Now Laylá, well knowing that her doves were nesting in 'yonder tree,' had left them to the care of the attendants at the palace. They had always been a solace to her, especially since one had been Love's messenger, and she missed that solace now. A young tiger, obedient only to an Ethiopian slave, could not speak to her of love as the doves had done! But one day a slave-girl brought her a bird of paradise, saying, 'My boy lover caught this in the forests of the hills and bade me offer it to thee for thy kindness to me.'
Laylá treasured the bird in her solitude, and soon discovered that it could imitate the sounds of her voice. On this she straightway taught it one word, and one word only. Then she would sit for hours, with the bird perched on the back of her hand, listening to its soft intonation of that one word: 'Majnún.' Again and again and again the bird would speak softly in her ear that sweetest name in all the world: 'Majnún, Majnún, Majnún,' and her heart would leave her bosom and range through the desolation of the desert, seeking always Majnún.
The affair of her heart stood in such case when, one day at dawn, Noufal, with a large band of warriors, smote with his sword upon the gates and demanded to see the chief of Basráh.
It was a short and pointed exchange of few words between Noufal and Basráh as the broadening band of sunlight crept slowly down the background of mountains; and, when it smote upon the gates as the sun burst up, the talk was finished and Noufal and his band were galloping towards the desert to meet the oncoming hosts of Yemen. The chief of Basráh gazed upon the cloud of dust that rose between him and the sun, and in it read the signs of sudden war.
Now Basráh's mountain estate adjoined the territory of Ibn Salám, and, as soon as the latter learned that the chief had flouted Noufal in favour of his own suit, and that the thunder-cloud of battle was arising against the wind, he offered the aid of a thousand of his warriors—an offer which was eagerly accepted. But the thousand he offered were not a third part of the warriors at his call.
The way of war was paved. Before noon a host of Ibn Salám's warriors came riding in. Laylá, from her window, noted their brave array. Then, looking far out on to the desert, she saw the dust-cloud rising from the hoofs of an advancing host. 'Alas!' she cried, 'the heart that beats in my bosom is the cause of this. I love my father; I love Majnún: Destiny must choose between them.'
Destiny hath strange reversals. The shock and clash of battle dinned on her ears till near nightfall, when, with a heart divided between hope and fear, she saw clearly that Ibn's hosts could not hold their ground. The onslaughts of her father's foe were forcing them back. They scattered, and rallied, and scattered again. Those that were left retreated within the gates. The gates were battered down, and all was lost—or won. A herald advanced, offering terms of surrender. Laylá leaned from her window, listening. No word could she hear until her father, still defiant in the face of defeat, spoke in ringing tones.
'And, if I deliver not up my daughter, you will take her. Yea, but you will not take her alive. I have but to raise my hand and she will be slain. I have lost all, but my servants will still obey me: if I give the word, her dead body is yours for the asking.'
At this the chief of Yemen bade him hold his hand from committing this terrible deed.
'O chief of Basráh,' he said, 'I give thee one day to think about this matter. There are two sides to it: the one is that thou deliver up thy daughter to be given to my son to wife, so that there may be a bond of friendship between us; the other is that thou keep thy daughter and surrender thy sovereignty, retaining thy territories only in vassalage to me.'
With that the chief of Yemen and his ally, Noufal, withdrew, leaving Basráh to decide before dawn the following day.
Now, among Ibn Salám's messengers that he had sent out was one whose orders were to ride back, as if from Yemen, bringing word that he had discovered Majnún, who, having fled from his attendants in the night, was lying dead in the desert. This was not truth, but Ibn had reason to believe that it soon would be, for he had sent out others to find him and kill him. It was to his purpose that the false news should arrive quickly, for, on that, and the offer of a further host of warriors at his command, he hoped to gain Laylá's promise and strengthen her father's hand in the matter.
