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
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 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 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 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.