Wang P’an often visited the small house, occasionally bringing with him other mandarins and doing all he could to increase the strangers’ reputation. Still mute, Ricci’s smile and confident manner asked for and received his friendship. Wang P’an came to feel a genuine affection for him and showed the keenest interest in European beliefs and customs. A doctor of letters, a poet and an expert calligraphist—the Chinese prized fine handwriting almost as much as its sister art, painting—he had, since his appointment as governor in 1580, already won a reputation for incorruptible justice. The missionaries resolved to retain his friendship at all costs, since without it the graduates’ hostility and the people’s irrational terror of foreigners would soon drive them from the town.
Until they had mastered the language, they let their wonderful picture speak for them. They used the larger room of their new house as a chapel, placing the altar at one end with the Virgin and Child above it. As an act of politeness all their visitors, including several bonzes from the neighbouring pagodas, venerated the picture, genuflecting and bowing in front of it head to the ground. Before long, however, questions were raised. The foreign bonzes claimed to worship a single god, yet they solemnly venerated this picture. Could it be that their god was a woman? Post-haste Ruggieri wrote to Macao for another picture and within a fortnight received a fine portrait of Christ, painted by one of Ricci’s companions on the voyage to Macao, who had later sailed to found the first school of Christian art in Japan. The new painting was substituted for the old above the altar, and misapprehension made less erroneous. The foreigners adored a Tartar.
They made far more rapid progress in the language now that they lived within the country and spoke occasionally with mandarins. Before the end of the year both Ruggieri and Ricci could read and write. But their problems now increased rather than diminished. The Chinese, it seemed, possessed no unambiguous word for a personal God. At first the missionaries thought they would follow the example of Francis Xavier. During his first months in Japan, he had been misled by his interpreter into using the ambiguous word “Dainichi.” Later, when he discovered that the word designated a local fertility god, he took no second chance and transliterated the Latin word Deus. In Chinese, however, this could not be done without awkwardness and possible confusion. They decided finally to follow the advice of their first young catechumen, who saluted the painting of Christ with the title “Lord of Heaven.” The choice, they soon discovered, conveyed their meaning well, for the Chinese, in their earliest books, invested the visible sky or Heaven with the attributes of a supreme being: the Christian God, being Lord of Heaven, not only ranked higher but possessed infinite, intangible and personal qualities lacking in their concept of Heaven. The Virgin they called the Lady Mother of the Lord of Heaven.
Unable at first to comprehend anything so totally unfamiliar as Christianity, the majority of visitors found it easier to treat the newcomers as a peculiar sect of Buddhist bonzes, but what, Ricci asked himself, did that signify and entail? Perusing the annals of China and the religious texts of past centuries, he began to form a clearer picture of himself and Ruggieri as they must appear to the Chinese.
The earliest religion of the country contained far less magic and far fewer logical errors than any primitive creed known to Ricci. A single, omnipotent, supreme Being was worshipped in the form of Heaven, together with various subsidiary protective spirits of stars, mountains, rivers and the four corners of the world. Virtue pleased, vice displeased Heaven, which rewarded or punished men in this world according to their deeds. So reverent was religious awe that only the Emperor and high officials might perform sacrifice, and the people never attributed to Heaven or other spirits the reprehensible conduct with which Egyptians, Greeks and Romans defiled their gods. This primitive religion no longer existed in its original form. Over a thousand years before Ricci’s arrival, its beliefs and practices had already become partially incorporated in three main sects, to one or more of which most Chinese now claimed to belong. Of these the most flourishing, the most highly esteemed and boasting the largest number of great books was Confucianism, the national philosophical system of China, professed—at least in public—by the majority of graduates, and preserving the essentials of the primitive theology, in particular the Emperor’s sacrifice to Heaven, more as a state religion than a vital creed. It had been handed down in the most curious fashion, not consciously chosen or proclaimed, but imbibed through education, the essential criterion for passing state examinations being a thorough knowledge of the works of Confucius, whose doctrine became the stamp of the ruling class. Confucius had been born in the sixth century before Christ, an impoverished minor aristocrat, orphaned at an early age. A philosopher rather than religious teacher, he spent his life training students for a political career. His teaching had been transmitted by disciples in the form of a confused, unscientific collection of maxims and discourses based on reason, capable of various interpretations and twisted out of all recognition by later commentators, the most influential of whom, Chu Hsi, had presented the Master’s teaching as atheistic rationalism.
