VOLKSTHEATER

A Short Play for the Common Man

 

Georgie Porgie, or A Moor in Vienna

CAST OF CHARACTERS (& I mean characters!)

GEORGE AUGUSTUS POLGREEN BRIDGETOWER, celebrity violinist

LUDWIG VAN BEETHOVEN, composer

SCHUPPANZIGH, director of the Augarten concerts

FERDINAND RIES, Beethoven’s copyist

TUSSI, a barmaid

CHORUS OF BAD GIRLS

The usual collection of gawking spectators, drunken clientele, & general riffraff

Scene One: Outside the Augarten

(SCHUPPANZIGH enters stage left, clapping F. RIES heartily on the shoulder, causing RIES—a none-too-hearty young man—to wince repeatedly.)

SCHUPPANZIGH:	Well now, Ries, what d’you say to that?
	Never thought it’d come together that swiftly, eh?
	A tour de force, no less than a tour de force, I’d say!
RIES: (muttering)	Yes, you would say that.
SCHUPPANZIGH:	What? What was that?
RIES:	I said: I’d dare say you’re right!
SCHUPPANZIGH:	You’d say I say?
	What kind of gibberish are you sputtering, lad?
	That’s the problem with you young acolytes
	of Master B—you’re half addled yourself,
	keeping up with his rages,
	picking up scribbled pages stained
	with the grease from a half-eaten schnitzel . . .
	Had you running all night, did he? What a scene
	that must have been—crazy as a hen house!
RIES: (muttering)	You could say that.
SCHUPPANZIGH:	What? Speak up, boy!
RIES: (with dignity)	I wasn’t worried.
SCHUPPANZIGH:	’Course not, ’course not, my lad.
	He’s a genius, after all.
	(Shouting.)
	Ludwig! My dear Ludwig—
	put a move on, why don’t you?
	There’s celebrating to be done!

(Enter BEETHOVEN, ascot unloosed, with his arm awkwardly draped around GEORGE BRIDGETOWER, who is several inches taller.)

SCHUPPANZIGH:	Hey-o, boy-o! Big B and little b!
	I see you brought along your shadow.
RIES:	Which is which?
SCHUPPANZIGH:	What’s that you say, boy-o?
	Why don’t you speak up?
BEETHOVEN: (bellowing)
	Watch it, Ries! I can read lips!
SCHUPPANZIGH:	A man and his shadow!
	You have Schattenfieber, milord!
BRIDGETOWER:	Whereas I stay cool.

(All freeze and look at him, dumbfounded, as if a palm tree had suddenly spoken.)

BRIDGETOWER:	German, anyone?
	(then loudly, signifying)
	I got it made in the shade!

(He does a little fraternity stepping. The others relax, visibly relieved: This is how he’s supposed to act.)

BEETHOVEN:

Hmmph.

(Staggers backward to observe the dance. RIES catches him as he reels; he bounces back and is propelled forward into BRIDGETOWER’s open arms.)

BRIDGETOWER:	What th—?
BEETHOVEN:	Mein lieber Bursch!
RIES: (muttering)	You’ve said that already.
SCHUPPANZIGH:	Yes, indeedy—and in front of the entire
	gossip-mongering, chocolate-sipping
	populace of Vienna! Now they’ve got
	even more to sniff at besides their snuff!
BEETHOVEN:	(arms around BRIDGETOWER, blubbering)
	Mein Sohn! Mein Sohn!
SCHUPPANZIGH:	Speak English, Ludwig!
	The boy can’t understand you.
BRIDGETOWER:	Oh, but I can! My mother is half Polish,
	half German; and my real father—
	(glancing at BEETHOVEN)
	spoke seven languages:
	(ticking them off on his fingers)
	English, German, French, Hungarian, Arabic . . .
RIES: (muttering)	Yes, yes, we get the drift.
BEETHOVEN:	Speak up, Ries! You stepped in shit?
SCHUPPANZIGH:	(under his breath)
	Scheisse.
BEETHOVEN:	I can read your lips, Schuppi!
	Hell, I can read your mind!
SCHUPPANZIGH:	What am I thinking, then?

(A trenchant pause. All pose, as in a Marx Brothers tableau.)

