I
When King Sukchong first ascended the throne, virtue flowed out from him over all the land; the king had sons and grandsons, so the succession was assured; the times were secure and seasons harmonious as in the days of Yao and Shun; administration and culture were as efficient and flourishing as in the days of Yü and T’ang. The ministers of the crown were strong pillars of the state and the generals and marshals were faithful warriors. The good influence of the court reached the remotest countryside, peace and security reigned within the four seas. There were faithful subjects in the palace and filial sons and virtuous wives in the homes of the people. It was wonderful time! The weather was favorable, the people were well-fed and happy, and everywhere could be heard the happy songs of the fanners at work.
At this time, in Chŏlla province in the city of Namwŏn, there lived a kisaeng named Wŏl-mae. She was famous throughout the three southern provinces, but she had retired early and was living with a gentleman named Song. Time passed, and she was over forty years of age, but she had no children. She worried so much about this that she became ill. Then one day she suddenly remembered some stories of people of former times, and asked to see her husband. She spoke to him very respectfully, like this:
‘I think I must have committed some very serious sin in a former existence. In this life I have given up singing and entertaining, become a married woman, observed all the rites and worked hard to do all that a woman should; nevertheless, I must have some great guilt, because I have not had any children. When I am dead, who will burn incense or offer sacrifices in my memory and who will look after my funeral? But if I go to pray at some famous shrine and am able to bear at least one child, the greatest sorrow of my life will be at an end. Will you let me go?’
Sŏng replied: ‘It is true: you are very unfortunate. But if children could be had by praying, would there be any childless women?’
Wŏl-mae answered: ‘Confucius was the greatest sage in the world, and he went to pray at the mountain of Ni-ch’iu; Cheng Tzu-ch’an of the kingdom of Cheng prayed at the mountain of Yu-ching; and both were answered. Have we no famous mountains here in Korea? When Chu T’ien-i of Ungch’ŏn, in Kyŏngsang Province, was old but had no children, he went to pray at the highest peak there and as a result a son was born who became the first Ming emperor. If such things can happen for the imperial house, let us see what prayer can do for us. Don’t knock down your own pagoda or trample on your own saplings.’
From that day onward she began to purify herself with baths and fasting, and made pilgrimages to holy mountain places.
The Magpie Bridge stood out among the hills and streams on either side, protected on the northwest by Kyoryŏng mountain; to the east the temple roofs of Sŏnwŏn-sa could be seen among the thick woods of Changnim; the noble peak of Chiri arose in the south; and in the middle distance flowed the Yoch’ŏn stream, a long curve of green water sweeping round to the southeast. It was the most beautiful place imaginable. The green of the forests covered the landscape as far as Chiri. Wŏl-mae climbed to the top of Panya Peak and looked around to see famous mountains and great rivers on all sides. She built an altar on the top of the peak, set out the sacrificial dishes, chose a spot before the altar by divination and prayed there about her troubles. Perhaps the mountain spirit himself had arranged that this should be the fifth day of the fifth moon, and also the first day of a sixty-day cycle—a most auspicious day. Wŏl-mae dreamed that a fairy woman shining with all the colors of the rainbow came flying to her through the air, riding on a blue crane. The fairy was crowned with flowers and dressed in iridescent colors. Her girdle ornaments tinkled sweetly and she carried a branch of cinnamon flowers, as she came up to the altar, raised her hands respectfully in greeting and said:
‘I am the daughter of the Lo River. I went to the jade city of Heaven to present the peach of immortality and while I was there I met Ch’ih Sung-tzu at the Kwanghan Palace and fell deeply in love with him. Because I dallied there, God was very angry with me and cast me down to the world; but I did not know where to go, and the mountain spirit of Turyu directed me to you. Please be kind to me.’
And she entered into Wŏl-mae’s bosom. ‘The crane cries loud because its neck is long’ they say, and its cry woke Wŏl-mae up. It had all been only a dream. When she had regained her shattered senses, she talked to her husband about it. She believed that heaven was giving her a son, and indeed she conceived at that time. One day ten moons later, the room was filled with fragrance and tinted clouds when she lay in a stupor as her child was born. It was a girl. Wŏl-mae had yearned long and deeply for a son, but she was delighted with the baby. What words can describe her love? She called the child Ch’un-hyang, and treasured her like a piece of precious jade in the palm of her hand. The child had no equal in filial devotion and was as gentle as the ch’i-lin itself, the mythical unicorn. She took to book-learning at the age of seven, and the whole town praised her beauty and her virtues.
