thought he was dead, and every one ran away to pay homage to his
successor. The chamberlains went out to have a talk on the matter, and
the ladies'-maids invited company to take coffee. Cloth had been
laid down on the halls and passages, so that not a footstep should
be heard, and all was silent and still. But the emperor was not yet
dead, although he lay white and stiff on his gorgeous bed, with the
long velvet curtains and heavy gold tassels. A window stood open,
and the moon shone in upon the emperor and the artificial bird. The
poor emperor, finding he could scarcely breathe with a strange
weight on his chest, opened his eyes, and saw Death sitting there.
He had put on the emperor's golden crown, and held in one hand his
sword of state, and in the other his beautiful banner. All around
the bed and peeping through the long velvet curtains, were a number of
strange heads, some very ugly, and others lovely and gentle-looking.
These were the emperor's good and bad deeds, which stared him in the
face now Death sat at his heart.
"Do you remember this?" "Do you recollect that?" they asked one
after another, thus bringing to his remembrance circumstances that
made the perspiration stand on his brow.
"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."
THE END
.
1872
FAIRY TALES OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
THE OLD BACHELOR'S NIGHTCAP
by Hans Christian Andersen
THERE is a street in Copenhagen with a very strange name. It is
called "Hysken" street. Where the name came from, and what it means is
very uncertain. It is said to be German, but that is unjust to the
Germans, for it would then be called "Hauschen," not "Hysken."
"Hauschen," means a little house; and for many years it consisted only
of a few small houses, which were scarcely larger than the wooden
booths we see in the market-places at fair time. They were perhaps a
little higher, and had windows; but the panes consisted of horn or
bladder-skins, for glass was then too dear to have glazed windows in
every house. This was a long time ago, so long indeed that our
grandfathers, and even great-grandfathers, would speak of those days
as "olden times;" indeed, many centuries have passed since then.
The rich merchants in Bremen and Lubeck, who carried on trade in
Copenhagen, did not reside in the town themselves, but sent their
clerks, who dwelt in the wooden booths in the Hauschen street, and
sold beer and spices. The German beer was very good, and there were
many sorts- from Bremen, Prussia, and Brunswick- and quantities of all
sorts of spices, saffron, aniseed, ginger, and especially pepper;
indeed, pepper was almost the chief article sold here; so it
happened at last that the German clerks in Denmark got their
nickname of "pepper gentry." It had been made a condition with these
clerks that they should not marry; so that those who lived to be old
had to take care of themselves, to attend to their own comforts, and
even to light their own fires, when they had any to light. Many of
them were very aged; lonely old boys, with strange thoughts and
eccentric habits. From this, all unmarried men, who have attained a
certain age, are called, in Denmark, "pepper gentry;" and this must be
remembered by all those who wish to understand the story. These
"pepper gentlemen," or, as they are called in England, "old
bachelors," are often made a butt of ridicule; they are told to put on
their nightcaps, draw them over their eyes, and go to sleep. The
boys in Denmark make a song of it, thus:-
"Poor old bachelor, cut your wood,
Such a nightcap was never seen;
Who would think it was ever clean?
Go to sleep, it will do you good."
So they sing about the "pepper gentleman;" so do they make sport
of the poor old bachelor and his nightcap, and all because they really
know nothing of either. It is a cap that no one need wish for, or
laugh at. And why not? Well, we shall hear in the story.
In olden times, Hauschen Street was not paved, and passengers
would stumble out of one hole into another, as they generally do in
unfrequented highways; and the street was so narrow, and the booths
leaning against each other were so close together, that in the
summer time a sail would be stretched across the street from one booth
to another opposite. At these times the odor of the pepper, saffron,
and ginger became more powerful than ever. Behind the counter, as a
rule, there were no young men. The clerks were almost all old boys;
but they did not dress as we are accustomed to see old men
represented, wearing wigs, nightcaps, and knee-breeches, and with coat
and waistcoat buttoned up to the chin. We have seen the portraits of
our great-grandfathers dressed in this way; but the "pepper gentlemen"
had no money to spare to have their portraits taken, though one of
them would have made a very interesting picture for us now, if taken
as he appeared standing behind his counter, or going to church, or
on holidays. On these occasions, they wore high-crowned, broad-brimmed
hats, and sometimes a younger clerk would stick a feather in his.
