The Story of Chunhyang

In the city of Namwon, in Jeolla, the southern province of Korea, lived the prefect Ye Tung Uhi, the proud father of a son of about sixteen. Being an only child, the boy was rather spoiled, but he was no ordinary young man. Besides a handsome face and a strong, upright figure, he had a bright, quick mind, and no son could have been more dutiful. He lived in a house behind his father’s quarters and gave himself to his books. Every evening he went to bow to his father and wish him a good night’s rest, and every morning, before breakfast, he went to ask how the new day had found him.

The prefect had only lately been sent to govern Namwon when these things happened. The winter had been spent mostly indoors, but as the mild spring weather came and the buds opened to the songs of happy birds, the son, Ye Toh Ryung, felt he must get out and enjoy the open air. Like an animal coming out of its burrow after the winter, he stepped outside rejoicing. Yellow orioles greeted him from the willows, soft breezes brushed his cheeks and the fresh air filled him with life.

He called his valet and asked him about the beauty spots nearby. The servant was a local man who knew the district well. He named one lovely place after another, and then he said, “But the finest view of all is at Kang Hal Loo. Officials from all eight provinces come to admire it, and the walls of the pavilion there are covered with poems they have written in its praise.”

“Very well, we’ll go there,” said Toh Ryung. “Go ahead and have the place made ready for me.”

The servant hurried off to have the pavilion swept and spread with clean mats, while his young master strolled along, almost giddy with the freshness of everything around him. After a long, weary climb up the mountainside, he threw himself down on a huge cushion and, with half-closed eyes, drank in the lovely view and the warm, scented spring air. He praised his servant’s good taste and declared that if the gods themselves went looking for a fine view, they could find none better.

“That’s true,” said the man, “so true that everyone knows the spirits come here for its beauty.”

As he spoke, Toh Ryung had raised himself on one elbow and was gazing off to one side when, as if she were one of those very spirits, a beautiful girl flew up into the air and dropped back out of sight among the bushes of a neighboring courtyard. He caught only a blurred glimpse of a lovely face, hair black as a thundercloud and a flash of bright silks, and then she was gone. He was speechless, sure he had seen one of the spirits; but before he could say a word, she rose up a second time, and now he could see that she was simply a beautiful girl on a swing in her garden.

He did not move, he hardly breathed, but sat wide-eyed, taking in the prettiest sight he had ever seen: the laughing face, the silky black hair held in a coil by a big coral pin, the jewels sparkling on her bright clothes and her hands, with the breeze blowing back her sleeves. As she swung higher and higher, her little feet in white stockings shot up among the peach blossoms and shook them down in showers around her. In the middle of her play, her hairpin worked loose, and her dark hair tumbled about her shoulders, but the costly pin fell on a rock and broke, for Toh Ryung heard the sharp click where he sat. That ended the game, and the girl vanished, with no idea of the stir her harmless spring exercise had caused in a young man’s heart.

After a long silence the young man asked his servant whether he had seen anything, for he still half feared he had been dreaming. After some teasing the servant admitted he had seen the girl swinging, and his master demanded her name. “She is the daughter of Uhl Mah, and she is a kisaeng of this city, one of the dancing girls on the town’s register,” said the man. “Her name is Chun Yang, which means Fragrant Spring.”

“Wonderful! Then I can see her and have her sing and dance for me,” cried Toh Ryung. “Go and fetch her at once.”

The servant ran off, panting, uphill and downhill over good roads and bad, for although the back of the women’s quarters next door was close by, the gate could be reached only by a long way around. He arrived out of breath and pounded on the gate, calling the girl by name.

“Who’s calling me?” she asked when the noise caught her attention.

“Never mind who,” gasped the worn-out man. “It’s important business. Open the door.”

“Who are you, and what do you want?”

“I’m nobody, and I want nothing. But Ye Toh Ryung, the governor’s son, wants to see Fragrant Spring.”

“And who told Ye Toh Ryung my name?”

“Never mind who told him. If you didn’t want him to know about you, why did you swing where everyone could see? The great man’s son came up here to rest and enjoy the view, he saw you swinging, and now he can’t see anything else. You must come, but don’t be afraid. He’s a gentleman and will treat you well, and if your dancing pleases him as much as your swinging, he may give you rich presents, for he is his father’s only son.”

