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CAST
Lord Byron

Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Fletcher

Douglas Kinnaird

John Murray

Mrs. Mule

 

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​​Scene 1

 

1815, Piccadilly Terrace - a knock on the front door

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F: Good day, sir - may I ask who does us t’honour?

C: Good day - I am Mr. Coleridge - I have been requested to meet his Lordship upon a literary matter

F: Certainly - please, do come in - shall I take your galoshes? - we never see such items here in the Metropolis - are you a country-man, like mysen, by chance?

C: I am that - fond of ponds, bulbs, and suchlike

F: Me, I’m a pig rearer by trade - would ye like a pork pie? (C recoils) - anyowt, I shall announce you to his Lordship - please follow

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​F opens door to salon, B is slouching on mantle piece, the morning sun catching his eye

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​F: My lord - Mr. Coler..

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​A loud gasp, C wobbles to the floor

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​F: Good god, my Lord - Mr. Coleridge has taken a turn!

B: Coleridge? - here - we shall drag him onto the sopha - and fetch some brandy - och, the Devil’s toes! (recalls last scolding re. alcohol, grinds bicuspids) - the last gallon was poured into the horse’s hay (bites knuckle) - oh! - there’s a stash in my desk! (C groans) - hurry!

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​C gradually regains consciousness

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​​C(to F): Oh - thank you, a double, if you would, with ice - goodness, I am mortified - being somewhat prone to hallucinations - but n’er yet (waves hands wantonly) one so luminously beautiful did I see - why, you could scarce believe it - two portals - things of light, for light - opened wide and lustrously before me

B: Mr. Coleridge?

C: Arrgghhh! Is it - is he - real? (reaches out to touch B’s watch-chain)

B: You are not hallucinating, my good man - I too have been touched by the Black Drop Fever - here (bows head) - pull my hair, for I am real enough - no, not that side - I’ve been relentlessly shorn by my publisher’s subscribers on that side

C: Please forgive me - what is that I feel? (yanks locks) - God’s socks indeed! you are real!

B: Yes, well - you are hardly the first literary man to be outraged by my handsomeness - however, we shall get to business, Mr. Coleridge - and a pleasant business it is too - for it happened that I met Sir Walter Scott last Spring - d’you know him? no? - he is a staunch and sturdy admirer of yours - and repeated to me a considerable portion of an unfinished poem of yours - ‘ The Tale of the Toothless Mastiff Bitch’ - the wildest and finest I ever heard in that kind of composition

C(scratches head): Indeed? a dog? - being fond of animals, I can see why you should like it (to self: dog? what dog? his Lordship’s nerves would appear worse than my own)

B: Quite - er - although - it is for the sake of not boring a guest with compliments - my dear sir - that I suggest to you, in my rôle as a ‘Negociator with the Trade’, to talk technically - that I should apply to Mr. Murray for its publication (smiles diplomatically) - as you have not heretofore been able to do yourself - or the poem - due justice

C(is impressed): Ooh, John Murray of Albemarle Street? - ‘though (shakes head in a birdlike fashion) - to be certain, my Lord - the poesy to which you refer - er, in sooth (is again mortified) - I cannot immediately recollect any canine-centric odes of mine, no matter how wild and uncouth

B: Why - the “toothless mastiff bitch” - and the “witch Lady” - the descriptions of the hall - the lamp suspended from the image and more particularly of the Girl herself as she went forth in the evening (shivers as he stalks the room) - all took a such a hold on my imagination which I never shall wish to shake off

C: Ah! your Lordship refers to the “Christabel” - why, I began composing that in the year 1797! - and what would your Lordship be wanting with it now?

​B: It is October 1815, my dear Coleridge, I fear my nerve endings are only too eager for any soothing occupation or distraction (an Old Testament complete with Greek, Latin and Aramaic supplements and 43 portraits of Patriarchs is heard thumping to the floor overhead)

C(nods): By the ghost of Moses, I too know agitations of a domestic nature - assuredly manna for the creative juices - and for lining the pockets of our legislature

B(mutters): How damnably on the money you are yet, Mr. Coleridge (grinds jaw) - now - where was I? Fletcher!! - to the point, I shall consult with Murray - er - incidentally - as you’re here, I believe Mr. Kinnaird of the Drury Lane committee, has approached you for a Tragedy, am I correct?

