Zanglers Shop Act 1 P9 Flashcards
CHRISTOPHER: He’s gone.
Ah, thank you, Mr Weinberl. Aha, I thought so … cocoa is up six points.
WEINBERL: (Without looking up) When was that?
CHRISTOPHER: (Examining the gap of the page) Week before last.
WEINBERL: Does it ever occur to you, Christopher, that we’re the backbone of this country?
CHRISTOPHER: You and me, Mr Weinberl?
WEINBERL: The merchant class.
CHRISTOPHER: Ah yes.
WEINBERL: The backbone of the country. The very vertebrae of continental stability. From coccyx to clavicle – from the Carpathians to the Tyrol, from Austria to breakfast, and Hungaria to lights out, the merchant class is the backbone of the empire on which the sun shines out of our doings; do you ever say that to yourself?
CHRISTOPHER: Not in so many words, Mr Weinberl.
WEINBERL (Pulling CHRISTOPHER’s forelock) Well you should. What is it after all that distinguishes man from beast?
CHRISTOPHER: Not a lot, Mr Weinberl.
WEINBERL: Trade.
CHRISTOPHER: I was thinking that.
WEINBERL: What would we be without trade?
CHRISTOPHER: Closed, Mr Weinberl.
WEINBERL: That’s it. The shutters would go up on civilization as we know it. It’s the merchant class that holds everything together. Uniting the deep-sea fisherman and the village maiden over a pickled herring on a mahogany counter …
CHRISTOPHER: You’ve put me right off me rollmop.
WEINBERL: … We are the brokers between invention and necessity, balancing supply and demand on the knife edge of profit and loss. I give you – the merchant class!
CHRISTOPHER: The merchant class! (They toast.)
WEINBERL: We know good times and we know bad. Sometimes trade stumbles on its march. The great machine seems to hesitate, the whirling cogwheels and reciprocating pistons disengage, an unearthly silence descends upon the mercantile world … We sit here idly twisting paper into cones, flicking a duster over piles of preserved figs and pyramids of uncertain dates, swatting flies like wanton gods off the north face of the Emmental, and gazing into the street. And then suddenly with a great roar the engine bursts into life, and the teeming world of commerce is upon us! Someone wants a pound of coffee, someone else an ounce of capers, he wants smoked eel, she wants lemons, a skivvy wants rosewater, a fat lady wants butter, but a skinny one wants whalebones, the curate comes for a candy stick, the bailiff roars for a bottle of brandy . At such times the merchant class stands alone, ordering the tumult of desire into the ledgerly rhythm of exchange with a composure as implacable as a cottage loaf. Tongue.
CHRISTOPEER: How is your romance, Herr Weinberl?
WEINBERL: As well as can be expected of a relationship based on correspondence between two post office boxes. One has to proceed cautiously with lonely hearts advertisements. There is a great deal of self-delusion among these women – although I must admit I am becoming very taken with the one who signs herself Elegant And Under Forty. I am thinking of coming out from behind my own nom de plume of Scaramouche. The trouble is, I rather think I have given her the impression that I am more or less the owner of this place …
CHRISTOPHER: At least you’re not a dogsbody like me.
WEINBERL: Dogsbody? You’re an apprentice. You’ve had a valuable training during your five years under me.
CHRISTOPHER: You see things differently from the dizzy heights of chief sales assistant.
WEINBERL: Christopher, Christopher, have a pretzel … The dignity of labour embraces servant and master, for every master is a servant too, answerable to the voice of a higher authority.
ZANGLER: (Outside) Weinberl! (Without seeming to hurry WEINBERL instantly puts things to order.)
WEINBERL: I thought you said he’d gone.
ZANGLER: Ah, there you are. Is it time to open the shop?
WEINBERL: Not quite, Chief. I was just getting everything straight.
ZANGLER: What about this pretzel?
WEINBERL: The pretzel defeated me completely.
(To CHRISTOPHER.) Put it back.
Are you going to the parade, Herr Zangler?
ZANGLER: No, I’m going hunting. What do you think?
WEINBERL: I think you’re making fun of me, Chief.
ZANGLER: How does it look?
WEINBERL: (Tactfully) Snug.
ZANGLER: Do you think it should be let out?
WEINBERL: Not till after dark.
ZANGLER: What?
WEINBERL: No.
ZANGLER: Are you sure?
WEINBERL: I like it, Chief.
ZANGLER: I can’t deny it’s smart. Did you notice the medals?
WEINBERL: The medals? Oh yes …
ZANGLER: I’m rather pleased with the effect. I feel like the cake of the week.
WEINBERL: That’s very well put, Chief.
ZANGLER: I dont mean the cake of the week –
WEINBERL: Not the cake of the week – the Sheikh of Kuwait –
ZANGLER: No –
CHRISTOPHER: The clerk of the works –
ZANGLER: No!
WEINBERL: The cock of the walk?
ZANGLER: That’s the boy. I feel like the cock of the walk.
WEINBERL: You’ll be the pride of the Sporting and Benevolent Musical Fusiliers of the Grocers’ Company, and what wonderful work they do for the widows and orphans.
ZANGLER: I was just setting off when I suddenly had doubts.
WEINBERL: I assure you, without people like the grocers there’d be no widows and orphans at all.
ZANGLER: No, I mean I had doubts about leaving.
WEINBERL: I don’t understand you, Chief.