aroused his suspicions. He accidentally discovered the name of
San-Syeng tattooed on his arm. Additional evidence was furnished him
when he found a ring one day while rummaging among some old books and
papers. He hid this precious object in his pocket, saying to himself:
“I believe what the fellows told me was true after all.”
From this day on, San-Syeng was constantly preoccupied with thoughts as
to who his parents might be. In order to more easily solve this problem
he determined to travel through the country, thinking that some day he
would be able to discover those to whom he owed his birth.
When he had reached his seventeenth year, San-Syeng asked Su-Rung
for permission to make a trip through Korea in order to finish his
education. Su-Rung made no opposition, although he preferred that his
adopted son take a traveling companion. Nevertheless, he did not insist
but gave his consent for San-Syeng to travel alone on a journey that
would consume perhaps two years.
San-Syeng had been gone several weeks when he came to a beautiful
little village where he counted upon remaining but a short while. Until
now, his voyage had been uneventful. But the time for adventure was
at hand. The first incident was somewhat distasteful. San-Syeng had
stopped for a moment in the street where some children were playing. He
was watching their antics with pleasure when he received a shock. He
had just heard one of the gamins ask one of his comrades.
“Do you know that robber, Su-Rung?”
“By name, yes, but I have never seen him. Why do you ask me that? He’s
a wicked man.”
“Because they tell a remarkable story about that fellow. One of my
friends was at school with the son, or rather the adopted son, of this
thief. It seems, in fact, that Su-Rung found the child abandoned by the
roadside and took him home and raised him. Thanks to his robberies, the
man is very rich. He has just sent his son on a long trip. That’s what
my friend told me.”
San-Syeng had not missed a word of this conversation. His curiosity was
aroused to the highest pitch, so he approached the youngster who had
spoken, and asked,
“Pardon me, friend, would you tell me your name? Do you know Su-Rung?”
“Sir, I know this man only through having heard tales of him.”
This reply hardly satisfied San-Syeng, but, believing that the child
had been frightened, he did not pursue his questioning further but
walked on.
Shortly afterward, San-Syeng came to the village of Yen-Yu, where he
decided to tarry for a few days to recover from the fatigue of his
travels.
Before seeking a lodging he took a stroll through the village to see
the sights. His attention was drawn to a great mansion surrounded by a
vast garden, so he turned in this direction to view it more closely.
He came to a pause when he saw in the garden a young girl of marvelous
beauty. It was impossible to approach her as the garden was surrounded
by a continuous wall. He walked on for a few paces and then, yielding
to some indescribable impulse, he retraced his steps. The young girl
was still there. She turned a candid look toward the walker, giving
the young man a subtle thrill of pleasure. It is true that his eyes
had never met such a sight--a bright oval face as fresh as a half
ripened peach, eyes that rivaled the stars in their brilliancy. Her
hair, which fell down over her shoulders, was as fine and golden as
the clouds which disappear behind the mountain peaks in the rays of
the setting sun. Add to these attractions a very small hand and a gait
as graceful as the flight of a bird. The admiration of San-Syeng could
not be restrained. He could not take his eyes away from the vision of
loveliness. The girl, walking up and down the garden, now and then cast
furtive glances at the youth who was watching her.
San-Syeng was in a veritable daze. For a considerable time he remained
in the one spot, even after the beautiful unknown had disappeared.
Finally, he decided to find a lodging, hoping also to obtain some
information concerning the beautiful girl whose charms still held him.
His first action, therefore, on arriving at the village inn, was to
inquire:
“To whom does yonder mansion belong that is surrounded by such
a beautiful garden? Its owner is doubtless a personage of some
importance?”
“Yes, it is the estate of a very rich family, the head of which,
Yeng-Yen-Sa, is dead. The only people who live in that large house are
his wife and his daughter.”
“Is the daughter married?”
“No, sir, she is scarcely seventeen years old.”
San-Syeng’s curiosity was satisfied for the moment. When alone, he
gave himself up to reflection. First, he determined to lengthen his
stay in Yen-Yu. He was burning with desire to see the unknown beauty
again. Each day for hours at a time he would walk in the neighborhood
of the garden where he had first seen the young girl who was constantly
occupying his thoughts. Alas! his beautiful stroller of the garden
remained indoors. He was sad unto death. One evening, when his sorrow,
revived again by the memory of his parents, was more acute than ever,
he sought distraction in music. He took his flute, and, stationing
himself near the garden, improvised the following verses:
“Homeless am I--I know neither Heaven nor Earth.
