CAST

Lord Byron

Joe Murray

Bob Rushton

Scrope B Davies

Captain Byron

William Harness

JC Hobhouse

Charles Dallas

Taffy & Susan​​

S

​​Scene 1

 

​1811, Newstead Abbey - Byron is boxing with Bob, a measure to avoid both the glooms and rotundity

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B: Joe!

JM: Yes, my lord

B: Fill my bath would you, I am a mass of perspiration - and bring cigars, a bottle of claret, the ‘Nottingham Chronicle' - and my Turkish slippers and pelisse

BR: I fear I am in want of a bath too, my Lord, for my gloves are a veritable repository for fleas

B: Bath? - 'tis not yet Christmas, Bob! - you may refresh yourself with a lump of snow - then resume attending to my tortoise's needs

BR: Thank you, my honoured lord

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B soaks

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B: Joe!

JM: Yes, my lord

B: Tell me why there are no salts in my bath? No rose petals flung by the bath-house throng? No eunuch's timbrels tinkling to the nightingale's song?

JM: What?

B: You must understand, Joe, things around this northern kennel must change (experiments to see if half a bottle of claret can float) After my wand'rings in The East - whence I became accustomed to astounding oriental luxury - I resolved not to intend let such experience be confined to memory - as per my ablutions, at least

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JM scans the damp wood panelling and copies of  ‘The Morning Post' stuffed into broken window panes​

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B: We shall begin with our new bathing etiquette - firstly, you shall purchase salts, oils, loofahs - and have Taffy pluck flower petals and refreshing herbs

JM: 'Tis November, my Lord! - Taffy needs all our salt to preserve your lobsters!

B(attempts to retrieve claret): Furthermore - once I've bathed - I am accustomed to having my fingernails shaped - my curls counted - and my beard shaved

JM(shakes head, sorrowfully): I fear tales of such voluptuousness shall reach the ears of that scoundrel Mealey - then your tenantry - and they will inform the constabulary 

B: Truth is, Joe (sighs) - well you remember how I once enjoyed my solitude here at Newstead?

JM: Aye - Susan forever picking up books from the ground - poor Taffy waiting - and waiting - for a chance to fool around

B: Just so - well, it happens that now - after the losses which greeted my return - for the first time, I find solitude and idleness irksome (shivers) At three and twenty I am left alone - what more can I be at seventy? 

JM: It is true, my lord, but you are young enough to begin again (warms a towel by the fire)

B: The devil knows how, Joe! I have tried reading & boxing, & swimming, & writing, & rising early & sitting late, & water, & wine - ineffectual chemical remedies - yet here I am - freezing in a bath of claret - wretched to my very extremities!

JM(muses): T'mansion is quiet after all (muses further) - Lord above, my Lord! - why don't you invite some of your equally idle gentlemen friends to Newstead? - why, there be dogs, a keeper, plenty of game - a lake, a boat, house room - neat wines and neater wenches - to be sure, 'tis a paradise for bachelors!

B: A splendid notion - though not quite up there with my great-uncle's naval spectaculars

JM: They will surely enliven your spirits, my Lord, for you are a most general favourite of all your acquaintance (scowls) - 'ere yet, they are quite still the adolescents

B(is somewhat revived): Oh, how I do doat on London gossip! - oh, in the chilly morn we can exterminate the remainder of our pheasants! - although, they must bring guns for I gave all mine to the Aly Pacha

JM: There be your nautical cousin, Captain Byron, Mr. Hobhouse - I know he shall make few demands on us re. bath salts - Messrs. Harness, Dallas - er - and Mr. Davies! (chuckles) - that facetious jester so handsome - to whom you still owe a king's ransom 

B: A fine brace, are they not, Murray? Although - to think on't - Hodgson is battening down with his belovèd on the Lower Moor of Herefordshire, Davies is courting a piece at Harrowgate, Dallas - with his pockets full of MS's, is running to and fro - all his friends are Scribblers, you know - and Hobby remains at his Majesty's pleasure in Ireland (sighs) - heigh ho!

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JM spies Taffy 

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JM: Here then, my lord (whispers) our Taffy could provide entertainment opportunities for the gentlemen - if they can arrange to visit?

