INTRODUCTION

A 17th-century Korean novel, Unyŏng-jŏn explores the forbidden love between Unyŏng, a palace woman, and Kim chinsa, challenging societal norms in Joseon Korea. Against Confucian ideals, it delves into female experiences and desires, gaining popularity despite elite criticism. Through its nuanced narrative and vivid characters, it offers insight into love, duty, and rebellion in Joseon society, presenting a unique cultural perspective.

Susŏng Palace, the old residence of Grand Prince Anp’yŏng,[1] was situated to the west of Changan Castle at the foot of the Inwang Mountains. The mountains and streams were so graceful that it seemed a dragon would soon appear, and also were so steep and rugged that they appeared like a crouched tiger. To the south was Sajik and the east, Kyŏngbok Palace.

    The Inwang Mountains meandered up and down, forming a high peak near the spot of Susŏng Palace. Although not high, if one went to the top and looked down, the shops scattered along the road and the houses in the capital looked like a paduk board[2] and also—like stars in the heavens—one could clearly see the details. The shape was as ordered as a loom clearly separates thread. If one looked to the east, the palace was in the distance and the double road to it seemed suspended in the air. The clouds and smoke were bluer in the morning and evening, intensi­fying its elegance all the more; it was truly peerless in beauty.

    Drinking parties, groups of archers, poets and artists, or sing­ing boys and flute-playing boys—at the time of the blossoming flowers in the third month or the changing foliage in the ninth month, surely there was not a day when such a group would not go up for pleasure. While enjoying a clear breeze or brightly shining moon, they would almost forget to return home.

    Yu Yŏng, a literatus of Ch’ŏngpa, had grown used to hearing of this peak’s beautiful scenery. He sincerely wished to go there and enjoy it as well. However, with shabby clothes and a gaunt face he knew he would only be ridiculed by the pleasure-seekers [on the mountain peak]. For long, he hesitated about going there. In the original, the paragraph breaks here, but it's OK if you want to join the paragraphs.

In spring, on the sixteenth day of the third month of 1601, he bought a jug of wine, fastened the liquor bottle on his person, and walked out. Alone, he entered the western castle gate. When the other sightseers looked at him, there was not a single occasion that they did not point and laugh. Scholar Yu was ashamed and, feel­ing bad, he quickly went out to the rear garden. He went up to a high point, looked out over the four quarters, and saw the remains of the fires of the recent war. Looking over the site of Changan Palace, he saw no trace of the palace or the gorgeous houses inside the castle walls. Among the fallen walls, shattered roof tiles, buried wells, and the stone steps turned to clods of earth was only a dense growth of trees and grass.

    Scholar Yu entered the Western Garden, deep in a remote mountain area. There were thick growths of every kind of grass, casting shadows upon a clear pond. The ground was covered with fallen flower petals and had not yet been touched by human footprints. With every stir of the breeze, one’s nose was pierced with fragrance. 

Scholar Yu sat on a rock, reciting, “When I came up to Chowŏn Hall, although spring had already ripened, there was none to sweep the abundant fallen flowers,” a line from a poem written by Su Dongpo. Soon after, he untied the liquor bottle he was carrying and drank it all down, and then drunkenly lay back, using a stone near the rock as a pillow.

    Shortly, when he sobered up and turned to look around, the pleasure seekers had all scattered and were gone. The moon rose above the hill while smoke warmly enveloped the willow branches and wind caressed the flower petals. Suddenly, a strand of soft words rode in on the breeze. Yu, thinking it strange, rose and moved toward it. Sitting face to face were a youth and an unparalleled beauty. Seeing Yu, they joyfully greeted him. Yu looked at the young man and asked him, “Young sir, what kind of person are you to linger about with this beauty at night?”

    The young man grinned. “What the people of olden times called stopping in the middle of the road to talk is exactly what happened in our case.”[3]

    Thus, the three sat in a triangle and began to talk. In a some­what soft voice, the beauty summoned servants, and out of the woods appeared two maidservants. She spoke to them. “In this place where I have fortuitously met my old love, I also unexpect­edly met a delightful guest. Consequently, tonight will not be passed in lonely futility. Prepare a table of savory food and drink for us.”

    The two maidservants received the order and left; shortly, they returned with a table to serve the three. Each took turns in offering a cup of liquor to the others. As for the taste of the liquor and food, it was all not of the human world. Warmed by the wine, the woman sang a new verse:

    In the deep and vast palace, I separated with my love of yore, 

    The affinity of heaven is not so harsh, [thus] I met him again. 

    Becoming clouds, becoming rain: the pleasure was merely a dream.[4]

    How deep have I been tormented on spring days of blooming flowers?

    All of this has vanished and become a mote,

    Yet it still makes me drench my handkerchief with vain tears.

