Matteo Ricci

by Michela Fontana

  The first comprised the large number of guan and army officers of high rank serving in the provincial capital. Then there were the young xiucai, or “budding talents,” particularly numerous in Nanchang due to the presence of three schools offering courses of preparation for the imperial examinations. Proof that these institutes deserved their excellent reputation was provided by the fact that no fewer than eight of the successful candidates graduating as jinshi, or metropolitan graduates, at the most recent imperial examinations held in Beijing were from Nanchang, as against only five from the populous province of Guangdong. The city took great pride in this distinction, of which Ricci was soon informed, and in being the birthplace of one of the grand secretaries, the guan of the highest rank in the state bureaucracy. Between two and six of these secretaries were appointed at any one time to take responsibility for supervising government activities. The third group comprised the feared and respected relatives and friends of the grand secretaries, together with the relatives of other important officials and temporarily unemployed mandarins awaiting positions. The fourth social class of great prestige was the numerous and exclusive group of princes of the imperial family. With the sole exception of the designated heir, all of the emperor’s sons were obliged to leave the capital on reaching puberty and take up residence in provinces far away from Beijing. They all received large allowances from the state that enabled them to live in luxury as long as they complied with the laws forbidding them to hold positions in the state bureaucracy and the army or to travel inside the country without special permission from the emperor.

  The law exiling the relatives of the Son of Heaven from the capital was introduced by Yongle, the third Ming emperor, who usurped the throne from his nephew in 1402. The new ruler deemed it prudent to exile his own heirs by decree and prohibit them from holding any position so as to prevent any future threat to his authority. Adopted by all of the following eleven emperors, including Wanli, over a span of nearly two centuries, this practice served to eliminate infighting, but it had serious repercussions on the empire’s finances. As the princely title and associated income were inherited by the firstborn son and all the other descendants were entitled to allowances and privileges, the number of relatives of the emperor living at the government’s expense increased over the years to become an intolerable burden. In Nanchang alone, by Ricci’s perhaps excessive estimate, they accounted for a fifth of the local population.

  Needless to say, Ricci felt very much at home in the select milieu of a town apparently devoid of the xenophobic tensions that existed in the two capitals and the coastal provinces, just as the vice minister Shi Xing had foreseen when he advised him to stay there. It was indeed in Nanchang that Ricci came to change his mind about the readiness of the Chinese to become his true friends. He soon met with “courteous and friendly” people, including his landlord, who advised him to begin his series of formal visits with the wealthy physician Wang Jilou, an influential figure and close friend of Shi Xing.

  Ricci dressed as a scholar, requiring his servants to wear long robes too, and hired a litter, determined to act “with as much authority as possible” and follow the dictates of etiquette to the letter. No one in his new home had ever seen him dressed as a Buddhist monk, and they would all know him only as Li Madou, Xitai, the learned preacher well versed in the local “courtesies.” The meeting with the physician went very smoothly indeed, not least because Shi Xing had kept the promise he made before leaving for Beijing and had written to inform his friends of the Jesuit’s impending arrival. A member of the city’s most exclusive circles and on very good terms with the governor general of the Jiangxi province, whose son was one of his patients, the physician was more than willing to act as host and held a banquet in Ricci’s honor to which he invited the city’s dignitaries, including their imperial highnesses Kang Yi, prince of Jian’an, and Duo Geng, prince of Le’an.