BEETHOVEN:	That . . . that it’s time for another Stein!
ALL: (exeunt, singing)
	Beer here, beer here!
	Or we’ll all fall down—juchhe!

Scene Two: En Route

(Still singing, BEETHOVEN, SCHUPPANZIGH, RIES, and BRIDGETOWER enter, joined by a few BAD GIRLS.)

BAD GIRLS & COMPANY:
	Off to The Black Camel we go, heigh-ho!
	Its wines are quite learnéd
	and legendary;
	from spice house to restaurant,
	with clientele trés galant,
	three cheers for that famed sunburned
	dromedary!

(A triumvirate of white-robed maidens appears; the one in the middle carries a large scroll with golden tassels.)

THE TRIO:	Hold it right there!
BAD GIRL #1:	Who are you?
THE TRIO:	The handmaidens of Kronos.
	We oversee the accurate chronicling of events.
BAD GIRL #2:	Come again?
LEFT-HAND MAIDEN:
	We manage time.
	You’re out of sync.
BAD GIRL #1:	Oh. (shrugs) So?
RIGHT-HAND MAIDEN: (impatiently)
	So you can’t go to “The Black Camel”
	because you don’t know about it yet!
HEAD MAIDEN:	According to our records . . .
	(unscrolls a lengthy, impressive parchment; peering through a lorgnette)
	“Zum schwarzen Kameel” was established as a spice and exotic foods shop in 1618—
BAD GIRL #2:	—See!!
HEAD MAIDEN: (casting a withering glance; continuing)
	—by the merchant Johann Baptist Cameel
	in Bognerstrasse 5. A tavern was added
	in the early nineteenth century; however,
	(a warning glance again, pointedly)
	one must remember two things:
	Number 1, the Wirtshaus was not located
	in the heart of Vienna at that time,
	but in the country resort of Mödling;
	Number 2, Ludwig van Beethoven did not begin
	frequenting the locale until 1818, when
	he spent the first of three summers there
	upon the recommendation of his doctors,
	who had prescribed the Mödling baths
	presumably as a palliative to hearing loss.
	With the aid of his sketchbook
	Beethoven would take quiet walks—
RIES:	Real quiet!

(He gets nudged by a gum-popping BAD GIRL.)

HEAD MAIDEN:	—in the surrounding woods, and there
	found inspiration for Missa Solemnis—
BAD GIRL #1:	Okay, okay, we get your point.
HEAD MAIDEN:	—and the Ninth Symphony . . .
SCHUPPANZIGH:	Geez, he’ll write nine of them?
RIGHT-HAND MAIDEN:
	Our point, wretched mortals, is that you are
	firmly lodged in the year 1803. He hasn’t even
	finished the Third Symphony, much less torn up
	the dedication page to Napoleon . . . oops!

(She claps her hand over her mouth, as the chief handmaiden nudges her sharply. An embarrassed silence as all turn to look at BEETHOVEN—who, as fate would have it, appears not to have heard; he’s been leaning against a tree the entire time, with BRIDGETOWER whispering urgently into his deaf ear.)

HEAD MAIDEN: (attempting to make light of the error; loftily)
	This stays between us, nicht wahr?
ALL: (muttering)	Ja, ja. Wahr, wahr.

(THE HANDMAIDENS OF KRONOS turn and exeunt in a cloud of golden dust, which sends RIES into a coughing fit. He’s led off by one of the BAD GIRLS, who claps him on the back as he gazes gratefully down her décolleté; she already has a hand in his back pocket.)

SCHUPPANZIGH: (timidly)
	So I guess it’s the Prater?

(All nod. A pause; then, they break out into song and revelry as they exeunt, stage left.)

COMPANY:	To the Prater! To the Prater!
	If you ain’t been there, you oughter!
	There a girl, after you’ve caught ’er
	will make you spill your holy water!

Scene Three: The Prater

(The Prater: Vienna’s fabled amusement park, where aristocracy rubs elbows with the lower classes. BEETHOVEN & COMPANY are seated inside one of the many wine taverns that line the midway. From the array of mugs and the amount of spilled beer soaking the sawdust under their table, we can assume they’ve been drinking for quite some time.)

