The Nightingale and the Rose, by Oscar Wilde |
Ὄσκαρ Οὐάϊλδ - Τὸ ῥόδον καὶ ἡ Ἀηδών |
I«She said that she would dance with me if Ι 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! Ι 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 Ι sung of him, though Ι knew him not: night after night have Ι told his story to the stars, and now Ι 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 Ι bring her a red rose she will dance with me till dawn. If Ι bring her a red rose, Ι 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 Ι 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 Ι 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 Ι 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. |
I«Εἶπε ὅτι θὰ χόρευε μαζί μου ἂν τῆς ἔφερνα κόκκινα τριαντάφυλλα,» φώναξε ὁ νεαρὸς Φοιτητής· «ἀλλὰ σ᾿ ὅλο τὸν κῆπο μου δὲν ὑπάρχει οὔτε ἕνα κόκκινο τριαντάφυλλο.» Ἀπὸ τὴν φωλιά της στὴ βελανιδιὰ ἡ Ἀηδόνα τὸν ἄκουσε, καὶ κοίταξε ἔξω μέσα ἀπὸ τὰ φύλλα, καὶ ἀπόρησε. «Οὔτε ἕνα κόκκινο τριαντάφυλλο σ᾿ ὅλο τὸν κῆπο μου!» αὐτὸς φώναξε, καὶ τὰ ὄμορφα μάτια του γέμισαν δάκρυα. Ἄχ, ἀπὸ τί μικρὰ πράγματα ἐξαρτᾶται ἡ εὐτυχία! Ἔχω διαβάσει ὅλα ὅσα οἱ σοφοὶ ἔχουν γράψει, καὶ ὅλα τὰ μυστικὰ τῆς φιλοσοφίας εἶναι κτῆμα μου, κι ὅμως γιὰ νὰ θέλω ἕνα κόκκινο τριαντάφυλλο ἔχει γίνει ἡ ζωή μου δυστυχισμένη. «Ἐπιτέλους νὰ ἕνας πραγματικὰ ἐρωτευμένος,» εἶπε ἡ Ἀηδόνα. «Νύχτες ὁλόκληρες κι᾿ ἂν ἔχω τραγουδήσει γιὰ αὐτόν, ἂν καὶ δὲν τὸν ἤξερα: νύχτες ὁλόκληρες ἔχω διηγηθεῖ τὴν ἱστορία του στ᾿ ἀστέρια, καὶ τώρα τὸν ἀντικρίζω. Τὰ μαλλιά του εἶναι σκοῦρα σὰν τὸν ἀνθὸ τοῦ ὑάκινθου, καὶ τὰ χείλη του κόκκινα σὰν τὸ τριαντάφυλλο τοῦ πόθου του· ἀλλὰ τὸ πάθος ἔχει κάνει τὸ πρόσωπό του σὰν ὠχρὸ ἐλεφαντόδοντο, καὶ ἡ θλίψη ἔχει βάλει τὴν σφραγῖδα της πάνω στὸ μέτωπό του.» «Ὁ Πρίγκιπας κάνει ἕνα χορὸ αὔριο τὸ βράδυ,» μουρμούρισε ὁ νεαρὸς φοιτητής, «καὶ ἡ ἀγάπη μου θὰ εἶναι καλεσμένη. Ἂν τῆς φέρω ἕνα κόκκινο τριαντάφυλλο θὰ χορέψει μαζί μου μέχρι τὴν αὐγή. Ἂν τῆς φέρω ἕνα κόκκινο τριαντάφυλλο