夜莺与蔷薇 王尔德
The Nightingale And The Rose
The Nightingale And The Rose
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 red rose."
From her nest in the 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(1)-- blossom, and his lips are red as the rose of his desire; but passion has made his face 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 should 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(2), and dearer than fine opals(3) . Pearls and pomegranates cannot buy it, nor is it set forth in the market-place. It may not be purchased of the merchants, 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 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 center 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(4) , 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 me 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 he 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 homey, 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 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 had form," her 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 marvelous 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 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 marvelous 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’ 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 not 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 he girl frowned.
"I am afraid it will not go with my dress," she answered; "and, besides, the Chamberlain’s nephew had 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 onto he street, where it fell into the gutter , and a cartwheel 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 dont 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.
hyacinth(风信子) emeralds (翡翠) opals (蛋白石) sun-dial (一种玫瑰)
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“她说过只要我送给她一朵红蔷薇，她就愿意与我跳舞，”一位年轻的学生大声说道，“可是在我的花园里，连一朵红蔷薇也没有。”
这番话给在圣栎树上自己巢中的夜莺听见了，她从绿叶丛中探出头来，四处张望着。
“我的花园里哪儿都找不到红蔷薇，”他哭着说，一双美丽的眼睛充满了泪水。“唉，难道幸福竟依赖于这么细小的东西！我读过智者们写的所有文章，知识的一切奥秘也都装在我的头脑中，然而就因缺少一朵红蔷薇我却要过痛苦的生活。”
“这儿总算有一位真正的恋人了，”夜莺对自己说，“虽然我不认识他，但我会每夜每夜地为他歌唱，我还会每夜每夜地把他的故事讲给星星听。现在我总算看见他了，他的头发黑得像风信子花，他的嘴唇就像他想要的蔷薇那样红；但是感情的折磨使他脸色苍白如象牙，忧伤的印迹也爬上了他的眉梢。”
