All the Prince wanted to do was please the King, but he did not know how. When the King posed a question such as: “In times of uncertainty in a kingdom, when the people are suffering from drought and pestilence, should a ruler follow the ways of T’ang in the first century or Chu Kow in the fourteenth?” Well, one could be like T’ang, who believed a ruler should open up his coffers and share the fate of his people, or like Chu Kow, who thought the ruler must be protected, first and foremost, so that he could live to serve his people. The Prince could always see two sides to every question. How could he choose? And yet, the Prince was also keenly aware that his father was expecting a wise answer. He started to speak T’ang’s name, then stopped. He began to say Chu Kow, but hesitated. In front of all the ministers in the main audience hall, the King would then ask the Prince if he was an idiot.
The Prince began to dread the morning audiences, and who could blame him? Half the time, the King ignored his presence, not once looking in his direction. Or if he did notice him, he grumbled about his clothing, his hair, or his tardiness. Therewas some justification for this. For when the Prince became terrified of the King, he began acting in such a way that could only bring more scorn down upon him. For example, so anxious was he about meeting his father that he would wake in the dark, even before paru, the bells from the water tower that ring to lift the night curfew, and demand to be dressed in his royal robes. Then he would sit at his desk before a lighted lamp and commence memorizing his books, until inevitably, he fell asleep again. He would snarl at the eunuchs who came to wake him, and though they nudged and pushed without seeming to, he was late washing his face and combing his hair. His clothes by this time were, of course, rumpled and untidy. Without fail, the Prince found himself morning after morning, running to the main audience hall in Changdok Palace, his mind so filled with useless information he could hardly remember his own name. Of course, all this further infuriated the King.
As if this weren’t bad enough, he then became afflicted with a terrible stutter that only appeared in the King’s presence. When the King heard the Prince’s stutter, he grew enraged and made fun of him in the company of others. The Prince paled and cowered before him. The very sight of the Prince grew to disgust the King.
We who lived in the Prince’s palace loved and feared for the Prince. We saw how he struggled to gain the King’s favor, and how he suffered under his father’s disappointed glare. It was sad for all concerned.
Around this time Prince Sado’s obsession with clothes began. In order to impress the King, Prince Sado began to take great care with his clothes, buying up all the silks that arrived from China so that there was hardly any left over for others. He ordered upwards of thirty sets of new clothes at a time, burning some as an offering to the spirit gods. He had to try on many different robes before selecting one, discarding them becausethey were too long, too short, too plain, too bright, too tight, too loose, too scratchy, too unlucky. He changed so often, his skin became raw and overly sensitive. Sometimes he bled from the skin. Once he was dressed, he would wear the same suit of clothes for days until they became rank and filthy. In this way everybody, except the King, came to know about the Prince’s illness.
It became an especial problem for Lord Hong, the Prince’s father-in-law. Since the Prince’s allowance was insufficient for his need for the best silks, Lord Hong sold some of his own best agricultural lands in the South to pay for it. Both Prince Sado and his daughter, Lady Hong, could be put in great jeopardy if the King discovered the Prince’s actions. The King wouldn’t see the Prince’s pathetic appeal to him; he would only see the foolishness of wasting money on silks, and indeed of the mind that was so narrowly obsessed with clothes. It would prove once again how disappointing was his son, how little fit to be King.
But much could be hidden from him. Because the King did not like his son, he preferred trying to forget him.
The Prince had a roomful of seamstresses working day and night making ceremonial robes to wear in the King’s presence. One of these seamstresses was a palace maid named Sunbi, whom he first saw at his mother’s residence. For us who worked in the Prince’s palace, she was at first truly heaven sent.
Sunbi was a fair-faced girl of sixteen, fresh from the provinces, a little chubby, a little simple. The Prince took to visiting his mother more often, arranging to meet Sunbi afterward. Without anybody noticing, he managed to get her a job hemming and ironing for his seamstresses. Like a true peasant, she worshipped Prince Sado, and loved Lady Hong. She never worried Lady Hong might feel jealous of her; in her mind, it was unthinkable that the Prince could love her more than he loved Lady Hong. After all, she was a slave.
But the Prince did love her. He respected but could not love his wife. Lady Hong was everything he was not—filial, obedient, graceful in her duties. She was never late for the early morning greetings required by tradition to the King, the Queen, and the Dowager Mother,
