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Title: Winning Buddha's smile
A Korean legend
Translator: Charles Mundy Taylor
Jong-u Hong
Release date: March 14, 2026 [eBook #78208]
Language: English
Original publication: Boston: Richard G. Badger, 1919
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/78208
Credits: Mairi, chenzw, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WINNING BUDDHA'S SMILE ***
[Illustration: ㆁ ㅎ ㄱ ㅋ ㅁ ㄴ ㄹ ㅂ ㅍ ㅅ ㄷ ㅊ ㅌ ㅈ
아 야 ㆍ 어 여 으 이 오 요 우 유
]
WINNING BUDDHA’S
SMILE
_A Korean Legend_
ADAPTED AND TRANSLATED BY
CHARLES M. TAYLOR
[Illustration]
BOSTON
RICHARD G. BADGER
THE GORHAM PRESS
COPYRIGHT, 1919, BY RICHARD G. BADGER
All Rights Reserved
Made in the United States of America
The Gorham Press, Boston, U. S. A.
TO
MY MOTHER
WHOSE DESERVING FAR OUTSTRIPS
MY POWERS OF ACKNOWLEDGMENT
FOREWORD
Many of the best portions of Chinese literature are readily obtainable
in an English dress. From time to time bits of Japanese literature pass
before English-reading eyes. But Korean literature remains, as it has
remained for years back, virtually a thing unknown and unappreciated.
“Winning Buddha’s Smile” is one of the oldest existing specimens of
Korean literature. Both the author and date of its original composition
are unknown, but it is reasonably certain that it was well known in a
dramatic form about the close of the fourteenth century.
At one time when religious dissension was rife on the peninsula, many
of the monuments of a rich and abundant literature, especially those
tinged with Buddhistic doctrines and thought, were consigned to the
bonfire. In some manner, our legend escaped this wholesale literary
destruction, and it is here presented to English readers with the hope
that it will meet with an indulgent reception by the ever-widening
circle of those who take an interest in the things of other peoples and
other lands.
The translator is indebted to a French version of the original text,
made by the Korean scholar, Hong-Jong-Ou, which was published under the
auspices of the Musée Guimet. He has attempted to preserve the simple,
child-like form of the narrative and has made few alterations in it,
and these only when clearness and the English idiom required them.
C. M. T.
KOREANS WHOSE FOOTSTEPS CROSS THE PATHS OF OUR LEGEND
SUN-YEN, the Benevolent, whose Virtue and Goodness lead him from
Prosperity through Adversity unto Prosperity again.
CHENG-SI, the Fair, his daughter.
SAN-HOUNI, a scholar and friend of Sun-Yen.
YENG-SI, the scholar’s wife.
SAN-SYENG, the scholar’s son, whose Merit findeth pleasure in the sight
of Heaven and taketh him unto High Offices.
JA-JO-MI, the Unscrupulous, Prime Minister of Korea.
KI-SI, the young Prince of Korea.
SU-RUNG, a murderer and thief.
SU-YENG, the robber’s brother, a goodly man by way of contrast.
YENG-SO-YEI, a daughter of Korea.
OU-PUNG, a Sister of Religion and a follower of the True Path.
HONG-JUN, an innkeeper.
I
[Illustration]
WINNING BUDDHA’S SMILE
I
In the far away days of the olden time when the earth was still in its
childhood and when the city of Hpyeng-Yang was the capital of Korea,
there was numbered among its inhabitants a high dignitary of the
Court, Sun-Yen by name, who owed his exalted position solely to his
intelligence and capability.
Although very rich, Sun-Yen looked down upon no one. On the contrary,
he sought diligently to help all those who came within his sphere of
influence. His greatest happiness lay in alleviating the sorrows of
others. He was, therefore, beloved by the people who saw in Sun-Yen a
most disinterested protector in whom they had absolute confidence.
Now one day, all things changed as all things sometimes do. Fortune, so
long favorable to Sun-Yen, forsook him. Formerly happy and influential,
our friend (for call him such we will) was to become the most
unfortunate and the most miserable of men. It was due to the following
circumstances.
The King of Korea was giving a grand and sumptuous banquet to the
Governors of the various provinces and the ladies of the Court.
The occasion was a very merry one. Shouts of joy and the chords of
harmonious music were heard on all sides. When Sun-Yen was informed of
this, instead of rejoicing with the others, he became a prey to great
sadness. To get away from his own thoughts, he resolved to go visit his
friend, San-Houni, one of the greatest scholars of Korea. So Sun-Yen,
the benevolent, set out accompanied by his servant--a faithful and
trusted fellow.
While on his way thither, his attention was suddenly drawn to a great
crowd of people by the roadside. “Go, see what is the matter,” he said
to his servant. The latter hastened--as all good servants do--to obey
his master’s orders. He made a way through the crowd which had gathered
and soon learned the reason for the gathering.
They were about to carry away several people who had died by the
highway. As soon as the servant saw this ghastly spectacle he returned
to his master and told him what had taken place. Sun-Yen was profoundly
moved when he heard it but, losing no time in passive sympathy, he
summoned a police agent, of whom he demanded, “Do you know what caused
the death of those unfortunates?”
“Yes, sir, they died of hunger.”
“Why not carry them away then instead of leaving them there on the
road?” continued Sun, in a tone of reproach.
“I was about to do exactly as you suggest, sir,” said the agent, who,
with a quickened step, went toward the group which by this time had
increased materially.
Sun did not continue on his way to see his friend, San-Houni. He went
direct to the Palace and was immediately ushered into the presence of
the King.
The monarch accorded Sun a hearty welcome, saying, “It has been a very
long time since I have had the pleasure of having you come to see me.”
“Sire,” replied Sun-Yen, “I rarely leave the comfort of my humble home.”
“And what is it that keeps you so close at home?”
“Sire, either my duties or sickness. The reason I have come to see you
to-day is because I have a very important revelation to make to you.
Several of your subjects have just died of starvation by the roadside.
The thing at first appeared incredible to me. I could not believe that,
if my King knew the sad conditions in which so many of his people are
living, he would give himself up to pleasure as you are doing. However,
I have secured the evidence. Just a few moments ago, I saw with my own
eyes three wretches who had died from want of food.”
These words seemed deeply to impress the King who, with a trace of
emotion in his voice, inquired of Sun, “Tell me, what should be done?
I can scarcely believe that this misfortune took place while I was
leading this life of idleness and pleasure.”
“Sire,” continued Sun-Yen respectfully, “here lies the source of the
whole trouble. Who pays the expenses of your amusements? Your people
and no one else, and the Governors instead of doing their duty are also
leading a frivolous and even vicious life. You can believe the words of
your old servant whose devotion to your interests you are well aware
of.”
“I thank you for this frankness,” rejoined the King, “but candidly I
can hardly credit what you have just told me. I shall look more fully
into this affair.”
At these words, Sun left his sovereign and went home and told his wife
what he had done--the mark of a dutiful husband.
“You acted nobly,” she said, “but my intuition tells me that your
devotion to the King will cost you dearly.”
“Why?” asked Sun.
“The King will not follow your advice. This is the course things
are going to take, mark my words. The Governors, forewarned by your
complaint, will not allow themselves to be injured and their pleasures
curtailed, and upon you their anger will surely fall. Yes, I fear the
consequences of to-day’s work.”
“Reassure yourself, my dear, the King took my words in a very good
spirit and he has never yet made light of my advice.”
“I hope with all my heart that you are right. Let us see what time will
bring forth.”
The King in reality did change his way of living. His conduct made him
a bit remorseful. He promptly followed up Sun’s complaint and summoned
his Prime Minister.
This official, who was named Ja-Jo-Mi, came immediately. He was a man
whose severity of character and conduct had earned for him a terrible
reputation. Although no one knew of it, he had conceived the scheme
of usurping the throne but up to the present time had revealed his
intentions to nobody.
The King demanded of his Minister, “Have you nothing new to tell me?”
“Absolutely nothing, sire.”
At these words, the King cried in an excited voice, “What, you, the
Prime Minister, and you do not know that several of my people have just
died by the roadside and that their death was caused from lack of food?
If there is any one who should be well informed about what is going on
in my Kingdom, it should certainly be you.”
“Sire, from whom did you get this news?”
“From Sun-Yen.”
“Ah, I can scarcely understand how this can be. I have just received
the reports from the police and I did not see a single word on the
subject of this affair, therefore, I am quite astounded.”
“However that may be,” said the King, “I command that this evening’s
fete shall not continue an instant longer.”
“Your orders shall be executed. Sire, as soon as I have carried them
out I shall return to my office and secure what testimony I can about
this matter. The guilty parties shall have their just deserts.”
Bowing humbly before the monarch, Ja-Jo-Mi withdrew. A few minutes
later and the Palace, which formerly echoed to the shouts of
merrymaking, was in complete silence.
The Prime Minister, upon retiring to his office gave himself up to
reflection upon the situation. He was greatly troubled because he
feared that he might be removed from his office by the revelations of
Sun-Yen. “That fellow is an infernal nuisance and might bring down the
King’s wrath upon my head. To prevent a recurrence of such things there
is but one thing to be done--to get rid of him by sending him into
exile. With this dangerous fool out of the way, nothing, nor nobody,
can oppose me in the execution of my ambitious designs and I can easily
secure the throne.”
Such in substance were the reflections of the Prime Minister, but
it would be necessary to find a pretext for the exile of Sun and
Ja-Jo-Mi, the clever, was not long in devising a scheme.
He resolved to write a letter to San-Houni full of bitter criticisms
and threats against the King. This letter he would sign with the name
of Sun-Yen. Then he would place it in the King’s hands with the story
that it had been found on the road by a police agent.
No sooner said than done. The letter was written. Ja-Jo-Mi, adopting
a disguise, left his home and, dropping the missive in the path of an
agent of police, passed on in the darkness of the Korean night. When
the agent walked by he picked up the letter and naturally glanced
around but there was no one in sight. He carried the note directly to
his chief so that the latter could look over the contents and restore
it to its owner.
The Chief of Police read the letter through with great astonishment.
Desiring to give a proof of his zeal, he ran to the palace and in a
mysterious manner demanded an immediate audience with the King. The
monarch had the Chief of Police brought to him at once and was given
the forged letter. One can well imagine the surprise of the King.
Anxious for light upon the amazing situation he again called his Prime
Minister.
Ja-Jo-Mi, the clever, came with dispatch. The King passed over to him
the malicious letter, asking if he believed that Sun-Yen was really
the author. The Prime Minister pretended to read the communication. He
saw that the King was in a state of uncertainty and he determined to
take advantage of it in order to ruin Sun-Yen, once and for all time.
“Sire,” he said, “it often happens that we are deceived by those whom
we deem most faithful. As far as Sun is concerned, I consider him
perfectly capable of this infamous business. I have known for a long
while that he has been thinking and dreaming of taking your place on
the throne. As for the annoyance which he caused you a short time ago,
he was the principal instigator of that himself.”
“That’s enough, my faithful Ja-Jo-Mi. Have Sun thrown into prison. He
will be tried immediately.”
The Prime Minister, rejoicing over his triumph, had Sun-Yen taken into
custody. When the King was informed of his arrest he went personally to
interview the prisoner.
“Do you recognize this?” he shouted in rage, holding out the letter.
Words fail to give an idea of Sun’s astonishment. He realized that he
was the victim of a devilish plot but such was his stupefaction that he
could utter nothing in his own defense. He burst into tears.
The King continued: “I would never have believed this of you.”
“Sire, I know nothing of this,” wailed the wretched Sun.
These words irritated the King.
“Ah, you understand nothing,” he cried. “Tell me, then, who is the
writer of this letter?”
“In any case, it was not I, sire.”
“Of course. Now just listen to me. You have heard the proverb about the
smoke?”
“Yes, sire.”
“Well, you know where there is smoke there is fire. I mean by this
that if you had not been moved by evil intentions, you would not have
addressed this letter to your friend.”
“Sire, I see whence comes this evil. The revelations which I recently
made to you have stirred up hatred in the hearts of certain personages
who desire to bring about my ruin. There’s a black heart at work. I
swear to you that I am innocent.”
“So that’s all you have to say for yourself? That’s enough.”
The King withdrew, leaving Sun in despair. He ordered the Prime
Minister to banish Sun at once and designated his place of exile as
Kang-Sin. San-Houni, who was also compromised in the plot, was exiled
to Ko-Kum-To.
Escorted to his home by an agent of police, Sun told his wife what had
happened. The unfortunate woman was prostrated with grief.
“What did I tell you the other day,” she said to her husband, but she
soon gained control of herself and regarded the misfortune which had
fallen on both of them in a calm light.
“Let us be resigned, my dear. Doubtless it will be painful to live so
far from our King and our friends but at least we shall have peace in
the future.”
Without delay, they busied themselves with preparations for the
departure. Sun summoned a few poor families to whom he distributed the
little money he possessed.
’Twas but a short while and the moment to leave was at hand. Sun-Yen
and his wife found it hard to break away from the embraces of their
relatives and weeping friends.
* * * * *
_Here endeth the first step of our legend._
II
[Illustration]
II
The journey of Sun-Yen and his wife to the Island of Kang-Sin was
uneventful and they were soon alone in their new home. Their guards
then returned to the capital.
What especially troubled Sun was the idea that his wife might be lonely
and depressed in this isolated place. He spoke of this to her but she
replied with a great deal of cheerfulness, “Do not trouble yourself
about me. I have decided to follow you wherever you may go and I shall
never find the time wearisome so long as I am with you”--the mark of a
dutiful wife.
As a matter of fact, the days passed for our two exiles just as quickly
as if they had been living among their relatives and friends. Very soon
signs of Spring were to be seen. So Sun said to his wife one day:
“Spring time has come, it is a delightful day. Let us take advantage of
it and go for a little outing.”
“With pleasure, my dear.”
“Good, let us climb the mountain if we can.”
They set out gaily. On seeing them one would never have thought they
were the victims of Fate. They enjoyed to the fullness of their hearts
the charm of the landscape which lay about them, and happiness was in
their souls. Madame Sun was overflowing with joy.
“How peaceful everything is,” said she to her husband. “It is a real
pleasure to be walking here alone with you. When we lived at the
Capital I was never able to accompany you in your walks.”
“You are right. I was forced to conform to the customs of the country.”
“Now we are at the foot of the mountain,” she continued. “What a
beautiful panorama lies before us. Just look at it. I feel a poetic
instinct within me. Listen to these verses:
The day is beautiful; amid the shrubs
Are fragrant blossoms, clustered in sweet sleep,
The butterflies that seek them eagerly
Seem poised to count each rain-bow tinted leaf.
And stupid with the heat the serpent lies
Stretched lazily along the languid boughs.
Among the reeds that tremble in the wind,
Deliberate leaps the frog, while swallows pass
Bearing the insect-prisoners to their nests.”
“Do you know,” she mused, “these animals are happier than we.”
“What makes you say that?” queried Sun.
“Because they have little ones to care for while we have no children.”
“Console yourself, my dear, we are not yet so old that Heaven may not
smile upon us. Have confidence in the future. But I think it is time to
return. The sun is going down and you must be tired.”
The two returned slowly to their home, lost in thought.
Now it came to pass one night that Sun’s wife had a dream. She saw
an angel from Heaven bending over her. She awoke, startled by the
vividness of this vision, and immediately told her husband about it.
“Yes,” said the latter, “that is very queer but I shouldn’t worry about
it. Fatigue has caused this nightmare.”
The truth was that this noble lady was soon to become a mother. In
fact, it was not long before she gave birth to a daughter to whom they
gave the name of Cheng-Si. Sun, the benevolent, was overwhelmed with
joy--as one should be when Heaven smiles.
