Lord Byron's South American

SPECULATION

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Cast

Lord Byron
Fletcher
Scrope B Davies
JC Hobhouse
Douglas Kinnaird
Captain Spoonsmith
Lord Gaulstone
Lady Gaulstone
Lord Fitzgibbus
Lady Fitzgibbus

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Scene 1

 

November 1819 - the ‘Howling Dog’ public house, Falmouth - Byron is quietly enjoying a pot of beer and a block of Stinking Bishop, the cheese of lactine connoisseurs

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B: Barkeep! (hoists empty pot) - in your own time, if you would

BK: Aye, your lordship

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The pub door bangs open - in strides the irate trio of Hobhouse, Scrope & Kinnaird

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H: Good god! - Peel told no lie, gentlemen, here he is! (points)

B: Hobby! - Scr…

H: Don’t you ‘Hobby’ me - you Spanish fraudster - did you imagine you could escape these isles without legal apprehension? His Lordship’s old classmate - Peel, by name - predicted you’d attempt to scarper via commercial vessel (H imagines himself a policeman) - lads, we have bagged the rascal most precipitously!

B: How vastly amusing you are, my good fellow

S: Confess, you dog! Confess you have been impersonating Lord Byron all over town!

B: My dear Scrope, would you care for a slice of Stinking Bishop? How well I remember your cravings for the estimable Anglo-Saxon foodstuff after a sojourn of but two days in Geneva, 1816

All: Byron!!

B: My dear comrades!

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Embraces and tears flow

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H: But what the devil are you doing in England? Really, it is most frightfully obnoxious to return to your native land without fair warning

K: Is there satisfaction to be met? Are you wary of Brougham? Southey?

S: Pray, does your jabbering wife know you’re here?

H: Know you of this Spanish fraudster?

B: Firstly, there is no satisfaction to be met; the buffoon Southey is too occupied in polishing the Regent’s trowser buttons to observe my presence, and Brougham is demented in his chase of a title and aristocratic skirt (barkeep deposits watery beer and beef pies on table) - I own how very vexed I was not to meet with you all whilst in London

H: London?! You have already visited our fair capital? Then why - do tell - are you in Falmouth?

B: Oi! Che inferno! - t’was upon arrival, when I had every intention of visiting my clubs, bawds and ballarinas one last time..

H: ..last?!

B: …when - strolling down St. James - damned if I didn’t have seven impertinent fellows collar me, demanding that I stop impersonating myself! - that this carry-on had been going on for a considerable amount of time and that I had attempted to defraud all the gaming halls of London by too legibly signing my name to letters of credit - and that I frightened the bejesus out of several chaps emerging from the Cocoa Tree at two in the morn!

S: Oh, yes - I have heard about those fellows - I must say, strait waistcoats become them immensely (shakes head) - what your accosters claim ‘tis only too true - your unpeeled ghost or doppleganger has been a regular phenomenon these last three years - it has proved a most trying ordeal for varied Lady Franceses and Carolines

K: Aye - they have oft been mistaken for streetwalkers by parading outside Whites and the Cocoa Tree

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B snorts

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H: It was Peel who first started the rumour - swore he saw you write down your name amongst the inquirers after the mad old king’s health at the Dog & Duck..

K: ..which his brother said was not possible, as you’d died of a gonorrhea at Venice - and bet him 1000 guineas to prove it..

B: Basta, basta!! (nibbles pie) - I attempted protestation with my seven ruffians, and was haughtily informed that the real Lord Byron would never let his hair grow beyond a Christian length and that the Latin lilt in my greeting proved I was the criminal impersonator - from Spain - probably

H(gasps): The same Spaniard who attempted an assault on Murray’s vestibule?

