CHANTECLER
Play in Four Acts
By
EDMOND ROSTAND
Translated
By
GERTRUDE HALL
1910
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
Chantecler
Patou
The Blackbird
The Peacock
The Nightingale
The Grand-duke
The Screech-owl
Little Scops
The Game-cock
The Hunting Dog
A Carrier-pigeon
The Wood-pecker
The Turkey
The Duck
The Young Guinea-cock
The Pheasant-hen
The Guinea-hen
The Old Hen
The White Hen
The Grey Hen
The Black Hen
The Speckled Hen
The Tufted Hen
A Gander. A Capon. Chickens. Chicks. A Cockerel.
A Swan. A Cuckoo. Night-birds. Fancy Cocks.
Toads. A Turkey-hen. A Goose. A Garden Warbler.
A Woodland Warbler. A Spider. A Heron. A Pigeon.
A Guinea-pig. Barnyard animals. Woodland Creatures.
Rabbits. Birds. Bees. Cicadas. Voices.
PROLOGUE
The customary three knocks are heard. The drop-curtain wavers and is rising, when a voice rings out, “Not yet!” and the Manager, a gentleman of important mien in evening dress, springing from his proscenium box, hurries toward the stage, repeating, “Not yet!”
The curtain is again lowered. The Manager turns toward the audience, and resting one hand on the prompter’s box, addresses them:
The curtain is a wall,—a flying wall. Assured that presently the wall will fly—why haste? Is it not charming to delay—and just look at it for a while?
Charming to sit before a great red wall, hanging beneath two gilt masks and a scroll—The thrilling moment is when the curtain thrills, and sounds come from the other side.
You are desired to-night to listen to those sounds and entering the scene before you see it, to wonder and surmise—
Bending his ear, the Manager listens to the sounds now beginning to come from behind the curtain.
A footstep—is it a road? A flutter of wings—is it a garden?
The curtain here rippling as if about to rise, the Manager precipitately shouts, “Stop!—Do not raise it yet!” Then again bending his ear, continues making note of the noises, clear or confused, single or combined, that from this onward come without stop from behind the curtain.
A magpie cawing flies away. Great wooden shoes come running over flags. A courtyard, is it?—If so above a valley—from whence that softened clamour of birds and barking dogs.
More and more clearly the scene suggests itself—Magically sound creates an atmosphere!—A sheep bell tinkles intermittently—Since there is grazing, we may look for grass.
A tree, too—a tree must rustle in the breeze, for a bullfinch warbles his little native song; and a blackbird whistling the song he has caught by ear, implies, we may presume, a wicker cage.
The rattling of a wagon run out of a shed—the dripping of a bucket drawn up overfull—the patter of doves’ feet alighting on a roof—Surely it is a farmyard—unless it be a mill!
Rustling of straw, click of a wooden latch—A stable or a haymow there must be. The locust shrills: the weather then is fine.—Church-bells ring: it is Sunday then.—Chatter of jays: the woods cannot be far!
Hark! Nature with the scattered voices of a fair midsummer day is composing—in a dream!—the most mysterious of overtures—harmonised by evening distance and the wind!
And all these sounds—song of a passing girl—laughter of children jogged by the donkey trotting—faraway gun-reports and hunting-horns —these sounds describe a holiday.
A window opens, a door closes—The harness shakes its bells. Is it not plain in sight, the old farmyard?—The dog sleeps, the cat but feigns to sleep.
Sunday!—Farmer and farmer’s wife are starting for the fair. The old horse paws the ground—
A Rough Voice
[Behind the curtain, through the horse’s pawing.] Whoa, Dapple!
Another Voice
[As if calling to a laggard.] Come along! We shan’t get home till morning!
An Impatient Voice
Are you ready?
Another Voice
Fasten the shutters!
Man’s Voice
All right!
Woman’s Voice
My sunshade!
Man’s Voice
[Through the cracking of the whip.] Gee up!
The Manager
The wagon to the jingling of the harness rattles off, jolting out ditties. A turn in the road cuts off the unfinished song.—They are gone, quite gone. The performance can begin.
Some philosophers would say there was not a soul left, but we humbly believe that there are hearts. Man in leaving does not take with him all drama. One can laugh and suffer without him. [He listens again.]
