12. ‘Her Loreley’
A classy BMW, booked by Yuan Ming in London, was waiting for us on our arrival in Cologne airport. I was relieved when one of the firm’s employees offered to drive us through the hectic traffic of the town to the shore of the Rhine. A tour of the dome was complemented by our lengthy visit to the nearby Germanic museum, a modern structure encapsulating a Roman mosaic. It was laid bare in the bombing attacks of 1944 after being hidden under the ground for over a thousand years.
Early in the afternoon, we started our trip up the Rhine. At dusk we took a two bedroom suite in a hotel in Bacharach, a popular resort marked by its narrow cobble stoned streets, by its medieval fortifications and by the traditional German master-builder houses with exposed gables and beams.
Next morning we visited Burg Rheinfels. Standing by a window in the tower, we admired the Rhine valley. We then took the ferry to the other shore of the river and drove to Kaub - where Prince Blücher’s army crossed the Rhine on its way to the Battle of Waterloo.
“But is there no bridge across the Rhine?” asked Yuan Ming, viewing the ferry with apprehension.
“We’d have to drive all the way back to Koblenz; crossing by ferry is faster and perfectly safe.”
Yuan Ming looked at me with renewed anxiety when I drove the car up the steep narrow slip road to Gutenfels Castle, where I had reserved a suite.
Yuan Ming’s expression brightened when she looked down at the Rhine from the window of the comfortable sitting room in our suite.
“Have you stayed here before?” she wanted to know.
“No, I haven’t. Pat refused to come with me when I drove up; she remained in the hotel by the river. But I spent some time on my own on the terrace; and I kept thinking of you.”
“Of me or of ‘her’”?
“I was still looking for you then; and thinking of you as you were then; but I knew you would like it up here.”
“I do” she agreed, “it’s the top of world. But these silly and clumsy barges on the Rhine spoil the view.”
“Try to imagine they are medieval merchantmen, flying their flag.”
“I shall; and tell me, are we near Loreley?”
“I think it’s the third hilltop down the River” I said, with some uncertainty. “You know the story?”
“I do; you told it to ‘her’ – remember? It’s an uncanny story. And I don’t know why the creatures that lured the poor sailors up in order to slay them had to be females. They could be sexless goblins! Your Western folklore was dreamt up by a bunch of MCPs.”
“Sure; but, then, all the minstrels and ballad singers were men; and quite a pack of rowdies at that.”
After dinner, Yuan Ming assembled her easel on our balcony and started to draw. The steady rhythm of her right hand told me she had planned her painting beforehand and was executing it with her usual confidence and precision. She did not, however, display the excitement I had detected when she had a breakthrough or was drawing an entirely new piece transcending her earlier works. When she finished, she turned me: “Come over and have a look, Uncle.”
She had drawn an eerie replica of the castle. On a nearby spooky Loreley a flock of goblins was tempting sailors, who had jumped overboard or had fallen off fighting vessels, to climb up and partake in a nocturnal feast. On the terrace of our castle, two women, adorned in colourful medieval apparel, were trying to warn them off.
“What do you think of it?”
“You caught the atmosphere of the place,” I assured her.
“It ain’t a breakthrough, Uncle.”
“Perhaps not; but you have fine tuned the colours. It will be snapped up in your exhibition.”
“It might,” she agreed. Having carried the easel with the still wet drawing back to the sitting room, she added: “But look, Uncle, for a while I’ve been looking for completely new ideas. As you know I tried …”
“In the painting you haven’t completed for your forthcoming exhibition?”
“Yes, Uncle. And I destroyed it before I left LA; you guessed, didn’t you?”
“I knew something was wrong; you see, you didn’t refer to it since you came over.”
“It was a refinement of my earlier works; I am looking for an added dimension.”
“I believe you are getting there.”
“What makes you think so? This drawing – I’m calling it ‘Her Loreley’ – isn’t in the same class as ‘Dawn’ or ‘Ablaze at Noon”.
“True,” I conceded. “Your new piece doesn’t display the same spontaneous outburst of emotions and doesn’t have the same compelling effect. But there is something special about its colours; you have used them in a different manner; as if they had a message of their own.”
