Cousin Shakespeare
(A Tragedy in Five Acts)
Translator’s Note [A.J.S.]:
Cousin Shakespeare was written in the late 1980s, the Ceaușescu dictatorship’s most repressive period. Early in the decade, Marin Sorescu already had turned from literature to painting temporarily, when his works became interdicted. I never got to ask him, but I would guess that Sorescu hadn’t expected to see Cousin Shakespeare put into print or produced in his lifetime, for its premise alone would have offended the regime’s censors as too blatant an allegory for Romania and its police state: that, because of the political spies, the terror, and the (Elizabethan) secret service, Shakespeare has writer’s block. Hence the character “Sorescu—a Dane” has somehow ventured back in time to help his cousin playwright. Written mostly in verse, the play is a kind of tour de force of moods and methods, from seriousness to comedy, from bloody melodrama to pathos, from absurdity and farce to witty irony and trenchant satire. The roster of characters in itself suggests the playwright’s range of thematic concerns and theatrical effects. In the dramatis personae are, for example, Shakespeare himself, Hamlet, a witch, a ghost, the Ides of March, Ophelia’s sister Camelia, a skull that speaks in rhyme, a patriotic free Romanian peasant in search of a playwright to portray Romania’s tragedy (“Voicea – the hero who cannot find a place in Shakespeare”), the Dark Lady, Shakespeare’s wife, an American Sailor, Ben Jonson, jesters, and various nobles and players and playwrights, etc.
Sorescu’s play is divided into acts, tableaus and scenes. In the selection that follows, the second of two tableaus that make up Act II, the following characters appear:
SHAKESPEARE – playwright and actor
HOLD-HORSE – a child
BIRMINGHAM \
NOTTINGHAM / – noblemen
THE SAILOR – an American sailor
PORCIUS BLISTER – actor, rival to Shakespeare
ACT II:
TABLEAU II
A square in the center of London.
A crowd has gathered to witness the rebels’ execution.
Drumbeats, riders push back the waves of people who throng the streets.
SCENE 1
SHAKESPEARE
(enters holding the reins of a horse)
Hey, boy, d’you want to earn a penny?
THE CHILD HOLD-HORSE
(aside)
Today, I’m lucky. I’ve had nothing to eat since yesterday.
(Aloud.) Sure thing, Sir. But I wouldn’t try to push my luck here. This isn’t the best of places.
SHAKESPEARE
(shows him a penny)
And that is the very reason why I won’t give this to you now, but when I get back . . . Otherwise, you might toss it in the air . . . and in such a place as here, however you do it, it’s always heads. Foh! Right you are, this place is plumb out of luck. Hold my horse for an hour . . . And, to stay your hunger, here’s a loaf of bread. I had a spare one in my knapsack. (Brings it to him.)
HOLD-HORSE
(takes the reins)
All right, Sir. Does he kick?
SHAKESPEARE
He’s a kicker indeed, but his kicks are mild:
He cuts up till you get him to the theatre.
He wants dramas, shows. His head in a feedbag,
He munches oats, while his ears prick up to catch
Every word: (Acting.) “My love, fetch me the handkerchief!”
“O, I am slain!” “What have I wrought, forgive me!”
“By this token” . . . “O, this is
Like mine . . .” “Are we not brothers? . . .”
“I was, farewell . . .”
HOLD-HORSE
What play is that, Sir? I would like to know… out of general curiosity.
SHAKESPEARE
Scraps of what this horse hears . . .
And he, his head in the feedbag, imagines
That all the world’s a road and not a stage.
A road running on and on amidst words . . .
Giddyap, my good horse, let’s catch the play’s end!
I must hurry . . . I’ll find you here, don’t run off
With my horse. He’s a magic horse . . . he kicks.
HOLD-HORSE
Have you heard? The boy
Who once long ago held Sir Thomas’
Horse when the latter went
To the theatre
Asked him, “What play do we see today, Sir?”
