Dream Garden: A Novel

By Lei Yang and John Simon

In Dream Garden, eighteenth and nineteenth century Chinese culture and civilization are glimpsed through the interwoven stories of two princesses — in love with peace, both loved unconditionally by their fathers and one by a missionary, the other by an emperor’s son — that unfold in a garden of unparalleled scale and beauty, a garden borne of peaceful intent, a veritable Dream Garden.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Dec 16, 2017
• ISBN: 9781543925319

Lei Yang

Professor, Orthopaedic Institute and the Department of Orthopaedics, the First Affiliated Hospital, Soochow University, China

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Afterword

REAM GARDEN IS A WORK OF FICTION . But set in a world and time that did exist, it admits elements of fact. Real, for example, was the Yuan Ming Yuan, a vast and beautiful garden constructed over the course of a century that at its zenith occupied an expanse eight times that of Vatican City. Paintings of forty views of this garden are in the collection of the Bibliothèque nationale de France. Matteo Ricci and Giuseppe Castiglione, the latter an exceptional artist and architect, were Jesuit missionaries who lived out their lives in China. Lord George Macartney was a British ambassador. Sengge Linqin (pronounced seng-linkin), Lord Elgin, and Compte Cousin-Montauban were generals, Chinese, British, and French, respectively. History records the names and what is known of the actions of these individuals. Dream Garden weaves a story in which they play parts imagined by the authors.

I didn’t know I’d lose my soul

and chase after you in dream.

Except the moon on the sky’s brink,

no one else knows this.

– WEI ZHUANG

T COULD HAVE BEEN THE SAME SMILE . But the lips that formed it were of different ages — and worlds. Those of the student whose sixteen years had been lived entirely within the borders of the vast garden from which father and emperor Kang oversaw the one-third of the world that, by virtue of obeisance to the Son of Heaven, was civilized, whose mis-stroke was meant to provoke her teacher, expressed infatuation and coquetry. Those of the Italian Jesuit nearly twice her age who corrected the errant stroke, whose sufferance within those same borders owed as much to his precursors’ and contemporaries’ profound knowledge of mathematics and science as to his own facility with a brush, expressed bemusement born of a remarkable wisdom and singular devotion cultivated in the relatively brief span of three decades. And yet not a little affection, for Giuseppe Castiglione was man as well as monk, and the emperor’s daughter had captured as much of his heart as was not owned by his god.

The favorite of her father’s twenty daughters, Girl-Girl had been but an infant when Giuseppe, at nineteen already a masterful painter, was taking the vows of Holy Orders in Genoa. When, after a two-year sojourn at the Jesuit monastery in Coïmbra, necessitated by the requirement that all missions be carried on Portuguese ships, he happily found himself among those Jesuits preeminent in their fields of endeavor being dispatched to China, he left behind, in the chapel of the novices in Genoa, two illustrations of the life of Saint Ignatius, and in the chapel of the College of Coïmbra, murals and portraits of young princes.

As further strokes began to hint at a sense of perspective, the princess’s slender fingers disappeared under a hand twice the size of hers. She lifted her head and her eyes met his.

Shih-ning, in a level voice with the petulance permitted a princess, she addressed him in the name bestowed by her father — who had, upon his initial introduction to the young monk, declaring Giuseppe Castiglione to be unpronounceable, directed that he henceforward be called Lang Shih-ning, or Person Calm Life — You paint this way. Why can’t I?

You know why, Princess. Because your father forbids it. Shih-ning lifted his hand from Girl-Girl’s, stepped quickly back when she swiped at him with her brush.

Girl-Girl’s smile now was playful, that of a young girl indulging her whimsy. But I want to paint like you do, she insisted in a monosyllabic singsong. Your paintings look like the real world, her voice softened, like you could step into them.

The reference to a mural he had painted in a room of one of her father’s palaces, which had elicited on her part no small amount of surprise and discomfort when she had tried to do precisely that, elicited a tender smile that transformed first into an apologetic laugh, then a look of bemusement. Strike me with your brush — Giuseppe dropped onto one knee and bowed his head — fairest of all the princesses, for deceiving you with mine, for painting a world that your beautiful essence could not enter.

My father’s laugh when I walked into the painted wall was not as soft as yours just now. Girl-Girl paused, reflected on the last words of Shih-ning’s apology. Paint me, she commanded, my ‘beautiful essence’.

