Destruction and Sorrow beneath the Heavens: Reportage

The Spirit of China

The next day, at three o’clock in the afternoon, of course, there is Master Ji in front of the entrance gate of the Garden of the Master of the Nets, with a beautiful woman of noble gaze, about the same age as Master Ji; a marvellously handsome man, a little younger than Stein yet seeming somewhat ageless, with long grey hair reaching down to his shoulders; and a younger woman standing beside him, arm in arm, clearly his wife. After the introductions, Master Ji leads them through the tourist groups — only sporadically destructive at this moment — to the end of the garden, to a hidden nook where, under the greatest protection that could possibly exist in such a place, they take a seat in an empty teahouse. All the doors in the teahouse are open, and the back wall of the inner courtyard, grown over with woodbine and overlooking their table, is flooded with the afternoon sunshine.

Master Ji introduces the unknown couple as Wu Xianweng and his wife. They are from Suzhou, but now they have come from Wuxi in order to spend the day with them. And this, he gestures towards the beautiful woman next to him, who blushes a little, is his own wife. Master Ji orders only some bottles of boiling water, then he takes from his pocket a large bag of tea, and tells them that this is Longjing tea, and that this is what they will be drinking, because this is the best. He places the leaves in everyone’s cups and then pours the boiling water over them; for a while there is silence, a little self-consciousness, while from outside, from the courtyard, the twittering of birds can be heard, and the staff withdraws behind a distant counter.

Stein is the first one to speak but it’s as if he wouldn’t have to begin, as if they were in conversation already: he does not introduce himself, which perhaps would have been proper, but begins to speak about what connects him so closely to the arts of China. He speaks in short sentences so that it will be easier to translate: he feels that it doesn’t matter what kind of art one draws close to in China, it doesn’t matter whether one starts out from poetry, music, philosophy, painting, architecture, theatre, calligraphy or the art of gardening, because one always ends up in the same place, as if every form of artistic expression were striving for one and the same conceptualization or depiction. Or as if it were obliged to do so. Because somehow, says László Stein, it is the same with these arts as with our flowers at home, which we really love — we believe that we choose them and we love them. But it is they who choose us, they, who with their enchanting beauty, oblige us to love them and take care of them. Each flower is uniformly beautiful. Together, they share in beauty. What is entrusted to us is to decide the one of which we shall speak. And, he says to Wu, he would now like to speak of the art of gardening, and he would like to know his opinion: What does he, Mr Wu, coming now from Wuxi, see as the essence of the Chinese garden? Is it possible to say that a person can take refuge in a garden of Suzhou, if he wants to be immersed in thought, if he wants to be immersed in a beauty which everywhere else has been lost?

Wu does not answer for a while. He is silent for so long that everyone at the table becomes embarrassed. Embarrassed, but not because they don’t understand his silence but perhaps because they presume that it will be difficult for Stein to understand it. Stein, however, waits patiently, because he thinks that Wu is thinking about his answer. And so he is.

wu. The art of gardening in Suzhou is a product of imperial China. It was created by those who thought they could find their freedom only here, amid the stones, the flowers, the trees and the silence of the pavilions. The Chinese garden is at once the location and the emblem of withdrawal from society. For each individual, the garden was his own world, as it were, the expansion of who he was.

He is a lean man of average height. Up close, now that he is sitting beside Stein at the table, it is particularly striking how beautiful his face is, how immobile. His voice, in contrast to his slender, frail stature, is deep and decisive, full of strength, even if it is barely audible. Stein is sitting the closest, but Wu speaks so softly that he can hardly hear him, and the interpreter — who tries to wedge himself in closer between them — can also hardly hear him. As if he were extremely, endlessly weary. Again he is silent for a long time, but before Stein can speak again, he continues.

wu. The garden, however, is an artificial creation. As for myself, if I try to think of a location suitable for withdrawal, I would never seek out a garden. There are many times when I wish to be somewhere in silence. And at such times I do leave. Then with my wife or my friends I go somewhere away from the city. But it never occurs to us to go to a garden. Only to the mountains, the streams, out into nature.

