HCT – Chapter 116 Chrysanthemum Tofu Soup

The Rites of Zhou recorded the existence of female officials.

The female officials described in the Rites of Zhou were not much different from those in later feudal dynasties: they were women who oversaw palace maids and served the royal household within the inner court. Their status was higher than that of the palace maids but lower than that of consorts.

There were two types of female officials depending on the status of their husbands’ families. One type was unmarried women selected for their talents or skills—these women could serve both as female officials and potential candidates to become royal consorts. The other type was the wives of high-ranking nobles (such as ministers or senior officials). The Rites of Zhou stated: “A woman has no rank of her own, but follows that of her husband.” Those with virtuous conduct were chosen to enter the palace to assist the queen and consorts, and were known as shìfù (世妇, “hereditary women”). The head of all female officials was usually a shìfù.

The authority of female officials during the Zhou Dynasty was roughly equivalent to that of the Qing dynasty’s Imperial Household Department—a not insignificant amount of power.

However, aside from female shamans who performed rituals, female officials were forbidden from interfering in external affairs, especially those related to land or the military.

One of the major charges against King Zhou of Shang was precisely that women in his harem meddled in politics.

As recorded in the Book of Documents – The Oath of Mu: “An ancient saying goes, ‘The hen does not crow at dawn; if it does, the family will fall.’ Today, the King of Shang only listens to women, neglects his sacrifices, and brings ruin upon the state.”

The Rites of Zhou established clear boundaries for the powers of female officials, confining them strictly within the inner palace. As stated in the Yili (Book of Etiquette and Ceremonial), “Women have no business outside.”

Xue Ji, as a shìfù, assisted Queen Huayang and supervised the female officials and palace maids of Xianyang Palace. She was already the highest-ranking woman in the inner court, with no more titles to bestow.

Thus, when Zhu Xiang petitioned for a reward or title for Xue Ji, it could only be a position or title associated with external affairs.

Xunzi believed that Zhu Xiang, blinded by love, had not fully considered the implications. Though Zhu Xiang himself certainly had no foolish intentions of having Xue Ji serve as an external official, others could easily take his words out of context and use them to attack him.

And such an accusation was extremely serious. Even if Zhu Xiang had made countless contributions and earned great merit, his reputation could be destroyed in an instant.

Moreover, it would run counter to Xunzi’s entire political philosophy.

Xunzi was progressive, but not to the point of breaking away from the constraints of his era. He spoke little on women in his philosophy—unlike Confucius or Mencius, who at least acknowledged them. This wasn’t because Xunzi held ideas of gender equality—which were simply impossible in any feudal context—but because he went to the extreme of ignoring their existence altogether.

Xunzi, thinking that Zhu Xiang was about to commit a grave error, grew alarmed and prepared to physically silence him. But Zhu Xiang’s next words allowed him to breathe a sigh of relief.

The Qin state’s ceremonial system was a mess. While they did have female officials, the delineation of their roles was unclear, and palace management was chaotic.

The court’s ceremonial system was the cornerstone of the nation’s rites. Xunzi had been preoccupied with formalizing the rituals for worshipping deities, ancestors, and managing state affairs, and had not yet turned his attention to palace ceremonies. Now that Zhu Xiang had brought it up, Xunzi saw it as a timely opportunity to standardize the system for shìfù.

He deliberately raised his voice in agreement and shifted the conversation to himself—partly to steer public attention away from Zhu Xiang’s potentially controversial words, lest they be misinterpreted and spread.

Zhu Xiang understood Xunzi’s intentions and respectfully ceded control of the topic.

After listening to Xunzi’s explanation, Qin King Zhu also recognized that the matter of rewarding Xue Ji was an excellent opportunity to formalize the shìfù system.

If Qin was to unify the Six States and become the new cultural, political, and economic center, then perfecting the system of consorts and shìfù was indeed essential.

Zhu Xiang stood quietly to the side while Qin King Zhu and Xunzi discussed ceremonial reforms, not voicing further opinions until their conversation concluded.

Afterward, Qin King Zhu said that the reward for Xue Ji would require further consideration and that the matter would be set aside for the time being until he came to a decision.

Meanwhile, Xue Ji had made significant breakthroughs in her research on the loom. Although Qin King Zhu did not immediately grant her a reward, he did give her a few days’ leave, allowing her to set aside her palace duties and reunite with Zhu Xiang at their countryside residence.

He also granted Ying Zheng a short break, so he could spend more time with Xue Ji—believing that his companionship would be the most meaningful reward of all.

The family of three rode a carriage home together. Lin Zhi and Zichu wanted to join in the celebration but were held back by Cai Ze.

