Hyung-sik listened to Yeongchae’s tragic fate, contrasting it with his own childhood hardships. For a long while he sat stunned. That scoundrel had seized her—what was to become of her now? Was the man after her lovely figure, bent on satisfying his vile desires? Or did he mean to sell her body to fund his drink and gambling? Whatever the case, Hyung-sik prayed that Yeongchae’s body had not been defiled by that wretch. He looked her over again, more carefully this time. He knew well that a woman’s face and form change once she has known a man. From one angle she still seemed a virgin; from another, she looked as though she had already given herself to someone. Moreover, her finely shaped brows, her smooth forehead, and the perfume that rose from her skin—none of it suggested an innocent maiden. Suddenly disgust welled up in Hyung-sik. Had this woman yielded herself to countless unknown men all this time? Those lips now bemoaning her lot—had they not sucked the mouths of every sort of filthy man? Had they not spoken words that beguiled every kind of lecherous heart? Was her present act—coming here, talking this way, pretending to be demure, shedding tears—nothing but a cunning scheme to exploit the affection of six or seven years ago and twist me around her finger? So he thought, and then he thought of Seon-hyeong. Seon-hyeong was truly a beautiful girl. Beautiful in face, but even more beautiful in heart. To compare Seon-hyeong with this Yeongchae—was it not like comparing a goddess with a prostitute? He glanced at Yeongchae again. Clear tears pooled in her eyes, and her face bore a sorrowful expression that might almost be called sacred. And when he saw the old woman—with no connection to her at all—grip Yeongchae’s hand and let genuine tears roll down her wrinkled cheeks, Hyung-sik’s heart shifted once more. No, no. I am the one at fault. Yeongchae has not forgotten me. She has come all this way to find me, delighted to see me as if meeting her own parents or siblings, pouring out her troubles. And I—I harbor such despicable thoughts. This is a great wrong I commit against Yeongchae. The daughter of a man as noble as Mr. Park, that lovely Yeongchae who was like a flower bud—could she really have stained herself so? Surely, even through every storm, she has kept her chastity like the pine and bamboo. But how has she lived all this time since then? Yeongchae resumed her story, telling him everything from the moment that scoundrel seized her up to the present.
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In the end, Yeongchae was dragged off by that wicked man. His house was a tiny cottage at the foot of a mountain. One glance told you it belonged to a lazy fellow. Though he now stooped to such villainy, he had once been known as a rich man in that neighborhood. But his family background was low, and he suffered contempt from others. Then, in the Gapjin year, the Donghak movement spread like wildfire. Even illiterate farmers, once they shaved their heads and put on a hat, became as fearsome as tigers—the magistrate himself dared not touch them. Envying their power, this wretch joined the Donghak at once. He sold off most of his ancestral rice paddies and dry fields to donate to the cause, and in the end, he became a destitute man who could barely feed himself. His hopes of becoming a provincial governor or a county magistrate vanished like bubbles. Now he was a beggar without a single furrow of land. If he had been a kind and cultivated man, no amount of poverty would have corrupted his conduct. But he was the sort who had joined the Donghak hoping to become an instant aristocrat. At first he maintained the airs of a gentleman and a scholar, but gradually he lost the long coat, the hat, and the leather shoes needed to keep up appearances. His gentlemanly and scholarly dignity disappeared along with them. He reached a point where anything was fine as long as he got money; anything was fine as long as he could drink. So he became the neighborhood’s notorious swindler and scoundrel. When he sat at the inn and paid for Yeongchae’s meals, it was a fleeting remnant of his former gentlemanly pride. But once he realized she was a young girl and carried her off on his back, that revealed his rotten heart.
