THE NIGHT OF THE NIGHTINGALE

In the Forest. Evening. Huge trees with thick gnarled roots. At the base of one of the trees, Time or a lightning stroke has hollowed a sort of chamber. Rising slopes carpeted with heather. Rabbit holes. Mosses. Toadstools. Stretched between two ferns, a great cobweb, spangled with water-drops. At the rise of the curtain, RABBITS are discovered on every side among the underbrush, peacefully inhaling the evening air. A time of serene silence and coolness.

SCENE FIRST

A RABBIT in front of his burrow, CHOIR OF UNSEEN BIRDS.

A RABBIT It is the hour when with sweet and solemn voices the two warblers, Black-cap of the Gardens, and Red-wing of the Woods, intone the evening prayer.

A VOICE
[Among the branches.] O God of Birds!

ANOTHER VOICE
O God of Birds! or, rather, for the Hawk
Has surely not the same God as the Wren,
O God of Little Birds!

A THOUSAND VOICES
[Among the leaves.] O God of Little Birds!

FIRST VOICE
Who breathed into our wings to make us light,
And painted them with colours of His sky,
All thanks for this fair day, for meat and drink
Sweet sky-born water caught in cups of stone,
Sweet hedgerow berries washed of dust with dew,
And thanks for these good little eyes of ours
That spy the unseen enemies of man,
And thanks for the good tools by Thee bestowed
To aid our work of little gardeners,
Trowels and pruning-hooks of living horn.

THE SECOND VOICE
To-morrow we will fight borer and blight,
Forgive Thy birds to-night their trespasses,
The stripping of a currant-bush or two!

THE FIRST VOICE
Breathe on our bright round eyes and over them
The triple curtain of the lids will close.
If Man, the unjust, pay us by casting stones,
For filling field and wood and eaves with song,
For battling with the weevil for his bread,
If he lime twigs for us, if he spread snares,
Call to our memory Thy gentle Saint,
Thy good Saint Francis, that we may forgive
The cruelty of men because a man
Once called us brothers, “My brothers, the birds!”

THE SECOND VOICE
Saint Francis of Assisi

A THOUSAND VOICES
[Among the leaves.] Pray for us!

THE VOICE
Confessor of the mavis

ALL THE VOICES
Pray for us!

THE VOICE
Preacher to the swallows

ALL THE VOICES
Pray for us!

THE VOICE
O tender dreamer of a generous dream,
Who didst believe so surely in our soul
That, ever since, our soul, and ever more,
Affirms, defines itself

ALL THE VOICES
Remember us!

THE FIRST VOICE
And by the favour of thy prayers obtain
The needful daily sup and crumb! Amen.

THE SECOND VOICE
Amen!

ALL THE VOICES
[In a murmur spreading to the uttermost ends of the forest.] Amen!

CHANTECLER [Who, having a moment before stepped from the hollow tree, has stood listening.] Amen!

[The shade has deepened and taken a bluer tinge. The spiderweb, touched by a moonbeam, looks as if sifting silver dust. The PHEASANT-HEN comes from the tree and follows CHANTECLER with little short feminine steps.]

SCENE SECOND

CHANTECLER, the PHEASANT-HEN, from time to time the RABBITS, now and then the WOODPECKER.

CHANTECLER
How softly sleeps the moonlight on the ferns! Now is the time

A LITTLE QUAVERING VOICE
Spider at night,
Bodeth delight!

THE PHEASANT-HEN
Thanks, kind Spider!

CHANTECLER
Now is the time

THE PHEASANT-HEN
[Close behind him.] Now is the time to kiss me.

CHANTECLER
All those Rabbits looking on make it a trifle

THE PHEASANT-HEN [Suddenly flaps her wings; the frightened RABBITS start, on all sides white tails disappear into rabbit-holes. The PHEASANT-HEN coming back to CHANTECLER.] There! [They bill.] Do you love my forest?

CHANTECLER
I love it, for no sooner had I crossed its verdant border than I got
back my song. Let us go to roost. I must sing very early to-morrow.

THE PHEASANT-HEN
[Imperiously.] But one song only!

CHANTECLER
Yes.

THE PHEASANT-HEN
For a month I have only allowed you one song.

CHANTECLER
[Resignedly.] Yes.

