The Nightingale 3

So the people heard it, and were delighted. But the poor fishermen who had heard the real nightingale said, ‘It sounds very nice, and it is very like the real one, but there is something missing, we don’t know what.’ The real nightingale was banished from the kingdom.

The mechanical bird had its place on a silk cushion, close to the emperor’s bed. All the presents it had received of gold and precious jewels were scattered round it. It was given the title of ‘Chief Imperial Singer in the Bedroom,’ on the left side of the bed, for the emperor thought that side the most important one, on the same side as his heart. The music-master wrote twenty five books about the artificial bird. The work was very long and written in all the most difficult Chinese characters. Everybody said they had read and understood it, for otherwise they would have been thought stupid and might be punished.

Things went on in this way for a whole year. The emperor, the court, and all the other Chinamen knew every little gurgle in the song of the artificial bird by heart, but they liked it all the better for this and they could all join in the song themselves. Everyone from the street-boys to the emperor sang along with it.

But one evening when the bird was singing its best, and the emperor was lying in bed listening to it, something gave way inside the bird with a ‘whizz.’ Then a spring burst, ‘whirr’ went all the wheels, and the music stopped. The emperor jumped out of bed and sent for his private physicians, but what good could they do? Then they sent for the watchmaker, and after a good deal of talk and examination he got the works to go again somehow; but he said it would have to be saved as much as possible, because it was so worn out, and he could not fix it so be sure it would still play the tune properly. This was a great blow! They only dared to let the artificial bird sing once a year, but then the music-master made a little speech, using all the most difficult words. He said it was just as good as ever.

Five years now passed, and then a great grief came upon the nation, for they were all very fond of their emperor, and he was ill and was about to die, it was said. A new emperor was already chosen, and people stood about in the street, and asked the gentleman-in-waiting how their emperor was going on.

‘Not good,’ he answered, shaking his head.

The emperor lay pale and cold in his huge bed, the assistants thought he was dead, and they all went off to pay their respects to their new emperor. The handymen ran off to talk things over, and the maids gave a great coffee-party. Cloth had been laid down in all the rooms and corridors so as to deaden the sound of footsteps, so it was very, very quiet. But the emperor was not dead yet. He lay stiff and pale in the beautiful bed with its velvet hangings and golden tassels. There was an open window high above him, and the moon streamed in upon the emperor, and the clockwork bird beside him.

The poor emperor could hardly breathe, he seemed to have a weight on his chest, he opened his eyes, and then he saw that it was Death sitting upon his chest, wearing the emperor’s golden crown. In his hand he held the emperor’s golden sword. Round about, from around the room looked many strange faces. Some of the faces looked disgusting and horrible, others looked nice. The faces were all the emperor’s good and bad deeds, which now looked him when Death was sitting on him.

‘Do you remember that?’ whispered one after the other; ‘Do you remember this?’ and they told him so many things that the sweat poured down his face.

‘I never knew that,’ said the emperor. ‘Music, music, sound the great Chinese drums!’ he cried, ‘that I may not hear what they are saying.’ But they went on and on, and Death sat nodding his head, just like a Chinaman, at everything that was said.

‘Music, music!’ shrieked the emperor. ‘You precious little golden bird, sing, sing! I have loaded you with precious stones, and even hung my own golden slipper round your neck; sing, I tell you, sing!’

But the bird stood silent, there was nobody to wind it up, so of course it could not go. Death continued to look at him with the empty sockets of his eyes, and all was silent, so terribly silent.

Suddenly, close to the window, there was a burst of lovely song, it was the living nightingale, perched on a branch outside. It had heard of the emperor’s need, and had come to bring comfort and hope to him. As it sang the faces round became fainter and fainter, and the blood started to move again through his body. Even Death himself listened to the song and said, ‘Go on, little nightingale, go on!’

‘Yes, if you give me the golden sword, yes, if you give me the emperor’s crown.’

And Death gave back each of these treasures for a song and the nightingale went on singing. It sang about the quiet churchyard, when the roses bloom, where there is a beautiful frangrance of flowers. This song brought to Death a longing for his own garden, and, like a cold grey mist, he passed out of the window.

‘Thanks, thanks!’ said the emperor; ‘you heavenly little bird, I know you! I banished you from my kingdom, and yet you have charmed the evil things away from my bed by your song, and even Death away from my heart! How can I ever repay you?’

‘You have rewarded me,’ said the nightingale. ‘I brought the tears to your eyes, the very first time I ever sang to you, and I shall never forget it! It made me so happy. But sleep now, and wake up fresh and strong! I will sing to you!’

Then it sang again, and the emperor fell into a sweet refreshing sleep. The sun shone in at his window when he woke refreshed and well. None of his attendants had yet come back to him, for they thought he was dead, but the nightingale still sat there singing.

‘You must always stay with me!’ said the emperor. ‘You only have to sing when you like, and I will break the artificial bird into a thousand pieces!’

‘Don’t do that!’ said the nightingale, ‘it did all the good it could! Keep it as you have always done! I can’t build my nest and live in this palace, but let me come whenever I like, then I will sit on the branch in the evening, and sing to you. I will sing to cheer you and to make you thoughtful too. I will sing to you of the happy ones, and of those that suffer too. I will sing about the good and the evil, which are kept hidden from you. The little singing bird flies far and wide, to the poor fisherman, and the peasant’s home, to your people who are far from you and your court. I will come, and I will sing to you! But you must promise me one thing!’

‘Everything!’ said the emperor, who stood there in his imperial robes which he had just put on, and he held the sword heavy with gold upon his heart.

‘One thing I ask you! Tell no one that you have a little bird who tells you everything; it will be better so!’

Then the nightingale flew away. The attendants came in to see after their dead emperor, and there he stood, saying ‘Good morning!’

And for many years afterwards, the emperor ruled wisely and kindly, and with great happiness. Nobody ever found out that the nightingale was singing to him and telling him about what was happening all around.

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