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| https://www.civictheatre.ie/whats-on/nightingale-rose-2018/ |
作者：王爾德 (Oscar Wilde)(1854 - 1900)，愛爾蘭詩人和劇作家
譯文改自：
「她說過只要我送給她一些紅玫瑰，她就願意與我跳舞，」一位年輕的學生大聲說道，「可是在我的花園裏，連一朵紅玫瑰也沒有。」
這番話給在聖櫟樹上自己巢中的夜鶯聽見了，她從綠葉叢中探出頭來，四處張望著。
「我的花園裏哪兒都找不到紅玫瑰，」他哭著說，一雙美麗的眼睛充滿了淚水。「唉，難道幸福竟依賴於這麽細小的東西！我讀過智者們寫的所有文章，知識的一切奧秘都裝在我的頭腦中，然而就因缺少一朵紅玫瑰我卻要過痛苦的生活。」
「這兒總算有一位真正的戀人了，」夜鶯對自己說，「雖然我不認識他，但我會每夜每夜地為他歌唱，我還會每夜每夜地把他的故事講給星星聽。現在我總算看見他了，他的頭發黑得像風信子花，他的嘴唇就像他想要的玫瑰那樣紅；但是感情的折磨使他臉色蒼白如象牙，憂傷的印跡也爬上了他的眉梢。」
「王子明天晚上要開舞會，」年輕學生喃喃自語地說，「我所愛的人將要前往。假如我送她一朵紅玫瑰，她就會同我跳舞到天明；假如我送她一朵紅玫瑰，我就能摟著她的腰，她也會把頭靠在我的肩上，她的手將捏在我的手心裏。可是我的花園裏卻沒有紅玫瑰，我只能孤零零地坐在那邊，看著她從身旁經過。她不會注意到我，我的心會碎的。」
「這的確是位真正的戀人，」夜鶯說，「我所為之歌唱的正是他遭受的痛苦，我所為之快樂的東西，對他卻是痛苦。愛情真是一件奇妙無比的事情，它比綠寶石更珍貴，比貓眼石更稀奇。用珍珠和石榴石都換不來，是市場上買不到的，是從商人那兒購不來的，更無法用黃金來稱出它的重量。」
「樂師們會坐在他們的廊廳中，」年輕的學生說，「彈奏起他們的弦樂器。我心愛的人將在豎琴和小提琴的音樂聲中翩翩起舞。她跳得那麽輕鬆歡快，連腳跟都不蹭地板似的。那些身著華麗服裝的臣僕們將她圍在中間。然而她就是不會同我跳舞，因為我沒有紅色的玫瑰獻給她。」於是他撲倒在草地上，雙手捂著臉放聲痛哭起來。
「他為什麽哭呢？」一條綠色的小蜥蜴高高地翹起尾巴從他身旁跑過時，這樣問道。
「是啊，到底為什麽？」一只蝴蝶說，她正追著一縷陽光在跳舞。
「是啊，到底為什麽？」一朵雛菊用低緩的聲音對自已的鄰居輕聲說道。
「他為一朵紅玫瑰而哭泣。」夜鶯告訴大家。
「為了一朵紅玫瑰？」他們叫了起來。「真是好笑！」小蜥蜴說，他是個愛嘲諷別人的人，忍不住笑了起來。
可只有夜鶯了解學生憂傷的原因，她默默無聲地坐在橡樹上，想象著愛情的神秘莫測。
突然她伸開自己棕色的翅膀，朝空中飛去。她像個影子似的飛過了小樹林，又像個影子似的飛越了花園。
在一塊草地的中央長著一棵美麗的玫瑰樹，她看見那棵樹後就朝它飛過去，落在一根小枝上。
「給我一朵紅玫瑰，」她高聲喊道，「我會為你唱我最甜美的歌。」
可是樹兒搖了搖頭。
「我的玫瑰是白色的，」它回答說，「白得就像大海的浪花沫，白得超過山頂上的積雪。但你可以去找我那長在古日晷器旁的兄弟，或許他能滿足你的需要。」
於是夜鶯就朝那棵生長在古日晷器旁的玫瑰樹飛去了。
「給我一朵紅玫瑰，」她大聲說，「我會為你唱我最甜美的歌。」
可是樹兒搖了搖頭。
「我的玫瑰是黃色的，」它回答說，「黃得就像坐在琥珀寶座上的美人魚的頭髮，黃得超過拿著鐮刀的割草人來之前在草地上盛開的水仙花。但你可以去找我那長在學生窗下的兄弟，或許他能滿足你的需要。」
