Zhong Wen: It was not easy for Matteo Ricci to enter Beijing and be allowed to remain there. Looking back at his two journeys along the Grand Canal, the whole story is quite dramatic.

At the beginning of 1601, the Wanli Emperor—who had long been absent from court—suddenly remembered something. Some time earlier, he had seen a memorial stating that a foreigner had traveled all the way from the south to Beijing to present a very special gift to the emperor—a self-ringing clock. The Wanli Emperor asked the eunuchs beside him, “Where is that clock?”

The eunuch replied, “Your Majesty, you did not approve that memorial. How would the foreigner dare come into the capital? Let alone present the clock.” The emperor immediately ordered that the foreigner be brought to Beijing at once with the gift.

Wanli did not know that this foreigner—Matteo Ricci—had long been locked inside a cold, shabby temple in Tianjin.

In 1598, Ricci had tried to enter Beijing for the first time. Together with Wang Honghui, Minister of Rites in Nanjing, he traveled up the Grand Canal to the outskirts of the capital, nominally to offer birthday congratulations to the emperor. But it happened to be a tense period of fighting Japanese pirates. Ming officials were extremely sensitive toward foreigners, and the rivalry between court ministers and eunuchs was delicate. No one dared receive a foreigner like Ricci. He had no choice but to return to Nanjing.

Still, that journey was not without value. Ricci experienced the Grand Canal firsthand—likely becoming the first Westerner in history to leave a written description of it.

Ricci’s general impression was that the Grand Canal was the lifeline of imperial grain transport—busy yet chaotic. He heard that more than ten thousand vessels traveled it each year, transporting rice and grain to the emperor. The canal was not wide, making it difficult for such traffic to move through, leading to frequent congestion. To regulate the flow, the government even prohibited private merchant boats coming from the Yangtze from entering the canal, ensuring smoother passage for grain ships.

Water levels were another issue. Ricci constantly had to wait before locks. Only when the water rose to a certain height could boats pass, using the difference in water level for propulsion. Ricci called this waiting “long and tedious delays.” Sometimes the danger was worse than the delay—turbulence at lock gates often caused boats to capsize, drowning passengers. To ensure movement, the government hired large numbers of haulers on the banks to drag boats along the waterway. Ricci heard that maintaining the canal cost the government one million taels of silver annually.

Bo Ya: Seeing such hardship and such great expense, Ricci was puzzled. He suspected the Chinese feared pirates.

Zhong Wen: Right. He wrote: “All of this seems very strange to Europeans, who can see from maps that there is a much shorter and cheaper sea route to Beijing. This might indeed be true. But fear of the ocean and of pirates is so deeply rooted in the Chinese mind that they believe transporting supplies to the court by sea would be far more dangerous.”

As a man shaped by a maritime civilization, Ricci could not understand the lifestyle of an inland civilization.

He liked the cities along the way. This was the most prosperous stretch of China at the time. Towns and villages lined the banks—“full of inhabitants everywhere,” and “supplies were plentiful and prices very cheap.” The official grain boats, called “swift boats,” were directed by eunuchs and moved quickly. To preserve food during the journey, ice stores were built all along the canal. At each stop, the swift boats replaced old ice with fresh blocks.

But Ricci had mixed feelings toward Beijing. He was unimpressed by how enormous manpower and resources were consumed solely to supply the imperial capital. He called Beijing “barren Beijing.” He watched thousands of men hauling huge timber rafts, because after a palace fire, lumber from distant Sichuan had to be transported—taking two or three years to arrive. He remarked ironically: “Beijing produces nothing, yet lacks nothing.”

Zhong Wen: When Ricci actually arrived in Beijing, his impressions grew worse.

He was shocked by the blowing dust. Beijing’s roads were unpaved dirt. Rain turned everything to mud; wind filled houses with dust, covering everything inside. Local people commonly wore veils—light cloths covering the head and face—whether walking or riding, allowing visibility while blocking dust. This was convenient for those who preferred anonymity; unless someone removed the veil, no one recognized them.

In the bitter winters, firewood was scarce. Ricci found that people used a mineral resin for heating. They hollowed out the inside of brick beds, creating a heated platform underneath. What Ricci saw was the kang, and the “mineral resin” was coal. Dust storms, coal heating, veiled faces—
In many ways, the Beijing Ricci saw looks little different from the city centuries later.

Two years later, after the conflict between China and Japan had mostly ended, Ricci set out for Beijing again. This time he prepared thoroughly, especially the clock he intended to offer the emperor. He placed it in an ornate gilded case, marked the dial with the Chinese characters for the twelve earthly branches (“zi, chou, yin, mao…”). A sharp-eyed eagle pointed its beak to the hour marks. The domed top was decorated with floral motifs and a carved dragon—symbolizing that only the Son of Heaven could use it.

