The Royal Seal
SPRING 1924.
THE SCHOLAR-ARTIST HAN DECIDED THAT NAJIN SHOULD BE married. That would be his response to yesterday's letter of inquiry from an old acquaintance as to the availability of his daughter. On this fine morning, he would write his consent. Temperate breezes brought scents of apple and plum blossom through the fully opened door leading to the outer porch and garden. Cardinals and sparrows called and sang early mating songs, inspiring him to flowery salutations, while a mockingbird mother squawked irritably at a squirrel too close to her nest. As Han glimpsed the swoops of her tail, it seemed to write in the air the symbol for many sons-her prayer for a nest full of boys. All of nature was aligned with his purpose on this day! At his writing table, he sat comfortably on a soft mat of double woven grass, and tied his sleeves above his wrists. He wrote elegantly on sheaves of whitest paper, using Chinese to reflect the formal solemnity of his response, and quick brushstrokes to hint urgency.
He thought that at age fourteen Najin was woman enough. She'd graduate from the girls' school when the term ended in three months, and what better time than soon after that? A providential harvest moon wedding! And since such a decision was beyond his wife's role, it mattered little that she would be opposed. The Kabo Reforms said women couldn't be married until sixteen, men until twenty, but this unenforceable law was generally ignored.
Han considered it his personal responsibility to challenge Japan's attempts to suppress Korea's mores and ethics. Hadn't he refused to name his own daughter for that very reason? After the death of so many infants in his attempts for an heir, it was difficult to deny the irony that the first to survive was female, and one with health that was as stubbornly strong as her obstreperous personality. Now there was Ilsun. Japan's laws were meant to eradicate the ancient moral right of male ascendancy, and he refused to support the implication that a female child could come into this world with the same rights as men. He believed that the highest standard of resistance was existential. He would campaign against colonialism with the example of his own life choices. At first he had little desire to find a name for a girl-child whose birth a few weeks after the Treaty of Annexation foreshadowed Korea's decline. And then as she grew, the Japanese occupation also grew entrenched. The more his traditions fell by the wayside of modernization, which he blamed entirely on the Japanese, the more he saw that his daughter thrived in the change, and she came to represent to him Korea's failures. He would resist the failure that surrounded him by refusing to name it-by refusing to name her.
Han wrote his letter and thought little of this resolve that had evolved over time-time that was its own kind of god, one that allowed procrastination, justification, forgetfulness-means to excuse one's own failings. He dipped his brush in ink, his thoughts centered on his moral obligation to his ancestry. As his father and his father's father would have wished, it was also his desire that his daughter be attached to an appropriately scholarly family. But damage had been done. He'd need a family liberal enough to accept a missionary-educated girl, yet traditional enough to subdue his daughter's ambitions for more. His prediction that the imperial educational initiatives were thinly veiled plans to educate Korean youth into becoming Japanese sympathizers had come true. They can build a thousand public schools They can build a thousand public schools, Han thought,they can ban our native tongue, our flag, the teaching of our long independent history, but they cannot abrogate our traditions.
To prevent his wife's involvement in the engagement, he'd eschew the services of a matchmaker to spy on the boy's family. Besides, he knew them well enough. Han remembered the boy's father from their days studying together at the Confucian Academy, preparing for the civil examinations, until the reforms had eliminated the exams, which were the only opportunity he'd had to gain a ministerial post and follow his ancestors' tradition of officialdom. Instead, he was left to wait for royal recognition through occasional commissions for artwork or calligraphy. Yes, he had gained renown, but the method had been slow and undignified.
The prospective groom's father, Chae, slightly younger than Han, was a lesser scholar from Yuncheon, one hundred li east in the mountains, a day-and-a-half journey. They were both painters in the Chusa tradition, and Han remembered that Chae was as much of a stickler for form and propriety as he was. Plus, he'd heard that Chae, a leader in his village, had been jailed and tortured for his participation in the March First movement. Upon learning this, Han had renewed the acquaintance and regularly corresponded with Chae as part of his resistance activities. In yesterday's letter, Chae had casually mentioned that his eldest son had turned twelve, and he would be honored if Han might consider a union between the two families.
