It is a rare thing for a 16-year-old male to cry, and rarer still for him to sob, tears falling from his nose and cries of sorrow escaping his chest. Today my tears are for less noble intentions, but for beauty unparalleled.
There is a piece of music that, excuse my pun (you’ll see in a moment), has touched my heart. I have never cried listening to anything, save this, a masterpiece of themes and harmony, texture, orchestration, words I could not possibly use to describe its majesty. The narrator spun notes into words, and words into something greater. My friends, this is the most poignant piece of literature I have ever encountered, and with an orchestra behind it, I tell you solemnly. There is no human being alive who would not feel his heart overcome with emotion.
The Nightingale and the Rose, by Oscar Wilde.
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 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 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 Student’s 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
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 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 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 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 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 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 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.
Xin's Weald 