Had he not closed them after lifting his head and gazing briefly at her, Giuseppe’s eyes would have betrayed him. And how am I to paint the princess I am commanded to instruct in painting?

I will accompany you to your apartments when the lessons are finished. I will sit for a portrait.

Impossible. The word was a barely audible statement of fact: that portrait painting was permitted the Jesuits only on rest days, and then only at the emperor’s discretion, and that the house Giuseppe and the other Jesuits shared, being outside the garden walls, was no less inaccessible to Girl-Girl than would have been the moon. And then there were the eunuchs, he thought, glancing from one to another of those ever present minions driven by jealousy to exploit any and every opportunity to diminish the emperor’s high esteem for the missionaries.

Although she understood as fully as Giuseppe the truth of his pronouncement, Girl-Girl persisted: Paint my portrait. The princess…your princess…commands it. Then she laid her brush gently on the unfinished painting, turned on her heel, and left the studio.

Giuseppe did not gaze long at the back of the silk garment that rustled with each of Girl-Girl’s close, purposeful steps. Before she had exited the room he had turned, lifted the brush off the canvas, and set both aside for tomorrow’s lesson. Much remained to be done in the hours left in this day, but already Giuseppe, her visage clearly fixed in his mind, had resolved to comply with Girl-Girl’s wish, and when he departed the studio at five o’clock with the others who labored for the glory of the Son of Heaven, not only painters, but other skilled artisans including clockmakers, enamellers, and carvers of ivory and precious stones, secreted in his flowing gown were a rolled canvas, brushes, and paints.

Giuseppe commenced that evening, from memory, the portrait of Kang’s favored daughter. If she noticed, during lessons on subsequent days, her instructor observing her more closely than her work, Girl-Girl gave no sign. Indulged by her father since childhood — after her first exposure to the room in which the painters worked, it was rare for Kang to visit the studio without one or both of his daughter’s small hands gripping his, her eyes wide with amazement — Girl-Girl’s fascination with painting had evolved into devotion. As had her captivation by Western-style painting. Although not unimpressed with the effects that could be achieved by the incorporation of perspective and shadow — trompe-l’œil paintings executed by the French Jesuit Gherardini adorned the inside of the dome of the church of Pei-t‘ang in Peking — the emperor insisted for the most part that the Europeans accommodate themselves to, and demanded that his daughter be taught, the Chinese style. Giuseppe could not deny the princess, nor could the princess displease her father. So Girl-Girl diligently practiced the Chinese style, Giuseppe indulged, with discretion, her insistence on learning Western techniques, and her father was shown only what he expected to see.

It was only a matter of days before Girl-Girl was shown what she expected to see.

Shih-ning! Girl-Girl gasped, when Giuseppe lifted the piece of silk covering the canvas. Shih-ning, she repeated, softly, it’s like looking into a mirror!

It is but a humble attempt to hint at the beauty of the emperor’s daughter, Giuseppe replied, but I am glad that it pleases the princess.

Girl-Girl lifted the canvas with both hands, studied it, then clasped it to her breast. We are beautiful! she exclaimed. Then, softly, Thank you, Shih-ning.

Again, the Jesuit’s smile mirrored the princess’s, but this time Giuseppe did not lower his head and Girl-Girl saw in his eyes what was in her own. The word he had breathed when she had demanded the portrait, impossible, intruded on her thoughts, but she quickly suppressed it.

Thank you, Shih-ning, Girl-Girl repeated tenderly, I must show it to father.

Girl-Gir… Giuseppe caught himself. Princess. No. But she had already turned away, and the rustle of silk dissipated quickly this time with her rapid steps. Girl-Girl was gone.

TURNING FROM THE YOUNG MAN seated beside him at his daughter’s sudden appearance in the entry to his chamber, Kang smiled. Here together were the princess who owned his heart and the prince he’d chosen to be his successor, his second surviving son by his first spouse.

Father! Girl-Girl was breathless, the portrait still clasped to her breast.

Their curiosity picqued, Kang and Qian looked expectantly at Girl-Girl.

Well, intoned the emperor, you have a painting to show us? We are most eager to see it, my talented princess.

Girl-Girl took several steps into the chamber, to within a few feet of her father and brother, before turning the canvas around and extending it towards them.

Qian was smiling broadly when he turned to discover his father’s countenance darkening.

Whose work is this? Kang demanded, his tone level, but edged with anger.