Ardently humming, a velvety bumblebee hovers—then is still; he has plunged into a flower—Let us begin. Pray note that Aesop’s hump to-night does duty as prompter’s box!
The members of our company are small, but—[Calling toward the flies.] Alexander! [To the audience.] He is my chief machinist. [Calling again.] Let it down!
A Voice
[From the flies.] It’s coming, sir!
Manager
We have lowered between the audience and the stage an invisible screen of magnifying glass—
But there the violins are tuning up: Scraping of crystal bows, picking of strings!—Hush! Let the footlights now leap into brightness, for at a signal from their little leader the crickets’ orchestra have briskly fallen to!
Frrrt! The bumblebee emerges from the flower, shaking the yellow dust—A Hen comes on the scene as in La Fontaine’s fable. A Cuckoo calls, as in Beethoven’s symphony.
Hush! Let the chandelier draw in its myriad lights—for the curious call-boy of the woods has, airily, to summon us, repeated thrice his double call—
And since Nature is one of our performers, and feathered notables are on our staff—Hush! the curtain must go up: A wood-pecker’s bill has rapped out the three strokes!
ACT I
THE EVENING OF THE PHEASANT-HEN
A farmyard such as the sounds from behind the curtain have described. At the right, a house over-clambered with wistaria. At the left, the farmyard gate, letting on to the road. A dog-kennel. At the back, a low wall, beyond which distant country landscape. The details of the setting define themselves in the course of the act.
Scene First
The whole barnyard company, Hens, Chickens, Chicks, Ducks, Turkeys, etc.; The Blackbird in his cage, The Cat asleep on the wall, later A Butterfly on the flowers.
The White Hen
[Pecking.] Ah! Delicious!
Another Hen
What are you eating?
All the Hens
[Rushing to the spot.] What’s she eating?
The White Hen
A small green beetle, crisp and nice, tasting of the rose-leaves he had lived on.
The Black Hen
[Standing before the Blackbird’s cage.] Really, the Blackbird whistles amazingly!
The White Hen
Any little street urchin can do as much!
The Turkey
[Solemnly.] An urchin who had learned of a shepherd in Sicily!
The Duck
He never whistles his tune to the end—
The Turkey
That’s too easy, carrying it to the end! [He hums the tune the Blackbird has been whistling.] “How sweet to fare afield, and cull—and cull—” You should know, Duck, that the thing in art is to leave off before the end! “And cull—and cull—” Bravo, Blackbird!
[The Blackbird comes out on the little platform in front of his cage and bows.]
A Chick
[Astonished.] Can he get out?
Blackbird
Applause is salt on my tail!
The Chick
But his cage?
The Turkey
He can come out, and he can go in again. His cage has that sort of spring.—“And cull—and cull—” The whole point is missed if you tell them what you cull!
The Black Hen
[Catching sight of a Butterfly alighting on the flowers above the wall at the back.] Oh, what a gorgeous butterfly!
The White Hen
Where?
The Black Hen
On the honey-suckle.
The Turkey
That kind is called an Admiral.
The Chick
[Looking after the Butterfly.] Now he has settled on a pink.
The White Hen
[To the Turkey.] An Admiral, wherefore?
The Blackbird
Obviously because he is neither a seaman nor a soldier.
The White Hen
Our Blackbird has a pretty wit!
The Turkey
[Nodding and swinging his red stalactite.] He has better than wit, my dear!
Another Hen
[Watching the Butterfly.] It’s sweet—a butterfly!
The Blackbird
Easy as possible to make! You take a W and set it on top of a Y!
A Hen
[Delighted.] A flourish of his bill, and there you have your caricature!
The Turkey
He does better than execute caricatures! Hen, our Blackbird forces you to think while obliging you to laugh. He is a Teacher in wit’s clothing.
A Chick
[To a Hen.] Mother, why does the Cat hate the Dog?
The Blackbird
Because he appropriates his seat at the theatre.
The Chick
[Surprised.] They have a theatre?
The Blackbird
Where dumb-shows are given.
The Chick
Eh?
The Blackbird
The hearthstone from whence both alike wish to watch the play of the Fire among the Logs.
The Turkey
[Delighted.] How aptly he conveys that the hatred of peoples is at bottom a question of wanting the other’s territory. There’s a brain for you!