So be it. His daughter's graduation come July would satisfy his wife's wish that the girl was schooled. If his wife needed help with domestic duties in lieu of his daughter's hands, she could find a decent girl who'd be grateful to work. In fact, since they were squeezing more taxes from everyone, there were plenty of girls from good families who'd embrace such an opportunity. Aiu! Aiu! How irritating to think of women's concerns! But among those concerns was Ilsun's development. His son was exhibiting many of the rambunctious traits of his daughter-the prime reason to have her married off. It annoyed him that he was forced to pay attention to the children at all, but somehow he kept being drawn into their affairs. He was torn between his Confucian duty to ignore his young son lest he spoil him, and the fact that Ilsun was, after all, quite a plucky boy! How irritating to think of women's concerns! But among those concerns was Ilsun's development. His son was exhibiting many of the rambunctious traits of his daughter-the prime reason to have her married off. It annoyed him that he was forced to pay attention to the children at all, but somehow he kept being drawn into their affairs. He was torn between his Confucian duty to ignore his young son lest he spoil him, and the fact that Ilsun was, after all, quite a plucky boy!
Although Ilsun's tutor, Khang, was quite old and not at all famed, he was a chinsa chinsa, a certified poet-scholar in the old tradition, and a vestige of the crumbling Confucian University in southern Gaeseong. Han had enjoyed a few evenings discussing poetry, history and philosophy with him, confirming that Khang was sufficiently versed to take on Ilsun's classical education.
Every now and then, during his habitual morning walk through his estate and to town, Han stopped in his son's study to listen to Ilsun's lessons. He appreciated the detailed attention Khang Chinsa gave to the T'ang Dynasty classics, and the chinsa's firm reproaches for Ilsun's mistakes. Hearing his son's five-year-old timbre reciting passages with exquisite clarity brought pride that wet Han's eyes. But his hardest struggle against pride was when he regarded Ilsun's calligraphy. For one so young, the boy showed remarkable communion with the brush. He had a natural instinct for pressure and stroke, as if his little boy's arm possessed an ancient sage's wisdom of the correct life force needed to express harmony between letterform and its meaning.
Yes, Han expected greatness from Ilsun. He refused to lament that Korea might never again be the kind of genteel nation that recognized classical scholarship and artistry. In one mere decade he'd witnessed a dependable and flourishing way of life, which had remained unchanged for centuries, fray like the tail of a kite caught in the razor winds of imperial breath. Winds of such violence could just as easily blow the other way.
Using a sophisticated code of metaphor and nuance that had developed among the yangban resistance, Han ended his sincere response to Chae's marriage proposal with a poem that reported on the growing presence of Japanese spies and the workings of key individuals in Gaeseong's independence movement: Abundant growth in eastern fields shall triple both labor and yield.In fallow soil the farmers toil, while westbound crane and steadfast muleCry songs, sow seeds, and evening's sun sets five hundred beams upon them.
With this, Han conveyed that the number of Japanese police had multiplied, and revolutionaries with the code names Crane and Mule had traveled west to Shanghai with five hundred won for Rhee's provisional government. By "songs" and "seeds," Han alerted Chae to watch for articles published by the men in the national Christian weekly. He felt confident that the unrefined Japanese censors would see nothing hidden in a dreadful sijo about farming! He considered the large sum he'd given to "Crane" for Shanghai. He would have to reduce such contributions, though they never ceased asking for more. Taxes took anything extra from the farm, and it had been months since his last painting commission, a simple calligraphic scroll. Once he saw that a known collaborator in the palace had stamped the commission, he never fulfilled the order. With no income from calligraphy or painting, every donation he made to Shanghai now came directly from the family savings. This was the other reason Chae's proposal for his daughter's hand was timely; Han could no longer afford private secondary school for her or, God forbid, fees for Ewha Women's College.
He called for Joong, who hurried across the courtyard, shoes flapping. His servant crouched in the doorway to receive instructions. Joong, narrow-framed with a chest like a spoon, was yet unmarried at thirty-one. High cheekbones accented the crescents of his eyes and a boned ridge along his brow. His family had been serfs and slaves to generations of Hans. Slavery was abolished by the reforms, but Joong's mother, uncles, brothers and their wives still tended Han farmlands in a village sixty li north. As part of his household position, Joong received Han's worn clothing, except for the garments that distinguished the scholar's status, and had garnered a bonus of beautiful clothes when Han's younger brother had married and moved to Manchuria. As head of his family, his father having died years ago, Joong had responsibly taken the spare clothing to his uncle and brothers on his annual visit home.
Han folded and sealed the letter and gave Joong coins for the post, cursing as he silently admitted that for the price of a few jeon, he could rely on the letter arriving in Chae's hands within days, rather than having to send his servant to Yuncheon. The postal service had escalated in reach and efficiency after the Japanese crisscrossed the country with train tracks. The image had once inspired him to create an unusually stark painting: a resplendent phoenix struggling to fly in iron chains. It was urgent that Ilsun receive classical training. The last time Han had visited Deacon Hwang, there were men of all ages sitting together, not just chronological peers. What would be next? Women and babies joining in men's talk?
