Hugo in London

by Marina J. Neary

Scene 11

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.

Cast of Characters

Prison basement. Two Peelers escort Wynfield, whose hands are tied in the back. Officer Crippen walks behind.

WYNFIELD (trying to conceal terror): How many steps are there? So far I’ve counted three hundred and forty-seven. If we go down any further, we’ll emerge on the other side of the world. I’ve always wanted to see Australia. A paradise for prisoners!

CRIPPEN: Keep talkin’, and ye’ll count the steps with yer chin.

Peelers choke with laughter. Crippen silences them with a malicious glance.

CRIPPEN (After a second of deliberation): Then, p’haps, I shouldn’t be cross with ye, Wyn. By all means, carry on with yer jokes. I won’t deny yer that, wretched clown. Tomorrow they’ll hang yer. I’d like to see yer crackin’ jokes at the gallows. Until then — make yerself cozy. How d’ye like yer new quarters?

WYNFIELD : Won’t you at least untie my hands? There’s a deck of cards in my pocket. I could show you a trick.

CRIPPEN: If I untie your hands now, I’ll have to tie them back again t’morrow, b’fore the hangin’. Who’s got the time for that? Ah, quit whinin’! ‘Tis only for one night. (Turns his head and whistles): Hey, old man! Company for yer!

A hoarse laughter comes from the corner, and a decrepit prisoner crawls from the dark. Crippen pushes Wynfield to the floor and leaves with the peelers. The prisoner sits next to Wynfield and stares at him.

PRISONER: Don’t fret, boy. It won’t hurt much — if the hangman does his job properly. When your neck snaps... (Makes a wringing movement with his hands) You’re not praying, are you? If you’re praying, I’ll just crawl back to my corner. When I heard the peelers’ boots, and the lock grind, my heart leaped for joy. ‘Tis not often that I get company, even for one night. (Pause) You don’t need to talk back. I’ll just sit here and look at you. I haven’t seen a human face in ages.

The prisoner glances at Wynfield’s face, then slaps himself on the knee and starts laughing again.

PRISONER: Wynnie! I’ll be damned! My wayward boy...

WYNFIELD (recoiling): How do you know my name?

PRISONER: I gave it to you! Ah, how quickly we forget our mentors. So, you don’t recognize me? Did I change so? Fifteen years in prison... But you must remember me each time you look in the mirror. There’s that scar... And another one...

WYNFIELD (struggles to stand up): Neil Harding...

PRISONER (cheerfully): Yes, good old Neil! The one who made you what you are.

WYNFIELD: They should’ve hanged you!

PRISONER (shrugs in bewilderment): I agree. They must’ve forgotten about me. Perhaps, they hanged someone else. Mistakes of this sort happen here all the time.

WYNFIELD: Good! Perhaps, they’ll hang you instead of me.

PRISONER: I’d march to the gallows for you gladly. I’ve grown weary of this place. Why are you standing, Wyn? Come, sit by my side. Or are you still afraid of me?

WYNFIELD: Don’t flatter yourself, Neil. I can easily lift two hundred pounds.

PRISONER: Not with your hands tied. You’re still afraid of me! I can hear your teeth clatter. My ears are still sharp. (Pointing upward) You need not fear me, boy. I held you dearer than my natural sons. I wanted nothing more than to make you my heir. But you weren’t born for this life, so I released you. And here we are, in the same cell.

WYNFIELD: You’re ranting, Neil.

PRISONER: I’ve kept silent for all these years — for good reasons. But you’re entitled to the truth, even though it’s of no use to you now.

WYNFIELD: You’re ranting!

PRISONER: One winter evening I received a visit from a nameless gentleman, tall, handsome, well-dressed. God knows what he was doing in that part of town. His hands were hot and covered with dark bruises. He had a two-year old boy with him. That boy was you. He pushed you forward to me and said: “Teach him your trade, and he’ll serve you well.” That was all. The man turned around and vanished, leaving the child and a sack of coins. I counted them. Five hundred pounds!

WYNFIELD: Am I to believe this bosh? With that kind of money you could’ve sailed to America or any other country. You’d never have to steal again.

PRISONER: It’s not easy to give up one’s old trade. Can you imagine giving up your pranks? Besides, I promised your father to raise you in my likeness. Thieves too keep their promises. But soon it became clear that all my toils were in vain. A lord’s blood spoke too loudly in you. You were born to give orders. In time you’d overthrow me.

WYNFIELD: Oh, Neil, be thankful that my hands are tied.

Enter Barclay, carrying a Bible. Glances at Wynfield and the Prisoner, shakes his head.

BARCLAY (nonchalantly): Neil, are you telling stories again? Shame on you! Distracting a young man from his prayers five hours before his execution...

WYNFIELD: Five hours?

BARCLAY: Four and a half, to be precise — plenty of time for a last theological debate. (To Prisoner) Neil, go back to your corner. Leave us alone.

Prisoner crawls back into the darkness.

WYNFIELD: Reverend, was it you who turned me in?

BARCLAY: I had nothing to do with your arrest. I’ve done my part to protect you, but I suppose it wasn’t enough. I’m here to see that your transition into the afterlife, however involuntary, is dignified. Now, it’s been twenty hours since your last confession. You must’ve sinned since then. Tell me about your escapades, and we’ll laugh about them.

WYNFIELD (with apathy): I can’t remember what happened last night.

BARCLAY: That means I can go? My presence isn’t needed?

WYNFIELD (begging): Please, stay. Sit by me.

BARCLAY: On this cold damp floor? I’ve done nothing to deserve such discomfort. But I’ll stand over you for ten minutes. And while I’m standing here, can you think of any final words for Dr. Grant?

WYNFIELD: You can tell him that the Frenchman was right. Dirt sticks to dirt. Soon I’ll be that very corpse on the gallows, from my own song.

BARCLAY: (Pulls a flask out of his pocket): Drink of this.

WYNFIELD (suspiciously): What is it?

BARCLAY: Why do you care? What harm can it do to you now? Drink! It’ll make the next few hours more bearable for you.

Wynfield nods and drinks from the bottle; the lights begin to dim.

BARCLAY: Don’t fight sleep. Let your eyes close. And when they open, you’ll be on the other side.

The lights dim completely; a Scottish air plays; Barclay chuckles faintly.

Proceed to Scene 12...