Destruction and Sorrow beneath the Heavens: Reportage

The Road That Leads There, 1

Go to Suzhou, Tang Xiaodu says one day, and this is so surprising from him, as he always helps with everything but never directly intervenes in Stein’s plans, he just supports him, and with his solicitude creates the opportunity for what he, Stein, wants, to come about as optimally as possible within the given circumstances, but for Tang Xiaodu to call upon him to do something specific is so unlike him that Stein asks, very cautiously, if he has understood correctly? He should go to Suzhou? To the queen of gardens? To the city of the most beautiful gardens in the world? Yes, Tang Xiaodu nods seriously — there, where the Zhouzheng Yuan,[178] the Shizi Lin,[179] the Liu Yuan,[180] the Yi Yuan,[181] the Canglang Ting[182] and, above all, the Wangshi Yuan[183] are? — Yes, there, says Tang Xiaodu — but, asks Stein, he should go to this world-famous location, this tourist paradise to the south of the Yangtze? He should go to the very citadel of the Chinese tourist industry? Yes, his gentle friend from Beijing answers, as seriously as he can, and this is so unexpected, and he provides no explanation as to why Stein should go to Suzhou when he has already travelled around that region fairly thoroughly — so that from this point on Stein asks him no more questions, he just packs his bags, and already he is sitting on the train, and already he has arrived one morning at around ten o’clock, and of course he is walking with the interpreter out from the station and towards Suzhou, and since it is not just at any old place that they have arrived, they almost don’t need a map, there are signposts almost everywhere, at least for the most famous sites, so that at first they don’t use anything to help guide them along but follow their noses, follow the tourist signs: the first one is next to the Beisi Ta,[184] the monumental structure of the pagoda of the Northern Temple, and immediately they are at the most famous site, the Zhuozheng Garden, and the crowd is horrific, horrific with its unrestrained groups of tourists, the live loudspeakers, ignominious to the enormity of Japanese tradition so relevant to this place, horrific to keep bumping into the so-called tour guides, so that they just remark as much as they can — walking along the winding, labyrinth-like paths situated among the enchantingly airy pavilions and courtyards — that the Zhuozheng Yuan is truly astounding—they are already going across into the nearby Shizi Lin, into the Lion Garden, where fate determines that they can wedge themselves into the breach between two attacking crowds of tourists, and so they are able to give themselves fully over to wonder, because, despite the difficult circumstances, the largest garden in Suzhou nearly strikes them dumb: they are, this time, in one of the authentic places of the art of the Chinese garden, and here — if they perceive anything at all — in the Lion Garden they are forced to state that the beauty with which the weave of its fabric has been spun is simply amazing, despite the extreme quantity of the extreme rocks of the Tai Lake, because these gardens, in their eyes, seem too crammed full of all these innumerable stone structures, in accordance with the unique use of stone in Chinese gardens, the masses of huge unique stone formations here or there — pock-marked, morbid, really extreme in form — in Zhuozheng as well, but this, the Lion Garden, is enchantingly beautiful — so that afterward, going directly by bus to the southern part of the city, and ending up in the famously hard-to-find Wangshi Yuan, the tiny garden of the Master of the Nets, they give themselves over once and for all because, following the given directions, it is very hard to find — they have to stumble along alleyways promising nothing, and simply believe that, amid the scaffolding and mortar trowels of witheringly banal, ugly little houses, unfriendly gazes and old, crumbling plaster walls, they are on the right path; they are, however, on the right path, and they do find it, and what they find sweeps away their doubts as to whether something original can remain in an area flooded by tourists; much more has happened by the time they have arrived, namely, that they perceive that the Suzhou Garden exists, and that the classical beauties of this stratum have remained, in their essence, undisturbed — if someone steps into the spaces of the Zhuozheng, the Shizi Lin or the Wangshi Yuan, then he has stepped into the lost traditions of China; Stein does not understand how this can be possible, but this is how it is, clearly the tourism experts have been here as well, huge crowds of them, they too have been here, they have set up the ticket offices, they have created the routes for the luxury buses, they have built parking lots for the buses, in a word, they have put the Suzhou gardens on the list in order to let in endless series of tourists, but. . nothing has been ruined here, it seems almost impossible but that’s how it is, the gardens are intact, and they are so surprised by this, and so enthralled, that it is only now, towards the end of the day, that they notice that they haven’t spoken a word to each other, they travel along the Renmin Lu, from then on it is their Main Street, going back towards the north, so that they may conclude the day in the Yi Yuan, a day in which the sun has been scorching them, and now is beginning to lose some of its strength, by the time they reach the Yi Yuan it only illuminates and warms, they pay the entrance fee, it is already late, almost closing time, someone at the ticket window tells them, but they interpret it like this: that the Yi Yuan seems almost desolate, and in the obliquely following light, in the pleasant elderly warmth, they stroll into undoubtedly the most affecting of the gardens they have seen in Suzhou on this amazing and mysterious day, they stroll along the silent paths into another immortal creation, into this tiny paradise where, although it is almost closing time, as they were told at the ticket window, it is as if someone had made time stop here, because they still somehow have enough time to stroll slowly around the pavilions, they can in a leisurely manner inspect the steles built into the walls, at the end they can even sit down by the lake in the garden, in front of a pavilion, and give themselves over to the tranquillity gathering over the garden, the beauty inexpressible in words, and, without even looking at their watches, they are able to contemplate the mystery of why they have been sent here and what exactly must be waiting for them now.