THE PHEASANT-HEN
And has the Sun not risen just the same?

CHANTECLER
[In a tone of unwilling admission.] The Sun has risen.

THE PHEASANT-HEN
You see that one can have the Dawn at a smaller cost. Is the sky any
less red for your only crowing once?

CHANTECLER
No.

THE PHEASANT-HEN Well then? [Offering her bill.] A kiss! [Finding his kiss absent-minded.] You are thinking of something else. Please attend! [Reverting to her idea.] Why should you wear yourself out? You were simply squandering the precious copper of your voice. Daylight is all very well, but one must live! Oh! the male creature! If we were not there, with what sad frequency he would be fooled!

CHANTECLER
[With conviction.] Yes, but you are there, you see.

THE PHEASANT-HEN
It is barbarous anyhow to keep up a perpetual cockaduddling when I am
trying to sleep.

CHANTECLER
[Gently correcting her.] Doodling, dearest.

THE PHEASANT-HEN
Duddling is correct.

CHANTECLER
Doodling.

THE PHEASANT-HEN [Raising her head toward the top of the tree and calling.] Mr. Woodpecker! [To CHANTECLER.] We will ask the learned gentleman in the green coat. [To the WOODPECKER the upper half of whose figure appears at a round hole high up in the tree trunk; his coat is green, his waistcoat buff, and he wears a red skull-cap.] Do you say cockaduddling or cockadoodling?

THE WOODPECKER
[Bending a long professorial bill.] Both.

CHANTECLER and the PHEASANT-HEN
[Turning to each other, triumphantly.] Ah!

THE WOODPECKER
Duddling is more tender, doodling more poetic. [He disappears.]

CHANTECLER
It is for you I cockaduddle!

THE PHEASANT-HEN
Yes, but you cockadoodle for the Dawn!

CHANTECLER
[Going toward her.] I do believe you are jealous!

THE PHEASANT-HEN
[Retreating coquettishly.] Do you love me more than her?

CHANTECLER
[With a cry of warning.] Be careful, a snare!

THE PHEASANT-HEN [Jumping aside.] Ready to spring! [Dimly visible against a tree, is, in fact, a spread bird-net.]

CHANTECLER
[Examining it.] A dangerous contrivance.

THE PHEASANT-HEN
Forbidden by the game-laws of 44.

CHANTECLER
[Laughing.] Do you know that?

THE PHEASANT-HEN
You seem to forget that the object of your affections comes under the
head of game.

CHANTECLER
[With a touch of sadness.] It is true that we are of different kinds.

THE PHEASANT-HEN [Returning to his side with a hop.] I want you to love me more than her. Say it’s me you love most. Say it’s me!

THE WOODPECKER
[Reappearing.] I!

CHANTECLER
[Looking up.] Not in a love-scene.

THE PHEASANT-HEN
[To the WOODPECKER.] See here, you! Be so kind another time as to knock!

WOODPECKER
[Disappearing.] Certainly. Certainly.

THE PHEASANT-HEN [To CHANTECLER.] He has a bad habit of thrusting his bill between the bark and the tree, but he is a rare scholar, exceptionally well informed

CHANTECLER
[Absent-mindedly.] On what subjects?

THE PHEASANT-HEN
The language of birds.

CHANTECLER
Indeed?

THE PHEASANT-HEN For, you know, the birds when they say their prayers speak the common language, but when they chat together in private they use a twittering dialect, wholly onomatopoetic.

CHANTECLER
They talk Japanese. [The WOODPECKER knocks three times with his bill
on the tree: Rat-tat-tat!] Come in!

THE WOODPECKER
[Appearing, indignant.] Japanese, did you say?

CHANTECLER
Yes. Some of them say, Tio! Tio! and others say Tzoui! Tzoui!

THE WOODPECKER
Birds have talked Greek ever since Aristophanes!

CHANTECLER
[Rushing to the PHEASANT-HEN.] Oh, for the love of Greek! [They bill.]

THE WOODPECKER
Know, profane youth, that the Black-chat’s cry Ouïs-ouïs-tra-tra, is a
corruption of the word Lysistrata! [Disappears.]

THE PHEASANT-HEN
[To CHANTECLER.] Will you never love anyone but me?

[THE WOODPECKER’S knock is heard: Rat-tat-tat.]

CHANTECLER
Come in!

