Dorothy Ko - Cinderella's Sisters - A Revisionist History of Footbinding-University of California Press (2005)
Dorothy Ko - Cinderella's Sisters - A Revisionist History of Footbinding-University of California Press (2005)
May not be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except fair uses permitted
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
B O O K
C I N D E R E L L A’ S S I S T E R S
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
C I N D E R E L L A’ S
SISTERS
a revisionist history of footbinding
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
DOROTHY KO
Ko, Dorothy.
Cinderella’s sisters : a revisionist history
of footbinding / Dorothy Ko.
p. cm.
“Philip E. Lilienthal Asian Studies imprint”
Includes bibliographical references and index.
isbn 0-520-21884-1 (alk. paper).
1. Footbinding—China. I. Title:
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
gt498.f66k55 2005
391.4'13'0951—dc22 2005002626
to susan mann,
who blazes intellectual trails,
opens institutional doors,
and builds emotional shelters
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
CONTENTS
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS / ix
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS / xi
NOTES ON CONVENTIONS / xv
Introduction / 1
6. Cinderella’s Dreams:
The Burden and Uses of the Female Body / 187
Epilogue / 227
NOTES / 231
GLOSSARY / 293
INDEX / 321
ILLUSTRATIONS
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
There are no compelling reasons why this book, as incomplete and frag-
mentary as it may still remain, could have taken so long. I can only take
comfort in the fact that the process—like any good adventure—has been
riveting, humbling, and life-changing.
Always the visionary, Hal Kahn was there in the front row during the first
public presentation of my revisionist views on footbinding on May 20, 1994.
If he had not tapped me on my shoulder with excitement in his eyes as I
returned to my hot seat, I might not have gone ahead.
I have not been alone. Susan Mann has always been there with me, for
me, and ahead of me with her musings on sentiments and texts. Charlotte
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
Furth has thought about the tricky business of knowing the history of bod-
ies from language frontally, backward, and upside down. Suzanne Cahill
brings poetics to the phenomenological bodies of Tang Daoist women; no-
body else I know has pondered gravity with more grace. Judith Zeitlin, in
evoking the ephemeral beauty of haunting and hankerings, brings us closer
to the truth. Bonnie Smith indulges us in fantastic and brilliant obsessions,
the stuª that history is made of. If they had not cleared the path, I would
still be in the bushes.
Footbinding is nowhere but everywhere. Every historian and, in partic-
ular, every anthropologist seems to have a hidden foot buried in her archives
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS xii
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or field notes. So when word got out that I was interested in the subject,
friends and strangers began to send bundles of materials. They include Ina
Asim, Mary Buck, Michael Chang, Ding Yizhuang, Madeleine Yue Dong,
Mark Elliott, Susan Fernsebner, Joshua Fogel, Po-shek Fu, Joshua Goldstein,
Marta Hansen, Clara Ho Wing-chung, Jackie Armijo-Huessin, Rebecca
Karl, Man-Bun Kwan, Nhi Lieu, Tobie Meyer-Fong, Qian Nanxiu, Evelyn
Rawski, Ruth Rogaski, Matthew Sommer, Reiko Suetsugu, Ann Waltner,
Wang Zheng, Xu Xueqing, Setsuko Yanagida, Judy Yung, and Zhang Enhua.
Chiu-min Lin and Sakamoto Hiroko, fellow-travelers in the history of foot-
binding, generously shared their own publications.
I have had many opportunities to discuss my work with engaged and engag-
ing audiences. I am grateful to my colleagues who invited me to workshops,
conferences, and talks at Yale University; the Institute of Modern History at
the Academia Sinica, National Taiwan University; the American Museum of
Natural History; Washington University, St. Louis; Haverford College; the
University of Pittsburgh; the Arthur M. Sackler Gallery; Princeton Uni-
versity; the University of Chicago; the University of Washington; the Univer-
sity of California, Los Angeles; the University of Michigan; the Institute for
Advanced Study, Princeton; the Metropolitan Museum, New York; the Uni-
versity of California, Davis; the University of Toronto; Franklin & Marshall
College; the Pembroke Center at Brown University; The China Institute;
Würzburg University; Peking University; Nanjing University; and others.
At each of these occasions I have met colleagues who are generous with
their time and insights. I have also met men and women who were visibly
oªended and distressed by my suggestion that condemnation of footbind-
ing need not be our only response. I was always challenged but never at-
tacked; for the forbearance and indulgence of my audiences I am most thank-
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
cluding stages of this project. Executive Dean Richard Foley and Dean Barry
Qualls at Rutgers, as well as Provost Elizabeth Boylan at Barnard, have been
supportive of my work in numerous ways.
Appreciation is due to my respected colleagues and friends Rey Chow,
Hsiung Ping-chen, Benjamin Elman, Susan Naquin, Francesca Bray, and
Louisa Schein for their timely advice and unfailing support. Charlotte Furth
and William Rowe, first and last readers of the complete book manuscript,
have been incisive, honest, and kind. Their responses were invaluable to my
process of revision. I am grateful to Veronica Jerng, Nancy Norton Tomasko,
Zhao Feng, Gao Jianzhong, Régine Thiriez, and Lewis Stein for providing
some of the artwork and artifacts reproduced in this book, and again to Dr.
Thiriez for her expert help in dating photographs. It is also a pleasure to ac-
knowledge Ye Wa, Valerie Steele, Angela Leung, Ellen Widmer, Kang-i Sun
Chang, Hua Wei, Lin Wei-hung, Li Hsiao-t’i, Liu Ching-cheng, Lee Jender,
Hu Siao-chen, Kishimoto Mio, Oki Yasushi, Dieter Kuhn, Du Fangqin, Deng
Xiaonan, Zhang Hongsheng, He Yun’ao, and Xu Yiyi for gifts of inspiring
books and pleasurable company in disparate parts of the world.
My journey into the world of shoes and other objects was guided by the
exquisite tastes and fabulous collections of Dr. Chi-sheng Ko, Mrs. Sonja Bata
of the Bata Shoe Museum, Yang Shaorong, Glenn Roberts, Xie Yanfang,
Don J. Cohn, and Jonathan Hay. During the most productive periods of writ-
ing, I benefited from the research assistance of Lai Ying-yu in Taipei and Mei
Mei in Nanjing. Sheila Levine at the University of California Press has sup-
ported this project from its inception and guided it to the finish line.
Although my mother did not live to see this book, the unconditional sup-
port that she and my father have provided makes all the diªerence. To my
friends Lauren Lazin, Syou-ling Fu, and Cynthia Perry—powerful women
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
all, with a firm grip on reality—thank you for not letting go.
NOTES ON CONVENTIONS
1. All ages are given in Chinese rendering, which assumes a person to be one
year old (sui) when born.
2. In China, as elsewhere, units of measurement were not consistent. One Chi-
nese inch (cun), for instance, may vary in length from dynasty to dynasty
or from one region to another during the same period. Diªerent scales could
also coexist in one locale simultaneously. Therefore, linear measurements
referred to in Chinese texts are simply translated without conversion.
Hence, 1 chi (Chinese foot) is rendered 1 foot; 3 cun, 3 inches. The subunit
fen is rendered 0.1 inch. An exception is made for li, which appears in ro-
manized form instead of “mile.” The span designated by one li varies con-
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
siderably with time and locale; in 1929 it was standardized to 500 meters.
3. To avoid confusion, the contemporary measurement of, say, a shoe from
the Song dynasty is given first in the metric system, followed by conversion
to the American inch in parentheses: 21 cm (8.4 inches).
4. Units of weight measurement are translated without conversion. Hence, 2
liang is rendered 2 ounces. Since there are 10 qian to 1 liang, 3 qian is ren-
dered 0.3 ounces.
ABBREVIATIONS
The following abbreviations are used in the text and the notes:
CFL IV Yao Lingxi, comp. Caifeilu sibian. Tianjin: Tianjin shuju, 1938.
CFXB Yao Lingxi, comp. Caifei xinbian. Tianjin: Tianjin shuju, 1941.
INTRODUCTION
agency and subjectivity not only in the world that the pain destroyed, but
also in the subsequent unfolding and creation of meanings: for each woman,
footbinding was an ongoing process, just as each body was located in a
specific time and place. Therein lies the possibility of a history.
The thesis of this book is that there is not one footbinding but many. In
the nineteenth to twentieth centuries, each region and often each village
featured its own way of binding, rituals, and shoe styles. Unfortunately we
do not have the data to document the development of this spatial diversity.
We will see, however, that people in successive historical periods from the
twelfth to the nineteenth centuries wrote about footbinding in vastly diªer-
ent ways, even as they remained faithful to a rich repertoire of classical allu-
sions and generic conventions. These textual fractures and developments,
not to mention the myriad ways to name the practice in Chinese, are sug-
gestive of the multiple and contested meanings of footbinding in each
period. Also evident is the extent to which the practice, its rationale, and
its reception changed over time during its almost millennium-long spread
across class and geographical boundaries.
Powerful minds have applied themselves to the explanation of footbind-
ing. Most influential is perhaps Freud’s psychological-sexual explanation.
Fetishism, Freud wrote in his 1927 essay, involves a man’s projection of his
castration anxieties onto the body of the woman. In searching futilely for
the mother’s penis, the boy invests substitute body parts—the foot, the shoe,
hair—with eroticized meanings. Footbinding is thus a symbol of the cas-
tration of woman.4
Equally notable is the sociologist Thorstein Veblen’s theory of so-called
“conspicuous consumption,” which traces the development of the Amer-
ican leisure class on an evolutionary scheme. The feminine ideal at the stage
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
extensive fieldwork in Sichuan and Fujian, Gates has developed the argu-
ment that in China’s “petty capitalist” mode of production, a woman made
important but unacknowledged contributions to the household economy.
The binding of feet, which made the women appear wasted, allowed the
patriarchs to mask the value of female labor. Peasant women with bound
feet routinely performed such tasks as spinning and weaving, oyster shuck-
ing, and tea picking, which required strength and skills in her hands but
not her feet. Footbinding lost its raison d’être when factory-based textile
production replaced home-based spinning and weaving.6
Following this line of inquiry that seeks to restore value and visibility to
female domestic labor, Bossen has provided a fascinating account of eco-
nomic change in a remote Yunnan village, where virtually every woman had
bound feet at the turn of the century. “If homemade cloth was no longer
economically competitive, the underlying reason for footbinding disap-
peared.” Hence the practice went into decline around 1925–35, when even
the last form of domestic textile production, specialized weaving, ceased to
be profitable, and women were drafted to perform such heavy labor as porter-
age, mining, road construction, and rice farming. Both Gates and Bossen
have argued that the decision to start and stop binding was made on eco-
nomic calculations alone; Gates has gone as far as to suggest that footbind-
ing in Sichuan was a “cultureless custom.” 7
Less theorized but perhaps most influential is a powerful ethnographic
voice derived from interviews with women with bound feet in the recent
past. Call it the “marrying-up” thesis. One of the earlier voices heard in this
regard is that of Ning Lao-t’ai-t’ai (b. 1867), the daughter of a cake-peddler
in Shandong, who told interviewer Ida Pruitt that “Match-makers were not
asked ‘Is she beautiful?’ but ‘How small are her feet?’ A plain face is given
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
by heaven but poorly bound feet are a sign of laziness.”8 Also couched in
terms of “only servants have big feet,” this explanation is built on the recog-
nition that marriage constituted the best if not the only avenue for female
self-advancement. Bound feet, a ticket to a brighter future for the bride and
her family, translated into “good destiny” or social prestige.
As illuminating as these economic, social, symbolic, and psychological
explanations are, in the end they fall short because they assume that foot-
binding is a uniform and timeless practice motivated by a single cause. But
footbinding is too enduring and widespread to be subsumed under one de-
scriptive or explanatory framework. Fetishism may explain how some Chi-
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INTRODUCTION 4
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nese men—and many modern Western men and women—have lodged their
sexual fantasies in the erotic paintings or small shoes they collect.9 But it
distorts the cosmology wrought of place, things, and flowery words that
structured elite male desires during footbinding’s heyday.
Veblen’s theory of conspicuous leisure, in turn, makes such intuitive sense
that few readers have questioned the validity of placing medieval China in
the same industrial developmental stage as Victorian England or America.
Nonetheless, it has explanatory power for the early history of footbinding,
when small feet remained a privilege reserved for entertainers and wives who
served the same class of elite men. In contrast, the mystification of labor
and marrying-up theses are applicable primarily for the modern period—
after footbinding had undergone a sea change in its social composition—
when the majority of practitioners were peasant women.10
The manufacturing of footbinding as a uniform subject by dismissing
contending points of view as “feudal” is the most enduring legacy of the
modern anti-footbinding movement. The di‹culties involved in writing a
bona fide history of footbinding stem in part from this modern bias: we are
accustomed to viewing footbinding only from an anti-footbinding per-
spective. If my quest for the submerged voices and an alternative history is
to succeed, it can only do so by resisting the totalizing impulse, the over-
simplification, and the moralistic tones that structure our present knowl-
edge of footbinding.
Joan Scott has cautioned that a historian needs “analytic distance” from
her subject, because “a feminist history that takes for granted the inevitabil-
ity of progress, [and] the autonomy of individual agents . . . reproduces
without interrogation the terms of the ideological discourse within which
feminism has operated.” 11 Situating myself outside the anti-footbinding en-
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
This book begins with the end of footbinding as a social practice and moves
backward in time, ending with the height of its cultural prestige and erotic
appeal. My reason for this inverted chronology is that our present knowl-
edge about footbinding is derived almost entirely from the perspectives and
literature of the anti-footbinding movement, as outlined in Part I. Begin-
ning with the end may help clear the ground for alternative ways of seeing
and knowing.
Chapter 1 focuses on the birth of the category of “natural feet” (tianzu).
Not only did it introduce a view of the body as a machine, it also facilitated
the visualization of a new global reality in the late nineteenth century. As
part of an enlightenment discourse, tianzu was instrumental to the imag-
ining of a nascent Chinese nation. Chapter 2 turns to examine the imple-
mentation of the tianzu message in local schools and village homes in the
Letting-feet-out ( fangzu) campaigns in the 1900s–1930s, where the abstract
doctrine encountered the resistance of stubborn bodies. Chapter 3 analyzes
the new knowledge and desires generated in an encyclopedic compilation,
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
Picking Radishes (Caifeilu), popular in the treaty ports in the 1930s. The un-
timely obsession of its editors and readers signaled the extinguishing of foot-
binding’s aura in modern China.
If Part I could not have been written without the explosion of textual
and visual documentation of footbinding in the nineteenth and twentieth
centuries, Part II examines the various strategies of concealment that con-
stituted and perpetuated its aura and mystique from the twelfth to early nine-
teenth centuries.
Chapter 4 seeks to map the discursive limits of a debate on the origins of
footbinding waged by philologists in the seventeenth to nineteenth centuries.
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INTRODUCTION 6
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PART ONE
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
GIGANTIC HISTORIES OF
THE NATION IN THE GLOBE
The last assembly line of the last factory producing shoes for bound feet
ground to a halt in November 1999. Using eight pairs of wooden lasts, old
craftsmen in the Zhiqiang Shoe Factory in Harbin had been making three
hundred pairs of “lotus shoes” annually since 1991, but lately over half of
the inventory had languished in the warehouse. The customers were all more
than eighty years old and dwindling fast. In a solemn ceremony, the factory
donated the lasts to the Heilongjiang Museum of Ethnography. A curator
voiced a widely shared sentiment: “The ‘three-inch golden lotus’ is a his-
torical testament to the bodily and psychological damage that women suf-
fered in feudal society. The sad songs of small feet would never be sung
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
again; so much pain and tears are etched on the wooden lasts.” A reporter
echoed: “Something as tiny as the lasts stands as a testament to the progress
of Chinese women from being oppressed to being given a new life” (em-
phases mine).1
Both the tone and terminology of the article are familiar; condemnation
and pity are the only acceptable ways of discoursing on small feet in mod-
ern China. The sense of relief is palpable and heartfelt—as a remnant of a
feudal past, footbinding can finally be relegated to the museum. Yet under-
neath the disavowal there lurks a wistfulness, as evinced by the repeated use
of historical “testament.” The wooden lasts bear a contradictory witness, to
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THE BODY EXPOSED 10
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past oppression and present liberation. Let bygones be bygones, but we can-
not and should not forget. Footbinding as a haunting has been useful to the
project of envisioning a modern China. It had to be present, displayed, and
reiterated as modernity’s Other.
This disquiet continues to ignite the potency and relevance of the sub-
ject. The “Culture Fever” in the mid- to late-1980s that ensued from Deng
Xiaoping’s reforms prompted renewed interest in traditional culture, re-
sulting in a glut of books and articles on footbinding in the 1990s that are
cut from the same cloth. In these works, the bound foot remains a short-
hand for all that was wrong with traditional China: oppression of women,
insularity, despotism, and disregard for human rights.2 Such reflections on
the past are grounded in the present, aªording a progressive view of his-
tory: things are getting better; our lives are freer than theirs. One troubling
aspect of this view of history is encapsulated in the passive voice used by
the reporter: women were so oppressed that they could not save themselves.
Liberation depended on a bestowal of new life from a reformist state or the
educated elite.
This degrading view of women with bound feet, a hallmark of the mod-
ern nationalist discourse, has seldom been challenged by feminist or Marx-
ist scholars who share many of the nationalist’s modernist assumptions about
freedom and agency. Curiously, a subject as incendiary as footbinding has
thus been the most uncontroversial issue in and out of China. In troubling
this consensus, it is essential to first examine the extent to which the imag-
inations of a modern Chinese nation were rooted in the rhetoric of “natu-
ral feet” and the social campaigns of the anti-footbinding movement in the
last quarter of the nineteenth century. We begin, therefore, with the end.
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
steadily on the level of individual lives as national time and global time, his-
tories external to the women’s bodies, hurried ahead by leaps and bounds.
This simple fact dictates that no state decree or social movement can truly
end footbinding until the individual lives have expired one by one. The
“voice” of these women—not articulated voices but murmurs from within
their bodies—arose from an ambiguous space between individual and na-
tional histories. How do we hear them, in multiple tones and pitches, when
the language they speak is often a language not of words but of the body,
and is thus alien to us?
Anti-footbinding legislation and campaigns belong to the realm of “gigan-
tic history.” Since they are traceable through public documents and amenable
to the methods of political and social history, it is not surprising that they
have been widely analyzed. But Susan Stewart has reminded us that there are
two kinds of history: “We find the miniature at the origin of private, indi-
vidual history, but we find the gigantic at the origin of public and natural
history.” We know the miniature only as the contained, “a spatial whole or
temporal parts,” whereas the gigantic is the container.5 Likewise, there are
two rhythms of women’s history in China, one private-individual and the
other public-national. We have mistaken the latter as the only narrative be-
cause the voices in it are familiar to us and require little translation, con-
tained as they are by narratives of the nation with which we can identify.
We have heard the voice of the modern woman in Qiu Jin (1875–1907),
the knight-errant who denounced footbinding, left her marriage, traveled to
Japan, cross-dressed as Charlie Chaplin for the camera, and became a mar-
tyr for the republican revolution. We have also celebrated the career of Ding
Ling (1904–86), who took lovers, traveled to Yanan, and became the resi-
dent feminist writer of the communist revolution.6 Theirs were journeys of
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
the romantic hero in quest of personal and national salvation. In their pathos
of political activism, self-realization, and sexual yearnings, we have found
images of our cherished selves. We have thus succumbed to the seduction
of their rhetoric: they speak the language of individual freedom and self-
determination, but this individualism is in fact a reflected ideal that has no
life outside the nationalist discourse. Their female voices were contained by,
and were speaking in the terms of, the gigantic history of the nation.7
There are many other female speaking selves on the margins of or out-
side gigantic history. Those of the illiterate footbound women constitute
one example.8 Their voices, however, are not immediately audible to us. Two
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GIGANTIC HISTORIES 13
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bound feet, remained concrete and visible. The footbound woman in mod-
ern China is thus a remnant; her presence demands attention and analysis,
not condemnation. For it is in the corporeality of her presence that we seek
her “agency,” in conjunction with what she purportedly wrote or said. In
focusing on the cerebral voices of women writers and activists, our current
picture of the range of experiences and subjectivities of women in modern
China is woefully incomplete and disembodied.
If eªorts to end footbinding were complicated by the stubbornness of in-
dividual bodies, the “end” should be seen not as an unequivocal moment
but a confusing period of bind-unbind-bind-unbind. Somehow during the
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THE BODY EXPOSED 14
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The invention of the term “natural feet” or “heavenly feet” (tianzu)—as the
antithesis of “bound feet” (chanzu, guozu)—marked the point of no return
in the cultural and social demise of footbinding. The public use of the En-
glish term can be traced to one morning in 1875 in the southern treaty port
of Amoy ( Xiamen), when Rev. John MacGowan presided over a meeting
that led to the formation of the Heavenly Foot Society. MacGowan (d. 1922),
of the London Missionary Society, first arrived in Amoy on the heels of the
Second Opium War, which opened up five treaty ports to foreign commerce
and the interior to missionary penetration in 1860. Almost immediately, he
and his wife learned firsthand the evils of footbinding when the shrieks of
a neighbor’s daughter pierced the walls. Mrs. MacGowan hurried over to
intervene, only to be greeted by a lecture from the girl’s mother: “But you
are an Englishwoman, and you do not understand the burden that is laid
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
upon us women of China. This footbinding is the evil fortune that we in-
herit from the past, that our fathers have handed down to us, and no one
in all this wide Empire of ours can bring us deliverance.” If the daughter
did not have her feet bound, “she would be laughed at and despised and
treated as a slave-girl.”10
The Reverend did not forget. Fifteen years later, prompted by a divine
revelation, he called a meeting of all the women who attended Christian
churches in Amoy. Amidst warnings of a riot in the city—so threatening
was the idea of a female assembly—sixty to seventy showed up, all unedu-
cated women of the working class according to MacGowan. After the Rev-
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GIGANTIC HISTORIES 15
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MacGowan: “Looking around the world today, no women other than those
in China bind their feet. This shows that when God made men, there was
no divergence in the shape of male and female feet. This [lack of gender
disparity] is a principle applicable to the past as to the present.” China was
thus uniquely barbaric in world time and geography. Reverend Ye’s argu-
ment then turned to the body’s utility: “When God created human beings,
He intended the four limbs and five senses to be put to their appropriate
uses. This is true for both males and females.” Footbinding is a manmade
contrivance, analogous to the tower of Babel, that paraded human wisdom
as superior to that of God. It is thus a sinful act.17
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GIGANTIC HISTORIES 17
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crimination. Whatever its origins, tianzu (natural unbound feet) has thus
remained the most poignant symbol of national self-determination, from
its inception through the early years of the republic and unto today.
In the early years of the Republic, Chinese writers made various attempts
to “nationalize” the origins and history of the anti-footbinding movement.
Among them, the man of letters Xu Ke (1869–1928) oªered a China-centered
narrative of the birth of tianzu as a category and a social movement. Xu,
author of “A Survey of Natural Feet” (“Tianzu kaolüe”) and its sequel,
“Words of Knowing Feet” (“Zhizu yu”; zhizu is a pun meaning content-
ment and knowing feet) opened with the familiar global gaze: “Women of
our country are known throughout the world for their bound feet, which
has long been criticized by the people in Europe and America. In the year
wushu of the Qing Guangxu reign [1898], scholar-o‹cials in Shanghai
established the Natural Feet Society [Tianzu hui] and the Anti-Footbinding
Society [Bu chanzu hui]. They issued books and gave lectures, spreading
words of admonition afar. Women in the entire country were to preserve
their naturalness [zhen] if they had not yet bound, or receive relief from
their stricture if they had already bound. The development of their physique
will be promoted, and the shame of the national citizens will be shed.”23 In
coupling the establishment of anti-footbinding societies with the Hundred
Days Reform of 1898 and in attributing the founding of anti-footbinding
organizations to Chinese scholar-o‹cials in Shanghai, Xu recast the motive
force of this movement from one of missionary salvation or foreign inno-
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
feet, and it is in fact quite common in the recent past.” Later, in 1928, Xu
Ke found a classical name to this practice: “Today if we say ‘natural foot’
[tianzu], everyone in the metropolis and urban areas would know what you
mean. In ancient times there was no such term as tianzu; they called it ‘plain
or unadorned feet’ [suzu].”24
Mention of unadorned feet, however, was too vulgar to be preserved in
the chronicles of old, controlled as they were by the literate elite. “But our
common people [renmin] have long been accustomed to authoritarianism;
the class distinctions between the rich and poor are deeply ingrained in their
hearts. The scholar-o‹cials [shidafu] did not see what was practiced in the
fields because it was diªerent from their own custom, or even when they
saw it, they chose to ignore it. Moreover, since the elite considered them-
selves ‘civilized,’ they regarded lands with natural feet as barbaric. . . . I am
enraged by them, by the extreme inequality that separated the rich and pow-
erful from the poor and mean.” 25 In this innovative formulation, natural
feet stand for the wholesome but submerged culture of the plebeians, whereas
bound feet signal the corruption and domination of the patrician class. The
rhetoric of tianzu is thus harnessed as an apology for democracy.
Xu’s project of documenting the neglected practices of natural feet in Chi-
nese history is nationalist in goal and intention. Further, his nationalism in-
volves the leveling of hierarchies and distances on global, national, and local
levels: parity of China with Europe and America as well as equality between
the classes and status groups within China. “A Survey of Natural Feet” is
thus an unabashed piece of revolutionary writing. Instead of discarding tra-
ditional culture altogether, however, Xu resuscitated a usable past, repre-
sented by the “unadorned feet” of the common people.
In his global awareness, political egalitarianism, and Chinese pride, Xu
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
education. Often, however, the issue was cast in a damning light: women
were parasites. In a seminal essay written in 1896–97, “On Women’s Edu-
cation,” a leading reformist thinker, Liang Qichao (1873–1929), denigrated
the female half of the population as “those with round heads but pointy
feet.” Referring to a saying by Mencius that “those who dwell in leisure with-
out an education are close to beasts,” Liang stated that since every woman
“from the ancient times to the present day” has been unschooled, they have
fared no better than beasts. Although the majority of men are also unedu-
cated, he conceded, these men are at least ashamed of themselves, but the
women are so ignorant that they do not even feel the shame. This is the
root of China’s weakness. “All two hundred million of our women are con-
sumers [ fenli, partakers of profit]; not a single one has produced anything
of profit. . . . No wonder men keep them as dogs, horses, and slaves.”29
Liang Qichao, the most powerful polemist in modern China, used strong
language to incite his readers to action. But in so doing, he perpetuated an
insulting and erroneous image of women, erasing their traditional learning
and domestic labor from the history of the nation. Unfortunately, so
influential was Liang that the image of women with bound feet as parasites,
beasts, and slaves remained the standard view. Shortly after the publication
of Liang’s treatise on cultural reform, a New Year’s print from Yangliuqing,
“Women’s Self-Strengthening” (“Nüzi ziqiang”), drives the same message
home. The print shows a father sitting on one side of a square table while
his dainty wife, a son, and a daughter beckon from the other side. The cap-
tion, written in a vernacular popular after the aborted 1898 reform move-
ment, reads: “In China, most married men with a family to support are be-
ing weighed down. Do you know where the problem lies? It is not that men
cannot make money, but that one man has to feed many mouths. A woman
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
on a pair of tiny bound feet cannot exert herself in many lines of work. She
has to depend on men for what she eats and what she wears. How can the
men not be burdened?” The caption concludes, “China is weak; this is the
most serious sickness.”30
When these messages became commonplace in the 1900s, Tang Yisuo and
Shi Jingkai had moved to Shanghai, Yilan had died, and the anti-footbinding
movement was widespread in cities and towns. Tang regretted that Yilan
did not live to see natural feet becoming fashionable. “If she had lived a lit-
tle longer, I could have remonstrated in front of our relatives and friends
that in my house we have a maid who was ahead of the times.” But Tang
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THE BODY EXPOSED 22
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reported that his wife, by then fifty years old, decided to “unwrap her band-
age to relax her toes.” Shi told her husband, “In the past, I intuited that
what Mrs. Bai said about the convenience of hands and feet was right, but
now I can experience the reason behind her words.”31 As recorded by her
husband, Shi’s voice was calm and matter-of-fact. We do not know how “re-
laxed” her toes became. Although the subject of her speech was the chang-
ing consciousness of a footbound woman, no interiority was disclosed. The
experience of her conversion is credible, but Tang Yisuo has framed the bod-
ily process as a rational and linear one. Shi’s voice is true but incomplete.
To Shi, the natural body is an abstract concept, but its functionalist corol-
lary, the convenience and use of a productive body, made a deep impres-
sion. She fantasized with her husband about an idyllic life spent in physi-
cal exertion after they retired: “If you have a plot of land to plough, I would
bring lunch to you; if you have a mountain in which to gather firewood, I
would bundle them up for you. If you only have a pond or a brook, I would
pick lotus root and trap fishes and shrimps, take them to the market in the
morning and return with wine in the evening. Forgetting the world, we can
while the rest of our years away.” Against the stark reality of women and
children slaving away in the Shanghai cotton mills during the early stage of
China’s industrialization, Shi conjured up a pastoral and utopian picture of
conjugal companionship built on shared labor in a primitive economy.32
Tang’s essay reveals the subtle changes in concepts of bodies and the dim-
ming of the cultural prestige of footbinding in the pivotal era of the 1880s
to the 1900s. It also reveals how the value of natural feet was entangled with
family pride and the pride of locale. He ended by recounting a conversa-
tion with Xu Ke, who declared: “The beauty of Suzhou women is famous.
Yet people only know of the arched foot in the city, and are ignorant of the
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
fact that the natural foot of rural women is even more beautiful. This ig-
norance is similar to that of the o‹cials in an autocratic country, who only
recognize pedigree but not real talent.” This is a thinly veiled attack on the
dynastic order. Also palpable is Xu’s awareness of China in a global world:
“The Westerners have a saying, that the women of Spain are the most beau-
tiful in Europe, and the women of Suzhou are the most beautiful in Asia.
It is clear from this coupling of Spanish and Suzhou women that natural
feet are desirable. The beauty of Suzhou natural feet is recognized by the
entire world. Better still, it has existed from our distant past, before the pro-
motion of the ‘new learning’ [xinxue] reformers today” (23b).
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GIGANTIC HISTORIES 23
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The coupling of Spain and Suzhou may strike us as odd, but these words
encapsulate the commingling of global, national, and local awareness
around the turn of the century. Xu has accepted without question the au-
thority of the “West” (in the form of Spain) as the arbiter of taste and value.
The natural-footed rural working woman, unsullied by habits of the city,
was made the embodiment of a modern standard of Chinese beauty, a stan-
dard also espoused by Mrs. Bai. Furthermore, Xu’s and Tang’s endorsement
of the tianzu doctrine involves a splitting of local history into the good and
the bad, the latter being the imperial examination system, which sanctioned
a hierarchical order. With this split, the new ideals of equality, freedom, and
democracy can be pursued without discarding tradition altogether.
Xu Ke and Tang Yisuo were transitional figures. Chronologically they
straddled the end of one millennium and the beginning of the next; polit-
ically and culturally they witnessed the collapse of the dynastic order and
the shaky beginnings of the Republic in 1912. It is remarkable that they nar-
rated these momentous transitions without a sense of rupture or struggle.
Although schooled in the classics, they had little political or economic stake
in the imperial system. The calmness with which they nationalized the rhet-
oric of tianzu, its attendant episteme of the functionalist body, and an egal-
itarian body politic bespeaks the extent to which the foundation of old literati
culture had eroded. The aura of footbinding was dimmed and eventually
extinguished in the process.
long novel named after its heroine. Its first twenty-six chapters were serial-
ized in New Fiction (Xin xiaoshuo) in 1904 or 1905; the final four chapters
were added when it was issued under separate cover in 1906 or 1907. New
Fiction, a monthly founded in 1902 by Liang Qichao in Yokohama, was the
earliest and one of the most influential of the literary journals. As a result,
Huang Xiuqiu ranks as one of the better known examples of progressive late-
Qing fiction. In its linking of the liberation of feet to national salvation and
its focus on a speaking female protagonist, the novel presents a prototype
of the modern Chinese womanhood scripted by the history of the nation.33
Huang Xiuqiu is set in Freedom Village, situated in the temperate zone
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THE BODY EXPOSED 24
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in the eastern half of Asia and home of the Huang ( Yellow) clan. The male
protagonist is a man in his thirties, Huang Tongli (enlightened principle,
or one who understands reason), who sought to overhaul village custom and
politics in a gradual manner. His wife, Huang Xiuqiu, unwrapped her bind-
ing cloths and then convinced Tongli that the best place to start his cam-
paign was to set up a private girls’ school. Together, they battled the super-
stition of nuns, the corruption of Manchu o‹cials, and the conspiracy of
a clansman Huang Huo (yellow peril). In the end, they managed to export
the successful girls’ school model to a neighboring village, champion local
self-government in a village meeting, and organize male and female mili-
tias. Although not much is known about Tang Yisuo apart from his friend-
ship with Xu Ke, it is clear that Huang Xiuqiu is a straightforward statement
of the progressive beliefs of its author.
In its global awareness, glorification of the female will, and valorization
of unimpeded circulation ( jiaotong ), both within individual bodies and be-
tween trading nations, the novel places the liberated woman at the center
of a new episteme. Tang’s global awareness takes the form of a fascination
with the earth as a ball-shaped object. The gigantic and abstract concept of
“the globe” is miniaturized, assuming concrete shapes and vivid colors: desk-
top globe; watermelon; egg. The earth is inhabited by five races, Huang
Tongli told his wife, but only the yellows and whites matter.34 Whereas
Tongli referred to geography (dili) to describe the struggle of the two main
races, Xiuqiu referred to astronomy (tianwen) to describe her doctrine of
the equality of the sexes. Revising traditional Chinese cosmology, which con-
strues heaven (tian) as a dome-shaped sphere covering the square earth (di)
like a lid, Huang Xiuqiu said: “We now know from astronomy that heaven
is egg-shaped instead of dome-shaped. Earth is encased by heaven, like an
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
egg yolk, not a detached piece of square. Heaven and earth are intercon-
nected; it is impossible to deem heaven higher or superior” (177). Between
them, they are describing a new cosmology and global politics marked by
the ideals of equality and the reality of struggling for survival. In struggle
or in parity, China can be defined and located only in relation to other coun-
tries and races.
The cosmology of the egg also teaches the lesson of gender equality.
“Woman is egg yolk. Although she is inside, surrounded by egg white and
shell, without the yolk there would be no white nor shell. . . . All the he-
roes among men, even emperors, are born of women. So women should be
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GIGANTIC HISTORIES 25
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valued higher than men. Why are they being oppressed instead? These days
one hears the words of equal rights and equal status [pingquan pingdeng ]
between males and females. . . . Since the two sexes are united, there should
be no distinctions of . . . high or low, big or small . . . between them” (177).
This argument for gender equality, however, is built on a paradox: although
woman is superior to man in function and equal in status and rights, her
location remains “inside” and is in fact enveloped by the egg white that stands
for man. Furthermore, the value of woman is realized in the act of giving
birth.35 The Confucian gendered division of space, which construed the ideal
woman as the inner person, thus found a new expression in the doctrine of
gender equality. This incongruity bespeaks the confusion about a woman’s
proper place and roles in late-Qing society.
In Huang Xiuqiu, the egg is thus at once a metaphor for diªerent-but-
equal gender relations, global social-Darwinian politics, and Copernican cos-
mology. The conjoining of these three realms is in itself nothing new; Con-
fucian cosmology has long held the correlative links between individual,
social, political, and heavenly bodies. The egg-as-globe, however, teaches a
new episteme because it requires a new perspective, looking from the out-
side in. China can be viewed in its entirety, not in parts, only after it is
brought down in size and placed within a global community of nations;
similarly the earth appears as a globular object only when the viewer is sus-
pended in space. In other words, the totality of the nation and sphericity
of the globe are products of miniaturization. Miniaturization, in turn, is
possible only with the viewing subject’s detachment: stepping back from
the object of vision and looking from a distance.
Astronomy (tianwen, phenomena of the sky) and geography (dili, prin-
ciples of the earth), subjects born of this new way of seeing, became pop-
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
ular in school curriculum around the turn of the century. In Sichuan prov-
ince, a local son whose father ran a private school (shishu) for boys, Zhang
Xiushu (b. 1895), recalled his love of history, geography, and astronomy. Sev-
enty years later, he could still recite the bulk of several primers on these
subjects taught to him between ages three and thirteen. Particularly eye-
opening and memorable was a geography primer, The Globe in Rhymes
(Diqiu yunyan). Although the volume was no longer in Zhang’s possession,
he remembered details about its author, Huang Zhi, a juren scholar who
studied in Japan and who was the principal of a local upper primary school
(gaodeng xiaoxue) in 1903. Fascinated by the primer, Zhang Xiushu sought
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THE BODY EXPOSED 26
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Huang out to audit his geography course, only to discover that the subject
Huang was teaching was the Confucian classic Book of Songs.36
Published between 1898 and 1903, The Globe in Rhymes consists of songs
in five-word and seven-word lines. Each song takes up a lesson in physical
and human geography. The perils of colonialism and the lure of democracy
were themes in several songs still etched in Zhang’s mind: Sichuan prov-
ince, inner and outer Mongolia, Africa, and America. Opening with a song
on the imperial capital, the primer leads the student through lessons on the
five continents, China’s eighteen provinces, inner and outer Mongolia, cap-
ital cities of global nations, and concludes with China’s treaty ports. The
ordering of songs taught the nascent national consciousness by beginning
with the political center of China and ending with its devolution and loss
of sovereignty.37 The new global episteme, which taught that the globe was
populated by sovereign nation-states represented by their capitals, had a dis-
tinctly nationalistic hue. Consciousness of the nation is thus wrought of two
opposite processes: that of distancing, or viewing China in a global com-
munity of nation-states, and of centering, or an obsession with the dissi-
pation and loss of Chinese territories and sovereignty.
The boy student was also fascinated by astronomy. Besides The Globe in
Rhymes, Zhang’s other favorite primer was Songs of Phenomena in Heaven
and Earth (Tianwen diyu gekuo), which oªered lessons in the evolution of
the stars, the planetary system, the orbiting of the moon, the longitudes,
prime meridian, and latitudes, thunder, snow, and rainbows. The earth, visu-
alized on diªerent scales, appears as a slightly flattened round object, one
of the planets evolving in oval orbits, a ball whose surface was marked by
navigators into grids, and surrounded by an atmosphere governed by ther-
modynamics.38 Although Zhang did not recall seeing a globe in his father’s
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
from the man there emerged husband and wife. . . . The Han Confucian-
ists came up with the theory that husband is the bond [gang ] of the wife,
and that the woman’s proper role is to follow others in docility.” This Han
degeneration from a natural universe resulted in “an artificial contrivance”
and a “loss of natural genuineness” (tianzhen) which, the author implied,
accounted for the eventual rise of footbinding.41
The anti-footbinding movement was an eªort to return from culture to
nature as described in The Book of Changes. “The women’s world is under
a diªerent sky. We tremble at the self-generating power of the evolving tian
[tianxing zhi ziqiang ]; we are pained by the [footbound women’s] di‹culty
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THE BODY EXPOSED 28
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in taking natural strides [tianbu]. This is the reason for the growth of the
Tianzu hui.”42 The substitution of tianbu for tianzu underscored the value
placed on movement, footsteps, and tra‹c in the early years of the repub-
lic. This valorization of speed, in turn, was part and parcel of a larger pic-
ture of a universe in perpetual motion with its evolving globe. This equa-
tion of tianxing and tianbu, of evolving universe and walking bodies,
however, fostered a view of the body as an abstract entity or a metaphori-
cal site. This erasure of the physicality of the female body, so prevalent in
the anti-footbinding discourse, rendered any realistic description of pain
di‹cult. There is no better illustration of this than the novelist’s treatment
of Huang Xiuqiu’s footbinding experience and its undoing.
plied the “theory” that guided Xiuqiu’s subsequent actions, the latter by
transmitting three books and the former by explaining them.43
Huang Xiuqiu’s agency is established by her changing her name, from Xiu-
qiu (elegant autumn) to Xiuqiu (embroidering Earth). Brushing aside her
husband’s warning that if she unwraps her binding cloth she may not be
able to walk and that she will be laughed at, she declares: “As a person I
stand on the surface of the earth. If I fail to do something, I fail to become
a person; that would be truly laughable. Now I am letting out my feet; it is
nobody else’s business. If anyone laughs at me, not only am I not afraid, I
will persuade all the women in our village to let theirs out. . . . I may feel
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GIGANTIC HISTORIES 29
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uncomfortable in the first couple of days, but in ten days or so, I will be
able to fly and run. Just watch” (13–14). What a statement of the ideal of
the volitional agent! Ironically, the logic of Huang Xiuqiu’s ambition is that
of the male Confucian gentleman as presented in the classic Great Learn-
ing: rouse one’s will, improve and brighten up (“embroider”) the village, then
the neighboring village; then the whole country can be transformed.
Having let her feet out, Huang Xiuqiu is present and active throughout
the story. She is poised, courageous, and wise, a fitting heroine for new
China. The change from bound to unbound is a point of departure for
Huang Xiuqiu and the novel. She is thrown into jail for seditious gender-
bending. Binding and unbinding are construed as social and political prob-
lems, not personal or bodily ones (145–46). After her release, however, there
is scarcely any mention of her feet. As a symbol footbinding is vital to the
story, but as an embodied practice or firsthand experience it is marginal if
not irrelevant. Footbinding is a symbol of her early humiliation, and unbind-
ing, a sign of her will to be a public agent. The unbound foot does recur,
however, as a sign of the new culture: Dr. Bi, a well-traveled woman doctor
from the south, is big-footed (dajiao, 58; tianzu is not used in the novel).44
And later, Huang Xiuqiu insists that her school will not admit footbound
girls (213–14). Above all, the bound foot is a metonymy of the congested
body, a symbol of the Chinese interior which was choking to death on its
own phlegm (81). It is not surprising that the novelist—a stickler for robust
circulation in the body—would name as his heroes explorers and colonial-
ists who circumnavigated and civilized the globe: Columbus, Magellan, and
Livingston (131–32, 224).
To the novelist, the bound foot is an external sign useful in its symbol-
ism, not an embodied reality. Xiuqiu’s feet cease to be an issue after she
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
“liberates” them: she travels, reasons, and acts, willfully ignoring the pile of
bent bones, the donut twist that could not be straightened or uncooked.
The body of the footbound woman appears as though feet were a change
of clothes that could be refashioned at will. Huang Xiuqiu’s agency is built
on her will at the expense of her absent body. Despite great attention paid
to her words, motives, and reasoning, she has no interiority. Herein lies the
male perspective of the novel. Contained by this male reformist perspec-
tive, the female voice in Huang Xiuqiu is an inflected voice that arises not
from the depth of her body but from the ephemeral realm of her will.
When the body does appear in the novel, it has the same instrumental
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THE BODY EXPOSED 30
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and symbolic quality as Huang Xiuqiu’s feet. Hence Huang Tongli pontifi-
cates: “A person has a body like a tree has branches. No matter how sorry a
shape the trunk is in, the branches would still grow. No matter how un-
worthy is the person, if he or she can eat bitterness and toughen his or her
will, no one can fail to be a useful vessel” (132). This is the functionalist
body described above by Tang’s wife, Shi Jingkai. The feeling and sensuous
body is erased. The body-as-machine makes for a convenient signpost whose
use is advertised on its surface. A signpost has no use for interiority.
Specifically, the body in Huang Xiuqiu is a signpost for displaying one’s
cultural allegiance. Shanghai girl students decked out in fashionable dress,
bobbed hair, and leather shoes are renegades who prostitute themselves to
fashionable causes and Westernized playboys (73–74, 76–77). The New
Party reformers, too, incurred Tang Yisuo’s wrath. Chanting slogans of “Love
my country; save my race,” they plotted to murder their parents. These hyp-
ocrites are always clad in Japanese-style hats or straw hats and leather shoes
(80, 119). “These people should be put on display at the Chinese Exposi-
tion, ridiculed by people from countries east and west” (80). Fully-clothed,
embodied people, male and female, have taken on the symbolic poignancy
of China’s national shame usually imputed onto one female body part, the
bound foot.
GU HONGMING:
THE HUMILIATION OF BEING LOOKED AT
the leftover elder. His nationalism took the form of nostalgia for the last
emperor.
Ignored or maligned by generations of Chinese scholars, Gu’s antiquar-
ian tastes are seldom seen as what they really are: badges of authenticity for
an outsider. Critics and admirers alike overlook that Gu was an overseas
“Chinese”—a colonial subject no less—whose Chineseness had to be ac-
quired, tested, and worn on his sleeve. Gu was born in Penang, Malaya, to
a Chinese father who descended from a long line of professional elite in the
service of British colonizers. Gu remained resolutely silent about his mother,
about whom nothing is known, prompting widespread rumors that she was
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THE BODY EXPOSED 32
his head. For example, Gu, who introduced Goethe to China, was said to
read German newspapers upside down on a train because otherwise it would
be too boring; his genius in English involved the recitation of Paradise Lost
backward fifty times. Invariably, the unsuspecting foreigner who set out to
ridicule him was shamed.52 Gu’s Western learning, then, was a matter of
nationalistic pride in the eyes of his compatriots. His valorization of classi-
cal Chinese, couched in terms of his infamous opposition to the introduc-
tion of vernacular literature, was the homage of a hybrid prodigal son. A
tribute to him that circulated in Beijing expressed the sentiment: “After the
Boxer indemnities, if there weren’t a Gu Hongming propping up the face
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GIGANTIC HISTORIES 33
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of our country, those Westerners wouldn’t even think that the Chinese [are
advanced enough to] have noses on our faces!”53
From personal experience, Gu was acutely aware of the linkage of visu-
ality with national pride in the global world. His liberal colleague at Peking
University, Hu Shi, related a story Gu told of his early days in Scotland:
“Everyday I stepped outside, children on the streets followed me and
shouted, ‘Look! A Chinaman’s pigtail.’” Another story relates that when
Gu disembarked at Southampton, a hotel maid mistook him for a girl be-
cause of his queue and tried to stop him from entering the men’s bathroom.
Later in life, as if to spite the Europeans, Gu wore his queue as “a badge and
insignia—almost a religious symbol—the flag of Chinese nationality.”54 The
fact that Chineseness was an identity that Gu self-consciously embraced,
as a response to being ridiculed, is often lost on his critics who condemned
his support for the monarchy, concubinage, and footbinding. While we will
return to Gu’s ultraconservatism below, here it is important to recognize the
distinction that Gu made between “to observe others” and “to be observed
by others.”
Gu once was turned oª by the smirk on the face of a finely-attired late-
Qing o‹cial whose photograph appeared in a newspaper. He recounted (or
perhaps invented) a lesson about appearance and class he learned in England
as a teenager. One day he chanced upon an aristocrat wearing a coat em-
broidered in gold and a hat adorned with bouquets sitting in a handsome
horse-drawn carriage. Before he could finish feasting his eyes, a servant
emerged from the market and drove the carriage away. When Gu mentioned
the scene to his landlord, the latter told him that the gentleman in finery
was in fact the servant and the shabby servant, the master. “It is because an
exalted person only wants to observe others, not to seek to please others.”
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
Gu concluded with a story closer to home: “Actors have always been de-
spised according to our Chinese custom; it is exactly because their daily ex-
ercise consists of ‘seeking the other’s gaze.’”55 Politicians who publicized their
photographs—who oªered themselves visually to the public—were thus
inverting the hierarchy between high and low. So sensitive was Gu to the
power inequalities between the seeing and the seen that he couched them
in terms of the starkness of class distinctions.
Gu’s valorization of concealment or self-eªacement should not be taken
too literally, for after all he acquired global fame by flaunting a queue in Re-
publican Beijing. Observers have noted that Gu was a born contrarian who
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THE BODY EXPOSED 34
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The “society women” of the West, Gu wrote in 1904, “exemplified the de-
cline and degeneration of European civilization in the present age” in their
robust, gender-bending masculinity. “In China, these busybodies have tried
to reform our wonderful women with small feet” so that the latter would
turn into the same type of manlike women. In a rare written defense of foot-
binding, Gu explained that he saw it as female self-protection: life in China
was so impoverished that women were forced to bind their feet, thus ex-
cusing themselves from the most exhausting forms of labor.56 In contrast
to the chaotic gender relations in Europe, a gender harmony built on male-
female distinctions signals the superiority of Chinese civilization.
The feminine ideal in China, Gu argued, consists of a selfless devotion
to others. The perfect woman is at once cheerful (“debonair”) and bash-
ful.57 Although he did not articulate it, following this logic, footbinding
can be understood as the bodily expression of the most admirable quality
of Chinese women: passivity and serenity. Just as the shabbily clad English
servant who was the true master, the demure Chinese woman was exalted
in status in refusing to draw attention to herself. Gu’s love of footbinding
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
and the public’s fascination with his idealization. His love of footbinding
was always recited as part and parcel of his alleged apologies of concubi-
nage, caning, infanticide, eight-legged essays, opium smoking, spitting in
public—all signs of Chinese backwardness perpetuated by a century of mis-
sionary writings.60 Although few Chinese readers had stomach for these
vices, they relished the ridiculous attempt of someone talking back in a
quixotic gesture of defiance: What you take as national shame, we take as
national pride.
Such is the irony of Gu Hongming, born a British colonial subject and
a descendent of compradors who devoted his entire life to ranting about
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imperialism. So radical was his critique that he had to manufacture and idol-
ize a perfect China before the violence of colonial contact. The radical impli-
cations of this posture lie in his tactic of exaggerating the distance between
China and the rest of the world: China is to be judged not by Enlighten-
ment standards, but by its own definitions of womanhood, justice, and hu-
man value. This deliberate distancing stems from the same nationalistic im-
pulse as the reformers’ eagerness to seek parity by the “catching up” rhetoric
embedded in their linear history of the nation as we have seen in Xu Ke and
Tang Yisuo.
Gu was clearly not a feminist who championed women’s liberation; but
in being a defender of Chinese culture he was a nationalist, even a patriot.
His idealized Chinese woman, in fact, was a metaphor of the sovereign Chi-
nese nation who could resist not only the foreigner’s gaze but also his way
of seeing. Indeed, Gu Hongming was an even more fervent nationalist than
such reformers as Zheng Guanying or Liang Qichao because he refused to
take Western standards of progress and civilization as Chinese yardsticks.
He alone could talk back in German, French, or English and declare them
parochial tongues. When footbinding found its sole defender in such an
odd character, we can only conclude that it had ceased to be a prestigious
or even relevant practice during the first two decades of the twentieth cen-
tury. Therein lies the success of the tianzu movement that Reverend Mac-
Gowan had called into being over a quarter-century earlier in Gu Hongming’s
ancestral home of Amoy.
a modern nation-state; Chinese culture lost its footing and became an open
question. In this era of uncertainties, the discourse of tianzu oªered moral
and ontological certainty. It did so in part by way of its logic of assertion-
negation: the new “natural feet” became imaginable only by standing the
native practice of chanzu on its head. As such, the rhetorical power of tianzu
is both destructive and constructive.
The constructive power of tianzu manifested itself most strongly in the
progressive view of history it facilitated: modernity as negation of tradition.
The discourse of tianzu engendered not only a new valuation of the body,
but also a new way of looking at the world, hence of being in the world. In
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GIGANTIC HISTORIES 37
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The tianzu movement acquired national urgency in 1898, when the reformer
Kang Youwei submitted a passionate memorial to the Guangxu emperor,
urging him to ban footbinding because it put China at a disadvantage in
global competition.1 Encouraged by the furor, a Madame Shen spoke up
about her suªering in a letter to Xue Shaohui (1855–1911), editor-in-chief
of the journal Chinese Girls’ Progress (Nü xuebao). Xue, a classically educated
gentrywoman, was one of eight founders of the Chinese Girls’ School (Nü
xuetang), which was masterminded by none other than Liang Qichao, au-
thor of “On Women’s Education,” and Jing Yuanshan, head of the Shang-
hai Telegraph Bureau. Other founders included Zheng Guanying and Kang
Youwei’s brother Guangren, all early agitators against footbinding. Xue’s hus-
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
band and his brother, Chen Jitong, both graduates of the Naval Academy
in Fuzhou, as well as Jitong’s French wife, were also part of the pioneering
group.2 Considering Xue’s own activism and the Western-learning back-
ground of her family and colleagues, Madame Shen had probably expected
her to chime in with a powerful condemnation of footbinding.
Yet Xue Shaohui had a mind of her own. In her response to Shen’s com-
plaints, Xue expressed opinions about footbinding that are so far removed
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THE BODY INSIDE OUT 39
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from the enlightenment perspective that they were as singular in her times
as they are today. “Your intentions are admirable, but your words seem ex-
cessive,” she began. She then proceeded to stand two prevalent arguments
of the anti-footbinding discourse on their heads: that it was not sanctioned
by tradition and that women with bound feet are femmes fatales. Citing a
spate of standard allusions to small feet in classical texts, Xue adopted the
method of philologists to argue that footbinding did enjoy precedent in an-
cient times. (As it happens, she was wrong.)3
In disputing the tianzu polemics Xue’s goal was not to defend footbind-
ing, as Gu Hongming had done, but to introduce a vantage point that had
been missing in the gigantic histories: a subjective view from inside the
woman’s body. She began by rebutting one of Kang Youwei’s objections,
that footbinding detracted from parental love: “[A parent’s] compassion is
not harmed by ear piercing; how can we say that parents are unkind? In the
bed chambers [the joy of footbinding ] exceeds having your husband paint
your eyebrows; it is not that men are disrespectful [of women].” With in-
direction and tact Xue voiced a rare woman’s perspective that had not been
heard before on how footbinding was conducive to conjugal pleasures.
Furthermore, the contributions that a woman can make to her family and
country depend on “her ten fingers pushing a needle and thread year after
year; the companionship she shares with her spouse, and the diligence with
which she manages the household and the kitchen.” If this seems a tradi-
tional view of female virtues, Xue added that a woman’s self-strengthening
(ziqiang ) is rooted in her education, her way with “poetry and books.”4 Her
point is that footbinding is a trivial, private matter; bound or unbound, a
woman’s foot is simply irrelevant to her mission in life and her contribu-
tions to the nation.
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
“Those who think that footbinding is heresy or perverse, what would they
say about the current fad of small waists in Western countries, which has
not resulted in mass starvation, or that the practice of blackening teeth has
survived in Japan, without being detrimental to health?” Although the global
comparative viewpoint was common, Xue’s logic was not. Her intention
was not to make the usual relativist argument that “we have our vice but
so do they,” but to call attention to the power of culture—what Pierre Bour-
dieu would call “habitus”—in sustaining a meaningful everyday life. The
sediment of conventions makes a practice that appears outrageous to an out-
sider seem entirely natural to the insider.
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THE BODY EXPOSED 40
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Xue Shaohui did not find bound feet admirable. They constituted a form
of cultural contrivance, and “no matter how dainty and pitiful the ‘twin
hooks’ [shuanggou] and ‘lotus petals’ [lianban] may look, the ‘curved arch’
[gongwan] barely inches long makes for clumsy and hesitant steps.” In the
transitional period she witnessed, “the rise and fall of tastes are as whimsi-
cal as switching from salty to sour, the demure and the trendy each follows
her own fashion of decoration. Therefore, why shouldn’t it be that it is all
right to have bound feet, just as it is all right not to bind?” Xue’s tolerance
stems from her appreciation of the stubbornness of bodies: “Now they sug-
gest that those who have already bound should all let their feet out at once.
But no magical pill can grow a new set of bones; a severed head cannot be
reattached. If you insist on bending crooked into straight by force, you cre-
ate something that is neither a horse nor an ass. How would that improve
customs and reform society?”5
Xue’s views, which construe the body as both marginal and essential to a
woman, seem contradictory at first glance. The shape of a woman’s body is
irrelevant to her ability to read books and study mathematics; her value as
a person and a citizen depends in large part on her education, her mind,
and her will. At the same time, Xue shows a rare appreciation for the uni-
directional nature of time’s arrow, an irrevocability of processes that defines
the body’s physical limits. It is this understanding, seldom voiced by the
male anti-footbinding advocates, that defines Xue’s female sensitivity. This
sensitivity allows her to transcend the moral certainty embedded in the
“tianzu-good: chanzu-bad” formulation. Instead of adopting a judgmental
attitude about what other people should do with their bodies, Xue coun-
seled: leave the women alone. In so doing she anticipated the promises and
problems of fangzu (letting feet out) as a political and social movement.
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
raphy, undermined this visual taboo almost overnight. In the 1860s, com-
mercial photographers in Shanghai paid or coerced poor women to unwrap
their binding cloth, producing the first images of the bare bound foot. Régine
Thiriez, a historian of early photography in China and Europe, has noted
that both the transaction and the images were considered risqué. In spite of
it, or perhaps because of it, by 1865 it was customary to include at least one
image of Chinese vice— opium smoking, footbinding, or execution—in
photo albums that tourists would buy in Shanghai, Yokohama, or Paris. Pre-
sented as part of timeless “Chinese customs,” a small number of images of
naked feet were recycled into the 1910s and 1920s.8
Missionary doctors
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became, the organizers seem to imply, the easier it would be to imagine fe-
male pain, and the more natural or desirable tianzu would appear.
SCHOOL-BOUND:
THE GLORIOUS RECOVERY OF CAI AIHUA
Girl student Cai Aihua was enrolled in the Germinating Enlightenment School
in spring. Having been educated for less than a year, she has already acquired
“civilized thoughts” [wenming sixiang ]. On the fifth day of this month, [her
teachers] Xu Zehua, Lin Menghuan, and Cai Lünong gave speeches vehemently
denouncing [tengchen] the harm of footbinding during their ninth children’s
assembly. Then on the fifteenth, the president of the Anti-Footbinding Society
in Lili [a town in the neighboring Wujiang county, Jiangsu province], Mrs. Ni
Mu’ou, mailed her a gift of patterns for new shoes and booties, as well as
instructions [chenshe] for letting feet out. The student thus came to see and
feel much, and resolved to let her feet out. She decided to start that very day,
which coincidentally was another day oª [days ending with five were off-days].
Therefore, after the tenth children’s assembly that afternoon, a commemora-
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
tive meeting was called in the same venue. Cai Lünong gave her a gift of four
words: “Gloriously recovering a lost object” [guangfu guwu].14
(2) Making Speeches: First, the “huizhu” [the protagonist of the assembly]
Cai Aihua vehemently denounced [tengchen] the suªering and harm of
footbinding. [She said words like] starting today the binders will be un-
wrapped. Second, teacher Xu Zehua ascended the podium [dengtan] and
made a speech; so overjoyed was he that he looked crazed. He first congratu-
lated the “huizhu” and admonished other girls to follow, so that they can
compete with each other in gloriously recovering the lost body [guangfu guti].
He also admonished the “huizhu” not to pride herself on her tianzu, but to
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
Teacher Xu and Teacher Cai both looked possessed. Such exaggerated emo-
tions befit a Christian baptism or revival meeting, although here, in the secular
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THE BODY INSIDE OUT 45
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setting of a school, instead of sermons there were speeches and in the place
of hymns, a song on the joy of letting feet out. Cai Aihua did not confess
her sins but did speak of a crime being inflicted on her. Against the Chris-
tian tenor and the conversion narrative that structures the meeting, the re-
porter’s persistent use of Buddhist terms appears incongruous. The rituals
of “ascending the podium” and “making speeches” (yanshuo) are borrowed
from Buddhist liturgy; Cai Aihua’s missions of “deliver[ing ] the myriad be-
ings to the other shore” and “ascend[ing ] the world of supreme happiness”
are compassionate acts of the Boddhisattva.
Indeed, so alien is the spectacle of a public assembly organized around the
bodily state of a young girl that the imported Christian liturgy, which pro-
vided some of the ritual forms, did not su‹ce. Buddhist words and con-
cepts were inserted to lend familiarity. The meeting ended with a third inspira-
tional ritual, this time borrowed from modern political rallies with imperial
overtones: “(3) Singing: Teacher Xu Zehua led the entire class of scores of
boys and girls, together with guests and head teachers, through a chorus of
‘The Joy of Letting Feet Out’ three times. At the end of the refrain, Xu ex-
claimed: ‘Cai Aihua wansui [ten thousand years]! Daixi womanhood [nüjie]
wansui! The future of Chinese women [nüzi] wansui! Wansui! Wanwansui!’
Meeting dismissed” (883). Earlier Cai Aihua was being compared to a Bod-
dhisattva, now she was being saluted as the goddess of the new republic.
One longs to know more about Cai Aihua, who was said to have “bar-
baric” parents but a “civilized” brother, none other than the head teacher
Cai Lünong. The reporter described her struggles leading up to the crucial
moment of unbinding in a long passage entitled “(1) Rationale,” but it rings
hollow. Under the influence of her brother, for years she had harbored “nat-
ural feet thoughts” (tianzu sixiang ), but she hesitated because her resolu-
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
tion was weak and she did not want to be a vanguard. Then she was moved
upon hearing the speeches at the children’s assembly, where Xu called foot-
binding a shameful, self-degrading act of “shaping your body after prosti-
tutes and actors” (changyou qi shen). Then her brother and Xu lobbied her
intensely for days. Finally Mrs. Ni’s gift sealed the deal, and Cai was ush-
ered onto the podium to broadcast the pain and harm of binding to her
classmates (882).
