Prevod
In China, as you surely know, the emperor is Chinese, and all those around him are Chinese too. This happened many years ago, but that is all the more reason to hear the story before it is forgotten! The emperor’s palace was the most splendid in the world, made entirely of fine porcelain, so costly but so fragile, so delicate to the touch, that one had to be very careful indeed. In the garden grew the most wonderful flowers, and silver bells were tied to the finest of them, tinkling so that no one could pass without noticing the flower. Yes, everything in the emperor’s garden was most ingeniously arranged, and it stretched so far that even the gardener did not know where it ended. If you kept on walking, you came to the loveliest forest, with tall trees and deep lakes. The forest reached right down to the sea, which was blue and deep; great ships could sail right beneath the branches, and among these branches lived a nightingale that sang so beautifully that even the poor fisherman, who had so much else to attend to, would lie still and listen when he was out at night hauling in his nets and heard the nightingale. “Good heavens, how lovely that is!” he said. But then he had to get on with his work and forgot the bird; yet the following night, when it sang again and the fisherman came that way, he said the same thing: “Good heavens! How lovely it is!”
Travellers from every country in the world came to the emperor’s city, and they admired it, and the palace and the garden; but when they heard the nightingale, they all said, “That is the best of all!”
And the travellers told of it when they returned home, and scholars wrote many books about the city, the palace and the garden; but they did not forget the nightingale, which they praised above everything else. And those who could write poetry wrote the loveliest poems, all about the nightingale in the forest beside the deep lake.
These books went all round the world, and in time some of them reached the emperor. He sat in his golden chair, reading and reading, nodding his head every moment, for he was delighted by the magnificent descriptions of the city, the palace and the garden. “But the nightingale is the very best of all!” it said.
“What is this?” said the emperor. “The nightingale! I know nothing of it! Is there such a bird in my empire, and in my own garden, what is more? I have never heard of it! Must I learn such things from books?”
And then he summoned his chamberlain, who was so grand that whenever anyone of lower rank dared to speak to him or ask him a question, he answered nothing but “P!”—which means nothing at all.
“There is supposed to be a most remarkable bird here called a nightingale!” said the emperor. “They say it is the very best thing in my whole great empire! Why has no one ever told me about it?”
“I have never heard it mentioned before!” said the chamberlain. “It has never been presented at court!” “I wish it to come here this evening and sing for me!” said the emperor. “The whole world knows what I possess, and I know nothing about it!”
“I have never heard it mentioned before!” said the chamberlain. “I shall seek it out! I shall find it!” But where was it to be found? The chamberlain ran up and down all the staircases, through halls and corridors; not one of all the people he met had heard of the nightingale. So the chamberlain ran back to the emperor and said it must surely be a fable invented by those who wrote books. “Your Imperial Majesty must not believe what is written! It is all inventions and what they call the black art!”
“But the book in which I read it,” said the emperor, “was sent to me by the mighty Emperor of Japan, so it cannot be untrue. I wish to hear the nightingale! It must be here this evening! It has my highest favour! And if it does not come, the entire court shall be punched in the stomach after supper.”
“Tsing-pe!” said the chamberlain, and ran up and down all the staircases again, through all the halls and corridors; and half the court ran with him, for they had no wish to be punched in the stomach. There was a great asking after the remarkable nightingale, which the whole world knew, but no one at court.
At last they came upon a poor little girl in the kitchen, who said, “Oh, goodness, the nightingale! I know it well! Oh, how it can sing! Every evening I am allowed to take a few scraps from the table home to my poor sick mother, who lives down by the shore. And when I am coming back, and feel tired and rest in the forest, I hear the nightingale sing! It brings tears to my eyes, just as though my mother were kissing me!”
“Little kitchen maid!” said the chamberlain. “I shall see that you have a permanent place in the kitchen, and permission to watch the emperor dine, if you can lead us to the nightingale, for it has been summoned for this evening!” And so they all set off into the forest where the nightingale used to sing; half the court went along. As they were making their way there, a cow began to low.
