The Nightingale

In China, as you know, the emperor is Chinese, and so is everyone at his court. This happened many years ago, which is all the more reason to tell the story before it is forgotten! The emperor’s palace was the most splendid in the world. It was made entirely of porcelain, very costly, but so delicate and fragile that you had to be careful when you touched it. In the garden grew the most wonderful flowers. Silver bells were tied to the finest of them, ringing so that no one could pass without noticing the flowers. Everything in the emperor’s garden was beautifully arranged. It stretched so far that even the gardener did not know where it ended. If you kept walking, you came to a magnificent forest with tall trees and deep lakes. The forest reached all the way down to the sea, which was blue and deep. Great ships could sail beneath the branches, and among the trees lived a nightingale. It sang so beautifully that even the poor fisherman, who had so much work to do, would stop and listen when he went out at night to cast his nets. “How beautiful that is!” he said. But he had to get back to his work, and so he forgot the bird. The next night, when it sang again and the fisherman heard it, he exclaimed once more, “How beautiful that is!”

Travellers came from every country in the world to the emperor’s city. They admired the city, the palace and the garden, but when they heard the nightingale’s song, they said, “That is the best of all!” They told people about it when they returned home. Scholars wrote books about the city, the palace and the garden, but they did not forget the nightingale: they praised it above everything else. Poets wrote magnificent poems about the nightingale in the forest by the deep lake. The books travelled all over the world, and some eventually reached the emperor. He sat in his golden chair and read and read, nodding with pleasure at the fine descriptions of his city, his palace and his garden. “But the nightingale is the best of all!” the books said. “What is this?” exclaimed the emperor. “I know nothing about this nightingale! Is there such a bird in my garden? I have never heard of it. To think I should first learn about it from books!” He called for his courtier. This courtier was so grand that if anyone of a lower rank dared to speak to him or ask him a question, he answered only, “Pah!” Which was no answer at all.

“There is supposed to be a wonderful bird here called a nightingale,” said the emperor. “They say it is the best thing in my whole empire. Why have I never heard of it?” “I have never heard it mentioned,” replied the courtier. “It has never been introduced at court.” “I command that it appear 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 of it,” said the courtier. “I will look for it. I will find it.” But where was it to be found? The courtier ran up and down every staircase, through halls and passages, but no one he met had heard of the nightingale. He ran back to the emperor and said it must be a story invented by the people who wrote books. “Your Imperial Majesty would not believe how much of what is written is fiction, and what they call black magic.” “But the book in which I read this,” said the emperor, “was sent to me by the mighty Emperor of Japan. It cannot be a lie. I will hear the nightingale! It must be here this evening. It has my imperial favour. If it does not come, the whole court shall be trampled on after supper!” “At once!” said the courtier. Again he ran up and down the staircases and through every hall and corridor. Half the court ran with him, for the courtiers did not like the idea of being trampled on.

A great search began for the wonderful nightingale that everyone in the world knew about except the people at court. At last they found a poor little girl in the kitchen. “The nightingale?” she said. “I know it well. It sings beautifully. Every evening I am allowed to take the scraps from the table to my poor sick mother. She lives down by the shore. On my way back, when I am tired and stop to rest in the forest, I hear the nightingale sing. It brings tears to my eyes, and it feels just as if my mother were kissing me.” “Little kitchen girl,” said the courtier, “I will get you a post in the kitchen, with permission to watch the emperor dine, if you will lead us to the nightingale. It is expected this evening.”

So they set off into the forest where the nightingale used to sing, with half the court following. When they were halfway there, a cow began to moo. “Oh!” cried the court pages. “There it is! What a powerful voice for such a small creature! I am sure I have heard it before.” “No, those are cows mooing,” said the little kitchen girl. “We still have a long way to go.” Then the frogs began to croak in the marsh. “Wonderful!” said the court preacher. “Now I hear it. It sounds just like little church bells.” “No, those are frogs,” said the girl. “But I think we shall hear it soon.” And then the nightingale began to sing.

“That is it!” exclaimed the girl. “Listen! And there it sits.” She pointed to a little grey bird among the branches. “Can that be it?” cried the courtier. “I would never have imagined it looked like that. How plain it is! It must have lost its colour at the sight of so many grand people.” “Little nightingale!” called the kitchen girl loudly. “Our gracious emperor wishes you to sing for him.” “With the greatest pleasure!” replied the nightingale, and it began to sing beautifully. “It sounds just like glass bells!” said the courtier. “Look at its little throat working! How remarkable that we have never heard it before. This bird will be a great success at court.” “Shall I sing again for the emperor?” asked the nightingale, thinking that the emperor was already there. “My excellent little nightingale,” said the courtier, “I am delighted to invite you to a celebration at court this evening, where you will charm His Imperial Majesty with your beautiful singing.” “My song sounds best in the green forest,” replied the nightingale. Still, it came willingly when it heard what the emperor wanted.

