Life Is a Dream_Pedro Calderon De La Barca Read online

  In heaven, and like them twirling through the mask

  Of darkness, answering to all I ask,

  Point up to them whose work they execute!

  ROSAURA. Ev’n as I thought, some poor unhappy wretch,

  By man wrong’d, wretched, unrevenged, as I!

  Nay, so much worse than I, as by those chains

  Clipt of the means of self-revenge on those

  Who lay on him what they deserve. And I,

  Who taunted Heaven a little while ago

  With pouring all its wrath upon my head—

  Alas! like him who caught the cast-off husk

  Of what another bragg’d of feeding on,

  Here’s one that from the refuse of my sorrows

  Could gather all the banquet he desires!

  Poor soul, poor soul!

  FIFE. Speak lower—he will hear you.

  ROSAURA. And if he should, what then? Why, if he would,

  He could not harm me—Nay, and if he could,

  Methinks I’d venture something of a life

  I care so little for—

  SEGISMUND. Who’s that? Clotaldo? Who are you, I say,

  That, venturing in these forbidden rocks,

  Have lighted on my miserable life,

  And your own death?

  ROSAURA. You would not hurt me, surely?

  SEGISMUND. Not I; but those that, iron as the chain

  In which they slay me with a lingering death,

  Will slay you with a sudden—Who are you?

  ROSAURA. A stranger from across the mountain there,

  Who, having lost his way in this strange land

  And coming night, drew hither to what seem’d

  A human dwelling hidden in these rocks,

  And where the voice of human sorrow soon

  Told him it was so.

  SEGISMUND. Ay? But nearer—nearer—

  That by this smoky supplement of day

  But for a moment I may see who speaks

  So pitifully sweet.

  FIFE. Take care! take care!

  ROSAURA. Alas, poor man, that I, myself so helpless,

  Could better help you than by barren pity,

  And my poor presence—

  SEGISMUND. Oh, might that be all!

  But that—a few poor moments—and, alas!

  The very bliss of having, and the dread

  Of losing, under such a penalty

  As every moment’s having runs more near,

  Stifles the very utterance and resource

  They cry for quickest; till from sheer despair

  Of holding thee, methinks myself would tear

  To pieces—

  FIFE. There, his word’s enough for it.

  SEGISMUND. Oh, think, if you who move about at will,

  And live in sweet communion with your kind,

  After an hour lost in these lonely rocks

  Hunger and thirst after some human voice

  To drink, and human face to feed upon;

  What must one do where all is mute, or harsh,

  And ev’n the naked face of cruelty

  Were better than the mask it works beneath?—

  Across the mountain then! Across the mountain!

  What if the next world which they tell one of

  Be only next across the mountain then,

  Though I must never see it till I die,

  And you one of its angels?

  ROSAURA. Alas; alas!

  No angel! And the face you think so fair,

  ‘Tis but the dismal frame-work of these rocks

  That makes it seem so; and the world I come from—

  Alas, alas, too many faces there

  Are but fair vizors to black hearts below,

  Or only serve to bring the wearer woe!

  But to yourself—If haply the redress

  That I am here upon may help to yours.

  I heard you tax the heavens with ordering,

  And men for executing, what, alas!

  I now behold. But why, and who they are

  Who do, and you who suffer—

  SEGISMUND. (pointing upwards). Ask of them,

  Whom, as to-night, I have so often ask’d,

  And ask’d in vain.

  ROSAURA. But surely, surely—

  SEGISMUND. Hark!

  The trumpet of the watch to shut us in.

  Oh, should they find you!—Quick! Behind the rocks!

  To-morrow—if to-morrow—

  ROSAURA. (flinging her sword toward him). Take my sword!

  [ROSAURA and FIFE hide in the rocks; Enter CLOTALDO.]

  CLOTALDO. These stormy days you like to see the last of

  Are but ill opiates, Segismund, I think,

  For night to follow: and to-night you seem

  More than your wont disorder’d. What! A sword?

  Within there!

  [Enter SOLDIERS with black visors and torches.]

  FIFE. Here’s a pleasant masquerade!

  CLOTALDO. Whosever watch this was

  Will have to pay head-reckoning. Meanwhile,

  This weapon had a wearer. Bring him here,

  Alive or dead.

  SEGISMUND. Clotaldo! good Clotaldo!—

  CLOTALDO. (to Soldiers who enclose Segismund; others searching the rocks). You know your duty.

  SOLDIERS (bringing in Rosaura and Fife). Here are two of them,

  Whoever more to follow—

  CLOTALDO. Who are you,

  That in defiance of known proclamation

  Are found, at night-fall too, about this place?

  FIFE. Oh, my Lord, she—I mean he—

  ROSAURA. Silence, Fife,

  And let me speak for both.—Two foreign men,

  To whom your country and its proclamations

  Are equally unknown; and had we known,

  Ourselves not masters of our lawless beasts

  That, terrified by the storm among your rocks,

  Flung us upon them to our cost.

  FIFE. My mule—

  CLOTALDO. Foreigners? Of what country?

  ROSAURA. Muscovy.

