India Discovered

by John Keay

  In central India the ruins of the Mohammedan cities of Dhar and Mandu were opened up and partly restored. With the co-operation of the local rajah, Khajuraho’s temples were also overhauled and the jungle cut back. But central India was still largely in the hands of native rulers. The Archaeological Department could advise and prompt them, but the initiative and expense must be theirs. A now-famous site like Gwalior was well maintained; others, like Narwar, received only scant attention.

  Diverse as was the Department’s work, it was the Moghul buildings of north-west India by which its performance was inevitably judged. These therefore received minute attention. In Lahore, much patronized by Jehangir, the wall built round the Pearl Mosque when it was used as a treasury was demolished, Jehangir’s tomb overhauled, and several other monuments freed of recent tasteless additions. In Delhi, besides the renovation of the ‘Pathan’ tombs of Tughluk and the Lodi kings, the Red Fort was reinstated as a monument rather than a barracks. Recent military buildings were torn down, the rubble of the Mutiny reprisals was cleared away, and the famous Diwan-i-Am marbles were in the process of being restored.

  Outside Agra, the minarets of Akbar’s tomb at Sikandra, broken since before Twining’s visit, were at last rebuilt; within the city, the work of Strachey and Cole was continued. In the fort, more military structures were removed to reveal the full glory of the Diwan-i-Am’s colonnade, the river front of the so-called Jehangir’s Palace (it was built by Akbar according to Cunningham) was completely rebuilt, and the paintings and mosaics of Itimad-ud-Daula’s tomb were restored.

  And then there was the Taj Mahal. ‘If I had never done anything else in India, I have written my name here, and the letters are a living joy’, declared Lord Curzon. He personally took the deepest interest in its conservation and he presented the building with the magnificent lamp, made in Cairo, which now hangs beneath the central dome. But it is notable that Marshall found little on the tomb itself that required attention. He refaced and restored the jawab where Twining had stayed, and rebuilt sections of the garden walls; but his main achievement was in completely overhauling the red sandstone buildings round the forecourt outside the main gate and along the approaches to it. Then there were the gardens. Curzon himself had a passion for Moghul gardens, and at the Taj, as in the forts of Agra and Delhi, at Humayun’s tomb and at Akbar’s tomb, detailed consideration was given to their planting and maintenance. Trees that had outgrown their beauty were felled and others planted, the beds were filled with flowers and the lawns carefully trimmed; the pools and water-courses were repaired, the fountains made to play. It was no longer the wild orange grove of Twining’s day; a degree of formality was restored and the gardens made to complement the architecture rather than defy it.

  Horticulture and landscaping were subjects particularly dear to the English heart. The opening of vistas, the massing of foliage, and the banking of colour were things they understood perhaps even better than the Moghuls. Here was an area in which British taste and expertise could do more than just restore old glories. While the precise geometry of the original was carefully observed, and its formal lay-out restored, a more daring use of foliage and colour was introduced with a more varied and exciting scheme of planting. The Taj Mahal today is a more overwhelming experience than ever. In no small measure this is due, not just to the blending of Indian and Islamic ideals, but also to the incorporation of a peculiarly British feeling for the relationship between art and nature.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Hiding Behind the Elgin Marbles

  In February 1824, at the time when Robert Smith was drawing up his design for the Qutb Minar and Bishop Heber embarking on that mammoth tour of his diocese, a young lieutenant in the 16th Lancers was enjoying some well earned leave in western India. Instead of the flesh-pots of Bombay, Lieutenant James Alexander had opted for a spot of rough shooting in Berar, on what was then the frontier between British territory and that of the Nizam of Hyderabad. Like most frontier regions it was a wild and little visited area. The hilly country, broken up with deep ravines, provided perfect cover for tigers, then as numerous as foxes.

  Should he escape the tigers, Alexander was warned that ‘the stonyhearted Bhils’ would surely get him. An aboriginal tribe every bit as wild as the tigers, the Bhils with their bows and spears had made the few roads perilous ever since the days of Ashoka. Alexander was taking no chances: he made a point of camping in the villages, and it was at a little place called ‘Adjunta’ that he first heard of ancient caves. In such a wilderness, any evidence of civilization or antiquity was enough to stimulate the curiosity. Next day, at dawn, Alexander was in the saddle and, with the help of a guide, heading for the hilly country above the Tapti river.

