The Bad Older Brother, the Good Younger Brother

The Tale of Heungbu, a Korean Classical Novel

This piece consists of two parts: an original section that translates and slightly adapts The Tale of Heungbu, a Korean classical pansori-based novel, so that English-speaking readers can understand it more easily, and my commentary on the work.

Brotherhood is one of the great bonds of human life. Brothers are, in a sense, one body divided into two. They are meant to share fortune and misfortune, wealth and hardship.
But of course, not all brothers are the same.
Long ago, near the place where the three provinces of Chungcheong, Jeolla, and Gyeongsang met, there lived a nobleman named Master Yeon. He had two sons. The elder was named Nolbu, and the younger was named Heungbu.
Though they were born of the same mother, the two brothers could not have been more different.
Heungbu was kindhearted, deeply filial, and devoted to brotherly affection. Nolbu, on the other hand, was unfilial to his parents and had not the slightest love for his own brother. His heart was strangely twisted.
Most people are said to have five organs and six bowels. Nolbu, however, had five organs and seven bowels. In other words, he had one extra pouch inside him: a pouch of malice. And whenever that pouch turned over, wickedness poured out of him in every possible form.
He loved drinking, swearing, showing off, fighting, dancing at funerals, fanning fires, bargaining dishonestly in markets, slapping innocent men, tormenting the weak, ruining other people’s meals, damaging fields, frightening widows, disrupting marriages, sinking boats, throwing dirt at people bathing, striking sick men, bullying children, spoiling good deals, making trouble at ancestral rites, digging traps in public roads, and opening people’s jars on rainy days.
His heart was as crooked as a quince tree, as twisted as sorghum leaves in an east-wind fog. There was no measuring his cruelty.
Heungbu, however, remained gentle and patient. He saw what his elder brother did and often wanted to advise him against it, but he knew words would be useless. So he endured quietly, ate when he was given food, and obeyed whatever he was told to do.
After their parents died, Nolbu took all the family property for himself and began to mistreat Heungbu. Heungbu’s good nature did not change, but Nolbu’s cruelty only grew worse.
At last, Nolbu decided to drive his younger brother out.
“Brothers may live together when they are young,” he said, “but once they have wives and children, it is proper for each to live separately. Take your wife and children and leave.”
At first, Heungbu pleaded with him. But Nolbu would not listen.
So Heungbu had no choice. He took his wife and his many little children and left the family home.
They went to the foot of a hill across the mountain, dug a pit in the ground, and spent the night there together. The next day, Heungbu gathered sorghum stalks and built a rough hut by noon.
But the house was so small and poor that when he lay down and stretched his legs, his ankles stuck out through the wall. When he stretched his arms, his wrists did the same.
It was a miserable sight.
Worse still, they had not taken a single grain of rice with them. They could not even eat one proper meal in three days. And in that desperate state, their little children—lined up one after another like strings of dried fish—cried for rice, cried for milk, cried for anything to eat.
At last, Heungbu went to visit Nolbu.
“Elder brother,” he said, bowing low, “my children have gone hungry for three meals. I have no way to keep them alive. I know I have no shame in coming here, but please remember that we are brothers. Give me anything at all. I will repay you with labor. I will work for it. Please save these dying lives.”
But Nolbu was colder than ice.
He flew into a rage like a tiger, opened his fierce eyes wide, and shouted:
“You shameless fool. Listen to me. A man whom Heaven has not raised cannot hold office. A man whom Earth has not raised is a nameless creature. Why were you born with no fortune, and why do you come bothering me? I will hear no more.”
Heungbu wept and begged again.
“If you cannot spare grain, then give me just three coins. With that, we can live another day.”
Nolbu sneered.
“You fool. Even if I have rice, should I open my storehouse for you? Even if I have grain, should I break into my stacks for you? Even if I have money, should I open my chest for you? Should I take food from my servants, starve my dogs, starve my pigs, or deprive my cattle just to feed you? Truly, you are shameless.”
“Even so,” said Heungbu, “please save your dying brother.”
At this, Nolbu’s anger exploded. He called for his servant and ordered him to bring an axe handle. Then he grabbed Heungbu by the back of the neck and beat him mercilessly.
“Never show your face before me again!”
Heungbu was beaten so badly that his whole body went limp. Still, before leaving, he crawled toward the kitchen, hoping to see his sister-in-law.
Nolbu’s wife was scooping rice.
The moment Heungbu smelled the rice, his starving stomach twisted inside him.
“Sister-in-law,” he begged, “please give me just one spoonful of rice. Save this poor younger brother.”
But she was no better than Nolbu.
“How dare you come into the kitchen?” she snapped.
Then she struck his thin cheek with the rice paddle in her hand. Heungbu saw sparks before his eyes. Dazed, he touched his cheek—and found grains of rice stuck to it.
He quickly licked them into his mouth.
