«She said
that she would dance with me if I brought her red roses,» cried the young
Student; «but in all my garden there is no red rose.»
From her nest in the hole-oak tree the
Nightingale heard him, and she looked out through the leaves, and wondered.
«No red rose in all my garden!» he cried, and his
beautiful eyes filled with tears. «Ah, on what little things does happiness
depend! I have read all that the wise men have written, and all the secrets of
philosophy are mine, yet for want of a red rose is my life made wretched.»
«Here at last is a true lover,» said the Nightingale.
«Night after night have I sung of him, though I knew him not: night after night
have I told his story to the stars, and now I see him. His hair is dark as the
hyacinth-blossom, and his lips are red as the rose of his desire; but passion
has made his face like pale ivory, and sorrow has set her seal upon his brow.»
«The Prince gives a ball tomorrow night,»
murmured the young Student, «and my love will be of the company. If I bring her
a red rose she will dance with me till dawn. If I bring her a red rose, I shall
hold her in my arms, and she will lean her head upon my shoulder, and her hand
will be clasped in mine. But there is no red rose in my garden, so I shall sit
lonely, and she will pass me by. She will have no heed of me, and my heart will
break.»
«Here indeed is the true lover,» said the
Nightingale. «What I sing of, he suffers — what is joy to me, to him is pain.
Surely Love is a wonderful thing. It is more precious than emeralds, and dearer
than fine opals. Pearls and pomegranates cannot buy it, nor is it set forth in
the marketplace. It may not be purchased of the merchants, nor can it be
weighed out in the balance for gold.»
«The musicians will sit in their gallery,» said
the young Student, «and play upon their stringed instruments, and my love will
dance to the sound of the harp and the violin. She will dance so lightly that
her feet will not touch the floor, and the courtiers in their gay dresses will
throng round her. But with me she will not dance, for I have no red rose to
give her»; and he flung himself down on the grass, and buried his face in his
hands, and wept.
«Why is he weeping?» asked a little Green Lizard,
as he ran past him with his tail in the air.
«Why, indeed?» said a Butterfly, who was
fluttering about after a sunbeam.
«Why, indeed?» whispered a Daisy to his
neighbour, in a soft, low voice.
«He is weeping for a red rose,» said the
Nightingale.
«For a red rose?» they cried; «how very
ridiculous!» and the little Lizard, who was something of a cynic, laughed
outright.
But the Nightingale understood the secret of the
Student’s sorrow, and she sat silent in the oak-tree, and thought about the
mystery of Love.
Suddenly she
spread her brown wings for flight, and soared into the air. She passed through
the grove like a shadow, and like a shadow she sailed across the garden.
In the centre of
the grass-plot was standing a beautiful Rose-tree, and when she saw it she flew
over to it, and lit upon a spray.
«Give me a red
rose,» she cried, «and I will sing you my sweetest song.»
But the Tree shook
its head.
«My roses are
white,» it answered; «as white as the foam of the sea, and whiter than the snow
upon the mountain. But go to my brother who grows round the old sun-dial, and
perhaps he will give you what you want.»
So the Nightingale
flew over to the Rose-tree that was growing round the old sun-dial.
«Give me a red
rose,» she cried, «and I will sing you my sweetest song.»
But the Tree shook
its head.
«My roses are
yellow,» it answered; «as yellow as the hair of the mermaiden who sits upon an
amber throne, and yellower than the daffodil that blooms in the meadow before
the mower comes with his scythe. But go to my brother who grows beneath the
Student’s window, and perhaps he will give you what you want.»
So the Nightingale
flew over to the Rose-tree that was growing beneath the Student’s window.
«Give me a red
rose,» she cried, «and I will sing you my sweetest song.»
But the Tree shook
its head.
«My roses are
red,» it answered, «as red as the feet of the dove, and redder than the great
fans of coral that wave and wave in the ocean-cavern. But the winter has
chilled my veins, and the frost has nipped my buds, and the storm has broken my
branches, and I shall have no roses at all this year.»
«One red rose is
all I want,» cried the Nightingale, «only one red rose! Is there no way by
which I can get it?»
«There is away,»
answered the Tree; «but it is so terrible that I dare not tell it to you.»
«Tell it to me,»
said the Nightingale, «I am not afraid.»
«If you want a red
rose,» said the Tree, «you must build it out of music by moonlight, and stain
it with your own heart’s-blood. You must sing to me with your breast against a
thorn. All night long you must sing to me, and the thorn must pierce your
heart, and your life-blood must flow into my veins, and become mine.»
«Death is a great
price to pay for a red rose,» cried the Nightingale, «and Life is very dear to
all. It is pleasant to sit in the green wood, and to watch the Sun in his
chariot of gold, and the Moon in her chariot of pearl. Sweet is the scent of
the hawthorn, and sweet are the bluebells that hide in the valley, and the
heather that blows on the hill. Yet Love is better than Life, and what is the
heart of a bird compared to the heart of a man?»
So she spread her
brown wings for flight, and soared into the air. She swept over the garden like
a shadow, and like a shadow she sailed through the grove.
The young Student
was still lying on the grass, where she had left him, and the tears were not
yet dry in his beautiful eyes.
«Be happy,» cried
the Nightingale, «be happy; you shall have your red rose. I will build it out
of music by moonlight, and stain it with my own heart’s-blood. All that I ask
of you in return is that you will be a true lover, for Love is wiser than
Philosophy, though she is wise, and mightier than Power, though he is mighty.
