Well, will somebody tell me, for I confess I have been
wondering what is behind it all.
FIDDLER. Tell her, Johannes.
TALKER. If you will allow me, Madame. But tell me first, did you
notice anything lacking in our performance?
MOTHER (surprised). No; I don't think so.
TALKER (to DAUGHTER). Perhaps you, Mademoiselle?
DAUGHTER (shyly). It seemed to lack a woman's voice, sir.
TALKER (admiringly). What intelligence! What profundity! (To
MOTHER) Madam, I felicitate you again on your daughter. Unerringly
she has laid her finger on the weak joint in our armour. We have no
woman's voice.
MOTHER. Well, Sir, I don't see how I can help you.
TALKER. Madame, you have a nightingale. It has lived in a cage all
its life. It looks through the bars sometimes, and sees the great
world outside, and sighs and turns back to its business of singing.
Madame, it would sing better outside in the open air, with the
other birds.
MOTHER. I don't understand you, sir. Are you referring to my
daughter?
TALKER (looking towards the window). There is a stream which runs
beyond the road, with a green bank to it. We were seated on that
bank, I and my two companions, eating our bread and cheese, and
washing it down with draughts from that good stream. We were tired,
for we had come from over the hills that morning, and it was good
to lie on our backs there and watch the little clouds taking shape
after shape in the blue, and so to dream our dreams.
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