夜鶯與玫瑰
“她說過只要我送給她一些紅玫瑰,她就願意與我跳舞,”一位年輕的學生大聲說道,
“可是在我的花園裡,連一朵紅玫瑰也沒有。”
這番話給在聖櫟樹上自己巢中的夜鶯聽見了,她從綠葉叢中探出頭來,四處張望著。
“我的花園裡哪兒都找不到紅玫瑰,”他哭著說,一雙美麗的眼睛充滿了淚水。 “唉,
難道幸福竟依賴於這麼細小的東西!我讀過智者們寫的所有文章,知識的一切奧秘也都裝在
我的頭腦中,然而就因缺少一朵紅玫瑰我卻要過痛苦的生活。 ”
“這兒總算有一位真正的戀人了,”夜鶯對自己說,“雖然我不認識他,但我會每夜每
夜地為他歌唱,我還會每夜每夜地把他的故事講給星星聽。現在我總算看見他了,他的頭髮
黑得像風信子花,他的嘴唇就像他想要的玫瑰那樣紅;但是感情的折磨使他臉色蒼白如像
牙,憂傷的印跡也爬上了他的眉梢。 ”
“王子明天晚上要開舞會,”年輕學生喃喃自語地說,“我所愛的人將要前往。假如我
送她一朵紅玫瑰,她就會同我跳舞到天明;假如我送她一朵紅玫瑰,我就能摟著她的腰,她
也會把頭靠在我的肩上,她的手將捏在我的手心裡。可是我的花園裡卻沒有紅玫瑰,我只能
孤零零地坐在那邊,看著她從身旁經過。她不會注意到我,我的心會碎的。 ”
“這的確是位真正的戀人,”夜鶯說,“我所為之歌唱的正是他遭受的痛苦,我所為之
快樂的東西,對他卻是痛苦。愛情真是一件奇妙無比的事情,它比綠寶石更珍貴,比貓眼石
更稀奇。用珍珠和石榴都換不來,是市場上買不到的,是從商人那兒購不來的,更無法用黃
金來稱出它的重量。 ”
“樂師們會坐在他們的廊廳中,”年輕的學生說,“彈奏起他們的弦樂器。我心愛的人
將在豎琴和小提琴的音樂聲中翩翩起舞。她跳得那麼輕鬆歡快,連腳跟都不蹭地板似的。那
些身著華麗服裝的臣僕們將她圍在中間。然而她就是不會同我跳舞,因為我沒有紅色的玫瑰
獻給她。 ”於是他撲倒在草地上,雙手摀著臉放聲痛哭起來。
“他為什麼哭呢?”一條綠色的小蜥蜴高高地翹起尾巴從他身旁跑過時,這樣問道。
“是啊,倒底為什麼?”一隻蝴蝶說,她正追著一縷陽光在跳舞。
“是啊,倒底為什麼?”一朵雛菊用低緩的聲音對自已的鄰居輕聲說道。
“他為一朵紅玫瑰而哭泣。”夜鶯告訴大家。
“為了一朵紅玫瑰?”他們叫了起來。 “真是好笑!”小蜥蜴說,他是個愛嘲諷別人的
人,忍不住笑了起來。
可只有夜鶯了解學生憂傷的原因,她默默無聲地坐在橡樹上,想像著愛情的神秘莫測。
突然她伸開自己棕色的翅膀,朝空中飛去。她像個影子似的飛過了小樹林,又像個影子
似的飛越了花園。
在一塊草地的中央長著一棵美麗的玫瑰樹,她看見那棵樹後就朝它飛過去,落在一根小
枝上。
“給我一朵紅玫瑰,”她高聲喊道,“我會為你唱我最甜美的歌。”
可是樹兒搖了搖頭。
“我的玫瑰是白色的,”它回答說,“白得就像大海的浪花沫,白得超過山頂上的積
雪。但你可以去找我那長在古日晷器旁的兄弟,或許他能滿足你的需要。 ”
於是夜鶯就朝那棵生長在古日晷器旁的玫瑰樹飛去了。
“給我-朵紅玫瑰,”她大聲說,“我會為你唱我最甜美的歌。”
可是樹兒搖了搖頭。
“我的玫瑰是黃色的,”它回答說,“黃得就像坐在琥珀寶座上的美人魚的頭髮,黃得
超過拿著鐮刀的割草人來之前在草地上盛開的水仙花。但你可以去找我那長在學生窗下的兄
弟,或許他能滿足你的需要。 ”
於是夜寓就朝那棵生長在學生窗下的玫瑰樹飛去了。
“給我一朵紅玫瑰,”她大聲說,“我會為你唱我最甜美的歌。”
可是樹兒搖了搖頭。
“我的玫瑰是紅色的,”它回答說,“紅得就像鴿子的腳,紅得超過在海洋洞穴中飄動
的珊瑚大扇。但是冬天已經凍僵了我的血管,霜雪已經摧殘了我的花蕾,風暴已經吹折了我
的枝葉,今年我不會再有玫瑰花了。 ”
“我只要一朵玫瑰花,”夜鶯大聲叫道,“只要一朵紅玫瑰!難道就沒有辦法讓我得到
它嗎? ”
“有一個辦法,”樹回答說,“但就是太可怕了,我都不敢對你說。”
“告訴我,”夜鶯說,“我不怕。”
“如果你想要一朵紅玫瑰,”樹兒說,“你就必須藉助月光用音樂來造出它,並且要用