The narrative of budding awareness and hesitation giving way to resolu-
tion and action recalls that of a Christian testimony detailing a believer’s
journey from ignorance to salvation. Cai’s conversion to the gospel of tianzu
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was construed as the result of personal resolution and external guidance, al-
beit without divine intervention. Yet the reader does not really know her
inner struggles, her feelings of pain and jubilation. She was said to have spo-
ken, but she did not say much and her actual words were not quoted. She was
construed as a speaking subject with an agency of her own, but she appeared
more as a spectacle on the podium, even an Exhibit A for Daixi womanhood.
Earlier Cai was said to have recovered a “lost object” and a “lost body.” In
a third variation of the “gloriously recovering” formulation, the reporter
praised her as “a Columbus who gloriously recovers tianzu” in Daixi (“guang-
fu tianzu zhi Gelunbo”; 882). As a navigator of uncharted oceans and “dis-
coverer” of new lands, Columbus was a hero to late-Qing reformers, as we
have seen in Huang Xiuqiu. A Columbus who recovers something is either
a mixed metaphor or a contradiction; this curious expression thus betrays
an ontological ambiguity of tianzu as a new creation and as an improvement
on a previous state. These three variants of “glorious recovery” are premised
on two opposite views of the female body. To call Cai Aihua the Columbus
of Daixi who “recovers tianzu” is to evoke an image of the female body as
a piece of pliant dough. Tianzu refers to a primordial state of not-binding.
The personal history of the embodied self—whether a girl’s feet were once
bound and let out or never bound—becomes irrelevant. This view of tianzu
as Columbus’s exploit thus operates on an erasure of time and history.
The other two formulations, tianzu as the recovery of a lost body or a
lost object, locate the female body in history but insist that despite having
been broken or lost, the “natural” body can be recovered by female will. All
three formulations, therefore, privilege female will over the physicality of
her body. Moreover, in framing the problem of unbinding as that of “glo-
riously recovering,” the male reformers used a nationalistic term that equates
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
female bodies with lost territories or sovereignty. In this way, female bodies
were made central to the project of national salvation, but only as a meta-
phor outside the realm of a woman’s embodied experience.
If the conversion narrative erases the physicality of the body, it drama-
tizes the conflict felt by girls who found a new authority structure in male
(and occasionally female) teachers and activists while being beholden to the
old mores of mothers and grandmothers. What happened to Cai Aihua when
she returned home after the rally? Did her mother scold her and apply the
binders even tighter? Did she guard her recovered body with heightened
resolution, having been emboldened by her public speaking experience (and
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what exactly did she say)? Did she put the binding cloths on and oª in a
seesawing battle of parental and brotherly will? As we leave Daixi to meet
other females whose bodies have become templates for national histories
and whose privacy was put on display, we long to hear the words she was
supposed to have uttered that fateful day.
The song that Xu Zehua led the students in singing was composed by Cai
Aihua’s brother, Lünong. Perhaps taking clues from his sister, the song in-
structs on the practical procedures of letting feet out instead of celebrating
tianzu as an unproblematic natural state:
Although we are not told of Cai Aihua’s age, since she was enrolled in school
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
for less than a year, she was unlikely to be older than ten, hence her feet
must have been in their initial stage of binding. These simple instructions,
based on the principle of gradually reducing pressure on the bent foot and
enhancing blood circulation, would probably su‹ce.16 Fangzu for young
girls like Cai was merely a step-by-step procedure; once they resolved to
unbind, they were likely to “recover” the function of their feet if not their
entire shape.
Older women, however, had to battle bodies more resistant. For them,
fangzu was not a one-time procedure but an ongoing bodily state that is
not inherently diªerent from chanzu: never completely successful; always a
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work in progress. A leaflet published by the Letting Feet Out Society (Fangzu
hui) in Suzhou and addressed to adult and old women presents a realistic
picture of the hurdles involved in letting feet out. Written in the first-person
by twenty named ladies “who all had been binding our feet since young,
and only recently began to let them out,” the tract details five methods that
they had tested on themselves: (1) making looser stockings and shoes; (2)
gradually getting rid of the binding cloth; (3) straightening the toes and the
ball of the foot; (4) applying cures for the broken skin and corns that would
accompany the letting out ordeal; (5) getting rid of the habit of wearing in-
ner high heels.17
The twenty ladies gave methodical and practical instructions that only a
woman with bound feet could fathom. For example, they suggested mak-
ing a series of shoes and stockings, each half an inch longer and two-to-
three-tenths of an inch wider than the last; making the soles of the shoes
one-to-two-tenths of an inch wider than the feet could improve stability
(72). This was never done for shoes for bound feet, as it would make the
feet appear bigger. The instructions for doing away with the binding cloth,
likewise, are based on a gradual inversion of the familiar ways of binding.
Do not discard the binding cloth overnight, as the sudden surge in circula-
tion would cause the feet to swell. Keep the four digits loosely bent by wrap-
ping them once or twice with a short length of cloth, two to three feet long,
tucking the remainder under the heels. Originally, to achieve a small pair
of feet, the proper way of wrapping the toes was from top to bottom, or
clockwise from the outside in (shunrao) for the left foot but the opposite
( fanrao) for the right foot. Now since the goal was to reverse the binding,
the loose wrappers should be applied backwards: clockwise for the right foot
and counter-clockwise for the left. After six months, there would be no need
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
ually flattens, the paper or cattail lift would eventually be rendered unnec-
essary (74–75).18 Such detailed instructions were never committed to writ-
ing when footbinding was a viable practice because they were transmitted
orally and demonstrated corporeally. The availability of written instructions
to unbind feet (and to bind, by inference) in itself signaled the creation
of new knowledge about women’s bodies and new venues of its national
circulation.
The meticulous concern of the Suzhou ladies is manifested in their rec-
ommendation of a foreign oil, “yellow Vaseline” (huang huashiling ), as the
best relief for corns and calluses that would ensue from the torturous re-
versals inflicted on one’s feet. But if a woman did not have access to a for-
eign pharmacy, the oil from the bones of a freshly killed goat would su‹ce
(74). Finally, they invited all women who desired further instructions or
suªered discomfort to drop by during their consultation hours, held on the
fifteenth day of every month after three o’clock at Wang’s residence, Five
Dragon Hall Lane, Ten Spring Street, inside the Feng Gate in the city of
Suzhou. Those who lived elsewhere were welcome to write (76). While invit-
ing other “comrades” (tongzhi) to share their methods, the Suzhou ladies
vouched that old and young had let their feet out successfully using their
method, including an old lady in her seventies or eighties. “The comfort
and convenience of letting feet out are comparable to a blind man regain-
ing his sight—they are beyond words. Nor can a person who has not let her
feet out imagine [the joy]” (75).
The comparison of letting feet out to the miraculous healing of the blind
contradicts the carefully constructed message in the rest of the tract.19 In
their meticulous attention paid to the physicality of flesh and bones, the
Suzhou ladies have made a persuasive argument about the reversibility of
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
footbinding. With details of each of the five methods laid out, they drove
home the impression that with patience, determination, and the ability to
endure more pain, any woman could successfully let her feet out in due time.
Yet they knew better than to present the body as a piece of molding clay or
a lost object (or eyesight) that can be recovered. Perhaps for this reason they
did not describe the wobbly and misshapen let-out feet that were the best
that women who had bound feet for a long time could hope to achieve. The
hope of a miraculous rebirth that they slipped into their instructions un-
derscores how di‹cult, painful, and incomplete the process of letting feet
out was for older women.
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YAN XISHAN’S
ANTI-FOOTBINDING CAMPAIGNS IN SHANXI
This fact was lost on a new generation of bureaucrats charged with fangzu
in their districts. The drive to end footbinding received a boost after the es-
tablishment of the Republic in 1912, when a fragmented state brought it-
self to bear on the bodies of its citizens. But, in fact, Sun Yat-sen’s Republic
was short-lived, and its 1912 proclamation to ban footbinding was never im-
plemented.20 In many provinces, which were virtually independent states,
however, civilizing regimes sought to reform customs as the foundation of
a modern body politic. Not only did the anti-footbinding movement be-
come entangled with local politics, it also served as the vehicle through which
people contested the encroachment of state power, and in the process they
articulated their parameters of privacy.
These developments unfolded in Shanxi under the warlord Yan Xishan
(1883–1960), the first to engineer and sustain province-wide campaigns to
eradicate footbinding, from 1917 to 1922.21 Not content with education and
persuasion, he brought the power of the state to bear on legislation, police
enforcement, and the dispatch of feet inspectors into people’s homes. Yan’s
rhetoric was akin to that of the natural feet societies in the coastal areas. But
the will and ability to use state power, however fragmented and circumscribed,
changed the nature of the anti-footbinding movement from voluntary social
action to state mandate and surveillance. This, together with the availability
of a sizable number of edicts, circulars, and notices compiled by the legacy-
conscious Yan, makes an examination of the Shanxi case especially revealing.
As a prototype for the entire province, in 1912–14 Yan organized a militia
group, the Peace-Keeping Association (Baoan she), in his home county of
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Wutai. The militia was charged with the somewhat contradictory tasks of
maintaining public order and instigating social reform. The village headmen
and local leaders were empowered to conduct household inspections; fam-
ilies whose women refused to let their feet out were fined. They brought
along one female chaperone on their inspection tour, going as far as peeling
oª the socks of footbound women. Villages north of the Hutuo river com-
plied, but those south of the river rose up in arms and had to be pacified.22
Yan Xishan, the military governor (dujun) of Shanxi who also assumed
civil responsibilities in 1917, was undeterred. The eradication of footbind-
ing became a province-wide target under his “Six Policies” campaign,
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1917–22. Stated in positive terms, the six priorities are water control, seri-
culture, tree planting, ending opium smoking, tianzu, and queue cutting.
In 1918 “Three Matters” of livelihood were added: cotton cultivation,
forestation, and animal husbandry. In his declaration, Yan followed the na-
tional script prevalent since the 1898 reform period that construed women
with bound feet as a terrible financial burden: “The people of Shanxi live
in abject poverty. The cause of poverty is that those who produce are few
and those who eat are many. . . . Among our population of about 10 mil-
lion, half are women and most of them are not engaged in production.”
Ostensibly, footbinding was opposed for economic reasons; later it was
grouped with opium smoking and gambling as the “Three Ills.”23
Male haircutting, in turn, was mandated because of its obvious political
symbolism. Although the 1645 Qing order for all Han men to conform to
Manchu hairstyle was met with violent resistance, almost three centuries
later the habit had been naturalized to the extent that many men kept their
queue after the collapse of the Qing imperium. In 1919 Yan rebuked a county
teacher “whose queue was dangling like a rope. What a horrid sight!” Yan
ordered not only the clipping of queues but also a close cropping or clean
shaving of the head; even hair two to three inches long was suspect because
so ingrained was the identification of queues with the old order that any
unkempt hair—a queue in the making—signaled an incipient restoration
movement. The order, first intended for o‹cials, students, and merchants,
was declared a success in May 1918 and was extended to “ordinary people”
(putong renmin).24
The symbolic import of tianzu was as unmistakable as the queue. Al-
though the binding of feet posed no political threat, it was the sign of na-
tional shame. Yan, a graduate of the Tokyo Military Academy in Japan, had
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internalized the global episteme that produced the category of tianzu in the
late Qing. “The harm of footbinding is great. It hinders the movement of
females and maims their bodies. Not only is it absent in the five continents
and ten thousand countries of the world, even the imperial family and
Banner people of the former Qing dynasty had tianzu,” he wrote in a 1918
notice to all people (renmin), warning of an imminent fine. “Moreover,
nowhere is the Han custom of footbinding more severe than in Shanxi. This
is why our population is dwindling, our bodies are becoming frail, and our
people are sinking into deeper poverty.” Over one hundred thousand copies
of the notice were printed and distributed to county authorities for posting.25
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CRIMINALIZATION OF CHANZU
Even before his “Six Policies” campaign, in late 1916, Yan recruited local
leaders and male students to help enforce his decree titled “Regulations
for the Strict Prohibition of Footbinding.” In conception and terms this
decree shows an engagement with the messy realm of local practice ab-
sent in national proclamations. From the day it took eªect, which was the
day that it was posted in public, young girls were forbidden to start bind-
ing, girls under the age of fifteen who had already started to bind were to
let their feet out ( jiefang, to unwrap and release), and those over fifteen
were not allowed to wear shoes with arched wooden soles (mudi; see figs.
5, 7e). After a grace period of one month, the parents of newly bound girls
would be fined, as would the makers and vendors of wooden heels (3–30
yuan). After three months, fines would be levied on those who refused to
let their feet out or those who held on to their soles (2–20 yuan). After six
months, anyone who served as a matchmaker for footbound ladies or brides
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caught wearing arched soles would be fined (3–30 yuan). The magistrate
in counties and the head of police bureaus in municipalities were charged
with the implementation.30 Chanzu, in its various sartorial guises, was thus
criminalized.
Two years after the decree, Yan Xishan received reports that in over fifty
counties, or half of the total in the province, the feet of all girls under fifteen
were let out. Buoyed by the instantaneous result, in his 1918 notice (cited
above) he extended the fangzu order to girls under ten. Staking the prestige
of his o‹ce, which was also his personal prestige, on the success of the im-
plementation, Yan vowed to dispatch state inspectors in July to impose pun-
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to step into the courtyard or go out to the front gate. Only the county mag-
istrate had the authority to impose fines.37 One can imagine the potential
threat of state agents entering people’s living quarters in the dark, harassing
the men, molesting the women, and extorting money. Yet measures devised
to ensure a certain communal accountability by conducting the inspection
outside had the ironic eªect of making the women’s humiliation more pub-
lic. Despite the restraining orders, rumors persisted that feet inspection was
an excuse for fondling women.38
In March 1919, Yan pled with the counties to hire female inspectors and
authorized the channeling of fines to finance the operation. After all, he
mused, having the male police force and bureaucrats interfering in matters
that concerned the bodies of women was inappropriate for the body politic
(zhengti).39 Later that year, regulations for the dispatch of female inspectors
into villages were announced. The ideal inspector was a middle-school grad-
uate over twenty years old, but given the scarcity of educated women, any
hardworking woman of good repute would do as long as she had unbound
or let-out feet. She would receive a salary and travel expenses from the county.
Her job was to report oªenses to the county authorities, but she had no power
to impose or collect fines.40
The bureaucratization of feet inspection became an arena in which
people contested or negotiated with the state the boundaries of their pri-
vacy. Successive regulations outlining the conduct and jurisdiction of feet
inspectors give an indication of the violence of this encounter and the pre-
carious position of the inspector. Yan stipulated that a female inspector could
bring a patrolman to the villages with the explicit task of “protecting” her,
but he had to wait outside the front gate and was not to extort bribes. At
the same time, the villagers needed protection from the inspector. Hence
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rules stated that she could not linger in the house, nor should she make “ir-
relevant remarks” on the styles of other articles of clothing and jewelry on
the women’s bodies. Before inspection could commence, she had to notify
the headman or ward warden of each village, who would accompany her.41
Changing the gender identity of the inspectors did not alleviate opposi-
tion and may even have exacerbated the patriarchs’ resentment. People saw
anti-footbinding, enforced by humiliating inspections and onerous fines, as
a frivolous project of an overreaching state. Yan related an instinctive reac-
tion on the streets: “What does this trivial matter have to do with politics,
so that the government should interfere in all seriousness?” Implied in the
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the Tianzu hui in each county was entitled to 30 percent of the income,
whereas the remainder would finance the county girls’ school (or, if there
was none, the boys’ school).45 Yan complained that although the amount
of deposits was logged, the cash was often unaccounted for. He ordered all
counties to designate a separate set of books for the fines, listing activities
in four columns: opening balance, deposit, withdrawal (with receipts), and
ending balance. New books were to be submitted every two months.46 The
political business of fangzu thus created, at least on paper, a self-su‹cient
economy administered by the county authorities.
From the patriarch’s perspective, the fine was a squeeze by an overzealous
governor aligned with a corrupt local gentry. The extractions provided for
more inspections and further penalties, lining the pockets of the o‹cials
and local gentry who controlled the Tianzu hui and the schools. The abuses
were so severe that in June 1920 Yan ordered county authorities to allocate
all Tianzu hui expenditures for the salaries of female inspectors, which in
eªect meant the disbanding of the Tianzu hui. He admitted: “Upon recent
inspection, the majority of the county Tianzu hui’s are empty shells.” In
Pinglu county, the penalties were so excessive that Yan cautioned “admin-
istrative fines, meant to teach a lesson, are diªerent from criminal penal-
ties.” Referring to the large number of people being caught, he suggested
that not all should be fined to the maximum amount stipulated. In Shouyang
county, Yan discovered that county authorities descended upon the villages,
arbitrarily appointed village women as inspectors, and pocketed 40 percent
of the fines thus collected.47 The abuses foreseen in a satirical short story,
“Excising Small Feet,” discussed in the next chapter, had become a reality.
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Even with the employment of female inspectors, by design Yan Xishan’s anti-
footbinding campaign was a male-to-male operation. The leaders and pri-
mary constituency of the anti-binding movement remained male, as evinced
by the proposed establishment of a Refusing to Marry Footbound Brides
association in every county, which automatically enlisted all male students
as members.48 The constitution of the Tianzu hui, in turn, was written ex-
plicitly for the male subject, as we have seen. Yan’s strategy was to mobilize
male students, teachers, bureaucrats, and local gentry to change female be-
havior by making their patriarchs accountable. All of the former were people
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from the upper echelon (shangdeng renjia) who should take the initiative in
reforming social customs.49 Yan’s was thus an “elitist” vision that rested on
a utopian alliance between the old male elite and the new.
In practice, the conservative gentry often provided the most steadfast re-
sistance, spreading rumors and arousing fears about women’s marriageabil-
ity. O‹cialdom fared only slightly better. In 1918, Yan warned that he could
see through local o‹cials covering up their lack of action with charades of
“empty words.” In his annual review of the tianzu work of county magis-
trates the following year, Yan singled out twenty-four for formal praise and
reprimand. Fifteen were deemed praiseworthy, two of whom were rated par-
ticularly commendable, whereas nine were reprimanded, one seriously.50
Contrary to Yan’s vision, the campaign became a battleground between
reform-minded men, often urban and younger, and the entrenched con-
servative forces that the village gentry and recalcitrant bureaucrat personified.
A handful of women did join the Tianzu hui; in Xiangling county five
were commended, along with six men, for their extraordinary dedication.
The men received a horizontal plaque inscribed with an auspicious saying
whereas the women’s prize was a standing trophy. In Fanshi county, the mag-
istrate’s wife and daughter traveled from village to village inspecting and
persuading women to unbind. They also received a trophy from Yan.51 Al-
though the prizes are diªerentiated by gender, these women occupied the
same privileged social position as the elite men. The anti-binding move-
ment thus created two diametrically opposed female subject positions. This
is perhaps not by intention, since the recruitment of female helpers was not
in Yan’s original plan. But with the participation of female inspectors and
the magistrate’s female kin, womanhood in Shanxi was divided into the ed-
ucated and privileged who served as agents of the state on one side, and vil-
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“I hear that many girls around ten are not binding, or have let their feet out.
But those older than sixteen, although they are not wearing high heel shoes
on the outside, inside their feet are still wrapped in strips of cloth. Look at
you! Don’t you have any self-respect? What are you doing this for, harming
your own body and causing others to look down upon you?”52
The discourse of shame is predicated on pairs of “social eyes” judging the
woman, but it also recognized her individual volition. Yan sounded almost
naïve in his eagerness to assign miraculous power to women’s will to un-
bind. He told older women, for example, to simply “take the binders oª
and in several days, your tendons and bones would stretch out, the blood
and qi would circulate freely. How much more convenient it is!”53 He had
in fact shown more appreciation of the stubbornness of old women’s bodies
in his legislation.
Yan concluded with a personal warning: “Today I send this notice, going
to such length to persuade you, because in truth I pity you so, you igno-
rant women. Hurry up and get rid of your old bad habits, don’t let my con-
cern for you be in vain. From now on, if you still bind and swaddle, the
female inspector will find out and you’ll be severely punished. By then your
regrets would be too late!”54 In his words, the girls who embraced tianzu
appeared to be adults, whereas the old women who resisted were children.
The infantilizing of footbound women is also evinced in the rewards that
Yan designed for them. At the inception of the campaign, Yan printed over
one hundred thousand copies of “a colored drawing” to be handed out as
prizes. Later in 1918, he ordered each village to identify the first woman who
let her feet out, promising her an “artistic trophy.”55 The association of the
female with visuality, contrasted here with the award of plaques with in-
scribed words to men, betrayed an ingrained gender hierarchy. Females, and
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children, were deemed especially receptive to sounds and sights. As the state
sought to remake them into modern citizens, they were locked all the more
tightly in an inferior female place.
Ostensible partners in the civilizing project, female inspectors were no
match for the male leaders in authority and power. Occasionally these
women were educated and could stand on their own. For example, in Yan-
shi county, female primary school teachers were hired in 1918 to “supervise
and urge” (duze) the provincial lecturers and village heads and to help per-
suade the footbound women. In the provincial capital, in early 1919, female
students from the Normal, Gongli, and Shangzhi schools were mobilized
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THE BODY INSIDE OUT 61
to take turns to inspect feet on Sundays.56 For the most part, however, in-
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spectors were local women who may or may not have been literate. We do
not know the extent to which each identified with the tianzu episteme. In
any case, her success depended less on her ability to persuade other women
and more on the resolve of the magistrate to impose fines and on the pa-
triarch’s ability to pay. Caught between male authority and complacency,
she was a pawn in a duel between state and local society.
The unprecedented invasion of state power into people’s bedrooms was
all the more transgressive because it was conducted primarily by women and
on women. The recruitment of educated women as representatives of the
state, although limited in number, precluded the possibilities of female al-
liance or sisterhood across class lines. Even as they were standing in the same
courtyard staring at each other, women who personified the enlightenment
project could not be coeval with the old women stuck in their shameful ways.
The unequal power dynamics of missionaries civilizing a pagan nation were
now being played out by one group of Chinese women to another. No won-
der that the latter resisted and held on to their customary ways, now cher-
ished all the more as their own.
The antagonism between the educated women and the illiterate women
they tried to “liberate” was dramatized in an anecdote recorded by Zhou
Songyao, a male reformist writer, in an anti-footbinding pamphlet published
around 1929. One Madame Liu Guofang, a teacher at the Wushi Girls’
School in Gao’an, Jiangxi province, went down to the villages with several
colleagues from the Women’s Association to persuade peasant women to let
their feet out. They were greeted by a barrage of curses: “What business do
you have meddling with my feet! I’m old and don’t need to eat from my
looks [niang laole, you buxiang mai yangzi]. Why on earth do you girlie stu-
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dents care about the long and short of others’ feet?”57 The footbound
woman’s robust ego is evinced by her term of self-address, niang. Literally
“mother” but more appropriately “your mother,” it conveys her sense of su-
periority over both the hoity-toity teachers and lowly prostitutes by virtue
of her seniority in the family system. Unlike prostitutes and actors who had
fallen through the kinship safety net and had to eke out a living by draw-
ing the gaze of others to themselves (mai yangzi), she had won her security
and power in the time-honored way—giving birth to sons and serving her
in-laws. And the teacher from the city had nothing over her. The gulf be-
tween the subject positions of the educated woman and the footbound
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woman is thus rooted in the conflict between two authority structures and
channels of success for women: the new school and the old family.
THE RECKONING
Between 1918 and 1920, Yan issued numerous decrees and orders to goad
individual counties to take anti-binding seriously. Indeed, no one can doubt
his sincerity and vigilance upon examining the mountain of legislation, di-
rectives, and primers he produced, only a fraction of which was discussed
here. In 1920, Yan received reports that almost all of the girls under fifteen
had ceased to bind and felt optimistic enough to begin enforcing fangzu
among older women, who were understandably the most resistant. Some
agents imposed fines on the older women, but few bothered trying to per-
suade them to change their habit. Other than harassment, the campaign
had made no impact on the lives of older women.58 Even the victory with
girls was mostly illusionary. In 1921, rumors spread that the government had
ceased to be concerned with women’s feet, and girls promptly began bind-
ing in many counties. A desperate Yan repeatedly goaded his o‹cials to keep
up the momentum; giving up midway would mean a complete waste of ear-
lier eªorts.
Yet the administrative will to dispatch inspectors and impose fines could
not be, and indeed was not intended to be, sustained forever. Once the pres-
sure receded, county reports that girls had resumed binding did in fact be-
gin to trickle in.59 Like the mass movements that Mao Zedong would con-
duct decades later, Yan Xishan’s fangzu campaign was launched with fanfare
but tapered oª in the early 1920s, even as weathered signs and posters still
hung from lamp posts and brick walls in towns and villages. Yan held onto
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period of time, it is hard to ascertain the reliability of these figures and the
meaning of such arbitrary comparisons across a span of years. Nonetheless,
Yan’s campaigns had likely reduced the number of young girls who bound,
especially in the urban areas, and the subsequent unrest with the Japanese
invasion of China in 1937 provided a more compelling deterrent. The need
to run away from marauding soldiers persuaded many mothers that they
could no longer aªord to bind their daughters’ feet.
In Shanxi as elsewhere, however, the tianzu rhetoric was irrelevant to the
older women whose bodies were accustomed to decades of binding. For
them, chanzu was a “natural” state in terms of their everyday, embodied re-
ality. They could be intimidated into unwrapping the binders momentar-
ily in front of the foot inspectors, but no amount of administrative order
or criminalization could return their feet to the “natural” state of tianzu. To
the older women, the state-imposed fangzu movement was no more than a
make-believe: a performance of compliance if not a charade.
From a logical point of view, the surest way to eradicate footbinding would
be to dissuade young girls from starting. Given the stubbornness of older
women’s bodies and their resistance to the harassment, it would make sense
to leave them alone. In a matter of decades, footbinding would come to a
natural end.61 The fangzu movement in the twentieth century, however,
did not have the leisure to pursue this option because of two conditions
of its birth. The sense of national urgency and the personal humiliation
that the male reformers felt under the global gaze compelled them to seek
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immediate and visible results, no matter how symbolic. The tactic of vi-
sual display that the movement adopted, in turn, goaded the reformers to
find more and more shocking props and new slogans for their rallies that
were held in athletic grounds or party headquarters throughout the
provinces after the establishment of the Nationalist government in Nan-
jing in 1927.62 The cessation of binding by girls, like tianzu, lacks drama,
hence is not interesting to look at. In contrast, fangzu—literally the un-
wrapping of older women’s binding cloths—is full of blood, sweat, and
tears, promising endless entertainment.
Indeed, symbolic victory became the substance of the fangzu movement
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as it became routine in the late 1920s and 1930s; performance was an end
in itself. The fluxes inside a woman’s body, the contractions and swellings
that render chanzu and fangzu more gradations on a spectrum than its two
poles, are not amenable to representation. Objects exterior to the body—
the material implements needed for binding feet—came to symbolize both
footbinding and its enemy. In Yan Xishan’s Shanxi, arched wooden soles
served that function. Elsewhere, strips of binding cloth, the fabric most in-
timate to a woman’s skin, fluttered in public spaces to announce the end of
the footbinding era.63
The exhibition of the binding cloth was attributed to Deng Changyao,
the head of the O‹ce of Civil Aªairs (Minzhengting chang) in Shaanxi, a
province west of Shanxi. Charged with the letting out of feet, Deng drafted
a three-stage program in 1928 that mimicked Sun Yat-sen’s tutelage program
toward developing parliamentary democracy: admonition; enforcement;
penalty.64 In the first stage of admonition, a Tianzu hui was to be estab-
lished in the provincial capital with branches in the county seats. They would
send educators to primary schools in the villages who would see to it that
every schoolboy would wear a cloth banner declaring: “I refuse to marry a
boundfoot woman.” In the next stage, enforcement, inspectors were dis-
patched with a gong to each household. Having forced the women to un-
bind, the old binding cloths were to be collected and shipped to the county
o‹ce. Those under thirty who still refused to unbind would be fined and
their parents detained.
The image of thousands upon thousands of used binding cloths piling up
in the magistrate’s august o‹ce was amusing, if not hilarious, and soon Deng
became nationally famous. An article in the newspaper Shenbao told of Deng
and his runners scouting the neighborhoods to snatch away every cloth
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binder in sight and stockpiling them in his o‹ce. Soon his collection in fact
reached several thousand. When he invited o‹cials and “the people” (ren-
min) to a binding cloth exhibition, everyone covered their noses and chuck-
led. Deng also led a pageant of “bare-legs-tiny-feet” into the villages, en-
tertaining with songs and speeches. It is not clear who bared their legs.
Having oªered a reward of five dollars (dayang ) for each hundred confiscated
binding cloths, in one month he was said to have collected over 25,400 tro-
phy strips. Similar slogans and exhibitions sprang up across the country; in
Jiangxi province a mountain of confiscated shoelaces was erected, with a
tombstone, as public monument.65
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thunder. After his speech, the masses requested Mrs. Deng on stage so that
they could examine if she had big feet. Mrs. Deng boldly went on stage and
held up her two feet for all to scrutinize. The audience broke out in cheers
that pierced the sky.”67 Deng’s performance was evidently enjoyed by all.
But it is less clear how the unwrapping of the ladies’ binders and Mrs. Deng’s
self-exhibition were supposed to persuade more women to unbind their feet.
Some among the masses had probably thought that they were watching a
show at the temple fair.
By the 1930s, there prevailed a sense of exhaustion as the anti-footbind-
ing campaign went from a spontaneous missionary movement to a local re-
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a pair of shoes, with the moniker “liberation.” Both the structure and the
shape were old-fashioned arch shoes, but the vamp was made of golden kid-
skin with cut-oª relief; the inside was lined with red felt. He asked his bride
to unwrap her binding cloth and slip them on her bare skin.69
This curious story of a foot fetishist derives its comical appeal from ex-
cesses and instabilities. Not only do deeds stand words on their head, the
words also double up on themselves. To the overseas Chinese man, “liber-
ating” the woman means saving her from the fangzu regime (which claims
to liberate her), only to deliver her to the bondage of his golden kid arched
slippers. Less than a century after the deprecating eyes of the Euro-Ameri-
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cans stared the Chinese scholar out of his complacency, the reading public
in the 1930s treaty ports had turned the West into an imaginary place: home
of the last lotus lover who would put Gu Hongming to shame. The para-
dox of a connoisseur of chanzu camouflaged as a fangzu inspector bespeaks
a fracture between the outside and the inside, or between appearance and
the real. The next chapter argues that in this very fracture and instability of
meaning lies the end of footbinding’s history.
clude citations from earlier works and new submissions by Yao, his friends,
and readers.
The writings were later anthologized in five volumes and issued under
the editorship of Yao between 1934 and 1941. A sixth volume, a selection of
the choicest entries from the earlier books, also appeared in 1941.2 The more
popular of these stories thus traversed multiple loops: from whatever the
source to tabloid; from tabloid to book; from book to “the best of . . . ”;
from printed word to hearsay; and back to the printed word. The result of
this roundabout quotation is a monument of redundancy, more than a mil-
lion words that spread across some two thousand pages. If the project had
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not been interrupted by war, it might well have ended from sheer exhaus-
tion. There is nothing more to be said and known about footbinding.
Whereas the tone of the entries ranges from scholarly, scientific, autobio-
graphical, or erotic to comical, the nature of Picking Radishes is pornographic:
men exposing women’s bodies for male pleasure and commercial gain. Yao
Lingxi was unabashed about his profit-making motives, and, as we will
see, equally unabashed was the sexual explicitness of some of the accounts.
Yet the gesture of this pornography is serious, as is its purpose of exhaus-
tive documentation and comprehensive knowledge. This exhaustion pro-
vided closure, allowing these disparate fragments to constitute a complete
field of knowledge.
Picking Radishes is a gold mine. Every scholar who has read it—Howard
Levy is a prime example—has cited individual entries from it as documen-
tation of certain aspects of the historical truth about footbinding, be it re-
gional distribution, gradual decline, or female experience. But a text with
pretensions of total representation cannot be read so randomly. The truth
or message carried by Picking Radishes is embedded in its very encyclopedic
and serial form, which took shape as a result of textual imitation, recycling,
and invention.3
In its serialized origins, fragmentary form, and open appeal for manu-
script submissions toward future sequels, Picking Radishes resembles a tra-
ditional collectanea or encyclopedia. The social locations of the editors and
contributors, their nostalgic backward-glancing posture, and the nature of
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
The conventional reading can be translated as: “Do not discard the leaves
just because the roots (‘lower body’) are bitter or defective.” In other words,
even an unworthy body has partial virtues. Yao thus oªered this interpre-
tation: although admittedly footbinding is a defect, we should not discredit
the female body, nor should we shun the subject matter (CFL II: iii–iv).
Could Yao be sending a more provocative message at the same time? The
second line can also be read: “Do not disdain the female private parts.” The
“lower body” is euphemism for genitals.6
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In the name of preserving customs, the Radishes editorial team appealed for
submission of memoirs, interviews, surveys, photographs, drawings, and
stowed-away shoes from readers throughout the country. The knowledge
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
they sought was empirical and their preferred inscription machine was the
camera. Yao and Zhou repeatedly admonished their readers to take clear
photographs, send postcards, and, when all else failed, make drawings (CFL
IV: 200). One reader considered this impulse a Western trait: “I have read
monographs written by Westerners on Chinese customs. They always at-
tach the true image of our women’s slender toes in the form of bare-all [chi
luoluo] camera shots or diagrams. They show frontal and side views; they
pry open the bent toes and heels to take pictures. The reader has a complete
glimpse” (CFL: 354–55; emphasis mine). Photographs or diagrams were taken
to be more thorough methods of inscription than words because, like the
X-ray machines,
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Not only are all the visual angles covered, but also the full temporal se-
quence is revealed: “Some shots are taken when the binders are being tight-
ened; some are taken after binding is completed and the shoes are being
slipped on; some when the anklet and embroidered shoes are in place. There
are even photographs of an array of binders and shoes, all classified and cat-
egorized. . . . Westerners are high on curiosity [that we Chinese should not
imitate], but we cannot be second to their venturesome spirit of scrutiniz-
ing every matter and every object” (CFL: 354–55). What distinguished the
Westerners, then, was not their imaging machines but their inquisitive spirit
and all-seeing eyes.
Heeding this call, Yao opened The Best of Picking Radishes (Caifei jing-
hualu, 1941) with forty new photographs (presumably taken by Chinese).
Some are composite studies showing variations of regional or period styles
in the soles, heels, and shape of shoes. But the majority of connoisseurs
seemed ill at ease with the scientific discourse that had won intellectual high
ground by the late 1920s.7 Some “scientific” treatises on, for example, the
aesthetics of feet or the physics of lilt smack of mimicry if not parody (CFL
IV: 54–63; CFL II: 103). Clearly the reader did not have to adore science to
find the photograph of a tiny-footed courtesan pleasurable.
A handful of connoisseurs appeared to be practitioners of positivist sci-
entism. Hu Yanxian, a frequent contributor and supplier of the composite
photographic studies, showed an impressive propensity for measuring and
tabulating with frightening accuracy. A native of Beijing, he documented
the twenty steps involved in the making of Banner shoes fashioned by the
Manchus and Chinese martial (Hanjun) women, who did not bind their
feet, as well as their sartorial rituals (CFL: 206–9; 229–30). Unveiled in even
more minute detail are the lengths of each part of the foot (unbound and
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
and measured in such detail before the age of its vanishing. Scientific real-
ism supplanted literary imagination as the entree to footbinding’s truth. Not
only the epistemology of these connoisseurs but also their inscription ma-
chines and medium were modern. With or without visual aids, the printed
word seemed a lot more contagious, a lot more likely to get entangled with
life, when it circulated on the pages of tabloids and mass-produced books in
an age of modern transportation.
In a transitional age when personal knowledge of footbinding was in-
creasingly scant, the anthologies became practical textbooks and guidebooks.
Several years into the serialization, readers began to submit impressions of
their travels to cities or districts described in Picking Radishes, some carry-
ing a copy of the book like a Lonely Planet tour guide. One reader professed
to have learned everything he knew about bound feet from Yao Lingxi’s
columns. He later traveled to Tianjin, Yao’s hometown, surveyed the brothel
district and reported the sightings of two footbound prostitutes. He wrote
to Yao at the tabloid; Yao visited the two shortly, composed poems to com-
memorate the encounter, and published the entire sequence of texts in a
later anthology (CFL IV: 313–16).8
To facilitate text-to-life-to-text encounters, Yao launched a “Lotus-
Seeking Club” in 1938 and drafted a covenant. All who read Picking Radishes
and had their interest piqued, especially those skilled in drawing, photogra-
phy, and sculpture (note the emphasis on the visual), were welcomed to join.
If they discovered writings about feet or were inspired to craft their own
(classical Chinese please), Yao would consider publishing them. Viewpoints,
research, or reports of “contacts with lotus feet” were of value. Yao was also
interested in any article of clothing that covered the tiny foot, in material
form or in photograph. He would pay cash for the use of the objects or ne-
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
gotiate a price for purchase. Photographs would be shared with other mem-
bers willing to bear the expenses of reproduction. Good photos of both the
arched and never-bound foot were also welcomed. Attached were detailed
instructions for submission as well as the addresses of Yao Lingxi in Tian-
jin and Zhou Ying in Shanghai. The two were to circulate mimeographed
address updates of new members every month (CFL IV: 201–3).
Club members were also encouraged to collect other kinds of informa-
tion: If you find a footbound woman willing to unwrap her binding cloths,
introduce her to us. If you know a tiny-footed prostitute, send her name,
rank in brothel, age, native place, name of troupe, and address to the club
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“to facilitate investigation” (CFL IV: 202). It is self-evident that the un-
specified gender of Yao’s and Zhou’s intended readers is male. We do not
know how many joined, but the covenant is an apt summary of the edito-
rial preferences that produced the Picking Radishes anthologies.9
With this fan club trading in information and objects, it became di‹cult
to sustain Yao’s earlier disclaimer that appreciation of footbinding can be
divorced from its promotion. He might not have succeeded in enticing mod-
ern girls to take up binding, but in keeping the knowledge alive and infor-
mation current, he promoted the connoisseurship of feet.10 This connois-
seurship, even as it speaks the modern language of investigative science and
ethnography, is deeply nostalgic by nature and in rhetoric. Yao Lingxi’s iden-
tification lies not with the forward-looking modernizers but with the van-
ished literati. It is no accident that he announced the launching of the
Lotus-Seeking Club in the form of a covenant (sheyue), a genre popular in
the late-Ming when gatherings of moon-gazing poets or romantic politi-
cians abounded.
Such connoisseurs as Yao Lingxi, Tao Baopi, Zhou Ying, and Hu Yanxian
were schooled enough in the old world of the literati to pull oª a studied
imitation. Yao Lingxi is acclaimed today not as a tabloid writer but as a cred-
ible authority on the Ming novel Plum in the Golden Vase (also known as
Golden Lotus). There is no mistake, however, about their location as cul-
tural producers in a new world of heightened circulation of news and in-
formation. Hence Tao, the unrepentant lotus lover, styled himself Baopi,
“addicted to newspapers.” Surely they were “transitional figures,” but the
overused label does not do these people justice. What distinguishes the con-
noisseurs from such transitional writers as Tang Yisuo and Xu Ke decades
earlier is the former’s posture: they want to seize the present moment by
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
looking back, not forward. Their goal is not to resuscitate the past but merely
to savor whatever is left of it.
Indeed, their lack of self-consciousness and agony set them apart from
serious intellectuals in early twentieth-century China. They embraced such
opposites as appreciation and disapproval of the bound foot or scientific
measurements and literary imageries without a trace of incongruity but with
barrels of laughter. Their world has no paradoxes, only fragmentary knowl-
edge and body parts that generate infinite amusement. They shouldered no
“gate of darkness,” only gaieties. Nor did they suªer crises of identity, only
hangovers and a lack of sleep. On the surface, these purveyors of knowl-
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edge about women’s feet appear to be the happiest and most well-adjusted
writers in modern China.
MIMETIC NOSTALGIA:
NEW CONNOISSEURS AS OLD LITERATI
body. Male connoisseurs of the foot and its paraphernalia did not so much
resist national history as ignore it. But in playing with feet they were also
playing with time, and, in so doing, they carved out a space of repose out-
side the purposeful march of the nation.12
Two kinds of regression in time— of nostalgia—are involved in the con-
noisseurship of feet: reclamation of personal childhood, discussed below,
and playful imitation of the literati, the paragon of male privilege that ceased
to be reproduced after the end of the examination system. Worse still, af-
ter the fall of the dynasty in 1911, the literati became an appendage to a hol-
lowed center: the emperor they were supposed to serve and the dynastic or-
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der to which they pledged loyalty had ceased to exist. The ontological am-
biguity of this leftover man is similar to that of the footbound woman, which
helps explain his identification with her. Both his and her presences were
concrete and visible; they were spotted in the marketplace and on the pages
of newspapers. But slowly the individual bodies expired, one by one, bring-
ing an entire institution to a close. Meanwhile, their phantom bodies elicited
laughter, ridicule, and pity from the modernizers.
Even as they shared a disdain for grand narratives and a fascination with
body parts, the lotus lovers who appeared in Picking Radishes were not a
uniform group. Their generation can be measured by the distance between
them and the receding literati world. Tao Baopi, among the older genera-
tion, provided a crucial link between the world of “new fiction” in the late
nineteenth century and the world of treaty port pictorials in the 1930s. From
the literary careers of Tao and his contemporaries we can see how “small-
talk” (xiaoshuo) was the common denominator of disparate genres of tra-
ditional fiction, late-Qing fiction, and modern newspapers.13
Tao Baopi was at once an author and a critic of a new genre—fiction pub-
lished in periodicals, often in serialized form—that inherited the cultural
prestige invested in the old genre of eight-legged examination essays. In his
short story “Excising Small Feet,” Tao heralded the connoisseurship of
footbinding-as-antique which was later embraced by the Picking Radishes
group. Set in 1904, one year before the examination system was abolished,
the story was first published in 1907 in Stories Every Month (Yueyue xiaoshuo),
a magazine specializing in original short stories and detective stories in trans-
lation. Written in a classical prose laden with bureaucratic jargon, Tao’s story
tells of a certain sixty-something o‹cial-in-waiting (xunjian), a pathetic
figure who purchased a degree which made him eligible for an appointment
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
but for years had failed to land a formal post. He had the look of the ailing
imperial China: “His bones are saturated with suªering; his face yellow and
emaciated. His strides are hesitant and his spirits decrepit. If you regard him
closely he has the look of an opium addict, or maybe he is suªering from
oversex.”14
To ingratiate himself to his boss (daoyuan), who complained of an empty
coªer depleted by the Boxer indemnities and the training of a modern army,
the old scholar racked his brain for a moneymaking venture. He stumbled
into the bedchamber and eyed his concubine, who was sitting by the bed-
side, head lowered and absorbed in something. “Is she worrying about
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monthly expenses? Is she sewing diligently? No, no. She is tending to her
tiny golden lotus like a silkworm bound by her own cocoon. She wants to
ingratiate herself to the old goat and avail herself as his plaything” (179–80).
Echoing the slogan of the anti-footbinding movement, that footbinding
turns potentially productive citizens into men’s sex objects, Tao did not show
any sympathy for the lotus lover throughout the story.
His concubine’s feet excited the o‹cial-in-waiting. He summoned two
butlers to grind ink and drafted a memorial in proper format. He hit upon
a perfect plan: “Everybody knows about the vice of footbinding. But being
a custom that is handed down for generations, it cannot be eradicated all
of a sudden. Why not excise the small feet so that the state can be richer
and the women can gradually be free? . . . All females whose feet measure
two-and-some inches have to pay a daily tax of fifty coppers [wen]. Knock
oª ten coppers if they measure an inch longer, and those at least six inches
would be exempted.” 15 The daoyuan, thinking it an excellent idea, forwarded
the memorial to the regional inspectors.
The inspectors rejected the proposal as laughable, unenforceable, and dan-
gerous. Who would go around taking measurements? What if the people,
already weary of missionary encroachments, interpreted it as another as-
sault on their way of life? The old scholar tried to garner support from his
colleagues: “Excising small feet would change a bad custom and open up
new opportunities. Both the country and the people will benefit. What’s
wrong with it?” One responded, “Are you looking for a job under the skirt?
But first of all, are you willing to let out the lovely tiny feet of your concu-
bine? If not, you will have to pay through your nose even if you manage to
land the tax-collecting job to grease your pockets!” (183–85).16
The lotus lover, corrupt and spent, is a laughable figure. The object of
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
his desire also appears dated and ridiculous, a relic from a decrepit world.
Tao Baopi, a connoisseur of footbinding, did not promote its virtues in this
story but merely sent the message: leave the women alone. As antique, foot-
binding is dated and will in due time pass away. The overreaching state and
its greedy o‹cials bear the brunt of his satire.17
When the dynastic order was breathing its last in the first decade of the
twentieth century, it became transparent that the prestige of footbinding
and the civil service examination were intrinsically linked. The premise of
“Excising Small Feet” and Huang Xiuqiu, discussed in chapter 1, is that
bound feet, like eight-legged essays, are remnants of an ossified order, su-
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That Tang Yisuo and Tao Baopi could appear so similar is more than a func-
tion of their shared cultural milieu. It is also rooted in a dynamic of textual
citation and anthologizing itself. At the moment of its birth, the novel cat-
egory tianzu was construed as the opposite of chanzu. Yet in the pamphlets
and treatises that the anti-footbinding movement produced, the simple
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ural feet and a profusion of elegies for bound feet and their assorted para-
phernalia: shoes, bedslippers, soles, shoe patterns, heels, shoelaces, and others
(CFL II: 73–91). In one breath he declared:
Stubbornly and obsessively I adore the lotus.
Since infancy I have fixed my eyes on hems of skirts.
In old age my addiction is now worse than ever,
Without pausing I seek to reveal all mysteries of the lotus. (CFL II: 80)
Yao Lingxi remarked astutely that Lotus Addict was an innovator whose
lyrics and posture are irreducibly modern. “Poems praising tianzu have no
previous allusions to rely on [qiangwu gushi]. Hence unless they are ac-
companied by lyrics on chanzu, one would not know where to begin.” Lo-
tus Addict’s set of six tianzu lyrics, of which the trains and ocean liner poem
quoted above is one, shun all received footbinding allusions. Evoking a brave
new world of high-rise buildings and globe trotting, the poet invented not
only new expressions but also a new system of reference. Thus his lyrics com-
prise an original modern text (CFL II: 91–92; cf.73 and CFL III: 34–40).
The polemical message of an anti-footbinding song is embedded in its
context, such as the venue of a Tianzu hui rally, and its tone of delivery.
Taken out of context, anti-footbinding polemics may serve other purposes,
or none at all. As we have already noted, the proliferation of anti-footbinding
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
literature of the 1890s to 1920s made knowledge of binding feet more ac-
cessible and may have thus ironically prolonged its life as a social practice
even as it helped diminish its cultural aura. Yet by the time all of these texts
were incorporated into Picking Radishes in the 1930s, words seem to have
lost their social moorings altogether. In this sense, the Radishes volumes con-
stituted a disembodied textual universe, an empty vessel that served as a re-
ceptacle of conflicting desires and an incubator of new meanings. It is ironic
then that an encyclopedia formed in no small part by recycling old texts
and suªused with nostalgia turns out to be not only modern but also ex-
tremely inventive.21
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The small foot is like the silver dollar; everybody loves it. Big foot clad in a
tiny platform shoe is like the squeaking of toads.” Or, “No lasting harsh-
ness: A kind mother binding her dear daughter’s feet.”25 Imitative of the
genre zazuan initiated by the Tang poet Li Shangyin, these are games of
association that embody no deep meanings, only the diction and wit of
rhetoric. One imagines them to be drinking games or musings of bored
travelers.
Another treatise, “Aesthetics of the Fragrant Lotus” (“Xianglian pinzao”),
was cast as a xiaopin-essay, a popular genre among late-Ming literati. Mod-
feet but stopping short of discussing sex in the open (CFL II: 284; CFL IV:
340). One contributor to Radishes, who called himself “A Faithful of Lotus-
ism” (Lianjiao xinshi), wrote that his love for “Aesthetics of the Fragrant
Lotus” was so deep that when he first came upon it twenty years ago he
could not bear to let it out of his fingers (CFL II: 99–103).
Could not bear to let it out of his fingers? Was he serious or exaggerat-
ing? How literally should we take these voyeuristic connoisseurs who appear
more and more like sexual perverts or morons? With readers and admirers
like these, Fang Xuan’s “Aesthetics”—forty fragments jotted in jest—attained
SECONDHAND SEX:
THE CONNOISSEUR AS BOY, IMPOSTOR, AND COLLECTOR
eroticism of foot.31 The same is true for narratives of pain from within the
women’s bodies.
A small number of lotus lovers wrote about their direct erotic contacts
with the bound foot. These accounts are always framed by deliberate dis-
tancing between the time-space of the encounter and that of storytelling:
couching the story as childhood memory, shrouding the encounter in a haze
of smoke and intoxicating liquor (CFL II: 136), or presenting the sexual
memoir as a posthumous work (CFL IV: 305). Therein lies the boundary
between decent and indecent exposure in a 1930s treaty port tabloid. In par-
ticular, the most frequently used distancing device is the all-seeing eye of
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the boy. The innocence of prepubescence allows the voyeur to gain entrance
into the female quarters, play all he wants with an adult woman with bound
feet, and narrate the sensuous excitement of kissing the foot or sni‹ng the
toe without social or moral sanction (CFL IV: 305–6; cf. CFL: 293).32
Ironically, when erotic games with feet are presented as those of the pre-
pubescent boy, they of course appear as indulgences of the presexual stage.
The sexuality of the male is thus denied. This bifurcation of eroticism and
sex finds a forceful statement in one of the most blatantly sensuous stories
about the sex of footbinding, when the narrator solemnly declares that play-
ing with a foot is qualitatively diªerent from sexual intercourse (CFL IV: 211–
25). The story details an eighteen-month aªair between a twenty-something
maid and her master half her age, Yu Aitong (Same love as mine). It was
authored secondhand by one Jinling Aitesheng (The scholar from Nanjing
who loves peculiar things), who claimed to be Yu’s friend. Yet the entire
thirteen-page narrative is put in the first person: a long quotation without
quotation marks.
The maid Plum Girl (Mei’er) and her master devised many games in their
mutual seduction. She once retrieved a tiny paper bag of minced water chest-
nut (ling jiao, one of the metaphors for the bound foot because of its tri-
angular arched shape) from the crevice at the bottom of her foot—the ero-
togenic zone—and fed it to him. His fondling her foot could “make her
brook flow” and he would ejaculate as she collapsed into his arms (CFL IV:
218). Yet Plum Girl is the first to articulate the diªerence between these games
and sexual intercourse. The master asked: “When you let me fondle you,
are you suªering or are you happy?” Plum Girl answered: “Who would let
others fondle her at will? Especially the body of a woman is inviolable, but
things are diªerent when the fondler is someone you love. . . . But there is
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
they are words praising or trashing the lotus. For words trashing the lotus
often reflect its beauty. Secondly, we collect photographs of beautiful
women’s lotus feet. Those of naked feet are the hardest to come by, hence
the most prized. Lastly, we collect embroidered shoes, all of which are tiny
and exquisite. Bedslippers are particularly priceless. When I ask my lotus-
loving friends, all have this obsession with collecting, and even our modes
of collecting are similar” (CFL II: 288–89). Such words as “worshipped,”
“devotion,” and “crazed” that Yao and Zhou used sound hollow. No amount
of excessive earnestness can disguise the fact that connoisseurship in an age
The location of footbinding in the past and the posture of the connoisseurs
as impostor created problems for them as narrators of the sex of footbind-
ing: they could not present themselves as a participant in the act. In an age
of disavowal, the male experience of footbinding-as-sex can be written about
only as nostalgia. A Faithful of Lotus-ism, the admirer of Fang Xuan men-
tioned above, used two strategies to narrate explicit sexual behavior, albeit
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tive of Suzhou, Yangzhou, Fujian, and Guangdong styles. The elder, im-
pressed by his sincerity, sent her blessings by hand-stitching a pair of bed-
slippers which fit the maid’s “flesh hook” like a glove. They had an orgy for
three days and night, “no water nor gruel could sip through.” Disheveled,
the maid said that she would die without regret (CFL II: 120–21).
If this reads like a martial arts novel, perhaps it was meant to. The selec-
tion of a prized disciple, secret recipes, the mother of all weapons, and a
finale of combat that would end all combats are familiar tropes, not of the
traditional erotic novel, but of the late-Qing martial arts adventures. The
sexual encounter, a journey of male desire, appears comical when narrated
by a female. Yet only females were privy to the secret knowledge and ritu-
als of wrapping and unwrapping the binding cloth. Hence the gender of
the leftover elder’s voice was constantly shifting during the interview with
Faithful.
The explicit narration of female desires in the second half of Faithful’s
interviews was assigned to “Granny.” Granny, whose husband was an o‹-
cial, once traveled with him to Xianyou, Fujian, famous for its footbound
beauties. During her search for prospects to introduce to her husband, she
came across several amorous females. “One was a teenage concubine of a
prominent family who disdained sexual intercourse, preferring to fondle the
penis. She would unwrap her binders when she was aroused and rub her
feet around the penis.” She delighted in seeing the man making a mess. An-
other was an ex-courtesan who changed partners every month. “Most cu-
rious is a woman who liked to grab her friend’s tiny toe in lieu of a dildo.
She would not be happy without going through seven or eight [unclear if
toes or friends] in a night” (CFL II: 124).
This rare description of a homoerotic tryst between two or more women
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
sounds more credible when told by a woman, Granny. But as one of the
three stories of the oversexed and menacing female, it fits the stereotype of
the femme fatale authored and consumed by men in erotic novels.35 Was
the bound foot an enticement for female-to-female desires? We cannot be
sure. The sexual encounters recorded by Faithful through a nostalgic inter-
view are interesting in his ability to narrate both male and female desires
through a shifty, gender-ambiguous voice. This device allows him to broach
the subject of female desire from a female perspective but, ultimately, not
very convincingly. In spite of, or perhaps because of, the real-life details that
Faithful included, for example the death of Granny in the previous year and
his changing her shoes in the co‹n, the narrative reads like fiction. Faith-
ful’s concoction of his lotus-loving wife, who tried to persuade her young
cousin to take up binding and indulged Faithful by planning a trip to Da-
tong, the mecca of footbinding (CFL II: 125), rings false in an age of dis-
avowal. She seems Faithful’s female alter ego or, in other words, a figment
of his imagination.
The desires of Granny, Faithful’s wife, the Xianyou women, and the Plum
Girl, as explicit as they may seem, are desires reflected through the eyes of
the male connoisseur-impostor. The impostor is the voyeur and also the male
ventriloquist. Other occasional narratives of female autoerotic desires in Pick-
ing Radishes share the same shifty quality of Faithful’s retelling of Granny’s
tales. Not only do they occupy an ambiguous space between the made-up
and the real, they also fashion confused narrative voices and points of view.
In an extreme example, a neighboring woman’s love of her own small feet
was completely embedded in, and narrated by, the boy voyeur’s curious gaze
through a rear window (CFL: 282). Simply put, these secondhand voices
cannot be trusted. They bespeak how the bound foot as an object of mod-
ern male fantasy was an expression of male nostalgic desires, but tell us lit-
tle about female views in this matter.
If Fang Xuan, the writing connoisseur, inspired imitative writings that out-
paced his own in sexual explicitness, connoisseurs whose deeds were being
written about are a diªerent matter. The mimetic connoisseurship they in-
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
spired took the form of the invention of gadgets, new and better objects to
play with. It is thus no accident that both Hu Xueyan and Yang Tieya, con-
noisseurs distinguished by their deeds, were associated with the myriad uses
and fantastic life of shoes.
Hu Xueyan was a modern connoisseur in that he was not a scholar but a
merchant. A Hangzhou banker and philanthropist, he made his fortune by
financing the indemnities and military expenditures of the Qing court in
the 1860s but went bankrupt in 1883. According to the diarist Li Ciming,
Hu “kept as many as a hundred women from good and mean families, many
ing on Hu’s garden mansion and antique-buying activities, with only rare
glimpses of his footbound harem (he forbade his women to wear skirts, pre-
ferring pants which embellish the shape of pointy feet; 38). Hu the wealthy
merchant plays the role of a connoisseur-as-emperor.
The novel, called The Uno‹cial Biography of Hu Xueyan (Hu Xueyan wai-
zhuan,) was prefaced 1903 and published around that time. It was attrib-
uted to an author who sounds Japanese but is not, Dajiao Shiyu (Ohashi
Shikihane), and was alleged to have been published in Tokyo. It became a
legendary work among the Radishes lotus lovers, creating high expectations.
But when such a reader finally came across the book, he was bound to be
disappointed by the formulaic and superficial descriptions of feet.37 The
paucity of details results from the fact that footbinding served a symbolic
function in the novel, as a relic from history before Westernization. “For
the wind of equal rights between male and female had yet to spread to China,
and footbinding was an elaborate matter in the Hu mansion. They consid-
ered it a shame to find one female with big feet in the house, oblivious as
they were of the world of tianzu in the myriad countries and nine conti-
nents” (28–29). The fictional Hu Xueyan, who installed telephones in the
sixteen quarters housing his wives and concubines to facilitate his summons,
was indeed a latter-day emperor in a polygynous harem. It is significant that
the historical Hu Xueyan flourished in the 1860s–1870s, decades of the sup-
pression of the Taiping rebels that from hindsight shone as the last restora-
tion of the imperium.
So unsatisfying is Uno‹cial History of Hu Xueyan that lotus lovers took
to embellishing it by fantasizing about shoes. One, Sanyou (Three Friends),
claimed to be fortunate enough to live next door to a Granny who was for-
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
always been its waste and its spectacle: its conspicuous consumption. The
most enduring image from the eighteenth-century capitalistic heyday of the
salt merchants of Yangzhou is a golden urinal.39
Hu Xueyan was also said to use a small shoe as a wine cup, an act so as-
sociated with the late-Yuan connoisseur Yang Tieya ( Weizhen, 1296–1370)
that it was simply known as the Tieya Obsession (Tieya pi).40 Correcting
the impression that the famous poet was so vulgar, if not deranged, that he
found pleasure in drinking putrid wine, an early-Ming source specified that
Yang sipped wine from a cup placed inside the orifice of a small shoe, not
directly from it. During the tumultuous last years of the Yuan dynasty, Yang
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THE BODY EXPOSED 94
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retired to Suzhou and passed his time by drinking and gaming in courte-
san houses. Drinking from the shoe was punishment for those who lost a
gamble.41
Unlike other legendary deeds of connoisseurs, which were shrouded in
an aura of fragrance and romance, Tieya’s Obsession was honest to a fault
in its insinuation of the disgust of bodily odor and filth. Hence as early as
the late Ming, the writer Shen Defu shifted the narrative focus from Yang
Tieya to his friend and dinner companion Ni Yuanzhen (Zan, 1301–74).
Ni, a famous painter whose obsession with cleanliness ( jiepi) was legendary,
was so incensed whenever Yang passed the lotus cup that he would flee the
table.42 The combat of two obsessions, footbinding and cleanliness, draws
a chuckle because it exposes the physicality of flesh usually sanitized by the
elegance of connoisseurship literature.
The Qing writer Ji Yun (1724–1805) recorded a legend signaling that this
supposedly romantic and light-hearted practice of drinking from a shoe had
become a cautionary tale. During the ancestral rituals performed on Zhong-
yuan, the fifteenth day of the seventh month, the head of a prominent
family lifted his libation to his ancestors and set it on the table. At that mo-
ment one of the glasses cracked open, an ominous sign. The culprit turned
out to be his son, who had placed the glass in a courtesan’s shoe several
days ago. Ji Yun described the Tieya Obsession as “lewd, excessive, and dirty,
vulgar to the utmost.”43 In his revulsion he articulated the aesthetic of foot-
binding before the age of disavowal: averted eyes, indirect representation,
and avoidance of the physicality of feet.
Despite longstanding revulsion, or perhaps because of it, drinking from
a courtesan’s shoe persisted as the most enduring and imitated act of con-
noisseurship. Its association with Yang Tieya, the first known connoisseur
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
heels made of cloisonné or red seashell sequined with diamonds. For ten
dollars ( jin) a lady could keep a pair in her purse, slip them onto her leather
flats, and hit the dancing floor. Why not try drinking from them, Yao mused
(CFL: 170). Craftsmen of the Jingdezhen kilns kneaded porcelain clay into
shoe-shaped wine cups and decorated them with erotic pictures.44 So real-
istic were they that prostitutes in Jiangxi reportedly wore them to bed (CFL:
187). Another connoisseur recalled that twenty years ago he had seen in
Beijing stores outside the Zhenyang Gate a bedslipper fashioned with a rub-
berized sole in the form of a penis (“Guangdong fake instrument”). Priced
at four ounces of silver, the shoe was said to be popular with widows (CFL:
199–200).