“王子明天晚上要开舞会，”年轻学生喃喃自语地说，“我所爱的人将要前往。假如我送她一朵红蔷薇，她就会同我跳舞到天明；假如我送她一朵红蔷薇，我就能搂着她的腰，她也会把头靠在我的肩上，她的手将捏在我的手心里。可是我的花园里却没有红蔷薇，我只能孤零零地坐在那边，看着她从身旁经过。她不会注意到我，我的心会碎的。”
“这的确是位真正的恋人，”夜莺说，“我所为之歌唱的正是他遭受的痛苦，我所为之快乐的东西，对他却是痛苦。爱情真是一件奇妙无比的事情，它比绿宝石更珍贵，比猫眼石更稀奇。用珍珠和石榴都换不来，是市场上买不到的，是从商人那儿购不来的，更无法用黄金来称出它的重量。”
“乐师们会坐在他们的廊厅中，”年轻的学生说，“弹奏起他们的弦乐器。我心爱的人将在竖琴和小提琴的音乐声中翩翩起舞。她跳得那么轻松欢快，连脚跟都不蹭地板似的。那些身着华丽服装的臣仆们将她围在中间。然而她就是不会同我跳舞，因为我没有红色的蔷薇献给她。”于是他扑倒在草地上，双手捂着脸放声痛哭起来。
“他为什么哭呢？”一条绿色的小蜥蜴高高地翘起尾巴从他身旁跑过时，这样问道。
“是啊，倒底为什么？”一只蝴蝶说，她正追着一缕阳光在跳舞。
“是啊，倒底为什么？”一朵雏菊用低缓的声音对自已的邻居轻声说道。
“他为一朵红蔷薇而哭泣。”夜莺告诉大家。
“为了一朵红蔷薇？”他们叫了起来。“真是好笑！”小蜥蜴说，他是个爱嘲讽别人的人，忍不住笑了起来。
可只有夜莺了解学生忧伤的原因，她默默无声地坐在橡树上，想象着爱情的神秘莫测。
突然她伸开自己棕色的翅膀，朝空中飞去。她像个影子似的飞过了小树林，又像个影子似的飞越了花园。
在一块草地的中央长着一棵美丽的蔷薇树，她看见那棵树后就朝它飞过去，落在一根小枝上。
“给我一朵红蔷薇，”她高声喊道，“我会为你唱我最甜美的歌。”
可是树儿摇了摇头。
“我的蔷薇是白色的，”它回答说，“白得就像大海的浪花沫，白得超过山顶上的积雪。但你可以去找我那长在古日晷器旁的兄弟，或许他能满足你的需要。”
于是夜莺就朝那棵生长在古日晷器旁的蔷薇树飞去了。
“给我-朵红蔷薇，”她大声说，“我会为你唱我最甜美的歌。”
可是树儿摇了摇头。
“我的蔷薇是黄色的，”它回答说，“黄得就像坐在琥珀宝座上的美人鱼的头发，黄得超过拿着镰刀的割草人来之前在草地上盛开的水仙花。但你可以去找我那长在学生窗下的兄弟，或许他能满足你的需要。”
于是夜莺就朝那棵生长在学生窗下的蔷薇树飞去了。
“给我一朵红蔷薇，”她大声说，“我会为你唱我最甜美的歌。”
可是树儿摇了摇头。
“我的蔷薇是红色的，”它回答说，“红得就像鸽子的脚，红得超过在海洋洞穴中飘动的珊瑚大扇。但是冬天已经冻僵了我的血管，霜雪已经摧残了我的花蕾，风暴已经吹折了我的枝叶，今年我不会再有蔷薇花了。”
“我只要一朵蔷薇花，”夜莺大声叫道，“只要一朵红蔷薇！难道就没有办法让我得到它吗？”
“有一个办法，”树回答说，“但就是太可怕了，我都不敢对你说。”
“告诉我，”夜莺说，“我不怕。”
“如果你想要一朵红蔷薇，”树儿说，“你就必须借助月光用音乐来造出它，并且要用你胸中的鲜血来染红它。你一定要用你的胸膛顶住我的一根刺来唱歌。你要为我唱上整整一夜，那根刺一定要穿透你的胸膛，你的鲜血一定要流进我的血管，并变成我的血。”
“拿死亡来换一朵蔷薇，这代价实在很高，”夜莺大声叫道，“生命对每一个人都是非常宝贵的。坐在绿树上看太阳驾驶着她的金马车，看月亮开着她的珍珠马车，是一件愉快的事情。山楂散发出香味，躲藏在山谷中的风铃草以及盛开在山头的石南花也是香的。然而爱情胜过生命，再说鸟的心怎么比得过人的心呢？”
于是她便张开自己棕色的翅膀朝天空中飞去了。她像影子似的飞过花园，又像影子似的穿越了小树林。
年轻的学生仍躺在草地上，跟她离开时的情景一样，他那双美丽的眼睛还挂着泪水。
“快乐起来吧，”夜莺大声说，“快乐起来吧，你就要得到你的红蔷薇了。我要在月光下把它用音乐造成，献出我胸膛中的鲜血把它染红。我要求你报答我的只有一件事，就是你要做一个真正的恋人，因为尽管哲学很聪明，然而爱情比她更聪明，尽管权力很伟大，可是爱情比他更伟大。火焰映红了爱情的翅膀，使他的身躯像火焰一样火红。他的嘴唇像蜜一样甜；他的气息跟乳香一样芬芳。”
学生从草地上抬头仰望着，并侧耳倾听，但是他不懂夜莺在对他讲什么，因为他只知道那些写在书本上的东西。
可是橡树心里是明白的，他感到很难受，因为他十分喜爱这只在自己树枝上做巢的小夜莺。
“给我唱最后一支歌吧，”他轻声说，“你这一走我会觉得很孤独的。”
于是夜莺给橡树唱起了歌，她的声音就像是银罐子里沸腾的水声。
等她的歌声一停，学生便从草地上站起来，从他的口袋中拿出一个笔记本和一支铅笔。
“她的样子真好看，”他对自己说，说着就穿过小树林走开了一一“这是不能否认的；但是她有情感吗？我想她恐怕没有。事实上，她像大多数艺术家-样，只讲究形式，没有任何诚意。她不会为别人做出牺牲的。她只想着音乐，人人都知道艺术是自私的。不过我不得不承认她的歌声申也有些美丽的调子。只可惜它们没有一点意义，也没有任何实际的好处。”他走进屋子，躺在自己那张简陋的小床上，想起他那心爱的人儿，不一会儿就进入了梦乡。
