Chapter 5

Schoolteacher?

Impossible, thought Zhu Xuan to herself.

She had asked Zhu Tang and Zhu Lian before: the one who taught Zhu Tang was a stern old man who liked to strike students' palms, and the one who taught Zhu Lian had a round face with a goatee, never holding back when punishing students. As for the other teachers, she had never heard them mention a female teacher.

Zhu Xuan looked at the woman before her and shook her head doubtfully. “I’ve never heard of a female teacher at the academy.”

The woman opposite her smiled, her brows curving gently. She seemed in good spirits. “It’s natural you haven’t. I’m new here, and will be teaching you next term.”

She took a few steps forward, bent down to look at Zhu Xuan, and smiled with extraordinary gentleness. “My surname is Huang. You may call me Teacher Huang.”

“Teacher Huang,” Zhu Xuan echoed, staring blankly at the woman’s face.

“So there really are female teachers.” Her mind finally caught up, and she sighed softly, then murmured, “But... you won’t be able to teach me.”

Only now did Huang Caiwei really see the girl before her. The child was dressed plainly, her clothes free of patches but with extended seams at the cuffs—a sign they’d been lengthened as she grew. Children this age grew quickly, and with limited fabric, this was how clothes were made to fit.

Her face was strikingly bright and spirited. Though she hailed from the countryside, her skin was fair and unblemished, her eyes clear and pure, her expression lively, with the wild grace of a young creature. Yet it was obvious she’d just been crying; her eyes were rimmed red, carrying a hint of grievance.

Huang Caiwei had served as a court lady and met countless noblewomen; she knew how to read faces. With one glance, she understood.

“Why doesn’t your family want you to go to school?” Huang Caiwei’s tone softened, gently asking.

Zhu Xuan looked at Teacher Huang, surprised. Weren’t teachers supposed to be strict and scold students? Yet this teacher was nothing like what her siblings had described; she seemed learned and gentle.

“I don’t know, so I think it’s unfair. My brothers and sisters all went to school. If they stop sending children from my turn onwards, perhaps it’s because the family has no money for tuition. If that’s the case, I must be understanding... But my grandmother says my little brother must go. He’s only two, still four or five years from starting school, so when his turn comes, money will magically appear for his tuition? But now, when it’s my turn, there’s none? What does that mean? It’s just that they don’t care if I study.”

Zhu Xuan had thought it through clearly on her way over, and spoke without hesitation.

Though the girl hadn’t begun formal schooling, her speech was clear, her thoughts organized—a rare trait. Huang Caiwei felt it was a pity for such a child not to be literate.

“Why don’t they care about you studying? I think you’re very clever,” Huang Caiwei pressed.

Zhu Xuan grinned when even the teacher called her clever. “Right? I think my mind’s sharper than my siblings’—but my grandmother doesn’t agree. She just scolds me for being stubborn and hard to get along with. Even if I’m clever, it’s useless; I’m just a girl, so going to school is considered nonsense...”

She paused abruptly, looking up at Huang Caiwei. “But you’re a woman too, and you’re a teacher. Why say girls going to school is nonsense? And... and the Princess Royal—she’s a woman as well, yet she’s so capable. Half of Dayue’s prosperity is thanks to her. If she thought girls going to school was nonsense, why did she order girls to attend school?”

“My grandmother is certainly not as clever as the Princess Royal. Just because she believes something doesn’t make it true!” Zhu Xuan declared confidently.

Huang Caiwei straightened and nodded. “Come with me.”

She opened the door and walked inside, stopping before the portrait at the front of the classroom. Zhu Xuan hesitated in the doorway, looking uncertainly at Huang Caiwei, who smiled gently. “Come in.”

So Zhu Xuan entered.

“Little one, what’s your name?”

“Zhu Xuan.”

Teacher Huang asked, “Which Xuan?”

Zhu Xuan didn’t know how to write, but she knew hers was the character for daylily, so she answered, “I think it’s the Xuan of daylily.”