  I Cannot Tell a Lie

  Ricci had already attended numerous banquets and was familiar with the etiquette. The homes of the wealthy mandarins in which they were held were richly decorated with valuable objects and antiques. The Chinese appreciated vases of bronze, objects of terracotta and jade, seals carved in semiprecious stones, tiny bottles of scent, and works of calligraphy on paper or canvas. They collected plates, vases of all shapes and sizes, bowls, boxes, and small water jugs of porcelain. While this material had been used in China since the first centuries of the Christian era, the secret of its manufacture was still unknown in Europe, where it was not introduced until the eighteenth century. Ricci was particularly enamored of its gleaming perfection and called it “the most beautiful and crystalline thing in the world.”4 Even though excellent china was produced in the Ming era, above all in the factories of Jingdezhen, which worked nonstop for the imperial court and the homes of the richest Chinese, ancient porcelain was greatly prized, especially pieces from the Song dynasty. The great interest in antique objects fostered the commerce of fakes produced with the utmost skill and sold either as copies to those unable to afford originals or as authentic works at very high prices to unwary collectors. Another product that Ricci greatly admired, used in Chinese furnishing since ancient times but wholly unknown in Europe, was lacquer. The Chinese used this varnish derived from plants to give wooden furniture and boxes a smooth and shiny finish that was easy to clean. The coat of lacquer on banqueting tables made the use of tablecloths quite superfluous, as the Jesuit noted in his precise description of Chinese ways.

  The banquet took place in accordance with customary practice. The guests were received in an atrium, where they were served tea and engaged in conversation before being invited into the dining room. The host went out into the courtyard with a goblet of wine, poured its contents onto the ground, and bowed toward the south in honor of heaven. He then took his seat together with all the guests at a long rectangular table, placing the guest of honor in the center and taking his place alongside him. Each place was laid with a bowl of warm wine and the customary chopsticks—made of ebony or ivory, and with gilded or silver-plated tips for the most important occasions—with which the food, served in small pieces, was lifted to the mouth. Since the use of chopsticks and china spoons for soups avoided direct contact with the food, no one washed their hands either before or after dining, as Ricci did not fail to note in pointing out the differences with respect to practice at Western tables. In response to a gesture of invitation from the host, the guests took their bowls in both hands and sipped the wine while awaiting the first dish. It was only when the host had lifted the first piece of food to his mouth that the others followed suit and the banquet began in an atmosphere of general merriment.

  Such occasions sometimes included discussions on philosophical subjects, or forms of entertainment that ended up in repeated libations of not particularly strong wine made from rice and other cereals, which Ricci found vaguely similar to beer. There were at least twenty dishes, which always included meat, fish, vegetables of every type, and soup; and the alternation of foods and tastes—savory, sweet and sour, spicy, and bitter—was based on the effect of the various substances on the organism in accordance with the precepts of Chinese medicine. The appearance of enormous trays of fruit on the table marked the definitive end of the succession of courses. Even though he preferred the simple rice and vegetables of the everyday diet to the elaborate dishes of the banquets, which were served in excessive amounts, Ricci loved the local cuisine and was now accustomed to sampling each delicacy in moderation, well aware that guests in China were under no obligation to finish everything on their plates.

  After Ricci’s participation at a banquet together with two imperial princes, word of Xitai, the sage from a distant land, began to spread, and he soon came to the attention of the governor, Lu Wan’gai, who gave orders to discover the foreigner’s real intentions. Under threat of eviction from his terrified landlord, Ricci was summoned to an audience. The guan proved well disposed, however, expressing his appreciati
on for the Jesuit’s gift of a prism, which he then returned for the sake of propriety, and readily granting him permission to take up residence in the city. He also commissioned the construction of an astrolabe and a sundial, which the Jesuit delivered some days later with the addition of a celestial globe. The prefect Wang Zuo proved less obliging and showed some reluctance to sanction the foreigner’s stay in the city but finally bowed to the wishes of his superior.

  Having received authorization, Ricci began his search for a house and made the requisite round of calls on the local authorities and the most important literati and men of culture. One of these was the elderly philosopher Zhang Doujin, considered one of the four most authoritative figures in the province and head of the White Deer Grotto Academy, whose members—formerly including the Neo-Confucian philosopher Zhu Xi—gathered regularly to discuss moral and philosophical subjects. The scholar was already familiar with Ricci’s map of the world and intended to publish a reproduction in the astronomical and geographic encyclopedia entitled Tushupian, on which he was then working. He asked Ricci for clarification on aspects of European science and in turn provided advice enabling Ricci to understand Chinese society more deeply. He also invited Ricci to take part in the academy’s discussions. The debates held in public and in the shuyuan, or academies, ensured lively intellectual contact between scholars and fostered the circulation of new ideas. It is therefore hardly surprising that a learned foreigner should be invited and his opinions listened to with great interest.

