The Annotated Hans Christian Andersen (The Annotated Books)

by Hans Christian Andersen

  “We’ve never seen such lovable flirtatiousness,” the ladies all declared. And they put water in their mouths so they would twitter whenever they talked. They were hoping that they too could be nightingales. Even the footmen and chambermaids declared that they were satisfied, which is saying a lot, for they are the hardest to please. Yes, indeed, the nightingale was a complete success!

  EDMUND DULAC

  The chamberlain is appalled to discover that the nightingale is so plain and gray. Illuminated by the lamp, the nightingale is that brilliant, rare object that lights up the world with its beautiful song.

  The nightingale was supposed to stay at the palace and have its own cage, as well as the freedom to go on outings twice a day, and once at nighttime. Twelve servants stood in attendance, each one holding tight to a silk ribbon attached to the bird’s leg. There was no pleasure at all in outings like that.

  The whole town was talking about the remarkable bird. If two people happened to meet, the first just said “Night!” and the other would respond with “Gale!” and then they would both just sigh, with no need for words. What’s more, eleven grocers named their children “Nightingale,” although not a single one of them was able to carry a tune.

  One day a big package arrived for the Emperor. The word “Nightingale” had been written on it.

  “It must be a new book about our famous bird,” the Emperor said. But it was not a book. Inside the box was a work of art, a mechanical nightingale15 that was supposed to look just like the real one except that it was covered with diamonds, rubies, and sapphires.16 When it was wound up, the mechanical bird sang one of the melodies of the real bird, all the while beating time with its gleaming tail of gold and silver. Around its neck hung a little ribbon, and on it were the words: “The Emperor of Japan’s nightingale is a paltry thing compared with the one owned by the Emperor of China.”

  “Isn’t it lovely!” they all said, and the person who had delivered the contraption was immediately given the title Supreme Imperial Nightingale Transporter.

  “Let’s have them sing together. What a duet that will be!” And so the two birds sang a duet, but it didn’t work, because the real nightingale had her own style, while the mechanical bird ran on cylinders. “You can’t blame it for that,” the Music Master said. “It keeps perfect time, entirely in line with my theories.” And so the mechanical bird sang on its own. It pleased them all just as much as the real bird, and on top of that it was far prettier to look at, for it sparkled just the way that bracelets and brooches do.

  The mechanical bird sang the same tune thirty-three times without tiring out. Everyone would have been happy to hear it again, but the Emperor thought that the real nightingale should also take a turn. But where had it gone? No one had noticed that it had flown out the window, back to the green forests.

  “Well, what kind of behavior is that?” the Emperor exclaimed. And the courtiers all sneered at the nightingale, declaring it to be a most ungrateful creature. “Fortunately, the best bird of all is still with us,” they said. And the mechanical bird started singing the same tune, now for the thirty-fourth time. But no one knew it by heart yet, because it was a terribly difficult piece. The Imperial Music Master lavished great praise on the mechanical bird. Yes, he assured them, this contraption was far better than any real nightingale, not only because of how it looked on the outside with its many beautiful diamonds but also because of its inner qualities.

  “Ladies and gentlemen—and above all Your Imperial Majesty: You never know what will happen when it comes to a real nightingale. But with a mechanical bird everything is completely under control. It will sound a certain way, and no other way. You can explain it; you can open it up and take it apart;17 you can see how the mechanical wheels operate, how they whirl around, and how one interlocks with the other.”

  “My sentiments precisely,” they all said. And the Music Master was given permission to put the bird on display for all to see on the following Sunday. They too should hear it sing, the Emperor declared. And hear it they did, with so much pleasure that it was as if they had all become tipsy from drinking tea, in the Chinese fashion. Everyone said “Oh!” and held up a finger—the one you lick the pot with—and then nodded. But the poor fisherman, the one who had heard the real nightingale sing, said: “That sounds nice enough, and it’s very close to the real thing. Something’s missing, but I’m not sure what it is.”

  HARRY CLARKE

  Few illustrators choose to depict the artificial bird, but here it sings for the Emperor, who clearly values opulence and luxury.

