夜莺与玫瑰
夜莺与玫瑰
“她说过只要我送给她一些红玫瑰，她就愿意与我跳舞，”一位年轻的学生大声说道，
“可是在我的花园里，连一朵红玫瑰也没有。”
这番话给在圣栎树上自己巢中的夜莺听见了，她从绿叶丛中探出头来，四处张望着。
“我的花园里哪儿都找不到红玫瑰，”他哭着说，一双美丽的眼睛充满了泪水。“唉，
难道幸福竟依赖于这么细小的东西！我读过智者们写的所有文章，知识的一切奥秘也都装在
我的头脑中，然而就因缺少一朵红玫瑰我却要过痛苦的生活。”
“这儿总算有一位真正的恋人了，”夜莺对自己说，“虽然我不认识他，但我会每夜每
夜地为他歌唱，我还会每夜每夜地把他的故事讲给星星听。现在我总算看见他了，他的头发
黑得像风信子花，他的嘴唇就像他想要的玫瑰那样红；但是感情的折磨使他脸色苍白如象
牙，忧伤的印迹也爬上了他的眉梢。”
“王子明天晚上要开舞会，”年轻学生喃喃自语地说，“我所爱的人将要前往。假如我
送她一朵红玫瑰，她就会同我跳舞到天明；假如我送她一朵红玫瑰，我就能搂着她的腰，她
也会把头靠在我的肩上，她的手将捏在我的手心里。可是我的花园里却没有红玫瑰，我只能
孤零零地坐在那边，看着她从身旁经过。她不会注意到我，我的心会碎的。”
“这的确是位真正的恋人，”夜莺说，“我所为之歌唱的正是他遭受的痛苦，我所为之
快乐的东西，对他却是痛苦。爱情真是一件奇妙无比的事情，它比绿宝石更珍贵，比猫眼石
更稀奇。用珍珠和石榴都换不来，是市场上买不到的，是从商人那儿购不来的，更无法用黄
金来称出它的重量。”
“乐师们会坐在他们的廊厅中，”年轻的学生说，“弹奏起他们的弦乐器。我心爱的人
将在竖琴和小提琴的音乐声中翩翩起舞。她跳得那么轻松欢快，连脚跟都不蹭地板似的。那
些身着华丽服装的臣仆们将她围在中间。然而她就是不会同我跳舞，因为我没有红色的玫瑰
献给她。”于是他扑倒在草地上，双手捂着脸放声痛哭起来。
“他为什么哭呢？”一条绿色的小蜥蜴高高地翘起尾巴从他身旁跑过时，这样问道。
“是啊，倒底为什么？”一只蝴蝶说，她正追着一缕阳光在跳舞。
“是啊，倒底为什么？”一朵雏菊用低缓的声音对自已的邻居轻声说道。
“他为一朵红玫瑰而哭泣。”夜莺告诉大家。
“为了一朵红玫瑰？”他们叫了起来。“真是好笑！”小蜥蜴说，他是个爱嘲讽别人的
人，忍不住笑了起来。
可只有夜莺了解学生忧伤的原因，她默默无声地坐在橡树上，想象着爱情的神秘莫测。
突然她伸开自己棕色的翅膀，朝空中飞去。她像个影子似的飞过了小树林，又像个影子
似的飞越了花园。
在一块草地的中央长着一棵美丽的玫瑰树，她看见那棵树后就朝它飞过去，落在一根小
枝上。
“给我一朵红玫瑰，”她高声喊道，“我会为你唱我最甜美的歌。”
可是树儿摇了摇头。
“我的玫瑰是白色的，”它回答说，“白得就像大海的浪花沫，白得超过山顶上的积
雪。但你可以去找我那长在古日晷器旁的兄弟，或许他能满足你的需要。”
于是夜莺就朝那棵生长在古日晷器旁的玫瑰树飞去了。
“给我-朵红玫瑰，”她大声说，“我会为你唱我最甜美的歌。”
可是树儿摇了摇头。
“我的玫瑰是黄色的，”它回答说，“黄得就像坐在琥珀宝座上的美人鱼的头发，黄得
超过拿着镰刀的割草人来之前在草地上盛开的水仙花。但你可以去找我那长在学生窗下的兄