C(airily): Aye, that persistent Kinnaird has indeed honoured me with a commission - (ambles towards the middle of the room, natters to Jenny the parrot) - but enough of commerce! - are you aware, my Lord, that, like your parrot here, the women in Norfolk have long noses? (helpfully holds fire poker to face to illustrate)

B: What? (rubs ears)

C: Oh, ‘tis too true! (curls lip) - the speech of the fair ones echoes throughout the wells of their nostrils - it is most disorienting

B: Fletcher!!

F: Yes, my lord

B: Give me a sharpish slap, there’s a good man

F: I most certainly will not, my lord

B: Well then - pull my nose

F: Oh - er - very well (winces and grabs B’s snout)

B: Ouch! That settles it - (whispers to F) ‘tis but my nerves - not my sanity - which are temporarily bewildered by our scatological friend

C: My Lord Byron! (B starts) - over here! (points to sopha) - your sopha here - upholstered in a variety of passionless oatmealy hues - pray, look here now - the arrangement of the cushions and empty cellarette bring to mind a saucy jaunt of mine in Gibraltar (arranges soft furnishings into a fort) - after we had anchored, I passed nearly the whole of each day in scrambling about on the back of the rock, among the monkeys (imitates monkey) - I am a match for them in climbing, but in hops and flying leaps they beat me hollow

B: Monkeys? - just so, as it should be (mops brow) - pray tell, will this vastly amusing adventure feature in the finished Christabel?

C: Pfft!! - William forbades all but the higher feelings and perfect renderings - believes genius must be flawless - (sulks) - I never get to tell of my scrapes, larks, and disgraces - which is why my poesy takes ages!

B(pats his back): Never mind, Sam - ensure your letters survive, that will be enough - as for myself - by all the Hindoo saints! - I suffer inversely and scribble at speed - what with Murray making irascible demands upon me for pashas and pirates of an exotic creed (inspects fort) - how I oftentimes dream of writing a rambling epic - with nothing in it for the ladies - and to the devil with that tradesman’s greed!!!

C(nods, vigorously): To write exactly as you talk, my Lord? (pours the contraband brandy) - D’ye like my waistcoat? - without a swanskin waistcoat, what is man? a most attractive external - do you agree? (caresses the fine garment)

B: Your waistcoat? - Fletcher!!

F: I shall not pull your nose again, my lord

C: You have great fortune (glares admiringly at F) - my lord - to have your man and your terrifying char to guard against sundry rustic phenomenonae willy-nillyingly interfering between yourself and attempted leaps into immortality - or your bathtub - why, I oft have lost reams of exquisite stuff by a stray nesting pigeon or a squawking milkmaid laid flat in the mud

B(exhales, with force): Damned if quiet and solitude is not something for which I ache, my dear Coleridge (the sound of smashing decanters is heard from the floor above) - oh, good god - Fletcher?! - where is my Brandy??

C(throws Brandy naggin to F): My lord, d’you think I should re-jig my ‘Mariner’ to include the ape-hopping scenario?

B: What? No! - Mr. Coleridge! Come down from that fort!

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C lands ably

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​​B(holds C firmly by the shoulders): Mr. Coleridge! - you must focus!! Murray calls tomorrow - I shall discuss with him the publishing of the “Christabel” - if you wish it - and Kinnaird may call re. his commission - if he’s not overly occupied in measuring actresses and ballarinas

C​: I would be most grateful - funds are perilous (darts towards sopha) - I forgot (rubs chin) - around the monkey’s rocks, their fences are most commonly made of that strange vegetable monster - the prickly Aloe - alas! over which none but the nimble can pass (arranges pot-plants on cushions to replicate such landscape)

B: Mr. Coleridge! (B moves towards the door, his aristocratically small hand rattling on the handle) - this - all this, apes included, shall all be excellent fodder for a new masterpiece - for the moment we shall re-direct towards the Christabel - ‘til tomorrow - good day t’ye

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​​B falls onto C’s fort - supposes his loaded Mantons would make admirable cannons for same

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x

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Scene 2

 

The next day, Murray and Kinnaird are summoned to Piccadilly​

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​​F: Good day, Mr. Murray

M: Fletcher (hands hat to same) - tuck in your shirt and put that pork pie away

F: Pfft (munches pie) - he’s in there (M shuffles off)

F: Good day, Mr. Kinnaird - his lordship and the white brandy are at home (chuckles)

K: Good man, Fletcher

B(has taken up residence in the fort): Halloo, Murray - Halloo Kinnaird! - good day t’ye both

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Murray and Kinnaird are moderately concerned

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K: Good god Byron - are you entertaining (squints) a parrot in there?

