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.]