THE PHEASANT-HEN
[To CHANTECLER.] Do you promise?

THE WOODPECKER [Appears, soberly nodding his red cap.] Tiri-para! sings the small sedge-warbler to the reeds. Incontrovertibly from the Greek. Para, along, and the word water is understood. [Disappears.]

CHANTECLER
He has Greek on the brain!

THE PHEASANT-HEN
[Reverting to her idea.] Am I the whole, whole world to you?

CHANTECLER
Of course you are, only

THE PHEASANT-HEN
In my green-sleeved Oriental robe, I look to you how do I look?

CHANTECLER
Like a living commandment ever to worship that which comes from the East.

THE PHEASANT-HEN [Exasperated.] Will you stop thinking of the light of day, and think only of the light in my eyes?

CHANTECLER I shall never forget, however, that there was a morning when we believed equally in my Destiny, and that in the radiant hour of dawning love you forgot, and allowed me to forget, your gold for the gold of the Dawn!

THE PHEASANT-HEN
The Dawn! Always the Dawn! Be careful, Chantecler I shall do something
rash! [Going toward the Back.]

CHANTECLER
You will infallibly do as you like.

THE PHEASANT-HEN
In the glade not long ago I met the [She catches herself and stops
short, intentionally.]

CHANTECLER [Looks at her, and in an angry cry.] The Pheasant? [With sudden violence.] Promise me that you will never again go to the glade!

THE PHEASANT-HEN [Assured of her power over him, with a bound returns to his side.] And you, promise that you will love me more than the Light!

CHANTECLER
[Sorrowfully.] Oh!

THE PHEASANT-HEN
That you will not sing

CHANTECLER
More than one song, we have settled that point. [Rat-tat-tat, from the
WOODPECKER.] Come in!

THE WOODPECKER [Appearing and pointing with his bill at the net.] The snare! The farmer placed it there. He declared he would capture the Pheasant-hen.

THE PHEASANT-HEN
He flatters himself!

THE WOODPECKER
And that he would keep you on his farm.

THE PHEASANT-HEN [Indignant.] Alive? [To CHANTECLER, in a tone of reproach.] Your farm!

CHANTECLER [Seeing a RABBIT who has returned to the edge of his hole.] Ah, there comes a Rabbit!

THE RABBIT [Showing the snare to the PHEASANT-HEN.] You know if you put your foot on that spring

THE PHEASANT-HEN [In a tone of superiority.] I know all about snares, my little man. If you put your foot on that spring, the thing shuts. I am afraid of nothing but dogs. [To CHANTECLER.] On your farm, which you secretly yearn for.

CHANTECLER
[In a voice of injured innocence.] I?

THE PHEASANT-HEN [To the RABBIT, giving him a light tap with her wing to send him home.] Afraid of nothing but dogs. And since you put me in mind of it, I think I must go and perplex their noses, by tangling my tracks all among the grass and underwoods.

CHANTECLER
That’s it, you go and fool the dogs!

THE PHEASANT-HEN [Starts of, then returns.] You are homesick for that wretched old farm of yours?

CHANTECLER I? I? [She goes off. He repeats indignantly.] I? [Watching her out of sight, then, dropping his voice, to the WOODPECKER.] She is not coming back, is she?

THE WOODPECKER
[Who from his high window in the tree can look off.] No.

SCENE THIRD

CHANTECLER, THE WOODPECKER.

CHANTECLER
[Eagerly.] Keep watch! They are going to talk with me from home.

THE WOODPECKER
[Interested.] Who?

CHANTECLER
The Blackbird.

THE WOODPECKER
I thought he hated you.

CHANTECLER
He came near it, but the Blackbird cast of mind admits of compromise,
and it amuses him to keep me informed.

THE WOODPECKER
Is he coming?

CHANTECLER [Who is a different bird since the PHEASANT-HEN’S exit, light-hearted, boyishly cheerful.] No, but the blue morning-glory opening in his cage amid the wistaria, communicates by subterranean filaments with this white convolvulus trembling above the pool. [Going to the convolvulus.] So that by talking into its chalice [He plunges his bill into one of the trembling milky trumpets.] Hello!

THE WOODPECKER
[Nodding to himself.] From the Greek, allos, another.
He talks with another.