B: I have been trying - without success - to measure her nose - Coleridge maintains Norfolkians have very long ones - but longer than a parrot’s? nay, I think not - please, sit - on the club chairs, if you would, gentlemen - Murray - can you hear me? - what thought you of Mr. Coleridge’s Christabel? I should like to presume upon you to publish it without delay, for the poor man is without a sous, or a pipe - or a pot - to call his own

​M(is hawkish): Mr. Coleridge’s piece is wild and fanciful, and it will make much talk - yet, I will gladly make a bidding when I can have the remaining chapters as well (peers discreetly into sopha) - er, this mad “Christabel” thing is not intended for the stage, certainly?

K(interrupts): Certainly not! - although - there would appear to be some very promising action twixt the maidens, it may not get past the Chancellor - however, if Mr. Coleridge keeps his word to me and composes a Tragedy, Drury Lane will be set up for the Season! (rubs hands, vigorously)

B: Sooth to say, it is in grievous want of such a lift! (consults watch) - Mr. Coleridge shall be here presently - Murray (whispers) - I own he somewhat discombobulates my nerves by exciting a dormant vacancy in my imagination - please, do not hesitate to deal with him directly (clambers out of fort into daylight)

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​M bows, smirks and calculates

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x

 

​​​​​​​​Scene 3

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C approaches Piccadilly apprehensively - Mrs. Mule answers the door​

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​​M: ‘o are ye? what want ye ‘ere? ‘is that a goose stuffed in your externals?

C: Do you think it fine, my good woman?

M: Hmm - I do - (points duster) - ‘e’s in there (to self: I could do with a goose external, must ask m’lord when ‘e’s in ‘is cups)

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​Byron, Murray, and Kinnaird are arrayed before the fireplace - they bow to C

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​​B: Mr. Coleridge - you know Murray and Kinnaird, of course (bows are exchanged) You note I have faithfully maintained your fort - Jenny, my parrot, is planning to Winter on the topmost cushion

C: My! I am all admiration, my Lord (B smiles, C is temporarily blinded, yet again) - Gentlemen, I sense that I am the transactional sacrifice of a commercial convocation - do I err?

M: My good fellow (rocks on his heels) - I do not know that even “Love” or the “Ancient Mariner” are so impressive to me as your “Christabel” - which I would be honoured to publish (C beams) - are you aware that Sir Walter has a just appreciation of your capacity? (shakes head cautiously) - and yet - deplored to me the want of inclination, exertion and scope which prevented you from finally completing the thing

C: My mind-scope - if you will!! - is presently dedicated to compiling a complete history of all Welsh, Saxon, and Erse books that are in translation - although - (paces randomly) - if the Spanish neutrality continues, I will go in November to Biscay, and throw light on the Basque tongue - by George, that’s as fierce a brute as ever was sung!

M(mutters to B): Is that a yes or a no?

K: And what about our Tragedy? - I do not wish to hurry you, Mr. Coleridge - but I am indeed very anxious to have it under consideration (looks about) - Mr. Coleridge?.....

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​​C and B have escaped to the fort, where the white brandy lies

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​​​C(whispers to B): I must have something for Mr. Kinnaird, my lord - for I have not a sous to spit upon! (ponders) - what think you of “The Wandering Apes of Cain”? Kean as chief primate, a Luciferian character of course, who inspires the monsters to smash each other with guava fruits and slaughter their nearest relatives

B: Hmm - provoking! I like it! (contemplates economics) - a bare amount of costuming would be required for I have witnessed a topless Kean - the man was a mass of primeval coatings (muses) - what think you, apropos of our earlier discussions, of “The Nostriliums of Norfolk”? (sighs) It could but be an improvement, you can have no idea what trash there is in the four hundred fallow dramas now lying on the shelves of Drury Lane

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​Murray and Kinnaird grow impatient

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​​M: Fletcher!!

F: Yes, Murray?

M(with some delicacy): What - generally - is the form here for extracting two of our greatest - at present, unstable, yea intoxicated - poets out from behind that pile of cushions?