“Oh!” said the young courtiers. “Now we have it! What remarkable power in such a little creature! I am quite certain I have heard it before!” “No, those are the cows lowing!” said the little kitchen maid. “We are still a long way from the place!”
Now the frogs began croaking in the marsh. “Lovely!” said the Chinese palace chaplain. “Now I hear it! It is just like little church bells!” “No, those are the frogs!” said the little kitchen maid. “But I think we shall soon hear it now!”
Then the nightingale began to sing. “That is it!” said the little girl. “Listen! Listen! And there it sits!” And she pointed to a little grey bird up in the branches.
“Is it possible?” said the chamberlain. “I should never have imagined it looked like that! How plain it is! It must have lost its colour at seeing so many distinguished people gathered round!”
“Little nightingale!” the little kitchen maid called out quite loudly. “Our gracious emperor would so like you to sing for him!” “With the greatest pleasure!” said the nightingale, and sang so beautifully that it was a joy to hear.
“It is just like glass bells!” said the chamberlain. “And look at its little throat, how hard it works! It is remarkable that we have never heard it before! It will be a great success at court!”
“Shall I sing once more for the emperor?” asked the nightingale, which thought the emperor was with them. “My excellent little nightingale!” said the chamberlain. “I have the great pleasure of inviting you to a court celebration this evening, where you will enchant His Imperial Majesty with your charming song!”
“It sounds best among the green trees!” said the nightingale; but it willingly went with them when it heard that the emperor wished it. At the palace everything had been polished to a shine! The porcelain walls and floors gleamed in the light of many thousands of golden lamps! The loveliest flowers, whose bells rang out so sweetly, had been set along the corridors; there was so much rushing about and such a draught that all the bells kept ringing, and you could hardly hear yourself speak.
In the middle of the great hall where the emperor sat, a golden perch had been set up for the nightingale. The whole court was there, and the little kitchen maid had been given permission to stand behind the door, since she now held the title of Official Kitchen Maid. They were all dressed in their finest clothes, and all looked at the little grey bird, to which the emperor nodded.
And the nightingale sang so beautifully that tears came into the emperor’s eyes and rolled down his cheeks; then the nightingale sang more beautifully still, and its song went straight to the heart. The emperor was so delighted that he said the nightingale should have his golden slipper to wear round its neck. But the nightingale thanked him; it had already been rewarded enough.
“I have seen tears in the emperor’s eyes, and that is the richest treasure of all to me! An emperor’s tears have a wonderful power! Heaven knows, I am well rewarded!” And then it sang again in its sweet, blessed voice.
“That is the most delightful coquetry I have ever known!” said the ladies all round; and they took water into their mouths so that they could gurgle whenever anyone spoke to them. They thought this made them nightingales too. Indeed, the footmen and chambermaids sent word that they too were pleased, and that was saying a great deal, for they are the hardest of all to satisfy. Yes, the nightingale was a success indeed!
It was now to remain at court, with a cage of its own and the freedom to go out twice a day and once at night. It was given twelve servants to accompany it, each holding tightly to a silken ribbon tied round its leg. There was no pleasure at all in such an outing.
The whole city talked of the remarkable bird, and when two people met, one would say nothing but “Night—!” and the other would say “—ingale!” Then they would sigh and understand one another. Eleven grocers’ children were even named after it, though not one of them could sing a note. One day a large parcel arrived for the emperor, with “Nightingale” written on the outside.
“Here we have a new book about our famous bird!” said the emperor. But it was not a book; it was a little work of art lying in a box: an artificial nightingale, made to resemble the living one, but studded all over with diamonds, rubies and sapphires. As soon as the artificial bird was wound up, it could sing one of the tunes the real one sang, and its tail moved up and down, glittering with silver and gold. Round its neck hung a little ribbon on which was written: “The Emperor of Japan’s nightingale is poor beside that of the Emperor of China.”
