WAGONMAKER. Go on, Shoemaker! Now comes the aria; it must be rendered with feeling. Then you shall see that the burgomaster will wake up!
SHOEMAKER. [Sings aria.]
ARIA.
The breath of the rose and carnation-bud's fragrance, 'mongst
wonder-flowers' fated!
As false at heart
As glitter-wave,
She held toward him her billowy hair,
Where all the ocean's freshness breathes.
And lily so red and lily so white
Confidingly muse on death and life.
CHIROPODIST. That was a rare strophe! But it doesn't seem to have any special bearing upon the subject and our present conditions. Where did you get it?
SHOEMAKER. Well, you see, I have an apprentice at home who is one of your idealists; he does things of this sort when he's free, on Sundays.
WAGONMAKER. If I may venture an opinion, I think it inconceivably difficult to get at the pith of the strophe.
SHOEMAKER. That's just the fine point, you see! But hush—methinks we have the rain here. [Puts on coat.]
WAGONMAKER. Do the gentlemen think it worth while to stand here in the rain and get soaked on that old duffer's account?
SHOEMAKER. But we are paid to support the song and we must at least do the trio before we go; for when we all pitch in together the object itself won't be able to sleep! The oration, on the other hand, can be given at any time; besides, there is too small a public for so big a speech. We'll take the trio—do, mi, sol, do. It is not as ideal as the aria, but it evinces greater familiarity with the specific conditions. [Rain patters, wind increases.]
CHIROPODIST. Damned if I stand here any longer and catch cold for that old charlatan! Remuneration? Six marks each! One can do without that.