Chapter 25
White Ramie Skirt
Swaaah, splash. Swaaah, splash.
Under the spring sky the blue river flowed, and the ferry pushed through the white-breaking waves.
Miyu, wearing a bamboo hat, was riding the small boat.
It had already been a month since she’d started working as a clerk at the Gongju vegetable market.
Today was her very first day off since she began selling.
Miyu felt ready to shout with excitement, but she kept a dignified air and let her eyes follow the riverside scenery.
Her thoughts, however, were racing toward Gwangtong Bridge, filled with plans to buy paintings.
She had heard there were many art shops gathered there—works by famous painters such as Kim Hong-do, Jeong Seon, Shin Yun-bok, and Kim Deuk-sin could all be found.
She hoped to see fine paintings and, if the price was right, purchase one.
Inside the boat were a peddler woman hugging her bundle, an elderly man in a pointed horsehair hat, two middle-aged men with topknots, and a young mother cradling a baby.
The boat advanced with the current.
The seasoned ferryman, steering with a long pole against the riverbed, hummed a tune.
The ferry headed west along the Songpa River between Songpa and Jamsil Island. After Jamsil another island appeared, its wide reed fields glowing against white sand—an enchanting sight.
“I’ve never seen that island before,” Miyu said to the peddler woman seated across from her.
“You must be new to Hanyang. That island opposite Apgujeong is Jeojado. The scenery is so beautiful that many noble families have villas there.”
“Jeojado?”
A name she’d never heard.
So there were islands in the Han River besides Bamseom and Yeouido.
Why had such a lovely island disappeared?
A faint sadness touched her.
“You’re as fair and pretty as a heavenly maiden,” the dark-skinned peddler woman said, tilting her head to glimpse Miyu’s face under the hat.
“Thank you,” Miyu replied brightly.
“In my whole life I’ve never seen anyone as pretty as you.”
“Ah… yes.”
The overdone compliment made Miyu wary. Was the woman trying to sell her something?
“I’m not saying it to sell anything—it’s the truth,” the peddler said, reading Miyu’s thought. She turned to the young mother with the baby.
“Am I right, young mother?”
“Yes. I couldn’t tell under the hat, but I was surprised too. Her skin is especially lovely,” the mother said with admiration.
“Thank you so much,” Miyu answered.
She had inherited her mother’s fair, smooth complexion—and came from a world where soap, lotion, and sunscreen were ordinary. In Joseon, only courtesans or wealthy women could afford such care. Her very starting point was different.
Before long the conversation shifted to the young mother.
“Where are you coming from?” the peddler asked.
“I visited my baby’s grandparents,” the mother said, looking down at the infant.
“They must have been delighted,” the peddler said, leaning to peek at the baby wrapped in cloth.
“Such a calm little one, riding the boat so well. What’s the name?”
“Mo-gwa,” she answered.
Quince? Naming a child after that lumpy, crooked fruit?
Miyu thought it odd, but as the women chatted she understood.
“Good choice. Names like Dog-dung, Ugly-face, Pebble, or Rock are all fine names,” the peddler said.
“Yes, maybe because of that the baby has been healthy and trouble-free,” the mother replied.
“Indeed. To ward off evil spirits, you give a humble or sturdy name,” the peddler nodded.
Miyu bent forward, her long white neck craning to look inside the baby wrap.
A smudge of black charcoal marked the infant’s forehead—clearly intentional.
“On the forehead…” Miyu prompted.
“To scare off spirits. It’s the baby’s first outing, so we’re extra careful,” the mother answered quickly.
“Ha ha, well done. Like this, even a ghost wouldn’t know it’s a person,” Miyu joked.
The ferry stopped at Shinchon dock to take on more passengers, then crossed toward its destination, Dumopo dock (near today’s Dongho Bridge).
Cranes hunted fish; willow branches trailed the water’s edge.
Men fished with bamboo rods, others in only undershorts cast nets.
Rich scholars boated with courtesans while musicians played geomungo, flute, and pipe.
“It must feel dreadful to go back,” the peddler suddenly said to the young mother.
“Since having Mo-gwa it’s a little better,” she answered.
Ah—life with the in-laws.
“Time will ease it,” the peddler said gently.
“Yes. At first I was whipped often, even just for letting the fire go out,” the mother added.
Miyu flinched.
“What do you mean—whipped?” she exclaimed, eyes wide, looking from the mother to the peddler.
“It’s not so bad now,” the mother said.
“Plenty of mothers-in-law beat their daughters-in-law for discipline,” the peddler explained, clicking her tongue in pity.
“You call that normal?”
Everyone on the boat stared at Miyu, puzzled why she was so shocked.
Miyu took a breath, squared her shoulders, and spoke firmly.
