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Cast

Lord Byron

JC Hobhouse

Fletcher

Harriette, Amy & Fanny Wilson

Lady Caroline Lamb

 

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Scene 1

 

1814, London - sisters Harriette, Amy and Fanny - ‘Fashionable Impures'  i.e. courtesans - prepare for the Masque

 

HW: Oh, how I love a masquerade! (unpacks costumes) - females such as we can never enjoy the same liberty anywhere else

F: Aye, not even in Green Park's Sunday morning cavalcade!

A: Then why must we dress as boys? - as peasants, yet - not even gentlemen!

HW: 'Twas the only way I could blag tickets of Lord Hertford - and I had to swear an oath on the Bible - at risk of my maidenhood! (sisters guffaw) - otherwise - my dear sisters - we'd be sitting home all night quizzing Heroditus (sniffily) - as I promised the Duke of Wellington I would

F: But Harriette! - an Austrian peasant-boy! 

HW: Would you both stop your whining! Hertford had them made up by Stultz - tailor to the Regent and Beau Brummell - look! - look, at the finesse of that lining!

A: But an Italian peasant-boy!

HW: Whisht awhile, Amy! You have the finest legs in London, and shall attract the currently courtesan-free Duke of Queensberry (Amy shudders) - if you display them correctly (muses) mmm - aye, in fine transparent silk stockings - red? - no, black! (holds garments to the window) What think ye? - pink satin small-cloathes, a la Cossaque!

F(squeals): Ooh! This one is ravishing - a blue silk jacket with silver bell-buttons - a black hat, with a red silk band and bow? (admires herself immensely in the mirror) - humph! - on no coarse old libertine shall I my kisses bestow
HW: Good god Fanny! - we cannot hope for unmarried Dukes - we best set our caps at a brace of land-poor, widowed beaux, for this is commerce (frowns) - not some jaunty jape! Myself, I shall wear these red silk pantaloons, with a black satin jacket - my hat? mmm (rummages through Stultz & Sons Patented Satin Ribands) - here! - tied with a pea-green satin ribbon and a red cockade of crepe

A(haughtily): I've no notion of a costume - I shall wear a white shift and let my hair fall over my neck in a mess of artless ringlets, upon which I can innocently chew (snorts) - oh, how easily these old codgers credit an imitation of virtue

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Amy and Harriette also snort and giggle

 

HW: Amy, you shall lead us all astray in your quest for adventure

F(puffs): You shall put our hard-won family jewels, land holdings and dancing slippers at risk of forfeiture!

 

The three exceedingly correct sisters take turns reading ‘Fanny Hill, Memoirs of a Reformed Woman of Pleasure' until the clock strikes five
 

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​Scene 2

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​​The Albany, Byron's deluxe bachelor's pad

 

B: Oh, my head - how it aches! - the horrors of digestion! I wonder how Buonaparte’s dinner agrees with him?

H: In the name of St. Francis and his wife of Snow! - you shall become a loup garou (B, inexpert in the French language, frowns) - a solitary hobgoblin - an hibernating woodland shrew

B: Go away with you! - what have I to do with frittering away my time among dowagers and unmarried damsels? (chooses the evening's cigars) - now, if it advanced any serious affair, it were some excuse - but, with the unmarried, it is a hazardous speculation - and tiresome enough (yawns) - heigho, Hobby! - I shall remain in mine island with my little sensual comforts about me - and scribble up something oriental for Murray between the hours of two and three

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H ponders - and, knowing his friend well, is inspired

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H: Fletcher?
F: Yes, Mr. Hobhouse

H: His Lordship's trunk - the one which came over from Bennet Street - where is it?

F: 'Tis unopened as yet - I believe a pack of nesting rodents - a Newstead breed beloved by his lordship - resides in it, gnawing parrot bones - to judge by the stench (winces)

H(grimaces, and whispers): Show me to it - albeit, Fletcher, at arm's length

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F and H leave Byron to his cigars, ​sturgeon, and champagne. Minutes pass by when H makes a spectacular entrance to the salon

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B: By all the Hindoo saints! Why, Hobby - how well you look in my magnifique Albanian ensemble! (circles said H) - my, my - you have quite the ankles for the skirt, your peruke is well-covered by my turban (wistfully) - is it not freeing to be bereft of trowsers and small cloathes? - ah! the breezes fair, 'twould do one's nethers good to bathe in fresh air - quite reminds one of one's Highland boyhood by the River Dee! - now! - to what does my costume owe the honour of adorning your far-famed fair bodye? 