Unlike the footbound woman herself, these shoes are not relics from a
past age of connoisseurship but are instead products of a new commercial-
ism that associated treaty port culture with sexual license. If, as Zhou Ying
explained earlier, a modern-day connoisseur is first and foremost a collec-
tor of artifacts and texts, this collecting activity takes the form of purchas-
ing in the modern marketplace. A connoisseur is a shrewd consumer who
knows his way around in department stores as in flea markets. No wonder
that some entries in Radishes read like a shopping guide, as connoisseurs de-
bated the best antique stalls in Beijing to find a bargain slipper (CFL: 202–4).
The commodified nature of the shoe as a fetish object added to its po-
tency as talisman. One man suªering from nocturnal emission cured him-
self by tying a tiny shoe—smaller than his erect penis— on his penis and
testicles before going to bed (CFL IV: 126). In this curious reversal, what
used to be an object of wanton desire and enticement for orgasm or loss of
self in the bygone days became an instrument of self-mastery in the mod-
ern age of disavowal.
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
If the lotus obsession was a way for modern men of letters to grapple with
(or to escape from) the nostalgia of loss and the fragility of modern mas-
culinity, the discourse of footbinding in Picking Radishes becomes an alter-
native one to nationalistic history and its implied masculine subject. Yao
Lingxi’s or Zhou Ying’s mode of identification with women from the past,
epitomized in their view of footbinding as antique, set them apart from the
prevalent discourse of women as victims of patriarchy and national shame.
The connoisseurs thus saw themselves as sympathizers of women, even true
feminists.
This diªerence in mode of identification was often expressed in terms of
an overt criticism of nationalist feminism, especially the anti-footbinding
movement. One newspaper columnist whose essay was cited in Radishes,
Lao Xuan (b. 1886), stated his views: “To promote footbinding now is cruel,
lewd, and contrary to humanitarian concerns. But to prohibit it is author-
itarian, oppressive, and ignorant of human feelings.” What he found most
objectionable about the anti-footbinding campaign was its rhetoric: “The
female is the one who feels the immediate and direct impact of binding; she
is imperiled on the spot. . . . Exhortations to give up footbinding should
focus on this immediate fact, not some high-sounding slogans about ‘strong
race’ or ‘strong country.’” Lao Xuan advocated a bona fide woman-centered
agenda that respected a woman’s bodily suªering.45 According to his logic,
which is similar to that of the woman educator Xue Shaohui seen in the last
chapter, footbinding cannot be eradicated by sociopolitical coercion; it
would only die a natural death as its cultural prestige expired. Educate young
girls about the ills of footbinding, but leave the old women alone.
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
and Japan. So why do the peoples on these two continents and islands fail
to build a country, and to the contrary have become slaves of the strong
countries and are in danger of extinction?” (CFL: 13). Lao Xuan thus called
into question two founding tropes of national feminism: a genetic deter-
minism that says strong mothers beget strong sons/country, and the mis-
sionary notion that construes the status of womanhood as an indicator of
the advancement of a civilization.
The connoisseur’s identification with the footbound woman is inherently
limited and one-sided even as he claims to be woman-centered and woman-
friendly. The identification of a connoisseur with the object of his desire or
appreciation is motivated by self love. Connoisseurs could not represent
female desires derived outside of heterosexual unions or without references
to men. The problem of shifty voice evinced in Faithful’s interviews with
the elder and Granny mentioned above bespeaks the di‹culties of males
speaking as females. But they could speak for the pitiful woman, which is a
mode that literati had heralded.
The pathos of outdatedness was so poignant that it transcended the con-
cerns of the connoisseurs and found its most eloquent expression in a short
story by a radical writer, the socialist martyr Hu Yepin (d. 1931). Published
in 1929 in the popular magazine Eastern Miscellany (Dongfang zazhi), “Two
Women in a Small County Town” depicts the psychological anguish of two
abandoned wives in their thirties. Never identified by name, the pair of
friends shared interchangeable identities: as old-fashioned footbound women
in a modern world. On Little New Year’s Eve (the twenty-fourth day of the
twelfth month), the beginning of festivities that celebrated family union,
renewal, and hope, the dejected women tried in vain to drown their lone-
liness in wine.
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
The one with a round face recalled that on her wedding night over a decade
ago, her husband called her “empress” and adored her tiny feet. After he left
for a university education in a metropolis, however, he sent pictures and
photos of modern women, admonishing her to change her appearance. Ea-
ger to please, she stayed up for three days, soaking her “porcelain-like feet”
in cold water in the hope of making them grow. She also forsook the tra-
ditional camisole that flattened her breast and “boldly exposed the shape of
her two breasts from under her blouse.”46 In spite of her eªorts, he left her
for a modern woman. Rumor had it that he became a professor at a national
university and served on a lucrative committee in the government; he had
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the possibility of female sexual pleasure even within the context of a blissful
marriage, no matter how short-lived it turned out to be. Whatever pleasures
she might have experienced she could not keep as memory after the husband’s
betrayal. Hu insisted on erasing memories of her happiness as he scripted
her as the acted-upon with no hope of catching up with the times.
Hu’s foreclosure of any possibility of action or pleasure on the parts of
the women was couched in terms of the stubbornness of the female body,
hence naturalizing their victimhood. In pivoting his story on the physical
impossibility of the women’s letting their feet out, and hence changing their
fate, Hu Yepin dramatized the total dependency of women on men, the only
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THE BOUND FOOT AS ANTIQUE 99
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constancy in a changing world. “We are born female, what could we have
done?” asked the round-faced one. Her friend tried to console her by envi-
sioning a radical alternative: “Some women, didn’t they join the revolu-
tionary party?” “But only because their husbands were revolutionaries?!” the
first replied (104). Hu’s critique is radical, directed as it was to the histori-
cal and present subjugation of women by men, especially by way of the in-
stitution of marriage. “Perhaps in the very beginning male and female were
the same?” asked one woman. “Maybe,” answered her friend. “But all the
women we know suªer more indignities than men. Not to mention that we
suªer because of men” (106). Hence Hu’s “Two Women” is a call to arms
in a gender war. Yet it is a one-sided combat, because the old women, who
had the most at stake, could not act.
The tragedy of “Two Women” must have struck a chord; one contribu-
tor to Radishes cited it several years later in his lament over male fickleness
(CFL II: 37). Despite their divergent political agendas, the socialist revolu-
tionary Hu Yepin and the connoisseurs concurred in their sympathy for the
footbound woman as antique. The male’s sympathy and his admission of
general male guilt are both predicated on a reassertion of male power: he
alone is free to act and take responsibility. The footbound woman, passed
over by a changing world, despite her subjective will and eªorts to remake
her body, appears to be doubly victimized and passive in the final analysis.
In her acted-upon subject position she has to be the spoken-for. The con-
noisseurs and revolutionaries find a fragile common ground in their sym-
pathies for the leftover woman as they vie to speak for her by representing
the female body as the obstacle to her liberation. Neither the connoisseur’s
laissez-faire stance of “let the women be” nor the revolutionary’s denounce-
ment of gender inequality leaves any room for the realization of female de-
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
sires and pleasures, from her own body or another’s. If the connoisseurs as
ventriloquists cannot narrate female desires, neither can the anti-connois-
seur revolutionary.
The female voices that appear in Radishes have to be heard against the back-
drop of this hegemony of the male in the discursive field as connoisseur,
writer, reader, and woman’s true friend. Although several letters and songs
also appeared under female authorship (marked as such by the gender
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qualifier “Madam,” nüshi), most of the female voices took the form of testi-
monies.47 Pain figured as the predominant concern, indeed the organiza-
tional principle, in these “firsthand” narratives of the footbinding experience.
It is through pain that the female body acquires its textual presence. In a
typical testimony entitled “Painful History of Bending Lotus” (“Aolian teng-
shi”), Madam Axiu registered her complaints with the literati of old, who
so loved the bound foot as “curio that they took to embellishing it with flow-
ery words” (CFL: 255). “But for us, generations of women whose bodies are
being subjected to this [shenshou], it is no diªerent from a criminal being
subjected to the cangue, or worse. As the proverb says of the cruelty of this
act, ‘a pair of small feet, a tubful of tears.’ As one who has personally expe-
rienced this [guolairen], I’m willing to express in words [literally, to give shape
to] the pain of broken tendons and crushed bones I went through then, so
as to awaken all lotus-loving gentlemen of the world” (CFL: 255–56). The
association of maleness with flowery words stands in stark contrast with the
association of femaleness with the bodily experience of pain, a telling state-
ment of the gendered nature of power inequalities.
When the “curio” or “antique” committed her experience to words, she
was by definition contesting her object status. We do not know if Madam
Axiu was a woman or a female author subject.48 As we have seen in the last
chapter, such girls as Cai Aihua did speak at school assemblies—albeit at
the prompting of her brother—and these words were sometimes reported
in newspapers by men. However, it is futile to attempt to discern an au-
thentic female voice or an unmediated female point of view. The import of
Madam Axiu’s testimony is the novelty of the category of “footbound
woman author” and her narratives of bodily sensations. As voices of inte-
riority, female testimonies introduced an element of contest by switching
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
the point of view away from the literati’s “flowery words” that constituted
footbinding’s aura. The realism of the female bodily voice was invented as
an antidote to the male voice of privilege.
The subversive potential of women talking back is evinced by Madam
Axiu’s use of “antique,” the main trope of the connoisseurs. As a teenager
in the early Republican years, she attended a girl’s school and was barred
from physical education lessons. “Fellow classmates eyed me as antique and
laughed at me” (CFL: 257). From Tao Baopi to Hu Yepin to Axiu, the trope
of antique changed hands until the recently dated object acquired a speak-
ing voice and ceased to be an object. Tao Baopi’s famous line of “What’s
wrong with admiring what is already here?” does not seem so innocent or
unobjectionable any more.
The female voice tells us nothing new—that footbinding is painful, dated,
and irreversible—nor does it add new vocabulary to the male-initiated dis-
course of antique. But in authoring the inner female body as an alternative
birthplace for words, hence a source for truth and authentic experience, fe-
male testimonies usher in the last stage of the mode of disclosure that signifies
the modern rupture in the footbinding discourse. The dénouement of the
cultural prestige of footbinding, hinging as it did before the nineteenth cen-
tury on textual and visual concealment, is complete.
The language of pain in the hands of Madam Axiu is uneventful, con-
sisting of an overuse of the word pain (teng ) as noun and adjective. Once
she uses a tired simile, “as painful as being sliced by a knife” (CFL: 258) but
in the end simply confesses that “in the humidity and dampness after rain,
no words can give shape to the pain felt by a footbound person” (CFL: 258).
The other two female voices that follow, billed as “self narrations” (zi shu)
transmitted by scribes, are more colloquial and expressive, but fare no bet-
ter in linguistic inventiveness. One Madam Jin Suqing reports a “burning
hot sensation” upon initial binding, and resorts to the same fire imagery
when describing the eªect of tight binding in the hands of grandma: “My
two feet felt more and more swollen, then burning hot to the point of a
continuous piercing pain. I tossed and turned and could not sleep. But I
would rather die than loosen the cloth binder a bit. At times I sobbed be-
cause the pain was so extreme, but the only way is to clench my teeth and
bear it” (CFL: 259–60). Half a month later, she moved to a longer five-foot
binder and started to wear soft-heeled bedslippers. As she was on the brink
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
of success, however, both small toes became pustular. She wiped them with
cotton wool and proceeded to rebind, when “pain permeated my innards
and my whole body shook and trembled” (CFL: 260). Before too long the
pain subsided as the feet slowly turned numb.
Madam Jin’s iron will resulted at least in part from the toutings of an
uncle and other guests at her grandmother’s birthday celebration, where
she met the Zhang sisters with their immaculate small feet. To monitor
her progress, she obsessively measured her feet as she sewed progressively
smaller-sized shoes. If the connoisseur’s obsession with exact measurements,
as we have seen earlier, signaled the triumph of scientism, Madam Jin’s ob-
session signaled the female delight in her own ability to remake her body.
The pliancy of the body—and a sense of agency—felt by the woman in the
process of binding cut a stark contrast to the stubbornness of flesh and the
futility of human eªort in the process of unbinding seen earlier.49 “The fifth
toe has come closer and closer to the plantar. I measured the distance: 0.4
inch. The crevice on the sole of the foot (zuxin), too, was getting deeper
and deeper. It measured about 0.8 inches. . . . After thirty days of binding,
my feet have become as small as 2.9 inches, a shrinkage from the earlier meas-
urement by 0.9 inch!” (CFL: 260). The narrative ended with her public
recognition among women from several villages.
Madam Jin did not invent new descriptions of pain, but the accumula-
tive weight of the reiterations allows the reader a glimpse into her body be-
neath the skin. Her voice came through as vivid and her incentives credi-
ble. The bearing of pain figures as the most convincing expression of her
agency, and as we hear it told, we begin to realize the extent to which pain
is implicated in the female structure of incentives and desires. We can sus-
pend questions about whether it is an “authentic” voice of a “real” woman.
We hear it as a female voice, one that is distinct from the male connoisseurs,
because the familiar tropes of antique and scientific measurement acquire
new meanings in these narratives of the experience of the female body and
the creativity of pain.
Madam Axiu’s voice inspired imitators because, as one who called him-
self “Repentant Scholar” ( Juefei sheng) noted, “Picking Radishes is com-
prised mostly of poems and songs and precious few are documents of real-
ity [ jishi]. Madam Axiu’s and several others are the only exceptions. They
are our wake-up calls [banghe; literally, a blow and a shout]” (CFL II: 50).
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
Both the sobriquet and the blow and shout, a zen prop to enlightenment,
hark back to familiar tropes in late imperial erotic novels. In these novels,
the religious awakening of the repentant male protagonist always serves as
fig leaf for blatant narratives of male desires and sexual quests. Repentant
Scholar’s “Painful Words of the Lotus Hook” in the “Admonitions” section
of the second volume of Radishes (CFL II: 50–57) too, were distinct male
narratives that belong to the same genre of interviews with Granny discussed
above, with the same conflation of female desire for her body and male de-
sire for her. The problem of shifty voice is corrected by presenting the fe-
male experience in its entirety as a testimony told to a male relative. This
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THE BOUND FOOT AS ANTIQUE 103
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of the women of our country” (CFXB: 1). This assertion of parity between
China and the rest of the world had existed as the underside of the anti-
footbinding rhetoric that is the mainstay of the gigantic nationalist history
since the late Qing. But the tone is diªerent, because China is no longer
defensive about its women’s feet. All pretension of criticizing footbinding is
dropped because it is no longer necessary. Footbinding is history, and every-
body knows it.
The omnipresent narrative point of view and the assumption of the pos-
sibility of empirical knowledge—from both inside the female body and out;
modern inventions. Both the words and artifacts are “real”—they are still
preserved in libraries and museums today—but they are not trustworthy.
Neither speaks the “truth” about footbinding in a straightforward manner.
The reality of invented texts, objects, and meanings in and out of Pick-
ing Radishes complicates our tasks as historians. The archive, as a repository
of desires, is not a neutral collection awaiting our exploration. Instead of
posing as disinterested investigators, we should read Picking Radishes first
and foremost to relish the exaggerated emotions and detached artificiality
that structured the male fantasy world of the golden lotus. Citations and
reiteration release new meanings, but we may do well to remember that see-
ing the same information thrice does not make it less erroneous. The temp-
tation is great to take the realistic first-person narratives of voyeuristic males
and footbound women in Picking Radishes at face value, as unadulterated
expressions of male desires and female suªering. But the reality of the foot-
binding experience lies elsewhere, in a yet-to-be articulated space outside
the archive.
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
PART TWO
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
In the three chapters that comprise Part I, we have witnessed the waning of
footbinding’s aura in a modern, global world. As the bound foot was de-
mystified and brought into the open for all to see, its images and meanings
were altered by its very availability. Distinctly modern images of footbind-
ing circulated in new textual and visual mediums, acquiring the mantle of
timeless Truth. Most familiar is the prevalent history of the nation authored
by Christian missionaries and Chinese reformers in which the bound foot
symbolized national shame. Equally poignant is the counter-discourse, a nos-
talgic connoisseurship literature which construed the bound foot as a relic
and antique. Both images signal the unequivocal death of footbinding in
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
ing, we may argue that the demise of footbinding coincided with the de-
cline of the written word as an instrument of veracity.
In contrast, in the late imperial period the allure of footbinding was pri-
marily constructed in written discourses and relied upon the latter for its
cultural prestige and mystique.1 My main argument in part II is that tex-
tual indirectness, in the form of lyricism or objectivism, functioned in a way
similar to embroidered leggings and shoes: as instruments of concealment.
Both shifted the gaze from the raw or bare flesh to the ornamentation of
culture. Instead of depicting footbinding as a concrete bodily and social prac-
tice, Ming and Qing writings worked by inciting imaginations about the
hidden body. The reader was teased to visualize and fantasize about that
which could not be said.
In this and the next chapter we map the parameters of elite male desires
by surveying disparate genres of prose ranging from philological treatises,
a forged palace intrigue, notation books, travelogues, and a manual of taste,
to vernacular plays. Many are academic in method and tone; some are sub-
tly salacious, whereas others are downright pornographic. Taken together,
they served to define “footbinding” as a subject of male inquiry and desire,
establish the discursive limits of what could and could not be said about fe-
male body parts, and keep the erotics of bound feet alive in male imagina-
tion. This chapter documents writers’ eªorts to comprehend footbinding
by locating it in historical time; the next traces their attempts to domesti-
cate it by a‹xing it to a concrete albeit fantastic landscape.
Instead of condemning these dead Chinese males, our goal is to take the
seduction of their words seriously, seeking to understand how they were so
eªective in perpetuating the mystique of footbinding. At the same time, we
strive to glimpse, however piecemeal, the world of local customs and re-
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
Before the nineteenth century, the subject of footbinding was taboo in such
o‹cial genres as public history, local gazetteers, and didactic texts. The ma-
jority of Chinese male scholarly writing on footbinding appears in the form
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FROM ANCIENT TEXTS TO CURRENT CUSTOMS 111
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of jottings in notation books (biji; literally, brush notes). Jottings are frag-
mented reading notes, a halfway house between data collecting and system-
atic analysis. Grouped according to topics (e.g., “the arched foot”) they are
sometimes categorized according to encyclopedic schemes but often pub-
lished in random order. Myths, hearsay, and history share the same page and
status. Some notations, such as Hu Yinglin’s, analyzed below, are learned and
serious treatises; others are closer to the fictionalized “small talk” (xiaoshuo)
on the other end of the spectrum. Given its flexible format, jotting is the
prevalent genre in which footbinding can be committed to writing in prose.
All jottings about footbinding before the nineteenth century, a self-
referential tradition, are origin discourses. The prototype is a short nota-
tion by the Song scholar Zhang Bangji (fl. twelfth century). It also happens
to be the earliest extant written reference to footbinding. Zhang asserted at
the outset that “[w]omen’s footbinding [chanzu] began in the recent times;
it was not mentioned in any books from the previous eras.” Zhang, who
completed his book sometime after 1148, was in all likelihood living in an
age of footbinding’s initial spread.2 Later scholars often cited his privileged
contemporary knowledge to bolster the claim that the beginnings of the
practice can be traced to no earlier than the twelfth century.3
Curiously, however, instead of his personal authority Zhang appealed to
centuries-old histories and lyrics: History of the Southern Dynasties; the Yuefu
songs and New Songs from Jade Terrace (both from the Six Dynasties period,
third to sixth centuries); and Tang poetry. The latter three collections of
lyrics, replete with references to women’s bodies, would become the princi-
pal textual evidence to scholars in the subsequent dynasties. Both the Yuefu
and Jade Terrace songs are “full of amorous words,” explained Zhang. “They
depict the stunning beauty of women by visualizing their bodies, and by
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
derives in part from the reader’s faith that they constitute a complete reper-
toire of knowledge. Zhang thus ascribed enormous rhetorical and explana-
tory powers to the written word handed down from the past. This faith in
texts would be renewed every time subsequent scholars debated footbind-
ing’s origins by citing more texts. Even when scholars considered such body-
related matters as anatomy, dress, or manners, they assumed that their only
entrance to the realm of corporeality in the past was by way of written texts.
The repository of historical truth is presumed to be an archive of texts, not
visual or material cultures.5
The scholars’ faith in texts is not blind. They were all too aware that even
seemingly unequivocal texts are open to interpretations. Does Han’s eulogy,
“six inches of succulent flesh,” denote bound feet or not? Zhang Bangji did
not find it conclusive. Since one Tang inch is shorter than a Song inch, he
reasoned, one can deduce from this line that very tiny feet were eulogized
in Tang poetry. But, significantly, “there is no mention of the arched shape
[ gong, also bow-shaped].” In Zhang’s mind, it is not just the size but a par-
ticular shape that signifies footbinding. Earlier, in discussing a legend from
the History of the Southern Dynasties, he used the same criterion: “The Duke
of Donghun [r. 499–501] of the Southern Qi Dynasty shaped gold leaf into
lotuses and laid them on the floor for his Consort Pan. He made her tread
on them, saying: ‘every step a lotus.’ But there is no word on whether her
feet were arched and small [gongxiao].” Again, footbinding is marked by
small size, Zhang implied, but even more definitive is the arched or bow
shape of the foot.
To most modern minds, footbinding is transparently obvious: we know
what it does and what it looks like. Not so for Song, Yuan, and Ming schol-
ars, who seem perplexed by the definitions and meanings of the mysterious
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
and region to another, are lost to us. In chapter 6, we will make educated
guesses by surveying material remains excavated from tombs—the kind of
materials that lie outside the philologist’s admissible evidence.
The binding of women’s feet [chanjiao], one does not know when this
practice began. A little girl not yet four or five [sui] is innocent and guiltless,
but infinite suªering was being inflicted upon her. One does not know what
good does it do to have [the pair of feet] bound into such a small size. When
Dai Liang of the Late Han [32–220 c.e.] married out his daughter, she was
[dressed in] a silk upper garment and plain skirt, [holding ] a bamboo box
and [wearing ] wooden clogs. That means one cannot blame [footbinding ]
on the ancients. Or, some say that it started with Consort Yang of the Tang.
But no citations can be found about this either.6
The story of Dai Liang, an erudite who retreated to the mountains to es-
cape o‹cialdom, was culled from two ancient books, History of the Later
Han Dynasty and Biographies of Ancient Sages from Runan (Runan xianxian
zhuan).7 If Zhang Bangji looked to what we would now call the “medieval
period” of the fifth to sixth centuries for textual evidence of footbinding,
Che looked further back to the first and second centuries.
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
Che’s argument that footbinding was not practiced in the Later Han, de-
duced from Dai’s daughter’s bridal attire, rests on the same faith as Zhang’s
in ancient books as a comprehensive repository of knowledge. Likewise, the
lack of “citations” about Consort Yang’s small feet means that attributions
to her were not credible. Che’s way of knowing, similar to Zhang’s and that
of subsequent scholars, works by an incessant impulse to separate history
from myth. History refers to stories that can be collaborated and verified
with a degree of certainty by textual evidence; myths are singular, isolated
stories that are beyond verification. Interestingly, for scholars what were
ward like the new moon. In plain socks [suwa] she danced to the music ‘In
the Clouds,’ her posture was as though she were soaring into the clouds. . . .
Later people imitated her, finding arched and slender feet [gongxian] won-
derful. Thus is the origin of footbinding.”9
Yaoniang was a fictional character, but her story was fashioned from cred-
ible historical circumstances. The ruler Li Yu was an avid patron of Bud-
dhism, a religion popular in his court and society. The golden lotus that he
allegedly built for Yaoniang to dance in resembled the bejeweled lotus dais
popular in Tang Buddhist statues (see fig. 10). Southern Tang goldsmiths
and silversmiths were particularly skilled. Furthermore, Li was a renowned
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poet, painter, musician, and choreographer; his queen, Zhou, also a historic
figure, was an accomplished player of the pipa-lute and an innovative cho-
reographer of court dance.10 The Yaoniang story is thus plausible, although
it cannot be substantiated. In the fifteenth century, she would emerge as the
most often cited legend that explained the beginnings of footbinding. In
the absence of plausible citations in the o‹cial histories, a myth performs
the cultural work of conveying the meanings of footbinding in a succinct
narrative and vivid image.
Indeed, the Consort Pan, Consort Yang, and Yaoniang stories are cut out
of the same mold. Taken together, they are more telling than any verifiable
historical sources in suggesting that scholars associated footbinding with male
power and excess, the femme fatale, and the ephemeral sensuality of harem
dancers. The safeguarding of female morality or chastity, so prevalent in
modern minds, was cited in neither history nor myth as a possible expla-
nation. To the contrary, in the origin discourse footbinding emerges as an
alien and morally dubious subject that invites condemnation.
His own examination, in turn, led him to rebut the suggestion that foot-
binding originated in the tenth-century harem of the Southern Tang ruler
Li Yu. Instead, Yang proposed a new theory, tracing the origins to a much
earlier period of the Six Dynasties (222–589).13
Based on one dubious Yuefu poem entitled “Double Bindings” (“Shuang
xingchan”), Yang’s theory provoked debates in the next century, with the
majority of scholars siding with Zhang. This debate will be recounted below;
su‹ce it to note here that Yang’s theory accords with a common develop-
ment in origin discourses: the later the writer’s period, the earlier becomes
the origin. In other words, in a linear progression of time-as-arrow, the dis-
tance between the “present” time of the writer and the time of the reced-
ing origin tends to increase. Indeed, Yang gestured toward a distant origin
as he hinted that one can find references to shoes with “sharp” or pointy
toes (lilü) in texts as early as the first-century-b.c.e. Record of the Historian.14
But Yang rejected one story that circulated widely in the fifteenth century
that placed the origin of footbinding firmly in antiquity. The Shang dy-
nasty femme fatale Daji (d. 1122 b.c.e.?) was a fox, as the story goes, whose
feet had yet to change into human form. She thus wrapped them with cloth
binders. Not knowing the reason for her disguise, other palace ladies vied
to imitate her. Yang dismissed this myth as “pulling the wool over history’s
eyes,” and lamented that some educated people took it for real.15 Hence
Yang shared the scholarly consensus that the existence of solid textual ref-
erence distinguishes “history” from “myth.”
Yang’s search for footbinding’s origins is an integral part of his classical
studies and literary theory. His attempt to locate the practice not in the re-
cent past but in antiquity resonates with the premise of his classical scholar-
ship. In a vivid analogy that construes geographical space as metaphor for
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
Yang could not have explained his disdain for Song learning in plainer
language: “The Six Classics were composed in Confucius’ gate. Since the
Han times were not far from Confucius, no matter how untalented were
those who transmitted the learning, their readings were still more authen-
tic. Song scholars, on the other hand, were removed from Confucius by one
thousand and five hundred years. Even though they were extremely intelli-
gent, how could they discard previous learning and appeal exclusively to
their own interpretations?”17 Much more than venerating the past is at stake
here. Yang Shen’s attitude toward the past can be understood as a two-part
process: first the recognition of incommensurability, then its playful trans-
gression. If “antiquity” means the lifetimes of Confucius and his disciples,
it is forever lost. No latter-day reader could hope to understand the classics
like the ancients did. The edge that Han scholars had over their Song coun-
terparts was not a function of their abilities or eªorts, merely their relative
proximity to the classical age. In a sense, we who seek to understand the
mysteries of the past are all Yang Shen, the brilliant scholar condemned to
a lifelong exile in Yunnan.
Reading Yang Shen, one gets the sense that he knew only too well that the
origin of footbinding was unknowable and unverifiable; like Confucius, it
was locked in the incommensurable past. This realization, however, enabled
him to be playful and inventive with the present and, as we will see, with
the historical record. Yang’s veneration of antiquity is thus relative, resting
as it does on a dynamic understanding of time and an appreciation for the
here-now: ancient antiquity is forever lost to us; recent antiquity can be ac-
cessed and made relevant to the present by way of “comprehensive investi-
gation.” As one of the subjects of such investigation, footbinding opens a
small window to the past.
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
are white as frost.” When chatting with a decades-long friend, the local lit-
eratus Zhang Yushan, Yang mused: “What propelled Li Bo to turn his head
and gaze at this plain-footed girl not once but thrice?” Zhang responded in
jest: “He surely wrote what came to his mind, didn’t he?” Yang was so en-
chanted with the plain-footed girl that he borrowed Li’s imagery and ex-
pression to compose a poem of his own. As he stated it, his intention was
to express his displeasure with “students of poetry today who are bound by
conventions and rigid imitations. In striving to be beautiful, they appear all
the more clumsy. It is far better to be natural.” 19
Analogy aside, it is hard to tell what Yang Shen thought of a girl with un-
adorned feet, or if he construed footbinding as ruinous contrivance.20 To
such modern writers as Xu Ke, the discourse on unadorned foot was proof
that an indigenous tradition of tianzu did exist. Yang Shen’s admirer-critic
Hu Yinglin, in turn, saw Li Bo’s poems as evidence that footbinding was
absent in the Tang dynasty. The modern critics erred in their anachronism,
whereas Hu Yinglin was unconvincing in assuming poetic allusions to be
straightforward documents of social practice. In contrast, Yang Shen seems
content with insinuations, fragments, and uncertainties.
For all of his diligent reading and notation, Yang’s ultimate objective ap-
pears to be neither disputation nor drawing the line between myth and his-
tory. To Yang, more than other scholars, the search for footbinding’s origins
is a game. His notations are riddled with contradictions, and he oªered no
support for his suggestion that footbinding originated in the Six Dynasties
period. Instead of proving hypotheses and verifying facts, Yang was more
interested in exploring the terms and limits of the philological exercise by
asking fundamental questions about the kind of cultural work that written
texts perform: How do words befuddle, scintillate, or convey the truth to
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
the reader? His goal was not to instill certainty but to plant the seed of doubt
in his readers. How much fun it would be, he seems to be winking to his
readers, if everyone realized that the unknown is ultimately unknowable.
Perhaps Yang Shen was playing a practical joke when he eventually took to
forging “ancient texts.” Perhaps he wanted to poke fun at those who ven-
erated old books. Perhaps he was eager to show oª his knowledge of antiq-
uity. One thing is certain: the enigma of footbinding is at the heart of the
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hairpin, Granny loosens Ying’s chignon to measure the length of her hair,
which cascades down to the floor; it is long enough to swaddle around the
hand/arm eight times. The propensity to submit the maiden’s body parts
to quantification will become more pronounced and the measurements more
precise as the erotics of the narrative intensify.
Granny manages to persuade Ying to disrobe after some resistance; Ying
is so shy that she shuts her eyes and turns her back against Granny. Granny
goes about her job methodically: “The body emits a fragrance; her muscles
are laid out neatly; when slapped her skin is so smooth that it does not cling
to one’s hand. Her front is round and her back, flat. Her fatty tissue is built
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THE BODY CONCEALED 120
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like chiseled jade. Her breasts are like sprouting beans; her navel can ac-
commodate a half-inch pearl. Her genitals are protruding, showing oª her
two buttocks. Her vagina is flush with bright cinnabar red, a reddish gold
opal ready to burst into flames.” Reading these signs, Granny Wu concludes:
“This is a virgin who guards her body strictly with propriety” (651–52). Un-
der Granny’s exacting eyes and probing hands, the maiden’s body appears
in its naked physicality, stripped of not only clothes but poetic allusions.
The physiognomy of the virgin’s limbs and genitals is only half of the
surprise Yang had in store for his readers. If Granny’s inspection of the
maiden was “too dirty and lewd” in its suggestive descriptions of the geni-
tals, the subsequent narration of measurements and proportions takes an
opposite tact, but is no less provocative: “Granny sizes up Ying’s body: her
blood embellishes her skin; her skin decorates her flesh; her flesh reveals
the bones. In height she is neither too tall nor too short. From head to toe
she measures seven feet one inch; her shoulders extend to one foot six inches;
her hips are three inches narrower. The tip of each shoulder measures two
feet seven inches to her fingers. The fingers are four inches away from her
palm, like ten young slender bamboo branches. The length of her thigh to
her sole is three feet two inches” (652).22 The tone of clinical detachment
only serves to pique the reader’s imagination, infusing the description with
an erotic charge.
Finally, the crucial measure: “Her foot is eight inches long. Both the in-
step and shank are plump. Her sole is flat and her digits are packed together.”
Then follow two descriptions with curious construction, ambiguous words,
and shifty subjects: “restrain/bind/bend—fine white silk—compress—
sock” (yuexian powa) and “restrain—tie—tiny/concealed/mysterious—
simile—forbidden palace” (shoushu weiru jinzhong; 652). Various interpre-
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
tations are possible. If one is inclined to suggest that Maiden Ying has bound
feet, then the lines may read: “Her feet were bound in fine white silk and
dressed in tight socks. The restriction (or binding) was as mysterious as the
depths of the inner palace.” Or, an equally plausible reading evokes tight
socks and inaccessibility, but says nothing about footbinding: “Her feet are
restrained and tucked inside her tight socks of fine white silk. The maiden
was restrained and concealed as the resident of the forbidden palace.” There
are several other possible interpretations.
It seems clear that the possibility of multiple interpretations was intended
by Yang. The open-ended quality of the text is embedded in its mysterious
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even such clinical precision is not as unequivocal as it may seem. Yu’s friend
Fei Xihuang (b. 1664), for example, suggested that eight inches on the Han
ruler equaled four Ming inches, and a four-inch foot by Ming reckoning is
a bound foot in his eyes.23 Yang Shen, we may surmise, left openings for
future readers to subvert his own suggestion that footbinding in the past
can be known by anatomical descriptions and measurements.
Upon closer inspection, even such hallmarks of empirical knowledge
as anatomy and quantification are not as certain as they seem when they
describe realities in the past and when our only access to the body they refer
to is by way of the written word. In the end, the reader is left face to face
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THE BODY CONCEALED 122
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with the futility with which Yang began his search: a futility that arose from
a realization of the limitations of the word as the conduit of knowledge from
the past. Antiquity, we may recall, is as inaccessible as the splendors of the
capital for the scholar in exile. Instead of riding on the historicist faith that
the distance between past and present can be bridged by painstaking archival
research, factual verification, and logical deduction, Yang Shen dispensed
with the pretension altogether that one can return to the distant capital.
Instead of despair, however, Yang rode into the unknown with optimism
and a sense of freedom, even mischief. In invading the integrity of the
archives as a repository of knowledge and in insisting on a playful reading
strategy, he alerted his readers to the lack of one-on-one correspondence
between text and meaning. In so doing, he changed the reader’s expectations
of the kind of cultural work performed by a text. Subsequent scholars, too
busy to correct his mistakes, seem oblivious to Yang’s main message: that there
is life beyond the search for certainty and authenticity.
Han Footles is a milestone in the origin discourse in spite of, and perhaps
because of, its dubious authenticity and the layers of ambiguities embed-
ded in the text. The experience of reading and comprehending the story is
a lesson in skepticism. Elsewhere, Yang prefaced his own philological exer-
cises with these words: “To believe in the believable, that is no doubt belief;
to doubt the doubtful, that is also a form of belief. Ancient scholars estab-
lished themselves by their propensity to doubt, whereas current scholars work
too hard to dispel their doubts.”24 As the ultimate doubter, Yang toyed with
the very legitimacy of philological investigations: What if ancient texts, in
which we vest so much authority, are in fact modern inventions?
Han Footles demonstrates that seemingly objective quantification may
serve unscientific ends; it may even pique erotic imagination. The fetish of
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
numbers and measurements will remain key to the lure of the bound foot
for centuries to come, as we have seen in Picking Radishes. It seems as though
Yang Shen had anticipated those nostalgic connoisseurs from twentieth-
century Tianjin and Shanghai. This is a remarkable feat, for the cultural and
temporal distances that separated Yang from those residents of modern treaty
ports are as insurmountable as those between Yunnan and the capital.
Han seriously enough to refute it. But he launched the first concerted at-
tack on Yang’s theory that footbinding can be traced to the Six Dynasties,
and in so doing sealed Yang’s canonical status in the origin discourse. Born
eight years before Yang’s death, Hu never met Yang. But he was so enam-
ored with the older man’s erudition and flair that he devoted three of his
own books to correcting Yang’s mistakes and omissions. In one, The Revised
Scarlet and Lead Scrolls (Danqian xinlu), not only did he adopt the title from
Yang, he also quoted Yang’s notations verbatim before oªering his own
learned opinions. It seems as though Yang Shen lived and spoke twice, as
an original and in quotations.
Hu Yinglin’s works constitute the ultimate tribute by an admirer who took
Yang’s stricture of “comprehensive investigation” to heart but found Yang’s
own thoroughness wanting. Together they were recognized by modern schol-
ars as Ming predecessors of the Qing philological movement. Hu Yinglin
was even more marginal to o‹cialdom than Yang. Holder of a provincial
degree, he had, in fact, never served in the bureaucracy. Hu professed dis-
taste for the rigidity of the examination system, preferring to read widely
in history, philosophy, and notations. Son of a successful o‹cial, he decided
to retire permanently to his private library in a villa at the outskirts of his
native city of Lanxi, Zhejiang.25 As such he fit Benjamin Elman’s descrip-
tion of a philological scholar who, sustained by the wealthy urban economy
of seventeenth-century Jiangnan, relied on neither an o‹cial appointment
nor imperial favor for his livelihood.26 This independence allowed him to
depart from the o‹cial curriculum of Song learning.
Indeed, the community of scholars that emerged in Hu’s lifetime changed
the sociological context of the origin discourse. When a new piece of evi-
dence or argument surfaced, it circulated among friends and sooner or later
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
The Yuefu songs refer to an eclectic body of ancient songs that can be set
to music, including imperial ritual incantations and folk tunes. Some hail
from as early as the Han and Wei-Jin periods, whereas others may date as
late as the Tang and Five Dynasties (907–60).29 Yang’s contention that foot-
binding originated earlier than the tenth century hinges on his assumptions
that the binding cloths (xingchan) referred to in this song are women’s foot-
binding cloths.
Hu Yinglin, however, observed that there are two vastly diªerent kinds
of binding cloth. The xingchan-bindings “are what women wore under their
socks, or ‘leg-binders’ [guojiao] in today’s terms.” A crucial diªerence be-
tween leg-binders and foot-binders is that the former were common attire
for males and females before footbinding (zazu) became fashionable for
women. In days of old, the only gender diªerence lay in the fabric: “Men
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
used cloth whereas women used silk, decorated with embroidered patterns
to enhance the beauty. But they were hidden under socks, hence the line
‘Others know not to sing their praises.’” After women began to bind their
feet—whenever that was—leg-bindings became the prerogative of men, as
was customary in Hu’s times (see fig. 11).30 Similarly, he observed that cat-
tail shoes used to be worn by both males and females in antiquity; in con-
trast “today they are fashionable throughout the empire. Yet the wearers are
exclusively male. Since women have bound feet, they would never wear
them.” In short, Hu’s argument is that footbinding gave rise to gender-
specific footwear.31
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ing to Hu’s attitude toward historical change and current fashion, it is worth-
while here to expound on gender diªerence and the making of femininity
by analyzing Hu’s disagreement with Yang over the interpretation of The
Rites of Zhou and the nature of womanly work.
The Rites of Zhou, which first emerged in the mid-second-century b.c.e.
during the Former Han dynasty, describes the administrative structures, laws,
sacrifices, rituals, techniques, and customs in the royal state of Zhou in an-
tiquity. The six sections of the book correspond to the six o‹ces and do-
mains of the Zhou hierarchy: celestial; terrestrial; spring; summer; autumn;
winter. The elaborate scheme, wrought of the principles of symmetry and
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THE BODY CONCEALED 126
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system of rites, did he really set up an o‹ce making women’s shoes?”36 Yang
Shen’s attitudes toward the Zhou queen’s shoes are curiously contradictory:
on one hand, they belong to a realm so private, so close to the queen’s skin,
that having them made by an o‹cially appointed craftsman is “lewd.” On
the other hand, what the queen—and by extension all women—made with
her own hands is the pillar of public order. Yang’s equation of “womanly
work” with “public work” endows the women’s sphere with enormous pub-
lic and political significance.
Hu Yinglin came to the Duke of Zhou’s defense. He began by noting the
anomaly of shoes: all other items in the royal couple’s wardrobe were placed
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course on the o‹ces of the various keepers of shoes and wardrobes, Hu drove
home the point that these items of attire were of public import since they
were intended for ceremonial and public functions, not everyday wear. “If
the queen’s shoes were what women’s shoes are today, surely they would lie
outside the domain of the Inner Master of Wardrobe, and would have been
made by professional tailors.”38
Hu’s complaint, then, is that in his day, women’s shoes lost their public
significance because of the prevalence of footbinding. Now produced com-
mercially, female shoes have become, as Yang asserted, artifacts of lewdness.
Hu’s implication seems to be that the female body also experienced a fall
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THE BODY CONCEALED 128
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feet. Then in the Yuan dynasty, poems, ci-lyrics, songs, and dramas all harped
on the subject, leading to its extreme popularity today.” Hu grimly added:
“We have strayed further from beauty.”41
Although Hu placed footbinding in the realm of fashion and ornamen-
tation, he did not hide his distaste for the bound foot underneath the con-
cealment of leggings and shoes. Echoing Yang Shen’s admiration for Li Bo’s
“plain-footed girl,” he remarked that “ ‘plain and clean,’ or ‘plump and beau-
tiful’ were standard praises for women’s feet in the past. Today, you can say
that the bound foot looks good [on the outside], but inside the bodily tis-
sue is dry and petrified, not to mention foul and filthy.” 42 This is one of the
few admissions made before the nineteenth century that “blow the cover”
of footbinding. It exposes a diªerent corporeality than Yang’s anatomical
and quantifying descriptions of Maiden Ying. It also flies in the face of the
preponderance of poetic and dramatic allusions to the eroticized feet, encased
as they were in leggings and shoes. Hu described one fashionable item in his
day that worked as an instrument of concealment: leggings worn on top of
binding cloths that extended up to the knees (xiku), known as “half-stockings”
(banwa).43
Hu’s own theory locates the beginnings of footbinding in the last years
of the Tang, which fell in 907, and the period of Five Dynasties (907–60)
that ensued. His reasoning, far from systematic, rests on the overriding im-
portance he attached to the adjective “slender” (xian). “Slender” feet are di-
ametrically opposed to natural feet: “If they are said to be slender then the
feet are not plain; if they are said to be plain then the feet cannot be slen-
der.” This allowed him to read one couplet by the Tang poet Du Mu (803–52)
as signaling the beginning of the cultural aura of footbinding, if not the so-
cial practice: “Sizing up with a ruler inlaid with gold, shaving oª four
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
fen, / Slender, slender, jade bamboo shoots wrapped in spring clouds.” The
slender bamboo shoots, he implied, are allusions to bound feet, whereas the
spring clouds refer to beautiful socks. He also mentioned poems by Li Shang-
yin (813–58) and in the mid-tenth-century collection Among the Flowers
(Huajian ji; “Slowly shifting the arched sole, embroidering the silk shoe”)
as supporting evidence. Yet Hu immediately planted seeds of doubt for his
own theory, suggesting that “bamboo shoots” might have meant women’s
toes in Tang times, instead of the arched foot as in his time.44
Hu’s clearest statement about the evolution of footbinding came in the
form of a striking comparison: “Both the printing of books by woodblock
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and the binding of women’s feet began around the end of Tang and the Five
Dynasties period; both flourished during the Song, reached extremes dur-
ing the Yuan, and have reached even newer heights today. The ins and outs
of the two stories are extremely similar. It is only that footbinding is a triv-
ial female matter, hence scholars have neglected to study it.”45 Hu’s tanta-
lizing coupling of footbinding and printing placed the former in the realm
of cultural institution and material practice, a most important insight.
If Yang Shen was more interested in probing the boundaries and limita-
tions of ancient texts, Hu Yinglin was more willing to submit to their au-
thority. He expressed hope that his own tenth-century origin theory might
be disproved one day by a more diligent reader: “Books on events in the Six
Dynasties are as boundless as the ocean. Perhaps there is a piece of defini-
tive evidence somewhere that can dispel all doubts.” 46 Until that happens,
skepticism remains the proper attitude. The origins of footbinding, or wood-
block printing, for that matter, may not be pinpointed with precision, but
the trajectory of its social development can be traced in historic time. So if
the quest for origins inspires one to read a few more books and come to bet-
ter understand institutional and cultural histories, then the lengthy philo-
logical exercise would have been worthwhile.
Despite Hu Yinglin’s suggestion of a progressive timeline from the tenth
to the sixteenth centuries, ultimately footbinding signaled to him the rup-
ture of history. Hu’s awareness of the distance between the past and the
present prefaces every statement he made about footbinding as a custom-
ary practice in his time. This urbane, if not downright modern, celebration
of contemporaneity was prevalent in the southern cities in the sixteenth
and seventeenth centuries. The present, for all its imperfections such as
petrified feet, is the best of times and the only time we can know with some
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
certainty.
Hu Yinglin’s sense of historical rupture, celebration of the present, and
placement of footbinding in the realm of wearable fashion find their clear-
est expression in the origin discourse of the scholar-poet Yu Huai (1616–
96). Best known as the author of Random Recollections from the Wooden Bridge
(Banqiao zazhi), nostalgic memoirs of the Nanjing courtesan quarters be-
fore the fall of the Ming, Yu’s musings are suªused with an awareness of the
distance that separated attire past and present. In particular, high-heeled
shoes for the arched foot were inventions “unheard of in the past, and reach
their zenith only in the present.” Fashionable ladies from the Suzhou area
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took to increasingly fancy styles: carving the soles out of fragrant wood and
covering them with the finest twill damask, or inserting pouches of fragrance
in the latticed heel so that every step would leave a floral pattern of fragrant
powder on the floor.
Rhetorically Yu called these new styles “dressing the human prodigy”
( fuyao), abnormalities believed to be signs of cosmological disorder. His tone,
however, conveys not moral sanction but pride in the exquisite tastes of his
contemporaries and the fine craftsmanship in the urban centers of seven-
teenth-century Jiangnan. “These are footwear that poets in the Song and
Yuan dynasties failed to eulogize, therefore I am making them known here
so that those in this world who wax lyrical about the fragrant toilette and
jade terrace can take note.” 47 Fragrant toilette and jade terrace refer to po-
etry that takes women and the feminine as its subjects. Once established,
the fashion of high heels was so dominant that three centuries later, as we
have seen, Governor Yan Xishan was still troubled by the prevalence of
arched wooden soles in the interior of Shanxi.
The Qing bibliophile and historian Zhao Yi (1727–1814) enjoyed the last
word on footbinding’s origins. Zhao, whose life coincided with the height
of Qing imperial power and prosperity, was the last philologist whose quest
for footbinding’s origins appeared more academic than polemical, whose
goal was more a quest for understanding than condemnation. From Zhao’s
notation, “The Arched Foot,” it becomes clear that during the century that
separated him from Yu Huai, footbinding had become the normative prac-
tice of Han Chinese women.
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
feet underscore Zhao’s awareness of the spatial, cultural, and ethnic diªer-
ences in the Qing multi-ethnic empire, as well as the role played by foot-
binding in making these diªerences visible. Guangdong, Guangxi, Yunnan,
and Guizhou are in themselves peripheral provinces; they are further divided
into metropolis-rural and Han–non-Han areas. Also noteworthy is that in
Suzhou, one of the wealthiest cities in the heartland, footbinding marked
a conspicuous urban-rural gap.
These exceptions do not detract from the fact that during the course of
the Qing dynasty, footbinding underwent a 180-degree change: from high
urban fashion to customary practice expected of the average woman. Two
deliberate policies of the Manchu state might have inadvertently contribu-
ted to its popularity among non-elite families: the futile early-Qing eªorts
to ban footbinding as a signpost of Han Chinese identity and the eighteenth-
century promotion of the cotton industry in rural areas.49 Its seeming om-
nipresence notwithstanding, the notable exceptions mentioned above led
Zhao to conclude that in its eighteenth-century heyday, footbinding was a
multiple, not uniform, practice: one should not oªer any “blanket state-
ments.” That footbinding is a localized, situated practice is a remarkable in-
sight. If footbinding is not one practice but many, it becomes increasingly
di‹cult to presume that its beginnings can be traced back to one point of
origin. Although Zhao maintained the faith that ancient texts are reposi-
tories of knowledge about past practices, he was all too aware of the futil-
ity of the quest for singularity and certainty.
Zhao’s notations on footbinding are systematic summaries of existing the-
ories and evidence, and as such provide a convenient closure for the philo-
logical quest. All previous explanations, he contended, can be reduced to
three: that footbinding originated in the Five Dynasties (907–60); that it
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
already existed in the Six Dynasties (222–589); that it began in the Qin-Han
period (221 b.c.e.–220 c.e.). The Five-Dynasties theory, we may recall, was
suggested by the thirteenth-century scholar Zhou Mi, developed by Hu
Yinglin, and emerged as mainstream opinion by the sixteenth century. The
strongest support for this theory, Zhao pointed out, was a negative one: there
is no persuasive evidence for the existence of footbinding in the preceding
Tang dynasty. Among the myriad pre-tenth-century poetic and encyclo-
pedic references, there was scant mentioning of “slender and small” (xian-
xiao) feet, or of “arched and slender” shoes (gongxian). Zhao’s assumption
is a familiar one shared by Zhang Bangji, Che Ruoshui, Yang Shen, and Hu
Yinglin: if footbinding were indeed practiced in a certain age, then it must
have left traces in the written archives. Above all, Li Bo’s eulogies of the
“plain-footed girl” was positive evidence that footbinding was not in vogue
in Tang times (655).
The most outspoken advocate for the second theory, that footbinding ex-
isted in the three centuries before the Tang, was Yang Shen. Zhao Yi cited
Yang’s evidence, the Yuefu song on leg-bindings and Han Wo’s poem on
“six inches of succulent flesh.” He added a few other notations, most no-
table being the story of Consort Yang. The last theory, pointing to the Han
dynasty, we may recall, was also proposed by Yang Shen, and found its most
direct evidence in his description of Maiden Ying in Han Footles. Zhao Yi’s
assessment of both theories is that, convincing or otherwise, they are note-
worthy because they come with textual support ( jieyou suoju). But he pro-
ceeded to weigh one text against the other: Li Bo’s eulogies of the plain-
footed girl constitute definitive, positive evidence (queyou ming ju), whereas
the texts in which Consort Yang’s story appeared are untrustworthy forgeries
(656).
Zhao Yi’s methodical reasoning confirmed that the centuries-old tenth-
century theory was indeed the most persuasive. His summation of foot-
binding’s origins: Han Wo’s “six inches of succulent flesh” and Du Mu’s
“Sizing up with a ruler, shaving oª four fen” poems were written in a time
before footbinding emerged as an actual practice. But when poets harped
on the long and the short of feet, we may surmise that “the valuing of slen-
der and small [xianxiao] feet was gradually gaining ground in prevailing
customs.” It was not until after the Tang fell, in the Five Dynasties (907–60)
period, that footbinding (zajiao) became a bodily practice. Zhao’s caution
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
not yet distant from the Five Dynasties. These authors must have seen or
heard clues that are now lost” (656). This view of the inaccessibility of an-
tiquity recalls Yang Shen’s analogy about the capital and Yunnan.
All three origin theories Zhao selected for commentary belong to the realm
of verifiable history. He did not find the origin myths about last rulers and
their femmes fatales even worth mentioning. Convincing or not, the exis-
tence of textual evidence establishes the validity of a theory or claim. The
texts he considered acceptable evidence are confined to histories, notation
books, encyclopedias, and poetry. Consistently left out of not only Zhao’s
consideration but also the philological tradition itself is the sizable number
of references to footbinding in fiction, drama, and vernacular songs, the gen-
res most instrumental in perpetuating footbinding’s aura.51
The location of Zhao’s entry “The Arched Foot” in his notation book is as
informative as his sociological and analytic insights. Zhao placed the arched
foot in two social and cultural contexts: bodily decoration and deportment,
both informed by an acute awareness of gender diªerence. Immediately fol-
lowing “The Arched Foot” is a notation on the staining of fingernails with
red pigment from the garden balsam blossom, allegedly a cosmetic device
originating with Chinese Muslim (Hui) women and widely practiced in
Zhao’s eighteenth century. The procedure is strangely reminiscent of the
binding of feet: the petals are ground and mixed with alum, an astringent
used in footbinding; the paste is applied to the nails and secured with strips
of cloth; after three to four overnight applications the red pigment would
stay until the nails grow out.52
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
11). Zhao Yi’s association of the arched foot with dyed fingernails and hair-
pin flowers suggests that this view was still current in his time.54
Yet the body is not merely a passive template waiting to be decorated. Be-
ing the innovator he was, Zhao opened a new vista from which the origins
and meanings of footbinding can be viewed: the body in motion. The body
does not always figure in discourses of footbinding’s origins. Yang Shen first
called attention to the corporeality of the practice by his anatomical descrip-
tions and fetish of measurements. The Maiden Ying that Yang conjured
with literary flair, however, is still and passive, more an object under inspec-
tion than a volitional agent. Hu Yinglin averted his eyes from the naked
body altogether, choosing to locate footbinding in the realm of fashion-
able footwear. Zhao Yi returned footbinding to the realm of the body by
searching for its origins in the history of manners and gestures. The three
adjacent entries on the arched foot, fingernails, and hairpin flowers are sand-
wiched together between a series of notations on sitting, bowing, and other
postures that marked the diªerences between past and present, male and
female.
Four issues related to conduct, attire, and furniture are of particular in-
terest to Zhao: What did the ancients do with their shoes and socks in
sanctified spaces? When did boots become formal footwear for imperial au-
diences? Did ancient women prostrate themselves to show respect? What
was the posture of repose for ancients: did they kneel or sit? Zhao’s inves-
tigations into the first two questions led to the realization that the bodily
expressions of piety and lewdness are historically contingent. In antiquity,
people sat on the floor instead of chairs, and when stepping onto the floor-
mat, they would take their shoes oª. Zhao asserted that for ancients, the
shedding of shoes was a sign of routine respect. The gesture of supreme re-
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
spect, required for an audience with rulers, was the removal of both shoes
and socks, exposing the leg-binders underneath. We have seen that Hu
Yinglin argued that these leg-binders (xingteng, xiefu; see n. 30) were fash-
ioned by both males and females in antiquity and were not to be confused
with foot-binders. Observers in the eighteenth century, Zhao wrote, were
likely to frown on the removal of socks as an act of “defilement” approaching
“obscenity.” How diametrically opposed are customs in antiquity and the
present!55
The Tang dynasty was a pivotal period in the culture of footwear and
piety, according to Zhao. In stately sacrificial functions, the removal of shoes
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THE BODY CONCEALED 136
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and socks was still expected, but o‹cials began to keep their shoes on in
routine audiences with the emperor. Furthermore, in the second half of the
Tang, leather boots became increasingly common formal courtly wear. Orig-
inally a form of non-Sinitic military attire introduced by the Warring States
King Wuling of Zhao, leather boots did not catch on in the south but be-
came standard everyday wear in the north. Ironically, after boots gained re-
spectability, shoes became “lewd attire,” being associated with bodily pri-
vacy, and the removal of socks became unthinkable rudeness. Fashion trends
are indeed as changeable as the blowing of the wind, Zhao mused.56
Zhao Yi made no direct inference from the shedding of socks to foot-
binding. But it is tempting to speculate that as bare feet ceased to be the
sign of utmost piety during the Tang, and as formal attire called for the en-
casement of feet in leather boots, the new aesthetics of concealment res-
onated with the fixation, even eroticization, of female socks and shoes in
Tang poetry. When the cultural preference for concealed feet became cou-
pled with the aesthetic ideal of slender female feet, also eulogized in Tang
poetry, the aesthetic and ritualistic preconditions for the practice of bind-
ing feet were established. Seen in this light, Li Bo’s praises of the plain-footed
girl are throwbacks to a receding past, whereas Han Wo and Du Mu were
fantasizing about the fashion of the future when they fixated on tiny em-
broidered slippers.
The body that matters to the modern footbinding discourses is either the
crippled or the erotic body. Footbinding did alter a woman’s posture; the
shifting of her center of gravity produced a mincing gait—not unlike that
produced by high heels—which was eulogized as “lotus steps” in poetry.
But Zhao Yi made the useful reminder that eroticism aside, the material
and spatial environments are also crucial to a woman’s sense of body and
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
space, and that these conditions, like fashion trends, changed with the pass-
ing of time. In other words, her gait and anatomy—the eroticized female
body—is not the only body that matters. The gestures and motions of the
ritualized body and the social body, in short the constructive eªects of bind-
ing, are also important aspects of the story that have to be told.
In The Rites of Zhou one expression of respectful greeting for women is
the “solemn bow” (subai), during which a woman joins her two hands in
front of her chest and lowers her forearms. A centuries-long debate since
the Song, as vexing as footbinding’s origins, centers on the motion of her
legs. Was she supposed to also bend her knees in a kneeling gesture? Zhao’s
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FROM ANCIENT TEXTS TO CURRENT CUSTOMS 137
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not have materialized. For the first time, people sat with their legs hanging
down instead of tucked under, relieving the heel of the foot from bearing
the weight of the entire upper body. It is not so much that women had to
remove their footwear when sitting on a mat that “prevented” footbinding,
for Zhao Yi has informed us that socks were seldom removed except as a
gesture of extreme piety. But a shift in posture facilitated by high chairs made
footbinding ergonomically possible. Furthermore, the very posture of sit-
ting on chairs facilitates a display of the sitter’s feet. If they are so visible,
they might as well be decorated according to fanciful suggestions from Tang
poetry.
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THE BODY CONCEALED 138
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If Zhao Yi had the last word on the quest for origins by placing footbind-
ing in the context of the body of decorum, three decades later another
scholar, Qian Yong (1759–1844), heralded a new—modern would not be an
exaggeration—origin discourse. Qian’s notation “On Binding Feet” (“Guo-
zu”) is a long entry made up of six parts. He echoed the chronology sug-
FIGURE 1. These feet are for walking. (“Women with ‘Golden Lilies,’” in John Mac-
Gowan, Men and Manners, facing p. 249.)
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
FIGURE 2. Imprint of a bound foot, showing the four folded digits and heel. This sizable foot
measures 22 cm (8.8 inches) from toe to heel. The four digits were folded underneath, but the
metatarsals were not bent, as in extreme forms of footbinding. The woman’s body weight was
distributed evenly on the toes (orteils) and heel (talon). Dr. J.-J. Matignon’s 1899 book, which
introduces Chinese culture by way of superstitions, suicide, self-immolation, eunuchs, foot-
binding, infanticide, abortion, pederasty, and beggary, encapsulates the European fascination
with the grotesque and pathological in the Extreme Orient. (J.-J. Matignon, Superstition, crime,
et misére en Chine, p. 205.)
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
A B
C D
FIGURE 3. The bound foot exposed: photographs in medical reports. (A) X-ray pho-
tograph of an extreme arched foot. ( J. Preston Maxwell, “On the Evils of Chinese
Foot-binding” [1916], facing p. 396.) (B) X-ray photograph of a let-out foot. (C) The
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
cleavage on the underside of the foot. (B and C: H. S. Y. Fang and F. Y. K. Yu, “Foot-
binding in Chinese Women”; reprinted from Canadian Journal of Surgery 3 (April
1960): 195–202, by permission of the publisher. © 1960 Canadian Medical Associa-
tion.) (D) Contrast between the naked and the shod foot. (F. M. Al-Akl, “Bound Feet
in China,” [1932], p. 547.)
FIGURE 4. Pedagogy of the truncated foot. Wood or plaster models of the bound foot
were often used in rallies organized by the natural feet societies, fueling the sensation-
alist exposure of female body parts. This wooden model and matching shoe were used
by the Visual Education Department of the Baptist Missionary Society in Fujian prov-
ince. (Reproduced by permission of the Government of the HKSAR from the collec-
tion of the Hong Kong Museum of History.)
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
2
1
A B
old man said that this style was not seen in the north. Since the embroidery is elaborate
and refined, it must be southern. Style (5) is common in the north in the recent decades.
Style (6) is the most “reformed.”
In sum, the older the sole, the higher is [the arch]; the more recent it is, the flatter. As
time went on, the arched shoe [gongxie] gradually lost its arch shape. Recently, some shoes
have done away with wooden soles altogether. Indeed footbinding is very popular, but the
sole of the shoe is now as flat as the earth. (CFL: 227; CFJHL: 130–31)
14 13
2
3
4 12
10
7 8
6 11
9
5
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
FIGURE 7. The making of Tianjin-style Kun booties, ca. 1904–11: A–C show “live
sketches” (shiwu xiesheng) of three Kun-style booties, 1904 and after, belonging to Bai
Jinbao, a Tianjin courtesan famous for her slender feet; D–E show the components of
the booties. (CFJHL: illustrations between pp. 86 and 87.)
