Life Is A Dream | Page 4

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.
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