(Chapter 12) 7. Passing Scholar (1)
A few days later, the summoned Go Bong-hwan couldn't hide his surprise as he looked at the draft I had organized.
"Ah, a chojip (抄集, a concise collection for the civil service exam) may be abundant even in the marketplaces, but those only condensed answer sheets like gasi (科詩, poetry collections for exams) or seollyeo (選儷, prose collections for exams). Mine, in addition to that, was tailored to the current state affairs. But this… I must say, it surpasses even that."
Go Bong-hwan, whose profession was being a proxy test-taker, said it kindly, but to be honest, it wasn't so much "surpassing" as it was downright brazen.
I smiled brazenly in response.
In a sense, this chojip could only have been created by someone from the modern era.
I included information that past examinees would have desperately sought, drawing from modern experience.
These weren't carefully selected passages or beautiful prose—there were already far too many of those.
What I organized were matters outside of academic content, such as exam strategies.
Things like what to watch out for in the examination hall, how to navigate through crowds, what forms of cheating are permissible and which are not, how to handle it if caught, and several other small but extremely useful tips.
Of course, such knowledge was orally transmitted within yangban families.
But oral transmission is always vague, inaccurate, and often incomplete.
If oral transmission were enough, why would so many concise exam guides be published in the marketplaces?
This book eliminates such ambiguity and organizes everything clearly in sequential order—so that even a monkey could follow.
But one must understand what "clearly" means. In this kind of cheating guide, if sentences and words are direct, the book would be burned and the distributor arrested.
So, the expressions were written in metaphors that anyone literate could understand. That way, later, one could deny it if needed.
Come to think of it, the strange metaphors in martial arts manuals probably existed for similar reasons.
From the common person's perspective, which society would allow a manual that openly says, "Swing this weapon like this, and you can gut a person"?
It had to be something like plum petals and the energy of Mount Tai, so that if someone glanced at it at home, they could bluff their way out.
I dare say this book, too, is a treasure one would risk getting only through fate.
It is wisdom so painfully precious, I would have wanted it to be passed only through the true family of masters.
But I had to make money.
I considered running a business, but no matter what reformist thoughts my father or I had, it's not easy for a scholar to engage in commerce.
Think of it like modern Korean politicians or public officials running a nightclub or a gambling house—both the public image and actual behavior are at that level.
Eventually, what one could do is lend money to merchants like high-ranking officials invest covertly, then collect the principal and interest—but that takes too long. Even now, the interest is compounding at the speed of a bullet taxi's horseshoes.
So, I needed a venture that would benefit me immediately.
And for that, there was nothing but this.
My noble scholarship, my vivid experiences, and my honed writing skills were the only things I could sell. Hmph. The pure reputation of a scholar feels good, after all.
Why are big cram schools popular?
High school curricula are already widely known, and everything is the same. Popular academies don't teach advanced string theory to seniors.
Their advantage is that, backed by vast data and capital, they can devise the "optimal exam strategy."
In Joseon, it's even more intense. And there's ample room to apply strategies because the system had many loopholes.
I packaged this book using all my lifelong talents.
"I merely sat for the civil service exam once, so I thought it only right to pass on to posterity the points I did well and poorly in. The sages consistently advised keeping diaries and letters for this very purpose. If one records experiences but fails to discern the principles of the universe from them, what value is there in merely growing older?"
"That is absolutely correct. I wonder why I never thought of this before!"
Go Bong-hwan enthusiastically and actively agreed with my bluff.
He couldn't possibly be sincere, which meant he was calculating his role and the benefits he would gain. That meant the work was essentially done.
I had called Go Bong-hwan for a simple reason: not only to review the book but mainly to open a secret distribution channel.
If I released it to the market myself, it would be copied in half a day, leaving me with nothing. Intellectual property? 18th-century people wouldn't even think of it, let alone follow it.
Another strategy was needed.
In Gangnam parents' networks today, information ranging from top-tier tutors to study abroad know-how and even questionable supplements for children is shared.
But it rarely leaks outside the "heavenly fortress" clubs.
They want only their children to succeed. College entrance is relative evaluation. And greed is the strongest lock.
The civil service exams were the same.
Thus, Go Bong-hwan, who had connections with children of noble families, was necessary.
He could enter discreetly under the guise of a writing tutor and sell this secret book.
The method was simple.
"It's only for the sons of high-status families, like a true young master. No one will see it. If you wish to buy, right here…"
Books were extremely expensive then, and this book even more so, which would greatly help pay off debts from feasts.
Of course, he would receive a commission, which would help me settle the debt I owed him.
Go Bong-hwan was greatly pleased with the business plan.
"People busy with trivial rhymes cannot tell dried vegetables from fish on the shelf, yet boast of learning. Your grasp of the world surpasses even eighty-year-olds in wisdom and outshines the youth in dexterity. How could I not emulate you?"