4
3
1
G
D C
A
H F
E 6 7 8
2
G
D
C
A
B
width (proportional to the length of the foot), fold the two diagonals (B,
C), and sew the two seams together (EF; BF). Left as is, the side D becomes
the opening of the sock. Because the cloth is cut on the bias it conforms to
the shape of the foot when worn. (3) Kun socks with full padded sole. The
sole never extends to the tip, or else it would be uncomfortable. (4) Kun
socks with half padded sole. (5) Socks with padded heel. Women whose
heels are fat prefer this style. (6) Socks without padded sole. This style is
only suitable for those with narrow feet and small heels, or else the sock
would look stuªed. (7) Socks with cutoª tip and heel. Good for hot sum-
mer days and those with sweaty feet. (8) Socks with recessed sole.
arrow bag, all unmistakably male objects. In contrast, on another page (B,
illustrations at top right), a pair of ribbon-like binding cloths (jiaobo) appears
underneath a face towel, along with three square patches of face powder,
two rounds of rouge, and three balls of fragrance, suggesting an association
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FIGURE 12. Tomb mural depicting the landowner Zhao and his wife, rest-
ing their feet on footstools, Dengfeng, Henan, 1099. (Su Bai, Baisha Song
mu, plate 22.)
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
FIGURE 13. Feet-washing festival, Tonghai county, Yunnan province. The captions of
this lithograph, which appeared in an 1887 issue of a popular pictorial published by
the Shenbaoguan in Shanghai, play on the slippage between the bald heads of the
gawking monks (visible on the lower righthand corner) and the bare feet (hidden under
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
water but suggested by the piles of loosened binding cloths) of the tiny-footed women.
According to the writer, every spring during the Third Month, women from the vicin-
ity of Tonghai county in Yunnan province would flock to the pond in front of a cer-
tain temple on the western corner of the city to wash their feet. When finished they
would sacrifice an animal to thank the gods for granting their wishes. Then they would
file away like the doe in the Buddhist scriptures who left lotus blossoms with every
step she took. When asked, “Why aren’t you ashamed?” the women replied, “We’re
praying for good fortunes in our next lives.” (“Xijiao dahui” [A big gathering of feet-
washing], signed by the artist, Fu Jie; Dianshizhai huabao no. 127, Guangxu 13 [1887],
eighth month, 11th–20th day [zhongyuan]), 51b–52a; from the collection of Nancy Nor-
ton Tomasko.)
FIGURE 14. A Yunnan woman displaying her layered footwear fashion, ca. 1910–20.
On this postcard, a Han woman appears relaxed but composed in front of a visiting
French photographer in Mengzi, a French railway depot in southern Yunnan. Of par-
ticular interest is the complex layering of fabric on her feet: the (invisible) wrapping
of binding cloth; white socks; crisscrossing wide ribbons accentuating the bent arch;
soft “sleeping slippers”; and an outer pair of embroidered cotton shoes that are secured
by shoe laces around the ankle. The narrow legs of her white pants, decorated with
bold geometric patterns in contrasting colors, were gathered under a shaft-like anklet
secured by narrow woven ribbons. Both the conspicuous display of textiles and the
dignified expression on her face suggest that the binding of feet was associated with
status and wealth in this area as late as the 1910s. (From the collection of Dr. Régine
Thiriez.
B C
FIGURE 15. Early Ming footwear: (A) slender shoes with pointy tips, (B) one of a pair
of flat, unpadded summer socks, and (C) a binding cloth. (From the collection of the
Chinese National Silk Museum, Hangzhou.)
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
FIGURE 16: Flat-soled female shoes for bound feet, thirteenth to sixteenth centuries.
SIZE OF FOOTWEAR
DIAGRAM NAME AND DATES PLACE (L, LENGTH; W, WIDTH; H, HEIGHT)
HEIGHT OF DESCRIPTION OF
WOMAN FOOTWEAR REMARKS SOURCE
p. 304.
? Yellow brocade Sun was second wife Zhou and Gao, Zhongguo
vamps of Zhu Yiyun, Prince lidai funü zhuangshi, pp.
Yixuan of Ming. 298, 306.
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FIGURE 17. The curled-toed socks and shoes of Huang Sheng (1227–43).
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
(Fujiansheng bowuguan, ed., Fuzhou Nan-Song Huang Sheng mu, plates 62–63,
p. 45.)
1 3
FIGURE 18. Empress Xiaojing’s shoes. The drawing shows three pairs
of shoes found in her tomb: (1) cloud-tip flat shoes, found in a box
of jade ornaments and shoes that belonged to Empress Xiaoduan
and Empress Xiaojing; (2) phoenix-head flat shoes, one of four pairs
found in Xiaojing’s co‹n; (3) transitional phoenix-head high-heeled
shoes, found in a box of Xiaojing’s shoes and children’s clothes at
the southern side of her co‹n. Apparently shoes like (3) were made
by attaching cylindrical heels to shoes like (2). (Zhongguo she-
huikexueyuan kaogu yanjiusuo et al., eds., Dingling, 1: 122.)
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
A
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
FIGURE 19. “If the shoes fit, you must acquit”: two court scenes from a popular
Shandong drama, Wang Dingbao Borrows to Pawn (Wang Dingbao jiedang).
Adapted from the northern ballad “The Embroidered Shoe” (“Xiuxieji”), the
drama depicts the poor student Wang Dingbao’s troubles with shoes. His cousin
and fiancée Spring Orchid lent him her wedding attire so that he could pawn
the items to pay his way to his exam in the capital. Ruan Li, who desired Spring
Orchid, accused him of stealing (A). His wise and brave fiancée defended him
in court, proving that she was the rightful owner of the shoes by slipping them
onto her feet in front of the judge (B). (From a set of three New Year prints by
artists in Yangjiapu, Weifang, Shandong; from the collection of Gao Jianzhong,
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A B
are almost indistinguishable attests to the copyist’s skill and the fact that he or she
had access to the original.
B
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
FIGURE 22. Fashion cycles of Tianjin footwear, 1894–1911: arched-sole styles (1894–1911)
are shown in A–F; a flat-soled style (1897/8–1911) is shown in G (CFJHL: illustrations
between pp. 87 and 88). The original captions have been rearranged into outline form
with new headings and occasional comments by the present author.
FIGURE 22 (CONTINUED)
FIGURE 22 (CONTINUED)
gested by Hu: “Since the Yuan and Ming periods, footbinding has been prac-
ticed in gentry and common families. It seems as though feet cannot be left
unbound, for it supplements the face in establishing a female’s beauty.” His
interest, however, lies not in locating the origins in history but in using the
past to condemn a living practice.
The present, in Qian’s mind, leaves much to be desired. In the late eigh-
teenth and early nineteenth centuries, footbinding had become a craze es-
pecially in the north. Qian confirmed Zhao Yi’s suggestion that footbind-
ing was a localized practice with significant regional variations. The smallest
feet were found in the northern provinces of Hebei, Shanxi, Shandong, and
Shaanxi. The mothers had become experts in miniaturization, encouraging
girls to begin walking at the nominal age of two to three. When the girls
reached four or five their feet would be “blocked by strips of cloth” (yi bu-
tiao lanzhu) so that they would cease to grow in length and size. By the age
of six or seven, the feet would be “segmented” (yicheng pianduan) and “di-
minished in size” without the usual binding process. It is di‹cult to ascer-
tain what he meant by “segmented,” or the diªerence between blocking and
binding. Qian’s point, however, that footbinding was so prevalent in the
north that northern women had developed special binding methods, is well
taken. In contrast, in the south footbinding was less pronounced. In such
provinces as Guangdong, Guangxi, Hunan, Hubei, Yunnan, and Guizhou,
“not all daughters from elite families have bound feet.”
In the heart of Jiangnan, in the four prefectures of Suzhou, Songjiang,
Hangzhou, and Jiaxing famed for silk and cotton production, female feet
were the biggest. According to Qian, this is because mothers had too much
sympathy for their daughters’ pain and delayed binding until seven and eight.
“By then the feet are already grown, as the mothers knew full well. But with-
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
out thinking too deeply, they bound their daughters’ feet even more tightly
so that they would become small. The daughters, screaming and crying from
pain, would be whipped. The neighbors could not bear to listen.”61 The
economic historian Li Bozhong has argued that from the seventeenth to the
first half of the nineteenth centuries, cotton spinning and weaving were so
lucrative that daughters from the Jiangnan countryside could earn 70 to 80
percent of the daily wages of a male hired hand. A peasant woman made
about 3.6 shi of rice annually if she performed textile work for 130 days out
of the year, enough to feed herself. If she doubled her workload to 260 days,
she would bring a considerable cash income to the family. The importance
of female labor to the domestic bursary contributed to an improvement in
women’s status in family and society.62 In his anecdotal remark, Qian made
an implicit acknowledgement of this economic fact, but attributed the per-
sistence of footbinding in spite of the women’s economic contributions to
the mother’s mindless adherence to convention.
Even more important than what Qian said in his ethnographic account
is how he said it. Whereas Zhao Yi’s descriptions of exceptional areas ap-
pear in the form of a random list, Qian’s survey of the regions of the em-
pire is systematic and explicitly comparative. Although an awareness of
north-south diªerence in the styles of footbinding existed as early as the
seventeenth century, as we will see in the next chapter, Qian was the first to
adopt an omniscient viewpoint to produce an ethnographic survey. Having
divided up the empire according to a geographical schema, he then com-
pared the units for the allegedly representative size of bound feet. The as-
sumption was that the author knows; he travels from one region to another
and has a means to measure and aggregate data in each region. The empire
(later nation) is thus envisioned as a sum of comparable parts. This way of
knowing would structure the anti-footbinding discourse in the age of nas-
cent nationalism.
Previous philological treatises were all negotiations of the distance between
antiquity and the present, and Qian’s was no exception. But his interest was
so strongly focused on the present that he opened with the assertion: “Foot-
binding of women is mentioned neither in the classics nor histories” of an-
tiquity, let alone the suggestion of its attractiveness. In contrast, “today, every-
body follows the custom, and every family binds its daughters’ feet. It seems
as though unless you have small feet, you cannot be a person, you cannot
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
tions clear in the end: “The reason I have gone to such lengths is because
this matter is crucial to the well-being of all under heaven. The search for
origins is not simply an academic exercise” (23.16a). In fact, Qian was the
first philologist to suggest an action program: Have the local authorities
issue a prohibition compact. Have prominent families, as well as educated
and genteel households pledge their allegiance to the “Manchu way” of un-
fettered feet, which he pointed out was in accordance with antiquity. Pros-
titutes, actors, and illiterate families can all be spared. In ten years’ time, the
prevailing custom can be reversed (23.15b).
Qian’s program is interesting, for it happens to be exactly what the local
natural feet societies that sprang up in the last decade of the nineteenth cen-
tury tried to do. Furthermore, in suggesting that illiterate families can be
left alone, he showed an understanding of the cultural dynamics that pro-
pelled the spread of the practice: lagged emulation. If we can change the
elite cultural ideal, we can intervene in reforming the practice. This, too,
was the strategy of the missionary and nationalist reformers during the early
stage of their campaigns. Indeed, in rhetoric and action program Qian Yong
had anticipated the modern anti-footbinding movement.
The search for origins is the most prevalent way by which scholars could write
about footbinding in a respectable manner. What has been called “philol-
ogy” in this chapter for the sake of convenience is a bit of a misnomer. It
is undeniable that Che Ruoshui, Yang Shen, Hu Yinglin, and Zhao Yi were
erudite and respected scholars, albeit Yang and Hu were marginal to o‹cial-
dom. It is also true that the methods they used largely follow those of main-
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FROM ANCIENT TEXTS TO CURRENT CUSTOMS 143
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lyrics, like the vernacular plays and other prose writings discussed in the next
chapter, played no small part in perpetuating the erotic appeal of footbind-
ing through the centuries. Although almost all of the philologists who wrote
about footbinding found it deplorable or inexplicable, in recycling these ma-
terials they inadvertently perpetuated the cultural aura of the practice.
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
journey to the Northwest; the courtesan (and her maids) from Datong; north-
south diªerences; and the fashionable female pilgrim—this chapter maps
the cultural and social unevenness that structured both the prevalent image
of footbinding and male desires for it. We begin with writings adopting a
distinctly masculine point of view and shift to those incorporating female
points of view toward the end of the chapter. The former presupposes the
male privilege to size up, grope, judge, and rank women whereas the latter
showcases women’s interior sense of body-self and the usefulness of footwear
fashion to their self-presentations to the world.
In the last decades of the Qing dynasty, when the aura of footbinding be-
gan to dim in the coastal cities, the northwestern city of Datong in Shanxi
retained its centuries-old reputation as the mecca of footbinding. Datong
boasted its own style of lotus shoes, whose arched wooden soles seem more
curvaceous and embroidered motifs more risqué than other regional styles.
The plunging topline of the vamp, an exercise in visual drama, directed the
viewer’s gaze to the tip of the wearer’s toes.1 Even more spectacular were
Datong’s “Feet Contests” (saijiao hui) held every spring and autumn, the
seasons of temple fairs. The writer Li Hong, who published martial arts novels
under the pen name Huanzhu louzhu (Master of the Returned Pearl Pavil-
ion), recounted:
In the past, footbinding was a popular folk practice in northern Shanxi. Every
eighth month, feet-airing festivals were held in areas around Datong. Long
wooden benches, aligned like staircases of a grandstand, were placed in fair
grounds or open squares. Hundreds upon thousands of women sat there, show-
ing the twin hooks under their skirts. Any passer-by could savor the sight and
make comments. Ladies from respectable families [liang jia guixiu] mingled
with others; their slippers were sometimes festooned with pearls and made of
embroidered fine silk. These shoes were so delicate that they did not even fill
one’s palm, and the workmanship was exquisite. Profligate men took advan-
tage of the situation, and debaucheries recurred during those days.2
As with the origins of footbinding, the beginning of these aªairs was shod
in mystery. A mid-nineteenth-century encyclopedia recorded that in Zhang-
jiakou, a border town just south of the Great Wall, respectable women with
tiny feet were allowed to show oª during a “Tiny-Feet Festa” (xiaozu hui)
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
around the third and fourth months. Likewise in nearby Xuanhua and Yong-
ping, Zhili (present day Hebei province), during the ten days before and
after the Qingming festival, women from opulent and deprived households
alike decked themselves out in their finest and sat by their front gates, proudly
displaying (“airing”) their feet. Qingming, ten days after the spring equi-
nox, brought families outdoors for tomb-sweeping and picnics. As if em-
boldened by the advent of spring, passers-by could judge, rank, and even
touch the feet without reproach from the women’s fathers and husbands.3
In the 1930s, a Japanese ethnographer, Nagao Ryuzo (b. 1883), mentioned
similar gatherings in Xuanhua, Yongping, and Ruzhou, in Henan province.
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THE EROTICS OF PLACE 147
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0 100 200 km
(SUIYUAN) Zhangjiakou
Xuanhua Lulong
Baotou (Yongping)
Yello
N w River Beijing
Datong (Beiping)
BOHAI
GULF
HEB E I
S
MOUNTAIN
SHANXI (ZHI LI )
Shouyang
Pingding r
Yuci ve
ANG
Pingyao
Ri
low
Jiexiu IH
TA
Yel
iver
Hongdong
Fen
SHAANXI Houma
Red Rock Village Wenxi
Puzhou
Xi’an
Map Area
MYTHS OF ORIGINS
The connoisseur Yao Lingxi was skeptical about the reliability of reports
of feet contests if not the events themselves. He traced the glut of accounts
to a serial discussion in a Shanghai tabloid, Fengren, in the 1920s instigated
by its editor, Gong Dafeng, and a writer named Hengsan, both Yao’s
friends. The passages reprinted by Yao were replete with ethnographic de-
tails: the favorite grounds for the contest in Datong was the temple of
Guandi, the God of War; women who used high arched heels to create an
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THE EROTICS OF PLACE 149
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rode donkey carts to the countryside, resting their feet on carpets red as
gibbon blood and feasting from picnic baskets. It was prime mating sea-
son: profligate men fluttered about like butterflies; the women sometimes
took out mirrors and flirted with their suitors not by direct gaze but by
way of their reflections.11
This primordial scene of sexual license suªered a decline when the moral
authorities cracked down. In the second or degenerate stage of Yao’s his-
tory, women were domesticated and took to sitting outside their homes on
the day of the contest. The shy ones hid their faces behind curtains, ex-
posing only their feet by resting them on benches. No longer could they
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THE BODY CONCEALED 150
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mingle freely with men. Yet the standards of the contests were still high:
even those who boasted of three-inch feet enjoyed no guarantee of being
selected Optimus. A final stage set in after the establishment of the first Re-
public in 1912—and the growth of railroad networks. Although Yao did not
mention it, the completion of a railroad from Beijing westward to Zhang-
jiakou (1909) and Datong, later extended to Baotou in Suiyuan province
(1922), opened the northwest interior to the speedy, modern ways of the
coastal metropolis.12 Feet contests fell out of favor and disappeared entirely
upon the success of the Northern Expedition, which reunified China and
established a second Republic in 1927.13
In other words, according to Yao Lingxi, by the time the bulk of “ethno-
graphic reports” of feet contests appeared, the custom had already fallen
prey to the march of progress. His own “history,” with its fanciful details
about blood-red carpets and flirtatious mirror images, is almost certainly
a fabrication. Its chronology fits too neatly into his pathos of nostalgia—
footbinding as the haunting of modernity—discussed in chapter 3, and the
details are too fictitious to warrant verification. Yet can we dismiss altogether
the numerous accounts in notation books since the nineteenth century or
the weight of persistent disavowals in local gazetteers? Surely these tanta-
lizing stories, kept alive for over a century, had the power to inspire imita-
tive behavior in life.
Suspended between doubt and certainty, feet contests in modern China
are less an ethnographic event or tourist attraction than an invitation to won-
der.14 Whether they were true or not is less important than the kind of vi-
carious pleasures they aªorded readers in the 1920s and 1930s. The interior—
only beginning to be penetrated by speedy travel or the ideology of foot
liberation—remained in the reader’s imagination an elemental place rife with
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
sexual energy, far removed in time from the treaty ports where they resided.
However untrustworthy, reports of feet contests convey a diªerent veracity
in their tone of ethnographic realism, one that anchors the alleged female
desires to self-display and male desires to gawk and narrate in a distinct
northwestern landscape.
The rest of this chapter probes the prehistory of feet contests by focus-
ing on the erotics of the Northwest as a place in the seventeenth and eigh-
teenth centuries: how geography structured male desires of and fantasies
about the female body in three disparate texts: a manual of taste, a journal,
and a collection of vernacular plays.15 What twentieth-century observers
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THE EROTICS OF PLACE 151
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was a threat of violence and death. As will be seen in the stories that follow,
domesticity and concealment turned inside out unleashed a desire that, like
the women, could not be easily contained.
hua.16 Legends embellished through time play an important role in the iden-
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tity and image of the city. More importantly, the allure of a place—any
place—solidifies only upon comparisons with other, less memorable places.
Hence in stories about Datong courtesans, the narrator-arbiter had to be a
seasoned traveler with a bird’s-eye view: a masculine subject position. The
narrator typically appears as a traveler along a route of towns stretched out
on a synchronic landscape, much like the “profligate men” going from door
to door during a feet contest. If modern reports of feet contests operate on
an exaggeration of female agency in self-display—at the same time that the
women were being pinned to a place—in earlier adventure stories the power
and mobility of the male scholar appear in full force. From this perspective,
feet exhibitions are less contests of female skills than of male knowledge and
tastes.
The seventeenth-century maverick writer Li Yu (ca. 1610–80), no stranger
to the itinerant lifestyle, revealed the terms of male contests in clear relief
in an essay “Hands and Feet” (“Shouzu”): “Having traversed all four corners
of the empire, I have come to see that in terms of having the smallest feet
that are not burdensome [lei], and having the smallest feet that are still func-
tional [yong ], it is hard to top Lanzhou in Shaanxi, and Datong in Shanxi.”
Li’s comparative knowledge was presented with the immediacy of personal
experience: “The feet of Lanzhou women measure at most three inches, some
even smaller. Their steps are agile and quick—like flying—sometimes out-
pacing even the men. Yet when you remove their socks and fondle the feet,
you tend to feel the hard and soft parts in equal proportions. By chance you
may discover feet so soft that it feels as though they are entirely boneless,
but they are rare in Lanzhou. In Datong, however, the majority of courte-
sans are like that. Lying in bed with them, it is hard to stop fondling their
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
golden lotus. No other pleasures of dallying with courtesans can surpass this
experience.”17
Li Yu’s comments appeared in his Casual Expressions of Idle Feeling (Xian-
qing ouji), a collection of three hundred short essays presented in eight sec-
tions: writing plays, staging plays, feminine beauty (literally, “voices and
faces”), houses, furniture, food and drink, flowers and trees, health and plea-
sure. Li’s no-nonsense advice on a breathtaking array of subjects has led many
to consider the book, first published in 1671, a manual of taste or a guide
to everyday sensuality for the status-conscious reader in the urban culture
of the time. The average reader would have found more useful knowledge
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THE EROTICS OF PLACE 153
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from the later sections than the first three. Comments on courtesans’ feet
served a diªerent purpose: advertising the author’s authority as a connois-
seur of women in part to secure future employment.18 Specifically, they were
part of the section on “Feminine Beauty,” which follows “Writing Plays”
and “Staging Plays,” areas in which Li enjoyed a justified reputation as both
a practitioner and a theoretician.19 Together they comprise a guide to se-
lecting and training household entertainers and, by extension, concubines.
These standards of artistic and corporeal accomplishments were not intended
for wives.
Li mentioned that a wealthy patron engaged his service to “procure [lit-
erally, size up] concubines” (dai yi guiren xiangqie) in Yangzhou.20 No doubt
he had potential patrons in mind when he boasted of his expertise in such
matters: “When in the capital I told many people about [the secret of Da-
tong courtesans], but they were incredulous. One evening two courtesans
showed up at a banquet, one a native of Shanxi and one, Hebei. Neither
had much face to speak of, but both had extremely small feet. I challenged
the unbelievers to test the feet for themselves, and as expected, Shanxi beat
Hebei handily. Stiªness and softness made a world of diªerence.” Li’s own
newly acquired actress-concubines, Miss Qiao and Miss Wang, whom he
proceeded to educate using the methods he outlined, may have served as
models for the sections on acting and feminine (read concubine) beauty.21
Modern readers are likely to be incensed by Li Yu’s objectification of
teenage girls as well as the system of concubinage he both practiced and ex-
ploited for employment. I intend to neither defend nor condemn. Instead
of an emotional and moralistic response to the text, I prefer to oªer an ana-
lytic one by focusing on its singularity. The two essays “Hands and Feet” and
“Shoes and Stockings” constitute the only unabashed statement of appre-
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
ciation of bound feet in prose-essay from the seventeenth century. All other
essays on footbinding take the form of either a morally neutral origin dis-
course or condemnation, as we have seen in the last chapter.22 Li Yu’s unique
and influential voice as an essayist—Patrick Hanan has called him “the best-
selling Chinese author of his time”—thus deserves a hearing.23 His obses-
sion with stylistic invention as a writer might have emboldened him to break
a generic taboo; his devotion to taste as an expression of the self may in turn
account for the unapologetic tone of his connoisseurship. The attitudes and
standards of appreciation of bound feet he revealed, however, had resonance
among urban readers of his time.
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not cover up the fact that the women were pinned down, lined up, and sized
up as objects of desire that can be bought and sold. It is thus all the more
intriguing that his definition of “natural beauty” requires the woman—
having been rendered an object and commodity—to gaze back. In a pre-
ceding essay on “Eyebrows and Eyes,” Li made a subtle revelation that al-
tered the terms of the connoisseurship of “sizing up” (xiang ) when he
discussed how much of a woman’s heart, intelligence, and fortitude—her
interiority—was revealed in the shape of her eyes, the proportion of black
and white, and the way she moved her eyeballs. Movement of the eyes, in
turn, was integral to her gait. Instead of fetishized body parts, Li Yu pre-
ferred a full body in movement; his erotics of place is wrought of a simul-
taneity that situated the woman’s body and his sensory faculties in the same
space and in real time. Therein lies the singularity of his connoisseurship
in the context of his time.
This simultaneity required careful choreography on the part of the man.
To catch her natural eye movements, suggested Li, the connoisseur has to
reverse the social hierarchies of active/passive and high/low; physically trad-
ing places with the woman: “Stay passive and wait for her to move; lie low
so that you can watch her from below. When the body turns, the eyes would
naturally follow. No one can sway her body while the eyes remain fixed. Let
her walk back and forth in a succession of half-steps, while you look at her
by going around her eyes. Without her moving her eyes deliberately, you
would see them move. This is one way. Furthermore, a woman is shy and
tends to cast her eyes downward. If I stand taller than she is, and she looks
down, there is no chance that I would see her eyes. So I put her in an ele-
vated place, either on a set of stairs or in front of a pavilion, and watch her
as her body descends. Since she cannot go any lower, she would have to
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
swirl her eyes to avoid my gaze. . . . The diªerence between class and vul-
garity, or beauty and the lack thereof, lies in how naturally her eyes move.”26
Agility and naturalness of a woman’s bodily movement, knowable from the
same in her eyes, defined “class.”
The nature of the encounter remained economic, if one wants to be crass
about it, but the terms of the game have changed. Li Yu has let us into a
sophisticated dance of seduction in which a shy beauty “gazes back” by try-
ing to avoid the gaze. No longer were the women lined up like dolls await-
ing selection, like contestants of feet exhibitions on benches or grand-
stands. Compare Li’s passage with modern accounts of feet contests or other
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aesthetic of function, the erotics of Datong as a place was unhinged from its
geographical moorings and became portable. Embodied in a well-groomed
concubine who seemed to have walked out of a painting, the joys of Datong—
unsurpassed in the empire—found their way into every patriarch’s house.
ern Armies. In the second month of 1724, Wang set out on a westward jour-
ney from Zhili (modern Hebei) that would take him past the Taihang Moun-
tains, through a string of towns and villages along the Fen River in Shanxi
and across the Yellow River into Shaanxi, before arriving at the ancient cap-
ital of Xi’an, Nian’s headquarters (see map, p. 147).29
Wang Jingqi went down in history as the unlucky man who incurred the
Yongzheng emperor’s wrath in the first of four literary cases during the em-
peror’s short reign. The prime target was General Nian, once Yongzheng’s
favorite, whose arrogance and power became too threatening.30 On the eve
of his arrest, Nian had supposedly burned his papers, but carelessly left Wang’s
missives, bound into two thin books, in a pile of loose papers. Incensed by
Wang’s disrespectful remarks about his father, the Kangxi emperor, Yongzheng
scribbled on the cover of the first book, “Seditious and wild to the utmost!
To my extreme regret I did not see this earlier. Save it for another day. A man
of his ilk will not be allowed to slip through my fingers.” Thus Wang and
his son were executed in 1726, and his wife exiled to be a slave; his brothers,
nephews, and relatives within the five mourning grades all received their due.
A full two centuries later, after the last emperor, Puyi, vacated the palace in
November 1924, inventory takers from the Palace Museum found Wang’s first
book and a small portion of the second in a locked box in Maoqin Hall in
the palace.31 Twice forgotten, the text has thus miraculously survived.
To modern eyes, Wang’s missives, published as Jottings on My Westward
Journey (Dushutang xizheng suibi) in 1928, are less about sedition than se-
duction. Wang, who won a provincial-juren degree in 1714, seemed more
adventurer than scholar in temperament and taste. His extant assortment
of about thirty-five entries, mostly scripted on the road and bearing dates
ranging from the sixth of the second month to the twenty-eighth of the
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
fifth month, 1724, includes a few letters, prefaces, and poems—requisite pub-
lic genres for the bureaucrat. More unusual are anecdotes about high
o‹cials, prostitutes, women bandits, and soldiers, dotted with lewd and scat-
ological humor. There is, for example, the story of a Yangzhou male pros-
titute, Wang Sizhong, who rose to become Assistant Prefect (tongpan), cour-
tesy of a bribe on his behalf by his lover. Or Vice Minister Zhang Pengge,
whom Kangxi had likened to an actor. Among Zhang’s riotous deeds, be-
sides putting makeup on his face: one day he returned home from his morn-
ing audience at court; still in his ceremonial attire, he headed straight to a
serving woman and pushed her onto her bed, stripped her naked, placed
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her feet on his shoulders, and proceeded to penetrate her when his wife
showed up with a whip. Adding insult to injury, the serving woman’s feet
were each “over one foot long.”32
Often these stories bear the mark of those swapped with boisterous friends
over a jug of wine at dinner. Wang Jingqi delighted in exposing the unseemly
underbelly of bureaucratic life, especially among holders of the metropolitan-
jinshi degree (Presented Scholars) in high o‹ce: not only the corruption but
also the unspoken hankerings and corporeal desires that no amount of sym-
bolism or toggles on the ceremonial court robe can tame. He oªered these
stories to Nian probably without a second thought, assuming that the gen-
eral would find both truth and comic relief in them.33 He also probably
thought that no one outside Nian’s close circle would set eyes on them. It
is in this spirit of men’s locker-room humor, camaraderie, and competition
that we should read the stories of Wang’s encounter with the Datong cour-
tesan Lightning Steps (Buguang) and the three mysterious ladies from Red
Rock Village.
Lightning Steps came to him as a surprise, the recommendation of an
innkeeper at Houma, a town that Wang did not name as one of the ten fa-
mous gathering places for prostitutes in Shanxi.34 Wang admitted that “by
nature I loved whoring” until an illness in 1721 forced him to restrain him-
self. But while on the road, he gave in to the lure of the unknown. At once
fragile and virile, Lightning Steps announced herself as a contradiction.
Taken aback by her haughty air, Wang went on a verbal oªensive: “Since
you are already lost in the world of wind and dust, shouldn’t you lighten
up? You have to hang out with vulgar people all the time, so why make it
di‹cult on yourself ?” She thought for a moment, then threw back her head
and laughed, “You seem to know who I am.” Glancing at Wang’s bow rest-
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
ing on the wall, she turned the table on him. “Why would a gentleman carry
this around?” He said, “I heard that you are a skilled archer. May I have the
pleasure?” She stepped into the backyard, planted a rod on the ground,
stepped back scores of steps, and hit the target three times. The verbal and
physical dueling set the tone for the night. Lightning Steps sang a bitter
song she composed, accompanied by the pipa-lute, and told Wang about
her betrayal by a jinshi-degree holder from Jiangnan (the Yangzi delta re-
gion; literally, south of the river). She sang another song, and they were both
in tears. Wang Jingqi and Lightning Steps lit a lamp, sat up and chatted
until dawn, then bid their tender farewell.35
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THE EROTICS OF PLACE 159
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The journey that took Wang to this encounter with the Datong courte-
san was similar to those of Li Yu some fifty years earlier: a bureaucratic jour-
ney through a synchronic string of towns for livelihood and adventure. Light-
ning Steps made her entrance in a way that we have come to expect from
Li’s connoisseurship: with agility, etched in her name and dramatized by
her archery demonstration. Also familiar is the contrast between her civi-
lized and martial personas, an aesthetic we have identified in the feet con-
test reports. But Wang’s bantering, not to mention all the tears, bespeaks a
seduction of a verbal and sentimental nature, in contrast to Li Yu’s flirta-
tious gazes and groping for bonelessness. Lightning Steps is dramatically
diªerent from the Datong courtesan we have met in one crucial aspect: Wang
did not once mention her feet. Wang was no prude and had in fact an ex-
cessive interest in women’s feet, as we will see. But for him the Datong cour-
tesan stood for another erotics of place, not as the embodiment of sublime
pleasures but as the perpetual victimized other of Jiangnan.
Being a southerner himself ( Wang was a native of Hangzhou), Wang
Jingqi was attuned to the northern diªerence embodied by Lightning Steps
from the start. He couched his first impression of her in terms of a local
mountain, Gushe, which appeared in the Daoist classic Zhuangzi as the
dwelling place of a deity whose skin is bright and translucent as ice and whose
countenance is fair as a maiden’s.36 Surely, “the deity of Gushe Mountain”
was a standard allusion for a beauty, and Wang’s use might have meant noth-
ing more than literary showmanship. But it was the first of a string of signs
that betrayed Wang’s sensitivity to north-south diªerences in geography, cul-
ture, and distribution of power.
The courtesan was equally sensitive to the unevenness of place. Most strik-
ing were the three songs that Lightning Steps wrote and sang, which Wang
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
san was not a portable garden of pleasures, but a place on a loop, a home
that oªered no solace and no way out. The physical and social mobility that,
by contrast, figured as the hallmark of the southern scholar’s privilege was
to become even more pronounced in Wang’s next adventure.
After Wenxi, Wang Jingqi journeyed to Dashiutou, some forty li down the
road, where he was stricken with bouts of hernia. He sent oª the slower
contingent of his servants with a horse-drawn cart carrying the bulk of his
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THE EROTICS OF PLACE 161
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mess up Mr. Scholar’s clothes? The kang-platform bed is very cold. No mat-
ter how dirty the bedding, isn’t it better than putting him on straw mats
made of reed?” On the verge of passing out, Wang felt the bedding under-
neath, and evidently heard the conversation, but did not give the women
his characteristic scrutiny.
Old Li was about to borrow a stove, firewood, and a cake of tea from a
neighbor to make a jug of tea. Before leaving with Li, Wang’s attendant whis-
pered to his master in a lilting Wu dialect from the heart of Jiangnan: “You
are not in the pleasure quarters; these beauties are from a respectable house-
hold. My master should be careful with his loose mouth, for you never know
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how unruly these people out west can be.” He left Wuyi tea, a delicacy from
Fujian, on the table before taking oª to catch up with the horse-drawn cart.
Hangzhou natives, famously picky about their tea, were likely to find tea
brewed from cakes stiª as a brick unpalatable. This episode exposed not
only how Wang was addicted to certain southern comforts, but also how
both master and attendant were acutely aware of their linguistic and cul-
tural diªerences while traveling in the north.
Wang began to wake up, and saw that the elder woman, who was hold-
ing a baby, had eyebrows and eyes “as pretty as a picture.” The younger one,
Baby Jade ( Yuwa), was a bit over twenty. The youngest, no more than six-
teen or seventeen, was particularly bewitching. “The twin arches of all three
are smaller than three inches.” He addressed the elder woman as “Wife Li,”
who told him that Baby Jade was her daughter-in-law and Little Cloud (Xiao-
yunwa), her daughter. The verbal exchange broke the ice, and soon Wife
Li was insisting that hernia can be cured only by a massage. She ordered the
two to “serve Mr. Scholar” ( fushi guanren), which we may note is an hon-
orific used by prostitutes or maids; “to serve” carries a connotation of tend-
ing to the corporeal comforts and pleasures of the master. Wang was placed
on his back on the kang. Baby Jade sat on the edge and held one of his hands;
Little Cloud crouched from behind with her back leaning on the western
wall (thus facing east) and held his other hand. They then proceeded to mas-
sage the spots where he felt pain while taking turns to wipe the sweat from
his face.
Wang did not fail to note that Old Li returned with the stove and was
pleased with the attention his women gave the visitor. Li was solicitous him-
self, soon leaving again to buy steamed buns. The reader may begin to no-
tice Wang’s meticulous recording of the coming and going of people. This
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
narrative strategy marked the boundary of the domestic place while ani-
mating the interior by human movement and action. Amidst the flurry of
activities, the southerner—the perpetual outsider—alone remained still at
the center of the room.
Noticing the pot that Old Li had left on the stove, Wang remarked that
it was so huge that it would take ages for the water to boil. Wife Li laughed,
“Mr. Scholar, don’t be surprised. All the men in this place are stupid; not a
single exception!” Wang asked whose baby was this, and was told that it was
Baby Jade’s. He inquired, “Is it your grandson or granddaughter?” Li
sighed, “Every boy born in this village is ugly; every girl is fetching. She is
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THE EROTICS OF PLACE 163
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a girl.” Her husband, son, and son-in-law were all so ugly that even their
wives loathed seeing them. They worked outside the village, leaving the
harem-like household in the hands of the women.
The flirtation turned overt when Baby Jade verbalized the south-north
diªerence: “Mr. Scholar, are there mismatches in the south?” Wife Li started
to reminisce about a similar conversation with a Scholar Shen, a southerner
who came through under circumstances similar to Wang’s. All of a sudden,
the two younger women gazed at each other and exclaimed, “Why, Mr.
Scholar has really soft hands!” and held his hands up to show to Wife Li.
Wang went along, “You ladies don’t seem to have stiª hands yourselves?”
Wang’s attendant returned, announcing that the cart was waiting at the en-
trance of the village. Wife Li invited the servant to the side wing with a jug
of tea. Wang wasted no time in asking Baby Jade, “Since you loathe your
husband’s company, it must be quite a chore having to deal with him those
long nights when he is around.” And she replied, “I hate it whenever my
husband returns. His whole body reeks of mud and sweat, stinking you to
death. I have nothing to say to him, and sex is not what we’re about. My
mother-in-law has often told us that southerners are soft and lovely; hear-
ing their voices and glancing at their smiling faces, you cannot bear to let
them go. I and my little sister-in-law have never met a southerner, and we
have often prayed that we would be born in southland in our next lives. To-
day finally we managed to lay our eyes on a southerner, and indeed my
mother-in-law is right!”
The seduction was conducted in tandem with a discourse on chastity. Ear-
lier, Wife Li insisted that despite the charm of village daughters, for several
hundred years Red Rock Village had never seen an unchaste woman. Now,
Little Cloud chimed in with a secret: the Scholar Shen whom Wife Li re-
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
membered so fondly was a lost traveler who knocked on their door some
twenty years ago and was invited to stay in this same room. A native of Jia-
xing, at the core of Jiangnan, he served as a private advisor for the magis-
trate of Pingyang. He became very cordial with Wife Li, got her husband
drunk, and after everybody fell asleep went over to knock on the eastern
wing door. Giving in to temptation, the young Wife Li rose to open the
door. But the brightness of a starry sky put a chill in her, stopping her in
her tracks. She often told the story to the two young women, warning them
to guard against temptation.
The segue to the topic of chastity is odd in the middle of a flirtation that
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is showing no sign of abetting. Wang asked, “Since your mother never had
sex [wujiao] with Scholar Shen, how come she misses him so deeply after
twenty years?” Baby Jade said, “Why do we need to have sex [ youjiao] to re-
member? We, too, will never forget Mr. Scholar in our hearts.” When Lit-
tle Cloud got oª the kang to sip tea, Wang started to fondle Baby Jade’s
breasts. Baby Jade said, “Mr. Scholar is wrong.” Little Cloud chimed in with
a doggerel before returning to her former position on the kang: “Blue sky,
bright sun, a face with two sides, / Living, lively, how wrong can it be?” As
Baby Jade got oª the kang to kindle the charcoal on the brazier, Wang pat-
ted Little Cloud’s buttocks and tugged at her foot. It was stiª as iron and
immobile as a rock. Wang loosened her with words: “By chance I meet you
and have no other [improper] thought. I am so fond of you that I just want
to play with you a bit. Why do you use your mighty power [shenli] to shut
me out?” Little Cloud relaxed and placed both feet on Wang’s knees. Un-
expectedly Wang slipped oª her shoes. Little Cloud changed color, saying:
“Isn’t Mr. Scholar afraid that I would be angry?” Baby Jade mocked Little
Cloud’s doggerel: “Blue sky, bright sun, a face with two sides, / Living, lively,
how afraid can he be?” The three eyed each other and laughed.
Wang asked, “Jade Lady and Li’l Lady, do you want to be reborn in the
south [alt., do you want to give birth to a southern fruit]?” Little Cloud ad-
mitted, “Indeed the thought has crossed my mind.” Baby Jade said, “Wouldn’t
it be my great fortune if I get to be Mr. Scholar’s maid-concubine in my
next life?” Little Cloud: “How dare I want Mr. Scholar. I’d be happy to be
Mr. Scholar’s maid-concubine.” Wang: “I’m an old man with white hair and
beard, what does Li’l Lady see in me that makes her so devoted?” Baby Jade:
“Whenever we meet local men we treat them like pigs and dogs. After our
meeting with Mr. Scholar today, we won’t be able to forget.” Little Cloud:
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
“Not just the two of us; mother would also place you in her heart and at
the tip of her tongue after you leave.”
Wife Li entered and began to urge Wang to leave. She and Baby Jade left
to fetch good water for a farewell cup of tea. Seeing that he was alone with
Little Cloud, Wang forced her to lie down with him, “frolicked with her,
stopping at nothing.” Little Cloud responded in kind without resistance.
“But she guarded her genitals with her hands, saying: ‘Definitely not here.
I have too much strength in my hands and do not wish to hurt Mr. Scholar.’”
Wang oªered Little Cloud pieces of gold he had tucked inside his boots,
but she refused: “I’m a woman and have no way of spending it. Don’t let
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THE EROTICS OF PLACE 165
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others see it lest they have evil thoughts.” She caressed Wang, on the verge
of tears: “We will probably never meet again. Even a brief encounter like
ours is destiny. Please keep Little Cloud in your thoughts. Maybe we will
be together in our next lives.”
Baby Jade returned and divulged a secret. Both her father-in-law and her
husband were horse thieves. Of the nine women in the village, three were
in the Li family, and all three practiced martial arts since they were young.
Although there was no livelihood in Red Rock, Wife Li had made a pact
with the other village women that they would not prostitute themselves. In-
stead, they donned male attire and became bandits. But they promised each
other to leave southern men unharmed. Wang started to feel the gravity of
the situation, but could not bear to leave the two ladies. Little Cloud voiced
a standard line of the sacrificial woman: “Mr. Scholar has ten thousand miles
of future ahead of him. Do not throw it away for two women.”
Wife Li returned, sent the two younger women to pack a bag of grapes
for Wang, and revealed yet a deeper secret. “Both of them want you to stay,
and you don’t seem to want to leave either. But you can’t linger. Even I, a
middle-aged woman who is like dead ashes and dry wood, still find your
voice and laughter irresistible. How could the two of them resist, being so
young?” Seeing that Wang did not move, Wife Li pulled him up: “So you
think the two are charming? They are in fact women who would kill with-
out batting an eyelash. If you sleep with them, how can they let you go? If
they ambush you on the road and kidnap you, are you strong enough to
fight them?”
They bid their farewells in the courtyard. Wife Li urged, “Mr. Scholar,
please hurry.” Baby Jade explained: “Not that my mother-in-law wants to
be rude to Mr. Scholar. Mr. Scholar likes it here, and the two of us can surely
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
find someone to serve you in bed. There are no unchaste women in this vil-
lage, and if there were, she would not come from our family. We know that
Mr. Scholar is full of passion, but the circumstances do not allow us to keep
you here.” Little Cloud added: “Now please hurry, Mr. Scholar. We will come
to your cart to see you oª.” Wife Li warned: “Make sure that you go as far
as Niudu Village before resting. There is no friendly territory between here
and there. Be careful; be careful.” All three saw him oª by the cart. Little
Cloud held on to the curtain of the cart. “If Mr. Scholar passes through
here again, make sure that you stop for tea.” As he hit the road, Wang over-
heard Wife Li telling the two: “I have always told you how wonderful south-
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erners are. Now that you have seen one, wouldn’t you think about him day
and night?” They disappeared behind the closed door.
When Wang arrived at Niudu Village, it was past midnight. There he
found that one of the women had slipped a blank journal bound in red satin
and inlaid with gold into the package of grapes they had given him. He
sighed, “How strange, just like the dream of Huai’an.” A popular story, the
dream of Huai’an tells of Chunyu Fen, who fell asleep under a scholar tree
(huai) and dreamed that he married the princess of a kingdom of Huai’an
and was appointed the magistrate of Nanke. Having luxuriated in life’s riches
for thirty years, he woke up to find that the kingdom was but a large ant
hole by the root of the tree and Nanke, an even smaller hole beside it.
Wang recorded his encounter with the three women in his journal on the
thirtieth of the second month, 1724. Following the convention of porno-
graphic novels, Wang appended an afterword of remorse and warning. Ad-
monishing himself, he admitted to twelve mistakes, which included letting
a woman touch him and not suspecting that such bold behavior contradicts
the mores of a respectable family. Although he seemed to suggest that the
women initiated the flirtation, he also put the blame squarely on himself
for giving in to his lust, which blinded him to the repeated warning signs.
At the same time, he held on to his conviction that all three women were
virtuous in intention and behavior, “they are motivated by sincerity, stop at
righteousness, and guard themselves with propriety.” He believed that he
was saved by the women’s virtues.
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
This alterity accounts for the dreamlike quality of the episode, one that
permeates the Red Rock narrative, even without Wang’s overt reference to
the “dream of Huai’an” at the end. The elusiveness of Wang’s experience
stands in tension with his precise and vivid ethnographic observations. The
Northwest as a dreamlike landscape recurred in Westward Journey. Later, in
a poignant scene entitled “Remembrance of things seen on the road,” Wang
opened with his desire to see for himself the reality of courtesans from Shanxi
and Shaanxi in situ, having heard of their fame and experienced a few—
out of their place—south of Beijing. But his desires were dashed by strict
anti-prostitution policies then in force. After he entered Shaanxi at Tong,
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he heard that in slightly oª-track areas about one to eight li from inns and
thoroughfares, women gathered in circular settlements (bu) called “picture
houses” (huafang ). Riding on horseback with a local guide, he found a be-
witching scene that rattled his senses so much that he could not judge which
prostitute was superior.43
Even more surprising, “on the way I saw respectable women [liang jia nüzi]
riding on stallions with gold bit on the reins and brightly colored saddle
cushions. They covered their faces with light gauze. No one had feet bigger
than three inches; nor did they have rouge and powder on their faces. But
their colors, bodies, air, countenance [taidu], smiles, and facial expressions
are out of this world.”44 Similar to Li Yu, Wang located beauty in some-
thing as elusive as a woman’s air and movement of her body. The ladies’ op-
ulence created an erotic presence that was dense and moist, accentuating
the barren and arid landscape. The contrast recalls a similar depiction by
Yao Lingxi of the golden age of feet contests in Datong. Like Yao’s nostal-
gic recollection, Wang’s brushing encounter with ladies on horseback as-
sumes a dreamlike quality, like the fluttering gauze on their faces. The more
he sought the reality and fixity of pleasures tied to a specific place, the more
elusive the place became. However memorable, the pleasures of a foot con-
noisseur were ephemeral.
The reader is left with unanswerable questions: How did Wang know that
these women were from respectable families? And surely he did not mea-
sure their feet to ascertain that they were no bigger than three inches? But
empirical veracity was the last thing on his mind. The pleasure of writing—
and reading—about footbinding in the Northwest was aªorded by the se-
duction of the senses and the suspension of belief: in short the suspension
of the mind which created a sense of wonder. The erotics of place is thus
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
was quick as lightning when wielding her long spear on horseback; Little
Cloud was “Cloud of Snow,” feared for her snow-white muscles and the
snow-white flash of her fifty-catty knife blades; Baby Jade was an archer who
could pull a heavy bow and shoot long-distance arrows, a “divine-shouldered
bowman.”45 Although the specificity of names and deeds adds a historical
heftiness to the three women, in itself it does not “prove” their reality out-
side of Wang Jingqi’s head and text. It will remain a mystery to us. What
rings true from Westward Journey is the poignancy and futility of male and
female desires that structured the cultural imaginary of unevenness between
the north and the south.
Student Chang’s information about the rouge bandits enhances the men-
acing alterity of Red Rock as a place. Central to the erotics of the North-
west, as we have seen in the reports of feet contests and Lightning Steps’s
prowess in archery, is a sense of lurking danger cloaked in sweetness: the
very allure of female sexuality according to the bedchamber arts tradition.
This tension was epitomized by a martial arts tradition whose practitioners
were bewitching girls who would not hesitate to kill. Wang’s initial fixation
on a limited, southern sign of the three women’s femininity—their tiny
feet—led him to misread a more complex and menacing northern femi-
ninity. This misreading in part accounted for the belated awareness of the
danger he was in.
Wang’s lust for flesh and skin was matched by the three women’s relent-
less romanticizing of the south, which assumed an airy, imaginary hue—
their own erotics of the south as a counter-discourse. Wife Li’s remembrance
of Scholar Shen, compounded by Baby Jade and Little Cloud’s repeated
promises that they would never forget Mr. Scholar’s sound and face, reduced
the southern man’s corporeal presence to a fantastical one. In a gender re-
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
versal he lived in his sensory and desiring body and was, in fact, troubled
by his body. The women, in turn, lived in their heads, a surrealistic world
of secondhand mental images and anticipated memories of the south.
Scholar Shen’s and Wang’s bodies served as visceral conduits to a place that
the northern women had not visited and would never see. They thus
fetishized the scholar’s body, making it a synecdoche of a utopian order they
could only hope to enter in their next lives.
Wang’s lust began with the eyes—he was enticed by the women’s pretty
faces and bodies. The size of their feet was a key marker of their beauty. His
physical assault began with Baby Jade’s breast, advanced to Little Cloud’s
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buttocks and then feet, and further took the form of his removing her slip-
pers. Wang was fascinated by the layering of female footwear. In an entry
that imitates the style and content of philological investigation heralded by
Yang Shen and Hu Yinglin discussed in the last chapter, Wang inserted his
own observation: “[Besides the binding cloth] women in the Northwest often
wear soft slipper-socks [ruan xiewa] next to their skin; perhaps it is the same
as what people call ‘soft slippers’ [ruan xie]. Even matters as trivial as this
should be subjected to the [Confucian demand of ] ‘investigation of things’
[gewu].”46 But just as male desires were kindled by a progression of sensory
priorities, the women held onto a hierarchy of privacy of body parts: breast,
yes; feet, yes; undressed feet, yes when pressed; genitals, no. The genitals re-
mained the last frontier of female propriety.
Echoing Li Yu’s aesthetic of function, a pair of bound feet was by no means
an impediment to movement in Red Rock Village. The three leaders had
feet smaller than three inches, as we have seen; another bandit, Jueyun’er,
was said by Student Chang to have feet only two-and-some inches. She
donned leather shoes and could run alongside horses.47 In a later entry, Wang
supplied more ethnographic information on how the northern diªerence
was epitomized by ways of binding feet: “In Shaanxi, Shanxi, and Hebei,
girls start to bind their feet at age two to three. Their feet are naturally slen-
der and small, and they do not bind into an arch shape. They laugh at arch-
shaped [gongxing ] feet, calling them ‘goose-head feet’ [etoujiao]. In these
areas, I have seen women with very tiny feet, measuring only 2.7 or 2.8 inches
on the ruler. The sole of the foot is flat. Those who call the bound foot
‘arched foot’ [gongzu] are uninformed outsiders.”48 The term “arched foot”
was a euphemism for footbinding, as we have seen in the last chapter. Wang
alerted us to regional variations in name and style, if not in “natural” bodily
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
endowment as he alleged.
The footbound women warriors of Shanxi were in control of their bodies
if not, ultimately, their destiny. When Wang tried to fondle her foot, Little
Cloud denied him access to her erotic body by stiªening her muscles into
an iron pellet. But in the end, the erotics of the south that provided a fan-
tastic escape from their impoverished lives could be sustained only as long
as they kept up with Mr. Scholar’s game of seduction. The memento one
of them had long prepared for the day, the blank journal bound in red satin,
was a material expression of the woman’s secret longing: Wang might not
have realized that red satin decorated in gold is a fabric reserved for mak-
ing wedding shoes.49 For all of their agility and fertile imagination, marry-
ing a scholar who could write was the women warriors’ only way out of Red
Rock Village.
Both privileged southerners, Li Yu and Wang Jingqi were attuned to the al-
terity of Datong and the north-south diªerence embodied in a pair of bound
feet. Datong and Shanxi acquired a diªerent air when the writer himself
was from the north, albeit not a local. In his vernacular plays (liqu, literally
popular songs), the Shandong native Pu Songling (1640–1715) presented
diªerent pictorial and social cosmologies of footbinding and the erotics of
the north. Pu, a prolific writer famous for his collection of nearly five hun-
dred tales, Records of the Strange from Liaozhai (Liaozhai zhiyi), wrote a
series of less-well-known song-prose, of which fifteen are extant. These “ver-
nacular plays” are diverse in format and style: three are dramas with desig-
nated roles, others are looser compositions wrought of unrhymed prose,
rhymed prose, and tunes popular at the time.50 Dotted with colloquialisms
in the dialect of Zichuan, Pu’s hometown in the northeastern province of
Shandong, the ballads have a prosaic quality that evokes neither competi-
tion nor mutual fantasy between north and south. Instead, they bespeak a
mundane materiality and a subtle unevenness in the local landscape that
footbinding has come to be an unremarkable part of.
The pleasures of Datong and the beauty of its courtesans received iconic
treatment in one vernacular play, “Song of Blissful Clouds, Revised and Ex-
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
panded” (“Zengbu xingyun qu”), adopted from legends about the adven-
tures of Ming emperor Zhengde, or Wuzong. Bored by bureaucratic rou-
tines, the emperor slipped out of the capital alone, disguised as a military
o‹cer. His destination:
Shanxi tops the thirteen provinces,
What a scene in the city of Datong!
The men are pretty without peers,
And the women, oh so exquisite and romantic.
Such outstanding talent, all dazzling.
For three months he dallied in the courtesan quarters, won the heart of Fo
Dongxin (Even-the-Buddha-skips-a-heartbeat), and dueled with a local
ru‹an, Dragon Wang, son of a Minister of War. Finally, Zhengde revealed
his identity, had Wang executed, and made his triumphant return with his
new consort.
This long play sustains audience interest primarily by way of dramatic irony:
a shabbily dressed emperor determined to have fun at the expense of his un-
witting companions. Pretending to be oblivious to the fine arts of whoring,
he made one faux pas after another. In a play that extracts comic relief from
the villain’s snobbery, status distinctions embedded in the minutiae of every-
day life—in speech, dress, and bodily movement—are magnified for the
audience to savor. Toward this end footbinding serves as a useful rhetorical
device. Its main function is to mark status distinctions among local women,
not north-south diªerence as we have seen in the writings of Li and Wang.
The theme of female competition is announced early on, in a scene of
the emperor’s entrance into the pleasure quarters:
The twin themes of brothel women competing for male attention and men
adjudicating the latter’s ranking is perhaps as old as whoring itself, but the
tantalizing scene of women lining up behind curtains with their feet peek-
ing out may have anticipated the late-Qing and early Republican feet con-
test accounts discussed earlier.
The aesthetics of feet mediates two kinds of contests among women in
the Datong pleasure quarters. The first is status ranking among courtesans.
Fo Dongxin, the exquisite courtesan who would be at home in Li Yu’s cos-
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THE EROTICS OF PLACE 173
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mopolitan world, was introduced as having “tiny, tiny gilded lilies, no more
and no less than three inches.” Later, a vernacular song coveys her full-body
glamour in motion:
A zha is a handy measure in Shandong dialect, the length between the thumb
and middle finger of an outstretched hand. “Half-a-zha,” or “not even half-
a-zha,” a standard expression that recurs in Pu’s vernacular plays, is the lo-
cal equivalent of “three-inch golden lotus.” In the hierarchy of the Datong
brothels Fo Dongxin belonged to the highest class, signified by her ability
to entertain her suitors with an elegant Kunqu aria. Further down the scale,
a wineshop waiter told Zhengde, one could save money by calling on girls
who were “a bit heavy with the bottom board” (diban chen xie), which he
explained is “feet a bit on the big side” in local parlance.54
In a more sophisticated choreography of agility and taste that recalls Li
Yu’s aesthetic of function, footbinding marked a second distinction among
brothel women: between courtesans and maids. Unwilling to entertain a
shabby military man, Fo Dongxin initially sent her maid, Golden Stool, to
Zhengde in her stead. Golden Stool hiked upstairs on her large bound feet,
“one step deep and the next step shallow, / her legs quiver as her heart pon-
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
ders.” On her way to curtsy to Zhengde, she tripped and fell flat on her
face. When Zhengde looked up he saw “A ‘slender gilded lily’ half a foot
big, / Nostrils like a chimney above the stove.” But what gave her away were
her clothes:
The second maid, Jade Dais, also failed to convince because “unable to
change her Meixiang way of walking, she opens her legs wide. Like a horse
galloping, a donkey hitting the trough, she runs upstairs with a ping and a
pong.”56 “Meixiang” was a generic name for maids. Contrary to our mod-
ern expectations, the ability to run signified not freedom but inferiority.
Surely the size of feet mattered, but more subtly it was the grace of foot-
steps and the fabric of footwear that marked the diªerence between servant
and mistress. The clumsiness of the maids, etched on their bottom-heavy
names, betrayed their lesser upbringing and doomed them to subservient
status. In another play, a Shandong proverb conveyed the assumption that
it was not unusual for maids to have bound feet, but it was not to be taken
too seriously: “Xiao Lamei binds her feet.” Xiao Lamei is another generic
name for maids. Locals immediately understood it to mean: “a pro-forma
performance” (you kuaikuai zoushi liao; literally, a bit lumpy would su‹ce).57
his rescue and delivered him to a ward in Shanxi. After much travail, Zhang
was reunited with his son in the examination hall, where both captured
high honors.
In “Immortals,” footbinding marks a third female diªerence, that between
Shi the fox spirit and Zhang’s mortal wife, according to a variant of the spec-
trum of burden-function (lei-yong ) that Li Yu had proposed with his aes-
thetic of function. In a bifurcation that parallels the bifurcation of female
sexuality into temptress and saint, the “function” of footbinding is split
between the provocation of the senses and the economic productivity of
the body. Fox Shi’s temptress charm is signified by her bound feet in much
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THE EROTICS OF PLACE 175
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the same way as with the Datong courtesan. When she first appeared, Scholar
Zhang gasped:
Shi’s agility was highlighted in a later rescue scene in which she appeared to
snatch Zhang away from the two guards who had taken him prisoner. With
Zhang in tow, she leaped onto a mule: “The lady lifts up her skirt, tilts her
small foot upward to step on the stirrup, and mounts the saddle before
Zhang.”59
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
was led to a spinster’s hall, where the old women spun cotton, made soles
for footwear, and mended old clothes.61 In Pu’s vernacular plays, the erotic
body of the temptress was associated with the consumption of fashionable
clothes, whereas the productive body of the domestic woman was associ-
ated with sewing. Furthermore, among the latter a hierarchy of female la-
bor was expressed in the fabric and nature of the garments: respectable wives
embroidered and made their own shoes; spinsters under public care spun,
stitched sheets of cotton into soles, and mended old clothes.
ination in late imperial China, are transformed into a natural and immutable
proof of true femininity.”63 The matter-of-fact existence of bound feet in
the local landscape is even more pronounced in the vernacular plays, in which
references to them are often made by dwelling on the materiality of female
body and its labor. As a result, the binding of feet appears in a prosaic and
less erotic guise.64
This diªerence in emphasis between the tales and the plays is epitomized
in the way the filial daughter Sanguan is revealed to be a cross-dressing avenger
toward the end of the tale “Shang Sanguan”: “When they move Yu’s [San-
guan’s] corpse to the courtyard, his stockings and shoes feel hollow. When
the footwear is shed they see a plain slipper [xie] the shape of a hook. So he
is a she.” The same episode in the vernacular play “Song of the Cold and the
Dark” (“Hansen qu”) lavishes attention on the material accouterments on
her body: “Old Wang [the magistrate] rises to examine [the corpse]. He has
her shoes taken oª, and pulls out a bundle of cotton wool. Then a pair of
gilded lilies comes to light. She wears a midnight blue Taoist robe, her legs
are wrapped in felt stockings, and her shoes are filled with cotton wool. Her
body is tied up in ropes, a leather belt tightens on her waist and on it a leather
knife sheath hangs.” The quotidian quality of bound feet is emphasized by
highlighting the mundane materiality of her body. If the stripping of feet, a
taboo subject, aªords the reader momentary flights of fantasy, the exposure
of cotton wool (mianhua taozi, a local expression for ginned cotton) returns
his imagination to the tediousness of women’s textile work. The fluªy balls
of cotton, the tentlike robe, felt stockings, and belt add bulk to her body, re-
minding the reader that this is a body of production, not eroticism.65
That footbinding was a mundane and customary practice for prostitutes,
wives, and often their maids in early-Qing Shandong is most evident in the
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
The fondling of feet was serious flirtation; the only episode in the disguised
emperor Zhengde’s adventure that hints at the erotic potential of feet is one
in which he teased a tiny-footed maiden who oªered him water by a well
by “squeezing the tip of her toe.”67 But the seduction of feet ends here; it
figures neither in the bride’s sexual fantasies nor the groom’s action in “The
Pleasures of Marriage.”
Instead, footbinding appears most frequently in the play as an essential
part of a well-groomed woman’s toilette. The prospective bride sang:
Hearing that mother-in-law is coming to inspect [xiang ] me,
I redo my coiªure and bind my feet anew.
Brush on rouge,
Apply powder and pin a flower [in my hair],
Tidying myself up, fresh as a flower.
Tending to the hair and feet is shorthand for techniques of adorning one’s
full body. The same sensitivity to the term of self-presentation was evident
the morning after her wedding night. Rousing herself out of bed in a daze,
her limbs were so listless that she wondered:
Where did my soul go?
How am I to comb my hair and bind my feet?