H: There is a masque at Watiers tonight in honour of peace between Great Britain and France - all of the Ton will be there - all top-tier Cyrpians - all dandies and sporting gentlemen - you surely must have an invitation?

B: Have we Fletcher?

F: Aye - we did my lord, but them rats stole it - used it as a cheese board

H: But I have a plus-one - please, do come! - I promise you shall not have to fraternise any more than you desire - or become trapped in any blue-stockinged conversational quagmire

B: And how will that be possible, may I enquire? 

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H produces a monk's costume

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H: With the hood up - in your best penitential style - you shall repel all maids, veteran dowagers - and the more strident, ear-bending Francophile

B(grabs tunic): Oh, such memories, Hobby! - of Newstead, of Matthews - of Taffy (bites knuckles) I shall haunt Watiers like the Black Friar! - heh heh (twirls about and practices his hood manoeuvres) - but wait! - it's enormous! I shall - involuntarily - trip up and spend the evening mortifyingly prostrate 

F: Oh, aye, that robe was mine! - remember, my Lord, I wore it to frighten off the late, thundering Hon. Mrs. Byron? (gamely dips into trunk) - here's yours, my Lord - aye, compared to me (grabs his fine tummy) - thou ist more of a lightweight (both chuckle)

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B admires himself in the black Augustinian cassock, finds the hood comfortably covers his face - and is convinced that stepping out of his island is a sound move​

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​Scene 3

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Watiers is hopping. H & B imagine that they've found a discreet nook for people-watching. The three ambitious sisters prove it otherwise.

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A: Eeeek! 'tis Lord Byron!! Fanny, Harriette - look - the Augustinian! Is he not beautiful?

F: The rogue! Did he think to fool us? Ha! - only one man in London has a face so white, or eyes so grey - to be sure (sighs) - his animal magnetism is indisputable

A: He has no cash or coin on hand - his house has fallen to ruin - has no family jewels or forestry - yet for him, I should tolerate an embarrassed Barony

HW(is unconvincingly indifferent): What's that now? Oh, Lord Byron? We are old correspondents - sentimentally in love - don't ye know? (clenches jaw) Why, he has oft written to solicit the honour of my personal acquaintance (cranes neck) - perhaps I shall seize this opportunity to bestow said honour - I am, after all, wearing knee-pants

A: By the Ghost of St. John, Harriette!! - you invariably inveigle my beaux! - you have never written to - or met - his Lordship! - oh, how I wish that Wellington would drown you in a tub of sheep dip!!!

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Amy furiously thumps away into the crowd, cursing her elder sister outrageously​

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​Scene 4

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Meanwhile, a ghostly glimmer in green passes the remaining sisters by, whistling and throwing an evil eye

 

C: Why, Mr. Hobhouse - I had no idea a Bonapartist like you would be welcome here

H(is agape): Lady Caroline! (panics) - er - your masque? - a green parrot? - a queasy buccaneer?

C: I am a puff of alchemist's smoke - is Byron here, at all?

H(is hesitant): He is much occupied arguing points of Platonism in the back ball-room - do I anticipate a scene Lady Caroline? - surely, not even you, yet - before the POW- would have the gall!

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B appears, adjusting his rosary beads

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C: Oh, there you are, Byron - d'ye know how many pairs of green silk stockings I'm wearing? (twirls and flashes same)

B(pales): Caroline! To talk of small cloathes in company! (C continues prancing) - Cease these uncalled for and unnecessary gesticulations - has your breeding come to naught?

H(hisses): Lady Caroline! - hold your tunic down, and walk as you've been taught!

