Wolf answered for her. ‘We were going to do some shopping. But I'm sure...'
Wolf looked at Lotte, smiling encouragement, and she nodded. Wolf still had hopes that his sister might marry Novacek. Not that it affected his relationship with Catherine. Not significantly.
‘Good,' said Sergey, leaning back and looking about the circle of his friends. ‘And afterwards I'll treat you all to a meal.'
The tiers of the lecture hall were packed to overflowing. Stewards scurried up and down the gangways, trying to find seats for the crowds pressing into the hall, clearly put out by the size of the attendance. Normally the hall seemed vast and echoing, but today it was like a hive, buzzing with expectation.
At three precisely the lights dimmed and the hall fell silent. On a raised platform at the front of the hall a single spotlight picked out a lectern. For a while there was no movement on stage, then a figure stepped out of the darkness. A murmur of surprise rose from the watching tiers. It was Chu Ta Yun, the Minister of Education. He stood to one side of the lectern, his head slightly bowed, his hands folded at his waist.
‘Ch'un tzu,' he began, his tone humble, ‘I have been given the great pleasure and honour of introducing one of the outstanding figures of our time; a man whose distinctions are too numerous to be listed here and whose accomplishments place him in the very first rank of painters. A man who, when the history of our culture is set down by future generations, will be seen as the epitome – the touchstone – of our art. Ch'un tzu, I ask you to welcome to our college the Honourable Fan Liang-wei, Painter to the court of His Most Serene Highness, Li Shai Tung.'
As the Minister withdrew, head bowed, into the darkness, Fan Liang-wei came into the spotlight, resting his hands lightly on the edge of the lectern then bowing his head to his audience. There was a faint shuffling noise as, in unison, the packed tiers lowered their heads in respect to the Great Man.
‘Ch'un tzu,' he began, in the same vein as the Minister, then, smiling, added, ‘Friends...'
There was a small ripple of laughter from the tiers. The ice had been broken. But at once his face grew serious again, his chin lifting in an extravagant yet thoughtful gesture, his voice taking on an immediate tone of authority.
‘I have come here today to talk of art, and, in particulas Md tou Tnce r, of the art of shanshui painting, something of which I have, or so I delude myself, some small knowledge.'
Again there was the faintest ripple of amusement, but, as before, it was tinged with the deepest respect. There was not one there who did not consider Fan Liang-wei Chung Kuo's foremost expert on the ancient art of shanshui.
The Great Man looked about the tiers, as if noting friends there amongst the crowd, then spoke again. ‘As you may know, I have called today's talk "Spontaneity and Meticulousness", and it is upon these two extremes of expression that I wish to dwell, taking as my examples the works of two great exponents of the art of shanshui, the Ming painter Tung Ch'i-ch'ang and the Song painter Cheng Ro. But before I come to them and to specific examples of their work, I would like to take this opportunity of reminding you of the critic Hsieh Ho's Six Principles, for it is to these that we shall, time and again, return during this lecture.'
Fan Liang-wei paused, looking about him. He had just opened his mouth to speak when the door to his right swung open and a young man strode into the hall, ignoring the hushed remonstrances of a steward. The steward followed him two or three paces into the hall, then backed away, head bowed, glancing up at the platform apologetically before drawing the door closed behind him. The young man, meanwhile, moved unselfconsciously along the gangway in front of the platform and began to climb the stairs. He was halfway up when the Great Man cleared his throat.
‘Forgive me, young Master, but am I interrupting something?'
The young man half turned, looking back at the speaker, then, without a word, climbed the rest of the steps and sat down at their head.
There was a murmur of astonishment from the surrounding tiers and even a few harshly whispered words of criticism, but the young man seemed oblivious. He sat there, staring down at the platform, a strange intensity in his manner making him seem brooding, almost malicious in intent.
‘Are we comfortable?' the Great Man asked, a faint trace of annoyance in his voice.
The young man gave the barest nod.
