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  COURTESANS AND OPIUM

  Weatherhead Books on Asia

  WEATHERHEAD EAST ASIAN INSTITUTE, COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY

  Weatherhead Books on Asia

  WEATHERHEAD EAST ASIAN INSTITUTE, COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY

  LITERATURE

  David Der-wei Wang, Editor

  Ye Zhaoyan, Nanjing 1937: A Love Story, translated by Michael Berry (2003)

  Oda Makato, The Breaking Jewel, translated by Donald Keene (2003)

  Han Shaogong, A Dictionary of Maqiao, translated by Julia Lovell (2003)

  Takahashi Takako, Lonely Woman, translated by Maryellen Toman Mori (2004)

  Chen Ran, A Private Life, translated by John Howard-Gibbon (2004)

  Eileen Chang, Written on Water, translated by Andrew F. Jones (2004)

  Writing Women in Modern China: The Revolutionary Years, 1936–1976, edited by Amy D. Dooling (2005)

  Han Bangqing, The Sing-song Girls of Shanghai, first translated by Eileen Chang, revised and edited by Eva Hung (2005)

  Loud Sparrows: Contemporary Chinese Short-Shorts, translated and edited by Aili Mu, Julie Chiu, Howard Goldblatt (2006)

  Hiratsuka Raichō, In the Beginning, Woman Was the Sun, translated by Teruko Craig (2006)

  Zhu Wen, I Love Dollars and Other Stories of China, translated by Julia Lovell (2007)

  Kim Sowŏl, Azaleas: A Book of Poems, translated by David McCann (2007)

  Wang Anyi, The Song of Everlasting Sorrow: A Novel of Shanghai, translated by Michael Berry with Susan Chan Egan (2008)

  Ch’oe Yun, There a Petal Silently Falls: Three Stories by Ch’oe Yun, translated by Bruce and Ju-Chan Fulton (2008)

  Inoue Yasushi, The Blue Wolf: The Life of Chinggis Khan, translated by Joshua A. Fogel (2009)

  Anonymous, Courtesans and Opium: Romantic Illusions of the Fool of Yangzhou, translated by Patrick Hanan (2009)

  HISTORY, SOCIETY, AND CULTURE

  Carol Gluck, Editor

  Takeuchi Yoshimi, What Is Modernity? Writings of Takeuchi Yoshimi, edited and translated, with an introduction, by Richard F. Calichman (2005)

  Contemporary Japanese Thought, edited and translated by Richard F. Calichman, (2005)

  Overcoming Modernity, edited and translated by Richard F. Calichman (2008)

  Theory of Literature and Other Critical Writings by Natsumi Sōseki (2009)

  COURTESANS AND OPIUM

  Romantic Illusions of the Fool of Yangzhou

  ANONYMOUS

  TRANSLATED BY PATRICK HANAN

  Columbia University Press New York

  This publication has been supported by the Richard W. Weatherhead Publication Fund of the Weatherhead East Asian Institute, Columbia University.

  Columbia University Press wishes to express its appreciation for assistance given by The Pushkin Fund toward the cost of publishing this book.

  Columbia University Press

  Publishers Since 1893

  New York Chichester, West Sussex

  cup.columbia.edu

  Translation copyright © 2009 Columbia University Press

  Paperback edition, 2017

  All rights reserved

  EISBN 978-0-231-51983-0

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Hanshangmengren, 19th cent.

  [Feng yue meng. English]

  Courtesans and Opium : romantic illusions of the fool of Yangzhou / by anonymous author ; translated by Patrick Hanan.

  p. cm. — (Weatherhead books on Asia)

  ISBN 978-0-231-14822-1 (cloth : alk. paper)—ISBN 978-0-231-14823-8 (pbk. : alk. paper)—ISBN 978-0-231-51983-0 (electronic)

  I. Hanan, Patrick. II. Title. III. Series.

  PL2710.A59F4613 2009

  895.1'348—dc22

  2008034118

  A Columbia University Press E-book.

