Chantecler

31. Act IV Scene 7

The same, PATOU, emerging for a moment from the brush.

CHANTECLER [To PATOU.] You! [Reproachfully.] You have come to get him?

PATOU [Ashamed.] Forgive me! The poacher compels me--

CHANTECLER [Who had sprung before the body, to protect it, uncovers it.] A Nightingale!

PATOU [Hanging his head.] Yes. The evil race of man loves to shower lead into a singing tree.

CHANTECLER See, the burying beetle has already come.

PATOU [Gently withdrawing.] I will make believe I found nothing.

THE PHEASANT-HEN [Watching the day break.] He has not noticed that night is nearly over.

CHANTECLER [Bending over the grasses which begin to stir about the dead bird.] Insect, where the body has fallen, be swift to come and open the earth. The funereal necrophaga are the only grave-diggers who never carry the dead elsewhere, believing that the least sad, and the most fitting tomb, is the very clay whereon one fell into the final sleep. [To the funeral insects, while the NIGHTINGALE begins gently to sink into the ground.] Piously dig his grave! Light lie the earth upon him!

THE PHEASANT-HEN [Aside, looking at the horizon.] Over there--

CHANTECLER Verily, verily, I say unto you, Bul-bul to-night shall see the Bird of Paradise!

THE PHEASANT-HEN [Aside.] The sky is turning white! [A whistle is heard in the distance.]

PATOU [To CHANTECLER.] I will come back. He is whistling me. [Disappears.]

THE PHEASANT-HEN [Restlessly dividing her attention between the horizon and the COCK.] How can I conceal from him--[She moves tenderly toward CHANTECLER, opening her wings so as to hide the brightening East, and taking advantage of his grief.] Come and weep beneath my wing! [With a sob he lays his head beneath the comforting wing which is quickly clapped over him. And the PHEASANT-HEN gently lulls him, murmuring.] You see that my wing is soft and comforting! You see--

CHANTECLER [In a smothered voice.] Yes!

THE PHEASANT-HEN [Gently rocks him, darting a glance now and then over her shoulder to see how the dawn is progressing.] You see that a wing is an outspread heart--[Aside.] Day is breaking! [To CHANTECLER.] You see that--[Aside.] The sky has paled! [To CHANTECLER.]--that a wing is--[Aside.] The tree is steeped in rosy light! [To CHANTECLER.]--partly a shield, and partly a cradle, partly a cloak and a place of rest,--that a wing is a kiss which enfolds and covers you over. You see that--[With a backward leap, suddenly withdrawing her wings.] the Day can break perfectly well without you!

CHANTECLER [With the greatest cry of anguish possible to created being.] Ah!

THE PHEASANT-HEN [Continuing inexorably.] That the mosses in a moment will be scarlet!

CHANTECLER [Running toward the moss.] Ah, no! No! Not without me! [The moss flushes red.] Ungrateful!

THE PHEASANT-HEN The horizon--

CHANTECLER [Imploringly, to the horizon.] No!

THE PHEASANT-HEN --is glowing gold!

CHANTECLER [Staggering.] Treachery! THE PHEASANT-HEN One may be all in all to another heart, you see, one can be nothing to the sky!

CHANTECLER [Swooning.] It is true!

PATOU [Returning, cheery and cordial.] Here I am! I have come to tell you that they are all mad over there, at the topsy-turvy farm, to have back the Cock who orders the return of Day!

CHANTECLER They believe that now I have ceased to believe it!

PATOU [Stopping short, amazed.] What do you mean?

THE PHEASANT-HEN [Bitterly pressing close to CHANTECLER.] You see that a heart pressing against your own is better than a sky which does not in the very least need you.

CHANTECLER Yes!

THE PHEASANT-HEN That darkness after all may be as sweet as light if there are two close-clasped in the shade.

CHANTECLER [Wildly.] Yes! Yes! [But suddenly leaving her side he raises his head and in a ringing voice.] Cock-a-doodle-doo!

THE PHEASANT-HEN [Taken aback.] Why are you crowing?

CHANTECLER As a warning to myself,--for thrice have I denied the thing I love!

THE PHEASANT-HEN And what is that?

CHANTECLER My life's work! [To PATOU.] Up and about! Come, let us go!

THE PHEASANT-HEN What are you going to do?

CHANTECLER Follow my calling.

THE PHEASANT-HEN But what night is there for you to rout?

CHANTECLER The night of the eyelid!