He had two sons. The eldest was already twenty-two but still unmarried; the second was a shaggy-headed boy of fifteen or sixteen. When he first carried Yeongchae away, his intention had been to give her to his eldest son, who had yet to take a wife even after turning twenty. Even a man so depraved, nearly a beast, still had some fatherly love left. But as he walked along a deserted road in the pitch-black night with Yeongchae on his back, the warmth of her young flesh against his back and hands irresistibly stirred his lust. It may seem strange that he felt carnal desire for Yeongchae, who was barely thirteen—young enough, by lineage, to be his granddaughter. But his body was vigorous, and the seeds of morality and human decency in his heart had withered away, so it was not so strange after all. He had a wife at home, but she had aged into an old woman through years of poverty and childbearing, offering no warmth at all. Now that a flower-like girl like Yeongchae was in his hands, the beastly man forgot all about making her his daughter-in-law. Unable to control the fire of his lust, he set Yeongchae down on the roadside of a lonely mountain pass. Young and naive, Yeongchae had no idea what evil he intended for her. She was simply terrified. She pressed her palms together and begged once more, "Please, spare me!" But he would not listen. Madly, he forced her down onto the ground.
Hearing this much, Hyung-sik felt a chill run through his entire body. So, after all, Yeongchae had long ceased to be a virgin. Even if she claimed otherwise, he decided, he would not believe her. The image of that scoundrel forcing her to the ground made Hyung-sik feel both pity for Yeongchae and a sense of her defilement. The old woman sat silently, watching Yeongchae's languid lips as she spoke, occasionally sighing and murmuring, "Oh dear, oh dear."
When the scoundrel pressed her to the ground, Yeongchae—without knowing why—was seized by a sudden, terrible fear. She kicked him in the chest with all her might and let out a scream, wailing, "Aah!" The man toppled over. Though Yeongchae was weak and young, she had kicked his chest with the desperation of one fighting for her life. Caught off guard, the blow knocked the wind out of him. Seeing him fall, Yeongchae scrambled to her feet, grabbed a handful of dirt and gravel, and flung it in his face as he tried to get up. Then she fled, mindlessly, wherever her feet would take her. After running frantically for a while, she stopped dead and pricked up her ears. But she heard nothing—only the dawn wind brushing against her sweat-soaked face. Yet in her mind's eye, she saw the scoundrel's shadow chasing after her, and in his hand a bloody blade glinted. With another scream, she started running again. After a while, she looked back. There came the dog she had forgotten, following her with something white in its mouth. Yeongchae was overjoyed and hugged the dog. But the dog's body was drenched in blood. When she embraced its head, she felt her hands wet with blood gushing from its neck. Startled, she stepped back. The dog yelped a few times, then kicked its legs and collapsed to the ground. Yeongchae stood dumbfounded, not knowing what to do. She picked up the white object the dog had been carrying. In the dim dawn light, she realized it was a piece of the scoundrel's jacket. The dog had fought that man for a long time, eventually biting him down and tearing off a strip of his clothing to show its mistress what it had done. But the dog had been kicked, punched, and bitten by the scoundrel. Flesh was torn in several places, blood flowed, and two of its left ribs had been broken, piercing its heart. Unaware how little life it had left, the poor creature had followed its mistress to let her know it had avenged her, and then died at the feet of the master it loved.
"I held that dog's body and wept for a long time," Yeongchae said, fresh tears streaming from her eyes.
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Hearing Yeongchae's story, Hyung-sik felt somewhat relieved. He looked at her face again, and a renewed fondness and love arose in his heart. He felt ashamed for having doubted her chastity. She was as pure as jade, as clean as snow, he told himself. The image of the young, lovely Yeongchae he had seen in Anju appeared vividly before him, and that beautiful image merged with the Yeongchae now sitting before him, pouring out her troubles. Hyung-sik thought: Yes, I will carry on the will of my benevolent teacher and become Yeongchae's husband, living happily with her all my life. Then he saw before his eyes what they would do after they were married. First, they would stand before the pastor in fine clothes and make their vows. He would hold Yeongchae's hand tightly and glance sideways at her blushing cheek. Then Yeongchae, overjoyed and shy, would lower her head even more. That evening, they would lie together in one bed, holding each other tight, and talk about the hardships they had endured over the past seven or eight years and how they had thought of and longed for each other. As Yeongchae wet the pillow with happy tears and poured out the feelings she had buried deep inside, he, overwhelmed with emotion, would tremble all over and embrace her. Then Yeongchae would press her forehead to his chest and murmur, "Oh, is this a dream?" trembling herself. After that, he would earn money both as a teacher and as a writer, build a clean house, and create a happy home. When he returned from work in the evening, Yeongchae would be waiting and waiting, and when she saw him coming, she would run out and throw herself into his arms. Then they would embrace and kiss, following Western custom. Soon a son would be born. A son with big eyes and a round face like Yeongchae, and a sturdy build like him. Then a daughter. Then another son. Ah, what a joyful family it would be.
