Chapter 11

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On the way back from Huang Caiwei’s house, Zhu Xuan’s mind was still in a haze, as though she hadn’t yet recovered from the experience. In Huang Caiwei's home, she had respectfully performed the student’s salute and addressed her as Teacher. Huang then asked if she knew how to write any characters. Zhu Xuan nodded excitedly—she had only learned a handful at home, but was eager to show off, answering loudly, “I do know how to write some characters!”

Huang nodded, produced a sheet of white paper, and asked her to write down all the characters she knew. Zhu Xuan picked up the brush and, without hesitation, wrote her own name first, followed by those of her family members. She only remembered the shapes, not the strokes, so there were always omissions—one could hardly call it writing; it was more like drawing.

Soon enough, she had exhausted her entire “life’s learning” in characters, realizing she was barely at the level of recognizing a few basic ones.

“Finished writing?”

Zhu Xuan nodded, but felt a bit embarrassed. How could she have thought it worthy to show off such meager knowledge before Teacher Huang?

Huang Caiwei picked up the completed sheet, examined the scribbles with a neutral expression, and Zhu Xuan grew nervous, afraid the teacher would find her shallow. After looking it over, Huang commented, “You haven’t started formal schooling, yet you’ve already taught yourself these characters. Not only can you recognize them, but you can write them down—that is already quite commendable.”

“But some of these are rather challenging for someone who’s just started learning,” Huang pointed to the characters for “Tang” and “Di.”

Zhu Xuan immediately nodded and said, “I can recognize them easily, but to write them took a lot of copying—they’re the names of my elder brother and younger brother.”

“Tang and Di together form ‘Tangdi’—the tangdi tree. Its flowers grow closely along the branches, so tightly packed they leave no gaps. In ancient times, people thought the ideal brotherly relationship should be like that. ‘The glory of Tangdi, shining in E, among all people, none closer than brothers.’ ‘Tangdi’ is often used as a metaphor for brothers. Your parents named your brothers thus to express their hope for harmony between them. These names weren’t chosen at random.” Huang explained the origins of the two brothers' names to Zhu Xuan.

Zhu Xuan was deeply impressed. She hadn’t realized her elder and younger brothers’ names had such meaning. Zhu Ming, gratified, added, “I once had brothers myself, but in the end, I was left alone. So I wished that if I had two sons, they would help and support each other, never divided. That’s how I named them.”

“What about me, Lian, and Ying? Do our names have any special story?” Zhu Xuan looked up with eager anticipation, glancing between Huang and Zhu Ming.

Zhu Ming was pricked by her clear, burning gaze. The truth was, the names for the three girls in the middle were chosen to suit the occasion, without much thought for meaning. After all, you couldn’t just call them First Sister, Second Sister, Third Sister around the house—they needed proper names.

Zhu Tang and Zhu Di had scholarly names, but Lian, Xuan, and Ying did not. When the girls were born, their names were registered simply as the eldest girl, the second girl, and so on. Over time, these became their de facto names. When Zhu Lian went to school, she was officially enrolled as Zhu Lian, without anyone taking extra care to choose a more refined name.

Zhu Xuan’s name was not a scholarly name yet, but would become one in time. In the countryside, it was common for a childhood nickname to turn into a formal name—it was nothing unusual. For girls, the scholarly or childhood name never mattered much anyway; one day, it would simply become “so-and-so’s wife.”

Yet confronted with Zhu Xuan’s gaze, Zhu Ming felt a pang of guilt but told the truth: “There’s no special story behind your names, and even if there had been, I didn’t deliberately pick them for their meaning.”

He watched as the light in Zhu Xuan’s eyes slowly faded. She had half expected it, but was still disappointed, lowering her head to murmur, “I knew it.”

“Actually, your names are quite nice. Take Lian, for example—Zhou Dunyi’s ‘Ode to the Lotus’ praises the lotus for ‘emerging unstained from the mud, washed by pure waters yet not seductive,’ calling it the gentleman among flowers. How is that not a story? Simplicity is elegance; plainness is true grace. Lian is a fine name.” Huang Caiwei interjected.

“And as for Ying, the ‘Erya’ says, ‘That which flourishes but does not bear fruit is called Ying.’ Originally, it denoted a plant that blossoms but doesn’t fruit. It’s not a bad name for a girl—‘travelling with women, as beautiful as Shunying.’ Ying also means beauty. Qiong Ying means fine jade. ‘As the great way prevails, so shines the excellence of the three dynasties.’ Ying has many meanings, all with worthy stories.”