Han sighed. His consent in the mail, he would soon tell his wife. For now, he perused his winnowed shelves and settled on a slim volume of poems on the renewal of spring. When his wife appeared with Cook to ask if he wished to eat in his study, Han felt refreshed from his reading.
"In my sitting room," he said, choosing that formal setting as preferable for her to receive his decision. His wife took the tray from Cook and followed him, and after he sat, she arranged it so comfortably and with such pleasing grace that he was loath to ruin the simple moment of domestic harmony with upset. He said nothing, and she left.
He ate slowly, selecting morsels of rice, spring greens, winter radish gimchi, mashed soybean flavored with pork belly, and egg pancakes with wild leeks as carefully as he'd choose the words to tell her. Perfectly balanced in the ancient fivefold way, the food, washed down with sips of bone broth, sank warmly to his stomach. He quietly gave thanks for his wife's cooking skill, which with every meal provided variety and nutrition, and kept his sensitive digestion in balance.
After he'd eaten and Cook removed the dishes, he reached for his tobacco box and called for his wife. She sat before him, poured wine and folded her hands together on her lap. Her skin shone with the kitchen's heat, and though he surmised her mind was always busy with household planning or the children's concerns, she appeared calm and untroubled, the moon curves of her face still as smooth and pale as when he first saw her on their wedding day. He had been twenty; she, seventeen. Except for her well-defined nose, she had classic beauty, her eyes like two clean strokes of ink, her brow smooth and rounded.
The serene lines of his sparsely furnished room gleamed in slants of afternoon light. Birds chattered happily outside. He could hear their wings beating against budding tender leaves. He sucked dryly on his pipe. "Yuhbo, your daughter will soon receive a chest of fabric for her trousseau." The groom's family typically sent these early gifts-the first exchange toward the coming bond. Ignoring his wife's sudden sharp intake of breath and her surprised eyes directly on his, Han tapped and filled his pipe, and as she lit it, he noted that her fingers trembled. "From the yangban son of Chae Julpyang in Yuncheon. We studied together and I know his is an honorable family."
"But she has school until-"
"After her graduation. A harvest moon wedding. It's settled."
Her cheeks flamed. "Without once consulting your wife?"
His eyes narrowed and his mouth tensed in dismay. Never before had she raised her voice to him. "It is my right."
She straightened and glared openly. "Our only daughter. She's far too young!"
"The boy is twelve. It's a respectable gap. They'll have enough years before children."
"And you would refuse me the courtesy to decide for myself if this boy-husband is appropriate for her?"
"The decision is made! The letter of agreement was sent this very morning."
"This morning? She's still a child and not yours alone!"
Why would his wife persist in creating such outright discomfort between them? Having never seen it before, he hadn't expected her anger. "Your own mother married at this age."
"Yes," she said, her mouth bitter. "And lost three babies because of her youth."
"The girl is strong-"
"And intelligent and educated and deserving of better consideration than this!"
He smelled bile on his breath. "How dare you talk to me thus! You've roused the entire house with your anger!"
"Your action provoked it, your old-fashioned ideas! Are they even Christians?"
He tapped his pipe so hard it broke. He threw it across the room and it narrowly missed striking her cheek before shattering against the wall.
She paid no attention to the tobacco embers smoldering by her knee. Her voice was low and tight. "No one marries at this age anymore. And for good reason! What of a Christian marriage? What of your own Christian vows? I can't allow her to go, too young, still so much to learn, my hopes, her education-" She faltered as tears captured her breath, but she did not lower her eyes.
"She's had education enough. And see what it's done! She's less worthy as a bride. Her mind is full of the outside and her actions are as bold as a peasant's. Before she becomes completely useless she must marry! What does it matter if they're Christian or not? We owe everything to the generational traditions of my family. What is more venerable-a Christian visitation of a mere few centuries or thousands of peaceful years of orthodox living?" His nose flared; his breath flew hot in his lungs. "Woman-you make me argue with you-I won't have it!"
She bowed stiffly, her face white.
"It's decided!" He waved her away.
She rose, her blouse stained with disregarded tears as if she'd been caught in a rainstorm. She said at the doorway, so softly he barely heard her, "We shall see."
He wanted to fly at her and smash her stubborn will. Instead, he stomped furiously on the ember scorching the mat. "The house could've burned down! I won't have it!" His cries rang hollowly in the courtyard.