  The real nightingale was banished from the realm.

  The mechanical bird took up its place on a silk cushion near the Emperor’s bed. It was surrounded by the many gifts people had given it—gold and precious stones. It had also risen in office to become Supreme Imperial Nightstand Singer. In rank it was number one to the left, for the Emperor believed the left side of the body was nobler. After all, that’s where the heart is, even the Emperor’s.

  The Music Master wrote twenty-five volumes about the mechanical bird18—books so learned, long-winded, and full of obscure Chinese words that everyone claimed to have read them and understood them, because otherwise people would have said they were stupid and they would have been punched in the stomach.

  A year went by in this way, and the Emperor, his court, and all the people in China knew every little twitter of the mechanical bird’s song by heart, and that was exactly why they liked it so much more than anything else. They could sing its song on their own, and they did. Boys and girls in the streets sang: “Zi-zi-zi! Click, click, click,”19 and the Emperor sang along with them. Oh, yes, it was that lovely!

  But one evening, when the mechanical bird was singing with all its might and the Emperor was lying in bed listening, something inside the bird went “boing!” Something else burst and went “whirr!” Gears began spinning wildly, and then the music stopped.

  The Emperor jumped right out of bed and sent for the royal physician. But what could he do? They summoned a watchmaker,20 who deliberated and investigated, then finally patched up the bird after a fashion. The watchmaker warned that the bird had to be kept from overdoing things, for the cogs inside it were badly worn and, if they were replaced, the music would not sound right. That was really dreadful! No one dared to let the bird sing more than once a year, and even that was almost too much. But before long the Music Master gave a little speech full of big words and claimed that the bird was just as good as new. And so it was just as good as new.

  Five years went by, and the entire country was in deep mourning, for everyone was really fond of their ruler, and he was ill—so ill that he would probably not survive. A new Emperor had already been chosen. People were standing outside in the streets, waiting to ask the Chamberlain how the Emperor was faring.

  “Puh!” he said and shook his head.

  The Emperor was lying in a huge, magnificent bed, and he looked cold and pale. All the courtiers were sure that he was already gone, and they were hurrying to get out of the palace to pay homage to the new Emperor. The footmen darted around, spreading the news, and the chambermaids were holding a big party and drinking coffee. Mats had been put down in all the rooms and passageways to muffle the sound of footsteps, and that’s why it was so quiet, ever so quiet. But the Emperor was not yet dead. He lay stiff and pale in his magnificent bed with its long velvet curtains and heavy golden tassels. High above him was an open window, and the moon was shining in through it on the Emperor and his mechanical bird.

  The poor Emperor could barely breathe. He felt as if something was sitting on his chest.21 When he opened his eyes, he realized that it was Death, and he was wearing the Emperor’s crown on his head, holding the Emperor’s golden sword in one hand, and carrying the Emperor’s splendid banner in the other. Eerie-looking faces peered out between the folds of the great velvet curtains. Some looked perfectly dreadful, others were gentle and sweet. They were the Emperor’s deeds, good and bad, and
they had come back to haunt him now that Death was seated on his heart.

  EDMUND DULAC

  A depleted Emperor lies in bed, near death. The figure of Death is marked by emaciated boniness, but also by touches of beauty that include a helmet of gold, earrings, and peacock feathers.

  “Do you remember this?” they whispered one after the other. “Do you remember that?” And they told him so many things that he began to break out into a cold sweat.

  “I never knew that!” the Emperor exclaimed. “Music, music! Sound the great drum of China,” he cried, “so that I won’t have to listen to everything they are saying.”

  But they would not stop, and Death nodded, like a Chinaman,22 at every word that was uttered.

  “Music, music!” the Emperor shouted. “My blessed little golden bird! Sing for me, sing! I’ve given you gold and precious jewels. I’ve even put my golden slipper around your neck. Sing for me, please sing!”

  But the bird remained silent. No one was there to wind it up, and without help, it couldn’t sing. Death kept on looking at the Emperor with his great hollow sockets, and everything was quiet—so dreadfully quiet.