Because from this point on, what occupies their minds, most unconditionally Stein’s mind, is the question: Why did Tang Xiaodu send them here to Suzhou? No matter what he sees, no matter where he goes, no matter who he meets, he is unable to give himself over to what he sees, where he goes and to whom he speaks; because he continually looks and listens in such a way that he must always decipher what must be deciphered, so that he will not fail to notice, if it happens to come before him, that garden, that street, that person, because of which Tang Xiaodu — or happenstance, or the inscrutable workings of fate — has led him here, in the form of the quiet but determined recommendation of Tang Xiaodu.

The next day, one of Tang Xiaodu’s friends is waiting for them, the kind of middle-aged man of whom one could think many things, just not that he is a poet — which however, he is — Tang Xiaodu prepared them for this; a poet, moreover, of Suzhou, one with great influence on contemporary Chinese literature, Xiao Hai, awaits them in a clumsily elegant modern conference centre, part of the world of New China; he is able to make some time for a conversation with Stein during a break in a literary historical conference taking place there. He creates the impression of a tense, very busy person, continually stealing a glance at his watch, someone who always unfortunately has to be rushing off, but he does not seem like a poet with great influence on his contemporaries; he seems instead a functionary, moreover a petty functionary, whose contemporaries have great influence over him, and, as it emerges during the introductions, it really is that way, he has taken up an official post, and because of that, even with the best of intentions, he could be designated a so-called functionary-poet, clearly he got into this so that he could earn a living somehow, but it’s as if the entire thing doesn’t sit well with him, there is within him some sense of misfortune, something ungainly — instead of an inner tranquillity of the poet, there is the inner nervousness of the official — still, they listen to him attentively in the huge conference centre, somewhere in a hotel room on the first floor, where they sit on the bed, and after hearing from the interpreter why László Stein is here, he embarks on a monologue, and leaves no doubts that he has neither desire nor time for a dialogue, nor is he of that disposition, he is a person of long explanations, presenting his train of thought thoroughly; serious, and deliberate, for as long as he sits there on the edge of the bed in this hotel room, he chooses his words carefully, the air trembles from his nervousness and impatience, clearly he has to get back, back to the conference room from where he sneaked out for their sake, so that perhaps it also bothers him that he may not express himself with complete thoroughness but only very succinctly, clearly he is forced to formulate his thoughts with much, too much succinctness. He does not look at Stein while he speaks. He creates something of the impression of a person who always feels that a great crowd is listening to his words — even if he is sitting on the edge of the bed in a hotel room, trying into summarize in a mere half hour, in answer to the questions of a foreigner, what he thinks of the current position of classical culture.

xiao hai. Since the 1990s, the Chinese have had to turn back to their own cultural past more and more. In the 1880s and 90s, when Chinese artists confronted European art and the European world for the first time, it had a huge effect on them: they took a lot from that world, and they began to imitate it — but I have to say that, looking at it from here, it was more on a formal level, not on a spiritual level. In more than one instance this encounter took place amid great disaccord, namely, that there, on one side, was an extraordinarily significant, modern and, for us, radically new artistic point of view — the European — whereas here, on the other side, we had our culture, and many felt that to abandon it, to allow it to perish, was not permissible. My viewpoint is as follows: I know and respect European culture, but I consider the study of the classical Chinese texts to be more important. Because the fundamental question is not what we will do with European influence, how we will amalgamate it with our own traditional culture — as the issue is formulated today, on the level of banalities — no, that is not the essential thing at all. The essential thing is that I, the poet who has been hopelessly wandering around in this conflict for who knows how long, should be able to find my own path.

There are an extraordinary number of explanations as to what is classical, traditional Chinese culture, that of which we are now speaking, but none of them are interesting. Now, for example, for almost a week, I’ve been sitting at this conference where the discussion is about the unification of modern and classical literature and the crisis regarding this, but I am bored, bored to death, because it’s actually very simple, no conference is needed, it is completely obvious that classical culture is nothing but the personal path which leads to it. Culture, then, only truly becomes culture when it is embodied in someone.