One of Ricci’s greatest difficulties was to disentangle the authentic teaching of Confucius from the heteroclite system known as Confucianism. From a study of the Analects he became convinced that Confucius had taught a reverence for Heaven, upon which all earthly things depend, and that this religion was untainted by idolatry. Yet while reverencing the traditional Chinese Heaven, Confucius initiated a change from supernatural to ethical thinking, a shift of emphasis from God to man and human relations, which ever since had dominated Chinese philosophy. Almost at the time when Aristotle declared man’s supreme happiness to lie in the contemplation of a God whose existence he proved by reason, Confucius was preaching that man’s good was in himself and that he should seek the peace of mind which follows from virtue. Paradise could be realised on earth, here and now, if all men followed the way of co-operation and made no attempt to change their place in society. Man’s duty to Heaven was satisfied by the Emperor’s annual sacrifice; man’s duty to his neighbour demanded wisdom, patience and unselfishness every moment of every day. Religion was reduced to the science of human relations. The creation of the world and who sustained it were questions which interested few early thinkers, and the myths they invented as explanations were generally discredited. Confucius too ignored these problems, believing that reason was powerless to establish the nature of God or the existence of life after death.
This failure to provide cosmological truths or to take account of an after-life paved the way for the second most important sect, Buddhism, which possessed a powerful metaphysical structure and did not hesitate to speculate about the supernatural. Buddhist bonzes had travelled overland from India to China in the first century after Christ, preaching a mystical monism—that the world and all things in it formed with their creator a single substance—the attainment of salvation through moral perfection, and transmigration of souls, with ultimate reward for the good and punishment for the evil. They praised celibacy, which Confucius had condemned, and held that not only the Emperor but every creature must worship God. Buddhist bonzes were to be seen everywhere—from books Ricci calculated their numbers at three million—some begging alms, others living in monasteries off their own land. Valignano, fresh from Japan where Buddhist bonzes were highly esteemed, had authorised Ricci and Ruggieri to assume their dress and habits, in order to make apparent to the Chinese, in a way they could understand, that the foreigners too were priests.
The third and least important sect was Taoism, made popular by Lao Tzu, a near contemporary of Confucius and born, according to legend, as a wise old man of eighty. Confucius called his righteous way of life tao, but Lao Tzu applied the term to the basic principle of the universe; by abandoning and refining away his passions, the Taoist sage could unite himself with this cosmic force. Originally a form of mystical pantheism, the doctrine was soon corrupted, teaching that union with the tao was attained not by self-denial but by quaf
fing an elixir of life, in search of which alchemy and magical rites were practised. Later it became a religion, raising the spirits of nature to the rank of gods and borrowing the worst features of Buddhism, including its lurid hell. In Ricci’s day its priests were celibate and distinguished by a wooden skullcap on their unshaven heads. While Buddhist bonzes had the all-important task of conducting funeral rites, Taoists were summoned only to exorcise demons.
So confused and intermingled were the histories and doctrines of each sect that many Chinese practised them together and thought them really one. The majority, however, wishing to follow all three, ended by following none. In practice the graduates were atheists, while the masses, unable to appreciate the subtle philosophy of the other two sects, worshipped the myriad metal and clay idols to be seen everywhere, in houses, streets, ships and public buildings.
Ricci realised that it must be made quite clear that although he and his companion adopted the dress and habits of bonzes—although, that is, they were priests—their doctrine had nothing in common with Buddhism. But the more eagerly he explained that they worshipped an ineffable, infinite God, the greater his visitors’ bewilderment. They would point to the lifelike picture of the Saviour: finer than anything in the Buddhist pagodas, but nevertheless an idol. The foreign bonzes carried rosary beads; they burned lamps and candles on their altar; they spoke of heaven and hell; they venerated a holy woman: but all these practices took place in the nearby pagodas. Clearly the foreign bonzes were Buddhists—perhaps of a new and esoteric sect, but all the same Buddhists. In an unexpected and sinister way, the habit had made the monk.
chapter three
Paradise Revealed
Souls were dependent on silver. At the end of the year Ruggieri decided to visit Macao in order to obtain money for the upkeep of the house and, if possible, for further building. Wang P’an asked him to bring back a clock in a wooden case, for he had learned that they could be obtained in Macao, and in return provided an official boat of thirty oars for the journey, on which Philip would accompany his master. At the beginning of December Ricci waved his friends goodbye.
For the first time he found himself alone among the Chinese. The absence of a single other European made plain the full implications of his position, and the revolution of his life during the past three months. He had become in Western terminology a Chinese citizen; he dressed as a bonze, he wrote, read and spoke the Chinese language and lived in a house furnished in Chinese style. So far he had made all the concessions, without obtaining any in return. True, he had been admitted within the gates—but to what purpose? The Chinese language did not contain words for essential Christian concepts; the people equated all they saw and heard with idolatry; even an act of charity redounded to the credit of Buddhism. He found himself wondering, who is being converted? Would he, in the last resort, be slowly absorbed, like the Tartar conquerors, by the Chinese millions he hoped to win? Heaven preserve his faith! As for the work of apostolate, by all human standards it seemed the most impossible, most presumptuous of dreams.
