Chapter 12 …
Mozart in Joseon
Third Yard
First Encounter (2)
I put a piece of baekseolgi (steamed white rice cake) into my mouth.
The soft, powdery surface and chewy texture, combined with its warm heat, made its sweetness exquisite.
At first, the chewy texture felt unfamiliar, but as I chewed, the sweetness of the baekseolgi gradually revealed its charm.
And then there was this young radish kimchi.
It was the perfect trill to decorate the sonata that was baekseolgi.
Even the warm, chewy rice cake could leave the mouth feeling heavy if eaten continuously, but eating this crisp, cool radish kimchi brought an immediate sense of relief.
If only I had a cup of coffee, it would have been perfect.
Swallowing my longing, I opened the book that Eulji-su had given me.
After several days of intense reading, I realized that Eulji-su’s book contained exactly the knowledge I wanted, unlike the theoretical texts my grandfather possessed.
Joseon music developed along two main streams: court music and folk music.
Court music was often used for rituals.
In other words, it could be likened to church music such as masses, oratorios, and cantatas.
Understanding jeongak (proper music) as a kind of religious music, it was easy to see why my grandfather insisted that only jeongak represented proper sound.
In Joseon, which highly revered Confucianism, jeongak was truly law.
The main difference seemed to be that jeongak relied on compositions created long ago, with little effort to create new pieces.
Even in Europe, such traditions lasted for quite a while, but Joseon did not yet seem ready to accept new compositions as jeongak.
This must also be why my grandfather only performed Yeongsanhwesang.
Clearly, to express my own music, I should pursue secular music, or sokak.
But, as I had confirmed through Ddaktakipa and Eulji-su, achieving success with secular music in Joseon did not seem easy.
It hadn’t been easy in Europe either, though at least I had the fame of having performed before emperors, kings, and nobles from a young age.
In Joseon, Gaeddongi (myself) didn’t yet have the influence to draw an audience.
So the fastest path available right now was to perform court music.
I could earn a stable income as a royal musician, build fame, realize my music, and eventually make a fortune.
It was a slightly roundabout route, but since I had done it before, I knew exactly what needed to be done.
Moreover, unlike the past, I now had strong backing.
My grandfather was the head of the Ministry of Rites, which oversaw diplomacy, education, and rituals.
Since jeongak was used for these rituals, my grandfather could be considered the highest authority in Joseon royal music.
There could be no more perfect support.
Even if becoming a royal musician in Joseon was difficult, there was no way I could fail in this environment.
The only minor concern was that, aside from Yeongsanhwesang, there were many other jeongak pieces.
Eulji-su’s book only listed their names, but considering jeongak as religious music, there were probably many more compositions.
However, I was confident in my memorization skills.
Additionally, jeongak in Joseon, like Yeongsanhwesang, probably didn’t have many notes. If I could obtain the sheet music—or hear the performance once or twice—I could memorize it easily.
If I asked my grandfather, obtaining the sheet music or listening to the performance wouldn’t be difficult.
Becoming a royal musician was really just a matter of time.
Even in my previous life, I had struggled desperately to become a royal musician; this life, it seemed, would be much easier.
“Hmm.”
The next factor to consider was the instrument.
I hoped that Eulji-su’s book would help me find an instrument suitable for solo harmonic performance.
For now, the geomungo was the best choice.
Since I had decided to perform jeongak, the music would be an ensemble piece, and I didn’t need to insist on solo performance.
Also, the geomungo was ideal because it was the lead instrument in jeongak.
Eulji-su’s book made no mention of a conductor.
Perhaps the concept of a conductor didn’t even exist.
That made sense—these compositions had been perfected long ago, so changes were unlikely.
Any alteration would likely be seen as sacrilegious, so the focus was entirely on faithful reproduction.
In other words, personal interpretation or arrangement was not allowed, so a conductor wasn’t necessary either.
However, someone was still needed to maintain the center and lead the ensemble—and that central instrument was the geomungo.
Just as the kkwaenggwari led other instruments in Ddaktakipa.
Even if I created new ritual music, until Joseon was ready to accept it, focusing on the geomungo was the correct choice.
“What’s this?”
On the last page of Eulji-su’s book was the word yanggeum.
There was apparently a metal-stringed instrument in Qing China.
Instead of plucking or bowing the strings, one struck them to produce sound. Its tones were highly variable, making it extremely difficult to control.
The name yanggeum meant “geomungo that came across the sea,” and I definitely wanted to hear its sound.
It seemed to be a note taken from conversations among instrumentalists.
The word “metal string” caught my attention.
If the strings were made of metal and struck, it would be a hammered string instrument, like a piano or dulcimer.
“Came across the sea?”
In Joseon, stringed instruments used silk strings, and I had never seen metal strings.
Moreover, I had never seen an instrument that produced sound by striking strings.
Perhaps it was similar in Qing China, but hearing that such an instrument crossed the sea seemed suspicious.
Could it be a European instrument that had reached Qing China?
If by chance the yanggeum was indeed a piano- or dulcimer-type instrument, I had to find it.
Tracing its route would likely lead to a path connecting to Europe.
It would also greatly aid my music activities in Joseon.
Hammered string instruments had a keyboard and hammers, making it easier to play multiple notes simultaneously—similar to a piano.
I would need to ask Eulji-su more about this yanggeum.
To do that, I had to arrange a meeting.
Contacting him through the steward felt awkward with my grandfather watching.