Forcing my attention to the dressing table,
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
Piling my hair to the left and to the right but it comes undone.68
TOKENS OF EXCHANGE
Besides being parts of a routine toilette, the artifacts associated with foot-
binding also mediated a woman’s place in her world by serving as tokens in
economic, ritualistic, and sentimental exchanges. In one play, a matchmaker
was enticed by the reward oªered by a magistrate: “He promised to ‘tear’
[lie] me a half-foot piece of binding cloth [banchi bu de guojiao]. Let me go
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
make the rounds. If I manage to make this match, having gotten this piece
of cloth, besides ‘tearing’ it into foot binders I may even have leftovers for
a pair of insoles.”71 So conventional was footbinding that a length of bind-
ing cloth served as currency in a business transaction. The verb “to tear”
suggests that this seldom-discussed item of intimate female attire was made
of plain-weave cotton, for which ripping would have left an edge straighter
than cutting with scissors. But the meaning of “half-foot piece” is am-
biguous. Since “half a foot” was hardly long enough to bind feet, it is likely
to refer to the width.72 The consumption of binding cloth, not to mention
the frequent need to replace the insoles of shoes, recalls the emphasis on
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As if on cue the latter resisted: “It’s all reversed! / How come your parents
have to go to such trouble?” Both mother and daughter acknowledged the
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THE EROTICS OF PLACE 181
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unevenness or the reverse flow of the exchange: they should be giving her
gifts, if only they could aªord it.
Huiniang refused to budge:
My father said, Two bolts [pi] of tabby silk [chou], two bolts of gauze [sha],
Let Mother make an outfit.
How dare I take it back?
If I do, my father and mother would scold me.
This is nothing really precious anyway.
Thus the rhetoric of filiality and humility allowed Huiniang to prevail over
her mother-in-law. But Elder Sister held out: “Mother may accept, but I
absolutely cannot.” Huiniang switched to a rhetoric of moral economy: “El-
der Sister, please accept them. In the future I’d have many occasions to beg
your help.”74 With this promise that the unequal exchange will be redressed
in the course of time, Elder Sister gave in.
Later, Huiniang dispensed generous gifts of a three-foot length of red satin
and two hundred coppers (qian) to each of the tenant wives—domestic help-
ing hands for the landlord family—who scurried over to pay respect.75
We get the impression that four bolts of silk represented a generous and,
strictly speaking, unnecessary, gift to a mother-in-law. The verbal negotiation
transformed the excessive gifts from a reminder of their already obvious sta-
tus inequality to a token of sentimental give-and-take, a reciprocal exchange
to be realized in the future. Huiniang’s rejoinder that the gifts were man-
dated by her parents notwithstanding, this material and sentimental ex-
change between the bride and her new marital female relatives was a private
aªair between the women.76 The negotiation of a gift comprised of such
finished products as slippers and pillow ends and raw materials of uncut
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
Status anxiety aªected men and women diªerently. Surely the wayward
students, small landlords, and struggling merchants had their share of wor-
ries and envies. But social unevenness had a more visceral impact on women
because it was inscribed on their bodies for all to see. To show that they
were desirable brides, moral beings, or bearers of the status of their fami-
lies, women subjected themselves to constant scrutiny: hence the frequent
use of the verb “to size up” or “inspect” (xiang ) in the writings of Li Yu and
Pu Songling. In an age saturated with visual messages, it was incumbent
upon the women to “tidy themselves up”: to dress right, to perform cor-
rectly, and to look the part. The opportunities for female adornment and
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THE EROTICS OF PLACE 183
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self-presentation thus came with a flip side, the tyranny of visual scrutiny
and sartorial correctness.
The opportunity for social climbing and fears of being exposed culmi-
nated in anxieties about posing. The impostor syndrome must have been
so familiar to Pu Songling’s audience that one of the surest ways to draw a
chuckle was to joke about ugly feet. Really big, never-bound feet brought
far less comic relief than poorly bound feet, the owner of which suªered a
litany of names: “Half-squeezed-foot” (ban lanzi jiao); “Half-blocked-foot”
(banlan jiao); “Little-crooked-bone” (xiao wailagu). The literal meaning of
these colloquial terms of address was less important than their harsh, dep-
recating sound. Another spate of expressions focused on the horsey or don-
key-trots of women with poorly bound feet, as we have seen in Golden Stool
and Jade Dais, the two maids who tried to pass themselves oª as their mis-
tress. A related complaint was the terrible noise such a woman made as she
walked: “zhuo-da-zhou-da.” Even worse was ugly feet coupled with waste-
fulness. Hence a husband taunted his shrewish wife: “Keeping you around
we would have no jacket and pants to wear; why, a pair of your shoes uses
up three feet of cloth.”79
Both the desire for the glamour of fashion and the fear of appearing shabby
accounted for the seriousness with which women prepared for a visit to the
temple, one of the few excuses for a respectable woman to parade herself in
public. In a vernacular play, the chef of a well-oª household expressed his
pride in his wife’s appearance: “My master feeds me everyday and pays me
every month; we have money to spare. For my wife I had tailored a bright
red jacket and bright green cotton pants. When she is put together [zagua],
she looks as fetching as a colorful pigeon, and everybody marvels at how
handsome she looks. Yesterday she wanted to go burn incense but had no
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
shoes, so I sold a catty of sesame oil for her to buy a half-foot length of silk
[sanling ]. Also I gave her a catty of ginger and half a catty of peppercorns
to exchange for a knotted silk sash [koushi daizi]. Shouldn’t these things also
count toward what I make from my good master?” A knotted sash may re-
fer to a wide ribbon with tassels on both ends. Longer ones were used to
fasten a skirt. Its mention here after footwear may mean a leg sash, a shorter
version that northern women tied around their lower calves and ankles to
accentuate their arched shoes.80
The trope of an incense-burning wife dressed to the hilt for her pilgrim-
age is so emblematic of the visual age that it recurs in folk songs from other
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sunset. The two neighbors promptly seized and returned the borrowed
goods; within seconds she was stripped naked. The play concluded with a
lament: “A while ago she glittered in gold, like a newly minted bodhisattva
statue on Chengshu mountain. . . . Now she looks like a stinking fortune-
telling hag dragging a turtle [as oracle] from door to door.”83 In a visually
oriented society, a woman’s fashion or “social skin” defined her social status
and persona: without fashion she was nothing.
The gap in wealth between the north and south, personified in the three
Red Rock women’s adoration of southern scholars, is here dramatized in
the visual disparity between the chef ’s wife in the northern song and her
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CINDERELLA’S DREAMS
REMAINS
What traces does the body leave behind after life expires? What remain of
the sensations and sentiments that render each life singular and each woman
with bound feet the mistress of her universe? These questions flashed in my
head as I turned to examine with white-gloved fingers the exhibits in the con-
servation room of the National Silk Museum in Hangzhou. A pair of shoes,
two pairs of socks, and one set of binding cloths from the Yongle era (1403–
24) of the Ming dynasty sat on two felt-lined trays, recent discoveries from
a lady’s tomb in Jiangsu province (see fig. 15).
Slender and delicate, the ivory-colored shoes are in good condition. At
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
a length of 21.75 cm (8.7 inches) they are not tiny, but their extreme nar-
rowness bespeaks an aesthetic that prefers reshaped feet to unfettered ones.
The edge of the vamp and the toe area are decorated with cloudlike “as you
wish” (ruyi) and floral motifs that were outlined in black ink and then em-
broidered. The underside of the recessed toes is reinforced with evenly spaced
backstitching to bind the satin upper to its lining. The original fabric sole has
corroded, exposing a layer of curly felt-like fiber that once was the cushion
inside the sole.
The unlined summer socks and the padded winter ones are flat with a
loose, straight shaft, as is typical of Chinese socks since the Han dynasty.1
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THE BODY CONCEALED 188
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The socks are each wrought of two pieces of fabric cut into the silhouette
of a foot with contoured toe and heel areas, with the toes dipping slightly
downward. Their length is 22 cm (8.8 inches), which is longer than the shoes
but is in eªect shortened when the bulk of a three-dimensional foot was fit
into what was essentially a two-dimensional space.
The dead woman was apparently buried with the binding cloths on her
feet. A long strip of cotton or silk gauze about 6 cm (2.4 inches) wide, the
Ming binding cloth is similar to its modern counterparts in size, but the
method of binding diªers. Instead of concealing the starting end of the cloth
by binding over it, here it was left loose around the instep. The last loop
stretches horizontally across the toes, compressing them into the narrow and
pointy style of the shoes. The finishing end of the cloth is secured by tying
it in a knot with the starting end. A blackish speck no bigger than 2 mm,
possibly a fragment of a toe bone, was found in the fold. Collapsed onto
itself, the flat bundle of fabric remembers the silhouette of the foot and the
space it once inhabited.2 The body is gone, but a tactile imprint on a piece
of intimate fabric—like the shroud of Turin—hints at the reality of its
presence.
In the previous five chapters, we have approached the history of foot-
binding primarily through the writings of men. This is necessary because
male concerns and emotions have to a large extent shaped the subject and
our knowledge of it. The modern nationalist’s feelings of embarrassment
and shame, the connoisseur’s pathos of nostalgia, the philologist’s curiosity
and disapproval couched in a disinterested tone, the traveler’s fantasies about
the northwest, the adventurer’s quest for the most exquisite pair of feet: these
very real passions have constituted the figure of “woman with bound feet”
in our minds as well as theirs.
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
To put it bluntly: Were it not for male emotions and desires, there would
have been no women with bound feet. A pristine, isolated subject called
“footbound woman” does not exist. Male desires and female desires are
intertwined; hence to understand the latter we have to go through the for-
mer. This is not to deny that in each male-to-female encounter—in text and
in life—their interests, positions, and experiences diªer. I have read male writ-
ings backwards and sideways, paying attention to gaps and silences, to il-
luminate that gendered diªerence. The humiliation felt by the older women
during the anti-footbinding drive, the futile longings that consumed female
bandits in the miserable countryside, the incense-burning pilgrim’s anxieties
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CINDERELLA’S DREAMS 189
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about not looking sharp enough: these emotions are no less poignant than
male ones. Each woman with bound feet lived in a complex world, each
facing a changing constellation of motives, choices, suªerings, and rewards.
Whenever possible, I have sought to view the world from her eyes.
Toward the end of this book, I harbor a lasting regret. The crux of the
matter—the bodily sensations of premodern women with bound feet—is
ultimately unknowable.3 My quixotic goal in this chapter is to get as close
to their bodies as possible. These bodies once occupied a temporal and cul-
tural space, leaving behind material imprints and traces which rarely took
literary forms. However fragmentary, shoes, socks, binding cloths, foot pow-
der, medicinal recipes, and embroidery patterns provide clues to the van-
ished body, its subjective experiences, and the histories of which they were
a part. In focusing on the things that women made and the things that made
them women, this chapter places the burdens and uses of the female body
at the center of footbinding’s history from the fifteenth to the nineteenth
centuries.
Nothing is known about the fifteenth-century Jiangsu lady who wore silk
slippers in life and in death. But her sartorial remains, seen in the context of
the evolution of female footwear, tell a significant history. Her narrow, pointy,
and flat-soled slippers are typical of an early stage in the history of binding
feet which lasted through the Song and Yuan dynasties, and seems to have
lingered into the early- to mid-Ming.4 Excavated female footwear from this
period conform to two subtypes (see fig. 16): the first, as in the specimen
here, is shaped like a kayak, narrow and sleek with pointy toes that dip slightly
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
downward; the second, shaped like a canoe with a high stem, features turned-
up toes that were sometimes called “phoenix heads” ( fengtou).
The aesthetic appeal of the former style is an elegant slenderness, whereas
the visual focus of the latter is the curvature of the toes, which can soar to a
dramatic height of 7 cm (2.8 inches). Although “bow-shaped shoes” (gong-
xie) is a generic term referring to any slippers for bound feet, these curved-
toe shoes might have been its original namesake.5 The length of either type
of footwear from the thirteenth to fifteenth centuries ranges from 13 to 22
cm (5.2 to 8.8 inches)—by no means small by latter-day standards.
Characteristic of both styles is the sole: whether thin or platform-like, it
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THE BODY CONCEALED 190
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is of even height. The body weight is thus distributed evenly on the bot-
tom of the foot. The fabric sole often serves as a cushion for soft landing:
witness the curly fiber on the bottom of the pair I examined or the em-
broidered shoes of Madame Sun (1543–82), consort of a Ming prince, ex-
cavated in Nancheng, Jiangxi province (see fig. 16h). The yellow brocade
upper, 13.5 cm (5.4 inches) long and 4.8 cm (1.9 inches) wide, was stitched
onto a platform sole of stacked cotton cloth that is 1.5 cm (0.6 inch) thick;
the inside was fortified with an insole padded with fluªy silk fiber.6 Although
delicate, these shoes were made for walking.
In chapter 4, we have seen that the scholar Zhang Bangji identified an
“arch or bow-shape” as the quintessential sign of footbinding in the second
half of the twelfth century. Successive scholars in the thirteenth and four-
teenth centuries also referred to feet that were “arched and slender” in their
origin discourses. But we should beware of readings that are too literal, for
“arched foot” (gongzu) is a generic term that encompasses a range of shapes
and degrees of curvature. It is most likely that the kayak and the high-stem-
canoe shapes were fashioned to accommodate two diªerent ways of bind-
ing feet. The former required reducing the spread of the toes, possibly by
folding the four digits downward. An anecdote relates that in the court of
the Southern Song emperor Lizong (r. 1225–64), consorts “tied their feet
into a straight and slender shape” (shuzu xianzhi); the style was given the
moniker “Quick-mounting” (kuai shangma). In his fable of Maiden Ying
discussed in chapter 4, the Ming scholar Yang Shen depicted her feet in terms
of “packed digits and flat sole.”7 In these cases, the term “arching” is mis-
leading because the bound foot was straight.
The high-stem-canoe-shaped shoes, in turn, might have entailed an up-
ward bending of the toes to conform to the curved tips of the shoes. The
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
footbinding’s history that unfolded with the advent of high heels in the
sixteenth century. In an essay discussed in chapter 4, the writer Yu Huai (1616–
96) commented on the novelty of arched heels favored by fashionable
Suzhou women, carved out of fragrant wood and covered with the finest
silk: “The engineering of high heels [gaodi] was unheard of in the past, but
nowadays they are exquisite.” 11
Heeled footwear facilitated a new visual pleasure, as explained by the
scholar Liu Tingji (b. 1653): “The heel area of the shoe is elevated by a small
cylindrical piece of carved wood, called high-heel [gaodi]. The tip of the
toes thus touches the ground at an angle, appearing all the more arched and
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THE BODY CONCEALED 192
tiny [gongxiao].”12 We have seen in the last chapter that the seventeenth-
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toes, and the back of the heel. However unsteadily, heeled footwear pro-
vided better support than flats for these feet.
The extreme way of binding gave rise to a new adjective for feet, “arched
and curved” (gongwan), which became another euphemism for the bound
foot. Hence Yu Huai said of a famous late-Ming Nanjing courtesan, Gu
Mei, that her “curved arches [gongwan] were slender and small.”13 At first
glance the statement is curious in Chinese for it is comprised of a succes-
sion of four adjectives: arched—curved—slender—small (gongwan xian-
xiao). The uncompromising demand of the new fashion regime is thus
conveyed.
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CINDERELLA’S DREAMS 193
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Although “golden lotus” ( jinlian, also gilded lily) had been a euphemism
for women’s feet in Song poetry and Yuan drama, it was not until the fad
of high heels appeared that footbinding could rightly be called “the cult of
the golden lotus.”14 With this obsession with smallness at the expense of
movement, standing and walking became increasingly precarious. This cult
and its attendant eroticization of bound feet in the sixteenth and seventeenth
centuries were products of the commercialized, competitive, and fashion-
conscious culture in Jiangnan, a subject already discussed in the context of
Hu Yinglin’s sense of historical rapture in chapter 4, personified by the
incense-burning wife toward the end of the last chapter, and elaborated on
below. Once established, however, this extreme way of binding gradually
became normative for countless women throughout the empire into the
twentieth century. Li Yu’s parody of “Miss Carry,” doctors’ reports of gan-
grene, and the litany of crippling eªects recounted by the late-Qing aboli-
tionists all refer to this latter-day fad that made high heels not only desir-
able but also necessary.
Although the cult of curved arches prevailed, neither the ideal nor the
practice was universal. Ye Mengzhu, a Shanghai literatus who was the most
astute observer of fashion trends in early-Qing Jiangnan, remarked that the
new regimen was initially a mark of status distinctions: “The preference in
making arched shoes [gongxie] has long been the smaller the better. But judg-
ing from what I see, this perhaps applies to only daughters from elite fam-
ilies [shizu zhi nü]. As for others, servants and maids from the marketplace,
they often strive for narrowness. Therefore, their shoes are flat-soled—the
shoes could be decorated with gold embroidery and pearls, but they do not
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
it like an arched bow. Little do we know that girls in Hebei and Shanxi [Yan-
Zhao] started binding at age three or four. Their feet are naturally slender
and small, and do not show an arched bow shape. Those who do are being
ridiculed as ‘goosehead bumps’; the latter is not treasured” (emphasis mine).17
Tastes may diªer between north and south, but the ultimate goal—a per-
fect pair of tiny feet—remains elusive. The contradictory descriptions of
north-south diªerence may in part be due to a century-long time lapse from
Tian to Wang, but more importantly, they bespeak the impossibly high stan-
dards that the aesthetic of curved arch had set. Although unsightly, the bulge
was inevitable because however vigorous, binding merely rearranged the
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CINDERELLA’S DREAMS 195
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One sign of the growing obsession with size in the fifteenth and early six-
teenth centuries is the heightened medical attention paid to women’s feet
and the ailments brought about by improper binding. Male physicians rarely
mentioned treatment of diseased female feet in their case books, but an early
and revealing case was recorded by Xue Ji (1487–1559), a doctor famous for
his knowledge of Song classics in external medicine (waike) and the treat-
ment of women ( fuke): “There was a twelve-year-old personal attendant
[shinü] whose face was rather fetching. But her new master found her feet
too big, so he recklessly took some binding cloth and tightly bound them,
and then he sealed oª the end with needle and thread.” The maid com-
plained of excruciating pain but to no avail.
After half a month, the master agreed to unseal the binder upon seeing
that putrid fluid was oozing from the cloth. He summoned Dr. Xue, who
saw that “the front of the feet had completely rotted and turned black,
both the bones and muscles are dead.” The rotting was halted by a washing
of scallion broth and an application of ophicalcitum powder (huajuishi), a
rock mineral commonly used to dress wounds. Rubbing a red-jade tissue-
generating ointment (sheng ji yuhong gao) on the wound and ingesting a por-
ridge of rice and ginseng restored the girl’s vitality and stimulated new tis-
sue growth. But she never regained full use of her feet.20
In all likelihood this case hailed from the early- to mid-sixteenth century,
when Xue maintained a private practice in Nanjing. The master had probably
procured the attendant at a considerable price, hence his willingness to spare
no expense in summoning the famous doctor when his investment was im-
periled. Xue’s biting tone and use of such adverbs as “recklessly” (renyi) be-
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
tray his sympathy for the maid and disdain for the master’s follies. So crazed
was the master by the cult of miniaturization that the maid’s “fetching face”
did not su‹ce. This new standard of artificial beauty clearly left much to be
desired in the doctor’s mind. Also implied in “reckless” is a judgment more
medical and physiological in nature: twelve is too advanced an age to begin
a regimen of vigorous binding. Furthermore, sealing up the binding cloth
without regular disinfection and cleaning was downright irresponsible.
If the master had cared enough to look, he would have found a range of
recipes for tending to the binding of feet in the household encyclopedias of
his times. First appearing in two seminal almanacs, Essentials of Domestic
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CINDERELLA’S DREAMS 197
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der of sal ammoniac Sal, white poris cocos ( fuling ), and ligusticum rhizome.
Apply heat to 0.3 ounces of the powder and three bowls of the ash broth in
a clay pot. After several boilings, wash the feet in it, reheating if necessary.
Several washes would ensure that the feet are “naturally soft and easy to bind.”
The recipe originated from “a supreme being; its wonders cannot be ex-
hausted with words.” With its help, even a thirty-year-old woman can attain
her heart’s desires.23 This recipe appeared under the category of “Boudoir
Matters” (“Guige shiyi”), alongside such advice as ways to cure pimples, pre-
vent hair loss, or blend fragrant face powder. The binding of feet and their
care has become a matter of routine toilette.
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THE BODY CONCEALED 198
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about two perceptions of the female body that might have accounted for
the arching of feet and, as a result, their heightened medicalization.
The bone-softening and shedding tonic evokes a fantastical corporeal state
of bonelessness—a Cinderella’s body—that is pliable and responsive, read-
ily submitting to one’s will and desires. It is a body of the chosen few whose
feet are so small that it seems as though they did not occupy any space. The
foot powder, in turn, ministers to a multitude of bodies fettered by gravity
and physicality—the stubborn body of Cinderella’s sisters and the rest of
humanity. Perhaps the incessant impulse to remake the latter into the for-
mer led to the intensification of footbinding around the fifteenth century.
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CINDERELLA’S DREAMS 199
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she went to the grave with them. Anne E. McLaren, a specialist on chante-
fables, has argued that in presentation style and readability they lie midway
between the “performance-style” format of Yuan zaju-drama and “desk-top”
drama editions printed by the late-Ming literati. The chantefables were per-
formed in wealthy households, and the printed text allowed the audience
to read and sing aloud in the family circle, thus serving to “render the com-
plete performance experience” to audiences who had enjoyed them on stage.
Although the “authorship” is male, to a large extent these chantefables reflect
and shape the tastes and worldviews of their predominantly female audience.28
“Imperial Uncle Cao” is a long episode in a series featuring the beloved
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THE BODY CONCEALED 200
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Judge Bao, a wise and incorruptible avenger of injustice. Set in the reign of
the Northern Song emperor Renzong (r. 1023–63), the story opens with the
travails of Scholar Yuan. Admitted into the roster of a special metropolitan
examination, he happily set oª with his wife, née Zhang, and infant son
from Chaozhou, in the far southeastern edge of the empire, to the eastern
capital of Kaifeng. Their first experience of the capital, a typical country-
bumpkin-coming-to-town scene, was narrated with a characteristic energy
that must have made the chantefable so enchanting to its audience:
From his horse he [Cao] saw [kanjian] with his own eyes,
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
With his eyes he saw the figure [shen; literally, body] of the wife,
He saw that her face was beautiful as a flower,
Her body more tender and bewitching than the Bodhisattva Guanyin. (4b–5a)
Conduit of his lust, Cao’s eyesight was also an instrument of his ruthless
power. He tricked and strangled the scholar; the infant son he beat to death
and threw into a well. Threatened with death herself, Zhang became Cao’s
wife and was taken to his new post in Zhengzhou. There was no mention
of Zhang’s bound feet in this scene of fatal attraction.
The storyteller directed the audience to Zhang’s feet at her second ap-
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CINDERELLA’S DREAMS 201
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pearance in the Cao mansion, when she had just received a summons to
join Cao for a drink. She intuited that Cao, who had become worried about
Judge Bao’s investigations, was plotting to kill her at the table. Determined
to maintain an upper hand by looking her best and remaining sober, she
gazed into her dressing mirror:
Her beauty was accentuated by her elevated status, marked by scores of maids
holding golden censers leading the way. Cao found the spectacle of her pres-
entation as enticing as her person (18a–b).
In this formulaic description, footbinding—represented by two standard
tropes, three-inch slippers and lotus steps—was part of an expensive and
elaborate attire fit for a princess. To a large extent, the entourage of finely
appointed attendants was the outermost layer of the attire, a moving exten-
sion of her privileged self. The significance of this formula, which recurs
in the chantefables, has to be assessed in the context of the latter’s enter-
tainment mandate. The storyteller routinely invoked a vivid image and con-
veyed the social circumstances of a character by lavishing attention on the
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
clothing, makeup, hairstyle, and jewelry.30 The audience could thus visual-
ize the character by concrete, bodily signs, not as mere abstractions.
Witness, for example, the deliberate gradations made between the appear-
ance of a princess and her attendants in another chantefable. The princess,
younger sister of the emperor, is introduced to the audience in almost iden-
tical terms as the ill-fated Woman Zhang: phoenix headdress, lotus-root silk
skirt, west-brook (xichuan) red brocade jacket, pearl pendant earrings, twelve
gold hairpins, and “embroidered slippers on her feet, three inches long.”
Identical, too, is the gentle manner in which she walks: “A bold step no more
than five inches, / A dainty step she makes is no more than three inches.”
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THE BODY CONCEALED 202
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STUBBORN BODIES:
THE BURDEN AND USES OF FOOTBINDING
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
With this knowledge we may return to the saga of Imperial Uncle Cao and
Woman Zhang, who feigns drunkenness and is resting in bed. Cao, who
could not bear to kill her himself, dispatches a sword-wielding servant. Out
of the blue an Old Man Zhang, an incarnated deity, comes to the woman’s
rescue. He takes the time to administer a sobriety test, telling her that he
will whisk her away only if she is sober enough to walk on the rim of the
well counterclockwise three times and then clockwise three times. “With-
out a single misstep” and “as airily as a cloud” she passes the test (19b). In the
dark the old man leads her to the rear garden gate, telling her to flee to Kai-
feng in the morning, where she can (and does) seek redress from Judge Bao.
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CINDERELLA’S DREAMS 203
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But surely she is not to get to the good judge so easily. The latest obsta-
cle is her bound feet: “Her feet small and her shoes pointy, it is hard to
walk, / The wild wind blows until her face turns red” (20a). The White Gold
Star Venus appears in human form with a wheelbarrow and escorts her to
Kaifeng. Referring to this scene, Anne McLaren has observed that “in Ming
chantefables and nüshu writings one commonly finds bound feet depicted
as an impediment to the actions of women.” According to McLaren, both
chantefables and nüshu writing, a form of texts in female script found in
twentieth-century Jianyong, Hunan, belong to the same oral tradition of
non-learned women in which footbinding was a source of complaint and
an outright burden.33
In the context of the chantefables, McLaren’s conclusion is not wrong
but one-dimensional. It fails to take account of the complex constellation
of meanings associated with footbinding within and without the text of the
chantefables. In the entire set of eleven chantefables, this is the only instance
where footbinding is depicted in a negative light. Indeed, bound feet do
constitute an impairment to Woman Zhang’s action as she flees the palace
of her murderous “husband” in the dark, hovering by the roadside alone.
But it is more accurate to say that bound feet become an impediment only
to a woman who has fallen from grace; the nuisance of bound feet signals
the pain of downward mobility.34
Contrast her circumstances with those of Cao’s sister, the empress, who
upon hearing that Judge Bao has seized both of her brothers, races to Kaifeng
in a dragon-and-phoenix palanquin borne by eight bearers, accompanied
by an entourage of three thousand flower girls and eight hundred female
attendants (32b–33a). The empress’s mother, too, is conveyed in a speedy
eight-man palanquin (30b). If footbinding— or, to be exact, three-inch slip-
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
pers and lotus steps—is a stereotype in the chantefables, it derives its rhetor-
ical power from a social attitude that associates bound feet with women of
privilege. Hence in the chantefables, footbinding recurs as a sign of upward
mobility. The perils of Woman Zhang could only reinforce this prevalent
association of bound feet with high status. Footbinding was useful for social
climbing, not mountain climbing.
The chantefables contain contradictory messages about the physical mo-
bility of women with bound feet. Such stereotypical expressions as lotus
steps, three-inch steps, or gently shifting steps remind the reader that a
woman with bound feet realizes her beauty in motion, albeit in dainty steps.
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THE BODY CONCEALED 204
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Woman Zhang’s success in circumnavigating the rim of the well also attests
to the desirability of nimbleness. In contrast, the expression “Her feet small
and her shoes pointy, it is hard to walk” ( jiaoxiao xiejian nanxingzou) and
its variant “Her shoes are arched, her feet tiny, and her steps di‹cult” (xiegong
jiaoxiao bunanxing; 20a) recall the nuisance of corns, bunions, and ingrown
nails that a growing repertoire of foot tonics and powders ministered to.
The complaint about tiny feet and restrictive footwear that impeded walk-
ing is a trope common in the fifteenth century. In another southern drama
(nanxi) contemporary with the chantefables, “The Embroidered Jacket”
(“Xiuru ji”), an old prostitute mouthed it on a mountain path as an excuse
to part ways with a poor scholar: “My feet are tiny and my shoes arched
[ jiaoxiao xiegong ]; the path ahead is winding and uneven, I am not used to
walking on this kind of road.”35 The expression might well have enjoyed a
life oª stage. In the “Wedding rites” section of a 1597 household almanac,
there appears a series of auspicious chants that the master of ceremony was
to utter at each stage of the wedding ceremony. One of the chants recom-
mended for the arrival of the bride is:
In both of these usages, the line appears to be less a bitter complaint than
a straightforward statement of a fact of womanhood. Although agility was
valued, the crippling eªect of binding feet came to be taken for granted. In
the wedding incantation, unsteady steps constitute not a source of com-
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
more popular and demanding the practice became, the more vocal was the
opposition. The futility of the male literati’s protests was in no small part
due to the success of such performing arts as the chantefables in conveying
both the burdens of footbinding and its glamorous image to their female
audiences.
fasting, ingesting drugs, or abstinence from sex constitute the only way to
approach immortality. To transform the body one must begin by disciplining
the body with seemingly destructive measures. Synonymous with the self,
the body is at once a hindrance to and a means of deliverance.37
These insights on the ironic status of the body-self put the perils of foot-
binding in a diªerent framework of understanding. Beginning with the
premise that self and body are separate entities, such modern critics as Rev-
erend MacGowan viewed the binding of feet as an act of mutilating the
natural (God-given) body, as seen in chapter 1. To them, it is inconceivable
that any woman would have maimed herself out of her own free will. In
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THE BODY CONCEALED 206
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the world of the chantefables and Tang Daoist practices, however, the con-
cept of a “natural body” was alien. Men and women achieved their goals—
be they religious, material, social, or sensual—by working their bodies.
Reflecting this premodern Chinese view, the connoisseur Li Yu placed the
“burdens and uses” (lei and yong ) of the body on a continuum, a formula-
tion which is more useful than the modern discourse of “natural versus crip-
pled body.” According to the latter framework, one has either a natural or
a deformed body; according to the former, every self is a body that is open
to, or even requires, various degrees of manipulation.
Li Yu’s formulation, we may recall from the last chapter, is part of his “aes-
thetics of function.” His original usage focuses narrowly on bound feet. Prais-
ing courtesans from Datong, he wrote of their “having the smallest feet that
are not burdensome; having the smallest feet that are still functional.” When
applied to women with or without bound feet, the discourse of burden-and-
use allows us to view their bodies as they viewed them from the inside, as
both an obstacle and a vehicle to achieving whatever aspirations they may
have had, without our dictating for them what these goals are to be.
In the remainder of this chapter, I seek to understand the women’s per-
spectives and desires from their self-presentations—presentations of their
body-selves—by focusing on the footwear they produced, purchased, and
wore from the seventeenth century to the turn of the twentieth century. In
taking stock of how women worked with and against their bodies, we map
the changing constellation of the burdens and uses of the female body dur-
ing the heyday and eventual demise of the cult of the golden lotus.
are made of layers of thick straw paper, stitched together with plied silk yarn
and covered with plain red satin.38
Empress Xiaojing was a posthumous title awarded to Consort Wang, who
began her career in the inner palace as a maid in the chambers of Wanli’s
mother. In 1582, she was promoted to Imperial Consort two months before
giving birth to Wanli’s first son, the future heir apparent and emperor. By
then Wanli’s attention had turned elsewhere, and his futile eªorts to install
the son of his favorite Consort Zheng as heir brought court life to ruina-
tion. When Consort Wang died lonely and despondent in 1611, her body
was interred in a separate site. But as the mother of the new emperor upon
Wanli’s death in 1620, she was granted the privilege of resting alongside Wanli
and his o‹cial wife, the Empress Xiaoduan, in the magnificent Ding mau-
soleum.39 Xiaojing was a classic Cinderella, albeit she did not live happily
ever after.
Xiaojing was buried in her co‹n with four pairs of flat “phoenix-head”
( fengtou) shoes, 12.9 cm (5.2 inches) long (see fig. 18, no. 2). In a box placed
at the southern edge of her co‹n were two pairs of “cloud tip” (yuntou) shoes,
only 10.5 cm (4.2 inches) long (similar to fig. 18, no. 1).40 The empress’s high
heels were made of uppers similar in shape to these flat-soled shoes with
curled tips; there was no indication of the arched wooden soles that con-
temporary writers marveled at. It is likely that Xiaojing’s high-heeled shoes
were a prototype, marking the transition to a new fashion regime that em-
bodied the opulence and contradictions in Emperor Wanli’s world. The in-
fusion of silver money from the New World in exchange for silk and porce-
lain rocked the moral foundation of the empire, as historian Timothy Brook
has described in his splendidly titled book, The Confusions of Pleasure. The
sexual provocation of women’s footwear epitomizes the allure and dangers
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
the profusion of desires and words that characterized the cultural market-
place in Wanli’s world.41
The encyclopedic quality of Plum in the Golden Vase is evinced by the
details that the author lavished on objects as prosaic as shoes. The three re-
lated themes of female-male seduction, female advancement, and compe-
tition among women that are so central to the rise of the cult of the golden
lotus—and the novel itself—find concrete expressions in the minutiae of
footwear in several legendary scenes. In chapter 4, Ximen Qing and Pan
Jinlian, a married woman, were flirting ferociously as they sat drinking in
Dame Wang’s teahouse. Cutting to the chase, Ximen deliberately brushed
a pair of chopsticks to the floor, which rested next to Jinlian’s feet.
Ximen Qing quickly stooped down to pick them up. Behold:
The up-turned points of her tiny golden lotuses,
Barely three inches long,
But half a span in length,
Peeked out beside the chopsticks.
Ximen Qing ignored the chopsticks but gave a gentle pinch to the embroidered
tip of her shoe.
The woman laughed out loud. “There’s no need to beat around the bush, sir.
If you’ve got a mind to it,
I’ve got the will.
Are you actually trying to seduce me?”
Embroidered slippers had acquired such an erotic charge that even a pinch
at the tip was immediately understood to be sexual provocation.
At this juncture, right there in Dame Wang’s room, the two of them:
Took oª their clothes, undid their girdles, and
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
Jinlian’s beauty, especially her tiny feet, was her ticket to success. She mur-
dered her vendor husband to become Ximen’s fifth concubine, sowing seeds
of retribution that brought her violent death toward the novel’s end. Mean-
while, in Ximen’s household, Jinlian met her match in Song Huilian, the
wife of a servant with feet smaller than hers.43 Their contest comes to the
fore in chapter 23. Having refused to let Ximen use her bedroom for a tryst
with a lowly servant’s wife, Jinlian eavesdropped on the two as they spent
the night in a grotto in the garden.
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CINDERELLA’S DREAMS 209
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“It’s frigid in here!” [Huilian] continued. “Let’s go to sleep. What are you so
intent on examining my feet for anyway? You’d think you’d never seen anyone
with small feet before. The only thing is I don’t have any shoe uppers. Couldn’t
you contrive to buy me a pair tomorrow? I see other people making shoes all
the time, but I can’t make any for myself.”
“My child,” said Ximen Qing, “that’s no problem. Tomorrow I’ll buy you
several mace [coppers] worth of diªerent patterned uppers. Who would have
thought your feet are even smaller than the Fifth Lady’s?”
“There’s no comparison,” the woman said. “The other day I tried on one
of her shoes and found that I could wear it over my own. But it’s not size that
matters so much as the stylishness of the shoe.” 44
Huilian has mouthed the ultimate put-down, and Jinlian was understand-
ably incensed. In the end, Huilian’s exquisite feet did not win her a berth
in Ximen’s entourage of “wives,” symbolized by the privileges of a room of
her own and the leisure to design and sew stylish footwear. In this episode,
however, the failed Cinderella won a prize in the form of purchased, pre-
embroidered shoe uppers. She has moved up in the world.
In Ximen’s household there was a hierarchy of shoemaking labor. Hui-
lian and other servants stuck to the chore of stitching shoe soles, interstitial
labor that was the fact of life for countless farm women. Not much had
changed almost three centuries later when Ida Pruitt watched her neighbor
in rural Shandong sitting in her courtyard,
pasting the scraps of cloth—all left-over pieces, all the bits from worn-out
clothes— on a plank. After the pasteboard had dried on the plank leaning
against a sunny wall, she would pull it oª and cut it into shoe-sole sizes.
Sewing these lifts together with hempen twine was the work forever in the
hands of every woman. The half-done shoe soles with the long steel needle
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
stuck in one of the holes, the small drill and a loop of hempen twine, lay
on every window sill, ready to be picked up when there was time for a stitch
between other duties.45
By contrast, the mistresses of the house took to designing and making shoe
uppers with great seriousness and care. The opening scene in chapter 29
of Plum in the Golden Vase describes their preoccupation with magnificent
details:
The story goes that the next morning Pan Jinlian got up early and sent
Ximen Qing on his way. Remembering that she wanted to make a new pair
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THE BODY CONCEALED 210
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of red shoes for herself, she took her sewing box into the garden with her
and sat down on the stylobate of the Kingfisher Pavilion, where she began
to sketch the design to be embroidered on the vamps of her new shoes. She
sent [her maid] Chunmei to invite [sixth concubine] Li Ping’er to join her.
When Li Ping’er arrived, she asked, “What’s that you’re sketching, Sister?”
“I want to make a pair of shoes,” said Jinlian, “out of scarlet iridescent silk,
with flat white satin soles, the toes of which will be embroidered with the motif
of ‘A Parrot Plucking a Peach.’”
“I’ve got a square of scarlet variegated [ten-motif ] silk,” said Li Ping’er.
“I’ll make a pair just like yours, except that I want high heels on mine.”
Thereupon, she fetched her sewing box, and the two of them sat down
to work together.
When Jinlian had finished sketching the pattern on one vamp, she set
it aside, saying, “Sister Li, sketch the other one for me, will you? I’m going
to the rear compound to fetch Sister Meng the Third. She told me yesterday
that she was going to make a pair of shoes too.”
She went straight to the rear compound. Meng Yuelou was in her room,
leaning on the bedrail, stitching away at a shoe that she held in her hand.
When Jinlian came in the door, Yuelou said, “You’re up and about early
today.”
“I got up early,” said Jinlian, “and sent Father oª to attend the farewell
party for Battalion Commander He outside the South Gate. I’ve arranged
with Sister Li to do some needlework together in the garden while it’s still
cool in the morning. In a little while the sun will be too hot, and we won’t
be able to continue. I’ve just finished sketching the design for one shoe and
asked Sister Li to do the other one while I came straight over here to invite
you to join us. The three of us can do our work together.
“What kind of shoe is that you’re working on right now?” she went on
to ask.
“It’s that pair of jet silk shoes you saw me start on yesterday,” Yuelou replied.
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
“What a fine fellow you are,” exclaimed Jinlian. “You’ve managed to finish
one of them already.”
“I stitched that one yesterday,” said Yuelou, “and I’ve already done a good
deal on this one.”
Jinlian asked to have a look at it and said, “What kind of decoration are
you going to put on the toe?”
“I’m not to be compared with you youngsters,” said Yuelou, “with your
flashy fashions. I’m too old for that. I’ll have gold-spangled toes, with a motif
of white mountains around them, stitched out with sand-green thread, white
satin soles, and high heels. How does that sound?”
“What are you making flat-soled red shoes for? They don’t look as nice as
high-heeled shoes. If you’re worried that wooden heels are too noisy, you
can put felt on them, as I do, and they won’t make a noise when you walk.”
“They aren’t for everyday wear,” said Jinlian. “They’re sleeping shoes.”
The night before, one of Jinlian’s red sleeping shoes had been stolen by a
servant’s son and soiled, hence she had to wear “a pair of sand-green pongee
sleeping shoes with scarlet heel lifts” to bed. Ximen, who adored red shoes,
urged Jinlian to make a new pair.46
Meng Yuelou’s suggestion of putting felt on wooden soles is the kind of
insight that would occur only to a woman. More than any of the notations
we have surveyed, this scene conveys not only the splendor of high heels
but also the fact that the architects of the fad were none other than the
women who designed, made, and wore them.47 The women’s attention to
choice of fabric, color coordination, and design of the vamps bespeaks the
importance of shoes to their wardrobe and the pleasures they derived from
them. Also evident are the way that shoemaking was enmeshed in the
women’s everyday lives and that this activity facilitated both female com-
panionship and competition.
I have not been able to locate any high-heeled slipper with a wooden sole
from the seventeenth century, and this scene helps explain why. For all the
attention lavished on their design and production, high-heeled shoes were
objects of frivolous consumption. They soiled and wore out easily, but even
before they did they had often become dated. In two days the entrepreneurial
Meng Yuelou managed to replenish her wardrobe with a new pair. The pre-
embroidered uppers that Ximen Qing was to procure from the market for
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
Huilian must have given the domestic women an impetus for stylistic inno-
vation. Caught up in the vicissitudes of the fashion cycle, the embroidered
slipper, an object so central to women’s self-presentation and men’s erotic
imagination, was thus essential but ironically disposable and ephemeral.
Jinlian’s eagerness to make a new pair of red sleeping shoes is a useful re-
minder that there is no reprieve from the tyranny of fashion day or night,
indoor or outdoor. Not only the embroidered slippers but the full regalia
of footwear, from the sleeping shoes to leggings, were essential in lending the
golden lotus a splendid and mysterious aura. Sleeping shoes, which are not
so diªerent from flats for outdoor wear except that the former are soft-soled,
acquired the same connotations of privacy and provocation as bras and
panties in the West: not that they were never taken oª, but the concealment
and subsequent undressing is more interesting than the exposure itself.48
Even more unmentionable was a loosened binding cloth. At the height
of the cult of the golden lotus, bare feet constituted such a taboo that for
all the risqué sex scenes in The Plum in the Golden Vase, only one hints at the
spectacle of naked feet. In a drunken orgy, Ximen “took oª [ Jinlian’s] red
embroidered shoes, unwound her foot bindings, and amused himself by
using them to suspend her two feet from the grape arbor overhead.”49 In
breaking a visual and textual taboo, this scene in chapter 27 is one of the
most famous (and infamous) in the novel, an emblem of the sexual license
and excesses in Ximen’s household. The connoisseur Li Yu, in his erotic novel
The Carnal Prayer Mat, written in 1657, explained that the naked foot is a
taboo because it is the ultimate turn-oª. In a bedroom scene, the protago-
nist Vesperus took oª all of Jade Scent’s clothes, “including her underwear
and breastband, everything but her leggings.” Li commented: “In the last
resort tiny feet need a pair of dainty little leggings above them if they are
going to appeal. Without leggings, they would be as unsightly as a flower
with no leaves around it.” 50
As designers, makers, and wearers of sleeping shoes or arched high heels,
the women engineered an artifice of concealment and illusion, thereby ma-
nipulating the viewer’s gaze. Their skill is one of condensing, of reducing
the messiness of the disintegrating world into their bare essentials—red satin
or white damask? Gold couching or green chain stitching? In lavishing so
much detail onto something as minuscule as the edge of the vamp, sole,
and especially the tip of her slippers, the shoemaker focused the boundless
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
PRODUCTIVE BODIES:
SHOEMAKING AND THE MARKETPLACE
wealthy families, making shoes to order. Unlike men’s shoes, female footwear
did not develop into a full-fledged commodity sold in stores until the mod-
ern period.
Commercial production of myriad household goods and personal items
became increasingly common from the sixteenth century on. Fan Lian, a
native of Songjiang and a keen observer of fashion trends, noticed a seis-
mic change in the production of men’s footwear: “At first commercial shoe-
making was limited to the operations run by palanquin-bearers from Nan-
jing; there were absolutely no shoe stores nor straw-shoes stores in Songjiang.
Since the Wanli reign [1573–1620], we began to see men making shoes. The
styles they made gradually became lighter and more refined, and they es-
tablished a cluster of stores to the east of the county seat. The palanquin-
bearer’s operations have thus become the lowest in the pecking order.”
The flourishing of commercial shoemaking was fanned by the ease of
travel and regional migration. A shoemaker by the name of Shi moved to
Songjiang from nearby Yixing and created a fad of straw shoes with the ex-
pertly braided ones he sold. “Thereupon Yixing shoemakers opened stores
in blocks of five or six in the city. These stores now number several hundred;
their prices are so cheap that the natives can feel the heat of competition.”52
“Men making shoes,” or the end of shoemaking by domestic women, is syn-
onymous with its commodification. From Fan’s description, however, it is
clear that these commercial shoes were styled for men.
The Portuguese Dominican friar Gaspar da Cruz, who visited the south-
ern city of Guangzhou (Canton) for a few weeks in the winter of 1556, de-
scribed a thriving shoe market there decades before the reign of Wanli. Im-
pressed with the abundance of shoes, which was to his mind emblematic of
the material wealth of China, he opened his chapter on “mechanical crafts-
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
men” and “merchants” with footwear: “And because shoes are the thing that
most is spent, there are more workman of shoemakers than of any other
trade. In Cantam are two particular streets of shoemakers very long, one
where they sell rich shoes and of silk, another where they sell common shoes
of leather; and besides these two streets, there are many workmen scattered
about the city.” A pricing structure had developed: “The rich boots and shoes
are covered with colored silk, embroidered over with twisted thread of very
fine work; and there be boots from ten crowns to one crown price . . . [s]o
that the rich and the very poor may wear shoes, and the rich as they list.
The shoes of three pence, or of a rial, are of straw.”53
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THE BODY CONCEALED 214
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made by the Suzhou native Shen Fu (b. 1763). When his wife, Yun, desired
to attend a lantern festival dressed as a man, Shen suggested: “In the street
they sell ‘butterfly shoes’[hudie lü] in all sizes. They’re easy to buy, and af-
terwards you can wear them around the house. Wouldn’t they do?”56 Al-
though favored by stylish women as casual wear (and when they cross-dressed
in public), “butterfly shoes” were flat-soled footwear intended for men.
In the first decade of the nineteenth-century, a native of Yangzhou re-
marked that workshops in his hometown produced butterfly shoes far su-
perior to those in Suzhou and Hangzhou. The soft sole was stitched from
ten to twelve layers of fine felt, and the vamps were fashioned from plain
satin, imported wool, or silk crepe in purple or grey. The tip of the toes was
reinforced with an appliquéd jet-black felt or satin butterfly, hence the name.
When he was young, the writer remembered “buying” butterfly shoes for
0.5–0.6 ounces of jet silk, but by the late eighteenth century the stores were
asking 1.2–1.3 ounces of silver for a pair.57 Sturdy and comfortable, they re-
mained popular informal male footwear. It is conceivable that shoes for
women without bound feet were available in the stores alongside butterfly
shoes and other male footwear. It seems unlikely, however, that shoes for re-
spectable women with bound feet, which are vested with such power of
provocation, could be procured in such a manner.
This assumption is supported by the fact that in the Qing law courts and
theater, the embroidered slipper, especially the sleeping shoe, was such a
synecdoche of a woman’s sexuality that its very possession by a man other
than her husband su‹ced to intimate illicit union (see fig. 19). The murder
case of the twenty-three-year-old Woman Wang in Jinzhou in 1737 turned
on the key evidence of her green cotton sleeping shoes. Wang’s husband, a
vegetable peddler, borrowed money from Zhang Da, a thirty-three-year-old
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
friend, a vendor. On the morning of June 10, Zhang showed up and got
into a fight with Wang after her husband had left the house. Wang, stabbed
in her face, neck, and abdomen, told county investigators that Zhang came
to reclaim his money and, upon seeing that she was alone, tried to rape her
but she resisted. Later in the day, she died from her wounds.
Caught by the couple’s landlord at the scene, Zhang was thrown in jail.
During his reexamination by a new magistrate he oªered a new line of de-
fense, saying that he had long been Wang’s lover. On June 9 he chanced
upon her having sex with another lover, Wu. He flew into a rage when Wang
refused to sleep with him the following morning. As proof for his aªair with
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STYLISTIC CHANGES
AND TRANSMISSION OF KNOWLEDGE
high heels brought an end to the domestic production of female shoes ac-
cording to the classical requirements of “womanly work” as the foundation
of a self-su‹cient agrarian economy. In theory, a pair of shoes made of cot-
ton, hemp, or silk could have been the product of domestic women’s hands
in its entirety, untouched by market transactions. But the wooden sole re-
quired carpentry work that could only be procured from outside the
boudoir. The late-Ming courtesan Liu Rushi (1618–64) was said to have com-
missioned famous artisans to carve her wooden soles, including the most
sought-after bamboo carver of his day, Pu Zhongqian.60
The shoemaking scene from Plum in the Golden Vase suggests that do-
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CINDERELLA’S DREAMS 217
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mestic women did not stop making shoes. For everyday footwear, urban
women from households with cash to spare bought the components—the
wooden soles and pre-embroidered uppers—and assembled them at home.
There is also evidence that among the domestic help engaged by wealthy
families were teams of seamstresses who labored in the family compound
to supply the needs of family members.61 Such special-occasion shoes as
wedding shoes, gift shoes for in-laws and friends, and votive shoes oªered
to the gods did not belong to the realm of frivolous fashion but were ex-
tensions of the body-self; they were inevitably made by the wearer or devo-
tee from scratch.62 The aura of handmade artifacts could only be enhanced
in an age of commercial production, hence the design and embroidering
of shoe uppers, in contrast to stitching fabric soles, were deemed genteel
women’s work in Ximen Qing’s household.
Market tastes began to intrude into the boudoir by way of uncut pre-
embroidered uppers in the late Ming. We do not know the selection of vamps
that Ximen Qing was able to buy for Huilian, but the cross-fertilization
among the tastes of the marketplace, brothel, and boudoir is evident in a
tendency toward over-ornamentation. Song and Yuan shoes for bound feet
were monochrome, in such muted neutral colors as pale yellow and em-
broidered in outline stitching with floss of the same color. Although more
dramatic, Empress Xiaojing’s pale-red high heels are also single-colored.
Sometimes made of textured damask or brocade and decorated with a tiny
bow, the earlier shoes are quiet, with a fine aesthetic sensitivity that focuses
the eyes on the shimmering light of the thread that reveals subtle variations
in texture.
The handiwork of the ladies in Ximen Qing’s household announces a new
multicolored palette featuring primary colors. Red or black vamps are con-
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
trasted with white soles or green heel tabs; gold couching stands out on pur-
ple vamp. Peach red uppers are edged in gold leather. Tian Yiheng (fl. 1609)
confirmed that gilded lamb skin was a new material that shoemakers of his
day used lavishly for women’s slippers.63 The palette became more varie-
gated and the color combinations more striking as time went on, and by
the end of the Qing embroidery stitching in a cascade of contrasting color
was the norm.
The profusion of auspicious symbols on every surface of Qing material
culture, from porcelain and paintings, to textiles and robes, was also evi-
dent on shoe designs. The games of visual punning became increasingly so-
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THE BODY CONCEALED 218
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phisticated; a bat ( fu) standing for fortune ( fu) no longer su‹ced. Fertility
and conjugal happiness, two ardent desires that undergirded almost every
motif embroidered on shoe uppers and soles, found concrete expressions in
a colorful array of images: lotus, butterfly, pomegranate, double coins, melon
and vine, goldfish, peach, and the eight immortals. As if seeking a reprieve
from this overload of good wishes, commercial uppers became spare, vague,
and abstract toward the dynasty’s end. The even and expertly executed stitch-
ing coupled with formulaic floral designs found on the majority of late-Qing
slippers attests to the fact that footwear, after all, is a mundane business.
When embroidery became too tiresome, brush-painting on shiny starched
cloth vamps mass-produced a new look in 1904–11 (see fig. 7d).64
Domestic assembly of purchased components remained the dominant
mode of production for bound-foot shoes during the Qing dynasty. In the
nineteenth century, professional carpenters made wooden heels and soles in
standardized sizes and styles, and male peddlers hawked them along with
heel stiªenings and other sewing implements, calling out, “Come buy wooden
soles!” as they went (see fig. 7e). In Jiangsu, peddlers carried carving knives
to make adjustments, in a procedure known as “lathing wooden soles” (che
mudi). A wood file was a standard tool in village households in the Tianjin
area for fine-tuning. According to a rare report about the trade in late-Qing
Hebei and Shandong in Picking Radishes, three types of pre-made wooden
soles were available, in descending order of popularity: heels, front taps, and
full heel-to-toe soles.65
The standard sizing of pre-made shoe components gives a rough indica-
tion of the average sizes of bound feet. The full sole came in sizes 1 (7.6
inches) to 10 (3.3 inches). The heels, which extended to the mid-point of
the shoe, also came in ten standard sizes, in increments of 0.3 inch, with
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
size 1 at 4.8 inches, size 2 at 4.5 inches, down to size 10, 2.1 inches. The car-
penters generally sold the heels at wholesale in strings of ten pairs, one each
of the ten diªerent sizes. Retailing vendors, however, would sell the bigger
ones at a higher price. Most readily available were the middling sizes 3–7
(4.2 inches to 3 inches, which means shoes 8.4 to 6 inches long), and the
biggest sizes of 1 and 2 tended to be the first to sell out.
The pricing structure was also standardized, at least for the northern re-
gion where data are available. If the vendor desired additional pairs of sizes
1 and 2, he would have to add a forty percent premium to the wholesale
price. Carpenters also made soles of specific curvatures and sizes to order.
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CINDERELLA’S DREAMS 219
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If the design required additional lathing on the top, bottom, and sides of
the standard soles, he would charge five times the wholesale price. If only
one side of special lathing was needed, the price was doubled. In Jiangsu, a
standard pair retailed at 4 coppers (wen) in the 1880s. By the 1900s the price
had doubled, but business soon tapered oª as the anti-footbinding move-
ment spread.66
The making of shoe uppers was less commercialized. The earliest extant
examples of mechanically reproduced shoe patterns appear in a household
almanac entitled Precious Mirror of Feminine Virtues (Kunde baojian) pub-
lished in 1777.67 Gathered in the last two fascicles ( juan 8–9) are a wealth
of sewing and embroidery patterns in actual sizes, covering the span of small
personal eªects for men, women, and children. Fascicle 8 features primar-
ily objects for men’s use, to be given to men as souvenirs, or for children:
male hats, children’s hats, four styles of purses, toothpick holder, fan cases,
pincushions, powder puªs, paper bags, pillow ends, children’s shoes (fig.
20a), men’s shoes. Fascicle 9 focuses on female clothing: headbands, ker-
chiefs, children’s headbands, women’s collars, straight lapels, big sleeves, small
sleeves, skirt panels, trim for the bottom of pant legs, floral embroidery mo-
tifs for shoes, cloud embroidery motifs for shoes, cloud embroidery motifs
for the shafts of boots (fig. 21a), cloud appliquéd motifs for shoes (fig. 21b).68
The other seven fascicles of the almanac are fashioned entirely from re-
cycled materials culled from two textual traditions: moral instruction books
and such practical household encyclopedias as The Forest of Aªairs and Es-
sentials for Domestic Living.69 The compiler, Tanmian daoren (Taoist adept
who sleeps in a jar), stated his purpose: “Women may use this book in their
fragrant pavilions or leave it by their sewing boxes, so that the two can keep
each other company day and night. May their hearts be stirred just by look-
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
ing at the book, so that they would know the teachings of ‘thrice following’
and the ‘four virtues.’ May they know that such household chores as draw-
ing water, grinding grain, and needlework are not just the preserve of the
poor and the mean, but should not be ignored even by daughters of privi-
lege.” The rhetoric places Precious Mirror in the tradition of didactic texts
admonishing women to adhere to their domestic calling. At first glance, the
almanac seems to decry the degeneracy of the commercial age; women had
neglected the requisite womanly work for so long that they needed to be
taught anew the skill of drawing patterns.
Underneath and against its own rhetoric, however, Precious Mirror has
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THE BODY CONCEALED 220
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far less to do with domestic virtues than with the culture of the market-
place. Issued by a commercial publisher, it is in itself a commodity. Surely
the sewing and embroidery patterns could have been an inspiration for ladies
in the boudoir, but they were likely to be more helpful to a class of minimally
educated daughters who desired to produce value-added piece goods for the
market but suªered from a lack of artistic education. It is no accident that
all the patterns are small and the design of the clouds, flora, and fauna generic.
There was an enormous market in such small personal eªects as purses, fan
cases, and children’s hats, all standard gifts and requisite social lubricants
for friends and strangers. Small textile goods in the form of collars or sleeve
facings were the mainstay in embroidery stores (xiuzhuang ), which sold them
to the busy housewife or tailor to fashion into finished garments.
Instead of being an instrument for reviving domestic textile production
as claimed, Precious Mirror is a testament to the intrusion of the market into
the former and to the formulaic modular designs that dulled the viewer’s
mind that resulted from it. In this light, it is significant that although generic
designs for embroidering women’s shoe uppers proliferated, no outline
pattern of the shoes themselves was included. The latter appeared in printed
form only in the last decade of the Qing dynasty, suggesting that until then,
the skills of designing, cutting, and assembling shoes for bound feet remained
knowledge transmitted from one seamstress to another by personal exam-
ple. They had remained, in other words, embodied female knowledge.
Precious Mirror of Feminine Virtues must have met a fervent demand, for
it remained in circulation into the nineteenth century in the form of an almost
identical copy of the two chapters of patterns meticulously traced by hand
using an extra-fine calligraphic brush (fig. 20b, 21c-d). The single handmade
copy, which is in fact more exquisite than the original, must have consumed
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
an inordinate amount of time.70 Perhaps this is only natural, for by the turn
of the last century any material production or reproduction that bears a tac-
tile imprint of bodily traces appears precious, a mirror into the bygone days
when women embroidered and stitched an entire world into existence.
The invention of high heels created a frivolous, urban fashion regime and
ushered in the cult of the golden lotus in the fifteenth and sixteenth cen-
turies. Paradoxically, footwear fashion reached the second summit of its cre-
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CINDERELLA’S DREAMS 221
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ative power during the demise of the golden lotus at the turn of the last cen-
tury (see fig. 9). By then perfected as an integument of concealment, “basic
footwear” comprised three or four layers: binding cloth, sock, soft-soled slip-
per, and outer shoe or bootie. Leggings, leg-binders, ankle bracelets, and pants
or a long skirt completed the ensemble at the lower body (see figs. 14, 22).
Shoes had become the keepers of the exterior presentation of the body-
self. Be they exposed and accentuated by leg binders that extended from the
ankle to the knee or peeking demurely from under a long skirt, their de-
sign, color, and fitting were crucial to the overall “look” that a woman de-
sired to achieve. In the transitional decade of the 1890s to 1900s, the pop-
ularity of Kun-style shoes and booties with a gently relaxed arched sole
reflected the adaptation that the fashion regime made to the anti-footbinding
movement (see figs. 6, 7). Kun shoes derived their allure from the residual
aura of high heels, but at the same time they announced the end of the era
of the golden lotus. The arch of the shoes, like the arch of the foot, became
progressively flatter as the twentieth century advanced. In the 1920s and
1930s, stylistic and technological innovations in female footwear were driven
by the incorporation of Western structures, designs, and materials. Kun shoes
and booties are the last elegant heeled footwear for bound feet produced in
the Chinese shoemaking tradition.
Underneath the shoes, socks or sleeping slippers are akin to the modern
camisoles: their main function as “underwear” is less as body-shaper than
as a frontier of provocation. They add a layer of intrigue to the admirer’s
eyes and present a barrier in disrobing, prolonging the pleasure of anticipa-
tion. This is why in the 1890s, when prostitutes led the fashion cycle in foot-
wear as harbingers of change, much of their creative energy was focused on
the design and positioning of the sleeping slippers, changing slippers, and
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
socks. The arrival of sleeping slippers worn as outer shoe in 1908–11, on the
eve of the collapse of the imperium, signaled the end of the old order of seduc-
tion. There is nothing more to expose and nothing more to hide.
As intimate textile next to the skin, the binding cloth was the most es-
sential foundational garment. Like a straight-fronted corset in the Art Nou-
veau period (1890s–1900s) that helped reshape the wearer’s body into the
fashionable S-curve, the binding cloth molded the foot into the requisite
shapes and silhouettes according to the whims of fashion: a bulged arch with
rounded tip at the toes this year; a flatter arch with straighter toes next year.
As the retroactively reconstructed chronology in Picking Radishes (see fig.
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THE BODY CONCEALED 222
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22) shows, the wheels of footwear fashion turned at a robust pace during
the years from 1894 to 1911, at the height of the o‹cial anti-footbinding
movement. New styles and silhouettes appeared every three to four years.
The binding cloth performed its feat without alterations in its physical
design or structure; therein lay its diªerence from corsetry in a most im-
portant way. The cloth binder manipulated the presentation of the body-
self not by the insertion of whale bone stays or padding. It remained the
long strip of fabric that it had been since the beginning of footbinding’s his-
tory, as evinced by the remains of the mid-thirteenth-century ladies Huang
Sheng and Zhou discussed above. The fabric had changed with the in-
creasingly arduous binding regimen in the Ming and Qing periods; plain
woven cotton with a slightly rough touch to the hand—which would nei-
ther slide nor give—became the fabric of choice.71 Observers have reported
that the binding cloth was among the last articles that women hand-wove
on domestic looms in Yunnan and Taiwan.72 Imported white cloth was also
used when available. The width, length, and color of the binding cloth may
vary with the age of user and the occasion; young girls, for example, some-
times used indigo-dyed cloth to enhance healing. But the basic design and
principle had remained constant for centuries.