“Let them enjoy their family reunion first. We can visit another day,” Cai Ze said.

Zhu Xiang thanked Cai Ze, then forcefully shoved the ever-insistent Lin Zhi off the carriage and told the coachman to drive off quickly.

Zichu laughed at Lin Zhi. “Zhu Xiang doesn’t want you there.”

Lin Zhi brushed the dust off his robes and replied, “I know. I just wanted to see him all flustered.”

Zichu: “…”

Cai Ze covered his face with a hand.

Previously, Qin King Zhu had consulted him. The late king had intended for Lin Zhi to serve as Chancellor after returning to Xianyang. But Qin King Zhu had serious reservations—he felt Lin Zhi’s personality was unsuited for the role and preferred Cai Ze for the position instead, suggesting Lin Zhi could replace his current post instead.

Cai Ze was now weighing whether to decline.

Lin Zhi was his close friend—how could he steal his friend’s position?

But then again… maybe it wouldn’t be such a loss for Lin Zhi to not be Chancellor. Someone like that? Unfit for such a serious role!

Although Zhu Xiang’s bold petition on Xue Ji’s behalf had initially startled everyone, his follow-up explanation and Xunzi’s swift redirection ensured no one dwelled on the small peculiarity.

Xue Ji herself didn’t think much of it.

She even advised Zhu Xiang that instead of giving her some hollow honorary title, it would be more practical to increase their fiefdom—that would be far more cost-effective.

After entering the palace, Xue Ji had met many of Qin King Zhu’s sons and grandsons. Only then did she begin to understand what the extravagant life of royalty should look like.

She wasn’t corrupted by such luxury, but she did realize they’d been raising Zheng’er far too plainly—he didn’t resemble a prince of Qin at all.

While they didn’t need extravagance, Zheng’er should at least have the proper pomp and dignity befitting a Qin prince.

Xue Ji calculated the expenses of raising Zheng’er and was shocked. She began to seriously consider the income from their fief. Relying solely on stipends and royal rewards wouldn’t be enough to maintain Zheng’er’s princely image.

After hearing her concerns, Zhu Xiang couldn’t help but laugh. “Xue, you’re right—fief income is more practical. But I’ll still continue earning merit. If I ask for land every time, by the time Zheng’er becomes King of Qin, I’ll have nothing left to request. Even if he doesn’t mind, there’ll be gossip in court. So it’s better to ask for some honorary rewards.”

He reached out and ruffled the head of little Ying Zheng beside him. “Don’t worry about the cost of raising Zheng’er. Once I complete the task at hand, Zheng’er will be the richest man in the world.”

He was waging an economic war—controlling the wind of commerce. No need for corruption—purely legal business. When you’re the one steering the wind, even pigs can fly, let alone a man like him.

This trade war wasn’t being led directly by Qin. It was a spontaneous movement by wealthy merchants who, at least on the surface, had no connection to the state.

Zhu Xiang had already chosen Lu Buwei to lead the effort, linking the nobles of Xianyang as investors—while he himself would take the lion’s share.

“Before Zheng’er even becomes crown prince, he’ll be the wealthiest merchant in the land.” He ruffled Ying Zheng’s head again. “Our family may not like extravagance, but when it comes to princely stature, our Zheng’er won’t lose to anyone.”

Ying Zheng’s head bobbed from the repeated head pats, and his expression turned exasperated.

As his aunt and uncle discussed how to raise him… did they remember that he technically had a biological father?

Shouldn’t it be the biological father’s job to pay for raising his own son?

Then again… maybe Father had already forgotten about that. Ying Zheng sighed deeply in his heart.

“Well, we should still ask for more land and property,” Xue Ji said. She always preferred something tangible. “When Zheng’er grows up, he should have plenty of fields, houses, and servants. Only with wealth in hand can he truly do as he pleases.”

Zhu Xiang replied, “His Majesty is generous. I’m sure your reward will include plenty of land, houses, and servants.”

Only then did Xue Ji nod in satisfaction. “That’s good.”

Zhu Xiang looked at her, his little money-grubber of a wife, and felt a warm itch in his heart.

However, with the human lightbulb that was the young Emperor Shi Huang around, Zhu Xiang had no choice but to suppress the itch in his heart. Instead, he pinched Ying Zheng’s cheek.

Ying Zheng slapped his mischievous uncle’s hand away in dissatisfaction, then got up and sat next to Xue Ji, putting some distance between himself and Zhu Xiang.

Zhu Xiang chuckled and sighed, “Back then, when Uncle pinched Zheng’er’s cheeks, Zheng’er would even lift his face for it. Now Zheng’er looks down on Uncle.”

