Chantry

“ He let the big man dig his heel in. Any man but Havelock the Dane would have known better. But Havelock did as he pleased, and you either gave him up or bore it. Chantry did not want to give him up.
Chantry was a feminist; a bit of an æsthete but canny at affairs; good-looking, and temperate, and less hipped on the matter of sex than feminist gentlemen are wont to be. ”

“ Originally it was a chapel or chantry where mass was said for the repose of the soul of some private benefactor of the Abbey; then it became the eastern apse of the parish church of St. Lawrence; still later it was used as a school, and now serves the purpose of a choir vestry. There are within it two piscinae and two aumbries at different levels, indicating, no doubt, an alteration of level in the altar itself during the period that this chantry was in use. ”

“ Other instances of the provision of [Pg 168] school exhibitions are to be found in the chantry certificates relating to Houghton, Hull, Lincoln, Lyme Regis, Newland, Rotherham, Sullington, Thornton, Winchester, and Wotton-under-Edge.
Turning next to the chantries which were employed for the purpose of supporting students at the universities, we find that the return to the chantry commissioners, which relates to the chantry of North Wroxall, states that: “the sayd Incumbent is a student in Oxforde, but no prieste ”

“ Chantecler
[Whose crow is beginning to tire.] Cock-a-doo—
The Pheasant-hen
Oh—yellow among the pine trees!
Chantecler
Gold it ought to be,—gold!
The Pheasant-hen
And pearly grey—
Chantecler
It shall be white!—I haven’t done it yet! Cock-a-doodle-doo—It’s very bad so far, but I won’t give up!
The Pheasant-hen
Every hollow in every tree is pink as a wild rose—
Chantecler
[With growing enthusiasm.] Since love lends me strength in addition to faith, I say the Day to-day shall be more beautiful that the Day!—Do you see? Do you see the eastern sky at my voice dappling itself with light? ”

“ Chantecler
I am not Gallic if you give the word a base or ridiculous meaning. By Jove! Every Hen here knows whether my trumpet blast belongs to a soprano! But your perverse attempts to wring blushes from little baggages in convenient corners outrage my love of Love! It is true that I care more to retain love’s dream than these Cochin-Chinese, who, courting a giggle, use refinement in coarseness, research in vulgarity; true that my blood has swifter flow in a less ponderous body, and that I am not a feathered pig,—but a Cock!
The Pheasant-hen
Come, come away to the woods,—I love you! ”

“ But the Abbot hurried him along, and into the chapel.
The angel saw him enter, and smiled upon him.
"Come hither, son," said the deep voice.
Tremblingly, the cripple advanced upon his crutches, and when he reached the chancel he fell upon his face in mute reverence. His eyes were hidden so that he could not see what all the others marked in wonder—that in the angel's outstretched hand the golden scales hung even.
"Arise, servant of the Most High," said the angel. ”

“ Chantecler
Look at me, Pheasant-hen, and try, if indeed it be possible, try to recognise, by yourself, sign by sign, the vocation of which my body is the symbol. Guess, to begin with, at my destiny from my shape, and see how, curved like a sort of living hunting-horn, I am as much formed for sound to turn and gain volume within me, as the wild duck is formed to swim!—Wait!—Mark the fact that, impatient and proud, scratching up the earth with my claws, I appear always to be seeking something in the soil—
The Pheasant-hen
You are seeking for grains of corn, seeds, I suppose. ”

“ And thus provide a bell for God to grace His temple fair,
In crowds the people came, to see the metal glowing there.
Then as they passed, with hearts devout, each took a silver coin
And dropped it in the glowing mass—no priest did this enjoin.
They wished to show their grateful love to Him who bore their sin;
A simple form which love took on, not done God's grace to win.
Nor did they hope to win applause from priest and saintly friar;
If God were pleased they asked no more, nor more did they desire ”

