Chapter Eighteen: The Female Classmate

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Could men and women study together in the Song Dynasty? The answer is yes. Most commonly, it happened in private schools within families. During the Xuanhe era, a talented young woman wrote a poem: “In youth, I shared a desk with my cousin, delighting in the love of letters,” describing the faint stirrings of romance in such settings.

But could they study together outside of family schools? Song dynasty notes record instances where daughters of ordinary folk attended public schools with boys. For example, the “Drunken Old Man’s Talk” recounts a wealthy man sending his daughter to school so he could more conveniently recruit a son-in-law.

If such anecdotes seem exaggerated, then history provides firmer evidence: In the Southern Song, an official named Zhang Youqian studied alongside a neighbor’s daughter, Luo Xi. Affection blossomed between them, and eventually they married.

When Zhang Yue saw the young girl, anticipation flickered in his heart. Yet, upon noticing the burly servant trailing behind her, his hopes were quickly extinguished. Some even brought bodyguards to school.

After introducing the scholar, Guo Xuejiu said to Zhang Yue and Guo Lin, “This is Lady Miao.”

The girl shyly greeted Zhang Yue and Guo Lin, “Greetings, gentlemen.”

“Greetings, Lady Miao!” The two quickly returned her courtesy.

Guo Xuejiu coughed lightly, “Though Lady Miao is younger than you, her learning is no less profound, especially in mathematics.”

Zhang Yue knew well that, while coeducation wasn’t rare in the Song, the focus was different. Girls came mainly to learn literacy and, most importantly, accounting—to prepare for managing household affairs and estates in the future. The village head sending his third daughter to school clearly had this purpose in mind.

“Guo Lin, you’ve learned some mathematics. Teach her first, and if she doesn’t understand, she can ask me,” Guo Xuejiu said, then strode away, leaving Guo Lin bewildered.

Guo Lin could only think: I don’t actually know much myself.

A new cedar chair had been added to the thatched hut. The servant who accompanied Lady Miao stood outside the door, occasionally fiddling with his waist blade and casting wary glances inside.

Seeing this, Zhang Yue focused his mind, suppressing any stray thoughts.

Lady Miao took out a book from her satchel, surprising both Zhang Yue and Guo Lin—it was a proper textbook, marking her as part of the enviable “book-owning class.”

She then produced neatly carved bamboo rods and began arranging them according to the book.

Zhang Yue and Guo Lin glanced over, then returned to their studies.

About half an hour later, Lady Miao addressed Guo Lin: “Senior Guo, may I ask you something?”

Guo Lin, startled by her beauty, stammered, “Um, what is the question?”

Zhang Yue thought, Guo Lin may seem reserved, but he’s secretly quite charming—perhaps he’s already imagined naming their children.

“I have a problem: There is a plot of land shaped like a cow’s horn, sixteen paces in length, six paces wide at the mouth. What is its area?”

Fujian is mountainous, with fields irregularly shaped—narrow and long like cow horns. Song dynasty classics could be disconnected from reality, but mathematics was practical, solving everyday concerns.

“Well… let me try…”

Zhang Yue quickly calculated the answer; meanwhile, Guo Lin scribbled for a long time before finally declaring, “One hundred fourteen paces.”

“Thank you, Senior, for solving my question.”

Guo Lin replied, “We address each other as brothers. I came earliest, so…”

Lady Miao nodded sweetly, “Elder Brother.”

Guo Lin blushed and nodded awkwardly.

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Lady Miao continued, “Elder Brother, here’s another: A levee is two zhang wide at the base, eight chi wide at the top, four chi high, and twelve zhang seven chi long. What is the volume?”

Guo Lin calculated for a while, then hesitantly said, “The volume is five thousand six hundred twenty-one chi.”

Lady Miao checked her book, shook her head, and said, “That’s not correct.”

Guo Lin felt like sinking into the earth. “Maybe you should ask Brother Zhang—he’s quite skilled in mathematics.”

He recalled when Zhang Yue offered to teach him arithmetic.

Lady Miao turned to Zhang Yue, who was reciting the classics with full concentration.

She hesitated, then called out, “Second…”

Zhang Yue, still reading, quickly interrupted, “My surname is Zhang, and I am the third in my family. Just call me Brother Zhang.”

He had been listening all along.

Lady Miao couldn’t help but smile, then wondered: If he won’t let me call him Second Brother, does he mean I am also third in my family? How rude, though he looks decent.

“Is there something you need?”

Lady Miao blushed, “Yes, Brother Zhang, this question…”

“The answer is seven thousand one hundred twelve chi!” Zhang Yue replied.

This time Lady Miao was baffled; she checked the book in surprise, “Brother Zhang, you haven’t even…”

“I calculated it as soon as you started reading.”

“But you didn’t use paper or rods.”

Zhang Yue shrugged, “Mental calculation.”

“Is that possible? But the book says otherwise.”

“Let me see.”

Lady Miao quickly handed him the book.

Simple, simple, far too simple—give me ten more like this!

Zhang Yue instinctively pushed his nose up, only to realize he’d forgotten his glasses, which left him feeling incomplete.

