Part 11

Well, Constant Coquelin was wearing a dressing-gown and a skull-cap, because he felt a little “fatigued.” But the visits of M. Rostand, and of the wig-makers, scene-painters and costumiers, as well as the impatience of the Parisians to behold the new “masterpiece,” restored to the comedian all his former energy, enthusiasm. Final resolutions were made. The first rehearsal at the Porte St-Martin Theatre was fixed for the following week; the first performance would be given, irrevocably, in the middle of May. “What a triumph we shall have!” said Coquelin _aîné_ to the few friends he received in the Home. “Ah, my admirable Gillett, what a work of genius is _Chantecler_!” he exclaimed, when the devoted valet lighted him to his bedroom. “Listen, I will recite to you Rostand’s _Hymn to the Sun_. And after that, my good Gillett, you shall hear me crow.” Replied faithful Gillett: “To-morrow—not to-night. It is wiser to go to sleep.” But Constant Coquelin refused to sleep until he had recited and crowed. Up and down the room, in the dressing-gown and skull-cap, he strutted. The superannuated actors and actresses were awakened by his cry: “Je t’adore, Soleil!” Five minutes later there resounded throughout the Home a clarion, peremptory—“Cocorico.” Said the old players: “The master is rehearsing.” Said Gillett: “Your old servant insists upon your going to bed.” Said Coquelin _aîné_: “When I have played Chantecler I shall retire from the stage, and you and I, my faithful Gillett, will pass the rest of our lives down here, tranquilly, happily, amidst our twenty old guests.” But next morning, after Gillett had helped his master into the dressing-gown, Constant Coquelin fell heavily to the floor. Cry after cry from admirable Gillett, cries from the superannuated players—then profound silence and gloom. Gloom, too, in Paris. The blinds darkly drawn in the windows of the first floor of the rue de Rivoli hotel. The Porte St-Martin—other theatres—closed. All kinds of _soirées_, banquets and fêtes postponed. “What a disaster, what a tragedy, _mon ami_; what a blow, what a calamity, _ma chère_.” Gloom—dear, wonderful Coquelin _aîné_ was dead....

In the summer of 1909 M. Edmond Rostand, after spending four months in seclusion at Cambo, returned to Paris; a few days later the rehearsals of _Chantecler_ at the Porte St-Martin Theatre began. “Should anything happen to me, you must ask Guitry to play my part,” had said Coquelin, to the poet. M. Guitry, therefore, was appointed “Chantecler,” Madame Simone, ex-Le Bargy, was made the Hen Pheasant. Gay, frisky M. Galipaux was created Blackbird, M. Jean Coquelin, the great comedian’s son, chose the rôle of the Dog. “Irrevocably in November,” stated the newspapers, “we shall hear ‘Chantecler’ sound his first cocorico.” And Paris rejoiced once again and was “thrilled.”

But, ah me, how that positive word, “irrevocable,” was misused! No _Chantecler_ in November, no “Cocorico” in December—only multitudinous newspaper _potins_ that constantly announced the postponement of the event, and described “life” at the Porte St-Martin and in M. Rostand’s hotel on the Champs Elysées. It was repeatedly stated that the poet, after hot words with M. Guitry, had taken “the 9.39 train back to Cambo.” It was asserted that Madame Simone had thrown her type-written rôle on to the stage, stamped hysterically on the rôle, and left the theatre in tears. It was furthermore reported that M. Guitry was about to undergo an operation for cancer; that lively Galipaux was suffering from acute melancholia; that M. Jean Coquelin, distracted, prematurely ancient and infirm, had taken refuge in the Home at Pont-aux-Dames. Then, the insinuation that Chantecler would never, never “cocorico.”... Nor, according to the same newspaper _potins_, was “life” in M. Rostand’s hotel more serene. He was as closely guarded as the Tsar of All the Russias. Nevertheless, a waiter who served him was, in reality, a Yellow Italian journalist; threatening letters and telegrams from lunatics arrived by the score; and wizened old cranks sent the poet baskets of feathers, with the solemn warning that unless these, and only these feathers, were worn by the Cock and the Hen Pheasant, well, M. Guitry and Madame Simone, and M. Rostand and _Chantecler_ would be ridiculed, ruined, and done for.... In fine, what a November, what a December—and what a January of the present year! And when MM. Hertz and Jean Coquelin, the proprietors of the Porte St-Martin Theatre, themselves announced that the first performance of _Chantecler_ would be given on 28th January “_most irrevocably_,” how delirious became the _potins_, and how agitated the Parisians! The great question was: Would _Chantecler_ be a triumphant success, or only a moderate success, or a catastrophe? To determine this problem, clairvoyantes—positively—were consulted. And Madame Olga de Sonski, at present of the rue des Martyrs, and late—so her card asserted—of Persia, Budapest, Cairo and Bond Street—Madame de Sonski declared she already felt the Porte St-Martin, massive theatre that it was, trembling, almost tottering, from applause. But not so Madame Juliette de Magenta, of the rue des Ténèbres, from Morocco, St Petersburg, Constantinople and Broadway: “I hear [_sic_] the silence, the coldness, the gloom of disappointment and disapproval,” funereally she said. However, in spite of Madame de Magenta’s lugubrious prognostications, the news came that M. Rostand had disposed of the publishing rights of _Chantecler_ for one million francs; that stalls and dress-circle seats (for the box-office was now open) for the first three performances were selling like wildfire at six pounds apiece; that critics and millionaires from America, and French Ambassadors and Ministers from divers parts of Europe, and even dark-skinned, dyspeptic merchants from Buenos Ayres, were all hastening to Paris to hear the “cocorico” of Chantecler. What excitement, what a whirl! For the twentieth time it was rumoured that M. Rostand had taken “the 9.39 train back to Cambo.” Now M. Guitry had appendicitis; and Madame Simone had injured herself by falling through a trap-door. Nevertheless, the first performance remained fixed “most irrevocably” for 28th January—on which day many a quarter of Paris and most of the _banlieue_ were flooded.

