The Plays
Vienna: Lusthaus
by C H A R L E S L . M E E
[Vienna: Lusthaus was a dance-theatre piece made in collaboration with Martha Clarke—so Vienna: Lusthaus, as a combination of movement and music and text, can't be done by anyone else. The text for the piece, however, can be taken (see about the (re)making project) and given a whole new title, produced, and billed as a play by Charles Mee.]
At the Cafe (Timothy Doyle and Brenda Currin)
HUGO
I was at a performance of Fidelio last night.
MAGDA
At the Hofoper.
HUGO
Yes. I was sitting in the stalls next to Leonard.
MAGDA
Leonard?
HUGO
Kraus's nephew, you know, a man who is, in fact, quite congenial to me.
MAGDA
I'm not sure.
HUGO
A man with whom, in fact, I have long felt I should like to make friends.
MAGDA
Leonard, of course. I understand.
HUGO
At any rate, I was sitting there, quietly enough, inoffensive really,
looking at my program, and all of a sudden, without any warning at all,
Leonard flew through the air across the seats, put his hand in my mouth,
and pulled out two of my teeth.
Aunt Cissi (Timothy Doyle's boudoir speech)
At night Aunt Cissi wore a face mask lined with raw veal.
In strawberry season, she covered her face with crushed fruit.
Always, in every season, she took baths of warm oil to preserve the
suppleness of her skin-though once the oil was nearly boiling, and she
nearly suffered the fate of a Christian martyr.
She slept on an iron bedstead. She took it with her wherever she went.
She slept absolutely flat. She scorned pillows.
Sometimes she slept with wet towels around her waist to keep her figure.
And in the morning she would drink a decoction of egg whites and salt.
Once a month, she had her hair washed with raw egg and brandy. And
then she put on a long waterproof silk wrap and walked up and down to
dry her hair.
She wore tight-fitting little chemises. And satin and moire corsets made
in Paris. She never wore a corset for more than a few weeks before she
threw it away.
She wore silk stockings attached to her corset by silk ribbons.
She never wore petticoats. In truth, in the summer, when she took her
early morning walks, she would slip her feet into her boots without
stockings on, and she wore nothing at all beneath her bodice and skirt,
and she would walk forever. She would walk for four or five hours, every day.
She would walk forever and ever.
She could never get enough of walking.
India (Brenda Currin)
I was in India several thousand years ago fondling a horse.
(Silence. She checks to see if this is going to be believed. Proceeds.)
A blondhaired boy was on the horse. We were strangers. I was touching
the horse, and then I was touching him, and others were watching us.
And then he came down from the horse and kissed my quim.
Oh . . .
I thought . . .
Oh . . .
He is French, because . . .
because he . . .
because he knew how much I loved to have him . . .
kiss my quim.
And I was very glad. And so we danced.
And I saw that he was very strong, and hard as a rock.
His penis was small, but very firm and round and powerful, and I loved
it.
And I was ready to have him come inside me.
But he didn't.
I thought: perhaps this is the way it is in India.
Penetration is not important.
And I felt like a barbarian, expecting entry when he had something more
civilized in mind.
Mother's Speech (Brenda Currin)
My mother and I were in a white, sun-filled summer house together, and
my mother was at the top of the stairs, and I was at the bottom looking
up at her, and she said to me all of a sudden: do you remember always
to
hold onto the bannister when you go up and down stairs? And I
reassured her that I did, even though I didn't. Good, she said, and yet,
she didn't remember herself, because one day she was carrying an
armful of tulips in the upstairs hallway, and, even though she had lived
in the house for thirty-five years, she forgot to pay attention, she
let her
mind wander for a moment, and she walked right out through an open
window and fell to her death.
