Hyeong-sik always lamented his lack of knowledge and cultivation, as if it were a habit. He truly regretted his deficiencies, but his students had once dismissed it as nothing more than modesty. Lately, however, they had come to believe his regret was genuine. And so they no longer trusted his words as before. They interpreted "I lack knowledge and cultivation" as Hyeong-sik apologizing because he feared them. But Hyeong-sik had never meant it that way. Even if his knowledge and cultivation were lacking, he was not yet afraid of falling behind Huigyeong's clique. To Hyeong-sik, Huigyeong and his followers were still children. Even if they clenched their fists and sprinted to catch up with him, he doubted they could overtake him in less than six or seven years. Hyeong-sik was confident that he was the most progressive thinker in Joseon, a pioneer. So beneath his humble exterior lay pride and arrogance toward Joseon society. He had read Western philosophy and Western literature. He had read Rousseau's Confessions and Émile, Shakespeare's Hamlet, Goethe's Faust, and Kropotkin's The Conquest of Bread. He read political theories and literary critiques in new magazines, and had even won a prize for a novel in a Japanese magazine contest. He knew Tagore's name and had read Ellen Key's biography. He had pondered the universe and contemplated life. He believed he had his own view of life, the universe, religion, art, and even education. When he rode a packed train and saw the teeming crowds before him, he felt a kind of pride at knowing words and ideas they did not. At the same time, he felt the responsibility of a pioneer — When will I ever teach them as much as I know? — and the loneliness and sorrow of a pioneer: that among twenty million people, only a few understood his words and grasped his meaning. Then he tried to think of friends who could appreciate what he said. But Hyeong-sik couldn't count even ten on his fingers. And these fewer-than-ten were the pioneers who understood the new civilization among Joseon's people, the ones who would teach and lead the entire nation. He considered it his greatest satisfaction that over the past four years he had drawn Huigyeong and four or five others up to his own level. Though they were children compared to him, he saw them as adults next to others — pioneers. He believed that no other students in Joseon, despite the many schools and students, could match Huigyeong's clique. And he thought that among educators, he alone understood the new civilization and had the insight to see Joseon's future. The hundreds of teachers in Seoul, he believed, all taught arithmetic and Japanese mechanically, ignorant of the true meaning of educating Koreans. Thus he always felt dissatisfied with Joseon's educational system. His frantic efforts over several months to establish the Gyeongseong Education Society were aimed at using such an organization to promote his educational ideals.
But other teachers did not recognize Hyeong-sik as having such lofty knowledge and ideas, and some did not even consider him their equal. Indeed, there was nothing particularly outstanding about Hyeong-sik's words or actions. What he said with fervor, as if it were great truth, failed to move his audience. His only distinguishing feature was mixing in lots of English and citing famous Western names and quotes, producing long-winded speeches whose meaning was unclear. Hyeong-sik's lectures and writings seemed like direct translations from Western texts. According to him, only such language could express deep and detailed thoughts. So when people didn't follow his opinions, he fumed alone, blaming their inability to grasp his ideas. To be fair, Hyeong-sik was somewhat more progressive than other teachers, and he had the sincerity to practice what he believed. But he was blind to people's hearts. He assumed everyone's mind worked like his own — that what he thought good would appear good to others once they understood it. In a word, he was subjective, a man of ideals, not a man of reality.
His four years as a teacher had been a life of failure. He had proposed many ideas at school, but few were adopted. He had taught and urged many things on his students, but little was welcomed, and even less was actually implemented. Hyeong-sik had raged and despaired over this. But he never attributed it to his own shortcomings; he told himself that people simply didn't yet grasp his lofty thoughts, and he called it the sorrow of a pioneer, soothing himself alone. Yet others didn't reject his opinions because they failed to understand them. In their view, his ideas were simply impractical, and even if implemented, would likely prove ineffective. Still, people gradually acknowledged that Hyeong-sik had considerable knowledge and had read many difficult books, and that his thinking was quite deep. So they called him a "thinker" or "philosopher" — half-jokingly, half in praise. But these nicknames mostly carried mockery: You just keep thinking. You can't do anything in practice. Yet Hyeong-sik, hearing them, would sneer and think, Do you even know what a thinker or philosopher is? Still, he didn't entirely dislike those nicknames.
🙝 🙟
Hyeong-sik entered the faculty office. The bell for class had already rung; all the other teachers had gone to their classrooms. Bae Hak-gam sat alone, smoking a cigarette. He glanced at Hyeong-sik and turned away. A wave of displeasure washed over Hyeong-sik, but he said nothing, picked up a box of chalk and a textbook, and climbed to the fourth-year classroom on the second floor.