於是夜鶯就朝那棵生長在學生窗下的玫瑰樹飛去了。
「給我一朵紅玫瑰，」她大聲說，「我會為你唱我最甜美的歌。」
可是樹兒搖了搖頭。
「我的玫瑰是紅色的，」它回答說，「紅得就像鴿子的腳，紅得超過在海洋洞穴中飄動的珊瑚大扇。但是冬天已經凍僵了我的血管，霜雪已經摧殘了我的花蕾，風暴已經吹折了我的枝葉，今年我不會再有玫瑰花了。」
「我只要一朵玫瑰花，」夜鶯大聲叫道，「只要一朵紅玫瑰！難道就沒有辦法讓我得到它嗎？」
「有一個辦法，」樹回答說，「但就是太可怕了，我都不敢對你說。」
「告訴我，」夜鶯說，「我不怕。」
「如果你想要一朵紅玫瑰，」樹兒說，「你就必須借助月光用音樂來造出它，並且要用你胸中的鮮血來染紅它。你一定要用你的胸膛頂住我的一根刺來唱歌。你要為我唱上整整一夜，那根刺一定要穿透你的胸膛，你的鮮血一定要流進我的血管，並變成我的血。」
「拿死亡來換一朵玫瑰，這代價實在很高，」夜鶯大聲叫道，「生命對每一個人都是非常寶貴的。坐在綠樹上看太陽駕駛著她的金馬車，看月亮開著她的珍珠馬車，是一件愉快的事情。山楂散發出香味，躲藏在山谷中的風鈴草以及盛開在山頭的石南花也是香的。然而愛情勝過生命，再說鳥的心怎麽比得過人的心呢？」
於是她便張開自己棕色的翅膀朝天空中飛去了。她像影子似的飛過花園，又像影子似的穿越了小樹林。
年輕的學生仍躺在草地上，跟她離開時的情景一樣，他那雙美麗的眼睛還掛著淚水。
「快樂起來吧，」夜鶯大聲說，「快樂起來吧，你就要得到你的紅玫瑰了。我要在月光下把它用音樂造成，獻出我胸膛中的鮮血把它染紅。我要求你報答我的只有一件事，就是你要做一個真正的戀人，因為盡管哲學很聰明，然而愛情比她更聰明，盡管權力很偉大，可是愛情比他更偉大。火焰映紅了愛情的翅膀，使他的身軀像火焰一樣火紅。他的嘴唇像蜜一樣甜；他的氣息跟乳香一樣芬芳。」
學生從草地上擡頭仰望著，並側耳傾聽，但是他不懂夜鶯在對他講甚麽，因為他只知道那些寫在書本上的東西。
可是橡樹心裏是明白的，他感到很難受，因為他十分喜愛這只在自己樹枝上做巢的小夜鶯。
「給我唱最後一支歌吧，」他輕聲說，「你這一走我會覺得很孤獨的。」
於是夜鶯給橡樹唱起了歌，她的聲音就像是銀罐子裏沸騰的水聲。
等她的歌聲一停，學生便從草地上站起來，從他的口袋中拿出一個筆記本和一支鉛筆。
「她的樣子真好看，」他對自己說，說著就穿過小樹林走開了──「這是不能否認的；但是她有情感嗎？我想她恐怕沒有。事實上，她像大多數藝術家一樣，只講究形式，沒有任何誠意。她不會為別人做出犧牲的。她只想著音樂，人人都知道藝術是自私的。不過我不得不承認她的歌聲申也有些美麗的調子。只可惜它們沒有一點意義，也沒有任何實際的好處。」他走進屋子，躺在自己那張簡陋的小床上，想起他那心愛的人兒，不一會兒就進入了夢鄉。
等到月亮掛上了天際的時候，夜鶯就朝玫瑰樹飛去，用自己的胸膛頂住花刺。她用胸膛頂著刺整整唱了一夜，就連冰涼如水晶的明月也俯下身來傾聽。整整一夜她唱個不停，刺在她的胸口上越刺越深，她身上的鮮血也快要流光了。
她開始唱起少男少女的心中萌發的愛情。在玫瑰樹最高的枝頭上開放出一朵異常的玫瑰，歌兒唱了一首又一首，花瓣也一片片地開放了。起初，花兒是乳白色的，就像懸在河上的霧霾──白得就如同早晨的足履，白得就像黎明的翅膀。在最高枝頭上盛開的那朵玫瑰花，如同一朵在銀鏡中，在水池裏照出的玫瑰花影。
然而這時樹大聲叫夜鶯把刺頂得更緊一些。「頂緊些，小夜鶯，」樹大叫著，「不然玫瑰還沒有完成天就要亮了。」
於是夜鶯把刺頂得更緊了，她的歌聲也越來越響亮了，因為她歌唱著一對成年男女心中誕生的激情。