The Fountain (Robert Langdon-Lloyd)
My daughter and I were standing on a balcony in an interior courtyard
looking down at the fountain. She was just about to turn around and go
back in to dance when I said, "No, wait a moment," because I
wanted her
to see the fountain. It's beautiful. From the very center comes a great
gush of water. Just at that moment the central plume of water started
to
rise. It grew higher and higher and I said to Marie—"Perhaps they
haven't quite got it under control." And then it inclined slightly
toward
us so that suddenly the plume of water rose up directly into Marie's face
and positively drenched her. And she laughed. I put out my hand to
deflect the water so it wouldn't continue to shoot right into her face.
And
just then a woman's voice called to me from inside the ballroom—Let
her get wet!
What's that, I said.
Let her get wet, the woman called, let her get drenched. Otherwise
what's the point of life.
And so, of course, I did.
Orchard Speech (Timothy Doyle)
I was descending from a great height...not the sort of place meant
for
climbing. I was holding a large branch in my hand that was covered with
red blossoms. By the time I got to the bottom the lower blossoms were
already a good deal faded. I saw...a manservant there. Yes... using
a
piece of wood to comb thick tufts of hair that were hanging from the
tree like moss. I asked how I might transplant this beautiful tree into
my
garden. And this young man put his arm around me and embraced me. I
was shocked of course. I pushed him away and asked whether he thought
people could just embrace me like that...and he said it was allowed.
River Speech (Robert Langdon-Lloyd)
I was standing once on the bank of the Danube near a small bridge with
several students from the University. Wc had gone down to the river
with the idea of rowing and all of us, not just I alone, were struck
suddenly by the unexpected beauty of the water which looked almost
silky. We longed to have it run through our fingers, to swim in it, to
taste it.
The stream swelled up over the bank, over the wet grass that was a shade
of emerald green almost painful in its brilliance and depth. It seemed
that the stream overflowed with the very essence of life itself. And then
it started to rain. A great heavy drenching rain, clear raindrops as large
as crystal prisms.
But this was what was most extraordinary of all—It rained on only one
half of the river, leaving the other half and its bank in brilliant sunlight.
I stood back from it and looked. I couldn't move at all. I understood
that
I might have stood on this river bank all my life waiting for this to
happen-but this would be the only moment that I would be in the midst
of such a miracle.
Hugo/Magda (Timothy Doyle and Brenda Currin, speaking both parts
together, out of sync)
I was at a performance of Fidelio last night.
At the Hofoper.
Yes. I was sitting in the stalls next to Leonard.
Leonard?
Kraus's nephew, you know, a man who is, in fact, quite congenial to me.
I'm not sure.
A man with whom, in fact, I have long felt I should like to make friends.
Leonard, of course. I understand.
At any rate, I was sitting there, quietly enough, inoffensive really,
looking at my program, and all of a sudden, without any warning at all,
Leonard flew through the air across the seats, put his hand in my mouth,
and pulled out two of my teeth.
Why would he want to do that?
I'm sure I wouldn't know.
Is he a Jew?
No.
So much of life is unaccountable these days.
The other night I was running down the staircase in pursuit of a little
girl who had made some taunting remark to me...
Yes.
When, partway down the stairs, an older woman stopped the girl for me
so that I was able to catch up with her.
The little girl.
Yes. Exactly. I can't tell you whether or not I hit her, although I certainly meant to.
We all have these feelings.
But the most extraordinary thing did happen: the next thing I knew I
found myself copulating with her there in the middle of the staircase,
in
the middle of the air as it seemed.
Copulating .
Well, not copulating really; in fact, I was only rubbing my genitals
against her genitals.
This is the little girl still.
Yes, and while I was copulating with her, or, as I said, rubbing my
genitals against her genitals, at the very time I was copulating with
her, I
saw her genitals extremely distinctly, as well as her head, which was
turned upwards and sideways, if you can imagine just how we were at
the time, on the staircase.
No.
Never mind then, but here's the point: while we were copulating like that
I noticed hanging above me, to my left, two small paintings—and at the
bottom of the smaller of these two paintings, instead of the painter's
signature, I saw my own first name. Don't you find that extraordinary?
No.
