In this essay, ArtAnt continues its exploration of the images and meanings presented in the latter six scenes of The Admonitions Scroll (Nüshi zhen tu). If the first half of the painting focuses on conveying moral instruction through historical exemplars—emphasizing the causal logic between virtue and the rise and fall of dynasties—the second half turns its gaze inward, toward the everyday life within the imperial harem. The scroll depicts scenes from dressing and adorning oneself to private conversations within the bedchamber, as the moral exhortations gradually become internalized and woven into the discipline of women’s daily conduct.
Nüshi zhen tu II
To modern viewers, these delicate portrayals are far from unfamiliar: the painting reveals both the rivalry among concubines vying for favor through lavish adornment and the ruler’s moments of hesitation or alarm in the face of temptation. Yet, under the pens of Zhang Hua and Gu Kaizhi, such seemingly ordinary courtly interactions are imbued with profound moral warning. What, then, made these behaviors appear so perilous in their eyes? And might we, through these admonitions, glimpse the underlying tension between ethics and the realities of power within imperial China?
Although the ideal of order embodied in The Admonitions Scroll was long consigned to the archives of history with the end of the imperial system, this does not mean it has lost all intellectual relevance today. On the contrary, within its conception of power one can still discern faint traces of the interwoven influences of Confucian and Daoist thought—spiritual resources that are, perhaps, increasingly scarce in our contemporary world.
People generally know how to adorn their appearance, yet few understand how to cultivate their character. Without deliberate self-cultivation, one risks straying from propriety and the moral path. Only through a process of self-discipline—as if carving and polishing with chisel and axe—can one restrain selfish desires, reflect inwardly, and approach the state of the sage.
The painting depicts two graceful court ladies engaged in their toilette, each facing a tall mirror as they arrange their appearance. One has her long, lustrous hair combed by an attendant; the other, having finished dressing, is now applying her makeup. Art historian Wu Hung has noted that The Admonitions Scroll abounds in tensions between its text and images, and this scene is a prime example: while the accompanying inscription admonishes women not to overvalue physical beauty but to cultivate inner virtue, a viewer looking only at the image would find it difficult to sense such moral warning from the delicate scene of women adorning themselves before a mirror.
Notably, the motif of the mirror appears twice in this section. Throughout imperial Chinese history, the mirror has often symbolized self-reflection. For instance, during the Han dynasty, Li You inscribed upon his own mirror the words “Straighten one’s robes and cap; align one’s ceremonial attire,” linking one’s outward appearance and social comportment. In Confucian discourse, such tidiness of dress carried a metaphorical weight, representing moral rectitude and self-cultivation. Likewise, Han writers Sima Qian and Han Ying compared the study of history to gazing into a mirror: by reflecting on the past, one could discern guidance for conduct in the present.
Yet, as Wu Hung observes, this positive symbolism of the mirror waned during the Wei and Jin periods, when The Admonitions Scroll was created. The mirror’s reflection came increasingly to signify vanity and superficial allure, standing in opposition to inner virtue. Zhang Hua’s accompanying verses exemplify this transformation. His contemporary Fu Yuan also cast a bronze mirror and inscribed it: “Look into a mirror to see one’s form; look into people to know their hearts.” This skeptical stance toward the mirror may relate to a new development after the Han: an originally neutral object became rapidly gendered, turning into a hallmark of boudoir culture.
The Yutai xinyong (New Songs from the Jade Terrace), an anthology of palace-style poetry, frequently employs the mirror in this way. For example, the Liang-dynasty court poet He Xun wrote in “Poem on Looking into a Mirror”:
At dawn the crimson curtains are drawn aside,
The patterned loom stands idle through the morning.
She opens the jade box, lifts the mirror’s gleam,
Before the jeweled stand she perfects her adornment.
Smiling faintly at her reflection, she turns to watch the flowers,
Lightly tracing her brows, she tests the color of peach blossoms.
The jeweled hairpin trembles as she adjusts it,
Her lover still gone, she weeps before the mirror.
This scene takes its theme from Zhang Hua’s verse describing a couple sharing the same bed yet divided by mistrust. It depicts the emperor visiting the sleeping quarters of one of his consorts. The painter’s original intention seems to have been to visualize their “sharing the bed but not the trust,” for several details signal the emotional distance between them: the emperor sits at the edge of the bed, his lower body turned outward, one foot touching the floor—he has not entered the bed. His gaze rests on the woman with a look of hesitation. Her posture mirrors his uncertainty: she leans obliquely against the screen at the corner of the bed, her body angled away. A drooping bed curtain falls between them, like a tangible symbol of separation.
