Free Arcadia by Tom Stoppard

Absolutely. The language of scholars. Count
on it.
    (Having made a great show of putting his pages away, Bernard reassembles them and finds his place, glancing suspiciously at the other
three for signs of levity.)
    Bernard: Last paragraph. ‘Without question, Ezra Chater
issued a challenge to somebody. If a duel was fought in the dawn mist of
Sidley Park in April 1809, his opponent, on the evidence, was a critic with a
gift for ridicule and a taste for seduction. Do we need to look far? Without
question, Mrs Chater was a widow by 1810. If we seek the occasion of Ezra
Chater’s early and unrecorded death, do we need to look far? Without question,
Lord Byron, in the very season of his emergence as a literary figure, quit the
country in a cloud of panic and mystery, and stayed abroad for two years at a
time when Continental travel was unusual and dangerous. If we seek his reason— do
we need to look far?
    (No mean performer, he is pleased with the effect of his
peroration. There is a significant silence.)
    Hannah: Bollocks.
    Chloe: Well, I think it’s true.
    Hannah: You’ve left out everything which doesn’t fit. Byron
had been banging on for months about leaving England—there’s a letter in February—
    Bernard: But he didn’t go, did he?
    Hannah: And then he didn’t sail until the beginning of July!
    Bernard: Everything moved more slowly then. Time was different.
He was two weeks in Falmouth waiting for wind or something—
    Hannah: Bernard, I don’t know why I’m bothering—you’re arrogant,
greedy and reckless. You’ve gone from a glint in your eye to a sure thing in a
hop, skip and a jump. You deserve what you get and I think you’re mad. But I
can’t help myself, you’re like some exasperating child pedalling its tricycle towards
the edge of a cliff, and I have to do something. So listen to me. If Byron
killed Chater in a duel I’m Marie of Romania. You’ll end up with so much
fame you won’t leave the house without a paper bag over your head.
    Valentine: Actually, Bernard, as a scientist, your theory is
incomplete.
    Bernard: But I’m not a scientist.
    Valentine: (Patiently) No, as a scientist—
    Bernard: (Beginning to shout) I have yet to hear a
proper argument.
    Hannah: Nobody would kill a man and then pan his book. I
    mean, not in that order. So he must have borrowed the book,
written the review, posted it, seduced Mrs Chater, fought a duel and
departed, all in the space of two or three days. Who would do that?
    Bernard: Byron.
    Hannah: It’s hopeless.
    Bernard: You’ve never understood him, as you’ve shown in
your novelette.
    Hannah: In my what?
    Bernard: Oh, sorry—did you think it was a work of historical
revisionism? Byron the spoilt child promoted beyond his gifts by the spirit of
the age! And Caroline the closet intellectual shafted by a male society! Valentine:
I read that somewhere—Hannah: It’s his review. Bernard: And bloody well said,
too!
    (Things are turning a little ugly and Bernard seems
in a mood to push them that way.)
    You got them backwards, darling. Caroline was Romantic waffle
on wheels with no talent, and Byron was an eighteenth-century Rationalist
touched by genius. And he killed Chater. Hannah: (Pause) If it’s not too
late to change my mind, I’d like you to go ahead. Bernard: I intend to. Look to
the mote in your own eye!—you even had the wrong bloke on the dust-jacket! Hannah:
Dust-jacket? Valentine: What about my computer model? Aren’t you going to
mention it? Bernard: It’s inconclusive. Valentine: (To Hannah) The Piccadilly reviews aren’t a very good fit with Byron’s other reviews, you see. Hannah: (To Bernard) What do you mean, the wrong bloke? Bernard: (Ignoring
her) The other reviews aren’t a very good fit for each other, are they? Valentine:
No, but differently. The parameters—Bernard: (Jeering) Parameters! You
can’t stick Byron’s head in your laptop! Genius isn’t like your average grouse.
Valentine: (Casually) Well, it’s all trivial