Girl-Girl blanched and her brother looked puzzled.

Girl-Girl’s reply was inaudible.

Lang Shih-ning. The emperor pronounced the name more as a statement of fact than a question.

Is it not beautiful, Father? Girl-Girl protested. Is it not a good likeness?

Father, Qian began, but a look from the emperor silenced him.

Kang set the canvas purposefully, but not irreverently, on a table, holding his daughter’s attention the while. You will not visit the studio again, he commanded.

But Father, Girl-Girl pleaded.

You will not visit the studio, Kang reiterated, his face, and voice, softening almost imperceptibly as he gave all the reason that, more, in fact, than, was required. You will cause trouble.

But Father, Girl-Girl protested weakly, then turned and ran weeping from the room.

It is not, Kang explained, turning to Qian, that he painted her in the Western style. Honestly, I find aspects of the foreigners’ style quite remarkable. Have I not let them paint in their style in various of the palaces in the garden?

Qian nodded acknowledgement.

It has to do with man and woman, princess and European priest. The latter pairing, by Lang Shih-ning’s own explanation, is impossible. Yet, you see how he paints Girl-Girl. She will fall in love with him, if she has not already, and it will be trouble. Her heart will be broken; his work will suffer. It cannot be permitted. Kang looked thoughtful for a long moment. We will take archery tomorrow afternoon, after your classes, Qian. On horseback. Your skills please me, son, and I would be pleased. Whereas the education of his brothers had largely been entrusted to others close to Kang, the emperor had taken personal charge of grooming the heir apparent for succession.

GIRL-GIRL HAD RUN BLINDLY, tears streaming, to a nearby Buddhist temple. Her father had become devoutly Buddhist when she was still a child, and Girl-Girl had embraced the religion with all the fervor with which she now embraced the Western style of painting. She paused at the entrance to dab at her eyes with her sleeves.

Inside, and seated cross-legged on the floor, Girl-Girl dissolved once more into tears. The exhausted princess’s incoherent prayers soon gave way to sleep, and she slumped forward and drifted into a dream.

Girl-Girl and Giuseppe were running, hand in hand, along China’s Great Wall.

What an immense and beautiful wall, Giuseppe said, surveying the massive fortification’s breadth and length.

Yes, it is, Girl-Girl replied.

What a beautiful tower! Giuseppe exclaimed, as they approached one of the Wall’s many watchtowers.

It is a fire tower, Girl-Girl explained. When an enemy approaches, the guard lights a fire in the tower to alert the soldiers to gather and be prepared to fight.

We have a tower in Italy, Giuseppe said, in a place called Pisa.

I would like to see it, Girl-Girl said. Bring the tower here, to the wall, instead of the fire tower.

I can’t, Giuseppe explained. If the Tower of Pisa were to replace the fire tower, the Great Wall might collapse. The Tower of Pisa leans.

"It’s okay," Girl-Girl reassured Giuseppe. I fear that the Wall will separate us.

No, said Giuseppe, the Great Wall will connect the West to the East, just as we are connected, Girl-Girl. I will stay with you.

The Great Wall shuddered as he said this, and the two became separated.

Shih-ning! the princess screamed.

Girl-Girl, Giuseppe called after her.

Girl-Girl watched horrified as a tower she only imagined leaned and fell and the Great Wall crumbled between them.

Shih-ning! I love you! Help me. Girl-Girl woke screaming.

Realizing she had been dreaming, Girl-Girl calmed herself, then resumed her prayers to the Buddha, this time with clear intention. I love Shih-ning, she prayed. I know that it is impossible for me to love him, and for him to love me, but I will never marry anyone else. Please help me. Please let me be born in Shih-ning’s country, Italy, with Shih-ning, in my next life so that we can finally be married.

the change of a thousand years is rapid

as a galloping horse.

In the distance China is nine wisps of smoke

and in a single cup of water the ocean churns.

– LI HE

T HAD BEEN A DREAM that had brought the then young missionary to China. Fatherless from a young age, Giuseppe had found male companionship at the local abbey. He also discovered in the Jesuit brothers, who, finding him a willing and enthusiastic student, lavished time and attention on him, a store of vast knowledge and skill. He surely would not have acquired from formal education in the schools in Milan the broad knowledge of mathematics, astronomy, hydraulics, sculpture, and painting imparted to him by the monks, who were especially keen, perceiving the sensitivity of his hand and eye, to encourage and guide his obvious talent for the latter. Grateful for the additional income from the commissions for portraits the brothers found for her teenage son, and being a devout Catholic, Giuseppe’s mother did not discourage him when he announced that he felt a calling to the priesthood. Genoa, where he would undertake his novitiate, was in the same region of Italy after all, and she was assured that visits would not be infrequent.