“Listen carefully, everyone. You must never hit anyone. They say you shouldn’t even strike a flower! Not a daughter-in-law, not a child, not a wife!”
Her dark eyes flashed like a tiger’s as she glared especially at the men. They averted their eyes.
“No one’s beating anyone,” one muttered.
“I’d need someone to beat first,” another mumbled.
“I’m the one who gets beaten,” a third sniffled.
Still fuming, Miyu turned to the young mother.
“From now on don’t eat spinach or dried greens—anything with ‘shi’ in it, understand?”
“Pardon? …Yes, I will,” the mother said, laughing softly, then lifted her head proudly.
“But my husband treats me well. This spring he even bought me a light, fine ramie skirt.”
“That’s good—at least your husband is kind. And this spring white ramie skirts are in fashion, right?” the peddler said, pleased.
“Yes, it’s the hottest trend in the capital now.”
Again Miyu was surprised. Clothes had seemed unchanging, but people were sensitive to trends after all.
So they cared about skincare and followed fashions.
Of course—wanting to look pretty is a timeless instinct.
There’s just no one to lead the trend, she thought.
That could be profitable.
A cool river breeze brushed her cheek beneath the hat.
Suddenly she caught a memory of I-un’s scent.
He’s lacking as a person, but he smells good, she mused.
What? Chasing a stork will tear a sparrow’s legs?
Just watch. I’ll buy ten good paintings within a year.
Grinding her teeth, she touched the heavy cloth pouch at her waist and smiled.
Inside were her month’s wages—60 jeon (about 300,000 won) and half of the extra profit promised by Grandma Gongju, a full 40 nyang (about 2 million won).
In a month she had earned an extra 80 nyang.
Her shoulders lifted proudly.
A masterpiece by Danwon or Hyewon might cost 300 nyang, but this was a good start.
Anyone can buy a top-class painting, but I have the eye to choose one.
Forty nyang would be enough—thirty even.
With thirty nyang she could find a work worth as much as one for three hundred.
Ten paintings for the price of one—later worth hundreds of millions.
Miyu disembarked at Dumopo (present-day Dongho Bridge) and walked toward Heungin Gate (Dongdaemun) with the crowd.
Time to look at paintings was always short.
If she wanted to view them and return to Songpa before sunset, she had to hurry.
Far off, a thin smoke rose from Namsan beacon fire, signaling the nation was safe.
At Heungin Gate Miyu was startled by the throng.
An old man led an ox cart, a man carried firewood on his back, women sold vegetables, peddlers bore bundles, a country scholar rode a small pony—an endless stream of people passed through the gate.
Beyond the city wall lay the capital itself.
Two great avenues crossed Hanyang.
The first stretched east-west from Gyeongbok Palace to Heungin Gate, its busiest stretch the Unjongga between the bell pavilion and Jongmyo Shrine.
The second ran north-south from Sungnyemun (Namdaemun) to the bell pavilion.
Full of emotion, Miyu walked toward Unjongga.
After about twenty minutes she reached the start at Jongmyo.
On each side stood some 120 long market buildings, each with dozens of stalls where merchants sold their goods.
Here gathered Confucian students, palanquin bearers, soldiers, musicians, carpenters and craftsmen, displaced farmers carrying A-frames, street performers earning coins, beggars, and the poor seeking work—a swirl of Joseon faces converging like clouds in the Jongno market street.
“Wow… Songpa market is big, but nothing compares to this,” she murmured in awe.
Yet her face stiffened slightly.
To earn real money, I need to be here. Only in big waters can you catch big fish.
Thinking she would one day have to leave Songpa, images of Grandma Gongju, Uncle Mandol, and Bok-sil flickered through her mind like scenes from a film.
Though it had been only a month, she had grown attached—they had become her family in a lonely world.
But even family must part someday.
Everyone must walk their own path.
Maybe Bok-sil could come with me, she thought.
Unjongga bustled not only because it was in the capital but also because it housed the six licensed markets—the Yukijon.
There were shops for silk (Seonjeon), cotton cloth (Myeonpojeon), fine linen (Myeonjujeon), fish (Eomuljeon), paper (Jijeon), and ramie and hemp cloth (Jeopojeon and Pojeon).
Miyu walked lightly like a fluttering butterfly.
Passing the tobacco shop, she suddenly heard a harsh male voice:
“What a wretched girl you are!”
The shout rang as if directly in her ear.
Startled, she flinched and froze.
Note: According to Yi Gyusang’s Songs of West Lake Bamboo Branches, fashions in mid-1700s Hanyang changed yearly; that spring, the trend was for pure-white single-layer ramie skirts, which women asked their merchant husbands to buy.
