那橡树却是懂得，他觉得悲伤，因为他极爱怜那枝上结巢的小夜莺。

他轻声说道，“唱一首最后的歌给我听罢，你别去后，我要感到无限的寂寥了。”

于是夜莺为橡树唱起来。她恋别的音调就像在银瓶里涌溢的水浪一般的清越。

她唱罢时，那青年站起身来从衣袋里抽出一本日记簿和一枝笔。

他一面走出那树林，一面自语道：“那夜莺的确有些恣态。这是人所不能否认的；但是她有感情么？我怕没有。实在她就像许多美术家一般，尽是仪式，没有诚心。她必不肯为人牺牲。她所想的无非是音乐，可是谁不知道艺术是为己的。虽然，我们总须承认她有醉人的歌喉。可惜那种歌音也是毫无意义，毫无实用。”于是他回到自己室中，躺在他的小草垫的床上想念他的爱人；过了片时他就睡去。

待月娘升到天空，放出她的光艳时，那夜莺也就来到玫瑰枝边，将胸口插在刺上。她胸前插着尖刺，整夜的歌唱，那晶莹的月亮倚在云边静听。她整夜的，啭着歌喉，那刺越插越深，她生命的血液渐渐溢去。

最先她歌颂的是稚男幼女心胸里爱恋的诞生。于是那玫瑰的顶尖枝上结了一苞卓绝的玫瑰蕾，歌儿一首连着一首的唱，花瓣一片跟着一片的开。起先那瓣儿是黯淡得如同河上罩着的薄雾－－－黯淡得如同晨晞的脚迹，银灰得好似曙光的翅翼，那枝上玫瑰蕾就像映在银镜里的玫瑰影子或是照在池塘的玫瑰化身。

但是那树还催迫着夜莺紧插那枝刺。“靠紧那刺，小夜莺，”那树连声的叫唤，“不然，玫瑰还没开成，晓光就要闯来了。”

于是夜莺越紧插入那尖刺，越扬声的她唱的歌，因她这回所歌颂的是男子与女子性灵里烈情的诞生。

如今那玫瑰瓣上生了一层娇嫩的红晕，如同初吻新娘时新郎的绛颊。但是那刺还未插到夜莺的心房，所以那花心尚留着白色，因为只有夜莺的心血可以染成玫瑰花心。

那树复催迫着夜莺紧插那枝刺，“靠紧那刺，小夜莺，”那树连声的叫唤，“不然玫瑰还没开成，晓光就要闯来了。”

于是夜莺紧紧插入那枝刺，那刺居然插入了她的心，但是一种奇痛穿过她的全身，那种惨痛愈猛，愈烈，她的歌声越狂，越壮，因为她这回歌颂的是因死而完成的挚爱和冢中不朽的烈情。

那卓绝的玫瑰于是变作鲜红，如同东方的天色。花的外瓣红同烈火，花的内心赤如绛玉。

夜莺的声音越唱越模糊了，她的双翅拍动起来，她的眼上起了一层薄膜。她的歌声模糊了，她觉得喉间哽咽了。

于是她放出末次的歌声，白色的残月听见，忘记天晓，挂在空中停着。那红玫瑰听见，凝神战栗着，在清冷的晓风里瓣瓣的开放。回音将歌声领入出坡上的紫洞，将牧童从梦里惊醒。歌声流到河边苇丛中，苇叶将这信息传与大海。

那树叫道，“看！玫瑰已制成了。”然而夜莺并不回答，她已躺在乱草里死去，那刺还插在心头。

日午时青年开窗望外看。

他叫道，“怪事：真是难遇的幸运；这儿有朵红玫瑰，这样好玫瑰，我生来从没看见过。他这样美红，定有很繁长的拉丁名字。”说着便俯身下去折了这花。

于是他戴上帽子，跑往教授家去，手里拈着红玫瑰。

教授的女儿正坐在门前卷一轴蓝色绸子，她的小狗伏在她脚前。

青年叫道，“你说过我若为你采得红玫瑰，你便同我跳舞。这里有一朵全世界最珍贵的红玫瑰。你可以将它插在你的胸前，我们同舞的时候，这花便能告诉你，我怎样的爱你。”

那女郎只皱着眉头。

她答说，“我怕这花不能配上我的衣裳；而且大臣的侄子送我许多珠宝首饰，人人都知道珠宝比花草贵重。”

青年怒道，“我敢说你是个无情义的人。”他便将玫瑰掷在街心，掉在车辙里，让一个车轮轧过。

女郎说“无情义？我告诉你罢，你实在无礼；况且到底你是谁？不过一个学生文人。我看像大臣侄子鞋上的那银扣，你都没有。”说着站起身来走回房去。

青年走着自语道，“爱好傻呀，远不如伦理学那般有实用，它所告诉我们的，无非是空中楼阁，实际上不会发生的，和漂渺虚无不可信的事件。在现在的世界里存在，首要有实用的东西，我还是回到我的哲学和玄学书上去吧。”

于是他回到房中取出一本笨重的，满堆着尘土的大书埋头细读。

 

---林徽因译版，于摘自《林徽因文存》

 

 上一章>> 

"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 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 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 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 away," 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. 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 I 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.

