Pedro Calderón de la Barca (1600–1681). Life Is a Dream.
The Harvard Classics. 1909–14.
Act III
Scene IS
C
Fluster’d to right and left—my life made at—
But that was nothing—
Even the white-hair’d, venerable King
Seized on—Indeed, you made wild work of it;
And so discover’d in your outward action,
Flinging your arms about you in your sleep,
Grinding your teeth—and, as I now remember,
Woke mouthing out judgment and execution,
On those about you.
Your pulses throb and flutter, reeling still Under the storm of such a dream— That seem’d as swearable reality As what I wake in now. Imagination in a sleeping brain Out of the uncontingent senses draws Sensations strong as from the real touch; That we not only laugh aloud, and drench With tears our pillow; but in the agony Of some imaginary conflict, fight And struggle—ev’n as you did; some, ’tis thought, Under the dreamt—of stroke of death have died. Where place as well as people all was strange, Ev’n I almost as strange unto myself, You only, you, Clotaldo—you, as much And palpably yourself as now you are, Came in this very garb you ever wore, By such a token of the past, you said, To assure me of that seeming present. You tell me here of—how in spite of them, I was enlarged to all that glory. By the false spirits’ nice contrivance thus A little truth oft leavens all the false, The better to delude us. ’Tis nothing but a dream? Know best how lately you awoke from that You know you went to sleep on?— Why, have you never dreamt the like before? Are oftentimes the sleeping exhalations Of that ambition that lies smouldering Under the ashes of the lowest fortune; By which, when reason slumbers, or has lost The reins of sensible comparison, We fly at something higher than we are— Scarce ever dive to lower—to be kings, Or conquerors, crown’d with laurel or with gold, Nay, mounting heaven itself on eagle wings. Which, by the way, now that I think of it, May furnish us the key to this high flight— That royal Eagle we were watching, and Talking of as you went to sleep last night. Envying his immunity of flight, As, rising from his throne of rock, he sail’d Above the mountains far into the West, That burn’d about him, while with poising wings He darkled in it as a burning brand Is seen to smoulder in the fire it feeds? Between that last night and this sad To-day! Only some few dark moments, into which Imagination, once lit up within And unconditional of time and space, Can pour infinities. How the old man they call’d the King, who wore The crown of gold about his silver hair, And a mysterious girdle round his waist, Just when my rage was roaring at its height, And after which it all was dark again, Bid me beware lest all should be a dream. That once the dreamer ’gins to dream he dreams, His foot is on the very verge of waking. That knows no waking— Lifting me up to glory, to fall back, Stunn’d, crippled—wretcheder than ev’n before. Your visionary honour wore so ill As to work murder and revenge on those Who meant you well. Chain’d like a felon— You dream’d the Prince, remember. Revenged it only. Dreams are rough copies of the waking soul Yet uncorrected of the higher Will, So that men sometimes in their dreams confess An unsuspected, or forgotten, self; One must beware to check—ay, if one may, Stifle ere born, such passion in ourselves As makes, we see, such havoc with our sleep, And ill reacts upon the waking day. And, by the bye, for one test, Segismund, Between such swearable realities— Since Dreaming, Madness, Passion, are akin In missing each that salutary rein Of reason, and the guiding will of man: One test, I think, of waking sanity Shall be that conscious power of self-control, To curb all passion, but much most of all That evil and vindictive, that ill squares With human, and with holy canon less, Which bids us pardon ev’n our enemies, And much more those who, out of no ill will, Mistakenly have taken up the rod Which heaven, they think, has put into their hands. Sleep has not yet done with me. Take my advice—’tis early yet—the sun Scarce up above the mountain; go within, And if the night deceived you, try anew With morning; morning, dreams they say come true. As shall obliterate dream and waking too.[Exit into the tower. Night-potions, and the waking dream between Which dream thou must believe; and, if to see Again, poor Segismund! that dream must be.