Ying Zheng gave Zhu Xiang a cold smirk and hugged his aunt’s arm. “My face hurts.”

“Aw, Auntie will blow on it and it won’t hurt anymore,” Xue Ji frowned, “My dear husband!”

Zhu Xiang raised both hands in mock surrender.

Ying Zheng looked smug.

Auntie was back—Uncle couldn’t bully him now, humph.

After returning home, the little family of three went into the kitchen together and worked as one to make a big feast.

Xue Ji didn’t have any particular food preferences, so Zhu Xiang let her choose the dishes, and she ended up picking all the ones that Zhu Xiang and Ying Zheng liked.

So Zhu Xiang got fancy with it and made her a bowl of chrysanthemum tofu soup.

Although Xue Ji didn’t care much about taste, all women liked beautiful things. The chrysanthemum tofu soup was very pretty, never mind the flavor. Chrysanthemums were also one of Xue Ji’s favorite flowers.

Given Zhu Xiang’s knife skills, of course he couldn’t cut tofu into threads as fine as hair. If his version of chrysanthemum tofu ever ended up on the internet in later eras, people would probably laugh at it: “Those petals sure are realistic—way too wide!”

But in this era, it was enough to impress.

“I want to eat chrysanthemum tofu soup every day from now on!” See? Ying Zheng was trying to hoard all the good things for himself again. “Only the King of Qin can have it!”

Zhu Xiang teased, “Zheng’er, is that all your ambition amounts to? Eating chicken broth with tofu every day?”

Immediately, Ying Zheng scratched the chrysanthemum tofu soup off his exclusive menu.

“Chrysanthemum tofu soup” sounded poetic and elegant, but once it became “chicken broth with plain tofu every day,” it suddenly lost all appeal.

Xue Ji had spent the whole day exhausted, especially after the energy-draining meeting with the Qin royal pillar. After the meal, she grew drowsy.

Zhu Xiang told her to go to bed first: “I’ve gained some insights on the matter His Majesty entrusted to me today. I want to write them down before I forget, then I’ll sleep.”

Xue Ji yawned and said, “Don’t stay up too late, dear—get to bed early.”

Ying Zheng had wanted to follow Zhu Xiang to the study, but Xue Ji insisted that children should sleep early. So he was dragged off by his aunt to his little room to sleep, casting several pleading looks back at Zhu Xiang on the way. Zhu Xiang pretended not to see any of them.

Just as Zhu Xiang lit the beeswax candle in his study, Xunzi came looking for him.

Seeing the serious look on Xunzi’s face, Zhu Xiang couldn’t help but smile wryly.

Even his small schemes couldn’t escape his teacher’s sharp eyes.

“Zhu Xiang, do you intend to have Xue Ji interfere in state affairs?” Xunzi went straight to the point.

Zhu Xiang sighed and cupped his hands respectfully. “Please don’t be angry, Master Xunzi. I absolutely have no such intention. If I really let Xue Ji meddle in politics, she’d be condemned by all the world before long. Even Xia Tong and Zheng’er couldn’t protect her.”

Indeed, there were women who interfered in politics during the Warring States, but they were all empress dowagers—the biological or nominal mothers of monarchs.

There were remnants of matrilineal traditions at this time, but they centered around the power of the mother’s family, especially the maternal uncles. Whether it was Empress Dowager Xuan, Queen Wei of Zhao, or even the Empress Lü of Zhu Xiang’s own timeline, all of them ruled from a position of motherhood, empowered by Confucian ideals of filial piety.

Even Wu Zetian, the only female emperor, had seized power largely because she was the sole mother of all eligible royal princes of the Li Tang lineage.

There were a few women in the clans with real power—such as the Widow Qing of Ba—but that was because they were widows, de facto matriarchs of their households.

Xue Ji was Zheng’er’s aunt—and his foster mother. It was a unique status that granted her the protection of the Qin royal family, but it was also precarious. She was technically part of the maternal clan, yet lacked the moral protection of being Zheng’er’s biological mother. If she showed any signs of political ambition, she’d immediately be attacked from all sides.

Even Zheng’er wouldn’t side with her.

Zhu Xiang understood Ying Zheng. Even if the boy wasn’t exactly like the Emperor Qin Shi Huang of his own time, at his core, he would not be that different.

Besides, Xue Ji herself had no such desire.

If Zhu Xiang forced her onto a political path by saying, “This is what a modern, independent, ambitious woman should do,” he would essentially be sentencing her to death.

Choosing hardship for the sake of one’s ideals and being forced into it by someone else—those were two very different things.

“That’s good to hear,” Xunzi said sternly. “But if you don’t want Xue Ji interfering in state affairs, then tell me—do you want inner-court women to get involved in them?”

