THE NIGHTINGALE

Timaru Herald, Volume CXLII, Issue 20503, 22 August 1936, Page 13

THE NIGHTINGALE

A HANS ANDERSON FAIRY TALE

Continued from Last Week.)

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 could not live, it was said. A new emperor was already chosen, and people stood about in the street, and asked the gentleman-in-waiting how the emperor was going on. “P,” answered he, shaking his head. The emperor lay pale and cold in his gorgeous bed. The courtiers thought he was dead, and they all went off to pay their respects to the new emperor. The lackeys ran off to talk matters over, and the chambermaids 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 gorgeous bed with its velvet hangings and heavy golden tassels. There was an open window high above him, and the moon streamed in upon the emperor, and the artificial 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 his golden crown. In one hand he held the emperor’s golden sword, and in the other his imperial banner. Round about from the folds of the velvet hangings peered many curious faces;

some were hideous, others gentle and pleasant. They were all the emperor’s good and bad deeds, which now looked him in the face when Death was weighing him down.

“Do you remember that?” whispered one after another. “Do you remember this?” and they told him so many things that the perspiration 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 at 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 as there was nobody to wind it up, so of course, it would not go. Death continued to fix the great empty sockets of its eyes upon him, 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 the emperor’s window’. It had heard the emperor’s need, and it had come to bring hope and comfort to him. As it sang the faces became fainter and fainter, and the blood coursed with fresh vigour in the emperor’s veins and through his feeble limbs. Even Death himself listened to the song and said, “Go on, little nightingale, go on!”

“Yes, if you give me the gorgeous golden sword; yes, if you give me the imperial banner; 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 the elder flower scents the air, and where the fresh grass is ever moistened anew by the tears of the mourner. 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 visions 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! Those are the jewels which gladden the heart of a singer;—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 shall only 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 cheer you up and 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 numbers who are far from you and your court. I love your heart more than your crown, and yet there is an odour of sanctity round the crown, too! —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, bidding them “Good-morning!”

THE END.