Late at night, the Chief State Councillor Chae Jegong came to see the King.
“Your subject, may I be excused?”
The King sat silently, glaring at the stack of novels piled on his desk.
Afraid that some spark from those trivial books might leap toward him, Chae Jegong broke out in a cold sweat.
“I’ll summon you again tomorrow.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
Fortunately, with the King’s curt reply, Chae Jegong was able to escape the crisis.
Yet the King, left alone in the vast audience chamber, continued to glare at the pile of trivial books as if they were his mortal enemies.
How much time had passed like that?
The King slowly reached for one of the books Chae Jegong had brought.
Yet the sovereign’s rough hand could not so easily violate the cover of a mere novel.
It was as though an invisible wall blocked the space between him and the book.
The King remembered.
All the harsh words he’d spat from the throne about trivial writings.
And how, to establish absolute royal authority, he’d left no gaps for his officials, walking a razor’s edge all this time.
Therefore, he could not afford to hesitate now.
Flip. The cover of the first book was opened.
The so-called “pækwan style,” a vernacular expression utterly different from the dignified prose of the classics, bewildered the King’s eyes.
Yet, suppressing the sense that his gaze was being sullied, the King endured and managed to read through the first novel.
What the novel contained was a story of corrupt petty officials and the magistrate who rose above them.
It exposed the rotten state of Joseon that the King absolutely needed to know.
“Park Ji-won…?”
In that moment, the name of his cherished Northern Learning scholar slipped from the King’s parched lips.
But he soon shook his head.
The Park Ji-won he knew was a man who pursued only the culture of the great nations and new ideals.
Such a person would never write such a vulgar story in the vernacular.
Surely, just as when became popular and his style was all the rage, someone must have imitated Park Ji-won’s style in the vernacular.
“Even so, this… was worth enduring the unpleasantness.”
The King blinked, as if to wash away the residue from his eyes.
He was colder than anyone to his officials, but to the common people, he was a warm-hearted city ruler.
Stories meant for the ignorant common folk, stories that vented their pent-up frustrations, were never something he’d intended to touch.
Rather, he even considered sending secret royal inspectors to investigate the tales exposed in the novel.
“So long as the literati don’t read such base books and let them influence them.”
As always, the King’s crackdown on novels was limited to the literati class.
And the reason he lashed out at his officials, using novels as an excuse, wasn’t simply because he was a stubborn Confucian old man.
To be honest, even King Jeongjo himself filled his secret letters to his officials with all sorts of coarse words and unrefined expressions.
As ever, he was a monarch deserving the label of “do as I say, not as I do”—well, anyway.
Just as the King, somewhat relieved, reached for the next book—
His hand again froze in midair.
Perhaps because he hadn’t touched trivial writings in so long.
Suddenly, a gruesome memory from the past rose up and stopped him cold.
‘Grandfather…!! Please, save my father, save my father!!’
‘Drag the Crown Prince out! Hurry!!’
‘Grandfather!!’
That was the dreadful memory of that day in the year Imo.
‘Now, there’s only you and I left in the royal family. Remember your grandfather, and set your mind at ease, do what must be done well.’
And then, the memory of the cold-hearted grandfather burning “strange objects of amusement” found in his father’s room.
The King’s father liked to read novels to release his pent-up anger.
Even just days before he was locked in the rice chest, he completed an illustrated volume called the “Model Book of Chinese Novels” and happily wrote a preface for it.
It was a collection, with 128 illustrations painted by court artists, compiling the highlights from various novels.
But it didn’t contain only famous stories like , , and .
There were even erotic novels disguised as romances like and , and even Catholic texts like and .
The King’s father, Crown Prince Sado, had wide-ranging, but quite twisted, tastes in novels.
Of course, even as the heir, the King knew.
That those books were his father’s last outlet under the unbearable psychological pressure from his grandfather.
What had his father written in his own hand in the preface to the “Model Book of Chinese Novels”?
[Within this single volume are all the ages.
On spring days and winter nights, it will help pass the time and cure illness and loneliness.]
To his father, novels were just that.
But his grandfather never even tried to understand such eccentricities in his son.
