Five Records of Listening to Xiao Pavilion

Author: Gu Nong
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2004-08-01
Features: As one grows older, time seems to pass faster; perhaps it's because there are always so many things to do that I haven't dedicated myself to reminiscing about the past—this kind of urgent task is not something I can handle right now. Since the past is already gone, let it be. Now, according to the standards of this series, I must talk about my academic journey, which requires looking back. I am very happy to seize this opportunity to tidy up and conclude nearly six decades of traces, which may be beneficial for a clearer and more fulfilling future.
A Dull Youth My family was a large one with six siblings, and I was the youngest. When I was young, our family rented a quiet alley in the northern part of Taizhou City, Jiangsu. The gate was not large, but inside were several courtyard-style houses, with two wells, two main gates, and a back gate—this was for the landlord's use. We lived in the main hall and a few ear rooms, complete with an entrance gate, fire lane, and flower hall, along with a small garden, though it was not rented by our family and no outsiders came in. We had our own main gate and well, with two sky wells—one in the courtyard and a larger one between the entrance gate and the main gate. Sometimes my two older brothers would play soccer there. The entrance gate had a connecting hall, which was a good place to play chess and cool off. The landlord was surnamed Fang, the owner of a flour mill, with a regional accent, and he had only one daughter. The father and daughter lived in thirty or forty rooms, which was too quiet; our family had three generations and many children. It was said that the old lady liked our family's vitality and my father had a good reputation, so she rented the place to us, and the rent was not expensive.
Our family was indeed lively before. The older sisters were all outstanding—good at studies, public speaking, and acting. My second sister, in particular, was a master of writing and even ran a student literary magazine. However, I was too young to understand these things at the time. I was seven years younger than my second older brother and even older by more than ten years compared to the older sisters. When I was young, I was rather foolish and could hardly remember anything, but I noticed that they were always busy and had little time to play with me. The only two things I remember clearly are: one, I was sent to a private academy to study when I was about four years old. This academy was right across the street from our home. The teacher was surnamed Gao, with a white beard and a very kind demeanor. He had a grandson who was the same age as me, and we often played together in the middle of the alley, where the stone-paved area was wide and clean. During the day, when my older siblings went to school, I was bored at home and would ask my mother to tell stories. Unfortunately, she was often sick and had few interesting stories to tell, mostly the same old ones I had heard before. So, my father decided to send me to the private academy to study, saying, "Let him stay there for half a day."
This study was quite free. I could go whenever I wanted. After arriving, I would first grind ink. The teacher required me to grind it for half an hour, using force and keeping the ink stick straight so it wouldn’t be crooked. After grinding the ink, I would sit at my desk and trace characters— in the morning and one in the afternoon. After finishing the afternoon tracing, I would give both to the teacher to review. He would ask me to read each character aloud, and if I read it correctly, he would pat my head. If he didn’t pat my head, I knew I had made a mistake and would have to read it again. If I still got it wrong, the teacher would say, "You’ve gotten confused again!" and explain what the character was and where it appeared in a sentence. Then he would assign the next day’s tracing and explain each character to me, having me repeat after him. After that, I could go home. If I wanted to stay and play a bit longer, I could.
There was a long time between finishing the morning tracing and having lunch. The teacher allowed me to play in his courtyard—watching ants move, playing with a ball, rolling copper coins—but I wasn’t allowed to talk loudly. In reality, I was the only one there, so there wasn’t much to talk about. I could also read picture books at my seat, but only by myself—I wasn’t allowed to let other students read them. They were older and had more homework, so they couldn’t be distracted. I could go home anytime: to drink water, use the restroom, or wash my hands. I mostly went home to wash my hands, as grinding ink and writing often got my hands and even my face dirty. Every time I went home, my grandmother would help me wash, saying, "Look at how dirty you are! Your studies are getting better!" After washing, she would give me something to eat and send me back to the academy to study.
It was around this time that my studies began to take shape. After a year, the teacher also taught me arithmetic, all done mentally, without writing or homework. My grandmother was very good to me and was also a great cook, much better than my mother. She was always busy, and the older sisters would often urge her to rest or help her, but she would say, "Your mother had a hard time growing up and damaged her health. I’ll do it. This is nothing compared to that. You should focus on your studies!"
Another memorable event was a lively evening when all my siblings returned home after dinner. We would sit at two tables, each with a large kerosene lamp, to do our homework. The rooms were brightly lit. My father would also be in his room reading or writing something. It was best not to go to his room, as he would write a few characters to test me, whether he had taught them or not. If I didn’t go, he wouldn’t ask or teach me any new characters. Occasionally, my two older brothers would quarrel, and he would scold them severely. I would move between the two homework tables, asking questions and asking them to draw pictures for me, like the ones in the picture books. When they got tired of me, my second sister would usually lead the others to give me some of their pocket money to buy peanuts and candy from the street. I was happy to run this errand. After buying them, I would taste a little first, then divide them into six portions. My share was always the largest. After eating, I would feel at ease and fall asleep. I didn’t know when they went to sleep, but they were already at school the next morning. I guess I often ate before going to sleep, which led to my teeth deteriorating early. I don’t have many of my own teeth left now, mostly useless "rogue elements."