I am walking in despair, seeking in vain for those who gave me birth.
In a garden there is a flower of marvelous beauty.
I would like to pluck this blossom, but the branches which bear it
are so high I cannot reach them.
My most ardent desire would be to die and become a butterfly so that
I could hover about this adorable flower.”
San-Syeng then cleverly composed a sweet melody, to serve as an
accompaniment to this poetry, which he played upon his instrument with
much feeling.
The young girl had heard everything. Deeply perplexed, she asked
herself what could be the meaning of the charming words which had come
to her ears.
“If this young man,” she mused, “does not know Heaven nor Earth, it
means he has lost his parents. If he wants to be transformed into a
butterfly to flit around a flower, it means he loves a young girl.”
Very much puzzled, she sent her servant to inquire who could be the
author of the verses she had just heard. She wondered if it were
not the young man whom she had seen a few days before walking near
the garden. Still impressed by what she had heard, she took her own
instrument and in turn improvised the following verses:
“The spider spins her web from flower-stem to flower-stem, but the
butterfly does not come.
I have dug a lake in my garden to attract the swans, but in vain are
my labors.
I have planted a tree to serve as a refuge for the swallow, but the
bird remains mute to my call while displeasing birds come a-flocking.
To-day, however, I heard the song of the blue bird. He has at last
arrived and very soon he will be close and dear to me.
The age of sixteen is the fair Springtime of life. If I want to be
happy, I should not wait much longer.”
These words filled San-Syeng with a deep joy for they seemed to be a
reply to his own verses and he felt overwhelmed with emotion. He went
home, but it was in vain that he tried to sleep.
On her part, the young girl slept with difficulty, as her mind was
agitated by what had just taken place. Now it came to pass that her
father appeared before her in a dream and said, “My daughter, there is
stopping at the inn nearest our home a traveler whose merits I bring
to your attention. It is the son of San-Houni, the scholar, one of my
best friends. I would like you to marry this young man.”
She objected that she was not even acquainted with the youth.
“Yes, my daughter,” replied her father, “you have already seen him. He
comes of a very noble family. Good-bye, my daughter.”
The young girl wished to detain her father, but to her sorrow her
efforts were of no avail; the vision faded and she awoke in tears.
“How can I obey my father’s command,” she complained. “I must devise
some way to meet this young man. I will go into the garden again this
evening and perhaps I shall see the man whom my father has ordered me
to marry.”
She was not disappointed in her hopes. When night had lowered its
curtain of darkness she went down into the garden and caught sight of
San-Syeng. But instead of going to meet him, she turned and rushed into
the house like a frightened kitten.
San-Syeng was stupefied and broken up by her sudden disappearance.
Despairing of being able to talk with the girl he loved, he resolved
to write to her. So the next evening he returned to the garden with a
letter. Again the young girl appeared for a few minutes. He walked in
front of her, tossed the letter over the garden wall, and left.
The young girl ran to pick it up, hurried with it to her room, where
she read the neat characters:
“Mademoiselle, excuse my boldness. I have but a few words to say.
Do you know what the butterfly is? It is an insect that is fond of
flowers. Nights when attracted by the light of the lamps which it
takes for flowers, it throws itself into the flame and perishes.”
“This is a comparison that applies to me closely,” thought the young
girl. “I shall have my answer for this young man to-morrow.”
The next evening when San-Syeng returned to his post by the garden wall
he saw the girl raise both hands and point to the moon.
After this graceful and significant gesture she ran into the house.
San-Syeng went home, much perplexed. “She made a sign to me,” he
pondered, “but what meaning does this sign have?” He reflected for a
long time, conjuring up hypothesis after hypothesis. Finally, he struck
his forehead with an exclamation of joy, crying: “I believe I have it.
The girl raised both of her hands, she must have meant the number ten.
Then she pointed to the moon, that surely means at night. She wanted to
tell me that she would meet me to-morrow evening at ten o’clock. That’s
it beyond a doubt.”
