夜莺与玫瑰-第7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　gazed　at　the　wonderful　statue。
“He　looks　just　like　an　angel，”　said　the　Charity　Children　as　they　came　out　of　the　cathedral　in　their　bright　scarlet　cloaks　and　their　clean　white　pinafores。
“How　do　you　know？”　said　the　Mathematical　Master，　“you　have　never　seen　one。”
“Ah！　but　we　have，　in　our　dreams，”　answered　the　children；　and　the　Mathematical　Master　frowned　and　looked　very　severe，　for　he　did　not　approve　of　children　dreaming。
One　night　there　flew　over　the　city　a　little　Swallow。　His　friends　had　gone　away　to　Egypt　six　weeks　before，　but　he　had　stayed　behind，　for　he　was　in　love　with　the　most　beautiful　Reed。　He　had　met　her　early　in　the　spring　as　he　was　flying　down　the　river　after　a　big　yellow　moth，　and　had　been　so　attracted　by　her　slender　waist　that　he　had　stopped　to　talk　to　her。
“Shall　I　love　you？”　said　the　Swallow，　who　liked　to　e　to　the　point　at　once，　and　the　Reed　made　him　a　low　bow。　So　he　flew　round　and　round　her，　touching　the　water　with　his　wings，　and　making　silver　ripples。　This　was　his　courtship，　and　it　lasted　all　through　the　summer。
“It　is　a　ridiculous　attachment，”　twittered　the　other　Swallows；　“she　has　no　money，　and　far　too　many　relations；”　and　indeed　the　river　was　quite　full　of　Reeds。　Then，　when　the　autumn　came　they　all　flew　away。
After　they　had　gone　he　felt　lonely，　and　began　to　tire　of　his　lady　love。　“She　has　no　conversation，”　he　said，　“and　I　am　afraid　that　she　is　a　coquette，　for　she　is　always　flirting　with　the　wind。”　And　certainly，　whenever　the　wind　blew，　the　Reed　made　the　most　graceful　curtseys。　“I　admit　that　she　is　domestic，”　he　continued，　“but　I　love　travelling，　and　my　wife，　consequently，　should　love　travelling　also。”
“Will　you　e　away　with　me？”　he　said　finally　to　her；　but　the　Reed　shook　her　head，　she　was　so　attached　to　her　home。
“You　have　been　trifling　with　me，”　he　cried。　“I　am　off　to　the　Pyramids。　Good…bye！”　and　he　flew　away。
All　day　long　he　flew，　and　at　night…time　he　arrived　at　the　city。　“Where　shall　I　put　up？”　he　said；　“I　hope　the　town　has　made　preparations。”
Then　he　saw　the　statue　on　the　tall　column。
“I　will　put　up　there，”　he　cried；　“it　is　a　fine　position，　with　plenty　of　fresh　air。”　So　he　alighted　just　between　the　feet　of　the　Happy　Prince。
“I　have　a　golden　bedroom，”　he　said　softly　to　himself　as　he　looked　round，　and　he　prepared　to　go　to　sleep；　but　just　as　he　was　putting　his　head　under　his　wing　a　large　drop　of　water　fell　on　him。　“What　a　curious　thing！”　he　cried；　“there　is　not　a　single　cloud　in　the　sky，　the　stars　are　quite　clear　and　bright，　and　yet　it　is　raining。　The　climate　in　the　north　of　Europe　is　really　dreadful。　The　Reed　used　to　like　the　rain，　but　that　was　merely　her　selfishness。”
Then　another　drop　fell。
“What　is　the　use　of　a　statue　if　it　cannot　keep　the　rain　off　？”　he　said；　“I　must　look　for　a　good　chimney…pot，”　and　he　determined　to　fly　away。
But　before　he　had　opened　his　wings，　a　third　drop　fell，　and　he　looked　up，　and　saw—Ah！　what　did　he　see？
