IV
The unfortunate effect produced by my song did not fail to sadden me. “Alas, music; alas, poesy!” I repeated on my way back to Paris, “How few hearts there are which comprehend you!”
Whilst making these reflections, I bumped my head against another bird’s who was flying in the opposite direction to me. The shock was so violent and so unexpected that we both fell down on a tree-top, which, by good luck, was there. After shaking ourselves a bit, I eyed the new comer, expecting a quarrel. I was surprised to see that he was white. To tell the truth, he had a head somewhat bigger than myself, and over his brow a sort of crest, which gave him a mock-heroic appearance. Besides that, he carried his tail well up in the air, with great magnanimity; however, he did not seem at all disposed to do battle. We addressed each other very civilly, and made our mutual excuses, after which we entered into conversation. I took the liberty of asking him his name and what country he came from.
“I am astonished,” he said to me, “that you do not know me. Are you not one of us?”
“To tell the truth, sir,” I answered, “I do not know whom I belong to. Every one asks me and says the same thing to me; it must be a wager that they have made.”
“You are joking,” he said; “your plumage becomes you too well for me not to recognize a brother. You belong unmistakably to that illustrious and venerable race which is entitled in Latin cacatua, in learned language kakatoës, and in vulgar jargon cockatoo.”
“Faith, sir, that is possible, and it would be a great honour indeed for me. But do not let that prevent you from acting as if I were not one, and have the condescension to inform me whom I have the honour of addressing.”
“I am,” responded the unknown, “the great poet Kacatogan. I have made mighty travels, sir, arid passages, and cruel peregrinations. It was not yesterday that I began to rhyme, and my Muse has had her misfortunes. I have warbled under Louis XVI., sir, I have bawled for the Republic, I have nobly sung the Empire, I have discreetly lauded the Restoration, I have even made an effort in these last times, and have submitted, not without difficulty, to the exigencies of this tasteless century. I have launched on the world piquant distichs, sublime hymns, gracious dithyrambs, pious elegies, long-haired dramas, woolly romances, powdered vaudevilles, and bald tragedies. In a word, I can flatter myself with having added to the Temple of the Muses some gallant festoons, some sombre battlements, and some ingenious arabesques. What more do you want? I have grown old. But I still rhyme vigorously, sir, and such as you see me now, I was dreaming over a poem in one canto, which would be at least six pages long, when you gave me a bump on my brow. Nevertheless, if I can help you in any way, I am entirely at your service.”
“Indeed you can, sir,” I replied, “for you find me at this moment in a serious poetical difficulty. I do not presume to say that I am a poet, still less a great poet, such as you,” I added, bowing to him, “but Nature has endowed me with a throat, which itches when I am at ease or when I am vexed. To tell you the truth, I am absolutely ignorant of the rules.”
“I have forgotten them,” said Kacatogan, “don’t worry yourself about that.”
“But an annoying thing happens to me,” I replied; “my voice produces an effect on those who hear it, almost the same as that which a certain Jean de Nivelle’s produced on.... You know what I mean?”
“I know,” said Kacatogan; “I have seen this odd effect in my own experience. The cause of it is unknown to me, but the effect is indisputable.”
“Well then, sir, you who seem to me to be the Nestor of poesy, can you suggest, I entreat you, a remedy for this painful drawback?”
“No,” said Kacatogan, “for my own part, I have never been able to find one. I was much exercised about it when I was young, because they always hissed me; but nowadays I have ceased to think about it I suspect that this repugnance arises from what the public reads by others than ourselves: that distracts its attention.”
“I am of your opinion; but you will agree, sir, that it is very hard for a well-intentioned creature to put people to flight the moment a good impulse seizes him. Would you be so kind as do me the service of listening to me, and giving me your frank opinion?”
“Most willingly,” said Kacatogan; “I am all ears.”
I at once began to sing, and I had the satisfaction of seeing that Kacatogan neither fled nor fell asleep. He stared at me fixedly, and from time to time nodded his head with an air of approval, and with a sort of murmur of commendation. But I soon saw that he was not listening to me, and was dreaming of his poem. Taking advantage of a moment when I was taking breath, he interrupted me all at once.
“I have found that rhyme after all!” he cried, smiling and wagging his head; “it is the sixty-thousand-seven-hundred-and-fourteenth that has come out of this brain of mine! And they have the audacity to say that I am ageing! I’ll go and read it to my kind friends, I’ll go and read it to them, and we’ll see what they have to say to it!”
So speaking, he took flight and disappeared, apparently having quite forgotten that he had met me.