Zhu Xuan’s eyes lit up, and she exclaimed in wonder. She hadn’t realized that the names of her sisters, Lian and Ying, contained such rich significance.

“So what about mine? Does Xuan have a story?”

Huang Caiwei replied, “The daylily, or xuan, is known as the ‘forget-sorrow’ plant. In ancient times, people planted it on the northern side of the hall as an expression of care for mothers, hoping it would ease a mother’s longing for her children. ‘Where can I find forget-sorrow grass? I’ll plant it behind the house.’ Perhaps you can become the one who helps your mother forget her worries.”

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Comparison breeds discontent. Even the simple names Lian and Ying could be elaborated with deep meanings, while hers was merely to ease her mother’s worries. Zhu Xuan was somewhat dissatisfied. When Zhu Ming named his three daughters, he hadn’t thought much about it, and her name, chosen almost at random, couldn’t compare with the others.

Indeed, being born in the middle is the most perfunctory and unlucky—especially as the middle daughter among girls.

Huang Caiwei noticed Zhu Xuan’s unconcealed disappointment and asked, “Why, are you displeased with your own name after hearing my explanations?”

Zhu Xuan wanted to nod, but, sneaking a glance at Zhu Ming, she refrained. However dissatisfied, it was her parents who named her, and it wouldn’t do to complain openly—besides, she was already used to it.

“So you’re not very satisfied,” Huang remarked with a sigh but said nothing more.

Zhu Ming saw through Huang Caiwei’s intention; after this long preamble, she probably wanted to give Xuan a proper scholarly name. Scholars always spoke in such roundabout ways—why not just say so? So he immediately responded, “Xuan’s name is just a childhood nickname, not very proper. We’re just country folk and don’t know such things. Now that Xuan is going to school, she should have a formal name, and as I’m uneducated, it would be best for Teacher to choose one for her.”

With a reserved nod, Huang replied, “Since you say so, let me bestow a name upon her.”

There was still plenty of space left on the sheet of paper where Zhu Xuan had written her “life’s learning,” so Huang dipped the brush in ink and, with a flourish, wrote a single character at the bottom—“Xuan.”

Huang’s calligraphy was bold as iron and silver hooks, penetrating the paper with vigor. The character “Xuan” was written with such grandeur that the childish scribbles above looked all the more clumsy and awkward in contrast, like minnows beside a dragon.

Zhu Xuan stared at the character, her mind blank. How could there be a character so complicated and powerful in the world? It had so many strokes—it would be difficult to write. “Xuan” seemed so much simpler.

“Your scholarly name shall be Zhu Xuan, written as I have here. Xuanfei ascends the emerald heights, the poetry will gather in a dance. Xuan means ‘to fly lightly’—you are small and born in this place, like a little sparrow among the wild reeds and duckweed of the countryside. The sparrow’s wings are not as broad as those of geese or eagles and cannot soar high among the clouds. But I believe even a sparrow, with the right spirit, can ‘rise in furious flight and hunger, and none can withstand its Xuan,’ and in the end, ‘the stars shall realign, and it will sweep the land.’ In time you will fly to the clouds and stir the storm. This is my hope for you, Zhu Xuan.”

Huang Caiwei looked at Zhu Xuan with expectation. At first, Zhu Xuan still disliked how difficult the character was to write, but after hearing Huang’s words, a fire lit in her heart, and her eyes grew moist.

It was the first time in her life anyone had expressed such hope for her. No one had ever wished such things for her before.

She carefully memorized every word Huang spoke, though some of them she did not yet understand. If she could, she would have carved them into her heart.

She sniffled, unable to hold back her tears. Crying, she said, “From now on, I’ll be called Zhu Xuan! ‘Xuan’ was my childhood name, but the name you’ve given me is my scholarly name. I will fly well, and never fail your expectations!”

Zhu Ming, too, was moved. He had never thought of his unremarkable daughter in such terms. Zhu Xuan truly was like wild grass or a little sparrow, growing up unnoticed in the countryside. She was as ordinary as a common sparrow.

Though he had always felt she was a bit different, he had never dared to dream she might do anything great. For his sons, the highest hope was to become a scholar—a xiucai—and for his daughters, the best he could imagine was for them to marry well, manage the household, and raise filial children.