The girl was proud, and she resented the fate that had placed her in a profession where she was expected to entertain noblemen whether she liked it or not. Still, she combed and arranged her hair, tightened her sash and smoothed her rumpled clothes, wanting to look her best before the handsomest and most gifted young nobleman in the province. She followed the servant slowly to the pavilion and waited while he announced her, for a kisaeng could not enter a nobleman’s presence uninvited. But Toh Ryung was too flustered to ask her in, and his servant had to nudge him, until, laughing at his own nerves, he kindly invited her to come in and sit down.

“What is your name?” he asked.

“My name is Chun Yang,” she said, in a voice like silver coins jingling in a purse.

“How old are you?”

“I am just twice eight years old.”

“Aha!” laughed the boy, who had found his tongue. “How lucky! You are twice eight, and I am four fours, so we are the same age. Your name, Fragrant Spring, suits your face, for both are lovely. Your cheeks are like the first blossoms that bring in the soft spring, and your eyes are as bright as an eagle’s on an ancient tree, yet as soft and gentle as moonlight. When is your birthday?”

“At midnight on the eighth day of the fourth moon,” she answered modestly. She was flattered, and she was fast giving way to the charm of this eager, handsome young man, whose heart she could see was hers already.

“Can it be?” he cried. “That is the day of the lantern festival, and it is my birthday too, only I was born at eleven o’clock instead of twelve. I’m sorry now that I wasn’t born at twelve, but it doesn’t matter. Surely the gods had some purpose in sending us into the world at the same time and bringing us together in our sixteenth spring. Heaven must have meant us to be husband and wife!”

When she started to rise as if to leave, he begged her to stay. He began pleading with her, pacing the room so excitedly that his servant said it sounded like ancient warriors in battle. “This meeting of ours means something,” he insisted. “Many a time, when the buds were opening or the autumn trees were turning red, I have feasted with pretty dancing girls, watched them dance and written them verses, but I have never lost my heart. I have never seen anyone so beautiful. You are no ordinary mortal. You were meant to be my wife. You must marry me.”

She wrinkled her lovely brow and thought, for she was no silly, foolish thing. Her heart was almost, if not quite, won by this stormy young suitor, but she could see what his love made him blind to. “You know,” she said, “a nobleman’s son may not marry a kisaeng without his parents’ consent. I may be a kisaeng by name, for fate has made me one, but I am an honorable woman. I always have been, and I mean to stay that way.”

“Of course,” he answered. “We can’t hold the full wedding with its six ceremonies, with the parents’ arrangements, the letters and contracts, the exchange of gifts, the visits and the wedding itself. But we can be married privately just the same.”

“No, it can’t be. Your father would never agree. And if we married in secret and your father were sent to serve somewhere else, you wouldn’t dare take me with you. Then you would marry some nobleman’s daughter, and I would be forgotten. It must not be,” she said, and she stood up to go.

“Wait, wait!” he begged. “You do me wrong. I will never abandon you or marry anyone else. I swear it. A nobleman has only one mouth; he cannot speak two ways. Even if we leave this place, I will take you with me or come back to you soon. You mustn’t refuse me.”

“But suppose you change your mind or forget your promises? Words fly out of the mouth and are soon lost, but ink and paper last longer. Give me your promise in writing.”

At once the young man took up paper and brush, ground his ink and wrote: “A note. Wishing to enjoy the spring scenery, I came to Kang Hal Loo, and there I saw for the first time the bride Heaven has sent me. At our first meeting I pledge myself to be her faithful husband for a hundred years. If I should change, let this paper be shown to the magistrate.” He folded it carefully and handed it to her.

As she tucked it into her pocket, she said, “Talk has no legs, yet it can travel thousands of miles. What will you do if this reaches your father’s ears?”

“Don’t worry. My father was young once himself; who knows, perhaps I’m following his example. I have made my promise to you, and now we are married, and even my father can’t undo it. If he finds out and disowns me, I will still be yours, and we will live and die together.”

She rose to go, and pointing with her slender hand to a clump of bamboo, she said, “That is my house. Since I can’t come to you, you must come to me and make my mother’s house your home, as far as your duty to your parents allows.”

As the sun began to glow red above the mountain peaks, they said a fond goodbye and went home, each with an attendant. Toh Ryung went to his room, which now seemed more like a prison than the pleasant study it had always been. He picked up a book, but reading gave him no pleasure, for every word seemed to turn into “Chun” or “Yang”. He changed books, but it was no use; he couldn’t even keep them the right way up. Instead of chanting his lessons aloud as usual, he kept singing, “I want to see Fragrant Spring!”