  CLOTALDO. And whither bound?

  ROSAURA. Hither—if this be Poland;

  But with no ill design on her, and therefore

  Taking it ill that we should thus be stopt

  Upon her threshold so uncivilly.

  CLOTALDO. Whither in Poland?

  ROSAURA. To the capital.

  CLOTALDO. And on what errand?

  ROSAURA. Set me on the road,

  And you shall be the nearer to my answer.

  CLOTALDO. (aside). So resolute and ready to reply,

  And yet so young—and—(Aloud.) Well,—

  Your business was not surely with the man

  We found you with?

  ROSAURA. He was the first we saw,—

  And strangers and benighted, as we were,

  As you too would have done in a like case,

  Accosted him at once.

  CLOTALDO. Ay, but this sword?

  ROSAURA. I flung it toward him.

  CLOTALDO. Well, and why?

  ROSAURA. And why?

  But to revenge himself on those who thus

  Injuriously misuse him.

  CLOTALDO. So—so—so!

  ‘Tis well such resolution wants a beard

  And, I suppose, is never to attain one.

  Well, I must take you both, you and your sword,

  Prisoners.

  FIFE. (offering a cudgel). Pray take mine, and welcome, sir;

  I’m sure I gave it to that mule of mine

  To mighty little purpose.

  ROSAURA. Mine you have;

  And may it win us some more kindliness

  Than we have met with yet.

  CLOTALDO (examining the sword). More mystery!

  How came you by this weapon?

  ROSAURA. From my father.

  CLOTALDO. And do you know whence he?

  ROSAURA. Oh, very w
ell:

  From one of this same Polish realm of yours,

  Who promised a return, should come the chance,

  Of courtesies that he received himself

  In Muscovy, and left this pledge of it—

  Not likely yet, it seems, to be redeem’d.

  CLOTALDO. (aside). Oh, wondrous chance—or wondrous Providence!

  The sword that I myself in Muscovy,

  When these white hairs were black, for keepsake left

  Of obligation for a like return

  To him who saved me wounded as I lay

  Fighting against his country; took me home;

  Tended me like a brother till recover’d,

  Perchance to fight against him once again

  And now my sword put back into my hand

  By his—if not his son—still, as so seeming,

  By me, as first devoir of gratitude,

  To seem believing, till the wearer’s self

  See fit to drop the ill-dissembling mask.

  (Aloud.) Well, a strange turn of fortune has arrested

  The sharp and sudden penalty that else

  Had visited your rashness or mischance:

  In part, your tender youth too—pardon me,

  And touch not where your sword is not to answer—

  Commends you to my care; not your life only,

  Else by this misadventure forfeited;

  But ev’n your errand, which, by happy chance,

  Chimes with the very business I am on,

  And calls me to the very point you aim at.

  ROSAURA. The capital?

  CLOTALDO. Ay, the capital; and ev’n

  That capital of capitals, the Court:

  Where you may plead, and, I may promise, win

  Pardon for this, you say unwilling, trespass,

  And prosecute what else you have at heart,

  With me to help you forward all I can;

  Provided all in loyalty to those

  To whom by natural allegiance

  I first am bound to.

  ROSAURA. As you make, I take

  Your offer: with like promise on my side

  Of loyalty to you and those you serve,

  Under like reservation for regards

  Nearer and dearer still.

  CLOTALDO. Enough, enough;

  Your hand; a bargain on both sides. Meanwhile,

  Here shall you rest to-night. The break of day

  Shall see us both together on the way.

  ROSAURA. Thus then what I for misadventure blamed,

  Directly draws me where my wishes aim’d. [Exeunt.]

  SCENE II.—The Palace at Warsaw

  [Enter on one side ASTOLFO, Duke of Muscovy, with his train: and, on the other, the PRINCESS ESTRELLA, with hers.]

  ASTOLFO. My royal cousin, if so near in blood,

  Till this auspicious meeting scarcely known,

  Till all that beauty promised in the bud

  Is now to its consummate blossom blown,

  Well met at last; and may—

  ESTRELLA. Enough, my Lord,

  Of compliment devised for you by some

  Court tailor, and, believe me, still too short

  To cover the designful heart below.

  ASTOLFO. Nay, but indeed, fair cousin—

  ESTRELLA. Ay, let Deed

  Measure your words, indeed your flowers of speech

  Ill with your iron equipage atone;

  Irony indeed, and wordy compliment.

  ASTOLFO. Indeed, indeed, you wrong me, royal cousin,

  And fair as royal, misinterpreting

  What, even for the end you think I aim at,

  If false to you, were fatal to myself.

  ESTRELLA. Why, what else means the glittering steel, my Lord,

  That bristles in the rear of these fine words?

  What can it mean, but, failing to cajole,

  To fight or force me from my just pretension?

  ASTOLFO. Nay, might I not ask ev’n the same of you,

  The nodding helmets of whose men-at-arms

  Out-crest the plumage of your lady court?

  ESTRELLA. But to defend what yours would force from me.

  ASTOLFO. Might not I, lady, say the same of mine?

