The Nightingale and the Rose by Oscar Wilde

Books at bedtime by calming anxiety, the Nightingale and the Rose by Oscar Wilde.

She said that she would dance with me if I bought her red roses, cried the young student, but in all my garden there is no red rose. From her nest in the home 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 the tears. Oh, 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 once of a red rose is my life made wretched. Here at last is a true lover said the Nightingale, "Night after night I have sung of him, though I know him not. Night after night have I told his story to the stars, and now I see him. His hair is dark as the highest synth 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 opal.

All zmphomegranates 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. He will dance so lightly that her feet will not touch the floor, and the courtiers in their gay dresses will throng around 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 out of 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 sorrow, and she sat silent in the oak tree, and thought about the mystery of love. Suddenly, she spread her brown wings of flight and sawed 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. With 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 around the old sundial, and perhaps he will give you what you want. So the Nightingale flew over to the rose tree that was growing around the old sundial. 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 a mermaid in, who sits upon an amber throne, and yellower than a daffodil that blooms in the meadow before the mower comes. 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 give 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 a great fan of coral that wave after 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 to cry 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. 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 my thorn, all night long, you must sing to me, and the thought 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 the chariot of the gold, and the moon in her chariot of pearl.

The light is the scent of the Hawthorn, and sweeter the blue bells that hide in the valley, and the hither 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 of light, 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 for 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 might hear than power, though he is mighty. Flame coloured are his wings, and coloured like flame in 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 were 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 to 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 for the student, he got up, and pulled a notebook and a lead pencil out of his pocket.

She has formed, he said to himself, as he walked away through the grove, that cannot be denied her, but has she got feeling. "I am afraid not. In fact, she is like most artists. She is all style without sincerity.

She would not sacrifice herself for others. She merely thinks 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 laid 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 breath, and her life blubbed, ebbed away from her. She sang first to the birth of love in the heart of a boy and a girl, and on the topmost spray of the rose tree their blossomed and marvellous rose, petal following petal, as song followed song. The male was it ever first, as the mist that hangs over the river, pale as the feet of the morning, and silver as the wings of 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.

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, which she sang at the birth of passion in the soul of a man and a maid. When a delicate flush of pink came into the leaves of the throes, like the flush in the face of a bridegroom, when he kisses the lips of his bride, but the thorn had not yet reached her heart, so the rose's heart remained white, for only a Nightingale's heartblood 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 the wilder and wilder grew the song, for she sang of the love that is perfected by death, of the love that dies not in the two. And the marvellous rose became crimson, like the rose of the eastern sky.

Cromson was the girdle of petals and Cromson as a ruby was at a 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 has 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 marvel this piece of luck he cried. Here is the 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 a rose in his hand. The daughter, the professor, was sitting in the doorway winding blue silk on a rail, 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 reddish rose in all the world. You will wear it tonight next to 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 beside 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 cartwheel 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 the 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.