So, another postponement. Successively, and always “positively irrevocably,” it was announced that the great event would take place on 31st January, 2nd February, 5th February and 6th February. And thus the critics and millionaires from America, the French Ambassadors and Ministers from divers European capitals, the merchants from Buenos Ayres (looking sallow and bloodshot from the voyage) were detained in Paris at much personal inconvenience and loss to themselves. Nothing would move them until they had heard the clarion cry of—“Cocorico.” And M. Pichon, Minister of Foreign Affairs, became uneasy at the prolonged sojourn of the Ministers and Ambassadors. “Diplomatic relations between France and many a foreign Power are interrupted,” he cried tragically, “and all because of a cock and a hen pheasant.” Social life, too, was interrupted. _Le Tout Paris_ refrained from issuing dinner invitations lest they should clash with the first performance, and countermanded rooms engaged weeks beforehand in the Riviera hotels.

A final rumour to the effect that M. Rostand had returned to Cambo by the 9.39 train—a train which, by the way, does not figure in the time-table. Another _canard_ stating that M. Guitry had contracted typhoid fever through drinking water contaminated by the floods. A third Yellow _potin_ reporting Madame Simone to have “mysteriously,” “sensationally” disappeared. What chaos, what incoherency! And what a scene in the Porte St-Martin when at last, on Sunday night, 6th February, _Chantecler_, in the presence of the most brilliant audience yet assembled in a Paris theatre, came, crowed and conquered.

A new handsome curtain, new carpets, new velvet fauteuils, programmes printed on vellum, and red ribbons (also supplied by the management) in the grisly hair of the middle-aged _ouvreuses_. “I have been an _ouvreuse_ for twenty years, but never have I seen an audience so vast, so animated, so _chic_,” said one of these ladies to me as she bundled up my overcoat, pinned a ticket to it and dropped it on to the floor. “Not a peg left,” she continued. “Immediately beneath your overcoat lies the overcoat of Prince Murat. In the heap next to it is a Rothschild overcoat. And as for that other pile of overcoats in the corner, all fur-lined, all magnificent, well, they belong to ambassadors, dukes, American millionaires, English milords, famous writers, politicians, jockeys—all the great personages in the world. Thus, although it lies on the floor, your overcoat is in illustrious company.” After warning me that no one would be admitted into the theatre when the curtain had risen, the _ouvreuse_ showed me to my seat, held out her hand, was rewarded, and left me free to admire the jewels, feathers, dresses and coiffures of _le Tout Paris_. All eyes—or rather opera-glasses—on the box occupied by Madame Rostand and her two sons. In another box, M. Briand, the Prime Minister. In the stalls, Academicians, generals, playwrights, critics, newspaper proprietors, aviators, financiers, leading actors and actresses. Everyone afoot, or rather on tip-toe, gossiping, laughing, singling out celebrities with their glasses. But at ten minutes to nine o’clock the three traditional thuds made by a mallet behind the curtain (the signal in French theatres that the play is about to begin) caused a hush. Everyone sat down. “_Chantecler_ at last,” said, emotionally, a lady behind me. The curtain rose two or three inches. “_Pas encore, pas encore_,” cried a voice. Consternation, dismay of _le Tout Paris_; was the play again to be postponed, was it true that M. Rostand had taken that 9.39 train, and that Madame Simone had “sensationally” disappeared, and that M. Guitry—— “_Pas encore, pas encore!_” But it was—thank heaven—only the voice of M. Jean Coquelin who appeared in the front of the stalls in a dress-suit, mounted a footstool and recited the prologue to M. Rostand’s fantastic, symbolical _chef-d’œuvre_.

