LUDWIG: (struggling with his feelings). If you'll be so
obliging as to wait until I've got rid of this feeling of warm
oil at the bottom of my throat, I'll tell you all about it.
(LISA gives him some brandy.) Thank you, my love; it's gone.
Well, the piece will be produced upon a scale of unexampled
magnificence. It is confidently predicted that my appearance as
King Agamemnon, in a Louis Quatorze wig, will mark an epoch in
the theatrical annals of Pfennig Halbpfennig. I endeavoured to
persuade Ernest Dummkopf, our manager, to lend us the classical
dresses for our marriage. Think of the effect of a real Athenian
wedding procession cavorting through the streets of Speisesaal!
Torches burning—cymbals banging—flutes tootling—citharae
twanging—and a throng of fifty lovely Spartan virgins capering
before us, all down the High Street, singing "Eloia! Eloia!
Opoponax, Eloia!" It would have been tremendous! He declined, on the prosaic ground that it might rain, and
the ancient Greeks didn't carry umbrellas! If, as is confidently
expected, Ernest Dummkopf is elected to succeed the dethroned
one, mark any words, he will make a mess of it.