The victors had scarcely withdrawn when the messenger rode in, shouting the news to victors and vanquished alike. The chief of Yemen heard it and wept for his son. Noufal heard it and said, 'Laylá is nothing to us now; at dawn we shall dictate our own terms.' Ibn Salám and Laylá's father heard the news without grief, and Ibn said, 'Now there can be no obstacle to thy daughter's consent, for she is a woman, and must know that the living is more desirable than the dead. I have already helped thee, O Chief, and we have failed. But thy daughter has only to speak the word and a further host of my warriors—more than treble the number that fought to-day—will come out of the desert at my call. Half will come to aid our defence, and half will attack the hosts of Yemen from the desert. Thus your foes will be scattered like chaff in the wind. Go to thy daughter and show her now how a word from her will save thee from destruction and make thee great.'
The chief of Basráh went to his daughter, and, when Ibn heard sounds of a woman wailing, he knew that the false news of Majnún's death was believed. Long time the chief pleaded with Laylá, urging the uselessness of weeping for Majnún when, by accepting Ibn in marriage, she could save Basráh and make it a great kingdom. Then he spoke of her duty to him, her father, in this terrible plight, from which her word alone could save him; and Laylá saw, through her tears, that for her father's sake the sacrifice must be made; and through duty, not love, she mournfully pledged herself to Ibn Salám.
As soon as Ibn knew this he called some of his warriors and questioned them on the matter of his hosts in reserve.
'Four thousand,' he said, when he had heard their replies. 'The foe is but three thousand, and we are little more than one thousand.'
Then he gave orders to some chosen messengers and bade them steal forth secretly and deliver them to his generals. Half the four thousand was to arrive by night under cover of the mountains and be ready for battle at sunrise. The other half was to make a circuit of the desert and fall upon the foe from behind when the battle was at its hottest. On this sudden stroke he relied for complete victory.
And he was not wrong. When dawn broke over the desert, and the mountain peaks were flushed with sunrise fire, the dark shadows at the base were two thousand strong. There they waited hidden from the foe, while, as the sun rose, a herald came to the gates. In the name of Yemen, he dictated the terms of surrender without any condition in regard to Laylá.
The chief of Basráh laughed him to scorn. 'Go tell the chief of Yemen and his robber friend of the desert,' he said, 'that if they desire my domains they must take them by force of arms. Tell them that Basráh never surrenders: he prefers to live free, or to die fighting.'
The herald took back this proud answer of defiance. On hearing it Yemen wondered and questioned, but Noufal, who was a man of the desert, sudden in temper and quick to act, counselled an immediate attack.
The battle was joined. At the first shock came Ibn's two thousand warriors from their concealment, and the invaders fell back in astonishment. Yet they rallied again, and fiercely raged the fight between the opposing hosts, now equally matched in numbers. Laylá looked from her window in horror. She noted how the battle swayed this way, then that. And now it seemed that the foe was steadily gaining the mastery. But what was that in the distance of the desert? What was that, thrust forward from the desert? A great cloud of dust, quickly approaching. It drew near, its cause quickly outstripping it. A mighty host of warriors now shook the earth with the thunder of their horses' feet. They drew nearer. Now like a whirlwind they hurled themselves upon the invaders and bore them down like trodden wheat—sweeping the flying remainder of them like chaff to the four winds.
Yemen was slain. Noufal, flying from numbers on swifter steeds than his, laughed back at his pursuers, then slew himself, dying, as he had lived, at full gallop.
Basráh was victorious. That night Laylá was given by her father to Ibn Salám. That night, too, the chief of Basráh, having been previously wounded in the battle, died. Ibn ruled now over three vast territories welded into one. And, where he was king, Laylá was queen.
Years passed by, and Ibn and Laylá reigned in peace. The palace of her fathers was their abode, and the bird of paradise and the two white doves were often her companions, recalling to her heart a lost, but never-to-be-forgotten, love. The faithful Zeyd, who had wandered long in the desert searching in vain for his master, was now her servant.
One day news came secretly to Zeyd that Majnún, long mourned as dead, had returned disguised as a merchant from distant parts, and would be waiting for him at a certain spot on the outskirts of the desert at sunset. Zeyd said nothing of this to his mistress, but, unknown to her, he caught one of the doves and took it away with him to the meeting-place, for he reasoned that what had happened once would happen again with like result. Full of joy was the meeting between Majnún and Zeyd on the edge of the desert as the sun went down.