弟，或许他能满足你的需要。”
于是夜寓就朝那棵生长在学生窗下的玫瑰树飞去了。
“给我一朵红玫瑰，”她大声说，“我会为你唱我最甜美的歌。”
可是树儿摇了摇头。
“我的玫瑰是红色的，”它回答说，“红得就像鸽子的脚，红得超过在海洋洞穴中飘动
的珊瑚大扇。但是冬天已经冻僵了我的血管，霜雪已经摧残了我的花蕾，风暴已经吹折了我
的枝叶，今年我不会再有玫瑰花了。”
“我只要一朵玫瑰花，”夜莺大声叫道，“只要一朵红玫瑰！难道就没有办法让我得到
它吗？”
“有一个办法，”树回答说，“但就是太可怕了，我都不敢对你说。”
“告诉我，”夜莺说，“我不怕。”
“如果你想要一朵红玫瑰，”树儿说，“你就必须借助月光用音乐来造出它，并且要用
你胸中的鲜血来染红它。你一定要用你的胸膛顶住我的一根刺来唱歌。你要为我唱上整整一
夜，那根刺一定要穿透你的胸膛，你的鲜血一定要流进我的血管，并变成我的血。”
“拿死亡来换一朵玫瑰，这代价实在很高，”夜莺大声叫道，“生命对每一个人都是非
常宝贵的。坐在绿树上看太阳驾驶着她的金马车，看月亮开着她的珍珠马车，是一件愉快的
事情。山楂散发出香味，躲藏在山谷中的风铃草以及盛开在山头的石南花也是香的。然而爱
情胜过生命，再说鸟的心怎么比得过人的心呢？”
于是她便张开自己棕色的翅膀朝天空中飞去了。她像影子似的飞过花园，又像影子似的
穿越了小树林。
年轻的学生仍躺在草地上，跟她离开时的情景一样，他那双美丽的眼睛还挂着泪水。
“快乐起来吧，”夜莺大声说，“快乐起来吧，你就要得到你的红玫瑰了。我要在月光
下把它用音乐造成，献出我胸膛中的鲜血把它染红。我要求你报答我的只有一件事，就是你
要做一个真正的恋人，因为尽管哲学很聪明，然而爱情比她更聪明，尽管权力很伟大，可是
爱情比他更伟大。火焰映红了爱情的翅膀，使他的身躯像火焰一样火红。他的嘴唇像蜜一样
甜；他的气息跟乳香一样芬芳。”
学生从草地上抬头仰望着，并侧耳倾听，但是他不懂夜莺在对他讲什么，因为他只知道
那些写在书本上的东西。
可是橡树心里是明白的，他感到很难受，因为他十分喜爱这只在自己树枝上做巢的小夜
莺。
“给我唱最后一支歌吧，”他轻声说，“你这一走我会觉得很孤独的。”
于是夜莺给橡树唱起了歌，她的声音就像是银罐子里沸腾的水声。
等她的歌声一停，学生便从草地上站起来，从他的口袋中拿出一个笔记本和一支铅笔。
“她的样子真好看，”他对自己说，说着就穿过小树林走开了一一“这是不能否认的；
但是她有情感吗？我想她恐怕没有。事实上，她像大多数艺术家-样，只讲究形式，没有任
何诚意。她不会为别人做出牺牲的。她只想着音乐，人人都知道艺术是自私的。不过我不得
不承认她的歌声申也有些美丽的调子。只可惜它们没有一点意义，也没有任何实际的好
处。”他走进屋子，躺在自己那张简陋的小床上，想起他那心爱的人儿，不一会儿就进入了
梦乡。
等到月亮挂上了天际的时候，夜莺就朝玫瑰树飞去，用自己的胸膛顶住花刺。她用胸膛
顶着刺整整唱了一夜，就连冰凉如水晶的明月也俯下身来倾听。整整一夜她唱个不停，刺在
她的胸口上越刺越深，她身上的鲜血也快要流光了。
她开始唱起少男少女的心中萌发的爱情。在玫瑰树最高的枝头上开放出一朵异常的玫
瑰，歌儿唱了一首又一首，花瓣也一片片地开放了。起初，花儿是乳白色的，就像悬在河上
