Cast

Lord Byron

William Fletcher 

Scrope B Davies 

John C Hobhouse 

Douglas Kinnaird 

Aunt Sophie 

 

V

Scene 1

 

1922, the Albany, London - the passing of a century appears to have diluted the Byronic brain-box somewhat

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B: What ho Fletcher!

F: Good morning, your Lordship (proffers tray)

B: I say, what is this reddish potation, Fletcher? And that greenish foliage masquerading as a spoon?

F: It is commonly termed a ‘Bloody Mary’, my lord - a beverage of miraculous properties which our young gentlemen find most soothing after a late night’s entertainment

B: Is it now? You wouldn’t be trying to make me ill, would you Fletcher (swallows same) - my! it is toothsome! - well done Fletcher - now, after you have drawn my bath and lined up my ducks, we shall discuss our forthcoming tour of Italy

F: Of Italy, my Lord?

B: Fletcher (wags finger) - don’t pretend you have forgotten our discussion - in a month, we shall march into Italy and visit the provinces so provocatively described by our esteemed progenitors

F (coughs): If I may, my lord (B sighs) - such ‘provocativeness’ may have well been acceptable a century ago, but such behavior - if reported - would most certainly result in blackballing by the majority of your gentlemen’s clubs

B: Bosh! Why, Scrope has just returned from Venice, as besmirched with virtue and as flush in pockets as when he left

F: If I may, your Lordship, Mr. Davies returned ‘flush in the pockets’ because he was incorrectly informed there were horse races to be had in Venice - and casinos - he was disabused of one and rightly refused participation in t’other 

B: No horse races in Venice! Is there Golfing? (F glares) - Well, we shall avoid that burg at least - although my exalted relation did find enough to do for three years - reading and whatnot I dare say - bookish, so my Aunt Sophie tells me

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F keeps his counsel and runs bath

 

V

​Scene 2

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The Cocoa Tree, a gentlemen’s club in St. James, where the palm fronds have seen better days

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All: What ho, Byron!

B: What ho! - my, you all seem remarkably inelastic this a.m

SBD: We do not all have a Fletcher to attend us, Byron (rattles skull) - ouch! - how my head aches (attempts to rub same) - and my arm would appear to have become unacquainted with my shoulder socket

JCC: Have you forgotten Scrope? You were in the midst of stealing a policeman’s moustache when he whacked you smartly on said limb

SBD: Why, I have not the slightest memory (gasps) - did I lose a bet?!  (checks pockets) - zooks! - I have already reduced my body pecuniary of late at the Union 

JCC: The policeman's moustache remains to date firmly affixed to his upper lip - you did indeed lose a crisp fiver, Scrope

DK: But here - a plate of one-armed lobsters, as recompense

B (breathes deep): Chums - mismanaged lobsters and hirsute policemen aside - I have an announcement to make - myself and Fletcher intend to follow in the footsteps of our heretofore restless kinfolk and shall take our holidays this year in Italy

JCC: Which holidays? Winter, spring, or summer - er, isn’t there one more?

DK: No, Hobby, there can’t be (catches waiter) - Boggs, how many seasons are there?

Boggs: You appear to have forgotten Autumn, gentlemen

DK: Ah yes, the ‘season of mists and mellow fruit-fullness’, as the immortal bard warbled

B: Well, we shall be venturing in the Summer - one hears duck-hunting is a swiz when the marshes are at their most fetid

JCC: You must be aware, Byron, of the advice my great-something relation tendered regarding their (coughs) amatory customs (whispers) - the females of that country mark their intendeds with small knives, and like our fair countrywomen, and anxious Aunts, never resign the chase

B: Poppycock! Why, my great-something relation praised their pliability and housekeeping wotsits to the moon

SBD: If I may, Byron, I shall open a book and lay odds on how long it takes before Fletcher convinces you otherwise

B: Do your worst, Scrope - if I can escape the bally great claws of Aunt Sophia and her proxy, Miss Milbanke - I shall have no difficulty fending off your tabulatory estimations

Boggs: A note from your Aunt Sophia, my lord

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B drops his oysters and makes for the door, SBD opens his book

 

V

Scene 3

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Aunt Sophia’s drawing room - B scrambles through the aspidistras, falls onto an overstuffed love-seat

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AS: Byron! Really, you are the most useless of gentlemen! This most unattractive lack of physical coordination is what comes from having too little of anything practical to do - such as rearing livestock, offspring, or sitting for Newstead-on-the-Wold

B: Ah - there I may correct you, mine Aunt - Fletcher and I are venturing to Italy this summer - a tour of culture, you know, paintings - and er - whatnot

AS: Italy? Culture? - you, Byron? It was a most unwholesome sojourn one of our kinsmen took there, why a plague hospital on the Grand Canal is named after the misfortunate being - as for you! - you may as well go to Newmarket as Venice - you'll have as much luck with your horses there (guffaws imperiously)

B: As it happens, aunt, my chums at the Cocoa Tree advise it is just the place to acquire a wife of gentle temperament and tepid cooking capabilities

AS: A wife! - and pray, Byron - what fault do you find in Misses Milbanke and Lamb? What can an Italian of uncertain origin offer you that those well-bred Saxon dames cannot?!

B: Er, well one requires daily attendance at prayers and hypotenuses - the other - well, Aunt, she, as gossip would have it, is indecorous to a degree that incarceration in a convent would be the fate of your better class of overheated Italian ladies

AS: Nonsense, Byron - you will marry one of them! - and put travel to that Paradise for Exiles out of your head! 

