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Wang looked at Peony. She had recovered from her fright, but evidently wanted to get rid of the man.
"We should go home now," Wang said.
"Yes, I daresay they will spank you both soundly," said the man. "But why not put it off a little? My home is only just there . . ." pointing down a narrow path leading to the platform. "You can see my work and then go home for your medicine. You will find my work a big surprise after the things you're used to copying."
Wang was not old enough to know how to refuse gracefully. In any case, the man's interest in his drawing had won him over.
"What do you think?" he asked Peony, in a tone that made it clear he'd already given in.
"Never ask a woman what she thinks!" said the man. "All she knows is that she thinks the opposite."
They both smiled weakly at this travesty of their relationship, humouring, as lovers do, the unaccountable sourness of old people.
"Come on!" the man said. "You won't regret it, I promise you."
They followed him down the path and soon came to a hut built into the rocks. It was small and weathered, with very old thatch on the roof, but its position directly over the deep pool at the foot of the waterfall was spectacular. From the little balcony in front, the fierce downpour of water diving into the pool looked like the rocks all round, except that it was filled with light and the light showed its movement in spite of its apparent stillness and solidity. Hand-in-hand, Peony and Wang stood gazing down, while the man was busy inside the hut. Then he called them in. He had hung examples of his work round the walls. But the first thing they noticed was the floor, blotched all over with ink stains. The second thing was the smell of alcohol. The man had a flask open on a table in the corner and held a small cup in his hand. The paintings on the walls were large, wild and shocking. After a while Wang could recognise a mountain, a clump of bamboo, a tree of some sort. They had a certain crude life to them, but they looked as if they had been made with a stick instead of a brush, perhaps even with the man's thick fingers. The paper was of poor quality, there was no delicacy in the handling and a great many unnecessary marks. The man was standing back, studying their reactions, especially Wang's.
"You've never seen anything like it, have you?"
"No."
"Wouldn't you like to be able to paint like this?"
"Not really."
"You prefer those old dead painters?"
He refilled his cup from the flask in the corner and drank it down immediately.
"In a sort of way I like this too," said Wang.
He wasn't sure he did, but was afraid to offend the man.
"Can you see how it's done?"
"It must be done very quickly," Wang said, studying the marks more closely.
"It's done in a frenzy," said the man, smiling broadly and showing terribly decayed teeth.
He hung up another painting and Wang saw that it was meant to be the waterfall. It caught the savagery of the water, but none of its light or the complexity of its streams—Wang remembered thinking something of the sort, though he would not have formulated verbal criticisms at the time.
"This is Yang, the Active Principle," the man said. "You know all about the Passive and the Active Principles, Yin and Yang?"
"Yes," Wang said doubtfully, unsure whether he really did.
"Yes is the word," said the man loudly, refilling and immediately draining his cup. "You must say yes to life. You must always say yes, never no. You must give yourself to life—to both the Active and the Passive—and to the painting. Because you are an artist too, I am going to show you how it's done. You have been taking lessons with some good, careful, learned teacher, haven't you?"
Excerpted from The Ten Thousand Things by John Spurling. Copyright © 2014 by John Spurling. Excerpted by permission of Overlook. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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