Wise Man Of The West (Harvill Press Editions)

by Vincent Cronin

  Here Ricci and Pantoja stayed three days and nights. Pathetically they watched the feverish haste of the eunuch mathematicians, struggling to master the clocks. Every word Ricci said they copied down scrupulously: making a note of all the separate parts, for which Ricci had to find Chinese equivalents, and spending all night trying to memorise them. If they forgot a single detail, the mathematicians said, it would cost them their lives, for the Emperor was atrociously cruel. Time and again for some trifling error he had ordered servants to be beaten to death.

  While Ricci hastened to learn what he could about the Emperor and his palace regulations, servants came to ask questions put by the Son of Heaven. “How did people dress in the country of Li Ma-tou? What did they eat? How were their houses constructed? What did they wear? What sort of jewels did they possess? What were their marriage customs?” Already the Emperor’s interests were clear. He also asked: how were the funerals of their kings conducted? Pantoja was able to give a detailed answer, having recently received news of the death of Philip II, two and a half years before, and of his magnificent funeral. He replied that in his country kings were buried in a lead coffin, which was placed inside a wooden coffin, then shut up in a stone tomb inside a small, specially constructed church.

  The Emperor also asked his eunuchs to discover how much bread and wine they consumed at a meal, for in the palace unleavened bread often replaced the staple rice. To almost every question the missionaries found an answer which clearly implied that they wished to remain in Peking, not in the hope of gifts or an official appointment, but simply to worship the Lord of Heaven. Nothing would please them more than to be assigned a piece of land and a house where they could pass the rest of their lives.

  The train of eunuch messengers trotted back and forth, like fallen angels, between outer barbarians and the meeting-place of Heaven and earth. On the evening of the second day the Emperor sent a message asking, “Why haven’t the clocks been brought to me?” With trembling fingers the eunuchs hurriedly assembled the parts and carried the timepieces to the imperial apartments. Presently they came back elated. The Emperor was delighted to hear the clocks ticking and striking the hour. As a reward he had promoted the four mathematicians to higher rank, with increased pay. But what they prized most was that every day two of their number were to enter the imperial presence in order to wind the little clock, which the Emperor intended to keep by him day and night.

  “Why are you pleased,” asked Ricci, “if His Majesty is so unreasonably cruel?”

  “Everyone else at court,” replied one of the eunuchs, “will be afraid lest we speak ill of them. That could cost them their lives. So they will hold us in respect and give us fine presents.”

  As the palace apartments proved too low to permit the free hanging of the weights of the large clock, the Emperor later had it erected in his garden, in a small wooden tower, which the missionaries designed, near the Imperial Pavilion of Longevity. The tower had stairs, windows and a verandah, carved, gilded and painted, with a larger bell specially cast.

  The Emperor, pleased with the gifts, was anxious to know what their donors looked like, for the eunuchs’ reports had not satisfied him. But to see them in person, Ricci was informed, he absolutely refused. During the last sixteen years he had seen no one but his concubines and eunuchs face to face. Formerly he had left the palace, but always with the strictest precautions, as though travelling in enemy country, surrounded by thousands of soldiers, and hidden away in one of many litters—not even members of the court knew which. Fear of assassination and shame at his unsightly body now kept him a prisoner at the heart of his own empire. Indeed, the more the missionaries heard about Wan Li, the more discouraged they became. The extraordinary honours and power he enjoyed in so civilised a country had led them to expect an Augustus; instead he appeared to be a Nero, given to rapacity, anger and insatiable greed. He indulged a passion for rare objects by ordering from the ovens of Ching-te Chen in a single year twenty-seven thousand cups and saucers, six thousand five hundred goblets and seven hundred great vases for goldfish. Laziness had turned him, at the age of thirty-eight, into a bloated monster whose voice could hardly be heard at ten feet. The only man in a city of eunuchs and women, Emperor since the age of nine, he was nevertheless completely dominated by his favourites of the moment and his own lusts. He issued the necessary rescripts but showed no interest in government: he cherished his harem, his porcelain and the cult of himself.