Now Laylá, when she repaired to her high chamber that evening, was astonished to find one of her doves missing. She sent the other forth to the great tree, thinking the two might return together, but presently it returned alone. Then, wondering greatly, she sat by the window, musing on the past: how, three years ago, the dove had returned after an absence, bearing a love-message from Majnún, and how she had met him again and again at the lovers' fountain in the forest. Alas! all was changed: Majnún was dead, and she was the wife of another. Her eyes filled with tears, and, bowing her head on her arms upon the window-sill, she wept silently.
For a long time she remained like this. Then, suddenly, she was aroused from her weeping by a sound. It was the 'coo, coo, coo' of the missing dove, and it came from the great tree. Immediately the other dove fanned her hair as it sped past her to its mate. It made her long for wings that she too might fly away and away to her lover.
Presently the two birds fluttered in at the window and came to her. What strange thing was this? There, wrapped round the leg of one was a small strip of soft parchment as on that night long ago. With trembling fingers she unfastened and read what was written thereon. It was from Majnún! He was alive and well! As before, the writing begged her to come that very night to the lovers' fountain at moonrise.
In her sudden joy at learning that her lover was alive and near at hand, Laylá forgot all, and, as the gibbous moon was already brightening the horizon, she arose and cloaked herself and stole down the stairway of the palace. She reached the side door unobserved. She passed out and closed it behind her. Her heart flew before her to Majnún, but suddenly, as she hastened, it rebounded swiftly and almost stopped beating. Her footsteps faltered and she clutched at a bough of a tree for support. Her husband! Her duty! Once she had given all for duty's sake: should she take it back now, and in this way? What would it mean? With Majnún's arms around her she would forget all—husband, duty, her people: all, all would be forgotten, and the step once taken could not be retraced. Alas! this was not the act of a wife! It was not the act of a queen! She groaned as she grasped the bough, and her body swayed with her spirit's woe as she then and there rejected her purpose and accepted her sorrow.
Slowly Laylá strengthened herself; then, like one in a dream, she turned and retraced her steps to the palace, no sigh, no sob escaping her. All that night she refused sleep or comfort, dry-eyed; and it was only when the dawn came that tears came too, to save her reason on its throne.
Majnún waited long by the lovers' fountain, and, at last, learning from Zeyd that his mistress had ventured forth and had returned, he went away, treasuring to his heart a love that could not give one glance without giving all; for, from Zeyd's story he knew this to be so. As Laylá had gone back to the palace, silent and strong, so Majnún set his face towards distant cities, praying ever that the years might bring surcease of woe, if not the rapture of the love of Laylá.
Two years passed by, and Fate stepped in. Ibn Salám fell stricken with a fever and died. The news spread far, and one day Majnún, in a distant city, looked up and heard that Laylá, the queen of Yemen and Basráh, was free. Swift, then, were the steeds that bore him to Yemen. But, remembering how she had twice sacrificed herself for duty, he forbore to approach her until the expiration of the prescribed term of widowhood—four moons and half a moon. This period he spent, alone and unknown, in an abode from which he could see the lights of Laylá's palace. His longing ate into his heart, and it was harder to bear than his former distraction, by which he had earned his name of Majnún ('mad with love'). But as, in the first instance, his reason had borne the strain, so now it bore the stress of all this weary waiting at the gates of Paradise.
Zeyd bore tidings of Laylá to Majnún, but from Majnún to Laylá no message passed until, on a day when the prescribed term had passed, Zeyd took word to her that Majnún would come to her at the palace at noon, or, according to her choice, wait for her at the lovers' fountain at two hours after sunset.
Zeyd brought back the delayed message: 'Noon has passed, but noon will come again—after this eventide.' Which was not unlike the answer Majnún had expected.