“Julius Caesar,” was the reply.
“Hold my horse here for four hours,
Guard it well so no one steals it,
And I will give you three shillings.”
When Sir Thomas came back,
While he was mounting,
The boy hold-horse told him
A play about Julius Caesar
Far better than the one he had just seen.
“I made it up just now, as I held your horse, Sir.”
“Good for you, boy, well done!
Here’s your three shillings.”
“Thank you, Sir, but holding your horse will cost you nothing,
Since you gave me the subject.”
SHAKESPEARE
(laughs)
You are a clever boy . . .
Just like . . .
HOLD-HORSE
They say that boy has become a great man now.
He writes plays that get acted in London. His name is
William Shakespeare… Have you heard of him?
SHAKESPEARE
Not really. London’s a big place . . .
HOLD-HORSE
But what’s the show today, Sir, for so short a span, a mere hour? What is it called? . . . Not that I mean to write one myself, just . . . out of general curiosity.
SHAKESPEARE
It has no title . . . If we were to give it one, it might be Broad-Axe Executions for Homeland and Orchestra.
HOLD-HORSE
A comedy, Sir?
SHAKESPEARE
A dumb show . . .
But, look, here I am wasting time and there will be no place left in
front . . . Well, too far in front isn’t such a good idea . . . Phew! What a crowd! There won’t be a place in the middle, either . . . I’ll be able to see only heads on the shoulders, not those rolling away . . .
HOLD-HORSE
I heard the Duke of Essex is next . . .
SHAKESPEARE
(upset)
I’ll find you here . . . I’ll be late, I’m off. (Exit.)
HOLD-HORSE
He looks like that actor . . . Hmm, what’s his name? The one who plays at the Globe . . . (Exit.)
(Enter Birmingham and Nottingham.)
SCENE 2
NOTTINGHAM
Do you abandon your company, Birmingham, to seek
Esthetic pleasures in the square, at executions?
BIRMINGHAM
My company? Ha! A squalid troupe of
Strolling actors who debased my coat of arms.
Only afflictions issued from their mouths,
No dialogue, just stupid japes. (Sadly.) We have no theatre!
“Get thee gone,” I told them, “Entertain at inns,
Ravel plots in courts, on barrels.”
Do you, Nottingham,
Attend such scenes?
NOTTINGHAM
Likewise my raven drops from its talons
Thalia’s statue, with its slanders.
BIRMINGHAM
All the dukes have dropped the theatre,
You see them now, their hands completely washed.
NOTTINGHAM
We have no new plays, no public!
All you can see at shows is
Constables dressed as gulls and gapers,
Every word rings in a piggybank that
Proudly stores their economies,
Their medals and a raise in pay.
BIRMINGHAM
In England it is clear that for two centuries,
No playwright of quality will be born!
NOTTINGHAM
Yet the square, look, it’s full of life,
That is to say, dead life.
BIRMINGHAM
All victims . . . and every one an esthete, like us!
NOTTINGHAM
(laughing)
You flap your jaws, but not on the stage, mark you.
BIRMINGHAM
If you say, “I’m thirsty,” you give offense
To the crown. The drums beat, mobs press forward.
Soldiers on horseback thrust hard with their spears
Into the billows of the curious mob . . .
NOTTINGHAM
They threaten to flood the square . . .
BIRMINGHAM
Have you seen the executioner’s block?
NOTTINGHAM
How many tree-rings can it show,
A block big-bellied with so many lives
That it chops and cradles and surrounds with wood?
BIRMINGHAM
Oh, a multitude!
They say that, when the poor victim places his head on it, he quickly counts the rings of the block – waiting for the blow, one has to do something, right? And if it’s an even number, it means ill luck . . .
NOTTINGHAM
So he resigns himself?
BIRMINGHAM
If he still has time . . . Ah, how brief is the life of man!
NOTTINGHAM
And that of the Duke of Essex, more brief . . .
