Work Text:
SCENE 1
A dim room in Missolonghi, Greece, 1824. Enters PERCY. His clothes are light, but they are still dripping. He stands in a cool light at the front, facing the audience. There is a faint noise of a man moaning in the background.
PERCY: I was Percy Bysshe Shelley. Known for my fame in prose and poetry, exiled for liberty, and shipwreck was my fate. I am now a ghost, true, unhurt, and resilient to all fragility. Much like Prometheus, I am unbound at last. [Pause] I am here to visit a certain George Gordon Byron, a friend and rival.
BYRON lay on a messy bed, with warm lighting; he looked sweaty. A doctor and a nurse stood beside the bed. Besides the bed, there was a slightly messy desk with some books, some paper, and a quill.
NURSE: The temperature is still high, sir.
DOCTOR: Bring the lancet.
NURSE: [Appearing a bit nervous] But, the lord said he would not use what others have…
DOCTOR: Then go bring the leeches or… [Seeing the nurse’s anxious movements] Oh, you…just bring the lancet! It’s a matter of life and death; the lord has NO say on what I shall use.
NURSE: Yes, sir.
The NURSE exits.
PERCY: [In a calm voice] It is a matter of life OR death.
PERCY stepped towards the bed but remained three steps away, into the shade caused by lighting. The DOCTOR didn’t notice him.
DOCTOR: My lord, your blood is still too thick for your health. I have checked your conditions, and I think you are without the possibility of swooning. So please, be prepared to receive another treatment.
BYRON: [His voice is a bit hoarse] My blood?
DOCTOR: Yes, my lord, the cause of the fever is in your vessels.
BYRON: The very cause of fever is this country! The humidity, the heat, you cannot expect someone not to be burning from cheek to chin.
DOCTOR: [Checking on him] As you say, my lord. I will be back to finish…the job.
DOCTOR exits.
BYRON: The job! He thought if he said aloud, I would feel like a butchered bull!
PERCY: [Watches the doctors leave, addressing Byron, but still hiding in the shade]: You ARE the bull of sacrifice, my friend. To the Olympian gods.
BYRON: [muttering] Oh! This sickening ward is killing the space between my soul and my heart. I am no different from the Elizabethans, with a pocket of poetry and no such thing as RECOVERY. The same fever. The same confusion about ‘why is my body failing warmly’, almost the same…theatrical dying.
PERCY slowly steps outside the shade.
BYRON: [using blankets to cover the face, eyes closed] I said to be unbothered except for the doctor! [covers his forehead]
PERCY: Then I am the exception, the ideal exception, my friend.
BYRON: [looks startled] Shelley! Weren’t you dead? I…I thought I buried you in the sand!
PERCY: You did, but I am no longer Percy Bysshe Shelley. I am a spirit of freedom, parted from the foam and sought you here.
BYRON: [tries to sit up] Are you a messenger, then? From that world beyond our world.
PERCY: [offers his hand, but is ignored. The Smile remains. He begins circling the bed with his ghostly pace.] Far did I travel. From the heaven I came, sea salt and storm be my compass. The nymphs sang to me: Percy, you are your legacy! Be no longer a lunatic and poet; be the undying spirit! The great symbol of the fiercest, universal love that mankind only dreamt of. So, I said: almighty nature’s daughters, I shall join your symphony!
BYRON: They are not muses but sirens, Percy! [managed to sit up] Be honest with me: are you here to lure me too?
PERCY: Poets, Lord Byron, are creatures of concepts. The self is intimately connected to the concept of concepts. Lord Byron! The master of self-portrayal, you knew it well. Who else but YOU see your reflection in a stranger’s eyes? My Lord Byron sees himself through the very dust of history! Yet here you are. [He gestured vaguely at Byron]
BYRON: Oh god, it’s really you! [points to Shelley, coughing] Percy…These accusations are damaging to my health!
PERCY: Speak not of recuperation! May deathlessness itself be its recovery, by surrendering to the fragility buried deep in human form, that delicate frame chained by misery and lust alike. No more wrinkles, decay, or faltering posture, for I have come with a divine offer.
BYRON: What offer? [pause] Percy, you speak of death as if it’s irrelevant to you! Has something happened?
PERCY: Not that I recall.