Unfortunately, his wife lay seriously ill. It was soon evident that
there was no hope of saving her. Scarcely three days had passed after
the birth of little Cheng-Si when her mother died. She sensed the
approach of death and whispered weakly to her husband:
“My dear, I am going to leave you. I know that your grief will be very
great but do not give yourself up to it. You must look after our
little one. Get a nurse for her if you can.”
With a supreme effort the dying woman clasped her baby to her breast.
“Alas,” she said with a deep sigh, “this is the last time I shall have
you so near me.”
Sun, in tones of deepest sorrow, said to his wife:
“Dearest wife, can it be true that you are going to leave me? We have
always protected and shared with the unfortunate and yet the gods
permit us to be parted. It is an injustice.”
His wife did not hear his final words. Death had already touched her
brow and called her to her ancestors. Sun saw but did not wish at first
to believe.
He called to his wife, tears streaming down his cheeks, but, alas, his
words were unanswered.
“Now, I am all alone,” he cried in despair. “What will become of me and
this child!”
He gazed fondly at his daughter who was still clasped to her mother’s
breast. This sad sight increased Sun’s grief. He took the little baby
and turned it over to the care of a nurse whom he managed to secure.
Then, beside himself with grief, he busied himself with his wife’s
burial.
All this happened so quickly that Sun-Yen thought it had happened in
a dream, but the sad evidence was there before his eyes. Each day he
could be seen walking to the spot where his wife was sleeping. These
frequent visits merely aggravated his anguish and it was impossible for
him to control himself.
Our friend was always in tears; he could get no rest nor sleep and
shortly more ill fortune came to him. From having shed so many tears,
Sun became blind.
This terrible blow almost prostrated him but he continued to drag out
the same wretched existence. His greatest regret was in not being able
to look upon the face of his little daughter. So passed several years.
* * * * *
Meanwhile, Cheng-Si was growing up. She was now in her thirteenth
year and was obliged to help support her poor father who was without
resources of any kind. She had but one way to keep Sun from starving
and that was by begging. She went about this sad task without any false
modesty. Her wits, however, were not asleep and one day she said to her
father:
“There is something which I do not understand.”
“What is that, my child?”
“Father, how is it that so many other people can live with their
relatives and friends while we are here all alone?”
“Ah, my daughter, it is very true that we must live by ourselves. But
things were not always thus. There was a time when I lived at the
Capital of Korea with your poor mother and we were surrounded by many
friends. I occupied a high position. Our family belonged to the highest
nobility and was always in good standing at the Court of the King. But,
one day, because of a malicious slander, of which the King thought me
guilty, I was exiled here. My friend, San-Houni, was trapped in the
same affair and was sent to Ko-Kum-To. He shares our downfall for he
also comes from an excellent family. I am very sorry that since my
arrival at this island I have had no news of my old friend.”
“Perhaps it is not possible for him to communicate with you,” said the
child in order to console the old man. “Excuse me, father,” she added,
“it is time for me to go to work.”
“Go, my child, and come home early.”
Little Cheng-Si, the fair, walked at a rapid gait. She went first to
the cemetery to pray a moment beside her mother’s grave. Cheng-Si was
just as industrious as she was intelligent. She gave up her nights to
study, while during the day she went from door to door asking alms.
One day, she went as usual to pray by her mother’s resting place.
She remained there longer than usual and did not return home at the
customary hour.
Sun, missing his daughter, was sorely troubled. At last, he resolved
to go search for her. Leaning on his cane, he started out slowly and
feebly. Unfortunately, when he came to the edge of a pond close by
his home, he made a false step and fell into the water. He groaned to
himself, “This is certain death for me, and my poor little girl will
hunt for me everywhere.” And he began to shout lustily at the top of
his voice.
Happily Sun-Yen’s cries were heard by the disciple of an anchorite who
lived in a cave on the mountain slope, a short distance from the lake.
He came running and soon had Sun out of the water.
He demanded of him:
“Where do you live?”
“Right close by.”
“But how is it that you, a blind man, go out alone? Don’t you know that
you are running a great risk in doing this?”
“Yes, I know it. I never do go out alone. To-day, however, I ventured
away from my home to hunt for my little girl. She did not return at
her usual time so I went to look for her. That is how I came to fall
into the lake from which I would never have come out alive without your
assistance. You have saved my life.”
“I have only done my duty,” replied the disciple, humbly.
He took Sun by the arm and led him to his little dwelling. On the way,
he asked of him:
“Will you have faith in what I am going to tell you?”
“Certainly.”
“Well, I predict, indeed I can read in your face, that your evil
days will not last forever. Within three years you shall recover
your sight and you shall become Prime Minister. Your fortune also
shall be unsurpassed. To attain this goal you must pray diligently to
Chen-Houang (the Emperor of Heaven).”
“Have I heard you aright?” cried Sun, beside himself with astonishment
and joy.
“Nothing can be nearer the truth,” gravely replied the disciple.
“But what must I do? Tell me, tell me!”
“You must give me three hundred bags of rice and I will pray in your
stead.”
“Alas, I cannot give what you require of me.”
“That doesn’t make any difference. I do not ask for the immediate
delivery of the three hundred bags of rice. It will be sufficient if
you bind yourself in writing to pay me when you have the means to do
so.”
“I’ll accept on those conditions,” replied Sun.
The disciple passed over to him a paper on which the poor blind man
placed his signature.
“I am obliged to leave you, now,” said the disciple.
“Then, good-bye, until we meet again.”
When he was alone, Sun reflected upon what the disciple had told him.
The idea of seeing the sunlight again and of acquiring honor and wealth
filled his very being with ecstasy. On the other hand, the obligation
of furnishing three hundred sacks of rice considerably diminished
his joy. A man, whose daughter was obliged to beg to keep him from
starving, would never be able to fulfill the promise which he had
signed. He regretted having given a promise which he could never hope
to keep.
Sun was drawn from his reveries by the arrival of his daughter.
“Why so melancholy, father?” inquired the child. “Is it because I am
late to-day that you seem sad? I must ask your pardon. I went to the
cemetery and from there to gather some alms. They gave me some things
to eat, as your hands can tell. Don’t you forgive me?”
“My dear child, it is not you who makes me so sad. Listen, and I will
tell you what happened to me. When you did not come home I was a little
worried and wanted to go and meet you. On the way, I fell into the lake
and gave myself up for lost when I was rescued by a disciple of an
anchorite. This man led me home and said to me, while we were walking
along, ‘I predict to you that you will no longer be blind and that some
day you will become the King’s Prime Minister.’ But I have to pay him
three hundred sacks of rice and I can never do it. That is why I am
sad.”
“Do not worry too much about that, father. We shall find a way that
will enable you to keep your promise.”
After they had shared their meagre meal the young girl went to her room
where she began to reflect upon her father’s story. Not succeeding in
going to sleep, she went out to take a bath in the lake, after which
she began to prepare the sacrifice table in the garden. She placed in
the centre a vase filled with water, lighted the incense burner and
two candles, one at each end, and began to pray to Heaven. Her prayers
continued almost until daybreak.
Not until then did Cheng-Si go to her room. Exhausted with fatigue, she
fell asleep almost immediately. She dreamed that an old man was saying
to her, “Very shortly something is going to happen to you. Some one
will cross your path who will make you an attractive proposal. Do not
hesitate to accept, for it is an exceptional opportunity.”
On awakening, the child recalled her dream and was pensive and
thoughtful for a long while. In reality her dream was soon to come
true. Some dreams do.
In the days of our story, Korean merchants in search of business were
accustomed to make one trip a year across the Yellow Sea, which lies
between China and Korea. The crossing was very difficult and dangerous
because of the rapidity of the current in certain spots. After each
trip they were always sure to report the loss of some boat. Thinking
to avoid this danger, the merchants had recourse to a very ancient
and very barbarous practice. In each village where they traded they
purchased a young girl. These victims were thrown into the sea and the
perils of the voyage were thought to be in this way forestalled.
Now, this day, Cheng-Si, the fair, had scarcely left her home when she
met one of these traders in search of a human victim. The merchant
asked the young girl if she knew where he could find what he wanted. To
this request Cheng-Si replied:
“You need not look any farther. If you want to take me, I will go, but
what will you give me in exchange for my life?”
“Anything that you want.”
“Suppose I ask for three hundred bags of rice?”
“I’ll accept the offer, but I have some partners and must consult with
them, so I will not be able to give you a positive answer for a few
days.”
“I’ll wait, then.”
“Good-bye,” said the merchant.
Happy at having concluded this bargain which was to result so seriously
for her, the young girl impatiently awaited the merchant’s return. One
beautiful morning she saw him coming toward the house and immediately
went to meet him.
“Has the affair been settled?” she asked him, without manifesting the
least emotion.
“Yes, you shall have your three hundred bags of rice. Do you want them
right away?”
“Yes, indeed, if I may. Please wait a moment, I must tell my father.”
Cheng-Si went into the house. She did not know how to tell her father
about her fatal decision.
“To tell him the truth,” she said to herself “is to condemn him to a
death from grief. I can remember his anxiety that day when I was a
little late in coming home. Now suppose I should never come back--but
it must be done.”
The young girl threw her arms about her father’s neck and cried in a
joyful voice:
“Father, I have found a way to get you the three hundred bags of rice
that you owe the disciple. Send for him at once.”
When the disciple had come, Cheng-Si took him to the merchant’s place
of business and turned over to him the three hundred bags of rice. She
then demanded, in exchange, the paper bearing her father’s signature,
thanked him for having saved Sun-Yen’s life, and asked him to continue
his prayers for the blind man. The disciple promised to do so and left
the young girl.
Very happy because of her sacrifice, she hastened to her father and
handed him the paper which he had signed.
“Where did you get this?” demanded the surprised Sun.
“From the disciple, to whom I gave the three hundred sacks of rice.”
“But, how in the world did you get all that rice, my daughter?”
“In a very simple way. I sold myself the other day.”
“What are you saying! Ah, unhappy girl, do you want to kill me?”
“Now do not worry about this, father. Let me finish what I have to tell
you. It is true that I have sold myself but I am not going very far
away and perhaps I shall see you every day. There isn’t anything to be
troubled about. I am sacrificing my liberty with the best of good will
so as to insure your happiness. When we have saved up enough money I
will pay back the price of the rice and then, once I am free, nothing
can prevent me from remaining with you forever.”
The young girl, having calmed somewhat her father’s fears, went to the
merchant’s to learn the date of her departure.
The merchant told her that they were not going to set sail for three
months. Meanwhile, Cheng-Si was thinking constantly of the solitude in
which her father would be after she had gone. What would become of the
poor blind man, alone and without resources? This thought haunted her
day and night. She sought to accumulate a little money and some food
which would be enough for him to live on decently for some little time.
The three months soon came to an end and the merchant returned to
remind her of her promise. She asked permission to speak to her father
for the last time. She had not yet revealed to him the entire truth.
The merchant, of course, consented and even went into the house with
her.
“Father,” she said, “I must leave you.”
“My daughter, leave me? And where are you going?”
“Father, I deceived you the other day. It was not my liberty but my
life which I gave in exchange for the three hundred sacks of rice which
you promised the disciple. Yes, I was purchased, body and soul. I have
to plunge to the bottom of the Yellow Sea to pray for a favorable
passage for our sailors.”
Cheng-Si had tenderly placed her arms about her father to support him
while she was making this fatal confession. Nevertheless, the blind
man could not bear the shock and he fell into a swoon.
When he regained consciousness, he said in a voice that was scarcely
audible, “Unhappy child, is it indeed true that you are going to
abandon me in this way? After having seen your mother die, must I see
you, too, leave the world before me? Oh, tell me that it is a dream!
Consider your poor blind father and think what will become of him when
he no longer has you with him. No, it cannot be, you are not going to
die.”
Sun-Yen burst into tears. His daughter tried vainly to keep from
weeping herself for she felt that her heart was broken. The merchant, a
witness of the scene, was very much moved, too. He beckoned the girl to
him and said:
“I will give you another hundred bags of rice and we will not set sail
for three days. Would you like that?”
Cheng-Si thanked the man profusely and went with him to the door.
The following day, after she had obtained the hundred sacks of rice,
she sought an audience with the leading magistrate of the town. He
consented to take charge of the maintenance of the old gentleman in
consideration of the one hundred bags of rice which he took as a sort
of deposit.
The young girl did not leave her father until the merchant came for
her. She endeavored to console the old gentleman as best she could.
When the time for the separation came, it was heart-rending. Sun-Yen
threw his arms about his daughter’s neck while his frame was shaken
with sobs.
“I want to die with you. I will not let you go alone.”
The cries of the poor blind man attracted a number of the neighbors,
who were also moved to tears at the pathetic sight. Finally the trader
grasped the girl by the arm and said in a trembling, gentle voice, “We
must go now.”
Paralyzed by grief, Sun fainted and his arms slipped from about his
daughter’s form.
“Good-bye, father,” she called back as she walked away. “Don’t worry,
we shall meet again in a better place where we shall be happy forever.”
Cheng-Si renewed her requests to the magistrate, who, shortly after,
visited the unfortunate father and tried to console him a bit, without
succeeding to the slightest extent.
For Cheng-Si had gone.
* * * * *
_Here cometh to a close the second step of our legend._
III
[Illustration]
III
San-Houni, the scholar and intimate friend of Sun-Yen, was likewise
condemned to exile on account of his friendship for the disgraced.
He was obliged to leave the Korean Capital, a circumstance which he
regretted exceedingly just at this time because his wife, Yeng-Si, who
was soon to become a mother, would not have the comforts and advantages
of the city. But of what avail are innocence and regret when a Prime
Minister has rendered one undesirable in the eyes of the Monarch? It
was decreed that San-Houni be banished and that he be forced to live
on the island of Ko-Kum-To, a desolate, sparsely populated rock in the
Yellow Sea.
It was a long journey. The trip would consume several days. San-Houni’s
few servants took care of the details of the packing but he himself
went in quest of a boatman who would agree to take him and his wife
across the waters to the island. His choice was not a happy one but he
was unaware of it.
The most violent contrast existed between the characters of Su-Rung and
Su-Yeng, the two brothers, whom San-Houni engaged for the trip. From
this difference in temperament great misfortunes were to come.
As long as they were in sight of the coast, things went well, but when
the party was on the open sea, Su-Rung the wicked, revealed his designs.
“I am somewhat taken with the wife of our passenger,” he whispered to
his brother, “I want her and I’m going to get her. Her husband grates
on my nerves. I must get him out of the way.”
“You are mad,” replied Su-Yeng. “Do you think for a minute that I will
ever allow you to do anything like that?”
“Bah! You are jealous of me,” cried Su-Rung, in a fury.
“Not at all, but your intentions disgust me.”
Su-Rung said nothing further but it could readily be seen that he had
not given up his project.
The terrible thing about all this was that San-Houni and his wife had
overheard the brothers. Their anxiety grew and soon merged into real
fear. They discussed in low tones the peril which threatened them and
how it would be possible to escape.
There was not much time left to them for reflection. Su-Rung called
the oarsmen and whispered aside to them, “Men, I want you to grab that
fellow and his servant. Take and keep what money they have on them and
kill them. The woman alone must live. Make a good job of it.”
Su-Yeng here interposed, “I think you should be content with taking
their money, but at least spare their lives.”
“Mind your own business,” shouted Su-Rung in a rage. “I am master here.
Get out of my way and let me alone!”
Su-Yeng was forced to obey his brother’s injunction. As soon as he
had turned his back, San-Houni and his servant were put to death. The
murder was committed under the very eyes of the scholar’s wife. She was
dazed with anger and sorrow. Having no desire to survive her husband,
she plunged into the sea, crying, “In spite of you, I shall die with my
husband.”