"Sorry I'm late," Hyeong-sik said, looking around the classroom with a cheerful expression. Huigyeong glanced at him, smiled, and lowered his head. The other students grinned and snickered, some looking at Hyeong-sik, others exchanging glances. Only Kim Jongryeol sat quietly, not smiling.
Hyeong-sik opened his book, placed it on the desk, sat down on the chair, and surveyed the room suspiciously. An unspeakable irritation rose in his chest. The students' attitude was unmistakably odd. This had never happened before. Today there was a mocking glint in their eyes. But Hyeong-sik forced a smile.
"Why are you all laughing at me? Let's begin. Lesson eighteen... Mr. Kim, please read."
The students burst out laughing all at once, as if they could no longer contain themselves. "Wah!" They pressed their foreheads to their desks, snickering. Their shoulders shook. Hyeong-sik's face turned red. He felt ashamed, angry, and sad. He wanted to stamp his feet and scold them, wanted to cry out loud. He jumped up and glared, his voice stern.
"What is this? What kind of manners are these?"
But his voice trembled. The laughter stopped, and everyone sat up straight. Huigyeong kept his head deeply bowed, doodling on his desk with a pencil. Kim Jongryeol sat there as if nothing had happened. Hyeong-sik no longer felt like teaching. His heart pounded, his breath came short. To be humiliated by those he had taught with all his heart and soul for four or five years — it was infuriating. From the neighboring classroom, which had been lecturing on mathematics, the sound suddenly cut off as the students' laughter and Hyeong-sik's raised voice carried over. They were probably eavesdropping.
"What happened? Someone speak up. What kind of behavior is this? Speak!"
All eyes turned to Kim Jongryeol. Huigyeong bowed his head even lower, swinging his leg and doodling with his pencil. Kim Jongryeol stood up abruptly. The students looked back and forth between Hyeong-sik and Jongryeol, grinning, nudging each other. Some whispered. Hyeong-sik felt his hair stand on end. Jongryeol cleared his throat like an orator.
"Teacher, I have a question."
He stared at Hyeong-sik. The word "question" made Hyeong-sik flinch inwardly. But he summoned the courage to face whatever might come. He looked back at Jongryeol.
"What question?"
"Teacher, where did you go during your absence? That is what I am asking." Jongryeol sat back down. All eyes fixed on Hyeong-sik's mouth.
"Yes, I went to Pyongyang. So? What of it?"
"Why did you go?" a student asked, as if thinking aloud. Another chimed in, "With whom?" The students snickered again. Someone added, "Following whom?"
Hyeong-sik understood everything. Jongryeol stood up again.
"For what purpose did you go to Pyongyang? Seeing that you took leave from school, it's not difficult to infer that some significant incident occurred..."
Hyeong-sik was speechless. He lowered his head and closed his eyes. He stood still for a long time, not knowing what he was thinking. The students laughed again. Someone said, "Gyewolhyang followed him, hee hee."
Just then, Bae Hak-gam strode in.
"Mr. Lee, why is this classroom so noisy? The other classrooms can't conduct class." He turned to the students. "Why are you all making such a racket?" As he turned to leave, a student shouted, "Gyewolhyang!" Bae Hak-gam shot Hyeong-sik a glare and closed the door behind him.
Hyeong-sik lifted his head and looked around at the students. In a trembling voice he said, "Four years of teaching end here. I'm leaving." He walked out of the classroom. Behind him came laughter and chatter. Tears welled in Hyeong-sik's eyes.
He went into the faculty office, grabbed his hat, and wondered where to flee. But Bae Hak-gam urged, "Mr. Lee, why don't you sit here for a moment?" and offered a chair. Without thinking, Hyeong-sik sat down, took out a cigarette, and lit it.
"Where did you go?" Bae Hak-gam asked.
"Yes, I went to Pyongyang."
"You must have had a good time. Pyongyang's scenery is lovely, isn't it?"
"Are you mocking me?" Hyeong-sik shot a glare at Bae Hak-gam. Bae Hak-gam laughed.
"Oh, no need to get so angry. A man fooling around with a gisaeng is hardly a stain on his character. It's just that we thought you were too noble for that sort of thing. I didn't know Gyewolhyang was your sweetheart. If I had known, I wouldn't have been so rude. Why hide her away? Let people like us at least see her face or hear her voice. Ha ha, you're a lucky man."
"To judge me by your own standards! Do you think Lee Hyeong-sik is like you?"
"Hmph. Of course you're noble, a saint, Yu Ha-hye himself."