BYRON: Stop attempting to speak in iambic pentameter! I am having a migraine, Percy!
PERCY: [tilts his head slightly] As you wish, Lord Byron. Please come and join me as twinning, perfect symbols of humanity.
BYRON: What?
BYRON paused for two beats, breathless, then looked horrified.
BYRON: Did you…Did you drown on purpose? To become a perfect symbol, or whatever this is. Tell me it isn’t true!
PERCY: [thinks for a moment, then shakes his head elegantly] I don’t remember.
BYRON paused for three beats, inhale, then paused another beat. PERCY looked at him with a serene, unchanging smile.
BYRON: What? Percy, do you remember ANYTHING at all?
PERCY: [confused, the ghostly pacing stopped] I reminisce about the ideals we used to…
BYRON: [cutting PERCY off] No, I do not mean the ideals. Do you remember what happened before, when we were…
SCENE 2
The lights blacked out for a moment, then focused on BYRON. BYRON stands, pointing at PERCY.
BYRON: Do you remember my garden in Italy?
The light became warmer and softer. Percy began his ghostly pacing again.
BYRON: I found you in the garden. You were bleeding, your trouser leg rolled up to the knee.
PERCY stops mid-step, arrested by that detail.
BYRON: You tried not to gasp in pain, so you bit your lips hard, which accidentally…made you gasp harder. Clumsy, clumsy.
BYRON pauses and hums softly, trying to remember.
BYRON: Where was it? The rose garden?
PERCY resumes pacing, released from that memory.
BYRON: The terrace. You were pacing wildly, complaining dramatically about…something.
PERCY stops again.
BYRON: [voice lower] About the massacre in Manchester that August. You heard it from a friend that morning. You always have such beautiful potential for being intense.
BYRON studies PERCY’s face, who was completely still.
BYRON: You wanted to be there, to DO something, to help them, or worse, to be a martyr with them. You kept saying, ‘We should never have left England, look what cowards we are, ’ and I barely managed to dance with that anger. You were a lovely lightning bolt, raging at me, squeezing me for a more lunatic answer than yours. You asked: ‘Byron, why don’t we go back?’
BYRON smirked involuntarily, although he tried to keep a solemn face. PERCY smiled too, a bit confused.
BYRON: I answered, soothing you and damning you, ‘because, sweet Shelley, we would get executed. We have heads that are preserved for a POETIC sentence.’ [He gestured beheading with his hand] And you looked confused, maybe too puzzled, then you suddenly remembered that WE are made of flesh too.
Pause for a beat. Byron’s fist tightens because he feels that old anger.
BYRON: And you, Adonis Shelley, dared me: ‘why are you content with this? You should be a symbol of the nation that’s beyond indecency!’ My love, my whole imagery is built AROUND indecency.
BYRON: [quieter] Then what did I do?
PERCY resumes pacing, slower.
BYRON: I patted your shoulder a bit too harshly and then told you to sit down. You refused while frowning.
PERCY stops.
BYRON: You claimed an inability to sit still while people were dying, and while derailing malice rules over our shared fate. You said it’s like the moon, but claiming to be a boon. Percy, you do love to rhyme even when complaining… I mean, you did.
BYRON coughs, making a sound that is similar to laughter and gasp alike. PERCY started pacing again.
BYRON: So, I said, Shelley, you are either intensely noble or airily clumsy!
PERCY stops, caught mid-gesture.
BYRON: Which, frankly, is pretty much the same thing. [eyes fixing on PERCY] Do you think it’s the same NOW?
PERCY looks almost uncertain; he paced, but looks like he’s dragging his feet.
PERCY: [looks confused] These two phrases mirror each other in a certain way…
BYRON: [ironically] Exactly! In an ironic way! And if we are two symbols together, that’s what we will become: a dozen silly syllables with no CONTEXT, waiting to be misquoted for generations.
PERCY looks slightly startled.
BYRON: [softening, bitter] You don’t know anything anymore. What? Should I ever understand you, comfort you, or pretend I haven’t asked that question? I would prefer to mock you, but there is only one person in this room who is mockable, and it’s me.
PERCY didn’t reply, but resumed pacing, even less certain. For the first time, his gaze focused on Byron while circling the bed.
BYRON: [hesitantly, fully seriously] My divine right.