  After travelling some distance along a stony road and passing several cairns, near which were many bushes covered with rags, pointing out the spot where unfortunate travellers had been destroyed by tigers, we suddenly found ourselves at the top of the precipitous ghat or pass. The scene which now opened upon us was magnificent in the extreme. The vale of Candesh was stretched beneath our feet, extending far into the blue distance, and enclosed by wooded mountains. Jungles, small lakes and streams scattered in every direction diversified the face of the valley&. Directing our steps towards an opening in the deeply serrated hills we arrived at the debouche of the glen, & when a low whistling was heard above us to the left, and was quickly repeated from the opposite cliffs. This proved to be the Bhils intimating to one another that strangers were approaching. The guide evinced strong symptoms of fear; but on being remonstrated with, and encouraged with the hope of a handsome present, he proceeded onwards. Some of the Bhils showed themselves, peeping out from behind the rocks. They were a most savage looking race, perfectly black, low in stature and nearly naked&. Our firearms prevented them from approaching us and we proceeded unmolested.

  The glen up which our road lay almost to its termination, where the caves are situated, was remarkable for its picturesque beauty. It continued winding amidst the hills, which rose from the banks of the stream with considerable acclivity, and having their sides clothed with scattered jungle. The hills now began to close in their wild and romantic features upon us and it was with no common interest, and with my expectations intensely excited, that I viewed the low-browed entrance to the first cave.

  In all there were some twenty-nine caves strung out along the sheer rock face. Many had elaborately sculpted and pillared entrances like the well-known excavations at Elephanta. But as he rummaged through them, Alexander was at first disappointed. The sculptures could not compare with Ellora: there were fewer figures and they were altogether less elaborate. On the other hand there were paintings – acres of frescoes covering the walls and ceilings – and these exceeded his wildest expectations.

  In most of the caves, to compensate for the want of profuse entaille and sculptures, are paintings in fresco, much more interesting, as exhibiting the dresses, habits of life, pursuits, general appearance and even features of the natives of India perhaps 2000 or 2500 years ago, well preserved and highly coloured, and exhibiting in glowing tints, of which light red is the most common, the crisp-haired sect of the Buddhists.

  Alexander noted a number of ‘spirited delineations’ of battles and processions, and admired the portrayal of horses and elephants. But it is doubtful whether, in the poor light and with only a few hours to spare, he was able to take in much more. Sensibly he refrained from aesthetic or technical judgements; there was, after all, nothing with which he could compare his extraordinary discovery. He was also rather preoccupied.

  The fetid smell arising from numerous bats, which flew about our faces as we entered, rendered a continuance inside, for any length of time, very disagreeable. I saw only one cave with two storeys or tiers of excavated rock. In it the steps from the lower apartment to the upper had been destroyed by the Bhils. With our pistols cocked we ascended by the branch of a tree to the upper range of chambers; and found, in the middle of one of the floors, the remai
ns of a recent fire, with large footmarks around it. In the corner was the entire skeleton of a man. On the floor of many of the lower caves I observed the prints of the feet of tigers, jackals, bears, monkeys, peacocks etc.; these were impressed upon the dust, formed by the plaster of the fresco paintings which had fallen from the ceilings.

  Nothing more forcibly conveys the plight of India’s heritage than this image of primitive tribesmen and wild beasts sheltering amidst the painted splendours of Ajanta. Here was one of the world’s great treasure troves of art – the finest gallery of pictures to survive from any ancient civilization. One can only gasp at the idea of peacocks pecking at the dazzling colours, tigers padding softly through the pillared halls, and naked aborigines staring uncomprehendingly at these most aristocratic portrayals of courtly splendour and voluptuous luxury. Forgotten for over iooo years, their preservation was as miraculous as their rediscovery was fortuitous.

  Although Alexander’s was the first account of Ajanta, it seems that the existence of the caves had been reported some five years earlier. Then as now, mention of cave paintings was not in itself enough to cause a stampede. Even after his report had been published, few went out of their way to visit Ajanta; and those that did were invariably taken by surprise. Instead of primitive daubings they found a truly classical art; instead of prehistoric hunting scenes, the most convincing and comprehensive depiction of civilized life in the ancient world.

