The Nightingale.
You must know that in China the Emperor is a Chinaman, and all those around him are also Chinamen. It is many years since all this happened, and for that very reason it is worth hearing, before it is forgotten.
There was no palace in the world more beautiful than the Emperor's; it was very costly, all of fine porcelain, but it was so delicate and brittle, that it was very difficult to touch, and you had to be very careful in doing so. The most wonderful flowers could be seen in the garden, and silver tinkling bells were tied on to the most beautiful of these, for fear people should pass by without noticing them. How well everything had been thought out in the Emperor's garden—which was so big, that even the gardener himself did not know how big. If you walked on and on you came to the most beautiful wood, with tall trees and deep lakes. This wood stretched right down to the sea, which was blue and deep; great ships could pass underneath the branches, and in these branches a nightingale had made its home, and its singing was so entrancing that the poor fisherman, though he had so many other things to do, would lie still and listen when he was out at night drawing in his nets.
“Heavens! how lovely that is!” he said: but then he was forced to think about his own affairs, and the nightingale was forgotten; but the next day, when it sang again, the fisherman said the same thing: “Heavens! how lovely that is!”
Travellers from all the countries of the world came to the Emperor's town, and expressed their admiration for the palace and the garden, but when they heard the nightingale, they all said in one breath: “That is the best of all!”
Now, when these travellers came home, they told of what they had seen. The scholars wrote many books about the town, the palace and the garden, but nobody left the nightingale out: it was always spoken of as the most wonderful of all they had seen, and those who had the gift of the Poet wrote the most delightful poems all about the nightingale in the wood near the deep lake.
The books went round the world, and in course of time some of them reached the Emperor. He sat in his golden chair, and read and read, nodding his head every minute; for it pleased him to read the beautiful descriptions of the town, the palace and the garden; and then he found in the book the following words: “But the Nightingale is the best of all.”
“What is this?” said the Emperor. “The nightingale! I know nothing whatever about it. To think of there being such a bird in my Kingdom—nay, in my very garden—and I have never heard it! And one has to learn of such a thing for the first time from a book!”
Then he summoned his Lord-in-Waiting, who was such a grand creature that if any one inferior in rank ventured to speak to him, or ask him about anything, he merely uttered the sound “P,” which meant nothing whatever.
“There is said to be a most wonderful bird, called the Nightingale,” said the Emperor; “they say it is the best thing in my great Kingdom. Why have I been told nothing about it?”
“I have never heard it mentioned before,” said the Lord-in-Waiting. “It has certainly never been presented at court.”
“It is my good pleasure that it shall appear here to-night and sing before me!” said the Emperor. “The whole world knows what is mine, and I myself do not know it.”
“I have never heard it mentioned before,” said the Lord-in-Waiting. “I will seek it, and I shall find it.”
But where was it to be found? The Lord-in-Waiting ran up and down all the stairs, through the halls and the passages, but not one of all those whom he met had ever heard a word about the Nightingale. The Lord-in-Waiting ran back to the Emperor and told him that it must certainly be a fable invented by writers of books.
“Your Majesty must not believe all that is written in books. It is pure invention, besides something which is called the Black Art.”
“But,” said the Emperor, “the book in which I read this was sent to me by His Majesty the Emperor of Japan, and therefore this cannot be a falsehood. I insist on hearing the Nightingale: it must appear this evening. It has my gracious favour, and if it fails to appear, the court shall be trampled upon after the court has supped.”
“Tsing-pe!” said the Lord-in-Waiting, and again he ran up and down all the stairs, through all the halls and passages, and half the court ran with him, for they had no wish to be trampled upon. And many questions were asked about the wonderful Nightingale of whom all had heard except those who lived at court.
At last, they met a poor little girl in the kitchen. She said: “Heavens! The Nightingale! I know it well! Yes, how it can sing! Every evening I have permission to take the broken pieces from the table to my poor sick mother who lives near the seashore, and on my way back, when I feel tired and rest a while in the wood, then I hear the Nightingale sing, and my eyes are filled with tears: it is just as if my mother kissed me.”
