The Living Reed: A Novel of Korea

by Pearl S. Buck

  The young man came in and waited again.

  “You are permitted to seat yourself,” Il-han said kindly.

  The young man knelt opposite to him on a cushion before the low desk and looked down modestly. He was agitated, as Il-han could see and, he supposed, prepared for reproach because of the child’s destructive anger. Therefore he spoke mildly, aware of the anxiety on the sensitive youthful face which he now examined.

  “I wish to consult you about my son,” Il-han began.

  “If you please, sir,” the young man replied in a low voice.

  “It is not a question of blame or punishment,” Il-han went on. “It is only that I must be told about my son. He is with you day and night and you understand his nature. Tell me—why should he be angry here in his own home?”

  The young man lifted his eyes to the edge of the table. “He has fits of anger, sir. I do not know what causes them. They come like sudden storms at sea. All is as usual, we are without quarrel, and then with no warning, he throws his book on the floor and pushes me away.”

  “Does he hate books?”

  “No, sir.” The young man lifted his eyes a few inches higher so that now they rested on Il-han’s hands, folded on his desk. “He is very young, and I require nothing of him in the way of study. I read him a story from history, then a legend, a fairy tale, something to amuse him and please him so that he may understand the pleasure to be found in books and later will seek them for himself. This morning, for example, I was reading the story of ‘The Golden Frog.’”

  Il-han knew the story from his own childhood. It was the tale of King Puru who, because he had no son, prayed to God for a male child. On his way home one day, for he had ridden horseback to a place called Konyun, he was amazed to see a weeping rock. He ordered his retinue to examine the rock, and under it they found a golden frog which looked like a baby. He believed his prayers were answered and he took the frog home. It grew into a handsome boy, and he named the boy Kumwa, that is to say, Golden Frog, and this son succeeded his father and became King Kumwa.

  “At this point,” the tutor was saying, “the child tore the book from my hands and dashed it on the floor. Then he ran from the room. I searched for him and when I found him in the bamboo grove he was wrenching the bamboo shoots with both his hands and all his strength and throwing them on the ground. When I asked him why he did so, he said he did not want a golden frog for a brother.”

  Il-han was amazed. “Who put that in his mind?”

  The young tutor lowered his eyes again. A red flush crept up from his neck and spread over his cheeks. “Sir, I am miserable. I fear it was I who did so, but unwittingly. He had heard of his brother’s approaching birth and he asked me where this brother would come from. I did not know how to reply, and I said perhaps he would be found under a rock, like the Golden Frog.”

  Il-han laughed. “A clever explanation, but I can think of a better! You might, for instance, have replied that his brother came from the same place that he himself did. And when the child inquired where that was, you could have said, ‘If you do not know, how can I know?’”

  The young man forgot himself and raised his eyes to Il-han’s face. “Sir, you do not understand your own son. He is never to be put off. He pries my mind open with his questions. I fear sometimes that in a few years he will be beyond me. He smells out the smallest evasion, not to mention deceit, and worries me for the truth, even though I know it is beyond him. And when in desperation I give him simple truth he struggles with it as though he were fighting an enemy he must overcome. When he comprehends finally and to his own satisfaction, he is exhausted and angry. That was what happened this morning. He insisted upon knowing where his brother came from, and how could I explain to him the process of birth? He is too young. I was driven to use wile and persuasion and so I fetched the book. But he knew it was only a device and this was the true reason for his anger.”

  Il-han rose from his cushion and went to the door and opened it suddenly. No one was there and he closed it again and returned to his cushion. He leaned forward on the low desk and spoke softly. “I have called you here for another purpose, also. Your father, as you know, was my tutor. He taught me much, but most of all he taught me how to think. He grounded me in the history of my people. I wish you to do the same for my son.”

  The young tutor looked troubled. “Sir, my father was a member of the society of Silhak.”

  He lowered his voice and looked toward the closed door.

  “Why be afraid?” Il-han inquired. “There is good in the teaching of the Silhak that learning which does not help the people is not true learning. It is not new, mind you. It is made up of many elements—”

  “Western, among them, sir,” the tutor put in. He forgot himself and that he was in the presence of the heir of the most powerful family in Korea.

  “Partly western,” Il-han agreed. “But that is good. Were it not treason to the Queen, I would say that we have been too long under the influence of the ancient Chinese. Not that we should allow ourselves to be wholly under the influence of the West, mind you! It is our fate, lying as we do between many powers, to be influenced to an extent by all and many. It is our task to accept and reject, to weld and mingle and out of our many factions to create ourselves, the One, an independent nation. But what is that One? Ah, that is the question! I cannot answer it. Yet now for the sake of my sons an answer must be found.”

  He leaned against the backrest of his cushion, frowning, pondering. Suddenly he spoke with new energy.

