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  LIFE IS A DREAM

  BY PEDRO CALDERON DE LA BARCA

  TRANSLATED BY EDWARD FITZGERALD

  A Digireads.com Book

  Digireads.com Publishing

  Print ISBN 13: 978-1-4209-4400-6

  Ebook ISBN 13: 978-1-59625-181-6

  This edition copyright © 2012

  Please visit www.digireads.com

  INTRODUCTORY NOTE

  Pedro Calderon de la Barca was born in Madrid, January 17, 1600, of good family. He was educated at the Jesuit College in Madrid and at the University of Salamanca; and a doubtful tradition says that he began to write plays at the age of thirteen. His literary activity was interrupted for ten years, 1625-1635, by military service in Italy and the Low Countries, and again for a year or more in Catalonia. In 1637 he became a Knight of the Order of Santiago, and in 1651 he entered the priesthood, rising to the dignity of Superior of the Brotherhood of San Pedro in Madrid. He held various offices in the court of Philip IV, who rewarded his services with pensions, and had his plays produced with great splendor. He died May 5, 1681.

  At the time when Calderon began to compose for the stage, the Spanish drama was at its height. Lope de Vega, the most prolific and, with Calderon, the greatest, of Spanish dramatists, was still alive; and by his applause gave encouragement to the beginner whose fame was to rival his own. The national type of drama which Lope had established was maintained in its essential characteristics by Calderon, and he produced abundant specimens of all its varieties. Of regular plays he has left a hundred and twenty; of "Autos Sacramentales," the peculiar Spanish allegorical development of the medieval mystery, we have seventy-three; besides a considerable number of farces.

  The dominant motives in Calderon's dramas are characteristically national: fervid loyalty to Church and King, and a sense of honor heightened almost to the point of the fantastic. Though his plays are laid in a great variety of scenes and ages, the sentiment and the characters remain essentially Spanish; and this intensely local quality has probably lessened the vogue of Calderon in other countries. In the construction and conduct of his plots he showed great skill, yet the ingenuity expended in the management of the story did not restrain the fiery emotion and opulent imagination which mark his finest speeches and give them a lyric quality which some critics regard as his greatest distinction.

  Of all Calderon's works, "Life is a Dream" may be regarded as the most universal in its theme. It seeks to teach a lesson that may be learned from the philosophers and religious thinkers of many ages—that the world of our senses is a mere shadow, and that the only reality is to be found in the invisible and eternal. The story which forms its basis is Oriental in origin, and in the form of the legend of "Barlaam and Josaphat" was familiar in all the literatures of the Middle Ages. Combined with this in the plot is the tale of Abou Hassan from the "Arabian Nights," the main situations in which are turned to farcical purposes in the Induction to the Shakespearean "Taming of the Shrew." But with Calderon the theme is lifted altogether out of the atmosphere of comedy, and is worked up with poetic sentiment and a touch of mysticism into a symbolic drama of profound and universal philosophical significance.

  LIFE IS A DREAM

  DRAMATIS PERSONAE

  BASILIO King of Poland.

  SEGISMUND his Son.

  ASTOLFO his Nephew.

  ESTRELLA his Niece.

  CLOTALDO a General in Basilio's Service.

  ROSAURA a Muscovite Lady.

  FIFE her Attendant.

  CHAMBERLAIN, LORDS-IN-WAITING, OFFICERS, SOLDIERS, ETC., IN BASILIO'S SERVICE.

  The Scene of the first and third Acts lies on the Polish frontier: of the second Act, in Warsaw.

  ACT I

  SCENE I—A pass of rocks, over which a storm is rolling away, and the sun setting: in the foreground, half-way down, a fortress.

  [Enter first from the topmost rock ROSAURA, as from horseback, in man's attire; and, after her, FIFE[1].]

  ROSAURA. There, four-footed Fury, blast-engender'd brute, without the wit

  Of brute, or mouth to match the bit

  Of man—art satisfied at last?

  Who, when thunder roll'd aloof,

  Tow'rd the spheres of fire your ears

  Pricking, and the granite kicking

  Into lightning with your hoof,

  Among the tempest-shatter'd crags

  Shattering your luckless rider

  Back into the tempest pass'd?