“Little kitchen-girl,” said the Lord-in-Waiting, “I will get a permanent position for you in the Court Kitchen and permission to see the Emperor dine, if you can lead us to the Nightingale; for it has received orders to appear at Court to-night.”
So they started off all together for the wood where the bird was wont to sing: half the court went too. They were going along at a good pace when suddenly they heard a cow lowing.
“Oh,” said a court-page. “There you have it. That is a wonderful power for so small a creature! I have certainly heard it before.”
“No, those are the cows lowing,” said the little kitchen girl. “We are a long way from the place yet.”
And then the frogs began to croak in the pond.
“Beautiful,” said the Court Preacher. “Now, I hear it—it is just like little church bells.”
“No, those are the frogs,” said the little Kitchen maid. “But now I think that we shall soon hear it.”
And then the Nightingale began to sing.
“There it is,” said the little girl. “Listen, listen—there it sits.” And she pointed to a little grey bird in the branches.
“Is it possible!” said the Lord-in-Waiting. “I had never supposed it would look like that. How very plain it looks! It has certainly lost its colour from seeing so many grand folk around it.”
“Little Nightingale,” called out the little Kitchen girl, “our gracious Emperor would be so glad if you would sing for him.”
“With the greatest pleasure,” said the Nightingale. It sang, and it was a joy to hear it.
“Just like little glass bells,” said the Lord-in-Waiting; “and just look at the little throat, how active it is! It is astonishing to think we have never heard it before! It will have a real success at Court.”
“Shall I sing for the Emperor again?” said the Nightingale, who thought that the Emperor was there in person.
“Mine excellent little Nightingale,” said the Lord-in-Waiting, “I have the great pleasure of bidding you to a Court-Festival this night, when you will enchant His Imperial Majesty with your delightful warbling.”
“My voice sounds better among the green trees,” said the Nightingale. But it came willingly when it knew that the Emperor wished it.
There was a great deal of furbishing up at the Palace. The walls and ceiling, which were of porcelain, shone with a light of a thousand golden lamps. The most beautiful flowers of the tinkling kind were placed in the passages. There was running to and fro, and a thorough draught. But that is just what made the bells ring: one could not oneself. In the middle of the large hall where the Emperor sat, a golden rod had been set up on which the Nightingale was to perch. The whole Court was present, and the little Kitchen-maid was allowed to stand behind the door, for she had now the actual title of a Court Kitchen Maid. All were there in their smartest clothes, and they all looked towards the little grey bird to which the Emperor nodded.
And the Nightingale sang so delightfully that tears sprang into the Emperor's eyes and rolled down his cheeks; and then the Nightingale sang even more beautifully. The song went straight to the heart, and the Emperor was so delighted that he declared that the Nightingale should have his golden slipper to hang round its neck. But the Nightingale declined. It had already had its reward.
“I have seen tears in the Emperor's eyes. That to me is the richest tribute. An Emperor's tears have a wonderful power. God knows my reward is great enough,” and again its sweet, glorious voice was heard.
“That is the most delightful coquetting I have ever known,” said the ladies sitting round, and they took water into their mouths, in order to gurgle when anyone spoke to them, and they really thought they were like the Nightingale. Even the footmen and the chambermaids sent word that they, too, were satisfied, and that means a great deal, for these are the people whom it is most difficult to please. There was no doubt as to the Nightingale's success. It was sure to stay at Court, and have its own cage, with liberty to go out twice in the daytime, and once at night. Twelve servants went out with it, and each held a silk ribbon which was tied to the bird's leg, and they held it very tightly. There was not much pleasure in going out under those conditions. The whole town was talking of the wonderful bird, and when two people met, one said: “Nightin-” and the other said “gale,” and they sighed and understood one another. Eleven cheese-mongers' children were called after the bird, though none of them had a note in his voice. One day a large parcel came for the Emperor. Outside was written the word: “Nightingale.”
“Here we have a new book about our wonderful bird,” said the Emperor. But it was not a book; it was a little work of art which lay in a box—an artificial Nightingale, which was supposed to look like the real one, but it was set in diamonds, rubies and sapphires. As soon as you wound it up, it could sing one of the pieces which the real bird sang, and its tail moved up and down and glittered with silver and gold. Round its neck was a ribbon on which was written: “The Emperor of Japan's Nightingale is miserable compared with the Emperor of China's.”
