Y

Cast

Lord Bryon
Joe Murray - Newstead’s ancient retainer
C.S.Matthews
S.B.Davies
J.C. Hobhouse
Taffy & Susan – Newstead Nymphs
The Black Friar

 

Y

SCENE 1

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1809, a coach pulls up to Newstead Abbey - Charles Skinner Matthews, an outré though exceptionally gifted scholar, steps out and surveys the ancient mansion

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CSM: Sink me Percy!! - it’s worse than I’d imagined (spies statue of sinister Satyr) - explains the decrepitation of his Lordship’s morals withal - heh heh - (spies the Holy Virgin in her niche) - oh! (jumps) oons! - apologies, my good woman (bows)

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Murray opens door

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M: You are most welcome, Sir - my Lord and his other gentlemen guests await in the Refractory

CSM: Refractory? - oh well, of course - where else would the Abbot of our Adventures greet one, what? (smiles at Murray, who whisks his trunk and hat boxes into a sarcophagus)

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CSM mounts the stairs gingerly - the door opens heavily and slowly

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M: Mind you don’t turn left, Mr. Matthews - a wolf resides there

CSM: A wolf!? Oh, er - thanks

M: Mind you don’t turn right, neither - a bear resides there

CSM: And which way is the refectory? Do boa constrictors reside there? Ha! (nervously)

M: No, sir - his Lordship has forbidden Mr. Davies from entertaining said reptiles after one particularly irksome fellow nearly strangled poor Taffy - (whispers confidentially) - a favoured Welsh concubine of his Lordship and his preserve alone

CSM: Have no fear of covetous Cambrian concubinage re. myself, my good man - although, if you could furnish some brandy before I proceed (shivers) - damn me, if I don’t feel my very bones chill quite distinctly (a gargoyle is glaring inhospitably at the scholar)

M: As you wish, Sir (has a hip-flask handy)

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CSM stares in wonderment at the catastrophic state of the primordial pile

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M: There, that should settle your nerves and warm your blood (CSM gulps) - now, when you feel able, the Refractory is the very last door on your left (M regains hip-flask) I would stongly advise thee to ignore any momentary pale diffusions of light, moans, groans, seemingly animated portraits or random humanoid bones you may pass along the way - (frowns) - do, however, be on your guard against mob-capped young ladies - they just cannot seem to stop making soup and sandwiches for the young gentlemen, tsk! (shakes head - departs)

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CSM throws back his dram - proceeds with care - none of the above terrors have ensued - he picks up his stride - admires and reliably dates the monk’s stone coffins, when an ear-splitting BOO! is heard

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CSM: Arrgggggghhh!!!!!!!!! Mother of God!! - In the name of Mercy! Save me!!!

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Hobhouse leaps out of a stone coffin, wearing a monk’s habit and roaring his head off

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​H: Hullo Matthews!! How’d you like my spectral spectacular?! Had you going there!

CSM: You despicable scoundrel - you damn near disconnected my hair!!

H: Hey-day?! Our fearless Methodist Matthews? - come, my friend, here is your costume - and (inspects CSM’s scalp) and, mayhap, a tonsured peruke? (chortles)

CSM(sits on a cool coffin): Heh - yes, well, I do need relief to lever me from my studies - and why not via infantile pranks! (is shaking) - Who’d have thought my massive brain would be so easy to spook?

H: Why, the japery has just begun! Byron and the company are this way - oh, (somewhat leeringly) and sandwiches and soup

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​​CSM dons monastic garb, and they stroll for another half a mile to reach the Refectory

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Y

 

SCENE 2

 

The friends, all dressed incorrectly as Dominicans, which doesn’t escape CSM’s notice, are shooting at targets at the end of the ancient Abbey’s gallery

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All: All hail Matthews of the Prodigious Intellect!

B(has just successfully shot the eyes out of St. Eustace): What the devil kept you? (looks up) - why, Matthews, you’re completely blanched ! - did you see a ghost, perchance? (hysterics ensue) Come, you need strong Port (fills skull goblet - CSM is astounded - again) Oh, start not Matthews! - nor deem my spirit fled! (twirls goblet in the candlelight) In this behold the only skull from which, unlike a living head, whatever flows is never dull

SBD: Not dull - but a dashed small measure (gulps contents)

H(re-imagines goblet as millinery): Harken, thou villains - for I desire to admonish ye from beyond the grave..

