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    Life is a Dream
    Life is a Dream
    Life is a Dream
    Ebook107 pages54 minutes

    Life is a Dream

    By Pedro Calderon de Barca

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    About this ebook

    Life is a Dream is a philosophical allegory regarding the human situation and the mystery of life. Focusing on Segismundo, Prince of Poland, the central argument is the conflict between free will and fate. The play remains one of Calderûn's best-known and most studied works.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherStart Publishing LLC
    Release dateDec 28, 2012
    ISBN9781625584441
    Life is a Dream

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      Book preview

      Life is a Dream - Pedro Calderon de Barca

      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 of me

      For fear my stumbling speech—

      ROS.

      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.

      ROS.

      Now

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