“That is delightful,” they all said, and on the messenger who had brought the artificial bird they bestowed the title of “Imperial Nightingale-Bringer-in-Chief.”
“Let them sing together, and what a duet that will be!”
And so they had to sing, but the thing would not work, because the real Nightingale could only sing in its own way, and the artificial Nightingale could only play by clock-work.
“That is not its fault,” said the Band Master. “Time is its strong point, and it has quite my method.”
Then the artificial Nightingale had to sing alone. It had just as much success as the real bird, and then it was so much handsomer to look at: it glittered like bracelets and breast-pins. It sang the same tune three and thirty times, and it was still not tired: the people would willingly have listened to the whole performance over again from the start. But the Emperor suggested that the real Nightingale should sing for a while. But where was it? Nobody had noticed that it had flown out of the open window back to its green woods.
“But what is the meaning of all this?” said the Emperor. All the courtiers upbraided the Nightingale and said that it was a most ungrateful creature.
“We have the better of the two,” they said, and the artificial Nightingale had to sing again, and this was the thirty-fourth time they heard the same tune. But they did not know it properly even then, because it was so difficult, and the bandmaster praised the wonderful bird in the highest terms, and even asserted that it was superior to the real bird, not only as regarded the outside, with the many lovely diamonds, but also the inside as well.
“You see, ladies and gentlemen, and above all your Imperial Majesty, that with the real Nightingale, you can never predict what may happen, but with the artificial bird, everything is settled upon beforehand; so it remains and it cannot be changed. One can account for it. One can rip it open and show the human ingenuity, explaining how the cylinders lie, how they work, and how one thing is the result of another.”
“That is just what we think,” they all exclaimed, and the Bandmaster received permission to exhibit the bird to the people on the following Sunday. The Emperor said they were to hear it sing. They listened, and were as much delighted as if they had been drunk with tea, which is a thoroughly Chinese habit, and they all said “Oh!” and stuck their forefingers in the air, and nodded their heads. But the poor Fisherman who had heard the real Nightingale, said: “It sounds quite well, and a little like it, but there is something missing. I do not know what it is.”
The real Nightingale was banished from the Kingdom. The artificial bird had its place on a silken cushion close to the Emperor's bed. All the presents it had received, the gold and precious stones, lay all round it, and it had been honoured with the title of High Imperial Bedroom Singer—in the first rank, on the left side, for even the Emperor considered that side the grander on which the heart is placed, and even an Emperor has his heart on the left side. The Bandmaster wrote twenty-five volumes about the wonderful artificial bird. The book was very learned and very long, filled with the most difficult words in the Chinese language, and everybody said that he had read it and understood it, for otherwise he would have been considered stupid, and would have been trampled upon.
And thus a whole year passed away. The Emperor, the Court and all the other Chinese knew every little gurgle in the artificial bird's song, and just for this reason, they were all the better pleased with it. They could sing it themselves—which they did. The boys in the street sang “zizizi” and “cluck, cluck,” and even the Emperor sang it. Yes, it was certainly beautiful. But one evening, while the bird was singing, and the Emperor lay in bed listening to it, there was a whirring sound inside the bird, and something whizzed; all the wheels ran round, and the music stopped. The Emperor sprang out of bed and sent for the Court Physician, but what could he do? Then they sent for the watch-maker, and after much talk and examination, he patched the bird up, but he said it must be spared as much as possible, because the hammers were so worn out and he could not put new ones in so that the music could be counted on. This was a great grief. The bird could only be allowed to sing once a year, and even that was risky, but on these occasions the Bandmaster would make a little speech, introducing difficult words, saying the bird was as good as it ever had been: and that was true.
Five years passed away, and a great sorrow had come over the land. The people all really cared for their Emperor: now he was ill and it was said he could not live. A new Emperor had been chosen, and the people stood about the streets, and questioned the Lord-in-Waiting about their Emperor's condition.