Hyeong-sik slammed his fist on the desk and walked out the school gate.
🙝 🙟
Hyeong-sik stepped onto the playground. First-year students, doing gymnastics, looked up at him. The stout physical education teacher wiped sweat from his forehead with a towel and nodded to Hyeong-sik. In Hyeong-sik's mind, everyone was laughing at him. The PE teacher, who had always flattered Bae Hak-gam and opposed Hyeong-sik, definitely had a mocking gleam in his eye. Hyeong-sik resolved, "I'll never set foot in this damned school again," and walked out the gate. But outside, he hesitated. Leaving forever the school he had regarded as home for four or five years, the students he had treated as brothers, children, lovers — it was undeniably sad. Every blade of grass in that playground, every tree, had become dear to him. The poplar, more than ten yards tall, standing behind the horizontal bars — Hyeong-sik had planted it with his own hands in his first year at the school, watered it daily, picked off insects, and nurtured it. That poplar had already spread its branches and grown thick leaves, becoming a fine shade tree. When he saw pretty students sitting under it during the day, chatting happily, Hyeong-sik always felt joy. He imagined his heart had become that poplar, sheltering the young students. During breaks, he would stroll in its shade, stroking it affectionately. But now Hyeong-sik was leaving. That tree would spread ever wider, countless young students would still play happily under it — but no one would remember him. Hyeong-sik turned back, gazed at the tree for a long time, and shed tears of sorrow. Yet he could not bear to stand long outside the school gate. He bowed his head and walked down toward Andong Intersection. The weather grew hotter day by day; clouds drifted across the sky, but it didn't look like rain. People on the street fanned themselves with palm-leaf fans. Cart drivers could barely keep their eyes open through the sweat streaming down. A policeman in white uniform stood in the shadow of a roof corner, blowing puffs of air from his mouth. But Hyeong-sik did not feel the heat. He occasionally stepped aside for oncoming carts as he descended into Andong Alley.
His mind was in utter turmoil. He thought about submitting his resignation to Gyeongseong School, but beyond that, he had no idea what to do. His head seethed like boiling water. After days of mental and physical exhaustion, and now this fierce blow at school, Hyeong-sik felt like a fever patient. Only an unspeakable sorrow pressed down on his head like a thousand-pound weight.
The incident in the classroom earlier was the most serious and most unfortunate event for Hyeong-sik. All his hope had been in that fourth-year class, and all his happiness. Because that class existed, Hyeong-sik was never lonely; even in his simple, tedious life, he had found great joy. In a sense, over the past four or five years, that class had been his wealth and his life. It had been the work to which he devoted his entire heart. He believed that the thirty-odd fourth-year students would forever be his spiritual brothers and sons — just as he never forgot them in his dreams, they would never forget him. Just as he loved them, they would love him.
But it had all been a dream. Hyeong-sik had no parents, no siblings, no close friends — that was why he loved them so. But they had parents, siblings, and beloved friends besides him. Over four or five years, some students had followed him, but even to Lee Huigyeong, who seemed most devoted, Hyeong-sik had never been a truly important loved one. Hyeong-sik had not known this until today. Only today did he clearly see himself reflected in the eyes of the fourth-year students.
How great is the sorrow when one realizes that those he has loved with all his heart — or believed loved him with all their hearts — do not love him after all? Perhaps no sorrow in life is greater than the disappointment of love.
Hyeong-sik was exactly in that state. Now he had nothing left. The trip to Pyongyang could be explained, but explaining it was not particularly necessary to him. Even if he explained, it could not change the truth that the fourth-year students did not love him. He was not grieving for his reputation. Reputation is only the third or fourth most precious thing to a person. Now Hyeong-sik had lost the root of his life. It was as if he had lost his footing in life and was floating aimlessly in the air. Whether he would wither away completely or find new ground to root himself — only the future would tell.
🙝 🙟
Hyeong-sik returned home in a daze. The old woman sat on the wooden veranda, bare-chested, smoking her pipe. Her shoulders and elbows were knobbed with bone; her wrinkled, shrunken breasts clung flat to her chest like dried things. A few trickles of sweat running down from her temples gave the impression of corpse fluid seeping from rotting flesh. Her hair, half gray with only a few strands left, her wrinkled, sunken cheeks, her skin like a withered leaf in the hot sun, her bent back as she smoked — all evoked an unspeakable pathos. She too had once been a young beauty who drove men mad. She had believed that every man in the world lost his senses at the sight of her. She thought her face and body would be beautiful forever. That was only twenty or thirty years ago. But all the beauty in her face and body had flown away. The sweat she shed seemed like that beauty itself melting and running off.