“Zhu Xuan, see, you even have a name,” Teacher Huang said.

Hearing this, Zhu Xuan remembered that not all girls in Reed Village had names. Hers wasn’t even a formal name.

Some girls didn’t have even a childhood name—they’d simply be called “Big Girl,” “Big Sister,” “Big Daughter” if they were firstborn, and “Second Girl,” “Second Sister,” “Second Daughter” if they were second. That’s how they’d be called until they married, and then they’d be known by their married surname.

Her grandmother was called Madam Sun—she seemed to have no name at all. Because when her parents argued, her father called her mother “Shen Yun,” and when things were good, he called her “Ah Yun,” so her mother was named Yun.

But when her grandparents argued, her grandmother was called “Madam Sun,” and when things were good, she was “Ming’s mother” or “Qing’s mother.” Zhu Xuan had never heard anyone use a name solely for her grandmother.

So, before marrying her grandfather, her grandmother was likely just another “Girl Sun.”

Her grandmother... had no name.

Such a fierce grandmother, yet she had no name, while Zhu Xuan did. She was surprised and confused—having a name was a kind of luck.

Then Teacher Huang continued, “When I was your age, I had no name.”

Zhu Xuan was even more astonished. Teacher Huang hadn’t had a name? She stared at her, incredulous.

So Teacher Huang told her story. She hadn’t always been Teacher Huang.

Her ancestral home was also Ninghai County. She was born in the previous dynasty, and when she was very young, she followed her father and grandfather, forcibly relocated by the authorities to the northern frontier to clear land. She grew up in the north, with only a vague memory of Ninghai.

Huang Caiwei’s mother was her father’s first wife, who bore three daughters and, while pregnant with a fourth, died in the midst of the family’s migration.

Huang Caiwei was the third girl, known since childhood as “Third Daughter.”

In the north, her father quickly remarried a widow. The stepmother was harsh, and Third Daughter’s childhood was bitter, spent in her father’s indifference and her stepmother’s beatings.

So she muddled through until she was ten. The palace was recruiting maids, and the officials took one look at their family and took her away.

Thus, Third Daughter became a palace maid. Being young and illiterate, she was assigned to the kitchen to stoke fires and wash dishes, spending three years as a scullery girl. As she grew, she became more attractive.

One day, while running an errand to the Palace Administration, a female official noticed her and, after speaking a few words, realized Third Daughter was very bright—a pity for her to be stuck in the kitchen.

The official gave her a name—Caiwei. From then on, Third Daughter became Huang Caiwei.

Huang Caiwei didn’t want to remain a scullery maid. She learned that palace maids could become court ladies, but only if they passed the exam for female scholars, which required literacy and knowledge of the classics.

With the official’s help, Huang Caiwei studied on her own while working in the kitchen, taking five years to become a female scholar at eighteen.

She could recite any book fluently.

At this point, Huang Caiwei’s face showed pride. Zhu Xuan hadn’t expected Teacher Huang to have such a past and eagerly asked, “And then?”

“I worked as a female scholar in the Palace Administration, then became an official, rising through the ranks. But when I was nearly promoted to sixth rank, I offended a noble. Thanks to help from my sisters in the palace, I was sent to the old palace in Jinling—Yingtian Prefecture—to oversee books and clean the archives. It was a cold, profitless post, but I preferred it to the kitchen. There were tens of thousands of books in the old palace library, and it was quiet; I read many more books there.”

“Then the King of Yue came. The old palace was occupied; I met the Princess Royal. I begged her not to damage the books, and she agreed. Seeing I was literate, she sent me to teach others. At that time, even the generals and soldiers under the King of Yue were mostly illiterate, and their wives were mostly farmers. I taught those women to read. After they learned, their children came to our literacy classes. There was also a women’s barracks under the King of Yue, full of girls who could only fight. I taught them to read as well. Once things settled, I was no longer needed as a teacher, so I returned to serve the Princess Royal, and later came back to my ancestral home.”