等到月亮挂上了天际的时候，夜莺就朝蔷薇树飞去，用自己的胸膛顶住花刺。她用胸膛顶着刺整整唱了一夜，就连冰凉如水晶的明月也俯下身来倾听。整整一夜她唱个不停，刺在她的胸口上越刺越深，她身上的鲜血也快要流光了。
她开始唱起少男少女的心中萌发的爱情。在蔷薇树最高的枝头上开放出一朵异常的蔷薇，歌儿唱了一首又一首，花瓣也一片片地开放了。起初，花儿是乳白色的，就像悬在河上的雾霾--白得就如同早晨的足履，白得就像黎明的翅膀。在最高枝头上盛开的那朵蔷薇花，如同一朵在银镜中，在水池里照出的蔷薇花影。
然而这时白蔷薇树大声叫夜莺把刺顶得更紧一些。
“顶紧些，小夜莺，”树大叫着，“不然蔷薇还没有完成天就要亮了。”
于是夜莺把刺顶得更紧了，她的歌声也越来越响亮了，因为她歌唱着一对成年男女心中诞生的激情。
一层淡淡的红晕爬上了蔷薇花瓣，就跟新郎亲吻新娘时脸上泛起的红晕一样。
但是花刺还没有达到夜莺的心脏，所以蔷薇的心还是白色的，因为只有夜莺心里的血才能染红蔷薇的花心。
这时树又大声叫夜莺顶得更紧些，“再紧些，小夜莺，”树儿高声喊着，“不然，蔷薇还没完成天就要亮了。”
于是夜莺就把蔷薇刺顶得更紧了，刺着了自己的心脏，一阵剧烈的痛楚袭遍了她的全身。
痛得越来越厉害，歌声也越来越激烈，因为她歌唱着由死亡完成的爱情，歌唱着在坟墓中也不朽的爱情。
最后这朵非凡的蔷薇变成了深红色，就像东方天际的红霞，花瓣的外环是深红色的，花心更红得好似一块红宝石。
不过夜莺的歌声却越来越弱了，她的一双小翅膀开始扑打起来，一层雾膜爬上了她的双目。
她的歌声变得更弱了，她觉得喉咙给什么东西堵住了。
这时她唱出了最后一曲。明月听着歌声，竟然忘记了黎明，只顾在天空中徘徊。
红蔷薇听到歌声，更是欣喜若狂，张开了所有的花瓣去迎接凉凉的晨风。
回声把歌声带回自己山中的紫色洞穴中，把酣睡的牧童从梦乡中唤醒。
歌声飘越过河中的芦苇，芦苇又把声音传给了大海。
“快看，快看！”树叫了起来，“蔷薇已长好了。”
可是夜莺没有回答，因为她已经躺在长长的草丛中死去了，心口上还扎着那根刺。
中午时分，学生打开窗户朝外看去。
“啊，多好的运气呀！”他大声嚷道，“这儿竟有一朵红蔷薇！这样的蔷薇我一生也不曾见过。它太美了，我敢说它有一个好长的拉丁名字。”他俯下身去把它摘了下来。
随即他戴上帽子，拿起蔷薇，朝教授的家跑去。
教授的女儿正坐在门口，在纺车上纺着蓝色的丝线，她的小狗躺在她的脚旁。
“你说过只要我送你一朵红玫遗，你就会同我跳舞，”学生高声说道，“这是全世界最红的一朵蔷薇。你今晚就把它戴在你的胸口上，我们一起跳舞的时候，它会告诉你我是多么的爱你。”
然而少女却皱起眉头。
“我担心它与我的衣服不相配，”她回答说，“再说，宫廷大臣的侄儿已经送给我一些珍贵的珠宝，人人都知道珠宝比花更加值钱。”
“噢，我要说，你是个忘恩负义的人，”学生愤怒地说。一下把蔷薇扔到了大街上，蔷薇落入阴沟里，一辆马车从它身上碾了过去。
“忘恩负义？！”少女说，“我告诉你吧，你太无礼了；再说，你是什么？只是个穷学生。啊，我敢说你不会像宫廷大臣侄儿那样，鞋上钉有银扣子。”说完她就从椅子上站起来朝屋里走去。
“爱情是多么愚昧啊！”学生一边走一边说，“它不及逻辑一半管用，因为它什么都证明不了，而它总是告诉人们一些不会发生的事，并且还让人相信一些不真实的事。说实话，它一点也不实用，在那个年代，一切都要讲实际。我要回到哲学中去，去学形而上学的东西。”
于是他便回到自己的屋子里，拿出满是尘土的大书，读了起来。
林徽因翻译版
“她说我若为她采得红玫瑰，便与我跳舞。”青年学生哭着说，“但我全园里何曾有一朵红玫瑰？”
夜莺在橡树上巢中听见，从叶丛里望外看，心中诧异。
青年哭道，“我园中并没有红玫瑰！”他秀眼里满含着泪珠。
“呀！幸福倒靠着这些区区小东西！古圣贤书我已读完，哲学的玄秘我已彻悟，然而因为求一朵红玫瑰不得，我的生活便这样难堪。”
夜莺叹道，“真情人竟在这里。以前我虽不曾认识，我却夜夜的歌唱他：我夜夜将他的一桩桩事告诉星辰，如今我见着他了。他的头发黑如风信子花，嘴唇红比他所切盼的玫瑰，但是挚情已使他脸色憔悴，烦恼已在他眉端引着痕迹。”
青年又低声自语：“王子今晚宴会跳舞，我的爱人也将与会。我若为她采得红玫瑰，她就和我跳舞直到天明，我若为她采得红玫瑰，我将把她抱在怀里，她的头，在我肩上枕着，她的手，在我手中握着。但我园里没有红玫瑰，我只能寂寞的坐着，看她从我跟前走过，她不理睬我，我的心将要粉碎了。”
“这真是个真情人。”夜莺又说着，“我所歌唱，是他尝受的苦楚：在我是乐的，在他却是悲痛。‘爱’果然是件非常的东西。比翡翠还珍重，比玛瑙更宝贵。珍珠，榴石买不得他，黄金亦不能作他的代价，因为他不是在市上出卖，也不是商人贩卖的东西。”
青年说：“乐师们将在乐坛上弹弄丝竹，我那爱人也将按着弦琴的音节舞蹈。她舞得那么翩翩，莲步都不着地，华服的少年们就会艳羡的围着她。但她不同我跳舞，因我没有为她采到红玫瑰。”于是他倒在草里，两手掩着脸哭泣。