“ When that great shadow falls, it is not the fine, strange Cocks we trust to keep off the bird of prey!
Chantecler
[Suddenly grown great of size, his wounds forgotten, stands in the midst of them, and in an authoritative tone.] Yes, close around me, all of you, all! [All, huddled in their feathers, their heads drawn in between their wings, press against him.]
The Pheasant-hen
Dear, brave, and gentle heart!
Chantecler
[The shadow sweeps over the crowd a second time. The Game Cock makes himself small. Chantecler alone remains standing, in the midst of a heap of ruffled, trembling feathers.] ”

“ The Pheasant-hen
[Lured along and half persuaded by the madness of the Cock.] Such a thing might be, after all, since love is involved in the mystery!
Chantecler
Resume, horizon, at my command, your fringe of little poplars!
The Pheasant-hen
[Bending over the valley.] There emerges from the shadow, gradually, a world of your creation—
Chantecler
Sacred things you are witnessing—To sacred things I am initiating you!—Define your outlines, distant hills! Pheasant-hen, do you love me?
The Pheasant-hen
We shall always love to be in the secret of the Makers of Dawn! ”

“ The Pheasant-hen
Go and see your old Hen in her old broken basket.
Chantecler
Ah, forest of the Toads, forest of the Poacher, forest of the Nightingale, and of the Pheasant-hen, when my old peasant mother sees me home again, back from your green recesses where pain is so interwoven with love, what will she say?
Patou
[Imitating the Old Hen’s affectionate quaver.] How that Chick has grown!
Chantecler
[Emphatically.] Of course she will! [Turning to leave.]
The Pheasant-hen
He is going! When faithless they turn to leave, oh, that we had arms, arms to hold them fast,—but we have only wings! ”

“ 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
[Gently rocks him, darting a glance now and then over her shoulder to see how the dawn is progressing.] You see that a wing is an outspread heart— [Aside.] Day is breaking! [To Chantecler.] You see that— [Aside.] The sky has paled! [To Chantecler.] —that a wing is— [Aside.] The tree is steeped in rosy light! [To Chantecler.] —partly a shield, and partly a cradle, partly a cloak and a place of rest,—that a wing is a kiss which enfolds and covers you over. You see that— [With a backward leap, suddenly withdrawing her wings.] the Day can break perfectly well without you! ”

“ 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!
The Old Hen
[Slyly winking at her.] He’s a fine Cock! ”

“ Up to London came the young exile, unfriended, with a body never robust, a heart of aching sensitiveness, and a mind absorbed in dreams of ideal beauty. Nothing was ever so inconsolably easy as his steep, his swift descent. Those days upon the cruel London streets; those nights when he lay outcast, suffering the "abashless inquisition of each star"; the wonderful, tentative efforts; the ceaseless literary discouragements; the want, the shame, the impotence of it all, bore their speedy fruit. ”

“ Chantecler
The Glow-worms have lighted their small, green lamps. All that is good comes forth, while hate shrinks back to its lair. Now they that shall be eaten lay themselves down in the grass by the side of them that shall eat them. The Star of a sudden looks nearer to earth, and forsaking her web the Spider draws herself up toward your song, climbing by her own silken thread. ”

“ Chantecler
You lie on the earth and sleep in the sun!
Patou
[With a pleased yap.] Aye!
Chantecler
We have ever had in common our love for those two things.
Patou
I am so fond of the sun that I howl at the moon. And so fond of the earth that I dig great holes and shove my nose in it!
Chantecler
I know! The gardener’s wife has her opinion of those holes.—But what are the dangers you discern? All lies quiet beneath the quiet sky. Nothing appears to be threatening my humble sunlit dominions.
The Old Hen
[Lifting the basket-lid with her head.] The egg looks like marble until it gets smashed! ”

“ The Pheasant-hen
[Who is watching the horizon between the trees.] The darkness is lightening.
Chantecler
What fountain, in which each finds water for his thirst? [Listening with greater attention.] To me he speaks of the Day, which arises and shines at my song! ”

