One day a big package came for the emperor, on the outside was written Nightingale.
“Here’s a new book about our famous bird,” said the emperor, but it wasn’t a book. It was a little work of art lying in a box: an artificial nightingale that was supposed to resemble the real one, but it was studded with diamonds, rubies and sapphires. As soon as you wound the artificial bird up, it would sing one of the songs the real bird could sing, and the tail bobbed up and down and sparkled silver and gold. Around its neck was a little ribbon, and on the ribbon was written: “The emperor of Japan’s nightingale is a trifling compared to the emperor of China’s.”
“It’s lovely,” they all said, and the one who had brought the artificial bird was immediately given the title of Most Imperial Nightingale Bringer.
“They have to sing together. A duet!”
And so they had to sing together, but it didn’t really work since the real nightingale sang in his way, and the artificial bird sang on cylinders. “It’s not its fault,” said the court conductor. “It keeps perfect time and fits quite into my school of music theory.” Then the artificial bird was to sing alone and was just as well received as the real bird. Moreover it was so much more beautiful to look at, for it glittered like bracelets and brooches.
Thirty three times it sang the same song, and it never got tired. People would gladly have listened to it again, but the emperor thought that now the live nightingale should also sing a little—but where was it? No one had noticed that it had flown out of the open window, away to its green forest.
“What’s the meaning of this?” cried the emperor, and all the members of the court scolded the bird, and thought that the nightingale was a most ungrateful creature. “We still have the best bird,” they said, and then the artificial bird had to sing again, and that was the thirty-fourth time they heard the same piece, but they didn’t quite know it yet for it was so long, and the conductor praised the bird so extravagantly. He insisted that it was better than the real nightingale, not just in appearance with its many lovely diamonds, but also on the inside.
“You see, ladies and gentlemen, Your Royal Majesty! You can never know what to expect from the real nightingale, but everything is determined in the artificial bird. It will be so-and-so, and no different! You can explain it; you can open it up and show the human thought—how the cylinders are placed, how they work, and how one follows the other!”
“My thoughts exactly,” everyone said, and on the following Sunday the conductor was allowed to exhibit the bird for the public. The emperor also said that they were to hear it sing, and they were so pleased by it as if they had drunk themselves merry on tea (for that is so thoroughly Chinese), and they all said “Oh” and stuck their index fingers in the air and nodded. But the poor fisherman, who had heard the real nightingale, said, “It sounds good enough, and sounds similar too, but there’s something missing. I don’t know what.”
The real nightingale was banished from the country and the empire.
The artificial bird had its place on a silk pillow right by the emperor’s bed. All the gifts it had received, gold and gems, were lying around it, and it had been given the title of Most Imperial Nightstand Singer of the First Rank to the Left because the emperor considered the side towards the heart to be the most distinguished. The heart is on the left side also in emperors. The Royal Conductor wrote twenty-five volumes about the ar-tificial bird that were very learned and very long and included all the longest Chinese words. All the people said that they had read and understood the books. Otherwise they would have been stupid, of course, and would have been thumped on the stomach.
The artificial bird had its place on a silk pillow right by the emperor’s bed.
It continued this way for a whole year. The emperor, the court, and all the other Chinamen knew every little cluck in the artificial bird’s song, but they were therefore all the more happy with it—they could sing along, and they did. The street urchins sang “zizizi, klukklukkluk,” and the emperor sang it, too. Yes, it was certainly lovely.
But one evening, as the artificial bird was singing beautifully, and the emperor was lying in bed listening, there was suddenly a “svupp” sound inside the bird, and something snapped: “Surrrrrr.” All the wheels went around, and the music stopped.
The emperor leaped out of bed at once and had his court physician summoned, but what good could he do? So they called for the watchmaker and after a lot of talk and a lot of tinkering, he managed to more or less fix the bird, but he said it had to be used sparingly because the threads were so worn, and it wasn’t possible to install new ones without the music becoming uneven. This was a great tragedy! The artificial bird could only sing once a year, if that. But then the Court Conductor would give a little speech with big words and say that it was as good as before, and so it was as good as before.
Five years went by and the whole country was greatly saddened because it was said that the emperor was sick and wouldn’t live much longer. The people had been very fond of him, but a new emperor had already been selected. His subjects stood out on the street and asked the chamberlain how the old emperor was doing.
“P!” he said and shook his head.
Cold and pale, the emperor lay in his big magnificent bed. The whole court thought he was dead, and all of them ran to greet the new emperor. The chamber attendants ran about to talk about it, and the palace maids had their usual gossip. There were cloth runners spread in all the rooms and hallways so that you couldn’t hear anyone walk, and therefore it was very quiet—so quiet. But the emperor wasn’t dead yet. Stiff and pale, he lay in the magnificent bed with the long velvet curtains and the heavy gold tassels. High on the wall a window was open, and the moonlight shone on the emperor and the artificial bird.
