Hugo in Londonby Marina J. Neary |
|
| Scene 13 |
In 1854, at the height of Crimean War, Victor Hugo, the legendary French romantic, comes to London in search of inspiration for his next novel. He meets Jocelyn Stuart, a delusional young benefactress, who promises to show him “the real England.”
Hugo disguises himself as a sailor and enters Bermondsey, where he immerses himself in a world of boxing matches, circus performances and gang wars. Roaming London’s most notorious slum, he encounters Dr. Grant, a Cambridge-educated opium dealer; Wynfield, a charismatic bandit; and Diana, a sickly servant girl who bears a disturbing resemblance to Hugo’s dead daughter. Their surreal adventures become the basis for Hugo’s subsequent novels.
When danger befalls Hugo’s new friends, he vows to protect them, even if it means turning against his old friends and risking his own safety. How far will a grieving father go for the memory of his child?
Infused with dark humor and melancholic folk ballads, Hugo in London is a tribute to one of France’s most prolific literary icons.
Westminster Palace. Three young aristocrats, Lauderdale, Granard and Wilton reluctantly return to the House of Lords after an intermission. They snap their waistcoats at the throne and negligently salute Cranworth, Lord Chancellor whose pose and glance express superficial disapproval. The young lords cluster in a corner.
LAUDERDALE (covers his eyes): These lights are killing me. I feel a migraine brewing. Whoever designed these chandeliers deserves to be hanged from them.
WILTON: This place awakens the beast in me. I’m so tempted to do something utterly atrocious, like raise taxes or declare a war.
GRANARD: It’s already been done, courtesy of Redcliffe and Cardigan. Thanks to these worthy gentlemen we’re trapped here. (Opens his arms and spins) For this I sacrificed a night at the Playgoers’ club.
WILTON: And we don’t even have the courtesy of a palatable dinner. That mysterious meat dish, whatever it was, smelled like carrion. It was my last meal at the dining hall.
GRANARD: I swear I shall never sit next to that clown again.
WILTON: Which clown, Lord Granard? God knows, there are many in our surrounding.
GRANARD: I was referring to Lord Ellenborough. He spilled sherry all over my favorite shirt. The stain will never come out.
LAUDERDALE: The man was plastered!
GRANARD: On the contrary, he was perfectly sober. It was deliberate provocation, just like everything else he does. Would you believe it? He wore plaid trousers to a royal sitting! What does he consider himself?
WILTON: A Scottish sympathizer — apparently. He can’t find better ways to rebel, so he wears plaid and ruins other men’s clothes.
GRANARD: What does one expect from a coward?
CRANWORTH (in the tone of a father trying to appease wayward children): My lords, it is not my custom to eavesdrop, but please, refrain from calling each other cowards and clowns. It’s tragic enough that our wives refer to us in such unflattering terms.
GRANARD: And that is precisely why I shall never get married.
LAUDERDALE: That is precisely what I thought at your age. Look at me now!
Enter Wynfield, with a waistcoat thrown over his shoulder.
WYNFIELD: There’s no shame in being a clown.
The three young lords turn to him and assume defensive poses.
LAUDERDALE: Oh look, we have a Bohemian avenger in our midst.
WYNFIELD: A good comedian is more useful to his country than a bad general. Greed and humor drive England. A good comedian will never starve in this country.
The three young lords look at him in bewilderment. Cranworth steps in hastily.
CRANWORTH: Meet your new peer: Lord Jeremy Griffin Helmsley, Baron Hungerton.
WYNFIELD: Forgive me, gentlemen. It appears that I am a bit late.
WILTON: Just a few hours. Who’s taking notice?
CRANWORTH: Four years, to be precise. Lord Hungerton’s letter of summons was sent back in 1850, and he is just responding to it now.
LAUDERDALE (lifts his glass): Now that’s what I call fashionable tardiness! I daren’t imagine what obligations could’ve kept Lord Hungerton away from his parliamentary duties. He must have an extraordinary excuse.
CRANWORTH: Lord Hungerton spent his early youth in academic and artistic pursuits. He studied medicine under a Cambridge graduate and performed in a theater company.
