THE BLACKBIRD
No, trembling Gypsy, there's not enough in this great plot to choke a
flea withal!
THE PHEASANT-HEN
Truly? I have been so horribly afraid--
THE BLACKBIRD
Fear, I warn you, lovely Zingara, leads to dyspepsia! It's because he
keeps his eye closed and buried in the sand that the ostrich has
preserved his famous digestion!
THE PHEASANT-HEN
So it might seem.
THE BLACKBIRD
We have in these latter days bowed Tragedy respectfully out of the
house!
THE PHEASANT-HEN
But had we not best warn Chantecler, so that--
THE BLACKBIRD
He would go instantly and challenge them. And then such a whetting of
steel!
THE PHEASANT-HEN
You are right. So he would.
THE BLACKBIRD
On your principle, mad Gitana, an oak-gall could be made into a world.
THE PHEASANT-HEN
You have much good sense.
THE BLACKBIRD
Daughter of the forest, I have.
CHANTECLER'S VOICE
[_Outside._] Coa--
THE PHEASANT-HEN
Chantecler!
CHANTECLER
[_Approaching on the left, between the hollies, calls from afar._] Who
is there?
THE PHEASANT-HEN
It is I!
CHANTECLER
[_Still from a distance._] Alone?
THE PHEASANT-HEN
[_With a significant look at the_ BLACKBIRD.] Yes, alone.
THE BLACKBIRD
[_Understanding._] I vanish--I am off to supper.
THE PHEASANT-HEN
[_Low to the_ BLACKBIRD.] And so--?
THE BLACKBIRD
[_Motioning her to be silent._] Keep it dark! [_As he is leaving, by the
right, in the manner of one giving an order to a waiter._] Earwigs
for one!
THE PHEASANT-HEN
[_Low._] It is wiser, you think, not to tell him?
THE BLACKBIRD
[_Before disappearing among the flower-pots._] Well, rather!
SCENE THIRD
THE PHEASANT-HEN, CHANTECLER.
CHANTECLER
[_Who has reached the_ PHEASANT-HEN'S _side._] Out so early?
THE PHEASANT-HEN
To see the daybreak.
CHANTECLER
[_With repressed emotion._] Ah--?
THE PHEASANT-HEN
[_Teasingly._] What troubles you?
CHANTECLER
I have had a wretched night.
THE PHEASANT-HEN
So sorry! [_A pause._]
CHANTECLER
Are you going to the Guinea-hen's?
THE PHEASANT-HEN
I stayed over solely for that purpose.
CHANTECLER
Ah, yes, I know. [_A pause._] I dislike her extremely.
THE PHEASANT-HEN
Come to her party.
CHANTECLER
No.
THE PHEASANT-HEN
As you please. Then we may as well say good-bye.
CHANTECLER
No.
THE PHEASANT-HEN
Come to the Guinea-hen's. We shall have a chance to see something of
each other there.
CHANTECLER
No.
THE PHEASANT-HEN
You are determined not to come?
CHANTECLER
I am coming--but I hate it.
THE PHEASANT-HEN
Why?
CHANTECLER
It is weak.
THE PHEASANT-HEN
No, no! That is no great sign of weakness!
CHANTECLER
Ah--?
THE PHEASANT-HEN
[_Softly, coming closer to him._] What would be showing a sweet,
delightful, and fully masculine weakness--
CHANTECLER
[_In alarm at her approach._] What?
THE PHEASANT-HEN
Would be to tell me your secret. Oh, just a wee bit!
CHANTECLER
[_With a start._] The secret of my song?
THE PHEASANT-HEN
Yes.
CHANTECLER
Golden Hen, my secret--
THE PHEASANT-HEN
[_Coaxingly._] Often from the edge of the woods I hear you in the first
golden glimmer of day--
CHANTECLER
[_Flattered._] My song has reached your shapely little ear?
THE PHEASANT-HEN
It has!
CHANTECLER
[_Abruptly, moving away from her._] My secret--Never!
THE PHEASANT-HEN
You are not very gallant!
CHANTECLER
No--I am full of conflict and misery.
THE PHEASANT-HEN
[_Languidly reciting._] The Cock and the Pheasant-hen a Fable--
CHANTECLER
[_Half aloud._] A Cock loved a Pheasant-hen--
THE PHEASANT-HEN
And would not tell her anything--
CHANTECLER
Moral--
THE PHEASANT-HEN
It was horrid of him!
