ㆁ ㅎ ㄱ ㅋ ㅁ ㄴ ㄹ ㅂ ㅍ ㅅ ㄷ ㅊ ㅌ ㅈ 아 야 ㆍ 어 여 으 이 오 요 우 유

WINNING BUDDHA’S
SMILE

A Korean Legend

ADAPTED AND TRANSLATED BY
CHARLES M. TAYLOR

BOSTON
RICHARD G. BADGER
THE GORHAM PRESS

COPYRIGHT, 1919, BY RICHARD G. BADGER

All Rights Reserved

Made in the United States of America

The Gorham Press, Boston, U. S. A.

TO
MY MOTHER

WHOSE DESERVING FAR OUTSTRIPS
MY POWERS OF ACKNOWLEDGMENT

FOREWORD

Many of the best portions of Chinese literature are readily obtainable in an English dress. From time to time bits of Japanese literature pass before English-reading eyes. But Korean literature remains, as it has remained for years back, virtually a thing unknown and unappreciated.

“Winning Buddha’s Smile” is one of the oldest existing specimens of Korean literature. Both the author and date of its original composition are unknown, but it is reasonably certain that it was well known in a dramatic form about the close of the fourteenth century.

At one time when religious dissension was rife on the peninsula, many of the monuments of a rich and abundant literature, especially those tinged with Buddhistic doctrines and thought, were consigned to the bonfire. In some manner, our legend escaped this wholesale literary destruction, and it is here presented to English readers with the hope that it will meet with an indulgent reception by the ever-widening circle of those who take an interest in the things of other peoples and other lands.

The translator is indebted to a French version of the original text, made by the Korean scholar, Hong-Jong-Ou, which was published under the auspices of the Musée Guimet. He has attempted to preserve the simple, child-like form of the narrative and has made few alterations in it, and these only when clearness and the English idiom required them.

C. M. T.

KOREANS WHOSE FOOTSTEPS CROSS THE PATHS OF OUR LEGEND

SUN-YEN, the Benevolent, whose Virtue and Goodness lead him from Prosperity through Adversity unto Prosperity again.

CHENG-SI, the Fair, his daughter.

SAN-HOUNI, a scholar and friend of Sun-Yen.

YENG-SI, the scholar’s wife.

SAN-SYENG, the scholar’s son, whose Merit findeth pleasure in the sight of Heaven and taketh him unto High Offices.

JA-JO-MI, the Unscrupulous, Prime Minister of Korea.

KI-SI, the young Prince of Korea.

SU-RUNG, a murderer and thief.

SU-YENG, the robber’s brother, a goodly man by way of contrast.

YENG-SO-YEI, a daughter of Korea.

OU-PUNG, a Sister of Religion and a follower of the True Path.

HONG-JUN, an innkeeper.

I

WINNING BUDDHA’S SMILE

I

In the far away days of the olden time when the earth was still in its childhood and when the city of Hpyeng-Yang was the capital of Korea, there was numbered among its inhabitants a high dignitary of the Court, Sun-Yen by name, who owed his exalted position solely to his intelligence and capability.

Although very rich, Sun-Yen looked down upon no one. On the contrary, he sought diligently to help all those who came within his sphere of influence. His greatest happiness lay in alleviating the sorrows of others. He was, therefore, beloved by the people who saw in Sun-Yen a most disinterested protector in whom they had absolute confidence.

Now one day, all things changed as all things sometimes do. Fortune, so long favorable to Sun-Yen, forsook him. Formerly happy and influential, our friend (for call him such we will) was to become the most unfortunate and the most miserable of men. It was due to the following circumstances.

The King of Korea was giving a grand and sumptuous banquet to the Governors of the various provinces and the ladies of the Court. The occasion was a very merry one. Shouts of joy and the chords of harmonious music were heard on all sides. When Sun-Yen was informed of this, instead of rejoicing with the others, he became a prey to great sadness. To get away from his own thoughts, he resolved to go visit his friend, San-Houni, one of the greatest scholars of Korea. So Sun-Yen, the benevolent, set out accompanied by his servant--a faithful and trusted fellow.

While on his way thither, his attention was suddenly drawn to a great crowd of people by the roadside. “Go, see what is the matter,” he said to his servant. The latter hastened--as all good servants do--to obey his master’s orders. He made a way through the crowd which had gathered and soon learned the reason for the gathering.

They were about to carry away several people who had died by the highway. As soon as the servant saw this ghastly spectacle he returned to his master and told him what had taken place. Sun-Yen was profoundly moved when he heard it but, losing no time in passive sympathy, he summoned a police agent, of whom he demanded, “Do you know what caused the death of those unfortunates?”

“Yes, sir, they died of hunger.”

“Why not carry them away then instead of leaving them there on the road?” continued Sun, in a tone of reproach.

“I was about to do exactly as you suggest, sir,” said the agent, who, with a quickened step, went toward the group which by this time had increased materially.

Sun did not continue on his way to see his friend, San-Houni. He went direct to the Palace and was immediately ushered into the presence of the King.

The monarch accorded Sun a hearty welcome, saying, “It has been a very long time since I have had the pleasure of having you come to see me.”

“Sire,” replied Sun-Yen, “I rarely leave the comfort of my humble home.”