  Typical of the unsuspecting traveller’s reaction is a wonderfully spontaneous report that Prinsep published in full in the Asiatic Society’s Journal in 1836. It consisted of the notes made by a Mr Ralph, interspersed with the verbal comments of his friend, Captain Gresley, as they toured the caves. Actually written on the spot, the report has all the immediacy of a tape recording.

  Ralph: These caves are daily becoming more difficult of access. You pass along narrow goat paths with a chasm of fifty or eighty feet below, the footing not nine inches broad, with scarce anything to cling to&. One cave is inaccessible and several are approached at the risk of life.

  Gresley: What a wonderful people these must have been! Remark the head-dresses. Now is this a wig or curly hair? These are chiefly domestic scenes – seraglio scenes; here are females and males everywhere, then processions and portraits of princes which are always larger than the rest. The subjects are closely intermixed; a medallion is twelve or fifteen inches in height; below and above, closely touching, are other subjects. I have seen nothing monstrous. No, certainly there is nothing monstrous except where we see some figure evidently designed for ornament, as in the compartments of the ceiling. The ceiling – aye, everything but the floor and larger statues, everything has been painted. It is done while the plaster is wet – it is fresco painting. I have seen the operation while going about in Rome.

  Now, Ralph, look here; can you see this figure? No. Bring the torch nearer. Can you see it better now? Hardly. Let us light some dry grass. Bring grass now; place it here. Now watch while the light is strongest; you may see the whole figure. This Is a prince or some chief. It is a portrait. Observe how well fore-shortened that limb is – yes, I can see it now; but throw water on it — now the colours are more vivid. Here is a lovely face – a madonna face. What eyes! She looks towards the man. Observe, these are all Hindu faces – nothing foreign&. I wish I could make out this story; there certainly is a story. Here is a fair man of full age, dressed in a robe and a cap like some monk or abbot. Here is next to him a half naked Brahmin, copper coloured with shaven crown and single lock on his head. Here is a man presenting him with a scroll on which something is written. He is in a crowded court – he has come to an audience. What can all this be?

  Ralph: This zodiac as they call it is very elaborate&. I think this the best example in the whole series, and evidently done by the same painters who worked in what we call par excellence ‘the painted caves’. These medallions in the roof are very handsome. I think they resemble compartments in a Turkey carpet, or what we see in a kaleidoscope – wreaths and coloured radiated patterns. Here are five women with their feet all towards the centre of the circle – their heads alone perfect. Are they angels? There are no winged and two-headed figures anywhere. The zodiac is incomplete. I think about a third of it is missing, and the lower part of the circle can never have been complete for it must have been over this door of the cell.

  Gresley: Perhaps they covered the top of the doorway with something in order to complete the circle.

  Ralph: You admire it so much you are willing to suppose it must have been complete.

  Gresley: What a lovely female! Yes, the last one we discover seems always the sweetest. Here is another heavenly face. This man is her lover — a handsome fellow. You have his profile looking to the left. How eager – how full of ardent desire. The woman has just turned her face towards him, and looks with timid satisfaction and self-approving coquetry. It is excellent. But here is another beauty – she is entreating; her head is turned towards someone above. Is she supplicating or in prayer? Shame to the villains who have destroyed these paintings.

  These must have been convents and these paintings to attract the multitude at festivals and to bring pilgrims from afar &

  Ralph: The fewer theories you form, the fewer blunders and dreams you will make.

  Gresley: We must form theories – we cannot remain awake and not do so.

  Ralph’s pet theory was that the Ajanta cave temples, like those of Elephanta, Kanheri and Ellora, were the work of ancient Egyptian conquerors. Whether those Egyptians were supposed to have brought Buddhism with them or to have adopted it on arrival he did not say. But both men were sure that the caves and the paintings were Buddhist. A Dr James Bird, who joined them on site, disagreed. He thought they were Jain and he had brought a learned pandit along to read the inscriptions and thus prove his point. He was also preparing an account of the place for the Royal Asiatic Society and intended taking away some of the paintings by prising them from the walls.

