The Nightingale and the Rose|夜莺与玫瑰

1.作者简介：

Oscar Wilde
Oscar Fingal O'Flahertie Wills Wilde(16 October 1854 – 30 November 1900) was an Irish poet and playwright. After writing in different forms throughout the 1880s, he became one of London's most popular playwrights in the early 1890s. He is best remembered for his epigrams and plays, his novel The Picture of Dorian Gray, as well as the circumstances of his imprisonment and early death.

奥斯卡·王尔德(1854年10月16日- 1900年11月30日)，爱尔兰诗人、剧作家。在整个19世纪80年代以不同的形式写作之后，他在19世纪90年代早期成为伦敦最受欢迎的剧作家之一。他最著名的作品是他的警句和戏剧，他的小说《道林·格雷的画像》，以及他被监禁和英年早逝的经历。

2.故事梗概

"The Nightingale and the Rose" uses the fairy tale form to take a much more serious look at themes of love and sacrifice. While the nightingale is a character you would expect in a fairy tale, willing to sacrifice herself for true love, the lovers in this story are quite a surprise.

《夜莺与玫瑰》以童话的形式，更加严肃地看待爱和牺牲的主题。夜莺是童话故事里的人物，为了真爱不惜牺牲自己，但故事里的恋人却让人惊喜不已。

全文

'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 lace 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 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, 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 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 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.

译：
“她说过，如果我给她带来红玫瑰，她愿意跟我跳舞。”年轻的学生大声说。“可是我的花园里全没有红玫瑰。”

夜莺从她在圣橡树上的巢里听到了他的声音，她透过树叶向外张望，感到纳闷。

“我的花园里全没有红玫瑰!”他喊道，美丽的眼睛里噙满了泪水。“啊，幸福依赖于那些小东西!”我读过智者写的一切书，我掌握了哲学的全部秘密，然而，就因为没有一朵红玫瑰，我的生活就如此悲惨。”

“这里终于来了一位真正的情人，”夜莺说。“虽然我不认识他，但我还是夜复一夜地歌颂他，夜复一夜地把他的故事讲给星星听，现在我看见他了。他的头发黑如风信子花，他的嘴唇红如他所喜爱的玫瑰;可是感情已把他的花边弄得像苍白的象牙，忧愁已在他的额上印上了印。”

“王子明天晚上举行舞会，”年轻的学生低声说，“我的爱人也要参加。如果我送她一朵红玫瑰，她会和我跳舞到天亮。如果我送她一朵红玫瑰，我会把她抱在怀里，她会把头靠在我的肩上，她的手会握在我的手里。但是我的花园里没有红玫瑰，所以我将孤独地坐着，她将从我身边走过。她将不理我，我的心就要碎了。”

“这位确实是真正的情人，”夜莺说。“我歌唱的他受苦，对我是快乐的，对他却是痛苦。当然，爱是一件美妙的事情。它比绿宝石更珍贵，比蛋白石更珍贵。珍珠和石榴也买不到它，市场上也卖不到它。不能从商人手中买到，也不能用金子来衡量

“乐师们将坐在走廊里，”年轻的学生说，“演奏他们的弦乐器，我的爱人将伴着竖琴和小提琴的声音翩翩起舞。她将跳得如此轻盈，以至于她的脚不会碰到地板，穿着华丽服装的侍臣们将把她团团围住。但是她不能和我跳舞，因为我没有红玫瑰可以送给她。”他扑倒在草地上，双手掩面哭了起来。

“他为什么哭?”一只绿色的小蜥蜴翘着尾巴从他身边跑过，问道。

的确,为什么呢?一只蝴蝶说，它在阳光下飞来飞去。

的确,为什么呢?雏菊低声对他的邻居说，声音又轻又低。

“他在为一朵红玫瑰哭泣，”夜莺说。

“换一朵红玫瑰!”他们哭了;“多么荒唐!那只有点愤世嫉俗的小蜥蜴大声笑了起来。

但是夜莺明白了学生悲伤的秘密，她静静地坐在橡树上，想着爱的秘密。

突然，她展开棕色的翅膀，飞向空中。她像影子一样穿过树林，又像影子一样飞过花园。

在草地的中央站着一棵美丽的玫瑰树，当她看到它时，她飞了过去，落在一根浪花上。

“给我一朵红玫瑰，”她喊道，“我会为你唱我最甜美的歌。”

