夜莺与玫瑰 译者江铭辉
她说，我若能送她一朵红玫瑰，她就愿意和我跳舞!」年轻的学生大声说道;「可是，我的花园里没有红玫瑰啊!」
一只飞离她河边橡树爱巢的夜莺听到这个年轻人的话。她好奇的目光穿过层层的树叶望着。
「我的花园里没有红玫瑰!」年轻人叫着；他那美丽的双眼充满泪水。
「哎!我的幸福竟取决于这件小事情。我遍读圣贤书，洞悉宇宙哲学的奥秘;然而，只一朵红玫瑰，竟使我一生变成这样可怜。」
「哇，终于出现了一个真情真意的有情人了，」夜莺说着，「一夜又一夜，我对这种人歌颂；一夜继一夜，我对群星讲述他的故事，现在，我竟然真的碰上这样的人。哇!这个年轻人的头发黑如风信子花，双唇如同他想要的红玫瑰般鲜红；只是，恋情使得他的脸色像象牙般的苍白，眉间尽是忧郁的神色。」
「王子将于明天晚上举办一场舞会，」年轻学生喃喃自语，「并且它将带给我爱，如果我能送给地一朵红玫瑰，她就答应当我的舞伴，和我跳到黎明。如果我能送给她一朵红玫瑰，我就可以拥她入怀，让她的头倚在我的肩上;同时她的手也会紧着我的手。可是，我的花园没有红玫瑰阿！我只好孤单坐着，看着她从我眼前走过。她看也不看我，此时我的心都破碎了。」
「阿！他真是个有情人。」夜莺说道；「当我在歌颂爱情的时候。他却正为爱情所苦；我向往的爱情，竟是他的痛苦。的确，爱情是奇妙的东西。它比翡翠还要珍贵，比纯正的猫眼石还值钱。即便用珍珠和石榴也买不到它，而且它也不会被当成商品在市场出售。也不能用黄金的重量来衡量。」
乐师们将坐在演奏席上并弹奏乐器，」年轻的学生说道，「而我的爱人将随着竖琴和小提琴的乐声婆娑起舞。她曼妙轻盈地舞着彷佛脚尖不着地般，环绕一群穿着华丽衣着的仰慕者，至于我，若不能送她一朵红玫瑰，她就不答应与我跳舞!」他将身体扑到草坪上，双手掩着脸哭泣。
「他为什么哭泣?」一只绿色的小蜥蜴跷着尾巴跑过学生身旁时问道。
「的确，为什么？」一只正拍着翅膀在阳光下飞翔的蝴蝶说。
「是啊，为什么？」一朵小雏菊轻柔地对它的邻居耳语道。
「他为了一朵红玫瑰而哭。」夜莺回答说。
「为一朵红玫瑰？」大伙儿叫道；「多么可笑！」爱讽刺的小蜥蜴夸当场笑着。但是夜莺知道学生悲伤的秘密，她静静地坐在橡树上，细细地思索爱情的奥秘。
突然间，她伸展开棕色的翅膀，飞起来。飞上天空，她像一道影子，飞过小丛林，像一道影子，飞过花园。
在花园中央的一块草丛里有一株美丽的玫瑰树，飞在上空中的夜莺瞧见了，点燃一道灵感。
「请给我一朵红玫瑰，」夜莺大声说道，「我将为你唱一首最甜美的歌。」
然而这个棵却摇摇头。
「我是白玫瑰，」它回答道;「洁白如海中的泡沫，洁白胜过山上的雪。去找我弟弟吧，它就绕着老日晷仪生长，也许它可以给你一朵红玫瑰。」
于是，夜莺飞到绕着老日晷生长的那株玫瑰那儿。
「请给我一朵红玫瑰，」夜莺大声道，「我将为你唱一首最甜美的歌。」
然而，这株玫瑰也摇摇头。
「我是黄玫瑰，」它答道:「黄如坐在琥珀王座上美人鱼的秀发，黄得比田野上未割刈的水仙花还黄。去找我弟弟吧，它就长在那个青年学生的窗下，也许它可以给你一朵红玫瑰。」
于是，夜莺飞到生长在那位学生窗下的玫瑰前。
「请给我一朵红玫瑰，」夜莺大声说道，「我将为你唱一首最甜美的歌。」
然而，这株仍然玫瑰摇摇头。