SBD: Take that vessel from atop your head, Hobby! - Bedad, you truly are the most unhygienic knave

H: I lived, I loved, I quaff’d, like thee:
I died: let earth my bones resign;
Fill up—thou canst not injure me;
The worm hath fouler lips than thine

B: Well said, my fine phantasm! ‘Tis better to hold the sparkling grape, than nurse the earthworm’s slimy brood (CSM wobbily sits) and circle, in the goblet’s shape, the drink of gods than reptile’s food

SBD: Your wit this eve Byron, perchance is shining - but shall we leave off frightening last night’s supper out of our sober comrade?

B: We shall! (claps hands) - Some sport instead, Matthews? - Here is one of my favourite Mantons - aim your fire at the most highly crafted piece of stonework you can find (thinks) - although - for a poor scholar’s eyesight? ah! - that gaudily painted Tudor fireplace I would better recommend

CSM: I am but ill-trained in weaponry, my dear Byron (looks in horror at the guns) Hobhouse has already succeeded in deranging my nerves and disengaging my bowels (heads for the door) - I’d much prefer the library - pray, do you still have my annotated Satyricon? - never mind - I’m here to have fun! - fun (sighs and sits)

SBD: In sooth, Matthews, you should not carry the aspect of a careworn Don at a mere twenty-one

H(interrupts): Very well! - we’ll lay off the gunfire to ease your nerves and our eardrums - and also, not only do we appear to be bereft of soup and sandwiches, we have not yet seen Susan and Taffy in formal evening attire

B: Murray, fetch the wenches (death-stares at H) - mind you, Hobby, you are somewhat overstepping the feudal mark there

H(hiccups): Pfft, don’t mind your ‘feudal’ - my méchanty merchanty father is loaded! - I shall repair to the cellar - Murray! - don’t bother with the wenches, help me bring up the fine spirits, light champagnes and such like wond’rous throttle wettening substances - unless what remains of your booze, Byron, like your Mantons - is not vastly corroded

B(laughs at H’s disdain for the Natural Order of Things): Well, alrighty then - to the library, brethren!

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​The merry monks abandon their pistols on a sarcophagus

 

Y

SCENE 3

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Murray and Hobhouse are heard cursing outrageously up the cellar stairs

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H(struggling): The vinous substances have been rescued, gentlemen!! (extracts seven bottles from his hood, and unties a decade of naggins from his rosary beads)

All: Huzzah!

B: You may purloin any bottle of your choice, Murray, and send for the Nymphs directly

M: Very well - with or without foodstuffs?

B: Hmmm (ponders) - without - for what nobler substitute than wine? We will quaff while we canst - and rhyme and revel with the dead

M(sighs): As you wish, my Lord (leaves mumbling: t’dead? d’ye not have enough troubles with t’living my lord?!)

SBD: Are you certain this skull is human? It bears the aspect of a goat or some other farm animal - or the skull of a maiden sacrificed at the altar in the good old times? A monk? an Abbot? - I wonder who exhumed him?

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​​B knocks back a large one

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​​CSM: Good lord, Scrope, and you a Trinitarian, like myself! - they were Augustinians - founded, I recall...

SBD: Indeed - a fine set of fellows, I’m sure!

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​Susan and Taffy enter - although resplendent in their evening livery, both bear the marks of a recent skirmish

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T: Hulloo, my lord - Regency Rum Punch with bits of fruit - and (stirs) - leaves in it - t’was Susan here told me that ye wine and spirits make ye sullen and savage to ferocity

B: Did you just, my girl? (raises an ambivalent eyebrow) How very enterprising you are - hardly imagined a Cocoa Tree specialty would have made it this far North (to ogling lads) - our saucy jade is not just an expert maker and unmaker of beds, I fear! (sips Punch) - and well done, Taffy, on a valiant attempt to put your rival out on her ear (T pouts)

S: Do your lads want ‘owt to eat, my lord?

