The World of a Tiny Insect

A Memoir of the Taiping Rebellion and Its Aftermath

Zhang Daye, Xiaofei Tian

• Publisher: University of Washington Press
• Year: 2014
• ISBN:
  9780295804910
• Topic: History
• Subtopic: Chinese History
• Index: History

"From the cry of a tiny insect, one can hear the sound of a vast world...." So begins Zhang Daye's preface to The World of a Tiny Insect, his haunting memoir of war and its aftermath. In 1861, when China's devastating Taiping rebellion began, Zhang was seven years old. The Taiping rebel army occupied Shaoxing, his hometown, and for the next two years, he hid from Taiping soldiers, local bandits, and imperial troops and witnessed gruesome scenes of violence and death. He lost friends and family and nearly died himself from starvation, illness, and encounters with soldiers on a rampage. Written thirty years later, The World of a Tiny Insect gives voice to this history. A rare premodern Chinese literary work depicting a child's perspective, Zhang's sophisticated text captures the macabre images, paranoia, and emotional excess that defined his wartime experience and echoed through his adult life. The structure, content, and imagery of The World of a Tiny Insect offer a carefully constructed, fragmented narrative that skips in time and probes the relationships between trauma and memory, revealing both history and its psychic impact. Xiaofei Tian's annotated translation includes an introduction that situates The World of a Tiny Insect in Chinese history and literature and explores the relevance of the book to the workings of traumatic memory.

PART ONE

Trip to Tiantai

IN the nineteenth year—the guisi year—of the Guangxu era, beginning when the Emperor took the dragon throne, on the sixth day of the fourth month [May 21, 1893], this tiny insect took a trip to Tiantai. Thus the world came into being. I suppose the fruit of bodhi was about to ripen.

In the evening, together with a traveler, Mr. Pan, who was a native of Tiantai, I went out the eastern gate of Ningbo and boarded the ferry boat to Fenghua. When we got into the boat, there were four men there already. Two of them spoke with a Hu’nan accent, and looked like soldiers; the other two were from Xianju of Taizhou, whose dialect sounded like bird talk. They frequently eyed my luggage, and asked me where I was heading. I suspected that they were up to no good. Mr. Pan nervously whispered to me that they might be robbers. I quickly stepped on his foot to stop him from saying anything more. By the next morning, we were still over ten leagues away from the Great Dockyard of Fenghua. The currents were too fast for our boat to advance, so we got off the boat and took a raft instead. The four men took leave of us and were gone. Mr. Pan was delighted that we were now safe. I said, “Well, not yet, I am afraid.” We arrived at the Great Dockyard, and reached Huanggongtai, and indeed, there they were, waiting for us to show up. Huanggongtai was the name of the transfer station.

After we ate our meal, the four men set out first. I asked them where they were going. They replied, “Xinchang.” Alarmed and panicked, Mr. Pan said to me, “We will have to share the same mountain road with them. What should we do?” I smiled and asked the restaurant owner to find us nine able-bodied men. Once they were assembled, I asked them, “Aren’t you all Taizhou people who are working as hired hands here?” They said, “Why, yes indeed.” I said, “Well, the barley is yellow now and ready to be harvested. Would you like to come with me and visit your families?” They all said, “Sure.” They proceeded to carry me with a bamboo sedan chair. On our way, we ran into some mountain folks who were traveling merchants, and invited them to join us. By the time we arrived at Xikou, we had with us a group of forty-five people. Mr. Pan said, “I think we are okay now.”

I took out three hundred cash, bought five kilos of rice wine, and treated everyone to a drink; they all became tipsy. Continuing on our journey, we came to a stream. Those four men were indeed there first. Upon spotting them, Mr. Pan gave a holler to the folks traveling with us, who clustered around me as we all crossed the stream together. We made a great deal of noise. The four men did not expect to see us with so many people, and their countenances changed. They departed on a different route through the mountains.

This was one of those situations that, though one never knows, might have become quite sticky if something bad had happened and I had taken no precautions. It was truly hard to be on the road. As I looked into distance for a hundred leagues, the journey ahead seemed infinite, and I wondered where I would eventually end up.¹ That night, we stopped at Madaitou.

On the eighth, we got up early. We crossed the Shijie Range and entered the territory of Xinchang. Earlier, from the Great Dockyard all the way to Madaitou, the plain was flat and the fields fertile; green plants met the eye everywhere, and the mountain was not yet very steep. By now, however, cliffs were rising high, and remarkable trees stretched across the sky. Mountain birds sang melodiously, and flowers blossoming by the stream were full of charm. The road seemed to bend nine times for every ten steps and presented all sorts of enchanting views. The local people were simple, honest, and courteous, entirely different from Ningbo.

