CDJMM – Volume 1 – Chapter 35 Writing in the Republic Era (34)

What’s the hottest news in Beiping right now?

Eight out of ten people would answer: the play Memoirs of a Courtesan, performed entirely by a troupe of prostitutes.

At first, this play was denounced by many upright gentlemen as indecent and corrupting morals. Yet, like a prairie fire, it swept across the entire city of Beiping with unstoppable momentum.

Two weeks after its premiere, every show was sold out. Some audience members even bought tickets repeatedly, watching several times a day. The main consumers were none other than the prostitutes from the Eight Hutongs. The wealthy ones would gather with their sisters and book entire performances; even those without much money could afford a twenty-cent ticket. No matter how many times they watched, their eyes would redden each time.

In the past, many so-called respectable people disdained even sharing a roof with these women of the dust. There was once a girls’ school in Beiping where a student withdrew in shame because prostitutes were enrolled as well. To those who prized reputation and status, prostitutes were nothing but sources of contamination. Even if they did nothing, their mere presence polluted the air. Such people always drew a clear line, wishing to grind prostitutes’ bones to dust to highlight their own purity.

But among the audiences of Memoirs of a Courtesan, this mindset was easily overturned. Even those who had harbored deep prejudice found their eyes red after the performance, some even embracing the prostitutes in shared sobs.

As a result, many shed some of their bias. At the very least, they could tolerate sitting beside prostitutes to watch a play, without immediately calling for their destruction. In the theater, everyone washed away worldly identities, returning to equal footing as spectators.

For the first time, women who had long lived like rats in the gutter—ashamed to be seen—were treated with friendliness, sympathy, and even help from outsiders. Many wept with joy, rediscovering the happiness of simply being human. And this play, created entirely by prostitutes, revealed another path: beyond selling flesh, they could write scripts, compose lyrics, sing, and act! Suddenly, the stagnant waters of their hearts rippled with possibility.

Of course, not everyone possesses the rare gifts of sympathy and empathy. Some beasts in human skin—who only looked human—were bound to cause trouble.

One well-dressed young man made a scene in the theater. Though dressed as a refined gentleman, he spoke like a pedantic scholar, earning frowns from most. He declared:

“The world is truly in decline! Now even such obscene filth can be openly staged in theaters! A whore is a whore. Since they chose this trade, ridden by thousands, whatever fate befalls them is of their own making. They have no one to blame!”

His words caused an uproar. A few tried to argue back, but he cut them off sharply:

“You all preach sympathy for them—then why don’t you marry them? Isn’t it because you also think they’re filthy?”

That jab hit the audience’s sore spot. They could extend condescending pity but had never considered marriage. The reason was indeed summed up in his single word: “filthy.”

Silence filled the theater. On and off the stage, prostitutes’ eyes brimmed with tears and their faces with despair.

Le Jing read of this incident in The Justice Daily. But the story soon took a dramatic turn.

The reporter wrote:

“Just as the hall fell into speechless silence, and the prostitutes were left distraught, a clear male voice rang out from the front rows: ‘Who says no one would marry them?’ A handsome man rose, bowed politely toward the stage, and declared: ‘I am Zhai Yuanju, from Shandong. Visiting relatives in Beiping, I came to the theater for leisure, but unexpectedly encountered such a graceful lady. Miss Qiuju, I have admired you for long. Would you marry me?’”

Le Jing knew of Qiuju—she was one of the actresses who alternated as the female lead in Memoirs of a Courtesan. Since there were many shows, a single actress couldn’t perform every time, so there were four in total sharing the lead role of Bai Moli. Qiuju, from the Qingyin troupe of the Eight Hutongs, was known for her strong character—she had publicly vowed never to become anyone’s concubine, which was why no one had yet redeemed her.

Hearing such an open and honorable proposal, she was thrilled but cautious:

“You mean to take me as your proper wife? Let me make it clear—I’ll die before becoming a concubine!”