Su-Rung, however, ordered his sailors to turn about and rescue the
unhappy woman. A few minutes more and Yeng-Si was pulled into the boat
alive and safe.
Then the assassin, judging it indiscreet to continue in the direction
of Ko-Kum-To, changed the course of his vessel to a spot he was well
acquainted with. The boat made a landing shortly after. Su-Rung jumped
ashore and approached an old woman on the beach, to whom he said:
“Go aboard my boat, you will find a woman there. I want you to take
her home with you. Be very gentle and kind to her, encourage her, and
console her, for she has been deeply afflicted.”
The old lady at once set about doing what Su-Rung had requested.
Meanwhile, Su-Rung had anchored his boat and as a sign of
self-satisfaction he invited his men to a feast, where they made merry
and drank freely. Shortly all the guests were drunk except Su-Yeng.
He was broken up at the turn of events and his inability to avert
Su-Rung’s crime. Therefore, he resolved to profit by the present
situation by assisting, if it were possible, his brother’s unfortunate
captive. He left the revelers without being noticed and, setting out at
a rapid gait, soon reached the home of the old lady. He paused before
entering at the sound of voices and in the midst of the lamentations of
Yeng-Si, he could make out these words:
“Where do you come from?”
“The Capital.”
“Is that so? I lived at Yeng-Yang.”
“Then how is it that you are in these parts?”
The old lady, for it was she who was talking with Yeng-Si, uttered a
deep sigh.
“Alas, I have lived here for ten years, much against my will. Like you,
I am a victim of Su-Rung, who murdered my husband. I am awaiting the
hour of vengeance, but it is slow in coming. Will this monster remain
unpunished forever?”
Touched by her story, Yeng-Si forgot for the time her own misfortunes
to sympathize with her companion. It was just at this moment that
Su-Yeng entered the room where the two women were and said in a
troubled voice:
“Do not take things too hard. Perhaps you will be rescued very soon.
There is some one who is looking out for you. I have a profound horror
of my brother’s evil deeds. Listen, if you wish to escape you will
never have an easier time than now.”
“How so, your brother....”
“Don’t be afraid. For the time being, he is not capable of following
you for he is asleep and dead drunk, but there is not a minute to be
lost. You know the country for you have lived here a long while. You
must show the way to this lady who is a stranger. Here, take this
money, it will not do to wait any longer.”
The two women, weeping and sobbing, threw themselves at the feet of
their rescuer in gratitude.
Su-Yeng helped them to their feet and urged them again to leave. It
would be advisable, he insisted, to make haste for the rage of Su-Rung,
if he captured them, would be terrible.
Yielding to the entreaties of Su-Yeng, the two women set out. Their
friend accompanied them for a short distance. When they were alone,
they walked as rapidly as their strength would permit. At the end of
two hours Yeng-Si, thoroughly fatigued, requested that they rest for
a few moments. Her companion consented quite willingly. So the two
fugitives sat down to rest their weary bodies. Suddenly the elder of
the two said to the other:
“I’m going to ask you something.”
“What can I do for you?”
“Well, I would consider it a great favor if you would let me have your
sandals in exchange for mine.”
This request puzzled Yeng-Si a great deal as she did not understand the
purpose of the elder woman’s intentions. However, the old lady gave her
little time for reflection.
“You are,” she said, “like me, very tired, but you are still young,
consequently you are capable of enduring greater hardships than I. I
am very old. You go on. If Su-Rung catches up--and he will not wait
long--I will tell him that I do not know in what direction you went.
Now, hurry on, but leave your sandals here with me if you wish to be
real kind.”
Yeng-Si arose at once. She thanked her friend for her excellent advice
and handed her sandals to her without understanding in the least what
motive she had in this request. As she was leaving, the old lady
continued:
“Just a moment. I am going to show you the road which you should take
to escape from Su-Rung. Keep straight ahead until you come to a grove
of bamboo where you might rest a few moments if you like, then keep on
walking in the same direction until you come upon the temple of Buddha.
When you arrive at this spot, you will be out of danger but be careful
to follow my directions explicitly.”
“I will do so, thank you.”
“Good, now, good-bye.”
When Yeng-Si had gone a short way, the old woman arose, and taking the
sandals, she turned toward a lake which was a short distance away.
Placing them at the water’s edge, she uttered a brief prayer and jumped
into the water.
Yeng-Si, however, heard her cries. She immediately retraced her steps,
hastening to the lake where she noticed the sandals beside the water
and the body of the old lady floating on the surface. This sight almost
overbore her.
“Why did this poor woman drown herself?” she muttered. “Can it be--yes,
I imagine--her persistency in asking for my sandals--oh, blessed one!
She had the idea of dying before saying good-bye. She did not wish her
death to be fruitless, so she placed my sandals on the shore, that it
would appear as if I had committed suicide. Poor woman, how devoted she
was! May she have her reward in the Hereafter.”
If she had listened to the promptings of her heart, Yeng-Si would have
remained there mourning for her unfortunate companion. Remembering
the entreaties of the latter, however, she hurried her steps and
shortly came to the forest of bamboo. Suddenly she experienced the
most agonizing pains. She trembled, shivered, broke out into a cold
perspiration and suffered terribly. She understood that she was about
to become a mother. What a terrible situation she was in! Here alone,
away from everybody, what was to become of her?
* * * * *
Yes, it was a little boy. She seized the poor, little being and covered
it with tears and kisses.
“Poor child,” she said, “what can I do with you? You have no father and
your mother does not know what is going to become of you.”
Fortunately for Yeng-Si, some one had heard her shrieks and cries. It
was a nun from the temple that the old lady had told her about. This
nun ran to the spot whence the cries came and was somewhat surprised to
find there the mother and child.
After rendering what assistance she could, she asked her how it came
about that she gave birth to the child in that place.
Yeng-Si told briefly her sad story. The nun was deeply touched at the
tale--so fraught with sorrow.
“What do you count upon doing?” she asked her.
“Alas, I do not know. Here I am alone and without resources. How can
I bring up my little one? I shall have to abandon him, but I shall not
live long anyway, I am sure of that, so perhaps I shall make way with
myself.”
“That would not be doing exactly right. Suppose you try to follow my
advice. Give your child to some charitable person and come live with
me.”
“I could not ask for anything better, but why can’t I take my little
one along with me?”
“Because it is against the rules of our order to receive children.
I know it is hard for you to give up your little one, but since you
scarcely have any choice in the matter, you must resign yourself.
If you were to continue on your way with your little son you would
unquestionably fall into the hands of the brigands. Besides, it is
possible that you may be able to reclaim your child some day in the
future. When he becomes a man he will aid you in getting retribution
for his father’s death.”
Yeng-Si followed the advice of the nun. She wrapped the little fellow
as well as she could, tearing bandages from her own clothes. Since
she wished to have some sign which would enable her to recognize her
son, she took his arm and with a needle traced on the pink flesh the
characters forming the name of San-Syeng. Then she went over these
letters with India ink which the nun gave her. Finally, slipping off
the ring which she wore, she placed it in the wrappings of the child.
This finished, she started out accompanied by the nun. They were going
to the neighboring village to place the child at a street corner and
then return to the temple.
Very soon, Yeng-Si could sight the roofs of the little village where
she was to say “good-bye” to her son. Alas, the child, whom she and
her husband had been looking forward to with such great joy, would be
abandoned just as if she were an unnatural mother. Her cup was filled
to the brim with sorrow, for her husband had been murdered before her
eyes and now her son was to be left on a street corner. More dead than
alive, she gently placed the child on the ground after giving him a
last fond kiss. With a supreme effort she regained her courage and
walked slowly away, shedding tears of sorrow, while the hunger-cries of
the baby grew louder and louder.
She tottered along very, very feebly, she was so torn with emotion and
anguish. The nun, familiar with sad scenes, was nevertheless deeply
moved.
“Pray, pray to Heaven,” she said to Yeng-Si, “some day you will find
your son. He will come to you when he grows up. Something within me
gives me confidence in what I am telling you, but prepare yourself for
a long separation--take courage.”
* * * * *
_Here endeth our third chapter._
IV
[Illustration]
IV
When the vapors of intoxication had cleared from Su-Rung’s brain, his
first thought was of his captive. He ran to the old woman’s hut where
the widow of San-Houni was confined. Great was his astonishment on
finding the house empty. In vain did he burst into anger, and shout. No
one answered. Breathless from rage, he went to his brother.
“Have you seen these two women?”
“No. I have not seen them since I was here last.”
“They have disappeared, but I know how to find them.”
Su-Rung set out in pursuit accompanied by his brother. The latter
feared that Su-Rung in his fury would do harm if he succeeded in coming
upon the fugitives and Su-Yeng wished to be present to protect them
should the worst come to the worst.
Traveling speedily, the two brothers very soon reached the shores of
the lake, of which we have spoken before. Here they saw Yeng-Si’s
sandals by the water’s edge and a body floating in the middle of the
lake.
Even Su-Rung was moved by the sight and cried:
“The poor woman is drowned.”
“Brother,” replied Su-Yeng, “you would not listen to me and you have
been punished. You wished to make this woman your slave and she has
escaped from your clutches in spite of your efforts. What a great
misfortune for us.”
“You mean to say that it is my fault,” took up Su-Rung, angrily, “You
are to blame yourself. Why did you let my prisoner escape?”
The dispute between the two brothers lasted in this manner until
Su-Rung’s rage had cooled. Instead of retracing their steps at once
they continued on their way to the neighboring village and were the
first ones to find the baby which Yeng-Si had left there a half hour
or so before. Quite pleased at his unusual discovery Su-Rung took the
little being and carried it home with him where he confided it to a
nurse, instructing her to take the greatest care of the little boy.
Several times Su-Rung questioned his brother concerning the escape of
the two women. Not being successful, however, in learning anything
about the matter he dismissed the entire subject from his mind.
The murderer of San-Houni gave all his time to the education of the
child he had adopted. He treated him as if he were his own son. It
must be said that the little fellow gave him abundant cause for
satisfaction. He was good to look upon, extremely intelligent and grew
up rapidly. One day he asked Su-Rung:
“Father, where is my mother?”
“Your mother,” replied Su-Rung, very much embarrassed by the question,
“your mother died a short time after you were born.”
Su-Rung was in the habit of accompanying his adopted son to school. The
young scholar was not long in distinguishing himself among his comrades
who could not witness his success without a show of jealousy and hate.
To obtain revenge they could find nothing better to do than to taunt
him about having no parents.
“No parents,” shouted the indignant boy. “Why, I have a father and it
is not my fault if I lost my mother before I was able to know her. I do
not see why I deserve your reproaches.”
“That shows that you really do not know anything about yourself.
Su-Rung is not your father. He is only a thief and a robber. He found
you on a street corner and brought you up.”
This revelation troubled the child very much and he made it known to
Su-Rung.
“Don’t be troubled about that, my child,” replied the latter. “These
boys are jealous of you and they invent these stories to anger you.
They are not worth bothering about at all.”
Yeng-Si’s son was somewhat reassured by this. But other circumstances
aroused his suspicions. He accidentally discovered the name of
San-Syeng tattooed on his arm. Additional evidence was furnished him
when he found a ring one day while rummaging among some old books and
papers. He hid this precious object in his pocket, saying to himself:
“I believe what the fellows told me was true after all.”
From this day on, San-Syeng was constantly preoccupied with thoughts as
to who his parents might be. In order to more easily solve this problem
he determined to travel through the country, thinking that some day he
would be able to discover those to whom he owed his birth.
When he had reached his seventeenth year, San-Syeng asked Su-Rung
for permission to make a trip through Korea in order to finish his
education. Su-Rung made no opposition, although he preferred that his
adopted son take a traveling companion. Nevertheless, he did not insist
but gave his consent for San-Syeng to travel alone on a journey that
would consume perhaps two years.
San-Syeng had been gone several weeks when he came to a beautiful
little village where he counted upon remaining but a short while. Until
now, his voyage had been uneventful. But the time for adventure was
at hand. The first incident was somewhat distasteful. San-Syeng had
stopped for a moment in the street where some children were playing. He
was watching their antics with pleasure when he received a shock. He
had just heard one of the gamins ask one of his comrades.
“Do you know that robber, Su-Rung?”
“By name, yes, but I have never seen him. Why do you ask me that? He’s
a wicked man.”
“Because they tell a remarkable story about that fellow. One of my
friends was at school with the son, or rather the adopted son, of this
thief. It seems, in fact, that Su-Rung found the child abandoned by the
roadside and took him home and raised him. Thanks to his robberies, the
man is very rich. He has just sent his son on a long trip. That’s what
my friend told me.”
San-Syeng had not missed a word of this conversation. His curiosity was
aroused to the highest pitch, so he approached the youngster who had
spoken, and asked,
“Pardon me, friend, would you tell me your name? Do you know Su-Rung?”
“Sir, I know this man only through having heard tales of him.”
This reply hardly satisfied San-Syeng, but, believing that the child
had been frightened, he did not pursue his questioning further but
walked on.
Shortly afterward, San-Syeng came to the village of Yen-Yu, where he
decided to tarry for a few days to recover from the fatigue of his
travels.
Before seeking a lodging he took a stroll through the village to see
the sights. His attention was drawn to a great mansion surrounded by a
vast garden, so he turned in this direction to view it more closely.
He came to a pause when he saw in the garden a young girl of marvelous
beauty. It was impossible to approach her as the garden was surrounded
by a continuous wall. He walked on for a few paces and then, yielding
to some indescribable impulse, he retraced his steps. The young girl
was still there. She turned a candid look toward the walker, giving
the young man a subtle thrill of pleasure. It is true that his eyes
had never met such a sight--a bright oval face as fresh as a half
ripened peach, eyes that rivaled the stars in their brilliancy. Her
hair, which fell down over her shoulders, was as fine and golden as
the clouds which disappear behind the mountain peaks in the rays of
the setting sun. Add to these attractions a very small hand and a gait
as graceful as the flight of a bird. The admiration of San-Syeng could
not be restrained. He could not take his eyes away from the vision of
loveliness. The girl, walking up and down the garden, now and then cast
furtive glances at the youth who was watching her.
San-Syeng was in a veritable daze. For a considerable time he remained
in the one spot, even after the beautiful unknown had disappeared.
Finally, he decided to find a lodging, hoping also to obtain some
information concerning the beautiful girl whose charms still held him.
His first action, therefore, on arriving at the village inn, was to
inquire:
“To whom does yonder mansion belong that is surrounded by such
a beautiful garden? Its owner is doubtless a personage of some
importance?”
“Yes, it is the estate of a very rich family, the head of which,
Yeng-Yen-Sa, is dead. The only people who live in that large house are
his wife and his daughter.”
“Is the daughter married?”
“No, sir, she is scarcely seventeen years old.”
San-Syeng’s curiosity was satisfied for the moment. When alone, he
gave himself up to reflection. First, he determined to lengthen his
stay in Yen-Yu. He was burning with desire to see the unknown beauty
again. Each day for hours at a time he would walk in the neighborhood
of the garden where he had first seen the young girl who was constantly
occupying his thoughts. Alas! his beautiful stroller of the garden
remained indoors. He was sad unto death. One evening, when his sorrow,
revived again by the memory of his parents, was more acute than ever,
he sought distraction in music. He took his flute, and, stationing
himself near the garden, improvised the following verses:
“Homeless am I--I know neither Heaven nor Earth.
I am walking in despair, seeking in vain for those who gave me birth.
In a garden there is a flower of marvelous beauty.