At this time there was a gentleman in Seoul, a civil official named Yi, who lived in Samch’ŏng-dong. He was descended from a famous family, and many of his ancestors had been loyal subjects. One day when the king was reviewing the list of meritorious subjects for new appointments, he promoted Yi from his post at Kwach’ŏn, near Seoul, to be prefect of Kŭmsan in Chŏlla province. Soon afterward he transferred him to higher office as governor of the city of Namwŏn. Yi presented himself before the king to offer thanks for his new appointment and take his leave, and set out for Namwŏn to take up his new post. He governed his district wisely and well. There were no disturbances or complaints, and everywhere the people rejoiced that at last they had a just governor. Life was like a fairy-tale: there was peace and plenty, the people did their duty; it was like the days of Yao and Shun all over again.
What time of year was it? It was springtime, the cheerful season. The swifts and swallows and all the other birds had found their mates and flew hither and thither in pairs, twittering. Spring was in the air. Flowers covered the south mountain, and the north mountain too was pink with flowers; the golden orioles called to each other among the myriad fronds of the weeping willows. All the trees were in full leaf and the cuckoos were calling; it was the loveliest time of the year.
The governor’s son, young master Yi, was now fifteen years old. He was as handsome as Tu Mu, he was as generous as the ocean is wide, and wonderfully clever: a Li Po for composing verses and a Wang Hsi-chih for calligraphy. One day he called his valet and said: ‘Where are the local beauty-spots? Poetry and spring-time go together; tell me where the most beautiful places are.’
The valet replied: ‘The young master is supposed to be studying, not going out to look at beauty-spots.’
The boy said: ‘That just shows how ignorant you are. From ancient times great writers have always gone to beautiful places for inspiration. They are the basis of lyric poetry. The fairy spirits also travel round from place to place. How dare you say going out is wrong? Szu-ma Chiang, when he was traveling southward by boat on the Yangtze and Hui Rivers, was sailing against the stream; a cold wind was howling, and from this experience he wrote about the continual changing of all created things, always surprising, sometimes delightful, sometimes gentle, always material for poetry. Li Po was the greatest genius among poets, and went for pleasure outings on the Ts’ai-shih River; Su Tung-p’o delighted in moonlit nights at the Red Cliff; Po Chü-i sang of the moon shining at night on the Hsin-yang River; King Sejo liked to visit Munjang-dae in Songni-san, near Poŭn.’
The valet caught the boy’s mood and began to list the beauty-spots of the whole country: ‘If you go to Seoul, outside the Purple Mist Gate there are the Seven Stars Hermitage, the Green Lotus Hermitage, and the Sword-washing Pavilion; at P’yŏng yang are the Pavilion of Martial Glory, the Taedong River Pavilion, and the Peony Peak; Yangyang has Naksan Temple; Songni-san at Poŭn has Munjang-dae, the Library Rocks; Anŭi has the Fair View Terrace; Chinju the Piled Rocks Pavilion; Miryang, the Yŏngnam Pavilion. I have no idea what any of them are like, but here in Chŏlla province we have the Arbor of Diffused Fragrance at T’aein, the Cold Winds Pavilion at Muju, and the Cold Jade Pavilion at Chŏnju. They are all beautiful, but listen to the glories of Namwŏn: you can go out of the East Gate, and there in the woods of Changnim is Sŏnwŏn Temple; you can go out of the West Gate to the temple of Kwan Yü, the god of war, where the fierce and terrible spirit of the ancient heroes seems to linger still; you can go out of the South Gate, to Kwanghal-lu, the Pavilion of Paradise, where the Magpie Bridge and the Sea Islands Kiosk are marvellous to see; or you can go out of the North Gate, where the fortress on Kyoryŏng Mountain stands out above the strange shapes of the rocks like a golden lotus piercing the azure sky. Where would you like to go?’
The boy said: ‘Come on! Everybody says that Kwanghal-lu and the Magpie Bridge are wonderful; let’s go and see.’
See what the lad does. He goes in before his father, the governor, bows politely and says: ‘The weather is warm and sunny today, and I should like to go out and try to compose some verses. May I go outside the city walls?’
The governor was greatly delighted, and gave his permission. He said: ‘You may go out and see the places to the south, but make sure you bring back a poem.’
The boy answered: ‘ I will do as you say.’
He left the room and called to the valet: ‘Boy, saddle the donkey.’
The valet heard the order and saddled the donkey. He rigged it out with
Scarlet-tasselled purple reins and a coral whip;
Jade saddle, broidered seat and straps of gold.
