The Red Queen

by Margaret Drabble

  He said that his intention was merely to have a place in which to hide all his military weapons and equestrian equipment in case His Majesty should come to the lower palace to ask for them, but understandably this underground tomb and the living death of the prince who hid there gave rise to dark suspicions. Some thought he was plotting against his father’s life, though anybody who observed him as closely as I did would have known that he was beyond any such organized attempt; others, more reasonably, thought that he was insane, and wedded to death. This was certainly my interpretation of his behaviour. I can now see that in some ways our culture might have been thought to encourage a form of necrophilia, through its emphasis on ancestor worship, on offerings to the dead, and on prolonged and precise mourning rituals, but I hope I have made it plain that Sado’s obsessions surpassed even the most devout or exhibitionist displays of normal or conventional mourning. He was consumed by death. In the prime of his youth and strength, he courted death. This was not a charade, though it may have begun as a charade.

  Just after the digging of this underground vault, his mother Lady SŏnhŬi came to the lower palace of Ch’anggyŏng to visit us for a few days. It was the first time she had come to us since the Grand Heir’s wedding, and she was anxious to see the new Grand Heir Consort in her new residence. The prince was delighted and strangely moved by the prospect of this visit, which filled him with excited anticipation. He went to great lengths to entertain her, and planned every moment of her stay in detail. Did he know that this was to be his last farewell to his mother? Each meal was prepared in the manner of a feast, with all sorts of delicacies, and he composed a poem on her longevity and offered drinks in her honour, urging her again and again to drain her wine cup. Then he took her to the rear garden, where he insisted she ride in a palanquin arranged in the manner of the king’s sedan (this was of course a form of lese-majesty) and accompanied by men carrying large military flags, and a band of trumpets and drums.

  This was obviously Prince Sado’s notion of treating his mother with reverence and filial devotion, but Lady Sonhui, far from appearing gratified, was understandably dismayed by this deranged and disproportionate display of affection. Whenever she saw me, she would take me aside, and shed tears, and whisper fearfully, ‘Whatever will happen next? What is this for? What does this mean?’ I think until this point she had been unaware of the depths of his dementia. After a few days, she left for the upper palace; at their parting, both of them were in tears, and so was I. I was not at all certain that I would ever see her again in this life.

  It was clear that we could not go on as we were, at this unsustainable pitch of misery, madness and destruction, and from that time onwards our fortunes rapidly unravelled. Our enemies were gathering against us. In the fifth month of the imo year of 1762, King Yŏngjo was shown – I do not know by whom – a virulent denunciation of Sado, written by a brother of a palace guard, and detailing a list of crimes allegedly committed by Prince Sado. Yŏngjo’s outrage was uncontrollable, although he must have suspected something of what was happening. He set up an interrogation committee, on which my father served: my father managed to persuade him that he, my father, should be the one to convey to Sado the nature of these grave allegations.

  King Yŏngjo consented, and the usual weary ritual of Prince Sado’s filial prostration at the palace gate was followed by a violent confrontation between father and son, during which Yŏngjo charged Sado with beating and killing Lady Pingae, who was now suddenly and retrospectively elevated to the role of ‘the mother of royal grandchildren’. How could Sado have done such a thing, Yŏngjo demanded, when he had even jumped into a well and tried to kill himself for love of her? How could he have killed the one he loved? Yŏngjo brought up other accusations, and Sado replied with his usual defence – he was unloved, and perpetually frustrated, and he had been driven to despair and violence by his father’s neglect. He lacked advancement, and saw no future for himself. It was his father who had driven him mad.