These days, many scholars are engaged in the task, completely superfluously, of comparing Eastern and Western culture. We, too, are doing the same thing, here in this building. But this can only lead to a formal result, and in the meantime the essence is lost. Because culture is a living thing, something that appears within me, within a person. It’s just that tradition, which becomes a living tradition within someone, is not the same thing as that which corresponds to the so-called formal criteria of this tradition.

He sits slightly hunched on the bed, then becomes tired in this posture as well, so he puts his two hands behind him and, leaning on them, stretches out a little.

xiao hai. The teachings of Confucius (he continues his monologue) was a profound assembly of the general stipulations relating to personal moral behaviour. It has lost its validity in the China of today. The China of today is not built upon moral principles. For example, the most fundamental Confucian command, that the rulers and the leaders must demonstrate their virtuousness by example, is not at all characteristic of the political life of today, and so no one understands any more what it means when Confucius says that the rulers and the leaders do not lead the country with their decisions, neither with their will, nor with their intentions, but with morality. The principles of the Lunyu are dead today. And this is the most significant collection of moral principles. I mention this because in the Lunyu, and what came afterwards, the Confucian tradition understands something completely different by the term ‘morality’. Today, morality represses something in people: crime, mistakes, sins. But this is not at all what is meant by morality in Confucianism. In Confucianism, morality serves personal human fulfilment.

I see the position of modern art as tragic, because I see the position of the modern artist as tragic in contemporary society. The modern artist no longer bears within himself that hidden or manifest goal — clearly originating from an ancient mandate — of demonstrating, in his life and in his work, how a person can become, through the means of morality, humane: how he can become ren.[185] It is important to know that, in the Confucian tradition, morality was an aesthetic criterion: for Confucius, a work was beautiful that taught one the good. In contrast, contemporary art is floundering in various muddied formal objectives, and, as far as I can judge, in Europe the situation is the same. As if it were possible to elevate, among the most fundamental factors of these works, one of them — the aesthetic — and simply renounce the others, the most essential: the criterion of morality. In my opinion, this is partially the reason for the general trend by which the readership of high literature has radically dropped. And this is also the reason for poetry having lost its leading role.

So that, well, now I would simply finish what I have to say by repeating, and emphasizing, that the work of the artist is to find his own relation to his own culture. The artists of today should be the same as they were in the days of old: in order to bring forth their works, they must withdraw from the world, they must keep a great distance from it and they must create a completely individual way of life. An artist cannot be identical with a member of society. His role, his significance is extraordinary — if he loses it, nothing will come in its place.

Altogether that is what he says, he remains for a moment on the bed, leaning back on his hands, as if he were thinking over his words and if they corresponded to what he unconditionally wanted to say; then suddenly he excuses himself, he has no more time, he nervously says goodbye in the doorway and already he has disappeared into the colossal building.

They never see him again, and later on when Stein makes some attempts to find him — in vain — he cannot explain the event in any way other than to think that Xiao Hai is an envoy, an emissary, a messenger of what is to come; and yet the envoy, the emissary, the messenger is quick, he gets to the point, transmitting what has been entrusted to him, and already he is gone, he runs on further.

The Road That Leads There, 2

They lose all trace of Xiao Hai, but his being is still there somewhere in the background because, thanks to his hidden manoeuvres, they end up the next day back in the Zhuozheng Yuan which, in terms of its meaning, can only be translated stupidly, and they do translate it stupidly, because it sounds something like ‘The Garden of the Politics of the Common Man’—obviously a quotation, namely, from Pan Yue,[186] as well as the fact that this brilliant designation of this artful garden, existing as it does amid the rules of the Chinese language and spirit, is, however, completely untranslatable, or only in this clumsy and misleading form, so that Stein does not even try to interrogate the garden’s dignified director as to its name when, at exactly eleven o’clock in the morning, he appears at the crowded entrance to the garden to receive him, and leads Stein across a tangled confusion of passageways and side gardens, through an area closed to the public, into a large, magnificent pavilion, the receiving hall of the Zhuozheng Yuan, offering Stein a seat in one of two wondrous Ming-era armchairs placed in the middle of the hall.

