Scene Fourth
The Same, the Pheasant-hen
The Pheasant-hen
[Who has come upon the scene, with a threatening gesture at the
Woodpecker.] Go inside! [The Wood Pecker 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 from 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!—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
[Aside.] 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!