The Speckled Hen
[To the White Hen, who is pecking.] Do you peck peppers?
The White Hen
Constantly.
The Speckled Hen
How can you stand the sting?
The White Hen
It imparts to the feathers a delicate rosy tint.
The Speckled Hen
Oh, does it!
A Voice in the Distance
Cuckoo!
The White Hen
Listen!
The Voice
[From a greater distance.] Cuckoo!
The White Hen
The Cuckoo!
A Grey Hen
[Comes running excitedly.] Which Cuckoo? The one who lives in the woods, or the one who lives in the clock?
The Voice
[Still further off.] Cuckoo!
The White Hen
The one of the woods.
The Grey Hen
[With a sigh of relief.] Oh, I was so afraid of having missed the other!
The White Hen
[Going near enough to her to speak in an undertone.] Do you mean to say you love him?
The Grey Hen
[Sadly.] Without ever having set eyes on him. He lives in a chalet hanging on the kitchen wall, above the farmer’s great-coat and fowling-piece. The moment he sings, I rush to the spot, but I never get there in time to see anything but his little wicket closing. This evening I mean to stay right here beside the door—[She takes up her position on the threshold.]
A Voice
White Hen!
Scene Second
The Same, a Pigeon on the roof, later Chantecler.
The White Hen
[Looking about with quick jerks of her head.] Who called me?
The Voice
A pigeon.
The White Hen
[_Looking for him._] Where?
The Pigeon
On the sloping roof.
The White Hen
[Lifting her head and seeing him.] Ah!
The Pigeon
Though I am the bearer of an important missive, I would not miss the opportunity—Good evening, Hen!
The White Hen
Postman, howdedo?
The Pigeon
My duty on the Postal Service of the Air obliging me this summer evening to pass your habitations, I should be most happy if—
The White Hen
[Spying a crumb of some sort.] One moment, please.
Another Hen
[Running eagerly towards her.] What are you eating?
All the Hens
[Arriving at a run.] What’s she eating?
The White Hen
A simple grain of wheat.
The Grey Hen
[Taking up her conversation with the White Hen.] As I was telling you, I mean to stay right on the door-step there—[Showing the door of the house.]
The White Hen
[Looking at the door.] The door is shut.
The Grey Hen
Yes, but I shall hear the hour striking, and I will catch a look at my Cuckoo by stretching my neck,—
The Pigeon
[Calling, slightly out of patience.] White Hen!
The White Hen
One moment, please! [To the Grey Hen.]—Catch a look at your Cuckoo, by stretching your neck where?—Where?
The Grey Hen
[Pointing with her beak at the small, round opening at the foot of the door.] Through the cat-hole!
The Pigeon
[Raising his voice to a shout.] Am I to be kept here cooling my feet on your rain-pipe? Hi, there, whitest of Hens!
The White Hen
[Hopping towards him.] You were saying?
The Pigeon
I was about to say—
The White Hen
What, bluest of Pigeons?
The Pigeon
That I should consider myself past expression fortunate if—But no! I am abashed at my own boldness!—if I might be so favoured as to be permitted to get a glimpse—
The White Hen
Of what?
The Pigeon
Oh, just a glimpse, the very least glimpse of—
All the Hens
[Impatiently.] Of what?—What?
The Pigeon
Of his comb!
The White Hen
[Laughing, to the others.] Ha! ha! he wishes to see—
The Pigeon
[In great excitement.] That’s it! Just to see—
The White Hen
There, there, cool down!
The Pigeon
I am shaking with excitement!
The White Hen
You are shaking down the roof!
The Pigeon
You can’t think how we admire him!
The White Hen
Oh, everyone admires him!
The Pigeon
And I promised my missis to tell her what he is like!
The White Hen
[Quietly pecking.] Oh, he’s a fine fellow, no doubt of that!
The Pigeon
We can hear him crowing from our dove-cote. The One he is whose song is more an ornament to the landscape than the white hamlet to the hill! The One he is whose cry pierces the blue horizon like a gold-threaded needle stitching the hill-tops to the sky! The Cock he is! When you would praise him, call him the Cock!
The Blackbird
[Hopping up and down in his cage.] Tick-tock!—who sets all hearts a-beating, tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock!
A Hen
Our Cock!