CHANTECLER
Hello! The Blackbird, please!

THE WOODPECKER [Keeping watch.] Most imprudent, this is! To choose among the convolvuli exactly the one which

CHANTECLER [Lighter and lighter of mood, returning to the WOODPECKER.] But its the only one open all night! When the Blackbird answers, the Bee who sleeps in the flower wakes up and we

THE BEE
[Inside the convolvulus.] Vrrrrrrrrr!

CHANTECLER [Briskly running to the flower and listening at the horn-shaped receiver.] Ah? This morning, did you say?

THE WOODPECKER
[Filled with curiosity.] What is it?

CHANTECLER [In a voice of sudden emotion.] Thirty chicks have been born! [Listening again.] Briffaut, the hunting-dog, is ill? [As if something interfered with his hearing.] I believe it is the Dragon-flies, deafening us with the crackling of their wings [Shouting.] Will you be so kind, young ladies, as not to cut us off? [Listening.] And big Julius obliges Patou to go with him on his hunting expeditions? [To the WOODPECKER.] Ah, you ought to know my friend Patou! [Burying his bill again in the flower.] So? Without me everything goes wrong? Yes! [With satisfaction.] Yes! Waste and carelessness naturally!

THE WOODPECKER [Who has been keeping watch, warns him suddenly under breath.] Here she comes!

CHANTECLER
[With his bill in the flower.] Indeed?

THE WOODPECKER
[Fluttering desperately.] Hush!

CHANTECLER
The Ducks spent the night under the cart, did they?

THE WOODPECKER
Pst!

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!

SCENE FIFTH

CHANTECLER, the PHEASANT-HEN, hidden in the tree, and the TOADS.

A BIG TOAD [Rearing himself in the grass.] We have come [Other TOADS become visible behind him.]

CHANTECLER
Ye gods, how ugly they are!

THE BIG TOAD [Obsequiously.] in behalf of all the thinking contingency of the Forest, to the author of so many songs [He places his hand on his heart.]

CHANTECLER
[With disgust.] Oh, that hand spread over his paunch!

THE BIG TOAD
[With a hop toward CHANTECLER.] at once novel,

ANOTHER TOAD
[Same business.] Pellucid!

ANOTHER
[Same business.] Succinct!

ANOTHER
[Same business.] Vital!

ANOTHER
[Same business.] Pure!

ANOTHER
[Same business.] Great!

CHANTECLER
Gentlemen, pray be seated. [They seat themselves around a large
toadstool.]

THE BIG TOAD
True, we are ugly

CHANTECLER
[Politely.] You have fine eyes.

THE BIG TOAD [Raising himself by bearing with both hands upon the rim of the toadstool.] But, Knights of this fungoid Round Table, we desire to do homage to the Parsifal who has given to the world a sublime song

SECOND TOAD
A true song!

THE BIG TOAD
And a celestial!

THIRD TOAD
And a no less terrestrial!

THE BIG TOAD
[With authority.] A song by comparison with which the song of the
Nightingale sinks into insignificance!

CHANTECLER
[Astonished.] The Nightingale’s song?

SECOND TOAD
[In a tone of finality.] Is not a circumstance to yours!

THE BIG TOAD
[With a hop.] It was high time that a new singer

ANOTHER
[Same business.] And a new song

FIFTH TOAD
[Quickly, to his neighbour.] And a song by a stranger

THE BIG TOAD
Came to change conditions here.

CHANTECLER
Ah, I shall change conditions?

ALL
Glory to the Cock!

CHANTECLER
I do not see that the forest thinks so poorly of me after all!

THE BIG TOAD
Played out, the Nightingale!

CHANTECLER
[More and more surprised.] Really?

SECOND TOAD
More and more his song confesses itself effete

THE BIG TOAD
Mawkish!

THIRD TOAD
Null!

FOURTH
[Contemptuously.] And his old-fashioned pretense of inspiration!

FIFTH TOAD
And the name he has adopted: Bul-bul!

ALL THE TOADS
[Puffing with laughter.] Bul-bul!

THE BIG TOAD
This is the way he goes on: [Parodying the song of the NIGHTINGALE.]
Tio! Tio!

SECOND TOAD
His solitary idea is an old silver trill copied from the bubbling
spring. [He imitates in grotesque fashion the singing of the
NIGHTINGALE.] Tio! Tio!