  CUP would be pleased to hear about your reading experience with this e-book at [email protected].

  Why did I write Romantic Illusions? While still a child, I lost my mother’s care and my father’s instruction. As a student I was lazy and much given to dissipation. After I grew up, I became enamored of the brothel scene and almost perished in its seductive trap. Over the course of thirty-odd years I met with more instances of beauty, ugliness, passion, and heartlessness than I could possibly enumerate. I squandered large sums of money—and got in return a quantity of false love and affection. When I came to ponder the meaning of that experience, I saw romance as an illusion, and so in a playful mood I began to write about it, naming my book Romantic Illusions. Perhaps it will frighten fools and awaken others, thereby helping me to atone a little for my misdeeds, and perhaps it will stand as a warning to posterity not to follow my sorry example.

  —FROM THE AUTHOR’S PREFACE (1848)

  CONTENTS

  Introduction

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Notes

  INTRODUCTION

  In his preface, and again in his first chapter, the author of Fengyue meng (Romantic Illusions) describes his book as a kind of penitence for thirty years spent in the brothels of Yangzhou—he hopes that it will serve as a warning to others not to follow his example. But although Fengyue meng is indeed a cautionary novel, it is also much more than that.1 It explores the raffish underside of life in a famous city, and it does so in masterly fashion, in a well-crafted work. It is the first “city novel” in Chinese literature, confining itself to the heart of Yangzhou and showing a distinct civic awareness. (It led to the well-known novels set in the brothel quarter of Shanghai.)2 In place of the stock figures and adventures of much cautionary fiction, it provides new characters and incident that credibly result from the author’s own observation and reflection. Finally, as any great work must be able to do, it transcends its author’s professed aims.

  The word fengyue in the title suggests romance in the context of brothels and courtesans, while meng means dream as illusory experience. As the author looks back on his life in the brothels, he sees romance as nothing more than illusion. But how could a brothel ever be considered a locus of romance? The explanation lies in the nature of the higher-level brothels and the position of courtship in traditional Chinese society. In a system of strictly arranged marriages, the only place for courtship was with one’s wife after the wedding; apart from maids and prostitutes, a young man had no opportunity to meet young women, let alone to court them. In Lin Yutang’s words, “the courtesan supplied the need for courtship and romance which many men missed in their youth before marriage.”3 Second, although sex was, of course, the sine qua non of the brothels, the courtesans were more than mere prostitutes. Pathetic as their situation undoubtedly was, they were trained from an early age in playing an instrument (usually the pipa, or plucked lute) and in singing operatic as well as po
pular songs. They dressed gorgeously, in the latest styles; note the amount of imported silk and other textiles described in this novel, as well as the expensive gold and silver jewelry. They acquired the various arts and graces of lively, attractive, and amusing companions. For their clients, on the other hand, the brothel held some of the qualities of a club; it was a place to meet friends, to exchange gossip and badinage, to eat and drink—especially when playing drinking games—and, in this period at least, to smoke opium. It was also a place of color and music, where a man could hear the latest songs and see the latest styles, and where he might, if he could afford it, establish a special relationship with a particular courtesan. She would even be able to accompany him on excursions in and around the city, which was more than his wife could decently do. Five such relationships are formed in the course of this novel.

  The first chapter is a semihumorous polemic on the dangers posed by brothels and opium. (The dangers are closely linked because the brothels provided their guests with opium almost as readily as they offered them tea.) The novel proceeds to establish a group of five friends, four from Yangzhou, the other a visitor from Changshu, who swear brotherhood and afterward spend much of their time together. All are below the official level; one is a runner for the Customs, another works for the Salt Administration, a third runs a private loan-sharking business, a fourth is the son of a man who is in line for appointment to a lucrative post, and the fifth is the visitor from Changshu, who has no job or profession but whose father made a fortune from local court cases by brokering deals with defendants. They are married, some unhappily, but all are dedicated brothel goers. The novel is built on the relationships that develop between the five and their courtesan lovers through a series of events, several of which are beyond their control. Brothels were vulnerable to official campaigns, to local corruption and extortion, and to gang violence. This novel shows us their inner workings as they have not been shown before.