His father heard the strange noise and sent a servant to find out what was the matter. The boy was singing, “As the parched earth cries for rain after seven years of drought, so my heart longs for Chun Yang, whose face is to me like sunshine after nine years of rain.” He took no notice of the servants, so his father sent his private secretary to ask what it was the boy wanted so badly that he kept singing, “I want to see, I want to see.” Toh Ryung answered that he was reading a dull book and wanted to see another. After that he was quieter, but he could hardly wait to hurry off to his sweetheart. He sent his servant out to see how close the sun was to setting, and the man, enjoying the joke, came back to say it was high overhead. “Get out!” said Toh Ryung. “Can anyone hold the sun back? It was touching the mountaintops when I came home!”

At last his dinner came, but he had no appetite, and he could hardly bear the long wait until his father went to bed. When the lamps were finally out and his father was asleep, he took his trusty servant, climbed over the back wall and hurried to Chun Yang’s house. As they came near, they heard someone playing a harp and singing of how slowly the hours pass when one’s love is away. Chun Yang’s mother let them in, and though she was a little suspicious, she listened to Toh Ryung’s promises and showed him to her daughter’s rooms.

He liked the house, which was neat and well kept. The main room, facing the courtyard, was lit by a blue lantern that made it look like a pleasure boat drifting on a spring flood, and scrolls of poetry hung on the walls. Over the door of Chun Yang’s little sitting room hung a banner with verses praying that a century would be too short for her life and happiness and that her grandchildren would prosper for a thousand years. Through the open windows he could see the swinging girl’s little garden in the moonlight. There was a tiny pond almost filled with lotus plants, where two sleepy swans floated with their heads under their wings, and now and then a flash of gold or silver scales showed there were fish in the water. A summerhouse at the water’s edge was nearly hidden in fragrant spring blossoms, and the whole garden was enclosed by bamboo and willows that kept out prying eyes.

As he gazed at this peaceful scene, Chun Yang herself came out, and everything else faded beside her beauty. She invited him into her sitting room, full of carved cabinets and ornaments of jade and metal, with richly embroidered mats on the polished floor. Then, taking both his hands, she led him into another room where an elegant meal was laid on a low table. They sat on the floor before it. There were sugared fruits and candied nuts in little nested boxes, sweet pickles and treats, pears and grapes kept fresh from the summer before, and old long-necked bottles of wine to be drunk from tiny crackled cups like the ones the ancients used.

Pouring him a cup, she sang, “This is the drink of youth. Drink it, and may you never grow old; though ten thousand years pass over your head, may you stand like the mountain that never changes.” He praised her sweet voice and asked for another song, and she sang of how flowers bloom for only a few days so that seeds may be born, and how the full moon wanes so that the new moon may rise. They ate the dainty food, and there were more songs. She spoke of the sweet promise they had made, and they pledged themselves to each other once more. Not content with promises for this short life, they looked further, and he gladly agreed when she asked that, when death came for them at last, she would become a flower and he a butterfly who would come and rest on her petals and drink her sweetness.

The prefect knew nothing of his son’s marriage. The young man did, however, go and remove Chun Yang’s name from the register of the town’s dancing girls kept in his father’s office, for now that she was a married woman, she no longer needed to perform with them. Every morning the dutiful son still presented himself to his father and asked respectfully after his health and his night’s rest, but every evening he slipped away to spend his time at his wife’s home.

So the months flew by, and the young couple were in paradise. The father enjoyed his work and labored hard to make life better for his people. Never had the district sent so much in taxes to the king, yet the people were less burdened than in the days when far less reached the royal storehouses. Reports of the prefect’s honesty reached the king, and when the post of head of the treasury fell vacant, he was made Minister of Finance.

Delighted, the father sent for his son and told him the news, but to his astonishment, the young man had nothing to say. He stood as if struck speechless, as well he might, for inside him there was a great uproar. His heart pounded so hard it seemed you could see it, and at times it rose up into his throat and choked off any words. Puzzled, his father told him to go and tell his mother so that she could have the packing begun.