It was a delightfully humorous description of the feathered inhabitants of a farm-yard; and as M. Jean Coquelin continued to harangue the audience eloquently from his footstool, the animals were heard becoming impatient on the hidden stage.

A crowing of cocks. A cackling of geese. The stamping of a horse’s hoof. The creaking of an old cart. The bray of a donkey. The miaow of a cat. The hoot of an owl. The whistle of a blackbird. Then—distinctly—three taps from a woodpecker: “_le bec d’un pivert a frappé les trois coups_”; and with a cry of “The woodpecker says the play must commence,” M. Coquelin disappeared, down went the lights: and up amidst thunders of applause rose the curtain.

Before us, a farm-yard, not an inmate or an object of which is wanting. White, black, grey and brown hens strut hither and thither, sharply discussing the powers, vanities, infidelities of Chantecler, their lord and master. Ducks and drakes, ganders and geese take sides for or against the king of the yard. Now and again the lid of a vast wicker-work basket opens, to reveal the head of the Old Hen—a very old hen, the doyenne of the place, and Chantecler’s foster-mother. In her, of course, the cock finds an ardent defender; but whenever the withered old head protrudes from the basket the Blackbird, hopping about in his cage, holds forth mockingly, ironically. For the Blackbird, like every other feathered creature in the play, is symbolical. He represents the smart, shallow, cynical Parisian, who scoffs at principles, ridicules genius, laughs at love, denies the existence of disinterested friendship, and is enormously pleased with his empty, impudent self. So he makes fun of the Old Hen and of the white, black, grey and brown hens whilst they pay naïve tributes to the supreme genius of Chantecler—the Cock of Cocks, the superb creature whose clarion, peremptory call causes the sun to rise and makes the world radiant, beautiful and cheerful. Chantecler has betrayed the hens, but they nevertheless admire and love him. As the discussion continues, bees, butterflies, wasps fly across the stage. On a pillar, a cat dozes tranquilly in the sun. Two fluffy little chicks play at getting in and out of a gigantic sabot. To the right, a huge dog’s kennel; in the background a gigantic cart, with its shafts in the air. In a corner, a set of enormous harness. The birds and beasts being of Brobdingnagian sizes, the objects on the stage have been magnified in proportion. But all is natural; never, from first to last, a note of extravagance, grotesqueness. Well, on and on goes the discussion, and, as the Blackbird sneers and scoffs, it becomes heated and shrill. “Silence; here he comes, here he comes,” cries a pigeon. And not a sound is heard when Chantecler appears, solemn, majestic, arrogant, on the poultry-yard wall. The hens gather together, look up at him with submission, admiration. The two chicks stop their game. The cat wakes up. Even the Blackbird ceases hopping about in his cage. Magnificent, awe-inspiring, indeed, is Chantecler in his dark green and light brown feather dress—“the green of April and the ochre of October.” He is, as on the top of the wall he recites his _Hymn to the Sun_, Cyrano de Bergerac in feathers. He represents the artist, the creative genius, the dispenser of beauty and spiritual light. If he be the lord over the other denizens of the farm-yard, it is because they will have it so. They believe the sun rises because Chantecler summons it with his shrill, imperious “Cocorico.” And Chantecler, the Superb, believes it himself—believes it in spite of the sceptical Blackbird. Chantecler, in fact, might stand for a great many types besides the artistic; for example, the statesman who fancies he is the creator of the social reforms that are advancing with civilisation like a tide. “I adore thee, O sun,” begins Chantecler, his beak raised towards the skies.

Je t’adore, Soleil! ô toi dont la lumière, Pour bénir chaque front et mûrir chaque miel, Entrant dans chaque fleur et dans chaque chaumière Se divise et demeure entière Ainsi que l’amour maternel!

...

Je t’adore, Soleil! Tu mets dans l’air des roses, Des flammes dans la source, un dieu dans le buisson! Tu prends un arbre obscur, et tu l’apothéoses! O Soleil! toi sans qui les choses Ne seraient que ce qu’elles sont!