Everything ready, Ricci was introduced by an official friend to join a eunuch’s fleet bound for Beijing. At every stop, Ricci received high-level hospitality. Unlike the earlier “tedious delays,” this time the boat moved swiftly—akin to having a police escort today.

Bo Ya: Was this because the eunuch had special documents, or Ricci?

Zhong Wen: Neither—it was the gift.

News had spread all along the canal that a foreigner was bringing wondrous treasures for the emperor. Officials along the route were eager to see them. Ricci invited each “leader” to preview the gifts. After enjoying the spectacle, the officials naturally offered a clear passage.

Soon they reached Jining. There, Ricci met his old Nanjing friend—the famous maverick Li Zhi, who introduced him to Liu Dongxing, the canal governor. They dined together with Liu’s children, giving Ricci a rare sense of European domestic warmth.

But after Jining, the good luck ended. At Linqing, Ricci encountered Ma Tang, a eunuch tax commissioner sent by the court. Greedy Ma Tang coveted Ricci’s gifts. Pretending concern, he suggested the gifts be transferred to his own boat so he could “present them to the emperor” on Ricci’s behalf. Ricci refused—especially fearing for the delicate clock.

Ma Tang did not give up. Controlling the fleet, he forced Ricci to continue north with him. Yet Ricci saw sights he had never imagined—luxurious banquets and exotic circus-like performances: knife juggling, masked pantomimes, a boy wrestling a dummy—likely in Wuqiao, famous for acrobatics.

Bo Ya: Clearly, Ma Tang was trying to seize the gifts.

Zhong Wen: Exactly. Eventually he resorted to force—imprisoning Ricci and the other priests in a temple in Tianjin and seizing the gifts for himself. Winter approached, the river was freezing, and four guards watched over Ricci. The priests prayed daily, hoping for God’s mercy.

Whether God remembered them or not, the Beijing emperor certainly remembered—
specifically that memorial. “Where is the clock? I said, where is the self-ringing clock?”

Bo Ya: This time Ma Tang must have panicked.

Zhong Wen: Absolutely. He had no choice but to return every gift intact—and feared Ricci would accuse him. But Ricci never met the emperor.

The Wanli Emperor is a peculiar figure in Chinese history. A cripple, he quarreled with ministers over the issue of succession and used it as an excuse to avoid court for thirty years. Thus, when Ricci and the priests entered the Forbidden City, performed the full prostrations, and presented the gifts, they faced only an empty throne.

Absence from court did not mean Wanli refused gifts. He loved them—images of God and the Virgin, rosaries, the clock, world maps, a European harp. Especially the long-awaited clock.

But eight days later, the clock stopped. Wanli panicked and summoned Ricci to fix it. Ricci wound it, and it worked again. Worried the clock might stop again, the emperor ordered Ricci to stay at the Astronomical Bureau and assigned four eunuchs to learn clock maintenance. They disassembled it for three days and nights, recording every gear, spring, dial, and key—using Chinese mechanical terms. The emperor was very pleased.

Bo Ya: So China’s clock terminology began with Ricci.

Zhong Wen: The story spread. Even the empress dowager wished to see the Western device. Fearing she wouldn’t return it, Wanli cleverly had the eunuchs loosen the spring so the clock would not run. She found the “dead clock” boring and sent it back.

Bo Ya: This shows tension between mother and son.

Zhong Wen: Wanli was actually open-minded. Ricci feared the emperor would be angry at his world map—showing Ming territory much smaller than the Chinese imagined. But Wanli was delighted and ordered the map woven into silk screens. He also liked the Western harp and assigned four eunuchs to learn it. Ricci even composed eight pieces named Eight Chapters of Western Music.

Bo Ya: It seems the first Chinese to master Western devices were the emperor’s eunuchs. Modernization in China thus began in the palace—just as later reforms also started from the top.

Zhong Wen: Although Ricci never saw the emperor, the emperor took great interest in him. He ordered court artists to paint a life-sized portrait of Ricci, requested Ricci to remain in Beijing, and granted him a lifelong stipend. Thus Ricci lived in Beijing—making friends, preaching, writing—until his death in 1610.

Bo Ya: Before Ricci, other Westerners may have traveled the canal. But Ricci’s two canal journeys opened a small window of cultural exchange between China and the West. He not only brought the Gospel but also the news of a changing world. Sadly, those messages were frozen in the icy waters of the canal as the Manchu conquest approached.