  “But you are not to repeat your father’s weakness with me. He told me of evil in other great families, but not in my own family of Kim. Yet in some ways we are the most guilty of all the great families. We early built ourselves into the royal house so that we could acquire benefits. Fifteen hundred years ago, and more, we married three daughters into the eighth monarchy, Honjong. Through three reigns, one after the other, our daughters were married into the truebone royal house. We fed upon the nation, both land and people. The best posts in government went to my ancestors and for that matter to my grandfather, and even my father until he refused to oppose the Regent and retired to live under his grass roof. How else could we live in such houses as these? Palaces! And how else could I be the heir to vast lands in this small country? At one time we even aspired to rule the Throne. You know very well that one of my ancestors so aspired and was crushed—as he deserved to be!”

  He spoke with a passion restrained but profound and the young tutor was shocked at this self-humiliation. “These are affairs long past, sir,” he murmured. “They are forgotten.”

  Il-han insisted upon his ruthless survey. “They are not forgotten. Millions of people have suffered and do suffer because of the name Kim. We are well named!”

  He traced upon the palm of his left hand with the forefinger of his right hand the Chinese letter for Gold, which was indeed the meaning of the name Kim.

  “That is what we have lived for—gold in the shape of lands and houses and high position! We have gained the power and even over the royal house. Ah, you must teach my son what your father did not teach me! Teach him the truth!”

  He broke off abruptly, his handsome face furious and dark.

  Before the tutor could answer, the door slid open. The midwife entered, carrying in her arms the newborn child, laid upon a red satin cushion. She was followed by Il-han’s two sisters-in-law and they by their maids.

  His elder sister-in-law came forward. “Brother, behold your second son.”

  Il-han rose. Again his family duty claimed him and with a nod he dismissed the tutor. He walked toward the procession and stretched out his arms. The midwife laid the cushion across them with the sleeping child, and he looked down into the small perfect face of his new son.

  “Little Golden Frog,” he murmured.

  The women looked at one another astonished and then they laughed and clapped their hands. It was a lucky greeting, for the Golden Frog had become a prince.

  “Wh
at did he say when he saw our child?” Sunia asked.

  She had already recovered some of her natural clear color, and her large dark eyes were lively. Childbirth was easy for her and with a second son she was triumphant. Three or four sons from now she could wish for a daughter. A woman needed daughters in the house.

  “He smiled and called him little Golden Frog,” her elder sister said. She was a tall slender woman in early middle age married to a scholar who lived in a northern city. Since Sunia’s mother was dead, and Il-han’s also, she came to fulfill the maternal duties for Sunia, and with her came her younger sister, who would not marry but wished to become a Buddhist nun, to which Il-han, in absence of father or brother, could not agree. No woman today, he declared, should bury herself in a nunnery. The day of the Buddhists was over. Without his permission, Sunia’s sister could only wait.

  Sunia received her child tenderly and hugged him to her bosom. “He thinks of clever things to say about everything. He is too clever for me. I hope this child will be like him.”

  She gazed into the sleeping face and touched the firm small chin with a teasing finger. “Look at him sleep! He is hiding himself from me. I have not seen his eyes.”

  “Put him to your breast,” the midwife told her. “He will not suckle yet, but he should feel the nipple ready at his lips.”

  The young mother uncovered her round full breast.

  “Put him first to the left where the heart is,” the midwife said.

  Sunia shook her head willfully. “I put the first son to the left. This one I will put to the right.”

  The child stirred when the nipple touched his lips but he did not open his eyes. She teased him then with the nipple, lifting her breast with her hand, brushing his lips lightly and laughing at him. The women gathered about her to enjoy the sight of the healthy young woman and her beautiful male child.

  “Look at him, look at him,” the younger sister exclaimed. “He is opening his eyes. Look—he is pouting his lips.”

  They watched, breathless. The child had indeed opened his eyes and was gazing up at his mother. Suddenly, newborn though he was, he seized the nipple between his lips and sucked.

  “Ah—ah—ah—”

  The women breathed great sighs. They looked at one another. Whoever heard of such a thing? To suckle so soon—even for a moment—yes, it was only for a moment. The child fell back into sleep, the clear liquid of the first milk wet upon his lips. The midwife took him then and laid him in bed beside his mother, for a child should sleep close to the mother when he is newborn, should feel the warmth of her body, so lately his home, and know the presence of her spirit with him as much now as when he was unborn. Then the sister smoothed the pillows for the mother and arranged the quilt.

  “Sleep,” the midwife commanded her. “We shall be near if you call, but now you must rest.”

  They withdrew to another room, closing the sliding door after them. Sunia waited until they were gone, and then she turned to her child. This was her first moment alone with him and she must examine for herself her own creation. She sat up in bed and took the child on her lap and undressed him, her hands warm and gentle in their movements, until he lay naked before her. Then with the most meticulous care she searched his entire body for a flaw, first his feet upon which some day he must walk firmly, a strong man—but how small they were and how pretty, the toes perfect and in order, the number complete, the nails pink and already long enough to be cut, but she must not cut them, for it would be a bad omen for his life-span. The insteps, left and right, were high as her own were, and the ankles shapely even now. The legs were long like his father’s and they would be straight when the baby curve was gone, for the bones were strong. The thighs were fat and the belly was round. The chest was full and the shoulders, already broad, supported the neck. The arms were long, too, and thus promised a tall man. The hands were exquisite, again the long beautiful hands of his father. Her own were small and graceful, but Il-han’s were powerful, although he had never done more with his hands than hold a brush to write. The head was ample for a good brain, nobly shaped, high from the ears to the crown, signifying intelligence. The hair was soft, dark and plentiful. All the features were perfect in shape and arrangement. He looked like his father, this son, whereas the elder was like her. There was no flaw. She had made him perfect and whole. No—wait, the little ear on the left—the lobe? She examined it carefully while the child slept. The tip of the left lobe was shortened, tucked in, imperfect!