Zhu Xiang was silent for a long time, then smiled. “I can’t do that now, but a thousand years from now? Who knows. If appointments are based on merit, then why shouldn’t wise women hold office?”

Xunzi took a deep breath, frowning. “Zhu Xiang, are you insane?”

Zhu Xiang smiled. “Those who lead by half a step are sages. Those who lead by a thousand years? Lunatics. I guess I am a lunatic. But don’t worry, Master Xunzi. This is just an ideal and a prophecy. I won’t act on it. Pulling up seedlings to help them grow only kills them. I understand perfectly well what can and cannot be done in this era.”

He paused, then added, “You know that many of my ideals don’t fit this era. This is just one of them.”

Xunzi said, “Some of your other ideals can still be understood by the people of today. But this one—this one is just wrong!”

Zhu Xiang smiled bitterly. “Perhaps, in this time, I am wrong. But an ideal is an ideal. You won’t change me, and I never intended to change anyone else.”

“Then why did you fight for credit on Xue Ji’s behalf?!” Xunzi demanded. “Wasn’t that meant to stir ambition in inner-court women?!”

Zhu Xiang fell silent again before replying, “Credit should go where credit is due. That’s all I think. The inner-court etiquette for noblewomen is yours to establish, Master—I won’t interfere.”

Xunzi frowned. “I won’t let you.”

Zhu Xiang bowed deeply. “I only have one request: that women may receive honors based on merit—even if those honors are limited to the inner court and household wealth.”

Before the female title system was formalized, women’s honors were usually tied to their husband’s rank: “A woman has no title of her own, but follows that of her husband.”

During Emperor Gaozu’s reign in the Han dynasty, women were first granted titles independently—Liu Bang gave his sister a marquis title.

Later, Empress Lu followed his example, though the titles she gave her sisters were revoked when the Lu clan was purged. Even so, the practice of granting titles to imperial women remained, although the titles changed in meaning from those of the Warring States era.

Yet whether it was Liu Bang’s sister, imperial princesses, or eventually the titled noblewomen of the Qin and Han courts, the honors were rarely about the women themselves. They were tied to bloodlines and husbands.

Only a very few women were granted titles based on their own merit.

Xunzi had seen right through Zhu Xiang.

Zhu Xiang was simply trying to ignite a tiny spark of ambition in the women of this time—not because of who they married, birthed, or descended from, but because of their own abilities.

Later generations would claim that women of the Qin and Han enjoyed high status, but they ignored the precondition: their status was higher compared to the harshest times of Confucian patriarchy. It had nothing to do with gender equality, let alone the “feminist societies” touted by trashy pop historians.

The Warring States era was the transitional point from slavery to feudalism—both systems that placed women at the bottom.

In an age of war and slaughter, where lives were as worthless as grass, to speak of gender equality among the commoners and poor scholars was only to say that men and women alike suffered as less than human.

Why were women, who didn’t serve in the army, still made to guard cities? Why were young women found among the laborers building roads, cities, and canals?

Because the men had died—and the women had to take their place.

Even noblewomen fared little better. Aside from a rare few empress dowagers lucky enough to hold power, most aristocratic women had no control over their own lives. Their marriages were controlled entirely by their natal families, and they were often given away like gifts. Freedom was a luxury—survival wasn’t even guaranteed.

One noblewoman, for instance, was taken back by her brother after her husband fell into disgrace. Later, when that same husband rose to power again, the brother gave her back to him. The man refused—and drowned the two children they had together in front of her.

As for noblewomen slain during warfare between states—there were too many to count.

That was why Zhu Xiang would never do anything idealistic but unrealistic in this era. Doing so would not only get him and his family killed, it would bring nothing of value to this time.

Because the women of the Warring States had not yet awakened.

All Zhu Xiang could do was plant a small seed of hope—that one day, women might be able to earn rewards not because of their birth, their husbands, or their sons, but because of themselves.

This was the only compassion he, a traveler from two thousand years in the future, could offer the women of this era.

Xunzi stared hard at Zhu Xiang, the words of rejection on the tip of his tongue.

In The Way of the Ruler (《荀子·君道》), it is written: “May I ask how one should be a wife? The reply: If the husband is righteous, she should submit and serve. If the husband is unrighteous, she should be fearful and keep herself upright. This is the way. To deviate from it is chaos.”

Zhu Xiang’s request ran entirely counter to Xunzi’s worldview—a worldview in which this was the root of all disorder.

And yet, even knowing this, Xunzi found himself unable to speak the rejection aloud.

In the end, he simply turned and left in silence, without giving Zhu Xiang an answer.