Magpies, Squirrels and Thieves (44 page)

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With the display of travellers' objects apparently fortifying Victorian notions of supremacy, collections became especially entangled with imperial ambitions. Empire building and collecting went hand in hand, and, by the 1870s and 1880s, public collecting could clearly be seen as a tool of state, an expression of how Britain saw itself on the world stage. In 1886, this was fully articulated in a Colonial and Indian Exhibition at South Kensington. Much more concerned with the display of imperial might than earlier extravaganzas like the Great Exhibition, this demonstrated how foreign objects could be used to illustrate and validate the glory of the Empire: ‘It meant a proclamation to all and sundry that Victoria rules the Empire,' trumpeted the
Illustrated London News
, ‘a just and equitable, but firm and fearless rule to the uttermost ends of the world, to the extremist limits of human civilization.'
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It was not simply that Indian textiles were beautiful, for example: the display of such works in the exhibition also helped to highlight the dominance of the Raj in India and remind people of the extent of British power. One of the most popular pieces in South Kensington was the famous Tippoo's Tiger, an animated mechanical organ, made of painted wood and carved to look like a tiger mauling an Englishman. It had originally been commissioned by the Indian ruler Tipu, Sultan of Mysore, a symbol of his opposition to British authority, and in particular of his resistance to the British East India Company. Its presence in the museum not only recorded Britain's victory in India, but also reminded visitors of the need to take the cultivated ways of Empire to a place that was once governed by such a sadistic oriental despot.

Because of the long British involvement in India, the public collection and display of Indian objects was often more structured and considered than the presentation of art from other Eastern nations. The East India Company, trading since the days of Elizabeth I, had set up an Indian museum in London's Leadenhall Street as early as 1801. Despite being crowded, chaotic and
squalid – it was described by one journal as ‘practically inaccessible, and hid away out of sight. . . a bonded warehouse and not a museum' – it drew crowds of visitors, who were fascinated and horrified in equal measure by the eccentric hotchpotch of ancient tablets, religious sculptures and elephant heads.
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There was soon a crisis of space and in 1858 a ‘New Museum' was opened to the public, but the East India Company was already in decline. The Indian Rebellion of 1857, followed a year later by the Government of India Act, which set up a new government department for the subcontinent, unsettled old ways of doing things and reduced profit. The museum went through several decades of uncertainty and upheaval before finally being disbanded in 1879. The collection was then divided between the British Museum and South Kensington, where treasures like Tippoo's Tiger took pride of place in the Eastern Galleries. With the added attraction of more convenient and salubrious premises, the Indian material once again drew huge audiences: nine rooms and an adjoining landing were given over at South Kensington to the display of architectural fragments from Mughal palaces, models of Indian domestic scenes and religious festivals; fabrics, carpets and homewares. One of the most striking exhibits was a massive plaster cast of the Eastern Gateway from the domed Buddhist monument of the Great Stupa at Sanchi in India, a huge pillared entrance elaborately carved with elephants and scenes from the life of Buddha. So magnificent and popular were the displays that the travel publisher Baedeker even included a guide to the collections in its London itinerary.
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But interest was by no means confined to India, and, as British ambitions expanded, so too did collecting from the length and breadth of the world. In many cases, countries that were not yet under British rule were the priority, rather than potentially more reliable allies like India. Acquiring objects from intransigent states was one way, at least, of announcing supremacy. While the
Victorians were trying to gain control of Afghanistan, for example, the spoils of war helped to make British victories visible and tangible, both to those whose treasures were being removed and to an influential public back at home: a wooden panel from the gateway of Ghuzni, taken during the first Afghan war in 1842, and arms from the second Afghan war in 1878–80 all found their way into the galleries at South Kensington. Japan and China were similarly important. At a time of fierce rivalry for dominance in the region with other European and world powers, collecting acted to assert territorial claims ever more strongly. In a competitive world, acquiring objects from the Far East assumed unique symbolic and diplomatic value.

