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Authors: Margaret Drabble
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smiling. She came to my bedchamber during the night to claim my child, to carry him away to the Yellow Springs of the underworld. She had died in labour, and she envied me my son.
I think I was somewhat paranoid, at this time, imagining harm even where there was none.
PrinceŬiso was a sad and serious infant. His fingers were long and thin and delicate. He rarely smiled. But he would gaze at me intently when I spoke to him. His eyes were very large in his small face. He seemed to question me, as he gazed at me, but I did not know the answer.
He survived his hundredth day, and we celebrated it in the correct manner, but I was not sure that he would reach his second birthday, which would mark the next landmark in his life. I tried to hide my fears from him, but I think he could see into my thoughts.
A little after this hundredth-day ceremony, when PrinceŬiso was about five months old, his paternal grandparents King Yŏngjo and the Lady SŏnhŬi unexpectedly came to my quarters to visit the baby. King Yŏngjo, who rarely left Seoul, was about to depart on a diplomatic and ceremonial visit to the celebrated hot spring resort of Onyang, forty miles south of the capital. He seemed at this time to wish to be reconciled with Sado and myself. I wished to protect my darling from them, hoping they would not notice his weakness, but they insisted not only on seeing him, but also on stripping him of his clothes to examine his body. Their reaction to what they saw was curious and wilful, although in some ways not unwelcome. PrinceŬiso had distinctive birthmarks on his body – one on his shoulder and one on his belly – which I had noticed while I was bathing him. These were marks of no great import, and in my view of utter insignificance in comparison with the sadness of his wasted little frame, which weighed less than that of many a month-old child. But the king and his lady, in their ignorance and their stupidity and their superstition, did not notice his bodily weakness – no, they seized upon these as signs that he was a reincarnation of his aunt, the late Princess Hwap’yŏng, who, they claimed, had borne similar marks upon her body! Have you ever heard the like of such nonsense?
From this moment, however, their attitude to the baby changed, and he became much favoured. This was not to my advantage. He was moved from my apartments to the Hwan’gyŏng Pavilion, which was lavishly refurbished to receive him, and every attention was showered upon him. When he was ten months old, PrinceŬiso was designated Grand Heir and Royal Grandson by Yŏngjo. I was dismayed when this was announced, but I was obliged to mouth my gratitude. I knew this elevation spelled ill luck, and so it proved. My baby was doomed. In their folly, they ignored the symptoms of his frailty and continued blindly to promote him as a royal marvel. The mother cat in me could have scratched out their eyes.
The Grand Heir, poor little mite, died in the spring of 1752. For all his pompous titles and rich garments and prostrated slave attendants and subservient eunuchs, he died, as sick babies do. Mercifully, he died peacefully, in his sleep. I was by his side. As he lay on his crib, he breathed his last, a long, shuddering last breath, then passed silently away. I was plunged into silent and private grief, for I chose not to compete with the public pomp of desolation that greeted the news of his death. I had learned to conceal the depths of my emotions, and maybe my attendants thought me cold and unfeeling, but in truth I was in despair. Believe me, I mourned my little son, and not my place at court, or my status as mother of the Grand Heir. He was my baby, and the first great love of my life. My nature grieved, and not my dignity.
Prince Sado said a kind thing to me at this sad moment. ‘My little Red Queen,’ he said, ‘you bear no blame for this sad event. You have been a good mother to our little one, whatever they may say of you, and our next child shall be
I think I was somewhat paranoid, at this time, imagining harm even where there was none.
PrinceŬiso was a sad and serious infant. His fingers were long and thin and delicate. He rarely smiled. But he would gaze at me intently when I spoke to him. His eyes were very large in his small face. He seemed to question me, as he gazed at me, but I did not know the answer.
He survived his hundredth day, and we celebrated it in the correct manner, but I was not sure that he would reach his second birthday, which would mark the next landmark in his life. I tried to hide my fears from him, but I think he could see into my thoughts.
A little after this hundredth-day ceremony, when PrinceŬiso was about five months old, his paternal grandparents King Yŏngjo and the Lady SŏnhŬi unexpectedly came to my quarters to visit the baby. King Yŏngjo, who rarely left Seoul, was about to depart on a diplomatic and ceremonial visit to the celebrated hot spring resort of Onyang, forty miles south of the capital. He seemed at this time to wish to be reconciled with Sado and myself. I wished to protect my darling from them, hoping they would not notice his weakness, but they insisted not only on seeing him, but also on stripping him of his clothes to examine his body. Their reaction to what they saw was curious and wilful, although in some ways not unwelcome. PrinceŬiso had distinctive birthmarks on his body – one on his shoulder and one on his belly – which I had noticed while I was bathing him. These were marks of no great import, and in my view of utter insignificance in comparison with the sadness of his wasted little frame, which weighed less than that of many a month-old child. But the king and his lady, in their ignorance and their stupidity and their superstition, did not notice his bodily weakness – no, they seized upon these as signs that he was a reincarnation of his aunt, the late Princess Hwap’yŏng, who, they claimed, had borne similar marks upon her body! Have you ever heard the like of such nonsense?
From this moment, however, their attitude to the baby changed, and he became much favoured. This was not to my advantage. He was moved from my apartments to the Hwan’gyŏng Pavilion, which was lavishly refurbished to receive him, and every attention was showered upon him. When he was ten months old, PrinceŬiso was designated Grand Heir and Royal Grandson by Yŏngjo. I was dismayed when this was announced, but I was obliged to mouth my gratitude. I knew this elevation spelled ill luck, and so it proved. My baby was doomed. In their folly, they ignored the symptoms of his frailty and continued blindly to promote him as a royal marvel. The mother cat in me could have scratched out their eyes.
The Grand Heir, poor little mite, died in the spring of 1752. For all his pompous titles and rich garments and prostrated slave attendants and subservient eunuchs, he died, as sick babies do. Mercifully, he died peacefully, in his sleep. I was by his side. As he lay on his crib, he breathed his last, a long, shuddering last breath, then passed silently away. I was plunged into silent and private grief, for I chose not to compete with the public pomp of desolation that greeted the news of his death. I had learned to conceal the depths of my emotions, and maybe my attendants thought me cold and unfeeling, but in truth I was in despair. Believe me, I mourned my little son, and not my place at court, or my status as mother of the Grand Heir. He was my baby, and the first great love of my life. My nature grieved, and not my dignity.
Prince Sado said a kind thing to me at this sad moment. ‘My little Red Queen,’ he said, ‘you bear no blame for this sad event. You have been a good mother to our little one, whatever they may say of you, and our next child shall be
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