  But not to come to battle, ev’n of words,

  With a fair lady, and my kinswoman;

  And as averse to stand before your face,

  Defenceless, and condemn’d in your disgrace,

  Till the good king be here to clear it all—

  Will you vouchsafe to hear me?

  ESTRELLA. As you will.

  ASTOLFO. You know that, when about to leave this world,

  Our royal grandsire, King Alfonso, left

  Three children; one a son, Basilio,

  Who wears—long may he wear! the crown of Poland;

  And daughters twain: of whom the elder was

  Your mother, Clorileña, now some while

  Exalted to a more than mortal throne;

  And Recisunda, mine, the younger sister,

  Who, married to the Prince of Muscovy,

  Gave me the light which may she live to see

  Herself for many, many years to come.

  Meanwhile, good King Basilio, as you know,

  Deep in abstruser studies than this world,

  And busier with the stars than lady’s eyes,

  Has never by a second marriage yet

  Replaced, as Poland ask’d of him, the heir

  An early marriage brought and took away;

  His young queen dying with the son she bore him;

  And in such alienation grown so old

  As leaves no other hope of heir to Poland

  Than his two sisters’ children; you, fair cousin,

  And me; for whom the Commons of the realm

  Divide themselves into two several factions;

  Whether for you, the elder sister’s child;

  Or me, born of the younger, but, they say,

  My natural prerogative of man

  Outweighing your priority of birth.

  Which discord growing loud and dangerous,

  Our uncle, King Basilio, doubly sage

  In prophesying and providing for

  The future, as to deal with it when come,

  Bids us here meet to-day in solemn council

  Our several pretensions to compose.

  And, but the martial out-burst that proclaims

  His coming, makes all further parley vain,

  Unless my bosom, by which only wise

  I prophesy, now wrongly prophesies,

  By such a happy compact as I dare

  But glance at till the Royal Sage declare.

  [Trumpets, etc. Enter KING BASILIO with his Council]

  ALL. The King! God save the King!

  ESTRELLA (Kneeling.) Oh, Royal Sir!—

  ASTOLFO (Kneeling.) God save your Majesty—

  KING. Rise both of you,

  Rise to my arms, Astolfo and Estrella;

  As my two sisters’ children always mine,

  Now more than ever, since myself and Poland

  Solely to you for our succession look’d.

  And now give ear, you and your several factions,

  And you, the Peers and Princes of this realm,

  While I reveal the purport of this meeting

  In words whose necessary length I trust

  No unsuccessful issue shall excuse.

  You and the world who have surnamed me “Sage”

  Know that I owe that title, if my due,

  To my long meditation on the book

  Which ever lying open overhead—

  The book of heaven, I mean—so few have read;

  Whose golden letters on whose sapphire leaf,

  Distinguishing the page of day and night,

  And all the revolution of the year;

  So with the turning volume where they lie

  Still changing their prophetic syllables,

 
They register the destinies of men:

  Until with eyes that, dim with years indeed,

  Are quicker to pursue the stars than rule them,

  I get the start of Time, and from his hand

  The wand of tardy revelation draw.

  Oh, had the self-same heaven upon his page

  Inscribed my death ere I should read my life

  And, by forecasting of my own mischance,

  Play not the victim but the suicide

  In my own tragedy!—But you shall hear.

  You know how once, as kings must for their people,

  And only once, as wise men for themselves,

  I woo’d and wedded: know too that my Queen

  In childing died; but not, as you believe,

  With her, the son she died in giving life to.

  For, as the hour of birth was on the stroke,

  Her brain conceiving with her womb, she dream’d

  A serpent tore her entrail. And too surely

  (For evil omen seldom speaks in vain)

  The man-child breaking from that living tomb

  That makes our birth the antitype of death,

  Man-grateful, for the life she gave him paid

  By killing her: and with such circumstance

  As suited such unnatural tragedy;

  He coming into light, if light it were

  That darken’d at his very horoscope,

  When heaven’s two champions—sun and moon I mean—

  Suffused in blood upon each other fell

  In such a raging duel of eclipse

  As hath not terrified the universe

  Since that which wept in blood the death of Christ:

  When the dead walk’d, the waters turn’d to blood,

  Earth and her cities totter’d, and the world

  Seem’d shaken to its last paralysis.

  In such a paroxysm of dissolution

  That son of mine was born; by that first act

  Heading the monstrous catalogue of crime,

  I found fore-written in his horoscope;

  As great a monster in man’s history

  As was in nature his nativity;

  So savage, bloody, terrible, and impious,

  Who, should he live, would tear his country’s entrails,

  As by his birth his mother’s; with which crime

  Beginning, he should clench the dreadful tale

  By trampling on his father’s silver head.

  All which fore-reading, and his act of birth

  Fate’s warrant that I read his life aright;

  To save his country from his mother’s fate,

  I gave abroad that he had died with her

  His being slew; with midnight secrecy

  I had him carried to a lonely tower

  Hewn from the mountain-barriers of the realm,

  And under strict anathema of death

  Guarded from men’s inquisitive approach,

  Save from the trusty few one needs must trust;

  Who while his fasten’d body they provide