The　eyes　of　the　Happy　Prince　were　filled　with　tears，　and　tears　were　running　down　his　golden　cheeks。　His　face　was　so　beautiful　in　the　moonlight　that　the　little　Swallow　was　filled　with　pity。
“Who　are　you？”　he　said。
“I　am　the　Happy　Prince。”
“Why　are　you　weeping　then？”　asked　the　Swallow；　“you　have　quite　drenched　me。”
“When　I　was　alive　and　had　a　human　heart，”　answered　the　statue，　“I　did　not　know　what　tears　were，　for　I　lived　in　the　Palace　of　Sans…Souci，　where　sorrow　is　not　allowed　to　enter。　In　the　daytime　I　played　with　my　panions　in　the　garden，　and　in　the　evening　I　led　the　dance　in　the　Great　Hall。　Round　the　garden　ran　a　very　lofty　wall，　but　I　never　cared　to　ask　what　lay　beyond　it，　everything　about　me　was　so　beautiful。　My　courtiers　called　me　the　Happy　Prince，　and　happy　indeed　I　was，　if　pleasure　be　happiness。　So　I　lived，　and　so　I　died。　And　now　that　I　am　dead　they　have　set　me　up　here　so　high　that　I　can　see　all　the　ugliness　and　all　the　misery　of　my　city，　and　though　my　heart　is　made　of　lead　yet　I　cannot　chose　but　weep。”
“What！　is　he　not　solid　gold？”　said　the　Swallow　to　himself。　He　was　too　polite　to　make　any　personal　remarks　out　loud。
“Far　away，”　continued　the　statue　in　a　low　musical　voice，　“far　away　in　a　little　street　there　is　a　poor　house。　One　of　the　windows　is　open，　and　through　it　I　can　see　a　woman　seated　at　a　table。　Her　face　is　thin　and　worn，　and　she　has　coarse，　red　hands，　all　pricked　by　the　needle，　for　she　is　a　seamstress。　She　is　embroidering　passion…flowers　on　a　satin　gown　for　the　loveliest　of　the　Queen’s　maids…of…honour　to　wear　at　the　next　Court…ball。　In　a　bed　in　the　corner　of　the　room　her　little　boy　is　lying　ill。　He　has　a　fever，　and　is　asking　for　oranges。　His　mother　has　nothing　to　give　him　but　river　water，　so　he　is　crying。　Swallow，　Swallow，　little　Swallow，　will　you　not　bring　her　the　ruby　out　of　my　sword…hilt？　My　feet　are　fastened　to　this　pedestal　and　I　cannot　move。”
“I　am　waited　for　in　Egypt，”　said　the　Swallow。　“My　friends　are　flying　up　and　down　the　Nile，　and　talking　to　the　large　lotus…flowers。　Soon　they　will　go　to　sleep　in　the　tomb　of　the　great　King。　The　King　is　there　himself　in　his　painted　coffin。　He　is　wrapped　in　yellow　linen，　and　embalmed　with　spices。　Round　his　neck　is　a　chain　of　pale　green　jade，　and　his　hands　are　like　withered　leaves。”
“Swallow，　Swallow，　little　Swallow，”　said　the　Prince，　“will　you　not　stay　with　me　for　one　night，　and　be　my　messenger？　The　boy　is　so　thirsty，　and　the　mother　so　sad。”
“I　don’t　think　I　like　boys，”　answered　the　Swallow。　“Last　summer，　when　I　was　staying　on　the　river，　there　were　two　rude　boys，　the　miller’s　sons，　who　were　always　throwing　stones　at　me。　They　never　hit　me，　of　course；　we　swallows　fly　far　too　well　for　that，　and　besides，　I　e　of　a　family　famous　for　its　agility；　but　still，　it　was　a　mark　of　disrespect。”
But　the　Happy　Prince　looked　so　sad　that　the　little　Swallow　was　sorry。　“It　is　very　cold　here，”　he　said；　“but　I　will　stay　with　you　for　one　night，　and　be　your　messenger。”
“Thank　you，　little　Swallow，”　said　the　Prince。
So　the　Swallow　picked　out　the　great