He awaited with impatience the following evening. Long before the
appointed time he was in the garden, worried and anxious as to whether
he had not given an erroneous interpretation to the young girl’s
gesture. At ten o’clock she came daintily along the garden path,
advancing gaily and smiling. She paused to pick a flower which she
placed between her lips. One might have thought she was playing the
flute, so sweet were the soft, low sounds of song which came from her
throat. Picking up a dead branch she amused herself by whipping the
leaves which strewed the ground. San-Syeng contemplated the vision
with an admiration that held him spellbound. One might have said it
was like a cat entrapping a mouse. When she arrived within a few paces
of him she stopped as if frightened and seemed about to draw back.
Then San-Syeng advanced toward her. “How beautiful she is,” was his
thought. So great was his admiration that he could not find a single
word to say. The young girl too remained silent. San-Syeng thought, “My
first words must express all the love I feel, but my tongue is weak and
incapable of it. What is her feeling toward me? Does she have a tender
and loving heart, or has wickedness already penetrated this beautiful
young soul? Let’s try a little trick.”
The girl saw San-Syeng drop suddenly to the ground. Without an
instant’s hesitation she ran to his help. Supporting his head in her
hands, and after dusting off his clothes which had been soiled by the
fall, she assisted him to arise and led him to a nearby bench.
Then San-Syeng said wearily, as if he were just regaining
consciousness, “Pardon me, mademoiselle, I am confused with all the
trouble I am giving you.”
“Not at all, sir,” replied the young girl. “I am happy to have been
able to render you assistance. I only ask for permission to put one
question to you. Where do you live?”
“I live at Nam-Hai and my name is San-Syeng.”
“Has it been very long since you left that town?”
“Almost six months.”
“And have you seen many interesting things on your journey?”
“Yes, many.”
“Your parents are still alive, I suppose?”
“No, mademoiselle, I lost my parents a long time ago. And are your
father and mother still alive?”
“My father is dead and I live with my mother. Wasn’t it you who came
here playing the flute the other evening?”
“It was I, mademoiselle. And tell me, didn’t you reply on your
instrument?”
“Yes.”
“I am very grateful. You have condescended to listen, you have not
repulsed me, and this evening you have given me the greatest of
pleasures by talking with me.”
“But, sir, were you ill just a while ago?”
“Mademoiselle, I lost my head through love of you. May I in turn ask
why you did not reply to my note? You made a sign to me and I imagined
that you were inviting me to return this evening at ten o’clock. Was I
right?”
“Yes, sir, you divined my thoughts exactly. Do you know you have
given evidence of great intelligence. You have captured my heart
without the slightest effort, like the fisherman who catches a fish
that is surprised to see itself so easily taken. Now you may call me
Yeng-So-Yei, for that is my name.”
At these words, San-Syeng seized the hand of the girl and covered it
with kisses.
“I have not sought to ensnare you. It was merely my love, my boundless
love, which impelled me to act thus. But it is late. Your mother
will notice your absence and will become worried. Let us meet again
to-morrow at the same hour.”
The young girl nodded her head as a sign of acquiescence and withdrew
into the house. In the solitude of her room she thought for a long time
of the events of the evening. “I love this young man,” she said, “he
is so intelligent and has such a splendid appearance. In giving him my
heart I have done nothing but obey my father’s counsel. Therefore, I
should have no remorse about my conduct. I shall marry the man I love
and accomplish my father’s wish.”
Similar reflections agitated San-Syeng’s mind. “How beautiful and good
she is!” he would repeat to himself. “I love her to distraction. I can
never wait until to-morrow evening to see her. How long this night and
day are going to be!”
The hours rolled around, however, and the time came for San-Syeng
to visit the girl once more. She came running to meet him, her face
radiant with joy and happiness. After they had exchanged a few words of
greeting she said to San-Syeng:
“Let’s go into the house. We can talk better. You can come to my room
where no one will disturb us.”
“But don’t you fear that your mother will notice something?”
“My mother is very old and feeble, we have nothing to fear from her.”
San-Syeng followed the young girl. He was much impressed to see with
what skill she had arranged her room. He complimented her on her taste
and good judgment and added: “How happy you must be!”