He went, but soon found a chance to rush to Chun Yang, who at first was frightened for his health, for he looked gravely ill. When at last she understood, despair seized her, and they stared at each other in silent helplessness. Then she seemed to wake from a daze, and beating her breast in anguish, she moaned, “Oh, how can we part? We cannot live apart!” And as the tears came, she cried, “If we say goodbye, it will be forever. I was afraid of this; we have been too happy. If you go to Seoul and leave me, I shall die.”

He drew her head onto his shoulder and tried to comfort her. “Don’t cry so bitterly,” he begged. “My heart is nearly broken already. I wish it could always be spring, but this is like the cruel winter that sometimes lingers in the mountains and sweeps down into the valley, driving out the spring and killing the blossoms. But we won’t give up. We have promised each other a hundred years, and this bitter parting will only make our meeting sweeter when it comes.”

“But how can I live here alone with you in Seoul?” she said. “Think of the long, dull summer days and the long, lonely winter nights. I won’t see anyone. I won’t hear any news of you, for who will tell me? How can I bear it?”

“If my father had not been given this great honor, perhaps we would not have to part. As it is, I must go; there is no help for it. But you must believe me when I promise I will come back. Here, take this crystal mirror as a pledge that I will keep my word.” And he gave her his pocket mirror of rock crystal.

“Promise me when you will come,” she said, and without waiting for an answer, she sang a sad song: when the dry, dead tree bursts into bloom and the dead bird sings in its branches, then my love will come to me; when the river flows over the eastern mountains, then I shall see him sailing home. He scolded her gently for her lack of faith and told her the parting was just as hard for him.

After a while she grew calmer, and taking off her jade ring, she gave it to him as a keepsake. “My love, like this ring, has no end,” she said. “You must go, alas, but my love will go with you. May it protect you as you cross wild mountains and far rivers and bring you safely back to me. When you get to Seoul, don’t waste your time. Study hard and sit the examinations, and then perhaps you will gain rank and can come to me. I will stand shading my eyes with my hand, always watching for you.” He promised to treasure her words and carry her image in his heart, and they said their last goodbye and tore themselves apart.

To the young man, the long journey felt like a funeral. Her face rose before him everywhere, and he could think of nothing else. But by the time he reached the capital, he had made up his mind what to do, and from then on his parents wondered at his stern, determined manner. He shut himself in his room with his books. He would not go out or make friends among the young noblemen of the lively city, and he spent months in hard study, paying no attention to anything else.

Meanwhile a new magistrate came to Namwon, a hard-hearted man who kept company with idlers and spent his time in wild parties instead of looking after the people. He had not been there long before he heard so much about Chun Yang’s matchless beauty that he made up his mind to see her and, if she was as lovely as people said, to take her for himself. He called the clerk of his office and asked about “the beautiful kisaeng Chun Yang.” The clerk answered that her name had once been on the register of dancing girls, but it had been removed, for she had married the son of the last magistrate and was now a married woman.

“You lying rascal!” shouted the furious official, who could not stand anyone getting in the way of his plans. “A nobleman’s son can’t really marry a dancing girl. Get out of my sight, and summon this remarkable ‘lady’ to appear before me!” The clerk had to obey, and he sent the magistrate’s runners to Chun Yang’s house with the order.

The runners were local men and did not want to do it, and when the lovely young woman gave them some money for wine, they gladly agreed to report that she was too ill to come to court. But when they did, their master’s anger came down on them. They were punished severely and ordered to take a sedan chair and bring the woman, sick or well, and if they failed him a second time, it would cost them their lives.

So they went back, but when they told Chun Yang what had happened, they were so moved by her beauty and her concern for them that they offered to go back without her and face whatever came. She would not hear of anyone suffering for her sake, and she got ready to go with them. She tangled her hair, smudged her lovely face and put on dingy, ill-fitting clothes, though they only made her natural beauty shine all the more. She wept bitterly as she entered the magistrate’s hall, which made him angrier still, and he ordered her to stop crying or be punished. Then, looking at her tear-streaked face, like fine jade splashed with mud, he saw that her beauty had not been exaggerated.

“What does this behavior mean?” he demanded. “Why haven’t you come to this office with the other dancing girls?”

“Because, though I was born a kisaeng, I am a lady by marriage, and the rules of my old profession no longer apply to me,” she answered.

“Silence!” roared the magistrate. “Enough of this nonsense. Report here with the other dancing girls, or pay the price.”

