THE NIGHTINGALE AND THE ROSE

By: Oscar Wilde
Translated by: Faslli Haliti

"She said she would dance with me if I brought her red roses," the young student said; "But in all my garden there is not a single red rose."

From its nest in Holma's oak, the nightingale heard him, looked out through the leaves, and went in deep in thought.

"There is not even one red rose in my whole garden!" he cried and his beautiful eyes filled with tears. "Ah, on how many such small things happiness depends! I have read everything that the sages have written and I am a master of all the secrets of philosophy, but because of the lack of a red rose my life became miserable.

"Here at last is a true lover," said the nightingale. "Night after night I sang of him, though I knew him not: night after night I told his story to the stars, and now I see him. His hair is as dark as a fat flower, and his lips are so red that his desire rose; but passion made his face as pale as ivory, and pain affixed a seal to his forehead.

“The prince will give a dance tomorrow night,” murmured the young student, “and my love will be among the guests. If I bring her a red rose she will dance with me until dawn. If I bring her a red rose, I'll hold her in my arms, and she'll rest her head on my shoulder, and I'll hold my hand between mine. But in my garden there is not a red rose, so I will sit alone, and she will pass me by. He will not pay attention to me and my heart will break."

"This is indeed a sincere lover," said the nightingale. "What I sing, he suffers: what is a joy to me, is pain to him. Love is definitely a wonderful thing. It is more precious than the emerald, and more expensive than the fines of the opal. Pearls and pomegranates cannot be bought, nor are they expected to be sold. It cannot be bought by merchants, nor can it be weighed out of shells for gold."

“The musicians will sit in their gallery,” said the young student, “and they will perform their verses, 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 bright clothes will gather around her. But he won't dance with me, because I don't have a red rose to give her,” and he fell face down on the grass, buried his face in his hands, and wept.

"Why are you crying?" asked a green lizard as it ran in front of him with its tail raised.

"Yes, why?", asked a butterfly, which was flying around a sunbeam.

"Yes, why?", a whisper whispered to the neighbor, her voice low and soft.

"He cries for a red rose," said the nightingale.

"For a red rose!" they shouted; "What a funny thing!" And the little lizard, who was quite cynical, laughed.

But the nightingale caught the secret of the student's pain: he sat quietly in the oak tree and thought about the mystery of love.

Suddenly he spread his brown wings to fly, and hovered in the air. He passed through the choir like a shadow and like a shadow he sailed through the garden.

In the center of the lawn area was a beautiful rose garden, and when he saw it, he flew over it and found a branch.

"Give me a red rose," he shouted, "and I will sing you my sweetest song."

But the plant shook its head.

"My roses are white," he answered; "White as the foam of the sea and whiter than the snow on the mountains. But go to my brother, who grows around the old lead and maybe he will give you what you want.

So the nightingale flew over the rose garden that grew around the old sun.

"Give me a red rose," he shouted, "and I will sing you my sweetest song."

But the plant shook its head.

"My roses are yellow," he answered; "Yellow as the mermaid's hair that sits on an amber throne, and more yellow than the daffodil that blooms in the meadow before the mower comes with his scythe. But go to my brother who grows under the student's window, and maybe he will give you what you want".

So the nightingale flew over the rose garden that grew under the student's window.

"Give me a red rose," he shouted, "and I will sing you my sweetest song."

But the plant shook its head.

“My roses are red,” he replied, “as red as a pigeon's feet, and redder than the great coral fans that do nothing but wallow in the caverns of the ocean. But the winter has frozen my veins, the frost has cut my buds and the storm has destroyed my branches and I will not have roses for the whole year".

“All I want is a red rose,” cried the nightingale, “just a red rose! Is there any way he can have it? "

"There is a way," answered the plant; "But it is so terrible that I dare not tell you."

"Tell me", said the nightingale, "I am not afraid".

“If you want a red rose,” said the plant, “you must create it from the music of the moonlight and stain it with your heart's blood. You must sing to me while pressing your chest against a thorn. You must sing for me all night, and the thorn must pierce your heart, and the blood that keeps you alive must flow into my veins and become mine."

“Death is a high price to pay for a red rose,” cried the pigtail, “and life is dear to all. It is pleasant to sit in the green of the forest and watch the sun in his golden chariot and the moon in her pearl chariot. The scent of the hawthorn is sweet, and the bellflowers that hide in the valley are sweet, and the marsh that blows on the hill. And yet love is worth more 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 flapped in the air. He flew over the garden like a shadow and like a shadow he sailed through the grove.

The young student was still lying on the grass where he had left her, and the tears had not dried in his beautiful eyes.

“Rejoice!” cried the nightingale, “be happy; you will have your red rose. I will create it from music in the moonlight and color it with my heart's blood. The only thing I ask of you is that you are a true lover, for love is wiser than philosophy, though it is wise, and more powerful than force, though it is powerful. His arms are flaming and his body is colored like fire. His lips are as sweet as honey and his breath is like incense."