The saddest part of the history of these ill-destined lovers is yet to be told. Two hours after sunset Majnún kept the tryst. Two hours after sunset Laylá, her eyes smouldering with a pent-up fire, cloaked herself as of old and went out by the side door of the palace. There was no moon, but the stars shed a soft light upon the gardens. She passed among the trees; her heart beat fast and her breath came quick. The whole of her life seemed wrapped up in her two feet, which ran a hot race with each other. She reached the edge of the forest and paused, clasping her hands over her bosom. She must regain her breath to show Majnún how little she had hastened. Then, before she had regained it, she ran on, losing it the more. There was the fountain—the fountain where lovers had always met—she saw it sparkling in the starlight through the trees. Now she stood on the edge of the open space, the folds of her cloak parted, her masses of raven hair fallen loose, her breast heaving.
A figure darted from the fountain's side. She faltered forward, swaying. A moaning cry escaped her as Majnún caught her in a wild embrace.
Who knows if it was but a moment or a thousand years? Love has no dial. But that time-moment two hours after sunset was their swift undoing. At the touch of her lips upon his, Majnún's reason was wrenched away. At the touch of his lips upon hers, she swooned in his arms. He let her fall, and ran, shrieking, out of the forest and into the desert; shrieking her name, far into the desert.
'Laylá! Laylá! Laylá!'—his maniac cries echoed on and on until, in the hopeless waste of wilderness, he fell exhausted. But Zeyd, who had followed his voice, at last found him. Many a day and night he tended his master, but to no purpose. Joy had done what grief had failed to do: he was mad!
Laylá awoke from her swoon, and, hearing her own name repeated again and again,—that wild cry coming from farther and farther in the desert,—divined the truth and returned, slowly and wringing her hands, to the palace.
From time to time Zeyd sent news of Majnún and his undying love, which even his madness had failed to touch.
Day by day, and week by week, Laylá's eyes grew brighter and her cheeks paler. Slowly she pined away, and then she died of a broken heart. Her last words were a message to Majnún—a message of love that could not die, though it must quit the beautiful, unhappy house of clay in which it had suffered so much.
'And tell him,' she said, 'that my body shall be buried by the side of the fountain where he first clasped me in his arms. And tell him, too, these very words: 'Majnún, lift thine eyes! See, yonder are the Fields of Light, and a fountain springing in the sunshine—yonder—a fountain of eternal waters, where lovers meet, never to part again;—thou shalt find me there!' And with that she died, and her spirit sped on her parting thought to that place of lovers' meeting;—the immortal font of lovers' meeting.
Dawn was breaking on the desert when two figures came running. Each held the other by the hand, and on the face of one was that look which told how he had been driven mad by love. Majnún, outstripping Zeyd, left him to follow, and plunged into the forest. Soon he came to the open space in which the fountain played. Well he knew the spot where he had first clasped Laylá in his arms. There was now a newly made grave. Exhausted, not with running, but with love, madness, and grief, he flung himself upon it.
'Laylá! Laylá!' he moaned, with a heart-bursting pang. 'I will come soon—ah, soon! Hold thy shroud of night about thee! Hide thy beauty in the Fields of Light—until I find thee there!'
And, as the sun rose, Zeyd came and stood by the grave, gazing down upon his master through tears of grief;—gazing down upon the dead through bitter tears of grief.
From every land travellers came to see the emperor's palace and walk in the wonderful garden, but those who heard the Nightingale sing said, 'There is nothing here so entrancing as that song.' And these went away carrying the music in their hearts and the tale of it on their lips to tell in their own lands. Thus the wonder of the Nightingale was known afar, and learned men wrote books about it, describing at length the beauty of the emperor's palace and garden only as a fit setting for the crowning wonder of all—the bird whose entrancing song lifted all this earthly splendour to heaven. Many were the poems written and sung about the far-off Nightingale which filled and thrilled the woods with music by the deep-blue sea. The books and the poems went through the whole world, and of course many of them reached the emperor.
Sitting in his golden chair reading, he nodded his head with a smile of pleasure at the splendid descriptions of palace and garden and all they contained; but, when he read that all this splendour was of minor account compared to the glorious singing of a Nightingale in the woods by the sea, he sat up straight and said, 'A Nightingale? What is this? A wonder in my own home, my own garden—a wonder that travels afar and yet I have never heard of it till now! What strange things we read about in books, to be sure. But I'll soon settle the matter.'