“And aren’t you happy, too?”
“Alas, I have lost my parents, and I am alone in the world. Life is no
longer attractive to me. You have given me the first pleasure in my
life and I am obliged to resume my travels within a few days.”
“But why must you leave? Haven’t you told me that you loved me?”
“Yes, I love you with all my heart and soul. But it is only another
misfortune for me because I can never marry you.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I can never marry you because you are rich, while I am penniless.”
“Fie, foolish,” teased the girl, drawing him to her. “Don’t you know
that I love you and that nothing can prevent me from being your
wife and companion? We shall marry. Do not leave me. Remain with me
to-night, my mother will not know.”
Their lips were united in one long kiss. At daybreak San-Syeng
departed. He regarded himself as the happiest of mortals and promised
to spare no effort to make life happy for the girl who had chosen him
for her husband.
Every evening the young man went to visit his wife. Now it came to
pass one night, that her mother, unable to sleep, arose from her couch
and went walking through the house. Passing before the door of her
daughter’s room she heard, above the sound of mingled kisses, her
daughter speaking with some one. Immediately she fell into a great
fury. She tried to open the door, but was unsuccessful. Calling a
servant, she said:
“Take a sabre, and place yourself before this door. You are to kill the
first person who leaves that room.”
San-Syeng and his wife had not heard these words for they were asleep.
The girl had another dream in which she saw her father. “My daughter,”
he said, “you are in great danger. Your husband’s life is threatened.
Arise and see what is on the other side of your door. Find a way for
your husband to escape. Give him my favorite horse so that he can take
flight. You may also give him my sword. You will be separated for some
time, but you will be united in the days to come.”
Startled by the warning, the young girl softly opened the door where
she saw the servant with drawn sabre.
“What are you doing here--and with a weapon, too?” she demanded.
“I am standing guard at your mother’s orders and I am to kill the first
person who leaves your room.”
“Why, my mother is mad. There is no one with me. I was just about to
call you anyway and send you on an errand. I would like to write and I
haven’t a single bit of paper. Will you get me some?”
“I cannot leave this post, mademoiselle.”
“Why not? If you are afraid that my mother’s prisoner will escape, let
me have your sabre. I will take your place while you get me what I
want.”
The servant was persuaded with little difficulty. Scarcely had he left
than the young lady ran to her husband and cried: “Up at once or you
are lost. My mother has learned that there is some one with me and has
stationed a servant at the door with orders to kill any one who leaves
my room. Wait for me in the garden.”
San-Syeng arose hurriedly and descended cautiously and quietly into the
garden. The servant returned and received the assurance that no one had
left the room which he had been guarding.
“I think I shall take a walk in the garden,” the girl suggested. “This
room is too warm for me.”
She went direct to the stables where she led out the horse which her
father had mentioned and brought him to San-Syeng. The two lovers
embraced and wept bitterly at being forced to part in so abrupt a
fashion. The girl had gathered together her jewels and what silver
she had at hand and turned them over to San-Syeng together with her
father’s favorite sword. San-Syeng, despite his protest, was forced to
accept them. He slipped from his finger the ring which he had found
among the books long years before and the significance of which he did
not even guess.
“Take this keepsake,” he said to his wife. “It is a token of my undying
love. As long as I live I shall think only of you and I hope soon
to come back for you. I will go to the Capital and shall soon have
matters fixed so that I may rejoin you. Good-bye.”
He went away, his head bowed in sadness, while the young girl, tears
rolling down her cheeks, followed him with her eyes until she saw him
disappear in the black depths of the wood.
“I wish I could burn that forest and then my San-Syeng would have to
take the mountain road, and I wish the plagued mountains were at the
bottom of the sea,” cried the unhappy girl--“for I would be able to see
my husband again.”
She remained for a long time in the one spot motionless as a statue. At
last, she decided to go to her room, following in spirit San-Syeng who
was galloping briskly toward the Capital. He arrived there when there
was great excitement among the people of the city because of the death
of the King and the exile of the young Prince to the Isle of Cho-To,
events upon which we shall comment in the coming stage of our story.