But what if Yeongchae had learned nothing all this time? What if she lacked the education to understand his mind and his thoughts? She had studied a little when she was young, but if she had not studied for seven or eight years, she must have forgotten everything. Ah, what if Yeongchae was so ignorant? Could he build a happy family with such an ignorant woman? Ah, what if Yeongchae was uneducated? As he thought this, all his earlier fantasies seemed pointless, and a cold feeling crept into his heart. So Hyung-sik looked at Yeongchae's face again. Her bearing and the expression on her face—no matter how he looked, she was not an uneducated woman. Moreover, judging by her hands and clothes, she did not seem to have endured hardship or suffering until now. The more he looked, the more she seemed like someone from a high-class family who had received a high-class education. If not, she would not have such a composed bearing, and her speech would not be so genteel and polished. Especially the literary flavor in her words—surely she had received a superior education.
Perhaps, just as he had made something of himself with the help of others, she too had found someone to help her live comfortably and graduate from some school. Like Yoon Sun-ae at Elder Kim's house—maybe she had been studying all this time in some noble family or cultured gentleman's home. Perhaps she had graduated from a girls' high school this very year. If only that were true! Yes, it must be so, Hyung-sik believed, and he was delighted. He longed to hear the rest of her story. Surely what Yeongchae would say next would match his thoughts exactly.
Yeongchae accepted a slice of pear the old woman had carefully cut for her and ate it, thinking of the past. She let out a long sigh. What she had told so far was certainly hardship enough, certainly worthy of tears. But what she was about to tell was even sadder. Even when she thought of it alone, she shuddered. To speak of such things to another person made her even more sorrowful and ashamed. Over the past four or five years, Yeongchae had met many people. She had had quite a few friends with whom she had lived like siblings for a time, however brief. Sometimes, when those friends gathered and bemoaned their fates, they would say everything, no matter how unspeakable. But she had never once told anyone what she was about to tell Hyung-sik. Even if she did say it, the listener would only think it was pitiful, not truly sympathize with her—she knew that. Even with her closest friends, Yeongchae never spoke of her true identity. She only said that she had lost her parents young and been raised by neighbors. She could not bear to speak of her father, and she could not reveal her true circumstances. So she kept her sorrowful history buried deep in her heart. Perhaps if she had never met Hyung-sik in her life, the pent-up feelings and gnawing resentment in her breast would have remained hidden from the world forever. Though the world is full of people, how many are there who can truly listen to the secrets buried deep in one's heart? When Yeongchae's heart was most tormented, she had more than once thought of finding someone who seemed to pity her the most and unburdening herself, just once. If she could pour out her story to her heart's content, she thought, she might feel somewhat lighter. But the people she met in the world—every last one of them—only wanted to toy with her and devour her. Not to mention those who passed by without a glance. Even those who approached with the most affectionate smiles and gentle voices—they did not love her or pity her. They meant to deceive her, to toy with her, to satisfy their own desires.
