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Cast

Lord Byron

PB Shelley

Leigh Hunt

Thomas Medwin

Captain Williams

Trelawney

Fletcher

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Scene 1

 

Pisa, the Palazzo Lanfranchi, 1822 - after six years on the Continent, Byron is perhaps too grateful for the presence of these ill-assorted Englishmen

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​LH: Fletcher, tell your master I have come to borrow a cool hundred of his crowns

F(mumbles): A pox on ye, Mr. Hunt! - his Lordship shall have t'take in paying guests at the rate you claim his brass

LH(sneers): I suspect your master would not object to lodging a troupe of buxom parlour-boarders in his palazzo, Fletcher - hop to it,  or I'll have you charged with trespass!

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F grunts - the evening guests begin to gather in B's salon

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LH: Greetings, Medwin - surreptitious biographer of the Great and Good! heh heh - welcome to our Palazzo (Moretto the bulldog barks)

M: Is his Lordship about - at all? (eyes desks, writing slopes, rubbish bins)

LH: He shall be down presently with my money - oh! when parting from his sequins (laughs) - how he'll bawl!

PBS: Evening gentlemen (bows) - I trust ye have all bought witty anecdotes, tales of revolutionary stirrings or new poesy to recite - Oh! good evening, Williams

W: Shelley (nods at assembled guests) - where is Mary? 

PBS: At home - in the glooms one minute - the next! - sweet as a fresh blueberry (shrugs) - and Janey - er - Mrs. Williams, where is she?
W: She too is at home, Shelley, re-stringing the guitar you gave her - to be in tune with the sea

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S sighs - B descends to the sound of windows being broken, small children yowling and Marianne Hunt snoring

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All: Byron (bows all round)

B: Gentlemen - oons, that Pisan rain! Howbeit, sub-tropical - is it not? - compared to our fair Capital (to self: oh, to be in the Cocoa Tree with Kinnaird!) - how it does my heart good to see an assemblage of convivial Englishmen - come, we shall sample a smörgåsbord of cocktails, throw some dice, share our most scandalous stories...

W: Regrettably I have to beg off early, Byron - I shall miss your well-aimed barbs at the Tories - for my curséd back (rubs said region) is at me - my fourth vertebrae detests the damp

LH: Oh! Marianne is the same - it gives her the cramp

M: Me, I have suffered from lumbago since I was General Spooney's aide-de-camp

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B is buried in the cocktail bar

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PBS: Cease your prattle! - pronto, someone, pass me a light - who is yon crepuscular creature skulking in the dead of night? (squints) and drenched as a plate of under-cooked vermicelli?

B: Banana daiquiri, my dear Shelley?

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The door bursts open with completely unnecessary force, disturbing the ancient ironmongery

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T: Evening gentlemen!

B: Ah, Trelawney - perchance you were timing a thunderbolt (snorts) - come, have a Fluffy Duck

T: I'm off the drink at the moment - plays the devil with my sinuses - here, take my cape (passes cape to an astonished B)

LH: Now that we are all gathered - it must be said, my Lord - you haven't given us a new poem in some time, very much to our chagrin - are your cellars by any chance bereft of gin?

B(squints painfully): You shall be delighted to hear mia Dama has lifted her embargo on The Don - that immortal monument to my brain (is momentarily hypnotised by orange blossom wafting from Teresa's apartments) - and is lighting candles at the feet of her most efficacious Saints that I may continue in a more Christian strain

TM: What? - you've nothing more than the dull ordeals of that Spanish gigolo?

B(is sorely tested): Hmm - there is one, mayhap too tender - too - revealing - for the ears of such (with restraint) masculine company

T: Humph! think you we are all here merely to play your Figaro?

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​B digs around a desk drawer, Medwin excuses himself and rushes upstairs

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Scene 2

 

Medwin returns with ink stains on his cuffs - B has found poem - the paper shakes extravagantly

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PBS: Ah! 'tis a skittish business - here, my friend, you are unused to public speaking - I shall get you started with a cherished stanza I oft repeat (smiles, draws breath) ...

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Who can contemplate fame through clouds unfold

The star which rises o'er her steep, nor climb?

Harold, once more within the vortex rolled

On with the giddy circle, chasing Time,

Yet with a nobler aim than in his youth's fond prime

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B: What unspeakable twaddle you recite Shelley

LH(smirks): You do not recognise your own work, my Lord? 

T(also smirks): Yea - perchance 'tis not thoroughly your own - and, like a bastard child, will not be known

​B (to self: Oh Hobby! Oh Tom! Oh Scrope! - yea, Murray yet! No doubt you're in the Dog & Duck, getting your exquisite throttles wet): You may have a point Trelawney (moves to mantle piece) - Fletcher!!!

F: Yes?

B: Off and fetch numerous handkerchiefs, would you? I am about to launch upon an ocularily-rinsing recital of my most tender poem yet, and I should not wish to embarrass the assembled company - an extra large one for Mr. Trelawney - for I know that noble sea-captain is as sensitive as a nursing badger in her sett

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Shelley is already weeping and improvising with his cravat

 

B: This work was inspired by your wife, Williams - the morally immaculate Jane - as, one still night, I heard her warbling a Hindoo Air (is transported) - so gently it wafted over fields of groaning peasants, and above the tumult of the sea

W: Jane? - my wife? why, she sings like a banshee!!

