Republican Lens: Gender, Visuality, and Experience in the Early Chinese Periodical Press 9780520959934

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Republican Lens

ASIA: LO CAL STUDIES/GLOBAL THEMES Jeffrey N. Wasserstrom, Kären Wigen, and Hue-Tam Ho Tai, Editors 1. Bicycle Citizens: The Political World of the Japanese Housewife, by Robin M. LeBlanc 2. The Nanjing Massacre in History and Historiography, edited by Joshua A. Fogel 3. The Country of Memory: Remaking the Past in Late Socialist Vietnam, by Hue-Tam Ho Tai 4. Chinese Femininities/Chinese Masculinities: A Reader, edited by Susan Brownell and Jeffrey N. Wasserstrom 5. Chinese Visions of Family and State, 1915–1953, by Susan L. Glosser 6. An Artistic Exile: A Life of Feng Zikai (1898–1975), by Geremie R. Barmé 7. Mapping Early Modern Japan: Space, Place, and Culture in the Tokugawa Period, 1603–1868, by Marcia Yonemoto 8. Republican Beijing: The City and Its Histories, by Madeleine Yue Dong 9. Hygienic Modernity: Meanings of Health and Disease in Treaty-Port China, by Ruth Rogaski 10. Marrow of the Nation: A History of Sport and Physical Culture in Republican China, by Andrew D. Morris 11. Vicarious Language: Gender and Linguistic Modernity in Japan, by Miyako Inoue 12. Japan in Print: Information and Nation in the Early Modern Period, by Mary Elizabeth Berry 13. Millennial Monsters: Japanese Toys and the Global Imagination, by Anne Allison 14. After the Massacre: Commemoration and Consolation in Ha My and My Lai, by Heonik Kwon 15. Tears from Iron: Cultural Responses to Famine in Nineteenth-Century China, by Kathryn Edgerton-Tarpley 16. Speaking to History: The Story of King Goujian in Twentieth-Century China, by Paul A. Cohen 17. A Malleable Map: Geographies of Restoration in Central Japan, 1600–1912, by Kären Wigen 18. Coming to Terms with the Nation: Ethnic Classification in Modern China, by Thomas S. Mullaney 19. Fabricating Consumers: The Sewing Machine in Modern Japan, by Andrew Gordon 20. Recreating Japanese Men, edited by Sabine Frühstück and Anne Walthall 21. Selling Women: Prostitution, Markets, and the Household in Early Modern Japan, by Amy Stanley 22. Imaging Disaster: Tokyo and the Visual Culture of Japan’s Great Earthquake of 1923, by Gennifer Weisenfeld 23. Taiko Boom: Japanese Drumming in Place and Motion, by Shawn Bender 24. Anyuan: Mining China’s Revolutionary Tradition, by Elizabeth J. Perry 25. Mabiki: Infanticide and Population Growth in Eastern Japan, 1660–1950, by Fabian Drixler 26. The Missionary’s Curse and Other Tales from a Chinese Catholic Village, by Henrietta Harrison

27. The Nature of the Beasts: Empire and Exhibition at the Tokyo Imperial Zoo, by Ian Jared Miller 28. Go Nation: Chinese Masculinities and the Game of Weiqi in China, by Marc L. Moskowitz 29. Moral Nation: Modern Japan and Narcotics in Global History, by Miriam Kingsberg 30. Republican Lens: Gender, Visuality, and Experience in the Early Chinese Periodical Press, by Joan Judge

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Republican Lens Gender, Visuality, and Experience in the Early Chinese Periodical Press

Joan Judge

UNIVERSIT Y OF CALIFORNIA PRESS

University of California Press, one of the most distinguished university presses in the United States, enriches lives around the world by advancing scholarship in the humanities, social sciences, and natural sciences. Its activities are supported by the UC Press Foundation and by philanthropic contributions from individuals and institutions. For more information, visit www.ucpress.edu. University of California Press Oakland, California © 2015 by The Regents of the University of California

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Judge, Joan, 1958- author. Republican lens : gender, visuality, and experience in the early Chinese periodical press / Joan Judge. pages cm. — (Asia: Local Studies/Global Themes ; 30) Includes bibliographical references and index. isbn 978–0-520–28436–4 (cloth : alk. paper) — isbn 0–520–95993–4 (e-edition) 1. China—History—Republic, 1912–1949. 2. China—Social conditions—1912–1949. 3. Women—China—Social conditions— 20th century. 4. Periodicals—Publishing—China—History—20th century. I. Title. II. Series: Asia—local studies/global themes ; 30. ds774.j83 2015 951.04’1—dc23 2014050150

Manufactured in the United States of America 24 23 22 21 20 19 18 17 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

16 15

In keeping with a commitment to support environmentally responsible and sustainable printing practices, UC Press has printed this book on Natures Natural, a fiber that contains 30% post-consumer waste and meets the minimum requirements of ansi/niso z39.48–1992 (r 1997) (Permanence of Paper).

For Josh

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co nt en ts

List of Illustrations Acknowledgments Introduction: Republican Lens

xi xv 1

1. Text and Method

15

2. Republican Ladies

49

3. Everyday Experience

79

4. Public Bodies

115

5. Practical Talent

149

6. Liminal Sexualities

176

Conclusion: Aerial Aspirations Appendix A: Funü shibao Issue Dates Appendix B: Chinese and Japanese Characters for Names and Terms Abbreviations Notes Bibliography Index

212 229 230 248 249 299 333

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illustrations

F IG U R E S

0.1. Two girls look at an image of themselves on the cover of the first issue of Funü shibao 2 0.2. The alleged chasm between Chinese and Western approaches to marriage 9 0.3. The “new-style” wedding of Mr. Yan Nanzhang and Ms. Zhu Songjun 10 1.1. A young woman views the covers of journals in a bookshop window 16 1.2. The cover of Funü shibao 12 (January 10, 1914) 23 1.3. The cover of the Ladies’ Home Journal (February 1899) 23 1.4. The cover art for Funü shibao 5 (January 23, 1912) 24 1.5. An image by Ding Song showing a female tennis player 24 1.6. The cover of the Ladies’ Home Journal (July 1902) 24 1.7. An advertisement for Dr. Williams’ Pink Pills for Pale People 28 1.8. Bao Tianxiao’s sons and daughters 31 1.9. Former prime minister Tang Shaoyi and his bride, Wu Weiqiao 34 1.10. A portrait of Cai E (Songpo) with his wife and his second wife 35 1.11. A portrait of Zhang Zhuoqun, secretary of the Women’s Military Unit 36 1.12. Photographs of “advanced women” (nüjie xianjin) 44 2.1. A portrait of He Miaoling, the wife of Ambassador Wu Zhiyong (Wu Tingfang) 50 2.2. A portrait of Ms. Tang Youqin, wife of Provincial Military Director Tang Zaili and principal of Beijing Chongshi Girls’ School 50 xi

xii

List of Illustrations

2.3. A portrait of Ms. Yang Xueyao, winner of a speech competition organized by the Worldwide Chinese Student Association (Huanqiu Zhongguo xuesheng hui) 50 2.4. A portrait of He Miaoling as president of the Women’s Assistance Association (Nüjie xiezan hui) 53 2.5. Ms. Cheng Yili with her four medals 55 2.6. Shen Youqin (married name Tang Youqin), principal of the Beijing Chongshi Girls’ School 56 2.7. Chen Zhen’e, a teacher at a missionary school in Shanghai, promoting the Luowei Pharmacy’s Guben Medicine for the Uterus 57 2.8. Students on their way home from school 58 2.9. Suzhou female students exercising with barbells in a physical education class 59 2.10. Student Lin Yingfei claims that Moon brand pills (Yueguang tiewan) helped cure her of exhaustion 60 2.11. A portrait of the young Zhang Zhaohan (Mojun) in Victorian dress 64 2.12. The Japanese Ms. Kinbara Murako, a teacher at the Jingzhi Girls’ School in Wuxi, posing in Chinese dress 65 2.13. “Urban women” purchasing material for clothing at a Women’s National Products Company (“Nüzi guohuo gongsi”) 66 2.14. Wang Jieliang a graduate of the Chengdong Girls’ School and a teacher at the Rugao Sha City Elementary School in Nantong 73 3.1. Wang Ling, a contributor to Funü shibao 80 3.2. A fashionable young woman asleep at a table, next to a copy of Funü shibao and a rose 83 3.3. A student with a new-style umbrella in her hand 84 3.4. A well-appointed Republican Lady removing her gloves 85 3.5. A young woman dressed in fashionable short tight sleeves and short pants 86 3.6. A “fashionable beauty” 87 3.7. A young woman recites lessons in her boudoir 88 3.8. A woman listlessly twists wool 89 3.9. Portrait of Ms. Bi Yang Fenruo of Wumen, Bi Yihong’s wife 96 3.10. Back view of the fashionable journalist, educator, and ci poet Lü Bicheng 107 3.11. Tang Xiuhui (right) with a classmate, Ms. Jiang Hanjie 112 4.1. Physical education specialist Tang Jianwo 116 4.2. Drs. Bernhardt Kronig and Karl Gauss, as pictured in Aoyagi Yūbi’s Jissen mutsūan sanpō (The practice of painless childbirth) 123 4.3. A page from the translation of Aoyagi’s Practice of Painless Childbirth by Qin Zong and Zhi Xin 123

List of Illustrations

xiii

4.4. Tang Linbao publishes his wife’s portrait and an accompanying testimonial in support of the Great World Pharmacy’s miraculous cure 125 4.5. Qu Suzhen recounts in a testimonial that she learned of the outstanding efficacy of Mr. Douan’s medicines from reading the newspaper 126 4.6. The innovation of running tapwater in Shanghai was the inspiration for the name of the Great World Pharmacy’s blood-fortifying medicine, “Running Blood” 128 4.7. A westernized woman’s face is used to promote Great World Pharmacy’s “Women’s Treasure” medicine 130 4.8. “Republican Chinese Survey of Women’s Menstruation” designed for Chinese women by the medical student Qu Jun 133 4.9. Exercises modeled by Victorian-style figures 143 4.10. A photograph of a Javanese wet nurse (rufu) showing her bare breast 147 5.1. “Display room for drawings and handicrafts at the Zhejiang Women’s Normal School” 150 5.2. Photograph of teachers and students at Zhang Mojun’s Shenzhou Girls’ School, 1916 152 5.3. Photograph of family of principal of Chengdong Girls’ School, Yang Bomin 154 5.4. Portrait of Yang Xueqiong, Yang Bomin’s eldest daughter, a teacher, and a contributor to Funü shibao 155 5.5. Photograph of cotton flower crafts made by the sisters and Minli School teachers Su Bennan and Su Benyan 156 5.6. Photograph of the first class to graduate from the Minli Shanghai Girls’ Middle School’s General Program, summer 1911 157 5.7. An association for the discussion of elementary education established by the Chengdong Girls’ School 160 5.8. An ad for Doan’s Kidney Pills 164 5.9. Photographs of Yu Shen Shou and of her embroidered portrait of the Italian queen 170 5.10. Zhang Mojun’s oil painting Awakened Lion (Xingshi tu) 171 5.11. Female visitors at a display hall for women’s handicrafts (saizhen huichang nüzi shougong chu) 173 5.12. Visitors in front of a female handicrafts institute (nüzi shougong suo) 174 6.1. Ms. Tang Xiuhui, normal school graduate and contributor to Funü shibao 177 6.2. The courtesan Yin Baochai 177 6.3. Advertisement for the Minying Photography Studio 181 6.4. Photograph of graduates of the Zhejiang Girls’ Normal School, 1916 183 6.5. Photograph of students in the normal class at the Beiyang Girls’ Public School 184

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List of Illustrations

6.6. Courtesans whose status is evident in their bound feet, visible earrings, and elaborate hairstyles 184 6.7. Ms. Wei Shuji, wife of diplomatic attaché in England, Luo Yiyuan 189 6.8. A woman of the flower world wearing a tight headdress decorated with pearls 191 6.9. Xie Yingying, Lingxi guan, and Xue Yinxuan 192 6.10. Cheng Peiqing, writer for Funü shibao, poses in male attire 193 6.11. Suzhen lies on the grass with a book 194 6.12. Qin Meiyun, wearing the courtesan’s trademark tight pearl headdress, poses astride on a bicycle 195 6.13. The Nanjing sisters Little Four and Little Five, courtesans 196 6.14. Photograph of child care class at the Shanghai Institute for Poor Children, 1910 197 6.15. Two pictures of the four cardinal vices, wine, sex, avarice, and temper (jiuse caiqi lu) 198 6.16. Two courtesans, Beijing Pengyue lou (right) and Xiao Afeng (left) 199 7.1. Photograph of Zhang Xiahun from an article comparing her with the American stunt flyer Katherine Stinson 216 7.2. Photograph of an early airship into which the figure of a Chinese woman has been painted 217 7.3. A series of photographs of French biplanes 218 7.4. The courtesan Bao Jinlian in a mock airplane 220 7.5. The courtesans Gao Cuiyu and Xie Lijuan in a mock airplane at the Minying Photography Studio 220 7.6. “Photograph of China’s flier Zhang Xiahun completely recovered from her brush with danger” 222 C O L O R P L AT E S

1. Portrait of Zhang Hongyi, a contributor to Funü shibao 2. A Republican Lady hunts in the rolling hills in striking hybrid attire, Funü shibao 7 (July 10, 1912) 3. Portrait of Zhang Huiru and Tang Xiuhui, Funü shibao 20 (November 1916) 4. Portrait of the courtesans Lin Baobao, Chunyan Lou, and Lin Yuanyuan 5. Portrait of Ms. Wei Shuji of Fujian, daughter of the director of the Fuzhou Naval Office under the Qing dynasty 6. Portrait of Yiqing bieshu 7. “China’s Female Flyer, Zhang Xiahun,” Funü shibao 20 (November 1916) 8. A woman looking at a flying machine through binoculars, Funü shibao 20 (November 1916)

acknowl ed g m en ts

Writing this book has been an experience in the fullest sense of the word. I want to thank Barbara Mittler and Grace Fong for initially suggesting I become part of a project on women’s journals at a time when I had thought I was ready to move in another direction. The intensive engagement with these materials, the close collaboration between an international and interdisciplinary team of scholars, and the creation of a database on the periodicals have been among the most enriching experiences of my years in academia. Reading the full materiality of periodicals as we set out to do in our project required forays into a number of disciplines from visual studies to linguistics and into a number of historical subfields from medicine to periodical studies. I have benefited enormously from the generosity of scholars with expertise in these and other fields. The list of those I must thank for helping me bring the book to fruition is lengthy. First and foremost, Barbara Mittler, who has been the best co-investigator one could hope for. From dealing with the technical administration of the database, inviting me to give a seminar on an earlier draft of the book at Heidelberg University, and constantly providing me with excellent feedback, to preparing feasts of white asparagus and performing affecting musical interludes, she has been a thoughtful collaborator and friend. Other members of our team who have had significant input into this research include Michel Hockx, who offered important insights from the literary angle and repeated alerts to related works that were always exactly on point. Judy Andrews helped all of us learn to read images and elevated my still limited understanding of early twentieth-century cover art and artistic techniques to a new level. The input xv

xvi

Acknowledgments

of our research assistants has also been invaluable. We are all deeply grateful to Liying Sun and Doris Sung for doing the hard work on the guts of the database, together with our ever patient IT specialist Matthias Arnold. I am profoundly indebted to my graduate student Doris Sung for her input not only into the broader project but into the making of this book: she personally tracked down and took photos of many of the images included in the following pages, prodded me to take the advertisements in the journal more fully into account, and pointed out a number of relevant art historical sources. She is also one of the most organized and responsible graduate students one could hope for. She has expertly managed database assistants and planned workshops while continuing to do her own fine work. The access to a range of primary sources crucial to the book would not have been possible without Liying Sun’s connections at the Shanghai Library. I am profoundly grateful to her for helping me find a research assistant in Shanghai, Jia Xuefei, who often did the impossible in digging up materials in the Shanghai Library and other libraries and archives in Shanghai that were not readily available. My greatest debt is to Professor Huang Guorong of the Modern Documents division at the Shanghai Library who went out of his way to help me find the sources I needed when I was in Shanghai and who continued to help Jia when I made requests from afar. I am also grateful to Professor Xia Xiaohong for facilitating my access to sources at the Peking University Library and to Yu Chien-ming at the Institute of Modern History at the Academia Sinica in Taiwan, who gave me several opportunities to share my work and learn from audiences in Taipei. Chien-ming also helped me secure invaluable sources, including my own bound copy of Funü shibao, which has been a permanent fixture on or near my desk over the last seven years. Finally, Xiong Yuezhi at the Shanghai Academy of Social Sciences has welcomed me and my many questions on my frequent visits to his institute in Shanghai over the years. Many have read the many iterations of this book, and their comments have helped make it a stronger work. Gail Hershatter had the courage to tell me what wasn’t working and forced a radical and necessary rethinking at a crucial stage. Then, a true labor model, she volunteered to endure a second read. Hu Ying read thoughtfully and critically, gently nudging me to nuance certain arguments, asking probing questions, and making astute literary and historical connections. David Strand offered a metainterpretation of key aspects of the argument that I have tried to incorporate into its reformulation. Yi-li Wu, whom I asked to read the chapter on medicine, offered insights well beyond it that have marked the book’s reconceptualization. Louise Edwards provided enthusiastic support for the project from an early stage, and Ted Huters posed challenging questions from the outset that continue to haunt the finished book. My father-in-law, David Fogel, read the entire manuscript, raised important questions, and offered encouragement.

Acknowledgments

xvii

Many others have read parts of the manuscript or shared their ideas at conferences and their own work on related topics. I am extremely grateful to Paul Bailey, Weihong Bao, Robert Bickers, Madeleine Yue Dong, Chen Jianhua, Nan Da, Christian Henriot, Hu Siao-chen, Huang Ke-wu, Huang Jin-zhu, Elizabeth Kaske, Sean Lei, Lien Ling-ling, Susan Mann, Nanxiu Qian, Kuiyi Shen, Wang Zheng, Sasha Welland, Ellen Widmer, Roberta Wue, Xia Xiaohong, Catherine Yeh, Wen-hsin Yeh, Yu Chien-ming, Paola Zamperini, Zhang Zhongmin, and Zheng Wen-hui. I am also grateful to members of the Critical China Studies Workshop, which I co-host in Toronto, for the opportunity to share this work in progress over the past few years. I am particularly grateful to Yiching Wu and Mark McConaghy for their always probing questions and suggestions, and to Ping-chun Huang, Tong Lam, Elizabeth Park, Gary Wang, and Meng Yue. Yi (Evie) Gu, and Jenny Purtle offered much-needed art historical sanction as I thought through my analysis of the cover art. Thanks also to Yueran Feng, who helped me located a number of sources in China that I urgently needed in the latter stages of the project. I owe deep-felt thanks to my reading partner, Xiaoning Shi, with whom I read through countless entries in the journal and whose literary training was invaluable in helping me parse dense allusions, poems, and short stories. Her friendship and enthusiasm for the project have been a tremendous gift. I have also incurred many institutional debts. First and foremost to the Social Science and Humanities Research Council (SSHRC) of Canada, which first funded the project with a Standard Research Grant in 2008. This grant enabled the German side to receive funding from the Alexander von Humboldt Foundation’s TransCoop Programme. These grants not only funded our individual research but also made it possible to launch our digital humanities program. Our final international conference on the first phase of the women’s journal project was generously funded by a grant from the American Council of Learned Societies and the Chiang Ching-kuo Foundation for International Scholarly Exchange. I have also benefited tremendously from York University’s support. This included financial and administrative assistance from the Office of the Vice President of Research and Innovation as we negotiated with the Humboldt Foundation in the early stages of the project, and a crucial subsidy from the Faculty of Liberal Arts and Professional Studies Book Publication Subvention Fund for producing the images at the end of it. Both I and California University Press are extremely grateful to the faculty and to Associate Dean of Research Naomi Adelson for this support. I am also grateful to Alex Neumann, Web Coordinator of the eServices Office of the  Faculty of Liberal Arts and Professional Studies, and to Aleksey Antonov of the eServices Web Team, who helped prepare the ninety-some images in the book for publication. Finally, I thank the faculty for a Leave Fellowship and a Minor Research Grant as the book was in progress.

xviii

Acknowledgments

In addition to financial support, York has provided critical administrative assistance. My research officer Janet Friskney, who shares my love of print culture and who thoughtfully shepherded me into the Canadian Association for the Study of Book Culture, has been a blessing and instrumental in helping me secure funds from both SSHRC and the university. I am further indebted to the York Center for Asian Research, which has provided support for workshops and lectures related to the project. Alicia Filipowich has efficiently managed the budget for the project and enthusiastically offered her expert assistance with everything from planning an international conference in London to finding assistants to photocopy materials. The History Department has been a supportive home, signing off on applications of various kinds, offering the opportunity to share research, and providing collegiality and stimulation. Reed Malcolm, my editor, greeted this project with enthusiasm from the time I first launched the idea of doing this book with him several years ago. Undaunted by the prospect of a work with so many images, he remained committed to it even when the logistics and finances seemed impossible. Stacy Eisenstark has been responsive, efficient—and patient—as I’ve gone through the final stages of this process. Kate Warne, the production manager for the book, and Elisabeth Magnus, my careful and thoughtful copyeditor, have been patient, responsive, and committed to making this book the best it could be. Books take a toll on the everyday. The debt that transcends all of these is the one I owe to family; my daughters Antigone and Avital, who have grown over the course of this book’s writing into two of my most treasured interlocutors, and my husband and colleague, Josh Fogel. Never questioning why it takes me twelve times longer than it takes him to write a book, he is always ready to help find a source, parse the meaning of a term, and discuss an idea. His careful, intensive read of the final version of the manuscript has made it clearer and cleaner. This book is dedicated to him.

Introduction Republican Lens

Two girls on the cover of the first issue of Funü shibao (the Women’s Eastern Times) look at an image of themselves on the cover of the first issue of Funü shibao (figure 0.1). This self-reflexive portrait signals a new subject position for women as viewers rather than viewed, as knowers rather than known. It also heralds a new epistemology and a new politics grounded in everyday experience. This emphasis on practical quotidian experience would define China’s early Republican commercial print culture and fold into its revolutionary twentieth-century history. Some four months after this image was published, the climax of the first chapter in this history, the 1911 Revolution, was launched. While neither begetting a strong state nor delivering on its promise of increased political participation, the Revolution did usher in an era of dramatic social change: of greater social transparency, new modes of social interaction, and the naturalization of women’s presence in public life.1 The new Republic declared in January of 1912 thus sustained and deepened the aspirations expressed in this simple image: Funü shibao would be a journal for us, by us, and about us. Young female students like the two who appear on this first cover were not the only ones for whom Funü shibao served as a medium for self-expression and a lens onto local, global, and embodied womanhood. Their teachers also saw themselves reflected, and had their own say, in its pages. So did their mothers if they were among the more literate and forward-looking members of this older demographic. The men behind the journal—the publisher who financed it, the editor who ran it—also used the journal as an ethnographic lens. A tool for examining and displaying the myriad variations among Chinese women—cloistered and newly public, rural and urban, unlettered and cosmopolitan—it also served as a device for assessing the possibilities of integrating women into their larger political project. 1

2

Introduction

figure 0.1. Two girls on the cover of the first issue of Funü shibao look at an image of themselves on the cover of the first issue of Funü shibao. Cover, Funü shibao 1 (June 11, 1911).

Funü shibao is an invaluable historical lens for the early twenty-first-century reader as well. As scholars are increasingly recognizing, the periodical press provides unparalleled access to the complexities of the past.2 No longer dismissed as ephemeral, it is now considered the key global medium for disseminating ideas and information from the late nineteenth through the early twentieth century.3 Characteristic of this dynamic medium, Funü shibao is a unique archive of texts and images that greatly enhance historical understanding. A repository of the thoughts, sentiments, and opinions of countless women and men, many of whom

Introduction

3

have left no other historical traces, it offers insights into the state of social, political, and scientific knowledge among the middling early Republican elite. A gallery of stunning cover art and photographic portraits otherwise lost to history, it visually captures the look and feel of the early Republic in ways that written texts cannot. One node of an extensive web of medical experts, educators, and cultural entrepreneurs active in this period, it conjoins profound and interrelated shifts in China’s epistemic, print, and commercial cultures in the early twentieth century. Funü shibao also documents a lively repertory of social practices. Because periodicals function more as unbounded communities than as bounded texts, they create unique spaces where discourse and social practice meet, where the logic of utterances collides or coincides with the logic of behavior.4 Less declarative publishing media than interactive communication media—more Web 2.0 than Web 1.0, in today’s parlance—they encourage constant trafficking between editors, readers, and authors.5 Ideas, opinions, critiques, and testimonials flowed across Funü shibao’s porous borders. Solicited and unsolicited contributions to the journal in various media merged and interacted with one another in editorial and readers’ columns, literary and photography sections, essay contests, social surveys, diaries, and advertisements. They were also expressed in a new narrative form that was foregrounded in Funü shibao and central to its epistemology, the account of experience (shiyantan). T H E C OM M E R C IA L P E R IO D IC A L P R E S S

This close adherence to the experience, aspirations, and expectations of the reader/ consumer defines the genre of Chinese periodicals of which Funü shibao is a striking representative.6 No one term in either Chinese or English fully captures the nature of this genre. Publications like Funü shibao are often characterized as “popular” or “common” (tongsu), a term scholars generally use to describe early twentieth-century fiction (tongsu wenxue) that was published serially in literary journals with many generic similarities to Funü shibao. These materials are, however, neither “popular” nor “common.” They are not mass publications in terms of circulation or audience, nor do they merely proffer escapist entertainment. Their language register is generally high, as is their relative cost. The label middlebrow, which connotes sentimentality and a lack of innovation, is also not apposite.7 Although occasionally sentimental, Funü shibao was highly innovative. Its prime mandate was to bridge “high,” “middle,” and “low” levels of cultural, scientific, and literary knowledge and to get issues related to political, social, and medical reform onto a broad public agenda. Funü shibao has been hailed as China’s “first commercial women’s journal.”8 It was, however, neither fully commercial nor exclusively a women’s journal. The publisher did sell space to advertisers, but the journal was not entirely financed by, and

4

Introduction

thus not solely beholden to, advertising and sales. Nor was it a politically controlled mass commercial product. There was no sufficiently stable political regime— warlord, colonialist, or capitalist—for a publication to serve in this period.9 The majority of Funü shibao’s financing was provided by the large conglomerate, the Shibao guan (Shibao Office), that published the journal. This conglomerate named Funü shibao a “women’s journal,” but its editor more accurately labeled it a “general interest” (zonghe xing) journal.10 While women were certainly a topic of general interest, Funü shibao defied the commonly held view of commercial women’s magazines. Preoccupied with neither fashion, childrearing, nor gossip, it focused on women’s educational, professional, and medical concerns. One of its most significant—and, ironically, as yet unrecognized—innovations was the direct engagement of women, who contributed poetry, accounts of experience, essays, and photographs to the journal and who ultimately penned up to half of its content. Funü shibao was not, however, a “feminist” women’s journal in the sense of a publication that offered a radical alternative to masculine cultural norms.11 While many women authors discreetly challenged these norms, the journal’s agenda was largely set by its male editor, male publisher, and many male contributing authors. Funü shibao is thus better understood as a gendered journal in which masculine norms determined the contours for a textual and visual encounter with things feminine—contours that women authors accepted, negotiated, occasionally defied, and often modified. It was also a venue where new gendered practices—most notably the circulation of the words, images, and bodies of respectable women in public—were encouraged, decried, and refined. These new practices were largely an urban phenomenon, as was the journal itself: it was a product of the commercial energy, progressive pedagogy, cosmopolitan cultural authority, and thriving print industry of the treaty port city of Shanghai.12 The journal’s readers, writers, and topics of inquiry extended well beyond the city, however. More than merely a lens onto the singular metropolis of Shanghai, it is a lens onto the Republic from the vantage point of that metropolis. Funü shibao is thus best described as a Shanghai-based, nationally distributed, protocommercial, gendered journal that was closely attuned to the concerns of its readers, the rhythm of everyday life, and the shifting global conjuncture. This rather convoluted formulation speaks to one of the prime objectives of this book: to engage the complexities of a journal and a demographic of women that do not neatly map onto our existing social and cultural categories. Early Republican commercial journals like Funü shibao have only recently been retrieved from the margins of historical inquiry. They were banished to these margins by intellectual activists associated with the “New Culture” (xin wenhua) movement from the mid- to late 1910s.13 These New Culture intellectuals attempted to secure their own cultural position by negating the value of recent cultural production. Derisively labeling the writings of their immediate predecessors as “Mandarin

Introduction

5

Duck and Butterfly” (yuanyang hudie pai) works, they characterized these texts as “trivial, commercial, provincial, and reactionary.”14 This competition for public attention and cultural authority was not a low-stakes struggle. Rather, it was integral to the genealogy of one of the most enduring dialectical tensions in China’s twentieth-century history: a tension between prosaic everydayness and highminded ideology, between quotidian commercial culture and heroic political culture.15 Elements of “New Culture” morphed into communist culture and the highly ideological cultural politics of the People’s Republic of China. When the People’s Republic was founded in 1949, the commercial ethos and authors were driven into exile in Taiwan and Hong Kong. They were not rehabilitated in mainland China until the fall of high communism in the late 1970s, and they are just beginning to receive the scholarly attention they deserve in the West.16 Unlike a number of literary journals, Funü shibao has not yet received this renewed academic attention. In contrast, it continues to be misrepresented in recent scholarship in both mainland China and the West, including scholarship that asserts the cultural importance of “popular” literature.17 A close reading—even a cursory reading—of Funü shibao defies its often schizophrenic characterization as frivolous and didactic, conservative and salacious. This is evident in the caliber of a number of its contributors, the seriousness of its (often strategically concealed) political agenda, and its illumination of the ways the structuring dichotomies and reform initiatives of the era were lived and understood in their own day. Funü shibao stands out even among other remarkable examples of the early twentieth-century periodical press. Its activist editor successfully promoted a democratic mode of cultural production that encouraged multivocal conversations. Its publisher’s investment in the latest photographic technologies produced exceptional visual images. The journal’s focus on women and its relentless efforts to publish women’s writings make it a rare window onto quotidian gender politics. The timely articles by well-known, soon-to-be-well-known, and unknown female and male contributors offer often unexpected perspectives on issues of the day such as global biomedicine, women’s suffrage, and prostitution. The generic richness of the journal—from topical essays to readers’ columns, from ancient-style poetry to translated fiction, from how-to articles to accounts of experience—offers a multiregistered response to the early Republic. In bringing Funü shibao back into circulation, this book is an act of retrieval, redemption, and revalorization. It uses Funü shibao as a lens to capture something of the politics, the materiality, the ingenuity, and the look of one of the most neglected periods in modern Chinese history: the early Republic (1911–17). Bracketed by and overlapping with the richly documented late Qing era (1890–1911) and the iconic May Fourth period (1915–25), the early Republic largely remains a historiographic black hole.18 The book seeks to begin filling in this hole by distilling elements of Funü shibao’s underlying philosophical and political agendas from its

6

Introduction

cacophonous content. These agendas, which aimed to uncover, publicize, and shape embodied everyday experience, were distinct from the agendas of previous late Qing reformers who called for a New Citizenry or of later New Culture activists who hailed a New Literature. While early Republican publicists and their late Qing and May Fourth counterparts shared the same desired end point—a nation strengthened through the efforts of its men and women—their starting points radically diverged. Funü shibao’s writers were less concerned with the abstract retheorization of culture than with the more concrete valorization, politicization, and scientization of the quotidian. A R E P U B L IC A N L E N S

Funü shibao is a multiply refracting historical lens. When the journal is approached in its full materiality—including illustrations, advertisements, and its broad range of columns—it projects not simple truths but complex dialectics that reflect tensions both within and beyond the pages of the journal. Many of these tensions are related to the concept of “experience.” Never a simple notion, experience is as multivalenced as it is pervasive in Funü shibao.19 It is the basis of the bottom-up reform the journal’s editor tended to favor but also—particularly in its feminine form—a novel commodity that readers of the journal were eager to consume. It is focused on the everyday, but according to editorial dictate it had to transcend the repetitive patterns of daily life and be linked to a higher order of political or historical meaning. It was to be expressed in the form of discursive accounts of experience that the editor directly solicited, yet the women whose experience he most coveted preferred to write in verse about both the personal and the political. These tensions surrounding the notion of experience reflect prime tensions in the journal: between reformist and commercial objectives, everyday and epic agendas, male editorial strategies and female authorial tactics. Nothing has one meaning in the journal, least of all women’s experience. Reformist and Commercial The first tension is evident in Funü shibao’s attention to the new, a value that can bespeak both a reformist commitment to cultural renewal and the commercial demand for novelty. This emphasis on the new continued the late Qing reformist promotion of “new people” (xinmin) and anticipated the “New Culture” with its focus on “new youth” (xin qingnian). While the concept was less theorized and omnipresent in Funü shibao, it was nonetheless prevalent. Authors who wrote or translated for the journal used such pen names as Xin Hua (New China) and Zhi Xin (One Who Knows the New). The journal included articles on new families, new dreams, and the new splendor of women, together with illustrations of new weddings and new fashions, and advertisements for new medicines, new machines,

Introduction

7

and new books. This embrace of the new was also announced—if not explicitly trumpeted—in the journal’s “Fakanci” (Inaugural statement). Although unsigned, the statement was written by the journal’s editor, Bao Tianxiao (Gongyi, Langsun, 1876–1973). Bao declares that the journal is doing something radically new by presenting women as allies in the urgent task of securing China’s salvation. Marking an important departure from the inaugural statements to previous women’s journals, he liberates women from prevailing biological imperatives and temporal trajectories. He makes no references to motherhood— neither Daoist “mothers of all things,” Confucian model mothers, nor reformist mothers of citizens (guomin zhi mu). He also unequivocally locates women in the present, making no allusions to classical texts, ritual principles, or past female historical exemplars.20 Nor does he represent women as beings whose latent potential can be understood only in the future tense.21 Bao appeals to women as partners in a historic political intervention rather than representing them as a passive field in need of intervention. This is most evident in his striking use of the inclusive possessive pronoun wu in referring to women as “our women” (wu nüjie), a phrase he repeats several times in his “Inaugural Statement.” He writes: In recent times, European and American forces have shaken our sacred land [shen’gao]. Our women are [among those who are] frightened by our increasingly desperate national situation. Witnessing the continuous decline in social morals, they want to offer their assistance. Although women’s formal education has brilliant prospects, it admits only a sliver of light into this pitch-black haze. There are, however, refined, quick-witted, and reasonable [yabufa mingmin tongda] ladies [guiyan], [together with] patriotic women scholars [nüshi], who worry about the times as men do. These women occasionally offer outstanding essays [xi weilun] in an effort to awaken their compatriots from their unfounded dreams.22

The task of the journal is, therefore, not to enlighten women but to create a space where they can advance the project of reform by sharing their knowledge and enlightening others. Casting himself as a comrade rather than a savior, Bao continues: “Their colleagues [tongren deng] have thus decided to establish a monthly journal. I would not presume to say that it will shed a brilliant light on our women [wu nüjie]. Rather, it will introduce [the knowledge] women themselves have gained in order to make a contribution to our citizenry [guomin]. This is the duty the journal must fulfill.”23 The journal has another, less explicit commercial objective, however, that uneasily coexists with this reformist call to camaraderie in the journal’s opening paragraph. In the closing section of the “Inaugural Statement,” the quick-witted ladies and patriotic female scholars are more overtly feminized—and objectified— through classical tropes of feminine beauty. They will help support the nation with their “delicate hands” (xianshou) and “fragrant shoulders” (xiangjian). If they

8

Introduction

resist disillusionment, their beautiful bodies (yuti) will flourish, and they will bloom “as flowers of our brilliant citizenry in our sacred nation.”24 As this language obliquely suggests, in publishing Funü shibao Bao was creating not only a platform where women could display their accumulated knowledge and experience but a lens through which men could observe women displaying their accumulated knowledge and experience. He was not merely opening a space for the advance of women’s understanding but creating a product that would sell, and that would sell not only to women but to men. This tension between promoting female engagement—in society, in politics, in the journal—and promoting sales by commodifying women’s experience complicates the gender politics in every page of the journal. Everyday and Epic This tension between commercial concerns and reformist aspirations parallels a second prominent dialectic in the early Republican periodical press: the tension— and intersections—between what we will call “everyday” and “epic” agendas, between agendas focused on disseminating knowledge derived from and necessary for the conduct of daily life, and agendas driven by broader global and national concerns. In the pages of the commercial press the concept of the everyday and narratives of lived experience were shaped and framed by grander epistemologies and political projects. At the same time, epic agendas—of national, medical, and social reform—were informed and infiltrated by details of daily life.25 The journals are most fruitfully read with attention to the productive disjunctions and affiliations that result when the two agendas intersect, when monumental concerns abut the minutiae of the everyday.26 Such intersections are apparent in the ways quotidian social practice dissolves the epic “East/West” binary in the pages of Funü shibao. They are also evident in the ways Bao Tianxiao both valorized women’s everyday experience and insisted on linking it to a Republican reform ethos. Funü shibao makes visible the messy hybrids that epic binary discourses of East and West, past and present, weak and strong render invisible.27 Different materials in its pages juxtapose the starkness of these binaries to the pragmatic blending of what was new, old, alluring, useful—and often foreign—into the practice and consumption of daily life. Figure 0.2 visualizes the sharp civilizational divide between East and West by illustrating the alleged chasm between Chinese and Western approaches to marriage. The message of this singular image, which appears early in the journal’s history, is repeatedly belied, however, by the numerous wedding photographs printed throughout the journal’s print run. These portraits in which wife and husband appear alone fuse Chinese and Western visual vocabularies (figure 0.3). Positioned next to grooms clad in Western suits, self-confident women in “reformed” wedding dress look directly at the camera over Western-style bouquets and from within art nouveau frames.

Introduction

9

figure 0.2. A visualization of the alleged chasm between Chinese and Western approaches to marriage. Preserving the national essence: Chinese old-style wedding (right). The sweetness of freedom: European new-style wedding (left). Funü shibao 2 (July 26, 1911): front matter.

Such portraits advanced one of the prime objectives of Bao’s editorial agenda: to create a community of readers who would be known to one another through their images and words. The centerpiece of this agenda was the journal’s publication of “accounts of experience” (shiyantan). The emergence of this new textual genre focused on quotidian practice was linked to the introduction of Western empiricism and the valorization of inductive reasoning in China at the turn of the twentieth century. Manifesting an important epistemological shift, the term for experience, shiyan, took on a new meaning in this period as something an individual could possess.28 The historical significance of the shiyantan lies in the assumption that an individual’s pretheorized experience is a—if not the— foundation of knowledge and social change. As suggested in his “Inaugural Statement,” Bao worked from the premise that women already possessed valuable experience, that this experience was a crucial source of knowledge, and that the public communication of this experience would significantly contribute to the state of social knowledge. He continued to emphasize the value of experience in his editorial column, in his solicitation of writings, and in a series of essay contests (xuanshang wen) advertised over the course of the journal’s history.

10

Introduction

figure 0.3. Photograph of the “new-style” wedding of Mr. Yan Nanzhang and Ms. Zhu Songjun: a fusion of Chinese and Western sartorial styles and visual vocabularies. Funü shibao 17 (November 1, 1915): front matter.

Using these various editorial mechanisms, Bao solicited a specific type of contribution to the journal that reflected a particular notion of experience. He preferred realistic (xieshi) writing to lyrical rumination, straightforward “ordinariness” (su) to ornamental elegance (ya).29 While these realistic and ordinary accounts would hew close to the grain of everyday life, they also had to speak to broader economic, social, or medical concerns. After repeatedly requesting and finally receiving a number of personal diaries from his readers, Bao rejected any accounts that were, in his words, little more than monotonous records of “getting

Introduction

11

up, going to bed, and eating.” They were, he claimed, not worth taxing the energy of the journal’s compositors or straining the eyesight of its readers.30 What he sought instead were accounts that linked quotidian female experience to a transformative order of meaning, whether midwifery reform, the scientization of household education, or the advance of Chinese aviation. Everyday experience had to transcend itself in order to be worthy of valorization. Strategies and Tactics As his efforts to both solicit and micromanage accounts of experience suggest, Bao presided over the new social space that he allegedly created for his female readers and writers. While he and his male colleagues had their own strategies for running Funü shibao, however, female authors responded with their own tactics.31 A significant number of women writers enthusiastically embraced the opportunity Funü shibao provided. Many of them have left no other physical traces: few authored books, and only a handful published essays or poems in other journals. Their works are, however, neither minor nor ephemeral. They reveal the global reach of women’s knowledge in the early Republic, the breadth and depth of their social concerns, and the particularity of their historical perspective. There was a significant imbalance of power between Bao and the women who wrote for the journal. As editor, he would determine what would be published, and many women writers expressed profound gratitude to the “Great Journalist” (Da jizhe), as they referred to him, for accepting their contributions. Women were by no means impotent, however. Because Bao was committed to publishing writings by women, he was beholden to the small fraction of women who were literate enough and bold enough to write for the public press. While a number of these female authors did contribute incisive accounts of experience to the journal’s pages, their preferred medium was poetry (shi, ci), the genre Bao relegated to the bottom of the list in his call for submissions. He placed poetry not only after accounts of experience and diaries (riji) but after views of society and customs (shehui guan, fengsu guan); discussions of such topics as domestic science (jiazheng shuo), human relations (jiaoji shuo), and fine arts (yishu tan); letters (shujian wen); and all other genres of literary works, including fiction (xiaoshuo).32 Even when Bao spoke relatively highly of wenxue—a range of literary practices distinct from discursive writing—as the “national essence” and as an area in which women’s “gracefulness” (youmei) was most manifest, he again placed shi and ci at the bottom of the hierarchy after fiction, which few women wrote in this period, and biographies (zhuanji).33 Despite Bao’s repeated devaluation of poetry, however, it remained the most natural, immediate language of affective experience available to women in this period. As a result, shi and ci constitute the greatest number of female-authored submissions to the journal.34

12

Introduction

In his prosaic vision, Bao conceived of Funü shibao as a public space where women would, as he describes in his “Inaugural Statement,” contribute to the citizenry and assist in managing new global challenges. Women did write in the journal’s pages on pressing topics such as the 1911 Revolution, women’s suffrage, the need for biomedical reform, and Japanese imperialism. They also used the journal, however, as a private/public space.35 Celebrating close friendships, eulogizing fallen classmates, and commemorating chastity martyrs, their writings offer insights into rarely accessible dimensions of social and affective life in the early Republic.36 By the eighteenth issue of the journal Bao’s strategy had ceded some ground to women’s tactics. Female authors were sending in more of the prose contributions he desired (the readers’ column had become unmanageable, he claimed), and he enthusiastically welcomed subjective accounts not only in the form of diaries, jottings (biji), essays (lunwen), and travel diaries (youji) but also in the form of poems. It was these genres of writing, he realized, that would most attract the interest of readers and best reflect the advanced (wenming) state of Chinese women.37 These three seminal tensions—between the journal’s editorial strategies and authorial tactics, between its everyday and epic agendas, and between its reform and commercial objectives—encapsulate only part of Funü shibao’s complex lifeworld. Periodicals ultimately do much more than their editors say they will do, their publishers intend them to do, or their readers and occasionally fractious contributors indirectly persuade them to do. Greater than the sum of their parts, they are filled with unfinished conversations and unresolved aporias that spill beyond their porous borders, shaping and reflecting the surrounding culture in deep and subliminal ways.38 Interwoven with the editorials, the accounts of experience, the poems, and diaries are advertisements—for courtesan albums, Western pharmaceuticals, and sewing machines—that express and create ambient desires. Opening each issue are photographs—of Western princesses, Javan wet nurses, French flying machines, and Italian oil paintings—that channel and model distant worlds and different modes of being. Repositories of images, texts, and experiences, periodicals are unruly and richly evocative sites. In using Funü shibao as a Republican lens, our challenge is to distill from this richness meaningful insights about the period, the players, and the medium itself without flattening the deeper context that nurtured the journal. T H E C HA P T E R S

The first chapter presents Funü shibao in its historical and print context. It focuses on the remarkable creativity and resources of the journal’s publisher and the cultural breadth and ingenuity of its editor in order to highlight both the distinctiveness of the journal and the range of possibilities that existed for the commercial periodical press in this period. Further situating Funü shibao within revolutionary

Introduction

13

and early Republican politics, it excavates the journal’s often implicit political agenda and introduces some of its key female and male contributors. The chapter also outlines the methodology for reading the periodical press that is used throughout the book and is applicable well beyond it. Chapter 2 introduces the “Republican Ladies” who were both the moving target of and important contributors to the journal. The first generation of respectable public Chinese women, Republican Ladies included three subdemographics of genteel older ladies, young professionals, and students. These women were both made emblems of the new republic and denied the formal vote by the early Republican regime. Their actualization as informal citizens was in part dependent on the opportunity to participate in communities formed around journals like Funü shibao. In examining the extent of the Republican Ladies’ involvement in the journal, the chapter devises methods for overcoming one of the greatest challenges in the study of modern Chinese gendered writing: discerning female authorship in a cultural context where men often wrote as women, writing women often concealed their identities, and the use of pen names by both men and women was a common practice. The content of the Republican Ladies’ writings is examined in chapter 3, which focuses on the concept of everyday experience in Funü shibao. It introduces the textual mechanisms Bao Tianxiao used to define, solicit, and shape experience and the female- and male-authored writings that scientized, politicized, and quantified daily practices. The female contributions further include photographs of the stylized everyday sent in to the journal in response to Bao’s requests, together with affective poetry that they submitted despite Bao’s repeated call for “realistic and ordinary” accounts. The nuance and insight of women’s writings are also apparent in their discussion of issues related to women’s reproductive health. Chapter 4 probes the complexity of obstetrical and gynecological discourses in the early twentieth century, a period of creative and chaotic encounters between Chinese medical principles and scientific biomedicine. The chapter examines the full range of materials related to women’s reproductive health in Funü shibao. These include Bao Tianxiao’s editorial promotion of a new biomedical imperative, advertisements for Chinese and foreign patent medicines, articles by obstetrical experts, and accounts of experience by women authors. The chapter highlights tensions in the medical discourse between reform and commerce, experience and expertise, and between male constructions of pathologically modest women and women’s own graphically candid writings on childbirth, menstruation, and breast health. Chapter 5 brings out the heretofore largely ignored material dimensions of women’s education. It examines two familiar dichotomies—private and public, talent and virtue—that appear in the journal in unfamiliar ways. Funü shibao highlights the merging of the late imperial concept of private family learning with the

14

Introduction

establishment of some of the more prominent new public schools for women in early twentieth-century Shanghai. It also reveals how more impersonal public schooling in various parts of the country could both forge powerful new social identities and physically tax young students. In advancing a new iteration of the talent/virtue dichotomy in the context of these various new schools, writers juxtaposed female lyrical talent to new scientized forms of practical pedagogy and to the virtue of producing and publicly displaying useful things. While previous chapters examine explicit themes in the journal— experience, medicine, and education—chapter 6 uses photographic and textual evidence to explore a topic that hovers around the figure of the Republican Lady but is rarely directly addressed: sexuality. The photographic evidence that suggests ways sexuality was visually encoded and decoded in the early Republic includes portraits published in the journal and in a series of courtesan albums that were produced by the same publishing house as Funü shibao. The textual evidence juxtaposes the new, largely translated, social scientific regulatory discourse on prostitution in Funü shibao with concurrent lingering representations of the honorable courtesan and with evidence from outside the journal of ongoing intimate relations between the world of letters and the courtesan’s flower world. The book concludes with one last example of the complex of dialectics that permeate the journal: the dialectical tension between an epic tale of flight and the gravitational pull of the everyday. It begins—as each of the four previous chapters begins—with an intriguing portrait of a Republican Lady. All of these women— and the dozens of others whose photographs appear in Funü shibao—interpellate us as viewers, demanding that their stories be told.39 These fragmented stories of high-flying aspirations and quotidian preoccupations, retrieved through the lens of a rich but marginalized body of sources, powerfully redeem the cultural vitality and dynamic potentiality of China’s neglected early Republic.

1

Text and Method

T H E J OU R NA L

Funü shibao exemplifies the dynamic print culture that channeled and helped constitute the cultural vitality of the late Qing and early Republican eras (figure 1.1). Fueled by the demise of Confucianism’s cultural capital, the ascendance of new, foreign-derived learning, and accelerating commercialization in the treaty port city of Shanghai, this print culture traces the arc of some of the most significant political, scientific, and cultural trends of the era. The fusion of global and local sources in cover art, photographs, texts, and advertisements highlights the fertile Republican cosmopolitanism that thrived in an era when the binaries between East and West, weak and strong, national and foreign remained largely unstable.1 The blended discourse on medicine in articles and advertisements reveals the productive crosscurrents in this field prior to the formal division between “Chinese medicine” and scientific biomedicine in the late 1920s.2 The conceptually rich and technically sophisticated visuals in these materials, and in Funü shibao in particular, mark the culmination of a trend that began with illustrated journals (huabao) from the 1880s and would merge into the development of Chinese cinema in the 1920s and 1930s.3 A representative of these trends, Funü shibao is also a particularly striking example of the technical and social possibilities inherent in early twentieth-century print culture. It surpassed many contemporary periodicals in the variety of its texts, the quantity and quality of its images, and the engagement of its broad community of female and male readers and writers. The journal’s distinctiveness can be attributed to the technological virtuosity of its publisher, the Shibao Office, the innovations of its activist editor, Bao Tianxiao, and the caliber of its contributors. 15

16

Text and Method

figure 1.1. A woman views the covers of journals, including a number of covers to Funü shibao, in a bookshop window. Cover, Funü shibao 13 (April 1, 1914).

Di Baoxian (Chuqing, Pingzi, 1872–1941) headed the Shibao print conglomerate and its publishing arm, the Youzheng shuju (Youzheng Book Company).4 A savvy cultural entrepreneur, Di founded the highly successful Shanghai daily newspaper Shibao (the Eastern Times) in 1904. He was also one of the first publishers to grasp the potential commercial ramifications of respectable women’s new publicness: in founding Funü shibao he launched the earliest Chinese newspaper supplement dedicated to women.5 Di naturally turned to Bao Tianxiao for assistance in managing the journal. Bao had served as a talented editor of Shibao from 1906 and of Di’s fiction journal Xiaoshuo shibao (the Fiction Eastern Times)

Text and Method

17

from 1909. Well connected in the worlds of journalism and literature, Bao had also spent several years teaching young women both privately and in girls’ schools in Suzhou, Shandong, and Shanghai from the turn of the century. His editorial skill, educational experience, and social and literary connections, together with the Youzheng Book Company’s financial and technical resources, helped make Funü shibao an exceptional print product. Features Materiality. Funü shibao is a distinctly handsome, user-friendly journal between 114 and 146 pages in length and about seven and a quarter by ten and a quarter inches in size. The first issue was printed on June 11, 1911. Announced as a monthly, the journal could be more accurately described as bimonthly or seasonal. (See Appendix A for dates of individual issues.) Publication was erratic (perhaps a consequence of dodging President Yuan Shikai’s [1859–1916] censors at sensitive political moments), something for which Bao apologized to his readers several times.6 Three issues appeared before the October 10, 1911, Revolution, and five before the abdication of the Qing emperor on February 12, 1912. The remaining sixteen issues covered the early Republican period. Five issues overlapped with the early New Culture movement, which began with the founding of Chen Duxiu’s (1879–1942) journal Qingnian zazhi (Youth Magazine) on September 15, 1915.7 There was a long hiatus between issue 17 (November 1, 1915) and issue 18 (June 1916). Bao Tianxiao announced that the eighteenth issue, which appeared immediately after Yuan Shikai’s death on June 5, 1916, marked a new phase in the journal’s history. Two more issues appeared in 1916 and the last issue in April 1917. The precise source of funding for Funü shibao remains obscure, but most of the capital seems to have been generated by the Shibao Office’s Youzheng Book Company. Youzheng’s primary mandate was to produce print material related to the Chinese fine arts: catalogs, magazines, and reproductions of paintings and rubbings.8 Di Baoxian possibly founded journals like Funü shibao and even his flagship newspaper Shibao to help finance these art publications. In turn, he was able to use the photographic technologies developed to reproduce fine arts materials to heighten the aesthetic quality and salability of the journals. Youzheng’s extensive list also included photography albums, textbooks, and fiction, all of which further generated capital used to operate the print empire. The publishing house received an added bonus shortly after Funü shibao was founded. When the popular fiction writer Zeng Mengpu (Zeng Pu, 1871–1935) was appointed to a post in the Republican government, he handed his full list of manuscripts over to the Youzheng Book Company to market.9 Youzheng’s capital was used to remunerate and thus encourage contributions to Funü shibao. Submissions over one thousand characters could earn an author three yuan, while a shorter piece of writing could earn four jiao—approximately the

18

Text and Method

price of one issue of the journal.10 Youzheng books were also awarded as prizes to winners of Funü shibao’s ongoing essay competitions.11 Individuals who submitted their photographs to the journal would be rewarded with free copies of the journal: anywhere from one issue to a full year’s subscription.12 When Bao Tianxiao invited women to send in their paintings for the cover of the journal in its penultimate issue, he offered them ten, six, or four yuan depending on the quality of their art.13 Advertisements also provided some of Funü shibao’s revenue. While most of the ads in the journal were for Youzheng’s various print products, they also included medical advertisements and advertisements for a variety of personal products from soap to eyeglasses. These ads constituted about 16 percent of each issue, averaging about twenty advertisements per issue. The cost of advertising was 10 yuan for half a page and 20 yuan for a full page (22 yuan after issue 18), and slightly more if the advertisement appeared in a key position such as inside the front cover. Advertising fees for an issue with the lowest number of advertisements would have yielded about 200 yuan, which would have barely offset the salaries of editors and technicians and other production expenses.14 Sales and subscriptions also helped finance the journal. Funü shibao was relatively expensive, as were all of the periodicals published by the Youzheng Book Company, including Funü shibao’s predecessor the Fiction Eastern Times (1909– 14), a short-lived Buddhist journal Foxue congbao (Buddhist Miscellany, 1912–14), and the entertainment magazine Yuxing (Entertainment, 1914–17).15 The first seventeen issues of Funü shibao cost four jiao (four jiao, five fen with postage), and the later issues four jiao, two fen. The annual subscription rate increased from three yuan, five jiao for ten issues before issue 18 to four yuan, two jiao for issues 18 through 21. This was more expensive than contemporary textbooks for girls, which cost between two and three jiao.16 It was also more costly than other contemporary women’s journals such as Shenzhou nübao (Shenzhou Women’s Journal, 1912–13), which cost three jiao, three fen with postage for each issue, and Funü zazhi (Ladies’ Journal), which would become Funü shibao’s prime imitator and competitor when it was founded in 1915 and which cost two yuan, four jiao for an annual subscription. Funü shibao was also significantly more expensive than the woodblock materials that continued to be printed and distributed in the hinterland in this period. Popular romances sold for as little as five fen. Only long and finely produced works of fiction approached the price of one issue of Funü shibao.17 Despite its relatively high cost, Funü shibao also had an unusually high circulation for this period, estimated at six thousand to seven thousand copies per issue.18 This was much higher than the print runs of pre-1911 women’s journals, estimated to be no more than several hundred copies.19 Given the Chinese practice of passing newspapers and journals from reader to reader, often selling them for a trifle less at each transfer until they were too ragged to be legible, the total number of Funü shibao readers could have been as large as 140,000.20

Text and Method

19

These readers who either subscribed to or received secondhand copies of Funü shibao were from various parts of China. While the journal was published in Shanghai and was very much a product of that city, its purview extended beyond the urban metropolis. This extraurban focus reflected the nature of Shanghai’s population—some five-sixths of the city’s inhabitants came from elsewhere. While the function of much of the print matter published in Shanghai in this period was to teach immigrants how to be urbanites, in the case of Funü shibao the journal gave urbanites the opportunity to discuss the customs and economies of their native places.21 At least nine such articles were published on one of the essay contest themes, “Women’s Occupations in All Regions” (Gedi funü zhi zhiye), for example. Entries discussed women’s work in different locales in the Shanghai region such as Pudong, Jiading, Nantong, Suzhou, and Xidi, but also in villages in the more distant provinces of Anhui, Fujian, Guangdong, and Hubei.22 Funü shibao reached out to a national audience through its distribution network. It was disseminated in over thirty centers in Shanghai, Beijing, Jiangsu, and some ten provincial capitals.23 Contributions to numerous sections of the journal, in addition to the essay contest entries noted above, document a readership that extended from the Shanghai area to Yunnan, Wuhan, Fujian, Hubei, Beijing, and Guangdong, to give just a few examples.24 Advertisements published in the journal further suggest a geographically extended readership. Pharmaceutical companies announced that, in addition to being available for purchase in Shanghai, their products could be mail ordered or bought at branch pharmacies from Zhenjiang in Jiangsu Province to Chongqing in Sichuan Province.25 These far-flung readers of Funü shibao were treated to a veritable print emporium (zahuo dian).26 Heterogeneous and heteroglossic, the journal offered readers a full panoply of visual and textual goods that ranged across genres, registers, and styles. As indicated in the Introduction, these included cover art, photographs, editor’s, readers’, and essay contest columns, together with a literary section, “Wenyuan” (Literary garden) that featured poems (shi) and lyrics (ci). The journal also included poetry talks (shihua), translated and original works of fiction and foreign biography, biographies of contemporary Chinese women, practical instruction for sewing and cooking, travel accounts, short essays, jottings, miscellaneous reflections (zazu), and advertisements. While there were some precious and rarified goods among this multifarious content (advertisements for luxury gems, elegant poems), Funü shibao’s primary mandate, like that of other publications in the general interest genre, was to offer products that were socially relevant and “essential to the conduct of everyday life” (rensheng riyong bixu zhi pin).27 Even the fiction included in Funü shibao was chosen for its social relevance. Featured in every issue of the journal, as it was in most periodicals and mainstream newspapers of the period, the fiction in Funü shibao was in keeping with trends in serialized fiction writing at this time. Much of it was translated, all of it

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Text and Method

was in the literary language, and its narrative mode was direct observation rather than self-expression, subjectivity, or experimentation.28 Only genres of fiction related to the uplift of women appear in the journal, however, specifically family novels (jiating xiaoshuo) and educational novels (jiaoyu xiaoshuo) rather than romantic, detective, or martial arts novels.29 Overall, these works were not one of the journal’s key features. Bao rarely remarked on them in his editorial column, and fiction was low on his list of solicited materials, perhaps because he could anticipate few submissions from women.30 His literary energies were clearly focused elsewhere, on the several fiction magazines that he edited. While the nonliterary narrative content of the journal, like the fiction, was generally written in some form of classical Chinese, it included a diverse mix of linguistic registers. A prime example of the plurality of styles circulating in the late 1910s, the prose writing in Funü shibao ranges from modes of literary to forms of vernacular (qianwen, baihua) writing.31 Most of this prose was a variation on the “new style” (xin wenti) or newspaper style current in the periodical press in the early twentieth century. A linguistic hybrid, this style was neither speech based like the vernacular nor as arcane as prior forms of classical writing.32 It included Japanese-origin vocabulary, selected grammatical innovations, and a free admixture of elements of various classical styles, including ancient-style prose (guwen) and parallel prose (pianwen).33 While this mix provoked the New Culture critique that early Republican writing was “half classical but not vernacular” (banwen bu bai), it reflects the demands that a rapidly changing cultural context placed on written expression.34 The more arcane elements of this new style are a testimony to the continuing vitality of the classical language with which authors continued to write “the new.”35 At the same time, experiments with more straightforward modes of expression manifest the desire of early Republican authors to accommodate an expanding readership with varied levels of linguistic ability. A woman writer, Zhu Huizhen, urges such accommodation in her contribution to the readers’ column in issue 3 of the journal. She argues that the writing in the journal is too refined given that few of her two million female compatriots are literate, fewer still literate enough to read books, and fewer still literate enough to read books written in difficult prose. Zhu therefore recommends establishing a vernacular column that will be written in “easy to understand” (qianjin) prose and supplemented with simple illustrations.36 Subsequent issues of the journal did include some writing in this more accessible style. This simpler style was not foreign to Bao Tianxiao. He had published two journals in the vernacular in Suzhou in the first years of the century, Lixue yibian (Compendium of Translations to Encourage Learning) and Suzhou baihua bao (Suzhou Vernacular Journal).37 He seems to have consciously chosen not to use the vernacular in Funü shibao, however—he neither wrote his editorial column in demotic prose nor called on authors to use it—perhaps because of the journal’s

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projected genteel audience. He returned to vernacular publishing near the end of Funü shibao’s print run, however, at precisely the moment that Hu Shi (1891–1962) was credited—mistakenly, according to Bao—with launching the vernacular movement in China.38 In early 1917, just months before the last issue of Funü shibao appeared, Bao founded the exclusively vernacular Xiaoshuo huabao (Illustrated Fiction).39 Perhaps an admission of his frustration with Funü shibao’s ability to fully reach its targeted audience, Illustrated Fiction appealed to the same demographic as Funü shibao—cultured women (guixiu)—together with students, merchants, and workers.40 The cultured women who wrote and read poetry in Funü shibao were, however, relatively competent in the literary language. The majority of the lyrical entries published in the journal were poems (shi) in the ancient rather than the recent style (jinti shi), although some women expressed appreciation for new poetry.41 These ancient-style poems were composed of five- or seven-character verses with no fixed tonal pattern or prescribed central couplet of parallelism. Some were in the Tong Guang style (Tong Guang ti), the most influential of the three prominent schools of shi from the 1890s to the 1920s.42 A leading figure in Funü shibao, Zhang Mojun (Zhaohan, 1884–1965), who published a number of poems in the journal, was instructed by major poets in this school, including Chen Sanli (1853–1937) and Chen Yan (1856–1937).43 Zhang later distinguished herself from members of this school, however, by joining the revolutionary Nanshe (Southern Society) and serving the new Republic.44 In addition to shi, women also published song lyrics in particular melodies in the journal. Cosmopolitanism. A global reservoir of texts and images also served as a new language in Funü shibao. While this new language penetrated all aspects of the periodical, it remained subject to China’s specific cultural grammar and to the journal’s own cultural agenda. It was highly productive for Chinese authors and editors to think with things foreign in the early Republic as they shaped their own vision of social and cultural reform, enriched local imaginings of everyday life, and expanded the sphere of public discourse. The immediacy and plethora of things foreign with which the Chinese could think in this period reflect the particularities of the city of Shanghai. The treaty port was a thriving hub of international commerce when Funü shibao was in print.45 Foreign enclaves were a defining feature of the city, which included an International Settlement and a French Concession that bordered on a smaller and poorer Chinese city. These enclaves facilitated the development of print culture in this period. The publishing industry, including the Shibao Office and the Youzheng Book Company, was located in this internationalized part of the city, which provided both access to new technologies and protection from Chinese censorship laws. The largely Chinese population of the foreign settlements included the

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entrepreneurs, editors, and artists who worked in this vanguard industry.46 Bao Tianxiao recounted moving his family around the time of the 1911 Revolution from a narrow dingy road near a rail crossing at the western gate of the Chinese city to an area north of Elgin Road (Aierling) (today’s Anqing Road) in the International Settlement, where the air was clearer and healthier.47 The biography of Xu Yongqing (1880–1953), the artist responsible for about half of the covers to Funü shibao (including figures 0.1 and 1.1), provides an important example of the imprint of cosmopolitan Shanghai on the journal. Xu was raised in a Jesuit orphanage housed in a French religious establishment, St. Ignatius Cathedral (present-day Xujiahui Cathedral), located just outside the French Concession.48 From the age of nineteen he was trained in oil painting and watercolor in the orphanage’s Tushanwan Art Studio, the first art school to introduce Chinese artists to Western painting styles. Xu learned to paint the human form by copying  depictions of biblical religious figures.49 He extended his global database of images from representations of biblical figures to foreign magazines after he left Tushanwan and became a commercial artist. According to the memoirs of one of his acquaintances, Xu had the habit of compiling copybooks for his magazine illustrations out of pictures he tore from Western magazines purchased in a secondhand store in the Beijing Road area of Shanghai.50 One of the most striking examples of this practice is the foreign-inspired but locally rendered portrait of a modest beauty that appears on the cover of the twelfth issue of Funü shibao (compare figures 1.2 and 1.3). Xu was neither the only nor the most accomplished artist to draw on Western sources in reimagining the Chinese female figure. Shen Bochen (1889–1920), the second artist who painted Funü shibao covers, was a master at creating modern beauties. His series, Xin xin baimei tu (New new pictures of one hundred beauties), was first serialized in a newspaper and then published in book form in 1913 (with further supplements appearing in 1915 and 1917).51 Shen’s close friend and co-provincial Ding Song (1891–1972), an intimate of Funü shibao circles and a cover artist for the journal Libai liu (Saturday, 1914–23), was also a master of the new beauty genre. Ding’s Shanghai shizhuang tuyong (Illustrated fashions of Shanghai accompanied with poems [by Chen Diexian, 1879–1940]) is strikingly similar to Shen’s series.52 Both Shen’s and Ding’s portraits, like Xu Yongqing’s, had strong resonances with contemporary Western commercial art (compare figures 1.4 and 1.5 to figure 1.6). The portraits in Ding’s album and the Funü shibao cover art preserved certain Chinese gender protocols such as concealing the contours of the waist. At the same time, they departed from the tradition of paintings of Chinese beauties in terms of iconography, composition, and a sense of movement.53 Emblematic of the ease with which the Western other could become an unmarked part of the Chinese self in the early Republic, the portraits highlight the difficulty of disembedding foreign

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figure 1.2. The female figure on the cover of Funü shibao 12 (January 10, 1914) appears to have been directly inspired by the figure on the cover of the Ladies’ Home Journal in figure 1.3. Wearing similarly shaped hats and fur-trimmed jackets, the two women pose with dogs and among trees. figure 1.3. The cover of the Ladies’ Home Journal (February 1899) that may have inspired the Funü shibao cover in figure 1.2.

sources from the tangle of local and global vocabularies at play in early Republican cultural artifacts.54 This difficulty applies to textual as well as visual sources. It is challenging to determine precisely how many of the articles that appeared in Funü shibao are translations. Translated essays are often not marked as such in periodicals. They rarely include the kinds of paratextual information—such as prefaces—found in books, and they are generally based on fleeting materials that are hard to trace. At the same time, the journalistic ethos of the period held little respect for the integrity of an original work, from which writers freely poached. Characteristic of authors/translators in this period, Funü shibao writers often merely changed names and places in original sources and cut and revised text in order to make their own creations.55 Bao Tianxiao, who had studied Japanese, as well as French and English, without becoming highly proficient in any of these languages, followed this practice in his own fiction.56 His most famous novels, including Xiner jiuxue ji (Little Xin goes to school), were indigenized renderings of Japanese

figure 1.4. The cover art for Funü shibao 5 (January 23, 1912), by Shen Bochen, may have been inspired by the Ladies’ Home Journal cover in figure 1.6. Like her American counterpart, the woman on Shen’s cover is in the midst of a tennis game with her racket raised. figure 1.5. This image by Ding Song, a popular illustrator who frequented Funü shibao circles, shows a female tennis player similar to the one in figure 1.4 that was probably similarly inspired by the American cover art in figure 1.6. Ding Song and Chen Diexian, Shanghai shizhuang tuyong (1916; repr., Taipei: Guangwen shuju, 1968), 17. figure 1.6. This Ladies’ Home Journal cover (July 1902) may have inspired the images by Chinese illustrators in figures 1.4 and 1.5.

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translations of Western works.57 In some instances authors/translators left names and places from an original Japanese work unchanged in articles discussing Chinese issues.58 Even when foreign sources are clearly marked as such, as in the case of foreign names and terms that are introduced into the Chinese text in the Roman alphabet, they are often difficult to clearly identify. The famous Victorian novelist Charles Dickens becomes the British economist “Sickens” in an article on household hygiene, for example.59 While it is often challenging to precisely identify primary documents, original authors, and specific translators in materials published in journals like Funü shibao, close readings of the Chinese texts often suggest their Japanese or Western provenance, making it possible to discern foreign-derived content with varying levels of certainty. Using this approach, we can estimate that at least 40 percent of the topical essays published in Funü shibao included content from non-native sources. We can also trace patterns of global interaction among China, “the West”—composed of an often undifferentiated conglomeration of continental Europe, Britain, and the United States—and Japan. These patterns reveal that while things Western provided much of the inspiration for material in the Chinese periodical press, it was Japanese print culture that provided the concrete templates and texts through which this inspiration was mediated. This is first apparent in the visuals in the journal. Xu Yongqing and Shen Bochen, as we have seen, used female figures on the covers of American magazines as their models—they did not appropriate the cover designs of Japanese journals, from which Funü shibao authors otherwise drew a wealth of textual material.60 Photographs of Western rather than Japanese women were also most prominent in the opening illustrative section of Funü shibao. Close to 70 percent (106/153) of the photographs of foreign individuals, landscapes, or art featured Western subjects whereas only 22 percent (33/153) featured Japanese subjects. At the same time, however, the opening photography section itself was modeled on Japanese general interest and women’s magazines such as Jogaku sekai (World of Women’s Learning).61 These Japanese publications offered a mix of images in their opening pages that was mirrored in the Chinese journals. Both included portraits of American political wives and European princesses, reproductions of Western paintings and local landscapes, and photographs of non-Western others. While in the Japanese case these non-Westerners were Chinese, Manchu, and Burmese women, in the Chinese case they were Japanese and Javan women. Meiji publications were also the often unacknowledged source for discussions of things Western in early twentieth-century Chinese journals. Essays in Funü shibao on Western gender relations, methods of controlling prostitution, or managing childbirth were rarely directly translated from Western languages. Rather, they were translations of Japanese translations of original Western sources. The reasons Japan became China’s gateway to the West have been well documented.

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From the 1870s, Japanese scholars and publicists began translating Western works in a range of fields, including politics, law, and social and educational theory.62 Chinese publicists and students who, for reasons of linguistic and geographic proximity, worked, studied, or visited Japan from the turn of the twentieth century directly reaped the benefits of this Meiji-period (1868–1912) translation boom. Japanese translations of Western texts both expanded their intellectual horizons and became a source for their own Chinese translations and publications.63 For example, Bao Tianxiao, who was invited to Japan in 1913 by Japanese journalists in the midst of his editorship of Funü shibao, most likely used this opportunity to gather Japanese sources for the numerous editing ventures in which he was involved.64 The rapidity with which Japanese texts were often translated into Chinese reflects how closely attuned Chinese editors and writers like Bao were to the Japanese discourse in this period. An article on the history of the women’s suffrage movement by Abe Isoo (1865–1949) appeared in the Japanese general interest magazine Shin Nihon (New Japan) in July of 1915 and in Funü shibao four months later, for example.65 The preponderance of translations from Japanese sources in Funü shibao over the course of its history diverges from the translation pattern for books in early twentieth-century China. The number of books translated into Chinese from Japanese sources dropped from 63 percent of all translated works the year Funü shibao was founded to 19 percent in the journal’s last year of publication.66 In contrast, articles translated from Japanese continued to represent the vast majority of translated articles in the journal. Scholars of translation and print culture have not yet noted this deviation, partly because their focus has been on scholarly books rather than articles in the commercial press but also because of the difficulties in documenting translations that appear in periodicals. Given that the public tended to read magazines rather than monographs, however, a better grasp of periodical translation practices is essential to our understanding of China’s early twentiethcentury knowledge culture. The Japanese publications that served Funü shibao translators as sources were generically diverse. They included women’s journals, newspapers, serials, and monographs. Among works explicitly identified as translations, most were translated from women’s journals. They included the early Meiji publications Nihon shin fujin (New Woman, 1888–89), World of Women’s Learning, and Shin fujin (New Women’s Magazine), founded in 1911.67 There were also a number of periodicals that were not directly cited in Funü shibao but that potentially served as sources, particularly for discussions of reproductive health.68 Funü shibao also published serialized translations of Japanese books on Western topics that were possibly translations themselves. These included Miyamoto Keisen’s Seiyo danjo kōsaihō (Social interactions between men and women in the West) and Aoyagi Yūbi’s (1873–1945) Jissen mutsūan sanpō (The practice of painless childbirth).

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The Japanese works on Western topics that Chinese authors chose to translate provided Chinese authors with much of the grist for their disquisitions on improving women’s reproductive lives, scientizing the domestic sphere, and regulating sexuality. They also furnished Chinese writers with the distance and authority necessary to broach intimate topics that had not heretofore been subjects of public discourse in China. These translated texts were not thematically or ideologically uniform, however. Individual translators often published works representing widely varying viewpoints. For example, one author published two translations with sharply contrasting perspectives on women’s issues in the same issue of Funü shibao.69 In addition to foreign-inspired essays, photographs, and cover art, all other sections of the journal reflected this same Republican cosmopolitanism. An average of two biographies of foreign figures, usually translations, appeared in almost every issue of the journal.70 Of the two fiction selections generally featured in each issue, at least one was often a translation. Practical how-to articles referenced Western cooking methods, and even the poetry section, in which the foreign imprint was the slightest, included a number of shi and ci on foreign themes.71 While advertisements for Chinese medicines appeared in all twenty-one issues of the journal, Western medicines were advertised in nineteen issues and Japanese in ten issues. Advertisements. Some 516 advertisements appeared in Funü shibao in total. The overwhelming majority, 62 percent of these (321), were for print products, and 59 percent (304) were for works produced by Funü shibao’s publisher, the Youzheng Book Company. The second-largest category was advertisements for women’s medicines. These 53 advertisements represented a little over 10 percent of the ads published in the journal, with approximately three per issue.72 All advertisements that specifically targeted women combined (in addition to health products these included beauty products, luxury goods such as jewelry, girls’ schools, food, and materials or machinery for women’s work such as sewing machines), represented 106, or 20.5 percent of the total number of advertisements in the journal or 54 percent of all advertisements other than print advertisements. For contemporary readers of the periodical press, and thus for researchers today, pharmaceutical advertisements for both Chinese and foreign medicines were integral to the experience of reading the commercial press.73 They included not only descriptive product information, such as the trade name and address of the pharmacy and instructions for purchasing or ordering the medicine, but also highly personalized testimonials.74 In keeping with the emphasis on individual experience in commercial journals, these testimonials generally provided detailed records of symptoms, of the patient’s near desperation in seeking a cure, and of the discovery of the miraculous pills or tonic. While there is some

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figure 1.7. An advertisement includes a portrait of the wife of a certain Ding Zhenzhi of Tianjin after her stomach ailment was cured by Dr. Williams’ Pink Pills for Pale People. “Tianjin mingfu ceng huan weiji wei Weilianshi dayisheng hongse buwan suo zhiyu,” Weilianshi dayisheng hongse buwan, Funü shibao 4 (November 5, 1911).

debate as to whether the testimonials were penned by real individuals who actually took the medicine, advertisements in Funü shibao and contemporary expert opinion suggest that they were.75 Even if they were not, they would have been composed by local authors, many of whom wrote both articles for journals like Funü shibao and ad copy for the big advertising companies.76 Often accompanied by an image allegedly of the grateful patient, the advertisements were effective tools not only for selling medicine but for introducing new illness and body concepts to the health-obsessed consumers of the journals (figure 1.7).

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Innovations Many of Funü shibao’s features, including its high volume of medical advertisements, its extensive appropriation of foreign materials, its mixture of linguistic registers, and its protocommercial status, were shared with other early twentiethcentury general interest and women’s periodicals. At the same time, however, the journal stood out in the early Republican cultural field and continues to stand out in the history of Chinese print culture for two important reasons: the role of its activist editor, Bao Tianxiao, and its conceptually rich visuals. Editorial. History has placed Bao Tianxiao in a particular cultural niche: he is widely known as a fiction author, an editor of literary journals, and a representative of the “Mandarin Duck and Butterfly” literary faction. Bao publicly repudiated this characterization in a 1960 essay in which he eschewed the “Mandarin Duck and Butterfly” label and claimed that he only occasionally wrote fiction.77 The eminent scholar of early Republican literature Fan Boqun, largely concurs. While he ultimately concludes that Bao was indeed a “Mandarin Duck and Butterfly” author, Fan recognizes that Bao’s achievements far surpassed that label and that his broad range has not been appropriately evaluated by modern Chinese literary critics.78 Bao’s less recognized achievements include his contributions to the early Republic as a social commentator, textbook author, and educator. His fuller historical persona is apparent in the social awareness, cultural instincts, and skill in connecting everyday concerns to the exigencies of reform that he brought to his editorship of Funü shibao. Bao’s editorship was defined by a series of overlapping commitments to vernacularizing knowledge, creating an engaged community of readers and writers, and advancing reforms such as women’s education, without sacrificing fundamental moral principles. From the outset of his career in journalism, Bao focused on broadly disseminating knowledge. It was as an avid reader of China’s earliest illustrated journal, Dianshizhai Pictorial, in the 1890s, that he first began to view the critical function of the periodical press as bridging the gap between erudite knowledge (boshi) and general knowledge (changshi).79 He made this the mandate for the two journals he founded in Suzhou at the turn of the twentieth century before taking up his editorship at Shibao in Shanghai in 1906. The first, Compendium of Translations to Encourage Learning, offered translations of new Western theories current in Japan. The second, Suzhou Vernacular Journal, introduced these theories to a broader audience by presenting them in accessible prose. In addition to working closely with Di Baoxian as an editor of a number of Shibao Office publications, Bao had close relations with Zhang Yuanji (1867–1959), the head of the publishing giant Shangwu yinshuguan (Commercial Press). Zhang had such respect for Bao’s knowledge and abilities that he commissioned Bao to

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write a number of textbooks, including an ethics primer in 1912.80 He also asked Bao to compose what became a five-volume text, Xin shehui (The new society), in a series that was given the English title “Lectures on Society Today.” Bao wrote The New Society in the voice of an older man from the countryside who was trying to adjust to fast-paced, early Republican Shanghai society, a device that enabled him to explain new ideas including the Republican political system and public health, to a broad reading public. Using a logic that also governed his editing of Funü shibao, he moved the narrative from quotidian details—experiences the old man had in the city—to explanations of different facets of early Republican reform.81 Bao Tianxiao’s primary aim in writing The New Society and in editing Funü shibao was to connect to a wide audience. As announced on the first cover to the journal (figure 0.1), he sought to bring the reader close to the journal and the journal close to the concerns of the reader. He promoted an active dialogue with his readers through three editorial mechanisms: his own editor’s column, “Bianji shi” (From the office of the editor) or “Bianji shi zhi tanhua” (Conversation from the office of the editor), which appeared in ten of Funü shibao’s twenty-one issues; a series of essay contests on topical themes announced in sixteen of the journal’s issues; and two separate reader’s columns—“Duzhe julebu” (The readers’ club) and “Funü tanhua hui” (The women’s conversation association)—which appeared early and late in the journal’s history. He also actively solicited surveys, diaries, and photographs from readers and repeatedly called for accounts of experience related to critical but heretofore rarely publicly discussed social topics such as childbirth, menstruation, and concubinage. He viewed the journal as a medium through which readers could bring their private experience to bear on public agendas. Bao set the personalized tone for the journal. He contributed an emotional lament for his niece, Bao Zhongxuan (ca. 1899–ca. 1910), a young student, in the first issue.82 He also published three entries by his wife, Chen Zhensu, in issues 1, 2, and 6. And he included a photograph of his own children in issue 18 (figure 1.8). Early in the journal’s history, Bao initiated a dialogue with his contributing female authors by directly commenting on a number of their poems and biographies. He added his comments to all six shi published in issue 1, for example, commending work that was easy to recite, graceful, and spirited, and chiding one author for imitating a Tang poet.83 In return, several women authors thanked Bao for his encouragement and for being willing to publish their work.84 Bao even assisted women writers in locating publishers for their longer works. He not only helped the fiction translator Huang Cuining in this way but created opportunities for her son, Zhang Yihan (1895–1950)—who was apparently neither as talented nor as diligent as his mother—to publish in Funü shibao.85 Bao’s intention was not only to engage with readers himself but to have readers engage one another. The purpose of “The Readers’ Club,” he announces in issue 1,

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figure 1.8. Bao Tianxiao promoted a sense of familiarity with his readers by publishing a photograph of his sons and daughters in Funü shibao. From right to left, the children are Kezhen, Kehua, Kehong, Kefen, and Keyong. Funü shibao 18 (June 1916): front matter.

is for those who love reading to improve themselves through discussions with one another. This would enable them to compare notes, exchange knowledge, and broaden their experience.86 Several authors, male and female, did directly address each other’s writing over the course of the journal’s history.87 In addition to instructing contributors to the journal informally as an editor of their writings, Bao formally taught in the classroom. He tutored young women privately and in girls’ schools in Suzhou and Shandong early in the twentieth century, and after moving to Shanghai, where he became a member of the Jiangsu Educational Association, he was a much sought after teacher in a number of the more prominent girls’ schools in the city. These included the Chengdong nüxue (Chengdong Girls’ School) and the Minli Shanghai nü zhongxuetang (Minli Shanghai Girls’ Middle School).88 His reputation as a teacher was so high that he was later offered a position at Peking Women’s Normal College, which he declined.89 In addition to writing and editing numerous textbooks for girls on ethics, letter writing, and even sewing for the Commercial Press and the Youzheng

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Book Company, Bao wrote educational novels such as Little Xin Goes to School.90 He considered these pedagogical novels central to his fiction output.91 In these various genres of formal and informal pedagogical writing from fiction to textbooks to editorial comments in Funü shibao, Bao both engaged new reform ideas and emphasized the importance of ethics. This dual commitment is evident in an elementary textbook he edited for the Commercial Press in which he simultaneously promotes the new Republican political system and calls for the preservation of the old morality.92 In his “Inaugural Statement” to Funü shibao he similarly warns nation-minded Republican Ladies not to “discard morality like a pair of old shoes [qi daode ru bixi].”93 In 1916, when Funü shibao was revived, Bao reiterated that the journal’s purpose was to reform bad customs, introduce new knowledge, and continue to promote old virtues (fayang jiu daode).94 Visual. Funü shibao’s striking images—including the portrait of Bao Tianxiao’s children above—were as critical to Bao’s editorial agenda as his solicited essays and commissioned translations. The journal’s cover art, which “broke new ground” in its “conceptual richness and visual coherence,” was closely aligned with its editorial mission.95 The artists Xu Yongqing and Shen Bochen depicted the women who graced Funü shibao’s covers as active, engaged subjects rather than static, aesthetic objects. They also introduced a new, more interactive mode of female engagement in the act of seeing: a new bodily experience of not only being viewed but actively viewing (figures 0.1 and 1.1 and the image reproduced on the cover of this book).96 In addition to this dynamic cover art, Funü shibao included some 485 photographs—an average of twenty portraits in the front pages of every issue. The exceptional quality of these images can be attributed to the Youzheng Book Company’s photography studio, the Minying zhaoxiangguan (Minying Photography Studio). A number of the photographs were taken in the studio itself, and those that were taken elsewhere and sent in to the journal were reproduced and often assembled into complex montages by Minying technicians. Di Baoxian initially founded the Minying Photography Studio in 1907 or 1908 to facilitate his project of preserving China’s artistic cultural traces. Committed to photographically reproducing (yingyin) and publicly disseminating copies of famous Chinese paintings and rubbings, Di equipped Minying with the most upto-date machinery. He also employed Japanese experts to train their Chinese counterparts in the methods of collotype printing (keluoban).97 As Di became more involved in publishing periodicals from 1909, he realized that the studio could serve the ends of commercial as well as high art. While Chinese periodicals up to that date had generally opened with copper plate illustrations of landscapes or reproductions of the calligraphy of famous artists, Di had a more ingenious idea. He would mobilize the skills of Minying’s technicians to create photographs of fashionable women (shizhuang shinü).98

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Not all of the photographs published in Funü shibao were portraits of women. Its unique archive includes landscapes and reproductions of Western art, Chinese musical instruments, and Japanese bonsai plants, together with portraits of Greek princesses, Japanese telephone operators, newlywed Chinese couples, classes of female students, and individual Chinese women. It was this last group of photographs—some 125 portraits of Chinese women—that became one of the defining features of the journal and of Bao Tianxiao’s editorial agenda. Bao solicited the portraits as actively as he solicited accounts of experience. He insisted that the women who wrote for the journal become real to their audience not only through their written words but also through their visible images.99 This was a radical request. Until this point in history, only courtesans had circulated their photographs in public. The first portraits of “fashionable ladies” that Di Baoxian and Bao Tianxiao introduced into the periodical press were portraits of women of the flower world which they printed in the Fiction Eastern Times.100 For Funü shibao, however, Bao needed to secure photographs of Republican Ladies—the students, teachers, and genteel women of the inner chambers who were the journal’s targeted audience. These photographs would serve Funü shibao’s dual reform and commercial objectives. They would help create a visible community of respectable women who were publicly engaged both in and outside the pages of the journal. They would also offer purchasers of the journal unprecedented access to women who had heretofore been too modest to expose themselves in public. The editors of Funü shibao used several mechanisms to both tie the photographs to the journal’s reform agenda and enhance their status as beautiful commodities. They indicated the uprightness of the photographed subject through detailed captions and narrative montages that emphasized diligence and social virtue. At the same time, they heightened the subject’s allure and the aesthetics of the portrait itself through tinting and artistic framing. Compelling invitations to look more closely and probe more deeply, photographs like Zhang Hongyi’s (plate 1) are unique gateways into the early Republican milieu.101 Politics The political significance of Funü shibao within this early Republican milieu lies less in its direct engagement with global or national political issues than in its illumination of the ways high politics were lived, understood, and refracted in the quotidian realm. Authors broached the topics of World War I and British colonialism, for example, in articles on the contribution of European women to the Great War and discussions of gender customs in India.102 Key figures in early Republican politics who were critics of President Yuan Shikai’s regime appeared in the journal’s photographs rather than in its roster of authors, and in their domestic rather than official capacities. Several were featured in wedding portraits, as Bao would

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figure 1.9. Photographs of political figures published in Funü shibao signal the journal’s politics. Former prime minister Tang Shaoyi is featured in a marriage portrait with his bride, Wu Weiqiao. Funü shibao 10 (May 25, 1913): front matter.

not accept portraits of men alone. They included Tang Shaoyi (1862–1938) who served as prime minister of the new Republic from March to June of 1912, before resigning in protest over Yuan’s refusal to respect the rule of law (figure 1.9). The journal also published family portraits of Xiong Xiling (1870–1937), who, like Tang Shaoyi, served briefly in the early Republican government and ultimately resigned over disagreements with President Yuan, and Jiang Kanghu (Dr. Kiang Kang-hu, 1883–1954), the founder of the first socialist party in China.103 Cai E (Songpo, 1882– 1916), Yunnan’s military governor, who had rebelled against Yuan’s effort to reinstall himself as emperor on December 25, 1915, was depicted not as a military man in uniform but as a family man in a domestic setting (figure 1.10).104 Several

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figure 1.10. Cai E (Songpo) led a military rebellion against Yuan Shikai’s effort to install himself as emperor in late 1915. Cai is depicted in a family portrait: on the left is his wife, on the right his second wife. Funü shibao 18 (June 1916): front matter.

prominent political and military figures also appeared in the journal by proxy, in captions to photographs of their wives or daughters. Among them were the Republican ambassador Wu Tingfang (Zhiyong, 1842–1922), husband of He Miaoling (1847–1937), and General Tang Zaili (1882–1964), husband of the school principal Shen Youqin.105 The journal took an explicit position on key political issues at two moments in its history: in the aftermath of the 1911 Revolution and immediately following Yuan Shikai’s death in 1916. Its political stance was more circumspect in the intervening period, when Yuan attempted to exercise strict control over public life. Issue 6 of the journal, which was published in the first hopeful months of the Republic in May 1912, could be dubbed its “revolutionary issue.” It includes contributions by a number of the most politically engaged women of the era: the suffrage movement leader Lin Zongsu (ca. 1877–1944); the head of the Chinese Red Cross, Zhang Zhujun (ca. 1876–1964); and the sister of revolutionary martyr Chen Boping (1882–1907), Chen Yuan (ca. 1887–1917).106 It features a number of articles about the Revolution, including one by the future historian Gu Jiegang (1893–1980), who

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figure 1.11. A portrait of Zhang Zhuoqun, secretary of the Women’s Military Unit (Nüzi junshi tuan), appears in the journal’s “revolutionary issue,” which also featured writings by women directly involved in the 1911 Revolution. Funü shibao 6 (May 1, 1912): front matter.

wrote in the name of his allegedly subliterate first wife (Wu Zhenglan, b. ca. 1889).107 The issue also announces an essay contest on the theme of women’s suffrage and prints photographs of women active in the Revolution. These include Zhang Zhuoqun, member of a woman’s military unit at the time of the 1911 Revolution (figure 1.11).108 Views expressed in the journal on the Revolution and its aftermath were varied and oscillating, reflecting the instability of the situation on the ground. Bao’s

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position can best be characterized as progressive but circumspect. This is evident in his writings on women’s suffrage. Two months after the storming of the parliament by Tang Qunying (1871–1937) and other radical suffragists, Bao urges caution in his editorial column in issue 6.109 “This journal fully recognizes that the female suffrage movement has gotten off to a calamitous start [fang you mengnie],” he writes. “We fear that things cannot be accomplished immediately.” He nonetheless welcomes all submissions concerning suffrage and expresses a hope, in particular, “to be blessed with great words concerning the preparation of suffrage in the future and the advocacy of women’s rights [nüquan].”110 Bao states his position more directly in his New Society lectures published in 1912. “Women have the vote in some countries,” he claims. This is not yet the case in China, however, “where women’s knowledge remains undeveloped.”111 The revolutionary issue was followed by a political hiatus that corresponded to the political retrenchment of the Republic: the assassination of one of the Yuan Shikai’s most outspoken critics, Song Jiaoren (Dunchu, 1882–1913) in March of 1913; Yuan’s formal dissolution of Parliament in January 1914; and his Public Order Regulation of March 1914, which prohibited women from joining political organizations or attending public discussion meetings. We can continue to trace Funü shibao’s political position, however, by mapping gaps in publication against these and other policies of the Yuan Shikai regime. These include Yuan’s acceptance of Japan’s Twenty-One Demands in May of 1915 and his imperial restoration attempt later that year. The journal’s politics are also apparent in advertisements and photographs. The Japanese medicine Zhongjiangtang (Chūjōtō, informally “Chujoto”) which was consistently advertised in issues 4 through 16 of the journal, was not advertised from issue 17, the first issue to appear after Yuan’s acceptance of Japan’s TwentyOne Demands. Similarly, photographs of Japanese hairstyles, which had been featured in earlier issues of the journal (3, 9, 10), did not appear after issue 17, when the abandonment of popular Japanese hairstyles became a mark of women’s patriotism in the wake of rising Japanese aggression.112 In its eighteenth issue, published shortly after Yuan’s death, the journal returns to its thwarted political agenda, signaled by the photograph of the rebel governor Cai E (figure 1.10). In his editorial column Bao welcomes the new president, Li Yuanhong (1864–1928). He rejoices at the opportunity to resurrect the freedom of speech that was granted in the Republic’s provisional constitution some four years earlier and uses this opportunity to reopen discussion of such issues as women’s suffrage. Announcing that the journal has resolutely advocated female suffrage in previous articles, he states that it is now time “to take a radical position.”113 Bao shifts this stance in the very next issue, however. He explains that he has decided to publish two of the more moderate articles that were submitted to the journal, as he found that authors of more agitated pieces ignored important legal issues and did not

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consider the need for a period of tutelage.114 Bao nonetheless remained an outspoken advocate for women’s increased involvement in public life. He writes in issue 20 that “the sun and moon are again radiant,” referring to the new sense of possibility in the post-Yuan era. And he “calls for women to revive the spirit of association and organization that the merciless autocrat destroyed in the past.”115 Funü shibao authors were also aware of—and wary of—the New Culture social critique from its inception. In November 1915, one month after the publication of Chen Duxiu’s “Call to Youth” in the first issue of Youth Magazine, an author using the pen name Huisheng refutes the “claim that in order to import new morality, we first have to get rid of old habits. If you destroy the old,” he argues, “the new will have no place from which to start.”116 The woman author Zhu Jingyan similarly denounces the New Culture attack on the family. “The family system is the basis of Chinese political history,” she writes. Those who advocate destroying it are ignorant of the current national situation and of the indestructible historical link between family and polity.117 In November 1916 Bao Tianxiao shares his sense that a storm is brewing (yunniang) and that it is time to turn current thought to “resisting the surge of our opponents.”118 Contributors Contributors to Funü shibao—who would also have been the journal’s most engaged readers—included women and men who would become leading figures in modern Chinese education, journalism, medicine, literature, film, and politics— both in the Nationalist Party (Guomindang) in China and Taiwan and in the early Chinese Communist Party. Relatively well-known female contributors to the journal were educators, journalists, calligraphers, and translators. They included Zhang Mojun, a journal editor, school founder, poet, member of the Tongmeng hui (Revolutionary Alliance) and the Southern Society, and the future first female member of the Guomindang Central Committee.119 They also included Lü Bicheng (1883–1943), a famous poet as well as an educator, and, according to some accounts, a presidential secretary in Yuan Shikai’s government from 1912 to August 1915; the teacher Wu Ruoan (1890– 1990); the physical education instructor Tang Jianwo; and the future journalist Tang Xiuhui (1892–1986).120 Funü shibao further featured the pioneering female translator Chen Hongbi and the calligrapher Zhuang Fanshi, aunt of the writer, historian and critic Chen Hengzhe (Sophia H. Chen Zen, 1890–1976). Male authors who wrote for Funü shibao included doctors: the obstetrician and hospital founder Qu Jun (Shaoheng, 1888–1960), and Hou Guangdi, a member of one of the earliest organizations to introduce knowledge of Western medicine to the Chinese medical community, the Zhong-Xi yixue yanjiu-hui (Society for the Study of Chinese and Western Medicine).121 Radical activists also wrote for the journal, notably the early Communist Party member Yun Daiying (1895–1931).122 A

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range of literary figures further contributed to its pages. Prominent among them were Zhou Shoujuan (1895–1968), the “king of the sad love story” and one of the central figures in early Republican fiction and entertainment magazines.123 Ye Shengtao (1894–1988), who would become a founding member of the New Culture Literary Research Association, an organization committed to driving writings like Zhou Shoujuan’s out of the realm of proper letters, published his maiden essays in the journal.124 Future academics such as the historian Gu Jiegang, who wrote under his wife’s name, also published in the journal, as did the physical education experts Xu Yibing (1881–1922), who founded China’s first physical education school and published its first two physical education magazines, and Xu Zhuodai (1881–1958), writer, entrepreneur, pioneer of Chinese film, and husband of the female physical education expert Tang Jianwo. There is evidence that many of these men were also regular readers of Funü shibao.125 Yun Daiying, for example, recorded in his diary that he read the journal while a student activist at the Wuhan Private Chinese University in the 1910s.126 M E T HO D

Just as Funü shibao served the Wuhan-based Yun Daiying as a lens onto developments in metropolitan Shanghai, it can serve the early twenty-first-century reader as a lens onto the early Republican moment. We can use this lens to zoom in and make visible what has been largely invisible in the historical record: traces of individual women, remnants of opinions and experiences, vestiges of the language and modes of reasoning prevalent in the period. We can also zoom out and situate these newly visible details within their broader historical, epistemological, social, and print contexts by mapping concepts in the journal onto the evolving knowledge culture at the time, assessing the broader gendered and political dimensions of the cultural logics at play, and tracking the social, national, and/or global circulation of the people, images, ideas, and terms featured in its pages. This approach to Funü shibao combines three strategies for studying the periodical press.127 Zooming in involves close “horizontal”—cross-genre, and intermedial— readings of the journal itself. This horizontal reading aims to restore the material integrity and social ecology of individual journals and issues of journals by tracing the connections among their images, texts, and advertisements, and among their contributing editors, artists, and authors. Zooming out allows for “integrated” readings of journals in relation to the surrounding print culture and textual milieu, including, in the case of Funü shibao, competing women’s journals, handbooks of everyday life, and courtesan albums. Zooming out further again involves “situated” readings of the contents of the journal in relation to the life trajectories of its authors, circulating biomedical discourses, global commercial forces, and China’s revolutionary history.