The days and weeks passed but still Ruggieri did not return. Ricci grew anxious and wondered whether the viceroy, who had refused their proffered presents and shown every sign of coldness, had sent orders to Canton invalidating his friend’s passport. Meanwhile he continued to learn, slowly replacing his distorted ideas about the country, accustoming himself to carry his meaning in those leaking pails, Chinese ideograms, adapting himself to jeers and continual contemptuous inspection, to the inland climate, to the use of wands and the bitter golden green drink called cia, conforming to the extraordinary in all except one thing. While the mandarins locked up their seals for a month in preparation for the ceremonies of the New Year—the first full moon after the sun entered Aquarius—and the people of Shiuhing set out meats before the god of the kitchen, Ricci, following another star and a newer calendar, celebrated Christmas without festivities, alone.
Towards the middle of January the governor’s boat sailed up the Western River and moored close to the mission house. But Ruggieri was not on board. The only passenger was an Indian boy, who handed Ricci a letter from his friend. The carrack from Japan, delayed by storms, had not made port till the New Year. Even with its safe arrival, Macao remained a poor town. Unable to procure the few ducats necessary to have a timepiece made for the governor, Ruggieri had sent an Indian servant from the Jesuit house who knew how to construct clocks. He ended by saying he would return as soon as he could raise the money they needed. Greatly relieved, Ricci explained what had happened to Wang P’an. He seemed satisfied with the new arrangement and sent two local metal-workers to the mission house to help the Indian.
Ruggieri’s protracted absence increased suspicion. Rumour had it that he was starting trouble in Macao and would arrive soon at the head of a Portuguese army. Ricci learnt from the governor, himself a native of Chekiang, that the people of Kwangtung province were reputed the most hostile of all Chinese to foreigners. From time immemorial their coasts had been harried by pirates, and since the installation of the Portuguese at Macao their junks had lost much trade. The educated classes, who might otherwise have shown civility, were becoming indignant as more and more of the common people came to believe that, because building on the tower and mission residence started simultaneously, the foreign bonzes were constructing the former at their own expense. They were even beginning to call it the Tower of the Foreigners. Others supposed it to be part of a fortress the missionaries were erecting for the Portuguese.
Soon hostility spilled over in acts of bravado. Under cover of darkness skittish youths would climb the tower, rising now like a full-blown lupin beside the seedling mission, and throw stones, breaking the tiles of the house. One evening, while Ricci was out walking, the Indian servant grew so exasperated that he ran out and caught a boy who had been hurling stones. To teach him a lesson he locked the hooligan up in the house and threatened to hand him over to the governor for punishment. Shortly afterwards three elderly mandarins, attracted by the cries, came to the house and asked what had happened. They then approached Ricci and said it would be more prudent to release the boy. Ricci did so at once.
Two neighbours, leaders of those who opposed the missionaries, decided to profit from the incident. Taking counsel with a relative of the prankster, a young man versed in legal matters, they decided that he should accuse Ricci before the governor of having kept the boy in his house three days by administering a medicine which rendered him temporarily dumb, with the intention of selling him into slavery at Macao. As neighbours and eye-witnesses they would support his charge. The young man, hoping to win a name by driving out the foreigners, agreed. His hair in disorder to signify distress, he staggered through the streets, shrieking and demanding justice for the evil the foreign devils had done the poor boy, whom he falsely declared to be his brother.
Ricci turned to his acquaintances, who next day helped him to draw up a written defence against the calumny. Before the document had been completed, a soldier entered to lead Ricci and the Indian clockmaker to Wang P’an’s audience hall. There were no courts and the governor maintained order by following his own judgment rather than written law. The precincts of the hall were packed with angry crowds who jeered as the defendant was led past, and the interior too was thronged with curious bystanders. At the left of the governor stood the plaintiff, his so-called brother and the two false witnesses; at the right, guards with instruments of torture. The Indian at his side, Ricci kow-towed three times and remained kneeling. Wang P’an, who wore the severe wingless cap of judgment, threw a scornful glance at the strongly built figure mantled in grey cloth, his hair and beard shaven but marked as a foreigner by the long face, straight blue eyes and high-bridged nose.
“I have received you kindly, given you a place to live in, taken a great deal of trouble to do you favours—and you repay me by maltreating my people. You proclaim a doctrine of love, yet you secretly steal away a boy who has done you no harm.” He spoke so vehemently tha
t Ricci caught only a phrase or two. Still searching for a reply, he saw the Indian fumble in the folds of his wide sleeves and throw forward in the centre of the hall a handful of stones. They rolled along the tiled floor with the ring of truth. A moment of silence, then the Indian and Ricci haltingly began to put forward a defence.
“The accusation is false. The boy had been pelting our house with stones—and broken the roof in several places.”
Their words sounded flimsy but evidently the stones had impressed the governor, for when the plaintiff shouted “All lies! I bring witnesses to prove my charge,” Wang P’an silenced him and asked Ricci for a full account of the incident. This he gave simply and straightforwardly, but faulty grammar seemed to discredit his words. Even if Wang P’an believes me, Ricci thought, his position will be awkward, for by openly taking my part against his own people, he may be deprived of office. When the governor had listened to both plaintiff and defendant, he said:
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