CHANTECLER
[_Pressing close to her._] Moral: Your dress has the fascinating rustle
of silk!
THE PHEASANT-HEN
Moral: I dislike familiarity! [_Withdrawing from him._] Go home to your
Hen of the plebeian petticoat!
CHANTECLER
[_Stamping._] I shall be angry!
THE PHEASANT-HEN
No, no, don't be angry--Say "Coa--" [_They stand bill to bill._]
CHANTECLER
[_Angrily._] Coa--
THE PHEASANT-HEN
No, no! Say it nicely--
CHANTECLER
[_In a long, tender coo._] Coa--
THE PHEASANT-HEN
Look at me without laughing. Your secret--
CHANTECLER
Well?
THE PHEASANT-HEN
You are dying to tell it to me!
CHANTECLER
Yes, I feel that I shall tell, and I know I shall do ill in telling. And
it's all because of the gold on her dainty little head! [_Going
brusquely nearer to her._] Shall you prove worthy, at least, of having
been chosen? Is your breast true red to the core?
THE PHEASANT-HEN
Now tell me!
CHANTECLER
Look at me, Pheasant-hen, and try, if indeed it be possible, try to
recognise, by yourself, sign by sign, the vocation of which my body is
the symbol. Guess, to begin with, at my destiny from my shape, and see
how, curved like a sort of living hunting-horn, I am as much formed for
sound to turn and gain volume within me, as the wild duck is formed to
swim!--Wait!--Mark the fact that, impatient and proud, scratching up the
earth with my claws, I appear always to be seeking something in
the soil--
THE PHEASANT-HEN
You are seeking for grains of corn, seeds, I suppose.
CHANTECLER
Never! I have never looked for such things. I find them occasionally,
into the bargain, but disdainfully I give them to my Hens.
THE PHEASANT-HEN
Well, then, in your perpetual scratching, what is it you are looking
for?
CHANTECLER
The right spot! For always before singing I carefully choose my stand.
Pray, observe--
THE PHEASANT-HEN
True, and then you ruffle your feathers.
CHANTECLER
I never start to sing until my eight claws, after clearing a space of
weeds and stones, have found the soft,
dark turf underneath. Then,
placed in direct contact with the good earth, I sing!--And that is
already half the mystery, Pheasant-hen, half the mystery of my song,
which is not of those songs one sings after composing them, but is
received straight from the native soil, like sap! And the time above all
when that sap arises in me,--the hour, briefly, in which I have genius,
in which I can never doubt I have!--is the hour when dawn falters on the
boundaries of the dark sky. Then, filled with the same quivering as
leaves and grass, thrilled to the very tips of my wing quills, I feel
myself a chosen instrument. I accentuate my curve of a hunting-horn,
Earth speaks in me as in a conch, and ceasing to be an ordinary bird, I
become the mouthpiece, in some sort official, through which the cry of
the earth escapes toward the sky!
THE PHEASANT-HEN
Chantecler!
CHANTECLER
And that cry which rises from the earth, that cry is such a cry of love
for the light, is such a deep and frenzied cry of love for the golden
thing we call the Day, and that all thirst to feel again: the pine on
its bark, the tortuous roots in woodland paths on their mosses, the
feather-grass on each delicate spray, the tiniest pebble in its tiniest
mica flake; it is so wonderfully the cry of all that misses and mourns
its colour, its reflection, its flame, its coronet, its pearl; the
beseeching cry of the dew-washed meadow begging for a wee rainbow at
every grass-tip, of the forest begging a burst of fire at the end of
each gloomy avenue; that cry which mounts to the sky through me is so
greatly the cry of all that feels itself in disgrace, plunged in a
sunless pit, deprived of light without knowing for what offence; is the
cry of cold, the cry of fear, the cry of weariness, of all that night
disables or disarms; the rose shivering alone in the dark, the hay
wanting to be dried and go to the mow, the sickle forgotten out of doors
by the reaper and fearing it will rust in the grass, the white things
dismayed at not looking white; is so greatly the cry of the innocent
among beasts, who have nothing to conceal, of the brook fain to show its
crystal clearness; and even--for thy very works, O Night, disown
thee!--of the puddle longing to glisten, the mud longing to become earth
again, by drying; it is so greatly the magnificent cry of the field
impatient to feel its wheat and barley growing, of the blossoming tree
mad for still more blossoms of the green grapes craving a purple side;
of the bridge waiting for footsteps, for shadows of birds among shadows
of branches; the voice of all that yearns to sing, to drop the garb of
mourning, live again, serve again, be a brink, be a bourn, a sun-warm
seat, a stone glad to comfort with warmth the hand touching, or the
insect overcrawling it; finally, it is so greatly the cry toward the
light of all Beauty, all Health, all which wishes, in sunshine and joy,
to see its work while doing it, and do it to be seen--And when I feel
that vast call to the Day arising within me, I so expand my soul to make
it more sonorous, by making it more spacious, that the great cry may
still be increased in greatness; before giving it, I withold it in my
soul a moment so piously; then, when, to expel it, I contract my soul, I
am so convinced of accomplishing a great act, I have such faith that my
song will make night crumble like the walls of Jericho--
THE PHEASANT-HEN
[_Frightened._] Chantecler!
