by Oscar Wilde
7 The boy’s words recall those of Christ to one of the two thieves crucified alongside him: “Today thou shalt be with me in Paradise” (Luke 23:43). Written shortly after the birth of Wilde’s two sons, when Wilde was conducting a clandestine affair with the puckish Robert Ross, “The Selfish Giant” concerns a great sinner who is saved by love for—and of—a child, and it might have had a personal resonance for its author. Like the selfish giant, Wilde was large-boned and tall (Bernard Shaw called him “a giant in the pathological sense”), and his youngest son records that he shed tears when telling the story to his own children. According to Richard Ellmann, “Wilde cancelled his nightmare of being found out with light-hearted dreams of pardon and transfiguration” (Richard Ellmann, Introduction to Oscar Wilde, Selected Writings [Oxford University Press, 1961], xii).
THE NIGHTINGALE AND THE ROSE*
· · · “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-oak1 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 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.
Heinrich Vogeler, illustration to “Die Nachtigall Und Die Rose” (“The Nightingale and The Rose”), from Die Erzählungen und Märchen, von Oscar Wilde (Leipzig: Insel-Verlag, 1912).
“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.2 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.3
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.4
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.5
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.”6
“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.”7
So he returned to his room and pulled out a great dusty book, and began to read.
* First published in The Happy Prince and Other Tales (London: David Nutt, 1888). “The Nightingale and The Rose” is indebted to Hans Christian Andersen’s “The Swineherd” (1842) and “The Nightingale” (1844). It engages critically with the Romanticism driving Andersen’s tales, borrowing familiar elements of plot but refusing Andersen’s happy endings. Wilde called it the “most elaborate” of the stories in his 1888 collection, adding that “there are many meanings in the tale, for in writing it, and the others, I did not start with an idea and clothe it in form, but began with a form and strove to make it beautiful enough to have many secrets, and many answers.”
1 Evergreen oak.
2 This line is rich with irony given how the rest of the plot unfolds. Wilde would have disagreed sharply with the student’s views on artists. “In all unimportant matters,” he declared, “style, not sincerity, is the essential. In all important matters, style, not sincerity, is the essential” (“Phrases and Philosophies for the Use of the Young”).
3 The nightingale’s self-immolation on the thorn is a conspicuous addition to elements that Wilde borrowed from Andersen’s fairy tales. This self-immolation has been seen as a figure for the Passion of Christ, whose instruments famously include a crown of thorns. As the critic Guy Willoughby remarks, “At this triumphant moment the epoch-making sacrifice of Christ is directly recalled, so that the author can invest the Nightingale-artist with the same awesome power of imaginative assumption” (Willoughby, Art and Christhood: The Aesthetics of Oscar Wilde [Rutherford, NJ: Fairleigh Dickinson University Press, 1993], 31).
4 As Willoughby observes, Wilde appears to be drawing here on the medieval myth that Christ’s blood turned the white rose red at the time of the Crucifixion: “In the image of the rose deepening in color as the life of the Nightingale ebbs away, Wilde is creating a resonant symbol for the Christlike totality of sacrifice art requires of its practitioners” (Willoughby, Art and Christhood, 29).
5 “Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird,” Keats remarks in his “Ode to a Nightingale,” though “Now more than ever seems it rich to die / … While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad / In such an ecstasy!” For John Keats, the nightingale is a Romantic poet whose ecstatic song and “full-throated ease,” heard afar from some “melodious plot,” contrast sharply with a world “Where beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, / Or new love pine at them beyond tomorrow.” For Hans Christian Andersen, the nightingale is able to rejuvenate society on condition that the authorities are responsive to his song and learn to value it more highly than material things. Wilde’s nightingale is also a Romantic poet, but Wilde suggests that Keats’s and Andersen’s Romanticism is outmoded and powerless in the face of an all-pervasive, thoroughly utilitarian, spirit of materialism. Where Andersen’s nightingale “had the power to restore life,” the critic Nicholas R
uddick remarks, “the song of Wilde’s nightingale only precedes her own death” (Ruddick, “Teaching Wilde’s Fairy Tales: Aestheticism as Social and Cultural Critique in ‘The Happy Prince’ and ‘The Nightingale and the Rose,’ ” in Approaches to Teaching the Works of Oscar Wilde, ed. Philip E. Smith II [New York: Modern Language Association of America, 2008], 98).
6 The Professor’s daughter is indebted to the Emperor’s daughter in Andersen’s “The Swineherd,” who spurns the gifts of a rose and a nightingale (which “sang as if all the sweet songs of the world were in its little throat”) from her besotted lover on the grounds that they are too natural and “not artificial.”
7 “I am afraid I don’t think as much of the young Student as you do,” Wilde wrote to a correspondent: “He seems to me a rather shallow young man, and almost as bad as the girl he thinks he loves. The nightingale is the true lover, if there is one. She, at least, is Romance, and the Student and the girl are, like most of us, unworthy of Romance” (CL 354).
THE BIRTHDAY OF THE LITTLE PRINCESS*
· · · IT WAS THE BIRTHDAY of the little Princess.1 She was just twelve years of age, and the sun was shining brightly in the gardens of the Palace.
Although she was a real Princess and the Infanta of Spain, she had only one birthday every year, just like the children of quite poor people, so it was naturally a matter of great importance to the whole country that she should have a really fine day for the occasion. And a really fine day it certainly was. The tall striped tulips stood straight up upon their stalks, like long rows of soldiers, and looked defiantly across the grass at the roses, and said: “We are quite as splendid as you are now.” The purple butterflies fluttered about with gold dust on their wings, visiting each flower in turn; the little lizards crept out of the crevices of the wall, and lay basking in the white glare; and the pomegranates split and cracked with the heat, and showed their bleeding red hearts. Even the pale yellow lemons, that hung in such profusion from the mouldering trellis, and along the dim arcades, seemed to have caught a richer colour from the wonderful sunlight, and the magnolia trees opened their great globe-like blossoms of folded ivory, and filled the air with a sweet heavy perfume. The little Princess herself walked up and down the terrace with her companions, and played at hide and seek round the stone vases and the old moss-grown statues. On ordinary days she was only allowed to play with children of her own rank, so she had always to play alone, but her birthday was an exception, and the King had given orders that she was to invite any of her young friends whom she liked to come and amuse themselves with her. There was a stately grace about these slim Spanish children as they glided about, the boys with their large-plumed hats and short fluttering cloaks, the girls holding up the trains of their long brocaded gowns, and shielding the sun from their eyes with huge fans of black and silver. But the Infanta was the most graceful of all, and the most tastefully attired, after the somewhat cumbrous fashion of the day. Her robe was of grey satin, the skirt and the wide puffed sleeves heavily embroidered with silver, and the stiff corset studded with rows of fine pearls. Two tiny slippers with big pink rosettes peeped out beneath her dress as she walked. Pink and pearl was her great gauze fan, and in her hair, which like an aureole of faded gold stood out stiffly round her pale little face, she had a beautiful white rose.