B(nods): His man Jimmy addressed me as Mr. Juan! (roars) - and barred the door to the saloon of His Highness of the Stationery Cupboard - saying that if I were indeed Byron, I’d be bald, toothless and monstrously fat as per infallible rumour - that Don Juan entire and in toto was plainly one grand Spanish fiasco, making Murray and Gifford right all along about its un-English obscenities towards spaniels, and demanding I pay Murray’s stress-induced medical recepits

H: You are well-met now, my friend - come, my father’s coach may not be Napoleonic - but will convey us all in comfort back to London

B: Er - well - er - it grieves me more than it will ye - but I am in the process of leaving - not arriving

H: Leaving? - again! - to where? (looks at ship’s charter) - to Gibraltar?

S: To keep the Le Petit Caporal company on remote St. Helena?

B: Be damned if that wouldn’t have been a superb plan! - no - I am to emigrate to the New World! - I intend to create, and populate, a new House to rival if not better the old one (rubs aristocratically small hands) - I am off to possess myself of the pinnacle of the Andes – or a spacious plain of unbounded extent in an eligible earthquake situation - to Venezuela!

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The lads drop their beer and steady themselves on the settle

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B: I tire of Grub Street, of whispering salons, the Post, the Courier, Galignani’s Messenger, Murrays’ afternoon conclaves - I desire to begin anew and reside far beyond the stretch and stench of slander

H: Pfft! - you shall soon discover that the pampas grass is not always greener on the other side!

K: Humph! You will never find a better country than your own!

S: Pshaw! The thing is impossible!

H: Nowhere can you be so enthusiastically admired, where so much regret is felt at the idea of your expatriation, or where your Lordships’ permanent return would give so much universal satisfaction

B: London is grown decrepit, Hobby – and I want Allegra to be mistress of her own domain, nay, to rule one day and buy as many shoes and gemstones as she pleases (muses delightedly) - aye, these antipodean fellows are fresh as their world – and fierce as their earthquakes! Besides, I am, too, enamored of their General, who has proved that my Grandfather spoke truth about the Patagonians, with his Gigantic Cavalry!

S: Gigantic cavalry! - Fellows like earthquakes! - What can thrill more than the rattle of dice at White’s?!

H(sneers): And what of your Romangole amica?

B (weeps): Her marito tricked her, locked her up in a convent, and melted down the keys to make buckshot at which to fire into my “English derrière” - buon Dio del cielo!! - I had no choice but to leave - and verily, friends, think on’t! - underpriced land on which to grow cows, rice, and - er - whatnot (H is unbearably smug) - mind, Hobby, I am still woefully in love – but better be a unskilful planter – an awkward settler – a hunter – or anything, than a flatterer of fiddlers and fan-carrier of a woman

K: There is no freedom in Europe – that is certain – it is besides a worn-out portion of the globe (forlornly gnaws a chunk of Stinking Bishop)

H: But you don’t speak Spanish!

B: I could soon grapple with the language - did I not easily twist my jaw around the Venetian idiomatic? Besides, are they not Latin? - I am sure it won’t be too different from the life I have been living of late - more properly, I have letters of introduction to the inestimable Bolívar - the General is an avid swimmer, like myself - perhaps we could race the length of the Amazon together? - Is it very long? - oons, I am no great topographer

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F strolls in

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F: My lord - how do Mr. Hobhouse, Mr. Scrope, Kinnaird - t’captain says he’s ready to throw away the anchor - or summat - he gives you ten minutes to get on board

B: Huzzah, to Venezuela we go! - barkeep! - wrap up the remains of my Stinking Bishop, if you would (BK takes fragrant cheese, wraps it in The Morning Post - B dons coat) - ye must all come visit my estates ‘finca muy grande’ - ‘tis only six weeks at sea - imagine! - the vast horizons of the wild Sierras - earthquakes! and rattlesnakes! - no Golders Green, Grub Street, foggy summers, shuffling publishers, tea-times…

H(huffs): I have to ensure that the drainage around father’s estate is made secure for the winter (checks holes in boots)

K: The floorboards at Drury Lane are rotten - half of a troupe of ballarinas fell through the other eve - had a devil of a time explaining to the public they’d be no repeat performance - got a knock on the head and sundry demands for workers’ compensation for my troubles (rubs head)

S: I am savagely uncertain of the turf this season, multiple venues have been tampered with - (mops brow) I may need emigration of some sort

B: Come to Venezuela, Scrope - you can race boa constrictors and we shall merrily colonise together! - for now, anon, my friends - my barque awaits!