— And yet, and yet, in these our ghostly lives, Half night, half day, half sleeping, half awake, How if our waking life, like that of sleep, Be all a dream in that eternal life To which we wake not till we sleep in death? How if, I say, the senses we now trust For date of sensible comparison,— Ay, ev’n the Reason’s self that dates with them, Should be in essence or intensity Hereafter so transcended, and awake To a perceptive subtlety so keen As to confess themselves befool’d before, In all that now they will avouch for most? One man—like this—but only so much longer As life is longer than a summer’s day, Believed himself a king upon his throne, And play’d at hazard with his fellows’ lives, Who cheaply dream’d away their lives to him. The sailor dream’d of tossing on the flood: The soldier of his laurels grown in blood: The lover of the beauty that he knew Must yet dissolve to dusty residue: The merchant and the miser of his bags Of finger’d gold; the beggar of his rags: And all this stage of earth on which we seem Such busy actors, and the parts we play’d, Substantial as the shadow of a shade, And Dreaming but a dream within a dream! By some philosopher as yet unborn, That any chimney-sweep who for twelve hours Dreams himself king is happy as the king Who dreams himself twelve hours a chimney-sweep? To moralize upon—How came you here?— No matter for myself: but I would know About my mistress—I mean, master— Now I remember—Well, your master-mistress Is well, and deftly on its errand speeds, As you shall—if you can but hold your tongue. Can you? You can keep silence. Which by the virtue of my name I do, And also as a reasonable test Of waking sanity— And for another reason you forgot, That while you whistle, you can chatter not. Only remember—if you quit this pass— I must forthwith to court to tell the King The issue of this lamentable day, That buries all his hope in night.(To Fife.)Farewell. Remember. When shall I see my mis-mas— All in good time; and then, and not before, Never to miss your master any more.[Exit. To doubt if I be dreaming I am Fife, Who with a lad who call’d herself a boy Because—I doubt there’s some confusion here— He wore no petticoat, came on a time Riding from Muscovy on half a horse, Who must have dreamt she was a horse entire, To cant me off upon my hinder face Under this tower, wall-eyed and musket-tongued, With sentinels a-pacing up and down, Crying All’s well when all is far from well, All the day long, and all the night, until I dream—if what is dreaming be not waking— Of bells a-tolling and processions rolling With candles, crosses, banners, San-benitos, Of which I wear the flamy-finingest, Through streets and places throng’d with fiery faces To some back platform— Oh, I shall take a fire into my hand With thinking of my own dear Muscovy— Only just over that Sierra there, By which we tumbled headlong into—No-land. Now, if without a bullet after me, I could but get a peep of my old home— Perhaps of my own mule to take me there— All’s still—perhaps the gentlemen within Are dreaming it is night behind their masks— God send ’em a good nightmare!—Now then—Hark! Voices—and up the rocks—and armed men Climbing like cats—Puss in the corner then.[He hides. Where Poland ends and Muscovy begins. That half way up the mountain lies ensconced. Who put us on the scent. Will soon be here to run it down with us. Useless, and worse than useless with their clatter— Leave them behind, with one or two in charge, And softly, softly, softly. —There what?— —The tower—the fortress— —That the tower!— —That mouse-trap! We could pitch it down the rocks With our own hands. —The rocks it hangs among Dwarf its proportions and conceal its strength; Larger and stronger than you think. —No matter; No place for Poland’s Prince to be shut up in. At it at once! Till those within give signal. For as yet We know not who side with us, and the fort Is strong in man and musket. For odds with such a cause at stake. Of such a cause at stake we wait for odds— For if not won at once, for ever lost: For any long resistance on their part Would bring Basilio’s force to succour them Ere we had rescued him we come to rescue. So softly, softly, softly, still— —Seize and gag him! —Stab him at once, say I: the only way To make all sure. —Hold, every man of you! And down upon your knees!—Why, ’tis the Prince! —The Prince!— —Oh, I should know him anywhere, And anyhow disguised. —But the Prince is chain’d. —And of a loftier presence— —’Tis he, I tell you; Only bewilder’d as he was before. God save your Royal Highness! On our knees Beseech you answer us! Well—’tis this country’s custom, I suppose, To take a poor man every now and then And set him so the throne; just for the fun Of tumbling him again into the dirt. And now my turn is come. ’Tis very pretty. But do you ask him, Captain. And in the name of all who kneel with me, I do beseech your Highness answer to Your royal title. In my own poor opinion of myself— But that may all be dreaming, which it seems Is very much the fashion in this country— No Polish prince at all, but a poor lad From Muscovy; where only help me back, I promise never to contest the crown Of Poland with whatever gentleman You fancy to set up. —A spy then— —Of Astolfo’s— —Spy! a spy —Hang him at once! When ’twas yourselves be-siegesmunded me. Prince Segismund! Clotaldo safe secured?