As brief as his pride is great. (Drums, noise.)
Look, here they come, in carts. They stand, chin high . . .
Abyssus abyssum invocat!
BIRMINGHAM
So it be! There’s nothing more. A lengthy peace will follow . . .
NOTTINGHAM
Ubi solitudinem faciunt, pacem appellant . . . Tacitus was right.
But I don’t see the Duke among the unfortunate . . .
Can the Queen have pardoned him?
BIRMINGHAM
It’s said she is waiting for a sign from him . . .
A ring, a ring she gave him . . . If he accepts,
It means the fellow repents his impudence.
Then she could intervene . . .
NOTTINGHAM
Too proud is the Duke to sue for mercy . . .
The sentence was given long ago . . .
BIRMINGHAM
True, but the Queen puts off the execution . . .
Indeed, the Duke is not among those brought
With their hands bound in chains, two by two . . .
Let’s get closer . . .
(Exit.)
(Enter the Sailor and Porcius, coming from the direction where these two were heading.)
SCENE 3
PORCIUS
(looking around for someone)
He was nearby.
SAILOR
As for me… look at my legs . . . I am not bandy-legged, like the knights . . . The waves I ride do not deform or misshape the shanks, sir. That’s why to travel by sea is healthier than on land. Even Jesus Christ, when he wanted a shortcut, walked on water . . .
PORCIUS
You don’t seem to be from around here . . .
SAILOR
Not at all from the piss-pool in these here parts. (Proudly.) I’m an American sailor . . .
PORCIUS
(preoccupied)
A guy with a grey cape and a lad were talking here a little while ago . . . So, you said you were an American sailor? What’s up in the other world?
SAILOR
Wetting, sir.
PORCIUS
I understand nothing of what you say. Are you speaking the Queen’s English, my good sailor?
SAILOR
American, sir!
I admired the executioner. A skillful hand. But in the eyes of the victims, such despair! (Exit.)
(Enter Hold-Horse.)
SCENE 4
PORCIUS
Hey, you, boy! Come this way . . . you whelp!
You were just talking to a guy with a cape. Rather bald, a forehead like a title page, not very tall . . .
HOLD-HORSE
Me? Not possible. I’m dumb. Deaf and dumb.
PORCIUS
Don’t you get sassy with me . . . Where’d he go?
HOLD-HORSE
The American sailor? He went that way.
PORCIUS
Not that guy . . . The man with a cape . . . (Cajoling.) He’s the Duke of Essex’s friend. And unless the Queen has pardoned him, the Duke must have . . . If you tell me, I’ll give you tuppence . . .
HOLD-HORSE
Are you speaking the Queen’s English, sir? I understand naught of what you say.
(Exit Porcius.)
(Enter Nottingham and Birmingham.)
SCENE 5
BIRMINGHAM
(in a learned manner)
When one attends an execution, either the victim is well-known – someone who tops the bill – or else the executioner is famous. Even public executions must observe the conventions. You don’t pack the house for Lump beheaded by Dick Reed. Vax albina! If you aren’t beheaded well, you can suffer a whole lifetime.
NOTTINGHAM
Look here, it’s ludicrous. (Noticing Hold-Horse.) Softly, the kid will hear us.
HOLD-HORSE
I’m deaf and dumb, gentlemen.
BIRMINGHAM
Dick Reed beheaded by Master Colt. Vax . . .
NOTTINGHAM
. . . albina! . . . Right you are.
BIRMINGHAM
I had come out of love for Essex, of Southampton . . . Anyhow, some big names . . .
NOTTINGHAM
(laughs)
And, lo! They trick us all. They don’t show up!
Not what the playbills advertised! Shame on them!
BIRMINGHAM
They must have called in sick. (Laughs.)
NOTTINGHAM
And instead – someone called Cuffe, some Lee or another . . .
A Shakespeare . . .
HOLD-HORSE
(starting)
Whaaat?