She stopped there, not explaining why she returned.

As a court lady beside the Princess Royal, Huang Caiwei was more prominent than she had been in the previous dynasty, yet at that peak she requested retirement to her ancestral home. She was not yet forty—what retirement? When the Princess Royal asked, she finally confessed: with her experience in literacy campaigns, she wished to become a simple teacher for children, for teaching children their first words was much like teaching adults to read.

In the end, she was granted the rank of fifth-grade Palace Matron and sent home. The primary school at Qingyang Town was entrusted to her, though she didn’t share these details with the young girl before her.

Zhu Xuan, after hearing Huang Caiwei’s story, felt her whole worldview overturned. The Princess Royal’s greatness was widely known, but she seemed distant. Yet Teacher Huang was living proof—such a person, once a nameless village girl worse off than Zhu Xuan, had lived a life worthy of legend.

“So you see, learning to read and study truly is useful. Had I never learned, then when the King of Yue conquered the north, I’d have gone from a scullery girl to a scullery matron. I could have died, or been sent away to marry. Even then, I wouldn’t have married well—a lifetime in the palace, ignorant of worldly ways, grown old, only fit to marry a widower,” Teacher Huang continued.

Zhu Xuan thought she was right and nodded unconsciously.

“So, Zhu Xuan, you still want to learn to read and go to school, don’t you?”

Zhu Xuan’s heart lightened. She looked up with longing and nodded firmly. “Teacher Huang, I want to learn to read. You’ve shown me the value of literacy.”

Yet Huang Caiwei’s smile faded, and she broke Zhu Xuan’s fantasy. “But people like me are one in ten thousand. Even if you study, you may not become someone like me. The school has been open for so long; many girls have attended, and most, after finishing, return to their old lives. Nothing changes. Learning to read is valuable, but it’s not a magical pill that transforms your fate.”

Zhu Xuan thought of Zhu Lian, who had studied three years but only learned a little reading.

In a sense, her grandmother wasn’t entirely wrong. It wasn’t just favoritism—her brother could go to school because he could eventually sit for the scholar exams. She couldn’t; studying would be pointless. Though Teacher Huang’s story was inspiring, not everyone had such luck.

Suddenly, Zhu Xuan felt despondent. Yet Teacher Huang’s words, like a spell, pulled her forward. Her desire to study wasn’t just because it was novel; it was the vision Huang expressed that enthralled her.

She regretted stopping to talk to Teacher Huang. If she hadn’t, after today or tomorrow, she might have come to terms with not going to school. But after speaking with Teacher Huang, she found herself unable to compromise.

Even if she couldn’t become someone like Teacher Huang, she still wanted to study, for it was simply too alluring.

But... her grandmother forbade it. Her parents hadn’t objected, but if her grandmother refused, that was the end of it. Her father, stubborn as he was, would do anything for painting; if he insisted, he could counter her grandmother’s will, but the message he sent was only, “You may go to school, or not—it’s up to you.”

Thinking this, Zhu Xuan felt even more dejected. She said, “Teacher Huang, my wanting it is useless; if my family forbids it, that’s that. Even knowing I might never become someone like you, I still want to go to school. It’s your fault for making it sound so wonderful. You only had the chance to study because that palace official helped you; without her, you couldn’t have accessed books. I’m not so lucky.”

She finished speaking and heard Huang Caiwei burst out laughing. “Child, if I didn’t want you to study, why would I tell you all that?”

Zhu Xuan looked up at her, surprised. Teacher Huang said, “How do you know that, for you, I’m not what that palace official was for the scullery girl I once was? Since I’ve taught you one lesson, I’ll make sure you walk through this classroom door on the first of August.”

Zhu Xuan’s eyes grew moist, but she was bewildered. “You taught me a lesson? Teacher, when did you teach me?”

“Just now.”