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 care-
fully 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-hom, 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's 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 lire, 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 fakes 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!
CHANTECLER. I only live, dear, when I am killing myself giving
great splendid cries!
THE PHEASANT-HEN. [Pressing close to his side.] I am proud of you!
CHANTECLER. [With emotion.] Your head bows——
THE PHEASANT-HEN. I listen to the Day arising in your breast! I delight
to hear first in your lungs what by-and-by will be purple
and gold on the mountain sides!
CHANTECLER. [While the little distant houses begin to smoke in the
dawn] I dedicate to you moreover those reawakened
farmsteads. Man offers trinkets, I——wreaths and
plumes of smoke!
THE PHEASANT-HEN. [Looking off] I can see your work growing, — grow-
ing in the distance.
CHANTECLER. [Looking at her] I can see it in your eyes!
THE PHEASANT-HEN. Over the meadows——
CHANTECLER. On your throat——
[In a smothered voice.] Oh, it is
exquisite!
THE PHEASANT-HEN. What?
CHANTECLER. I am at once doing my duty, and making you more
fair. I am gilding my valley, while brightening your
wing.
[Tearing himself from love, and dashing toward
the right.] But the shadow still fights all along the line
of retreat. There is much to be done over there!
Cock-a-doodle-doo!
THE PHEASANT-HEN. [Looking up at the sky.] Oh, look!
CHANTECLER. [Looking too, sadly.] How can I prevent it? The
morning star is fading out!
THE PHEASANT-HEN. [In a tone of regret for the little bright spark which the
growing light must necessarily quench.] It is fading
out——
CHANTECLER. Alas!—But shall we therefore despond?
[And tear-
ing himself from melancholy, he springs toward the left.] There is still much to do over here. Cock-a ——
[At
this point the crowing of other COCKS ascends from the
valley. CHANTECLER listens, then softly] Hark! Do
you hear them now?
THE PHEASANT-HEN. Who dare——?
CHANTECLER. The other Cocks.
THE PHEASANT-HEN. [Bending above the plain.] They are singing in the
rosy light——
CHANTECLER. Yes, they believe in the light as soon as they see it.
THE PHEASANT-HEN. They sing all in a haze of blue——
CHANTECLER. I sang in total blackness. My song rose from the
cheerless shade, and was the first to rise. It is when
Night prevails that it's fine to believe in the Light!
THE PHEASANT-HEN. How dare they sing when you are singing?
CHANTECLER. Let them sing! Their songs acquire significance from
mingling with mine, and their tardy but numerous cries
unconsciously hasten the flight of the dark.
[Straighten-
ing upon his hillock, he calls to the distant COCKS.] Now,
all together!
CHANTECLER AND ALL THE COCKS. Cock-a-doodle-doo!
CHANTECLER. [Alone, with familiar cordiality.] Forward, forward,
boldly, Day!
THE PHEASANT-HEN. [Beside him, stamping her feet.] Boldly, Day!
CHANTECLER. [Crying encouragements to the Light.] Yes, there, there
before you, is a roof for you to gild! Come, come, a
touch of green on that patch of waving hemp!
THE PHEASANT-HEN. [Beside herself with excitement.] A glimmer of white
on that road!
CHANTECLER. A wash of blue on the river!
THE PHEASANT-HEN. [In a great cry.] The Sun! Look, the Sun!
CHANTECLER. There he is, I can see him, but we must hale him from
that grove!
[And both of them, moving backward
together, appear to be drawing something after them.
CHANTECLER, prolonging his crow as if to drag up tne SUN by
it.] Cooooooo——
THE PHEASANT-HEN. [Shouting above CHANTECLER'S crow.] There he
comes——
CHANTECLER. ——oock-a——
THE PHEASANT-HEN. ——climbing——
CHANTECLER. ——doodle——
THE PHEASANT-HEN. ——above——
CHANTECLER. ——doooooo!
THE PHEASANT-HEN. ——the poplars!
CHANTECLER. [In a last, dry-throated, desperate crow] Cock-a-doodle-doo!
[Both stagger, suddenly flooded with light] It is done!
[He adds, in a tone of satisfaction.] A proper
Sun,——a giant!
[He totters toward a mossy rise and
drops against it] THE PHEASANT-HEN. [Running to him, while all grows brighter and brighter] One song now to greet the beautiful rising Sun!
CHANTECLER. [Very low] I have no voice left. I spent it all.
