In 1933, the city of Beiping was China’s busiest city, bustling with noise and excitement. However, its liveliness was unlike that of any other place: it came not from the wine-drinking and pleasure-seeking masses in brothels, nor from the ten-miles long markets filled to the brim with foreigners. Rather, it was a one of a kind type of noisiness, beautiful and elegant. The high-pitched singing of kunqu, jingju and qinqiang; the beating of bass drums and the clacking of the bangzi; the clear, loud voices of storytellers narrating the rise and fall of dynasties – each and every traditional art one can think of could be found here, mixed together to create the theatrical world’s most glorious stage.

This was also the place where the opera world’s most outstanding performer, Shang Xirui, reached his full glory.

An invitation to a home celebration, a face-to-face meeting – this was how Cheng Fengtai, the second master of the Cheng family, got to know the famous opera actor who seemed to only exist in rumors and legends. He plucked the red plum blossom hairpin from the lapel of Shang Xirui’s changshan and smiled, inserting it in the lapel of his own three-piece suit.

In the blink of an eye, they found themselves in the Palace of Eternal Youth.

Shang Xirui sang, “Come, come, come, I’ll accompany Second Master.”

Cheng Fengtai replied, “As long as you want me to, I’ll always accompany you.”

These two people, who grew close because of an opera, also professed their feelings to one another as though enacting lines on a stage.

Later, a distinguished scholar and casanova would narrate their tale in a perfunctory manner: “Today, dear listeners, I bring you a story. Pay close attention, lest you fall behind and fail to understand clearly what I’m about to tell you. Dear listeners, without further ado, this is Winter Begonia.”

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