The Nightingale

In China, as you know, the emperor is Chinese, and everyone around him is Chinese too. This story happened many years ago, and that is exactly why it is worth hearing now, before it is forgotten.

The emperor's palace was the most splendid in the world, made entirely of fine porcelain, very costly, but so delicate and so easily damaged that anyone who touched it had to be careful indeed. In the garden grew the most wonderful flowers, and to the loveliest of them little silver bells were tied, which tinkled so that no one could pass by without noticing the blossoms. Yes, everything in the emperor's garden was cleverly arranged, and it stretched so far that even the gardener himself did not know where it ended. If you kept walking, you came to a glorious forest with tall trees and deep lakes. The forest ran right down to the sea, which was blue and deep, and great ships could sail in beneath the branches of the trees. In one of these trees lived a nightingale, who sang so beautifully that even the poor fisherman, who had so much else to do, would stop and listen when he had rowed out at night to spread his nets and heard her. "Oh, how lovely that is," he would say. But then he had to mind his work and forget the bird. Yet the next night, when she sang again and the fisherman came by, he would say the very same thing: "Oh, how lovely that is."

Travelers came from every country in the world to the emperor's city, and they admired it, and the palace, and the garden. But when they heard the nightingale, they all said, "That is the best of all."

When the travelers went home, they told of what they had seen, and learned men wrote many books about the city, the palace, and the garden. But they did not forget the nightingale either; she was praised the highest of all. And those who could write poetry composed the loveliest verses about the nightingale in the forest by the deep sea.

The books traveled all over the world, and one day some of them reached the emperor. He sat in his golden chair and read and read, nodding his head with pleasure, for it delighted him to read the splendid descriptions of his city, his palace, and his garden. "But the nightingale is really the best of all," said the words on the page.

"What is this?" said the emperor. "The nightingale? Why, I know nothing about it! Is there such a bird in my empire, and even in my own garden? I have never heard of it! To think I must learn of such a thing from books!"

Then he called for his lord-in-waiting, who was so grand that whenever anyone lower than himself dared to speak to him or ask him a question, he answered only, "P!" — which means nothing at all.

"There is said to be a most remarkable bird here called a nightingale," said the emperor. "They say it is the finest thing in my whole great empire. Why has no one ever told me about it?"

"I have never heard the name before," said the lord-in-waiting. "She has never been presented at court."

"It is my wish that she come here this evening and sing before me," said the emperor. "The whole world knows what I possess, and I do not know it myself!"

"I have never heard the name before," said the lord-in-waiting again. "But I will look for her. I will find her."

Yet where was she to be found? The lord-in-waiting ran up and down every staircase, through halls and passages, but not one of the people he met had ever heard of the nightingale. So he ran back to the emperor and said it must surely be a fable made up by those who write books. "Your Imperial Majesty must not believe everything that is written down. It is all invention, and something they call the black art."

"But the book in which I read this," said the emperor, "was sent to me by the most mighty emperor of Japan, so it cannot be untrue. I will hear the nightingale! She must be here this evening! She has my highest favor. And if she does not come, then the whole court shall be trampled underfoot the moment supper is over!"

"Tsing-pe!" said the lord-in-waiting, and off he ran again, up and down every staircase, through all the halls and passages. And half the court ran with him, for no one wished to be trampled underfoot. There was such asking and searching for the wonderful nightingale, whom all the world knew, but no one at court.

At last they came upon a poor little girl in the kitchen. "Oh, goodness, the nightingale — I know her well," she said. "Yes, how she can sing! Every evening I have leave to carry the scraps from the table home to my poor sick mother, who lives down by the shore. And when I walk back, tired, and rest in the wood, then I hear the nightingale sing. The tears come into my eyes, and it feels as if my mother were kissing me."

"Little kitchen girl," said the lord-in-waiting, "I will arrange a proper place for you in the kitchen and permission to watch the emperor dine, if you will lead us to the nightingale, for she is expected this evening."