Then he said, “Sister-in-law, even when you strike me, you feed me. How can I thank you enough? Please trouble yourself to strike the other cheek as well—but this time, use the side of the paddle with more rice on it. I could take some home and at least show it to my children.”
At that, she put down the rice paddle and beat him with a fire poker instead.
Unable even to cry out in pain, Heungbu finally staggered home, weeping.
At home, his wife was nursing one child and comforting another. She was waiting for him as people wait for rain after seven years of drought, as flood victims wait for sunlight after nine years of rain, as a child waits for its mother to return from a ritual. She and the hungry children had only one hope: Heungbu’s return.
When she saw him staggering, she came out happily to greet him.
“You went to your elder brother’s house and came back drunk, did you? Come in quickly. If he gave us rice, I’ll cook it. If he gave us money, I’ll go buy something from Neighbor Kim so we can eat.”
But Heungbu could not bring himself to tell her the truth.
So he lied.
“When I went to my brother’s house, they served me wine and a warm lunch. Afterward, my brother and sister-in-law gave me rice and money. But as I crossed the big hill, robbers attacked me and took it all. I came back empty-handed.”
But his wife looked closely and saw blood everywhere. His face was swollen. When she touched his body, there was not one place uninjured.
She collapsed to the ground in grief.
“My dear wife,” said Heungbu, “do not be sad. They say even the government cannot rescue every poor man. How could my brother do it alone? Let us earn our living by selling our labor.”
So Heungbu and his wife went out and did every kind of work.
His wife pounded grain, filtered liquor at taverns, cleaned filthy drains, gathered herbs in spring, and worked in barley fields. Heungbu dug fields in the spring wind, tilled wet paddies, repaired roofs, wove straw mats on rainy days, and did whatever labor he could find.
But no matter how hard they worked, life remained hopeless.
One day, unable to think of any other way, Heungbu decided to ask for government grain. He walked into town and went to the local office.
“I would like to receive some government grain,” he said. “What can be done?”
The clerk looked at him.
“How can a poor man ask for precious government grain? But tell me—have you ever been beaten with a paddle?”
“Why do you ask about beatings? If you can get me grain, my starving children may live.”
The clerk lowered his voice.
“Forget the grain. Take a beating instead. Someone falsely accused a rich man named Kim, and an order has come to send him to the provincial office. But Kim is ill, and his relatives are ill too. They are looking for someone to go in his place. If you take the beating for him, they will pay you thirty nyang. I can give you the written guarantee here.”
The clerk gave Heungbu five nyang in advance and handed him the document.
“Go quickly. Take this letter to the officers at the provincial office. They may beat you lightly. And since Rich Man Kim will send a hundred nyang behind the scenes, you have nothing to worry about.”
Heungbu was overjoyed. He had spoken informally to the clerk before, but now he suddenly became polite.
“Sir, I shall go and return.”
When Heungbu went home and told his wife, she was horrified.
“What kind of work is selling your body for a beating? How can you take another man’s punishment when you do not even know his crime? What if it is murder? What if it is robbery? What if it is fraud? You have been starving for days. If you go there and receive the government paddle, you may die after only a few strokes. Go back and refuse! Do not go. Please do not go. If you insist on going, kill me and bury me first.”
She beat the heated floor with both hands and wept. But Heungbu tried to soothe her.
“My dear wife, these useless buttocks of mine have never sat in a high place anyway. If I go to the provincial office and take thirty strokes, we will receive thirty nyang. With ten, we will buy meat and heal the wounds. With ten, we will buy rice and feed the family. With the last ten, we will buy a cow, raise it for two years, sell it, marry off our eldest son, and when he has a son, we will have a grandson. Would that not be a happy thing?”
His wife thought there was some logic in his words, but still, this was no path for a human being. She refused again and again.
So Heungbu pretended to give up.
“Very well. I will not go. I will just visit Neighbor Kim and borrow some straw to make shoes.”
But once outside, he went straight to the provincial office.
He did not even hire a horse. He wanted to save the entire thirty nyang, so he walked a hundred and seventy li a day. After several days, he arrived.
The chief officer saw him and said to the others:
“This man has come in place of Rich Man Kim. Put him in the lower room. If there is questioning and he must be beaten, remember to strike lightly. A letter and a hundred nyang have already arrived at our office.”
The officers comforted Heungbu. But just then, the order bell rang, and a command came down:
“Release all prisoners except those guilty of murder.”
Heungbu was devastated.
“Sir,” he said, “I must be beaten. If I go home without being beaten, I am ruined.”
The officer replied, “Do not worry. If Rich Man Kim refuses to pay because you were not beaten, come straight back here. We will make sure you receive the money.”
With no other choice, Heungbu bought rice cakes with the one nyang left from his travel money and returned home.