CHANTECLER
But

THE BIG TOAD [Quickly.] Do not attempt, you, the Renovator of Art, to defend that ancient high authority on sentimental gargling!

SECOND TOAD
That superannuated tenor quavering out his cavatinas to the glory of
minor poetry and the edification of fogydom!

THIRD TOAD
The Harp that twanged through Tara’s hall, and insists on twanging
still!

CHANTECLER
[Indulgently.] But why should he not, after all, if he enjoys it?

THE BIG TOAD
Endeavouring to impose on a suffering and surfeited public the musty old
fashion of ingenious fioritura!

CHANTECLER
Audiences nowadays, of course, look for a different sort of thing.

THIRD TOAD
Your song has exposed the artificiality of his.

ALL
[In an explosion.] Down with Bul-bul!

CHANTECLER
[Whom the TOADS have gradually surrounded.] Gentlemen and honored
Batrachians, my voice, it is true, gives forth natural notes

THE BIG TOAD
Yes, notes which lend us wings

CHANTECLER
[Modestly.] Oh!

ALL
[Waggling their bodies as if about to fly.] Wings!

THE BIG TOAD
Their secret being that they sing Life!

CHANTECLER
That is true.

SECOND TOAD
Yes, my dear fellow, Life!

CHANTECLER
[With careless complacency.] My crest for that reason is flesh and blood!

ALL THE TOADS
[Clapping their little hands.] Good, very good!

THE BIG TOAD
That formula is a programme.

SECOND TOAD
Since we are assembled around a table, why should we not offer to the
Chief

CHANTECLER
[Modestly, hanging back from the suggested honour.]Gentlemen

SECOND TOAD
to the Chief of whom we stood in notable need, a banquet?

ALL
[Beating enthusiastically upon the toadstool.] A banquet!

THE PHEASANT-HEN
[Looking out from the tree.] What is the matter?

CHANTECLER
[In spite of all, rather flattered.] A banquet!

THE PHEASANT-HEN
[Slightly ironical.] Shall you accept?

CHANTECLER You see, my dear the new tendencies Art, the thinking contingency of the Forest [Indicating the TOADS.] Yes, I have lent wings to [In a light and careless tone.] It’s all up with the Nightingale, you see. Musty old method! Antiquated trill! This is the way he goes on [To the TOADS.] How was it you said he went on?

ALL THE TOADS
[Comically.] Tio! Tio!

CHANTECLER [To the PHEASANT-HEN, with pitying indulgence.] He goes on like this: Tio! Tio! And I believe I need not scruple to accept

A VOICE [In the tree above him breaks forth in a long note, limpid, and heart-moving.] Tio! [Silence.]

CHANTECLER
[Startled, raising his head.] What was that?

THE BIG TOAD
[Quickly, visibly embarrassed.] Nothing! It is he!

THE VOICE
[Slowly and wonderfully, with the sigh of a soul in every note.] Tio!
Tio! Tio! Tio!

CHANTECLER
[Turning upon the TOADS.] Scum of the earth!

THE TOADS
[Backing away from him.] What ?

SCENE SIXTH

THE SAME, the NIGHTINGALE unseen, and little by little all the
FOREST CREATURES.

THE NIGHTINGALE [From the tree, in his emotionally throbbing voice.] Tiny bird, lost in the darkness of the tree, I feel myself turning into the heart-beat of the infinite night!

CHANTECLER
[To the TOADS.] And you have dared

THE NIGHTINGALE
Hushed lies the ravine beneath the magic of the moon

CHANTECLER to compare my rude singing with that divine voice? Scum of the earth! Toads! And I never divined that they were doing to him here what was done to me over yonder!

THE BIG TOAD
[Suddenly swelling to a great size.] Toads! Yes, as it happens, we are
Toads!

THE NIGHTINGALE
Vapour of pearl wreathes the summits in an ethereal veil

THE BIG TOAD [Self-appreciatively.] We are Toads, certainly, magnificently embossed with warts! [All rear themselves up, swollen, standing between CHANTECLER and the tree.]

CHANTECLER
And I perceived not, I who have never known envy, to what venomous feast
I was bidden!

THE NIGHTINGALE What matter? Sooner or later, you, the strong, and I, the tender, we were fated, despite all the Toads in the world, to understand each other!