And this, even though he himself loved novels and avidly read .
‘??’
‘??’
The reason was that, among his father’s belongings, were novels that far overstepped the line for royalty.
His grandfather, reading such bizarre theories that violated the order of yin and yang, turned red with fury that day.
The King remembered clearly the sight of all the books dragged out of his father’s quarters being burned that day.
Thus, all of Crown Prince Sado’s “strange objects” were burned to ashes by King Yeongjo’s hand.
Even the few records left in the Annals and the Royal Secretariat Diary were strictly erased by royal order after the King’s accession.
‘You must never become like your father, do you understand??’
‘…Yes, Grandfather.’
‘That answer is not satisfactory!!’
From that day, when he had to stand before his grandfather’s bloodshot eyes—
The King began, perhaps unconsciously, to distance himself from anything connected to his father, Crown Prince Sado.
Perhaps that was also when he started immersing himself in Zhu Xi’s texts and living mechanically by the scriptures, all to give no one any excuse to find fault with him.
Yet, not long after that—
The King began to suffer a strange malady.
Whenever he saw a novel, his body would shiver even in warm weather, and just as now, he would find it hard to even touch a book.
The King’s deep-rooted aversion to novels fundamentally stemmed from this affliction.
But he did not suffer from this trauma all his life.
For a very short time.
For a moment, even if only a fleeting one, the King was free from this malady.
‘Will you not even take your nose out of the bookshelf when your husband has come?’
‘Oh my. If Your Majesty could outshine the heroes in these stories, then my gaze would naturally return to you, would it not?’
‘You, you!!’
‘It’s a jest, a jest. How could paperbound fiction compare to such a handsome husband? You’re not sulking, are you?’
‘I won’t speak to you!’
‘Oh dear. Please don’t be angry. It’s not as if you’ll never see me again…’
That was during the brief period he spent with the only woman he ever truly loved.
She, who even as a palace maid, used to transcribe together with the King’s younger sisters, loved stories.
When she was by his side, the King could forget his tragic past, if only for a while.
Even his illness that arose whenever he encountered novels vanished like a ghost in her presence.
For this reason, the King, after being refused once in his days as Crown Prince, waited fifteen years for his first love and finally made her his own.
After embracing her at the end of that long wait, the King could forget all his worries and sleep peacefully.
Moreover, she was wise and thoughtful, an excellent wife who calmed all his other concerns—despite her humble origins as a palace maid.
“……!!”
At that moment.
The King, swept up in memories of past happiness that seemed so unfitting, started and snapped out of his reverie.
Unbeknownst to him, the whites of his eyes had turned faintly red.
Yet the illness that vanished while he was with her returned with a vengeance after she was gone.
Perhaps because of that unfillable sense of loss, the King had distanced himself from novels even further after losing her.
Now, as his hand shook while turning from to the next book, it was proof of that.
Still, the King managed, in the end, to overcome the resurfacing illness.
He was a man who had to live as the King of Joseon, rather than as the man Yi San.
A pitiable man, designed to place the duties of the monarch above his own traumas under King Yeongjo.
Thus, the next book in the King’s hands was .
At first, the King frowned at the childish content, but soon, recognizing its value, his expression softened.
“So there was such a story as this…!!”
Jeongjo’s reaction was exactly the same as Park Ji-won’s when he first read .
For a King who professed nothing but disdain for novels, this was the highest praise.
No doubt, the fact that the common people could naturally acquire proper Classical Chinese through such a work appealed to the eyes of a stubborn Confucian.
So astonished was he that Jeongjo read several times, even forgetting his trauma for a moment.
For a King who couldn’t even stand to lay eyes on novels, this was an unthinkable sight.
“One could even use such a structure to teach true texts… I have learned something new.”
In fact, there was a reason for Jeongjo’s quick understanding of this.
Around the same time, he had used novels as propaganda to publicize his verdicts to the people.
He had commanded Yi Deokmu of the Baektap School to write , a novel based on an actual murder case judged by Jeongjo.
Well, Jeongjo’s hypocrisy in despising novels yet using them for national affairs was, as always, on full display.
