When it is over, the DAUGHTER turns round and looks at
the FIDDLER, and sighs.)
DAUGHTER. That is all you want? Just you and your fiddle and the
open road?
FIDDLER. It is the best life.
[The TALKER appears at the window.]
TALKER. Aha! what did I hear? Did I hear our loquacious Fiddler
perorating upon Life? "Life," quoth she, with much argument and
circumstantial matter; "Life," she continued, making her points
singly and one by one, thus keeping the business in its true
perspective; "Life is--"(Lamely) Well, what is life?
FIDDLER. When do we start, Johannes?
[The DAUGHTER goes out.]
TALKER. Are you so eager to be gone?
FIDDLER. We have been here eight days.
TALKER. Eight days! And Troy was besieged for eleven years! Eight
days! Why, I could talk for eight days without taking breath, and I
am by nature a glum, silent man. Nay, nay, say not to me "Eight
days." Eight days will not make a man grow old or a woman lose her
beauty. (The MOTHER comes into the room.) Or a woman lose her
beauty--Madame, I kiss your hands. Were I of less girth I would
flit through the window and fall upon my knees at your feet. (The
FIDDLER with a shrug goes out.) As it is, I shall enter by the door
in the usual way. I have your permission?
MOTHER (smiling). You asked my permission a week ago.
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