{"id":2023,"date":"2015-09-29T21:04:22","date_gmt":"2015-09-29T20:04:22","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/english.lycee.nl\/?page_id=2023"},"modified":"2015-09-29T21:04:22","modified_gmt":"2015-09-29T20:04:22","slug":"oscar-wilde-the-nightingale-and-the-rose","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/mrglackin.eu\/?page_id=2023","title":{"rendered":"OSCAR WILDE, THE NIGHTINGALE AND THE ROSE"},"content":{"rendered":"

\nTHE NIGHTINGALE AND THE ROSE<\/strong><\/p>\n

“She said that she would dance with me if I brought her red roses,”
\ncried the young Student; “but in all my garden there is no red
\nrose.”<\/p>\n

From her nest in the holm-oak tree the Nightingale heard him, and
\nshe looked out through the leaves, and wondered.<\/p>\n

“No red rose in all my garden!” he cried, and his beautiful eyes
\nfilled with tears. “Ah, on what little things does happiness
\ndepend! I have read all that the wise men have written, and all
\nthe secrets of philosophy are mine, yet for want of a red rose is
\nmy life made wretched.”<\/p>\n

“Here at last is a true lover,” said the Nightingale. “Night after
\nnight have I sung of him, though I knew him not: night after night
\nhave I told his story to the stars, and now I see him. His hair is
\ndark as the hyacinth-blossom, and his lips are red as the rose of
\nhis desire; but passion has made his face like pale ivory, and
\nsorrow has set her seal upon his brow.”<\/p>\n

“The Prince gives a ball to-morrow night,” murmured the young
\nStudent, “and my love will be of the company. If I bring her a red
\nrose she will dance with me till dawn. If I bring her a red rose,
\nI shall hold her in my arms, and she will lean her head upon my
\nshoulder, and her hand will be clasped in mine. But there is no
\nred rose in my garden, so I shall sit lonely, and she will pass me
\nby. She will have no heed of me, and my heart will break.”<\/p>\n

“Here indeed is the true lover,” said the Nightingale. “What I
\nsing of, he suffers–what is joy to me, to him is pain. Surely
\nLove is a wonderful thing. It is more precious than emeralds, and
\ndearer than fine opals. Pearls and pomegranates cannot buy it, nor
\nis it set forth in the marketplace. It may not be purchased of the
\nmerchants, nor can it be weighed out in the balance for gold.”<\/p>\n

“The musicians will sit in their gallery,” said the young Student,
\n“and play upon their stringed instruments, and my love will dance
\nto the sound of the harp and the violin. She will dance so lightly
\nthat her feet will not touch the floor, and the courtiers in their
\ngay dresses will throng round her. But with me she will not dance,
\nfor I have no red rose to give her”; and he flung himself down on
\nthe grass, and buried his face in his hands, and wept.<\/p>\n

“Why is he weeping?” asked a little Green Lizard, as he ran past
\nhim with his tail in the air.<\/p>\n

“Why, indeed?” said a Butterfly, who was fluttering about after a
\nsunbeam.<\/p>\n

“Why, indeed?” whispered a Daisy to his neighbour, in a soft, low
\nvoice.<\/p>\n

“He is weeping for a red rose,” said the Nightingale.<\/p>\n

“For a red rose?” they cried; “how very ridiculous!” and the little
\nLizard, who was something of a cynic, laughed outright.<\/p>\n

But the Nightingale understood the secret of the Student’s sorrow,
\nand she sat silent in the oak-tree, and thought about the mystery
\nof Love.<\/p>\n

Suddenly she spread her brown wings for flight, and soared into the
\nair. She passed through the grove like a shadow, and like a shadow
\nshe sailed across the garden.<\/p>\n

In the centre of the grass-plot was standing a beautiful Rose-tree,
\nand when she saw it she flew over to it, and lit upon a spray.<\/p>\n

“Give me a red rose,” she cried, “and I will sing you my sweetest
\nsong.”<\/p>\n

But the Tree shook its head.<\/p>\n

“My roses are white,” it answered; “as white as the foam of the
\nsea, and whiter than the snow upon the mountain. But go to my
\nbrother who grows round the old sun-dial, and perhaps he will give
\nyou what you want.”<\/p>\n

So the Nightingale flew over to the Rose-tree that was growing
\nround the old sun-dial.<\/p>\n

“Give me a red rose,” she cried, “and I will sing you my sweetest
\nsong.”<\/p>\n

