The Memory Palace of Passion and Pain - Part 5
Under the Wings of Mnemosyne
The consort I invoke of Zeus divine;
source of the holy, sweetly speaking Mousai nine;
free from the oblivion of the fallen mind,
by whom the soul with intellect is joined.
Reason’s increase and thought to thee belong,
all-powerful, pleasant, vigilant, and strong.
‘Tis thine to waken from lethargic rest
all thoughts deposited within the breast;
and nought neglecting, vigorous to excite
the mental eye from dark oblivion’s night.
Come, blessed power, thy mystics’ memory wake
to holy rites, and Lethe’s fetters break
That morning marked the beginning of the happiest days of my life. I was given a thick stack of parchment, on which father Ruggieri had written a long list of Portuguese words in his fine, bold handwriting. Another pile of cheap, thin Chinese paper contained the Chinese translations and Matteo’s notes in Italian, Latin and Chinese. My task was to recognize the appropriate Chinese characters from the draft and fill them into the right column of the Ruggieri parchments.
Every evening, if his duties allowed it, Matteo would come to see how I was proceeding and to offer me help with the particularly difficult passages of the draft - he was always able to find his way through the multiple deletions, corrections and cross-outs. Often, he would then remain in the study and reminisce about the time when he came to China as a young assistant to Michele Ruggieri. He would tell me about the difficulties they had to face in their new home, about the many misunderstandings from the time when their knowledge of the Chinese language and culture was crude and sketchy. I just need to close my eyes and see his regal figure sitting right here next to me, looking at the brush in my hand forming one sign after another, his eyes lined by wrinkles of an amused smile, as he says: To think that we shaved our heads and wore the garments of Buddhist monks, believing that was the right way to gain the respect of your people. We were fools, young fools.
I could see Matteo missed his older friend Michele Ruggieri. Although he now looked and behaved almost like a Chinese, made several friends among the Chinese scholars, and even converted some, like Xu, to Christianity, he still often felt like a stranger. He would claim his God was with him, but still, I saw that there were times when he felt lonely and forsaken in a hostile, unfamiliar world.
Whenever I finished a page of the dictionary, Matteo took it over and filled the central column with an approximation of the pronunciation of the Chinese words. His Chinese was close to flawless now, but sometimes, he stumbled upon an especially rare sign which I had to read out for him. At other times I had to ask for the meaning of a Portuguese word, and Matteo’s explanations were as sharp-witted as they were precise. We worked in perfect harmony, and shared many a laugh over the tangle of languages that was facing us.
On special nights, when Matteo decided I had to be tired, he would decisively collect all my papers and parchments, put them aside, and take me on a tour through his memory palace, teaching me all the subtleties of the art of memory. Later still, he would ask me to guide him through the mental edifices I had erected according to his advice.
Initially I was careful not to reveal anything of my background. I opened up to Matteo more than to anyone in the past several hundreds years, but I was still cautious. So, I felt, was Matteo. One day, even that changed. It was late in the night and I was working in the study when I heard a commotion and excited voices from the outside. I jumped from the chair and headed towards the entrance. In the hall I almost ran into a visibly shaken Matteo. His garments were torn and smelled of smoke, he was out of breath, his injured foot hurt so hard that he had to steady himself against walls and furniture as he furiously limped towards what I came to regard as “our” study. Without a word to anyone, he sat down and hid his face in his hands.
My mind raced wildly. What happened? I have been living in the Jesuit residence for over two years now, I spent most of the last few months’ evenings in Matteo’s presence, and I have never seen him waver, let alone broken like that.
I quickly ran into the kitchen to boil some water for cha. I purchased the best young leaves myself, as Matteo was slowly growing fond of the taste and it was the only drink I could share with him without experiencing excruciating pain.
“Li Madou asks for cha and said he needs some rest.” I told the assembled inhabitants of the residence on my way from the kitchen with the most self-assured voice I could muster. I did not understand what was going on, but I could sense that a swarm of converts and servants was the last thing Matteo was willing to face now.
I poured Matteo a bowl. He was still sitting where I left him, unmoving, only his hurried breaths betraying he was still alive. I placed the tray in front of him, saying reassuringly:
“Here, Li Madou Laoshi. Drink this. It’s good. It will make you feel better.”
