CDJMM – Volume 1 – Chapter 16 Writing in the Republic Era (15)

[Letter from Miss Bai Shaoyao to Mr. Watchman]

Dear Sir,

Greetings. I hope you won’t find it presumptuous that I write to you so suddenly.

I know you are a man of broad mind, unlike ordinary men, and would never belittle me. That’s why I dare to write openly. I am the most famous courtesan of the Eight Hutongs today, Bai Shaoyao. I cannot read or write—this letter is written by a kind person on my behalf. The story you wrote, I heard about from others. Please don’t laugh at me, but when I heard it, I truly cried, for the little sister Bai Xiang who died in your book, and also for myself.

If you do not mind, sir, I wish to tell you my own story.

I was born poor. Later, a great drought struck, and my father sold me. I entered this world of dust when I was even younger than Bai Xiang by a year. Girls my age are not rare in the Eight Hutongs. A younger sister of mine was deflowered at the age of seven.

I have worked in this filthy trade for ten years, enduring countless inhuman torments—details I dare not soil your ears with. Compared with poor Bai Xiang, I suppose I am fortunate, for I still live, and I even became a famous courtesan. My clients are rich merchants and men of prestige. I have reached the peak of this trade.

But sir, how can anything in life remain perfect? How can flowers stay in bloom forever?

Do you know what became of Hong Mudan, the most famous courtesan of the Eight Hutongs ten years ago? She was even more celebrated than I. But once she contracted that vile sickness, she quickly fell from the rank of a top courtesan of the “Qingyin” class to a second-class tea-house girl. In our trade, once you fall, it is a fate more painful than death.

Later, when I saw her again, she had already sunk to the lowest rank—the fourth class, the brothel drudge. By then, it no longer mattered who the man was: anyone could sleep with her for just a single dime. She was forced to entertain over twenty clients a day, and if she failed, the madam beat her cruelly… And then, she died. Too ill to work, she was cast out by the madam, dumped in a mass grave, buried alive. Perhaps her body, like Bai Xiang’s in your story, was eaten by wild dogs.

Sir, I am no longer young. Even though I wear gold and silver now, soon enough I too will fall to the second-class tea-houses. Bai Xiang’s and Hong Mudan’s fates are also mine.

But I cannot accept this. Sir, I was once the daughter of an honest family. Why must I die in filth?

From your story, I know you have sympathy for women like us. You see us as people. You are wiser than I, blind in all but eyes, so I dare ask you: how can I live? If I leave this trade, what else could I do…?*

Bai Shaoyao’s words revealed only the tip of the iceberg of this nation’s three-thousand-year history of prostitution. The reality of their lives was far more tragic than what Le Jing or Bai Shaoyao herself could put into words.

Some may ask: if it was so miserable, why not buy their freedom? The answer is simple: they could not afford it.

In Beiping, prostitutes were divided into four classes: Qingyin courtesans, tea-house girls, lodging girls, and brothel drudges.

Take the second-class tea-house girls as example. Clients were divided into tea guests and bed guests. Tea guests drank tea, nibbled seeds, and chatted about poetry—this cost one yuan, the price of a plate of melon seeds. Bed guests paid twelve yuan for “the great harmony of life.” Of this, the madam and the boss each took five yuan, while the attendants took one yuan. The prostitute herself received only fifty cents.

And because prostitution was a legal profession, they had to pay heavy taxes. By the late Republic, a third-class prostitute paid 100,000 legal tender in monthly taxes, plus 250,000 for inspections. Each client cost 100,000, of which the boss took 90,000. This meant that a third-class prostitute had to entertain at least thirty-five clients a month without spending a penny just to pay taxes. For reference: at the time, one slice of pork in Beiping cost 250,000.

In later generations, some women sold their bodies for material desire. But in the Republic, human flesh was cheaper than pork. Even if a few women managed to redeem themselves, once discarded by their patrons, they had no way to make a living and inevitably returned to the old trade.

That was why Bai Shaoyao asked Le Jing: How can I live?

How to live? In theory, simple. In practice, impossible under those social conditions. Not until decades later, when a great leader cut off this tumor with a single stroke, were women like Bai Shaoyao given the chance to live clean lives again.

Le Jing could not save them. Only they could save themselves.

He thought for a moment, then told her the stories of Qiu Jin, Florence Nightingale, and Helen Keller. He wrote:

*“In this world, survival is harder for women than for men. Yet even so, there are women who never submit, who achieve great things in their fields, and whom history remembers.

I will not spout empty words like ‘redeem yourself and live clean.’ What I can tell you is this: you must work tenfold, even a hundredfold harder than ordinary men if you wish to live upright.

But know this: today’s society already binds women less than before. Women may study, work, even become officials. If you wish to change your fate, make use of your advantage. Learn to read and write from your clients. No matter when, education always opens more roads.”*

A few days later, Le Jing received another letter from Bai Shaoyao. On the paper, in crooked handwriting, were only four words:

“Thank you, sir.”

Le Jing never knew what her fate ultimately was. Perhaps her struggle was crushed by the tide of destiny. Yet history would not forget her small effort. The sparks of humanity shining from women like her would one day illuminate the long night that had shrouded this nation for three thousand years.

It was through this letter that inspiration suddenly struck him.

He wanted to write a memoir of a courtesan, told in the voice of a famed prostitute, recounting her life.

A courtesan, though her body was sullied, could still possess a noble spirit—only to be ground down by this devouring world until her last bone was crushed.

Through Bai Shaoyao’s letter, Le Jing also realized something: until now, his writings had been unfriendly to the uneducated at the very bottom of society.

