“You!” Il-han said between set teeth. “You, who are a savage!”
“No,” the child sobbed. “I am Tonghak, and he is a yangban who takes money—”
The younger child was loosed by now and Il-han clasped him and lifted him to his shoulder. The two men exchanged looks.
“You have made my elder son into a criminal,” Il-han declared.
Sung-ho returned his hard look with another as hard.
“Forgive me,” he said. “I do not belong in your house.”
With these words, he disappeared and from that time on Il-han saw him no more, nor did he know where he went or whether he would ever return.
Here Il-han was, then, left with the two children, both crying, and a servant ran to tell Sunia, and in a moment or two she was there. The child she comforted was the elder one, Il-han observed, and he protested.
“Do not comfort that one,” he exclaimed. “He would kill his brother if he could.”
“How can you say so?” she exclaimed. “He is only a child.”
She put her arms around the elder son and murmured to him, and Il-han stood holding the younger one on his shoulder until suddenly he was impatient.
“Come, come, Sunia,” he said, “let us make some order in this family of ours. Take the children away and feed them and put them to bed. Leave me alone for a while.”
She obeyed, casting hostile looks at him as she went, to which he paid no heed. His own confusion must first be resolved before he could be father and husband again. Impatient to be alone, he closed the door after them, and sat down on the floor cushion facing the garden and sank himself into meditation.
The disorder in his family was the disorder of his people. How diverse were the elements! Here under the grass roof of his father’s house, here where his father had lived out his long life as a scholar and a recluse, the spirit of the past descended again. Must he repeat the life of his father in his own life? He had endeavored to avoid the national disease of dissension. He had maintained a prudent and middle course, now with the Queen, now with the King, aware of old loyalties, yet ready for new. To live a floating life, swimming with the tide and never against it, ready for all change provided it was for the good of his country, he had nevertheless come to the same place where his father had come in the years before he himself was born, and this by a totally different path. His father had never wavered in his faithfulness to the past, and so had been hated only by those who dreamed of the future. Now he, the son, was hated by all, by those who clung to the Queen and by those who clung to the King. Was there no place for him in his own country? If not, what could he teach his sons? Here in his own house the Tonghak rebellion was brewing, while he unknowing had pursued his middle way. He felt lost and distracted and the day passed without clearing his mind or lifting his spirit.
“All that I know about myself,” he told Sunia in the restless night, “is that I am Korean. I am born of this soil, I have been nurtured on its fruits and its waters. The blood and bones of my ancestors are my blood and my bones. Therefore I must know myself first.”
She let him talk, his head on her breast. And after a while he said, “I have never had time to know myself. I have always been at the call of others. Now I shall answer no summons. I will close the doors of my grass-roof house against the world. I shall be alone with myself.”
Womanlike, she listened to such musings and answered yes, yes, do so, whatever you think best, and when morning came she busied herself again about the old house, silk-spinning and making kimchee and keeping festivals. To live in this country house after the years in the city was in itself a task, for here nothing was convenient. The kitchens were old and the caldrons worn thin, mice and rats ran everywhere, lizards came creeping out of walls, and spiders festooned their webs among the blackened roof beams. In the wall closets the bed mattresses were mildewed, in the rooms the floor cushions were torn and their linings split. There were also her sons, and where to find a new tutor for them was a burden.
“You must teach them,” she told Il-han one day, “or else you must find a teacher.”
Who would dare come now to this house to teach his sons? In the end Il-han was compelled to teach them, lest they grow up fools and yokels. Yet he found the teaching a task, and he could only force himself to it, teaching them two hours in the morning and then setting them free for the rest of the day, and Sunia complained that they were twice as mischievous after he had taught them as they were before, the elder one always in the lead. At last she set Il-han’s man servant to watch them and keep them from falling into the fishponds and smothering in the rice vats and running down the road to be lost.
As for Il-han, he did not know what to teach his sons and he could only teach them what he himself was trying to learn. As he studied afresh the history of his people, each day he made a simple lesson for his children of what he himself had learned the day before. His father’s books were his source and his treasure, and how vast the library was he had not realized until now. Here in the shelves of four connecting rooms lay the rolls of manuscripts and books, a room for each of the subjects of learning, one for literature, another for history, another for philosophy, and the fourth for mathematics, economics and the calendar. With philosophy was also politics, for these two were inseparably together both in history and in the present, and one cannot be considered without the other.