「我是红玫瑰没错，」它答道；「红如鸽子的双脚，也红得胜过深海中珊瑚的大枝干。然而，隆冬的严寒冻僵了我的叶脉，冰霜摧残了我的花苞，暴风雨打伤了我的树干，我看，今年我是开不出花来了。」
「我只要一朵红玫瑰而已，」夜莺哭喊道;「只要一朵红玫块就好!有没有什么方法可以让我得到它?」
「有一个办法，」这株玫瑰回答:「不过太可怕了，我不敢告诉妳。」
「告诉我吧，」夜莺答道;「我不怕的。」
「如果妳想要一朵红玫瑰，」这株玫瑰说道；「妳得在月光下用歌声来培育它，而且要用妳心脏里的血液染它。妳必须边唱歌给我听，边把妳的胸膛刺进我的荆棘。整夜对我歌唱，且让我的荆棘刺进妳的心脏，使妳的血液流进我的叶脉中，变成我的血液。」
「为得到一朵红攻块，必须以死亡为报偿，这代价真大，」夜莺说道;「对一切生物来说，生命都是最宝贵的。能够坐在绿意盎然的树林里，看着驾驶黄金马车的太阳和驾驶珍珠马车的月亮是多么娱乐的事。山楂的味道那么美味，山谷中潜藏的蓝色钟形花和山坡上的石南是那么美。然而，爱情却比生命还可贵，而且，一颗鸟类的心怎么比得上人类的一颗心呢?」
因此她展开棕色的羽翼飞起来，飞入天空。她像一道影子似地飞过花园，像一道影子似地掠过丛林。
那个年轻的学生仍然躺在那块她刚飞离的草地上，美丽的双眼仍浸润着未干的泪珠。
「快乐吧，」夜莺大声说道；「快乐吧；你将有红玫瑰了。我会在月夜下用歌声培育它。而且用我心脏里的血液滋润它。一切我要你回报是，你要做一位真心的有情人，因为爱情比哲学更具智慧（虽然哲学是有智慧的），比强权更具力量（虽然强权就是力量）。绚烂的爱情是他翅膀，火焰般的热情是他身体。他的双唇甜美如蜜，气息似乳香。」
年轻的学生从草地抬起头来往上瞧，注意听着，但是他却听不懂夜莺对他讲的话，因为他只懂得书上写的东西。
然而，橡树却知道，而且感到悲伤，因为它非常喜欢这只在它树干足筑巢的小夜莺。
「请为我唱最后一首歌罢，」橡树轻轻说道，「妳走了之后，我一定会非常寂寞的。」
于是，夜莺为橡树歌唱。她的歌声甜美如银壶中汨汨的流水声
当夜莺唱完个歌时，学生站起来，从口袋里掏出一只铅笔和一本笔记簿。
「她真美，」学生离开丛林时自言自语说：「那是不可否认的；不过，她有感情吗?我想恐怕没有吧。其实，她就像大部份的艺术家一样；外表绚丽，一点感情也没有。她根本不会为别人而牺牲自己。她只是想到音乐，每一个人都知道艺术是自私的。然而，必需承认她的声音有些甜美。不过，非常可惜的是。她的歌声既没有任何意义也不具任何实用价值。」他走进自己房里，躺在他的简陋的小床上，开始思念起他的情人；一会儿便睡着了。
当月亮闪耀在天空时，夜莺便飞到玫瑰树前面，用自己的胸膛抵着玫瑰树的荆棘。一整夜她对着玫瑰歌唱并且用自己的胸部抵着荆棘：清冷晶莹的月亮斜挂在天际倾听着。她整夜不停地歌唱。胸前的荆棘也愈刺愈深，刺进心脏。她的血液像潮水般涌出。
她先是歌颂男孩和女孩心中萌发的初恋情意，唱到最高潮处，一朵大而美的玫瑰随之开花，一片一片的花瓣随着一首首的歌开展。起初;玫瑰花的颜色非常苍白，有如漂在河上的雾一样苍白，苍白如清晨脚步般的泛白，有如破晓时的银光，有如银镜中的玫瑰花影，也似水池中的玫瑰花影，这是这棵玫瑰树在最好的状况下绽开的玫瑰花。
不过，这棵树仍旧对夜莺喊着，要她将胸膛更刺进荆棘。「刺深一些，小夜莺，」玫块树叫道，「不然的话，在玫瑰花成长之前。天就要亮了。」
 