“Never!” she cried bravely. “I would rather die a thousand times. You have no right to ask this of me. You are the king’s servant, and you should see that the laws are kept, not broken.”

The man was beside himself with rage. He ordered her chained and thrown into prison at once. All the people wept with her, which only made her persecutor angrier, and he told the jailer to be especially harsh with her and to watch closely in case anyone tried to help her escape. The jailer promised, but in fact he made things as easy for her as he could.

Her mother came and wailed over her daughter’s plight, saying she was a fool to cling to the faithless husband who had brought all this trouble on them. But the neighbors scolded the old woman for talking that way, and they told the daughter she had done exactly right and would be rewarded one day. They brought her gifts of food and did what they could to make her a little less miserable.

She spent the night bowing to Heaven and calling on the gods and her husband to free her. In the morning, when her mother came to ask whether she was still alive, she answered in a voice so faint that it frightened her. “I am still alive, but surely dying. I shall never see my Toh Ryung. When I am dead, take my body to Seoul and bury it beside the road he travels most, so that even in death I may be near him.” Her mother scolded her for her devotion and for binding herself to such a man, until Chun Yang could bear it no longer. “I followed my heart and my mind,” she said. “I did what was right. Can I see the future? Because the sun shines today, can we be sure it will shine tomorrow? What is done is done, and I don’t regret it. Leave me to my grief, but don’t add to it with unkindness.”

So the days stretched into months, and she lay as if dead, paying no attention to the passing of time. She was truly ill and would have died but for the kindness of the jailer. Then one night she dreamed that she was in her own room dressing and looking into the little mirror Toh Ryung had given her, when suddenly, for no reason, it broke in two. She woke with a start, sure that death was coming to free her from her sorrows, for what else could it mean but that her body was to be broken too? Yet though she longed to die and be free, she could not bear to leave the world without one last look at her beloved husband.

Puzzling over the dream, she asked the jailer to call a blind fortune-teller to read her future. That was easily done, for almost as she spoke, they heard one making his way down the street with his long stick, calling out his trade. He came in and sat down, and they soon found they were old friends, for before he lost his sight, he had been well off and had known her father well. So she asked him to be like a kind father to her and tell her honestly when and how death would come. “When blossoms fade and fall, they do not die,” he said. “Their life simply passes into the seed to bloom anew. Death would only set your spirit free to shine in a fairer body.”

She thanked him for his kind words, but she was impatient, and she told him her dream and begged him to explain it carefully. He answered at once that for a breaking mirror to be a bad sign, it must make a noise as it broke. Questioning her further, he learned that in her dream a bird had flown into the room just as the mirror broke. “I see,” he said. “The bird brought good news, and the breaking of the mirror Toh Ryung gave you means that the news is about him. Let us see.” He gathered a bundle of sticks, shook them well while chanting and threw them on the floor. Soon he announced that the news was good. “Your husband has done well. He has passed his examinations and been promoted, and he will soon come to you.”

She was too happy to believe it, thinking the old man had made it up to comfort his friend’s unhappy child. Still, she held the dream and its meaning close to her heart, and it brought comfort to her weary, troubled spirit.

Meanwhile Ye Toh Ryung had gone on studying day and night, much to his parents’ worry. Just as he began to feel ready for the test he was waiting for, a royal proclamation announced that because peace reigned throughout the land, the year had been prosperous and no disaster had struck, His Majesty had ordered a grand state examination. As soon as the news spread, scholars poured into the capital from every part of the country, eager to better their lot.

On the day of the examination, a great crowd sat on the grass before the pavilion where the king and his officials waited. The subject given to Ye Toh Ryung was “A boy playing in the shade of a pine tree is questioned by an old traveler.” For a long time he rubbed his ink stick on the stone, thinking hard, but when he began to write in the beautiful characters he was known for, he seemed inspired, and his essay flowed out as if he had learned it from the ancient classics. He had the boy speak with such respect for age as would have charmed the ancients, and he put wisdom fit for a king into their conversation.

The words came so easily that he soon finished, while many others were still frowning over their first thoughts. He folded his paper carefully, hiding his name so that the essay would be judged only on its merits, and tossed it into the enclosure. Since it was the first and so quickly done, it was looked at right away, and when the king heard it read and saw the perfect writing, he was amazed. Such skill in writing and such fine thoughts were beyond compare, and before any other papers came in, it was clear that none could beat it. When the writer’s name was found, the king was delighted to learn that he was the son of his favorite minister.

