Secret of a Thousand Beauties, page 6
“Sew my first stitch?” I felt ecstatic to be finally able to start embroidering.
But my ecstasy was short-lived.
Aunty snickered. “Silly girl, you think you can do that in your first lesson? I mean grind your first needle.”
She rose from the table and returned with a small cloth bag and an ink stone containing a few drops of water. From the bag she extracted a bundle of needles.
“All right, now grind all these needles to a sharp point like this one,” she said, holding up the very thin one she’d just used.
“But, Aunty . . .”
“What?”
“I thought I’m supposed to learn embroidery, not grinding needles.”
She swung her head back and snorted. “Ha! You think it’s that easy? Everyone, even in the palace, has to grind needles first. After you have sharpened enough needles, then you can learn how to split the threads.”
She thought for a while and spoke again. “Grinding also helps you quiet your mind before you start to embroider. All right, that’s the lesson for today.” She rubbed her eyes and hands. “Now get started on the needles. If you expect to stay here, you have to make yourself useful.”
As I picked up the first needle, I glanced at the plate of sugared plums. But Aunty didn’t seem to get my hint, or she didn’t want to.
I had no choice but to swallow my saliva to keep it from dripping onto her exquisite embroidery.
6
An Invisible Mountain Friend
The following weeks went by slowly because Aunty Peony wouldn’t even let me stitch a cat’s whiskers or a dog’s eyelashes. Every day it was needles and more needles. Finally, in the beginning of the second month, she allowed that my needles were almost up to her standard, and though I was unworthy, she would begin to teach me. But she also made it clear that in the event that I did not succeed at my lessons, if she did not simply kick me out of the house, she’d make me help Little Doll with the cooking and cleaning.
In between embroidery lessons, I had to try to get along with Aunty Peony and the girls. Aunty was the teacher, master, and absolute authority in the house, so if I listened attentively, acted submissively, practiced hard, and did as I was told, she’d probably keep me. Purple was older than me and quite easygoing, so all I needed to do was act friendly and appreciative. Little Doll was a child of ten and, as Aunty said, “a little slow,” and so was easy to deal with. Leilei, however, seemed to take a dislike to me from the beginning. Though beautiful and talented, she was also bitter, which made her cold and aloof as if she was better than us and merited a much brighter future.
Whenever Aunty could not overhear, she’d say things like, “Someday I’ll leave this house and become rich and famous, while all of you are stuck here forever!”
One time I foolishly asked, “But how are you going to become famous?” I hoped she could tell me how so I also could escape to find fame and fortune.
“Sorry, Spring Swallow,” she said, casting me a condescending look, “you’ll never be anybody.”
“Why not?”
“Why don’t you wait and see what Aunty says about your embroidery, eh?”
Finally, after observing me grinding needles for more than a month, Aunty Peony deemed me hardworking and responsible enough to actually start teaching me embroidery. I was ready to show everyone that I was not as worthless as Leilei thought.
After my daily lesson, I was expected to practice for another five or six hours a day. First I was taught how to split one thread into many miniscule ones because only fine fibers can produce subtle effects.
Aunty Peony told me over and over, “You have to divide the threads until they are thinner than your hair.”
Another challenge was being able to remember the subtle differences between color gradations. It was not easy, but I did my best to absorb everything she was willing to teach.
Finally, five months had passed and I was allowed to embroider simple items like hats, slippers, and children’s stomach covers. My work, together with Little Doll’s, was sent off to Heavenly Phoenix in Peking to be sold. We were given these undemanding jobs so the others could devote themselves to what Aunty planned as her masterpiece, Along the River during the Qingming Festival. However, Aunty left no doubt that she was the lead embroiderer and Purple and Leilei merely her helpers. So my two sisters, besides Along the River, still had to take time to embroider small items to bring in money.
I felt flattered that after only a few months my embroidery was good enough that people would pay for it. However, I wished I could work on the more ambitious scroll and so I practiced very hard. After I was done with the required work for the day, I also practiced painting and calligraphy. I did this in the hope of advancing myself, but also because there was really nothing else to do.
Aunty had some rubbings of the thick-stroked, big character steles of the Northern Wei dynasty. I copied these for enjoyment, but also because Aunty told me that writing big characters would help protect my eyes from the damaging effects of straining them while embroidering. However, no matter how hard I worked, how good my work looked to me, and even though Aunty praised my progress, I was not allowed to contribute so much as one stitch to Along the River.
When I asked my teacher when I would be ready, she’d say, “Not yet, Spring Swallow.”
“May I ask why?”
“Because you were too old when you started.”
“Old?” I couldn’t believe what I’d heard. “But, Aunty Peony, I’m only seventeen and I had lessons before—”
“Your so-called lessons were barely better than nothing. Anyway, I started when I was eight. Seventeen is pretty old to acquire a skill like this.” She looked at me directly. “Have you heard of tongzi gong?” It meant “begin as a little child,” but before I had a chance to consider this, she was already explaining. “For any skill, it’s best to learn when you are three or four, because children do not know the distractions of the adult world. And they have all the time in the world.”