绿色的小壁虎说，“他为什么哭泣？”说完就竖起尾巴从他跟前跑过。
蝴蝶正追着阳光飞舞，他亦问说，“唉，怎么？”
金盏花亦向她的邻居低声探问，“唉，怎么？”
夜莺说“他为着一朵红玫瑰哭泣。”
他们叫道，“为着一朵红玫瑰！真笑话！”那小壁虎本来就刻薄，于是大笑。
然而夜莺了解那青年烦恼里的秘密，她静坐在橡树枝上细想“爱”的玄妙。
忽然她张起棕色的双翼，冲天的飞去。她穿过那树林如同影子一般，如同影子一般的，她飞出了花。
草地当中站着一株艳美的玫瑰树，她看见那树，向前飞去落在一枝枝头上。
她叫道，“给我一朵鲜红玫瑰，我为你唱我最婉转的歌。”
可是那树摇头。
“我的玫瑰是白的，”那树回答她，“白如海涛的泡沫，白过山颠上级学。请你到古日晷旁找我兄弟，或者他能应你所求。”
于是夜莺飞到日晷旁边那丛玫瑰上。
她又叫道，“给我一朵鲜红玫瑰，我为你唱最醉人的歌。”
可是那树摇头。
“我的玫瑰是黄的，”那树回答她，“黄如琥珀座上人鱼神的头发，黄过割草人未割以前的金水县。请你到那边青年窗下找我兄弟，或者他能应你所求。”
于是夜莺飞到青年窗下那丛玫瑰上。
他仍旧叫道，“给我一朵鲜红玫瑰，我为你唱最甜美的歌。”
可是那树摇头。
那树回答她道，“我的玫瑰是红的，红如白鸽的脚趾，红果海底岩下扇动的珊瑚。但是严冬已冻僵了我的血脉，寒霜已啮伤了我的萌芽，暴风已打断了我的枝干，今年我不能再开了。”
夜莺央告说，“一朵红玫瑰就够了。只要一朵红玫瑰！请问有甚法子没有？”
那树答道，“有一个法子，只有一个，但是太可怕了，我不敢告诉你。”
“告诉我吧，”夜莺勇敢地说，“我不怕。”
那树说道，“你若要一朵红玫瑰，你需在月色里用音乐制成，然后用你自己的心血染她。你需将胸口顶着一根尖刺，为我歌唱。你需整夜的为我歌唱，那刺需刺入你的心头，你生命的血液得流到我的心房里变成我的。”
夜莺叹道，“拿死来买一朵红玫瑰，代价真不小，谁的生命不是宝贵的，坐在青郁的森林里，看太阳在黄金车里，月亮在白珠辇内驰骋，真是一桩乐事。山楂化的味儿真香，山谷里的吊钟花和山坡上野草真美。然而‘爱’比生命更可贵，一个鸟的心又怎能和人的心比？”
忽然她张起棕色的双翼，冲天的飞去。她穿过那花园如同影子一般，她荡出了那树林子。
那青年仍旧僵卧在草地上方才她离去的地方，他那付秀眼里的泪珠还没有干。
夜莺喊道，“高兴吧，快乐八；你将要采到你那朵红玫瑰了。我将用月下的歌音制成她。我向你所求的报酬，仅是要你做一个真挚的情人，因为哲理虽智，爱比她更慧，权力虽雄，爱比她更伟。焰光的色彩是爱的双翅，烈火的颜色是爱的躯干。她又如蜜的口唇，若兰的吐气。”
如今那玫瑰瓣上生了一层娇嫩的红晕，如同初吻新娘时新郎的绛颊。但是那刺还未插到夜莺的心房，所以那花心尚留着白色，因为只有夜莺的心血可以染成玫瑰花心。
那树复催迫着夜莺紧插那枝刺，“靠紧那刺，小夜莺，”那树连声的叫唤，“不然，玫瑰还没开成，晓光就要闯来了。”
于是夜莺紧紧插入那枝刺，那刺居然插入了她的心，但是一种奇痛穿过她的全身，那种惨痛愈猛，愈烈，她的歌声越狂，越壮，因为她这回歌颂的是因死而完成的挚爱和冢中不朽的爱情。
那卓绝的玫瑰于是变作鲜红，如同东方的天色。花的外瓣红同烈火，花的内心赤如绛玉。
夜莺的声音越唱越模糊了，她的双翅拍动起来，她的眼上起了一层薄膜。她的歌声模糊了，她觉得喉间哽咽了。
于是她放出末次的歌声，白色的残月听见，忘记天晓，挂在空中停着。那玫瑰听见，凝神战栗着，在清冷的晓风里瓣瓣的开放。回音将歌声领入山坡上的紫洞，将牧童从梦里惊醒。歌声流到河边苇丛中，苇叶将这信息传与大海。
那树叫道，“看，这玫瑰已制成了。”然而夜莺并不回答，她已躺在乱草里死去，那刺还插在心头。
日午时青年开窗望外看。
他叫道，“怪事，真是难遇的幸运，这儿有朵红玫瑰，这样好玫瑰，我生来从没有见过。它这样美红定有很繁长的拉丁名字”；说着便俯身下去折了这花。
于是他戴上帽子，跑往教授家去，手里拈着红玫瑰。
教授的女儿正坐在门前卷一轴蓝色绸子，她的小狗伏在她脚前。
青年叫道，“你说过我若为你采得红玫瑰，你便同我跳舞。这里有一朵全世界最珍贵的红玫瑰。你可以将她插在你的胸前，我们同舞的时候，这花便能告诉你，我怎样的爱你。”
那女郎只皱着眉头。
她答说，“我怕这花不能配上我的衣裳；而且大臣的侄子送我许多珠宝首饰，人人都知道珠宝比花草贵重。”
青年怒道，“我敢说你是个无情义的人。”她便将玫瑰掷在街心，掉在车辙里，让一个车轮轧过。
女郎说，“无情义？我告诉你吧，你实在无礼；况且到底你是谁？不过一个学生文人，我看像大臣侄子鞋上的那银扣，你都没有。”说着站起身来走回房去。
青年走着自语道，“爱好傻呀，远不如伦理学那般有实用，它所告诉我们的，无非是空中楼阁，实际上不会发生的，和缥缈的虚无不可信的事件。在现在的世界里存在，首要有实用的东西，我还是回到我的哲学和玄学书上去吧。”
于是他回到房中取出一本笨重的，满堆着尘土的大书埋头细读。
心是用来碎的
王尔德说的对
The Nightingale And The Rose
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 red rose."