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Now Yeongchae had met Hyung-sik, the one she had never forgotten, the one she had thought of and longed for all her life. She would tell him the secrets she had kept locked in her heart. Thinking that there was still someone in the world who would listen to her story, Yeongchae was happier than she could express. But then she hesitated. From Hyung-sik's expression, she could see that he was glad to meet her and pitied her lot. But if he learned that she had sold her body and become a gisaeng, a plaything for wandering men these past five or six years, how disappointed and sad he would be! And Hyung-sik was said to be a man of upright conduct. If he learned she had become a lowly creature like a gisaeng, wouldn't he feel disgust? Now he was weeping for her and showing her affection, but if she told him she had become a gisaeng, wouldn't he immediately think ill of her, feel displeased? Wouldn't he frown and say, "You are a filthy person. Not someone I should be close to"? At this thought, Yeongchae lost the courage to continue. The joyful feeling of meeting a long-lost parent or sibling faded, replaced by fresh sorrow and fresh shame. Ah, after all, he is a stranger. Hyung-sik, too, is a stranger after all. I cannot freely tell him all the secrets in my heart. Yeongchae bowed her head as fresh tears flowed. Why did I become a gisaeng? Why didn't I become someone's servant instead of a gisaeng? If I had become a servant, or a nursemaid, or a seamstress, I would not feel this shame before Hyung-sik, and I would not be unable to speak what is in my heart. Ah, why did I become a gisaeng? Of course, Yeongchae had not become one willingly. She had done it to save her father and her two brothers.
The day Yeongchae first arrived at Pyongyang Prison and was granted a visit with her father, she was both shocked and grieved. Even in her childish ignorance, seeing how changed her father was made her heart ache. His face, glimpsed through a small opening, was deeply wrinkled and gaunt. His eyes were sunken. His beard, once as white as snow and so pleasant to see, was utterly unkempt, like tangled hair. But what pained her most was the hideous, dun-colored prison uniform. When she had first approached the prison gate, she had seen men in those hideous dun-colored uniforms, wearing strange hats woven from straw, dragging heavy chains, and carrying round, foul-smelling buckets. Having never seen such a sight before, Yeongchae had trembled with fear, as if she were seeing the monsters and ghosts she had dreaded since childhood. Could those creatures be human like us? They must be people who have committed some terrible, heinous crime, she thought. And when those hideous men stared at her strangely as she passed by, a chill ran down her spine. But in her naivety, it never occurred to her that her father might look like that. She had imagined her father as he had been in their home's men's quarters, wearing a clean long coat and clean socks, sitting at his desk reading books and teaching his young students. She had endured terrible hardships on the way to Pyongyang, but she believed that once she met her father, she would stay by his side forever, running errands for him, washing and ironing his clothes, and learning the Elementary Learning, the Biographies of Exemplary Women, and the Book of Songs again, as she had in the old happy days. She had imagined his face always smiling, his eyes always bright, his voice always warm and strong. After waiting over two hours in the waiting room, when the guard led her inside, Yeongchae was so happy she nearly burst into tears. She was about to see her father. All the suffering she had endured—being tormented by village boys in Sukcheon, being seized by that scoundrel at an inn the next day and nearly suffering a terrible calamity, being captured and tormented by a gold prospector near Seokam-ri in Sunan—all vanished. Only joy filled her heart. When she entered the visiting room, she expected her father to rush out and embrace her, saying, "You've come?" But when she entered, she saw only thick wooden boards blocking off every side, and guards with long swords passed by with thumping steps, staring at her with cold, indifferent eyes. Her father was nowhere to be seen. Instead, a dark-bearded policeman—a guard, though in Yeongchae's mind he was a policeman—stood holding a rope in his hand and barked at her, "Don't cry. If you cry, you won't see your father." Yeongchae was utterly crushed. Fear and sorrow overcame her. After a moment, the policeman pulled the rope in his hand. A clatter sounded, and a wooden panel in the board wall rose, pulled by the rope, revealing a small square opening. Through it, she saw her father's face—so terribly changed. She could see from his shoulders up to his eyes; his forehead was hidden behind the wall. He did not smile. He did not speak. He simply looked at Yeongchae. His face no longer had the warmth it once had. The light and laughter that had once been in his eyes were gone. When he had faced Yeongchae before, his whole face had been a smile. Now it was expressionless, as if carved from wood. Is this my father? Yeongchae was so stunned she stared at that face for a long time. Her blood seemed to freeze, her limbs to stiffen. Then she saw tears welling up in his sunken eyes behind that wooden mask, and only then did she seem to realize—"This is my father"—and cried out, "Father?" Sobbing, she wailed, "What has happened to you?"