The foundation for changes in the fashion regime is far more subtle: it
inheres in the user, not the implement. In Picking Radishes, someone using
the pseudonym of Plain Girl explained the incredible burden this material
fact placed on the nimbleness and skill of the woman. Because variations
in the dimensions of the binding cloth are slight, choosing the right size re-
quired nuanced understanding of one’s own bodily conditions and the de-
sired stylistic eªect. The length of the cloth, she explained, can range from
five or six feet to seven or eight feet; some are even longer than ten. But any
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
cloth shorter than five feet would not su‹ce for the requisite five or seven
wrappings. The optimal width of the cloth is six-tenths of the length of the
foot; in practice three inches is the average width. Any cloth narrower than
two-and-a-half inches or wider than three-and-a-half inches would be
di‹cult to manage.
Even more unforgiving is the manipulation of the binding cloth. The
traditional seven layers of wrapping involved dexterity of fingers and an
intimate, intuitive understanding of the anatomy of one’s own feet. First,
position the binding cloth under the ball of the foot, bring it up to the top
and fold the four digits downward, leaving the big toe unfettered. Second,
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CINDERELLA’S DREAMS 223
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bring the cloth up and restrain the middle of the foot sideways. Third, wrap
around the big toe and work backward to the heel. Fourth, push the heel
forward and work upward to the big toe, this time leaving it unbound, to
apply a second wrapping on the folded digits. Fifth, cross to the pushed heel,
secure it and apply a second sideways wrapping to the middle of the foot.
Sixth, reinforce the big toe and work backward. Seventh, bring the cloth to
the inside arch of the foot after a final wrapping of the heel and secure the
end with needle and thread. Controlling the tension of the cloth at each
step served to mold the foot into desirable shapes.73 When footbinding was
a viable practice, such measurements and procedures would have been in-
tuitive knowledge to the women. Only at the end of footbinding’s history
would it be necessary to commit such knowledge to writing for the curious
outsider and posterity.
But that is the historian’s perspective, not the women’s. Anti-footbind-
ing measures came and went; as did the tides of fashion. Deft fingers con-
tinued to wield the binding cloth day after day, shaping and reshaping the
foot to fit into the new flat pointy tips, the tiny satin Mary Janes, or the tri-
angular leather oxfords in the 1920s and 1930s. The body could be stubborn
and the binding of feet burdensome, but when the fingers were at work all
else was forgotten. Shoes and socks could easily be store-bought, worn and
discarded; they are merchandise in a commercialized regime of fashion. A
pair of bound feet, however, was inalienable. Once bound, they required
assiduous maintenance according to the demands of hygiene and fashion.
A pair of shapely bound feet was the lifelong handiwork of the woman.
The least eroticized among the implements for footbinding, the binding
cloth was also the last item taken oª the domestic loom. Although indis-
pensable, it did its work virtually unseen, from the inside, and without
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
decoration. More than the flowery words of men and the spectacular but
hollow shoes, the binding cloth remained the preserve of the woman’s pro-
ductive, private body-self.
RESIDUAL MEMORIES
crows” ( jinlian juechang, wenji qiwu). The sign marks the performance soon
to begin exclusively for me as a tourist site, the same way that notable inscrip-
tions announce the entrance to the Song pavilion in nearby Elegant Hill.
Since the 1990s tourism magazines and television programs have promoted
Liuyi as “Footbinding Village,” the last bastion of the practice in China.74
During peak tourist season there would be several dance performances every
week.
Tonghai county, of which Liuyi village is a part, was settled by Han sol-
diers brought by the powerful Mu family from Nanjing during the early
years of the Ming dynasty. Having defeated the indigenous Yi, Bai, Tai, and
Hani peoples, the Han immigrants established six camp-like villages on the
southern shores of Lake Jilu. Local legends attribute the beginnings of foot-
binding and a high level of civility in the area to the settlement (see fig. 14).75
In the mid-1980s there were five to six hundred women with bound feet in
the predominantly Han village. Today, Liuyi is a prosperous exporter of napa
cabbage and other fresh produce to cities as far away as Beijing. Among
the population of over nine thousand there remain only about eighty golden-
lotus ladies.
Ma Qiaofen, a physical education coach at the senior center, told me that
footbound women in the village have danced for visitors since 1985 (for a
negotiable fee). Ma, a congenial and robust Yi-minority woman who mar-
ried into the village thirty years ago, does not have bound feet. In 1984, about
one hundred fifty of the tiny-footed women took the initiative in organiz-
ing a senior sports association, gaining instant fame when their croquet team
beat the big-footed contingent from the county seat. Since then they have
competed in regional and national tournaments. The disco-on-bound-feet
routine they developed also became a media sensation.76
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
Inside the main hall, seven women in blue polyester tunics trimmed in
red sat on low benches, quietly awaiting their spectator. Underneath balloon-
shaped white pants they wore white cotton socks and flat embroidered slip-
pers made of bright red polyester in Mary Jane style. I noticed that the
majority had “liberated feet” that were flat and without the bulge, much
like the style in the initial stage of footbinding’s history. The only two with
triangular arched feet—which retain the shape after “liberation”—were,
not surprisingly, also the oldest: Xiao Xiuxiang is eighty-four and Pu Jifen,
seventy-eight. Tonghai county was famous for its handwoven cotton cloth
in the first half of the twentieth century.77 Xiao and Pu are both old enough
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CINDERELLA’S DREAMS 225
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to have worked at the loom for their families. Pu Jifen retains the reputa-
tion among her friends as the best embroiderer and shoemaker.
The dancers filed into position, each holding a bamboo flute as the mu-
sic sounded from a cassette recorder. No prompting was needed; the reper-
toire must have been familiar. Gliding across a spectrum from the civil to
martial arts, they followed the flute dance with a sword dance and a tai-chi
dance which looked remarkably like the exercise routine seen in early morn-
ing parks across China. Their steps steady and stately, their bodies surpris-
ingly supple for their age, the women showed no expression on their faces.
It looked as though they were either engrossed in the present moment or
dancing a dance that belonged to a life and time far removed from their
own. Afraid to break the spell when the music stopped, I applauded with
mu›ed hands.
To break the ice, I asked casually if they still do textile work. No, some-
one replied, the family loom was taken down and turned into firewood eons
ago. Xiao Xiuxiang and Pu Jifen flashed a playful grin. Without missing a
beat, they both raised their left arms into mid-air as if they were sitting in
front of a loom. Their pair of arched feet stepping on what would have been
treadles, they moved their right arms back and forth as if shu›ing a shut-
tle cock in perfect coordination. Neither the croquet nor the dances they
learned in the recent past have displaced or erased the earlier regimen of
productive labor. Their bodies remember.
repertoire of skills that have woven colorful and textured worlds will dis-
appear along with it. With my mind’s eye, I took a snapshot of the two old
women working their imaginary looms, and in that instant I knew that not
only had I collected my trophy souvenir but I had also witnessed the con-
clusion to this book.
EPILOGUE
world.
As conclusion to this book I can oªer no convenient culprit, facile ex-
planations, or neat narratives. The parts are bigger than their sum; the his-
tory of footbinding does not add up. It has to be sought in the incongruities,
repetitions, and omissions in the textual and material archives. The whole
millennium-long history is a bit out of kilter, if not downright absurd: In
the beginning, the word preceded the deed; toward the end the deed ex-
hausted and exceeded all justifications. In between these two extremes,
women lived in the mundane realities of their bodies while aspiring to a
better life.
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EPILOGUE 228
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The aesthetic ideal of tiny feet and dainty steps first appeared as poetic
allusions to enchanting but distant goddesses in the Six Dynasties period.
Eulogies of brocade slippers and shoelaces became increasingly graphic and
acquired an erotic charge in the boudoir poetry of the Tang dynasty. The
poet’s imagination was translated into material forms in subsequent dynas-
ties, as “every step a lotus” heels or “echoed hallway” soles became prized
items in fashionable women’s wardrobes. But the absence of contemporary
criticisms and the lack of archaeological remains suggest that the binding
of feet had yet to be realized as an actual practice before the fall of the Tang.
Although male desires for bound feet were born of and perpetuated by
poetic allusions, the written word enjoyed far less persuasive power among
women. A handful of literate women in the Ming and Qing dynasties did
participate in poetic exercises, but women learned about the burdens and
uses of footbinding primarily from the performing arts and material culture—
realms that were influenced by the world of the literati but were by no means
contained by it. For this reason I have sought female perspectives not from
women’s poetry, but from ballads, vernacular plays, household almanacs,
and the material remains themselves. However dominant, male desires and
tastes cannot account for the longevity let alone the geographical and social
scope of footbinding.
In seeking female incentives I have avoided the language of “free choice.”
Modern critics often imagine that traditional Chinese women would have
rebelled if given a choice, and the fact that they did not attests to the dra-
conian success of Confucian patriarchy. This erroneous view derives from
a modern, individualistic valorization of free choice that structures our de-
sires but not theirs. It is true that from the sixteenth century on, women did
not have a “choice”: any daughter from Han Chinese families whose eco-
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
nomic circumstances could remotely allow them to bind would. Even those
who could not aªord to did. Footbinding was not merely an announcement
of status and desirability to the outside world, but also a concrete embod-
iment of self-respect to the woman herself.
Gayatri Spivak has construed “free choice” as “the radical and voluntary
rearrangement of desires.” Female desires were so “rearranged” by the fash-
ion regime and sediments of culture in the late imperial period that not-
binding became unthinkable, in the same way that choosing to bind is un-
thinkable to us. Instead of resisting, the women applied their imagination
and skills to the pursuit of perfect pairs of footwear and the most advanta-
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EPILOGUE 229
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NOTES
INTRODUCTION
1. Stephen West uttered these two words in a casual conversation at Columbia
University, Oct. 2002.
2. A notable exception in English is Howard S. Levy’s Chinese Footbinding: The
History of A Curious Erotic Custom (Taipei: Nantian shuju, 1984). The rhetoric of
disavowal that Levy adopted is a thinly veiled disguise of his fascination and long-
ing. This stance is remarkably similar to that of Yao Lingxi, the compiler of the en-
cyclopedic Caifeilu (Picking radishes). The fragmentary structure of Levy’s book is
modeled after Caifeilu, which also supplies much of his substantive data. For the
complicated stance of Yao and Levy as well as the generation of new knowledge
and desires from textual imitation, see chapter 3 of the present book. An exception
in Chinese is Gao Hongxing’s Chanzu shi ([A history of footbinding ] Shanghai:
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
of footbinding as female castration in her Woman and Chinese Modernity: The Pol-
itics of Reading between West and East (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press,
1991), pp. 6–7. On the related issue of female fetish, I have learned more from my
former undergraduate students at Rutgers Stephanie Capneau and Samantha Pinto
than from published volumes.
5. Thorstein Veblen, The Theory of the Leisure Class (New York: Penguin Books,
1994), pp. 148–49. This classic was first published in 1899.
6. Hill Gates, “Footbinding and Homespinning in Sichuan: Capitalism’s Am-
biguous Gifts to Petty Capitalism,” in Constructing China: The Interaction of Cul-
ture and Economics, ed. Kenneth G. Lieberthal, Shuen-fu Lin, and Ernest P. Young
(Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1997), pp. 177–94. For the petty capi-
talist mode of production, see her China’s Motor: A Thousand Years of Petty Capi-
talism (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1996). Delia Davin is the first to explain
the popularity of footbinding by the mode of economic production. In the north,
where dry-field agriculture dominated, footbinding flourished, in contrast to the
wet-rice regions in the south (Woman-Work: Women and the Party in Revolutionary
China [Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 1978], pp. 117–18).
7. Laurel Bossen, Chinese Women and Rural Development: Sixty Years of Change
in Lu Village, Yunnan (Lanham, Md.: Rowman & Littlefield, Inc., 2002); quote
from p. 45. See also pp. 73–75 for Bossen on the correlation between the history of
technological change and footbinding from 1800 to the 1950s. For “cultureless
custom,” see Gates, “Footbinding and Homespinning,” pp. 180–82.
8. These interviews were conducted in Beiping before 1938 and were first pub-
lished in 1945 (Ida Pruitt, A Daughter of Han: The Autobiography of a Chinese Work-
ing Woman [Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 1967], p. 22). Pruitt (b. 1888)
spent the first twelve years of her life in Penglai, a village in Shandong. In her mem-
oir A China Childhood (San Francisco: Chinese Materials Center, Inc., 1978), Pruitt
related how footbinding was practiced by all but the most deprived women in this
part of the country in the 1890s, from the daughter of the local physician to Dada,
her peasant caretaker. Dada’s youngest daughter did not have bound feet, and was
called “a prostitute” (89). So prestigious was footbinding that the daughter imitated
the sway of women with bound feet, and a refugee woman had “token binding”
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
only in 1991, “using old designs and traditional handwork techniques.” It is not clear
if the shoes were leather or fabric. Silk or cotton shoes—the predominant tradi-
tional Chinese footwear—required no lasts for stretching the upper onto the soles,
only for ironing the vamp. Orders poured in from throughout the country. A dis-
patch from the Xinhua News Agency (dateline Beijing) on Oct. 26, 1998, stated
that in the first two years of production, over two thousand pairs of shoes were sold
annually (http://www.sfmuseum.org/chin/foot.html). For photographs of four
single modern leather shoes made for (once-)bound feet, see my Every Step a Lotus:
Shoes for Bound Feet (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2001),
p. 135.
2. See, for example, Zhang Zhong, Xiaojiao yu bianzi (Taipei: Youshi wenhua
shiye gongsi, 1995); Dai Qing and Luo Ke, Chanzu nüzi: Dangdai Zhongguo nü-
xing wenti (Hong Kong: Mingbao chubanshe, 1996); Wang Zijin, Bozu diguo:
Zhongguo chuantong jiaotong xingtai yanjiu (Lanzhou: Dunhuang wenyi chuban-
she, 1996). The title of a popular book of Qing cultural history by Wang Dong-
fang says it all: March to Modernity: Braid-Cutting and Feet-Liberating (Maixiang
xiandai: jianbian yu fangzu [Shenyang: Liaohai chubanshe, 1997]). See also Liang
Jinghe’s substantive section on anti-footbinding in his unabashedly polemical book,
Jindai Zhongguo lousu wenhua shanbian yanjiu ([A study of the evolution of the cul-
ture of undesirable customs in modern China] Beijing: Shoudu shifan daxue chuban-
she, 1998), pp. 204–22. Although published in English, Fan Hong’s Footbinding,
Feminism, and Freedom: The Liberation of Women’s Bodies in Modern China (Lon-
don: Frank Cass, 1997) is informed by the same liberationist rhetoric and dichoto-
mous view of history. Two other books from the same period on the ethnography
of footbinding, by Gao Hongxing and Yao Jushun, are exceptional in adopting an
objective tone. Although Yao’s Zhongguo chanzu fengsu (Shenyang: Liaoning daxue
chubanshe, 1991) was presented as an original work, the first nine chapters are in
fact verbatim translations of Okamoto Ryuzo’s Tensoku monogatari (Tokyo: Toho
shoten, 1986 [first published 1963]). On reflections on culturalism, tradition, and
modernity during the mid- to late-1980s, see Xudong Zhang, Chinese Modernism
in the Era of Reforms: Cultural Fever, Avant-Garde Fiction, and the New Chinese Cin-
ema (Durham and London: Duke University Press, 1997).
3. For state prohibitions, see Sun Yat-sen’s 1912 edict in CFL II: 39. Lin Qiumin
has pointed out that it was never implemented on the national level (“Yan Xishan
yu Shanxi de tianzu yundong,” Guoshiguan guankan, fukan [new series] 18 [ June
1995]: 143). Using primarily missionary and foreign accounts, Christena Turner has
unearthed remarkable local variations in the practice of binding feet and the tim-
ing of its end. She has argued that such variations expose the fragility of the veneer
of cultural integration that bound “China” together into a meaningful entity. It also
destabilizes the integrity of “footbinding” as a category (“Locating Footbinding:
Variations across Class and Space in Nineteenth and Early Twentieth Century
China,” The Journal of Historical Sociology 10, no. 4 [Dec. 1997]: 444–79).
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
4. Two surgeons studied the feet of women with bound feet in Hong Kong in
the 1950s and produced a report that is remarkable not only in its documentation
but also in its sympathy for Chinese cultural practices and the women. See H. S. Y.
Fang and F. Y. K. Yu, “Foot Binding in Chinese Women,” Canadian Journal of
Surgery 3 (April 1960): 195–202. The surgeons attested to the fact that footbinding
did not break bones: “Individual bones of the foot alter but slightly in shape, yet
the distortion is considerable.” Furthermore, “The joints of the outer four toes which
are acutely flexed into the sole, have adapted to their deformed manner and can-
not be straightened, even by force” (199). Footbinding is irreversible.
5. Susan Stewart, On Longing: Narratives of the Miniature, the Gigantic, the Sou-
venir, the Collection (Durham and London: Duke University Press, 1993), p. 71.
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NOTES TO PAGES 12–15 235
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6. For an introduction to the works of and modern scholarship on Qiu Jin, Ding
Ling, and sixteen other women writers, see Amy D. Dooling and Kristina M. Torge-
son, eds., Writing Women in Modern China: An Anthology of Women’s Literature from
the Early Twentieth Century (New York: Columbia University Press, 1998).
7. One ironic outcome of this containment is that despite the rhetoric of sex-
ual liberation, the corporeality of the female body is erased. Lydia Liu has been one
of the first scholars to focus on the suªering female body in nationalist discourses
(“The Female Body and Nationalist Discourse,” in Scattered Hegemonies: Post-
modernity and Transnational Feminist Practices, ed. Inderpal Grewal and Caren Ka-
plan [Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1994], pp. 37–62).
8. In an attempt to rethink the history of the Chinese enlightenment, Wang
Zheng has used oral history to recover the voices of another group of women whose
voices were submerged or contained by o‹cial communist historiography, bour-
geois career women. See her Women in the Chinese Enlightenment: Oral and Textual
Histories (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1999).
9. Gail Hershatter was the first to make this observation. See her “The Subal-
tern Talks Back: Reflections on Subaltern Theory and Chinese History,” positions:
east asia cultures critique 1, no. 1 (Spring 1993): 103–30, which discusses Small Hap-
piness. For interviews with footbound women in the 1930s, see the Caifeilu volumes
(discussed in chap. 3); for interviews conducted in Taiwan in 1960–61, see Howard S.
Levy, Chinese Footbinding: The History of a Curious Erotic Custom (Taipei: Nantian
shuju, 1984), chap. 10. One particularly informative interview was that of Lu Zhi-
lan (b. 1915). Lu, a native of Lu-Family Village in the vicinity of Ji’nan city, Shan-
dong province, had her feet bound in 1922. All the girls from the more than three
hundred families in the village had bound feet (Yao Jushun, Zhongguo chanzu fengsu,
pp. 158–65). A latest and possibly last attempt is by Yang Yang, son of a footbound
mother from Liuyi village, Yunnan province, who related the stories of twenty-six
women in his Xiaojiao wudao: Dian-nan yige xiangcun de chanzu gushi (Hefei: An-
hui wenyi chubanshe, 1999), pp. 91–168.
10. John MacGowan, How England Saved China (London: T. Fisher Unwin,
1913), pp. 25–26. Although the Reverend stayed in China for fifty years and com-
piled a dictionary of Amoy colloquiums, it is not clear if the couple spoke the lo-
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
cal tongue when they first arrived. For an account of their trip from London and
their initial impressions of Amoy (“I am going to take you in imagination a very
long journey to the far-oª land of China, that we may see with our eyes the strange
people that live there”) see MacGowan, Beside the Bamboo (London: London Mis-
sionary Society, 1914), quote from p. 9. Coincidentally, MacGowan erroneously
attributed the origins of footbinding to the Duke of Donghun of Qi (Tung Hwun
Hau, 499–501 c.e.). See his The Imperial History of China (Shanghai: American
Presbyterian Mission Press, 1906), p. 225.
11. MacGowan, How England Saved China, pp. 46–68. The speech of the “tall,
handsome-looking woman” is from pp. 59–60. The Heavenly Feet Society was to
meet twice a year. Many men showed up and spoke at its next meeting (pp. 70–74).
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NOTES TO PAGES 15–16 236
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Alison Drucker has placed the first meeting in 1874 (“The Influence of Western
Women on the Anti-footbinding Movement, 1840–1911,” in Women in China: Cur-
rent Directions in Historical Scholarship, ed. Richard W. Guisso and Stanley Johan-
nesen [Youngstown, N.Y.: Philo Press, 1991], pp. 187–88). Here I follow Lin Wei-
hong’s deduction of 1875 from the date of publication of Baozhuo zi’s essay in
1878–79 (“Qingji de funü buchanzu yundong [1894–1911],” Guoli Taiwan daxue
lishi xuexi xuebao 16 [1991]: p. 155).
12. MacGowan, How England Saved China, p. 21.
13. Ibid., pp. 34, 64–65.
14. This posture of “going native” is not always egalitarian in intent or result.
John MacGowan donned a “Viceroy’s o‹cial robe” in a photograph with sixteen
Chinese elders from the Amoy churches. The photograph was taken to mark his
fiftieth year in Amoy. All the Chinese wore plain “riding jackets,” and MacGowan
stood out as the most authoritative (Beside the Bamboo, image facing p. 177).
15. It is unclear if Macgowan’s Heavenly Feet Society had a Chinese name at its
first meeting in 1875. The name “Jie chanzu hui” first appeared in an article by
Baozhuo zi, “Xiamen jie chanzu hui,” Wangguo gongbao, vol. 11 (1878–79): 406–408,
reprinted in Li Youning and Zhang Yufa, Jindai Zhongguo nüquan yundong shiliao,
pp. 836–40. See also Lü Meiyi and Zheng Yongfu, Zhongguo funü yundong (1840–
1921) (Henan Renmin chubanshe, 1990), p. 43. A Xiamen Tianzu hui was founded
in 1904; its manifesto is in Li and Zhang, Jindai Zhongguo, pp. 880–81. None of
the early anti-footbinding societies founded by Chinese reformers, beginning with
Kang Youwei’s 1883 Bu guozu hui, adopted the name “tianzu hui.” Bu chanzu
(Don’t bind feet) or Jie chanzu (Quit binding feet) predominated, both being a
negation of a native category, chanzu (footbinding). Tianzu hui (Natural feet so-
ciety) became a common name across the country only in the early 1900s. See
Lin Weihong, “Qingji,” pp. 160–63; Lin Qiumin, “Jindai Zhongguo de buchanzu
yundong (1895–1937),” master’s thesis, Guoli Zhengzhi daxue, 1990, pp. 52, 60–61.
Even then, “jie chanzu” remained current in the press. In 1902, an essay in Dagong
bao by that title was translated in Taiwan, then a Japanese colony, in an interlinear
format. See “Kai tensoku setsu,” Taiwan kanshu kiji 2, no. 11 (1902): 43–49 [887–93].
16. In an earlier article “Footbinding as Female Inscription,” I have discussed a
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
believers has the right to choose the best course of action (Lin Weihong, “Qingji,”
pp. 152–53). For summaries of these debates in The Chinese Recorder between 1869
and 1870 (by Dr. Dudgeon, H.G., J. C. Kerr), see Lin Qiumin, “Jindai Zhongguo
de buchanzu yundong,” pp. 30–32; see also Virginia Chiu-tin Chau, “The Anti-
Footbinding Movement in China, 1850–1912,” master’s thesis, Columbia Univer-
sity, 1966.
18. Baozhuo zi, “Xiamen jie chanzu hui.” In contrast, the reformer Liang Qichao
drew on a Chinese tradition of anti-footbinding polemics [“Lanling nüzi”] in blam-
ing the “despicable man” who committed a wrong that lasts a thousand generations
so that he can indulge in “one day’s worth of desire” (“Jie chanzu hui xu,” in Li and
Zhang, Jindai Zhongguo, p. 841).
19. The flourishing of anti-footbinding societies in 1895–98 has been the most
studied aspect of the anti-footbinding movement due to the abundance of sources.
In this chapter I focus on its pre-history and its re-reading by such Republican writ-
ers as Xu Ke (see below). Almost all of the documents pertinent to the founding of
the Tianzu hui in 1895 and local societies in 1898–1911 are reprinted in Li and Zhang,
Jindai Zhongguo, pp. 480–542, 836–909. For interpretive histories, see the works
of Lin Qiumin, Lin Weihong, Lü Meiyi and Zheng Yongfu, Julie Broadwin, Ali-
son Drucker, and Sakamoto Hiroko. See also the fascinating memoirs of Mrs. Lit-
tle on the work and local reception of the Tianzu hui in her The Land of the Blue
Gown (London: T. Fisher Unwin, 1902), pp. 305–70.
20. The trope of the body-as-machine, so prevalent in missionary discourses, is
part and parcel of a larger valorization of circulation (of air, ideas, and so on) as the
basis of hygiene. In educational meetings organized by the Natural Feet Society,
members would use a tube of rubber hosing to demonstrate the importance of un-
obstructed blood circulation (Kikuchi Takaharu, “Futensoku undo ni tsuite,” Reki-
shi kyoiku 5, no.12 [1957]: 35).
21. Joan Judge has analyzed the contradictory message about women’s value and
potential in the discourses of women’s education during the 1898 reform period
(“Reforming the Feminine: Female Literacy and the Legacy of 1898” in Rethink-
ing the 1898 Reform Period: Political and Cultural Change in Late Qing China, ed.
Rebecca E. Karl and Peter Zarrow [Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Asia
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
Center, 2002], pp. 158–79). The view that women were “mere playthings preoccu-
pied with making up their faces, binding their feet, and piercing their ears” was preva-
lent in the writings of such leading intellectuals as Yan Fu, Kang Youwei, and Liang
Qichao (in Li and Zhang, Jindai Zhongguo, quote from p. 161) in the 1890s and 1900s.
22. Traditional historiography emphasizes foreign initiatives. Jialin Bao Tao’s
revisionist essay argues strongly for a cooperation of equal footing (“The Anti-
Footbinding Movement in Late Ch’ing China: Indigenous Development and West-
ern Influence,” Research on Women in Modern Chinese History 2 [June 1994]: 141–73).
Lin Weihong, in her pioneering study of local anti-footbinding societies (“Qingji”),
emphasizes instead that the earlier Christian movement and the subsequent Chi-
nese local movements stemmed from separate rationales and social dynamics. Both
were external to women’s concerns for their own benefits. Lin Qiumin concurred
in arguing that the missionary motive was “religious” whereas the reformers’ mo-
tive was “political” (“Jindai Zhongguo de Buchanzu yundong,” p. 51). For a rare
study of the role of female Protestant missionaries in the anti-footbinding move-
ment, see Takashima Ko, “Kyokai to shinja no aida de: Josei senkyoshi ni yoru ten-
soku kaiho no kokorumi,” in Chugoku kindaika no dotai kozo, ed. Mori Tokihiko,
pp. 273–309 (Kyoto: Kyoto daigaku jinbun kagaku kenkyujo, 2004). I thank Ono
Kazuko Sensei for sending this essay to me.
23. Xu Ke, “Tianzu kaolüe,” in Xu Ke, ed., Tiansuke congkan (Shanghai:
Shangwu yinshuguan, 1914), 1a. For details about the myriad anti-footbinding so-
cieties that sprang up around 1898, see the convenient summary in Lin Weihong,
“Qing ji,” pp. 155–66.
24. Xu, “Tianzu kaolüe,” 1a–b. Xu, “Zhizu yu,” in Xu, Tiansuke biji shisanzhong,
vol. 2 (Hong Kong: Zhongshan tushu gongsi, 1973), p. 139.
25. Xu, “Tianzu kaolüe,” 1a–b; see also “Zhizu yu,” p. 139.
26. The Bu guozu hui, among the earliest Chinese anti-footbinding organiza-
tions, was co-founded by Ou Eliang in Kang’s hometown, Nanhai, Guangdong
province. See Lü and Zheng, Zhongguo funü yundong, pp. 76–77; Lin Weihong,
“Qingji,” pp. 155–56. Kang Youwei’s famous memorial to the Guangxu emperor,
admonishing him to ban footbinding (“Qingjin funü guozu zhe”), is in Li and
Zhang, Jindai Zhongguo, pp. 508–10.
27. Xu Ke, Chunfeiguan ci, 31a, 34b, in Tiansuke congkan. The assassinated friend
was Xia Chuifang, a founder of the Commercial Press.
28. Tang Yisuo, “Xu Zhongke xiansheng ‘Tiansuke yuwan tu’ xu,” 22b–23a. Ap-
pendix to Xu Ke, Chunfeiguan ci, in Xu, Tiansuke congkan.
29. Liang Qichao, “Lun nüxue,” in Li and Zhang, Jindai Zhongguo, pp. 549–56;
quotations from pp. 549–50. Although often cited independently, this is a section
of a longer essay, “Bianfa tongyi.” Joan Judge has pointed out that the arguments
and tropes of this essay served as a blueprint for subsequent reformist writings on
women’s education (“Reforming the Feminine,” p. 170). Rebecca Karl has analyzed
Liang’s trope of “women as slaves,” which was part and parcel of the trope of all
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
Honig, Sisters and Strangers: Women in the Shanghai Cotton Mills, 1919–1949 [Stan-
ford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 1986], p. 23).
33. According to Shi Meng Huang Xiuqiu was first serialized in 1905 in vol. 2 of
Xin xiaoshuo and issued as a separate title by the same publishers in 1907 (Wan-Qing
xiaoshuo [Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 1989], p. 109). The editors of a mod-
ern Taiwan reprint give the dates 1904 and 1906, respectively. See “Huang Xiuqiu
tiyao,” in Tang Yisuo, Huang Xiuqiu, in vol. 15 of Wan-Qing xiaoshuo daxi (Taipei:
Guangya shuju, 1984), 1. The confusion may rise from the fact that the year of pub-
lication of Xin xiaoshuo ceased to appear after vol. 2 no. 6 (Tarumoto Teruo, Shin-
matsu shosetsu kandan [Kyoto: Horitsu bunkasha, 1983], p. 12). Ying Hu has ana-
lyzed this novel by focusing on the meetings between Huang Xiuqiu and Madame
Roland in the novel, which she construes as a metaphor for the encounter between
Chinese nationalism and the universalism of European Enlightenment (Tales of
Translation: Composing the New Woman in China, 1899–1918 [Stanford, Calif.: Stan-
ford University Press, 2000], pp. 153–96). Hu has also traced the novelist’s subju-
gation of women’s education to nationalistic concerns to Liang Qichao’s essay, “Lun
nüxue” (pp. 162–69).
34. Tang Yisuo, Huang Xiuqiu, pp. 23, 54.
35. Joan Scott has argued that this paradox is inherent in liberal feminism (Only
Paradoxes to Oªer: French Feminists and the Rights of Man [Cambridge, Mass.: Har-
vard University Press, 1996]).
36. Zhang Xiushu, “Qingmo minjian ertong duwu,” in Sichuan wenshi ziliao
xuanji (Chengdu: Sichuan renmin chubanshe, 1979), 20: 185.
37. Ibid., pp. 184–85.
38. Ibid., pp. 187–89.
39. Nü xuebao 7 (Sept. 1898), 1b. The illustration is the work of a woman artist,
Liu Qing (Keqing), and is reprinted in Nanxiu Qian, “Revitalizing the Xianyuan
( Worthy Ladies) Tradition: Women in the 1898 Reforms,” Modern China 29, no.
4 (Oct. 2003): 420.
40. The Dalu magazine is discussed in Zhang Nan and Wang Renzhi, eds., Xin-
hai geming qian shinian jian shilun xuanji (Beijing: Sanlian shudian, 1978), juan 1,
p. 967. This cover is reproduced at the beginning of juan 1, no page. The Globe
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
Society is mentioned in Wang Shu-Hwai et al., eds., International Union List of Chi-
nese Journals Relating to Women (Taipei: Institute of Modern History, Academia
Sinica, 1995), p. 57.
41. Xiao Yun, “Tianzu shuo,” Xiaoshuo congbao 3, no. 8 (1917): 2.
42. Ibid., pp. 2–3. The author was more interested in showing oª various allu-
sions to tian and chanzu than in writing a polemic against footbinding. The essay
ended with a plea that as commendable as the Tianzu hui may be, reformers should
concern themselves with issues more serious than women’s feet.
43. Madame Roland (1754–93) was a leader of the Girondists who was put to
the guillotine. For her popularity in late-Qing China, see Ying Hu, Tales of Trans-
lation, pp. 153–96. The way Madame Roland introduces her name in Huang Xiu-
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NOTES TO PAGES 29–32 240
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qiu resembles that in a long biography of the heroine serialized in two 1902 issues
of Xinmin congbao, suggesting influence by the latter (“Jinshi diyi nüjie Luolan furen
zhuan,” in Li and Zhang, Jindai Zhongguo, pp. 318–31). One of the three books is
Yingxiong zhuan, in an alphabet script; another is a translated geography textbook.
The third, also an alphabet, is unnamed. Tang Yisuo’s attitude toward the West, as
mirrored in Huang Tongli, is ambivalent. Tongli thinks that Madame Roland, a
member of the White clan, is condescending to Xiuqiu because she is from the Yel-
low clan (23). Throughout the novel he criticizes the Westernization model repre-
sented by Shanghai as going too fast too far, to the point of compromising “Chi-
nese” identity. Hence he questions the motives of some members of Shanghai natural
foot societies (73, 76).
44. It is not clear if the doctor’s big feet are the product of her Cantonese con-
nections or foreign education. Ying Hu has seen in Tang Yisuo’s way of ascribing
the undetermined origins of Dr. Bi’s natural foot “a narrative awareness of a larger
China”(“Re-Configuring Nei/Wai: Writing the Woman Traveler in the Late Qing,”
Late Imperial China 18, no. 1 [ June 1997]: 82–83).
45. Wang Tao sojourned in England in 1867–70, during which time he also vis-
ited France and Russia. He founded the Xunhuan ribao (Circulation daily) in Hong
Kong in 1873. Zheng Guanying handled foreign enterprises for Li Hongzhang. See
Paul A. Cohen, Between Tradition and Modernity: Wang T’ao and Reform in Late
Ch’ing China (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1987).
46. For the importance of the transnational world in the making of modern Chi-
nese nationalism, see Rebecca E. Karl, Staging the World: Chinese Nationalism at the
Turn of the Twentieth Century (Durham and London: Duke University Press, 2002).
47. Wu Guoqing, Wentan guaijie Gu Hongming (Changsha: Yuelu shushe, 1988),
p. 151. Lydia Liu has analyzed Gu’s “sovereignty complex,” one manifestation of
which was his loyalty to the anti-reformist Empress Dowager (“The Desire for the
Sovereign and the Logic of Reciprocity in the Family of Nations,” Diacritics 29,
no. 4 (1999): 160–69).
48. Hui-min Lo is the only scholar who has painstakingly sifted through history
and myth to reconstruct Gu Hongming’s upbringing and early career. Gu was said
to have been born on the estate of the second-generation colonial planter Forbes
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
Scott Brown, who was of Scottish descent. As guardian and benefactor, Brown later
financed Gu’s education in Europe. See Lo, “Ku Hung-ming: Schooling,” Papers
on Far Eastern History 37–38 (1988): 46–47. Gu’s great-grandfather Gu Lihuan (d.
1826) was present to welcome the vanguard of British Captain Light when he landed
in Point Pennager. When Penang was colonized and renamed Prince Wales Island
in 1786, Gu Lihuan was appointed “Kapitan” in charge of Chinese aªairs. One of
Lihuan’s sons, Guocai, accompanied Stamford Ra›es on his trip to colonize Sin-
gapore. See Wu Guoqing, Wentan guaijie, pp. 46, 186–87. Hui-min Lo identified
Zhou Zuoren as the first one who asserted that Gu’s mother was European. Although
this remains unverified, Lo described a permissive society governed by neither Con-
fucian nor Victorian morality, with rampant extramarital aªairs and illegitimacy.
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NOTES TO PAGES 32–33 241
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Forbes Scott Brown’s mother was Malay or Chinese (“Ku Hung-ming: Schooling,”
pp. 47–48).
49. Two events in 1879–81 served as triggers for Gu’s “conversion.” One was a
missionary incident in Fuzhou. Lo has located an English poem by Gu which sug-
gests that he first set foot in China in late 1879, when he arrived at Fuzhou, Fujian.
Gu gave up his naïve faith in European Enlightenment values and became a Chi-
nese nationalist, as evinced in the last stanza of his poem: “We want no priest to
help us in our need, / Priests we have shaven and unshaven both; / We want no
mumblings of an outworn creed, / But science we want and knowledge of our
growth, / And Rules with unselfish hearts and just, / To sweep you from our land
as whirlwind sweepeth dust.” The second trigger was a meeting with the Fujianese
scholar-translator Ma Jianzhong (1844–1900), a French-educated Roman Catholic,
in Singapore in 1881. According to unverified accounts, Gu was then serving in the
Colonial Secretary’s O‹ce in Singapore. The legendary meeting took place at the
Strand Hotel, and according to Gu’s recollections over forty years later, they con-
versed in French because Ma’s Mandarin was poor. Inspired, Gu resigned from his
post three days later and prepared to sail to China by growing a queue and wear-
ing Chinese clothes, hence “coming back into the fold of Chinese nationality” (Lo,
“Ku Hung-ming: Homecoming, Part 2,” East Asian History 9 [1995]: 67, 73, 83–89;
poem on p. 73). See also Wen Yuan-ning, “Gu Hongming,” T’ien Hsia Monthly 4,
no. 4 (April 1937), reprinted in Zhu Chuanyu, comp., Gu Hongming zhuanji zhi-
liao (Taipei: Tianyi chubanshe, 1979), 2: 2–3. In 1882, Gu enlisted as interpreter
for a British surveying expedition to Yunnan and Burma. By then he seems to have
had working knowledge of Cantonese and Mandarin and “reasonable reading ability
in Chinese” (Lo, “Homecoming, Part 2,” pp. 90–93; see also Wu, Wentan guaijie,
pp. 188–89).
50. Information on Gu’s knowledge of Malay and Amoy dialect is from Lo, “Ku
Hung-ming: Homecoming [Part 1],” East Asian History 6 (1993): 167.
51. On Analects tutors, see Huang Xintao, Xianhua Gu Hongming (Haikou:
Hainan chubanshe, 1997), pp. 24, 28, 40. The Kangxi Dictionary episode and the
student’s report of misshapen characters are in Wu, Wentan guaijie, pp. 173, 15. The
scrawls of his calligraphy are in Zhu Chuanyu, comp., Gu Hongming zhuanji zhi-
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
cubine first appeared in Chen Zhang’s biography of Gu, in Gujintan zazhi she, ed.,
Gujin mingren zhuanji (Taipei: Gujintan zazhishe, 1972), pp. 109–17. See also
Huang, Xianhua, p. 180. Gu’s daughter had unbound feet and loved to go dancing
with Gu’s students ( Wu, Wentan guaijie, p. 153; see also Sang Rou, Gu Hongming,
p. 248). It is not surprising that these rather titillating stories are widely antholo-
gized. See, for example, Sang Rou, Gu Hongming, pp. 79–84; Zhu Chuanyu, Gu
Hongming zhuanji zhiliao, 2: 8–9. The seven-word mantra and the rotten egg say-
ings are recounted in Wu Guoqing, Wentan guaijie, p. 36, and Zhu, Gu Hongming
zhuanji zhiliao, 1: 17, 78. These seven words were in fact those of another alleged
lotus lover, Fang Xuan, to be discussed in chap. 3.
60. The first three items of feudal customs are from Huang, Xianhua, pp. 81–84.
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The list is longer in Sang Rou, Gu Hongming, p. 247. For a classic summary state-
ment of the missionary discourse, see Dr. J.-J. Matignon, Superstition, crime, et mi-
sére en Chine: souvenirs de biologie sociale (Lyon: A Storck & Cie, 1899). Matignon
was an o‹cer of the French Legation; his list of “miseries” is given in fig. 2 of the
present book. I am grateful to Steªani Pfeiªer for giving me a copy of this book
and for her insightful analysis.
Nanxiu Qian (personal communication, Dec. 2002), Xue’s response was not pub-
lished in the eight extant issues of Nü xuebao, but it is likely that it appeared in one
of the four issues that are no longer extant. Xue criticized Kang’s memorial, using
similar wording, twice in her letter. Her rebuttal of the femme fatale argument is
also a direct response to an essay by Yong Jiaxiang, who won an essay contest held
by the Tianzu hui in 1898 (Li and Zhang, Jindai Zhongguo, pp. 510–13). Hence it
is likely that the original publication date of Xue’s letter was late 1898. Like the male
philologists before her, Xue Shaohui erred in mistaking poetic allusions for social
practice. See chap. 4 for a discussion of the philological way of knowing.
4. Xue Shaohui sought to reestablish the “talented women” genealogy in mod-
ern times. She adopted the Confucian terminology of nüde (female virtue) and fu-
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dao (the way of a woman), but argued for a radically new content of women’s edu-
cation. For the curriculum of the girls’ school, Xue favored a combination of “ven-
erating Confucius” (zun Kong ) and Western languages and sciences. Two teachers
recruited by Liang Qichao, Dr. Kang Aide (Ida Kahn) and Dr. Shi Meiyu (Mary
Stone), signed an open letter criticizing the school’s Confucian orientation. See Qian,
“Revitalizing.” For Kang Aide, see Hu Ying, “Naming the First ‘New Woman,’” in
Rethinking the 1898 Reform Period: Political and Cultural Change in Late Qing China,
ed. Rebecca E. Karl and Peter Zarrow (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Asia
Center, 2002), pp. 180–211.
5. Xue’s comments on the rapidity of changing tastes capture the ambiguous
beauty standards in a transitional period. Decades after footbinding was being con-
demned as shameful, many women continued to find bound feet beautiful whereas
unbound feet were merely convenient. Ida Pruitt, a missionary’s daughter born in
Shandong in 1888, expressed this attitude (A China Childhood [San Francisco: Chi-
nese Materials Center, Inc., 1978], pp. 89–90). Kwei-lan, a gentry daughter in Pearl
Buck’s first novel, East Wind: West Wind, struggled with the reversal of standards.
She was crestfallen when her Western-educated husband showed her an X-ray of
the “ugly” foot but eventually agreed to unbind her feet to please him (East Wind:
West Wind [London: Methuen & Co., Ltd., 1934; first published 1930], pp. 47–48,
67–76). The historian Yang Nianqun has discussed an identical story in the con-
text of the introduction of discourse of biomedicine. His source was a story trans-
lated from a German magazine and published in the influential Chinese journal
Funü zazhi in 1927 (13, no. 3: 1–6). In Yang’s essay Kwei-lan’s (Guilan) story was
presented as a real event that happened in a commoner household (“Cong kexue
huayu dao guojia kongzhi: Dui nüzi chanzu you ‘mei’ bian ‘chou’ de duoyuan fenxi,”
Beijing dang’an shiliao 4 [2001]: 248–51). See also scattered remarks made by old
women whom Howard Levy interviewed in Taiwan in 1960–61 (Chinese Footbind-
ing: The History of a Curious Erotic Custom [Taipei: Nantian shuju, 1984], pp. 246,
267, 278). Yang Xingmei and Luo Zhitian have analyzed this change in standards
of feminine beauty brilliantly in their study “Jindai Zhongguoren dui nüxing xiao-
jiaomei de fouding” (paper presented at the Symposium on the History of Health
and Beauty, Institute of History and Philology, Academia Sinica, Taipei, Taiwan,
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
o‹cial organizations lacked broad-based support among the local elite, who re-
mained overwhelmingly conservative (“Qingji de funü buchanzu yundong [1894–
1911],” Guoli Taiwan daxue lishi xuexi xuebao 16 [1991]: 177–78). In contrast, Lü
Meiyi and Zheng Yongfu (Zhongguo funü yundong [1840–1921] [Henan: Renmin
chubanshe, 1990], pp. 162–63) saw initial setback for the local tianzu movement af-
ter the fiasco of 1898 and the Boxers; they identified 1901–5 as the period of renewal
of local anti-footbinding activities.
7. For a list of titles and prices of the pamphlets available in 1904, see Li and
Zhang, Jindai Zhongguo, pp. 872–73. For essay contests, see pp. 840–41. See also Lü
and Zheng, Zhongguo funü yundong, pp. 163–64. In one Natural Feet Society meet-
ing in Hankou alone, Mrs. Little gave away two thousand leaflets and tracts to the
invited Chinese o‹cials for further distribution (Little, The Land of the Blue Gown
[London: T. Fisher Unwin, 1902], p. 306).
8. Thiriez has written that “Women unbinding their feet for the photogra-
pher . . . were poor models fulfilling the demands of a market. The fact that few
negatives were actually taken was a measure of the impropriety of this Western fan-
tasy” (“Photography and Portraiture in Nineteenth-Century China,” East Asian His-
tory 17/18 (1999): 77–102; quote from p. 97; see also p. 93). These photographs fo-
cus on the pair of feet; often showing one bound and the other unbound. Before
the 1890s, every commercial photographer would have several images of the bound
foot, mixed in with other “Chinese customs” such as the rickshaw, the bamboo pole,
the 360 occupations, and so on, for customers to choose from. At least one photo
studio in Shanghai had two large display windows, hence Chinese passers-by would
also have access to some of these images. This and other information on photo al-
bums, commercial photographers, and their customers is from Thiriez (personal
communications, Feb. 2003). I thank Dr. Thiriez for taking the time to answer my
questions and for generously sharing her materials and expertise.
9. One of the earliest medical reports illustrated by both X-ray and regular pho-
tographs is J. Preston Maxwell, “On the Evils of Chinese Foot-Binding,” The China
Medical Journal 30, no. 6 (Nov. 1916): 393–96. Dr. Maxwell practiced in Yongcun,
southern Fujian. See also the X-ray drawings and photographs of naked feet in F. M.
Al-Akl, “Bound Feet in China,” American Journal of Surgery n.s. 18, no. 3 (Dec.
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
1932): 545–50. Two X-ray radiographs taken in 1920 and 1922 by the Department
of Radiology at the University of California are reproduced in Ilza Veith, “The His-
tory of Medicine Dolls and Foot-Binding in China,” Clio Medica 14, no. 3/4 (1980):
255–67.
10. Kang, “Qing jin funü chanzu zhe,” in Li and Zhang, Jindai Zhongguo, p. 508.
11. Much of the anti-footbinding propaganda worked by the technique of vi-
sual exposé. According to a Tianzu hui 1904 report, a poster with a photograph “A
New Way to See Through Bones” was posted in and around Beijing (Li and Zhang,
Jindai Zhongguo, p. 872). On the X-ray mode of penetration as a means of social
critique, see my “The Subject of Pain,” in From the Late Ming to the Late Qing: Dy-
nastic Decline and Cultural Innovation, ed. David Wang and Wei Shang (Stanford,
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NOTES TO PAGES 42–49 246
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1919 speech, Yan referred to a census report that put the male to female ratio as ap-
proximately 7 to 5. He attributed the shortage of females in part to footbinding
(Zhi-Jin zhengwu quanshu chubian [Taipei: Yanzhai, n.d. (1960)], p. 721).
24. The “horrid sight” quote is from Yan, Shanxi liuzheng, 3.4a. The term “ordi-
nary people” is from 1.4b.
25. “Jinzhi chanzu gaoshi,” in Yan, Zhi-Jin zhengwu, p. 1523. The passage cited
here recurred as a mantra in many of Yan’s edicts and proclamations. See, for ex-
ample, his order to the Taiyuan police bureau (Shanxi liuzheng, 3.78b). This notice
was not dated, but from the other dated edicts I deduce that it was promulgated
before April 1918. The figure of one hundred thousand copies in the first printing
is in Shanxi liuzheng, 1.4b.
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NOTES TO PAGES 52–54 248
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made. Variations of the style remained popular unto the 1930s. One variation is the
zaoxie, a flat shoe with a one-piece vamp construction instead of two (CFJHL: 93,
113). For a photograph of a vendor’s set of arched wooden soles outlawed by Yan,
see Ko, Every Step a Lotus, p. 85.
33. Shanxi liuzheng, 3.78b–79a; Yuwu zhen is in Tunliu county. Yan responded
to a letter from a lawmaker in 1918 who pointed out that “The militant heroine in
traditional attire dramas is always clad with [stilts that] imitate bound feet, as if
unless she has bound feet she cannot represent a heroine. . . . So when the audience
idolizes the heroine they also idolize her bound feet. Has it occurred to anybody that
since the ancient heroine is so militant, how can she possibly have small feet? This
strange phenomenon is invented by some busybody; it is not the true image of the
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NOTES TO PAGES 54–58 249
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ancient heroine. In fact, it brings her shame.” The provincial Tianzu hui scripted
new operas but the dialogues proved too di‹cult for the actors (Shanxi liuzheng,
3.80a–b; Zhi-Jin, p. 1514). In Beijing, male actors playing female roles often wore
stilts (qiao) to signify bound feet, and a great number of taboos surrounded the use
of the stilts on stage and their storage oªstage. Mirroring the decline of footbind-
ing as a social practice, qiao also fell into disuse in the decades after 1902. For this
fascinating history, see Huang Yufu, Jing ju, qiao he Zhongguo de xingbei guanxi, 1902–
1937 (Beijing: Sanlian shudian, 1998).
34. In the Lu’an area (Lu’an was a prefecture in the Ming and Qing; its seat is
present-day Changzhi city in southern Shanxi), a good bride was one with “a tidy
head and tiny feet,” whereas a good husband was one who was wealthy ( Wang Ji-
aju, “Lu’an diqu hunsang zhidu zai Xinhai geming qianhou di biange,” in Shanxi
wenshi zhiliao [Taiyuan: Wenshi zhiliao yanjiu weiyuanhui, 1984], 7: 104).
35. Shanxi liuzheng, 3.79b.
36. “Tianzu diaocha biao” and “Tianzu baogao biao,” in Shanxi liuzheng,
5.37a–38a.
37. “Xuning gexian quzhang . . . ” March 13, 1919, in Shanxi cunzheng, 2.47a.
38. CFL: 275.
39. The hiring of female feet inspectors was stipulated in a March 19, 1919, order;
in Shanxi cunzheng 2.47b. For the impropriety of mixing female bodies and the
body politic, see Zhi-Jin zhengwu, p. 720.
40. Shanxi liuzheng, 2.57b.
41. “Nü jichayuan guize” and “Nü jichayuan fuwu guize,” both Nov. 22, 1919,
in Shanxi liuzheng, 2.57b–58b; Zhi-Jin zhengwu, p. 1507; Shanxi cunzheng 1.41a–b.
42. Both statements are in speeches by Yan. The first ( Jan. 1919) is in Zhi-Jin
zhengwu, p. 719; the second, in a public notice dated 1921, is in ibid., p. 1525; see
also Shanxi cunzheng, 5.36a.
43. The rumors about women soldiers and fear about docility were transmitted
by Yan in the 1919 speech to students; in Zhi-Jin zhengwu, p. 720; see also pp. 715–16.
The problem of conservative local gentry was the most daunting obstacle, as Yan
pointed out in repeated directives; see the ones for Shaoyang county (Shanxi cun-
zheng, 2.49a) and Datong (Shanxi liuzheng, 3.81a–b). The rumors about the immu-
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
nity of brides are related in two directives: one for Huguan county in 1923, the other
for Lucheng in 1926; both are in Shanxi cunzheng, 2.48b–49b; and Zhi-Jin zhengwu,
pp. 1519–20. Huguan was a particularly recalcitrant county. In 1918, Yan admon-
ished the county authorities to begin the “publicity—persuasion—enforcement”
process (Shanxi liuzheng, 3.80b), but as late as 1923 Yan lamented that “the results
are negligible.”
44. For Yan’s polemics against early marriage, see, for example, Xiuzheng renmin
xuzhi, 16b, appended to Shanxi cunzheng.
45. The three duties and the 30/70 percent stipulation are in Zhi-Jin zhengwu,
pp. 993 and 1524, respectively.
46. Shanxi liuzheng, 3.79b–80a.
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47. For Yan’s complaints about the Tianzu hui, see Shanxi cunzheng, 2.48b; Zhi-
Jin zhengwu, p. 1518. For abuses in Pinglu, see Shanxi liuzheng, 3.84a. For abuses in
Shouyang, see Zhi-Jin, pp. 1520–21; Shanxi cunzheng, 2.49a.
48. “Quan sheng xuesheng buqu chanzu funü hui jianzhang,” Aug. 29, 1918, in
Shanxi cunzheng, 1.40b–41a; Zhi-Jin zhengwu, pp. 1506–7; this constitution was
not included in Shanxi liuzheng. In a directive to county magistrates and school au-
thorities the same day, Yan encouraged them to establish a sports club together with
the Refusing to Marry club (Shanxi cunzheng, 2.46b; Zhi-Jin zhengwu, p. 1513). A
badge made of paper for members in the Refusing to Marry club in Jiexiu county
is in the collection of Dr. Ko Chi-sheng. On the front it says, “I won’t marry a foot-
bound woman.” On the back a name is inscribed (Ren Shuming) with a date (Min-
guo 8 [1919]). A photograph of this badge is in Ke Jisheng, Qianzai jinlian fenghua
(Taipei: Guoli lishi bowuguan, 2003), p. 139; see also Yan’s appointment letter for
a feet inspector dated 1918 (139) and the receipt for a fine imposed on an “unedu-
cated” wife Li, dated 1933 (140).
49. Zhi-Jin zhengwu, p. 719.
50. Shanxi liuzheng, 3.83a–b; Yan’s warning against “empty words” is at 3.79a.
51. For the commemorations in Xiangling and the Fanshi magistrate’s wife and
daughter, see Shanxi liuzheng, 3.80a and 3.82a, respectively.
52. Zhi-Jin zhengwu, pp. 1524–25.
53. Ibid.
54. Ibid.
55. Shanxi liuzheng, 1.4b, 3.79b.
56. Ibid., 3.81b–82a. The recruitment of Yanshi female teachers is at 3.79a–b.
57. Zhou Songyao, Chanzu (n.p., n.d.), pp. 20–21.The subject positions of the
female inspector and the footbound woman were so far apart that stories about their
budding friendship were literally the stuª of fiction. In the 1936 anthology Picking
Radishes (Caifeilu), for example, a Mrs. Meng from Tongxian told of her encoun-
ters with one female inspector from the Tianzu hui. The latter became so sympa-
thetic to her inability to unbind that they became close friends, “sisters with diªer-
ent surnames” (CFL II: 59). It is hard to ascertain if this anecdote is from a woman’s
hand or that of a male ventriloquist. For the problems of female testimonies in this
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
zhengfu jinzhi funü chanzu de nuli yu chengxiao,” Lishi yanjiu no. 3 (1998): 125.
Also cited in Ryuzo Nagao, Shina minzoku shi (Tokyo: Kokusho kankokai, 1973),
p. 824.
61. In his 1664 edict to ban footbinding, the Kangxi emperor targeted only girls
born after 1662. He did not mention the unbinding of older women. It was re-
tracted in 1667 or 1668. The prohibition failed for political reasons: ironically the
ban turned footbinding into a desirable marker of Han Chinese ethnicity. See my
“The Body as Attire: The Shifting Meanings of Footbinding in Seventeenth-Century
China,” Journal of Women’s History 8, no. 4 ( Winter 1997): 8–27.
62. For example, on April 19, 1927, a “fangzu yundong dahui” (rally of the fangzu
movement) was held in Hankou; around May, one was held in Lanzhou. Later that
year a “Xihu nüzi yundong dahui” (rally of the women’s movement by the West
Lake) was held in Hangzhou. See Shenbao reports cited in CFL II: 28–31. Andrew
Morris (personal communications, Sept. 1998) has noted that the organization of
the Hankou rally was similar to that of a sports meeting, with departments (gu)
handling publicity, general aªairs, and publications.
63. The cloth binders had symbolic value to both a civilizing regime and the
women themselves. In 1899, a plague broke out in Honolulu’s Chinatown. Before
burning Chinatown to the ground, American authorities forced women to unwrap
their binders and burned them (Rebecca E. Karl, Staging the World: Chinese Na-
tionalism at the Turn of the Twentieth Century [Durham and London: Duke Uni-
versity Press, 2002], p. 78). Women wove their binding cloth using a simple loom.
Laurel Bossen has reported that in Yunnan, long after machine-woven textiles had
replaced domestic production, “one of the last remaining handwoven products in
one of the villages I visited in 1996 was the long thin cotton binding cloth that the
old ladies still use to bind their tiny feet” (Chinese Women and Rural Development:
Sixty Years of Change in Lu Village, Yunnan [Lanham, Md.: Rowman & Littlefield,
Inc., 2002], p. 71). Dr. Ko Chi-sheng has reported a similar situation in Taiwan
(personal communications, June 1999).
64. Stages two and three were combined later (Lin Qiumin, “Jindai Zhongguo
de buchanzu yundong,” p. 127). Deng, a trusted lieutenant of Feng Yuxiang, was
transferred to Henan in 1928 to head up a new “fangzu chu” (O‹ce of letting-out-
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
feet), where he applied the same binding-cloth-based fangzu tactics. See Yang Xing-
mei, “Nanjing guomin zhengfu,” pp. 126–27; Hong Renqing, “Minguo shiqi de
quanjin chanzu yundong,” Minguo chunqiu 6 (1996): 19.
65. For “bare-legs-tiny-feet,” see “Shaanxi yanjin nüzi chanzu zhi quwen,” Shen-
bao, Feb. 22, 1928; cited in Lin, “Jindai Zhongguo,” p. 128. The pageant was called
“bare-feet-tiny-feet” and the Shenbao source was dated 1927 in CFL II: 26–27. For
the shoelace mount, see CFL II: 2, 31, 281; the number 25,400 is from p. 29.
66. CFL II: 27.
67. Ibid., p. 28.
68. Ibid., p. 52.
69. CFL IV: 251–52. The term jiefang (liberation) used in this story is diªerent
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NOTES TO PAGES 66–70 252
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in connotations from the jiefang (to unwrap [the binding cloth] and let [the foot]
out) used in the fangzu discourse earlier. For contestations over the term jiefang in
early communist discourses of the 1920s and 1930s, see Harriet Evans, “The Lan-
guage of Liberation: Gender and Jiefang in Early Chinese Communist Party Dis-
course,” Intersections: Gender, History, and Culture in the Asian Context, inaugural
issue (Sept. 1998): 1–20.
70. There are two notable exceptions to the almost universal celebration of the
anti-footbinding movement. Lin Weihong, in her pioneering study of the late-Qing
anti-footbinding societies at the local level (“Qingji de funü buchanzu yundong”),
has questioned their eªectiveness in the face of severe opposition from the conser-
vative gentry. She has also criticized their male bias, and has striven to document
the involvement of elite women. But she did not illuminate the subjectivities of the
women who bound their feet. Yang Xingmei (“Nanjing guomin zhengfu”), in as-
sessing the anti-footbinding eªorts of the Nanjing regime, has focused on the in-
centive structures that made the binding of feet reasonable to the women. This is
an important paradigmatic shift.
huabao, from 1938 to 1939. I am grateful to Kwan Man-Bun for his help in identi-
fying this and other Tianjin materials. A total of two volumes was planned for the
sixth venture, Caifei jinghualu, but the second volume was never printed. I do not
have circulation figures. The list price for the first volume (Caifeilu [chubian], 1934;
cited as CFL) was $1.50 (guobi, national currency), which was about ten times the
price of an average book. Yet it sold well enough that a reprint appeared in Jan. 1936,
one month before the sequel was issued. Caifeilu xubian (1936; cited as CFL II) was
listed at $1.50. Caifeilu sanbian (1936; CFL III) was priced at $1.20, and Caifeilu
sibian (1938; CFL IV) at $1.50. Caifei xinbian ($3.80; CFXB) and Caifei jinghualu
($3.50; CFJHL) were both published in 1941.
3. Materials in the published volumes are grouped in sections: Foreword,
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NOTES TO PAGES 71–74 253
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entism in Chinese Thought, 1900–1950 (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1962);
Charlotte Furth, Ting Wen-chiang: Science and China’s New Culture (Cambridge,
Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1970); and Prasenjit Duara, Rescuing History from
the Nation: Questioning Narratives of Modern China (Chicago: University of Chicago
Press, 1995), p. 93. See also the warning in Caifeilu that eyes are unreliable (CFL:
9–10).
8. Each Picking Radishes volume, as loops of quotations, recalls Benjamin’s com-
ment that collection of quotations illustrates the infinite and regenerative seriality
of language. See Susan Stewart, On Longing: Narratives of the Miniature, the Gi-
gantic, the Souvenir, the Collection (Durham and London: Duke University Press,
1993), p. 156.
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9. In time the Picking Radishes columns and anthologies shifted focus. In the
beginning, more excerpts from traditional sources and scientific surveys were fea-
tured, and the writing tended to be of higher quality. Understandably, good sources
ran out, and the entries became more superficial in tone and content. There were
more first-person narratives, often with sexual exposé. The Lotus-Seeking Club can
be seen as an eªort for the editors to broaden their readership while improving the
quality of coverage. In an announcement, the club invited women with bound or
once-bound feet (nü tongzhi, female comrades) to mail in questions about the dec-
oration and hygiene of feet, claiming that an expert, Madam Chen Jingyun, would
answer them in private (CFL IV: 366). It is not known if any women did so.
