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фигурирующие слова heart,rose, Nightingale,red и др.)

Oscar Wilde. 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 a l l m y g a r d e n t h e r e i s n o r e d
r o s e .'

From her nest in the holm-oak tree the Nightingale heard him, and she
looked out through the leaves, and wondered.

' N o r e d r o s e i n a l l m y g a r d e n !' 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
-повторы 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-
с р а в н е н и е ; but passion has made his lace like pale Ivory, and sorrow
has set her seal upon his brow.'

'The Prince gives a ball to-morrow- архаизм 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 - сравнение. 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
market-place. it may not be purchased of the merchants, 'or 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,-
symbol; 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.- с р а в н е н и е

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-олицетворение, 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.'- тема - жертвенность
 '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. S h e
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 silve jar.

When she had finished her song the Student got lip, 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 topmost spray of the Rose-tree there blossomed a marvellous rose,
petal following petal, as song followed song. Yale 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-
п о в т о р 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 –repetition

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- symbol 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.