I Don't Like (Brenda Currin, spoken to music)
I don't like Johann Strauss.
I don't like tropical flowers.
I don't like mother of pearl.
I don't like ivory tortoise shell.
I don't like green silk.
I don't like Venetian glass.
I don't like to have my initials embroidered on the edge of my
underwear. All those little songs about love, loneliness, woodland
whispers, and twinkling trout.
I don't like crochet.
I don't like tatting.
I don't like antimacassars.
I don't like a house that looks like a pawn shop.
I don't like flower paintings done by archduchesses.
I don't like peacock feathers.
I don't like tarot cards.
I don't like cinnamon in my coffee.
I don't like women who wear a lot of underwear.
I don't like buildings decorated like bits of frosted pastry.
I like my windows without eyebrows.
A man is born in a hospital, dies in a hospital, he ought to live in a
place
that looks like a hospital.
Sweetgirls: Klara (Robert Langdon-Lloyd)
Klara, a seamstress. Once.
Elke, a shopkeeper's daughter. Twice.
Christine, daughter of a Bohemian weaver. Once. After an evening in
the Prater.
Alma, dressmaker. Three times.
Mitzi, an actress. Daughter of a bargeman. Three times.
Lina, a music student. Jew. Once. In the private room at Felix's cafe.
Jeanette, milliner. From Moravia. Five times.
Her friend Elizabeth, a lace-worker. Three times.
Grisette, domestic, from the Sudetenland. Once.
Mother's Speech (Brenda Currin)
My mother was sick and she woke up very early one morning in pain.
And she asked the nurse to get her a cup of tea. And as soon as the nurse
left the room, she said: I'm going to jump out the window with Paulie,
come jump with us. I said: Why? She said: Because we don't want to live
anymore.
Aunt Alexandra (Timothy Doyle)
My Aunt Alexandra, you know, was always convinced that she was
covered with dust, and no one could persuade her otherwise, and so she
and
her clothes had always to be brushed by relays of maids and even her
food and drink had to be dusted before her eyes. She believed, too, that
a
sofa had become lodged in her head so that she felt it was dangerous for
her to try to go through a door in case she knocked the ends of the sofa.
Black and White Butterfly (Timothy Doyle)
This morning, I saw a black and white butterfly on a green leaf, and I
waved my hand toward it, and it didn't move. I thought, well, it doesn't
notice me. And then I thought, no; it thinks it is camouflaged. It doesn't
realize that its black and white color is the wrong camouflage for a
green leaf. It is sitting there thinking "I am safe," when it
is completely
exposed. And then I thought: no. It isn't even thinking whether it is
safe
or exposed. That whole issue has been left to natural selection.
The Rat (Robert Langdon-Lloyd)
The other night I returned to the one-room place where I was staying.
I
opened the door and saw a gigantic rat.
It looked me right in the eye.
I clapped my hands to frighten it away but it didn't flinch.
So I lunged for it and got it by the neck and started to choke it, gripping
tighter and tighter, twisting its neck, but the little bastard wouldn't
die...
And I thought—This is some kind of Greek Fate, isn't it, to be left
forever trying to choke a rat.
The Dead Soldier (Timothy Doyle and Robert Langdon-Lloyd)
SOLDIER
How can you tell when a person's been shot?
SPEAKER
At what hour, you mean?
SOLDIER
No. I mean if they were shot before or after they died. What does rigor
mortis actually mean?
SPEAKER
That cellular death is complete.
SOLDIER
What does one do to support the lips if the teeth are missing?
SPEAKER
A strip of stiff cardboard, a strip of sandpaper, cotton.
SOLDIER
How does a drowned body look?
SPEAKER
Discoloration over the face, neck, upper chest. Because the body floats
downward in the water, usually.
SOLDIER
What colors does a body pass through after death?
SPEAKER
Light pink, red, light blue, dark blue, purple-red.
THE END
Charles Mee's work has been made possible by the support of Richard B. Fisher and Jeanne Donovan Fisher.