你胸中的鮮血來染紅它。你一定要用你的胸膛頂住我的一根刺來唱歌。你要為我唱上整整一
夜,那根刺一定要穿透你的胸膛,你的鮮血一定要流進我的血管,並變成我的血。 ”
“拿死亡來換一朵玫瑰,這代價實在很高,”夜鶯大聲叫道,“生命對每一個人都是非
常寶貴的。坐在綠樹上看太陽駕駛著她的金馬車,看月亮開著她的珍珠馬車,是一件愉快的
事情。山楂散發出香味,躲藏在山谷中的風鈴草以及盛開在山頭的石南花也是香的。然而愛
情勝過生命,再說鳥的心怎麼比得過人的心呢? ”
於是她便張開自己棕色的翅膀朝天空中飛去了。她像影子似的飛過花園,又像影子似的
穿越了小樹林。
年輕的學生仍躺在草地上,跟她離開時的情景一樣,他那雙美麗的眼睛還掛著淚水。
“快樂起來吧,”夜鶯大聲說,“快樂起來吧,你就要得到你的紅玫瑰了。我要在月光
下把它用音樂造成,獻出我胸膛中的鮮血把它染紅。我要求你報答我的只有一件事,就是你
要做一個真正的戀人,因為儘管哲學很聰明,然而愛情比她更聰明,儘管權力很偉大,可是
愛情比他更偉大。火焰映紅了愛情的翅膀,使他的身軀像火焰一樣火紅。他的嘴唇像蜜一樣
甜;他的氣息跟乳香一樣芬芳。 ”
學生從草地上抬頭仰望著,並側耳傾聽,但是他不懂夜鶯在對他講什麼,因為他只知道
那些寫在書本上的東西。
可是橡樹心裡是明白的,他感到很難受,因為他十分喜愛這只在自己樹枝上做巢的小夜
鶯。
“給我唱最後一支歌吧,”他輕聲說,“你這一走我會覺得很孤獨的。”
於是夜鶯給橡樹唱起了歌,她的聲音就像是銀罐子裡沸騰的水聲。
等她的歌聲一停,學生便從草地上站起來,從他的口袋中拿出一個筆記本和一支鉛筆。
“她的樣子真好看,”他對自己說,說著就穿過小樹林走開了一一“這是不能否認的;
但是她有情感嗎?我想她恐怕沒有。事實上,她像大多數藝術家-樣,只講究形式,沒有任
何誠意。她不會為別人做出犧牲的。她只想著音樂,人人都知道藝術是自私的。不過我不得
不承認她的歌聲申也有些美麗的調子。只可惜它們沒有一點意義,也沒有任何實際的好
處。 ”他走進屋子,躺在自己那張簡陋的小床上,想起他那心愛的人兒,不一會兒就進入了
夢鄉。
等到月亮掛上了天際的時候,夜鶯就朝玫瑰樹飛去,用自己的胸膛頂住花刺。她用胸膛
頂著刺整整唱了一夜,就連冰涼如水晶的明月也俯下身來傾聽。整整一夜她唱個不停,刺在
她的胸口上越刺越深,她身上的鮮血也快要流光了。
她開始唱起少男少女的心中萌發的愛情。在玫瑰樹最高的枝頭上開放出一朵異常的玫
瑰,歌兒唱了一首又一首,花瓣也一片片地開放了。起初,花兒是乳白色的,就像懸在河上
的霧霾--白得就如同早晨的足履,白得就像黎明的翅膀。在最高枝頭上盛開的那朵玫瑰花,
如同一朵在銀鏡中,在水池裡照出的玫瑰花影。
然而這時樹大聲叫夜鶯把刺頂得更緊一些。 “頂緊些,小夜鶯,”樹大叫著,“不然玫
瑰還沒有完成天就要亮了。 ”
於是夜鶯把刺頂得更緊了,她的歌聲也越來越響亮了,因為她歌唱著一對成年男女心中
誕生的激情。
一層淡淡的紅暈爬上了玫瑰花瓣,就跟新郎親吻新娘時臉上泛起的紅暈一樣。但是花刺
還沒有達到夜鶯的心臟,所以玫瑰的心還是白色的,因為只有夜鶯心裡的血才能染紅玫瑰的
花心。
這時樹又大聲叫夜鶯頂得更緊些,“再緊些,小夜鶯,”樹兒高聲喊著,“不然,玫瑰
還沒完成天就要亮了。 ”
於是夜鶯就把玫瑰刺頂得更緊了,刺著了自己的心臟,一陣劇烈的痛楚襲遍了她的全
身。痛得越來越厲害,歌聲也越來越激烈,因為她歌唱著由死亡完成的愛情,歌唱著在墳墓
中也不朽的愛情。
最後這朵非凡的玫瑰變成了深紅色,就像東方天際的紅霞,花瓣的外環是深紅色的,花
心更紅得好似一塊紅寶石。
不過夜鶯的歌聲卻越來越弱了,她的一雙小翅膀開始撲打起來,一層霧膜爬上了她的雙
目。她的歌聲變得更弱了,她覺得喉嚨給什麼東西堵住了。
這時她唱出了最後一曲。明月聽著歌聲,竟然忘記了黎明,只顧在天空中徘徊。紅玫瑰
聽到歌聲,更是欣喜若狂,張開了所有的花瓣去迎接涼涼的晨風。迴聲把歌聲帶回自己山中
的紫色洞穴中,把酣睡的牧童從夢鄉中喚醒。歌聲飄越過河中的蘆葦,蘆葦又把聲音傳給了