“How splendid!” they all said, and the man who had brought the artificial bird was immediately given the title of Chief Imperial Nightingale-Bearer. “Now they must sing together! What a duet it will be!”
And so they had to sing together, but it did not go very well, for the real nightingale sang in its own fashion, while the artificial bird ran on cylinders. “It is not at fault,” said the music master. “It keeps excellent time and belongs entirely to my school!” Then the artificial bird had to sing alone. It was just as successful as the real one, and besides, it was so much prettier to look at: it glittered like bracelets and brooches.
Thirty-three times it sang the very same tune, and still it was not tired. Everyone would gladly have listened to it all over again, but the emperor thought it was time for the living nightingale to sing a little too—but where was it? No one had noticed that it had flown out through the open window, away to its green forests.
“But what is the meaning of this?” said the emperor. And all the courtiers scolded and declared that the nightingale was a most ungrateful creature. “At least we have the best bird!” they said. So the artificial bird had to sing again, and that was the thirty-fourth time they had heard the same tune. Yet they still did not quite know it by heart, for it was so difficult. The music master praised the bird extravagantly, even declaring that it was better than the real nightingale, not only in its dress and its many beautiful diamonds, but inwardly as well.
“For you see, ladies and gentlemen, and Your Majesty above all! With the real nightingale one can never predict what will come next, but with the artificial bird everything is settled! This is how it will be, and no other way! One can account for it; one can open it up and show the human mind how the cylinders are arranged, how they turn, and how one thing follows from another!”
“Those are exactly my thoughts!” they all said, and the music master was given permission to display the bird to the people the following Sunday. They should hear it sing as well, said the emperor. And they did hear it, and were as delighted as though they had made themselves merry on tea, for that is a thoroughly Chinese thing to do. They all said “Oh!” and raised the finger called the “lick-pot,” and nodded their heads. But the poor fishermen who had heard the real nightingale said, “It sounds pretty enough, and it does resemble it, but something is missing. I don’t know what!”
The real nightingale was banished from the land and empire. The artificial bird had its place on a silken cushion close to the emperor’s bed; all the presents it had received, gold and precious stones, lay round about it. Its title had risen to “Supreme Imperial Bedside Singer,” and it ranked first on the left-hand side, for the emperor considered the side on which the heart lay the more distinguished, and the heart lies on the left even in an emperor. And the music master wrote twenty-five volumes about the artificial bird, so learned and so long, and full of the most difficult Chinese words, that everyone said they had read and understood them; otherwise they would have been thought stupid and would have been punched in the stomach.
A whole year passed in this way. The emperor, the court and all the other Chinese knew every little gurgle of the artificial bird’s song by heart; but that was precisely why they liked it best now. They could sing along themselves, and so they did. The street boys sang, “Zi-zi-zi! Cluck-cluck-cluck!” and the emperor sang it too! Yes, it was certainly delightful!
But one evening, while the artificial bird was singing away and the emperor lay in bed listening, something inside the bird went “Snap!” Something broke. “Whirrrrr!” All the wheels spun round, and then the music stopped.
The emperor sprang out of bed at once and sent for his physician, but what help could he be? Then they fetched the watchmaker, and after a great deal of talk and a great deal of inspection, he got the bird into some sort of working order. But he said it must be used very sparingly, for its pivots were badly worn, and it was impossible to fit new ones in such a way that the music would play reliably. This was a great sorrow! They dared let the artificial bird sing only once a year, and even that was a strain. But then the music master made a little speech full of difficult words and said it was just as good as before, and so it was just as good as before.
Now five years had passed, and a great sorrow fell upon the whole country, for at heart they were all fond of their emperor. He was ill, and they said he could not live. A new emperor had already been chosen, and people stood out in the street asking the chamberlain how their emperor was.