  Suddenly the loveliest song could be heard from just outside the window. It was the little nightingale—the living one—perched on a branch outdoors. It had learned of the Emperor’s distress and had come from afar to sing and offer comfort and hope. While it was singing, the phantoms all around began to grow more and more pale, and the blood in the Emperor’s enfeebled body began to flow more and more quickly. Death itself was listening,23 and said, “Keep singing, little nightingale! Keep singing!”

  “Yes, I will, if you give me the imperial golden sword! And if you give me the splendid banner! And if you give me the Emperor’s crown!”

  Death returned each of the treasures in exchange for a song. The nightingale kept on singing. It sang about silent churchyards where white roses grow, where elder trees make the air sweet, and where the grass is always green, watered by the tears of those left behind. Death began to long for his own garden and drifted out the window in a cold, gray mist.

  “Thank you, thank you, you divine little bird!” the Emperor exclaimed. “Now I recognize you. I banished you once from my realm. And even then you sang until all those evil faces disappeared from around my bedside. You drove Death from my heart. How can I ever repay you?”

  “You have already given me my reward,” the nightingale said. “I brought tears to your eyes when I first sang for you, and I will never forget that about you. Those are the jewels that warm the hearts of singers. But go to sleep now and grow hale and hearty while I sing to you.” The bird continued singing until the Emperor fell into a sweet slumber—a gentle and refreshing sleep.

  The sun was shining through the windows when the Emperor awoke, restored and healthy. Not one of his servants had yet returned, for they all believed that he was dead. The nightingale was still there, singing.

  “You must stay with me forever,” the Emperor said. “You only have to sing when you wish, and, as for that mechanical bird, I’ll smash it into a thousand pieces.”

  “Don’t do that,” the nightingale said. “It has done the very best it could—and you really should keep it. I can’t live inside the palace, but let me come for a visit whenever I wish. In the evening, I’ll alight on the branch by your window and bring you pleasure and wisdom with my song. I will sing about those who are happy and those who suffer. I’ll sing about the good and evil that remains hidden from you. A little songbird gets around—to the poor fishermen, to the rooftops of farmers, to everyone who is far away from you and your court. I love your heart more than I love your crown, but there is something sacred about your crown.24 I’ll come to sing for you, but you must promise me one thing.”

  “Anything!” the Emperor replied, standing there in the imperial robes that he himself had donned and holding his heavy golden sword against his heart.

  “Just one thing,” the nightingale asked. “You must not let anyone know that you have a little bird that tells you everything,25 for things will go better that way.”

  Then the nightingale flew away.

  The servants came in to attend their dead Emperor. Yes—there they stood. And the Emperor said to them, “Good morning!”26

  KAY NIELSEN

  The nightingale sings triumphantly, perched on Death’s scythe, which seems to be racing away from the Emperor’s bed.

  1. The Nightingale. The nightingale (“singer of the night”) is a songbird of reddish-brown plumage found in Great Britain, Asia, Africa, and on the Continent. Its celebrated song refers to the male’s breeding-season calls, which are endowed with an impressive range of whistles, gurgles, and trills. Although the nightingale sings both day and night, the nocturnal refrain is considered unusual, since few other birds sing at night—hence the word “night” in its name in English and in other languages. The nightingale has enjoyed a robust literary life. It appears in Ovid’s story of Procne, Philomela, and Tereus, which ends with the transformation of Philomela into a nightingale. The thirteenth-century Middle English poem “The Owl and the Nightingale” sets down a debate between a sober owl with ascetic and unworldly views and a cheerful nightingale, who is an exponent of pleasure and beauty.

