In the seven or eight years since leaving home, Yeongchae had yet to see a good world or meet good people. For seven years, she had been a stranger in a wicked land, far from her virtuous hometown, separated from her own kind—good people—and subjected to every kind of mockery and hardship at the hands of her enemies. Yet she never doubted that a good world and good people existed, for she had seen them seven years ago. She believed herself to be one of those found in the Biographies of Exemplary Women, Inner Rules, or Elementary Learning—someone who could never belong to an evil world. The books her father had taught her as a child truly governed her life.
She reasoned: there is indeed a good world, there are indeed good people, but by some twist of fate she had temporarily left them. Surely, one day she would find that world and those people again. So when she looked upon the myriad houses of Jangan stretching from within Namdaemun to Dongdaemun, she wondered which one might be like the home she had left seven years ago. When she saw the countless men and women passing through the Jongno Intersection, she asked herself: which of these could be like the people she once knew?
Whenever someone well-dressed, wearing a fine watch, approached her, she always thought, "You belong to a different world than mine!" and treated them with a kind of contempt. Yeongchae believed that good houses and good people existed in Jangan, and she spent day and night searching for them. But the only good person in her memory was Lee Hyeong-sik. For seven years, she had faced dozens, even hundreds of men, yet she never surrendered her body. Her sole thought, night and day, was to find Lee Hyeong-sik. That was why, upon learning he was in Seoul, she had come looking for him.
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In the meantime, Yeongchae had seen many other gisaeng. She observed what kind of women they were. Dozens had called her "older sister" and treated her warmly. Dozens more had been her casual friends, shouting "Hey, is that you?" And a few had called her "older sister" and followed her with affection.
The first gisaeng Yeongchae grew fond of after becoming a gisaeng in Pyongyang was a woman named Gye Wol-hwa—beautiful, with a fine singing voice. At that time, the eyes of every pleasure-seeking man in Pyongyang were fixed on Wol-hwa alone. She composed poetry well and painted ink paintings no worse than anyone else. Proud of her talents, she kept even average men at a distance. So men she rejected called her an "arrogant bitch" or "insolent wench," and her madam scolded her to be more polite to guests. But Wol-hwa trusted in her face and skill. When faced with a guest she deemed beneath her, she would sing a sijo by Soli:
"Soli, Soli, what Sol did they take me for?
I stand a towering pine on a thousand-foot cliff—
Can the woodcutter's sickle at the foot ever reach me?"
Her friends nicknamed her "Soli." Indeed, her ideal was Soli. That was why Yeongchae came to love her. In Yeongchae's eyes, a gisaeng like Wol-hwa was worthy of inclusion in the Biographies of Exemplary Women. And without even knowing who Soli was, seeing Wol-hwa take her as an ideal, Yeongchae adopted the same ideal. Once, Yeongchae had clung to Wol-hwa and said, "Older sister! Let you, me, and Soli be friends, all three of us." She vowed to become a Soli like her older sister.
Men drooled over Wol-hwa's beauty and talents and flocked to her. Among them were rich men and handsome men. They competed to dress well, wear gold watches and rings, and do anything to win her love. But the man Wol-hwa imagined in her mind was not such a frivolous sort. She thought of Li Bai, of Gao Shi and Wang Changling—poets of the High Tang era—and of Yang Chang-gok and Lee Do-ryeong. Yet among the men swarming around her, not one matched that ideal. They had only money and lust. After being summoned to some restaurant or another and returning late at night, Wol-hwa would often come to Yeongchae in tears:
"Yeongchae, why is the world so empty? In all of Pyongyang, I can't find anyone who is truly a person."
Yeongchae didn't fully understand, but she guessed it meant "someone who pleases me." And in her childish mind, she thought, "But I have Lee Hyeong-sik."
Wol-hwa grew more bitterly disillusioned with the world. While teaching Yeongchae poetry, she would often embrace her tightly, crying:
"Yeongchae, why were you and I born in this Joseon?"
At such times, Yeongchae, not understanding, would ask, "Then where should we have been born?" Wol-hwa, as if pitying her naivety, replied, "You still don't understand."
Wol-hwa lamented not being born in Jiangnan during the High Tang. She regretted that there was no Sima Xiangru to seduce her with the "Phoenix Song," as he had Zhuo Wenjun. In her mind, Heaven had created the Daedong River and then Moranbong, so she would be the Daedong River—but who would be Moranbong, casting its reflection in spring flowers and autumn maples before Bubyeokru?