θὰ τὴν κρατήσω στὰ χέρια μου, καὶ θὰ γείρει τὸ κεφάλι της πάνω στὸν ὦμο μου, καὶ τὸ χέρι της θὰ εἶναι πιασμένο στὸ δικό μου. Μὰ δὲν ὑπάρχει οὔτε ἕνα κόκκινο τριαντάφυλλο στὸν κῆπο μου, κι ἔτσι θὰ κάθομαι μόνος, καὶ ἐκείνη θὰ μὲ προσπεράσει. Δὲν θὰ μοῦ δώσει καμία σημασία, καὶ ἡ καρδιά μου θὰ σπάσει.» «Αὐτὸς ὄντως εἶναι ὁ ἀληθινὰ ἐρωτευμένος,» εἶπε ἡ Ἀηδόνα. «Γιὰ ὅ,τι ἐγὼ τραγουδάω, ἐκεῖνος ὑποφέρει -ὅ,τι γιὰ μένα εἶναι χαρά, γιὰ ἐκεῖνον εἶναι πόνος. Σίγουρα ὁ Ἔρωτας εἶναι ἕνα ὑπέροχο πρᾶγμα. Εἶναι πιὸ πολύτιμος ἀπὸ σμαράγδια, καὶ πιὸ ἀκριβὸς ἀπὸ φίνες ὀπαλίνες. Τὰ μαργαριτάρια καὶ τὰ πετράδια δὲν μποροῦν νὰ τὸν ἀγοράσουν, οὔτε καὶ πουλιέται στὴν ἀγορά. Δὲν μπορεῖ νὰ ἀγοραστεῖ ἀπὸ τοὺς πραματευτάδες, οὔτε μπορεῖ νὰ μετρηθεῖ στὴ ζυγαριὰ γιὰ χρυσάφι.» «Οἱ μουσικοὶ θὰ κάθονται στὸν ἐξώστη τους,» εἶπε ὁ νεαρὸς Φοιτητής, «καὶ θὰ παίζουν τὰ ἔγχορδα ὄργανά τους, καὶ ἡ ἀγάπη μου θὰ χορεύει στοὺς ἤχους τῆς ἅρπας καὶ τοῦ βιολιοῦ. Θὰ χορεύει τόσο ἀνάλαφρα ποὺ τὰ πόδια της δὲν θὰ ἀγγίζουν τὸ δάπεδο, καὶ οἱ αὐλικοί με τὶς χαρούμενες ἐνδυμασίες τους θὰ συνωστίζονται γύρω της. Ἀλλὰ μὲ μένα δὲν θὰ χορέψει, γιατὶ δὲν ἔχω κόκκινο τριαντάφυλλο νὰ τῆς προσφέρω»· καὶ σωριάστηκε κάτω στὸ γρασίδι, καὶ ἔχωσε τὸ πρόσωπό του μέσα στὰ χέρια του, καὶ ἔκλαψε. «Γιατί κλαίει;» ρώτησε μία μικρὴ Πράσινη Σαύρα, καθὼς τὸν προσπερνοῦσε μὲ τὴν οὐρά της στὸ ἀέρα. «Γιατί, στ᾿ ἀλήθεια;» εἶπε μία Πεταλούδα, ποὺ πετάριζε ὁλόγυρα κυνηγώντας μία ἡλιαχτίδα. «Γιατί, στ᾿ ἀλήθεια;» ψιθύρισε μία Μαργαρίτα στὸ γείτονά της, μὲ ἁπαλή, χαμηλὴ φωνή. «Κλαίει γιὰ ἕνα κόκκινο τριαντάφυλλο,» εἶπε ἡ Ἀηδόνα. «Γιὰ ἕνα κόκκινο τριαντάφυλλο;» φώναξαν· «μὰ πόσο γελοῖο!» καὶ ἡ μικρὴ Σαύρα, ποὺ ἦταν κάπως κυνική, γέλασε ἀπερίφραστα. Ὅμως ἡ Ἀηδόνα κατάλαβε τὸ μυστικὸ τῆς θλίψης τοῦ φοιτητῆ, καὶ κάθισε σιωπηλὴ στὴ βελανιδιά, καὶ σκέφτηκε σχετικὰ μὲ τὸ μυστήριο τοῦ Ἔρωτα. |