After the formulaic introductory courtesies, Stein requests the director’s forbearance, as he, in a manner uncommon here in China, tends to get straight to the point of the questions that concern him, so if the director will excuse him — he nods towards him once again, asking for his leniency — he, Stein will once again proceed in this manner. He will burden the director with such questions that he has certainly heard and answered thousands and thousands of times: Would he be so kind, Stein smiles at him, to answer these questions this time as well? First and foremost, he is curious as to the origins, in other words, what led to the creation of the Chinese garden? How did it happen that the garden — came to be?

fang piehe. The oldest foundations are represented by the culture of the Wu State.[187] The Wu State designates the region to the south of the Yangtze. The intellectuals and literati of the Wu discovered that, in expressing their feelings through man-made lakes, mountains, plants, pavilions and furnishings, they could create a kind of reality in which their emotions would be manifested. The gardens of Suzhou, however, originate directly from Chinese landscape painting. For example, the garden connected to the receiving room in which we now sit was planned 500 years ago by the owner of the garden, a reclusive censor by the name of Wang Xianchen,[188] on the basis of his own conceptions as well as those of traditional landscape painting. In his garden, it is not nature as such that is depicted but, rather, nature as it appears in Chinese landscape painting.

So then, as a matter of fact, the Chinese garden should be viewed as fine art, to be completely precise, as an artistic creation? One that would have nothing to do with the reality of nature?

fang. Everything that you see in this or any other garden in Suzhou is, down to the last detail, man-made. Every tree and every plant has been placed there by a person, every strip of vegetation running along a wall has been planned by a human being. Even how it should run along that wall has been planned. At the same time, the Chinese gardens in Zhuozheng — and this applies to ours here as well — gather together differing spiritual strands: the original Taoist conception of immortality, the eternal desire of a Chinese person to be free of the burdens of life, to immerse himself in nature, in the solitary worlds of the mountain and the waters,[189] just as there is present the desire of the old Chinese world to express what it knows of the universe, and to wonder at this, and there is joy as well, joy which can be savoured in a garden planned for tranquillity, peace and unclouded freedom. The garden was always a source of joy, and it has remained so.

It is clear that it is not an official sitting across from Stein but a scholar. Stein asks: What, more specifically, was the goal of the original owner of the gardens? What kind of person was he? What kind of feelings was he trying to express here?

fang. The most important thing is that the garden of Suzhou was always a garden of joy, namely, of the enjoyment of the natural world. That is — and this is important — these gardens were built for reasons of delight. And the attainment of that delight, that joy, that happiness was the real goal of the owner as well as the builder of any other garden. Regarding the philosophical content of this garden, that would be difficult to determine. He did not build it — and this is the important thing — as a direct statement of a philosophical thought or picture. It would be a mistake to think that. It was because of joy. Because of delight. It is altogether another question of how this intention — this intention of delight — immanently contained a philosophical thought in every instance.

Did the owners live in these gardens? Was this also their residence? Or did they come here from where they lived to delight in the densely manmade reality of the life of nature?

fang. In Suzhou, the owners lived in the gardens as well. I think this was the norm. In every case, these structures are comprised of two large parts: in the front are the living quarters, in Chinese, zhaiyuan; and in the back is the garden: houyuan, both of which build upon the principle of feng shui:[190] ‘The house must be in front, the garden must be at the back.’ Feng shui determined every essential matter in terms of the construction.

The conversation then continues, with the guest attempting to explain why the Chinese garden fascinates him so much. He could say — he leans in closer to the director — that in addition to its elegant design, it is possible that it is because he merely finds the origin of the garden — whatever it may be — to be simply captivating. He is certain that the director has heard such words from his guests while sitting in these beautiful chairs. He, however — Stein motions towards him somewhat confidentially — is fascinated by all this due to something else, the knowledge of which the director himself will possess. And Stein relates that he is fundamentally concerned with the essence of classical culture — and given that this traditional culture, for the most part, has over the past hundred years been destroyed — he wonders if there might be a genre of this traditional culture which, due to some practical, some kind of simple, some kind of palpable reason, might not have disappeared. Which can in a material sense be annihilated but in its essence never, and because of that may be brought back to life again and again. And he thinks that one of these indestructible forms could be the Chinese garden. Because here, the Chinese garden, as an articulation of the classical spirit in an exquisite form, in a given garden, or a neighbouring garden, can nonetheless be destroyed, but the Garden in its own spirit remains — since neither can all the plants be expunged from the earth, nor the stones be made to vanish for all time, nor the plans of the pavilions and their depictions, nor all the books that describe the rules of their construction, those can’t be burnt or pulped or otherwise made unreadable — so that, if today, someone faithfully follows the prescriptions of tradition, then in every case the original may be rebuilt, namely — Stein continues his train of thought — there still remains something, the Chinese garden: itself destroyed, and what was in it destroyed, and yet it can be resurrected! He has visited many gardens, Stein says, now adapting the most intimate of tones, but, to put it briefly, he did not come across many validations of his original theory. And yet now, on his current trip, thanks to happenstance, happenstance which led him to the gardens of Suzhou. .

fang. Yes, I understand what you’re saying. If, before building, there were plans made on paper. .