Flame- coloured are his wings, and coloured like flame is his body. His lips
are sweet as honey, and his breath is like frankincense.»
The Student looked up from the grass, and
listened, but he could not understand what the Nightingale was saying to him,
for he only knew the things that are written down in books.
But the Oak-tree understood, and felt sad, for he
was very fond of the little Nightingale who had built her nest in his branches.
«Sing me one last song,» he whispered; «I shall
feel very lonely when you are gone.»
So the Nightingale sang to the Oak-tree, and her
voice was like water bubbling from a silver jar.
When she had finished her song the Student got
up, and pulled a note-book and a lead-pencil out of his pocket.
«She has form,» he said to himself, as he walked
away through the grove — «that cannot be denied to her; but has she got
feeling? I am afraid not. In fact, she is like most artists; she is all style,
without any sincerity. She would not sacrifice herself for others. She thinks
merely of music, and everybody knows that the arts are selfish. Still, it must
be admitted that she has some beautiful notes in her voice. What a pity it is
that they do not mean anything, or do any practical good.» And he went into his
room, and lay down on his little pallet-bed, and began to think of his love;
and, after a time, he fell asleep.
And when the Moon shone in the heavens the
Nightingale flew to the Rose-tree, and set her breast against the thorn. All
night long she sang with her breast against the thorn, and the cold crystal
Moon leaned down and listened. All night long she sang, and the thorn went
deeper and deeper into her breast, and her life-blood ebbed away from her.
She sang first of the birth of love in the heart
of a boy and a girl. And on the top-most spray of the Rose-tree there blossomed
a marvellous rose, petal following petal, as song followed song. Pale was it,
at first, as the mist that hangs over the river — pale as the feet of the
morning, and silver as the wings of the dawn. As the shadow of a rose in a
mirror of silver, as the shadow of a rose in a water-pool, so was the rose that
blossomed on the topmost spray of the Tree.
But the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press
closer against the thorn. «Press closer, little Nightingale,» cried the Tree, «or
the Day will come before the rose is finished.»
So the Nightingale pressed closer against the
thorn, and louder and louder grew her song, for she sang of the birth of
passion in the soul of a man and a maid.
And a delicate flush of pink came into the leaves
of the rose, like the flush in the face of the bridegroom when he kisses the
lips of the bride. But the thorn had not yet reached her heart, so the rose’s
heart remained white, for only a Nightingale’s heart’s-blood can crimson the
heart of a rose.
And the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press
closer against the thorn. «Press closer, little Nightingale,» cried the Tree,
«or the Day will come before the rose is finished.»So the Nightingale pressed
closer against the thorn, and the thorn touched her heart, and a fierce pang of
pain shot through her. Bitter, bitter was the pain, and wilder and wilder grew
her song, for she sang of the Love that is perfected by Death, of the Love that
dies not in the tomb.
And the marvellous rose became crimson, like the
rose of the eastern sky. Crimson was the girdle of petals, and crimson as a
ruby was the heart.
But the Nightingale’s voice grew fainter, and her
little wings began to beat, and a film came over her eyes. Fainter and fainter
grew her song, and she felt something choking her in her throat.
Then she gave one
last burst of music. The white Moon heard it, and she forgot the dawn, and
lingered on in the sky. The red rose heard it, and it trembled all over with
ecstasy, and opened its petals to the cold morning air. Echo bore it to her
purple cavern in the hills, and woke the sleeping shepherds from their dreams.
It floated through the reeds of the river, and they carried its message to the
sea.
«Look, look!»
cried the Tree, «the rose is finished now»; but the Nightingale made no answer,
for she was lying dead in the long grass, with the thorn in her heart.
And at noon the
Student opened his window and looked out.
«Why, what a
wonderful piece of luck!» he cried; «here is a red rose! I have never seen any
rose like it in all my life. It is so beautiful that I am sure it has a long
Latin name»; and he leaned down and plucked it.
Then he put on his
hat, and ran up to the Professor’s house with the rose in his hand.
The daughter of
the Professor was sitting in the doorway winding blue silk on a reel, and her
little dog was lying at her feet.
«You said that you
would dance with me if I brought you a red rose,» cried the Student. «Here is
the reddest rose in all the world. You will wear it to-night next your heart,
and as we dance together it will tell you how I love you.»
But the girl
frowned.
«I am afraid it
will not go with my dress,» she answered; «and, besides, the Chamberlain’s
nephew has sent me some real jewels, and everybody knows that jewels cost far
more than flowers.»
«Well, upon my
word, you are very ungrateful,» said the Student angrily; and he threw the rose
into the street, where it fell into the gutter, and a cart-wheel went over it.
«Ungrateful!» said
the girl. «I tell you what, you are very rude; and, after all, who are you?
Only a Student. Why, I don’t believe you have even got silver buckles to your
shoes as the Chamberlain’s nephew has»; and she got up from her chair and went
into the house.
«What I a silly
thing Love is,» said the Student as he walked away. «It is not half as useful
as Logic, for it does not prove anything, and it is always telling one of
things that are not going to happen, and making one believe things that are not
true. In fact, it is quite unpractical, and, as in this age to be practical is
everything, I shall go back to Philosophy and study Metaphysics.»
So he returned to
his room and pulled out a great dusty book, and began to read.
Немає коментарів :
Дописати коментар