The poor emperor was barely able to draw a breath; it was as if something was sitting on his chest. He opened his eyes, and then he saw that it was Death sitting there. He had put on the emperor’s golden crown and held in one hand his golden sword, and in the other his magnificent banner. Round about in the folds of the velvet bed curtains strange heads were peeping out, some quite terrible and others blessedly mild. They were the emperor’s good and evil deeds looking at him, now that Death was sitting on his heart.
“Do you remember that?” whispered one after the other. “Do you remember that?” and then they spoke to him of so many things that the sweat sprang out on his forehead.
“I knew nothing about that!” said the emperor. “Music, music, the big Chinese drum!” he called, “so that I won’t hear everything that they’re saying.”
But they continued, and Death nodded like a Chinaman along with everything that was said.
“Music, music!” cried the emperor. “You little blessed golden bird. Sing, just sing! I have given you gold and precious things. I have myself hung my golden slipper around your neck. Sing, oh sing!”
But the bird stood still. There was no one to wind it up, and otherwise it didn’t sing, but Death with his big empty eye sockets continued to look at the emperor, and it was quiet, so terribly quiet.
Suddenly outside the window came a beautiful song. It was the little, live nightingale, sitting on the branch outside. It had heard about the emperor’s sorrows and had come to sing with comfort and hope for him, and as it sang, the figures became paler and paler, the blood flowed quicker and quicker in the emperor’s weak limbs, and Death itself listened and said: “Sing on, little nightingale, sing on.”
“Music, music!” cried the emperor.
“You little blessed golden bird. Sing, just sing!”
“Will you give me the magnificent golden sword? Will you give me the precious banner? Will you give me the emperor’s crown?”
And Death gave each treasure for a song, and the nightingale continued to sing. It sang about the quiet churchyard, where the white roses grow, where the elder trees emit their scent, and where the fresh grass is watered by tears of the survivors. Then Death felt a longing for his garden and g
lided, like a cold, white fog, out the window.
“Thank you, thank you,” said the emperor. “You heavenly little bird, I know you well. I chased you away from my country and my empire, and yet your song has cast away the evil sights from my bed and taken Death from my heart! How shall I reward you?”
“You have rewarded me,” said the nightingale. “I received tears from your eyes the first time I sang for you, and I’ll never forget that. Those are the jewels that enrich a singer’s heart. But rest now and become healthy and strong. I’ll sing for you.”
It sang—and the emperor fell into a sweet sleep, a gentle restoring sleep.
The sun shone through the windows on him when he awoke, stronger and healthy. None of his servants had come back because they thought he was dead, but the nightingale was still sitting there singing.
“You must stay with me always,” said the emperor. “You’ll only sing when you want to, and I’ll crush the artificial bird into a thousand pieces.”
“Don’t do that!” said the nightingale. “It has done what good it could. Keep it as always. I can’t live here at the palace, but let me come when I want to, and in the evenings I’ll sit on the branch by the window and sing for you so you can be happy and thoughtful too. I’ll sing about the happy and about those who suffer. I’ll sing about the good and evil that is hidden from you! Your little songbird flies far and wide to the poor fishermen, to the farmer’s roof, to everywhere that’s far from you and your palace. I love your heart more than your crown, and yet your crown has a scent of something sacred about it!—I’ll come, I’ll sing for you.—But you must promise me one thing.”
“Everything!” said the emperor, standing there in his royal clothing that he’d put on himself. He was holding the sword, heavy with gold, up to his heart.
“I ask you this one thing. Don’t tell anyone that you have a little bird that tells you everything. Then things will go even better.”
And the nightingale flew away.
Soon after the servants entered the room to see to their dead emperor—there they stood, and the emperor said, “Good morning.”
THE GARDENER AND THE GENTRY
ABOUT FIVE MILES FROM the capital there was an old manor house with thick walls, towers, and corbie gables.
A rich, noble family lived there, but only in the summer. This manor was the best and most beautiful of all the properties they owned. It looked like new outside and was full of comfort and coziness inside. The family coat of arms was engraved in stone above the estate gate, and beautiful roses were entwined around the crest and bay windows. A carpet of grass was spread out in front of the manor house. There were red and white hawthorn and rare flowers, even outside the greenhouse.
The family also had a very capable gardener. It was a delight to see the flower garden, and the fruit orchard and vegetable garden. Next to this there was still a remnant of the original old garden—some box hedges—clipped to form crowns and pyramids. Behind these stood two huge old trees. They were always almost leafless, and you could easily have believed that a stormy wind or a waterspout had spread big clumps of manure over them, but every clump was a bird nest.
A huge flock of shrieking rooks and crows had built nests here from times immemorial. It was an entire city of birds, and the birds were the masters, the occupiers of the property, the oldest family on the estate, and the real masters of the manor. None of the people down there concerned them, but they tolerated these crawling creatures, except that sometimes they banged with their guns, so it tickled the birds’ backbones and caused every bird to fly up in fear and cry, “scum, scum!”