Thus, after reading , Jeongjo’s mind had somewhat changed.
When he first ordered Chae Jegong to investigate, he intended to punish the author of such trivial tales that wasted precious paper.
‘If they’re of this quality, even trivial tales are… No, what am I thinking.’
So useful was that Jeongjo, without realizing, entertained such lenient thoughts.
Perhaps because of this.
After reading , the King had made up his mind.
According to Chae Jegong’s report, the paper shortage in Hanyang seemed to have been resolved.
If anything, there was more benefit than harm, so there was no need to interfere in the domain of stories meant only for the people.
For now, he decided to simply observe.
Still, wary of wavering, Jeongjo closed and reached for the next book.
Fortunately, the following work, the typical hero novel , allowed Jeongjo to barely recover his crumbling prejudices.
But the problem came with the last book, .
“……!!”
At that very moment.
From the next room, Senior Eunuch Lee Yunmuk heard a sound he never should have.
It was a faint moan, like that of a dying beast.
The source was the main hall where the King was staying.
Lee Yunmuk hurriedly rushed to check on the King’s condition.
But—
“……Stop.”
Just as he was about to cross the threshold, he was halted by the King’s cold voice.
The moan from the King’s direction had already ceased long ago.
“Your Majesty, could something have happened to Your royal body…?”
“Nothing happened. Leave.”
“But, Your Majesty…”
“Do you not hear me, Senior Eunuch?”
At the King’s thunderous command, Lee Yunmuk could not step into the audience hall.
Only after quite some time passed did he receive the King’s summons again.
“It’s cold tonight.”
And then.
At that next summons, Lee Yunmuk could hardly believe his ears.
“Pardon?”
“Close all the windows and doors tightly, and send away all the eunuchs and court ladies nearby.”
“But Your Majesty, it is…”
There was a reason why the usually loyal Lee Yunmuk voiced his doubts.
It was the season of melons—summer.
So what did the King mean, saying it was cold, and why order all the windows closed, cutting off the cool breeze?
Moreover, the King was not wearing his layers of red dragon robes since it was still working hours.
What was the reason for such an order?
“Are you refusing to carry out the royal command, Senior Eunuch?”
“N-no, Your Majesty!! I will carry out your order at once!!”
But a eunuch must carry out even such incomprehensible commands.
And none could dare defy the eccentric King’s will.
Thus, Lee Yunmuk followed Jeongjo’s instructions to block every gap through which sound might escape and cleared the court attendants from around the hall.
“……”
Left alone in the now empty space,
Jeongjo sat in silence, a single book before him.
The book placed before the King was none other than the first edition of by Wonja.
Because the handwriting was beautiful, the original manuscript’s script was carved directly onto woodblocks for the first edition.
Of course, once Wonja learned of this, she immediately ordered the blocks destroyed, fearing her identity would be exposed.
Yet, a few rare copies could not be recovered, and one, somehow obtained by Chae Jegong, now lay in Jeongjo’s hands.
And—
The script written in that book was exactly as the woman who had left the deepest scar on the King’s heart had once written, smiling in her lifetime.
“Deokim-ah…”
A woman’s name, sorrowful, slipped from the King’s lips.
That was the name of the only woman Jeongjo had ever held in his heart.
When the cold wind returns, that day arrives again.
The day the King will cross Godeung Hill—so named because the precious lady of the palace made so many pilgrimages there—
And make his way to Hyochang Tomb, where she lies in eternal rest. --- ※Author’s Note
1. Crown Prince Sado’s twisted reading habits are a historical fact.
In 2009, it was revealed that the “compiler, Lady of Wansan Yi clan,” mentioned in the illustrated album was actually Crown Prince Sado.
The symptoms Jeongjo experienced when encountering novels, as described in the story, are also historically attested—likely PTSD.
2. The depiction of Jeongjo’s feelings for Lady Ui-bin in this story is based on dozens of memorial writings he himself composed.
For example, the passages about entrusting state affairs to Lady Ui-bin.
If you’re curious just how deep Jeongjo’s longing for her ran, I recommend reading the memorials he wrote so that she would never be forgotten.
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