Volume One: From Peasant to Gentleman Chapter Seventeen: The Legend of the White Snake Takes the World by Storm

Having tasted success, the managers of the theaters sought out Su Laibao for more manuscripts, but this time, he was not about to give them away for free. Yet Su Laibao remained generous, offering them at the rock-bottom price of one tael of silver each, and only selling to five houses. No matter how much the others offered, he refused, claiming it was a matter of business integrity.

The first volume of “The Legend of the White Snake” thus became a sensation, with theaters packed nightly and the manuscripts in short supply. Seeing the path paved, Su Laibao sought out Chuliu once again and took away two more volumes.

He sold the second volume to Yunshuijian at the handsome price of twenty taels, signing an exclusive contract for future supply. To the other theaters, he claimed that when the third volume came out, they would be given priority, but the second volume was simply unavailable. After all, good business relies on trust.

Without the manuscripts, storytellers could not continue the thrilling tale, and patrons of other theaters gradually drifted away to Yunshuijian. Soon, that theater stood unrivaled. The other managers harassed and pestered Su Laibao endlessly, resorting to every trick they knew. Su Laibao quietly let slip some information: in a certain place, if they found a certain-looking person, he might be able to get them the manuscript.

Sure enough, they managed to buy pirated copies, but at a steep price of twenty-five taels each. Yet only four such copies ever surfaced, and the mysterious seller vanished.

The third volume fetched an even higher price, quickly reserved by Yunshuijian for thirty taels. The rest had to hunt for pirated versions once again—conveniently, Su Laibao always seemed to have a useful tip.

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Chuliu’s status in the family rose, but he made no special demands, continuing as before to tend the chickens, pigs, and donkey. When chores were done, he would read, write manuscripts, or teach the children their letters—by now, Maisui and the others could recognize over a hundred characters.

On the eve of the Little New Year, Su Laibao hurried to Chuliu’s home, leaving behind three ingots of ten taels each as a bonus, and taking away the fourth volume. He urged Chuliu not to rush the ending, to add more twists and lengthen the tale—there would be more bonuses to come.

Chuliu had no trouble writing long stories. Even if he finished the main tale, he could pen sequels and side stories: “The Later Adventures of the White Snake,” “Tales Beyond the White Snake”—the legend would only grow hotter.

But how exactly did Su Laibao make money from these manuscripts? Chuliu had already received forty taels. Still, as long as there was profit, he would keep writing. After all, he had the stories, Su Laibao had the money.

After Su Laibao left, Wang Cuicui locked away the thirty taels.

When night fell and all was quiet, she found herself unable to sleep. Lighting the oil lamp, she opened the chest, took out the money jar, and poured its contents onto the table, dividing the coins into two piles.

One pile held the four ingots of ten taels each; the other consisted of various coins and scraps of silver. The loose silver added up to about twenty taels, saved penny by penny over the years by spending only copper coins and never touching the silver. The copper coins were easier to count, strung up in the customary way, each string worth a hundred coins—altogether seven strings, with a few loose coins besides.

Two of those strings were earnings from selling tofu, recently strung together by Wang Cuicui. By rights, earning a bit more than two strings of copper coins over a winter’s tofu sales was considered high income for a rural family. Yet their grandson, without ever stepping foot outside, managed to bring in forty taels in one winter. Not even a whole lifetime’s savings could match that sum.

“Master, sending Chuliu to school was the right choice. Educated folk earn money quickly. When Maisui turns seven, we’ll send him to study too,” Wang Cuicui said, her gaze lingering on the four silver ingots as her mouth kept chattering. “Maisui has been enlightened by Chuliu. By the time he’s seven, he’ll know so many characters…”

Xie Gensheng nodded in satisfaction. In his mind, the ultimate benefit of his grandson’s studies was to gain some scholarly rank and thereby exempt the family from corvée and tax. As for holding office, that was never a thought—his family had been commoners for generations, not destined for officialdom.

He had only hoped that a decade or so from now, his grandson might become a licentiate and bring some honor to the family. Who would have thought, after only half a year’s schooling, the boy had not only learned to make tofu but also earned forty taels from writing manuscripts—and there was more to come.

The more Wang Cuicui spoke, the happier she became, chattering on as she did her sums. “This winter we made over two strings of copper from tofu; over the course of a year we could make a dozen or twenty. Chuliu wrote manuscripts and earned forty taels in a winter; in a year, that’s hundreds of taels… Oh, master, we’re rich now…”

“Foolish woman, you think money appears just because you add it up?” Though just as excited, Xie Gensheng had to temper his wife’s expectations; otherwise, if their actual income fell short, she’d refuse to spend a single extra coin.

“Come spring, we’ll have to tend the fields—where would we find time to make tofu? And Chuliu will be back at school, where would he find time to write manuscripts? Get some sleep; in dreams, everything’s possible…”

Wang Cuicui thought it over and agreed. Making tofu was exhausting work. Even with Dingguangxian’s help, it took at least two adults, plus another to hawk it through the village. With only four grown-ups in the family, they couldn’t manage both farming and the side business.

Come spring, over thirty acres would need tending. Preparing the fields, fertilizing, sowing wheat, weeding, irrigation, harvesting, threshing—from the start of spring until the summer reaping, there was never a single idle day.

Realizing this, Wang Cuicui felt as if she was watching a river of money slip by, impossible to calculate just how much. With a sigh, she began to put the money back into the jar, muttering, “That’s the truth. Tomorrow we have to fetch Fifteen from the county. Once the eldest grandson is back, he shouldn’t return to the county. At twelve, he’s old enough to help out at home. In a few years, it’ll be time for him to marry…”

“What nonsense is that? Honestly, long hair, short sense,” Xie Gensheng protested, sitting up abruptly. “Fifteen is apprenticing in the county to broaden his horizons and make something of himself. Why would you drag him back? If your daughter-in-law heard, she’d scold you for sure.”

“Just look at Chuliu—if he hadn’t gone to school, would he have earned you forty taels? If you kept him at home writing manuscripts, would he ever amount to anything? Foolish woman, always talking nonsense…”

Wang Cuicui did not argue, only hugged the money jar and stared blankly. After a while, she said, “Then let the younger one keep studying, and the older one keep learning his trade. Once both boys have made something of themselves, we’ll be able to enjoy a comfortable life.”

Xie Gensheng beamed. “Our grandsons will surely make good. Just look at the stock they come from—there’s never been a bad one in our family…”

Generations of the Xie family had been commoners. Apart from Chuliu, which one had really amounted to much? Wang Cuicui did not have the heart to say it. If the younger generation fell short, she bore her share of the blame.

She blew out the oil lamp, and the room was plunged into shadow, yet sleep eluded her. Her mind busied itself with calculations: firewood, rice, oil, and salt—essentials at every meal; clothing, shelter, travel—each a matter of care; the obligations of kin and neighbor—never-ending. Farming tools and seeds to buy, oxen to rent, doctors when illness struck.

With the new year approaching, there were new clothes for the children, festive supplies to buy, wine for the sons-in-law—dear as it was, the holiday would be dull without it—seeds for spring planting… Though there was now a little more in the money jar, expenses were still high.

She tallied her sums again and again, and as the coins in the jar seemed to dwindle, her heart only grew heavier. Sleep would not come. She sighed.

How could having a little money feel even more suffocating than having none at all?