I would like to pluck this blossom, but the branches which bear it
are so high I cannot reach them.
My most ardent desire would be to die and become a butterfly so that
I could hover about this adorable flower.”
San-Syeng then cleverly composed a sweet melody, to serve as an
accompaniment to this poetry, which he played upon his instrument with
much feeling.
The young girl had heard everything. Deeply perplexed, she asked
herself what could be the meaning of the charming words which had come
to her ears.
“If this young man,” she mused, “does not know Heaven nor Earth, it
means he has lost his parents. If he wants to be transformed into a
butterfly to flit around a flower, it means he loves a young girl.”
Very much puzzled, she sent her servant to inquire who could be the
author of the verses she had just heard. She wondered if it were
not the young man whom she had seen a few days before walking near
the garden. Still impressed by what she had heard, she took her own
instrument and in turn improvised the following verses:
“The spider spins her web from flower-stem to flower-stem, but the
butterfly does not come.
I have dug a lake in my garden to attract the swans, but in vain are
my labors.
I have planted a tree to serve as a refuge for the swallow, but the
bird remains mute to my call while displeasing birds come a-flocking.
To-day, however, I heard the song of the blue bird. He has at last
arrived and very soon he will be close and dear to me.
The age of sixteen is the fair Springtime of life. If I want to be
happy, I should not wait much longer.”
These words filled San-Syeng with a deep joy for they seemed to be a
reply to his own verses and he felt overwhelmed with emotion. He went
home, but it was in vain that he tried to sleep.
On her part, the young girl slept with difficulty, as her mind was
agitated by what had just taken place. Now it came to pass that her
father appeared before her in a dream and said, “My daughter, there is
stopping at the inn nearest our home a traveler whose merits I bring
to your attention. It is the son of San-Houni, the scholar, one of my
best friends. I would like you to marry this young man.”
She objected that she was not even acquainted with the youth.
“Yes, my daughter,” replied her father, “you have already seen him. He
comes of a very noble family. Good-bye, my daughter.”
The young girl wished to detain her father, but to her sorrow her
efforts were of no avail; the vision faded and she awoke in tears.
“How can I obey my father’s command,” she complained. “I must devise
some way to meet this young man. I will go into the garden again this
evening and perhaps I shall see the man whom my father has ordered me
to marry.”
She was not disappointed in her hopes. When night had lowered its
curtain of darkness she went down into the garden and caught sight of
San-Syeng. But instead of going to meet him, she turned and rushed into
the house like a frightened kitten.
San-Syeng was stupefied and broken up by her sudden disappearance.
Despairing of being able to talk with the girl he loved, he resolved
to write to her. So the next evening he returned to the garden with a
letter. Again the young girl appeared for a few minutes. He walked in
front of her, tossed the letter over the garden wall, and left.
The young girl ran to pick it up, hurried with it to her room, where
she read the neat characters:
“Mademoiselle, excuse my boldness. I have but a few words to say.
Do you know what the butterfly is? It is an insect that is fond of
flowers. Nights when attracted by the light of the lamps which it
takes for flowers, it throws itself into the flame and perishes.”
“This is a comparison that applies to me closely,” thought the young
girl. “I shall have my answer for this young man to-morrow.”
The next evening when San-Syeng returned to his post by the garden wall
he saw the girl raise both hands and point to the moon.
After this graceful and significant gesture she ran into the house.
San-Syeng went home, much perplexed. “She made a sign to me,” he
pondered, “but what meaning does this sign have?” He reflected for a
long time, conjuring up hypothesis after hypothesis. Finally, he struck
his forehead with an exclamation of joy, crying: “I believe I have it.
The girl raised both of her hands, she must have meant the number ten.
Then she pointed to the moon, that surely means at night. She wanted to
tell me that she would meet me to-morrow evening at ten o’clock. That’s
it beyond a doubt.”
He awaited with impatience the following evening. Long before the
appointed time he was in the garden, worried and anxious as to whether
he had not given an erroneous interpretation to the young girl’s
gesture. At ten o’clock she came daintily along the garden path,
advancing gaily and smiling. She paused to pick a flower which she
placed between her lips. One might have thought she was playing the
flute, so sweet were the soft, low sounds of song which came from her
throat. Picking up a dead branch she amused herself by whipping the
leaves which strewed the ground. San-Syeng contemplated the vision
with an admiration that held him spellbound. One might have said it
was like a cat entrapping a mouse. When she arrived within a few paces
of him she stopped as if frightened and seemed about to draw back.
Then San-Syeng advanced toward her. “How beautiful she is,” was his
thought. So great was his admiration that he could not find a single
word to say. The young girl too remained silent. San-Syeng thought, “My
first words must express all the love I feel, but my tongue is weak and
incapable of it. What is her feeling toward me? Does she have a tender
and loving heart, or has wickedness already penetrated this beautiful
young soul? Let’s try a little trick.”
The girl saw San-Syeng drop suddenly to the ground. Without an
instant’s hesitation she ran to his help. Supporting his head in her
hands, and after dusting off his clothes which had been soiled by the
fall, she assisted him to arise and led him to a nearby bench.
Then San-Syeng said wearily, as if he were just regaining
consciousness, “Pardon me, mademoiselle, I am confused with all the
trouble I am giving you.”
“Not at all, sir,” replied the young girl. “I am happy to have been
able to render you assistance. I only ask for permission to put one
question to you. Where do you live?”
“I live at Nam-Hai and my name is San-Syeng.”
“Has it been very long since you left that town?”
“Almost six months.”
“And have you seen many interesting things on your journey?”
“Yes, many.”
“Your parents are still alive, I suppose?”
“No, mademoiselle, I lost my parents a long time ago. And are your
father and mother still alive?”
“My father is dead and I live with my mother. Wasn’t it you who came
here playing the flute the other evening?”
“It was I, mademoiselle. And tell me, didn’t you reply on your
instrument?”
“Yes.”
“I am very grateful. You have condescended to listen, you have not
repulsed me, and this evening you have given me the greatest of
pleasures by talking with me.”
“But, sir, were you ill just a while ago?”
“Mademoiselle, I lost my head through love of you. May I in turn ask
why you did not reply to my note? You made a sign to me and I imagined
that you were inviting me to return this evening at ten o’clock. Was I
right?”
“Yes, sir, you divined my thoughts exactly. Do you know you have
given evidence of great intelligence. You have captured my heart
without the slightest effort, like the fisherman who catches a fish
that is surprised to see itself so easily taken. Now you may call me
Yeng-So-Yei, for that is my name.”
At these words, San-Syeng seized the hand of the girl and covered it
with kisses.
“I have not sought to ensnare you. It was merely my love, my boundless
love, which impelled me to act thus. But it is late. Your mother
will notice your absence and will become worried. Let us meet again
to-morrow at the same hour.”
The young girl nodded her head as a sign of acquiescence and withdrew
into the house. In the solitude of her room she thought for a long time
of the events of the evening. “I love this young man,” she said, “he
is so intelligent and has such a splendid appearance. In giving him my
heart I have done nothing but obey my father’s counsel. Therefore, I
should have no remorse about my conduct. I shall marry the man I love
and accomplish my father’s wish.”
Similar reflections agitated San-Syeng’s mind. “How beautiful and good
she is!” he would repeat to himself. “I love her to distraction. I can
never wait until to-morrow evening to see her. How long this night and
day are going to be!”
The hours rolled around, however, and the time came for San-Syeng
to visit the girl once more. She came running to meet him, her face
radiant with joy and happiness. After they had exchanged a few words of
greeting she said to San-Syeng:
“Let’s go into the house. We can talk better. You can come to my room
where no one will disturb us.”
“But don’t you fear that your mother will notice something?”
“My mother is very old and feeble, we have nothing to fear from her.”
San-Syeng followed the young girl. He was much impressed to see with
what skill she had arranged her room. He complimented her on her taste
and good judgment and added: “How happy you must be!”
“And aren’t you happy, too?”
“Alas, I have lost my parents, and I am alone in the world. Life is no
longer attractive to me. You have given me the first pleasure in my
life and I am obliged to resume my travels within a few days.”
“But why must you leave? Haven’t you told me that you loved me?”
“Yes, I love you with all my heart and soul. But it is only another
misfortune for me because I can never marry you.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I can never marry you because you are rich, while I am penniless.”
“Fie, foolish,” teased the girl, drawing him to her. “Don’t you know
that I love you and that nothing can prevent me from being your
wife and companion? We shall marry. Do not leave me. Remain with me
to-night, my mother will not know.”
Their lips were united in one long kiss. At daybreak San-Syeng
departed. He regarded himself as the happiest of mortals and promised
to spare no effort to make life happy for the girl who had chosen him
for her husband.
Every evening the young man went to visit his wife. Now it came to
pass one night, that her mother, unable to sleep, arose from her couch
and went walking through the house. Passing before the door of her
daughter’s room she heard, above the sound of mingled kisses, her
daughter speaking with some one. Immediately she fell into a great
fury. She tried to open the door, but was unsuccessful. Calling a
servant, she said:
“Take a sabre, and place yourself before this door. You are to kill the
first person who leaves that room.”
San-Syeng and his wife had not heard these words for they were asleep.
The girl had another dream in which she saw her father. “My daughter,”
he said, “you are in great danger. Your husband’s life is threatened.
Arise and see what is on the other side of your door. Find a way for
your husband to escape. Give him my favorite horse so that he can take
flight. You may also give him my sword. You will be separated for some
time, but you will be united in the days to come.”
Startled by the warning, the young girl softly opened the door where
she saw the servant with drawn sabre.
“What are you doing here--and with a weapon, too?” she demanded.
“I am standing guard at your mother’s orders and I am to kill the first
person who leaves your room.”
“Why, my mother is mad. There is no one with me. I was just about to
call you anyway and send you on an errand. I would like to write and I
haven’t a single bit of paper. Will you get me some?”
“I cannot leave this post, mademoiselle.”
“Why not? If you are afraid that my mother’s prisoner will escape, let
me have your sabre. I will take your place while you get me what I
want.”
The servant was persuaded with little difficulty. Scarcely had he left
than the young lady ran to her husband and cried: “Up at once or you
are lost. My mother has learned that there is some one with me and has
stationed a servant at the door with orders to kill any one who leaves
my room. Wait for me in the garden.”
San-Syeng arose hurriedly and descended cautiously and quietly into the
garden. The servant returned and received the assurance that no one had
left the room which he had been guarding.
“I think I shall take a walk in the garden,” the girl suggested. “This
room is too warm for me.”
She went direct to the stables where she led out the horse which her
father had mentioned and brought him to San-Syeng. The two lovers
embraced and wept bitterly at being forced to part in so abrupt a
fashion. The girl had gathered together her jewels and what silver
she had at hand and turned them over to San-Syeng together with her
father’s favorite sword. San-Syeng, despite his protest, was forced to
accept them. He slipped from his finger the ring which he had found
among the books long years before and the significance of which he did
not even guess.
“Take this keepsake,” he said to his wife. “It is a token of my undying
love. As long as I live I shall think only of you and I hope soon
to come back for you. I will go to the Capital and shall soon have
matters fixed so that I may rejoin you. Good-bye.”
He went away, his head bowed in sadness, while the young girl, tears
rolling down her cheeks, followed him with her eyes until she saw him
disappear in the black depths of the wood.
“I wish I could burn that forest and then my San-Syeng would have to
take the mountain road, and I wish the plagued mountains were at the
bottom of the sea,” cried the unhappy girl--“for I would be able to see
my husband again.”
She remained for a long time in the one spot motionless as a statue. At
last, she decided to go to her room, following in spirit San-Syeng who
was galloping briskly toward the Capital. He arrived there when there
was great excitement among the people of the city because of the death
of the King and the exile of the young Prince to the Isle of Cho-To,
events upon which we shall comment in the coming stage of our story.
* * * * *
_Here the fourth stage of our legend cometh to a close._
V
[Illustration]
V
It was Ja-Jo-Mi, the Prime Minister, who had been the chief cause of
all the evils which had come to Sun-Yen and San-Houni. This dignitary,
no longer having any one to fear, enjoyed absolute power. The King had
entire confidence in him and placed in his hands the administration
of the government. Ja-Jo-Mi had taken advantage of this to give all
the important and lucrative offices to his followers. For example, he
discharged in disgrace a general whom he disliked and replaced him
with one of his most zealous but incompetent partisans. Even with all
this power the ambitious Minister was not satisfied. Why should he not
push things to the limit and place himself upon the throne? For the
present, it was only a dream which Ja-Jo-Mi hoped to realize some day.
But he was only awaiting a favorable occasion and this was not long in
presenting itself.
The King fell suddenly ill. His condition became so grave that the
leading physicians of the Kingdom were obliged to confess their
inability to cure him. He was well aware of his serious condition and
cherished no illusions about it. He sensed the flutter of the wings of
Death--wings drenched with the tears of weeping humanity. He sent for
the Prime Minister, to whom he spoke after the following fashion:
“I am going to die. My great regret is in leaving a son too young
efficiently to govern the country. Factions will take advantage of the
situation to disturb the peace of the Kingdom. Yet I want my son to
succeed me on the throne. Consequently I am requiring of you a further
proof of your devotion. Promise me to give this child the guidance of
your counsel and wisdom. Teach him to govern kindly and finish his
education.”
Ja-Jo-Mi, the unscrupulous, swore solemnly that he would faithfully
observe the last commands of his master. The monarch desired to see his
son, so the latter was brought to his bedside. The King tenderly took
the youth in his arms. He seemed to wish, through him, to cling longer
to the life he was leaving. But the fatal hour had come; he drew his
last breath in a sob.
His son, overcome by grief, uttered wild cries--“Oh, my father, my only
refuge, why do you forsake me? Why must you leave me?” Finally he fell
into a swoon.
The Prime Minister, who was present at this scene, tried to calm the
young Prince with profuse and hypocritical condolences. His words were
far from being in accord with his inner thoughts. The King’s death
filled his soul with joy, for it rendered easier the project he had
been dreaming about for so long.
When the funeral ceremonies were over, the Governors of the provinces
held a conference upon the question of choosing a new King. The
Governors’ choice naturally fell upon the shoulders of the deceased
King’s son. This decision exasperated Ja-Jo-Mi; he protested furiously
against it, saying that the Prince was too young to attend to affairs
of state and he painted a very black picture of the conditions of the
country if the government were placed in his hands.
“Moreover, the dying King appointed me to rule until his son should be
capable of taking the throne.”
The Prime Minister expected favorable results from this announcement.
The Governors, however, contented themselves with exchanging
significant glances, but they did not utter a word in support of the
Minister’s proposal.
This cold reception did not leave Ja-Jo-Mi any delusions as to the
attitude of the Governors on the subject. Renouncing the powers of
peaceful persuasion, he resolved to employ force. He summoned the
General whose support he was assured of and said to him:
“You will throw into prison any official who is hostile to me.”
The General bowed in a sign of obedience and withdrew. Although very
much terrified, the Governors did not submit peacefully to this new
means of intimidation and Ja-Jo-Mi condemned several of the most
influential of them to banishment. No one was in a position now to
oppose the execution of his designs.
Having thus overridden the opposition of the Governors, Ja-Jo-Mi went
to the young King.
“All powerful Prince,” he said, kneeling respectfully, “forgive me if
I disturb you in your grief. The welfare of the people compels me to
discuss with you certain things which I fain would defer to a more
opportune moment.”
“Speak,” bade the young King.
“You are doubtless well aware that, according to the precepts laid down
by the venerable philosopher, Kong-Ji, no one can reign in Korea before
attaining a certain age. In spite of your exceptional intelligence and
remarkable ability I fear that you are too young to rule alone. Your
father, my regretted master, on his death bed, requested me to look
after the interests of the State while you were preparing to assume
them yourself. It is with great regret that I remind you of this last
wish of the deceased King, for I am aggravating your sorrow, I know.