Nodding her head, she placed the easel in a corner. She then came over to the sofa and sat next to me.
“So you think I’m on my way?”
“I do; although I’m not certain what you are aiming at.”
“How, then, can you be optimistic?”
“Because you are searching; just as you did previously.”
“But aren’t you swayed by your emotions when you discuss my work.”
“I don’t think so. But why not tell me what you are looking for?”
“I wish I knew myself; all I know is that I want to find a new dimension. I don’t want to use the same old style and technique for the next twenty years.”
“Then you are bound to find what you’re after; good artists always do if they persevere; as long as they have the zest.”
After a good night’s rest, Yuan Ming was, again, her exuberant self. Sliding into the driver’s seat, she turned to me: “It’s a long way to Breisach, Uncle; so I better drive!”
For most of the time, she fell in line with the cars in the fast lane of the Autobahn. Occasionally, though, I had to suppress my anxiety when she overtook more leisurely moving vehicles. She, in turn, got furious when some drivers refused to give way.
The car continued its steady progress southward. As we circumnavigated Mainz, my thoughts strayed from the young woman, who handled the car so dexterously, to little Yuan Ming of my youth in Singapore. She too had been temperamental, gliding from one mood to another. Occasionally, her little girl’s outbursts had been hard to take. Still, she had never angered me and, as soon as a storm was over, I dismissed it from my mind. My recollections had always focused on our delightful outings: the occasional trips to Kota Tinggi, the afternoons we spent together in the Chinese Swimming Club and on the beach, her visits to my study in the University and the sketches she had drawn when she had been with me.
“You are thinking of ‘her’, Uncle”.
“Well, yes: you are really still the same: full of beans and good to be with.”
“And quite as likely to throw a tantrum,” she supplemented
“But you really weren’t a problem: not as far as I was concerned.”
“Not as far as you were concerned!” she mimicked. “Great wonder. ‘She’ doted on you. So once Uncle looked at her sadly or contritely, not daring to stroke her hair for fear of a rebuff, she melted. And then ‘she’ climbed on your lap and let you pacify her, after which all was well again.”
“But you – I mean ‘she’ – always responded to reason!”
A lull in our conversation enabled me to venture, once again, back into the past. I kept thinking of her drawings, her first attempt to use oils and her decision to confine herself to Chinese ink and aquarelle. She had to review her decision in her adult life, when she became a sought after artist in Los Angeles; but her original decision – at the age of eleven – had been sound. She had sensed that oil paints did not enable her to execute a perfect stroke and, in addition, had found it easier to master her colours in the more liquid mediums.
As our car continued its progress in the direction of Mannheim, I let Yuan Ming’s early paintings and drawing materialise in front of my eyes. Many of them were superb and each of them had brought me joy, even the caricatures of her Dad and of myself. Over the years, she had gone from strength to strength; but was she going to make the next leap forward?
“We have to concentrate on the road, Uncle” Yuan Ming interrupted my thoughts. “Which route to take after we by-pass Karlsruhe?”
“The main route to Basle; we exit the Autobahn just before Freiburg; but you must be getting pretty tired.”
“Just a bit; and how long is it from here to Breisach?”
“At your speed, probably three hours. But it’s high time we stop for lunch.”
Yuan Ming was considerably more tired than I had appreciated. After a hurried meal in the next Autobahn resort, she let me take the driver’s seat. As soon our BMW joined the traffic, she closed her eyes.
Yuan Ming slept soundly during the last stretch of our lengthy trip. I, in turn, had to concentrate on the road, proceeding steadily on the middle lane of the Autobahn. Despite the tedious road and the abusive gestures of overtaking drivers, I felt elated. Yuan Ming’s words confirmed that she was getting close to her target. She had been equally restless and subject to bouts of insomnia before she had executed her earlier major works.
Our ride got bumpy, after I left the Autobahn. Soon Yuan Ming opened her eyes: “Is this the Kaiserstuhl, Uncle?”
“Yap.”
“Where is the Rhine?”
