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.