CHANTECLER
And sounding its victory beforehand, my song springs forth so clear, so
proud, so peremptory, that the horizon, seized with a rosy
trembling--_obeys!_
THE PHEASANT-HEN
Chantecler!
CHANTECLER
I sing! Vainly Night offers to compromise, offers a dubious twilight--I
sing again! And suddenly--
THE PHEASANT-HEN
Chantecler!
CHANTECLER
I fall back, blinded by the red light bathing me, dazzled at having, I,
the Cock, made the Sun to rise!
THE PHEASANT-HEN
Then the whole secret of your song--?
CHANTECLER
Is that I dare assume that the East without me must rest in idleness! I
sing, not to hear the echo repeat, a shade fainter, my song! I think of
light and not of glory! Singing is my fashion of waging war and bearing
witness. And if my song is the proudest of songs, it is that I sing
clearly to make the day rise clear!
THE PHEASANT-HEN
What he says sounds slightly mad!--You are responsible for the rising
of--
CHANTECLER
That which opens flower, eye, soul, and window! Certainly! My voice
dispenses light! And when the sky is grey, the reason is that I have
sung badly.
THE PHEASANT-HEN
But when you sing by day?
CHANTECLER
I am practising, or else promising the ploughshare, the hoe, the harrow,
the scythe, not to neglect my duty of waking them.
THE PHEASANT-HEN
But what wakens you?
CHANTECLER
The fear of forgetting.
THE PHEASANT-HEN
And you believe that at the sound of your voice the whole world is
suffused--?
CHANTECLER
I have no clear idea of the whole world. But I sing for my own valley,
and desire that every Cock may do the same for his.
THE PHEASANT-HEN
Still--
CHANTECLER
But here I stand, explaining, perorating, and forgetting altogether to
make my dawn.
THE PHEASANT-HEN
His dawn!
CHANTECLER
Ah, what I say sounds mad? I will make the dawn before your very eyes!
And the wish to please you adding its ardour to the ordinary forces of
my soul, I shall rise in singing, as I feel, to unusual heights, and the
dawn will rise more fair to-day than ever it rose before!
THE PHEASANT-HEN
More fair?
CHANTECLER
Assuredly,--in just the measure that strength is added to the song by
the knowledge of listeners, boldness to the exploit by the consciousness
of lovely watching eyes--[_Taking his stand upon a hillock at the back,
overlooking the valley._] Now, Madam!
THE PHEASANT-HEN
[_Gazing at his outline against the sky._] How beautiful he is!
CHANTECLER
Look attentively at the sky. Already it has paled. The reason is that a
short while back, with my earliest crow I ordered the sun to stand in
readiness just below the horizon.
THE PHEASANT-HEN
He is so beautiful that what he says almost seems possible!
CHANTECLER
[_Talking toward the horizon._] Ha, Sun, I feel you just behind there,
stirring--and I laugh with pride and joy amidst my scarlet
wattles--[_Rising on tiptoe suddenly, in a voice of startling
loudness._] Cock-a-doodle-doo!
THE PHEASANT-HEN
What great breath lifts his breast-feathers?
CHANTECLER
[_Toward the east._] Obey!--I am the Earth, and I am Labour! My comb is
the pattern
of a forge fire, and the voice of the furrow rises to my
throat! [_Whispering mysteriously._] Yes, yes, month of July--
THE PHEASANT-HEN
To whom is he speaking?