  The informant was executed, and his brother, the palace guard, was interrogated under torture, but he refused or was unable to give any more details about the plot against the throne that King Yŏngjo now seems to have suspected. For the next few days, Prince Sado lived under the threat of royal punishment, prostrating himself daily in public at a designated place – but, during the hours when he was unobserved, he was running wilder than ever, and uttering incoherent threats against those whom he thought were ranged against him. He threatened to kill Lord Yŏngsŏng, the son of the recently appointed President Sin Man, whom Sado loathed. He also appealed by many letters to his sister Madame Chŏng, in the most violent terms, and with some equally shocking and inappropriate endearments, complaining that she was not offering help to him in his extreme troubles. He threatened to make his way unobserved from the lower palace where we lived to the upper palace, through the water conduit, where he said he would murder Lord Yŏngsŏng and others – it is not surprising that many at this time feared for their lives. I know that King Yŏngjo feared for his. And I know that Sado set off, like a madman, through those labyrinthine miles of subterranean water passages, on two successive nights, but he never got very far – either he lost his way or his nerve. On the second occasion he hurt his back, quite badly, and returned in pain as well as humiliation. He was not suited to the role of conspirator or assassin.

  Do I believe that Prince Sado intended to murder his father? No, I do not. I think this intention was pinned on him later as an excuse for the father killing the son. But I do think that there were some at court who would have followed Prince Sado rather than his father, mad though Sado was, had it come to open conflict, open choice. He had his loyal followers. The Time-Servers and the Bigots – these were the nicknames of the factions. The Time-Servers were said to support the prince, the Bigots to favour his death. I do not know. I did not understand these matters.

  Many officials were paralysed by fear and indecision. They saw danger either way.

  ‘A power struggle for the succession.’ ‘The tragic story of a succession dispute.’ That is how the history books and the Encyclopaedia Britannica calmly describe these confused events.

  Lady SŏnhŬi was by now convinced that her first duty lay in protecting not her son, but His Majesty King Yŏngjo. I am not sure when she first arrived at this conclusion – perhaps when she took her leave of Sado after his final bizarre honours to her, perhaps when the fatal denunciation from the palace guard’s brother reached King Yŏngjo. She wrote to me when she heard of the episode of the water passage, saying that she had abandoned all hope of her son, and wished only to preserve the life of the king, and the life of the Grand Heir, and the bloodline of the 400-year-old dynasty. While protesting her love for her son, whom she said she loved ten thousand times more than she loved any other, she effectively added her signature to his death sentence. ‘I do not know,’ she wrote, ‘whether I shall be able to meet you again in this life.’ Thus she bade me farewell, and consigned me, too, to my death. When I read this letter, I wept unrestrainedly, tears of anger, despair and indignation. I knew that time had run out for us, but I did not wish to give in so easily.

  It is my belief that Lady SŏnhŬi, having written in this manner to me, went to King Yŏngjo and urged on him the death of Sado. She told him that Sado was irrevocably mad, past hope, past cure. ‘He cannot be blamed,’ she said, ‘but he cannot be saved.’ Yŏngjo, since the revelation of the extent of Sado’s crimes, had been attempting to put right some of the wrongs committed by his son – he had offered compensation to merchants whose goods the prince had appropriated, and to the families of women who claimed they had been raped by the prince or by his rout of drunken followers. (No doubt many false claims were successfully presented at this time, as rumours of compensation spread – how can history keep a reliable account?) Some of those who had offended in the prince’s name were executed. But the king had discovered and confronted injuries beyond repair, and wrongs beyond any recompense. He, too, like La
dy SŏnhŬi, was in despair, and he was driven to agree with her verdict. I think he, too, had, by this time, lost all hope. He knew that at last he would have to take action. And so the events that led to the Imo Incident were set in motion.

  King Yŏngjo ordered a morning departure the next day for Ch’anggyŏng Palace, and Lady SŏnhŬi went back to her residence and took to her bed, in great distress.