[Hearing the other COCKS crowing in the valley, he adds
gently] It matters not. He has the songs and praises
of the others.
THE PHEASANT-HEN. [Surprised] What? After be appears, he hears no
more from you?
CHANTECLER. No more.
THE PHEASANT-HEN. [Indignant.] But in that case, perhaps the Sun
believes the other Cocks have made him rise?
CHANTECLER. It matters not.
THE PHEASANT-HEN. But——
CHANTECLER. Hush! Come to my heart and let me thank you.
Never has there been a lovelier dawn.
THE PHEASANT-HEN. But what will repay you for all your pains?
CHANTECLER. Echoes of awakening life down in the valley!
[Con-
fused living wises are beginning to mount from below.] Tell me of them. I have not the strength to listen for
myself.
THE PHEASANT-HEN. [Runs to the top of the rise, and listens.] I hear a
finger knocking against the rim of a brazen sky——
CHANTECLER. [With closed eyes.] The Angelus.
THE PHEASANT-HEN. Other strokes, which sound like a human Angelus
after the divine——
CHANTECLER. The forge-hammer.
THE PHEASANT-HEN. Lowing, — then a song——
CHANTECLER. The plow.
THE PHEASANT-HEN. [Continuing to listen.] Sounds as of a bird's nest
fallen into the little street——
CHANTECLER. [With growing emotion.] The school!
THE PHEASANT-HEN. Imps of whom I catch no glimpse buffet one another
in the water——
CHANTECLER. Women washing linen.
THE PHEASANT-HEN. And suddenly, on all sides, what are they — iron
locusts rubbing their wings together?
CHANTECLER. [Half rising, in the fulness of pride.] Ah, if scythes
are whetting, the reapers will soon be harvesting the
golden grain!
[The sounds increase and mingle: bells,
hammers, washer-women's wooden spades, laughter, singing,
grinding of steel, cracking of whips.] All at work! And
I have done that!—Oh, impossible!—Pheasant-hen,
help me! This is the dreadful moment!
[He looks
wildly about him.] I made the sunrise! I did! Where-
fore? And how? And where? No sooner does my
reason return — than I go mad! For I who believe I
have power to rekindle the celestial gold — I — well —
oh, it is dreadful——
THE PHEASANT-HEN. What is?
CHANTECLER. I am humble-minded, modest! You will never tell?
THE PHEASANT-HEN. No, no!
CHANTECLER. You promise? Ah! let my enemies never know!
THE PHEASANT-HEN. [Moved.] Chantecler!
CHANTECLER. I feel myself unworthy of my glory. Why was I
chosen, even I, to drive out black night? No sooner
have I brought the heavens to a white glow, than the
pride which lifted me aloft drops dead. I fall to earth.
What, I, so small, I made the immeasurable dawn?
And having done this, I must do it again? Nay, but
I cannot! Nay, it would be vain! Never need I
attempt it! Despair overtakes me — Comfort me, love!
THE PHEASANT-HEN. [Tenderly.] My own!
CHANTECLER. Such a burden of responsibility resting upon me!
That inspiring breath which I await when I scratch in
the sand, will it come again? I feel the whole future
depending upon an incomprehensible something which
might perchance fail me! Do you understand now the
anguish gnawing me? Ah, the swan is certain, by
bending his neck, to find under water the grasses he delights
in; the eagle, when he swoops from the blue, sure of
falling upon his prey; and you are ever sure of finding
in the earth the well supplied nests of the ants, — but
I, for whom my own work remains a mystery, I,
possessed ever by the fear of the morrow, am I sure of
finding my song in my heart?
THE PHEASANT-HEN. [Clasping him with her wings.] Surely, you will find
it, surely!
CHANTECLER. Yes, talk to me like that. I listen, I heed you. You
must believe me when I believe, and not when I doubt.
Tell me again ——
THE PHEASANT-HEN. You are beautiful!
CHANTECLER. About that I care very little.
THE PHEASANT-HEN. And you sang beautifully!
CHANTECLER. Say that I sang badly, but tell me that it is I who
make——
THE PHEASANT-HEN. Indeed, indeed, I admire you beyond all bounds and
measure!
CHANTECLER. No, — tell me that what I told you is true——
THE PHEASANT-HEN. What?
CHANTECLER. That it is I who make——
THE PHEASANT-HEN. Yes, my glorious Beloved, yes, it is you who make
the dawn appear!
THE BLACKBIRD. [Suddenly appearing.] Well, well, old man!