She resented the ignorance and coldness of the Joseon people. Above all, she grieved that among all the men of Pyongyang, there was not a single poet, not a single literary man. By age twenty, she had never met a man who suited her heart. With sorrow and a sneering contempt for the world, she made her sole companions the recitation of old poems and the composition of her own verse. She loved Yeongchae, cherishing her like a younger sister, teaching her to read and write poetry. When her heart was heavy, she would pour out her feelings to Yeongchae, who barely understood. Each time, Yeongchae would cry out, "Older sister!" and bury herself in Wol-hwa's chest.
Once, at a banquet, all the so-called first-class figures and top gisaeng of Pyongyang gathered. The venue was Bubyeokru, beneath Moranbong, on a calm early summer evening. Wol-hwa pulled Yeongchae into a corner and whispered, "Hey, Yeongchae, do you see?" "See what?" Yeongchae looked around the room. Wol-hwa put her mouth to Yeongchae's ear: "Those people over there are supposed to be Pyongyang's finest. But those so-called first-class men are all just Heo Jabi dressed up in fine clothes." Then she pointed at the gisaeng. "And those—they're filthy whores who sell their voices and bodies to live." Yeongchae was fifteen then, so she understood Wol-hwa's meaning more clearly than before. "That's true," she said, nodding her little head. As they spoke, a gentleman in a Western suit came over smiling, put his arm around Wol-hwa's neck, and said, "Hey, Wol-hwa, what are you standing here for?" trying to pull her away. This gentleman was the eldest son of Pyongyang's wealthy Kim Yun-su, then madly infatuated with Wol-hwa—a man in his thirties who had done nothing in life but chase gisaeng. Wol-hwa naturally despised him. In front of him, too, she had sung "Soli, Soli." Now, highly displeased, she shook him off. Later, she learned that another gentleman at the banquet had caught her interest. Who was he, and what would become of his relationship with Wol-hwa?
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On the way back from that banquet, Yeongchae followed Wol-hwa for a stroll along the base of Cheongnyu Cliff. Just then, four or five students from Pyongyang's Paeseong Middle School (modeled after Daeseong School; in the newspaper serial and the newspaper edition it was 'Paeseong School,' but in the Samjungdang collection and later editions it was changed to Daeseong School. The same applies below—Editor's note) stood on a rock above the cliff, singing joyfully. Their song went:
The winding Daedong River
embraces Neungra Island,
and the round-shouldered Moranbong
dances with a joyful sway.
Sitting on Cheongnyu Cliff,
listen, flowing water—
I send you the hot blood
of my youth.
Wol-hwa tugged Yeongchae's sleeve. "Do you hear that song?" "It's very beautiful." Wol-hwa sighed. "So there is a poet among them," she said, and tears fell silently. Yeongchae didn't understand but looked up at the students singing on Cheongnyu Cliff. They kept singing, the hems of their long coats fluttering in the wind. Somehow, Yeongchae felt a fondness for those students, and an inexplicable sorrow rose in her chest. She leaned on Wol-hwa's shoulder and wept with her. Wol-hwa embraced her.
"Yeongchae, there is a true poet among them," she repeated. "The people we meet every day are dead. They think of nothing but eating, dressing, and playing with women. But among those students, there is a true poet."
Then the students sang another song:
The light of dawn rises,
the sun climbs upward.
All things on earth
dance for joy.
While the world dreams,
I alone rise
and gaze at the sky,
singing a mournful song.
Wol-hwa stamped her feet as if she could not bear it. "Let's go up there," she said to Yeongchae. But before the words were out, the students put on their hats and disappeared over the hill. Wol-hwa plopped down on a roadside rock and sang the students' song over and over, a dozen times. Yeongchae, naturally drawn to the melody, sang along with her. Then Wol-hwa stared for a long time at the place where the students had stood. But they were gone.
From that day on, Wol-hwa wept more often. Yeongchae wept with her, and whenever she had free time, she stayed by Wol-hwa's side. She grew more attached to Wol-hwa, and Wol-hwa loved her all the more. At fifteen, Yeongchae gradually began to understand Wol-hwa's feelings. The more she understood, the more she sympathized with her tears. Yeongchae herself was gaining a reputation for beauty, fine singing, and poetic skill—so much that many men wanted to pluck this fresh morning flower. And she began to understand what Wol-hwa had said that day at Bubyeokru.
