The Nightingale

The Nightingale by H.C. Andersen With illustrations, prologue and epilogue by Esben Hanefelt Kristensen Illustrations: Esben Hanefelt Kristensen · Photograph: Lars Horn The Nightingale translated by Susannah Mary Paull Prologue and epilogue translated by Knud Hanefelt Kristensen Graphic design: Claus Nielsen © Esben Hanefelt Kristensen and Eksistensen 2018 1. edition Eksistensen Frederiksberg Allé 10 1820 Frederiksberg C www.eksistensen.dk Denmark Printed by GPS ISBN: 978-87-410-0555-3 All rights reserved.

H.C. Andersen

The Nightingale With illustrations, prologue and epilogue

by Esben Hanefelt Kristensen

Eksistensen

Prologue God in his infinite greatness still wanted to be Creator. So, he caused a mighty commotion to happen. In a vast blast, the emptiness became a universe of endless spiral galaxies, super star clusters, constellations, suns and supernovas, spheres and their satellites, asteroids, comets, and cosmic dust. Everything in this tumult knew its place and plotted course, down to the faintest falling star. Out of nothing came all manner of thing because God holds all in his being and all in his sway. Nothing is too great, and nothing, too small; everything is borne in mind and brought to bear from the very beginning.

Now, the Creator neither slumbered nor slept but tinkered to his heart’s content with the whole of his design. He so loved his creation that he made it boundless and beyond measure, so that his hands would be forever full.

On his eternal travels out of time and space, he had reached a quiet corner of the far-flung Milky Way where once he had set a sun, a brilliant star circled by eight extraordinary orbs in each their laid down lane. The third orb beamed brightly blue when poised in the light of the sun. So dear to him was the sapphire sphere that he had returned to resume his labour of love. He named the orb Earth and decided to populate it with life in all its forms. This was no mean task, you can well imagine. He would stay for 4

six aeons and several million years to complete his masterpiece and only then again be on his way.

God wanted the azure sky to be filled with birds of all breeds in free-­ flying flocks. When ready to fashion their forms, he raised a towering arc in the clouds, a rainbow with which to adorn their feather coats. He gently held each bird in his skilled hands and dipped it in just the shade he had imagined. To play with all the heavenly hues may have been his greatest delight in many a million year, but he was careful not to squander them, or, you see, they would not last.

The parrots and their parakeet kin had more than their part of the prism. The cockerel’s comb and the peafowl’s plumes – they too had come at a cost. For the owl, then, economies were in order, but reparations made with a giant, gyrating head and erudite, all-seeing eyes to pierce a hundred midnights. Quickest and keenest among them was the falcon, most mighty and regal, the eagle. So powerful was the eagle that it could soar with the wind to the end of the world and never look back. The hoopoe won its crown but not to wear lightly. “Uneasy lies the head ...”

Fast fading, the rainbow was barely there to see, and then, with the kingfisher next, things went badly wrong. The feisty fowl slipped the Creator’s hands and fluttered in and out of the great prism again and again.

When the Lord finally caught hold of it, he saw that it had become the shiniest and most colourful of all his birds. For its impudence, he plunged it into the nearest lake. There, forevermore, it could forage for itself and 7

its brood. Next time you come across it, see how its feathers scatter the light and remember how this rogue came by its riches.

The rainbow was finally drained of all its colours. But still there remained a tiny thrush, huddling unhappily in the farthest corner, abashed at being the most ordinary of all the creatures of the air. God lifted up the little bird and held it close. It trembled at being in such mighty hands and disgraced itself from sheer fright. The Lord laughed and soon forgot the mess, and since that day, whenever a bird hits the bull’s-eye, rest assured fortunes are made.

God blessed the little bird and said, “Your name shall be Nightingale.

You shall bring joy to the world with your chant. Potentates shall pause at your tuneful bidding, and poets, pen fables in your praise. Nestle now in that oak and sing me your sunset song.�

So it happened. And soon after, the bird had flown.

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