Lord Byron's

BIRTHDAY BLUES

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Cast

Lord Byron
Douglas Kinnaird
John Cam Hobhouse
Scrope Berdmore Davies
Stevens, a butler
D’Egville, a ballet master
Isabella Tripp
Mr. Tripp

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Scene 1

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London, 1813 - things are grim at the Cocoa Tree Club - Scrope gingerly attempts conversation

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SBD: Is it your pending natal day which darkens your brow thus, my friend?

B(scowling): Birthday?! pfft! - at five-and-twenty, the better part of life is over (slurps brandy) - by the toe of the Pharaoh! - one should be something before one is hurled into the badly managed crypt of one's ancestors (kicks fern fronds) - but what shall I be? - nothing but five-and-twenty! What have I done? - scribbling rhymes from fetid climes? - of despots, damsels and unnatural crimes? - and what have I seen? the same man all over the world - ay, and woman too

H(smirks, obnoxiously): Pish n’pshaw! I - my dear Byron - I have become acquainted with the true reason for your lack of amity

B: Have you now, Hobby? - and what, pray, can you know of my current amatory calamity?

H: The exotic adventuress, Mrs. Isabella Tripp? (B starts) - I hear that you have repeatedly been denied the machinations of her petticoats - that she shooed you away with a buggy whip (roars)

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B jumps up and annihilates what remains of the ferns

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H: In truth, you are not alone in trusting Mrs. Tripp’s well-parsed tale of woe - why, ‘tis the talk of the Ton - and better suited in its lurid farcicality to a screed from Rousseau

B: You believe me prey to a maiden’s day-dreaming?! - I am assured by Lady Melbourne that the lady was indeed the unwilling victim of her father’s matrimonial scheming

SBD: This Mrs. Tripp you desire so urgently, Byron? - she is married?!

B: Er, no…

H(interrupts): Indeed she is not - her father, Captain Brydges of the H.M.S. Bacchante - stationed in the West Indies - kept her on board his boat for the good of her morals and education, but upon attaining sixteen years, this eccentric parent judged marriage a neccessity to fend off amorous sailors - for ‘tis a fact that a thin band of gold puts the fear of the Lucifer into your veteran mariner - and conjugated his daughter with William Tripp, an ensign with a fondness for rum, but of good familty none the less..

B: .. and who went - but one day post-nuptially - to his eternal rest

K: One day??!! - (mind is racing) - do we possess their medical records?

B: You understand Kinnaird, behaviours on the island colony of Sao Vincente are bizarre and louche - ‘twould appear that the young groom, on awakening the next morn, volunteered as a competitor in the Island’s annual ‘Trowsers Around the Ankles Race’ - in common with all young ensigns - and while there are oft reported injuries - shattered jaws, broken bicuspids and whatnot - but ne’er a fatality - yet the bold, perpetually intoxicated William fell into the harbour and was carried out to sea - and his bride of a day and night left a widow at sixteen

SBD: What?! What race d’you mean?

B: A noble tradition amongst the exceedingly bored residents of that immoral island, Scrope - it has its origins in 1748, whenceabouts a Captain James McKenzie was suspected by the island Governor of criminal conversation with his wife - McKenzie passionately swore an oath on the good book that he had not, and was on the point of shaking the Govenor’s paw, when Carmelita - the Govenor’s Maccaw - began jumping up and down on her perch squawking ‘Oh James, Oh James, my husband will not return for upwards of two hours’

H: And did not the gallante beat such a hasty retreat that his trowsers fell to his ankles - as was witnessed by all the townspeople - and he kept running all the way to New Mexico!

B: And for sixty years since, the young Island men hold an annual race to honour the memory of that rash, trowserless beau

K: By Jove! I can see how the maid caught your attention, Byron - but why over such a one despair? - a widow at sixteen, why you may as well grasp at air!

