Life Is A Dream | Page 4

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.
As this version of Calderon's drama is not for acting, a higher and wider mountain-scene than practicable may be imagined for Rosaura's descent in the first Act and the soldiers' ascent in the last. The bad watch kept by the sentinels who guarded their state-prisoner, together with much else (not all!) that defies sober sense in this wild drama, I must leave Calderon to answer for; whose audience were not critical of detail and probability, so long as a good story, with strong, rapid, and picturesque action and situation, was set before them.
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.)
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.
ROS.?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.
ROS.?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?--
ROS.?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.
ROS.?What, is our victual gone too?--
FIFE.?Ay, that brute?Has carried all we had away with her,?Clothing, and cate, and all.
ROS.?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 heaven!?With but her lanthorn also.
ROS.?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--
ROS.?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?
ROS.?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