From her nest in the 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(1)-- blossom, and his lips are red as the rose of his desire; but passion has made his face 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 should 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(2), and dearer than fine opals(3) . Pearls and pomegranates cannot buy it, nor is it set forth in the market-place. It may not be purchased of the merchants, 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 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 center 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(4) , 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 me 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 he 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 homey, 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 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 had form," her 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 marvelous 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 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 marvelous 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’ 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 not 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 he girl frowned.
"I am afraid it will not go with my dress," she answered; "and, besides, the Chamberlain’s nephew had 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 onto he street, where it fell into the gutter , and a cartwheel 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 dont 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.
hyacinth(风信子) emeralds (翡翠) opals (蛋白石) sun-dial (一种玫瑰)
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“她说过只要我送给她一朵红蔷薇，她就愿意与我跳舞，”一位年轻的学生大声说道，“可是在我的花园里，连一朵红蔷薇也没有。”
这番话给在圣栎树上自己巢中的夜莺听见了，她从绿叶丛中探出头来，四处张望着。
“我的花园里哪儿都找不到红蔷薇，”他哭着说，一双美丽的眼睛充满了泪水。“唉，难道幸福竟依赖于这么细小的东西！我读过智者们写的所有文章，知识的一切奥秘也都装在我的头脑中，然而就因缺少一朵红蔷薇我却要过痛苦的生活。”
“这儿总算有一位真正的恋人了，”夜莺对自己说，“虽然我不认识他，但我会每夜每夜地为他歌唱，我还会每夜每夜地把他的故事讲给星星听。现在我总算看见他了，他的头发黑得像风信子花，他的嘴唇就像他想要的蔷薇那样红；但是感情的折磨使他脸色苍白如象牙，忧伤的印迹也爬上了他的眉梢。”
