SAM ROGERS

  Questions & Answers

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Cast

Lord Byron

John Cam Hobhouse

Teresa Guiccioli

Leigh Hunt

PB Shelley

Mary Shelley

Fletcher

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SCENE 1

 

A drizzly night, Pisa 1821 - at Palazzo Lanfranchi the clock is ticking - loudly

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F: He must have broken an axle - that green chariot hath been damned since we left Lunnon!

H: Fletcher - perhaps refill our glasses - unless (to others) we break the party up for this evening - lord knows where he - (catches TG's eye) - er - may have broken down​

MS: Our studies need attending Shelley - this past hour could have been better spent translating the complete works of  Calderón, into Greek

PBS: Yes - I'm afraid dear friends - it is past 6 - I shall be a wreck unless I get home and wrestle a few Spanish gerunds before night falls

LH: humph! his Lordship! - such aristocratic boorishness, eh Shelley? (PBS shifts awkwardly) - should we perhaps attend to his collars and stockings whilst we wait?

TG(arises):Mi scusi? Your tone insults - Mr. Leghunt - ye sly wren who flies on the eagle's back (hisses)

H: Calm, my dear Contessa - 'tis but a bluster of vulgar cockney humour (grinds teeth at LH)

F(sneers at LH): Aye, as funny as a Glasgow handshake - shall I refill, Mr. Hobhouse?

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An ear-splitting growl rebounds off the marble hallway floor, onto the walls and up the marble staircase

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F: Oh, he's home (rushes downstairs)

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The salon is frozen - minutes pass - enters a somewhat irritated Lord B - courtesies are paid

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B: My apologies all - och and oons! I'm fairly knocked up (sinks into chair) - Fletcher!! - brandy! - (to company) are your glasses filled?

LH: We have all been waiting my Lord 

B: Couldn't be helped (T rubs his temples) - grazie Angelo mio (snores)

H: Well, Byron! (B wakes) - this is most unseemly behaviour towards your guests! Is this display of blasé Mediterranean conduct habitual? (B yawns) - have you been bitten? stabbed? short-changed?

B(sighs): No - no, nothing - yet worse (eyes room) - I met a most loathsome reminder of my years of Fame on the road from Bologna

LH: Lady Byron?

B: Sunburn me if even that wouldn't have been more pleasant! - or  not - (takes a swig) - be damned to it! - I shall not let that bilious individual - whose blackening river rushes through a Stygian liver - ruin my - our - evening (leaps to feet, kissing TG's tiny hand) - now! seeing as it's too rainy for shooting at small things on fence posts - we shall play a guessing game - 'Whom did I meet upon the road?' - the winner shall be awarded the front page of the next edition of the “Liberal” - what say you Hunt?

LH: mmm - the Contessa's parlour-border-level command of English I suspect would render her participation superfluous 

B: Cease making love to my Tesoro (blows kiss at TG) in such an amateurish manner, Hunt (F laughs) - perchance you'd prefer the company of your beastly Kraal and charming wife? (LH sinks, and reddens) - now - the Game's afoot!

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SCENE 2

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PBS and MS, despite anxiety re. their literary schedules, are inspired by the prospect of being published in Byron's journal

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B: Your attention, please - very well - here are my questions;

Nose and Chin that make a knocker
Wrinkles that would puzzle Cocker?
Mouth that marks the envious Scorner,
With a Scorpion in each corner
Curling up his tail to sting you
In the place that most may wring you?

H: Caroline Lamb! (to all) eh wot? - it has to be - if ever there was a sting in a tail, 'twas hers - check behind the curtains Fletcher

MS: No, 'tis only that spider, Lady Melbourne - she is old enough to have wrinkles - she must be at least forty

B: Mary - my friend - that good Lady has gone to her rest

PBS: Wring? - like, in a washing tub? Is the scorpion caught in the wringers? Oh, the poor insect - I can hear him crying in pain “Help me Shelley, help the poor misunderstood Scorpion”

MS: No wonder we never go anywhere

B: By the Dog of the Virgin!! - rattle those bone-boxes my friends! (paces) 

Eyes of lead-like hue and gummy,
Carcase stolen from some mummy,
Bowels—(but they were forgotten,
Save the Liver, and that's rotten)
Skin all sallow, flesh all sodden,
Form the Devil would frighten G-d in

TG: Mio Byron! you blasphemer! Dio mio! - the priests will run us into yet another inhospitable principality

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The atheists in the room scoff obnoxiously - Moretto, B's faithful bulldog, barks maniacally 

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H: Bowels - mmm - liver - forsooth, that could be any of us (all nod)

PBS: I'm sallow - and sodden - I'm sure of it (checks mirror) - are my eyes of lead-like hue Mary?

MS: Sit down Shelley! Were you just on the road from Bologna?