No, not exactly, Stein shakes his head. .

fang. . Many of the plans of the Suzhou gardens have been lost, but here, in Zhuozheng, fortunately they have remained. We know that the planner was someone named Wen Zhengming.[191] He was one of the four most significant artists of the end of the Ming era. There were four of them, and among them Wen was the representative of the highest level of culture of the Wu State.

It’s possible that the director misunderstood him but he, Stein, thinks that this line of thought may also prove fruitful. So they will speak of these four. Who were they? Literati? Painters? Poets? Gardeners?

fang. Among these four who were the most famous, there were painters and poets, and such, for example, was Wen Zhingming himself, who also painted and wrote poetry.

There was something Stein should have said, some formulaic courtesy; he has ruined something, or hasn’t done something, or isn’t doing something that he should, because he can sense that the conversation is beginning to run along a different track. So once again he applies himself, and returns the topic of conversation to the starting point, saying that, yes, as long as the plans are still extant, the garden can be newly created at any point, in that sense it is indestructible. . This is what he thought, and he was disappointed, he looks openly at the director, but now, here in Suzhou, to his greatest astonishment, he has come upon something that has been preserved, something undamaged, something that is not an imitation, not a falsification, but that has remained in the spirit of tradition, that has been resurrected or that has been carefully maintained. And because of that he would like to repeat, he continues, his glittering eyes fixed upon the director, what he has related just now of his initial train of thought: that everything can be destroyed, can be falsified, it can happen to a building, a temple, a ritual statue, a painting, even, if you will, a manuscript, and this is what is happening day after day, and all of these irreplaceable and irretrievable things are being falsified — but it now seems to him, here in these Suzhou gardens, bathed in their wondrous original state, that in the case of the Chinese garden there is hope. Because, he repeats, it can be repeated: all the vegetation, the chrysanthemum, the hydrangea, the wisteria, the lotus, the bamboo, and the plum trees, the paulownia, the pine and the apricot trees, all were essential elements in these gardens, and they still exist, they can be planted here; the stones which were necessary can also be quarried here, the principles, the plans, the vision of the essence of the whole contained in the plan, it all exists — so that, well there is still something from which we may obtain a definite picture of the traditions that have been lost. Do you agree?

The director is beaming.

fang. I agree, if we take into consideration the fact that the Chinese garden was an art that was constantly undergoing change, as anything else in the classical tradition. The concept of the garden, the style of the garden, the concrete goal of the construction of the garden always changed slightly according to the era, and everyone added something personal to the essence. So that when today we restore the garden, we still go back to the original, we still work with a view to the original plans, but we must consider these changes, as well as the personal contributions and features that occurred in the various eras. Moreover, we must not think that everything has remained unchanged as it was built here, or placed here. For example, there was a painting here on the wall, the creation of Wen Zhingming. We know from the original plans that it was here, and yet it is impossible to imagine that this picture could remain undamaged for 500 years, if it could even survive at all. So what, accordingly, should we do? We and our forebears have continually had to replace that which continually fell into ruin due to natural reasons: only that this substitution, this completion, had to be subordinated to extraordinarily strict rules. For example, if at one time a painting by Wen Zhingming was placed here, then we should place another painting by Wen Zhingming here, or something from the same era and which in the essence of its theme, its proportions, moreover in its atmosphere is essentially the same. We must always insist that here, in this place, another picture may not hang, only one such as I have described — we could never place a painting here created in a northern or Hong Kong style! This is the correct procedure, if we wish to remain within the same style.

But, Stein asks, how does he know? How does he know what the style is? The style within which he has to remain? Was this also preserved in the plans? In the descriptions?

fang. It is necessary for there to be an aesthetic sensibility in those who work with these traditions, these gardens. .

Fine, but where do these aesthetic sensibilities come from?

fang. This garden is 500 years old. If someone takes care of a garden like this for years, after a while, he will naturally possess these sensibilities. . Anyone who takes care of, who builds, who repairs a garden such as ours will be strongly affected by it. And I can indeed state with some pride that this process and mutual influence does bring results: the Zhouzheng Yuan is flourishing today. This garden has never been as beautiful as it is now. We have sacrificed a great deal, and we continue to sacrifice a great deal for this garden. And while we could never claim that it is perfect, as concerns my previous statements, I greatly trust that you shall not find them to be exaggerated. For this self-regarding praise does not at all mean that the Zhuozheng Yuan is perfect now. There is no perfect garden. Every garden has its faults. Just like a human being. One can only be en route to perfection.