Matteo looked up, his eyes filled with suppressed rage. It was as if a think veil of dark grey was covering them, gone was the bright blue, the liveliness, the kindness, the insatiable curiosity for life. It was a look that I could hardly bear, and yet I could not look away.
I laid my hand on his arm and, still looking into those dead eyes, quietly asked: “What happened?” Then I waited in silence.
Slowly and as if in trance, Matteo reached out for the bowl of cha, sipping on the golden liquid.
“You are right, it is good,” he said in a low voice that was not his.
More silence. I could feel Matteo was struggling for control. Inside his mind, he was battling the fire-breathing, multi-headed demon of self-doubt, and there was nothing I could do but wait. I did not move, keeping my hand on his arm, anchoring him to this world, to sanity. In what must have been a few hours, his eyes suddenly cleared, the dark veil of rage fell, and I knew the demon was defeated, once again banished into a small, dark, dusty chamber in the far reaches of Matteo’s mind.
“Our chapel is no more,” he said. “Mengyao almost died. Never, Daoming, never let self-confidence fool you. We think we have reached knowledge and understanding, when in fact we are as ignorant as on the day we were born. Ignorant and blind.”
With the last words, he rose to his feet. As he made his way towards the bedrooms, he stopped and turned around to add: “Daoming - thank you.”
Only a few days later I learned what actually transpired that night. Wanting to please the new converts with a familiar ceremony, Matteo lit the chapel with candles and lanterns. Inside, he placed more lights around the altar with the picture of Virgin Mary. But when he and his two enthusiastic helpers - the young coverts Dingxiang and Mengyao - took a few moments in silence to pray, contemplate and behold their creation, an angry anti-Christian mob, attracted by the chapel’s bright light, started to throw stones at the structure. The three men were trapped inside as the chapel caught fire.
The servants of the Jesuit residence said that Matteo broke out of the burning building like an angry god of revenge, brandishing a cross over the head of the unconscious Mengyao, whom he half carried, half dragged out of the flames. They also maintained he was reciting a kind of incantation that no one could understand, but must surely have been powerful magic, because when he reached the amen, there was a loud bang and sparkles flew high into the night sky.
Matteo had to face several accusations of having cursed various people that night, but slowly, the uproar subsided. He never mentioned the incident to me again. He would, however, spend more time in the study, sometimes even paying me surprise visits during the day. All the responsibilities for the running of the mission both spiritually and economically, of educating the converts, his correspondence with general Acquaviva, who was finding some of the rumours that were reaching him from China highly disturbing and even forced Matteo to reassure him that he was not teaching the art of memory in China - because a Jesuit could not allow others to think of him as a wizard and alchemist, all the Chinese who came to Matteo precisely because they thought he was a wizard and alchemist, all this immense load that rested upon his shoulders would stay behind the door to the study.
We created our own private world under the wings of Mnemosyne. We spent hours walking through the grand temples of the goddess of memory that both of us now harboured in our minds.
But as my memory system grew more and more detailed and elaborate, I knew the happy days would not last. I had done my part in China, I knew enough to return to Europe and help Gaiana and our vampire coven commit all our accumulated knowledge to memory and leave the place that was becoming dangerous. I had to go. My loyalty to Gaiana had for as long as I could remember been the only thing that kept me sane, the only thing thanks to which I was a member of the civilized vampire community and not a wild beast, driven only by instincts and the insatiable urge for blood.
I was bound by more than pledges, more than oaths. I was bound by the trust that was placed in me, and it was a bond I could not break. I knew I would have to leave soon, despite my wishes, despite my desire, despite my very self.
Could you sense my anxiety, Matteo? When you took my hand and followed Mnemosyne who beckoned us to embark on yet another spectacular journey, did you feel me desperately clinging to you? You were the bright light that dispelled the storm that had from times immemorial raged within my heart. I would rather have walked though the depths of Hell than leave you, yet I was not free to make that choice. You who broke down the barriers of my mind, you who had seen the memories that made me who I was, could you foretell what was to come?