BIRMINGHAM
They killed him, too? I shouldn’t think so . . .
NOTTINGHAM
God knows . . . I was so annoyed at missing the heads on the poster that I focused much more on the executioner. Take my word for it, dear Birmingham, the surprise was the executioner this time.
BIRMINGHAM
That’s right.
Upon my honor, this stripling deserves an ode.
He hasn’t yet turned twenty, but what a worthy executioner he is!
NOTTINGHAM
My heart does swell to see such men of deeds.
BIRMINGHAM
The true pillars of society, those who are hangmen . . .
NOTTINGHAM
He had been ordered to execute Shakespeare . . .
BIRMINGHAM
No… Not at all. Shakespeare was left out of these affairs.
NOTTINGHAM
Then this . . . what’s his name . . . this no-name Cuffe. Good. Now, following his orders, the executioner could have performed a perfunctory execution. But not he! He did his business, somewhat delicate though it is, with true conviction.
BIRMINGHAM
He was so conscientious that he moved not a few of us.
NOTTINGHAM
(excited)
Zealous executioners, to you I dedicate an ode! But let me tell you about it, since you say you could not follow from where you were . . . Goood! Now, he pushes the brave lad to the block. He raises the axe . . . And instead of letting it fall . . . the man begins a speech, proving himself as good with words as with the craft of his hands. “Cast your eyes on this beast” – he said . . . Wait, I have jotted it down . . . (Takes out a piece of paper.) I’ll copy this into my diary. “He is as healthy as an ox,” he said. “This morning, his piss was good. And when the doctor looked up his arse, he observed he had no hemorrhoids. His shit was normal . . . His pulse is strong – a bit fast, on account of the situation. In conclusion, young, full of life, bursting with health. Stout, ruddy cheeks – a bit pale today, on account of the situation. And with all this” – the executioner went on, addressing the crowd – “he will die, and die soon…” (his emphasis). “Remember, then, it’s not enough to avoid disease. Life is complicated.”
BIRMINGHAM
Of course, “Life is complicated” . . . I think I heard that, as well . . . but the wind was blowing and took the words in the opposite direction.
NOTTINGHAM
To me . . . Sooo . . . Let me see what else he said, I’ve got it all here . . . For my diary, you know . . . (Reads). “And, on top of everything, his death will not be what he expects, what he’s sure it will be! As someone said in ancient times, ‘one never knows when fate can strike, so do not envy anyone before death!’”
BIRMINGHAM
He must have quoted from memory . . .
NOTTINGHAM
Yes. He continued on: “But his eyes, I forgot to say, they’re blue.” And suddenly he ripped off his hood. Upon my word, the eyes were blue . . . I did look into them . . . Absolutely! They were blue . . . And he looked at me . . . all of us . . . with his blue eyes . . .
BIRMINGHAM
He must have looked at the executioner as well . . .
NOTTINGHAM
Yes, also at him.
BIRMINGHAM
Then what use was it to him that they were blue?
NOTTINGHAM
Let me finish . . . What was I saying? The executioner had not lied. Did you see it? He didn’t complete his grisly mission with his axe . . . He displayed it just like that . . . Then, like lightning, he took out a knife and just the way I said cut open the victim’s chest and displayed his huge red heart, still throbbing, to the multitude . . . As if waving a scarf to someone dear . . . While the victim, who hadn’t expected this, saw with his blue eyes his own heart as it beat. Red. An artist! An artist from head to toe! We need worthy executioners, pillars of their society . . . The victim, upon my soul, disappointed me . . . He was truly surprised by the turn of events – he had expected to have his head cut off! For two whole minutes he railed against executioners. “To the gallows with all the executioners!” he kept repeating . . . In truth, though, what d’you want from a heartless man . . .
(The booing of the crowd can be heard.)
BIRMINGHAM
Do you hear? The mob is hard to please.
