Chapter 08 …..
Mozart in Joseon
Second Courtyard
The Nation of Rites and Music (1)
A sound he had never heard in his life guided Mo Daehwan into a dream.
The cheerful melody felt like the fluttering wings of a butterfly, as if it were wrapped in the scent of flowers, drifting playfully among the blossoms.
Each time the strings were plucked, sparkling dewdrops fell. Each time they were shaken, a spring breeze stirred.
The innocent purity of a butterfly dancing as if teasing the dew and wind was dazzling to behold.
The butterfly gently folded its wings atop a flower petal.
Gaeddongi left a long silence until all sound had completely faded.
Before the swelling emotion could fully subside, a new melody unfolded.
If the earlier rising scale had shown a high, clear sky, the mood of the melody now completely reversed.
As the progression descended, his gaze naturally lowered.
Sunlight and shadows draped among the flowers formed an ink-wash painting upon the ground.
Fallen petals added color, turning it into a light watercolor.
As the butterfly fluttered and added liveliness, the canvas seemed to breathe and live.
Within that innocence, Mo Daehwan felt liberation for the first time.
He was confused.
‘What in the world…?’
Gaeddongi’s skill with the geomungo was extraordinary.
With hands as small as fern shoots, he busily plucked, pulled, and shook the strings, producing a sound far beyond expectation.
No one had ever taught him—yet there was no telling when he had learned it.
Even more astonishing was the fact that Gaeddongi was not merely skilled at playing.
He said he was performing a piece he had composed himself.
True to his words, the melody Gaeddongi unfolded felt unfamiliar even to Mo Daehwan, who had mastered both ancient and contemporary orthodox sounds.
He used countless tones that were not proper notes such as Hwangjong, Taeju, Jungnyeo, Imjong, or Muyeok.
Moreover, the composition was so dense that it was impossible to believe it had been created by a six-year-old.
And it was fast.
Proper music was meant to be leisurely—yet his grandson’s music was far too quick.
Though fast, it was not hurried; though light, it was not frivolous—rather, it felt like facing the pure laughter of an innocent child.
He had always regarded fast music as licentious and decadent, yet his grandson’s clear laughter-like sound was utterly distant from such things.
‘They say a great man is one who does not lose the heart of a child.’
Mo Daehwan smiled as he watched his grandson’s hands flutter like wings above the geomungo.
* * *
The subtitle <An Easy Piece for Beginners> was, quite literally, a piece written for those who had just begun learning the piano.
Even so, since the geomungo could not play melody and accompaniment simultaneously, I could not present it in its entirety.
Still, I chose this piece because I wanted to introduce my grandfather to other scales.
When he played Yeongsanhoesang, my grandfather used only five notes.
I wanted him to know that other scales could be beautiful as well.
In that regard, the simple structure and monophonic melody of <An Easy Piece for Beginners> made it suitable for listening.
By first presenting ascending arpeggios with the harmony unfolded, then descending afterward, my grandfather would come to realize that this world held many more scales—and how beautiful they were.
When I finished playing and turned around, my grandfather was staring straight at me.
“Well?” I asked.
“You rascal. Instead of studying, you spent all day playing the geomungo.”
“If I had, I’d be able to play as well as you, Grandfather.”
“What did you say? Hahaha!”
My grandfather burst into hearty laughter.
In truth, my grandfather’s geomungo skills—at least within jeongak—could be called the best in Joseon without exaggeration.
Without even hearing others play, I could tell from my year of experience with the instrument how high his level truly was.
To reach his level would require years of total dedication.
Unfortunately, I have far too many things to do—buying rice cakes at the market, debating with Yeongcheon-daek which jacket and shoes go together, reading the Myeongsimbogam, and so on.
My grandfather stopped laughing.
He stared at me for a moment before speaking.
“It is, however, excessively fast—and discordant.”
I knew that Joseon’s scales differed from Europe’s.
I had played it slowly, at least in my own estimation, but by his—no, by jeongak standards—it must still have been too fast.
My grandfather took the geomungo.
Then, producing sound one note at a time, he played not five notes—but a total of twelve.
Startled, I looked up to see him smiling gently.
“Long ago, a man named Yeongnyun heard the cry of a phoenix and created twelve sounds. This is called the Sipiyul.”
I was astonished.
So even in Joseon, the octave was divided into twelve tones.
“From the bottom: Hwangjong, Daeryeo, Taeju, Hyeopjong, Goseon, Jungnyeo, Yubin, Imjong, Ichik, Namnyeo, Muyeok, and Eungjong.”
Some of the tones roughly corresponded, but others differed from equal temperament.
That was why my grandfather said the equal-tempered scale I used was “off.”
“How did you make twelve of them?” I asked.
“It is like dividing a year into twelve months.”
“……”
I tilted my head, unable to understand.
