THE NIGHTINGALE

Edition and rights: Original English text from Project Gutenberg ebook #640, marked public domain in the USA. The literary text below is reproduced without AI rewriting.

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In China, as I daresay you know, the Emperor is a Chinaman, and all his
courtiers are also Chinamen. The story I am going to tell you happened
many years ago, but it is worth while for you to listen to it, before it
is forgotten.

The Emperor’s Palace was the most splendid in the world, all made of
priceless porcelain, but so brittle and delicate that you had to take
great care how you touched it. In the garden were the most beautiful
flowers, and on the loveliest of them were tied silver bells which
tinkled, so that if you passed you could not help looking at the flowers.
Everything in the Emperor’s garden was admirably arranged with a view to
effect; and the garden was so large that even the gardener himself did not
know where it ended. If you ever got beyond it, you came to a stately
forest with great trees and deep lakes in it. The forest sloped down to
the sea, which was a clear blue. Large ships could sail under the boughs
of the trees, and in these trees there lived a Nightingale. She sang so
beautifully that even the poor fisherman who had so much to do stood and
listened when he came at night to cast his nets. ‘How beautiful it is!’ he
said; but he had to attend to his work, and forgot about the bird. But
when she sang the next night and the fisherman came there again, he said
the same thing, ‘How beautiful it is!’

From all the countries round came travellers to the Emperor’s town, who
were astonished at the Palace and the garden. But when they heard the
Nightingale they all said, ‘This is the finest thing after all!’

The travellers told all about it when they went home, and learned scholars
wrote many books upon the town, the Palace, and the garden. But they did
not forget the Nightingale; she was praised the most, and all the poets
composed splendid verses on the Nightingale in the forest by the deep sea.

The books were circulated throughout the world, and some of them reached
the Emperor. He sat in his golden chair, and read and read. He nodded his
head every moment, for he liked reading the brilliant accounts of the
town, the Palace, and the garden. ‘But the Nightingale is better than
all,’ he saw written.

‘What is that?’ said the Emperor. ‘I don’t know anything about the
Nightingale! Is there such a bird in my empire, and so near as in my
garden? I have never heard it! Fancy reading for the first time about it
in a book!’

And he called his First Lord to him. He was so proud that if anyone of
lower rank than his own ventured to speak to him or ask him anything, he
would say nothing but ‘P!’ and that does not mean anything.

‘Here is a most remarkable bird which is called a Nightingale!’ said the
Emperor. ‘They say it is the most glorious thing in my kingdom. Why has no
one ever said anything to me about it?’

‘I have never before heard it mentioned!’ said the First Lord. ‘I will
look for it and find it!’

But where was it to be found? The First Lord ran up and down stairs,
through the halls and corridors; but none of those he met had ever heard
of the Nightingale. And the First Lord ran again to the Emperor, and told
him that it must be an invention on the part of those who had written the
books.

‘Your Imperial Majesty cannot really believe all that is written! There
are some inventions called the Black Art!’

‘But the book in which I read this,’ said the Emperor, ‘is sent me by His
Great Majesty the Emperor of Japan; so it cannot be untrue, and I will
hear the Nightingale! She must be here this evening! She has my gracious
permission to appear, and if she does not, the whole Court shall be
trampled under foot after supper!’

‘Tsing pe!’ said the First Lord; and he ran up and down stairs, through
the halls and corridors, and half the Court ran with him, for they did not
want to be trampled under foot. Everyone was asking after the wonderful
Nightingale which all the world knew of, except those at Court.

At last they met a poor little girl in the kitchen, who said, ‘Oh! I know
the Nightingale well. How she sings! I have permission to carry the scraps
over from the Court meals to my poor sick mother, and when I am going home
at night, tired and weary, and rest for a little in the wood, then I hear
the Nightingale singing! It brings tears to my eyes, and I feel as if my
mother were kissing me!’

‘Little kitchenmaid!’ said the First Lord, ‘I will give you a place in the
kitchen, and you shall have leave to see the Emperor at dinner, if you can
lead us to the Nightingale, for she is invited to come to Court this
evening.’

And so they all went into the wood where the Nightingale was wont to sing,
and half the Court went too.

When they were on the way there they heard a cow mooing.

‘Oh!’ said the Courtiers, ‘now we have found her! What a wonderful power
for such a small beast to have! I am sure we have heard her before!’

‘No; that is a cow mooing!’ said the little kitchenmaid. ‘We are still a
long way off!’

Then the frogs began to croak in the marsh. ‘Splendid!’ said the Chinese
chaplain. ‘Now we hear her; it sounds like a little church-bell!’

‘No, no; those are frogs!’ said the little kitchenmaid. ‘But I think we
shall soon hear her now!’

Then the Nightingale began to sing.

‘There she is!’ cried the little girl. ‘Listen! She is sitting there!’ And
she pointed to a little dark-grey bird up in the branches.