The young man was summoned to receive the king’s congratulations. The king gave him three cups of wine, which he drank modestly, and then a garland of flowers from his own hands. He was given the court hat with wings at the sides, which Allen’s telling interprets as a sign that he must carry out his sovereign’s commands as swiftly as a bird, and richly embroidered badges to wear on the front and back of his court robes. Then he rode out on a gaily decorated horse, led by palace musicians and attendants, and for three days he paraded through the streets while the crowds cheered. When that duty was done, he went faithfully to his ancestors’ graves and bowed before them with offerings, grieving that they could not share in his success. Then he presented himself to the king and humbly thanked him for giving such great honors to one so unworthy.

The king was pleased and told him to follow the example of his honest father, and then asked what post he would like. Ye Toh Ryung answered that he wanted only a post in which he could serve his king. “This year has been very prosperous,” he said, “and the good harvest will tempt dishonest officials to squeeze the people for their own gain. So, if it pleases Your Majesty, I would like to take on the hard work of an amhaeng-eosa, a secret royal inspector.” He asked for this because he knew it would leave him free to go in search of his wife while doing a great deal of good. The king was delighted and made the appointment at once, in secret of course, and gave him the special seal of the office.

The new inspector disguised himself as a beggar. He put on straw sandals and a broken hat, with his uncombed hair sticking out in all directions beneath it, and a shabby gown, and with his dirty face, he certainly looked the part. At the post stables outside the city, where horses and attendants were kept for royal inspectors, he showed his seal and soon had everything arranged, and with his attendants he set off for his old home in the south. When he arrived, he stayed in a wretched hamlet outside the city while his servants went in to find out how the people were and to gather the news.

It was spring once more. The buds were bursting and the birds were singing, and in a warm valley some farmers were plowing with lazy bulls and singing a song of thanks for their just king, their peaceful, prosperous country and their full stomachs. The inspector, in his disguise, began to joke with them, but they did not like him and made rude jokes at his expense, until an old man, clearly their father, warned them to be careful. “Can’t you see this man’s speech is only half our country talk? He’s playing a part. I think he must be a gentleman in disguise.”

The inspector drew the old man into conversation, asking about local events, and at last asked what sort of man the magistrate was. “Is he just or cruel, sober or a drunkard? Does he attend to his duties, or does he spend his time in wild living?”

“We know little of our magistrate,” said the old man. “His heart is as hard and unbending as the dead heart of an ancient oak. He cares nothing for the people, and the people care for him only enough to keep out of his way. He squeezes rice and money out of us unfairly and spends it on his pleasures. He has thrown the lovely Chun Yang into prison and treated her cruelly because she turned him away, and now she lies close to death, all because she married that worthless son of our last good magistrate and stays true to him.”

Ye Toh Ryung was stung by these unfair words, filled with fear for his wife and burning with anger at the brute of an official, whom he swore to bring to justice soon. As he walked away, too full of feeling to say more, he heard the farmers singing, “Why are some born to riches and others born to toil? Why do some marry and live in peace, while others are too poor to own a hut?”

He walked on, thinking hard. He had put himself on the level of the common people, and he was beginning to feel as they felt. Crossing a valley with a cheerful mountain stream rushing through it, he came upon an old man sitting outside a poor hut, twisting twine. He greeted him, but the old man took no notice. He greeted him a second time, and the old man looked him up and down and said, “In government service, age counts for little and rank is everything; an old man may have to bow to a younger one who outranks him. But in the country it is different. Here only age is respected. So why does a shabby young fellow like you speak to me like that?” The young man begged his pardon and asked him a question. “I hear the new magistrate is going to marry the kisaeng Chun Yang. Is it true?”

“Don’t speak her name,” said the old man angrily. “You aren’t worthy of it. She is dying in prison because she stays loyal to the low creature who married her and abandoned her.”

Ye Toh Ryung could bear no more. He hurried away, found his attendants and announced that he would go into the city at once, before the officials heard he was there and had time to prepare. In the city he went straight to Chun Yang’s house. It looked nothing like the pleasant home he had known, for most of the fine furniture had been sold to buy comforts for the imprisoned girl. Her mother, taking him for a beggar, almost screamed at him to go away. “Are you such a stranger here that you haven’t heard? My only child is in prison, my husband died long ago, my property is nearly gone, and you come begging from me? Be off, and learn the news of the town!”