  Yangzhou is the setting of the novel in a more than superficial sense. In the first chapter the narrator offers a personal vignette; he tells of seeing groups of youths sipping tea at a teahouse on Lower Commerce Street who, when they spot a boat passing by with prostitutes on board, decide to go in pursuit of it. In the next chapter we follow Lu Shu, the visitor from Changshu, along the city streets as he makes his way to the Parade, samples the entertainments, and calls in at a teahouse, where he comes upon a friend, Yuan You. The next morning we follow him again, street by street, as he goes to Yuan’s house. On the way he pauses at one of the city gates to observe the swarms of people passing by in each direction; it is one of several occasions on which the author gives us a feeling of crowds, the essential quality of a city. All of this is told in the first three chapters. In the dialogue, and also in the author’s commentary, Yangzhou is distinguished from other cities and even from its own past. For example, a particularly intricate form of jewelry must be from Shanghai, we are told, since the craftsmanship would be beyond the capacity of the Yangzhou silversmiths (chap. 3); and a certain performance, evidently of an early form of cross talk (xiangsheng), is described as unusual in Yangzhou but all the rage in Beijing (chap. 13). Yangzhou’s festive and religious customs are described in detail, and local words and phrases, some of which are not yet to be found in any dictionary, are freely used. The degree of detail employed in the description, particularly of the dress of the courtesans and dandies, exceeds that of any previous Chinese novel.

  One of the most notable accounts ever given of a Chinese city is actually devoted to Yangzhou: Li Dou’s Yangzhou huafang lu (The Pleasure Boats of Yangzhou). Completed in 1795, it was the result, according to the author, of thirty years’ observation. One may conjecture that its rich mixture of geographical, historical, and contemporary information (including rites and customs) inspired the author of Fengyue meng.4 It is referred to in chapter 5, when Lu Shu, the visitor to Yangzhou, remarks, on seeing some devastated palaces and gardens, that he had gained a far different impression from the Yangzhou huafang lu. This leads to a discussion of how the palaces and gardens have fallen into ruin in recent years. One of Lu Shu’s companions quotes a zhuzhici (bamboo branch song) to that effect.

  The bamboo branch song was a four-line poem with a local reference, most often to some aspect of a city—its physical features, customs, and so on—usually with a humorous or satirical intent. Countless such poems were written about Chinese cities, by visitors as well as locals, and although they were never highly regarded, they often contain rare and valuable information on local characteristics. The Fengyue meng quotes no fewer than four poems from one collection that no longer exists, Yangzhou yanhua zhuzhici (Bamboo Branch Songs on the Pleasure Houses of Yangzhou). A fifth poem is the one on the ruined palaces and gardens that I have just mentioned; it is said to come from a different collection, Yangzhou hushang zhuzhici (Bamboo Branch Songs on the Lake at Yangzhou). Another poem, extemporaneously composed by one of the characters in chapter 16 during a visit to the Hundred Sons Room of the Guanyin temple, has all the characteristics of a bamboo branch song. The focus of the poems fitted the author’s own interests; indeed, it would appear that in some places his own narrative has been arranged to accommodate them. One existing collection, Hanjiang zhuzhici, evidently had a particularly close relationship with the novel. It consists of eighty-seven poems by an anonymous author that survive only in manuscript form.5 Although none of its poems is copied into the novel, the contents of a number of them are readily apparent.6

  Fengyue meng’s most obvious literary relationship is with the Shitou ji (Story of the Stone), also known as Honglou meng (Dream of the Red Chamber), the great eighteenth-century novel that influenced much nineteenth-century fiction. Although it is never mentioned directly, its effect on Fengyue meng is clear to any reader. The chiming clock incident in chapter 7 echoes the Shitou ji, and a number of the songs sung by the young courtesan Fragrance are about well-known episodes involving Daiyu and Baoyu. The influence is most pronounced at the beginning and end, in Old Hand’s defense of his novel and in his poems condemning all brothels. The defense is especially significant in that, like the Shitou ji, Fengyue meng is said to be about real people whom the author has known. Whether such a claim is true, and to what extent it is true, are not the point; the mere intention, even the pretense, of writing about known people tends to prevent typecasting.

