Chapter Twenty-Nine: Teaching Through Delight

The autumn rain fell through the night, dense and unrelenting.

In the early morning, the ground was slick as they climbed the mountain. Guo Lin, who had stayed up late reading the previous night, slipped and nearly tumbled into the ravine, but fortunately, Zhang Yue was quick enough to catch him.

“Senior brother, if you wore hemp shoes like me, you wouldn’t have to worry about slipping,” Zhang Yue said, munching on a cake as he walked.

Guo Lin poured water from a bamboo tube to wash his hands and replied, “Hemp shoes are for farmers. Even if we’re hired to copy books, we still have to maintain the dignity of scholars.”

Zhang Yue scoffed inwardly: hired hands copying books—what dignity is left? Now, he thought, I am nothing but an emotionless worker.

But what he said aloud was, “You are quite right, senior brother.”

Guo Lin smiled, “Come, let’s go up the mountain.”

After the rain, the mountain paths were covered with green moss. Lowering their heads slightly, they could touch the drooping branches, shaking rainwater onto themselves. Yet Zhang Yue enjoyed walking in the mountains after rain—the chill in the air was bracing, and the scent of grass and trees was fresh and clean.

Guo Lin found the journey through the rain arduous, but Zhang Yue found it delightful.

Wearing a straw raincoat and bamboo hat, Zhang Yue abandoned his walking stick and moved even faster, reciting as he went: “Let the sound of rain through the woods be, why not sing as we walk? Bamboo staff and straw shoes beat a horse, who’s afraid? Cloaked in mist and rain, I live as I please.”

Following behind, Guo Lin savored the words: his junior’s verse was excellent, and the tune seemed to match “Calming the Wind and Waves.” But why was there no second stanza? Perhaps it wasn’t finished.

In truth, Zhang Yue, who had been a half-fan of Su Shi in his previous life, remembered many of the poet’s verses. Now, having traveled to the same era as Su Shi, he couldn’t help but wonder: if he copied all of Su Shi’s poems, could he become a literary saint, leaving nothing for Su Shi himself?

But thinking it through, Zhang Yue let the idea go. Ancient poets wrote from the heart, inspired by time and place; suddenly quoting a line out of context would be inappropriate.

Take, for instance, “Three hundred lychees a day, content to live in Lingnan forever”—not a particularly outstanding poem, but because Su Shi wrote it while exiled in Guangdong, it became famous. At nearly sixty years old, banished officials in Song seldom returned alive, and their poems were usually full of sorrow. Su Shi’s, however, was cheerful and optimistic. Just like the “Calming the Wind and Waves” verse Zhang Yue had recited: while others struggled in the rain, Su Shi strode forth, cloaked and bold.

So even if Zhang Yue wrote “Three hundred lychees a day,” it would be of no use; better to avoid it and let others shine first.

But who was it that sent Su Shi to Lingnan for lychees?

While pondering, the two arrived at the South Peak Courtyard.

They reached the pavilion gate, hung their raincoats and hats beside the study hall.

The attendant had already lit a brazier in the small room by the gate. Beside him sat a girl of five or six, quietly munching on chestnuts, her arms cradling a bag.

The attendant said to Zhang Yue, “This one is skilled at arithmetic—just right to teach my granddaughter to count.”

The little girl glanced at Zhang Yue and shook her head. “I don’t want to learn.”

“Alright, if my granddaughter says she won’t learn, she won’t,” the attendant replied with a smile, then turned to Zhang Yue with a stern face, “I’m off to teach; you watch her for me, and teach her to count as well.”

A dignified scholar reduced to a math tutor for a little girl? Free labor, indeed.

“Leave it to me. Safe travels!” Zhang Yue replied.

The attendant nodded and departed, hands clasped behind his back. Zhang Yue turned to the little girl.

She ignored him, continuing to eat her chestnuts. Sitting high on her chair, her legs swung back and forth. After finishing one, she spat the shell out with a crisp “pop!”

Zhang Yue smiled, “Little sister—no, what’s your name?”

She shook her head.

Zhang Yue tried to make conversation but was met with silence.

“Ah, your name is ‘I-don’t-know’! Well, ‘I-don’t-know,’ let’s learn to count together!”

“I’m not called ‘I-don’t-know,’” she protested in her childish voice.

---

Zhang Yue continued, “I-don’t-know, do you know how to count?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’ll teach you! Do you know how many chestnuts are in your bag?”

The little girl counted aloud, “I do! One, two, three, four, five, six, seven—seven chestnuts.”

Zhang Yue nodded, smiling. “I-don’t-know, you counted perfectly.”

“If we take one out, how many are left? Seven minus one?”

She shook her head. Zhang Yue smiled and took one chestnut from her bag. “Count again—how many are left?”

He peeled a chestnut and ate it. Delicious.

The little girl saw him take one and began to wail.

Her voice was loud, and Zhang Yue panicked. Guo Lin came over, “Junior brother, have you no shame? Stealing from a child!”

“Senior brother, don’t be so dramatic,” Zhang Yue turned to the girl, “I-don’t-know, why are you crying?”

