Well as most of my China-based readers know, there will be an eclipse tomorrow morning between 8:30 and 9:30 local time. The local news this evening reminded people not to gaze directly into an eclipse without protective goggles. They should have also mentioned that it probably wouldn’t be the best time to test the salesperson’s claims regarding the UV protection on your almost-but-not-quite ray bans you bought at the Silk Market.
Frankly, I’m not sure if anyone in Beijing will really notice the sun being out of commission for a few minutes. First of all, the capital is a little too far north to get the full monty, and besides let’s be real, the sun in the Beijing sky gets blacked out more often than a Chinese official on a three-day KTV bender delegation visit.
But to honor the occasion nonetheless, I meandered down to the smog-choked southwestern corner of the Jianguomen traffic cruller where a lonely tower stands, crowned with instruments of sky gazers past — Beijing’s ancient observatory.
On the plus side, it’s one of those attractions — increasingly rare in China — that doesn’t get its fully complement of screeching hat-wearing flag lemmings, I guess it’s not cool enough for the tour guides. Either that or the gift shop skimps on their kickbacks commissions. Whatever the reason, you can wander the tower and the adjacent courtyards in relative peace while you marvel at two millennia of Chinese astronomical insight.
Even though this particular incarnation of the imperial observatory “only” dates back to 1442, the site house exhibitions commemorating astronomers going back to the early days of Chinese civilization. There are the requisite statues honoring such scientific luminaries as Guo Shoujing, Shen Kuo, Zhang Heng, and Su Song. There is also a bust of Paul Xu Guangqi, friend and collaborator of Matteo Ricci and an early convert to Catholicism. Paul’s work helping Matteo translate works on mathematics and astronomy into Chinese is noted, his belief in Christianity somehow didn’t make the cut.
Several bronze astronomical instruments sit atop the tower and around the grounds, including sextants, celestial globes, a theodolite, and an armillary sphere. And no, I have no idea how either a theodolite or an armillary sphere works. I got a C+ in astronomy mainly because they scheduled it for after happy hour and my teacher, a sweet intelligent woman with a bit of a problem pronouncing the consonant “V,” would pepper her lectures with references to “Weenus” and “Uwanus.” Needless to say, it was hard to concentrate on the course material. In fact, given the choice of betting my life on being able to explain how to use an armillary sphere or sitting for three hours covered in honey in a glass case filled with killer bees, I’d take my chances with the bees.
While I’m not able to discuss intelligently HOW these things work, I will say they LOOK really cool.
The need to acknowledge such celestial events was of great ritual importance to the court though out Chinese history. Mastery of the calendar was seen one of the fundamental blocks of dynastic legitimacy.* Unexpected heavenly phenomenon (eclipses, comets, etc.) might be interpreted as Heaven’s displeasure, and possibly a portent of dynastic change or other unpleasantness.
This led to all kinds of shenanigans, of course. Mostly involving the Jesuits.
With their superior knowledge of astronomy and ability to predict with great accuracy the movements of heavenly bodies, the Jesuits quickly found favor among the courts of the late-Ming and early-Qing emperors. In fact, it was kind of their way in — Christianity was seen as just some odd form of Buddhism or a Daoist heresy, but the Jesuits skill at astronomy made them useful, if not indispensable.
Notably, there was Johann Adam Schall von Bell (1592-1666), who not only supervised the calendrical work for the Astronomy office (a political sensitive gig to say the least) but was also quite close with the Shunzhi Emperor (the first one to rule from Beijing).
Schall’s presence at court incensed several powerful officials, including one named Yang Guangxian who succeeded in having Schall canned and who then wrote an anti-Jesuit polemic entitled “I Cannot Do Otherwise” (Budeyi 不得已) in which he leveled a series of charges against the Jesuits and their followers, including slandering the dynasty, seeking to undermine the Confucian Five Relationships, and of talking nonsense about virgins giving birth in the desert.
It’s actually a fascinating little document.
Unfortunately, while Yang had some talent as an anti-Christian agitator he sucked at math and astronomy, and despite the help of several (Muslim) astronomers, Yang’s calendar was quickly shown to be an inferior product to that produced by Schall. The Jesuits were then put back in charge of calendar making/star watching and Yang died a bitter man shortly thereafter.
On that note enjoy the eclipse and if you’re downtown, the top of the Ancient Observatory would be a great place to check out whatever we can see from these northern latitudes.
To get to the observatory, take the subway to Jianguomen and come up the southwestern exit. You can’t miss it. Admission is 10 RMB (5 for students) and the grounds are open from 9:00 a.m. to 4:30 p.m. (last tickets sold at 4:00) daily.
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*A solar eclipse on August 1, 1644, the summer the Manchus entered Beijing, was unsettling enough that it threatened Manchu plans to consolidate their control over the capital. (See Susan Naquin, Temples and City Life, 1400-1900, p. 290)
**A partial translation can be found in de Bary, Sources of Chinese Tradition, Volume II, p. 150
