Wise Man Of The West (Harvill Press Editions)

by Vincent Cronin

  “I want to give your master this present,” he said. “But I cannot return to Shiuchow without it, having lost most of my other possessions in the wreck. I must therefore first know for certain whether your master intends to take me to Peking.”

  Ricci was well aware that Shih’s suite had been informed of their master’s plans, but, as he foresaw, the secretary, astonished at the iridescent jewel, informed Shih of the offer. The Minister, torn between covetousness and fear, decided to compromise. No longer mindful of his sick son, he said he would allow Ricci to travel with his baggage by water as far as Nanking and offered to provide a passport.

  In importance the southern capital almost equalled Peking, but it was not the Emperor’s city. Ricci stifled his disappointment and accepted the offer with a good grace, presenting Shih with the prism. It so exceeded his secretary’s description that at first the Minister refused to accept a gift worth, so he claimed, at least two hundred taels. In the end Ricci had to beg him to keep it.

  They parted on friendly terms, the Minister, his wives and children in thirteen sedans, protected by horsemen; while Ricci, Dominic Fernandez and his servants proceeded by water, across the eighty-mile extent of Lake Poyang, into the Sky Blue River, the Yangtze, largest of three great basins draining the mountains of China. As they sailed into Nanking province, the country became alluvial and flat as a worn coin, while space assumed a new form. By night, the unpropped sky was bent down by the weight of its clustered fruit, so that it seemed China had been endowed with more and brighter stars than any other land. By day, as far as the eye could see, thousands upon thousands of boats crowded the river, in places two or three miles wide, their matted sails silhouetted against what seemed the edge of the world. Each of the numerous islands boasted a shrine, and every few miles, among the wheat which Ricci saw for the first time since leaving Europe, stood beacon towers, used to signal important news. The sailors considered the river extremely dangerous, and at dusk, or whenever the wind rose, hastily put in to one of the tributary streams.

  On the last day of May, six weeks after leaving Shiuchow, Ricci sighted the suburbs of Nanking. The city was considered by the Chinese the largest and most beautiful in the world and when he first glimpsed its massive outer wall, forty miles in circumference, overtopped by pagodas and towers, Ricci felt inclined to agree. In order to attract the least possible attention he took lodgings in a house on the outskirts. After unloading his baggage and leaving Dominic to guard it, he hired a sedan chair and began to explore the city.

  The outer wall, protected by a deep moat, reared fifty feet high and extended twenty feet at the summit. Within lay estates, each mansion standing in spacious gardens, surrounded by groves and lakes. In half an hour he arrived at the second wall, eighteen miles in circumference, even more formidable than the outer rampart, crowned at every gate by long five-storeyed brick towers and guarded by primitive artillery and troops. Here began wide, regular streets, laid out at right angles, shops, houses and public buildings. Horses, sedan chairs and pedestrians forced a way through to the din of street-criers and musicians. In no other city had he seen so many towers and pagodas, nor so many bridges, for the city was brocaded with a silver thread of canals, all linked to the Yangtze which flowed along its western length. At the eastern end of Nanking proper, within the third wall, six miles in circumference and strongest of all, lay the palace, to which only imperial officials had right of access. Two centuries before, the Emperor had transferred his court to Peking, the “Capital of the North” founded by Kublai Khan, in order to withstand Tartar invasions. To avoid giving offence to Nanking, he allowed the “Capital of the South” to retain its imperial palace, privileges and ministries, which were duplicated at Peking. It was in keeping with her different logic that China should possess two capitals, the northern boasting the imperial court, the southern being the larger, older and more beautiful city, burial place, too, of past emperors.

  Shortly after his arrival, Ricci decided to call on an acquaintance, fifth son of Liu, former viceroy of Shiuhing, and for the visit to vest himself as a graduate. In preparation, he had allowed his hair to grow almost to his shoulders, as the Chinese wore it, and his beard fell well below his breast, thicker and longer than the few straggling hairs even the highest mandarin could boast.