Meanwhile, his wife had discovered that he had gone to the provincial office after all. She set up a small altar in the backyard, placed clean water upon it, clasped her hands, and prayed every day with tears.
Then Heungbu opened the straw door and came in.
She rushed to him.
“You are back! Were you released because you were innocent? Were you beaten with the great paddle? Were you beaten with the punishment rod? How are your wounds?”
Heungbu, having failed even to earn the beating, grew angry.
“Do not ask me about wounds. Ask your own grandfather about wounds! I came back without receiving even a single stroke, and you ask about injuries?”
His wife, however, rejoiced.
“Good! Wonderful! My husband went to be beaten and returned unbeaten. What greater blessing could there be?”
Heungbu stared at her in disbelief. But then he thought of his starving children, and sorrow overcame him. He beat his chest and wept.
Just then, Rich Man Kim’s nephew heard that Heungbu had returned and came to visit.
“My friend,” he asked, “you went hungry to the provincial office to take that beating. How did you come back?”
Heungbu was honest by nature and told him the truth.
“If I had been beaten, at least it would have helped. But even that was too fortunate for me—I was not beaten.”
“You are truly a good man,” said Kim’s nephew. “I have heard the story. Since you returned safely, how could we ask for money? I happen to have seven or eight nyang with me. Buy some rice with it.”
With that money, Heungbu bought rice and side dishes, and the family survived a few more days. But soon they were hungry again.
So Heungbu decided to make straw shoes. He went to Neighbor Kim to ask for straw.
“Poor man,” said Kim. “Your brother is rich, yet you live like this. How can I not pity you?”
He gave Heungbu bundles of straw. Heungbu made straw shoes, sold them at the market, and fed his family for a while. But he could not keep asking for straw forever.
Again, the family fell into misery.
Time passed, and spring came. Since Heungbu had learned a little writing, he pasted a New Year’s blessing on the sorghum-stalk wall of his hut.
On the third day of the third lunar month, the wild geese were leaving the Xiao-Xiang River, and the swallows were returning from the warm southern lands.
One swallow came to Heungbu’s poor hut. It flew around happily, chirping as if it had found a beloved home.
Heungbu warned it gently.
“There are many grand houses and fine pavilions. Why build your nest in a hut made of sorghum stalks? If the rainy season comes and this house collapses, you will suffer. Even though you are only a bird, listen to me. Find a good house, build a strong nest, and raise your young safely.”
But the swallow did not listen. It brought mud and built its nest there. Soon it laid eggs and raised its first chicks.
One day, while the young swallows were learning to fly, a large snake suddenly appeared and swallowed the chicks one by one.
Heungbu was shocked.
“You cruel creature! There are so many rich foods in the world. Why devour innocent little swallows? How pitiful they are. Swallows do not harm people. They do not eat our grain, and they return to their old homes with loyalty. How sorrowful that they should lose their young like this!”
He raised a knife to kill the snake. But just then, one little swallow fell from the air, bleeding and trembling. Its leg was broken.
Heungbu rushed over, held the tiny bird carefully in both hands, and pitied it deeply. He wrapped the broken leg with dried fish skin and called his wife.
“Bring me a strand of silk thread. I must bind the swallow’s leg.”
His wife found the silk thread she had brought when she married him. Heungbu gently tied the injured leg and placed the swallow somewhere safe from the cold dew.
A day passed. Then two. Then ten.
At last, the broken leg healed, and the swallow could fly again. It perched on a line, chirped brightly, and when the season came, it flew south.
The swallow traveled thousands of li to the southern land and appeared before the King of Swallows.
The king asked, “Why do you enter limping?”
The swallow replied, “My parents nested in the house of a man named Heungbu in Joseon. A great snake attacked us, and my leg was broken. I would have died, but Heungbu saved me. If Your Majesty would free Heungbu from poverty, I could repay even a ten-thousandth of his kindness.”
The King of Swallows said, “Heungbu is indeed a virtuous man. To repay kindness is the way of a noble heart. How could we ignore such grace? I will give you one gourd seed. Take it to him and repay his kindness.”
The swallow thanked the king and waited until the next spring.
When the warm season returned, the swallow flew high through the sky with the seed in its beak. It came back to Heungbu’s village and circled over his house.
Heungbu’s wife saw it first.
“Look, dear husband! The swallow from last year has returned. It is carrying something in its beak. Come and see!”
Heungbu stepped outside. The swallow flew over his head and dropped the object before him.
He picked it up and saw that it was a gourd seed. Written on it were three characters: Gourd of Gratitude.
He planted it under the eastern fence.
In two or three days, it sprouted. In four or five days, vines stretched out. Leaves grew at every joint, flowers bloomed on every stem, and four large gourds appeared.
On the morning of Chuseok, the family was starving. So Heungbu said, “Let us pick one ripe gourd and cook the inside.”
He and his wife marked a straight line across the gourd, took a saw together, and began to cut.