“In the book’s terms: For a trapezoid, sum the two bases, halve it for the average width, then multiply by the height and length. But you don’t need to make it so complicated—just remember the trapezoid formula: Add the upper and lower bases, multiply by the height, divide by two, and multiply by the length. If that’s still unclear, think: base plus base, divide by two, multiply by height, then by length—that’s it! Try it yourself with the rods.”

Lady Miao listened, recognizing every word, but somehow failing to grasp the meaning.

Zhang Yue noticed her confusion, “How many years have you studied mathematics? Remember, if you’re to manage a household, you’ll need it daily. Calculating land, labor, grain, wages—it’s all necessary. Without understanding this, how can you be a mistress of the house?”

“Me? Me? Me?” Lady Miao’s ears turned red from embarrassment and anger. What does he mean by this? When did I ever claim I’d be a mistress? What business is it of his?

“Thank you, Brother Zhang.”

She quietly retreated to her desk, arranging her calculation rods.

???

Did I say something wrong? Zhang Yue wore a puzzled expression.

Guo Lin shook his head, giving him a look that said, “Serves you right for not winning the lady’s heart.”

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In truth, Zhang Yue had acted deliberately. He wanted to leave an impression as a top scholar before Guo Lin and the young woman, then gently discourage her from interrupting his studies with homework questions. Selfish, perhaps, but nothing was more important to him than learning.

Single and bookish? There is beauty within the pages!

The visit from his fellow student was but a brief interlude, not enough to disrupt Zhang Yue’s studies.

He continued his lessons, and Guo Xuejiu, after seeing Zhang Yue’s transcription of the Filial Piety Classic and Analects, noted that his calligraphy could be greatly improved. He assigned him daily practice.

Guo Xuejiu taught Zhang Yue the Eight Principles of the Character “Yong.” Profound in name, the method was simply to repeatedly practice writing the character “Yong.” Despite its five strokes, it encompasses eight essential brush techniques, representing every aspect of calligraphy. Thus, mastering “Yong” was said to open all doors—a belief reflected even in the Lanting Preface, whose first character is “Yong.”

The Eight Principles of Yong became the ideal entry point for beginners. Today, Zhang Yue’s assignment was to write one hundred Yong characters.

In his previous life, Zhang Yue had studied calligraphy, copying the Lingfei Classic, but his skill was limited.

The poetry, essays, and songs of the Tang and Song reached unrivaled heights, and calligraphy, especially in the regular script, was equally sublime.

Chen Yinke once said, “Chinese culture, evolving over thousands of years, reached its zenith in the Zhao-Song era. Though it later declined, it will surely revive.” This was the verdict of later generations, but from a pragmatic perspective, good handwriting could significantly enhance one’s prospects in the civil service exams. Several Song emperors were enthusiasts of calligraphy, and a fine hand was indispensable for advancement at court.

Following Guo Xuejiu’s instructions, Zhang Yue emptied his mind of previous learning and started afresh, practicing the character stroke by stroke.

From grinding ink to applying brush, each step followed a prescribed order and method. In his former life, he attended extra-curricular classes using bottled ink, but now he had to learn from scratch.

Truth be told, for genuine calligraphy study, ground ink is superior to bottled. Beginning with ink grinding—grinding ink is like refining one’s mind. The weight and speed of grinding affect the final character; some scholars might spend thirty or forty minutes preparing ink before writing. Wealthier households left this task to their attendants. In the Song, any scholar worth his salt had a book boy.

Once the ink was ready, he dipped his brush, shaped the tip, and began writing on paper. Before committing to paper, Zhang Yue had to practice hundreds of characters in the sand with a twig, forming a rough mental image, always mindful of frugality.

After mastering the strokes, he returned to his cedar desk, weighted the corners of the paper with river stones to prevent movement. Holding the brush required proper technique, but not rigidity—flexibility and breadth were key.

Writing one hundred Yong characters was not much, but the challenge lay in the slowness and care required. After several days, his fingers and palms were sore; a single glance revealed whether he’d written with care. Though Zhang Yue enjoyed midday naps, he never shirked his calligraphy practice.

When finished, he had to wash his brush. In his previous life, he’d simply rinse it under a tap, much as one might clean a mop…

Dedicated scholars bought brush washers; Zhang Yue managed with a flat-bottomed bowl. The water needed to cover only the tip, soaking briefly before washing, ensuring the ink in the brush’s belly was also clean. Guo Xuejiu would check; if Zhang Yue didn’t clean it well, he’d wash it again himself.

While studying with Guo Xuejiu, Zhang Yue’s meals, lodging, and all scholarly supplies were included in the tuition.

Frugal in food and lodging, Guo Xuejiu spared no expense when it came to brush, ink, paper, and inkstone—always using the finest. He repeatedly reminded Zhang Yue to cherish his supplies; for scholars, respect for the tools of learning was paramount. Not only were they costly, but reverence was fundamental to scholarship.

ps: If you’ve enjoyed reading these past couple of months, please send your recommendations my way for a bit of happiness!