Am trecut zilele astea pe langa TNB si am vazut afisul pentru spectacolul Privighetoarea si trandafirul de Oscar Wilde si mi-am adus aminte cat de mult m-a impresionat povestioara asta cand eram copil. Am cautat-o si desi am gasit varianta in engleza, mi-a facut mare placer sa o recitesc. In continuare voi posta The Nightingale and the Rose, cat despre spectacol puteti afla mai multe aici. PS: click pe titlu pentru a vedea ce-nseamna arta
THE NIGHTINGALE AND THE ROSE by Oscar Wilde
"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 redrose."
From her nest in the holm-oak tree the Nightingale heard him, andshe looked out through the leaves, and wondered.
"No red rose in all my garden!" he cried, and his beautiful eyesfilled with tears. "Ah, on what little things does happinessdepend! I have read all that the wise men have written, and allthe secrets of philosophy are mine, yet for want of a red rose ismy life made wretched."
"Here at last is a true lover," said the Nightingale. "Night afternight have I sung of him, though I knew him not: night after nighthave I told his story to the stars, and now I see him. His hair isdark as the hyacinth-blossom, and his lips are red as the rose ofhis desire; but passion has made his face like pale ivory, andsorrow has set her seal upon his brow."
"The Prince gives a ball tomorrow night," murmured the youngStudent, "and my love will be of the company. If I bring her a redrose 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 myshoulder, and her hand will be clasped in mine. But there is nored rose in my garden, so I shall sit lonely, and she will pass meby. She will have no heed of me, and my heart will break."
"Here indeed is the true lover," said the Nightingale. "What Ising of, he suffers--what is joy to me, to him is pain. SurelyLove is a wonderful thing. It is more precious than emeralds, anddearer than fine opals. Pearls and pomegranates cannot buy it, noris it set forth in the marketplace. It may not be purchased of themerchants, 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 danceto the sound of the harp and the violin. She will dance so lightlythat her feet will not touch the floor, and the courtiers in theirgay 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 onthe grass, and buried his face in his hands, and wept.
"Why is he weeping?" asked a little Green Lizard, as he ran pasthim with his tail in the air.
"Why, indeed?" said a Butterfly, who was fluttering about after asunbeam.
"Why, indeed?" whispered a Daisy to his neighbour, in a soft, lowvoice.
"He is weeping for a red rose," said the Nightingale.
"For a red rose?" they cried; "how very ridiculous!" and the littleLizard, 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 mysteryof Love.
Suddenly she spread her brown wings for flight, and soared into theair. She passed through the grove like a shadow, and like a shadowshe 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 sweetestsong."
But the Tree shook its head.
"My roses are white," it answered; "as white as the foam of thesea, and whiter than the snow upon the mountain. But go to mybrother who grows round the old sun-dial, and perhaps he will giveyou what you want."
So the Nightingale flew over to the Rose-tree that was growinground the old sun-dial.
"Give me a red rose," she cried, "and I will sing you my sweetestsong."
But the Tree shook its head.
"My roses are yellow," it answered; "as yellow as the hair of themermaiden who sits upon an amber throne, and yellower than thedaffodil that blooms in the meadow before the mower comes with hisscythe. But go to my brother who grows beneath the Student'swindow, and perhaps he will give you what you want."
So the Nightingale flew over to the Rose-tree that was growingbeneath the Student's window.
"Give me a red rose," she cried, "and I will sing you my sweetestsong."
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 theocean-cavern. But the winter has chilled my veins, and the frosthas nipped my buds, and the storm has broken my branches, and Ishall have no roses at all this year."
"One red rose is all I want," cried the Nightingale, "only one redrose! Is there no way by which I can get it?"
"There is away," answered the Tree; "but it is so terrible that Idare 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 ofmusic by moonlight, and stain it with your own heart's-blood. Youmust sing to me with your breast against a thorn. All night longyou must sing to me, and the thorn must pierce your heart, and yourlife-blood must flow into my veins, and become mine."
"Death is a great price to pay for a red rose," cried theNightingale, "and Life is very dear to all. It is pleasant to sitin the green wood, and to watch the Sun in his chariot of gold, andthe Moon in her chariot of pearl. Sweet is the scent of thehawthorn, and sweet are the bluebells that hide in the valley, andthe 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 shesailed through the grove.
