Then, filled with the same quivering as
leaves and grass, thrilled to the very tips of my wing quills, I feel
myself a chosen instrument. I accentuate my curve of a hunting-horn,
Earth speaks in me as in a conch, and ceasing to be an ordinary bird, I
become the mouthpiece, in some sort official, through which the cry of
the earth escapes toward the sky!
THE PHEASANT-HEN
Chantecler!
CHANTECLER
And that cry which rises from the earth, that cry is such a cry of love
for the light, is such a deep and frenzied cry of love for the golden
thing we call the Day, and that all thirst to feel again: the pine on
its bark, the tortuous roots in woodland paths on their mosses, the
feather-grass on each delicate spray, the tiniest pebble in its tiniest
mica flake; it is so wonderfully the cry of all that misses and mourns
its colour, its reflection, its flame, its coronet, its pearl; the
beseeching cry of the dew-washed meadow begging for a wee rainbow at
every grass-tip, of the forest begging a burst of fire at the end of
each gloomy avenue; that cry which mounts to the sky through me is so
greatly the cry of all that feels itself in disgrace, plunged in a
sunless pit, deprived of light without knowing for what offence; is the
cry of cold, the cry of fear, the cry of weariness, of all that night
disables or disarms; the rose shivering alone in the dark, the hay
wanting to be dried and go to the mow, the sickle forgotten out of doors
by the reaper and fearing it will rust in the grass, the white things
dismayed at not looking white; is so greatly the cry of the innocent
among beasts, who have nothing to conceal, of the brook fain to show its
crystal clearness; and even--for thy very works, O Night, disown
thee!--of the puddle longing to glisten, the mud longing to become earth
again, by drying; it is so greatly the magnificent cry of the field
impatient to feel its wheat and barley growing, of the blossoming tree
mad for still more blossoms of the green grapes craving a purple side;
of the bridge waiting for footsteps, for shadows of birds among shadows
of branches; the voice of all that yearns to sing, to drop the garb of
mourning, live again, serve again, be a brink, be a bourn, a sun-warm
seat, a stone glad to comfort with warmth the hand touching, or the
insect overcrawling it; finally, it is so greatly the cry toward the
light of all Beauty, all Health, all which wishes, in sunshine and joy,
to see its work while doing it, and do it to be seen--And when I feel
that vast call to the Day arising within me, I so expand my soul to make
it more sonorous, by making it more spacious, that the great cry may
still be increased in greatness; before giving it, I withold it in my
soul a moment so piously; then, when, to expel it, I contract my soul, I
am so convinced of accomplishing a great act, I have such faith that my
song will make night crumble like the walls of Jericho--
THE PHEASANT-HEN
[_Frightened.
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