Oscar Wilde
The Nightingale and the
Rose
'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 holm-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 lace like pale Ivory, and sorrow has set her seal upon his brow.'
'The Prince gives a ball to-morrow 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 market-place.
it may not be purchased of the merchants, 'or 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 a way,' 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 lip, 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 topmost spray of the Rose-tree there blossomed a marvellous
rose, petal following petal, as song followed song. Yale 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 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.