How, then, should we understand this contradiction? I would argue that this very “fissure” is where the scroll’s fascination lies. It acts like a prism, refracting the many facets of court life—its moral ideals on one side, its lived realities on the other. Through these subtle gaps, we glimpse a more nuanced and truthful history: just as in our own lives, moral ideals do not always translate neatly into daily practice; even women of exalted rank could still fall into the familiar snares of sentiment and indulgence.
If you speak with goodness, even across a thousand miles, someone will answer in kind. But if you violate this principle, even the one who shares your pillow will begin to doubt you.
This scene in The Admonitions Scroll closely resembles such verses: both devote meticulous attention to portraying a tender, beautiful woman. As Wu Hung notes, if one looks only at the painting, there is little sense of moral anxiety about the ladies’ behavior, nor is it easy to perceive that the very act of adornment depicted here is precisely what Zhang Hua’s text condemns.
Yet some scholars have proposed another reading: that this very distance might also suggest the gesture of feigned reluctance—an artful withholding that heightens erotic tension. Indeed, the painting contains unmistakably suggestive details: the pair lock eyes; one of the emperor’s shoes has already slipped off; his robe belt flutters loosely, as though he might, in the next instant, step onto the bed. Among all the scenes, this one perhaps most vividly exemplifies what Wu Hung has observed—the frequent dissonance between text and image in The Admonitions Scroll.
Indeed, Zhang Hua’s poem offers abundant moral material; why, then, did the painter choose to render this intimate moment at the bedside? Although the text describes hesitation and self-restraint, the imagery of the bed easily overwhelms the moral message, evoking instead the atmosphere of amorous encounter. Julia Murray has suggested that such scenes arose because abstract moral exhortations were extremely difficult to translate into visual form. Just as in the earlier dressing scene, where the artist used the vanity table as a concrete entry point, here he chose the bedchamber—perhaps because there was no better alternative. The cultivation of inner virtue, after all, resists direct depiction.
Speech, though subtle and without form, can bring both honor and disgrace. Do not assume it is dim or without light—for the spirits watch even what casts no shadow. Do not think it silent—for Heaven itself listens to soundless words. Do not grow proud from favor and fortune—for the Way of Heaven detests what is full to excess. Do not rely on noble birth—for those who reach the summit are destined, in time, to fall. One should follow the lesser stars that keep their distance and thus avoid misfortune; cultivate the quiet persistence of the cricket, whose kind multiplies unceasingly, ensuring generations without end.
Murray points to a related example in the Song-dynasty Illustrated Classic of Filial Piety for Women (Nü xiaojing tu), which attempts to visualize the eleventh scene of The Admonitions Scroll, “Composed and Self-Reflective” (jinggong zisi). Yet the result, she notes wryly, is so obscure that it resembles a riddle more than a moral illustration.
This scene takes as its theme the closing lines of Zhang Hua’s verse, portraying the emperor surrounded by his consorts and children. The figures are arranged in a triangular composition, recalling the mountain-like structure of the sixth scene. The correspondence is not only visual but textual: in the sixth scene, the inscription reads, “The Way never flourishes without restraint; what waxes full must in time decline. When the sun reaches its zenith, it begins to set; when the moon grows round, it begins to wane.” Its purpose is to remind the ruler to see through the dazzling illusion of power’s transience, and to maintain a cautious mind even in the height of splendor. The accompanying illustration shows the monarch engaged in an outdoor hunt.
As the scroll transitions from depictions of statecraft and the outer world to scenes of palace life, we encounter here an inner-court version of “Heaven detests excess.” If the sixth scene spoke of this principle on the grand scale of dynastic rise and fall, this later one binds it to the intimate sphere of daily speech and conduct. The “spirits” and “divinities” may be formless, yet they are omnipresent, constantly responding to one’s words and deeds. And this higher order of Heaven abhors the arrogance born of favoritism and indulgence. In the preceding scene, Zhang Hua had already hinted at the immense power of seemingly insignificant words; in this one, he extends the theme, showing how speech itself may summon either glory or disgrace—introducing the idea of Heaven’s Way as a subtle, pervasive system of moral response.