With this he summoned his gentleman-in-waiting—a very important personage; so important, indeed, that when one of less importance dared to address him on even a matter more important than either of them, he would simply answer, 'Ph!'—which, as you know, means nothing at all.
'They say,' said the emperor, 'ahem! they say there is a wonderful bird here called a Nightingale, compared with whose delicious song my palace and garden are of small account. Why have I not been informed of this marvel?'
The gentleman-in-waiting protested that he knew nothing whatever of such a thing as a Nightingale—at least, he was certain it had never been presented at court.
'These books cannot all be wrong,' said the emperor; 'especially as they all agree in their accounts of it. It appears that the whole world knows what I am possessed of, and yet I have never known it myself till now. I command you to bring this rare bird here this evening to sing to me.'
The gentleman-in-waiting went off, well knowing what would happen if he failed to produce the bird in the time appointed. But how was it to be found? He ran up and down stairs and through all the corridors asking rapid questions of every one he could find, but not one knew anything about the Nightingale. 'Ha!' thought he, 'this thing is a myth, invented by writers to make their books more interesting.' And he ran back and told the emperor so.
'Nonsense!' cried the emperor. 'This book here was sent me by his powerful majesty the emperor of Japan, so it must be true—every word of it. I will give this bird my most gracious protection, but, as for those who fail to find it and bring it here to-night—well, if it is not forthcoming, I will have the whole court trampled upon after supper!'
'Tsing-pe!' said the gentleman-in-waiting, and hurried off. Up and down all the stairs, in and out all the corridors he ran again, and this time half the court ran with him, for the thought of being trampled upon got into their heels and there was no time to be wasted. Still, no one in court knew anything about the Nightingale with which all the outside world was so familiar. But at last they came to a poor little maid in the scullery. She knew all about it. 'Oh yes; the delightful Nightingale!' she cried. 'Of course I know it. Every evening I hear it sing in the wood by the seashore on my way home. Ah me! its music brings tears into my eyes and makes me feel as if my mother is kissing me.'
'Listen, little kitchen-maid!' said the gentleman-in-waiting, 'if you will lead us to the Nightingale I will give you permission to see the emperor dining to-night.'
She clapped her hands with glee at this, and very soon they were all following her on the way to the wood. As they ran a cow began to bellow loudly, and they stopped. 'That's it!' cried a young courtier. 'What a magnificent voice for so small a creature!'
'Nay, nay; that's a cow. We have not reached the place yet.' And the little maid hurried them on.
Presently the frogs of a neighbouring marsh raised a chorus of 'Koax! koax!'
'How beautiful!' cried the palace chaplain; 'more beautiful than the sound of church bells. This bird——'
'Nay, nay; those are frogs; but we are coming to the Nightingale soon.' And the little maid ran on. Then, suddenly, they all paused, breathless, beneath the trees, for the Nightingale had begun to sing.
'There it is! there it is!' cried the little kitchen-maid, pointing to the little gray bird among the branches. 'Listen!'
'Ph!' said the gentleman-in-waiting; 'what a common little object! I suppose meeting so many grand people from other lands has driven all its colours away. But it can——'
'Nightingale!' called the little kitchen-maid; 'our most gracious emperor wants you to sing to him to-night!'
'With all the pleasure in the world,' replied the bird, trilling out the most delightful notes.
'Extraordinary!' said the gentleman-in-waiting, who had perceived that the Nightingale was thinking, very naturally, that he was the emperor; and all the courtiers took up the word; for if he said 'Extraordinary!' instead of 'Ph!' surely the whole world had a perfect right to go into hysterics over such singing.
'My dear little Nightingale,' he said at last, 'I have the honour to command your attendance at court to-night to sing before the emperor.'
'I think it sounds best among the trees,' replied the Nightingale, 'but I will do my best to please the emperor.' And it fluttered down and perched on the little kitchen-maid's shoulder. Then away they went to the palace.
That evening the splendid abode of the emperor was a sight to see. The china walls and floors shone with the radiance of a thousand golden lamps; the corridors were decked with the rarest flowers from the garden, each with its little silver bell attached, so that when the breeze swept their subtle perfumes along the ways of the palace they rang a peal of joy.