So they all set off into the wood where the nightingale usually sang, and half the court came along. When they were well on their way, a cow began to low.

"Oh!" said the young courtiers. "Now we have her! What remarkable power in so small a creature! I am sure I have heard it before."

"No, those are cows lowing," said the little kitchen girl. "We are still a long way from the place."

Then the frogs began to croak in the marsh.

"How glorious!" said the court chaplain. "Now I hear her — it sounds just like little church bells."

"No, those are frogs," said the little kitchen girl. "But I think we shall hear her soon now."

And then the nightingale began to sing.

"There she is!" said the little girl. "Listen! Listen! There she sits!" And she pointed to a little gray bird up in the branches.

"Is it possible?" said the lord-in-waiting. "I never imagined her like that! How plain she looks! She must have lost her color at seeing so many grand people around her."

"Little nightingale," the kitchen girl called out, "our most gracious emperor wishes you to sing before him!"

"With the greatest pleasure," said the nightingale, and she sang so that it was a joy to hear.

"It sounds just like glass bells," said the lord-in-waiting. "And look at that little throat, how it works! It is astonishing that we have never heard her before. She will be a great success at court!"

"Shall I sing once more for the emperor?" asked the nightingale, who thought the emperor was there.

"My excellent little nightingale," said the lord-in-waiting, "I have the great pleasure of inviting you to a court festival this evening, where you shall enchant His High Imperial Majesty with your charming song."

"It sounds best out in the green wood," said the nightingale, but she came along gladly all the same when she heard that it was the emperor's wish.

At the palace everything was polished for the occasion. The porcelain walls and floors gleamed in the light of many thousand golden lamps, and the loveliest flowers, the kind that could really tinkle, were set out along the passages. There was such running to and fro, and such a draught, that all the bells rang and no one could hear a word he said.

In the middle of the great hall, where the emperor sat, a golden perch had been set up, and on this the nightingale was to sit. The whole court was there, and the little kitchen girl had been given leave to stand behind the door, for now she had received the title of Real Court Cook. Everyone was in their finest dress, and every eye was on the little gray bird as the emperor nodded to her.

The nightingale sang so beautifully that the tears came into the emperor's eyes and ran down his cheeks; and then she sang even more sweetly still, and it went straight to the heart. The emperor was so happy that he said the nightingale should have his golden slipper to wear around her neck. But the nightingale thanked him and said she had reward enough already.

"I have seen tears in an emperor's eyes — that is the richest treasure to me. An emperor's tears have a wonderful power. God knows, I am rewarded enough." And then she sang again with her sweet, glorious voice.

"That is the loveliest coquetry I have ever known," said the ladies all around, and they took water in their mouths to make a gurgling sound whenever anyone spoke to them, so that they might imagine they were nightingales too. Even the footmen and chambermaids let it be known that they were satisfied, and that is saying a great deal, for they are the hardest of all to please. In short, the nightingale was truly a success.

She was to stay at court now, with her own cage, and freedom to go out twice a day and once during the night. She was given twelve servants for these outings, each of whom had a silken ribbon tied around her leg, which they held very tight. There was really no pleasure at all in such a flight.

The whole city spoke of the wonderful bird, and when two people met, one would say nothing but "Nightin—" and the other would answer "—gale," and then they would sigh and understand each other perfectly. Indeed, eleven peddlers' children were named after her, though not one of them had a single note in his throat.

One day the emperor received a large parcel, on which was written "The Nightingale."

"Here is a new book about our famous bird!" said the emperor. But it was no book. It was a little work of art lying in a box: an artificial nightingale, made to look like the living one, but studded all over with diamonds, rubies, and sapphires. As soon as you wound it up, it could sing one of the pieces the real bird sang, and its tail moved up and down and glittered with silver and gold. Around its neck hung a little ribbon, and on it was written: "The Emperor of Japan's nightingale is poor beside the Emperor of China's."