But I hope that you will conform to your father’s desires and the
philosopher’s wisdom.”
Ja-Jo-Mi had hoped to convince the Prince with these arguments. Great
then was his astonishment when the youth replied:
“You are interpreting the last words of my dear father for your own
ends and in your own interests. He asked you to guide and advise me
but did not intimate that you should take my place at the head of the
Koreans. Know then, that it is my intention to govern in person. I have
nothing more to add.”
It was a summary dismissal. Ja-Jo-Mi, feigning to acquiesce in the
desires of his sovereign, withdrew backwards, saying:
“Sire, it shall be as you wish.”
Thus the ambitious Minister had encountered, in the energy of the young
King, a formidable obstruction in the path of his plans. But it did not
discourage him. Since the Prince would not relinquish his post with a
good grace, he would commandeer it by force. It would be very easy.
All the office-holders at the Capital were devoted to Ja-Jo-Mi, for it
was through him that they held their places. The people were not to
be feared for they lacked leaders. One bright and beautiful day, the
King found himself under arrest and transported to Cho-To. The Prime
Minister had ordered the prisoner to be guarded by the troops day and
night and the deposed Prince was kept under the strictest surveillance
all the time.
Ja-Jo-Mi, the unscrupulous, for the time being, was master of the land.
He hoped soon to be completely rid of the legitimate King and to finish
his days tranquilly on the throne that he had so treacherously usurped.
These events had caused a growing unrest throughout the length and
breadth of Korea. The people were talking and grumbling, but they
did not dare openly to manifest their disapproval. The conduct of
the Prime Minister became an every-day topic of conversation. On the
street corners, bolder groups were wont to gather and discuss matters
vigorously.
One day, when San-Syeng was out walking he noticed one of these crowds;
he hurried back to his lodgings and inquired of Hong-Jun, his landlord,
who had formerly held an important commission in the army,
“What has happened? I see that the inhabitants of this city, ordinarily
so calm and peaceful, laboring under unusual excitement. What’s the
cause of it?”
“What, don’t you know?” replied Hong-Jun. “It is rumored that the Prime
Minister, who always did have a detestable reputation, has just crowned
his infamy by exiling the King’s son. Instead of occupying the throne,
our young ruler is in prison.”
San-Syeng was thunder-struck. Heeding only the impulses of his noble
heart, he resolved to discover some means to help the unfortunate young
ruler.
He had a dream that night which served to strengthen his resolution. He
saw in his dream a person whom he had already met in the course of his
travels and who asked his name.
“My name is San-Syeng.”
“Good, I belong to the same family as you. My name is San-Houni. I was
banished from the Capital by Ja-Jo-Mi. While on my way to the island
of Ko-Kum-To I was murdered by the robber Su-Rung. Listen, for I have
something to ask of you. At this very moment, the deceased King’s son
is in exile at Cho-To. He is also a victim of Ja-Jo-Mi. Go, help him.”
San-Syeng told his questioner that he had fully made up his mind to
assist the young ruler. “Can you not,” he added subsequently, “give me
some information about my family?”
“It is impossible for me to grant your wish for the present,” was the
rejoinder, and the vision disappeared. When San-Syeng awoke he recalled
his dream in all its minute details.
What could this mystery be which surrounded Su-Rung? San-Syeng had
heard the man whom he regarded as a father spoken of as a thief and now
he was pictured as an assassin. All this gave the young man food for
serious reflection. However, the most urgent matter now was to go to
the succour of the young exile and San-Syeng took immediate steps to
leave for Cho-To.
It was an island that was easily accessible but by the orders of
Ja-Jo-Mi no one was permitted to land there without a permit from the
Prime Minister. In vain did San-Syeng try to evade the vigilance of the
soldiers who were guarding the shore. He was forced to confess that it
was impossible to land on the island. Not disheartened by his failure,
however, he resolved to await more auspicious circumstances for the
carrying out of his project.
* * * * *
_Here endeth the fifth stage of our legend._
VI
[Illustration]
VI
Let us retrace our steps. The reader will recall how the adorable
Cheng-Si, daughter of the unfortunate Sun-Yen, had agreed, in order
to procure help for her father, to become the victim that the Korean
merchants were to offer the hungry monsters of the Yellow Sea.
When the vessel that bore the young girl had reached the open sea and
the merchants had finished a session of prayer, they summoned Cheng-Si
before them.
“The time for the sacrifice has come,” they told her. “Now you may
retire, purify your body, put on your most beautiful gown. We will wait
for you here.”
Cheng-Si obeyed their commands with resignation. She soon appeared on
the deck, fresh as a new rose. One might have thought that she was
going to her wedding instead of her death.
The traders had prepared a magnificent altar covered with white and
bearing curiously carved incense burners. From the midst of the incense
arose fragrant blue clouds of myrrh. At each end of the table burned
an immense candle, the flames from which flickered to and fro in the
breeze.
The girl was stationed between the two candles, in front of the incense
burners. The merchants knelt and began to pray. Cheng-Si, the fair,
consigned her soul to Heaven. Not that she experienced regret at
leaving this life, but her last thoughts were of the blind father whom
she had forsaken.
Her prayers concluded, the girl, without showing a trace of emotion,
threw herself resolutely into the sea while the vessel continued on
its way. Cheng-Si, who fully expected to drown in a few minutes,
perceived with astonishment that she was resting on the surface of the
water. In her plunge she had struck an obstacle and this obstacle was
nothing else than a gigantic sea turtle. The animal kept on swimming,
without seeming to be incommoded by his unusual burden. The young girl
naturally seized this unlooked for chance of salvation. She allowed
herself to be borne by the turtle and soon she enjoyed such a feeling
of security that she fell asleep and a vision came to her. Her mother
appeared before her, borne on the fleecy sheets of a cloud, and left
with her these words:
“My daughter, be not afraid. Heed what I have to say to you and, above
all things, follow my advice. Do not forsake the turtle who has saved
your life until he has carried you safely to the shore.” With this
message, the vision vanished.
Upon awakening, Cheng-Si glanced about her in all directions and
noticed an island in the near distance. “Doubtless that is to be my
future home,” she said to herself. “My dream is already beginning to
come true. I shall follow my dear mother’s advice.”
The turtle, arriving close to the shore, turned aside into a deep
subterranean passage and kept on swimming for several hours until
it reached a point where the channel was very narrow. The innocent
Cheng-Si jumped ashore crying:
“Thank you, good turtle, for saving my life.”
While the large animal turned and swam back toward the sea the girl
tried to comprehend the situation in which she found herself. Amidst
the deep darkness she was seized with a great fear. “Alas!” she cried,
“poor me! I have escaped death only for a little while. How can I get
out of this cave?” Suddenly she saw a ray of sunlight that filtered
through the rocky vault above her head. She turned in this direction
and saw two small polished stone flasks which shone in the sunlight.
Lying conspicuously close by was a letter addressed to Cheng-Si
herself. The young girl had had so many adventures in so short a time
that this strange coincidence did not cause her any surprise. Breaking
the seal on the letter, she read the following:
“Drink the contents of these two bottles. One of them will wash away
the fatigue of your long voyage. The other will clarify your ideas
about the strange events which no doubt have troubled you.”
Cheng-Si drank the two beverages and she immediately felt a renewed
energy flowing through her veins. Her head was as clear as a bell. She
picked her way carefully along the sides of the cavern in the direction
whence the sunlight came. Her way was soon blocked by a pile of dirt
which she painfully dug aside with her own hands. Presently she had
made an opening large enough to admit her slender body. Drawing herself
up through the hole she found that she was in the hollow trunk of an
immense tree whose roots reached way down into the floor of the cave.
Cheng-Si enjoyed to the fullest measure the dazzling bright daylight.
She was in an enchanted garden. Not only were there trees of luxuriant
green foliage, spreading gorgeous blossoms caressed by the soft, sweet
breath of variegated butterflies, and bees and birds, but the air
itself was laden with an intoxicating perfume. A huge wall served to
close the garden from outside view. In the centre arose a magnificent
dwelling which harmonized nicely with its surroundings.
After a few minutes rest, Cheng-Si picked her way carefully through the
briars and brambles covering the trunk of the tree and began to stroll
about the garden.
Now it so happened that the beautiful house and this fairy garden were
the residence and place of recreation for the young King whom Ja-Jo-Mi,
the unscrupulous, in his wickedness, had exiled, as we have previously
seen. His captivity had already lasted for several months. The young
Prince, giving himself up to a bitter melancholy, could not take his
thoughts from the memory of his parents. Ceaselessly he thought of
his father and his mother, both of whom had shown him such tender
affection. At times he would ponder over the future where he could see
no issue from the plight in which he found himself but death.
“Why should I cling to life any longer? This everlasting loneliness,
is it not the most cruel of punishments? Yes, it is better to die,”
mourned the young Prince so sadly that at his approach even the birds
stopped singing.
This very day he was determined to carry out his dismal plans. He
carefully made all his preparations. A rope tightly attached to the
bough of a tree at one end with the other end passed around his neck
would be his instrument of deliverance. The poor victim of Ja-Jo-Mi
said his last prayers. In a few minutes his body would be swinging
into space. But the Prince hesitated. He had just seen a young girl,
a beautiful vision in white, strolling along the shady paths of his
garden.
“Who in the world can that be?” queried the Prince. “It seems that I am
not here all alone, after all. I must solve this mystery.”
He forgot his plans of suicide; his melancholy mood disappeared. A
single glimpse of a woman had had this potent effect on him--believe it
or not. He untied the cord from about his neck and started in headlong
pursuit after the charming apparition. ’Twas effort wasted! The girl
turned around a tree and vanished as if by magic.
The young Prince was sorely perplexed. He questioned whether he was not
dreaming. But no, his eyes had clearly seen. Later on, when the curtain
of twilight began to lower its darkness the prisoner entered his house
to seek slumber but all night long he was haunted by the memory of the
girl he had seen in his garden and he could not sleep.
Almost before daybreak, he dressed in great haste and left the house. A
butterfly hovered about his head. He tried to catch it but could not.
He stubbornly gave chase, following it in its many turns and wanderings
about the garden. Suddenly the insect disappeared in the hollow trunk
of a tree. The young man had closely watched the insect’s flight, and
feeling certain now of capturing his prey, he advanced with open hands.
He expected to find a butterfly, and, behold, he discovered a beautiful
young girl before him. So great was his surprise that he recoiled for
a moment, but quickly suppressing this instinctive impulse, he went
toward her, saying:
“Excuse me, for having disturbed you in your retreat. I stumbled upon
it purely by accident. I was chasing a butterfly that took refuge in
the trunk of this tree, and in trying to catch it I came upon you.”
Cheng-Si needed these words to reassure her. At the sight of the young
man she was seized with an unusual fear. Her agitation prevented her
from speaking, but the young King continued:
“I am very sorry to have troubled you. Calm yourself. May I ask where
you live?”
“I have no parents, or home, sir. I was walking by the seashore when I
fell into the water. A turtle caught me on his back and carried me to
this island where I have been for several days.”
“Like you, I am an orphan,” the Prince went on. “I am a son of the late
King of Korea. After my father’s death I was banished to this island
by the Prime Minister, Ja-Jo-Mi. Both of us have been unfortunate it
seems. But, wouldn’t you like to come and rest yourself for awhile in
my house?”
“Thank you very much. But as you are a prisoner you are not free to
allow this, are you?”
“Be at ease about that. It is quite true that I am a prisoner, but no
one disturbs my lonely life. They think that behind these high thick
walls, outside of which they have stationed a number of soldiers, it
would be useless to inflict upon me other guards or restrictions. You
can follow me fearlessly. Come, it will rest you a bit.”
Cheng-Si followed the young man. Hand in hand they went toward the
exile’s home, exchanging very few words.
“Here, this will be your room,” said the young King. “I will leave you
to make yourself at home.”
Cheng-Si, once alone, reflected upon what had happened to her. “This
young man is charming and very likable,” was her thought. “Like me, he
has undergone great hardships.”
As for Ki-Si, he had totally forgotten that only a short time before
he had planned to take his own life. He could think of nothing but his
beautiful guest. He was drawn from his meditation by the arrival of the
servant who came each day to bring his food.
“Good,” said the young King. “Place it on that table and leave me. I
shall serve myself to-day.”
When the servant had gone, Ki-Si went for the girl.
“Will you share my meagre dinner?” he asked.
“Gladly, sir.”
They seated themselves and began to eat.
“How happy I am to take my repast in your company,” said the young
Prince.
“Why, sir, how is that?”
“Because I have been here alone for so long.”
“Yes, I should think it must be very dreary for you.”
When the meal was over they went for a walk in the garden, the King
meanwhile relating all his troubles to Cheng-Si, who was greatly moved
thereby, and said:
“Do not take things too hardly, my friend. Have patience. Later, when
you regain the throne, you will forget these unhappy days.”
“No,” said the young man. “There will be no throne for me. Ja-Jo-Mi
will have me killed.”
Cheng-Si gave him a little pat on the cheek and said,
“Don’t be sad, my friend. Cheer up. The future will smile upon you.”
Several weeks passed. One afternoon, the two went to sit down upon a
bench in the garden, as was their custom. The young Prince laughed
scornfully, as he pointed out to Cheng-Si the graves scattered here and
there in the sun-kissed grass.
“Why are you laughing like that?” she questioned.
“Why,” he replied absently, and as if speaking in a trance. “I am
laughing when I think that life is nothing more than a long mockery of
bitterness and sorrow and lasts so briefly after all. Like the flies
that spend their lifetime in a single sun’s ray, we live but a moment.
We strive for honors and glory and what not. And to what purpose, since
death gathers all of us under a common shroud and places us on an
equality. Friendship and love alone can bind mankind to one another.”
Then he was silent. The contrast between his own sentiments and the
aspect of Nature was striking. The most profound sadness filled his
heart. Everything out-of-doors on the contrary seemed to be dancing in
a delightful frolic of love.
Ki-Si, his head close to the pearly shell-like ear of Cheng-Si,
continued:
“See that butterfly yonder! He is robbing that little white flower.
Perhaps he is intoxicated with its perfume; perhaps he is leaving a
kiss on its rosy lips? Ah, these insects are happier than we mortals.”
Cheng-Si was pensive. She was thinking of the many troubles that had
made the young Prince esteem life so lightly. But she said to herself
that if he could so easily detect love and the loveable in Nature, his
soul could not be entirely immune to the sentiment itself. Possibly she
was beloved by her companion.
She said to him merrily, “Chase away your sorrow. You will not always
be unhappy. As the Spring-time follows Winter, so laughter follows
tears. Soon the moon will be shining, for the moon loves the sun and
will pursue it into the darkness of night. When it rains the earth is
refreshed and gladdened.”
The sun was sinking below the horizon in a blaze of gold and glory.
Everything marked the hour of rest and peace. The birds were flying to
their nests, shaking the branches in their flight. A great silence lay
over all Nature. The young Prince took Cheng-Si’s delicate little hand
in his and murmured,
“I love you.”
“I love you,” was the girl’s answer.
After this tender confession, the two remained for a long time without
saying a word, buried in a deep reverie, happy in their mutual love.
When they had gone home and had finished their evening repast, Ki-Si
said to the young girl:
“It is customary in our country for parents to give their children in
marriage, but we are orphans, so what shall we do to get married?”
“Let’s marry ourselves,” replied Cheng-Si, naively.
“Good, let’s get ready for the ceremony.”
