CDJMM – Volume 1 – Chapter 34 Writing in the Republic Era (33)

“Sister Bai, do you think Mr. Watchman will really come?”

“I saw his photo in the newspaper! He doesn’t look very old.”

“Even though he’s kind of ugly… but my mom said, an ugly man is safer.”

“Sister Bai, have you met Mr. Watchman before? Does he really look like the picture in the newspaper?”

“Hey! Quick, help me check if my makeup is smudged?”

Bai Shaoyao smiled sweetly at the chattering young women, not exposing their little fantasies. They were just joking, after all—everyone here knew it was impossible. They were only a bunch of withered flowers, while a man like Mr. Watchman deserved better.

But as soon as she thought about finally meeting the man she had admired for so long, her thoughts drifted. It was no exaggeration to say that Mr. Watchman’s reply letter had changed her life. From that letter, she rekindled a spirit that had been dead inside her for years.

She wasn’t completely debased. There were still people in the world who didn’t look down on her—people who were willing to patiently listen to her speak, who would even tell her sincere, heartfelt truths. For someone like her, who had lived among men’s lies since childhood, truth was a rare treasure. So she especially cherished the advice Mr. Watchman had given her—he had told her to learn reading and writing from her clients, and she did exactly that.

Perhaps, in the unseen heavens, some god had finally heard her prayers. Her misfortunes turned, and her luck improved. At a banquet, she met Marshal Xue. Maybe it was because a prostitute who loved studying was such a rare sight, or maybe it was just on a whim—but regardless, Marshal Xue redeemed her and took her as his third concubine. She worked hard to be pleasing and obedient, and eventually won his favor.

Her sisters all envied her luck, but she herself wasn’t so optimistic. As the saying goes, “Before beauty fades, affection dies.” Who knew how long the marshal’s affection would last? So she had to seize this rare chance—study hard, fill herself with knowledge. That way, even if the marshal one day tired of her, she could still live on her own abilities.

Adapting Mr. Watchman’s Memoirs of a Courtesan into a stage play was her boldest attempt. From the very first time she heard the story, she felt an urge to see it performed on stage. It was their story—the story of courtesans. She wanted this story to reach a wider audience.

So she dared to send Mr. Watchman a letter. For many writers, having prostitutes perform a stage play based on their novel would be the ultimate insult. But somehow, she felt he wouldn’t mind.

Sure enough, he didn’t. Not only did he gladly agree, but he even insisted that all the actors must be prostitutes. The news caused an uproar among the women in Bada Hutong. Countless came to audition. But because most were still bound by their brothels, the actresses Bai Shaoyao finally chose were mostly women who had already left the trade. They all knew the risks—this play would bring them plenty of trouble. Yet they chose to participate without hesitation.

Because courtesans had been voiceless in Chinese history for thousands of years. This play was their rare chance to speak. For them, it carried extraordinary meaning!

“Madam, Mr. Li has arrived.” The servant’s voice came from outside. The noisy backstage dressing room instantly fell silent. Seconds later, it exploded into shrieks and chaos.

Bai Shaoyao’s thoughts were interrupted. She too grew nervous, tugging at her skirt and checking her reflection in the mirror.

At the marshal’s banquet that day, Mr. Li had declined due to illness. She knew his health was poor, and that prison had worsened it. She wished for him to rest and recover, never daring to bother him about the play.

So far, the rehearsals had gone on without him ever watching once. Though she had mailed him the script and he gave high praise, without the author’s own eyes on it, she had never felt secure.

Today was the premiere of Memoirs of a Courtesan. She had sent him tickets early, but worried he might not come because of his health. Now, hearing that he had truly arrived, not just she, but all the actresses felt electrified.

They must give him their very best performance!

Led by attendants, Le Jing and Li Shuran pushed through the sea of people and took seats in the first row.

If not for being the author and receiving gifted tickets, he truly wouldn’t have gotten in—tickets were impossible to buy.

The premiere of Memoirs of a Courtesan was wildly popular. First, the all-prostitute cast had stirred up massive curiosity—before it even premiered, it had already become the talk of Beiping. Second, it bore Marshal Xue’s name. Word spread that one of his concubines had adapted it and was even starring as the heroine. Naturally, people flocked to see such a rare spectacle. By morning, the theater entrance was packed.

Le Jing sighed inwardly—Marshal Xue was truly the Republican-era version of a domineering CEO. At this time, countless men hated women stepping into public view. And most women who left prostitution hid their past as tightly as possible, terrified of the shame. Yet Marshal Xue not only supported Bai Shaoyao and her sisters performing the play, he even let her play the lead. For Bai Shaoyao, that was nothing short of true love.

Before long, the lights dimmed. The announcer walked onstage, the curtain rose, and the play began. Le Jing pulled his wandering thoughts back and immersed himself in the performance.

Seeing his own work presented as a stage play was a strange experience. Even with his critical author’s eye, he had to admit they performed it brilliantly. Without deep understanding of the original, such depth would have been impossible. Perhaps because the story was about courtesans’ lives, these women brought it vividly alive.

So—what story did Memoirs of a Courtesan tell?

