Long, long ago, in the earliest days of the world, there lived a nightingale who had built his nest in the branches of a peach tree. Every day he sang to celebrate the beauty of all living things. At the foot of the tree lived a very gentle snake — today his kind are known as blind snakes, but back then he still had one eye. The snake adored the nightingale's clear, sweet song. He would often coil himself at the foot of the tree, or stretch out in the sun, to savor the nightingale's enchanting voice. In those days, the nightingale too had only a single eye, set in the middle of his forehead.
One day, a butterfly with beautiful wings of five colors, who lived nearby, came to invite the nightingale to a wedding. Knowing how beautiful, graceful, and light he was, and forever praised for it, the butterfly had grown quite proud. He never once looked down, and so knew nothing of the snake living on the ground below. The nightingale's song had, many times before, made the butterfly's wings feel gentler and more graceful still, and so he was determined to invite the nightingale, so that his song might lend the wedding feast an even greater splendor.
Flattered by such a warm invitation, the nightingale felt very proud at first, but soon grew anxious: looking himself over, he found his feathers dreadfully plain, and feared no one would notice him at the wedding of the brilliantly colored butterfly. So he went and poured out his worries to the gentle snake. Having heard him out, the snake said:
— With a voice like yours, why worry about going unnoticed? I'm certain that the moment you begin to sing, no one will spare a glance for the butterfly's brilliant wings, or even for the swan's snow-white feathers. Everyone will be enchanted by your song, and no one will pay any mind to your plain feathers. The butterfly invited you precisely because your voice is so lovely. Go with an easy heart, and don't be afraid.
Though the snake spoke these words, the nightingale's worry did not fully ease, and at last he said:
— If only I had two eyes, perhaps I'd be more handsome. This one eye in the middle of my forehead makes me look fierce, and somehow, wretched.
— With a voice like yours, who would dare call you wretched?
— But what is there in my appearance that could draw anyone's attention? If only you were willing to help me…
— I love your song so much that whatever help you need, I'm ready to give it.
— All I need is to borrow your eye for a single day, to go to the wedding. You're only lying here in the sun — you hardly need your eye for that…
The snake shook his head and said:
— That won't do. I have only one eye too, just like you. If I lend it to you, how will I find my way?
— But I'll only borrow it for one day. As soon as the feast ends that evening, I'll bring it straight back to you. While you wait, just stay here and sleep. If you truly love my song, please help me just this once…
The nightingale kept pleading and begging, his voice growing ever softer and more moving, until the snake was touched and gave in, agreeing to lend him his eye for the day of the butterfly's wedding.
On a warm, sunny morning, while a thin mist still lay over the forest, the nightingale hurried to smooth his feathers until they shone, ready for the wedding. With that extra eye, the world seemed even more beautiful to him. As he flew off, happier and more pleased with himself than ever before, the snake, now blind, timid, and afraid, hid himself among the dry leaves at the foot of the peach tree, waiting for the nightingale to return and give him back his sight.
When the nightingale arrived at the butterfly's home, he heard the guests greeting and congratulating one another, but no one paid any attention to the small, plain-looking nightingale.
Then the butterfly invited the nightingale to sing, and only then did the assembled creatures take notice of him. His song, elegant and clear, hushed the whole gathering into rapt silence. He sang with his whole heart and soul, and everyone was left spellbound, as if under a charm. The pure notes carried all the way to the snake, who smiled to himself, thinking that he too had a part to play in that joyful occasion.
When the song ended, everyone was won over, and from that moment on, all the creatures crowded around to praise the nightingale's feathers and his voice. No one forgot to admire his beautiful eyes, either.
Now that he was so widely celebrated, the nightingale not only failed to admit that he truly had only one eye, and that the other belonged to the snake, but went even further and made up a story:
— At the foot of the tree where I live, there's a snake who has been blind since the day he was born. Sad and weary of life, he has thought more than once of ending it, but my songs have always managed to comfort him. Poor thing — every day I must bring him food and sing to soothe him.
Everyone was moved by the nightingale's generosity and compassion.
It was late at night before the nightingale finally returned home, still hearing in his ears the thunder of applause and the warm words of praise.
Back at the foot of the peach tree, the nightingale found the snake asleep, lying in the soft, pale glow of the night. Seeing this, he did not wake him, telling himself there would be no harm in returning the eye the next day. He went back to his nest meaning to sleep soundly, but though he lay there a long while, sleep would not come. A thousand thoughts crowded his mind: he was now famous and celebrated throughout the world; if he gave back the eye, he would be confessing to every creature that he had only one eye of his own, and that the other had merely been borrowed — and then what would become of the fame he had worked so hard to build? Besides, with two eyes, the world looked so much wider and more beautiful than it had with only one. To give up all that glory and become as ordinary as before — he found he did not have the courage for it. Perhaps he could simply ask the snake to let him keep the eye for good, but he quickly realized the snake would never agree to remain blind forever. Still, he reasoned, the snake almost never left that one spot, and even when he did crawl about, he hardly needed to see very much. Slowly, a wicked thought crept into the nightingale's mind.
If I simply don't give it back, there's nothing he can do to make me — he's blind now, after all.
With that thought, the nightingale resolved to keep his friend's eye for himself. That very night, he moved away in secret and did everything he could to avoid the snake from then on.
The poor snake groped and crawled about, searching everywhere for the nightingale to ask for his eye back. Wherever he heard the nightingale singing, he struggled to make his way there, despite how hard it was for him to crawl and the many obstacles he met along the way in his search for the disloyal, ungrateful friend. But sadly, every time the nightingale so much as glimpsed the snake, he flew off at once, leaving the poor creature bewildered in his pitiful blindness.
One night, while the nightingale lay fast asleep in his cozy nest, he was suddenly startled awake by the faintest sound. A chill ran through him when he saw the blind snake's head feeling its way toward him. He let out a cry of terror and flew off to hide somewhere else.
— From that night on, neither peaceful sleep nor peace of mind ever came to him again. The blind snake never stopped searching for the nightingale, seeking to reclaim the eye he had lent in full trust, only to have it stolen from him so cruelly.
Unwilling to return the eye, the nightingale had to stay constantly on guard. By day he could rest easy, for the snake knew that daylight let the nightingale see everything clearly; so the snake waited for nightfall, hoping to creep close to him while he slept soundly and force him, by surprise, to give the eye back.
Knowing what the snake intended, the nightingale made up his mind never to sleep on fine, clear nights. During the cold season and the rainy season, however, he could sleep undisturbed, for in those seasons the snake, fearing the cold, dared not crawl outside.
Come spring, the nightingale flew and sang the whole night through, so that he would not grow drowsy and could keep watch for the blind snake.
That is why, on spring nights, we so often hear the nightingale's song rising, lulling our souls into dreams; we smile, our hearts stirred by that pure, elegant voice — never knowing that the song celebrates a joy with no true foundation, forever under threat, a fragile happiness tinged with a trace of remorse that gnaws quietly at the soul.
Bảo Liên
Whoever seeks happiness for themselves by destroying the happiness of others will never find happiness.