“P!” he said, shaking his head. Cold and pale, the emperor lay in his great, splendid bed. The whole court thought him dead, and every one of them hurried off to greet the new emperor. The valets went out to talk it over, and the palace maids held a grand coffee party. Cloth had been laid down through all the halls and corridors so that no footsteps could be heard, and so it was very, very quiet. But the emperor was not yet dead. Stiff and pale he lay in the splendid bed with its long velvet curtains and heavy golden tassels. High above, a window stood open, and the moon shone in upon the emperor and the artificial bird.
The poor emperor could scarcely breathe; it was as though something were sitting on his chest. He opened his eyes and saw that it was Death sitting there. Death had put on his golden crown and held the emperor’s golden sabre in one hand and his splendid banner in the other. All round him, from the folds of the great velvet bed curtains, strange heads peered out, some quite hideous, others blessedly gentle. They were all the emperor’s evil deeds and good deeds, looking at him now that Death sat upon his heart.
“Do you remember this?” they whispered, one after another. “Do you remember this?” And they told him so much that the sweat broke out on his forehead. “I never knew that!” said the emperor. “Music, music! The great Chinese drum!” he cried. “So that I need not hear all they are saying!”
But they went on, and Death nodded like a Chinese at everything that was said. “Music, music!” screamed the emperor. “You dear little golden bird! Sing, do sing! I have given you gold and precious gifts! I hung my golden slipper round your neck with my own hands! Sing, do sing!”
But the bird stood silent; there was no one to wind it up, and without that it could not sing. And Death kept staring at the emperor with his great, empty eye sockets, and it was so quiet, so terribly quiet.
Then, at that very moment, the loveliest song rang out close to the window. It was the little living nightingale, perched on the branch outside. It had heard of its emperor’s distress and had come to sing him comfort and hope. And as it sang, the apparitions grew paler and paler, the blood flowed more and more swiftly through the emperor’s feeble limbs, and even Death listened and said, “Go on, little nightingale! Go on!”
“Will you give me the splendid golden sabre? Will you give me the glorious banner? Will you give me the emperor’s crown?” And Death gave each treasure for a song, and the nightingale sang on. It sang of the quiet churchyard where the white roses grow, where the elder tree is fragrant, and where the fresh grass is watered by the tears of those left behind. Then Death grew homesick for his garden and floated out through the window like a cold, white mist.
“Thank you, thank you!” said the emperor. “You heavenly little bird, I know you well! I banished you from my land and empire! Yet you have sung the evil visions away from my bed and taken Death from my heart! How can I reward you?”
“You have rewarded me!” said the nightingale. “I brought tears to your eyes the first time I sang, and I shall never forget that! Those are the jewels that gladden a singer’s heart! But sleep now, and grow well and strong! I shall sing to you!”
And it sang—and the emperor fell into a sweet sleep, so gentle and refreshing. The sun shone in through the windows when he woke, restored and well. None of his servants had yet returned, for they thought he was dead, but the nightingale was still there, singing.
“You must stay with me always!” said the emperor. “You shall sing only when you wish, and I shall smash the artificial bird into a thousand pieces.” “Do not do that!” said the nightingale. “It has done what good it could! Keep it as you always have. I cannot build my nest and live in the palace, but let me come whenever I wish. Then I shall sit in the evening on that branch beside your window and sing to you, so that you may be joyful and thoughtful too! I shall sing of the happy and of those who suffer. I shall sing of the good and evil that are kept hidden all around you! The little songbird flies far and wide, to the poor fisherman, to the farmer’s roof, to everyone who is far from you and your court! I love your heart more than your crown, and yet the crown has an air of something sacred about it! I shall come, I shall sing to you! But you must promise me one thing!” “Anything!” said the emperor, standing there in his imperial robes, which he had put on himself, and holding the sabre, heavy with gold, against his heart.
“One thing I ask of you! Tell no one that you have a little bird who tells you everything; then all will go even better!” And with that the nightingale flew away. The servants came in to look upon their dead emperor—and there they stood, while the emperor said, “Good morning!”
