夜莺与玫瑰-第11部分

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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　bee　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　pared　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　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　e　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　e　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　tonight　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　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。
★、The　Happy　Prince
High　above　the　city，　on　a　tall　column，　stood　the　statue　of　the　Happy　Prince。　He　was　gilded　all　over　with　thin　leaves　of　fine　gold，　for　eyes　he　had　two　bright　sapphires，　and　a　large　red　ruby　glowed　on　his　sword…hilt。
He　was　very　much　admired　indeed。　“He　is　as　beautiful　as　a　weathercock，”　remarked　one　of　the　Town　Councillors　who　wished　to　gain　a　reputation　for　having　artistic　tastes；　“only　not　quite　so　useful，”　he　added，　fearing　lest　people　should　think　him　unpractical，　which　he　really　was　not。
“Why　can’t　you　be　like　the　Happy　Prince？”　asked　a　sensible　mother　of　her　little　boy　who　was　crying　for　the　moon。　“The　Happy　Prince　never　dreams　of　crying　for　anything。”
“I　am　glad　there　is　some　one　in　the　world　who　is　quite　happy，”　muttered　a　disappointed　man　as　he　gaz