Mao: The Unknown Story

ONE OF THE FIRST young women on the scene was a beautiful (and married) 26-year-old actress, Lily Wu, who arrived in early 1937 and became the star actress of Yenan. Her elegant clothes and manners turned heads in this back-country region, and her flowing, shoulder-length hair, in particular, was the symbol of desirability. Communist women mostly wore bulky uniforms and had shaved off their hair to get rid of lice. Mao started a relationship with her.

Lily struck up a friendship with a visiting American writer, Agnes Smedley, who was an outspoken radical feminist. Smedley had worked for the Comintern, but was something of a loose cannon, and Moscow had sent instructions “to isolate her.” Even so, and although she found that Mao had a “sinister quality,” both “feminine” and “physically repulsive,” Mao cultivated her, and gave her a long interview, because she was American. Mao sent a copy of the interview to Snow, asking him to give it “wide publicity.”

While Lily Wu’s good looks stirred Mao’s lust, the much less good-looking Smedley caused a tornado by organizing square-dancing, accompanied by phonograph records. The dances were swamped. At first, Smedley observed, “Pride prevented him [Mao] from trying to dance. He had no rhythm in his being.” He basically just “walked the floor,” the women who danced with him noted. But he soon came to see the advantage of the dances as a form of exercise — and as a way to pick up women. Weekly dances were organized, some in the open air, others in a former church. Yenan went wild about dancing.

Together with other Long March women, Mao’s wife, Gui-yuan, at first refused to attend. According to Snow, “The close embrace of bodies involved seemed positively indecent to the old guard.” Jealousy seems to have played a big — if unavowed — role. Also repressed was their secret fondness for this pleasure: Gui-yuan later came to love dancing and was good at it.

She found Mao’s womanizing intolerable. One night in June, Smedley heard Gui-yuan screaming from the adjacent cave, where Lily lived. “Son of a pig, turtle’s egg, whoremongering no-good! How dare you sneak in here to sleep with the little bourgeois bitch!” Smedley went next door and found Gui-yuan lashing out at Mao with a flashlight, while his bodyguard looked on. Mao’s protestations that he had only been talking to Lily cut no ice. Gui-yuan turned on Lily, scratching her face and pulling her hair, while Mao stood by.

Gui-yuan then rounded on Smedley. “Imperialist bitch!” she cried. “You who are the cause of it all, get out of here!” She hit Smedley, who hit her back. Gui-yuan was felled to her knees, and appealed to Mao: “What kind of man are you, what kind of husband and Communist? You let an imperialist whore beat me before your very eyes!” When Mao told his bodyguard to lift her up, Gui-yuan tripped the bodyguard and knocked him down, and in the end it took three bodyguards to carry her off, trailed by a silent Mao.

Smedley was soon sent packing. Lily was not simply banished from Yenan, but written out of Chinese Communist sources, and disappeared off the map forever.

Mao conducted other flirtations, including one with the writer Ding Ling. Though boyish and stout and not exactly a beauty, she had talent and character. Mao sent her a very complimentary poem which included the lines: “To what do I compare your slender pen? Three thousand Mausers and best men.” She recalled in later years how she often visited Mao. One day he half-jokingly compared Yenan to a small imperial court, and started writing down his colleagues’ names under the various imperial titles, which she shouted out to him. “After we finished this, he suddenly said to me: ‘Ding Ling, we have got the Hundred Civil and Military Courtiers sorted out. Now that we are a royal court, no matter how small, we’ve got to have the imperial concubines in Three Palaces and Six Courtyards! Come on, give me some names, and I will bestow titles on them.’ ”

For Gui-yuan, Mao’s flagrant womanizing was the last straw. Over their marriage of nearly ten years, she had had to live with her husband’s heartlessness. She was particularly hurt by his callousness towards her painful pregnancies and childbirth — including one on the Long March — and by his crack that she gave birth to babies “as easily as a hen dropping eggs.” And she was bitter that although he was indifferent to children, and had not cared when four of theirs had died or been abandoned, he repeatedly made her pregnant. Their fifth child, a daughter called Chiao-chiao, was born in 1936 in Baoan, where conditions were appalling, with scorpions and rats running all over the place. A year later, Gui-yuan was pregnant again, which plunged her into depression. Repeated child-bearing in harsh circumstances had severely damaged her health, without the compensation of family life. Now, on top of this, her husband was openly sleeping with other women.