CHANTECLER
You shall have it earlier than April! [_Bending to right and left,
encouragingly._] Yes, Bramble!--Yes, Brake!
THE PHEASANT-HEN
He is magnificent!
CHANTECLER
[_To the_ PHEASANT-HEN.] You see, I must at all times
remember--[_Stroking the earth with his wing._] Yes, dear
Grass!--remember the humble prayers whose interpreter I become.
[_Talking to invisible things._] The golden ladder?--I understand! that
you may all dance on it together!
THE PHEASANT-HEN
To whom are you promising a ladder?
CHANTECLER
To the Motes--Cock-a-doodle-doo!
THE PHEASANT-HEN
[_Watching the sky and landscape._] A shiver of blue runs across the
thatched roofs.--A star went out just then--
CHANTECLER
No, it veiled itself. Even by daylight the stars are there.
THE PHEASANT-HEN
You do not extinguish them?
CHANTECLER
I extinguish nothing! But you shall see how great I am at kindling!
THE PHEASANT-HEN
Oh, I see a dawning of--
CHANTECLER
What do you see?
THE PHEASANT-HEN
The blue is no longer blue!
CHANTECLER
I told you! It is already green!
THE PHEASANT-HEN
The green is turning to orange--
CHANTECLER
You will have been the first this morning to see the transformation!
[_The distant plain takes on velvety purplish hues._]
THE PHEASANT-HEN
It all seems to end in leagues of purple heather.
CHANTECLER
[_Whose crow is beginning to tire._] Cock-a-doo--
THE PHEASANT-HEN
Oh--yellow among the pine trees!
CHANTECLER
Gold it ought to be,--gold!
THE PHEASANT-HEN
And pearly grey--
CHANTECLER
It shall be white!--I haven't done it yet! Cock-a-doodle-doo--It's very
bad so far, but I won't give up!
THE PHEASANT-HEN
Every hollow in every tree is pink as a wild rose--
CHANTECLER
[_With growing enthusiasm._] Since love lends me strength in addition to
faith, I say the Day to-day shall be more beautiful that the Day!--Do
you see? Do you see the eastern sky at my voice dappling itself
with light?
THE PHEASANT-HEN
[_Lured along and half persuaded by the madness of the_ COCK.] Such a
thing might be, after all, since love is involved in the mystery!
CHANTECLER
Resume, horizon, at my command, your fringe of little poplars!
THE PHEASANT-HEN
[_Bending over the valley._] There emerges from the shadow, gradually, a
world of your creation--
CHANTECLER
Sacred things you are witnessing--To sacred things I am initiating
you!--Define your outlines, distant hills! Pheasant-hen, do you love me?
THE PHEASANT-HEN
We shall always love to be in the secret of the Makers of Dawn!
CHANTECLER
You help me to sing better. Come closer. Collaborate.
THE PHEASANT-HEN
[_Springing to his side._] I love you!
CHANTECLER
Every word you whisper in my ear shall be translated into sunshine for
all the world to see!
THE PHEASANT-HEN
I love you!
CHANTECLER
Say it again, and I will gild that mountain suddenly!
THE PHEASANT-HEN
[_Wildly._] I love you!--Let me see you gild it!
CHANTECLER
[_In his greatest, most splendid manner._] Cock-a-doodle-doo! [_The
mountain turns golden._]
THE PHEASANT-HEN
[_Pointing to the lower ranges, still purple._] But the hills?
CHANTECLER
Each in its turn. To the highest peaks belong the earliest rays!
Cock-a-doodle-doo!
THE PHEASANT-HEN
Ah!--across yonder drowsing slope a stealing gleam--
CHANTECLER
[_Joyously._] I dedicate it to you!
THE PHEASANT-HEN
The distant villages are coming into view.
CHANTECLER
Cock-a--[_His voice breaks._]
THE PHEASANT-HEN
You are weary!
CHANTECLER
[_Stiffening himself._] I refuse to be! [_Wildly._] Cock-a-doodle-doo!
THE PHEASANT-HEN
Exhausted!
CHANTECLER
Do you see those tatters of mist still clinging? Cock-a-doodle-doo!
THE PHEASANT-HEN
You will kill yourself!