In the great reception-room sat the emperor, and near by his side was a golden rod on which was perched the Nightingale. Every one was there, and all were dressed in their very best, for it was a time of rejoicing; the wonderful bird had been found, and the whole court had escaped being trampled upon. Even the little kitchen-maid, who had now been raised to the position of cook, was allowed to stand behind the door, where she could feast her wide eyes on the mighty emperor.
There was silence. Then the little gray bird began to sing. The emperor nodded approvingly; then, as a burst of glorious song came in liquid notes from the Nightingale and welled out into the palace, the emperor's eyes slowly filled with tears, which soon rolled down over his cheeks. Seeing this the bird sang more divinely still, so that all hearts were touched. The emperor wrung his hands with delight; he was so charmed that he said he would decorate the Nightingale: it should have his gold slipper to wear round its neck. But this the Nightingale declined gracefully, with thanks.
'I have seen tears in the eyes of the emperor,' it said, 'and that is sufficient reward.' Then it burst again into its sweet, melodious song.
The Nightingale soon became the one absorbing fashion. The ladies, when any one spoke to them, took water in their mouths, raised their heads and gurgled, thinking to imitate its song. The lackeys and chamber-maids, who are always the most difficult people to please, freely admitted they had nothing whatever against the bird; while the people of the town could think of nothing else but this new wonder of the palace. So great was their feeling on the matter that when two met in the street one would say, 'Night,' to which the other replied, 'Gale'; then they would sigh and pass on, perfectly understanding each other. Eleven different cheesemongers' children, who had the good luck to be born during this time, were named after the bird, but not one of these cheese-mites ever developed the semblance of a voice.
As for the Nightingale itself, it had indeed made a great sensation, and was accorded every honour. Living at court, it was assigned a special cage, with full liberty to walk out twice a day and once in the night. On these outings it was attended by twelve footmen, each holding a separate ribbon attached to its leg. You can imagine how the poor bird sang for joy when it got back to its cage again.
One day the emperor was sitting in his golden chair when a large parcel was brought to him bearing on the outside the word 'Nightingale.' Thinking it was another book on the subject he put it aside, but, when he came to open it later, he was astonished to find that it was no book, but an exquisite little work of art—an artificial Nightingale, just like the real one, but in place of gray feathers there were wonderful diamonds, and rubies, and sapphires. Round its neck was a ribbon on which was written, 'The emperor of Japan's Nightingale is a poor bird compared with the emperor of China's.'
On examination it was found that this splendid toy was meant to go. So it was wound up, and immediately it sang that extremely lovely thing which the real Nightingale had first sung to the emperor.
'How delightful!' cried everybody, and immediately the emperor summoned the messenger who had delivered the parcel, and there and then created him Imperial Nightingale-Carrier in Chief.
'Now,' said the emperor, as the I.N.-C.C. withdrew, 'the two birds must sing together. What a duet we shall have!'
But the duet was not a great success, for the real Nightingale sang with its soul in its throat, while the other merely sang with the machinery it was stuffed with. They did not get on at all well together. But the music master explained all this quite easily, saying that their voices, though of equal merit, were of widely different quality, and each could be heard to best advantage alone. As to time and tune and dramatic attack, he said, there was nothing to choose between them.
So the toy bird had to sing alone, and everybody said the music master was right; there was nothing to choose between the two, unless it was that the toy bird's coat was a blaze of dazzling jewels, while that of the other was a gray drab—common in the extreme. The toy bird sang just as well, and, besides, it was much prettier to look at.
When the new Nightingale had sung the same tune thirty-three times and the courtiers wanted still to hear the tune again, the emperor said, 'No; the real bird must have its turn now.' But the real bird was nowhere to be found: it had flown out at the open window, back to its own woods by the side of the deep-blue sea.
'What does this mean?' cried the emperor.
The gentleman-in-waiting stepped forward.
'It means, your Majesty,' he said, 'it means, I'm afraid, that it was an ungrateful bird, but still clever enough to give place to its betters.'
And then, when all were agreed that they had got the better bird, the toy Nightingale sang the same tune again, for the thirty-fourth time, because, though they had heard it so often, they did not know it thoroughly even yet: it was so very difficult.