BRIDGETOWER:	Hallo, Dirndl! Noch ’n Maß!
BEETHOVEN:	Don’t call her that! She has a name, you know.
BRIDGETOWER:	Oh yeah?

(The barmaid approaches, prettily blonde.)

	What’s your name, darling?
BARMAID: (blushing)	Oh never you mind, sir.
	’Tis of no importance.
BEETHOVEN: (stands and all but clicks his heels as he extends his hand)
	Oh, but it is, I assure you.
	My name is Ludwig van Beethoven.
BARMAID: (amazed, backing away somewhat)
	My goodness!

BRIDGETOWER: (jumping up, actually clicking his heels—as the others snigger—and extending his hand with a smile calculated to melt ice)

Oh, but I beg to differ, mademoiselle.

Everything about you is important.

(Mesmerized, she extends her hand across the table. BEETHOVEN kisses it gently, honorably; then looks on imploringly as BRIDGETOWER turns her hand over, kisses the palm, closes her fingers around it.)

BRIDGETOWER:

Keep that some place safe, won’t you?

(She curtsies, blushing, and skitters off. The company explodes in laughter.)

SCHUPPANZIGH: (clapping BRIDGETOWER on the shoulder)
	Brilliant, B-Boy, bloody brilliant!
BAD GIRL #1:	I ain’t never seen anything so smooth.
BAD GIRL #2:	I got something he could hold safe anytime!
	(giggles)
BEETHOVEN:	We shouldn’t toy with her. She’s . . . different.
BAD GIRL #2:	Oh, yeah? How so?
BEETHOVEN:	I don’t know. Different.
	(nearly whispering it)
	Noble.
BRIDGETOWER:	I bet anyone here a Thaler
	I can make her flip that skirt of hers
	with a snap of my fingers!
SCHUPPANZIGH & BAD GIRLS:
	You’re on, Georgie.
SCHUPPANZIGH:	Where’d you learn to schmooze like that, boy?
BRIDGETOWER:	From my father: Friedrich Augustus Bridgetower,
	valet to Miklós the Magnificent, of Esterházy power,
	self-proclaimed African Prince and ladies’ man
	extraordinaire.
	He re-imagined himself with a Turkish flair
	and became my first promoter. From him I learned
	how to make ’em blush, how to make ’em burn.
SCHUPPANZIGH: (snickers to himself)
	In this case, Moor is certainly more!
BRIDGETOWER:	But I’m a natural man, born under a magical caul,
	I’m that last plump raisin in the cereal bowl;
	I’m the gravy you lick from your mashed potatoes,
	I’m creamier than chocolate, juicier than ripe tomatoes!
	I’m older than the ages, yet younger than a minute;
	I’ll parade on a pinhead or waltz upon a spinet.
	I strung an empty coconut and fiddled
	my way out of burning Rome—
	You thought young Nero done it?
	No—’twas yours truly, yours alone.
	Hell, if I’d been Oedipus, old Jocasta
	would’ve stayed alive just to call me her masta!
	Y’all just sit back and watch me work.
	This Dirndl will soon be minus a skirt.

(The BARMAID returns with a circlet of giant beer mugs in each hand. She squats slightly in order to deposit the mugs on the table without spilling a drop.)

SCHUPPANZIGH:	Hoppla! You’ve given us some
	heavenly head . . . on the beer, I mean!
	(Guffaws. BEETHOVEN glares.)
BRIDGETOWER:	Mademoiselle?
BARMAID:	Yes sir?
BRIDGETOWER:	Do you still have it?
BARMAID:	What, milord?
BRIDGETOWER:	My kiss. I told you to keep it safe.
BAD GIRL #2:	I got a key you can turn anytime, chocolate drop!
BEETHOVEN:	Don’t do this, Polgreen.
BRIDGETOWER:	And your name? My friend here
	asked your name, but you did not give it.
	You did not deem us worthy, I dare say.
BARMAID:	It’s . . . Tussi, sir.
BRIDGETOWER:	Lovely. Please—call me George.
BARMAID:	Yes si—George.
BRIDGETOWER: (politely)
	The kiss?
BARMAID: (opening her palm)
	It’s . . . here.
BRIDGETOWER:	I’ll let you in on a little secret:
	A black man’s kiss is a dangerous item
	and must be handled prudently. (pointing to her palm)
	Now that kiss there will hold its potency
	for a good little while. For about of week,
	I wager, you can place that little palm of yours
	anywhere on your person and feel
	my lips there. Or—
	(leaning in)
	you could
	sample the whole article tonight.
	What time do you get off . . . work?
BARMAID: (whispering, fist clenched to her heart)
	Seven o’clock. (pause) George.
BRIDGETOWER:	Ah! Lucky number seven. Lucky for me.

