Part 3

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.

THE NIGHTINGALE

AFTER A FAIRY TALE BY HANS ANDERSEN

THERE was no more beautiful thing in the world than the palace of the emperor of China. It was built of the very finest porcelain, delicate and fragile as an egg-shell. The people, high and low, who dwelt in that palace moved with the utmost grace and care lest they should break anything, and in this they had more admiration for the extreme beauty of the place than fear of being trampled upon by the emperor for any damage caused by clumsiness. The palace garden was so big that not even the head gardener could tell you where it ended. It contained the most wonderful flowers; every here and there among the glorious blooms was one more rare than its neighbours; and, as if to attract your attention to its splendour, each had attached to it a little silver bell which tinkled melodiously in the hands of every passing zephyr. Miles and miles and miles of beautiful trees and flowers, with smooth lawns and sparkling fountains; and always, if you wished, you could turn off into a delightful wood which skirted the garden and led down a gentle slope to the sea, where, on the brink, the trees were so high and spreading, and the blue water beneath so suddenly deep and still, that great ships could shelter there in the shade. And in this wonderful wood lived a _Nightingale_ which sang so deliciously that all who heard it stood rooted to the spot. Never had such music been heard before in any wood in the world. Even the poor fisherman, busy with his nets in the bay, would pause in his work to listen. 'Heavens, how beautiful that song is!' he would say; and, night after night, when the bird sang he would forget his toil to murmur, 'How beautiful! how beautiful!'

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!'

[Illustration: EVEN THE POOR FISHERMAN WOULD PAUSE IN HIS WORK TO LISTEN p. 29]

'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.