    After finishing the song, she sighed heavily and sobbed, with gemstone-like tears covering her face. Yu, thinking this odd, asked, “Even if I have no talent for composing refined, silk-like verse, from early on I was devoted to letters and ink and know something of the merits of literature. Now, I have heard your song, which is exceedingly sonorous and excellent. However, the poetic sentiment is very sorrowful and makes me curious. Tonight, opportunely, the moonlight illuminates like daytime, and a cool breeze gently blows; despite such a lovely night worth enjoying why do you sit facing each other and cry? Also, as you do not tell me your names or speak of what is deep in your minds although the liquor has added to the fullness of the emotions, all I can do is wonder.”

    Yu gave his own name first and asked them to do the same. The youth sighed, answering, “There is a reason that I did not speak of my name, but as you insist on knowing it, why would it be difficult to tell you? However, it is a long story.”

    Looking sorrowful, he was silent for quite a while, and then spoke.

    “My surname is Kim. When ten I could write poetry well and was famous at my village school. At fourteen I passed the pri­mary state examination, and from that time everyone called me Kim chinsa. At my young age and with a gallant nature, it was not easy to suppress my stalwart heart. Moreover, because of my fate with this woman, this body bequeathed by my parents became unfilial. What good in the world would it serve to know one sinner’s name? This woman is named Unyŏng, and the two maid­ servants are Nokchu and Songok. They all were the palace women of Grand Prince Anp’yŏng of olden times.”

    Yu replied, “If you bring up the story and do not tell all, it is worse than not saying anything from the beginning. Tales of the time of Grand Prince Anp’yŏng and the reasons for the sorrow of a chinsa—can you tell me of these things in detail?”

    The chinsa turned and looked at Unyŏng, saying, “Many sea­sons have passed and those days are already long past. Can you still recollect the events of those times?”

Unyŏng replied, “Bitterness fills my heart; on what day can I forget? While I will try to tell the story, my dearest, will you stay by my side and add to it when needed?”

Grasping a writing brush, and having her maidservant prepare an inkstone, she began her story.

    King Sejong had eight grand princes, and among them, Grand Prince Anp’yŏng was the most sagacious. The king loved him deeply and awarded him countless tax fields and other commod­ities, more than any of the other grand princes. At thirteen he moved to a private palace named Susŏng. The Grand Prince con­sidered that as a scholar he should study the Confucian Classics at night and compose poems or practice calligraphy during the day. Not for a moment did he stop studying. All the talented literary men of that time gathered at the palace and tested themselves against the Grand Prince. Truly, the discourse did not stop. Also, as for the Grand Prince’s calligraphy, there were none who sur­passed his talent.

    One day the Grand Prince said to us palace women, “All of the talented men of this world must move to a tranquil place, and only after they study in such a locale are they able to achieve suc­cess. Since outside the eastern gate of the capital the mountains and streams are quiet and villages are distant, if one is to polish his knowledge there he can achieve great success.”

Soon he had constructed a building of some ten rooms at that place. To one side he erected an altar named Pihae-dang and to the other side a shrine called Maengsi-dan.[5] It must have been his intention to lead people to think of righteousness through those names. All the men of letters and great calligraphers of the day gathered there. Sŏng Sammun was at the fore of the literary men, and  Ch’oe  Hŭnghyo was  the  best among  the calligraphers.

    This line goes with the previous paragraph, but it's OK if you want to move it. One evening the Grand Prince called [all of] us palace women together and said, “Talent comes down from the heavens, so why would men have abundance and women so little? Nowadays there are many in the world claiming to be men of letters, but among them, none stands out.  From now on, you all should also study diligently!”

From among his palace women, he selected ten who were young of age and had beautiful faces, and began to teach us. First he taught us Sohak onhae [Elementary learning with Korean anno­tations] and after we could recite that without help, he contin­ued, teaching Shiji [Records of the historian] and all of the Clas­sics; there was nothing we did not learn. We learned several hun­dred pieces of Tang verse such as those by Li Bai and Du Fu. He would have us recite these morning and evening, and the discus­sion would not cease. As a result, within five years, all of us had reached a great level of talent.

    When the Grand Prince returned from outside the palace, he would have us sit in front of him and then he would rank our poems from high to low, encouraging us through reward and pun­ishment. Even though our excellent spirit could not approach the level of the Grand Prince, the elegance of our rhymes and perfect versification were worthy of peeking into the hedge surrounding the Tang poets of the golden age. The names of us ten were Puyong, Pigyŏng, Pich’wi, Ongnyŏ, Kŭmnyŏn, Unsŏm, Charan, Poryŏn, Sook, and Unyŏng. Unyŏng is none other than me. The Grand Prince cared for all of us greatly and always had us stay within the palace compound, not allowing us to even have a conversation with those from outside the palace. Every day the Grand Prince would drink with the literati who gathered to debate about poetry and such subjects, but not once did he permit us to come near the area, for he feared that the outsiders would possi­bly become aware of our existence. And there was always the command, “If anyone of you goes outside of the palace gate one time, for that crime she will suffer death. If an outsider knows one of your names, for that crime too you will not escape from death.”