May Stein enquire about his, the director’s, opinion as to the relationship between painting and the garden?

fang. In imperial times, painting and the garden were expected to fulfil the same functions. The highest order of magnitude in life was considered to be fulfilled when a painting or garden created within a person the feeling that he was returning to nature. The same delight was experienced in the melody of birdsong if it was seen in a painting or heard in a garden. Both were removed from reality. Both were art. Both were the location of the loftiness of the spirit.

It could have been the most amazing thing — Stein tries to lift the mood in the breathtakingly beautiful room — if in a garden, listening to birdsong, one could examine a painting in which just then a bird was singing amid the mountains. .

The director laughs. This is the first time he has laughed during their conversation.

fang. Well, yes. There are differing degrees of delight. .

The more serene atmosphere is not just a momentary matter; it is clear that now Stein has won the director’s confidence. Who is the soul of this garden? A person is necessary, who will truly keep it well in hand. Because, Stein says, he sees gardeners here, workers, people entrusted with certain tasks, but for this garden to remain in its splendid magnificence, someone who really understands it is necessary, someone who knows what must be done, for the miracle to remain a miracle. . Who is this person?

fang. Of course there is a chief director of the Zhuozheng Yuan, a chief manager, and that is myself. But you know, it hardly works in the way that you just imagined. The division of work is based upon a very strict order: there are groups of workers who watch over the plants, there are other groups who take care of the rocks, there is a particular group which deals with the bonsai trees, and there is yet another that builds the mountains. These workgroups are called ji gong, and within one ji gong we distinguish four levels. These four levels create a hierarchy which means that whoever is at the highest level is considered, due to his experience and knowledge, to be a fully competent, fully responsible expert in his field. And since most of our workers have been here for decades, everyone is extremely experienced, so it is not necessary to manage them in the sense in which you are thinking, because they already know what is correct, what has to be done in a given instance. I, however, their director, am not an expert in these questions. There is, for example, a special case here. We in this garden, located south of the Yangtze, must endure the so-called mildew rain during the rainy season. This mildew rain brings countless termites which ruin the wooden buildings, so the fight against them is of vital importance. We have certain groups trained only in this, and this is their only task — and I have no idea what they do. The important thing is that they protect the buildings from the termites. My role is just organizational, to keep the whole thing going smoothly.

It is clear that, with this, the director has concluded his remarks concerning his role, so Stein now returns to an earlier theme in their conversation, and asks the director what he considers the focal point of the garden to be? What is its centre of gravity? Does the Chinese garden express a cosmological picture of the universe for a Chinese person? Or are these words too big? Or is it nothing like that at all? It’s just beautiful? And they, the Chinese, have they sensed this across the centuries? And do they delight in it?

fang. It would be very hard for me to express in words the essence, the focal point, the centre of gravity of the garden, as you have phrased it in your question. This question is too big for me. But the garden, including this one here in Zhuozheng, has a focal point, a centre of gravity, so that I would say that the proportions are somehow in harmony. Does this garden, our garden, itself express the universe? It does not. Instead, I believe this: the Zhuozheng Yuan is itself the universe.

It will soon be time to bring the conversation to an end. Stein smiles at him: please permit me one final question, he says. Clearly, the director must remain here alone, after closing time. Is there some place in the garden where he goes at such times, and sits down, and stays there, listening to the splashing of the brook, or the murmurings of the wind, or the trembling of the leaves, immersed in the beauties of this or that plant, when he does not remain here because of work, when he is not thinking of the tasks to be completed, but he can simply give himself over and so therefore he does give himself over to the enchantment of the garden?

fang. There are such times. And there is such a place in the Zhuozheng. And at moments like that I do feel something that connects me to the people of ancient times. There is a pavilion, it is called Yu shui tong zuo xuan (‘With whom may I sit’). . well, I acknowledge that if the occasion arises, I am in the habit of sitting there.

And what do you do then?

He answers so quietly that Stein can hardly hear him: ‘Oh, nothing. I just am. I think so.’

Their farewell is warm, Mr Fang accompanies them to the pavilion door, and, before they disappear into the garden to marvel in it again, he waves, smiling, to them.

And Stein looks at the garden, but he does not see it. He tries to think about why Tang Xiaodu sent him here. He thinks of Xiao Hai, he thinks of the gardens he has seen, and he thinks of the words of Mr Fang. He goes over everything in his mind, searching for the reason why he is here.

But he has no idea. He knows nothing, and he understands nothing.

There is a name in his notebook. A Shanghai publisher, Chen Xianfa had him write it down earlier: if he happened to be passing through Suzhou, he could call upon this person, a resident here, for practical assistance. Otherwise, said Mr Chen, he’s a writer but not a particularly interesting one. Just if Stein needs something taken care of, he explained.