  The polemic in chapter 1 is about the dangers brothels present to young men, but it applies only partially to the five sworn brothers and their women. Lu Shu, who falls headlong in love with the unscrupulous Fragrance and is ultimately ruined, is an almost perfect example of the narrator’s warnings, and Wei Bi, who is tricked out of some money by Lucky, is a second, albeit trivial, case, but the other three are all exceptions. Wu Zhen is not so much ruined by his opium addiction as by his unwillingness to pay a bribe; Jia Ming is not ruined by his liaison with Phoenix, although he does lose her to another man; and Yuan You’s affair with Paria turns into a surprising love story.

  The fact is that the courtesans Cassia, Phoenix, and Paria, far from being the heartless and scheming sirens of the polemic, turn out to be interesting and sympathetic figures. Cassia is caught between fear of her protector and dependence on her paramour. The impulsive, extravagant Phoenix is spectacularly miscast as lover of the cautious, impecunious Jia Ming. And Paria, by her dedication to her new role as concubine or secondary wife, ends up as a kind of heroine.

  It is clear that Lu Shu’s love for Fragrance and Paria’s for Yuan You are very different in nature. Lu Shu’s love is rapturous, nonrational—he is regularly described as love struck or infatuated, despite the evidence of Fragrance’s faithlessness—while Paria’s is, according to her lights, supremely rational. Encouraged by her interpretation of a dream and an auspicious divination, she manipulates Yuan You into setting her up as his concubine but then serves him selflessly, even to the extent of taking her own life in order to accompany him to the netherworld. This is evidently the kind of love of
which the author approved.

  Her suicide, which, by its position at the end of the novel, assumes extraordinary importance, may seem at first sight to be an act of conformity to a social ideal, a kind of suttee, but the truth is more complex. The subject first comes up in chapter 10 when she dreams of two mandarin ducks that are killed by a single shot. She has heard that ideally husband and wife should die in the same hour. (The ideal actually applies to close friends, sworn brothers, rather than to husband and wife.) She has additional reasons for rejecting the remarriage that her dying husband suggests: she is afraid that, with her ill fate, she will fail in any alternative that she tries. And she is grateful to, and fond of, her husband, who has behaved well toward her, if toward no one else. Finally, she believes that he needs her at his side on his journey to the netherworld.

  Of the Yangzhou women officially commended during the first half of the nineteenth century for their chastity, the vast majority were young widows in their teens or twenties who refused to remarry. A number of others killed themselves because they were under pressure to remarry or were threatened with rape. Only a handful tried to kill themselves avowedly for love, and most of those were either dissuaded at the last moment or else failed in the attempt and did not repeat it.7 When, in 1918, Hu Shi wrote his celebrated essay condemning the traditional attitudes toward chastity in women, he conceded that, given a widow’s belief in a union after death, love was a legitimate (zhengdang) motive for suicide.8 Paria’s suicide, which was scarcely undertaken for posthumous fame, should be seen in this light. On the other hand, her father-in-law, who petitions for the commendation, wants to do her memory justice—and also to enhance his family’s reputation. And there is a degree of satire in the alacrity with which the authorities rush to claim her for conventional morality.

  The earliest known edition of Fengyue meng was published in 1883 by Shenbaoguan, a newspaper company owned and run by Ernest Major. Among Major’s other publishing ventures, he arranged for the publication of a number of novels that had languished in manuscript. Fengyue meng may have been one of those unpublished novels, although it has an author’s preface dated the eleventh month of 1848 in Yangzhou.