  The news that his father had set off towards us in the lower palace brought panic and alarm to Sado, alarm compounded by the fact that the royal procession chose to make its way through the Kyŏnghwa Gate, a gate which signified misfortune. King Yŏngjo set great store by such symbolic choices. It should also be noted here that all the five royal palaces, as was customary, faced south, towards the fortunate mountain, save for the lower palace, which faced to the east: was this also an ill portent? I do not believe in portents. So why do I take the trouble to record them? It was Sado and his father who believed in portents. There were so many portents. It was on this eve of this day that one of the beams of the hall had given a great groan, as though it were about to break: Sado interpreted this as an omen of his own forthcoming death.

  Fearing his father’s approach, Prince Sado ordered that all his military equipment be hidden, and he set off, deeper into the compound, concealed in his heavily curtained palanquin, to Tŏksŏng House, where he summoned me to attend him. It was now about noon, on one of the hottest days of the year: it was heavy and still, and not a breath of air stirred the limp wind pennants on their high poles. I ran round to warn my son, the Grand Heir, that something terrible was about to happen. I urged him to keep calm, be brave and watch out for himself. Then I obeyed Sado’s orders and went to Tŏksŏng House, where I fully expected some dreadful and enraged attack from him. (On the way, I saw a great flock of magpies gathering and cawing round the pavilion, which even I took to be an ill omen. As you know, I have always had an irrational fear of magpies.) I found Sado not enraged, but subdued, drained and fatalistic, sitting with his back resting against a wall. All that Prince Sado said to me was, ‘It looks bad for me, but they will let you live.’

  We sat there, together, in silence, for a long while, in the heat of the day, like condemned prisoners, not knowing what to do or to say. Then I think the messenger arrived, telling us that the royal procession and the avenging king had reached the Hwinyŏng Shrine, where he was awaiting his son, who was expected to perform a ceremony there. This, or at least as I remember it, was about three in the afternoon: the official records note a somewhat different time scale for these events. The prince at this news did not rant or rage or plot his escape, as one might have expected. Calmly, he asked for the dragon robe of the crown prince, and for the Grand Heir’s winter cap. He said he intended to feign illness. In truth, he had little need to feign. He was ill, ill to death, in mind and in body. As the Grand Heir’s winter cap was small, I thought it would be better for him to wear his own cap, and asked a lady-in-waiting to fetch it, but this brought a bitter outburst against me from Sado. He accused me of wanting to live a long life with my son, free of my husband’s misfortune, and that this was the reason why I did not wish him to wear our son’s cap. He said that I wished to preserve the cap from pollution. He accused me of cruelty and malevolence. I was taken aback by this irrational attack, and immediately pressed the Grand Heir’s little cap upon him, but he now refused it, changing his tack and saying, in a reasonable and woefully subdued and resigned tone, ‘No, no, why should I wear it when you do not wish me to wear it?’

  It was getting late, and from where we sat we could hear the shrill, angry voice of His Majesty at the shrine, and the rapping of his sword. Sado knew he had to go out to meet his fate. He hesitated, but eventually, with some urgings of support from me and from his attendants, he gathered himself together, with one last effort, and stood up, and left the room. I was never to see him alive again. I cannot recall his last words to me, or mine to him. I saw him go to his death, and I did not reach out my hand to stop him.

  I will not now attempt to describe my emotions. After a while, I asked one of the attendants to go to the wall and look over it to see if he could see what was happening. He returned to report that the prince had already removed the dragon robe, and was now prostrate upon the ground. I knew that this was the last scene of the last act of the tragic drama of his life. I was too restless and despairing to stay at Tŏksŏng House, waiting passively on the unrolling of events, so I made my stumbling way to the Grand Heir’s residence, where we hugged one another desperately, mother and son, and wept. It was hot, and my feet were white with dust, and my face was streaked with tears. We had no notion of what to do next. I have never felt so utterly helpless. My son was distraught. He knew all too well what was happening. The angry voice of his grandfather resounded through the still afternoon air. Maybe I should have stayed away from my son, for my presence was no comfort to him, and I could offer him no protection. But I clung to him, selfishly. At such moments, one cannot endure solitude.