  He lifted the precious garment from his baggage. After his coarse grey rags, the well-cut silk felt smooth and cold as the manner he must now assume. Shuffling off in a single action the despairs of a decade, he now put on the ankle-long silk robe with loose, flowing sleeves in the Venetian style, which all graduates wore on formal visits: purple, with a pale blue border two inches wide at the neck, lined and with a belt of the same colour: almost the red and blue of his coat of arms, folding the wide ends across his breast and tying them at the side with long bows. No less than for the larvae on their mulberry leaf, the silk in which his body was now enclosed would be the means and condition of metamorphosis. As he picked up the high square black hat which went with the dress, he smiled, for it resembled nothing so much as a bishop’s mitre. A fan and softly embroidered silk slippers, so impracticable as to be a symbol of leisure, completed his attire.

  In two details he refused to conform. He would not spend half an hour every morning combing his hair, and he would not let his finger-nails grow. Some mandarins aspired to nails like razor-shells, six inches long, which they protected with slivers of wood or silver cases.

  Ricci, knowing the value placed on suave politeness as an aid to peace of mind, had studied details of graduate etiquette. He had had his own visiting books made, twelve pages of thick white paper, six inches by four, inscribed in small characters with his name in its humblest form: Li Ma-tou. The book was carried in a red case, colour of good omen, by one of his servants, also dressed in a long fine tunic. When Ricci arrived in a sedan chair at Liu’s house, a visiting book was handed to the gateman, who carried it up to the door. Later Liu appeared and, hiding his surprise, welcomed Ricci as an equal. Joining his hands with the long sleeves, then raising and lowering them several times, he repeated the formal greeting: “Ch’ing ch’ing.” As gravely as he could, Ricci reciprocated, finding it strange no longer to have to prostrate himself. At the threshold each made way for the other, Ricci finally leading. In the room prepared for guests Liu took a chair in both hands, placed it in the position of honour at the north end, made sure it was solid and removed a speck of imaginary dust. Ricci then took another chair for his host and, placing it opposite his own, repeated the polite gestures. They sat down and began conversation. Ricci explained how he came to be in Nanking, and his change of dress. Liu showed no displeasure.

  “You have become one of us,” he said.

  “I should like to think so,” replied Ricci, “but is there an accepted category to which I can belong?”

  “Certainly. You are what we call a graduate theologian, a bachelor of arts who instead of taking office devotes himself to the study of theology, discussing and writing about religious matters. It is a recognised grade.”

  Ricci willingly accepted the new designation, noticing with pleasure that Liu showed no sign of his former superciliousness. He then explained how anxious he was to be allowed to live in the capital. Liu promised to help, but pointed out that it would be even more difficult to reside there than at Peking, for the southern capital was continually suspected of revolutionary designs, and none of the magistrates dared relax the laws, least of all during wartime.

  A servant carried in tea and set it on a lacquered table between the two purple-clad figures. He filled first Ricci’s bowl, then Liu’s: in both lay crystallised fruits which, after sipping the tea, they ate with silver wands. Hampered by flowing sleeves, this proved as awkward as to express the simple truth in the flowery, formal phrases of polite conversation.

  The visit completed, Ricci rose and bowed. At the door of the house Liu made to accompany his guest. Ricci, according to etiquette, insisted that his host should not cross the threshold. Afte
r an exchange of bows Ricci walked to the free-standing gateway, while Liu withdrew a few paces, reappearing at the door just as Ricci’s sedan was taken up. At this moment a final “Ch’ing ch’ing” was exchanged. Presently a servant arrived at Ricci’s lodging to bid him goodbye in Liu’s name, a compliment which Ricci was obliged to return through one of his own servants.