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Horizontal A horizontal reading of the periodical press is based on the premise that a journal is much greater than the sum of its articles—that what journals do is more complex than what they say they will do, what they originally set out to do, and what their editors and readers enlist them to do. Aligned with recent developments in cultural history that assert that an idea is much greater than the sum of its formal contents, this method emphasizes the ways information, opinions, and ideas presented in the periodical press are created, altered, framed, transmitted, mediated, and integrated into everyday practice.128 The horizontal method counteracts the prevailing scholarly approach to periodicals, which could be characterized as “vertical” reading. Researchers studying a particular theme—be it hygiene, suffrage, or childrearing practices—generally seek out discrete articles on that theme. Disembedding these articles from a number of different journals over a particular span of time, they read them in conjunction with one another and then identify a discourse on that theme. The horizontal method, in contrast, aims to identify the range of materials in a journal, including images, poetry, and advertisements in addition to articles, that directly or indirectly address a particular topic such as women’s reproductive health. Situating that topic within the ecology of the journal rather than positioning it within a discursive trajectory of the scholar’s own making, this approach is attentive to the ways ideas resonate and conflict within different cultural registers—linguistic, visual, and literary—and to the interactions among these different registers. It links, for example, the semantics of cover art to gender ideals, new illness concepts to the language of advertisements, and the encoding of women’s photographs to a social-scientific discourse on prostitution. A horizontal reading highlights productive disjunctions between diverse epistemic modes and social practices that find expression both within and outside the pages of a single periodical. Scientifically informed articles on the benefits of maternal breastfeeding and morally driven critiques of depraved and diseased wet nurses in Funü shibao abut surveys documenting the preponderance of well-paid nursemaids employed in the homes of the early Republican elite. Comparisons of pathetically weak Chinese women and robust, able-bodied American women appear adjacent to photographs and writings of athletic, foreign-trained Chinese female physical education experts (figure 4.1). Diatribes against women’s sentimental and apolitical poetry appear in the same pages as women’s shi and ci that passionately address China’s national crisis. Translated articles condemning the scourge of prostitution share textual space with illustrated advertisements for highly aestheticized courtesan albums. Images are critical to exposing these disjunctions and to the horizontal method more broadly. They often complicate rather than complement written texts, and

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challenge rather than illustrate conclusions arrived at by discursive means.129 To date, however, the rich images in the early periodical press have been understudied. This is partly because of an enduring text-oriented academic disposition even among scholars living in the midst of the visual turn. This tendency is compounded by practical difficulties. Few scholars have had access—or actively sought access— to original editions of periodicals. The microfilm or reprint reproductions they generally consult reduce vibrant color lithographs and technically sophisticated photographs to blurred blotches of black and white. This can lead even scholars of visual culture to devalue and misrepresent the inherent richness of images in the periodical press, as has been the case for Funü shibao.130 Advertisements have suffered a similar fate. The quality and integrity of illustrated advertisements are greatly diminished in the reproduction process, and in many instances ads are not reproduced at all. Routinely excised from reprint and digital editions, the advertising sections of journals often constitute a gaping “hole in the archive.”131 For scholars who are able to fill this hole, advertisements rich in data on a range of topics from commerce to medicine and gender are integral to the horizontal method.132 Whether their detailed testimonials reflect actual experience or informed assumptions about that experience, they were as avidly consumed as the other textual matter in the journals in their own day. They thus demand close attention in ours.133 Integrated A complex textual world in and of itself, Funü shibao nurtured and was nurtured by a broader field of print culture that included other women’s, general interest, and literary journals; household encyclopedias; and photography albums. There is evidence of shared authorship and readership across a number of these publications, of duplicated essays and photographs, and of a common project of uplifting women and vernacularizing knowledge. When we place Funü shibao in this print context, we get a clearer sense of both the particularities of the journal and the shared ethos of edifying and engaging a broadening readership of women and men in this period. The innovativeness of Funü shibao’s gender mandate becomes apparent when we set the journal against other periodicals that targeted women from the turn of the twentieth century. While the editors of the thirty-odd women’s periodicals published between 1898 and 1912 had generally used the terms nü or nüzi in their titles, Di Baoxian and Bao Tianxiao chose the term funü. They thus distinguished themselves both from radical women’s journals with revolutionary agendas such as Nüxue bao (Women’s Learning, 1901–3), Nüzi shijie (Women’s World, 1904–7), and Zhongguo xin nüjie zazhi (Magazine of the New Chinese Woman, 1907), and from the genteel, reform-minded first Nüxue bao (1898) and the Manchu-run Beijing nübao (Beiijing Women’s Journal, 1905–9).134

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The term funü seems to have been self-consciously chosen to convey the new notion of Republican Ladyhood that Di Baoxian and Bao Tianxiao sought to cultivate. An ancient compound that became the most commonly used term for women in late imperial canonical discourse, funü connoted the ritual propriety of wives and daughters. Its usage in Funü shibao both encompassed and exceeded this meaning. Connoting women in their roles within as well as beyond the patriline, it embraced newly circulating Western notions of public womanhood advanced in contemporary Japanese publications.135 Most significantly, this lexical choice set a new trend in the titles of all subsequent women’s journals: whereas funü had not appeared in any journal title prior to the establishment of Funü shibao in 1911, it appears in the titles of twenty of the thirty-one journals in this genre published afterward, between 1911 and 1937.136 These include two influential journals founded four years after Funü shibao in 1915: the Commercial Press’s Ladies’ Journal, and Zhonghua shuju’s (Chinese Book Company’s) Zhonghua funü jie (Chinese Women, 1915–16). Testimony to the groundbreaking significance of Funü shibao, these journals imitated several of Funü shibao’s key features and shared a number of its cover artists and authors.137 While Chinese Women lasted for only two years, the Ladies’ Journal would remain in print until 1931. Funü shibao thus established the prototype for what would become the longest-running Republican-era women’s journal. With the exception of the Ladies’ Journal, Funü shibao outlived all other women’s journals founded in the early Republic. These included more explicitly political early Republican journals, most notably the Shenzhou Women’s Journal. Founded in November 1912 by Zhang Mojun, who also had intimate ties to Funü shibao, the Shenzhou Women’s Journal published articles that directly criticized the failings of Yuan Shikai’s early regime. It stopped publication in January of 1913 even before Yuan introduced strict censorship policies.138 Funü shibao was also more successful than other journals that shared its commitment to vernacularizing knowledge, most notably Chen Diexian’s Nüzi shijie (Women’s World). Founded in December 1914, Chen’s monthly journal, which included photographs of famous Chinese women from all walks of life, paintings and calligraphy of women artists, and sections on practical arts, family, and health, lasted for only seven issues.139 The relatively short life of Nüzi shijie has to be attributed to factors other than the journal’s emphasis on everyday knowledge, since another of Chen’s publications focused on this theme was highly successful through the 1930s. This was a daily feature on “Jiating changshi” (Household knowledge) that Chen included in the literary supplement to the newspaper Shenbao (Shanghai Journal), Ziyou tan (Unfettered Talk), which he edited from 1916 to 1918. Sustained interest in the column as a source of popular scientific knowledge was so great that Chen compiled a number of the column entries into a formal compendium of household knowledge in the 1930s, the Jiating changshi huibian (Compilation of general household

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knowledge).140 This is just one example of the important epistemological role early Republican periodicals—including Funü shibao—played as forerunners of newstyle encyclopedias for daily life.141 A number of other Republican compendia of practical knowledge had direct or indirect links to Funü shibao. These texts included the Shiyong yijia jingji fa (Practical family economics), which was written/translated in Japan in 1915 by Shao Piaoping (1886–1926), a close journalistic collaborator of Bao’s and the husband of Funü shibao contributor Tang Xiuhui.142 Shao compiled the volume as a household handbook or a textbook for normal school students with the aim of encouraging everyday household knowledge to permeate society.143 Several of the themes discussed in Shao’s volume, including women’s occupations and the management of household finances, were also taken up in Funü shibao and other general interest journals, such as Dongfang zazhi (Eastern Miscellany).144 Another encyclopedia-like text whose content overlapped with Funü shibao’s was the Zhijia quanshu (Comprehensive volume on regulating the household, 1919), which was compiled by the editor of the women’s journal Meiyu (Eyebrow Talk, 1914–16), Gao Jianhua (late 1880s–after 1965). Like Funü shibao, Gao’s compendium includes detailed discussions of pregnancy, childbirth, and marriage and practical instructions for cooking and sewing Western-style clothing, together with biographies and poetry. Gao directly reprinted photographs from Funü shibao in the volume’s front matter, underlining the links between the two publications. These included portraits of the Guangdong medical student and athlete Cheng Yili, the physical education expert Teng Chao, and Zhang Xiahun (1895–1938), whose tale of flight is discussed in the conclusion to this volume (figure 1.12).145 Gao Jianhua’s appropriation of these photographs indicates that Funü shibao created a rare pool of images from which other editors could poach. This example, together with other instances in which the journal’s photographs and cover art were reproduced or imitated, indicates that Funü shibao and the Youzheng Book Company were in the early Republican cultural and visual avant-garde. Together with the Minying Photography Studio, Youzheng built on the success of early illustrated journals, dramatically extended the possibilities of studio photography, and nurtured talent that would contribute to developments in early cinema. Bao Tianxiao and Funü shibao contributors Zhou Shoujuan and Xu Zhuodai would all have future roles in film, for example.146 The Youzheng Book Company’s advances in the field of photography are apparent in a number of photography albums that appeared under its imprint and that provide crucial context for the images in Funü shibao. These albums featured the new genre of class photographs that emerged along with the new education, scenes from the battlegrounds of the 1911 Revolution, and, of most relevance to Funü shibao, courtesans.147 When the Shibao Office first included photographs of courtesans in the Fiction Eastern Times, they created such a sensation that Di Baoxian

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figure 1.12. The female editor Gao Jianhua directly reproduced photographs of “advanced women” (nüjie xianjin), first featured in Funü shibao, in her Comprehensive Volume on Regulating the Household. The women include the Guangdong medical student and athlete Cheng Yili (right), the physical education expert Teng Chao (left), and Zhang Xiahun (1895–1938), who undertook a historic airplane flight. Gao Jianhua, ed., Zhijia quanshu shang (Shanghai: Jiaotong tushuguan, 1919), front matter.

decided they merited a text of their own. He had Youzheng compile the images, together with other portraits his editors were able to procure from the flower world, in what became a series of three courtesan albums that were published between 1909 and 1914.148 While the photographs in Funü shibao were of Republican Ladies rather than courtesans, they were produced in the same studio, by the same artists, and with the same techniques as the portraits in the courtesan

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albums.149 These albums are, therefore, crucial to the visual matrix against which the portraits of Republican Ladies must be read. The courtesan albums and the women’s journal also had a direct material relationship. Funü shibao printed detailed advertisements for the three courtesan albums, and the latest of these albums, the only one of the three to be published after Funü shibao was founded, printed detailed advertisements for the journal. This suggests that these two very different print products circulated within the same print and readerly world: that consumers of the courtesan albums would be consumers of the journal and vice versa. Early Republican visuals were not only used to titillate, however; they could advance both commercial and reform agendas. A woman contributor to Funü shibao, Dai Yifen, explicitly emphasizes the pedagogical over the entertainment value of images. She urges a relative who has filled the walls of his home with “pictures of beauties and romance” to replace them with instructional illustrations. “Pictures of animal, vegetable, or mineral specimens, or photographs of great people” will serve to educate his children and cultivate their notion of heroism.150 The Ministry of Education also endorsed the importance of illustrations as a pedagogical tool. It approved, for example, five-color stereoscope slides (Xuandeng yingbian, “lantern slides”) as supplementary materials for popular education. Produced by the Commercial Press, the collection included images of the kind that appeared in a number of Youzheng’s photography albums and in the front section of Funü shibao: photographs of the 1911 Revolution, scenic spots in every province, Shanghai scenery, and various animals.151 All Shanghai publishers, including Youzheng, also produced hanging pictures (guatu) and maps, invaluable visual aids for classroom use.152 Situated The third reading strategy, situated reading, attempts to reconstruct a journal’s broader cultural, historical, and global context. It zooms out from material in Funü shibao to encompass related memoirs, biographies, works of commercial art or political prose, and other writings by or about individuals involved in the journal. It uses these various materials to map the communities of editors, writers, readers, artists, photographers, and advertisers that formed and dispersed in and beyond the journal’s pages. It also seeks to identify the sources and path of transmission of the plethora of translated texts and foreign-inspired images that appeared in the periodical. This method, together with the integrated and horizontal methods, organically unfolds over the course of the following chapters. Here we will focus on a situated reading of Funü shibao within the context of twentieth-century Chinese cultural politics. This reading reveals the extent to which the New Culture critique determined (mis)characterizations of the journal. It both highlights key, and until now

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occluded, features of the journal and the commercial press more broadly and sheds light on the nature of the politics behind the critique. The powerful New Culture denunciation of journals like Funü shibao as sentimental and trite “Mandarin Duck and Butterfly writing,” has colored both Chinese and Western opinions of early Republican cultural production since the late 1910s.153 This critique is, in part, a continuation of the contest between reformist and revolutionary factions leading up to the 1911 Revolution. Publications like Funü shibao continued some aspects of the more gradualist reform agenda— advocating expanded public roles for women without discarding the old morality, for example—while New Culture intellectuals, like earlier revolutionaries, advocated sharp historical ruptures and a radically new social ethic.154 The alleged distinction between “reform” and “revolution” is more blended, however, and the alignment of Funü shibao with a purported reformist camp less clear-cut. While Bao Tianxiao and several authors who wrote for the journal echoed aspects of the late Qing reformist platform such as Liang Qichao’s (1873–1929) criticism of late imperial women of talent, they made no grandiose calls for abstract new social and cultural formations such as Liang’s New Citizen. The New Culture critique is more directly a response to the failings of political Republicanism—and the successes of early Republican culture—than a riposte to turn-of-the-century reformism. New Culture activists were horrified by the events leading up to Yuan Shikai’s imperial restoration attempt in December 1915, as were Funü shibao editors who included a photograph of Yuan’s opponent, Cai E (figure 1.10), in the journal. By focusing on the quixotic attempt rather than its utter failure, however, New Culturalists failed to grasp that the move away from monarchism was already irreversible, that the dynamic and unsettled ethos of the new Republic—refracted through multivocal conversations in journals like Funü shibao—represented a new social and political paradigm.155 New Culturalists were as apprehensive about the perceived unruliness of these multivocal conversations as they were alarmed by the renewed threat of authoritarianism. Their “Mandarin Duck and Butterfly” critique was thus as much a sign of their uneasiness with the new brand of self-generating social dynamism that developed in the face of early Republican political disarray as it was an expression of their distaste for sentimentalism and triviality.156 The New Culturalists’ denunciation of early Republican commercial publications was based on a series of deliberate or misinformed readings of the nature of publications such as Funü shibao. New Culturalists claimed that these materials were provincial and retrograde because they ignored Western thought. As we have already seen and as the chapters that follow will fully demonstrate, however, Funü shibao was a highly cosmopolitan product with at least half of its articles, photographs, cover art, and fiction derived from foreign sources. New Culturalists further condemned these commercial periodicals as trivial. While Funü shibao did

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contain some fascinating “science trivia,” for example—on the number of pores in one human hand (twenty-five thousand), and the date of the first weather report published in an English newspaper (1879)—its focus was on advancing gender, midwifery, pedagogical, and social reform.157 New Culture activists also accused their commercial predecessors of having no affinity for the lower classes, a claim that, again, does not hold up to scrutiny. Funü shibao published a survey on laboring women of Shanghai some four years before a similar survey appeared in the New Culture journal Xin qingnian (New Youth or “La Jeunesse”) and several years before the publication of what has been hailed as one of the first women’s journals to include investigative reports on Chinese working women, the post–May Fourth Xin funü (New Woman, Shanghai, 1920–21).158 Flawed assumptions also underlay the New Culturalists’ critique of the language used in the periodicals. They often claimed that articles in the commercial press were composed in archaic classical prose, misrecognizing the more accessible new-style prose that was the linguistic register of choice in these publications.159 They declared themselves the first to promote the new vernacular, yet as we have seen, Bao Tianxiao and others had been using it from the turn of the century.160 And they wrongly assumed that this demotic style was more comprehensible than the classical language, ignoring the experience of many readers of high literary attainment who found the vernacular more difficult than the style of writing used in journals like Funü shibao.161 Despite these critiques, New Culture authors who appropriated many themes and features from the maligned “Mandarin Duck and Butterfly” writing also cannibalized innovations in the language of the materials they condemned. They assimilated Japanese elements of new-style prose into their own new vernacular, for example.162 A number of mainland Chinese scholars have been leaders in redeeming “Mandarin Duck and Butterfly Writing,” although they have not gone so far as Western scholars in abandoning that label altogether.163 The New Culture critique continues to haunt Chinese academia, however. This is evident in a 2006 book on women’s mass media in China that presents Funü shibao as an apolitical and socially elitist magazine composed of fashion photographs and articles on inoffensive topics like planting flowers (no articles on this topic actually appear).164 An example of the author Song Suhong’s mischaracterization of the journal is her misreading of the preface to Wanxiu’s investigation of the lives of poor women of Shanghai, which appeared in the June 1916 issue of the journal. According to Song, Wanxiu states that the description of disadvantaged female laborers in his investigation is for the amusement of politicians, sociologists, merchants, industrialists, and philanthropists. Wanxiu’s clearly stated aim is, however, precisely the opposite. He asserts in his preface to the survey that members of these various professions—politicians, sociologists, merchants, industrialists, and philanthropists—need to take heed of the results of his survey—they must not consider it a form of amusement designed

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to help them while away their time (xiaoqian).165 Song puts forward this misreading—whether willfully or not—to make an ideological point. History would have to wait for May Fourth before an attempt would be made to resolve the problem of poor women.166

Poor women were certainly on, although not at the top of, Funü shibao’s agenda. Bao Tianxiao highly praised Wanxiu’s survey in his editorial column. He set essay contest themes on women’s occupations in the hinterland, women and agriculture, and women and industry. He solicited photographs not only of students and teachers but of working women. And he personally wrote fiction describing the difficult lives of sexually vulnerable factory girls. Female laborers were not, however, included in the rubric of Republican Ladies, the funü in the journal’s title. While Bao identified less advantaged women as a topic of investigation and a field of ethnographic exploration, he presented Republican Ladies as co-investigators and co-ethnographers. They would be, as he suggests in his “Inaugural Statement,” partners in the project of raising the level of knowledge of and about Chinese women. At once targets of, contributors to, and a visual feature in the journal, Republican Ladies helped to advance Funü shibao’s reform and commercial objectives. They also used the journal to their own ends, as the following chapters amply demonstrate. Before exploring their distinctive contributions, it is first necessary to identify precisely who these Republican Ladies were, and how we can attempt to determine which contributions to the journal indeed came from their hands.

2

Republican Ladies

Funü shibao was about a broad range of women from laborers in the Chinese hinterland to foreign queens and suffragists. It was, however, for specific groups of women with whom the journal directly engaged. These demographics, which are represented in the photographs in figures 2.1, 2.2, and 2.3, included forwardlooking genteel ladies, the first generation of professional Chinese women, and students in new-style schools (such as those depicted on the journal’s first cover, figure 0.1). The journal was by an even smaller subset of women in these demographics, the writing women discussed in the second part of this chapter. The Republican Ladies who wrote for and were directly targeted by the journal, the funü in the title Funü shibao, were emblems of the achievements and aspirations of the early Republic.1 Funü shibao’s objective was to use these women’s writings and photographs to advance its particular conception of Republicanism. In making Republican Ladies visible, it would make visibility respectable. In asserting the virtue of publicness, it would ultimately call more Republican Ladies into being. Both these real and projected Republican Ladies lack a precise ontological status. They do not map onto our categories of women of the boudoir (guixiu), new women (xin nüxing), or modern girls (modeng nüzi).2 They defy the late Qing portrayal of educated women as social parasites with insipid intellects and weak bodies, and they challenge the New Culturalists’ liberal humanist conceit that Chinese women were first placed in a subject position in the May Fourth era.3 Most importantly, they did not fit the standard categories of their own day. The author of a survey of women in Shanghai published in the journal in 1912, for example, was at a loss to place them in his careful grid of the upper, middle, and lower strata 49

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figure 2.1. This portrait of He Miaoling, the wife of Ambassador Wu Zhiyong (Wu Tingfang) reflects one of the demographics of Republican Ladies addressed by Funü shibao: older, forward-looking, genteel women. Funü shibao 2 (July 26, 1911): front matter.

figure 2.2. This portrait of Ms. Tang Youqin, wife of Provincial Military Director Tang Zaili and principal of Beijing Chongshi Girls’ School (Beijing chongshi nüxiao), reflects Funü shibao’s demographic of professional teachers. Funü shibao 16 (February 1, 1915): front matter.

figure 2.3. This portrait of Ms. Yang Xueyao, one of three women winners of a speech competition organized by the Worldwide Chinese Student Association (Huanqiu Zhongguo xuesheng hui) under the auspices of the Jiangsu Provincial Educational Association, reflects Funü shibao’s student demographic. Funü shibao 21 (April 1917): front matter.

of society.4 While Republican Ladies were clearly of the upper strata in terms of cultural attainment, education, and wealth, they distinguished themselves from conventional genteel women through their professional ambitions and everyday practices. Consciously disassociating themselves from these “women of the upper level,” Republican Ladies criticized guixiu for being lazy, cloistered, unhealthy, ignorant of medical science, and reliant on the services of wet nurses and maids. The prime difference between Republican Ladies and the genteel women against whom they defined themselves was their publicness. This was not the publicness of economic necessity, like that of the shopkeepers of the middle level of society, or of the tea pickers, peddlers, and prostitutes of the lower level. It was the civic publicness of the new Republic, which emerged out of early twentiethcentury opposition to the Qing dynasty and was codified in new Republican rituals and symbols.5 Just as Republican Ladies became one of these symbols through which the new regime was understood and manifest, the public space of this new regime served as a proper field upon which Republican womanhood could be realized.6 While the Yuan Shikai government did not grant women formal citizenship, it helped establish the conditions under which women could claim informal

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citizenship by volunteering, becoming professionals, attending school—and writing for journals.7 The publication of Funü shibao and the actualization of Republican Ladies were thus mutually constitutive projects. Bao Tianxiao—and the sectors of early twentieth-century Chinese society that he represented—had a certain vision of Republican Ladies. Republican Ladies, in turn, had their own visions of the function and purpose of the journal. Some celebrated Funü shibao as a medium for women’s liberation, writing their radical paeans to the publication in the poetic medium that Bao and his reformist predecessors so disparaged.8 Wang Can, a member of the Southern Society, hails the appearance of Funü shibao as a “banner of women’s freedom” (nüjie ziyou qi) in the second issue, for example.9 In issue 18, after Yuan Shikai’s death and the renewal of the journal, Ren Fang extols the publication as a mark of Chinese “women’s stamina” and as a source of support for her “compatriots’ heroic will.”10 Other women writers were more pragmatic in their aspirations for the periodical. Several viewed it as a pedagogical tool and a source of elevated reading material: Zhu Huizhen deemed it a beneficial alternative to novels.11 Many considered it a potential instrument of political tutelage: Qiu Wu Suying encouraged Bao Tianxiao to print political speeches in order to raise women’s awareness of current affairs.12 Still others wished it would serve as an arm of social reform: Liu Jinghui hoped it would discourage women from engaging in “Huahui” gambling and teach them the importance of depositing their money in the bank.13 F E AT U R E D R E P U B L IC A N L A D I E S

There is no single Chinese term for “Republican Ladies” in Funü shibao. Rather, editors and authors used particular honorifics and a range of adjectival phrases to describe the journal’s targeted audience. The women’s personal names were most frequently followed in bylines and captions to photographs with the title nüshi, a respectful term for a married or unmarried woman that implies scholarliness. Women were also occasionally called junzi, an honorific that conveyed a sense of noble gentlemanliness and was generally gendered male. In his “Inaugural Statement” to the journal, Bao Tianxiao conveys both the dignity and the public engagement of the ideal Republican Lady, referring to the women that Funü shibao addresses as “elegant, quick-witted, and reasonable ladies” and as “patriotic women scholars” who worry about the times as men do.14 In his editorials he specifically identifies those who have submitted poetry to the journal as guixiu, guiyan, mingyuan, and shuyuan, various terms for virtuous and talented women from good families.15 Authors frequently modified these more familiar designations to convey new identities such as “lady of modern times” (jinshi zhi mingyuan), the description of an actual female editor featured in a pharmaceutical advertisement, for example.16

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Reformist essays highlighted the Republican Ladies’ social and political potential by describing them as open-minded (kaitong), deeply concerned about current affairs (haomushinan), and passionate (rexin nüshi).17 They also depicted these ideal women as “domestically anchored and morally upright” (zhengren junzi).18 Advertisements emphasized their commercial appeal, labeling them “fashionable beauties” or simply “beauties” (shizhuang shinü, shinü).19 The Republican Ladies defined by these various terms and represented in the journal’s articles, advertisements, cover art, and photographs fall into three broad categories: older progressive women, new professionals, and students. Three Demographics The first demographic includes older, presumably educated, women who were daughters of eminent families, wives of officials, and often philanthropists in their own right. These forward-looking genteel ladies were addressed in advertisements in the journal. An ad for a camera, for example, appealed to respectable “women of the inner chambers” (guizhong nüshi) who were clearly not confined by the physical walls of the inner chambers. These women traveled, took an interest in new commodities, and embraced new social rituals such as exchanging photographs.20 These mobile genteel women were also represented in portraits and writings that they submitted to the journal. Photographs published in Funü shibao make it possible to put a face on and to begin to trace the history of older Republican Ladies. Among them was He Miaoling (1847–1937), whose single photograph appears twice in the journal in issues 2 (figure 2.1) and 5 (figure 2.4). She would have been close to sixty-five years of age when her photograph was printed for the second time (but not necessarily when the photograph was taken). In the first photograph (figure 2.1), which appears in the July 26, 1911, issue of Funü shibao, she is presented as the staid wife of an imperial official. She is identified not by her own name, which appears nowhere in the journal, but as “the wife of Ambassador Wu Zhiyong” (Tingfang). Her blackand-white, rectangular photograph is placed next to a portrait, identical in shape and form, of the wife of another diplomat, Wang Botang (Daxie, 1860–1929). This portrait of He lent the new journal gravitas. For those who knew something about her background, her social pedigree and generous philanthropy also reinforced the journal’s commitment to moral dignity, cosmopolitanism, and social reform. He Miaoling was from a prominent Christian family that originated in Nanhai, Guangdong Province, but later settled in Hong Kong. She was the elder sister of He Qi (1859–1914), a doctor, barrister, and politician, an early teacher of Sun Yatsen, and the first Chinese to be knighted (as Sir Kai Ho Kai). She married Wu Tingfang in 1864. With the support of his wife’s family, Wu would become the first Chinese to be admitted to the British bar, a barrister in Hong Kong, a legal reformer

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figure 2.4. An alternate version of the portrait of He Miaoling that appeared in the journal’s second issue (figure 2.1). Here she appears as the magisterial president of the Women’s Aid Society (Nüjie xiezan hui). Her softened portrait—cut into a round shape and tinted red—is in the center of four portraits of younger women involved in the association. Miaoling is still identified as the wife of Wu Tingfang (center). Funü shibao 5 (January 23, 1912): front matter.

in China, and an ambassador to the United States and Japan, among other countries.21 When He’s photograph was reprinted in the journal’s fifth issue in January 1912 (figure 2.4), it served the journal’s reformist ends more directly. She is presented as both the wife of Wu Tingfang and the president of a philanthropic organization, the Women’s Aid Society (Nüjie xiezan hui). The cameo version of her black-andwhite portrait in issue 2 is softened with a reddish-pink tint and positioned in the center of a collage of photographs of younger women active in the association. Appearing both magisterial and modern, He lends an air of propriety to the surrounding group of younger women. She also sanctions the establishment of women’s organizations in the early Republic—a trend Yuan Shikai would find sufficiently threatening to officially prohibit some two years later. While He did not contribute any writings to the journal, a handful of senior Republican Ladies did. They included Zeng Yi (1857–1917), a gentry woman from Huayang in Sichuan Province who bridged the guixiu and professional groups. A doctor, poet, and promoter of women’s education, Zeng Yi was the author of six works on medicine collected in the Zeng nüshi yixue quanshu (Complete medical works of Madame Zeng); a work advocating women’s education, Nüxue pian

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(Exhortation to women’s learning, 1907); and three volumes of poetry, including the Guhuanshi shici ji (Collected poems from the Guhuan Studio [Changsha, 1907]).22 Zeng adopted a self-consciously moderate position in all of her works. These included “Zhongkui lu” (A wife’s guide to the Chinese culinary arts), which she published in the third issue of Funü shibao. In this article, Zeng uses the cookbook form to propagate normative cultural values. She redefines Western food as an element of domestic culture and a wife’s responsibility in the home rather than as part of the entertainment culture in courtesan houses.23 Zeng Yi was something of an anomaly, as there were few women doctors in late imperial history, even at the turn of the twentieth century. The attitudes toward and the opportunities for women’s professionalization changed dramatically by the early Republic, however.24 More women, including Ms. Cheng Yili (figure 2.5), trained to be medical professionals, often abroad, or, as Cheng did, in Guangzhou, a primary center of Western medicine that was particularly rich in opportunities for young women who wanted to train as doctors.25 Under the new regime it was increasingly understood that Republican Ladies, unlike their talented, cloistered forebears, should contribute to the national economy. “The most important aspect of the woman question today,” a certain Jian’e writes in a lead article in the journal’s tenth issue, “is to understand women’s role in the economy.” He asserts that an upright woman—in his words a good wife and wise mother—is not defined by “correct ritual bearing” or the “empty talk and senseless flattery of the ‘socialite,’ or the possession of a dowry in the form of a graduation certificate.” Rather, she is one who can advance the consumer economy (xiaofei jingji neng suixing) as a professional woman (zhiye funü).26 The overwhelming majority of professional women featured in the journal were teachers, women who had studied abroad or in one of the teacher-training schools in China that were informally established from the turn of the twentieth century and officially sanctioned in 1907. A number of these women, several of whose careers are examined in detail in chapter 5, contributed their photographs and writings to the journal. Tang Youqin, principal of the Beijing chongshi nüxiao (Beijing Chongshi Girls’ School), was the very public wife of a high military official in Yuan Shikai’s government, Tang Zaili. Known for attending official banquets with her husband, Youqin had no compunction about sending her photographs to Funü shibao.27 The three portraits that she submitted reflect the often dissonant dimensions of the Republican Lady’s and the new professional woman’s identity. The first photograph is a beauty or meiren-style image (figure 2.2). Tang is identified in the caption, first, as the wife of the chief of the Military Council, Tang Zaili, and, second, as principal of the Beijing Chongshi Girls’ School. In the same issue of the journal, she appears in her professional capacity in a photograph of an outing she attended with students and colleagues (figure 2.6). In the caption to this

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figure 2.5. Ms. Cheng Yili (who was also featured in figure 1.12) has pinned to her chest four medals that she won as the most accomplished female medical student at the Guangdong fifth athletic meet. Funü shibao 10 (May 25, 1913): front matter.

image she is identified by her maiden name, Shen Youqin, followed by the masculine honorific jun. Issue 18 includes a third portrait of Youqin, which appears to have been taken during the same studio visit as the first meiren-style portrait and in which she (awkwardly) holds a child. In the caption to this photograph, she is identified again as the wife of Tang (the child is not identified). Other teachers featured in photographs in the journal included the Su sisters of the Minli Shanghai Girls’ Middle School (figure 5.6), and Zhang Mojun, founder of the Shenzhou Girls’ School (figure 5.2) and promoter of professions for women in sericulture, banking, photography, and commerce from 1911.28 Unlike Tang

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figure 2.6. Shen Youqin (married name Tang Youqin) is identified as the principal of the Beijing Chongshi Girls’ School. She is shown on a trip to the Summer Palace with the supervisor of studies Zhang Yibao, the teacher Yang Xueqiong, and two students. Funü shibao 16 (February 1, 1915): front matter.

Youqin, who did not write for the journal, these women, together with other teachers, contributed poems, essays, and photographs of their handiwork and paintings to Funü shibao.29 Images of and narratives featuring teachers were also used to sell products in Funü shibao advertisements, further underlining their importance as integral to the journal’s targeted audience. In one such ad, Chen Zhen’e, described as a teacher at the Zhong-Xi nüxuetang (Sino-Western Girls’ School) in Shanghai, promotes medicines that are said to cure uterine ailments and enhance the physical mobility of women with recently unbound feet (figure 2.7).30 Other advertisements that promoted the notion of respectable working women included an ad for a sewing school that taught mechanized embroidery. The text for the advertisement recommends the school’s courses both for women from wealthy families who want to contribute to the household economy and for those seeking to support themselves.31 Perhaps the most engaged and engaging demographic in the pages of the journal was that of female students, those who were enrolled in or recent graduates of upper-level and normal schools. These nubile young women represented an

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figure 2.7. Chen Zhen’e, a teacher at a missionary school in Shanghai, promotes the Luowei Pharmacy’s Guben Medicine for the Uterus. “Wo rufa fu le Luowei yaofang de guben zigong wan bing yong waizhi de shoushu wo zhongzhong shuo bu chu de bingzheng dou quanyu le zhenzhen shi fuke de lingdan miaofa ya,” Funü shibao 2 (July 26, 1911).

important new social category, a prominent new visual category, and a highly ambiguous new gender category in the early Republic. The most public and the most photographed of Republican Ladies, they were, literally, on the front lines of institutional, social, cultural, and—as discussed in chapter 6—sexual change.32 They embodied both the highest cultural aspirations and the most dreaded moral dangers of the new Republic. As such, they were a prime target for discussion, admonition, praise, and blame in the period and in the journal. The ambiguity of the students’ status is captured in their visual representation in Funü shibao. Many of the images project modesty. Cover art evokes the students’ innocent engagement with the journal (figure 0.1) and their unobtrusive presence on city streets as they make their way to and from school (figure 2.8).33 Class photographs, a new genre of group portraiture that constituted close to 10 percent of the photographs published in the front of the journal, suggest uniformity, seriousness, and industriousness (figure 2.9). A range of advertisements for commodities from cameras to medicine also represented students as upright and hardworking.34 A young woman identified as Lin Yingfei, for example, describes in

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figure 2.8. Two modestly dressed students on their way home from school with book satchels under their arms. Cover, Funü shibao 9 (February 25, 1913).

an advertisement for Moon brand pills (Yueguang tiewan) how she became physically depleted by eleven years of studying and seeking to contribute to the enlightenment of Chinese women (figure 2.10).35 At the same time, stylish portraits of individual female students who are fashionably dressed and confidently posed, such as the photographs of Zhang Hongyi (plate 1), Yang Xueyao above (figure 2.3), and Tang Xiuhui (figures 3.11 and 6.1), project a profoundly different aura. It was this more evocative image that roused the anxieties expressed in numerous essays in the journal not only by men but by

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figure 2.9. Suzhou female students exercising with barbells in a physical education class. A set of swings is in the background. Funü shibao 5 (January 23, 1912): front matter.

other Republican Ladies, frequently teachers, about the attire, sexual laxity, and moral danger of the female student.36 These attacks and anxieties were further countered, however, by the reflective, morally serious, and nation-minded contributions of actual students to the journal, writings that Bao earnestly and repeatedly solicited.37 Among the most prolific and passionate female contributors to Funü shibao, these authors included students from Shanghai girls’ schools and also from schools in Zhejiang, Hunan, Yunnan, and elsewhere in China.38 These three demographics of Republican Ladies were not static over the course of the journal’s history. While all three were invoked and featured across its print run, there was a higher concentration of photographs of and writings by advanced students and young professional women in the later issues. This shift is palpable when we contrast one of the representative senior guixiu, He Miaoling, with one of the journal’s most engaged female students, Tang Xiuhui, who is discussed at length in chapter 5. The differences in age, background, occupation, marital status, and modes of self-representation between the two women are marked. Tang was born in Hangzhou some forty-five years after He. While He was linked through familial and marital ties to late Qing official and diplomatic circles, Tang was intimately connected to the new media and new institutions of the early twentieth century.

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figure 2.10. In a testimonial, the student Lin Yingfei claims that Moon brand pills (Yueguang tiewan), helped cure her of exhaustion after eleven years of diligent study. “Xiangnan Lin Yingfei nushi fu yueguangtie wan youxiao jiantai qilu liangzhang,” Funü shibao 2 (July 26, 1911), 3 (September 22, 1911), and 4 (November 5, 1911).

Her father had a small photography studio in Zhejiang Province, and she would marry the journalist Shao Piaoping, who encouraged her to attend the Zhejiang nüzi shifan xuexiao (Zhejiang Women’s Normal School), and with whom she would ultimately work together on a newspaper Shao founded. Unlike He Miaoling—or Shen Youqin—whose identities were often subsumed under their husbands’, Tang was never identified in the journal as Shao’s wife. In contrast, she carved out a space for herself in the new field of cultural production. She is the one woman Bao Tianxiao singles out in his memoirs for contributing topical articles (not ghostwritten by a man) to Funü shibao on issues like education and hygiene rather than florid poems.39 In a reversal of the normal sequence of introductions in this period, Bao first met Tang and later, through her, Shao, with whom Bao developed a strong professional and personal relationship.40 These differences between He and Tang are further manifest in the visual representation of the two women in the journal. While a single, formal portrait of He was featured in two early issues of the journal, four different photographs of Tang,

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three of which are redolent of courtesan portraits, appear in the latter issues (nineteenth, twentieth, and twenty-first).41 Unlike He again, Tang published two pieces of writing in the journal, both in issue 19. Characteristics This rapid change in the nature of the Republican Lady over a few short years in the early Republic gave rise to social anxieties expressed both about her—particularly about the female student—and by her. Female and male commentators in Funü shibao both celebrated and criticized women for departing from earlier modes of femininity. Each of the Republican Lady’s defining characteristics—her publicness, her cosmopolitanism, and her integration into the economy—was potentially double-edged. Many contributors to Funü shibao shared Bao Tianxiao’s fear that newly enlightened public women would discard morality “like a pair of old shoes.”42 These authors considered the “old morality” often expressed as lijiao (ritual teachings) to be a crucial protective fence around the publicness of “stately and honorable new women with new knowledge.” It would both preserve women’s dignity and deflect conservative criticism of their increasingly public roles.43 A male author who wrote a number of essays and winning essay contest entries for Funü shibao under the pseudonym Jiaoxin intones, “If women cannot or will not develop a new morality, then even if the old morality is pedantic and inflexible [yufu] it is better than no morality.” Women should continue to adhere to the old principles of calmness, quiet, frugality, domesticity, and attentiveness to educating the young.44 Female authors echoed these sentiments, often with their own colorful metaphors. Replacing Bao’s “pair of old shoes” with “a lowly mustard plant” (tujie), Chen Zuo Mingying expresses the same fear that women will begin to consider moral virtue as a worthless triviality.45 At the same time, however, women writers often offered practical safeguards against the corruption of women’s morality. In her plan for a women’s club that will introduce women to new media and offer lectures on new ideas, for example, Zhang Zhaosi announces that it will show only movies that will “advance virtue.” When the club produces a new women’s play every month, the script will be scrutinized by club leaders to ensure that “the pathogens [dujun] of immoral works will not enter the heads of pure women.”46 The most prominent source of “pathogens,” most authors concurred, was Western ideas. Since these foreign ideas have entered China, Zhang Zhu Hanfen writes in an article on Shanghai, “notions of equal rights and freedom have penetrated the hearts of educated young women. As a result watchfulness [tifang] between the sexes has ebbed to the point that those who were once resolutely controlled have now become indulgent. The lijiao of old has suddenly disappeared.”47 In Zhang Zhu Hanfen’s essay, as in much of the writing of this period, Western ways were code for “moral disarray.” Things foreign were not assigned one consistent

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value in the journal, but they were lauded as progressive, enlightened, and exemplary as often as they were decried. Ultimately, global references and materials served Funü shibao authors as a visual and textual language through which they constituted their vision of the Republican Lady and by means of which Republican Ladies fashioned themselves. Neither Republican Ladies nor those who wrote about them were fluent in one particular foreign “language,” just as they rarely had sustained experience abroad. They poached and appropriated in ways that are more revealing of their own self-positioning in early Republican society than they are of any deep or consistent knowledge of America, Europe, Japan, India, or Turkey. This is evident in the ways Republican Ladies often aligned themselves with Western practices and exemplars as a means of disassociating themselves from their “less civilized” compatriots. Zhu Jingyan expresses understanding, rather than outrage, over the regulations barring Chinese from foreign parks in the International Concession in Shanghai.48 Wrongly claiming that people from all nations except Chinese are allowed into these parks—there were also restrictions on Japanese and Indians—she states the justification is that, unlike Americans, Japanese, and French, “Chinese have the habit of spitting whenever they want.”49 A broad range of Western women featured in biographies, photographs, and polemical essays in Funü shibao generally served as aspirational models. Among them were queens, notably Queen Victoria (who worked hard and read everything); the women’s rights activist Annie Besant (1847–1933); the author George Eliot (1819–80), and the educator Mary Lyon (1797–1849). They also included scientists: Madame Curie and an American female astronomer (possibly Williamina Fleming [1857–1911]). Numerous political wives, daughters, and mothers were featured: the wife of William Howard Taft, Helen Herron Taft (1861–1943), first lady of the United States from 1909 to 1913; Mrs. Hayes of the White House; Victoria Louise, daughter of Emperor Wilhelm II of Germany; Napoleon’s mother Letizia. Patriotic heroines were also prominent: Joan of Arc; heroines of the French Revolution Madame Roland and Anne-Josèphe Théroigne de Méricourt (1762–1817); and heroines of the Franco-Prussian War. Other martial figures included the British Mary Anne Talbot (1778–1808) and Hannah Schnell (1723–92), and the Russian Nadezhda Andreyevna Durova (1783–1866). In contrast to women from Europe and America, who generally served as positive exemplars, those from other parts of the globe such as India and Turkey were often held up as negative models. Zhang Zhaosi describes how Indian women are subject to the oppressive laws laid out in a text entitled the Laws of the Plum Slave (Meinu lüfa), which, she claims, is also the source of Chinese women’s submission to men through the “thrice following” (sancong: following one’s father as a girl, one’s husband as a wife, and one’s son as a widow). Using this example of Indian oppression to advance her own social agenda, Zhang warns that China will descend to India’s level if it does not develop women’s education, expand women’s

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rights, and end women’s oppression.50 Similarly, Cheng Yu Peifen references Turkish marriage practices to sanction the movement towards freer marriage in China. She declares that Turkey is unstable because its families are unstable, and its families are unstable because marriage is unstable, and marriage is unstable because men could easily divorce their wives. The root of the problem, she explains, is that, as with past marriage practices in China, the bride and groom are not allowed to have any contact before marriage.51 Foreign examples thus constituted a complex of meanings that could be appropriated to highlight different aspects of the local Republican Lady ideal. Foreign material objects and, most notably, foreign clothing could similarly indicate the ideological positioning or self-positioning of the Republican Lady. The signification of clothing—a marker of social and political status in China for millennia— became increasingly complex in the early Republic as clothing options multiplied through an expanding market with foreign imports and global influences.52 The sartorial choices women made in this unprecedentedly fluid market could signal progressive cosmopolitanism. The most socially and politically engaged women of the era, including activists, educators, and journalists, frequently posed for studio portraits in Western dress (figure 2.11).53 Such choices could also reflect a more frivolous desire for novelty: by the early twentieth century, many worldly, upright Chinese women followed courtesans—the inveterate trendsetters in Chinese fashion—in adopting European and American dress.54 Not all Republican Ladies embraced this Westernizing trend. Many advocated privileging enlightened patriotism over the new cosmopolitanism. Arguing from the standpoint of cultural or economic nationalism, they insisted that Chinese dress was more appropriate for clothing the Chinese body. Dai Yifen criticizes those “so infatuated with things Western that they do not even question whether foreign objects or technologies are reasonable and suited to national customs. Instead they just blindly follow,” thoughtlessly adopting “Francism” (Falanxi zhuyi), for example, over national essentialism.55 In a letter to Funü shibao in 1912, Chen Yiying enumerates several practical, aesthetic, and cultural reasons for not heedlessly following Western sartorial trends. Ironically, the coup de grâce of Chen’s argument is another foreign example: she claims that both her Japanese friend Kinbara Murako, who teaches at the Jingzhi Girls’ School in Wuxi, and Kinbara’s sister Tomiko, who works for the Red Cross, prefer Chinese over Japanese or Western clothing (figure 2.12). If the likes of the respectable and evolved Kinbara sisters imitate our strengths, Chen asks, why should we imitate others’ weaknesses?56 Economic nationalism could also enter into idealizations of the Republican Lady. While the national products movement (Guohuo yundong)—a patriotic movement to establish China’s political and economic sovereignty by producing and consuming national rather than foreign goods—was not particularly emphasized in Funü

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figure 2.11. A portrait of the young Zhang Zhaohan (Mojun), editor of the Suzhou Da Han bao (Suzhou Journal of the Great Han), in Victorian dress. Funü shibao 5 (January 23, 1912): front matter.

shibao, it was the subject of some discussion.57 For example, a man using the pen name Qingfen writes in 1911 that the project of women’s education will be meaningful only if schools formally adopt a policy of exclusively using national products.58 Many Republican Ladies concurred. Cheng Peiqing expressed concern for the sustainability of local hemp production in her native Anhui Province in the face of increasing imports, for example, and Zhang Zhu Hanfen criticized the tendency among Shanghai students to use foreign silk.59 The national products issue was more frequently the topic of subtle admonition in the journal, however, as in figure 2.13’s illustration of “urban women” purchasing material for clothing. The barely legible

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figure 2.12. The Japanese Ms. Kinbara Murako, a teacher at the Jingzhi Girls’ School in Wuxi, poses in Chinese dress, holding a Chinese parasol. Funü shibao 6 (May 1, 1912): front matter.

placard for the shop on the right announces that this is a “Nüzi guohuo gongsi” (Women’s national products company). The agenda of the National Products Movement coincided with and was often repurposed to serve a long-standing principle of upright Chinese womanhood: frugality. As urban China became increasingly commercialized, a number of Republican Ladies urged their female compatriots to resist rampant, foreigninspired materialism. Lin Fu criticizes vulgar girls (shisu nüzi) who can never buy enough luxuries, and Wu Shuan chides those who worship “today’s material culture.”60 Zeng Yi and a writer using the pen name Zhiwei encourage women to be

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figure 2.13. A depiction of “urban women” purchasing material for clothing at a Women’s National Products Company (“Nüzi guohuo gongsi”). Funü shibao 11 (October 20, 1913), 10.

frugal self-producers who make food in their own kitchens or grow it in their own gardens rather than buying it from the market.61 W R I T I N G R E P U B L IC A N L A D I E S

Republican Ladies, whether students, professionals, or older cultured women, would, according to Bao Tianxiao’s vision, ideally also be writers and contributors to Funü shibao. There is significant evidence that many authors for the journal—

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among them Zhiwei, Zeng Yi, Wu Shuan, and Lin Fu just cited above—were women. A number of these women were already famous or would become so, including the doctor and poet Zeng Yi, the educator Zhang Mojun, and the journalist Tang Xiuhui. The vast majority of women who wrote for the journal, however, remain obscure. Many published only in the pages of Funü shibao and have left no other writings and few, if any, historical traces. If not for Funü shibao—and the same would be true of other periodicals—their interventions and insights into life in the early Republic would have been lost to history. The first challenge in identifying women authors in Funü shibao is definitively identifying them as women. The gender of writers was never transparent in this period, as it was common practice for men to assume the identity of female authors and write for women’s journals.62 Bao Tianxiao tried repeatedly to limit the number of male-authored, ghostwritten texts in the journal. He explicitly prohibited men from submitting poetry to the journal in his editorial in the first issue, and he repeated this injunction in the nineteenth issue, suggesting that little had changed in the intervening five years.63 He himself was often fooled. In the August 1916 issue he describes his horror when he solicited a photograph from the author of a manuscript written in graceful script, only to find that the assumed woman writer was a man.64 There are at least two known examples of men who wrote for Funü shibao. Gu Jiegang published articles in the journal under the name of his first wife Wu Zhenglan, and Bi Yihong (1892–1926) published poems in the name of his wife, Yang Fenruo (Bi-Yang Quanyin Fenruo).65 Through a close horizontal reading of the journal and, where possible, related integrated and situated readings, it is, however, possible to verify with a fair degree of certainty that a particular author was female. Using these methods, which are outlined below, we can conclude that almost all of the poetry in the journal was written by women as were approximately 30 percent of the articles. Among these articles are a number of winning entries in the journal’s eight essay contests. Zhu Huizhen wrote the winning essay for the first contest, “Marriage Customs in My Native Place” (Woxiang hunjia zhi fengsu). Jiang Renlan was the apparent winner of the third contest, “The Reason for Women’s Suffrage” (Shuo nüzi canzheng zhi liyou), and a female author using the name Mulan was one of two winners of the contest “Household Hygiene” (Jiating weisheng lun). Women were also the authors of several entries in the contests “Women and Industry” (Funü yu shiye) and “Concerning Female Agriculture” (Guanyu nüzi zhi nongye). It is also highly certain that women wrote the seventeen submissions to the second readers’ column published from issues 18 through 21—but only a few of the entries in the previous readers’ column in issues 3 and 7. As written contributions to a “readers’ column”—and common sense—suggest, writers for the journal were also readers of the journal. While not all readers were writers, we can assume all writers were readers. To get a fuller sense of the women who actively engaged with

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the journal, it is, therefore, necessary to sketch who the readers of the journal potentially were. Although an author for Funü shibao could claim that she was writing for the “broad public” (gongzhu dazhong), the journal’s female readership was delimited by economics and literacy.66 Female Readership Given Funü shibao’s cost—four jiao for most of its history—the laboring women whom Bao was determined to see discussed in the journal were unlikely to have been among its first purchasers or even among those who may have read handeddown copies. One issue would have cost a woman who picked tea leaves in the Shanghai region or in Anhui Province over two days of labor.67 It would have been slightly more affordable—only one day’s labor—for a woman who sold flowers or packaged medicine in Shanghai.68 The journal would have become even less affordable for laborers after issue 18, when the price increased slightly and some wages declined.69 Funü shibao would have been something of a luxury for the middling elite as well, costing about the same as a pair of summer grass shoes worn by gentry and common people in Jiading, a district of northwest Shanghai, for example.70 The publication would have been well within the budget of the urban elite, however. Accustomed to spending up to five jiao on a meal at the pricier Chinese restaurants on Fuzhou Road, they could easily afford single issues of or subscriptions to the periodical press.71 This urban elite included professional Republican Ladies who worked as teachers or school principals. A female principal earned between 100 and 180 yuan a month in 1912.72 This was close to the salary of a journal editor. When Bao Tianxiao moved to Shanghai to work for Shibao in 1906, his salary at that newspaper was 80 yuan per month. He earned an additional 40 yuan per month editing the fiction journal Xiaoshuo lin (Fiction Forest, 1907–8), which brought his total monthly salary up to 120 yuan. He further supplemented this income writing educational novels for the Commercial Press for another 30 to 40 yuan per month.73 Female doctors would have earned more than editors or school principals. Members of these three professional groups would have earned less than lawyers or government officials, who would have had enough disposable income to purchase several periodical subscriptions.74 Levels of literacy also determined the parameters of Funü shibao’s female readership. Comments on female literacy in the journal roughly coincide with estimates put forward in the limited scholarship on this topic. Gao Kelan, the female author of an article on women’s customs in Jiangxi Province, estimates that only 20 percent of males and 1 to 2 percent of females are literate in China, figures lower than those in existing studies perhaps because Jiangxi was a relatively backward area.75 Gao claims literacy does not “reach families below the middle level.” Most important—and possibly skewing these figures—is her observation that nonurban literate women still feel compelled to hide their literacy and even their numeracy.76

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Another woman author, Fanzhen, states with less precision that the majority of Chinese women cannot write an “informal note [biantiao] or a simple letter, nor can they keep accounts or read a newspaper.”77 While these women penned dire accounts of female illiteracy, they were themselves part of the most literate female demographic in China at this time: educated, urban Republican Ladies. According to incomplete statistics, as many as 25 to 30 percent of women may have been literate in Shanghai in the period Funü shibao was published.78 While these figures are uncertain and difficult to extrapolate beyond the treaty-port metropolis, there is firm evidence in Funü shibao of an engaged female readership at stratified literacy levels, and, more importantly, of a female readership that grew over the first decade of the Republic. It is clear that increasing numbers of women wrote for Funü shibao between 1911, when the journal was founded, through 1917, when it went out of print. We can thus assume that even greater numbers of women increasingly read it. Female Authorship Estimates of the percentage of articles written by women in Funü shibao vary dramatically. In his memoirs, written some sixty years after Funü shibao was published, the editor, Bao Tianxiao, estimates that women did not write more than 20 to 30 percent of the journal’s content.79 Western scholars have repeated this number in their studies.80 In contrast, the respected Chinese scholar of literature Guo Yanli, who has extensively studied women’s writing in this period, claims that 80 percent of the topical essays in the journal were written by women. His estimate does not include poetry, the section of the journal to which women most consistently contributed.81 Despite Bao’s low estimate in his later memoirs, his editorial columns published in the journal itself suggest a more robust percentage of female contributors. In issue 7, Bao writes that submissions from women are gracing the journal with “unimaginable beauty” (meibushengshou)— in quantities, he suggests, that the journal cannot even handle.82 In the ninth issue he thanks female readers for their ongoing support—alluding to their loyal contributions to, purchases of, and subscriptions to the journal.83 In issue 18, which launched a new phase in the journal’s history, he announces that he is receiving over ten submissions a day from women— more than he is able to publish in “The Women’s Conversation Association.”84 My own estimate, which is based on a close and contextualized reading of the journal, lies somewhere between Bao’s and Guo’s. I approximate that roughly 50 percent of the material in the journal, including poetry, was written by women. One of the first ways of assessing female authorship is through a comparison of the journal’s two readers’ columns. Bao announces in the first issue of the journal that he plans to open a readers’ column in the next issue. Entitled the “Readers’ Club,” the column will provide a space “for those who love reading to learn through

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their interactions with one another.”85 Few jumped at the opportunity. Bao explains in the second issue that submissions have been too few to constitute a column.86 The first “Reader’s Club” thus appears in the third issue. Bao continues to encourage submissions in his editorial column in the same issue, assuring readers that they can write on topics of their own choosing and inviting them to “indulge their feelings” (chengyi).87 Submissions, however, remained scant. Only one other “Reader’s Club” column was published (in issue 7). Bao did not establish a second readers’ column, “The Women’s Conversation Association,” until issue 18, when the journal entered a new phase after Yuan Shikai’s death. By this time readers of the journal were apparently significantly more engaged, as this was the period when Bao claimed he was receiving over ten submissions a day. This more successful column continued in consecutive issues through the end of Funü shibao’s print run. The greater success of the second column can be partly attributed to the expansion of women’s education and the increased naturalization of women’s presence—both physical and textual—in public over the course of the early years of the Republic. It is also evidence of Bao’s skill in creating a new readerly and writerly women’s culture through the journal. “The Readers’ Club” in issue 3 includes five short entries over two pages. Most of the entries seem to have been penned by men—almost all are written under pseudonyms. The one verifiable female contributor, Zhu Huizhen, who writes under her own name, suggests why this was the case: the language in the journal, Zhu complains, is too difficult for most women.88 The entries that seem to have been male authored are prescriptive in tone and predictable in content: they clearly resonate with the themes of the late Qing reform discourse. Authors repeat many of the tropes that were central to this discourse, including the importance of women’s education, the scourge of footbinding, and the frivolity of the female consumer. They further echo Liang Qichao’s diatribe against female parasites in his famous essay “Lun nüxue” (On women’s education). Contributors to the column declaim that women are extravagant, superstitious, and ignorant playthings, rather than industrious producers. Their preoccupation with dressing themselves up and their wasteful ritual practices and Buddhist worship are a drain on the economy. They further require instruction in the benefits of consuming national products.89 Another possible indication of male authorship is the hints of voyeurism in this first readers’ column. One author urges women to reveal more about their intimate lives, as foreign women allegedly do in articles for “Eastern and Western women’s magazines.” He claims that in these articles distinguished women describe, for example, “the virgin [chunü] phase” or “the marital phase in their lives.”90 The second “Readers’ Club” column contains a single entry written by the future historian Gu Jiegang in the name of his wife, Wu Zhenglan. The entry is essentially a retraction of an earlier article by Wu (Gu), “Women and Revolution,”

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that appears in the previous issue (issue 6). Gu explains that the essay, which criticizes Chinese women for their lack of revolutionary fervor, was published some eight months after he originally drafted it. In the interim, he admits, both his views and women’s behavior evolved. “Since the ninth month [when the 1911 Revolution took place],” he writes, “many of my female compatriots have suddenly changed and revealed their talent.”91 Entries in the second readers’ column, “The Women’s Conversation Association,” a number of which are introduced in detail below and in the following chapters, sharply contrast with those in the first column. The primary difference is gender. While Bao makes no mention of the identity of contributors to the “Readers’ Club,” he notes that seven or eight of the ten submissions to the column in issue 18 are from women. The quality of the submissions, he notes, is high and their content varied: women are writing in a range of forms from longer great works (changpian juzhi) to pithier short pieces, and on a range of themes from personal experience to current affairs. Bao regrets that he is unable to publish all of these writings because of space limitations, and he promises to expand the number of pages allotted to the newly founded readers’ column in later issues.92 He follows through on this promise. While the first column in issue 3 is two pages long and the second in issue 7 one page, the four columns in issues 18 through 21 are all between six and seven pages in length and composed of two to seven entries.93 These entries engage global themes and pressing reform issues. At the same time, they are close to the grain of quotidian life and attuned to real exigencies women faced. Rather than rehearse late Qing reformist diatribes against, for example, women’s parasitical practices, they often pointedly refute them.94 They address such themes as philanthropy, women’s suffrage, methods of unbinding the feet, the perils of gambling, papermaking in a local village, women in Turkey, and the hypocrisy of eulogizing female martyrs.95 They also include an ambitious plan for the creation of a women’s club that will address the full range of women’s medical, educational, and cultural needs in early Republican Shanghai.96 The names with which contributors signed their contributions are another potential gender marker. The authors of a number of the short pieces published in the first “Readers’ Club” chose overtly feminine pseudonyms, such as Songyuan (Extolling the Male Mandarin Duck) or Fengzhu (Phoenix Pearl), a self-conscious effort to assert what was probably a false female identity. Female contributors to the later readers’ column—and to the journal more broadly—often avoided pseudonyms altogether and wrote under married women’s double surnames, for example, Qiu Wu Suying or Zhu Cheng Bingyin. Many of the writings potentially by women in Funü shibao are not, however, signed with double surnames or included in “The Women’s Conversation Association” column, neither of which is irrefutable evidence of gender in any case. Because a significant number of the authors of these writings have left no other

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historical traces besides their contributions to the journal, it is necessary to ascertain the gender through a close horizontal and, where possible, integrated and situated reading of that author’s work in Funü shibao. Jiang Renlan presents such a case. She contributed more writings to Funü shibao than any other woman: six essays and thirteen poems (shi and ci) that were published between 1911 and 1914. Reflections on morality, politics, and history, Jiang’s writings addressed one overriding theme: the need for women to advance socially and politically without losing their moral dignity. A situated reading yields no insights into Jiang’s identity: to date I have not been able to find any biographical materials on her, or any secondary work that does more than mention her name as an author for Funü shibao. A search for writings by her in the Shanghai Library’s digital “National Periodicals Index” yields only her contributions to Funü shibao. These contributions themselves must therefore be mined for evidence of the author’s gender identity. Jiang’s mode of reasoning and social positioning in one of her essays on women’s suffrage provides such suggestive evidence. Jiang argues from the standpoint of what we could call today a difference feminist. Repeating a standard trope in Chinese gender ideology, she states that while men are most implicated in public matters, women bear responsibility for domestic matters. She departs from this familiar gender logic, however, in stating that both positions are equally political. “Women deserve the vote,” she argues, because “urgent issues such as the need for reform of household education and improvements to everyday life [riyong shenghuo zhi xu zengjin] are beyond the purview of male authority and concern.” Only those with the deepest experience in these important domestic areas—that is, women—can achieve superior results.97 This tentative evidence drawn from a close horizontal reading of this and other essays by Jiang is further supported by an integrated reading of other print materials. While Jiang does not appear to have published her writing in any other journals, she did publish a poem in the newspaper Shibao in July 1911, when Bao Tianxiao was an editor of both Shibao and Funü shibao.98 Given Bao’s strict policy of publishing only poems by women in Funü shibao, and given the likelihood that he would have known something about Jiang’s identity as a contributor to Shibao, it seems Bao was confident that Jiang was indeed a woman when he agreed to publish her thirteen poems and six essays in Funü shibao. Another of the more prolific of Funü shibao’s female authors, Wang Jieliang, has also left few traces outside the journal. Wang wrote essays for Funü shibao on a range of topics, including women’s education, women’s occupations in America, and women’s participation in the military, as well as the ideal family and pediatric care.99 A horizontal reading of the journal yields more evidence of her identity. A key piece of documentation is a caption to a photograph of a graduating class from the Chengdong Girls’ School published in Funü shibao 3 (September 22, 1911). Although Wang does not appear in the photograph, the caption explains that she

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figure 2.14. Wang Jieliang a graduate of the Chengdong Girls’ School and a teacher at the Rugao Shashi Elementary School in Nantong, was one of the more prolific contributors to Funü shibao. Funü shibao 10 (May 25, 1913): front matter.

was a member of the graduating class but had already begun teaching at the Rugao Shashi Elementary School in Nantong, Jiangsu Province when the graduation photograph was taken. Wang’s individual portrait does appear later in the journal, in issue 10 (figure 2.14). An integrated reading further reveals that Wang published essays in a number of other women’s journals. These include an article on Shanghai marriage customs that appeared in Chinese Women in 1915.100 Her work was so respected that one of her essays on childhood illnesses, which was first published in Funü shibao in 1911, was reprinted in the journal Xiandai jiating (Modern Family) some twenty-seven years later.101

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When evidence is even scanter than in the examples of Wang Jieliang and Jiang Renlan above—no captions to photographs, no poems published in newspapers, and only a single work published in a single periodical—we can attempt to assess gender on the basis of an author’s mode of reasoning. While it is dangerous to draw potentially essentialist conclusions, it is also incumbent on the researcher to probe what different discursive logics possibly reveal about an author’s subject position. One characteristic that is apparent in Funü shibao articles that can be proven with a degree of certainty to have been written by women, or that appear likely to have been written by women, is a tendency to draw connections between everyday and epic themes— to link quotidian, national, and global concerns. The women authors who use this logic are not, as Henri Lefebvre and others have suggested in discussions of women and the everyday, mired in and burdened by repetitive and mindless daily life.102 Rather, they see the transformative potential in the quotidian as the crucial point of departure for broader social and political change. Men are by no means impervious to this logic. Connecting everyday experience to the exigencies of reform was central to Bao Tianxiao’s agenda for the journal. As we will see in an example below, women authors may have influenced men like Bao in using this logic. Distinct modes of reasoning are apparent when men and women write for the journal on the same topics (women often first), including childbirth, chastity, and hygiene. An author who is most certainly female, Qiu Ping, and a male author, Qu Jun, both wrote on childbirth for the journal, for example.103 Both Qiu and Qu had experience in Japan, and both were aware of the state of midwifery studies outside of China. Both had knowledge of scientific biomedicine. There are, however, a number of important differences between their writings. First, regarding their points of departure, Qiu Ping’s article is an “account of experience” inspired by the deaths of two friends in childbirth. Qu Jun’s articles, which he wrote while a medical student in Japan, are driven by his preoccupation with China’s adoption of global standards for women’s reproductive health. Qiu Ping offers more concrete details and graphic descriptions of the process of childbirth— leading one critic to claim that her essay is insufficiently refined.104 Her personal observations, interspersed with the observations of a Chinese investigator in Japan, are qualitative and not systematically arranged. Qu Jun’s contributions to the journal are, in contrast, more quantitative. He attempts to reduce women’s menstrual experience to statistics, for example, by creating the template for a survey on the menses which he urges women to fill out.105 Qiu Ping expresses more empathy for women undergoing the dangers and uncertainties of childbirth, while Qu Jun places more emphasis on female irrationality during pregnancy. Qiu Ping cannot be further identified. She wrote only one piece for Funü shibao, and no other writings by or about her appear to be extant. Qu Jun, in contrast, became a famous obstetrician who made tangible contributions to the institutionalization of obstetrics in China and left a modest collection of writings. Qiu’s work

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is invaluable for what it reveals about women’s reflections on and knowledge of childbirth around the time of the 1911 Revolution. Qu Jun’s is equally valuable in what it reveals about evolving institutional thinking surrounding issues of women’s health in this period. A second example of different modes of reasoning is apparent in the writings of female and male authors on the subject of female chastity martyrdom. Through the imperial period in Chinese history and up until the early twentieth century, eulogies for chaste women were almost exclusively written by men in honor of their wives, relatives, or family friends.106 These paeans to female martyrs were often highly convention-bound expositions on morality and loyalty rather than accounts of the experience of particular women.107 Female-authored elegies published in Funü shibao mark a sharp departure from these male-authored morality tales. One woman, Hu Jingyi, explicitly remarks on this difference and condemns the customary mode of exemplar writing. She decries the hypocrisy of men who never praise their wives when they are alive but extol their virtue after they die. She claims that the literati’s practice of epitaph writing is nothing more than a vehicle for male literary pretensions, an expression of men’s vain desire to write “illustrious poetry on a par with [the famous Tang and Song poets] Han Yu [768–824] and Su Shi [1037–1101],” not their heartfelt feelings for their wives.108 Accounts of martyrs written by women for Funü shibao provided more detail about their subjects and gave a fuller sense of the complicated circumstances that led to their martyrdom. They were not, however, lacking in their own redemptive agendas or in a sense of a larger moral and political universe. A certain Chen Zuo Mingying records the story of “the female exemplar Zhu of Xiaogan in Hubei Province” in part to counter conservative criticism of female students. Before the age of fifteen, Chen records, her schoolmate Zhu was engaged to a local boy. When he became ill, the couple decided, against the will of Zhu’s parents, to marry in the hope that the “event of great joy” would overcome his illness (a custom known as chongxi). He died nonetheless, and Zhu took poison shortly thereafter. Overcome with grief and with the need to make sense of Zhu’s death, Chen declares that her friend’s martyrdom sheds glory not only on their friendship, their native Xiaogan, and Chinese female students but also on the ancient Chinese nation in the eyes of the rest of the world.109 Gender differences are also apparent in discussions of weisheng, an ancient Chinese term used to translate the Western notion of “hygiene” at the turn of the twentieth century. Weisheng accrued new valences of meaning in this period, while continuing to function as it had in earlier Chinese discourse: as a verb connoting guarding health rather than as a noun describing a sanitary state. This historical sense of the term encompassed a series of integrated sexual, moral, psychological, physical, and ultimately social and political practices.110 It also placed physical and mental hygiene on an equal footing.111

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The distinct ways men and women appropriated this notion are apparent in two essay contest entries on this theme published in Funü shibao. The two entries, which are printed consecutively in the journal as “Household Hygiene 1 and 2” in issue 10, are widely divergent in style, tone, and emphasis. This highlights both the semantic density of the concept in this period and the widely divergent preoccupations of the authors. While one uses the notion of weisheng to reassert the importance of strict female morality, the other bemoans the devastating psychological effect of such strict gender norms. The first article is by a man surnamed Song. He signals that his understanding of the concept of weisheng is more closely aligned with ancient practice than with newly imported ideas through the given name he writes under, Butian, a reference to an ancient Daoist technique of preserving health.112 He further clarifies this position in the essay itself. “The ideal of weisheng is a new Western invention,” Song writes, “but the Chinese ancients first had the idea of looking after one’s body [yiyang tianhe], and arresting unwholesome developments at their inception [fangweidujian].” After addressing a range of topics, including the household, food, clothing, bathing, and adornment, Song openly discusses sexual intercourse. He calls for restraint in sexual relations between husbands and wives and emphasizes the need for rigidly enforced female moral norms.113 In her much shorter and contrasting entry, the female author writing under the name Mulan (a homophone for the name of the legendary woman warrior Hua Mulan [ca. 500]), emphasizes the psychological dimensions of “hygiene.” She specifically raises concerns about the female propensity to depression, which was often the result of the kind of domestic enclosure that Song considered to be a gender imperative.114 While these examples highlight divergent modes of reasoning, there is also evidence of convergence in female- and male-authored articles in Funü shibao. Such examples suggest the possibility of the influence of women’s writings on what have been celebrated as male epistemological breakthroughs. Similar modes of reasoning are apparent in two articles on the theme of household education. The first is by Wang Jieliang, the prolific Funü shibao author and graduate of the Chengdong Girls’ School discussed above. In an article published in January 1912, “The Ideal Family Model,” Wang challenges the conventional book-centered, deductive approach to Chinese education in favor of a new, more empirically based mode of inductive learning that was gaining favor in Chinese protoscientific communities from the turn of the twentieth century.115 Insisting that children learn most effectively when they learn directly from the world around them, she encourages families to spend their vacations collecting natural science specimens (bowu biaoben), acquiring on-site experience, painting landscapes, and investigating local customs.116

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There are distinct resonances between this article and an essay by the male activist Yun Daiying. Entitled “On Family Education,” Yun’s essay was published serially in the journal in 1916 and 1917. This was over four years after Wang’s essay appeared, making it unlikely that Wang had been influenced by Yun.117 Because of Yun’s status as a recently rediscovered communist martyr and revolutionary hero, his essay has received attention in the secondary literature, whereas Wang’s writing has gone unnoticed.118 Scholars have commended Yun’s “On Family Education” for its allegedly unprecedented introduction of science into household pedagogy and have hailed it as one of the most important academic studies in the history of family education in China.119 Because these scholars have disembedded Yun’s essay from Funü shibao where it appeared, they have failed to recognize the state of knowledge in articles such as Wang Jieliang’s, writings that may have nurtured his “unprecedented” ideas. A final potential marker of female authorship further reflects this gender imbalance in intellectual authority. It is a convention of self-deprecation often found in women’s writings in the journal. While a man could easily mimic this convention, there are repeated suggestions in the journal that for certain women it was more than rhetoric, that they were genuinely self-conscious about the quality of their prose and wary about exposing it to public scrutiny. Gao Kelan’s article on women’s customs in her native Jiangxi Province and a letter appended to that article by her sister provide insight into this issue. Gao lacked confidence in her writing and feared that readers would think that her report—which she wrote, according to a standard trope for women authors, when she had finished her embroidering—was nothing more than “idle chatter” (baiguan xiaoshuo).120 She therefore first sent the article to her older sister in Pudong in the Shanghai area to revise rather than directly submitting it to the press. Gao died shortly thereafter. Her sister explains in a note published at the end of the original article that she had carefully tucked Gao’s piece away in a box after her early death. When she rediscovered and reread the essay later, she found it worthy of publication. She diligently revised it and finally sent it to Funü shibao to honor her dead sister’s ambition.121 Several apparently female authors echoed Gao Kelan’s reticence about their poor writing skills. Like Gao, Zhou Hongluo wrote that she did not dare to send a letter to the journal until after she had it corrected.122 Others declared themselves “unlearned” (buwen) in the preambles to their commentaries or felt compelled to state that this was the first article they had submitted to a journal.123 “I’ve wanted to write [in to the journal] a number of times,” Dai Yifen declares, “but felt ashamed that I’m not sufficiently literate [zikui buwen]. Because I could not write a monumental work, I’ve just written a few short pieces in a rambling [laza] fashion, describing what I’ve seen and heard.”124 Zhang Yonglian announces that “this short submission [on women workers in a local paper factory] is the first essay I’ve

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written.”125 This sense of inadequacy was not necessarily vis-à-vis an imagined male audience but also in relation to other, allegedly more gifted or experienced female authors. Cheng Yu Peifen, who states that she is “not very literate ([buwen],” claims that she blushed with shame knowing her article on women in Turkey was not as profound as Zhang Zhaosi’s article on women in India.126

Women like Cheng Yu Peifen, who were inspired, if humbled, by other women’s writing, who sought editing help from elder sisters before submitting their essays to a journal, who dared to challenge the way men commemorated their wives, and who felt confident to write about the perils of childbirth and the need for biomedical reform, were all Republican Ladies. Several of these women were students or recent graduates, some were professionals, a number were older cultured women from good families. Each of these subdemographics was subject to potential criticism: students could be too brazenly public; professionals could fuel the wrong kinds of consumption; elder members of high society could be too detached, elitist, and wasteful. The discourses that circulated around the Republican Ladies captured the tensions of the early Republican era: the allure and danger of new forms of public life; the uneasy coexistence between cosmopolitanism and patriotism; the contradictions between material betterment and material excess. What is most significant about Funü shibao is not, however, that it presented a cacophony of gender and social ideals but that it helped engender new social and print practices. Views like Song Butian’s on gender propriety could still be voiced, but they were now artfully juxtaposed to the reflections of authors like Mulan who advanced radically different views on both the meaning of weisheng and the desirability of upholding certain gender norms. More than mere photographs on the printed page or targets of editorial admonition and advertising campaigns, Republican Ladies were women like Mulan who—however tentatively—took up the brush and entered debates, constituting both themselves and a new mode of social engagement in the process. Funü shibao facilitated this process by creating the opportunity for women to be part of, and to often set the course for, conversations on a range of themes. These themes included reproductive health, education, and prostitution, all of which were grounded in a plurality of conceptions of everyday experience.

3

Everyday Experience

The notion of “experience” was central to the new epistemology that underlay Bao Tianxiao’s editorial agenda. The premise of this epistemology, which gained prominence in the early Republic and salience in the commercial periodical press, was that experience determined the conditions of knowledge. Reasoning was inductive, empiricism was the source of truth, and—in something of a provocation to the Chinese scholarly tradition—lived experience trumped book learning.1 Funü shibao’s mandate was to capture, expound on, and extend the parameters of women’s lived experience in order to enrich their social and intellectual knowledge. It is because Chinese women’s experience is not deep (yueli bushen), Qian Huilan explains in an essay she wrote to celebrate the journal’s publication, that their knowledge has not expanded. The purpose of the journal is to change this.2 Bao Tianxiao used various textual mechanisms to fulfill this objective: to valorize and visualize, to solicit and shape women’s experience. A remarkable number of Republican Ladies responded to Bao’s call to share their experience. They narrated aspects of their daily lives, documented their observations of other women’s lives, and published their personal photographs (figure 3.1) in the pages of the journal. Male contributors also submitted surveys and investigations of women’s experience and wrote or translated essays on various aspects of local and global womanhood. In detailing and often theorizing multiple dimensions of quotidian experience, they scientized, politicized, quantified, and pictured the everyday. The notion of “experience” does not emerge from these richly textured contributions as a coherent concept, however. It was never a transparent reflection of lived reality, but a vehicle for different values: epistemological and scientific, pedagogical and political. Nor was experience spontaneously narrated. Its textualization 79

figure 3.1. Wang Ling, a contributor to the journal who emphasized empirical observation over reliance on canonical texts. Funü shibao 14 (July 15, 1914): front matter.

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was carefully orchestrated by an editor who dictated both the terms and the very genres in which women’s experience could be expressed. Linked to Funü shibao’s reform agenda, the concept of experience was further complicated by the journal’s commercial imperatives. In a culture that had long cloistered its women and limited the circulation of their cultural production, “women’s experience” was a novel commodity that would—Bao certainly realized—enhance and sell the journal. Undeterred by this risk of commodification and in defiance of Bao’s editorial preference for prosaic accounts, many women employed their own tactics in writing their versions of experience. They composed forceful and eloquent shi and ci on themes Bao highlighted, such as reform and revolution, but also on topics of immediate personal concern, such as friendship and life passages. The poetic genres they adopted imposed their own limitations, and reformist and commercial agendas shadowed all forms of women’s writing in the journal. An element of lived experience, nonetheless, remained—not the least of which was the new experience of submitting an account of experience to the periodical press. S O L IC I T I N G A N D SHA P I N G E X P E R I E N C E

Bao Tianxiao used the full materiality of the journal to signal and disseminate his particular vision of women’s experience. He solicited and shaped writings that conformed to that vision through his editorial column “From the Office of the Editor” or “Conversation from the Office of the Editor”; his call for submissions; a series of essay contests; and the two readers’ columns discussed in the last chapter. The initial portal to this dynamic world of textualized experience was the journal’s front covers. The Covers The Funü shibao covers both illustrated and enacted Bao’s mandate to engage women’s lived experience. Situated at the juncture between the social world of the reader and the metaworld of the text, the covers served as a gateway between the concerns readers brought to the journal and the information the journal delivered to its readers. Images such as the one on the first cover (figure 0.1) drew the reader, who was in this moment a viewer, into the covers’ visual economy. Funü shibao artists Xu Yongqing and Shen Bochen created the journal’s captivating cover art over a decade before professional cover design was fully developed in China.3 While Funü shibao was not the first early twentieth-century periodical to replace the more familiar calligraphed titles with illustrations on its covers, it was arguably the most successful: Xu’s and Shen’s images were one of the journal’s most powerful and influential innovations.4 Neither Xu, who was the creator of the covers of issues 1 to 4 and 11 to 16, nor Shen, who was responsible for issues 5 to 10 and 17 to 20, is renowned today for his magazine cover art. Both were, however,

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part of an emerging cadre of commercial artists.5 Xu is known as a calendar poster (yuefenpaihua) artist and a pioneer in Chinese watercolor painting and pedagogy, and Shen as a satirical cartoonist. Highly responsive to the needs of the present, as was the periodical press itself, these commercial artists were particularly attentive to the requirements of their publishers, audience, and editors.6 In keeping with Bao’s commitment to female engagement, Xu and Shen used their cover art to encourage a new bodily experience for women as viewers rather than as those being viewed. Unlike the genre of “beauties” (meiren) of the past, or cover girls of the future who posed to be looked at, Xu and Shen’s dynamic and fashionable cover girls are themselves engaged in the act of looking. Preoccupied with activities, objects, and sightings within their own sphere of vision rather than with catching the attention of the viewer, they are similar to the figures depicted in a genre of late imperial paintings explicitly created for women.7 The covers invite Funü shibao’s readers to be empowered by their own eyes and unabashed by their presence in the public visual field. Self-reflexive images of women on the covers of Funü shibao viewing women on the covers of Funü shibao epitomize this new visual mode (figures 0.1 and 1.1), as do covers depicting women reading what appears to be Funü shibao. A fashionable young woman falls asleep over the text, a rose at her side (figure 3.2). A young mother holds both a copy of the journal and her toddler son.8 A second cluster of cover images depicts women looking at distant horizons from various vantage points both outside and inside. Visual apparati enhance the women’s viewing eyes. Binoculars make remote vistas more accessible (plate 8), and the camera (see book cover) makes the natural landscape appropriable. Although the women depicted on a handful of covers look at the viewer, they are not wilting objects of the viewers’ gaze with demurely lowered eyes. Nor do they appear awkwardly self-conscious, as do women in late Qing depictions of early encounters with the camera.9 Rather, they seem to have been momentarily interrupted from another engaging activity, whether walking to school (figure 3.3), walking the dog (figure 1.2), or removing their gloves (figure 3.4). A group of covers depict women engaged in new, often fantastic, activities that suggest the unlimited possibilities the Republican Lady is invited to embrace. The cover girls play tennis with a Western-style country estate in the background (figure 1.4). They hunt in the rolling hills in strikingly hybrid attire (plate 2). They fish with older companions and in fashionable heels. They make use of Shanghai’s modern conveniences to mail letters (figure 3.5) and to fill buckets with running water (figure 4.6). The only woman depicted engaging in physical labor (collecting fuel) appears, significantly, on the cover of the journal’s “revolutionary” issue 6 (figure 3.6).10 An integrated reading of cover art of later women’s journals underlines the distinctiveness of the Funü shibao images. The most apposite comparison is with the

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figure 3.2. A fashionable young woman falls asleep at a table, next to an open copy of Funü shibao and a rose. Cover, Funü shibao 8 (September 25, 1912).

