“I’m going with a glad heart, but how will you survive?” he stammered with difficulty to his family, tears streaming down his face. His wife and daughter wept, too. Deok-gi’s heart ached to hear those words; this man has carried a heavy burden.
“Mr. Jo! I owe you so much. After I die, please be kind to them. I’m shameless to ask you this, but they have no one else to turn to.”
“You’re not dying, so please don’t say that. Don’t worry. Everything will be all right.” Deok-gi comforted the old man, because he couldn’t bring himself to say he’d take care of the man’s family.
What should I do about his request? It could’ve been just a passing request. People have to worry about making a living all their lives, and as if that were not enough, they have to keep worrying until their dying moments. Deok-gi left the hospital with a heavy heart.
He thought of Gyeong-ae’s father, though he had never met him. The old revolutionary must have asked the same favor of Deok-gi’s father that Pil-sun’s father had asked of him. Deok-gi remembered his mother’s remark about following in his father’s footsteps; her words haunted him.
After dinner, Won-sam trudged in while Deok-gi was reading the newspaper in the outer quarters. “I’ve come from the hospital.”
“Has he passed away?”
“Yes. He died in the evening, so we closed the shop and went to the hospital.”
“You could have phoned me. There was no need to come in person.”
“They’re having a funeral tomorrow, but they don’t want to invite you — they don’t want you to go out in the cold again. They said they’d be in touch after the funeral.”
“They shouldn’t do that. It would be different if I hadn’t been involved from the beginning.” Nevertheless, Deok-gi understood how they felt. He was grateful for their consideration, but he felt they were taking their solicitude too far by not notifying him right away.
“They seem to have few relatives, and it’ll be difficult to cover the funeral expenses. They’re going to use some money from the shop, but if you want to help, I thought I’d collect it for them. They don’t know that I’m here — I’ve come on my own. I realize it’s not my place to do this, but I had to do something.” Won-sam was afraid that the young master might find fault with his impertinence, though Deok-gi didn’t show any displeasure.
“You made the right decision. I’ll have to pay my respects anyway, so let’s go together.”
“There’s really no need for you to go. What if you get sick again, going out at night when you’re already so exhausted?”
“What time will they leave for the grave?”
“A time hasn’t been set yet, but it wouldn’t make any difference if you paid your condolences later. It’s as dark and chilly as a granary out there. Please just send them some money; that’s what is most urgent.”
Thinking he’d visit the next morning, Deok-gi wrapped up the money and took out some paper and candles left over from his grandfather’s funeral. After sending Won-sam away with the parcel, he had second thoughts and decided he couldn’t postpone his visit until the morning, especially when they’d grown so close. It was ridiculous to put off the visit because of the cold.
Because his mother believed that going out at night meant visiting women, Deok-gi always kept his coats in the outer quarters to avoid her nagging. Grabbing one as he left, he instinctively looked back.
A scolding seemed to be coming, not from his mother, but from the altar of his dead grandfather. You’re not studying. So what are you doing? He realized that since his grandfather’s funeral, he had become enmeshed in a three-ring circus. Even though he hadn’t graduated from college, he had assumed the responsibilities of three households. Was it too much to take care of Pil-sun and her mother as well? But wasn’t that what life was about?
It’s all because of money. That’s the only reason I’m harried, and the only reason people respect me. If I had nothing, who’d trust a schoolboy like me and ask me to take care of their family?
Won-sam was right. Paying condolences was not urgent. Money was. Pil-sun’s father’s request boiled down to money. He must have hoped that Deok-gi would help out with the funeral expenses. He wasn’t asking Deok-gi to take care of his daughter because Deok-gi was a gentleman and would make a perfect son-in-law. Won-sam’s plain words cut straight to the heart of the matter.
My father’s involvement with Gyeong-ae may have started the same way. If my father hadn’t been wealthy, her father would have asked other comrades for favors. My father and I find ourselves in similar situations because we both happen to come from a rich family, that’s all. My father did things his own way, and I’ll do things my way, according to my own character, ideology, and feelings.
With this revelation, Deok-gi repudiated his mother’s comment that Pil-sun was “a second Gyeong-ae.”
But what is money? Where does it come from? He asked these questions, yet he avoided answering them. He wanted to believe that he was now visiting Pil-sun and her mother to pay his condolences as Deok-gi, not as a benefactor.
He wanted to make sure that Pil-sun would not be spending the night in a chilly, dismal, wood-floored room. As he entered the hospital, it occurred to him that he hadn’t sent enough money. He regretted not sending more, regardless of his feelings for Pil-sun.
Someone who was poor, whose lot in life was hard labor, shouldn’t he at least receive an appropriate compensation for his pains? With this notion taking root in his head, it became clear to Deok-gi that looking after Pil-sun and her mother was his obligation, his duty.
Afterword
Korea had been in Japan’s colonial clutches for twenty-one years when Yom Sang-seop’s Three Generations appeared in 1931. This milestone in the history of Korean fiction was serialized in the Seoul daily Chosun Ilbo from January through September of that year. During the Japanese colonial rule (1910–1945), newspapers provided practically the only channel in publishing novels because the market was not mature enough to support long works of fiction except for a few eye-catching ones. A majority of writers, Yom included, started their careers as newspaper reporters, creating a climate in which journalists and literary figures commingled amicably. In turn, novels in newspapers tended to boost newspaper sales.
Dreaming of the Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere, Japan had begun to reinforce its colonial policy and flex its military muscle, with the northward advancement to Manchuria under way. Some Korean writers expressed their opposition to the colonial reality by joining the independence movement whenever opportunities arose or incorporating such material in their works. Others bowed to the Japanese imperialists’ tactics of oppression and appeasement and participated in pro-Japanese activities.
Yom, born in Seoul in 1897, went to Japan to study in 1912. He finished high school there and entered Keio University. After finishing only a semester, however, he joined a regional newspaper as a journalist. He had been studying literature on his own and, in 1919, he joined forces with Hwang Seok-u to create a literary magazine. Soon after, he learned about the March 1 Independence Movement in Korea and became involved in planning a similar rally in Osaka, mobilizing Korean students and workers. He was arrested by the Japanese police and sentenced to ten months in prison at the first trial but was acquitted in the appeals court. He returned to Seoul in 1920 and joined the Dong-A Ilbo daily as a reporter. He participated in the founding of The Ruins, a literary magazine that would soon find a prominent place for itself in the Korean literary landscape. In 1921, his story “Frog in the Specimen Room” appeared in the literary journal Dawn of History, and, a year later, On the Eve of the Uprising (entitled Cemetery at its inception) — one of Yom’s most defining works — came out.