Someone like Bai Shaoyao, who couldn’t read—if no one read it to her, she would never know what Le Jing’s essays contained. With literacy so low nowadays, his usual style of writing was a bit too lofty. Refined, yes, but not conducive to spreading ideas.

Thinking about later generations, it was the same principle—compared to serious historical dramas, it was always those dog-blood time-travel romance dramas that were more popular. What belongs to the people, is what belongs to the masses, and what belongs to the world.

So, for his new work, he wanted to write something simpler and easier to understand. Only then could it spread more widely, awaken the people, and stir sympathy among the lower classes for the plight of prostitutes.

What should he call the new piece…?

Le Jing suddenly remembered a movie from his past life—Memoirs of a Geisha. It told the life story of a geisha. So his novel would be titled Memoirs of a Courtesan, as a tribute to that great classic.

When Yang Jinglun came by to visit, he couldn’t hide his smile.

“Why so happy?”

Yang Jinglun beamed. “Sir, your latest piece, Snobbish Eyes, is truly brilliant. Many authors are already publishing essays commenting on it!”

“And Tang Nan? How did he react?”

Yang Jinglun chuckled dismissively. “Of course, he had to write a rebuttal, cursing and defending himself. But how can a firefly compete with the brilliance of the moon? With your essay shining before him, no matter how fiercely he rants, it’s nothing but a splash in the pond. Everyone’s still captivated by your writing.”

Looking at the youth’s calm expression, Yang Jinglun’s admiration surged endlessly, like the Yellow River flowing without end. “Sir, you truly are a genius. Even when writing humorous and witty stories, you handle them so masterfully. The jokes in your essay have already been adapted into crosstalk performances!”

Le Jing froze. “Crosstalk?”

Yang Jinglun nodded, a satisfied grin on his face. “Sir, you don’t go out often, so you may not know—out in the teahouses, your essay’s jokes have been turned into crosstalk routines. Even illiterate layabouts laugh until their stomachs ache when they hear them. That’s how good your writing is—it’s natural that it’s so popular. I say, Tang Nan’s reputation is about to rot on the streets.”

Le Jing smiled. It seemed the common people truly liked his new works—so much so that they spread them on their own.

It probably wouldn’t be long before Tang Nan became the modern-day Pan Jinlian.

Three days later, Le Jing handed over the completed Memoirs of a Courtesan to Yang Jinglun.

Editor Yang, after reading it, was left in awe.

“Sir, this work is simply outstanding!” he exclaimed. “This novel strikes directly at the heart of the slander and falsehoods of people like Tang Nan!”

Once Memoirs of a Courtesan was published, it stirred up a storm in the newspapers.

The controversy sparked earlier by the Snobbish Eyes prostitute chapter now boiled over completely. Scholars with opposing views used newspapers as their battlefield, wielding essays as weapons in a bloodless war.

Naturally, Tang Nan would not miss such a good chance for revenge. He even threw away all pretense of a cultured man, shrieking on the newspapers like a shrew:

“If he doesn’t often prowl around the Eight Alleys, how would The Watchman know so much about prostitutes?”

“Prostitutes are all shameless whores! Does The Watchman want to build a memorial archway for whores?”

“The Watchman himself must be a client—how dare he pretend to be some noble man? What a laughable farce!”

Not only did he write himself, he also rallied a band of cronies to support him in print, creating no small stir for a time.

But once a few heavyweight figures stepped in, all that barking instantly fell silent.

The renowned writer and educator Zhou Dezhang rarely voiced opinions, but this time, he published his support:

“Prostitution is a festering sore in this country. Many scholars and politicians lack the courage or ability to lance and treat it, so they simply cover it up, pretending it doesn’t exist. Such self-deception is laughable! Lacking the ability to solve a problem, they instead try to silence the one who raises it. This is precisely the deep-rooted flaw of our current regime!”

The famous sharp-tongued debater, Mr. Zheng Yiliang, responded even more fiercely to Tang Nan’s filth:

“Utter fucking nonsense! How can you, at such a young age, spew such filthy drivel? I really ought to visit the Tang household and ask Lord Tang about the family education in that mansion of his!”

Besides these two, several university professors also stood up to support The Watchman, lambasting Tang Nan’s camp so viciously it left them utterly humiliated.

Reading those articles, Le Jing was full of admiration. Truly, scholars were something else—why, even their insults were eloquent. Just look at how Mr. Zheng Yiliang scolded Tang Nan in print:

“Art thou man? Or dog? For thy barking never ceases—perhaps thou art in heat?”

When the experts step in, there’s simply no contest. With so many big names backing Le Jing, Tang Nan and his cronies quickly slunk away in silence.

Inside the Tang residence.

Master Tang snapped, “Stop publishing those ridiculous articles! Isn’t your reputation already foul enough?”

Tang Nan protested indignantly, “But he’s the one who provoked me first!”

“I don’t care who started it! Remember this—words from a scholar’s pen can kill! Do you want the entire Tang family to be reviled for generations because of you?” Master Tang declared firmly, “Find a chance to meet this Watchman. Make peace, turn hostility into friendship. That would be best.”

Tang Nan’s face turned purple with rage. “You want me to apologize to him? You might as well kill me instead!”

“You—!”

With a cold laugh, Tang Nan stormed off, slamming the door behind him.

Master Tang was so furious he nearly fainted. “Ungrateful son! Ungrateful son!”

Tang Nan’s chest burned with fury. His hatred for The Watchman made him want to tear him apart and grind his bones to dust.

The Watchman—he would never forgive him!