The student looked from the grass, and listened, but did not understand what was being said to him, because he only knew what was written in the books.

But the oak understood and felt sad, because it was very fond of the little nightingale that had built its nest in its branches.

"Sing me one last song," she whispered; "I will feel very lonely when you are gone."

So the nightingale sang to the oak, and its voice was like fiery water pouring out of a silver vase.

When he finished singing, the student stood up and took a notebook and pencil from his pocket.

"He has a form of his own," said he to himself, as he went away through the grove, which cannot be denied; are you trying something? I'm afraid not. In reality, it's like most artists: all style, no sincerity. He would not sacrifice himself for others. Just think about music, and everyone knows that the arts are selfish. However, it must be admitted that there are some beautiful notes in his voice. What a pity that they don't tell you anything, or that they are of no use". And he went to his room, lay down on his little bed, and began to think of his beloved; and, after a while, he fell asleep.

And when the moon shone in the sky, the nightingale flew to the rose garden and bent its breast over the thorn. All night long he sang with his breast upon the thorn, and the cold crystal moon bent down and listened. He sang all night, the thorn penetrating deeper and deeper into his chest, and his vitality dwindled more and more.

He began to sing about the birth of love in the hearts of a boy and a girl. And on the highest branch of the rose-root a wonderful bud blossomed, petal by petal, and song after song. Such was it, at first, as the prevailing mist—pale as the feet of morning—and silver as the wings of the aurora. Like the shadow of a rose in a silver mirror, like the shadow of a rose in a pool of water, so was the rose that blossomed on the highest branch of the rose root.

But the plant cried out to the nightingale to lean harder on the thorn. "Hold on tighter, little nightingale," he cried, "or the day will come before the rose is gone."

Thus the nightingale rests more firmly on the thorn, and its song grows louder because it sings of the birth of passion in the soul of a man and a woman.

And a delicate blush stood out among the rose petals, like the blush on the bridegroom's face when he kisses the bride's lips.

But the thorn had not yet reached his heart, and so the rose's heart remained white, for only the blood of a nightingale's heart can make it purple. the heart of a rose.

But the rose root cried out to the nightingale to lean harder on the thorn. “Hold on tighter, little nightingale,” cried the rose, “or the day will come before the rose is gone.

So the nightingale rested more firmly on the thorn, and the thorn touched his heart, and a sharp stab of pain pierced him. Bitter was the pain, and ever more fiercely rose his song, as he sang and sang of the love that is perfected by death, of the love that does not die in the grave.

And the wonderful rose became purple, like the rose of the eastern sky. Purple was the band of petals, and the ruby ​​red cloth was the heart.

But the voice of the nightingale grew faint, his little wings began to beat, and a curtain fell over his eyes. Ever weaker his song grew weaker and he felt himself fading away.

Then it burst into a final triumph of music. The white moon heard him, forgot the dawn and stood high in the sky. The red rose heard him, trembled all over in ecstasy, and opened its petals in the cold morning air. The echo led him to the purple cave among the hills and roused the shepherds from their dreams. He sailed through the reeds of the river, which carried his message to the sea.

"Look, look!" - shouted the rose root, "the rose is finished now", but the nightingale did not answer, because it was lying dead in the long grass, with the thorn in its heart.

And at noon the student opened the window and looked out.

"What wonderful luck!" called; "Here is a red rose! I have never seen such a rose in all my life. It is so many and beautiful that I am sure it has an infinite name in Latin”; bent and snapped.

Then he put his hat on his head and started running to the professor's house with the rose in his hand.

The professor's daughter was sitting in the doorway winding blue silk on a winch, and her puppy was curled up at her feet.

"You said you would dance with me if I had brought you a red rose," the student shouted. "Here you have the reddest rose in the world. Will you come to my heart tonight, and while we dance together I will tell you how much I love you."

But the girl frowned.

"I'm afraid it won't go into tune with my dress," she replied; "And besides, Chamberlain's nephew has sent me some real jewels, and everybody knows that jewels cost a lot more than flowers."

"My word, you are very ungrateful," said the student angrily; and he threw the rose into the street, from which it fell into a culvert, and a cart ran over it.

"Ungrateful!" said the girl. "You know one thing? You are very rude; and, after all, who are you? Only one student. I don't believe you have silver linings in your shoes like Chamberlain's nephew "; he was led from the chair and entered the house.

"What a stupid thing is love", said the student as he was leaving. "It's not half the use of logic, because it proves nothing, and is always pointing to things that won't happen, making us believe things that aren't true. In reality, it is quite impractical, and in times like these, being practical is everything. I will return to philosophy and study metaphysics".

So he went back to his room, took out a big dusty book and started reading.