“Why are you crying? You don’t like your scholarly name?” Huang Caiwei knelt down and gently wiped away Zhu Xuan’s tears.

Zhu Xuan shook her head and replied, “From now on, I will never let down the name you’ve given me. I am Zhu Xuan.”

She wiped her tears, feeling a surge of courage, and took the sheet with “Xuan” written on it as she left.

After Zhu Ming and his daughter had gone, Huang Caiwei let out a breath and sat down slowly in her bamboo chair. Madam Qiao also sat and said, “That child is just a country girl—why give her such a name, with such high hopes? What’s so special about her? Even if she were an undiscovered jewel, she’s still a girl. What good will it do her to learn to read?”

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Madam Qiao’s face revealed a trace of melancholy. “If a girl like her is truly clever, it might only bring her sorrow. After three years of primary learning, what then? She’ll still go home, tend the fields, and wait for marriage. Even if you keep her on to learn, what then? Teach her what she shouldn’t know, let her see the world too clearly—will it really be for the best? Perhaps it’s better for her to finish her three years of study in innocent ignorance, and then live out her days as a country child ought.”

“Yes, for a bird that has seen the light, how could it ever be content to return to its cage?” Huang Caiwei murmured.

Madam Qiao looked startled. “If you know that, then why…”

“General Qiao,” Huang looked up at Qiao Dingyuan. “The Princess Royal is not only my hope, but yours as well. Without the Princess Royal, you would have lived your life as a strong but unruly widow. How would you have had the chance to display your talent for warfare, to be named a general? She is our hope, and she will be the hope for girls like Zhu Xuan as well.”

At the mention of the Princess Royal, Qiao Dingyuan sat up straight. In those turbulent times, half of the credit for breaking through the chaos belonged to the King of Yue, but the other half went to his extraordinary daughter—the Princess Royal, born wise and compassionate, able to understand all things.

To Huang Caiwei and Qiao Dingyuan, the young Princess Royal was almost divine.

The common people of Great Yue thought so too. Without the Princess Royal, the King of Yue might still have ended the chaos, but much later, and the kingdom established would not have been as prosperous.

Qiao Dingyuan was born strong and powerful, and because of her size and strength, she had difficulty marrying. In her thirties, she finally married a blacksmith who treated her well, and their life together was happy, but war came, her husband was conscripted, and became one more corpse on the battlefield.

Childless and widowed, Qiao Dingyuan was beset by greedy relatives, but fought back. In the end, because of her great strength, she killed a gentryman who tried to seize her property and was thrown in jail.

As she waited for death, the King of Yue intervened. The Princess Royal herself looked into her case, called it “excessive defense,” and was curious about her strength.

Qiao Dingyuan vowed to serve the Princess Royal, to repay her with her strength, and was given the name “Dingyuan,” meaning “to pacify the Central Plains.” She was a remarkable figure—a woman who learned to fight in her forties, yet showed the talent of a born general, following the King of Yue through more than eighty battles, earning great merit.

After the founding of the kingdom, at nearly sixty, she was named Mighty General. With no more wars, old injuries, and little skill in officialdom, and estranged from her hometown over the inheritance dispute, she idled in the capital.

Huang Caiwei had taught at the primary school, and when she saw her former teacher retire to the countryside, she followed, saying she would take care of and protect Huang. Divested of armor, she was just a large, stout old woman, and Huang called her “Madam Qiao” to conceal her identity, so no one in Qingyang Town connected the servant woman with General Qiao Dingyuan.

“General Qiao, before I left the capital, the Princess Royal told me she is establishing a girls’ academy in Yingtian—it’s already under construction.”

Qiao Dingyuan frowned. “But there’s already a girls’ school in the capital, even one that teaches science. Is this one in Yingtian the same?”

Huang Caiwei shook her head. “Not quite. The curriculum will be long and comprehensive—things not taught at the Imperial Academy will be taught here too. The Princess Royal calls it…the predecessor of the first comprehensive university. If girls can begin their studies here, and perhaps go on to this academy, what might happen next?”

“The civil service exams! Girls will take the exams too!” Qiao Dingyuan’s eyes shone, and she laughed. “Yes, the Princess Royal is not only our hope. She will be the hope for Zhu Xuan and all the girls of the world.”