“You ate… ate my chestnut. Now I have none left.”

“How is that?” Zhang Yue replied quickly. “Count the chestnuts in your bag—aren’t there still seven? Go on, count.”

She paused her tears to count, then cried again, “It’s not seven, it was seven before, now it’s six.”

“See, that’s counting! There were seven, I ate one, now there are six. Seven minus one is six.” Zhang Yue breathed a sigh of relief; his method of teaching through play was ingenious.

The little girl shook her head, “I don’t want to count; I just want my chestnuts—I want seven chestnuts.”

She was relentless, about to cry again. Zhang Yue, thinking quickly, said, “You want seven chestnuts? Let me make them appear for you.”

“How?” The girl’s eyes were red, looking at Zhang Yue.

He took another chestnut, split it in half, put both halves in the bag. “Count again—are there seven now?”

She stared, then cried again, “You tricked me!”

Her cries echoed through the study hall. Guo Lin rushed over, “Junior brother, what foolish idea was that? Stop, or others will come, and if the attendant hears, we’ll both be in trouble.”

Zhang Yue pointed to Guo Lin, “I-don’t-know, do you want this big brother to crouch down and be your horse?”

“No, no!” Guo Lin shook his head, alarmed.

...

Laughter rang through the study hall—a series of giggles. The little girl’s clear voice carried far.

“Junior brother, I’m exhausted. Your turn!” Guo Lin said, panting.

“No, I’m not as tall as you. I-don’t-know, big brother is more comfortable, right?”

“Comfortable.”

“Do you like big brother being your horse?”

“I like big brother being my horse.”

“See, senior brother…”

---

...

Soon, the attendant returned to the study hall and found his granddaughter happily playing with Zhang Yue. He was surprised—the girl who usually ignored everyone was now laughing with Zhang Yue, whom he’d expected to be flustered and helpless.

He hadn’t foreseen this scene.

“This young man is truly remarkable,” the attendant thought to himself.

“Grandpa, grandpa!” The little girl ran to his side.

He chuckled, a long string of laughter, and said to Zhang Yue, “You’ve got some skill, boy.”

Zhang Yue smiled back—it hadn’t been easy to amuse the little girl.

“I dare not claim credit—she’s a good child. Shall we come again tomorrow?”

“Yes!” The girl giggled again, while Guo Lin, busy copying books, looked pale as death.

“Heh, we can’t let it delay your work…” the attendant said, though he had already decided to have them return the next day.

Aside from copying books, Zhang Yue and Guo Lin usually had to sit quietly in the study hall, only allowed to leave when delivering essays to the registrar.

That day, Zhang Yue delivered an essay and passed by the Daybreak Hall. The hall was wide, with five bays; two smaller rooms to the north served as study chambers. Thin gauze curtains hung in front, and the shoes of the students were neatly lined along the steps. As Zhang Yue passed by the corridor, he saw the academy’s students seated on mats, each at their own desk, reciting the classics as the professor lectured.

He usually couldn’t understand the lectures.

But that day, the professor happened to be teaching the Book of Changes, and Zhang Yue couldn’t help but stop and listen.

“We study the Zhou Yi, one of the three Changes. Before it, there were the Lianshan Yi and the Guizang Yi, but those have long been lost; only the Zhou Yi remains. The Zhou Yi is not exclusive to our Confucian school—Daoists, Mohists, and others also study it. Recently, some Confucians have interpreted it through the Taiji, Yin-Yang, and River Chart, but our tradition is to explain the hexagrams through human principles. The sixty-four hexagrams represent sixty-four changes of human affairs—for example, the Qian and Kun hexagrams symbolize ruler and subject, father and son.”

Zhang Yue felt a deep admiration: what he had realized, the ancients had already understood and codified.

“Each pair of hexagrams forms a yin-yang relationship. The Miscellaneous Hexagrams Song says: ‘Qian is firm, Kun is yielding; Bi is joy, Shi is sorrow. Lin and Guan, one seeks, one observes. Dun stays but does not lose its home; Meng mixes and makes clear...’”

As the professor spoke, Zhang Yue’s mind opened; indeed, the sixty-four hexagrams were paired as yin and yang: Qian and Kun, Bi and Shi, Dun and Meng…

No matter how much he pondered, a few words from the master were more enlightening than all his own insights.

“But the Miscellaneous Hexagrams are auxiliary; for beginners, we rely on the Sequence of Hexagrams, starting with Qian and Kun, ending with Jiji and Weiji. Each hexagram has six lines—Qian has three yang lines, Kun has six yin lines—so yang lines are marked as nine, meaning yang can envelop yin, and yin lines as six, meaning yin cannot include yang…”

A breeze stirred, leaves fell from the osmanthus trees in the courtyard, and ripples spread across the ink pool. Sparrows hopped and pecked at the window paper.

Zhang Yue listened, lost in thought. If only he could be taught the Way of Changes by the master, he would surpass these students tenfold—but alas…

As he pondered, the voice grew closer, and raising his eyes, he saw the hall master, Zhang Heng, standing before him, scroll in hand, demanding,

“What are you doing here?”