Around noon we passed through the Jiaxi Range. Making a rapid descent of Mount Wan, we had lunch at Old Man Xu’s restaurant by the Dragon King’s Lake. The “lake” did not have a single drop of water in it. One cannot help wondering how it acquired its name—I suppose in the same way some of the “famous gentlemen” of this world got their reputations. Old Man Xu’s given name was Dingmu, and his studio name was Zhiting. A Licentiate Scholar in his sixties, he was a remarkably kind and sincere man.² He told me that besides selling wine, he made a living by raising silkworms. He had one son and two grandsons, and his grandsons were already beginning to establish a reputation for themselves at the local school. I presented him with a couplet: “In old age, you take the ‘red buddy’ as an understanding friend; / with leisure and ease, you act as a host to the green mountains.”³ The old man was greatly pleased. He brought out a fine brew for us, and insisted that we spend the night at his place. I declined, saying that we still had a long way to go. We made a date for the future, and I took my leave.

After we turned the corner around the “lake,” we rested briefly at Jiujianlou. That night, we stayed at the Glorious Advancement Inn at Banzhu. A young courtesan, who was rather pretty, tried to ingratiate herself with me. Just as she was tuning her musical instrument, Ye Ahsheng, a native of Tiantai who was hired to carry my luggage, barged in with his beddings and asked to share my room. He said, “I hear this place is weird. If one sleeps alone, one could be bewitched by some female demon and die.” I laughed heartily at that. The courtesan lingered for a while and finally left. I looked around, and saw a poem written on the wall. It was as follows:

It’s been thirty years since I last visited

this mountain road by the stream,

Black dog, red sheep—

the world has changed.⁴

With a goblet of ale, I still like to invite people

to a game of “finger battle”;

And yet, even in the midst of chatting and laughing,

a war is raging in my heart.⁵

A fallen blossom sticks to the grass,

so awfully charming;

Fragile catkin turns into duckweed,

always full of sentiments.⁶

Tomorrow, at the wayside rest stop

for travelers to say farewell,

“In the morning breeze, under the sinking moon,”

what a melancholy affair.⁷

It was signed, “An All Too Foolish Man of Heng Lake.” This, I thought to myself, must have been someone who had been “bewitched” and almost died. But then perhaps he too was feeling the sadness of drifting at the far edge of this world.

On the ninth, there was a drizzling rain when we first got up. We crossed the Huishu Range. By now I have traversed the Huishu Range three times: years ago, when I first visited Xianju, I went there in spring, and returned in autumn; this time, I passed through in summer. I have seen the mountain in darkness and in light, in wind and in rain. Truly I must have a predestined relationship with the mountain spirit.

At first, I did not know the name of the hills on either side of the road. I saw only myriad peaks soaring and dancing, a dark green permeating the sky, furling and unfurling above the clouds like pennants and streamers. I marveled at their beauty. This time I asked some wayfarer, who told me they were called the Plantain Mountains. I recognized the ingenuity of the ancients in coming up with such a name. If, some day, I could visit the mountains after a snowfall and thus get to see the Wangchuan painting in the real landscape, wouldn’t that be wonderful?⁸

The road was very slippery in the rain, and the sedan carriers complained bitterly. So I started climbing on foot. Generally speaking, it is better to travel on foot when going uphill. When one gets tired, one can take a little rest and look around. The sights below and on either side are all marvelous, something that cannot be seen from behind the closed curtains of a sedan. When going downhill, however, it is better to sit in the sedan chair, so that one can look down from an elevated point of view, and clouds and streams are as in plain sight as two eyebrows facing each other. As one gradually approaches them, one sees their wonders even more clearly. It is regrettable that few mountain viewers have realized this.

The rainy atmosphere became thicker and thicker after we crossed the Huishu Range. Viewed from afar, the peaks of Tianmu Mountain seemed to have sunk into an ocean of fog. The rocks and soil of nearby mountains and valleys were all of a crimson hue. As profuse white clouds surrounded and encircled them, I felt as if I were watching a congregation of flames, which was quite a remarkable sight. After going on a few more leagues, we arrived at the Coldwater Way Station. By and by the terrain became more level, and the sky began to clear up. Dark green pines seemed to be dripping azure. A slender stream was gushing forth, and a cool breeze blew in our faces, refreshing and lifting our spirits. It was as if the divine beings of nature were beckoning us. We then crossed the Guan Range, which is connected to Black Summit Mountain. Black Summit was dense with rich vegetation and even more precipitous and perilous than the Guan Range. The scenery changed with every step and was beyond words. This was what I talked about in a poem I once composed:

Looking down from the mountaintop,

Vast and hazy, all I can see is a blue mist.

Descending gradually, I come to the level ground,

Suddenly the vista opens up into a grotto heaven.

By the time we went over Three Mao Bridge and reached Clear Stream Village, the terrain again gradually leveled out. Then we were in the town of Tiantai. There were troops stationed there to defend against mountain bandits. When we were passing through, a soldier was hunting pheasants with his shotgun. One of my sedan carriers, while relieving himself at the roadside, was startled and grunted about it. The soldier flew into a rage, took out his saber, and threatened to stab him. At that, everyone present was stirred to indignation. I quickly dis...