The music master was loud in his praises of the bird. He extolled it inside as well as out, saying that it was not only beautiful and valuable, but that its works were perfect. The real bird sang what it liked, but here one could choose a given tune and hear it sung. The whole thing was far more perfect than the real. The court agreed with him, and the emperor was prevailed upon to let the people hear the toy bird sing on the following Sunday.
When Sunday came the whole town assembled before the palace, and, when they heard the bird sing, they were as excited as if they had drunk themselves merry on tea, which is a way they have in China. All except the poor fisherman, who had so often paused from his toil to listen to the real Nightingale. 'It is a very good imitation,' said he; 'but it lacks something, I can't say what.' And the little kitchen-maid, who was now a real cook, said nothing, but stole away in sadness to the wood, where she knew that she would hear the real music that she loved.
Following the opinion of the people the emperor banished the real Nightingale from the kingdom, and placed the toy bird on a silken cushion close to his bed, with the gifts of gold and jewels it had received arranged around it. And he promoted it to the rank of 'Chief Imperial Singer of the Bed-Chamber,' class one, on the left side; that is to say, nearest the heart, for even an emperor's heart is on the left side. And he gave the music master royal permission to write a work of five-and-twenty volumes about the bird, which no one has ever read to this day, because it is so tremendously difficult; but you would not find any one in China who would not claim to have mastered it thoroughly, since they one and all object to be thought stupid and to have their bodies trampled upon.
For a whole year the artificial bird ground out its mechanical tunes. They were even set to music by the skilled men of the time, and the people sang them in their homes. On great public festivals, when the bird sang before delighted multitudes, they would raise their voices and join in the chorus. It was a great success. But one night, when the bird was singing its best by the emperor's bedside, something inside the toy went 'whizz.' Then, with a grating catch and a snap, the main crank broke: 'whirr' went all the wheels, and the music stopped.
The emperor immediately summoned the Chief Winder of the Imperial Singer of the Bed-Chamber, and he, with the assistance of the skilled workmen of his department, managed, in less than seven days and nights of talk and toil, to put the works right again; but, he said, the inside of the bird was not what it used to be, and, unless it was used very sparingly, say once a year, he hesitated to say what might happen in the end.
This was a terrible blow to China! The bird could only sing once a year, but, on that great annual occasion, it was listened to with long-pent-up enthusiasm; and, at the end of the concert, the music master made a speech, in which he used none but the most difficult words, to prove that the bird was still as good as ever, in fact even better, and that his saying so made it so.
Five years passed away, during which time the bird sang five times; and then a great grief fell upon the nation. The emperor lay dying. The physicians came and went, shaking their heads: they gave no hope. The gentleman-in-waiting, when questioned by the people as to the state of their emperor, merely answered 'Ph!' So bad was the outlook that already a new emperor had been chosen, and the whole court hurried to congratulate him.
The old emperor lay pale and still in his gorgeous bed, but he was not dead. While the courtiers were jostling each other in their efforts to catch the eye of the emperor-elect; while the lackeys were running hither and thither exchanging the news, and the chamber-maids giving a grand coffee-party, the old emperor's spark of life flickered and flickered. Through a high open window the moon shone in upon the bed with its velvet hangings and heavy golden tassels; upon the pale face of the emperor; upon the jewelled bird by his side. Now he gasped for breath: there was something heavy on his chest. With a great effort he opened his eyes, and there, sitting upon him, he saw Death, wearing his own golden crown, with his own golden sword in one hand, and in the other his own imperial banner. Death grinned as he settled himself more heavily. Then, as the emperor still struggled for breath, he saw, peering at him round the folds of the bed-hangings, the faces of all the deeds he had ever committed. Some were hideous as they hissed, 'Do you remember?' Others were sweet and loving as they murmured, 'Do you remember?' And then, while they told him in one breath all that he had ever done, good and bad, Death sat heavier and heavier upon him, nodding his head at all they had to say.