  Yet for his people he was not a god but a chosen man, sacrosanct merely because of his relationship with the divine. Through the Emperor Heaven governed earth and earth was attuned to Heaven. Only the Emperor was empowered to offer religious sacrifice, only the Son of Heaven, bearing the destiny of a hundred and ninety million Chinese, was worthy to communicate with Heaven. Twice a year, clad in a silk robe embroidered with dragons, the sun, moon and stars, he mounted the steps which, to the triply sacred and perfect number of nine, preceded a white marble altar lying open to the sky, a round edifice on a square base, its lower circle carved with clouds, the middle with phoenixes, the top with dragons. There, at dawn, resuming all earthly things in himself, he offered chosen food, bales of silk, a young unblemished bull and pieces of lapis lazuli to the mysterious life-giving Heaven. At the summer and winter solstice, in the capital city, at the point of communication between earth and sky, the Emperor harmonised man with nature in an astrobiological rite, orienting him for another half-year to the dominating stars, to the principles of Yin and Yang.

  Since he refused to see the foreigners, the Emperor gave orders that their portraits should be painted. From the college of mathematicians they were escorted to the imperial studios, still inside the palace. Here Ricci and Pantoja stayed several days, while they were both painted full length on rolls of silk. At the end of the sitting they inspected the finished portraits, then looked at each other in silent astonishment. It was impossible to tell which was which: they were unrecognisable, without the smallest likeness. Just as Chinese annalists made unprecedented events conform to past tradition, the account of any one year reading like those of the past two millennia, so the painters, working in a period of artistic decline and slavish imitation of past calligraphic masters, had portrayed two Chinese graduates, distinctive only by their slightly larger eyes and thicker beards. They had drawn barbarians within the orbit of the Flowery Kingdom.

  Proudly the painters carried their work to the Emperor and reported his approval: “When His Majesty saw the pictures, he said, ‘They are Hoeihoei’: that is, Saracens of Persia who trade with the Middle Kingdom. But a secretary replied, ‘Surely not, Your Majesty, for these foreigners eat pork.’”

  Satisfied as to their appearance, the Emperor now posed further questions—difficult to answer orally. “What clothes do your kings wear? Do you have a model of their palaces?” The missionaries were able to provide visible definitions in the form of holy pictures and engravings. One showed angels, living men and the damned kneeling to the name of Jesus, a favourite image of the Order. Among the living stood the Pope, with his triple crown, the kings and queens of Europe and other dignitaries dressed in robes of honour. Ricci considered it a suitable present, implying that the Emperor too should reverence the holy Name. The picture, however, was soon returned, with the complaint that the figures were too small and shadowy. The painters were ordered to make a much larger copy in colour. This they did, eliminating the shadow and perspective, while the missionaries remained a few days longer to suggest and advise.

  To provide an idea of a European palace, Ricci sent a servant to his lodgings for a book of engravings of the Escurial and a print of the square, palace and church of St. Mark’s, Venice. The painters did not dare present the former, lest the Emperor request an enlargement which, owing to the fineness of detail, would have been quite beyond their powers. When he saw the Venetian print and learned that foreign kings lived in palaces several stories high, the Emperor laughed and said, “That is an exceedingly dangerous practic
e.”

  At last the questions came to an end, and the missionaries, with no pretext for remaining, were escorted from the palace. The great southern gate no longer seemed an arch of triumph, for, since there had been no opportunity to speak of religion, they counted their visit a failure. Ricci’s first act was to rent a house near one of the palace entrances so that if, as he hoped, a second summons should arrive, they could respond without delay.

  Hardly had they transferred their belongings when they received a visit from four more imperial eunuchs. Ricci saw from their dress that they had a much higher rank than the mathematicians: they were in fact imperial musicians—in particular, string instrumentalists—come with orders that the foreigners should teach them how to play the clavichord.