Night falls, and Chantecler sends his subjects to bed. Then he and Patou, the dog philosopher, discuss the situation in the farm-yard. Excellent Patou might be Anatole France’s M. Bergeret. He despises the pert, cynical Blackbird. He denounces the snobbishness, the vanity, the vulgarity of the age. He is for calm, for reflection, for—— A shot is heard, the Hen Pheasant flies in and implores Chantecler to protect her from the hunter. She nestles under the Cock’s wing; she looks up at him admiringly, tenderly—and proud, gallant, idealistic Chantecler there and then falls in love with the gorgeous black, gold and red Pheasant. Majestically Chantecler struts round and round her, his chest thrown outwards, his beak in the air. Curiously, somewhat disdainfully, the Hen Pheasant surveys the farm-yard. It strikes her as poor, sordid, such an obscure little corner of the world. How different from the beauty, the spaciousness, the grandeur of her forest!

_La Faisane._

Mais tous ces objets sont pauvres et moroses!

_Chantecler._

Moi, je n’en reviens pas du luxe de ces choses!

_La Faisane._

Tout est toujours pareil, pourtant.

_Chantecler._

Rien n’est pareil, Jamais, sous le soleil, à cause du soleil! Car Elle change tout!

_La Faisane._

Elle... Qui?

_Chantecler._

La lumière.

Ardently, enthusiastically, then, Chantecler tells the Hen Pheasant how daylight, as it changes, floods the objects in the farm-yard with ever-varying colours. That geranium is never twice the same red. Patou’s kennel, the sabot stuffed with straw, the rusty old pitchfork—not for two successive moments do they look the same. A rake in a corner, a flower in a vase, as they change colour in the rays of the sun, fill idealistic Chantecler with ecstasy.

Still, the Hen Pheasant is not very much impressed. She consents, nevertheless, to pass the night in Patou’s kennel, which the dog-philosopher obligingly gives up to her. Owls, with huge, luminous eyes, appear. Bats dash about in the air. A mole creeps forth. As they love darkness and detest light, they fancy if Chantecler dies the night will last for ever. “I hate him,” they say, one after another.—“Je commence à l’aimer,” says the Hen Pheasant, womanlike, when she thus hears that Chantecler is in danger.

Owls, bats, the Cat, the Blackbird and strange night creatures are assembled beneath the branches of a huge tree, when the curtain rises on the second act. The Big Owl chants an Ode to the Night. “Vive la Nuit,” cry his brethren, at intervals, in a hoarse chorus. It is determined that Chantecler must die. At five o’clock in the morning, when the Guinea-Fowl holds a reception, a terrific fighting-cock shall insult, attack and slay Chantecler. “Vive la Nuit,” cry the night-birds, their eyes shining luridly in the darkness. But when a “Cocorico” sounds in the distance the night creatures fly away, and Chantecler, followed by the Hen Pheasant, struts on to the dim stage. “Tell me,” pleads the Pheasant, “the secret of your power.” At first Chantecler refuses, then hesitates, then in a glorious outburst he declares that the sun cannot rise until he has sung his song. It is perhaps the noblest, the most exquisite passage in the play.

Here is the last verse:

Je pense à la lumière, et non pas à la gloire, Chanter, c’est ma façon de me battre et de croire. Et si de tous les chants mon chant est le plus fier, C’est que je chante clair afin qu’il fasse clair.

“But if,” asks the Hen Pheasant, “the skies are clouded and grey?”

_Chantecler._

Si le ciel est gris, c’est que j’ai mal chanté.

_La Faisane._

Il est tellement beau, qu’il semble avoir raison.

Majestically, Chantecler struts to and fro beneath the branches of the trees. Humbly, admiringly, the Hen Pheasant watches his perambulations. Night has passed, daybreak is near; the skies above the hillock on which Chantecler is standing turn from black to purple, and next from purple to dark grey. “Look and listen,” says Chantecler. He digs his claws firmly into the turf; he throws his chest out; he raises his head heavenwards: “Cocorico... Cocorico... Cocorico.” And gradually, delicately, the skies light up; birds twitter, cottages stand out in the distance, the tramp of the peasant on his way to the fields tells that the day’s work has begun—shafts of golden light fall upon the majestic Chantecler and illuminate the plumage of the graceful, beautiful Hen Pheasant.