Our intentions had already aligned, so there was no need for further discussion.
This felt like what one calls a "bosom friend." Go Bong-hwan and I once again drank in the scholar's spirit.
As our closest friend, we could now speak freely, comrades in the same boat.
Go Bong-hwan asked me,
"So, what will the book's title be?"
"Title? A title…"
After all, it's a secret manual. Does it need a title? Back in the old days of struggle, I doubt elders in the club corners would give it a flashy name like "Alchemy of Flames."
But upon reflection, even secret books had some cover title, like methods for growing bulbs, for internal reference.
Being somewhat drunk, I ended up saying words I would later regret.
"I suppose this book is like a joseok (定石, a standard sequence in Go). If one follows the best methods, things proceed smoothly, like flowing water. Therefore, as a standard guide for cultivating learning, I'll call it ≪Joseok of Study (修學의 定石)≫."
Go Bong-hwan tilted his flushed face.
"Joseok…? Ah, you mean the kibo (棋譜) the Japanese talk about?"
Even I realized shortly afterward that the title was somewhat odd for a book. Go isn't what a scholar devotes himself to, and the naming style 'XX of XX' wasn't the trend then. And was that even a Japanese term?
I tried to evade the issue before it became troublesome.
But Go Bong-hwan, who had suffered many hardships due to a mediocre family and polished his social skills, handled it better than I did.
"Then ≪Joseok≫ will do. Haha. Don't worry. I shall deliver this joseok to multiple noble families' sons."
"I'll trust only you. Then, one more drink…"
"Very well."
Thus passed the night of refined scholars.
Thanks to Go Bong-hwan's skill, the Joseok sold well. At least I could pay off my debts (especially to a few with particularly high interest).
But that wasn't enough.
I realized this time that while Joseon people lived for today, failing to apply that knowledge to my own family was a mistake.
I was the only one with economic sense in the household. I needed to earn money before my next target rose.
I wished for unemployment to strike quickly, so I could leverage even a tiny bit of power to rake in money.
Integrity? Frugality?
Anyone who spoke such nonsense in front of me would taste my fist.
Those words can be spoken only when the salary is at least as much as a Korean public servant's.
Looking at my father's salary, it was obvious what I would receive. This cannot be called a "job."
Those interested in history might think that a Joseon salary is disbursed once per season.
But those people would be deceived by the trick of Joseon's kings.
A salary, originally based on passages in ≪Great Learning≫—"appoint officials generously [官盛任使]" and "grant salary with loyalty and trust [忠信重祿]"—was supposed to be generous.
Of course, that's irrelevant.
The key word is "generous," but as everyone knows, Joseon had no money to be generous with.
So after the wars, they adopted sanryo (散料) used for lower officials.
Monthly salary, called nokbong, was converted to a sanryo system giving rice and beans monthly.
Compared to modern Korean workers under a fixed salary system, this sanryo gave far less over the year.
Considering that even the nokbong itself was poor, life was impossible.
At least if given as prescribed, officials wouldn't complain. Celebrations for the queen dowager, new army units, Chinese envoys—all would reduce salaries.
Records indicate that officials had to come to Seoul alone, leaving family behind, or starve.
Did kings increase salaries?
Of course not.
They just renamed sanryo as nokbong.
Truly. It's a law noted even in the latest code ≪Sokdaejeon≫ compiled two years ago.
With this trick, the king could spend little and appear generous. As said, the term nokbong implies generosity.
Playing games? For reference, "subcontractor" used to be "ha-cheong" in Korea.
Even today, companies rename hierarchical structures in English to appear flat.
Human wisdom is pretty much the same across ages; only knowledge differs.
Of course, nothing changes in reality.
Original companies don't suddenly think, "Ah, now we're partners, we'll pay properly."
Joseon was no different. Officials remained impoverished under nokbong or sanryo.
Thus, they actively accepted bribes and gifts. Previously they had done so, but now they could do it more boldly.
Even if not exactly exploitation—Seoul had few opportunities anyway—I had no intention to refuse gifts.
I was ready to become a corrupt official.
Yet that winter, no news came from the court.
Even if I were unemployed, law required the immediate appointment of a top-ranked examinee.
And I had already passed the exam as an active official. What nonsense was this?
'With the government in this state, who would follow the law?'
I justified my impending corruption even more.
And I roughly understood why King Yeongjo acted that way only after the year passed.
My informant Park Ji-won, who still brought court rumors faithfully, said:
"Next year in January, Chobang (Crown Princess) will hold her coming-of-age ceremony and then join the prince in marriage."
"Haha, truly a blessing for the country. The crown prince is wise, and now that the crown princess is strong, the stability of the nation is as firm as a rock. As a subject, I cannot contain my joy."
I, in automatic royal praise fashion, was lost in thought.
The crown prince's marriage next month?