The perspiration streamed down the emperor's face. At last he shrieked aloud, 'This is unbearable! Sound the drums! Give me music to drown their voices!' Then he said to the bird by his side, 'You precious little bird—golden bird with your coat of jewels—sing, sing! I have given you everything; I have even hung my golden slipper round your neck,—now sing, I command you, sing!'
But there was no response. The bird stood there, a dumb thing: you see, it could not sing because there was nobody there to wind it up. Then, as Death fastened his empty sockets upon him, a terrible silence fell. Deeper and deeper it grew, and the emperor could hear nothing but the beating of Death's heart—his own would soon be silent.
Suddenly through the open window came a lovely burst of song. Radiant, sparkling as a shower of pearls, the living notes of rarest melody fell within the silent chamber. It was the Nightingale, perched on a branch outside—the Nightingale as God had made it, singing the song that God had taught it. It had heard the emperor's call, and had come to bring him comfort.
Slowly, slowly, as it sang divinely, the faces that peered round the velvet folds grew wan. Pale Death himself started, and turned still paler with wonder and amazement. 'How beautiful!' he said; 'sing on, little bird, thrilling with life!'
'Lay down the imperial banner,' answered the Nightingale; 'lay down the golden sword; lay down the emperor's crown.'
'Agreed!' And the mighty snatcher, Death, laid down these treasures for the price of a song. The Nightingale went on singing. And it sang as it flitted from bough to bough, until it reached the quiet churchyard where the grass grows green upon the graves, where the roses bloom living on the breast of death, and the cypress points to the immortal skies. There on the cypress' topmost twig it perched and sang a song so rich and rare, so far-reaching, that it touched the heart of Death sitting on the chest of the emperor,—for, after all, Death has a tender heart. Filled with a longing for his own garden, melted by the Nightingale's song, he vanished in a cold, grey mist,—out at the window.
Soon came the Nightingale fluttering with delight above the emperor's bed. Then it perched by the side of the toy bird, and the emperor looked, and knew at last the difference between the natural and the artificial. He knew, too, that he ought to have known it before.
'You heavenly little bird!' he said. 'Welcome back to my heart! I banished you from my kingdom, but you heard my call and returned to charm away those evil visions, and even Death himself. Thanks! A world of thanks! How can I ever repay you?' Tears shone in the emperor's eyes.
'I am already repaid,' said the Nightingale. 'When first I sang to you I saw tears in your eyes, and now I see them again. Those are the jewels that I wear in my heart, not upon my coat. But sleep now; you must get well. Sleep—I will sing you to sleep!'
So the little bird sang, and the emperor fell into a healing sleep. In the morning, when the sun shone in at the window, he awoke refreshed and well. Where were his attendants? None was there: they were all busy running after the emperor-elect. But the Nightingale was there, perched on the window-sill, singing divinely.
'Little Nightingale,' said the emperor tenderly, 'you must come and stay with me always. You shall sing only when you like; and, as to this toy bird here, I will smash it in a thousand bits.'
'Oh! you mustn't do that,' replied the real bird, 'it did its best, and, after all, it is a pretty thing. Keep it always by you. I can't come to live in the palace, but let me come whenever I like and sit in the tree outside your window and sing to you in the evening. I will sing you songs to make you happy, to cheer and comfort you. And sometimes I will sing of those who suffer, to make you sad, and then you will long to help them. I will sing of many things unknown to you in your great wide kingdom, for the little gray bird flies far and wide, from the roof-tree of the humblest peasant to the bed of the mighty emperor. Yes, I will come very often—but—but will you promise me one thing?'
'I will promise you anything, little bird.' The emperor had risen from his bed; he now stood by the window in his imperial robes, and the jewels in the golden crown upon his head flashed and sparkled in the moonlight. Taking his heavy sword he pressed the golden hilt against his heart as he repeated, 'anything—anything!'
'It is just one little thing,' said the Nightingale. 'Never let any one know that you have a little gray bird who tells you everything. It is far better.'
With that the Nightingale skipped to a branch of the tree, trilled a long trill, and then, in the grey light of dawn, flew off to her nest.
When the courtiers and attendants came in to view the body of their late master, he was still standing by the window in his imperial robes. They gasped in horror at missing their grief.
'Good morning!' said the emperor.