IISuddenly 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 Ι 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 Ἀλλὰ πήγαινε στὸν ἀδελφό μου 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 Ι 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, φώναξε, «and Ι 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 Ι shall have no roses at all this year.» «One red rose is all Ι want,» cried the Nightingale, «only one red rose! Is there no way by which Ι can get it?» «There is a way,» answered the Tree; «but it is so terrible that Ι dare not tell it to you.» «Tell it to me,» said the Nightingale, «Ι 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. Ι will build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it with my own heart's-blood. All that Ι 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; «Ι 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? Ι 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. |
IIΞαφνικὰ ἅπλωσε τὰ καστανὰ φτερά της γιὰ πτήση, καὶ ὑψώθηκε στὸν ἀέρα. Πέρασε μέσα ἀπὸ τὸ δασύλλιο σὰ σκιά, καὶ σὰ σκιὰ διέσχισε τὸν κῆπο. Στὸ μέσο του μικροῦ λιβαδιοῦ στεκόταν μία ὄμορφη Τριανταφυλλιά, καὶ ὅταν τὴν εἶδε πέταξε πρὸς τὸ μέρος της, καὶ κάθισε πάνω σὲ ἕνα κλαδάκι. «Δῶσε μου ἕνα κόκκινο τριαντάφυλλο,» φώναξε, «καὶ θὰ σοῦ τραγουδήσω τὸ πιὸ γλυκό μου τραγούδι.» Ἀλλὰ τὸ Δένδρο κούνησε τὸ κεφάλι του. «Τὰ τριαντάφυλλά μου εἶναι ἄσπρα,» ἀπάντησε· «τόσο ἄσπρα ὅσο ὁ ἀφρὸς τῆς θάλασσας, καὶ πιὸ ἄσπρα ἀπὸ τὸ χιόνι πάνω στὰ βουνά. Ἀλλὰ πήγαινε στὸν ἀδελφό μου ποὺ φυτρώνει γύρω ἀπὸ τὸ παλιὸ ἡλιακὸ ρολόι, καὶ ἴσως θὰ σοῦ δώσει αὐτὸ ποὺ ζητᾷς.» Ἔτσι ἡ Ἀηδόνα πέταξε στὴν Τριανταφυλλιὰ ποὺ φύτρωνε γύρω ἀπὸ τὸ παλιὸ ἡλιακὸ ρολόι. «Δῶσε μου ἕνα κόκκινο τριαντάφυλλο,» φώναξε, «καὶ θὰ σοῦ τραγουδήσω τὸ πιὸ γλυκό μου τραγούδι.» Ἀλλὰ τὸ Δένδρο κούνησε τὸ κεφάλι του. «Τὰ τριαντάφυλλά μου εἶναι κίτρινα,» ἀπάντησε· «τόσο κίτρινα ὅσο τὰ μαλλιὰ τῆς γοργόνας ποὺ κάθεται πάνω σὲ ἕναν κεχριμπαρένιο θρόνο, καὶ πιὸ κίτρινα ἀπὸ τὸν ἀσφόδελο ποὺ ἀνθίζει στὸ λιβάδι πρὶν ὁ θεριστῆς ἔρθει μὲ τὸ δρεπάνι του. Ἀλλὰ πήγαινε στὸν ἀδελφό μου ποὺ φυτρώνει κάτω ἀπὸ τὸ παράθυρο τοῦ Φοιτητῆ, καὶ ἴσως θὰ σοῦ δώσει αὐτὸ ποὺ ζητᾷς.» Ἔτσι ἡ Ἀηδόνα πέταξε στὴν Τριανταφυλλιὰ ποὺ φύτρωνε κάτω ἀπὸ τὸ παράθυρο τοῦ Φοιτητῆ. «Δῶσε μου ἕνα κόκκινο τριαντάφυλλο,» φώναξε, «καὶ θὰ σοῦ τραγουδήσω τὸ πιὸ γλυκό μου τραγούδι.» Ἀλλὰ τὸ Δένδρο κούνησε τὸ κεφάλι του. «Τὰ τριαντάφυλλά μου εἶναι κόκκινα,» ἀπάντησε, «τόσο κόκκινα ὅσο τὰ πόδια τοῦ περιστεριοῦ, καὶ πιὸ κόκκινα ἀπὸ τὶς μεγάλες βεντάλιες τοῦ κοραλλιοῦ ποὺ κυματίζουν καὶ κυματίζουν στὰ σπήλαια τοῦ ὠκεανοῦ. Ἀλλὰ ὁ χειμώνας ἔχει παγώσει τὶς φλέβες μου, καὶ ἡ παγωνιὰ ἔχει κάψει τὰ μπουμπούκια μου, καὶ ἡ θύελλα ἔχει σπάσει τὰ κλαριά μου, καὶ δὲν θὰ ἔχω καθόλου τριαντάφυλλα αὐτὸ τὸ χρόνο.» «Ἕνα κόκκινο τριαντάφυλλο εἶναι τὸ μόνο ποὺ θέλω,» φώναξε ἡ Ἀηδόνα, «μόνο ἕνα κόκκινο τριαντάφυλλο! Δὲν ὑπάρχει κανένας τρόπος μὲ τὸν ὁποῖο νὰ μπορέσω νὰ τὸ ἀποκτήσω;» «Ὑπάρχει ἕνας τρόπος,» ἀπάντησε τὸ Δένδρο· «ἀλλὰ εἶναι τόσο τρομερὸς ποὺ δὲν τολμῶ νὰ σοῦ τὸν πῶ.» «Πές τον μου,» εἶπε ἡ Ἀηδόνα, «Δὲν φοβᾶμαι.» «Ἂν θέλεις ἕνα κόκκινο τριαντάφυλλο,» εἶπε τὸ Δένδρο, «πρέπει νὰ τὸ δημιουργήσεις ἀπὸ τὴ μουσικὴ στὸ φῶς τοῦ φεγγαριοῦ, καὶ νὰ τὸ βάψεις μὲ τὸ αἷμα τῆς ἴδιας σου τῆς καρδιᾶς. Πρέπει νὰ μοῦ τραγουδήσεις μὲ τὸ στῆθος σου πάνω σὲ ἕνα ἀγκάθι. Ὅλο τὸ βράδυ πρέπει νὰ μοῦ τραγουδήσεις, καὶ τὸ ἀγκάθι πρέπει νὰ τρυπήσει τὴν καρδιά σου, καὶ τὸ αἷμα τῆς ζωῆς σου πρέπει νὰ τρέξει μέσα στὶς φλέβες μου, καὶ νὰ γίνει δικό μου.» «Ὁ Θάνατος εἶναι μεγάλο τίμημα νὰ πληρώσει (κάποιος) γιὰ ἕνα κόκκινο τριαντάφυλλο», φώναξε ἡ Ἀηδόνα, «καὶ ἡ Ζωὴ εἶναι πολὺ ἀκριβῆ γιὰ ὅλους. Εἶναι εὐχάριστο νὰ κάθεσαι στὸ πράσινο δάσος, καὶ νὰ παρακολουθεῖς τὸν Ἥλιο στὸ ἅρμα του ἀπὸ χρυσό, καὶ τὴ Σελήνη στὸ ἅρμα της ἀπὸ μαργαριτάρια. Γλυκὸ εἶναι τὸ ἄρωμα τοῦ κράταιγου, καὶ γλυκοὶ εἶναι οἱ ἄγριοι ὑάκινθοι ποὺ κρύβονται στὴν κοιλάδα, καὶ ἡ ἐρείκη ποὺ ἀνθίζει στὸ λόφο. Ὡστόσο ὁ ἔρωτας εἶναι καλύτερος ἀπὸ τὴν Ζωή, καὶ τί εἶναι ἡ καρδιὰ ἑνὸς πουλιοῦ συγκρινόμενη μὲ τὴν καρδιὰ ἑνὸς ἀνθρώπου;» Ἔτσι ἅπλωσε τὰ καστανὰ φτερά της γιὰ πτήση, καὶ ὑψώθηκε στὸν ἀέρα. Πέρασε πάνω ἀπὸ τὸν κῆπο σὰ σκιά, καὶ σὰ σκιὰ διέσχισε τὸ δασύλλιο. Ὁ νεαρὸς Φοιτητὴς ἀκόμα κείτονταν στὸ γρασίδι, ὅπου τὸν εἶχε ἀφήσει, καὶ τὰ δάκρυα δὲν εἶχαν ἀκόμη στεγνώσει στὰ ὄμορφα μάτια του. «Νὰ εἶσαι εὐτυχισμένος,» φώναξε ἡ Ἀηδόνα, «νὰ εἶσαι εὐτυχισμένος· θὰ τὸ ἔχεις τὸ κόκκινό σου τριαντάφυλλο. Θὰ τὸ φτιάξω ἀπὸ μουσικὴ στὸ φεγγαρόφωτο, καὶ θὰ τὸ βάψω μὲ τῆς ἴδιας της καρδιᾶς μου τὸ αἷμα. Τὸ μόνο ποὺ ζητῶ ἀπὸ σένα σ᾿ ἀντάλλαγμα εἶναι νὰ εἶσαι ἕνας ἀληθινὸς ἐραστής, γιατὶ ὁ Ἔρωτας εἶναι σοφότερος ἀπὸ τὴν Φιλοσοφία, ἂν καὶ εἶναι σοφή, καὶ δυνατότερος ἀπὸ τὴν Ἰσχύ, ἂν καὶ εἶναι ἰσχυρή. Στὸ χρῶμα τῆς φωτιᾶς εἶναι τὰ φτερά του, καὶ βαμμένο σὰν φλόγα εἶναι τὸ σῶμα του. Τὰ χείλη του εἶναι γλυκὰ σὰν μέλι, καὶ ἡ ἀνάσα του εἶναι (μεθυστική) σὰν λιβάνι.» Ὁ Φοιτητὴς ὕψωσε τὸ βλέμμα του ἀπὸ τὸ γρασίδι, καὶ ἀφουγκράστηκε, ἀλλὰ δὲν μποροῦσε νὰ καταλάβει τί τοῦ ἔλεγε ἡ Ἀηδόνα, γιατὶ ἤξερε μόνο τὰ πράγματα ποὺ εἶναι γραμμένα σὲ βιβλία. Ἀλλὰ ἡ Βελανιδιὰ κατάλαβε, καὶ ἔνοιωσε θλίψη, γιατὶ πολὺ συμπαθοῦσε τὴ μικρὴ Ἀηδόνα ποὺ εἶχε φτιάξει τὴ φωλιά της μὲς τὰ κλαδιά της. «Τραγούδησέ μου ἕνα τελευταῖο τραγούδι,» ψιθύρισε· «Θὰ νοιώσω πολὺ μοναχικὰ ὅταν θὰ ἔχεις φύγει.» Ἔτσι ἡ Ἀηδόνα τραγούδησε στὴ Βελανιδιά, καὶ ἡ φωνή της ἦταν σὰν νερὸ ποὺ κελάρυζε ἀπὸ ἀσημένια κανάτα. Ὅταν εἶχε τελειώσει τὸ τραγούδι της ὁ Φοιτητὴς σηκώθηκε, καὶ ἔβγαλε ἕνα σημειωματάριο καὶ ἕνα μολύβι ἀπὸ τὴν τσέπη του. «Ἔχει μορφή,» εἶπε στὸν ἑαυτό του, καθὼς ἀπομακρύνθηκε μέσα στὸ δασύλλιο -«αὐτὸ δὲν μπορεῖ κανεὶς νὰ τῆς τὸ ἀρνηθεῖ· ἀλλὰ ἔχει αἰσθήματα; Φοβᾶμαι πὼς ὄχι. Στὴν πραγματικότητα, εἶναι σὰν τοὺς περισσότερους καλλιτέχνες· εἶναι μόνο ὕφος, χωρὶς καμία εἰλικρίνεια. Δὲν θὰ θυσίαζε τὸν ἑαυτό της γιὰ τοὺς ἄλλους. Σκέφτεται μοναχὰ γιὰ τὴ μουσική, καὶ ὅλοι ξέρουν ὅτι οἱ τέχνες εἶναι ἐγωιστικές. Ὅμως, πρέπει νὰ παραδεχτοῦμε ὅτι ἔχει κάποιες ὄμορφες νότες στὴ φωνή της. Τί κρῖμα εἶναι ποὺ δὲν σημαίνουν τίποτε, ἢ δὲν ἔχουν κανένα πρακτικὸ ὄφελος.» Καὶ πῆγε στὸ δωμάτιό του, καὶ ξάπλωσε στὸ μικρό του ξυλοκρέβατο, καὶ ἄρχισε νὰ σκέφτεται τὴν ἀγάπη του· καί, μετὰ ἀπὸ κάποια ὥρα, ἀποκοιμήθηκε. |