“A few kilometres to the West. We’ll greet her again at Breisach.”
“It’s lovely here,” she said as we went through picturesque villages. “The houses are so cute. Not as grand as up North, but homely.
When we reached our destination, we decided to avoid the luxury hotel by the Rhine and, instead, took two rooms in a comfortable inn. Yuan Ming viewed her room, with its heavy old fashioned furniture, with glee. Stepping out to the balcony, she announced happily:
“And, Uncle, you do get a glimpse of the Rhine from out here.”
“Splendid; and what does your young Ladyship wish to do now?”
“Your young Ladyship wants to have a shower and a decent rest. When do they serve dinner?”
“From about 6.30; but the restaurant remains open till 9.30.”
13. The Breakthrough
We had cocktails before dinner. Relaxing in the small bar adjacent to the dining room, I experiencing the happiness and fulfilment which overcame me when I was with her. It was – had always been – a Platonic friendship and bound to remain so. It was, at the same time, more constant and more deeply ingrained than a relationship cemented by a physical bond. True, ‘out of bounds’ had been defined. But the territory within the region was fertile and comforting.
“Uncle,” she said after a while, “sometime, when we are together, I feel sorry for your wife. You never loved her.”
“True,” I admitted. “But I don’t think she felt much for me either. For years she kept hankering after that Chinese chap who jilted her when she contracted TB.”
“She might have forgotten him if you had given her a chance.”
“Possibly; but it wasn’t in me; and she kept aggravating me by sticking stubbornly to the values of her home. Up to this very day, she has remained closer to her brothers and sisters than to me.”
“So you miscalculated when you thought a few years in New Zealand might bring the two of you together?” For a moment she hesitated, but then went on: “And you, too, kept feeling closer to your friend Tay and to ‘her’ than to Pat. Did she know?"
“She knew I kept thinking of somebody.”
“It must have been tough on her.”
Yuan Ming had put her finger on the rot. Throughout my unhappy marriage I managed to find outlets: a small group of bridge players in Singapore and in Wellington; a circle of Jewish acquaintances in Melbourne and a circle of art connoisseurs after my return to Singapore. I had also joined some professional bodies. In this manner I filled in time and managed to sidestep the central problem. Pat’s affiliations centred on her family; and her disappointment with life centred on me.
“I’m sure it was tough on her,” I admitted. “She could have made things easier for herself if she had learned to accept, or at least to understand, our Western world. But she didn’t adjust; even today she judges everything by the yardstick of her Eastern family.”
“But, then, haven’t you remained a Westerner?”
“ I have; but, in the very least, I can manage in my Eastern society, including Pat’s family.”
“But Eastern society has always been tolerant to European and other barbarians; we ‘forgive’ their ‘mistakes’. Also, Uncle, your background made you adaptable. Your family fled from Vienna to Tel-Aviv. Much later you moved on to Oxford, to Singapore, to Wellington and eventually to Melbourne. To survive, you had to open your mind. From what you told me, Pat’s horizon was set by her family.”
“And I was dead wrong when I thought I could change her.”
“I’m afraid you were, Uncle Pygmalion. If ‘she’ had appreciated the risks involved, she would have tried to stop you; but in many ways ‘she’ was still a child.”
“Still,” I turned to the bright side, “here we are together on the Rhine: so all is well.”
“But what will happen when you return to Singapore, Uncle?”
“We’ll see. At the moment Pat is in Taiwan. When I rang her before we left London, she told me she was going to spend a month or so with her church friend in Tainan. The orphanage needed an extra pair of hands. She asked me not to ring her there.”
“Why don’t you send her a postcard?”
“I didn’t tell her I was going to spend some time on the Continent; I’ll send her one when we’re back in London.”
“And buy her a nice gift; you may ward off the storm!”
We stayed in the Kaiserstuhl for the next few days. Yuan Ming admired the cobblestone paths, the charming vineyards basking in the sun and the fine cellars stocked with large fragrant wooden barrels filled with maturing wine. She kept drawing and sketching incessantly during our last day in the Kaiserstuhl.