  Ricci took part in these amicable disputes, speaking in Chinese and astonishing those present with his ability to quote Confucius like a scholar. He felt fully at ease in his role as a daoren while illustrating the principles of Christian doctrine to that select audience. This was an invaluable opportunity to gauge the reactions of Chinese literati to the idea of an immortal god, the supreme legislator who rewards or punishes, and to descriptions of the heaven or hell awaiting men in the next life. Ricci became aware during these discussions just how alien his beliefs were to the Chinese mentality, which had no place for or understanding of the concept of sin. For Chinese ethics, it made no sense to speak of waiting for happiness to be received after death. Importance was attached instead to practicing the moral virtues and improving oneself so as to obtain well-being and serenity during this life, observing the rites, respecting the hierarchies, and fostering fulfillment of the cosmic order on earth. Buddhist doctrine did possess an elaborate concept of hell, corresponding rather to the Christian purgatory, where the deceased remained only until complete atonement had been attained, avoiding the eternal and irrevocable damnation described by Ricci. During one of the discussions, not knowing how to respond to the missionary’s talk of divine judgment in the afterlife, Zhang Doujin quoted the observation by a scholar of the Song era intended to demonstrate the uselessness of the Buddhist belief in a heaven and a hell similar to those of Christianity: “If there is a heaven, it is right that the good should ascend to it . . . if there is a hell, the evil will go there. Let us try to be good and not evil.”5 The exchange of views came to an end without one opinion prevailing over the others.

  Despite the diversity of viewpoints, Ricci was convinced that it would be easy to prove the validity of his teachings to the literati. Astonished at the inadequacy of their arguments, which appeared to violate the most elementary rules of dialectics, he was certain of being able to persuade them on the terrain of rationality, where he felt best equipped. In actual fact, what Ricci saw as an incapacity for logical reasoning was rather a way of thinking based on different mental categories and parameters from those to which he was accustomed. The very originality of Chinese culture made communication between the Jesuit and the literati rather like a dialogue of the deaf.6 Despite his optimism, it would be no easy matter to bring Chinese scholars to recognize the supposed superiority of Western philosophy and religion, as he and especially his Jesuit successors in the mission were to learn. When Chinese intellectuals formed a deeper understanding of the Christian religion after Ricci’s death—and of the philosophical, social, and political repercussions that the spread of Catholicism in China would involve—they were able to produce what they saw as valid and perfectly logical arguments against it.

  Ricci’s social success grew over time, and with it the number of people eager to make his acquaintance. His understanding in the fields of science, philosophy, and ethics aroused wonder, as did his physical appearance, above all the thick beard reaching “almost down to his belt,” something quite exceptional for the Chinese. The missionary was obliged by etiquette to return every invitation and to attend countless banquets, a way of life that led him to fast by day so as to do justice to the cuisine in the evening. Ricci also endeavored to eat only fish on Friday, but he soon noted that this strange habit gave rise to mockery, whereupon he adopted an alternative diet of vegetables and pulses, which he succeeded in maintaining also when dining out.

  After two months of intense social life, he was so tired that he complained to his friend Zhang Doujin. The philosopher suggested a remedy. When yet another visitor turned up at the door, it would be enough to have the servants say that the master was out. The Jesuit replied that he could not do this, as it would be a lie. The philosopher burst into laughter and retorted that the Chinese lied all the time. Ricci then explained that it was considered wrong in his country not to tell the truth, above all for a priest wishing to teach the moral virtues to others. Moreover, he thought it his duty to open the door to whoever came looking for him. The explanation came as a great surprise to Zhang Doujin, who did not regard falsehood as a sin. Ricci was known in the city henceforth as a man who never told lies.

  The “Treatise on Friendship,” a Moral Essay in Chinese

  Now accepted into the most exclusive circles, Li Madou was a frequent guest at the home of Prince Kang Yi, a palace as sumptuous as the residence of a European prince, with great courtyards and pavilions set in grounds scattered with ponds full of water lilies and lotus flowers, where the prince engaged his guests in conversation.