At South Kensington, an active programme of collecting from Japan began in the 1850s with the purchase of some modern Nagasaki lacquer work. It was soon boosted by Queen Victoria who added swords, armour, textiles and ceramics during the 1860s, while Britain's minister to Japan from 1865 to 1883, Sir Harry Parkes, also donated a fourteenth-century sword that he was given by the Meiji Emperor in 1872. At the British Museum, as well as decorative objects and sculpture, Franks persuaded the Trustees in 1881 to buy a collection of over 3,000 Japanese paintings put together by William Anderson, a doctor who lived in Tokyo from 1872 to 1880. In China, however, progress had been slower. The country was so huge, so apparently undeveloped and so completely unknown to all but a few Western travellers – and trade was so tightly controlled by the Chinese government – that the objects which emerged tended to be of limited variety, and sometimes low quality, often specifically designed for the Western markets. When Stephen Wootton Bushell sent his first consignment of boxes to South Kensington, there was little with which to compare it. The small bundles of objects surprised the Victorians with new ideas about Chinese art.

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Bushell was delighted to be back in Peking. There was the pleasure of sharing everything with his new wife, and of being welcomed so enthusiastically to the compound. There was news to catch up on, patients and friends to visit. And there was the satisfaction of rediscovering his favourite places and immersing himself once again in the sights, sounds and smells of China that he had missed so much. Peking was not an obviously handsome place. It was one of the world's largest cities, a cramped collection of simple, low buildings, their roofs propped on poles, clustered around dusty, unmade streets, rutted by mule carts. The view was frequently monotonous: there was little vegetation, and the rocky ground was open and wind-blown. A huge blank wall, fourteen miles long, broken only by occasional gates and towers, loomed over the close-packed houses and divided the city in two, with a Tartar City to the North and a Chinese City to the south, the ancient and enclosed Forbidden City lying behind yet more walls of its own. There were no parks, and the only gardens were tucked out of sight in private homes. But the temples were beautiful, though often overgrown and weedy, with grass covering the roofs or pushing through the cracks in the stone paving. In the tranquillity of the Confucius temple, gnarled cypress trees sprawled among squat pavilions, and silk and paper prayer offerings fluttered in the breeze. Here Bushell could linger and plan for the future.

In his early thirties, with a settled family life and his medical career running smoothly, Bushell was in an enviable position. His visits to South Kensington had given him the support he needed to extend his collecting with confidence, and his conversations in London had convinced him that his scholarship would be valued. It was clear to Bushell from his early explorations that the understanding of Chinese art in Britain, even among collectors and so-called experts, was poor. The more he discovered, the more it seemed to him that the most important works were underrated and misunderstood. Even the study of Chinese ceramics, which
had become so fashionable in Victorian London, was much more interesting and varied than he had imagined. There was just so much more to the craft than had so far been revealed.

There was, of course, the K'ang-hsi porcelain which changed hands in European showrooms for large sums of money and which, Bushell claimed, was ‘the culminating epoch of the ceramic art in China by common consent of all connoisseurs, eastern and western'.
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But this was just the beginning. What caught his eye as he sat in the quiet, darkened rooms of his wealthier Chinese patients, or followed a local guide along the narrow and steep paths to secluded shrines, was the fine form and lustre of much earlier Chinese ware, virtually unknown in the West, and certainly not yet at the forefront of fashion. This was historic work that was valued by the Chinese, and which they had kept safely out of the hands of traders and merchants; the ancient pieces of the Sung dynasty (960–1279) which Bushell could pick up surprisingly cheaply, and the refined work of the Ming dynasty, dating back to the 1360s. Here was a whole new perspective on the study of blue-and-white, a long and successful tradition waiting to be discovered by a pioneering collector, and a thrill for Bushell as he rummaged through the markets of Peking.