大海。
“快看,快看!”樹叫了起來,“玫瑰已長好了。”可是夜鶯沒有回答,因為她已經躺
在長長的草叢中死去了,心口上還扎著那根刺。
中午時分,學生打開窗戶朝外看去。
“啊,多好的運氣呀!”他大聲嚷道,“這兒竟有一朵紅玫瑰!這樣的玫瑰我一生也不
曾見過。它太美了,我敢說它有一個好長的拉丁名字。 ”他俯下身去把它摘了下來。
隨即他戴上帽子,拿起玫瑰,朝教授的家跑去。
教授的女兒正坐在門口,在紡車上紡著藍色的絲線,她的小狗躺在她的腳旁。
“你說過只要我送你一朵紅玫遺,你就會同我跳舞,”學生高聲說道,“這是全世界最
紅的一朵玫瑰。你今晚就把它戴在你的胸口上,我們一起跳舞的時候,它會告訴你我是多麼
的愛你。 ”
然而少女卻皺起眉頭。
“我擔心它與我的衣服不相配,”她回答說,“再說,宮廷大臣的侄兒已經送給我一些
珍貴的珠寶,人人都知道珠寶比花更加值錢。 ”
“噢,我要說,你是個忘恩負義的人,”學生憤怒地說。一下把玫瑰扔到了大街上,玫
瑰落入陰溝裡,一輛馬車從它身上碾了過去。
“忘恩負義!”少女說,“我告訴你吧,你太無禮;再說,你是什麼?只是個學生。
啊,我敢說你不會像宮廷大臣侄兒那樣,鞋上釘有銀釦子。 ”說完她就從椅子上站起來朝屋
裡走去。
“愛情是多麼愚昧啊!”學生一邊走一邊說,“它不及邏輯一半管用,因為它什麼都證
明不了,而它總是告訴人們一些不會發生的事,並且還讓人相信一些不真實的事。說實話,
它一點也不實用,在那個年代,一切都要講實際。我要回到哲學中去,去學形而上學的東
西。 ”
於是他便回到自己的屋子裡,拿出滿是塵土的大書,讀了起來。
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 face 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 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 Students 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 Students
window, and perhaps he will give you what you want."
So the Nightingale flew over to the Rose-tree that was growing
beneath the Students 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 hearts-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 hearts-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
roses heart remained white, for only a Nightingales hearts-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 Nightingales 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 Professors 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 Chamberlains 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 dont believe
you have even got silver buckles to your shoes as the Chamberlains
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.