    One day the Grand Prince came back from outside the palace and called us together saying, “Today I was drinking with the scholars so-and-so and there appeared a strand of blue smoke ris­ing from trees within the palace compound. Some surrounded the top of the castle and some hovered at the foot of the mountains. First, I composed a poem and asked my guests to follow with their verses next. However, not one was pleasing to me. Each of you write and offer up a verse in the order of your age.”

    Sook offered her verse first:

        The blue smoke is slender as silk,

        It follows the wind and comes in the palace gate.

        It grows thick and again becomes thin,

        I did not even notice dusk drawing near.

    Then, each of the remaining nine gave their verses, 

beginning with Puyong:
        It flies up to the heavens and brings rain, 

        Dropping to the earth and again becoming a cloud. 

        Evening falls and the mountain colors darken,

        My deepest thought is yearning for the lord of Zhou. 

    Pich’wi followed:

        Clouds cover the flowers, bees lose their vigor,

        Mottled in the bamboo grove, birds cannot find their roost. 

        At dusk misty drizzle falls,

        Outside my window, I hear the sound of raindrops.

    Then Pigyŏng:

        While a small apricot tree struggles to even bud,
        A solitary bamboo stands, never losing its green hue. 

        The light shade looks heavy in an instant,

        The sun sinks and the dusk turns dark. 

    Next was Ongnyŏ:

        The sun-concealing cloud is light as silken gauze, 

        Traversing the mountains the verdant sash lies long. 

        By a gentle breeze it was slowly dissipated and,
        Remaining is only enough to dampen a small lotus pond. 

    Then Kŭmnyŏn:
        Below the mountain is filled with cold smoke, 

        It flows aslant by the palace trees.
        In the blowing wind it scatters thither and fro, 

        Evening sunlight fills the blue heavens.

    Next was Ŭnsŏm:

        In the mountain ravine billowing clouds rise,
        At the pavilion near the pond flows a green shadow. 

        It flies but cannot find the place to return,
        Becoming dewdrop beads, it remains on the lotus leaf. 

    Charan followed:
        In the early morning even the village entry[6] is dark, 

        The clouds lie obliquely and the tall trees appear low. 

        In a brief second, suddenly it flies off,
        To the western mountain peak and the brook at its front. 

    I gave my verse next:
        In the distant place, the bluish smoke is a wisp, 

        The beauty stops weaving silken gauze.

        In the wind, alone, disillusioned and sad,

        It [the clouds] flies off and falls on Mt. Mu [becoming rain].

    Lastly, Poryŏn gave her verse:

        From the dense shade of the small ravine, 

        From the misty breath of the capital it rises.[7] 

        Now, suddenly it turns the human world 

        Into a blue-jade beaded palace.

    When the Grand Prince finished reading, he was greatly surprised. “Compared to the poems of the late Tang it is difficult to determine which is superior, and those not up to the level of Kŭnbo would not even be able to grasp the whip [for understand­ing these poems].”

    He then recited the poems two and three times again, still unable to appraise the relative merits of the poems. After a spell, he continued, “Puyong’s poetic notion is longing for the lord of Zhou and thus I highly commend her for this. The rhyme and flow of Pich’wi’s poem are beautiful, and I consider Sook’s poem to be exceedingly excellent with implied meaning reverberating in the final line. We must regard these two poems as top rate.”

    He continued, “At first glance, I could not judge which poem was best, but when I savored them again I can minutely judge their merits. Charan’s poetic notion is so profound that one would extol [the poem] and dance [with delight] before even real­izing it. The other poems are also all very clear and good, but only Unyŏng’s displays a feel of vivid loneliness and yearning for a lover. I do not know who this person you think of is. Although I must question about this, I will leave it for a while, for I cherish your talent.”

    At once, I went down to the garden, lay prostrate, and while crying answered, “It just came out by chance when I was writing the poem. How can there be another reason? Since now the Grand Prince doubts me, even if I died ten thousand times it would not be regrettable.”

    The Grand Prince ordered me to be seated and said, “As poems are what one has in one’s mind, they are not something that can be covered or hidden. Do not say that again.”

He then had ten bolts of silk brought out and divided among the ten of us. The Grand Prince had never set his mind on me, but all the palace people thought that he had.