Still, seeing how Wol-hwa had changed and suffered since that banquet, even young Yeongchae sensed that something had happened to her. Now Yeongchae, too, began to long for a man. When she faced an unfamiliar man, her cheeks flushed. Lying alone in bed at night, she wished for someone to hold her. One night, after returning late from a banquet, Yeongchae and Wol-hwa shared a bed. In her sleep, Yeongchae tightly embraced Wol-hwa and kissed her on the mouth. Wol-hwa smiled to herself. "Ah, you've awakened too… Sorrow and hardship lie ahead of you." She woke Yeongchae. "Yeongchae, you were hugging me and kissing me just now." Embarrassed, Yeongchae rubbed her face against Wol-hwa's chest and bit her white nipple. "Only because you're my older sister," she said. Yeongchae was old enough now to know that Wol-hwa's tears must have a reason. She wanted to ask, but shyness held her back. Still, she thought to herself: Wol-hwa must be thinking of the students who sang on Cheongnyu Cliff. That image, too, was unforgettable in Yeongchae's eyes. From the road, she could only make out silhouettes on the cliff—no clear features—but the noble bearing, the clear voices, the meaningful and beautiful songs had left a blue chill on both women's hearts. The young men had probably sung thoughtlessly, but to these two women who had never met a "true person," a "sincere person," a "hopeful person," a "person worthy of being human"—the students' figures and songs had left an extraordinarily vivid impression.
When Yeongchae silently compared those singing students with the so-called gentlemen she had been keeping company with, she felt that the students were far more endearing. Lately, she felt a strange coolness in her chest, a restless itch in her body, and an increasing sense of emptiness. When Wol-hwa stared at her face, Yeongchae would lower her head, afraid that Wol-hwa might see right through her. Wol-hwa, too, sensed that Yeongchae's heart was ripening. Remembering her own past, she foresaw much sorrow in Yeongchae's future. As if fearing that Yeongchae would fall into the wrong hands, she always said, "Yeongchae, in this world now, there is no one worthy of entrusting our bodies to," and advised her to make old poems her lifelong companions.
Yeongchae wanted to know the meaning behind Wol-hwa's tears. Eventually, the opportunity came.
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One evening, Wol-hwa came to Yeongchae and suggested they go listen to a speech. In Pyongyang, a new school called Paeseong School had risen, attracting hundreds of young men from all directions. Its principal, Ham Sang-mo, was a pioneer genuinely admired by those hundreds of students. Every week, Principal Ham held a public lecture at the school, inviting anyone to attend. The people of Pyongyang gathered in the school's main auditorium after dusk—some with sincere desire to hear new ideas, others out of simple curiosity. Principal Ham was passionate and eloquent. When he spoke of sad things, the audience wept. When he spoke of happy things, they clapped and cheered. When he denounced some evil, their eyes blazed and they foamed at the mouth. His themes were: that Joseon people must shed their old shell like others and embrace new civilization; that the people were lazy and spiritless, and to become a new, thriving nation they must adopt a new spirit and new courage; and that education was paramount—sons and daughters must receive a new education.
Yeongchae had heard of Principal Ham and his skill at oratory, so she followed Wol-hwa to Paeseong School. They dressed as plainly as possible, but they could not hide their faces and bearing. Yangin, too, was a famous gisaeng in Pyongyang, and among the crowd they saw people pointing and whispering. They pushed through the crowd and sat side by side in a corner. Some men deliberately elbowed them, stepped on their feet, brushed their hands with theirs, and one even slipped a hand under Wol-hwa's arm. "You know only that we're gisaeng, not that we're human," Wol-hwa muttered, and shielding Yeongchae, she made her way inside. There was no separate women's section—no women came to listen—so they sat on the edge of the men's bench. Soon Principal Ham noticed them. He called a student and spoke to him. The student brought two chairs, placed them at the far left of the front row, then came to the two women and bowed politely.
"Please come sit over here," he said, guiding them. For the first time since becoming gisaeng, they felt treated like human beings. Soon the students entered and took their seats. Wol-hwa watched them covertly, wondering if they looked at her. But the students sat straight-faced, not a twitch. Wol-hwa whispered to Yeongchae, "These students are from a different world than the people we've known, aren't they?" Indeed, Principal Ham had trained his students well. Though he hadn't entirely shed the old-fashioned educator's tendency to ignore individuality and mold everyone into one shape, he was still the most progressive and passionate educator in Joseon at the time. Probably, the only people in Pyongyang who saw Wol-hwa without a lascivious smile were the Paeseong students. The students might have thought, "She's pretty," and even wanted to see her again, but they never thought, like others, "I'd like to spend a night with that." Even if some thought, "I wish she were mine," it was not to toy with her as others would, but to make her his wife, to love and respect her. Others saw Wol-hwa as a plaything, but these students, though they might consider gisaeng lowly, still saw her as a fellow countryman, a sister.