The Nightingale and the Rose

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Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:00):
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 red rose. From her nest in
the home oak tree. The nightingale heard him, and she
looked out through the leaves and wondered, no red rose

(00:21):
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 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

(00:44):
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 as
dark as the hyacinth blossom, and his lips are as
red as the rose of his desire. But has made
his face like pale ivory, and sorrow has set her
seal upon his brow. The Prince gives a ball tomorrow night,

(01:10):
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,

(01:33):
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

(01:56):
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

(02:17):
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.

(02:39):
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 the daisy to his neighbor
in a soft, low voice. He is weeping for a
red rose, said the nightingale, for a red rose. They cried,

(03:02):
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,

(03:26):
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 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,

(03:49):
it answered, as white as the foam of the sea,
in whiter than the snow upon the mountain. But go
to my brother, who rose 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.

(04:11):
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 lower comes
with his sky. 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

(04:34):
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.

(04:56):
But 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,

(05:17):
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

(05:38):
thorn all night long. You must sing to me, and
the thorn must pierce your heart, and the 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

(06:00):
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.

(06:22):
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.

(06:45):
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 colored are

(07:06):
his wings, and colored like flame as 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,

(07:28):
for he was very fond of the little nightingale, who
had built her nest in his branches, sing to 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

(07:49):
student got up and pulled a notebook in a lead
pencil out of his pocket. She has formed, he said
to himself, as he walked away through the grove. That
cannot be denied to her. But has she got feeling?
I'm afraid not. In fact, she is like most artists.
She is all style without any sincerity. She would not

(08:11):
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,

(08:33):
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,

(08:56):
and the thorn went deeper and deeper into her breast,
and the 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 flowing, petal,
as song flowed song. Pale was it at first as

(09:18):
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

(09:39):
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

(10:00):
flush of pink came to 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 reached her heart. So the rose's heart remained white,
for only in Nightingale's heart 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,

(10:25):
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

(10:47):
love that dies not in the team, 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's voice grew fainter, and
her little wings began to beat, and a film came

(11:08):
over her eyes. Fainter and fainter grew her song, and
she felt something choking 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.

(11:31):
Echo bore it to open 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

(11:53):
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

(12:17):
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 her 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

(12:38):
next to 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 the jewels cost far
more than flowers. Well, upon my word, you are very ungrateful,

(13:01):
said the student angrily, and he threw the rose into
the street, where it fell into the gutter and the
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 don't believe you
have even got silver buckles to your shoes, as the

(13:24):
Chamberlain's nephew has. And she got it 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

(13:44):
are not true. In fact, it is quite unpractical, and
as in this age, to be practical as 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 End of The Nightingale in

(14:05):
the Rose by Oscar Wilde