He paced, every step sending pain to his back. The church's Western influence was obviously at the root of her disrespect for him. When other men complained about their bickering wives, he had easily, proudly, kept his mouth shut. Now that he understood their grousing, it irked him all the more.
From the other side of the house he heard Najin cry, "No!" then her shouts, rough with tears. His mouth hardened and he yelled for Joong to get his coat, before remembering that he'd sent him out on the very task that had caused this unacceptable uproar. Tying on his hat, he shoved his feet into shoes and strode out the gate.
The downhill slope propelled him toward the market, and the high afternoon's brilliant freshness soothed his pounding temples. His lunch jostled loudly in his stomach, but his nose soon cleared to the faint scent of plum blossoms swaying high above the slab walls bordering the roadway. They may have chased me from my home today They may have chased me from my home today, he thought. They may cry day into night, but they can do nothing to counter my decision. They may cry day into night, but they can do nothing to counter my decision. He headed purposefully to the marketplace to engage in civil conversation with the bookseller. He headed purposefully to the marketplace to engage in civil conversation with the bookseller.
IN THE FOLLOWING days Najin was not to be seen, though he heard her coming and going to school and her occasional donkey laughter or reprimands to his son. His wife appeared only as necessary and spoke perfunctorily, her shoulders stiff and her expression closed. Han quelled his wish to call her to his bed, aware that it was his body's base need to control her. He felt sure her higher sense of duty and obedience would soon prevail.
Indeed, as the rainy season came and went, his wife's arms seemed less rigid in her ministrations toward him. He could relax in her presence, and soon he breathed in quiet relief that she had accepted his decision. Sometimes in the gardens and on the outskirts of his awareness, he heard his children playing as before. He assumed a few more weeks would restore everyone to complacency.
One Sunday in May, as the family walked to church, Han felt a cool but nervous detachment from his wife and daughter walking behind him, and for once he was glad to suffer Ilsun's continuous nonsensical chatter as he ran about his knees: "Abbuh-nim, after church can we go to the bakery and get cakes? Abbuh-nim, look at how funny I can dance. Watch me kick this rock. See how far? Abbuh-nim, see how fast I can run circles around you!" Irritating as it was, it was better than the icicles at his back.
As a result of an injunction that cited modernization, the partitions dividing the church by gender had been removed last year. Everyone knew that the collaborators in the congregation wanted to watch both sides of the aisles. Han could now see his family across the aisle and a little ahead of him: Najin's unruly braids, his wife's small taps on Ilsun's head to quiet him, her perfectly tucked hair bun, her neck curve when she bowed for prayer. He recalled his wife's accusations about the wedding vows they'd made in this very church. He was certain that accepting God and Jesus as his Lord and Savior didn't conflict with his Confucian beliefs. Furthermore, four hundred years before before the Bethlehem star heralded Jesus's birth, the Christian story and the practice of universal love had been expounded by the philosopher Mo Zi. the Bethlehem star heralded Jesus's birth, the Christian story and the practice of universal love had been expounded by the philosopher Mo Zi.
The sermon ended and everyone stood for a hymn and benediction. He glimpsed the dark suits of yet more new congregants and despaired. Not long after last autumn's terrible earthquake in Tokyo, Gaeseong was flooded with Japanese citizens, many of whom superstitiously believed that Koreans had both contributed to the devastation and taken advantage of it. Police reacted quickly and impartially to many street clashes- eruptions of pent-up resentments and imagined slights. The more the Japanese came and stayed, the more they usurped, compounding the difficulty in fighting complacency. He wished his wife could join him in seeing his daughter's marriage as a deterrent to stasis, an act of defiance against Japanese-instigated modernism.
Outside, Han bowed to Reverend Ahn, greeted others, had a few private words with Deacon Hwang, then walked home, his family a few steps behind. The rains had left a thin veil of moist air on a rapidly warming day. He remembered from his childhood the deep, cool dampness of the tall pines of the family's forests in Manchuria where they summered annually. Thinking of childhood and Manchuria naturally led his thoughts to Chungduk. A wedding celebration would present an opportunity to reconcile with his brother. His step quickened and he thought he'd take some time in the afternoon to consider this possibility. How would he find him?
