Elizabeth Pigot & Boatswain

Elizabeth Pigot, Lord Byron - & his Dog

Every Dog has his Day

Cast

Elizabeth Pigot

Lord Byron

Mrs. Pigot

John Pigot

Southwell Belles

Hon. Catherine Gordon Byron

Boatswain, Savage, Fanny and Thunder - Dogs

SCENE 1

Southwell, 1807 - the Pigots are minding Byron’s dogs while he is away at Cambridge

MrsP: Elizabeth, have mercy upon our olfactories!! - his Lordship’s dogs have no place in our parlour (holds nose, dogs fight for control of a fine plump cushion) - my word what a catastrophic arrangement of quadrupeds! (shakes head) The old parsons and old Maids of the parish will be arriving for tea any minute - please child - take Bo’sun and his crew either upstairs or to that decaying Augustinian kennel - Newstead!

E: But they are steadfast by their Master’s watch! (ponders) oh! I have his Lordship’s handkerchief - upon which I was embroidering his manly profile - his scent may lure them away

Mrs.P: Excellent - go on, go on- hurry - the kettle whistles!

E waves handkerchief around the dog’s noses, they bound over sophas and tea-tables

MrsP: Poor Bo’sun - his gravity is grievously discomposed (E herds dogs upstairs)

E sits at her desk - the dogs rip up bed linen - entertains herself with watercolours

E: I’ll paint Byron’s eyes - are they green? no - maybe? I too often become distracted by his fine, handsome mouth - (hears carriage pull up) - oh dear! (tries to restrain dogs) - Byron is home!

The dogs leap and tear maniacally down the stairs - scramble over dowagers - smash crockery - and dive out the window to their Master

B: Afternoon, ladies - my, what a scene of riot and Confusion! Mrs. Becher - Mrs. Pigot (bows) assorted dowagers (jumps) Mother! - ah, Kitty Gordon (bows extravagantly) there you are (grinds teeth)

CB: That slobbering lump has destroyed our afternoon - can you not find a hound more befitting your station? - a Great Dane? or a Corgi perhaps (dogs snarl) - apologise to Mrs. Pigot immediately, her sopha is ruined!

MrsP: Not at all Mrs. Byron - sit, please, your Lordship - would you care for port, brandy, tea, oysters?

B: Green tea - cold - if you have it my dear Mrs. Pigot - and an egg

MrsP: If you’ll permit me, my Lord, your regime seems unnecessarily severe - you have but boiled off every ounce of fat! - here, have a jellied partridge

B: No, I mustn’t partake of the feathered tribe - besides, I have several pounds to go before I fit into an Eelskin from the Row (pats thigh) - I thank you, however, for noticing - why - my Cambridge acquaintance barely recognised me!

MrsP: Will you be long visiting us, my Lord?

B: Unfortunately, no - I have but returned to collect copies of my poesy - my Cambridge acquaintance also do not believe I am a published author, the blackguards! (a plate of buttery crumpets is shoved under B’s nose) - no, thank you Mrs. P - crumpets are proscribed in the very entirety of their being

CB: Humph! starvation! - you’ll attract infections and disease if you eat owt but peas! (B chomps egg)

E: There’s no infection a strong dose of Pearson’s Inflammation Restoration can’t cure, Mrs. Byron (E and B roar their heads off)

Boatswain jumps on CB and steals crumpet, Savage challenges the sewing basket, Thunder is swinging off the curtains, Fanny worries E’s ankles

B: Down ye uncivil beasts!!! (dogs whimper) - Out!! - wait on the green and think on behaving so ill in the future!

Dogs mope to green

B: Many apologies, Mrs. Pigot - for now - enough tumult! Elizabeth - to the harpsichord! (with cheer) I have learned several new tunes in the public houses of the capital (gasps all round) oh! - of course, you won’t know them - dashed shame - they are superbly vulgar (B and E smirk) - mmm - ‘Tom Brown’ is not the worst

E: You sing, my Lord - I shall pick up the tune

B: Ha! I always sing so much better when you play, my dear Queen Bess

E: That is because I play to your singing

B: Quite

The late afternoon ends - amid the destruction - pleasantly enough. B gathers his dogs and corals them into Burgage Manor - much to the horror of CB

SCENE 2

The village green - B’s work-out routine involves 10 woollen cricket jumpers and a greatcoat

JP: Hallo Byron! - my word, are these exertions an agreeable amusement? Perhaps you would prefer a quick innings?

