if the tracks had been greased. We spent the night at the Saginoyu hot
spring in Kamisuwa and went on the next morning to Fujimi.
Wu’s room was above the entranceway. In one corner were two tatami
mats. He illustrated his remarks with small stones on a small wooden board
which he had laid out upon a small cushion and a collapsible wooden stand.
It was in 1932 at the Dankōen in Itō that Naoki Sanjugo and I watched
Wu play the Master at a two-stone handicap. Those six years before, in a
short-sleeved kimono of dark blue speckled with white, his fingers long and
slender, the skin fresh at the nape of his neck, he had made one think of an
elegant and sensitive young girl. Now he had taken on the manner of the
cultivated young monk. The shape of the head and ears and indeed of every
feature suggested aristocracy, and few men can have given more clearly an
impression of genius.
His comments came freely, though occasionally he would stop, chin in
hand, and think for a time. The chestnut leaves glistened in the rain. How in
general would he characterize the game, I asked.
“A very delicate game. It is going to be very close.”
It had been recessed in its early middle stages, and the Master himself
was a contestant; and it was not for a rival player to predict the outcome.
Yet what I wanted were comments upon the manner of play, given a sense
of mood and style—an appraisal of the game as a work of art.
“It is splendid,” he replied. “In a word, it is an important game for both
of them, and they both are playing carefully. They are giving a great deal of
thought to every move. I can’t see a single mistake or oversight on the part
of either. You aren’t often treated to such a game. I think it’s splendid.”
“Oh?” I was somewhat dissatisfied. “Even I can see that Black is playing
a tight game. Is White too?”
