Scene Second
The Blackbird, the Pheasant-hen, later Chantecler
The Pheasant-hen
[Panting, tragically earnest.] I ran all the way.—You were
there.—Oh, I am half dead with terror!—Well you must have overheard
their dreadful secret! You, his friend!
The Blackbird
[Cheerfully rummaging among the moss.] Or the thigh of a katydid will
do.
The Pheasant-hen
I was watching from a distance. I crouched in a ditch—[In an anguished
voice.] Well?
The Blackbird
[In genuine surprise.] Well, what?
The Pheasant-hen
Their conspiracy—
The Blackbird
[Calmly.] It all went off very nicely.
The Pheasant-hen
What do you mean?
The Blackbird
The shadow was a correct and appropriate blue, and the Owls said
perfectly characteristic things.
The Pheasant-hen
[In wild alarm.] Heavens, they plotted his death?
The Blackbird
His decease, which is not nearly so bad.
The Pheasant-hen
But—
The Blackbird
Don’t smite your brow! In spite of the Screech-Owl’s grave and
self-important tone, I shouldn’t wonder if it all amounted to
very little.
The Pheasant-hen
Those Owls—
The Blackbird
Are good enough in their various parts, but it’s the old excessive style
of acting.
The Pheasant-hen
I beg your pardon?
The Blackbird
Back numbers!
The Pheasant-hen
Oh?
The Blackbird
They have eyelashes, fancy, all the way round their eyes! It’s too much
of a good thing, really.—And that black plot, those desperately dark
designs, all that belongs to the year one; you can see moss growing
on its back!
The Pheasant-hen
[Fluttering hither and thither feverishly.] I am never quite sure of
understanding when a person is talking in fun.
The Blackbird
[Winking at her.] No flies on your acting!
The Pheasant-hen
Surely you wouldn’t be laughing if he were in danger? Those ruffians—?
The Blackbird
Prattlers! Wooden Swords! Knights of Hot Air!
The Pheasant-hen
But Scops—?
The Blackbird
A stuffed Owl!
The Pheasant-hen
And the Great Bubo—?
The Blackbird
Just two ten-candle-power lamps, to be turned on and off with a
switch,—crick-crack! And Flammeolus, two lamps likewise—but acetylene!
The Pheasant-hen
[Bewildered by his imagery.] And so—?
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!