的雾霾--白得就如同早晨的足履，白得就像黎明的翅膀。在最高枝头上盛开的那朵玫瑰花，
如同一朵在银镜中，在水池里照出的玫瑰花影。
然而这时树大声叫夜莺把刺顶得更紧一些。“顶紧些，小夜莺，”树大叫着，“不然玫
瑰还没有完成天就要亮了。”
于是夜莺把刺顶得更紧了，她的歌声也越来越响亮了，因为她歌唱着一对成年男女心中
诞生的激情。
一层淡淡的红晕爬上了玫瑰花瓣，就跟新郎亲吻新娘时脸上泛起的红晕一样。但是花刺
还没有达到夜莺的心脏，所以玫瑰的心还是白色的，因为只有夜莺心里的血才能染红玫瑰的
花心。
这时树又大声叫夜莺顶得更紧些，“再紧些，小夜莺，”树儿高声喊着，“不然，玫瑰
还没完成天就要亮了。”
于是夜莺就把玫瑰刺顶得更紧了，刺着了自己的心脏，一阵剧烈的痛楚袭遍了她的全
身。痛得越来越厉害，歌声也越来越激烈，因为她歌唱着由死亡完成的爱情，歌唱着在坟墓
中也不朽的爱情。
最后这朵非凡的玫瑰变成了深红色，就像东方天际的红霞，花瓣的外环是深红色的，花
心更红得好似一块红宝石。
不过夜莺的歌声却越来越弱了，她的一双小翅膀开始扑打起来，一层雾膜爬上了她的双
目。她的歌声变得更弱了，她觉得喉咙给什么东西堵住了。
这时她唱出了最后一曲。明月听着歌声，竟然忘记了黎明，只顾在天空中徘徊。红玫瑰
听到歌声，更是欣喜若狂，张开了所有的花瓣去迎接凉凉的晨风。回声把歌声带回自己山中
的紫色洞穴中，把酣睡的牧童从梦乡中唤醒。歌声飘越过河中的芦苇，芦苇又把声音传给了
大海。
“快看，快看！”树叫了起来，“玫瑰已长好了。”可是夜莺没有回答，因为她已经躺
在长长的草丛中死去了，心口上还扎着那根刺。
中午时分，学生打开窗户朝外看去。
“啊，多好的运气呀！”他大声嚷道，“这儿竟有一朵红玫瑰！这样的玫瑰我一生也不
曾见过。它太美了，我敢说它有一个好长的拉丁名字。”他俯下身去把它摘了下来。
随即他戴上帽子，拿起玫瑰，朝教授的家跑去。
教授的女儿正坐在门口，在纺车上纺着蓝色的丝线，她的小狗躺在她的脚旁。
“你说过只要我送你一朵红玫遗，你就会同我跳舞，”学生高声说道，“这是全世界最
红的一朵玫瑰。你今晚就把它戴在你的胸口上，我们一起跳舞的时候，它会告诉你我是多么
的爱你。”
然而少女却皱起眉头。
“我担心它与我的衣服不相配，”她回答说，“再说，宫廷大臣的侄儿已经送给我一些
珍贵的珠宝，人人都知道珠宝比花更加值钱。”
“噢，我要说，你是个忘恩负义的人，”学生愤怒地说。一下把玫瑰扔到了大街上，玫
瑰落入阴沟里，一辆马车从它身上碾了过去。
“忘恩负义！”少女说，“我告诉你吧，你太无礼；再说，你是什么？只是个学生。
啊，我敢说你不会像宫廷大臣侄儿那样，鞋上钉有银扣子。”说完她就从椅子上站起来朝屋
里走去。
“爱情是多么愚昧啊！”学生一边走一边说，“它不及逻辑一半管用，因为它什么都证
明不了，而它总是告诉人们一些不会发生的事，并且还让人相信一些不真实的事。说实话，
它一点也不实用，在那个年代，一切都要讲实际。我要回到哲学中去，去学形而上学的东
西。”
于是他便回到自己的屋子里，拿出满是尘土的大书，读了起来。
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.