“王子明天晚上要开舞会，”年轻学生喃喃自语地说，“我所爱的人将要前往。假如我送她一朵红蔷薇，她就会同我跳舞到天明；假如我送她一朵红蔷薇，我就能搂着她的腰，她也会把头靠在我的肩上，她的手将捏在我的手心里。可是我的花园里却没有红蔷薇，我只能孤零零地坐在那边，看着她从身旁经过。她不会注意到我，我的心会碎的。”
“这的确是位真正的恋人，”夜莺说，“我所为之歌唱的正是他遭受的痛苦，我所为之快乐的东西，对他却是痛苦。爱情真是一件奇妙无比的事情，它比绿宝石更珍贵，比猫眼石更稀奇。用珍珠和石榴都换不来，是市场上买不到的，是从商人那儿购不来的，更无法用黄金来称出它的重量。”
“乐师们会坐在他们的廊厅中，”年轻的学生说，“弹奏起他们的弦乐器。我心爱的人将在竖琴和小提琴的音乐声中翩翩起舞。她跳得那么轻松欢快，连脚跟都不蹭地板似的。那些身着华丽服装的臣仆们将她围在中间。然而她就是不会同我跳舞，因为我没有红色的蔷薇献给她。”于是他扑倒在草地上，双手捂着脸放声痛哭起来。
“他为什么哭呢？”一条绿色的小蜥蜴高高地翘起尾巴从他身旁跑过时，这样问道。
“是啊，倒底为什么？”一只蝴蝶说，她正追着一缕阳光在跳舞。
“是啊，倒底为什么？”一朵雏菊用低缓的声音对自已的邻居轻声说道。
“他为一朵红蔷薇而哭泣。”夜莺告诉大家。
“为了一朵红蔷薇？”他们叫了起来。“真是好笑！”小蜥蜴说，他是个爱嘲讽别人的人，忍不住笑了起来。
可只有夜莺了解学生忧伤的原因，她默默无声地坐在橡树上，想象着爱情的神秘莫测。
突然她伸开自己棕色的翅膀，朝空中飞去。她像个影子似的飞过了小树林，又像个影子似的飞越了花园。
在一块草地的中央长着一棵美丽的蔷薇树，她看见那棵树后就朝它飞过去，落在一根小枝上。
“给我一朵红蔷薇，”她高声喊道，“我会为你唱我最甜美的歌。”
可是树儿摇了摇头。
“我的蔷薇是白色的，”它回答说，“白得就像大海的浪花沫，白得超过山顶上的积雪。但你可以去找我那长在古日晷器旁的兄弟，或许他能满足你的需要。”
于是夜莺就朝那棵生长在古日晷器旁的蔷薇树飞去了。
“给我-朵红蔷薇，”她大声说，“我会为你唱我最甜美的歌。”
可是树儿摇了摇头。
“我的蔷薇是黄色的，”它回答说，“黄得就像坐在琥珀宝座上的美人鱼的头发，黄得超过拿着镰刀的割草人来之前在草地上盛开的水仙花。但你可以去找我那长在学生窗下的兄弟，或许他能满足你的需要。”
于是夜莺就朝那棵生长在学生窗下的蔷薇树飞去了。
“给我一朵红蔷薇，”她大声说，“我会为你唱我最甜美的歌。”
可是树儿摇了摇头。
“我的蔷薇是红色的，”它回答说，“红得就像鸽子的脚，红得超过在海洋洞穴中飘动的珊瑚大扇。但是冬天已经冻僵了我的血管，霜雪已经摧残了我的花蕾，风暴已经吹折了我的枝叶，今年我不会再有蔷薇花了。”
“我只要一朵蔷薇花，”夜莺大声叫道，“只要一朵红蔷薇！难道就没有办法让我得到它吗？”
“有一个办法，”树回答说，“但就是太可怕了，我都不敢对你说。”
“告诉我，”夜莺说，“我不怕。”
“如果你想要一朵红蔷薇，”树儿说，“你就必须借助月光用音乐来造出它，并且要用你胸中的鲜血来染红它。你一定要用你的胸膛顶住我的一根刺来唱歌。你要为我唱上整整一夜，那根刺一定要穿透你的胸膛，你的鲜血一定要流进我的血管，并变成我的血。”
“拿死亡来换一朵蔷薇，这代价实在很高，”夜莺大声叫道，“生命对每一个人都是非常宝贵的。坐在绿树上看太阳驾驶着她的金马车，看月亮开着她的珍珠马车，是一件愉快的事情。山楂散发出香味，躲藏在山谷中的风铃草以及盛开在山头的石南花也是香的。然而爱情胜过生命，再说鸟的心怎么比得过人的心呢？”
于是她便张开自己棕色的翅膀朝天空中飞去了。她像影子似的飞过花园，又像影子似的穿越了小树林。
年轻的学生仍躺在草地上，跟她离开时的情景一样，他那双美丽的眼睛还挂着泪水。
“快乐起来吧，”夜莺大声说，“快乐起来吧，你就要得到你的红蔷薇了。我要在月光下把它用音乐造成，献出我胸膛中的鲜血把它染红。我要求你报答我的只有一件事，就是你要做一个真正的恋人，因为尽管哲学很聪明，然而爱情比她更聪明，尽管权力很伟大，可是爱情比他更伟大。火焰映红了爱情的翅膀，使他的身躯像火焰一样火红。他的嘴唇像蜜一样甜；他的气息跟乳香一样芬芳。”
学生从草地上抬头仰望着，并侧耳倾听，但是他不懂夜莺在对他讲什么，因为他只知道那些写在书本上的东西。
可是橡树心里是明白的，他感到很难受，因为他十分喜爱这只在自己树枝上做巢的小夜莺。
“给我唱最后一支歌吧，”他轻声说，“你这一走我会觉得很孤独的。”
于是夜莺给橡树唱起了歌，她的声音就像是银罐子里沸腾的水声。
等她的歌声一停，学生便从草地上站起来，从他的口袋中拿出一个笔记本和一支铅笔。
“她的样子真好看，”他对自己说，说着就穿过小树林走开了一一“这是不能否认的；但是她有情感吗？我想她恐怕没有。事实上，她像大多数艺术家-样，只讲究形式，没有任何诚意。她不会为别人做出牺牲的。她只想着音乐，人人都知道艺术是自私的。不过我不得不承认她的歌声申也有些美丽的调子。只可惜它们没有一点意义，也没有任何实际的好处。”他走进屋子，躺在自己那张简陋的小床上，想起他那心爱的人儿，不一会儿就进入了梦乡。
