until the conquerors of the northern provinces had, in the fifth century, introduced the moral contagion of the religion of Buddha. Here, as in the Indies, we find mountains hollowed out and rocks submerged by the great wave that rose from hearts filled with hope to overflowing. When the flood had receded, it left behind it colossal figures with pure faces and lowered eyelids, seated giants whose two hands lie open across each other; palm branches and fans are waved over the processions that pass with mighty rhythm across the walls of the temple, ten thousand gods, smiling, silent, and gentle live in the darkness.
[The
monolithic temples of Ta-t'ong-fou, of Long-Men and of Kong, were discovered by
M. Edouard Chavannes in the course of his admirable and fruitful explorations
in 1907. I thank him most warmly for having authorized me to reproduce the
innumerable photographs that he brought back with him, and of which I have been
able to reproduce only a few because of lack of space. (Note to the first
edition.)
Also,
thanks to Charles Vignier, I have been able to recast completely the
illustrating of this chapter of the present edition. It is to him that I owe
the information concerning origins and chronology which has permitted me, as
far as possible, to get a fresh estimate of Chinese archaeology, a subject that
is barely advancing beyond its embryonic stage. I hope that this rare spirit
will pardon me if I do not venture to use the ordinary formulas in expressing
my thanks to him. The distant and slightly ironic character of the Chinese
sages has exercised so charming an influence on the education of his
sensibility that he must not hesitate to recognize a reflection of that
influence in the very affectionate sentiment entertained toward him by his
unworthy pupil in Sinology.]
The
cliffs, from top to bottom, were sculptured, the walls of every rift in the
rock became alive, the glow of the spirit descended from the pillars and the
vaults as they were hewed out along the lines indicated by the accidents of
their projections and their hollows. A hundred sculptors worked in the shadows
to complete the summary modeling of some gigantic statue; and such was the
unity and power of the creative energy which animated them, that the divine
monster seemed to issue from two hands and from one intelligence; it seemed the
cry of love that a single breast prolonged across the ages. And it is here
perhaps that Buddhist sculpture attained the supreme expression of a science of
light for which there is no equivalent elsewhere, even among the greatest
sculptors. The light does not seem to mingle, as in Egypt, for example, with
the planes of the statue in order to render subtle its passages and profiles.
One would say that it floats round the statue. The form seems to swim, to
undulate in the light, like a wave that passes without beginning and without
end. But we have here a specifically Buddhist quality, shared by this school of
the northern conquerors with the statue makers of India and Korea, of Japan, of
Cambodia, of Tibet, and of Java. It is held in common by all the
representatives of this strange international school of Buddhist sculpture, in
which the Greek influence is always manifest, through the nervous purity of the
Occidentalized profiles, the harmony of the proportions, and the manner in
which intelligence sums up and idealizes objectivity. China proper did not
share fully in the faith which the invader from the plateaus of central Asia
brought within her borders. Doubtless, it was but for an hour that she
consented to abandon herself to the supreme illusion of the promised paradises.
The most meditative, but, perhaps because of that, the least idealistic people
in history had consented only against its will to go with the current that
swept all eastern Asia and gave it that impersonal, secret art, of a
spirituality so pure that ten centuries passed before China had freed herself
from it.
To tell
the truth, it was in this land that the wave of Buddhism lasted the shortest
time. China reverted quickly to her habits of positivist meditation. Buddhism,
with its brief climax of love, was still to give a greater depth and weight to
her thought, as happens on the morrow of a passion tender and too
clear-sighted. She turned again toward death, and as the men who had hollowed
out the mountains under her eyes had taught her to bring out of chaos the
architectured form on which the light and shade paint the spirit of life, she
was able to give to the funeral chant which she sang for a thousand years, from
the seventh to the sixteenth century, a plenitude and a gravity of accent that
had been forgotten since the days of Egypt. There is a heavy, categorical
strain to it as of a settled thing—like the final conclusion of an intelligence
that has turned round itself in a complete circle with - out discovering a
single fissure through which doubt could enter.
Certainly,
we do not find in the funerary statues of China that secret illumination which
mounts from the depths of the Egyptian colossuses to unite, on the plane of
their undulating surfaces, the mind of man with the light. The Chinese people,
as the masters of their soil and their culture, never suffered enough to seek
inner liberty and the consolation for living in a constant hope of death. They
looked on death with placidity, with no more of fear than of desire. But the
fact that they did not lose sight of death gave to Chinese positivism a
formidable importance. Meditating on death causes one to see essential things.
The anecdote, in which one loses oneself when one is concerned with the
adventures of life, leaves the mind forever. The things that interest and hold
the majority of men cease to fetter the mind, which realizes that it passes like
the daylight between two flutters of an eyelid, and that in the light of this
flash it must seize the absolute. And because it perceives nothing beyond life
its hymn to death gathers up and confides to the future everything that is
immortal in life.