CHANTECLER
[With religious fervour.] Sing!

A TOAD [Who has hastily dragged himself to the tree in which the NIGHTINGALE is singing.] Let us clasp the bark with our slimy little arms, and slaver upon the foot of the tree! [All crawl toward the tree.]

CHANTECLER [Trying to stop one of them who is clumsily hopping.] But are you not yourself gifted with a singing voice of exceptional purity?

THE TOAD [In a tone of sincerest suffering.] I am, but when I hear somebody else singing, I can’t help it, I see green! [He joins his companions.]

THE BIG TOAD [Working his jaws as if chewing something which foamed.] There foam up beneath our tongues I know not what strange soapsuds, and [To his neighbour.] Are you frothing?

THE OTHER
I am frothing.

ANOTHER
He is frothing.

ALL
We are frothing.

A TOAD [Tenderly laying his arm about the neck of a dilatory TOAD.] Come and froth!

CHANTECLER [To the NIGHTINGALE.] But will they not trouble and prevent your mellifluent song?

THE NIGHTINGALE
In no wise. I will take their refrain into my song

THE BIG TOAD [Patting a little TOAD on the head to encourage him.] Don’t be afraid, go ahead, froth!

THE TOADS [All together, at the base of the tree to which they form a crawling, writhing girdle.] The Toads, croak! croak! the Toads are we!

THE NIGHTINGALE
And make of both a Villanelle!

THE TOADS
We welter in malignity!

THE NIGHTINGALE
The while they fume beneath my tree I fill with song the enchanted dell

THE TOADS The Toads, croak! croak! the Toads are we! [And the Villanelle proceeds, sung by the alternate voices, one of which, ever higher and more enraptured, carries the song proper, and the others, ever angrier and lower, the burden of the song.]

THE NIGHTINGALE and THE TOADS, alternately
I sing! for Wind, that harper free,
And music bubbling from the well
We welter in malignity!

And fragrance floating from the lea,
Of meadow-sweet and pimpernel
The Toads, croak! croak! the Toads are we!

And Luna showering ecstasy,
All weave so wonderful a spell
We welter in malignity!

Its melting magic moveth me
The secret of my heart to tell!
The Toads, croak! croak! the Toads are we!

Within my heart all sympathy,
Within mine eye all visions dwell
We welter in malignity!

Life, Death, I turn to rhapsody,
Who am the deathless Philomel!
The Toads, croak! croak! the Toads are we,
Who welter in malignity!

CHANTECLER
Beside those heavenly pipes, ah, me! my voice is Punchinello’s squeak!
Sing on! Sing on! The Croakers are in retreat.

THE TOADS
[Retreating, overcome by the conquering song.] Croak! croak!

CHANTECLER Their fate to seethe in the cauldron of a witch! But you, the creatures of the forest come to slake the thirst of their hearts at your song. See them creeping to the lure

THE TOADS
[From the underbrush.] Croak! croak!

CHANTECLER
A doe, look! tiptoeing on delicate hoofs, followed by a wolf who has
forgotten to be a wolf

THE TOADS
[Lost among the grass.] Croak!

CHANTECLER
The squirrel steals down from the lofty tree-tops. The whole vast forest
is stirred by a thrill of brotherliness.

THE TOADS
[Out of sight.] roak!

CHANTECLER
The echo alone now repeats

FAINT DISTANT VOICE
oak!

CHANTECLER
Gone! Gone are the Toads!

[Music holds the night: a song without words, delicate volleys of rapturous notes.]

CHANTECLER The Glow-worms have lighted their small, green lamps. All that is good comes forth, while hate shrinks back to its lair. Now they that shall be eaten lay themselves down in the grass by the side of them that shall eat them. The Star of a sudden looks nearer to earth, and forsaking her web the Spider draws herself up toward your song, climbing by her own silken thread.

ALL THE FOREST
[In a moan of ecstasy.] Ah!

[And the forest lies as if under a spell; the moonlight is softer, the tender green fire of the glow-worm shines blinking among the moss; on all sides, between the tree-boles creep, shadow-like, the charmed beasts; eyes shine, moist muzzles point toward the source of the music. The WOODPECKER stands at his bark window, dreamily nodding; all the RABBITS, with uppricked ears, sit at their earthen doors.]