NOTTINGHAM
Ha! Once a mob, always a mob. They bellow a lot and it’s over.
(Exit.)
(Enter Shakespeare.)
SCENE 6
SHAKESPEARE
I must have left my horse somewhere near here.
(Calls out.) Boy, Hold-Horse!
HOLD-HORSE
Here I am, Sir.
SHAKESPEARE
My stallion, did he behave himself, would you say?
HOLD-HORSE
He ate up the oats, but he was full of snorts,
Pranced about as if he’d been bitten by
A tsetse fly . . . The growing hubbub, indeed,
Made him most uneasy.
(Booing can be heard: “Too many executioners!” “Boooo!” “What beasts!”)
The horse would prefer to be far away
To chew his oats in peace, far from this butchery.
Sir, you look so pale! Are you all right?
SHAKESPEARE
(leaning against a pole)
I feel just the same as this horse, good lad.
But I’m over it . . . Here you are! (Gives him some coins.)
HOLD-HORSE
Too much, Sir!
SHAKESPEARE
Keep it.
HOLD-HORSE
Did you perhaps not find the play pleasing?
I almost forgot . . . (In a whisper.) A man asked about you.
He’s following you. Take care. These days
London’s full of pickpockets and cutthroats.
It’s good you have a sword in your scabbard.
I think I know you, Sir . . . Aren’t you . . . ?
SHAKESPEARE
(pats his head)
Hold-Horse, my lad, never write for the stage.
(Exit.)
[End of Act II] 
Marin Sorescu (19 February 1936–8 December 1996), Romania’s Nobel Prize nominee the year of his untimely death, was his country’s most widely celebrated and frequently translated contemporary writer, particularly well known throughout Europe. A dozen books of poetry and plays have appeared in English, mainly in the U.K. and Ireland, and Sorescu’s translators have included fellow poets Seamus Heaney, W. D. Snodgrass, Michael Hamburger, Ted Hughes, and Paul Muldoon. During the communist decades in Romania, Sorescu’s characteristic style of deadpan satiric parable, concise fable, dramatic monologue, brief narrative, and meditation, a mode of writing that came across simultaneously as wry existential absurdism and veiled, alertly political irony, served as an important example of a strategy of cautious dissidence by indirection that was prominent in the East European literary world, although he also wrote numerous formal, lyrical poems as well as collections of works in village dialect.
Sorescu authored more than twenty collections of poetry, among them Poems (1965), The Youth of Don Quixote (1968), Cough (1970), Fountains in the Sea (1982), Water of Life, Water of Death (1987), Poems Selected by Censorship (1991), and The Crossing (1994). In 1994-95, Sorescu served as Romania’s Minister of Culture. His deathbed volume, The Bridge, published posthumously in 1997, was composed during the final two months of his life while he knew he was dying of liver cancer, with Sorescu often dictating the poems to his wife, Virginia, because he was too weak to write them down himself. Adam J. Sorkin’s English version with Lidia Vianu, published by Bloodaxe Books in 2004, was awarded The Poetry Society (U.K.) 2005 Corneliu M. Popescu Prize for European Poetry Translation. Excerpts from The Bridge recently became the text of a new opera, “On the Threshold of Winter,” by the celebrated American composer Michael Hersch, which it is hoped will be given its premiere in 2013-14 in New York City.
Sorescu’s plays included Jonah, The Verger, and The Matrix (published together in English as The Thirst of the Salt Mountain), A Cold, Vlad Dracula the Impaler, and Cousin Shakespeare. He was granted residency fellowships to the Iowa International Writing Program and to Berlin as well as major prizes not only in his native country (including Writer’s Union Prizes for both poetry and drama and the Romanian Academy award) but also in Italy (the Gold Medal at Naples, 1970 and “Le Muze” prize in Florence, 1978), Spain (“Fernando Riello” poetry prize at Madrid 1983), and Austria (Herder Prize, Vienna, 1991).
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