Aleko: "What is there to please in our noisy towns? The genuine love, no veritable joy. The maidens. How much dost thou surpass them, without their rich apparel, their pearls, or their necklaces! Be true, my gentle friend! My sole wish is to share with thee love, leisure, and this self-sought exile."
The Old Gypsy: "Thou lovest us, though born amongst the rich.. But freedom is not always agreeable to those used to luxury. We have a legend:—
"Once a king banished a man from the South to live amongst us—I once knew but have forgotten his difficult name—though old in years he was youthful, passionate, and simple-hearted. He had a wondrous gift of song, with a voice like running waters. Everyone liked him. He dwelt on the banks of the Danube, harming no one, but pleasing many with his stories. He was helpless, weak, and timid as a child. Strangers brought him game and fish caught in nets. When the rapid river froze and winter storms raged high, they clad the saintly old man in soft warm furs. But he could never be inured to the hardships of a poor man's life. He wandered about pale and thin, declaring that an offended God was chastening him for some crime. He waited, hoping for deliverance, and full of sad regret. The wretched man wandered on the banks of the Danube shedding bitter tears, as he remembered his distant home, and, dying, he desired that his unhappy bones should be carried to the South. Even in death the stranger to these parts could find no rest."
Aleko: "Such is thy children's fate, O Borne, O world-famed Empire! Singer of love, singer of the gods, say what is glory? The echo from the tomb, the voice of praise continued from generation to generation, or a tale told by a gypsy in his smoky tent?"
Two years passed. The peaceful gypsy band still wanders, finding everywhere rest and hospitality. Scorning the fetters of civilisation, Aleko is free, like them; without regret or care he leads a wandering life. He is unchanged, unchanged the gypsy band. Forgetful of his past, he has grown used to a gypsy life. He loves sleeping under their tents, the delight of perpetual idleness, and their poor but sonorous tongue. The bear, a deserter from his native haunts, is now a shaggy guest within his tent. In the villages along the deserted route that passes in front of some Moldavian dwelling, the bear dances clumsily before a timid crowd and growls and gnaws his tiresome chain. Leaning on his staff the old man lazily strikes the tambourine; Aleko, singing, leads the bear; Zemphira makes the round of the villagers, collecting their voluntary gifts; when night sets in all three prepare the corn they have not reaped, the old man sleeps, and all is still.... The tent is quiet and dark.
In the spring the old man is warming his numbed blood; at a cradle his daughter sings of love. Aleko listens, and turns pale.
Zemphira: "Old husband, cruel husband, cut me, burn me, I am firm, and fear neither knife nor fire. I hate thee, despise thee; I love another, and loving him will die."
Aleko: "Silence, thy singing annoys me. I dislike wild songs."