An Idle Winter in the Capital

The year drew to a close with uncharacteristic mildness in Beijing. Light snows and scarce rains had left the imperial city drier than usual during what should have been the harsh winter months. With construction projects paused for the season and government offices sealed until the new year, officials found themselves with unusual leisure time. Unlike previous winters where most would gather around their hearths seeking warmth and comfort, this year saw more officials venturing out into the city seeking entertainment and companionship.

The most popular pastime involved gathering two or three close colleagues to attend performances by the renowned Hui opera troupes in the afternoon, followed by intimate dinners at the city’s finest restaurants, returning home at dusk pleasantly exhausted from the day’s diversions. This cultural pattern had created a natural symbiosis between theaters and dining establishments, with nearly every restaurant keeping huqin fiddles and percussion instruments on hand for patrons who, warmed by wine and good company, might wish to “amuse themselves” with an impromptu performance.

The Stage Is Set

Among the most celebrated dining establishments outside the Qianmen Gate were establishments like Guangheju, Fuxingju, Zhengyanglou, Xuandelou, and Longyuanlou. As evening fell, these restaurants echoed with the distinctive melodies of pihuang opera, the precursor to what would become Beijing opera. The most skilled performers could stop passersby in their tracks with their artistry, and one official in particular—Hanlin academic Wang Qingqi—possessed precisely this captivating power.

On this particular evening, Wang found himself dining at Xuandelou restaurant with his colleague Zhang Yinglin after attending a performance of “Zhen Chan Zhou” starring the legendary Cheng Changgeng and Xu Xiaoxiang. Inspired by the performance and warmed by wine, Wang felt the familiar itch to perform. Zhang took up the huqin while Wang, emulating Xu Xiaoxiang’s style, launched into a xiaosheng aria.

A Master at Work

Wang Qingqi had devoted considerable effort to mastering the xiaosheng repertoire, possessing both natural talent—a clear, powerful voice perfect for lingzi sheng roles—and the technical precision that came from meticulous study. He had spent countless hours perfecting his diction, phrasing, breath control, and delivery, often to the point of neglecting food and sleep in his pursuit of artistic excellence.

Zhang Yinglin’s huqin accompaniment complemented Wang’s singing perfectly, their frequent musical collaborations having created an almost telepathic understanding between them. The instrument highlighted Wang’s strengths magnificently while seamlessly covering any technical challenges. When their performance concluded, applause erupted not only from adjacent rooms but from waitstaff and diners who had gathered outside their curtained-off area to listen, all hoping for an encore.

Both men felt the exhilaration of a performance well delivered, but Beijing was a city where talent hid in unexpected places, and wisdom dictated knowing when to stop. Wang might have continued, but Zhang—aware of the special quality of what they had just created—deliberately placed his bow across the instrument’s strings and tucked the huqin into its well-worn blue cloth case, taking out a handkerchief to wipe his hands thoroughly.

An Unexpected Visitor

Just as Zhang completed this deliberate closing ritual, the doorway curtain was thrust aside and a magnificently dressed youth of about eighteen entered abruptly, followed by an exceptionally handsome servant in a brand new blue foreign-cloth padded gown. Zhang initially reacted with surprise, then irritation at this breach of etiquette—barging uninvited into a private dining area represented extreme rudeness. He was about to voice his displeasure when he noticed Wang already engaging the young man in conversation.

“Whom might you be looking for?” Wang inquired.

“The one who performed ‘Zhen Chan Zhou’,” the youth replied calmly, his words carrying an unusual tone of authority that seemed to contradict his age.

Noticing the youth’s hat fastened with a ruby of imperial purple-red quality, Wang surmised he might be the scion of some princely household, perhaps even an inherited duke—after all, wasn’t the rank badge for a duke precisely such a gemstone? This realization prompted Wang to respond with careful respect.

A Command Performance

“That would be me,” Wang said modestly. “Just occasional amusement, hardly following proper standards. I fear we’ve embarrassed ourselves.”

The young man nodded. “No need for modesty. You sang quite well, and the accompaniment was excellent.”

Wang gestured toward his companion. “That was my friend.”

The youth smiled slightly at Zhang before turning back to Wang. “Would you perform another piece for me?”

Wang glanced at Zhang, who wore an expression of puzzled curiosity but didn’t seem to notice Wang’s questioning look. “Certainly!” Wang agreed. “I shall perform an erliu selection for your appreciation!”

Zhang, seeming to awaken from his trance, picked up his huqin and sat down as the handsome servant—without waiting for any invitation—brought forth a chair, wiped it meticulously with a snow-white handkerchief, and addressed his master: “Young lord!”

The youth seated himself without ceremony as Zhang drew the bow across the strings with a flourish. Wang began singing immediately, simultaneously adopting the “golden rooster stands alone” pose—one leg curled—while miming the handcuffs and chains from “Bai Men Lou,” making the opera selection obvious even before the first words were sung.

A Performance to Remember

Feeling he had found a true appreciator of his art, Wang poured exceptional emotion into his portrayal of the desperate, cornered warrior at the end of his options, yet still clinging to faint hope. When he finished, he lowered his leg and bowed slightly with professional dignity. “I apologize for amusing you with my poor efforts.”

“Quite remarkable,” the youth said. “In which ministry do you serve?”