He knew that his people were divided by geography. Those of the rugged north, where craggy mountains split the sky, were more rude, less cultivated, less learned than those of the south. Troublemakers they were called, revolutionary by nature, and the cause for this was partly in that most landfolk owned their own land. Moreover, they did not plant rice paddies but they grew wheat on dry fields. They were scornful of the people of the south, declaring them effete and lazy, scheming rascals without ambition, working on land that others owned. This division went so deep that even here in the capital city, south meant those nobles whose families lived in the southern part of the city, as Il-han’s family had for many generations, and north meant those whose houses were in the northern part of the city. The Noron, or northern, faction, was sometimes in power in government, and sometimes the Namin, or southern faction, took power. The struggle in the capital was the symbol of the struggle everywhere among his people, and he himself was a symbol, for he and his fellows had as children been kept within the circle of the Namin, and Sunia’s family had been Namin, like his, else neither his family nor hers would have considered it possible to allow marriage between them. Namin would not marry Noron. Yet it seemed to him sometimes as he continued day after day to study the books in the library and to express them in essence to his sons, young as they were, that this very division had its benefits. For while one faction was in power, the opposition in retreat fought it with vigor and device, and their rebellion was expressed in strong music and passionate poetry so that much of the great literature of his people sprang from the sources of dissension.
This conception seemed to him so apt, so correct, that he cast about in his mind one day as to how to express it to his sons in language which they could understand. It was autumn again, the season of high skies and fat horses. Sunia and her women were making kimchee, and the smell of fresh cabbage, of white radishes a foot long, of red peppers and garlic and onions, ground ginger and cooked beef scented the air. She ran into his room, he looked up from his book and saw her there, wrapped in a wide blue cotton apron, her hands wet with salt, her beautiful face pleading and impatient.
“Can you not keep the boys with you today?” she demanded. “We are distracted with their naughty ways. The elder one throws the cabbages here and there like balls, and the little one follows him. I cannot watch them and get the kimchee into the vats, too. That elder one—he hid in a vat and we could have smothered him without knowing it.”
“Send them here,” he said, his own patience tried. They came in then, the two of them hand in hand, dressed in clean garments and with hair freshly combed. His
heart melted at the sight of them in spite of himself, but he made himself stern.
“Sit down,” he said as coldly as he could.
They sat down, awed for the moment by his coldness, and he bit his lip, contemplating them as they sat facing him. Their brown eyes, so trusting and clear, their cream-white skin tanned by the sun, their red cheeks and lips, made him long to embrace them but he would not allow himself the pleasure. However his love welled up in him, he must control it and make the surface cool and firm.
“Today,” he began, “I will tell you the story of Ta-san. Listen carefully, for when I have finished I will be able to tell whether you have understood, and I shall be angry if you show me that you have not listened.”
“Is the story true?” his elder son asked.
“True,” he said, “and full of meaning for us nowadays, although Ta-san lived before you were born or even I was born. But my father, your grandfather, knew him and learned much from him.”
He then told the story of Ta-san, concerning whom he had found many notes written by his father. He would not confess to himself that it was the tutor’s mention of Ta-san that had rekindled Il-han’s interest and sent him searching among his father’s notes.
“You must know,” he told his sons, “that our country, Korea, was the first in the world to make the printed word—that is, with movable type.”
Here Il-han paused. He paused to see if his elder son would ask what movable type was, but he did not. Il-han then went on without explanation, for he believed that to answer a child’s question before it is asked is to destroy natural curiosity.
“There were many books when Ta-san lived and he read them. In this he was fortunate, for though our people have for a long time had books, common folk could not read them, first because they did not know their letters and second because they were not permitted to share knowledge. Our rulers controlled all learning. But Ta-san could read and he read not only the books in his father’s house but also the books in the King’s palace, because he had passed his examinations with such high honor that even the King noticed him, yet he did not read all day. As he grew older, the King asked him to do many great tasks. One of them, for example, was to build the second capital at Suwon, where the King could retreat if the capital itself were attacked by enemies, and while Ta-san made plans for the second capital, he also devised a way whereby big stones and trunks of trees could be lifted by a rope put through a pulley, and how a machine, called a crane, could be used. He made many such inventions.
“One day he found some books that told of what other countries did. Until now Ta-san had thought that all knowledge was in our country and in China, but in these new books he found such new thoughts that there was even a new god. Oh, but this made his enemies happy, for it was forbidden to read such books, and now they said Ta-san was a traitor and he had to leave his fine city house and move to a house in the country, far away. There he sat reading and reading and writing great books and speaking his mind—”
“Like you, Father,” his younger son put in.
Il-han had been thinking that his son had not listened and when the child said this with such intelligence and understanding, Il-han looked at him with a scrutiny he had never before given him.
“Like me,” he agreed, “and in some ways Ta-san was more useful to his country and our country than he had ever been before. True, the Noron were then in power, and he was a Namin, as our ancestors were, and so he could only write his books and keep them. But the day came when he was free again, and then the books he wrote could be read by all who could read. Some day you will read them, too, as I did, and as I am doing now.”
“Why?” This came from the literal mind of his elder son.
“Because he did not sit in idleness,” Il-han said. “Because he roamed the earth and went among its peoples, while his body was confined to his own house and gardens. He made beautiful gardens, too, and he even built a waterfall.”
“Then we will build a waterfall,” his elder son declared.
The notion seized upon both children and they were on their feet in a moment and making for the door.
“Wait,” Il-han called after them, “wait! I will come with you. We will do it together.”