B: Arguably, yes - now, give me your attention, gentlemen (draws deep breath and launches)

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Oh! my lonely–lonely–lonely–Pillow!

Where is my lover? where is my lover?

Is it his bark which my dreary dreams discover?

Far–far away! and alone along the billow?- 

Oh! my lonely-lonely-lonely-Pil­low!

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LH: In sooth (dabs eyes) - 'tis the finest thing you've ever written, Byron (sighs)

T: I own (bites lip) - I have misjudged your tenderness of heart - I will totally have to change my look (assesses his Corsair assemblage in the mirror)

M: Oh, how I feel deeply for the loss of your poor pillow! God willing, he will find a loving head to rest with, in the next verse (blows nose)

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B stuffs handkerchief into his mouth in an attempt to conceal his emotions

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PBS(rubs chin, slowly): Is there more, Byron? Or are you content with conquering the not overly challenging rhyming scheme re. ‘pillow'?

B: Verily, I have three more verses on standby - but 'twil be impossible to continue as our handkerchiefs will take hours to dry - Fletcher!! I need a cigarillo - Shelley, mix me a Bellini - there's a good fellow

W: Whilst we are all overwhelmed to be present at the reading of this masterpiece, my Lord - mayhap, I can have some explanation as to why my wife inspired a poem about bedding equipment

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As B tardily recovers his dignity, Medwin rushes upstairs, Trelawney washes and cuts his hair, returns in a great big flowery shirt

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Scene 3

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Medwin returns with ink stains on his fingers, B has found new courage

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B: Gentlemen - I feel (places hand on heart) sensibly the honour you have done me - and shall complete the recital (the men grip their hankies, PBS peels a banana)

 

​Why must my head ache where his gentle brow lay?

How the long night flags lovelessly and slowly,

And my head droops over thee like the willow!

Oh! thou, my sad and solitary Pillow!​

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LH: If I may conjecture, my lord - your exquisite ‘pillow' and ‘willow'? - the rhyme was perchance first coined by Dante, or the fair Sappho?

T: The Devil they did, Hunt! - I knocked-up that inspired rhyme - you must have heard me recite it over a game of billiards, my lord 

B: Quotha! (shrugs) if I ​haven't finally run out of other people's ideas! After fifteen years of scribbling, Trelawney, one tends to become quite (grinds teeth) quite bored 

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​B screws up the poem and lunges at the fire

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All: No!!!! (LH grabs same)

PBS(glowers): Byron - a sporting nobleman, e'en yet requires fair game (B smirks)

 

​The company huddle frantically around the fire - B and PBS wander off to a far divan to discuss the pros and cons re. Dystopia Vs. Utopia - S argues against despondency, but pride makes B take the darker side

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M: To ease his Lordship's distress, I shall take the manuscript - as it is unsigned, it is of no value and I should never publish it - nay - e'en two weeks after his decease

LH: Not at all - why, I must publish it in The Liberal

T(interrupts): Nay, I shall own it - after all, it is my ‘pillow' and my ‘willow'..

LH: .. and your ‘billow'

T: Yes, that too - and it shall be remembered long after that gormless Spanish gadabout and that chippy Childe are long forgotten! (recites): And then expire of the joy - but to behold him! Oh! my lone bosom!- oh! my lonely Pillow!  The French will love it and I'll finally get my feet under the table at Holland House - lord knows, they love a poet handsome and misbegotten (rubs hands with delight)

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The Pisans circle around the divan

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LH: We have reached an agreement worthy of Albemarle Street, my Lord (rocks on heels) - to ensure the survival of this paragon of poesy, Trelawney has claimed the piece, signed it and will require a copyright payment of a cool hundred of your crowns for The Liberal to publish it

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PBS & B splutter over their banana daiquiris

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T: Upon publication, I shall be returning to London for the Season - Hunt, I shall require accouterments worthy of the new Lion - cash money, apparel - snuffboxes, and whatnot
M(schemes): I perchance may affect some introductions (thinks: I have letters, stockings, locks from several bards - did I also purloin calling cards?)

LH: The cool hundred, if you would (bows) - your Lordship

F(grumbles): What you need, Mr. Hunt, is a horsewhip

​​B: Fletcher! - the casket!! 

​F(whispers into B's aristocratically small ear): I have your two most waterproof horses saddled for yourself and Mr. Shelley - for you'll have no sense or peace here tonight, my lord

B: What say you, Shelley? The elemental fog - ideas flowing - brains whizzing? 

S(looks out window):  But I haven't finished my daiquiri and also, it's drizzling

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Hunt and Trelawney's opinions re. financing a Literary Lion are becoming violent - T demands only the finest quilted satin waistcoats and Macassar oil - Hunt insists T dress like a socialist as he and Marianne have ten children to feed -Williams' unanswered glare remains fixed on B - Medwin is filling a postbag with Byroniana

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B(whispers to PBS): Sweet suffering Lucifer, Shelley - if Hunt stays, can bankruptcy be far behind?

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The poets are discreetly ushered out

 

PBS to self: dashed if that notion didn't ring a bell (frowns)

B to self: ah! - the soft dark rain - the likelihood of assault and robbery - perchance a new peccadillo (ponders options) - a Cyprian on my pillow? - a dearly beloved friend with whom to roam? - oh, how achingly I long for home (sighs)

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End