The pretty blue and scarlet reins were hung with red bobbles: silver stirrups hung on either side of the tiger-skin under the saddle, and little bells before and behind tinkled like a Buddhist monk telling his rosary.
‘The donkey is ready, sir.’
See what the lad does. He carefully combs every hair into place above his handsome fine-boned face, smooths it with beeswax oil, plaits it elegantly with silk ribbons dyed in orpiment, puts on beautifully made trousers of flowered silk from Sŏngch’ŏn lined with fine white linen, ties them with ankle-ribbons of indigo flowered-silk over the finest of cotton socks; puts on a magnificent sleeveless silk waistcoat with pendant amber buttons; ties his leggings neatly below his knees; fastens a girdle of Chinese silk and suspends from it a round purse of heavy satin; dons a long coat of the very thinnest Chinese silk gauze with broad sleeves and an elegant long collar-strip; settles a black silk belt round his chest, and draws on a pair of thick-soled shoes with snub toes.
‘Hold the donkey for me.’
He put his foot in the stirrup, sprang lightly into the saddle, and turned the donkey about. As he came out of the court a servant fell in behind him, and after they came through the main gate into the street the servant held a large Chinese fan on a metal handle to keep the sun off the young master’s face. As he rode along
The mandarins’ way to the south city gate,
gaily down the wide road, for all the world like Tu Mu coming tipsy to Yang-chou, the way the people turned to watch him go by was like Chou Yü, who turned his head when he heard a wrong note.
The streets were bright and fragrant with blossom;
No one who saw it but was filled with delight.
He ran nimbly up to the Kwanghal-lu and gazed around in all directions. The scenery was magnificent. A late morning mist was lingering round the Chŏksŏng school, and the place was surrounded with balmy air and late spring foliage.
The red pillars of the pavilion were bathed in sunlight:
The loveliest palace rooms were not more beautiful,
said Wang Po in his poem ‘Climbing the High Terrace,’
How comes this elegant pavilion to stand up here so high?
He might have been singing of the Kwanghal-lu. It was as though one could see the Yüeh-yang Pavilion and the Ku-su Terrace, where the rivers from Wu and Ch’u flow down into Lake Tung-t’ing, and the Swallow Pavilion at Peng-tse is clearly visible. Among the riotous pink and white blossoms parrots and peacocks were flying, and in the landscape all around, the twisted pines and conifers and the leaves of the overcup oaks were dancing wantonly in the spring breeze. Beside the tumbling streams the blossoms were laughing, the spreading pine-trees were thick. It was
The season of green shade, of grass and flowers.
The air was intoxicated by cassia trees, red sandalwood, peonies, and green peaches; and the long river Yoch’ŏn was flowing full.
Some way off a pretty girl, as unable as the singing birds to resist the spring feeling, had plucked a spray of azaleas, and put them in her hair. She had picked a white peony and put it in her mouth. She lifted her petticoat and bent to rinse her pretty hands in the stream on the green hillside; she washed her feet, then took a mouthful of water and rinsed her mouth; she picked up a pebble and threw it at the orioles in the willow-trees. Was this not
making the orioles fly away
in the old Chinese spring poem? She scattered willow-leaves to float on the water. Snow-white butterflies danced in fluttering pairs and sipped at the hearts of the flowers, while the golden orioles flew hither and thither among the trees.
The Kwanghal-lu was beautiful, but the Magpie Bridge was better. There is nothing lovelier in all Chŏlla. But if the Magpie Bridge was there, where were the Herdboy and the Weaving-Maid? In such a place a man could not help but sing. The boy composed two couplets:
I am looking around for the magpie fairies
In the heavenly world of Kwanghal-lu.
I wonder who is the celestial Weaving-Maid?
For see, here I am, the Herdboy.
One of the yamen servants brought him a table with food on it. When he had drunk a cup of wine he told his servant to remove the table. Pleasantly stimulated by the wine, he lit his pipe and put it in his mouth, walking to and fro, delighting in the scenery. Kom-san, Suyŏng and Poryŏn-am, in Ch’ungch’ŏng province, were famous, but could they be as beautiful as this place? Glowing red, glistening green, pure white, deepest crimson were the ever-moving colors. The golden orioles calling to each other in the willow-trees enhanced the spring feeling. Golden bees, white butterflies and swallowtails were busy seeking the fragrance of the blossoms, flying hither, flying thither, in the spring landscape. It was as though the three fairy mountains of Ying-chou, Fang-shan and P’eng-lai-shan were there before his eyes. He looked down at the water, and it was like the Milky Way. The whole scene was transformed into a vision of the heavenly world. But if it was the heavenly world, should there not have been Heng-o, the beautiful princess, in her moon-palace?