Stein relates in a few sentences how deeply and radically his own relation to nature has changed over the past 10 or 15 years. He tells Wu about that place, that remote valley high up in the mountains, where he lives. And how his garden is a part of that nature which surrounds him.

wu. That is a fortunate situation. A bountiful life, a life worthy of the human being. I am filled with great joy that you are able to live in this way.

Stein replies by describing how that place where he lives has changed so much in terms of its relationship to poetry. In terms of its relationship to language. That he continually feels as much too crude and harsh that which must be continually, but continually, alleviated — alleviated to the point of infinity.

wu. Art is the means by which one can go from the complex to the simple, but we cannot miss a single intermediary step on the way. Its mission is to penetrate to the essence of something. And that is simple.

Who is this person?! Master Ji sees the effect his friend is having on Stein, and he takes this in with a fairly satisfied and slightly ironic gaiety, like someone who has been equal to the task entrusted to him. After every sentence, Wu is silent for a long time. He sits there, unmoving, his head does not stir, nor his gaze which somehow. . is looking at nothing in particular. He looks a bit at Stein, then away, at the table, at the steaming tea cups, and then again up at him, and then again to one side. Due to his unusually soft speech, Stein feels that an exceptional silence is looming over the teahouse itself in which furthest and the tiniest sound can be heard. The noise, as one of the staff suddenly clinks one teacup against another behind the counter, seems unbearable. There is an unbelievably deep silence.

wu. And in this, as in so many other things, Chan is the most radical. Chan is not interested in what is written down. It doesn’t need any words.

Stein replies that the viewpoint has emerged in Europe as well that the conscientious artist is the one who leaves no works behind.

wu. This is the opinion of the Buddhists. The master never writes down anything, he only teaches. The teachings can never be written. If you are conversing with the heavens, you are never in need of words.

At the same time, Stein says, he could never imagine life without words. Frankly speaking, he continues, unwillingly adapting himself to Wu, as if from this point on this would be the normal course of their conversation — speaking, accordingly, barely audibly — he could never exist without words. Because in order to depict how the eternal emerges from a landscape, some kind of material is necessary. A material which may circumscribe that beauty which cannot be transmitted in words.

wu. The essence rests on the surface of emptiness. It leaves room for thought. Classical Chinese poetry and painting worked with few words and with a small amount of ink. Li Bai, when writing, always used just a few strokes, just a few words, because he knew that what he didn’t describe was what gave monumental strength to meaning. It is very hard for someone who comes from the West to understand the meaning of empty space. Your conception of a ‘thing’ radically differs from what we understand by that. And so, for you, the extraordinarily rich meanings of emptiness do not exist as they do for us. They do not exist, therefore they cannot be compared with anything else. There is no place in you where you could understand what emptiness is. And the essence of Chinese art is this emptiness.

Master Ji interrupts. And he is hardly recognizable now, it is clear that until now he has been listening with rapt attention, he has been watching Stein, who only now realizes that Master Ji hasn’t taken his eyes off him all this time.

master ji. Do you meditate?

Stein says yes, he does, in his own way.

wu. That’s good. You can go deeper.

master ji. Yes, the strength of the heart is multiplied.

wu. The strength of the heart is boundless.

My God, where is he? This is written on Stein’s face. It is also obvious that the interpreter has no idea of where they are: he is gripping the arm of the chair in fright. The atmosphere is completely different than what they could have expected. Serious, lofty, severe. Stein feels he has ended up in a great narrative. The sun is now shining close to their table. He can feel it warming his back. In his mouth is the taste of the Longjing tea. At times the twittering of the birds in the courtyard grow louder. Then it dies away again.

wu. Classical culture is the repository of great merits. These values do not disappear. And while there are few to whom this will be important, there will always be some, so that these values will never disappear completely.