一層淡淡的紅暈爬上了玫瑰花瓣，就跟新郎親吻新娘時臉上泛起的紅暈一樣。但是花刺還沒有達到夜鶯的心臟，所以玫瑰的心還是白色的，因為只有夜鶯心裏的血才能染紅玫瑰的花心。
這時樹又大聲叫夜鶯頂得更緊些，「再緊些，小夜鶯，」樹兒高聲喊著，「不然，玫瑰還沒完成天就要亮了。」
於是夜鶯就把玫瑰刺頂得更緊了，刺著了自己的心臟，一陣劇烈的痛楚襲遍了她的全身。痛得越來越厲害，歌聲也越來越激烈，因為她歌唱著由死亡完成的愛情，歌唱著在墳墓中也不朽的愛情。
最後這朵非凡的玫瑰變成了深紅色，就像東方天際的紅霞，花瓣的外環是深紅色的，花心更紅得好似一塊紅寶石。
不過夜鶯的歌聲卻越來越弱了，她的一雙小翅膀開始撲打起來，一層霧膜爬上了她的雙目。她的歌聲變得更弱了，她覺得喉嚨給什麽東西堵住了。
這時她唱出了最後一曲。明月聽著歌聲，竟然忘記了黎明，只顧在天空中徘徊。紅玫瑰聽到歌聲，更是欣喜若狂，張開了所有的花瓣去迎接涼涼的晨風。回聲把歌聲帶回自己山中的紫色洞穴中，把酣睡的牧童從夢鄉中喚醒。歌聲飄越過河中的蘆葦，蘆葦又把聲音傳給了大海。
「快看，快看！」樹叫了起來，「玫瑰已長好了。」可是夜鶯沒有回答，因為她已經躺在長長的草叢中死去了，心口上還扎著那根刺。
中午時分，學生打開窗戶朝外看去。
「啊，多好的運氣呀！」他大聲嚷道，「這兒竟有一朵紅玫瑰！這樣的玫瑰我一生也不曾見過。它太美了，我敢說它有一個好長的拉丁名字。」他俯下身去把它摘了下來。
隨即他戴上帽子，拿起玫瑰，朝教授的家跑去。
教授的女兒正坐在門口，在紡車上紡著藍色的絲線，她的小狗躺在她的腳旁。
「你說過只要我送你一朵紅玫瑰，你就會同我跳舞，」學生高聲說道，「這是全世界最紅的一朵玫瑰。你今晚就把它戴在你的胸口上，我們一起跳舞的時候，它會告訴你我是多麽的愛你。」
然而少女卻皺起眉頭。
「我擔心它與我的衣服不相配，」她回答說，「再說，宮廷大臣的侄兒已經送給我一些珍貴的珠寶，人人都知道珠寶比花更加值錢。」
「噢，我要說，你是個忘恩負義的人！」學生憤怒地說。一下把玫瑰扔到了大街上，玫瑰落入陰溝裏，一輛馬車從它身上碾了過去。
「忘恩負義！」少女說，「我告訴你吧，你太無禮；再說，你是什麽？只是個學生。啊，我敢說你不會像宮廷大臣侄兒那樣，鞋上釘有銀扣子。」說完她就從椅子上站起來朝屋裏走去。
「愛情是多麽愚昧啊！」學生一邊走一邊說，「它不及邏輯一半管用，因為它什麽都證明不了，而它總是告訴人們一些不會發生的事，並且還讓人相信一些不真實的事。說實話，它一點也不實用，在這個年代，一切都要講實際。我要回到哲學中去，去學形而上學的東西。」
於是他便回到自己的屋子裏，拿出滿是塵土的大書，讀了起來。
英文原文：
The Nightingale and the Rose (Author: 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 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, 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 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 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 topmost 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 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.