    The ten [of us] all retired to the rooms in the east. There a tall candle was lit, and on a cloisonné desk lay a volume of Tang rhymes. In the volume were the sorrowful poems of palace women, written long ago. The palace women, except for me, debated the merits of these poems. Alone, I leaned against a folding screen, sitting dejectedly and not speaking, like a person made of mud. Sook turned and looked at me, saying, “Are you not speaking because you are worried after the Grand Prince doubted you for the poem you composed? Or rather is it because you are pleased with the joy of sharing love with the Grand Prince under the silken blanket [and do not want to speak of your good feel­ings]? There is no way I can know what you have in your mind.” In the original, the paragraph breaks here, but it’s OK if you want to join the paragraphs.

    I gathered my collar around my neck and answered, “You are not I. How can you know my mind? Just now, I thought of a poem and was about to write it, but I could not come up with a novel wording. That is the only reason I was quiet.”

    Ŭnsŏm then spoke. “Since your mind is not following your intent, you take the words of the person near you as the wind brushing by your ear. Seeing you as such, it is not difficult to figure out why you are so quiet. Let me demonstrate with a test.” 

    Ŭnsŏm then demanded that I, using some grapes outside the window as my poetic theme, compose a poem. I responded directly with this poem:
        The zigzagging vines are like a dragon moving about, 

        In the shadow of the verdurous leaves dwells a sudden sentiment.

        The harsh summer sunbeams illumine intensely,
        The clear sky [juxtaposed] on the cold shadow is vainly bright. 

        Vines entangle the railing as if they have affection,
        Ripened fruit, dangling like pearls, displays devotion. 

        Earnestly awaiting the day it will change of itself,

        Riding on rain-laden clouds, it will rise to Samchŏng Palace.

    Sook read the poem, bowed, and said, “Truly you are an extraordinary talent. Similar to the ancient rhymes, the resonance of the poem is not high, but you composed the poem quickly, which is considered the most difficult thing for a poet to do. I am deeply pleased and willingly submit myself [to your talent] just like the seventy disciples submitted to Confucius.”

    Charan spoke. “Words should be restrained; why are you excessively praising the poem? It is only that some of her phrases are periphrastic and there is a soaring quality to the work.”

    The others heard this and responded, “That is a most proper comment.”

    Although my fellow palace women’s doubts about me dissi­pated with this poem, it was not a case of all people thinking as such.

    The following day I heard the clamorous noise of carts outside. The gatekeeper came in, informing us, “Many guests have arrived.”

    The Grand Prince had the East Pavilion cleaned and the guests ushered in; all were men of letters and talent. After all were shown to their seats, the Grand Prince showed them the poems we composed; all were greatly surprised, exclaiming, “It is as if we are unexpectedly seeing verses from the golden age of Tang again. These are not something we can match. How did you come upon this most valuable treasure?”

    Wearing a smile, the Grand Prince answered, “How can that be so? A boy servant picked those up on the street by chance. While I do not know who composed them, I think it must have come from the hand of a talented person of a commoner family.”

    Several of the group could not dispel their doubts, and a bit later Sŏng Sammun said, “Talent is not something you can borrow from a different age. From the previous dynasty until now, for over six hundred years the number of those in our country who distinguished their names through poetry is so enormous it cannot be surmised. However, some [poets] are turbid and thus not refined. Others are cheerful and are clear but wander; in general, the tones and rhymes are not in unison and the poetic nature lost. I do not desire to look upon such writing. Now, looking at these poems, [we can see that] the poetic nature is clear and sincere, and the thought and intent are outstanding. There is not even a small trace of the mundane world in the poems. These poems are inev­itably of ones who live at the palace never in contact with the vul­gar people outside [the palace], ones who read and recite the poe­try of the ancients day and night, and have learned it by heart. If one is to savor the meaning of the poems intently, the phrase ‘in the wind, alone, disillusioned and sad’ holds the meaning of long­ing for one’s lover, and the line ‘a solitary bamboo stands, never losing its green hue’ carries the meaning of maintaining one’s fidelity. Also, the line ‘my deepest thought is yearning for the lord of Zhou’ shows sincerity for the king. As for the phrases ‘becoming dewdrop beads, it remains on the lotus leaf’ and ‘to the western mountain peak and the brook at its front,’ if these were not written by fairies from the heavens there is no means to describe them. Although there are both merits and demerits in the rhythm, a nature imbued with virtue and righteousness is largely the same [in each of the poems]. You have undoubtedly fostered ten heavenly fairies at this palace, lord; I entreat you to deceive me no longer.”

    The Grand Prince, while being moved with admiration in his heart, outwardly did not nod his head and replied, “Who said that Kŭnbo has the ability to appraise poems? How can there be such persons within this palace? Your suspicions are too extreme.”