WILTON: That explains why he defends clowns — he’s one of them!
CRANWORTH: No, Lord Hungerton is one of us. We mustn’t hold a man’s past delusions against him. Lord Hungerton realized that his place is here, among his equals. And how pleased we are to have him with us!
GRANARD (ecstatically): And best of all, Lord Ellenborough will be furious when he learns that he is no longer the first ruffian of the House.
WILTON: Oh yes! There he was, arrayed in his tartan colors, spilling sherry all over everyone. And then Lord Hungerton barges in, four years and three hours late, with his face hacked up, reeking of cheap cigars, full of wild tall-tales. What a riot!
GRANARD (taps his chin): How should I describe Lord Ellenborough?
WILTON (to Wynfield): Imagine the most scandalous, revolting human specimen. It takes finesse to be so crude. You heard what he pulled last year at the Athenaeum club?
WYNFIELD: I am honored to have such a distinguished rival.
Lord Ellenborough enters, wavering from side to side.
ELLENBOROUGH: By God, can I go anywhere without hearing my name mentioned? (Sniffs the air): Do I smell cheap tobacco? (Pauses) Is that Wynnie Grant?
WILTON: You two are acquainted?
ELLENBOROUGH (heartily): Why, we’re old mates! Ah, those nights at Ponies & Lollipops... Wyn taught me how to play Castilian poker. (Points at Granard and Wilton) Were those sissy-girls gossiping about me again? Don’t listen to them. They’ve much to learn from real men. After the sitting, you and I will go and trash Westminster!
Ellenborough throws his arms around Wynfield and hangs on him.
ELLENBOROUGH: Say, we perform our little dance for them.
WYNFIELD: Step on my foot, I’ll kill you.
They start dancing side by side. Lord Cardigan comes in, hands locked behind his back, looking perplexed and disgusted.
CRANWORTH (with despair): Look at this, Lord Cardigan — the future of England!
CARDIGAN: God forbid, they should take any actual interest in politics! While I was talking about my latest campaign, they kept fidgeting and whispering.
CRANWORTH: Had I known I would be overseeing this clique of hedonistic children, I never would’ve accepted the Chancellor’s position.
GRANARD: Lord Cranworth, have some pity on the younger generation! We’ve already endured a boring lecture and a bad meal. Now we must take your wrath? Haven’t we suffered enough for one evening?
WYNFIELD (pushes Ellenborough aside): I won’t contribute to your melancholy. I once entertained base crowds for three shillings a night, and now I shall entertain you for thirty thousand pounds a year. I didn’t come empty-handed. In addition to my wild tales, I brought something that will please everyone. See those cases along the wall?
WILTON: My, Lord Hungerton, what a generous gesture! How many cases of wine will it take to intoxicate the entire House of Lords?
WYNFIELD: How many cases of gunpowder will it take to blow up the palace?
The lords stop laughing and look at Wynfield in bewilderment.
CARDIGAN (haughtily): I beg your pardon?
WYNFIELD: There must’ve been some advancement in explosives since the Guy Fawkes incident. Lord Cardigan, you’re a seasoned soldier. You ought to know a thing or two about explosives.
LAUDERDALE: Now, that was a clever joke.
WYNFIELD: What makes you think I am joking? When a dog bares his teeth, it’s not a sign of friendly disposition. It means that you should cover your throat and run.
CRANWORTH: Children, that’s enough. Lord Hungerton, you can share your apocalyptic vision later. There is a tradition for newcomers known as the “maiden speech.” The second half of the sitting is about to start.
WYNFIELD (places his foot on one of the casks): There won’t be a second half.
CARDIGAN: Young man, this spectacle is entirely unnecessary.
WYNFIELD (points at Cardigan): Let me tell you what is unnecessary (opens his arms) — this leather-padded box! If it goes up in flames with everyone inside, it won’t be the end of England. If anything, it will be a new beginning. We’ll have a miniature America right here. There is much more to England than the vermin that congregates in the Westminster Palace. You won’t be missed one bit, I assure you.