  There then lie to starve and die,

  Or find another Phaeton

  Mad-mettled as yourself; for I,

  Wearied, worried, and for-done,

  Alone will down the mountain try,

  That knits his brows against the sun.

  FIFE. (as to his mule) There, thou mis-begotten thing,

  Long-ear'd lightning, tail'd tornado,

  Griffin-hoof-in hurricano,

  (I might swear till I were almost

  Hoarse with roaring Asonante)

  Who forsooth because our betters

  Would begin to kick and fling

  You forthwith your noble mind

  Must prove, and kick me off behind,

  Tow'rd the very centre whither

  Gravity was most inclined.

  There where you have made your bed

  In it lie; for, wet or dry,

  Let what will for me betide you,

  Burning, blowing, freezing, hailing;

  Famine waste you: devil ride you:

  Tempest baste you black and blue:

  (To Rosaura.) There! I think in downright railing

  I can hold my own with you.

  ROSAURA. Ah, my good Fife, whose merry loyal pipe,

  Come weal, come woe, is never out of tune

  What, you in the same plight too?

  FIFE. Ay;

  And madam—sir—hereby desire,

  When you your own adventures sing

  Another time in lofty rhyme,

  You don't forget the trusty squire

  Who went with you Don-quixoting.

  ROSAURA. Well, my good fellow—to leave Pegasus

  Who scarce can serve us than our horses worse—

  They say no one should rob another of

  The single satisfaction he has left

  Of singing his own sorrows; one so great,

  So says some great philosopher, that trouble

  Were worth encount'ring only for the sake

  Of weeping over—what perhaps you know

  Some poet calls the 'luxury of woe.'

  FIFE. Had I the poet or philosopher

  In the place of her that kick'd me off to ride,

  I'd test his theory upon his hide.

  But no bones broken, madam—sir, I mean?—

  ROSAURA. A scratch here that a handkerchief will heal—

  And you?—

  FIFE. A scratch in quiddity, or kind:

  But not in 'quo'—my wounds are all behind.

  But, as you say, to stop this strain,

  Which, somehow, once one's in the vein,

  Comes clattering after—there again!—

  What are we twain—deuce take't!—we two,

  I mean, to do—drench'd through and through—

  Oh, I shall choke of rhymes, which I believe

  Are all that we shall have to live on here.

  ROSAURA. What, is our victual gone too?—

  FIFE. Ay, that brute

  Has carried all we had away with her,

  Clothing, and cate, and all.

  ROSAURA. And now the sun,

  Our only friend and guide, about to sink

  Under the stage of earth.

  FIFE. And enter Night,

  With Capa y Espada—and—pray heav
en!

  With but her lanthorn also.

  ROSAURA. Ah, I doubt

  To-night, if any, with a dark one—or

  Almost burnt out after a month's consumption.

  Well! well or ill, on horseback or afoot,

  This is the gate that lets me into Poland;

  And, sorry welcome as she gives a guest

  Who writes his own arrival on her rocks

  In his own blood—

  Yet better on her stony threshold die,

  Than live on unrevenged in Muscovy.

  FIFE. Oh, what a soul some women have—I mean some men—

  ROSAURA. Oh, Fife, Fife, as you love me, Fife,

  Make yourself perfect in that little part,

  Or all will go to ruin!

  FIFE. Oh, I will,

  Please God we find some one to try it on.

  But, truly, would not any one believe

  Some fairy had exchanged us as we lay

  Two tiny foster-children in one cradle?

  ROSAURA. Well, be that as it may, Fife, it reminds me

  Of what perhaps I should have thought before,

  But better late than never—You know I love you,

  As you, I know, love me, and loyally

  Have follow'd me thus far in my wild venture.

  Well! now then—having seen me safe thus far

  Safe if not wholly sound—over the rocks

  Into the country where my business lies

  Why should not you return the way we came,

  The storm all clear'd away, and, leaving me

  (Who now shall want you, though not thank you, less,

  Now that our horses gone) this side the ridge,

  Find your way back to dear old home again;

  While I—Come, come!—

  What, weeping my poor fellow?

  FIFE. Leave you here

  Alone—my Lady—Lord! I mean my Lord—

  In a strange country—among savages—

  Oh, now I know—you would be rid of me

  For fear my stumbling speech—

  ROSAURA. Oh, no, no, no!—

  I want you with me for a thousand sakes

  To which that is as nothing—I myself

  More apt to let the secret out myself

  Without your help at all—Come, come, cheer up!

