Liu Ching-t’ing1 the Storyteller
Chang Tai (1597–1679)
Pockmarked Liu from Nanking had a swarthy face that was covered all over with bumpy scars. He was relaxed and at ease, but his body looked as though it were made out of wood or clay. Liu was good at telling stories.2 Each day he would tell one chapter of a story, for which he charged an ounce of silver. Whoever wanted to invite Liu for a storytelling session had to send him the program and earnest money ten days in advance. Even then he was often too busy to come. In those days there were two extremely popular performers in Nanking; one was the songstress, Moonbeam Wang, and the other was Pockmarked Liu.
I once heard Liu tell the plain text3 of “Wu Sung Beats the Tiger on Ching-yang Ridge.” 4 It was quite different from what was written in the book.5 His descriptions were graphic and went into the tiniest details, yet he was very clear-cut about when to be expansive and when to stop short and was by no means garrulous. Liu’s full voice was like a giant bell and, as the story reached a climax, his stentorian exclamations were so awesome that they shook the house. When Liu told how Wu Sung went into the wine-shop to order a drink and found no one there, he gave a mighty roar that made all of the empty jugs and jars in the shop reverberate. Even when there was a lull in the plot, he would spruce it up, so particular was he about minutiae.
The sponsors of a performance by Liu had to sit quietly with bated breath and listen attentively before he would begin to wag his tongue. If he saw anybody in the audience murmuring or whispering, or if one of the auditors yawned or stretched, he would stop speaking immediately and no one could force him to continue. Often it would be the middle of the night, when his table had been wiped clean, the lampwick trimmed, and he was sipping tea from a white porcelain cup, before Liu would begin slowly to tell his story. The pace and emphasis of Liu’s narrative, the quality and amplitude of his delivery—all were perfectly in accord with sentiment and reason, and all struck a deep chord in the fiber of every listener’s being. If you could grab all of the storytellers in the world by the ear and make them listen carefully to him, rest assured that even they would gasp in wonderment.
Pockmarked Liu’s face was unusually ugly, but his enunciation was precise, his eyes were expressive, and his clothes were spotless. Thus he was as handsome as Moonbeam Wang was beautiful, and his standing in the entertainment world was equally high.
Translated by Victor H. Mair
from Dream Memories of West Lake
Chang Tai
At Yangchow, there were hundreds of people making a living from activities connected with the “lean horses.” One should never let it be known that one was looking for a concubine. Once this leaked out, the professional agents and go-betweens, both men and women, would swarm about his house or hotel like flies, and there was no way of keeping them off. The next morning, he would find many of them waiting for him, and the matchmaker who arrived first would hustle him off, while the rest followed behind and waited for their chance.
Arriving at the house of the “lean horse,” the person would be served tea as soon as he was seated. At once the woman agent would come out with a girl and announce, “Ku-niang,1 curtsy!” The girl curtsied. Next was said, “Ku-niang, walk forward!” She walked forward. “Ku-niang, turn around!” She turned around, facing the light, and her face was shown. “Pardon, can we have a look at your hand?” The woman rolled up her sleeve and exposed her entire arm. Her skin was shown. “Ku-niang, look at the gentleman.” She looked from the corner of her eyes. Her eyes were shown. “How old is Ku-niang?” She replied. Her voice was shown. “Please walk again a bit.” This time the woman lifted her skirts. Her feet were shown. There is a secret about judging women’s feet. When you hear the rustle of her skirts when she comes out, you may guess that she has big feet, but if she wears her skirts relatively high and reveals her feet as she takes a step forward, you already know that she has a pair of small feet that she is proud of. “Ku-niang, you can go back.”
As soon as the girl went in, another came out, and the same thing was repeated. Usually there were five or six girls in a house. If the gentleman decided he would take a certain girl, he would put a gold hairpin or ornament on her hair; this was called tsatai. If no one was satisfactory, a tip of several hundred cash was given the woman agent or the maids of the house, and one was shown another house. When one woman agent had completed the round of the houses she operated with, other women agents came around. Thus it continued for one, two, perhaps four or five days. There was no end to it and the agents were never tired. But after one had seen fifty or sixty of them, they were all just about alike, with a painted face and a red dress. It is like writing characters; by the time you have made the same sign a hundred times or a thousand times, you cannot recognize it any more. One does not know what to decide or which one to take, and eventually makes his choice on one of them.
After the choice was made, signaled by tsatai, the owner came out with a red sheet of paper and a writing brush. On the paper were written the items: silks, gold flowers, cash present, and pieces of cloth. The owner would dip the brush in ink and hold it ready for the customer to fill in the number of pieces and the cash present he was prepared to give for the girl. If this was satisfactory, the deal was concluded and the customer took his leave.
Before he arrived at his own place, drummers and musicians and carrier-loads of lamb and red and green wines were already there. In a moment, ceremonial papers, fruit, and pastry also arrived, and the senders went back accompanied by the musicians. Before they had gone a quarter mile, there came back with the band floral sedan chairs, floral lanterns, torches, handled torches, sedan chair carriers, bridesmaids, candles, more fruit, and roasts. The cook arrived with a carrier-load of vegetables and meats, sweets, followed by awnings, tablecloths, chair cushions, table service, longevity stars, bed curtains and stringed instruments. Without notice and even without asking for approval, the floral sedan chair and another chair supposed to accompany the bride started off to welcome the bride with a procession of bridal lanterns and handled torches. Before you knew it, the bride had arrived. The bride came up and performed the wedding ceremony,2 and she was ushered to take her place at the dinner table already laid. Music and song began, and there was much ado about the house. Everything was efficient and fast. Before noon, the agent asked for her tip, said good-bye, and rushed off to look for other customers.
Translated by Lin Yutang
Chang Tai was the scion of a prominent family of Shan-yin (modern-day Shao-hsing, Chekiang). Like a number of wealthy literati during the late Ming, he did not pursue an official career. Instead, during the first half of his life, he led an idyllic existence as a talented esthete and socialite. During the final four decades of the Ming, he was able to travel extensively in comfort and observe many of the fashionable scenes of the time. At some point, he took the artistic name “Studio of Contentment (T’ao-an).” After the collapse of the dynasty in 1644, his fortunes declined and he withdrew from society. During the remaining forty years or so of his life, he lived in reduced circumstances as a recluse, writing his memoirs in the form of miscellanies. Dreamy Memories from the Studio of Contentment (T’ao-an meng-yi), his best-known collection, contains short, epigraphic narratives of the travels of his youth as well as vignettes of personalities, customs, and various cultural pursuits.
1. Born in 1587.
2. The word used here is shuo-shu (literally, “say/explain book”), which refers to a specific genre of Chinese oral performing arts.
3. “Plain” refers to the spoken language as opposed to singing. In other contexts, it refers to the classical book language (in which verse was most likely to be composed).
4. See selection 212.
5. River Banks (Shui-hu chuan, also translated as Water Margin and All Men Are Brothers).
The original title is “Lean Horses,” a local name for matchmakers. The author describes the practice of Yangchow, nationally famed as the center of luxury and the place where regular houses trained girls to be singsong artists or concubines. The time was the early seventeenth century.
This piece describes what may be called the “concubine market” and its efficiency. It is the most unromantic way of securing a mistress; only coarse businessmen would buy a concubine this way.
1. Mademoiselle.
2. By bowing to the groom and guests.