  John Keats’s “Ode to a Nightingale” (1819) apostrophizes the expressive power and transcendent beauty in the bird’s melody. Keats’s close companion, Charles Brown, describes the origins of the poem: “In the spring of 1819 a nightingale had built her nest near my house. Keats felt a tranquil and continual joy in her song; and one morning he took his chair from the breakfast table to the grass-plot under a plum-tree, where he sat for two or three hours. When he came into the house, I perceived he had some scraps of paper in his hand, and these he was quietly thrusting behind the books” (Rollins, The Keats Circle, II, 65). For Keats, the nightingale is a model of creative artistry, singing with a “full-throated ease” so soulful and expressive that it inspires in the poet a sense of morbid self-abandonment (“Now more than ever seems it rich to die”).

  In Oscar Wilde’s “The Nightingale and the Rose,” the bird impales itself on a thorn in order to transform a white rose into a red one. She (Wilde’s nightingale is designated as female) sings of the “birth of passion” and celebrates “the Love that is perfected by Death, of the Love that dies not in the tomb.” In contrast with the callous student in the tale, who dismisses love as inferior to logic and returns to the study of metaphysics, the nightingale dies with a thorn in its breast, a martyr to love and passion. Wilde’s tale might have been inspired by Andersen’s story, in which the nightingale is not allied with death but sings in a fashion that challenges and defies the power of death.

  The Danish term nattergal (nightingale) contains within it the term gal (madman).

  2. the Emperor is Chinese. Andersen establishes a “once upon a time” feeling by setting the tale in a distant, exotic land and in the remote past. That the Emperor of China is also a “Chinaman” (as some translations of the story have it) may not be as obvious as first appears, given the number of foreign lands controlled by colonial powers during the nineteenth century. In his almanac entry for October 11, 1843, Andersen declared that the tale, which was written in a single day, “began in Tivoli,” Copenhagen’s new amusement park, which featured pagodas, Chinese lanterns, and peacocks. The apparent tautology has a humorous and charming ring to it, suggesting a certain childlike levity. Andersen’s travels never took him beyond Istanbul and Athens, and his contact with China was limited to European Chinoiserie, an artistic style that developed in the seventeenth century and continued to be popular through the nineteenth century.

  3. that’s exactly why you should listen to it, before it’s forgotten. Andersen lived in an era when old wives’ tales were in retreat. And, like the Grimms who preceded him, he felt some anxiety about oral story-telling traditions, which were rapidly vanishing with the migration of certain forms of labor from the domestic to the industrial sphere. Note that
Andersen connects himself to those traditions as a teller of tales (“you should listen”) rather than to the writing practices in which he is actually engaged.

  W. HEATH ROBINSON

  The nightingale, framed by trees, leaves, and acorns, sings with full-throated pleasure.

  4. Yes, everything was arranged quite artfully in the Emperor’s garden. Fragility, delicacy, and beauty: these are, as always, the characteristics of the gardens in Andersen’s tales, the sites where nature meets culture. Like the undersea world in “The Little Mermaid,” the Emperor’s castle and gardens are places of exquisite beauty, where nature has been improved by those with refined aesthetic sensibilities.

  5. he would say the same thing. Does beauty have a lasting effect? The fisherman’s response to the nightingale’s song suggests that those who habitually dwell in the vicinity of beauty remain unaffected by its transformative power and merely carry on with their daily chores. By contrast, the nightingale is a rare sight for visitors to the city, and its melody haunts them.

  6. composed the loveliest poems about the nightingale. Here, the rich literary tradition that enshrines the nightingale as the bird of love, passion, tragedy, and beauty is invoked. The refrain of the bird inspires the song of poets—and also the work of storytellers.

  7. “Is it possible that a bird like that exists in my empire, let alone in my own garden?” Andersen would surely have identified with a bird of song that is so famous abroad but unknown at home. He complained endlessly about how badly the Danes treated him and believed that his work was appreciated abroad far more than at home. And indeed, the critical reception of his work was far more positive in foreign lands than it was in Denmark. In Munich, Andersen mused about how he longed to return to Copenhagen, although he was discouraged by news about contemptuous reviews of his work: “Letters from Denmark told how my work was discarded, destroyed, how I was still the weed in the otherwise healthy garden of young Danish poets. I felt nervous about coming under attack again, being caught in the suffocating seas of criticism” (Travels, 72–73).