The most contrary man that ever drew a full dozen breaths was Chueh
Chun, living in Tien Ting Village, thirty minutes by donkey, by up and
down very bad road, north of the Great Wall, the far-famed Chinese Wall.
Queer Chueh Chun had been named Ma Tzu by his honorable parents. He had
been named Ma Tzu, which means Face Rather Ugly. He, himself, changed
his name to Chueh Chun, which means Absolutely Beautiful.
The good people of Tien Ting Village lived tidily in made houses, above
ground. Chueh Chun lived in a cave, a deep and winding fox den, below
ground. Such of the neighbors as were permitted by law to wear hats,
wore little round hats, on their heads. Chueh Chun wore hats on his
feet. Moreover, he wore straw hats in winter, fur in summer. On his head
perched an ancient sandal. He pretended that the arrangement was
excellent. The sandal shaded his eyes, yet permitted his head to remain
cool.
The neighbors when going upon long journeys commonly rode their shaggy
mountain ponies. Chueh Chun when setting forth on an arduous trip—say
fifty miles—was most likely to walk. But to go from his fox lair home
to the nest of his speckled hen, he invariably rode a little donkey.
Yu Yuch Ying, aunt to Chueh Chun, willed her obstinate nephew thirty
thousand cash, just when his purse was at its flattest. The neighbors
gathered round Chueh Chun to congratulate and envy him. Said they: “What
a fortunate person are you, dear Chueh Chun. The thirty thousand cash
that your late lamented Aunt Yu Yuch Ying left will set you up in noble
style. A most opportune windfall was that. Plenty of luck you have.”
But Chueh Chun nodded his head. He always nodded his head to show that
he differed. “Quite the contrary,” said Chueh Chun, “I fear me,
honorable neighbors, that my aunt’s bequest is an ill thing altogether.
It is luck the worst. Thirty thousand cash are so heavy that I shall be
compelled to make at least two trips to fetch them. Besides, the beggars
will be annoying me without let-up from break of day till I break their
heads. And think of thieves. The money will bring me ill, I am sure.”
And Chueh Chun laughed heartily, for that was his way of expressing
sorrow.
However, Chueh Chun’s excellent wife knew how to manage him. She said:
“Quite right. If I were you, I wouldn’t dream of going for the fortune.
And I wouldn’t once think of riding the donkey, not once.” And she spoke
as if she meant her words.
Therefore—upon his donkey—the contrary husband started for Tsun Pu,
where his beloved aunt had lived and left riches. Immediately outside
Tien Ting Village the traveler was forced to cross a river. The current
was swift and it washed the hat-shoes from Chueh Chun’s feet. Down the
stream swirled the hats, with their owner in splashy pursuit. The
neighbors, who had gathered to bid old Contrary a fine journey, were
loud in lamentation over his loss. They exclaimed, beating their
breasts: “Oh, Chueh Chun, we are so sorry that you have lost your
hat-shoes, so utterly sorry. With our eyes we weep for you and cry
‘alas.’ What terrible luck. It is demon-sent luck in truth.”
[Illustration: Therefore—upon his donkey—the contrary husband started
for Tsun Pu.]
But Chueh Chun paused in his splashing and answered them: “Why, no. I
dare say it is not bad luck at all. Quite the opposite, my esteemed
neighbors, it may be very fortunate indeed.” He wept to show that he was
well pleased.
Meanwhile, the onward swept hat-shoes disappeared from view. Chueh Chun
raced along the bank, calling, and anxiously scanning the water for a
trace of his lost property. The neighbors, too, hurried after, one
leading the donkey. Rounding a willow-draped elbow of the river, Chueh
Chun stumbled over a boat that had drifted ashore. He fell headlong and
heavily, his chin plowing a prodigious furrow in the sand. Up panted the
neighbors, shouting: “Alas, likewise alack. What woe. Such woe. Poor
Chueh Chun, how we ache for you. Our own bones pain out of sympathy.
What a horrible calamity.”
Chueh Chun stretched out a hand to pick up his two hat-shoes, drifted
against a willow bough. Said he, rather indistinctly because of the sand
in his mouth: “Nothing of the kind, greatly respected neighbors. My fall
was most beneficial, for it placed me nearly atop my lost shoes.
Otherwise I might never have found them.” He sobbed to prove his joy.
It is doubtful if the others heard. They, inquisitive fellows that they
were, had hands and eyes and tongues busy as they investigated the boat
that had caused Chueh Chun’s downfall. Lifting a drab and unpromising
rain-cloth, they discovered underneath a cargo of precious tribute
silks—only the best—stuffs such as are sent in tribute to His Majesty,
The Emperor. There were bales of silk and sewn garments of silk. There
were reds and greens and purples, brown and black and gold. Orange,
blue, and pink, they surpassed the rainbow in vivid hue. “How
marvelous,” gasped the neighbors. “Your fortune is made, Chueh Chun.
What stupendous good luck. We who have always been your truest friends,
aiding you with turnips and money in time of need, now rejoice with
you.”
Chueh Chun nodded. “I must beg leave to disagree on that,” was his
contradiction. “It is no very good luck. I would sooner have stepped on
a fretful tiger. Really, it is terrible—finding this boat.”
The neighbors squinted eyes at each other and spoke. “A pity that you
won’t take of the find. Howbeit—good for us. We can make profitable use
of these things.” They were silly to say that.
Chueh Chun promptly loaded his donkey with silks, a burden worth, even
in a beggars’ market, double or more the thirty thousand cash left by
his aunt. He donned a most sightly lilac-colored coat and departed.
