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.]