Is it the sunlight that is warming his back? Then perhaps twilight is already falling. But how is this possible? Didn’t they just sit down? He looks at his watch: it’s impossible. It will be evening in a moment. How could this have happened? The company livens up, the two women begin gaily to speak about something, Master Ji too from time to time tosses a remark to them, then turns back towards the guests, looking at Stein, and it can be seen that he is glad, he is happy, he is satisfied. A lively conversation ensues, and does not cease. And what is curious is that, in the meantime Wu, who is listening attentively to what is being spoken, now, without the instigation of Stein, motions to the interpreter to draw closer and transmits a few sentences to Stein.

wu. It is not always necessary to search for the cause behind everything, because every cause is unfounded. A cause only looks like a cause from a certain viewpoint.

And he stops there. He turns back towards the others, and he listens to them talk. Sometimes he even interrupts, corrects someone, and if the company happens at that point to be recompensing the humour of Master Ji, glittering again and again, with ringing laughter, he too takes part in the general gaiety. But Stein is on tenterhooks. He knows that he is going to say something to him again in a minute. And so he does.

wu. We must never allow ourselves to come under the influence of others. And we must never intervene in the lives of others. We must find our own paths. One’s own path is the most important thing. At the same time we must not renounce helping others.

Again, such simple words. Stein is confused. Wu is as resolute as a cliff. What is going on here?

wu. The true artist must listen to the voice of the heavens. This voice cannot be heard, only felt. I can see from your gaze that you are capable of this. I hope that what you do will be like a mountain brook.

Stein concentrates on every one of Wu’s words, on the tiniest of his movements. The interpreter sits beside him, tense. He doesn’t understand Wu, he doesn’t understand the strained attentiveness of his companion. Stein reassures him that everything is fine, and asks him to translate this: for 48 years now, he has been observing the world with keen attention, and first he was only beset by questions for which he could find no answers, then later on he could not even find questions but, rather, a kind of current, an impersonal, enigmatic, natural velocity, although he has no idea from where it springs. At the same time, Shakyamuni Buddha has become ever more important for him. That is to say, today, exactly today, and today it is exactly Wednesday, his questions have all run out — now that there are no questions left, and with them dying away he begins to sense that where the questions have ceased to be, something else is beginning, something which perhaps could be designated as perfect immediacy.

In some inexplicable manner he feels a deep confidence about Wu, so that his words begin to sound like a confession — and Stein can sense that Wu understands this. For a long time he says nothing, so that after a while Stein thinks that the conversation is over. In the meantime the atmosphere around the table has been overtaken by the highest of spirits, as if the company were a little drunk, everyone is so vivid and good-humoured, the two wives happily laughing, Master Ji is scintillating, and even Wu laughing heartily after each successful punch line. The staff has disappeared, when Stein looks over to the counter he sees that no one is there; the interpreter explains that he probably wasn’t paying attention but that the teahouse owner has left to enjoy themselves in peace, the employees have gone home but they have left the key with Ji’s wife, and told her which back exit they should use to leave, and what to do with the key.

They are all by themselves in the Wangshi Yuan?

Yes, the interpreter says smiling, and there is no longer any trace in him of his previous nervousness, the previous tension; yes he says, the whole thing is like a dream. Or it is a dream, he finally laughs again, turning towards the company.

Master Ji fills the tea cups once again, and holds forth with a long oration on the unsurpassable qualities of Longjing tea, and then begins to pronounce toasts to everyone seated at the table. He toasts his wife, Wu’s wife, Wu — who he now designates as an artist, without going into the details — then the interpreter, and finally Stein. Nothing can stop Master Ji now. The interpreter is unable to interpret. After every toast, the company doubles over in laughter, cheering, applause, Master Ji is beaming, and he goes on. Words stream out of him inexhaustibly.

At one point Wu motions, with one of his gentle movements, to the interpreter to draw closer.

wu. The aesthetic is not of utmost importance. Neither is morality.