Back and forth, back and forth, they sawed through it.
When the gourd split open, five-colored clouds swirled out, and two boys in blue appeared. One held a bottle in his left hand. The other lifted a tray high above his head.
“This is worth more than a hundred million nyang,” they said. “Sell it and use the money.”
Then they vanished.
Heungbu cut open another gourd. From it came every kind of household furnishing.
He cut open a third. From it came a pure gold chest locked with a golden turtle lock. When they opened it, it was filled with gold, silver, amber, coral, pearls, cinnabar, musk, and treasures beyond counting. No matter how much they poured out, it filled again. They poured treasures day and night for six days, and Heungbu became a wealthy man.
From another gourd came master carpenters and all kinds of grain. The carpenters chose an auspicious site and built a magnificent house. Then servants appeared—men, women, and children—bringing goods, food, clothing, and every necessity.
Heungbu and his wife were overwhelmed with joy.
Finally, from the last gourd beneath the bushes, a beautiful woman appeared. She bowed deeply to Heungbu.
“I am a fairy from the Moon Palace,” she said. “The King of Swallows commanded me to become your secondary wife, and so I have come.”
Thus Heungbu lived in a grand house, surrounded by wealth, family, and comfort.
Soon the news reached Nolbu.
“That scoundrel must have stolen something,” Nolbu said. “If I go and bully him, I can take half his fortune.”
He rushed to Heungbu’s house like a thunderbolt and began smashing whatever he saw. While he was making this chaos, Heungbu returned from outside.
“You wretch!” shouted Nolbu. “How much did you steal?”
“Elder brother, what do you mean?”
Heungbu explained everything from beginning to end. Nolbu then demanded to inspect the house. As Heungbu guided him around, the Moon Palace fairy appeared.
Nolbu immediately wanted her for himself.
When Heungbu refused, Nolbu demanded a fine decorated cabinet instead.
Heungbu offered to have a servant carry it to Nolbu’s house, but Nolbu insisted on carrying it himself. When he arrived home with it, his wife’s eyes widened. After she heard how Heungbu had become rich, she said:
“If only we could find a swallow with a broken leg too!”
From the depths of winter, they waited for swallows.
When spring finally returned, a pair of swallows came to Nolbu’s house and built a nest. When the mother swallow laid eggs, Nolbu stood guard day and night in front of the nest. He kept taking the eggs out and touching them until most of them spoiled.
By good fortune, one egg survived and hatched.
As the chick grew and began to learn to fly, Nolbu waited for a snake. But no snake appeared.
Unable to stand it, Nolbu went out looking for one. On the road, he found a viper as thick as a rolling pin.
“Good beast!” he said. “Come to my house. Climb to the swallow’s nest. The baby swallow will fall, and I will become rich. I will repay you with chicks and eggs.”
He poked the snake with a stick. The snake bit his toe, and Nolbu fell flat on the ground.
Somehow he made it home, got treatment, and survived.
Then, as if he were a monstrous serpent himself, he grabbed the baby swallow and snapped both its ankles. He wrapped them with fish skin and tied them carefully, imitating Heungbu, then placed the bird back in the nest.
When the swallow barely survived and flew south, it said:
“Wicked Nolbu, enemy of mine! Next spring, I will return and repay you.”
The next spring, the swallow came back carrying a gourd seed. Written on it were three characters: Gourd of Revenge.
Nolbu, afraid he might lose it in the grass, followed the swallow around holding his hat upside down. The swallow dropped the seed into the hat. The seed was large, and the words were written clearly, but Nolbu was ignorant and could not read them.
He planted it under the eaves.
Soon it sprouted, vines spread, and gourds hung heavily from them.
Nolbu picked a large gourd and tried to saw it open with his wife. But it was as hard as iron. So he called carpenters and strong men, fed them well, paid them twenty nyang in advance, and ordered them to cut it open.
Back and forth, back and forth, they sawed.
When the gourd split open, the sound of reading came from inside. Then out came old scholars, young scholars, newly married noblemen, and elegant gentlemen. They seized Nolbu and beat him with heavy oak pestles.
“You wretch, Nolbu! Your father and mother once served in our household and ran away in the middle of the night. We have finally found their son. Their debt is three thousand nyang. Pay it at once!”
Nolbu paid three thousand nyang and begged forgiveness. The scholars accepted it as if doing him a favor and said:
“We shall use this money for now. When it runs out, we will come again.”
Then they vanished.
Nolbu cut open the second gourd.
This time, musicians came pouring out—men with gayageum, drums, gongs, and cymbals.
“We heard Nolbu was generous,” they cried, “so we came to have a good time!”
They demanded sacks of rice and a hundred nyang in money. Nolbu, terrified, gave them what they wanted.
He cut open another gourd.
Out came an old monk, followed by young monks.
“Nolbu,” they said, “our master prayed forty-nine days for your household. Offer five thousand nyang.”
Nolbu’s wife said, “Stop cutting these gourds before we are ruined.”
But Nolbu refused.
He cut again.
This time, a funeral bier came out, followed by strange mourners of every kind.