It was indeed springtime, it was Tano, the fifth day of the fifth moon, the festival of the beginning of summer. Wŏl-mae’s daughter Ch’un-hyang also knew her poetry; could she fail to know what day it was? With Hyang-dan, her maid, ahead of her, she had come out to play on the swings. Her hair, lovely as orchids, was combed over her ears, neatly plaited, and fixed with a golden hairpin shaped like a phoenix. When she walked through the woods of Changnim, swaying her body gently as she went, her waist in its gauze skirt seemed as frail as the slender willows of Wei-yang. She made her way through the thick shade of the green leaves to a place where the turf was bright and the pairs of orioles flashed gold, flying hither and thither. There a swing hung from a tall luxuriant willow-tree. She took off her long coat of green brocade and her indigo silk skirt, and hung them up. Slipping off her shoes of embroidered Chinese silk she threw them aside. Pulling up her brand-new white petticoat under her chin, she grasped the two thick hempen ropes of the swing in her pretty little hands and climbed on to it with her white-stockinged feet, setting the swing in motion. Her little body, slender as a willow-bough, swung rhythmically, and the jade and silver ornaments in the back of her hair and the jade and coral ornaments on her breast gleamed against the full-moon pattern of her bodice with its fluttering ribbons.
‘Hyang-dan, push me!’
One push and away she went; another push and she went higher, flying through the air like fine dust underfoot, far forward and far back; the leaves above her swept in the same rhythm and her red skirt billowed brightly in the green shade, like a flash of lightning among the white clouds of the sky. 'I looked at what was before me, and suddenly it was behind me,’ say the Analects. She flew forward like a little swallow darting to seize a branch of peach-blossom; and then swung backward like a butterfly that has lost its mate, buffeted against a stone by a gust of wind. Like the fairy of Wu-shan riding on the cloud to arrive at Yang-t’ai, she had a spray of leaves in her lips and a flower stuck enchantingly in her hair.
‘Oh, Hyang-dan! I’m dizzy with swinging! Catch the rope for me.’
The swing went back and forth many times before they could stop it, and her jade hairpin fell into the pebbles of the stream with a tinkling sound.
‘Oh, my hairpin, my hairpin!'
Ch’un-hyang’s voice was like a coral pin shattering on a jade salver, and she was so lovely that she seemed not to belong to this world.
Like the swallows that fly pointlessly back and forth in spring, Yi Mong-nyong felt lonely and depressed. He could not concentrate. He murmured to himself: ‘The beautiful Hsi-shih followed Fan Hsiao-pai in a little boat through the Five Lakes, but she won’t come here; the lovely maiden of Yü sang her sad song of parting to Hsiang Yü in the moonlight at Kai-hsia, but she won’t come here; Wang Chao-chün left the Tan-feng Palace and went beyond the Amur River, where now she lies in the Verdant Tomb; the imperial concubine Pan shut herself deep in the Ch’ang-hsin Palace, where she sang her sad song, and she won’t come; Chao Fei-yen left the Chao-yang Palace one morning and became an empress: and she won’t come. But the fairy of Lo River or the fairy of Wu-shan, what of them?’
His soul flew off into heaven and his body was left sad and lonely. He was still unmarried.
‘Boy!’
‘Here, master.’
‘Look over there among the willow-trees. Who is that swinging back and forth so lightly and prettily?’
The servant looked carefully and replied: ‘I know who that is. That girl is called Ch’un-hyang. She is the daughter of a kisaeng in the town.’
Mong-nyong replied at once: ‘She looks marvellous. She is wonderful.’
The servant went on: ‘Although her mother is a kisaeng, Ch’un-hyang is very proud and says: “I am no kisaeng.” She spends all her time thinking of flowery poetry and embroidery and writing. She is just like a girl of good family.’
The boy chuckled, called his valet, and said to him: ‘I hear she’s a kisaeng’s daughter. Go and fetch her here at once.’
The valet replied: ‘Her snow-white skin and blossom-like face are famous throughout the south. Civil officials, military officials, prefects, magistrates, local officers, every last two-and-a-half-inch high gentleman has tried to meet her. She is as beautiful as Chuang Chiang but as virtuous as T’ai-jen or T’ai-szu. She writes like Li Po or Tu Fu; she’s as gentle as T’ai-szu and as chaste as the two consorts of the Emperor Shun; she is without match in the world for beauty, the noblest woman in a thousand years. I am daunted by the thought of inviting her.’
