The Happy Prince Page #4

The Happy Prince and Other Tales is a collection of stories for children by Oscar Wilde first published in May 1888. It contains five stories: "The Happy Prince", "The Nightingale and the Rose", "The Selfish Giant", "The Devoted Friend", and "The Remarkable Rocket".

• Children

								


“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 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.
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