    At that time, the ten of us were watching quietly through a crack in the window, and among us, there were none not impressed [at Sŏng’s compliment].

    That night Charan sincerely spoke to me wholeheartedly, ask­ing, “As we were born women, our parents all wish for us to have families. Although I do not know what kind of person you have in mind as a lover, daily your countenance grows more haggard. Now I worry about this and sincerely ask of you: please do not hide even a bit and tell me what troubles you.”

    I got up and thanked her, and began to tell her what had hap­pened.

    “There are many people about the palace, and I feared that someone would overhear me and gossip, so I dared not open my mouth. Yet, as you ask me with such friendship, how can I keep this hidden? At the time last fall when the chrysanthemums were in bloom and the foliage had begun to change colors, the Grand Prince sat alone in the sodang. He ordered a maidservant to grind down an ink-stick and unfurl a silk [scroll]. He then wrote ten verses on it. At that time, a boy servant came in and announced, ‘There is a young scholar claiming to be Kim chinsa, and he would like an audience with you.’

    “The Grand Prince greeted the scholar, who was dressed in hempen clothes and wearing a leather belt. He came up the stone steps briskly, appearing like a bird unfolding its wings. He came in, bowed, and sat down. His countenance was like that of a Daoist ascetic. The Grand Prince looked at him once and was inclined toward him, quickly changing seats so as to face Kim. The chinsa rose from his seat and said in gratitude, ‘Impertinently I have received much warm favor [from you] and yet shamefully have not accepted your invitation. I cannot put into words how overwhelmed I am to be here now and see you greet me with pleasure.’

    “The Grand Prince consoled him [saying], ‘For long I have heard of and respected your fame; now that I sit here and receive your greeting, felicity fills this house. This house becomes glorious as much as if I had gained a hundred friends.’

    “When the chinsa had entered, he had already seen us. How­ever, since he was a young scholar, the Grand Prince held him comfortably in his heart and thus did not order us to move out of the room. The Grand Prince looked at the chinsa, saying, ‘The autumn scenery is very fine. I wish that you would write one new verse and so bathe this house in luster.’

    “The chinsa moved from his seat, declining: ‘My fame is but vanity and has no essence. How could I boldly know the rhythm of a poem?’

     “The Grand Prince had Kŭmnyŏn sing, Puŏng play the komun’go, Poryon play the tanso,[8] Pigyŏng hold a drinking cup, and me hold the inkstone. I was only a young woman at that time When I looked at the chinsa once, I felt dizzy and my heart thumped. While the chinsa looked at me, he smiled and often eyed me carefully.

    “The Grand Prince looked at the chinsa, saying, ‘I have truly received you with great hospitality. How can you impertinently begrudge one verse and bring shame to this house?’

    “Thereupon, the chinsa grasped the writing brush and composed a verse:

    As the wild geese fly toward the south, 

    The autumn colors are deep in the palace.

    As the water becomes colder, the lotus blossoms lose their beauty, and

    Chrysanthemums heavy with frost droop in the golden light. 

    On the silk cushion is a rose-cheeked beauty,

    From the lute rises the “Song of White Snow.”

    With one measure of violet sky-colored liquor,[9] 

    First drunken, worries are washed from my mind.

    “The Grand Prince recited this several times and said with surprise, ‘Truly you have what is called extraordinary talent. Why have we met so late?’

    “The ten of us at once looked at one another, and with surprise said in accord, ‘This must be the heavenly sage Wang Zijin who came down from heaven![10] If not, how can such a person be explained?’

    “The Grand Prince, while offering a cup of wine to the chinsa queried, ‘Among the poets of old, who do you think is the mas­ter?’

    “The chinsa replied, ‘In my opinion, Li Bo was a heaven-sent sage; he must have been long near the incense altar of the Jade Emperor and then come down to Mt. Kunlun for enjoyment.[11] There, he drank all the jade elixir[12] and unable to overcome his drunken exhilaration, he held a jewel-like flower and broke off a ten thousand year-old tree branch, rode on the wind, and fell to this human world. Lu Zhao-rin and Wang Bo were heavenly beings from above the seas, and their poetry was in harmony with the rise and fall of the sun and moon, the changing of the clouds, the roll of the blues waves, the spouting of whales, the boundless expanse of islands, luxuriant grasses and trees, lotus flowers and water chestnut leaves, songs of waterfowl, and the tears of ser­pents, all of which they embraced in their hearts. Meng Hao-ran, who learned tones and rhymes from Master Kuang, had the most elegant tones. Li Yi-shan learned the magic arts of the sages from early on and conjured forth a wondrous poetic creative power. His life’s writings are no more than the words of a ghost [i.e., of a person from another world]. All of the other poets have their own special characteristics. How can I speak of them all?’

    “The Grand Prince responded, ‘Every day when the literary men and I debate poetry, Du Fu is most commonly named as the best poet. Why do you state [differently]?’

    “The chinsa answered, ‘If we only talk about what the ordinary Confucians venerate, that is same as saying raw meat and roasted meat are pleasing to the people’s mouths. Zimei’s poems are deliberately raw meat and roasted meat.’[13]

    “The Grand Prince rebutted, ‘He mastered all literary styles and was especially exquisite at poetic skills such as metaphor and allusion. Why do you hold Du Fu so insignificant?’

    “The chinsa apologized and said, ‘How could I dare regard him lightly? Regarding his major qualities, these can be likened to Emperor Wu going to Weiyang Palace and becoming enraged at all the barbarians invading the four quarters, and thus ordering his generals to strike the enemy; his merits are the same as a mil­lion troops with the strength of a bear extending out over a thousand leagues. Regarding the minor aspects, it is like having Sima Xiangru compose “Changmen fu” or having Sima Qian com­pose “Fengshan-wen.” Seeking a heavenly being, it is like Dong­ fang Shuo serving [Emperor Wu] while Xiwang-mu offers [the emperor] a heavenly peach. Thus, the writings of Du Fu can be said to fulfill all sort of literary styles. However, if compared with Li Bo, it is the same as the heavens and earth not being compar­ able and a river and the sea not being the same. If Du Fu drives his cart from the front, Wang Wei and Meng Hao-ran compete on the road while brandishing the whip [and driving the horses] from behind.’

    “The Grand Prince replied, ‘Hearing your words, I feel my bosom is opened in a brief instant, and I am enraptured as if I were riding a long breeze up to T’aech’ong Palace. Although Du Fu’s poetry is imbued with heaven’s grandness, it is deficient for expressing passions and customs. How can it thus be compared with that of Wang Wei and Meng Hao-ran? Beyond this debate, however, I now ask you to compose a poem once more to fill this house with even more luminosity.’ The chinsa directly wrote a poem-song, on peach-blossom paper:

        On the golden pond smoke scatters and the touch of dew is crisp,

        The azure sky is clear as water, why is the night so long?

        The gentle breeze blows aside the beaded blind with purpose, 

        The bright moon with its deep affection enters the small room. 

        When the shade at the edge of the garden is opened, a pine regains its shadow,

        The wine in the cup undulates and holds the fragrance of chrysanthemums.

        Although Duke Yuan is young, he drinks exceedingly well, 

        Do not think it odd, being drunk between jugs of liquor and then mad.

    “The Grand Prince thought this all the more extraordinary and while sitting closer [to the chinsa] he grasped his hand, saying, ‘Chinsa, you are not a talent of this world, and thus, I cannot appraise the quality [of your poems]. It is not only your ability in prose and brushwork, but also the innate wonderfulness. It was not by chance that heaven sent you to be born in the Eastern Quarter [i.e., Chosŏn].’

    “The Grand Prince again had the chinsa brush his calligraphy. While the writing brush was fluttering in the hand of the chinsa, a drop of ink splattered on my finger. I thought this honorable and did not wash it away. The palace attendants of the left and right gazed upon this, smiling broadly and likening it to a gateway for success. Shortly it grew late, and the water clock announced the lateness. The Grand Prince, while sleepily stretching, said, ‘I am drunk. Let us retire and rest, but do not forget: When the morning is bright, if you have an inkling, bring a komun’go and come again.’

    “The next day the Grand Prince again read the two poems and said admiringly, ‘Surely he can contend for supremacy with Kŭnbo, but in his refined deportment, he surpasses him.’

    “From that time on, although I lay down I could not sleep, my heart was so tormented that I could not eat any meals, and I did not know even if my clothes kept me warm. Do you not remember?”

    Charan replied, “I guess I had forgotten about that. Now that I hear you speak, it as if I have sobered up after drinking, and a hazy memory has returned.”

    After that, the Grand Prince frequently met the chinsa, but we were not able to see each other. Thus, I would always spy through a chink in the door. One day, on fine, snow-white writ­ing paper, I wrote a verse:

    The scholar dressed in hempen clothes and girded with a leather belt,

    His jade-like countenance seems as a heavenly sage. 

    Even if always through the bead blinds, I see him, 

    Why is there no destiny [for us] beneath the moon?

    Washing my face, my tears become water,

    Plucking the komun’go, my deep sorrow cries from the strings. 

    Holding my boundless sorrow within my breast,

    Alone, I raise my head, appealing to the heavens.