  On the following day Ricci and Pantoja again entered the palace, and at the imperial college of music were received with great solemnity. Round the room were ranged chimes of stones, bells and gongs, flutes like twigs on which a bird was perched, brass clappers, horns and trumpets convoluted to resemble beasts, monstrous freaks of musical nature, a kind of organ without bellows, drums of every dimension, wooden tigers with a row of teeth on their backs, gourds and ocarinas. Ricci recalled a concert in the magnificent Temple of Heaven at Nanking, which had proved interesting rather than pleasurable. The sacred tones had sounded like caterwauling, shattering the geometric order of the great pagoda like the walls of Jericho, for only five notes were employed and not more than fourteen sounds in any composition. With an untempered scale and without semitones no harmony was possible. Yet the classic books defined music as the essence of the harmony between heaven, earth and man; Confucius had loved listening and emphasised its paramount influence for good. When he tactfully mentioned the discrepancy to friends, Ricci was told that the old tradition had been lost almost two millennia before, only the instruments remaining: a parallel to the spheres in the Nanking observatory, but with a different explanation. The usurper Shih Huang-ti, who had built the Great Wall, wishing to pose before posterity as the First Emperor, had destroyed all the classical books by fire. Most philosophical works had been pieced together from memory by scholars, but the music, like its Greek contemporary, had been irretrievably lost.

  Ricci and Pantoja were assigned magisterial positions at the north end of the room, facing south. The eunuchs approached from the other end, making four deep prostrations on the way, then knelt before the missionaries, asking them to teach diligently and patiently, and not to grow angry if they were slow learners. To propitiate the clavichord they wanted to pay it the same respect, but Ricci persuaded them that this was unnecessary. Then he and Pantoja began to explain and demonstrate the eight-tone European scale. The eunuchs were astonished at the metal wires struck by tangents, for their custom was to use finger or bow to sound raw silk strings, and still more surprised at the clavichord’s sweet tones. Presently the wooden walls, acting as a sounding box, were sending forth the madrigals by Animuccia and Nanino which all Italy was singing, across the courtyards and upturned gilded roofs to the Imperial presence.

  As the college lay within the third wall, the missionaries came to know more important members of the court and to be regarded as familiar visitors. This advance, however, was threatened from the rear. Ricci had learned that Ma T’ang intended to ask the Emperor, on their behalf, for a large sum of money, of which he would take the lion’s share. Having served his purpose, they would then be sent back south, their visit fruitless. Ricci had hoped that by renting a house he would throw off Ma T’ang’s men, but in fact a sentry still stood guard and allowed the missionaries to leave only in order to visit the palace.

  After the first day at the college of music, Ricci usually let Pantoja go alone, in company with the sentry, while he turned his liberty to good account, paying visits and making what friends he could. None of those to whom he had letters of introduction received him: besides traditional hostility to foreigners and the rivalry which existed between the two court cities, the discovery of the crucifixes, still news at Peking, frightened them. Ricci now realised that his encounter with Ma T’ang had been providential. If he had arrived alone, no one would have dared to present a memorial on a foreigner’s behalf. But it was no less clear that he must now escape from the eunuch’s clutches.

  More than a month passed. The two younger musicians had already learned how to play a madrigal, but they had to wait while the two older men, one of whom was seventy, mastered the instrument. They repeatedly asked for the words of songs, in case his Majesty should ask them to sing. Anxious to profit by even this oblique opportunity, Ricci composed Chinese words to eight madrigals, the theme of each being a moral maxim. All were short and adapted, in imagery and thought, to the Chinese mind. One, The True Way to Longevity, ran, “True longevity is reckoned not by the number of years but according to progress in virtue. If the Lord of Heaven grants me one day more of life, He does so that I may correct yesterday’s faults: failure to do this would be a sign of great ingratitude.” Another praised indifference to fame and fortune, a third exhorted the mind to sublime thoughts. The cunuchs learned and sang Ricci’s songs to the Emperor. At first he was puzzled, but as the weight of tradition in this skill was slight, he soon came to appreciate delicate and tremulous sounds which accorded so well with other Chinese arts. Ricci circulated copies of the songs among his friends, from whom they won acclaim purely as literature. Those who understood his intention congratulated him, saying, “You use musical instruments not only to please the ear but to teach virtuous living.”