“I am at the Hanlin Academy. Wang Qingqi.”

“Ah! So you are a Hanlin academic?”

“Indeed,” Wang replied. “A jiantao.”

“Then you must be from the Wuchen class of 1868,” the youth calculated correctly—Wang should have been part of the 1868 cohort who passed the imperial examinations, been selected as shujishi, and after the 1871 evaluations remained at the academy as jiantao rather than being assigned elsewhere.

But Wang corrected him: “I am from the Gengshen class of 1860. I interrupted my service to observe the mourning period for my late father.”

Questions of Protocol

The youth then turned to Zhang. “And him?”

“This is Editor Zhang,” Wang answered for his colleague.

“Are you the same year?”

“No,” Zhang himself responded this time. “Academician Wang is my senior. I am from 1865.”

“Are you from Shandong?” the youth asked pointedly.

“From Licheng in Shandong.”

“Your name?”

The bluntness of the question offended Zhang’s sense of propriety, but just as his irritation mounted, he caught a warning glance from Wang and controlled his temper. “Zhang Yinglin.”

The youth nodded, then glanced meaningfully at his servant as if instructing him to remember both names.

A Meeting of Fate

“It has been our honor to meet you,” Wang said with a gesture of invitation. “Would you care to join us, if you don’t mind our simple arrangements?”

“No need,” the youth declined. Then he asked Wang, “From whom did you learn xiaosheng opera?”

“I am largely self-taught. I admire Xu Xiaoxiang’s style and never miss his performances when I can help it. Sometimes I visit his xiachu to spend time there. Over time, I’ve come to understand something of the art’s intricacies.”

“Xiachu?” The youth turned to his servant. “What is xiachu?”

“Where opera troupes reside is called the ‘big xiachu’,” Wang explained. “Established performers who maintain their own establishments also call them xiachu.”

“So you often visit his home?”

“Indeed.”

“What new operas have appeared recently?”

“Many. ‘Four Admonitions Hall’s’ Lu Taizi has created several new laosheng roles…”

Historical Context and Significance

This seemingly casual encounter between imperial officials and a mysterious aristocratic youth captures a pivotal moment in late Qing cultural and political history. The 1870s represented a period of relative stability between the devastating Taiping Rebellion and the looming crises that would culminate in the Boxer Rebellion. For the educated elite, opera provided not merely entertainment but a complex cultural language through which social relationships were negotiated and expressed.

The Hanlin Academy, where both Wang and Zhang served, stood at the pinnacle of the Chinese scholarly-bureaucratic system. Its members represented the intellectual elite of the empire, selected through the fiercely competitive imperial examination system that tested mastery of Confucian classics. That such highly placed officials would also be accomplished amateur opera performers illustrates the deeply integrated nature of scholarly and performing arts in late imperial China.

The Cultural World of Qing Opera

The opera culture depicted here—where government officials socialized through performances in semi-public spaces—reflects a specific moment in the development of what would become Beijing opera. The Hui opera troupes mentioned were instrumental in synthesizing regional styles into the more standardized form that would gain imperial patronage and eventually be recognized as China’s national opera.

Restaurants like Xuandelou functioned as liminal spaces where social boundaries could be temporarily relaxed. The availability of musical instruments for patron use suggests how deeply integrated opera was into urban elite social life. Professional and amateur realms blurred in these spaces, with accomplished amateurs like Wang Qingqi performing alongside—and sometimes for—their professional counterparts.

The Political Dimensions of Performance

The mysterious young aristocrat’s interrogation of the two officials reveals much about Qing social hierarchies. His confident manner and imperious questioning, despite his youth, immediately signaled high status to the experienced officials. The ruby hat fastener provided the crucial visual clue—such gems were restricted to the imperial family and highest nobility under sumptuary laws.

This encounter takes on additional significance when we consider that the early 1870s marked the beginning of the Tongzhi Emperor’s personal rule. The emperor, then in his late teens, was supposedly under the strict supervision of regents and tutors, yet stories circulated about his secret excursions from the Forbidden City. While we cannot know for certain, the description of the confident young aristocrat with his attentive servant bears striking resemblance to accounts of the young emperor’s alleged incognito explorations of Beijing.

Legacy and Historical Interpretation

This episode, preserved in historical accounts, offers fascinating insights into the intersection of culture and power in late imperial China. The opera culture that allowed officials like Wang and Zhang to develop their artistic skills represented more than mere entertainment—it formed part of the social capital necessary for advancement in the complex world of Qing bureaucracy.

The encounter also illustrates how cultural accomplishments could serve as pathways to imperial favor. Historical records indicate that Wang Qingqi did indeed later gain unusual access to the imperial circle, becoming a close companion to the Tongzhi Emperor during his brief personal rule. Some historians have suggested that it was precisely such informal cultural connections that facilitated Wang’s rise to influence.

The story ultimately serves as a metaphor for the Qing Empire itself in its final decades—a civilization of refined cultural achievement, complex social hierarchies, and unexpected connections that could change destinies in moments of seemingly casual interaction. The restaurants outside Qianmen Gate, where officials, artists, and possibly even emperors mingled through their shared love of opera, represented a world that would soon vanish forever amid the upheavals of the twentieth century, leaving behind only echoes of performances that once made passersby stop and listen in admiration.