Yet from this scene we also glimpse that the “fissure” lies not only between image and text, but within the text itself. The shift from lofty reflections on cosmic morality to a closing exhortation on women’s reproductive virtue feels abrupt—as if a woman’s alignment with the Way of Heaven were achieved by emulating the “small stars” and “crickets” of the natural world. In Daoist thought, the principle that “Heaven detests excess” arises from the same understanding of emptiness: the void, though without form, is an all-encompassing field of vital energy that quietly governs the workings of the world. Within this field, awareness and reality are interwoven; even the faintest movement can send ripples across a thousand miles. In this sense, phrases such as “If one speaks with goodness, a thousand miles away it will be answered,” and “Words may seem slight, yet they bring honor or disgrace,” are not abstract moral platitudes, but insights into an unseen order of causality.
However, the poem ultimately does not pursue this metaphysical potential. Instead, its tone shifts, turning toward the Confucian vision of social continuity—the hope that women will fulfill their duty through the bearing of sons. The painter follows this lead, rendering the emperor surrounded by his family with an air of serene domestic bliss, transforming cosmic admonition into a tableau of filial and dynastic harmony.
Happiness must not be tainted; affection must not turn to favoritism. Favoritism breeds contempt, and passion carried to its height is quick to change. Whatever reaches fullness must decline—this is a constant truth. Those who think themselves beautiful are most easily despised. To seek favor through heavy makeup and seductive charms is precisely what the gentleman disdains. The severing of affection often begins from such indulgence.
In stark contrast to the previous scene—where the emperor is shown surrounded by his children in familial harmony—this one centers on the peril of beauty’s allure. A richly adorned consort approaches the emperor, yet he turns his back to her, raising his arm in a gesture of refusal, his expression tinged with discomfort. The BBC History of the World documentary opens its discussion of The Admonitions Scroll with this very scene, describing it thus:
“What we see here is an unsettling image. A beautiful, alluring court lady moves toward the emperor. Her robe flares around her, crimson ribbons fluttering, accentuating her grace and coquetry. Yet on closer look, we notice that she halts, slightly off balance, as the emperor lifts his arm high in an unambiguous gesture of rejection, pushing her away. The woman’s body twists sharply, as if to turn and withdraw; her face shows shock, mingled with wounded pride.”
This scene again illustrates the Daoist precept that “Heaven detests excess,” yet it does so with greater psychological precision, translating the cosmic law of “what is full must wane” into the sphere of intimate human relations. Whereas the previous scene jumped somewhat abruptly from moral reflection to Confucian didacticism, this one unfolds with more persuasive subtlety, explaining step by step why one must not seek “fullness” in affection. To compete for the emperor’s exclusive favor is to invite imbalance—such love, founded solely on indulgence, soon turns to disregard. To pursue the emperor’s passion is to risk the instability of ardor itself: “Exclusive attachment breeds disdain; love carried to its extreme turns away.” For women of worldly experience, these are lessons not of abstract morality, but of lived truth.
This wariness toward the perils of favor and desire runs deep within the cultural psychology of traditional China. The Confucian, Daoist, and Legalist canons, as well as later palace anecdotes, all contain warnings of this kind. The Han Feizi cautions, “Favor without trust brings disorder,” and observes, “He who is most favored by the ruler will surely be hated by the ministers.” The Comprehensive Mirror for Aid in Government (Zizhi tongjian) likewise warns, “When favor reaches its height, it breeds arrogance; when power overflows, it topples.” In these classics, favor is a dazzling but perilous illusion—an unstable privilege that invites ruin. Its dangers transcend gender: even among ruler and minister, any relationship grounded primarily in personal affection almost inevitably draws in destructive forces. Because favor rests on the sovereign’s private emotion rather than institutional principle, once it outweighs order it breeds transgression, and transgression breeds strife.
This may well be the most effective admonition in The Admonitions Scroll, for it strikes directly at the core of human desire—the yearning for affection. For a concubine intent on winning the emperor’s heart, the moral rhetoric of Han Confucians may seem distant and abstract, but the warning that “to charm through beauty is what the gentleman despises” must have carried a sharper sting—provided, of course, that the ruler himself aspired to be a true gentleman.
Artistically, this may also be the most vivid and finely detailed scene of the entire scroll. Its lifelike gestures and subtle emotional cues suggest the painter had closely observed the world he depicted, drawing upon a wealth of lived or imagined scenes. Here lies another kind of tension: the imperial system placed palace women in a world structured around rivalry and competition, yet The Admonitions Scroll upholds ideals of balance and moral integrity. Perhaps it is precisely this contradiction that makes Jia Yuanchun, upon entering the palace in Dream of the Red Chamber, feel so poignantly that her life was no longer her own.