And now, in a kitchen garden, the Guinea-Fowl’s “five o’clock”—a worldly, fashionable reception—at five o’clock in the morning! It is a satire on elegant Paris _salons_; what tittle-tattle, what scandalmongering, what epigrams, paradoxes and puns! At a weather-stained old gate stands the Magpie. One of the first guests he ceremoniously announces is the Peacock—the _grande dame_, to whom her hostess, the snobbish Guinea-Fowl, makes a profound curtsy. (The Peacock’s tail is a miracle of ingenuity; the actress can spread it out fanwise, raise it, let it drop, at will.) Then, one after another, arrives an endless procession of cocks. “The Golden Cock; the Silver Cock; the Cock from Bagdad; the Cock from Cochin China; the Scotch Grey Cock; the Bantam Cock; the Cock without Claws; M. le Doyen of All the Cocks,” announces the Magpie. Bows from these multitudinous Cocks to the Guinea-Fowl, to the Peacock and to the Blackbird. In all, forty-three amazing Cocks, each of whom is jealous of Chantecler; who eventually appears at the gateway with the Hen Pheasant. “Announce me, simply, as _the_ Cock,” proudly says Chantecler. “_Le_ Coq,” cries the Magpie. And the trouble begins.

Coldness from the Guinea-Fowl, scorn from the Peacock, mockery from the Blackbird, and insults from the Prize Fighting Cock, who has been commissioned by the uncanny, unwholesome Night Birds to slay idealistic, sun-loving Chantecler. Then, the duel, which ends in the victory of THE Cock, and the pain and humiliation of the prize-fighter. All the Cocks, from M. le Doyen down to the Cock without Claws, are dismayed. The Peacock is disgusted; the Guinea-Fowl is dejected at the wretched failure of her “five o’clock”—only the smart, irrepressible Blackbird keeps things going. But not for long. Contemptuously, Chantecler turns upon him; taunts him with his vain, miserable endeavour to imitate the true, delightful wit, gaiety and genius of the Sparrow—the _gavroche_—of Paris. The Parisian Sparrow is flippant, but warm-hearted. He laughs, he scoffs, he whistles, he swaggers, but he is faithful and brave. But you, wretched Blackbird, are a coward. You, shallow creature, are a sneak. And then the line that would have rejoiced the heart of Victor Hugo: “Il faut savoir mourir pour s’appeler Gavroche.”

A month passes. The last Act represents the Hen Pheasant’s forest, where she and Chantecler are spending their honeymoon. For the bird has enticed the Cock away from the farm-yard; and thus, distress of his old foster-mother, and much indignation amongst the white, grey, brown and black hens.

Night in the forest, and how beautifully depicted! Up in a tree sits a solemn woodpecker; below him, around a huge mushroom, a number of toads with glistening eyes are assembled. Then, a gigantic cobweb, and in the middle of it, a spider. Here and there, rabbits peep out of their holes. Everywhere, birds. “It is time,” says the solemn woodpecker to them, “for you to say your prayers.”

_Une Voix [dans les arbres]._

Dieu des oiseaux!...

_Une Autre Voix._

Ou plutôt—car il sied avant tout de s’entendre Et le vautour n’a pas le Dieu de la calandre! Dieu des petits oiseaux!...

_Mille Voix [dans les feuilles]._

Dieu des petits oiseaux!...

_Une Autre Voix._

Et vous, François, grand saint, bénisseur de nos ailes....

_Toutes les Voix._

Priez pour nous!

_Une Voix._

Obtenez-nous, François d’Assise, Le grain d’orge...

_La Seconde Voix._

Le grain de blé...

_D’autres Voix._

Le grain de mil...

_La Première Voix._

Ainsi soit-il!

_Toutes les Voix._

Ainsi soit-il!

At length, when Chantecler appears, we perceive that there is something wrong with the Cock. “Does not my forest please you?” asks the Hen Pheasant tenderly. “Oh yes,” replies Chantecler half-heartedly. The fact is, he pines after the farm-yard. Every night in the forest he telephones to the Blackbird, through the flower of the bindweed, for news of his old foster-mother, the hens, the chicks, the dog Patou. Then the Hen Pheasant is jealous of his love for the sun. Cruelly, she has insisted that he is to crow only once every day.

But it is the Hen Pheasant’s design to make Chantecler forget the dawn. He, of the farm-yard, has never heard the song of the nightingale. So glorious are her notes that Chantecler, the poet, the idealist, will be enraptured by them—and lose count of time.

And the nightingale sings; and Chantecler, enthralled, listens attentively—and as he stands there, spellbound, beneath the nightingale’s tree,—_the sun rises and lights up the forest_.