But the Tree shook its head.<\/p>\n

“My roses are yellow,” it answered; “as yellow as the hair of the
\nmermaiden who sits upon an amber throne, and yellower than the
\ndaffodil that blooms in the meadow before the mower comes with his
\nscythe. But go to my brother who grows beneath the Student’s
\nwindow, and perhaps he will give you what you want.”<\/p>\n

So the Nightingale flew over to the Rose-tree that was growing
\nbeneath the Student’s window.<\/p>\n

“Give me a red rose,” she cried, “and I will sing you my sweetest
\nsong.”<\/p>\n

But the Tree shook its head.<\/p>\n

“My roses are red,” it answered, “as red as the feet of the dove,
\nand redder than the great fans of coral that wave and wave in the
\nocean-cavern. But the winter has chilled my veins, and the frost
\nhas nipped my buds, and the storm has broken my branches, and I
\nshall have no roses at all this year.”<\/p>\n

“One red rose is all I want,” cried the Nightingale, “only one red
\nrose! Is there no way by which I can get it?”<\/p>\n

“There is away,” answered the Tree; “but it is so terrible that I
\ndare not tell it to you.”<\/p>\n

“Tell it to me,” said the Nightingale, “I am not afraid.”<\/p>\n

“If you want a red rose,” said the Tree, “you must build it out of
\nmusic by moonlight, and stain it with your own heart’s-blood. You
\nmust sing to me with your breast against a thorn. All night long
\nyou must sing to me, and the thorn must pierce your heart, and your
\nlife-blood must flow into my veins, and become mine.”<\/p>\n

“Death is a great price to pay for a red rose,” cried the
\nNightingale, “and Life is very dear to all. It is pleasant to sit
\nin the green wood, and to watch the Sun in his chariot of gold, and
\nthe Moon in her chariot of pearl. Sweet is the scent of the
\nhawthorn, and sweet are the bluebells that hide in the valley, and
\nthe heather that blows on the hill. Yet Love is better than Life,
\nand what is the heart of a bird compared to the heart of a man?”<\/p>\n

So she spread her brown wings for flight, and soared into the air.
\nShe swept over the garden like a shadow, and like a shadow she
\nsailed through the grove.<\/p>\n

The young Student was still lying on the grass, where she had left
\nhim, and the tears were not yet dry in his beautiful eyes.<\/p>\n

“Be happy,” cried the Nightingale, “be happy; you shall have your
\nred rose. I will build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it
\nwith my own heart’s-blood. All that I ask of you in return is that
\nyou will be a true lover, for Love is wiser than Philosophy, though
\nshe is wise, and mightier than Power, though he is mighty. Flame-
\ncoloured are his wings, and coloured like flame is his body. His
\nlips are sweet as honey, and his breath is like frankincense.”<\/p>\n

The Student looked up from the grass, and listened, but he could
\nnot understand what the Nightingale was saying to him, for he only
\nknew the things that are written down in books.<\/p>\n

But the Oak-tree understood, and felt sad, for he was very fond of
\nthe little Nightingale who had built her nest in his branches.<\/p>\n

“Sing me one last song,” he whispered; “I shall feel very lonely
\nwhen you are gone.”<\/p>\n

So the Nightingale sang to the Oak-tree, and her voice was like
\nwater bubbling from a silver jar.<\/p>\n

When she had finished her song the Student got up, and pulled a
\nnote-book and a lead-pencil out of his pocket.<\/p>\n

“She has form,” he said to himself, as he walked away through the
\ngrove–“that cannot be denied to her; but has she got feeling? I
\nam afraid not. In fact, she is like most artists; she is all
\nstyle, without any sincerity. She would not sacrifice herself for
\nothers. She thinks merely of music, and everybody knows that the
\narts are selfish. Still, it must be admitted that she has some
\nbeautiful notes in her voice. What a pity it is that they do not
\nmean anything, or do any practical good.” And he went into his
\nroom, and lay down on his little pallet-bed, and began to think of
\nhis love; and, after a time, he fell asleep.<\/p>\n

And when the Moon shone in the heavens the Nightingale flew to the
\nRose-tree, and set her breast against the thorn. All night long
\nshe sang with her breast against the thorn, and the cold crystal
\nMoon leaned down and listened. All night long she sang, and the
\nthorn went deeper and deeper into her breast, and her life-blood
\nebbed away from her.<\/p>\n

She sang first of the birth of love in the heart of a boy and a
\ngirl. And on the top-most spray of the Rose-tree there blossomed a
\nmarvellous rose, petal following petal, as song followed song.
\nPale was it, at first, as the mist that hangs over the river–pale
\nas the feet of the morning, and silver as the wings of the dawn.
\nAs the shadow of a rose in a mirror of silver, as the shadow of a
\nrose in a water-pool, so was the rose that blossomed on the topmost
\nspray of the Tree.<\/p>\n