Funerary
sculpture increased in grandeur as the power of China increased, and decreased
when Chinese power began to wane. From the time of the T'ang tombs to that of
the Ming tombs, from the dynasty that represents China at its apogee to that
which marks the end of the period, the red and yellow desert that runs in slow
waves to the distant mountain chains where copper and iron repose—the desert of
China saw the rise of massive forms: men, elephants, camels, rams, horses, and
ostriches; some are standing, some lying down—all are motionless and on guard
over the sleep of the emperors. [These tombs of the first great dynasties, from
the seventh to the eleventh century, were discovered also by M. Edouard
Chavannes in the course of his exploration.] The whole plain was a work of art,
like a wall of decoration, and the sculptors used the curves, the projections,
and the perspective of the plain to give value and accent to the giants of
stone. They were seen advancing from the horizon, marching like an army,
climbing the hills, descending the valleys, and when they had once arisen for
their march or parade, they heeded neither the grasses nor the briers that
began to grow again as soon as the hewers of images had disappeared. They
followed one another and gazed upon one another; and the crouching lions
witnessed also the passing of men laden with tribute —now hidden, now revealed
by the undulations of the soil. Separated, absolute and definitive, the lone
and silent multitude of forms rose up in the dust, under the sky, as if to
bear, to the ends of the earth and to the time when the sun itself should be
burned out, the formidable testimony that man had passed this way.
Starting
with the tombs of the T'ang dynasty, from the powerful, bas-reliefs that remind
one of an Assyria visited by Greece, the Chinese sculptors, already possessing
the most direct vision, condense their science gradually to arrive at a more
summary expression. Under the Sungs they were able to conceive an object as a
mass so full, so shorn of details and accidents, so heavy and condensed, that
it seemed to bear the weight of thirty centuries of metaphysical meditation.
Thenceforward they could permit themselves all the stylizations, all the
deformations, all the audacities needed for the affirming of the moral truths
revealed to China by the sages of the ancient days. Under the Mings, at the
moment when the artists were about to lay down their tools, when China, then
only marking time, was about to let Japan slip from her embrace, to rush into
the life of freedom and self-conquest, the Chinese had acquired an imposing
virtuosity. They cast enormous iron statues to guard their temples. They
decorate walls and vaults with strange figures that form melodic lines
undulating in curves which, while irregular, are as continuous and rhythmic as
the ripples on the surface of the water. Along the colossal avenues, the
grimacing monsters and the chimeras alternate with the massive elephants, the
dromedaries, and the warriors as straight and as pure in line as towers.
Thus we
reach the same conclusions whether we study this race in the forms farthest
removed from the realism of the early ages, or whether we consider the
sculptured stones that best recall the living masses one sees outlined against
a dusty plain at the approach of evening—the real domestic animals, the herds,
and the caravans: we may seek in one type of art as well as in the other for
the center of the Chinese soul. It is a soul devoid of imagination, but so firm
and so concentrated that it is not impossible that its motionless realism will
one day drive back the upward-looking idealism of the Occident and impose
itself on the Western races when they have become eager for repose. Chinese art
is an immensity. The art workman plays a role in China that is as important in
the life of his people, and as permanent, as in Egypt. For thirty centuries he
peoples the dwellings of the living and the dwellings of the dead with
furniture, carpets, vases, jewels, and figurines. Three-quarters of his
production perhaps is still buried. The valleys of his two rivers constitute a
mine of art that is doubtless as inexhaustible as that of the valley of the
Nile. Also, the forms that it yields vary to as great a degree—from the grave
or terrible to the charming, from the pots of bronze that the Chinese buried
for centuries so that the juices and minerals of the earth should slowly give
them their patina to the swarms of ''Tanagras" that issue from the
necropolises. These latter are less picturesque, certainly, than their Greek sisters,
but they are also purer and more summary; they are conceived with more fleeting
contours, more decisive planes, and rounder masses, and they offer a more
touching homage to feminine grace, chastity, and majesty. What matter if this
infinite art seems paradoxical at first sight? As in the case of that Egypt
which at first appeared so monstrous, we are beginning to perceive here the
simplicity, the unity, the grand coherence of the strangest conceptions. Under
the grimaces of the statues, under the complicated robes that cover them, under
the outlandish cornices of the architecture, the bristling masses of the
varnished monsters, and the flaming of red and gold in the sanctuaries, there
is present a real and indestructible principle of construction. Sculptural
modeling, which is sinuous and balanced among the Greeks, a thing of movement
with the Indians, and rectangular with the Egyptians, is spherical with the
Chinese. Under the ornaments and the symbolic attributes, under the most
disordered coilings and twistings of the monsters, the passage and the plane of
the sculptor penetrate each other in a slow and continual progress, as if to
produce a closed block. In its essential examples, one would say that this
sculpture causes form to rise slowly to abstraction, that the abstraction
descends slowly toward form, and that lightning flashes from the two as they
fuse, eternal, compact, and pure. At such moments China, like Egypt, Greece,
India, and the France of the Middle Ages, attains one of the summits of the
mind.
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