The Red Queen (12 page)

In theory, all should now have been well with us. In the public domain, Prince Sado was recognized as crown prince and regent, and our son Chŏngjo was firmly established in the direct line of succession, as the Grand Heir and Royal Grandson. But in private, things went from bad to worse. The clothing mania, if anything, intensified, and I had to provide chests full of silk for his military uniforms. I was sick with anxiety most of the time, and my digestion, which hitherto had been good, now began to trouble me a great deal. I could not keep my food down – I now think I may have developed an ulcer. King Yŏngjo did not keep his promise to be more tolerant towards his son, but continued to find fault with him, and even encouraged others to criticize him.

I remember in particular the terrible scenes on Prince Sado’s twenty-fifth birthday in 1760. Birthdays had always been a torment to Sado, for his father had for years used them as an excuse to haul him before an interrogatory court of tutors, and this year was no exception. Sado lost his temper most violently, and I cannot say I blame him. He hurled abuse at both his parents, and threatened yet again to kill himself. He yelled even at his own children, who had dressed themselves up for the occasion in dragon-embroidered robes and formal blouses. When they came into the room to make their congratulatory bows, he shouted at them to get out, crying out that he knew neither father nor mother, nor son, nor daughters. They were frightened by this and turned white as ash. His mother, Lady SŏnhŬi, was appalled: I think she had been reluctant to recognize how bad things were, but now there was no hiding from the evidence. I felt completely impotent, shrunk to nothingness. I wished to turn to stone, to vanish from this world. Poor children, poor little dolls in their best clothes. What harm had they done to him? They tried so hard to please.

Our lives, I repeat, were claustrophobic. The palace compound was large and had many pavilions, halls and apartments, but it was full of gossip and of echoes. The walls were paper-thin. We felt enclosed, but we were spied upon. Sado felt impotent, despite, because of his violence. He felt his life was useless – as indeed I fear it was. Playing heir to a throne that you know in your heart you will never inherit is not an easy role. His frantic military games in the back garden of our compound were no substitute for action. He said he could not endure living so close to his father, spied on by day and by night. Although by nature a strong young man, he was developing physical disorders as well as mental, which I put down to our unnatural lives – it was at this period that his skin began to flake and erupt, particularly on his legs and ankles. I think his skin condition was what is now called psoriasis, or possibly some form of eczema, but I am certain that, like his father’s asthma, it was largely caused by his living in a perpetual state of nervous irritation. I sympathized with Sado when he said he wanted to get out of the city of Seoul altogether, to escape and to see a little of the outside world. I was resigned to my cloistered fate, but Sado was a man, with a man’s needs. A change of scene would, I felt, do him good.

But how could we achieve this? His father had always wanted to keep him on a short leash, under close supervision. I could see no way of persuading King Yŏngjo to agree to his release, even on a short journey, and frankly I feared to arouse his wrath by even making a request. One of us had to keep on the right side of him. I suppose I was a coward. Sado accused me of being a coward and a double dealer, and at one point during one of these domestic rows he threw a chessboard at me, which hit my left eye and caused a hideous swelling. This was the first time he had struck me, and I do not think he really meant the board to find its mark, but I was lucky not to lose the sight of the eye. The skin turned purple, then a deep orange-yellow. The bruise bloomed like a peony through my delicate olive skin.

Despairing of my intercession, Sado turned to his sister Madame Chŏng, who was bolder than me, and better able to manipulate her father, King Yŏngjo. (I was not bad at manipulating the old man, or I would not have outlived him as I did, but I had my son as my priority: she, as I have said, was by now widowed and childless, and had fewer hostages to fortune.) Sado appealed to his sister in desperation and with threats of violence. He went to her with his sword in his hand, telling her that if she did not effect some release for him he would kill her. Such a threat from him, already a seasoned killer, was not to be ignored. He also threatened to kill her adopted son, a wild and rebellious boy called Chŏng Hugyŏm, who was at this time aged about twelve. Sado got hold of him and locked him in a cellar and threatened to murder him if Madame Chŏng did not fix this excursion, on which he had set his heart. The boy himself had seemed wholly undisturbed by these threats, although he must have known of Sado’s dangerous reputation, and hurled back abuse at the Crown Prince. I suppose I have to admit this child was spirited, but he grew up to be a little monster, and a bad influence on my son.