  At about four o’clock, I was informed that a eunuch had come to request a rice chest from the kitchens. I could not understand what this request meant, and I was too agitated to let him have what he wanted. Had I known what its purpose would have been, I hope I would have refused it. But the truth is that I did not know what was happening. I was beside myself.

  After a while, the Grand Heir, desperately anxious, suddenly stood up, and pulled himself to his full height. His face was full of determination and self-command. Remember, he was not yet ten years of age. He went bravely out through the gate to the shrine, where, I am told, he threw himself to the ground, behind Sado’s prostrate body, and begged his grandfather to spare his father’s life. Should I have tried to restrain him? Did I have some hope that his intercession might succeed? He was only a child. Whose heart would not have been moved by his tears? Poor child, he feared his father, but he loved him, too, and he was to love him even better after death. King Yŏngjo told him, sternly, in a terrible voice, to get up, and to leave the courtyard. Chŏngjo refused, or was unable to move, and he had to be pulled up and carried away by force. And so he was obliged to leave his dishevelled father lying on the ground in the dirt at his grandfather’s feet. He was not brought back to join me, but was taken to the waiting room at his father’s residence. To wait for the end. This is all I knew at the time of what happened. I knew that his pleas had been rejected, and that I was alone. I was surrounded by servants, but I was alone.

  I knew it was my duty to die. I reached for a knife, but it was taken from me. I knew that it was also my duty to live. Whatever I did would be a crime, a betrayal.

  Eventually I, too, unable to bear the passivity of helpless waiting, went out, towards the shrine, but I could see nothing over the wall, and I was not permitted to pass through the gate. My knees were trembling and my breath came fast and shallow. I could hear Prince Sado pleading for his life, and the sound of the terrible rapping of His Majesty’s sword, and the wailing of Prince Sado’s tutors. The midsummer heat was terrible. The air smelt of death. I could hardly hear the words that Sado was saying, but I could hear the low, defeated tone of his desperation and his humiliation, and I remembered the many times that he had told me that he knew that his father would not permit him to live. He was now, yet again, confessing his faults, and promising eternal obedience. He would study harder, he promised. Like a child, he promised to be good. Was it yet possible that there could be forgiveness? Could the father stretch out his hand, at this last moment, and could the son be restored to favour?

  I could see nothing. I could not see over the wall.

  I could not see that there was now a rice chest in the courtyard. It did not come from my kitchens. Later, nobody claimed it, nobody accepted responsibility for having provided it, but it was there. It had been brought by the king’s command. Somebody had brought it to his presence. I will describe this rice chest.

  A rice chest is a large, square wooden box, a domestic object of a nature famil
iar to all in our country. It is used for the storage of rice or grain. It stands on short legs, and can be locked by a metal clasp. (Some rice chests are objects of considerable value, and are handed down as family heirlooms, as I believe linen chests may be in your country.) The rice chest in question here was a large one, which measured four feet by four feet by four feet. I am told that the first chest to be provided proved unsuitable (presumably it was too small?) and that a second had to be obtained.

  Writing down those two harmless words, ‘rice chest’, is still painful for me, after all these years. During my life, we never used those words. We referred to the rice chest, when we spoke or wrote of it, as ‘that thing’.

  My own father was later accused of providing the rice chest, but he did not do so. I do not know who provided it. Those who accused my father were malicious detractors.

  This is what happened. As the long hot day wore on, Sado’s pleas exhausted themselves, and his feeble but repeated attempts to kill himself were repeatedly foiled. King Yŏngjo then ordered his son to climb into the rice chest. And, in the end, he did so. I did not witness this.

  We do not know in whose brain the novel idea of the unparalleled cruelty of the death in the rice chest was hatched. Some have complimented King Yŏngjo himself upon it, some Lady SŏnhŬi, and some, as I have said, have implicated my father. Others have pointed the finger at various ministers. I do not know whose idea it was. It was not known. It is not known.