IIIAnd 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. |
IIIΚαὶ ὅταν ἡ Σελήνη ἔλαμψε στοὺς οὐρανοὺς ἡ Ἀηδόνα πέταξε στὴν Τριανταφυλλιά, καὶ ἔβαλε τὸ στῆθος της πάνω στὸ ἀγκάθι. Ὅλο τὸ βράδυ τραγουδοῦσε μὲ τὸ στῆθος της πάνω στὸ ἀγκάθι, καὶ ἡ ψυχρὴ κρυστάλλινη Σελήνη ἔσκυψε καὶ ἀφουγκράστηκε. Ὅλη νύχτα τραγουδοῦσε, καὶ τὸ ἀγκάθι ἔμπαινε ὅλο καὶ βαθύτερα στὸ στῆθος της, καὶ τὸ αἷμα τῆς ζωῆς της ἄδειαζε ἀπὸ μέσα της. Τραγούδησε πρῶτα γιὰ τὴ γέννηση τῆς ἀγάπης στὴν καρδιὰ ἑνὸς ἀγοριοῦ καὶ ἑνὸς κοριτσιοῦ. Καὶ στὸ πιὸ ψηλὸ κλαδάκι τῆς Τριανταφυλλιᾶς ἄνθισε ἕνα θαυμάσιο τριαντάφυλλο, πέταλο μὲ τὸ πέταλο, τραγούδι μὲ τὸ τραγούδι. Ὠχρὸ ἦταν, στὴν ἀρχή, ὅπως ἡ καταχνιὰ ποὺ κρέμεται πάνω ἀπὸ τὸ ποτάμι -ὠχρὸ σὰν τὰ πόδια τοῦ πρωινοῦ, καὶ ἀσημένιο σὰν τὰ φτερὰ τῆς αὐγῆς. Σὰν τὴ σκιὰ ἑνὸς τριαντάφυλλού σε καθρέφτη ἀπὸ ἀσήμι, σὰν τὴ σκιὰ ἑνὸς τριαντάφυλλού σε λίμνη νεροῦ, ἔτσι ἦταν τὸ τριαντάφυλλο ποὺ ἄνθισε στὸ ψηλότερο κλαδάκι τοῦ Δένδρου. Μὰ τὸ Δένδρο φώναξε στὴν Ἀηδόνα νὰ πιέσει περισσότερο πάνω στὸ ἀγκάθι. «Πίεσε περισσότερο, μικρὴ Ἀηδόνα», φώναξε τὸ Δένδρο, «ἀλλιῶς ἡ Μέρα θά ῾ρθει πρὶν νὰ τελειώσει τὸ τριαντάφυλλο.» Ἔτσι ἡ Ἀηδόνα πίεσε περισσότερο πάνω στὸ ἀγκάθι, καὶ ὁλοένα καὶ δυνατότερο ἔγινε τὸ τραγούδι της, καθὼς τραγούδαγε γιὰ τὴ γέννηση τοῦ πάθους στὴν ψυχὴ ἑνὸς ἄνδρα καὶ μιᾶς κόρης. Καὶ μία ἁπαλὴ ἀπόχρωση ἀπὸ ρὸζ ἦρθε στὰ φύλλα τοῦ τριαντάφυλλου, σὰν τὸ ἀναψοκοκκίνισμα στὸ πρόσωπο τοῦ γαμπροῦ ὅταν φιλᾷ τὰ χείλη τῆς νύφης. Ἀλλὰ τὸ ἀγκάθι δὲν εἶχε ἀκόμα φτάσει στὴν καρδιά της, κι ἔτσι ἡ καρδιὰ τοῦ τριαντάφυλλου παρέμενε λευκή, καθὼς μόνο τὸ αἷμα τῆς καρδιᾶς ἑνὸς Ἀηδονιοῦ μπορεῖ νὰ κοκκινίσει τὴν καρδιὰ ἑνὸς ρόδου. Καὶ τὸ Δένδρο φώναξε στὴν Ἀηδόνα νὰ πιέσει περισσότερο πάνω στὸ ἀγκάθι. «Πίεσε περισσότερο, μικρὴ Ἀηδόνα», φώναξε τὸ Δένδρο, «ἀλλιῶς ἡ Μέρα θὰ ῾ρθει πρὶν νὰ τελειώσει τὸ τριαντάφυλλο.» Ἔτσι ἡ Ἀηδόνα πίεσε περισσότερο