  Ralph was full of scorn. The inscriptions were in a variation of the still undeciphered Ashoka script; they duly baffled the pandit. Moreover there was nothing to suggest that the caves were Jain. And as for removing the paintings, it was quite impossible – except as dust. Nevertheless Dr Bird tried; and ‘not withstanding protestations about defacing monuments, this visitor contrived to peel off four painted figures from the zodiac or shield’.

  Subsequent visitors followed this sad precedent; at one time there was even a resident caretaker who, for a small consideration, presented all-comers with a souvenir fragment. James Fergusson, who visited Ajanta about 1839, was duly scandalized, and launched the first of many attempts to save the frescoes. To him we owe the now accepted designation of the caves – ‘I numbered them like houses in a street’ – and the first clear statement of their origin — Buddhist and dating from about 200 BC to AD 650. The paintings were mostly from the Gupta period (fifth, sixth and seventh centuries AD) but some as early as the first century BC. Historically they were as important for the understanding of ancient India as the Bharhut and Sanchi reliefs. But they were infinitely more vulnerable and fragile. If anything was to be saved they must quickly be copied and brought to the attention of art historians.

  On Fergusson’s recommendation, Major Robert Gill arrived at Ajanta in 1844 and commenced a painstaking record of all the paintings. Twenty-seven years later he was still engaged on the job. In the story of British attempts to record India’s past Gill’s dedication is unrivalled; sadly, though, it was futile. His oil paintings of the Ajanta murals went on display at the Crystal Palace, London, along with the first Gandhara sculptures to reach England. In December 1866 all were destroyed by fire; the canvases had not even been photographed. With quite staggering resilience, Gill returned to Ajanta to begin his life’s work again; but he died, on site, a year later.

  His place was taken, in 1872, by John Griffiths of the Bombay School of Art, and the work of copying continued for a further thirteen years. Again the results
were sent to London. They went on display in the Victoria and Albert Museum and again they were destroyed by fire. But this time photographs had been taken. In 1897, nearly fifty years after their discovery, the Ajanta paintings were at last published and the art world could begin to form some opinion of them.

  Whether a speedier appreciation of their aesthetic worth would have done much to ensure their preservation is highly doubtful. It is clear that they were already tragically mutilated in the 1820s, liable to crumble at the slightest touch. No doubt they continued to deteriorate; though they might have been better protected from vandals, there was no known method of restoring them. Indeed, any attempt at preservation was liable to be positively damaging. With the idea of resisting the monsoon damp, as well as to bring out their colours, Gill had administered a thick coat of varnish. This tended to blur the original brushwork; and when applied to subjects already encrusted with dirt and smoke, produced just a dingy splodge. In 1871 Clements Markham thought he was writing their obituary: Gill’s varnish had ‘injured them irremediably and they are now rapidly fading away’.

  Although Griffith’s work proved that this was not yet the case, another complication surfaced when John Marshall proposed an attempt at their restoration. Ajanta was just inside Hyderabad territory. In the native states, even Curzon’s new Archaeological Department had to move with caution, and it was in fact Hyderabad’s own Archaeological Department, founded in 1914, which eventually took the frescoes in hand. Thirty miles of road were built up to the gorge and, enticed by the Nizam’s liberality, two Italian specialists, Professor Cecconi and Count Orsini, worked at Ajanta from 1920 to 1922. Analyses were made of the pigments and painting process which, incidentally, revealed that they were not, properly speaking, frescoes. (The plaster was not painted while wet, but moistened during the painting.) After many experiments the old varnish, dirt and smoke were removed with alcohol, turpentine and ammonia. Beeswax in turpentine was then used as a fixative, and cement and shellac mixtures used to secure the old plaster. The results were a revelation: a volume of photographs of the restored paintings prompted the Burlington Magazine to declare them ‘perhaps the greatest artistic wonder of Asia’. Suddenly, if belatedly, Ajanta art had achieved world recognition. In 1923 the great ballerina Pavlova performed an ‘Ajanta Ballet’ at London’s Covent Garden, with choreography based on the gestures and poses of the cave paintings. It was a fitting tribute, because a training in music and dance had been a prerequisite for the original artists. To coincide with the ballet, the Illustrated London News published some photographs of the paintings with a long introduction by Sir John Marshall. The Ajanta frescoes were, he declared, ‘one of the Wonders of the East’.