“And what is it that keeps you so close at home?”

“Sire, either my duties or sickness. The reason I have come to see you to-day is because I have a very important revelation to make to you. Several of your subjects have just died of starvation by the roadside. The thing at first appeared incredible to me. I could not believe that, if my King knew the sad conditions in which so many of his people are living, he would give himself up to pleasure as you are doing. However, I have secured the evidence. Just a few moments ago, I saw with my own eyes three wretches who had died from want of food.”

These words seemed deeply to impress the King who, with a trace of emotion in his voice, inquired of Sun, “Tell me, what should be done? I can scarcely believe that this misfortune took place while I was leading this life of idleness and pleasure.”

“Sire,” continued Sun-Yen respectfully, “here lies the source of the whole trouble. Who pays the expenses of your amusements? Your people and no one else, and the Governors instead of doing their duty are also leading a frivolous and even vicious life. You can believe the words of your old servant whose devotion to your interests you are well aware of.”

“I thank you for this frankness,” rejoined the King, “but candidly I can hardly credit what you have just told me. I shall look more fully into this affair.”

At these words, Sun left his sovereign and went home and told his wife what he had done--the mark of a dutiful husband.

“You acted nobly,” she said, “but my intuition tells me that your devotion to the King will cost you dearly.”

“Why?” asked Sun.

“The King will not follow your advice. This is the course things are going to take, mark my words. The Governors, forewarned by your complaint, will not allow themselves to be injured and their pleasures curtailed, and upon you their anger will surely fall. Yes, I fear the consequences of to-day’s work.”

“Reassure yourself, my dear, the King took my words in a very good spirit and he has never yet made light of my advice.”

“I hope with all my heart that you are right. Let us see what time will bring forth.”

The King in reality did change his way of living. His conduct made him a bit remorseful. He promptly followed up Sun’s complaint and summoned his Prime Minister.

This official, who was named Ja-Jo-Mi, came immediately. He was a man whose severity of character and conduct had earned for him a terrible reputation. Although no one knew of it, he had conceived the scheme of usurping the throne but up to the present time had revealed his intentions to nobody.

The King demanded of his Minister, “Have you nothing new to tell me?”

“Absolutely nothing, sire.”

At these words, the King cried in an excited voice, “What, you, the Prime Minister, and you do not know that several of my people have just died by the roadside and that their death was caused from lack of food? If there is any one who should be well informed about what is going on in my Kingdom, it should certainly be you.”

“Sire, from whom did you get this news?”

“From Sun-Yen.”

“Ah, I can scarcely understand how this can be. I have just received the reports from the police and I did not see a single word on the subject of this affair, therefore, I am quite astounded.”

“However that may be,” said the King, “I command that this evening’s fete shall not continue an instant longer.”

“Your orders shall be executed. Sire, as soon as I have carried them out I shall return to my office and secure what testimony I can about this matter. The guilty parties shall have their just deserts.”

Bowing humbly before the monarch, Ja-Jo-Mi withdrew. A few minutes later and the Palace, which formerly echoed to the shouts of merrymaking, was in complete silence.

The Prime Minister, upon retiring to his office gave himself up to reflection upon the situation. He was greatly troubled because he feared that he might be removed from his office by the revelations of Sun-Yen. “That fellow is an infernal nuisance and might bring down the King’s wrath upon my head. To prevent a recurrence of such things there is but one thing to be done--to get rid of him by sending him into exile. With this dangerous fool out of the way, nothing, nor nobody, can oppose me in the execution of my ambitious designs and I can easily secure the throne.”

Such in substance were the reflections of the Prime Minister, but it would be necessary to find a pretext for the exile of Sun and Ja-Jo-Mi, the clever, was not long in devising a scheme.

He resolved to write a letter to San-Houni full of bitter criticisms and threats against the King. This letter he would sign with the name of Sun-Yen. Then he would place it in the King’s hands with the story that it had been found on the road by a police agent.

No sooner said than done. The letter was written. Ja-Jo-Mi, adopting a disguise, left his home and, dropping the missive in the path of an agent of police, passed on in the darkness of the Korean night. When the agent walked by he picked up the letter and naturally glanced around but there was no one in sight. He carried the note directly to his chief so that the latter could look over the contents and restore it to its owner.

The Chief of Police read the letter through with great astonishment. Desiring to give a proof of his zeal, he ran to the palace and in a mysterious manner demanded an immediate audience with the King. The monarch had the Chief of Police brought to him at once and was given the forged letter. One can well imagine the surprise of the King. Anxious for light upon the amazing situation he again called his Prime Minister.

Ja-Jo-Mi, the clever, came with dispatch. The King passed over to him the malicious letter, asking if he believed that Sun-Yen was really the author. The Prime Minister pretended to read the communication. He saw that the King was in a state of uncertainty and he determined to take advantage of it in order to ruin Sun-Yen, once and for all time.

“Sire,” he said, “it often happens that we are deceived by those whom we deem most faithful. As far as Sun is concerned, I consider him perfectly capable of this infamous business. I have known for a long while that he has been thinking and dreaming of taking your place on the throne. As for the annoyance which he caused you a short time ago, he was the principal instigator of that himself.”

