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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 pa.s.s 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 c.o.c.k 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 s.h.i.+ning upon the steeples that final total light composed of stars cl.u.s.tered in unbroken ma.s.s; but if I sing faithfully and sonorously and if, long after me, and long after that, in every farmyard its c.o.c.k 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 n.o.ble 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, pus.h.i.+ng 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._]
SCENE EIGHTH