10. Yao insinuated that scores of young readers of his newspaper columns did
become enticed to bind (CFL IV: 343). One was an ailing male student who wanted
to bind his own feet as talisman. Yao brought a physician friend to their appoint-
ment but he did not show up (CFL: 220). Another was a fifteen-year-old girl who
asked for express recipes that would help shrink her feet at once to placate her itin-
erant father who was soon to return home. Having determined to his satisfaction
that she was not an impostor, Yao wrote his friends for instructions, which he then
published (CFL: 356–61). This is an extreme case of a female voice that is presented
as authentic, but the very nature of the request is so incongruous with the age of
disavowal that it generates its own skepticism. For a spectrum of female voices in
Caifeilu and the problem of authenticity, see below in this chapter.
11. Playing or gaming (youxi) and whiling away of leisure time (xiaoxian) are
dominant modes in the world of late Qing fiction. They figure as the raison d’être
of the Suzhou-based weekly Libailiu (Saturday, named after the U.S. Saturday
Evening Post), often known as the home of “Mandarin duck and butterfly” fiction,
a popular form of urban entertainment. Another fiction writer, Li Baojia (1867–
1906), called himself the Master of Gaming ( Youxi zhuren) and founded the Youxi
bao in 1897. In the same year, another major novelist, Wu Woyao (1866–1910),
founded the Xiaoxian bao. See Teruo Tarumoto, Shinmatsu shosetsu kandan (Kyoto:
Horitsu bunkasha, 1983), pp. 5–8, 252.
12. The miniature, as Susan Stewart reminded us, is linked to the nostalgia for
childhood. The diminutive lends itself to domestication and manipulation (On
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
Longing, p. 69).
13. Late Qing fiction is a mega-genre that enveloped drama and poetry and was
distinguished from earlier fictional genres in the speed with which written manu-
scripts hit the newsstand (Kang Laixin, Wan-Qing xiaoshuo lilun yanjiu [Taipei:
Da’an chubanshe, 1986], pp. 239–56). David Der-wei Wang has argued that the
late Qing was the beginning of the literary modern in China (Fin-de-Siècle Splen-
dor: Repressed Modernities of Late Qing Fiction, 1849–1911 [Stanford, Calif.: Stan-
ford University Press, 1997]).
14. Tao Anhua [Baopi], “Xiaozu juan” (Excising small feet), Yueyue xiaoshuo 1,
no. 6 (Feb. 1907): 177–86, quote at p. 177. Yueyue xiaoshuo was published from 1906
to ca. 1908. In 1907, when Tao’s story appeared, its editor was Wu Woyao (Taru-
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moto, Shinmatsu, p. 13). Anhua in Hunan province, Tao’s native place, became one
of his courtesy names.
15. This penalty scheme, which implies that six inches was the size of a never-
bound foot, is modeled after “Tianzu hui chenci,” published in the first 1900 issue
of Wanguo gongbao; cited in Li Yuning and Zhang Yufa, Jindai Zhongguo nüquan
yundong shiliao (Taipei: Zhuanji wenxue chubanshe, 1975), pp. 854–56.
16. Life imitates fiction just as fiction imitates life. Yao Lingxi reported an o‹cial-
in-waiting Xu in Hubei who apparently drafted a memorial similar to the one Tao
described. It is not known which came earlier (CFL IV: 155, 171).
17. As such, “Excising Small Feet” belongs to a genre of exposé of the literati
world as it was breathing its last. The definitive genre of the 1900s, this literature
is represented by the more famous and much longer Exposing the Corruptions of
O‹cialdom (Guanchang xianxing ji) (1903-?) by Li Baojia; The Travels of Lao Can
(1903–4; continued 1906–7) by Liu E; and Strange Events Witnessed in the Recent
Two Decades (1903; 1906–10) by Wu Woyao.
18. I have argued in an earlier article (“Bondage in Time: Footbinding and Fash-
ion Theory,” Fashion Theory: The Journal of Dress, Body, & Culture 1, no. 1 [March
1997]: 3–28) that this split between form and content, or representation and inner
truth, was the result of a modern metaphysic of seeing. Timothy Mitchell has
identified this split as the primary mode in which “colonizing power” operates
(Colonising Egypt [Berkeley: University of California Press, 1991]).
19. This textual symmetry is also found in one of the earliest anti-footbinding
tracts, Quan fang jiao tushuo, published in 1894 by a group of Presbyterians in Shang-
hai. According to Yao Lingxi’s description, this tract comprises eighteen double leafs,
each with a drawing and captions. The first nine sets depict connoisseurship sub-
jects such as “ancient beauties,” whereas the other nine deal with anti-footbinding
subjects such as “the pain of footbinding” and so on (CFL: 239–40). One set, “Yao-
niang chanzu,” is reproduced in CFJHL. For a third example, see Jia Shen,
Zhonghua funü chanzu kao (Beijing: Xiangshan ciyouyuan, 1925). A fourth exam-
ple is Qiu Weixuan’s “Chanzu kao,” followed by “Tianran zu kao,” in his notation
book Shuyuan zhuitan (1897; an excerpt is reprinted in the collectanea Xiangyan
congshu, as Shuyuan zhuitan jielü, in vol. 8, juan 3).
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
Madeleine Yue Dong, Republican Beijing: The City and Its Histories (Berkeley: Uni-
versity of California Press, 2003).
22. Susan Stewart has observed that fascination with antiques and exotic objects
amounts to a throwback to childhood and playthings and that this fascination is
similar to the impulse for collecting things, which stems from a desire to master
birth and death (On Longing, pp. 75–76). There is, however, a crucial diªerence
between a collection and a single antique item. In a collection, the context of ori-
gins is destroyed and all times are made synchronous to the collector’s. Stewart called
it the replacement of origins by classification (151). An antique object, on the other
hand, “presents itself as a myth of origins” (76). It embodies a nostalgia for origins
and an obsession with authenticity.
23. Judith Zeitlin, “The Petrified Heart: Obsession in Chinese Literature, Art,
and Medicine,” Late Imperial China 12, no. 1 ( June 1991): 1–26.
24. These are the Xiangyan congshu and Shuofu. There are many compilations by
the title of Shuofu through the dynasties. This particular compilation was by Wang
Wenru, a late-Qing man of letters from Wuxing, who claimed to use only rare or
hand-copied manuscripts from reliable collections in Jiangsu and Zhejiang. Wang’s
“rules of compilation” (liyan) are dated 1915. Fang’s treatises are entitled “Fangshi
wuzhong” (Five treatises of Mr. Fang), Shuofu (Taipei: Xinxing shuju, 1963), pp.
1241–55. They are “Xianglian pinzao” (Aesthetics of the fragrant lotus), the treatise
most often cited; “Jinyuan zazuan” (Miscellaneous sayings from Jinyuan); “Guanyue
cha” (The moon-circulating wine cup); “Cailian chuan” (The lotus-picking boat);
and “Xiangxie pu” (High-heeled shoe chessboard). This last contains instructions
for a board game that uses shoe-shaped chess pieces; it is attributed to a Song dy-
nasty author, with extensive annotations by Fang Xuan. Xiangxie (literally the shoe
that echoes) refers to the sound that the high heels make as a beauty walks across a
hallway. The first four treatises also appear in a later collectanea: Gao Jianhua, comp.,
Hongxiu tianxiangshi congshu (Shanghai: Shanghai qunxue she, 1936), 2: 108–53. Gao
is the wife of Xu Xiaotian, a commentator of Fang’s treatises (CFL II: 292–96).
25. Fang Xuan, “Jinyuan zazuan,” in Xiangyan congshu, vol. 8, juan 1 [n.p.: Guo-
xue fulunshe, 1914], p. 2072. Jinyuan is one of Fang Xuan’s names.
26. Fang, “Xianglian pinzao,” Xiangyan congshu, pp. 2069–70.
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
27. Ibid., p. 2067. One hundred guihua trees were planted on the grounds of Ping-
shantang during its renovation in 1736 (Zhao Zhibi, Pingshantang tuzhi [Kyoto:
Dohosha, 1981], 1.4b). I am grateful to Tobie Meyer-Fong for this information. A
popular destination for literati touring in the Qing, the Pingshantang was not as-
sociated with prostitutes or women-viewing in the Qianlong period (Tobie Meyer-
Fong, personal communication, July 1998). This rare mentioning of a real place in
Fang Xuan’s work yields no conclusive evidence about his dates or veracity, but sug-
gests that he was a post-Qianlong writer. Fang’s descriptions here of the gaze from
the bottom up is imitative of Li Yu (see chap. 5).
28. Xiangyan congshu traced the origins of Fang’s works to hand-copied manu-
scripts in the Xu family collection in Nanling, Anhui. The Nanling Xushi collec-
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NOTES TO PAGES 84–89 257
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tion was associated with the connoisseurship of women. Its owner, Xu Naichang
(1862–1936), published the monumental Xiao tanluanshi huike guixiu ci, an an-
thology of song-lyrics by one hundred women, in 1895–96, and a sequel, Guixiu
cicao, in 1909. They are boxed together and published under the earlier title (n.p.
[Nanling ]: Xiao tanluanshi, 1895–1909).
29. Fang, “Jinyuan zazuan,” Xiangyan congshu, p. 2086.
30. See commentaries to “Jinyuan zazuan” by Xu Xiaotian, CFL II: 292–96. For
citations of Fang’s treatises in fragments within the Caifeilu, see CFL: 131; CFL II:
230, 234, 291ª; CFXB: 8.
31. Zhou Ying, editor of a section entitled “Fengfei xiantan” (Random chats on
radishes), stated that his editorial principle was to seek “confirmation from ancient
texts” (duizheng guben) for every modern practice described (e.g., female massag-
ing her own feet; CFL II: 185). This is clearly an unattainable goal but jibes with
his and Yao’s posture as mimetic literati. On the lack of interiority in discourses of
sexuality in Ming fiction, see Kang Zhengguo, Chongshen fengyuejian (Taipei: Mai-
tian chuban, 1996), 252–53 and passim.
32. One such account in CFL IV, by a Zhao Yixin, is unusual in that boyhood
memories of playing with a neighbor woman’s feet directly led into his adult world
of the here-now as he sat writing, complete with the convenient foil that his wife
and daughter were taking a nap. A footbound woman who lived across the court-
yard was bathing when her aunt came to visit. The woman called over for Zhao to
open the gate, and he saw that the aunt also had small feet. He, too aroused to keep
writing, was quite willing to be seduced by the two. The provocative encounter in
the here-now has to be tamed by Yao Lingxi’s announcement that this is a posthu-
mous work (305–7). The same strategy of claiming boyhood innocence in narrat-
ing a taboo subject was used by contemporary writer Yang Yang—son of a foot-
bound woman—who took his readers straight to the boudoir and inner worlds of
women in Liuyi village (Xiaojiao wudao: Dian-nan yige xiangcun de chanzu gushi
[Hefei: Anhui wenyi chubanshe, 2001], pp. 1–5, 37).
33. The same narrator, again claiming to transmit the experience of Yu Aitong,
elaborated on how fondling the golden lotus creates pleasure for both the male and
female. This pleasure is as good as, if not better than, sexual intercourse (CFL IV:
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
48–49).
34. A Faithful of Lotus-ism—Lianjiao xinshi—harks back to Qingshi, a late Ming
manifesto of the cult of qing in which Feng Menglong vowed to establish a Qingjiao
(a religion or teaching of love). Yao Lingxi’s evocation of the cult of qing, discussed
above, rings true, but this imitation seems contrived. Even as he referred to Fang
Xuan and Feng Menglong, Lianjiao xinshi gave explicit expression to both male and
female sexual desires that would have been unspeakable in the traditional genres Fang
adhered to. The connoisseur’s love of feet is construed as an instinct arising from the
inside and expressed in behavior. Yao Lingxi thus described the psychological process
of modern connoisseurship: “Since we love the tiny foot, of course we adore con-
cubines with tiny feet. When love becomes extreme, it propels all kinds of rebel-
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NOTES TO PAGES 90–94 258
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lious acts, such as disobeying mother, abandoning wife, casting away sons. Hence
a love inside the psyche [xinli shang ] becomes expressed in behavior. Other behav-
iors are expressions of the sex drive [xingyu shang ], such as sodomy. . . . This is more
disgusting than biting or smelling bound feet, yet there are people who do this”
(CFL: 294). At least to Yao, love of feet and sex drive are distinct instincts.
35. On the trope of the femme fatale in Ming-Qing erotic novels, see Kang,
Chongshen fengyuejian, pp. 57–81.
36. Li, Yuemantang riji, cited in Daqiao Shiyu, Hu Xueyan waizhuan, in Wan-
Qing xiaoshuo daxi (Taipei: Guangya chuban, 1984), tiyao, p. 1.
37. A reader of Caifeilu recalled buying a lithographed copy of Hu Xueyan from
a book stall only to be disappointed that it was so thin and lacking in explicit de-
scription of footbinding. Yao Lingxi described one 96-page version by Daqiao Shiyu,
printed in stereotype by Duotian Tailang (Tada Taro) and distributed by a Riben
Aishan she (Nippon Aizen sha), none of which are “real” Japanese names (CFL IV:
34). This is probably the version on which the 1984 retypeset is based.
38. Xu Ke related that wealthy merchants in Taigu, Shanxi, favored concubines
who wore jade soles in the summer, which were cool to the touch (Qingbai leichao
[Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1986], p. 6210).
39. Jean Baudrillard has placed antique and exotic objects in nonfunctional sys-
tems of objects. Marginalized, they are “warm” objects associated with childhood
(The System of Objects, trans. James Benedict [London and New York: Verso, 1996],
p. 146). The function of jade soles as an opium roller does not stem from any in-
trinsic nature of the material; any surface would do, hence its extravagant appeal.
Indeed, an imitator, a former governor of Guangdong, reportedly used the bare heels
of his Guangdong attendants to hold snuª (CFL: 301). In a slightly diªerent ver-
sion the o‹cial, a zhongtong in Guangdong, was said to use the heels of footbound
women (CFL II: 233). A contributor to Radishes called into question both the phys-
ical possibility and aesthetic desirability of containing fragrance in an orifice usu-
ally associated with foulness even though a perfectly bound foot should have a heel
that resembles the smooth and lustrous texture of a snuª dish (CFL II: 152).
40. Some argued that the practice of drinking wine from a shoe started in Song,
as evinced by a poem by Wang Shenfu, but the practice became firmly associated
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
with Yang Tieya (CFL: 180; cf. Su Fu, Xianggui xiewa dianlüe [Haining Zoushi shizu
youlanshi manuscript edition, 1879], p. 37). Yang once drank from a giant lotus cup
at a brothel party in Suzhou, but made no mention of drinking from a shoe in his
poetry (Yang Weizhen shiji [Hangzhou: Zhejiang guji chubanshe, 1994], p. 377). In
a series of poems emulating the “Xianglian” poems of Han Wo, Yang expressed his
fondness for bound feet. The last couplet from “Swing,” for example, reads: “A ro-
bust wind blows, lifting the gaze to the edge of space, / A pair of upside-down golden
lotus reaching to the sky” (404).
41. Yang sojourned in Suzhou in 1344–49, often working as a music teacher (Su,
Xianggui xiewa, p. 39). The disclaimer is in Tao Zhongyi, Chuogeng lü, cited in Su,
Xianggui xiewa, p. 36. The Japanese scholar Aoki Masaru has found a story of a cer-
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NOTES TO PAGES 94–97 259
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tain Tang Fuming drinking directly from a shoe in a Tang collection of jottings.
The shoe was made of cloth and sealed in wax (“Shusho shudan,” in Aoki Masaru
zenshu, vol. 8 [Tokyo: Shunju sha, 1984], pp. 85–86).
42. Shen Defu, Wanli yehuo bian (n.p.: Fuli shanfang, 1827), 23.28a; cf. Ni Zan,
Qingmige quanji, in Yuandai zhenben wenji huikan (Taipei: Guoli zhongyan
tushuguan, 1970), p. 483. Stories about Ni’s obsession with cleanliness were etched
in his funerary epitaphs, and many more circulated in the late Ming and early Qing.
He was said to build his toilet on stilts and line the cesspool with goose feathers
that would cover feces dropping (Ni, Qingmige, pp. 481–84). He had the rocks and
trees in his garden scrubbed and his clothes changed scores of times daily. In the
eyes of the Donglin patriots Gu Xiancheng and Gao Panlong, Ni’s love of physi-
cal cleanliness is sign of his moral purity and love of political tranquility (634, 668).
It is no accident that Xu Ke, proponent of natural feet, cited Shen’s version of the
Tieya story to emphasize the unseemly nature of lotus-loving (“Tianzu kaolue,” in
Tiansuke congkan, ed. Xu Ke [Shanghai: Shangwu yinshuguan, 1914], 13a).
43. Ji Yun, Yuewei caotang biji; cited in CFL: 331. Yao Lingxi recounted another
tale: a gang of hoodlums was drinking when a boy walked by toying with a dainty
shoe. They snatched it and proceeded to drink from it. A wrinkled granny entered
the scene, cursing her grandson who stole her decades-old wedding slipper. The
merrymakers were so revolted that they vomited (CFL: 332).
44. The Jingdezhen kiln in Jiangxi had been making these shoe-shaped wine cups
since at least the late Ming period. For an underglaze blue specimen from the sec-
ond quarter of the seventeenth century, see “Wine cup in the shape of a shoe,” in
Wu Tung, Earth Transformed: Chinese Ceramics in the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston
(Boston: MFA Publications, 2001), p. 142. The words xiaoxiao jinlian fengyibei (tiny-
tiny-golden-lotus-oªering-one-cup) were inscribed on the insole. I thank Alex Tun-
stall for bringing this to my attention.
45. CFL: 7, 12–13. Lao Xuan’s theory about the origins of footbinding is also
woman-centered, but is more problematic: women’s “natural” inclination is to beau-
tify themselves to win over men’s love. Hence women invented footbinding just as
they invented tight-lacing, waved hair, high heels, and so on (CFL: 17). His rendi-
tion of female agency: woman is the fisher; man the fish; and adornment, the hook
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
(CFL: 20). Hence the only true woman in this heterosexuality-as-biology model is
one who courts man. Lao Xuan was a teacher of English, geography, and history
in Beijing who also wrote columns for Shibao, Tuhua shijie, and Beiyang huabao.
An unabridged version of Lao Xuan’s composite essay “Nannü” is in his Luanyu
quanshu (Beijing: Hualing chubanshe, 1996), pp. 1–137. The historian Yang Nian-
qun has found Lao Xuan’s historicist insistence refreshing (“ ‘Guoduqi’ lishi de ling-
yimian,” Dushu 6 [2002]: 128–35).
46. Hu Yepin, “Xiao xiancheng zhong de liangge furen,” Dongfang zazhi 26, no.
18 (Sept. 1929): 103. In emphasizing the di‹culty if not the impossibility of letting
feet out, this story reverses the prevailing trend established by Tang Yisuo’s Huang
Xiuqiu.
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the Ming (Erotic Colour Prints of the Ming Period [Tokyo: privately published, 1951],
p. 170). Nineteenth-century prints are more explicit, mirroring the growing ex-
plicitness of the textual discourse. For an eighteenth-to-nineteenth-century album
of erotic paintings see Dreams of Spring: Erotic Art in China from the Bertholet Col-
lection (Amsterdam: Pepin Press, 1997). For the early-Qing painter Gu Jianlong
(1606–ca. 1694) and his erotic albums, see the articles by James Cahill, “Where Did
the Nymph Hang?” Kaikodo Journal 7 (1998): 8–16; and “The Emperor’s Erotica,”
Kaikodo Journal 9 (1999): 24–43.
2. Zhang Bangji, Mozhuang manlu, 8.5a–b, in Qinding siku quanshu. The PRC
writer Gao Hongxing deduced from internal reference that this book was completed
after 1148 (Chanzu shi [Shanghai: Shanghai wenyi chubanshe, 1995], p. 12). Char-
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NOTES TO PAGE 111 261
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lotte Furth has called attention to the correlation between the initial spread of foot-
binding and the emergence of gynecology ( fuke) as a specialized field in the North-
ern Song dynasty (960–1125). In its preoccupation with the reproductive functions
of the female body, the rise of Song gynecology signified a heightened medical and
social attention on maternity. The maternal body, or the body parts associated with
gestation, became de-eroticized, leading to a “splitting of the body of desire from
the body of reproduction.” The arched foot became a “fetishist signifier of woman
as desirable” exactly because “it was not identified with any part of the body asso-
ciated with a reproductive function” (A Flourishing Yin: Gender in China’s Medical
History, 960–1665 [Berkeley: University of California Press, 1999], p. 133; for the rise
of Song fuke, see pp. 59–93). Coincidentally, in contrast to this fuke assumption
that the foot is an asexual organ, recent studies in cognitive science have shown that
on a brain surface sensory system map, the foot and toes are located next to the
genitals (Eric R. Kandel, James H. Schwartz, and Thomas M. Jessell, Principles of
Neural Science, 3rd ed. [New York, Elsevier Science Publishing Co., 1991], p. 372).
I am grateful to Suzanne Cahill for bringing this book to my attention.
3. The writer Tao Zongyi (ca. 1316–ca. 1403), for example, wrote that: “There-
fore, we know that the binding of feet [zajiao] did not start until the Five Dynasties
period (907–960). Practitioners were few before the reigns of Xining (1068–77) and
Yuanfeng (1078–85) [of the northern Song emperor Shenzong ]. But in the recent
years everybody has been imitating it, and those who do not are ashamed”(Chuo-
genglu, 10.16a-17a, in Qinding Siku quanshu). Modern analyses of material cultures
and gender perceptions do suggest that footbinding as a social practice was likely
to have begun in the tenth century. See my Every Step a Lotus: Shoes for Bound Feet
(Berkeley: University of California Press, 2001), chap. 1. See also Gao Shiyu’s nu-
anced account, which argues that footbinding arose as an aesthetic ideal among court
dancers during the Five Dynasties period and became a regulatory measure restricting
female behavior in the southern Song (“Chanzu zaiyi,” Shixue yuekan 2 [1999]:
20–24, 111).
4. Zhang, Mozhuang manlu, 8.5a–b. Although the line on six inches of succu-
lent flesh was often cited, the rest of Han Wo’s poem is almost never mentioned in
the origin discourse. It reads: “Glowing, glowing, six inches of succulent flesh, / Em-
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
broidered shoe in white silk, lined in red. / Not much of a romantic, the southern
dynasty son of heaven, / Yet he prefers the red lotus to green leaves” (Quan Tang-
shi [Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 1995], p. 1719). The title of the poem, “Jizi,”
originally referred to clogs, a ritual footwear in antiquity, but later became a generic
term for shoes. In some versions “six” (liu) appears as “square” ( fang ), a word almost
identical in shape. The genre of “fragrant toilette” heralded by Han Wo portrays
the gestures, bodies, and dress of beautiful women in the boudoir. See Kang Zheng-
guo, Fengsao yu yanqing [Zhengzhou: Henan Renmin chubanshe, 1988], pp. 239–48.
The scholar Gao Wenxian argued that the Xianglian ji was wrongly attributed to
Han Wo and that its likely author was the Jin scholar He Ning (898–955) (Han Wo
[Taipei: Xinwenfeng, 1984], pp. 63–81).
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5. The only exception was the Ming scholar Shen Defu, who cited a painting
“Embroidering Shoes” depicting Empress Changsun of the Tang and a portrait of
the Tang Empress/Emperor Wu Zetian as proof that Tang women did not bind
their feet (Wanli yehuo bian [n.p.: Fuli shanfang, 1827], 23.26a).
6. Che Ruoshui, Jiaoqi ji, 20a, in Qinding Siku quanshu, zibu 10, zajia lie 3.
7. Hu Yinglin identified the Runan xianxianzhuan reference. See his Dianqian
xinlu, in Shaoshi shanfang bicong (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1958), p. 151.
8. For the stories of Consort Yang and the femme fatale tradition in o‹cial his-
tories, see Fan-Pen Chen, “Problems of Chinese Historiography as Seen in the
O‹cial Records on Yang Kuei-fei,” T’ang Studies 8–9 (1990–91): 83–96.
9. Zhou Mi attributed the Yaoniang legend to Daoshan xinwen, a work that is
no longer extant (Haoranzhai yatan [Shenyang: Liaoning jiaoyu chubanshe, 2000],
p. 19). The Yaoniang story, again attributed to Daoshan xinwen, appeared in a Yuan
scholar’s notation book, Chuogenglu, preface dated 1366 (Tao Zongyi, Chuogenglu,
10.16a–17a). Both Hu Yinglin and Zhao Yi mentioned that the Yaoniang legend
first appeared in Zhang Bangji’s notation, but it is not in the authoritative Qinding
siku quanshu edition of Mozhuang manlu, nor is it in the more recent compilation,
Congshu jicheng chubian.
10. The possible Buddhist influence has prompted the Japanese scholar Furu-
gaki Koichi to hypothesize that footbinding was an import from “the West,” or Cen-
tral Asia (“Chugoku ni okeru josei no tensoku: toku ni jisso to Sodai no kigen ni
tsuite,” Chugoku kankei ronsetsu shiliao 29, no. 1 [1987]: p. 49). For the popularity
of Buddhism in Southern Tang court and society, see Zou Jingfeng, Nan-Tang guo-
shi (Nanjing: Nanjing daxue chubanshe, 2000), pp. 141–43, and Nan-Tang lishi yu
wenhua (Chengdu: Sichuan daxue chubanshe, 2000), pp. 110–12. For Li Yu’s accom-
plishments in music and dance and the cultural eªervescence at his court, see Nan-
Tang guoshi, pp. 199–205 and Nan-Tang lishi, pp. 98–109. The Southern Tang king-
dom was also known for its innovative women’s fashions. High chignons, “slender
jackets,” and skirts with form-fitting waists were in style (Zhou Xibao, Zhongguo
gudai fushi shi [Taipei: Nantian shuju, 1992], pp. 256–57). The look resembles that
of a dancing bodhisattva found in Tang Buddhist art (see fig. 10).
11. For Yang Shen’s impressive corpus, the rites controversy, and his reputation,
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
see L. Carrington Goodrich and Choaying Fang, eds., Dictionary of Ming Biogra-
phy, 1368–1644 (New York: Columbia University Press, 1976), pp. 1531–35. For a
convenient two-volume compilation of Chinese articles on Yang’s life, classical schol-
arship, and lyrical output, see Lin Qingzhang and Jia Shunxian, comp., Yang Shen
yanjiu ziliao huibian (Taipei: Institute of Chinese Literature and Philosophy, Acade-
mia Sinica, 1992).
12. Goodrich and Fang, Dictionary of Ming Biography, p. 1532.
13. Yang Shen, “Gongzu,” in Tanyuan tihu, in Congshu jicheng chubian, no. 334
(Changsha: Shangwu, 1939), p. 20 [ juan 3]. One of the scholars Yang chided was
Tao Zongyi.
14. Ibid. For a summary of the theory that footbinding originated in the Qin-
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NOTES TO PAGES 116–121 263
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Han period, see Zhao Yi, “Gongzu,” in Gaiyu congkao (Shanghai: Shangwu, 1957),
p. 656.
15. Yang, Danqian yulu, 11.15b, and Danqian zonglu, 25.15b, both in Qinding
siku quanshu, zibu 10, zajia lei 2. Yang refuted the Daji story without recounting
it, which suggests that it was well-known. It can be found in a Ming-dynasty en-
cyclopedia, Wang Sanpin, Gujin shiwu kao (Taipei: Shangwu, 1973), 6.28b.
16. Yang, Sheng’an quanji, juan 75, cited in Lin and Jia, Yang Shen yanjiu ziliao,
p. 701. Song daoxue learning became the Ming imperial orthodoxy in 1414 with the
compilation of the Great Collection [of commentaries] for the Five Classics and Four
Books. Yang Shen’s privileging of Han learning was a reaction against this Ming or-
thodoxy. For intellectual and institutional contexts of this development, see Ben-
jamin Elman, A Cultural History of Civil Examinations in Late Imperial China
(Berkeley: University of California Press, 2000), chap. 2. He has argued that the
formation of Song daoxue orthodoxy is primarily the work of early Ming emperors.
17. Yang, Sheng’an waiji, juan 26, cited in Lin and Jia, Yang Shen yanjiu ziliao,
p. 572.
18. Yang, Sheng’an quanji, juan 3, cited in Lin and Jia, Yang Shen yanjiu ziliao,
pp. 808–9. See also pp. 912–32 for the importance of natural emotions in Yang’s
literary theory.
19. Yang, Danqian zhailu, 8.13a–b; Danqian zonglu, 17.9a–b, 18.22a; both in
Qinding siku quanshu, zibu 10, zajia lei 2.
20. Yang Shen’s attitude toward footbinding is unclear. Yang and his wife Huang
E were renowned composers of a genre of amorous songs called sanqu (free songs).
In Yang’s extensive sanqu works, I found several erotically charged references to
“arched shoes” (gongxie). See Xie Boyang, ed., Quan-Ming sanqu ( Ji’nan: Qilu shushe,
1994), pp. 1408, 1417. It is hard to tell, however, if Yang was using a common po-
etic allusion or if he was expressing his own love for the arched foot.
21. Yang, Han zashi mixin, in Xiangyan congshu, ji 3, juan 2, pp. 655–56. The title
is also rendered Zashi mixin. Since these words are ambiguous even in Chinese, I
have opted to adopt an equally inscrutable English title, Han Footles. The obscure
word footles does mean “trifles,” which approximates zashi. My act of creative trans-
lation is a tribute to Yang Shen’s playfulness. This work was widely anthologized in
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
the Ming and Qing periods, despite early and virtually universal doubts about its
authenticity. For its textual history, see Lin and Jia, Yang Shen yanjiu ziliao, pp.
443–44. It appears that Yang Shen did not try too hard to cover his tracks. This
problem did not deter many subsequent writers, such as Yu Huai discussed below,
from citing it as a Han text.
22. These measurements are supposed to be in Han feet and inches, but the length
of a Han foot is controversial among the philologists (see below).
23. Yu Huai cited both Maiden Ying’s eight-inch foot and Han Wo’s poem about
a six-inch foot to argue that “women’s feet before the Tang were not bent into the
shape of the new moon” (“Furen xiewa kao,” in Tanji congshu, ed. Wang Zhuo and
Zhang Chao, 31.2a; Fei Xihuang’s rebuttal is on 31.3a). Another scholar who cited
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NOTES TO PAGES 122–125 264
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There is, however, conflicting information on diªerences between male and female
footwear in antiquity. Although the Zhouli materials suggest that they were virtu-
ally identical, the Taiping yulan, a tenth-century compilation based on earlier
sources, says: “In the past shoes for females had round toes; shoes for males had
square toes. The purpose is to distinguish the sexes” (Taiping yulan [Taipei: Dai-
hua shuju, 1977], 698.4b–5a). Hu’s reading is that in the past, women could freely
imitate male footwear if they so chose. But in the age of bound feet, they could not
wear square toes even if they had wanted to crossdress (147).
32. According to regulations in the Rites of Zhou (Zhouli), lü-shoes are single-
soled ritual footwear. They diªer from xie-shoes, which have raised platform soles,
probably for outdoor ceremonies. In later times, lü became the generic name for
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NOTES TO PAGES 126–129 265
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shoes, as attested to by Hu’s notations. His investigations into female shoes are in
Danqian xinlu, pp. 149–52; on shoes in general, pp. 152–65. These references call
the reader’s attention to a cultural phenomenon that has a strange resonance with
footbinding. In the 148 Tang and Song tales about lü-shoes, about one-tenth de-
pict shoes or shoes and garments as synecdoche of the body-self. A recurring trope:
empty co‹n; no trace of the bodily remains; a lone pair of shoes. There is a long
tradition, then, of viewing footwear and garments as synecdoche of self. Could this
account for the fetishizing of female feet and the fixation on her footwear? Can we
view the bound foot as a synecdoche for the female body-self ?
33. For the dating, discovery, reception, and textual history of Zhouli, also known
as Zhouguan and Zhou guanli, see the informative chapter “Chou li” by William
Boltz, in Michael Loewe, ed., Early Chinese Texts: A Biographical Guide (n.p.: The
Society for the Study of Early China and The Institute of East Asian Studies, Uni-
versity of California, Berkeley, 1993), pp. 24–32. Some believed that it was authored
by the Duke of Zhou. Others suspected it was a forgery by the Han scholar Liu
Xin (46 b.c.e.–23 c.e.), citing the fact that this work was not known before the
Former Han. Modern scholarly consensus holds that it was a genuine pre-Han text,
written in the classical Chinese of late Spring and Autumn and Warring States pe-
riods (ca. sixth to third century b.c.e.). For its influence on the administrative struc-
tures of subsequent dynasties, see Charles Hucker, A Dictionary of O‹cial Titles in
Imperial China (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 1985), pp. 6–7.
34. Coincidentally the original “winter o‹ce” section was lost when the Zhouli
first became known in the mid-second-century b.c.e. The Kaogong ji (Records of
the scrutiny of crafts) was substituted in its place, hence its structural anomalies
(Boltz, “Chou li,” pp. 25–26).
35. Yang, Danqian zhailu, 11.2b; Danqian zonglu, 11.18b; Hu, Danqian xinlu,
p. 144.
36. Yang, Danqian zhailu, 11.2b; Danqian zonglu, 11.18b; Hu, Danqian xinlu,
p. 144.
37. Hu, Danqian xinlu, pp. 144–45. For the names, designs, and degree of for-
mality of these shoes, see Wang Yuqing, Zhongguo fuzhuang, pp. 105–7; Zhou Xibao,
Zhongguo gudai fushi, pp. 18, 58.
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
43. Ibid., p. 147. Hu hypothesized that the silk socks (luowa) eulogized in Tang
poetry may resemble these knee-high leggings.
44. Ibid., p. 146. If one interprets the “bamboo shoots” being measured and re-
duced in size as the foot, then Du Mu’s poem can be construed as signaling the be-
ginning of footbinding as social practice. Conversely, if one interprets them as toes,
then the poem describes slender toes being packed in socks. They are thus indica-
tive of a cultural preference for slender feet, but not the arching of the foot. Hu’s
lack of a clear-cut stance was faulted by Shen Defu as “wa›ing” (Wanli yehuo bian,
23.27a–b).
45. Hu, Danqian xinlu, p. 149. Hu did not elaborate on the connections between
printing and footbinding beyond their chronological overlap. We may speculate
that both are related to the breakdown of aristocratic society. Instead of heredity,
new determinants of power and new markers of wealth and status are needed. The
dissemination of knowledge aªorded by printing enabled the scholar-o‹cial class
to dominate the bureaucracy starting in the Song. Footbinding is their form of con-
spicuous consumption. The problem, of course, is that such speculations are easy
to make and very di‹cult to prove.
46. Ibid., p. 149. By Hu’s own admission, he was neither the first nor the only
one to subscribe to the tenth-century theory. We may recall that it started with Zhang
Bangji, and was the predominant view of authors of notations in the Yuan and Ming
(p. 146).
47. Yu Huai, “Furen xiewa kao,” in Tanji congshu, ed. Wang Zhuo and Zhang
Chao, 31.2b–3a. The Tanji congshu was first published in 1695. In late-Ming writ-
ings, urban fashion is often referred to as “dressing the human prodigy” ( fuyao).
See Lin Liyue, “Yichang yu fengjiao: Wan-Ming de fushi fengshang yu ‘fuyao’ yilun,”
Xinshixue 10, no. 3 (1999): 111–57; and Wu Renshu, “Mingdai pingmin fushi de liu-
xin fengshang yu shidafu de fanying,” Xinshixue 10, no. 3 (1999): 55–109.
48. Zhao Yi, “Gongzu,” in Gaiyu congkao, p. 656. Alternative reading for the
third sentence: The same is true for the Luomiao (“naked Miao”) and Boyi (“bar-
barian Bo”) peoples in Yunnan and Guizhou.
49. The Manchu rulers issued prohibition edicts in 1636, 1638, and 1664. I have
argued that they had the opposite eªect: in making footbinding an ethnic marker,
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
the attempted ban led to a spread of the practice among Han women during the
seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. See my “The Body as Attire: The Shifting
Meanings of Footbinding in Seventeenth-Century China,” Journal of Women’s His-
tory 8, no. 4 ( Winter 1997): 8–27. Susan Mann has suggested that “we can plausi-
bly assume that” in the Qianlong reign “the desirability of footbinding and the
spread of women’s home handicrafts in peasant households were systematically
linked.” Precious Records: Women in China’s Long Eighteenth Century (Stanford,
Calif.: Stanford University Press, 1997), p. 168.
50. According to Bai Ting, “Huai, the sixth-generation grandson of the [Song
Neo-Confucian philosopher] Cheng Yichuan [Yi, 1033–1107] lives in Chiyang. The
women in this family have kept up their tradition of not binding their feet, nor do
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NOTES TO PAGES 134–138 267
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they pierce their ears.” The implication is that other families of their standing often
did. Tao Zongyi, in turn, flatly stated that “footbinding only started in the Five Dy-
nasties period.” Cited in Zhao, “Gongzu,” in Gaiyu congkao, p. 656.
51. The discourse of footbinding in a small body of vernacular plays and songs
will be taken up in chap. 5. Unfortunately, it is beyond the scope of this book to
consider the wealth of information on footbinding in Ming-Qing fiction, nor can
it analyze the large body of Tang and Song poetry on the allure of small feet. For
poetry as a conduit of footbinding’s aura, see Wang Ping, Aching for Beauty: Foot-
binding in China (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2000). On the large
number of Song poems eulogizing small feet and dainty steps as well as an analy-
sis of the terminologies used, see Tao Jinsheng, “Geji wuji yu jinlian,” in Tang-Song
nüxing yu shehui, ed. Deng Xiaonan (Shanghai: Shanghai cishu chubanshe, 2003),
pp. 365–74.
52. Zhao Yi, “Jinfeng ranzhi,” in Gaiyu congkao, pp. 656–57.
53. Zhao Yi, “Zanhua,” in Gaiyu congkao, pp. 657–58.
54. One significant exception is that footbinding (nürenzu, women’s feet) ap-
pears under the “body” category in the encyclopedia Gezhi jingyuan compiled by
Chen Yuanlong ([Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 1992], pp. 155–56).
55. Zhao Yi, “Tuowa dengxi,” in Gaiyu congkao, pp. 652–53. The expressions
“defilement” and “obscenity” are from the notation “Zhuxue,” p. 654. Zhao ob-
served that the leg-binders fashioned by envoys and dancers from Siam to the Qing
imperium are “colorful and quite lovely” (654). So perhaps the leg-binders in Chi-
nese antiquity were just that.
56. Zhao Yi, “Zhuxue,” in Gaiyu congkao, pp. 653–54.
57. Zhao Yi, “Furen bai,” in Gaiyu congkao, pp. 659–60; “Guren guizuo xiang-
lei,” pp. 660–61. Zhao did not describe how people sat on low platforms. Sarah
Handler has suggested that they sat with legs tucked up instead of hanging over the
edge (“The Chinese Bed,” in Chinese Furniture: Selected Articles from “Orientations,”
1984–1994 [Hong Kong: Orientations Magazine Ltd., 1996], p. 5). There is a large
secondary literature on the history of chairs in China; see the bibliography of my
Every Step a Lotus. A recent syncretic discussion with a good bibliography is Ke Jia-
hao, “Yizi yu Fojiao liuchuan zhi guanxi,” Zhongyang yanjiuyuan lishiyuyan yan-
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
Nie Yuanlong, eds., Shanxi fengsu minqing (Taiyuan: Shanxi sheng difangzhi bian-
hui weiyuanhui bangongshi, 1987), p. 269.
3. Su Fu, Xianggui xiewa dianlue (Haining Zoushi shizu youlanshi manuscript
edition, 1879), pp. 90–91. For an almost identical description attributed to a diªer-
ent source, see CFL: 273. For composite descriptions of feet contests in recent pub-
lications, see Yao Jushun, Zhongguo chanzu fengsu (Shenyang: Liaoning daxue
chubanshe, 1991), pp. 25–26; Lin Qiumin, “Yan Shishan yu Shanxi tianzu yundong,”
Guoshiguan guankan, fukan n.s. 18 ( June 1995): 129; Zhang Zhong, Xiaojiao yu bianzi
(Taipei: Youshi wenhua shiye gongsi, 1995), pp. 61–62. No photographic docu-
mentation for feet contests can be found, although it may well have existed. Nor
can I locate references to their existence before the nineteenth century.
4. Nagao Ryuzo, Shina minzoku shi (Tokyo: Kokusho kankokai, 1973), 2:
846–47. See also p. 461 for feet contests in Gansu. Nagao, who graduated from the
To-A dobun shoin (East Asian Common Culture Academy) in Shanghai in 1906,
joined the Southern Manchurian Railway Company in 1932; he resigned in 1936,
but stayed in Manchuria to continue his ethnographic research under the auspices
of the Japanese Foreign Ministry and Mantetsu. He was said to have conducted the
interviews himself; several Chinese assistants then compiled the field notes into “re-
search reports” (chosa hokoku). Nagao compiled the book on the basis of such re-
ports and his own “verification” (kosho), in part from textual sources (“Shina min-
zokushi hihan ippan,” in appendix, p. 5). Nagao also supplied the dates of the
gatherings but did not specify his source. They are: Datong, the fifteenth day of
the eighth month; Yongping, ten days before and after Qingming; Xuanhua, twice
yearly: ten days before and after Qingming as well as three days before and after
the fifteenth of the fifth month. For similar descriptions by Chinese writers, see
CFL: 272–74; CFL II: 242–43; CFL IV: 163–64. For scenes of feet contests in fiction,
see CFL II: 194–95, 244. In these accounts, the dates for feet contests in each lo-
cale vary considerably. For Datong, the following has been suggested: the thirteenth
of the fifth month (CFL: 341), the sixth of the sixth month (CFL II: 197, 201), the
fifteenth of the eighth month (CFL: 273). It is not clear if these occurred concur-
rently or in diªerent decades.
5. The blame for misinformation is always cast on “nonlocals” or “outsiders.”
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
See Xuanhua xian xinzhi (1922), in Zhongguo difangzhi minsu jiliao huibian, Huabei
juan (Beijing: Shumu wenxian chubanshe, 1989), p. 135. See also Lu Zhengwen et
al., eds., Shanxi fengsu minqing, p. 269. Some of the towns associated with feet
contests—Yongping, Zhangjiakou, Xuanhua, and Datong, for example—were sit-
uated along established trade routes that crisscrossed northern China. They, and
others, were later linked by the Beijing-Suiyuan railroad. It is tempting to hypoth-
esize that the culture of feet contests had spread along trade routes. But equally
plausible is the simple fact that it was more likely for reports on customs along bet-
ter traveled roads to surface. For northern trade routes, see Man Bun Kwan, The
Salt Merchants of Tianjin: State-Making and Civil Society in Late Imperial China
(Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 2001), pp. 21–26.
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NOTES TO PAGES 148–149 270
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6. “Xijiao dahui,” Dainshizhai huabao, no. 127 (1887), no page. See also de-
scriptions based on this lithograph in CFL II: 245. Yang Yang interviewed a sev-
enty-year-old woman, Mrs. Luo, née Wang, who took part in a feet-washing gath-
ering in 1948 by a spring in front of Sanjiao si, about 2 kilometers from Liuyi village.
No men were present (Xiaojiao wudao: Dian-nan yige xiangcun de chanzu gushi
[Hefei: Anhui wenyi chubanshe, 2001], pp. 114–17). The women also remembered
a more public feet contest in Tonghai held on the sixteenth day of the first month,
but a renowned Optimus from the contest in 1925 had just passed away when Yang
managed to locate her family. So there is no conclusive evidence for the latter
(111–14).
7. Su Fu, Xianggui xiewa dianlue, p. 90; Xuanhua xian xinzhi (1922), p. 135. The
word liang (to air) is often used as a synonym of sai (to air), as in “liangjiao hui.”
The word jia (armor) also means “examination status,” which is yet another ex-
ample of the conflation of footbinding with the examination discussed in chap. 3.
On the origins of confusing “armor” for “feet,” Yao Lingxi cited a source published
in 1912 but attributed to a writer who flourished around 1765 (CFL II: 317–18). For
another explanation of the confusion, see CFL II: 316. Yao rejected this origin myth,
which he had earlier helped to transmit, by arguing that the sounds of jiao (feet)
and jia (armor) are too divergent in northern dialects for the confusion to occur
(CFL II: 317–18).
8. CFL IV: 165–66. See also CFL II: 245–46.
9. CFL II: 193–205. Included here are some graphic descriptions of Datong foot-
binding customs, which almost certainly were the source for similar episodes in Feng
Jicai’s novella Three-Inch Golden Lotus. For example, professional footbinders were
also expert shoemakers. Among their specialties were “plum-sole shoes” (meihua di)
with hollow heels, which left traces of fragrant powder in the shape of blossoms
(CFL II: 196–97). Another ritual was the slitting of the belly of a lamb on a girl’s
initial binding day and inserting both feet into the belly. The warm blood was sup-
posed to soften the bones. After seven bedridden days, the girl would remove the
binding cloth and shed one layer of skin as white as the fat (zhi) of a sheep (199).
Binding is thus construed as a rebirth for the girl.
10. CFL II: 315.
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
Technology’s Advance: Social Change in China and Zimbabwe in the Railway Age
[Westport, Conn.: Greenwood Press, 1997]). For an assessment of the economic
impact, see Ralph William Huenemann, The Dragon and the Iron Horse: The Eco-
nomics of Railroads in China, 1876–1937 (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University
Press, 1984).
13. CFL II: 315–17. Yao provided no attribution for his historical narrative. He
claimed that scenes of contests from the second stage were told to him by some
“old men from the past” (gulao), one of his favorite tropes.
14. In his book on the history of Wunderkammer (cabinets of curiosity), Lawrence
Weschler has described wonder as involving a “leap in rhetoric.” Before the triumph
of positivist certainty in the mid-1700s, wonder was a form of learning, “an inter-
mediate, highly particular state akin to a sort of suspension of the mind that marks
the end of unknowing and the beginning of knowing” (Mr. Wilson’s Cabinet of Won-
der [New York: Vintage Books, 1996], pp. 42, 89–90).
15. See n. 48 below on the geographic parameters of “Northwest”: Qin (Shaanxi),
Jin (Shanxi), Yan (Hebei), and Zhao (northern Shanxi and southern Hebei). As
this chapter seeks to demonstrate, however, the “Northwest” (or “the south” for that
matter) was less a geographic place than a cultural imaginary.
16. One such story is Pu Songling, “Zengbu xinyun qu,” in Liaozhai liqu ji (Bei-
jing: Guoji wenhua chubangongsi, 1999), discussed below. Another example is Mao
Qiling, Wuzong waiji, in Xiangyan congshu (Shanghai: Guoxue fulun she, 1914),
vol. 6, ji 11 juan 2, pp. 3001–24. For the trope of an emperor’s amorous journey that
aªorded the pleasure of substitution for the male reader, see Kang Zhengguo, Chong-
shen fengyuejian (Taipei: Maitian chuban, 1996), pp. 182–99.
17. Li Yu, “Shouzu,” in Xianqing ouji (Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 2000),
p. 136; emphasis mine. For a more elegant but slightly less literal translation, see
Patrick Hanan, The Invention of Li Yu (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press,
1988), p. 68. Hanan has pointed out that Li’s claims notwithstanding, he had trav-
eled only occasionally; his first trip was not taken until 1666, when he was already
a best-selling author, and took him to Beijing, Shaanxi, and Gansu. In 1668 he went
to Guangzhou; 1670, Fuzhou; 1672, Hanyang; 1673, Beijing (6–7). Li Yu used the
same trope of an all-seeing narrator in his novel The Carnal Prayer Mat, trans. Patrick
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
Hanan (Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 1990), in the character of the Knave,
a thief. If not for his comprehensive knowledge, gained from hovering on rooftops
at night, his friend Vesperus would not have known that his natural penis was too
tiny for his outsized fantasies.
18. My translation of the titles of the eight sections roughly follows that of Hanan
(Invention, pp. 28, 196). See chap. 8 of Invention of Li Yu for Hanan’s structural
analysis of the prose (xiaopin) of Xianqing ouji and its significance to Li’s corpus
and literary history. Hanan has also shown that Li “used the book . . . in his quest
for patronage” (196). He dispatched copies of the book to his most powerful for-
mer patrons as soon as they came oª the press in late 1671, followed by letters and
a visit to the capital seeking further commissions (1–6). At the same time, Li in-
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NOTES TO PAGES 153–154 272
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tended his book for a broad literate readership, explaining that wenren (literatus)
means “any one who can read” (199).
19. The heads and subheads of the “Feminine Beauty” section are suggestive of
Li’s priorities in his connoisseurship of women (Xianqing ouji, passim):
I. Natural endowment (xuanzi)
A. Skin
B. Eyebrows and eyes
C. Hands and feet
D. Glance, gesture, and air (taidu)
II. Embellishments
A. Caring for face and hair
B. Fragrance
C. Facial make-up
III. Attire
A. Hair ornaments
B. Clothing
C. Shoes and stockings
Appended: “On shoes and stockings for women,” by Yu Huai
IV. Training and skills
A. Literature
B. Musical instruments
C. Song and dance
Li’s advice on desirable gait in general and binding feet in particular appear in essays
B and C of section I and C of section III.
20. Li Yu, Xianqing ouji, p. 138, see also p. 134. More advice on how to “size up”
(xiang) potential concubines is on pp. 132–42.
21. Ibid., p. 136. Li Yu received Miss Qiao as a gift in 1666 and Miss Wang in
1667 (Hanan, Invention, p. 8). For Hanan’s arguments about their influence on Xian-
qing ouji, see Invention, pp. 29, 67.
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
22. One interesting example of the latter is a bundle of essays in Chu Jiaxuan’s
Jianhu ji. I have discussed one of them in an earlier essay, “Footbinding as Female
Inscription,” in Rethinking Confucianism: Past and Present in China, Japan, Korea,
and Vietnam, ed. Benjamin Elman, John Duncan, and Herman Ooms (Los Ange-
les: Asia Pacific Monograph Series in International Studies, UCLA, 2002).
23. Hanan, Invention, p. 1; for Li’s personae and contributions to the xiaopin-
essay, see pp. 45–58.
24. This same attitude of “footbinding is natural” is also discernible from the
early-Qing anti-footbinding edicts, as I have argued in an earlier article, “The Body
as Attire: The Shifting Meanings of Footbinding in Seventeenth-Century China,”
Journal of Women’s History 8, no. 4 ( Winter 1997): 8–27. Here my reading of Li Yu’s
love of footbinding diªers from that of many modern critics. Chun-shu Chang and
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NOTES TO PAGES 154–157 273
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see Huang Qiang’s chapter “Li Yu yu fushi wenhua,” in Li Yu yanjiu, pp. 147–62.
29. Feng Erkang has suggested that the purpose of Wang Jingqi’s trip was to seek
patronage from Hu Qiheng, a provincial administrative commissioner and a pro-
tégé of Nian Gengyao in Xi’an (Yongzheng zhuan [Beijing: Renmin chubanshe, 1985],
p. 118). “Private advisor” is an imprecise rendition of muyou (tent-friend), one of
the several classes of personnel hired by a high-ranking o‹cial using his private
coªers: xuli, muyou, mensheng, jianü. The xuli acted as intermediaries between the
o‹cial and the runners. One of the jobs of the muyou was to supervise the xuli.
Miyazaki Ichisada has argued that the importance of muyou grew during the
Yongzheng reign; the secret memorial system he instituted created a paper trail that
required enhanced assistance from advisors with literary and practical skills (“Shindai
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NOTES TO PAGES 157–158 274
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no shuri to bakuyu: toku ni Yosei cho o chushin toshite,” chap. in Toyoshi ken-
kyukai, ed., Yosei jidai no kenkyu [Kyoto: Dohosha, 1986], pp. 215–42).
30. An older generation of scholars tended to follow the explanation of the em-
inent Qing historian Meng Sen (1868–1937) that Yongzheng had to dispose of Nian
because Nian knew too much about his subjugation of his brother Yinti, Kangxi’s
favorite son. See Meng, “Qingchu sanda yian kaoshi,” in Xinshi congkan, wai yi zhong
(Changsha: Yuelu shushe, 1986), pp. 279–330; see especially his arguments on Nian
on pp. 295, 312. Fang Chao-ying’s entry on Nian [Nien Keng-yao] in Arthur W.
Hummel, ed., Eminent Chinese of the Ch’ing Period (Washington, D.C.: U.S. Govern-
ment Printing O‹ce, 1943), pp. 587–90, followed this argument. See also his entry
on Wang Jingqi [Wang Ching-ch’i], pp. 812–13. Recent scholars tend to eschew a
single-cause explanation. Feng Erkang, for example, has argued that Nian’s arro-
gance, corruption, and factionalism accounted for Yongzheng’s gradual change of
heart (Yongzheng zhuan, pp. 104–20). For a brief but vivid account of Yongzheng’s
rage at Wang Jingqi and Nian Gengyao, see Jonathan Spence, Treason by the Book
(New York: Viking, 2001), pp. 30–33, 40, 51–52.
31. Wang Jingqi, Dushutang xizheng suibi (Hong Kong: Longmen shudian, 1967).
This is a facsimile copy of the 1928 typeset edition published by the Zhanggu bu
(Section for Historical Documents) of the Palace Museum, Beiping. Yongzheng’s
handwritten comments are reproduced on page 1a following the preface. Details of
the confiscation of Nian Gengyao’s papers at his residence in Hangzhou are in a
memorial by the two investigating o‹cers, Fu Min and E Minda, cited in the pref-
ace by Li Wei, 1a–b. The last emperor Xuantong (personal name Puyi) vacated the
palace on Nov. 5, 1924; on Nov. 20 a Commission for the Custody of the Property
of the Manchu House (Qingshi shanhou weiyuanhui), headed by Li Shizeng, was
established, and inspection of the palace began. In their initial inventory report,
Gugong wupin diancha baogao, 6 vols. (Beiping: Qingshi shanhou weiyuanhui,
1925–26), there is no entry with Wang’s name or the book under its present title.
But item no. 1047 from the “Maoqin dian, Shangshufang” list (vol. 1, book 4, p.
114) refers to “two volumes of books” logged as “kuangyu fuzhe” (wild and stupid
to the extreme). Could this be the one? The Maoqin Hall (Maoqin dian) in which
the locked box was discovered is a western chamber inside the inner palace behind
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
the Qianqing gate; it was where Yongzheng read documents, summoned minis-
ters, and stored part of his archives. One of the committee members was Zhuang
Yan; see his memoirs, Shantang qinghua (Taipei: National Palace Museum, 1980)
for a fascinating account of the inventory-taking process. For the formation of the
Palace Museum, see Hermann Köster, “The Palace Museum of Peiping,” Monu-
menta Serica, vol. 2 (1936–37): 167–90. I am grateful to Susan Naquin for this ref-
erence. See also James Cahill, “Two Palace Museums: An Informal Account of Their
Formation and History (Ching Yüan Chai so-shih IV),” Kaikodo Journal (Spring
2001): 30–39.
32. The story of Wang Sizhong is in “Yulin tongzhi Wang Yuanshi,” Dushutang
xizheng suibi, pp. 40a–41a; that of Zhang Pengge is in “Suining renpin,” pp. 41a–
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NOTES TO PAGES 158–168 275
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43b. Yao Lingxi was so taken with this story that he quoted it in his Siwuxie xiaoji
(n.p., Caihua shulin, 1974), pp. 191–92. For the successful bureaucratic career of
Zhang, see Eminent Chinese of the Ch’ing Period, pp. 49–51. He was said to be an
“ardent Confucianist” who persecuted Christians in 1691 while serving as governor
of Zhejiang (271). Jonathan Spence has recounted the Zhang story as told by Wang
Jingqi in Treason by the Book, pp. 32–33.
33. This is one of those statements that cannot be proved. I say “probably” in
part because the tone of Wang’s letter to Nian Gengyao with six appended poems
(Xizheng suibi, pp. 20a–22b) is solicitous if not downright obsequious. This sug-
gests that Wang had intended to send the missives to Nian when he wrote them.
34. The ten towns are: Pingding zhou, Shouyang, Yuci, Pingyao, Jiexiu, Huo-
zhou, Hongdong, Quwo, Anyi, Puzhou (Dushutang xizheng suibi, pp. 19b–20a).
35. Wang, “Buguang xiaozhuan,” in ibid., pp. 5b–8b.
36. Ibid., p. 6a. The Gushe Mountain is located west of Linfen county, Shanxi,
which was near Houma, where Wang met Lightning Steps. The name also appeared
in the Shanhaijing, and Qing scholars debated if it is the same as the one mentioned
in Zhuangzi. See Ciyuan (Hong Kong: Shangwu yinshuguan, 1987), p. 403.
37. Ibid., p. 6b. The titles of the three songs: “Fengguang hao” (Beautiful
scenery), “Wang moulang xin buzhi” (He hasn’t written), and “Moulang boxing”
(He is heartless).
38. Ibid., p. 7a.
39. Wang’s father, Wang Bin, was selected an Erudite in a boxue hongci exami-
nation of 1679 and served subsequently in the Imperial Academy and the Ministry
of Revenue. Jingqi’s elder brother, Jianqi (b. 1670), won a jinshi degree in 1709 and
served as a secretary at the Ministry of Rites (Eminent Chinese, pp. 812–13).
40. Wang, Dushutang xizheng suibi, pp. 7b–8a. Ironically, Wang’s spiteful remarks
about southern scholars could have come from the mouth of Yongzheng, who har-
bored a visceral disgust toward Jiangnan scholars, especially those from Zhejiang.
After he executed Wang Jingqi, in 1726 Yongzheng created a new o‹ce, Guanfeng
zhengsu shi, which Spence renders “Supervisor of Public Morality,” for the Prov-
ince of Zhejiang (Treason by the Book, p. 26). Later, in 1729, similar o‹ces were in-
stituted in three other troublesome southern provinces, Fujian, Hunan, and Guang-
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
dong. See Yokoyama Hiroo, “Kanfu seizokushi kao,” chap. in Toyoshi kenkyukai,
Yosei jidai no kenkyu, pp. 782–800.
41. Wang, “Yu Hongshicun sannü ji,” in Dushutang xizheng suibi, pp. 8b–14b.
42. Both the terminology and definition of “pictorial cosmology” are from
Jonathan Hay, “Beyond Style in the Connoisseurship and Interpretation of Chi-
nese Painting,” unpublished paper, 2002, pp. 18–20. See also his Shitao: Painting
and Modernity in Early Qing China (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001),
pp. 277–81. Hay uses “pictorial cosmology” to refer to the ordering of a painting’s
surface, one that shares a structural homology with social cosmologies or hierar-
chies. I use the term here to denote the ordering of space in a written text.
43. Wang, “Yi tuzhong suojian,” Dushutang xizheng suibi, pp. 19b–20a.
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NOTES TO PAGES 168–173 276
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51. Pu Songling, Liaozhai liqu ji, p. 903. All of the songs in the play are set to
the same tune, “shua haier,” which has eight lines. Only seven are translated here;
the first line reads: “Your Majesty, your humble servant reports:”. Fujita Yuken has
argued that among the fifteen liqu “Zengbu xingyun qu” most resembles a novel.
The use of “shua haier,” a tune in vogue at the time, and colloquialisms allowed Pu
to highlight the humanness of the characters and the richness of their mundane life
(“Ryosai zokyoku,” pp. 41–42).
52. Pu, Liaozhai liqu ji, p. 964.
53. Ibid., pp. 936, 959. Following a trope, Fo Dongxin is said to be a native of
Yangzhou, daughter of a military o‹cer, who was sold to the brothel when orphaned
at age eight (945).
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NOTES TO PAGES 173–177 277
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54. Ibid., p. 936. For Fo Dongxin singing Kunqu, see p. 1019. Other examples
of the expression “half-a-zha” are on pp. 455, 483, 487, 524.
55. Purple cotton cloth (zihuabu) is a light reddish brown fabric made from pur-
ple cotton. Although coarse, it was popular and commanded prices double the stan-
dard varieties. See Nishijima Sadao, “The Formation of the Early Chinese Cotton
Industry,” in State and Society in China: Japanese Perspectives on Ming-Qing Social
and Economic History, ed. Linda Grove and Christian Daniels (Tokyo: University
of Tokyo Press, 1984), p. 54.
56. Pu, Liaozhai liqu ji, pp. 954–55. The fine gradation of domestic women with
bound feet is expressed or sustained by way of fabric, color, and design of their shoes
in the novel Hu Xueyan waizhuan discussed in chap. 3. The fabric and design of
male clothing also marks their status distinctions. See a graphic scene of Zhengde
and Dragon Wang dueling while disrobing in the bathhouse on pp. 1004–5. With-
out revealing his dragon robe, Zhengde trumped Dragon in displaying an under-
garment made of pearls.
57. Pu, Liaozhai liqu ji, p. 557.
58. Ibid., pp. 618, 620.
59. Ibid., p. 648.
60. Ibid., p. 642. Zhang’s mortal wife, Madame Fang, is repeatedly signified by
her handiwork. In a later scene, the virtuous wife sat up with her son into the night.