Once home, his wife and daughter went to their rooms with Ilsun. It struck him as odd that they hadn't headed immediately to the kitchen as they normally would this hour on a Sunday. A bit later he heard the side gate open and saw his wife and daughter carrying a bundle to the Changs. Han settled into his study, his desk neatly spread with brushes, a carved inkstone, a celadon-glazed turtle with a small o o for a mouth-his grandfather's water dropper-and sheaves of paper. He composed a letter to the future groom's father, whose last correspondence had welcomed the match and lauded the virtues of the bride. Chae had also mentioned in code his dissatisfaction with both the Shanghai and Hawaii provisional governments, and conveyed news that Kim Il-sung's guerrilla army had ransacked a Japanese copper-mining operation in the north. Han had whispered this news to Deacon Hwang. for a mouth-his grandfather's water dropper-and sheaves of paper. He composed a letter to the future groom's father, whose last correspondence had welcomed the match and lauded the virtues of the bride. Chae had also mentioned in code his dissatisfaction with both the Shanghai and Hawaii provisional governments, and conveyed news that Kim Il-sung's guerrilla army had ransacked a Japanese copper-mining operation in the north. Han had whispered this news to Deacon Hwang.
He was surprised to see his son following Cook when she brought the midday meal, Ilsun asking to eat with him. He consented, and she left to bring Ilsun's table. He washed his son's hands with his at the basin, cautioning him against splashing. When Cook returned, she acted so jittery he was tempted to ask for his wife's whereabouts, but it wouldn't do for Ilsun to see his father begging information from a servant. It wasn't a market day and many shops were closed on Sundays-a testament to how much Christianity had made inroads into their daily lives. Well, the soup was hot and Ilsun's table manners required supervision. This mystery would unfold soon enough. He told Ilsun to pray and they ate.
When he heard his wife call "I'm home!" from the foyer, he took note of the long shadows cast by the fruit trees-an hour past the conclusion of his meal with Ilsun. He put his book aside and waited.
She entered and without a word handed him a letter. He felt his neck tighten even before looking at it. He refused to ask where she'd been, angered that she hadn't offered this information, which was obviously wanting. She sat composed in front of him and seemed subdued, although still distant. He deferred his attention to the letter.
He flushed when his fingers fell upon a torn royal seal. "You've read this!" he said before seeing that it was addressed to her. "Ah, your cousin writes. But why does she use such formalities?" Naturally, his wife and her cousin in Seoul wrote each other occasionally, but never had his wife received a document with an official seal. She remained silent and bowed. He opened the letter. The covering once seemed to have held something thicker than the single sheet it contained. It was dated two weeks before. Pressure mounted in his temples as he began to understand the depth of her betrayal.
Dearest Cousin,How delightful to hear from you, and how wise of you to commend your daughter for Court. I, too, can never forget our days together long ago, for which I am eternally grateful. I will enjoy very much teaching her the highest of manners. Much has changed, but she will still benefit from the training, especially if she is as rounded in the arts as you say, and educated too. Many of the girls have some outside education now. In fact, there is an upper school nearby and I will see if she can be enrolled. Times change! But our memories are forever the same, and I cherish them as much as I do your letters.Enclosed herein is the official decree requesting her indefinite service to Her Imperial Majesty and the required traveling documents, all signed and stamped, tariffs paid. Of course she cannot travel alone. I will send my handmaid and her husband to chaperone her journey, although it is no more than half a day. Arrange to meet them, Pang Longhee and Khang Kyungmee, by the ticket stand at the Gaeseong station at an hour past noon on Sunday, May 6. Perhaps I will be able to meet her train when it arrives in Seoul. If not, she will be well taken care of. Do not worry.I am looking forward to her being with me in this lonely house, and I will be certain to keep you apprised of her progress, which, since she is her mother's daughter, is sure to bring respectful praise to her family's honorable name.Fondly yours.
The letter shook in Han's fingers as he returned it to her. She raised both hands to receive it, and the graceful female gesture unleashed his rage. He dropped the letter and struck her fully on the cheek. She grunted and fell sideways to the floor. Blood trickled from her nose. She clutched the letter and struggled to sit up. Her hair came undone. He struck her again and she fell. He stood to deliver a blow to the back of her head but glimpsed his shadow on the wall, his arm raised high over the lump of her fallen body. He saw that he was no better than the prison guards who had hung him by his thumbs and beaten him senseless. With a cry, he fell to his knees. She shrank from him until she saw him sobbing. She held his head in her lap and laid her cheek to his, mixing blood and tears, crying out how sorry she was-not for sending Najin away-but for having to defy him.
