Chapter 03 …
Mozart in Joseon
First Courtyard
A Grand Minister’s House, a Prodigy, and Gaeddongi (1)
“Sleep, sleep, go to sleep.
Our baby sleeps so well.”¹
A faint voice pulled my consciousness back.
It seemed I had fallen into a very long sleep.
“Doggy, don’t bark.
You’ll wake our baby.”
The gentle singing made me feel as though I might drift back to sleep.
“Rooster, don’t crow.
I’ll give you white grains.”
The peculiar rhythm and unfamiliar syncopation were deeply intriguing.
I had traveled through Europe’s great cities in my lifetime, yet I had never heard anything quite like this.
“Sleep, sleep.”
The voice gradually became clearer.
At the same time, many sensations I had long forgotten began to return.
I could feel the texture of something wrapped around me, and I could smell an unfamiliar scent.
Had I survived?
I had been certain this time was the end—yet it seemed I had once again returned from death.
When I cautiously opened my eyes, a woman was smiling at me tenderly.
“Ah!”
Startled, I twisted my body, but I was tightly wrapped in white cloth and couldn’t move at all.
A large woman with black hair was holding me as though I were a newborn infant.
What on earth is happening?
Where is Constanze?
Where did my sister-in-law and Sabine go, and why is a stranger taking care of me?²
I wanted to look around, but my neck wouldn’t move.
“You must have been surprised. Mommy’s here.”
The woman hugged me closer.
Because of that, I could see more of the room over her shoulder.
The windows had geometric frames covered with white paper, and the wooden furniture was neat and cozy—clearly no ordinary household.
The bedding beneath us was densely embroidered on pure white fabric, unmistakably a luxury item at a glance.
Everything in this room was unfamiliar.
Even my own body.
“Did you have a bad dream?”
The woman spoke.
It wasn’t a language I had ever heard—not in Austria, nor in England, Italy, or the Netherlands.
And yet, I knew this voice.
It was the voice that had sometimes whispered in that dark, warm, comforting place.
The same voice that had been singing just moments ago.
“Ahh.”
I wanted to ask where I was.
I wanted to ask who she was.
So many questions piled up inside me, but all I could do was mumble.
Even holding my body together felt difficult.
What in the world happened to me?
“What kind of dream did you have?”
The woman said something again, but I still couldn’t understand her.
However, memories I had forgotten began to surface slowly.
In the darkness, I had been worrying about my wife, Constanze, and our two children.
I couldn’t calm my heart, anxious over how they would manage the debts I left behind, and how they would survive in such a turbulent era—an age when citizens imprisoned kings.
Even so, I wondered if, upon reaching heaven, I might finally meet the four children who had died before me.
I clung to that hope.
For a while after that—
An unfamiliar pressure crushed my body.
I thought I had finally fallen into hell, yet after unbearable pain, light appeared, and a cry burst forth from somewhere I couldn’t identify.
As I panicked at the sudden flood of sensations, someone pried open my mouth and fed me a sweet-tasting syrup.³
After that, I lost consciousness again.
When I awoke, I was here.
“Peekaboo.”
The woman made a strange sound and laughed.
For a moment, I thought she might be teasing me, but the affection she felt toward me was unmistakable.
I, too, felt an inexplicable intimacy toward her, and unimaginable thoughts churned in my mind.
Surely not—no, that can’t be.
I wanted to deny it, but as the fragmented memories became whole, I could no longer reject the truth.
It seemed something utterly unbelievable had happened to me.
“Madam, may I come in?”
A strange man’s voice came from outside.
“Please, come in.”
When the woman responded, a man entered the room.
She adjusted her posture and carefully presented me to him.
The unfamiliar man smiled broadly.
“He just woke up.”
“Oh!”
The man wore a wide-brimmed hat and had a beard—his clothes and appearance were just as unfamiliar.
“My son.”
He pressed his cheek against mine and rubbed it.
For a moment, I wondered if this was a bisou—a French greeting—but this was far more vigorous.
“You’re being improper.”
“Who’s watching?”
The two shared quiet laughter over words only they seemed to understand.
“Where have you been?”
“I went and buried the placenta jar. I washed it well and buried it in a sunny spot—he’ll grow up healthy and virtuous.”⁴
“Well done.”
“And on the way back, I brought home a chicken. I told them to put it on the dinner table, so rest well. Eat it all—by yourself.”
The woman smiled softly.
“I can’t eat that much.”
“Then eat it over several days. I’ll sit beside you and pick the meat for you.”
“You’re embarrassing me.”
“I’m just happy. Our Namyang Mo family’s third-generation only son is so healthy, and you’re safe as well—you’ll soar like a butterfly. Like this.”