Unfortunately, this interesting and lively time didn’t last long. After 1949, things changed rapidly. First, my second sister suddenly left home and couldn’t be found. My father was frantic, constantly scolding everyone, and my mother lay in bed, crying endlessly. Only my grandmother wasn’t too worried. She said, "Second sister is smart; she won’t get into any trouble. Let’s wait and see." Later, we learned that she had secretly followed the People’s Liberation Army across the river and became a reporter for a revolutionary newspaper in Zhenjiang. A while later, she sent back photos, wearing an eight-pointed military cap, looking beautiful and impressive. Soon after, my older sister went to university in Shanghai. My third sister also went to university, reportedly a revolutionary university, different from ordinary universities. She didn’t stay long before going to fight the Americans in Korea. When I learned that my second sister had secretly left home to join the revolution, my father was very angry. He said girls shouldn’t be revolutionaries; they should attend regular universities and achieve something. But he quickly came around when my third sister went to the revolutionary university, and he didn’t object. He realized that opposing it was useless—there would just be one more who left.
My two older brothers, the "twin troubles" (the older fourth and fifth brothers, whom my father often criticized with this phrase—I didn’t understand why they were both "troubles" and didn’t dare ask, afraid of getting involved myself) often fought. My father decided to separate them, sending the older fifth brother to high school in Zhenjiang, under the care of my second sister. The older fourth brother, though attending high school in Taizhou, insisted on boarding, so he wasn’t at home often, only coming back on weekends. This was in 1951. That year, the private academy closed, and I was seven years old, so I entered primary school. Since I could recognize many characters, write well, and knew basic arithmetic, I was placed in the third grade. The homeroom teacher suggested I could go to the fourth grade, but my mother disagreed, saying I shouldn’t strain my body. So, I entered primary school as a third-grader. The old teacher was very happy and told everyone that none of his students were wrong.
From 1951, my life became very dull for the next ten years. The house was quiet, and I just went to school, did homework, ate, and slept. The only joy was reading picture books. I read every book at the rental shop and then picked the interesting ones to read again. Because there were fewer people, we moved to a smaller house, which still felt empty. My grandmother grew older, and my mother’s health worsened, eventually passing away. What was once a lively family was left with just my father and me, lacking vitality. Because there were fewer people, I had a dedicated study room called "Xixuan," which was about ten square meters. It was supposed to be the western wing, but "Xixiang" was clearly not suitable. At that time, they still practiced burying coffins in the ground, and my mother’s coffin was left in the main room for several months without being buried. My father never explained why, and I didn’t ask. Some classmates who knew about it asked me if I was scared, but I wasn’t—I was scared of losing my mother. My father grew older day by day, and his only joy was reading letters from my older siblings, especially the photos they sent. My second older brother was studying at the Dalian Naval Engineering College, wearing an officer’s uniform, looking very impressive. He sent many photos. I, on the other hand, collected a lot of good stamps, including foreign ones (Hungarian). My older brother had studied English at Nankai University for a year before being sent to study at the Roland University in Budapest, which was one of my father’s greatest joys.
In the evenings, I did my homework while my father read his books. He usually only read bound books, and more than 90% of his collection was bound. When he came across something he liked, he would read it aloud in a special tone, which sounded quite strange. He said that when he attended the private academy (he studied there for ten years, reading all the classics and histories), his teacher taught them to read this way. Reading is for reading, and it’s even better if you can recite it. My father never asked about my homework or looked at my report cards; he just had me read them to him. When I did well, he would stamp his favorite seal in the parent’s comments section—supposedly made by a famous artist, though I don’t remember the name. If I did poorly, he would use a common seal. At that time, homework was very little, and there was nothing to do in the evenings, so I would read books from his bookshelf at random. I read all the novels in the house first, some of which matched the picture books I had seen before, and I really felt the joy of reading. Later, I found some novels weren’t very interesting, so I switched to reading classics like "Essays on Ancient Literature," "Records of the Grand Historian," "Selected Anecdotes of the Times," and so on. I also flipped through "The Selections of Refined Literature" and "Zhuangzi," but gave up because there were too many characters and sentences I didn’t understand. When I had questions about classical texts, I would ask my father, and he would give clear answers. Sometimes I doubted his answers, but he wasn’t stubborn and would ask me to look them up in dictionaries and further study. The "Kangxi Dictionary" and "Comprehensive Dictionary" were on his desk, and he often used them too. I read many books this way, half understanding and half not, so later when I studied classical Chinese in textbooks, it seemed very simple, and the teachers would analyze it in detail, which I thought was unnecessary. So, I often secretly read other books in class. Once, I was caught, and the teacher scolded me, saying that a model student shouldn’t break discipline. The teacher also punished me by having me explain a passage, which wasn’t difficult for me. After I finished, the teacher said, "Very good. But you can study even deeper—knowledge is endless." I always remembered the serious look on his face when he said that.
By 1961, when I graduated from high school, both my homeroom teacher and my Chinese teacher recommended me to apply to Peking University’s Department of Chinese Language. However, I was determined to study journalism, just like my second sister—she was already a famous reporter for Xinhua News Agency. My father let me do as I wished, just asking my second sister for advice on how to fill out the application form. Since my mother passed away, he had a somewhat hands-off attitude. My second sister said, of course, to study Chinese, as journalism had no academic value and articles only had a day’s life. I believed her and ended up entering Peking University’s Department of Chinese Language.
During my middle school years, I often felt very frustrated, unable to explain why, but life was very dull. So, I often went to the movies in the evenings. My father never objected, as he usually went to bed early and only slept after I came home. Sometimes he would ask how the movie was, and I would always say it was good, which made him happy. In reality, some movies weren’t very interesting. Sometimes after watching a movie, I would also want to be a writer and create my own masterpiece, at least something better than those boring novels and films. After reading classics for three or four years, I became overly mature and lacking in vitality, unable to sing, swim, play cards, or do anything else. Since I couldn’t play, I didn’t want to play either. Relatives often praised me for being quiet, patient, and capable of studying; they had no idea how unhappy I was inside, and I didn’t say anything.