They halted, astonished that he could consider such play, and he reproached himself that he had not shared their life but forced them always into his. So he took a hand of each and they went into the garden, far from the kitchen court where the kimchee was being made, and Il-han spent that whole day with his sons, choosing a place in the brook where the water could be debouched into another channel to make a pool fed by the waterfall. This work took days to complete, and Il-han found the key to the teaching of his sons. First they must sit and learn for an hour or so much more as he felt they could bear, and then they went to the building of the waterfall and the pool. He saw to it that the work went slowly and so the months passed toward winter.
To Il-han’s own surprise, this life with his sons deepened his own life. No longer was learning apart from life. When he studied Ta-san’s plan for the community ownership of land he considered how he could apply it to his own tenant farmers, who maintained this farm he had inherited from his ancestors. Ta-san had declared that farmers should work collectively, each pooling his land into the general community ownerships. The harvests, he said, were to be allotted, after taxes, to the farmers in proportion to the labor they had given.
Il-han could not approve the plan as a whole, yet he was amazed that within the stern controls of the Yi dynasty, so long ago Ta-san could conceive such changes, even though they were never used. And he pondered long upon the question of how his own tenants could be justly rewarded for their labor on his land. Here he sat inside his comfortable grass roof, shaded from the summer sun and warmed in winter by the ondul floors, and he drew in the money they earned for him, while they toiled in his fields and lived in crowded huts and ate coarse food. Wrong, wrong, his heart told him, and dangerous, his mind told him, but where could one man begin? Moreover, he had not the power that even Ta-san had, though in exile. He assuaged his heart then by calling in his tenants that year after the harvest, and he met them on the threshing floor before the gate.
They stood in the late sunshine, a ragged crew of sun-browned men, their horny hands hanging while they bowed to him. None spoke, and all were anxious, for why should a landlord speak to his tenants except to tell them that the rent was raised?
He perceived their anxiety and made haste to allay it.
“I greet you,” he said, “to thank you for the harvests, which are good beyond the average. This I take it is at least partly because you have done your work well. For the rest, we must thank Heaven for rain and sun in proportion to the need.”
They still looked at him with sullen eyes, doubting his intent, and suddenly he was afraid of them. The distance between him and them was very far and there was no bridge.
“I will not keep you,” he said. “I wish only to tell you that your share of the harvests will be doubled this year.”
They could not believe him. They still gazed at him in fear mixed with doubt. Whoever heard of a landlord who doubled the share of the tenant? Such good fortune was too rare.
As for Il-han, he saw their doubt and he was angry at their ingratitude. No one spoke. He waited and when he saw that they had no intent to speak, he felt his heart grow cold and hard.
“This is all I have to say,” he told them, and he turned and strode into his house and barred the gate behind him.
Yet when he had time to think over their brief meeting, he blamed himself for his anger. Why should they feel gratitude? For years they had toiled only to receive a meager share of the harvest. Even to double that share was not enough. The injustice of their lives was the injustice of centuries. It could not be mended in a day by one man on one farm.
On one cold New Year’s Eve several years later, Il-han reckoned that all he had done and thought and felt, added together, showed only two accomplishments
. One was that his sons grew well and he had developed their minds beyond expectation. They were passing from babyhood to boyhood, the elder edging into his youth, although at thirteen he was still turbulent and impatient and argumentative, and he chose to make many quarrels with his brother, who in defense drew apart from him and became solitary. In a way this was a comfort to Il-han, for his younger son sometimes sought his company alone, partly for protection against the elder brother, but also because he and his father were much alike in loving books and writing poetry. This younger son had besides a tender love of music and he learned to play upon the kono harp so well that this became a cause of jealousy in the older brother. The elder was the more handsome of the two, however, and a very handsome lad he was, tall and strong, his eyes bright and bold, his nose straight, his lips thin, and he made fun of his younger brother’s light build. When he was angry, he even taunted the younger one for the imperfection of the lobe of his ear until one day Il-han, himself in rage, took his younger son to the American physician who had saved Min Yong-ik’s life, and he asked him to make the ear right again.
The physician by this time was aged, and his hands trembled. Yet he examined the ear and then he called his assistant, a young Korean whom he had taught during the years.
“Your hand is better at this than mine,” he told the man. “I will stand beside you and help you, but you must hold the knife.”
Il-han stood watching. First they put his son to sleep, holding some liquid-soaked cotton to his nostrils as he lay on a table. Then when he was asleep, while Il-han was uneasy for the sleep was too much like death, the young doctor, his hands encased in thin rubber gloves such as Il-han had never seen before, took a small thin knife from a tray held by a woman aide, and he cut the boy’s ear lobe and split it cleverly. Next with a needle and thread he sewed it into shape and attached it to the head. When all was finished, he tied on a bandage.
“Come back after a few days,” the old American doctor said, “and in ten days or so, you will see your son’s ear as like the other as his two eyes are alike.”
The Living Reed: A Novel of Korea Page 21