Ladies’ Journal. This is not only because it was a direct competitor that was founded in January of 1915 while Funü shibao was still in print but because Xu Yongqing, who had painted half of the Funü shibao covers, also created the first twelve covers to the Ladies’ Journal. The profoundly different content and tone of these more domestically oriented images on the front of the Ladies’ Journal thus must be attributed, not to contrasting artistic styles, but to divergent editorial directives. The women Xu depicted for his editors at the Commercial Press are more sedate and enclosed, more preoccupied with familiar feminine tasks than prone to self-reflection or captivated by new horizons. Their paratextual framing is also

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figure 3.3. A student stops on her way to school, a new-style umbrella in her hand. Cover, Funü shibao 2 (July 26, 1911).

more reminiscent of earlier paintings: each image is accompanied by a fourcharacter classical Chinese description of the woman’s activities. Xu’s signature, which appears in both romanization and characters on his Funü shibao images, appears only in characters on the covers of the Ladies’ Journal. Two of the twelve Ladies’ Journal cover girls are engaged in new pastimes or occupations.11 All of the other women perform typical feminine activities. While the young reader on the first cover (figure 3.7) appears to be a student, she is not casually walking in public like her Funü shibao counterparts (figures 2.8, 3.3). The caption explains that she is practicing “refined lessons” in the inner chambers. Her

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figure 3.4. A well-appointed Republican Lady removes her gloves. Cover, Funü shibao 17 (November 1, 1915).

four walls remain those of the boudoir, not the classroom. A woman depicted knitting on the tenth cover of Funü shibao is more engaged with the scene outside the window than with her handwork. Her corollary in the Ladies’ Journal series listlessly twists wool, with her back, rather than her face, to the window (figure 3.8). Most of the women depicted in the Ladies’ Journal are, like this one, indoors: embroidering (issue 3), spinning late into the night (issue 7), cooking (issue 8), making clothing (issue 11), or weaving by lamplight (issue 12). Those women who are outdoors also perform conventional womanly work. They cultivate mulberry leaves in “silkworm month” (issue 4), pick tea leaves before the rain (issue 5), or

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figure 3.5. A young woman dressed in fashionable short tight sleeves and short pants mails a letter in Shanghai. Cover, Funü shibao 18 (June, 1916).

wash clothing in the spring river (issue 6). Even when they take a moment to turn their eyes to the horizon as so many women on the front of Funü shibao do, they look at birds rather than airplanes, and with the naked eye rather than through binoculars. By the time Funü shibao’s penultimate issue appeared in late 1916, the Ladies’ Journal, then in its second year, had made significant inroads in the print market. While both the Ladies’ Journal and Chinese Women imitated many of Funü shibao’s features, in 1916 it was Funü shibao that followed its competitors’ lead. In his editorial column Bao, who had featured women’s artwork in the journal from its first issue, asked Chinese women artists to send in their paintings to grace the journal’s

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figure 3.6. A “fashionable beauty,” weighed down by the sticks she has collected in the basket on her back, holds a delicate flower. Cover, Funü shibao 6 (May 1, 1912).

covers.12 He claimed that he was taking his cue from Western magazines, but his most immediate inspiration was most likely both the Ladies’ Journal, which had featured women’s bird or flower paintings on all covers published in the journal’s second year, 1916, and Chinese Women, which had featured feminine paintings of flowers from its first issue in January 1915.13 Bao’s commitment to engaging women artists to work for the journal is reflected in the relatively high remuneration he offered for these images—women would be paid ten, six, or four yuan depending

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figure 3.7. A young woman recites lessons in her boudoir. Cover, Funü zazhi 1 (January 1915).

on the quality of their art, whereas an essay of over one thousand characters could earn an author only three yuan. His determination is also reflected in his flexible criteria for the design. He placed no restrictions on subject matter and asked only that contributors have some skill and use vibrant colors.14 Bao, nevertheless, had to settle for a sedate, classical-style image for the journal’s last cover. Even more dispiritingly, the image was painted by a man, Huang Xuchu (1892–1975).15 Call for Submissions Bao formally requested women’s active involvement in the journal in his call for submissions. He explicitly invited “knowledgeable individuals and women of talent” to assume some of the responsibility for editing and choosing manuscripts. At

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figure 3.8. A woman listlessly twists wool, with her back, rather than her face, to the window. Cover, Funü zazhi 10 (October 1915).

the same time, he asked “upright and talented ladies” (guiyan and caiyuan) to share their acquired knowledge (xinde) with the world, with their countrymen, and with other women.16 Bao requested that this acquired experience be recorded in the form of narrative accounts of experience or shiyantan. In one of the many textbooks he edited, the Girls’ Letter Writing Manual, Bao offered women concrete instruction in how to write what was for them a new form of expository prose: orderly accounts of

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facts (fuchen shishi).17 In the journal itself, he and a number of the journal’s authors used a variety of terms in addition to shiyan to connote the newly valorized notion of actual experience. The most prominent among these was jingyan, and Bao often used the term jingyantan interchangeably with shiyantan. Various writers used a range of terms to signal that their accounts were based on immediate experience. These included muji (to witness), yueli (to experience), lilian (to learn through experience), and guanjiansuoji (in my limited view).18 The shiyantan genre as Bao understood it and as it appeared in other early twentieth-century Chinese periodicals, was derived from Meiji Japanese literature. Defined as a story based on real-life experience or personal experience at the scene of action, the correlate Japanese term jikkendan can be traced to the early 1890s, when it was used, for example, in the preface to a work on the underclass in Tokyo.19 By the mid-1890s, both monographs and articles labeled jikkendan appeared in Japanese, and by the early twentieth century shiyantan articles that were either translations of Japanese essays or original Chinese works on related themes were published in the Chinese periodical press. The content of these various works, whether Japanese texts, translations of Japanese texts, or Chinese essays, generally fell under one of three rubrics: the conduct of domestic life, medicine, or occupations.20 Bao’s notion of shiyantan was fully aligned with this understanding of the genre. In soliciting accounts of experience he sought a particular mode of early Republican experience that emphasized the affective, scientific, and practical dimensions of daily life. Editorial Column Bao emphasized these themes in his column and through his editorial foregrounding of particular articles. He urged readers to share their emotional struggles, highlighted essays that took a scientific approach to the challenges of the everyday, and solicited articles on politics and economics. Bao indicated what constituted valid “realistic experience” in his responses to and solicitation of certain modes of writing. He wanted his readers to share details of their experience but not mundane details. He warned that there was no need for them to send in hackneyed works that merely recorded the humdrum rhythms of daily life.21 He solicited accounts of women’s everyday occupations but only certain kinds of occupations. Sericulture, beekeeping, raising chickens, growing flowers, and cultivating bamboo were acceptable—swine herding was not.22 He welcomed accounts of the difficulties of marital life that women experienced but shunned risqué or immoral themes. He loudly rejected an article on the opium-infused courtesan world, for example, and warned his readers against sending in “lowly and obscene” (bihui) writings that contained a hint of “slander” (wubang).23 In the early issues of the journal, when the 1911 Revolution was unfolding and before Yuan Shikai limited the free expression of political speech, Bao solicited

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firsthand accounts of the events of the fall of 1911. He appealed to women who were active in the Revolution to share their stories and specifically asked those who had worked for the Red Cross to “favor him with accounts of their various experiences.” These instructive tales of the bloody and wounded, he asserted, would inspire public praise and awe. Aware of the historical momentousness—and the violence—of the Revolution, he solicited accounts that would be as graphic and memorable as Yangzhou shiri (Ten days in Yangzhou, 1645) and Jiading wanjia (The massacre in Jiading, 1645), which recounted the bloody Manchu conquest of the Ming dynasty.24 Bao further focused the journal on topical economic issues. He did not divert his readers from the harsh realities of urban life, as New Culture critics claimed was the purpose of commercial journals. Rather, he was determined to expose both urban and rural realities and to equip his readers with the new social scientific knowledge necessary to understand them.25 He was particularly committed to documenting the occupational challenges less privileged women faced. In the seventh issue he announced that the magazine would welcome essays on specific female occupations such as what he described as a highly informative article published in the first issue of the journal on “Diaojing niang,” poor young women who prepared looms for weaving by attaching the vertical threads or warp of fabric.26 Three of the eight contest themes (which constituted eight of the sixteen contests, as several themes were repeated) had to do with women’s occupations. They included “Women’s Occupations in All Regions,” which was announced in three consecutive issues; “Concerning Female Agriculture,” announced in four; and “Women and Industry,” announced in one.27 Bao also offered the highest praise in his editorial column for Wanxiu’s “Investigation of the Lives of Poor Women in Shanghai,” a piece of investigative journalism that appeared when the notion of the social survey was just gaining traction in China.28 The article, which is described in detail below, made a contribution to the growing awareness of poverty as a social scientific issue in this period and presented the urban poor as a social other requiring not only compassion but political action.29 While the investigation was reform oriented, neither Wanxiu nor Bao Tianxiao sought to fuel social divisions as Chen Duxiu would some three years later when he published “Pinmin de kusheng” (The laments of poor people), a call for a moment of reckoning for rapacious bureaucrats.30 Instead, Bao hoped to foster social solidarity in humanizing the plight of female laborers and making their struggles visible to Funü shibao’s reading public. Bao was also concerned with exposing women’s emotional struggles. In the first issue of the journal he set a precedent for affective transparency by contributing an impassioned lament for his niece, Bao Zhongxuan.31 In his lament, Bao underscores the intersections between lived experience, emotion, and narrative. He recounts that as Zhongxuan was dying he was translating a short story, “Orchid in

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a Quiet Valley” (based on the sensational Victorian novel East Lynne). While the plotline of the story bears no relation to Zhongxuan’s tragedy, both, in Bao’s words, highlight the physical sufferings of a respectable young woman. As he worked on the translation, he writes, his heart filled with the agony of his niece’s ordeal and tears soaked his brush.32 Bao was particularly attentive to the emotional hardships women suffered in the context of the family. He recognized that women had been conditioned for centuries to “swallow their grievances” (yinhen) and “suppress their complaints” (tunsheng). Committed to ending this practice of emotional repression, he wanted Funü shibao to become an outlet for women’s pent-up frustrations and a forum for their “somber” (qiqing) and “melancholy” (aiwan) thoughts. The journal would serve as a space in which they could freely describe difficulties they had either heard about or personally experienced.33 Perhaps the most powerful emotion that women had been forced to swallow for centuries in China (which Bao did not explicitly name) was jealousy. At least two millennia of didactic writings praised first wives who overcame feelings of resentment toward younger concubines.34 Even an article on the new social scientific discipline of women’s psychology published in Funü shibao belittles the pettiness of female jealousy.35 Bao, in contrast, validated the emotion. He praised Jin Yuanzhen, who unburdened herself (xuanxie) in an article on the destructive impact of concubinage on the marital bond. He strongly encouraged other talented women whose hearts were filled with compassion to follow Jin and send in more accounts of problems they had either heard of or personally experienced.36 Essay Contests Bao also used the essay contest to encourage his readers to write about the kinds of topics and experience he felt worthy of discussion in the journal. While such contests had been a feature of the periodical press from the mid-1890s and would continue to be used to gauge public opinion throughout the Republic, Funü shibao was one of the first journals to use this mechanism to engage a female readership.37 Bao announced the first contest on the theme “Marriage Customs in My Native Place” in the first issue of the journal. He noted in his editorial column in the second issue that the contest had not elicited many submissions and that he would extend the deadline.38 At least four responses were ultimately published in issues 3, 6, and 7. The entry in issue 3 by the female author Zhu Huizhen was marked as the winner.39 Bao received at least nine publishable entries for the second contest, “Women’s Occupations in All Regions,” which was announced in issues 3 through 5. He acknowledged this excellent response in his editorial column and further encouraged women to send in articles on specific occupations. The third contest, “The Reasons for Women’s Suffrage,” advertised in issue 6, yielded at least five responses.

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The next issue opened with a translated article on suffrage in the United States and included three other essays on the topic, one with the exact essay contest title. The lead essay in issue 8 by Jiang Renlan also had the essay contest title, suggesting it was at least one of the contest winners. The next topic, “Women and Industry,” announced in issue 7, garnered at least three publishable entries, including the lead essay in issue 9. It was followed by a contest on the topic “Household Hygiene” in issue 8. The two numbered winning essays by Song Butian and Mulan (discussed in the last chapter) appeared in issue 10.40 Bao published at least four responses to the sixth topic, “Women and Agriculture,” which was announced in issues 9 through 12, among them the lead essay in issue 17. The seventh topic, “Women Should Have Basic Medical Knowledge” (Nüzi dang you putong yixue zhishi), advertised in issues 13 and 14, yielded at least one substantial contribution that appears to have been the winner. The final topic, “Admonition for All Women of the World” (Duiyu tongshi funü zhi zhenbian), announced in issues 15 through 17, resulted in at least one submission. Repeat winners and male authors seem to have been tolerated. Jiaoxin, almost certainly a man, was the apparent winner of the contests “Women and Agriculture,” “Women Should Have Basic Medical Knowledge,” and “Admonition for All Women of the World.”41 Perhaps because the number of submissions to the journal by women authors, particularly contributions to “The Women’s Conversation Association,” increased after the journal’s revival in issue 18, Bao saw no need to continue the essay contests in the last four issues. Diaries Bao further attempted to access his readers’ subjective experience by soliciting their diaries (riji). In the first issue he expressed regret that the journal had not received any texts of this kind.42 In the ninth issue he again reminded women that the journal would enthusiastically welcome the submission of their “household diaries” (jiating riji). Rightly suspecting that respectable women would be reluctant to publicly share intimate personal details, he assured them that their surnames would not have to be published.43 In the eighteenth issue he reiterated his request. Stating that he had received a number of submissions, presumably by men, on various scientific topics such as forestry, animal husbandry, and health, he underlined that he was much more interested in subjective accounts written by women themselves. These could be in the form of diaries, jottings, essays, travel notes (youji), or even poems (shi and ci).44 While the diaries that headed Bao’s list of subjective accounts did not constitute a new genre in this period, his conception of them was new. The accounts he sought differed from texts conventionally called jiating riji (household diaries), whose sole purpose, as Zhu Jingyan outlines in an essay on the household published in the journal, was to advance daily self-cultivation through reflection on

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maxims from the sages.45 Bao’s notion was more akin to informal prose genres such as biji that distinguished themselves from a moralistic “grand tradition.”46 Similar to later texts labeled riji, the contributions Bao envisioned would not merely describe everyday life but analyze events and explore their subjective dimensions.47 While continuing to offer models of self-cultivation in the conventional mode, they would both describe “household experience” (jiazheng zhi jingyan) and elevate it through academic discussions.48 Most importantly, these records would document women’s experience. In the twentieth issue of the journal, Bao finally announced that he would publish an exemplary diary of this kind in the next issue, Suxia’s “Our Family Situation over the Last Ten Years.” He described Suxia’s manuscript, the contents of which are fully examined in the second part of this chapter, as an excellent piece of realistic (xieshi) writing. Adhering to his principle of linking the quotidian to a higher order of meaning, it provided a detailed and exhaustive account of the social and political forces that had influenced the life of one family over a decade.49 Photographs Bao considered photographs to be another repository of lived experience worthy of publication in the journal. His regulations for submitting manuscripts included a call for portraits of upright ladies. He was also interested in photographs that documented women’s engagement in education and in the family and that reproduced their achievements in calligraphy, painting, and embroidery. Authors who sent in images would be rewarded following publication with payment in the form of one issue, half a year of issues, or a full year of the journal, possibly depending on the quality of the image.50 Bao continued to solicit photographs from his readers at least seven times through his editorial column, arguing that these portraits would enhance the publication’s social, cultural, and commercial value.51 Over the course of the journal’s history, he also made specific requests for particular kinds of photographs. Shortly after the 1911 Revolution in issue 5, Bao asked for photographs of female soldiers. He claimed it would be a true boon for the journal to reproduce their “heroic” aura for the world to honor.52 The next issue included such a photograph of Zhang Zhuoqun (figure 1.11). From issue 6, Bao particularly targeted women who submitted manuscripts to the journal, asking them to send in photographs along with their writings.53 These photographs would help to advance social reform through authentic modeling: lifelike portraits of upright women would galvanize other upright women to participate in public media.54 Bao explained that he wanted women authors to become real to their audience just as the genuine form of the often fog-enshrouded Mt. Lu could be revealed to its viewers.55 Photographs of new social rituals could also help to both legitimize those rituals and enhance the journal. Taking advantage of the

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recent incorporation of wedding portraits into new-style or “enlightened” marriage ceremonies, Bao announced in issue 7 that such portraits would greatly contribute to the glory of the magazine’s front section.56 Bao also solicited photographs of working women. In the twentieth issue of the journal he announced that he had received several photographs of teachers, students, and schools, all of which he would happily publish. At the same time, however, he welcomed photographs of women working in factories, stores, and other venues.57 With the exception of a few glimpses of flower girls or vendors in Shanghai’s Zhang Garden, representing 4 of the journal’s 485 images, however, most of the photographs that were ultimately published were portraits of the journal’s various female authors and their social peers. These photographs would not only serve the journal’s noble aims of social inclusiveness and progressive modeling. They would also make the journal a more attractive and salable product: Bao directly acknowledged that they would raise the aesthetic quality of the journal and heighten the interest of readers.58 While he solicited photographs of revolutionary heroines in early 1912, as the political atmosphere became more restrictive over the course of the next year he appealed instead to fashionable Republican Ladies. In issue 9 he stated that the journal would be grateful to receive portraits of women from all regions dressed in newstyle clothing.59 In issue 18 he declared that such portraits would elevate Funü shibao to the level of “magazines of advanced nations East and West” in which, Bao claimed, half of each issue was dedicated to illustrations.60 Despite his alleged concern with authenticity, Bao was willing to publish portraits of attractive “writers” even when their works were ghostwritten by their husbands. These women included Yang Fenruo (Bi-Yang Quanyin Fenruo), who was identified in the caption to her photograph as a ci poet (figure 3.9). From the moment her poems were submitted to the journal, Bao suspected—partly on the basis of the handwriting—that they were written by a man. When Bi Yihong came to collect payment for the poems, Bao’s suspicions were confirmed. The two men then struck up what would become a lasting friendship.61 Bao, nonetheless, publicly perpetuated the deception that Yang was the author of the ci under her name. Her poems were published in issues 6 through 9, and her photograph appeared in issue 8, certainly after Bi had visited the journal’s offices to receive payment for the first contributions. D E TA I L I N G T H E EV E RY DAY

Bao’s commitment to making invisible Chinese women visible was often frustrated by the guixiu’s trademark social discretion. His repeated appeals to his readers to send in their photographs were often thwarted by the association of print photography with courtesans, whose portraits were key marketing features of fiction and

figure 3.9. Portrait of Ms. Bi Yang Fenruo of Wumen, Bi Yihong’s wife. While Bi Yihong was apparently the author of the poems submitted to the journal under Yang Fenruo’s name, the caption to the portrait describes her as a Chinese ci poet. Funü shibao 8 (September 25, 1912): front matter.

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entertainment magazines in Funü shibao’s day. This perhaps made it necessary for Bao to publish whatever photographs he did receive, even if, as in the case of Yang Fenruo, the women were not the writers they claimed to be. Similarly, Bao’s entreaties to women to share their words were impeded not only by the enduring problem of low female literacy but by lingering echoes of the classical dictum that a respectable woman’s words were not to leave the inner chambers.62 Despite these difficulties, as suggested in the analysis of the readers’ columns in the last chapter, an increasing number of women submitted their words and/or images to the journal over the course of its history. In accordance with Funü shibao’s ethos, these women, together with male writers for the journal, connected their personal experience and observations to such topical concerns as science, politics, and economics. Scientizing the Everyday There are some hints of scientific empiricism in Funü shibao. An article translated  from Japanese on the determinants of sex in animals states that the right testicle produces male offspring and the left testicle female offspring. The author emphasizes that his theory is based on empirical rather than textual research. It is the result of his own practical experience (shiyan) with copulating livestock. There have been no scholarly studies, he claims, on the subject.63 In most instances in the journal, however, authors focus not on the value of experience in the absence of text-based knowledge but on the superiority of experience over text-based knowledge. Bao’s prioritization of experience over book learning as the basis of science is evident in his editorial comments and placement of articles. It is salient, for example, in his editorial treatment of two articles written on a similar theme that were published in the last issues of the journal. The first is an article by the woman Zhu Jingyan on managing and organizing the household that appeared in issues 19 through 21.64 The second is the essay by the male activist Yun Daiying on family education that was published in issues 20 and 21 (briefly discussed in chapter 2).65 Despite Bao’s relentless efforts to encourage women to send in articles on topical themes, he foregrounded Yun’s male-authored article over Zhu’s femaleauthored piece. This suggests that his commitment to advancing particular interpretations of experience trumped his concern for promoting women’s writing. While Bao made no references to Zhu’s essay in his editorial column, he announced in issue 19 that Yun’s piece was one of several important articles that would appear in the following issue.66 He placed Yun’s essay first in issue 21, whereas all installments of Zhu’s three-part article appeared near the middle of the journal. There are certain similarities between the two articles beyond their general themes. Both assert the need to change existing everyday practices, although Yun’s emphasis is on pedagogy and Zhu’s on economics and hygiene. Both authors refer

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to foreign models, Yun to the American educator Winifred Sackville Stoner (ca. 1870–1931, “Sitongle”) and the British evolutionary scientist and champion of Darwin, Thomas Henry Huxley (1825–95, “Hexuli”); and Zhu to Charles Dickens (“Sickens”). They also both invoke Chinese authorities. Yun discusses Tang Jixiu’s (Tang Biao, fl. 1708) method of teaching characters, and Zhu references Gu Yanwu’s (Tinglin, 1613–82) and Zeng Guofan’s (1811–72) practice of keeping daily records of their moral behavior.67 The prime difference between the two articles is that Yun more explicitly links experience to science. He refers to an American science magazine (Meiguo kexue zazhi) and quotes a statement attributed to Huxley that science is nothing more than systematic everyday knowledge. He also insists—as did Wang Jieliang—that childhood education has to be based on the inductive method.68 In contrast, Zhu emphasizes morality. She cites Confucian maxims and Neo-Confucian scholars throughout her three-part article. She insists that families keep, not the new kind of diary Bao sought to publish in the journal, but a diary including a daily maxim from one of the great sages—Lü Kun (1536–1618), Zeng Guofan, Zhang Yangyuan (1608–74), Zhu Bolu (1627–98)—that would serve as the basis of self-cultivation and reflection.69 Yun further prioritizes experience (jingyan) over book learning. Echoing sentiments he expressed in an essay entitled “Zisong yu” (Self-blame), he juxtaposes “dead books” to “lived experience” and gives a number of reasons why text-based learning is problematic.70 First, he claims, books often contain mistaken concepts that are then passed down to generations of unsuspecting readers. If these readers lack experience, they will be in no position to question the inaccuracies. Second, books are filled with omissions. Again, unsuspecting readers who lack experience will be incapable of filling in any missing information. Quoting the American science magazine, he states that children must learn about science through their own direct investigation and experience (shiyan) of nature. They should not rely on incomplete and error-ridden textbooks.71 Zhu, in contrast, states that reading is the most important aspect of education and upbringing in the family. In underlining the importance of books, she insists that households have a catalog of family books organized by category, title, author, publisher, number of volumes, and price.72 The differences between Zhu’s and Yun’s approaches to knowledge cannot be attributed to gender. As noted in the last chapter, Yun’s ideas closely resonated with and were possibly influenced by Wang Jieliang’s writings. Other Republican Ladies also argued as eloquently as Yun for the value of lived experience over written texts. Among these women was Wang Ling Bingjia, who seems to be the only woman who submitted an informal series of jottings (suibi) to Funü shibao. This, together with her portrait (figure 3.1), which was published some six months after her jottings in 1914, appears to have been her only contribution to the journal.

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As the genre title “jottings” suggests, Wang Ling’s piece includes a disparate mix of topics, among them meditations on historical women of talent and past martial heroines, comparisons of the physical strength of Western and Chinese women, and reflections on science. Several of the entries reveal that Wang Ling had politically progressive views. Her radical statements include her reflections on a topic not often considered to be one of political import: botany. In these reflections, she challenges textual authority on the basis of personal experience and observation.73 Wang Ling opens her reflections by stating, “I have long enjoyed studying plants [botany; zhiwu] and investigating matters related to farming. When I have nothing to do, I often wander in the garden with my husband. We amuse ourselves by discussing plants and trees, traversing the countryside, and looking over the crops.” The ultimate conclusion that Wang Ling and her husband draw from their wanderings and investigations is that all of the knowledge they have gained from books is flawed. They have realized, she explains, that “botany and the writings on agriculture that we grew up reciting are nothing more than empty words on paper.”74 Wang Ling demonstrates this point by discussing a number of questions that came up as a result of her own on-site experience (shidi shiyan). She explains that she sought answers to these questions by browsing specialized books on botany and specialized treatises on agriculture but that none of these works addressed her particular questions. In a bold move for a woman of her day, she assumed intellectual authority herself and took up her brush to write “in place of the experts.”75 The next eleven entries in the jottings explore specific botanical phenomena. Wang Ling asks, for example, how the same peony plant of the buttercup family can have white flowers that are fragrant and purple flowers that are not. How, can one species manifest this important difference? She next challenges a common principle of botany according to which the veins in single-leafed plants are parallel whereas those in double-leaf plants form a network. Following this logic, the veins of plants in the lotus family, which belongs in the single-leafed category, should be parallel. However, they are not. What, Wang Ling asks, explains this seemingly anomalous network of veins?76 She goes on to directly dispute the authority of one of the more renowned texts on botany in the Chinese tradition, the Huajing (The mirror of flowers), which was first published in the seventeenth century and selections of which continued to be reprinted in encyclopedias of everyday knowledge (wanbao quanshu) through the early twentieth century.77 According to the Huajing, Wang Ling notes, cattails (bullrush) should not be exposed to sunlight in the summer months. Fine cattails planted in porcelain basins have a particularly delicate constitution and must be placed in a dark corner or on a table if they are to survive. Even under these conditions, in three or four days they will begin to wither. Wang Ling’s own experience contradicts such “expertise,” however. “My potted cattail,” she explains, “has always [been exposed to intense sun] in spring and summer. It, nonetheless continues to

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flourish, and tender green shoots [continue to emerge].” Either the “ancient thesis is not sufficiently thorough,” she opines, or “books cannot be completely believed.”78 Wang Ling concludes her eleven entries on botany with a mix of conventional modesty and unconventional assertion. She concedes that her record of agricultural matters is nothing but “fragmented words.” She declares, however, that her jottings are “based on factual experience” (shishi zhi jingyan) and “drawn from actual practice” rather than surmised from scholarly principles. It is on these experiential grounds that she is happy to record what she has learned.79 Politicizing the Everyday In the same jottings, Wang Ling reflects on not only the politics of knowledge but revolutionary politics. She recalls reading one of the earliest radical women’s journals, Chen Xiefen’s (Chubei yingci, 1883–1923) Women’s Learning, for example.80 She further commends Wu Zhiying (1868–1934) and Xu Zihua (1873–1935) who courageously defended and buried the revolutionary martyr Qiu Jin (1875–1907) after her “wrongful execution.”81 Women writers also addressed key issues in early Republican politics on the basis of their own experience. Jiang Renlan, Funü shibao’s most prolific author, for example, wrote on the topic of women’s suffrage from the standpoint of personal experience (qieshen yueli).82 While she explicitly distanced herself from more radical Chinese suffragists, she argued that women deserved the vote on the basis of their intimate knowledge of the domestic sphere.83 Jiang tied her demand for suffrage to Republican political ideals. “The practice of equality is central to democracy and republicanism,” she writes in one article. “The meaning of equality between men and women is equal rights for men and women. Suffrage is the ultimate proof of this equality. Males and females are both citizens [guomin]. But if they are not allowed to participate equally in national affairs, can they be said to enjoy equal rights?”84 Lived experience also served as the foundation for women’s discussions of key reform themes in the early Republican political discourse. In some instances, women used their knowledge of their native places to refute prevailing reformist views, particularly those that diminished women’s contributions to the nation. In other instances, their experience led them to echo themes that were prominent in the early twentieth-century reform discourse. Their writings therefore reflect the complexity of the Republican Ladies’ political and social self-positioning. A number of authors supported the view first articulated by Liang Qichao but frequently reprised in the early Republic that women were parasites on men and society. In one such article, a winning essay on the topic of women and agriculture, a certain Shen Wei, who appears to be male, directly echoes Liang’s language. Shen states that there are more women parasites than producers (fenli duo er shengli shao) in China, idle women who go through life passively consuming goods others have produced. Shen advocates that such women should instead study agriculture

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and then disseminate the practical knowledge they acquire to residents of their county, their province, and the entire country. In raising the national level of agricultural knowledge, they will help to place China on the world map.85 Liu Xialing introduces an element of class analysis into her similar critique of upper-class women. In an argument for the abolition of maidservants, she asserts that such a policy would put an end to the idleness of parasitical upper-class women. More importantly, it would fulfill humanitarian republican ideals.86 Hu Jingyi uses a comparable class-based analysis to refute, rather than support, Liang’s view of Chinese women as parasites. Writing in “The Women’s Conversation Association” in 1916, she defies what she describes as the global perception that Chinese women are dependent and incompetent. “People in the world today all insult Chinese women for relying on men for their livelihood and not having any skills,” she writes. “If this refers to the minority of upper-class Chinese women, then it is true without exception. But if it refers to our female compatriots who labor tirelessly on our behalf, I call out injustice.” She gives the example of a boat woman from Tongru in southern Jiangsu Province who was at once helmswoman, child care provider, nursemaid, and cook. This omnicompetent woman held the rudder with one arm and a baby with the other, while keeping an eye on the threeyear-old sleeping at her feet and instructing her older daughter on preparing dinner. Despite the ranting of male scholars, Hu insists, there are countless other Chinese women like her. She regards Bao as an ally and expresses gratitude that he has made space for women to express these important views.87 Women also concurred with many of the principles of the late Qing and early Republican social reform program. While Hu Jingyi felt, if not camaraderie, at least respect for her laboring sisters in the countryside, other authors berated what they considered benighted local practices. Qian Huilan disparages superstitious women in her native Taicang.88 Zhu Huizhen, in her winning essay on marriage customs, harshly criticizes the emptiness, extravagance, and unnecessary complexity of many of the marriage rituals in Suzhou. She also declares that the practice of faithful maidens remaining chaste is incompatible with the way of humanity.89 Xie Shuqiong of Dali County in Yunnan Province contributed a more personalized attack on the existing marriage system in 1917. She tied the death of her friend and fellow Dali native Chen Juying to the need for marriage reform in China. In an effort to publicize Chen’s tragedy and galvanize public opinion, Xie sent both her article and a copy of Chen’s suicide note to Funü shibao. According to the article, Chen became a local media sensation when she refused her father’s offer of a generous dowry. Her marriage to a male student was not, however, a happy one. Shortly after the wedding her husband became abusive, and she was powerless to reform him. Unable to admit her misery to her family and trapped in a system that made it virtually impossible for a woman to leave a bad marriage and maintain her social dignity, she finally took her own life with poison. In her suicide note she

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lamented being unfilial to her parents (for committing suicide). She also provided details of her husband’s cruelty: his harsh language, opium smoking, and other bad habits that she cryptically stated “her father could well imagine.”90 Jin Yuanzhen, whom Bao Tianxiao praised for exposing the emotional struggles women faced in the family, includes global references in her plea for the reform of a marriage system that allows men to have multiple partners. She relates the devastating effect of concubinage on daily family life to the devastating impact of dumdum bullets (damudan) that expanded on impact (and were so lethal that they were prohibited for use in international warfare by the Hague Convention Declaration III in 1899). Because of this impact on the family, she continues, the practice of keeping concubines is ten times worse than the practice of keeping of slaves in the United States. “We need an “Eastern [Abraham] Lincoln (1809–65),” Jin asserts, to solve this problem.91 Republican Ladies also wrote from personal experience to advocate for educational reform. Often teachers and students themselves, they penned articles outlining the need for meaningful education for women and the links between women’s education and universal education.92 Several authors made pragmatic proposals for expanding women’s educational opportunities. In her blueprint for a women’s club, Zhang Zhaosi includes a proposal for a personnel office that would help teachers find employment and students enroll in schools.93 The club would also serve as an ancillary educational institution. It would house a newspaper reading room and a library. This club library would be similar to the over two hundred popular libraries functioning in China at the time (1916) but would specifically target female readers. Since few women, according to Zhang, could read great classics or difficult texts, the library would offer popular journals, fiction, pictures, and books for household use.94 The club would also advance women’s edification by housing a music room, a gymnasium, a movie theater, and exhibit halls for displaying women’s schoolwork and selling their handicrafts. It would offer lectures on a range of themes from domestic science to recent academic discoveries, from strange occurrences to topical social and political issues.95 Quantifying the Everyday Female and male contributors to Funü shibao recognized the importance of not only detailing but quantifying their everyday experience as a means of aligning daily practices with aspirations for economic, social, and medical reform. The Household Economy. Zhu Jingyan’s approach to running the household may have been less scientific than Yun Daiying’s as discussed above, but it was practical in certain regards. In her article Zhu insists that in addition to keeping diaries of sagely maxims for self-cultivation families must keep account books (biaobu) for recording household expenses. These account books will be a means of ordering

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finances, keeping track of expenses, and avoiding waste. She “quotes” Charles Dickens in asserting that families require more income than expenditures and that they need to use a written form in order to properly manage their resources. Identifying Dickens in her essay as the British economist “Sickens” (the name and citation are in the Roman alphabet), she quotes a famous line from David Copperfield, printed in butchered English as “Ou Onnual imcome ‘of Twentg Pounds, Onnual Exkenditure, Nineteen, Nineteen Six; Re Sult HaPPiness, Annual Imcome, Twentg Lounds, Annual Expenditure, Tweutg Rounts, Nought And Six; Resuet Miserg” (Annual income twenty pounds, annual expenditure nineteen [pounds] nineteen [shillings] and six [pence], result happiness. Annual income twenty pounds, annual expenditure twenty pounds ought and six, result misery).96 A number of Republican Ladies who were already in the practice of keeping such account books provided Funü shibao with budgets of their families’ annual expenses, or descriptions of expenses and revenues over a period of years.97 Bao Tianxiao, who bemoaned the mundaneness of most of the diaries he received in response to his repeated solicitations, was highly enthusiastic about these more concrete writings. The one “diary” he singled out as an exemplary piece of realistic writing was a yearly rather than a daily record, Suxia’s “Our Family Situation over the Last Ten Years.” An exhaustive narrative of the social and political forces that had influenced the life and economic fortunes of one family in Nanchang, Jiangxi Province, it covered the period from 1903 to 1912.98 Suxia explicitly states that she will focus on the micro- rather than the national level in her account. She warns that her close personal observations of her family’s situation cannot be projected onto the entire nation or construed as a reflection on national customs. She further emphasizes the distinctiveness of individual circumstances that are determined by such factors as occupation, family size, and household income.99 These modest claims aside, Suxia’s account achieves what Bao hoped that accounts of experience would achieve: it demonstrates the extent to which the rhythm of daily life was punctuated by the political, and the local was intimately linked to the national. The account is attuned to Bao’s vision of the moral economy. Suxia’s family emphasizes education, culture, and morality. Tuition is consistently the household’s largest annual expense, and Suxia’s ever-frugal mother refuses to let her daughters “spend a cent on makeup.” She lives by the dictum that people should adorn their hearts with morality rather than their bodies with pearls, jade, and beautiful clothing.100 Over ten years while the family does not spend more than 350 yuan on clothing, it spends over 100 yuan a year on reading material, including recently published books, one newspaper, and two magazines.101 Suxia highlights the impact of both personal and political events on the household economy. These include her father’s death, her siblings’ studies, the chaos that ensued after a French missionary murdered the magistrate of her native Nanchang

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(she is silent on the murder of six French missionaries in retaliation), a fire, the 1911 Revolution, and the establishment of the Republican regime in 1912. She also provides a lengthy digression on the complex currency situation immediately before and after 1911, illuminating the quotidian difficulties that resulted from a fluid monetary economy and the co-circulation of multiple currencies.102 Suxia explains that the annual family income was two thousand yuan in 1902 but never reached one-third of this level after her father’s death in 1903. She documents specific family expenses. These include expenses related to daily consumption: the price of rice, fish, poultry, pork, salt, vegetables, and charcoal. They also include annual school tuition for her six brothers and sisters: one brother attends the Huiwen Academy, a forerunner of Nanjing University, and another the governmentsubsidized army elementary school, while her sisters attend missionary schools. Further expenses include the salary for the family’s two servants (reduced to one servant after 1908) and the cost of repairs and labor on the family properties that were its main source of income.103 She also provides a rare glimpse into the impact of the 1911 Revolution on local everyday life. The entire city was in a state of chaos, schooling was interrupted, and informal local security provided by a Baoan she (Peace Preservation Society) added another expense (gratefully for only one month). The economic situation worsened under the Republic with the imposition of new household and commercial taxes. The family income in 1912 was barely half what it had been in previous years. People were unsettled, commerce was slack, and big merchants were forced to close their shops.104 Women’s Wages. Suxia’s account is anecdotal, as are many other submissions published in the journal on women’s regional occupations. Funü shibao did also publish reports that aspired to meet the emerging standards of social scientific objectivity, however. These included a survey of working women in Shanghai by a male author using the pen name Wanxiu. Highly praised by Bao in his editorial column (and misread by later scholars as discussed in the Introduction), Wanxiu’s survey was based on hard data and aimed at social reform.105 Relying on census figures compiled by the Shanghai Municipal Council in 1915, Wanxiu estimates that there are several tens of thousands of poor girls among the some seven hundred thousand residents of Shanghai’s foreign concessions.106 He appeals to the social and academic elite to think constructively about solutions to the plight of these underprivileged women.107 His targeted audience includes “politicians, sociologists, merchants, industrialists, and philanthropists.” Echoing Bao Tianxiao’s “Inaugural Statement” to the journal, he also includes among his audience women of the inner chambers (honggui jiemei) who have expressed serious interest in social issues. Wanxiu’s aim is to make these elite women more aware of the extent to which Shanghai’s culture of consumption depends on armies of poorly

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paid young women who roll cigarettes, package medicine, pick tea leaves, reel silk, and sew. He wants these granddames to begin to understand, for example, that hours of intensive labor went into weaving the cloth they often dismiss as coarse.108 Wanxiu documents eighteen specific occupations: weaving, silk-reeling, collating books, binding books, picking tea leaves, wrapping cigarettes, rewrapping cigarettes, ripping tobacco leaves, plucking chicken feathers, packaging medicine, braiding straw hats, sewing, washing cloth, hairdressing, selling flowers, selling newspapers, and serving as wet nurses and maids. He details the risks involved in these various jobs and provides data on their respective wages and hours.109 The occupations can be categorized according to the extent of danger they potentially pose to a woman’s virtue. Collating books is one of the more respectable occupations, because it can be done in the home: a representative of the bookstore delivers and picks up the manuscripts, making it unnecessary for the woman to circulate in public.110 The least elevated occupations include selling newspapers in hotels, which requires coming into direct contact with traveling men. Some women sell newspapers in the morning and flowers in the evening—another of the more unsavory forms of female employment.111 Factory labor is also hazardous. Cataloguing the bitterest and most tragic aspects of the lives of women who work long and exhausting hours in silk reeling factories, Wanxiu emphasizes their sexual vulnerability. The most attractive among them are particularly susceptible to the whims and demands of powerful factory bosses, a theme that is echoed in one of the more powerful works of fiction published in the journal.112 Wanxiu further expounds on the lives of poor women who toil in the homes of the wealthy. These include some one thousand wet nurses who earn five or six yuan each month. They also include a hierarchy of household domestics. Suzhou women are among the most in demand, but Jiangbei women are the most numerous; and cleaner, better-educated Japanese girls are increasingly squeezing all of their Chinese counterparts out of jobs in the homes of Westerners.113 As indispensable as these maids to the everyday lives of women of the inner quarters are itinerant hairdressers (zou shutou). These women travel to the homes of regular clients and are among the better-paid women in the city—earning up to thirty yuan a month. At the same time, they are exposed to Darwinian pressure to stay abreast of Shanghai’s ever-changing trends—strong fashion sense and constantly updated skills alone can ensure a hairdresser’s survival.114 A number of the women of the inner chambers who Wanxiu notes are interested in social issues also attempt to quantify aspects of women’s labor in the journal (although not with the same amount of breadth as Wanxiu). Zhang Yonglian’s detailed investigation of a women’s papermaking “industry” in Jiaji includes discussion of wages and the different tasks involved in the process of paper making. In addition to lecturing women workers on ways of reforming their industry and

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expanding their market, she offers readers a table in which she records the various improvements she recommends (related to the materials, tools, solvents, and stages of the papermaking process).115 Funü shibao also published a “Survey on Women’s Lives in Shanghai” in early 1912 that aimed to capture the occupations of women at the lower, middle, and upper levels of Shanghai society. Using the pen name Zhinü qiansheng, the author, who appears to be male, relates these three levels to different degrees of economic independence. Like Hu Jingyi and other women writers for the journal, Zhinü qiansheng refutes the notion that women are “parasites on the nation” (guochun).116 While he implies that this characterization is most apt for upper-class ladies, he emphasizes how hardworking women are. This is particularly true for those from what he identifies as the middle level of society. The survey therefore both exposes and valorizes the lives of nonelite women. The first of Zhinü qiansheng’s three groups of women in the metropolis includes members of the upper level of society: wives, older women, young unmarried women, and concubines. The middle level is composed of those who earn a living as wet nurses, household servants, needleworkers, and shopkeepers, together with chaste widows who live in special homes designed to protect their economic and social well-being. The lowest level is populated by poor seamstresses, boat women, fisherwomen, tea pickers, musical entertainers, peddlers, midwives, sorcerers, fortune-tellers, Buddhist nuns, prostitutes (jinü), and beggars.117 Zhinü qiansheng highlights two factors that determine a woman’s social status: independence and knowledge (both scientific and moral). He notes that upperlevel women are distinguished on the basis of wealth rather than education and are the most socially dependent. They also lack basic knowledge of physiology (shengli) and health and have little understanding of their own bodies. Women of the middle level are more independent than upper-level women but need to be guided by moral knowledge in order to avoid succumbing to depravity. Women of the lowest level are the most independent but also the most prone to debauchery.118 Zhinü qiansheng is apparently at a loss as to how to place the new Republican Ladies—progressive elder wives like He Miaoling, professional women whom he refers to as “industrialists,” (shiye jia), teachers, and students—in his detailed grid. While he acknowledges that these women have benefited from the recent flourishing of education in China, he characterizes this education as a pale imitation of women’s learning in the West. “Educated” Chinese women are, he concludes, far from achieving true independence.119 Picturing the Everyday Educated Republican Ladies who were the authors of quantitative and qualitative accounts of experience often willingly responded to Bao’s call and sent their pho-

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figure 3.10. Back view of the fashionable journalist, educator, and ci poet Lü Bicheng. Funü shibao 10 (May 25, 1913): front matter.

tographs in to the journal as well. After he requested portraits of female soldiers and heroines in issue 5, he was able to publish the picture of a member of a women’s military unit, Zhang Zhuoqun (figure 1.11) in issue 6. Following his request for wedding portraits in issue 7, there was a marked increase in the number of this genre of photograph published in the journal. Two to six such portraits were included in every subsequent issue. After Bao asked readers to send in photographs of fashionable women in issue 9, a striking back view of the ever-stylish Lü Bicheng was published in issue 10 (figure 3.10).

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Bao was also relatively successful in securing photographs of women who wrote for the journal. There is some suggestion, particularly in the earlier issues, that this took some prodding. Articles by Wang Jieliang appear in issues 1, 2, 3, 5, and 8, for example, but her modest photograph was not printed until the tenth issue in May 1913 (figure 2.14).120 In the journal’s later issues, however, photographs were often published simultaneously with submissions. This was true in the case of Tang Xiuhui, who submitted four photographs (figures 3.11, 6.1, and 6.4; plate 3) and two texts to the last issues of the journal. There is some evidence of the control the journal had over the framing and captioning of the photographs that readers so generously sent in. The montage analyzed in the conclusion, for example (plate 7), was created by editorial staff at the publishing house after Zhang Mojun, the sister of the subject of the photograph, sent in two portraits.121 In at least one instance a woman was offended by the way the editorial staff captioned her photograph. Ye Tianxi, an assistant to the internationally acclaimed embroiderer Yu Shen Shou (1874–1921), was outraged to find that her portrait, which was printed next to Shen Shou’s in the first issue of the journal, was not appropriately titled. She was merely identified as a woman from Suzhou rather than as a skilled embroiderer in her own right. Bao apologized for the oversight in his editorial column in issue 2 of the journal, graciously calling Ye a goddess of embroidery (zhenshen)—the same term frequently used to describe the more famous Shen Shou.122 Everyday Poetics Bao Tianxiao did not solicit experience in poetic form. He considered poetry to be the medium for ethereal imaginings, not for serious reflection on the life-anddeath issues that were the valid subject of shiyantan. Poetry was, however, the medium to which women first turned to describe their experiences—including their political experiences—of the early Republic. Their shi and ci on revolution, formal education, and travel demonstrate the capacity of long-standing poetic forms and of the richly allusive classical language to convey not only personal but historical experience. Women’s preference for the ambiguity and emotional power of poetry ultimately trumped Bao’s calls for narrative straightforwardness.123 These divergent assessments of the validity of poetry did not merely reflect a difference of opinion between a presentist male editor and lyrical female writers in a particular women’s journal in the early twentieth century. They reflect a much larger struggle over the poetic and instrumental functions of language that had begun in the late nineteenth century and would intensify in the years immediately after Funü shibao went out of print. Within the context of this struggle, the lyrical mode that a number of Funü shibao authors chose as their preferred medium was declared obsolete. Having functioned as a technology of everyday life for elite men and women for centuries, achieving a “level of ‘practical’ interface with the rest of [Chinese] society” in a way that was unmatched in any other civilization, classical

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poetry would be condemned by New Culture iconoclasts as politically backward and emotionally repressive.124 Ironically, the more incisive social and political critiques penned by women in Funü shibao are often expressed in the poetic genres that Bao Tianxiao and other reformers had criticized for their political irrelevance from the late nineteenth century.125 A number of women who wrote for the journal were members of the revolutionary poetry society, the Southern Society, founded in 1909 to register opposition to the northern Manchu government.126 They included Zhang Mojun, who was engaged with Funü shibao over the course of its history and who was the Southern Society’s two-hundredth member.127 They also included Wang Can, from Songjiang, Jiangsu Province, the wife of Yao Shizi (1891–1945), who was among the youngest members of the Southern Society and the nephew of one of its founders, Gao Xu (1877–1925).128 And they included the famous educator and ci poet Lü Bicheng, who contributed a travelogue and photographs—including figure 3.10— to Funü shibao.129 Women responded to the founding of this journal, which was committed to fostering straightforward, prosaic writing, in poetry, their most natural mode of self-expression. Qian Huilan celebrates the journal’s establishment and its commitment to expanding women’s experience in the first issue.130 Wang Can praises Funü shibao as a flag of freedom for women in issue 2.131 Ma Wenyun expands on Wang Can’s praise for the journal in issue 3, asserting that it will advance gender equality by helping women develop alongside men.132 This practice of extolling the journal in verse continued after the journal was renovated in issue 18. Ren Fang commends the virtues of the revitalized publication in issue 19.133 Poetry was also the medium women used to express their political sentiments. These included their sentiments toward one of the most famous and controversial martyrs of the revolutionary movement leading up to 1911, the female revolutionary Qiu Jin.134 The lives of a number of women who wrote for the journal such as Lü Bicheng and Zhang Mojun, intersected with Qiu’s.135 Not all of these women, Lü among them, revered Qiu’s memory.136 Zhu Huizhen records contrasting views of Qiu in an essay on a woman who died of despair at the time of the 1911 Revolution.137 Most Republican Ladies who wrote of Qiu Jin in Funü shibao, however, including Wang Ling cited above, wrote of her with great feeling, often in poetic verse. Chen Lianqing regrets that Qiu has not been buried closer to the East Lake in Shaoxing, where “the wind and waves are calm” and there are “no fall flowers or fall grass”—an allusion both to Qiu’s name and to the poem of sorrow she famously wrote moments before her execution.138 Wang Shuzhen mourns that Qiu did not achieve all that she aspired to.139 Just as the journal published a range of views on Qiu Jin, it printed differing accounts of the 1911 Revolution, many of them by women and many of these in verse. In June 1911, some four months before the outbreak of the Revolution, a

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woman using the name Yinxue Nüzi writes presciently of the violence to come in a poem entitled “Current Affairs.” The situation is unstable like a chess game, she writes. There are wars on the borders, conflict in Liaodong, famine in northern Anhui. Where, she asks, are our country’s heroes?140 Just a month after the Revolution, Shen Shuzhen urges caution. She explicitly appeals to the frontline activist Zhang Zhujun in a letter, urging Zhang to be circumspect in her opposition to the government.141 In the next issue, published some three months after the 1911 Revolution, the journal published a paean to revolutionary female bravery by Shen Yao. Shen commends a friend who is setting off to join the Northern Expedition Army for surpassing the legendary women warriors Hua Mulan (ca. 500) and Liang Hongyu (ca. 1100–35).142 The tone of many of the writings on the Revolution was more solemn following the journal’s “revolutionary issue” (6). Tan Zhixue, a student at the Minli Shanghai Girls’ Middle School, submitted several poems on political themes to the journal. While she waxed poetic on the reclamation of Shanghai in issue 5, she published a poem in issue 7, dated July 1912, on both the triumph and the devastation of the Revolution. The title of the poem is descriptive: “Following the Red Cross in the tenth month of Xinhai [November or December, 1911], I passed Nanjing again. After the calamity, the landscape was littered with [corpses]. As this scene evoked memories of the past, a myriad of feelings have welled up in me, and I have written four fu to record the vicissitudes [of the Revolution].” Tan remarks on the brilliance of the Republic’s five-colored red flag and (controversially) describes the Revolution as the culmination of the Taiping Rebellion (1850–64), which opposed the Qing dynasty over a half century earlier. Six decades later, she writes, “we are ruled by the Han family again.” At the same time, she emphasizes the human cost of the Revolution: “We all should know that Republican territory was only won in exchange for the blood of heroes.”143 Women also expressed their sense of disappointment with Yuan Shikai’s regime shortly after it was established in early 1912. Even before the assassination of Yuan’s opponent Song Jiaoren in March 1913, Jiang Renlan published a poem laden with classical allusions entitled “Anger over Current Affairs.” She describes chaos and asks who can save the situation. The nation has become destitute since the emperor stepped down, she claims, and sounds of sadness echo in the midst of spring. She invokes the “Sorrowful Song of Yishui” (Yishui beige) and claims that heaven itself is shedding tears.144 Tang Xiuhui expresses a similar sense of desperation in a poem written in response to Yuan Shikai’s acceptance of Japan’s Twenty-One Demands in May 1915 (the poem was not published until the following summer). Tang describes “a violent wind that has come from the east and blown away the flowers and plants.” The whole nation has been overcome by a sense of injustice because “the gardener [yuanding, i.e., President Yuan—punning on his surname] has allowed a road into

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the enclosure [an incursion onto Chinese territory].” No one heeded the Shangyang bird that presaged this disaster. Now, Tang continues, the ground is littered with withered fallen flowers [disillusioned citizens]. “But the gardener is still laughing. I am pleading for the life of the flowers, searching for those under Heaven who love flowers, and who will go into the garden and drown that gardener.” She unfavorably compares “the gardener” to the legendary beauty Lü Zhu (ca. 300) of the Jin dynasty who chose martyrdom over disloyalty.145 Poetry also served women who wrote for the journal as a medium for the expression of their gender politics and criticism of men’s historical failures. In the poem “Colophon for My Own Painting A Beauty Inspecting a Sword while Leaning on a Horse,” Zhang Mojun pledges to fight for the nation because men are incapable or unwilling to do so themselves. “Today,” she writes, “many men are lowly characters immersed in achieving their own fame and unconcerned with the national interest.” She is determined to follow the heroic beauty in the painting, who has “pure courage in her heart.”146 Other women expressed their gender politics by invoking historical figures in their poems. “Hua Mulan,” a certain Gui wrote, was “chaste all her life. She was a female heroine who put men to shame.”147 Jiang Renlan wrote the most detailed historical poems to honor women who exceeded what was expected of them and to criticize men who squandered their talents. In a poem entitled “Six Verses on Famous People from the Past,” Jiang celebrates six women, including Nanzi, the wife of Weiling Gong (540–493 BCE), who dared to invite Confucius to meet with her; Lü Zhu, whom Tang Xiuhui also referred to, another great beauty who chose to jump to her death rather than be unfaithful; and Su Xiaoxiao (479–502), a courtesan who guarded her good reputation for eternity.148 In a second poem, published some six months later, Jiang writes of eight men of talent who ultimately failed, including Yang Xiong (53–18 BCE), a coward who served the usurper Wang Mang in the Han dynasty, and Ma Rong (79–166), who was talented and knowledgeable but squandered his gifts on political ambitions.149 Women used poetry and other media to achieve another of Bao Tianxiao’s aims: to create a community of shared experience. While Funü shibao was a journal of many conversations fostered through editorial and readers’ columns, and across articles on various themes, its most intimate conversations were in the “Literary Garden” section of the journal.150 The occasion of many of these works was the shared experience of new-style education. For young girls who left home to attend school, often at great expense to their families, the years of study were a time of high expectations and deep anxieties. They were also a time of heightened affect as young women created close bonds with their fellow travelers on what was as yet an uncharted path for women.151 These sentiments were expressed in a range of media in Funü shibao and other women’s journals. These included poems addressed to fellow students and teachers, accounts

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figure 3.11. Tang Xiuhui (right) with a classmate, Jiang Hanjie. This is one of four photographs Tang submitted for publication in the journal. Funü shibao 21 (April 1917): front matter.

of school outings, and photographs of classmates taken together in photography studios.152 Tang Xiuhui (figure 3.11, right) wrote four pieces for Funü zazhi and Funü shibao in the 1910s in different genres, including a preface, a short essay, and the song lyric above on the gardener and the Twenty-One Demands.153 The other three pieces are meditations on friendship. Two were written on the occasion of Tang’s

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graduation from the Zhejiang Girls’ Normal School in 1916 and her impending separation from her classmates.154 In one, the preface to a yearbook for graduates of the Zhejiang Women’s Normal School, Tang describes how the simple names recorded in the book have the power to evoke the richness of school friendships and the joys of the years spent studying together. She writes of how the book will keep alive for her the memory of particular friends: the one with whom she most enjoyed traveling, the one with whom she studied most happily, and the one whose words were as comforting as a glass of wine.155 In a short reminiscence of travel to Xiling, a bridge near Sun Hill in Hangzhou, she ruminates on the difference between the pure, disinterested friendship of individuals of noble character (junzi) and the self-serving friendships of those of lower moral character (xiaoren). She invokes the legendary friendship between Bao Shu (d. 644 BCE) and Guan Zhong of the Spring and Autumn period and regrets that such closeness is increasingly rare in her own day. She nonetheless asserts that contemporary women should be as capable of true friendship as these ancient men.156 Zhang Mojun also wrote lyrically about the profundity of female friendship. She composed thirteen verses to commemorate a visit to view the plum blossoms on Mount Dengwei, southwest of Suzhou, in the spring of 1917 with three other women writers, Chen Hongbi, Lü Bicheng, and Tang Peilan. In the verses, Zhang evokes a deep sense of camaraderie among the women. With wine at their sides, they swear an oath of unending allegiance to one another. Through references to the Garden of the Peaches of Immortality (Taoyuan) and to free-spirited scholars (qingkuang chushi) who refuse to serve the bureaucracy, the verses capture a sense of escape from social and political turmoil with kindred spirits. As the women chant poems among themselves, they create an alternate existence as different from the one they left behind as heaven from earth. The verses, like many of Zhang’s poems, also evoke Buddhist themes: while she lives among the dust she wishes to transcend the earth and reach enlightenment.157 M E S SY M AT E R IA L I T Y

None of the materials published in Funü shibao—from poems commemorating outings among female friends to aspiring social scientific surveys or records of local marriage practices—offered the journal’s readers unmediated access to that most coveted commodity in the pages of the early Republican periodical press: “real experience.” Whether texts or images, submissions to readers’ columns or portraits of authors, all had to be aligned with the journal’s reform and commercial agendas, and all were subject to generic conventions, editorializing, moralizing, and framing. This does not discount the value of a source like Funü shibao as a lens onto the processes through which experience was valorized and the means by which the

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conditions of knowledge were theorized and established in the early Republic. These were not coherent or consistently logical processes. Bao Tianxiao validated the experience of women who kept bees and chickens but not pigs. He pleaded with women to send in accounts of experience but discounted the one genre, poetry, in which they most naturally expressed their experience. Celebrated authors invoked texts by foreign authorities to discredit the value of textual authority. Women wrote incisive gender and political critiques in an allusive language that was the target of gender and political critiques. These various writings that came under the loose new rubric of experience nonetheless speak to a variety of impulses in early Republican society: efforts to categorize and visualize once invisible segments of the population; to alter existing marriage and papermaking practices; to quantify daily life and historical experience—to publicly write one’s experience as a woman, regardless of genre. The journal also offers rare glimpses of the messy materiality of daily life in the early twentieth-century China. Rather than project coherent discourses on the monumental transformations occurring or aspired to at this time, it pries open small cracks to reveal the ways these transformations were differently lived and embodied. One example of these embodied transformations appears in a readers’ column entry published in the eighteenth issue of the journal. The subject is recently unbound feet, one of the most powerful markers of China’s overcoming of its “barbaric” past. Rather than depict early Republican women in the abstract as mercifully liberated from this benighted practice, the entry describes the quotidian reality of managing the painful and awkward transition to natural feet.158 It is not a diatribe but a source of practical information, not a lament but a guide to reclaiming the allure of the newly unbound female foot. Entitled “An Aesthetic Method of Unbinding Feet,” the entry offers explicit directions on how to achieve the perfectly shaped unbound foot, one that is not “fat and short or thin and pointed,” not “sharp like a cone in the front” or “square like a jade tablet in the back.” This involves taking a rigid piece of hard, thick lining and cutting out a model of the desired foot shape. The woman then sews the lining into the form of a shoe, places the foot in this form, fills any empty areas with cotton, and puts the model into socks, and the socks into shoes. After a time the foot will adapt to the preferred shape and the model will no longer be needed.159 Such traces of physicality coincided with Bao Tianxiao’s emphasis on publishing accounts of women’s embodied experience. In opening up a space for the public recording of such physical details, Funü shibao became a forum that was particularly rich in data, debates, and descriptions of the intimate processes related to women’s reproductive health.

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Tang Jianwo was a quintessential Republican Lady. Genuinely cosmopolitan, she studied physical education in Japan, and she exudes worldliness and confidence in her studio portrait shown in figure 4.1.1 Her Western dress reveals her waist, and she holds a foreign umbrella—a marker of newness in the early Republic (see figure 3.3 as well).2 Tang was also unabashedly public. In addition to this portrait, she contributed four articles to Funü shibao in which she shared her expertise on health and physical education.3 A knowledgeable writer, she was, in addition, a professional, the first head of the Zhongguo nüzi ticao xuexiao (Physical Education School for Girls), a school that both Bao Tianxiao’s daughter and niece attended.4 Tang also highlights one of three tensions that governed thinking about women’s reproductive health in the early Republic. This was a tension between the largely male-generated strategy of representing women as pathologically modest, ignorant of their own bodies, and in need of professional male medical intervention and the tactics of women who defied the pathologically modest label by writing both from experience and with knowledge about the most intimate aspects of women’s bodies. While a number of the women’s proposals were aligned with men’s, they were more attuned to the minutiae of women’s reproductive and social needs, including maintaining breast health and screening wet nurses. Another prominent tension in obstetrical thinking in Funü shibao was between reform and commercialization. This was a tension between promoting a global biomedical approach to women’s health to strengthen the national body and using commercial products—the periodical press and advertisements for pharmaceuticals in the periodical press—to promote that vision of health. These two aspects of 115

figure 4.1. Physical education specialist Tang Jianwo exudes worldliness and confidence in this portrait. Her Western dress reveals her waist, and she holds a foreign umbrella—a marker of newness in the early Republic. Funü shibao 2 (July 26, 1911): front matter.

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the press—admonition and advertisement—worked with and against one another in promoting new health practices. A third tension in discussions of women’s reproductive bodies was between experience and expertise. Bao and medical professionals who wrote for the journal recognized that accounts of women’s experience provided raw data for experts and served as the basis for medical and pedagogical reform. At the same time, they insisted that biomedical expertise was necessary to evaluate this experience and improve the lives of Chinese women. This invocation of a new biomedical imperative was evident in discussions of menstruation, miscarriage, and childbirth. It was most prominent in calls for midwifery reform. The animated discussion in various sections of the journal around these three tensions—between reform and commerce, expertise and experience, male strategies and female tactics—demonstrates the extent to which a new vision of reproduction in the Republican period was not just the product of foreign-supported or state-driven projects imposed from above. A close and contextualized reading of Funü shibao reveals that early twentieth-century obstetrical reform was spearheaded by efforts to improve women’s lives based on information, expertise, and opinion generated from below.5 R E F O R M A N D C OM M E R C E

The Biomedical Imperative The protection and well-being of the female reproductive body was a longstanding Chinese medical and moral imperative.6 In the context of imperialist aggression and global biomedical reform in the late nineteenth century, it also became a political imperative. The inadequate, vulnerable, and volatile female body was now linked to the inadequate, globally inferior, national body.7 Funü shibao’s editor and authors emphasized this relationship between female and national deficiency well before statistics on infant and maternal mortality were compiled and published in China. The alarm they expressed over the inordinate number of Chinese women dying in childbirth and their suggestion that these numbers were significantly higher than in foreign countries were borne out by statistics compiled ten to twenty years later.8 Medical experts estimated that rates of infant and maternal mortality in China were three to five times the rates in European countries in the 1920s and 1930s.9 Qu Jun, who wrote several articles on women’s reproductive health in Funü shibao, would estimate in 1926 that 3,330,000 birth mothers and infants died a year in China.10 Qu Jun and other Funü shibao authors took a new, scientific approach to this increasingly urgent national imperative. They joined a community of medical professionals—many of whom had been trained abroad, mostly in Japan as Qu Jun was—that linked biomedicine to the strengthening of the Chinese nation and saw

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women’s reproductive health as a linchpin in that effort. As Jiaoxin wrote in his winning essay on the need for women to have basic medical knowledge: in an age when nations were faced with the task of strengthening the physique and invigorating the spirit of their citizens, women, the “mothers of our nation’s citizens” (guomin zhi mu), had to have medical expertise.11 This biomedical drive, based on principles of germ theory and an understanding of the anatomical body, did not completely displace, but rather coexisted with, existing Chinese medical modalities grounded in yin-yang cosmology. The two “systems” remained loosely defined and mutually generative in this period before the historic schism between “Chinese medicine” and “Western medicine” in 1929.12 In the early Republic, medical practitioners, journal authors, and lay people combined Chinese body concepts with imported illness concepts in a process of dynamic definition.13 Funü shibao became a venue for this dynamic interaction and played a crucial role in broadening the public conversation on women’s reproductive health in the early Republic. No longer a family-centered, taboo-enshrouded, unregulated set of events, the reproductive process became a topic of discussion among women and men, experts and lay people. While contributors to the early Republican periodical press were not the first in Chinese history to use print to disseminate medical advice for the treatment of gynecological disorders, they were the first to initiate dynamic interactions—between readers and editors, between expertise and anecdote, between doctors who devised surveys and women who were encouraged to fill them in.14 They were also the first to correct what they saw as erroneous practices by introducing the wisdom and principles of Western-style obstetrics.15 Medicine in Funü shibao Bao Tianxiao made women’s reproductive health one of Funü shibao’s prime topics of concern. A key area of women’s quotidian experience that the journal sought to penetrate, it was also one of the vital realms of expertise that the journal sought to elevate by both expanding Chinese women’s medical knowledge and disseminating medical knowledge about women. While Bao focused on a range of public health issues in some of his other writings on early Republican society, in Funü shibao he specifically solicited articles related to menstruation, childbirth, and household hygiene.16 He defended this choice against critics in his editorial column, published an array of expert information and lay opinion on women’s obstetrical health, and offered women an unprecedented public platform to discuss these issues among themselves. Bao was forced to clearly defend his commitment to the discussion of women’s intimate health concerns in the second issue of the journal. He reports having received a letter that directly criticized an account of experience (shiyantan) on the topic of childbirth written by the woman Qiu Ping and published in the journal’s

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first issue. According to the critic, Qiu’s account “lacked refinement and elegance.” Bao laments, in response, that his efforts to publish such honest accounts and broach taboo topics are so misunderstood. “Our country does not lack women who study the literary arts or the fine arts,” he writes. “But are practical science and topics concerning human life and death not also within the realm of women’s concern? How can [such important matters] be regarded with disdain?” Bao links his defense of Qiu’s article to his promotion of the new kind of woman—and the new kind of society—he was determined to call into being. Echoing Qiu’s main argument, he asserts that “this journal must promote [the occupations of] nurses and midwives [chanpo].”17 Over the course of the journal’s history, Bao repeatedly renewed this commitment. At the time of the 1911 Revolution he urged Chinese women to form a Red Cross association.18 When it became increasingly difficult for women to organize under Yuan Shikai’s regime, he remained committed to broadening their medical knowledge. In addition to setting “Household Hygiene” and “Women Should Have Basic Medical Knowledge” as two of the journal’s essay contest themes, he also planned a question-and-answer column on hygiene that would be moderated by medical experts for issue 10.19 While this column did not ultimately materialize, the journal published contributions by medical professionals who were on the forefront of biomedical reform in China, including Qu Jun and Hou Guangdi.20 Qu and Hou’s essays were among the first original—as in not translated—articles on women’s reproductive health to appear in the Chinese periodical press.21 A number of the issues they raised would not be systematically dealt with in China until the 1920s.22 Qu Jun (who would later publish under the name of Qu Shaoheng), a prominent Republican–era expert in the fields of obstetrics and gynecology, published two articles and a survey in Funü shibao. Originally from Chuansha in Jiangsu Province, Qu trained as a doctor in Japan and graduated from Osaka Senior Medical School (Ōsaka Kōtō igakkō) in 1916. In 1923 he was sent by the Ministry of Education to further his studies in Germany.23 Qu devoted his career to studying, practicing, and institutionalizing obstetrics and gynecology in China, and to infusing existing cultural and medical practices with new biomedical content. He established a number of hospitals in China, including one, the Qushi fufu yiyuan (Dr. and Mrs. Qu Hospital), that he co-founded in 1922 with his wife, Yao Yingnai, who also studied in Japan and wrote for Funü shibao.24 Qu had a lifelong commitment to disseminating and vernacularizing medical knowledge. His Funü shibao writings, which were published while he was still a student in Osaka, mark the beginning of this commitment. Qu shared Bao Tianxiao’s concern with improving medical practice in China by bridging the gap between scientific knowledge and women’s daily bodily experience. This approach to medicine accorded with Qu’s characterization of himself as a “lower–level doctor”

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(xiayi), meaning a doctor more involved in everyday clinical practice than in abstract theorization.25 In so identifying himself, Qu was being excessively modest. While he did have a clinical practice, he was also devoted to teaching and writing, as were so-called “middle-level doctors.” He helped found and run a number of schools in Beijing and Shanghai, and he compiled teaching materials for use in training hospitals.26 Qu arguably contributed to the development of medical theory as well, the purview of “upper-level doctors.”27 Qu Jun’s primary concern was, in his own words, to provide his readers with knowledge for practical use.28 Following a long-standing practice of popularizing medical knowledge in China, he vernacularized gynecological principles in Three Hundred Popular Songs on Gynecology (Tongsu chanke sanbai yong). He dramatized the tension between the old and the new midwifery in a 1935 coauthored play, Script on a Life-and-Death Crisis (Shengsi guantou juben).29 Even his “Teaching Materials on Obstetrics” targeted a broad audience that included not only medical experts, new-style midwives, medical students, and doctors just opening their practices but also those with no institutional ties to the medical establishment: parents, pregnant women, and ordinary households. In his preface to the lectures, Qu used a trope that was common in prefaces to late imperial medical texts, including those on women’s ailments: following what he claimed was his parents’ admonition, he was determined to “pursue his studies and benefit the world” (qiuxue jishi).30 Qu’s lifelong project of broadly disseminating new biomedical knowledge began with two related articles and a survey on menstruation published in Funü shibao in 1911 and 1915 respectively. These writings are among the first original works to discuss the physiology of menstruation and the mechanics of female sexual organs in the Chinese periodical press. They are also an example of the coexistence of different medical modalities in the early Republic. Qu’s prime objective was to expand women’s repertoire of self-care rather than to radically alter it—to integrate newly available and long-standing medical approaches rather than to replace one set of practices with another. In his writings, Qu combined a biomedical understanding of anatomical gender—he wrote of the reproductive organs (shengzhiqi binggen), for example— with Chinese understandings of the sources of illness that affect that anatomy.31 He advocated a combination of “Chinese” and “Western” ways of managing the menses. He urged menstruating women to avoid the risk of “catching pathogenic cold” (shouhan) by wearing pants (under their skirts) and refraining from eating cold food or “sitting on the floor” (an error made by Japanese women).32 At the same time he admonished women to use sanitary napkins, a commodity so new that it would not be sold even in Shanghai until the early 1920s.33 Similarly, he instructed pregnant women to be attentive to both hygiene and ancient principles of fetal instruction (taijiao). The latter included the avoidance of sorrowful fiction, music, and drama and the enjoyment of joyful and interesting books and works of art.34

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A second medical expert and devoted popularizer who wrote for Funü shibao was Hou Guangdi. A member of one of the earliest organizations to introduce knowledge of Western medicine to the Chinese medical community, the ZhongXi yixue yanjiuhui (Chinese and Western Medical Association), Hou wrote a number of works on quotidian medical care. In a 1915 work, Xialing weisheng tan (Health in the summer), for example, he offers advice on the “hygiene” of everyday life. Focused on the hot summer months and interpreting weisheng literally as the practice of guarding life, he emphasizes healthy drinking and eating; methods of eliminating flies and ticks; causes and means of preventing diarrhea; methods of guarding against dysentery, cholera, and plague; and the prevention and treatment of sunstroke.35 Hou wrote two articles for Funü shibao on anemia and on the treatment of miscarriages. The latter includes graphic information on, for example, the need to remove the placenta from the uterus of a woman who has miscarried.36 He also wrote for other women’s journals of the period, including an article on infant care in Zhang Mojun’s Shenzhou Women’s Journal in 1913.37 Japanese Sources In addition to introducing original works by experts like Hou and Qu Jun, Funü shibao published translations on a range of topics related to women’s obstetrical health. Most of the translations were from Japanese texts, a mark of Japan’s fourdecade advance over China in implementing biomedical reform. In the early Meiji period, the Japanese government and medical establishment had abandoned centuries of medical practice based on the Chinese model and had replaced it with the modalities of European—particularly German—biomedicine. Japanese students were sent to study in Germany from 1870, and Japanese physicians with the most prestige and authority were those who had acquired either schooling in Germany or medical training from German scholars at Tokyo Imperial University.38 By 1900 the Meiji government had established three important government medical colleges, and by 1913 Japan had graduated over fifteen thousand practicing state-registered doctors. In the same period in China, the period that coincides with the early years of Funü shibao, there were only five hundred medical students in training in various missionary apprenticeship programs, hospital schools, and union medical schools.39 Given the prominence of German medicine in East Asia by the early twentieth century, it is natural that both Japanese and Chinese would look to German doctors for guidance in approaching the most mysterious, dangerous, and essential of human physical processes—childbirth. In a column in the nineteenth issue of Funü shibao, Bao Tianxiao announces that he has recently heard of two solutions to the dangers of childbirth: a French method of contraception and a recent German discovery of a “painless, safe method of giving birth.” Bao is most enthusiastic

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about the German option and announces that he has already arranged to have an article explaining it translated for publication in the next issue.40 Bao’s editorial suggests that the article will be directly rendered from German, and the published article further supports this suggestion: no information is given to indicate anything but a Western source, and the first installment is illustrated with the photographs of the two German doctors who discovered the method of painless childbirth (figure 4.2). A situated reading reveals, however, that the original text was Japanese. Entitled The Practice of Painless Childbirth, it was written by Aoyagi Yūbi, a Christian convert who had studied English. Aoyagi wrote frequently on issues such as love and sex in Japanese women’s periodicals and in monographs, including one on marriage that was translated by the Youzheng Book Company.41 He published The Practice of Painless Childbirth as a two-part book in 1915, a year before it appeared in two installments in Funü shibao. The Japanese text does not appear to be a translation. Aoyagi makes no mention of any sources in his preface, and the back matter lists him as author rather than translator.42 Since he had studied English, he could have read a number of books or articles on the topic written in 1914 and 1915.43 While he may have consulted these works, however, none of them appear to have served as a direct source for his treatise. In his preface, Aoyagi explains that a painless method of childbirth has been discovered by Drs. Bernard Krönig and Karl Gauss at the Women’s Clinic of the State University of Baden twelve years prior to his writing. His purpose in publishing The Practice of Painless Childbirth is to explain Krönig and Gauss’s method to the broader public (figures 4.2 and 4.3). Bao’s purpose in publishing the translation of Aoyagi’s work was, in turn, to integrate his Chinese audience into this medically informed global public. Commodifying Health This broader public was also the target of pharmaceutical advertisements published in the periodical press. Advertisements for women’s health products worked in tandem but also in tension with the journal’s efforts to reform women’s health practices and introduce new biomedical principles. Ads in Tandem with Articles. Medical advertisements targeting women were integral rather than ancillary to Funü shibao. Prominent in the journal as they had been in the periodical press from at least the 1880s, the approximately three ads per issue that addressed women’s health concerns reinforced key elements of Funü shibao’s gender, epistemological, and medical agendas.44 The ads targeted the same demographics of Republican Ladies as the journal: educated, urban, and relatively well-off women, whether older gentlewomen, new professionals—mostly teachers—or students.45 These women, who were most

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figure 4.2. Drs. Bernhardt Krönig and Karl Gauss, as pictured in Aoyagi Yūbi’s Jissen mutsūan sanpō (The practice of painless childbirth), front matter. Aoyagi Yūbi, Jissen mutsūan sanpō , fuku: Ijutsu no shinpo (Tokyo: Jitsugyō no sekaisha, 1915).

figure 4.3. A page from the translation of Aoyagi’s Practice of Painless Childbirth by Qin Zong and Zhi Xin, showing the portraits of Drs. Bernhardt Krönig and Karl Gauss in a layout identical to Aoyagi’s (figure 4.2). Aoyagi is not cited as the original author; instead, Bao’s editorial comments and the translation itself suggest that the work was drawn directly from a German source. Qin Zong and Zhi Xin, trans., “Wutong anchan fa,” Funü shibao 20 (November 1916): 47.

inclined to be readers of the journal, would also have been the most inclined to try and the best able to afford Western medical patent medicines; new-style health practices, like new-style reading practices, were expensive.46 These women would also have been most capable of reading the content of the ads, with their often lengthy testimonials and descriptions of medicinal properties, which were written in the same range of relatively high language registers as articles in the journal.47 A close reading of the ads, consonant with a close reading of the journal itself, suggests an increasingly engaged female readership over time. This is evident in advertisements for the Chinese medicine “Zilai xue” (Running Blood), for example. While women are mute and spoken for generally by their husbands in difficult new-style prose in the early ads, by the later advertisements from issue 17 they speak in what is allegedly their own, more demotic voice.48 Experience was the basis of the efficacy-based testimonials that were the centerpiece of medical advertisements. Individuals shared their experience in open letters rhetorically addressed to drug makers but targeting the journal’s

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health-obsessed readers. They also elevated this experience—as Bao Tianxiao urged contributors to the journal to do—by linking it to a higher order of meaning. Testimonials did not merely conclude with women finding a specific cure to a particular ailment: extraordinary children (liner) were born, family lines were extended, and the nation and race were strengthened as a result of the salutary elixir.49 Photographs of these dramatically healed patients further enhanced the testimonials—as they adorned accounts of experience in the journal—and performed a similar dual function. They both modeled reformist behavior and helped sell a product; they encouraged women to try Western-style cures and drew more readers to look at the ad. Tang Linbao, “an instructor at the Zhenjiang police headquarters,” included a photograph of his wife with the letter he allegedly wrote to thank the head of the Great World Pharmacy (Wuzhou da yaofang) for restoring her to health (figure 4.4). Deeply grateful that she had finally found relief from some five years of suffering from headaches, insomnia, and apparent menstrual disorder, Tang announced in the letter that he planned to publish her portrait in all newspapers. This would encourage women with similar disorders to take this miraculous cure.50 Tang’s letter suggests the symbiosis between advertisements and periodicals. Not only did journals print advertisements for pharmaceuticals, but pharmaceutical advertisements in turn promoted the value of the periodical press. Authors of testimonials often cited the press as the crucial source that had led them to the needed panacea. They in turn publicized their gratitude—and the medicine—in journals and newspapers. Qu Suzhen, who lived in isolation with her uncle, was too ashamed to talk to others about her ailments. She ultimately “learned of the outstanding efficacy of Mr. Douan’s medicines from reading the newspaper.” She, in turn, chose to share her experience, and her photograph, in an advertisement published in the periodical press (figure 4.5).51 The student Lin Yingfei similarly discovered Moon Brand pills through an advertisement in the press, and her testimonial and image were, in turn, included in an advertisement in the press (figure 2.10).52 Ailing mothers told their worried sons they wanted to try Dr. Williams’ Pink Pills for Pale People (Weilianshi da yi sheng hongse buwan) after “reading testimonials in all newspapers,” and husbands desperate to help their suffering wives read about medicines in various periodicals.53 It is often unclear precisely what these suffering wives, ailing mothers, and exhausted students were suffering from—and precisely what the medicinal properties of the patent medicines were. Most advertisements, like articles in Funü shibao, promoted a blended biomedical approach that combined old and new, body and illness concepts. They generally targeted an overall malaise and multiple symptoms rather than specific or acute ailments. Their intended audience was also broad: single medicines could often be used to treat both genders, curing, for example, gynecological disorders and male impotence, nocturnal emissions and “cold

figure 4.4. Tang Linbao published his wife’s portrait and an accompanying testimonial in Funü shibao—and planned to publish it in all newspapers—in order to encourage women who suffered from ailments similar to hers to take the Great World Pharmacy’s miraculous cure. “Nengzeng nujie jueda zhi xingfu,” Funü shibao 2 (July 26, 1911), 3 (September 22, 1911), and 4 (November 5, 1911).

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figure 4.5. Qu Suzhen recounts in a testimonial that she learned of the outstanding efficacy of Mr. Douan’s medicines from reading the newspaper. “Douanshi yangsheng lingyao / zhiyu jingbi xueku zhi zheng/ qingxue buxue zhi liangyao,” Funü shibao 7 (July 10, 1912).”

uterus,” together with a range of nongendered symptoms like backache.54 Offering something for everyone, the Funü shibao advertisements, nonetheless, foregrounded women’s ailments and offered biomedical solutions to women’s suffering. A handful of these advertisement narratives—usually those for Western patent medicines—explicitly decried the failures of Chinese medicine, for which there

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was no stable term at this time. According to one account, a Tianjin man’s wife took various kinds of Chinese medicine (Huayao) for an unbearable stomach illness to no effect. She wasn’t cured until friends urged him to give her Dr. Williams’ Pink Pills.55 Qu Suzhen also recounted that she had repeatedly taken Chinese medicine (Zhongyi yao) but that it was “hopelessly ineffective.”56 Blending was, however, much more common than bifurcation in the advertisements, which were among the most fused materials in the journal. There was little distinction between advertisements for Chinese and Western patent medicine companies in either format or content, with the exception of the inclusion of some English in the foreign ad copy. All companies—Chinese or Western—identified themselves using a new term for pharmacy, yaofang, rather than the term for oldstyle Chinese drugstores, tang.57 The Western patent medicine companies had Chinese names—although their English names appeared in illustrations of their products. They included the globally pervasive Dr. Williams’ Pink Pills for Pale People, which had eleven ads in Funü shibao, and Doan’s Backache Kidney Pills (Douanshi yangsheng ling yao), with eight ads specifically targeting women in the journal.58 The Japanese Princess Chūjō’s Decoction, which had ten advertisements in the journal, was also a profound amalgam. Its trademark represented the legendary founder of the cure, the mid-eighth-century Chūjō princess; the cure itself was based on the principles of Chinese medicine, and the illnesses it targeted were described in terms derived from that tradition. At the same time, the company’s scientific authority was foreign derived: a Japanese doctor trained in Germany, Ogata Masakiyo (1864–1919), had allegedly developed the modern form of this powerful remedy for women’s ailments, using European and American scientific principles.59 The names of Chinese companies—all of which were based in cosmopolitan Shanghai—suggest similar global connections. They included the Great World Pharmacy, which had more advertisements in the journal than any other drug company and which produced the most famous Chinese medicine for tonifying blood, “Running Blood.” Possibly an imitation of Dr. Williams’ blood-fortifying pills, the medicine’s name, zilai xue, invoked Western progress by playing on the term zilai shui, or running tap water, a utility so novel even in Shanghai at this time that it was featured on a Funü shibao cover (figure 4.6). This name suggested that if your blood was weak, taking this medicine would replenish it with the force of a turned-on faucet.60 Other Chinese companies that advertised their blended products in the journal included the Great Sino-Western Pharmacy (Zhong-Xi da yaofang) and the Old Sino-French Pharmacy (Zhong-Fa lao yaofang). They also included the Sino-British Pharmacy, which claimed that it “invited Chinese and Western medical doctors to study [its] Yishoujiao [Beneficial Longevity Resin] for several years.”61 While the Luowei Pharmacy did not invoke foreign connections in its name, ads for the company similarly declared that its “Hongxue lun buyao”

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figure 4.6. The innovation of running tapwater in Shanghai was the inspiration for the name of the Great World Pharmacy’s blood-fortifying medicine, “Running Blood.” Cover, Funü shibao 11 (October 20, 1913).

(Red Blood Wheel Tonic) was custom-made in England’s most famous pharmaceutical factories.62 Wanxiu’s survey of working women in Shanghai offers another perspective on these Chinese companies with their joint foreign venture–sounding names and their “foreign-made” products. He describes women diligently packaging medicine for one of Shanghai’s many new pharmacies. Driven by the need to compete

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with imports, these local pharmacies produced a mock foreign product: convenient pills (lingbian wandan) wrapped in beautiful paper pouches.63 Whether Chinese enterprises scrambling to sell their products as foreign or foreign companies trying to make inroads into the Chinese market, both sets of pharmaceutical companies created advertisements that combined familiar medical modalities and new scientific promise in order to address their customers’ often contradictory demands. Consumers wanted a product that would speak to their understanding of illness while surpassing their expectations for a cure. They sought medicines that would be intelligible, while retaining the appeal of a Western import.64 Because advertisers had to make new illness concepts communicable by translating them into a familiar medical lexicon, it is often difficult to determine if the referent for a term is “new” or “old,” “Chinese” or “Western.” The most frequently recurring ailment that all new pharmaceuticals targeted was “weak blood and exhausted qi” (xuebo qishuai).65 While diagnostically vague from a Western standpoint, this ailment reflects fundamental Chinese medical assumptions: the nongendered human body is understood as dependent on the proper balance and regulation of a system of blood and qi, yin and yang. At the same time this disorder did have a distinct gendered valence. Because the dominant role of blood or yin determined women’s bodily difference, weak blood and qi were often paired with irregular menstruation and infertility.66 The vocabulary for menstruation was itself mixed in the ads, which contained long-standing terms such as yuexin, tiangui, and xinshui, together with the more recent yuejing, which would ultimately predominate.67 The advertisements similarly merged long-standing illness concepts such as wind dampness (fengshi), bone pain (gutong), and wind damage (shangfeng) with newer concepts, such as anemia (pinxue) and tuberculosis (confusingly often using an older term for exhaustion, xulao, to designate this new illness concept).68 Hybridization is evident not only in the texts but in the illustrations to the advertisements. The individuals featured in illustrations for medicines produced by Western companies look distinctly Chinese (see figure 4.5), while those in advertisements for Chinese companies often appear more cosmopolitan. These include the westernized teacher who promoted Luowei’s medicine for the uterus (see figure 2.7). They also include the westernized woman’s face used to promote Great World Pharmacy’s “Nüjiebao” (Women’s Treasure) (figure 4.7).69 Ads in Tension. The visual and narrative texts of the advertisements for medicines were generally in accord with Funü shibao’s overall reform agenda: they promoted the value of periodicals as repositories of valuable information, emphasized individual experience as a critical source of medical knowledge, and seamlessly blended medical modalities. The function of the ads was first and foremost commercial, however. To most effectively market their medicines they occasionally

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figure 4.7. A westernized woman’s face is used to promote Great World Pharmacy’s “Women’s Treasure” medicine. “Nüjiebao,” Funü shibao 12 (January 10, 1914) and 13 (April 1, 1914).

encouraged practices that were at odds with those promoted in the journal’s editorial agenda. Pharmaceutical companies benefited from the female modesty that Bao and his medical experts so avidly sought to demolish. A woman who bought medicine from a pharmacy, or more likely, whose husband bought medicine for her from a pharmacy, did not have to physically face a doctor or overcome what Bao and other authors for the journal described as paralyzing self-consciousness about her own body’s most intimate processes.