The Blackbird
[Thrusting his head between the bars of his cage.] My, thy, his, her, our, your, and their Cock!
The Turkey
[To the Pigeon.] He will soon be coming in from his usual round in the fields.
THE Pigeon
You have the honour of his acquaintance, sir?
The Turkey
[Importantly.] I have known him from a baby. This chick—for to me he is still a chick!—used to come to me for his bugle lesson.
The Pigeon
Ah, indeed? You give lessons in—
The Turkey
Certainly. A bird who can gobble is qualified to teach crowing.
The Pigeon
Where was he born?
The Turkey
[Indicating an old covered basket, badly battered and broken.] In that old basket.
The Pigeon
And is the hen who brooded him still living?
The Turkey
[Again indicating the basket.] She is there.
The Pigeon
Where?
The Turkey
In that old basket.
The Pigeon
[More and more interested.] Of what breed is she?
The Turkey
She is just a good old-fashioned Gascon hen, born in the neighbourhood of Pau.
The Blackbird
[Thrusting out his head.] She is the one Henry the Fourth wished to see cooking in every Frenchman’s pot!
The Pigeon
How proud she must be of having hatched such a Cock!
The Turkey
Yes, proud with a lowly foster-mother’s pride. Her beloved chick is coming to his inches, that is all she seems to understand or care about. And when you tell her this, her clouded reason gives a momentary gleam— [Calling towards the basket.] Hey, old lady, he is growing!
All the Hens
He is growing!
[The lid of the basket is suddenly lifted, and a bristling aged hen’s head appears.]
The Pigeon
[To the Old Hen, gently and feelingly.] Does it make you happy, mother, to think of him grown to a big fine Cock?
The Old Hen
[Nodding, sententiously.] Happy?—Wednesday’s crops do credit to Tuesday! [She disappears, the lid drops.]
The Turkey
She opens now and then, like that, and ping! shoots at us some such pearl of homely lore—
The Pigeon
[To the White Hen.] White Hen!
The Turkey
—not always wholly without point!
The Old Hen
[Reappearing for an instant.] In the Peacock’s absence, the Turkey spreads his tail!
[The Turkey turns quickly around, the lid has already dropped.]
The Pigeon
[To the White Hen.] Is it a fact that Chantecler is never hoarse, never the very least husky?
The White Hen
[Keeping on with her pecking.] Perfectly true.
The Pigeon
[With growing enthusiasm.] Ah, you must be proud Cock who will be numbered among Illustrious Animals and his name remembered five, ten, fifteen years!
The Turkey
Very proud. Very proud. [To a Chick.] Who are the Illustrious Animals? Tell them off!
The Chick
[Reciting a lesson.] Noah’s Dove—Saint Rocco’s Poodle—The—the Horse of Cali—
The Turkey
Cali—?
The Chick
[Trying to remember.] Cali—
The Pigeon
This Cock, now—this Cock of yours—Is it true that his song attunes, inspires, encourages, makes labour light, and keeps off birds of prey?
The White Hen
[Pecking.] Perfectly true.
The Chick
[Still hunting for his word.] Cali—Cali—
The Pigeon
White Hen, is it true that by his song, defender of the warm and sacred egg, he has frequently kept the lissome weasel from—
The Blackbird
[Looking out between the bars.]—messing his shirtfront with omelette?
The White Hen
Perfectly true.
The Chick
Cali—
The Turkey
[Helping him.] Gu?
The Chick
Gu—
The Pigeon
Is it true—?
The Chick
[Jumping for joy at having found.] Gula!
The Pigeon
—true that, as report says, he has a secret for his amazing singing, a secret whereby his crow becomes the brilliant burst of red which makes the poppies of the field feel themselves contemptible imitations?
The White Hen
[Weary of this questioning.] Perfectly true.
The Pigeon
That secret, that great secret, is it known to anyone?
The White Hen
No.
The Pigeon
He has not even told his Hen?
The White Hen
[Correcting him.] His Hens.
The Pigeon
[Slightly shocked.] Ah, he has more than one?
The Blackbird
He crows, remember, you only coo.
The Pigeon
Well, then, he has not even told his favourite?
The Tufted Hen
[Promptly.] No, he has not!
The White Hen
[As promptly.] No, he has not!
The Black Hen
[As promptly.] No, he has not!