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The four friends rise - and part, not with a tear, but with a sigh

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Scene 2

On board ‘The Flying Clappers’ - Captain Spoonsmith mans the gangplank

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B: Good morning Captain, I am Lord Byron - and this (waves cane) is my suite - please prepare my cabin, the premium deluxe cabin for my daughter, and the galley for my washerwomen, grooms, and livestock

CS: Passport, please

B: I beg your pardon?

CS: I have been warned that there be a Spanish miscreant impersonating his Lordship all over town - passport, if you would

B: Do you know who my Grandsire of Yore was?

CS: Indeed, I do! That fine Admiral Byron signed my wooden leg (rattles same) in thanks for saving him from a shark out in that Patagonia (surveys B) - and you’re no Byron if you can’t succeed in getting past me with one withering look of disdain!

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B obliges

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CS: Right-o, my lord - your bunk shall be made up pronto

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The ship sets sail

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CS: I must say, my lord, ‘tis a fine suite you have with you - you are aware that Venezuela has its full complement of household staff?

B: I like to have my own ragamuffins about me - my Italians are incomparable for collar unstarching and macassar massaging - my daughter requires an English governess so she may one day peruse my poesy in its native glory - and Tita, my gondolier, can navigate the crocodiles and mango swamps - underwater volcanoes - d’you know - and other suchlike beastly threats to life and limb

CS: And what of that round-headed rustic - what scheme have you for him?

B: Fletcher? - that inelastic man of learning is to be a breeding beast of burthen

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CS looks doubtful

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B: Tell me, Captain, are all your passengers bound for Venezuela?

CS: Oh, aye! - In sooth, my lord, what Northumbrian coal merchant or Hackney bootmaker would not take up such an advantageous offer to settle in the Venezuelan territory? The commissioners welcome any man hardy enough to deal with the rigors of the New World - earthquakes - gigantic reptiles - spiders the size of small dogs - Patagonian militarymen of a height to marvel even Astleys circus - coffee that would make your bowels beg for last rites..

B: Very well, Spoonsmith! - take care of my staff - and dogs - I’m to my ‘estudios de español’ - wake me upon arrival

CS: Aye, my lord

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B falls asleep - dreams of the unstable new country and the organisational challenge of harem selection and stabling

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Scene 3

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After ten tumultuous weeks at sea, ‘The Flying Clappers’ lands in Buenos Aires - Lords Gaulstone and Fitzgibbus assume a welcoming party

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LG: Welcome, bienvenido, Lord Byron - please, this way, we have the entire top floor of the Hotel de los Ingleses prepared for you

B: Oh, you are English? (to self: blast and bugger your eyes)

LF: How very pleased we are to have another representative of the old feudal order here in the new world

The men climb into the carriage

LG: Our community here - the ‘Déjanos solos, somos inglesas’ club - cast off the improprieties and degradation of English life and to begin anew - to say, as it was meant to be - in the good old days before the Magna Carta

B: Just so?

LP: Oh, yes - all women are either married or conventualised

B: And - er - where is the Town?

LG(laughs): Oh, there is no Town - no Covent Garden Piazza here, my lord - why would we shake off the Old world simply to repeat the same moral aberrations in the New - no, we play at cricket, drink seltzer, study edifying scientific journals..