The palace was decorated for the occasion. The porcelain walls and floors gleamed in the light of thousands of golden lamps. The finest flowers, with their clear-ringing bells, had been placed in the passages. People hurried back and forth, and the draught made all the bells ring so loudly that you could hardly hear yourself speak. In the middle of the great hall, where the emperor sat, a golden perch had been set up for the nightingale. The whole court was there. The little kitchen girl had been allowed to stand behind the door, for she had now been given the title of court cook. Everyone wore their finest clothes, and everyone looked at the little grey bird. The emperor nodded to it.

The nightingale sang so beautifully that tears came into the emperor’s eyes. They ran down his cheeks, and the nightingale sang more sweetly still, straight to his heart. The emperor was so pleased that he said the bird should have his golden slipper to wear around its neck. But the nightingale thanked him and declined, saying it had already received its reward. “I have seen tears in the emperor’s eyes. That is the real treasure for me! An emperor’s tears have a special power. I have been rewarded enough.” Then it sang again in its sweet, beautiful voice.

“What charming flirtation!” said the ladies standing nearby. Then they took water into their mouths so they could gurgle whenever anyone spoke to them. They thought they could be nightingales too. Even the footmen and chambermaids said they were satisfied, which meant a great deal, for they were the hardest to please. In short, the nightingale was a great success. It was to remain at court and have its own cage, with permission to go out twice a day and once at night. Whenever it went out, twelve servants accompanied it. Each held tightly to a silk thread tied to the bird’s leg. There was not much pleasure in an outing like that. The whole city talked about the wonderful bird. When two people met, one would say “Nightin” and the other “gale”. Then they would sigh and understand each other perfectly. Eleven children of travelling sellers were named after the bird, though not one of them could sing a note.

One day the emperor received a large parcel labelled “The Nightingale”. “Here is a new book about our famous bird,” he said. But it was not a book. Inside the box was a little work of art: an artificial nightingale, made to look like the real one but covered in diamonds, rubies and sapphires. When it was wound up, it could sing one of the real nightingale’s songs. Its tail moved up and down, sparkling with silver and gold. A little ribbon around its neck bore the words: “The Emperor of Japan’s nightingale is poor compared with the Emperor of China’s.” “Excellent!” everyone said. The person who had brought the artificial bird was immediately given the title of Imperial Chief Nightingale-Bearer. “Now they must sing together. What a duet that will be!” So the two birds sang together, but it did not go very well. The real nightingale sang in its own way, while the artificial bird sang waltzes. “That is not its fault,” said the music master. “It is quite perfect, and very much in my style.” Then the artificial bird sang alone. It was just as successful as the real one, and it was much more beautiful to look at, glittering like bracelets and brooches. Thirty-three times it sang the same piece, and still it was not tired. The listeners would gladly have heard it again, but the emperor said it was time for the living nightingale to sing. Where was it? No one had noticed it flying out through the open window and back to the green forest.

“What is the meaning of this?” said the emperor. All the courtiers scolded the nightingale and called it ungrateful. “We have the best bird after all,” they said. So the artificial bird sang again, and for the thirty-fourth time they listened to the same piece. Even then they did not quite know it by heart, for it was very difficult. The music master praised the bird above all. He declared that it was better than a real nightingale, not only in its feathers and beautiful diamonds, but on the inside as well. “You see, ladies and gentlemen, and above all, Your Imperial Majesty, with a real nightingale you can never predict what is coming next. But in this artificial bird everything is settled. You can explain it. You can open it up and show people where the waltzes come from, how they work and how one follows another.”

“Those are exactly our thoughts,” everyone said. The music master was given permission to show the bird to the public the following Sunday. The emperor ordered that the people should hear it sing as well. They listened and were as delighted as if the tea had gone to their heads. Everyone exclaimed, “Oh!” and nodded in approval. But the poor fisherman, who had heard the real nightingale, said, “It sounds pretty enough, and the melodies are alike, but something is missing. I cannot say what.” The real nightingale was banished from the empire. The artificial bird sat on a silk cushion beside the emperor’s bed, surrounded by all the gold and precious stones it had received as gifts. It had been given the title of Imperial After-Dinner Singer and the highest rank on the emperor’s left. The emperor considered that the more important side, because that was where the heart lay. Even an emperor’s heart is on the left. The music master wrote twenty-five volumes about the artificial bird. They were very learned, very long and full of difficult words. Everyone claimed to have read and understood them, for fear of being thought stupid and trampled on. A whole year passed. The emperor, the court and everyone else knew every little note of the artificial bird’s song by heart. That was exactly why they liked it so much: they could sing along, and they did. The street children sang, “Tsi-tsi-tsi-glug-glug,” and the emperor sang it too. It was certainly a success!