The young Student was still lying on the grass, where she had lefthim, and the tears were not yet dry in his beautiful eyes.
"Be happy," cried the Nightingale, "be happy; you shall have yourred rose. I will build it out of music by moonlight, and stain itwith my own heart's-blood. All that I ask of you in return is thatyou will be a true lover, for Love is wiser than Philosophy, thoughshe is wise, and mightier than Power, though he is mighty. Flame-coloured are his wings, and coloured like flame is his body. Hislips are sweet as honey, and his breath is like frankincense."
The Student looked up from the grass, and listened, but he couldnot understand what the Nightingale was saying to him, for he onlyknew the things that are written down in books.
But the Oak-tree understood, and felt sad, for he was very fond ofthe little Nightingale who had built her nest in his branches.
"Sing me one last song," he whispered; "I shall feel very lonelywhen you are gone."
So the Nightingale sang to the Oak-tree, and her voice was likewater bubbling from a silver jar.
When she had finished her song the Student got up, and pulled anote-book and a lead-pencil out of his pocket.
"She has form," he said to himself, as he walked away through thegrove--"that cannot be denied to her; but has she got feeling? Iam afraid not. In fact, she is like most artists; she is allstyle, without any sincerity. She would not sacrifice herself forothers. She thinks merely of music, and everybody knows that thearts are selfish. Still, it must be admitted that she has somebeautiful notes in her voice. What a pity it is that they do notmean anything, or do any practical good." And he went into hisroom, and lay down on his little pallet-bed, and began to think ofhis love; and, after a time, he fell asleep.
And when the Moon shone in the heavens the Nightingale flew to theRose-tree, and set her breast against the thorn. All night longshe sang with her breast against the thorn, and the cold crystalMoon leaned down and listened. All night long she sang, and thethorn went deeper and deeper into her breast, and her life-bloodebbed away from her.
She sang first of the birth of love in the heart of a boy and agirl. And on the top-most spray of the Rose-tree there blossomed amarvellous rose, petal following petal, as song followed song.Pale was it, at first, as the mist that hangs over the river--paleas 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 arose in a water-pool, so was the rose that blossomed on the topmostspray of the Tree.
But the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer against thethorn. "Press closer, little Nightingale," cried the Tree, "or theDay will come before the rose is finished."
So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and louder andlouder grew her song, for she sang of the birth of passion in thesoul of a man and a maid.
And a delicate flush of pink came into the leaves of the rose, likethe flush in the face of the bridegroom when he kisses the lips ofthe bride. But the thorn had not yet reached her heart, so therose's heart remained white, for only a Nightingale's heart's-bloodcan crimson the heart of a rose.
And the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer against thethorn. "Press closer, little Nightingale," cried the Tree, "or theDay will come before the rose is finished."
So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and the thorntouched 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 Lovethat dies not in the tomb.
And the marvellous rose became crimson, like the rose of theeastern sky. Crimson was the girdle of petals, and crimson as aruby was the heart.
But the Nightingale's voice grew fainter, and her little wingsbegan to beat, and a film came over her eyes. Fainter and faintergrew 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 roseheard it, and it trembled all over with ecstasy, and opened itspetals to the cold morning air. Echo bore it to her purple cavernin the hills, and woke the sleeping shepherds from their dreams.It floated through the reeds of the river, and they carried itsmessage to the sea.
"Look, look!" cried the Tree, "the rose is finished now"; but theNightingale made no answer, for she was lying dead in the longgrass, 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 redrose! I have never seen any rose like it in all my life. It is sobeautiful that I am sure it has a long Latin name"; and he leaneddown and plucked it.
Then he put on his hat, and ran up to the Professor's house withthe rose in his hand.
The daughter of the Professor was sitting in the doorway windingblue 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 redrose," cried the Student. "Here is the reddest rose in all theworld. You will wear it to-night next your heart, and as we dancetogether 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, andeverybody knows that jewels cost far more than flowers."
"Well, upon my word, you are very ungrateful," said the Studentangrily; and he threw the rose into the street, where it fell intothe 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 believeyou have even got silver buckles to your shoes as the Chamberlain'snephew 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 tohappen, and making one believe things that are not true. In fact,it is quite unpractical, and, as in this age to be practical iseverything, 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.