“But how can a little child concentrate?”
She chuckled. “Simple. If they don’t, their teacher will starve them or beat them till their bottoms blossom. If they are too stupid to learn, they’ll be sent back to their parents or get sold to someone else.”
The corners of her lips seemed to lift a little. “But even I have to admit that you’ve made a good start, Spring Swallow.”
I nodded emphatically.
She leaned close to me, and whispered, “That’s why I don’t spend much time teaching Little Doll; she’s too stupid.”
I was shocked by this cruel remark and could not think of any reply. I wondered how she talked about me behind my back. Although Aunty often said that Little Doll was slow and talentless, she still taught her to embroider simple items such as small purses, handkerchiefs, fan cases.... This way, Little Doll could feel good about herself and bring in pocket money by selling them in our neighboring village.
Aunty cast me a serious look and went on. “Even when I praise you, don’t be full of yourself, you understand?”
I had no choice but to nod.
“Good . . . don’t forget that you are still a beginner. Here’s a story you should listen closely to. Wang Xianzhi, son of the most famous calligrapher Wang Xizhi, thought he could be as good as his father, maybe even better. So Xianzhi practiced very hard, wearing out countless brushes and using so much water to grind ink that he dried up the family’s well. One day, Xianzhi finally finished a piece of calligraphy to his complete satisfaction. Happily he took his work to his father and expected accolades.
“However, after the father looked at the son’s work, instead of exclaiming in praise, he remained uncharacteristically silent. Minutes passed before the father picked up his brush and painted a dot at the edge of Xianzhi’s calligraphy. Then he said, ‘Son, take this to your mother and see what she thinks.’
“The mother, after carefully examining her son’s calligraphy, pointed to the dot, and said, ‘Son, this dot is the only good thing in the whole piece.’ Of course, this was the dot placed by his father.”
I knew immediately what Aunty was trying to tell me with this story: “First, don’t ever think you can surpass me. Second, it’ll take long, bitter practice to even begin to master this skill.”
Putting the second principle into action, she said, “All right, enough talking, now back to work.”
I noticed for a long time that when Aunty Peony was not teaching me or embroidering, she seemed to slip into a state of melancholy. She’d either stare at her teacher’s portrait on the altar or lock herself in her room upstairs, shutting out us and the rest of the world. Curious as I was to know what was inside her room and what she did there, I could not risk sneaking a look.
The four of us—Purple, Leilei, Little Doll, and I—each had a room of our own on the ground floor. Since I was the newcomer, I was given the smallest room, really just a closet. Aunty let us have our own room not because she was nice, but because she knew that if we shared a room we would pass the night snacking, gossiping, and laughing, leaving us too tired to work well the next morning. Of course, sometimes Purple and I would sneak out to the courtyard to talk during the night, but we had to keep it quiet so as not to wake Aunty.
During the day, Aunty Peony, Purple, and Leilei would embroider together on Along the River mounted on a long wooden frame. Aunty would work on the difficult—and interesting—parts while Purple and Leilei did the background, trees, minor figures, and whatever else was needed to fill up the space.
To better concentrate, sometimes Aunty would work on the most complicated sections upstairs in her room. I very much wanted to see her at work by herself, but none of us was ever invited. Only Little Doll was permitted into her private sanctum to clean it. No doubt she felt that the child did not interfere with her privacy. Curiously, neither Purple nor Leilei showed any interest in sneaking into Aunty’s room—or maybe they already had but didn’t tell anyone.
One time I asked Purple about Aunty’s room, but she looked alarmed and warned me, “Spring Swallow, don’t even think about this.”
“Why . . . ?”
“Maybe you’d find out something you’d rather not know.”
Seconds passed and I asked, “Sister Purple, did you ever go up there?”
She cast me a disapproving look. “Why are you so nosy?”
“Aren’t you curious?”
“Spring Swallow”—she sighed heavily—“from now on, instead of thinking about going upstairs, you should stay in your room and work.”
So, instead of going up to Aunty’s taboo room, I went out and up the mountain. I didn’t go there often because most days, after the hectic lessons and endless practice, I’d be so exhausted that the place I wanted to go was not the tall mountain, but my wobbly cot.
Aunty seemed to have too much on her mind to care what I did during my spare time. Though she never asked, sometimes I wondered if she suspected that despite my oath of celibacy, I was going out to see a man. But I was sure she would be able to detect a man’s smell on me. However, I had no man to meet and no interest. I hadn’t overcome my fear and disgust at marrying a ghost. I wondered, though, what it would be like to be with a living man.
When I went up to the mountain, I’d wander around and reminisce about my mountain-climbing days with the village boys. But I had a special place I would go to with a large, flat rock where I would scratch Aunty’s teachings onto the mountain walls. Despite her cold manner, Aunty was an excellent teacher—knowledgeable, meticulous, patient. What she taught me was so valuable that I wanted to write down as much as I could, in case I forgot. Aunty did give me a brush and paper but was very stingy with it and read everything I wrote. I knew she would not want me to record her teachings lest someone outside our group learn her secrets of a thousand beauties. I suspected one reason she kept such a close watch on us was so that no one could leave for higher pay somewhere else.
