by Kara Dalkey
In the dark of night, the Emperor awoke, feeling a weight on his chest. There sat Death, holding his royal crown and insignia. Demons peeked out from the hangings and they all jabbered at him. The Emperor cried out for music to drown their horrible words. He commanded the clockwork nightingale to sing, but it stood silent as ever and Death still sat on his chest. Then there came marvelous music from outside the Emperor’s window. It was the real nightingale, come to bring the Emperor comfort and hope. The bird’s fresh song drove the demons away, and even caused Death to give up the crown and insignia he held in order that the nightingale would sing more. Finally Death was so charmed by the nightingale that he flew out the window, and the Emperor was restored to health.
The Emperor was, of course, very grateful to the nightingale and begged it to come back and live in the palace. The bird explained that a palace was not a proper place for a nest, but the bird would come by whenever it wished and sing for the Emperor. The nightingale’s one request was that he not tell anyone that he had a little bird who told him everything. Then the nightingale flew away and the attendants came into the imperial bedchamber, to be surprised by the Emperor who wished them a hearty “Good morning!”
Naturally, this outline captures little of Andersen’s magical writing style, or the lovely details of the story. He pokes marvelous fun at bureaucrats and courtly types, and there is much wry humor amongst the beautiful descriptions. I can only heartily recommend that readers seek out a copy of the original and read it for themselves.
As to the origins of the story, Hans Christian Andersen would himself admit that many of his stories were based on incidents in his own fairy-tale-like, rags-to-riches life. Scholars examining his work like to point out Andersen’s championing the real over the artificial, the heart over the cold intellect. But “The Nightingale” was closer to Andersen’s heart in another way as well.
In his fortieth year, Andersen fell in love with a Swedish singer named Jenny Lind, who was also known as “The Swedish Nightingale.” She came to sing for the King of Denmark that year, and he was so pleased with her music that he gave her a gift of diamonds. The parallel to the story should now be fairly clear. Other comparisons have been made between the pompous bureaucrats and the critics of Andersen’s works, and the fact that the Danish public generally preferred light Italian comic opera to Jenny Lind’s more restrained music. Alas, Jenny did not share Andersen’s deep affections, though she was fond of him, and he lived out his life a bachelor. Still, we can be glad that their acquaintance proved to be the genesis of so charming a fairy tale as “The Nightingale”.
The Nightingale is one of my favorite fairy tales, remembered fondly from my childhood, although I could not exactly say what its appeal for me is. Part of it is the exotic setting, China, as opposed to the traditional northern European setting. Part of it is the kindness and graciousness of the bird as compared to the silly pomposity of the people around it. Suffice to say, I loved the story, and it was the first one to pop into my mind when Terri Windling invited me to write a fantasy based on a well-known fairy tale.
Terri also stated that I could ring whatever changes on the tale I wished, and as the reader has no doubt noticed I rang quite a few.
First, the setting. I placed Uguisu in Japan because I happen to know more about, and be more interested in, Japanese history and culture than Chinese. And one period of Japanese history that intrigued me was the Heian period (approx. 750–1100 AD). During this time, Japan was largely at peace and the Imperial Court could devote itself to the pursuit of style and grace, particularly in poetry and literature. Unlike other times in Japanese history, women became noted for their literary skill. At the latter end of the Heian, Lady Murasaki Shikibu wrote The Tale of Genji, a historical novel that is still a classic. Her diary, and Sei Shonagon’s Pillow Book (also from the same period) provided me with much of the background for Uguisu.
Also, the Heian period was a time of much court intrigue, with various great clans vying for power. The bureaucratic system, imported from China, was absorbed wholeheartedly into the Imperial government, allowing me to poke fun at it much as Andersen did.
In short, the fairy tale and the historical place and period seemed a perfect match, and I was quite pleased with the outcome (as was my editor, Terri). I can only hope that the result has been pleasing to the reader as well.
Kara Dalkey
Minneapolis, Minnesota
November 1987