Chapter 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