    I wrapped the poem in many folds along with a golden hairpin and sealed it, intending to give it to the chinsa, but there was no means to do so. That evening the Grand Prince prepared a drink­ing party to display the talent of the chinsa to his guests. The Grand Prince showed the two poems of the chinsa, which were read in turn with nonstop praise, and all wished to meet him. The Grand Prince at once sent a servant and a horse for the chinsa. Shortly thereafter, the chinsa arrived and was seated. However, his face was gaunt, and his vigor seemed to have vanished alto­gether; his appearance was very different.

    The Grand Prince comforted him, “Chinsa, you do not yet have the worries of the Chu kingdom; did you become so emanci­pated walking around a pond beforehand?”

All the guests laughed loudly at this. The chinsa rose and bowed, saying, “I, a humble scholar, impertinently have received the favor of the Grand Prince. Perhaps because of the passing of good fortune and the onset of calamity, illness has bound my body, and I am unable to eat or drink. I even had to rely upon another for moving about. Today, as I have received your gen­erous summons, I have come to pay my respects while being sup­ported by another.”

    Thereupon, all the seated guests shifted their knees and paid him deep respect. As he was the youngest [among the gathered scholars], the chinsa took the seat farthest away [from the center]; there was only a single wall separating us from the inner room where I stayed. It was soon deep into the night, and all the guests were quite drunk. When I made a hole in the wall and peeped inside, the chinsa knew the meaning of this and sat facing the corner. I cast the sealed letter through the hole, and the chinsa grasped it and returned to his house. When he opened and read it, he could not endure the sorrow in his heart, and, for all the world, could not let go of the letter in his hand. It seemed that the longing and yearning in his heart toward me was even greater than ever, and it became difficult to simply survive.         Although he directly wrote a reply to send to me, there was no messenger to entrust the letter with, and he was alone in worry and lamenta­tion.

    One day he heard rumor of a shaman who lived outside the East Gate and had gained fame through her supernatural ability. She also visited Susŏng Palace, where she was trusted and held in favor. Thus, the chinsa went to her house to meet her. She was not yet thirty and quite beautiful. She had become a widow at an early age and of her own accord behaved as a lewd woman.[14] See­ing the chinsa coming to her place, she treated him to a grand table of liquor and food. He took hold of a cup and without drinking said, “Today I have an urgent task, but I will return tomorrow.’’

    The next day he also went and she again cordially treated him. Yet he could not boldly ask favor and said again, “I will come again tomorrow.”

The shaman, seeing the unworldliness of the chinsa’s face, was pleased in her mind. However, as the chinsa had visited her day after day but did not speak a word, she thought it was probably because he was a young man too shy to speak coarsely [of his desire] to her. She decided that she would first entice him and then hold him until nightfall, whereupon she would demand that he sleep with her.

    The next day after bathing, the shaman put on thick makeup and beautifully adorned herself with various ornaments. She prepared the bed with blankets perfumed with flowers and put out a jeweled floor cushion. She then sent a young maid outside the gate to wait for him. The chinsa again came and, looking at her face, magnificent clothes, and the beautiful trappings set out, thought it quite strange.

The shaman spoke enticingly, “What kind of evening is it to see such an excellent person as you tonight?”

    Since the chinsa had no intentions toward the shaman, he did not answer and instead stood with a troubled countenance. Angered, she asked, “Why is a young man like you not reluctant to frequently visit a widow’s house?”

    He responded, “If you have supernatural ability, how come you haven’t figured out why I am here?”

1.     The shaman at once went to her altar room and bowed to the spirits. She shook her bell-rattle and invoked the gods; her body then quivered, and the spirits made a series of mysterious sounds [through her]. After some while she turned around and said, “Ah, you are truly pitiful! As you are not only trying to accom­plish a difficult scheme to achieve your desire, but doing so in an unsuitable manner, you will certainly fail and within three years become one of the next world.”

    The chinsa, with tears flowing, expressed his gratitude: “Even if you said nothing, I already knew everything. However, the sor­row pent up in my heart cannot be resolved even with medicine of every kind. If through you I could only convey this letter to her, even death would be glorious.”

    The shaman replied, “With this lowborn body, although I sometimes visit the palace to perform rites, I dare not go unless I am summoned. However, I will try for you.”

    He took an envelope from under his shirt and gave it to the shaman, saying, “I beg you to be careful. If this is given to the wrong person a calamity will rise like no other.”

    The shaman took the letter and entered the palace gate. The people in the palace all thought her coming to the palace strange, but the shaman explained herself resolutely. Stealing a chance, she took me to a place where none were around and gave me the letter. I returned to my room, tore open the letter; the contents read, 

    From the time we bound our destiny with one look, my heart has grown restless, my spirit has gone out, and my mind cannot be easily pacified. Every time I look west of the palace,[15] it seems as if my bowels have been severed. With the letter that you passed me the other day through the wall, I humbly received your beauti­ful and unforgettable writing. Before I could unfold the whole letter, my breath was taken away, and before I finished half the letter, my tears had drenched the writing. From that time, I could not sleep although I lay down and I could not swallow any food although I tried to eat. Illness has touched the deepest part of my chest, and no sort of medicine will revive me. May heaven con­sider me pitiful and may ghosts help me silently. If ever, once in my life, my sorrow is relieved, I will purposely grind my body and make powder of my bones, and present rites to the myriad spirits in this world under heaven. While writing this letter, a lump binds my throat; what else can I say further?