The Blackbird
[Thrusting out his head.] Hush!—An aÎrial drama! The Butterfly, absorbed in his head of blossom, banquets, all oblivious of—
[A great green gauze butterfly-net appears above the wall, softly coming towards the Butterfly settled on one of the flowers.]
A Hen
What is that?
The Turkey
[Solemnly.] Fate!
The Blackbird
In a thin disguise of gauze!
The White Hen
Oh, a net—at the end of a cane!
The Blackbird
No harm in the cane—it’s the kid at the other end of the cane! [Half aloud, watching the Butterfly.] You neat little fop, sailing from rose to rose, to-night you’ll be neat as a pin can make you!
All
[Watching the cautious approach of the net beyond the wall.] Nearer—Nearer—Hush! He’ll catch it!—No he won’t!—Yes, he will!
Suddenly Outside
Cock-a-doodle-doo!
[At the sound, the Butterfly flies off. The Net wavers a moment, with an effect of disappointment, then disappears.]
Several Hens
What?—Eh?—What was it?
A Hen
[Who having hopped up on a wheelbarrow can follow the flight of the Butterfly.] He is off and away, over the meadow.
The Blackbird
[With ironical emphasis.] It’s Chantecler, practicing knight-errantry!
The Pigeon
[With emotion.] Chantecler!
A Hen
He is coming!
Another Hen
He is just outside—
The White Hen
[To the Pigeon.] Now you will see. He’s a very fine bird indeed.
The Blackbird
[Thrusting his head between the bars.] Easy as possible to make, a Cock!
The Turkey
[Admiringly.] Admirable amenity!
The Blackbird
You take a melon—a fine specimen, I will grant,—for the trunk. For the legs, two sticks of asparagus,—prize sticks, of course. For the head, a red pepper,—as handsome as you may find. For the eye, a currant,—exceptionally clear and light. For the tail, a sheaf of leeks, with luxuriant blue-green flags. For the ear, a dainty kidney-bean, —extra, superfine!—And there you have him, there’s your Cock!
The Pigeon
[Gently.] One thing you have omitted—His heavenly clarion call!
The Blackbird
[Indicating Chantecler, who now appears upon the wall.] Yes, but with the exception of that—slight detail, you must own my portrait is a likeness.
The Pigeon
Not at all. Not in the very least. [Contemplating Chantecler with a very different eye from the Blackbird’s.] What I see, beneath that quivering helmet, is Summer’s glorious and favoured knight, who, from a groaning wain at evening borrowing its golden harvest-robe has arrayed himself in this, and lifts it from the dust with a gleaming sickle!
Chantecler
[On the wall, in a long guttural sigh.] Coa—
The Blackbird
When he makes that noise in his throat, he either is in love, or preparing some poetic outburst.
Chantecler
[Motionless on the wall, with head high.] Blaze forth in glory!—Dazzle—
The Blackbird
He’s letting off hot air!
Chantecler
Irradiate the world!
A Hen
Now he pauses—one claw lifted—
Chantecler
[In a sort of groan of excessive tenderness.] Coa—
The Blackbird
That, if you please, is ecstasy!
Chantecler
Thy gold is of all gold alone beneficent! I worship thee!
The Pigeon
[Under breath.] To whom is he talking?
The Blackbird
[Sneering.] To the sun, sonny, the sun!
Chantecler
O thou that driest the tears of the meanest among weeds
And dost of a dead flower make a living butterfly—
Thy miracle, wherever almond-trees
Shower down the wind their scented shreds,
Dead petals dancing in a living swarm—
I worship thee, O Sun! whose ample light,
Blessing every forehead, ripening every fruit,
Entering every flower and every hovel,
Pours itself forth and yet is never less,
Still spending and unspent—like mother’s love!
I sing of thee, and will be thy high priest,
Who disdainest not to glass thy shining face
In the humble basin of blue suds,
Or see the lightning of thy last farewell
Reflected in an humble cottage pane!
The Blackbird
[Thrusting out his head.] Can’t call it off now, boys, he’s started on an ode!
The Turkey
[Watching Chantecler as by a series of stately hops he comes down a pile of hay.] Here he comes, prouder than—
A Hen
[Stopping in front of a small tin cone.] See there! The new-fangled drinking-trough! [She drinks.] Handy!