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B begrudgingly admits his reasoning

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B: A widow - ‘ere yet one so young - will not have any outlandishly romantic notions of matrimony - which will suit my own expectations (mumbles) - her Papa’s capital is vastly attractive - and she does have wild eyes like the roe - more to the point - I want the copyright to that devilish tale of woe! - how I tire of the Orient, and aspire - in sooth - to satirise a people I actually know

K: Aye, we must all end in marriage of some sort (sighs) I can conceive nothing more delightful than such a state in the country - reading the county newspaper - and kissing one’s wife’s maid - as it were - to put it bluntly (smirks)

B(is distracted by thoughts of Newstead’s nymphs): I own - for the widowed wench - I am deeply in despair - and of lust, a goodly share (looks for something to kick) - I have even thought of taking to the waters again - if it weren’t for the current continental pestilence - however, I shall triumph over such faux-maidenly resistance!!

 

B departs in a jaw-twisting fury

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Scene 2

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The lads have been summoned to Kinnaird’s quarters

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K: Harken, my friends! - in light of his lordship’s most determined glumps, I have decided that we shall arrange a surprise birthday rout - what say ye?

SBD: There’ll be the devil to pay if we do, Kinnaird - he detests birthdays and would rather be buried at twenty-five than endure a twenty-sixth

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K calls his butler, Stevens

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S: Yes, Mr. Kinnaird

K: I require your advices as my principal cellarman (S bows) - of a particularly raucous evening - perhaps after luck at the rattle-box - how much wine and fortified spirits would our present company consume?

S: A particularly raucous evening? - the best I can estimate, Mr. Kinaird, would be north of twenty crates of wine and forty of port, sherry, brandy, and gin

K: Saints preserve our innards and livers, ha! - thank you, Stevens

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S retires

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K: I have drawn up lists of suggestions for the celebrations - suppliers, entertainments and whatnot - here, have a peruse (hands out manifestos) - and don’t let my big red Scottish head intimidate your opinions

H: My, ‘tis quite the volume - (peruses) I see an issue immediately, Kinnaird (K’s head does indeed get red) - all the boa constrictors and zebras from Astleys circus - and all the ballerinas and contraband fireworks in London - will not console the humiliation of a man who has never been refused the ogle of a rogueish eye - nor the flash of an unstockinged thigh

K: He certes shall be amused by the animals, Hobhouse - why, two nights ago I saw the tigers sup at Exeter ’Change - there was a hippopotamus like Lord Liverpool in the face - and the “Ursine Sloth” had the very voice and manner of his valet Fletcher - but the tiger talked too much and would undoubtedly eat all the other guests

H(is still reading): While the notion is sound - and no more than our friend deserves - yet, fireworks? Brougham in the stocks? - a cure for the pox?!

SBD: You are aware - Kinnaird - that he is not easily victualled? - I imagine a cake made of dry biscuit should suffice, not a Schwarzentoftenkaka with Afflepleinsteinisch sauce! - oons! - pike soup? boar trotters? - do you propose digestive assassination to cure his glooms?!

H: Moreover - who shall pay for D’Egville’s ballarinas?

K: Never mind that - it’s not as though Byron does not have many well-wishers in the Town - and what with emerging threats of matrimony, they naturally want to keep him single ‘ere their engagements dwindle

Much puffing and shaking of heads

K: Bah to the lot of you! Scrope? - does he not provide you with rhymes by which you enchant young sylphs in Green Park? - and without which your life would be somewhat monastic?

SBD: Humph! I could manage quite well - although it may drain my purse, leave nothing for the dice, and the reduction in my body pecuniary would be rather drastic

K: Precisely - and shall we enumerate what you owe our esteemed companion, Hobby? - ye who have basked in his reflective literary glory these past seven years?

H: Why, I’d be the last to deny it!

K: It’s settled, so - I’m to Berry Bros. for crates of pale champagnes and light canaries - ye are to organise the lighter entertainments - anon, my friends, until the 22nd!

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Scene 3

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SBD and H head for the Paradise Inn, Stepney-by-Bow

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Barman: Well, gentlemen is it! - we have not seen the like since Lord Byron visited us - last night - what can I get for ye?