And only then.

They look for a telephone booth.

They decipher the name: Ji Yinjian.

The phone rings.

The Road That Leads There, 3

The Canglang Ting, the oldest garden in Suzhou, is also in the southernmost part of Suzhou. They have arranged to meet with Ji at one of its entrances — Ji, recommended by their Shanghai friend as a good person for help with practical issues — which would seem to render this meeting completely superfluous, as Stein doesn’t have any kind of practical issues right now that need to be solved — his problem is that he doesn’t know what to expect, and he doesn’t understand what he should be waiting for. Master Ji, as they soon come to call him because of his clownish disposition, turns out to be a very particular individual, following in the spirit of the designation of the painters who entered Chinese pictorial history as the renowned ‘Eight Eccentrics of Yangzhou’,[192] they should in fact designate Master Ji as the ‘Ninth Eccentric of Suzhou’, so droll is he, so morbid, continually play-acting, he says something, indeed, he speaks continuously and then suddenly he leaps up, and he enacts what he was just speaking of, he has no regard for anything or anyone, he doesn’t care where he is or if anyone heard what he just said, and he seems to decidedly take delight if one or two visitors notice his thundering tirades now and then, he takes delight in his own voice, he takes delight in the fact that he can perform for the two Europeans, that they are not looking for anything here, because this Canglang Ting is no longer identical with the Canglang Ting of the past, because the whole thing here is nothing more than a paltry forgery — he leads them around the garden — nothing here is how it should be, he points to a place on the ground and they look at the flagstones, do you see these square concrete slabs: these square slabs should never have been placed here, only ceramic tiles of much smaller dimensions should have been placed here, and crosswise, diagonally, in a word, the whole thing as it is now, he shrieks in rage, is a miserable desecration of tradition, but what can we expect, he bellows — and suddenly the pavilion falls silent — where are we exactly, and just what can we expect from an era like that of today, in which the garden of Canglang — where, he says, I kissed a woman for the very first time, at its entrance gate, and which is the oldest garden in all of Suzhou — has been utterly deprived of its meaning — its meaning, Master Ji yells in anger, not only at them but at everyone: for they have taken away its river, because why do you think its name is Canglang Ting? Well, why do you think? He looks around with a frightening and yet somehow amusing expression, asking: Who knows, now?! — no one — he purses his lips, they have not been taught this in the schools, he says sarcastically, no, not this, so then what have they been taught, and suddenly he will be severe again, with no trace of amusement, ah, let’s forget it, he says, and, leaving the frightened little group standing there in the room, he leads his two guests out of the pavilion, and they walk beside him like two faithful disciples beside a wild Taoist come down from the mountains, and it is not possible to know if Master Ji has gone mad or what has happened, they proceed beside him, they occasionally try to put a question to him but he doesn’t understand the words of the interpreter properly, he doesn’t even care if he finishes his sentences, so that if he seems to reply to the questions now and then, he does not reply directly but, rather, always in a single block of speech, moreover replying at times when a question is not even put to him, but Stein does want to ask him something, as for example when they enter into another room where a high wall on one side is covered with innumerable portraits; these are the Five Hundred Literati, says Ji very seriously, look at them — he now takes up a more intimate tone — here is everyone who meant something back then, and who trod with hallowed feet in Suzhou: here is Wu Zixu, here is Tong Wengshu, here is Bai Juyi, and here is Fang Chouyan, here is Su Dongpo, here is Li Bai, here is Xun Cunei, here is Han Shizhong, here is Weng Cengming, here above is Wen Tianxiang, there is Liu Zifu,[193] here they are all, Master Ji points round the huge wall, and before Stein can ask what, if they were to come to Suzhou now, these great masters would say about the world of today, Ji’s face distorts in hilarity, then into a bitter expression, finally as if he were shuddering, and as if anticipating the question, he says: brrr, well, what would they do here today? he asks; it’s possible they would change their clothes, they would admire and enjoy all the modern things, like a washing machine, Su Dongpo would do that; I think Li Bai would weep, but the others would watch TV, wash their clothes in a washing machine, Su Dongpo would do that, he’d use a washing machine, of this I am almost completely certain, but not Li Bai, he wouldn’t be able to, he would drink, get drunk, fall asleep and curse — and you, he turns to the interpreter, why are you using a camera, why are you using this tape recorder around your neck, do you need it? he shakes his head; well, fine, Master Ji nods; the poets here, he continues and points at the wall, they didn’t have any need for anything else, only impressions and inspiration, and that was all — that was all! Ji cries out, and once again the people in the room seem frightened, in particular, the two women at the souvenir kiosk at the end of the room regard them with some alarm, but no one dares utter a word, there is no way to make Master Ji stop, he has caught his stride, and it