While he studied, she did fine embroidery using as many as fifteen strands of silk
floss (659).
61. Ibid., p. 930.
62. “Zhang Hongjian,” in Pu Songling, Liaozhai zhiyi ( Ji’nan: Qilu shushe,
1981), pp. 1789–1803; the term liren is on p. 1791. This is a facsimile reprint of the
“Ershisi juan chaoben” (24-fascicle manuscript). For a comparison of this manu-
script with two others, the earlier “Zhuxue zhai chaoben” and Pu’s own manuscript,
see the appendix to Liu Jieping, Pu Liuxian Songling xiansheng nianpu (Taipei:
Zhonghua shuju, 1985), pp. 193–211. For a history of the publication and reception
of Liaozhai zhiyi during the Qing dynasty, see Judith T. Zeitlin, Historian of the
Strange: Pu Songling and the Chinese Classical Tale (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford Uni-
versity Press, 1993), pp. 16–42. He Manzi has compared Pu Songling’s tales and seven
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
subsequent liqu that were based on the same plots, including the Zhang Hongjian
story. He concluded that Pu “in his old age was leaning more toward the common
people” (Pu Songling yu Liaozhai zhiyi [Shanghai: Shanghai chuban gongsi, 1955],
pp. 41–108; quote from p. 71).
63. Zeitlin, Historian of the Strange, p. 125; emphases in the original.
64. Both the Liaozhai tales and the vernacular plays depict footbinding as a sign
of natural femininity and as part of the female toilette. There are two salient diªer-
ences, however. The plays abound in ridicule of big or poorly bound feet (see be-
low in the chapter), which is absent in the tales. The tales, in turn, include several
allusions to the explicit eroticism of bound feet, which is absent in the plays. In a
provocative tale, “Zhinü” (The weaving maid), a pair of bound feet was called xiati,
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NOTES TO PAGES 177–179 278
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which usually means “genitals” (Liaozhai zhiyi, p. 1783). The bound feet were
conflated with private parts akin to genitals, the exposure of which brought shame
and embarrassment (1077). In the tale “Yanzhi” (Rouge), the erotic charge of feet
was extended to embroidered slippers, which were called xiewu (lewd object) and
were construed as a love token (2004).
65. “Shang Sanguan,” in Pu, Liaozhai zhiyi, pp. 571–76; quote from p. 574.
“Hansen qu,” in Pu, Liaozhai liqu, pp. 271–343; quote from p. 295.
66. Ibid., p. 351. “Qinse le” was considered so erotic that it was missing from
many of the earlier editions of Liaozhai liqu, such as Liu Jieping’s edited volume
cited above. A copy is preserved at Keio University and was studied by Fujita Yuken.
The version reprinted in Liaozhai liqu ji is based on this manuscript and another
copy collected by a “Mr. Sheng Wai” (35–36). Judith Zeitlin has discussed a colophon
by fellow liqu-writer Gao Heng ( jinshi 1643) who defended its propriety (Historian
of the Strange, p. 224 n.7). “Qinse le” was reprinted as an erotic ballad with a new
preface and afterword under the title of “Guiyan qinsheng,” attributed to a Gu
Gaoyang Xishan Qiaozi. I have consulted two versions of the latter: Zhongguo guyan
xipin congkan, vol. [ ji] 1, book [ze] 3 (n.p., n.d.), pp. 1–38, which appears to be a
facsimile of a typeset edition compiled by none other than Yao Lingxi, with the
title “Weike zhenpin congchuan” in the margins; and “Guiyan qinsheng,” in Inoue
Kobai, Shina fuzoku (Shanghai: Nihondo shoten, 1920–21), 1: 205–30. The text of
the two versions is similar, but the latter includes marginal comments in the top
margins. “Guiyan qinsheng” diªers only slightly from “Qinse le.” An advertisement
of “recently published books” by Tianjin shuju appended to CFL II identifies the
compiler of Weike zhenpin congchuan as Yao Lingxi. A friend of Yao Lingxi by the
name of Ya Fei discerned that “Guiyan qinsheng” (Romance of the boudoir in
Shaanxi sounds) is a misnomer because the ballad is full of Shandong dialect and
customs. See CFJHL: 144.
67. Pu, Liaozhai liqu ji, pp. 914–15. In another play, a prostitute Lanfang sits
side by side with a patron and flirts with him by “secretly kicking her gilded lilies”
under her skirt (542), as if anticipating his fondling.
68. Ibid., pp. 348, 351–52.
69. Both the bride and groom in “Pleasures of Marriage” are said to be “zaguo”
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
or “zagua” (350). For similar usage in other vernacular plays, see ibid., pp. 455, 906,
936, 997, 1028. “Zagua” can also refer to the renovation or fixing-up of a house (214).
The bride’s song on the morning after continues: “Suddenly remembering the wed-
ding kerchief, / I look for it on and oª the bed. / But look he is holding it in his
hand, / When I try to snatch it he slips away with a smile.” The “wedding kerchief ”
(xijuan; xihong ) is a piece of silk stained with virginal blood. Here Pu Songling ex-
ploits the erotic potential of footbinding-as-toilette, using the bride’s dishevelment
as invitation to the reader to imagine her deflowering.
70. Ibid., pp. 55, 57. “Gufu qu” is based on a Liaozhai tale, “Shanhu.” The same
scene in the tale is brief: “Every morning she pays respect to [her mother-in-law]
in brilliant make-up and attire [ jingzhuang ].” Upon being reprimanded as “pro-
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NOTES TO PAGES 179–181 279
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silk here. See also Zhou Xun and Gao Chunming, Zhongguo yiguan, pp. 28–29.
74. Pu, Liaozhai liqu ji, pp. 212–13. Elder Sister, a widow, had returned to her
natal family to care for her ailing stepmother after her son married. Although her
husband left her meager properties, her widow status might have prompted her to
be more humble and resistant to excessive gifts than her mother.
75. Ibid., p. 213. Tenants or renters are called kejiazi (guest people) and their
wives, kejia laopozi (guest granny) or kejia xifuzi (guest daughter-in-law) in Shan-
dong dialect. The women helped with cooking or served as personal attendants (183,
208). Due to regional variations and year-by-year fluctuations, it is di‹cult to as-
certain the purchasing power of 200 coppers (qian). For a discussion of this prob-
lem, see Nakayama, “Shindai zenki Konan no bukka.”
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NOTES TO PAGES 181–183 280
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79. These expressions appear, in order of discussion here, in Pu, Liaozhai liqu
ji, pp. 519, 956, 953, 518, 404. See p. 456 for a related expression, “a pair of your
shoes takes up two feet worth of silk.” The gendered unevenness of posing in the
vernacular plays is evinced by the disguised emperor Zhengde in “Song of Blissful
Clouds.” His shabby military attire in cotton surely caused him grief, but his faux
pas were mostly verbal and behavioral. Ultimately, he always managed to bail him-
self out of a sticky situation by throwing a handful of gold or pearls at his adver-
saries. In contrast, the women taunted for having poorly bound feet had no recourse.
Women either had perfect feet or ugly feet in these plays. The trope of laughing at
big feet is common in three other eighteenth-century collections of popular songs:
Nichang xupu, Baixue yiyin, and Zhui baiqiu. See Li Xiaoti’s analysis in “Shiba shiji
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NOTES TO PAGES 183–188 281
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6. CINDERELLA’S DREAMS
1. The earliest extant socks for both sexes are from the Western Han period.
The shape and fabric of socks from subsequent dynasties may diverge, but the ba-
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
sic construction has not changed. For an illustrated history of socks, see Zhou Xun
and Gao Chunming, Zhongguo lidai funü zhuangshi (Shanghai: Xuelin chubanshe
and Hong Kong: Sanlian shudian, 1997), pp. 290–93. In contrast, socks from the
early twentieth century are three-dimensional and more form-fitting (see fig. 8).
2. The state and whereabouts of the woman’s bodily remains are unknown. The
binding cloth is now flat and resembles the socks in shape. It is 21.5 cm (8.6 inches)
long from the tip to the heel area. Understandably, I was not allowed to unwrap
the bundle to examine its inner layers. Although the shoes and socks are typical,
the binding cloth is curious and raises a number of questions about its use. The
knot, for example, seems too bulky to fit under the narrow shoes. Is this style of
binding feet reserved for dressing a corpse? These rare artifacts deserve further re-
search. A chemical analysis of the composition and dating had yet to be performed
when I visited the museum in June 2003. I thank Dr. Zhao Feng, vice director of
the museum and a foremost authority of ancient textiles in China, for his hospi-
tality and generous assistance.
3. I have discussed the problems of knowing others’ pain and sympathy in an
early article, “The Subject of Pain,” now collected in From the Late Ming to the Late
Qing: Dynastic Decline and Cultural Innovation, ed. David Wang and Wei Shang (Stan-
ford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, forthcoming). For the poetry of the Ming
gentrywoman Shen Yixiu (1590–1635) and her daughters on the subjects of body
and feet, see my Teachers of the Inner Chambers: Women and Culture in Seventeenth-
Century China (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 1994), pp. 167–71. For
the works of other women poets, see Women Writers of Traditional China: An An-
thology of Poetry and Criticism, ed. Kang-i Sun Chang and Haun Saussy (Stanford,
Calif.: Stanford University Press, 1999). Although often vivid and poignant in con-
veying female sentiments and everyday life, these poems are by and large silent on
women’s bodily sensations and subjective feelings of footbinding.
4. See a similar pair from a Yuan tomb excavated in Wuxi, Jiangsu, in Zhou and
Gao, Zhongguo lidai funü zhuangshi, p. 305.
5. Gongxie is an ambiguous term; in itself it does not indicate the design or
shape of the shoes. For an array of textual references to the term from the Five Dy-
nasties to the Qing, see Zhou Xun and Gao Chunming, Zhongguo yiguan fushi
dacidian (Shanghai: Shanghai cishu chubanshe, 1996), p. 299. Similarly, “phoenix-
head ” is a generic name. For the wide-ranging varieties of “fengtou xie,” see Zhou
and Gao, p. 298.
6. Jiangxisheng wenwu gongzuodui, “Jiangxi Nancheng Ming Yixuanwang Zhu
Yiyin fufu hezang mu,” Wenwu 8 (1982): 20, 22. The length and width of the shoes
are not given in the archaeological report, but are furnished by the costume histo-
rians Zhou Xun and Gao Chunming (Zhongguo lidai funü zhuangshi, p. 298). For
evolution of high-heeled footwear, see also their Zhongguo chuantong fuzhuang
xingzhi shi (Taipei: Nantian shuju, 1998), pp. 125–26. Focusing on the height of the
platform soles, they have suggested that Madam Sun’s shoes from the Jiangxi tomb
belong to the emergent fad of high-heeled shoes in the late Ming. Focusing on the
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
physiology of the foot and way of binding, I opt to classify them with the flat-soled
footwear tradition from the Song and Yuan.
7. Yang Shen, Han zashi mixin, in Xiangyan congshu (Shanghai: Guoxue fulun-
she, 1914), p. 652. The anecdote about “Quick-mounting” in Song Lizong’s court is
from Songshi (Dynastic history of the Song), Wuxingzhi; cited in Gao Shiyu, “Chan-
zu zaiyi,” Shixue yuekan 2 (1999): 23; and Su Fu, Xianggui xiewa dianlüe, p. 45.
8. Fujiansheng bowuguan, ed., Fuzhou Nan-Song Huang Sheng mu (Beijing:
Wenwu chubanshe, 1982), p. 19. See also Fujiansheng bowuguan, “Fuzhou shi bei-
jiao Nan-Song mu qingli jianbao,” Wenwu 7 (1977): 1–17. Quanzhou silk was ex-
ported to Persia and Southeast Asia. Huang Sheng’s shoes were made of fancy gauze
woven with three-ply warps; two pairs were edged with gold-printed plum motifs.
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Her six pairs of shoes are 13.3–14 cm (5.3–5.6 inches) long and 4.5–5 cm (1.8–2
inches) wide. The plain silk socks are all lined, measuring 16.4 cm (6.6 inches) from
toe to heel, with shafts 16 cm (6.4 inches) tall. For Huang Sheng’s shoes, see also
my Every Step a Lotus: Shoes for Bound Feet (Berkeley: University of California Press,
2001), pp. 21–22. A modern photograph of the bare feet of a Mrs. Wu Han shows
her toes curling upward (Howard S. Levy, Chinese Footbinding: The History of a
Curious Erotic Custom [Taipei: Nantian shuju, 1984], p. 256).
9. Jiangxisheng wenwu kaogu yanjiusuo and De’an xian bowuguan, “Jiangxi De’an
Nan-Song Zhoushi mu qingli jianbao,” Wenwu 9 (1990): 1–13. The shoes are 18–22
cm (7.2–8.8 inches) long and 5–6 cm (2–2.4 inches) wide. The socks are all made of
golden-yellow gauze; three pairs are knee-high (40 cm or 16 inches from heel to top),
two are medium-length (20.5 cm or 8.2 inches), and two are short (17 cm or 6.8
inches). The binding cloth is 200 cm (6 ft. 8 in.) long and 10 cm (4 inches) wide.
10. There are two diªerences in the footwear fashion of the two ladies. Although
their binding cloths are equal in length, Madam Huang’s are ribbon-like, only 0.9
cm (0.4 inches) wide, whereas Madam Zhou’s are 10 cm (4 inches) wide, a tad wider
than the usual modern ones. This could be due to Huang’s younger age, as young
girls did tend to use narrower binding cloths in the modern period. A second diªer-
ence is that Huang was buried with two styles of decorated silk leg-binders (Fu-
jiansheng bowuguan, “Fuzhou shi beijiao Nan-Song mu qingli jianbao,” Wenwu 7
[1977]: 9). There is no counterpart in Madam Zhou’s tomb.
11. Yu Huai, “Furen xiewakao,” in Tanji congshu, ed. Wang Zhuo and Zhang
Chao (copy in Naikaku bunko), 31.2b–3a.
12. Liu Tingji, Zaiyuan zazhi, in Jindai Zhongguo shiliao congkan, ed. Shen Yun-
long (Taipei: Wenhai chubanshe, 1969), 4.21a. The description begins with nam-
ing three types of fashionable footwear: “Female footwear include gongxie [arched
or bow-shaped shoes], embroidered shoes, and phoenix-head shoes.” It is not clear
from Chinese syntax if all three types of footwear or only gongxie had high heels.
Liu also wrote that after women adopted high heels, they abandoned socks with
soles in favor of socks without soles. This is not accurate. Textual and material evi-
dence show little correlation between the soles of socks and the heels of shoes.
13. Yu Huai, Banqiao zaji, 3.7a, in Xiangyan congshu (Shanghai: Guoxue fulun-
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
she, 1914), p. 3665. Both gong and wan were used to describe feet before the six-
teenth century, but the use of each adjective alone does not automatically imply a
curved arch. For a similar use of gongwan as Yu Huai, see Xie Zaihang, Wenhai pisha
(Shanghai: Dada tushu gongyingshe, 1935; preface dated 1609), p. 63. Xie stated:
“The ancients did not curve their arches, but it does not mean that they did not
bind feet.”
14. In the myths of Consort Pan and Yaoniang, the golden lotus was a prop for
palace dancers and retains traces of its Buddhist origins. In Song poetry, it became a
euphemism for desirable women’s feet or footsteps. See “jinlian” entry, Ye Dabing and
Qian Jinbo, Zhongguo xielü wenhua cidian (Shanghai: Shanghai sanlian, 2001), p. 25.
15. Ye Mengzhu, Yueshibian, juan 8, cited in ibid., pp. 24–25.
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16. Tian Yiheng, Liuqing rizha (Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 1985; fac-
simile of 1609 edition), 20.6a–b. Most intriguing is Tian’s description of the fash-
ionable footwear in Guangdong, a province on the far southern edge of the em-
pire: “Nowadays women in Guangdong wear wooden clogs even for bright sunny
days and broad daylight.” In a bit of doggerel Tian made it clear that the feet of
these women were bare and that they did not bind their feet. He wrote: “Not that
they lack the support of a lotus, / But they detest the shrinking of [the foot into]
the bud of a bamboo shoot” (Liuqing rizha, 20.7a–b).
17. Gao Jiangcun, Tianlu shiyu, cited in Su Fu, Xianggui xiewa, xia 12b [p. 68].
In the nineteenth century, each region had also developed distinct styles for em-
broidered slippers. See my Every Step a Lotus, chap. 4. There is insu‹cient mate-
rial evidence to ascertain the beginnings of these regional diversities. Wang’s and
Gao’s remarks suggest that a broad north-south diªerence was evident by the late
seventeenth century.
18. Xuehong xiaoji, cited in Su Fu, Xianggui xiewa, shang 11a–b [pp. 23–24]. This
description is not in the Xiangyan congshu version of Xuehong xiaoji (ca. 1787) and
its sequel, both attributed to Zhuquan jushi, and is likely to have been added later.
Complaints about the feet of Yangzhou prostitutes are particularly common. In Feng-
yuemeng (preface dated 1848), a courtesan novel set in Yangzhou, all the women wore
wooden soles. One had feet over six inches long; her soles were extra-small but the
vamps were roomy. Her shoes were forcibly strapped onto her feet by the shoelaces
(Cao Wugang and Hanshang mengren, Wan-Qing yanqing xiaoshuo congshu—
Meilan jiahua; Fengyuemeng [Nanchang: Baihuazhou wenyi chubanshe, 1993], pp.
221–24).
19. For an analysis of this dynamic in the field of the civil service exam, see Ben-
jamin Elman, A Cultural History of Civil Examinations in Late Imperial China
(Berkeley: University of California Press, 2000).
20. Xue Ji, Xue Ji yian, 8.296, in Tushu jicheng yibu quanlu, xin jiaoben (Taipei:
Xinwenfeng chuban gongsi, n.d. [1979]). I thank Charlotte Furth for her help with
information on Xue Ji.
21. Jujia biyong shilei was first compiled during the reign of Shizu (r. 1260–94)
of the Yuan dynasty. I have compared the Ming Neifu edition in the Naikaku bunko,
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
the microfilmed version of the Ming Silijian edition in the Fu Ssu-nien Library,
and a Japanese edition issued in 1673. The recipes are identical. For the sake of con-
venience I cite the widely available Japanese edition (Kyoto: Chubun shuppansha,
1984 [facsimile of 1673 edition printed in Japan]). Shilin guang ji is catalogued in
today’s libraries as a Yuan dynasty work, but it was first compiled before the fall of
the Southern Song by the scholar Chen Yuanjing (fl. 1195–1264), about whom lit-
tle is known. The Song work is no longer extant. For a history of the diªerent edi-
tions, see the preface to Chen Yuanjing, comp., Shilin guang ji (Kyoto: Chubun shup-
pansha, 1988), pp. 1–27. This is a rather poor facsimile of the almanac published in
the Yuan Zhishun reign (1330–33). The recipes in the two other editions I consulted
at the Naikaku bunko, a magnificent Yuan edition and a Ming printing using Yuan
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blocks, are identical. The order of the sections diverges. In the two Yuan editions,
the recipes are in the first (houji) of four sequels. In the Ming printing using Yuan
blocks, they are in the last sequel (waiji).
22. Chen Yuanjing, comp., Shilin guang ji, Yuan edition, houji, 10.13b–14b. Copy
in the Naikaku bunko. See also pp. 658–59 of the 1988 facsimile.
23. Jujia biyong shilei, geng ji, 64a–b.
24. Ibid., 64b; Shilin guang ji, houji, 10.14a.
25. All four recipes from the Jujia biyong and Shilin guang ji were reprinted in
Wanbao quanshu, a popular late-Ming almanac. They have now been separated from
“Guige shiyi” and placed under their own category, “Binding and swaddling”
(“Chanzha lei”). See, for example, Wanli quanbu wenlin miaojin wanbao quanshu
(Shulin [ Jianyang, Fujian]: Anzheng tang, 1612), 34.21b–22b; copy in the Harvard-
Yenching Library. For the myriad versions of the Wanbao quanshu, their classification
schemes and contents, see Wu Huifang, Wanbao quanshu: Ming-Qing shiqi de min-
jian shenghuo shilu (Taipei: Guoli Zhengzhi daxue lishixi, 2001). An abridged ver-
sion of the Shilin guang ji tonic recipe is in Zhang Dai, Yehang chuan (Hangzhou:
Zhejiang guji chubanshe, 1981), p. 673. New recipes were added to the repertoire.
See Shi Chengjin (b. 1659), Chuanjia bao (Family treasures, pub. 1692–1739), duo-
neng ji, cited in CFL III: 153–54, and the two new recipes “Lianxiang shan” and
“Xiao jinlian fang” in Su Fu, Xianggui xiewa, xia, 21a–22a [pp. 85–87]. The tradi-
tion lasted into the modern times, but the recipe in Jujia yiji, an 1850 almanac, is
much simplified ([n.p., preface 1820–50], sanxulu [third sequel, preface 1850],
42a–b); copy in the Fu Ssu-nien Library. A handful of these traditional recipes ap-
peared before new recipes for letting out feet in CFL III: 153–55.
26. I thank Dr. Michael Fuhr, director of the Karl Ernst Osthaus Museum in Ha-
gen, Germany, for inviting me to participate in the “Museutopia” project. Work-
ing with him, Thomas W. Rieger, and Hope Wurmfeld taught me a great deal about
the utopian implications of the concept of overcoming the body.
27. Zhao Jingshen, “Tan Ming Chenghua kanben ‘shuochang cihua,’” Wenwu 11
(1972), reprinted in a promotional brochure appended to Ming Chenghua shuochang
cihua congkan (Beijing: Wenwu chubanshe, 1979).
28. Anne E. McLaren has discerned a “hierarchy of reading practices” whereby
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
those of women and other less-educated readers were denigrated (Chinese Popular
Culture and Ming Chantfables [Leiden: Brill, 1998]; quote from p. 49). See also Zeng
Yongyi, Shuo xuwenxue (Taipei: Lianjing, 1984), pp. 67–74.
29. “Xinke shuochang Bao Longtu duan Cao Guojiu gongan zhuan,” 4a, in Ming
Chenghua shuochang cihua.
30. Not only princesses and maids, but also people from all walks of life are in-
troduced by way of what they wear. Fine examples are the patched clothing and
lice-infected hairdo of a beggar woman in “Rencong renmu zhuan” (3a–3b) and
the frivolous, up-to-the-minute fashionable outfits of a pair of ne’er-do-wells in
“Duanwai wupan zhuan” (20a, in Ming Chenghua shuochang cihua).
31. “Xinbian shuochang quanxiang Shilang fuma zhuan,” 2a–3b, in Ming
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NOTES TO PAGES 202–207 286
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Chenghua shuochang cihua. “Shiyang jin” refers to a famous pattern of ten auspi-
cious motifs, among them bamboo, lozenge, and tawny daylily, first found on bro-
cades from the Shu kingdom in Sichuan during the Five Dynasties. The pattern re-
mained popular in the Yuan and Ming dynasties. Shen Congwen, Zhongguo gudai
fushi yanjiu (Taipei: Nantian, 1988), p. 364; Zhou Xibao, Zhongguo gudai fushi shi
(Taipei: Nantian shuju 1998), p. 256.
32. The princess’s toilette, with an emphasis on her fashion sense (shixin), is in
“Zhang Wengui zhuan,” 7b–8a. The entertainer with bound feet appears in “Zhang
Wengui zhuan,” 14a; the master weaver’s wife is in “Liu Dusai zhuan,” 2b–3a, 3b–4a,
29b, in Ming Chenghua shuochang cihua.
33. Anne McLaren, “Crossing Gender Boundaries in China: Nüshu Narratives,”
Intersections (1998): 1–16; quote from p. 6.
34. In a fluid society, the dangers of downward mobility are real and keenly felt.
Hu Shilan, an eighteenth-century gentrywoman who fell upon hard times in midlife,
expressed this pathos eloquently in a poem. See my discussion of this poem in “Foot-
binding as Female Inscription,” in Rethinking Confucianism: Past and Present in
China, Japan, Korea, and Vietnam, ed. Benjamin Elman, John Duncan, and Her-
man Ooms (Los Angeles: Asia Pacific Monograph Series in International Studies,
UCLA, 2002) and “The Sex of Footbinding,” in Good Sex: Women’s Religious Wis-
dom, ed. by Radhika Balakrishnan, Mary E. Hunt, and Patricia Beattie Jung (New
Brunswick, N.J.: Rutgers University Press, 2001).
35. “Xiuru ji” was first written in the Chenghua and Hongzhi reigns. The present
version was revised by Xu Lin (1462–1538). Xu Shuofang estimated the year of re-
vision to be around 1493 or before (“Xu Lin nianpu,” in Xu Shuofang ji [Hangzhou:
Zhejiang guji chubanshe, 1993]); the expression “jiaoxiao xiegong . . . wo xingzou
buguan” is cited in this study (5).
36. Xu Sanyou, ed., Xinqie quanbu tianxia simin liyong bianguan Wuche bojin
(Fujian: Jianyun chai, 1597), 9.3a; copy in the Library of Congress. The other chant
for the arrival of the bride also calls attention to her feet: “Bright red candles cast
a bright red shadow, / The peacock displays its feathers, adding to the happiness. /
Please bride, step oª the palanquin with joy, / Gently moving your lotus steps to
the reception hall” (9.3a).
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
scene of almost identical footwear in chapter 28. Looking for her lost shoe, Jinlian
also found one of Huilian’s, both of which Ximen had kept in his stationery box:
“they were both embroidered shoes of scarlet silk, figured with flowers from each
of the four seasons and the symbolic representations of the ‘eight treasures,’ with
flat, white satin soles, green heel lifts, and blue hook and eye fastenings. Only the
chain stitching of the two shoes was slightly diªerent.” Huilian’s willful act of im-
itation was all the more threatening because her shoes were slightly smaller than
Jinlian’s. The Plum in the Golden Vase or, Chin P’ing Mei, vol. 2: The Rivals, trans.
David Tod Roy (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2001), p. 155.
44. Plum, 2: 53. According to the insightful analysis of Ding Naifei of the role
played by the accoutrements of footbinding in the concealed sexual politics in Xi-
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NOTES TO PAGES 209–212 288
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men’s household, Huilian is both Jinlian’s competitor and “narrative double” who
relives Jinlian’s life at a lower social stratum (“Qiuqian, jiaodai, hong shuixie,” in
Xing/bei yanjiu duben, ed. Zhang Xiaohong [Taipei: Maitian chuban, 1998], pp.
23–60).
45. Ida Pruitt, A China Childhood (San Francisco: Chinese Materials Center, Inc.,
1978), p. 118. In chapter 23 of Jinpingmei, Song Huilian declined to braise a pig’s
head and trotters, using the excuse that she was “stitching shoe soles for the mistress”
(Plum, 2: 44). Kitchen help was even lower in the hierarchy of labors than stitching
soles.
46. Plum, 2: 166–69; the sleeping-shoe episode of the night before is on p. 163.
Ding Naifei has suggested that Ximen’s love of red shoes on Jinlian’s feet was a substi-
tute for his own desire to wear red shoes (“Qiuqian, jiaodai, hong shuixie,” pp.
24–25).
47. In her analysis of the female fashion culture in Jinpingmei, Zhang Jinlan has
reminded us that footwear was merely a part of the sartorial regime in Ximen’s house-
hold, from hairstyle, headdress, jackets, and skirts, to footwear (“Jinpingmei nü-
xing fushi wenhua yanjiu,” master’s thesis, Department of Chinese literature, Na-
tional Cheng-chi University, Taipei, Taiwan, 2000). I thank Hsiung Ping-chen and
Ms. Zhang for making this thesis available. Having tabulated all the footwear men-
tioned in the novel, Zhang has concluded that the shoes of “wives” were made of
mostly satin or damask; high heels predominated, although flats were also used;
only three of the maids, all Ximen’s favorites, were said to have bound feet (81–83).
48. To ingratiate herself to Jinlian the morning after Huilian spent the night with
Ximen in the garden grotto, Huilian oªered to pick up Jinlian’s sleeping shoes and
binding cloth, presumably for the laundry maid (Plum, 2: 55). These two items thus
appear to be similar to underwear: erotically charged, “dirty,” and defiling. In the late
Qing, sleeping shoes are virtually indistinguishable from socks. See the photograph
in my Every Step a Lotus, p. 71; and in Beverley Jackson, Splendid Slippers: A Thou-
sand Years of an Erotic Tradition (Berkeley, Calif.: Ten Speed Press, 1997), p. 48.
49. Plum, 2: 144. Ding Naifei (“Qiuqian, jiaodai, hong shuixie,” pp. 49–50) has
pointed out that the binding cloth was used to vastly diªerent eªect by Huilian,
Jinlian’s narrative double, who fastened them to the doorpost and hanged herself
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
in chapter 26 (Plum, 2: 123). In the mid-Qing erotic novel Lin Lanxiang, there is a
scene in Geng Lang’s household in which his second wife Xianger stripped fifth
wife Caiyun naked, “not leaving her even her footbindings.” Like the grape arbor
scene in The Plum, this scene also epitomizes the sexual abandon of the men and
women in a degenerate household. See Keith McMahon, Misers, Shrews, and Polyga-
mists: Sexuality and Male-Female Relations in Eighteenth-Century Chinese Fiction
(Durham and London: Duke University Press, 1995), pp. 214–15.
50. Li Yu, The Carnal Prayer Mat, trans. Patrick Hanan (Honolulu: The Uni-
versity of Hawaii Press, 1990), p. 50.
51. Hu Yinglin, Dianqian xinlu, in Shiaoshi shanfang bicong (Beijing: Zhonghua
shuju, 1958), p. 145.
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52. Fan Lian, Yunjian jumucao, 2.2b (p. 2628), in Biji xiaoshuo daguan, bian 22,
ze 5. Many writers, including Hu Yinglin (Dianqian xinlu, p. 165), commented on
the fad of straw shoes (puxie) for men.
53. C. R. Boxer, ed., South China in the Sixteenth Century (London: The Hak-
luyt Society, 1953), p. 124. Gaspar da Cruz’s work, Tractado, was printed in Evora
in 1569–70 (lxii). For other anecdotes on the shoe market in China, see Wang Hong-
tai’s rich study, “Liudong yu hudong: You Ming-Qing jian chengshi shenghuo de
texing tance gongzhong changyi de kaizhan,” Ph.D. diss., National Taiwan Uni-
versity, 1998, pp. 450–52. In arguing that “everyday tastes were dictated by the styles
from the market” (452), Wang may have underestimated the resilience of domestic
shoemaking and overstated the power of the market forces.
54. Yu Xiangdou, comp., Santai wanyong zhengzong ( Jianyang, Fujian: Yushi
Shuangfang tang, 1599), 21.19b–20a; copy in the Toyo bunka kenkyujo, University
of Tokyo. “Shoes” were listed in a checklist of commodities, after “summer cotton
cloth” and “bamboo and wooden boards.” Also mentioned were the pros and cons
of straw shoes (caoxin xie) from various villages.
55. Ibid.
56. Shen Fu, Six Records of a Floating Life, trans. Leonard Pratt and Chiang Su-
hui (London and New York: Penguin Books, 1983), p. 44. Shen described the attire
of prostitutes in Guangzhou: “Those with bound feet wore skirts, those without
bound feet wore short stockings, butterfly shoes, and long trousers” (120).
57. Lin Sumen, Hanjiang sanbaiyin ( Yangzhou: Jiangsu Guangling guji keyin-
she, 1988), 6.2a–b. This collection was originally published in the Jiaqing reign
(1796–1820), with a preface dated 1808. I thank Tobie Meyer-Fong for giving me a
copy of this text. The jet butterfly motif is abstract, more like a bat or a cloud. Lin
also mentioned that Yangzhou perfume stores made a sleeping shoe with a strong
fragrance, possibly in powder form, sandwiched between the vamps and lining and
also in the soles (6.3b–4a). Over a century later, Yao Lingxi reported that stores sell-
ing toiletry items and embroidered purses also sold sleeping shoes for several cop-
pers; these were love tokens that prostitutes dispensed freely to their clients, often
in sizes much smaller than their feet (CFJHL: 142–43). Perhaps the Yangzhou fra-
grant shoes were also so intended.
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
58. Zhang, a native of Taiyuan, Shanxi, moved to Jinzhou in 1730. He was Wang’s
neighbor before she married (Neige xingke tiben, bundle 150, Qianlong 3.3.27). The
erotic charge attached to sleeping shoes was also evident in the south. In a case from
Funing, Jiangsu, a casual laborer, also named Zhang, desired to marry a fellow vil-
lager named Zeng. Zhang showed a ring and a sleeping shoe to a matchmaker, claim-
ing that these items were love tokens. When Zeng’s parents refused the proposal
because of Zhang’s low social status, the matchmaker mentioned the shoe and ring.
Zeng’s mother, assuming that her daughter had indeed slept with Zhang, slapped
and upbraided her. That night, the daughter committed suicide (Neige xingke tiben,
“Marriage and illicit sex” [hunyin jianqing ] category , #209–3, microfilm reel 1–33,
Qianlong 8.6.17). I am extremely grateful to Matthew Sommer, who has taken the
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trouble to share these episodes, the one in the following note, and a number of other
cases involving shoes and feet through the years.
59. Neige xingke tiben, “Marriage and illicit sex” category, #208–2, microfilm reel
1–33, Qianlong 8.6.10.
60. Tongxi manshi, Tingyu xiantan (Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 1983),
p. 104. Pu was also skilled in carving wood and ivory. See also Huaipu jushi, Liu
Rushi shiji (Beiping: Wenzi tongmengshe, 1930), 7a. Although leather was occa-
sionally used for boots and for toe reinforcements, traditional Chinese shoes for
men, women, and children were made of vegetable fiber. Children’s tiger shoes, pop-
ular tourist souvenirs in China today, are remnants of the old domestic female shoe-
making tradition. Flat-heeled shoes for bound feet from remote areas were still made
of homespun cloth in the twentieth century. See Every Step a Lotus, pp. 118–19.
61. Li-Young Lee, whose mother was a granddaughter of Yuan Shikai, the late-
Qing general and president of the Republic, recalled that in the family compound
in Tianjin there was a building called the sewing room: “Lined with tables at which
thirty women sit behind mounds of various fabrics of any color, the room whines
and rings with the rapid pounding of several hand-operated sewing machines. For-
bidden to wear against their bodies any piece of cloth cut or sewn by men, all the
female members of the nine households have their clothes made by women in the
sewing hall”(The Winged Seed: A Remembrance [New York: Simon and Schuster,
1995], p. 21). Although the strictures are excessive, it seems reasonable to expect that
wealthy and large households in an earlier period would have hired sewing women
to supply the needs of the family.
62. For wedding shoes and gift shoes for the in-laws, see Every Step a Lotus, pp.
69–72; CFJHL: 143–47.
63. Tian Yiheng, Liuqing rizha, 20.8a. Tian did not say if the entire vamp was
made of gilded leather. In Plum in the Golden Vase, it is used only for edging or tip
reinforcements. My analysis of the styles of footwear in Ximen’s household benefits
from the table compiled by Zhang Jinlan, in her “Jinpingmei nüxing fushi wenhua,”
pp. 81–83. In the Song, monochrome was so normative that soles made of diªerent-
colored fronts and backs (known as Cuo daodi ) elicited special comment (Tian,
Liuqing, 20.8b).
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
64. The reference to brush-painting is from CFJHL, diagram 11, between pp. 86
and 87. For a full translation of the captions to this series of diagrams, see fig. 22. For
auspicious symbols on shoes, see Every Step a Lotus, pp. 105–9. For the history of
auspicious symbols on Chinese objects and their proliferation in the Qing, see Kissho:
Chugoku bijitsu ni komerareta imi (Tokyo: Tokyo National Museum, 1998).
65. CFJHL: 98. Information about vendors calling out and the filing tool is from
a diªerent report, CFJHL: 110–11.
66. CFJHL: 98. For photographs of a string of five wooden heels from Shan-
dong and a set of ten from Shanxi, see Ke Jisheng, Qianzai jinlian fenghua, p. 110.
For curvatures of the wooden soles and detailed instructions for carving them, see
CFXB: 33.
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NOTES TO PAGES 220–222 291
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67. The earliest extant paper shoe patterns were excavated from the tomb of
Madam Zhou (1240–74) in De’an, Jiangxi. Among an array of garments, toiletry
items, and sewing implements found were two patterns for the sole (length 20–24
cm, or 8–9.6 inches) and two for the uppers (length 19–22 cm, or 7.6–8.8 inches)
of shoes. See Jiangxisheng wenwu kaogu yanjiusuo and De’an xian bowuguan,
“Jiangxi De’an Nan-Song Zhoushi mu qingli jianbao,” p. 12.
68. Tanmian daoren [Zhang Lüping ], comp., Kunde baojian (n.p.: Yuxiutang,
1777), juan 8–9. Although not identical, the rectangular skirt panels look remark-
ably similar to the Qing-dynasty skirts in Western collections studied by Mary V.
Hays. The patterns of flower, bird, landscape, and lucky symbols appear to be
generic. See Hays, “Chinese Skirts of the Qing Dynasty,” The Bulletin of the Needle
and Bobbin Club 72, nos. 1 & 2 (1989): 4–41. I thank Terry Milhaupt for supply-
ing me with this article.
69. Kunde baojian, “Zixu,” 2b–3a. Chapters 1–2 consist of stories of woman
exemplars from such classics as Liu Xiang’s Biographies of Women (Lienü zhuan).
Chapter 3 continues with stories of retribution recycled from popular religious texts.
The same set of thirteenth-century recipes for treating bound feet that we have seen
above appears in chapter 4, on textile work and the toilette. Chapters 5–7 are cook-
ing recipes. Although its contents are recycled except for the sewing patterns, Pre-
cious Mirror marks the beginning of an encyclopedic knowledge that was explicitly
gendered female. Previous almanacs, even as they dispensed ministrations for trou-
bled feet and other body- or home-management techniques, presented such infor-
mation to a presumed male readership.
70. Entitled Zengshan kunde baojian (Precious mirror of feminine virtues, with
additions and deletions), the copy is bound in two separate volumes and is signed
“Kuimiutang zhuren xuancao” (selected and copied by the Master of the Ashamed-
of-Mistakes Studio). I list this in the Works Cited under Tanmian daoren, although
the name of the original editor does not appear on the copy. The first volume (the
original chapter 8) is numbered chapter 4 and given a new title, “Nanpei chengshi”
(Patterns for male ornaments); the second (the original chapter 9), is now chapter
5 under the title “Nügong chengshi” (Patterns for women’s work). It is not clear
what chapters 1–3 could have been. I thank Don J. Cohn for so generously sharing
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
ton binding cloths (assessed at 2.55 ounces of silver for the lot). Also included were
“female boots of various colors” (70 pairs; 10.5 ounces); “female shoes: (1,700 pairs;
54 ounces); “embroidered leggings and socks” (20 pairs; 2 ounces). Tianshui bing-
shan lu, Congshu jicheng chubian, vol. 1502 (Shanghai: Shangwu yinshuguan, 1937),
pp. 302–3.
72. See p. 251, n. 63. For photographs of one such loom from Taiwan and rolls
of binding cloth in plain, red, and indigo cotton, see Ke Jisheng, Qianzai jinlian,
pp. 106–7.
73. Sunü, “Gaozubu shi bin gongyong,” CFJHL: 95–96. There was also an abbre-
viated five-layered regimen. Yang Yang’s description of the binding routine in Tong-
hai, Yunnan, is almost identical to this passage (Xiaojiao wudao, pp. 38–39); in all
likelihood Yang had copied his information from Caifeilu.
74. Footbinding ended in Tonghai in the 1950s, the last area in China to eªec-
tively outlaw the practice. The remoteness of this area on the Yunnan plateau seems
to account for this belatedness. In 1933, local authorities in Tonghai established a
Tianzu weiyuanhui (Natural feet committee) and dispatched male foot inspectors
to the villages. Local son Yang Yang has suggested that Liuyi village, which is the
closest to the county seat, was ironically the most successful in the cat-and-mouse
game of defeating the inspectors because those villagers were best-informed about
the timing of the visits (Xiajiao wudao, p. 71). One example of the recent tourism
literature is Li Xu and Huang Yanhong, “Xiaojiao nüren cun,” China Tourism 208
(Oct. 1997): 40–51. In 1997, over three hundred women with once-bound feet, about
a third of them over sixty, still lived in Liuyi village. The golden-lotus snooker team
and dancing troupe garnered one page in the o‹cial album that the local authori-
ties produced to promote tourism. See Zhonggong Zhongyang xianwei xuan-
zhuanbu and Tonghai xian wenxue yishujie lianhehui, ed., Tonghai: Xiujia nan Dian
(Tonghai, Yunnan: Zhonggong Tonghai xian wei and Tonghai xian renmin zhenfu,
n.d. [1999]), p. 37.
75. Yang, Xiaojiao wudao, p. 6.
76. Interview with Ma Qiaofen, June 30, 2003. See also Yang, Xiaojiao wudao,
pp. 206–7.
77. The cloth, “Hexi tubu,” was named after Hexi, a market town near Tong-
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
hai. It was woven from imported machine-spun yarn which became available in
southern Yunnan in the late 1880s, and especially after the building of the Tonkin-
Kunming Railway in 1895–99. Laurel Bossen has argued that the continued via-
bility of weaving as a livelihood in areas more accessible by trade routes saved women
from having to work in the fields and allowed them to continue footbinding. Hence
the irony that footbinding ended earlier in the more remote and less commercial-
ized areas (Chinese Women and Rural Development, chap. 3, especially pp. 70–78).
Although plausible, this argument is difficult to prove. See also Yang, Xiaojiao wu-
dao, p. 7.
GLOSSARY
bu ˘
Bu chanzu hui £Ò¨|
Bu guozu hui £q¨|
Ø]
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chenshe
chi ÿ
chi luoluo ™rr
chitou ÿY
chuai chuantou ¢ÓY
chuang …
cun o
dajiao j}
dai yi guiren xiangqie N@QH¤c
dangzhi zi fengren Ìæß_H
Deng Changyao H¯£
dengtan n¬
diban chan xie ≥OH«
dili az
dingnan Bk
dingnü Bk
duan ›
etoujiao ZY}
fugong ¸u
fuke ¸Ï
fushi guanren AÕxH
fuyang zhijian, yicheng chenji ¡ıß°,w®ØÒ
fuyao AØ
gongshi ΩΔ
gongwan }s
gongwan xianxiao }s÷p
gongxian }÷
gongxian zhuang }֬
gongxiao }p
gongxie }c
gongxing }Œ
gongzu }¨
guancheng fi∞
guangfu guti ˙_GÈ
guangfu guwu ˙_G´
guanren xH
guige shiyi ”’Δy
guojiao q}
guolairen L”H
guozu q¨
huafang e–
Huajian ji ·°∞
huaji tuti Δ]Ë
huajuishi ·∂¤
huang huashiling ¿·hO
huazhuang jiangyan Δ©øt
hudie lü π∫i
huizhu |D
Hu Yanxian JPÂ
jia “
jianzhe zhifu ‚ÃßA
jiaotong Êq
jiaoxiao xiegong xingbuwen }pc}Ê£≠
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
kanjian ݣ
kanwan ›ˆ
kaozheng ““
koushi daizi ©∑al
kuai shangma ÷W®
kunxie [c
lei ÷
lianban ¨§
liang (ounce) ‚
liang (to air) Ω
liangjia guixiu }a”q
li gaodi ÿ™≥
lilü Q¢
Liucun fuyuan guangzhizhi ªoßÍ˙oo
Liuyi village ª@¯
lujiaocai ¿§Ê
luowa π˚
lü i
lüren iH
Ma Qiaofen ®Ï‚
mianhua taozi ÷·Ml
minsu xue ¡U«
mudi Ï≥
nüzhuang k©
nüzi ziqiang kl¤j
pi }
pingquan pingdeng ≠v≠•
pojia Ca
pudu zhongsheng ∂Á≥Õ
Pu Jifen ‰ˆ‚
Pu Zhongqian ‰Úæ
qian ˙
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GLOSSARY 297
?LGÍ
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qiangwu gushi
queyou mingju Ã≥˙⁄
qunzhong s≥
renyao HØ
ruan xiewa nc˚
Runan xianxian zhuan ºn˝Â«
suzu ¿¨
suzu nü ¿¨k
wai n
waike ~Ï
wanzhuan rugong s‡p}
weizhi bokao ºß’“
wenming sixiang Â˙‰Q
wo nu shen ⁄£≠
wujiao LÊ
xian ÷
xiang ¤
Xiangjiang shuilang qun øÙˆ»
Xianglian ji ª›∞
xiangxie Ta
xianxiao ÷p
xianzu n¨
xiao wailagu pn∂©
xiaoxian ¯¢
Xiao Xiuxiang Ωqª
xiaozu hui p¨|
xichuan shiyang jin ËtQÀA
xiefu ∏T
xiegong jiaoxiao bunanxing c}}pB¯Ê
xijiao dahui ~}j|
xiku •«
xingchan ÊÒ
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
xingteng Ê
xinxue s«
Xiuqiu (elegant autumn) qÓ
Xiuqiu (embroidering Earth) ∏y
xiuzhuang ∏¯
xizu ~¨
xuanjiang yuan ≈ø˚
Xu Ke }V
xunya ˚fi
yanshuo t°
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GLOSSARY 299
All rights reserved. May not be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except fair uses permitted under U.S. or applicable copyright law.
yaoji ØV
yaojing ØÎ
yibo raojiao H≠∂}
yi butiao lanzhu H¨¯dÌ
yicheng pianduan w®˘q
yilao Ú—
yi yanjian wei zhun H¥£∞«
yong Œ
youjiao ≥Ê
you kuaikuai zoushi liao ≥ÙÙNOF
youxi C∏
yuexian powa ˘÷¢˚
yuntou ≥Y
za „
zagua „E
zaguo „q
zajiao „},æ}
zaoxie mc
zazu æ¨
zha J
zhangjue teng »±h
zhanglao ¯—
Zhanyuan jingyu ÔWRy
zhen u
zhending Eª
zheng ø
zhengti FÈ
Zhou Ying Q^
zi shu ¤z
zuxin ¨fl
zuzhi gongxiao ¨ß}p
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
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INDEX
covenant of patriarchs, 41, 53, 58, 140 278n64; regional styles, 284n17; from
Cruz, Gaspar da, 213 tombs, 180, 190, 206. See also shoes
cult of the golden lotus, 193–95 “Embroidering Shoes” (painting), 262n5
Culture Fever, 10 embroidery stores, 220, 289n57
“cultureless custom” (Gates), 3 emotions: male, 88, 188; natural, 117–18
curved arches, 192, 193, 283n13. See also encyclopedias, 134, 196–97, 207, 219,
arch-shaped foot 267n54, 291n69
end of footbinding, 5, 10–11, 13–14, 17–
Dai Liang, 113 18, 109, 237–38n22
Daixi (Zhejiang), 43–46 eroticism: of bound feet in Pu Songling’s
Daji, 116, 263n15 tales, 177–78, 277–78n64, 278n67,
Dalu (The continent) magazine, 26, 278n69; and female labor, 177; fondling
239n40 of feet, 178, 208, 278n66; and prose
Daly, Mary, 233n13 genres, 110, 120; in Radishes accounts,
dancers, 95, 114, 223–25. See also Yaoniang 85–87, 88–91, 257n32, 257n33; turn-off,
dancing slippers, 140, 268n63 94, 212, 258n39
Daoism, 205, 206 erotic prints, 260n1
Daoshan xinwen, 262n9 Essentials of Domestic Living ( Jujia biyong
Daqiao Shiyu. See Unofficial Biography shilei), 196–97, 198, 219, 285n25
of Hu Xueyuan ethnic minorities, 131, 134, 224
Datong: courtesans of, 152–53, 156, 158– ethnography of footbinding, 72, 140, 150,
60, 171–73, 181, 192, 206; feet contests 168, 234n2
of, 146, 148, 151–52, 168, 172–73, 269n4,
269n5; footbinding customs of, 270n9; Faithful of Lotus-ism, 85, 88–91, 97,
lotus shoes of, 146, 270n9; mentioned, 257n34
268n2; and north-south differences, Fameng xuetang (Germinating Enlighten-
159–60 ment School), 43
Davin, Delia, 232n6 Fan Hong: Footbinding Feminism, and
Deng Changyao, 64–65, 251n64 Freedom, 234n2
Ding Ling, 12 Fan Jinmin, 268n32
Ding Naifei, 287–88n44, 288n46, 288n49 Fan Lian, 213
Ding mausoleum, 207, 286n38 Fang Xuan, 80, 82–85, 91, 94, 242n59,
downward mobility, 186, 203, 286n34 256n24, 256n28
dream of Huai’an, 155 fangzu (letting-feet-out) movement:
Du Mu, 129, 133, 136, 266n44 drama and entertainment of, 63–66;
Duke of Donghun of the Southern Qi, effectiveness of, 62–63, 67; in Henan,
112, 114, 235n10 251n64; literature of, 41; male-initiated
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
for foot care, 197. See also tidying-up Furugaki Koichi, 262n10
female voices: of modern women, 12;
passive, 10; public speech-making, gait, 136, 141, 154, 174, 183, 201, 203–4
15, 246n15; secondhand, 13, 22, 29, Gao Baisu, 246n15
46, 87, 91, 102; shifty narrative, 89, Gao Heng, 278n66
105; of women with bound feet, 61, Gao Hongxing, 231n2, 234n2, 260n2
100, 260n48; of Xue Shaohui, 39 Gao Jiangcun, 194
femininity, 124, 128, 140, 177, 277n64 Gao Shiyu, 261n3
Feng Erkang, 273n29, 273n30 Gates, Hill, 2–3
Feng Jicai: Three-Inch Golden Lotus, gender equality, 16, 17, 24–25, 99
270n9 geography, teaching of, 25–26, 248n27
Feng Menglong, 257n34; Mountain Songs, “gigantic history,” 12, 31, 57, 68, 76
184, 281n82 Globe Society (Diqiu she), 27
physical mobility: agility of women with 260n50, 275n34, 284n18. See also
bound feet, 152, 154, 158, 170, 174, 175; courtesans
crippling of women with bound feet, Pruitt, Ida, 3, 232n8, 209, 244n5
154, 193, 196, 204, 232n10; gestures and Pu Jifen, 224–25
manners, 135–37; female seclusion, 137– Pu Songling: “Immortals with Riches
38; of male scholars, 152, 160; modern and Honor,” 174, 176; “The Pleasures
veneration of, 24, 150. See also gait; of Marriage,” 177–78, 278n66, 278n69;
lotus steps Records of the Strange from Liaozhai,
Picking Radishes (Cailefu): accounts of 171, 176, 277n62, 277n64, 278–79n70;
erotic contacts with the bound foot, “Shang Sanguan,” 177; “Song of Bliss-
85–87, 88–91, 257n32, 257n33; “Admo- ful Clouds,” 171–72, 175–76, 276n51,
nitions” section, 102, 260n47, 260n48; 280n79; “Song of the Cold and the
as an archive, 105–6; criticism of anti- Dark,” 177; “Song of Tribulation,”
footbinding movement, 96; female 176; status anxiety in works of, 182–
voices in, 99–102, 104, 250n57, 254n10, 83; “tidying up” in vernacular plays of,
260n47, 260n48; on footwear, 73, 218, 178–79, 182, 278n69; treatment of the
221–22; inventiveness of, 81, 82, 105; shrew, 179, 279n70; use of footbinding,
male-centeredness of, 95, 231n2; men- 172–76, 177–78, 181–82, 278n69; “The
tioned, 5, 83; “An Overview of Foot- Wife and Her Mother-in-Law,” 179;
binding” in, 104–5; photography in, “Zhang Hongjian,” 176, 277n62. See
72–73; pornography and ethnography, also vernacular plays
70, 72; readers’ contributions to, 74; Pu Xianming, 276n50
shifty voice in, 89–91, 102–3, 105; as Pu Zhongqian, 216, 290n60
source of data, 231n2; structure of, 69, Puyi, 157, 274n31
70, 252n2, 253n3; tables and measures
in, 73, 101–2, 122; title of, 71, 253n6. See Qian Yong: “On Binding Feet,” 138–42
also Lotus-Seeking Club; Yao Lingxi Qingshi (manifesto of the cult of qing),
“pictorial cosmology” (Hay), 167, 275n42 257n34
Pingshan Hall ( Yangzhou), 83, 256n27 Qiu Jin, 12
plain-footed girl, 117–18, 129, 133, 136 Quan fang jiao tushuo, 255n19
plastic surgery, 233n13 queue: of Gu Hongming, 33, 241n49,
Plum in the Golden Vase ( Jinpingmei): bare 242n54; Yan Xishan’s campaign against,
feet in, 212; contributed to popularity 51–52
of footbinding, 265n41; encyclopedic quick-mounting (kuai shangma) style, 190
quality of, 207–8; footwear in, 208–
11, 216–17, 287n43, 288n47; Roy on, Raffles, Stamford, 240
287n41; sexual politics in, 287–88n44 railroads, 150, 270n12
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
poetry: female socks and shoes in, 115, recipes for foot care, 196–98, 284–85n21,
136, 228; “lotus steps” in, 136; modern 285n25, 291n69
allusions, 81; praise of natural and Record of the Historian, 116
bound feet, 80–81, 111–12, 117–18, Red Rock Village, 158, 161–66, 166–69,
267n51; used in philology of footbind- 276n45
ing, 128–29, 133; use of word shen, 205 Refusing to Marry Footbound Brides
poorly bound feet, 183, 184, 280n79 associations, 58, 250n48
positivism, 73, 253n7 regional variation: in binding practice, 2,
Precious Mirror of Feminine Virtues (Kunde 10, 131–32, 139, 194, 234n3; in embroi-
baojian), 219–20, 291n69 dered slippers, 284n17. See also north-
printing, 129–30, 266n45 south differences
prose-essay, 153 remnants: footbound women as, 9, 13–14,
prostitutes, 45, 61, 94, 158, 202, 221, 72; literati men as, 76–77, 89
Repentant Scholar ( Juefei sheng), 102–3, shoes: arched-soled, 53, 54, 64, 148–49,
260n50 263n20; Banner, 73; bow-shaped, 189,
revolutionaries, 99 282n5; in burials, 187–88, 189–90,
Richards, Thomas, 105 281n2, 282n6, 282–83n8; butterfly, 215,
Rites of Zhou (Zhouli): history of, 265n33, 289n56; cattail, 124, 264n31; claimed to
265n34; interpretations of Yang Shen be in Hu Xueyan’s mansion, 92; clogs,
and Hu Yinglin, 125–28; on shoes, 264n31; cloud-tip, 207; colors of, 217,
264n31, 264n32; solemn bow in, 136–37 290n63; cotton, 214; dancing slippers,
Roland, Madame, 28, 239–40n43 140, 268n63; described in Picking
rouge bandits, 168–69, 276n45. See also Radishes, 73; designs of, 217–18;
Red Rock Village drinking wine from, 93–95, 258n40,
Roy, David, 287n41 259n41, 259n44; with embroidered
Runan xianxian zhuan (Biographies of motifs, 128, 265n39; of Empress Xiao-
ancient sages from Runan), 113 jing, 206–7, 286n38; as evidence in
court, 215–16, 289n58; as extensions
sanqu (free songs), 263n20 of private parts, 216; fengtou, 189, 207,
Sanyou (Three Friends), 92 286n38; as fetish object, 95; fragrant,
scholar-officials. See literati 289n57; high-heeled, 130, 131, 191, 193,
school curriculum, 25–26 195, 206, 207, 211, 216, 217, 220, 282n6,
Scott, Joan, 4 286n38; insoles of, 179; kun-style, 54, 68,
self-strengthening, 20–21, 39 221, 248n32; leather, 136, 217, 290n60,
Shaanxi, 64, 170 290n63; Li Yu’s advice on, 156; lü (single-
Shandong, 116, 139, 171, 235n9 soled), 125, 214, 264–65n32; of the
Shang Wei, 207 Northwest, 170; patterns for, 43, 219–
Shanghai: commercial photography in, 20; “plum-sole,” 270n9; premade com-
41, 245n8; Tianzu hui in, 16, 18, 42, ponents, 218; prostitutes and, 221,
240n43, 246n13, 246n15; and Western- 260n50, 284n18; in Pu Songling’s tales
ization model, 30, 240n43 and plays, 177, 278n64; removal of,
Shanxi: fines collected in, 57–58, 61; foot- 135–36; sleeping, 211–12, 215–16, 221,
binding in, 139, 170; gathering places 288n48, 289n57, 289n58; soles of, 93,
for prostitutes in, 158, 275n34; Refusing 189–90, 258n38, 258n39, 282n6; straw
to Marry Footbound Brides associa- and hemp, 213, 214, 289n52, 289n54;
tions in, 58, 250n48; Tianzu hui in, 52– studied by Hu Yinglin, 124–25; as
53, 58, 59. See also Datong; north-south synecdoche of the self, 265n32; three-
differences; Yan Xishan inch, 201, 202, 203; with upturned
shen (body), 205 toes, 190–91; wedding, 171, 276n49;
Shen Defu, 94, 259n42, 262n5, 264n27, and womanly work, 126; wooden heels
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
“small talk” (xiaoshuo), 23, 77, 111 “three-inch golden lotus,” 9, 191, 270n9
“social skin” (Turner), 182, 185, 280n78 Tian Yiheng, 194, 217
socks: in burials, 187–88, 190–91, 281n1, tianbu (natural strides), 28
281n2, 283n8; described in Picking Tianfeng bao (Heavenly wind), 60, 252n2
Radishes, 73; removal of, 135–36, 137, tianzu (natural feet): discourse of, 36–37,
143; with upturned toes, 190–91 46, 79–80; and the end of footbinding,
solemn bow, 136–37 17–18; and gender equality, 16; national-
soles. See shoes, arched-soled; shoes, soles ism and, 5, 18–23, 96–97; use of term, 14,
of; shoes, wooden heels and soles 18–19, 27–28. See also anti-footbinding
Song Lizhong, 268n62 movement; Heavenly Foot Society;
Song learning, 116–17, 263n16 Tianzu hui
southern drama, 199, 204 Tianzu hui (Natural Feet Society):
Southern Manchurian Railway Company, distributed fangzu literature, 41, 42,
269n4 245n7, 245n11; female founders of, 44,
Southern Tang dynasty, 114, 262n10 245n15; ineffectiveness of, 244–45n6;
spatial diversity. See regional variation meetings of, 246n13; mentioned, 28,
Spivak, Gayatri, 228 237n19, 243n3; in Shaanxi, 64; in Shang-
status: anxiety, 152, 180, 182–86, 280n77; hai, 16, 18, 42, 240n43, 246n13, 246n15;
footbinding and, 132, 171–74, 203, 204 in Shanxi, 52–53, 58, 59; in Xiamen,
Stewart, Susan, 12, 254n12, 256n22 236n15. See also Bu Chanzu hui; fangzu
stilts, 54, 248–49n33 movement; Heavenly Foot Society
Suiyuan province, 147, 268n2 “tidying up” (zaguo), 178–79, 184
Sun, Madame, tomb of, 190, 282n6 tokens of exchange, 179–82, 380n76
Sun Yat-sen, 64, 234n3 Tonghai ( Yunnan), 224–25, 292n74,
Suzhou: arched heels of, 191; footbinding 292n77
in, 139; ladies instructions on unbind- tourism, 224, 292n74
ing, 48–49, 246n17; natural feet in, 20, trade routes, 214, 269n5
22, 131, 132 “transitional figures,” 23, 75, 79
suzu (unadorned feet), 19, 27, 117, 129 transitional period, 13, 36, 40, 72, 204,
244n5
Taiping yulan, 264n31 transmission of footbinding, 229, 231n2
Tang Yisuo: account of exposure to tianzu Turner, Christena, 234n3
rhetoric, 20–22; attitude toward the
West, 240n43; Huang Xiuqiu, 23–25, unbinding: and Christian miracle, 247n19;
28–30, 78–79, 239n33, 239–40n43, in fiction, 28–29, 97, 98; instructions
259n46; as transitional figure, 75, 79; on, 47–49, 246n16, 246n17; and the irre-
view of the female body, 44 versibility of footbinding, 11, 40; nar-
Copyright 2007. University of California Press.
Tao Baopi; compared to Tang Yisuo, 75, rative of Madam Lin Yanmei, 260n49;
79; mentioned, 93, 253n4; short story in older women, 47–48, 49, 54, 60;
“Excising Small Feet,” 77–78, 255n17; by relaxing the arch and retaining toe
view of footbound woman, 71, 101 narrowness, 195; in younger women,
Tao Zongyi, 261n3, 262n13; Notations 47. See also fangzu movement
from Resting the Plough, 133, 267n50 universal patriarchy, 233n13
technological change, 232n7 Unofficial Biography of Hu Xueyuan,
temple grounds, 148, 186 92–93, 258n37
textiles: cotton fabrics, 279n72; as medium upturned toes 189, 190–91, 206, 282n5
of exchange, 180–81, 280n76. See also urban-rural gap, 132, 160
female labor
Thiriez, Régine, 41, 245n8 Veblen, Thorstein, 2, 4
Three Ills, 51 vernacular plays: bound feet in, 177–78,