Life is a Dream – Act I
LIFE IS A DREAM
By Pedro Calderon De La Barca
Translated by Edward Fitzgerald
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.
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.)
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?
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! 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 m