“You wretch, Nolbu! Slaughter an ox, prepare a feast, and give us ten thousand nyang!”
Nolbu sold his fields on the spot for a miserable price, paid them three thousand nyang, and begged. The pallbearers finally carried the bier away.
Nolbu followed them and asked, “Tell me, is there treasure in any of the other gourds?”
One pallbearer answered, “I do not know which one, but yes, one of them contains raw gold.”
Nolbu believed him and cut another gourd.
From it came shamans from all eight provinces. They beat gongs and drums, sang wild ritual songs, and struck Nolbu in the chest and belly with their instruments.
Nolbu saw lightning in his eyes. In anger and pain, he cried:
“What is the reason for this? Even if I must be beaten to death, at least tell me my crime!”
“You fool,” they said. “We performed many rituals for your house. Pay five thousand nyang. If you refuse, your head will not remain whole.”
Nolbu, frightened out of his wits, paid five thousand nyang.
But once they left, his greed returned.
“If I am to prosper, let me prosper. If I am to be ruined, let me be ruined. I will keep cutting.”
He split another gourd.
This time, thousands of peddlers came pouring out, carrying yellow chests on their backs and shouting in every direction. Nolbu paid them three thousand nyang just to leave.
Before they vanished, they said, “The next gourd must be full of gold and silver. Cut it with devotion.”
So Nolbu cut another.
Out came masked clowns, leaping and shrieking. They seized Nolbu by the neck and threw him to the ground. Nolbu ended up upside down, begging with his hands as if they were feet.
“Dear masters, what is this? Tell me what you want, and I will obey!”
The leader shouted, “Nolbu, which is more important—money or your life?”
“Life comes before money,” Nolbu cried. “How could money matter more?”
“Then pay five thousand nyang immediately.”
Nolbu paid.
Then he asked, “Please tell me about the next gourd.”
“One of them surely contains raw gold. Cut them all.”
So Nolbu cut again.
This time, wandering entertainers came out, beating little drums and making a terrible commotion. They rushed at him.
“At last! We have found you!”
They grabbed his arms and legs and tossed him into the air until his eyes rolled back and his organs seemed ready to fall out.
“If you want to live, hand over all your land deeds.”
Nolbu gave them every document.
Then he cut another gourd.
Out came gangs of ruffians, one after another—men with names like Tearer, Smasher, Stomper, Crooked One, Iron Fist, and Hard-Heart. They tied Nolbu to a tree with a clothesline and ordered the best beater among them:
“Hit him without mercy!”
They slapped him, kicked him, rolled him, twisted him, tore at him, and tortured him in every way. Even the son of an iron pestle could not have endured it.
“Save me!” Nolbu screamed. “If you want money, I will give money. If you want rice, I will give rice. If you want women, I will give women. Just spare my life!”
At last, one of the ruffians said:
“We are going sightseeing at Mount Geumgang, and we lack travel money. Pay five thousand nyang, or you die at once.”
Nolbu was so terrified he could not answer. He paid the money.
Even then, unable to abandon his greed, he crawled back up the hill, picked another gourd, and brought it down.
“Back and forth, saw away,” he urged the workers. “Pull the saw. Cut the gourd.”
When it split open, blind men from all eight provinces came rushing out, tapping their sticks and rolling their eyes.
“You wretch, Nolbu! Will you fly? Will you crawl? Where do you think you can go? We searched every mountain, every village, every alley, combing through the world with fine-toothed combs. Today, we have finally found you!”
They swung their sticks. Nolbu ran this way and that, but the blind men found him more accurately than men with sight. He could not escape.
“Good sirs,” he begged, “what is this? Spare me. I will do whatever you command.”
The blind men released him, chanted scripture, beat their drums, and then beat Nolbu like a stick striking a drum. Unable to bear it, he paid five thousand nyang.
Now nothing was left.
“There is not a single coin left in the house,” Nolbu thought. “All my property is gone. But since I have come this far, surely some good fortune must appear at the end.”
So he went back up the hill and brought down another gourd.
“This one is white and fine on the outside. Surely there must be treasure inside.”
He began to saw. Then he heard a thunderous voice from within:
“Bi-ro-ra! Bi-ro-ra!”
Nolbu thought some terrible disaster was coming and tried to run away. But the voice roared again:
“Why do you not cut the gourd? I am suffocating in here. Hurry!”
Nolbu trembled.
“You say ‘Bi.’ What kind of Bi are you?”
“I am Bi!”
“Do you mean Yang Guifei? At least tell me who you are before I cut further.”
“I am not that kind of Bi. I am Zhang Fei of Yan. If you do not cut this gourd, you will not be safe.”
When Nolbu heard the name Zhang Fei, his voice sank into his throat.
“What shall I do? I have no money left to offer. Now I can only die.”
One of the workers laughed.
“You may die for your sins, but why should I die? Say that again, and I will kill you first.”
So Nolbu finished cutting.
Suddenly, a great general leapt out. His face was black as ink, his eyes fierce, his jaw sharp, and he held a long spear high like thunder.
“You wretch, Nolbu! Since birth, you have been unfilial to your parents, hostile to your brother, and cruel to your relatives. Even if every hair on your body were plucked and counted, your sins would still be more numerous. Do you think Heaven is indifferent? The Jade Emperor sent me to cleanse your endless crimes. Endure it!”