is clear there is no one who can keep him back now, and as they leave the room, and continue their walk through Canglang Ting, he loses his self-control more and more, he curses the age in which they live, he curses those who have disgraced Suzhou, who replaced the ceramic slabs, who stuck windows in the wall that don’t belong there, he points at one spot, but there’s nothing anyone can do about it, this is what the age is like, this is what China has become, these people couldn’t care less about tradition, these people aren’t interested in anything because they don’t even know anything, they don’t even realize that here — he points around himself at a pavilion furnished with Qing-era furniture — they should have put not these pieces but Ming-era furniture, because that’s what was here, they’re all just uneducated boors here, yells Master Ji, bursting into laughter, in what is meant to be a frightening but is nonetheless an amusingly strident voice, they just keep walking beside him, so many boors, he repeats, they listen like people who have been struck on the head, they have no words, nor can they have any, because they must comprehend that no, Master Ji is not the master of practical problems, no, he is much more than that, but then what — and this is hard to unravel from the circus with which he is amusing his guests, because he is amusing them, it is clear that he understands hospitality to mean that he must entertain these two Europeans — the close friends of Mr Chen, the famous publisher of Shanghai, and of Yang Lian, the renowned poet — it’s a little tiring as well, and it makes one think, and Stein is tired too, and he tries to think, how did this happen, how did Master Ji get into the picture? and who is he, and what does he want to say? — but as for time, there is none for thinking, because he must keep observing Master Ji, who is smoking his cigarettes, one after the other, just like Xiaodu, and he relates and he speaks and he yells, and, leaning closer, he whispers something into Stein’s ear, he’s a clown, whispers Stein to the interpreter, but it never occurs to him that he should get away from Master Ji, or that now, having passed two hours with him in Canglang, he should go somewhere — no, not at all, it never occurs to him, on the contrary, he tries to ponder how he can extend their time together; all the same, he does not understand Master Ji: what is this combination of buffoonery and invective, if he is angry, is he genuinely angry, or is this some kind of stage production, a jolly and yet acrimonious performance for their sake, a performance about something that is overwhelming and ghastly — well, this is precisely what is going through Stein’s mind when Master Ji says that, of course, to see Canglang is really not to see everything, there are still a few things in Suzhou that are worth having a look at; Master Ji, Stein says, he is speaking in all sincerity when he says that he has never felt so good as now, when he is with Master Ji, and he could never have any intention at all of doing anything in Suzhou without Master Ji, at which point Master Ji purses his lips, as it were, signifying that he too is wondering how this could work, asking: What exactly did you have in mind? — well, says Stein, that they should meet again, at which point Master Ji asks why, does Stein need anything — no, not at all, says Stein, he doesn’t need anything at all in the whole world. . but perhaps. . it would be good if someone could join their future conversations, an expert on the gardens of Suzhou; well, he knows one, answers Master Ji very seriously, is tomorrow good? he asks in his own fulminating conversational style, tomorrow is good, answers Stein, they will cancel everything that Stein had wanted to do, because now only this interests him, and so they part, with the words tomorrow and telephone and see you soon, and then — the interpreter just shakes his head: Has Stein gone mad? Maybe he’s lost his mind?! he looks at him dumbfounded when Master Ji dashes away, what could he possibly want from this halfwit, to which Stein can only reply that it’s only this halfwit that he wants: he, Master Ji, is the only one who feels exactly as he does in China, so why shouldn’t he spend all his time with him, the interpreter is silent, he is not completely convinced, he was amused too, and he even liked Master Ji, but to subordinate all their subsequent plans in Suzhou to him is clearly going too far and he considers it to be a hasty decision, nonetheless, Stein informs him, from this point on in Suzhou, they are giving themselves over to Master Ji, from this point on nothing else will interest them, only that which is in connection with Master Ji — the interpreter is silent, and Stein wonders again, as they trudge back to the hotel: Why is he even saying things like this? Who is this Master Ji? And why is he so important?

But he knows what he is saying, and he understands who Master Ji is; he senses he is on the right track, and it’s no accident that he found him today; he knows, in brief, that he is the one, that it’s because of him that he is here in Suzhou, even if he doesn’t know what it is that he knows, and, mainly, why he feels so certain in all this, more certain than death. He’s the one, he’s the one! — Stein tries to whip up some enthusiasm in the interpreter in the hotel room, who, however, just once again collapses dead tired onto the bed, and falls asleep with the phrase repeating in his head, this ‘He’s the one, he’s the one’—even if, of course, at that point, he can’t have any idea at all if he really is the one; but he can only lead somewhere, not to his self, but he will lead: and in that there can be no mistake.