Scene FOURTH

THE PHEASANT-HEN. [Who has come upon the scene, with a threatening gesture at the WOODPECKER.] Go inside![The WOODPECKER precipitately disappears. She stands listening to CHANTECLER.]

CHANTECLER. [In the convolvulus, more and more deeply interested.] You don't mean it! What, all of them?—Yes?— No? — Oh! — Well, well! — Is that so?

THE WOODPECKER. [Who has timidly come back, aside.] Oh, that an ant of the heaviest might weigh down his tongue!

CHANTECLER. [Talking into the flower.] So soon? The Peacock out of fashion?

THE WOODPECKER. [Trying to get CHANTECLER'S attention behind the PHEASANT-HEN'S back] Pst!

THE PHEASANT-HEN. [Turning around, furious] You!—You had better![The WOODPECKER alertly retires, bumping his head]

CHANTECLER. [In the flower] An elderly Cock? — I hope that the Hens ——?[With intonations more and more expressive of relief] Ah, that's right! that's right! that's right![He ends, with evident lightening of the heart] A father![As if answering a question.] Do I sing? Yes, but far away from here, at the water-side.

THE PHEASANT-HEN. Oh!

CHANTECLER. [With a tinge of bitterness] Golden Pheasants will not long allow one to purchase glory by too strenuous an effort, and so I go off by myself, and work at the Dawn in secret.

THE PHEASANT-HEN. [Approaching/rent behind with threatening countenance] Oh!

CHANTECLER. As soon as the beauteous eye which enthralls me——

THE PHEASANT-HEN. [Pausing.] Oh!

CHANTECLER. ——closes, and in her surpassing loveliness she sleeps

THE PHEASANT-HEN. [Delighted.] Ah!

CHANTECLER. I make my escape.

THE PHEASANT-HEN. [Furious] Oh!

CHANTECLER. I speed through the dew to a distant place, to sing there the necessary number of times, and when I feel the darkness wavering, when only one song more is needed, I return and noiselessly getting back to roost, wake the Pheasant-hen by singing it at her side. — Betrayed by the dew? Oh, no![Laughing] For with a whisk of my wing I brush my feet clear of the tell-tale silveriness!

THE PHEASANT-HEN. [Close behind him.] You brush your——?

CHANTECLER. [Turning.] Ouch![Into the convolvulus.] No, nothing ! I — Later I — Ouch!

THE PHEASANT-HEN. [Violently.] So! So! Not only you keep up an interest in the fidelity of your old flames——

CHANTECLER. [Evasively] Oh!

THE PHEASANT-HEN. You furthermore ——

CHANTECLER. I——

THE BEE. [Inside the morning-glory.] Vrrrrrrr!

CHANTECLER. [Placing his wing over the flower] I——

THE PHEASANT-HEN. You deceive me to the point of remembering to brush off your feet!

CHANTECLER. But ——

THE PHEASANT-HEN. This clodhopper, see now, whom I picked up off his haystack — and to rule alone in his soul is apparently quite beyond my power!

CHANTECLER. [Collecting himself and straightening up] When one dwells in a soul, it is better, believe me, to meet with the Dawn there, than with nothing.

THE PHEASANT-HEN. [Angrily] No! the Dawn defrauds me of a great and undivided love!

CHANTECLER. There is no great love outside the shadow of a great dream! How should there not flow more love from a soul whose very business it is to open wide every day?

THE PHEASANT-HEN. [Coming and going stormily] I will sweep everything aside with my golden russet wing!

CHANTECLER. And who are you, bent upon such tremendous sweeping?[They stand rigid and erect in front of each other, looking defiance into each other's eyes.]

THE PHEASANT-HEN. The Pheasant-hen I am, who have assumed the golden plumage of the arrogant male!

CHANTECLER. Remaining in spite of all a female, whose eternal rival is the Idea!

THE PHEASANT-HEN. [In a great cry.] Hold me to your heart and be still!

CHANTECLER. [Crushing her brutally to him] Yes, I strain you. to my Cock's heart ——[With infinite regret.] Better it were I had folded you to my Awakener's soul!