The boy laughed aloud: ‘Come on, lad, don’t you know that everything has its master? They say that even the white jade of Ching-shan and the yellow gold of Li-sui have their owners. Stop arguing and go at once to fetch her.’
The valet listened to his master and then ran across the bridge to fetch Ch’un-hyang. He was as neat and nimble as the blue bird that carried a message to the Queen Mother of the West as she sat at a banquet by the Lake of Gems.
‘Hey! Ch’un-hyang!’
Ch’un-hyang was startled when she heard him call: ‘What do you mean by shouting like that? You gave me a shock.’
‘Oh, stop chattering; this is important!’
‘What is it?’
‘The young master, the governor’s son, has come out to the Kwanghal-lu and he has seen you swinging. He told me to fetch you.’
Ch’un-hyang was indignant: ‘You must be mad. How can he have known that it was me, to call me? You must have been chattering about me like a sparrow cracking hemp-seeds.’
‘Not at all. There’s no need for me to talk about you. It’s your fault, not mine. Just listen. When a girl wants to play on a swing, the proper thing for her to do is to rig up a swing in her own back yard and play where nobody can see her. Here we are, close to the Kwanghal-lu, in a favorite beauty-spot. The grass is fresh and green and the willow-trees by the stream make an emerald curtain, like a screen around the place. Some of the fronds are yellow and some are waving in the breeze as though they were dancing. You have hung your swing in a popular place, and when you swing up there on your little white melon-seed feet, with your red skirt billowing against the clouds and the edge of your petticoat fluttering in the southeast wind, your white skin shows like the flesh of a melon against the sky. The young master saw you and sent for you; there was no need for me to tell him anything about you. Stop arguing and come with me.’
Ch’un-hyang answered: ‘I see what you mean, but today is Tano. Am I the only person outside? Plenty of other girls have been here swinging. And that’s not all; granting what you say is true, I am not a girl to be ordered about. Decent girls are not to be sent for in this way, and even if they are, they have no reason to go. You have no right to talk to me like this.’
The valet gave up and went back to the pavilion. When the boy heard his report, he said: ‘What a wonderful girl! She is quite right, but go back again and try another approach.’
When the valet went back to take his message to Ch’un-hyang, he discovered that she had gone home in the meantime. So he went to her house and found the girl and her mother sitting down to lunch together. As he went in, Ch’un-hyang said: ‘Why have you come back?’
‘I beg your pardon. The young master sent me back again. He said that the reason why he wants you to come and see him is not that he thinks you are a kisaeng, but that he has heard that you write very good poetry. He knows it is unusual to ask a girl from a good family to come to him, but he begs you to trust his good intentions, and come to see him for a short time.’
Ch’un-hyang asked herself whether this might not be a pre-ordained meeting, and suddenly found that she would like to go, but she wondered what her mother would think about it, so she sat silent for a while. Her mother broke the silence, sitting up straight and speaking distractedly: ‘Dreams aren’t all pointless. Last night I dreamt that a fantastic green dragon was swimming in a lake surrounded by green-peach trees. I knew it meant something good, and there was nothing of chance about it. I have heard that the young master’s name is Mong-nyong. Now I understand; it all fits—Mong means Dream, and Nyong means Dragon. In any case, when such a gentleman sends for you, how can you refuse? Go and see him.’
Ch’un-hyang, pretending to be reluctant, rose and went out to the Kwanghal-lu. She walked like a swallow on a roof-beam in the Tae-myŏng-jŏn, like a hen picking up grain in a sunny yard, like a golden turtle walking on the white sands; lovely as a flower in the moonlight, her slow swimming gait was like Hsi-shih walking to T’u-ch’eng. As she came over to the pavilion the boy stood half leaning on the balustrade, eagerly looking out for her. When she drew close and he could see her clearly, he was delighted. She was fresh and pretty. There was no one to compare with her for loveliness. Her complexion was clear, like a crane white as snow, playing in the moonlight on a clear stream. Her rosy lips were parted to show her white teeth, like stars, like jade. She was beautifully dressed, with a purple gauze skirt enveloping her like twilight mist, a kingfisher-green underskirt glimmering underneath, its pattern rippling like the waves of the Milky Way. Gracefully and sedately she went up into the pavilion and stood there waiting shyly till he said to one of the servants: ‘Tell her to sit down.’