... to be continued
Notes to Part 5
- The initial poem in Orphic Hymn 76 "To Mnemosyne" in F. Taylor's translation (his Orphic hymns can be found online, http://www.theoi.com/Text/OrphicHymns2.html#76). Sometimes you will find it under no. 77 - the numbers are modern anyway.
- The picture, as you have probably guessed, is Mnemosyne. More precisely, Lord Frederic Leighton's (1830-1896) Mnemosyne. Matteo Ricci could not have known her in this particular guise, but it is my favourite picture of Mnemosyne ever.
- General Claudio Acquaviva (1543-1615) was the leader of the Jesuit order in Matteo Ricci's times and his immediate superordinate when the Chinese mission passed into Ricci's hands. I am referring to a real letter (yes, Matteo Ricci did actually lie to the general of the Jesuit order and defy his direct orders. He had his own mind. Some scholars have expressed the view that had Ricci stayed in Europe, he would have been burned at the stake.)
- Michele Ruggieri was an older companion of Matteo Ricci in the Chinese Mission. The two of them together got the mission going, learned the Chinese language, and studied the Classics. Ruggieri left China in 1588, never to return again. Ricci did indeed miss him dearly.
- we shaved our heads and wore the garments of Buddhist monks - I am quoting Ricci's memoirs here. Based on false analogy with Europe, Ricci and Ruggieri indeed embarked on their mission in the guise of Buddhist monks, believing that they were the respected spiritual leaders of the country, whereas in reality, they were looked down upon by the officials of the state, because they were uneducated. Matteo Ricci whole-heartedly adopted that attitude later in life.
- the burnt chapel incident is based on fact, but very loosely. Ricci was regarded as magician and alchemist by a lot of the Chinese. No doubt his memory achievements contributed to that. He neither actively encouraged the rumours nor really tried to deny them all that passionately.
- Mengyao and Dingxiang never existed. (I'm now writing the names in correct Pinyin, the hyphen is just a pronunciation aid: Meng-yao, Ding-xiang. Daoming is just the correct way of transcribing Dao-ming, too).
- Pronunciation guide (forgot that the last time):
Li Madou Laoshi: Li Ma-tou Lao-she
Daoming: Tao-ming
Dingxiang: Ting-siang
Xu: Sü
Link to Summary and Chapter List
The consort I invoke of Zeus divine;
source of the holy, sweetly speaking Mousai nine;
free from the oblivion of the fallen mind,
by whom the soul with intellect is joined.
Reason’s increase and thought to thee belong,
all-powerful, pleasant, vigilant, and strong.
‘Tis thine to waken from lethargic rest
all thoughts deposited within the breast;
and nought neglecting, vigorous to excite
the mental eye from dark oblivion’s night.
Come, blessed power, thy mystics’ memory wake
to holy rites, and Lethe’s fetters break
That morning marked the beginning of the happiest days of my life. I was given a thick stack of parchment, on which father Ruggieri had written a long list of Portuguese words in his fine, bold handwriting. Another pile of cheap, thin Chinese paper contained the Chinese translations and Matteo’s notes in Italian, Latin and Chinese. My task was to recognize the appropriate Chinese characters from the draft and fill them into the right column of the Ruggieri parchments.
Every evening, if his duties allowed it, Matteo would come to see how I was proceeding and to offer me help with the particularly difficult passages of the draft - he was always able to find his way through the multiple deletions, corrections and cross-outs. Often, he would then remain in the study and reminisce about the time when he came to China as a young assistant to Michele Ruggieri. He would tell me about the difficulties they had to face in their new home, about the many misunderstandings from the time when their knowledge of the Chinese language and culture was crude and sketchy. I just need to close my eyes and see his regal figure sitting right here next to me, looking at the brush in my hand forming one sign after another, his eyes lined by wrinkles of an amused smile, as he says: To think that we shaved our heads and wore the garments of Buddhist monks, believing that was the right way to gain the respect of your people. We were fools, young fools.
I could see Matteo missed his older friend Michele Ruggieri. Although he now looked and behaved almost like a Chinese, made several friends among the Chinese scholars, and even converted some, like Xu, to Christianity, he still often felt like a stranger. He would claim his God was with him, but still, I saw that there were times when he felt lonely and forsaken in a hostile, unfamiliar world.