The woollen shirt was concealed by a broad, linen collar; the close
jacket was buttoned up to the chin, and the cloak hung loosely over
it; the trousers were tucked into the broad, tipped shoes, for the
clerks wore no stockings. They generally stuck a table-knife and spoon
in their girdles, as well as a larger knife, as a protection to
themselves; and such a weapon was often very necessary.
After this fashion was Anthony dressed on holidays and
festivals, excepting that, instead of a high-crowned hat, he wore a
kind of bonnet, and under it a knitted cap, a regular nightcap, to
which he was so accustomed that it was always on his head; he had two,
nightcaps I mean, not heads. Anthony was one of the oldest of the
clerks, and just the subject for a painter. He was as thin as a
lath, wrinkled round the mouth and eyes, had long, bony fingers,
bushy, gray eyebrows, and over his left eye hung a thick tuft of hair,
which did not look handsome, but made his appearance very
remarkable. People knew that he came from Bremen; it was not exactly
his home, although his master resided there. His ancestors were from
Thuringia, and had lived in the town of Eisenach, close by Wartburg.
Old Anthony seldom spoke of this place, but he thought of it all the
more.
The old clerks of Hauschen Street very seldom met together; each
one remained in his own booth, which was closed early enough in the
evening, and then it looked dark and dismal out in the street. Only
a faint glimmer of light struggled through the horn panes in the
little window on the roof, while within sat the old clerk, generally
on his bed, singing his evening hymn in a low voice; or he would be
moving about in his booth till late in the night, busily employed in
many things. It certainly was not a very lively existence. To be a
stranger in a strange land is a bitter lot; no one notices you
unless you happen to stand in their way. Often, when it was dark night
outside, with rain or snow falling, the place looked quite deserted
and gloomy. There were no lamps in the street, excepting a very
small one, which hung at one end of the street, before a picture of
the Virgin, which had been painted on the wall. The dashing of the
water against the bulwarks of a neighboring castle could plainly be
heard. Such evenings are long and dreary, unless people can find
something to do; and so Anthony found it. There were not always things
to be packed or unpacked, nor paper bags to be made, nor the scales to
be polished. So Anthony invented employment; he mended his clothes and
patched his boots, and when he at last went to bed,- his nightcap,
which he had worn from habit, still remained on his head; he had
only to pull it down a little farther over his forehead. Very soon,
however, it would be pushed up again to see if the light was
properly put out; he would touch it, press the wick together, and at
last pull his nightcap over his eyes and lie down again on the other
side. But often there would arise in his mind a doubt as to whether
every coal had been quite put out in the little fire-pan in the shop
below. If even a tiny spark had remained it might set fire to
something, and cause great damage. Then he would rise from his bed,
creep down the ladder- for it could scarcely be called a flight of
stairs- and when he reached the fire-pan not a spark could be seen; so
he had just to go back again to bed. But often, when he had got half
way back, he would fancy the iron shutters of the door were not
properly fastened, and his thin legs would carry him down again. And
when at last he crept into bed, he would be so cold that his teeth
chattered in his head. He would draw the coverlet closer round him,
pull his nightcap over his eyes, and try to turn his thoughts from
trade, and from the labors of the day, to olden times. But this was
scarcely an agreeable entertainment; for thoughts of olden memories
raise the curtains from the past, and sometimes pierce the heart
with painful recollections till the agony brings tears to the waking
eyes. And so it was with Anthony; often the scalding tears, like
pearly drops, would fall from his eyes to the coverlet and roll on the
floor with a sound as if one of his heartstrings had broken.
Sometimes, with a lurid flame, memory would light up a picture of life
which had never faded from his heart. If he dried his eyes with his
nightcap, then the tear and the picture would be crushed; but the
source of the tears remained and welled up again in his heart. The
pictures did not follow one another in order, as the circumstances
they represented had occurred; very often the most painful would
come together, and when those came which were most full of joy, they
had always the deepest shadow thrown upon them.