The Blackbird
Prouder than a drum major chanting as he marches: “My country, ’tis of thee!”
Chantecler
[Beginning to walk about the yard.] Thou smilest on the—
All the Hens
[Rushing to the White Hen who is eating something.] What’s she eating?
The White Hen
Corn. Nothing but corn.
Chantecler
Thou smilest on the sunflower craning after thee,
And burnishest my brother of the vane,
And softly sifting through the linden-trees
Strewest the ground with dappled gold,
So fine there’s no more walking where it lies.
Through thee the earthen pot is an enamelled urn,
The clout hung out to dry a noble banner,
The hay-rick by thy favour boasts a golden cape,
And the rick’s little sister, the thatched hive,
Wears, by thy grace, a hood of gold!
Glory to thee in the vineyards! Glory to thee in the fields!
Glory among the grass and on the roofs,
In eyes of lizards and on wings of swans,—
Artist who making splendid the great things
Forgets not to make exquisite the small!
’Tis thou that, cutting out a silhouette,
To all thou beamest on dost fasten this dark twin,
Doubling the number of delightful shapes,
Appointing to each thing its shadow,
More charming often than itself.
I praise thee, Sun! Thou sheddest roses on the air,
Diamonds on the stream, enchantment on the hill;
A poor dull tree thou takest and turnest to green rapture,
O Sun, without whose golden magic—things
Would be no more than what they are!
The Pigeon
Bravo! I shall have something to tell my mate. We shall long talk of this!
Chantecler
[Seeing him, with noble courtesy.] Young blue-winged stranger, with new-fledged bill, thanks! Pray lay my duty at her coral feet!
[The Pigeon flies off.]
The Blackbird
Jolly your admirers, it pays!
Chantecler
[In a cordial voice, to the whole barnyard.] To work now, all of you, with a will!
[A Fly darts past, buzzing.]
Chantecler
Busy and resonant Fly, I love thee! Behold her! What is her flight but the heart-whole gift of herself?
The Turkey
[Loftily.] Yes.—She has dropped considerably in my esteem, however, since that matter of the—
Chantecler
Of the what?
The Turkey
Of the Fly and the—
Chantecler
I never thought much of that story. Who knows whether the coach would have reached the top of the hill without the Fly? Do you believe that rude shouts “Gee up! Ge’ lang!” were more effective than the hymn to the Sun buzzed by the little Fly? Do you believe in the virtue of a blustering oath? Really believe it was the Coachman who made the coach to go? No, I tell you, no! She did much more than the big whip’s noisy cracking, did the little Fly, with the music straight from her buzzing heart!
The Turkey
Yes, but all the same—
Chantecler
[Turning his back on him.] Come, let us make of labour a delight! Come, all of you!—High time, Ganders my worthies, you escorted your geese to the pond.
A Gander
[Lazily.] Is it quite necessary, do you think?
Chantecler
[Going briskly towards him, with a look that forbids discussion.] Quite! And let there be no idle quacking and paltering! [The Ganders go off in haste.] You, Chicken, your task, as you know, is to pick off slugs, your full number before evening being thirty-two.—You, Cockerel, go practise your crow. Four hundred times cry Cock-a-doodle-doo in hearing of the echo!
The Cockerel
[Slightly mortified.] The echo—?
Chantecler
That is what I was doing to limber up my glottis before I was rid of the egg-shell sticking to my tail!
A Hen
[Airily.] None of this is particularly interesting!
Chantecler
Everything is interesting! Pray go and sit on the eggs you have been entrusted with! [To another Hen.] You, walk among the roses and verbenas, and gobble every creature threatening them. Ha, ha! If the caterpillar thinks we will make him a gift of our flowers he can stroke his belly—with his back! [To another.] You, hie to the rescue of cabbages in old neglected corners, where the grasshopper lays siege to them with his vigorous battering-ram! [To the remaining Hens.] You—[Catching sight of the Old Hen, whose shaking, senile head has lifted the basket-lid.] Ah, there you are, Nursie! Good day! [She gazes at him admiringly.] Well, have I grown?
The Old Hen
Sooner or later, tadpole becomes toad!
Chantecler
True! [To the Hens, resuming his tone of command.] Ladies, stand in line! Your orders are to peck in the fields. Off at a quick-step, go!