The Last Palace
SPRING 1924 SPRING 1926
I CRIED MOST OF THE WAY TO SEOUL, MUCH TO THE DISTRESS OF THE handmaid and her husband, who were sent by Imo, my aunt, to chaperone me. I was upset to be leaving home, anxious about what lay ahead and fearful of my father's reaction to my mother's deceit. Mother told me he wouldn't call me home, since the invitation had come from the palace. It showed how carefully she had planned my escape from marriage, and how deeply she had betrayed my father. My tears were for her sacrifice of her principles of duty and honor to Father because of me. I was overwhelmed with new understanding of her love, only to be saddened at having to part from her.
If I hadn't been so emotional, the train ride would have been wonderful. Speed and noise, coal smoke, the massive quantity of steel that made trains possible, the passing countryside, soft armchairs in first class, people of all sorts in all manner of dress, the very act of traveling-in my misery I missed the excitement of all these things. I marveled at it in memory after I grew accustomed to sleeping in my little room down the hall from Imo.
Her house was traditional and tidy, with an inner square surrounded by twelve rooms, and a smaller courtyard that was flanked by the servants' quarters. Many homes lined her street, so foot traffic beyond her walls was steady. In addition to my travel chaperones-the handmaid Kyungmee and her husband, Pang, who was gardener and guard-Imo had a cook, a water girl and a housemaid. My bedding was fine, rather plush in fact, but the unfamiliar light patterns, the room's strange angles and noise from the street made it difficult to fall asleep. At first I mourned and wept a little, missing my mother's nighttime voice, but after that pain eased, I could fall asleep by forming the street-cast shadows into mystical words, and by trying to glean the secret messages whispered among the foreign noises.
With no men in the house to cook and sew for, Imo was eager to lavish her time on me. I didn't know what was planned beyond the vague directive of "court training," and only hoped to attend upper school. After a day of rest and a few days of sightseeing, Imo took me to her sewing room and showed me a chest full of beautiful fabrics. "You'll need new hanbok," she said, tossing bolts of linen and sheer silks on muslin she'd spread on the floor.
"For what?"
"Yah, you need to wait and listen to everything spoken to you before you start asking questions." She said this kindly, but I was embarrassed.
"Excuse me, Imo-"
"You see? Like a monsoon wind! Everything inside comes wildly out of your mouth. When sightseeing you didn't talk much, but I doubt you're aware of your many exclamations and sighs. Monsoon wind!"
I bowed my head silently, my ears feeling as if they were screaming red.
"Much better!" She patted my knee and smiled. "Well, you do sit perfectly and I've watched you walk. Your mother shaped your posture well. That's to your advantage." I kept my mouth shut and peeked at her face. Her wave-curved eyes showed warmth, but her closed-lip smile had a pronounced artifice. The smile tightened her jaw, accentuating her cheekbones and incrementally raising her carefully drawn eyebrows. I wondered if I would learn that smile.
Imo was a little taller than my mother and not fat, but pillowlike, soft and round in all possible ways: her nearly white skin and hands, full lips, tiny rounded nose, curved elbows and even her earlobes. She looked pliable and receptive, as if you could toss anything at her and it would make a dent, then settle in, but her austere elegance permitted only respect. She wore a scent that brought to mind lilies and oranges, and her artful use of cosmetics required close examination to see the painted lines and feathery powder. The few marks of age on her face only appeared when she frowned. Because she was a widow, she wore her hair in a simple bun, and this, too, was soft and round. Every gesture seemed practiced to perfection. With my pointy elbows, gawky legs, bony hips, wiry hair and scratchy voice, I was like an explosion of needles compared to her. She was right-thanks to my mother, my spine was straight-but I was of an age when all the other bones and muscles didn't quite know when and how to behave. Apparently, my tongue was in that same league.
"You'll learn feminine rituals and protocol. You will meet Princess Deokhye. When I told the empress who your family is, she thought the princess might enjoy meeting you, or at least she could study with you, and even if that doesn't flower into something more, you'll come with me now and then to visit the empress, so you'll need suitable clothes. Close your mouth," said Imo casually. She unfolded and refolded different bundles of fabric. Thrilled at the prospect of new dresses made of such gorgeous fabrics, I sat on my knees, trying to hold my body still.
"Princess Deokhye, the poor thing, is twelve. She's the Gwangmu Emperor's last child. Oh, how he doted on her! He had many children, and many died young. Only four are left, including the Yunghui Emperor. Princess Deokhye's mother, Madame Bongnyeong, whom you'll also meet, was the Gwangmu Emperor's third concubine. The women live in Nakson Hall-the Mansion of Joy and Goodness-in Changdeok Palace; the princess in the third house, the most colorful." She studied me for a moment and said, "I will tell you a secret. She's been betrothed to the nephew of the lord steward for some years now, but unlike your engagement, it's a necessary arrangement to protect the bloodline. Yes, I know about your betrothal. I see a thousand questions written on your face. You have much to learn before I'll venture taking you to the palace."