They drew up a large table and covered it with a red cloth. Two
candles--signifying youth; a needle and thread--signifying union; and
incense burners, were placed on this improvised altar before which the
betrothed pair knelt to pray to Heaven, after which they drank the
sacramental wine from the same cup.
The ceremony was over. Love soon invited them to its wedding joys and
the following days were filled with an ineffable happiness and delight.
Now it came to pass one night that the Prince had a dream. He saw in
his dream a large bottle the upper portion of which had been broken,
whence a crimson stream was slowly flowing. Ki-Si awoke with a start
and aroused his companion. “Ja-Jo-Mi is going to kill me,” he cried
with a sob. “I shall be forced to desert you, soul of my soul. Listen
to my dream.”
Cheng-Si, too, fell a victim to despair. “Let’s save ourselves while we
can,” she cried. “We will set fire to our house and try to reach the
seacoast. Ja-Jo-Mi will believe that you are dead.”
“No,” vetoed the King. “It will be futile. I have had a dream which
tells me of misfortune which I shall try in vain to escape.”
“But, I think,” rejoined Cheng-Si, who had regained her composure,
“that you are wrong to be so alarmed at this dream. It does not have
the meaning which you attribute to it. When one breaks the neck of
a bottle one holds it carefully by the bottom. This means that your
people are determined to convey to you their good wishes, and the
blood which trickles from the bottle signifies the royal purple with
which you will be vested.”
This explanation assuaged Ki-Si’s griefs but imperfectly. Nevertheless
he said to Cheng-Si:
“Well, suppose we leave. Let the fire burn up this place. I have spent
too many sad days here.”
Placing burning brands in various parts of the house they hurried into
the garden. They made their way to the hollow tree where Ki-Si had
discovered his treasure and through it descended into the cave. Shortly
they were by the seaside.
How could they go any farther? They had no boat. The young King, rather
than fall alive into the hands of Ja-Jo-Mi, determined to kill himself.
He ran toward the water but Cheng-Si like a flash seized her husband by
his gown and showered upon him gentle reproaches:
“Why would you desert me? Is it not my duty to follow you wherever you
may go, even to the bottom of the sea? If you are bound to die, let us
die together.”
“No, my dear, you are young. I met you by chance. It is not fitting
that your fate should be thus linked to mine. Life for you may yet be a
happy one. Let me go. Let me die alone.”
But Cheng-Si clung desperately to her lover. She wanted to follow him
into the Valley of the Shadows; in fact, she would have preferred to
have preceded him into the Darkness.
* * * * *
_Here endeth the sixth stage of our legend._
VII
[Illustration]
VII
San-Syeng had been waiting impatiently for several months for an
opportunity to penetrate the defenses of the island of Cho-To where the
young King was exiled. He was beginning to feel discouraged when he had
another dream. San-Houni appeared before him saying, “You should take a
boat and go to the southern cape of the island. There you will find the
King and his Queen. But make haste, if you are too late you will find
that the Prince has gone to abide with his ancestors.”
On the strength of his dream, San-Syeng immediately began preparations
for his journey to the spot that had been indicated to him. While yet
some distance from the island, he could distinguish on the beach a man
and woman, both apparently very young, talking and gesticulating with
great earnestness. Soon he imagined he could catch a few words which
were carried to him on the light breeze, causing the impression that
a disagreement had arisen between the two young people. When he came
within hailing distance he called politely: “Why are you quarreling in
this way when Spring-time is smiling upon you so sweetly?”
Ki-Si replied: “We would like to cross the sea but having no boat and
deprived of all resources, we are contemplating suicide. But I do not
want my gentle companion to follow me to the grave, while she, on
the other hand, is bent upon dying with me. That is the cause of our
dispute.”
“Give up your melancholy ideas,” remonstrated San-Syeng. “You are
not going to die. I will place my boat at your disposal and take you
wherever you want to go.”
“Many thanks, you have saved our lives,” cried Ki-Si, joyfully.
The young King and Queen immediately clambered aboard the boat and
San-Syeng made a rapid trip over the arm of the sea which separated the
island of Cho-To from the city of Chang-Yang.
When they were safely ashore, Ki-Si inquired of San-Syeng if he would
kindly direct him to a place where he and his wife could pass the
night. San-Syeng suggested that they put up at the same inn where he
was staying--an invitation which they heartily accepted.
So far San-Syeng’s dream had been realized. Nothing was left for him
to do but to make sure that the young people were really those of whom
San-Houni had told him. But this was no easy thing. He did not dare
question them too closely. There was too much at stake to reveal the
truth. San-Syeng resolved to wait until time and opportunity would
dispel his doubt.
Meantime, the house on the island where the young Prince had lived
since he had left the Capital had become food for the fire and flame.
The guard in charge of Ki-Si rushed to inform the General whom Ja-Jo-Mi
had appointed to watch the island of Cho-To. The General, greatly
agitated and worried, gave orders to double the guards about the garden
wall. Anyone who sought to leave was to be arrested on the spot. Other
soldiers were instructed to do their utmost in fighting the spread of
the flames. They were too late. The house was now like unto a gigantic
furnace.
“Search everywhere for the King,” ordered the General. “If he isn’t
dead he must be hidden somewhere in the garden. Look in all the corners
and dark places.”
This hunt was, as we well know, unsuccessful, and the General,
concluding that the royal prisoner had perished in the flames, sent
word to that effect posthaste to Ja-Jo-Mi.
Upon receipt of this news, the Prime Minister was elated. The death
of the rightful King swept aside the last obstruction in the path of
his plans. He immediately summoned the General whom he had placed in
command of the guards at Cho-To, and when the latter came Ja-Jo-Mi met
him with these words:
“How lucky we are! Such an event deserves to be celebrated in proper
style. Let’s have a grand banquet to which we can invite all our
friends.”
Ja-Jo-Mi’s partisans were living in idleness and ease, wallowing in
an era of merry-making and debauchery. Everywhere they went they
continually sang the praises of Ja-Jo-Mi, “the coming King of Korea.”
The people, however, were grumbling and commenting, but the fear of the
tyrant kept them from expressing too openly their complaints.
Ki-Si, whom Ja-Jo-Mi believed to be dead, was keeping under cover
at the little town of Chang-Yang. One day when he was chatting with
San-Syeng, the proprietor of the inn burst in upon them excitedly,
saying: “There is great excitement in the streets. Quite a number of
troops, who are on their way to the Capital, have just arrived in town.”
“What’s exciting about that?” questioned San-Syeng.
“These soldiers were ordered to guard our young exiled King at the
island of Cho-To. It seems that the poor Prince lost his life in a
big fire and the General, who had charge of this mission, is bringing
back his men. The people, you know, fairly hate Ja-Jo-Mi, who holds
the support of the army and who has placed a heavy yoke about the neck
of all Korea. Hence, at the sight of these soldiers, excitement has
spread all over the town.”
“Do you hate Ja-Jo-Mi, too?” asked San-Syeng of the inn-keeper.
“The same as every one else, sir.”
“Well, it doesn’t seem an easy matter to me to overthrow this Ja-Jo-Mi.
He has the army with him and they haven’t much love for the common
people.”
“That’s where you are wrong, sir. The only troops really devoted to the
Prime Minister’s cause are those at the Capital; in fact, the others
are hostile to him. Why, the garrison of our town and the Mandarin
himself are opposed to Ja-Jo-Mi. If our Mandarin were to appeal to the
soldiers who are here and if his example were followed by the other
Mandarins, Ja-Jo-Mi and his satellites could easily be put down.”
“But once Ja-Jo-Mi is deposed, whom can they place upon the throne?”
“That, sir, is a difficult question. Unhappily, the King’s son is dead.
Perhaps, however, a member of the Royal Family might be found who would
accept the trust.”
“And suppose, for the sake of argument, that it were not true that the
King’s son were dead?”
“The simplest thing would be to confer upon him the succession to his
father.”
“Your reasoning is good,” continued San-Syeng. “You stand well in the
eyes of the people and you are a friend of the Mandarin. Would you
consent for us to undertake the enterprise?”
“Willingly,” replied the innkeeper. “We should get together on this. I
must, however, leave you now for a while. I’ll see you presently.”
When he was alone with Ki-Si, San-Syeng asked: “Would you like to join
us in our fight against Ja-Jo-Mi?” At the question the Prince, who had
seemed afflicted with great uneasiness and a sort of illness during
the preceding conversation, fell to the floor in a faint. San-Syeng
turned his attention at once to the prostrate form of his friend who
lay as rigid as a log and seemed to be unable to utter the least
sound. San-Syeng called Cheng-Si and she came running in terror to her
husband. San-Houni’s son told her what had taken place. The young woman
threw herself on her husband’s breast and drenched him with her tears.
San-Syeng, profoundly moved by this sight, cried to Cheng-Si: “In
Heaven’s name, madame, tell me who you are!”
“I have great confidence in you, sir. You have saved our lives and I
will tell you the truth. My husband is Ja-Jo-Mi’s victim, the King’s
son. I met him by chance. I fell into the sea and was carried by a
turtle to the island where the Prince was held captive. I became his
wife and we fled from our prison together and you met us, rescued us,
and brought us here. That’s our story. And, now you understand, sir,
do you not?”
Meanwhile the young King had regained consciousness. When San-Syeng
observed this he began to withdraw toward the door saying: “Sire,
forgive my imprudence--excuse my impatience--.”
Ki-Si tried to stop him.
“No, sire, first of all you must pardon the familiarity with which
I treated you. My excuse is that I did not know with what august
personages I was speaking. Now that I do know, it is hardly fitting
that I remain in the same room as yourselves.”
It happened that the owner of the inn was passing before the door of
the room where Ki-Si and his wife were and San-Syeng promptly told him
the story. The innkeeper prostrated himself and, with his face to the
floor, cried: “It is a supreme honor to be permitted to house Your
Majesties.”
He lost no time in telling the Mandarin, who was thunderstruck with
amazement and who could scarcely suppress his joy at hearing the news.
Summoning an escort of troops, he marched to the inn where the King
lodged. The soldiers surrounded the house, while the Mandarin, in
all the glory of his gorgeous robes, went to pay his respects to the
Sovereign.
The Prince gave him a hearty welcome. By his side stood San-Syeng,
who, after bowing to the King, turned to the Mandarin and said: “We
must take our Sovereign to the To-Wan (the Mandarin’s palace, or town
hall) so that he may be sheltered by a roof worthy of his rank.”
The Mandarin approved this suggestion, and at once the party set out
for the To-Wan.
Hardly was he there before the King turned to San-Syeng, saying: “I
wish to bring about a complete re-organization of the Government.”
“Sire, all my ability, all my strength, are at your disposal,” was
San-Syeng’s respectful reply.
“Good, then you become my General!” replied the Prince.
San-Syeng was confused, but had to obey the wishes of the Prince and he
knew the latter would confer offices only upon those whom he deemed the
most worthy among his followers. Orders were issued for the preparation
of a great banquet and for the dispatch of couriers to all corners of
the Kingdom to announce to the people the coming of their King.
This welcome news put joy and happiness into the hearts of the Koreans,
and shouts of joy were heard throughout the length and breadth of the
land.
“O Beloved King! Night has vanished to give place to the day. The times
of wretchedness and evil are gone and the era of happiness is at hand.
Clouds were hiding the face of the Sun, and the flowers, deprived of
light, were wasting away; but the wind has swept away the clouds and
the light comes to us again. Everything will flourish in the gentle,
healthful rays of the wonderful Sun. Hail, son, hail brother--hail to
our King! Forward! Hold back--not for fire, nor for the waters, nor for
the mountains. Sweep aside all obstacles. If the wicked-hearted seek
to restrain you, kill them. But look ever to the Sun; its warmth will
give you strength and courage. We want you--beloved King! And we will
serve you and keep you always. Now--away with tender things and soft
things--we’re off to war!”
While the populace was manifesting its delight in talk and other
harmless ways, the King was busy with his preparations for the
overthrowing of the usurper. He questioned San-Syeng as to the distance
to the Capital. This distance was considerable and, at the advice of
his General, he decided that he would put his forces on the march as
soon as possible.
San-Syeng took an active interest in the training of the army. To
toughen his men, he made them attach small, but heavy, bags of sand
to their legs. For an entire day they were obliged to march with this
equipment.
The following day, the army broke camp and took the field. The soldiers
now having only their weapons to carry, made rapid progress. At
the end of two days they were before the Capital City. San-Syeng
stationed his troops in a cordon about the city with orders to let
no one--no matter who it might be--leave or enter the town. Then he
wrote an ultimatum, which he ordered to be copied many times on strips
of bamboo, and distributed widely in all parts of the city. This
proclamation announced the arrival of the legitimate King at the head
of his army and that His Majesty came to give battle to the unfaithful
Minister, Ja-Jo-Mi, the unscrupulous. The latter was living in an
atmosphere of absolute security. Entertainment followed entertainment;
feast followed feast. Suddenly it was announced to Ja-Jo-Mi that the
King’s son was at the gates of the Capital with an army and that there
was a great disturbance among the people.
Ja-Jo-Mi, astounded by the news, summoned his General, at whom he cast
the most violent reproaches and profane oaths (some of these we dare
not print as the transcriber of this legend is a pious man). “How is
it that you told me that the King’s son was dead and now they say that
the city is in a state of siege? Who is it that is at the head of the
troops who are attacking us?”
“It cannot possibly be the King’s son,” replied the General, humbly. “I
am positive that he died in that fire--his body is ashes. Doubtless
it is some daring adventurer who has brought this horde of rogues and
robbers upon us.”
There was no time for further discussion. The populace, having read
the bamboo messages, arose in revolt. They were already advancing
toward the Prime Minister’s palace. They burst down the doors and swept
through the palace like the demon waves of the Yellow Sea. Ja-Jo-Mi and
his General were seized--the palace set on fire. Simultaneously the
King made a peaceful entry into the city at the head of his troops and
the people turned over to him the usurping Minister and his General.
Ki-Si called his Commander-in-Chief, San-Syeng.
“No one shall be put to death. It will be sufficient, for the time
being, to throw the guilty wretches into prison.” Subsequently, he
issued orders to the effect that only Ja-Jo-Mi, his General, and their
principal adherents, be held as prisoners.
The new King had barely taken possession of the palace of his fathers
than he ordered a reduction in the taxes which were oppressing his
people. These measures were approved by his Queen who desired that they
be even carried further.
“Who knows,” she said, “if the Mandarins will carry out the orders;
perhaps they will continue to persecute the people to their profit?
You must be assured that everything is going as you wish and dispatch
deputies who are charged with seeing that your decrees are observed.”
The King recognized the wisdom of this idea and ordered San-Syeng to
send out in all directions honest and devoted men on this errand. This
done, the new General left the Capital, wearing the modest clothes he
had worn when the King had placed the command of the troops in his
hands.
* * * * *
_Here cometh to a close the seventh stage of our legend._
VIII
[Illustration]
VIII
San-Syeng had been a very powerful factor in establishing the
legitimate sovereign of Korea on the throne but he did not by any
means consider his life work as finished. His primary duty was to find
his parents and to return to the lovely girl to whom he had given his
heart. Despite the many adventures through which he had passed, he had
never ceased thinking of Yeng-So-Yei. He did not suspect that serious
events were also taking place in her own little sphere.
Now it came to pass one morning after San-Syeng’s departure that
Yeng-So-Yei found her mother dead in her room. The poor young woman was
prostrated with grief. She refused to be consoled and the solitude in
which she lived merely aggravated her anguish. And yet a new calamity
lay right in her path. The populace, rising in revolt against the
nobility and tax collectors, were burning and pillaging throughout the
village and Yeng-So-Yei just had time enough to dash through a secret
gate in the city wall and make her escape into the open country.