“她说过只要我送给她一些红玫瑰，她就愿意与我跳舞，”一位年轻的学生大声说道，
“可是在我的花园里，连一朵红玫瑰也没有。”
这番话给在圣栎树上自己巢中的夜莺听见了，她从绿叶丛中探出头来，四处张望着。
“我的花园里哪儿都找不到红玫瑰，”他哭着说，一双美丽的眼睛充满了泪水。“唉，
难道幸福竟依赖于这么细小的东西！我读过智者们写的所有文章，知识的一切奥秘也都装在
我的头脑中，然而就因缺少一朵红玫瑰我却要过痛苦的生活。”
“这儿总算有一位真正的恋人了，”夜莺对自己说，“虽然我不认识他，但我会每夜每
夜地为他歌唱，我还会每夜每夜地把他的故事讲给星星听。现在我总算看见他了，他的头发
黑得像风信子花，他的嘴唇就像他想要的玫瑰那样红；但是感情的折磨使他脸色苍白如象
牙，忧伤的印迹也爬上了他的眉梢。”
“王子明天晚上要开舞会，”年轻学生喃喃自语地说，“我所爱的人将要前往。假如我
送她一朵红玫瑰，她就会同我跳舞到天明；假如我送她一朵红玫瑰，我就能搂着她的腰，她
也会把头靠在我的肩上，她的手将捏在我的手心里。可是我的花园里却没有红玫瑰，我只能
孤零零地坐在那边，看着她从身旁经过。她不会注意到我，我的心会碎的。”
“这的确是位真正的恋人，”夜莺说，“我所为之歌唱的正是他遭受的痛苦，我所为之
快乐的东西，对他却是痛苦。爱情真是一件奇妙无比的事情，它比绿宝石更珍贵，比猫眼石
更稀奇。用珍珠和石榴都换不来，是市场上买不到的，是从商人那儿购不来的，更无法用黄
金来称出它的重量。”
“乐师们会坐在他们的廊厅中，”年轻的学生说，“弹奏起他们的弦乐器。我心爱的人
将在竖琴和小提琴的音乐声中翩翩起舞。她跳得那么轻松欢快，连脚跟都不蹭地板似的。那
些身着华丽服装的臣仆们将她围在中间。然而她就是不会同我跳舞，因为我没有红色的玫瑰
献给她。”于是他扑倒在草地上，双手捂着脸放声痛哭起来。
“他为什么哭呢？”一条绿色的小蜥蜴高高地翘起尾巴从他身旁跑过时，这样问道。
“是啊，倒底为什么？”一只蝴蝶说，她正追着一缕阳光在跳舞。
“是啊，倒底为什么？”一朵雏菊用低缓的声音对自已的邻居轻声说道。
“他为一朵红玫瑰而哭泣。”夜莺告诉大家。
“为了一朵红玫瑰？”他们叫了起来。“真是好笑！”小蜥蜴说，他是个爱嘲讽别人的
人，忍不住笑了起来。
可只有夜莺了解学生忧伤的原因，她默默无声地坐在橡树上，想象着爱情的神秘莫测。
突然她伸开自己棕色的翅膀，朝空中飞去。她像个影子似的飞过了小树林，又像个影子
似的飞越了花园。
在一块草地的中央长着一棵美丽的玫瑰树，她看见那棵树后就朝它飞过去，落在一根小
枝上。
“给我一朵红玫瑰，”她高声喊道，“我会为你唱我最甜美的歌。”
可是树儿摇了摇头。
“我的玫瑰是白色的，”它回答说，“白得就像大海的浪花沫，白得超过山顶上的积
雪。但你可以去找我那长在古日晷器旁的兄弟，或许他能满足你的需要。”
于是夜莺就朝那棵生长在古日晷器旁的玫瑰树飞去了。
“给我-朵红玫瑰，”她大声说，“我会为你唱我最甜美的歌。”
可是树儿摇了摇头。
“我的玫瑰是黄色的，”它回答说，“黄得就像坐在琥珀宝座上的美人鱼的头发，黄得
超过拿着镰刀的割草人来之前在草地上盛开的水仙花。但你可以去找我那长在学生窗下的兄
弟，或许他能满足你的需要。”
于是夜寓就朝那棵生长在学生窗下的玫瑰树飞去了。
