The Just

Long, long ago, perhaps during the Zhou dynasty, or maybe even earlier, there was a good and kind emperor who ruled all the lands between the four seas. Every five years, he would travel across the realm, collecting folk songs to understand how and where his people lived. He personally administered justice and rectified wrongs.

How many unjust sentences the emperor overturned, how many innocent lives he saved, how many tears he dried—these deeds were recorded only in the afterlife...

But no human can live without making mistakes, and even the emperor was not exempt. Sometimes he would pardon a guilty man who spoke eloquently, and other times he would punish an innocent one who could not defend himself. This tormented the emperor, for he lacked a wise advisor to guide him.

The emperor had a wife, a beauty unlike any ever seen. He loved her more than himself and believed there was no better person in the world than his wife.

But even a snake can have beautiful skin.

The empress had a large family, and soon they occupied all the important positions in the empire. The land groaned under the weight of their corruption and cruelty...

One day, the emperor heard that far away, in the mountains to the northeast, there lived a man named Yi, wise in mind and pure in heart, who had never allowed any injustice in his life. The emperor rejoiced—this was the man he needed! He sent for him, and soon the righteous Yi arrived in the capital.

When Yi was brought before the emperor, the ruler was surprised to find that Yi was not afraid of him at all and spoke to him as he would to the humblest servant...

The emperor was overjoyed—he had finally found an advisor who would never bend the truth. He granted Yi the title of chief advisor, housed him in the palace, and consulted him on every matter.

One day, the emperor said to his advisor, the Just Yi:
"I fear that not all the truth reaches me, that not all the wronged are allowed to approach me. Is this so?"
"Yes, Your Majesty, it is so."
"How can we remedy this?"
"Command, Your Majesty, that a box with a slot be placed before the palace gates, one that only you may open, and also a large drum. Let every wronged person come, drop a paper with their grievance into the box, and strike the drum. You will hear it, take the petition, and judge fairly."

The emperor did as Yi advised and ordered the same drums and boxes to be placed before the offices of every official across the empire.

The emperor's fame for mercy and kindness grew even greater, and the people blessed the just advisor. From early morning, crowds gathered noisily at the gates, pushing to reach the box and drum, awaiting the emperor's judgment. The clamor outside the palace was like that of a bustling market every day...

The empress grew tired of this. She ordered the palace guards to seize anyone approaching the petition box and give them fifty strokes of the bamboo before allowing them to drop their petition and strike the drum.

The number of petitioners immediately decreased tenfold...
When the Just Yi learned of this, he said to the emperor:
"Your Majesty, your empress has done wrong—she is driving the people away from you!"

The troubled emperor went to the empress and relayed Yi's words.
"No, my husband and lord," replied the empress, "your Yi is wrong this time. Remember the indecent noise that used to rise before the palace, worse than a marketplace. You spent entire days, from morning to evening, reviewing complaints and became so exhausted that you could do nothing else. And how many of those complaints turned out to be baseless! Now the number of petitions has decreased tenfold, and you have time for other state affairs. Baseless complaints are almost nonexistent... Justice is not harmed, for anyone wishing to prove the righteousness of their cause will surely agree to endure a minor physical test. Now judge for yourself—who is right, me or Advisor Yi?"

These words were spoken in such a melodious and persuasive voice, accompanied by such a tender gaze, that it was hard not to believe them... The new petitioning procedure remained in place, despite Yi's protests.

But gradually, complaints began to reach Yi through other channels, bypassing the royal box. At Yi's recommendation, the emperor dismissed and punished all the corrupt officials, despite the empress's intercession. The emperor did not know that all those punished were related to the empress's family or were their close associates and servants. That is why the wronged dared not complain about them through the usual channels.

The empress grew to hate the Just Yi but could do nothing, for the emperor deeply respected and honored Yi for his fairness.

Everything seemed to be going well. But the emperor had a secret wound, a pain that neither the gratitude of the people, nor Yi's wisdom, nor the empress's love could heal. This pain was the absence of a son and heir to whom he could pass on his kingdom.

For a long time, the emperor kept his grief to himself, but at last, he consulted Yi.
"Your Majesty," replied the advisor, "both law and custom, as well as common sense, say one thing: if a house of clay is not strong, build it of stone; if one tree in your garden bears no fruit, seek it on another..."
"I have thought of this myself," said the emperor, "but I would not wish to offend the empress!"
"The empress will remain the empress and your first wife, losing no privileges. But Her Majesty will understand that her matter is private, while yours is of the state... Give Her Majesty a set period, Your Majesty, and if she does not give you hope by then, find her a companion!"

Somehow, the empress learned or guessed about Yi's advice. Her hatred for him grew even stronger...

But soon, fortune smiled upon her. She began to gain weight... The emperor rejoiced, for he truly and deeply loved his beautiful wife.
A short time passed—the emperor's family affairs were going better than ever. But one concern troubled the emperor: what if he were to have a daughter instead of a son? His anxiety grew stronger and stronger—until finally, he decided to summon the great physician who could diagnose any illness just by feeling the pulse. Surely, determining the gender of an unborn child would be no challenge for him...