  chapter ten

  The Castle of Barbarians

  Western modes seemed on the verge of replacing the old harmony between Heaven and earth, prelude perhaps to a new cosmography and a new religion, for Confucius no less than Plato testified to music’s decisive influence on man and his notion of the universe. An old passage in the Classics declared “The kung note is a prince; shang a minister; chio the people; chih affairs; and yii things. If all five are out of due order, then ruin must follow.”

  On its highest note, when the Emperor and all Peking were humming madrigals, the new music jarred to a dying fall. One evening towards the end of February a dozen soldiers surrounded the missionaries’ house. Their officer sent a message asking leave to enter. Ricci, sensing a trick, refused, whereupon the soldiers seized and bound Brother Sebastian. Realising then that he must come from a high mandarin, Ricci went out and spoke to the officer.

  “You are under arrest,” he was told.

  “On whose authority?”

  The officer produced his warrant, signed with the seal of Ts’ai Hsü-t’ai, director of foreign embassies to the Middle Kingdom in the Ministry of Rites. Ricci and his companion were charged with failing to appear at the Ministry. Puzzled, Ricci questioned the officer and learned that Ts’ai had asked Ma T’ang to let his Ministry offer the presents. When Ma T’ang refused, Ts’ai, unable to coerce so powerful a eunuch, was now revenging himself on Ricci.

  When Pantoja returned from his music lesson, Ricci explained what had happened and they agreed to submit, as a dangerous but possibly effective way of regaining mandarin patronage. The officer ordered them to be present next day at the Ministry; meanwhile he locked them in the house and set a guard. When Ma T’ang’s agent discovered what had happened, he had the locks broken and threatened the guards with arrest.

  “You have stolen from the foreigners,” he charged. “You have made off with valuables meant for His Majesty. Ma T’ang will make you pay for this.”

  At the mention of Ma T’ang’s name the guards took fright and ran away. The eunuch then said he would transfer them to another house, but Ricci was unwilling to be rescued. If they did not slip out of the eunuch’s hands now, the Ministry would perhaps acknowledge defeat and they would lose all hope of remaining in Peking.

  “As foreigners,” said Ricci, “it would be unwise for us to disobey an official order. I suggest that you accompany us to the Ministry of Rites and explain your grievances there.”


  To this the eunuch reluctantly agreed.

  After an anxious night, the following day Ricci and Pantoja were provided with horses, the usual means of transport in so extensive a city. Like most of their sort, they were geldings—the art of breaking in stallions was unknown, and consequently China had no effective cavalry—poor creatures that plodded at a slow pace. Wearing the customary black veil against dust, which was swept from the unpaved streets by every breath of air, they were escorted towards the Ministry. Though sedans, mules and horses crowded the route, Ricci noticed that circulation was less congested than at Nanking, for the black veils everyone wore prevented recognition, rendering it unnecessary to dismount, bow and converse with every passing acquaintance, a point of etiquette elsewhere in China. The eunuch preceded them, brandishing his master’s name, and stalked past the guards into the Ministry.

  “His Majesty,” he informed Ts’ai, “has placed the whole affair in Ma T’ang’s hands. Unless you stop interfering I will send the Emperor a memorial, complaining that your guards have robbed the foreigners’ house. You will lose your post.”

  But the director of foreign embassies was not intimidated. “The laws of the land,” he said, “lay down that all foreigners are under my jurisdiction. Moreover, His Majesty’s second memorial to Ma T’ang expressly referred Li Ma-tou and his party to me.”