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In promoting self-dosing at home, patent medicine advertisements also undercut the authority of the medical professionals featured in Funü shibao. The journal published learned articles by medical students and professionals such as Qu Jun and Hou Guangdi, announced plans for advice columns that would use the expertise of medical consultants, rewarded informed respondents to an essay contest on medical knowledge, and printed a blueprint for a women’s club that would include access to doctors. In contrast, only one author of a testimonial in all of the fiftythree advertisements for women’s therapeutics credited a doctor with prescribing the medicine.70 When doctors appeared in advertisements, it was because they had failed patients who then went on to successfully self-dose.71 One woman had allegedly consulted “several famous doctors” to no avail, and another had been misdiagnosed postpartum by a doctor as having cold damage (shanghan)—a clear reference to a Chinese-style doctor—an error that severely compromised her health.72 This tension between self-dosing and relying on the authority of medical professionals highlights a core tension in Funü shibao’s medical discourse and its broader experiential ethos. This was the tension between valorizing the individual’s everyday experience as the basis of the journal’s quotidian epistemology and linking this everyday experience to scientific expertise, which was integral to its reformist agenda. E X P E R I E N C E V E R SU S E X P E RT I SE

The opposition between experience and expertise, between jingyan and empirically based science, would define the battleground between Chinese and Western medicine in the late 1920s. At that time, proponents of biomedicine constructed Chinese medicine as a pragmatic activity based on thousands of years of accumulated experience rather than an abstract system of knowledge.73 This tension between experience and expertise was already evident in the early Republic, as were some aspects of the later critique: experience, which Bao Tianxiao, Yun Daiying, and others so valorized in Funü shibao for being instinctive and pretheorized, was criticized in the medical realm for being instinctive and pretheorized. Just as individual experience had to be linked to a higher order of meaning in order to be of value to Funü shibao’s reformist agenda, health matters had to be scientized through biomedical knowledge if the state of Chinese medicine was to advance. Both male and female contributors made this point about the need for expertise in the pages of Funü shibao. The woman Fanzhen laments that mothers today are completely dependent on custom in raising their children and that they have no knowledge of medical principles. What they do know is nothing more than “secret know-how” (laojue chengfa). They understand what to do but not why.74

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In his winning entry on the topic “Women Should Have Basic Medical Knowledge,” Jiaoxin further develops this idea. He argues that there are two kinds of medicine, “tangible” (youxing) medicine and “intangible” (wuxing) medicine. Roughly corresponding to what we would call professional medicine and preventative medicine, this distinction is an example of the difficulties involved in mapping early Republican categories of knowledge onto our familiar systems of classification. Tangible medicine, Jiaoxin explains, has always relied on expertise. It is the realm of presumably male doctors who prescribe medicine, take the patient’s pulse, and investigate illnesses. Intangible medicine, “medicine indispensable for everyday life” (riyong pingshi zhi buke que), is more dependent on experience. It largely consists of home-style remedies: being “moderate in diet and temperature,” balancing “work and rest” in daily life, being “attentive to the early signs of illness,” and caring for children and the sick. This everyday, preventative medicine that has long been the realm of “white-haired old women” with “deep and broad experience” is no longer sufficient, Jiaoxin argues.75 As nations struggle with one another, even “intangible” medical knowledge has to be formalized. He insists that his readers follow young women “in all Eastern and Western countries” in studying obstetrics in school so that they can properly minister to their families’ everyday medical needs. They should not wait to have their own families or accumulate decades of experience to learn how to take care of children and elders. Rather, they should acquire medical expertise now.76 Jiaoxin and Fanzhen emphasized the general need to go beyond accumulated experience in managing the health of the family. Other authors, including both medical professionals and laywomen, discussed specific kinds of biomedically based knowledge, health care products, and medical instruments needed to manage female ailments related to menstruation, miscarriage, and childbirth. Menstruation Qu Jun, in “A Lesson on Women’s Hygiene,” commends Japanese women for their assiduousness about hygiene at the time of their periods. While Chinese women use coarse and unhygienic pads, Japanese women insert either absorbent or sterilized cotton into the vulva to prevent the flow of blood. Qu recognizes that this Japanese method poses problems of its own, however, as there is a risk of the cotton getting lodged in the uterus and causing an infection. He ultimately recommends a superior alternative commonly used by women in the West and increasingly adopted by Japanese women: menstrual pads (yuejing dai) made of material and placed in the front of the vulva.77 Some fifteen years after the very first—and not highly successful—disposable napkins were commercially available in the United States, nine to ten years before Kotex pads were manufactured, and some seventeen years before advertisements for menstrual pads appeared in Chinese women’s journals, Qu Jun advocated the use of such products in Funü shibao.78

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figure 4.8. “Republican Chinese Survey of Women’s Menstruation” designed for Chinese women by the medical student Qu Jun. Qu Jun, “Diaocha funü yuejing qi,” Funü shibao 16 (February 1915): 85.

In addition to being attentive to managing women’s menstrual periods, Qu was determined to integrate Chinese women’s menstrual histories into an existing bank of global knowledge. As a medical student in Japan, Qu Jun was introduced to new methods of capturing, enumerating, and cataloguing what had once been carefully guarded details of women’s reproductive health.79 In early 1915 he created a “Republican Chinese Survey of Women’s Menstruation” (Figure 4.8) that was designed to deepen knowledge of the patterns of the menses in China and to align Chinese data with statistics that had already been collated in the Western world.

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In his introduction to the survey, Qu notes that all advanced nations keep statistics on menstruation and that this information is critical for predicting a woman’s fertility and managing her health. Because China does not have a unified system of medical knowledge on this topic, it is jeopardizing the future happiness of its two hundred million women. Qu would change this situation by integrating the details of Chinese women’s menstrual experience into global circuits of knowledge. He provides his readers with a table that records the average age at the onset of menstruation in various countries, including Russia, Sweden, Denmark, Norway, Italy, Spain, Japan, India, and Holland. He also encourages his Funü shibao audience to fill out his own survey, which is printed in the journal (figure 4.8). The survey requests the kind of information on women’s personal and medical histories that was collated in clinical charts in Meiji Japan from the turn of the century.80 This includes the woman’s last name (in recognition of the potential reluctance of some women to fill out the survey, Qu notes that they can use a pseudonym), native place, age, and current place of residence, together with age at onset of menstruation, characteristics of periods from beginning to end, duration of periods, age at marriage, age at birth of first child, number of births, and age when period ended.81 Miscarriage Hou Guangdi, like Qu Jun, was aware of the state of global medical knowledge on women’s reproductive health. In his discussion of miscarriage he shuns Chinese methods in favor of a biomedical, anatomical, and interventionist approach. He refers to skills, knowledge, and instruments that a Chinese practitioner or midwife would not generally have. Hou’s description of this tragic event in a woman’s life is graphic. He states that if the miscarriage is late in the pregnancy and there is a lot of blood, it is necessary to investigate the cervix (which he explains is the neck of the uterus). If the woman is not fully dilated, it is necessary to use cotton to block the vagina. If the cervix still has not expanded after six hours, the physician should use his finger to try to clear out the uterus. In urgent cases he can use Hegar’s Dilator (Xike shi kuangzhang qi) to open the mouth of the uterus. Hou warns that if the dead fetus or remnants of the placenta stay in the uterus for a week, they will rot and cause infection of the genitalia or give rise to infected ulcers. In cases where the placenta is not expelled or not fully expelled, the physician can place a finger of his right hand in the uterus and put pressure on the uterus with his left hand.82 Hou further evinces his knowledge of germ theory and analgesics. He emphasizes that the doctor must follow antiseptic methods of external medicine and suggests that he sedate the patient with an anesthetic (mazuiyao) to make the procedure easier. A dose of ergot will also hasten the expulsion of the fetus.83

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Childbirth While miscarriage and menstruation were important medical issues, the area of female reproductive health that most required social, institutional, and biomedical reform in early Republican China was childbirth. This reform would necessitate new, more interventionist, biomedical approaches to parturition. It would also require expert practitioners schooled in biomedicine. Old-style midwives (wenpo) had to be either replaced by new-style midwives (chanpo) or completely superseded by expert doctors. The interventionist approach to obstetrics put forward in a number of articles in Funü shibao was diametrically opposed to earlier theories and practices of childbirth in China. Up through and beyond the period when Funü shibao was in print, the Dasheng bian (Treatise on easy childbirth, 1715), which posited that childbirth should not be expedited through drugs or manipulation, continued to serve as a staple medical textbook. In the late 1920s, Dr. Marion Yang (Yang Chongrui), who led the Nationalist government’s midwifery reform effort, faulted the continuing influence of the Treatise for the high rates of maternal mortality in China.84 The value of this medical classic had already been repudiated in Funü shibao over a decade earlier. In his essay on women’s medical knowledge, Jiaoxin declares that the Treatise on Easy Childbirth offers little useful instruction.85 Proposals for new childbirth protocols put forward elsewhere in the journal also rejected this laissez-faire method. The main target of these new protocols was, however, the old-style midwife. The introduction of biomedical principles in the early Republic added a new edge to long-standing critiques of the women who assisted with various aspects of the reproductive process, first and foremost old-style midwives. Although midwives’ real community roles were essential in this culture of strict gender segregation, wenpo were generally represented in late imperial texts as inadequate, ignorant, and unsanitary. Labeled as one of the “three kinds of old aunties and six kinds of old grannies” (sangu liupo), they were more specifically condemned as one of the three “grannies” who, together with shamanic healers and medicine sellers (yaopo), offered medical services to women in the inner chambers.86 Even among such lowly company, midwives were particularly suspect because they came into contact with the polluting blood of childbirth and afterbirth.87 Zhinü qiansheng replicates the late imperial classification of lowly women in his 1912 survey on women in Shanghai published in Funü shibao: he relegates midwives (wenpo) to the basest level of society together with prostitutes, religious specialists, and women with menial social occupations such as peddlers and beggars.88 Bao Tianxiao refers to these women as “ignorant female quacks” (yongyi yufu) who are dangerously ignorant of sanitary practices. “Every year,” he mourns in the journal’s sixth issue in the spring of 1912, countless “female compatriots die mistakenly

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at the hands of these ignorant women.”89 Jiaoxin echoes this critique in 1914, calling midwives crass, stupid, and lacking in medical knowledge.90 Funü shibao served as a platform not only for the critique of midwives, however, but for some of the earliest calls for midwifery reform in China.91 The journal published its first articles on this topic two years before the promulgation of the initial—and largely ineffective—Republican national legislation outlawing traditional midwives and advocating the training, registration, and regulation of modern midwives.92 It would be another eighteen years before such training was systematically available on a small scale in China, and at least four decades before modern midwifery would become a sustained state priority under the People’s Republic of China.93 Funü shibao authors evinced knowledge of global biomedicine in their use of the new term chanpo xue for obstetrics and chanpo for new-style midwives and in their calls for midwifery reform. Distinct from the term wenpo, chanpo connoted knowledge of germ theory and an awareness of the importance of sterilization.94 It also implied midwife training as it was practiced in the West and Japan, the latter being the most immediate point of reference for Funü shibao contributors. By 1915 there were 135 midwife-training schools in Japan and the number of new Japanese midwives was fast outpacing the number of old.95 Qu Jun, who was a medical student in Osaka at precisely this time when new midwives were on the rise, deplores that China does not have its own specialized midwifery schools. He emphasizes the urgent need for midwifery reform in one of his contributions to Funü shibao by enumerating the various reasons pregnant Chinese women require the assistance of educated midwives and must avoid “the foolish antics of old-style midwives.” The expertise of educated midwives is invaluable, he argues, not only for childbirth but throughout pregnancy. Chanpo will ensure that a pregnancy is on track by massaging the abdomen and checking the position of the fetus. The moment of delivery is most crucial, however. At this time in a woman’s life, it is essential to have a midwife with knowledge of sterilization in order to avoid serious illnesses like puerperal fever (chanrure).96 Qiu Ping’s call for midwife reform, written in the form of an account of experience, offers a fuller description than Qu’s of both the agonies of women in childbirth and the training at Japanese midwifery schools. The impetus for her account was the death of two of her fellow students and friends from “complications of childbirth.” A scientifically informed rather than a merely personal account, Qiu’s article demonstrates knowledge of germ theory—in her discussion of breast infections, for example—and of anatomical gender in her description of the expansion of the uterus in childbirth. Qiu begins her article by attributing her friends’ deaths to the lack of professional training for midwives in China, which has left parturient women in the hands of incompetent “old grannies.” She strongly advocates replacing these laopo

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with young women trained in midwifery or nursing in accordance with the westernized Japanese model.97 Qiu details the strengths of this model in her account of midwifery schools in Japan. She notes that a number of these schools exist and that their graduates make a living as midwives. She describes specimens and teaching props used in the classroom, including skeletons, wax wombs, and wax reproductive organs (shengzhiqi) that indicate the changes that occur from the first month of pregnancy through the first month after birth. Students at the schools, she explains, study all manner of subjects, including the process of growth from child to adult and the phenomenon of twins conjoined at the stomach or the head.98 Qiu also conveys secondhand details from an investigation of midwife schools in Japan included in the travel diary of a certain Cheng Bojia. Cheng visited the school of a renowned Japanese teacher, Mizuhara Zen, who was closely attuned to developments in German medicine.99 Cheng outlines the curriculum at the school, which includes courses in anatomy and physiology, together with midwifery. He also describes various teaching aids, from a drawing of the womb to a skeleton in a glass case and a model of a birthing bed.100 Qiu further shares knowledge she has gained from experts or through her own observations in Japan about the process of childbirth. She cites a “certain Japanese scholar of midwifery” on the experience of childbirth for the youngest girls (age fifteen) and the oldest women (age forty-two). The expert emphasizes the “global significance of childbirth” which, he claims, the upper classes have begun to recognize.101 As he suggests, as early as the 1880s and 1890s, one or two decades before Qiu’s article was published, wealthy and progressive Japanese families attuned to developments in the West were already employing midwives and using new-style birthing methods.102 Qiu Ping recounts her own experience in one of these wealthy and progressive homes, the residence of a Japanese peer. When the man’s wife was about to give birth, he personally assumed the role of a new-style medical professional. He had a number of instruments taken out of storage, including implements to protect the birth mother if there should be some kind of natural disaster, such as an earthquake or fire, and three different kinds of lamps for use at night. The peer operated a number of these instruments himself. He was also highly attentive to his wife’s hygiene after giving birth. Because of this care, she remained healthy despite having already had four children.103 While this well-equipped Japanese man was seemingly able to manage the childbirth process himself, Qiu explains that in some instances it is necessary to call in professional experts. She describes one such case in detail. A woman in the ninth month of pregnancy and about to have her second child was having intense labor pains. The midwife was called, but because the child was “sideways” (breech), the mother was bleeding, and the umbilical cord was starting to protrude at the

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opening of the uterus, it was necessary to call a specialized doctor. When he arrived he used sterilized cotton to gently reposition the fetus and avert danger. Qiu enumerates a number of other cases when it is necessary to call a doctor: if a woman gives birth prematurely, if she experiences “what is popularly called miscarriage [xiaochan],” if her water breaks early, if the child is breech, if there is bleeding, if labor pains are particularly intense, if all four of the fetus’s limbs protrude.104 Some five years after Qiu Ping’s account of experience appeared in Funü shibao, a woman using the pen name Xiaoyun published a similar article in the journal. While she has less direct foreign experience to relate than Qiu, she critiques untutored midwives and emphasizes the importance of scientific biomedicine. The impetus for Xiaoyun’s account also echoes Qiu’s: to publicize the high incidence of Chinese women dying postpartum, an indication of how little had changed in the intervening five years. Xiaoyun writes that she had frequently heard of the tragedy of women dying in childbirth. She therefore decided to “inquire widely,” seek out a number of “accounts of experience” (jingyan zhi tan), and record them in writing. She had two motivations in writing up these accounts: to share them with her female compatriots and to offer them as material for future research. Recognizing the insufficiency of experience to hold its own epistemological ground, she announces that her article is based on both “experience” and “theory.”105 While calling for medical reform, Xiaoyun merges biomedical and longstanding Chinese principles. She advises those attending the parturient woman to closely monitor the midwife and ensure that she follows the rules of sterilization. She also gives practical instructions for avoiding infection: the birth mother’s wounds must be cleaned with sterilized soft cotton that has been soaked in 30 or 100 percent carbolic acid.106 At the same time, Xiaoyun emphasizes attentiveness to the calmness of the parturient woman’s body and spirit, the appropriateness of her food and clothing, and the sufficiency of air and light in the room. Extreme emotions and any activity that exerts the nerves, she insists, must be avoided.107 Like Qiu Ping again, Xiaoyun gives examples of when a doctor needs to be called: if the parturient woman cannot urinate or if she appears “feverish when lactating.”108 Xiaoyun and Qiu Ping suggest that the intervention of male doctors is necessary only when the delivery is too complex for a skilled midwife–or an attentive husband—to manage. But Funü shibao also offered its readers translations of works on childbirth methods that bypassed midwives altogether. One such method, Drs. Bernard Krönig and Karl Gauss’s “painless childbirth,” which seemed particularly attractive to Bao Tianxiao, would place the care of parturient women exclusively in the hands of expert men. Enthusiastic about the method’s promise of improving women’s experience of childbirth, Bao claimed that its introduction in Funü shibao not only augured a new era in medicine but held out the promise of salvation for China’s suffering women.109

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Krönig and Gauss’s method, introduced in the translation of Aoyagi Yūbi’s The Practice of Painless Childbirth in the journal’s last two issues, was radically at odds with the nonpharmaceutical approach to childbirth espoused in the Treatise on Early Childbirth. It was based on the use of the tropane alkaloid drug scopolamine (sikepoluomeng), or “twilight sleep.” The first of the two parts of the translation explains Krönig and Gauss’s method, introduces the wonder drug scopolamine, and describes the agonies of childbirth that the method seeks to eradicate. The second part discusses the effect of the treatment on women’s health and addresses critics of the method. It further describes a number of practical aspects of the therapy, including the cost of the medication, the dose of the injections, and the equipment needed in the birthing room. It concludes with a discussion of the experiences of a number of women who have successfully undergone Krönig and Gauss’s expert treatment.110 S T R AT E G I E S A N D TAC T IC S

Men who urged biomedical reform in the pages of Funü shibao generally represented Chinese women as irrationally modest, ignorant about their own bodies, and silenced by taboos against discussing their reproductive health. While this rhetoric was derived from observed fact—Chinese physicians had complained for centuries about the difficulty of treating reticent female patients—it was also a strategy that served their reform agenda. It justified the intervention of male experts, whether editors, doctors, pharmaceutical companies or informed husbands, in managing women’s health and guiding the nation’s progress. While Funü shibao offered ample evidence of this rhetorical strategy, its pages were also filled with women’s tactical responses. Republican Ladies neither denied the reticence of many of their female compatriots nor were governed by this reticence themselves. They spoke publicly and with scientific authority about their own bodily experiences. They also limited the need for male intervention by proposing their own methods of managing women’s health. Modest, Ignorant Women A number of writers for Funü shibao claimed that the prime reasons for high maternal and infant morality rates in China included social taboos and pervasive ignorance. They joined medical practitioners from at least the Ming dynasty in lamenting that women’s reluctance to openly discuss their reproductive health gravely impeded their medical care and ultimately endangered their survival.111 In an article on menstruation and pregnancy, Qu Jun claims that, while women’s reluctance to talk about menstruation is universal, it is particularly extreme in China. “From time immemorial humankind has reproduced itself,” he writes. “Women among all peoples, whether advanced or barbaric, menstruate. All, however,

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consider it strange and shameful to talk about menstruation. This is a habit that is very hard to change. The reason is that menstrual blood is considered dirty [huizhuo]. Chinese women conceal menstrual blood not only from men but from other women. Even when doctors try to treat them and ask questions, they are shy and won’t say anything. What is one to do?”112 Qu relates this intense sense of propriety to “old ritual teachings” that constrain not only older but younger women.113 He claims menstruating students are too shy to ask to be excused from physical education class. As a result they endure discomfort and risk the potential danger that could result from such activity.114 In writing about the harm of women’s modesty, Qu Jun both expresses his frustration and reinforces his authority as a medical professional whose role is to tell women how to properly manage their own bodies. Pharmaceutical companies also served their own interests—and those of the periodical press itself—by featuring painfully timid women who were dependent on husbands or fathers to administer their medical care and to speak on their behalf in their advertisements. Only four of the fifty-three advertisements for women’s health products printed in Funü shibao included testimonials written in a woman’s voice. In narratives commissioned by both Western patent medicine companies and Chinese pharmaceutical companies, husbands and fathers described the female suffering that resulted from blocked and irregular menses, the miraculous curative powers of the advertised medicine, and, in several cases, the joyful birth of a child that quickly followed treatment.115 In the few advertisements that were written in a female voice, the women often admitted to their own intense modesty. Qu Suzhen writes that she suffered from menstrual problems in silence for years because she “felt embarrassed” and was ashamed to discuss her “discomfort.”116 While advertisements for Japan’s Chūjōtō did not include testimonials, they generally directed their exhortations at male family members rather than women themselves. It was men’s responsibility to introduce wives or daughters suffering from menstrual irregularity and cramps to this “magical elixir for gynecological problems.”117 A similar lack of confidence in female agency is apparent in Qu Jun’s survey on menstruation. He assumed male assistance would be necessary if his project was to succeed. He asked for men’s cooperation in overseeing the completion of the surveys and in mailing them to the Shanghai Funü shibao office, which would then forward them to Qu in Japan.118 These invitations for male intervention and examples of male ventriloquism suggest either that women shared intimate physical details with their husbands, or—as the material in the journal seems to want to indicate—that men understood women’s bodies better than women did. Suggesting that the rich corpus of writings on female reproductive health in the Chinese medical tradition—some three hundred extant works printed from the ninth to the late nineteenth centuries—had been accessed only by men, early Republican authors claimed that Chinese women

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were ignorant about their own bodies. Even the most literate and evolved “upperlevel” early twentieth-century Chinese women, according to Zhinü qiansheng, lacked basic knowledge of physiology and health.119 This alleged ignorance was compounded by women’s purported inherent sickliness. Articles and advertisements upheld the view that women were more susceptible to illness than men. This was due, in part, to menstruation. Qu Jun warns of women’s heightened vulnerability at the time of their periods. The female body is most easily “irritated” by even the smallest things during the menses, he writes. A “wind that would not normally cause cold damage” would have that effect at the time of menstruation. Women are also, supposedly, more “nervous,” sensitive, and prone to anger when menstruating. Because women’s bodies are weak—and weakened monthly by the menses—they easily fall ill.120 An advertisement for Dr. Williams’ claims women are physically tender and “delicate” and more prone to intense feelings and illnesses than males. Each crucial stage in the female life cycle is marked by increased vulnerability to illness: when young girls begin to develop, when women become pregnant and bear children, and when they enter menopause.121 Chinese women were not only more sickly than Chinese men but more sickly than Western women, according to a number of authors for the journal. A writer who used the pseudonym Xingyi juxtaposes the physical vigor of American women to the effete weakness of Chinese women. American women are “vital” and as “brave and sturdy” as men, he states, while their “delicate” Chinese counterparts are so weak they can “hardly bear the weight of their own clothing” (ruobushengyi) and so “willowy” they could “float on the wind” (suifeng piaoqu). “Tall and erect,” American women tower over “hunchbacked” Chinese women. Their natural “color” also contrasts with the “ashen complexions” of their Eastern counterparts, which are smeared with powder and rouge. The source of these deep disparities lies, Xingyi explains, in American women’s attentiveness to “health.”122 Men were not the only ones to write this comparative critique. Wang Ling also declares Chinese women to be less physically fit than Western women because they spend their days indoors, deprived of both light and movement. “European and American women are as physically capable as males,” she claims. “They gallop on horseback, steer boats, ice skate, and swim in the ocean.” They also travel, climb mountains, and cultivate military skills. Because they are often in the fresh sunlit air, their blood flows and they have beautiful color. This is in sharp contrast to pale, exhausted, made-up Chinese women.123 Informed and Proactive Women As Wang Ling’s critique indicates, Republican Ladies wrote publicly about women’s bodies. They discussed the psychological and not merely the physical ramifications of Chinese women’s seclusion. They also wrote clinically and scientifically about female physicality, unabashedly sharing graphic descriptions of secretions,

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infections, and menstruation. Their contributions to the journal belie the stereotype of meek and self-conscious Chinese woman who dared not discuss the most intimate of female bodily processes. While Wang Ling and Xingyi derided pale and frail Chinese women of the inner chambers as mere shadows of their vigorous Western counterparts, other women highlighted the tragic psychological and physical dimensions of women’s seclusion. Like Mulan, who focuses on the depression that results from women’s isolation, Fanzhen compares Chinese women who are “confined in lofty buildings” to prisoners. It is inevitable that they will be “eternally depressed” (qiongri yiyu), “anxious and worried” (yousi laoyou).124 Rather than mock the physical manifestation of this confinement—the “hunchbacked form,” the “dried up and exhausted appearance”— she warns of the debilitating ailments it can give rise to, including tuberculosis (feilao), an illness that Republican medical experts would associate with the burden of China’s traditional lifestyle.125 Faced with this dire outcome, Fanzhen proposes a radical solution. Unlike Mulan, who urges women to pull themselves out of depression by reading carefully selected books and avoiding the discussion of sorrowful topics, Fanzhen encourages her female compatriots to defy social convention and engage in what was deemed to be “indecorous”—but in Fanzhen’s view life-saving— behavior: singing, laughing, finding an occupation, and becoming active.126 Tang Jianwo embodied many elements of Fanzhen’s prescription for Chinese women. She also visually and discursively dissolved the dichotomy between the robust and healthy Western body and the wan and sickly Asian body (figure 4.1). In her article “On Exercises for Women” she rejects the assumption that Western culture is inherently inclined toward physical fitness. The concern with exercise is a modern development in Europe, she asserts, not something that has existed since ancient times.127 The Victorian-style figures used to illustrate another of Tang’s essays on rope exercises for the family model Chinese behavior rather than denigrate it. They underscore the potential for bodily transformation rather than the incommensurability of bodily difference (figure 4.9).128 Tang also ignores taboos against discussing menstruation in outlining a series of exercises that will help alleviate gynecological problems. In detailing these physical drills, she lessens the stigma of menstruation as a source of female physical weakness by pairing menstrual ailments with presumably gender-neutral hemorrhoidal afflictions (zhixue guan).129 Tang ultimately offers practical instruction on how to strengthen women’s bodies not only in her four articles published in Funü shibao but in her capacity as a physical education expert. Her Physical Education School for Girls, together with the Physical Education School (Zhongguo ticao xuexiao) founded by herself and her husband (and Funü shibao contributor) Xu Zhuodai, trained the first generation of physical education experts in China. Graduates included Lu Lihua (1900–1997), who entered the school in 1917 and later became a school principal and promoter of women’s basketball.130

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figure 4.9. Exercises modeled by Victorian-style figures underscore the potential for bodily transformation rather than the incommensurability of bodily differences between Asian and Western women. Tang Jianwo, “[Jiating yundong] Shengticao,” Funü shibao 2 (July 26, 1911): 71.

Tang Jianwo approached women’s physical ailments from the perspective of a foreign-trained physical education teacher and offered concrete instruction both in the classroom and in the pages of Funü shibao on specific modalities of women’s self-care. Other Republican Ladies—many but not all of whom had experience if not training abroad—urged their female compatriots to study to become medical experts, devised practical measures to improve women’s access to medical care, and raised women’s awareness of issues related to breast health.

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Qiu Ping, who shared her knowledge of midwifery training in Japan, urges her female compatriots to devote themselves to the study of medicine. “If you cannot become a good prime minister,” she writes, quoting a famous Song dynasty saying, “you can become a good doctor.”131 While it was impossible for women to aspire to the position of prime minister in the early Republic, neither was it highly likely they would become doctors—although there were a handful of doctors among Funü shibao’s Republican Ladies. Qiu more realistically encourages women to become midwives or nurses, as does Bao Tianxiao when he defends Qiu’s account against a critic.132 This same slippage between appealing to women to attain medical expertise and relegating them to roles as nurses or midwives is apparent in other male-authored articles. Jiaoxin, for example, urges women to acquire medical knowledge but envisages them as household caregivers, midwives, or nurses.133 Female doctors are, however, integral to Zhang Zhaosi’s plan to establish a club that would meet the various needs—foremost among them, the medical needs—of Shanghai women in the late 1910s. The plan includes a clinic for women and infants and, at some future date, a hospital. Like Qu Jun, Bao Tianxiao, and others, Zhang recognizes that many women conceal their illnesses (huibin), refuse to discuss their symptoms or allow men to treat them, and ultimately die as a result of their fear and procrastination. Her tactics for dealing with this problem are, however, distinct. She is convinced that the establishment of a women’s hospital staffed by female doctors in the proposed woman’s club would save the lives of countless women. She goes so far as to identify specific doctors who could staff the hospital, including her personal friend, Dr. Huang Qiongxian (who had recently trained in the United States). Zhang envisages this medical service as accessible to all women, not just the ladies who would belong to the club. “How could poor women otherwise afford to see doctors?” she asks.134 In addition to treating sick women, the doctors hired to work at Zhang Zhaosi’s club would also screen wet nurses (ruao).135 Zhang’s assumption is that the elite women who would frequent the club would not breastfeed their own children and would thus require the services of a healthy, trustworthy nursemaid. Not all Republican Ladies share this view. A number of female authors argue directly or indirectly in Funü shibao that breastfeeding is a maternal imperative and that hiring a wet nurse is a dangerous alternative. This maternal imperative is the premise of an article by Shen Weizhen on breast binding: the flattening of the bust with a small sleeveless garment designed to constrain the breasts (xiaobanbi). Shen, a graduate of and counselor at the Chengdong Girls’ Normal School in Shanghai, published her article in Funü shibao in February 1915, a decade before activists in southern China began to discuss the harm of breast binding, and some twelve years before the Guomindang government banned the practice in July 1927.136 Shen declares breast binding to be more damaging than footbinding. While footbinding affects only the feet, breast binding

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damages the chest and lungs. It obstructs natural physical development and impedes the operation of the lungs and the circulation of blood, hindering movement and breathing. Most importantly, it prevents women from properly fulfilling their natural duty of childbirth. This duty extends beyond carrying the fetus for ten months to include breastfeeding for three years. At best women with bound breasts will not produce sufficient milk, compromising their children’s health. At worst they may succumb to lung disease and die.137 Qiu Ping indirectly encourages Republican Ladies to breastfeed their own children by helping to dispel long-standing anxieties about the dangers of the practice as a drain on women’s vitality.138 She does this by offering concrete suggestions for preventing breast infections (rufang yan), which usually arise one to three weeks after childbirth and originate in the nipple. Qiu explains that cultured women who get little exercise are more prone to such infections than farming women whose stronger bodies are able to resist the bacteria. Infections among frailer women can be prevented, however, by cleaning the nipple with soft, sterilized cloth when breastfeeding. If the breasts do become infected, a condition that can result in serious illness and even be fatal, it will be necessary to call a specialist.139 One of the most forceful advocates of breastfeeding in Funü shibao was Qu Jun’s wife, Qu Yao Yingnai, a graduate of a program for overseas Chinese students in a specialized Japanese midwifery school in Osaka.140 Qu Yao writes emphatically that breastfeeding is crucial to a child’s health. Her essay both echoes views on the superiority of breast- versus bottle feeding circulating in Japanese journals at the time and anticipates the May Fourth–era conviction—based on social surveys and influenced by Western expertise—that only a mother’s milk can provide a child with an ideal blend of nutrients.141 Qu Yao condemns wet nurses as strongly as she promotes breastfeeding. Together with Wang Jieliang, who argues that a wet nurse can harm a child, Qu Yao considers relying on a nursemaid to be a last resort.142 If the mother’s precious milk absolutely has to be replaced, the only viable alternative is the human milk of a carefully chosen wet nurse (she includes a detailed chart showing the nutritional components of various forms of milk).143 She offers concrete suggestions for mitigating the various dangers a wet nurse potentially poses. It is first necessary to ask the prospective nursemaid a series of detailed questions concerning her parents’ and siblings’ health, any illnesses she has had, the number of children she has given birth to, and how long ago. The ideal candidate will be age twenty to thirty-five and will have given birth two to six weeks prior to being hired.144 Because such women cannot be fully trusted, they also need to undergo an outsider’s medical examination. It is necessary to test the quantity of their milk and to check for various ailments, many of them new illness concepts to which Qu Yao was probably introduced in Japan. These include hereditary illnesses (yichuan bing), syphilis (meidu), tuberculosis (jiehe), psychosis (jingshen bing), and epilepsy (dianxian).145

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Zhang Zhaosi, who, as noted above, accepts the practice of hiring wet nurses as a reality of the lives of the upper-class women who would frequent her proposed club, shares Qu Yao’s concerns. She recognizes that wet nurses often have dubious origins—they may have escaped kidnappers or been stolen from their families. They are also often diseased—she echoes Qu Yao in mentioning tuberculosis and syphilis—and thus may infect or kill the children they nurse. The best solution to this problem, Zhang argues, is the Western one: to hire doctors to screen nursemaids. This is prohibitively costly, however: an estimated fifteen liang of silver per visit—the equivalent of some 250 kilograms of oil.146 The club would reduce this cost by establishing its own screening institute and hiring a learned doctor to examine the wet nurses. Those with diseases would be rejected, and those who were cleared would be recorded in an institute register for mothers to consult.147 Fanzhen views the threat posed by wet nurses more in moral than physical terms. She claims that if the lady of the house uses a wet nurse, she has to be attentive to the hired woman’s behavior and ready to compensate for her shortcomings and correct her excesses. In this way she will mitigate any of the uncultured nursemaid’s “errors” that could harm the child’s future.148 This need for civilizing intervention is suggested by the only image of a wet nurse to appear in the journal (figure 4.10)—even the Javan wet nurse’s umbrella is of the old bamboo type. Whereas Fanzhen and Zhang accept that “the lady of the house” will need to employ a wet nurse, however untutored, Qu Yao condemns women who do not nurse their own children as rich and lazy, “extravagant and dissipated” (jiaosheyinyi). She faults them for reneging on their “mission in life” and denying their offspring the best possible source of nutrition—their own postpartum colostrum and milk.149 Funü shibao offers abundant evidence that there were quite a number of these “selfish individuals” who chose not to breastfeed their own children. In his survey of the female working poor in Shanghai, Wanxiu estimates that one thousand wet nurses are employed in the city. While Republican Ladies consistently presented these women as lowly creatures in need of scientization and regulation, Wanxiu portrays them as honorable, self-sacrificing mothers who deprive their own children of milk in order to nurture another women’s children.150 The wet nurses’ relatively high wages that are recorded in his survey among other sources further indicate that their services were greatly valued.151 Zhinü qiansheng, who relegates old-style midwives to the lowest level of society in his 1912 survey, includes wet nurses in the middle level together with housekeepers, fine needleworkers, and shopkeepers. He commends these middle-level laborers as the hardest-working women in Shanghai.152

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figure 4.10. A photograph of a Javanese wet nurse (rufu) showing her bare breast and leaning on an old-style bamboo parasol suggests the need for civilizing oversight. Funü shibao 10 (May 25, 1913): front matter.

When bodies go public, particularly in the pages of the periodical press, they tell a number of different stories, and a number of different stories are told about them. A horizontal approach that juxtaposes articles by a new cast of medical experts against advertisements featuring self-dosing patients, that reads criticisms of willowy Chinese women against portraits of athletic Republican Ladies, that pits constructions of modest self-effacing women against the reasoned opinions of proactive public women offers some indication of the complex ways health and gender

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practices unfolded in the early Republic. While much was in flux in this period, when the biomedical professions were in their infancy and fluid medical practices had not bifurcated under the rubrics of “Chinese” and “Western” medicine, certain constants emerge. The pool of referents that individuals used to talk about bodies were increasingly scientific and often foreign. Experts and lay authors introduced sanitary pads to manage menstruation, charted the nutritional value of a mother’s milk, and repeatedly emphasized sterilization as the key to lowering China’s astronomical maternal and infant mortality rates. While these new modes of thinking about the body did not displace all earlier ones, they added a new edge—to critiques of the failings of midwives or wet nurses, for example—and strengthened calls for reform. At the same time, highly personal physical details like menstrual histories were construed as global facts, and physical culture as a universal practice. The state of medical knowledge in the early Republic has to be further assessed through an integrated and situated reading, however. When Bao Tianxiao triumphantly closed the perceived global knowledge gap by introducing his audience to Krönig and Gauss’s safe, new approach to childbirth, he and his readers were unaware that by 1916, when the translation appeared in Funü shibao, the treatment had been discredited in both the United States and Germany.153 Similarly, Chinese consumers who were moved by rapturous testimonials to the efficacy of Dr. Williams’ Pink Pills remained oblivious to the fact that such attestations had been withdrawn from American advertising pages by the 1890s because of the outlandishness of their claims.154 Comparable drug regulation would not protect the Chinese customer until 1929.155 Foreign expertise as it was appropriated in the journal was thus not always the most expert—nor the most appropriate. Sweeping statements like Qu Yao’s condemnation of women who employed wet nurses may have been based on the latest science in Japan but not necessarily on Chinese social and economic realities. A close reading of the periodical press helps us trace these gaps between reformist aspirations and quotidian conditions while elucidating the conditions of medical knowledge and the state of medical practice in the early Republic. The lens of the periodical press similarly illuminates another topic at the nexus of national aspirations, global influences, and enduring moral imperatives: women’s education. Highlighting disjunctions between framing notions of pedagogy and the materiality of the new education, it also offers glimpses of the female student’s everyday experience.

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The drawings and handicrafts from the Zhejiang Women’s Normal School on display in figure 5.1 were embedded in a series of larger narratives circulating in the early Republic. These included the narrative of universal material progress that governed world fairs and industrial exhibitions held from the mid-nineteenth century through the end of Funü shibao’s print run.1 They also included the narrative of China’s participation in this global exhibition culture and its own first international Nanyang Exhibition (Nanyang quanye hui). Held in Nanjing from June to November 1910, this exhibition featured works by contributors to Funü shibao—oil paintings by Zhang Mojun (figure 5.10) and cotton handicrafts by teachers at the Minli Shanghai Girls’ Middle School (figure 5.5)—that were precursors to the drawings on the Zhejiang school’s walls.2 The Zhejiang school products were also integral to the narrative of the early Republic, which produced its own exhibition fever. Copious displays of the newest commodities—many created in schools like this one—were part of Double Ten festivities that celebrated the Republic’s founding every October.3 The narrative in which the handicrafts in the photograph were most directly embedded, however, was one of female virtue: the virtue of producing useful things. For centuries Chinese women’s moral goodness had been manifest in the functional handwork they produced for their families and dowries: weaving, sewing, and embroidery. This practical moral virtue was juxtaposed to lyrical female talent, which took form not in making concrete things but in writing what were often deemed as idle words, an activity upright women would indulge in only after their handiwork was done.4 This ever-evolving dichotomy between virtue and talent was reconfigured in the age of the new women’s public education in the late Qing and early Republic.5 149

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figure 5.1. “Display room for drawings and handicrafts at the Zhejiang Women’s Normal School.” Funü shibao 18 (June 1916): front matter.

Women’s poetry was under renewed attack by reformists, who claimed it promoted self-indulgent emotionalism and diverted women’s intellectual energies from the project of national reform. Instruction in various forms of handiwork— from sericulture to sewing—was, in contrast, a cornerstone of the new schooling. This practical instruction was a way of allaying fears about where the new education would lead women and society, a means of grounding experimental and often suspect new pedagogies in functional objects like those captured in the photograph—embroidery thread, picture frames, paper boxes. These useful objects became stand-ins for practical learning: learning that looped back into family, society, and nation, that did not veer off into lyrical imaginings, or—a new concern in the early Republic—digress to cerebral tangents. Formal women’s education, which unfolded in institutions like the Zhejiang Women’s Normal School, grew remarkably steadily in the years following the 1911 Revolution despite political instability and Yuan Shikai’s efforts to restrict women’s public roles.6 According to incomplete statistics, the number of female students increased over fourteenfold and the number of girls’ schools almost tenfold between 1907, when the Qing government officially sanctioned women’s education, and 1917, when Funü shibao went out of print.7 The marked expansion in the number of female students attending normal schools in the first years of the

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Republic—a phenomenon well documented in Funü shibao—contributed significantly to the ongoing increase in the number of female students and girls’ schools in the early 1920s, when the student population increased at least two and one-half times again from 1917.8 The education female students were generally encouraged to acquire in these proliferating schools was—like the objects on display in figure 5.1—public, tangible, and useful rather than private, bookish, and abstract. This chapter examines often contested practices of women’s education in the early twentieth century. It focuses on two prime and related dichotomies that are highlighted in the pages of Funü shibao. The first is between women’s private and public education: between new schools that were extensions of lineages of family learning and those that became impersonal sites for the constitution of new public female identities. The second is the dichotomy between newly configured notions of female talent and virtue in discussions of the status of women’s poetry, the content of new public school curricula, and the public display of women’s learning in the early Republic. P R I VAT E / P U B L IC

Lineages of Learning Up until the turn of the twentieth century, when Chinese public schools for girls and women were first founded, the education of daughters—and often of wives— took place exclusively within the family.9 Lineages of family learning (jiaxue) that were central to the Chinese educational tradition were also integral to elite women’s literary and intellectual formation.10 A number of the earliest and most successful Chinese women’s schools were extensions of this tradition. Their success could in large part be attributed to the grounding of this controversial new project—the public schooling of young girls and women—in the most trusted Chinese social infrastructure—private kinship relations. These examples belie the May Fourth construction of the family as a retrograde site that stifled, rather than nurtured, individual development.11 Lineage networks contributed to the institutional development of early twentiethcentury women’s education in two distinctly gendered ways. In the first instance, women whose intellectual trajectories were shaped by strong traditions of family learning became leading educators and school founders themselves. In the second, fathers committed to blending established scholarly lineages into new-style pedagogy founded girls’ schools in order to educate both their own daughters and other students in the Republican era. Zhang Mojun was one of the leading authorities on women’s education in the early Republic. She founded the successful Shenzhou Girls’ School in 1912, was sent by the Ministry of Education to investigate women’s schools in Europe and America in 1918, and ultimately held a number of official positions related to

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figure 5.2. Photograph of teachers and students at Zhang Mojun’s Shenzhou Girls’ School, 1916. Zhang Mojun is fourth from the right in the row of women standing on the right, in between the third and fourth rows from the bottom of the photo. Funü shibao 21 (April 1917): front matter.

education such as head of female education in the Zhongguo jiaoyu gaijinshe (Chinese Educational Reform Association) in 1921 (figure 5.2).12 She is also a prime example of a woman whose intellectual and professional trajectory was shaped by a strong tradition of family learning. The relatively rich sources on Zhang Mojun illustrate the seamless merging of family learning with the new women’s education.13 Zhang had the benefit of inheriting two lines of family instruction: poetic practice from her mother and classical studies from her father. Zhang’s mother, He Chenghui (Yisheng, 1857–1941), was a gifted teacher of the inner chambers—a woman who taught other women in genteel families—and an able transmitter of her natal family’s learning.14 She passed on to her daughter her own love of and proficiency at shi poetry.15 According to biographical sources—and in accordance with the conventions of literary biographies—Mojun could read three hundred Tang poems by the age of four sui.16 She began writing poetry at a young age, and over six hundred shi and ci were ultimately included in her collected works.17 Mojun followed her mother in rejecting the more experimental forms of poetry that became popular starting in the late Qing dynasty. Instead she preferred the highly allusive style of the Tong Guang School, which emerged in the Guangxu era.18 From her father, Zhang Tongdian (Bochun, Tianfang louzhu, 1859–1915), a provincial-level degree-holder from Xiangxiang, Hunan Province, Mojun received instruction in the classics and guidance in her own reading. She independently studied the works of Song dynasty sages and Ming loyalists—Huang Zongxi (1610–95), Gu Yanwu, and, most passionately, her fellow Hunan native Wang Fuzhi

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(1619–92).19 Zhang and her father also shared a commitment to political activism in the late Qing dynasty: both were early members of the Revolutionary Alliance and active in the restoration of Suzhou at the time of the 1911 Revolution.20 Despite the richness of her early education, Zhang was determined to supplement it with studies at a new-style school. She began her formal schooling in 1901 at eighteen years of age and eventually earned a degree from the teacher-training program at the Wuben nüxue (Wuben Girls’ School) in 1907. While Mojun was a Wuben student, both she and her mother, He Chenghui, published their writing in the journal Women’s World. He Chenghui contributed an antifootbinding poem, “The Natural Feet Society,” that may have been inspired by Mojun’s antifootbinding activism.21 When Zhang founded the Shenzhou Girls’ School in 1912, He Chenghui played an instrumental role.22 She brought invaluable practical experience to the school initiative, having served as head teacher and administrator at two early schools for women.23 She both helped finance the Shenzhou school and assisted in classes on musical education.24 In this same period, He Chenghui penned the inaugural statement for Mojun’s Shenzhou Women’s Journal, which was in print from November 1912 to July 1913. She also published twelve of her poems in the journal. Zhang thus extended her literary heritage into new media by publishing her mother’s writings in her own women’s journal. She also honored that heritage through conventional textual practices. In 1915 she published a “record of deeds” (xinglüe) to commemorate her father shortly after his death earlier that year.25 In 1917 she commemorated her mother’s sixtieth birthday by arranging for the publication of the matriarch’s entire collection of shi, Poetry Collection from Yixiao Hall, in two juan.26 Family lineages and new-style education were also combined in this period in schools founded by forward-looking fathers of daughters who were of a slightly later generation than Zhang Mojun. Wu Huaijiu (d. 1919), who founded the Wuben Girls’ School where Zhang studied, and Yang Bomin, founder of the Chengdong Girls’ School, established their schools in 1902 to accommodate their own families: both men had several daughters—Yang had six—and no sons.27 Photographs and texts published in Funü shibao signal the extent to which these early twentieth-century families, with their engaged fathers, educated mothers, and independent daughters, served as essential agents of new Republican culture. Wu Huaijiu’s wife is identified in figure 2.4 (where her oval portrait appears under He Miaoling’s and to the left) as assistant manager of the Women’s Aid Society. She also served as the Wuben school’s deputy principal.28 Yang Bomin’s six daughters publicly excelled in the fields of education, fine arts, and oratory.29 Yang Xueqiong (1895–1928), the eldest daughter, standing on the right in the family portrait in figure 5.3, was an ex-student of Bao Tianxiao’s at the Chengdong Girls’ School (where Yang Bomin had enlisted Bao to teach). She

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figure 5.3. Photograph of family of principal of Chengdong Girls’ School, Yang Bomin. Yang Xueqiong, who would become a teacher, is standing fourth from the right. Yang Xueyao, who would be celebrated as an orator, is seated on the far left. Yang Xuejiu, who would become a well-known painter as well as the director of her father’s school, is on the far right, leaning on her father’s chair. Funü shibao 14 (July 15, 1914): front matter.

became a teacher at the Chongshi Girls’ School (under principal Tang Youqin, figure 2.6) and contributed two travelogues and a photograph to Funü shibao (figure 5.4).30 Yang Bomin’s daughters also made their mark in the fine arts. Yang was a moderately well-known painter himself, and he personally taught Western and Chinese art at the Chengdong school. Both Yang Xueyao (1898–1977), the second daughter (seated on the left in figure 5.3), and Yang Xuejiu (1902–90), the third (leaning on her father’s chair on the right), would become members of the Zhongguo nüzi shuhua hui (Chinese Women’s Painting and Calligraphy Society) established in 1934. Yang Xueyao also made her public mark as an orator. She is featured as the winner of a speech competition in a photograph published in issue 21 of Funü shibao (figure 2.3).31 Xuejiu, in addition to having a successful painting career, became the director of the Chengdong Girl’s School after her father’s death in 1924.32 In an earlier issue of Funü shibao Bi Yihong commends Yang’s fifth daughter, Yang Xuezi (1910–95), for her poem on a women’s army that she and her older sister Xueqiong founded at the time of the 1911 Revolution. Given Xuezi’s age, Bi must have been referring to Xueyao.33

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figure 5.4. Portrait of Yang Xueqiong, Yang Bomin’s eldest daughter, a teacher, and a contributor to Funü shibao. Funü shibao 10 (May 25, 1913): front matter.

The dying wish of another patriarch of a family with many daughters, Su Mengyu, was that his five daughters would found a school. In 1906, the Su women duly established the Minli Shanghai Girls’ Middle School. Poems and photographs in Funü shibao help to draw the contours of the intimate community forged both through the school and in the pages of the journal. Minli, its founders, and its students are a significant presence in the early issues of Funü shibao—specifically issues 3 to 7. Issue 3 features Su Bennan’s and Su Benyan’s cotton handicraft art, which garnered first prize at the Nanyang Exhibition (figure 5.5). Issue 4 includes a

figure 5.5. Photograph of cotton flower crafts made by the sisters and Minli School teachers Su Bennan and Su Benyan. The women’s photographs have been integrated into the handiwork, which was awarded first prize at the Nanyang Exhibition in June 1910. Funü shibao 3 (September 22, 1911): front matter.

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figure 5.6. Photograph of the first class to graduate from the Minli Shanghai Girls’ Middle School’s General Program, summer 1911. Four of the five Su sisters who founded and taught at the school are seated in the front row. Funü shibao 4 (November 5, 1911): front matter.

photograph of the school’s first graduating class in 1911, in which four of the five Su sisters are seated in the front row. Minli student Luo Qihuai also contributed an ode to her graduating class in this issue. In issue 5, Su Bennan (writing under her married name, Tang Su Bennan) published four songs dedicated to her mother on her seventieth birthday.34 Minli students, including Tan Zhixue and Shen Yao, contributed poems to issues 5 to 7, and in issue 7 a certain Zhang Qiguang published a poem honoring Minli student Gao Lingrong, who appears in the class photograph in issue 4 (figure 5.6).35 Although Bao Tianxiao did not found a kinship-based school himself, he was personally and professionally integrated into a web of institutions of female education that included the Minli, Chengdong, and Wuben schools. He not only provided publicity for these schools by featuring their personnel and academic achievements in Funü shibao but also taught at each of them. When Bao moved to Shanghai to work for Shibao in 1906, he already had several years of teaching experience.36 He was therefore able to supplement his newspaper salary by teaching at a number of the city’s more prominent girls’ schools,

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including the Minli Girls Middle School, the Chengdong Girls’ School, and the Women’s Sericulture School (Nüzi cangye xuexiao).37 As he became a more established and well-remunerated editor and writer with no need for supplementary income, he continued to be pressured to teach by acquaintances, close friends, and frequent visitors to the Shibao club Xilou (A Resting Place), Yang Bomin and Wu Huaijiu among them.38 Yang also commissioned Bao, who was much in demand as a textbook editor, to write teaching materials for his Chengdong school.39 Bao used these connections to deepen the education of members of his own family. His wife, Chen Zhensu, studied music, drawing, and painting at the Minli school at age thirty (without, apparently, finishing the program).40 Bao also sent his daughter and niece first to Tang Jianwo’s Physical Education School for Girls and then to the Minli school.41 Although Bao increasingly saw teaching as a burden, his connection to girls’ schools was a tremendous resource for Funü shibao. It enabled him to tap principals, teachers, and students—Tang Jianwo, Tan Zhixue, and Yang Bomin and his daughters among them—for photographs and writings to enrich the journal.42 Yang Bomin’s daughters and students associated with the Chengdong school were particularly active contributors of photographs, poems, and essays to the journal over the course of its entire history. Public Education Not all female students in early twentieth-century China had the privilege of being educated in family-run schools presided over by progressive fathers and nurturing mothers. Many left not only their homes but their towns, villages, or even China itself in pursuit of an education that was increasingly available to young girls from relatively well-off families in the early Republic.43 This experience was often life changing. In a society with few sanctioned public spaces for women to associate beyond the kinship unit, schools offered students not only academic instruction but new opportunities for socialization and self-realization. The two most familiar images of female students in this era reflect the range of possibilities this shift in identity presented and the aspirations and anxieties to which it gave rise. The first was the image of patriotic students, proto-mothers of citizens whose new roles extended through the family to the nation. The second was of nubile young women cut loose from not only their familial but also their moral moorings: tarted-up flirts who were often indistinguishable from prostitutes, a representation explored in the next chapter.44 One of the great values of Funü shibao as a journal that counted female students and teachers among its most devoted readers and contributors is that it includes material that allows us to see beyond these dominant tropes. Articles, biographies, advertisements, and poems published in the journal expose layers of the student experience that are invisible both in these sweeping historical representations and

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in quantitative data on education. These materials reveal the extent to which new schooling fostered new identities, new moral claims, and unprecedented forms of female activism. They also reveal the potentially devastating physical and emotional cost of new-style study. As school identity competed with lineage identity, new-style education provided women with a powerful new subject position. Young women incorporated the name of their educational institution into the signatures to their writings for periodicals like Funü shibao—identifying themselves, for example, as “Shen Weizheng, Chengdong Girls’ School normal school student.” This marked an important departure from the centuries-long practice of women signing their work with their father’s or husband’s surname and their native place. The students’ collective identity as members of a school lineage was further forged through the new ritual of taking and publishing class portraits, a photographic genre that constituted close to 10 percent of the photographs printed in Funü shibao. Even in individual portraits, young women were often identified as students, principals, or teachers of a particular school rather than as daughters or wives of a particular family. Girls’ schools were thus sites where new rituals were created and enacted—not only taking group portraits but performing enlightened wedding ceremonies.45 They were also one of the places where old rituals were most heatedly contested. Despite the claims of conservative critics that new-style schools abandoned longstanding ritual principles (lijiao) and promoted licentiousness, several female authors writing in Funü shibao linked the “old value” of female chastity to new girls’ schools and used examples of chaste martyrdom to defend the new education. Male authors, in contrast, invoked chastity martyrs to attack the new schooling. Women writers celebrated both students and teachers who became chastity martyrs. Chen Zuo Mingying contributed her account of a female exemplar surnamed Zhu from Xiaogan in Hubei Province to assert the morality of female students. A student who married in her mid-teens, Zhu took poison when her young husband died of illness shortly after their wedding. Her upright glory, Chen Zuo claims, reflects on the new education and on China itself.46 Authors also portrayed chaste teachers as exemplars of the sound morality that imbued women’s formal education. Fei Baoyan commemorates Xu Renhui of Yixing, Jiangsu Province, a graduate of the Shanghai Yuxian nüxiao (Yuxian Girls’ School) and a teacher in Shanxi Province, for following her husband in death. When Xu’s husband was killed by soldiers in Tianjin in the first year of the Republic, she chose, at age thirty-five, to take her own life.47 In contrast to these accounts, Sun Jingxun uses a tale of female martyrdom as a counterpoint to what he portrays as the lax morality of the new women’s education. He recounts how Faithful Maiden Mao followed her fiancé, Yan Longxin, in death. While Mao herself was not a student—Sun says explicitly that he knows nothing about how learned she was—Yan was. Mao’s story became known to the

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figure 5.7. An association for the discussion of elementary education established by the Chengdong Girls’ School. Funü shibao 6 (May 1, 1912): front matter.

principal of Yan’s school, who was so impressed by this tale of virtue that he petitioned the commissioner of education for a testimonial of merit (zoujing). The commissioner was, in turn, overwhelmed by Mao’s uprightness. Sun contrasts Faithful Maiden Mao’s “solemnity and dignity” with the rashness of female students who lack “self-regulation” and are quick to speak of freedom.48 The outspokenness that Sun reviled was indeed one of the qualities new schools sought to cultivate: the art of public speaking.49 This skill, so at odds with the long revered quality of female reticence, was central to the identity of the female student fostered in new-style schools.50 The Chengdong Girls’ School is a prime example. In an article on the urgent need to organize a young women’s association in Shanghai in 1911, the Chengdong school student Li Hui suggests that the lecture association already formed at her school could serve as a model.51 Writing in the same issue of the journal, Fengzhu, most likely a man, indicates how publicly visible this particular association had become. “Anyone,” he announces, “can receive a ticket to listen to the lectures of the Women’s Lecture Society [Funü xuanjiang hui].”52 A photograph of members of another Chengdong school association devoted to the discussion of elementary education is printed in issue 6 (figure 5.7). By issue 21 of the journal, the fruits of such organizations that encouraged women to publicly articulate their views are apparent. The issue includes a portrait of Yang

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Xueyao, who, the caption announces, is one of three women winners of a speech competition organized by the Worldwide Chinese Student Association (Huanqiu Zhongguo xuesheng hui) (figure 2.3). The new oratorical and organizational skills that early Republican students developed could be used to promote school policies or to protest them. The most sustained and widely publicized example of such a protest was the movement by students at the Beijing nüzi shifan daxue (Beijing Women’s Normal School) to oppose the actions of their principal, Wu Dingchang (1884–1950), whom they considered immoral and oppressive. The new notion of publicness, which was so central to the Republican Ladies’ identity, was seminal in this conflict. The students’ outrage against Wu was provoked, in part, by his effort to limit their public engagement and forbid them from reading newspapers.53 The young women responded to this and other affronts by going public with their grievances. In addition to writing a letter of complaint to the Ministry of Education, they sent a detailed open letter to the press that was published in three installments in Funü shibao in 1913. Periodicals from the radical Minli bao (The People’s Stand) to the Commercial Press’s education journal Jiaoyu zazhi (the Chinese Educational Review) printed parts of the open letter or comments on the controversy. Wu Dingchang tried to counter this wave of bad publicity by publicizing his own position in a journal entitled Nüxue ribao (Girls’ Studies Daily).54 For the students of the school, the incident was an exercise not only in public relations and organization but in republicanism. They defied Wu’s threats against organizing, arguing it was their right under the Republic. They publicly disputed his efforts to prohibit their use of new political language, including the very term Chinese Republic (Zhonghua minguo).55 They ended their three-part letter by invoking the blood of one of the female icons of republicanism, the French Revolutionary martyr Madame Roland (1754–93).56 Female student activism on the scale of the Beijing Women’s Normal School incident was not repeated in the early Republic. In the spring of 1914—possibly partly in response to the controversy that had erupted in Beijing the previous year—Yuan Shikai forbade the establishment of women’s organizations and effectively silenced protests like the one that had targeted Wu Dingchang. Associational life was frowned upon even within the confines of women’s schools. In his prizewinning essay “Admonition for All Women of the World,” published in the fall of 1915, Jiaoxin warns young women against creating disturbances at school. He reminds students that they entered school to study—implicit recognition of the degree to which the experience of new-style education often extended well beyond academics. “If there is something students are not content with,” Jiaoxin writes, “as long as it does not directly impede their studies, they should endure it.”57 This example of student protest, government repression, and public admonition underlines the extent to which the status of the female student in early

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Republican society was deeply controversial. At the same time, the new, undoubtedly emancipating identity of the female student was highly unstable. Acquired in the most vulnerable stage of a woman’s life in one of the most volatile periods in Chinese history, it could foster empowering activism. It could also be a source of emotional and physical trauma. We catch glimpses of this trauma in the laments written for female students who died while pursuing an education in the early twentieth century. With the exception of one of these laments, Bao Tianxiao’s elegy for his niece Bao Zhongxuan, all were written by fellow female students. This female authorship added a new immediacy and poignancy to an old trope: the trope of the tragic vulnerability of young women of talent. In these new versions of a classic cautionary tale, young women no longer died in the boudoir, overcome by the power of their own talent. Instead, they died in often cold and distant places where they attended public schools far from their natal homes. The lethal combination of young women and learning highlighted in earlier tales was compounded by physically taxing travel—something that had felled many sojourning men in earlier periods—and by the psychological difficulties of negotiating a new public identity in a society that continued to be wary of public women.58 Upholding the association of female talent with early death in the age of the new education, these stories also implicitly expressed young women’s own trepidation about the potential personal costs of female education. A cluster of biographies on this theme appear in issue 3. Luan Haixiang commemorates two martyrs to the new education together: Zhang Yue and Xu Xiang. Zhang was from an official family in Hubei and entered school in 1909. She continued studying in spite of a worsening illness and eventually died. Xu was from Changzhou in Jiangsu Province. She attended school in the extreme winter cold in 1909 and succumbed to illness in the fifth month.59 Xin Zao recounts how Xiu Qin from Jilin followed her parents’ wishes and went to study in Heilongjiang Province. The most diligent student and the head of her class, she worked herself so hard that she coughed up blood and died at age fifteen. Despite this tragedy, Xin hopes her fellow students won’t fear death.60 Li Ruiyun records the demise of another young woman who died while studying in Heilongjiang. Shu Kang, originally from Henan, had the will but lacked the force to complete her studies in this inhospitable environment.61 Bao Tianxiao was so moved by these tales that he added his own commentary to Luan Haixiang’s biographies of Zhang and Xu. Rather than focus on the material challenges of the new education, Bao voices a classic plaint for women of talent. “Among my compatriots from various regions,” he writes, “those who are precociously talented are likely to die young [youhuizhe yi shang]; those who are refined and frail are likely to die young [wenruo zhe yi shang]. How tragic.”62 Bao’s sensitivity on this topic was heightened by the death of his own beloved niece, Bao Zhongxuan, under similar circumstances. Bao brought Zhongxuan

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from Louxi (near Suzhou) to Shanghai to study when she was nine years old. Her father, Bao’s brother, had died, and her mother could not afford to send her to the nearest school. Zhongxuan thrived in Shanghai. She was an exceptionally diligent student at the Physical Education School for Girls and the Minli Shanghai Girls’ Middle School, never missing a day of class, in wind or rain, winter or summer. When her illness began with a headache she tried to ignore it, continuing to go to school until she was so sick she was bedridden. She ultimately died of scarlet fever. Bao sensitively details her valiant struggle with her illness and her careful and considerate nature even as she neared death.63 Pharmaceutical companies reinforced and capitalized on the widely circulating image of the physically vulnerable female student captured in the Funü shibao biographies. In one of the four advertisements in the journal in which the testimonial is written in a woman’s voice—but not necessarily by a woman—Miss Lin Yingfei of southern Hunan Province recognizes the difficulties women endured in cultivating their talent: she was personally physically exhausted by eleven years of study (figure 2.10). She announces, however, that she has found a pharmaceutical solution to this problem. In one of two poems in the qilu verse form included in her testimonial, she declares that talented and beautiful women are no longer doomed (hongyanboming). With the help of Moon Brand Pills, they can overcome the sorry fate of talented women of the past and become national heroines.64 Another medicine, Fumeier pills, was advertised as particularly effective for young women who had “exhausted their thoughts” and “depleted their mental strength” practicing writing and studying embroidery. This elixir would strengthen their bodies and “enliven their minds.” It would also bolster the constitution of hard-working teachers.65 An advertisement for Doan’s Kidney Pills features a student so overcome with sudden stomach pain as she walks home from school that she drops her signature books and umbrella (figure 5.8).66 TA L E N T / V I RT U E

The target of the most virulent critiques of women’s learning in Funü shibao was not the physical rigors of formal education that contributed to the illness of the doubled-over student in the Doan advertisement. Rather, it was the cultivation of poetic talent, which was construed as a distraction from the more urgent tasks of social, scientific, and political reform. The vilification of the woman of talent was not new to Funü shibao: it is one of the most direct echoes of the late Qing reform discourse in the journal. At the same time, Funü shibao provides evidence of new layers of dialectical tension between talent and virtue that emerged in the age of public education. Many of the more influential female educators in new-style girls’ schools were also among the more accomplished female poets of the era. For these educated,

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figure 5.8. An ad for Doan’s Kidney Pills shows a student doubled over with pain on her way home from school. “Douanshi mizhi baoshen wan,” Funü shibao 9 (February 25, 1913).

forward-looking Republican Ladies who published their poetry in the very periodicals that condemned women’s poetry, shi and ci continued to be the preferred form of cultural currency and their principal mode of self-expression. At the same time, the content of questionable talents and productive virtues shifted in the era of the new education. Practical skills such as sewing and cooking were textualized, formalized, and scientized. These virtuous skills were increasingly juxtaposed, not to the poetic arts, but to what even a number of women authors dismissed as a detrimental new form of female talent: abstract, academic learning. Poetic Talent Funü shibao foregrounded one of the central questions in early twentieth-century Chinese literary culture: whether it was possible to accommodate the poetic practice that had been central to scholarly and affective life for centuries to the new global and political challenges of the era. Such an accommodation would require the reconciliation of two radically different styles of learning, epistemological paradigms and expressive modes: the cultivated reticence of poetry and the often artless directness of prose. Since the late Qing, reformers had come down on the side of prose, calling, if not for the abandonment of poetry, then for its radical reform.

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This appeal to banish classical poetry from the Chinese cultural register is forcefully articulated in Liang Qichao’s critique of the woman of talent in his 1896 essay “On Women’s Education.”67 In Liang’s formulation, cultured women are a stand-in for all that is obsolete in China’s literary culture.68 Bao Tianxiao publicly endorsed Liang’s view of women’s talent as early as 1901, when he published a vernacular translation of “On Women’s Education” in his Suzhou Vernacular Journal.69 Liang’s critique continued to echo in the mandate Bao set for Funü shibao. As discussed in the Introduction and previous chapters, the journal’s prime objective was to promote “women’s learning” and advance “women’s knowledge.”70 It was not to serve as a venue for the publication of women’s poetry and the circulation of their shi and ci.71 One of the authors Bao repeatedly favored as an essay contest winner, Jiaoxin, echoed Bao’s views. In his prizewinning essay on the need for women to acquire medical knowledge, Jiaoxin uses language that directly resonates with Liang Qichao’s. He discourages forward-looking Chinese women from “abandoning themselves to trite and sentimental shi and ci [fengyunyuelou].”72 Instead, he urges them to study medical principles either by attending school or by consulting medical books on their own. Jiaoxin links this practical approach to human health to a new trend in education, the “so-called pragmatism” (suowei shiyongzhuyi) of Huang Yanpei (Huang Ren, 1878–1965). Huang, who would become one of the leading advocates of vocational education in China, first introduced this concept in a series of articles published the year before Jiaoxin’s own contribution to Funü shibao.73 While Jiaoxin and Bao Tianxiao posited a clear dichotomy between poetic practice and practical education, the relationship between the two was closely intertwined, both in the journal and in early twentieth-century literary and educational practice. A horizontal reading of the poetry, poetry talks, and photographs in the journal against Bao and Jiaoxin’s statements reveals the extent to which lyricism was woven into the fabric of the Republican Ladies’ identities. Poetry was a mainstay of Funü shibao, as it was of most periodicals in this period. The journal published close to 220 poems over the course of its print run, and every issue included, on average, ten shi or ci. These poems were published in the journal’s literary section (Wenyuan), a standard feature of women’s periodicals from the late Qing dynasty.74 A number of these poems were by key contributors to the journal, including Zhang Mojun and Tang Xiuhui, whose poetic writings are discussed in chapter 3. While Lü Bicheng, who would become the most famous female ci poet of her time, did not contribute any of her poems to the journal, she was featured in three photographs in Funü shibao, and her ci were praised in other sections of the journal that focused on poetry.75 These other sections of Funü shibao included jottings and poetry talks, examples of which appeared in twelve of the journal’s twenty-one issues. Their authors

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introduced late imperial and contemporary women poets and often reproduced a few lines of their poetry.76 In contrast to actual poetry submissions, which Bao stipulated must be written by women, these discussions of poetry were written by both women and men. These authors included Wang Ling Bingjia, who also wrote on botany in her jottings, and the men Zhou Shoujuan and Bi Yihong (who wrote under his wife’s name, Yang Fenruo).77 A fourth, unidentified author used the pseudonym Xiangye.78 Zhou Shoujuan’s contribution directly challenges Jiaoxin’s, Bao Tianxiao’s, and Liang Qichao’s antipoetic rhetoric. In his presentation of the martial-themed poetry of a contemporary woman poet Jin Zhilan, Zhou asks, “Who says that “women’s poetry is just ‘singing with the wind and toying with the moon’ [yinfeng nongyue]?”79 As proof of poetry’s political relevance he cites the verse of the revolutionary martyr Qiu Jin. He praises Qiu’s powerful yet elegant writing in “Gujian ge” (Song of an ancient sword), a poem he claims a friend has recently shown him. Zhou describes this poem as “a true ode to drawing a sword and raising one’s voice in song.” What she “spits out is very uncommon” (tushu daodi bufan), he continues. “Its bold and vehement language [tongbatieban] is enough to worry heaven and earth and surprise the ghosts and spirits.”80 Bi Yihong’s contribution emphasizes the relevance of poetry to the establishment of China’s new Republic. This is evident in the poem he chooses to discuss by Yang Bomin’s daughter Yang Xuezi (Xueyao). The subject of Yang’s poem, entitled “Junshituan beifa gufeng” (Ancient-style air on a military regiment’s northern expedition), is the Women’s Army (Nüzi jun) that she and her schoolmates Zhang Zhixue and Huang Huijian together with her older sister Xueqiong, organized at the time of the 1911 Revolution. For Bi Yihong, the poem, with its requisite references to the historical women warriors Hua Mulan and Liang Hongyu, indicates that calls for unprecedented political change can be expressed through ancient tropes and poetic forms.81 Practical Virtue The talent that authors such as Bi Yihong and Zhou Shoujuan praised in the examples above did not express boudoir concerns; rather, it addressed new republican and revolutionary themes. The virtues Funü shibao authors promoted were also reconfigured in the early Republic. Practical domestic virtues were integrated into public school curricula, where they competed with new, more academic and abstract topics of study. At the same time, these domestic virtues were infused with scientific values and embodied in objects that could be publicly displayed not only locally but nationally and internationally. Domestic Science. In the late imperial period a woman’s pursuit of learning was considered incompatible with her domestic responsibilities: cultivating talent took

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time away from a woman’s more pressing household duties. In the context of women’s formal education in the early Republic, this moral imperative continued to hold even as new pedagogical and scientific imperatives came into play. Authors for Funü shibao expressed concern that the study of academic subjects in newstyle schools was trumping the cultivation of practical domestic virtues. At the same time, they integrated scientific principles into discussions of household education, underlining the importance of the home as not only a moral but an intellectual training ground for young children. Jiang Renlan, a moderate suffragist and Funü shibao’s most prolific woman author, laments in 1911 that students in new-style schools are turning their backs on their household responsibilities. Increasingly dependent on wet nurses and maids, they are also alienating themselves from their husbands. “Among the schools for girls that have flourished in recent years,” she writes, “many offer specialized sewing and cooking courses. However, beautiful daughters of wealthy families [zhumen shuyuan] and well-bred young women [guizu mingmei] look down on these courses and are embarrassed to take them.” Jiang insists, however, that all of her female compatriots, whether rich or poor, should study “domestic science” (jiazheng) as an essential tool for managing the household. With an implicit reference to Liang Qichao’s critique of women as passive consumers, she emphasizes that this will make them efficient homemakers, not subservient parasites as it has been alleged of them in the past.82 Other authors similarly complained that formal women’s education did not prepare young women for domestic life. An unnamed contributor to the journal recounts the story of a woman from his county who was considered a prodigy when she was young and eventually became a teacher. She married a high official, but their domestic life was far from bliss. The new bride was preoccupied with her studies rather than with her domestic duties, and the house was soon in shambles. In the morning, she would neither comb her hair nor wash. As she “studied diligently at her desk” all day, the paper on the windows became torn and dust accumulated on the furniture. Despite her schooling she was also incapable of managing money.83 A certain Li Zhurun explains how such a situation can arise. Reversing the conventional valuation of domestic versus intellectual labor, she claims that the life of the student is “simple” whereas the demands of running a household are complex. They include “managing the cooking,” “preparing ritual food,” “overseeing various household tasks,” entertaining guests, and instructing servants. A female student with no real-life experience will be ill prepared to meet such demands.84 The female student Zhang Yuanying concurs. Like Jiang Renlan, she criticizes those students who equate schooling with academic study while considering such subjects as sewing, cooking, and cleaning as trivial. She also claims that despite their posturing, these students are not advancing intellectually: they do not grasp

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the deeper principles in books and are no more capable than “parrots and orangutans.” Zhang warns that as long as students continue to show this kind of “arrogance and laziness” it will be impossible to silence opponents of women’s education.85 One of the practical ways Zhang encourages students to overcome their laziness and demonstrate their practical virtue is by making their own shoes. Students’ shoes wear out easily as they travel from classes to home and back, she observes. They should therefore use their spare time to make cotton shoes that will be both stable and comfortable.86 For the reader of Funü shibao who may have wanted to follow up on Zhang Yuanying’s recommendation, the journal offered little concrete guidance on such practical matters as how to sew a pair of shoes. Only 4 percent of the articles published in the journal—approximately 29 out of 714—were on the domestic arts. These included six articles directly related to sewing, including a three-part instructional article on sewing patterns for men’s clothing. At the same time, the journal advertised a number of services and products that could fill this gap in practical instruction, indicating the extent to which women’s practical domestic duties were not only formalized and scientized in school curricula but commercialized in the early Republican economy. Advertised services included a sewing school that boasted it would teach women a new mechanized way to “fulfill their [domestic] responsibilities.” Quoting a proverb, the school’s ad describes sewing as not only a moral but a gender necessity: “A woman who does not know how to sew is like a man who is illiterate.”87 Advertisements for sewing machines sold in the foreign concessions in Shanghai also struck familiar moral chords. Invoking the classic female virtues of diligence and frugality, one ad announces that its product will save women “time and money.”88 Another advertisement for a two-volume Chinese Girls’ Sewing Textbook, edited by Bao Tianxiao, explains that “the most important practical matters in life are food and clothing. Women must know how to prepare food and sew clothing. While many women can cook, however, few can sew.” Attuned to recent fashion trends, the textbook introduces the most current Chinese fashions in the first volume and the most upto-date Western fashions in the second.89 Funü shibao devoted slightly more space to articles on cooking than sewing, despite the claim in Bao’s textbook that this was already a more developed skill. These articles generally focused on the science rather than the art of cooking, however, introducing, for example, Western understandings of the physiology of digestion, and new methods of preserving food.90 The doctor and Guangdong Provincial Assembly representative Cheng Liqing contributed an essay on how to prevent food from turning moldy.91 In another article on keeping food and drink from spoiling, a certain Jin Kebo invokes the authority of the “Swedish” (actually Swiss) pharmaceutical chemist, Carl Wilhelm Scheele (1742–86), and the French inventor of airtight food preservation, Nicolas Appert (1749–1841).92

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Funü shibao authors also added new valences to what had been understood from at least the time of Mencius’s famous mother in the fourth century BCE as a woman’s most fundamental domestic duty: the education of children in the home. Ye Shengtao, a founding member of the May Fourth-era Literary Research Association, reinforced the importance of household education, as had Wang Jieliang and Yun Daiying in their disquisitions on the importance of inductive learning.93 Ye’s maiden essay, “Ertong zhi guannian” (Children’s perceptions), published in Funü shibao in September 1911, challenges the received scholarly narrative that claims he did not turn to serious writing until 1919. Introducing the notion of childhood psychology in the essay, Ye emphasizes the crucial importance of the mother’s formative influence on her child, using a psychological and childcentered rather than a traditional moral approach. This early article provides evidence of what the literary historian C. T. Hsia would identify in Ye’s later literature as his “astonishing command of the juvenile mind.”94 Echoing Wang Jieliang, who claims that three years of education in the home are more important than three years of education in university, Ye insists that eight- or nine-year-old children learn more through their concrete and affective experiences at home than through book learning at school.95 He gives the example of a young boy whose mother instructs him to burn incense for his ancestors—a solemn act that would certainly have a profound impact on a young child. When this same child attends school and learns from his textbook that ancestor worship is nothing more than ignorant superstition, he will just laugh. A textbook narrative cannot compete with the power of ritual practice woven into the fabric of family life.96 This trend toward a scientized understanding of a woman’s domestic tasks, from educating her children to preserving food, intensified over the course of Funü shibao’s history and led to the formalization of home economics curricula in the 1920s.97 In a treatise that marks the culmination of a decade of teaching experience in China and a year of investigating women’s education in America and Europe in 1918, Zhang Mojun both elevates everyday household knowledge to the level of formal pedagogy and science, and ties formal pedagogy and science to everyday domestic work. She advocates that schools offer courses in “household chemistry,” (jiating huaxue), “basic medical knowledge,” (yiyao changshi), and “household industry” (jiating zhiye), in addition to courses on sewing, cooking, and gardening.98 Material Virtue. The new pedagogy promoted by female educators such as Zhang Mojun and Jiang Renlan placed more emphasis on practical, material pedagogy than on abstract, intellectual pedagogy. Its products were more tangible and physical than cognitive or literary. They were expressions of virtue—of diligence, productiveness, and patriotism—rather than merely embodiments of talent.

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figure 5.9. Photographs of Yu Shen Shou (right) and of her embroidered portrait of the Italian queen (left), for which she was awarded first prize at an international fair in Italy in 1909. Funü shibao 1 (June 11, 1911): front matter.

Funü shibao celebrated women whose practical talents morphed into patriotic virtues when they garnered international prizes at global exhibitions in the early twentieth century. These women included the famous Chinese embroiderer Yu Shen Shou, who won first prize at an international fair in Italy in 1909 for her embroidered portrait of the Italian queen (figure 5.9). They also included women who submitted winning entries and increased China’s global visibility at its own Nanyang Exhibition in 1910. The two hundred thousand visitors to the exhibition from fourteen nations could have viewed Su Bennan and Su Benyan’s awardwinning cotton handicraft art (figure 5.5).99 They also could have enjoyed Zhang Mojun’s oil paintings, which were among a limited number of artistic works in Western media included in the exhibition.100 Three of Zhang’s paintings were reproduced in Funü shibao: two landscapes and Awakened Lion (Xingshi tu) (figure 5.10). Local displays of material female virtue, such as the Zhejiang Women’s Normal School exhibit of drawings and handicrafts (figure 5.1), were also documented in

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figure 5.10. Zhang Mojun’s oil painting Awakened Lion (Xingshi tu). Zhang’s paintings were among a limited number of artistic works in Western media included in the Nanyang exhibition. Funü shibao 4 (November 5, 1911): front matter.

Funü shibao. In 1914 the journal published a detailed account of a similar exhibition that featured the work of Shanghai elementary school students. The author, Shen Weizheng, a normal school student at the Chengdong Girl’s School, had attended the exhibition with seven of her classmates. Her detailed record offers invaluable insights into the materiality and ethos of early Republican women’s education.101 Shen explains that the works of elementary student are displayed in six exhibition rooms on tables and walls and in glass shelves (as in figure 5.1). Each piece of work is carefully marked with the date and the teacher’s (rather than the student’s) name. The displayed items highlight the students’ achievements in academics, handicrafts, and fine arts. They include samples of writing and arithmetic, animal models, books, and examples of several styles of calligraphy; such handicrafts as papermaking, bamboo engraving, needlework—some of it using Western or woolen thread—and examples of sewing and sewing patterns; works of fine art such as paintings, painted booklet covers, landscapes, and Western-style paintings; and origami.102 The exhibit also displays materials designed to facilitate the navigation of social and commercial life. These include more than one dormitory model and a number of maps. They also include documents related to social interactions such as invitation templates for weddings or funerals, a common feature in late imperial encyclopedias for everyday life.103

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Some schools exhibit materials relevant to Shanghai’s thriving commercial culture, demonstrating the expectation that students may become involved in commerce themselves. Among these materials are contracts (hetong fapiao), essays on commerce, examples of bookkeeping, records of daily expenses, and rental agreements. As a mark of the increasing importance of publicity in the early Republic, some of the schools have even produced templates for advertisements.104 Aware of the shifting commercial reality around them, the elementary school students are also cognizant of their political context. Among the more memorable objects on display is a knitted paean to the new regime: the four characters “to the perpetual stability of the Republic” (gonghe yonggu) knitted into a piece of handiwork.105 Shen emphasizes that the displayed objects reflect not only the students’ artistic or academic talents but the virtues nurtured at their particular schools. She singles out the Pudong Elementary School for its moral superiority. Directly linked to practicality and materiality, this moral superiority is manifest in the utility of the artifacts the school has produced: strong and functional bookcases made of zinccoated wire, useful boxes made of thick paper, and handmade mathematics workbooks written with ink and brush by the students themselves.106 As if to underscore the importance of the material aspects of female education, the Youzheng Book Company printed prominent advertisements for a calligraphy copy book and a textbook on sewing and handicrafts for girls immediately following Shen’s account—a seemingly purposive placement, as ads generally appeared at the beginning or the end of an issue rather than in the middle.

The static and orderly display of drawings and handicrafts described in Shen Weizheng’s account and visualized in the photograph of the Zhejiang Women’s Normal School exhibit (figure 5.1) contrasts sharply with a snapshot of female visitors outside a women’s handicrafts pavilion (nüzi shougong chu) in Shanghai’s Zhang Garden. The same snapshot appears twice in the journal: in issue 7 and in a cropped version in issue 9. In both instances it is part of a series: of three photographs in issue 7 and four in issue 9, all taken in Zhang Garden. The two series include the only nonstudio portraits of women in the journal: snapshots of girls selling flowers (one of the more unsavory occupations for young women) and another of visitors to the garden sipping tea (all appear to be women, one smoking) in issue 7; and two photographs of young female vendors and one of a Chinese woman in Western dress in front of a Western building known as Ankaidi (“Acadia”) in issue 9. These various images give a sense of the spectacle and flow of movement in one of Shanghai’s busiest urban spaces.107 The two versions of the unstaged photograph outside the exhibition hall further convey the social volatility and uncertainty that arises when women and their handicrafts become objects of public display.

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figure 5.11. Female visitors at a women’s handicrafts pavilion (nüzi shougong chu). Groups of men appear to the right of a small group of women, and a shadowy figure is in the foreground. Funü shibao 7 (July 10, 1912): front matter.

The first, rougher image (figure 5.11) gives a fuller sense of the moment when the photograph was taken. The second version of the portrait (figure 5.12) is cleaner and cropped, as if the editors felt the need to discipline this unruly social space. Men who are excised from the second version appear in the first version to the right of a small group of women, the focus of the portrait. There is also a blurred figure in the foreground that is deleted from the cleaner print. The need to moderate women’s new publicness that is suggested in these two versions of the same photograph was a direct by-product of the new education. From its inception, formal schooling for women was beset by a web of tensions surrounding the unstable notions of talent and virtue and the challenges involved in allowing women to develop new public talents while continuing to nurture what were still considered fundamental domestic virtues. Friction arose over the kinds of talents to be trained—poetic, practical, intellectual—and between these talents and new, scientific and patriotic iterations of female virtue. The greatest safeguard against the dangers inherent in the institutionalization of women’s education was schools that were extensions of family lineages, where

figure 5.12. Visitors in front of a women’s handicrafts pavilion (nüzi shougong suo). The men and the shadowy figure in the previous version of this photograph have been cropped out of the picture. Funü shibao 9 (February 25, 1913): front matter.

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forward-looking fathers could guide and oversee the development of their talented daughters. When new female identities were forged within more impersonal school environments, the experience could be radicalizing, alienating, and physically as well as emotionally draining. It was also, critics feared, sexually dangerous as students—together with the flower sellers and Western-clad visitors to Zhang Garden—joined courtesans as part of the early Republic’s dynamic new public.

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Tang Xiuhui embodied the ambiguous sexual status of the Republican Lady. She had a courtesan’s ease in front of the camera, as is apparent in the juxtaposition between her photograph in figure 6.1 and the courtesan portrait in figure 6.2. She also crossed a number of sexually charged lines in her personal life. Her marital position straddled that of concubine and wife, and on more than one occasion she physically traversed the border into the courtesan quarters of Beijing. Her lived experience and photographic practices signal the culmination of the tension between good women and fallen women, which had been endemic to Chinese society and culture for centuries.1 When long-cloistered respectable women, like Tang, went public in the early twentieth century—attending public schools, taking up professions, writing for and publishing their photographs in the periodical press—they precipitated “the most significant and sweeping change in China’s sexgender system in centuries.”2 This chapter uses visual and textual evidence from within and beyond the pages of Funü shibao to examine this significant and sweeping change. It focuses on two phenomena that highlight the fluidity of the early Republican sexual economy and tensions in the early Republican sexual field: photography and prostitution. Shifts in early Republican sexual mores are visibly and materially manifest in photographic practice. The different social functions that photographs of Republican Ladies and courtesans served and the contrasting methods by which they were acquired reinforced the distinction between these two classes of women. At the same time, the encoding of these distinctions in the photographs themselves was frequently blurred, producing an often cultivated visual ambiguity. 176

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figure 6.1. Ms. Tang Xiuhui, normal school graduate and contributor to Funü shibao, embodied the ambiguous sexual status of the Republican Lady. Funü shibao 19 (August 1916): front matter.

figure 6.2. The courtesan Yin Baochai—whose name is not followed by an honorific— in a pose similar to Tang Xiuhui’s but showing her pants-clad legs. Yanlian huaying (Shanghai: Youzheng shuju, n.d. [ca. 1911]), n.p., [50].