“That’s enough, my faithful Ja-Jo-Mi. Have Sun thrown into prison. He will be tried immediately.”

The Prime Minister, rejoicing over his triumph, had Sun-Yen taken into custody. When the King was informed of his arrest he went personally to interview the prisoner.

“Do you recognize this?” he shouted in rage, holding out the letter.

Words fail to give an idea of Sun’s astonishment. He realized that he was the victim of a devilish plot but such was his stupefaction that he could utter nothing in his own defense. He burst into tears.

The King continued: “I would never have believed this of you.”

“Sire, I know nothing of this,” wailed the wretched Sun.

These words irritated the King.

“Ah, you understand nothing,” he cried. “Tell me, then, who is the writer of this letter?”

“In any case, it was not I, sire.”

“Of course. Now just listen to me. You have heard the proverb about the smoke?”

“Yes, sire.”

“Well, you know where there is smoke there is fire. I mean by this that if you had not been moved by evil intentions, you would not have addressed this letter to your friend.”

“Sire, I see whence comes this evil. The revelations which I recently made to you have stirred up hatred in the hearts of certain personages who desire to bring about my ruin. There’s a black heart at work. I swear to you that I am innocent.”

“So that’s all you have to say for yourself? That’s enough.”

The King withdrew, leaving Sun in despair. He ordered the Prime Minister to banish Sun at once and designated his place of exile as Kang-Sin. San-Houni, who was also compromised in the plot, was exiled to Ko-Kum-To.

Escorted to his home by an agent of police, Sun told his wife what had happened. The unfortunate woman was prostrated with grief.

“What did I tell you the other day,” she said to her husband, but she soon gained control of herself and regarded the misfortune which had fallen on both of them in a calm light.

“Let us be resigned, my dear. Doubtless it will be painful to live so far from our King and our friends but at least we shall have peace in the future.”

Without delay, they busied themselves with preparations for the departure. Sun summoned a few poor families to whom he distributed the little money he possessed.

’Twas but a short while and the moment to leave was at hand. Sun-Yen and his wife found it hard to break away from the embraces of their relatives and weeping friends.

* * * * *

Here endeth the first step of our legend.

II

II

The journey of Sun-Yen and his wife to the Island of Kang-Sin was uneventful and they were soon alone in their new home. Their guards then returned to the capital.

What especially troubled Sun was the idea that his wife might be lonely and depressed in this isolated place. He spoke of this to her but she replied with a great deal of cheerfulness, “Do not trouble yourself about me. I have decided to follow you wherever you may go and I shall never find the time wearisome so long as I am with you”--the mark of a dutiful wife.

As a matter of fact, the days passed for our two exiles just as quickly as if they had been living among their relatives and friends. Very soon signs of Spring were to be seen. So Sun said to his wife one day:

“Spring time has come, it is a delightful day. Let us take advantage of it and go for a little outing.”

“With pleasure, my dear.”

“Good, let us climb the mountain if we can.”

They set out gaily. On seeing them one would never have thought they were the victims of Fate. They enjoyed to the fullness of their hearts the charm of the landscape which lay about them, and happiness was in their souls. Madame Sun was overflowing with joy.

“How peaceful everything is,” said she to her husband. “It is a real pleasure to be walking here alone with you. When we lived at the Capital I was never able to accompany you in your walks.”

“You are right. I was forced to conform to the customs of the country.”

“Now we are at the foot of the mountain,” she continued. “What a beautiful panorama lies before us. Just look at it. I feel a poetic instinct within me. Listen to these verses:

The day is beautiful; amid the shrubs Are fragrant blossoms, clustered in sweet sleep, The butterflies that seek them eagerly Seem poised to count each rain-bow tinted leaf. And stupid with the heat the serpent lies Stretched lazily along the languid boughs. Among the reeds that tremble in the wind, Deliberate leaps the frog, while swallows pass Bearing the insect-prisoners to their nests.”

“Do you know,” she mused, “these animals are happier than we.”

“What makes you say that?” queried Sun.

“Because they have little ones to care for while we have no children.”

“Console yourself, my dear, we are not yet so old that Heaven may not smile upon us. Have confidence in the future. But I think it is time to return. The sun is going down and you must be tired.”

The two returned slowly to their home, lost in thought.

Now it came to pass one night that Sun’s wife had a dream. She saw an angel from Heaven bending over her. She awoke, startled by the vividness of this vision, and immediately told her husband about it.

“Yes,” said the latter, “that is very queer but I shouldn’t worry about it. Fatigue has caused this nightmare.”

The truth was that this noble lady was soon to become a mother. In fact, it was not long before she gave birth to a daughter to whom they gave the name of Cheng-Si. Sun, the benevolent, was overwhelmed with joy--as one should be when Heaven smiles.

Unfortunately, his wife lay seriously ill. It was soon evident that there was no hope of saving her. Scarcely three days had passed after the birth of little Cheng-Si when her mother died. She sensed the approach of death and whispered weakly to her husband:

“My dear, I am going to leave you. I know that your grief will be very great but do not give yourself up to it. You must look after our little one. Get a nurse for her if you can.”

With a supreme effort the dying woman clasped her baby to her breast.