PERCY stopped almost simultaneously.
BYRON: This limp is mine, the shadow of a doomed specialty cast upon me. No man but me shall bear it with grace: it’s not from heaven or poetry, just the signature of a childhood turned sour, and an objective called poverty hanging between me and the mirror. Percy, you, least of all men, shall bear this sacred mark, because it will be aesthetic plagiarism.
Long pause. PERCY remains perfect still.
BYRON: I cleaned your wound, wrapping it with my own hands. You were sweaty, but you thanked me for being gentle, with your earnest eyes staring at me. I was NOT being gentle with you, boyish daydreamer; I don’t possess the ability to be such a lamb.
PERCY looks down at his feet.
BYRON: I thought… if I could carry that wound alone, you would be the angel, forever youthful and pure, forever above these mortal…failings. That day, I whispered to the roses: may Shelley always be perfectly joyful, walking with half-closed eyes and a smile, while I suffer this inevitable pull of gravity, gasping, limping, cursing, and cursed. The roses were bent by the summer breeze. I mistook it for a blessing, but it is a CURSE. See, what has become of you, Percy!
The background sound echoes softly: “Percy…Percy…”. Byron looked around him, covering the side of his head. He looks like he’s hurting. PERCY didn’t seem to hear the echo.
BYRON: Was that you? Your…symphony? Or am I burning?
PERCY: You appear…exhausted.
BYRON: Ha! Exhausted from blood draining, yes, and from summoning who is long gone. I was so WRONG about the blessing, I AM so wrong about what you are…
BYRON clutches his throat and coughs. The lighting is back.
BYRON: Wait, did I say your name too much?
PERCY: Just enough to be poetic.
BYRON: [covering his face] Then it IS too many times.
BYRON paused.
BYRON: [smiling weakly] I remember that you also used to cough a lot, Percy.
PERCY: Coughing is the natural reflex of cleaning the airway. Essentially, it declares the urgency of sanitization and cleansing.
SCENE 3
BYRON: [he snaps] Cleansing the body to wash away the sins? You sound like a priest now. Are you attempting to moralize ME?
PERCY: No, lord Byron, you are well equipped for perfection, yet you are cowardly; you are too drawn by mortal[pause] limping. Being symbolic, however, is a divine right that I would like to share, and I have abandoned my vanity and envy for what is referred to as a legacy.
BYRON: Oh, the bloody divine right! You completely [gestures up and down at PERCY] missed the point!
PERCY: [tilts his head] I only wish to share it with you, Lord Byron. I fail to understand why you are resisting generosity.
BYRON: Please, it is not GENEROSITY when you claim it to be. Please, be a darling and show me something else. [coughing, gesturing at the desk] Write me a real poem, prove you still have something under those dripping clothes of yours, as the poet you once were.
PERCY: [closing his eyes, silent for a beat] I do not possess a certain ability to compose poetry. Lord Byron, was I… an inadequate poet?
BYRON: [looks at him for two beats like he never knew PERCY, then his voice softer] Inadequate? No. You were imperfect, sure, but you were one of a kind. Even I had to agree on that.
PERCY: Then let me serve you in some other ways, Byron. This endless contentment has one remaining purpose: to be your muse and your Hebe, keeping the golden cup of your psyche from ever running dry.
BYRON: Percy, I…I have always wanted to write about you and about Greece.
PERCY: Then perhaps, now is your time. Your clarity seems to fade, Lord Byron.
BYRON: …I can hear your voice calling from the Aegean Sea; I can see your shade under the olive trees. Percy, I chose to join the movement and soon regretted it, then in my dreams I would imagine you alive and fair and telling me I did well! That I did the right thing to do. You should be here, in Greece, with me.
PERCY: [unsure] I am here.
BYRON: [look at him with sadness] No, Percy, you are no longer in this world.
PERCY: [his expression changes, almost like he’s experiencing heartache] But I am present, Lord Byron.
BYRON: No, you are only the faint shadow of the past.
PERCY: I am FROM the past, Lord Byron, but I am also facing the future. Every time future generations mention my name, I am gently carried across the unimaginable gap of time and the forgetful nature of humans.
BYRON: Then pray, inform me, what kind of efforts have you put in to be remembered?
A beat, neither speaks.