B: No Town? (checks handle on carriage door) er - what country lies north of here - perhaps of the Catholic persuasion? - You see, I lived in Italy for three years, and I am used to the Catholic way of life - and wish for a rustic situation

LG: Ah, I suspected a Latin lilt - on principle, we refuse to learn Spanish, it makes the staff work harder for tips - so, you wish for more of the same but with hair-shirts and flagellation?

B: What?

LG: Oh, indeed yes! - even those of Latin blood wish nothing more than to be free of the sins and corrupted flesh of their forebears

LF: And we subscribe to no newspapers out of Grub Street - why do we need to be reminded of a world which we left?

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B finds some relief

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LG: If you’re a sporting man, my lord - we have a marvellous game, Rugby, do you know it? - It involves a rotund, albeit almond-shaped, object which you throw with great force at the other chap’s head with the aim of permanently disfiguring him

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B is warming up

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LG: We are likewise fond of medicine and mathematics; we have many Scots/Italian physicians out here on speculation - ah! the heat already exhausts you (observes B in a cold sweat) - we shall call for you at six - for beef stew and beans, yes?

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B’s luggage and staff are hauled into the foyer

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Scene 4

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Six pm - Byron’s anxious musings are disturbed by the dinner gong

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LF: Good evening - may I introduce our wives (the ladies curtsey)

LadyF: My lord - may I say how very much we enjoy reading and re-reading your ‘English Bards’ (B jolts) - oh, yes! - we too have rejected the literary pretensions and exoticism so prevalent in our day - now, you must join our reading group - ‘Los Azules’ - although (blushes)..

LF: ..ah, the dear ladies become mere schoolgirls at the mere mention of the immortal bard..

Lady F: How we adore Mr. Wordsworth!

B: Fletcher!! - fetch me a brandy - double - if you would

LG: We have no fortified spirits here - nay, no wine nor gin nor champagne..

LadyG: .. nor light canaries

LadyF: .. nor tobacco neither, my lord

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Fletcher valiantly stands for his master

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F: My lord here is t’settle up north of here - in “vast Llama-infested lands” he calls them - so we’d be off in t’morning

LadyF: Why does that man keep dropping his consonants?

B: I fear my man is correct, I have no desire to reside in a metropolis, no matter the enticing violence of its sporting life, and wish to make an unobtrusive fortune by farming varied vegetarian foodstuffs

LF: There is no getting rich quick in Venezuela, my lord - many Englishmen have tried - none survive the dangers of rivers infested with cow-eating crocodiles and bone-shaking earthquakes

F: My lord loves an earthquake! He’d climb into a volcano if he could!

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B reddens, but lets the excessive admiration slide

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B: And of Bolívar? I have obtained letters of introduction

LF: Bolívar! - why he is in London, at 4 Duke Street, Marylebone, in the City of Westminster - to argue for Independence from Spain

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B to self: Hobhouse meets Napoleon, and I am stuck in a sub-tropical Quaker meeting house, and I’ve yet to meet a boa constrictor

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B: The general shall surely return home to Venezuela ‘ere long?

LadyF: Don’t count your crocodiles just yet, my lord - why, just last week Reverend Breacher read a comminque to the entire congregation from Bolívar himself

LF: Here, I have the leaflet: “I am convinced that England alone is capable of protecting the world’s rights as she is great, glorious and wise” - ‘tis said he was quite content to settle in Blanco-Blanco Square with an English miss and take tea and crumpets every day for the rest of his life and change his name to Bolivarington-Smythe

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B woozily slumps - F steps forward

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F: My lord bought ye all this gift from home (unwraps the remains of the Stinking Bishop) - aye, must be ten years old by now - look at them jumping things inside the blue bits

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The company recoils

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LF: Why, it’s wrapped in The Morning Post! - I have not seen that disreputable publication since 1791!