Now he could take in the whole of her beauty. He noticed her modest expression and the dignified way in which she sat, like a white pebble in a green stream, a pebble newly washed by the rain; like a roosting swallow surprised by the sight of a man. Although she was not richly dressed, she had outstanding natural beauty. Now that he sat facing her, her face was like the bright moon seen between the clouds, her half-opened pink lips like a lotus flower amid the waters.
'I have never seen a fairy, but surely a fairy from Ying-chou has been exiled to Namwŏn, or else the fairies of the moon have lost one of their companions. Your face and your grace do not belong to this world.’
At the same time Ch’un-hyang lifted her eyelids for a moment and looked at the boy. He was a handsome lad, remarkably good-looking. His high forehead showed promise of early success; the fine bones of his face showed that he would become a distinguished statesman. She was filled with admiration, but she lowered her eyebrows and remained kneeling before him. The boy said: ‘The sages have said that one should not marry someone with the same surname. Tell me what your surname is and how old you are.’
‘My name is Sŏng, and I am fifteen years old.’
See what the boy does:
‘That’s good news. You were born in the same year as me; we are both fifteen, and now I know your surname I am sure this is heaven’s destiny for us. Marriage is called yi-sŏng-ji-hap, the union of two surnames, a pun on Yi and Sŏng. This is a good omen that we shall be happy for the rest of our lives. Are your parents still alive?’
‘I live with my widowed mother.’
‘How many brothers have you?’
‘My mother is sixty years old; she has no sons, and I am her only daughter.’
‘So you are a very precious child. We two have met by a special decree of heaven. We shall be happy for ever.’
See what Ch’un-hyang does: she knits her eyebrows, half-opens her lips, and gently murmurs: ‘A loyal subject cannot serve two kings, and a faithful wife cannot honor two husbands. I have read this in an old book. You are from a noble family, but I am a woman of the people. After we have plighted our troth, if you put me away because of my low birth, I shall nevertheless be bound to remain faithful to you, and have to spend the rest of my life grieving in a lonely room, and there will be no one to help me. Do not make me do this.’
The boy said: ‘You have every reason to speak like that, but I am making you a promise strong as adamant. Where is your house?’
Ch’un-hyang answered: ‘Ask your valet.’
The boy laughed: ‘I see it’s no good asking you. Boy!’
‘Yes, master?’
‘Tell me where Ch’un-hyang’s house is.’
The valet pointed with his hand: ‘Over there is a garden full of trees with a clear lotus pond in it, where fish are leaping. The flowers look like fairyland and the birds fly happily. Above the rocks a twisted pine looks like an old dragon hunched up where clear winds blow. Outside the gate a willow-tree stands with waving fronds. There are blueberries, junipers and fir-trees. In the middle there stands a pair of gingko trees. In front of the door of the house are paulownia trees, jujube trees, and an ash tree from the deep mountains; grape vines, actinidia and clematis twine together and pour over the outside of the wall. There between the pine pavilion and the bamboo grove you can just see Ch’un-hyang’s house.’
The boy said: ‘It is neat and tidy, and a place where pines and bamboos grow is for sure a place where the women are faithful.’
Ch’un-hyang got up and said shyly: ‘People can easily get the wrong impression. I must not stay any longer.’
When the boy heard this, he said: ‘You are right. We must be careful. But tonight, when the yamen servants have all gone home, I shall come to your house. Please do not be unkind to me.’
Ch’un-hyang answered: ‘I cannot promise.’
‘If you cannot, who will? Goodbye. We’ll meet again tonight.’
She went down from the pavilion.
When she got home, her mother came out to meet her: ‘Oh, you’ve come back, my dear. What did he say to you?’
‘What do you think he said? I sat there for a little while, and when I got up to go he said that he will come to our house this evening.’
‘How did you answer that?’
‘I said I couldn’t make any promise.’
‘That was good.’
After Ch’un-hyang had left him so abruptly, Mong-nyong found it hard to collect his thoughts. He went back to his room, but he could not interest himself in anything. All his thoughts were about Ch’un-hyang. Her pretty voice sounded in his ears, her pretty face appeared before his eyes. He was waiting for the sun to go down.
He called his valet: ‘What time does the sun say?’
‘It’s just coming up!’
The boy was very angry: ‘You insolent fellow! How can the afternoon sun start to rise? Go and look again.’
This time the valet answered:
‘The sun dips into the water at twilight,