Gossip is never cynical; even if the thing in question is nothing but empty rumors, the utmost care is still put into their creation. Baseless and unreliable as these rumors may be, they are not without a certain warmth of feeling. They mind their own business: whatever others may say, they will stick to their version — to them even settled opinions are taken under advisement. It is not that gossip takes a different political view, but that it does not take any political view; in fact, it lacks the most basic knowledge about politics. Always going by back roads and entering through side doors, it does not stand in opposition to society — it forms its own society. As far as society is concerned, these are small and inconsequential things, like twigs and knots on a tree. And precisely because society never takes these things seriously, they are able to maneuver unseen through the darkness and have their way. Combined together, they constitute a power that should not be underestimated, in the way that a butterfly beating its wings here can cause a hurricane in a faraway place.
Rumors deviate from traditional moral codes but never claim to be antifeudal. Like a true bum, they chip away at the foundations of public decency. They wouldn’t hesitate to pull the emperor down off his horse — not in order to install a new republic, but merely as an act of defiance. Despising revolutionaries and counterrevolutionaries alike, they themselves are consistently slighted and deserted by both sides. Indeed, there is not a presentable one in the whole lot — if there were, they could be promoted to the level of “public opinion,” where they could advance into the open. Instead, they have to be content with making secret maneuvers under the cover of darkness. They care not that they are mere whispers in people’s ears; they’ll make their home wherever their wanderings take them, having no conception of what it means to build an enterprise. These are creatures without ambition, holding out no hopes; in fact, they do not even have the ability to think. All they have is the natural capacity to cause trouble and make mischief; they grow and reproduce in complete ignorance. They reproduce at quite startling rates, hatching all at once like spawn. Their methods of reproduction are also varied; sometimes linear, like a chain of interlocking rings, at other times concentric, like a suite of riddles. They spread through the city air like a pack of down-at-the-heel vagrants. But the truth is, gossip is one of the things that make this city so romantic.
What makes gossip romantic is its unbridled imagination. With the imagination completely free from all fetters, gossip can leap through the dragon’s gate and squeeze through the dog’s den. No one is better at making up stories, telling lies, and wagging its tongue than gossip. It also has boundless energy — nothing can kill it dead. Wildfires burn but, come spring, the grass will grow again. Like the lowliest of seeds, gossip is carried by the wind to sprout and bloom in between rocks. It works its way into every crack, even getting behind the heavy curtains of ladies’ boudoirs, where it floats amid the embroidery needles in the young mistress’s pincushions; and lingers among the tear-stained pages of those heartwrenching novels the schoolgirl reads in her spare time. As the clock on the table ticks, gossip stretches itself out, even filling the basin where milady washes her rouge away. It thrives in the most secret of places: a clandestine atmosphere is particularly beneficial to its development.
The longtang of Shanghai are very good at protecting their privacy, allowing gossip to prosper and proliferate. Deep in the night, after everyone has turned out their lights, there is a narrow patch of light peeking out through the crack under someone’s door — that is gossip. The pair of embroidered shoes in the moonlight beside the bed — that too is gossip. When the old amah, carrying her box of toiletries, says she is going out to comb her hair, she is actually off to spread gossip. The clatter of young wives shuffling mahjong tiles — that is the sound of gossip. Sparrows hopping around deserted courtyards on winter afternoons chirp about gossip. The word “self” is embedded into gossip; and within this word “self” there is an unmentionable pain. This bottled-up pain is different from what the Tang emperor felt at the death of Yang Guifei or the King of Chu for his beloved concubine. It is not the kind of grand and heroic suffering that moves heaven and earth, but base and lowly, like pebbles and dirt, or the tentacles of ivy creeping stealthily out of bounds.
The longtang of Shanghai are incapable of harboring the kind of suffering that inspires legends. The pain is broken up and evenly allocated throughout the city, so that each person ends up with a small share. Even when they suffer deep sorrow, its inhabitants keep it down inside their bellies; they do not put it on stage for people to admire, nor do they make it into lyrics to be sung by others. Only they themselves know where it comes from and whither it goes. They alone carry its burden. This is also where the word “self” comes into play, and herein, incidentally, lies the true meaning of sorrow. Therefore we can say that gossip is painful; even if the pain does not arise from proper causes, it is still excruciating. The pain is suffered individually, eliciting no sympathy — a lonely pain. This is also what is moving about gossip. The moment that gossip is born is actually the moment that people are trying their hardest to conduct themselves properly. The people in Shanghai’s longtang neighborhoods conduct themselves with the utmost attention and care; all their energy is directed to the way they carry themselves. Their eyes are focused exclusively on themselves, and they are never distracted by their surroundings. They don’t want to create a place for themselves in history: they want to create themselves. Without being ambitious, they expend every ounce of what strength they have. This strength, too, is evenly allocated. Everyone has his fair share.
The Young Lady’s Bedchamber
In the longtang apartments of Shanghai, the young lady’s bedchamber is usually located in one of the side rooms, or in the tingzijian, the tiny room off the landing. But no matter where her bedroom is, its window is never directly exposed to the sun and the flowery curtains are always drawn. When they are pulled open, you can look straight through to the front living room of the apartment in the rear; you may even see the couple who live there, along with the oleander in their courtyard. This vestal bedchamber is far from cloistered. Living in the adjacent tingzijian is perhaps an intern working at a foreign firm, an unemployed college graduate, or maybe even the latest dancing girl on the Shanghai nightclub scene.
The back alleys are the setting for all kinds of unsavory goings-on. The salty language of the old amah is heard along with the rickshaw coolie’s dirty slang. The shady buddies of the college graduate next door and the dancer’s girlfriends pass through regularly. In the middle of the night, listening to the creak of back doors opening and closing, you can imagine all kinds of scandals. Take, for instance, the couple in the living room across the way: who can say for sure that they are husband and wife? They may very well be a pair of illicit lovers on the brink of discovery; a few days later, a knock comes at the door, and all the neighbors will hear the sound of shattering glass and furniture being broken. The worst thing that can happen is to have a rich family at the far end of the longtang with a daughter attending Zhongxi Middle School or one of the other prestigious girls’ schools in the city. Their private luxury car will always be coming or going through the big black gate, and whenever they have a Christmas or birthday party, piano music will ring out. The young lady’s bedroom there is to be completely different from all the others, inevitably giving rise to feelings of resentment and desire. One could say that resentment and desire are the root of all evil in a young lady’s world. What would be the fate of a girl — as pure and delicate as a flower pistil — whose bedchamber is situated in such a place of chaos, noise, and confusion?