等到月亮挂上了天际的时候，夜莺就朝蔷薇树飞去，用自己的胸膛顶住花刺。她用胸膛顶着刺整整唱了一夜，就连冰凉如水晶的明月也俯下身来倾听。整整一夜她唱个不停，刺在她的胸口上越刺越深，她身上的鲜血也快要流光了。
她开始唱起少男少女的心中萌发的爱情。在蔷薇树最高的枝头上开放出一朵异常的蔷薇，歌儿唱了一首又一首，花瓣也一片片地开放了。起初，花儿是乳白色的，就像悬在河上的雾霾--白得就如同早晨的足履，白得就像黎明的翅膀。在最高枝头上盛开的那朵蔷薇花，如同一朵在银镜中，在水池里照出的蔷薇花影。
然而这时白蔷薇树大声叫夜莺把刺顶得更紧一些。
“顶紧些，小夜莺，”树大叫着，“不然蔷薇还没有完成天就要亮了。”
于是夜莺把刺顶得更紧了，她的歌声也越来越响亮了，因为她歌唱着一对成年男女心中诞生的激情。
一层淡淡的红晕爬上了蔷薇花瓣，就跟新郎亲吻新娘时脸上泛起的红晕一样。
但是花刺还没有达到夜莺的心脏，所以蔷薇的心还是白色的，因为只有夜莺心里的血才能染红蔷薇的花心。
这时树又大声叫夜莺顶得更紧些，“再紧些，小夜莺，”树儿高声喊着，“不然，蔷薇还没完成天就要亮了。”
于是夜莺就把蔷薇刺顶得更紧了，刺着了自己的心脏，一阵剧烈的痛楚袭遍了她的全身。
痛得越来越厉害，歌声也越来越激烈，因为她歌唱着由死亡完成的爱情，歌唱着在坟墓中也不朽的爱情。
最后这朵非凡的蔷薇变成了深红色，就像东方天际的红霞，花瓣的外环是深红色的，花心更红得好似一块红宝石。
不过夜莺的歌声却越来越弱了，她的一双小翅膀开始扑打起来，一层雾膜爬上了她的双目。
她的歌声变得更弱了，她觉得喉咙给什么东西堵住了。
这时她唱出了最后一曲。明月听着歌声，竟然忘记了黎明，只顾在天空中徘徊。
红蔷薇听到歌声，更是欣喜若狂，张开了所有的花瓣去迎接凉凉的晨风。
回声把歌声带回自己山中的紫色洞穴中，把酣睡的牧童从梦乡中唤醒。
歌声飘越过河中的芦苇，芦苇又把声音传给了大海。
“快看，快看！”树叫了起来，“蔷薇已长好了。”
可是夜莺没有回答，因为她已经躺在长长的草丛中死去了，心口上还扎着那根刺。
中午时分，学生打开窗户朝外看去。
“啊，多好的运气呀！”他大声嚷道，“这儿竟有一朵红蔷薇！这样的蔷薇我一生也不曾见过。它太美了，我敢说它有一个好长的拉丁名字。”他俯下身去把它摘了下来。
随即他戴上帽子，拿起蔷薇，朝教授的家跑去。
教授的女儿正坐在门口，在纺车上纺着蓝色的丝线，她的小狗躺在她的脚旁。
“你说过只要我送你一朵红玫遗，你就会同我跳舞，”学生高声说道，“这是全世界最红的一朵蔷薇。你今晚就把它戴在你的胸口上，我们一起跳舞的时候，它会告诉你我是多么的爱你。”
然而少女却皱起眉头。
“我担心它与我的衣服不相配，”她回答说，“再说，宫廷大臣的侄儿已经送给我一些珍贵的珠宝，人人都知道珠宝比花更加值钱。”
“噢，我要说，你是个忘恩负义的人，”学生愤怒地说。一下把蔷薇扔到了大街上，蔷薇落入阴沟里，一辆马车从它身上碾了过去。
“忘恩负义？！”少女说，“我告诉你吧，你太无礼了；再说，你是什么？只是个穷学生。啊，我敢说你不会像宫廷大臣侄儿那样，鞋上钉有银扣子。”说完她就从椅子上站起来朝屋里走去。
“爱情是多么愚昧啊！”学生一边走一边说，“它不及逻辑一半管用，因为它什么都证明不了，而它总是告诉人们一些不会发生的事，并且还让人相信一些不真实的事。说实话，它一点也不实用，在那个年代，一切都要讲实际。我要回到哲学中去，去学形而上学的东西。”
于是他便回到自己的屋子里，拿出满是尘土的大书，读了起来。
林徽因翻译版
“她说我若为她采得红玫瑰，便与我跳舞。”青年学生哭着说，“但我全园里何曾有一朵红玫瑰？”
夜莺在橡树上巢中听见，从叶丛里望外看，心中诧异。
青年哭道，“我园中并没有红玫瑰！”他秀眼里满含着泪珠。
“呀！幸福倒靠着这些区区小东西！古圣贤书我已读完，哲学的玄秘我已彻悟，然而因为求一朵红玫瑰不得，我的生活便这样难堪。”
夜莺叹道，“真情人竟在这里。以前我虽不曾认识，我却夜夜的歌唱他：我夜夜将他的一桩桩事告诉星辰，如今我见着他了。他的头发黑如风信子花，嘴唇红比他所切盼的玫瑰，但是挚情已使他脸色憔悴，烦恼已在他眉端引着痕迹。”
青年又低声自语：“王子今晚宴会跳舞，我的爱人也将与会。我若为她采得红玫瑰，她就和我跳舞直到天明，我若为她采得红玫瑰，我将把她抱在怀里，她的头，在我肩上枕着，她的手，在我手中握着。但我园里没有红玫瑰，我只能寂寞的坐着，看她从我跟前走过，她不理睬我，我的心将要粉碎了。”
“这真是个真情人。”夜莺又说着，“我所歌唱，是他尝受的苦楚：在我是乐的，在他却是悲痛。‘爱’果然是件非常的东西。比翡翠还珍重，比玛瑙更宝贵。珍珠，榴石买不得他，黄金亦不能作他的代价，因为他不是在市上出卖，也不是商人贩卖的东西。”
青年说：“乐师们将在乐坛上弹弄丝竹，我那爱人也将按着弦琴的音节舞蹈。她舞得那么翩翩，莲步都不着地，华服的少年们就会艳羡的围着她。但她不同我跳舞，因我没有为她采到红玫瑰。”于是他倒在草里，两手掩着脸哭泣。