“ M. Chanterelle gazed at the holy man with wonder:
“Are you not afraid, Father, that this custom of New Year’s gifts is baneful to the soul?”
“No, I am not afraid.”
“The custom comes to us from the Pagans.”
“The Pagans sometimes followed good customs. God was pleased to suffer some faint rays of his light to pierce the darkness of the Gentiles. Sir, if you refuse to give us presents, never refuse a boon to our poor little ones. We have a home for foundlings. With this poor crown I shall buy each child a little paper windmill and a cake. ”

“ Cock—!
Chantecler
Off with you all! Be off! [The Hens hastily start, he calls them back.] A word before you go. When your blood-bright combs—now in, now out of sight, now in again—shall flash among the sage and borage yonder, like poppies playing at hide-and-seek,—to the real poppies, I enjoin you, do no injury! Shepherdesses, counting the stitches of their knitting, trample the grass all unaware that it’s a crime to crush a flower—even with a woman! But you, my Spouses, show considerate and touching thought for the flowers whose only offence is growing wild. ”

“ The angel smiled yet more sweetly into the boy's wondering face.
"Yet hast thou both seen and served me," he said; "I was the aged pilgrim, and the thirsty goat, and the dying dog to which thou gavest drink. And now thou shalt never lack water to quench thy thirst and that of thy house, all the days of thy life. Thou didst not grudge to give when thou hadst need thyself; therefore is the water-skin full at thy girdle; and for the necklace—behold, it is again in thy bosom. Haste thee, Abdallah, 'Servant of God,' and the blessing of the Merciful go with thee." ”

“ From the many English synonyms for song I have selected the word chant to translate qaçàl. In its usual signification hymnody may be its more exact equivalent, but it is a less convenient term than chant. The shaman, or medicine man, who is master of ceremonies, is known as qaçàli or chanter—el cantador, the Mexicans call him. In order to keep in mind his relationship to similar functionaries in other tribes I shall, from time to time, allude to him as the priest, the shaman, or the medicine man, following 386 the example of other authors. ”

“ Chantecler
All those Rabbits looking on make it a trifle—
The Pheasant-hen
[Suddenly flaps her wings; the frightened Rabbits start, on all sides white tails disappear into rabbit-holes. The Pheasant-hen coming back to Chantecler.] There! [They bill.] Do you love my forest?
Chantecler
I love it, for no sooner had I crossed its verdant border than I got back my song. Let us go to roost. I must sing very early to-morrow. ”

“ Chantecler
[Collecting himself and straightening up.] When one dwells in a soul, it is better, believe me, to meet with the Dawn there, than with nothing.
The Pheasant-hen
[Angrily.] No! the Dawn defrauds me of a great and undivided love!
Chantecler
There is no great love outside the shadow of a great dream! How should there not flow more love from a soul whose very business it is to open wide every day?
The Pheasant-hen
[Coming and going stormily.] I will sweep everything aside with my golden russet wing! ”

“ It is a fact, however, that, outside of Treasure Island, the chantey has never been found anywhere in print, and it has always been one of the tragedies of literature that the Captain never got any further than the first four lines. The beginning is so admirable! Though, of course, as a chantey four lines are enough; many chanteys consist of no more than that. For a chantey is made to be sung as a gang of sailors heave on a rope, or do some other work in concert, one voice carrying the lines and all of them coming in on the chorus. ”

“ But the Count de Charney seemed likely to be restored to the use of his by studies of a similar nature; and, sane or insane, he had at least already extracted from his plant an arcanum sufficiently potent to dispel the weariness of ennui, and enlarge the limit of his captivity.
“If it would but flower!” he frequently exclaimed, “what a delight to hail the opening of its first blossom! a blossom whose beauty, whose fragrance, will be developed for the sole enjoyment of my eager senses. ”

“ 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!
The Blackbird
[Who has again hopped down from his cage.] I must go and tell the Guinea-hen that a golden bird has blown into town. She’ll have a fit! She will invite her! [Off.]
Chantecler
So you come to us from the East, like the Dawn?
The Pheasant-hen
My life has the picturesque disorder of a poem. If I came from the East, it was by way of Egypt. ”