The status of sex work and of the courtesans to whom the Republican Ladies were implicitly compared in the early Republic was also equivocal. Imported discourses that introduced new social scientific methods of analyzing, critiquing, and regulating prostitution fueled—and possibly helped create—reformist agendas that presented prostitution as a corrupting blight on society that had to be eradicated. At the same time, publishers used the latest commercial print technologies to newly aestheticize and commodify China’s long-standing courtesan culture. Grounded in sentimental notions of the honorable prostitute, this culture continued to thrive not only in innovative and evocative visual representations but in actual intimate relations between women of the flower world and the journalistic and literary elite. The chapter highlights these various liminalities in the early Republican sexual field: in the dress and demeanor of Republican Ladies and courtesans; in the social status of prostitutes and courtesans; and in the lived experience of Funü shibao’s

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most photographed female subject, Tang Xiuhui, at the nexus of Republican Ladyhood, concubinage, and the courtesan quarters. P HO T O G R A P H S : C OM M E M O R AT IO N A N D C OM M O D I F IC AT IO N

Funü shibao is as an invaluable lens onto the early Republic’s shifting sexual economy. At the forefront of new public roles for women, it was also in the vanguard of the latest technologies of photographic reproduction. The journal both captured and capitalized on the potential confusion between the Republican Ladies’ public visibility and their sexual availability. Photographs as Sources The photographs published in Funü shibao’s front pages and in related Youzheng Book Company publications—most notably, a series of courtesan albums—are rare and as yet largely untapped historical sources. These rich visual materials add a new level of complexity to an already multilayered written record. Although they are subject to their own conventions and to editorial framing, cropping, and placement, they are often less mediated than translated or original writings. They are as—if not more—important than textual discussions in illuminating the extent of women’s self-actualization in this period and the blurring of social registers to which such self-actualization could give rise. These photographs offer much more than optic evidence. Properly contextualized through horizontal, integrated, and situated readings, they provide invaluable traces of social practices.3 They can also serve as crucial counterevidence to textual arguments. In the pages of Funü shibao calls for passionless conjugal relations are juxtaposed with wedding portraits of fashionable young couples embarking on new-style “enlightened marriages” (wenming jiehun) (figure 0.3). Screeds against students who are so bedecked and bejeweled that they are indistinguishable from prostitutes are contravened by class portraits of rows upon rows of modest, uniformly dressed female graduates (figures 5.2 and 5.6). Condemnations of diseased and degenerate prostitutes share textual space with advertisements for technically sophisticated and aesthetically striking courtesan albums. Highly rewarding and insufficiently tapped historical sources, photographs are also inherently complicated historical objects. Their meanings are as tied to the position, expectations, and assumptions of viewers as they are to the intentions of the photographed subject.4 It was trepidation about this dynamic mode of apprehension that cautioned upright ladies in the early Republic against circulating their photographs among an unknowable audience that would make of their images what it would. This same susceptibility to the assumptions of viewers has

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continued to subject the Funü shibao portraits to misreadings—to scholars making of the portraits what they would.5 Such misreadings are understandable given the similarities between portraits of upright ladies and courtesans, such as figures 6.1 and 6.2. They should, however, be avoidable when photographs are embedded in specific print sources. While the sexual encoding of the images examined in this chapter could be opaque, the moral stance of the publications in which they appear was not. A close reading of Funü shibao reveals that images printed in the journal could only be those of upright women. Contextual information thus facilitates our interpretive work. At the same time, having two large bodies of photographs in clearly situated textual genres—a women’s journal that targeted Republican Ladies and courtesan albums that targeted connoisseurs of women—allows us to decipher tropes and clothing styles that signal the two sets of women. As we become more fluent in the visual language of Chinese sexual culture we are also better able to probe its deeper social meanings. Photographs and Periodicals Funü shibao was the first journal to publish a critical mass of photographs of respectable Republican Ladies: not only group portraits of students, a handful of which had appeared in earlier women’s magazines, but individual portraits of fashionable upright women. In contrast, women of the flower world who had used the new photographic medium to capture their allure from the mid- to late 1870s had their portraits printed in the periodical press from the late 1890s, more than a decade prior to Funü shibao’s founding. In 1898, before it was technically possible to integrate photographs into the printed page, Li Boyuan (1867–1906) pasted portraits of courtesans he had collected in Shanghai’s Zhang Garden into the “Courtesan Competition” (Kaihua bang) column of his journal Youxi bao (Entertainment, 1897–1908).6 From this point onward, courtesans entered into a symbiotic relationship with new media. Courtesan portraits raised the market value of new print commodities, and these publications in turn enhanced the courtesan trade and the reputation of certain celebrated “flowers.” Funü shibao’s publisher, Di Baoxian, strengthened this symbiotic relationship between courtesan and periodical when he founded the Fiction Eastern Times in 1909. He also forged a new relationship between Republican Ladies and print when he established Funü shibao in 1911. An astute publisher, Di was aware of the draw of courtesan photographs, the enduring attraction of the Chinese genre of portraits of beauties (meiren), and the new foreign media sensation of Western cover girls. He became convinced that the best way to make both a cultural statement and an economic profit was to print photographs of “fashionable women” (shizhuang meiren) in the journals he published as supplements to his newspaper, Shibao.7

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As noted in chapter 1, Di first included portraits of courtesans in the Fiction Eastern Times to enhance the reading pleasure of the journal’s targeted male audience. When the overwhelming success of these images soon became apparent, he had his publishing house design three courtesan albums that combined portraits from the fiction journal with hundreds of other photographs of women of the flower world.8 Two of the albums, Haishang jinghong ying (Photographs of graces of Shanghai) and Yanlian huaying (Photographs of beauties from the flower world), were first published before Funü shibao was founded, probably in 1909 and 1911 respectively.9 The third, Xin jinghong ying (New photographs of graces), was published in 1914 to commemorate the tenth anniversary of the founding of Shibao. These albums are critical to an integrated reading of Funü shibao. Although the journal targeted upright Republican Ladies, its portraits were produced in the same photography studio, using the same artistic techniques and stylistic conventions as the courtesan albums. The woman’s journal and the albums also inhabited the same commercial print world. Advertisements for the albums appeared regularly in Funü shibao, and advertisements for Funü shibao appeared in the last of the albums—the only one to be published when Funü shibao was in print—New Photographs of Graces. The two Youzheng print products, which were designed to appeal to overlapping audiences of readers and viewers, thus underscore the imbrication of representations of upright and fallen women. They also suggest the fluidity of the early twentieth-century visual field. Commemoration The potential confusion between courtesans and Republican Ladies made Bao Tianxiao’s task of soliciting photographs of respectable women for Funü shibao particularly daunting. In his calls for submissions to the journal and his editorial column, he repeatedly urged women readers of and writers for the journal to send in their photographs.10 In his memoirs he laments that “open-minded” women who were willing to do so were extremely rare.11 Many of the Republican Ladies who wrote for Funü shibao, including the prolific Jiang Renlan and Bao’s own wife, Chen Zhensu, did not publish their photographs in the journal or in any other periodicals of the period that I have consulted. At the same time, a significant number of women—from regal elder guixiu such as He Miaoling (figures 2.1 and 2.4) to younger students such as Tang Xiuhui (figures 3.11 and 6.1)—were willing to have their photographs appear in the periodical press. Republican Ladies did not begin to frequent photography studios alone until early in the twentieth century, some thirty years after courtesans.12 The Youzheng Book Company’s Minying Photography Studio, which was located in Shanghai’s entertainment quarter in the International Settlement, had first welcomed a courtesan clientele.13 It began to appeal to respectable women shortly after Funü shibao was founded in the early Republic.14 An advertisement for the studio that

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figure 6.3. Advertisement for the Minying Photography Studio. In addition to outlining the studio’s services and prices, the ad claims that both Chinese and foreign women frequent the studio. Xin jinghong ying (Shanghai: Youzheng shuju, 1914), n.p., [1].

appears both in the journal and in the courtesan albums encourages guixiu to “Take their picture at Minying.” The advertisement features a drawing of a modestly dressed and coiffed woman pointing toward a list of the studio’s various services and prices (figure 6.3). The narrative portion of the advertisement claims that both Chinese and foreign women frequent the studio.15 Minying was not the first Shanghai studio to accommodate this demographic of genteel women. In 1900, the Yaohua zhaoxiang hao (Glorious Photography Studio), which had specialized in courtesan photographs from the 1890s, reached out to respectable women.16 One of the owner’s daughters who had been educated in Shanghai’s French Concession opened a western branch of the studio near the racetrack. According to an advertisement published in Shibao in 1905, this branch studio welcomes prominent women of “high reputation from good families” (dajia mingfu, mingmen shuyuan) who are unwilling to be photographed by men.17 It is difficult to determine where the various photographs published in Funü shibao were taken. Only a small number have the Minying imprint on the photographs’ substrate. They include two photographs from Zhang Garden that appeared together, one striking portrait of a Republican Lady (plate 5), and four wedding photographs. The relatively high number of wedding portraits suggests that Minying may have specialized in this kind of photograph. Respectable young brides who were in the studio with their husbands could have then used this occasion to sit for their own self-portraits. Whether or not this was a calculated strategy on

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Minying’s and Funü shibao’s part—a way of getting Republican Ladies to the studio and an opportunity to follow up with requests that their portraits be included in the journal—is difficult to verify. What is certain is that although the courtesans had little say over how or whether their photographs taken at the Minying studio would circulate, the fate of photographs of Republican Ladies remained more firmly in their—or perhaps their husbands’—own hands.18 By the early twentieth century, photographs of women for private commemorative use—marking weddings, family occasions, departures on journeys or to study abroad—were not controversial, even in the case of unmarried women. New marriage rituals in Shanghai, Suzhou, and probably other cities commonly included an exchange of photographs between prospective brides and grooms from upright families who rarely saw each other before they married. This means reputable nubile young women were going to studios—probably with male family members— and posing for the camera.19 While the private taking of a photograph was not controversial, its public circulation was. This continued to be true even over a decade after Funü shibao went out of print. In 1926, the editors of Liangyou (Young Companion) were criticized for publishing a female student’s photograph without having secured her permission. In admitting this error to their readers, the editors acknowledged that this kind of reaction could have been expected. Most people, they wrote, continued to believe that with the exception of “old ladies with white hair and wrinkled skin,” only “low-class, base, and despicable” (xialiu, huaipin, jiange) women would allow their pictures to appear in print.20 As this incident suggests, students were the most ambiguous visual category throughout the early twentieth century. Writers, particularly women writers, for Funü shibao who were most directly invested in the success of the new women’s education were highly attentive to the precariousness of the female students’ position. The female teacher Li Huizhu insists that students discipline themselves in order to remain in control of their “sensual desires” (shiyu) and overcome the nefarious “evil” (niezhang) of “lust” (qingyu).21 The author Shanzai similarly advocates a new kind of “pedagogy of the emotions” (qingyu jiaoyu) for overseas female students in Japan, who he claims are engaging in unnatural female same-sex love.22 Jiang Renlan depicts the new education for women as a zero-sum game: as students’ new knowledge increases, their virtue declines, and as they embrace new freedoms they abandon esteemed Chinese teachings. Their “lasciviousness” is comparable to that of the infamous Tang dynasty concubine Yang Guifei (719–56).23 Zhang Zhu Hanfen, who is more charitable than Jiang in emphasizing the vulnerability rather than the immorality of female students, nonetheless also calls for a return to practices of “restraint” and “watchfulness” between men and women.24 These critiques of the moral waywardness of China’s new schoolgirls were both supported and countered by visual depictions of female students in the journal. In

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figure 6.4. Photograph of graduates of the Zhejiang Women’s Normal School, 1916. Tang Xiuhui is seated in the very middle of the first row (fourth from the left or right). Funü shibao 20 (November 1916): front matter.

addition to cover art that featured modestly dressed female students innocently walking through the city streets to attend school (figure 2.8, 3.3), they included class photographs, emblems of collective discipline and uniform restraint.25 These group portraits sharply contrast with individual portraits of students—even of the same student when she appears in two different genres of photograph. The Tang Xiuhui featured in a gently tinted photograph with one of her classmates (figure 3.11) or in the single portrait above (figure 6.1), for example, projects a very different image from the Tang Xiuhui seated in the front row of this orderly group of students in their white tunics and black skirts (figure 6.4; Tang is the fourth student from the right). Even class portraits (figure 6.5) can, however, evoke courtesan group portraits (figure 6.6). These two photographs, which are both tinted red in the original, are identical in composition: seated women, some holding white handkerchiefs, placidly look out at the viewer. Both use artifice to evoke a natural setting—the art nouveau frame in the first, the painted scrim in the second. The key indications that the second group of women are courtesans are their tiny feet visible in the front row, their earrings, and their more elaborate hairstyles. At the same time, the

figure 6.5. Photograph of students in the teacher-training class at the Beiyang Girls’ Public School. The students all have the same simple hairstyle and natural feet. The second seated student from the right and the fourth standing student from the right are touching hands, which is unusual for portraits of respectable young women. Funü shibao 1 (June 11, 1911): front matter.

figure 6.6. The courtesans sit in a configuration similar to that of the students, but their status is evident in their bound feet, visible earrings, and more elaborate hairstyles. Haishang jinghong ying (Shanghai: Youzheng shuju, n.d. [ca. 1910]), n.p.

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class portrait offers a stronger hint of intimacy with two women loosely holding hands (the second seated young woman from the right and the fourth standing young woman from the right). Class photographs further reveal that student attire became increasingly individualized over the course of the first decades of the twentieth century and that photographs themselves became increasingly pictorialist. Rows of contained students, as in photographs from a late Qing album, are replaced by more stylized group poses in dramatic open settings in the later issues of Funü shibao (figure 2.6).26 Commodification As photographs of Republican Ladies—students, professionals, and genteel women—became increasingly stylized in the early Republic, photographs of courtesans had to be increasingly eroticized in order to remain of interest in the ever more crowded public visual field. In sharp contrast with portraits of Republican Ladies, which were first and foremost commemorative—marking school graduations, weddings, or other ritualized social occasions—courtesan photographs had always been commodities. Shanghai studios sold them from as early as the 1870s, and vendors hawked them on the streets from at least the first decade of the twentieth century. While photographs of Republican Ladies were carefully guarded in family collections, courtesan photographs were “available everywhere.”27 Youzheng Book Company capitalized on this mania for courtesan photographs by assembling hundreds of them in highly attractive albums. The cultural status of the courtesan albums—but not necessarily of the courtesans themselves—in the early Republic is evident in the ways these texts were promoted: as objects of connoisseurship rather than of prurient pleasure. The detailed descriptions in advertisements for the albums focused as much on their technical virtuosity as on the qualities of the women included in their collections. The advertisement for Photographs of Shanghai Graces announces that the collection includes photographs of five hundred of Shanghai’s “most fashionable” and “extraordinarily attired” courtesans from the last thirty years. The new five-color copper plate method (wucai gangmuban) used to reproduce the photographs renders them “clearer and brighter” than the originals and raises their quality to that of photographs in Western fine arts museums. The ads for Photographs of Beauties from the Flower World state that the album uses the same five-color copper plate technology. Its content is distinct in that it includes some six hundred portraits not only of Shanghai beauties but of courtesans from all provinces and treaty ports, from Beijing to Fujian, from Shanghai to Baoding, some of them in Western dress.28 Advertisements for New Photographs of Graces emphasize the extraordinary quality rather than the quantity of its photographs. These portraits of the latest beauties from Beijing, Shanghai, and all provinces were reproduced using exquisite colored copper plate fine printing (caise tongban jingyin) and include two

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five-colored overlaid images using collotype printing (wucai boliban taoyin) (plate 6). Although all three albums were produced and marketed by the Youzheng Book Company, the publisher boasts that New Photographs of Graces is superior to its predecessors: its unprecedented artistry, the advertisement states, separates it from Photographs of Shanghai Graces “as heaven is separated from earth.”29 The high level of craftsmanship and technical expertise that went into the albums was reflected in their price. Photographs of Shanghai Graces and New Photographs of Graces both cost three yuan, whereas Photographs of Beauties from the Flower World cost three yuan, five jiao. This was significantly more expensive than other genres of photography albums put out by the Youzheng Book Company and advertised in Funü shibao. Quanguo xuetang yingxiang (Photographs of schools from across China) cost a mere eight jiao, while the first collection of Photographs from the Battlefield: A True Record of the Hostilities in Hankou cost one jiao, four fen and the second, four jiao.30 The cost of the most expensive of the three albums was the equivalent of a full-year subscription to Funü shibao. It was certainly out of reach of even a relatively well-paid laborer, who would earn about three yuan a month. For an early Republican writer who could earn three yuan for an article of one thousand characters, however, it was certainly within his or her means.31 The albums can hardly serve as hard documentary evidence of the state of the courtesan world: neither the sources nor the dates of the photographs are given. While Photographs of Shanghai Graces allegedly includes photographs from the last thirty years—dating to the very beginning of photographic portraiture of courtesans—New Photographs of Graces boasts the most recent beauties, a handful of whose histories can be traced. This last album in particular suggests that the courtesan world was still thriving. While the number of courtesans in Shanghai in 1896 was estimated to be around four hundred, close to fifteen hundred women from Shanghai and beyond were represented in the three albums, with some, but not significant, overlap.32 The quantity and sophistication of the images in the courtesan albums challenge the linear narrative that numerous scholars have outlined of the courtesan’s irrevocable slide from rarified cultural status to the increasingly sexualized and debased social position of the prostitute at the turn of the twentieth century.33 These publications suggest instead that commercialization did much more than dilute the flower world’s prior mystique. In conversation with the driving forces of reform, market forces infused the demi-monde with a new élan. While commercialization may have robbed courtesans of some of their specificity, it also gave them opportunities to reinvent that specificity in new visual, technological, and global idioms.34 These new idioms were among the Republican Ladies’ most influential visual referents. The albums were advertised in Funü shibao, and we can assume that at least some of the journal’s female readers perused them. These women may have

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found the contents of the albums as captivating as did male viewers. They most likely used the albums in very different ways than men did, however: as early Republican look books, how-to fashion guides that introduced the latest sartorial trends and suggested the most elegant ways of posing for the camera.35 Their use of the albums in this way would, at least in part, account for the marked similarities in dress and posture between several of their portraits and certain of the courtesan images. Slippages Slippage between images of upright ladies and courtesans was not new to the photographic medium, just as tension between respectable and fallen women was not new to the early twentieth century. Late imperial compilations of paintings or drawings of feminine beauties (meiren) included both mingyuan (upright beauties) and mingji (courtesans or prostitutes). In some instances the image of a courtesan was used to represent an honorable woman, or the portrait of an honorable woman to depict a courtesan.36 This blurring of social parameters was accentuated from the late Qing dynasty, however, by a series of mutually reinforcing commercial, technological, political, and social shifts. The rapid commercialization of both photography and print captured and mechanically reproduced the courtesan’s aura for a broadening audience of viewers, including Republican Ladies. The transition from an empire wary of the outside world to a Republic increasingly engaged with the outside world loosened prevailing dress codes and precipitated an unprecedented and ongoing transformation in the physical appearance of both men and women.37 Finally, and most importantly, Republican Ladies moved outside of the home, joining and enhancing this public field of circulating images and often strikingly attired bodies. As the social slippage between Republican Ladies and courtesans became more pronounced, clothing became central to critiques of respectable women’s new social visibility and its attendant moral ambiguity. The semantics of clothing had long been an index of civilizational, gender, and class status in Chinese history.38 As Dai Yifen writes in Funü shibao, “In the past people said that an individual’s temperament and level of learning were apparent in their clothing choices.”39 From the early twentieth century when Dai was writing women’s clothing not only signified social and cultural attainment. It also became explicitly linked to sexualization.40 In the words of Bao Tianxiao’s wife, Chen Zhensu: women who are prone to fashion are also prone to sin.41 The critique of respectable women who were in the thrall of the courtesan’s sartorial style was generally—but not exclusively—directed at female students.42 A woman writing under the name Shuan argues that female students pay more attention to beauty than to practical matters. Even those from good families imitate prostitutes in their appearance and social interactions. Those from more modest

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families who cannot expect to marry men wealthy enough to satisfy their material desires may even go so far as to become courtesans so that they can afford to dress like courtesans.43 Jiang Renlan claims that female students who “disgracefully eloped” and “acted shamelessly” also “dressed in aberrant ways.”44 Zhang Zhu Hanfen laments that whereas in the past women who wore makeup and jewelry could be excused because of their lack of education, today female students are among those who are the most ostentatiously made up and bejeweled.45 Encoding Clothing was one of the key visual indicators of sexual status in photographs of courtesans and Republican Ladies, one idiom in the visual language that the subjects of the photographs and their contemporary viewers used to encode or decode the images.46 By adopting or avoiding certain fashions, gestures, or objects, women visually signaled sexual guardedness or sexual availability. Artistic editors superimposed additional layers of meaning as they transformed these private portraits into public print objects through captioning, composition, and the creation of narrative montages. These various codes, based on the sexual mores and social expectations that governed the practice of photography in early twentieth-century China, are often difficult for the early twenty-first-century viewer to decipher. This is particularly true in cases where there are marked similarities between Republican Lady and courtesan photographs. Evident in the two portraits that open this chapter, such similarities are even more apparent in the juxtaposition of plates 3 and 4—from Funü shibao and New Photographs of Graces respectively—with their almost identical composition, framing, and tinting.47 With the advantage of having two bodies of sources clearly representing two distinct demographics of women it is, nonetheless, possible to begin to decode the visual language of Chinese sexual culture. The most obvious marker of a photographed subject’s sexual and social status in a printed source is not visual but textual: the caption to her photograph. This is evident in the portrait of Ms. Wei Shuji (plate 5). If Wei’s portrait was encountered without its caption and with no knowledge of its visual context it could easily be taken for a courtesan photograph. The image is almost surreal because of the subsequently applied color, a service the Minying Photography Studio, and most other studios at this time, offered for a small fee and used in many of their courtesan portraits. The red coloring of the bow in Ms. Wei’s hair, and in particular the red dot in the middle of her lower lip, are redolent of images published in the courtesan albums. The same dot was applied to the lips of the star courtesans in the twocolor overlaid images featured in New Photographs of Graces (plate 6). Both the caption to and the context for Wei Shuji’s photograph override the suggestive red dot and confirm her reputable social status, however. The caption states that she is the daughter of a provincial official who served as the director of the Fuzhou Naval Office (Chuanzheng ju) under the Qing dynasty.

plate 1. Portrait of Zhang Hongyi, a contributor to Funü shibao. The journal’s pictorial editors heightened the portrait’s allure by inserting it in a floral art nouveau background. At the same time, they confirmed Zhang’s respectability in the caption by indicating that she was a Beiyang Women’s Normal School student. Funü shibao 13 (April 1, 1914): front matter.

plate 2. A woman hunts in the rolling hills in striking hybrid attire. Cover, Funü shibao 7 (July 10, 1912).

plate 3. Portrait of Zhang Huiru (top) and Tang Xiuhui (bottom). Funü shibao 20 (November 1916): front matter. The composition of this montage and the art nouveau decoration evoke the portrait of three women from a courtesan album shown in plate 4.

plate 4. Portrait of the courtesans Lin Baobao, Chunyan Lou, and Lin Yuanyuan. Features that suggest the women are courtesans include Lin and Chunyan Lou’s intimate pose in the top photograph. Xin jinghong ying (Shanghai: Youzheng shuju, 1914), n.p. [50].

plate 5. Portrait of Ms. Wei Shuji of Fujian, daughter of the director of the Fuzhou Naval Office under the Qing dynasty. The red dot in the middle of Wei’s lower lip is redolent of images published in courtesan albums (such as the one in plate 6). Funü shibao 7 (July 10, 1912): front matter.

plate 6. Portrait of Yiqing bieshu. The height of her collar, the red dot on her lip, and the pearl flower brooch on her chest are classic marks of the courtesan. The characters on the left of the portrait indicate that Yiqing bieshu was photographed at the Minying Studio and that the five-colored collotype portrait was produced at the Youzheng Book Company print studio. Xin jinghong ying (Shanghai: Youzheng shuju, 1914). n.p.

plate 7. “China’s Female Flyer, Zhang Xiahun” pictured in both the central, slightly masculinized beauty-style portrait and in the smaller oval-shaped photograph that shows her in the cockpit of an airplane. These two photographs of Zhang are set against a backdrop of Allied planes poised for battle in the Great War. Funü shibao 20 (November 1916): front matter.

plate 8. A woman looking at a flying machine through binoculars. Cover, Funü shibao 20 (November 1916).

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figure 6.7. Ms. Wei Shuji, wife of diplomatic attaché in England, Luo Yiyuan. This photograph, published in Chinese Women, is from the same series of wedding photographs as two photographs of Wei that appeared in Funü shibao. Chinese Women 1, no. 3 (March 1915).

A close reading of Funü shibao and other periodicals published at the time further reveals that the portrait is part of a series of photographs Wei took at the Minying studio in celebration of her marriage. She appears in identical clothing in a wedding portrait with her husband, Luo Yiyuan, in the ninth issue of the journal (February 25, 1913), and in a third photograph published two years later in the journal Chinese Women (figure 6.7). The caption to this last photograph identifies Wei’s husband, Luo, as a diplomatic attaché to England.

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Unlike the often lengthy biographical captions that accompany Republican Lady photographs like Wei Shuji’s, captions to courtesan photographs rarely provide more than the woman’s professional name. These “names” are often generic labels for types rather than proper names identifying distinct individuals.48 This is apparent in an anecdote recorded by Bao Tianxiao. After a brief encounter with a Suzhou courtesan named A Jin in Shanghai in his youth, Bao tried to find the young woman again some months later. His ardent quest was met with derision when he was told that there were over ten courtesans named A Jin in Shanghai at the time—how could he expect to find such a person?49 Indeed, in one single group portrait of Suzhou courtesans from Photographs of Beauties from the Flower World, two of the women are identified as “A Jin.”50 In addition to their frequent lack of personalized distinction, courtesan names also exclude the honorifics that generally followed the names of Republican Ladies, whether the more frequent nüshi (Madam or Ms.) or the more occasional and more masculine jun. If Wei Shuji’s red-tinted Funü shibao portrait above was taken out of its print context, stripped of its caption, and viewed without knowledge of the related wedding and Chinese Women images, we would have to rely, in part, on her dress to determine her social status. Key features of early Republican clothing semantics include the height of collars, the tightness and length of sleeves, the choice of skirts or pants, and the prominence of certain accessories. Both courtesans and Republican Ladies wore jackets or tunics with short tight sleeves and high collars. Courtesan collars were usually higher (plate 6), but Republican Ladies increasingly imitated this feature, as does Wei Shuji (plate 5). Zhang Zhu Hanfen complains in 1913 that students in Shanghai are wearing collars over four inches high, with buttons and lace or decorative borders. As a result, it is easy to confuse them with Shanghai prostitutes.51 Both courtesans and Republican Ladies wore pants. This was a point of consternation for a number of female authors, including Xu Wuling, a worldly author with overseas experience who declares that Chinese women who follow courtesans in wearing pants lack a “sense of aesthetics” (meigan) and are more risqué than Western women.52 Courtesans wore pants more frequently and more provocatively than upright women, however. They tended to pair trousers with short jackets while Republican Ladies covered the pelvic area with long tunics. The courtesans’ pants were also shorter. Dai Yifen criticizes this trend toward increasingly short pants that “do not hide the calves.” She warns that if it continues Chinese women’s clothing will soon cover little more of the body than bathing suits.53 The courtesans’ headgear was also distinct. Women of the flower world favored a tight headdress decorated with pearls (figure 6.8). They also donned men’s caps (figure 6.9) and cross-dressed: playing with the fluidity of gender boundaries was another trademark of the flower world.54 On the rare occasions when Republican

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figure 6.8. Women of the flower world frequently wore tight headdresses decorated with pearls. Hong Sibao, Xin jinghong ying (Shanghai: Youzheng shuju, 1914), n.p., [56].

Ladies adopted male attire—there is a single example among the Funü shibao portraits (figure 6.10)—they evoke gravitas rather than dramatic jest. Cheng Peiqing’s portrait (figure 6.10) also includes one of the courtesan’s more pervasive and symbolic accessories: a flower.55 Known as flowers and often named for a variety of flora, courtesans are frequently depicted holding flowers—particularly bergamot (see the woman representing the vice of sex in figure 6.15)—or wearing flowers. By the early twentieth century, these flower corsages were mostly made of pearls rather than fresh flowers (see plate 6, for example).56 While Republican ladies often held real flowers (figure 2.1, 2.4) and posed with potted flowers, they never wore pearl floral corsages.

figure 6.9. Xie Yingying, Lingxi guan, and Xue Yinxuan. Xue wears a man’s cap, a mark of the courtesan’s playfulness with gender boundaries. Xin jinghong ying (Shanghai: Youzheng shuju, 1914), n.p., [34].

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figure 6.10. Cheng Peiqing’s portrait is unusual in that she poses in male attire. In addition, her name in the caption is not followed by an honorific. Funü shibao 15 (November 1, 1914): front matter.

Courtesans and Republican Ladies were thus subtly distinguished in the ways they adorned the body—with pearl brooches, short pants, high collars. They were also distinguished in the ways they altered and carried their bodies. From the midimperial period respectable women had allegedly imitated the courtesans’ gait by binding their feet. In the early twentieth century they were accused of mimicking the courtesans’ straight-lined torsos by binding their breasts.57 Both upright women and women of the flower world stood leaning against standing columns with potted plants, as Tang Xiuhui and Yin Baochai do in the

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figure 6.11. Suzhen lies on the grass with a book. Both the pose and the book signaled women of the demi-monde. Xin jinghong ying (Shanghai: Youzheng shuju, 1914), n.p., [20].

photographic juxtaposition that opens this chapter (figures 6.1 and 6.2). Courtesans alone adopted more sexualized gestures and postures, however. These included suggestions of same-sex intimacy. Pairs of Republican Ladies generally stood apart from one another or with a column between them, rarely physically touching (figure 3.11). (One exception is the red-tinted class portrait, figure 6.5, in which, as noted above, two women lightly hold hands.) Pairs of courtesans, in contrast, assumed more overtly affectionate poses—holding hands or sitting with one arm over the other’s shoulders (plate 4, top; figures 6.9 and 6.16). Only courtesans were photographed crossing their legs (6.16); Republican Ladies generally upheld the long-standing teaching that lopsided posture and crossed legs expressed moral turpitude and harmed a woman’s dignity.58 Courtesans also assumed more suggestively erotic postures: only women of the flower world posed lying down, often in a natural setting that evoked a sense of earthiness (figure 6.11). And only courtesans posed astride horses or bicycles— offering new visual stimuli and creating a new idiom of bodily motion (figure 6.12).59 Republican Ladies rarely exhibited even the suggestion of a smile, unlike Xiao Afeng (figure 6.16) or the courtesan representing the vice of wine (figure 6.15). One of the most distinctive features of portraits of courtesans is their invocation of fantasy.60 No longer the only women to move in male-dominated public space, they had to find new ways to carve out their distinctive terrain. With the help of photographic technicians and studio props they conjured up alternate,

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figure 6.12. Qin Meiyun, wearing the courtesan’s trademark tight pearl headdress, poses astride on a bicycle. Xin jinghong ying (Shanghai: Youzheng shuju, 1914), n.p., [32].

whimsical, and often futuristic realms. They used an array of backdrops—of foreign monuments, for example (figure 6.13)—and posed with curious props such as inanimate pet dogs at their feet. Some of their most striking images featured new modes of travel—boats, bicycles (figure 6.12), airplanes (figures 7.4 and 7.5)—new exotic destinations (figure 6.13), and new techno-modern inventions. Books also signified fantasy in courtesan portraits. Despite both the centrality of education to the persona of the Republican Lady and the alleged decline in courtesan literacy from the late nineteenth century, out of the entire pool of approximately two thousand photographs of women from Funü shibao and the three

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figure 6.13. The Nanjing sisters Little Four and Little Five, courtesans, whose portraits are superimposed on a landscape of Paris, the Eiffel Tower erect between them. Xin jinghong ying (Shanghai: Youzheng shuju, 1914), n.p., [30].

courtesan albums, only courtesans are featured holding books (figure 6.11). This prop gestured toward the power wayward novels and pornographic stories could allegedly have over the minds of upright women, an association that trumped the connection between books and women’s moral and intellectual seriousness evident in other visual and textual materials from this period.61 The book also signified the highest category of late imperial courtesans, who were known as shuyu—literally “book residences”—and were renowned as professional storytellers.62 The fanciful courtesan narratives evoked by books, bicycles, and the phallic Eiffel Tower contrast sharply with the narratives of stolid, cumulative achievement represented in photographic montages in Funü shibao. In these images, a Republican Lady’s meiren-style photograph was mounted together with snapshots of her artistic or social achievements to signify her material virtue and her tangible social or national contributions. Her achievements could include a piece of embroidery that garnered an international award (figure 5.9) or, as in figure 6.14, an institute for the poor that advanced the cause of social reform. While Cao Rujin’s montage (figure 6.14) visually depicts women’s virtue—the symmetrical arrangement of modest bodies dressed in simple white tunics—the courtesan images, with their more chaotic array of novel props, carnal postures,

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figure 6.14. Photograph of child care class at the Shanghai Institute for Poor Children, 1910 with a portrait of Ms. Cao Rujin (b. 1878), founder of the institute and wife of Zeng Zhimin (1879–1929), superimposed in the upper right corner. Funü shibao 2 (July 26, 1911): front matter.

and torsos superimposed onto exotic urban landscapes (figure 6.13), eroticized the courtesan in unprecedented ways. A handful of courtesan photographs also overtly sexualized their subjects. This is apparent in a paired set of red-tinted photographs that appear near the end of Photographs of Shanghai Graces. In the portraits, four courtesans present themselves as embodiments of the four cardinal vices—“wine, sex, avarice, and temper” (jiusecaiqi). Their identities are signaled both by the caption to the photography and by the symbolic objects each woman holds: a wine pot and cup (wine), a flower (sex), an ingot (avarice), and a stick (temper) respectively in the top image (figure 6.15). Finally, in one of the rare examples of blatant

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figure 6.15. Two pictures of the four cardinal vices, wine, sex, avarice, and temper (jiusecaiqi). In the top photograph, Wine holds a wine cup and pot, Sex holds a flower, Avarice holds an ingot, and Temper holds a stick. In the bottom photograph, Wine holds a cup, Sex holds a flower, Avarice holds paper of some kind, and Temper crosses her arms. Haishang jinghong ying (Shanghai: Youzheng shuju, n.d. [ca. 1910]), n.p., [108].

commodification, New Photographs of Graces includes the courtesan Xiao Afeng’s “body price” (shenjia)—most likely the price to redeem her from the brothel—the astronomical sum of thirty thousand gold (figure 6.16). P R O S T I T U T IO N : S C I E N T I Z AT IO N A N D R OM A N T IC I Z AT IO N

These examples of overt sexualization signal a shift in the status of the courtesan, whose sexual services had been artfully occluded in the past. Increasingly sexualized in early Republican photographic albums, courtesans were, however, also newly aestheticized. In contrast, prostitutes were merely sexualized in reformist writings of the period, which explicitly monetized and degraded their bodily labor. The ongoing idealization of the flower world thus masked rising public contempt for common prostitutes in this period, contempt that was in part fueled by the new, largely translated, and scientized discourse on prostitution circulating in early twentieth-century Chinese media.63 Replacing the oblique language of

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figure 6.16. Two courtesans, Beijing Pengyue lou (right) and Xiao Afeng (left). Xiao Afeng’s “body price” (shenjia)—most likely the price to redeem her from the brothel—is given as thirty thousand gold. Xin jinghong ying (Shanghai: Youzheng shuju, 1914), n.p., [60].

sensuality characteristic of discussions of the flower world, and diverging from other published materials of the era that blurred social registers, this new social science discourse drew clear lines between the upright and the depraved. The courtesan world remained socially distinct from the disease-ridden world of lowly prostitution evoked in reformist writings, however. This is evident in the enduring practice of male elites—officials, entrepreneurs, journalists, and

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editors, many of them members of Funü shibao’s immediate social circle— regularly consorting with and conducting business in the presence of courtesans. This practice and the discourse on the honorable courtesan that underlay it present a radically different view of “sex workers” from the one expressed in translated essays. Sexual Restraint Despite the circulation of courtesan albums and reformist writings on sex work in the early Republic, sexuality per se was not a subject of direct discussion in Funü shibao. Bao Tianxiao neither solicited articles on this theme nor made it the topic of one of the journal’s essay contests. A range of perspectives critical to understanding changing views of sexual relations were, however, embedded in articles on marriage, education, health, concubinage, as well as prostitution. These writings illuminate the breadth of attitudes toward conjugal love, free unions, samesex relations, and sex work in early twentieth-century China. The fluidity of notions of sexuality in the early Republic is evident in the unsettled mix of sexual terminologies. The new lexicon of sex disseminated in Funü shibao and other publications was similar to the medical discourse of the period in its merging of imported Western sexological and regulatory discourses with native moral tropes. Authors combined long-standing categories with recently introduced constructions to talk about, or around, sex. These included familiar terms such as yin (lewd), se (sex), yu (lust), and rou (flesh) to discuss “sensuality” (rougan), “carnal desire” (rouyu), the emptiness of sex, the “pursuit of carnal pleasure” (yuse), and “sexual depravity” (yinxie).64 They also included more scientized locutions and newer constructions that used the term xing. Authors wrote, for example, of the fulfillment or control of “sexual desire” (xingyu).65 Contributors to Funü shibao used this blended lexicon to discuss one of the few topics that legitimized the discussion of sex: marriage. Historically the sexuality of upright Chinese wives was recognized only in its denial: women who repressed their sexuality as chastity martyrs were publicly honored through an elaborate system of imperial rewards.66 The female contributors to Funü shibao discussed in chapters 2 and 5 who eulogized honorable, chaste women rarely directly related chastity to sexuality. Lin Fu, who had received her higher education in Tokyo at Nihon joshi daigaku (Japan Women’s University), came the closest to doing so. In an article on women’s psychology, Lin claims women embraced chastity not to achieve fame nor out of obedience to the rites but because of the depth of their sacred bond of love for their husbands. Lesser “worldly women” (shisu nüzi) who were interested only in “pleasure seeking” could not understand this higher love that transcended the physical.67 Several authors who wrote on the topic of marriage stated that if the marital bond did not transcend the physical “abyss of lust” it was no different from

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prostitution.68 Using the language of the classic Yijing (Book of changes) to discuss sexual intercourse (jiaohe), Song Butian refers to male and female as heaven and earth (qiankun) and states that the unequivocal purpose of sexual intercourse is to produce heirs. A couple can produce healthy progeny, however, only if both of them “restrain their desires” (jieyu), avoid lusting after others, and treat each other like guests.69 Song juxtaposes these properly restrained relations between husband and wife to “the poison of the brothel.”70 An essayist who simply calls himself “a scholar” (Yishi) warns in an article on the principles of the renowned Zhuang lineage of Piling, Jiangsu Province (presentday Changzhou), that if women reject Confucian ritual teachings they will become no better than whores.71 He indirectly takes issue with the questionable behavior of women of his own day by arguing against the view of the early Qing scholar Fang Bao (Wangxi, 1668–1749). Fang asserted that a man who asked his wife to serve his parents was treating her like a prostitute (changnü)—forcing her to perform a service in order to be materially maintained. Yishi protests that it is precisely the wife’s ritual responsibilities—to her in-laws, their ancestors, and her children— that distinguish her from a prostitute. A woman who focuses her energies on her husband alone is comparable to a sex worker.72 Women also invoked classical sources in echoing these same themes. Upholding the long-standing discourse on gender separation, Gao Kelan states that according to the “Jingjie” chapter in the Book of Rites (Liji), the wedding rituals clarify the difference between men and women. If these rituals are abolished, the way of women dissipates and there are many crimes of “licentiousness” (yinbi).73 Rui Ying describes such crimes in an article on marriage customs in Shaoxing. She associates free marriage with illicit sexual relations and claims that the practice destroys bodies and reputations.74 Funü shibao authors also offered rare glimpses of a new sexual openness in discussions of conjugal relations that were often buried in articles on chastity, concubinage, or love. Shi Shuyi (1876–1945) who published a travel diary in Funü shibao, asserts in an article published in Funü zazhi in 1915 that chaste widows commit suicide not out of a deep sense of loyalty but because they cannot bear to remain sexually unfulfilled for the rest of their lives.75 Jin Yuanzhen obliquely refers to sexual fulfillment in her critique of concubinage. She laments that the concubine drives a physical and emotional wedge between husband and wife, assuming that physical conjugal intimacy once existed. She also states that women are afraid to speak out against the practice because they don’t want to alienate their husbands and further jeopardize the consummation of their own sexual desires (xingyu).76 In an even franker discussion, a certain Gu Li states that love and sex go together in marriage. Distinguishing the feeling of real love from “bodily desire” (tiyu), he emphasizes that love is more important than desire in marriage and that desire has no place outside of marriage. Gu celebrates marital sex as a wonderful,

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natural opportunity that enables husband and wife to unite and “erupt simultaneously” (bingfa).77 Suggestions of marital intimacy and of shifting sexual mores are visually reinforced in wedding portraits, one of the largest categories of photographs in Funü shibao.78 The only portrait among these forty-six that coincides with Yishi’s view of a woman’s subjugation to her in-laws in marriage is included in the montage juxtaposing “old-style” Chinese marriage and “new-style” Western marriage (figure 0.2). The overwhelming majority of the remaining Chinese wedding portraits are of “enlightened marriages.” Generally featuring the married couple alone, these portraits reflect the ethos of this new practice: its indebtedness to the Western idea of free marriage—of which Rui Ying and others were so wary—and its repudiation of the notion of marriage as a loveless, strategic match between two lineages.79 This new-style marriage practice had been normalized by the early Republic. Early twentieth-century editions of encyclopedias for daily life outline the ritual steps of the enlightened wedding ceremony and illustrate the positioning of members of the wedding party.80 The practice was also sanctioned by the Republican government and, as Funü shibao photographs attest, was embraced by members of the early Republican social and political elite. These include Tang Shaoyi (figure 1.9), one of the prime ministers of the new Republic, and the daughter of the minister of the Interior, Zhu Guixin (Qiqian, 1871–1964) (figure 0.3). The preponderance of these portraits in Funü shibao did not necessarily correlate with a preponderance of enlightened marriages in China or even in Shanghai in the early Republic.81 Women who would have been inclined to enlightened marriage would have also been predisposed to sending their photographs in to a journal like Funü shibao. The wedding portraits nonetheless serve as an important counterweight to notions advanced by Gao Kelan, Yishi, Song Butian, and others of marriage as an arrangement anchored in restraint and devoid of intimacy. Regulating Sexuality While these various authors—Gao, Yishi, Song—referred to classical Chinese texts in their often veiled discussions of marital intimacy, authors who broached the topics of sexuality and prostitution more directly generally either referenced or translated Japanese translations of Western works. These imported discourses prompted a shift from a moral to a scientific or social scientific mode of argumentation in articles that discussed wayward sexuality and disparaged women of ill repute. In an article on the relation between libidinal restraint and the advance of human civilization, the female author and future educator Wu Ruoan (1890–1990) invokes Western sexology rather than Chinese ritual classics. Introducing a scientized approach to sexual morality, she uses the language of drives, instincts, and bodily systems derived from European medical and psychological sciences mediated through Japanese texts.82 Her Western references include the widely trans-

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lated German doctor Iwan Bloch (1872–1922), who contends that sexual desire can be beneficial to humankind only if it is transmuted into such socially useful emotions as “universal love,” benevolence, and righteousness.83 They also include an American sexologist who situates the system of sexual desires (xingyu) within a complex of three other systems related to “nutrition,” “action,” and “knowledge.” According to this theory, only when these three other systems fully mature can the fourth system of sexual desires develop. Wu further ties sexual restraint to brain development and crime. Young people have to learn to eradicate all lascivious thoughts, she counsels, in order to fully devote their energies to society.84 Shanzai, the author of a 1912 Funü shibao article entitled “Same-Sex Love among Women,” does not directly cite a Japanese source. His article reveals, however, that he was conversant with the same Western theories of sexology that were widely discussed in Japanese periodicals at the time, such as Havelock Ellis’s Studies in the Psychology of Sex. Shanzai uses Ellis’s language of erotic inversion (qingyu zhi diandao) and sexual perversion in describing female same-sex love, for example.85 A horizontal reading of Funü shibao further reveals that Shanzai was probably living in Japan when he wrote the essay: he published two other articles in the same issue of the journal, one translated from a Japanese newspaper on children’s toys and one on women’s facial hair that made reference to the research of the Japanese scholar Terada Shirō (1886–1977).86 Chinese authors who wrote on prostitution also consistently relied on foreign authority. Whether they were seeking foreign validation in discussing what they perceived to be an urgent Chinese problem or—more likely—had been cued by foreign sources to identify prostitution as an urgent Chinese problem, they used Japanese sources to think through the question of regulating sex work.87 The terminology for sex work was as fluid as the terminology for sex in this period. The more refined and artistically trained courtesans were most often referred to in Funü shibao as mingji, and lowlier prostitutes who sold their bodies for sexual intercourse were referred to as jinü or changji (sing-song girl). These various terms were often conflated, however.88 Shen Shuzhen is clearly referring to courtesans when she describes women who ride horse-drawn carriages in the morning and eat grand meals in the evening, for example, but she refers to these women as jinü rather than mingji.89 Similarly Zhou Shoujuan, who offers the only sympathetic portrait of courtesans in the journal—mostly renowned historical figures—refers to these women not only as mingji but also as ji and occasionally as chang.90 While this ambiguity between mingji and jinü was already apparent in late imperial texts, the vocabulary for women engaged in various grades of sex work continued to expand in the early Republic.91 Elevated euphemistic designations such as jinghong (graces) or various terms using the character for flower (hua) that were used in the titles to courtesan albums did not appear in essays in Funü shibao. At the same time, more ignoble terms denoting sex workers such as maiyin

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(women who sell sex) and maixiao fu (women who sell smiles) were introduced into the discourse most often through translated texts.92 As the designations for prostitutes changed in the early twentieth century, so did ways of framing discussions of sex work. No longer focused on the moral ramifications of women selling their bodies, early Republican authors increasingly used social scientific language to tie sex work to new notions of political economy, labor productivity, and public health.93 Some of this language can be attributed to the Chinese reformer Liang Qichao, who was himself intellectually indebted to Japanese sources. In his 1902 essay “On Producers and Consumers,” Liang includes entertainers/prostitutes (youji) (together with slaves, servants, and pedants) among nonproductive laborers.94 The scope of references that Funü shibao authors invoked went far beyond Liang’s writings, however, indicating the extent to which globally circulating regulatory discourses on sex work and national reform helped shape early Republican sexual culture. A number of Funü shibao authors who had been influenced by the Japanesemediated literature on prostitution in Europe and America labeled prostitutes parasites, a trope intellectuals and sociologists would continue to employ through the May Fourth era in depicting the nonworking poor. Shen Shuzhen and Shao Yi both characterize prostitutes as social “vermin” (maozei, duchong) and “parasites” (dadu).95 Shao Yi makes direct reference to a Japanese translation of an article on the abolition of prostitution in Europe and America that had recently appeared in the Japanese journal World of Women’s Learning. The translation details the various spheres of public life harmed by prostitution.96 These include politics, since women with “impure bodies” are barred from civic participation; economics, since prostitution exclusively involves consumption rather than production; religion, since all denominations extol sexual virtue and condemn sexual vice; law, since prostitution transgresses injunctions against human trafficking; and health, since it destroys the patron’s ability to make a living.97 Shuan also emphasizes this latter point. She states that prostitution is the source of all syphilis (meidu). “One problem that requires good policy today,” she writes, “is the increasing scourge of sexually transmitted diseases [hualiubing].” But “before we can talk about preventing syphilis,” she states, “we need to investigate prostitution.”98 In his social survey of women in Shanghai, Zhinü qiansheng relegates prostitutes to the lowest tier within the lowest stratum of his social hierarchy—below beggar women, female servants, peddlers, and even old-style midwives. This is because, he states, more than any other women, prostitutes live off their flesh. They are “the most unfortunate under heaven.”99 Courtesan Culture While Zhinü qiansheng discusses prostitution in a text with the social scientific pretension of dividing the women in Shanghai society into distinct levels or classes,

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he maintains some sympathy for prostitutes as the most unfortunate women. This compassion suggests the profoundly different ways women engaged in sex work were treated in the Chinese moral and literary discourse on courtesans versus the foreign-inspired reform discourse on prostitution. This difference is salient in the historical trope of the honorable courtesan that continued to echo in the pages of Funü shibao. It is, however, most evident when we move analysis of the early Republican sexual economy from the level of discourse to the level of practice. Unlike reformist commentators and translators, who wrote about prostitution from a clinical distance, Chinese journalists, fiction authors, officials, and educators lived and wrote in intimate proximity to courtesans. These men pursued pleasure and conducted business in the flower world. They also drew women of the demi-monde into their own social world as sources of literary inspiration and founts of visual material. These contacts fueled a very particular kind of early Republican cultural production grounded in sentimental attachment to the very women it exploited. Honorable Courtesans. For centuries Chinese literati had attempted to legitimize their liaisons with courtesans by presenting women who sold their bodies as tragic casualties of circumstance rather than agents of licentiousness, as heroically loyal subjects and lovers rather than base whores.100 The “king of the sad love story,” Zhou Shoujuan, continues this practice in his four-part “Stories of Gentry Women” in the pages of Funü shibao.101 Zhou concedes that prostitutes (changji) are engaged in the lowest occupation for women. He claims, however, that there are “those from the brothels [pipa] who cannot be overlooked.” He records several “outstanding examples.”102 These are often historical models of loyalism and patriotism from the imperial period into the twentieth century. They include the Song martyr Mao Xixi of Gaoyou from the Lizong period (1225–64), who chose death over dining with the rebel general Rong Quan.103 They also include a number of famous Ming loyalist courtesans such as Ge Nen (Ruifang), from the Qinhuai district of Nanjing, who inspired her lover Sun Lin (Kexian, 1611–46) to follow her in heroic martyrdom; and Zhu Meier, also from Qinhuai, who encouraged women to commit suicide by jumping in a well rather than succumb to the Manchu invaders.104 Zhou also commends recent foreign prostitutes, including Japanese women who served as intelligence agents in Lüshun at the time of the Russo-Japanese War in 1904–5.105 Women authors for Funü shibao came to the defense of the honor of courtesans and prostitutes as well. They went further than men in some instances in offering constructive solutions to these fallen women’s dire circumstances. Chen Zhensu, Bao Tianxiao’s wife, wrote four articles for Funü shibao. One is a biography of the loyal wife Lucy Hutchinson (1620–81); the other three are on practical topics— pickling, flower making, and helping Suzhou prostitutes.106

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In this last article, Chen suggests that prostitutes can potentially be redeemed, that the worlds of respectability and ill repute are separated merely by access to education. She moves beyond vague and familiar moral arguments and offers concrete suggestions for institutional change. She calls for the establishment of social organizations that would bolster the virtue of vulnerable young girls, such as “institutes for preserving goodness” (baoliang suo), lecture societies, and orphanages. She also demonstrates an awareness of recent developments in social policy by suggesting that prostitutes be educated in “workhouses” (xiyi suo) and tuitionfree schools that would teach indigent girls handicrafts.107 Medical advertisements in Funü shibao further contributed to the notion that prostitution was a redeemable error. Advertisements for Haibo yao (Haibo medicine) announced that this product would cure those who had “taken a wrong step in life” and contracted one of the sexually transmitted diseases to which Shuan and Shao Yi refer in their critiques of prostitution. The medicine targeted not only the men who had misstepped by consorting with prostitutes but the prostitutes themselves: uterine inflammation (zigong yanre) was among the symptoms Haibo would miraculously relieve. It was also a salve for other kinds of sores in “the lower half.”108 Bao Tianxiao did perhaps the most to not only redeem but inspire empathy for courtesans and prostitutes both in and beyond the pages of Funü shibao. While the mainland scholar Fan Boqun contends that the “humanization” of “fiction about prostitutes” (xiaxie xiaoshuo) was a product of the May Fourth reform of popular literature, this trend is apparent in Bao’s own writing from at least the first year of the Republic. The example Fan gives of this so-called post–May Fourth humanization is Bi Yihong’s novel Renjian diyu (Hell on earth) which was based on Bi’s own long liaison with a courtesan.109 The first chapters of Hell on Earth were serialized in the newspaper Shenbao in 1923 and 1924. After Bi died in 1926 with the novel still unfinished, Bao Tianxiao completed it. As the novel comes down to us today, it is thus a product of both men’s efforts.110 Bao’s early Republican writings suggest that he may have initially inspired and not merely completed Bi’s Hell on Earth. In the second of his “Lectures on Chinese Society of Today” published in 1912, Bao describes the fate of prostitutes as a “real living hell” (zhenzheng shi huo diyu). Like Zhinü qiansheng, he claims prostitutes are worse off than other women at the lowest levels of society—at least maids can eventually marry, he writes. In contrast, prostitutes are treated cruelly and forced to lose their chastity. All they want to do is to make a living for themselves, but they cannot lead full lives, and when they want to escape from their miserable circumstances they are unable to find solace in death. Lower-level prostitutes (changji), known in Beijing as yaojier, in Shanghai as yeji tangzi, and in Guangdong as xianshui mei, are worse off than domesticated animals. “Is this human?” Bao asks.111

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As with Bi Yihong, Bao’s compassion for fallen women emerged from his own personal history. In his memoirs, he recounts his first romantic—but not sexual— liaison with an allegedly virgin courtesan from Suzhou, the aforementioned A Jin. Bao was twenty-four at the time of this encounter and had never been to a brothel. He felt reserved when he first met A Jin in Shanghai and she smiled at him. The two ended up on the same small boat (yanpeng chuan) traveling back to Suzhou together and innocently—in Bao’s case, awkwardly—slept next to each other. They parted when they arrived. Bao remained obsessed with her, however, and later vainly tried to find her in Shanghai. He heard that she had entered a brothel but had remained “well behaved” (chaste) in spite of repeated efforts to get her to give in. She eventually married someone from the countryside and was never seen again.112 Bao later wrote a story about the incident, “Yanpeng” (In steerage), which he published in the Short Story Magazine.113 Bao’s only discussion of prostitution in Funü shibao is also fictional. In a short story he co-wrote with Xu Zhuodai entitled “Insult,” the heroine, Zhang Renqiu, a young woman of high morals but straitened means, resists becoming a prostitute. Focused on her inner turmoil, her sad tale reveals the extraordinary fortitude and sacrifices such resistance entails. Renqiu works in a factory, where she earns paltry wages and endures sexual harassment from two different bosses. At the same time, her older sister Zhang Juanjuan, a prostitute, enjoys money, freedom, and the company of the men she services. Juanjuan constantly pressures Renqiu to abandon the life of arduous manual labor and become a prostitute (chi tangzi fan). Even the girls’ mother wishes Renqiu would follow Juanjuan. Renqiu, nonetheless, remains true to her late father’s admonition that she study, work hard, and remain pure. The story ends with Renqiu crying in the dark, thin and alone, fearful that her mother will once again broach the topic of joining a brothel.114 In detailing Renqiu’s physical and emotional exhaustion and her state of inner agony, the authors render understandable the reasons other women—and perhaps Renqiu in the future—would succumb to a life of sex work. Acquiring Photographs. Bao Tianxiao’s close relations with and empathy for courtesans were recurring themes in his memoirs. Much of this discussion was related to his efforts to secure photographs for the Fiction Eastern Times and the courtesan albums. The memoirs reveal the instrumental role editors and publishers played in acquiring courtesan photographs and in both manipulating and fashioning early Republican sexual culture. Bao explains that it was not possible to purchase courtesan portraits from early Republican photography studios, as the rule in Shanghai at the time was that studios could not give or sell a photograph without the subject’s permission.115 He and Di Baoxian thus devised various strategies for securing photographs for the fiction journal and the albums.

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As was customary among members of the early twentieth-century cultural and political elite, Bao and Di often socialized with courtesans (chi huajiu). They therefore had many occasions to directly ask these women for their photographs. They found, however, that the most famous women of the flower world rarely had photographs of themselves, as they were sufficiently well known, while those who did have self-portraits were often the least attractive and thus dependent on calling cards to solicit business.116 The next step was to encourage the young women to go to the Minying Photography Studio to have their pictures taken. The studio—like many European studios in the late nineteenth century—was not just a place for photographic transactions but a site of social interaction. Housed in a three-story building in Shanghai’s entertainment district, the studio was on the top floor and the Shibao newspaper office was on the bottom. The middle floor—which Republican Ladies who visited the studio most likely never frequented—was the Shibao Office’s recreational space or club (julebu), “A Resting Place,” with facilities for eating, drinking, and various forms of entertainment. Patrons of the club included Shanghai educators, cultural leaders, and officials. Among them were the girls’ school founders Wu Huaijiu and Yang Bomin, together with Xiong Xiling, premier and finance minister of the new Republic from July 1913 to February 1914.117 They also included well-bred profligates such as Chen Fangke (Yantong, 1891–1966), fourth son of the acclaimed Tong Guang poet Chen Sanli. A poet in his own right, Fangke contributed to the lively atmosphere at the Shibao building. Bao and Di amusedly remembered him playing hide-and-seek with courtesans in the Minying studio.118 Di Baoxian and his staff used two methods to bring courtesans to the Minying Photography Studio. The first and most effective was to invite women back to the club for more food and wine after a night out on the town. Once they were in the building, it was easy to persuade them to pose for the camera in the studio. The second method involved handing out special coupons (zhaoxiang quan) to women of the flower world for sittings at Minying. While both methods were free, the women were required to leave the negatives in the studio. This ensured that Youzheng Book Company had an abundant supply of photographs for its fiction journal and various courtesan albums.119 Not all of the many photographs that ultimately appeared in the albums were taken in the Minying studio. A significant portion of the portraits in Yanlian huaying, for example, were of women from outside Shanghai. There is, however, strong evidence that a number of the photographs in the latest album, New Photographs of Graces, were taken at Minying. The two most technically exquisite portraits, which are highlighted in the album’s advertisement and featured at the opening of the album and at its midpoint, both have the name of the Minying Photography Studio on their substrate (plate 6).

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Bao’s memoirs reveal yet another strategy that he used to acquire photographs of courtesans who were certainly of lower rank than the star of New Photographs of Graces, Yiqing bieshu, featured in plate 6. Pressured to assist a colleague in procuring photographs of women of the flower world and unwilling to share portraits from Di’s archive, Bao relied on the generosity of a courtesan acquaintance, Xiaoyi laoliu. With little urging, Xiaoyi gave Bao access to a drawer full of photographs she had received through exchanges with other courtesans. When Bao asked if he would need permission to print the photographs, Xiaoyi assured him he would not—they belonged to women of the brothels, she said; who were they to put on airs?120 P HO T O G R A P H Y, ST U D E N T, C O N C U B I N E , C OU RT E S A N

This crossover between the world of journalists and the flower world is also central to the story of Tang Xiuhui, a story that highlights the liminal status of photography, students, concubines, and courtesans in early Republican sexual culture. The new medium of photography is integral to Tang’s story: the journal contains more photographs of her (four) than of any other Republican Lady. Her natural affection for the camera can be traced to her upbringing in Jinhua, a small city southeast of Hangzhou in Zhejiang Province, where her father, Tang Min, a widowed former teacher, opened a small photography studio. While working in the shop and managing the accounts for her father in 1910, Tang became acquainted with a frequent customer and a teacher at the Jinhua Middle School, Shao Piaoping.121 This relationship would change Tang’s life course. Shao, who was already married, was captivated by Tang’s attractiveness and convinced of her intelligence. He persuaded Tang Min that Xiuhui deserved a formal education, which he offered to subsidize. After studying in Hangzhou for five years, Tang graduated from the Zhejiang Women’s Normal School in 1916 (figure 6.4).122 Tang and Shao were married in Jinhua in early 1912 while Tang was still a student. Although Shao had married Shen Xiaonai (1891–1923) in 1909, a ritual technicality made it possible for Tang to be declared his second wife rather than his concubine. Shao had been adopted by his father’s elder brother, Shao Tannan, at age eight. According to custom, he was, therefore, “a son descended from two households” who could legitimately have more than one wife.123 Shao’s first marriage had been arranged, and Shen Xiaonai, was allegedly illiterate and beholden to convention but also attractive.124 Shao had all five of his children with her, a number of whom were born after his marriage to Tang, who would have no children of her own.125 Shen was understandably horrified when she learned Shao was going to take “a second wife.” She was supposedly placated—as Tang may have been as well—when she was given the ritual rationale. Tang was solicitous of Shen,

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and the two women became close. They both moved with Shao to Beijing in 1916, and Shen ultimately gave the childless Tang her second son, Shao Xiangsheng (Qiangsheng, b. ca. 1912).126 There is less discussion in the sources of how Tang reacted when this seemingly manageable triangle was upended by the introduction of Shao’s third “wife,” Zhu Wenxiu (Wenya, 1897–1988).127 While Shao bore children with Shen and would share his journalistic passion with Tang, he seems to have had a more fanciful relationship with Zhu. An actress, she allegedly disguised herself to gain access to information and gather sources on Shao’s behalf.128 While Zhu’s and Shen’s roles have been muted if not silenced in the historical record, Tang and Shao would be known to history as a “newspaper couple” (fufu baoren). The two had remarkable and intersecting careers in the world of journalism. Tang’s began while she was still a student in Hangzhou. She published her first article in the Ladies’ Journal in December 1915 and by the summer of the next year had four pieces of writing in print, two in Funü shibao. She also broke the gendered professional protocol of the day by directly establishing relations with Funü shibao editor Bao Tianxiao.129 After her graduation, Tang became actively involved in Shao’s various media initiatives in the late 1910s and 1920s.130 Foremost among these was the newspaper Jingbao (Capital Times), which Shao established on October 5, 1918 as a platform for criticism of corruption both in government and in the field of journalism itself. Repeatedly jailed for his outspoken political views, Shao was executed on April 26, 1926, by the Fengtian warlord Zhang Zuolin (1875–1928) for purported collusion with communists. A week after Zhang Zuolin was assassinated in 1928, Tang reopened Jingbao. The newspaper expanded and flourished under her editorship until it was forced to close in July 1937 amid the chaos of the Sino-Japanese War.131 In the late 1910s, when both Tang and Shao were working at Jingbao in Beijing, Tang attempted to translate their alleged professional parity into gender parity. She resented that Shao spent much of his time in Bada hutong (“Eight Large Alleyways”), the courtesan quarters of Beijing, nominally in his capacity as a journalist gathering classified information, nurturing his contacts, and staying abreast of the latest political intrigue. One day she announced that she would accompany him. No law stipulated that only men could enjoy the pleasures of the flower world (chi huajiu), she asserted, and if Shao truly believed in gender equality, he had to allow her to join him.132 While Tang’s motivation for visiting the courtesan quarters was to join Shao in his professional activities, she also used the opportunity to better acquaint herself with courtesan life.133 Once settled in a banquet room with Shao and his friends, Tang “called for prostitutes” (jiaotiaozi) to escort her just as the men did.134 Having learned that the heads of Shanghai brothels had sent their most popular local celebrities to Beijing for the convening of the National Assembly on August 1, 1916,

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Tang specifically requested a number of the more renowned Shanghai girls. When the courtesans emerged they were shocked to find that a woman had sent for them. They were even more astonished when she addressed them in the Wu dialect spoken in the Shanghai region.135 This interaction between a Chinese female journalist and a group of courtesans in a Beijing brothel recalls the visit of a group of Japanese women associated with the periodical Seitō (Bluestocking) to a high-class Tokyo geisha house some four years earlier. In both cases, these forward-thinking women’s efforts to cross gender, class, and sexual boundaries ended in humiliation.136 One evening, when Tang had accompanied Shao and his friends to the Eight Large Alleyways, the men had eaten and drunk their fill at one brothel and wanted to visit another. According to the regulations of the quarters, courtesans could move from one brothel to another only in the company of a patron, a practice called guoban. When Tang and her male party reached the second brothel, the guard called out, “Guoban!” mistaking Tang for a prostitute. Mortified, Tang “slapped the guard’s face.” Ashamed that she had so publicly lost her composure, she never returned to the courtesan quarters.137 A Republican Lady—even one with ambiguous marital status and a fondness for the camera—remained a Republican Lady. Respectable women like Tang blurred the physical and visual lines between themselves and women of the flower world in unprecedented ways in the early twentieth century—walking the same city streets as courtesans, dressing in a fashion akin to courtesans, and circulating stylized photographs in the periodical press like courtesans. Fundamental moral parameters that distinguished the two sets of women remained irrevocably fixed, however, even as the boundaries of early Republic sexual culture continued to shift.

Conclusion Aerial Aspirations

The image of “China’s Female Flyer, Zhang Xiahun (1895–1938)” in plate 7 and its accompanying story encapsulate a key tension in Funü shibao and in the early Republic: the pull of epic aspirations and the groundedness of everyday experience. The backdrop to the montage is epic and global: an airfield of Allied planes poised for battle in the Great War that raged as this issue of the journal went to print.1 The small, oval photograph on the lower right evokes a different sense of drama: a barely recognizable Zhang Xiahun sits in the cockpit of an airplane moments before takeoff, a male pilot at her side and an official looking on. It is the central portrait that dominates the montage, however. Larger, clearer, centered, and tinted green whereas the other two images are in black and white, it is a beauty-style photograph of Zhang Xiahun “on an ordinary day” (pingri).2 The portrait conveys the Republican Lady’s genteel demeanor. Xiahun’s dress is fashionable but not trendy; she wears a simple hairstyle and hat and a stylish white scarf, an accessory that appears in a number of photographs of upright women. At the same time, the portrait evokes something of the drama of the caption to the montage. Vaguely masculine, Zhang’s pose gestures beyond images of traditional beauties. Both of her hands are held behind her back, whereas in most beauty portraits one hand remains in front holding a white handkerchief. The painted backdrop with its rocks and oceanic tides suggests the unsettledness of Xiahun’s high-flying aspirations—even “on an ordinary day.”

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F L IG H T A N D FA N TA SY

Epic Aspirations These aspirations grew out of Xiahun’s impatience with the social norms and political realities that kept the Republican Lady grounded. She articulated this impatience both at the airfield on the day of her historic flight and in articles published in the early Republican periodical press. She spurned the moral injunctions that had kept Chinese women silent and “secluded” for several thousand years by publicly circulating her photographs and opinions.3 She advocated women’s suffrage and confronted the brutality of Yuan Shikai’s regime—openly decrying the assassination of Yuan’s political nemesis, Song Jiaoren, in May 1913.4 She also yearned to become a new “heroine” (hongfen yingxiong) who would dare to “take flight and soar.”5 Three entries in the body of Funü shibao recount the story behind Zhang Xiahun’s photograph.6 All three capture this sense of yearning and frame Xiahun’s story with narratives of overcoming not only Chinese women’s bleak past but China’s global inadequacy. The first is an entry in the “Women’s Conversation Association” column by a certain Liu Minzhi with a title almost identical to the caption for Xiahun’s photograph, “China’s Female Flyer, Zhang Xiahun.” The next two are by Zhang Xiahun’s sister, Zhang Mojun, the accomplished educator featured in chapter 5, who was eleven years Xiahun’s senior. The key narrator of Xiahun’s life story, Mojun was also the keeper of her visual image and a powerful force in the unfolding of her life trajectory. The first of Mojun’s writings on Xiahun is in the form of a letter she sent to Bao Tianxiao. She explains in the letter that Bao had solicited the photographs of Xiahun from her—probably after he had decided to print Liu Minzhi’s piece. Zhang Mojun sent in the two photographs featured in the montage: one of Xiahun “on an ordinary day and one of her in an airplane.” 7 Mojun’s second reference to Xiahun in the journal is in the conclusion to a short essay she wrote on the American stunt-flyer Katherine Stinson (1891–1977).8 In both pieces, Mojun briefly describes a flying accident her sister was involved in, an incident Liu Minzhi elaborates on more fully.9 According to Liu, Xiahun was barely twenty years old when she went to Beijing with the dual purpose of pursuing business for Mojun’s Shenzhou Girls’ School and visiting her fifth sister, Zhang Chu (Shujia, d. 1938). During the visit, her brother-in-law, the deputy chief of the Office of the Quartermaster, General Jiang Zuobin (1884–1941), had to attend an air show at the Nanyuan hangkong xuexiao (Nanyuan Aviation School). Xiahun and Zhang Chu decided to go along.10 At the airfield, to everyone’s surprise and consternation, Xiahun insisted on flying in the airplane. Once in the air, the airplane successfully circled the field several times (with Xiahun throwing flowers, according to Mojun). Then, as the head of the aviation school who had tried to dissuade Xiahun predicted, a fierce wind came up. The plane crashed and Xiahun sustained a number of injuries. Her left

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leg and several of her teeth were broken, her stomach was slightly swollen, and she was bleeding from the nose and mouth. She was brought to the nearby BeijingHankou Railway Hospital, where she “met heaven’s test of her courage with dignity.” Widely admired by the public, she was formally honored by President Li Yuanhong (1864–1928) and Premier Duan Qirui (1865–1936).11 The Chinese reading public enthusiastically welcomed this flying heroine. They had already consumed countless vivid accounts of the daring feats of intrepid Western women fliers in the contemporary periodical press. They knew, for example, of “England’s Mrs. Bole, who searched for injured soldiers” on the World War I battlefield in June of 1915, and of the world’s first “great female athlete,” the Frenchwoman Marie Marvingt (1875–1963), who flew air balloons, climbed mountains, and won awards in shooting and ski jumping.12 Juxtaposed to these rapturous descriptions of foreign women in the Chinese press were withering critiques of the lack of aviation skills among the cowardly Chinese. An author using the pen name Soaring Clouds (Yunling) declares in the third issue of Funü shibao that women in all countries mount “airships” (feiting), whereas in China not even men dare to fly.13 Zhou Shoujuan laments in an account of the accomplishments of a number of Western female pilots that “as I draft this, I cannot help but sigh that our country has no one to compare with these foreign flyers”: Elise Raymonde de Laroche (la Baronne de Laroche, 1882–1919), Miss Spencer-Kavanagh (1878–1910), Madame Thérèse Peltier (1873–1926), and Lady Isabel Cody (fl. 1909).14 An author with the pseudonym Juwu chides Chinese women for wasting their time mimicking British suffragists when they should be staking out a place for themselves among world heroines. They would be better off, he declares, imitating extraordinary Western figures like Harriet Quimby (1875– 1912), the first woman to cross the English Channel on April 16, 1912 (less than a year before Juwu’s article was published).15 In Liu Minzhi’s and Zhang Zhaohan’s telling, Xiahun had finally staked out a place for Chinese women on the world stage.16 Liu quotes Xiahun’s own words as she tries to persuade the head of the aviation school to let her onto the airplane. Even if she gets hurt or dies, she insists, her flight will “open a new era of Chinese women pilots, forge a new dawn in the history of female bravery, and merit several lines in China’s aviation history.” Her ascent will finally lay to rest the image of “lethargic” (chenchen), secluded Chinese women and dispel the global perception that Chinese people refuse to take risks.17 It will also inspire others to follow her. “Today there is only Zhang Xiahun who flew in an airplane,” Liu writes. “In the future there will be one million Zhang Xiahuns who will fly airplanes themselves. Alas, I dare say all future Chinese female pilots will have been inspired by Zhang Xiahun.”18 Mojun indirectly establishes Xiahun’s international stature in her essay on Katherine Stinson. In early 1917, less than half a year after Zhang Xiahun’s flying

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incident, Stinson had given highly celebrated flying exhibitions in both Beijing and Shanghai—some forty thousand people were said to have watched the Shanghai performance.19 Mojun praises the heroic “nineteen-year-old” (Stinson was actually twenty-six at the time) for her flying skills, her patriotism, and her bravery. She also lauds what she describes as the Stinson family tradition of aviation (Katherine, her mother, and sister founded the Stinson School of Flying in San Antonio, Texas in 1913). Segueing to her own family’s accomplishments and including an uncaptioned, full-bodied photograph of her younger sister (figure 7.1), Mojun then briefly describes Xiahun’s own flying experience.20 In so doing, she implicitly draws global parity between Stinson’s stunts as a pilot on a world stage with Xiahun’s aborted passenger flight.21 The incongruity of this comparison seems to have been lost on both the contemporary audience and later generations. With Mojun’s help, Zhang Xiahun became a national heroine credited with elevating China’s global standing. By 1919, she was heralded as an idol of “advanced womanhood” and was publicly celebrated alongside the female athlete and medical doctor Cheng Yili and the foreigntrained physical education expert Teng Chao (figure 1.12).22 To this day Zhang Xiahun—represented by the Funü shibao montage—continues to be included in Chinese collections of historic firsts as the nation’s inaugural “female flyer.”23 Aerial Fantasies In Zhang Mojun’s and Liu Minzhi’s accounts, the airplane figures as an emblem of military strength and Zhang Xiahun’s flight as a courageous woman’s incursion into global and masculine space. The modern flying machine and the body of the woman flyer did more than stand in for epic national aspirations in the early Republic, however. The also evoked aerial fantasies of sublime freedom. From the earliest depictions of airships in the late nineteenth-century Chinese periodical press, aviation was associated with fantastical transcendence. This trend began at least in the late 1880s, when China’s first illustrated magazine, the Dianshizhai Pictorial, created images of manned balloons and flying vessels equipped with sails, oars, a rudder, and two wings.24 Early twentieth-century fiction also celebrated the marvels of aviation and included visionary tales of intrepid female pilots.25 The new pairing of woman with fabulous flying machines was prominent in Funü shibao from its inception. A striking juxtaposition meets the eye of the reader as she turns to the journal’s opening text in its first issue. On the left is Bao Tianxiao’s “Inaugural Statement,” a sober call to women to contribute to national reform. On the right is the photograph of an early airship into which the figure of a Chinese woman has been painted (figure 7.2). The specious caption to the image, “The First Chinese Woman to Fly in the Sky” (Potianhuang Zhongguo nüzi zhi lingkong), prefigures the enthusiasm with which Xiahun’s actual historic flight would be met some five years later.

figure 7.1. Uncaptioned photograph of Zhang Xiahun from an article that compares her with the American stunt flyer Katherine Stinson. Funü shibao 21 (April 1917): front matter.

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figure 7.2. Photograph of an early airship into which the figure of a Chinese woman has been painted. The specious caption to the image reads: “The First Chinese Woman to Fly in the Sky.” Funü shibao 1 (June 11, 1911): front matter.

The first readers of the journal seem to have had little trouble reconciling Bao’s reformist plea with this illusive image of female ascendance. In one of her “Four Short Poems Hastily Composed after Reading [the first issue of] Funü shibao,” Wang Can congratulates the journal for galvanizing China’s downtrodden, footbound women. It has encouraged them to become “heroines who will fly from the mainland.”26

figure 7.3. A series of photographs of French biplanes (one bearing the words “Champs d’aviation de Reims”), captioned “Flying geese on the horizon.” Funü shibao 2 (July 26, 1911): front matter.

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The same issue of the journal further expands on the polysemousness of flight in its presentation of three photographs of French airships. The editors emphasize the fanciful nature of air travel by representing the biplanes floating above Reims as aesthetic objects. Likening them to birds in flight, they poetically title the series of photographs “Flying Geese on the Horizon” (Tianji feihong) (figure 7.3). “We have chosen this title,” they explain in a colophon, “because these new-style flying objects resemble a painting.”27 Zhou Shoujuan similarly aestheticizes and naturalizes the artifice of flight. He opens an article on English and French women pilots by adapting a quotation from Qiu Chi (464–508) of the Southern Dynasties. Where Qiu describes a “flock of orioles bobbing in the sky” (qunying luanfei), Zhou depicts a “group of airships bobbing in the sky” (qunting luanfei).28 In this same essay, Zhou Shoujuan associates aerodynamic flight with Daoist notions of transcendence. He equates the female pilots Elise Raymonde de Laroche and Edith Maud Cook (a.k.a. Miss Spencer-Kavanagh), whose photographs are included in the article, with “magical dragons” that “float on the air” as if they are “ascending to become immortals.”29 He uses similar language in his translation of the diary of an American woman who announces after flying in an airplane, “Today I really could say I became an immortal [dengxian].”30 Other authors used Daoist metaphors in describing the wonders of aeronautics as well. A certain Chen Lianqing likens airships that can move people freely from West to East to Liezi (ca. fifth century BCE), whom Zhuangzi (369–286 BCE) describes as walking on the wind and soaring in the sky.31 The cover image to the issue in which Xiahun’s flying incident is documented also evokes the notion of imaginative freedom through flight (plate 8). A woman looks through binoculars at some kind of flying machine. As she stands before an open sea and focuses on the open sky, the scene elicits a sense of expansiveness and traversing new horizons. The coupling of woman and airplane further takes on erotic valences in the whimsical narratives woven into courtesan portraits. Drawing on the same multifaceted appeal of aviation in the early twentieth century, these images evoke a different register of imaginings. While Xiahun’s portrait records a singular moment in September of 1916 when a particular woman boarded an actual airplane in Beijing, the courtesan portraits present repeatable moments with interchangeable women and identical props. And while the physical airplanes in the background to Xiahun’s portrait reference Allied airfields and advances in Chinese aviation technology, the studio props with their ersatz Axis-like insignia suggest the plasticity of desire (figures 7.4 and 7.5). The Minying Photography Studio, which rented these airship props, explicitly collapsed flights of fantasy with actual aeronautic technology. Boasting in a Funü shibao advertisement that it is the first studio to offer its clientele the chance to pose in these small airplanes, Minying asserts that this simulacrum will

figure 7.4. The courtesan Bao Jinlian in a mock airplane, a prop available for rent at the Minying Photography Studio. Xin jinghong ying (Shanghai: Youzheng shuju, 1914), n.p., [42].

figure 7.5. The courtesans Gao Cuiyu and Xie Lijuan in a mock airplane at the Minying Photography Studio. The similarity to the photograph of Bao Jinlian suggests repeatable moments with interchangeable women. Xin jinghong ying (Shanghai: Youzheng shuju, 1914), n.p., [59].

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successfully satisfy its customers’ cravings. There is no difference, the ad states, between being photographed in an airplane and going up in an airplane. “This is the first time in five thousand years that such an opportunity is available in China!”32 Grounding The Minying studio’s suggestion that there was no difference between women like Zhang Xiahun who went up in a real airplane and Bao Jinlian or Gao Cuiyu who posed in a studio prop is only slightly more incongruous than the equation of Zhang Xiahun with the intrepid fliers Katherine Stinson and Elise Raymonde de Laroche. Zhang Xiahun did not pilot her own airplane, perform aerial stunts, or traverse a large body of water in an airship. Her flying incident and her dramatic montage did, however, embody the dual aspirations for geopolitical power and worldly transcendence that coexisted in this period of transformation and uncertainty. A vehicle for these high-flying aspirations, Xiahun’s story, nonetheless, remained grounded in the moral practice of everyday life. Her epic and aerial ambitions were expressed from within the confines of the respectable Zhang family.33 Xiahun’s older sister, Zhang Mojun, had nurtured Xiahun’s sensibility as a Republican Lady, ensuring that she received advanced schooling and recruiting her to participate in Mojun’s own publishing and educational ventures. Xiahun’s critique of Song Jiaoren’s assassination and her appeal for women’s suffrage both appeared in Mojun’s Shenzhou Women’s Journal.34 She also joined Mojun in the grinding, dayto-day work of integrating women into the Republican project by helping run the Shenzhou Girls’ School. It was a visit to Beijing on school business that provided the occasion for Xiahun’s historic flight. Inspired and daring, Zhang’s flight was also constrained by the laws of physics. This peaceful image of “China’s First Female Flyer” some seven months after her accident (figure 7.6), with bones healed and health restored, presents a marked contrast to the Funü shibao montage (plate 7). The roaring tides and Allied airplanes that were the backdrop to her beauty-style image are replaced by a painted scrim of a tranquil landscape. Xiahun’s gaze is less direct, her hands are at her side and in a pocket rather than behind her back, her dramatic scarf is replaced by a homely kerchief. Lacking any hint of lofty heroism, the photograph suggests that Xiahun’s effort to transcend the calm stability and gnawing dissatisfactions of the everyday ultimately returned her to it. She would neither repeat her daring aerial act nor publicly pursue the impulse that drove her into the cockpit of an airplane on the Nanyuan airfield in 1916. Four years after her flying incident, Xiahun married the man Zhang Mojun had chosen for her, the Harvard-educated meteorologist, geologist, and educator Zhu Kezhen (1890–1974).35 She assumed the role of an upright Republican wife and mother: within two years her elder daughter Zhu Mei and her elder son Zhu Jin

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figure 7.6. “Photograph of China’s flier Zhang Xiahun completely recovered from her brush with danger.” Funü zazhi 3, no. 5 (May 1917).

were born. In 1938, Zhu Kezhen, the first president of Zhejiang University, moved the university and his family to Ji’an in Jiangxi Province to avoid the Japanese bombing. Living under harsh conditions with poor medical support, Xiahun’s son succumbed to dysentery shortly thereafter. Xiahun died of the same illness less than a month later.36 If not for Funü shibao—and Zhang Mojun—Xiahun’s story, which so artfully encapsulates the latent desires and possibilities of the era, would have been lost to history.

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R E C A P I T U L AT IO N S

Funü shibao has served in this book as a multiply refracting lens onto the early Republican period. The horizontal, integrated, and situated method of reading the journal in the preceding chapters and in this final examination of Zhang Xiahun’s flying incident engages the full materiality of the publication. Based on a close examination of images and texts, both against one another and within their print and historical contexts, this method analyzes photographs as carefully as editorials, takes advertisements as seriously as topical essays, and contextualizes cover art as deeply as readers’ columns. This intermedial approach makes it possible to trace intersections between different spheres of concern and levels of analysis. In the pages of the journal, reform agendas tied to grand political projects meet everyday agendas linked to the smaller projects of quotidian life. The extent of social penetration of the new political ethos promoted by the Republican regime is suggested, for example, in the characters knitted into a sample of handiwork produced by an elementary school student: “to the perpetual stability of the Republic.” The display of that handiwork at an open exhibition further suggests both the increasing public relevance of women’s work and China’s deepening engagement with global exhibition culture. The book’s approach also exposes aporias within and among different levels of analysis and between the visual and discursive fields. Single or consecutive issues of the journal include condemnations of women’s apolitical poetic practice and women’s poetic critiques of contemporary politics; laments over the physical decrepitude of Chinese women and portraits of worldly and robust Chinese women; assertions of women’s pathological modesty and graphic female-authored descriptions of inflamed lactating breasts and protruding fetal limbs. It is through these rifts in representation and between representations and practices that fragments of everyday experience and vestiges of history may slip.37 These historical vestiges revise, temper, and supplement the dominant narratives that have shaped perceptions of this poorly understood period. From detailed surveys of female laborers in Shanghai to translated articles on German methods of painless childbirth, the contents of Funü shibao belie the New Culture assertion that early Republican commercial periodicals delivered nothing more than frivolity and heavy-handed moralizing. Gaps in publication, the strategic placement of photographs, and the themes of allusive poetry reveal traces of an implicit political agenda in publications that New Culturalists declared politically irrelevant. Urgent calls for midwifery reform and science-based pedagogy, together with technically sophisticated photographs and innovative, color-lithographed cover art, challenge characterizations of this era as one of at best stasis, at worst failure. Most importantly, these maligned and marginalized commercial journals offer insights into epistemic change and the shifting conditions of knowledge in the

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early twentieth century. Reform-minded men and women who wrote for Funü shibao valorized and scientized the notion of “experience,” emphasizing the importance of inductive reasoning and questioning long-standing textual traditions. They also directly and indirectly promoted new notions of expertise—whether biomedical, social scientific, or pedagogical. Attempting to reconcile and relate new forms and bodies of knowledge to the challenges of everyday life, they engaged in subtle processes of epistemic synthesis—melding principles of Chinese medicine and scientific biomedicine in their discussions of menstruation, deploying classical ritual principles and new sexological discourses in their disquisitions on conjugal intimacy. Their writings and the visuals that surrounded them further concretize the abstract concept of “foreign influence” with tangible traces of the material transmission of ideas and images, often through a triangular routing from Germany or America via Japan to China. Dissolving the assumption of an unequal East/West division of knowledge, they reveal a range of Chinese authors and artists who instrumentally used globally circulating data to think through the imperatives of local reform. In illuminating contemporary understandings of a broad range of topics from breast health to the working poor, these often foreign-inflected vestiges redeem the historical value of the commercial periodical press as a scholarly source and foreground the historical significance of its agenda. The reconstitution of the communities the journal’s contributors inhabited both within and beyond the written page further underscores this significance. A situated reading of Funü shibao uncovers not a coterie of failed literati and clever dandies but a mixed demographic of accomplished female educators, editors, painters, doctors, and poets together with budding male obstetrical experts, communist activists, and literary figures. Many of these individuals first articulated what would become lifelong engagements in education, medicine, politics, or literature in the pages of Funü shibao. Several, including many women, left their sole historical traces in the journal, the tip of a cultural iceberg of which we currently know very little. Women’s informed writings for the journal together with their richly evocative portraits confute the notion that the failure of the early Republican suffrage movement is the only, or the most meaningful, barometer of gender change in this period. A tangible increase in the number of female-authored contributions to the journal over the course of Funü shibao’s history, on topics from Japanese imperialism to the links between sex and civilization, suggests the steady pace with which women’s education advanced even as their public activities were curtailed under Yuan Shikai. Informed arguments and sophisticated modes of reasoning in articles on midwifery reform, methods of manufacturing paper, and the impact of seclusion on mental health reveal the extent to which women not only contributed to but shaped early Republican discourse. The Republican Ladies’ new

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photographic practices—including Zhang Xiahun’s—reveal more about dramatic shifts in the early Republican gender economy than alarmist discourses on degenerate students and parasitic prostitutes. E N DU R I N G E P H E M E R A

The photographs of Zhang Xiahun—the airplane montage (plate 7) and the uncaptioned standing portrait (figure 7.1)—appeared in the last two issues of Funü shibao. It is unclear why the journal went out of print in the spring of 1917. Bao Tianxiao, who prided himself on keeping in close communication with his readers, gave no warning and offered no explanation. Six of the essays in the last published issue were to be continued, indicating the expectation of ongoing publication. Possible reasons for the journal’s closure include financial problems. Advertising had been reduced from issue 18, but, as noted in the Introduction, ads were not one of the journal’s prime sources of revenue. The Youzheng Book Company, which was the fount of Funü shibao’s capital, continued to thrive well into the succeeding decades. More likely reasons include Bao Tianxiao’s multiple commitments in the Shanghai world of fiction, newspaper, and journal publishing. They also include increased competition, particularly from the Ladies’ Journal, which imitated Funü shibao’s look, appropriated its mode of readerly engagement, and continued to promote key aspects of its gender, health, and pedagogical agendas. Published by the powerful Commercial Press, the Ladies’ Journal was also able to appear with the punctual regularity that had always eluded Funü shibao. As the integration of key elements of Funü shibao’s agenda into the Ladies’ Journal suggests, the end of Funü shibao’s print run did not mark the eclipse of the commercial press or of the issues related to everyday experience that it engaged.38 The period when Funü shibao was in print did overlap with the golden age of this mode of commercial publishing, which extended from the turn of the twentieth century to the New Culture movement.39 Even as more ideologically oriented May Fourth periodicals multiplied from the 1920s, however, general interest, women’s, and literary and journals that focused on daily life concerns and targeted urban readers commanded the majority of journal readership through the 1920s, 1930s, and 1940s.40 As late as the early 1940s, the journal Jiankang jiating (Healthy Home, 1939–43), for example, shared Funü shibao’s editorial commitment to scientizing the family and popularizing science. It even employed a number of Funü shibao authors and artists, including Zhou Shoujuan and Xu Zhuodai.41 While the May Fourth intellectual revolution was unable to displace the commercial periodical press from its prominent place in public culture, the 1949 Communist Revolution was. From the 1950s to the late 1970s this genre of writing could continue to be published only in Taiwan and Hong Kong. By the 1980s, however, publications that focused on the lived and imagined everyday rather than on the

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ideological epic were able to make their way back to the mainland from these cultural outposts. In Fan Boqun’s words, they were rehabilitated “like an old man who has seen everything and survived despite decades of torment.”42 As this mode of writing was revived in mainland China and interest in Republican period urban commercial culture and literary figures was renewed from the 1980s, decades of neglect were replaced by waves of “popular [culture] fever” (tongsu re) and “reprint fever” (chongyin re). Books from the turn of the twentieth century to 1940, together with full runs of journals such as Funü shibao, were reprinted, some in multiple editions.43 The preface to a reprint series that includes Zeng Yi’s “A Wife’s Guide to the Chinese Culinary Arts,” which appeared in the third issue of Funü shibao, articulates the purpose of reprinting works from the early twentieth century. It is “not merely to educate youth about China’s traditional culture.” Rather, it is to encourage cultural continuity. The reprinted works are not simply antiquarian curiosities but living artifacts that remain relevant to the ongoing “development of Chinese culture” at the turn of the twenty-first century. In an effort to highlight this ongoing relevance, editors of the series have added elements of modern science (xiandai kexue) to make the reprinted volumes of greater use to people in their daily lives (wei renmin shenghuo fuwu).44 I would advise against adding too much “modern science” to these works from the past. This book has suggested a multileveled, open-ended method for reading China’s early Republican commercial periodical press. It does not insist that this method is definitive, however, nor does it claim that its horizontal, integrated, and situated method yields a conclusive reading. I remain fully cognizant of the incompleteness of the act of historical interpretation, the imperfections of any method of reading, and the inadequacy of any set of categories—including “experience,” “Republican Lady,” “reform,” and the “quotidian”—to accurately encompass the complexities of the era.45 The value of these multiply refracting materials lies precisely in their ability to evade the strict codes of “modern science.” Their extraordinary images invoke not only familiar tropes of modern warfare and technological power but the mystifying transcendence of Daoist immortals. Their texts reveal details—such as how to aestheticize unbound feet—that expose completely occluded aspects of historical experience. Their logic—using modern psychology to defend the cult of chastity, for example—can confound our sense of history’s narrative flow. And while both images and texts are highly mediated, they offer rare, sometimes raw, and often movingly poetic renderings of everyday experience in China’s early Republic. These accounts of experience were published at a moment that lacked the political will, the institutional coherence, and the financial resources necessary to implement fundamental reform: social, political, or medical. The authors’ passionate, meandering, often disjointed and generally well-informed reflections on a

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range of topics nonetheless reveal a society primed for these changes. Printed in a genre of materials that have been mischaracterized as didactic, sentimental, or salacious, these writings urge us to revisit this often neglected period and its commercial publications. Together with the journal’s archive of rare and rich photographs, they also compel us to rediscover its cast of historical actors—most particularly its little-known female contributors—who were deeply engaged with both the minutiae and the monumentality of the global twentieth century’s radical transformations.