“P!” he said, and shook his head.
The Emperor lay pale and cold on his great, gorgeous bed: the whole Court believed that he was dead, and they all hastened to pay homage to the new Emperor. The footmen hurried off to discuss matters, and the chambermaids gave a great coffee party. Cloth had been laid down in all the rooms and passages, so that not a footstep should be heard and it was all fearfully quiet. But the Emperor was not yet dead. He lay stiff and pale in the sumptuous bed, with its long, velvet curtains, and the heavy gold tassels: just above was an open window, and the moon shone in upon the Emperor and the artificial bird. The poor Emperor could hardly breathe: it was as if something were weighing him down: he opened his eyes and saw it was Death, sitting on his chest, wearing his golden crown, holding in one hand the golden sword, and in the other the splendid banner: and from the folds of the velvet curtains strange faces peered forth, some terrible to look on, others mild and friendly: these were the Emperor's good and bad deeds, which gazed upon him now that Death sat upon his heart.
“Do you remember this?” whispered one after the other. “Do you remember that?” They told him so much that the sweat poured down his face.
“I never knew that,” said the Emperor. “Play music! music! Beat the great Chinese drum!” he called out, “so that I may not hear what they are saying!”
But they kept on, and Death nodded his head, like a Chinaman, at everything they said.
“Music, music,” cried the Emperor. “You little precious bird! Sing to me, ah! sing to me! I have given you gold and costly treasures. I have hung my golden slipper about your neck. Sing to me. Sing to me!”
But the bird stood still: there was no one to wind him up, and therefore he could not sing. But Death went on, staring at the Emperor with his great hollow sockets, and it was terribly still.
Then, suddenly, close to the window, came the sound of a lovely song. It was the little live Nightingale which perched on the branches outside. It had heard of its Emperor's plight, and had therefore flown hither to bring him comfort and hope, and as he sang, the faces became paler and the blood coursed more freely through the Emperor's weak body, and Death himself listened and said: “Go on, little Nightingale. Go on.”
“And will you give me the splendid sword, and the rich banner and the Emperor's crown?”
And Death gave all these treasures for a song. And still the Nightingale sang on. He sang of the quiet churchyard, where the white roses grow, where the Elder flowers bloom, and where the grass is kept moist by the tears of the survivors, and there came to Death such a longing to see his garden, that he floated out of the window, in the form of a white, cold mist.
“Thank you, thank you,” said the Emperor. “You heavenly little bird, I know you well! I banished you from the land, and you have charmed away the evil spirits from my bed, and you have driven Death from my heart. How shall I reward you?”
“You have rewarded me,” said the Nightingale. “I received tears from your eyes the first time I sang, and I never forget that. These are jewels which touch the heart of the singer. But sleep now, that you may wake fresh and strong. I will sing to you,” and it sang, and the Emperor fell into a sweet sleep. The sun shone in upon him through the window, and he woke feeling strong and healthy. None of his servants had come back, because they thought he was dead, but the Nightingale was still singing.
“You will always stay with me,” said the Emperor. “You shall only sing when it pleases you, and I will break the artificial Nightingale into a thousand pieces.”
“Do not do that,” said the Nightingale. “It has done the best it could. Keep it with you. I cannot build my nest in a palace, but let me come just as I please. I will sit on the branch near the window, and sing to you that you may be joyful and thoughtful too. I will sing to you of the happy folk, and of those that suffer; I will sing of the evil and of the good, which is being hidden from you. The little singing bird flies hither and thither, to the poor fisherman, to the peasant's hut, to many who live far from you and the Court. Your heart is dearer to me than your crown, and yet the crown has a breath of sanctity too. I will come; I will sing to you, but one thing you must promise.”
“All that you ask,” said the Emperor and stood there in his imperial robes which he had put on himself, and held the heavy golden sword on his heart.
“I beg you, let no one know that you have a little bird who tells you everything. It will be far better thus,” and the Nightingale flew away.
The servants came to look upon their dead Emperor: they stood there and the Emperor said “Good morning.”
(From Hans. C. Andersen, translated from the Danish by Marie L. Shedlock.)