She remained as animated during our drive to Lake Constance. To avoid getting embroiled in the traffic between Freiburg and Basle, I took the winding roads of the Black Forest. Even as we drove, Yuan Ming kept sketching. Occasionally, she asked me to stop for while and enjoyed the view.
“Uncle,” she said whilst we proceeded at a slow pace in the direction of Schafhausen; “the Black Forest must be quite something in the winter, when it’s snowing.”
“It is: the cedar trees look majestic when they’re covered in white. But you have to be careful. One afternoon I lost my clutch when I drove through the snow; lucky for me, a truck with a kindly driver passed bye. He towed me all the way to a garage.”
“I can imagine how you felt,” she said, adding spontaneously; “but look, why don’t we stop for a while and go for a walk in the forest.”
“Good idea!”
To her disappointment, we found no strawberries. Soon, though, she spotted a squirrel climbing a tree. Halting on one of the upper branches, it brushed its moustache with its forepaws. It then waived its bushy tail, and descended into a hole in the trunk. To my delight, Yuan Ming sketched it as an elf, dancing gracefully in front of a snow covered tree.
I made another stop at Rheinfall, with the imposing waterfalls feeding the Rhine. I could sense Yuan Ming’s excitement.
“They’re not as imposing as the Niagara’s; but there is more life to them, life and rhythm; and look at the reflection of the light when the water roars past us.”
After lunch, we continued our journey along the Swiss shore of Lake Constance. Once again, Yuan Ming sketched fervently. She paused for a while when we crossed the Austrian border, but soon resumed her work.
“So we are in a pretty cosmopolitan part of Europe, Uncle. We started near the French border, drove through the Black Forest, continued to Switzerland; and now we are in your home country.”
“If you want to call it that; but, yes, we are on an Alpine cross roads; and don’t forget that Liechtenstein and Italy are just around the corner.”
Later in the afternoon, we reached Bregenz and proceeded to upper Lochau. A warm, appreciative, smile descended on Yuan Ming’s face when the maid opened the door of our suite, with its dark stained cathedral beams and the wide sliding glass doors opening to the veranda. It deepened as she stepped out and let her eyes wander from the attractive whitewashed farm houses, spread on the meadows down the steep hill, to the expanse of the deep blue Lake Constance right beneath us.
“So you had your a plan all along, Uncle?”
“I knew you would like it here,” I affirmed. “It’s the sort of place we used to talk about long ago …”
“When ‘she’ was watching you with her big black eyes?”
A splendid Austrian dinner, preceded by a stroll through the compact village square and main road, brought our wanderings for that day to their end. The ebullient even if inward looking expression that dwelt on Yuan Ming’s face, made my heart leap with joy. It was a mien I had good reason to recall. Her elation deepened as we stepped out, once again, onto our veranda. I watched keenly as her glance fastened for a while on the lights of the small German island city of Lindau, just a short drive away from us, and then travelled further into the distance, to Friedrichshafen, onward to the border city of Constance and then back to Bregenz. Suddenly, a shooting star brightened the clear night sky, ascending proudly above us. For a moment it hovered over a ship sailing on the lake, its sparkle merged with the lights of the upper deck. It then descended, appearing to fall into the lake.
“This is exciting, Uncle,” she said. “I only hope this ship isn’t another stupid barge.”
“It’s a tourist boat,” I assured her. “Tomorrow, we can take a night cruise and have dinner on board. But it’s really nicer up here.”
“I’m sure it is,” she said, adding with a smile: “and now, Uncle, it’s time for Yuan Ming’s beauty sleep. It’s been a splendid day; but now it’s time for bed.”
A draft from the window, which I had left slightly ajar, woke me up early next morning. To my surprise, Yuan was not in her room. For a few moments I panicked. Had it all been a mirage? Was I, in reality, back in my own barren bedroom in Singapore. Then, as the last grains of sleep receded from my eyes, reason drove me back to reality. Glancing around me, I tiptoed to the door separating the bedrooms from the small lounge.
To my relief, she was standing by her easel, looking fresh and resolute. I was about to withdraw noiselessly to my bedroom, when – without turning her head – she said: “No, don’t go back; come over here, Uncle.”