SBD: Two pots of your most toothsome cider, barman - and do tell, who is your finest resident songstress, baritone or balladeer?

Barman: Our what?

H: Who amongst you exercises their throttle the more exquisitely?

Barman: Ah, now - we’re not that kind of house - ye are looking for Mother Throckmorton’s Superior House of Fornication - if ye mention his lordship she may offer you a discount

H: No, you obscene oaf! - we require to engage your best singer for an evening of entertainment - a birthday celebration for his lordship

Barman: Oh, in that case - why not celebrate here? - here he is amongst friends (a cheer from the vulgarians) - besides, our most wond’rous warbler - a fine baritone - is under contract - available only for a price - quite a hefty price

H: Thou beastly Brigand! - er, how much will one evening set us back?

Barman: One pound - and thruppence - and a quart of rum

SBD: Oh, for god’s sake, Hobby - that will do very well - this is the address, my good man, I shall send my little dormeuse carriage at 8 - will that suit?

Barman: ‘Twil - and here, gentlemen, have a pot on me - for the road - and tell Mother Throckmorton ye are acquainted with his lordship

SBD: Most good of you - and we shall - cheers!

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Scene 4

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The lads approach D’Egvilles ‘Studio de la Danse’, Covent Garden

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H: I cannot see the point of fireworks - how is one meant to let off fireworks in the Albany? - what if his portrait of Napoleon or his parrot caught fire?

SBD: Never mind Napoleon - none shall escape with their lives if his ancient fire-lighter Mrs. Mule suspects competition in the conflagration department - why, she’d tie us up with barbed wire

F: And that rustic yeoman Fletcher will run back to Newstead to warn of an imminent Dutch invasion of Nottinghamshire

SBD: This is D’Egville’s - now, remember Kinnaird’s instructions regarding this rogue and let me do the negotiating

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The door is opened, the rogue D’Egville is in a sweat, and a tizzy

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D’E: Gentlemen, you are too early, the girls are in the middle of their arabesques! - mon dieu, les anglaises ballerinas thump on the boards like er - bétail - vous savez? - cattle! - they should stick to la danse Morris, peut-être?, mon dieu! (mops brow)

SBD: We do not require your - or their - services at present, D’Egville - we have a most prestigious engagement at which we require their attendance

D’E: Vraiment!! - a Royal performance? - the Regent requires beaucoup de nouvelles maîtresses?

SBD: Mattresses? - keep your wig on D’Egville - nothing so salacious - we are holding a surprise birthday party for our great friend - and one of your most reliable customers - Lord Byron

D’E: The Byron! - but of course we shall oblige - there has been much distress and tristesse amongst the troupe that the noble gentlemen will soon have no need of our services (bites knuckle) - that he shall give himself away in mariage and devote himself to les hymnes religieux!!

SBD: Don’t mind your bawdy-house gossip, D’Egville - nothing of the kind shall take place under my watch! Now - how many of your finest can you spare?

D’E: Eh bien, maintenant (scans brain) - would twelve suit? I should give up the troupe entire but we do have other clients to perform for - le duc de Wellington is très fond of the Pas de Deux for four of an evening

SBD: That will suffice - finally, we have been reliably informed that you have access to contraband fireworks - is this true?

D’E(whispers): Oui c’est le cas - mais they present in rusé disguise from the excise men, heh heh (hands over a box of cigars) - please take these as my most particular gift to his Lordship - au revoir, gentlemen!

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Scene 5

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Byron’s birthday, the 22nd of January - Kinnaird is organising the Albany with theatrical zeal

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K(claps hands): Marvellous, marvellous! - if we could get the ballarinas to go ‘on point’ on the zebra’s back - well done, ladies - hold your nerve - Scrope! - holy fires, get that boa constrictor off the parrot’s cage - Jenny will attack!! - Fletcher, arrange the wines and brandies in a becoming manner on the sophas and his favourite reading chair (tentatively) - er, Mrs. Mule? - would you mind awfully lighting candles on the Schwarzentoftenkaka? - none of the assembled party is as skilled in the handling of such flammables (bows)

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Mule grunts, but for the sake of her Master, obliges - a footstep is heard on the landing - a hush descends

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B: Feck and damn, this key never works!