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appe ndix a : fun ü shibao issue dates

1. June 11, 1911 2. July 26, 1911 3. September 22, 1911 4. November 5, 1911 5. January 23, 1912 6. May 1, 1912 7. July 10, 1912 8. September 25, 1912 9. February 25, 1913 10. May 25, 1913 11. October 20, 1913 12. January 10, 1914 13. April 1, 1914 14. July 15, 1914 15. November 1, 1914 16. February 1, 1915 17. November 1, 1915 18. June 1916 19. August 1916 20. November 1916 21. April 1917

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a ppen dix b: chin ese a n d ja pa n ese cha racte rs f or na m es a n d term s

Convention: terms are alphabetized according to Chinese syllables rather than English alphabetization. Names that appear in the bibliography are not included in this appendix. A Jin ॳ८ Aierling lu ფዿྶሁ Aiguo nüxue ფഏՖᖂ aiwan ঩ഠ Anqing lu ‫ڜ‬ᐜሁ Bada hutong ԶՕ઺‫ٵ‬ baiguan xiaoshuo ➾ࡴ՛ᎅ baihua ‫ػ‬ᇩ Baihua caotang shiji ‫ػ‬ဎ౻ഘᇣႃ Bai Juyi ‫࣐ࡺػ‬ banwen bu bai ‫֮ת‬լ‫ػ‬ Baoan she অ‫ڜ‬ष Bao Jinlian ᚁ८ᓊ baoliang suo অߜࢬ Bao Shu ᚁ࠸ (Shuya ࠸‫)׃‬ Bao Tianxiao ‫֚ץ‬ూ (Gongyi ֆᑞ, Langsun ૴୪) Bao Zhongxuan ‫٘ץ‬৙ Beijing chongshi nüxiao ‫ࠇק‬ശኔՖீ Beijing nübao ‫ࠇק‬Ֆ໴ Beijing nüzi shifan daxue ‫ࠇק‬Ֆ՗ஃᒤՕᖂ Beijing xinwen bianyi she ‫ࠇק‬ᄅፊᒳ᤟ष bihui Ꭴ៘ 230

appendix b biji ࿝ಖ Biyü ጘ‫د‬ “Bianji shi” ᒳᙀ৛ “Bianji shi zhi tanhua” ᒳᙀ৛հᓫᇩ biantiao ঁය biaobu ।᡻ bingfa ࠓ࿇ boshi ໑ᢝ bowu biaoben ໑ढᑑ‫ء‬ Buluo shanren ᇖ᧠՞Գ buwen լ֮ Bungei kurabu ֮ड़坰垪垗 Cai E ᓐក (Songpo ࣪ࡕ) cainü թՖ caise tongban jingyin ൑‫ۥ‬Ꭽࣨጲ‫ٱ‬ Cai Yong ᓐಶ Cao Rujin ඦ‫ڿ‬ᙘ “Changhen ge” ९৿ዚ changji ത‫ݒ‬ changnü തՖ changpian juzhi ९ᒧ؎፹ chanpo ขധ chanpoxue ขധᖂ chanrure ขᘠᑷ changshi ൄᢝ Chen Boping ຫ‫܄‬ဉ chenchen ިި Chen Duxiu ຫᗑߐ Chen Fangke ຫֱਅ (Yantong ৯ຏ) Chen Hengzhe ຫᘝୃ Chen Haozi ຫ∻՗ Chen Juying ຫፋ૎ Chen Lesu ຫᑗై Chen Lin ຫྱ Chen Sanli ຫԿ‫م‬ Chen Xiefen ຫឯख़ (Chubei yingci ᄑ‫ק‬૎Ꮏ) Chen Yan ຫʳ૜ Chen Yuan ຫূ (famous historian and father-in-law of Hong Meiying) Chen Yuan ຫީ (sister of the revolutionary martyr Chen Boping) Chen Zhen’e ຫੴ୧ Cheng Bojia ࿓‫܄‬ᇂ Chengdong nüxue [tang] ৄࣟՖᖂθഘι chengyi ຖ᪋ Cheng Yili ࿓ে‫م‬

231

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appendix b

chi huajiu ‫پ‬क़಺ chi tangzi fan ‫پ‬ഘ՗ႍ chongxi ‫ޱ‬໛ chongyin re ૹ‫ٱ‬ᑷ Chūjōtō (Zhongjiangtang) խലྏ Chuanzheng ju ํਙ‫ݝ‬ Chuansha ՟‫ޥ‬ chunü ๠Ֆ Chunyan Lou ਞᨆᑔ ci ဲ Cike liezhuan ࠨড়٨ႚ dadu Օᨁ Da gonghe ribao Օ٥ࡉֲ໴ Da Han bao Օዧ໴ Da jizhe Օಖृ dajia mingfu Օ୮ࡎഡ Damalu nichengqiao Օ್ሁࣽৄᖯ damudan ሒࡥᐘ Dasheng bian ሒ‫س‬ᒳ dengxian ࿆‫ט‬ Di Baoxian ߅ᇃᔃ (Chuqing ᄑॹ, Pingzi ؓ՗) Dier shifan fushu xiaoxue รԲஃᒤॵ᥆՛ᖂ dianxian ᧼わ Ding Song ԭக Diaojing niang ൾᆖ୞ Dongfang zazhi ֱࣟᠧ፾ Douanshi yangsheng lingyao ೧‫ּڜ‬ᕆ‫س‬ᨋᢐ duchong ᨁ៽ dujun ੅ပ Du Yaquan ‫ੈࠅޙ‬ “Duzhe julebu” ᦰृଟᑗຝ duanpian ࿍ᒧ Duan Qirui ੄ᆁᅗ “Duiyu tongshi funü zhi zhenbian” ኙ࣍ຏ‫׈‬ഡՖհಾప Falanxi zhuyi ऄᥞ۫‫׌‬ᆠ fayang jiu daode ࿇ཆ៱ሐᐚ Fanshu ouji ກ஼ೝಖ Fan Zhongyan ૃ٘෕ Fang Bao ֱ૓ (Wangxi ඨᄻ) fangweidujian ߻პ‫ޙ‬ዬ fang you mengnie ֱ‫ڶ‬နᣩ feilao ॄ᛬ feiting ଆᆲ

appendix b Feiyingge huabao ଆᐙᎹ྽໴ fen ։ fenli duo er shengli shao ։‫֟ܓسۖڍܓ‬ fengshi ଅᛘ fengsu guan ଅঋᨠ fengyunyuelou ଅႆִ᥻ fuchen shishi ᑆຫࠃኔ fufu baoren ֛ഡ໴Գ fujin ഡԳ Fujin eisei zasshi ഡԳᓡ‫س‬䈋፾ Fujo shinbun ഡՖᄅፊ funü ഡՖ Funü shibao ഡՖழ໴ Funü xuanjiang hui ഡՖ৙ᝑᄎ Funü zazhi ഡՖᠧ፾ Funü zhoubao ഡՖၜ໴ Foxue congbao ۵ᖂហ໴ “Funü tanhua hui” ഡՖᓫᇩᄎ Funü yu shiye ഡՖፖኔᄐ Gaochang xiaoxue ೏࣑՛ᖂ Gao Cuiyu ೏ፇ‫د‬ Gao Xu ೏‫ڳ‬ “Gedi funü zhi zhiye” ‫چٺ‬ഡՖհ៭ᄐ Ge Nen ᆼኊ (Ruifang ᘎ॑) gequ ዚ‫ڴ‬ Ge Yuanxu ᆼցᅆ Gengzi shibian zhaoxiang ce ࢊ՗ࠃ᧢ᅃઌ‫ם‬ gonghe yonggu ٥ࡉ‫ࡐة‬ gongzhu dazhong ֆᓯՕฒ Guhuanshi shici ji ‫ᦟײ‬৛ᇣဲႃ “Gujian ge” ‫ײ‬Ꮶዚ guti ‫᧯ײ‬ gutong ೎࿀ guwen  ‫֮ײ‬ Gu Yanwu ᥽ङࣳ (Tinglin ॼࣥ) guanjiansuoji ጥߠࢬ֗ Guan Panpan ᣂઐઐ “Guanyu nüzi zhi nongye” ᣂ࣍Ֆ՗հʳልᄐ Guan Zhong ጥ٘ guatu ඀ቹ guixiu Ꮇߐ guiyan Ꮇ㬔 guizu mingmei ၆ග‫ࡢټ‬ guizhong nüshi ᎷխՖՓ

233

234

appendix b

guoban መఄ guochun ഏᥡ Guohuo yundong ഏຄሎ೯ guomin ഏ‫ا‬ guomin zhi mu ഏ‫ا‬հ‫ئ‬ Haibo yao ௧ंᢐ Haishang hua yinglu ௧Ղक़ᐙᙕ Hakubunkan ໑֮ᙴ Han Yu ឌყ haomushinan ፛‫ؾ‬ழᣄ He Chenghui ۶ࢭᚧ (Yisheng ᦜ‫)س‬ He Miaoling ۶‫ݎ‬嚺 He Qi ۶ඔ hetong fapiao ‫ٵٽ‬࿇ป Hexuli ᎒વᕟ hongfen yingxiong 任ృ૎ႂ honggui jiemei દᎷࡦࡢ Hongxue lun buyao દۨᔚᇖᢐ Hu Shi ઺ᔞ Huyou jilüe ዴཾಖฃ Huzhu she յ‫ܗ‬ष hua क़ huabao ྽໴ “Huahui” क़ᄎ Huaji shibao ᄶᒝழ໴ Huajing क़ᢴ hualiubing क़਻ఐ Hua Mulan क़ֵᥞ Hua Xin ဎ✛ Huayao ဎᢐ huaipin ᡖ঴ Huanqiu Zhongguo xuesheng hui ᛩ෺խഏᖂ‫س‬ᄎ Huang Chujiu ႓ᄑ԰ Huang Cuining 㹂ፇᕩ Huang Huijian ႓ᐝᗹ Huang Qiongxian ႓ᡯ‫ט‬ Huang Xuchu ႓‫ॣڳ‬ Huang Yanpei 㹂ङഛ (Huang Ren ႓㾰) Huang Zongxi ႓ࡲᘂ huibing ᘨఐ huizhuo ៘ᖼ jinü ‫ݒ‬Ֆ Jiading wanjia ቯࡳᆄ୮

appendix b “Jiating changshi” ୮அൄᢝ Jiating changshi huibian ୮அൄᢝნ佯 jiating huaxue ୮அ֏ᖂ jiating riji ୮அֲಖ “Jiating weisheng lun” ୮அᓡ‫س‬ᓵ jiating xiaoshuo ୮அ՛ᎅ jiating zhiye ୮அ៭ᄐ jiaxue ୮ᖂ jiazheng ୮ਙ jiazheng shuo ୮ਙᎅ jiazheng zhi jingyan ୮ਙհᆖ᧭ jiange ᔀ௑ Jiankang jiating ೜ൈ୮அ Jiang Hanjie ᓏዧໃ Jiang Kanghu ‫ۂ‬շॡ Jiang Zuobin ᓏ‫܂‬ᎏ jiao ߡ jiaohe ٌ‫ٽ‬ jiaoji shuo ٌᎾᎅ jiaoju ‫ݝ׻‬ jiaosheyinyi ᧀഝෞ‫܊‬ jiaotiaozi ‫׻‬ය՗ jiaoyu xiaoshuo ඒߛ՛ᎅ Jiaoyu zazhi ඒߛᠧ፾ jiehe ࿨ு jieyu ᆏᐥ jinshi zhi mingyuan २‫׈‬հ‫ټ‬໿ jinti २᧯ jinti shi २᧯ᇣ Jin Zhilan ८ॠᥞ Jingbao ࠇ໴ jinghong ᧫ព “Jingjie” ᆖᇞ jingshen bing ጲళఐ jingyan ᆖ᧭ jingyantan ᆖ᧭ᓫ jingyan zhi tan ᆖ᧭հᓫ Jitsuyō ikka keizai hō ኔ‫ش‬ԫ୮ᆖᛎऄ jiusecaiqi ಺‫ۥ‬ತ௛ jo Ֆ Jogaku sekai Ֆᖂ‫੺׈‬ Jogaku zasshi Ֆ䝤䈋፾ josanpu ‫ܗ‬㶷ഡ julebu ଟᑗຝ jun ‫ܩ‬

235

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appendix b

“Junshituan beifa gufeng” ૨ࠃቸ‫ײٕק‬ଅ junzi ‫ܩ‬՗ Kaihua bang ၲक़዆ kaitong ၲຏ Kaocha Riben xinwen shulüe ‫ە‬ኘֲ‫ء‬ᄅፊ૪ฃ keluoban Ṙᢅठ Kinbara Murako ८଺‫ޘ‬՗ Kokumin 㧺‫ا‬ Konggu lan ़ߣᥞ laza ࢮᠧ laojue chengfa ‫۔‬๸‫ګ‬ऄ Libai liu ៖ਈք Li Boyuan ‫܄ޕ‬ց Li ji ៖ಖ lijiao ៖ඒ lilian ᖵᒭ Lixue yibian ᚐᖂ᤟ᒳ Li Yuanhong ᕟցੋ Liang Hongyu ᆓદ‫د‬ Liangyou ߜ֖ Lienü zhuan ٨Ֆႚ Liezi ٨՗ Lin Baobao ࣥᣪᣪ liner ᧵ࠝ Lin Shu ࣥ⁼ Lin Yuanyuan ࣥ໿໿ lingbian wandan ᨋঁՄկ Lingxi guan ᨋྪᙴ Liu-Ri Daban gaodeng yixuexiao fushu chanpo yangcheng suo ఎֲՕ߾೏࿛᠔ᖂீॵ᥆ ขധᕆ‫ࢬګ‬ Lü Bicheng ‫ܨ‬ጘৄ Lu Ji ຬᖲ Lü Kun 㣑ࡗ Lü Zhu ጸఇ “Lun baihua xiaoshuo” ᓵ‫ػ‬ᇩ՛ᎅ lunwen ᓵ֮ “Lun xuqie” ᓵ፝࡟ Luo Yiyuan ᢅ○ց Ma Rong ್ᘜ mazuiyao ຾ᔨᢐ maixiao fu ᔄూഡ

appendix b maiyin ᔄෞ Mao Dun ‫ؿ‬એ Mao Xixi ֻ൦൦ maozei ㄞᇶ Matsubara Iwagorō ࣪଺ࡿն૴ meibushengshou ભլ໏‫گ‬ meidu ම੅ meigan ભტ Meiguo kexue zazhi ભഏઝᖂᠧ፾ Meihua luo මक़ᆵ Meinu lüfa ම؉৳ऄ meiren ભԳ Meiyu ઍ፿ Meizhou pinglun ‫ޢ‬ၜေᓵ Minli bao ‫ما‬໴ Minli Shanghai nü zhongxuetang ‫ما‬Ղ௧Ֆխᖂഘ Minying zhaoxiangguan ‫ا‬ᐙᅃઌᙴ mingji ‫ݒټ‬ mingmen shuyuan ‫ټ‬॰ʳි໿ mingyuan ‫ټ‬໿ Mizuhara Zen ֽ଺ዬ modeng nüzi ᐰ࿆Ֆ՗ muji ‫ؾ‬ᚰ Nanshe তष Nanyang quanye hui ত੉ᣠᄐᄎ Nanyuan hangkong xuexiao ত૒౰़ᖂீ Nanzi ত՗ Neizheng nianjian փਙ‫ᦸڣ‬ Nihon joshi daigaku ֲ‫ء‬Ֆ՗Օ䝤 Nihon shin fujin ֲ‫ء‬ᄅഡԳ niezhang ᣩᎽ nü Ֆ Nüer jing Ֆࠝᆖ “Nüjiebao” Ֆ੺ᣪ “Nüjie xianjin” Ֆ੺٣ၞ Nüjie xiezan hui Ֆ੺࠰ᢥᄎ nüquan Ֆᦞ nüshi ՖՓ Nüxue bao Ֆᖂ໴ Nüxue pian Ֆᖂᒧ Nüxue ribao Ֆᖂֲ໴ nüyong Ֆ႗ nüzi Ֆ՗

237

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appendix b

Nüzi cangye xuexiao Ֆ՗ᨀʳᄐᖂீ Nüzi chanke xuexiao diyijie biye jinian ce Ֆ՗ขઝᖂீรԫࡻฅᄐಖ࢚‫ם‬ “Nüzi dang you putong yixue zhishi” Ֆ՗ᅝ‫ڶ‬ཏຏ᠔ᖂवᢝ “Nüzi guohuo gongsi” Ֆ՗ഏຄֆ‫׹‬ Nüzi jun Ֆ՗૨ Nüzi junshi tuan Ֆ՗૨ࠃቸ Nüzi shijie Ֆ՗‫੺׈‬ nüzi shougong chu Ֆ՗֫ՠ๠ nüzi shougong suo Ֆ՗֫ՠࢬ nüjie ziyou qi Ֆ੺۞‫ط‬዁ Ogata Masakiyo ፃֱ‫إ‬෎ Onna no sekai Ֆ圸‫੺׈‬ Ôsaka Kôtô igakkô Օ㥏೏࿛㤩䝤ீ Ōsaka mainichi shinbun Օ㥏㣵ֲᄅፊ Ōshū sensō jikki ᑛ੊ᖏञኔಖ Pengyue lou ִ༙ᑔ pifeng weiyue, tihua nongcao ‫ޅ‬ଅࢳִ, ࢺक़‫ݫ‬౻ pipa ࣣ࣢ pianwen ᙺ֮ “Pinmin de kusheng” ຆ‫ا‬ऱୈᜢ pinxue ຆۨ pingri ֲؓ Potianhuang Zhongguo nüzi zhi lingkong ధ֚౶խഏՖ՗հର़ Pudong xiaoxue ௥ࣟ՛ᖂ qi daode ru bixi ඵሐᐚ‫ڕ‬ඏ⤼ qiqing Ἇ෎ Qixia ཨដ qian ᙒ Qian Binghe ᙒఐᦊ qianjin ෍२ qiankun ೓ࡗ qianwen ෍֮ Qian Zhixiu ᙒཕଥ qieshen yueli ֊ߪᔹᖵ Qin Meiyun ఻ભႆ qingkuang chushi ෎߆๠Փ Qingnian zazhi ॹ‫ڣ‬ᠧ፾ qingyu ൣᐥ qingyu jiaoyu ൣᐥඒߛ qingyu zhi diandao ൣᐥհᣌଙ qiongri yiyu ᒡֲ‫ލ‬ᩀ

appendix b Qiu Chi ‫׋‬ᙈ Qiu Jin ટᒀ qiuxue jishi ‫ޣ‬ᖂᛎ‫׈‬ Qushi fufu yiyuan ្ּ֛ഡ᠔ೃ Qu Suzhen ࡹైૣ qunting luanfei ᆢᆲ႖ଆ qunying luanfei ᆢᦉ႖ଆ rexin nüshi ᑷ֨ՖՓ rensheng riyong bixu zhi pin Գ‫ؘشֲس‬Ꮑհ঴ riji ֲಖ Riji jiuzhong ֲಖ԰ጟ riyong pingshi zhi buke que ֲ‫ؓش‬ழհլ‫౒ױ‬ riyong shenghuo zhi xu zengjin ֲ‫سش‬੒հႊᏺၞ Rong Quan ዊ٤ rou ۚ rougan ۚტ rouyu ۚᐥ ruao ࠂბ rufang yan ࠂࢪङ rufu ࠂഡ rumu ࠂ‫ئ‬ ruobushengyi இլ໏۪ Saiankoku no Tōkyō ່ᄆ႕圸ࣟࠇ Sakurai Ikujirô ᥎մ૵Բ૴ sancong Կൕ sangu liupo Կࡤքധ Sata Aihiko ۸‫ڍ‬ფ㬔 se ‫ۥ‬ Seitō ॹ㆑ shangfeng ႞ଅ Shanghai nüzi cangye xuetang Ղ௧Ֆ՗ᨀᄐᖂഘ shanghan ႞༃ Shangwu yinshuguan ೸೭‫ٱ‬஼ᙴ Shao Tannan ३ࡖᄓ Shao Xiangsheng ३บ‫( س‬Qiangsheng 偼‫)س‬ shehui guan षᄎᨠ Shenbao ‫ع‬໴ Shen Bochen ާ‫܄‬ቺ shen’gao ళ㶼 shenjia ߪᏝ Shen Xiaonai ާ՛ս Shen Youqin ާ֖ྶ

239

240

appendix b

Shenzhou nübao ళ‫ڠ‬Ֆ໴ Shenzhou nüxue ళ‫ڠ‬Ֆᖂ shengli ‫س‬෻ shengzhiqi ‫ཷس‬ᕴ shengzhiqi binggen ‫ཷس‬ᕴʳఐ௅ shi ᇣ Shibao ழ໴ Shibao guan ழ໴ᙴ Shi Chong ‫ف‬ശ shidi shiyan ኔ‫چ‬ኔ᧭ shihua ᇣᇩ Shihua xiaoxue ழ֏՛ᖂ Shi ji ‫׾‬ಖ shiji de jingyan ኔᎾऱᆖ᧭ shinü ՓՖ shishi zhi jingyan ࠃኔհᆖ᧭ shisu nüzi ‫׈‬ঋՖ՗ shiyan ኔ᧭ shiyan chulai ኔ᧭‫ࠐנ‬ shiyantan ኔ䕷ᓫ shiye jia ኔᄐ୮ shiyu Ⴐᐥ shizhuang meiren ழᇘભԳ shizhuang shinü ழᇘ‫ד‬Ֆ Shin fujin ᄅഡԳ Shin fujin zasshi ᄅഡԳ䈋፾ Shin Nihon ᄅֲ‫ء‬ shin sanba ᄅ㶷ധ shouhan ࠹༃ shujian wen ஼១֮ Shu Kang ൊൈ shuyu ஼༅ shuyuan ි໿ “Shuo nüzi canzheng zhi liyou” ᎅՖ՗೶ਙհ෻‫ط‬ sikepoluomeng ཎਲധᢅ፞ Sitongle ‫׹‬ຏ೬ Soeda Juichi ෌‫ض‬ኂԫ Song Jiaoren ‫ݚ‬ඒո (Dunchu ၬॣ) su ঋ Su Bennan ᤕ‫ء‬ᄓ Su Benyan ᤕ‫ࡿء‬ Su Mengyu ᤕኄድ Su Shi ᤕሊ Su Xiaoxiao ᤕ՛՛ Suzhen ైૣ

appendix b Suzhou baihua bao ᤕ‫ػڠ‬ᇩ໴ Suzhou Da Han bao ᤕ‫ڠ‬Օዧ໴ Sun Lin ୪ᜯ (Kexian ‫܌‬ভ) Sun Xiu ୪ߐ Sun Yunfeng ୪ႆᏕ suibi ᙟ࿝ suifeng piaoqu ᙟଅ᤯‫װ‬ suowei shiyongzhuyi ࢬ੡ኔ‫׌ش‬ᆠ taijiao ઼ඒ tanci ᐘဲ tang ഘ Tang Jixiu ାᜠଥ (Tang Biao ା๡) Tang Linbao ା᧵অ Tang Min ྏ‫ا‬ Tang Qunying ାᆢ૎ Tang Shaoyi ାฯᏚ Tang Youqin ା֖ྶ Tang Zaili ା‫ڇ‬៖ Taoyuan ௒ᄭ Teng Chao ᑱ၌ Terada Shirō ‫ضڝ‬؄૴ tifang ၿ߻ tiyu ᧯඿ tiangui ֚ં Tianji feihong ֚Ꮎଆព tiaodang buqian ሂᘒլ᧿ Tomiko ༄՗ tongbatieban Ꭽࢸᥳࣨ Tong Guang ti ‫ٵ‬٠᧯ Tongmeng hui ‫ٵ‬ᅩᄎ tongren deng ‫ٵ‬Գ࿛ tongsu ຏঋ Tongsu chanke sanbai yong ຏঋขઝԿ‫ۍ‬㧴 “Tongsu jiaoyu zhi buzhu pin” ຏঋඒߛհᇖ‫ܗ‬঴ tongsu re ຏঋᑷ tongsu wenxue ຏঋ֮ᖂ tujie Ւग़ Tushanwan Ւ՞᨜ tushu daodi bufan ‫ٷ‬᥆ࠩࢍլՅ tunsheng ‫ܟ‬ᜢ wanbao quanshu ᆄᣪ٤஼ Wanzhu xiaoxue ᆄ‫ێ‬՛ᖂ Wang Botang ޫ‫܄‬ཞ (Daxie Օᛝ)

241

242

appendix b

Wang Duan ‫׆‬ጤ Wang Dungen ‫׆‬ၬ௅ Wang Fuzhi ‫֛׆‬հ Wang Jieliang ޫໃඩ Wang Ruixiang ‫׆‬ᅗบ Wang Wei ‫׆‬೛ Wang Zengda ‫׆‬ቖሒ Weilianshi dayisheng hongse buwan ଁკՓՕ᠔‫س‬દ‫ۥ‬ᇖՄ Weiling Gong ᓡᨋֆ wei renmin shenghuo fuwu 䢠Գ‫سا‬੒ࣚ䥜 weisheng ᓡ‫س‬ Wei Shuji ᠿිᵸ wenming ֮ࣔ wenming jiehun ֮ࣔ࿨ദ wenpo ᡹ധ wenruo zhe yi shang ֮இृ࣐ᑝ wenxue ֮ᖂ “Wenxue gailiang quyi” ֮ᖂ‫ߜޏ‬౴ᤜ “Wenyuan” ֮૒ Woxiang hunjia zhi fengsu ‫ݺ‬ၢദ჌հଅঋ wubang ᎀᝏ Wuben nüxue ೭‫ء‬Ֆᖂ wucai boliban taoyin ն൑ੲᑿࣨ୚‫ٱ‬ wucai gangmuban ն൑ጼ‫ؾ‬ठ Wu Dingchang ‫ܦ‬ቓ࣑ Wu Huaijiu ‫ܦ‬ᡖर wu nüjie ‫ܠ‬Ֆ੺ Wu Tingfang ٔ‫( ॑ݪ‬Zhiyong ఼൉) Wu Weiqiao ‫ܦ‬ፂ៫ wuxing ྤ‫ݮ‬ Wu Zhiying ‫॒ܦ‬ᅛ Xike shi kuangzhang qi ۫໔ּឩ്ᕴ Xilou ஒᑔ Xi Lu ᙔᆂ Xi Shi ۫ਜ xi weilun ᙔ೛ᓵ xiyi suo ฾ᢌࢬ Xialing weisheng tan ୙‫ח‬ᓡ‫س‬ᓫ xialiu Հੌ xiaxie xiaoshuo ௿ߵ՛円 xiayi Հ᠔ Xiandai jiating ෼‫ז‬୮அ xiandai kexue 䶂‫ז‬ઝ䝤

appendix b xianshou ᧜֫ xianshui mei ֽ᤹ࡢ xiangjian ଉॊ Xiao Afeng ՛ॳᏕ xiaobanbi ՛‫ת‬ᜩ xiaochan ՛ข xiaofei jingji neng suixing ௣၄ᆖᛎ౨ሑ۩ xiaopin wen ՛঴֮ xiaoqian ௣᎞ xiaoren ՛Գ xiaoshuo ՛ᎅ Xiaoshuo huabao ՛䇣྽໴ Xiaoshuo lin ՛ᎅࣥ Xiaoshuo shibao ՛ᎅழ໴ Xiaoshuo yuebao ՛ᎅִ໴ Xiaoyi laoliu ూრ‫۔‬ք Xie Lijuan ᝔ᣝୠ xieshi ᐊኔ Xie Yingying ᝔ᦉᦉ Xiling ۫ग xinde ֨൓ Xiner jiuxue ji ᤲࠝ༉ᖂಖ Xin funü ᄅഡՖ Xin Hua ᄅဎ xinmin ᄅ‫ا‬ xin nüxing ᄅՖࢤ Xin qingnian ᄅॹ‫ڣ‬ xinshui ॾֽ xin wenhua ᄅ֮֏ xin wenti ᄅ֮᧯ Xinwenxue yanjiuhui ᄅፊᖂઔߒᄎ Xin xiaoshuo ᄅ՛ᎅ Xin xin baimei tu ᄅᄅ‫ۍ‬ભቹ xing ࢤ xinglüe ۩ฃ Xingshi baihua bao ᙌழ‫ػ‬ᇩ໴ Xingshi tu ᙌᅐቹ xingyu ࢤᐥ Xiong Xiling ዼ‫᤿ݦ‬ Xiu Qin ଥႧ Xujiahui ஊ୮Ⴊ xulao ဠ᛬ Xu Renhui ஊոᘏ Xu Xilin ஊᙔ᧵

243

244

appendix b

Xu Xiang ๺ᝊ Xu Yongqing ஊူॹ Xu Zhenya ஊ஡ࠅ Xu Zihua ஊ۞ဎ Xuandeng yingbian ֤ᗉᐙׂ xuanshang wen ᣬᓾ֮ xuanxie ৙इ xuebo qishuai ۨᜳ௛ಐ Xuesheng zazhi ᖂ‫س‬ᠧ፾ Xue Yinxuan ຳ‫ٱ‬ನ ya ႁ yabufa mingmin tongda ႁլ‫ࣔ׎‬ඕຏሒ Yan Longxin ᣤᚊ㝿 Yan Nanzhang ᣤতᑾ “Yanpeng” 㱿ᜃ yanpeng chuan 㱿ᜃํ yaofang ᢐࢪ Yaohua zhaoxiang hao ᤌဎᅃቝᇆ Yang Guifei ᄘ၆‫ڒ‬ Yang Xiong ᄘႂ Yang Xuejiu ᄘຳ߇ Yang Xueqiong ᄘຳᡯ Yang Xueqiu ᄘຳռ Yang Xueyao ᄘຳጄ Yang Xuezhen ᄘຳੴ Yang Xuezi ᄘຳ՗ Yangzhou shiri ཆ‫ڠ‬Լֲ yaojier ᒠࡦࠝ Yao Pengtu ৔噩䨞 yaopo ᢐധ Yao Shizi ৔‫ف‬՗ yeji tangzi ມᠪഘ՗ Ye Tianxi ᆺ֚ᙔ Yibing weisheng shu ੽ఐᓡ‫س‬஼ yichuan bing ᙊႚఐ yiji ᢌ‫ݒ‬ Yijing ࣐ᆖ Yiqing bieshu ࢣൣܑኀ Yishoujiao ఛኂᓄ yishu tan ᢌ๬ᓫ Yishui beige ֽ࣐༟ዚ Yixue shijie ᠔ᖂ‫੺׈‬ yiyang tianhe ᙲᕆ֚ࡉ yiyao changshi ᠔ᢐൄᢝ

appendix b Yiyao congtan ᠔ᢐហᓫ yin ෞ yinbi ෞሌ Yin Baochai Ꭼᣪຢ yinfeng nongyue ܷଅ‫ִݫ‬ yinhen ႏ৿ yinxie ෞߵ yinyuan Ꭼց yingyin ᐙ‫ٱ‬ Yoshiwara ॑଺ yongyi yufu ൉᠔ჟഡ youhuizhe yi shang ؔᐝृ࣐ᑝ youji ሏಖʳʳ(travel diaries) youji ᚌ‫ݒ‬ʳʳ(entertainers/prostitutes) youmei ᚌભ yousi laoyou ᐡ৸໎ღ Youxi bao ཾᚭ໴ youxing ‫ݮڶ‬ Youzheng shuju ‫إڶ‬஼‫ݝ‬ yu ᐥ “Yu Chen Bozhi shu” ፖຫ‫܄‬հ஼ Yü Daifu ૵ሒ֛ yufu ߮ፍ Yu Shen Shou ‫ާ܇‬ኂ yuse ድ‫ۥ‬ yuti ‫᧯د‬ Yuxian nüxiao ߛᔃՖீ Yuxing ᕉᘋ Yuyuan shuhua shanhui ᘵႼ஼྽ʳ࿳ᄎ yuan ց yuanding Ⴜԭ Yuan Shikai ಒ‫້׈‬ yuanyang hudie pai ᚇᚄᓗᓘ੔ yuefenpaihua ִٝྨ྽ yuejing ִᆖ yuejing dai ִᆖ൅ yueli ᔹᖵ yueli zhi weishen ᔹᖵհ‫آ‬෡ yuexin ִॾ Yunling ႆର yunniang ᝱ᨈ zahuo dian ᠧຄࢋ zazu ᠧ঑ Zeng Guofan མ㧺ᢋ

245

246

appendix b

Zeng Mengpu མ࡯ᖦ (Zeng Pu མᖦ) Zeng nüshi yixue quanshu མՖՓ᠔ᖂ٤஼ Zeng Zhimin མ‫ݳ‬᱓ zhaji ⩐ಖ Zhandi diyiji jiushang yaofa ᖏ‫چ‬รԫ్එ႞૞ऄ Zhandi zhaoxiang, Disance: Nanjing dazhan zhenxiang ᖏ‫چ‬ᅃઌรԿ‫ˍם‬ʳতࠇՕᖏటઌ Zhandi zhaoxiang: Hankou dazhan zhenxiang ᖏ‫چ‬ᅃઌ:ዧՑՕᖏటઌ Zhang Chu ്ᄑ (Shujia ිቯ) Zhang Huiru ്༡‫ڕ‬ Zhang Juanjuan ്ୠୠ Zhang Renqiu ്નટ Zhang Tongdian ്ຏࠢ (Bochun ‫܄‬伈, Tianfang louzhu ֚࣋䀊‫)׌‬ Zhang Xue ്㞛 Zhang Yangyuan ്ᄘႼ Zhang Yibao ີ‫א‬অ Zhang Yihan ്ᑞዧ Zhang Yuanji ്ցᛎ Zhang Yue ്ங Zhang Zhaolin ്٢᧵ Zhang Zhixue ്‫ݳ‬ᖂ Zhang Zhuoqun ്࠱ᆢ Zhang Zuolin ്‫܂‬ᙤ “Zhaoxiang lei” ᅃઌᣊ zhaoxiang quan ᅃઌࠦ Zhejiang nüzi shifan xuexiao ௨‫ۂ‬Ֆ՗ஃᒤᖂீ zhenshen ಾళ zhenshi టኔ zhenzheng shi huo diyu ట‫إ‬ਢ੒‫چ‬ጂ zhengren junzi ‫إ‬Գ‫ܩ‬՗ Zheng Zhenduo ᔤ஡᥵ Zhina ֭߷ zhiwu ཬढ Zhi Xin वᄅ zhixue guan จۨጥ Zhiyan ೋณ zhiye funü ៭ᄐഡՖ Zhong-Fa da yaofang խऄՕᢐࢪ Zhong-Fa lao yaofang խऄ‫۔‬ᢐࢪ Zhongguo fuying weisheng gongzuo zhi guoqu yu xianzai խഏഡ᚛ᓡ‫س‬ՠ‫܂‬հመ‫װ‬ፖ ෼‫ڇ‬ Zhongguo guyi jishumu tiyao խ㧺‫ײ‬㤩ᤄ䢰‫༼ؾ‬૞ Zhongguo jiaoyu gaijinshe խഏඒߛ‫ޏ‬ၞष Zhongguo nüzi shuhua hui խഏՖ՗஼྽ᄎ Zhongguo nüzi ticao xuexiao խഏՖ՗᧯ᖙᖂீ

appendix b Zhongguo ticao xuexiao խഏ᧯ᖙᖂீ Zhongguo xin nüjie zazhi խഏᄅՖ੺ᠧ፾ Zhonghua funü jie խဎഡՖ੺ Zhonghua guohuo weichihui խဎഏຄፂ਍ᄎ Zhonghua minguo խဎ‫ا‬ഏ Zhonghua minghua ji խဎ‫ټ‬྽ႃ Zhonghua shuju խဎ஼‫ݝ‬ Zhonghua yixue zazhi խဎ᠔ᖂᠧ፾ Zhongjiangtang (Chūjōtō) խലྏ Zhong-Xi da yaofang խ۫Օᢐࢪ Zhong-Xi nüxuetang խ۫Ֆᖂഘ Zhong-Xi yixue yanjiuhui խ۫᠔ᖂઔߒᄎ Zhongyi yao խ᠔ᢐ Zhu Bolu ‫ڹ‬ਹᗝ Zhu Guixin ‫ڹ‬ெ߬ (Qiqian ඔၭ) Zhu Jin ा੍ Zhu Kezhen ा‫ױ‬ᄙ Zhu Mei ाම Zhu Meier ‫ڹ‬໼ࠝ zhumen shuyuan ‫ڹ‬॰ි໿ Zhu Songjun ‫ුڹ‬ᆐ Zhu Wenxiu ఴ֮ߐ (Wenya ஡ࠅ) zhuanji ႚಖ Zhuang ๗ Zhuang Fanshi ๗᜗ᇣ Zhuangzi ๗՗ zigong yanre ՗୰ङᑷ zikui buwen ۞ხլ֮ zilai shui ۞ࠐֽ Zilai xue ۞ࠐۨ “Zisong yu” ۞๼፿ Ziyou tan ۞‫ط‬ᓫ zonghe xing ጵ‫ࢤٽ‬ zoujing ৉ඞ zou shutou ߨ௉ᙰ

247

a bbrev iatio n s

BJS = Bao Tianxiao, “Bianji shi” [From the office of the editor], FNSB 1 (June 11, 1911): 85; FNSB 2 (July 26, 1911): 56; FNSB 3 (September 22, 1911): 87; FNSB 5 (January 23, 1912): 75; FNSB 6 (May 1, 1912): 88; FNSB 9 (February 25, 1913): 92. BJSZTH = Bao Tianxiao, “Bianji shi zhi tanhua” [Conversation from the office of the editor], FNSB 18 (June 1916): 95–96; FNSB 19 (August 1916): 114; FNSB 20 (November 1916): 112. CYL = Bao Tianxiao, Chuanying lou huiyilu. FNSB = Funü shibao [Women’s Eastern Times] FNZZ = Funü zazhi [Ladies’ Journal]

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I N T R O D U C T IO N

1. On the alleged failings of the early Republican state, see Rankin, “State and Society.” David Strand also argues that the early Republic was not a failure and that new modes of social interaction—including a new willingness to look others in the eye (Unfinished Republic, 8–9)—were integral to its civic success. 2. Raymond Williams (Long Revolution, 70) asserted the importance of the periodical press as a point of access to “actual culture” over half a century ago. Recent recognition of the importance of this medium is evident in the founding of a new scholarly journal, the Journal of Modern Periodical Studies, in 2010. See Latham and Morrison, “Introduction.” 3. Sean Latham and Mark Morrison (“Introduction,” iii–v) note that mass culture first dawned not in film or on the radio but at the newspaper stands and bookstalls that operated in the “golden age of print culture” between 1880 and 1950. While these bookstalls offered readers novels and books, their hottest-selling commodities were magazines. See also Judge, Mittler, and Hockx, “Introduction.” 4. Roger Chartier (On the Edge, 1) elaborates on these interconnected forms of logic. 5. In the 1990s the World Wide Web was mostly a publishing medium in which the majority of Internet users accessed content created by a much smaller number of professional producers. In the 2000s the Web increasingly becoming a communication medium, with users accessing content produced by other nonprofessional users (Manovich, “Practice,” 319–20). David Strand astutely pointed out this parallel when he read an earlier version of this book in manuscript. 6. On this attentiveness to the reader who would see her or himself reflected in the pages of the journal, see Huters, “Popular Literature,” 5, citing Fan Boqun, Zhongguo jinxiandai, 26.

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NOTES

7. The term middlebrow was coined by the British satire magazine Punch in 1925. For its use in relation to Chinese literature, see T. Liu, Chinese Middlebrow Fiction. 8. On the designation of the first commercial women’s journal, see Ma Guangren, Shanghai xinwen shi, 382. 9. As Ted Huters has noted (“Popular Literature,” 15), the Frankfurt school critique cannot apply to these materials for this reason. 10. On the designation of a general interest journal, see CYL, 1:362. 11. See Beetham, “Methodological Reflections.” 12. The FNSB was published in the period when the center of Chinese intellectual authority lay in editorial offices of major Shanghai publishers such as the Shibao Office. That intellectual authority would move to Peking University near the end of the FNSB’s print run in 1916. Huters, “Popular Literature,” 11. Shanghai was the undisputed center of women’s education in this period. See, for example, Zhang Zhu Hanfen, “Lun Shanghai nüxuesheng,” 12. 13. The movement’s flagship journal, Xin qingnian, was founded in September 1915. The movement became a prominent political and social force in the context of the May Fourth incident in 1919. It is discussed in more detail in chapter 1. 14. Fan, Zhongguo xiandai tongsu wenxue shi, 577. 15. On these formulations, see Zhang Ailing, “My Writing,” 436–38; X. Tang, Chinese Modern, e.g., 1, 4. 16. Fan Boqun (Zhongguo xiandai tongsu wenxue shi., 589) argues that tongsu authors deserve the same treatment and visibility as elite intellectual authors. His massive and beautifully illustrated text is perhaps the most extensive redemption of the tongsu writers to date. On earlier reassessments of the Mandarin Duck and Butterfly school, see Yuan, Yuanyang hudie pai. On recent work, see Huters, “Qingmo minchu” and “Popular Literature”; Chen Jianhua, Cong geming dao gonghe and “Canon Formation.” 17. In a 2006 book on women’s mass media in China, Song Suhong presents Funü shibao as an apolitical and trivial magazine. Song Suhong, Nüxing meijie, 49. For an elaboration of Song’s critique, see chapter 2. Perry Link, who was one of the first scholars in the West to argue for the importance of “Mandarin Duck and Butterfly literature,” focused more of his attention on fiction than on women’s journals. His apparently cursory reading of Funü shibao in his book Mandarin Ducks and Butterflies led him to mischaracterize the portraits printed in the journal, which he claimed were “pictures of women from the entertainment quarter” (146), and the cover art (219). He revised this view later in the book (250) when he described photographs of new-style girls’ schools and Western women that appeared in the journal. Link also misdated the journal and claimed that ten issues appeared in a year. Even a leading scholar of visual culture, Laikwan Pang (Distorting Mirror, 110), completely overlooks the quality, range, and semantic significance of Funü shibao’s photographs. 18. With the exception of Strand’s Unfinished Republic, this black hole is evident in recently published work in history, literature, and art history. 19. Several authors have written extensively on the complexity and problematic nature of the notion of “experience,” which Hans-George Gadamer characterizes as “one of the most obscure (concepts) that we have.” Quoted in Lei, “How Did Chinese Medicine Become Experiential,” 359. For some of the more illuminating treatments of this concept, see Jay, Songs of Experience; Scott, “Evidence of Experience.”

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20. Xue Shaohui (1866–1911), author of the preface to China’s first women’s journal in 1898 (“Nü xuebao xu”), quotes Laozi’s assertion that “the Dao is the mother of all things.” She also makes references to the Confucian classics. I am grateful to Qian Nanxiu for sharing her translation of this preface. Jin Tiange (1873–1947) uses the reformist tropes of motherhood and invokes a number of historical exemplars in his introduction to the allegedly more politically radical Women’s World, founded in 1904 (“Nüzi shijie fakanci”). The discourse on mothers of citizens or exemplars is not completely absent from FNSB, but Bao Tianxiao does not explicitly promote it. The author of the first “Inaugural Statement” (“Funü zazhi fakanci yi”) of the Ladies’ Journal uses archaic language and allusions to assert women’s education has been in decline since the Middle Period. Pleading for caution, he presents women as in need of reform rather than as partners in reform. 21. The maverick Jin Tiange proclaims, for example, “If we want a civilized China we must first civilize our women, if we want to save China, we must first save our women” (“Nüzi shijie fakanci”). According to Denise Riley (“Am I That Name?” 47), “If ‘women’ can be credited with having a tense, then it is a future tense.” 22. {Bao}, “Fakanci.” 23. Ibid. 24. Ibid. 25. For another work that highlights the links between these levels in the commercial literary press, see Hu Siao-chen, “Zhishi xiaofei.” Numerous scholars of Chinese philosophy, art history, and literature have explored various manifestations of the dialectic between what I call the epic and the everyday. They include Elvin, “Tales,” esp. 346; Jaroslav Průšek, The Lyrical and the Epic; L. Lee, “Foreword” to The Lyrical and the Epic, viii–x; R. Chow, Woman and Chinese Modernity, 35, 86, 120; X. Tang, Chinese Modern, 1, 4. 26. In redeeming these publications from their mischaracterization as hopelessly trivial, it is important not to mischaracterize them again as heroically epic. For examples of efforts to reclaim these materials as epic, see Guo Yanli, “Ershi shijichu”; Gimpel, Lost Voices. 27. On these hybrids, see Latour, We Have Never Been Modern, 41–43. 28. The term shiyan as it is used in the genre title shiyantan signifies “real experience” (shiji de jingyan) and was often used interchangeably with another widely used term for experience, jingyan. On the new usage of jingyan as a noun, see Lei, “How Did Chinese Medicine Become Experiential,” 334. Lei notes that it was originally a verb compound meaning “to go through testing” or was used adjectivally to describe formulas whose effectiveness had been demonstrated and confirmed through testing. On the valorization of shiyan in the Republican commercial discourse, see Lean, “Proofreading Science.” On the introduction of concepts of empiricism and inductive reasoning and their importance in the thought of the influential turn-of-the-twentieth century translator Yan Fu, see G. Shen, “Science in Translation.” 29. Tongsu authors were criticized by intellectuals for this emphasis on the real (zhenshi)—on imitating real situations and human feelings rather than on creating fi ne art. Fan, Zhongguo xiandai tongsu wenxue shi, 581–82. 30. BJSZTH, FNSB 19 (August 1916): 114. 31. Certeau (Practice of Everyday Life, 35–37) argues that the powerful employ strategies while the dominated employ tactics that allow them to maneuver within the limits set for them.

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32. Fiction was further broken down into short essays (duanpian), reading notes (zhaji), short vignettes (xiaopin wen), and songs (gequ). See Bao, “Benbao chengwen li.” 33. On this definition of wenxue and its distinction from discursive writing, see Huters, “Rethinking the Simplification,” 16. 34. Women published some 217 poems in the journal. See chapters 2 and 3. On lyricism, affect, and subjectivity, see Shengqing Wu, Modern Archaics, 13; Průšek, Lyrical and the Epic. 35. On this notion of a private/public space for women, see Hu Siao-chen, “Voices of Female Educators.” 36. There are resonances between some of the writing in these journals and a neglected genre of late imperial paintings for women that depict everyday scenes from the inner chambers, analyzed by James Cahill. This body of work led Cahill to radically rethink the familiar valuation of classical over mundane and high over vernacular art. See Cahill, “Paintings.” 37. BJS, FNSB 18 (June 1916): [95]. 38. Latham (Latham and Morrison, “Introduction,” iii) makes a similar point for the Western periodical press and modernity. 39. On photographic exigency, see Agamben, Profanations, 25–27. 1 . T E X T A N D M E T HO D

1. The politically driven National Products Preservation Association (Zhonghua guohua weichihui), which strove to stabilize the binary between “national and foreign products,” was far from its peak when FNSB was in print (Gerth, China Made, 186, 193). 2. On this division, see Lei, “How Did Chinese Medicine Become Experiential” and Neither Donkey nor Horse. 3. The first Chinese film was made in 1905, but production did not become significant until the 1920s. 4. The Youzheng Book Company appears to have been founded as early as 1902. According to Wang Cheng-hua (“Going Public,” 151), with Japanese assistance, Youzheng was selling the Beijing Gengzi shibian zhaoxiang ce (Beijing Boxer Rebellion photograph book) as early as 1902. Yang Jie (Qingmo minchu, 13) states that Youzheng was founded in 1904. 5. CYL 1:419. On Shibao, see Judge, Print and Politics. 6. See, for example, BJS, FNSB 6 (September 25, 1912): 88; BJS, FNSB 9 (February 25, 1913): 92. 7. Qingnian zazhi was renamed Xin qingnian (New Youth or “La Jeunesse”) and was relaunched a year later, on September 1, 1916. 8. See Vinograd, “Patrimonies in Press.” 9. Youzheng shuju published a lucrative second impression of Zeng’s Niehai hua [The flower in the world of retribution], for example. CYL 1:427–28; Link, Mandarin Ducks, 94. 10. Bao, “Benbao chengwen li.” This was slightly less than the amount awarded to contributors to fiction journals. Xiaoshuo yuebao (Short Story Magazine) offered three to five yuan for one thousand characters, for example. Gimpel, Lost Voices, 218. Nüzi shijie (Women’s World) paid particularly well in the late Qing, offering ten yuan to the first-class winners of its writing competition (Nüzi shijie 1 [1904]: front matter), whereas Hankou Jour-

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nal had comparable rates, offering Zhan Kai two yuan for editorials. Widmer, Fiction’s Family. 11. Winners of the first, second, and third prize in the contest would receive five, three, or one yuan, respectively, in Youzheng publications of their choosing. See “Xuanshang wen” [Essay contests], FNSB issues 1, 3, and 4–17. 12. Bao, “Benbao chengwen li.” 13. Names of contest winners would be announced in FNSB’s parent newspaper, Shibao. BJSZTH, FNSB 20 (November 1916): 112. 14. Chiou (“Jia you xianmu,” 21) states that Bao’s salary for editing FNSB was 120 yuan a month, but she does not provide documentation. Bao notes in his memoirs (CYL, 1:324) that he earned 120 yuan a month as an editor of both Shibao (80 yuan) and the fiction journal Xiaoshuo lin (40 yuan) in the late Qing. He also states that he was not given an editorial salary for Xiaoshuo shibao so it is questionable if he would have earned a separate salary for FNSB. His salary at Shibao would most likely have increased from 80 yuan by the early Republican period. 15. Other publishers in the early twentieth century similarly produced multiple periodicals. The Commercial Press put out at least eight journals with some of the longest runs for this genre of text, and Zhonghua shuju (the Zhonghua Book Company) had a corresponding if much shorter-lived set of eight journals. 16. Vol. 1 of Bao, Gaodeng xiaoxue shiyong nüzi shuhan wen, cost 2 jiao and vol. 2, 2.5 jiao, for example. 17. On the price of woodblock texts published in Fujian into the Republican period, see Brokaw, 495. 18. On the circulation of six thousand to seven thousand for the journal, see BJS, FNSB 6 (May 1, 1912), 88; BJS, FNSB 9 (February 25, 1913), 92; Song Suhong, Nüxing meijie, 96. 19. Nivard, “Évolution de la presse,” 176 n. 24. 20. On multiple readers for one newspaper, see Sanger, Advertising Methods, 60, 61; L. Lee and Nathan, “Beginnings of Mass Culture,” 371–73. 21. On the relationship between Shanghai’s status as a city of immigrants and the kinds of literature that city produced, see Fan, Zhongguo xiandai tongsu wenxue shi, 579. 22. Wuyong, “Pudong nüzi zhi zhiye”; Qin Huirong, “Jiading nüzi zhiye tan”; Cheng Peiqing, “Anhui funü zhi zhiye”; Quanquan, “Minnan furen zhi zhiye”; Cheng Zengyin, “Nantong xian nüzi zhiye tan”; Xu Jiwen, “Guangdong Zhenpingxian nüzi zhiye tan”; Wang Baohui, “Huadeng cao”; Hua Yuzhi, “Jiebu nü zi”; Li Xufang, “Tianmen funü zhi yezhi diaocha.” 23. This broad national distribution included general and branch distribution centers. General distributors for issues 1–17 included Beijing and Shanghai; from issue 18 onward, Hangzhou, Tianjin, Nanjing, Beijing, Suzhou, and Yangzhou were added. Branch distribution centers included the provinces of Guangdong, Shandong, Shanxi, Henan, Sichuan, Anhui, and Hunan and such urban centers as Suzhou, Tianjin, Hankou, Nanjing, Zhenjiang, Changzhou, Yangzhou, Pinghu, Fengtian, Changshu, Yantai, Yingkou, Nantongzhou, Hangzhou, and Nanchang. 24. For a reader’s submission from Yunnan, see Xie, “Chen Juying zhi jueming shu.” Yun Daiying (1895–1931) of Wuhan was a reader of, contributor to, and imitator of FNSB. See the submissions of Lin Fu from Fujian (“Funü xinli xue”); Chen Zuo Mingying from

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Hubei (“Zhu lienü of Xiaogan [Hubei]”); and Jin zhi Shangxin ren from Beijing (“Beijing nüzi shifan daxue”). Two sisters from Guangdong who were both doctors submitted their photographs to the journal, Cheng Liqing in FNSB 9 and Cheng Yili in FNSB 10. 25. The many advertisements for Dr. Williams’ Pink Pills for Pale People gave a Chongqing branch office address in addition to the main pharmacy address in Shanghai. See, for example, “Nongzhang xieji.” For the testimonial of a customer who bought medicine in Zhenjiang, see “Nengzeng nujie jueda zhi xingfu.” 26. Jing Zang, an author writing for one of the more influential general interest journals, Dongfang zazhi, used this extended “emporium” metaphor (“Jinhou zazhi jie zhi zhiwu,” 3–5). 27. Ibid., 3. 28. On the importance and characteristics of fiction in this period, see Huters, “Popular Literature,” 5, 8, 10. Bao Tianxiao considered the purpose of his own fiction to be to depict life in Shanghai; Fan, “Xiandai tongsu wenxue de wumian zhi wang,” 21. 29. Jiaoxin’s “Mu . . . er,” for example, ends with an admonition to women to instruct their children rather than spoil them with love. 30. Bao does remark on Zhou Shoujuan’s translation of a work by “the famous English female novelist Marie Corelli” (1855–1924) in issue 20; BJSZTH, FNSB 20 (November 1916): 112. FNSB’s social world clearly included fiction authors, however. This is evident, for example, in the wedding photograph of Mr. Xu Zhenya (1889–1937) in FNSB 14. 31. On the plurality of styles in the period, see Gunn, Rewriting Chinese, 37. For an example of one of the more arcane entries in FNSB, see Juanhong, “Ti Funü shibao.” 32. Gunn, Rewriting Chinese, 39. 33. Ibid., 34–35; Kaske, Politics of Language, 114–23. 34. On the May Fourth critique, see Link, Mandarin Ducks, 59. 35. The most thorough, incisive, as well as textually and historically grounded work on shifting language registers in this period is by Ted Huters. I am greatly indebted to his writing and conversations with him in thinking about this issue. Huters, “Popular Literature” and “Legibility.” 36. Zhu Huizhen, “Duzhe julebu.” 37. The Lixue yibian was a thirty-page monthly that introduced Western science, political ideas, and literature, mostly from Japanese publications. Bao and his coeditors had hired a Japanese tutor from the consulate in Suzhou to teach them Japanese. CYL 1:166–67; Link, Mandarin Ducks, 100. The Suzhou baihua bao was founded in October 1901, one of a number of local vernacular journals. CYL 1:166–67; Link, Mandarin Ducks, 101. On these journals, see also Li Renyuan, “Xinshi chubanye yu zhishi fenzi,” 78–79. 38. Hu Shi’s famous essay “Wenxue gailiang quyi” [My humble opinion on literary reform], which has been conventionally understood as the piece that launched the baihua movement, was published in Xin qingnian 2, no. 5 (January 1917). See Fan, “Xiandai tongsu wenxue de wumian zhi wang,” 15. On Bao’s refutation that Chen Duxiu and Hu Shi had launched the vernacular movement in China, see CYL, cited in Fan, “Xiandai tongsu wenxue de wumian zhi wang,” 15. Bao pointed out that while Chen and Hu had promoted a literary revolution in 1917, their own essays were still written in wenyan. Bao, “Baihua wen zhi shi” [The beginning of baihua], published in Shanghai huabao in 1926, cited in Chen Jianhua, “Canon Formation,” 62–63.

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39. Bao founded Xiaoshuo huabao with Qian Binghe (1879–1944). Bao was in charge of text, Qian of images. Bao stipulated that all works published in the journal would be in baihua. 40. Bao Tianxiao, Xiaoshuo huabao (January 1917), quoted in Fan, “Xiandai tongsu wenxue de wumian zhi wang,” 15. 41. In a colophon for a painting by her husband, Wang Can (“Baimen beiqiuji”) describes how women’s feelings well up after they read new poetry. 42. “Tong Guang” is a misnomer, as the style was at its height in the reigns of Guangxu and Xuantong and in the early Republic rather than in the reigns of the Tongzhi and Guangxu emperors. Shengqing Wu, Modern Archaics, 25. 43. Chen Sanli and Chen Yan wrote prefaces to Zhang’s Baihua caotang shiji [Poems from the (White Flower Thatched Cottage)], published in 1935. Gao Mengbi, “Daningtang nianpu,” 541; Liu Feng, “Wan Qing,” 99. 44. The Southern Society was founded in 1909 with a clear political orientation. The majority of its members were also members of the Revolutionary Alliance, and its name was chosen to register opposition to the Northern Manchu government. At the same time, it was also a professional literary organization. On the refusal of Tong Guang poets to serve the Republic, see Shengqing Wu, Modern Archaics, 114. 45. Foreign investment in China—most of which was concentrated in Shanghai— nearly doubled between 1902 and 1914, while the number of foreign firms operating on Chinese soil increased tenfold between 1902 and 1921. The number of firms climbed from one thousand to ten thousand; Gerth, China Made, 43. 46. In 1933 Chinese represented 1,492,896 of 3,133,782 foreign concession residents. L. Lee, Shanghai Modern, 7–8. 47. Bao, “Bao Zhongxuan.” 48. Laing, Selling Happiness, 127; Chen Chaonan and Feng Yiyou, Lao guanggao (trans. Ding Shaohong and Li Shanshan, Old Advertisements, 25–26). 49. Wang Weifang, “Zhongguo shuicaihu de kaichuangzhe,” 58–59. 50. Zheng Yimei, Yihai yishao xubian, 43. 51. For some information on this text, see Laing, Selling Happiness, 103. Laing states the publisher was the Shanghai guoxue shushi, but no publisher is given on the undated copy of the text I have seen, which is held in the Shanghai Library. According to the cover of this text, it was given as a gift by the newspaper Da gonghe ribao (the Great Republican Daily), probably to subscribers. 52. Ding Song and Chen Diexian, Shanghai shizhuang tuyong. Libai liu was a fiction magazine published by Wang Dungen, creator of Shenbao’s renowned column Ziyou tan (Unfettered talk). 53. Some Chinese portaits of heroic female exemplars do depict women in action, but the most common visual trope is one of stillness. On the importance of not revealing the contours of the waist, see Xu Wuling, “Renti mei.” 54. On this phenomenon, see Harriet Evans, “Methodological Reflection.” 55. According to Zheng Zhenduo (1898–1958), this is how the famous translator Lin Shu (1852–1924) approached translation; cited in Fan, “Xiandai tongsu wenxue de wumian zhi wang,” 17–18. These practices were true of fiction authors as well as nonfiction. 56. Fan, “Xiandai tongsu wenxue de wumian zhi wang,” 11, 17.

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57. The novel, published by the Commercial Press in 1912, was based on a Japanese translation of Edmondo de Amici’s 1886 novel Heart. Just as Japanese translators adapted the novel to the local setting and customs, and changed the names of characters, so did Bao change names. Xiner was the name of his beloved son. Ibid., 17. 58. For example, an article on prostitution that appeared in Funü shibao in 1914 contains references to geisha (yiji) and Tokyo neighborhoods, including Yoshiwara (the red-light district of Toyko), even though it otherwise discusses the Chinese context. The “author” who uses the pen name Shuan is quite likely Wu Shuan, the acknowledged translator of another Funü shibao article from Japanese on hypnosis for childbirth. Wu Shuan, “Jinü duoluo zhi yuanyin”; Tsugawa, “Cuimian shousheng fa.” 59. Zhu Jingyan, “Jiating zhi zuzhi ji zhili fa (xu),” 30–31. 60. These Japanese journals include Jogaku sekai and Nihon shin fujin. 61. World of Women’s Learning was put out by the publishing giant Hakubunkan from January 1901 to June 1925. 62. On this process, see Howland, Translating the West. 63. The phenomenon of overseas study in Japan has already been well studied, particularly for the period up to the 1911 Revolution. See Sanetō Keishū, Chūgokujin Nihon ryūgaku shi zōho, and Huang Fu-ch’ing, Qingmo liu-Ri xuesheng (the latter has been translated by Katherine P. K. Whitaker as Chinese Students in Japan); also Harrell, Sowing the Seeds. On female students, see Judge, “Between Nei and Wai” and “Beyond Nationalism.” A less well documented reason for Japan’s role as a conduit rather than a source of new literature and new knowledge is that Japanese translations of Western works generally included more Chinese-based kanji, whereas works originally written in Japanese were more Japanese kana based. The translations were thus more accessible to potential Chinese translators, who often had weak Japanese. Link, Mandarin Ducks, 137. 64. When Bao returned, he wrote Kaocha Riben xinwen shulüe [Brief investigation of Japanese journalism], which does not appear to be extant. Fan, “Xiandai tongsu wenxue de wumian zhi wang,” 12. 65. Abe, “Fujin yundō jūgonen shi”; Hui, “Nüzi canzheng yundong.” The author, Abe Isoo, was a Waseda University professor, a Christian socialist, a parliamentarian, a pacifist, and a participant in various early socialist movements. 66. Sixty-three percent of the estimated 62 foreign books rendered into Chinese in 1911, the year Funü shibao was founded, were translated from Japanese. This number dropped to 45 percent in 1913 and 19 percent in the journal’s last year of publication, 1917. In the period from 1911 to 1927, approximately 24 percent of translated books were first published in Japan, 23 percent in England, 21 percent in the United States, 7 percent in France, 4 percent in Germany, and close to 6 percent in Russia. Wang Qisheng, “Minguo shiqi de Rishu Hanyi,” 47. 67. The Chinese author refers to the journal as Shin fujin zasshi, but as there is no journal I can find by this name, I am assuming the reference is to Shin fujin (Tokyo: Juseidō imprint, founded in 1911). Chen Ruilan, “Meiguo nü xuesheng,” 14. 68. These included the journals Fujo shinbun (Women’s News, 1900–23), Jogaku zasshi (Women’s Magazine, 1885–1904), and Fujin eisei zasshi (Magazine of Women’s Health, 1889– 1926). Other acknowledged sources included general interest magazines such as New Japan, launched in April of 1911; newspapers such as the Ōsaka mainichi shinbun [Osaka Daily News]; and serials including Ōshū sensō jikki [Veritable Account of the European War].

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69 The author who used the pen name Hui translated Abe Isoo’s article on women’s suffrage and the second installment of his five-part translation of Miyamoto Keisen’s Social Interactions between Men and Women in the West. Hui, “Nüzi canzheng yundong”; Miyamoto, “Xiyang nannü jiaoji fa,” FNSB 18 (November 1, 1915): 11–14. Whereas the suffrage article had just appeared in Japanese some four months earlier, the Miyamoto text was already close to a decade old. More importantly, the article and the installment offered vastly different perspectives. Whereas Abe considered suffrage vital to the expansion of women’s rights in the spheres of education, law, and economics, Miyamoto deemed marriage and motherhood to be a woman’s ultimate destiny. 70. At least two foreign biographies were published in issues 2 to 13, one in issue 15, and three in issue 20. For the specific women featured in these texts, see chapter 2. 71. On cooking, see Yingguo Kelaishi, “Xishi weisheng pengtiao fa.” Poems include Chen Bin, “Aiji” and “Napolun.” 72. Other categories of advertisements included those targeting general health (46 or 8.9 percent), promoting various services (such as dental work or the provision of cash for luxury goods, 24 or 4.6 percent), selling commodities such as beauty products (20 or 3.8 percent), and selling personal goods such as eyeglasses (18 or 3.4 percent). 73. From the beginning of newspaper advertising in China in the 1860s, pharmaceutical advertisements represented the most important genre of print advertisement after publishing ads. By the 1900s, the most prominent advertisers in the Chinese press—as in the Japanese press—were those selling patent medicines. Mittler, “Imagined Communities Divided,” 305; Burns, “Marketing Health,” 177. 74. These characteristics of advertisements would be shared by a late Qing handbill or an ad in Shenbao. J. Wu and L. Lien, “From Viewing to Reading,” 236, 261. 75. An advertisement published in FNSB quotes an actual female editor, “the editor of Fengtian’s Xingshi baihua bao [Time of Awakening Vernacular Journal] Ms. Xi Lu.” Ms. Xi’s father-in-law, Zhang Zhaolin, who speaks for her in the ad, was the actual founder of Xingshi baihua bao. The journal was founded in 1909. Evidence from later periodicals does suggest, however, that people’s names were used in advertisements without their permission. On readers of Liangyou [the Young Companion] complaining about this, see Baum, “Health by the Bottle,” 86. Carl Crow (1884–1945), who opened the first Western advertising agency in China in 1918, argued (Four Hundred Million Customers, 213) that the testimonials were authentic. Chinese advertisements, which had previously been endorsed by the scholarly or imperial elite, began to include testimonials from individuals who had actually used the product from as early as 1872. Mittler, “Imagined Communities Divided,” 285. 76. Xu Zhuodai, who contributed several pieces of fiction to FNSB, was the best writer of advertising copy for the “king” of native Chinese advertising, Huang Chujiu, manager of Great China-France Drugstores (Zhong-Fa da yaofang). Cochran, Chinese Medicine Men, 182 n. 51. Foreigners could not write copy that would effectively appeal to a Chinese audience; Sanger, Advertising Methods, 72. 77. Bao, “Wo yu yuanyang hudie pai.” 78. Fan, “Xiandai tongsu wenxue de wumian zhi wang,” 14. 79. Li Renyuan, “Xinshi chubanye yu zhishi fenzi,” 67. 80. Bao et al., Gongheguo jiaokeshu.

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81. Ibid. 82. Bao, “Bao Zhongxuan.” 83. These comments are appended to various poems in the section on “Shi,” FNSB 1 (June 11, 1911): 83–84. For Bao’s comments on biographies, see chapter 5. 84. See, for example, Chen Zuo Mingying, “Zhu lienü,” 78; Liu Minzhi, “Zhongguo zhi nü feixingjia,” 83; Cheng Yu Peifen, “Tuerqi zhi furen,” 72. 85. Zhang tried to follow in his mother’s footsteps but would repeatedly submit manuscripts and then withdraw them. Bao had no choice but to polish the incomplete drafts. Bao, “Wo yu yuanyang hudie pai,” 178–79. A number of fiction entries in Funü shibao appear under Zhang’s and Bao’s names. 86. BJS, FNSB 1 (June 11, 1911): 85. 87. Sun Jingxun comments on Zhu Huizhen’s biography “The Woman of Qishi” in his own biography of Lady Mao of Changshou, for example (Sun, “Changshou Mao Zhenlie fu zhuan,” 51); and Cheng Yu Peifen claims that she wrote her article on women in Turkey after being inspired by Zhang Zhaosi’s article on women in India in the previous issue of the journal (Cheng Yu Peifen, “Tuerqi zhi furen,” 72). 88. On details of these schools and Bao’s involvement in them, see chapter 5. Bao became the secretary of the Jiangsu Educational Association in 1908. Fan, “Xiandai tongsu wenxue de wumian zhi wang,” 12. 89. Link, “Interview,” 249. 90. Bao et al., Gongheguo jiaokeshu; Bao, Gaodeng xiaoxue xiaoxue shiyong nüzi shuhan wen and Zhongguo nüzi caifeng shougong jiaokeshu. 91. Bao, “Wo yu yuanyang hudie pai,” 178. 92. CYL, cited in Fan, “Xiandai tongsu wenxue de wumian zhi wang,” 18. 93. Bao, “Fakanci.” 94. BJSZTH, FNSB 18 (June 1916): 96. In a call for a new genre of submissions in the tanci (rhymed stories chanted to music) form, Bao reiterated these three fundamental responsibilities of the journal. The three are outlined in large, bold type. 95. Andrews, “Persuading with Pictures,” [4]. 96. Cover, FNSB 14 (July 15, 1914). The covers are discussed in detail in chapter 3. 97. Di, Pingdengge biji, 20b. Neither Di Baoxian’s biji nor Bao Tianxiao’s memoirs nor a search of Shibao from 1904 has yielded a precise date for the founding of the Minying Photography Studio. Given that Youzheng Book Company began publishing its bimonthly series of forty periodicals entitled Zhonghua minghua ji (Famous Chinese Paintings) in 1908, and that the studio was originally founded for this venture, it must have been established either that year or the preceding year. On the Zhonghua minghua ji series, see Vinograd, “Patrimonies in Press,” 251–55. Collotype printing uses photographic emulsion on a glass plate. 98. CYL 1:358. The practice of including copper plate illustrations in periodicals had started with an earlier fiction magazine, Liang Qichao’s Xin xiaoshuo (New Fiction), published in Yokohama in 1902. Jiang Sishuo, “Goujian xiandai nüxing de meijie shijue xingxiang,” 62. Fan Boqun (“Xiandai tongsu wenxue de wumian zhi wang,” 31) recognizes that including portraits of fashionable women was an important innovation. He credits Bao and another editor of the Fiction Eastern Times, Chen Leng, with the innovation. According to Bao, however, the idea was initially Di Baoxian’s.

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99. For more on the photographs in Bao’s editorial agenda, see chapter 3. 100. Courtesan images had appeared in print from the late 1890s. Jiang Sishuo, “Goujian xiandai nüxing de meijie shijue xingxiang,” 62. 101. On photographs as something beyond themselves that invite us to look more closely and probe more deeply, see Tucker with Campt, “Entwined Practices,” 1. 102. Two articles on the war appeared in issue 20, one by an Englishwoman entitled “Women of Portsmouth during the European War” and another on brave French women. On India, see Zhang Zhaosi, “Yindu nüzi fengsu tan.” 103. FNSB 11 (October 20, 1913): front matter; FNSB 10 (May 25, 1913): front matter. 104. Cai was a former student of Liang Qichao’s who studied military science in Japan and became a professional soldier. He led a military rebellion against Yuan Shikai from Yunnan and claimed several victories over Yuan’s forces. Zarrow, After Empire, 246. 105. Wu in FNSB 2 (July 26, 1911) and 5 (January 23, 1912): front matter; Tang in FNSB 16 (February 1, 1915): front matter. 106. Lin Zongsu, “Nüzi canzheng tongzhihui xuanyan shu”; Zhang Zhujun, “Lun zuzhi nüzi jundui.” An article on women’s suffrage most likely written by the leading suffragist Tang Qunying appears under the name Zhang Qunying; see Zhang Qunying, “Nüjie daibiao Zhang Qunying.” Chen Yuan, “Xianwuxiong Chen gong Boping xingzhuang.” Chen Boping was a fellow-traveler of Qiu Jin (1875–1907) and Xu Xilin (1873–1907). He was killed in the midst of Xu’s anti-Qing uprising in Anhui Province. Rankin, Early Chinese Revolutionaries, 180–84. Chen Yuan may be Chen Wanlan (1887–1817), who is mentioned in Hu Ying’s Tales of Translation, 179, as the sister of Chen Boping and author of a tanci on Madame Roland. 107. Gu and Wu’s January 27, 1911, marriage was an arranged marriage that Gu was too filial to resist. He was eighteen years old and still a middle school student at the time. Wu was allegedly four years Gu’s senior and barely literate. Gu attempted to instruct her in basic literacy while at the same time he followed the women’s suffrage and revolutionary army movements in the press with great interest. Zhuang Lan, “Gu Jiegang xiansheng de qian liangci hunyin,” 43–44. 108. Zhang was an executive member of the Nüzi junshi tuan (Women’s Military Association). She is mentioned in Gi Jiegang, “Funü yu geming,” 3. 109. On the storming of the parliament, see Strand, Unfinished Republic, 117–21, and L. Edwards, Gender, Politics, 79–83. 110. BJS, FNSB 6 (May 1, 1912): 88. 111. Bao et al., Gongheguo jiaokeshu, 17. 112. Gerth, China Made, 135. 113. BJSZTH, FNSB 18 (June 1916): 95. 114. BJSZTH, FNSB 19 (August 1916): 114. 115. BJSZTH, FNSB 20 (November 1916): 112. 116. Huisheng, “Funü daode zhi weichi lun,” 6. 117. Zhu Jingyan, “Jiating zhi zuzhi ji zhili fa,” FNSB 19 (August 1916): 24. 118. BJSZTH, FNSB 20 (November 1916): 112. 119. Zhang is discussed in detail in chapter 5. 120. On Lü Bicheng, see Fong, “Reconfiguring Time,” and Shengqing Wu, Modern Archaics, 267–332. On Wu and Tang Xiuhui, see chapter 6; on Tang Jianwo, see chapter 4.

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121. Qu and Hou are discussed in detail in chapter 4. 122. On Yun’s life, see Zhang Yu and Tie Feng, Yun Daiying zhuan; Zhao, Gujin jiajiao wencui, 263–64; Rahav, “Yun Daiying.” A prolific writer, he published at least forty articles and translations between 1915 and 1924. According to Shanghai tushuguan, Quanguo baokan suoyin, he published thirty articles between 1915 and 1924, while the Dacheng database lists forty articles over approximately the same period. Zhou Xuqi (“Yuedu yu shenghuo,” 186–87) lists articles Yun wrote specifically on women’s issues between 1916 and 1920. 123. Zhou contributed over thirty articles, stories, and biographies—many of them translations—to the first thirteen issues of FNSB. From Suzhou, he rose from poverty to become one of the key figures in the early Republican literary and translation scene. On Zhou, see Fan, “Zhou Shoujuan”; Chen Jianhua, “Zhou Shoujuan’s Love Stories”; Link, Mandarin Ducks, 257–58. 124. On the Literary Research Association, see Huters, “Popular Literature,” 4, 22. 125. The question of female readership is examined in chapter 2. 126. There is evidence in Yun’s diary that he purchased issues 17, 19, 20, and 21 of FNSB, but he seems to have read, if not purchased, it earlier. See Zhou Xuqi, “Yuedu yu shenghuo,” 188. Yun was a journal editor and the organizer of a mutual aid society (huzhu she), a communal bookstore, and numerous associations of young Wuhan activists. He joined the Communist Party in 1921 but did not physically leave Wuhan for Shanghai until 1923. Zhang Yu and Tie Feng, Yun Daiying zhuan; Zhao, Gujin jiajiao wencui, 263–64; Rahav, “Yun Daiying.” 127. These reading strategies have been developed in the context of an international collaborative project entitled “A New Approach to the Popular Press in China: Gender and Cultural Production, 1904–37,” funded by the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada (SSHRC) and the German Humboldt Foundation between 2008 and 2011. The project is now continuing in collaboration with Academia Sinica and with current funding from the Chiang Ching-kuo Foundation. The original inspiration for the horizontal method of reading is Hockx, Questions of Style, 118–57. This method of linked situated, integrated, and horizontal readings for multiple publications is greatly facilitated by the tools of the digital humanities. Our project includes the construction of a database (available at http://kjc-fs-cluster.kjc.uni-heidelberg.de/frauenzeitschriften/) that contains comprehensive data on four seminal gendered journals. For research results from the first phase of this periodicals project, see also Judge, Mittler, and Hockx, Space of Their Own. 128. For a concise description of this new type of cultural history that emphasizes the transmission rather than the content of ideas, see Grafton, “Jumping through the Computer Screen,” 95. 129. Burke, Eyewitnessing, 10. 130. Even the scholar of visual culture, Laikwan Pang, overlooks the richness of Funü shibao’s photographs. Pang (Distorting Mirror, 110) claims that “women’s magazines of the 1910s,” including FNSB, which she consults in her study, are “mainly composed of words, crude black and white illustrations, and a few photographs.” The recovery and cataloguing of images has been one of the primary tasks of the Womag Digital project. 131. Latham and Scholes, “Changing Profession,” 520. The recovery and cataloguing of advertisements has also been one of the primary tasks of the Womag Digital project.

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132. This preponderance of medical advertisements was true from the beginning of newspaper advertising in China. Mittler, “Imagined Communities Divided,” 305. Scholars who are currently mining this data include Huang Ko-wu, “Cong Shenbao,” “Guanggao yu kuaguo wenhua fanyi,” and “Medical Advertising”; and Mittler, “Imagined Communities Divided.” With the exception of Mittler, who has looked at advertising in the context of newspapers, much of the scholarship on ads to date has focused on them as discrete texts. 133. Sanger, Advertising Methods, 61. 134. On these journals, see Xia Xiaohong, Nüzi shijie wenxuan; N. Qian, “Mother Nü xuebao”; Judge, Precious Raft, 23–27 and passim. 135. According to the Handian, funü is an ancient “common term for mature women” that appears in the Li ji (Book of rites) and the Shi ji (Records of the Grand Historian). For a detailed analysis of the term in canonical Chinese texts from the ancient period and the sharp increase in its usage in the late imperial period, particularly in the Qing dynastic history, see Mou, “Jiegou ‘funü.’” For a critique of Mou that ignores the dynamism and nuances of the term funü in the early Republic, see Barlow, Question of Women, 37–63, specifically 39–41. While many comparable Japanese sources from which much of FNSB’s content was appropriated used the terms fujin (woman) or jo in their titles, as had earlier Chinese journals, the Japanese weekly Fujo shinbun (1900–1923) used the Japanese corollary compound for funü. There are many similarities between Fujo shinbun and Funü shibao: both targeted educated, middle-class readers, and both offered information on such topics as health reform, women’s education, daily life, suffrage, the protection of mothers, and the elimination of prostitution. See Fujo shinbun o yomu kai. On Fujo shinbun and health reform, see Terazawa, “Gender, Knowledge,” 296. 136. For a convenient chart tallying these titles from 1899 to 1937, see Mou Zhengyun, “Jiegou ‘funü,’” 136–37. 137. Xu Yongqing, who created half of the covers for FNSB, also created the first twelve covers for FNZZ. An article by Shen Weizhen on breast binding appeared in FNZZ in January and in FNSB in February 1915. Shen Weizhen, “Lun xiaobanbi yu nüzi tiyu” and “Lun xiaobanbi zhi hai yu nüzi tiyu.” Wang Jieliang, who wrote several articles for FNSB from its first issue, also wrote for ZHFNJ in 1915. Wang Jieliang, “Shanghai hunjia zhi lijie.” 138. For more on Shenzhou nübao, see chapter 5. 139. Link, Mandarin Ducks, 250–51; H. Lee, “All the Feelings,” 318. 140. On “Ziyou tan,” see H. Lee, “All the Feelings,” 318–19; L. Lee, “Incomplete Modernity,” 38–39. Leo Lee, in “Incomplete Modernity,” characterizes “Ziyou tan” as a pioneer of Chinese modernity eclipsed by May Fourth leaders. On Chen’s manuals, see Lean, “Proofreading Science.” 141. Journals and magazines in Japan and Europe also served this function; see Link, Mandarin Ducks, 21. On encyclopedias for everyday life in this period, see Judge, “Early Republican Information Regime”; Mittler, “China’s ‘New” Encyclopaedia”; Yeh, “Helping Our People.” 142. Shao admits in his introductory comments that his text, while adjusted to the particularities of the Chinese context, is largely based on Japanese sources, most directly the academic economist Soeda Juichi’s (1864–1929) work with the same title, Jitsuyō ikka keizai hō (Practical family economics, 1913).

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143. Shao Piaoping, Shiyong yijia jingji fa. A current mainland Chinese scholar identifies “immature elements” in Shao’s views of nation and women and his focus on the family. Guo Fenyang, Tiejian lashou, 46–47. 144. Shao Piaoping, Shiyong yijia jingji fa. Funü shibao and Eastern Miscellany shared both readers and writers. In an article on women’s work published in the February 1913 issue of FNSB, Xu Fuyan takes issue with an article that Qian Zhixiu (1883–1947) published in the Eastern Miscellany over a year and a half before. Xu Fuyan, “Nüzi zhiye wenti zhi shangque.” See Qian Zhixiu, “Nüzi zhiye wenti.” In a second article which appears almost a year later, Xu again refers to Qian’s article together with her own earlier article. Xu Fuyan, “Ningbo nüshi zhiye.” Yun Daiying, who wrote on family education for FNSB, also wrote for Eastern Miscellany on women’s issues. See Song Suhong, Nüxing meijie, 97. 145. In addition to the photographs reproduced here, other photographs reproduced directly from FNSB include a wedding portrait of Tang Shouyi, a truncated version of Xiong Xiling’s family portrait, and photographs of Kang Tongbi and Liang Qichao’s daughters. Gao Jianhua, Zhijia quanshu shang, vol. 1. 146. Huters, “Popular Literature,” 15; Chen Jianhua, Cong geming dao gonghe, 205–313. A number of Bao Tianxiao’s novels, including Konggu lan [Orchid in a quiet valley], and Meihua luo [Fallen plum blossoms], became sensations of the silver screen. Fan, “Xiandai tongsu wenxue de wumian zhi wang,”19. 147. See Quanguo xuetang yingxiang. Ads for this album appeared in FNSB issues 1, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 10, and 12. Ads for Zhandi zhaoxiang: Hankou dazhan zhenxiang [Photographs from the battlefield: The truth about the great war in Hankou] appeared in FNSB 5–12; Zhandi zhaoxiang: Nanjing dazhan zhenxiang [Photographs from the battlefield: The truth about the great war in Nanjing] appear in FNSB issues 6–12. 148. For more on these albums, see chapter 6. 149. A similar visual ambiguity was apparent in the Japanese periodical press. The December 10, 1895, special women writers’ issue of Bungei kurabu (Fine Arts Club) includes photographs of women writers that were almost identical in style to illustrations of geisha that decorated other issues of the journal. Copeland, Lost Leaves, 215–25. 150. Dai, “Shu suogan.” 151. “Tongsu jiaoyu zhi buzhu pin” [Supplementary materials for popular education], “Xuandeng yingbian” [Stereoscope slides (Chinese made)], in Bao, Gonghe guo xuanjiang shu, back matter. 152. Yin (“Youzhiyuan shiyan jiaoyu tan,” 14) recommends using pictures in the classroom, and Fanzhen (“Lun furen zhi dang wei,” 11) recommends using maps to teach not only geography but patriotism. 153. Gimpel, Lost Voices, 12. 154. Fan (Zhongguo xiandai tongsu wenxue shi, 583) makes this argument. 155. On the New Culture activists’ response to Yuan’s restoration attempt, see Zarrow, After Empire, 240–41. 156. Ted Huters (“Popular Literature,” 3) argues that the privileging of higher literature results from and contributes to fear of spontaneous mass movements that marked the outlook of the two major political parties, Communist and Nationalist, in the twentieth century. 157. “Kexue xiaoyan,” FNSB 12 (January 10, 1914).

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158. The Xin qingnian essay on female maids was the fourth in a series on labor conditions in Shanghai. It appeared in vol. 7, no. 6 (May 1920): 349–51. On Xin funü, see Bailey, “ ‘Othering’ the Other.” 159. On the lack of validity of the May Fourth critique of the classical language as it was used in early Republican texts, see Gunn, Rewriting Chinese,38–39. 160. CYL, cited in Fan, “Xiandai tongsu wenxue de wumian zhi wang,” 15. 161. Yao Pengtu, “Lun baihua xiaoshuo,” 135, quoted in Huters, “Popular Literature,” 9. 162. Gunn, Rewriting Chinese, 38–39. 163. Scholars who have worked to redeem this writing include Wei Shaochang and Fan Boqun; Western scholars who have rejected or seriously questioned the label itself include Ted Huters, Chen Jianhua, and Michel Hockx. 164. Song Suhong, Nüxing meijie, 49. 165. Wanxiu, “Shanghai pinnü shengya zhi diaocha,” 22–23. 166. Song Suhong, Nüxing meijie, 96. 2 . R E P U B L IC A N L A D I E S

1. On women as symbols of the new Republic, see Harrison, Making of the Republican Citizen, 24, 71–83. 2. These are, of course, all ideal types that historical women only partially fit into. For an insightful discussion of the differences between the New Woman and the Modern Girl in Japan, see Silverberg, “After the Grand Tour.” On China, see Stevens, “Figuring Modernity.” 3. On this May Fourth view, see, for example, X. Tang, Chinese Modern, 186–87. 4. Zhinü, “Shanghai funü shenghuo.” The author discusses the new educated women in the conclusion but does not fit them into his grid. 5. Publicness was a defining feature of the new Republic despite its many political flaws. New rituals were public and open, for example. Zarrow, After Empire, 216. 6. On the notion of the social as a proper field for the exercise of female goodness, see Riley, “Am I That Name?” 55. 7. Zarrow, After Empire, 241. 8. For more on the complex status of poetry in the journal, see chapter 5. 9. Wang Can, “Du Funü shibao.” 10. Ren, “Funü shibao shuaxin chuban tici.” 11. Zhu Huizhen, “Duzhe julebu.” Zhu wrote several pieces for FNSB, including a winning essay on women’s customs in Suzhou. 12. Qiu Wu Suying, “Ruhe er shou canzheng quan.” 13. Liu Jinghui, “Wuhu huahui.” 14. Bao, “Fakanci.” 15. BJSZTH, FNSB 18 (June 1916): 95. These women represented a demographic similar to that of the cainü or guixiu of the High Qing, whom Susan Mann has written about in her landmark study (Precious Records). Bao noted in the second issue that most shi submissions were from Yushan (in Changshu County, Jiangsu Province), a region Mann (Precious Records, 6) has identified as one of the most concentrated areas of female writers in the eighteenth century.

