_] Chantecler!
CHANTECLER
And sounding its victory beforehand, my song springs forth so clear, so
proud, so peremptory, that the horizon, seized with a rosy
trembling--_obeys!_
THE PHEASANT-HEN
Chantecler!
CHANTECLER
I sing! Vainly Night offers to compromise, offers a dubious twilight--I
sing again! And suddenly--
THE PHEASANT-HEN
Chantecler!
CHANTECLER
I fall back, blinded by the red light bathing me, dazzled at having, I,
the Cock, made the Sun to rise!
THE PHEASANT-HEN
Then the whole secret of your song--?
CHANTECLER
Is that I dare assume that the East without me must rest in idleness! I
sing, not to hear the echo repeat, a shade fainter, my song! I think of
light and not of glory! Singing is my fashion of waging war and bearing
witness. And if my song is the proudest of songs, it is that I sing
clearly to make the day rise clear!
THE PHEASANT-HEN
What he says sounds slightly mad!--You are responsible for the rising
of--
CHANTECLER
That which opens flower, eye, soul, and window! Certainly! My voice
dispenses light! And when the sky is grey, the reason is that I have
sung badly.
THE PHEASANT-HEN
But when you sing by day?
CHANTECLER
I am practising, or else promising the ploughshare, the hoe, the harrow,
the scythe, not to neglect my duty of waking them.
THE PHEASANT-HEN
But what wakens you?
CHANTECLER
The fear of forgetting.
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