The man blushed and replied tenderly:

“Of course. My family has practiced medicine for generations, and our ancestral rule forbids taking concubines.”

Qiuju’s eyes blazed like wildfire, though she still feigned shyness:

“My redemption fee is rather high…”

The man said at once:

“I’ve practiced medicine for years and have some savings. I can afford it.”

Overjoyed, Qiuju leapt down from the stage and shyly accepted.

Spontaneously, applause erupted throughout the theater. As for the earlier loudmouth, he was already forgotten.

The reporter recorded this rare scene faithfully, in cool, objective language, without embellishment. Yet readers could not help but be deeply moved by this extraordinary romance. That, of course, was the reporter’s true stance—great journalists always master the subtle “Spring and Autumn style” of writing.

Other papers also filled pages with commentary on the play. There was both criticism and praise.

The critics focused on three points:

The all-prostitute cast was too immoral, harming social morals and women’s education.

The plot whitewashed prostitutes, who did no productive work and thus deserved no sympathy.

“The Watchman” only shouted slogans—had he ever considered how prostitutes would make a living after reforming?

Many denounced him mercilessly, even questioning: hadn’t this tainted author already been banned? How could his plays still be staged for cheap popularity?

But there was also plenty of praise.

Anyone with even a basic sense of literary appreciation couldn’t deny that Memoirs of a Courtesan was a fine novel, and the stage adaptation a masterpiece of high artistic value. Several prominent intellectuals came forward to defend it.

One such figure was a Tsinghua University professor, a great Confucian scholar versed in both Chinese and Western traditions, who published several commentaries in succession. Writing under the pen name “Chiyan” (Scarlet Flame), he penned an essay titled Don’t Wake the Pretenders, a thousand-word critique whose thunderous passage was widely reprinted:

“A great ship has sprung a leak and will sink. Some awaken first, running about, crying loudly, trying to rouse the sleeping passengers so that all may help plug the hole and avert disaster. Some heed the call and join the effort. Yet there are always others—awakened, but resentful. Since the ship will not sink immediately, they would rather sleep longer in comfort than be bothered. These pretenders grumble at those who roused them, and the cleverest propose: why not kill these noisy fools? Then no one will trouble us to repair the ship, and we can sleep in peace. And so, they devote themselves to silencing the repairers—only then can they enjoy their long slumber.”

He concluded: this was the true source of the scolding directed at Memoirs of a Courtesan.

Such words pierced deep, exposing the ugliness of the “pretenders,” and spread quickly.

Yet Chiyan’s style still carried the elegance and subtlety of a scholar, satirical but not quite biting enough.

Then Zheng Yiliang appeared under his pseudonym “Free Wanderer,” offering a masterclass in fiery rhetoric. His essay Listen to Human Words tore into the opposition with ferocity:

“Recently, the dogs have barked without cease, disturbing my rest. Today, I can bear it no longer—it’s time to show these weak, craven curs their place! I know such dogs well: only when you break their teeth and thrash them will they tuck their tails and slink away, never daring to bark again.
…

Some people even take the barking seriously—understanding it, repeating it, spreading it as if it were gospel. Faced with doubts, they cite dog’s words as evidence! I must ask: since when does a dog’s yap count as speech among men?”

His thousand-word tirade was sharp, merciless, and exhilarating—like drinking ice water on the hottest summer day. Readers cheered in delight.

While the newspapers roared with controversy over the play, Le Jing’s novels Memoirs of a Courtesan and Through Rat Eyes finally rode this wave of publicity into print. They appeared in major Beiping bookstores.

Banners were hung, “The Watchman” and Memoirs of a Courtesan plastered in the most prominent spots. Prostitutes from brothels spent their own money buying copies for clients and sisters. Audiences who had seen the play eagerly bought the original novel to savor it again. Even those who hadn’t, intrigued by the storm of newspaper debates, came to purchase the books.

Soon paper was worth its weight in gold—bookstores overflowed with lines.

Both supporters and detractors of The Watchman now found themselves pondering the same question:

How well will his new books sell?