B: Yes, aunt (picks up hat, pockets cucumber sandwich)

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V

Scene 4

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Back at the Cocoa tree, the pals have moved on to jam scones and champagne

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JCC: Byron! Why so red in the ear? Aunt propounding wedlock with a withered maw?

B: The venerable brute is not too keen on the Italian proposition - I shall have to slip out at night, incog, from Portsmouth or somewhere beyond her ear-trumpet - are there boats in Portsmouth?

SBD: The book has closed, Byron - shall I give you the odds?

B: No Scrope (waves hand) I am resolved! No taunting comrades, or aunts, or unmarried females, or snide valets shall deter my course! - I have Murray's ‘‘Bastard Latin for Beginners' in my pocket, and a gold band on my finger to deter the pious Italian fillies (flashes ill-fitting jewel) - to Italy I go!

Boggs: A note, your Lordship

B: Thank you Boggs (opens letter) - why, it’s from Fletcher

DK (grabs note): “My Lord - in order to better acquaint yourself with the projected vacation in Italy, I have ordered from Falcieri, the Cocoa Tree chef, an Italian specialty. If the dish is to your liking, I feel confident that your lordship shall be more than capable for the rigours of a sojourn in that nation of strong tastes, passions and appetites.”

B: I can never quite decide if that valet is impertinent or quite the genius his oversized feet would suggest he is

SBD: Fletcher? A brain the size of a whale! - and this is a topping yard of brain-work - if you can’t dip into the continental nosebag without convulsing..

JCC: ...you will most certainly starve if  just-dead-ducks were your sole vittles for an entire summer

B (good-naturedly concedes): You’re right Hobby - Cheeks tells me that Italians know not of tapioca pudding and rashers and beans (the friends drop their scones, and gasp) - yes, well, I reacted with the same horror - Boggs!

Boggs: Yes, my Lord

B: I believe my man Fletcher has ordered an Italian specialty from your kitchen for my luncheon

Boggs: I shall fetch it immediately, my Lord

 

V

Scene 5

 

Boggs places a platter of unknown meat-stuffs on the dining table

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B: Good god, Boggs, what is it?

Boggs: It looks like a collar of brawn to me, my Lord, what it is cloaked in, however, is an enigma too deep for me to penetrate

B: Thank you, Boggs (pokes article with fork)

JCC: I say, Byron (pokes same with finger) - if the cove don’t bite you back - I’ll divide Scrope’s winnings with you (all laugh)

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B, not to be gainsaid, recklessly plunges gums first into the dish - and faints

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F: My lord (slaps B’s cheek) - my lord!

B: Fletcher? Where are we? (rubs fur-lined teeth) Why do I feel as if I swallowed an obstreperous guinea pig?

F: We’re in the Cocoa Tree, my lord - Mr. Boggs sent a man to fetch me - it would appear the ‘Collare di soppressata con salsa al cioccolato e acciughe’ has not agreed with you

JCC: I say Fletcher (scratches head) - collar of brawn with chocolate sauce and anchovies?!

F: Just so, Mr. Hobhouse, a common breakfast repast in all regions of that fine country

B: Breakfast?

F: Indeed, my lord, moreover it would appear the custom of those warm-hearted people that refusal of the dish results, as a point of honour, in violence to ones person

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A great clatter of cookware is heard, Falcieri the chef is being dragged into the dining room by a female of wild aspect

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Boggs: Mr. Falcieri! - below-stairs servants are not permitted to enter the dining room!

MrsF: Stai zitto, inglese! Which is the bastardo who gave my great-grandmother’s recipe to my idioto husband?

F: If you’ll permit me, Mrs. Falcieri - it was I who discovered the recipe in an old accounting book belonging to an ancestor of mine - it being the only article pertaining to comestibles in it - and I do apologize most sincerely if I have breached any continental copyright

MrsF (is twirling a small knife): Humph!

F: I merely wished to acquaint His Lordship with the hazards that his delicate digestive system may encounter if he ventured to your fair country

MrsF: Inglese sciocchi! - tapioca and custards! - that is what runs through the veins of an Englishman!

SBD (is outraged): If I may, madam, it is tapioca and custards that have made Britain the great horse-rearing and gambling nation we are!

Mrs.F (admiringly): Dio mio, e inglese con spirito! (whips out dainty stiletto and marks Scrope’s cheek) - you are coming with me! (hoists a delighted SBD onto her shoulder) - and mind, Mr. Fletcher, not to interfere with la Famiglia Cogni ever again!

F (bows): As you wish, signora

B: By Jove! - that Amazon makes Aunt Sophie seem quite the newborn faun

F: Indeed, my lord - strident, and proprietary - as is common amongst the females of her race

B: Yes? Can't say I much fancy my cheek being scarred, or being hoisted upon a strapping damsel's shoulder - (picks teeth) - or spending an entire summer in a country where custard pies are so very off-menu (paces) 

F: Indeed, my lord - or where that gold band on your finger is but an invitation to intrigue
B: Well, that settles it - Fletcher, take me home and we shall pinpoint another spot on the globe in which to vacation - Surrey, perhaps

F: Yes, my Lord

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F carries B to a cab outdoors, Hobhouse and Kinnaird pocket Scrope’s winnings, and ungnawed lobster claws

 

V

END