He Stooped To Conquer
Trump and Epstein In A Comedy of Manners
As I may have mentioned a time or two, I have an abiding love for Restoration comedies in specific, and comedies of manners more particularly, written by the likes of Congreve, Wycherley, and Sheridan.
I know, I know…it’s Rick Wilson Rabbit Hole number 6256.
Tonight, on this happy Friday, with hints from beyond the grave from Jeffrey Epstein about Donald Trump and um…Bill Clinton, I’ve spent a few hours today percolating on the question everyone is asking: What if Donald Trump, the ghost of Jeffrey Epstein, and a few others were in a Restoration comedy? (And by “everyone” I mean…me.”)
Will I write Act II? Who can tell? Perhaps if the Muse strikes me.
ACT I
Scene I – The Great Gallery at Trump Hall
The stage shows an over-grand gallery, so beyond the excesses Rococo style as to penetrate the ether of bad taste in ways no one can observe without a sense of unease.: far too much gilt, too many portraits of women who look suspiciously similar and suspiciously young. A great chair, a fire, and a ridiculous number of mirrors. Moonlight through tall windows. A decanter sits open on a side table.
Enter DUKE Trump, in sumptuous but slightly ill-fitting finery, leaning on a cane he pretends is purely ornamental. He crosses to a mirror, inspects himself, and begins to pace, muttering.
Trump, half to himself, half to the portraits:
“Ah, Trump, you old conqueror, you terror of the petticoats, you scourge of the boudoirs. How many hearts have you shattered? How many reputations have you rescued from obscurity by the simple kindness of your notice?”
Trump leans closer to one of the many mirrors, his garish umber makeup and badly-fitted wig more comic than sensual.
“Even now, the ladies sigh for me, though they disguise it with these absurd new fashions of prudery and prayer-books. Let them; the more they pretend to abhor me, the more they dwell upon me. ’Tis the nature of the sex: they detest the man they cannot resist… and I, alas, am irresistible.”
He straightens his wig with trembling dignity.
“Though the body may accept the noble decline of years, the soul remains a satyr. I am still, in spirit, the same vigorous rogue who set London aflame and the provinces to smoking ruins. No virgin is safe, regardless of faith, piety, or station!”
As he preens, the candles flicker. A cold draft sighs through the gallery. From the shadows, the Ghost of Baron Epstein materializes: elegantly dressed, faintly luminous, with the amused air of a man who died mid-witty remark and refuses to stop.
Epstein:
“Dry your flattery, Trump, though all acknowledge its well is bottomless. If you pour much more incense upon yourself, the fumigation will choke us both, and I am already dead.”
Trump, startled, then offended:
“Epstein! Rogue! Knave! Undead scoundrel! By all that’s indecent, must you always appear at the very height of my recollections?”
Epstein:
“My dear Duke, you never leave the height of your recollections; you merely change the anecdote. Your present age has one virtue: the future can no longer disappoint you, so you take your revenge upon the past.”
Looking him up and down
“And what a past: a catalogue of taverns, brothels, actresses of the mattress, and chambermaids, all scrupulously remunerated by the hour.”
Trump, fuming:
“By the hour? Sir, I was a patron of beauty, not a tenant of time! Those ladies adored me.”
Epstein:
“They adored your purse, which was, you must grant, a more reliable performer. You mistake gratitude for passion and receipts for romance, even in this late hour of life.”
You malign my history, sir. I was celebrated…celebrated! A man of fame as the most talented swordsman in every bed! The most notorious rake in three reigns!”
Epstein:
“Notorious, yes. But as for celebration, the only toasts I recall were to the ready coin in your pocket and the obliging weakness in your judgement. You were a walking annuity for every doxy in Drury Lane.”
Trump, stamping his cane:
“I’ll not be lectured on gallantry by a phantom who spent half his life chasing schoolgirls and the other half fleeing their brothers…and died of his own hand.”
Epstein, staring at his fine gloves, a sneer in his voice and on his face”
“My dear sir. These hands ended many a life, but not my own, as well you know.
But tis true. But I never pretended they followed me for my masculine powers. I knew they followed me for my companion, the Lady Ghislaine, and fled me for my…habits. I had the merit of self-knowledge, Trump. You have only self-love.”
Trump:
“I’ll give you one truth, ghost: whatever my past follies, my present dignity is unquestionable. I am Regent to His Majesty, the new King. I stand at the apex of power, and I share that exalted station with one of the kingdom’s fairest beauties, my Lady Trump, who, you will note, has remained with me when others would have fled.”
Epstein, raising a spectral eyebrow:
“Remained? Why, yes. A woman does not lightly abandon a fortress when it is packed to the battlements with ill-gotten treasure. She has the best vantage in the kingdom from which to watch you decline into rot and ruin as a man.
She stays, my dear Trump, for two reasons: the size of your fortune and the smallness and infrequency of…other considerations.”
Trump, bristling, shaking his cane:
“Sir! Why were you more than air and moonlight, I’d smite you where you stand!”
Epstein:
“Come, be philosophical, Trump. Nature is a cruel bookkeeper; she writes wrinkles where once there were dimples and erases the line of credit from one account while doubling it in another. Your Lady enjoys both the revenues of your villainies and the vigorous services of a younger, more…liquid generation.”
He glances meaningfully toward the door, where unseen servants move about their business.
“Her little coterie of admirers, her manservants, footmen, equerries, and secretaries—perform a devotion to which you have been, shall we say, retired with honors.”
Trump:
“She would never dare, sir under my roof!”
Epstein:
“Your roof, yes, but not your stables, barns, follies, dovecotes, and tenant’s crofts. You are Regent only to the King, Trump, not to your wife. In that dominion, you are reduced to the noble role of ornamental sovereign: much saluted, never consulted.”
