The Blackbird
Whew! We hate ourself, don’t we!
The Pheasant-hen
In the forest where I live there comes a-poaching—
Chantecler
That madman who would have given to vile lead a jewel for setting!
The Pheasant-hen
Beneath foliage—not so thick but a sunbeam may glide in!—I make my home. I am descended, however, from elsewhere. From whence? From Persia? China? None can tell! But of one thing we may be certain: that I was meant to shimmer in the blue among the fragrant gum-trees of the East, and not to be chased through brambles by a hound!—Am I the ancient Phoenix? or the sacred Chinese hen? Whence was I brought to this land? And how brought? And by whom? History is not explicit on the point, and leaves us a splendid choice. Wherefore I choose to have been born in Colchis, from whence I came on Jason’s fist. I am all gold. Perhaps I was the Fleece!
Patou
You?
The Pheasant-hen
The Pheasant!
Patou
[Politely correcting her.] Pheasant-hen.
The Pheasant-hen
I refer to my race, for which I stand, by token of my crimson shield. Yes, my ancient fate of being a dead leaf beside a ruby, having appeared to me one day too distinctly dull a lot, I stole his dazzling plumage from the male. A good thing, too, for it becomes me so much better! The golden tippet, as I wear it, curves and shimmers. The emerald epaulette acquires a dainty grace. I have made of a mere uniform a miracle of style!
Chantecler
She is distractingly lovely, so much is certain!
Patou
He is never going to fall in love with a woman dressed as a man!