Thus with his donkey laden and his own back resplendent, Chueh Chun
fared onward toward Tsun Pu. Scarce had he gone two li when a band of
brigands espied him. “There goes old Chueh Chun,” said a brigand. “He is
too poor to rob. That donkey of his is older than my own dear
great-grandfather, and possesses a most deplorable temper.” But the
robber chief spoke. “Nonsense, you shallow pate. Look at his lilac robe.
Look at the silks upon his beast. We could scarcely have better fortune
though we opened sacks within our noble Emperor’s treasury.” So the
robbers fell upon Chueh Chun and stripped him of his stuffs. His donkey,
his robe, his purse, all they took.
It was a well-plucked traveler who returned to Tien Ting Village and
related his misadventure. The villagers, to a man, sympathized greatly.
“Our hearts go out to you, most excellent Chueh Chun,” they condoled.
“Undoubtedly, you have suffered. How you must grieve. And we also
grieve. It is all pleasure swept away.”
Stubborn Chueh Chun could not agree. Said he: “Who knows but that it was
good luck? Had I continued through the mountains I might have been
killed by falling rocks. Think of that. Beyond doubt the robbers saved
my life. Yet you, my supposed friends, say it was bad luck.”
[Illustration: It was a well-plucked traveler who returned.]
Early next morning, Chueh Chun’s ancient donkey returned to the village.
She had broken loose from the brigands and ambled home with all her load
of silks intact. How the neighbors rejoiced. A person might easily have
thought that the little donkey belonged to them, so jubilant were they.
“Oh, Chueh Chun, awake,” they screamed. “Here is your donkey, all hearty
and hale—with not so much as a yard of silk missing. What wonderful,
wonderful luck.”
Chueh Chun said: “I’m afraid, good gracious yes, it’s very bad luck. No
good can come of this. It’s unfortunate as can be. Alas. Alas.” Nor was
he far wrong. That very morning, while ministering to a wound upon the
donkey, that sinful little beast kicked with such violence as to break
her master’s leg. The somewhat inquisitive neighbors gathered, as bees
gather to the blossoming beans. “Oh. Oh. Oh,” they screamed. “What is
the matter? Did the shameless donkey kick our handsome neighbor?”
“Truly, she did,” laughed Chueh Chun. “So hard that I think my leg has
come apart.” And as he thought, so it was. He could not walk.
The neighbors redoubled their wails, asking each other, “Is not that the
extreme height of ill fortune?”
“Not at all,” denied old Chueh Chun, perhaps a trifle grumpily. “In my
opinion it may be a blessing. It, no doubt, will save me from something
worse. Besides, it convinces me that my donkey is very strong, despite
her age.”
By darkest midnight the Khan of the warlike Tartars, with fifty thousand
men, swooped down to raid such villages as had, rather foolishly, been
built outside the Great Wall. Tien Ting suffered. Every able-bodied man
was taken prisoner. Only the very young, the extremely ancient, the
lame, the blind, and the bedridden were left in their homes. Chueh Chun
was one of those thus spared. Lameness and age were in his favor. By
torchlight a toothless, grinning old neighbor dropped into Chueh Chun’s
cave to say that the danger was no more. “The Tartars are gone, my
admirable friend, Chueh Chun—and so are all of our young men, and our
goods, even to house chimneys. I think you and I are about the only ones
spared. How fortunate we are.”
“It may be all very fortunate for you,” put in Chueh Chun, “but as for
me, I have a feeling that things could be much better, and still be not
so good. I wish the Tartars had carried me into captivity astride my own
poor lost donkey.” For, of course, his donkey was gone again.
With the dawning, His Majesty, The Emperor Ching Tang, entered the
village to learn of its losses. He was told that all of the men, save
half a dozen, Chueh Chun among them, had been carried off. “Why wasn’t
such a one taken?” asked the Emperor. He was told: “A cripple for ninety
years and a day.” “Why wasn’t Chueh Chun taken?” asked the Emperor.
“Because, Noble Majesty,” answered a villager, kneeling three times and
knocking his head on the ground thrice with each kneeling, “because,
most gracious light of the sun and beauty of the moon, lord of the earth
and sea and sky, Chueh Chun was kicked by his own donkey, and I well
remember his saying at the time that it was extremely fortunate his leg
was broken—a blessing—those were his words. And they were true.”
“What say you?” thundered the Emperor “A blessing—to be crippled? Why
then this Chueh Chun must have known beforehand that the Tartars were
coming to carry away my people. He must have known it, and knowing, gave
us no warning. Bid this traitorous fellow appear. Soldiers—go.
Headsman—draw your sword.”
Fortunately, Chueh Chun’s wife heard the Emperor’s command. Swiftly she
ran home. As she entered the cave Chueh Chun sneezed. “Kou Chu.” The
sneeze led to an excellent idea. Said the wife: “Aha. Aha,” with much
emphasis. “You were out in your boat on the river last week, and now you
have a cold.” Adding with proper severity, “Don’t you dare go near the
river again. Do you hear?” She knew very well what would happen. “My
husband—come back.”
Lame as he was, Chueh Chun promptly left the cave and got into his boat.
The good wife smiled and screamed, “Don’t row with such vigor.”
Soldiers ran to the bank of the stream and called, “Come back.” And
louder they shouted, “Come back.” That was extremely foolish of them.
They should have said, “Go on.”
Contrary to the last, Chueh Chun sat the wrong way in his boat and rowed
for dear life.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]