BYRON: Percy, just think of the literary giant! They bled, carved the mountain rocks, and parted the oceans through sheer power of words, while you, Percy, cut yourself into a spoonful of Shelley-ish by dancing the impossible dance with time. Look at you! A piece of silk that can be wrapped around any fashionable hat! It’s not even an effort, it’s a mere… self-annihilation.
BYRON breathes heavily, staring at PERCY.
BYRON: Yes…Self-annihilation.
PERCY: [Frowning] Self-annihilation is harsh. I would…call it a waltz of the self and time.
BYRON: Oh yes, a waltz indeed! Your ‘self’ spins and spins while time takes your hand and stands still. VERY interesting.
PERCY: You named your own concern while trying to rebut me. Lord Byron, we are of the same species, relying on self-fashioning in a world where the mountains of the era roar and rush towards the sea of revolution, at their own graceful pace. It’s both too swift to climb and too slow to observe its movements.
BYRON: Percy, you can’t say that until you try to roar back!
PERCY: Did you endeavor, then, my Lord Byron?
BYRON: Yes, I agree that I compromised, but it was not something like what you have chosen. It’s me looking into the void of time and my soul, and I wandered around the edge of making that great leap. Dangerous, Destructive, so the gentry says, and I gladly called it WISDOM. I chose my own persona by surrendering to my weakness, while you…
BYRON stops, struggling for words.
BYRON: Oh, I see it now. Your choice is a compromise with death. The undeniable truth of your death cast this shadow upon your soul, and you chose to see the only part that’s abstract enough to stand against the erosion. Who am I to judge your choices, then? But Percy, it still hurts even just thinking about it!
PERCY: [Offering his hand] You phrased it elegantly, but you are still associating it with mortal pain. It’s, in truth, freeing instead of confining. Would you care to…dance with me now? Physical movements might help make sound decisions.
BYRON: Now? [Laughs at the absurdity of this] I am going to faint.
PERCY: Then I shall catch you.
BYRON and PERCY stared at each other.
BYRON: Did you hear yourself at all? You sound absurd, but why not?
PERCY: Fairies are always absurd in this world.
BYRON laughs breathlessly, sits up in bed slowly, then stands up, approaching PERCY.
A beat. BYRON stares at PERCY, noticing the dripping of his clothes, his pale, motionless face.
BYRON: Absurd, cold, honeyed words, monarchical Europe in plain sight! That’s it, the poem I am going to write—my last masterpiece.
BYRON keeps gazing upon PERCY while grabbing the quill from the desk.
BYRON: [looking up to PERCY] Just stand where you are, next to the bed. Yes, be as cold and dripping as you can; I won’t be breaking my heart.
PERCY: [muttering] Cold and…dripping?
BYRON: Don’t speak to me. Just stay where you are.
PERCY stands perfectly still, smiling cheerfully yet confused. BYRON approaches him slowly, deliberately.
Two beats of silence.
BYRON: Thy heart is molten lead and claims heavenly…breed. No.
BYRON inhales, PERCY senses something is wrong, and steps back a bit. BYRON laughs, stepping towards him.
BYRON: Thy breath speaks peace—thy smile, perfected…freeze. [Cross that imaginary line in the air using the quill, winces a little from the wound on his forearm] The painful flesh…oh, how shall the…the flesh cast off its shackled creed?
PERCY opened his mouth to say something, but was interrupted by BYRON’s gesture: BYRON pointed the quill at him. BYRON adjusted his sitting posture to be upright. He was breathless.
BYRON: And in…one gasp of BURNING blood…be freed.
PERCY: [Backs off towards the back of the stage] That’s not very good rhythm, Lord Byron.
BYRON: Do not attempt to disturb me, Percy. [Chasing PERCY, the hand holding the quill trembles; he coughs] Come on, your fragile mind of a poet! The bull and the lamb, the bull…
BYRON shivers, pressing his temple. The ink drips down.
PERCY: [nodding, cautiously stepping forward again] The metaphors are exemplary.
BYRON: [A pause, then he whispers, eyes fixed on PERCY] A leash of fervor and of joy… [he tremors, nearly dropping his quill. It leaves a visible mark on his own clothes.] Fervor…leash…no, no, this is backfiring on me!