 
  
 
 
图：夜莺整夜不停地歌唱。胸前的荆棘也愈刺愈深，刺进心脏。她的血液像潮水般涌出。神奇的玫瑰花开始变得艳红娇丽，就像东边天际里的一朵玫瑰花。

于是，夜莺更加用力刺入荆棘，歌声愈唱愈宏亮，因为此时的她正歌颂着绅士与淑女诞生了热情的灵魂。
于是，苍白的玫瑰花瓣上出现细致迷人的粉红色光泽，就像新郎在亲吻新娘的双唇之后，脸上所浮现的红晕一样。然而，荆棘尚未刺到她的心脏，因此玫瑰花仍是白色，因为，只有夜莺心脏里的鲜血才能染红玫瑰花的花心。
于是，玫瑰再次要夜莺刺得深入些。「刺深一点，小夜莺。否则在玫瑰花花朵结束成长之前，天就要亮了。」
于是，夜莺更用力地将自己刺入荆棘中，让荆棘刺到心脏，一阵剧烈的疼痛贯穿她的全身。痛楚愈加剧，夜莺的歌声也就愈加狂热，因为此时的她正歌颂着完美无缺的死亡爱情，不朽的爱情。
神奇的玫瑰花开始变得艳红娇丽，就像东边天际里的一朵玫瑰花。花瓣环绕一条深红色的腰带，而花心鲜红的像一颗红宝石。
然而，夜莺的歌声却愈来愈微弱，她小小的翅膀开始挣扎拍动，双眼逐渐模糊起来。她的歌声微弱再微弱，而且地觉得喉咙里似乎有东西哽着。
终于，她唱出最后一个音符。洁白的月亮听见了，忘记黎明已到了，仍继续逗留在天上。缸玫瑰听见了，如痴如醉地全身颤动，在早晨寒冷的气中，热情地展开每一片花瓣。回音飘过山丘紫色的幽谷，唤醒睡梦中的牧羊人；它也飘过河中的芦苇，而芦苇并将声音传给大海。
「看哪，看哪!」玫瑰树叫道，「玫瑰花已经成长完毕了。」然而，夜莺却没有响应，因为她已倒在冗长的草上，心脏还扎着荆棘。
中午，年轻的学生推开窗户，向外望去。
「哇，多么神奇的好运气!」他叫道;「这儿有一朵红玫瑰!我一生中从未看过这样一朵玫瑰花。它是如此地美丽：我想它必定有一个很长的拉丁文名字。」于是他俯下身，摘采下玫瑰花。
然后，他戴上帽子，手中握着这朵红玫瑰花，火速赶到教授家去。
教授的女儿正坐在门口，将蓝色的丝线绕在滚动条上，脚边卧着她的小狗。
「妳曾说过，假若我送妳一朵红玫瑰花，妳就答应同我跳舞，」学生叫道。「这是世界上最红的红玫瑰。今晚，妳可以把它别在妳的胸前，当我们一块儿婆娑起舞的时候，这朵花会告诉你，我有多么爱妳。」
然而，女孩却皱了眉头。
「恐怕这朵花和我的礼服不配，」她答道；「而且，内廷大臣的侄子送我一些珍贵的珠宝，大家都知道珠宝要比花儿贵重得多。」
「啊!听我说，妳真是不无情的人。」学生愤怒地说着;之后，他便将手中的玫瑰花扔到街道上，一辆马车辗过它，使它掉进水沟里。
「无情的人!」女孩说道。「我告诉你，你才是粗鲁无礼;况且，你以为你是谁?不过是一名学生罢了。我就不信，你也会和内廷大臣的佳子一样，在皮鞋上装饰着银制的扣子。」说完，她从椅子上站起来，走进屋里去。
「爱情真是愚蠢的东西，」当学生离开时说道。「它的实用价值不如逻辑学的一半，因为它无法证明些什么，又总是讲些不会发生的事，而且让人相信一些不是真实的事。事实上，它非常不实用，在这个年代里，一切讲求实用，我还是回去念念哲学，研究形上学罢。」
于是，他回到他的房间，抽出一本沾着厚重灰尘的书本，开始读了起来。

The Nightingale and the Rose（原文）
"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 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 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 marketplace. 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 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 away," 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 up, 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 top-most spray of the Rose-tree there blossomed a marvellous 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 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 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 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