    At the end of the letter was the following poem:

    The gate to the deep and vast pavilion is closed for the day, 

    The shadows of the trees and clouds are dim and vague.

    The flowers fallen on the flowing water drift away on a streamlet,

    A young swallow carrying mud returns to the edge of the eves.

    Leaning on my pillow, I cannot even dream of the butterfly,[16]

    In my lonely room, alone with deep sorrow, even an osprey would be rare.

    Your jade-like face is right before my eyes, but why are you not saying anything?

    At even the cry of orioles in the green forest, I soak my collar with tears.

    After I had read the entire poem, my voice was dead and my heart lost. When my tears were exhausted, my blood became tears [and continued to flow]. Afraid someone might notice me, I hid myself behind a folding screen. From that time on I thought about him ever more, and I seemed like a stupid or mad person. As I could not hide myself through my words and appearance, it was not unreasonable for the Grand Prince to doubt me. Charan, likewise a woman with pent-up rancor and heartbreak, heard this tale and sobbed, saying, “As poems come from the sincere nature of one’s heart, they cannot be used for deceit.”

    One day the Grand Prince summoned Pich’wi [and said], “There are ten of you in one place and thus you cannot study unhindered. Five of you should move to the Western Palace.”

    The same day, Charan, Ŭnsŏm, Pich’wi, Ongnyŏ, and I moved to the Western Palace. After we arrived, Ongnyŏ said, “Secluded flowers, fine grasses, flowing water, a lovely forest, and a fragrant grove-it is just like a mountain cottage or a farmer’s hut in a field. This will truly be an excellent study place.”

    I replied, “We are neither scholars nor nuns who cultivate the Way, but nonetheless are still confined in this secluded palace. This place truly deserves to be called Changsin Palace.”

    Hearing my words, all of our attendants sighed and were depressed. After this, I wrote a letter conveying my heart to the chinsa and waited to entrust it to the shaman. However, in the end, she did not come [to the palace] until the last moment, prob­ably because she was upset to know that the chinsa’s heart was not for her . . . 

The full version of the tale can be find in Unyŏng-jŏn:

A Love Affair at the Royal Palace of Chosŏn Korea 
 

Unyŏng-jŏn: A Love Affair at the Royal Palace of Chosŏn Korea

(Korea Research Monograph 33. Berkeley: Institute of East Asian Studies, University of California, Berkeley, 2009)

Intro. and annot. Michael J. Pettid

Trans. Michael J. Pettid and Kil Cha

Copyright © 2009 University of California, Berkeley

Pages 64–86. Reprinted by permission of the Regents of the University of California.

https://ieas.berkeley.edu

[1] Grand Prince Anp’yŏng (1418-1453) was the third son of King Sejong (r. 1418-1450).

[2] Paduk is a  game played on a board with a grid of lines.

[3] This implies a very close relationship from long ago between the young man and woman.

[4] The expression “becoming clouds, becoming rain” is a metaphor for sexual intercourse.

[5] Pihae-dang can be translated as the Altar of No-Idleness, and Maengsi-dan as the Shrine of a Pledge to Poetry.

[6] This refers to the gate to a particular section of the city.

[7] While the text refers to Changan, the long-time capital city of Chinese dynasties such as Han and Tang, in this instance it indicates the Joseon capital of Hanyang.

[8] The komun’go is a six-stringed zither and the tanso a small-notched flute.

[9] The liquor taken by heavenly fairies.

[10] Wang Zijin was the crown prince of King Ling of Zhou. For speaking frankly to the king, he was reduced in status to an illegitimate son. One day, while wandering about and playing his flute, he met a Daoist sage and became a heavenly being able to ride to the heavens on the back of a crane.

[11] Mt. Kunlun is a mountain in China where heavenly fairies are said to dwell.

[12] Jade elixir refers to the juice that comes from jade. Drinking this enables long life, and thus it is claimed to be a magical elixir.

[13] Zimei is the courtesy name of Du Fu.

[14] Mudang were considered by official society to be lewd women by virtue of their trade, their mingling with men, and their lifestyle. 

[15] That is, the location of Susong Palace.

[16] The dream of the butterfly refers to the dream that Zhuangzi (365-290 BCE) is said to have had. In his dream he became a butterfly and was thus able to fly about seeking pleasure.