“Alas,” she said with a deep sigh, “this is the last time I shall have you so near me.”

Sun, in tones of deepest sorrow, said to his wife:

“Dearest wife, can it be true that you are going to leave me? We have always protected and shared with the unfortunate and yet the gods permit us to be parted. It is an injustice.”

His wife did not hear his final words. Death had already touched her brow and called her to her ancestors. Sun saw but did not wish at first to believe.

He called to his wife, tears streaming down his cheeks, but, alas, his words were unanswered.

“Now, I am all alone,” he cried in despair. “What will become of me and this child!”

He gazed fondly at his daughter who was still clasped to her mother’s breast. This sad sight increased Sun’s grief. He took the little baby and turned it over to the care of a nurse whom he managed to secure. Then, beside himself with grief, he busied himself with his wife’s burial.

All this happened so quickly that Sun-Yen thought it had happened in a dream, but the sad evidence was there before his eyes. Each day he could be seen walking to the spot where his wife was sleeping. These frequent visits merely aggravated his anguish and it was impossible for him to control himself.

Our friend was always in tears; he could get no rest nor sleep and shortly more ill fortune came to him. From having shed so many tears, Sun became blind.

This terrible blow almost prostrated him but he continued to drag out the same wretched existence. His greatest regret was in not being able to look upon the face of his little daughter. So passed several years.

* * * * *

Meanwhile, Cheng-Si was growing up. She was now in her thirteenth year and was obliged to help support her poor father who was without resources of any kind. She had but one way to keep Sun from starving and that was by begging. She went about this sad task without any false modesty. Her wits, however, were not asleep and one day she said to her father:

“There is something which I do not understand.”

“What is that, my child?”

“Father, how is it that so many other people can live with their relatives and friends while we are here all alone?”

“Ah, my daughter, it is very true that we must live by ourselves. But things were not always thus. There was a time when I lived at the Capital of Korea with your poor mother and we were surrounded by many friends. I occupied a high position. Our family belonged to the highest nobility and was always in good standing at the Court of the King. But, one day, because of a malicious slander, of which the King thought me guilty, I was exiled here. My friend, San-Houni, was trapped in the same affair and was sent to Ko-Kum-To. He shares our downfall for he also comes from an excellent family. I am very sorry that since my arrival at this island I have had no news of my old friend.”

“Perhaps it is not possible for him to communicate with you,” said the child in order to console the old man. “Excuse me, father,” she added, “it is time for me to go to work.”

“Go, my child, and come home early.”

Little Cheng-Si, the fair, walked at a rapid gait. She went first to the cemetery to pray a moment beside her mother’s grave. Cheng-Si was just as industrious as she was intelligent. She gave up her nights to study, while during the day she went from door to door asking alms.

One day, she went as usual to pray by her mother’s resting place. She remained there longer than usual and did not return home at the customary hour.

Sun, missing his daughter, was sorely troubled. At last, he resolved to go search for her. Leaning on his cane, he started out slowly and feebly. Unfortunately, when he came to the edge of a pond close by his home, he made a false step and fell into the water. He groaned to himself, “This is certain death for me, and my poor little girl will hunt for me everywhere.” And he began to shout lustily at the top of his voice.

Happily Sun-Yen’s cries were heard by the disciple of an anchorite who lived in a cave on the mountain slope, a short distance from the lake. He came running and soon had Sun out of the water.

He demanded of him:

“Where do you live?”

“Right close by.”

“But how is it that you, a blind man, go out alone? Don’t you know that you are running a great risk in doing this?”

“Yes, I know it. I never do go out alone. To-day, however, I ventured away from my home to hunt for my little girl. She did not return at her usual time so I went to look for her. That is how I came to fall into the lake from which I would never have come out alive without your assistance. You have saved my life.”

“I have only done my duty,” replied the disciple, humbly.

He took Sun by the arm and led him to his little dwelling. On the way, he asked of him:

“Will you have faith in what I am going to tell you?”

“Certainly.”

“Well, I predict, indeed I can read in your face, that your evil days will not last forever. Within three years you shall recover your sight and you shall become Prime Minister. Your fortune also shall be unsurpassed. To attain this goal you must pray diligently to Chen-Houang (the Emperor of Heaven).”

“Have I heard you aright?” cried Sun, beside himself with astonishment and joy.

“Nothing can be nearer the truth,” gravely replied the disciple.

“But what must I do? Tell me, tell me!”

“You must give me three hundred bags of rice and I will pray in your stead.”

“Alas, I cannot give what you require of me.”

“That doesn’t make any difference. I do not ask for the immediate delivery of the three hundred bags of rice. It will be sufficient if you bind yourself in writing to pay me when you have the means to do so.”

“I’ll accept on those conditions,” replied Sun.

The disciple passed over to him a paper on which the poor blind man placed his signature.

“I am obliged to leave you, now,” said the disciple.

“Then, good-bye, until we meet again.”

When he was alone, Sun reflected upon what the disciple had told him. The idea of seeing the sunlight again and of acquiring honor and wealth filled his very being with ecstasy. On the other hand, the obligation of furnishing three hundred sacks of rice considerably diminished his joy. A man, whose daughter was obliged to beg to keep him from starving, would never be able to fulfill the promise which he had signed. He regretted having given a promise which he could never hope to keep.

