“I know nothing about it,”said the emperor.“Music!music!”he cried;“the large Chinese drum!that I may not hear what they say.”But they still went on,and Death nodded like a Chinaman to all they said.“Music!music!”shouted the emperor.“You little precious golden bird,sing,pray sing!I have given you gold and costly presents;I have even hung my golden slipper round your neck.Sing!sing!”But the bird remained silent.There was no one to wind it up,and therefore it could not sing a note.
Death continued to stare at the emperor with his cold,hollow eyes,and the room was fearfully still.Suddenly there came through the open window the sound of sweet music.Outside,on the bough of a tree,sat the living nightingale.She had heard of the emperor's illness,and was therefore come to sing to him of hope and trust.And as she sung,the shadows grew paler and paler;the blood in the emperor's veins flowed more rapidly,and gave life to his weak limbs;and even Death himself listened,and said,“Go on,little nightingale,go on.”
“Then will you give me the beautiful golden sword and that rich banner?and will you give me the emperor's crown?”said the bird.
So Death gave up each of these treasures for a song;and the nightingale continued her singing.She sung of the quiet churchyard,where the white roses grow,where the elder-tree wafts its perfume on the breeze,and the fresh,sweet grass is moistened by the mourners'tears.Then Death longed to go and see his garden,and floated out through the window in the form of a cold,white mist.
“Thanks,thanks,you heavenly little bird.I know you well.I banished you from my kingdom once,and yet you have charmed away the evil faces from my bed,and banished Death from my heart,with your sweet song.How can I reward you?”
“You have already rewarded me,”said the nightingale.“I shall never forget that I drew tears from your eyes the first time I sang to you.These are the jewels that rejoice a singer's heart.But now sleep,and grow strong and well again.I will sing to you again.”
And as she sung,the emperor fell into a sweet sleep;and how mild and refreshing that slumber was!When he awoke,strengthened and restored,the sun shone brightly through the window;but not one of his servants had returned—they all believed he was dead;only the nightingale still sat beside him,and sang.
“You must always remain with me,”said the emperor.“You shall sing only when it pleases you;and I will break the artificial bird into a thousand pieces.”
“No;do not do that,”replied the nightingale;“the bird did very well as long as it could.Keep it here still.I cannot live in the palace,and build my nest;but let me come when I like.I will sit on a bough outside your window,in the evening,and sing to you,so that you may be happy,and have thoughts full of joy.I will sing to you of those who are happy,and those who suffer;of the good and the evil,who are hidden around you.The little singing bird flies far from you and your court to the home of the fisherman and the peasant's cot.I love your heart better than your crown;and yet something holy lingers round that also.I will come,I will sing to you;but you must promise me one thing.”
“Everything,”said the emperor,who,having dressed himself in his imperial robes,stood with the hand that held the heavy golden sword pressed to his heart.
“I only ask one thing,”she replied;“let no one know that you have a little bird who tells you everything.It will be best to conceal it.”So saying,the nightingale flew away.
The servants now came in to look after the dead emperor;when,lo!there he stood,and,to their astonishment,said,“Good morning.”