‘Good. Then perhaps we might continue. As I was saying... Hsieh Ho, in his classic fifth-century work, the Ku Hua-p'in-lu, set down for all time the Six Principles by which the great artist might be recognized. In reiterating these, we might remember that, while Hsieh Ho intended that all six should be present in a great work of art, they do, nonetheless, form a kind of hierarchy, the First Principle, that of spirit-consonance, of harmony of spirit to the motion of life – that sense we have of the painting coming alive through the harmonizing of the vital force, the ch'i, of the painter with the ch'i of his subject matter – forming the first rank, the First Level, if you like.'
There was a mild ripple of laughter at the Great Man's play of words. He continued quickly, his anger at the rudeness of the young man's interruption set aside momentarily.
‘Bearing this in mind, we see how the Second Principle, the bone-structure of the brushwork – and its strength in conveying the ch'i or vital energy – stems from the First and is, indeed, dependent upon it, as a Minister is dependent upon the favour of his T'ang. Likewise, the Third Principle, the fidelity or faithfulness of the artistic representation to the subject, is dependent upon these first two. And so forth...'
He hesitated, then looked directly at the young man seated at the head of the stairs. ‘You understand me, young Master?'
Again the young man nodded.
‘Good. Then lety oor ahe dth="1e me move on quickly. Fourth of the Six great Principles is likeness in colour. Fifth is the proper placing of the various elements within the scheme of the painting. And Sixth, and last in our great hierarchy, is the preservation of the experience of the past through making pictorial reference to the great classical paintings.'
Fan Liang-wei smiled, looking about him, then moved to one side, half turning as the screen behind him lit up, showing an ancient painting.
‘There is, of course, one further quality that Hsieh Ho demanded from the great artist – a quality which, because it is intrinsic to art, is enshrined in each of those six great Principles – that of ching. Of precision or minuteness of detail.'
He indicated the painting. ‘This, as you may recognize, is Tung Ch'i-ch'ang's Shaded Dwelling among Streams and Mountains, one of the great works of Ming art. This hanging scroll...'
The Great Man had turned, looking back at his audience, but now he stopped, his mouth open, for the young man had stood and was making his way slowly down the steps again.
‘Forgive me,' he said tartly, his patience snapping, ‘but have I to suffer more of your interruptions?'
The young man stopped, a faint smile playing on his lips. ‘No. I've heard enough.'
‘Heard enough...' For the briefest moment Fan's face was contorted with anger. Then, controlling himself, he came to the edge of the platform, confronting the young man. ‘What do you mean, heard enough?'
The young man stared back at Fan Liang-wei, unperturbed, it seemed, by the hardness in his voice, undaunted by his reputation.
‘I mean what I said. I've heard enough. I don't have to wait to hear what you have to say – you've said it all already.'
Fan laughed, astonished. ‘I see...'
The young man lifted his arm, pointing beyond Fan at the screen. ‘That, for instance. It's crap.'
There was a gasp of astonishment from the tiers, followed by a low murmur of voices. Fan Liang-wei, however, was smiling now.
‘Crap, eh? That's your considered opinion, is it, Shih...?'
The young man ignored the request for his name, just as he ignored the ripple of laughter that issued from the benches on all sides. ‘Yes,' he answered, taking two slow steps closer to the platform. ‘It's dead. Anyone with a pair of eyes can see it. But you...' He shook his head. ‘Well, to call this lifeless piece of junk one of the great works of Ming art is an insult to the intelligence.'
Fan straightened, bristling, then gave a short laugh. ‘You're a student of painting, then, young Master?'
The young man shook his head.
‘Ah, I see. Then what are you precisely? You are a member of the college, I assume?'
There was more laughter from the tiers; a harder, crueller laughter as the students warmed to the exchange. The young man had stepped out of line. Now the Great Man would humiliate him.
‘I'm a scientist...'
‘A scientist? Ah, I see.'
The laughter was like a great wave this time, rolling from end to end of the great lecture hall. Fan Liang-wei smiled, looking about him, sensing victory.
‘Then you know about things like painting?'
The young man stood there, the laughter in the hall washing over him, waiting for it to subside. When it did he answered the Great Man.
‘Enough to know that Tung Ch&areored&rsm>paintingrsquo;i-ch'ang was the dead-end of a process of slow emasculation of a once-vital art form.'