          ---by Oscar Wilde

 

         ---Katherine Mansfield

 

我今晚是一搏的快活，

海水洗净了我的污浊；

献媚的云彩像是蜜蜂，

我是它们香甜的花丛。

高山深谷都对我留情，

我睥睨着高傲的松林。

我肥肥的在天空里飞，

伟大的星斗没了光辉！

 

天空他不嫌我的霸道，

他可明白，明白我的糟！

什么是白兔，什么是树，——

分明是老疆尸的干枯！

说什么皎洁，什么团圆，——

我有的是丑怪的疤瘢！

就这光，我那有这清光，

要不是老阳，他的帮忙？

 

可笑是世上人的无聊，

这眼睁睁的对着我瞧；

夸我的美，夸我的丰腴，——

你说我怎么能不得意！

得意——这蜂拥似的云彩，

给踹成了破烂的瓦爿！

 

海水一见我也着了魔，

魔鬼蹲在浪花里唱歌！

我又会做贼；蜒上了墙，

掩进了无抵抗的楼窗；

啊！今晚那一家的秘密，

不被我偷看一个亲切！

多谢这黑暗给我机会；

黑暗奖励了我的虚伪；

圆满——我是万有的主宰，

在这光明死了的世界！

 

         ---徐志摩

 

We started speaking,
Looked at each other, then turned away.
The tears kept rising to my eyes.
But I could not weep.
I wanted to take your hand
But my hand trembled.
You kept counting the days
Before we should meet again.
But both of us felt in our hearts
That we parted for ever and ever.
The ticking of the little clock filled the quiet room.
"Listen," I said. "It is so loud,
Like a horse galloping on a lonely road,
As loud as a horse galloping past in the night."
You shut me up in your arms.
But the sound of the clock stifled our hearts' beating.
You said, "I cannot go: all that is living of me
Is here for ever and ever."
Then you went.
The world changed. The sound of the clock grew fainter,
Dwindled away, became a minute thing.
I whispered in the darkness. "If it stops, I shall die."

 

                ---by Katherine Mansfield

 

 

你去,我也走,我们在此分手;

你上那一条大路,你放心走,

你看那街灯一直亮到天亮边,

你只消跟从这光明的直线!

你先走,我站在此地望着你,

放轻些脚步,别教灰土扬起,

我要认清你的远去的身影,

直到距离使我认你不分明.

再不然我就叫响你的名字,

不断的提醒你有我在这里,

为消解荒街与深晚的荒凉,

目送你归去....

 

不,我自有主张,

你不必为我忧虑;你走大路,

我进这条小巷,你看那棵树,

高抵着天,我走到那边转弯,

再过去是一片荒野的凌乱;

有深潭,有浅洼,半亮着止水,

在夜芒中像是纷披的眼泪;

有石块,有钩刺胫踝的蔓草,

在期待过路人疏神时绊倒!

但你不必焦心,我有的是胆,

凶险的途程不能使我心寒.

等你走远了,我就大步向前,

这荒野有的是夜露的清鲜;

也不愁愁云深里,但须风动,

云海里便波涌星斗的流水;

再何况永远照彻我的心底;

　　Very quietly I take my leave
　　As quietly as I came here;
　　Quietly I wave good-bye
　　To the rosy clouds in the western sky.

　　The golden willows by the riverside
　　Are young brides in the setting sun;
　　Their reflections on the shimmering waves
　　Always linger in the depth of my heart.

　　The floating heart growing in the sludge
　　Sways leisurely under the water;
　　In the gentle waves of Cambridge
　　I would be a water plant!

　　That pool under the shade of elm trees
　　Holds not water but the rainbow from the sky;
　　Shattered to pieces among the duck weeds
　　Is the sediment of a rainbow-like dream?

　　To seek a dream?
　　Just to pole a boat upstream
　　To where the green grass is more verdant;
　　Or to have the boat fully loaded with starlight
　　And sing aloud in the splendor of starlight.

　　But I cannot sing aloud
　　Quietness is my farewell music;
　　Even summer insects keep silence for me
　　Silent is Cambridge tonight!

　　Very quietly I take my leave
　　As quietly as I came here;
　　Gently I flick my sleeves
　　Not even a wisp of cloud will I bring away