Whenever I finished a page of the dictionary, Matteo took it over and filled the central column with an approximation of the pronunciation of the Chinese words. His Chinese was close to flawless now, but sometimes, he stumbled upon an especially rare sign which I had to read out for him. At other times I had to ask for the meaning of a Portuguese word, and Matteo’s explanations were as sharp-witted as they were precise. We worked in perfect harmony, and shared many a laugh over the tangle of languages that was facing us.
On special nights, when Matteo decided I had to be tired, he would decisively collect all my papers and parchments, put them aside, and take me on a tour through his memory palace, teaching me all the subtleties of the art of memory. Later still, he would ask me to guide him through the mental edifices I had erected according to his advice.
Initially I was careful not to reveal anything of my background. I opened up to Matteo more than to anyone in the past several hundreds years, but I was still cautious. So, I felt, was Matteo. One day, even that changed. It was late in the night and I was working in the study when I heard a commotion and excited voices from the outside. I jumped from the chair and headed towards the entrance. In the hall I almost ran into a visibly shaken Matteo. His garments were torn and smelled of smoke, he was out of breath, his injured foot hurt so hard that he had to steady himself against walls and furniture as he furiously limped towards what I came to regard as “our” study. Without a word to anyone, he sat down and hid his face in his hands.
My mind raced wildly. What happened? I have been living in the Jesuit residence for over two years now, I spent most of the last few months’ evenings in Matteo’s presence, and I have never seen him waver, let alone broken like that.
I quickly ran into the kitchen to boil some water for cha. I purchased the best young leaves myself, as Matteo was slowly growing fond of the taste and it was the only drink I could share with him without experiencing excruciating pain.
“Li Madou asks for cha and said he needs some rest.” I told the assembled inhabitants of the residence on my way from the kitchen with the most self-assured voice I could muster. I did not understand what was going on, but I could sense that a swarm of converts and servants was the last thing Matteo was willing to face now.
I poured Matteo a bowl. He was still sitting where I left him, unmoving, only his hurried breaths betraying he was still alive. I placed the tray in front of him, saying reassuringly:
“Here, Li Madou Laoshi. Drink this. It’s good. It will make you feel better.”
Matteo looked up, his eyes filled with suppressed rage. It was as if a think veil of dark grey was covering them, gone was the bright blue, the liveliness, the kindness, the insatiable curiosity for life. It was a look that I could hardly bear, and yet I could not look away.
I laid my hand on his arm and, still looking into those dead eyes, quietly asked: “What happened?” Then I waited in silence.
Slowly and as if in trance, Matteo reached out for the bowl of cha, sipping on the golden liquid.
“You are right, it is good,” he said in a low voice that was not his.
More silence. I could feel Matteo was struggling for control. Inside his mind, he was battling the fire-breathing, multi-headed demon of self-doubt, and there was nothing I could do but wait. I did not move, keeping my hand on his arm, anchoring him to this world, to sanity. In what must have been a few hours, his eyes suddenly cleared, the dark veil of rage fell, and I knew the demon was defeated, once again banished into a small, dark, dusty chamber in the far reaches of Matteo’s mind.
“Our chapel is no more,” he said. “Mengyao almost died. Never, Daoming, never let self-confidence fool you. We think we have reached knowledge and understanding, when in fact we are as ignorant as on the day we were born. Ignorant and blind.”
With the last words, he rose to his feet. As he made his way towards the bedrooms, he stopped and turned around to add: “Daoming - thank you.”
Only a few days later I learned what actually transpired that night. Wanting to please the new converts with a familiar ceremony, Matteo lit the chapel with candles and lanterns. Inside, he placed more lights around the altar with the picture of Virgin Mary. But when he and his two enthusiastic helpers - the young coverts Dingxiang and Mengyao - took a few moments in silence to pray, contemplate and behold their creation, an angry anti-Christian mob, attracted by the chapel’s bright light, started to throw stones at the structure. The three men were trapped inside as the chapel caught fire.
The servants of the Jesuit residence said that Matteo broke out of the burning building like an angry god of revenge, brandishing a cross over the head of the unconscious Mengyao, whom he half carried, half dragged out of the flames. They also maintained he was reciting a kind of incantation that no one could understand, but must surely have been powerful magic, because when he reached the amen, there was a loud bang and sparkles flew high into the night sky.