Sneaking out at night was uncertain, so creating a natural opportunity to meet Eulji-su seemed better.
But how…
“Huh?”
There was nothing in my hands.
Turning my head, I realized the plate was already empty.
“Yeongcheon-daek.”
I called out to Yeongcheon-daek, who had watched over me closely with the steward since I was a child.
“Yes, young master?”
“Bring more baekseolgi. And the kimchi too.”
“You already ate it all?”
“Yes. It’s delicious.”
“It will soon be time for dinner.”
“It’s fine. I want more. Bring plenty so we can eat together.”
“That won’t do. How could I dare share your table?”
“Then just bring it separately and we’ll each eat.”
“Still…”
“Quickly. I’m hungry.”
“Ah, then wait a moment. I’ll warm it up for you.”
When I pressed her, Yeongcheon-daek laughed and went to prepare it.
No one disliked rice cakes after all.
I tried to return to my book, but the main gate opened.
It was my grandfather.
He had returned after nearly a week.
“Grandfather!”
Excited, I ran out, and he laughed heartily, scooping me up in his arms.
“You missed your grandfather that much?”
He spun me around once, then, noticing the onlookers, put me down.
The retainers glanced away as if they hadn’t seen anything.
“Ahem. Have you completed all your homework?”
“You want to learn jeongak?”
I said I wanted to learn proper music, and my grandfather’s face lit up.
“Yes. I want to work at the Ministry of Rites like you.”
His eyes widened so much that the wrinkles on his forehead deepened.
“How did you come to think of that?”
“I learned that our bodies are given by our parents, so not harming them is the beginning of filial piety. By cultivating virtue and spreading my name to future generations, I honor my parents. That is the full extent of filial piety.”¹
Based on my research, there could be no better answer.
My grandfather valued the spirit of filial piety and Confucian classics above all.
As expected, the corners of his mouth lifted.
“Then I will study diligently and work at the Ministry of Rites, just like you.”
Suddenly, my grandfather showed tears.
Had something gone wrong?
“Grandfather?”
“I’m so happy I’m crying. Yes, my last duty is to teach you.”
We clearly understood each other perfectly.
He wiped his tears with his hand.
“Yes. Like pulling a thorn with the iron horn, let’s begin immediately.”
My heart raced.
Curious about jeongak beyond Yeongsanhwesang, I had searched my grandfather’s study but found no sheet music.
Perhaps it was carefully guarded to prevent external access, like how the Sistine Chapel keeps the Miserere.
Since he had offered to teach me jeongak, maybe I could see some precious sheet music.
“Bring the book.”
“…Book?”
“Yes.”
“What book?”
Perhaps the sheet music was compiled into a book.
“What book would it be? Xiaoxue (Elementary Learning).”
“…Excuse me?”
Until just now, the plan was to learn jeongak, but suddenly being told to fetch Xiaoxue caught me off guard.
“I want to learn jeongak.”
“Sound originates from a righteous mind.”
“I’ve already memorized Xiaoxue. I want to learn the instruments and sounds used in jeongak.”
“Hmm?”
My grandfather blinked several times.
“You memorized Xiaoxue?”
“I looked ahead since you would assign it anyway.”
He blinked again.
He clearly didn’t fully trust me.
“A person’s nature is given by Heaven, following that nature is the Way, and cultivating the Way is teaching.”
He immediately began reciting Xiaoxue, leaving no room to object.
“Wang Shinmin said that if a person can always chew vegetable roots, they can accomplish all tasks. The Marquis of Ho-gang heard this and struck his knee in admiration.”
He finished reciting Xiaoxue and stared at me.
“Merely memorizing characters leaves one an empty shell. Do you understand the passage you just recited?”
“Yes. It means that with the patience to endure hardships like chewing coarse vegetable roots, one can accomplish anything.”
My grandfather asked a few more questions, then beamed.
“Remarkable. I’ve been away for less than ten days, yet so much has happened.”
“You’ll teach me now, right?”
“Yes.”
He rose and opened a chest.
It was full of books, which puzzled me since I had already searched.
He retrieved a particular book and sat back down.
“Daxue (Great Learning)?”
“Yes. Having completed Xiaoxue, it’s time for Daxue.”
“…And next?”
“Master Yulgok recommended reading in order: after Xiaoxue, Daxue, Lunyu (Analects), Mengzi, Zhongyong, Shijing, Yijing, Shujing, and Chunqiu.”
“Excuse me?”
“The process integrates learning ethics with historical texts after mastering ritual conduct.”
“And jeongak?”
“Jeongak?”
“To work at the Ministry of Rites, shouldn’t I learn music?”
“Hahaha!”
He laughed heartily.
“To enter office, one must first pass the civil service exams, no?”
“…Civil service exams?”
I asked for clarification, and he explained.
In short, the exams selected officials for the Joseon government.
Held every three years, they were divided into civil, military, and miscellaneous exams. To work in the Ministry of Rites, one had to pass the civil exam.
Passing the preliminary exam (sogwa) allowed one to take the main exam (daegwa), which consisted of three stages: initial, re-examination, and final.
Occasionally, special exams offered additional opportunities.
Yet, only 33 people passed the main exam nationwide.
“I won’t do it.”
My grandfather’s eyes widened.
“You won’t? What do you mean?”
“I’ll look for another path.”
¹From Xiaojing: “The body is received from one’s parents; not harming it is the beginning of filial piety; cultivating virtue and achieving fame is the ultimate filial duty.”