‘Is it possible!’ said the First Lord. ‘I should never have thought it!
How ordinary she looks! She must surely have lost her feathers because she
sees so many distinguished men round her!’

‘Little Nightingale,’ called out the little kitchenmaid, ‘our Gracious
Emperor wants you to sing before him!’

‘With the greatest of pleasure!’ said the Nightingale; and she sang so
gloriously that it was a pleasure to listen.

‘It sounds like glass bells!’ said the First Lord. ‘And look how her
little throat works! It is wonderful 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, thinking
that the Emperor was there.

‘My esteemed little Nightingale,’ said the First Lord, ‘I have the great
pleasure to invite you to Court this evening, where His Gracious Imperial
Highness will be enchanted with your charming song!’

‘It sounds best in the green wood,’ said the Nightingale; but still, she
came gladly when she heard that the Emperor wished it.

At the Palace everything was splendidly prepared. The porcelain walls and
floors glittered in the light of many thousand gold lamps; the most
gorgeous flowers which tinkled out well were placed in the corridors.
There was such a hurrying and draught that all the bells jingled so much
that one could not hear oneself speak. In the centre of the great hall
where the Emperor sat was a golden perch, on which the Nightingale sat.
The whole Court was there, and the little kitchenmaid was allowed to stand
behind the door, now that she was a Court-cook. Everyone was dressed in
his best, and everyone was looking towards the little grey bird to whom
the Emperor nodded.

The Nightingale sang so gloriously that the tears came into the Emperor’s
eyes and ran down his cheeks. Then the Nightingale sang even more
beautifully; it went straight to all hearts. The Emperor was so delighted
that he said she should wear his gold slipper round her neck. But the
Nightingale thanked him, and said she had had enough reward already. ‘I
have seen tears in the Emperor’s eyes—that is a great reward. An
Emperor’s tears have such power!’ Then she sang again with her gloriously
sweet voice.

‘That is the most charming coquetry I have ever seen!’ said all the ladies
round. And they all took to holding water in their mouths that they might
gurgle whenever anyone spoke to them. Then they thought themselves
nightingales. Yes, the lackeys and chambermaids announced that they were
pleased; which means a great deal, for they are the most difficult people
of all to satisfy. In short, the Nightingale was a real success.

She had to stay at Court now; she had her own cage, and permission to walk
out twice in the day and once at night.

She was given twelve servants, who each held a silken string which was
fastened round her leg. There was little pleasure in flying about like
this.

The whole town was talking about the wonderful bird, and when two people
met each other one would say ‘Nightin,’ and the other ‘Gale,’ and then
they would both sigh and understand one another.

Yes, and eleven grocer’s children were called after her, but not one of
them could sing a note.

One day the Emperor received a large parcel on which was written ‘The
Nightingale.’

‘Here is another new book about our famous bird!’ said the Emperor.

But it was not a book, but a little mechanical toy, which lay in a box—an
artificial nightingale which was like the real one, only that it was set
all over with diamonds, rubies, and sapphires. When it was wound up, it
could sing the piece the real bird sang, and moved its tail up and down,
and glittered with silver and gold. Round its neck was a little collar on
which was written, ‘The Nightingale of the Emperor of Japan is nothing
compared to that of the Emperor of China.’

‘This is magnificent!’ they all said, and the man who had brought the
clockwork bird received on the spot the title of ‘Bringer of the Imperial
First Nightingale.’

‘Now they must sing together; what a duet we shall have!’

And so they sang together, but their voices did not blend, for the real
Nightingale sang in her way and the clockwork bird sang waltzes.

‘It is not its fault!’ said the bandmaster; ‘it keeps very good time and
is quite after my style!’

Then the artificial bird had to sing alone. It gave just as much pleasure
as the real one, and then it was so much prettier to look at; it sparkled
like bracelets and necklaces. Three-and-thirty times it sang the same
piece without being tired. People would like to have heard it again, but
the Emperor thought that the living Nightingale should sing now—but
where was she? No one had noticed that she had flown out of the open
window away to her green woods.

‘What SHALL we do!’ said the Emperor.

And all the Court scolded, and said that the Nightingale was very
ungrateful. ‘But we have still the best bird!’ they said and the
artificial bird had to sing again, and that was the thirty-fourth time
they had heard the same piece. But they did not yet know it by heart; it
was much too difficult. And the bandmaster praised the bird tremendously;
yes, he assured them it was better than a real nightingale, not only
because of its beautiful plumage and diamonds, but inside as well. ‘For
see, my Lords and Ladies and your Imperial Majesty, with the real
Nightingale one can never tell what will come out, but all is known about
the artificial bird! You can explain it, you can open it and show people
where the waltzes lie, how they go, and how one follows the other!’

‘That’s just what we think!’ said everyone; and the bandmaster received
permission to show the bird to the people the next Sunday. They should
hear it sing, commanded the Emperor. And they heard it, and they were as
pleased as if they had been intoxicated with tea, after the Chinese
fashion, and they all said ‘Oh!’ and held up their forefingers and nodded
time. But the poor fishermen who had heard the real Nightingale said:
‘This one sings well enough, the tunes glide out; but there is something
wanting—I don’t know what!’

