Bohemia—us.
Rodolphe
You?
Marcel
That is to say, all those, who, driven by an obstinate vocation, go into art with no other means of existence than art itself; wit always kept on watch by their ambition which beats the charge before them and drives them to an assault on the future. Their everyday existence is a work of genius, a quotidian problem. But if a small fortune falls into their hands, they are to be seen cavalcading in the most serious fantasies, loving the youngest and the most beautiful, drinking the best and oldest wines—never finding enough windows to throw their money out of.
Schaunard
Then, when their last franc is dead and buried—they begin diving over again at the table d’hôtel, where their place is always set—and to hunt down from noon to midnight that ferocious arrival—a one hundred sous coin—intelligent folk who would have found truffles on the raft of the Medusa.
Marcel
They don’t know how to take the steps on the boulevard without meeting a friend.
Schaunard
Or thirty steps—no matter where—without meeting a creditor.
Marcel
And when January comes, pockets full of colds and hands full of chilblains, they warm themselves philosophically by burning their furniture.
Schaunard
That’s what moderns call sitting by the chimney.
Rodolphe
Truly, gentlemen, your carefree courage, your joyful philosophy enchants me. I would never like to leave you.
Schaunard
We will stay here just as long as you like, monsieur.
Ladies (outside)
Here we are!
(Musette and Phemie come in, loaded down with flowers. Phemie has an apple.)
Chorus
Let’s glean,
Let’s pick
The daisies.
Among the green turf.
To the sweet songs of warblers.
Let’s mingle, mingle,
Our gay tunes.
Musette
There’s our harvest.
Phemie (eating an apple)
The country is excellent.
Marcel (to Rodolphe)
As to the rest, monsieur, we have sweet compensations in our life of trials. These young girls are our living joys. We love them madly and perhaps they will love us forever.
(Phemie passes by Schaunard who is seated.)
Rodolphe
If forever doesn’t last too long.
Marcel
And if the ribbons don’t cost too much. They will remain with us so long as they have heart—and they’ll leave us when they have wit.
Musette
Meaning I am stupid?
Marcel
Alas, no, my sweet.
Musette
As for me, who refused a bank clerk with fine mahogany furniture—
Marcel
Yes, but if it had been the banker himself, and he had driven audacity to the point of touching the rosewood—
Musette
True. I would have refused him. I’ve still got time—besides, you, too, will be rich.
Marcel
Certainly—still, some measure of patience. Anyway, I have an idea. Starting next Monday we will practice economies and I will—
Musette
Yes, my little Marcel. I really love you, go on, for you I would throw myself from the top of the towers of Notre Dame.
Schaunard
Musette, that impudent remark will cost you four sous. It’s the penalty. (to Phemie) And you! Would you like to die for me?
Phemie
Yes, but not of starvation.
Schaunard (to Rodolphe)
She is astounding, monsieur. She finds words like those all by herself—without hesitation. She is astounding. I am infatuated with her.
(Phemie pulls a fruit from her pocket and a paper falls out. Schaunard rises and picks it up.)
Phemie (aside)
These fruits! It’s extraordinary how they make you hungry.
(Phemie goes back upstage.)
Schaunard (aside)
What do I see! A declaration with an emblem representing a heart pierced by a bayonet—and signed “A soldier of the Twenty-Ninth.” It was two weeks ago I surprised the presence of another paper signed “A cavalryman of the Twenty-Fourth.” Her heart is a barracks. (calling) Phemie!
Phemie (coming to him)
Huh?
Schaunard
You know too many people in uniform. (showing the letter) What is this love prospectus signed by a member of the French Cavalry?
Phemie (troubled)
That—it’s from a little red man who handed it to me on the Pont Neuf.
Schaunard
Very well. (pointing to his cane) Tonight you’ll have an explanation with the bamboo.
(Colline and Baptiste enter, arm in arm. Colline has a basket. They enter from the back right.)
Colline
You are a skeptic, Monsieur Baptiste.
Baptiste
Sir, I’ve read Voltaire.
