Chapter 15

Huang Caiwei entered the classroom, her eyes sweeping over the young children seated below, all craning their necks to look up at her. She still wore a scholar’s robe, no longer bothering with a woman’s coiffure, but instead tying her hair up in the fashion of a man, secured with a single jade hairpin. Her posture was upright and dignified, lending her an even greater air of spirited elegance.

Owing to the influence of the Princess Royal, it had become fashionable among the upper-class women of the capital and places like Yingtian to dress in robes and bind their hair like men—a lingering echo of the Wu Zhou era. Having served as a palace official for years, Huang Caiwei was long accustomed to simplicity, eschewing the elaborate adornments of court attire.

But the people of Qingyang Town had little experience beyond their borders, and the children here had never seen a woman dressed or carrying herself as Huang Caiwei did. Yet, the authority in her bearing and the composure in her eyes inspired in them an instinctive respect for her learning and refinement.

Upon seeing their teacher, the children unconsciously straightened their backs and fell silent.

Huang Caiwei introduced herself: “My name is Huang Caiwei. You may call me Teacher Huang.”

The children hesitated for a moment, then called out in unison, “Teacher Huang.” She nodded and continued, “You have come here to begin your studies, but you do not yet know one another. Why not each introduce yourself, so your classmates may learn your names?”

She pointed to Chen Qiusheng, who sat at the end, her expression gentle. “Let’s begin with you.”

Chen Qiusheng looked bewildered but stood up. Feeling all eyes on her, she was rather embarrassed, but under Teacher Huang’s encouraging gaze, she mustered her courage and said in a small voice, “My… my name is Chen Qiusheng, from Green Pond. My father farms at home…”

Was that enough for an introduction? Chen Qiusheng wasn’t sure, but as she spoke, her confidence grew and she continued, “My mother farms too. I’m their only daughter. I’m called Qiusheng because I was born in the autumn. I love salted duck eggs, and my mother makes them really well… I, I…”

Feeling the room grow silent, Chen Qiusheng trailed off and asked softly, “Teacher, did I say too much?”

The others laughed, and Chen Qiusheng grew even more abashed. After the laughter died down, Huang Caiwei said, “You did very well. You introduced yourself, and now everyone knows you.”

Chen Qiusheng grinned and sat down. The boy behind her, Zhang Xiaowu, stood for his turn. “I’m Zhang Xiaowu. My formal name… my father gave it to me, it’s Zhang Jian, but you can just call me Xiaowu. My father sells pork at the west end of the bridge in town—people call him Zhang West-Bridge. I just love to eat, and my father always calls me a glutton, heh heh.”

Zhang Xiaowu’s words made everyone laugh, lightening the mood. Each child, though stumbling over their words, tried hard to introduce themselves in turn.

When it came to Zhu Xuan, she stood and declared, “I’m Zhu Xuan. Xuan as in ‘soaring high’—I don’t quite know how to write it yet.” She tried to recall the poem Teacher Huang had used when giving her the name, but could only remember half a line. The other students, hearing that she could recite poetry, exclaimed in surprise.

Blushing, Zhu Xuan continued, “Just call me Sister Xuan. It’s the ‘xuan’ from daylily, not the other one. I have grandparents, parents, older brothers and sisters, and younger siblings. My father paints, my mother weaves, and we live in Reed Village. I don’t know what I like yet. I just want to learn well here.”

She sat down, and Yuan Fengyi rose. His introduction was brief: “I’m Yuan Fengyi. I’m six.”

He promptly sat down again, face calm.

After everyone had introduced themselves, the last to stand was Yang Xiuying. She rose with a smile. Though she was a little slow-witted, she understood what was happening and followed suit: “I’m Xiuying. My grandmother makes delicious wontons. Xiuying isn’t foolish or dull. Grandmother says I’m a clever girl too.”

Huang Caiwei listened to each introduction without changing expression, memorizing every face and name, and then began the lesson.

Elementary primers had always been the familiar “Three Hundred, Thousand” classics, though the curriculum and content varied across the country. In places like Southern Zhili, where the system was more mature and local finances robust, the primers were distributed directly by the school.

Elsewhere, students had to provide their own materials. Huang Caiwei, however, had brought with her a primer she had compiled herself while teaching the children of military officers. Now in charge of Qingyang’s school, she revised it anew. Most pupils in rural schools were illiterate, with only a few having any foundation. Even in Southern Zhili, teachers did not always understand true methods of elementary education.

Aunt Qiao entered and handed out the new textbooks Huang Caiwei had prepared. Zhu Xuan glanced through hers, noting the table of contents and chapters. It began with explanations of common characters, followed by selections from the “Three Hundred, Thousand” and “Family Instructions of Master Tai,” all annotated thoroughly and interspersed with playful illustrations—clear and engaging.

The binding differed from what Zhu Xuan had seen before; the title page even bore the seal and serial number of the publishing house.

Each child also received paper for tracing characters. They started with “Shang da ren, Kong Yiji, hua san qian…” Teacher Huang would produce a character card for each new word.

When teaching “shang,” the card displayed the character in Yan style, and the children traced over it, learning the strokes and posture as Teacher Huang adjusted their hands and critiqued their writing.

After “shang,” she flipped the card to reveal “shang” of a different meaning—not for writing yet, but at least for recognition.