— Instead of coming in, as we had look’d for, He sprang on horse at once, and off at gallop. Perchance a blunder that may work as well As better forethought. Having no suspicion So will he carry none where his not going Were of itself suspicious. But of those Within, who side with us? To the last man, persuaded or compell’d. No moment to be lost. For though Clotaldo Have no revolt to tell of in the tower, The capital will soon awake to ours, And the King’s force come blazing after us. Where is the Prince? We woke him not ev’n striking off the chain We had so cursedly holp bind him with, Not knowing what we did; but too ashamed Not to undo ourselves what we had done. Provided done. Come; we will bring him forth Out of that stony darkness here abroad, Where air and sunshine sooner shall disperse The sleepy fume which they have drugg’d him with.(They enter the tower, and thence bring out S And motion that we make in carrying him Stirs not a leaf in all the living tree. For ever and irrevocably fell’d By what strikes deeper to the root than sleep? —He’s dead! He’s dead! They’ve kill’d him— —No—he breathes— And the heart beats—and now he breathes again Deeply, as one about to shake away The load of sleep. And with a blast of warlike instruments, And acclamation of all loyal hearts, Rouse and restore him to his royal right, From which no royal wrong shall drive him more. (They all kneel round his bed: trumpets, drums, etc.) —King Segismund! Down with Basilio! —Down with Astolfo! Segismund our King! etc. —He stares upon us wildly. He cannot speak. —I said so—driv’n him mad. —Speak to him, Captain. Look on us—listen to us—answer us, Your faithful soldiery and subjects, now About you kneeling, but on fire to rise And cleave a passage through your enemies, Until we seat you on your lawful throne. For though your father, King Basilio, Now King of Poland, jealous of the stars That prophesy his setting with your rise, Here holds you ignominiously eclipsed, And would Astolfo, Duke of Muscovy, Mount to the throne of Poland after him; So will not we, your loyal soldiery And subjects; neither those of us now first Apprised of your existence and your right: Nor those that hitherto deluded by Allegiance false, their vizors now fling down, And craving pardon on their knees with us For that unconscious disloyalty, Offer with us the service of their blood; Not only we and they; but at our heels The heart, if not the bulk, of Poland follows To join their voices and their arms with ours, In vindicating with our lives our own Prince Segismund to Poland and her throne. —Our own King Segismund, etc.(They all rise.) The sun is little higher up, I think, Than when I last lay down, To bury in the depth of your own sea You that infest its shallows. Not in a palace, not in the fine clothes We all were in; but here, in the old place, And in our old accoutrement— Only your vizors off, and lips unlock’d To mock me with that idle title— Indeed no idle title, but your own, Then, now, and now for ever. For, behold, Ev’n as I speak, the mountain passes fill And bristle with the advancing soldiery That glitters in your rising glory, sir; And, at our signal, echo to our cry, ‘Segismund, King of Poland!’ etc.(Shouts, trumpets, etc.) The muster of a countless host of shadows, As impotent to do with as to keep! All this they said before—to softer music. That, following the sunshine of a Court, Shall back be brought with it—if shadows still, Yet to substantial reckoning. The white-hair’d and white-wanded chamberlain, So busy with his wand too—the old King That I was somewhat hard on—he had been Hard upon me—and the fine feather’d Prince Who crow’d so loud—my cousin,—and another, Another cousin, we will not bear hard on— And—But Clotaldo? Pursued; and then— And after he had sworn it on his knees, Came back to take me—where I am!—No more, No more of this! Away with you! Begone! Whether but visions of ambitious night That morning ought to scatter, or grown out Of night’s proportions you invade the day To scare me from my little wits yet left, Begone! I know I must be near awake, Knowing I dream; or, if not at my voice, Then vanish at the clapping of my hands, Or take this foolish fellow for your sport: Dressing me up in visionary glories, Which the first air of waking consciousness Scatters as fast as from the almander— That, waking one fine morning in full flower, One rougher insurrection of the breeze Of all her sudden honour disadorns To the last blossom, and she stands again The winter-naked scare-crow that she was! With all this dreaming; I begin to doubt They have driv’n him mad indeed, and he and we Are lost together. Hark in your ear a moment.