The man raised both arms and flapped them alternately, shaking his shoulders.
The woman merely smiled at him.
The man stopped his odd dance and firmly held the woman’s hand.
“No matter what happens, I will take good care of you and our son. Don’t worry about a thing.”
“With you here, what is there to worry about?”⁵
They smiled at each other.
Judging by the depth of their gazes, they were unmistakably husband and wife.
If the memories forming in my mind were true, that meant these two were my parents.
Do people truly get reborn in heaven after they die?
I couldn’t believe it.
* * *
Several days passed, and I came to the conclusion that this place was not heaven.
If God truly loved me, there was no way I would be in hell.
And no matter how I looked at them, the people here did not resemble the angels described in the Bible.
In fact, their appearances and lifestyles were not so different from Europeans.
Their skin was fair.⁶
When I grew sleepy, they sang me lullabies; when I was hungry, they fed me milk; sometimes they lifted me high into the air to play.
The couple seemed close—morning and evening, the man visited, chatting with the woman or bringing over a small, low table to read books like he was doing now.
By all appearances, it was an ordinary household.
There was further proof this wasn’t heaven: their social status seemed quite high.
Over the past few days, they had commanded many servants.
The servants always kept their backs half-bent and never met the eyes of the two I assumed were my parents.
Before God, all are equal—there can be no hierarchy in heaven.
Thus, this place was neither heaven nor hell.
“Daeyong sent another interesting story.”⁷
The man said something while reading.
“What did he write this time?”
The woman replied without taking her eyes off me.
“He says it’s not the sky that moves, but the earth.”
“What does that mean?”
“Doesn’t it sound strange to you as well? I have no learning in astronomy, but it’s hard to understand.”
I still couldn’t comprehend their words.
In Europe, I could at least infer meanings—but the language they spoke was impossible to grasp.
That meant this place was very far from Europe.
The thought of living among people with whom I couldn’t exchange even a single word felt overwhelming.
I couldn’t understand how I had been reborn, or why it had to be here.
I wasn’t even sure whether this was the same world I had known.
Thoom—
As confusion weighed on me, a sound of vibrating strings rang out.
It seemed to come from quite a distance, yet its deep tone carried clearly.
Soon, the unknown instrument began to sing with a resonance I had never heard before.
Its introduction was calm and clear, like a frozen stream melting under sunlight.
The horizontal progression using irregular rhythms was striking, and each note was expressed with remarkable depth.
Come to think of it, the lullabies my new parents sang to me also made excellent use of syncopation.
Perhaps this was a defining trait of the music here.
“Do you like Grandfather’s geomungo playing?”
“You can already recognize the finest geomungo sound in Joseon.”
Though the woman and man spoke, I focused entirely on the performance.
Listening closely, I realized several things.
First, this string instrument was not played with a bow like a violin or cello, but rather plucked.
Second, it used five tones—similar to do, re, mi, sol, and la.
There were slight differences, but just as scales vary by country even within the same system, it was well within an understandable range.⁸
More important than those minor differences was the fact that this music had a system.
A society capable of crafting beautiful instruments and producing skilled performers was clearly advanced.
If this place was truly somewhere on Earth—neither heaven nor hell—then it wasn’t a remote backwater, but a civilized society.
That meant there was at least a small possibility of returning to Europe.
I might see my wife and my two children again.
“He hasn’t eaten and looked restless all day, but hearing Father’s geomungo seems to have lifted his mood.”
The woman said something.
“Looks like another geomungo player will be born into our family. For that, he must eat well and grow strong. Gaeddongi.”
Gaeddongi?
Notes
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Worijajang: A lullaby from Gyeongsangbuk-do, set to a jungjungmori rhythm.
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The people present at Mozart’s death were three: his wife Constanze Weber Mozart, his sister-in-law Sophie Haibel, and the maid Sabine.
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In the Joseon period, newborns were given licorice extract and honey before being breastfed.
Modern institutions such as the U.S. FDA, CDC, and the American Academy of Pediatrics advise against giving honey to infants under one year old due to the risk of botulism. -
In Joseon, yangban families washed the placenta and buried it in a jar at an auspicious location. Royal families preserved it even more carefully in special sites called taesil.
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Gesyeo: A spousal term used in letters from the 18th century, later evolving into geudae (“you”). This novel uses geudae as a literary expression.
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Explorer and painter Arnold Savage Landor described Joseon people as fair-skinned and possibly descended from Caucasian or Aryan groups in Corea or Cho-sen: The Land of the Morning Calm.
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In Joseon, even close acquaintances avoided calling each other by given names, preferring courtesy names or pen names.
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Standard pitch was not fixed until the late 19th century; even today, tuning standards vary by country and historical performance practice.