  Ricci was elated by this first successful call. He had evidently fulfilled the demands of urbane ceremonial, for he received amiable visits from Liu, who introduced him to important friends. After enquiries they discovered that Hsü Ta-jen, a mandarin Ricci had known at Shiuhing, now held a post in the Court of State Ceremonial. Ricci remembered him, an upright, conscientious old man, concerned with one thing only, advancement in his career. They had become good friends and Ricci had given him a sphere, a globe of the world and a sand clock.

  Again he wore graduate dress and was carried in a sedan chair. Outside the mandarin’s house stood a specially fine arched gateway, signifying that the owner had passed the doctoral examination. But the house itself was austere and meanly furnished: Ricci recalled that his style of living had won Hsü the reputation of being a saint.

  Before the completion of formalities, Hsü Ta-jen, unable to contain his astonishment, broke out, “How do you come to be here, my dear friend?”

  “Shih, the Minister of War, provided me with a passport,” replied Ricci, and after explaining the circumstances added, “I am delighted to find your excellency here, and have only one desire: to remain in Nanking with you as my protector.”

  The well-mannered mask remained impassive, but Ricci observed Hsü’s pupils dilate: how often a similar question had evoked that response.

  “You have made a mistake in coming here,” said Hsü. “A capital city is no place for foreigners. And your visit to me was ill-advised. I shall be accused of inviting you to Nanking.”

  “Surely not,” said Ricci, showing his passport, “since I am authorised by a Minister.”

  Although Shih far exceeded him in rank, Hsü was not appeased.

  “The laws forbid foreigners to enter the country,” he said. “No magistrate, however powerful, has the right to set them aside. Besides, Shih is far away now; it is I who will be held responsible. Where are you staying?” he demanded.

  When Ricci gave the address, the mandarin called guards and told them to arrest the landlord. Ricci protested.

  “It is an offence to harbour foreigners,” replied Hsü. “In order to vindicate my character which your visit here has compromised, I must enforce the law.” Relenting a little, he said, “I am sorry I cannot help you. Your best plan is to leave Nanking at once.” Ricci pleaded, but his charm of manner, which usually overcame anger or fear, left the austere Hsü unmoved. The old man led Ricci to the door where they took formal leave of each other.

  On his return, Ricci found the house in disorder. The guards, in order to extract a bribe, had painted his case in the darkest colours. Ricci explained what had happened and tried to reassure the house owner, who that same day was led before Hsü, threatened with torture and accused of plotting revolution. The landlord defended himself by saying that Shih’s servants had introduced the foreigner. Finally he was released on sole condition that next day he put Ricci on a boat sailing south. At this news, Liu and his friends proffered comfort and indignation. Those who had insisted he visit Hsü now pointed out that he had a very niggardly and timid nature, and that Ricci had been mistaken to trust him. They told him to defy Hsü by remaining in or near Nanking, and at first Ricci resolved to do so, even at the risk of imprisonment. Only the landlord’s dangerous position forced him to change his mind. Reluctantly he decided to withdraw to a smaller town and from there strive for permission to return. He chose Nanchang, which Shih had recommended to him. Next morning, after only a fortnight in the capital, he boarded the public ferry and, utterly dispirited, sailed south.

  Nanking, its size, the great river on which it stood and its numerous bridges: these Ricci pondered during the journey. He had by now traversed half China and extended the boundaries of the world known to Europe by thousands of square miles. Everywhere he had taken bearings, noted mountain ranges, estimated population, described climate. Yet, engaged on his discovery of China, he had been searching simultaneously for another country which eluded his grasp: Cathay. Chinese tribute-lists, histories, maps, the scholars he had questioned—all were ignorant of the country. Yet, in the West, that name was on the lips of every geographer, occupying on atlases a vague and vast position east of Persia and northwest of China, itself a mere fringe of coast around Macao. Very often he had felt puzzled that so vast a country should have had no relations with China. Now, with Nanking fresh in mind, memories of Polo’s book came back. Polo had not so much as mentioned the name of China; for him Cathay was the most important country of the East, and he had noted that the greatest city of Cathay contained 12,000 bridges. Ricci estimated that there were well over a thousand in Nanking, and other figures in the Venetian’s book, checked by later travellers, had proved to be greatly exaggerated. Could he have been describing Nanking under another name? Polo also mentioned a great river dividing Cathay from east to west. Could that be the Yangtze, which separated the seven northern from the eight southern provinces? The different appellations were difficult to explain, but it might be that the Mongol conquerors of Polo’s day had provided names from their own tongue. For the moment the identity of Polo’s city with Nanking was no more than a bold hypothesis, but he decided to take every opportunity of putting it to the test.