B: Marvellous idea! (whispers) - say nothing to Susan, on the matter of her share of favours, she can be somewhat touchy (plots and plans) We shall dispatch a number of post-carriages to the mountains of Wales - aye, and stack them with varied vixens and wenches of that incomprehensible duchy

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B rises from the bath, and into his Turkish pelisse, and Turkish slippers and ties a yatagan to his waist, in order to accessorize authentically

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S

​​Scene 2​

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A fortnight later, the friends are expected and the library is sumptuously stuffed with wines, weaponry - and but two! wenches

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​​​​​​​​​JM: Mr. Scroope Davies is here, my lord!

B: Scrope, how do ye do! (shuffles) - er, regrettably - I don't as yet have a single sous for you

SBD: Tsk!Pfft! (waves hand) - don't mind that - your legal man, Hanson (B to self: that rodent!!) - informed me that your deluxe coal is to be hauled from your mines at any moment (sniffs air) - my, are you wearing Attar of Rose?

B: Aye - 'tis the only civilised bathing scent left in the house - a gift from the Pasha to my late dear mother, alas! - the most pleasant of my inheritance of woes

​​​​​​​​​JM: Captain Byron, my lord

B: Ah! Welcome, cousin - and current heir apparent to this haunted, dilapidated pile

​​​​​​​​​JM(is out of breath): Mr. Harness, my lord - and (reads card) - the ‘pulling' Earl of Carlisle?

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B reddens - searches for Mantons - and broadswords, as back-up

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Hs: How are ye all! (is roaring) - had you there Byron! Ha, ha!

B: 'Tis well for you to joke re. my English Bards, Harness! I will yet have much agitation on Golders Green re. those regretful jabs into the ribs of the rascally rhymers in that cursèd Satire (to self: humph! - perchance, you scamp, you shall receive a visit this eve from the Black Friar)

Hs(is indifferent): I must say, Byron, I am wonderfully taken with your Joe Murray (JM wobbily bows) - quite the living antiquity

B: Joe? - aye, he is as much a part of Newstead as the monks Sarcophigii

CB: Speaking of same, dear cousin - I had assumed you living so remotely meant you had imbibed the atmosphere of this place - and intended to turn monk yourself 

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B ponders briefly on the possibility of taking holy orders

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Hs: ​Where ye devil is Susan? (S emerges with plates of lobster claws) - thank you, my dear little scouse (chews claws) - now, shall we all be blessed with the presence of our roguish Hobhouse?

B: I pray his regiment may dismiss him - or he is court-martialled with great éclat - and we shall all laugh again as usual and be very miserable dogs for all that (Taffy pours brandy)

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​​​B muses wistfully on the impossibility of a military career

 

B(kicks brandy cellarette): Curses! - the unmanly misery of doing nothing but make love - and enemies - and verses - and male offspring of the bar sinister

S: There is always the House - you could be of much use to your tenantry as a paw-greasing Minister

B: Be damned I will, Scrope! (paces) - I dislike counting sheep - fretting over blockages in my streams - pleas from the Fletcher clan for new roofs every ten years - to say nothing of the dullness of my fellow Peers

Hs: Therefore, Byron, marriage is the only future option that remains! Marry prudently if possible - that is, wealthily, for you can’t afford Love

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B pales at the mention of marriage, as do Taffy and Susan

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B: Nay, I shall sell up and return to the East before I take a wife (looks lovingly at the Byron ancestral portraits) - with the sale of Newstead, I can live like a Pasha or the Abbot of a disordered convent for life

CB: Sell Newstead?! I shall inherit aught but the nothing of a name? Why not publish your Levantine scribbles and secure your fortune - and, perchance - future fame?

B: English Bards (grinds teeth) - that plaguy Satire! - convinced me to scribble no more - indeed, the entire literary establishment of this isle awaits my Seconds on that score​ (sinks in chair, is disappointed at T's efficiency in attending to his friend's culinary needs)​​​​​

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S

​​Scene 3

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​Supper-time - Charles Robert Dallas, distant relation and literary opportunist, drops in

 

​​D: Pardon my delay gentlemen (bowings and greetings ensue) Byron - I have excellent news - John Murray II, a bookseller and aspiring publisher, has agreed to risk all on “Childe Harold" - why, he is just gasping for the press!

B: Murray huh?