But the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer against the
\nthorn. “Press closer, little Nightingale,” cried the Tree, “or the
\nDay will come before the rose is finished.”<\/p>\n

So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and louder and
\nlouder grew her song, for she sang of the birth of passion in the
\nsoul of a man and a maid.<\/p>\n

And a delicate flush of pink came into the leaves of the rose, like
\nthe flush in the face of the bridegroom when he kisses the lips of
\nthe bride. But the thorn had not yet reached her heart, so the
\nrose’s heart remained white, for only a Nightingale’s heart’s-blood
\ncan crimson the heart of a rose.<\/p>\n

And the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer against the
\nthorn. “Press closer, little Nightingale,” cried the Tree, “or the
\nDay will come before the rose is finished.”<\/p>\n

So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and the thorn
\ntouched her heart, and a fierce pang of pain shot through her.
\nBitter, bitter was the pain, and wilder and wilder grew her song,
\nfor she sang of the Love that is perfected by Death, of the Love
\nthat dies not in the tomb.<\/p>\n

And the marvellous rose became crimson, like the rose of the
\neastern sky. Crimson was the girdle of petals, and crimson as a
\nruby was the heart.<\/p>\n

But the Nightingale’s voice grew fainter, and her little wings
\nbegan to beat, and a film came over her eyes. Fainter and fainter
\ngrew her song, and she felt something choking her in her throat.<\/p>\n

Then she gave one last burst of music. The white Moon heard it,
\nand she forgot the dawn, and lingered on in the sky. The red rose
\nheard it, and it trembled all over with ecstasy, and opened its
\npetals to the cold morning air. Echo bore it to her purple cavern
\nin the hills, and woke the sleeping shepherds from their dreams.
\nIt floated through the reeds of the river, and they carried its
\nmessage to the sea.<\/p>\n

“Look, look!” cried the Tree, “the rose is finished now”; but the
\nNightingale made no answer, for she was lying dead in the long
\ngrass, with the thorn in her heart.<\/p>\n

And at noon the Student opened his window and looked out.<\/p>\n

“Why, what a wonderful piece of luck!” he cried; “here is a red
\nrose! I have never seen any rose like it in all my life. It is so
\nbeautiful that I am sure it has a long Latin name”; and he leaned
\ndown and plucked it.<\/p>\n

Then he put on his hat, and ran up to the Professor’s house with
\nthe rose in his hand.<\/p>\n

The daughter of the Professor was sitting in the doorway winding
\nblue silk on a reel, and her little dog was lying at her feet.<\/p>\n

“You said that you would dance with me if I brought you a red
\nrose,” cried the Student. “Here is the reddest rose in all the
\nworld. You will wear it to-night next your heart, and as we dance
\ntogether it will tell you how I love you.”<\/p>\n

But the girl frowned.<\/p>\n

“I am afraid it will not go with my dress,” she answered; “and,
\nbesides, the Chamberlain’s nephew has sent me some real jewels, and
\neverybody knows that jewels cost far more than flowers.”<\/p>\n

“Well, upon my word, you are very ungrateful,” said the Student
\nangrily; and he threw the rose into the street, where it fell into
\nthe gutter, and a cart-wheel went over it.<\/p>\n

“Ungrateful!” said the girl. “I tell you what, you are very rude;
\nand, after all, who are you? Only a Student. Why, I don’t believe
\nyou have even got silver buckles to your shoes as the Chamberlain’s
\nnephew has”; and she got up from her chair and went into the house.<\/p>\n

“What I a silly thing Love is,” said the Student as he walked away.
\n“It is not half as useful as Logic, for it does not prove anything,
\nand it is always telling one of things that are not going to
\nhappen, and making one believe things that are not true. In fact,
\nit is quite unpractical, and, as in this age to be practical is
\neverything, I shall go back to Philosophy and study Metaphysics.”<\/p>\n

So he returned to his room and pulled out a great dusty book, and
\nbegan to read.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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 redContinue reading<\/span><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":0,"parent":0,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-2023","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrglackin.eu\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/2023","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrglackin.eu\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrglackin.eu\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrglackin.eu\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrglackin.eu\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=2023"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/mrglackin.eu\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/2023\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":2025,"href":"https:\/\/mrglackin.eu\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/2023\/revisions\/2025"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrglackin.eu\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=2023"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}