But, of course, Aunty would never suspect that on my walks I would climb the mountain and inscribe on the rocks some of the embroidery patterns that I’d learned. I’d also record some of the things that happened to me and what I thought about them. I used the small knife I had taken from Mean Aunt’s kitchen and used it to inscribe the rocks. Making the scratches was hard, but so was everything else in my life.
I was lucky that this mountain was close enough to the house that I could walk here when I had a little free time. Although I felt happy to come here alone, I also wondered why there were never any other hikers. There was nothing special on my little mountain, so probably no one else was interested. Why come all the way here where there was no benefit? Maybe the reason Aunty had her house nearby was just because hardly anyone ever came here. Purple had said that Aunty wanted to be left alone. Or maybe, like me, she didn’t want to be found. If my suspicion was correct, then what was Aunty escaping from? Maybe someday I’d find out, but for now I would concentrate on absorbing what she had to teach me.
One day when I was on the mountaintop and was about to write, I was startled to discover that someone had written something next to my writing.
Good day miss,
Sorry to learn about your unhappiness. Maybe I can help you.
Your calligraphy is very refined, so you must be from an educated family and of good character. I really want to know more about you.
You have a hard climb to write your thoughts up here. And I don’t understand your pictures. Though I am a stranger, I wonder about you. What do you do? Are you a student? Married?
I hope you will answer me, but if not, I won’t write on your rock again. Although we’ve never met, I am lucky that I had the chance to read about you.
Shen Feng,
A fellow lover of mountains
The writer was almost certainly a man, judging by his given name, Feng, which means “mountain peak.”
This message from a man I had never met shook me up. It seemed to me now that no place is completely private and no secrets can be kept forever! Who was this Shen Feng, and what was he doing up here in this remote place? Although my mind was filled with suspicion, I could not help but admire his elegant calligraphy. But why did he leave a message for me? Could my own scratched characters attract a man’s attention, when before the only man I could attract was a dead one?
I reminded myself of Aunty’s admonition of not getting close to men and our vow of celibacy. I shuddered. Were all the women in our little group really prepared to die as husbandless old maids? Was I headed for a lonely old age with no children or grandchildren? Purple was the nicest of the group; was she really willing to give up the chance to have a family of her own? Even if I asked her, she might not tell me the truth. And Leilei, who was defiant, but also flirtatious? Anyway, she didn’t really talk to anyone but her mighty boss, Aunty Peony.
I read the message again and again and felt fearful, but fascinated. If I responded, what would happen to me? But I would never know unless I answered him. So with an unsteady hand I took out my knife to inscribe.
Dear Mr. Shen Feng,
I’d thought no one but me would climb this mountain in the middle of nowhere, let alone read my humble writings and reply to me. I am nobody in particular. Someday I hope to be a skilled embroiderer.
Wish me good luck.
Spring Swallow,
On the no-name mountain
During my descent, my heart pounded and my cheeks were hot as a wok. I’d just left a message for a man, a total stranger! Now I was happy because my mountain writing actually had a reader. But then worry seized me, since I had also inscribed some of Aunty’s embroidery patterns. Would this Shen Feng copy them—or even sell them to other embroiderers? If Aunty found out, she’d definitely kick me out of her house. From now on I would hide my copies of the embroidery patterns—I had found a cave almost invisible behind a thick tangle of bushes.
But this Shen Feng seemed pretty curious, so maybe he would discover the cave.
7
More Lessons
A week passed. I dared not go back up the mountain because I’d be scared if Shen Feng had written a reply, but disappointed if he hadn’t. Anyway, the weather had turned cold and so I was reluctant to return to the mountain.
The whole thing was very tense for me. I hadn’t even met this mountain friend—what if he was not young and handsome as I imagined, but old and nasty? Just reading this stranger’s words I felt like I was betraying Aunty Peony. I felt both excited and afraid that she would notice.
Though the days passed monotonously with lessons and practice, Shen Feng’s words echoed in my mind over and over. I had to force myself to concentrate since I was at last being taught more difficult subjects such as birds and animals.
During a lesson, Aunty Peony asked, “Spring Swallow, what makes an animal come alive in an embroidery?”
“Their eyes.” I knew the phrase “Eyes are the windows of the soul.” But I wasn’t sure animals have souls, or how to show them if they did.
“Good. Besides eyes, what makes long-haired animals like lions and horses come alive?”
“Their hair.”
“Correct. Spring Swallow, you are smarter than I thought.”
I smiled proudly.
But she responded with a disapproving look. “That doesn’t mean you’ll be good enough to work on Along the River.”
Her words made me feel as if I’d been splashed with chilled water.
“To embroider hair, animal or human, we have to use threads of different tone gradations.”
I listened attentively, then asked, “Aunty Peony, what about our hair, since it’s all black?”
She looked at me as if to ask, “How come you suddenly turned so stupid?”