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B jiggles the key, and the door opens

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ALL: Surprise!!!

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B is slack-jawed, and appears to have company

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Isabella: Oh, my Lord - you have indeed provided the paradise of joys you assured awaited me in your chambers!

SBD: er - Happy Bir..

K(thumps SBD): Ah yes, Mrs. Tripp? (thinks quick) - his Lordship had us under instructions to welcome you to the Albany (bows) - in order that your immaculate reputation be not at risk - you are aware how Society slanders so very wantonly?

Isabella: Oh, my Lord - and to think what the antiquated matrons were saying of your amatory incontinence - and the notion that you were scouting for capital in the five per cents - and running short of material for new poesy (kisses his cheek) - I can see now how grievously maligned you have been - may I pet that large snake?

B: Do, my dear

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B is in a volcanic fury - Kinnaird drags him behind the zebra

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K: Byron - you must understand - why, ’twas meant with the best of intentions - to lift you from your misery re. yon widow’s scorn - but in truth, to celebrate your birthday - for we are all most delighted that you were born

SBD: Look, Byron! - Mrs. Tripp has joined your favourite ballarinas - is she not agreeably supine?! - good lord above, but that zebra has a powerful spine!

B(sighs, admires the nimble dancers): I am now six-and-twenty - my passions have had enough to cool them - my affections more than enough to wither them - yet, be damned (waves at Isabella, who is pirouetting) I must take a wife! - oh! is that Oporto Port ‘79? (makes to the drinks sopha)

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The evening goes along swimmingly, Isabella rapidly falls in love with B’s alabaster complexion, Mrs. Mule and Fletcher attach the boa constrictor to Jenny the parrot’s cage, the circus animals and ballarinas perform astonishing tricks and passasdes - H passes around cigars

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H: And lastly - as it’s six o’morn - and we have but one quart of Gin remaining - we shall salute Lord Byron with the finest French tobacco (B frowns) - and the day that 26 years ago gave him birth

SBD: And the finest baritone from The Paradise Inn shall fare us well..

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Enters singer from the broom closet

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“Oh, I’m Billy Bell, a costermonger as you sees
A-dealing in carrots, turnips, leeks, and cabbages
Cauliflower and broccoli, really may I say..”

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Isabella(is horrified): William Tripp!! - thou unspeakable varmint (jumps down from striped animal) - ‘twould appear ye - but twelve hours after our wedding day - did fail to drown in the harbour of Sao Vincente!

William: Miss Isabella?!! - er, my dear wife - why I - floated up the Thames on a hardwood log of sub-tropical origin - straight into The Paradise Inn - in Stepney-by-Bow - hah, er - what d’you know?!

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Isabella jumps on William’s back and begins to bite his ears somewhat ferociously

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B: Sweet George’s trumpet! - will I ever encounter an unencumbered, docile, hearth-loving female?!

Isabella(has gained one ear lobe): Oh, I do apologise, my Lord - ‘twould appear your fine welcome has gone to waste - I seem to be yet married - albeit still immaculately chaste

K(whispers cynically): Come, Byron - such proceedings will only add to the novelty and saleability of her tale - which by now is irrefutably in the public domain (B sighs, sees reason) - Mrs. Mule - if you would, please light our cigars

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Mule skilfully assists

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H: To Byron - dearest friend, disappointed bachelor and the least discriminating of Peers!

B: Huzzah - my most considerate of comrades - and Cheers!!

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An ear-splitting bang is heard, followed by the whizzing and exploding of fireworks - the animals crash out the windows and terrorise Piccadilly - the ballerinas tutus are in flames - William flees, his trowsers falling around his ankles as he races away from Isabella and towards the murky waters of the Thames

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END