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16. “Qianceng woguan wuli.” Ms. Xi Lu was the editor of Fengtian’s Xingshi baihua bao (Time of Awakening Vernacular Journal). 17. Wanxiu, “Xianmu liangqi zhuyi yu jiuguo wenti,” 4; Jiang Renlan, “Funü yi yi jiande wei ben,” 11. 18. Shen Weizhen, “Lun xiaobanbi zhi hai yu nüzi tiyu,” 10. 19. See, for example, the advertisement for FNSB in Xin jinghong, n.p.; “Wushi zitong zhaoxiang fa”; “Fumeier nü jindan xinchu pin.” 20. “Wushi zitong zhaoxiang fa.” Advertisements for medicine also target older, menopausal women; see “Fumeier nü jindan xinchu pin.” This medicine also targets students. 21. On He, see Smith, Chinese Christians, 207. Wu is identified in T. Wu (America) as “LL.D. Late Chinese Minister to the United States of America, Spain, Peru, Mexico and Cuba; recently Minister of Foreign Affairs and Minister of Justice for the Provincial Government of the Republic of China, etc.” 22. On Zeng’s life and writing, see Hu Wenkai, Lidai funü zhuzuo kao, 484; Ho, Biographical Dictionary, 288–89; Judge, Precious Raft, 17, 63–64, 89–90, 126. 23. Zeng, “Zhongkui lu”; Swislocki, Culinary Nostalgia, 137. 24. We have no concrete figures on rates of women’s professionalization in the early Republic. Such figures do not become available until the 1930s. See Lien, “Searching.” 25. On Guangzhou as a primary center of Western medicine, see Johnson, Childbirth, 6–11. 26. Jian’e, “Furen yu jingji,” 3. It is unclear if the author is male or female. My guess would be male. See also Huisheng, “Nüzi yu guomin jingji fazhan,” on women and work in a global context. 27. On Tang Zaili, see Powell, Who’s Who in China, 708–9. Tang recorded that his wife accompanied him to a formal banquet held by the new Republican government to welcome Sun Yat-sen to Beijing in 1912. Tang Zaili, “Xinhai yihou de Yuan Shikai” [Yuan Shikai after 1911], in Beiyang junfa shiliao xuanji [Selected historical materials on the Beiyang warlords], ed. Du Chunhe et al. (Beijing: Zhongguo shehui kexue chubanshe, 1981), 1:87, cited in Harrison, Making of the Republican Citizen, 75, 91. 28. See, for example, “Shenzhou nüjie xiejishe zhangcheng.” 29. On the Su sisters and Zhang Zhaohan, together with other educators, see chapter 5. 30. “Wo rufa fu le Luowei yaofang de guben zigong wan.” 31. “Shengjia fengren nüxuexiao zhaosheng.” 32. Popular pictorials such as Tuhua ribao (1909) also contributed to the creation of this category. See Judge, “Culturally Contested Student Body” and Precious Raft, 72–81. 33. See also the cover of FNSB 2 (July 26, 1911). 34. “Wushi zitong zhaoxiang fa.” 35. “Xiangnan Lin Yingfei.” 36. See, for example, views of the female teacher Li Huizhu in Li Huizhu and Su Dafei, “Lüchuang qiongjü ji”; the male commentator Shanzai, “Funü tongxing zhi aiqing”; the Republican Lady Jiang Renlan, “Chi Bai Juyi.” These and other writings are discussed in detail in chapter 6. 37. In issue 18, Bao encouraged students who were too busy to write for Funü shibao during the school year to take advantage of the summer months to compose submissions. He also urged overseas female students to share their reflections. BJSZTH, FNSB 18 (June

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1916): 95–96. In the journal’s third issue he had asked students to send in musical scores to accompany their already submitted school song lyrics; BJS, FNSB 3 (September 22, 1911): 87. 38. Students from Shanghai who wrote for the journal included Shen Weizheng, Wang Jieliang, and Tan Zhixue. Those from Zhejiang included Tang Xiuhui, and from Hunan Zhang Yuanying. 39. Ironically, although Tang would become a renowned journalist she did not write in FNSB on the topics for which Bao credited her. 40. CYL, 2:65. 41. On the similarities between photographs of Republican Ladies and courtesans, see chapter 5. 42. Bao, “Fakanci.” 43. See, for example, Huisheng, “Funü daode zhi weichi lun” 6. 44. Jiaoxin, “Duiyu jinshi funü jie zhi zhenbian.” 45. Chen Zuo Mingying, “Zhu lienü.” 46. Zhang Zhaosi, “Zuzhi funü julebu zhi yijian,” 81. 47. Zhang Zhu Hanfen, “Lun Shanghai nüxuesheng zhi zhuangshu,” 12. 48. On these regulations, see Bickers and Wasserstrom, “Shanghai’s ‘Dogs and Chinese.’ ” 49. Zhu Jingyan, “Jiating zhi zuzhi ji zhili fa (xu)” FNSB 21 (April 1917): 42–43. In a section on spitting, Zhu describes receptacles for spitting in cars in the United States and Japan and records the amount of fines issued to those who spit in San Francisco ($5), on a tram in New York ($500), and in Paris, where a Qing diplomat was fined $100,000 for spitting outside a banquet hall. 50. BJSZTH, FNSB 19 (August 1916): 114; Zhang Zhaosi, “Yindu nüzi fengsu tan.” 51. Cheng Yu Peifen, “Tuerqi zhi furen.” 52. On the meanings of clothing in imperial China, see Ko, “Body as Attire,” 12. 53. Only a handful of Republican Ladies—usually overseas students in Japan—chose to be photographed in Japanese attire. Examples appear in FNSB issues 5, 10, and 12. 54. Chinese courtesans had adopted Western dress as a novelty from the late nineteenth century. 55. Dai, “Shu suogan.” 56. Chen Yiying, “Shuhan wen.” 57. On the national products movement, see Gerth, China Made. Arguments in favor of Chinese clothing were put forward by He Miaoling’s husband, the diplomat Wu Tingfang, who was a prominent member of the National Products Preservation Association (Zhonghua guohuo weichihui), the vanguard of the national products movement. Arguing for practicality over fashion, Wu claims Westerners suffer more illnesses because of clothing and that corsets contribute to the death rate among American women. T. Wu, America, 42–43. See also Gerth, China Made, 113–14. 58. Qingfen, “Duzhe julebu.” 59. Cheng Peiqing, “Anhui funü zhi zhiye,” 68; Zhang Zhu Hanfen, “Lun Shanghai nüxuesheng zhi zhuangshu,” 12. 60. Lin Fu, “Funü xinli xue”; Wu Shuan, “Jinü duoluo zhi yuanyin,” 21. 61. Zeng, “Zhongkui lu”; Zhiwei, “Yujia xialing zhi shipu.” 62. Fong, “Radicalizing Poetics.”

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63. BJS, FNSB 1 (June 11, 1911): 85; BJSZTH, FNSB 19 (August 1916): 114. This marked a break with previous journals. Nüzi shijie, for example, featured many poems by men either under true identities or under pseudonyms. See Fong, “Radicalizing Poetics.” 64. BJSZTH, FNSB 19 (August 1916): 114. 65. On Gu, see chapter 1, note 107. On Bi and Yang, see chapter 3. 66. Lu Shouzhen (“Yibing buyong yao lun,” 23) claims that after getting the endorsement of famous experts with whom she shared her findings, she “wrote her FNSB article for the broad public.” 67. Wanxiu, “Shanghai pinnü shengya zhi diaocha,” 26; Cheng Peiqing, “Anhui funü zhi zhiye.” 68. Wanxiu, “Shanghai pinnü shengya zhi diaocha,” 29–30, 27–28. 69. According to Wanxiu (“Shanghai pinnü shengya zhi diaocha,” 27–28), for example, female laborers could earn 200 wen for a basket of chicken feathers before the European war and 160 wen for a basket after. 70. Qin Huirong, “Jiading nüzi zhiye tan.” 71. Shanghai zhinan, juan 5, 11. Although this edition is from 1919, it would reflect prices close to those in Shanghai in the years FNSB was in print. 72. Chao, Autobiography, 113. Buwei Yang Chao (1889–1981) earned this salary as principal of Chongshi Girls’ School in Nanjing in 1912. Zhu Huizhen complained that in addition to fees for food, lodging, and tuition, students were expected to give as much as one hundred yuan toward the salary of the principal. Zhu Huizhen, “Duzhe julebu.” 73. Bao Tianxiao (CYL 1:324–25) enumerates his various earnings for editing and publishing fiction in the late Qing. While the going rate for fiction at the time was 1.5 to 2 yuan for one thousand characters, Commercial was willing to pay Bao 3 yuan for one thousand characters. This payment was later turned into shares, earning him 30 to 40 yuan a month. Li Renyuan, “Xinshi chubanye yu zhishi fenzi,” 54. 74. Doctors and lawyers earned significantly more than journalists, while government officials earned more than other professionals. X. Xu (Chinese Professionals, 57), though writing about a later period, estimates that the monthly salary in Shanghai in the 1920s and 1030s was between three hundred to three thousand yuan for doctors, three hundred and two thousand yuan for lawyers, and seventy to three hundred yuan for journalists. 75. Gao Kelan, “Jiangxi nüsu tan.” Rawski (Education, 140) estimated female literacy in the 1800s at 2 to 10 percent. 76. Gao Kelan, “Jiangxi nüsu tan,” 39. 77. Fanzhen, “Lun furen zhi dang wei,” 10–11. 78. Much more work needs to be done on the topic of literacy and female literacy in early twentieth-century China. I have arrived at the much higher gross estimate of 25 to 30 percent (compared to Rawski’s estimate, in Education, of an overall 2 to 10 percent for women) on the basis of the relatively high rates of male and female literacy in urban Jiangnan (on female literacy in this area, see Mann, Precious Records, 229–32), as high as 90 percent for men in the early nineteenth century (Li Bozhong, “Bagu zhi wai,” 8); on the reported 25 percent literacy rate of female immigrants to Hawai’i in 1896 (Rawski, Education, 7); and on the fact that Shanghai was the epicenter of formal and informal education for women in the early twentieth century. 79. CYL 1:362.

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80. Link argues that this readership would have included a portion of the 3 percent of new students in this period who were female, together with leisured women of wealthy households. At the same time, however, he estimates that the number of pieces actually written by women represented not even 20 or 30 percent of the journal. See Link, Mandarin Ducks, 250. 81. Guo Yanli, “Ershi shijichu nüxing zhenglun zuojia qunti de yansheng 20,” 92. 82. BJS, FNSB 7 (July 10, 1912): 83. 83. BJS, FNSB 9 (February 25, 1913). 84. BJSZTH, FNSB 18 (June 1916): 95. 85. BJS, FNSB 1 (June 11, 1911): 85. 86. BJS, FNSB 2 (July 26, 1911): 56. 87. BJS, FNSB 3 (September 22, 1911): 87. 88. Zhu Huizhen, “Duzhe julebu.” 89. Songyuan, “Duzhe julebu”; Fengzhu, “Duzhe julebu”; Qingfen, “Duzhe julebu.” 90. Qingfen, “Duzhe julebu.” 91. Gu Jiegang, “Duzhe julebu.” 92. BJS, FNSB 18 (June 1916): 95–96. 93. Issue 18 comprised seven entries and six pages; issue 19, four entries and seven pages; issue 20, four entries and seven pages; and issue 21, two entries and six pages. 94. See, for example, Hu Jingyi, “Nü duoshi.” 95. Hu Jingyi, “Beilei shang zhi xianfu”; Qiu Wu Suying, “Ruhe er shou canzheng quan”; Qiu Heng, “Hatong furen”; Qiu Wu Suying, “Meishu de fangzu fa”; Liu Jinghui, “Wuhu huahui”; Zhang Yonglian, “Jiaji furen zhi zhi shenghuo”; Cheng Yu Peifen, “Tuerqi zhi furen.” 96. Zhang Zhaosi, “Zuzhi funü julebu zhi yijian.” 97. Jiang Renlan, “Shuo nüzi canzheng zhi liyou,” 2. See also Jiang Renlan, “Nüzi zheng canzhengquan.” 98. Jiang Renlan, “Aibi ge.” 99. Wang Jieliang, “Meiguo nüzi zhi zhiye”; “Rugao luxing ji”; “Lun jinri jiyi chuangshe funü buzhu xueshu”; “Xiaoer baoyufa”; “Xiaoer jibing kanhu fa”; “Nüzi congjun xuanyan shu”; “Lixiang de jiating mofan”; “Lun chudeng jiaoyu.” 100. Wang Jieliang, “Shanghai hunjia zhi lijie.” 101. Wang Jieliang, “Xiaoer jibing,” reprint. 102. According to Henri Lefebvre, everyday life weighs heaviest on women, who embody repetitive time and the mindless, instinctual rhythms of biological life. See Felski, “Introduction,” 613. Lefebvre (Critique, 98–99) also identified the women’s press as the source that most “concretely embodied” the “preoccupations and aspirations of the most immediately practical kind of everyday life.” 103. Qiu Ping, “Chanfu zhi xinde ji shiyan tan”; Qu Jun, “Funü zhi weisheng yi ban,” “Furen zhi weisheng zahua,” and “Diaocha funü yuejing qi.” Qiu’s and Qu’s writings are analyzed in detail in chapter 4. 104. Bao Tianxiao describes having received a letter containing this criticism; BJS, FNSB 2 (July 26, 1911): 56. 105. Qu Jun, “Diaocha funü yuejing qi.” 106. See W. Lu, True to Her Word; Elvin, “Female Virtue.”

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107. See the introduction and several of the essays in Judge and Hu Ying, Beyond Exemplar Tales. 108. Hu Jingyi, “Beilei shang zhi xianfu,” 71–72. 109. Chen Zuo Mingying, “Zhu lienü.” 110. There were much more complex links between this evolving notion of hygiene and society than can be expressed through the notion of public health. Lei, “Moral Community,” 496. 111. Ibid., 480–81. 112. “Butian” could also refer to the heaven-repairing goddess Nüwa, who was something of a feminist icon in this period. Given the tenor and topic of the article, the Daoist reference is more apposite. 113. Song Butian, “Jiating weisheng lun.” 114. Mulan, “Jiating weisheng lun.” 115. On this new empiricism and emphasis on inductive learning in early Chinese encounters with the notion of modern Western science, see G. Shen, “Science in Translation.” 116. Wang Jieliang, “Lixiang de jiating mofan,” 4–5. 117. Yun, “Jiating jiaoyu lun” and “Jiating jiaoyu lun xu.” Both Wang and Yun’s essays are explored more fully in chapter 5; Yun’s essay is also discussed in chapter 3. 118. On Yun’s life and writings, see note 122 in chapter 1. 119. Zhao Zhongxin, Gujin jiajiao wencui, 288, 293. 120. Gao Kelan, “Jiangxi nüsu tan,” 37. 121. Ibid., 41. 122. Zhou Hongluo, “Wangguo shi zhi fenmao.” 123. See for example, Cheng Yu Peifen, “Tuerqi zhi furen”; Zhang Yonglian, “Jiaji furen zhi zhi shenghuo.” 124. Dai, “Shu suogan.” 125. Zhang Yonglian, “Jiaji furen zhi zhi shenghuo,” 84. 126. Cheng Yu Peifen, “Tuerqi zhi furen,” 72. 3 . EV E RY DAY E X P E R I E N C E

1. This emphasis on experience as a critical source of knowledge was part of a global trend from the late nineteenth century, finding full expression in the Chinese periodical press in the early twentieth century. On the rise of new scientism with an emphasis on observation versus book learning from the 1860s in the thought of Herbert Spencer (1820– 1903) and others in Britain, see, for example, Altick, English Common Reader, 162–63. Yan Fu, who translated Spencer’s work into Chinese, emphasized the importance of inductive reasoning from the late 1890s in China; see G. Shen, “Science in Translation,” 108. On the notion of experience versus scholarly learning in the medical community in this period, see Lei, “How Did Chinese Medicine Become Experiential,” especially 334–35. In his study of everyday life, Harootunian (History’s Disquiet, 1) claims that the terrain of experience that constitutes everyday life determines the conditions for all reflection. 2. Qian Huilan, “Zhu Funü shibao.” 3. The printed cover was a relatively late development both in China and in the West. In the West it seems to date from the early nineteenth century (Genette, Paratexts, 23). In

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China it developed in tandem with the shift from string-bound books to books with stapled or glued bindings. While early lithographed or typeset publications including the very late nineteenth-century pictorial Dianshizhai Pictorial had covers, these were generally variations of traditional calligraphed labels. It was not until the early twentieth century that covers to books and periodicals became more elaborate and Westernized, incorporating complex Victorian designs and even French or English words. Professional cover design was more fully developed in the 1920s. Andrews, “Commercial Art,” 184–89. 4. A number of late Qing and early Republican women’s journals, including Magazine of the New Chinese Woman and Shenzhou Women’s Journal, alternated between calligraphic and simple illustrated covers, for example. 5. Only some of both Xu’s and Shen’s covers are signed, but a close comparison of the styles of the covers suggests this division of labor. Zhu Boxiong and Chen Ruilin (Zhongguo xihua wushinian, 30) note that Xu specialized in covers and illustrations for several Shanghai magazines. 6. Andrews, “Commercial Art,” 190. 7. On this forgotten late imperial genre, see Cahill, “Paintings.” 8. Cover, FNSB 16 (February 1, 1915). 9. One example of this early encounter is a widely reproduced image of Wu Youru’s, drawn some twenty years before FNSB went to print. Zhang Yingjin (“Corporeality,” 125) describes the women in this image as uneasy and even anxious. 10. She is not supposed to be a lower-class woman, as she is described in exactly the same language as other cover girls in an advertisement for FNSB as a “fashionable lady.” Xin jinghong ying, n.p. 11. One paints in her studio with a Western clock on the wall (Cover, FNZZ 2 [February 1915]); another is dressed in a Western nurse’s uniform (Cover, FNZZ 9 [September 1915]). 12. The journal featured a painted fan by Jin Taotao in issue 1 and oil paintings by Zhang Mojun in issue 4, for example. On women artists featured in FNSB, see Sung, “Redefining Female Talents.” 13. On the FNZZ covers, see Andrews, “Persuading with Pictures.” 14. Names of contest winners would be announced in FNSB’s parent newspaper, Shibao. BJSZTH, FNSB 20 (November 1916): 112. On the compensation rate for FNSB essays, see Bao, “Benbao chengwen li.” 15. Huang was a politician associated with the charity painting society Yuyuan shuhua shanhui. 16. Bao, “Benbao chengwen li.” 17. Bao, Gaodeng xiaoxue shiyong nüzi shuhan wen. According to the advertisement for the textbook, it would teach women how to write more elegantly and would be an excellent alternative to the crude works for sale in bookstalls; FNSB 19 (August 1916): front matter. 18. On muji, see, for example, Qian Huilan, “Zhu Funü shibao” and “Taicang funü mixin tan.” On yueli see, for example, Jiang Renlan, “Shuo nüzi canzheng zhi liyou,” 1. On lilian, see, for example, Qing Meng, “Duiyu nüzi.” On guanjian suo ji, see, for example, Jiang Renlan, “Shuo nüzi canzheng zhi liyou,” 6; Mulan, “Jiating weisheng lun,” 12; Jiaoxin, “Guanyu nüzi zhi nongye,” 6. 19. The compound is not featured as a return graphic loan in either Masini, Formation, or L. Liu, Translingual Practice. Morohashi, Dai Kan-Wa jiten (3:1090) traces usage of

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jikkendan to the journal Kokumin [Citizen] in 1892, and to the 1893 preface to Matsubara Iwagorō’s (1866–1935) Saiankoku no Tōkyō [The darkest underside of Tokyo]. 20. According to Shanghai tushuguan, Quanguo baokan suoyin, approximately 128 articles with the term shiyantan in their titles were published in the Chinese periodical press between 1905 and 1946. Seventy-four of these appeared in medical journals, fourteen in women’s journals, and six in educational or youth journals. Bao himself used the term in discussions of medicine. In Xin shehui (Gonghe guo xuanjiang shu, 30), for example, he states that scholars of medicine in all countries “have had experience” (shiyan chulai) with the spread of tuberculosis. 21. BJSZTH, FNSB 19 (August 1916): 114. 22. BJS, FNSB 3 (September 22, 1911): 87. This is perhaps because a number of these other occupations, sericulture and cultivating bamboo, were celebrated in various forms of literature as noble female occupations. His preference for articles on raising chickens remains a conundrum. 23. Bao refused to print a submission on the early morning opium trade in Suzhou and forwarded it to an entertainment journal Huaji shibao (Comedy Times); BJS, FNSB 2 (July 26, 1911): 56. He made his comment about “lowly and obscene” works in the context of his announcement of the addition of a column of tanci (rhymed stories chanted to music) to the journal for the easy reading pleasure of women and children. BJSZTH, FNSB 18 (June 1916): 95. 24. BJS, FNSB 5 (January 23, 1912): 75. 25. On the claim that Bao’s focus was diversion, see Chen Jianhua, “Canon Formation,” 54. Chen is taking his lead here from Link’s argument in Mandarin Ducks (196–235) that the purpose of early Republican fiction was to comfort readers disoriented by Shanghai modernity. 26. BJS, FNSB 7 (July 10, 1912): 83. 27. “Xuanshang wen” [Essay contests], FNSB 3–5; 9–12; 7. 28. Wanxiu, “Shanghai pinnü shengya zhi diaocha.” 29. On social surveys in the late Qing, see Lam, Passion for Facts; Janet Chen, Guilty of Indigence, 32. 30. Zhiyan [Chen Duxiu], “Pinmin de kusheng” [The laments of poor people], Meizhou pinlun [Weekly Review] 19 (April 27, 1919), cited in Janet Chen, Guilty of Indigence, 46. 31. Bao, “Bao Zhongxuan nüshi aici.” 32. “Orchid in a Quiet Valley” was serialized in Shibao starting April 11, 1910. For its popularity, see Bao, CYL 1:96. East Lynne, a best-selling British novel from 1861 by Ellen Wood, is the story of a refined middle-class woman who leaves her husband for an aristocrat who impregnates and then abandons her. She returns to her husband’s household disguised as a governess. See X. Huang, “From East Lynne.” Bao’s translation was made into a film in 1926. 33. BJS, FNSB 18 (June 1916): 95. 34. In the Lienü zhuan (Biographies of women), which dates to 34 BCE but includes stories from centuries earlier, the “Honorable Woman” of Bao of Song becomes more filial to her parents-in-law when her husband takes a second wife (2.7), and in “The Two Obedient Wives of the Wei Clan,” a first wife wants to leave so her husband’s concubine can become his mistress (4.12). Zhang Jing, Lienü zhuan jinzhu jinyi.

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35. According to an article by Wanxiu (author of the survey of poor women’s occupations discussed in this chapter), when presented with a photograph of a beautiful woman, men would openly declare how attractive the woman was, while women, overcome with jealousy, would deliver abstract, negative judgments. Wanxiu, “Furen xinli zhi poujie.” 36. BJS, FNSB 18 (June 1916): 96. For the article, see Jin Yuanzhen, “Pohuai jiating xingfu zhi weixian dongwu.” 37. As Patrick Hanan (New Novel) has demonstrated, following the work of Huang Jinzhu in Taiwan and Yuan Jin in China, foreign missionaries were the first to introduce essay contests in the Chinese periodical press in the mid-1890s. Baum (“Health by the Bottle,” 76) describes an essay competition sponsored by the Shanghai Council on Health Education in 1925 on local health conditions and another (79) on “Old-Style” versus “Modern” medicine in 1926. 38. BJS, FNSB 2 (July 26, 1911): 56. 39. Zhu Huizhen, “Suzhou hunjia zhi fengsu,” 29. 40. The profound differences between the two essays—one apparently written by a male author, the other by a female—indicate the range of contributions to the journal and the spectrum of writings Bao Tianxiao considered worthy contributions to the discussion. These two articles are compared in chapter 2. 41. Jiaoxin, “Guanyu nüzi zhi nongye,” “Nüzi dang you putong yixue zhishi,” and “Duiyu jinshi funü jie zhi zhenbian.” 42. BJS, FNSB 1 (June 11, 1911): 85. 43. BJS, FNSB 9 (February 25, 1913): 92. 44. BJS, FNSB 18 (June 1916): 95. 45. For a discussion of this kind of daily journal, see Zhu Jingyan, “Jiating zhi zuzhi ji zhili fa (xu),” FNSB 20 (November 1916): 67–68. 46. In addition to diaries, these prose genres included personal notes (biji), essays (xiaopinwen), and xiaoshuo. L. Lee, “Foreword,” viii–ix. 47. On Bao’s criticism of banal daily accounts, see BJS, FNSB 19 (August 1916):, 114. On conceptions of the diary among May Fourth authors including Mao Dun (1896–1981) as well as Yü Daifu (1896–1945), see R. Chow, Woman and Chinese Modernity, 41, 93. An example is Yü Daifu’s famous Nine Diaries (Riji jiuzhong, 1927). 48. BJSZTH, FNSB 19 (August 1916): 114. 49. BJSZTH FNSB 20 (November 1916): 114. 50. Bao, “Benbao chengwen li.” 51. See, for example, BJS, FNSB 9 (February 25, 1913): 92; BJSZTH, FNSB 18 (June 1916): 95. 52. BJS, FNSB 5 (January 23, 1912): 75. 53. BJS, FNSB 6 (May 1, 1912): 88; BJS, FNSB 9 (February 25, 1913): 92. As Fan Boqun notes (Zhongguo xiandai tongsu wenxue shi, 587), as readers, we continue to harbor the desire to see what authors look like. 54. Cheng-hua Wang (“Going Public,” 152) makes a similar point in describing the rhetoric of “true likeness” in the publicity for photographs of the Empress Dowager Cixi. 55. BJS, FNSB 6 (May 1, 1912): 88. 56. BJS, FNSB 7 (July 10, 1912): 83. 57. BJSZTH, FNSB 20 (November 1916): 112. 58. BJS, FNSB 6 (May 1, 1912): 88.

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59. BJS FNSB 9 (February 25, 1913): 92. 60. BJSZTH, FNSB 18 (June 1916): 95. 61. CYL 1:362. 62. It is stipulated in the Liji that “inner words should not go out.” 63. Bo Rou, “Nannü liangxing ziyou shengchanfa zhi shiyan tan.” 64. Zhu Jingyan (FNSB 19 [August 1916]: 24) announces near the beginning of her three-part article: “Jingyan is a woman of the inner chambers.” This statement is supported by her descriptions and arguments that follow. 65. On the resonances between Yun’s essay and an essay by Wang Jieliang that was possibly its inspiration, see chapter 2. 66. BJSZTH, FNSB 19 (August 1916): 114. 67. Yun, “Jiating jiaoyu lun xu,” 3–5; Zhu Jingyan, “Jiating zhi zuzhi ji zhili fa,” FNSB 19 (August 1916): 30–31; “Jiating zhi zuzhi ji zhili fa (xu),” FNSB 20 (November 1916): 67. 68. Yun, “Jiating jiaoyu lun xu,” 3. 69. Zhu Jingyan, “Jiating zhi zuzhi ji zhili fa (xu),” FNSB 20 (November 1916): 67. 70. In the essay that was published in the journal Xuesheng zazhi (Student Magazine), Yun berated himself for being capable only of reading texts and not of managing practical matters. The article is cited in Zhang Yu and Tie Feng, Yun Daiying zhuan, 85. 71. Yun, “Jiating jiaoyu lun xu,” 2–3. 72. Zhu Jingyan, “Jiating zhi zuzhi ji zhili fa (xu),” FNSB 20 (November 1916): 67. 73. Wang Ling, “Lijing shi suibi.” 74. Ibid., 34. 75. Ibid. 76. Ibid., 34–35. 77. The Huajing was compiled by the late Ming/early Qing scholar of horticulture Chen Haozi (b. 1612). 78. Wang Ling, “Lijing shi suibi,” 36–37. 79. Ibid., 37. 80. Ibid. 81. Ibid., 38. 82. Jiang Renlan, “Shuo nüzi canzheng zhi liyou,” 1. 83. Ibid., 2. For a fuller discussion of this aspect of her argument, see chapter 2. 84. Ibid., 6. 85. Shen Wei, “Guanyu nüzi yu nongye.” For another article on women and agriculture, see Zhou Jingchu, “Furen yu nongye.” 86. Liu Xialing, “Feibi yi.” 87. Hu Jingyi, “Nü duoshi.” 88. Qian Huilan, “Taicang funü mixin tan.” 89. Zhu Huizhen, “Suzhou hunjia zhi fengsu.” 90. Xie Shuqiong, “Chen Juying zhi jueming shu.” 91. Jin Yuanzhen, “Pohuai jiating xingfu zhi weixian dongwu,” 7, 11. 92. One contributor was so moved by a speech on the relationship between women’s education and universal education that she went home, wrote it down, and sent it in to the journal. Mu, “Nüzi jiaoyu yu puji jiaoyu zhi guanxi.” 93. Zhang Zhaosi, “Zuzhi funü julebu zhi yijian,” 81.

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94. Ibid., 80. Two hundred and thirty-eight popular libraries existed in twenty-eight different provinces and municipalities in 1916. Bailey, Reform the People, 204–7. 95. Zhang Zhaosi, “Zuzhi funü julebu zhi yijian,” 81. 96. Zhu Jingyan, “Jiating zhi zuzhi ji zhili fa,” FNSB 19 (August 1916): 30–31. 97. See, for example, Xuezi, “Wujia zhi caizheng.” 98. BJSZTH, FNSB 20 (November 1916): 114. Suxia, “Wujia shinian lai zhi zhuangkuang.” 99. Suxia, “Wujia shinian lai zhi zhuangkuang,” 14. 100. Ibid., 15. 101. Ibid., 18. 102. She calculates the family income mostly in yuan, expenses in silver yuan (yinyuan) and cash (qian), and with the exception of tuition, expenses in qian (ibid.). On this currency complexity at the local level, see Notar, “Ties That Dissolve,” 134. 103. Suxia, “Wujia shinian lai zhi zhuangkuang,” 22. 104. Ibid., 21. 105. Song Suhong (Nüxing meijie, 96) literally misread Wanxiu’s intentions in publishing the survey. This misreading is part of her critique of the early Republican periodical  press for its alleged disregard for the working poor. On this misreading, see the Introduction. 106. Wanxiu, “Shanghai pinnü shengya zhi diaocha,” 22. Wanxiu’s figures are in accord with the 1915 census data, according to which the population of the International Settlement was 638,920 (“Tales of Old Shanghai”). 107. Wanxiu, “Shanghai pinnü shengya zhi diaocha,” 22–23. 108. Ibid. 109. Wages for women workers in various occupations were generally given in wen or cash, a small coin usually in copper or bronze. The wen was the standard for everyday transactions for lower classes, particularly outside the large cities. In theory one thousand cash equals one tael, one hundred wen equals one jiao, and ten jiao equals one yuan. 110. Wanxiu, “Shanghai pinnü shengya zhi diaocha,” 25. 111. Ibid., 30. 112. Ibid., 24–25. The story is called “Wuru” [Insult]; see Xu Zhuodai and Bao, “Wuru.” 113. Wanxiu, “Shanghai pinnü shengya zhi diaocha,” 30. 114. Ibid., 29. 115. Zhang Yonglian, “Jiaji furen zhi zhi shenghuo,” 86. 116. Zhinü, “Shanghai funü shenghuo,” 17. 117. Ibid., 17–18. 118. Ibid., 17. 119. Ibid. 120. Wang Jieliang, “Meiguo nüzi zhi zhiye,” “Rugao luxing ji,” “Lun jinri jiyi chuangshe funü buzhu xueshu,” “Xiaoer baoyufa,” “Xiaoer jibing kanhu fa,” “Nüzi congjun xuanyan shu,” “Lixiang de jiating mofan,” and “Lun chudeng jiaoyu.” 121. Zhang Mojun, “Fu Zhang Zhaohan nüshi zhi benshe shu.” 122. BJS, FNSB 2 (July 26, 1911): 56. 123. Shengqing Wu (Modern Archaics, 32) describes poets who chose to write classical poetry in the late Qing and Republic as choosing “rich ambiguous meaning, intellectual

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sophistication, lingering emotional power” over “concerns about comprehensibility and transparency.” 124. On the fate of classical poetry in the early twentieth century, see Kowallis, Subtle Revolution; Shengqing Wu, Modern Archaics. Quote from Kowallis, Subtle Revolution, 3. 125. On the late Qing critique of women’s poetry first expressed by Liang Qichao, see chapter 5. 126. The majority of the Nanshe’s members were also members of the Revolutionary Alliance. Hockx, Questions of Style, 35. 127. On Zhang’s involvement in the society, see Yang Tianshi and Wang Xuezhuang, Nanshe shi changbian, 24, 218, 220, 226, 354, 373, 445. Zheng Yimei, Nanshe congtan, 150, includes a biography of Zhang. See also Liu Feng, “Nanshe jinguo.” 128. Yang Tianshi and Wang Xuezhuang, Nanshe shi changbian, 309, 403. 129. Ibid., 367, 373, 445. 130. Qian Huilan, “Zhu Funü shibao.” 131. Wang Can, “Du Funü shibao yougan shuaicheng sijue.” 132. Ma Wenyun, “Du Chengcan nüshi Funü shibao.” 133. Ren, “Funü shibao shuaxin chuban tici.” 134. The literature on Qiu Jin is extensive. For a recent work that takes interpretations of Qiu to a new level, see Y. Hu, Burying Autumn. 135. Zhang reportedly had several encounters with Qiu Jin; see Gao Mengbi, “Daningtang nianpu,” 524–25. She allegedly financially supported Qiu Jin’s bomb-making activities; Chen Hongbi, “Guangfu shidai nüjie huodong shi, xu.” 136. Shengqing Wu (Modern Archaics, 282) notes that Lü was noticeably restrained in her response to Qiu Jin’s martyrdom, publishing one less-than-effusive shi while many authors of the period wrote commemorative elegies and articles. 137. While some of the women featured in Zhu’s account claim they have heard Qiu was “unrestrained and unruly” (tiaodang buqian), others defend her memory. Zhu Huizhen, “Qishi nü,” 23–24. 138. Chen Lianqing, “Qiu mu.” 139. Wang Shuzhen, “Diao Qiuniang mu erjue.” 140. Yinxue, “Shi ju.” 141. Shen Shuzhen, “Zhi Chishizi hui huizhang Zhang Zhujun nüshi shu.” 142. Shen Yao, “Song Zhu nüshi Guangshi congjun beifa xu.” 143. Tan Zhixue, “Xinhai.” Her discussion of the reclamation of Shanghai is in “Wen minjun guangfu mingsheng youzuo.” Other poems by Tan related to the Revolution include “Bingzhong,” “Diao qiyi zhu lieshi,” and “Gan shi.” 144. Jiang Renlan, “Shishi ganfen.” The Yishui beige reference is to the Shiji, “Cike liezhuan” (Biographies of assassins). 145. Tang Xiuhui, “Daoluo huaci.” The Twenty-One Demands, which included a wide range of economic and political concessions for Japan’s government and citizens in Fujian, Mongolia, and central and northern China, were sent in January 1915 and accepted by Yuan Shikai on May 25, 1915—over a year before her poem was published. It is highly likely either that she waited to submit the poem or that FNSB waited to publish it until after Yuan’s death two months before the poem appeared in print. A singing girl, Lü Zhu remained true to her

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beloved Shi Chong (249–300). She rejected the advances of the powerful general Sun Xiu by jumping from her tower. 146. Zhang Mojun, “Ziti meiren yima kanjian tu.” 147. Gui, “Mulan.” 148. Jiang Renlan, “Diaogu liuzhang.” Jiang also mentions Xi Shi (Spring and Autumn Period), who achieved great things with her beauty but refused to play politics; Biyü, a concubine of the Runan king of the Jin dynasty who felt she was raised above her station; and Guan Panpan (ca. 800), a chaste courtesan who remained true to Bai Juyi after he left her. 149. The other six are Hua Xin (157–231), Chen Lin (ca. 200), Lu Ji (261–303), Zhang Xue, Cai Yong (132–92), and Wang Wei (d. 552). Jiang Renlan, “Diaogu bazhang.” 150. Stephen Owen has characterized the function of Chinese poetry as creating community in the present and across time. Shengqing Wu, Modern Archaics, 37. 151. For details about the new education for women, see chapter 5. 152. For a focused analysis on such writings in Chinese Women and the Ladies’ Journal, see Hu Siao-chen, “Voices.” 153. Tang is discussed at length in chapter 6. 154. Tang Xiuhui, “Songbie jiangxike biye zhu tongxue xu” and “Zhejiang nüzi shifan xuexiao tongxulu xu.” 155. Tang Xiuhui, “Zhejiang nüzi shifan xuexiao tongxulu xu.” 156. Tang Xiuhui, “Shijiaoting ji.” 157. Zhang Mojun, “Ding si zhong xie Chen Hongbi.” 158. For an example of writing in the former mode in the journal’s first readers’ column, see Songyuan, “Duzhe julebu.” He describes women in Henan Province who had to be carried or had to walk with a supporting stick, and household maids who crawled up steps on their hands and knees. 159. Qiu Wu Suying, “Meishu de fangzu fa.” 4 . P U B L IC B O D I E S

1. On Tang, see Yu Chien-ming, Jindai huadong diqu de nüzi tiyu, 118. 2. Imported German or Japanese umbrellas were made of silk or cloth with metal ribs, while Chinese parasols were made from bamboo ribs on which paper was pasted and oiled. The first Chinese factory to make foreign-style umbrellas was founded in 1912. Gerth, China Made, 54. On umbrellas as a common prop for students, see also Xu Yawei, “Jinhou nüxue dang heru,” 86. 3. Tang Jianwo, “Nüzi xin youxi,” “[Jiating yundong] Shengticao,” “Shuo nüzi zhi ticao,” and “Furen bing ji tazhong jibing zhi yundong liaofa.” 4. Bao, “Bao Zhongxuan nüshi aici.” 5. Johnson (Childbirth, 127) attributes a “new vision of reproduction” in early twentiethcentury China to foreign medical missionaries, the Guomindang, and foreign philanthropists. She also (xxii) presents maternal and child care reform as part of a state-driven modernizing project. 6. On this persistent concern, see Leung, “Recent Trends,” 122; Yi-li Wu, Reproducing Women, 6.

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7. On the general inscription of the female body as inadequate, see Riley, “Am I That Name?” 105. Riley also (82) posits the impossibility of separating socio-political from physiological preoccupations when the subject is women. 8. BJS, FNSB 6 (May 1, 1912): 88. 9. Yang Chongrui, the founder of modern midwifery in China, estimated (“Midwifery,” 769) that 15 out of 1,000 birth mothers died in Beijing in the 1920s and 1930s, versus 3 in England and Wales, 5 in the United States, and 4 in Japan. In the same period, 250 to 300 out of 1,000 Chinese infants died, versus fewer than 80 in England and Wales, 87 in the United States, and 187 in Japan. Yang also estimated that in the late 1920s 270,000 birth mothers and 3,600,000 infants died each year in China. “Zhongguo fuying weisheng gongzuo zhi guoqu yu xianzai” [The past and present work of woman and infant health in China], Zhonghua yixue zazhi (1928), cited in Yao, Kindai Chūgoku no shussan to kokka shakai, 115. Numbers recorded in the journal Xin funü [New Woman] in 1937 were lower: 180,000 maternal deaths a year and 240,000 infant deaths. Zhou Chunyan, Nüti yu guozu, 348–49. 10. Nüzi chanke xuexiao diyijie biye jinian ce (Yearbook of first graduating class of the Women’s Obstretrical School) (1926), cited in Yao (Kindai Chūgoku no shussan to kokka shakai, 115). 11. Jiaoxin, “Nüzi dang you putong yixue zhishi,” 3. 12. On this schism, see Lei, “How Did Chinese Medicine Become Experiential” and Neither Donkey nor Horse. 13. See, for example, “Xue nai shen zhi bao.” On this process, see S. Lin, “ ‘Scientific’ Menstruation,” 296. 14. On amateur publishing on obstetrical issues in the Qing dynasty, see Yi-li Wu, Reproducing Women, 54–83. 15. Chanpoxue (literally “midwife studies”) was an early twentieth-century neologism that referred to Western-style obstetrics; see ibid., 307. 16. For an example of these other writings on public health, see Bao, Gonghe guo xuanjiang shu, 1:34, 2:26. 17. BJS, FNSB 2 (July 26, 1911): 56. 18. Bao, “Zuida de jinggao.” 19. BJS, FNSB 9 (February 25, 1913): 92. 20. There are also several science-based articles by authors I have not been able to identify. See, for example, Xiaoyun, “Nüzi fenmian hou zhi kanhu.” 21. For an example of an earlier translation, see Chen Yiyi, “Nülun,” which includes (68–69) a global chart similar to Qu Jun’s on menstruation in several countries. 22. FNZZ would run a series entitled “Sex Knowledge for Women” in the early 1920s, for example. S. Lin, “ ‘Scientific’ Menstruation,” 301–2. 23. Yao, Kindai Chūgoku no shussan to kokka shakai, 115, 118, 124, 129, 202, 203, 283. 24. Qu Jun was not the only individual associated with Funü shibao to found an obstetrical hospital. In Beijing, Jiang Kanghu established an Obstetrical Institute (Yao, Kindai Chūgoku no shussan to kokka shakai, 96), and He Miaoling established a hospital in Hong Kong. 25. This schema of “lower-, middle-, and upper-level” doctors was established by Sata Aihiko (1871–1950), the former head of Qu’s alma mater, Osaka Senior Medical School. Qu Jun, “Fu chuban yuanxu.”

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26. These schools include the Women’s Obstetrical School in Beijing and the Shengsheng Obstetrical School in Shanghai. Qu had students and disciples all over the country. Xia Shenchu, “Xu.” On the various institutions with which Qu was involved, see also Yao, Kindai Chūgoku no shussan to kokka shakai, 115, 118, 124, 129, 202, 203, 283. These teaching materials include Qu Jun, Chanke xue jiangyi. 27. Qu Jun, “Fu chuban yuanxu.” He compiled a series, for example, Yiyao congtan [Discussion on medical care and pharmaceuticals] (1934; reprint, Shanghai: Shengsheng yuanyi, 1935), which includes his own articles on such topics as the responsibility of midwives for bleeding from the infant’s umbilicus and for the death of birth mothers. 28. Qu Jun, “Fu chuban yuanxu.” 29. Wang Yugang and Qu Jun, “Shengsi guantou juben.” The play portrayed a family conflict between an older superstitious generation and a younger, scientifically inclined, and ultimately triumphant generation. Wang and Qu wrote the play to edify the general public and to serve as a guide for medical students faced with relatives and friends of patients who resisted the methods of modern midwifery. 30. Qu Jun, “Fu chuban yuanxu.” I am grateful to Yi-li Wu for pointing out the resonance of this phrase. 31. Qu Jun, “Furen zhi weisheng zahua,” 20. 32. Qu Jun, “Funü zhi weisheng yi ban,” 25. Terms related to cold—shangfeng, shouhan, fenghan, ganmao—that are commonly seen in Chinese medical texts cannot simply be translated as “chills” or “common cold.” They suggest the category of “cold damage” diseases attributed to pathological cold, which encompass a wide range of ailments from fatal febrile epidemics to upper respiratory distress. S. Lin, “ ‘Scientific’ Menstruation,” 304. On wind as a pathogenic agent in Chinese medicine, see Unschuld, Medicine in China, 70–73. 33. S. Lin “ ‘Scientific’ Menstruation,” 309. 34. Qu Jun, “Furen zhi weisheng zahua,” 26. 35. Xialing weisheng tan [Health in the summer] (Nanyang, 1915). Other works by Hou include Yibing weisheng shu [On the prevention of epidemics] (Shanghai: Wenming shuju, 1905), reprinted in Zhongguo guyi jishumu tiyao, ed. Wang Ruixiang (2009), Zhandi diyiji jiushang yaofa [(Necessary means) for first-level treatment of the wounded on the battlefield] (n.p.: Chinese Red Cross, 1911). These works are cited in Hou Youguang, “ ‘Wusi yundong,’ ” 27. 36. Hou Guangdi, “Pinxuezheng zhi yanjiu” and “Xiaochan zhi zhiliao.” 37. Hou Guangdi, “Yinger zhi baoyu fa.” 38. Terazawa, “Gender, Knowledge,” 16. 39. AnElissa Lucas, Chinese Medical Modernization: Comparative Policy Continuities, 1930s–1980s (New York: Praeger, 1982), 43, cited in Johnson, Childbirth, 77. 40. BJSZTH, FNSB 19 (August 1916): 114. 41. Aoyagi contributed to Women’s Magazine from 1893 and served as editor of the journal from 1903. He later published another women’s journal, Onna no sekai [Woman’s World]. His translated text on marriage is advertised in FNSB 19 (August 1916). 42. Aoyagi, Jissen mutsūan sanpō, 1–2, back matter. 43. These include H. Williams, Twilight Sleep; Boyd and Tracy, Painless Childbirth; and an article by Marguerite Tracy and Constance Leupp on the treatment that appeared in McClure’s Magazine in New York in 1914.

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44. Medical advertisements were integral to the periodical press from its inception in China in the 1870s, and ads for products that specifically treated irregular menses were prominent from at least the 1880s. Mittler, “Imagined Communities Divided,” 291. See chapter 2 for a breakdown of the various kinds of ads in the journal. 45. For ads targeting older gentlewomen, see “Cifu yu sishijiu suishi shen shen ruanruo”; for professional women, mostly teachers, see, for example, “Wo rufa fu le Luowei yaofang de guben zigong wan” and “Fumeier nü jindan xinchu pin”; for students, see “Xiangnan Lin Yingfei” and “Douanshi mizhi baoshen wan.” 46. Medicine had been an advertised luxury product in the late Qing before the era of the periodical press; see J. Wu and L. Lien, “From Viewing to Reading,” 257. Four days’ worth of the widely advertised Japanese medicine Chūjōtō Tsumura, for example, cost the same as an issue of FNSB and was the equivalent of two days of wages for labor picking tea leaves. Bottles of Chinese or Western patent medicines ranged from one yuan to one yuan, five jiao; a dozen bottles generally cost ten times that price. This would have been a significant investment for those earning just one yuan for five days of weaving hemp in Anhui (Cheng Peiqing, “Anhui funü zhi zhiye”), or a week of ripping tobacco leaves in Shanghai (Wanxiu, “Shanghai pinnü shengya zhi diaocha,” 27). It would, however, have been well within the means of urban professionals, who earned often well over one hundred yuan a month. On salaries, see chapter 1. Patent medicines were, however, cheaper than doctors: house calls in Shanghai by Chinese or Western-style doctors cost six or seven yuan in 1916, and visits to the doctor’s office cost one or two yuan, and this was before medicines were prescribed. Zhang Zhaosi, “Zuzhi funü julebu zhi yijian.” See also Baum, “Health by the Bottle,” 79. On the cost of Western-style doctors, who charged one yuan for an office visit, six yuan for a house call, see X. Xu, Chinese Professionals, 53. Xu bases this figures on medical advertisements in the press in the mid-1910s. 47. More difficult prose is used in “Douanshi yangsheng lingyao,” for example, while “Nüjiebao-funüjie zhong zhi zhibao ye” is more accessible. 48. “Nengzeng nujie jueda zhi xingfu,” “Suzhou Wang Jingzhen nü shi tongxin.” 49. See “Nongzhang xieji” on the birth of children; “Xiangnan Lin Yingfei” on strengthening the nation; “Fumeier nü jindan xinchu pin” on strengthening the race. 50. “Nengzeng nujie jueda zhi xingfu.” 51. “Douanshi yangsheng lingyao.” 52. “Xiangnan Lin Yingfei.” 53. “Qianceng woguan wuli” and “Nongzhang xieji.” See also “Funü men de lingyan pin” and “Fan yiceng quqi zhe qing wu yi cipian.” 54. “Ruanruo bingfu juemiao lingdan.” See also “Qianceng woguan wuli” and “Douanshi mizhi baoshen wan.” 55. “Tianjin mingfu.” 56. “Douanshi yangsheng lingyao.” 57. Cochran, “Marketing Medicine,” 63–64. On earlier pharmacies and their marketing strategies, see Unschuld, Medicine in China, 51–60. 58. Dr. Williams’ was the largest patent medicine manufacturer in the East. Imports of the product doubled while Funü shibao was in print, between 1912 and 1914. Baum, “Health by the Bottle,” 72, 91.

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59. “Zigong bingxue zhi daoyao” and “Zhongjiangtang.” Ogata studied in Germany from 1889. In 1893 he established a midwife training institute at his maternity hospital in Osaka. Terazawa, “State, Midwives,” 62, and “Gender, Knowledge,” 230. Together with Sakurai Ikujirô (1852–1915), he played a leading role in establishing the Department of Obstetrics at Tokyo University Medical School. Burns, “Marketing ‘Women’s Medicines,’ ” 160. Advertisements for the medicine even offered Chinese customers book gift certificates for a Chinese translation of one of Ogata’s texts. Readers could receive a free copy of the book by cutting out the certificate and mailing it to Chūjōtō’s distributor in Shanghai (“Zigong bingxue zhi daoyao”). 60. Huang Ko-wu, “Medical Advertising,” [13]; Cochran, Chinese Medicine Men, 71–73. In a chapter on public hygiene in his lectures on the new society in Shanghai, Bao explains that only the “prosperous” parts of China have water pipes and running water (zilai shui). Bao, Gonghe guo xuanjiang shu, 28. I am grateful to Yi-li Wu for highlighting this connection between “running blood” and running water. 61. Similar to many materials produced under the rubric of the National Products Movement, the medicine was produced using Chinese materials and Western methods. “Nujie zhuyi bao shouxian Yishoujiao.” 62. “Wo rufa fu le Luowei yaofang de guben zigong wan.” 63. Wanxiu, “Shanghai pinnü shengya zhi diaocha,” 27–28. 64. Cochran, “Transnational Origins,” 44. 65. This ailment appeared in almost all Dr. Williams’ ads through the 1930s. Baum, “Health by the Bottle,” 82. 66. These underlying assumptions were true of the classical androgynous model of the body and the post-Song notion of gender variation. On the importance of blood and qi, see Furth, Flourishing Yin, 19–59, 70–93, 151–54, 182–86; Yi-li Wu, Reproducing Women, 42–53, 228–32. 67. On the use of long-standing terms, see, for example, “Nongzhang xieji,” “Cifu yu sishijiu suishi shen shen ruanruo,” “Douanshi yangsheng lingyao.” On these various terms for menstruation and their historical provenance, see Zhou Chunyan, Nüti yu guozu, 112–13. 68. On older concepts, see, for example, “Nongzhang xieji.” On newer concepts, see “Xue nai shen zhi bao.” 69. “Nüjiebao.” 70. “Suzhou Wang Jingzhen nü shi tongxin.” 71. See, for example, “Qianceng woguan wuli.” 72. “Fan yiceng quqi zhe qing wu yi cipian” and “Chanhou shitiao.” See also “Funü men de lingyan pin.” 73. For a discussion of this process, see Lei, “How Did Chinese Medicine Become Experiential.” 74. Fanzhen, “Lun furen zhi dang wei,” 13. 75. Jiaoxin, “Nüzi dang you putong yixue zhishi,” 3–4. 76. Ibid., 5. 77. Qu Jun, “Funü zhi weisheng yi ban,” 26–27. 78. On the development of sanitary pads in the West and advertisements for them in FNZZ from 1928, see Zhou Chunyan, Nüti yu guozu, 115.

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79. These new methods, inspired by Western practices, were developed under the Meiji regime in Japan as the state allied with organized medicine to survey and regulate women’s bodies. Terazawa, “State, Midwives,” 71–72, and “Gender, Knowledge,” 9–10. 80. Terazawa, “State, Midwives,” 71–72, and “Gender, Knowledge,” 9–10. 81. Qu Jun, “Diaocha funü yuejing qi.” 82. Hou Guangdi, “Xiaochan zhi zhiliao,” 56. 83. Ibid. 84. Ye Feng (fl. 1715), whom Yi-li Wu has identified as the author of the Treatise on Easy Childbirth, argued that childbirth became difficult only through unnecessary human intervention. It should not be expedited through drugs, rituals, or manipulation on the part of doctors, midwives, or family members. On the Dasheng bian, see Yi-li Wu, Reproducing Women, 67–75. On its continued relevance in the early twentieth century and on Yang’s statement, see 68. 85. Jiaoxin, “Nüzi dang you putong yixue zhishi,” 4. 86. These women were also known as “three nuns and six old women.” The six old women were procuresses, marriage go-betweens, female villains, female quacks, witches, and midwives. C. Liu, “From san gu liu po,” 319. 87. Furth, Flourishing Yin, 268. 88. Zhinü, “Shanghai funü shenghuo,” 18. 89. BJS, FNSB 6 (May 1, 1912). Bao Tianxiao was far from unique in blaming traditional midwives’ inadequate techniques for causing the deaths of China’s mothers and infants. See Johnson, Childbirth, xxv. 90. Jiaoxin, “Nüzi dang you putong yixue zhishi,” 4. 91. FNSB was not alone in making these early appeals for changes in the field of women’s medicine. Two or three articles on this theme appeared in the early Republican periodical press every year, mostly in such medical journals as Yixue shijie (Medical World) but also in less specialized publications. Many of these articles focused on the need to train and license midwives. See, for example, “Qudi chanpo”; Juemin shi, “Zazu”; Chen Yao Xiping, “Zhongguo jinri yi yangcheng chanpo lun.” See also Zhou Chunyan, Nüti yu guozu, 300–301. 92. On the 1913 legislation outlawing midwives, see Johnson, Childbirth, 127. Johnson (159) cites Neizhengbu nianjian bainzuan weiyuanhui, ed., Neizheng nianjian (Yearbook of internal affairs) (Shanghai: Shangwu yinshuguan, 1936), 4:G206–11, a source I have not been able to locate, and Zhang Zaitong and Cheng Rijin, Minguo yiyao weisheng fagui xuanbian. The first regulations recorded in Zhang Zaitong and Cheng Rijin are, however, from the Nanjing decade. 93. Specialized and systematic midwifery training did not begin until the late 1920s in China; Johnson, Childbirth, xxxv. By 1937 traditional Chinese medical practitioners continued to attend 65 percent of patients; Johnson, Childbirth, 137. The Women’s Federation made the reform of old-style midwives a priority as early as the mid-1950s. Hershatter, Gender of Memory, 163. 94. According to the Hanyu da cidian, the term chanpo was used as early as the Song dynasty in China for “midwife.” Wenpo was, however, the common term for old-style midwives in the late imperial period and chanpo the term for new-style midwives. The term shin sanba was used to denote new-style midwives in Meiji Japan but was superseded by the term josanpu, which, having been introduced in 1906, was not accepted into common usage

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until after the Second World War; Terazawa, “State, Midwives,” 50, 78. A 1933 international comparative study of maternal mortality revealed that Chinese rates were the highest and that 69 percent of maternal deaths in China were the result of puerperal fever (chanrure), which resulted from unsanitary conditions at the time of childbirth and was associated with old-style midwives. This was twice as high as the number of deaths from puerperal fever in England (31.7 percent) and the United States (40.3 percent). Sixty-five percent of those who used old-style midwives died, while only 4 percent of those who used new-style midwives died. Zhou Chunyan, Nüti yu guozu, 347–48. According to Dr. John B. Grant, a member of the Rockefeller Foundation’s International Health Division and chairman of Peking University Medical College’s Department of Public Health, old-style midwives were the leading cause of maternal and infant death. In a 1,200-person village outside of Beijing, the 80 percent infant mortality rate (largely from tetanus neonatorum) over a ten-year period was due to the unclean habits of the single midwife in the village. Johnson, Childbirth, 81. From a survey conducted on babies born between July 1, 1929, and June 30, 1930, in Beiping, Marion Yang concluded that more preventable infant deaths were at the hands of old-style midwives; M. Yang and Yuan, “Report of an Investigation,” 597–604. 95. By 1915 there were eighteen thousand new midwives versus fourteen thousand old in Japan; Johnson, Childbirth, 16. There were also 135 midwife-training schools in 1915, 115 of them private; Terazawa, “State, Midwives,” 64, 69. 96. Qu Jun, “Furen zhi weisheng zahua,” 28. 97. Qiu Ping, “Chanfu zhi xinde ji shiyan tan,” 17. 98. Ibid., 19–20. 99. Mizuhara had translated the work of the German gynecologist Max Runge (1849– 1909). 100. Qiu Ping, “Chanfu zhi xinde ji shiyan tan,” 19–20. 101. Ibid., 17. 102. By the 1920s and 1930s, these practices were widespread. Terazawa, “State, Midwives,” 69. 103. Qiu Ping, “Chanfu zhi xinde ji shiyan tan,” 17–18. 104. Ibid., 18. 105. Xiaoyun, “Nüzi fenmian hou zhi kanhu,” 53. 106. Ibid. In 1867, Joseph Lister (1828–1912) championed the use of carbolic acid as an antiseptic, so that it became the first widely used antiseptic in surgery. 107. Ibid., 55. 108. Ibid.; 53, 55. 109. BJSZTH, FNSB 19 (August 1916): 114. 110. Qin Zong, “Wutong anchan fa”; Zhi and Qin, “Wutong anchan fa xu.” 111. Furth, Flourishing Yin, 142. 112. Qu Jun, “Funü zhi weisheng yi ban,” 25. 113. In his preface to Qu’s writings, Xia Shenchu (“Xu”) relays Qu’s views on the influence of ritual teachings on women’s behavior. 114. Other activities Qu Jun says menstruating women should avoid include sitting for a long time either when traveling or when doing handicrafts (“Funü zhi weisheng yi ban,” 26). 115. See, for example, “Ruanruo bingfu juemiao lingdan.”

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116. “Douanshi yangsheng lingyao.” On blocked menses, see Yi-li Wu, Reproducing Women, 85. 117. “Jia you juwan zhi fu.” See also “Zigong bingxue zhi daoyao.” 118. Qu Jun, “Diaocha funü yuejing qi.” There is no follow-up on the survey in Funü shibao or in any of the archival or secondary material I have found on Qu to date. This suggests that few women were willing to fill out the survey even with the assistance of their husbands. 119. Zhinü, “Shanghai funü shenghuo,” 17. On these three hundred extant works, see Yi-li Wu, Reproducing Women, 8–9. 120. Qu Jun, “Funü zhi weisheng yi ban,” 25. 121. “Funü bisheng sanjing nanqi.” 122. Xingyi, “Meiguo funü zatan,” 52. Xingyi published several other articles in FNSB related to the United States. 123. Wang Ling, “Lijing shi suibi,” 32–33. 124. Mulan, “Jiating weisheng lun,” 8; Fanzhen, “Lun furen zhi dang wei,” 13. 125. On understandings of tuberculosis in this period and later in the Republic, see Lei, “Habituating Individuality.” 126. Mulan, “Jiating weisheng lun,” 8; Fanzhen, “Lun furen zhi dang wei,” 13. 127. Tang Jianwo, “Shuo nüzi zhi ticao,” 7. 128. Tang Jianwo, “[Jiating yundong] Shengticao,” 71. 129. Tang Jianwo, “Furen bing ji tazhong jibing zhi yundong liaofa,” 75. 130. On Lu, see Z. Wang, Women, 145–86, mention of attending Tang’s school, the name of which Wang translates as the Chinese Women’s Gymnastics School, 149. 131. Qiu Ping, “Chanfu zhi xinde ji shiyan tan,” 17. The aphorism is attributed to the eminent Northern Song scholar-official Fan Zhongyan (989–1052); see Furth, Flourishing Yin, 63. 132. BJS, FNSB 2 (July 26, 1911): 56. See also Fengshi, “Nüzi yi zhuzhong yixue,” who advocates that women study medicine but specialize in obstetrics, gynecology, and pediatrics. 133. Jiaoxin, “Nüzi dang you putong yixue zhishi.” 134. Zhang Zhaosi, “Zuzhi funü julebu zhi yijian,” 82. Hu Cheng identifies Huang Qiongxian as a female doctor who trained in the United States (“Jianyi,” 85). 135. Zhang Zhaosi, “Zuzhi funü julebu zhi yijian,” 81–82. 136. Shen Weizhen, “Lun xiaobanbi zhi hai yu nüzi tiyu.” The article first appeared in FNZZ under a slightly different title one month earlier, “Lun xiaobanbi yu nüzi tiyu.” It is unclear, however, which article was submitted first. On earlier efforts to eliminate the practice in South China, see Chin, Bound to Emancipate, 78; on Guomindang efforts, see Finnane, Changing Clothes, 92–93. The Chinese preference for straight lines contrasted with contemporary European fashion, which accentuated curves by compressing the waist and allowing the bosom to protrude. 137. Shen Weizhen, “Lun xiaoban zhi hai yu nüzi tiyu,” 111. 138. Chinese views on the harm of breastfeeding date back to the ninth century. Yi-li Wu, Reproducing Women, 157. 139. Qiu Ping, “Chanfu zhi xinde ji shiyan tan,” 18. 140. The school was the Midwife Training Institute for Overseas Students attached to Osaka Higher Medical School (Liu-Ri Daban gaodeng yixuexiao fushu chanpo yangcheng suo); Qu Yao Yingnai, “Xiaoer yingyang fa,” 24.

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141. Japanese journals that advocated breastfeeding included Fujo shinbun, Jogaku zasshi, and Fujin eisei zasshi. Narita, “Mobilized from Within,” 262–63; Terazawa, “Gender, Knowledge,” 296. May Fourth–era social surveys that examined breastfeeding include one by sociologist Chen Heqin (1892–1982), in the wake of the New Culture movement. Glosser, Chinese Visions of Family, 73, 57. Yun Daiying (“Refutation,” 32) supported his views on breastfeeding with reference to the theories of Sara Josephine Baker (1873–1945), director of New York’s Division of Child Hygiene in the first decade of the twentieth century, when New York City achieved the lowest infant mortality rate of all large cities in the world. 142. Wang Jieliang, “Xiaoer baoyufa,” 36. 143. Qu Yao Yingnai, “Xiaoer yingyang fa,” 24. 144. Ibid., 25. 145. Ibid. 146. On the basis of very rough estimates deduced from an article that included economic data from the very late Qing and early Republic, fifteen liang would be the equivalent of 250 kilograms of oil (Suxia, “Wujia shinian lai zhi zhuangkuang,” 15), about one-third of annual school tuition (16). 147. Zhang Zhaosi, “Zuzhi funü julebu zhi yijian,” 81–82. 148. Fanzhen, “Lun furen zhi dang wei,” 13. 149. Qu Yao, “Xiaoer yingyang fa,” 24. 150. While wealthy families willingly paid more to ensure their children were well cared for, Wanxiu urges all families to increase their wet nurse’s wages for the benefit of her own children and grandchildren. Wanxiu, “Shanghai pinnü shengya zhi diaocha,” 30–31. 151. Two sources in the journal offer similar assessments of wet nurses’ wages. According to Xuezi (“Wujia zhi caizheng,” 80), a wet nurse (rumu) costs five yuan/month or sixty yuan per year, while female servants earn (nüyong) three yuan/month or thirty-six yuan per year. Wanxiu (“Shanghai pinnü shengya zhi diaocha,” 30–31) also estimates a wet nurse’s monthly wages at five or six yuan but states they can be as high as eight yuan if the women have white clear skin, a proper appearance, strong bodies, and ample milk. An indication of elite women’s priorities in early Republican Shanghai, even these higher paid wet nurses earned significantly less than itinerant hairdressers, who could net from two to five yuan to as much as thirty yuan per day. 152. Zhinü, “Shanghai funü shenghuo,” 17–18. 153. Sloan, Birth Day, 108 ff. 154. J. D. Norris, Advertising and the Transformation of American Society (New York: 1990), 49–50, cited in Mittler, “Imagined Communities Divided,” 356. Collier’s published the first of seven investigative reports on Dr. Williams’ Pink Pills in October 1905. Baum, “Health by the Bottle,” 71. 155. Baum, “Health by the Bottle,” 87. 5 . P R AC T IC A L TA L E N T

1. Beginning with the Great Exhibition in London in 1851, the era of world expositions continued through the early twentieth century. Approximately every two years between 1855 and 1914, goods from at least twenty countries were put on display at some meeting

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point on the globe, integrating local achievements in industry, arts, and agriculture into an international spectacle of human progress. Gerth, China Made, 206. 2. For a contemporary account of the exhibition in English, see “Nanyang Exhibition.” See also Gerth, China Made, 224. 3. Zarrow, After Empire, 220. 4. On this now well-researched topic, see Mann, Precious Records, 76–177. 5. The literature on the talent/virtue dichotomy is vast. For references and a discussion of its unfolding at the turn of the twentieth century, see Judge, “Talent” and Precious Raft, 85–106. 6. Bailey, Gender and Education, 84. 7. According to incomplete statistics, in 1907, when the Qing government officially sanctioned women’s education, there were 11,936 female students in 391 schools in China. By FNSB’s second year, 1912 to 1913, that number had increased almost twelvefold to 141,130 students. Over the following four years while FNSB was in print, the female student population rose again to 172,724 students in 1916 to 1917, and the number of girls’ schools rose from 2,389 in 1912–13 to 3,461 in 1916–17. There was new momentum after Yuan Shikai’s death in FNSB’s last year. By 1923, there would be 417,820 female students attending school These numbers are compiled from ibid., 84–85; Chinese National Association, “Bulletins on Chinese Education,” 6. On the distribution of girls’ schools by county, see Chinese National Association, “Bulletins on Chinese Education,” 7; by province, see Bailey, Gender and Education, 86–90. 8. The vast majority of secondary schools for girls were normal schools. By 1915 there were 96 normal schools for girls (7,904 students), versus 135 for boys (18,775 students). Bailey, Gender and Education, 89. 9. The first school for girls on Chinese soil was founded by missionaries in the early 1840s. The first Chinese school for girls was founded in 1898. On this early history, see Bailey, Gender and Education, 1–66. 10. On this connection between education and kinship, see Elman, Classicism, Politics; Mann, Precious Records, 58, 101–8. 11. May Fourth radicals represented the family as a site of unfeeling cruelty, inhumanity, and suffocating formality. See, for example, H. Lee, Revolution of the Heart, 249, 240. 12. Zhang spent much of 1918 studying at Columbia University and went on to investigate educational practices in France, Switzerland, Germany, and other European countries in 1919. In 1919 there were only sixty-three Chinese women studying in America in all fields. W. Ye, “ ‘Nü liuxuesheng,’ ” 343. On her involvement in education thereafter, see Gao Mengbi, “Daningtang nianpu,” 535. 13. For a more detailed examination of Zhang’s life, see Judge, “Fate.” 14. He Chenghui was the descendant of a cultured lineage from Hengyang, Hunan Province. Tan Yankai, “Xu,” 1a-1b. 15. The two juan of He Chenghui’s collected poetry are divided into guti or ancient-style poems in the pre–Tang dynasty style, and jinti or Tang and post-Tang “modern style poetry.” In his preface to the collection, Tan Yankai (“Xu,” 1b) praises He for resisting the recent poetic trends with which so many of her female contemporaries have become intoxicated and for instead continuing to trace her literary lineage back to the “eight dynasties.” The

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poems are included in He Chenghui, Yixiao tang shiji. The volume is included in the section on guixiu writings in the Fanshu ouji (Occasional records on the book trade), 1936 (1982 reprint). It is also included in Hu Wenkai, Lidai funü zhuzuo kao, 229. 16. She also allegedly knew six hundred characters by the age of three sui; Gao Mengbi, “Daningtang nianpu,” 517. 17. Zhang Mojun, Zhang Mojun xiansheng wenji. This volume includes approximately 602 shi and ci (poems), 16 commentaries, 14 lectures, 6 official documents, and 42 pieces of miscellaneous writings. 18. On Zhang Mojun’s training by practitioners of the Tong Guang style, see Liu Feng, “Wan Qing,” 99. On the Tong Guang style, see Kowallis, Subtle Revolution, 153–231; Shengqing Wu, Modern Archaics, 114–21 and passim. 19. Gao Mengbi, “Daningtang nianpu,” 521. 20. Zhang joined the Tongmenghui in 1906. At the time of the restoration of Suzhou in the fall of 1911, she helped found and edit a revolutionary journal, Da Han bao (Journal of the Greater Han). On this and other biographical details, see Gao Mengbi, “Daningtang nianpu,” 527–28. Liu Feng, “Shiji suidong li de nüxing weisuo,” 69. 21. He Chenghui, “Tianzu hui.” On this poem, see Fong, “Radicalizing Poetics.” 22. The Shenzhou Girls’ School trained over one thousand girls and women until it was destroyed by fire in 1927. On the founding of the school, see Gao Mengbi, “Daningtang nianpu,” 530. 23. On these schools, see Liu Feng, “Shiji suidong li de nüxing weisuo,” 68. 24. Gao Mengbi, “Daningtang nianpu,” 528. 25. Zhang Mojun, Xiankao Bochungong xinglüe. This volume is held in the Shanghai Library. 26. He Chenghui, Yixiao tang shiji. 27. CYL 1:331. The histories of these two schools, particularly Yang’s, have yet to be fully documented. The Wuben school seems to have been in operation through 1927 and the Chengdong school also into the 1920s. On Wuben, see Bailey, Gender and Education, 24–25. On the Chengdong school, see Andrews, “Art,” 327–36. Andrews cites sources that give the date for the establishment of the Chengdong school as 1904 and 1902. 28. Bailey, Gender and Education, 24. 29. In a recent book, Chen Xing (Youyi, 142) has clarified confusion in the sources concerning the birth order of the Yang daughters. In addition to the four daughters mentioned in the chapter, Yang Xuezhen (1907–1995) was the fourth daughter, and Yang Xueqiu (1915– 1997), too young to be included in the family portrait (which seems to have been taken around 1912), was the sixth. 30. On Xueqiong’s role at the Chongshi school, see the caption to figure 2.6. 31. Yang Xueyao was one of three women winners of a speech competition organized by the Worldwide Chinese Student Association under the Jiangsu Provincial Educational Association. On the contest, see Andrews, “Art,” 332. 32. Andrews, “Traditionalism,” 18–20, and “Art,” 335. 33. Bi, “Wanchun lou shihua,” 75. 34. Luo, “Minli nü zhongxuetang”; Tang Su Bennan, “Ciqin qishi jingxian yuege sizhang.” 35. Zhang Qiguang, “Gao nüshi Lingrong yugui songci.”

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36. Bao had tutored female students in his native Suzhou at the turn of the twentieth century and had served for two years as principal of a middle school in Qingzhou, Shandong Province. Li Renyuan, “Xinshi chubanye yu zhishi fenzi,” 54. 37. Fan, “Xiandai tongsu wenxue de wumian zhi wang,” 12. 38. CYL 1:326. Bao also taught at the Su sisters’ Minli school and a number of other schools, including the Shanghai nüzi cangye xuetang (Shanghai Girls’ Sericulture School), and the Aiguo nüxue (Patriotic Girls’ School). CYL 1:334–45. On Bao’s salary at this time, see Li Renyuan, “Xinshi chubanye yu zhishi fenzi,” 54. 39. Some versions of Bao’s Zhongguo nüzi caifeng shougong jiaokeshu list the Shanghai Chengdong nüxue tang as the editor. On Bao’s textbook editing activities, see the Introduction. 40. Su, “Chuantong yu shidai de duizhuang,” 56. 41. Bao, “Bao Zhongxuan nüshi,” 51–52. 42. In addition to the many articles written for FNSB by Chengdong graduate Wang Jieliang, numerous other articles and poems were written by Chengdong students. 43. Tuition was a considerable expense for elite but not particularly wealthy families. Suxia, “Wujia shinian lai zhi zhuangkuang,” 15. Tuition at Zhang Mojun’s Shenzhou School was calculated by half-year course: twelve yuan for Chinese or English; six yuan for politics and law; ten yuan for music, and eight yuan for drawing. Meals would cost twenty-three yuan for a full day, eleven yuan for just the afternoon. The dorm was three yuan and materials four yuan. As an indication of the social level of prospective students, rates were also included for servants to attend class or live in the dorm. “Shenzhou nüxue xiejishe zhangcheng,” 3–4. A tailoring school advertised in FNSB was less expensive. The sewing program would cost nine yuan for a full day for three months, twelve yuan for a half day, for six months. Embroidery would cost fifteen yuan for a full day for three months, and twenty yuan for a half day for six months; “Shengjia feng ren nü xue xiao zhao sheng.” Bao et al. (Gongheguo jiaokeshu Xin xiushen, 12–13) give the following figures in the guise of a report by someone who has sent his son to the city to study: one hundred yuan a year broken down as follows: half a year tuition over ten yuan, food several tens of yuan, dormitory also over ten yuan, special clothing for physical education ten yuan, and books several yuan. 44. See also Judge, “Culturally Contested Student Body” and Precious Raft, 72–81. 45. On enlightenment marriage ceremonies performed in schools, see Judge, Precious Raft, 73. 46. Chen Zuo Mingying, “Zhu lienü.” This essay is treated more fully in chapter 2. 47. Fei Baoyan, “Xu Renhui nüshi zhuanlue.” 48. Sun, “Changshou Mao Zhenlie fu zhuan,” 50–51. 49. On the importance of public speaking as a new feature of civic life in the Republic, see Strand, Unfinished Republic. 50. Reticence was one of the four women’s virtues emphasized in didactic texts for women such as Ban Zhao’s Lessons for Women. 51. Li Hui, “Shanghai jiyi zhizu nüzi qingnian hui.” 52. Fengzhu, “Duzhe julebu.” 53. Jin zhi Shangxin ren, “Beijing nüzi shifan,” FNSB 9 (February 25, 1913): 52. 54. Ibid., 56–57. 55. Ibid., 52.

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56. Jin zhi Shangxin ren, “Beijing nüzi shifan,” FNSB 11 (October 20, 1913): 67. 57. Jiaoxin, “Duiyu jinshi funü jie zhi zhenbian,” 4. 58. On the phenomenon of male sojourners who traveled to study or take up official posts in the past, often fell ill, and died far from home, see Mann, Talented Women. 59. Luan Haixiang, “Zhang Yue Xu Xiang xiao zhuan.” See also Tao Shu, “Tao Lian aici.” 60. Xin Zao, “Xiu Qin mu bei.” 61. Li Ruiyun, “Ji Shu Kang wen.” See also Gu Yu, “Diao Kang nüshi Shian.” 62. Luan, “Zhang Yue Xu Xiang xiao zhuan.” 63. Bao, “Bao Zhongxuan nüshi aici.” 64. “Xiangnan Lin Yingfei.” The qilu verse form consists of eight lines of seven syllables, with a strict pattern and rhyme scheme. 65. “Fumeier nü jindan xinchu pin.” Other medicines were also marketed as cures for exhausted teachers; see, for example, “Wo rufa fu le Luowei yaofang de guben zigong wan.” 66. “Douanshi mizhi baoshen wan.” 67. Liang Qichao, “Lun nüxue.” 68. On the criticism of woman of talent, see Hu Ying, Tales of Translation, 7–8; Judge, Precious Raft, 92–93. 69. Fan Boqun, “Xiandai tongsu wenxue de wumian zhi wang,” 12. 70. Bao, “Benbao chengwen li.” 71. Bao, “Wo yu zazhi jie,” 11. See also BJSZTH, FNSB 18 (June 1916): 95; BJS, FNSB 6 (May 1, 1912): 88; and BJS, FNSB 2 (July 26, 1911). 72. The exact language in Liang’s essay describes women of talent “toying with ditties on the wind and the moon, the flowers and the grass” (pifeng weiyue, tihua nongcao). Hu Ying, Tales of Translation, 7. Liang Qichao, “Lun nüxue,” 39. 73. Jiaoxin, “Nüzi dang you putong yixue zhishi,” 5; Huang Yanpei, “Fulu” and “Wendu.” 74. The late Qing journals Women’s World and Magazine of the New Chinese Woman all had Wenyuan columns, for example, as did women’s journals that succeeded FNSB, most notably FNZZ. 75. Bi, “Wanchun lou shihua,” 77; Zhou Shoujuan, “Lümiwu guan shihua fu cihua,” FNSB 5 (January 23, 1912): 69. On Lü Bicheng, see Shengqing Wu, Modern Archaics, 267–332. 76. Traditional Chinese poetry talks, which were popular with literati in the Song (960– 1278) and proliferated in the Qing, were anecdotal offerings of the writer’s subjective feelings about poems written by his friends or acquaintances. While they quoted exemplary couplets, they seldom discussed them at length. Fong, Herself an Author, 121, 142–43; Shengqing Wu, Modern Archaics, 237–38. Late imperial poets who were featured in poetry talks in FNSB included Sun Yunfeng (1764–1814), a prized student of Yuan Mei’s; the famous Wang Duan (1793–1838); and Buluo shanren (?1880). On Buluo shanren, see Hu Wenkai, Lidai funü zhuzuo kao, 527. 77. Wang Ling Bingjia, “Lijing shi suibi.” On Wang Ling’s jottings, see chapter 3. Zhou Shoujuan, “Lümiwu guan shihua fu cihua” and “Guixiu conghua”; Bi, “Wanchunlou ci hua,” FNSB 7 (July 10, 1912): 8. 78. Xiangye, “Lüshige shihua.” The pen name Xiangye, meaning “light yellow leaves,” was a term used in a Southern Dynasties poem by Wang Zengda (423–58). 79. Zhou Shoujuan, “Lümiwu guan shihua fu cihua,” FNSB 5 (January 23, 1912): 70.

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80. Zhou Shoujuan, “Guixiu conghua,” FNSB 9 (February 25, 1913): 38. Zhou also includes two allegedly posthumous poems by Qiu Jin, one mourning her mother. 81. Bi, “Wanchun lou shihua,” 76. 82. Jiang Renlan, “Lun funü zuixin xifa yi you jiezhi,” 15–16. Jiang does not cite Liang Qichao, but the reference to parasites is to the latter’s “Lun shengli fenli.” 83. “Nüzi zhi xuewen,” 30. 84. Li Zhurun, “Xuexiao zhi nüsheng burong yu jiating zhi liyou,” 1. 85. Zhang Yuanying, “Wu suo wang yu qiuxue shidai zhi nüzi,” 16. 86. Ibid., 14. 87. “Shengjia feng ren nü xue xiao zhao sheng.” 88. “Benhang fengyi ji.” 89. This advertisement appears in issue 13. 90. Yingguo Kelaishi, “Xishi weisheng pengtiao fa.” 91. Cheng Liqing, “Shifaxiao ji fangfu fangfa.” 92. Jin Kebo, “Jiating yinshi wu zhi fangfu fa.” 93. See chapters 2 and 3 for Wang and Yun’s views on household education and experience. 94. On conventional scholarly assessments of Ye’s career, see, for example, McDougall and Louie, Literature of China, 102. I am grateful to Michel Hockx for pointing me to this source and sharing his insights on constructions of Ye Shengtao’s pre–May Fourth career. An author and editor of children’s books and magazines, Ye was also a pioneer of the Chinese fairytale, where he most directly showed his knowledge of 1920s and 1930s thinking on child psychology. See Farquhar, Children’s Literature, 93–95, Hsia quote on 93. On his oeuvre, see Liu Zengren and Feng Guanglian, Ye Shengtao yanjiu ziliao. 95. Wang Jieliang, “Lixiang de jiating mofan,” 4–5. 96. Ye Shengtao, “Ertong zhi guannian.” Ye’s second article, which was published in FNSB’s next issue, was on the extravagance of wealthy women; see Ye Shengtao, “Lun guizu funü.” 97. Schneider, Keeping the Nation’s House, 81–110. 98. Zhang Mojun, Zhanhou zhi Ou Mei nüzi jiaoyu, 32–34. 99. On these figures concerning the exhibition, see Gerth, China Made, 224. 100. On Zhang’s inclusion in the exhibition, see Sung, “Redefining Female Talents.” For a near-contemporary review, see Wu Bonian, “Yanjiu tuhua yijian.” I am indebted to Doris Sung for the sources on Zhang’s participation in Nanyang. 101. Shen Weizheng, “Ji canguan Shanghai xiaoxue chengji zhanlan hui.” The schools in the exhibition include Pudong xiaoxue (Pudong Elementary School), Gaochang xiaoxue (Gaochang Elementary School), Dier shifan fushu xiaoxue (Elementary School Attached to Number Two Normal School), Wuben nüxue, Wanzhu xiaoxue (Wanzhu Elementary School), and Shihua xiaoxue (Shihua Elementary School). 102. Ibid., 14–15. 103. Ibid., 15. 104. Ibid. 105. Ibid., 14–15. 106. Ibid. 107. On the vitality of Zhang Garden as a public space in the late Qing, see Xiong, “Zhang Yuan.”

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6 . L I M I NA L SE X UA L I T I E S

1. This tension is apparent in responses to heightened social and sexual fluidity during the Song dynasty (960–1279). As courtesans were increasingly elevated to the status of concubines, and as concubines were more widely viewed as respectable inner helpers, the instruments of orthodox gender ideology depicted formal wives as ever more virtuous. See Bossler, Courtesans, Concubine. 2. According to Susan Mann (Gender and Sexuality, xvii), “The movement of women toward work and study outside the home after 1900 was the most significant and sweeping change in China’s sex-gender system in centuries.” 3. On the role of the material practice of photography in the discipline of history, see E. Edwards, “Photography,” 150. 4. Batchen, “Seeing and Saying,” 33. 5. Perry Link (Mandarin Ducks, 146) claims FNSB was really about sex and that the “pictures of women from the entertainment quarter which adorned [this magazine] are further evidence of [its] purpose.” 6. Jiang Sishuo, “Goujian xiandai nüxing de meijie shijue xingxiang,” 62. On courtesans getting themselves photographed in Zhang Garden and Li Boyuan’s collection of these photographs, see Ge Tao, Zhaoxiang yu Qingmo Minchu Shanghai shehui shenghuo, 58. 7. CYL 1:358. 8. These were not the only courtesan albums circulating in this period. Others that are not mentioned in FNSB (but that appear to have some overlap with the Youzheng shuju publications) include Qi Xia and Dan Ru, ed., Haishang hua yinglu [A photographic record of Shanghai flowers], 2 vols. (Shanghai: Xin Zhonghua tushuguan [Commercial Press, by commission], 1915), unpaginated. On this and other albums, see Hershatter, Dangerous Pleasures, 22. 9. A librarian’s tag at the Shanghai Library dates Yanlian huaying to March of 1911. Advertisements for the albums suggest that Haishang jinghong ying preceded Yanlian huaying. The texts were certainly reprinted. Catherine Yeh (Shanghai Love, 67) gives 1913 as the date of publication for Haishang jinghong ying, but FNSB included advertisements for the album from 1911. 10. See chapter 3. 11. CYL, 1:378. 12. According to Yeh (Shanghai Love, 356 n. 154), the first mention of courtesans and photography appears in Ge Yuanxu, Huyou jilüe [Miscellaneous notes on visiting Shanghai], 2 vols. (1876; repr., Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 1989). 13. The studio was situated across from the racetrack at the intersection of Western Nanjing Road and Damalu nichengqiao (today’s Tibet Road). CYL, 1:360. On the “space of prostitution” in this section of Shanghai, see Henriot, Prostitution and Sexuality, 201–25. See the map on 213 for an approximation of the studio location. 14. The first advertisement for the Minying studio appears in FNSB in May 1912. 15. “Dao Minying zhaoxiang,” FNSB 16 (February 1, 1915) and FNSB 17 (November 1, 1915). The second advertisement did not include the image. An even simpler advertisement appeared in FNSB 14 (July 15, 1914). 16. On the Yaohua studio, see Catherine Yeh, Shanghai Love, 87–89.

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17. “Nüzi zhaoxiang.” 18. The advertisements for the Minying studio noted that it was negotiable whether photographs would remain in the studio. “Dao Minying zhaoxiang.” 19. On this practice of exchanging prenuptial photographs in Shanghai, see Zhu Huizhen, “Suzhou hunjia zhi fengsu,” 30. 20. Liangyou. 21. Li Huizhu and Su Daofei, “Lüchuang qiongjü ji,” 55. 22. Shanzai, “Funü tongxing zhi aiqing.” 23. Jiang Renlan, “Chi Bai Juyi liyan zhi miu.” Jiang’s essay is a critique of the famous poet Bai Juyi’s (772–846) celebration of Yang in his poem “Changhen ge” [Song of everlasting regret]. 24. Zhang Zhu Hanfen, “Lun nüzi zhi dingli.” 25. One album of student photographs published sometime after 1909 is Quanguo xuetang yingxiang. Only four of FNSB’s twenty-one issues did not include class photographs (issues 7, 9, 10, and 12). Class photographs were included in early Chinese women’s magazines such as the 1904–7 Women’s World and Magazine of the New Chinese Woman. These early photographs were often of overseas students in Japan, suggesting that this was where the practice of taking school photographs originated. 26. For images from the album, see Quanguo xuetang yingxiang. 27. A 1910 illustration from Tuhua ribao (Illustrated Daily) depicts a street vendor hawking photographs of famous prostitutes. The caption mentions that such photographs are “available everywhere” and that photographs of the Four Diamonds—a particularly popular quartet of courtesans in the late Qing—are the most popular item. “Mai zhaopian.” See also Cheng-hua Wang, “ ‘Going Public,’ ” 156. 28. Advertisements for Photographs of Shanghai Graces and Photographs of Beauties from the Flower World are printed in the backmatter of issues 1 and 3 through 14 of FNSB, under the special heading for photographs, “Zhaoxiang lei,” within an advertisement for various art prints published by Youzheng Bookstore. The ads list the names of the women included in the albums. 29. New Photographs of Graces is advertised in issues 15 and 16 of FNSB. All advertisements for courtesan albums appear to stop after this date. 30. These advertisements are included in the back matter to the journal; see, for example, FNSB 5 (January 23, 1912). 31. The prices of the albums are given in the advertisements in FNSB, as are the prices of textbooks. Laborers’ salaries (for women) are recorded in Wanxiu, “Shanghai pinnü shengya zhi diaocha.” The payment for a FNSB article is included in Bao, “Benbao chengwen li.” 32. On numbers of courtesans in the mid- to late nineteenth century, see Henriot, “Chinese Courtesans,” 38. 33. On this narrative, see Hershatter, Dangerous Pleasures; Henriot, Prostitution and Sexuality. 34. On the negative effects of commercialization, see Henriot, “Chinese Courtesans,” 42. 35. On women voyeuristically reading images of courtesans, Malek Alloula claims portraits of Algerian harems captivated mothers, wives, and sisters as well as men; Mitchell, Picture Theory, 310. On the notion of the “look book,” Ellen Widmer similarly argues that

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late Qing women read courtesan sketches in pursuit of the latest fashions in clothing and jewelry. Widmer, Fiction’s Family, 14. 36. For one example of this image switching, see Judge, “Exemplary Time,” 109–10. For an influential collection of beauties, see Yan, Baimei xin yongtu zhuan. Catherine Yeh (“Creating the Urban Beauty,” 440) asserts that illustrated courtesan albums were known under the rubric of baimeitu. 37. Gerth (China Made, 50) argues that the period in which FNSB was published—the decade surrounding 1911—saw a transformation in physical appearance rivaled only by the decades following the communist victory in 1949 and the post–Cultural Revolution era from 1978. On changes in male attire, see Harrist, “Clothes Make the Man.” 38. See Ko, “Body as Attire”; Gerth, China Made, 74. 39. Dai, “Shu suogan.” Dai refers not only to clothing but also to food choices. 40. This trend began in the late Qing dynasty; see Yeh, Shanghai Love, 54–60. 41. Chen Zhensu, “Jiuji Suzhou nüzi zhi duoluo.” 42. Dai, for example, claims that guixiu also dressed outlandishly (“Shu suogan”). 43. Wu Shuan, “Jinü duoluo zhi yuanyin,” 21. 44. Jiang Renlan, “Lun funü zuixin xifa yi you jiezhi,” 16. 45. Zhang Zhu Hanfen, “Lun Shanghai nüxuesheng,” 12. 46. The question of how images encode and how viewers recognize distinctions of genre, class status, and role among portrayals of women is one James Cahill (“Meiren”) has probingly asked of paintings. 47. Cheng-hua Wang (“ ‘Going Public,’ ” 144–45) observes in her comparison of a courtesan album to photographs of the Empress Dowager Cixi that none of the images in the album display the symmetrical composition, multilayered frames, regal posture of the sitter, and decorative details that characterize Cixi’s photographs; but there are a number of courtesan composite images that are symmetrically arranged in the albums I have consulted. 48. These types of courtesans were similar to the Chinese types of people whose pictures were taken by foreign photographers in China. Cheng-hua Wang, “ ‘Going Public,’ ” 144–45. 49. CYL, 1:187. 50. Yanlian huaying, n.p. [44]. 51. Zhang Zhu Hanfen, “Lun Shanghai nüxuesheng,” 12. On visual representations of these early Republican fashions, see Laing, “Visual Evidence.” 52. Xu Wuling, “Renti mei,” 8–10. 53. Dai, “Shu suogan.” 54. Playing with gender boundaries was a central feature of the Chinese dramatic arts. Mann, Gender and Sexuality, 117. 55. Cheng Peiqing was the author of an article on women’s occupations in Anhui in FNSB 5 (“Anhui funü zhi zhiye”). 56. Hershatter, Dangerous Pleasures, 81. On bergamot as a flower with sexual implications, see Peng, “Lingering,” 169. 57. Shen Weizhen, “Lun xiaobanbi zhi hai yu nüzi tiyu,” 10. 58. This teaching is articulated in the Nüer jing [Classics for daughters], a popular textbook for woman’s education from the sixteenth through the early twentieth century (cited in Peng, “Lingering,” 168).