With hands like giant onions, the general grabbed Nolbu by the neck and tossed him around like a toy.
Nolbu fainted, woke again, and begged for mercy. At last, the general pitied his miserable state.
“You deserve to be cut into pieces. But I spare you this once. From now on, do not mistreat your virtuous younger brother. Live in harmony with him.”
Then the general vanished.
Nolbu had suffered terribly, but when he gathered his senses and returned to the hill, two gourds still remained.
He brought one down.
“Back and forth, saw away. When this gourd opens, let gold and silver pour out like a landslide. Let me live like Heungbu!”
His wife, standing nearby, muttered:
“Let treasure come out, yes—but please, not a concubine like Heungbu’s.”
Nolbu scolded her immediately.
“We have lost our fortune and become beggars, and still you find room for jealousy? Be quiet and stand aside.”
They sawed the gourd open.
This time there was no sound from inside. Nolbu grew excited.
“No sound at all! This must be the lucky one!”
He looked inside. There was nothing there—only plain white gourd flesh. While Nolbu hesitated, one of the workers thought, “Every gourd so far has brought disaster. This one cannot be safe either.” Pretending to go relieve himself, he ran away.
Nolbu waited and waited, then finally split the gourd with an axe. Seeing that the white flesh looked edible, he ordered his wife to cook it.
Everyone in the house ate a bowl.
Afterward, Nolbu’s belly swelled, and he burped.
“That soup tasted excellent—dang-dong!”
His wife replied, “Yes, truly famous soup—dang-dong!”
The children cried, “Mother, the soup tastes good—dang-dong!”
Nolbu said again, “Now that I have eaten it, the dang-dong sound comes out by itself—dang-dong!”
Soon the daughter, the son, the servants, the wife, and every person in the household was saying “dang-dong, dang-dong,” as if someone were plucking a gayageum in every corner of the house.
Nolbu grew furious.
“I planted these gourds to become rich. I lost all my wealth, suffered every torment, was beaten half to death, and now my entire household has become a choir of dang-dong fools. What resentment! What injustice! Dang-dong!”
In rage, Nolbu grabbed a sickle and ran up the hill.
Under the vines, he found the final gourd.
It was as large as a great bell and seemed to weigh a thousand geun. The moment he saw it, Nolbu forgot all his anger. Greed flashed in his eyes again.
“Of course! This must be the treasure gourd. It is so heavy because it is full of gold. It was hiding under the vines so no one would see it. If I had known this was the golden gourd, I would have cut it first!”
He carried it down, singing happily.
“Good, good, how good this is!”
He sawed halfway through and peered inside. It looked completely yellow.
“I have struck fortune! Wife, come look. The inside is all gold!”
His wife sniffed.
“It is yellow, yes, but why does it smell so foul?”
“Foolish woman. Some gourds are riper than others. This one is fully ripe, that is why it smells. Keep cutting.”
They sawed further. Then, curious again, they sat facing each other and peered into the opening.
Suddenly, a fierce wind burst out from the gourd. A thunderous roar followed.
Then a stream of filth shot out like water from a pump.
Nolbu and his wife had no time to escape. They were struck by a storm of dung and knocked flat.
The stream poured out like ten thousand soldiers charging, as if it would push aside mountains and fill the sea. In an instant, Nolbu’s entire house—inside and outside—was filled with filth.
Covered from head to toe, Nolbu and his wife ran away, looking like lumps of yellow gold. From a distance, they turned back and saw their whole house buried.
Nolbu stomped his feet and lamented.
“Dear wife, what shall we do? I tried to gain wealth and lost everything. In the end, we are buried in filth and do not even have clothes to wear. How are we supposed to live now?”
The neighboring noblemen were furious because the filth had flowed into their homes as well. They ordered their servant to seize Nolbu.
The servant ran like a shot, grabbed Nolbu by the neck, dragged him back, and forced him to kneel before the gentlemen.
“You wretch, Nolbu! If you do not clean all the filth from our houses before sunset, you will die.”
Nolbu knelt on roof tiles, ordered his wife to bring five hundred nyang, hired every manure carrier he could find, paid them generously, and only after all the filth was removed was he released.
Nolbu and his wife had nowhere to go. They clung to each other and wept.
When Heungbu, living across the village, heard that his elder brother had been ruined, he hurried over with his servants. He brought Nolbu, Nolbu’s wife, and their children back to his own house.
Heungbu cleared the inner room and gave it to his elder brother and sister-in-law. He served them food and clothing generously and comforted them. Then he chose a fine site and spent a great fortune building them a new house exactly like his own. He gave them furniture, clothing, food, and everything they needed.
Even a wicked man like Nolbu was moved by Heungbu’s kindness. He repented of his past wrongs.
From then on, the brothers lived in harmony.
Heungbu and his wife enjoyed wealth, many children, and long life, living happily into their eighties. Their descendants prospered for generations, and all who heard the story praised Heungbu’s virtue.
And so his name did not disappear, even after a hundred years.