“How long have you been working?”
“For quite a while; I watched dawn; it was lovely.”
“Is all going well?”
“I had a good start; but I’ve come up against a snag.”
Two discarded sheets of rice paper, lying crumbled on the floor, bore witness to her frustration. Trying to comfort her, I stroked her hair. After a short while, she turned to me.
“I was about to call it a day; but perhaps I’ll have another go.”
“What’s the problem? I observed how you planned it yesterday, during dinner.”
“I did; and the idea is fine; it’s just one detail; I just can’t get it right.”
“Not the lighting or the colours?”
“No; of course not: they’re the mainstream …” she was about to continue when I realised where she had gone astray.
“Don’t tell me,” I said; “it must have something to do with the image of one of us!”
“So it does, Uncle Know-All,” she said, her jest flattened by the strain in her voice “it’s ‘her’!”
“Don’t tell me you are trying to draw your - I mean ‘her’ - portrait?”
“But I am; I’m portraying ‘her’ with you. You are easy, except that I haven’t decided if I you are to look cute, funny or wistful. But” she wailed “I can’t get ‘her’ right!”
“But, for heaven’s sake, Yuan Ming,” I lost my cool; “to portray yourself as a child without even a photograph to look at – that’s a mammoth task.”
“But it’s not as if I can’t remember ‘her’ face; I stared at it often enough in the mirror. Still; something about ‘her’ countenance eludes me now.”
“Why not let me have a look;not at the whole painting: just your – I mean ‘her’ – portrait.”
“You know I’m not supposed to!”
She was alluding to the unwritten traditions of the X’ian School that had elected her a “Master Artist”, an honour rarely conferred on an overseas Chinese. Mystified as I had remained by the School’s firm edict against the showing of an incomplete work, I had paid due respect to the Code. At present, though, we were facing a crisis. I was still searching for persuasive arguments justifying an exception, when Yuan Ming made up her mind.
“But I suppose even these rules can be bent when needed,” she said, tearing a small piece off one of the discarded drawings. Noting my apprehensive start, she told me: “Once discarded, it’s only a piece of wastepaper, Uncle.”
“Well,” she asked after I had been examining the delicate portrait for a few minutes, “where did I go wrong?”
“It’s ‘her’ alright; but, to start with, there’s something wrong with the nose.”
“Don’t tell me ‘she’ had a snub nose; Chinese girls don’t have them.”
“No, ‘she’ didn’t have a snub nose; but it wasn’t as flat as you’ve drawn it.”
“Let’s see how to change it,” she said, overtly encouraged. Putting her brush aside, she sketched the face again with a light blue crayon.
“Better?” she asked.
“Just about right now; but there is also something wrong with the cheekbones; your face was a bit more round then.”
“And how is this?” she asked after a further attempt.
“It will do” I said.
“Anything still bothering you” she asked searchingly.
“ ‘Her’ eyes.”
“Don’t tell me they were even bigger?”
“No, they weren’t; but you are portraying us together, aren’t you?”
“I am indeed!”
“You - I mean ‘she’ - used to look at me more directly!” I said.
“Spot on,” I told her happily when she completed the next sketch. “And can I have the sketch?”
“You’ve earned it,” she consented magnanimously; “but now I must go ahead with the final version!”
Standing by her side, I admired the rhythm of her steady movements. Occasionally, she stepped closer to the easel or bent slightly forward to dip her brush in one of the coloured ink pads. Once or twice she stopped for a few seconds, changed her brush and looked critically at her work. I had by then discerned that it comprised individual subjects rendered in fine detail and larger abstract forms executed in deeper colours and lose shapes.
A lull in her steady beat brought me back to the world around me. From the corner of my eye, I saw the Dancing Harlequin, smiling at me from the top of a nearby chest of drawers.
“Are you bringing him in?” I asked.
“Yes, of course; right at the top; but I’m not certain in which direction he ought to look.”
“Yours, naturally?”
“And why?”
“Because his is the spirit of creativity, of inspiration, of dreams.”
“Then he ought to look at both of us” she concluded softly.
