“So he sent for the bird to sing at his court. And everyone loved the bird’s song so much that the emperor decreed that she should live at his court in a golden cage and sing for them every night. And she was only allowed to fly outside the cage with twelve courtiers holding on to her with silken ribbons.”
I was relieved to see that Grandfather refrained from denouncing this shocking example of animal abuse, contenting himself with frowning thunderously.
“And then the Emperor of Japan, the Chinese emperor’s arch rival, sent him another nightingale—a clockwork one, encrusted with gold and jewels. And even though it always sang the same song, the golden nightingale was so ingenious, and so beautiful compared to the plain brown nightingale—”
“Sounds perfectly ghastly to me, actually,” Grandfather said. “Give me the real thing any time.”
“—that they lost interest in the real nightingale, and forgot to close the door to her cage, and she flew away back to the forest.”
“Excellent.” Grandfather nodded with approval, clearly assuming this was the fairy tale’s obligatory happy ending.
“But the emperor played the golden nightingale so much that it began to wear out,” Ivy went on. “And the watchmaker called in to fix it couldn’t. He warned the emperor that every time it sang could be its last. So they put the golden nightingale on a pedestal and only played it once a year. And the emperor began to pine away and grew sick, and all his courtiers and servants deserted him to flatter the one who would be the next emperor.”
I had been watching Ivy’s careful brushstrokes, but I suddenly realized that Grandfather had stopped interrupting. I glanced up and saw that he was intent on Ivy’s words. Probably more worried about the real nightingale than the emperor, but still.
“The real nightingale heard of the emperor’s illness and came to perch on a branch outside his window to sing to him,” Ivy went on. “She found Death sitting on the emperor’s chest, and she sang so beautifully that she charmed Death into leaving. And the emperor promised her anything she wanted as a reward. And she asked only that she be allowed to stay free and to perch on the branch and sing to him every night of what was happening in his kingdom.”
“No more cages?” Grandfather asked.
“He’d learned his lesson,” Ivy said.
“So they lived happily ever after,” Grandfather said. “They always do in fairy tales.”
“Not always in Andersen,” Ivy said. “Some of his are downright depressing. But I imagine the emperor and the nightingale lived happily for a good long while. The story actually ends with the emperor saying good morning to all the servants who had run out on him the night before. Leaves it to your imagination what happens next.”
She’d been working all this time on the emperor, and I had to smother a giggle when I realized that she’d given him Grandfather’s face. There he sat, incongruously dressed in elaborate court robes and sitting on a bejeweled golden throne, his face rapt with wonder as he listened to the nightingale that was perched near the ceiling.
“Very nice,” Grandfather said. “You’ve got the nightingale pretty accurately. But I’m not sure about the foliage. Doesn’t look like anything that would grow in China. I can recommend a nice botanist if you’d like some accurate information.”
“Ah, but I’m not trying to portray real Chinese foliage,” Ivy said. “Andersen was a Victorian, a child of poverty, and a native of the frozen north. I’m painting the China of his imagination.”
Grandfather didn’t try to argue with her, and we both stood there for quite a while watching Ivy paint, until we heard Caroline calling downstairs.
“Monty? We’re leaving. Where’s that old fool got to now?”
“On my way,” Grandfather said. And then nodding to Ivy, he said, “Nice bird.”
Then he ambled back downstairs and left.
Vermillion appeared out of her room. She paused as if she’d like to watch Ivy, then nodded to us and left. I noticed, as I always did, her elegant, expensive-looking coffin-shaped black leather purse. But I waited until the door had closed behind her downstairs before saying what came into my mind whenever I saw the purse.
“She’s got to be putting us on,” I said.
“Vermillion?” Ivy looked puzzled. “What do you mean?”
“Everything she does is over the top,” I said. “The coffin sofa, the Spanish moss, the bats, and most of all that coffin purse. Would a real Goth actually carry a coffin-shaped purse?”
“I’m not sure a real Goth would carry anything else,” Ivy said. “And it’s very nicely made. Your mother says she has a good eye. ‘If she ever gives up this macabre obsession with death and spiderwebs she could be quite a good designer.’”