Sun was drawn from his reveries by the arrival of his daughter.

“Why so melancholy, father?” inquired the child. “Is it because I am late to-day that you seem sad? I must ask your pardon. I went to the cemetery and from there to gather some alms. They gave me some things to eat, as your hands can tell. Don’t you forgive me?”

“My dear child, it is not you who makes me so sad. Listen, and I will tell you what happened to me. When you did not come home I was a little worried and wanted to go and meet you. On the way, I fell into the lake and gave myself up for lost when I was rescued by a disciple of an anchorite. This man led me home and said to me, while we were walking along, ‘I predict to you that you will no longer be blind and that some day you will become the King’s Prime Minister.’ But I have to pay him three hundred sacks of rice and I can never do it. That is why I am sad.”

“Do not worry too much about that, father. We shall find a way that will enable you to keep your promise.”

After they had shared their meagre meal the young girl went to her room where she began to reflect upon her father’s story. Not succeeding in going to sleep, she went out to take a bath in the lake, after which she began to prepare the sacrifice table in the garden. She placed in the centre a vase filled with water, lighted the incense burner and two candles, one at each end, and began to pray to Heaven. Her prayers continued almost until daybreak.

Not until then did Cheng-Si go to her room. Exhausted with fatigue, she fell asleep almost immediately. She dreamed that an old man was saying to her, “Very shortly something is going to happen to you. Some one will cross your path who will make you an attractive proposal. Do not hesitate to accept, for it is an exceptional opportunity.”

On awakening, the child recalled her dream and was pensive and thoughtful for a long while. In reality her dream was soon to come true. Some dreams do.

In the days of our story, Korean merchants in search of business were accustomed to make one trip a year across the Yellow Sea, which lies between China and Korea. The crossing was very difficult and dangerous because of the rapidity of the current in certain spots. After each trip they were always sure to report the loss of some boat. Thinking to avoid this danger, the merchants had recourse to a very ancient and very barbarous practice. In each village where they traded they purchased a young girl. These victims were thrown into the sea and the perils of the voyage were thought to be in this way forestalled.

Now, this day, Cheng-Si, the fair, had scarcely left her home when she met one of these traders in search of a human victim. The merchant asked the young girl if she knew where he could find what he wanted. To this request Cheng-Si replied:

“You need not look any farther. If you want to take me, I will go, but what will you give me in exchange for my life?”

“Anything that you want.”

“Suppose I ask for three hundred bags of rice?”

“I’ll accept the offer, but I have some partners and must consult with them, so I will not be able to give you a positive answer for a few days.”

“I’ll wait, then.”

“Good-bye,” said the merchant.

Happy at having concluded this bargain which was to result so seriously for her, the young girl impatiently awaited the merchant’s return. One beautiful morning she saw him coming toward the house and immediately went to meet him.

“Has the affair been settled?” she asked him, without manifesting the least emotion.

“Yes, you shall have your three hundred bags of rice. Do you want them right away?”

“Yes, indeed, if I may. Please wait a moment, I must tell my father.”

Cheng-Si went into the house. She did not know how to tell her father about her fatal decision.

“To tell him the truth,” she said to herself “is to condemn him to a death from grief. I can remember his anxiety that day when I was a little late in coming home. Now suppose I should never come back--but it must be done.”

The young girl threw her arms about her father’s neck and cried in a joyful voice:

“Father, I have found a way to get you the three hundred bags of rice that you owe the disciple. Send for him at once.”

When the disciple had come, Cheng-Si took him to the merchant’s place of business and turned over to him the three hundred bags of rice. She then demanded, in exchange, the paper bearing her father’s signature, thanked him for having saved Sun-Yen’s life, and asked him to continue his prayers for the blind man. The disciple promised to do so and left the young girl.

Very happy because of her sacrifice, she hastened to her father and handed him the paper which he had signed.

“Where did you get this?” demanded the surprised Sun.

“From the disciple, to whom I gave the three hundred sacks of rice.”

“But, how in the world did you get all that rice, my daughter?”

“In a very simple way. I sold myself the other day.”

“What are you saying! Ah, unhappy girl, do you want to kill me?”

“Now do not worry about this, father. Let me finish what I have to tell you. It is true that I have sold myself but I am not going very far away and perhaps I shall see you every day. There isn’t anything to be troubled about. I am sacrificing my liberty with the best of good will so as to insure your happiness. When we have saved up enough money I will pay back the price of the rice and then, once I am free, nothing can prevent me from remaining with you forever.”

The young girl, having calmed somewhat her father’s fears, went to the merchant’s to learn the date of her departure.

The merchant told her that they were not going to set sail for three months. Meanwhile, Cheng-Si was thinking constantly of the solitude in which her father would be after she had gone. What would become of the poor blind man, alone and without resources? This thought haunted her day and night. She sought to accumulate a little money and some food which would be enough for him to live on decently for some little time.

The three months soon came to an end and the merchant returned to remind her of her promise. She asked permission to speak to her father for the last time. She had not yet revealed to him the entire truth. The merchant, of course, consented and even went into the house with her.

“Father,” she said, “I must leave you.”