The physician arrived. To avoid making him uncomfortable with his presence, not only did the emperor refrain from attending the empress's consultation with the physician, but no other man was allowed either. The empress received the physician not in the grand chambers but in her private bedroom, with only a few of her favorite court ladies in attendance.

The emperor was deeply worried about whether all proprieties would be observed during this unusual visit of a man to the women's quarters. Therefore, without notifying anyone, he secretly made his way to the empress's chambers. He knew that in one niche of this passage, there was a hidden window into the empress's bedroom, so cleverly concealed by decorations on the room's side that none of the palace women knew of its existence. The emperor approached the window, slightly opened the covering lid, and pressed his eye to it...

An unusual scene unfolded before him. The room was divided by a large screen. On one side of the screen knelt the physician, with two or three of the empress's closest ladies-in-waiting standing nearby in simple dresses. On the other side of the screen sat the empress's favorite lady, dressed in the empress's gown. She extended her arm to the other side of the screen, and the physician, through a thick silk cloth, felt her pulse, not daring to touch the "august" bare hand, as he believed it to be. Meanwhile, the empress herself, dressed in a servant's plain dress, stood to the side... After some time, the physician finished the examination. Then the lady dressed as the empress gave some orders, and, to his astonishment! The empress herself approached the physician and extended her hand... The physician took it, felt her pulse, said something, and then he was dismissed.

The emperor returned to his chambers and ordered the physician to be summoned:

"Well, famous physician, how is the empress's health?"
"Great sovereign! There is no doubt that you have been a father for three months now!"
"Will it be a son or a daughter?"
"Sire, I may be mistaken, I surely will be mistaken, but I believe it will be a daughter!"

To the physician's surprise, this news did not greatly distress the emperor. He calmly asked the physician:

"Did you examine anyone else besides the empress?"
"Yes, sire," replied the physician, "by the empress's order, I later examined one of the court ladies who claimed she was also preparing to give birth to a child."
"Well, and what did you find?"
"There is no doubt, sire, that this lady is greatly mistaken. She has an overly large liver, so she could never have had a child!"

The emperor shuddered and quickly asked:

"Will she be able to have children in the future?"

The physician noticed the emperor's reaction and assumed this was one of his favorites, so he hastily replied:

"Of course, of course, it is possible, even very likely... Only she must never see another woman in a delicate condition, and then she might have a child!"

The emperor generously rewarded the physician and sent him away, then spent a long time walking pensively and sadly. It is unknown what he said to the empress, but after that, she stopped gaining weight, and her favorite lady, who had dressed in her gown, disappeared from the palace.

Then hatred for I filled the empress's entire being. For who else but he could have discovered and reported to the emperor that she had wanted to stage a comedy of motherhood and claim as her own the child that was to be born to her court lady?!

The empress stopped taking walks, began to eat and sleep poorly, and often cried and lashed out, not only at her trinkets and precious vases but even at her court ladies. Finally, she fell seriously ill and took to her bed.

The emperor grew anxious—he wanted to summon the famous physician again. But the empress flatly refused.

"Call any physicians you wish, just not him!" Physicians and wise men came, offering advice and treating the empress. But nothing helped, and she grew worse and worse. Finally, the empress said to her husband:

"Sire! I wish to bid you farewell, for I will soon die!" The emperor was in despair:
"Is there truly no one in the entire empire who knows how to cure your illness?"
"There is a way, but you, sire, will not wish to use it!"
"There is nothing in the world," the emperor passionately retorted, "that I would not do to ensure your health!"
"Very well," replied the empress, "I know you will not go back on your word... Last night, the Great Spirit appeared to me in a dream and said: if you wish to be healthy, drink the blood from the heart of the Just I. I know, I feel, that if you, sire, give me this heart—I will recover immediately, but if you do not—I will soon die!"

Stunned, the emperor left his wife and summoned the Just I, whom he still held in high regard, and told him everything the empress had said.

"Sire," I calmly said, "if my heart can be of use to the empress—take it!"

The emperor hesitated for a long time, but finally, seeing his wife's condition worsening—he made his decision... The Just I's heart was cut out—still warm and trembling—and brought to the empress... And indeed: the empress immediately recovered and became even more cheerful, even more beautiful than before.

And the Just I? He did not die. True, no one saw him in the capital after that, but in the Changbo Mountains, they say he was often seen, though he was without a heart. And he helped many who came to him, but to each—differently: some more, others less. And to some, he refused entirely, even in advice, no matter how great their need: this was the case if they did not deserve help. And the Just I acted so faithfully, so precisely, so justly—as he had never done before, even when he lived in the capital...

The emperor died, the empress died, and everyone forgot about them. But the drums that I had set up—they remained, and they can still be seen at the gates of every yamen. However, to prevent their noise from disturbing our gracious officials too much, they are now made of solid stone.

You ask why I became even more just than before? Because perfect justice can only exist in the absence of a heart.

↑ To the top

The Just

More fairy tales