可是树摇了摇头。

“我的玫瑰是白色的，”它回答说;“白得像海里的泡沫，白得比山上的雪还要白。但是到我那长在日晷周围的哥哥那里去，也许他会给你想要的东西。”

于是夜莺飞到那棵长在旧日晷周围的玫瑰树上。

“给我一朵红玫瑰，”她喊道，“我会为你唱我最甜美的歌。”

可是树摇了摇头。

“我的玫瑰是黄色的，”它回答说;“黄得像琥珀宝座上的美人鱼的头发，黄得比草地上尚未被割草者镰刀割开的水仙花还要黄。”但是去找我哥哥吧，他就在学生的窗下长大，也许他会满足你的要求。”

于是夜莺飞到了长在学生窗下的玫瑰树上。

“给我一朵红玫瑰，”她喊道，“我会为你唱我最甜美的歌。”

可是树摇了摇头。

“我的玫瑰是红的，”它回答说，“红得像鸽子的脚，红得比海洋洞穴里的大珊瑚扇子还要红。但是冬天冻僵了我的血管，霜冻冻了我的蓓蕾，风暴折断了我的枝叶，因此今年我一朵玫瑰花也不会有了。”

“我只要一朵红玫瑰，”夜莺叫道，“就一朵!没有办法让我弄到它吗?”

“有一个办法，”枞树回答说。“但是太可怕了，我不敢告诉您。”

“告诉我吧，”夜莺说，“我不害怕。”

“如果你想要一朵红玫瑰，”树说，“你必须在月光下用音乐来打造它，然后用你的心血来染红它。”你必须用你的胸膛顶着刺向我歌唱。你必须整夜为我歌唱，那刺必须刺穿你的心脏，你的生命之血必须流进我的血管，成为我的。”

“用死亡来换取一朵红玫瑰是非常昂贵的，”夜莺叫道，“生命对每个人来说都是非常宝贵的。坐在绿色的树林里，看着太阳坐在他的黄金战车里，月亮坐在她的珍珠战车里，是多么愉快啊。山楂的香味很香，藏在山谷里的风信子和在山上盛开的石南花也很香。但是爱情比生命更美好，而且鸟的心和人的心相比又算什么呢?”

于是她展开棕色的翅膀，飞向空中。她像影子一样掠过花园，又像影子一样飞过小树林。

年轻的学生还躺在草地上，就在她离开他的地方，他美丽的眼睛里的泪水还没有干。

“快乐吧，”夜莺叫道，“快乐吧;你会得到你的红玫瑰的。我要在月光下用音乐建造它，用我的心血染红它。我对你的唯一要求是，你要成为一个真正的情人，因为爱情比哲学更明智，尽管她是明智的;爱情比权力更强大，尽管权力强大。他的翅膀是火焰色的，他的身体是火焰色的。他的嘴甘甜如蜜，他的气如乳香。

学生从草地上抬起头来，听着夜莺在说什么，但他不明白夜莺在对他说什么，因为他只知道书上写的东西。

但是橡树明白了，他感到很难过，因为他非常喜欢这只在他的树枝上筑巢的小夜莺。

“给我唱最后一支歌吧，”他低声说;"你走了以后，我会感到非常孤独的。"

于是夜莺就向橡树唱起歌来，她的声音就像银罐子里汩汩涌出的水。

当她唱完她的歌，学生嘴唇，从他的口袋里拿出一个笔记本和一支铅笔。
“她是有风度的，”他穿过树林时对自己说，“这是她不能否认的;但她有感情吗?恐怕不行。事实上，她和大多数艺术家一样;她只是装腔作势，没有一点诚意。她不会为别人牺牲自己。她只想到音乐，人人都知道艺术是自私的。尽管如此，必须承认她的声音中有一些美丽的音符。可惜它们没有任何意义，也没有任何实际的好处。”他走进自己的房间，躺在他的小床上，开始想着他的爱人;过了一会儿，他睡着了。

