The Pheasant-hen
[Moved.] Chantecler!
Chantecler
I feel myself unworthy of my glory. Why was I chosen, even I to drive out black night? No sooner have I brought the heavens to a white glow, than the pride which lifted me aloft drops dead. I fall to earth. What, I so small, I made the immeasurable dawn? And having done this, I must do it again? Nay, but I cannot! Nay, it would be vain! Never need I attempt it! Despair overtakes me—Comfort me, love!
The Pheasant-hen
[Tenderly.] My own!
Chantecler
Such a burden of responsibility resting upon me! That inspiring breath which I await when I scratch in the sand, will it come again? I feel the whole future depending upon an incomprehensible something which might perchance fail me! Do you understand now the anguish gnawing me? Ah, the swan is certain, by bending his neck, to find under water the grasses he delights in; the eagle, when he swoops from the blue, sure of falling upon his prey; and you are ever sure of finding in the earth the well supplied nests of the ants,—but I for whom my own work remains a mystery, I possessed ever by the fear of the morrow, am I sure of finding my song in my heart?
The Pheasant-hen
[Clasping him with her wings.] Surely, you will find it, surely!
Chantecler
Yes, talk to me like that. I listen, I heed you. You must believe me when I believe, and not when I doubt. Tell me again—
The Pheasant-hen
You are beautiful!
Chantecler
About that I care very little.
The Pheasant-hen
And you sang beautifully!
Chantecler
Say that I sang badly, but tell me that it is I who make—