PERCY: [smiling, almost indulgingly] Lord Byron, it does not serve your purpose.
BYRON: Oh god, I wish I knew better! This is the muse taking its revenge, the insult [gasping] the infection!
BYRON throws the quill at PERCY, and it hits PERCY, but PERCY does not flinch. The quill falls on the floor. BYRON, breathless, legs shaking, barely manages to stand.
PERCY: You are answering transcendence with violence. You are desperate, but composing requires serenity.
BYRON: Serenity is the death of creativity, Percy. Hand me that quill.
PERCY: If you wish to reclaim it, you need to do it yourself. I do not possess the ability to get hold of anything…[whispers] other than your hand.
BYRON gasps, trying to take one more step. BYRON collapses onto the floor. He crawls towards the quill, coughing violently. PERCY followed him silently, staring at BYRON for a beat longer than usual as BYRON almost reached it. BYRON faints, PERCY looks down again, deliberately, at his feet. The NURSE and the DOCTOR enter running, checking on BYRON, preparing to execute bloodletting again. Then the lights went black.
SCENE 4
The lights are back; it is colder, darker. Byron lies unconscious. Percy strides with a ghostly pace at the far end of the room, looking concerned.
BYRON: [his head shifts from side to side on the pillow, muttering, still half unconscious] The air smells of dust and iron. Is this a prison or a battlefield? It is both, and none.
PERCY: [unusually excited, striding towards the bed] Lord, Byron, you are awake!
BYRON: [moaning] Ah yes, I am awake. How can I be of service to this spirit that claims to be a friend?
PERCY: Please, come and join me. I need your consent to…ease your earthly pain. Be deathless, Lord Byron, be content, then even this indecision shall come to pass.
BYRON: [eyes narrow] Ah, so you do need my consent to take me. Tell me, what signals are you looking for? A word, or simply a thought?
PERCY: Your consent shall be a word of truth, or taking my hand.
NURSE enters, checks on Byron’s temperature. Byron looks at her, then appears to remember something. NURSE exits.
BYRON: Jesus Christ! You have offered me your hand before, now I remember. Percy, Is this what a PERFECT symbol should do?
PERCY: [leaning closer] Then teach me how to be a symbol yourself. I will gladly learn from you.
BYRON: No! Percy, I cannot trust my judgment, and I certainly cannot trust yours either. Do you remember that boat called Don Juan? All your friends warned you not to set sail, but you thought you were Ariel reborn! How should I trust your judgment?
PERCY: It was a message from the cosmos. I was meant to be carried by poetry and drowned in storms. It’s the only way to become who I am now.
BYRON: [smiles bitterly, covers his face] I am literally burning with fever AND anger for your foolish naivete.
DOCTOR enters with medical tools for bloodletting. PERCY returns to the far end of the room, silently watching.
DOCTOR: You are running a high fever, my Lord. This will ease the pain.
BYRON: [looks startled, trying to curl up] No, not again. I am not meant to be bleeding anymore!
DOCTOR: This will help you, my Lord. I will be honest with you, if we do not treat your fever, it could be fatal.
BYRON: [murmuring] Fatal…
DOCTOR: It is a great pleasure to serve you, my lord. You are one of us now, a soldier of Greece. I will not lose you if there are still ways to prevent it.
BYRON: [moved] Alright…but let this be the last time.
DOCTOR: I can understand that feeling.
BYRON silently shakes his head. DOCTOR does bloodletting.
BYRON: Doctor. There is one remedy I haven’t tried yet.
DOCTOR: What is it?
BYRON: Rest. Just let me rest, alone, please.
DOCTOR: [thinks, then nods understandingly, with a grave expression] Very well. I will check on you in the morning.
BYRON: So, it is already night. I shall sleep.
DOCTOR: [bowing, then looking at him] Be well rested, My lord.
DOCTOR exits. PERCY moves closer, but stays near the footboard.
PERCY: You chose dignity with grace, Lord Byron.
BYRON: [sounds exhausted] He’s no longer needed. ‘The end of physics is our body’, it seems to be.
PERCY: ‘The end of physics is our body’s health’, you misquoted.
BYRON: It was intentional…but never mind. [involuntarily staring at the dim candle light on the desk, eyes unfocused] It is comforting to hear you speak. Please, I need your voice, just…talk to me.
