The Classic Fairy Tales_Norton Critical Edition

by Edited by Maria Tatar

  Travelers came from all over the world to visit the Emperor’s city and to admire his palace and gardens. If they happened to hear the nightingale singing, they would all agree: “That’s just the best of all.”

  When the travelers returned home, they would describe what they had seen, and learned men wrote many books about the city, the palace, and the garden. They never forgot the nightingale—in fact they praised the bird above all other things. Those who could write poetry composed the loveliest poems about the nightingale that lived in the forest by the deep sea.

  The books themselves traveled around the world, and some of them found their way to the Emperor of China. One day, he was sitting on his golden throne, reading one book after another, nodding his head in delight over the splendid descriptions of his city, palace, and garden. “The nightingale is the best of all!” the books declared.

  “What on earth!” the Emperor exclaimed. “A nightingale! I don’t know a thing about it! Is it possible that a bird like that exists in my empire, let alone in my own garden? And to think that I had to read about it in a book.”

  The Emperor summoned the Chamberlain, who was so refined that when anyone of a lower rank had the audacity to address him or to ask a question, his only reply was “Puh!” which really means nothing at all.

  “Apparently there is a truly extraordinary bird around here called a nightingale,” said the Emperor. “They say it’s better than anything else in all my domains. Why hasn’t anyone said a word to me about it?”

  “I’ve never heard anyone say a word about it,” the Chamberlain said. “And no one has ever presented the bird at the imperial court.”

  “I want it to appear here tonight to sing for me,” the Emperor said. “The rest of the world knows more about what’s in my kingdom than I do!”

  “I’ve never heard anyone say a word about it,” the Chamberlain said again. “But I shall look for it, and I will find it.”

  But where could the nightingale be? The Chamberlain sped up and down the stairs, through rooms and corridors, but nobody he met had ever heard of the nightingale. And so the Chamberlain raced back to the Emperor and told him that the bird must have been in a fable invented by those who write books. “Your Imperial Majesty should not believe what people write today. It’s all made up and about what can be called black magic.”

  “But the book I was reading was sent to me by the mighty Emperor of Japan,” the Emperor said. “So it really must be true. I am determined to hear this nightingale. It must be here by this evening. I’ve granted it my high imperial favor. If it doesn’t show up by then, I’ll have every courtier punched in the stomach right after supper.”

  “Tsing-pe!” the Chamberlain shouted, and once again he sped up and down the stairs, through all the rooms and corridors. And half the court ran along with him, for no one wanted to be punched in the stomach. Everyone was asking questions about the mysterious nightingale, which was so famous all over the world but unknown at home.

  They finally found a poor little girl in the kitchen, who said: “Good Lord! The nightingale? Of course I know all about it. Yes, indeed, it can really sing! Every evening they let me take home a few scraps from the table to my poor, sick mother. She lives down by the sea. When I start back, I am so tired that I have to stop to rest in the woods. That’s when I hear the nightingale sing. It brings tears to my eyes. It’s just as if my mother were giving me a kiss.”

  “Little kitchen maid,” the Chamberlain said. “I’ll arrange a lifetime post for you in the kitchen and give you permission to watch the Emperor dine if you can take us to the nightingale. It is supposed to give a command performance at court tonight.”

  And so they all set off for the forest, to the place where the nightingale was said to sing. Half of the court followed. On the way into the forest a cow began mooing.

  “Aha!” said the royal squires. “That must be it. What remarkable power for such a tiny creature. We’re sure that we’ve heard that song once before.”

  “No, those are cows lowing,” the little kitchen girl said. “We still have a long way to go.”

  Then the frogs began croaking in the marshes.

  “How lovely!” the imperial Chinese chaplain declared. “It sounds just like little church bells.”

  “No, those are just frogs,” said the little kitchen maid. “But I have a feeling we will hear the nightingale soon.”

  Then the nightingale began to sing.

  “There it is,” said the little kitchen maid. “Just listen. And now you can see it!” And she pointed to a little gray bird perched on a branch.

  “Can it be?” exclaimed the Chamberlain. “That’s not at all how I imagined the bird to be. How plain it looks! It must have lost all its color from seeing all the distinguished persons gathered around.”

  “Little nightingale,” the kitchen maid called out in a loud voice. “Our gracious Emperor so wants you to sing for him.”

  “With the greatest pleasure,” the nightingale replied, and it sang to everyone’s delight.

  “It sounds just like crystal bells,” the Lord Chamberlain said. “And just look at the bird’s little throat—you can tell it’s singing with all its might. It’s astonishing that we have never heard it before. It will be a great success at court.”

  “Shall I sing again for the Emperor?” the nightingale asked, for it believed that the Emperor was present.

  “My splendid little nightingale,” the Lord Chamberlain said. “I have the great honor of inviting you to court this evening, and there you will enchant his Imperial Grace with your charming voice.”

  “My song sounds best outdoors,” the nightingale replied, but it was glad to return with them when it learned of the Emperor’s wishes.

  The palace had been cleaned and polished with great care. The walls and floors, made of porcelain, were gleaming from the light of thousands of golden lamps. The loveliest flowers, trimmed with little bells, had been placed in the corridors. The commotion from all the comings and goings made the bells start ringing, and you could scarcely hear yourself think.

  In the middle of the great hall in which the Emperor was seated, a golden perch had been set up, and it was for the nightingale. The entire court had assembled there. The little kitchen maid had been given permission to stand behind the door, for she now held the title of Real Kitchen Maid. People were dressed in their finery, and, when the Emperor graciously nodded, everyone fixed their eyes on the little gray bird.

  The nightingale’s voice was so lovely that tears began to fill the Emperor’s eyes and roll down his cheeks. The bird sang even more beautifully, and the music went straight to his heart. The Emperor was so delighted that he ordered his own golden slipper to be hung around the nightingale’s neck. But the nightingale graciously declined it and declared that it had received reward enough.

  “I have seen tears in the eyes of the Emperor,” it said. “For me that is the greatest treasure. The tears of an Emperor have a wondrous power. God knows that I have received my reward.” And it sang once again with a sweet, sublime voice.

  “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!

  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 “Ni
ghtingale,” 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 nightingale that was supposed to look just like the real one except that it was covered with diamonds, rubies, and sapphires. 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; 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.”

  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 bird—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,” 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, 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. 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.

  “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, 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, 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. I’ll come to sing for you, but you must promise me one thing.”