The real Nightingale was banished from the kingdom.

The artificial bird was put on silken cushions by the Emperor’s bed, all
the presents which it received, gold and precious stones, lay round it,
and it was given the title of Imperial Night-singer, First from the left.
For the Emperor counted that side as the more distinguished, being the
side on which the heart is; the Emperor’s heart is also on the left.

And the bandmaster wrote a work of twenty-five volumes about the
artificial bird. It was so learned, long, and so full of the hardest
Chinese words that everyone said they had read it and understood it; for
once they had been very stupid about a book, and had been trampled under
foot in consequence. So a whole year passed. The Emperor, the Court, and
all the Chinese knew every note of the artificial bird’s song by heart.
But they liked it all the better for this; they could even sing with it,
and they did. The street boys sang ‘Tra-la-la-la-la, and the Emperor sang
too sometimes. It was indeed delightful.

But one evening, when the artificial bird was singing its best, and the
Emperor lay in bed listening to it, something in the bird went crack.
Something snapped! Whir-r-r! all the wheels ran down and then the music
ceased. The Emperor sprang up, and had his physician summoned, but what
could HE do! Then the clockmaker came, and, after a great deal of talking
and examining, he put the bird somewhat in order, but he said that it must
be very seldom used as the works were nearly worn out, and it was
impossible to put in new ones. Here was a calamity! Only once a year was
the artificial bird allowed to sing, and even that was almost too much for
it. But then the bandmaster made a little speech full of hard words,
saying that it was just as good as before. And so, of course, it WAS just
as good as before. So five years passed, and then a great sorrow came to
the nation. The Chinese look upon their Emperor as everything, and now he
was ill, and not likely to live it was said.

Already a new Emperor had been chosen, and the people stood outside in the
street and asked the First Lord how the old Emperor was. ‘P!’ said he, and
shook his head.

Cold and pale lay the Emperor in his splendid great bed; the whole Court
believed him dead, and one after the other left him to pay their respects
to the new Emperor. Everywhere in the halls and corridors cloth was laid
down so that no footstep could be heard, and everything was still—very,
very still. And nothing came to break the silence.

The Emperor longed for something to come and relieve the monotony of this
deathlike stillness. If only someone would speak to him! If only someone
would sing to him. Music would carry his thoughts away, and would break
the spell lying on him. The moon was streaming in at the open window; but
that, too, was silent, quite silent.

‘Music! music!’ cried the Emperor. ‘You little bright golden bird, sing!
do sing! I gave you gold and jewels; I have hung my gold slipper round
your neck with my own hand—sing! do sing!’ But the bird was silent.
There was no one to wind it up, and so it could not sing. And all was
silent, so terribly silent!

All at once there came in at the window the most glorious burst of song.
It was the little living Nightingale, who, sitting outside on a bough, had
heard the need of her Emperor and had come to sing to him of comfort and
hope. And as she sang the blood flowed quicker and quicker in the
Emperor’s weak limbs, and life began to return.

‘Thank you, thank you!’ said the Emperor. ‘You divine little bird! I know
you. I chased you from my kingdom, and you have given me life again! How
can I reward you?’

‘You have done that already!’ said the Nightingale. ‘I brought tears to
your eyes the first time I sang. I shall never forget that. They are
jewels that rejoice a singer’s heart. But now sleep and get strong again;
I will sing you a lullaby.’ And the Emperor fell into a deep, calm sleep
as she sang.

The sun was shining through the window when he awoke, strong and well.
None of his servants had come back yet, for they thought he was dead. But
the Nightingale sat and sang to him.

‘You must always stay with me!’ said the Emperor. ‘You shall sing whenever
you like, and I will break the artificial bird into a thousand pieces.’

‘Don’t do that!’ said the Nightingale. ‘He did his work as long as he
could. Keep him as you have done! I cannot build my nest in the Palace and
live here; but let me come whenever I like. I will sit in the evening on
the bough outside the window, and I will sing you something that will make
you feel happy and grateful. I will sing of joy, and of sorrow; I will
sing of the evil and the good which lies hidden from you. The little
singing-bird flies all around, to the poor fisherman’s hut, to the
farmer’s cottage, to all those who are far away from you and your Court. I
love your heart more than your crown, though that has about it a
brightness as of something holy. Now I will sing to you again; but you
must promise me one thing——’

‘Anything!’ said the Emperor, standing up in his Imperial robes, which he
had himself put on, and fastening on his sword richly embossed with gold.

‘One thing I beg of you! Don’t tell anyone that you have a little bird who
tells you everything. It will be much better not to!’ Then the Nightingale
flew away.

The servants came in to look at their dead Emperor.

The Emperor said, ‘Good-morning!’