CHANTECLER Well?

THE PHEASANT-HEN You are dying to tell it to me!

CHANTECLER Yes, I feel that I shall tell, and I know I shall do ill in telling. And it's all because of the gold on her dainty little head! [_Going brusquely nearer to her._] Shall you prove worthy, at least, of having been chosen? Is your breast true red to the core?

THE PHEASANT-HEN Now tell me!

CHANTECLER Look at me, Pheasant-hen, and try, if indeed it be possible, try to recognise, by yourself, sign by sign, the vocation of which my body is the symbol. Guess, to begin with, at my destiny from my shape, and see how, curved like a sort of living hunting-horn, I am as much formed for sound to turn and gain volume within me, as the wild duck is formed to swim!--Wait!--Mark the fact that, impatient and proud, scratching up the earth with my claws, I appear always to be seeking something in the soil--

THE PHEASANT-HEN You are seeking for grains of corn, seeds, I suppose.

CHANTECLER Never! I have never looked for such things. I find them occasionally, into the bargain, but disdainfully I give them to my Hens.

THE PHEASANT-HEN Well, then, in your perpetual scratching, what is it you are looking for?

CHANTECLER The right spot! For always before singing I carefully choose my stand.

Pray, observe--

THE PHEASANT-HEN True, and then you ruffle your feathers.

CHANTECLER I never start to sing until my eight claws, after clearing a s.p.a.ce of weeds and stones, have found the soft, dark turf underneath. Then, placed in direct contact with the good earth, I sing!--And that is already half the mystery, Pheasant-hen, half the mystery of my song, which is not of those songs one sings after composing them, but is received straight from the native soil, like sap! And the time above all when that sap arises in me,--the hour, briefly, in which I have genius, in which I can never doubt I have!--is the hour when dawn falters on the boundaries of the dark sky. Then, filled with the same quivering as leaves and gra.s.s, thrilled to the very tips of my wing quills, I feel myself a chosen instrument. I accentuate my curve of a hunting-horn, Earth speaks in me as in a conch, and ceasing to be an ordinary bird, I become the mouthpiece, in some sort official, through which the cry of the earth escapes toward the sky!

THE PHEASANT-HEN Chantecler!

CHANTECLER And that cry which rises from the earth, that cry is such a cry of love for the light, is such a deep and frenzied cry of love for the golden thing we call the Day, and that all thirst to feel again: the pine on its bark, the tortuous roots in woodland paths on their mosses, the feather-gra.s.s on each delicate spray, the tiniest pebble in its tiniest mica flake; it is so wonderfully the cry of all that misses and mourns its colour, its reflection, its flame, its coronet, its pearl; the beseeching cry of the dew-washed meadow begging for a wee rainbow at every gra.s.s-tip, of the forest begging a burst of fire at the end of each gloomy avenue; that cry which mounts to the sky through me is so greatly the cry of all that feels itself in disgrace, plunged in a sunless pit, deprived of light without knowing for what offence; is the cry of cold, the cry of fear, the cry of weariness, of all that night disables or disarms; the rose shivering alone in the dark, the hay wanting to be dried and go to the mow, the sickle forgotten out of doors by the reaper and fearing it will rust in the gra.s.s, the white things dismayed at not looking white; is so greatly the cry of the innocent among beasts, who have nothing to conceal, of the brook fain to show its crystal clearness; and even--for thy very works, O Night, disown thee!--of the puddle longing to glisten, the mud longing to become earth again, by drying; it is so greatly the magnificent cry of the field impatient to feel its wheat and barley growing, of the blossoming tree mad for still more blossoms of the green grapes craving a purple side; of the bridge waiting for footsteps, for shadows of birds among shadows of branches; the voice of all that yearns to sing, to drop the garb of mourning, live again, serve again, be a brink, be a bourn, a sun-warm seat, a stone glad to comfort with warmth the hand touching, or the insect overcrawling it; finally, it is so greatly the cry toward the light of all Beauty, all Health, all which wishes, in sunshine and joy, to see its work while doing it, and do it to be seen--And when I feel that vast call to the Day arising within me, I so expand my soul to make it more sonorous, by making it more s.p.a.cious, that the great cry may still be increased in greatness; before giving it, I withold it in my soul a moment so piously; then, when, to expel it, I contract my soul, I am so convinced of accomplishing a great act, I have such faith that my song will make night crumble like the walls of Jericho--

THE PHEASANT-HEN [_Frightened._] Chantecler!