(Whispers.) Oh, now indeed I do not wonder, sir, Your senses dazzle under practices Which treason, shrinking from its own device, Would now persuade you only was a dream; But waking was as absolute as this You wake in now, as some who saw you then, Prince as you were and are, can testify: Not only saw, but under false allegiance Laid hands upon— To stir and lead us—Hark!(Shouts, trumpets, etc.) Challenging King Basilio’s, now in sight, And bearing down upon us. A little hesitation and delay, And all is lost—your own right, and the lives Of those who now maintain it at that cost; With you all saved and won; without, all lost. That former recognition of your right Grant but a dream, if you will have it so; Great things forecast themselves by shadows great: Or will you have it, this like that dream too, People, and place, and time itself, all dream— Yet, being in’t, and as the shadows come Quicker and thicker than you can escape, Adopt your visionary soldiery, Who, having struck a solid chain away, Now put an airy sword into your hand, And harnessing you piece-meal till you stand Amidst us all complete in glittering, If unsubstantial, steel— And now, dismounted from a foaming horse— Where the majestic presence, all in arms, Mutely proclaims and vindicates himself. Keep to my side—and silence!—Oh, my Lord, For the third time behold me here where first You saw me, by a happy misadventure Losing my own way here to find it out For you to follow with these loyal men, Adding the moment of my little cause To yours; which, so much mightier as it is, By a strange chance runs hand in hand with mine; The self-same foe who now pretends your right, Withholding mine—that, of itself alone, I know the royal blood that runs in you Would vindicate, regardless of your own: The right of injured innocence; and, more, Spite of this epicene attire, a woman’s; And of a noble stock I will not name Till I, who brought it, have retrieved the shame. Whom Duke Astolfo, Prince of Muscovy, With all the solemn vows of wedlock won, And would have wedded, as I do believe, Had not the cry of Poland for a Prince Call’d him from Muscovy to join the prize Of Poland with the fair Estrella’s eyes. I, following him hither, as you saw, Was cast upon these rocks; arrested by Clotaldo: who, for an old debt of love He owes my family, with all his might Served, and had served me further, till my cause Clash’d with his duty to his sovereign, Which, as became a loyal subject, sir, (And never sovereign had a loyaller,) Was still his first. He carried me to Court, Where, for the second time, I cross’d your path; Where, as I watch’d my opportunity, Suddenly broke this public passion out; Which, drowning private into public wrong, Yet swiftlier sweeps it to revenge along. To burst the channel of enclosing sleep And drown the waking reason! Not to dream Only what dreamt shall once or twice again Return to buzz about the sleeping brain Till shaken off for ever— But reassailing one so quick, so thick— The very figure and the circumstance Of sense-confess’d reality foregone In so-call’d dream so palpably repeated, The copy so like the original, We know not which is which; and dream so-call’d Itself inweaving so inextricably Into the tissue of acknowledged truth; The very figures that empeople it Returning to assert themselves no phantoms In something so much like meridian day, And in the very place that not my worst And veriest disenchanter shall deny For the too well-remember’d theatre Of my long tragedy—Strike up the drums! If this be Truth, and all of us awake, Indeed a famous quarrel is at stake: If but a Vision I will see it out, And, drive the Dream, I can but join the rout. Touchstone of truth and rightful vengeance too, Here is Clotaldo taken. In with the traitor!(Clotaldo brought in.) Himself—in his old habit—his old self— What! back again, Clotaldo, for a while To swear me this for truth, and afterwards All for a dreaming lie? Down with that sword, and down these traitors theirs, Drawn in rebellion ’gainst their Sovereign. But soft—soft—soft!— You told me, not so very long ago, Awake or dreaming—I forget—my brain Is not so clear about it—but I know One test you gave me to discern between, Which mad and dreaming people cannot master; Or if the dreamer could, so best secure A comfortable waking—Was’t not so?— (To R As in the dream before— Clotaldo, rough old nurse and tutor too That only traitor wert, to me if true— Give him his sword; set him on a fresh horse; Conduct him safely through my rebel force; And so God speed him to his sovereign’s side! Give me your hand; and whether all awake Or all a-dreaming, ride, Clotaldo, ride— Dream-swift—for fear we dreams should overtake.
C
—There it is!
—Hilloa! Here’s some one skulking—
—From Muscovy?
If living—But if by some inward blow
— Segismund! Segismund! Prince Segismund!
—Segismund, Segismund, Prince Segismund!
R