Her casual way of being critical made it easy to accept, and I froze my features and waited, hoping she'd say more about the royal family. I knew that the former emperor Gojong's reign was titled Gwangmu, and that he had remarried after Queen Min's death, but I hadn't known he'd also had concubines. Jaeyun's eyes would open wide if she heard all this, and especially that I would meet the princess! This last thought gave me shivers of nervousness. The princess might be my junior, but she would be accustomed to manners I didn't even know about. I pledged to work hard and learn from Imo. She said nothing more and rummaged among the fabrics, and I kept silent too.
She called Kyungmee, and after undressing to my slip I was measured, prodded and exclaimed over. Accompanied by many tsks of dismay, bony bony was the most-used adjective during this ordeal. Imo chose five different pieces for skirts and two sheer neutrals for a half-dozen blouses, for this season, she said, with more to come for fall and winter, a wealth that exceeded my mother's and father's wardrobes combined. In addition to a stipend from her dead husband's family, Imo's riches came from land in the south managed by a younger brother, her only sibling. Her widowhood allowed her to spend impetuously, but I knew my mother would frown at this excess. "Imo-nim-" was the most-used adjective during this ordeal. Imo chose five different pieces for skirts and two sheer neutrals for a half-dozen blouses, for this season, she said, with more to come for fall and winter, a wealth that exceeded my mother's and father's wardrobes combined. In addition to a stipend from her dead husband's family, Imo's riches came from land in the south managed by a younger brother, her only sibling. Her widowhood allowed her to spend impetuously, but I knew my mother would frown at this excess. "Imo-nim-"
"Yes, child." On the floor she smoothed lengths of rose-pink silk with an interwoven butterfly pattern and laid the measuring string against it, while Kyungmee wiped the scissors and snapped them open and shut.
"They're so beautiful, and so many, I'm embarrassed- Is it- Will I really need all these clothes?"
A quick smile passed through Kyungmee's neutral features before she bent to cut the silk, and I guessed I'd said the right thing. Imo handed me my clothes. "Not really. You probably only need three." She had the practiced smile from before, but this time her lips matched the softness in her eyes. "But look how much fabric I have just sitting in this chest. Why not indulge a little? I've hardly made new clothes since-in a very long time. It'll be a pleasure."
I knew that Imo's husband and son had been killed by the Japanese almost fifteen years ago, though I didn't know the whole story. Her genuine enthusiasm and her response had made it possible for me to not appear greedy. I bowed low, as graciously as I could, and used the honorific idiom. "This person gives deepest thanks, Imo-nim." She was so pleased she clapped her hands.
Imo's instruction took fifty days. She was a firm perfectionist and tried to inspire me by saying that when the present empress was betrothed, she had completed her far more stringent training in an impressive twenty days. I relearned how to sit, bow, eat and talk with an exacting precision that made me long to be home running in the gardens with Ilsun. I memorized the royal genealogy of several generations, including birth, ceremonial and posthumous names, style of address and reign title-a feat, since such titles typically filled an entire page. I also memorized the pavilions and halls of Changdeok Palace, which, with the famous Biwon Garden, comprised a square half-kilometer in the middle of the city.
Despite her strictness, Imo treated me more like a little sister than a student, and we laughed often, demurely of course. Her humor and attention helped alleviate my homesickness. She switched from being playful and finding enjoyment in all that we did to being frustrated and blunt when poise and precision leaked from my body and brain. I stabbed at a morsel of fish with my chopsticks, and she cried, "Rude! Rude!" She glimpsed a tiny part of my tongue when I put rice between my lips. "Disgusting! Dishonorable! Bow your head, you must bend to it!" My foot wasn't in the proper angle in the second stage of sitting down. "Decorum! Decorum!" My artificial smile was too artificial ...
