Scene SIXTH

CHANTECLER. [After a moment, to the BLACKBIRD who from his cage, to which he has returned, can see ojf over the wall.] Is he gone?

THE BLACKBIRD. He is nearly out of sight!

CHANTECLER. [Going toward PATOU'S kennel.] Madam, come forth!

THE PHEASANT-HEN. [Appearing at the threshold of the kennel] Well?— A rebellious, self-freed slave I am — even as that dog was saying! But of great lineage, and proud as I am free — A pheasant of the woods!

THE BLACKBIRD. Whew! We hate ourself, don't we!

THE PHEASANT-HEN. In the forest where I live there comes a-poaching ——

CHANTECLER. That madman who would have given to vile lead a jewel for setting!

THE PHEASANT-HEN. Beneath foliage — not so thick but a sunbeam may glide in!—I make my home. I am descended, however, from elsewhere. From whence? From Persia? China? None can tell! But of one thing we may be certain: that I was meant to shimmer in the blue among the fragrant gum-trees of the East, and not to be chased through brambles by a hound! — Am I the ancient Phoenix? or the sacred Chinese hen? Whence was I brought to this land? And how brought? And by whom? History is not explicit on the point, and leaves us a splendid choice. Wherefore I choose to have been born in Colchis, from whence I came on Jason's fist. I am all gold. Perhaps I was the Fleece!

PATOU. You?

THE PHEASANT-HEN. The Pheasant!

PATOU. [Politely correcting her.] Pheasant-hen.

THE PHEASANT-HEN. I refer to my race, for which I stand, by token of my crimson shield. Yes, my ancient fate of being a dead leaf beside a ruby, having appeared to me one day too distinctly dull a lot, I stole his dazzling plumage from the male. A good thing, too, for it becomes me so much better! The golden tippet, as I wear it, curves and shimmers. The emerald epaulette acquires a dainty grace. I have made of a mere uniform a miracle of style!

CHANTECLER. She is distractingly lovely, so much is certain!

PATOU. He is never going to fall in love with a woman dressed as a man!

THE BLACKBIRD. [Who has again hopped down from his cage.] I must go and tell the Guinea-hen that a golden bird has blown into town. She'll have a fit! She will invite her![Off.]

CHANTECLER. So you come to us from the East, like the Dawn?

THE PHEASANT-HEN. My life has the picturesque disorder of a poem. If I came from the East, it was by way of Egypt.

PATOU. [Aside, heart-broken] A gypsy, on top of the rest!

THE PHEASANT-HEN. [To CHANTECLER, tossing and twisting her head so that the colours ripple at her throat.] Have you noticed these two shades? They are our own especial colours — the Dawn's and mine! Princess of the nnderbrush, queen of the glade, I am pleased to wear the yellow locks of an adventuress. Dreamy and homesick for my unknown home, I choose my palaces among the rustling flags and withered irises that fringe the pool. I dote upon the forest, and when it smells in autumn of dead leaves and decaying wood——

PATOU. [In consternation.] She is mad!

THE PHEASANT-HEN. Wild as a tree-bough in a southerly gale, I tremble, nutter, spend myself in motion, till a vast languor overtakes me ——

CHANTECLER. [Who for a minute or so has been letting his wing hang, now begins slowly circling about the PHEASANT-HEN, in the manner of the BLACKBIRD aping him, with a very gentle, throaty] Coa——[The PHEASANT-HEN looks at him. Believing himself encouraged, he takes up again louder, while circling about her] Coa——

THE PHEASANT-HEN. My dear sir, I prefer to tell you at once that if it is for my benefit you are doing that——

CHANTECLER. [Stopping short.] What?

THE PHEASANT-HEN. The eye — the peculiar gait— the drooping wing— the "Coa——"

CHANTECLER. But I——

THE PHEASANT-HEN. You do it all very nicely, I admit; only, it has not the very slightest effect upon me!

CHANTECLER. [Slightly abashed.] Madam——

THE PHEASANT-HEN. Oh, I understand, of course. We are the illustrious Cock! Not a Hen in the world but preens her feathers in the hope — the very touching hope, certainly — of offering us a moment's distraction, some day, between two songs. We are so sure of ourself that we never hesitate, not even when the lady is a visitor, and not quite the ordinary short-kirtled Hen whom one can engage without further ceremony by such advances——

CHANTECLER. But——

THE PHEASANT-HEN. I do not bestow my affections quite so lightly. For my taste, anyhow, you are altogether too frankly Cock of the Walk!

CHANTECLER. Too——?

THE PHEASANT-HEN. Spoiled! The only Cock to my fancy would be a plain inglorious Cock to whom I should be all in all.

CHANTECLER. But——

THE PHEASANT-HEN. Love a celebrated Cock? I am not such a very woman!

CHANTECLER. But—well—still—We might, however, Madam, take a little stroll together!

THE PHEASANT-HEN. Yes, like two friends.

CHANTECLER. Two friends.

THE PHEASANT-HEN. Two chickens.

CHANTECLER. Very old!

THE PHEASANT-HEN. [Quickly.] No, no — not old! Very ugly!