The gardener often talked to the master and mistress about having the old trees cut down. They didn’t look good, and if they were gone, they would most likely be rid of the screaming birds, who would go elsewhere. But the master and mistress didn’t want to be rid of either the trees or the birds because they were from old times. Anything from old times was something the estate could and should not lose.
“Those trees are the birds’ inheritance, my good Larsen. Let them keep them.” The gardener’s name was Larsen, but that’s neither here nor there.
“Larsen, don’t you have enough room to work? The whole flower garden, the greenhouses, fruit and vegetables gardens?”
He did have those, and he cared for, watched over, and cultivated them with zeal and skill, and the master and mistress acknowledged that, but they didn’t conceal from him that they often ate fruits and saw flowers when visiting that surpassed what they had in their own gardens. That saddened the gardener because he always strived to do the best he could. He was good-hearted and good at his job.
One day the master and mistress called him in and told him in a gentle and lordly manner that the day before they had eaten some apples and pears at distinguished friends that were so juicy and so delicious that they and all the other guests had expressed their greatest admiration. The fruits were certainly not domestic, but they should be imported, and should be grown here if the climate would allow it. They knew that the fruits had been bought in town at the best greengrocer’s. The gardener was to ride into town and find out where the apples and pears had come from and then write for grafts.
The gardener knew the greengrocer well because he was the very one to whom, on the master’s behalf, he sold the surplus fruit that grew in the estate gardens.
And the gardener went to town and asked the greengrocer where he had gotten those highly acclaimed apples and pears.
“They’re from your own garden!” said the greengrocer and showed him both the apples and pears that he immediately recognized.
Well, how happy this made the gardener! He hurried back to the master and mistress and told them that both the apples and pears were from their own garden.
But the master and mistress simply couldn’t believe it. “It’s not possible, Larsen! Can you get this confirmed in writing from the greengrocer?”
And he could and did do that. He brought the written certification.
“This is really strange!” said the master and mistress.
Every day big platters of the magnificent apples and pears from their own garden appeared on the table. Bushels and barrels full of these fruits were sent to friends in town and out of town, even to foreign countries! What a pleasure! But of course they had to add that it had been two amazingly good summers for the fruit trees. Good fruit was being produced all over the country.
Some time passed. The master and mistress were invited to dinner at court. The day after this they called in the gardener. They had gotten melons at the table from the royal greenhouses that were so juicy and tasty.
“You must go to the royal gardener, dear Larsen, and get us some of the seeds of those priceless melons!”
“But the royal gardener got the seeds from us!” said the gardener, quite pleased.
“Well, then that man has the knowledge to bring fruit to a higher level of development!” said the master. “Each melon was remarkable.”
“Well, I can be proud then,” said the gardener. “I must tell your lordship that the royal gardener didn’t have luck with his melons this year, and when he saw how splendid ours were and tasted them, he ordered three of them for the castle.”
“Larsen! You’re not telling me those were melons from our garden?!”
“I think so!” said the gardener, who went to the royal gardener and got written confirmation that the melons on the kingly table came from the manor.
It really was a surprise for the master and his lady, and they didn’t keep quiet about the story. They showed the certificate, and melon seeds were sent around widely, just as the pear and apple grafts had been earlier.
And word was received that they grew and produced exceptional fruit, and these melon seeds were named after the noble estate, so that that name could now be read in English, German, and French.
No one could have imagined this!
“Just so the gardener doesn’t get a swollen head about this,” said
the master and mistress.
But the gardener took it all in a different way. He just wanted to establish his name as one of the country’s best gardeners, to try each year to bring forth something superior in all the types of garden plants, and he did that. But often he was told that the very first fruits he had produced, the apples and pears, were really the best. All later types were inferior to them. The melons had certainly been very good, but that was something completely different. The strawberries could be called exceptional, but yet not better than those other noble families had, and when the radishes didn’t turn out one year, only those unfortunate radishes were discussed, none of the other good things that were produced.
It was almost as if the master and mistress felt a relief in saying, “Things didn’t work out this year, Larsen!” They were quite happy to be able to say, “It didn’t work out this year.”
A couple of times a week the gardener brought fresh flowers up to the living room, and they were always so beautifully arranged. The colors seemed to be more vibrant through the arrangement.
“You have taste, Larsen,” said the master and mistress. “It’s a gift, given by the Lord, not of your own doing.”
One day the gardener brought a large crystal saucer in which a lily pad was floating. On top of this was placed a shining blue flower, as big as a sunflower with its long thick stem trailing down in the water.
“The lotus of the Hindus!” exclaimed the master and mistress.
They had never seen such a flower, and during the day it was placed in the sunshine and in the evening under reflected light. Everyone who saw it thought it was remarkably lovely and rare. Even the most distinguished of the country’s young ladies said so, and she was a princess. She was both wise and good.
The master and mistress were honored to give her the flower, and it went with the princess to the palace. Then they went down into the garden to pick such a flower themselves, if one was still there, but they couldn’t find one. So they called the gardener and asked where he had gotten the blue Lotus.
Fairy Tales Page 5