In a short space of time she had lost her mother, her fortune and
her home. She did not, however, feel entirely cast down. “At least
San-Syeng is left to me,” was her thought.
“I shall go to the Capital and hunt for him.” In order to carry out her
project more easily, she assumed masculine attire and, thus disguised,
set out on her journey.
Now it came to pass that having no notion of the road she should
follow, she completely lost her way. Moreover, an intense fog settled
down upon the fields and earth to make her situation more unpleasant.
She walked and walked, but to her great despair she met no one, nor
could she find the slightest shelter wherein she might escape the
dampness. Tired, almost unto death, she threw herself down beside a
clump of tall bamboo, intending to rest but a few moments, but in spite
of her well-meaning resolutions, she was soon fast asleep.
The grove of bamboo toward which Fate had turned the steps of
Yeng-So-Yei was the very one where so many long years before Yeng-Si
had given birth to San-Syeng. The unfortunate woman who was obliged to
abandon her child and to become a nun would often visit the spot which
brought back such painful memories; indeed, she seemed to take a keen
pleasure in seeing the spot where she had become a mother. And the
sight thereof would cause her to weep.
It so happened that one day the nun, returning from her sad
pilgrimage, saw a young man, sound asleep, stretched across the
narrow footpath. At first she was a bit startled and frightened but,
conquering her distrust, she gazed curiously at the sleeper. “My son
would have been about the same age,” she reflected. “I will wait until
this young man awakes and speak with him.” She stood by his prostrate
form and it seemed as if she were unable to take her eyes from his
face. Finally, unable to be patient any longer, and after satisfying
herself that no one was watching her, she decided to wake the strange
traveler.
“Pardon my curiosity, sir--but this situation is a strange one.”
“What situation?” demanded Yeng-So-Yei.
“How comes it that you are sleeping here on this road?”
“It comes--because I was very tired.”
“Where do you live?”
“At Yen-Yu, but I am on my way to the Capital.”
“To the Capital? But you are not on the right road.”
“Am I lost? Oh, what shall I do?”
Tears came into the poor girl’s eyes. Yeng-Si was moved also.
“How,” she asked again, “does it happen that you are traveling alone in
this way? It is hardly safe for you.”
“I know that, but I am forced to do so for I am an orphan.”
“Would you like to come with me?”
“Yes, but I can accept your hospitality for a short time only. I must
be on my way.”
At these words, they walked together toward the temple of Ro-Ja.
Ou-Pung, the sister, consented to take the young traveler in, but made
it very plain that it was impossible for her to keep a man about the
house for more than two or three days.
Yeng-So-Yei asked no more than that. After she was installed in her
room, she went to seek Yeng-Si. The latter related the tale of her sad
life and this pitiful story so touched the young woman that she wept
with her new friend in sympathy.
The next morning Yeng-Si stopped at the traveler’s room. Picking up
a ring which she saw lying on the table, she examined it closely and
demanded, sharply:
“Perhaps, I may be a bit inquisitive, but I would be very much obliged
to you if you would tell me where you obtained this ring?”
“It is a keepsake from my best friend.”
“Where is your best friend?”
“He has gone to the Capital. I want to join him as soon as I can.”
“How old is he?”
“We are almost the same age--both of us. But why do you ask these
questions?”
Yeng-Si did not reply, at once. Her eyes filled with tears, and
suddenly she broke out, sobbing:
“My son! My poor son! Where are you?”
These words made a vivid impression on Yeng-So-Yei. “Can it be that
this poor woman is my husband’s mother?” she thought to herself.
She tenderly took her tearful companion in her arms and asked gently,
“Was your son called San-Syeng?”
At the sound of this name, Yeng-Si, more agitated than before, cried:
“Yes, that was the name I gave him and I personally inscribed the name
of San-Syeng on my baby’s arm in characters that could not be removed.
This ring, which I hold in my hand, I placed in his clothes when I was
obliged to abandon him.”
“Mother, my dear mother,” cried Yeng-So-Yei, throwing herself in
Yeng-Si’s arms. “Your son is my husband and I am on my way to find him.”
“Do my ears hear aright?” cried Yeng-Si. “But, what in the world does
this costume mean?”
“I put it on so as to be able to travel with more security.”
The two women embraced each other tenderly, mingling their warm tears.
Ou-Pung, the sister, who was passing outside, hearing the sound of
sobs, entered the room.
“What are you crying about?” she asked.
“Good friend, we have been showing hospitality not to a young man, but
to the wife of my own lost son,” replied Yeng-Si.
“How happy I am for your sakes!”
Yeng-So-Yei then explained to the nun why she had assumed the garb of a
man.
“You were right,” rejoined the sister, “but what motive impelled you to
leave the town where you were living?”
The young wife briefly told the story of her misfortune. She was now
more anxious than ever to find her husband and she wasted few words in
her recital.
“I shall find him easily,” she added, “no matter how changed he may be.
He has probably kept the horse which I gave him when he left me and if
I cannot recognize the husband, I will know my father’s horse.”
“Well,” said the nun to Yeng-Si, “the end of all your sorrows is at
hand. Follow your daughter and together you will find San-Syeng.”
“Yes, it will not be our fault if we do not find him.”
Accustomed to having lived together for so long, Yeng-Si and the
sister experienced keen regret at parting from each other. But Ou-Pung
was the first to suggest that Yeng-Si leave with her daughter-in-law
for she was happy at the good fortune which had come to her deserving
companion.
So it came to pass that Yeng-Si and Yeng-So-Yei set out together for
the Capital. When they came close to the grove of bamboo, San-Syeng’s
mother could not suppress her tears.
“Why are you crying so, mother?”
“It was here, my child, that seventeen years ago I gave birth to him
who is now your husband. A short distance from here I abandoned him to
go with Ou-Pung, the nun. These recollections pain me greatly.”
The two women continued on their way. After several hours’ walking,
they came to the shores of a wide lake. Yeng-Si paused by the water’s
edge, and raising her eyes to Heaven, cried in a weak and trembling
voice:
“Dear and unfortunate friend, what has become of you?”
She told Yeng-So-Yei of the sublime devotion of the woman, who had
enabled her to escape from the hands of Su-Rung.
During the few following days their trip was without incident until
they came to the town of San-Jon. Here they resolved to remain for a
day as they were fatigued by their journey and they entered the first
inn which they stumbled upon.
The inn-keeper’s son was at once smitten by Yeng-So-Yei who was, as we
know, a marvel of grace and beauty. Finding his attentions repulsed,
he resolved to obtain revenge--the mark of a small mind. One of the
maid-servants was ordered to place in the young wife’s apartment some
jewels which belonged to the young man. The thing was done without
difficulty--and the servant swore under threats of punishment that she
would tell the plot to no one.
Next morning the rejected suitor entered Yeng-So-Yei’s room, saying:
“Madame, you will pardon me? Some one has stolen my jewels. I have
searched in all the other rooms of the house and I ask your permission
to do the same in yours.”
“Willingly, sir.”
It can be readily imagined that the two women were greatly astonished
to see the young man discover in their rooms, as if by magic, the
jewels which he claimed had been stolen from him. They asserted that
they were innocent, but it was useless. They were arrested in the name
of the Mandarin and were taken before him for a preliminary examination.
They renewed vigorously their denials, the Mandarin meanwhile listening
attentively. He had been impressed by the singular beauty of
Yeng-So-Yei, but gave no visible evidence of it, and committed the two
women to prison. A few moments after, he had word brought to them that
if Yeng-So-Yei would consent to marry him, no mention would ever be
made of the theft. In case of refusal--it was to be--death.
The young wife spurned the Mandarin’s messenger with great indignation.
“Tell your master that he is a villain. I am married and I will never
be unfaithful to my husband, not even to escape torture and death.”
The Mandarin, very much irritated, gave orders that the execution
of the prisoners should take place in three days. The keeper of
the prison, who was also the executioner, went about his sinister
preparations. Keenly touched by the plight of the two women, he visited
them and said:
“I shall be very glad to render you any service that you ask. I am
obliged to obey the commands of the Mandarin, but I do not hesitate to
say that he is one of the vilest of men.”
The jailer’s voice trembled as he spoke. Yeng-Si and her
daughter-in-law, torn with anguish, were wailing and sobbing. Was it
thus that they were to leave the world--one without having seen her
son--the other without embracing her husband?
“Oh, my San-Syeng! Oh, my San-Syeng!” they cried. Their grief was
so poignant that it overmastered their strength and they lost
consciousness.
* * * * *
_Here the eighth stage of our legend cometh to a close._
IX
[Illustration]
IX
On leaving the Capital, San-Syeng had a three-fold mission in view: to
make certain of the faithful execution of the King’s commands, to find
his parents, and to rejoin his wife. The young man did not make light
of the difficulties that lay before him, but he resolved to bend all
his efforts toward accomplishing his heart’s desires. He was optimistic
and cherished the brightest hopes of having his wishes crowned with
success.
His adorable Yeng-So-Yei obviously had the first claim to his
attention, and he set out with haste to see her. When but a short
distance from the town of Yen-Yu where his wife dwelt, the new General
learned that the place had been given over to revolt and pillage.
San-Syeng immediately mobilized the royal troops from the neighboring
towns and order was restored in a few days. The Mandarin, whose
exactions had been the primary cause of the revolt, was arrested and
sent to the Capital together with the ring-leaders in the disturbance.
This task accomplished, San-Syeng made pleasant preparations to
surprise Yeng-So-Yei by his home-coming. Alas the house where he
expected to find his beautiful little wife had been burned to the
ground, as if blasted by a dragon’s fiery breath. He could not master
his sorrow and burst into sobs. His orderly, who accompanied him,
endeavored to console him, but in vain, and was at last obliged to lead
his master away from the heap of charred embers and ashes. He learned
that Yeng-So-Yei’s mother was dead and that the orphan, when the fire
broke out, had fled and no one could tell whither she had gone.
San-Syeng naturally determined to travel in search of his wife, but
his body was tired and weary and he resolved to indulge in the luxury
of a short nap before leaving the town. During his slumbers, San-Houni
appeared before him for the third time, saying:
“My poor child! You are looking for your parents and you are unable to
find them. It is now time to tell you that I am your father. In the
olden days I enjoyed a great deal of influence at the Court, but my
enemy, Ja-Jo-Mi, had me sent into exile, with my best friend, Sun-Yen.
I was murdered by Su-Rung whom I hired to take me to Ko-Kum-To. As
for your mother and your wife, you will find them at San-Jon. A cruel
Mandarin has condemned them to death. Hurry to their rescue; the
slightest delay may be fatal.”
San-Syeng awoke with a start, shook himself and started on his
journey. Presently he reached the town referred to in his dream. He was
not long in learning that his mother and his wife, unjustly accused of
theft, were in a prison cell and were to be put to death the very next
morning.
The young man ran to the prison where, of course, he found it
impossible to enter, so he had recourse to a wise little trick. He
entered a merchant’s shop near by, threw his robe over a random object
and dashed out of the doorway. He was soon caught, arrested, and thrown
into prison.
Before employing this ruse, San-Syeng had ordered his servant to come
early the next day with his master’s horse and take his place before
the prison gates.
The room into which the young man was thrust after his arrest was
very dark and small. Several persons were already occupying it but it
was too dark to distinguish any of them clearly. He joined one of the
inmates in a loud protest for some light--the inevitable result of
which would be to bring the jailer, who indeed did come running to see
what their outcries portended. He stepped between the two men to quiet
them.
“I shall report you to the Mandarin,” he declared, turning to
San-Houni’s son. “What’s your name, anyway?”
“San-Syeng.”
Yeng-So-Yei and Yeng-Si were naturally very much surprised at hearing
this name. They whispered to each other:
“That’s my son’s name, sure enough,” said Yeng-Si, “but it cannot
possibly be he for he is no thief.”
The night passed without San-Syeng being recognized by the two women.
At daybreak, they were startled by the loud neighing of a horse and
Yeng-So-Yei, who had gone to the narrow opening which served as a
window to their cell, cried:
“Mother, come here. That horse which has been neighing is the very one
which I gave my husband, or at least it resembles it very much.”
Yeng-Si, by way of reply, moaned:
“Oh, where can my poor son be?”
Thereupon, San-Syeng approached his mother and inquired the cause
of her grief. Yeng-Si told him of the many sad experiences she had
undergone since her departure into exile with San-Houni up to her
arrest and condemnation to death by the Mandarin of San-Jon.
When she had finished, the young man in turn told his story. His
concluding words were--“I have on my arm the name of San-Syeng, but I
do not know how it is that I bear these characters which I have tried
in vain to remove.”
Yeng-So-Yei who had been listening to the conversation could restrain
herself no longer and cried:
“Tell me, what was your wife’s name and where did she live?”
“Yeng-So-Yei was my wife’s name; she lived in the village of Yen-Yu,
but I found her home burned to the ground.”
“Oh, my dear San-Syeng,” cried the young woman. “Have I found you at
last,” and turning to Yeng-Si, “Mother mine, here is your son!”
Their greetings naturally consumed some time--their hearts were glad
and they were not ashamed to display their emotion. And yet the two
women felt bitter and sad to think that soon they were about to die
after having touched the threshold of that happiness which their
reunion promised. San-Syeng ultimately succeeded in calming them. He
enjoyed, he said, certain extraordinary powers of which he intended to
make instant use.
Presently the young General’s orderly visited his master’s prison where
he received orders to announce to the village the arrival of San-Syeng,
a special envoy of the King, and to arrest the Mandarin at once.
’Twas but a brief while and the orderly came to report to his master
that his commands had been carried out. Meantime, the town officials
had rushed to the prison where they surrounded San-Syeng and paid him
their homage. At their urging, San-Houni’s son left the prison and
betook himself to the town-hall.
Yeng-So-Yei, catching sight of the horse she had given her husband, ran
to the stately looking steed and imprinted a kiss on the end of its
nose. The animal seemed to understand her message, for its eyes as they
turned toward the young wife, seemed moist with tears.
“No tears now, my good fellow,” laughed Yeng-So-Yei. “You are happier
than I for you can continually accompany him whom I love, while I am to
be separated from him.”
San-Syeng, a witness of his wife’s gentle act, tenderly drew her to his
heart, and kissing her hair said:
“Henceforth we shall never part from each other.”
San-Syeng, his cup overflowing with happiness at having found his
mother and his wife at one and the same time, desired to be told about
his father, and, at his urgent request, Yeng-Si, with tears in her eyes
and a faltering voice, related to him the misfortunes of San-Houni.
“Don’t worry, mother dear,” pleaded San-Syeng. “After so much
suffering, you are going to have happiness in abundance. I shall do
everything I can to make life pleasant for you. Suppose that first we
go visit Ou-Pung, the sister, who was so kind to you.”
This suggestion was very pleasing to Yeng-Si and they started on their
journey to the temple of Ro-Ja. When they were passing by the lake
which recalled so many bitter memories, Yeng-Si bade her son to pause.
The little party halted while she told the melancholy tale of the
devotion of the old lady who had sacrificed herself without hope of
recompense or reward.
“Mother,” declared San-Syeng, “I am going to place a memorial in this
spot to perpetuate the sublime sacrifice of your poor companion.” The
General’s orderly was at once commissioned to employ workmen who were
to begin immediately to erect a suitable tribute to the old lady’s
memory.
Before reaching the shrine of Ro-Ja, Yeng-Si related to her son,
while they were passing by the grove of bamboo, which figures so
conspicuously in our story, under what pitiful circumstances he had
been born.
Ou-Pung, the sister, did not count upon seeing Yeng-Si and her
daughter-in-law so soon again. “This is my son,” proudly declared the
nun’s former companion.