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Everyone knows the surface theme of The Tale of Heungbu. Rewarding good and punishing evil. Good receives a prize, evil receives punishment. The kind younger brother Heungbu becomes rich because he treated a swallow with compassion, and the wicked older brother Nolbu receives retribution. The end.

My interest is this: Is Heungbu really good? And is Nolbu really evil? The story, conveniently enough, presents the evidence within the text itself.

When describing Nolbu, The Tale of Heungbu uses an unforgettable image. Ordinary people have five viscera and six bowels, but Nolbu has five viscera and seven bowels. He has one extra pouch, and that pouch is spite. In my view, this image means the following: Nolbu was born with his sense of compassion removed. For him, evil is not a choice. It is an organ.

One of the most famous thinkers in China once said that when anyone sees a child about to fall into a well, that person instinctively feels alarm and compassion, without any calculation of interest or reward. This feeling of compassion is the seed of morality that makes a human being human.

From this perspective, Heungbu is a human being who possesses compassion. He did not help the swallow in order to become rich. He did not calculate that the swallow would later repay him. He simply saw an injured creature and pitied it. His own life had already collapsed, yet he could not pass by the broken leg of a small bird. Heungbu’s goodness comes before reward. Nolbu, by contrast, appears to be a human being lacking compassion.

Human morality is usually explained in two ways: environment, meaning how one was raised, or heredity, meaning whom one was born from. But Heungbu and Nolbu are brothers born to the same parents and raised in the same house. Their environment is almost the same, and their bloodline is the same. Yet one is an embodiment of compassion, while the other is a monster deprived of it. This difference, which neither environment nor heredity can explain, can be explained by only one word, a kind of unrealistic, fantasy-like assumption: fate. Heaven gave one man six organs, and the other a seventh.

The story does not psychologically explain why Nolbu became that way. It does not say that he had childhood trauma, that social structure twisted him, or that a competitive environment made him evil. From the beginning, Nolbu is simply that kind of person. Heaven gave one man six organs, and the other a seventh.

The “flatness” of this story is both a flaw and its intention.

Is Heungbu really pure good? After being beaten and returning empty-handed, he lies to his wife. He says he was robbed by bandits, not by his brother. He also tries to kill a snake in order to save the swallow. He breaks promises, uses violence, and hides the truth.

Is Nolbu really pure evil? If we consider his refusal to divide property with Heungbu, that act can also be seen as an attempt to protect the livelihood of himself, his wife, and his household. Can we always say that opening the storehouse, taking food away from servants, and reducing the resources of one’s own household in order to share with a younger brother is unconditionally good? The act of protecting one’s family’s survival and property is not evil in itself.

Heungbu also performs acts that could be classified as “evil,” and Nolbu also performs acts that could be classified as “good.” Yet this story does not clearly separate action from being.

From the perspective of modern ethics, we should distinguish between action and being. Just because someone lied, we cannot say that the person’s entire being is evil. Just because someone acted selfishly once, that human being does not become the embodiment of evil. Actions can be commanded and corrected. “Do not do that” is a possible command. But being cannot be treated that way. “Do not be that kind of person” is, for someone already born that way, a metaphysically impossible command.

Yet The Tale of Heungbu deliberately blurs this distinction. Even if there are points where Heungbu’s individual actions may be flawed, the story sees him as a good being. Even if some of Nolbu’s individual actions can be partially defended, the story sees him as an evil being.

Heungbu’s actions generally have this structure: the range of beneficiaries is broad. It includes his family, the swallow, dying creatures, and later even the ruined Nolbu. Heungbu himself receives no benefit, or even suffers loss. Heungbu is a human being who expands his moral concern beyond himself.

By contrast, the range of beneficiaries in Nolbu’s actions is extremely narrow. It is usually limited to himself, his house, and his property. Everyone else suffers harm. He cheats people in the marketplace, fans the flames of a burning house, torments the weak, and monopolizes the family property. He makes the losses of others into material for his own gain, or satisfies his desires through the sacrifice of others.

If everyone followed Nolbu’s mode of action, “Only I and my group may benefit, and it does not matter if everyone else suffers harm,” society could not be maintained. No one could trust anyone else, and promises, transactions, and family relations would collapse. By contrast, Heungbu’s maxim is generally this: “Even if I suffer loss, I do not pass by a being in pain.” If everyone lived completely like Heungbu, the cost to individuals could become large, but at least social trust and reciprocity could be maintained.

What matters is that even if Nolbu’s mode of action, whether it is a matter of being or of action, cannot be accepted, it would still be a considerable leap to define Nolbu himself as evil on that basis alone. A community can endure a certain number of those who do not obey, and even a certain amount of deviation can contribute positively. The problem is ratio. Some modes of being may be tolerable variations when they remain a minority, but once they exceed a certain ratio, they become a danger that can destroy society as a whole. If everyone lies, language loses its meaning. If everyone breaks promises, contracts cannot exist. If everyone tries to exploit the goodwill of others, goodwill itself disappears. Therefore, good and evil may be less a fixed essence than a function of critical ratio.