Madame Chŏng, afraid for her protégé, alarmed by her brother’s mad violence, agreed to plead with their father, and she did so with some success. She laid much emphasis on Sado’s ill health and the possible benefits of the medicinal waters for the skin disease on Sado’s legs. Under pressure from his daughter, Yŏngjo reluctantly gave permission for his son to travel south to Onyang, to the healing wells and hot springs.

At the same time, she achieved a double coup. As well as persuading King Yŏngjo to authorize Sado’s journey to Onyang, she, even more surprisingly, managed to persuade Yŏngjo and Lady SŏnhŬi to move for a while out of the large palace compound where we all lived, and to spend some time in another of the five royal palaces of Seoul. She hoped, I suppose, that this might reduce the growing tension between king and regent. This ‘Mulberry Palace’ stood about three miles to the east of our Ch’angdŏk-Ch’anggyŏng Palace Compound, and it was far enough away to lift some of the sense of daily oppression and surveillance that caused Sado such irritation.

(This palace was later destroyed, and I believe that no traces of it survive in modern Seoul: the other four ancient palaces, although many times partially destroyed by fire, sacking and invasion, have been as many times rebuilt, and some of their original fabric remains. You may visit them, if you are so minded. My envoy has wandered round them in search of me, and so may you.)

Prince Sado was delighted by the respite of the royal removal. He had suggested it himself, on several occasions, but we never thought King Yŏngjo would agree to so unorthodox a proposal: the suggestion came better from Madame Chŏng, who was a devious woman, expert in flattery. I do not know what arguments she used to persuade King Yŏngjo to move, but we were grateful to her for this temporary remission. I know that many of the court officials were gravely surprised by this change of residence, and shook their heads over it: it foreshadowed, some muttered, the fall of the Chosŏn dynasty and the house of Yi. For myself, I was also delighted. I did not see it as a permanent solution to all our troubles, for I rightly suspected that eventually the king would return to the upper palace, but at least it gave us a little more privacy at a time when we needed it. Those with dark family secrets need privacy more than most.

My bruised eye looked so shocking that I was unable either to pay my respects to King Yŏngjo in his new residence at the Mulberry Palace or to see Sado’s entourage off on its way. I pretended, of course, that the contusion was a self-inflicted wound – the old story about tripping on a reed mat and falling against a sharp-edged cabinet – and people pretended to believe me, but I do not suppose they did. Anyone can recognize a battered wife. And the relief that swept over me when Sado was safely out of the way and on the road to Onyang was overwhelming. I was pleased for him, but I was even more pleased for myself. I felt I could breathe freely again, and I gathered the children to me for their evening hour with a sense of reprieve. Our little family circle seemed almost normal once Sado had gone. The strain of living in perpetual fear while appearing outwardly calm is almost intolerable.

In some ways, I had seen far more of my husband than many wives of my class because I had been obliged to set myself up as his warden and his protector, as well as his wife. In some
yangban
families at this period, there was a very considerable separation of roles and of domestic life, and wives and husbands rarely met, but Sado and I, for better and worse, were closely bound to one another. One of the curious features of Yŏngjo’s court, I now realize, was its inbred, overheated emotional intensity. King Yŏngjo himself was an unstable, passionate man, perpetually demanding a strong emotional response from others, and despite myself I had been sucked into this whirlpool of demonstrative and competitive display. My response to this feverishness, in contrast to Madame Chŏng’s, had been to appear cool and excessively submissive: she was by temperament far more confrontational than I. But, cool though I hope I managed to appear, I had been obliged to remain close to the emotional turmoil, in order to monitor its dangers. It was very exhausting.

So those were happy and precious evenings with my son and daughters, when Sado was on the royal road to the hot springs with his modest entourage of a thousand attendants. We sat at home, playing a new board game for which there was a craze at that time throughout the palace – you know how such crazes come and go. I forget the rules now, but it was a peaceful, gentle game, with pretty counters and tiles of ivory and bamboo, representing chariots and horses and elephants and knights and soldiers. I suppose it was a version of
changgi
, adapted for multiple players. A spirit of peace descended on our little gatherings. You could hear the difference in the children’s voices. We felt safe together when he was not there. I knew that my sense of relief was a perversion, a distortion of my primary duty of marital loyalty, but even at the time I thought that nobody could blame me. I was merely seeking a little comfort with my own. Those closest to me knew exactly how I felt. A visible sigh of relief, a susurration of relaxation rose from our quarters. The evening air thickened with goodness like soup. The very flowers exhaled relief. The ladies – those that lived – began to smile again, as they went about their daily tasks. They had had a reprieve, a stay of execution. I began to taste my food again and to sleep less restlessly, less fearfully.