“My daughter, leave me? And where are you going?”

“Father, I deceived you the other day. It was not my liberty but my life which I gave in exchange for the three hundred sacks of rice which you promised the disciple. Yes, I was purchased, body and soul. I have to plunge to the bottom of the Yellow Sea to pray for a favorable passage for our sailors.”

Cheng-Si had tenderly placed her arms about her father to support him while she was making this fatal confession. Nevertheless, the blind man could not bear the shock and he fell into a swoon.

When he regained consciousness, he said in a voice that was scarcely audible, “Unhappy child, is it indeed true that you are going to abandon me in this way? After having seen your mother die, must I see you, too, leave the world before me? Oh, tell me that it is a dream! Consider your poor blind father and think what will become of him when he no longer has you with him. No, it cannot be, you are not going to die.”

Sun-Yen burst into tears. His daughter tried vainly to keep from weeping herself for she felt that her heart was broken. The merchant, a witness of the scene, was very much moved, too. He beckoned the girl to him and said:

“I will give you another hundred bags of rice and we will not set sail for three days. Would you like that?”

Cheng-Si thanked the man profusely and went with him to the door. The following day, after she had obtained the hundred sacks of rice, she sought an audience with the leading magistrate of the town. He consented to take charge of the maintenance of the old gentleman in consideration of the one hundred bags of rice which he took as a sort of deposit.

The young girl did not leave her father until the merchant came for her. She endeavored to console the old gentleman as best she could. When the time for the separation came, it was heart-rending. Sun-Yen threw his arms about his daughter’s neck while his frame was shaken with sobs.

“I want to die with you. I will not let you go alone.”

The cries of the poor blind man attracted a number of the neighbors, who were also moved to tears at the pathetic sight. Finally the trader grasped the girl by the arm and said in a trembling, gentle voice, “We must go now.”

Paralyzed by grief, Sun fainted and his arms slipped from about his daughter’s form.

“Good-bye, father,” she called back as she walked away. “Don’t worry, we shall meet again in a better place where we shall be happy forever.”

Cheng-Si renewed her requests to the magistrate, who, shortly after, visited the unfortunate father and tried to console him a bit, without succeeding to the slightest extent.

For Cheng-Si had gone.

* * * * *

Here cometh to a close the second step of our legend.

III

III

San-Houni, the scholar and intimate friend of Sun-Yen, was likewise condemned to exile on account of his friendship for the disgraced. He was obliged to leave the Korean Capital, a circumstance which he regretted exceedingly just at this time because his wife, Yeng-Si, who was soon to become a mother, would not have the comforts and advantages of the city. But of what avail are innocence and regret when a Prime Minister has rendered one undesirable in the eyes of the Monarch? It was decreed that San-Houni be banished and that he be forced to live on the island of Ko-Kum-To, a desolate, sparsely populated rock in the Yellow Sea.

It was a long journey. The trip would consume several days. San-Houni’s few servants took care of the details of the packing but he himself went in quest of a boatman who would agree to take him and his wife across the waters to the island. His choice was not a happy one but he was unaware of it.

The most violent contrast existed between the characters of Su-Rung and Su-Yeng, the two brothers, whom San-Houni engaged for the trip. From this difference in temperament great misfortunes were to come.

As long as they were in sight of the coast, things went well, but when the party was on the open sea, Su-Rung the wicked, revealed his designs.

“I am somewhat taken with the wife of our passenger,” he whispered to his brother, “I want her and I’m going to get her. Her husband grates on my nerves. I must get him out of the way.”

“You are mad,” replied Su-Yeng. “Do you think for a minute that I will ever allow you to do anything like that?”

“Bah! You are jealous of me,” cried Su-Rung, in a fury.

“Not at all, but your intentions disgust me.”

Su-Rung said nothing further but it could readily be seen that he had not given up his project.

The terrible thing about all this was that San-Houni and his wife had overheard the brothers. Their anxiety grew and soon merged into real fear. They discussed in low tones the peril which threatened them and how it would be possible to escape.

There was not much time left to them for reflection. Su-Rung called the oarsmen and whispered aside to them, “Men, I want you to grab that fellow and his servant. Take and keep what money they have on them and kill them. The woman alone must live. Make a good job of it.”

Su-Yeng here interposed, “I think you should be content with taking their money, but at least spare their lives.”

“Mind your own business,” shouted Su-Rung in a rage. “I am master here. Get out of my way and let me alone!”

Su-Yeng was forced to obey his brother’s injunction. As soon as he had turned his back, San-Houni and his servant were put to death. The murder was committed under the very eyes of the scholar’s wife. She was dazed with anger and sorrow. Having no desire to survive her husband, she plunged into the sea, crying, “In spite of you, I shall die with my husband.”

Su-Rung, however, ordered his sailors to turn about and rescue the unhappy woman. A few minutes more and Yeng-Si was pulled into the boat alive and safe.

Then the assassin, judging it indiscreet to continue in the direction of Ko-Kum-To, changed the course of his vessel to a spot he was well acquainted with. The boat made a landing shortly after. Su-Rung jumped ashore and approached an old woman on the beach, to whom he said:

“Go aboard my boat, you will find a woman there. I want you to take her home with you. Be very gentle and kind to her, encourage her, and console her, for she has been deeply afflicted.”