CSM: I would quite enjoy something soothing - perhaps mutton soup, sans croutons - and rice pudding

B: Taffy, our gentle and quite superiorly gifted friend Matthews requires peace, comfort, and nursery food - what have you in that line?

Taffy(eyeing CSM): Ye can take Murray’s cot by the fire

CSM: Not at all, my dear girl, I shall find comfort elsewhere (sighs) - a sarcophagus, perhaps? - nay, I have a thundering headache myself and should not wish to disturb the Black Friar

Susan: Have some Punch, sir - since through life’s little day our heads such sad effects produce?

Taffy: Were you asked? - His Lordship required my advices!!

B: Cool it, my pliable strumpets - although we are quite enjoying some guesswork regarding your scratches and bald patches - you must remember, Taffy, that Susan has a prior claim

Taffy(sulking): And a longer chain!

B: I’ll buy you a frock which perchance will be worth a few bob in the future - for now! - back to the scullery and bring Matthews his soup and pudding - the stouter fellows shall have lobster from the Fish Stew Pond - and whatever intoxicants remain after Mr. Hobhouse ravaged my cellar, fabled as it is by the beau monde

M: My lord, I suspect there’s some fine Canary wine buried in the outer quads

H: The drink of the gods!

SBD(to Susan): Fill me up - thou canst not injure me! (proffers skull cup)

Susan: Alas, Sirs! Your brains are gone where once your wit, perchance, hath shone as previously this eve

B: I believe the scullery was mentioned

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​T and S race for the door - trip over Savage the bulldog and begin to tear at each other’s gold chains - gifts from B

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​​​CSM: Aarrgghh!! I can not tolerate the naked violence of this place a moment more! (removes monk’s attire)

SBD: Naked? - sorry, I was lost in The Racing Post - naked what?

B: False alarm, my dear Scrope - the help are - quite understandably - vying yet again for my attention - my great-uncle, you know, promoted his housekeeper to Mistress of the House, indeed for Lady Betty, ‘twas quite the elevation

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​​T and S stop fighting

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​​B: And why not? Since through life’s little day, our heads such sad effects produce? Redeemed from worms and wasting clay, this chance is theirs to be of use

Taffy(steps on S’s toes): I don’t have worms, my Lord!

Susan(elbows T in the guts): Me neither, my Lord!

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​Murray is suddenly pale, shivering, and spilling the Punch

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​B: Saints preserve us, Murray - keep thy hand steady! (the instruction fails) What in Beelzebub’s bonnet ails thee?

M: My Lord - yon skull cup (pointing) - why is it spinning so frenziedly?

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​Said goblet begins to rise supernaturally - spilling wine onto a fine Turkish ottoman - lands atop B’s head - the girls run screaming to the scullery

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​​B: It most assuredly is the ghost of the Black Friar - a bogle, in fact!! Of course! - his soul cannot rest until his skull is restored!

SBD: Damned impertinent! - the formless ghoul wasted a good drop of Burgundy there

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​​​​​CSM faints into a sarcophagus - Murray flees and jumps into the ornamental lily pond

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​​B: Give me a sign, Black Friar! I know not where the Mass of your Corruption is buried! - verily (pleads on stained ottoman) - ‘twas I who had a go at digging up the cloisters and did disturb your rest - ‘twas but a notion to relieve my creditors and was - I swear on Newstead’s resident holy virgin - no jest!

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​​​The goblet flies - once again supernaturally - into the sarcophagus where Matthews fell - no sound is heard - the friends recover their senses with the aid of a gallon of Regency Punch

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SBD: I wonder if Matthews has been rescued from Earth’s embrace? Perchance, the good Friar has likewise found peace atop that already massive braincase?

H: We may be damned, but we must look!

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​​The lads slowly open the stone coffin - they discover Matthews and the Black Friar’s now-reunited corpse debating early church reform and monastic infrastructure

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​​​B: Come, we shall leave them - the man-miracle Matthews has met his fate, and, one hopes, has at last found a worthy soulmate

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​The friends head to the scullery - in search of sandwiches, and of wenches

 

Y

 

END​

 

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