当月亮在天空中照耀时，夜莺飞到玫瑰树，把她的胸膛抵在刺上。她把胸口贴在刺上唱了一整夜，冰冷而晶莹的月亮俯下身来倾听。她唱了整整一夜，刺越来越深地扎进她的胸膛，她生命的血液也渐渐消失了。

她首先唱的是一个男孩和一个女孩心中爱的诞生。在玫瑰树的顶端开出了一朵美丽的玫瑰，随着歌声，花瓣一朵一朵地绽放。起初，它像河上的薄雾——苍白如晨曦的脚步，银色如黎明的翅膀。正如银镜中的玫瑰影子，池塘中的玫瑰影子，盛开在树的最上面的浪花上的玫瑰也是如此。

但是树叫夜莺把刺扎得更紧些。“再压紧点，小夜莺，”玫瑰树叫道，“否则玫瑰还没完成，天亮就到了。”

于是夜莺把刺戳得更紧了，她的歌声也越来越响亮，因为她唱的是一个男人和一个姑娘灵魂中激情的诞生。

玫瑰的叶子上泛起了淡淡的红晕，就像新郎亲吻新娘时脸上泛起的红晕。但是刺还没有刺到她的心脏，所以玫瑰的心脏仍然是白色的，因为只有夜莺的心血才能染红玫瑰的心脏。

这棵树叫夜莺把刺扎得更紧些。“再压紧点，小夜莺，”玫瑰树叫道，“否则玫瑰还没完成，天亮就到了。”

于是夜莺把刺压得更紧了，刺戳到了她的心脏，一阵剧痛刺透了她的全身。痛苦越来越痛苦，她的歌声也越来越狂放，因为她唱的是死亡使爱情臻于完美的爱情，是坟墓里无法消逝的爱情。

那朵奇妙的玫瑰变成了深红色，就像东方天空的玫瑰。花瓣带是深红色的，花心是深红色的红宝石。

但夜莺的声音越来越微弱，她的小翅膀开始拍打，一层薄膜覆盖了她的眼睛。她的歌声越来越微弱，她感到喉咙里有什么东西哽住了。

然后她发出最后一声音乐。白色的月亮听到了歌声，忘记了黎明，在天空中徘徊。红玫瑰听见了，狂喜地浑身颤抖，在寒冷的晨风中绽开花瓣。回声把歌声带回了她在山里紫色的洞穴，把熟睡的牧羊人从梦中唤醒。它漂过河中的芦苇，他们把它的信息带到大海。

“看,看!夜莺没有回答，因为她躺在高高的草丛中死了，那根刺插在她的心上。

中午时分，学生打开窗户向外望去。

“哎呀，真是太幸运了!”他哭了;“这是一朵红玫瑰!”我一生中从未见过这样的玫瑰。它是如此的美丽，我相信它一定有一个很长的拉丁名字。”他俯身把它拔了下来。

然后他戴上帽子，拿着玫瑰跑到教授家。

教授的女儿正坐在门口绕着蓝丝卷轴，她的小狗躺在她的脚边。

“你说过如果我给你送一朵红玫瑰，你就和我跳舞。”学生叫道。这是世界上最红的玫瑰。你今晚就把它戴在心口上，当我们一起跳舞时，它会告诉你我是多么爱你。”
但是女孩皱起了眉头。

“我怕它跟我的衣服不配，”她回答;“另外，大臣的侄子给我送了一些真正的珠宝，大家都知道珠宝比花值钱得多。”

“好吧，说实话，你真是个忘恩负义的人，”学生生气地说。于是他把玫瑰扔到街上，玫瑰掉进了阴沟里，一辆马车从它身上碾过。

“忘恩负义!女孩说。“我告诉你，你太粗鲁了;再说，你到底是谁?只有一个学生。我不相信你的鞋上有大臣的侄子那样的银扣。”她从椅子上站起来，走进了屋子。

“爱情真是个愚蠢的东西，”学生一边走开一边说。“它的用处还不及逻辑的一半，因为它不能证明任何事情，它总是告诉人们一件不会发生的事情，让人相信那些不真实的事情。事实上，这是很不实际的，在这个时代，实际就是一切，我还是回到哲学去，学习形而上学吧。”