  What had caused this? She searched her memory. What had she done that could have created a child with even the smallest imperfection? The omens had been good, she had known that she would have a son, for she had dreamed one night of the sun rising over the horizon at dawn. To have dreamed of flowers would have meant a daughter. Then why the pinched lobe of this small left ear? While she was pregnant she had been careful to remember all her dreams and none had been evil. Best of all, she had even dreamed of seeing her father who died when she was a child of four, so young that she could see his face only dimly if she thought of him. Yet in her dream his face had been clear and smiling, a long kindly face, the nose neither high, which would have signified bankruptcy and death in a foreign land, nor low, which would have signified greed. She examined the baby’s nose anxiously. It was neither high nor low, though somewhat more high, perhaps, than low. Impossible to explain the pinched ear! She must show it to Il-han when he came to visit her tomorrow. If he, too, did not know its meaning then they must consult the blind fortuneteller. She dressed the child again and wrapped him in the silken coverlet and laid him beside her in the bed and was too troubled for sleep until nearly dawn.

  … She did not at once reveal the defect. Let Il-han discover it for himself. He came in at noon of the next day, after the child had been washed and clothed and she herself had eaten and in her turn had been washed and perfumed and dressed in fresh white garments, her long dark hair brushed smooth and braided with pink silk cord. Il-han too had taken care to appear at his best, as she could see. She knew him well. He could be careless when he was absorbed at his desk but this morning he was shaved, his hair combed and twisted tightly in a knot on the top of his head, and his white robes were freshly clean. Her heart beat at the sight of him, as it had the first time she had seen him, a bridegroom in his wedding garments, the formal dark coat of thick silk over the white robes beneath, the high black hat, the long heavy necklace and the wide brocaded sash. Everything the matchmaker had said about him was true. Her father had hired spies before the marriage contracts were signed, since matchmakers are greedy and for the sake of their fee will tell lies to bring about a wedding. But the spies had come back and spoken truly.

  “He is a handsome young man. He does not gamble or search out willing women. His only fault is that he follows the Silhak.”

  Silhak? It was suspect, for included in its teachings was the stern demand for action and not learning alone. A man, even a king, the Silhak maintained, was to be measured by what he does, not by what he says. When this was explained to her, Sunia cried out that she would have such a man for her husband, for she was weary of men who did no more than boast about the glories of ancient times. Her father yielded at last and the contracts were signed and the moment she set her eyes upon Il-han’s grave and handsome face she knew that she had done well.

  “Come in, come in,” she said now while he stood in the doorway gazing at her, admiring her beauty as she could see, while she thought of him. She knew very well the kindling light in his dark eyes when he saw her and the smile on his lips. Had they been of the older generation, he would not have come to her room so soon after the child’s birth, and certainly not alone, but old ways were yielding to young demands. And they were close, he and she. Among her friends she knew of no man and wife who talked together as he and she did. Or, if some did, the wives did not reveal it. Yet who knows what passes between man and woman? Deep under the surface the living stream flowed between them and the more exciting because she had
been reared in innocent ignorance. No one had prepared her for the possibility that she might fall in love with her husband. Her mother had told her that she must not complain of her husband, nor should she refuse his demands. Neither must she be angry if she did not please him and he found women outside his house. His duty was fulfilled if he acknowledged her his wife and paid her respect and supplied her with shelter and food and clothing.

  “Your duty is to him and only to him, whatever he does,” her mother had said briskly but vaguely, for what was that duty and that “whatever”? She had not dared to ask, and her mother had been occupied with the details of the betrothal, the receiving of the black box from his family wherein was red silk wrapped in blue cloth and blue silk wrapped in red cloth and such matters and with these the letter. Ah, the letter! She had not been allowed to be there when it was presented by a relative in the Kim family, but she knew it by heart

  Since you give us your noble daughter to be our daughter-in-law, we send you a gift of cloth, in accordance with the ancient rules.

  Thus the betrothal was fixed. Her home had been bright with lanterns that night and servants stood at the gates with flaming torches. She had hidden herself safely in her own room, but she went to the window and, standing in the shadows behind a screen, she had watched. And there she had stood again on her wedding day, when he came riding through the gate on a white horse. The horse was led by a man in a red cap and blue robe, and under his arm was a live duck to signify wedded happiness. The man was a small fellow, however, and the duck was large and lively and he had struggled with the creature and Il-han sitting on his horse had laughed. She laughed again now.

  “Why are you laughing?” Il-han inquired. He pulled a low carved stool to her bedside and sat down.

  “I am remembering you on that high white horse,” she said, laughing, “and the servants behind you with paper umbrellas and the little man carrying the big duck.”