The old lady at once set about doing what Su-Rung had requested.

Meanwhile, Su-Rung had anchored his boat and as a sign of self-satisfaction he invited his men to a feast, where they made merry and drank freely. Shortly all the guests were drunk except Su-Yeng. He was broken up at the turn of events and his inability to avert Su-Rung’s crime. Therefore, he resolved to profit by the present situation by assisting, if it were possible, his brother’s unfortunate captive. He left the revelers without being noticed and, setting out at a rapid gait, soon reached the home of the old lady. He paused before entering at the sound of voices and in the midst of the lamentations of Yeng-Si, he could make out these words:

“Where do you come from?”

“The Capital.”

“Is that so? I lived at Yeng-Yang.”

“Then how is it that you are in these parts?”

The old lady, for it was she who was talking with Yeng-Si, uttered a deep sigh.

“Alas, I have lived here for ten years, much against my will. Like you, I am a victim of Su-Rung, who murdered my husband. I am awaiting the hour of vengeance, but it is slow in coming. Will this monster remain unpunished forever?”

Touched by her story, Yeng-Si forgot for the time her own misfortunes to sympathize with her companion. It was just at this moment that Su-Yeng entered the room where the two women were and said in a troubled voice:

“Do not take things too hard. Perhaps you will be rescued very soon. There is some one who is looking out for you. I have a profound horror of my brother’s evil deeds. Listen, if you wish to escape you will never have an easier time than now.”

“How so, your brother....”

“Don’t be afraid. For the time being, he is not capable of following you for he is asleep and dead drunk, but there is not a minute to be lost. You know the country for you have lived here a long while. You must show the way to this lady who is a stranger. Here, take this money, it will not do to wait any longer.”

The two women, weeping and sobbing, threw themselves at the feet of their rescuer in gratitude.

Su-Yeng helped them to their feet and urged them again to leave. It would be advisable, he insisted, to make haste for the rage of Su-Rung, if he captured them, would be terrible.

Yielding to the entreaties of Su-Yeng, the two women set out. Their friend accompanied them for a short distance. When they were alone, they walked as rapidly as their strength would permit. At the end of two hours Yeng-Si, thoroughly fatigued, requested that they rest for a few moments. Her companion consented quite willingly. So the two fugitives sat down to rest their weary bodies. Suddenly the elder of the two said to the other:

“I’m going to ask you something.”

“What can I do for you?”

“Well, I would consider it a great favor if you would let me have your sandals in exchange for mine.”

This request puzzled Yeng-Si a great deal as she did not understand the purpose of the elder woman’s intentions. However, the old lady gave her little time for reflection.

“You are,” she said, “like me, very tired, but you are still young, consequently you are capable of enduring greater hardships than I. I am very old. You go on. If Su-Rung catches up--and he will not wait long--I will tell him that I do not know in what direction you went. Now, hurry on, but leave your sandals here with me if you wish to be real kind.”

Yeng-Si arose at once. She thanked her friend for her excellent advice and handed her sandals to her without understanding in the least what motive she had in this request. As she was leaving, the old lady continued:

“Just a moment. I am going to show you the road which you should take to escape from Su-Rung. Keep straight ahead until you come to a grove of bamboo where you might rest a few moments if you like, then keep on walking in the same direction until you come upon the temple of Buddha. When you arrive at this spot, you will be out of danger but be careful to follow my directions explicitly.”

“I will do so, thank you.”

“Good, now, good-bye.”

When Yeng-Si had gone a short way, the old woman arose, and taking the sandals, she turned toward a lake which was a short distance away. Placing them at the water’s edge, she uttered a brief prayer and jumped into the water.

Yeng-Si, however, heard her cries. She immediately retraced her steps, hastening to the lake where she noticed the sandals beside the water and the body of the old lady floating on the surface. This sight almost overbore her.

“Why did this poor woman drown herself?” she muttered. “Can it be--yes, I imagine--her persistency in asking for my sandals--oh, blessed one! She had the idea of dying before saying good-bye. She did not wish her death to be fruitless, so she placed my sandals on the shore, that it would appear as if I had committed suicide. Poor woman, how devoted she was! May she have her reward in the Hereafter.”

If she had listened to the promptings of her heart, Yeng-Si would have remained there mourning for her unfortunate companion. Remembering the entreaties of the latter, however, she hurried her steps and shortly came to the forest of bamboo. Suddenly she experienced the most agonizing pains. She trembled, shivered, broke out into a cold perspiration and suffered terribly. She understood that she was about to become a mother. What a terrible situation she was in! Here alone, away from everybody, what was to become of her?

* * * * *

Yes, it was a little boy. She seized the poor, little being and covered it with tears and kisses.

“Poor child,” she said, “what can I do with you? You have no father and your mother does not know what is going to become of you.”

Fortunately for Yeng-Si, some one had heard her shrieks and cries. It was a nun from the temple that the old lady had told her about. This nun ran to the spot whence the cries came and was somewhat surprised to find there the mother and child.

After rendering what assistance she could, she asked her how it came about that she gave birth to the child in that place.

