They liked to look at it, shining
like bracelets and breastpins. The real Nightingale was banished from
the empire. The artificial bird had its place on a silk cushion close
to the Emperor's bed.
All the presents it received, gold and precious stones, were ranged
about it. It had a title, High Imperial After-Dinner-Singer. It was
certainly famous.
So a whole year went by, and then five years. The Emperor was ill and
could not, it was said, live much longer. He lay on his gorgeous bed
with long velvet cushions and heavy gold tassels. High up a window
stood open, and the moon shone in upon the Emperor and the artificial
bird.
The Emperor could scarcely breathe. It was just as if something lay
upon his heart. He opened his eyes and then he saw that it was Death
who sat upon his heart, and had put on his golden crown and held the
Emperor's sword. And all around, from among the folds of the splendid
curtains, strange heads peered forth, some ugly, and some quite lovely
and mild. They were the Emperor's bad and good deeds that stood before
him, now that Death sat upon his heart.
"Music! Music!" cried the Emperor, "so that I need not hear what they
say! You little precious golden bird, sing, sing!"
But the bird stood still. It was worn out inside, and there was no
music left in it.
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