STRAVINSKY

THE SOLDIER’S TALE

NARRATOR:

On a dusty country road we see

A soldier marching wearily.

A two-week leave is all he’s got --

One precious day already shot.

Out of sorts, grimy, stiff and sore,

Still many miles to go before

He’s standing at his own front door.

Ah! Here the breeze is cool and sweet . . .

A fitting place to rest the feet.

Join the army! What a joke!

Always marching, always broke,

(opens knapsack)

His few belongings scattered, tossed

About -- Good grief! St. Joseph lost!

(A small medallion, that’s to say,

His patron saint in gold inlay.)

Ah, here it is . . . and from the knapsack spill

Spare bullets, papers, what you will.

A watch, some bills, a mirror black

With grime he pulls from the capacious sack,

Not overlooking, by the way,

A photograph of his fiancee.

To plumb the depths, he digs within,

Pulls out a beat up violin . . .

He is soon to meet an affable old man who offers to buy the worthless fiddle in exchange for a most remarkable book:

Financial news, stock market rates

For Friday, May the fifth . . . Now what’s

Today? Hm, May the first . . . Ye Gods!

A foolproof way to beat the odds!

The future comes to you. Why wait?

You lift the curtain in advance

And thus repeal the law of chance.

Unknowingly, the soldier has struck a bargain with the devil. And so the tale unfolds . . .