(He kisses her cheek, lingering. She stares at him, then runs off. BRIDGETOWER sits down in the silence.)

BAD GIRL #1:	God DAMN.
BAD GIRL #2:	That other black dude’s got nothing on him!
SCHUPPANZIGH:	What other black dude?
BAD GIRL #2:	You know, what’s his name—
	had the white girl on her knees
	and then strangled the bitch?
SCHUPPANZIGH:	Othello! That’s it—
	you’re our own dear Othello!
	Othellerl in Vienna!
	(sings)
	“Wien, Wien, nur du allein . . .”
BAD GIRL CHORUS: (singing to the tune of “My Boyfriend’s Back”)
	Othello’s back and there’s gonna be a ruckus:
	Hey Viennese, Othello’s back!
	He’ll grab your Hooters girl and shout:
	Come here gal, and pluck us!
	Hey Viennese, Othello’s back!
	Oy, the violin’s his only training.
	Boy, his Wortschatz needs explaining!
	Did you hear the one about—
	No, but if you hum a few bars, I bet
	He’ll play it anyway! Dum, dum dum. . .
BEETHOVEN: (interrupting, jumping up)
	Intolerable! I can’t . . . I won’t . . .
SCHUPPANZIGH:	What’s with you, big boy?
BEETHOVEN:	Womanhood is not to be treated like . . . trash!
	This is an abomination! You are an abomination!
BRIDGETOWER:	Hold on there, Wiggerl.
	We’re just having a little fun—
BEETHOVEN:	Don’t Wiggerl me! You heathen, you . . . savage!

(Stomps off. A shocked silence; then the COMPANY erupts in confusion.)

SCHUPPANZIGH:	Hey, Wiggi, my man!
	I say, Beethoven—wait up!

(Exits, others following.)

(Meanwhile, it seems that BEETHOVEN has reconsidered; he charges into the bar again.)

BEETHOVEN:	She was a goddess, a Queen,
	And would’ve fled this rude scene
	If she’d only been given a chance.
	Such pale hair and green eyes!—
	What a suitable prize
	For a German dead-set on romance.
	I have written about her
	In my Moonlight Sonata—
	Though her name was another’s, who cares?
	Upon crossing God’s portal
	True love turns immortal,
	Transformed into heavenly airs!

(The COMPANY stumbles back into the tavern, out of breath. BEETHOVEN wheels on them, waving his copy of the Violin Concerto in their faces.)

BEETHOVEN:	Philistines! Snickering at honest emotion,
	trampling on genius with your—
	(glancing at their shoes)
	muddy heels!
BRIDGETOWER:	Listen up, Maestro:
	If I said something to offend you,
	I apologize from the depths of my—
BEETHOVEN:	See? You don’t even know what you did wrong!
	(thrashing BRIDGETOWER with the concerto as he quotes the dedication from memory)
	“Mulatto Sonata, composed
	for the mulatto Bridgetower,
	great lunatic and mulatto composer.”
	Yes, lunatic—and great in no way
	but the most vile!
	(Gives him a final slap with the score.)
	I challenge you, sir!
BRIDGETOWER:	Back it up, man. This goes too far—
BEETHOVEN:	Just as I suspected:
	The monkey is nothing but a chicken.
	(raising the manuscript above his head)
	Now you will taste the high price
	of my affection—“Mulatto Sonata,” indeed!
	I would sooner dedicate my music
	to a barnyard mule.

(He tears the dedication page to shreds. A collective gasp as BEETHOVEN storms out. Silence for a beat, then:)

BAR GIRL #1:

Hoppla.