The young lords cling together and pull their heads into their shoulders.
WYNFIELD (to the young lords): Shivering already? I haven’t gotten to the best part yet. You careless gluttons! Your own cellars are bursting with wine barrels, and you still grasp at a chance to get drunk at another man’s expense. It didn’t even occur to you to question what’s inside these cases. You just assumed it was wine, all for you, just like everything else in this world. I don’t expect you pity the children who lose their fingers inside factory machines producing guns. Nor do I expect you to pity the soldiers who are forced to fight with defective weapons. No, you shouldn’t be disturbed by any of this. Your duty is to suffer from migraines, melancholy and insomnia. And my duty is to end your sufferings. Do not mistake me for a defender of the misfortunate. I myself am just another calloused, unapologetic exploiter. Like the rest of you, I deserve to die. But before I die, I reserve a right to smoke one last cigar. (He lights a cigar; the lords watch him in horror) Start praying, my lords. One spark fallen from the tip of my cigar, and there will be nothing left of the English aristocracy except for a crushed pocket watch. Start praying.
Cardigan and Cranworth remain standing. Ellenborough leans against the wall. The young lords slowly subside on their knees and start mumbling prayers.
WYNFIELD: Louder! I don’t think God can hear you. (A few seconds later) I suppose I have no choice but to lead you in prayer. (Throws his head back) Almighty God, have mercy on these selfish cowards, for they don’t know the extent of their vice. We also pray for the people of England, the dirty axel of the golden carriage. Raise them from their gutter and make them all republicans. In the spirit of Guy Fawkes, Oliver Cromwell and my own late father, I pray. Amen.
Lord Ellenborough slides down the wall. The three young lords cover their heads.
WYNFIELD (examines his cigar): Well, my cigar’s burned out. You can stand up now.
The three young lords raise their heads timidly but remain kneeling.
WYNFIELD: I said you could stand up now. My maiden speech is over. By God, there’s no sport in teasing you! I’ve been told that my comedies are too political, and my politics are too comical. On stage I’m a politician, and in the Parliament I’m a clown. Gentlemen, you should’ve seen your faces! Lord Cardigan, you look pitiful when you are afraid for your life. Whatever you do in Crimea, do not let the enemy see your face.
ELLENBOROUGH (leaps to his feet): Oh, you’ll pay for this dearly!
WYNFIELD: Easy now, Lord Ellenborough! What happened to our eternal friendship? Do you resent me because it was supposed to be your prank? Did I steal your slice of fame? Rest assured. You won’t have to share your glory with me. You’ll never see me after today. I’m leaving England, for a better place.
ELLENBOROUGH: Not so fast. (To the young lords): Hold this clown!
The young lords, their terror turned to fury, attack Wynfield all at once. He does his best to defend himself. They drag him into the hallway, and the battery continues off-scene. Lord Cranworth steps forward and throws his arms up.
CRANWORTH: I abdicate! And there I was, hoping for a quiet day at the Parliament.
CARDIGAN: Are you going to let them kill this... this creature?
CRANWORTH: What’s the difference? If they don’t kill him on my watch, they’ll kill him after the sitting. Clearly, he did not come here to make friends.
A scream comes from behind the curtain. Cardigan and Cranworth wince.
CARDIGAN: Someone should call the guards. Do it for your own sake, Lord Cranworth. You’re in charge. Bloodshed won’t reflect well on your reputation.
They hear the sound of breaking glass and a few moans; followed by abrupt silence.
CRANWORTH (turns his head): What’s that smell?
CARDIGAN (squints): Reminds me of the substance that military surgeons use for amputations. Chloroform!
CRANWORTH: Dear God... I’m going to faint... (Covers his face with his sleeve and grabs Cardigan’s arm) We must flee!
CARDIGAN: No, don’t go into the hallway! Stay here. It’s safer.
CRANWORTH: The Parliament is officially a circus.
CARDIGAN (pats him on the back reassuringly): It’s the spirit of war.
Copyright © 2008 by Marina J. Neary
