Соловей

           ’Buttheywentonandon,andDeathsatnoddinghishead,justlikeaChinaman,ateverythingthatwassaid.’Music,music!’shriekedtheemperor.’Youpreciouslittlegoldenbird,sing,sing!Ihaveloadedyouwithpreciousstones,andevenhungmyowngoldenslipperroundyourneck;sing,Itellyou,sing!’Butthebirdstoodsilent;therewasnobodytowinditup,soofcourseitcouldnotgo.Deathcontinuedtofixthegreatemptysocketsofhiseyesuponhim,andallwassilent,soterriblysilent.Suddenly,closetothewindow,therewasaburstoflovelysong;itwasthelivingnightingale,perchedonabranchoutside.Ithadheardoftheemperor’sneed,andhadcometobringcomfortandhopetohim.Asitsangthefacesroundbecamefainterandfainter,andthebloodcoursedwithfreshvigourintheemperor’sveinsandthroughhisfeeblelimbs.EvenDeathhimselflistenedtothesongandsaid,’Goon,littlenightingale,goon!’’Yes,ifyougivemethegorgeousgoldensword;yes,ifyougivemetheimperialbanner;yes,ifyougivemetheemperor’scrown.’AndDeathgavebackeachofthesetreasuresforasong,andthenightingalewentonsinging.Itsangaboutthequietchurchyard,whentherosesbloom,wheretheelderflowerscentstheair,andwherethefreshgrassisevermoistenedanewbythetearsofthemourner.ThissongbroughttoDeathalongingforhisowngarden,and,likeacoldgreymist,hepassedoutofthewindow.