The lesson proceeded step by step; no one fell behind. The children traced, memorized, and recited the sounds with earnest diligence.

All the while, Zhu Xuan marveled at how different this was from the strict and forbidding lessons her siblings had described. Teacher Huang’s approach was gentle and accessible.

After a while, a bell rang in the corridor. The children were puzzled, but Teacher Huang smiled, “It’s time for a break. Go and rest. Next period, I’ll take you outside to the courtyard.”

During the break, the first-year students chatted and explored the school together, curiosity leading them up and down the corridors.

The second- and third-year teachers were old scholars, hired mainly to make ends meet, and they viewed the new female teacher with suspicion. Who was this woman from the capital, suddenly placed in charge, changing the curriculum, inquiring after their teaching progress? Laughter and chatter drifted from the first-year classroom, and now she let the country children roam freely—quite improper, they thought.

The two old scholars muttered to each other, “Utter nonsense! Her attire is scandalous—dressed in men’s robes, propriety in ruins. Education should be solemn, yet her classroom is full of laughter. This is not learning, but amusement! To let such a person lead the school is a calamity!”

There were few scholars in Qingyang to begin with; just finding teachers was an achievement. These two were staunch traditionalists, uneasy with the new regime’s policy of educating both boys and girls together. “Boys and girls above seven should not sit together,” they insisted. “The students are six to nine—old enough to know better! How can they be mixed?”

But having taught a few years, they’d grown used to it, though they slipped in personal biases. When teaching the Four Books and Five Classics, they required only the boys to memorize; the girls were given the “Admonitions for Women” instead.

Huang Caiwei quickly discerned their methods, distributed her own curriculum, and strictly forbade gender-based teaching.

Her innate air of authority, and the fact that even the local magistrate showed her respect, meant the male teachers dared not challenge her openly, though they assumed she was some official’s wife or noblewoman from the capital. None guessed she had once served at the Princess Royal’s side.

In private, they dared grumble about her as a female teacher—an affront to the natural order—but dared not go further, for to do so would be to implicate figures as high as the Princess Royal herself.

As they whispered, Aunt Qiao happened to pass by with a basket of books and couldn’t resist retorting, “How could our teacher’s teaching be a calamity?”

The two scholars dismissed her as a mere servant and scolded, “You are most impertinent to eavesdrop on your betters!”

Aunt Qiao sneered, “And you’re not impertinent, gossiping behind someone’s back?”

The two old men, stung by her words, were about to retort, then noticed her imposing stature and the effortless way she carried the heavy basket. Swallowing their anger, they muttered, “We have nothing to say to a shrew like you!”

Aunt Qiao wanted to rebuke them further, but realized that if she annoyed them enough to quit, there would be no one left to teach. For all their faults, scholars were not easily replaced in these parts. So she glared at them and walked on.

After finishing her errands, Aunt Qiao reported to Huang Caiwei, “Those two sour scholars were talking about you behind your back. They said your attire is improper, that dressing simply is scandalous. If they saw all the women in the capital, they’d probably faint from outrage!”

Huang Caiwei smiled. “During the Tang dynasty, from Wu Zhou to the Kaiyuan era, women often dressed in men’s attire and foreign styles for the convenience of riding and traveling. This was fashionable until after the An Shi Rebellion. The ‘New Book of Tang’ criticized such trends as ‘monstrous attire,’ even claiming the popularity of foreign dress among women was an omen of rebellion…”

Aunt Qiao frowned, “Wasn’t the An Shi Rebellion the fault of Li Longji’s own excesses? Blaming Yang Guifei and even women’s fashion—men who write histories are truly absurd!”

Huang Caiwei gazed into the distance. “The restoration queen who reclaimed the Sixteen Prefectures died with her imperial title expunged. Wu Zetian became empress and was recorded in history, but always under a cloud of suspicion. Do you know the difference between them?”

Aunt Qiao considered, “The restoration queen left no direct heirs as emperor, but after Tang, all emperors were Wu Zetian’s descendants, so history judged them differently.”

“Indeed. But what does it matter if there are direct heirs? The pen of history has never been in our hands. Perhaps in future histories, we really will be called ‘monstrous in dress.’ Now they only dare criticize me, not the Princess Royal, but what of the future?

“That is why we must have elementary education, not only for boys but for girls as well. A handful of noblewomen may change the fashion for a time, but what if all the women of the realm are enlightened?

“It will be a long journey—long enough that even when I die, men may still condemn me for lacking womanly virtue. But I choose to believe that someday, women too will wield the pen of history…”

She lowered her gaze to her book, checked the time, and said, “Break is over. Aunt Qiao, ring the bell and take the children outside. The Princess Royal always said that virtue, intellect, body, beauty, and labor must all be developed, so I won’t keep the children indoors all day.”

Aunt Qiao obeyed, ringing the bell and gathering all the students in the courtyard. Thanks to her military background, she had the children lined up and counted off in no time.

She addressed them, “From now on, after the first class bell each morning, you’ll all come here for physical exercise. Learn the Eight Brocades with me to strengthen your bodies!”

Zhu Xuan, in the middle of the line, shouted her assent with delight.

One by one, the children followed Aunt Qiao in practicing the Eight Brocades. The two old scholars watched from afar, faces pale, muttering, “Such nonsense…”

Teacher Huang shot them a sharp look, and they fell silent at once.