As the title suggests, it unfolded as the memories of a famous courtesan.

The story began at sunset. Former courtesan Bai Moli, gravely ill and unable to take clients, was carried by the madam and the brothel’s men to a mass graveyard—about to be buried alive.

In that moment, she recalled her 23 years of life.

Born to a wealthy family, she was kidnapped by traffickers while out playing and sold to a brothel. Because of her beauty, she was raised like a lady, trained in every art—music, chess, calligraphy, painting—groomed as the finest class of courtesan. Bai Moli was lively and cheerful, well-liked. But her innocence ended at 13, when her life plunged into hell.

Every courtesan at 13 must undergo the defloration rite, auctioning her first night. From then on, she began facing countless men. With her bright temperament, she often joked through misery—Le Jing had written many humorous passages.

For example, the man who bought her virginity was a romantic young master. He promised to redeem her someday. Outwardly she feigned joy, but secretly rolled her eyes:

“The beauty of learning is to confuse; the beauty of poetry is to tempt adultery; the beauty of women is to be foolish without regret; the beauty of men is to lie through daylight. If I actually believed you, I’d be the world’s biggest fool.”

On stage, Bai Shaoyao performed this as a monologue. The audience roared with laughter. Beside Le Jing, a lady teased her friend: “See? Men’s words are lies! So don’t accept Zhao gongzi’s pursuit so easily—you must test him more.” Her friend nodded repeatedly.

Behind them, an old scholar scolded, “Utter nonsense, all crooked reasoning!”

“Father, you’re crying with laughter—don’t pretend otherwise.”

Another spectator said, “I only read Watchman’s Looking Down on Humans Through a Rat’s Eyes. It was profound. I never thought he could write jokes this funny. He could be a xiangsheng performer!”

“Huh? This play is by Watchman?”

“Yes, adapted from his novel. My friend at the printing house says the book will be published soon!”

“Oh! Then I must buy a copy!”

The audience laughed louder and louder, while the story pressed on.

And indeed, things went as Bai Moli expected. The young master soon tired of her, falling for another courtesan, who even flaunted it. Bai Moli, half-serious, half-jesting, told her: “His father wanted to redeem me as a concubine not long ago. Soon, I might become his little stepmother. Since you’re with him now, Chunhong, go on—call me ‘Mom.’”

The theater erupted in laughter.

Le Jing did not laugh.

He suddenly recalled a line from a writer who had drowned himself:

“I want to write the saddest tragedy, filled with shameless laughter.”

Memoirs of a Courtesan was exactly that—a tragedy dressed as comedy. Comedy’s core is tragedy.

Amid the audience’s laughter, the plot moved steadily.

Among the courtesans, Bai Moli was unique. She didn’t wallow in self-pity or play schemes. She was open and generous. When not working, she read, wrote, played music, painted. Despite being one of the most despised, she lived freely, like a hermit.

Yet fate never spared her. She didn’t believe men’s lies—only her own efforts. She saved desperately to buy her freedom. But the only way to earn more was to serve more clients. She stopped refusing any—so long as they paid.

She soon caught syphilis. From top-class courtesan, she fell to second-rate, then to the lowest brothel, selling herself for pennies. Even her old sisters insulted her, calling her a slut, saying she got what she deserved.

The cruelest part? Despite all her efforts, she saved nothing. The madam and lackeys stole her money; she donated to disaster relief; she paid for a beggar-girl’s schooling because she looked like her lost sister. So, though she nearly worked herself to death, she stayed poor. Freedom remained out of reach.

Slowly, the laughter in the theater faded. No matter how witty Bai Moli’s lines, few laughed now. Some even wept softly.

Finally, the story circled back to the sunset—the end.

Bai Moli lay on the filthy ground, her memories finished. She lifted her head to the beautiful evening sky, while the madam and lackeys discussed coldly nearby. She suddenly remembered her childhood dream—to be a heroine like Qiu Jin. But fate tossed her like duckweed, powerless. At least, in the end, she could choose how to die.

With her last strength, she ran faster than ever before, then, laughing loudly, leapt into the sunset-stained moat, as the madam cursed furiously.

The play closely followed the novel, with only slight changes. For example, before leaping, Bai Moli turned back and laughed:

“You’ve lost! I am free! In this life, I’ve suffered every pain. In the next, I’ll be happier than all of you!”

Then the narrator softly read the novel’s final line:

“See, the sunset is splendid, the lake serene—so much like peace in this world.”

The theater was silent, broken only by muffled sobs.

That is tragedy—tearing apart something beautiful for the audience to see.

A woman as bright as Bai Moli could not survive in such a filthy world.

The audience who had laughed so joyfully now felt anger—and shame.

They silently watched the curtain fall, never to rise again.

No one knew how long passed—seconds, a minute—when suddenly a voice from the back roared: “Damn this rotten society!”

Then came scattered claps near Le Jing, spreading until the whole theater thundered with applause. The audience rose as one, their fury transforming into a storm of clapping, as if to rip the roof off, as if to summon heavenly thunder to strike down all evil, and bring true peace to China.