CHANTECLER. [Quicklier still.] Oh, no, not ugly![Coming nearer to her.] Will you take a turn in the yard? — Accept my wing!

THE PHEASANT-HEN. You shall show me the sights.

CHANTECLER. [Stopping before the CHICKENS' drinking-trough.] This, of course, is hideous. It is a model drinking-trough on the siphon principle, made of galvanised iron. But everything excepting that is charming, noble, time and weather worn, from the hen-house roof to the stable door——

THE BLACKBIRD. [Returning.] The Guinea-hen is having a fit!

THE PHEASANT-HEN. [To CHANTECLER, looking about her.] And so you live here untroubled, and have nothing to fear?

CHANTECLER. Nothing whatever. Because the owner is a vegetarian. An amazing man, a lover of animals. He calls them by names borrowed from the poets. The donkey there is Midas; the heifer, lo.

THE BLACKBIRD. The showman's on the job!

THE PHEASANT-HEN. [Indicating the BLACKBIRD.] And that?

CHANTECLER. Our humorist.

THE PHEASANT-HEN. What does he do?

CHANTECLER. Oh, he keeps busy!

THE PHEASANT-HEN. Doing what?

CHANTECLER. Trying never to appear a fool, and that's hard work.

THE PHEASANT-HEN. Possibly—but most unattractive![They move towards the back.]

THE BLACKBIRD. [With a glance at the PHEASANT-HEN'S scarlet breast.] Size up the highfalutin' dame! -- Get on to the waistcoat, will you?.

CHANTECLER. [Continuing the round.] The hay-cock. The old wall. The wall, when I sing, is alive with lizards, the haycock bends to listen. I sing on the spot where you see the earth scratched up, and when I have sung, I drink in the bowl over there.

PHEASANT-HEN. Your song then is a matter of importance?

CHANTECLER. [Seriously.] The greatest.

THE PHEASANT-HEN. Why?

CHANTECLER. That is my secret.

THE PHEASANT-HEN. If I should ask you to tell me?

CHANTECLER. [Turning the conversation, and showing a pile of brushwood, tied in bundles.] My friends, the fagots.

THE PHEASANT-HEN. Stolen from my forest! — So what they say is true? —you have a secret?

CHANTECLER. [Drily.] Yes, Madam.

THE PHEASANT-HEN. I suppose it would be useless to insist——

CHANTECLER. [Climbing on the wall at the back] And from here you can see the remainder of the estate, to the edge of the kitchen-garden, where they ply at evening a serpent ending like a sprinkling can.

THE PHEASANT-HEN. What? — This is all?

CHANTECLER. This is all.

THE PHEASANT-HEN. And do you imagine the world ends at your vegetable-patch?

CHANTECLER. No.

THE PHEASANT-HEN. Do you never, as you watch, far overhead, the wedge of the south-flying birds, dream of vaster horizons?

CHANTECLER. No.

PHEASANT-HEN. But all these things about you are dreary and poor and flat!

CHANTECLER. And I can never become used to the richness and wonder of these things!

THE PHEASANT-HEN. It is always the same, you must agree!

CHANTECLER. Nothing is ever the same, — nothing, — ever, — under the sun! And that because of the sun!—For She changes everything!

THE PHEASANT-HEN. She—Who?

CHANTECLER. Light, the universal goddess! That geranium planted by the farmer's wife is never twice the same red! And that old wooden shoe, spurting straw, what a sight, what a beautiful sight! And the wooden comb hanging among the farmer's, smocks, with the green hair of the sward caught in its teeth! The pitchfork, stood in the corner, like a misbehaving child, dozing as he stands and dreaming of the hay-fields! And the bowl and skittles there, — the trim-waisted skittles, shapely maids, whose orderly quadrilles Patou in his gambols clumsily upsets! The great worm-eaten bowl whose curved expanse some ant is always crossing, travelling with no less pride than famed explorers, — around her ball in 80 seconds!—Nothing, I tell you, is two instants quite the same!—And I, sweet lady, have been so susceptible ever, that a garden-rake in a corner, a flower in a pot, cast me long since into a helpless ecstasy, and that from gazing at a morning-glory I fell into the startled admiration which has made my eye so round!

THE PHEASANT-HEN. [Thoughtfully.] One feels that you have a soul. — A soul then may find wherewithal to grow, so far from life and its drama, shut in by a farmyard wall with a cat asleep on it?

CHANTECLER. With power to see, capacity to suffer, one may come to understand all things. In an insect's death are hinted all disasters. Through a knot-hole can be seen the sky and marching stars!

THE OLD HEN. [Appearing.] None knows the heavens like the water in the well!

CHANTECLER. [Presenting her to the PHEASANT-HEN before the basketlid drops] My foster-mother!

THE PHEASANT-HEN. [Politely approaching.] Delighted!

THE OLD HEN. [Slyly winking at her.] He's a fine Cock!

THE PHEASANT-HEN. He is a Cock, moreover, for whom that fact is not the only thing in the world!

CHANTECLER. [Who has gone toward PATOU.] There, my dear boy, is a Hen with whom one can have a bit of solid con- versation!