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C spins awkwardly to imitate a puff of smoke, hoists her hose and is escorted off the premises by the POW's 10th Hussars

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B: By the beard of my fathers! (shakes head) That I've come to scolding that little witch as if I were her grandfather! (scowls at H) - Did ye not promise me an evening of anonymity? (discreetly points) - all evening those handsomely-attired Cyprian sisters have been brazenly gawping at me

F: What am I to do if your cassock becomes ye so very handsomely? - anyway - I've a full dance-card and unless I meet a willing milliner - or three - I shall meet you back at the Albany (tips turban)

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B storms off to sulk in the back room - Harriette leaves Fanny to the Duke of Queesberry - gamely makes her way through the immense crowd, and takes a good hour to find B

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HW(curtseys voluptously ): Good evening, my lord - it is Harriette - Harriette? - of the (checks for hovering sisters) pleading letters? (the rosary beads are taking an awful mauling) - er - (proudly battles on) It has been such a vex - my Lord - to see a man so tormented by foolish admirers ever ready to travel any distance for the honour of  clipping one of his curls

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The abbot is silent

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HW(is mortified): But I am not one of these (a derisory snort indicates otherwise) - surely, you do not wish me to depart?! You have not yet seen my knees!

A grunt issues

HW: Oh, he speaks! Thank you - at a minimum - for being candid, and God bless you, dear Lord Byron (attempts to kiss B's hand and is swatted away) Thou varmint!! Wellington and Hertford shall hear of this!! (sneers) - in truth, I find you quite uninteresting, not to say un déceptionione, as we say in Swiss

(A mumble): Ah! lass! - give me a kiss (gives HW a fine smacker, which sends her off in a stagger)

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​Scene 5

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An empty-handed Hobby makes his way back to the Albany 

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H: Hullo the house! - Fletcher? 

B(emerges from his chambers): Be damned Hobby! What the hell are you doing here?

H: Byron? - but - I left you in the back ball-room! 

B: Och! - may peace never be upon me! (a figure with artless, curling hair appears) Amy - sweet girl - I shall return momentarily - back to ironing my MS - chop chop!

H: What! What?
B: Aye, just so, Hobby (glances voraciously at A) -  such a gentle, virtuous little creature - found her hiding behind my curtains - and so very shy, why, I could hardly reach her

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The door crashes off its hinges - a stout Augustinian monk enters

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H: Fletcher?!

B: Sweet suffering Jupiter! - Fletcher?

F: My Lord - you didn't tell me I'd have to kiss Miss Harriette behind the ears - my Sally will divorce me on the spot if she hears!

A: Harriette? Why was that plump monk kissing my sister? (smirks) Ha! - and she with high hopes of canoodling a Baronet (chortles uncontrollably)

H: Why is that curtain convulsing? (opens same) - Lady Caroline! (a shocked B reaches for the brandy, cuttlery and Amy) - why is there a handkerchief in your mouth? - why are you tied up with string?

A: Caroline? - oh, I thought it was a criminally-inclined page, for he was pocketing my Lord's trinkets and so thin he looked but fifteen years of age! (C is wriggling vigorously) - and I thought him infectious - look! - he is the colour of a greengage 

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C struggles vainly in her curtain prison

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B(sighs): To explain, Hobby - I soon tired of the Watiers crush and sent for Fletcher - in his cassock - to take my place, so as not to offend the French (F grunts) - then left in a barouche with a fine Francisan fellow and his even finer wench (C is now swinging off the curtains ) - when I landed home, instead of finding peace and cigars, I found the charming Amy copying out my memoirs! (grimaces darkly) - undoubtedly Lady Caroline is here to reduce my hearth and home to an abattoir (the grimace disimproves)

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Fletcher cuts C's strings and removes the handkerchief - C and Amy immeadiately launch into each other with feet and fingernails - as Hobby wisely opens B's trunks, the cheesemongering rats run out and bite the ladies' ankles, horrifying them out the servant's entrance and into Piccadilly

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F: My lord - I'd do 'owt for thee - but a rake and philanderer I'll never be!

H: Fletcher - take off that cassock - and bring us all a bottle of burgundy - oh! - and a pot of green tea

B: Ow - my head! I believe it was given me to ache with (rubs temples) - oons! - betwixt the Ton, the artless little Cyprian, that psychotic little volcano - shall I ever be free?!​

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The exhausted lads snore by the fire - the remaining rodents nestle comfortably in Byron's discarded monk's attire

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​End​

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