Chantecler
And I can never become used to the richness and wonder of these things!
The Pheasant-hen
It is always the same, you must agree!
Chantecler
Nothing is ever the same,—nothing,—ever,—under the sun! And that because of the sun!—For She changes everything!
The Pheasant-hen
She—Who?
Chantecler
Light, the universal goddess! That geranium planted by the farmer’s wife is never twice the same red! And that old wooden shoe, spurting straw, what a sight, what a beautiful sight! And the wooden comb hanging among the farmer’s smocks, with the green hair of the sward caught in its teeth! The pitchfork, stood in the corner, like a misbehaving child, dozing as he stands and dreaming of the hay-fields! And the bowl and skittles there,—the trim-waisted skittles, shapely maids, whose orderly quadrilles Patou in his gambols clumsily upsets! The great worm-eaten bowl whose curved expanse some ant is always crossing, travelling with no less pride than famed explorers,—around her ball in 80 seconds!—Nothing, I tell you, is two instants quite the same!—And I , sweet lady, have been so susceptible ever, that a garden-rake in a corner, a flower in a pot, cast me long since into a helpless ecstasy, and that from gazing at a morning-glory I fell into the startled admiration which has made my eye so round!
The Pheasant-hen
[Thoughtfully.] One feels that you have a soul.—A soul then may find wherewithal to grow, so far from life and its drama, shut in by a farmyard wall with a cat asleep on it?
Chantecler
With power to see, capacity to suffer, one may come to understand all things. In an insect’s death are hinted all disasters. Through a knot-hole can be seen the sky and marching stars!
The Old Hen
[Appearing.] None knows the heavens like the water in the well!
Chantecler
[Presenting her to the Pheasant-hen before the basket-lid drops.] My foster-mother!
The Pheasant-hen
[Politely approaching.] Delighted!