F(takes offense at the slur): Ah, now - I can assure you they are both completely free of spirituous substances or floral stimulants!! My Lord is merely negotiating with Mr. Coleridge in a confined space - whence he can focus his mind more effectively (shakes head)

M: Don’t shake your head, Fletcher (puffs around room) - well, lamp me if I’ve ever seen quite so singular a transaction in my entire career! - and I’ve met a goodly share of jackasses

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​B and C part the cushions, hide the Brandy - and appear pleased

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​​​C: Mr. Murray - to whit, “The Christabel” - I declare before God and my own Conscience, that it is not yet a whole (inspects fingernails) - and not yet the five book spectacular I had planned - for which I am disobliged to proffer an apology or excuse (B clicks fingers) - oh, yes - for the very reason that I dare to judge myself by no other rule than the “nihil actum si quid agendum” - ie - “The limit of our faculties is the limit of our Duties” (B nods)

B: Ergo etc. - so much as to say - Murray, ‘tis yours as is - furthermore, Sam here may have some other wild, unfinished thing to tack on the end

M: That is acceptable - we shall negotiate tuppences and pounds at Albemarle Street, my good ma...

C: No need to negotiate!! My lord has offered to sell his entire library to me out of hand - for a knockdown price of £24.05.11 - and that (estimates himself a master of barter) - my Murray, is my circuitory, compensatory demand!

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​​The force of M’s smirk threatens a migraine

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​​K: And as to my Tragedy - what masterful scenarios have you come upon for the staging of it?

C: Two most picturesque - yet challenging - farces, Mr. Kinnaird. Firstly, a lacerating satire on the pitiful state of English noses - snouts, conkers, hooters, schnozzles - you get the idea - both the inner and outward workings of same - and an anthropological melodrama about the lives and loves of rock-bound apes

B: We think them both winners - what think ye?

K: Did I hear you correctly, gentlemen? Apes? and Noses?

C: Yes, The Apeiad and The Noseiad

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​​B and C teeter into the fernery surrounding the fort

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​​​​M: Byron - whilst I do not appreciate this vaudevillian carry-on - I can see that yourself and Mr. Coleridge have struck a sensible bargain and I shall - with a somewhat disoriented sense of well-being - bid you good day (bows) - may I take one of your bananas, Mr. Coleridge?

C: Do, Mr. Murray - they’re fine green fellows

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M departs

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K: Gentlemen - I shall reserve no such politesse for either of you - Mr. Coleridge, my commission was proffered in the utmost seriousness - why, if Drury Lane remains at sub-par capacity, we may have to burn it down - again

B: I have a solution, Kinnaird, somewhat more sane ((roots around his desk) - an Irish clergyman has sent in a fine drama - “Bertram” - not a promising title, I grant, but have Kean star, cloaked in an oriental dressing-gown, and you can - with confidence - stand your flammables down

C(thinks): Bertram? by the Reverend Maturin? - that deuced object has crossed my path but briefly - why, ‘tis as rancid as a discarded bacon rind! (grimaces) - and melancholy proof of the depravation of the public mind

K: Depraved?! Well, that will do nicely (smirks leeringly) - ‘twould seem I shall not have the honour of picking your noses or prancing about rockeries with your primates after all, Mr. Coleridge (puts hat on) Good day t’ye both - oh, may I take a banana?

C: No

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​K mutters a badly-remembered Scottish curse, departs

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​​​C: As for the stage, Byron - well, in truth (sighs) - I am no Joe Grimaldi, in claw or tooth (frowns) - moreover, I could not bear to be insulted in the Ed. Review, the Quarterly Review, and other minors of the same family

B: It is wise to avoid hacks and reviewers whenever possible, Mr. Coleridge - the notion that because one scribbles out reams of one thing - no matter how grating! (looks for Brandy) - one is capable of another thing - simply because they require the same equipment - is absurd and irritating

C: Indeed! I can certainly ride a horse, but I can’t be one, can I?

B(worryingly cannot supply an answer): Er - what? no - but we shall have your Christabel in print - which is a fair day’s work (they shake hands) - now, what think you of adding a splash of red to the fort - next to the ferns - just a hint?

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​​C avidly goes about the business with a pair of B’s red silk stockings from the sewing basket - a succession of solid brass mathematical instruments cascades down the stairs, breaking several banisters and knocking yet another pie out of Fletcher’s hand

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x

​​END

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