CHANTECLER
When he sings thus without words, what is he singing, Squirrel?

THE SQUIRREL
[From a tree-top.] The joy of swift motion.

CHANTECLER
And what say you, Hare?

THE HARE
[In the coppice.] The thrill of fear!

CHANTECLER
You, Rabbit?

ONE OF THE RABBITS
The Dew!

CHANTECLER
You, Doe?

THE DOE
[From the depths of the woods.] Tears!

CHANTECLER
Wolf?

THE WOLF
[In a gentle distant howl.] The Moon!

CHANTECLER
And you, Tree with the golden wound, singing Pine?

THE PINE-TREE [Softly beating time with one of its boughs.] He tells me that my drops of resin in the form of rosin will sing upon the bows of violins!

CHANTECLER
And you, Woodpecker, what does he say to you?

THE WOODPECKER
[In ecstasy.] He says that Aristophanes

CHANTECLER
[Promptly interrupting him.] Never mind! I know! You, Spider?

THE SPIDER [Swinging at the end of one of her threads.] He sings of the raindrop sparkling in my web like a royal gift.

CHANTECLER
And you, Drop of Water, sparkling in her web?

A LITTLE VOICE
[From the cobweb.] Of the Glow-worm!

CHANTECLER
And you, Glow-worm?

A LITTLE VOICE
[In the grass.]Of the Star!

CHANTECLER
And you, if one may so far presume as to question you, of what does he
sing to you, Star?

A VOICE
[In the sky.] Of the Shepherd!

CHANTECLER
Ah, what fountain is it

THE PHEASANT-HEN [Who is watching the horizon between the trees.] The darkness is lightening.

CHANTECLER What fountain, in which each finds water for his thirst? [Listening with greater attention.] To me he speaks of the Day, which arises and shines at my song!

THE PHEASANT-HEN
[Aside.] And speaks of it so eloquently that for once you will forget it!

CHANTECLER [Noticing a BIRD who having come a little way out of the thicket is beatifically listening.] And how do you, Snipe, translate his poem?

THE SNIPE
I don’t know. I only know I like it It is sweet!

THE PHEASANT-HEN [Who is not lured she! into forgetting to watch the sky between the branches, aside.] The night is wearing away!

CHANTECLER [To the NIGHTINGALE, in a discouraged voice.] To sing! To sing! But how, after hearing the faultless crystal of your note, can I ever be satisfied again with the crude, brazen blare of mine?

THE NIGHTINGALE
But you must!

CHANTECLER
Shall I find it possible ever again to sing? My song, alas, must seem to
me always after this too brutal and too red!

THE NIGHTINGALE
I have sometimes thought that mine was too facile, perhaps, and too blue!

CHANTECLER
Oh, how can you humble yourself to make such a confession to me?

THE NIGHTINGALE You fought for a friend of mine, the Rose! Learn, comrade, this sorrowful and reassuring fact, that no one, Cock of the morning or evening Nightingale, has quite the song of his dreams!

CHANTECLER
[With passionate desire.] Oh, to be a sound that soothes and lulls!

THE NIGHTINGALE
To be a splendid call to duty!

CHANTECLER
I make nobody weep!

THE NIGHTINGALE I awaken nobody! [But after the expression of this regret, he continues in an ever higher and more lyrical voice.] What matter? One must sing on! Sing on, even while knowing that there are songs which he prefers to his own song. One must sing, sing, sing, until [A shot. A flash from the thicket. Brief silence, then a small, tawny body drops at CHANTECLER’S feet.]

CHANTECLER [Bending and looking.] The Nightingale! The brutes! [And without noticing the vague, earliest tremour of daylight spreading through the air, he cries in a sob.] Killed! And he had sung such a little, little while! [One or two feathers slowly flutter down.]

THE PHEASANT-HEN
His feathers!

CHANTECLER [Bending over the body which is shaken by a last throe.] Peace, little poet!

[Rustling of leaves and snapping of twigs; from a thicket projects PATOU’S shaggy head.]

SCENE SEVENTH

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.]

SCENE EIGHTH

THE PHEASANT-HEN, PATOU, later the WOODPECKER, RABBITS, and, all the
VOICES of the awakening forest.

PATOU
[To the PHEASANT-HEN.] Mourn!

