indeed a handsome youth. And how becoming your uniform is. Now, where are you from? From near by or from far away?
Slavík.—Just see even yet how the double faced cloth appeals to an old hag! You are very pretty, to be sure, but believe me, if I could take a young girl around the waist as I do you, I’d feel a lot lightsomer around the heart. (Whirls her around.)
Sedmihradská.—Mr. Soldier, Mis-ter Sol-dier! For Jesus’ sake and his holy martyrdom! My breath—br-eath—I can’t catch! That’s a—that’s a nimble youth! Well, you can dance with younger ones today. We have the harvest festival.
Voices.—We’ll dance—we’ll all dance.
Řehák.—And now bring a table here. Hola, beer for the soldiers. (The soldier Maršálek approaches with a pitcher in his hand. He is already intoxicated.)
Slavík.—Maršálek! Maršálek! He certainly is feeling fine.
Maršálek.—Yes, Maršálek, your brother comrade Maršálek. They looked to my wants in the courtyard because I am Maršálek but they didn’t worry about you because one of you is only a bugler and the other a common soldier. You see, good people, you’d think when you look at me that I, too, am only a common soldier, but still I’m a little marshal!
Slavík.—That’s the sacred truth! Only because a marshal holds a stick in his hand. And the stick is usually riding your back.
Maršálek.—And yet everybody has to call me Little Marshal[1] and not “Slavík”[2] as they do you or Hruska[3]—to you. You are our bugler and our nightingale and this is our mealy fruit—or, I meant to say—pear. But / am the Little Marshal!
Matouš.—I say and repeat it—those are gay boys. (Greets them.) Good health to you! Drink, soldiers, drink.
Výrava.—Bring them plenty of everything. Food too. No one gets a chance to overeat in the army. Let them enjoy something good.
Maršálek.—But first of all, drink. We still have a long journey ahead of us, so let the soul be strengthened.
Výrava.—Where? Where!
Slavík.—We must go to New Town yet today. It’s the devil’s own work that we can’t stay here. We’ve struck a good place here.
