Past Life Story

In the ninth year of King Gwanghae, you were born into a low-born family. Your father was a wandering entertainer, and your mother a woman he had met along the road. You grew up wandering from village to village, settling nowhere. Your first school was the stage of the entertainer's troupe, and your first book the faces of people. By five you walked the rope. The elders taught you, saying, "On the rope, if you tremble you die. Do not tremble." You learned not to tremble early. By seven you learned the mask dance. The yangban mask, the old monk mask, the bride mask—wearing them all, you mocked the world. How a child like you could fit so well into the world of grown-ups, even the grown-ups marveled. In your tenth year, you performed before yangban for the first time. Your satire was sharp, and your dance free. The yangban first grew angry, then laughed. That day you learned the weapon of the entertainer. Satire was a blade, but a blade hidden by laughter. At fifteen you came to have your own small troupe. Three young entertainers followed you. Together you roamed all eight provinces. You stayed a few days in one village, made the people laugh, received a little grain, and moved on to the next. Your life was light, but within it lay depth. At twenty you met a young woman in a country village. She was the daughter of a stall-keeper. She watched your rope-walking and clapped for a long time. At those clapped hands, your heart shook. You wanted to stay longer in that village, but an entertainer cannot stay in one place. You left, and you could not return. In your twenty-fifth year, you were invited to a great banquet in Hanyang. A banquet of yangban. There you delivered the sharpest satire. Satire of yangban who forgot the poor and chased only wealth. The yangban first laughed, but soon, realizing it was satire of themselves, they grew enraged. You nearly took a beating there, but one yangban defended you. "Even the king is the entertainer's subject of satire. That is the way of the entertainer." At thirty you came to receive the patronage of a yangban. He was a man who knew true art. Through his help you grew your troupe. Rope-walking, mask dance, pansori—your performances grew more refined. Yet you did not change. The blade of satire remained sharp. In your thirty-fifth year, your saddest event occurred. Your closest comrade fell from the rope and died. That night, for the first time before others, you wept. You had sold laughter all your life, but on that night alone, what lay behind that laughter could be seen. The descendant of that comrade remembered the entertainer for a lifetime. In your fortieth year, you performed a great rope-walking. In a public square in Hanyang, thousands gathered. That day you walked the highest rope of all. More dangerous than usual. Yet you did not tremble. On the rope you were free. But that day, you fell. A single mistake. People screamed. Your consciousness drifted. In the final moment, you smiled. It was your last satire—that the entertainer smiles even at the moment of death. Your troupe scattered after your death. Yet your satire and your rope-walking were passed down through the villages. People remembered a single entertainer. That he had satirized those in power, that he had satirized himself as well. I am laughing, but do not look behind me—those were your last words. Behind the entertainer's laughter lies deep sorrow, and you knew that all your life, and showed it once more at the very end.