PERCY: [leans closer, sounds very happy] You are afraid, but you brace yourself till the end of mortality, and that lion’s heart of yours will be remembered as a fighter for freedom.
BYRON: The lion’s heart [self-mockingly laughs] That sounds annoyingly exaggerating but pleasing.
PERCY: Then I shall praise you in a hundred thousand ways, when both of us embrace eternity.
A beat. BYRON tries to sit up to look at PERCY’s face, but he coughs violently, falling back to the bed.
BYRON: Eternity, yes…It makes me wonder what eternity is, but curiosity itself is…let’s say, mostly for the sake of poetry. If I lose the ability to compose, then what is the point of it? That my troubles and fear in this moment will be gone forever, gone for good? I am already dying, Percy! This fever has gone to its last stage; we both know it! Oh, I shall sleep till the very end, I warn you!
PERCY: It is the stage of your suffering, Byron, and the reason you haven’t chosen to sleep is because you are aware that you cannot sleep through this.
BYRON: [look puzzled because he only vaguely understands what PERCY meant] The…what? I mean the medical stage, for the fever.
PERCY: Medical, metaphorical, and metaphysically so.
BYRON: …Percy [he pauses] How can this be? I am both afraid…and amazed by you, like a fascinated child looking up to the constellations. Beautiful, they think, but it must be…cold to live there.
Before PERCY answers, BYRON mutters ‘it’s cold’ and wraps himself in blankets.
PERCY: It is not cold…I would say it is like crystal, like early spring or like a bride’s veil.
BYRON: [shivering] Have you heard yourself? I almost heard a lullaby. [grabs the blanket harder] Yes, a lullaby…Percy, tell me, what should my epitaph be?
PERCY: [thoughtful, then speaks without hesitation] Here lies Lord Byron, poet, politician, and fighter, who chose ruins and found restoration in the heart’s devotion.
BYRON: Too noble. [laughs weakly] Here lies the infamous Lord Byron, the sixth Baron Byron and the famous Byron.
PERCY: [wince, hesitates] That’s…very unconventional.
BYRON: It is a pity that I cannot get it as my epitaph. [coughs] It is annoying to think that after all this time I spent resisting your calling, I will still be…unable to build my reputation in the future. The horror! The vulnerability!
PERCY: [offering his hand] Let me comfort you, Lord Byron.
BYRON: [tries to move away from PERCY, suddenly finding strength again] No, no, please don’t do this, Percy. If I take your hand, only my soul will be elevated into emptiness! I will NOT sell my soul for the sake of making myself my legacy, even if history makes me a jester. Who possibly knows what it is like beyond the veil? I may be far gone, and that is far better than to be pinned to the wall like a paper violet.
PERCY: When the spirit takes its great voyage, the paper violet is what is left to humans. Even by resisting this call of mine, you are immortal in becoming, and it fits you better than any velvet. George Gordon Byron, you did well.
BYRON: It’s not the immortality of me! It’s of chaos in a world that has turned from the heart! Sorrow, which is my scar, condensed into the FLESH of me.
PERCY: The body is the fatal enemy of the ideal. You have always been the flesh, the mundane, scouring out of desperation and in vain. My thoughts are lucid, but your mind is turbid. You are more unpersuadable than you ever were.
BYRON: Ha! Stubborn is the word! I would rather be Prometheus than Hermes! Bound forever, tied to earth!
PERCY: [whispering] Prometheus…
BYRON has not heard PERCY. BYRON stares at the ceiling for one beat.
BYRON: Then the result is a draw! And I am too weak to resist that cold moonlight [coughing, gesturing wildly at PERCY] striking through me! Whoever speaks in your voice shall speak in mine as it was and always will be. May I be your stanza, future, or not? One soul, one life, and yes…intensity. [BYRON’s body starts to convulse violently, struggling for the last words through his teeth] Where am I now? Drown in this sickly, if heavenly joy!
Byron breathes heavily, falling back onto the bed. BYRON died without taking PERCY's hand. PERCY looks at Byron’s body, then at the surroundings of the ward, then he slowly, carefully holds the hand he offered Byron. All background sounds fade at once. Percy stared at his hands, smiling emptily, perfectly. Four beats, curtain.