“Look! Don’t you know me? I am Ye Toh Ryung, your son-in-law,” he said.

“Ye Toh Ryung, and a beggar! Oh, it can’t be! You were our only hope, and now you are worse than useless. My poor girl will die.”

“What’s the matter with her?” he asked, pretending not to know.

The old woman told him everything that had happened over the past months, not sparing him in the least and giving him a good scolding. Then he asked to be taken to the prison, and she went with him, secretly pleased that she had been right all along and that her daughter’s trust had been misplaced. At the prison she called out to her daughter, “Here’s your wonderful husband! You’ve longed so much to see Ye Toh Ryung before you die. Well, here he is. Look at the beggar, and see what your devotion has come to! Send him away!”

The inspector called to her, and she knew his voice. “I must be dreaming,” she said, and she tried to get up, but she had a heavy wooden collar around her neck, the latest of her persecutor’s cruelties, and she could not rise. Hurt by her pain and by how calm her husband’s voice sounded, she asked bitterly, “Why haven’t you come to me? Have you been so busy with your official life? Were the rivers too deep and fast to cross? Did you go so far away that it took all this time to come back?” Then, sorry for her harsh words, she said, “I can’t tell you how happy I am. I thought I would have to go to Heaven to meet you, and now you are here. Have them untie my feet and take this yoke off my neck so that I can come to you.”

He came to the little window where food was passed through and looked in at her. When she saw his face and his rags, she moaned, “Oh, what have we done to suffer so? You can’t help me now. We must die. Heaven has abandoned us.”

“Yes,” he said, “I may be poor, but shouldn’t we still be happy to be together? I have come as I promised, and we will be happy yet. Don’t harm yourself; trust me.”

She called her mother, who asked with a sneer what use she could be now that the longed-for husband had answered her prayers. Chun Yang paid no attention to the cruel words but told her mother about some jewels she had hidden in a case in her room. “Sell them,” she said, “and buy food and clothes for my husband. Take him home and look after him well. Let him sleep on my bed, and don’t blame him for what he can’t help.”

He went with the old woman, but soon slipped away to meet his attendants, who told him that the next day was the magistrate’s birthday. Great preparations were being made for a celebration that would start early in the morning with a grand feast, where wine would flow like water. The dancing girls of the whole district were to perform for the guests, and bands were rehearsing. It promised to be a wild party, which gave the inspector exactly the chance his plan needed.

Early the next morning the disguised inspector came to the gate of the magistrate’s offices, where the servants jeered at him, “This is no beggars’ feast!” and drove him away. He hung about the street listening to the music inside, and then he tried again, and this time he had more luck. The servants, thinking he was mad, tried to hold him back, but in the scuffle he broke free and dashed through the inner gate into the courtyard by the reception hall. The host, red-faced with wine, ordered him thrown out and the gatemen punished. His order was carried out at once, but Ye Toh Ryung did not leave. He found a gap in the outer wall, climbed through and appeared before the feasters yet a third time.

While the magistrate was too blind with rage to speak, the stranger said, “I am a beggar. Give me food and drink so that I can enjoy myself too.” The guests laughed at his cheek, and thinking him mad, they urged their host to humor him for their amusement. At last he agreed and sent him some food and wine and told him to stay in a corner and eat.

To everyone’s surprise, the fellow was still not satisfied. Since each of the other guests had a pretty kisaeng to sing a drinking song while he drank, he said, he should have one too. The guests found this hilarious and got their host to send one. The girl went unwillingly. “From the look of you, I’d think your throat would open to the wine without a song to oil it,” she said, and she sang him a song wishing him a short life instead of a long one.

After putting up with their teasing for a while, he said, “Thank you for the food and wine and your gracious welcome. In return, I will entertain you by writing some verses.” He took brush and paper and wrote: “The rich oil in the official’s food is the lifeblood of the trampled people, and their tears mean no more to their oppressor than the drips from a burning candle.”

When this was read, a troubled look passed over every face. The guests shook their heads and warned their host that it meant trouble for him, and one after another they began making excuses about important business elsewhere. The host laughed and told them to sit down, and he ordered his men to seize the intruder and throw him in prison for his cheek. They came to do it, but the inspector took out his official seal and gave the signal he had arranged, which brought his followers rushing in. At the sight of the king’s seal, the faces of the half-drunk men went white with terror.