绿色的小壁虎说，“他为什么哭泣？”说完就竖起尾巴从他跟前跑过。
蝴蝶正追着阳光飞舞，他亦问说，“唉，怎么？”
金盏花亦向她的邻居低声探问，“唉，怎么？”
夜莺说“他为着一朵红玫瑰哭泣。”
他们叫道，“为着一朵红玫瑰！真笑话！”那小壁虎本来就刻薄，于是大笑。
然而夜莺了解那青年烦恼里的秘密，她静坐在橡树枝上细想“爱”的玄妙。
忽然她张起棕色的双翼，冲天的飞去。她穿过那树林如同影子一般，如同影子一般的，她飞出了花。
草地当中站着一株艳美的玫瑰树，她看见那树，向前飞去落在一枝枝头上。
她叫道，“给我一朵鲜红玫瑰，我为你唱我最婉转的歌。”
可是那树摇头。
“我的玫瑰是白的，”那树回答她，“白如海涛的泡沫，白过山颠上级学。请你到古日晷旁找我兄弟，或者他能应你所求。”
于是夜莺飞到日晷旁边那丛玫瑰上。
她又叫道，“给我一朵鲜红玫瑰，我为你唱最醉人的歌。”
可是那树摇头。
“我的玫瑰是黄的，”那树回答她，“黄如琥珀座上人鱼神的头发，黄过割草人未割以前的金水县。请你到那边青年窗下找我兄弟，或者他能应你所求。”
于是夜莺飞到青年窗下那丛玫瑰上。
他仍旧叫道，“给我一朵鲜红玫瑰，我为你唱最甜美的歌。”
可是那树摇头。
那树回答她道，“我的玫瑰是红的，红如白鸽的脚趾，红果海底岩下扇动的珊瑚。但是严冬已冻僵了我的血脉，寒霜已啮伤了我的萌芽，暴风已打断了我的枝干，今年我不能再开了。”
夜莺央告说，“一朵红玫瑰就够了。只要一朵红玫瑰！请问有甚法子没有？”
那树答道，“有一个法子，只有一个，但是太可怕了，我不敢告诉你。”
“告诉我吧，”夜莺勇敢地说，“我不怕。”
那树说道，“你若要一朵红玫瑰，你需在月色里用音乐制成，然后用你自己的心血染她。你需将胸口顶着一根尖刺，为我歌唱。你需整夜的为我歌唱，那刺需刺入你的心头，你生命的血液得流到我的心房里变成我的。”
夜莺叹道，“拿死来买一朵红玫瑰，代价真不小，谁的生命不是宝贵的，坐在青郁的森林里，看太阳在黄金车里，月亮在白珠辇内驰骋，真是一桩乐事。山楂化的味儿真香，山谷里的吊钟花和山坡上野草真美。然而‘爱’比生命更可贵，一个鸟的心又怎能和人的心比？”
忽然她张起棕色的双翼，冲天的飞去。她穿过那花园如同影子一般，她荡出了那树林子。
那青年仍旧僵卧在草地上方才她离去的地方，他那付秀眼里的泪珠还没有干。
夜莺喊道，“高兴吧，快乐八；你将要采到你那朵红玫瑰了。我将用月下的歌音制成她。我向你所求的报酬，仅是要你做一个真挚的情人，因为哲理虽智，爱比她更慧，权力虽雄，爱比她更伟。焰光的色彩是爱的双翅，烈火的颜色是爱的躯干。她又如蜜的口唇，若兰的吐气。”
如今那玫瑰瓣上生了一层娇嫩的红晕，如同初吻新娘时新郎的绛颊。但是那刺还未插到夜莺的心房，所以那花心尚留着白色，因为只有夜莺的心血可以染成玫瑰花心。
那树复催迫着夜莺紧插那枝刺，“靠紧那刺，小夜莺，”那树连声的叫唤，“不然，玫瑰还没开成，晓光就要闯来了。”
于是夜莺紧紧插入那枝刺，那刺居然插入了她的心，但是一种奇痛穿过她的全身，那种惨痛愈猛，愈烈，她的歌声越狂，越壮，因为她这回歌颂的是因死而完成的挚爱和冢中不朽的爱情。
那卓绝的玫瑰于是变作鲜红，如同东方的天色。花的外瓣红同烈火，花的内心赤如绛玉。
夜莺的声音越唱越模糊了，她的双翅拍动起来，她的眼上起了一层薄膜。她的歌声模糊了，她觉得喉间哽咽了。
于是她放出末次的歌声，白色的残月听见，忘记天晓，挂在空中停着。那玫瑰听见，凝神战栗着，在清冷的晓风里瓣瓣的开放。回音将歌声领入山坡上的紫洞，将牧童从梦里惊醒。歌声流到河边苇丛中，苇叶将这信息传与大海。
那树叫道，“看，这玫瑰已制成了。”然而夜莺并不回答，她已躺在乱草里死去，那刺还插在心头。
日午时青年开窗望外看。
他叫道，“怪事，真是难遇的幸运，这儿有朵红玫瑰，这样好玫瑰，我生来从没有见过。它这样美红定有很繁长的拉丁名字”；说着便俯身下去折了这花。
于是他戴上帽子，跑往教授家去，手里拈着红玫瑰。
教授的女儿正坐在门前卷一轴蓝色绸子，她的小狗伏在她脚前。
青年叫道，“你说过我若为你采得红玫瑰，你便同我跳舞。这里有一朵全世界最珍贵的红玫瑰。你可以将她插在你的胸前，我们同舞的时候，这花便能告诉你，我怎样的爱你。”
那女郎只皱着眉头。
她答说，“我怕这花不能配上我的衣裳；而且大臣的侄子送我许多珠宝首饰，人人都知道珠宝比花草贵重。”
青年怒道，“我敢说你是个无情义的人。”她便将玫瑰掷在街心，掉在车辙里，让一个车轮轧过。
女郎说，“无情义？我告诉你吧，你实在无礼；况且到底你是谁？不过一个学生文人，我看像大臣侄子鞋上的那银扣，你都没有。”说着站起身来走回房去。
青年走着自语道，“爱好傻呀，远不如伦理学那般有实用，它所告诉我们的，无非是空中楼阁，实际上不会发生的，和缥缈的虚无不可信的事件。在现在的世界里存在，首要有实用的东西，我还是回到我的哲学和玄学书上去吧。”
于是他回到房中取出一本笨重的，满堆着尘土的大书埋头细读。
心是用来碎的
王尔德说的对