LadyF: My lord - I can see your name - yes, there it is (reads through the cheese crumbles)

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B stirs

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LF(grabs paper): “A gentleman of continental, roguish swagger and pale appearance, uncannily like the absent fiend Lord Byron, has been running bad cheques through St. James’ gambling houses the past week. Be on your guard; he has a well-concealed Spanish accent, but pleated cuffs, inexpert barbering, and velvet boot straps reveal him in no small way not to be one of our own. Give him no succor, money, snuffboxes, or mistresses, as he has stated plans to make off to South America with as much English booty as he can lay his fine hands on.”

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The party turns to stare at B

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B: I am obviously the Lord Byron, have you seen my ears?! - (discards politeness) - and ye will harken! - I require several carriages, deeds of my land purchases, directions to the nearest convents, and no more of your damned temperate impertinence! Buon dio, quei bastardi implacabili a The Morning Post!! (throws his beef & bean stew at the wall)

LG: There’s that Latin lilt!

LF (keeps reading): “Why any man would want to imitate Lord Byron - possessor of the most perverted mind in a generation of perverts, a waster of decent brandy, a spoilt nobleman with scores of illegitimate progeny, scribbler of decadent verse inspiring revolution and carnality - has long eluded us here at The Morning Post. Never mind what he did to his wife. And her mother.”

LG: So! What breed of Byron have we been presented with? A counterfeit scoundrel, a marital scoundrel, or a literary scoundrel?

F: He’s the real my lord Byron!! - Why, he is like a father t’me?

LG: Father to a man ten years his elder! - well! - We don’t want him - counterfeit Spaniard or no - any more than the valiant editors of The Morning Post do! - Come ladies, the night is creeping in and we shall not have you seduced into unwholesome behaviours by a perverted poet rhapsodising by the light of our stars and scent of our blossoms - to the enclave! - Hurry! (sneers at B, who hurls the remains of the Stinking Bishop at his head)

LF(to LadyF): Humph! From the moment I saw him, with that long hair and loose teeth, I ever believed him a vulgar dog, quite of the cock-pit order

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Los Ingleses depart

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Scene 5

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Dockside - Captain Spoonsmith approaches

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CS: Ah, my lord - do not be so dejected - you are not the first Englishman to be grievously insulted by those tax-avoidant sons of clock-winders - nay, not the grandson of Admiral Byron!

B: There are no hopes, Spoonsmith! - no hopes of a quiet, anonymous provincial life with my daughter - and Fletcher (thinks) What of the Spanish tongue which we so ardently studied at sea? What of Patagonia? The Byron name must stand for something of value in that continental terminus

CS: Oh - it means much to the descendants of certain Patagonian ladies, my lord - but you cannot speculate beyond here - no - it is wild country - with wild troops of giants who will breed you - or feed you to underfed water buffalo - or cut ye up like gourds

F(slobbers into his sleeve): Gourds! - My lord, I want to return home - I’ve enough of your subcontinentals!

CS: I’m afraid the Flying Clappers is not blighty-bound, my good man

F: Nay, home to Italy - to my Marietta, my Anontella, my Ursulina..

B: Ursulina? Why, well done Fletcher! (thinks on Teresa’s convent - the Byronic blood stirs) - I will admit (straightens back) - that this speculation has failed, that I belong to the grubby world of libel, slander, bedlamite impersonators, torrid extramaritals, and purgatorial scribbling - sink me if these disappointments - grave as they be - won’t provide excellent fodder for further cantos of The Don! (gulps the sea breeze) Spoonsmith - where points your compass?

CS: Genoa, my lord, luckily enough - I have but little room for your suite - I fear - for last eve there was a simultaneous explosion at three of our convents and the maidens - none over twenty - did escape and hide in my galley, begging to go to the nearest vaguely Catholic country to which I could steer The Flying Clappers (stratches head worringly) - I can’t move the frightened dears - who is to pay their passage?!

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The Flying Clappers buoyantly steers its course, all aboard taking their turn in improving their working knowledge of the Spanish tongue - and conventual demolition

 

END​​

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