As we quietly rejoiced, Prince Sado made his way southwards, with his entourage, towards Onyang. He had wanted to set off in great splendour, with rank upon rank of soldiers in uniform, with a band and a procession of drummers, and brightly clad heralds proclaiming his progress. And in fact, though he expressed himself aggrieved by his father’s curtailing of these grand plans, he was well enough attended. He was accompanied by his tutors, by 120 people carrying his luggage, by an escort of soldiers and a full military band – not as flamboyant a display as he would have wished, but by no means as demeaning as he claimed. And by all accounts he behaved properly en route, compensating farmers for damage caused to crops and property by his large train, and distributing largesse as he went.

I believe he set off in some hope of escaping from himself, and of finding some kind of peace. I think, also, that he secretly wanted the people of Korea to acclaim him as he passed. He longed for affection, for admiration, for recognition. He was tired of his secondary, submissive role as heir apparent: he was tired of being scolded for his shortcomings. He wanted to be loved. And he was excited, like a child, by the tourist attractions of Onyang, then as now a lodestone for pilgrims in search of health and refreshment. He was thrilled by the notion of the natural wonders of the hot springs and the legendary beauty of the landscape he had never seen. Oh yes, he set off in high hopes. His anxious mother, almost as demented as I was about his state of mind, arranged for his favourite meals to be sent along the route for him and cooked for him at each staging post – I think she was very worried, by now, about the scenario of the poisoned mushrooms. I was beginning to feel more sympathy, at this time, for Lady SŏnhŬi. She was growing old, and she, like me, was devoured by a daily fear for Sado.

At home, in our nest, we tried to forget about poison, and even attempted a little merriment. It was my son Chongjo who suggested that we should invite Fourth Brother to come to stay with us for a few days, while the coast was clear. Fourth Brother was only eighteen months older than his nephew Chongjo, and they were good friends. I readily agreed, and indeed took the opportunity to invite all my brothers and their wives to stay at the palace for a while. I was so uncertain of the future that I was not sure if I would ever see them again, and the notion of one last family gathering seemed irresistible. First Brother was, of course,
au fait
with the whole situation, having been a court official, and Fourth Brother was too little to know about it – though who knows what information passed between him and his royal nephew? Information unsuitable for children, as were the scenes they were later to witness. But Second and Third Brothers, both of whom were younger than myself, and both of whom were working towards their civil service examinations in the ineluctable
yangban
family tradition, had been kept at a distance, and I looked forward to this opportunity of confiding in them. The burden was too great for me to carry alone. I needed their help. They were only young men – very young men – but I longed for their sympathy and understanding.

Do not think that I complained about Prince Sado. I had too much pride to complain about my husband, and too much true loyalty. But I had to tell them of the facts, in case the worst should happen, so that they would at least understand my conduct. Also, I suppose I had a sense that I should warn them for their own sake – a family connected by marriage to the royal house lives dangerously. Already I could see that Second and Third Brothers would react differently to my story than First Brother, who always put his public role first. Second Brother was a scholar and a dreamer who did not care much for court life: he would bide his time, then go his own way, and thus survive in his own manner. But Third Brother, even at the age of nineteen, was something of a rebel. He thought nothing of denouncing Confucian contradictions, and even made open mock of our reverence for our ancestors. On one occasion, I remember that he said that it was foolish to offer wine and meat to blocks of wood, for the dead could neither eat nor drink. It was an insult, he said, to our grandparents’ and our mother’s memory, to honour them in this meaningless way. What he said was, of course, reasonable enough, but it was also heretical. In the privacy of my home he spoke forcefully against the double standards by which King Yŏngjo expected his son and indeed all his people to live. I remember his declaring, ‘Why should Sado be filial towards a father who takes a bride ten years younger than the son? Has the father no respect for the son? And why has the father remarried into a hostile family? Is he intending to take revenge upon all the Hongs?’