Technically, the selection and ceremony were already done; after the coming-of-age, they would live together as husband and wife.
The crown princess would turn fifteen next year, 1749.
Ah, that explains why Hong Bong-han couldn't openly oppose the king despite the humiliation. The marriage certificate hadn't been stamped yet.
Park Ji-won added praise for the prince.
"Of course. The crown prince is smart enough to recognize his brother's scholarship. They say he could write the sixty characters of the Thousand Character Classic at two years old."
Right. Kim Jong-un shot at three and rode at six. That boy probably couldn't lose to my dedication.
While exchanging such trivial information, Park Ji-won subtly changed expression.
"Then why haven't you married yet? You have achieved top rank and gained officialdom, but still…"
And yes, the matchmakers were visiting in droves. True, these were noble families.
In Joseon, typically, the bride's family was wealthier.
The strategy was to invest early in a potentially rising young man to strengthen the family, a benefit for both sides.
So, a prestigious family (ours valued character and tradition, not wealth or power) could maintain dignity, while our family, not yet high-ranking, made the best choice.
I didn't particularly dislike marriage, but it wasn't urgent either.
I simply didn't feel compelled.
One doesn't think of marriage or romance without seeing a woman.
Since my return, the only women I had seen were Maewol and Kkeutsuni, servants who existed before I was born.
Excluding family, that's it. Joseon's morality strictly blocked it from the start.
Moreover, I had a serious practical problem.
"Ah. As you know, our family is declining, so I might even have to run a business. Marriage can wait. My elder siblings are married, so no rush for heirs."
Marriage in this era required far more expenditure than today. Not exaggerating—many houses went bankrupt from wedding feasts.
Though not married, our household nearly faced it. Feasts were unbearable.
Park Ji-won merely smiled, signaling me not to speak nonsense.
"Discussing wealth in marriage is a barbarian practice [婚娶而論財 夷虜之道也, ≪Munjungjajungseol≫]. How can you speak so? And among the families sending matchmakers, is there a single poor household? Perhaps there's someone you are already fond of. Beauty aside, marriage must consider the family and parents."
A twelve-year-old, bold as that.
"Is your secret lover perhaps someone you hide?"
"Th-the, at my age, how could I fall into such… indecency?"
Indeed, children are precocious these days.
Did Park Ji-won have a concubine? I can't recall. Another Silhak scholar, Jeong Yak-yong, surely did. He got a concubine after exile, the wife scolded him, and he complained to his son by letter.
I had no intention to meddle in children's affairs. I am not a boomer. In Korea, I'd be a youthful, modern MZ generation.
So I redirected the conversation away from marriage to someone else's woman.
"Anyway, since the crown prince must act cautiously, surely his focus won't stray. Afterward, the king will also review court affairs."
I roughly understood why I hadn't been appointed yet—it was a royal event. Yeongjo liked the bride, too.
"Marriage for me can wait until I'm officially appointed. I worry about failing at duties, not lack of a spouse."
Even I thought that sounded impressive.
Yet Park Ji-won neither admired me nor laughed derisively.
He hesitated, then quietly approached.
In a voice that no one outside the gate could hear, he said:
"The 'court affairs' you mentioned are… suspicious these days."
"What do you mean?"
"Speak of this elsewhere and my head will roll. And yours too."
"Ah. Do you think I, already an official, would be unaware? No matter the threat, I will answer. Speak."
After much hesitation, Park Ji-won finally spoke.
"Chobang's coming-of-age is on the 27th day of January (lunar), and the wedding is the 28th…"
Where on earth did this sneaky information come from? Ministers' grandchildren gossiping?
I stayed silent and listened.
Upon hearing everything, I was astonished.
"...I suspect the king intends to order the crown prince's proxy rule on that very day."
I had misjudged King Yeongjo.
Even broken families in the 21st century put on appearances for a child's marriage. Wasn't he the king?
This was not simply giving a project to finish by the weekend of the wedding.
First, the crown prince would have to beg on the wedding night while his bride slept alone. And there were surely countless nerve-wracking events I had yet to know.
I felt a sense of foreboding.
It wouldn't end with just the crown prince and princess.
It was a kind of transcendental intuition.
The crown prince's situation was determined by the observing Yeongjo.
And accordingly, my own situation seemed decided.
When the crown prince finally summoned me to the East Palace, my mind began spinning, like a quantum spin.
Notes (for reference, not translation):
Most modern Korean Go terms come from Japan due to rule standardization in the Japanese colonial period.
Joseon late-period salary system: see Im Seong-su, 2015, 〈Study on Joseon Late Period Salary System〉.
Park Ji-won had no recorded concubines; Jeong Yak-yong did.
In 1749, Yeongjo ordered the crown prince's proxy rule on the date of the crown princess' marriage (from ≪Hanjungnok≫).
"Quantum spin" is metaphorical, not literal.