"How splendid!" everyone said, and the man who had brought the artificial bird was given the title of Imperial Nightingale-Bringer-in-Chief at once.

"Now they must sing together — what a duet that will be!"

So they had to sing together, but it would not go right, for the real nightingale sang in her own way and the artificial bird ran on rollers. "That is no fault of his," said the music master. "He keeps perfect time and follows my school exactly." So then the artificial bird had to sing alone. It was just as great a success as the real one, and besides, it was so much prettier to look at, gleaming like bracelets and brooches.

Three-and-thirty times it sang one and the same piece, and still it was not tired. The people would gladly have heard it again, but the emperor felt that now the living nightingale should sing something too. But where was she? No one had noticed that she had flown out of the open window, back to her green woods.

"Well, what is the meaning of this?" said the emperor, and all the courtiers scolded and said the nightingale was a most ungrateful creature. "But we have the best bird after all," they said. So the artificial bird had to sing once more, and that was the four-and-thirtieth time they had heard the same piece. Even so, they still did not know it by heart, for it was much too hard. And the music master praised the bird beyond measure, declaring it was better than a real nightingale, not only in its clothes and its many splendid diamonds, but inside as well.

"For you see, my ladies and gentlemen, and above all the emperor: with the real nightingale you can never reckon what will come next, but with the artificial bird everything is fixed. You can explain it, you can open it up and show people how the rollers lie, how they turn, and how one thing follows from another."

"Those are our thoughts exactly!" they all said, and the music master was given leave to show the bird to the people the following Sunday. The emperor commanded that they should hear it sing too. And they heard it, and they grew as merry as if they had made themselves tipsy on tea — for that is the Chinese way. They all said "Oh!" and held up a forefinger and nodded. But the poor fishermen, who had heard the real nightingale, said, "It sounds pretty enough, and the tunes are quite alike; but something is missing, I don't know what."

The real nightingale was banished from the land and empire.

The artificial bird was given a place on a silk cushion close by the emperor's bed. All the presents it had received, gold and precious stones, lay around it, and in title it had risen to Imperial Bedside Singer, and in rank to Number One on the Left. For the emperor counted the left side the nobler, since that is where the heart lies — and even an emperor's heart is on the left. And the music master wrote a work of twenty-five volumes about the artificial bird. It was so learned and so long, and so full of the very hardest Chinese words, that everyone said they had read it and understood it — for otherwise they would have been thought stupid and trampled underfoot.

So a whole year went by. The emperor, the court, and all the other Chinese knew every little cluck of the artificial bird's song by heart. And for that very reason they liked it best of all, for now they could sing along, and so they did. The street boys sang, "Zi-zi-zi! Cluck-cluck-cluck!" and the emperor sang it too. Oh yes, it was splendid indeed!

But one evening, when the artificial bird was singing its best, and the emperor lay in bed listening, something inside the bird went "whizz." Then something snapped. "Whirr-r-r!" went all the wheels, and then the music stopped.

The emperor sprang out of bed at once and sent for his own physician; but what could he do? Then they fetched the watchmaker, and after much talking and examining he got the bird into some kind of order, but he said it must be spared, for the little pegs were worn, and it would be impossible to fit new ones so that the music would run properly. There was great sorrow now! Only once a year might the artificial bird be allowed to sing, and even that was almost too much. But then the music master made a little speech full of weighty words and said the bird was as good as ever — and so it was as good as ever.

Now five years had passed, and a great grief came over the land. At heart the Chinese were fond of their emperor, and now he was ill and, they said, could not live long. Already a new emperor had been chosen, and the people stood out in the street and asked the lord-in-waiting how their old emperor was doing.

"P!" he said, and shook his head.