Thought experiment

Suppose there is a society in which 105 people are born male and 100 people are born female in the state of nature.

Most members of this society believe that human beings bringing more human beings into the world is a good thing.

In this society, the combined number of gay men and men who choose not to marry is 5.

In this state, there are almost no people who perceive the existence of gay men and men who choose not to marry as an obstacle to the reproduction of society.

For some reason, the combined number of gay men and men who choose not to marry rises to 50 out of 105.

It is likely that those who are neither gay nor committed to non-marriage will begin to raise their voices in criticism of such people.

What should be noted is that these 50 people have caused no direct harm to others compared to when there were only 5 of them. They still have not slapped anyone’s cheek, and they have taken nothing from anyone. What has changed is not their action, but their ratio. Nevertheless, criticism may begin. The criterion by which a mode of being is marked as dangerous may not be whether it harms someone, but whether the community can survive if it becomes universal. This is the uncomfortable point we face when, as in the story, being and action are blurred.

What the story performs is a preemptive marking of Nolbu. Since Nolbu is already an “evil person,” he is evil regardless of whether the ratio has crossed a threshold or not, and there may be little reason to ask, “Was Nolbu really evil?” Those who refuse reproduction have not yet been marked. To attach the name “evil” to a mode of being that had not been evil requires considerable social mobilization, and that process usually produces conflict and confusion.

Here, Nolbu’s wife may be an important figure. When Heungbu enters the kitchen and begs for a spoonful of rice, Nolbu’s wife strikes him on the cheek with a rice paddle. When Nolbu tries to become rich by using the swallow, she too suggests finding a swallow with a broken leg. Yet the wife is never described as a person born with a “spite pouch.” If Nolbu’s evil is an essence, then the fact that his wife, who does not possess that essence, shares the same behavioral pattern means that this pattern does not remain inside one person’s organ. It is transmitted and learned. In other words, the variation that had remained below the critical ratio when it was only Nolbu is increasing to two through his wife. Nolbu’s wife is the visible signal that the ratio is actually rising. The fact that the story binds Nolbu and his wife together as a pair and punishes them in the same way can be read as a preventive fear of this increase. A variation that could be endured when it was one becomes two, then three, and may cross the threshold. Fear of that possibility. The preemptive marking of Nolbu is precisely the way that fear operates: removing it in advance before the ratio is exceeded.

If we consider the background of the story, its setting is a society with an unusually strong continuity of settled agriculture. The people of that country regard 2333 BCE as the beginning of that continuity, apart from whether this is historically factual, it is a way for the community to understand itself as a group that has long endured, and they take strong pride in a single ethnic continuity handed down over time. The core of a settled agricultural community is, so to speak, a repeated game. One deals with the same neighbors for a lifetime, across generations. People share waterways, cooperate during farming seasons, and continue to encounter one another through marriage, ancestral rites, and village reputation. In such an environment, one betrayal can make one’s reputation follow not only oneself but even one’s descendants. The long-term cost of betrayal is astronomical. Therefore, the trust expressed by “If I help you, you will help me” becomes an extremely valuable resource, and Heungbu’s strategy, broad reciprocity and universal cooperation, is likely to prevail in the long run.

By contrast, imagine an environment with high mobility. A place where one can deceive someone once and then leave without paying the cost of reputation. In such a place, Nolbu’s strategy can produce local gains. Of course, this is not a matter of ethnic essence. To say that agricultural peoples are good and nomadic peoples are evil would be a very comfortable and lazy explanation. The variable seems not to be ethnic essence, but the repetition and mobility of the game.

Interestingly, this may not have much to do with historical period either. Even in modern big cities, online spaces, and hyper-dense anonymous societies, selfish behavior that betrays trust can sometimes receive positive rewards. If there is no need to meet again, no need to take responsibility, and a way to avoid reputational costs, Nolbu’s strategy remains effective.

The essentialization in The Tale of Heungbu, the idea that fate was given by heaven, may in fact have been the most efficient device for preserving the equilibrium of this repeated game. If those who disturb the equilibrium can be filtered out at the level of being before action, that can work very advantageously for maintaining a cooperative equilibrium. The reward of the blessed gourd is the inclusion that brings the cooperator into the community, and the retribution against Nolbu is the exclusion that filters out the betrayer. The same logic may apply to both.

A closed state in which the inflow and outflow of new ideas are relatively limited, and which is itself close to equilibrium. A society that preserves its cooperative equilibrium by not admitting, from the beginning, those who will leave and those who will not repay. In such a society, preserving that equilibrium may function as good. But if the act of judging someone in advance as “a person who will not repay” and filtering that person out is itself “bad,” then how can we not suspect whether the person defined as “bad” by that judgment is really a bad person?