Yeng-Si told briefly her sad story. The nun was deeply touched at the tale--so fraught with sorrow.

“What do you count upon doing?” she asked her.

“Alas, I do not know. Here I am alone and without resources. How can I bring up my little one? I shall have to abandon him, but I shall not live long anyway, I am sure of that, so perhaps I shall make way with myself.”

“That would not be doing exactly right. Suppose you try to follow my advice. Give your child to some charitable person and come live with me.”

“I could not ask for anything better, but why can’t I take my little one along with me?”

“Because it is against the rules of our order to receive children. I know it is hard for you to give up your little one, but since you scarcely have any choice in the matter, you must resign yourself. If you were to continue on your way with your little son you would unquestionably fall into the hands of the brigands. Besides, it is possible that you may be able to reclaim your child some day in the future. When he becomes a man he will aid you in getting retribution for his father’s death.”

Yeng-Si followed the advice of the nun. She wrapped the little fellow as well as she could, tearing bandages from her own clothes. Since she wished to have some sign which would enable her to recognize her son, she took his arm and with a needle traced on the pink flesh the characters forming the name of San-Syeng. Then she went over these letters with India ink which the nun gave her. Finally, slipping off the ring which she wore, she placed it in the wrappings of the child. This finished, she started out accompanied by the nun. They were going to the neighboring village to place the child at a street corner and then return to the temple.

Very soon, Yeng-Si could sight the roofs of the little village where she was to say “good-bye” to her son. Alas, the child, whom she and her husband had been looking forward to with such great joy, would be abandoned just as if she were an unnatural mother. Her cup was filled to the brim with sorrow, for her husband had been murdered before her eyes and now her son was to be left on a street corner. More dead than alive, she gently placed the child on the ground after giving him a last fond kiss. With a supreme effort she regained her courage and walked slowly away, shedding tears of sorrow, while the hunger-cries of the baby grew louder and louder.

She tottered along very, very feebly, she was so torn with emotion and anguish. The nun, familiar with sad scenes, was nevertheless deeply moved.

“Pray, pray to Heaven,” she said to Yeng-Si, “some day you will find your son. He will come to you when he grows up. Something within me gives me confidence in what I am telling you, but prepare yourself for a long separation--take courage.”

* * * * *

Here endeth our third chapter.

IV

IV

When the vapors of intoxication had cleared from Su-Rung’s brain, his first thought was of his captive. He ran to the old woman’s hut where the widow of San-Houni was confined. Great was his astonishment on finding the house empty. In vain did he burst into anger, and shout. No one answered. Breathless from rage, he went to his brother.

“Have you seen these two women?”

“No. I have not seen them since I was here last.”

“They have disappeared, but I know how to find them.”

Su-Rung set out in pursuit accompanied by his brother. The latter feared that Su-Rung in his fury would do harm if he succeeded in coming upon the fugitives and Su-Yeng wished to be present to protect them should the worst come to the worst.

Traveling speedily, the two brothers very soon reached the shores of the lake, of which we have spoken before. Here they saw Yeng-Si’s sandals by the water’s edge and a body floating in the middle of the lake.

Even Su-Rung was moved by the sight and cried:

“The poor woman is drowned.”

“Brother,” replied Su-Yeng, “you would not listen to me and you have been punished. You wished to make this woman your slave and she has escaped from your clutches in spite of your efforts. What a great misfortune for us.”

“You mean to say that it is my fault,” took up Su-Rung, angrily, “You are to blame yourself. Why did you let my prisoner escape?”

The dispute between the two brothers lasted in this manner until Su-Rung’s rage had cooled. Instead of retracing their steps at once they continued on their way to the neighboring village and were the first ones to find the baby which Yeng-Si had left there a half hour or so before. Quite pleased at his unusual discovery Su-Rung took the little being and carried it home with him where he confided it to a nurse, instructing her to take the greatest care of the little boy.

Several times Su-Rung questioned his brother concerning the escape of the two women. Not being successful, however, in learning anything about the matter he dismissed the entire subject from his mind.

The murderer of San-Houni gave all his time to the education of the child he had adopted. He treated him as if he were his own son. It must be said that the little fellow gave him abundant cause for satisfaction. He was good to look upon, extremely intelligent and grew up rapidly. One day he asked Su-Rung:

“Father, where is my mother?”

“Your mother,” replied Su-Rung, very much embarrassed by the question, “your mother died a short time after you were born.”

Su-Rung was in the habit of accompanying his adopted son to school. The young scholar was not long in distinguishing himself among his comrades who could not witness his success without a show of jealousy and hate. To obtain revenge they could find nothing better to do than to taunt him about having no parents.

“No parents,” shouted the indignant boy. “Why, I have a father and it is not my fault if I lost my mother before I was able to know her. I do not see why I deserve your reproaches.”

“That shows that you really do not know anything about yourself. Su-Rung is not your father. He is only a thief and a robber. He found you on a street corner and brought you up.”

This revelation troubled the child very much and he made it known to Su-Rung.

“Don’t be troubled about that, my child,” replied the latter. “These boys are jealous of you and they invent these stories to anger you. They are not worth bothering about at all.”

Yeng-Si’s son was somewhat reassured by this. But other circumstances 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.