The Nightingale
Retelling of the Hans Christian Anderson Tale by Bess Goden
A long time ago, there was an emperor who ruled over China. This emperor had a great love of beauty. He sought long and far for the best fruits, the richest golden goblets, and the softest velvets. After a time he built himself quite a collection of fineries. Yet, it took him many years to build his collection large enough to satisfy him. Now, when he was presented with new delights offered by merchants from the far west he offered to show them two or three better items from his store in return. This became his passion and he was eventually known to his people as the ‘Emperor Who Had Everything’.
One day, he ventured down to the vaults to recount his most prized rarities and passed two serving girls along the way.
“It sings so beautifully, it’s not like anything I’ve ever heard before.” said one girl to the other.
“That is a big compliment coming from the girl who sneaks into every concert held for his majesty.” replied the other who giggled. She stopped abruptly and gasped. They had not realized that the emperor was listening to their conversation. They bowed low, afraid he might punish them for idleness.
“Arise girl, I am not angry. Indeed I am glad you enjoy my splendid concerts, for they are certainly the best in the country. But tell me, who sings even more beautifully than my performers, I wonder? I should like to meet them.” said the emperor to the shaken servant.
“Your majesty, I would happy to take you to the meadow where she makes her home. If it please your highness to follow me, I will take you now. It is not far beyond the walls of the palace.” And with that the girl meekly led him outside.
It was not long until they turned onto a dirt path off the main road, (which was of course the finest road in the land, built by the Emperor’s best masons). The Emperor’s as they wound their way through the tall, sun dappled trees. The forest was so quiet that the Emperor could hear his silk slippered feet padding softly on fallen leaves. Straining his ears, he could just make out a few golden notes floating on the breeze. Ahahah. (Enchanted) It grew louder as they approached and now the emperor could see why the forest was so quiet. Gathered in a little clearing, all of the forest creatures sat and listened to the beautiful tune. Each note seemed to glisten in the setting sun brighter than any of his golden goblets. Ahahah. (Enchanted) The notes intertwined and surrounded him in softness, more supple than any of his velvets. Ahahah. (Enchanted) The smooth melody made the emperor feel a sweetness he had not tasted in any of his finest fruits. The song ended and the listeners regretfully made their way back to their homes. All except the emperor. He stayed until the crowd had left and approached the nightingale with tears in his eyes.
“You moved me, little bird. Something that all my fineries have never done. I should like to take you to my palace. I will build you a golden cage, feed you the best seed from a jeweled bowl and let you sleep on silken pillows, if you will sing for me.”
“I will come,” replied the nightingale, “but only because you loved my song so well. I do not care much for silk or jewels.”
And so the emperor thought his collection was finally complete. He kept his newest prize in a golden cage and let her out to fly as she wished. Though he always kept her bound to the cage with a silk thread, lest she fly off to another man’s collection.
The emperor made her sing almost every night, inviting guests of all sorts to envy his catch. In fact, the little bird grew so famous that a renowned toymaker decided to make a toy nightingale as a gift to his majesty. It was beautifully crafted, with swirling silver patterns on a background of gold, jewels encrusted on each feather. It sang too. Only one song, but the song was lovely. Some said just as lovely as the real thing’s. The emperor was so pleased with it that he played it’s tune over and over, until the whole palace was singing it.
He played it so much that after a time, he forgot to ask the real nightingale to sing. She became sad and restless at his neglect. Eventually she could stand it no longer. She snipped the silk threads with her beak, (for it was really love of the emperor that kept her there), and rode the sunset back to her beloved meadow.
It took the emperor some time to realize that the nightingale had left him, but when he did he did not mind. His toy sang for him whenever he felt like playing it. And it was beautiful to look at. He believed himself content.
Though as the years went by, he made the toy sing so often that its song began to beat unpleasantly against his brain. Everywhere he went he seemed to hear the song echoing behind him. One day, the toy’s gears wore down and cracked with overuse. The toymaker came to repair his creation and made it sing once again. Yet when it sang, it was still the same old tune. No trills, no variations, no differences. He soon grew bored with it and wished that he hadn’t neglected his little bird so much. How he wished to feel her sweet notes dance on his ears once again.
His heart saddened, and soon the emperor became ill with heartsickness. The best doctors attended him, but no remedy could be found. He was very old by now and his councilors decided that it might be best to start looking for his successor. Visitors stopped coming by to see him, more concerned with visiting the man they thought would be his successor. He grew sadder and sadder.
Then, one night he received a visitor he hadn’t wished to see. Death. When he came, the emperor sighed and said, “Perhaps it is time. Perhaps there is nothing, no one left for me here.” Death bent low, a small patch of moonlight illuminating his bony smile. But just before his last breath was whisked away from him, the emperor glanced at his windowsill. He saw the nightingale perched there, watching him with sympathy. “Oh my little bird,” he said, his voice cracking with joy, “please sing me a song before I die. I have longed to hear your sweet voice ever since you left me.”
The nightingale smiled and sang such a beautiful tune that even Death stood up to take notice. She sang to the emperor of her meadow, of the sunset glowing through the trees. Ahahah. Of the breezes that stroked her feathers when she flew. Ahahah. Of the twinkling starlight that pointed her way back to her soft nest. Ahahah.
And as Death listened, he felt a longing grow from deep within his bones. Something he’d never felt before: a longing for the feel of breezes and sights of starlit branches. Enchanted by song he stood and listened until the bird stopped. Death felt that he must see such beauty for himself. He wrapped his dark cloak around him, melted into the shadows and was gone.
“Oh my little bird, you saved me! I know now why you left. It was your love of the meadow that filled your heart with song.” said the emperor, tears glistening on his cheek.
“Hush, my friend,” said the nightingale, “Your tears of joy are thanks enough. Rest now and I’ll sing you to sleep.”
The emperor closed his eyes and listened, wondering how he could have ever valued a lifeless toy over such a sweet reality. After a time, he grew stronger. Strong enough to return to his throne. He never again asked the nightingale to stay, but she would come to see him anyway from time to time: gladdening his heart with each new melody.