JM: Yes, my lord

B: Not you, Murray

D: He anticipates great sales, Byron - think on your roof ! - on your debts! - on marrying a maid you desire!

B: Humph! I cannot accept payment - I am not a tradesman - however, being £30k in debt, I can't quite act the well-upholstered squire

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Scrope drops his lobster - whips out The Racing Post and makes frantic markings

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D: Mr. Murray is intrigued as to how your Lordship came to write an epic of  1745 lines - in what must have been extreme oriental discomfort? (is busy calculating prices per word, paragraph, canto - smirks)

B: 'Twas an amiable distraction from the legions of bugs and fleas crawling about my person, and my convent (to self: yea, a religious life would certes be too rustic - I am certainly no philosopher or self-denying mystic)

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Hobhouse enters

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All: Hobby! (fine manly embraces ensue)

B: Susan, fetch Mr. Hobhouse some claws and brandy - Taffy, fix up a cot in the best stable

H: Greetings my friends, I could not bear to read such melancholy letters from you, Byron - that, and the mention of Taffy's hill-dwelling kinfolk added somewhat to my zeal to de-mob

B: Erm - the promised Cambrian wenches were reluctant to travel by a Post hauled by one geriatric cob - however, we still have Taffy and Susan to attend to your needs - after they've weeded the garden path

H: That is a relief, for I have been travelling for two days and immediately require a bath

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A loud gasp from the company - Captain Byron and Harness discreetly leave to secure the best stable for themselves - S faints into his bed by the fire

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B: A bath?!

JM: A bath, Mr. Hobhouse?

H: Yes, a bath - with lavender water and cashmere flannels (observes gaping jaws) - my three-week military training taught me the necessity of such heroic hardships (sighs) - see to it Murray - and fetch me a brandy warmed to 20 degrees, if you would

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B is much relieved - and mildly disgusted - that another career option can be honourably eliminated

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H: And what for you now, Byron? You cannot remain here - in this mansion of glooms and millipedes

B(hautily): At the moment I am yet my own master - and I know not to what point of the compass I shall direct my steps​​​​​​​​

D: We are negotiating the publication of “Childe Harold”, Mr. Hobhouse - your friend is no minister, or yet a husband, or prelate - and may publish as he wishes - for he is a Poet to his very britches!
B(is warming to the notion): Mmm - I should not return to London or its literary environs with haste (eyes S & T hacking at the weeds) - and shall therefore, Dallas, accept freely what is offered courteously - to wit - your mediation between me and Murray

JM: Yes, my Lord?

B: Not you, Murray! - sweet suffering Jesus!

H: I don’t think printing your name will answer the purpose (is huffing and pacing paternally) - you must be aware that your infamous Satire will bring the North and South Grubstreet critics down heavily against any future authorship

D: Not at all! - Murray may make a point of it - and if you coincide with him, my Lord - do it daringly! - and let it be entitled by “the Author of Esh. Bards & Sch. R.s”!!

B(is gleefully set on D's course of action): Aye - I will lay no traps for applause! - of course, there are little things I would wish to alter - and perhaps some Stanzas of a buffooning/libellous cast, for I shall no longer be a shuttlecock for scoundrels, nor the lobby-lounger's lambast!

H: Tsk and pfft to all this!! Travel guides, cookbooks and Tom Moore's prattlings are the only saleables - any publication of oriental poesy will be but wrapping for brawn cutlets - within a week at that! - on our butcher's tables

S(from his sopha-bed): Aye - and wrapped up so prettily - just like your Miscellany (all guffaw)

B: Dallas, you have me convinced! - I grant you full copyright for the “Pilgrimage” - but I shall retain the copyright for my “Tales of an Atheinan Convent by Moonlight: A Vegetable Garden of Delight" (they shake hands)
S: I will lay odds, Byron (raises lobster claw) - that publication will end all your troubles - monetarily, martially, matrimonially and anonimitily

B: Scrope, do not bet that I will one day wake up famous and widely read - it's more likely - on Golders Green, at any rate - I'll wake up dead​

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As Hobhouse empties the last of his ‘Attar of Rose' into the bath, B determines that a career of poesy is the sole means of recreating his experience of oriental luxury - Taffy and Susan down tools and don their not-too-low-before much-admired evening livery ​​​​

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S

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END