B: Three more laps, my dear Pigot (puffs) - then a bath, I’d imagine (puffs) - have Reverend Becher stand at the wicket and I shall return presently (puffs)

Elizabeth chases a rogue Boatswain onto the green - the hound leaps on B

B: Boatswain, you rascal! (ruffles ears) You have repented and apologised to Mrs. Pigot - have you not, my most excellent of friends? (Boatswain is distracted) Stop gnawing that cat!! (rat scampers away) - Oh, it was a rat! - oons, that can’t bode well

E: Are you aware, Byron, that your little green volume of poesy is causing much subterfuge and to-ing and fro-ing from Ridges the booksellers

B: Bah! By whom? - boneless bards and venomous reviewers? Reverend Becher?

P: In sooth, no, my lord! ‘tis the veiled virgins of this parish! - it would seem the Infant Lord Byron is now a person of fame and renown

B: Aye, ‘twould appear so (breezily) - it is in every bookstore in the Capital, though Duchesses do not feel the same need for anonymity

Boatswain faints after rat bites his ear - B rushes to his aid - trips on greatcoat - is knocked on the head by cricket stumps

JP: Byron! (taps his face) - Byron!

E: Here, my handkerchief will revive him (waves under nose)

B(revived but unwell): Ouch! Well, knock my gizzards side-aways (sings) “Where, oh where is my beloved Inconstant Sigismunda Cunegunda Bridgetina? tra la la loo - The Princess of Terra Incognita? tra la la loo - join me, Elizabeth! (E demurs) - How I long for her delicate sneezes and overly affectionate squeezes! - Where are me oysters? I shall torment the obstinate fellows with a cricket bat - hack, hack - ha

CB(ranges across the blameless village green): Byronnne!! - You have tripped and banged your head (shakes his head violently)

B: We shall all go to Sunday Service - ‘ere merrily sing psalms with the Blessed in the other world - with the Southwell belles in bonnets and peeping ankles! Where is my copper bath? Where oh where is my Mary, my Paradise!

Boatswain barks

B: Elizabeth! (is hallucinating) When did Boatswain take holy orders? He exhorts repentance! - to resist temptation! (to Boatswain) By the ghost of the Black Friar I swear, Reverend Boatswain, I shall repeat my prayers with greater devotion - and not just linger on the best bits in the Song of Solomon

JP(medically assesses situation): Friends, we are in Status Religiosus - the last and most severe in concussive terms

B: My visits to Ann Becher’s cottage were of a most chaste nature, Reverend (Boatswain is slobbering over a cricket ball) - oh! I wish I had never published my poesy if e’en my own dog condemns me (weeps)

CB: This is what comes of his foregoing dinner - just to make himself thinner!

SCENE 3

B has fairly recovered - is preparing to return to Cambridge - the villagers line up to wish him well - women weep, sigh, groan bitterly - Boatswain jumps, uninvited, into carriage

MrsP (to CB): We shall all grieve the loss of this wonderful pair

Belle 1: I feel ‘t grave would be better - I cannot cope with such lamentation

Belle 2: Oh my friend - that would be a loss to that nation

MrsP: Ladies - here - have my Lordship’s book - for consolation

Belle 1(blushes): I thank you - I shall look after it with care

Belle 2: And study the poems so moral, which are written there

Belles depart, poring over volume

B: Elizabeth, Pigot - I shall have much to write upon my arrival in the Capital

JP(bows): We do anticipate immensely your off-colour epistles so fantastical

B: Mind! The cursory Divinity of my faithful Boatswain hath shamed me. My correspondence - yea, my conduct - shall henceforth be unimpeachable and chaste - passionately chaste!

E: How very disappointing - tho’ perchance ‘tis best to avoid the Ancients, my Lord (both cackle)

B: Elizabeth, I promised a gift for little Mary Becher - as my poesy is not fit for a five-year-old, could you oblige with something of your own - mayhap, a wholesome parody of local fooleries with delightful - though inexpert - illustrations

E: ‘Twould be my pleasure, my Lord (curtseys)

CB: Take care in that vile abyss of sensuality, son - I have packed a side of ox, a brace of rabbit, and a dozen port for your 97-mile journey

B: Thank you, my sweet and amiable Mama (finely-carved nostrils flare) - anon all! Elizabeth, Pigot, Mrs. P (B waves, without an excess of sorrow)

Coach departs, dogs whimper

E(waving): Out upon time! (weeps into B’s hanky) A place which abounds solely in women, he will invariably leave

JP: But enough of the past, my dear sister - as for the future (looks around village) - ‘tis ours but to grieve (gathers dogs to his side)

END

Full copy of Elizabeth's book in 'Lord Byron's Best Friends' by Geoffrey Bond

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