CHANTECLER And sounding its victory beforehand, my song springs forth so clear, so proud, so peremptory, that the horizon, seized with a rosy trembling--_obeys!_

THE PHEASANT-HEN Chantecler!

CHANTECLER I sing! Vainly Night offers to compromise, offers a dubious twilight--I sing again! And suddenly--

THE PHEASANT-HEN Chantecler!

CHANTECLER I fall back, blinded by the red light bathing me, dazzled at having, I, the c.o.c.k, made the Sun to rise!

THE PHEASANT-HEN Then the whole secret of your song--?

CHANTECLER Is that I dare a.s.sume that the East without me must rest in idleness! I sing, not to hear the echo repeat, a shade fainter, my song! I think of light and not of glory! Singing is my fashion of waging war and bearing witness. And if my song is the proudest of songs, it is that I sing clearly to make the day rise clear!

THE PHEASANT-HEN What he says sounds slightly mad!--You are responsible for the rising of--

CHANTECLER That which opens flower, eye, soul, and window! Certainly! My voice dispenses light! And when the sky is grey, the reason is that I have sung badly.

THE PHEASANT-HEN But when you sing by day?

CHANTECLER I am practising, or else promising the ploughshare, the hoe, the harrow, the scythe, not to neglect my duty of waking them.

THE PHEASANT-HEN But what wakens you?

CHANTECLER The fear of forgetting.

THE PHEASANT-HEN And you believe that at the sound of your voice the whole world is suffused--?

CHANTECLER I have no clear idea of the whole world. But I sing for my own valley, and desire that every c.o.c.k may do the same for his.

THE PHEASANT-HEN Still--

CHANTECLER But here I stand, explaining, perorating, and forgetting altogether to make my dawn.

THE PHEASANT-HEN His dawn!

CHANTECLER Ah, what I say sounds mad? I will make the dawn before your very eyes!

And the wish to please you adding its ardour to the ordinary forces of my soul, I shall rise in singing, as I feel, to unusual heights, and the dawn will rise more fair to-day than ever it rose before!

THE PHEASANT-HEN More fair?

CHANTECLER a.s.suredly,--in just the measure that strength is added to the song by the knowledge of listeners, boldness to the exploit by the consciousness of lovely watching eyes--[_Taking his stand upon a hillock at the back, overlooking the valley._] Now, Madam!

THE PHEASANT-HEN [_Gazing at his outline against the sky._] How beautiful he is!

CHANTECLER Look attentively at the sky. Already it has paled. The reason is that a short while back, with my earliest crow I ordered the sun to stand in readiness just below the horizon.

THE PHEASANT-HEN He is so beautiful that what he says almost seems possible!

CHANTECLER [_Talking toward the horizon._] Ha, Sun, I feel you just behind there, stirring--and I laugh with pride and joy amidst my scarlet wattles--[_Rising on tiptoe suddenly, in a voice of startling loudness._] c.o.c.k-a-doodle-doo!

THE PHEASANT-HEN What great breath lifts his breast-feathers?

CHANTECLER [_Toward the east._] Obey!--I am the Earth, and I am Labour! My comb is the pattern of a forge fire, and the voice of the furrow rises to my throat! [_Whispering mysteriously._] Yes, yes, month of July--

THE PHEASANT-HEN To whom is he speaking?

CHANTECLER You shall have it earlier than April! [_Bending to right and left, encouragingly._] Yes, Bramble!--Yes, Brake!

THE PHEASANT-HEN He is magnificent!

CHANTECLER [_To the_ PHEASANT-HEN.] You see, I must at all times remember--[_Stroking the earth with his wing._] Yes, dear Gra.s.s!--remember the humble prayers whose interpreter I become.

[_Talking to invisible things._] The golden ladder?--I understand! that you may all dance on it together!

THE PHEASANT-HEN To whom are you promising a ladder?

CHANTECLER To the Motes--c.o.c.k-a-doodle-doo!

THE PHEASANT-HEN [_Watching the sky and landscape._] A shiver of blue runs across the thatched roofs.--A star went out just then--