me no pleasure at all. Maybe it pleases some women of other social orders, or in other lands. But for me, the act was so bound, so circumscribed, of such a deadly importance. It was like an examination – like those examinations over which my father and my brothers slaved so diligently in the search for advancement and enlightenment. I passed, but at what cost?
I have observed, in the animal kingdom, that the female of the species seems to receive little delight from coitus. Who has not seen a cockerel mount a hen, or a dog a bitch? The female endures the indignity, shakes itself, and moves off. There is tenderness and fidelity, I am told, between some species of birds, and even of fish, but I have never observed it. Mandarin ducks are an emblem of marital fidelity and appear on many a painted screen, as well as on the one my father-in-law gave to me: they are said to pair for life and to grieve if a partner dies. I have not observed this phenomenon with my own eyes. I cannot read the expression of a grieving drake or duck. But the paintings are pretty enough. Indeed mine, as I have said, was more than pretty. It was a painting of paradise.
When I was a girl of about twelve years old, a married princess but still a maiden girl, I had a pet kitten. She was a gift from some emissary from a foreign kingdom of the west; I forget its name. Siam, perhaps, or Burma? We were not distinguished as a cat-loving or cat-worshipping nation, but I was allowed to keep this kitten as a pet. She was such a pretty creature, cream and beige in her colours, and gentle and soft in her ways, and affectionate towards me. One day, as we were playing in the palace compound, a large, wild, black-and-white tomcat leaped down from the roof tiles into the courtyard, and chased her and cornered her and mounted her.
I cried because I thought he was killing her, but Pongnyŏ told me that no harm was being done, though the act had appeared to me to be an act of aggression. And indeed there was no harm, for the cat conceived and bore three of the most charming kittens you could ever have seen. The expression and demeanour of bored and subdued indifference with which she had endured the tomcat’s crude and rude assault was succeeded by such purring, such delight, such pride, such pleasure! Even as she gave birth, she purred in ecstasy. She nudged and licked and caressed her little blind blunt-headed babes, and taught them how to nurse from her teats. She was the most tender and gentle of mothers, although she was little more than a kitten herself. Her motherhood gave both her and me great delight, and watching her kittens play was one of the happiest memories of my early married life. The kittens would chase one another round the garden amongst the stalks of the chrysanthemums, and climb up the cherry trees and the gnarled junipers, and hide behind the big leaves of the foxglove tree. They would stalk sparrows on the gravel, and try to pounce on butterflies. They were fastidious in their manners, cleaning and grooming themselves diligently. They would neatly bury their small messes in the earth. They were so clean that I allowed them to sleep upon my bed in a small bundle, and they would nestle in the silver ewer or the white porcelain vase in my chamber. They charmed even Pongnyŏ and Aji. I smile now, to think of them. Who taught their mother to teach them? My little cat was gentle, motherly and wise. She loved her kittens. Her love was inborn. It was her nature.
I was that mother cat. When my first son was born, in 1750, such a passion of adoration and love broke in my breast, like the breaking of the waters of my womb. I was suffused with warmth. I reached out my arms to him and wept with joy. I was very young. I was in my sixteenth year.
I tell you this because it has been said that my love of my sons was politic. It has been said that all my conduct was governed by personal ambition and family pride, and by a selfish will to survive. And so in part it
I have observed, in the animal kingdom, that the female of the species seems to receive little delight from coitus. Who has not seen a cockerel mount a hen, or a dog a bitch? The female endures the indignity, shakes itself, and moves off. There is tenderness and fidelity, I am told, between some species of birds, and even of fish, but I have never observed it. Mandarin ducks are an emblem of marital fidelity and appear on many a painted screen, as well as on the one my father-in-law gave to me: they are said to pair for life and to grieve if a partner dies. I have not observed this phenomenon with my own eyes. I cannot read the expression of a grieving drake or duck. But the paintings are pretty enough. Indeed mine, as I have said, was more than pretty. It was a painting of paradise.
When I was a girl of about twelve years old, a married princess but still a maiden girl, I had a pet kitten. She was a gift from some emissary from a foreign kingdom of the west; I forget its name. Siam, perhaps, or Burma? We were not distinguished as a cat-loving or cat-worshipping nation, but I was allowed to keep this kitten as a pet. She was such a pretty creature, cream and beige in her colours, and gentle and soft in her ways, and affectionate towards me. One day, as we were playing in the palace compound, a large, wild, black-and-white tomcat leaped down from the roof tiles into the courtyard, and chased her and cornered her and mounted her.
I cried because I thought he was killing her, but Pongnyŏ told me that no harm was being done, though the act had appeared to me to be an act of aggression. And indeed there was no harm, for the cat conceived and bore three of the most charming kittens you could ever have seen. The expression and demeanour of bored and subdued indifference with which she had endured the tomcat’s crude and rude assault was succeeded by such purring, such delight, such pride, such pleasure! Even as she gave birth, she purred in ecstasy. She nudged and licked and caressed her little blind blunt-headed babes, and taught them how to nurse from her teats. She was the most tender and gentle of mothers, although she was little more than a kitten herself. Her motherhood gave both her and me great delight, and watching her kittens play was one of the happiest memories of my early married life. The kittens would chase one another round the garden amongst the stalks of the chrysanthemums, and climb up the cherry trees and the gnarled junipers, and hide behind the big leaves of the foxglove tree. They would stalk sparrows on the gravel, and try to pounce on butterflies. They were fastidious in their manners, cleaning and grooming themselves diligently. They would neatly bury their small messes in the earth. They were so clean that I allowed them to sleep upon my bed in a small bundle, and they would nestle in the silver ewer or the white porcelain vase in my chamber. They charmed even Pongnyŏ and Aji. I smile now, to think of them. Who taught their mother to teach them? My little cat was gentle, motherly and wise. She loved her kittens. Her love was inborn. It was her nature.
I was that mother cat. When my first son was born, in 1750, such a passion of adoration and love broke in my breast, like the breaking of the waters of my womb. I was suffused with warmth. I reached out my arms to him and wept with joy. I was very young. I was in my sixteenth year.
I tell you this because it has been said that my love of my sons was politic. It has been said that all my conduct was governed by personal ambition and family pride, and by a selfish will to survive. And so in part it
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