Copying her mannered style, and with her reprimands and reminders, I eventually achieved enough inner silence to present a correct face and posture, and I grew comfortable with the distinct inflection of court language. At home I had read the vernacular translations of the Four Books for Women Four Books for Women, but Imo required me to read the original Chinese texts. I also slogged through Instructions for the Inner Quarters, Notable Women, Concise Accounts of Basic Regulations for Women Instructions for the Inner Quarters, Notable Women, Concise Accounts of Basic Regulations for Women and and Mirror of Sagacity Mirror of Sagacity, among others. Reading these archaic roots of a thousand rituals was slow, but I persisted, for this study in itself helped prove my virtue, dutifulness and grace, and thus my filial obedience to my family, my father and hence to the emperor. While none of this was entirely new to me, the training was vigorous with seemingly more at stake. I often thought about my father's devotion to tradition. Certain that my leaving home had enraged him, I hoped this training would one day help to prove my own devotion.
On sunny days we went sightseeing, walking long distances to see ancient Buddhist holy sites and parks, or what remained of the four other palaces in Seoul. Sometimes the crowds were so thick that strangers- both nationals and Japanese-jostled against us, and I clung to Imo like a little girl. Downtown, we walked in the angular shadows of new government buildings and scaffolded steel skeletons. The broad paved boulevards and our occasional rides on the tram recalled my neighbor Hansu's boyish exclamations about the wonders of the city, but its telephone poles and ugly wires caging the streets, malodorous alleys, clumsy rigid buildings and unceasing noise made me yearn for mountain paths and unfettered skies. In Gaeseong, the Korean language was most often heard on the streets. Here, there were equal numbers of people speaking Japanese and Korean.
On a cloudy day in early June, we went to the north market, an entertainment activity for Imo who always wanted to buy me things, which made me uncomfortable and shy. On the way home we passed Gyeongbuk-gung, the former main palace, whose grounds were now dominated by a large white building with columns, the Japanese government seat. I sensed Imo's mood growing pensive. The gray day darkened and it began to drizzle. Saving my questions for later, I held on to Imo beneath her umbrella and we trudged home, stepping over streaming muddy gutters and past the concrete facades stained with rain.
It rained steadily into the evening, splashing loudly on the porches. In Imo's sitting room, Kyungmee served sweet rice tea, sliced pears and the fancy miniature rice cakes that Imo had bought at the market. She seemed subdued still, like an unfluffed cushion, and corrected me perfunctorily, "Two hands, that's right. Fingers closed when you hold your cup."
I asked to speak and she nodded. "Imo-nim, if I may ask, is Gyeongbuk Palace where Queen Min died?"
"You mean Her Imperial Majesty Empress Myeongsong. Yes."
This was the posthumous name and title of the former queen, the second consort of King Gojong before he changed his status to emperor. I sipped and carefully returned my cup to its precise position on my little table. "Imo-nim, at my school, classmates told different stories about her, and even my teacher couldn't say what was true. Did you know her? May I ask how she died?"
Imo sighed. I apologized and asked if she was too tired to talk. If I hadn't been so young and piqued to hear the dramatic stories from court, I might have considered that remembering this past would be painful for my aunt.
"No, you should know what happened. I was about your age and still living at home when she died, so I never met her. They say she was unusually strong-willed and intelligent, very involved in politics. Some say she was ambitious and cared only about power. As a matter of fact, when the Gwangmu Emperor acceded to the throne, most of the ministerial appointments were given to her clan."
I admired how Imo handled her chopsticks to pick up pear slices, and while waiting for her to finish chewing I recited in my head the high court positions: minister of the left, minister of the right, minister of the state council, minister of justice, minister of war, minister of rites, minister of personnel, minister of public works ... I was confused if this was the cabinet before or after the 1895 Kabo Reforms, but suddenly recognized the reform year as being the same as the queen's death, and wondered if the two were related.
Imo told me to finish eating. One was supposed to eat everything served, hence portions were small. She continued, "After Japan won the war with China, the queen spoke strongly against foreign influence in court. This was also immediately after the Donghak Revolution, the peasant uprising, and it was a complicated time. You probably don't know that many officials were actually grateful for the Japanese. Japan was seen as a generous friend who would help guide us into the modern age. Hundreds of newspapers came out, and suddenly anybody who could read, or anyone who could listen to someone else read, had an opinion about how things should be. There was a widespread popular movement toward 'civilization and enlightenment.' Since it meant following the Japanese example, it raised opposition from traditionalists, like your father. But it was fashionable and trendy to strive for modern ideas and Western goods." She sipped her rice tea. I wondered what kinds of "civilized and enlightened" products of that time might have attracted Imo.
"So you see," she said, "Japanese advisers were already involved in court. The queen was like a rock they had to kick from the road to pass through." She moved her tray aside, checked mine and called Kyungmee, who removed them. Imo told me to get my sewing from across the room and asked Kyungmee to light the brazier and bring a shawl.