Cold and pale lay the emperor in his great, splendid bed. The whole court believed he was dead, and every one of them ran off to greet the new emperor. The chamberlains ran out to gossip about it, and the chambermaids held a great coffee party. All through the halls and passages cloth had been laid down, so that no footstep could be heard, and so it was quiet there, very quiet. But the emperor was not yet dead. Stiff and pale he lay in the magnificent bed with its long velvet curtains and heavy golden tassels. High above, a window stood open, and the moon shone in upon the emperor and the artificial bird.

The poor emperor could scarcely breathe; it was as if something were sitting on his chest. He opened his eyes, and there he saw that it was Death sitting on his chest, wearing his golden crown, and holding in one hand the emperor's golden sword and in the other his splendid banner. And all around, out of the folds of the great velvet bed curtains, strange faces peered — some ugly, some gentle and mild. These were all the emperor's good and evil deeds, gazing at him now that Death sat upon his heart.

"Do you remember this?" whispered one after another. "Do you remember that?" And they told him so much that the sweat ran from his brow.

"I never knew that!" said the emperor. "Music! Music! The great Chinese drum!" he cried, "so that I need not hear all they are saying!"

But they kept on, and Death nodded like a Chinese to everything that was said.

"Music, music!" cried the emperor. "You dear little golden bird — sing, oh, sing! I have given you gold and treasures. I have even hung my golden slipper around your neck. Sing, oh, sing!"

But the bird stood silent. There was no one to wind it, and without that it would not sing. And Death went on staring at the emperor with his great hollow eyes, and it was quiet, dreadfully quiet.

Then, all at once, from the window came the most glorious song. It was the little living nightingale, sitting on a branch outside. She had heard of her emperor's need and had come to sing to him of comfort and hope. And as she sang, the pale faces grew fainter and fainter, the blood flowed quicker and quicker through the emperor's weak limbs, and even Death listened and said, "Go on, little nightingale, go on!"

"Yes — will you give me the splendid golden sword? Will you give me the rich banner? Will you give me the emperor's crown?"

And Death gave up each treasure for a song, and still the nightingale sang on. She sang of the quiet churchyard where the white roses grow, where the elder tree breathes its scent, and where the fresh grass is watered by the tears of those who mourn. Then Death was filled with longing for his own garden, and floated out through the window like a cold white mist.

"Thank you, thank you!" said the emperor. "You heavenly little bird, I know you well! I drove you from my land and empire, and yet you have sung the evil faces away from my bed and Death away from my heart! How can I reward you?"

"You have rewarded me already," said the nightingale. "I drew tears from your eyes the first time I sang — that I shall never forget! Those are the jewels that gladden a singer's heart. But now sleep, and grow fresh and strong again. I will sing to you."

And she sang — and the emperor fell into a sweet slumber. Oh, how gentle and healing that sleep was!

The sun was shining in through the window when he woke, strengthened and well. Not one of his servants had come back, for they still believed him dead. Only the nightingale sat by him, singing.

"You must always stay with me," said the emperor. "You shall sing only when you please, and I will smash the artificial bird into a thousand pieces."

"Do not do that," said the nightingale. "It did what good it could, as long as it could. Keep it as before. I cannot make my nest and live in the palace, but let me come when I wish. Then in the evening I will sit on the branch by your window and sing to you, so that you may be joyful and thoughtful both at once. I will sing of the happy and of those who suffer. I will sing of the good and the evil that stay hidden all around you. The little songbird flies far and wide — to the poor fisherman, to the peasant's roof, to everyone who lives far from you and your court. I love your heart more than your crown, and yet the crown too has about it a breath of something holy. I will come, I will sing to you — but one thing you must promise me."

"Anything!" said the emperor, who stood there in his imperial robes, which he had put on himself, pressing the sword, heavy with gold, against his heart.

"One thing only I ask of you: tell no one that you have a little bird who tells you everything. Then all will go better still."

And with that the nightingale flew away.

The servants came in to look at their dead emperor — and there he stood, and the emperor said, "Good morning!"