it above the greatest creations of Shakespeare. It was translated into all languages. It was revived on the stage. It was tormented by the speciousness of commentators and text-makers. In Italy, where a translation, or rather adaptation, had been made in the seventeenth century, it became popular again in the nineteenth century. Ernesto Rossi played it several times. It was after a performance given by him at Bologna in August, 1869, that Carducci wrote his essay on Calderón—an essay which is mistaken, as Farinelli points out, in its general interpretation and in certain individual facts and opinions, but contains none the less many just and acute remarks.
I have reread Life is a Dream in these last few days, in order that I might follow Farinelli more closely. And I have been greatly disappointed.
It was well known, even before the publication of Farinelli’s book, that the plot of the drama is not original, and that there is nothing original in the philosophic or mystic concept which gives it character. New and great works are sometimes written, to be sure, on ancient themes and myths: famous instances are to be found in all literatures. But the drama of Calderón is almost entirely lacking in constructive psychology. The conversion of Prince Sigismund when he wakes, as he thinks, from his
