Life Is a Dream

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 to begin, then. 'Follow, follow me, 'You fairy elves that be.'

FIFE. Ay, and go on-- Something of 'following darkness like a dream,' For that we're after.

ROS. No, after the sun; Trying to catch hold of his glittering skirts That hang upon the mountain as he goes.

FIFE. Ah, he's himself past catching--as you spoke He heard what you were saying, and--just so-- Like some scared water-bird, As we say in my country, dove below.

ROS. Well, we must follow him as best we may. Poland is no great country, and, as rich In men and means, will but few acres spare To lie beneath her barrier mountains bare. We cannot, I believe, be very far From mankind or their dwellings.

FIFE. Send it so! And well provided for man, woman, and beast. No, not for beast. Ah, but my heart begins To yearn for her--

ROS. Keep close, and keep your feet From serving you as hers did.

FIFE. As for beasts, If in default of other entertainment, We should provide them with ourselves to eat-- Bears, lions, wolves--

ROS. Oh, never fear.

FIFE. Or else, Default of other beasts, beastlier men, Cannibals, Anthropophagi, bare Poles Who never knew a tailor but by taste.

ROS. Look, look! Unless my fancy misconceive With twilight--down among the rocks there, Fife-- Some human dwelling, surely-- Or think you but a rock torn from the rocks In some convulsion like to-day's, and perch'd Quaintly among them in mock-masonry?

FIFE. Most likely that, I doubt.

ROS. No, no--for look! A square of darkness opening in it--

FIFE. Oh, I don't half like such openings!--

ROS. Like the loom Of night from which she spins her outer gloom--

FIFE. Lord, Madam, pray forbear this tragic vein In such a time and place--

ROS. And now again Within that square of darkness, look! a light That feels its way with hesitating pulse, As we do, through the darkness that it drives To blacken into deeper night beyond.

FIFE. In which could we follow that light's example, As might some English Bardolph with his nose, We might defy the sunset--Hark, a chain!

ROS. And now a lamp, a lamp! And now the hand That carries it.

FIFE. Oh, Lord! that dreadful chain!

ROS. And now the bearer of the lamp; indeed As strange as any in Arabian tale, So giant-like, and terrible, and grand, Spite of the skin he's wrapt in.

FIFE. Why, 'tis his own: Oh, 'tis some wild man of the woods; I've heard They build and carry torches--

ROS. Never Ape Bore such a brow before the heavens as that-- Chain'd as you say too!--

FIFE. Oh, that dreadful chain!

ROS. And now he sets the lamp down by his side, And with one hand clench'd in his tangled hair And with a sigh as if his heart would break--

(During this Segismund has entered from the fortress, with a torch.)

SEGISMUND. Once more the storm has roar'd itself away, Splitting the crags of God as it retires; But sparing still what it should only blast, This guilty piece of human handiwork, And all that are within it. Oh, how oft, How oft, within or here abroad, have I Waited, and in the whisper of my heart Pray'd for the slanting hand of heaven to strike The blow myself I dared not, out of fear Of that Hereafter, worse, they say, than here, Plunged headlong in, but, till dismissal waited, To wipe at last all sorrow from men's eyes, And make this heavy dispensation clear. Thus have I borne till now, and still endure, Crouching in sullen impotence day by day, Till some such out-burst of the elements Like this rouses the sleeping fire within; And standing thus upon the threshold of Another night about to close the door Upon one wretched day to open it On one yet wretcheder because one more;-- Once more, you savage heavens, I ask of you-- I, looking up to those relentless eyes That, now the greater lamp is gone below, Begin to muster in the listening skies; In all the shining circuits you have gone About this theatre of human woe, What greater sorrow have you gazed upon Than down this narrow chink you witness still; And which, did you yourselves not fore-devise, You registered for others to fulfil!

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