THE SPIDER
[In the centre of her-web which now sifts the gold dust of a sunbeam.]
Spider at morn,
Cometh to warn!

THE PHEASANT-HEN [Furiously, tearing down the cobweb with a brush of her wing.] Be still, hateful Spider! Oh, may he perish for having disdained me!

THE WOODPECKER [Who from his window has been watching CHANTECLER’S departure, suddenly, frightened.] The poacher has seen him!

THE OWLS
[In the trees.] The Cock is in danger!

THE WOODPECKER
[Leaning out to see better.] He breaks his gun in two!

PATOU [Alarmed.] To load it! Is that murderous fool in sheepskin gaiters going to fire upon a rooster?

THE PHEASANT-HEN
[Spreading her wings to rise.] Not if he sees a pheasant!

PATOU
[Springing before her.] What are you doing?

THE PHEASANT-HEN
Following my calling! [She flies toward the danger.]

THE WOODPECKER [Seeing that in her upward swing she must touch the spring of the forgotten snare.] Look out for the snare! [Too late. The net falls.]

THE PHEASANT-HEN
[Utters a cry of despair.] Ah!

PATOU
She is caught!

THE PHEASANT-HEN
[Struggling in the net.] He is lost!

PATOU
[Wildly.] She is He is

[All the RABBITS have thrust out their heads to see.]

THE PHEASANT-HEN
[Crying in an ardent prayer.] Daybreak protect him!

THE OWLS [Rocking themselves gleefully among the branches.] The gun-barrel shines, shines

THE PHEASANT-HEN Dawn, touch the cartridge with your dewy wing! Trip the foot of the hunter in a tangle of grass! He is your Cock! He drove off the darkness and the shadow of the Hawk! And he is going to die. Nightingale, you, say something! Speak!

THE NIGHTINGALE
[In a supplicating sob.] He fought for a friend of mine, the Rose!

THE PHEASANT-HEN Let him live! And I will dwell in the farmyard beside the ploughshare and the hoe! And renouncing for his sake all that in my pride I made a burden and torment to him, I will own, O Sun, that when you made his shadow you marked out my place in the world!

[Daylight grows. On all sides, rustles and murmurs.]

THE WOODPECKER
[Singing.] The air is blue!

A CROW
[Cawing as he flies past.] Daylight grows!

THE PHEASANT-HEN
The forest is astir

ALL THE BIRDS
[Waking among the trees.] Good-morning! Good-morning! Good-morning!
Good-morning! Good-morning!

THE PHEASANT-HEN
Everyone sings!

A JAY
[Darting past like a streak of blue lightning.] Ha, ha!

THE WOODPECKER
The Jay shakes with homeric laughter.

THE PHEASANT-HEN
[Crying in the midst of the music of the morning.] Let him live!

THE JAY
[Again darting past.] Ha, ha!

A CUCKOO
[In the distance.] Cuckoo!

THE PHEASANT-HEN
I abdicate!

PATOU
[Lifting his eyes heavenward.] She abdicates!

THE PHEASANT-HEN
Forgive, O Light, to whom I dared dispute him! Dazzle the eye taking
aim, and be victory awarded, O Sunbeams

THE JAY and the CUCKOO
[Far away.] Ha! Cuckoo!

THE PHEASANT-HEN to your powder of gold [A shot. She gives a sharp cry, ending in a dying voice.] over man’s black powder! [Silence.]

CHANTECLER’S VOICE
[Very far away.] Cock-a-doodle-doo!

ALL
[In a glad cry.] Saved!

THE RABBITS [Capering gaily out of their burrows.] Let us turn somersets among the thyme!

A VOICE
[Fresh and solemn, among the trees.] O God of birds!

THE RABBITS [Stopping short in their antics stand abruptly still; soberly.] The morning prayer!

THE WOODPECKER
[Crying to the PHEASANT-HEN.] They are coming to examine the trap!

THE PHEASANT-HEN
[Closes her eyes in resignation.] So be it!

THE VOICE IN THE TREES
God by whose grace we wake to this new day

PATOU
[Before leaving.] Hush! Drop the curtain! Men folk are coming! [Off.]

[All the woodland creatures hide. The PHEASANT-HEN is left alone, and, held down by the snare, with spread wings and panting breast, awaits the approach of the giant.]