“Suppose there is a flute that produces the base tone, Hwangjong. Divide it into thirds and discard one part—you get Imjong. Divide Imjong into thirds again and add a portion, and you get Taeju. This is called the Sam-bun-son-ik method.”
“……”
“Hahaha. It seems too difficult for you still.”
“No, it’s not.”
There were just many unfamiliar terms in Joseon speech.
There was no way I couldn’t understand sound.
After pestering my grandfather several more times, I finally grasped Joseon’s twelve-tone system.
The difference between Europe’s twelve-tone equal temperament—established as a foundation of music since Bach—and Joseon’s twelve tones revealed the contrast between the two cultures.
In equal temperament, all intervals are perfectly equal, allowing seamless modulation between keys.
This made it possible for all scales to harmonize freely, greatly enriching harmonic usage.
Joseon’s twelve tones, on the other hand, were not divided evenly but aligned with nature, resulting in subtle differences between intervals.
As a result, harmony easily became dissonant, and music naturally evolved into monophonic forms focused on a single melody and precise attention to each interval.
The first song I ever heard here—my mother’s lullaby—had left me struck by its distinctive syncopation.
Only now did I understand why the music here had such unique rhythms, and why it excelled at stretching and pulling the beat.
Joseon music is like this house: one story, but wide.
European music is like a tower: narrower, but tall.
What kind of music would emerge if harmony were stacked within this spacious structure?
My heart pounded.
“Do you understand now?” my grandfather asked.
“Yes.”
“Then you see that the melody you wrote is overly fast, and that its intervals are discordant?”
“Do you really think so?”
I knew my grandfather studied Confucianism and treated it like scripture.
But there was no way my music sounded licentious or decadent.
He thought for a moment, then chuckled softly.
“It is fast, but there is innocence within it, so it is not debauched. That must be because your heart is pure.”
Happy that he understood my music, I raised both hands high in the air.
* * *
The next day.
I woke to the sound of a rooster crowing to find my grandfather already seated.
Books and sheets of hanji were piled beside his desk, covered with writing.
As I had been taught, I bowed first.
“Didn’t you sleep?”
“Wash your face and come back.”
After washing with the water in the tray and wiping my face, he called me over.
“Come here and sit properly.”
“Yes.”
He placed a sheet of hanji on the desk.
“Can you read it?”
“It says Mo Chaedo.”
I knew that Mo was the surname of the Namyang Mo clan, Chae meant color, and Do meant path.
“Do you know its meaning?”
It seemed we were starting the morning with Chinese characters.
“A colored path?”
“Hahaha.”
My grandfather laughed heartily.
“Chae also means beauty, brilliance, and talent. When used in a name, it refers to shining ability. In the Namyang Mo clan, the fourteenth-generation line uses Chae as the generational character.”
“What’s a generational character?”
“It means a shared name used by those of the same generation.”
“……A name?”
“What is my name?”
“Mo Dae-hwan.”
“Correct. The middle character, Dae, is the generational one.”
So in Joseon, siblings shared a middle name.
“Next, Do does not only mean path—it also means principle, righteousness, the proper way. I hope you walk the correct path.”
“Yes.”
“Therefore, your hwi is Chaedo.”
When I looked up, my grandfather was smiling warmly.
“What’s hwi?”
“Your name.”
“But I’m Gaeddongi.”
“Hahahahaha!”
My grandfather laughed loudly.
“Do you think parents would name a child Gaeddongi?”
I couldn’t bring myself to say, You did, Grandfather, and just stared instead. He laughed again.
“The reason for giving such names is to avoid attracting spirits. If you call a child by a precious name, they think it is something valuable and cling to it.”
“……”
“The reason I told you your true name today is because you must now live as a member of this family.”
He placed his hand firmly atop the stack of books beside him.
“From today onward, you will devote yourself to learning. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“I see dissatisfaction on your face. Your lips are sticking out.”
“……”
“Our Namyang Mo clan has produced Panseo for three generations. Should you not carry on that legacy?”
“……”
“Fine. As long as you don’t obsess over bizarre miscellaneous knowledge like your father did, I will even teach you the geomungo.”
“……”
“Hmph. Boy. If you already dislike studying, how will you become a great scholar in the future?”
“That’s not it.”
“Not it?”
“Isn’t Gaeddongi better?”
Notes
-
Mencius said, “A great man is one who does not lose the heart of a child.”
— Mencius, Li Lou, Part II -
Generational character : A pre-determined character used in names to distinguish generations in a family genealogy. Applied only to sons.
Shared character A shared name element given to children, including daughters, with more flexibility in character choice. -
Hwi: A person’s true given name, traditionally avoided in everyday speech.
In Joseon, children were given a true name at birth but were called by a childhood name until coming of age, when a courtesy name was bestowed.
In Mozart in Joseon, both are used together for clarity.