  And if you sing again, 'Come weal, come woe,'

  Let it be that; for we will never part

  Until you give the signal.

  FIFE. 'Tis a bargain.

  ROSAURA. Now to begin, then. 'Follow, follow me,

  'You fairy elves that be.'

  FIFE. Ay, and go on—

  Something of 'following darkness like a dream,'

  For that we're after.

  ROSAURA. No, after the sun;

  Trying to catch hold of his glittering skirts

  That hang upon the mountain as he goes.

  FIFE. Ah, he's himself past catching—as you spoke

  He heard what you were saying, and—just so—

  Like some scared water-bird,

  As we say in my country, dove below.

  ROSAURA. Well, we must follow him as best we may.

  Poland is no great country, and, as rich

  In men and means, will but few acres spare

  To lie beneath her barrier mountains bare.

  We cannot, I believe, be very far

  From mankind or their dwellings.

  FIFE. Send it so!

  And well provided for man, woman, and beast.

  No, not for beast. Ah, but my heart begins

  To yearn for her—

  ROSAURA. Keep close, and keep your feet

  From serving you as hers did.

  FIFE. As for beasts,

  If in default of other entertainment,

  We should provide them with ourselves to eat—

  Bears, lions, wolves—

  ROSAURA. Oh, never fear.

  FIFE. Or else,

  Default of other beasts, beastlier men,

  Cannibals, Anthropophagi, bare Poles

  Who never knew a tailor but by taste.

  ROSAURA. Look, look! Unless my fancy misconceive

  With twilight—down among the rocks there, Fife—

  Some human dwelling, surely—

  Or think you but a rock torn from the rocks

  In some convulsion like to-day's, and perch'd

  Quaintly among them in mock-masonry?

  FIFE. Most likely that, I doubt.

  ROSAURA. No, no—for look!

  A square of darkness opening in it—

  FIFE. Oh,

  I don't half like such openings!—

  ROSAURA. Like the loom

  Of night from which she spins her outer gloom—

  FIFE. Lord, Madam, pray forbear this tragic vein

  In such a time and place—

  ROSAURA. And now again

  Within that square of darkness, look! a light

  That feels its way with hesitating pulse,

  As we do, through the darkness that it drives

  To blacken into deeper night beyond.

  FIFE. In which could we follow that light's example,

  As might some English Bardolph with his nose,

  We might defy the sunset—Hark, a chain!

  ROSAURA. And now a lamp, a lamp! And now the hand

  That carries it.

  FIFE. Oh, Lord! that dreadful chain!

  ROSAURA. And now the bearer of the lamp; indeed

  As strange as any in Arabian tale,

  So giant-like, and terrible, and grand,

  Spite of the skin he's wrapt in.

  FIFE. Why, 'tis his own:

  Oh, 'tis some wild man of the woods; I've heard

  They build and carry torches—

  ROSAURA. Never Ape

  Bore such a brow before the heavens as that—

  Chain'd as you say too!—

  FIFE. Oh, that dreadful chain!

  ROSAURA. And now he sets the lamp down by his side,

  And with one hand clench'd in his tangled hair

  And with a sigh as if his heart would break—

  [During this SEGISMUND has entered from the fortress, with torch.]

  SEGISMUND. Once more the storm has roar'd itself away,

  Splitting the crags of God as it retires;

  But sparing still what it should only blast,

  This guilty piece of human handiwork,

  And all that are within it. Oh, how oft,

  How oft, within or here abroad, have I

  Waited, and in the whisper of my heart

  Pray'd for the slanting hand of heaven to strike

  The blow myself I dared not, out of fear

  Of that Hereafter, worse, they say, than here,

  Plunged headlong in, but, till dismissal waited,

  To wipe at last all sorrow from men's eyes,

  And make this heavy dispensation clear.

  Thus have I borne till now, and still endure,

  Crouching in sullen impotence day by day,

  Till some such out-burst of the elements

  Like this rouses the sleeping fire within;

  And standing thus upon the threshold of

  Another night about to close the door

  Upon one wretched day to open it

  On one yet wretcheder because one more;—

  Once more, you savage heavens, I ask of you—

  I, looking up to those relentless eyes

  That, now the greater lamp is gone below,