PBS: I could have been - could I? (looks at hand) no, I seem to here - yes, I'm not anywhere else - I think (bites nails)

B(paces): Ah! (brightens) - now Mary - concentrate - you will surely guess it

Is't a Corpse stuck up for show
Galvanized at times to go?
With the Scripture hasn't connection,
New proof of the Resurrection?
Vampire, Ghost, or Goul, what is it?
I would walk ten miles to miss it

MS: Claire. Get your coat Shelley

B: Close(shivers) but no (thinks) - I shall require the aid of props - Fletcher! - a lemon and the doorstep beggar's coat if you will - and have Moretto stop barking at that window

F: Yes my Lord 

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SCENE 3

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B: As you're all making a mull of things - I'll give you three hints; Bard, Beau, or Banker

LH: Douglas Kinnaird! How excellent - for me, heheh!! - I have just completed an '“Ode to Hair - a Follicular Fancy” complete with samples from famous heads - Hobhouse you can sketch them - I could publish in each subsequent issue - nail clippings - broken teeth etc. - a franchise of  bodily poesy, if you will

B(winces): In the name of the god of Scrope Davies, Hunt! - certes, if I had met Kinnaird, I should be back in Venice with my Nine Muses, gambolling my sanity - and medical well-being - away at my casino (H and B laugh riotously)

TG: Que? What about Venezia?

B: Niente amore mio (rubs chin and dons filthy coat)

Air so softly supercilious,
Chastened bow, and mock humility,
Almost sickened to Servility

H: Servile, sick  - Hanson - any one of those yellow-gizzarded Hansons?

TG: This - it is Hoppner, the Inglese pettegolezzo - gossip gossip like a squirrel with empty cheeks (shudders)

B: Admirable - mio solo Bene - yet also, no

Hear the tales he lends his lip to
Little hints of heavy scandals
Every friend by turns he handles:
All that women or that men do
Glides forth in an innuendo

LH: Well, that narrows it down to Grub Street at least 

H: Or Holland House - of late - or Melbourne House - yea, any House in London since his Lordship left them with enough spicy hors d'oeuvres for generations of late suppers hence (general nervous nodding)

PBS: Chancery Lane? - the innuendo I have had to endure from that Palace of Brutality!

B: Faith but our acquaintance is sparse, Hobby! 

You're his foe—for that he fears you,

And in absence blasts and sears you:

You're his friend—for that he hates you,

First obliges, and then baits you,

Darting on the opportunity

When to do it with impunity

H: Moore! - of course - that undersized Irishman - my bane! - the future hawker of your good name!

B: Hobby, mind your cheek - that is my best - second best - friend of whom you speak

F: Your lemon, my Lord

B: Excellent (B bites lemon)

Clothed in odds and ends of humour,
Herald of each paltry rumour
From divorces down to dresses,
Woman's frailties, Man's excesses:
All that life presents of evil
Make for him a constant revel (spits out lemon)

MS: Your beautiful mouth my Lord! The throne of beauty and love for most women - do not purse it so - ahh! I can't bear to look - Shelley, look away!

PBS: It has a hideous aspect - Byron! What have you done - there are snakes - or eels - coming out of your skull!

F: Ah no, Mr. Shelley - he's but grown his curls long, like they have it here in Italy, it's called “Il Mulletto”

B (parades around the room, bent over)

Then he thinks himself a lover
Why? I really can't discover,
In his mind, age, face, or figure;
Viper broth might give him vigour:
Let him keep the cauldron steady,
He the venom has already

LH: Fancies himself a Lover? the Regent! thinks himself a Brummel in all things - is he King yet?! God bless us - is he paying a visit? - Fletcher! - tell Marianne to wash the children - (to B) I'll need sovereigns to buy court clothes - and a powdered peruke - (coughs )- is my breath bad? He must have taken to forgiving me!

B:Reel thy head in, Hunt - would I have met the English King on a boggy back road from Bologna? Zooks! I quite give up - I shall retire - Teresa (TG swishes over and offers her hand)

ALL: One more clue!

B: My revulsion has quite worked it's way out from my nethers - however - 

He's the Cancer of his Species,
And will eat himself to pieces,
Plague personified and Famine,
Devil, whose delight is damning.
For his merits—don't you know 'em?
Once he wrote a pretty Poem

PBS: You met -  yourself  - along the road - arghhhhh!!! - (runs out of the house, followed by an apologising MS)

 

Moretto leaps, jumps and growls and tears at curtain

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SR(squealing): Have that hound put down - if you will my Lord! (hides behind sopha)

LH: Is that Rogers? The black-dropped juggler of reputations?

B: La! 'tis indeed Samuel Rogers! - and down which drainpipe did you enter my residence? - and when?

SR: In truth, I knocked - but your man took my coat - gave me broth and a florin - is he always drunk? Are you kin of the bar sinister? (B glares and pales) - heh heh - mmm - I left some poesy in your chariot but your savage animal bade me climb the balcony (snivels into hanky) - I have been enfolded in yon drapery all through the latter half of your regretful guessing game

H: How any of us missed the whiff of your sulphurous presence, Mr. Rogers, is a mystery (hands SR a clean hanky - turns to B) although, as a gentleman - of sorts - Mr. Rogers does have the right of reply

SR: A little something - solely for posterity - I promise, my dear Byron (coughs up a phlegm-like substance) ahem 

To the Youth who swam from Sestos to Abydos

If imagined wrongs
Pursued thee, urging thee sometimes to do
Things long regretted, oft, as many know,
None more than I, thy gratitude would build
On slight foundations; and, if in thy life
Not happy, in thy death thou surely wert,
Thy wish accomplished

B(yawns): Posterity will be delighted, I'm sure (puts on night-cap) - it has been a relief to be able to catch and punish so eminent a scandal-monger as you Rogers - good eve - Moretto will show you out

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Moretto lunges  - SR breaks the window and falls towards an ecstatic PBS, surrendering himself to what he believes to be his avenging, rheumy-eyed, angel. MS jogs on

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END

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