  On the eleventh day of the voyage, shortly before the ferry was due to arrive, Ricci was standing on deck, turning over events and gloomily surveying the future, when suddenly a shadowy figure approached and spoke to him.

  “So you are travelling to destroy the ancient religion of this country and establish a new one?”

  Ricci started. He had always taken scrupulous care to hide from everyone his ultimate intentions. Certain that the figure was more than human, he fell back and whispered, “Are you God or the devil, that you know my secret?”

  “I am not the devil. I am God.”

  Ricci fell on his knees and cried, “O Lord, since You know my plans, why don’t You help?”

  Carried outside himself, the pressure of disappointed hopes, of difficulties surmounted in vain, became too much. Tears streamed down his cheeks. The stranger began to comfort him and promised to help him reach both the capital cities. For a moment Ricci had a vivid glimpse of storeyed gate-towers he had never seen before. In astonishment and gratitude he looked up to the river and a landscape of squat tea-bushes. Had he been dreaming? No, he was certain the figure had actually stood in front of him, and the deck was clear now. Never had he experienced anything similar, and he was not the sort of person to imagine things, even under stress. Always in the crisis of deepest depression, at Shiuhing, at Canton, it had seemed to him that Heaven intervened. Now, perhaps, he had been given a more personal pledge for the future, like the vision and promise of help Ignatius had been granted at Storta. Convinced of its reality, he hurried to Dominic, no less downcast than he by events at Nanking, and described the incident.

  They entered Nanchang the following day no longer discouraged by past failures but certain of supernatural help. A travelling companion, fan-bearer of the local viceroy, recommended lodgings in the south-west corner of the town, where next day Ricci was able to celebrate Mass. It was the feast of Saint Peter and Saint Paul; he saw a special significance in the fact and in the Introit: “Lord, thou hast proved me, and known me: thou hast known my sitting down, and my rising up.” At last, perhaps, he was destined to begin a fruitful apostolate.

  chapter six

  Up the Imperial Canal

  Nanchang lay on the River Kan in perfectly flat country. Larger than either Shiuhing or Shiuchow, and the capital of the province, it was not an important trading city. Its inhabitants were parsimonious and content with little; many lived a life of fasting and abst
inence in accordance with Buddhist teaching. For learning no less than piety it was famous throughout China. It possessed the right to award more degrees than any other place of its size, and boasted some of the wisest men in China. The streets of no other town contained so many triumphal arches in honour of citizens attaining high rank.

  For several days after his arrival Ricci kept to his room, resting and sending out Dominic to make enquiries. He had hoped to find at least one mandarin promoted from Kwantung province, but was disappointed. He therefore paid his first visit to a doctor who had travelled in Shih’s suite, a wealthy man consulted by all the local dignitaries. Ricci was received with the courtesy due to a graduate and shortly afterwards was invited to a banquet at which the guests would include two princes of the blood royal.

  Ricci learned that sons of past Emperors were given the purely honorific but hereditary title of Wang, originally signifying King but now bearing the force of Prince, and a large income from public funds, which permitted them a life of untroubled luxury, honoured but with less jurisdiction than a mandarin of the ninth rank. They were not allowed to hold office. None but the heir to the throne was allowed to live in Peking, nor to travel out of the city in which his estates lay. More than sixty thousand persons of royal blood were supported at public expense.