“给我一朵红玫瑰，”她大声说，“我会为你唱我最甜美的歌。”
可是树儿摇了摇头。
“我的玫瑰是红色的，”它回答说，“红得就像鸽子的脚，红得超过在海洋洞穴中飘动
的珊瑚大扇。但是冬天已经冻僵了我的血管，霜雪已经摧残了我的花蕾，风暴已经吹折了我
的枝叶，今年我不会再有玫瑰花了。”
“我只要一朵玫瑰花，”夜莺大声叫道，“只要一朵红玫瑰！难道就没有办法让我得到
它吗？”
“有一个办法，”树回答说，“但就是太可怕了，我都不敢对你说。”
“告诉我，”夜莺说，“我不怕。”
“如果你想要一朵红玫瑰，”树儿说，“你就必须借助月光用音乐来造出它，并且要用
你胸中的鲜血来染红它。你一定要用你的胸膛顶住我的一根刺来唱歌。你要为我唱上整整一
夜，那根刺一定要穿透你的胸膛，你的鲜血一定要流进我的血管，并变成我的血。”
“拿死亡来换一朵玫瑰，这代价实在很高，”夜莺大声叫道，“生命对每一个人都是非
常宝贵的。坐在绿树上看太阳驾驶着她的金马车，看月亮开着她的珍珠马车，是一件愉快的
事情。山楂散发出香味，躲藏在山谷中的风铃草以及盛开在山头的石南花也是香的。然而爱
情胜过生命，再说鸟的心怎么比得过人的心呢？”
于是她便张开自己棕色的翅膀朝天空中飞去了。她像影子似的飞过花园，又像影子似的
穿越了小树林。
年轻的学生仍躺在草地上，跟她离开时的情景一样，他那双美丽的眼睛还挂着泪水。
“快乐起来吧，”夜莺大声说，“快乐起来吧，你就要得到你的红玫瑰了。我要在月光
下把它用音乐造成，献出我胸膛中的鲜血把它染红。我要求你报答我的只有一件事，就是你
要做一个真正的恋人，因为尽管哲学很聪明，然而爱情比她更聪明，尽管权力很伟大，可是
爱情比他更伟大。火焰映红了爱情的翅膀，使他的身躯像火焰一样火红。他的嘴唇像蜜一样
甜；他的气息跟乳香一样芬芳。”
学生从草地上抬头仰望着，并侧耳倾听，但是他不懂夜莺在对他讲什么，因为他只知道
那些写在书本上的东西。
可是橡树心里是明白的，他感到很难受，因为他十分喜爱这只在自己树枝上做巢的小夜
莺。
“给我唱最后一支歌吧，”他轻声说，“你这一走我会觉得很孤独的。”
于是夜莺给橡树唱起了歌，她的声音就像是银罐子里沸腾的水声。
等她的歌声一停，学生便从草地上站起来，从他的口袋中拿出一个笔记本和一支铅笔。
“她的样子真好看，”他对自己说，说着就穿过小树林走开了一一“这是不能否认的；
但是她有情感吗？我想她恐怕没有。事实上，她像大多数艺术家-样，只讲究形式，没有任
何诚意。她不会为别人做出牺牲的。她只想着音乐，人人都知道艺术是自私的。不过我不得
不承认她的歌声申也有些美丽的调子。只可惜它们没有一点意义，也没有任何实际的好
处。”他走进屋子，躺在自己那张简陋的小床上，想起他那心爱的人儿，不一会儿就进入了
梦乡。
等到月亮挂上了天际的时候，夜莺就朝玫瑰树飞去，用自己的胸膛顶住花刺。她用胸膛
顶着刺整整唱了一夜，就连冰凉如水晶的明月也俯下身来倾听。整整一夜她唱个不停，刺在
她的胸口上越刺越深，她身上的鲜血也快要流光了。
她开始唱起少男少女的心中萌发的爱情。在玫瑰树最高的枝头上开放出一朵异常的玫
瑰，歌儿唱了一首又一首，花瓣也一片片地开放了。起初，花儿是乳白色的，就像悬在河上
的雾霾--白得就如同早晨的足履，白得就像黎明的翅膀。在最高枝头上盛开的那朵玫瑰花，