San-Syeng showered warm and profuse thanks upon the sister for all the
attentions and kindnesses she had shown to Yeng-Si.
“Do not thank me, sir,” replied the sister. “I have only done my duty
in sheltering an unfortunate woman. Buddha has taken pity upon her and
has rewarded her piety and her long suffering by permitting her to find
you.”
Under the supervision of the orderly, a magnificent pagoda was rapidly
built by the water’s edge. Upon it could be read this inscription:
WITH EVERLASTING GRATITUDE TO
THE BENEFACTOR OF MY MOTHER.
Ou-Pung consented to go with her visitors to see the temple that
had just been completed. San-Syeng had directed that an altar for
sacrifices be placed before the pagoda and that Su-Rung be arrested and
brought to him. All of the thief’s property was to be seized.
This very moment, strange to say, Su-Rung was telling his brother,
Su-Yeng, of a peculiar dream he had had the preceding night. He had
seen himself surrounded by tongues of flame and his head, severed from
his body, was boiling in a large copper kettle.
“It signifies that your end is near and that you will die through the
will of man,” asserted Su-Yeng. “Why must you continue to lead this
sinful life? It would be more fitting that you experience remorse and
fear for an envoy of the King is in the neighborhood.”
Scarcely had Su-Yeng uttered these words, when there came a loud
rapping at the door. After a brief struggle, Su-Rung was reduced to
helplessness and securely bound. All the stolen objects that could be
found were collected, thrown in a heap, and the party turned their
steps toward the pagoda.
When the criminal was brought face to face with the young General, the
latter demanded:
“My name is San-Syeng. You know me, don’t you?”
Su-Rung, much surprised, could not imagine that his adopted son had
been elevated to the dignity of a King’s envoy, so he replied, coolly:
“Your name is not unfamiliar to me. My son was called San-Syeng.”
“You have a son, then?”
“Yes, he left me three years ago, to go to the Capital and since that
day I have had no news of him.”
“Well, you may know that I am the man of whom you boast being the
father. But I am not the son of a murderer. I have found my mother
who has told me about my birth and your infamous crimes. There, do
you recognize my mother?” added San-Syeng, indicating Yeng-Si to the
brigand with a gesture of his hand.
Yeng-Si, who had been watching Su-Rung attentively for some time, burst
out with:
“You vile wretch, so you’re still alive! Thank Heaven it is granted me
to satisfy my thirst for vengeance. My son, there stands your father’s
murderer. Kill him, strike him down, with your own hand! I could tear
the very eyes from his head!”
San-Syeng’s mother was beside herself and he sought to calm her,
representing that he had no authority to put any man to death without
an order from the King. Yeng-Si did not insist; her mind was crowded
with other more charitable thoughts when, in company with her friends,
she knelt in the beautiful pagoda to pray for the soul of the martyred
woman to whom she owed her life.
Su-Rung was immediately dispatched to the Capital under heavy guard.
When the troops and their prisoner were about to depart, San-Syeng,
turning to Su-Yeng, said:
“You have always been an honest, loyal man. Take these things which
your brother has unlawfully appropriated. They are yours.”
“Thank you so much, sir. But I no longer am in need of anything, for I
am going to die with my brother.”
“What is that? I do not comprehend your decision.”
“When a tree is brought to the ground by the woodsman, can the branches
continue to live?”
“But if your brother was a criminal, you have nothing to reproach
yourself with.”
“That may be true, but nevertheless I am determined to leave this
life with the brother I have always loved and with whom I have always
lived.” And San-Syeng found it useless to endeavor to dissuade Su-Yeng
from his fatal purpose.
Before returning to the Capital, San-Houni’s son visited several more
of the provinces, looking after the King’s business. When his mission
was concluded, he sought audience with the King for the purpose of
reporting what he had seen, heard, and done. The Queen was a patient
and attentive listener while the young General was telling the story
of his adventures. However, when San-Syeng had finished speaking,
Cheng-Si, with a sob in her voice, cried:
“Oh, you are so much happier than I!”
Her strength failed her and she slipped from her seat to the floor.
Those in the Royal Chamber crowded about the prostrate Queen--at
a respectful distance, however--who was not long in regaining her
consciousness. Thereupon San-Syeng asked her tenderly, as he bowed
before her, what had been the cause of her sudden swoon.
“Alas!” mourned Cheng-Si. “It has been three years since I have seen my
father, and in all that time I have had no word of him. That is why I
am so sad and down-hearted.”
The King and his General assured her that they would use all possible
means within their power to find the Queen’s father. The Queen’s pretty
and shapely head was bowed in deep meditation, when suddenly she cried:
“Well, let’s collect all the blind men in the Kingdom; invite them to a
big feast. I’m going to give every one of them a little token.”
“Majesty,” replied San-Syeng, “it shall happen as you have wished.”
No time was lost; orders were issued to every Mandarin to send every
blind man in his jurisdiction to the Capital. And thus it came to pass
that Cheng-Si collected all the blind men of Korea in order to give
them a token.
* * * * *
_But more anon, for here endeth the ninth step of our legend._
X
[Illustration]
X
Many months had come and gone since the day when the unfortunate and
broken-hearted Sun-Yen had seen his daughter pass away to certain
death. He led a wretched existence--his strength being sustained only
by the promise of the disciple that his sight would be restored to him
at the end of three years. But the allotted time had passed and the
poor victim of Ja-Jo-Mi, the unscrupulous, had not recovered his sight.
His dejection was pitiful to behold, and he awaited with impatience the
death that would free him from his constant misery.
Now, one day Sun-Yen was disturbed in the midst of his morbid
meditations by the arrival at his poor dwelling of the Mandarin of the
province.
“The King,” declared this dignitary, “desires to assemble all the blind
men of the Kingdom at a banquet. You must go to the Capital.”
“My strength will never permit me to make such a long journey,” replied
Sun-Yen. “As it is, I can scarcely take a few steps from my own door.”
“You need not be troubled about that. I will provide you with a horse
and guide.”
“I thank you from the bottom of my heart, but is it really necessary to
spend so much on my account?”
“It is the King’s order. Everything is prepared and you can start this
very moment.”
Sun-Yen was easily persuaded. A few days and he was in the Capital.
At the orders of San-Syeng, an elaborate and tasty feast had been
prepared. The ladies of the Court had been instructed to see that
nothing was lacking for the comfort of the blind men who had come
from all corners of Korea. They watched over them and came to their
assistance when--on account of their blindness--they were awkward and
clumsy. The banquet was nearing an end when Sun-Yen arrived--tired and
travel-stained. The servants led him to one of the ladies who could
not conceal a grimace of disgust when she saw him. In fact, the old
gentleman did present a very disagreeable appearance to the eye. The
lady made a disparaging remark which Sun-Yen overheard and to which he
replied:
“I am well aware of what you are saying, but kindly listen to what I
have to say. The actions and outer garb of men may differ much, but
good hearts and good manners should be in the bosoms of us all. The
wicked and crafty often conceal a cowardly and vile disposition beneath
a beautiful exterior. People of wisdom pay no attention to form, but
probe to the bottom where kindness and gentleness often abide. When
you see an apple that looks attractive but contains a worm, you may
contemplate its beauty but you keep your mouth away. Heaven alone is of
lasting beauty and nothing beside it matters. I have been deceived by a
so-called religious man who had no other intention but a selfish desire
to supplant his Master.
“I planted a beautiful fruit tree and it bore a single flower of
exquisite beauty and charm. A gust of wind swept this flower toward
the sea where it was peacefully rocked in the cradle of the waves. The
flower often thought of the poor tree from which it had been stolen and
the latter, shorn of its only child, was slowly dying of a broken heart.
“The crescent of the moon seems to emerge from the waters. The fishes
are frightened, believing they see a golden hook on a gigantic line
which will lift them from their homes in the sea.
“Every month the moon is hidden from our sight for a brief season.
Then soon its light reappears in all its wondrous glory. But I, on the
contrary, have never seen the light of day since I was stricken by
blindness.
“For three years my eyes have shed tears more abundant than the rain
which comes from the Heavens. My sighs are sadder than the night wind
that whistles through the forest tops.”
Concluding, the blind man said, with a sigh: “If my lack of a comely
appearance and a rich garb displeases you, put me in a corner by
myself, please.”
The lady was surprised to hear such profound and poetic speech from the
mouth of this old man. She begged his pardon for having treated him
with so little respect. At the request of Sun-Yen he was placed at a
table by himself.
While he was eating, the lady went to the Queen and repeated to her the
strange speech of the blind visitor.
Cheng-Si was very much struck by the recital. She told her impressions
to her husband and then expressed a desire to have all the blind men in
the Palace pass before her--one by one.
“I wish to make a present to each one,” she said.
Immediately, the long file began to form, Sun-Yen being the last of the
line. When he stood before the Queen, the lady said:
“Majesty, here is the blind man whose startling words I brought you.”
Cheng-Si summoned the old man closer and said to him:
“Why do you express such radical views against our government, our
religion and the world?”
“Because, my Queen, the world and religion and the government have
caused me evils without number. I was powerful and I was exiled. I
had the best of wives and I lost her. I became blind and my only
consolation, a little daughter, was taken away. She furnished a
beautiful example of filial love, sacrificing her life on the promise
that I would regain my sight. The poor girl is dead and I am still
deprived of the light of day.”
These words moved Cheng-Si profoundly for in this sordid old man she
recognized her father. She uttered a cry.
“Don’t you know Cheng-Si?”
“My daughter,” stammered Sun-Yen, and instantly his eyes opened and he
saw before him the daughter that he had thought forever lost.
The prediction of the disciple was at last fulfilled and under these
happy circumstances, shaken by emotion and joy, father and daughter
fell into each other’s arms.
The King, a witness of this scene--to him incomprehensible--did not
delay long in finding out the cause, and he cried:
“Stop the banquet. This requires no witnesses.”
When alone with her father and her husband, Cheng-Si told the King the
story of her family.
Sun-Yen was completely transformed with delight as he heard his
daughter speaking. When she had finished her story he asked, “How did
you escape death? How did you come to marry the King?”
So Cheng-Si told her father of her adventures from the time of her
embarkation on the merchant’s vessel up to her arrival at the Capital
with the King.
“Then,” cried Sun-Yen, “it was San-Syeng who saved you?”
“Yes, father.”
“What’s he doing? Where is he?”
“The King has appointed him General. I shall have him brought to you.”
When San-Syeng arrived, Sun-Yen asked him:
“What was your father’s name?”
“San-Houni.”
On hearing this name, Sun-Yen embraced the young man, crying, “Oh, son
of my dearest friend, tell me quickly where your father is.”
“Alas, he is no longer in the world. He was exiled when you were, but
he was murdered by Su-Rung, the thief, before reaching Ko-Kum-To. He
sleeps with his ancestors.”
“What, he is dead?” cried the old man, bursting into tears.
San-Syeng’s eyes also moistened at the mention of the father whom he
had never known.
The King offered them a few words of condolence and said: “You shall
be my Prime Minister,” indicating Sun-Yen. The old man accepted this
responsible charge with a bow and a few well chosen words of gratitude.
“Now, proceed with the banquet,” said the Queen.
The other blind men had been informed of what had taken place and a few
among them envied the good fortune of Sun-Yen.
“Alas,” they cried, “We cannot even see the recipient of this good
fortune.”
Sun-Yen the benevolent, spoke to them in a gentle tone and in the name
of the King invited them to stay several days at the Capital, and the
blind men, you may believe, accepted with joy, for they knew they would
be well taken care of.
The new Prime Minister was not long in assuming his office. The King
constantly summoned him to his councils. Now it came to pass one day
that he sent for him and said, “I am intending to lead an army against
Jin-Han. My father suffered a severe defeat while attacking that
country and it is my duty to avenge him. What do you think of it?”
“Sire,” replied Sun-Yen, “May I have permission to reflect upon this
matter for a few days before giving you my opinion?”
The same day, San-Syeng questioned the King’s father-in-law upon the
subject of Ja-Jo-Mi and Su-Rung. The young General was thirsting for
revenge. He expected to find Sun-Yen in a similar frame of mind but the
Prime Minister spoke to him as he had done to the King.
“You will know my decision in a few days. I must consider this.”
When he was alone Sun-Yen considered the problem from every angle.
Although misfortunes a-plenty had been his share, he did not hold any
resentment against humanity. He felt a great tolerance for his most
bitter enemies. “Of what good is revenge,” he thought. “What will it
profit us to declare war which sooner or later will bring reprisals?”
Inspired by such sentiments, the Prime Minister went to the Sovereign.
“Sire,” he said, “do you not believe that it would be advisable to know
what your subjects think of this war before undertaking the campaign?”
“Assuredly,” replied the King. “I would gladly be informed upon that
question, but how can we learn the opinion of all the Koreans?”
“That will be very easy, sire. Have a grand meeting of your people here
at the Capital. Their sentiment will be the sentiment of the country at
large. I shall have a few words to say, and then if you persist in your
intentions, we shall begin the war.”
The King approved Sun-Yen’s suggestion and orders were issued that an
immense feast be prepared. Hundreds of tables were decorated and filled
with food. The guests were to be divided into five groups: the Royal
Family, the Governors, the Army, the common people and the criminals
and other unfit. The repast, the first of this kind in all Korea, was a
merry one. Before the guests separated, Sun-Yen asked for silence, and
in a powerful voice pronounced the following words:
“By virtue of my office as Prime Minister, I have taken it upon myself
to put one question to all of you. Our Master, the King, wishes to
undertake an expedition against Jin-Han to avenge his father’s defeat.
Is this expedition opportune? To me, war is the worst of evils. It
causes destruction beyond measure, and it is impossible to count the
innocent ones who perish on the battlefield and at home. What is the
cause of your heavy taxes if not the need of maintaining a large army?
“With peace all is different. The public welfare increases. Mankind,
created to love and not to slaughter, may enter into relations which
will increase mutual happiness. Nature furnishes us an example of
peace, does it not? When we see a ferocious dog on the highway
attacking another dog, incapable of defending itself, we hasten to help
the weaker. Why should we be more cruel with our fellow men than with
our animals? Perhaps the stronger dog will always seek to oppress the
weaker, but are we not superior beings and do we not possess reason
which teaches tolerance and mercy to our neighbors? Therefore, it is my
opinion, sire, that we should not declare war.
“I do not wish the punishment of our guilty neighbors although several
of them have done me a great deal of harm. Let us pardon them. May this
example serve as a lesson to those peoples who have similar wicked
thoughts.”
These words met with unanimous approbation. Every one seemed to be of
Sun-Yen’s opinion and loud shouts of approval went up from the crowd.
“What happiness is ours! We are like the grass which the Springtime
brings to life, like the beneficial rain after a long drought.” From
the tremendous crowd arose cries of gladness which were a token of
thanks, a hymn of joy and a fervent prayer for the future of the land.
’Twas a happy epoch for our country. Content reigned everywhere. Under
the benevolent influence of Sun-Yen, everybody in Korea worked and
lived in peace.
* * * * *
One day the Prime Minister disappeared. He could not be found. Possibly
he had been carried to Heaven in a cloud--to his last and well-deserved
home with his ancestors.
* * * * *
_For it has been proclaimed by The Great Teacher and Venerable
Philosopher from the depths of his Wisdom, that all things having the
appearance of Evil are transient and that Goodness will overcome and
Virtue triumph._
* * * * *
_So--having passed through the ten stages of its life--our legend here
cometh to an end._
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
Page 79: “Governor’s” corrected to “Governors’”.
Page 97: “revery” corrected to “reverie”.
Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been left unchanged.
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