Epstein, aside to the audience:
“He governs a kingdom, but not his own household; such is the natural order, and Parliament has never successfully legislated against a determined woman…particularly her.”
Trump:
“This is all jealousy, Epstein. You envied her from the day I claimed her. Every man in London did.”
Epstein, laughing:
“Envied? My dear friend, I sold her to you.”
Trump stares, quite agog:
“You what, sirrah?”
Epstein:
“Oh, not quite as Vulgar Commerce, you understand. She was a charming little country article when first I discovered her; pretty in a hard way, but malleable tween the bedclothes…and as ignorant of London ways as a lamb is of the butcher.”
“I had her polished, instructed, furnished with a wardrobe and a past, both entirely fictitious, you know, which made her with them more respectable than the truth. When she was sufficiently dazzling and you were sufficiently besotted, I arranged the match. You paid her debts, my debts, and half of Mayfair’s into the bargain. She was a tidy investment; you were a magnificent exit.”
Trump, reeling, then recovering pride:
“Lies. Lies and ghostly spite.”
Epstein:
“Certainly. Believe what you please; you always have. But while we are correcting your memoirs, shall we mention that your reputation was not confined to the fair sex?”
Trump, wary:
“You speak in riddles, ghost.”
Epstein:
“Not at all. Do you recall, perhaps, a certain Mountebank Roy Cox and his indefatigable minion, Roger Marble?”
Trump, grudgingly:
“They were libertines, adventurers, quacks of the most ingenious kind. I’ve no memory of them at all, ghost.”
Epstein:
“Deny it not, old friend. They were your tutors. They educated you in a…broader curriculum of Venus than you now confess. Under their expert management, you became the most obliging “companion” to a particular monarch whose tastes wandered somewhat from the Prayer Book.”
Trump, furious, eyes rolling like billiard balls:
“Silence, sir! The walls have ears.”
Epstein:
“They have heard worse. In your wilder youth, you were not merely the terror of wives and widows, but the confidential amusement of King William himself. You served two crowns: the one on his head and the one…well, let us be delicate and say, the one he kept under very attentive guard.”
Trump, voice low:
“William abdicated years ago. His name is no more than a cautionary anecdote. The scandal was buried with his reign.”
Epstein, smiling:
“Ah, yes, buried. As all scandals are, until someone remembers where.”
Steps nearer, singsong
“Why, you learned more at court than how to bow. You learned how to kneel with distinction; how to rise, when required; how to please a sovereign so thoroughly he quite forgot the business of governing.”
Trump:
“I was young. I was misled.”
Epstein:
“You were eager for the great man, a skill you’ve exploited on the receiving end more than once.”
Softening into mischief…
“But take comfort, Trump: few men can boast to have served a king so intimately that even abdication could not entirely rid him of the memory.”
Trump, pallid and shaking:
“If this were known, if any hint escaped, it would ruin me.”
Epstein:
“Oh, my dear, you overestimate the virtue of the age. It would not ruin you; it would merely improve your popularity in certain circles. The town loves nothing so much as a sin that survived a coronation and dares to speak its name.”
Trump:
“Enough. I’ll not endure further slander from a spectral mountebank. I am Regent; my authority stands on unassailable ground: politically, morally, and matrimonially.”
Epstein:
“Politically, you are indispensable; morally, you are indefensible; matrimonially, you are indefinable. That is not unassailable ground, Trump; that is quicksand with a title.”
Trump, enraged, turns away, grabbing his cane as if it were a sword.
Trump, snarling:
“I shall leave you to your ghostly gossip. Haunt the furniture if you must; it has better stamina than I have patience. I will not linger here to be dissected by a dead libertine.”
He strides unsteadily toward the door.
Enter, suddenly, Jasper, a Trump’s MANSERVANT. Young, handsome, very well put-together in every sense. He bows, just the slightest shade of too much familiarity.
Jasper:
“My lord…”
Epstein watches him with wicked satisfaction.
Epstein, aside:
“Ah, one of her ladyship’s “devotions” in the flesh. The boy wears his mistress’s favor like a ribbon on a prize stallion at Epsom.
Trump, with the sharpness of jealousy in his tone:
“What is it, Jasper? I am in no humor for trifles.”
Jasper:
“I should hope not, my lord, for this is no trifle. His Majesty, King William, is below stairs. He has arrived at Trump Hall and desires the honor of your immediate company.”
Beat. Trump freezes. Epstein’s smile widens, almost fond.
Epstein, softly, savoring the moment:
“Well, Regent… it appears abdication was not the only unfinished business of His Majesty.”
Trump, voice cracking ever so slightly:
King… William?
Jasper:
“Yes, my lord. The very same. He travels without fanfare, but his person is undeniable.”
Epstein, aside to the audience:
“Enter, at last, the ghost who still breathes. Now the comedy begins.”
Lights dim slightly as Trump clutches his cane, torn between terror, vanity, and calculation. He forces a thin, courtly smile.
Trump, verging on collapse, then collecting himself":
"Very well, Jasper. Inform His Majesty that… that the Regent of his successor awaits to receive him.”
Trump: aside, bitter:
"And may Heaven grant that old sins can be received as politely as old monarchs.”
He exits with Jasper. Epstein lingers a moment, laughing silently.
Epstein:
“The past, my dear Trump, is the one mistress who never truly leaves you.”
He vanishes as the candles flicker out.
End of Act I, Scene I
May I suggest an alternate title: "He Shtupps to Conquer" (with apologies to Mel Brooks.)
“Your present age has one virtue: the future can no longer disappoint you, so you take your revenge upon the past.”
This line is glorious Rick.