* * * * *
_Here the fourth stage of our legend cometh to a close._
V
[Illustration]
V
It was Ja-Jo-Mi, the Prime Minister, who had been the chief cause of
all the evils which had come to Sun-Yen and San-Houni. This dignitary,
no longer having any one to fear, enjoyed absolute power. The King had
entire confidence in him and placed in his hands the administration
of the government. Ja-Jo-Mi had taken advantage of this to give all
the important and lucrative offices to his followers. For example, he
discharged in disgrace a general whom he disliked and replaced him
with one of his most zealous but incompetent partisans. Even with all
this power the ambitious Minister was not satisfied. Why should he not
push things to the limit and place himself upon the throne? For the
present, it was only a dream which Ja-Jo-Mi hoped to realize some day.
But he was only awaiting a favorable occasion and this was not long in
presenting itself.
The King fell suddenly ill. His condition became so grave that the
leading physicians of the Kingdom were obliged to confess their
inability to cure him. He was well aware of his serious condition and
cherished no illusions about it. He sensed the flutter of the wings of
Death--wings drenched with the tears of weeping humanity. He sent for
the Prime Minister, to whom he spoke after the following fashion:
“I am going to die. My great regret is in leaving a son too young
efficiently to govern the country. Factions will take advantage of the
situation to disturb the peace of the Kingdom. Yet I want my son to
succeed me on the throne. Consequently I am requiring of you a further
proof of your devotion. Promise me to give this child the guidance of
your counsel and wisdom. Teach him to govern kindly and finish his
education.”
Ja-Jo-Mi, the unscrupulous, swore solemnly that he would faithfully
observe the last commands of his master. The monarch desired to see his
son, so the latter was brought to his bedside. The King tenderly took
the youth in his arms. He seemed to wish, through him, to cling longer
to the life he was leaving. But the fatal hour had come; he drew his
last breath in a sob.
His son, overcome by grief, uttered wild cries--“Oh, my father, my only
refuge, why do you forsake me? Why must you leave me?” Finally he fell
into a swoon.
The Prime Minister, who was present at this scene, tried to calm the
young Prince with profuse and hypocritical condolences. His words were
far from being in accord with his inner thoughts. The King’s death
filled his soul with joy, for it rendered easier the project he had
been dreaming about for so long.
When the funeral ceremonies were over, the Governors of the provinces
held a conference upon the question of choosing a new King. The
Governors’ choice naturally fell upon the shoulders of the deceased
King’s son. This decision exasperated Ja-Jo-Mi; he protested furiously
against it, saying that the Prince was too young to attend to affairs
of state and he painted a very black picture of the conditions of the
country if the government were placed in his hands.
“Moreover, the dying King appointed me to rule until his son should be
capable of taking the throne.”
The Prime Minister expected favorable results from this announcement.
The Governors, however, contented themselves with exchanging
significant glances, but they did not utter a word in support of the
Minister’s proposal.
This cold reception did not leave Ja-Jo-Mi any delusions as to the
attitude of the Governors on the subject. Renouncing the powers of
peaceful persuasion, he resolved to employ force. He summoned the
General whose support he was assured of and said to him:
“You will throw into prison any official who is hostile to me.”
The General bowed in a sign of obedience and withdrew. Although very
much terrified, the Governors did not submit peacefully to this new
means of intimidation and Ja-Jo-Mi condemned several of the most
influential of them to banishment. No one was in a position now to
oppose the execution of his designs.
Having thus overridden the opposition of the Governors, Ja-Jo-Mi went
to the young King.
“All powerful Prince,” he said, kneeling respectfully, “forgive me if
I disturb you in your grief. The welfare of the people compels me to
discuss with you certain things which I fain would defer to a more
opportune moment.”
“Speak,” bade the young King.
“You are doubtless well aware that, according to the precepts laid down
by the venerable philosopher, Kong-Ji, no one can reign in Korea before
attaining a certain age. In spite of your exceptional intelligence and
remarkable ability I fear that you are too young to rule alone. Your
father, my regretted master, on his death bed, requested me to look
after the interests of the State while you were preparing to assume
them yourself. It is with great regret that I remind you of this last
wish of the deceased King, for I am aggravating your sorrow, I know.
But I hope that you will conform to your father’s desires and the
philosopher’s wisdom.”