Selecting a fine brush, she moved closer to the easel. For once, her hand moved slowly, delicately, occasionally just allowing the brush to touch the fine rice paper. I, in turn, was holding my breath.
“That’s it” she said at long last; “you can breathe again normally now and have a look.”
The large drawing – entitled “Harlequinade” – differed from all her previous works. Scenes from our journeys through life, portrayed in fine detail, were overshadowed by amorphous, intertwined, shapes creating a dynamic atmosphere. What struck me most, though, was the innovative application of the colours. Scenes from early years were drawn in light, harmonious, shades. The waterfalls of Kota Tinggi, the beach in the Sisters Island and my study in the Japanese Block of the University of Singapore were all executed in this manner. She had also drawn an image of her father’s old shop. Events from our more recent years were enlivened in deeper and richer colours. The drawing of ‘Dawn’ and a scene in the new swimming pool were followed by highlights from our trips. The sight of a goblin above Loreley brought a smile to my face. Lower down she had drawn us standing together by the easel. Right at the top, at the upper left corner, the Dancing Harlequin was smiling benignly.
The magnificent drawing was further enhanced by the coloured shapes, which created a sense of motion, as if the work kept rotating. In her previous works she had, occasionally, achieved the same effect by an interplay of the shapes, bringing to mind the steps of a dance. This impression was now deepened by the manipulations of the colours, which appeared to gain a life of their own.
“I can see and hear the colours,” I told her in an emotionally charged voice. “It is as if you have added a tune – some music – to the scenes. And they are fresher and deeper than ever before.”
“So you think I have made it?”
“I do!”
For a moment she remained by the easel looking fulfilled, happy but, at the same time, exhausted. She fell asleep as soon as she got back to her bed. When she woke up – some two hours later on – she smiled at me warmly: “You must be hungry, Uncle?”
“A bit; how about you?”
“I’d like stay in bed a bit longer; why don’t you go down and have your breakfast. You can bring me back a coffee and some rolls and jam.”
Yuan Ming enjoyed the strongly brewed coffee and then spread the homemade strawberry jam on the two rolls. When she finished, I placed the tray outside the door of the suite and attached the “Do not Disturb” tag to the handle.
“Uncle,” she said when I stepped back into her room, “mind telling me again what you think of the ‘Harlequinade’?”
“It surpasses everything you have done before; it’s a masterpiece.”
“Which scene did you like best?”
“The one where we sit together in my old study, with you …”
“You mean ‘her’ …” she interjected.
“Very well then, with ‘her’ giving me that special, wistful, look.”
“Alright then, Uncle,” she said after a short lull; “but is it better than all the stuff ‘she’ drew?”
“It is; ‘she’ could not have conceived anything as complex and as elaborate.”
“But how about the execution? I still want to know why you have never let me see ‘her’ drawings and sketches. And you have quite a few, don’t you?”
“Two hundred and thirteen, to be accurate!”
“Why did you hide them from me?”
“ ‘She’ had a special trick with her colours; they were fresh and expressive. I thought it best to let you get there again without showing you ‘her’ works.”
“Am I there now?”
“You are! Perhaps even more so than ever before.”
She was, again, relaxing. I was too happy to break the harmony, too elated to disrupt the sense of peace and bliss. I knew she had continued to draw consistently during the many years we had been out of touch. Her eyes had remained sharp and observant; her brushes had retained their dexterity; but her colours had lost their lustre. Something had been missing; but, at long last, she had found her way back.
We lunched on the premises. In the afternoon, we drove down to Lindau. During dinner in a restaurant by the boat quay, Yuan Ming suggested that, instead of proceeding to Vienna, we spend the remaining days of our trip in the region. Smiling happily, I agreed.
We stayed an extra day in Lochau and then proceeded to Liechtenstein. We crossed to Austrian Tyrol through the spectacular Arlbergpass, spending a night by the Italian border. From there we drove through the network of secondary roads to the Kizbühler Alps. As if by agreement, we made our stops in the smaller, more secluded, resorts.
