The Death of Shakespeare by Jon Benson

Author:Jon Benson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Nedward, LLC
Published: 2016-03-15T00:00:00+00:00

~ 46 ~

Henry VI and a Sonnet for the Earl of Southampton

Oxford found John Marston on his knees. “Up, lad,” he said, as he sat down at the table. The boy jumped up and took a position to Oxford’s left. Oxford began scribbling on a piece of paper. “Henry VI engaged in many wars,” he said, as he continued writing. “His reign is too long to chronicle everything, so I will pick and choose what to write about, and then I will take liberties with Holinshed to make drama out of what he sees as only history.”

John Marston looked over Oxford’s shoulder to see what he was writing. It appeared to be a hodgepodge of scribbles.

“Notes,” Oxford said, without looking up. “Like spilling soup onto a table to find out what’s in it. I’ll save those worth keeping and discard the rest.” He held the paper up. “We will add ideas as they come. In the meantime, I will dictate scenes that you will transcribe and throw on the floor in the corner.”

The boy looked at him. “I will throw them on the floor?”

“Yes. When we think we have enough, we will sift through them and string them together. I will fill in any gaps with new work.”

“Instead of plotting out the play and then writing the scenes?”

“Holinshed has provided the plot. We need only add the characters. The bad shall triumph; the good shall be ground under.”

“The Queen will not be pleased with so black a drama.”

“She will know Bolingbroke is coming.”

“Oh.”

“Where do you think we should start, young sir?”

“At the beginning, my lord.”

“Which is?”

“The funeral of Henry V. With mourners black-draped in Westminster Abbey.”

“Sidney’s funeral.”

The boy was taken aback. He had remembered the stately line of mourners that had followed Sir Philip’s casket. He had hoped Oxford would think his idea a stroke of genius, but his master had seen through him immediately. Crestfallen, he hung his head.

“It is no sin to steal from others in the theater, John Marston, as long as you rework it to make it your own. You have come up with a good idea. We shall use it to open the play. And the mourners, because their new king is a boy, will begin to argue among themselves about what course the kingdom should take.” He gestured for John Marston to pick up his pen. “Gloucester will say:

We mourn in black: why mourn we not in blood?

Henry is dead and never shall revive:

We with our stately presence glorify,

Like captives bound to a triumphant car.

The boy began to write. “Like captives bound to a triumphant car? Is this not Tamburlaine speaking to the kings he has yoked to his chariot, Holla, ye pamper’d jades of Asia! / What, can ye draw but twenty miles a-day?

“Why do you scowl? Is Marlowe not worth emulating?”

“He is, my lord. Particularly when you rework his lines, but leave in a hint of the original.”

“If the listener is looking.”

John Marston smiled. “If you can listen with your eyes, you can taste with your ears.

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