πάνω στὸ ἀγκάθι, καὶ τὸ ἀγκάθι ἄγγιξε τὴν καρδιά της, καὶ μία ἄγρια σουβλιὰ πόνου τὴ διαπέρασε. Πικρός, πικρὸς ἦταν ὁ πόνος, καὶ ὅλο καὶ πιὸ ξέφρενο γινόταν τὸ τραγούδι της, καθὼς τραγουδοῦσε γιὰ τὸν Ἔρωτα ποὺ τελειοποιεῖται μὲ τὸ Θάνατο, γιὰ τὸν Ἔρωτα ποὺ δὲν πεθαίνει στὸ μνῆμα. Καὶ τὸ θαυμάσιο ρόδο ἔγινε βαθυκόκκινο, σὰν τὸ ροδόχρωμα τοῦ οὐρανοῦ τῆς ἀνατολῆς. Βαθυκόκκινη ἦταν ἡ γιρλάντα ἀπὸ πέταλα, καὶ πορφυρὴ σὰ ρουμπίνι ἦταν ἡ καρδιά. Μὰ τῆς Ἀηδόνας ἡ φωνὴ γινόταν ὅλο καὶ πιὸ ἀχνή, καὶ τὰ μικρὰ φτερά της ἄρχισαν νὰ τρέμουν, καὶ μία λεπτὴ μεμβράνη σκέπασε τὰ μάτια της. Ὅλο καὶ πιὸ ἀδύναμο γινόταν τὸ τραγούδι της, καὶ ἔνοιωσε κάτι νὰ τὴν πνίγει στὸ λαιμό. Τότε ἔβγαλε ἕνα τελευταῖο ξέσπασμα μουσικῆς. Ἡ λευκὴ Σελήνη τὸ ἄκουσε, καὶ ξέχασε τὴν αὐγή, καὶ παρέμεινε στὸν οὐρανό. Τὸ κόκκινο ρόδο τὸ ἄκουσε, καὶ τρεμούλιασε σύγκορμο ἀπὸ ἔκσταση, καὶ ἄνοιξε τὰ πέταλά του στὸν κρύο πρωινὸ ἀέρα. Ἡ ἠχὼ τὸ μετέφερε στὶς πορφυροβαμμένες τῆς σπηλιὲς στοὺς λόφους, καὶ ξύπνησε τοὺς κοιμισμένους τσοπάνηδες ἀπὸ τὰ ὄνειρά τους. Ἀρμένισε μέσα ἀπὸ τὰ καλάμια τοῦ ποταμοῦ, καὶ αὐτὰ μετέφεραν τὸ μαντάτο του στὴ θάλασσα. «Κοίτα, κοίτα!» φώναξε τὸ δένδρο, «τὸ τριαντάφυλλο εἶναι ἕτοιμο τώρα»· μὰ ἡ Ἀηδόνα δὲν ἔδωσε καμία ἀπάντηση, γιατὶ κειτόταν νεκρὴ στὸ ψηλὸ χορτάρι, μὲ τὸ ἀγκάθι στὴν καρδιά της. |
IVAnd at noon the Student opened his window and looked out. «Why, what a wonderful piece of luck!» he cried; «here is a red rose! Ι have never seen any rose like it in all my life. It is so beautiful that Ι 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 Ι 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 Ι love you.» But the girl frowned. «Ι 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. «Ι tell you what, you are very rude; and, after all, who are you? Only a Student. Why, Ι 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, Ι 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. |