Giuseppe devoted himself to the lessons of faith as ardently as to the lessons of art and science. The grasp of many of the finer points of theology that impressed, even amazed, some of his teachers was a product of tireless reading, not limited to every religious text on which Giuseppe could put his hands, but including as well what the correspondence of the Jesuit missionaries in China related of the country and their experiences in it.

At the conclusion of his novitiate, Giuseppe was permitted to return for a time to Milan. His mother, who had taken solace from the proximity of the seminary, was grateful for this opportunity for near daily visits with her son, whom she knew could soon be sent somewhere more distant from her.

Giuseppe read and prayed in his small room in the rectory and, on agreeable days, painted in the meadow that surrounded the church at which he daily attended Mass. One day, as he sat before an easel under a cloudless sky committing to canvas the pastoral landscape before him, in which gray squirrels darted between the trunks and pigeons between the branches of trees, the voices of the church choir drifted to him on the stillness.

Amazing grace! How sweet the sound!

That saved a wretch like me!

I once was lost, but now am found;

Was blind, but now I see.

Giuseppe reflected on the words he heard. All who do not know Christ are in that sense, he thought, blind. It is the work of the missionary to give sight, to open eyes that are closed to Christ.

Giuseppe returned to his painting and, after a time, apprehended the words of a different hymn.

When thro’ the woods and forest glades I wander

And hear the birds sing sweetly in the trees,

When I look down from lofty mountain grandeur,

And hear the brook and feel the gentle breeze.

Then sings my soul, my Saviour God, to thee;

How great Thou art, how great Thou art!

As the refrain repeated amid the singing of the birds and skittering of the squirrels before him, Giuseppe felt the words. His devotion deepened as he attributed to his God all that he daily saw and heard and loved. And though he neither could see nor hear Him, he loved, above all, that God.

His brush, poised over the canvas, hung suspended for a long moment before descending once more to render what Giuseppe now viewed with renewed fervor as God’s meadow. It was for that God that he labored, and by the grace of that God that his labor bore the exquisite fruits that it did.

As he sat intent on his work, a rush of words in Giuseppe’s ear triggered a reflexive withdrawal of brush from canvas. Finding, as he turned, the fresh face of his three years younger cousin at his shoulder, he delivered a mock scolding.

Bolonia! How many times must I tell you not to do that? One day I will ruin one of my paintings because of you.

But it’s so beautiful! Bolonia gushed. All of your paintings are so beautiful, Giuseppe!

Giuseppe set down his brush, leaned back on his stool, and took his cousin’s hands in his.

"And the beautiful voices the warm breeze brought to me earlier, my beautiful cousin, was yours among them?

Yes. Of course it was. You know that we have choir practice every week before Sunday Mass.

And isn’t God good, Bolonia, to spread about so much talent to make beautiful things? Beautiful paintings. Beautiful singing. Beautiful girls.

Bolonia withdrew her hands from Giuseppe’s and tapped him lightly on the cheek.

Fresh! And me your cousin, and you a priest! What does God think of you right now, I wonder?

So, sweet Bolonia, my little town crier, what secrets apprehended by her inquisitive ear is my little mockingbird dying to reveal?

Are you, Bolonia began, planting her hands on her hips and working at looking affronted, calling me a gossip or a blabbermouth?

Both, Giuseppe replied matter-of-factly.

Ohhh… Bolonia raised both hands, but her attempted cat-like pounce was thwarted by Giuseppe whose considerably larger hands closed over his cousin’s curled fingers. Bringing her small hands to his lips, he kissed and released each.

But my sweet cousin, you are so reliable a source of such a wealth of information, how could I not inquire?

Bolonia laughed. Silly. Well, I do know something you don’t know.

Pray tell, invited Giuseppe.

Bet you didn’t know the cardinal is going to be saying the Mass on Sunday.

Giuseppe looked flummoxed. How could you possibly know that and I not?

And I bet you didn’t know that he’s coming to bestow a great honor on our church.

And that is?

"Our church is to be invited to name one of