Yuan Ming’s enthusiasm manifested itself again as she watched the scenery along the winding mountain road to Canazei in the heart of the Dolomites. To my delight, she took the easel out of the boot of the car.
During our first two days in Canazei, Yuan Ming sketched frantically. On the third day she left her easel behind.
“I need a rest, Uncle,” she said. “I’ve done more drawings on our trip than in the previous six months. So it’s right to leave the easel and sketchbook behind.”
It was during that last day, on our way back from our afternoon walk, that Yuan Ming came up with a question that had crossed my own mind from time to time. We had just finished a steep descent through a forest path and were resting on a tree trunk.
“Uncle,” she said, “we’ve been to some of the cutest spots in Europe.”
“We have indeed,” I agreed.
“The scenery is lovely and each place has an atmosphere of its own.”
“It has; but what are you driving at, Yuan Ming?”
“Tell me, Uncle, how many famous artists lived and created in these places; how many composers and how many novelists and poets?”
“The only artist I can think of is that Egger-Lienz fellow; but he wasn’t really top class; and I can’t think of any composers or novelists.”
“I suppose the really talented ones went to the bigger centres? I suspect that the big cities had their magnetic effect, the limelight, the action; and the nobility offered its patronage to penniless young artists and musicians.”
“The nobility and later on the wealthy bourgeoisie,” I corrected. “Any other reasons?”
“And those who weren’t ambitious remained behind and ended up like our Egger-Lienz.”
“Quite,” I agreed, “and, of course, they failed to develop. An artist needs to understudy his master; he needs to slave in a studio; and a musician has to be trained. He usually learns from his maestro and from the response of a sophisticated audience.”
“How about novelists?”
“They’re different: a talented writer can develop from reading alone. He needn’t be attached, or have direct access, to a literary circle. Think of Jane Austin, the Brontés and, possibly, Herman Hesse. They made it mainly because they had the gift, the perseverance and - Yuan Ming - luck.”
“Luck?” she burst out laughing. “You are again on your hobby horse, Uncle.”
“Guilty as charged; but remember, Yuan Ming, every author needs to find a publisher. The Brontés might have missed out if they hadn’t hit on the idea of using male pseudonyms; and Jonathan Swift’s Gulliver would have never seen light if the manuscript, which he threw out of his carriage into the publisher’s window, had been picked up from the floor by the charwoman.”
“And how about artists and musicians?”
“Think about Johann Strauss the Elder: how far would he have gone without the initial patronage of Joseph Lada? He couldn’t even read notes when he arrived in Vienna!” Pausing for a moment, I added: “And I suspect I could cite example after example.”
“Alright, Uncle Solomon” she laughed as I recovered my breath; “you’ve made your point!”
Later on, over a pizza in a small tavern in one of the meandering lanes of Canazei, she opened up again, reverting to a subject we had covered before.
“Uncle, you are, of course, right when you say that talent alone, even if coupled with perseverance, is not an automatic ticket to success.”
“Well,” I prompted.
“I’m thinking of ‘her’. ‘She’ had the talent and, even before ‘she’ showed you ‘her’ drawings; and ‘she’ had ‘her’ motivation: ‘she’ loved to see her classmates giggling at the silliness of our teachers. So ‘she’ caricatured them. Then you came into ‘her’ little sheltered world and, out of the blue, started to talk about art, about the Harlequin, about aspirations. For a long time ‘she’ didn’t dare to show you a thing: her courage failed ‘her’; ‘she’ thought you might be amused! Then, when ‘she’ realised how much you doted on ‘her’, she drew the little vase. The rest was plain sailing. So, as I told you before, your influence turned my tide.”
“Well then, do you concede the role of chance?”
“Not as an independent force, Uncle” she said gently; “to me, chance is the hand of fate. It drives many of us to fulfilment. We discover a dormant gift. One day you will accept my view.”
“Perhaps,” I said; “after all I may be moved to this conclusion by chance!”
We left the hotel shortly after daybreak. Despite a short delay at the Austrian customs point at the Brenner Pass, we reached Innsbruck well in time for our flight back to London. Late in the afternoon, we were back in the metropolis.