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59. On courtesans and bicycles in the late Qing, see Zamperini, “But I Never Learned,” 121–23. 60. Mann, Gender and Sexuality, 117. 61. The suffrage leader Tang Qunying was photographed with a pile of books, for example (see cover image of Strand, Unfinished Republic). Articles in FNSB also equated books with women’s moral seriousness. See, for example, Xu Yibing, “Lixiang zhong zhi xin jiating,” 33. 62. On the shuyu, see Hershatter, Dangerous Pleasures, 42–43; Henriot, “Chinese Courtesans,” 36; Yeh, Shanghai Love, 100. Henriot notes that when prostitution was permitted again in 1925 after a brief period of prohibition, the Shanghai Municipal Council used the term shuyu to make the profession appear more respectable. 63. On this masking of public contempt through the idealization of the flower world, see Henriot, “Chinese Courtesans,” 52. 64. These terms are used in the following articles respectively: Xu Wuling, “Renti mei,” 9; Li Huizhu and Su Daofei, “Lüchuang qiongjü ji,” 55; Shao Yi, “Lun changji zhi you baihai er wu yili,” 7; Qu Hongxiang, “Xin jujie,” 2; Gu Li, “Wuren zhi aiqing,” 47. 65. Jin Yuanzhen, “Pohuai jiating xingfu zhi weixian dongwu,” 8; Wu Ruoan, “Minzu zhi xiangshang yixing yu zhi jie zhi er de.” 66. The literature on chastity is vast. See Elvin, “Female Virtue”; W. Lu, True to Her Word; Judge, Precious Raft, 29–59. 67. Lin Fu, “Funü xin li xue.” 68. A common theme in literature of the period was that marriage needed to be founded on love but that husband and wife also needed to abide by the rules of propriety so they would not fall into the “abyss of lust.” H. Lee, “All the Feelings,” 308. 69. Song Butian, “Jiating weisheng lun,” 8–10. 70. Ibid., 7. 71. The Zhuang were a renowned lineage from the late Ming dynasty. See Elman, Classicism, Politics, 36–73. 72. Yi, “Piling Zhuang shi jiazheng shisi ze,” 35. 73. Gao Kelan, “Jiangxi nüsu tan,” 38. 74. Rui Ying, “Shaoxing hunjia zhi fengsu,” 73. 75. Shi, “Duiyu liefu xunfu zhi ganyan.” For a discussion of this article, see Judge, “Kaleidoscope of Knowledge.” 76. Jin Yuanzhen, “Pohuai jiating xingfu zhi weixian dongwu,” 8. 77. Gu Li, “Wuren zhi aiqing,” 48. 78. They constitute approximately 46 of the 425 photographs. 79. The practice of wenming jiehun began to gain currency in China in the first years of the twentieth century; articles on the practice begin to appear in the press in 1902. The pared-down ceremony was generally performed outside of the household, usually by a school principal, family friend, or local official. It featured the defining elements of Western weddings, including music, flowers, a ring, and witnesses—together with a photographic wedding portrait. See Xia Xiaohong, “Wan-Qing funü shenghuo zhong de xin yinsu,” 308– 9; Judge, Precious Raft, 73; Crowden, “Wedding Culture,” 62. 80. Zuixin huitu zengbu zhengxu wanbao quanshu, 3:9, 20a. 81. Harrison (Making of the Republican Citizen, 49, 60) has even suggested that the enlightened ceremony was an early Republican fad with no real staying power. Both the

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Republican periodical press and Republican encyclopedias for everyday life indicate otherwise. 82. On this imported language, see Rocha, “Xing,” 612–13. While Wu had excelled in English as a student at the Wuben Girls’ School and may have directly drawn on original materials in Western languages, her text suggests that she relied on a Japanese source. She refers to eunuchs in “Zhina” (Wu Ruoan, “Minzu zhi xiangshang yixing yu zhi jie zhi er de,” 39)—a term the Japanese used as “Shina” to refer to Chinese in this period and that Chinese authors only occasionally used in referring to China themselves. On this term, see Fogel, “Sino-Japanese Controversy.” 83. Iwan Bloch (also known as Ivan Bloch) was a Berlin dermatologist who is often called the first sexologist. In 1906 he wrote The Sexual Life of Our Time, a complete encyclopedia of the sexual sciences in their relation to modern civilization. Wu’s article has many resonances in terms of the scientization of sexuality with Du Yaquan’s “Lun xuqie” [On keeping concubines], Eastern Miscellany 8 (1911): 16–20. On this article, see Rocha, “Xing,” 613. 84. Wu Ruoan, “Minzu zhi xiangshang yixing yu zhi jie zhi er de.” 85. Shanzai, “Funü tongxing zhi aiqing.” On female same-sex love in Japan, see Pflugfelder, “ ‘S’ is for Sister.” In China, see Sang, Emerging Lesbian, 106–9, on this particular article by Shanzai. Sang gives the wrong date for the article, however (June 1911 rather than July 1912). See also Judge, Precious Raft, 80–82. 86. Shanzai, “Funü tongxing zhi aiqing,” “Xuanze,” and “Xuran yu furen.” Sang (Emerging Lesbian, 107) hypothesizes that Shanzai knew Japanese. She also suggests he consulted German texts, which I think is unlikely. 87. As Gail Hershatter has argued (Dangerous Pleasures, 245–70), the existence of prostitution was as much a marker of modernity as were reformist efforts to combat it. In discussing the problem of Chinese prostitution, authors were thus identifying themselves and China itself as modern. 88. On “courtesan” as the best translation for mingji, see Ko, Teachers, 253–55. On the various grades of women of pleasure, real and imagined, see Hershatter, Dangerous Pleasures, 41–53; Henriot, Prostitution and Sexuality, 75–98. 89. Shen Shuzhen, “Hushang nishe jinü xuexiao lun,” 46. 90. Zhou Shoujuan, “Guixiu conghua,” FNSB 9 (February 25, 1913): 29–39. 91. On the ambiguity of many of these terms in the late imperial period, see Ropp, “Ambiguous Images.” Hershatter, Dangerous Pleasures, 34–65. 92. Maiyin and maixiao fu are used in Wu Shuan, “Jinü duoluo zhi yuanyin,” for example. 93. See, for example, Shao Yi, “Lun changji zhi you baihai er wu yili”; Wu Shuan, “Jinü duoluo zhi yuanyin”; Jiaoxin, “Duiyu jinshi funü jie zhi zhenbian”; Jin Yuanzhen, “Pohuai jiating xingfu zhi weixian dongwu.” 94. Liang Qichao, “Lun shengli fenli,” reference to prostitutes, 89. 95. Shao Yi, “Lun changji zhi you baihai er wu yili,” 6; Shen Shuzhen, “Hushang nishe jinü xuexiao lun,” 46. On the May Fourth discourse, see Janet Chen, Guilty of Indigence, 17–18, 47. 96. Shao Yi, in “Lun changji zhi you baihai er wu yili,” gave the date for the article, which I was able to trace. For the original, see Vurideeru, “Kyō no haishō mondai.”

294

NOTES

97. Shao Yi, “Lun changji zhi you baihai er wu yili.” 98. Wu Shuan, “Jinü duoluo zhi yuanyin,” 17. 99. Zhinü, “Shanghai funü shenghuo,” 17–18. 100. See, for example, W. Li, “Late-Ming Courtesan,” on the late Ming, and Widmer, Fiction’s Family, (219, 351), on literati including Wang Tao, Li Boyuan, Yuan Zuzhi, and Zou Tao in the late Qing. 101. Zhou Shoujuan, “Guixiu conghua.” 102. Zhou Shoujuan, “Guixiu conghua,” FNSB 9 (February 25, 1913): 31. 103. Ibid., 34. 104. On Ge Nen, see ibid., 36; see also W. Li, “Late-Ming Courtesan,” 70. On Zhu, see Zhou Shoujuan, “Guixiu conghua,” FNSB 9 (February 25, 1913): 32. 105. Zhou Shoujuan, “Guixiu conghua,” FNSB 9 (February 25, 1913): 32. 106. Chen Zhensu, “Chunbulaocai zhi zhifa,” “Yueji zhi zaohua,” “Jiuji Suzhou nüzi zhi duoluo,” and “Yingguo Luoshi Haqinsheng furen.” Lucy Hutchinson wrote a famous biography of her husband, the British colonel John Hutchinson. 107. Chen Zhensu, “Jiuji Suzhou nüzi zhi duoluo.” Such workhouses were being set up for the poor in this period. The term xiyi suo was coined in 1895. It was broadcast to a wider audience—evidently including Chen Zhensu—through government gazettes, journals, and newspapers following Zhao Erxun’s use of the term in a memorial to the throne in 1902 that suggested merging penal functions with industrial training via workhouses. Dozens of such workhouses were in operation in Beijing before 1911, but they were established much more slowly in Shanghai. Janet Chen, Guilty of Indigence, 21–22, 25, 39. 108. “Bi weixian.” 109. Fan Boqun, Zhongguo xiandai tongsu wenxue shi, 588. 110. Bi and Bao, Renjian diyu; see also Hershatter, Dangerous Pleasures, 498. 111. Bao, Gonghe guo xuanjiang shu, 2:29. 112. CYL, 1:183–87. 113. Su, “Chuantong yu shidai de duizhuang,” 57. I have translated the title of the story as “In Steerage” to indicate that yanpeng means the cheapest seats on small river steamboats where passengers could only either lie down or sit in lotus position. 114. Xu Zhuodai and Bao, “Wuru.” 115. CYL, 1:378–79. This contradicts sources such as “Mai zhaopian” that claim courtesan photographs could be purchased anywhere in the late Qing. Practices perhaps changed in the early Republic. 116. CYL, 1:359. 117. A photograph of Xiong’s family appears in FNSB in October 1913. It was common for publishing houses to serve as cultural salons in the Republic. Zeng Pu’s bookstoreresidence-salon is another example. See L. Lee, Shanghai Modern, 19. 118. CYL, 1:412. On the hide and seek episode, see Pan Yimin, 110. 119. CYL, 1:361. 120. Bao nonetheless sent Xiaoyi a number of copies of his novels to distribute as a form of payment to those courtesans whose pictures were eventually published. CYL, 1:378–79. 121. Shao left his job at the Jinhua Middle School in July of 1911, so he and Tang would have met before that date. Guo Fenyang, Tiejian lashou, 370.

NOTES

295

122. Lin Xisheng and Zhang Naidong, Shao Piaoping yu Jingbao, 176–77. There is much discrepancy in the sources about the details of Tang’s life, including the dates of her birth and marriage. The name of the school she attended is often given as the Hangzhou nüzi shifan xuexiao, whereas it is identified in documents directly related to Tang’s schooling as the Zhejiang nüzi shifan xuexiao. Because Tang did not ultimately graduate from the latter school until 1916, as recorded in FNSB, she seems to have taken elementary and then more advanced training at the school. 123. Hua Dehan, Shao Piaoping zhuan, 34. 124. Shao’s triangular marital situation mirrors a common literary trope from the late Qing through the 1920s that itself mirrors early twentieth-century social practice. These triangles involve a man and two women: a brilliant, aggressive “magnolia” educated in the new style, and a comely, retiring, subliterate “pear” who stands in for the “old”-style. On this triangulating trope, see Link, Mandarin Ducks, 41–42. 125. Hua Dehan, Shao Piaoping zhuan, 33–34; Cai, Zhongguo baoren, 13. Hua (Shao Piaoping zhuan, 33–34) gives the names of Shao’s five children and some details about their education but does not give their birth dates. 126. Hua Dehan, Shao Piaoping zhuan, 33–34; Cai, Zhongguo baoren, 13. 127. According to Hua Dehan (Shao Piaoping zhuan, 128), Shao and Zhu started living together in 1919 but were not married. Fang Hanqi, who obtained valuable source materials concerning Shao’s career from Zhu, insists that the two were married (“Faxian yu tansuo”). 128. On Shao’s relationship with Zhu Wenxiu, see Fang Hanqi, “Faxian yu tansuo”; Hua Dehan, Shao Piaoping zhuan, 127–37. 129. As noted in chapter 2, Bao remarked in his memoirs that while he generally met women writers through their husbands, in this instance he met Shao Piaoping, who became an intimate friend and close professional associate, through Tang. CYL, 1:362. 130. These initiatives included the Beijing xinwen bianyi she (Beijing News Translation Service), which Shao founded in August 1916, and the Xinwenxue yanjiuhui (Journalism Study Association), which he led in the fall of 1918. These details of Shao’s career are elaborated on in several studies; see, for example, Lin Xisheng and Zhang Naidong, Shao Piaoping yu Jingbao, 177–78; Hua Dehan Shao Piaoping zhuan; Guo Fenyang, Tiejian lashou. There is some discrepancy in the sources as to whether the Xinwen bianyi she was founded in 1916 or 1918. Hua Dehan (Shao Piaoping zhuan, 353) and Guo Fenyang (Tiejian lashou, 372), both confirm the August 1918 date. 131. On Tang’s role during Jingbao’s second phase, see Chen Huanyue, Mingren de beijing, 131–32. 132. CYL, 2:74–75. 133. Ye Zufu (Beijing fengqing zatan, 155) argues that Tang’s motivation was indeed to get a better sense of the courtesans’ lives. He also claims she visited the courtesan quarters dressed as a man to further her investigations. Much else in his account of Tang’s life is flawed, however, so these statements cannot be fully trusted. 134. Bao notes (CYL, 2:75) that jiaotiaozi is like jiaoju in Shanghai brothels. On this practice, see Yeh, Shanghai Love, 105. 135. CYL, 2:74–75.

296

NOTES

136. Hiratsuka Raichō, editor of Seitō, visited the Yoshiwara pleasure quarters with two other women. Even though these women were subsequently accused of wanting to “act like men” as Tang had hoped to do, their primary motivation, unlike Tang’s, was curiosity about the geishas’ lives. Male critics disparaged Hiratsuka for her rashness and callousness. Horrified women fellow-travelers refused to continue their association with the Bluestockings. A number quit the group, canceled their subscriptions to the Seitō journal, and requested that their names no longer appear in its pages. Bardsley, Bluestockings of Japan, 84–85. 137. CYL, 2:75–76. C O N C LU S I O N

1. The tricolored circles on the airplanes’ wings indicate Allied airplanes. 2. This is how Zhang Mojun (“Fu Zhang Zhaohan nüshi zhi benshe shu”), who submitted the photograph to the journal, describes it. 3. Liu Minzhi, “Zhongguo zhi nü feixingjia.” 4. Zhang Xiahun, “Nüzi canzheng lun” and “Song xiansheng bei ci zhi yuanyin.” See also Zhang Xiahun, “Zongjiao zhi youlie,” on the relationship between religion and nationalism. 5. Liu Minzhi, “Zhongguo zhi nü feixingjia,” 81. 6. I have discussed some aspects of this incident in Judge, “Portraits.” 7. Zhang Mojun, “Fu Zhang Zhaohan nüshi zhi benshe shu.” 8. Zhang Mojun, “Dingsi chun Jiangwan guan Shi Tiansun nüshi hangkong.” 9. Zhang Mojun, “Fu Zhang Zhaohan nüshi zhi benshe shu.” 10. Liu Minzhi, “Zhongguo zhi nü feixingjia,” 81. 11. Ibid. For an example of a contemporary account in the mainstream press, see “Zhang Xiahun feixing yuxian jinxun.” 12. “Yingguo Bole furen” and “Weixian zhi xinfu.” Chinese Women also includes an article on a female pilot I have yet to identify, “Taiweisi,” and an article on a Chinese woman, Hong Meiying, who appears to have gone up in an airplane in Hong Kong over a year before Zhang Xiahun. See “Hong Meiying nüshi shengfeiji shi.” Hong was the daughter-in-law of famous historian Chen Yuan (1880–1971), wife of Chen Lesu (1902–90). On the fascination with female aviators in journals like FNZZ, see Bailey, Gender and Education, 71–72, 78, 1189, 190. 13. Yunling, “Duzhe julebu.” 14. Zhou Shoujuan, “Guixiu conghua,” FNSB 8 (September 25, 1912): 62–63. 15. Juwu, “Shijie nüzi zhi xin yicai.” 16. For an account of the treatment of two male flying celebrities and the different aspirations they fulfilled for the reading public in the 1920s and 1930s in Liangyou, see O’Keefe, “Stars.” 17. Liu Minzhi, “Zhongguo zhi nü feixingjia,” 82. 18. Ibid., 83. 19. “Great Texas Women: Katherine Stinson, Pilot,” University of Texas, n.d., www. utexas.edu/gtw/stinson.php. A Chinese newspaper report claimed that up to forty thousand people watched Stinson perform aerial stunts over Jiangwan, near Shanghai, in 1917. Zhonghua xinbao, February 2, 1917, cited in Bailey, “ ‘Othering the Other.” Stinson also performed stunts in Japan.

NOTES

297

20. Confirmation that the photograph is of Zhang Xiahun is provided in the March 20, 1919, issue of Funü zhoubao (Women’s Weekly), which includes a cameo of this fullbody photograph and identifies Xiahun. Intriguingly, it describes her as the wife of Jiang Zuobin. 21. Zhang Mojun, “Dingsi chun Jiangwan guan Shi Tiansun nüshi hangkong.” 22. Gao Jianhua, Zhijia quanshu shang. 23. Hao, Shenzhou diyi ren, 310–11. 24. Link, Mandarin Ducks, 128. Wu Youru, the famous Dianshizhai illustrator, included similar images in his Feiyingge huabao (Pavilion of Flying Shadows pictorial). See, for example, Wu Youru, Wu Youru huabao. 25. Link, Mandarin Ducks, 144, 216, 230. 26. Wang Can, “Du Funü shibao yougan shuaicheng sijue.” 27. These photographs are of French provenance; one bears the words “Champs d’aviation de Reims.” 28. The Qiu Chi citation is from “Yu Chen Bozhi shu” [Letter to Chen Bozhi]. Zhou Shoujuan, “Ying Fa funü lingkong tan,” 82. 29. Zhou Shoujuan, “Ying Fa funü lingkong tan,” 82–83. 30. Choulihen, “Feixing riji,” 39. 31. Chen Lianqing, “Yong feiting.” The reference is to the first chapter in the Zhuangzi. For a discussion of flying immortals in the context of worldly and other worldly immortality, see Yü, “Life and Immortality,” 91. 32. “Minying zhaoxiang guan.” 33. Even Zhang Xiahun’s call for suffrage (“Nüzi canzheng lun”) is domestically grounded. Asserting that the household is the starting and end point of politics, Xiahun writes that once women have the vote they will make the nation prosper as they do the household. 34. Zhang Xiahun, “Song xiansheng bei ci zhi yuanyin;” “Nüzi canzheng lun.” 35. Liu Feng, “Shiji suidong li de nüxing weisuo,” 70. 36. Zhejiang sheng, “Yidai zongshi Zhu Kezhen,” 170. 37. On the use of the figure of the image/text as a wedge to pry open the heterogeneity of media and of specific representations, see Mitchell, Picture Theory, 100. 38. According to Fan Boqun (Zhongguo xiandai tongsu wenxue shi, 576), this kind of writing could be wiped out only if the “masses” themselves were wiped out. 39. On this “golden age,” see ibid. 40. On the ongoing importance of these popular periodicals, see Chen Jianhua, “Canon Formation,” 61. On their characterization as distinct from the intellectual projects of Liang Qichao or Chen Duxiu, see L. Lee (Shanghai Modern, 70–71). On May Fourth–style journals in the late 1920s, see Ling Shiao, “Culture, Commerce.” 41. Cochran, Chinese Medicine Men, 110–12. 42. Fan Boqun, Zhongguo xiandai tongsu wenxue shi, 576. 43. On this these popular culture and reprint fevers, see ibid., 576. FNSB was reprinted in an eighty-eight-volume series; see Zhongguo jinxiandai nüxing qikan huibian. 44. Zhongguo Shangye Chubanshe, “ ‘Zhongguo pengren guji congkan,’ ” n.p. 45. On these questions of categories and interpretation, see de Certeau, Writing of History, and Scott, “Feminism’s History,” 1–22.

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Index

A Jin (Suzhou courtesan), 190, 207 Abe Isoo, 26, 256n65, 257n69 account books, 102–3 accounts of experience (shiyantan): on childbirth, 118–19, 136–38; and the editorial agenda of Funü shibao, 9–11; emotional content of, 91–92; as historical sources, 226–27; household economy and, 102–4; instruction in writing, 89–90; Japanese origins of, 90; solicited by Funü shibao, 3, 90; subjects of, 90, 270nn20,22; terminology of, 90, 251n28, 270n20 advertisements: addressing women’s health concerns, 122, 163, 164fig.; conflict with editorial agenda, 129–30; featuring students, 57–58, 60fig.; featuring teachers, 56, 57fig.; and horizontal reading, 40, 41; hybridization in, 127–29; interweaving of, 12; medical, 278n44; and national readership, 19, 254n25; number and types of, 28–29, 257n72; for pharmaceuticals, 19, 27–28, 28fig., 51, 57fig., 58, 60fig., 124–31, 126fig., 129–31, 130fig., 140, 163, 164fig., 206, 254n25, 257n73; for photograph albums, 45, 180, 185, 289n9, 290nn28,29,31; for photography studios, 180–81, 181fig., 219–21, 289nn14,15,18; for practical instruction and products, 168; scholarship on, 261n132; as sources of revenue, 18, 225; targets of, 122–23, 278n45; templates for, 172; terminology used

in, 129; testimonials in, 27–28, 60fig., 123–27, 125fig., 126fig., 131, 140, 163, 257n75; writers of copy for, 28, 257n76 agriculture, 93, 100–101 Aiguo nüxue (Patriotic Girls’ School), 286n38 airplanes: Allied, 212; 219, 221, 296n1, paired with women, 215–19, plate 8; photographs of, 217fig., 218fig., plate 7; as props for portraits, 195, 219, 220fig. See also pilots/flyers; Zhang Xiahun Alloula, Malek, 290n35 American magazines. See Ladies’ Home Journal Amici, Edmondo de, Heart, 256n57 Aoyagi Yūbi: Jissen mutūan sanpō (The practice of painless childbirth), 26, 122, 123fig., 139; publications in women’s periodicals, 122, 277n41 Appert, Nicolas, 168 aviation. See airplanes; pilots/flyers Bai Juyi: “Changhen ge” (Song of everlasting regret), 290n23; courtesan of, 275n148 Baker, Sara Josephine, 282n141 Bao Shu, 113 Bao Tianxiao (Gongyi, Langsun): call for submissions, 88–89; children Kefen, Kehong, Kehua, Keyong, Kezhen, 31fig.; Chinese Girls’ Sewing Textbook, 168; choice of linguistic register, 20–21, 254n37; as classroom teacher,

333

334

index

Bao Tianxiao (continued) 31, 153, 157–58, 258n88, 286n38; and the closure of Funü shibao, 225; completed Bi Yihong’s Renjian diyu (Hell on earth), 206; devaluation of poetry, 11, 108–9, 114, 166; editorial agenda of, 9, 11, 29–30, 32–33, 74, 79–81, 114, 130–31, 165, 258n94; editorial columns by, 30, 37–38, 48, 69, 70, 81, 87–88, 90–91; fiction of, 23–25, 29, 32, 48, 68, 207, 258n85, 262n146, 266n73, 294n120; Girls’ Letter Writing Manual, 89, 269n17; inaugural statement for Funü shibao, 7–8, 9, 12, 32, 48, 51, 104, 215–17; Japanese sources for his publications, 26; Kaocha Riben xinwen shilüe (Brief investigation of Japanese journalism), 256n64; The New Society (Xin shehui), 30, 37, 206, 270n20, 279n60; linked women’s experience to Republican reform, 8, 11; on midwives, 135–36; pedagogical writing of, 31–32, 158, 286n39; and photography, 32–33, 258n98; on prostitution, 206–7; role in film, 43, 262n146; salary of, 68, 253n14, 266n73; selection by Di Baoxian, 15–17; Shanghai residence of, 22; on Tang Xiuhui, 60, 265n39; and the title of Funü shibao, 41–42; translation “Orchid in a Quiet Valley,” 91, 270n32; on the vernacular movement, 21, 254n38; wife of, Chen Zhensu, 30, 158, 180, 187, 205; Xiner jiuxue ji (Little Xin goes to school), 23–25, 32, 256n57. See also Funü shibao Bao Zhongxuan, 30, 91–92, 162–63 Beijing Gengzi shibian zhaoxiang ce (Beijing Boxer Rebellion photograph book), 252n4 Beijing nübao (Beijing Women’s Journal), 41 Beijing Women’s Normal School (Beijing nüzi shifan daxue), 31, 161 Beijing xinwen bianyi she (Beijing News Translation Service), 295n130 Beiyang Girls’ Public School, 184fig. Beiyang Women’s Normal School, plate 1 Besant, Annie, 62 Bi-Yang Quanyin Fenruo (Yang Fenruo), 67, 95, 96fig., 97. See also Bi Yihong Bi Yihong, 67, 95, 96fig., 154, 166, 167; Renjian diyu (Hell on earth), 206 “Bianji shi” (From the office of the editor) column, 30, 81. See also Bao Tianxiao, editorial columns by bicycles, 194, 195, 195fig. biji, 94 biographies, 19, 27, 205, 258n87, 294n106 Biyü, 275n148

Bloch, Iwan, 203, 293n83 Bole, Mrs., 214 book learning versus experience, 79, 97, 98–100, 169, 268n1 books: binding and collating, 105; in photographs, 195–96, 292n61; reprinted, 226; translated, 122, 256n66. See also book learning versus experience; female literacy; fiction; libraries; textbooks bookstalls, 249n3, 269n17 breast binding, 144–45, 193, 282n136 breastfeeding, 144–45, 146, 282nn138,141. See also wet nurses Buluo shanren, 287n76 Bungei kurabu (Fine Arts Club), 262n149 Cahill, James, 252n36, 291n46 Cai E (Songpo), 34, 35fig., 37, 46, 259n104 Cai Yong, 275n149 Cao Ruijin, 196, 197fig. categorization, 4, 49, 132, 226 censorship laws, 21, 42, 90 Certeau, Michel de, 252n31 chanpo (new-style midwives), 119, 135–36 Chao, Buwei Yang, 266n72 Chen Boping, 35, 259n106 Chen Diexian, 22, 42 Chen Duxiu, 17, 254n38, 297n40; “Call to Youth,” 38; “Pinmin de kusheng” (The laments of poor people), 91 Chen Fangke (Yantong), 208 Chen Haozi, Huajing (Mirror of flowers), 99, 272n77 Chen Hengzhe (Sophia H. Chen Zen), 38 Chen Heqin, 283n141 Chen Hongbi, 38, 113 Chen Jianhua, 263n163, 270n25 Chen Juying, 101 Chen Leng, 258n98 Chen Lesu, 296n12 Chen Lianqing, 109, 219 Chen Lin, 275n149 Chen Sanli, 21, 208, 255n43 Chen Wanlan, 259n106 Chen Xiefen, 100 Chen Yan, 21, 255n43 Chen Yiying, 63 Chen Yuan, 35, 259n106, 296n12 Chen Zhensu, 30, 158, 180, 187, 205 Chen Zuo Mingying, 61, 75, 159, 253–54n24 Cheng Bojia, 137 Cheng Liqing, 168, 254n24

index Cheng Peiqing, 64, 191, 193fig., 291n55 Cheng Yili, 43, 44fig., 55fig., 215, 254n24 Cheng Yu Peifen, 63, 78, 258n87 Chengdong nüxue (Chengdong Girls’ School): class photos from 72, 159; establishment of, 153, 285n27; faculty of, 31, 153–54, 154fig., 157–58; school associations, 160, 160fig.; school identity, 159, 160, 171, 286n42. See also Yang Bomin childbirth: articles and discussion on, 74, 117, 118–20, 121–22, 135–36, 277n27; in Japan, 137–38; midwives and, 117, 135–38, 277nn27,29, 279n59, 280nn89,91–93, 280–81n94; mortality in, 135, 138, 139, 276n9, 281n94; “painless,” 138–39. See also breastfeeding; midwives Chinese Educational Reform Association (Zhongguo jiaoyu gaijinshe), 152 Chinese female figure, 22–23, 255n53. See also “fashionable ladies”; Republican Ladies Chinese Women (Zhonghua funü jie), 42, 73, 87, 189, 189fig., 261n137 Chongshi Girls’ School (Beijing), 50fig., 54, 56, 154, 266n72 Chūjōtō. See Princess Chūjō’s Decoction ci (lyrics), 19, 95, 96fig., 165 cinema, 15, 43, 61, 252n3, 262n146 Cixi, Empress Dowager, 271n54, 291n47 class photographs, 43, 57, 72–73, 152fig., 157, 157fig.,159, 178, 183–85, 183fig., 184fig., 194, 290n25 clothing: Chinese, 63, 265n57; hybrid, plate 2; Japanese, 265n53; material for, 66fig.; of Republican Ladies and courtesans, 63, 179, 187, 190–93, 291n35; Western, 63, 64fig., 115, 116fig., 168, 265n57, plate 2 Cody, Lady Isabel, 214 Collier’s, 283n154 collotype printing, 32, 186, 258n97 colonialism, 33 commerce, 21, 104, 117, 172 Commercial Press, 29–30, 31, 42, 68, 225, 253n15, 266n73 Communist Revolution, 225–26 Compendium of Translations to Encourage Learning (Lixue yibian), 20, 29, 254n37 concubines, 92, 102, 106, 201, 270n34, 275n148, 289n1, 293n83 Confucianism, 98, 201 Confucius, 111 Cook, Edith Maud (Miss Spencer-Kavanagh), 214, 219

335

cookbooks, 54 cooking, 168 Corelli, Marie, 254n30 courtesan albums: advertisements for, 45, 180, 185, 262n147, 289n9, 290nn28, 29,31; compared to photographs of Empress Cixi, 291n47; cost of, 186, 290n31; mentioned, 289n8, 291n36, plate 5; published by Youzheng Book Company, 43–45, 178, 180, 185–86, 207–8; as sources, 179. See also Photographs of Beauties from the Flower World; New Photographs of Graces; Photographs of Shanghai Graces courtesan portraits: acquisition of, 207–9, 294n115; with airplanes, 219–21, 220fig.; appearance in print, 259n100; captions of, 190; circulation of, 33; with color, 188; exhibiting whimsy, 194–98, 195fig., 196fig., 198fig.; featuring pairs of courtesans, 192fig., 194, 199fig., plate 4; group portraits, 183, 184fig.; holding flowers, 191; montage of, plate 4; and photographs of Republican Ladies, 61, 95–97, 176, 177fig., 179, 185, 262n149; sold by street hawkers, 290n27; viewed by women, 290n35. See also courtesan albums courtesans: Bao Tianxiao’s rejection of articles on, 90; “body price” of, 198, 199fig.; clothing of, 190–93, 191fig., 192fig.; commercialization of, 185–86; compared with Republican Ladies, 176–77, 179, 188–97; contrasted with prostitutes, 198–200; exemplary, 111, 275n148; Four Diamonds, 290n27; honorable, 14, 205–7; as models for Republican ladies, 186–87; as models for students, 187–88; names of, 190; play with gender boundaries, 190, 192fig.; postures of, 194; and the sexuality of the Republican Lady, 14, 175; shuyu, 196; Song dynasty, 289n1; Suzhou, 190; terms used for, 203, 293n88; as trendsetters in fashion, 63, 265n54. See also courtesan albums; courtesan portraits cover art: depicting women as viewers, 1, 2fig., 32, 82; depicting women engaged in activities, 23fig., 32, 82, 84–86, 84fig., 85fig., 86fig., 87fig, plate 2, plate 8; development of, 268–69n3; documenting early Republic, 3, 15; featuring students, 57, 58fig.; featuring women’s artwork, 18, 86–88, 269n12; of the first issue of Funü shibao, 1, 2fig.; in horizontal reading, 40; by Huang Xuchu, 88; imitation of 43; inspired by American magazines, 23fig., 24fig., 25; of Ladies’ Journal,

336

index

cover art (continued) 88fig., 89fig.; on the last issue of Funü shibao, 88; mischaracterized by Link, 250n 17; remuneration for, 18, 87–88; self-reflexive, 1, 2fig., 16fig., 82, 83fig.; by Shen Bochen, 24fig., 32, 81–82, 269n5; and women’s experience, 81–82; by Xu Yongqing, 22, 32, 81–82, 83–84, 261n137, 269n5 Crow, Carl, 257n75 cultural politics, 5, 45 Curie, Madame, 62 currencies, 104, 273n102 Da Han bao (Suzhou Journal of the Great Han), 64fig., 153 Dai Yifen, 45, 63, 77, 187, 190 Daoist transcendence, 219, 297n31 Dasheng bian (Treatise on easy childbirth), 135, 139 depression, 76 Di Baoxian (Chuqing, Pingzi): and Bao Tianxiao, 16–17, 29; and the funding of Funü shibao, 17; and photography, 32, 43–44, 179–80, 207–8, 258n98; and the title of Funü shibao, 41–42 Dianshizhai Pictorial, 29, 215, 269n3, 297n24 diaries, 93–94, 98, 103, 271n47; Suxia, “Our Family Situation over the Last Ten Years,” 94, 103–4 Dickens, Charles, 98, 103 Dier shifan fushu xiaoxue (Elementary School Attached to Number Two Normal School), 288n101 Ding Song: cover art by, 24fig.; Shanghai shizhuang tuyong (Illustrated fashions of Shanghai), 22 divorce, 63 Doan’s (Douan’s) pills, 124, 126fig., 127, 163, 164fig. Dr. Williams’ Pink Pills for Pale People, 28fig., 124, 127, 141, 148, 254n25, 278n58, 283n154 doctors: fees for, 278n46; levels of, 119–20, 276n25; women as, 53–54, 68, 144, 282n132. See also medicine; reproductive health Dongfang zazhi (Eastern Miscellany), 43, 254n26, 262n144 Douan’s pills. See Doan’s (Douan’s) pills double surnames, 71 Double Ten festivities, 149 drawings, exhibitions of, 149, 150fig. Du Yaquan, “Lun xuqie” (On keeping concubines), 293n83 Duan Qirui, 214

Durova, Nadezhda Andreyevna, 62 “Duzhe julebu” (Readers’ club) column, 30–31, 69–71 East/West binary, 8, 9fig., 10fig. Eastern Miscellany (Dongfang zazhi), 43, 254n26, 262n144 education, articles on, 76–77, 102, 272n92. See also family learning; household knowledge; new-style schools; women’s education Eliot, George, 62 Ellis, Havelock, Studies in the Psychology of Sex, 203 emotions, 91–92, 102 empiricism, 9, 251n28 epic and everyday agendas, 8–11, 14, 74, 251nn25,26 equal rights. See gender equality; women’s suffrage movement essay contests: “Admonition for All Women of the World,” 93; and Bao’s vision of women’s experience, 9, 30, 81, 92–93; “Household Hygiene,” 67, 76, 93, 119; introduced by missionaries, 271n37; “Marriage Customs in My Native Place,” 67, 92; prizes for, 18, 253n11; “The Reasons for Women’s Suffrage,”36, 67, 92–93; winners of, 67, 93, 271n40; “Women and Agriculture,” 67, 91, 93, 100–101; “Women and Industry,” 67, 91, 93; “Women Should Have Basic Medical Knowledge,” 93, 119; “Women’s Occupations in All Regions,” 19, 91, 92 ethics, 31–32. See also morality everyday experience, 79, 102, 114. See also epic and everyday agendas; experience exhibition culture, 149, 223, 283–84n1 exhibitions, 149, 155, 156fig., 170–72, 171fig., 288n101. See also exhibition culture experience: and Bao Tianxiao’s editorial agenda, 9–10, 13, 30, 78–79, 81, 92–93, 97, 225; emphasized over book learning, 79, 97, 98–100, 169, 268n1; versus expertise, 117, 131–32; household, 94; physicality of, 114; and politics, 100; problematic nature of, 250–51n19; “real,” 113–14; science and, 97–98; shared, 111; tensions surrounding, 6; terms used for, 90, 251n28; versus “theory,” 138. See also accounts of experience (shiyantan) factory workers, 105 “Fakanci” (Inaugural statement; by Bao Tianxiao), 7–8, 9, 12, 32, 48, 51, 104, 215–17

index family learning, 75–76, 151–53, 169, 173–75. See also household knowledge family system, 38, 102 Fan Boqun, 29, 206, 226, 250n16, 258n98, 263n163 Fan Zhongyan, 282n131 Fang Bao (Wangxi), 201 Fang Hanqi, 295m127 fashion, 63, 168. See also “fashionable ladies”; Western clothing “fashionable ladies,” 22, 32–33, 95, 107, 179, 269n10. See also Republican Ladies; Western clothing female chastity, 75, 101, 106, 111, 159–60, 200–201, 206–7, 226 female literacy, 68–69, 195, 266n78. See also women’s education female virtue. See talent and virtue fiction: about prostitutes, 206–7; popular, 3, 18, 250n16, 251n29; price of, 18; about the sexual vulnerability of factory workers, 105, 273n112; social relevance of, 19–20, 254n28; translations of, 27, 254n30; and women’s virtue, 196. See also Bao Tianxiao, fiction of; Fiction Eastern Times Fiction Eastern Times (Xiaoshuo shibao), 16, 18, 33, 43, 179–80, 253n14, 258n98 Fleming, Williamina, 62 flower girls, 95, 172, 175 footbinding, 144, 153, 193, 226, 275n158; article “An Aesthetic Method of Unbinding Feet,” 114 foreign ideas. See Western ideas Four Diamonds (quartet of courtesans), 290n27 Foxue congbao (Buddhist Miscellany), 18 Frankfurt school, 250n9 freedom of speech, 37 friendship, 112–13 “From the Office of the Editor” (“Bianji shi”) column, 30, 81. See also Bao Tianxiao, editorial columns by frugality, 65–66 Fujin eisei zasshi (Magazine of Women’s Health), 256n68 Fujo shinbun (Women’s News), 256n68, 261n135 Fumeier pills, 163 funü (women), use of the term, 41–42, 49, 261n135. See also Republican Ladies Funü shibao (Women’s Eastern Times): circulation and readership of, 1, 18–21, 68–69, 266n66; classical and vernacular writing in, 20; closure of, 88, 225; female contributors

337

to, 4, 11–12, 13, 38, 51, 66–68, 69–70, 71–78, 93, 109, 271n40; financing of, 3–4, 17; genderedness of, 3–4, 7–8; as historical lens for twenty-first-century reader, 2, 5, 39, 223; imitation of, 42–43; inaugural issue, 1, 2fig., 30, 109; issues published, 17; literary section of, 19–20, 27, 165; male writers for, 38–39, 67, 70, 74, 93, 97, 271n40; as medium for communication, 3; national distribution of, 19, 253–54n24, 253n23; New Culture critique and mischaracterization of, 45–47; payment to authors, 17–18, 252n10; politics of, 33–38; praise for, 109; price of, 68; published letter of protest against Wu Dingchang, 161; reprinted in the PRC, 226; “revolutionary” issue, 82, 110; title of, 41–42; translations in, 23–27. See also Bao Tianxiao; column titles; cover art “Funü tanhua hui” (Women’s conversation association) column, 30, 69, 70, 71, 93, 101, 213 Funü xuanjiang hui (Women’s Lecture Society), 160 Funü zazhi (Ladies’ Journal): as competitor, 18, 225; cover art of, 83–87, 88fig., 89fig.; inaugural statement of, 251n20; influence of Funü shibao on, 42, 225, 261n137; mentioned, 201, 210, 276n22, 287n74; price of, 18 Funü zhoubao (Women’s Weekly), 297n20 Gadamer, Hans-George, 250–51n19 gambling, 51 Gao Jianhua, Zhijia quanshu (Comprehensive volume on regulating the household), 43, 44fig. Gao Kelan, 68, 77, 201, 202 Gao Lingrong, 157 Gao Xu, 109 Gaochang xiaoxue (Gaochang Elementary School), 288n101 Gauss, Karl, 122, 123fig., 138–39, 148 geishas, 211, 296n136 gender equality, 61, 100, 109, 210. See also women’s suffrage movement gender politics, 111, 114 Ge Nen (Ruifang), 205 genteel women, 49–50, 50fig., 52, 212. See also Republican Ladies Gerth, Karl, 291n37 Glorious Photography Studio (Yaohua zhaoxiang hao), 181 Great China-France Drugstores (Zhong-Fa da yaofang), 257n76

338

index

Great Sino-Western Pharmacy (Zhong-Xi da yaofang), 127 Great War. See World War I Great World Pharmacy (Wuzhou da yaofang), 124, 125fig., 127, 128fig., 129, 130fig. Gu Jiegang, 35–36, 39, 67, 70–71, 259n107 Gu Yanwu (Tinglin), 98 Guan Panpan, 275n148 Guan Zhong, 113 Guben Medicine for the Uterus, 57fig. guixiu (women of the boudoir), 49, 50, 51, 53, 59, 95, 180, 263n15, 285n15 Guo Yanli, 69 Guohuo yundong (National Products Movement), 63–65, 66fig., 70, 265n57, 279n61 Guomindang (Nationalist Party), 38 Haibo yao (Haibo medicine), 206 hairdressers, 105 hairstyles, 37, 183, 184fig. Haishang jinghong ying (Photographs of graces of Shanghai), 180, 185–86, 197, 289n9, 290n28. See also New Photographs of Graces Hanan, Patrick, 271n37 handicrafts, 172, 223; exhibitions of, 149, 150fig., 155, 156fig., 170, 172, 173fig., 174fig.; sewing, 167, 168 Hankou Journal, 253n10 Harootunian, Harry, 268n1 Harrison, Henrietta, 292–93n81 Hayes, Mrs., 62 He Chenghui, 152, 153, 284n14, 284n15 He Miaoling, 52, 59–61, 106, 276n24; husband of, 35; photographs of, 50fig., 52–53, 60, 180 He Qi, 52 headgear, 190, 191fig., 195fig. Henriot, Christian, 292n62 Hershatter, Gail, 293n87 Hiratsuka Raichō, 296n136 Hockx, Michel, 263n163 Hong Meiying, 296n12 horizontal reading, 40–41, 67, 72, 147, 178, 203, 260n127 Hou Guangdi, 38, 119, 121, 131, 277n35; on miscarriage, 134; Xialing weisheng tan (Health in the summer), 121 household economy, 102–4 household knowledge, 42–43, 76–77, 94, 167–69, 261n142. See also family learning Hsia, C. T., 169 Hu Jingyi, 75, 101 Hu Shi, 21, 254n38

Hua Dehan, 295m127 Hua Mulan, 110, 111, 166 Hua Xin, 275n149 huabao (illustrated journals), 15, 43 Huaji shibao (Comedy Times), 270n23 Huajing (Mirror of flowers), 99, 272n77 Huang Chujiu, 257n76 Huang Cuining, 30 Huang Huijian, 166 Huang Jinzhu, 271n37 Huang Qiongxian, 144, 282n134 Huang Xuchu, 88, 269n15 Huang Yanpei, 165 Huang Zongxi, 152 Huanqiu Zhongguo xuesheng hui (Worldwide Chinese Student Association), 50fig., 161, 285n31 Hutchinson, John, 294n106 Hutchinson, Lucy, 205, 294n106 Huters, Ted, 250n9, 254n35, 262n156, 263n163 Huxley, Thomas Henry, 98 hygiene: articles solicited on, 118–19; childbirth and, 137; gender differences and, 75–76; “Health in the Summer,” 121; “Household Hygiene” essay contest, 67, 76, 93, 119; menstruation and, 132; translated as weisheng, 75, 121 illustrated journals (huabao), 15, 43 India, women in, 33, 62–63 inductive reasoning, 9, 76, 79, 98, 169, 224, 251n28 integrated reading, 41–45, 73, 82–83, 148, 178 Japan: aggression by, 37; as mediator of Western material, 25–26, 256n63; medicine in, 121; midwife training in, 137, 145, 281n95, 282n140; as source of essays, 25–27, 121, 202–4, 256nn58,60, 261n135; study in, 256n63; translations of books from, 256n66. See also Twenty-One Demands Japanese hairstyles, 37 jealousy, 92, 271n35 Jiading wanjia (The massacre in Jiading), 91 Jiang Hanjie, 112fig. Jiang Kanghu, 34, 276n24 Jiang Renlan: “Chi Bai Juyi,” 264n36, 275n148, 290n23; did not publish a photo, 180; gender of, 72; on household responsibilities, 167; on lasciviousness of students, 182, 188, 290n23; poetry by, 72, 110, 111, 275n148; “The Reasons for Women’s Suffrage,” 67, 92, 100

index Jiang Zuobin, General, 213, 297n20 Jiangsu Provincial Educational Association, 31, 50fig., 258n88, 285n31 Jiankang jiating (Healthy Home), 225 jiaotiaozi (call for prostitutes), 210, 295n134 Jiaoxin (pseudonym): “Admonition for All Women of the World,” 161; antipoetic writings, 165, 166; on medical knowledge for women, 118, 132, 144, 165; on midwives, 136; on morality, 61; “Mu . . . er,” 254n29 Jiaoyu zazhi (Chinese Educational Review), 161 Jiating changshi huibian (Compilation of general household knowledge), 42 jiating riji (household diaries), 93–94 jikkendan (accounts of experience), 90, 269–70n19. See also accounts of experience (shiyantan) Jin Taotao, 269n12 Jin Tiange, introduction to Women’s World, 251nn20,21 Jin Yuanzhen, 92, 102, 201 Jin Zhilan, 166 Jingbao (Capital Times), 295n127 Jinhua Middle School, 209, 294n121 Joan of Arc, 62 Jogaku sekai (World of Women’s Learning), 25, 26, 204, 256nn60,61 Jogaku zasshi (Women’s Magazine), 256n68, 277n41 Johnson, Tina Philipps, 275n5 Journal of Modern Periodical Studies, 249n2 Kang Tongbi, 262n145 Kinbara sisters, 63, 65fig. Krönig, Bernhardt (Bernard), 122, 123fig., 138–39, 148 labor, 47–48, 68, 91, 105, 263n158, 266n69; cover art featuring, 82, 87fig. See also women workers Ladies’ Home Journal, 23fig., 24fig. Ladies’ Journal. See Funü zazhi Laing, Ellen Johnston, 255n51 language registers, 20, 47, 254n35. See also vernacular literature Laroche, Elise Raymonde de, 214, 219, 221 Latham, Sean, 249n3, 252n38 Lee, Leo, 261n140 Lefebvre, Henri, 74, 267n102 Lei, Sean Hsiang-lin, 251n28 Letizia (Napolean’s mother), 62 Li Boyuan, 179

339

Li Hui, 160 Li Huizhu, 182, 264n36 Li Yuanhong, 37, 214 Liang Hongyu, 110, 166 Liang Qichao: critique of women’s poetry, 274n125; daughter of, 262n145; “Lun nüxue” (On women’s education), 70, 164, 166, 287n72; mentioned, 259n104, 297n40; New Citizen, 46; “On Producers and Consumers,” 204; views on women, 46, 100, 167; Xin xiaoshuo (New Fiction), 258n98 Liangyou (Young Companion), 182, 257n75 Libai liu (Saturday), 22, 255n51 libraries, 102, 273n94 Liezi, 219 Liji (Book of rites), 201 lijiao (ritual teachings), 61, 159. See also morality, talent and virtue Lin Shu, 255n55 Lin Yingfei, 57–58, 60fig., 124, 163 Lin Zongsu, 35 Link, Perry, 250n17, 267n80, 289n5 literacy, 266n78; female, 68–69, 195, 266n78 “Literary Garden” (“Wenyuan”) section, 19, 111, 165 Liu Minzhi, 213, 214, 215 Lixue yibian (Compendium of Translations to Encourage Learning), 20, 29, 254n37 Lu Ji, 275n149 Lu Lihua, 142 Lü Bicheng: contributor to Funü shibao, 38, 109; friendship with Zhang Mojun, 113; photograph of, 107, 107fig.; poetry of, 165, 274n136; and Qiu Jin, 109, 274n136 Lü Kun, 98 Lü Zhu, 111, 274–75n145 Luo Qihuai, 157 Luowei Pharmacy, 57fig., 127–28, 129 Luo Yiyuan, 189, 189fig. Lyon, Mary, 62 Ma Rong, 111 Ma Wenyun, 109 Magazine of the New Chinese Woman (Zhongguo xin nüjie zazhi), 41, 269n4, 290n25 Magazine of Women’s Health (Fujin eisei zasshi), 256n68 magazine racks, 249n3 “Mandarin Duck and Butterfly” school, 4–5, 29, 46, 250nn16,17, 263n163 Mann, Susan, 263n15, 289n2 Mao Dun, 271n47 Mao Xixi, 205

340

index

marriage: Chinese and Western approaches to, 8; “enlightened,” 159, 178, 202, 292–93n81; essays on, 67, 73, 101; freedom of, 63; local customs, 92, 101, 201; old- and new-style, 9fg., 202; reform, 101–2, 114; and sexuality, 200–202, 292n68; translated works on, 257n69; triangular, 295n124. See also wedding photographs Marvingt, Marie, 214 May Fourth incident, 206, 225, 250n13. See also New Culture movement medicine: Chinese, 120, 126–27, 277n32; Chinese and Western, 118, 131–32, 147; clinics for women, 144, 146; concept of the body, 129, 279n66; German, 121–22; in Japan, 121; opposition between experience and expertise in, 129–32; shifting discourse on, 147–48; training schools, 120, 121, 277n26; “Women Should Have Basic Medical Knowledge” contest, 93, 118, 119, 132. See also childbirth; pharmaceuticals; reproductive health Meiyu (Eyebrow Talk), 43 menstruation: articles on, 118, 120; medicines for, 129, 140, 278n44; sanitary pads, 132; statistics on, 133, 134fig., 140, 276n21, 282n118; women’s reticence about, 139–40; and women’s sickliness, 141, 142 Méricourt, Anne-Josèphe Théroigne de, 62 middlebrow, 3, 250n7 midwives: as appropriate role for women, 144; new-style (chanpo), 119, 135–36; old-style (wenpo), 135–36; role in childbirth, 138; terms used for, 136, 280–81n94; training for, 136–37, 145, 281n95, 282n140. See also childbirth Ministry of Education, 45, 161 Minli bao (The People’s Stand), 161 Minli Shanghai nü zhongxuetang (Minli Shanghai Girls’ Middle School), 31, 55, 149, 155–58, 157fig., 162, 286n38 Minying Photography Studio (Minying zhaoxiangguan): advertisements for, 180–82, 181fig., 289nn14,15, 290n18; application of color, 188; courtesan portraits taken at, 208, 219–21, 220fig., plate 6; founded by Di Baoxian, 32, 258n97; mentioned, 43, 180–81, 289n13 miscarriage, 134, 138 missionaries, 103–4, 271n37, 275n5, 284n9 Mittler, Barbara, 261n132 Miyamoto Keisen, Seiyo danjo kōsaihō (Social interactions between men and women in the West), 26, 257n69

Mizuhara Zen, 137 modesty, 13, 33, 57, 115, 130, 139–40. See also reticence Moon brand pills (Yueguang tiewan), 58, 60fig., 124, 163 morality, 61, 98, 103, 149, 182–83. See also female chastity; lijiao; talent and virtue; virtue Morrison, Mark, 249n3 motherhood, 7, 251n20, 257n69 movies. See cinema Mulan (pseudonym), 67, 76, 78, 142 Nanshe (Southern Society), 21, 38, 51, 109, 255n44, 274n126 Nanyang Exhibition (Nanyang quanye hui), 149, 155, 156fig., 170, 171fig. Nanyuan hangkong xuexiao (Nanyuan Aviation School), 213 Nanzi, 111 National Products Movement (Guohuo yundong), 63–65, 66fig., 70, 265n57, 279n61 National Products Preservation Association (Guohua weichihui), 252n1 newness, 6–7 “New Approach to the Popular Press in China” project, 260n127. See also Womag Digital Project New Culture Literary Research Association, 39 New Culture movement: criticism of, in Funü shibao, 38; critique of classical writing, 20, 47; and the cultural politics of the PRC, 5; focus on new youth, 6, 250n13; “Mandarin Duck and Butterfly” critique, 4–5, 45–47; and the periodical press, 47, 91, 223; in a situated reading of Funü shibao, 45–46; view of women and the family, 49, 151, 284n9. See also May Fourth incident; Xin qingnian (New Youth) New Japan, 256n68 New Photographs of Graces (Xin jinghong ying), 180, 185–86, 188, 198, 208–9, 290n29 “new style” writing (xin wenti), 20 new-style schools, 153, 158–60, 161, 163–64, 167. See also women’s education Nihon joshi daigaku (Japan Women’s University), 200 Nihon shin fujin (New Woman), 26 1911 Revolution: in Funü shibao, 35–37, 36fig., 91, 109–10; impact on everyday life, 1, 104; women in, 36, 36fig., 94 normal schools, 150–51, 284n8. See also Zhejiang Girls’ Normal School

index Northern Expedition Army, 110 Nüer jing (Classics for daughters), 291n58 Nüwa, 268n112 Nüxue bao (Women’s Learning), 41, 100, 251n20 Nüxue ribao (Girls’ Studies Daily), 161 Nüzi cangye xuexiao (Women’s Sericulture School), 158 Nüzi junshi tuan (Women’s Military Association), 36fig., 259n108 Nüzi shijie (Women’s World), 41, 42, 153, 251n20, 252–53n10, 266n63, 287n74, 290n25 obstetrics. See childbirth; reproductive health Ogata Masakiyo, 127, 279n59 Old Sino-French Pharmacy (Zhong-Fa lao yaofang), 127 Onna no sekai (Woman’s World), 277n41 opium, 90, 270n23 – Osaka mainichi shinbun (Osaka Daily News), 256–57n68 – Oshū sensō jikki (Veritable Account of the European War), 257n68 Owen, Stephen, 275n150 paintings, 82, 252n36 Pang, Laikwan, 250n17, 260n130 pants, 190 papermaking industry, 105–6, 114 Patriotic Girls’ School (Aiguo nüxue), 286n38 Peking University, 250n12 Peltier, Thérèse, 214 pen names, 6, 13. See also pseudonyms People’s Republic of China, cultural politics of, 5 periodical press, 2–3, 3–6, 179, 223–26. See also cover art; reading strategies pharmaceuticals: advertisements for, 19, 27–28, 28fig., 51, 57fig., 58, 60fig., 124–31, 126fig., 129– 31, 130fig., 140, 163, 164fig., 206, 254n25, 257n73; Chinese and Western, 127–29; companies dispensing, 127; as luxury products, 278n46; self-medication, 130–31; for sexually transmitted diseases, 206; and women’s weakness, 163, 287n65. See also Doan’s pills; Dr. Williams’ Pink Pills for Pale People; Moon brand pills; Princess Chūjō’s Decoction; Running Blood Photographs from the Battlefield (Zhandi zhaoxiang), 186 Photographs of Beauties from the Flower World (Yanlian huaying), 190 Photographs of Shanghai Graces (Haishang jinghong ying), 180, 185–86, 197, 289n9, 290n28. See also New Photographs of Graces

341

photography: accompanying testimonials in medical ads, 124, 125fig.; advancements in 43; albums, 17, 41, 43, 45, 186; application of color, 188; in Bao Tianxiao’s editorial agenda, 32–33; battleground scenes, 43, 186, 262n147; circulation of photographs, 178, 182; with classmates, 112, 112fig.; class photographs, 43, 57, 72–73, 152fig., 157, 157fig., 159, 178, 183–85, 183fig., 184fig., 194, 290n25; and commodification, 185–87, 198; depicting working women, 95; documenting women’s experience, 79, 94; and the early Republican sexual economy, 176; editing of, 172–73, 173fig., 174fig., 178; encoding in, 188, 291n46; fanciful, 215, 217fig.; of fashionable women, 107, 107fig., 179, 258n98; and history, 178, 289n3; in intermedial approach, 223, 297n37; misreadings of, 178–79; montages, 32, 108, 188, 196–97, 202, 212, 221, 225, plate 3, plate 4, plate 7; as a pedagogical tool, 45, 262n152; of political figures, 33–34, 34fig., 35fig.; prenuptial, 182; for private use, 182; quality of, 32, 250n17; of Republican Ladies, 33, 52, 54, 95, 176, 177fig., 178–79, 181–82, 196, 225, plate 5; and sexuality, 14, 176, 188; solicitation of, 94–95, 106–8, 180; studio portraits in Western dress, 63. See also courtesan albums; courtesan portraits; Minying Photography Studio; wedding photographs photography studios, 181, 208. See also Minying Photography Studio physical education, 115, 142–43. See also Tang Jianwo Physical Education School for Girls (Zhongguo nüzi ticao xuexiao), 115, 142, 158, 163 pilots/flyers: female, 212–19, 216fig., 217fig., 296n12, plate 7; male, 296n16 poetry: ancient-style, 21; ci, 19, 95, 96fig., 165; and the dichotomy between talent and virtue, 150, 151, 163–65; devalued by Bao, 11, 108–9, 114, 166; editorial comments on, 30; expressing gender politics, 111; featured in “Wenyuan” section, 19; on foreign themes, 27; on friendship, 81, 113; new-style, 21, 255n41; preferred medium of women writers, 11, 12, 13, 69, 108–9, 165, 252n34; qilu verse form, 163, 287n64; reformers’ view of, 109, 164–65; revolutionary, 109–10, 154, 166; by students, 111; submissions of, 72, 108, 263n15; submitted by men, 67, 266n63; Tong Guang style, 21, 152, 255n42, 255n44; and women’s experience, 81

342

index

poetry talks, 166–67, 287n76 politics, 72, 90, 100, 204. See also gender politics; women’s suffrage movement poor women, 47–48, 91, 104–5, 128, 144, 146, 266n69. See also women workers popular culture fever, 226 Princess Chūjō’s Decoction (Chūjōtō), 37, 127, 140, 278n46, 279n59 private/public space for women, 12, 252n35 professional women, 53–55, 68, 78, 106, 264n24, 266n74, 278n46 prostitution: articles on, 203–5, 205–6, 256n58; Bao Tianxiao on, 206–7; discourse on, 14, 198–200; and disease, 178; distinguished from courtesans, 186, 205; fiction about, 206–7; and modernity, 293n87; in Shanghai, 289n13, 292n62; social status of, 177; terms used for, 203–4, 206. See also courtesans protests, student, 161–62 pseudonyms, 70, 71, 266n63. See also pen names publicness, 50, 161, 263n5. See also public speaking public speaking, 160–61 Pudong xiaoxue (Pudong Elementary School), 172, 288n101 Punch, 250n7 Qian Binghe, 255n39 Qian Zhixiu, 262n144 Qingnian zazhi (Youth Magazine), 17, 38, 252n7. See also Xin qingnian (New Youth) Qiu Chi, 219 Qiu Jin, 100, 109, 166, 259n106, 274nn134–7, 288n80 Qiu Ping, 74–75, 118–19, 136–38, 144 Qiu Wu Suying, 51, 71 Qu Jun (Qu Shaoheng): compared with female author, 74–75; contributor to Funü shibao, 38, 74, 119–20, 131, 132; on influence of ritual teachings on women, 140, 281n113; on menstruation, 132–33, 134fig., 139–40, 141, 281n114, 282n118; popular works on medicine, 120, 277n29; series on medical care and pharmaceuticals, 277n27; on mortality in childbirth 117, 277n27; schools and teaching materials, 119, 277n26; on training for midwives, 136 Qu Suzhen, 124, 126fig., 127, 140 Qu Yao Yingnai (Yao Yingnai), 119, 145–46, 148, 282n138 Quanguo xuetang yingxiang (Photographs of schools from across China), 186 Queen Victoria, 62 Quimby, Harriet, 214

Qushi fufu yiyuan (Dr. and Mrs. Qu Hospital), 119 “Readers’ Club” (Duzhe julebu), 30–31, 69–71 readers’ columns, 67–68, 69–71, 81, 114, 275n158. See also “Readers’ Club” readership: of Funü shibao, female, 68–69, 92, 123; of Funü shibao, geographic reach, 19; of Funü shibao, male, 39; linguistic ability, 20; of periodical press, 40, 225 reading strategies, 39, 178, 223, 226, 260n127; horizontal, 40–41, 147; integrated, 41–45, 148; situated, 45–48, 148, 224; used to determine whether author was female, 67, 72 Red Cross, 35, 91, 110, 119 reform: biomedical, 12, 78, 117–18, 119, 121, 135–38, 139, 275n5; commerce and, 6–8, 13, 33, 45, 48, 81, 115, 122–24, 129; and everyday concerns, 29–30, 74, 148, 223; education, 102, 272n92; distinguished from “revolution,” 46; and experience, 6, 81, 100; late Qing discourse on, 70–71, 100–101, 163, 251n20; marriage, 101–2; prostitution and, 177, 186, 198–99, 204, 205; Republican Ladies and, 52, 78; and women’s poetry, 150, 164–65 Ren Fang, 51, 109 “reprint fever,” 226 reproductive health: advice on self-care, 120, 143–44; of Chinese and Western women, 120, 141–42; Funü shibao as a forum for discussing, 13, 114, 119–21; institutionalization of, 74–75; modernization and, 275n5; and national health, 117–18; shifting conceptions of, 147–48; sources for essays on, 26–27, 256–57n68; tensions involving, 115–17; and women’s ignorance and sickliness, 140–41; women’s reticence about, 139–40, 142. See also childbirth; menstruation; miscarriage; Qu Jun; reform, biomedical Republican Ladies: clothing of, 187, 190–93, 193fig.; contrasted with conventional genteel women, 50; as consumers of courtesan albums, 186–87, 290–91n35; contrasted with courtesans, 176–77, 179, 188–97, 211; defining characteristics of, 49–52, 61; demographics of, 13, 48, 49–50, 50fig., 52–61, 59, 78, 122; as described in Funü shibao, 51–52; genteel demeanor of, 212; names of, with honorifics, 51, 55, 190; photographs of, 33, 52, 54, 95, 176, 177fig., 178–79, 181–82, 196, 225, plate 5; posture of, 194; sexual status of, 14, 176–78, 188. See also professional women; students

index reticence, 77, 139–40, 142, 160, 164, 286n50 Revolutionary Alliance (Tongmenghui), 38, 153, 255n44, 274n126, 285n20 revolutionary and reformist agendas, 46 riji. See diaries Riley, Denise, 251n21, 276n7 Roland, Madame, 62, 161 Rong Quan, 205 Running Blood (Zilai xue), 123, 127, 128fig. running water, 127, 128fig., 279n60 St. Ignatius Cathedral, 22 same-sex love, 182, 194, 200, 293n85 sancong (thrice following), 62 sangu liupo (three kinds of aunties and six kinds of grannies), 135, 136, 280n86 Sata Aihiko, 276n25 Scheele, Carl Wilhelm, 168 Schnell, Hannah, 62 school principals, 68, 266n72 science: domestic, 166–69; expertise versus experience in, 131–32; learned through experience, 97–100; “science trivia,” 47. See also medicine scopolamine, 139 Seitō (Bluestocking), 211, 296n136 self-deprecation, 77–78. See also modesty; reticence sewing, 167, 168 sexology, 202–3, 293n83 sexuality: articles relating to, 200–203; in courtesan photographs, 194–98; discussed by male author, 76; encoded in photographs, 188; of Republican Ladies, 14, 176–78, 188; terminology relating to, 200. See also courtesans; prostitution; reproductive health sexually transmitted diseases, 204, 206 Shanghai: as center of print culture, 4, 15, 250n12; female literacy in, 69; foreign enclaves of, 21–22, 62, 255n46; foreign firms in, 255n45; population of, 19, 253n21; publishers, 250n12 Shanghai Council on Health Education, 271n37 Shangwu yinshuguan. See Commercial Press Shanzai, 182, 203, 264n36, 293n86 Shao Piaoping: children of, 295n125; death of, 210; marriage of, 60, 209–10, 294n121, 295nn124,127; media initiatives of, 210, 295n130; Shiyong yijia jingji fa (Practical family economics), 43, 261n142, 262n143 Shao Tannan, 209 Shao Xiangsheng (Qiangsheng), 210 Shao Yi, 204, 206

343

Shen Bochen: cover art by, 24fig., 81–82, 269n5; depictions of women, 32; Xin xin baimei tu series, 22, 255n51 Shen Shuzhen, 110, 203, 204 Shen Wei, 100–101 Shen Weizhen, 144–45, 282n136 Shen Weizheng, 171–72, 265n38 Shen Xiaonai, 209–10, 295n122 Shen Yao, 110, 157 Shen Youqin, 35, 54, 56fig., 60. See also Tang Youqin Shenbao (Shanghai Journal), 206, 257n74. See also Ziyou tan Shengsheng Obstetrical School, 277n26 Shenzhou Girls’ School, 151, 152fig., 153, 213, 221, 285n22, 286n43 Shenzhou nübao (Shenzhou Women’s Journal), 18, 42, 121, 153, 221, 269n4 shi (poetry), 21, 30, 153, 263n15, 274n136. See also poetry Shi Chong, 275n145 Shi Shuyi, 201 Shibao (Eastern Times): advertisements in, 181; Bao as editor of, 16, 29, 157, 253n14; club of, 158, 208; flagship newspaper of Di Baoxian, 16, 17, 179; mentioned, 180, 253n13, 269n14; publisher of, 4, 21, 250n12; serialized “Orchid in a Quiet Valley,” 91–92, 270n32 Shihua xiaoxue (Shihua Elementary School), 288n101 Shin fujin (New Women’s Magazine), 26, 256n67 Shin Nihon (New Japan), 26 shiyan, 251n28. See also accounts of experience; experience shiyantan. See accounts of experience Shuan (pen name), 187–88, 204, 206, 256n58. See also Wu Shuan shuyu (“book residences”) as name for courtesans, 196, 292n62 Sino-British Pharmacy, 127 situated reading, 45–48, 148, 178, 224 Soeda Juichi, Practical Family Economics, 261n142 soldiers, 94. See also 1911 Revolution Song Butian, 76, 78, 202 Song Jiaoren, assassination of, 37, 110, 213, 221 Song Suhong, 47–48, 250n17, 273n105 Southern Society. See Nanshe Spencer, Herbert, 268n1 Spencer-Kavanagh, Miss (Edith Maud Cook), 214, 219 spitting, 62, 265n49

344

index

Stinson, Katherine, 213, 214–15, 216fig., 221, 296n19 Stinson School of Flying, 215 Stoner, Winifred Sackville, 98 Strand, David, 249n1; Unfinished Republic, 250n18 students: activism by, 161–62; appearing in advertisements, 57–58, 60fig.; collective identity of, 159, 161–62, 175; as contributors to Funü shibao, 59–60, 158, 264–65n37, 265n38; contrasted with older Republican Ladies, 59–61; criticized for imitating courtesans, 187–88, 190; as demographic of Republican Ladies, 13, 21, 49, 56–57, 50fig., 78; and domestic responsibility, 167–68; everyday experience of, 148; exercising, 59fig; friendships with classmates, 112–13; images of, 57, 58fig., 59fig., 84–85, 84fig., 182, 182–85, 183fig., 184fig., 290n25; laments for, 162–63; as martyrs, 75; overseas, 182, 290n25; poetry by, 110; sexuality of, 57, 178, 182–83, 187– 88; visual representations of, 57–58, 60–61. See also class photographs; women’s education Su Bennan, 155, 156fig., 157, 170 Su Benyan, 155, 156fig., 170 Su Mengyu, 155 Su sisters, 55, 155, 157, 157fig., 170 Su Xiaoxiao, 111 suibi (jottings), 98–100 suicide, 101–2 Sun Jingxun, 159–60, 258n87 Sun Lin (Kexian), 205 Sun Xiu, 275n145 Sun Yunfeng, 287n76 superstition, 101 surveys: Wanxiu’s investigation of the lives of poor women, 47–48, 91, 104–5, 128, 146, 266n69, 273n105; Zhinü qiansheng, “Survey on Women’s Lives in Shanghai,” 106, 135, 141, 146, 204–5 Suzhou, restoration of, 153, 285n20 Suzhou baihua bao (Suzhou Vernacular Journal), 20, 29, 165, 254n37 Taft, Helen Herron, 62 Taiping Rebellion, 110 Talbot, Mary Anne, 62 talent and virtue, 14, 149–50, 151, 162, 163–65, 166–67, 169–70, 173, 284n5 Tan Yankai, 284n15 Tan Zhixue, 110, 157, 158, 265n38, 274n143 tanci (rhymed stories chanted to music), 258n94, 270n23

Tang Jianwo: contributor to Funü shibao, 38, 115; “On Exercises for Women,” 142–43, 143fig.; husband of, 39; Physical Education School for Girls, 115, 142, 158; as quintessential Republican Lady, 115, 116fig. Tang Jixiu (Tang Biao), 98 Tang Linbao, 124, 125fig. Tang Min, 209 Tang Peilan, 113 Tang Qunying, 37, 259n106, 292n61 Tang Shaoyi: 34, 34fig., 202 Tang Su Bennan. See Su Bennan Tang Xiuhui: articles by, 210; contrasted with He Miaoling, 59–61; contributor to Funü shibao, 38, 67, 112–13, 210, 265n38; husband of, 43; and Jingbao (Capital Times), 210; life and marriage of, 60, 209–10, 295n127, 295n122; photographs of, 58, 60–61, 108, 112fig., 177fig., 180, 183, 183fig., 193, 209, plate 3; poetry by, 110–11, 165; and Republican sexual mores, 176, 177fig., 178; visit to courtesan quarters, 210–11, 295n133, 296n136 Tang Youqin (Shen Youqin), 50fig., 54–56, 56fig., 154 Tang Zaili, General, 35, 50fig., 54, 364n27 teachers: advertisements targeting, 163, 278n45, 287n65; Bao Tianxiao as, 31, 153, 157–58, 258n88, 286n38; as chastity martyrs, 159; featured in advertisements, 56; contributors to Funü shibao, 1, 158–59, 182, 264n36; female, 54, 55–56, 68; mentioned, 167, 171, 209; photographs of, 154fig., 155fig. Teng Chao, 43, 44fig., 215 Terada Shirō, 203 textbooks, 32, 43, 89, 98, 158, 168, 169, 172, 269n17, 291n58 Tokyo University Medical School, 279n59 Tong Guang style poetry, 21, 152, 255n42, 255n44 Tongmeng hui (Revolutionary Alliance), 38, 153, 255n44, 274n126, 285n20 tongsu wenxue (popular fiction), 3, 250n16, 251n29 translations, 23–27, 254n30, 255n55, 256n66 tuberculosis, 142, 146 Tuhua ribao (Illustrated Daily), 264n32, 290n27 Turkey, marriage practices in, 63 Tushanwan Art Studio, 22 Twenty-One Demands, 37, 110, 112, 274n145 umbrellas, 84fig., 116fig., 115, 146, 147fig., 163, 164fig., 275n2

index vernacular literature, 20–21, 47, 254n37, 255n39 Victoria Louise (daughter of Emperor Wilhelm II), 62 virtue: domestic, 166–68; material, 169–72; patriotic, 169–70. See also lijiao; morality; talent and virtue voyeurism, 70 Wang Baotang (Daxie), 52 Wang Can, 51, 109, 217, 255n41 Wang, Cheng-hua, 271n54, 291n47 Wang Duan, 287n76 Wang Dungen, 255n52 Wang Fuzhi, 152–53 Wang Jieliang: on education in the home, 169; gender of, 72–73; “The Ideal Family Model,” 76, 272n65; mentioned, 98, 265n38; photograph of, 73fig., 108; publications of, 72–73, 261n137, 286n42; on wet nurses, 145 Wang Ling (Bingjia), 80fig., 98–100, 109, 141, 166 Wang Mang, 111 Wang Wei, 275n149 Wang Yugang, 277n29 Wang Zengda, 287n78 Wanxiu: investigation of the lives of poor women, 47–48, 91, 104–5, 128, 146, 266n69, 273n105; on jealousy, 271n35; on wages of wet nurses, 146, 283nn150,151 Wanzhu xiaoxue (Wanzhu Elementary School), 288n101 wedding photographs: Chinese and Western, 8, 9fig., 10fig.; of “enlightened marriages,” 9fig., 95, 178, 202, 292n79; featuring political figures, 33–34, 34fig.; solicitation of, 107; taken by Minying studio, 181; of Tang Shouyi, 262n145; of Wei Shuji, 189, 189fig.; of Xu Zhenya, 254n30 Wei Shaochang, 263n163 Wei Shuji, 188–90, 189fig., plate 5 Weiling Gong, 111 weisheng. See hygiene wenpo (old-style midwives), 135–36 wenxue, distinguished from discursive writing, 11, 252n33 “Wenyuan” (Literary garden) section, 19, 111, 165 Western clothing, 63, 64fig., 115, 116fig., 265n57; hybrid, plate 2; sewing instructions for, 168. See also wedding photographs Western ideas, 61–63, 224 Western women, 25, 62, 70, 141, 143fig., 214 wet nurses, 105, 106, 115, 144, 145–46, 147fig., 148, 283n150

345

Widmer, Ellen, 290–91n35 Williams, Raymond, 249n2 Womag Digital Project, 260nn127,130,131 women: categories of, 49–50, 263n2; frailty of, 140–42, 161–62; and future tense, 7, 251n21; oppression of, 62–63; as parasites, 100–101, 106, 167, 288n82; terms for, 41–42, 51–52, 261n135. See also Chinese female figure; “fashionable ladies”; Republican Ladies; reproductive health; women workers Women’s Aid Society (Nüjie xiezan hui), 52–53, 53fig., 153 Women’s Army (Nüzi jun), 166 women’s club, 61, 71, 102, 131, 144, 146 “Women’s Conversation Association” (“Funü tanhua hui”), 30, 69, 70, 71, 93, 101, 213 Women’s Eastern Times. See Funü shibao women’s education: in China compared to the West, 106; elementary, 171–72, 288n101; expansion of, 150–51, 224, 284n7; family-run, 151–58, 173–75; handicrafts and, 149–50, 151; materiality in, 171–72; missionary schools, 284n9; morality and, 159–60; poetry and practical knowledge in, 165; and practical knowledge, 166–69; private and public, 13–14, 151; for prostitutes, 206; public, 158–59; readers’ proposals for, 102; as shared experience, 111–12, 159; as a source of trauma, 162; tailoring school, 286n43; talent/virtue dichotomy in, 14, 163–64, 173; tuition, 286n43; before the twentieth century, 291n58; and women’s new subject position, 159–60. See also family learning; household knowledge Women’s Federation (PRC), 280n93 Women’s Learning (Nüxue bao), 41, 100, 251n20 Women’s Lecture Society (Funü xuanjiang hui), 160 Women’s Magazine (Jogaku zasshi), 256n68, 277n41 Women’s Military Association (Nüzi junshi tuan), 36fig., 259n108 Women’s Obstetrical School, 277n26 women’s seclusion, 141–42 Women’s Sericulture School (Nüzi cangye xuexiao), 158 women’s suffrage movement: essays on, 26, 36–37, 67, 92–93, 100, 221, 257n69, 259n106; failure of, 224; leaders of, 35; mentioned, 214, 259n107, 297n33; writings by Bao on, 37 Women’s Weekly (Funü zhoubao), 297n20 Women’s World (Nüzi shijie), 41, 42, 153, 251n20, 252–53n10, 266n63, 287n74, 290n25

346

index

women workers: factory workers, 105; household workers, 105; packaging pharmaceuticals, 128–29; photographs of, 95; and readership of Funü shibao, 68; survey of, 47–48, 104–6, 146; wages of, 273n109, 283nn150,151. See also professional women Wood, Ellen, East Lynne, 92, 270n32 woodblock texts, 18, 253n17 workhouses, 206, 294n107 World of Women’s Learning (Jogaku sekai), 25, 26, 204, 256nn60,61 World War I, 33, 212, 214, 259n102, plate 7 World Wide Web, 3, 249n5 Worldwide Chinese Student Association (Huanqiu Zhongguo xuesheng hui), 50fig., 161, 285n31 Wu Dingchang, 161 Wu Huaijiu, 153, 158, 208 Wu Ruoan, 38, 202–3, 293n82 Wu, Shenqing, 273–74n123, 274n136 Wu Shuan, 65, 67, 256n58 Wu Tingfang (Zhiyong), 35, 52–53, 264n21, 265n57; marriage of, 50fig., 52 Wu Youru, 269n9, 297n24 Wu Zhenglan, 36, 67, 70. See also Gu Jiegang Wu Zhiying, 100 Wuben nüxue (Wuben Girls’ School), 153, 285n27, 288n101, 293n82 Wuzhou da yaofang (Great World Pharmacy), 124, 125fig., 127, 128fig., 129, 130fig. Xi Lu, 264n16 Xi Shi, 275n148 Xiandai jiating (Modern Family), 73 Xiaoshuo huabao (Illustrated Fiction), 21, 255n39 Xiaoshuo lin (Fiction Forest), 68, 253n14 Xiaoshuo shibao (Fiction Eastern Times), 16, 18, 33, 43, 179–80, 253n14, 258n98 Xiaoshuo yuebao (Short Story Magazine), 252n10 Xiaoyi laoliu, 209, 294n120 Xie Shuqiong, 101 Xin funü (New Woman), 47, 276n9 Xin jinghong ying. See New Photographs of Graces Xin qingnian (New Youth), 47, 250n13, 252n7, 263n158 Xin xiaoshuo (New Fiction), 258n98 Xingshi baihua bao (Time of Awakening Vernacular Journal), 257n75, 264n16 xinmin (new people), 6 Xinwenxue yanjiuhui (Journalism Study Association), 295n130 Xiong Xiling, 34, 208, 262n145

Xu Wuling, 190 Xu Xilin, 259n106 Xu Yibing, 39 Xu Yongqing: cover art by, 81–82, 83–84, 261n137, 269n5; depictions of women, 32; Western training of, 22 Xu Zhenya, 254n30 Xu Zhuodai, 39, 43, 142, 207, 225, 257n76 Xu Zihua, 100 Xue Shaohui, preface to Nüxue bao, 251n20 Xuesheng zazhi (Student Magazine), 272n70 Yan Fu, 251n28, 268n1 Yang Bomin, 153, 154fig., 155fig., 158, 208; daughters of, 166. See also Chengdong nüxue Yang Chongrui, Dr. Marion, 135; 276n9 Yang Fenruo (Bi-Yang Quanyin Fenruo), 67, 95, 96fig., 97. See also Bi Yihong Yang Guifei, 182, 290n23 Yang Xiong, 111 Yang Xuejiu, 154, 154fig. Yang Xueqiong, 56fig., 153, 154, 154fig., 155fig., 166 Yang Xueqiu, 285n29 Yang Xueyao, 50fig., 58, 154, 154fig., 160–61, 285n31. See also Yang Xuezi Yang Xuezhen, 285n29 Yang Xuezi, “Junshituan beifa gufeng” (Ancientstyle air on a military regiment’s northern expedition), 154, 166. See also Yang Xueyao Yangzhou shiri (Ten days in Yangzhou), 91 Yanlian huaying (Photographs of beauties from the flower world), 180, 185–86, 208, 289n9, 290n28 Yao Shizi, 109 Yao Yingnai (Qu Yao Yingnai), 119, 145–46, 148, 282n138 Yaohua zhaoxiang hao (Glorious Photography Studio), 181 Ye Shengtao, 39, 288nn94,96; “Ertong zhi guannian” (Children’s perceptions), 169 Ye Tianxi, 108 Yeh, Catherine, 289n9, 289n12, 291n36 Yijing (Book of changes), 200 Yiqing bieshu, 209, plate 6 Yixue shijie (Medical World), 280n91 Youth Magazine (Qingnian zazhi), 17, 38, 252n7. See also Xin qingnian (New Youth) Youxi bao (Entertainment), “Courtesan Competition” column, 179 Youzheng shuju (Youzheng Book Company): ad placement by, 172; founding of, 252n4; illustrations for classroom use, 45; mentioned,

index 31, 122, 253n11; photography albums and art publications, 17, 43–44, 178, 180, 185–86, 207–8, 258n97, 262n147, 290n28; print studio of, plate 6; publishing arm of Shibao print conglomerate, 16–17, 225. See also Minying Photography Studio Yu Shen Shou, 108, 170, 170fig. Yü Daifu, 271n47 Yuan Jin, 271n37 Yuan Shikai: censorship by, 17, 42, 90; imperial restoration attempt, 46; mentioned, 35, 38, 119, 213; opposition to, 33–34, 35fig., 37, 42, 259n104; policies of, 37; and the Twenty-One Demands, 37, 110, 274n145; women’s views of, 110–11; women under, 37, 50–51, 53, 150, 161, 224 Yueguang tiewan (Moon brand pills), 58, 60fig., 124, 163 Yun Daiying: as activist, 260n126; contributed to Eastern Miscellany, 262n144; contributor to Funü shibao, 38, 253n24; “On Family Education,” 77, 97–98, 169, 272n65; publications of, 260n122; reader of Funü shibao, 39, 253n24, 260n126; “Self Blame,” 98, 272n70; views on breastfeeding, 282n141 Yuxian Girls’ School, 159 Yuxing (Entertainment), 18 Zeng Guofan, 98 Zeng Mengpu (Zeng Pu), 17, 252n9 Zeng Yi, 53–54, 65, 67; “Zhongkui lu” (A wife’s guide to the Chinese culinary arts), 54, 226 Zhan Kai, 253n10 Zhang Chu (Shujia), 213 Zhang Garden (Shanghai), 172, 173fig., 174fig., 179, 181 Zhang Hongyi, 33, 58, plate 1 Zhang Huiru, plate 3 Zhang Mojun (Zhaohan): activism of, 153; as authority on women’s education, 151–52, 152fig., 169, 284n12; Baihua caotang shiji (Poems from the White Flower Thatched Cottage), 255n43; contributor to Funü shibao, 38, 67, 214–15; education of, 152–53; family of, 152–53; founder of Shenzhou Women’s Journal, 42, 55; on household knowledge, 169; member of Southern Society, 109, 274n127; oil paintings by, 149, 170, 171fig.; poetry of, 21, 111, 113, 152, 165, 285n17; and Qiu Jin, 109, 274n135; sister of Zhang Xiahun, 108, 213, 214–15, 221–22, 296n2; in Victorian dress, 64fig.

347

Zhang Qunying (Tang Qunying), 37, 259n106, 292n61 Zhang Tongdian, 152–53 Zhang Xiahun: columns on, 213–15; marriage of, 221–22; photographs of, 43, 44fig., 212, 216fig., 221, 222fig., 225, 297n20, plate 7. See also Zhang Mojun Zhang Xue, 275n149 Zhang Yangyuan, 98 Zhang Yibao, 56fig. Zhang Yihan, 30, 258n85 Zhang Yonglian, 77, 105 Zhang Yuanji, 29–30 Zhang Zhaohan (Mojun). See Zhang Mojun Zhang Zhaolin, 257n75 Zhang Zhaosi, 61, 78, 102, 144, 146, 258n87 Zhang Zhu Hanfen, 61, 64, 182, 188, 190 Zhang Zhujun, 35, 110 Zhang Zhuoqun, 36, 36fig., 94, 106, 259n108 Zhang Zuolin, 210 Zhao Erxun, 294n107 Zhejiang Girls’ Normal School (Zhejiang nüzi shifan xuexiao), 60, 113, 150, 183fig., 209, 295n122; drawings and handicrafts at, 149, 150fig., 170, 172 Zheng Zhenduo, 255n55 Zhijia quanshu (Comprehensive volume on regulating the household), 43 Zhong-Fa da yaofang (Great China-France Drugstores), 257n76 Zhong-Xi nüxuetang (Sino-Western Girls’ School), 56 Zhong-Xi yixue yanjiu hui (Society for the Study of Chinese and Western Medicine), 38, 121 Zhongguo jiaoyu gaijinshe (Chinese Educational Reform Association), 152 Zhongguo nüzi shuhua hui (Chinese Women’s Painting and Calligraphy Society), 154 Zhongguo nüzi ticao xuexiao (Physical Education School for Girls), 115, 142, 158, 163 Zhongguo xin nüjie zazhi (Magazine of the New Chinese Woman), 41, 269n4, 290n25 Zhonghua Book Company, 42, 253n15 Zhonghua funü jie (Chinese Women), 42, 73, 87, 189, 189fig., 261n137 Zhonghua guohua weichihui (Chinese National Products Preservation Association), 252n1 Zhonghua minghua ji (Famous Chinese Paintings), 258n97 Zhongjiangtang (Chūjōtō). See Princess Chūjō’s Decoction

348

index

Zhou Shoujuan: contributor to Funü shibao, 39, 260n123; on female pilots, 214, 219; future role in film, 43; wrote for Jiankang jiating (Healthy Home), 225; sympathetic portrait of courtesans, 203, 205; on women’s poetry, 166; translation of fiction, 254n30 Zhu Bolu, 98 Zhu Guixin (Qiqian), 202 Zhu Huizhen: argued for a vernacular column, 20; contributions to “Readers’ Club,” 70; essay on marriage customs, 101; on school principals, 68; view of Funü shibao, 51; “The Woman of Qishi,” 109, 258n87, 274n137; wrote

winning essay “Marriage Customs in My Native Place,” 67, 92 Zhu Jin, 221 Zhu Jingyan, 38, 62, 93–94, 97–98, 102–3, 272n64 Zhu Kezhen, 221–22 Zhu Mei, 221 Zhu Meier, 205 Zhu Wenxiu (Wenya), 210 Zhuang Fanshi, 38 Zhuang lineage of Piling, 201, 292n71 Zhuangzi, 219, 297n31 Zilai xue (Running Blood), 123, 127, 128fig. Ziyou tan, 42, 255n52, 261n140