The White Hen
[To the Grey Hen.] Are you coming?
The Grey Hen
Not a word! I intend to stay behind, to see the Cuckoo. [She hides behind the basket.]
Chantecler
You, little tufted hen, was it just my fancy that you looked sulky falling into line?
The Tufted Hen
[Going up to him.] Cock—
Chantecler
What is it?
The Tufted Hen
I who am nearest to your heart—
Chantecler
[Quickly.] Hush!
The Tufted Hen
It annoys me not to be told—
The White Hen
[Who has drawn near on the other side.] Cock—
Chantecler
Well?
The White Hen
[Coaxingly.] I who am your favourite—
Chantecler
[Quickly.] Hush!
The White Hen
[Caressingly.] I want to know—
The Black Hen
[Who has softly drawn near.] Cock—
Chantecler
What?
The Black Hen
Your special and tender regard for me—
Chantecler
[Quickly.] Hush!
The Black Hen
Tell me, do—
The White Hen
—the secret—
The Tufted Hen
—of your song? [Going still closer to him, in a voice thrilled with curiosity.] I do believe that you have in your throat a little copper contrivance—
Chantecler
That’s it, that’s what I have, very carefully concealed!
The White Hen
[Same business.] Most likely, like great tenors one has heard of, you gulp raw eggs—
Chantecler
You have guessed!—A second Ugolino!
The Black Hen
[Same business.] My idea is that taking snails out of their shells, you pound them to a paste—
Chantecler
And make them into troches! Exactly!
All Three Hens
Cock—!
Chantecler
Off with you all! Be off! [The Hens hastily start, he calls them back.] A word before you go. When your blood-bright combs—now in, now out of sight, now in again—shall flash among the sage and borage yonder, like poppies playing at hide-and-seek,—to the real poppies, I enjoin you, do no injury! Shepherdesses, counting the stitches of their knitting, trample the grass all unaware that it’s a crime to crush a flower—even with a woman! But you, my Spouses, show considerate and touching thought for the flowers whose only offence is growing wild. The field-carrot has her right to bloom in beauty. Should you spy, as he strolls across some flowery umbel, a scarlet beetle peppered with black dots,—the stroller take, but spare his strolling-ground. The flowers of one same meadow are sisters, as I hold, and should together fall beneath the scythe!—Now you may go. [They are leaving, he again calls them back.] And remember, when chickens go to the—
A Hen
—fields—
Chantecler
—the foremost—
The Hens All Together
—walks ahead!
Chantecler
You may go! [They are again starting, he peremptorily calls them back.] A word! [In a stern voice.] Never when crossing the road stop to peck! [The Hens bow in obedience.] Now let me see you cross!
A Horn
[In the distance.] Honk! Honk! Honk!
Chantecler
[Rushing in front of the Hens and spreading his wings before them.] Not yet!
The Horn
[Very near, accompanied by a terrific snorting.] Honk! Honk! Honk!
Chantecler
[Barring the Hens’ passage, while everything shakes.] Wait!
The Horn
[Far away.] Honk! Honk! Honk!
Chantecler
[Standing aside for them to pass.] You can safely go!
The Grey Hen
[From her hiding-place.] He has not seen me!
The Tufted Hen
You may think this is fun! Now everything we eat will taste of gasoline!
Scene Third
Chantecler, the Blackbird in his cage, the Cat still asleep on the wall, the Grey Hen behind the Old Hen’s basket.
Chantecler
[To himself, after a pause.] No, I will not trust a frivolous soul with such a weighty secret. Let me try rather to cast off the burden of it myself—forget and [Shaking his feathers.] just rejoice in being a rooster! [He struts up and down.] I am beautiful. I am proud. I walk—then I stand still. I give a skip or two, I tread a measure.—I shock the cart sometimes by my boldness with the fair, so that it raises scandalised shafts in horror to the sky!—Hang care!—A barleycorn—Eat and be merry.—The gear upon my head and under my eye is a far more gorgeous red, when I puff out my chest and strut, than any robin’s waistcoat or finch’s tie.—A fine day. All is well. I curvet—I blow my horn. Conscious of having done my duty, I may quite properly assume the swagger of a musketeer, and the calm commanding bearing of a cardinal. I can—
A Voice
[Loud and gruff.] Beware, Chantecler!