Bushell was keen to show what depth and quality there was to traditional Chinese blue-and-white, but it was the unusual, the quirky and the distinctly ‘foreign' that really caught his eye. At heart he was an explorer, and simply re-evaluating the wares that could be found in London drawing rooms was not enough to satisfy him. What fascinated him were the pieces of art that helped define the people and explain the ways in which they lived. His acquisitions were more than just pieces for decoration: Bushell understood that they were cultural artefacts, historic markers which gave him an insight into a unique country. Every journey became an adventure, even if it was a brief trip into the markets of Peking to see what was on the stalls. Every conversation was
a revelation of the links between the past and the present. Every object, however simple, began to fit into his growing understanding of the culture and its history, adding colour and diversity to the picture. Bushell was eager to find out everything he could about the pieces he saw: how and when they were made; where they came from; who had owned and used them; what they meant. He became a collector of stories.

One of the things he observed, particularly among his more respectable Chinese friends, was that it was common to wear a plain, flexible band of gold or silver around the neck or arm. At first he did not take much notice. He had never had much of a taste for jewellery, and there was always something else to interest him. Increasingly, he was able to leave his black leather doctor's bag tucked neatly away at home and venture out just for the pleasure of it. He was calling socially on old patients, and in the streets Chinese locals who had once welcomed him only for his medical skills were more than happy to talk about other matters. All the time, he was being shown new things and, with so much to attract his attention, the plain rings and bangles seemed insignificant.

But, as time went on and Bushell saw more and more people wearing the bands, he began to ask questions. Listening to the stories, he discovered that the necklaces and bracelets were much more interesting than they had first appeared. The bands were far more than simple ornament or fashion – they were portable property, the family wealth. But unlike the diamond necklaces and elaborate tiaras of the English upper classes, brought out with a flourish on important occasions to signal status and prosperity, this Chinese jewellery was practical and plain. What was important was its solidity: the weight and purity of the metal were far more significant than any craftsmanship or decoration. When times were hard, it was relatively easy to strip off pieces as required, sell them on and melt them down to provide funds. His appetite whetted, Bushell asked more
questions and discovered that the custom of wearing bands was so ancient and widespread that it had become carefully organized and systematized: each piece was stamped by the original jeweller who, at any time in the future, was honour bound to buy back strips from his customer, by weight, without questioning the quality. Bushell was now alert to the bracelets: what had seemed insignificant and undistinguished became full of interest. He could not help noticing the bands everywhere he went, amazed at himself for not seeing much sooner that this was more than a random taste for body ornament. In a city full of beautiful and unfamiliar things, Bushell realized that even the smallest, plainest and most intimate objects were important. His European perspective was shifting, and he was beginning to see the details of Chinese life with new eyes.

Such small discoveries delighted Bushell, but he was not one for publicizing his breakthroughs. He kept his notes diligently but inconspicuously, and he treasured each advance that brought him a step closer to understanding China without feeling a need to broadcast his growing expertise. All over the world, royal, government and diplomatic representatives were making inroads into new lands, and Bushell knew that he was just a tiny part of a vast imperial network. He was, officially, nothing more than a respectable physician, helping the British machine to function and upholding its values. Many other expatriate administrators collected, and many local and national museums were grateful for the objects they sent back for display. Bushell was under no illusions as to his uniqueness or distinction. But even so, in his quiet way, through his systematic note-keeping, careful observation and scholarly collecting, Bushell was making himself special. He was doing more than simply picking up curiosities so that people back in Britain could wonder at the strangeness of the world – he was changing attitudes.

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When it came to thinking about the East, the Victorians tended to view Japan as sophisticated and cultured, producing a range of objects which showcased the exquisite skills of Japanese craftsmen and were worthy of fashionable attention. Japanese objects were being imported in large quantities by the 1870s and popular shops like Liberty's set the tone for stylish middle-class homes. Japan was romantic. Yet, despite its appeal to the popular imagination, a patronizing mindset still lingered, a sense that beneath the refinement lurked a semi-barbarous ‘foreignness'. Even Britain's first minister to Japan, Sir Rutherford Alcock, described the country as a place of primitive violence and natural disasters, noting that experiencing Japanese life was like taking a ‘step backward some ten centuries to live again the feudal days'.
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