The wicked host tried to crawl under the building and escape, but he was caught at once and put in chains. One guest, fleeing through the attic, got his topknot stuck in a rat hole and stood there yelling for mercy, thinking his captors had him. It was as if an earthquake had shaken the house; everything was in wild confusion.

The inspector put on proper clothes and calmly gave his orders. He sent the magistrate off to the capital at once and began to look into the affairs of the office. But soon he sent a sedan chair for Chun Yang with his own servants, telling them not to say what had happened. She thought the drunken magistrate had sent for her to put her to death, and she begged the servants, who were rather amused, to call her Toh Ryung to come and stay with her. They told her he couldn’t come, for he was at the magistrate’s offices too, and she feared he had come to harm because of her.

They took off her chains and carried her to the hall, where the inspector, disguising his voice, ordered her to look up and answer the charges laid on her. She would not look up or speak, feeling that the sooner death came, the better. So he asked her in his own voice simply to glance at him. Startled, she looked up, and her dazed eyes saw her husband standing in front of her in his proper robes. With a cry of joy she tried to run to him but fainted on the way, and he carried her in his arms to a room.

Just then the old mother came along with food, bringing it as a last kindness to her daughter. Hearing the wonderful news from the excited crowd outside, she flung away her dishes, food and all, and ran about for joy, crying, “What a delightful birthday surprise for a cruel magistrate!”

All the people rejoiced with the daughter, and her mother shared the relief after months of fear and dwindling resources. The inspector’s actions were approved at court, and a new magistrate was appointed. The marriage was celebrated publicly in Seoul, and the young man rose to a high position, where he was fair to the people, who loved him for his goodness, while the whole country sang the praises of his faithful wife, who became the mother of many children.

About this story

Chunhyang, whose name is rendered here as Fragrant Spring, appears in both written narratives and the pansori performance tradition. A National Gugak Center account of a Chunhyangga performance explains the roles of the singer, drummer and responding audience. This retelling follows “Chun Yang, the Faithful Dancing-Girl Wife,” in Horace N. Allen’s Korean Tales (1889). Its names and details follow that historical English version, not every version of the story.

In this telling, Chun Yang is registered as a kisaeng, an entertainer subject to official demands; her removal from the register becomes part of the dispute about her status. The magistrate uses that hierarchy to disregard her refusal. Her return to safety through a secret royal inspector, the amhaeng-eosa, is central to this version. Namwon continues to celebrate the story through its Chunhyang Festival. The dramatic setting and ceremonial explanations in Allen’s narrative should not be read as a complete historical account of Korean society.

Read the original: Korean Tales (Project Gutenberg)

For older readers: the lovers are sixteen at their first meeting, and the story includes coercion by an official, imprisonment, severe distress, wishes for death and threats of execution. Her suffering is not a standard by which to judge another person’s love or worth.

A promise needs someone able to enforce it

Chun Yang asks for writing because she sees a risk that the eager young man overlooks: his family can move away, leaving her without public recognition. That is exactly the separation that follows. The written promise gives her grounds for her claim, but the new magistrate refuses to respect it. Later, the royal seal makes the same officials obey immediately. The contrast asks whose words a system recognises, and what happens when power will not listen.

The jailer’s care, neighbours’ food and her mother’s sale of household possessions keep Chun Yang alive while rescue is delayed. Her mother’s reproaches are painful, but they coexist with material care. The husband returns with power to help, yet his concealed identity and mock accusation make Chun Yang fear death once more. The happy recognition scene does not prevent readers from questioning that choice.

Read the documents and the silences

Place the marriage promise, the register entry, the examination essay, the critical poem and the official seal in order. What does each document allow its user to do? Then identify a moment when Chun Yang’s refusal is clear but ignored. Her right to refuse the magistrate does not depend on proving a perfect marriage or enduring suffering without complaint.

Talk about it

• Why did Chun Yang ask Ye Toh Ryung to write his promise down?
• What did Chun Yang say to the magistrate when he ordered her to obey him, and why was that brave?
• Why do you think Ye Toh Ryung came back dressed as a beggar instead of in his fine robes?

Related stories

• The Sky Bridge of Birds — another Korean story of lovers forced apart
• The Mirror That Made Trouble — a royal inspector arrives at just the right moment in this funny tale too
• The Magic Peach — a faithful heroine who waits a thousand years for the one she loves