Scene FIFTH
CHANTECLER, the PHEASANT-HEN, hidden in the tree,
and the TOADS.A BIG TOAD. [Rearing himself in the grass.] We have come ——
[Other TOADS become visible behind him.] CHANTECLER. Ye gods, how ugly they are!
THE BIG TOAD. [Obsequiously.] —— in behalf of all the thinking
contingency of the Forest, to the author of so many songs
——
[He places his hand on his heart.] CHANTECEER. [With disgust.] Oh, that hand spread over his paunch!
THE BIG TOAD. [With a hop toward CHANTECLER.] ——at once
novel, ——
ANOTHER TOAD. [Same business.] Pellucid!
ANOTHER. [Same business.] Succinct!
ANOTHER. [Same business.] Vital!
ANOTHER. [Same business.] Pure!
ANOTHER. [Same business.] Great!
CHANTECLER. Gentlemen, pray be seated.
[They seat themselves
around a large toadstool.] THE BIG TOAD. True, we are ugly ——
CHANTECLER. [Politely.] You have fine eyes.
THE BIG TOAD. [Raising himself by bearing with both hands upon the
rim of the toadstool.] But, Knights of this fungoid
Round Table, we desire to do homage to the Parsifal
who has given to the world a sublime song ——
SECOND TOAD. A true song!
THE BIG TOAD. And a celestial!
THIRD TOAD. And a no less terrestrial!
THE BIG TOAD. [With authority.] A song by comparison with which
the song of the Nightingale sinks into insignificance!
CHANTECLER. [Astonished.] The Nightingale's song?
SECOND TOAD. [In a tone of finality.] Is not a circumstance to yours!
THE BIG TOAD. [With a hop.] It was high time that a new singer ——
ANOTHER. [Same business.] And a new song ——
FIFTH TOAD. [Quickly, to his neighbour.] And a song by a
stranger ——
THE BIG TOAD. Came to change conditions here.
CHANTECLER. Ah, I shall change conditions?
ALL. Glory to the Cock!
CHANTECLER. I do not see that the forest thinks so poorly of me
after all!
THE BIG TOAD. Played out, the Nightingale!
CHANTECLER. [More and more surprised.] Really?
SECOND TOAD. More and more his song confesses itself effete ——
THE BIG TOAD. Mawkish!
THIRD TOAD. Null!
FOURTH. [Contemptuously.] And his old-fashioned pretense of
of inspiration!
FIFTH TOAD. And the name he has adopted: Bul-bul!
ALL THE TOADS. [Puffing with laughter.] Bul-bul!
THE BIG TOAD. This is the way he goes on:
[Parodying the song of
the NIGHTINGALE.] Tio! Tio!
SECOND TOAD. His solitary idea is an old silver trill copied from the
bubbling spring.
[He imitates in grotesque fashion the
singing of the NIGHTINGALE.] Tio! Tio!
CHANTECLER. But——
THE BIG TOAD. [Quickly] Do not attempt, you, the Renovator of
Art, to defend that ancient high authority on sentimental
gargling!
SECOND TOAD. That superannuated tenor quavering out his cavatinas
to the glory of minor poetry and the edification of
fogydom!
THIRD TOAD. The Harp that twanged through Tara's hall, and
insists on twanging still!
CHANTECLER. [Indulgently.] But why should he not, after all, if
he enjoys it?
THE BIG TOAD. Endeavouring to impose on a suffering and surfeited
public the musty old fashion of ingenious fioritura!
CHANTECLER. Audiences nowadays, of course, look for a different
sort of thing.
THIRD TOAD. Your song has exposed the artificiality of his.
ALL. [In an explosion.] Down with Bul-bul!
CHANTECLER. [Whom the TOADS have gradually surrounded.] Gentlemen and honored Batrachians, my voice, it is true, gives
forth natural notes ——
THE BIG TOAD. Yes, notes which lend us wings ——
CHANTECLER. [Modestly.] Oh!
ALL. [Waggling their bodies as if about to fly.] Wings!
THE BIG TOAD. Their secret being that they sing Life!
CHANTECLER. That is true.
SECOND TOAD. Yes, my dear fellow, Life!
CHANTECLER. [With careless complacency.] My crest for that reason
is flesh and blood!
ALL THE TOADS. [Clapping their little hands.] Good, very good!
THE BIG TOAD. That formula is a programme.
SECOND TOAD. Since we are assembled around a table, why should
we not offer to the Chief ——
CHANTECLER. [Modestly, hanging tack from the suggested honour.] Gentlemen ——
SECOND TOAD. —— to the Chief of whom we stood in notable need,
a banquet?
ALL. [Beating enthusiastically upon the toadstool.] A banquet!
THE PHEASANT-HEN. [Looking out from the tree.] What is the matter?
CHANTECLER. [In spite of all, rather flattered.] A banquet!
THE PHEASANT-HEN. [Slightly ironical.] Shall you accept?
CHANTECLER. You see, my dear — the new tendencies — Art, — the
thinking contingency of the Forest ——
[Indicating the
TOADS.] Yes, I have lent wings to ——
[In a light and
careless tone.] It's all up with the Nightingale, you see.
Musty old method! Antiquated trill! This is the way
he goes on——
[To the TOADS.] How was it you said
he went on?
ALL THE TOADS. [Comically.] Tio! Tio!
CHANTECLER. [To the PHEASANT-HEN, with pitying indulgence.] He
goes on like this: Tio! Tio! And I believe I need not
scruple to accept ——
A VOICE. [In the tree above him breaks forth in a long note, limpid,
and heart-moving] Tio!
[Silence.] CHANTECLER. [Startled, raising his head.] What was that?
THE BIG TOAD. [Quickly, visibly embarrassed.] Nothing! It is he!
THE VOICE. [Slowly and wonderfully, with the sigh of a soul in every
note.] Tio! Tio! Tio! Tio!
CHANTECLER. [Turning upon the TOADS.] Scum of the earth!
THE TOADS. [Backing away from him] What ——?