  The Jesuit brought the customary gifts of prisms, terrestrial and celestial globes, sundials, and copies of his map of the world, which had become an effective means of cultural exchange, receiving lengths of silk and silver ingots in exchange. Particular appreciation was shown for an oil painting on copper of Saint Lawrence, which the prince had framed in ebony and jade. He in turn gave Ricci a fan decorated by his own hand. Fans were widely used in China both to combat the heat and as accessories, performing a role comparable to that of gloves in Europe. Rigid or folding, they could be round, square, or oval in shape and were made of a whole range of materials, including bamboo, perfumed sandalwood, ebony, ivory, paper, silk, and thin gauze. Those most in fashion as gifts for important personages were folding fans of dark wood, with white or gilded paper upon which it was customary to write sonnets and greetings or to paint flowers and animals, as the imperial prince had done.

  Having come to know Xitai, Prince Kang Yi invited him to move into his palace. Ricci preferred to decline the offer but was very flattered. After twelve years in China, he now felt satisfied with his social standing. As he reported to De Sande, “We are gaining more and more credit and respect among the Chinese.” He explained that securing the consideration of the most important mandarins was “extremely necessary” to the success of the mission, the aim being not “to seek honors” for their own sake but to prepare the terrain for the spreading of the Christian doctrine. “In this land where the law of Our Lord is not known,” he argued in defense of his decision to adopt mandarin dress, “the reputation of that law depends to a certain degree on the credit and reputation of its preachers, for which reason it is necessary that we should adapt externally to the local ways and customs.” He added that there was no danger of his success leading him into the sin of pride, as this would be prevented by the still vivid memories of the suffering, humiliation, disgrace, and persecution endured in Zhaoqing an
d Shaozhou, a period during which, as he put it, “we were treated and regarded as the scum of the earth.”7

  The situation now seemed to have undergone a radical change, and Ricci felt so at ease among the literati of Nanchang and so sure of his mastery of the language that he decided to attempt the writing of a treatise in praise of friendship in Mandarin Chinese. What subject could be more suitable to celebrate the start of a dialogue on an equal footing with the Chinese in the city where he had been received with such a kind welcome? Ricci knew that friendship was considered one of the fundamental relationships for Confucian society and was regarded as equally important by the authors of the Western world, who had sung its praises since antiquity. Inspired by his love for the classics, he set vigorously to work on the Jiaoyou lun.8 He dedicated this “Treatise on Friendship” to Prince Kang Yi and made him a gift of the manuscript at the end of 1595.

  The introduction employs a typical device of rhetoric to set the scene. Having been welcomed and treated to a sumptuous banquet, Li Madou is asked by the prince to explain what they think of friendship in Europe, a land where—as Ricci puts it, insisting on the concepts to which he attaches such importance—“discourse is based on reason.” In reply, as befits a learned humanist, he offers seventy-six maxims drawn from Greek and Latin authors and fathers of the Church, carefully selected to demonstrate the affinity between the moral principles of the Chinese and European cultures.

  The authors included Horace (“My friend is nothing other than half of me, and so I must treat him as I treat myself”); Cicero (“The world without friendship would be like the sky with no sun”); Aristotle (“If there were no friendship in the world, there would be no joy”); Saint Augustine (“He to whom I can show my heart completely becomes my intimate friend”); Martial on the vulnerability of those who open their hearts to feelings (“If I have few friends, I have little joy, but also little sadness”); Erasmus on the need for honesty (“The fulsome praise of friends does me more harm than the undue criticism of enemies”); and Seneca (“If you cannot be a friend to yourself, how can you be a friend to others?”).9 Other maxims reworked by Ricci on the basis of memory invited reflection on affection, fellow feeling, solidarity, loyalty, and understanding. In order to explain that friendship meant the communion of two people in the Chinese culture as well, Ricci pointed out that in ancient Chinese, the character for “friendship” contained the stylized drawing of two hands. Finally, to make his treatise more entertaining, he accompanied some of the Chinese versions with phonetic transcriptions of the original Latin so that the scholars could read them aloud as though in that language.10