THE PHEASANT-HEN. To deceive me for the Dawn's sake! Very well, however much you may abhor it, you shall for my sake deceive the Dawn.

CHANTECLER. I? How?

THE PHEASANT-HEN. [Stamping her foot; in a capricious tone.] It is my formal and explicit wish ——

CHANTECLER. But listen, dear-

THE PHEASANT-HEN. My formal and explicit wish that you should for one whole day refrain altogether from singing.

CHANTECLER. That I ——

THE PHEASANT-HEN. I desire you to remain one whole day without singing.

CHANTECLER. But, heavens and earth, am I to leave the valley in total darkness?

THE PHEASANT-HEN. [Pouting.] What harm will it do to the valley?

CHANTECLER. Whatever lies too long in darkness and sleep becomes used to falsehood and consents to death.

THE PHEASANT-HEN. Leave singing for one day ——[In a tone of evil insinuation.] It will free my mind of certain suspicions troubling it.

CHANTECLER. [With a start.] I can see what you are trying to do!

THE PHEASANT-HEN. And I can see what you are afraid of!

CHANTECLER. [Earnestly.] I will never give up singing.

THE PHEASANT-HEN. And what if you were mistaken? What if the truth were that Dawn comes without help from you?

CHANTECLER. [With fierce resolution.] I shall not know it.

THE PHEASANT-HEN. [In a sudden burst of tears.] Could. you not forget the time, for once, if you saw me weeping?

CHANTECLER. No, I could not.

THE PHEASANT-HEN. Nothing, ever, can make you forget the time?

CHANTECLER. Nothing. I am conscious of darkness as too heavy a weight.

THE PHEASANT-HEN. You are conscious of darkness as — Shall I tell you the truth? You think you sing for the Dawn, but you sing in reality to be admired, you—songster, you![With contemptuous pity.] Is it possible you are not aware that your poor notes raise a smile right through the forest, accustomed to the fluting of the thrush?

CHANTECLER. I know, you are trying now to reach me through my pride, but ——

THE PHEASANT-HEN. I doubt if you can get so many as three toadstools and a couple of sassafras stalks to listen to you, when the ardent oriole flings across the leafy gloom his melodious pir-piriol!

THE WOODPECKER. [Reappearing.] From the Greek: Pure, puros.

CHANTECLER. No more from you, please![The WOODPECKER hurriedly withdraws.]

THE PHEASANT-HEN. [Insisting.] The echo must make some rather interesting mental reservations, one fancies, when he hears you sing after hearing the great Nightingale!

CHANTECLER. [Turning to leave.] My nerves, my dear girl, are not of the very steadiest to-night.

THE PHEASANT-HEN. [Following.] Did you ever hear him?

CHANTECLER. Never.

THE PHEASANT-HEN. His song is so wonderful that the first time ——[She stops short, struck by an idea.] Oh!

CHANTECLER. What is it?

THE PHEASANT-HEN. [A side.] Ah, you feel the weight of the darkness ——

CHANTECLER. [Coming forward again.] What?

THE PHEASANT-HEN. [With an ironical curtsey.] Nothing![Carelessly.] Let us go to roost![CHANTECLER goes to the back and is preparing to rise to a branch. The PHEASANT-HEN aside.] He does not know that when the Nightingale sings one listens, supposing it to be a minute, and lo! the whole night has been spent listening, even as happens in the enchanted forest of a German legend.

CHANTECLER. [As she does not join him, returns to her.] What are you saying?

THE PHEASANT-HEN. [Laughing in his face.] Nothing!

A VOICE. [Outside.] The illustrious Cock?

CHANTECLER. [Looking around him.] I am wanted?

THE PHEASANT-HEN. [Who has gone in the direction from whence came the voice.] There, in the grass![Jumping back.] Mercy upon us! They are the ——[With a movement of insuperable disgust.] They are the ——[With a spring she conceals herself in the hollow tree, calling back to CHANTECLER.] Be civil to them!