[Nettime-bold] [ot] [!nt] \n2+0\ the nightingale and the rose

[integer@www.god-emil.dk]

hi. i liked you so very i shall read to you once more.
 -  - calibrating the violet rays in my eyes ___...
from them you drink my essence.

i read to you from a lovely lovely book entitled - 

     the 
           fairy 
                  tales 
                         of oscar wilde.

everybody ready ?



`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 
tonight 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.









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