Stein asks: So what is? And is there even any sense to that question? And Wu reaches down into his bag, rummages a bit, then pulls out a blank sheet of paper and a pen. He nods: the question makes sense. He motions for the interpreter to come sit beside him, and writes down some Chinese characters on the piece of paper. He motions to the interpreter to try and translate what he has written. It’s something like — the interpreter says, excusing himself, because he gestures that the text exceeds his capabilities — something like ‘ethics, ablaze in the most perfected, the most accomplished beauty, must be humanity’s ultimate manifestation’. . Wu pushes the piece of paper aside and looks at Stein questioningly, to see if he has understood. Stein nods, but he hasn’t understood. Wu breaks into a smile, pulls the paper to himself again, and writes something on it. Now this — he points out the individual characters to the interpreter — who shakes his head, puzzled, he spreads his hands apart helplessly and finally says that he doesn’t understand it at all. No problem, says Stein, don’t worry about what the whole thing means, just translate the individual characters. And then, the interpreter, poking at each character, slowly begins to enumerate:

And at the bottom of the page, the interpreter shows, is written the following: ‘Zither, chess, calligraphy, the art of painting.’

Wu pulls out another piece of paper, but for a long time doesn’t write anything down.

At the table, the mood is evermore high-spirited.

Wu begins to write again.

He shows the interpreter the individual characters, where he has written: ‘If you ponder the limits of decay, then the uncertainty of human life, its impermanence, shall weigh upon your soul.’

Wu pushes the two papers on the table over to Stein, smiling with a gesture that they are now his. Stein does not reach for them. Master Ji is warming up for a new performance, but this time it is not another punch line but an anecdote he is performing: in the strict sense of the word, he is enacting the various roles, representing the scene and the time when it all took place, the two women utter shrill cries of laughter. Wu pulls out a third piece of paper from his bag. He writes for a long time, his long grey hair falling into his face as he leans forward.

The interpreter shakes his head. Impossible. It’s impossible to translate. It makes no sense at all, he speaks in undertones, as if Wu could understand any of what he whispers to Stein in Hungarian. No problem — Stein motions to him — just translate.

This here, he points to the paper, is a quote from Laozi: ‘From non-existence is born existence; in existence is born non-existence.’

But after that, he says, there are just various characters.

No problem, says Stein — what do they mean?

This here, the interpreter points at the next line, that means. . wait a sec — then he reads them out continuously, as Wu wrote them down, in their entirety.

Wu gathers up the papers on the table, puts them in order, and pushes them over to Stein. Again he nods, and gestures for Stein to go ahead and take the papers. He will study them, Stein replies, and then asks the interpreter to not translate what he is about to say. He leans over to Wu, and following a gay outburst, says right into his ear in Hungarian: He doesn’t know how to explain how this is possible, but he has understood, and he understands, every single word. A friend of his recently told him to go to Suzhou. At that time he didn’t understand why. He will never forget this afternoon and this evening, he will never forget the Garden of the Masters of the Nets, this pavilion, the sunlight pouring down onto the vine-covered wall in the courtyard, he won’t forget the chirping of the birds, he won’t forget the people sitting around this table, he will never forget the aroma and taste of the Longjing tea, and he will never forget Wu, his words, the characters he has written down, his voice and his poetry.

It’s getting late — he then says to the others — he and the interpreter have to catch the last bus.

The interpreter looks at him in surprise.

The face of Master Ji grows serious for a moment, then he starts a final, very lengthy monologue in which he speaks of the immortal origin of Stein’s extraordinary name, and the extraordinary qualities of Stein who has come into their very midst. By the end, the others are clapping and bursting into laughter after each sentence. Master Ji makes his final utterance, gets up from his seat, steps over to Stein and embraces him.

Then everyone else embraces Stein.

They go out in the dark through a back entrance into the narrow alleyway.

Stein and the interpreter are accompanied to the Renmin Lu, where after another heartfelt farewell the two guests get into a taxi and head for the bus station.

You really think there’s going to be a bus leaving at midnight?

It is plain to see that the interpreter is mortally exhausted.

Stein pats him on the shoulder.

Of course there is, he says to reassure him. Of course there is.

There is always a way out of Suzhou.

And they step into the desolate building of the bus station plunged into darkness.