But one evening, while the artificial bird was singing its best and the emperor lay in bed listening, something inside it went “Whiz!” Something cracked. “Whirr!” The wheels spun round, and the music stopped. The emperor jumped out of bed and sent for his personal physician. But what could a doctor do? Then they sent for a watchmaker. After a great deal of discussion and examination, he got the bird into something like working order. But he said it would have to be treated carefully: the cylinders were worn, and it was impossible to fit new ones in a way that would make the music work. There was great sorrow. The bird was allowed to sing only once a year, and even that was almost too much. But the music master made a little speech full of impressive words and said it was just as good as before. So, of course, it was just as good as before.

Five years had now passed, and a real sorrow fell over the country. The people loved their emperor, and now he was ill. They were told he could not live much longer. A new emperor had already been chosen. People stood in the street and asked the courtier how their old emperor was. “Pah!” he said, shaking his head.

Cold and pale, the emperor lay in his splendid bed. The whole court thought he was dead, and everyone hurried off to pay their respects to the new ruler. The chamberlains ran out to talk it over, and the ladies’ maids gathered for a grand coffee party. Cloth had been laid over the floors in every hall and passage so that no footsteps could be heard. It was quiet, very quiet. But the emperor was not dead yet. He lay stiff and pale in the magnificent bed, with its long velvet curtains and heavy golden tassels. High above him, a window stood open. The moon shone in on the emperor and the artificial bird.

The poor emperor could hardly breathe. Something seemed to be weighing on his chest. He opened his eyes and saw that it was Death, sitting on him, wearing his golden crown, holding the emperor’s sword in one hand and his beautiful banner in the other. All around him, strange faces peered out from the folds of the velvet curtains. Some were ugly; others were gentle and kind. They were all the emperor’s good and bad deeds, appearing before him now that Death sat upon his heart. “Do you remember this?” they whispered. “Do you remember that?” They told him so much that sweat ran down his forehead. “I did not know that!” said the emperor. “Music! Music! Bring the great drum!” he cried. “Then I will not have to hear what they are saying!” But they went on speaking, and Death nodded at everything they said. “Music! Music!” cried the emperor. “My precious little golden bird, sing! I have given you gold and costly gifts. I have even hung my golden slipper around your neck. Sing now, sing!” But the bird stood silent. There was no one to wind it up, and without that it could not sing. Death went on staring at the emperor with great hollow eyes. It was quiet, terribly quiet.

Then, suddenly, the loveliest song came through the window. The little living nightingale was sitting on a branch outside. It had heard of the emperor’s suffering and had come to sing him comfort and hope. As it sang, the ghostly faces grew paler and paler. The blood flowed faster through the emperor’s weak limbs. Even Death listened and said, “Go on, little nightingale. Go on!” “Will you give me that splendid golden sword? Will you give me that beautiful banner? Will you give me the emperor’s crown?” For a song, Death gave up each of these treasures. The nightingale sang on and on. It sang of the quiet churchyard where white roses grow, where elderflowers smell sweet, and where the fresh grass is watered by the tears of those left behind. Death began to long for that garden and drifted out through the window as a cold white mist.

“Thank you, thank you!” said the emperor. “You heavenly little bird! I know you well. I banished you from my empire, and yet you have sung those dreadful faces away from my bed and driven Death from my heart. How can I reward you?”

“You have already rewarded me,” replied the nightingale. “I brought tears to your eyes the first time I sang. I will never forget that. Those are the jewels that make a singer’s heart glad. But now sleep, and grow strong and well again. I will sing to you.” It sang, and the emperor fell into a gentle sleep. How peaceful and refreshing that sleep was! Sunlight shone through the windows when he woke, rested and restored. None of his servants had returned; they all believed he was dead. Only the nightingale still sat beside him and sang.

“You must always stay with me,” said the emperor. “You shall sing whenever you please, and I will break the artificial bird into a thousand pieces.” “No,” replied the nightingale. “It did well for as long as it could. Keep it, as you have until now. I cannot build my nest in the palace and live here. But let me come whenever I wish. In the evening I will sit on that branch by your window and sing something to make you both happy and thoughtful. I will sing of those who are happy and those who suffer. I will sing of the good and evil hidden all around you. This little singing bird travels far: to the poor fisherman, to the farmer’s roof, to everyone who lives far from you and your court. I love your heart more than your crown, though there is something sacred about the crown too. I will come and sing to you, but you must promise me one thing.” “Anything!” said the emperor. He stood in his imperial robes, which he had put on himself, and pressed his sword, heavy with gold, to his heart.

“I ask only this: tell no one that you have a little bird who tells you everything. Then all will go better.” And the nightingale flew away. The servants came in to look at their dead emperor. There they stood, and the emperor said, “Good morning.”