If the previous scene portrays the predicament of a woman who failed to heed the admonitions of the Admonitions Scroll, then this penultimate scene presents their quiet fulfillment: a palace lady sits in still contemplation, her composure suggesting that she is inwardly following the moral counsel inscribed beside her, patiently awaiting the honor and recognition that virtue will bring.
Thus I say: in all things one must act with caution and care, and good fortune will arise of its own accord. When one reflects upon one’s conduct with calmness and humility, honor and renown will, in time, naturally follow.
The final scene of The Admonitions Scroll depicts the Lady Historian (nüshi) standing within a palace hall, holding a bamboo tablet in her hands. Her expression is solemn, her bearing composed, as if she were reciting moral injunctions to a group of court ladies dressed in proper attire. Through the figures’ postures and the balanced composition, the painting emphasizes the authority and dignity of the Lady Historian’s office, underscoring the central role of ritual propriety and moral discipline within the court.
Art historian Wu Hung poses a thought-provoking question: why did the painter choose to place the Lady Historian at the end of the scroll rather than at its beginning? As the very voice of admonition, should she not appear first, to guide the viewer’s understanding of all that follows? After all, in many contemporary Buddhist narrative paintings, the preacher or narrator is typically positioned at the opening of the composition. Wu Hung suggests that this distinctive narrative structure may not derive from Buddhist pictorial conventions at all, but rather from an earlier historiographical tradition. Similar endings can be found in classical Chinese histories such as The Records of the Grand Historian (Shiji) and The Book of Han (Hanshu): Sima Qian concludes his work with the chapter “The Grand Historian’s Self-Statement,” while Ban Gu ends the Hanshu with his own autobiography.
According to Wu Hung, this choice—to close the narrative through the presence of the narrator—embodies a sense of sacred duty on the part of the historian. As a witness to events, his or her appearance at the conclusion not only bears the weight of the past, but also completes and seals the entire narrative.
Yet a careful viewer will notice that the Lady Historian who appears at the end of the scroll, earnestly instructing the women of the court, seems to be more than a mere witness or chronicler of history. Although in the first six scenes she skillfully invokes historical exempla, her role—when compared with that of traditional historians such as Sima Qian—resembles less that of a recorder and more that of a moral instructor or preceptress. The grand narrative she embodies ultimately converges upon the regulation of female conduct within the inner court. This pedagogical role also helps explain why the British Museum translates nüshi as “Instructress.”
Not all scholars, however, agree with this interpretation. David Knechtges and others argue that translations such as “female scribe” or “lady recorder” more accurately capture her original administrative function. According to the Rites of Zhou (Zhouli), the Zhou dynasty did indeed employ a class of female officials proficient in ritual and etiquette, known as nüshi (female historiographers). Their duties included assisting the empress in performing ceremonies and overseeing the daily affairs of the inner palace. Beginning in the early Han period, the title nüshi came to designate more explicitly a court position responsible for recording the moral conduct and transgressions of empresses and imperial consorts.
At the conclusion of the previous section, we noted that the women in Admonitions of the Instructress are shaped through a “male gaze,” which is not incorrect—but more precisely, they are shaped through a gaze of imperial authority. The distinction is subtle but significant: men themselves are also molded by this gaze. The conception of order in Admonitions can be said to simultaneously temper both men and women. Indeed, judging from the considerable number of seals and colophons in the latter half of the scroll, successive emperors and literati treasured it far beyond the usual regard afforded to advisory texts. It circulated through the palace with the aura of a “divine artifact,” and extended through secondary creations in the paintings of Wu Daozi and Li Gonglin, the calligraphy of Mi Fu and Dong Qichang, and the lacquer panels of Sima Jinlong.
Although this conception of order was buried with the demise of the imperial system, that does not mean it holds no relevance for contemporary society. On the contrary, within its notions of power, one can still discern the faint yet persistent interplay of Confucian and Daoist thought. These are precisely the spiritual resources increasingly rare—or even absent—in modern life. For example: the moral caution that a woman who “enhances her appearance to win favor” risks disdain; the ethical premise that “family governance must be upright” to sustain societal order; and the overarching philosophical logic of “what reaches its extreme will decline” and the ebb and flow of yin and yang. These lessons are not merely relics of ancient moral instruction—they remain potent metaphors for the recurring dynamics of wealth, power, and value imbalance in the present day.
Author: Art Ant