IVΚαὶ τὸ μεσημέρι ὁ Φοιτητὴς ἄνοιξε τὸ παράθυρό του καὶ κοίταξε ἔξω. «Τί ἔκπληξη, τί θαυμάσια τύχη!» Ξεφώνησε· «νὰ ἕνα κόκκινο τριαντάφυλλο! Δὲν ἔχω ποτὲ δεῖ τριαντάφυλλο σὰν κι αὐτὸ σὲ ὅλη μου τὴ ζωή. Εἶναι τόσο ὄμορφο ποὺ εἶμαι σίγουρος ὅτι ἔχει ἕνα μακρὺ Λατινικὸ ὄνομα»· καὶ ἔσκυψε καὶ τὸ ἔκοψε. Μετὰ φόρεσε τὸ καπέλο του, καὶ ἔτρεξε μέχρι τὸ σπίτι τοῦ Καθηγητῆ μὲ τὸ τριαντάφυλλο στὸ χέρι του. Ἡ κόρη τοῦ Καθηγητῆ καθόταν στὴν ἐξώπορτα τυλίγοντας μπλὲ μετάξι σὲ μιὰ κουβαρίστρα, καὶ τὸ σκυλάκι της ἦταν ξαπλωμένο στὰ πόδια της. «Εἶπες ὅτι θὰ χόρευες μαζί μου ἂν σοῦ ἔφερνα ἕνα κόκκινο τριαντάφυλλο,» φώναξε ὁ Φοιτητής. «Ὁρίστε τὸ πιὸ κόκκινο τριαντάφυλλο σ᾿ ὁλόκληρο τὸν κόσμο. Θὰ τὸ φορέσεις σήμερα τὸ βράδυ δίπλα στὴν καρδιά σου, καὶ καθὼς θὰ χορεύουμε μαζὶ θὰ σοῦ λέει πόσο σὲ ἀγαπῶ.» Μὰ τὸ κορίτσι κατσούφιασε. «Φοβᾶμαι ὅτι δὲν θὰ ταιριάζει μὲ τὸ φόρεμά μου,» ἀπάντησε· «καί, ἐκτὸς αὐτοῦ, ὁ ἀνεψιὸς τοῦ Αὐλάρχη μοῦ ἔχει στείλει μερικὰ ἀληθινὰ πετράδια, καὶ ὅλοι ξέρουν ὅτι τὰ πετράδια κοστίζουν πολὺ περισσότερο ἀπὸ τὰ λουλούδια.» «Λοιπόν, στὸ λόγο μου, εἶσαι πολὺ ἀχάριστη,» εἶπε ὁ Φοιτητὴς θυμωμένα· καὶ πέταξε τὸ τριαντάφυλλο στὸ δρόμο, κι ἐκεῖνο ἔπεσε μέσα στὸ ῥεῖθρο, καὶ ὁ τροχὸς μιᾶς ἅμαξας πέρασε ἀπὸ πάνω του. «Ἀχάριστη!» εἶπε τὸ κορίτσι. «Γιὰ νὰ σοῦ πῶ, εἶσαι πολὺ ἀναιδής· Καί, ἔπειτα, ποιὸς εἶσαι ἐσύ; Ἕνας φοιτητάκος. Γιατὶ, δὲν πιστεύω ὅτι οὔτε κἂν ἔχεις ἀσημένιες ἀγκράφες στὰ παπούτσια σου ὅπως ἔχει ὁ ἀνιψιὸς τοῦ Αὐλάρχη»· καὶ σηκώθηκε ἀπὸ τὴν καρέκλα της καὶ μπῆκε μέσα στὸ σπίτι. «Τί ἀνόητο πρᾶγμα ποὺ εἶναι ὁ Ἔρωτας,» εἶπε ὁ φοιτητὴς καθὼς ἔφευγε. «Δὲν εἶναι οὔτε κατὰ τὸ ἥμισυ τόσο χρήσιμος ὅσο ἡ Λογική, καθὼς δὲν ἀποδεικνύει τίποτε, καὶ πάντοτε σοῦ τάζει πράγματα ποὺ δὲν πρόκειται νὰ συμβοῦν, καὶ σὲ κάνει νὰ πιστεύεις πράγματα ποὺ δὲν εἶναι ἀληθινά. Στὴν πραγματικότητα, δὲν εἶναι διόλου πρακτικός, καί, καθὼς στὴν ἐποχή μας τὸ νὰ εἶσαι πρακτικὸς εἶναι τὸ πᾶν, θὰ ἐπιστρέψω στὴν Φιλοσοφία καὶ θὰ μελετήσω Μεταφυσική.» Ἔτσι ἐπέστρεψε στὸ δωμάτιό του καὶ τράβηξε ἕνα μεγάλο σκονισμένο βιβλίο, καὶ ἄρχισε νὰ διαβάζει. |