THE PHEASANT-HEN [Pointing toward the growing glory of the dawn.] Very well, you will rouse sleepers--

CHANTECLER And Saint Peter!

THE PHEASANT-HEN But can you not see that Day has risen without the benefit of your crowing?

CHANTECLER I am more sure of my destiny than of the daylight before my eyes.

THE PHEASANT-HEN [Pointing at the NIGHTINGALE who has already half disappeared into the earth.] Your faith can no more return to life than can that dead bird.

[From the tree above their heads suddenly rings forth the heart-stirring, limpid, characteristic note: Tio! Tio!]

THE PHEASANT-HEN [Struck with amazement.] Is it another singing?

PATOU [With quivering ear.] And singing still better, if possible.

THE PHEASANT-HEN [Looking up in a sort of terror at the foliage, and then down at the little grave.] Another takes up the song when this one disappears?

THE VOICE In the forest must always be a Nightingale!

CHANTECLER [With exaltation.] And in the soul a faith so faithful that it comes back even after it has been slain.

THE PHEASANT-HEN But if the Sun is climbing up the sky?

CHANTECLER There must have been left in the air some power from my yesterday's song.

[Flights of noiseless grey wings pass among the trees.]

THE OWLS [Hooting joyfully.] He kept still!

PATOU [Raising his head and looking after them.] The Owls, fleeing from the newly risen light, are coming home to the woods.

THE OWLS [Returning to their holes in the old trees.] He kept still!

CHANTECLER [With all his strength come back to him.] The proof that I was serving the cause of light when I sang is that the Owls are glad of my silence. [Going to the PHEASANT-HEN, with defiance in his mien.] I make the Dawn appear, and I do more than that!

THE PHEASANT-HEN [Choking.] You do--

CHANTECLER On grey mornings, when poor creatures waking in the twilight dare not believe in the day, the bright copper of my song takes the place of the sun! [Turning to go.] Back to our work!

THE PHEASANT-HEN But how find courage to work after doubting the work's value?

CHANTECLER Buckle down to work!

THE PHEASANT-HEN [With angry stubbornness.] But if you have nothing whatever to do with making the morning?

CHANTECLER Then I am just the Cock of a remoter Sun! My cries so affect the night that it lets certain beams of the day pierce through its black tent, and those are what we call the stars. I shall not live to see shining upon the steeples that final total light composed of stars clustered in unbroken mass; but if I sing faithfully and sonorously and if, long after me, and long after that, in every farmyard its Cock sings faithfully, sonorously, I truly believe there will be no more night!

THE PHEASANT-HEN When will that be?

CHANTECLER One Day!

THE PHEASANT-HEN Go, go, and forget our forest!

CHANTECLER No, I shall never forget the noble green forest where I learned that he who has witnessed the death of his dream must either die at once or else arise stronger than before.

THE PHEASANT-HEN [In a voice which she does her best to make insulting.] Go and get into your hen-house by the way of a ladder.

CHANTECLER The birds have taught me that I can use my wings to go in.

THE PHEASANT-HEN Go and see your old Hen in her old broken basket.

CHANTECLER Ah, forest of the Toads, forest of the Poacher, forest of the Nightingale, and of the Pheasant-hen, when my old peasant mother sees me home again, back from your green recesses where pain is so interwoven with love, what will she say?

PATOU [Imitating the OLD HEN'S affectionate quaver.] How that Chick has grown!

CHANTECLER [Emphatically.] Of course she will! [Turning to leave.]

THE PHEASANT-HEN He is going! When faithless they turn to leave, oh, that we had arms, arms to hold them fast,--but we have only wings!

CHANTECLER [Stops short and looks at her, troubled.] She weeps?

PATOU [Hastily, pushing him along with his paw.] Hurry up!

CHANTECLER [To PATOU.] Wait a moment.

PATOU I am willing. Nothing can sit so patiently and watch the dropping of tears as an old dog.

THE PHEASANT-HEN [Crying to CHANTECLER, with a leap toward him.] Take me with you!

CHANTECLER [Turns and in an inflexible voice.] Will you consent to stand second to the Dawn?

THE PHEASANT-HEN [Fiercely drawing back.] Never!

CHANTECLER Then farewell!

THE PHEASANT-HEN I hate you!

CHANTECLER [Already at some distance among the brush.] I love you, but I should poorly serve the work to which I devote myself anew at the side of one to whom it were less than the greatest thing in the world! [He disappears.]