如同一朵在银镜中，在水池里照出的玫瑰花影。
然而这时树大声叫夜莺把刺顶得更紧一些。“顶紧些，小夜莺，”树大叫着，“不然玫
瑰还没有完成天就要亮了。”
于是夜莺把刺顶得更紧了，她的歌声也越来越响亮了，因为她歌唱着一对成年男女心中
诞生的激情。
一层淡淡的红晕爬上了玫瑰花瓣，就跟新郎亲吻新娘时脸上泛起的红晕一样。但是花刺
还没有达到夜莺的心脏，所以玫瑰的心还是白色的，因为只有夜莺心里的血才能染红玫瑰的
花心。
这时树又大声叫夜莺顶得更紧些，“再紧些，小夜莺，”树儿高声喊着，“不然，玫瑰
还没完成天就要亮了。”
于是夜莺就把玫瑰刺顶得更紧了，刺着了自己的心脏，一阵剧烈的痛楚袭遍了她的全
身。痛得越来越厉害，歌声也越来越激烈，因为她歌唱着由死亡完成的爱情，歌唱着在坟墓
中也不朽的爱情。
最后这朵非凡的玫瑰变成了深红色，就像东方天际的红霞，花瓣的外环是深红色的，花
心更红得好似一块红宝石。
不过夜莺的歌声却越来越弱了，她的一双小翅膀开始扑打起来，一层雾膜爬上了她的双
目。她的歌声变得更弱了，她觉得喉咙给什么东西堵住了。
这时她唱出了最后一曲。明月听着歌声，竟然忘记了黎明，只顾在天空中徘徊。红玫瑰
听到歌声，更是欣喜若狂，张开了所有的花瓣去迎接凉凉的晨风。回声把歌声带回自己山中
的紫色洞穴中，把酣睡的牧童从梦乡中唤醒。歌声飘越过河中的芦苇，芦苇又把声音传给了
大海。
“快看，快看！”树叫了起来，“玫瑰已长好了。”可是夜莺没有回答，因为她已经躺
在长长的草丛中死去了，心口上还扎着那根刺。
中午时分，学生打开窗户朝外看去。
“啊，多好的运气呀！”他大声嚷道，“这儿竟有一朵红玫瑰！这样的玫瑰我一生也不
曾见过。它太美了，我敢说它有一个好长的拉丁名字。”他俯下身去把它摘了下来。
随即他戴上帽子，拿起玫瑰，朝教授的家跑去。
教授的女儿正坐在门口，在纺车上纺着蓝色的丝线，她的小狗躺在她的脚旁。
“你说过只要我送你一朵红玫遗，你就会同我跳舞，”学生高声说道，“这是全世界最
红的一朵玫瑰。你今晚就把它戴在你的胸口上，我们一起跳舞的时候，它会告诉你我是多么
的爱你。”
然而少女却皱起眉头。
“我担心它与我的衣服不相配，”她回答说，“再说，宫廷大臣的侄儿已经送给我一些
珍贵的珠宝，人人都知道珠宝比花更加值钱。”
“噢，我要说，你是个忘恩负义的人，”学生愤怒地说。一下把玫瑰扔到了大街上，玫
瑰落入阴沟里，一辆马车从它身上碾了过去。
“忘恩负义！”少女说，“我告诉你吧，你太无礼；再说，你是什么？只是个学生。
啊，我敢说你不会像宫廷大臣侄儿那样，鞋上钉有银扣子。”说完她就从椅子上站起来朝屋
里走去。
“爱情是多么愚昧啊！”学生一边走一边说，“它不及逻辑一半管用，因为它什么都证
明不了，而它总是告诉人们一些不会发生的事，并且还让人相信一些不真实的事。说实话，
它一点也不实用，在那个年代，一切都要讲实际。我要回到哲学中去，去学形而上学的东
西。”
于是他便回到自己的屋子里，拿出满是尘土的大书，读了起来。
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.
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