Matteo had to face several accusations of having cursed various people that night, but slowly, the uproar subsided. He never mentioned the incident to me again. He would, however, spend more time in the study, sometimes even paying me surprise visits during the day. All the responsibilities for the running of the mission both spiritually and economically, of educating the converts, his correspondence with general Acquaviva, who was finding some of the rumours that were reaching him from China highly disturbing and even forced Matteo to reassure him that he was not teaching the art of memory in China - because a Jesuit could not allow others to think of him as a wizard and alchemist, all the Chinese who came to Matteo precisely because they thought he was a wizard and alchemist, all this immense load that rested upon his shoulders would stay behind the door to the study.
We created our own private world under the wings of Mnemosyne. We spent hours walking through the grand temples of the goddess of memory that both of us now harboured in our minds.
But as my memory system grew more and more detailed and elaborate, I knew the happy days would not last. I had done my part in China, I knew enough to return to Europe and help Gaiana and our vampire coven commit all our accumulated knowledge to memory and leave the place that was becoming dangerous. I had to go. My loyalty to Gaiana had for as long as I could remember been the only thing that kept me sane, the only thing thanks to which I was a member of the civilized vampire community and not a wild beast, driven only by instincts and the insatiable urge for blood.
I was bound by more than pledges, more than oaths. I was bound by the trust that was placed in me, and it was a bond I could not break. I knew I would have to leave soon, despite my wishes, despite my desire, despite my very self.
Could you sense my anxiety, Matteo? When you took my hand and followed Mnemosyne who beckoned us to embark on yet another spectacular journey, did you feel me desperately clinging to you? You were the bright light that dispelled the storm that had from times immemorial raged within my heart. I would rather have walked though the depths of Hell than leave you, yet I was not free to make that choice. You who broke down the barriers of my mind, you who had seen the memories that made me who I was, could you foretell what was to come?
... to be continued
Notes to Part 5
- The initial poem in Orphic Hymn 76 "To Mnemosyne" in F. Taylor's translation (his Orphic hymns can be found online, http://www.theoi.com/Text/OrphicHymns2.html#76). Sometimes you will find it under no. 77 - the numbers are modern anyway.
- The picture, as you have probably guessed, is Mnemosyne. More precisely, Lord Frederic Leighton's (1830-1896) Mnemosyne. Matteo Ricci could not have known her in this particular guise, but it is my favourite picture of Mnemosyne ever.
- General Claudio Acquaviva (1543-1615) was the leader of the Jesuit order in Matteo Ricci's times and his immediate superordinate when the Chinese mission passed into Ricci's hands. I am referring to a real letter (yes, Matteo Ricci did actually lie to the general of the Jesuit order and defy his direct orders. He had his own mind. Some scholars have expressed the view that had Ricci stayed in Europe, he would have been burned at the stake.)
- Michele Ruggieri was an older companion of Matteo Ricci in the Chinese Mission. The two of them together got the mission going, learned the Chinese language, and studied the Classics. Ruggieri left China in 1588, never to return again. Ricci did indeed miss him dearly.
- we shaved our heads and wore the garments of Buddhist monks - I am quoting Ricci's memoirs here. Based on false analogy with Europe, Ricci and Ruggieri indeed embarked on their mission in the guise of Buddhist monks, believing that they were the respected spiritual leaders of the country, whereas in reality, they were looked down upon by the officials of the state, because they were uneducated. Matteo Ricci whole-heartedly adopted that attitude later in life.
- the burnt chapel incident is based on fact, but very loosely. Ricci was regarded as magician and alchemist by a lot of the Chinese. No doubt his memory achievements contributed to that. He neither actively encouraged the rumours nor really tried to deny them all that passionately.
- Mengyao and Dingxiang never existed. (I'm now writing the names in correct Pinyin, the hyphen is just a pronunciation aid: Meng-yao, Ding-xiang. Daoming is just the correct way of transcribing Dao-ming, too).
- Pronunciation guide (forgot that the last time):
Li Madou Laoshi: Li Ma-tou Lao-she
Daoming: Tao-ming
Dingxiang: Ting-siang
Xu: Sü
Link to Summary and Chapter List