Schlegel is an enthusiastic admirer of Calderon; and his observations on his works are replete with truth. Other writers—among them the author of an article on the Spanish theatre, in the twenty-fifth volume of the "Quarterly Review"—are less willing to attribute high merit to him. We confess that our opinion more nearly coincides with Schlegel. He carries too far, we allow, his theory of the ideal of Calderon's morality, piety, and honour. It is true, that these are too deeply founded on the bigotry and falsehood of inquisitorial faith, and a false point of honour; but with all this, within the circle which his sentiments and belief prescribe, he is a master of the passions and the imagination. There is a wild and lofty aim in all his more romantic plays, which put barely down, despoiled of the working of the passions and the magic of poetry, seems monstrous, but which, however different from our notions of the present day, strike a chord that vibrates to the depth of the heart. We may give as an instance, that supernatural machinery is introduced into very many of Calderon's plays; and Shakespear himself cannot manage the agency of the spiritual world as Calderon has done. He enlists a sort of belief on his side, which it is difficult to describe, but impossible to withstand. It is not a mere ghost that walks the earth, but an embodying, at the same time, of the conscience and fears of the person thus visited. Thus in the "Purgatory of St. Patrick:" Ludovico Ennio, the villain of the piece, has for many years resolved to assassinate an enemy. He has travelled through many countries, nourishing the idea of vengeance, and returns to Ireland resolved to accomplish it. He wraps himself in his mantle, and thus disguised, he goes for three successive nights to the street where his enemy lives, resolved to stab him: but, at the moment that he fancies that he shall attain his aim, he is met by a man similarly disguised (embozado—muffled up in a cloak) who calls to him; but when he follows, the embozado disappears so quickly, it seems as if the wind were in his feet. Ludovico enraged, on the fourth night lays in wait again, and takes his servant with him, that the disguised intruder may not escape. He arrives again at the street, resolved on the death of his enemy. At this moment the cloak-wrapped figure appears before him. Exasperated by his appearance, he declares that he will take two vengeances; one on his ancient enemy, the other on the intruder: the figure calls him by his name, and bids him follow. Ludovico draws on him, but pierces only the empty air; at once astonished and indignant, he still pursues till they come to a desert place, when Ludovico exclaims, "Here we are, body to body, alone, but my sword cannot injure thee: tell me, then, who thou art; art thou a man, a vision, or a dæmon! You answer not—then thus I dare throw off your mantle!" But, hidden by the cloak is a skeleton only; and aghast with terror, he exclaims, "Great God! what dreadful spectacle is this! Horrible vision!—Mortal terror! what art thou—stark corse—that crumbled into earth and dust, yet live? The figure replies, "Knowrest thou not thyself?—I am thy portraiture—I am Ludovico Ennio!" These words, this fearful sight, awaken horror and remorse in the criminal's mind; his heart perceives the truths and how his crimes, indeed, had made him but an image of death itself. He is thus prepared for the purgatory where his sins are to be expiated. Many of the plays thus turn upon visions, portions of the mind itself personified; while, at the same time, the affections and the passions find a voice all truth and poetry, that charms, agitates, and interests.
His autos are conceived in the same spirit. It is true, there is too much theological disquisition and doctrine in them, and that "God the Father plays the school-divine;" but, on the other hand, the poet often appears to open a new world before us, which we view tremblingly at first, till he leads us on by that mastery of the human imagination which he possesses—knowing so well what it can believe, and what it cannot disbelieve—and thus bringing heaven and hell palpably and feelingly before us. The auto of "Life is a dream." (La Vida es Sueño) more than any other, is an instance of that peculiarity, which we imperfectly endeavour to describe, of clothing in sensible and potent imagery, the thoughts of the brain, the feelings of the heart. Yet this is not done in the German style. The Germans subtilise, mystify, and cloud the real and distinct: they dissolve flesh and blood into a dream. Calderon, on the contrary, turns a dream into flesh and blood: he gives a pulse to a skeleton; he breathes passion from the lips of ghosts and spectres. Which is the greater power, others must decide. The influence of Calderon is greatest to us; he is master of a spell to which our souls own obedience.
Calderon, as a poet, is diffuse and exaggerated at times, but he is highly imaginative; and as he gives human sympathies to the impalpable and visionary, so does he inform the visible universe with a soul of beauty and feeling. A poet alone could translate Calderon. The only translation we have, is a few scenes from the "Magico Prodigioso" by Shelley. These breathe at once the Spaniard's peculiarities—his fantastic machinery—his incomparable sweetness. Justina is one of the most beautiful of his creations; a maiden, vowed to chastity, who being in vain tempted by the love of many admirers, is assailed by the seductions of hell itself. Nature—the birds, the leaves, and wandering clouds, breathe of love, and endeavour to soften and corrupt her heart.[124] The "Principe Costante" (the Constant Prince) seems to be the most popular of Calderon's plays with his critics. "La Vida es Sueño" (Life is a Dream)—not the auto, but the play—is another, full of wild strange interest, original and sublime. "The Schism of England" is among the most striking of his plays. One passage, where a cavalier describes how he fell in love with Anna Bullen, is fraught with touching sweetness and tender deep-felt passion.
Calderon is, besides, a great master of comedy. His "Gracioso" (or Clown), is different from Lope's—more poetic and fanciful, more vivacious and humorous. In the "Señora y la Criada" (the Lady and her Maid), where a country girl is carried off in mistake for her mistress, there is a comic mistake, most amusingly wrought.
It will be seen that we consider that, while Schlegel refines too much upon the perfection of the art and the sublimity of the moral of the poet, we think that the critic of the Quarterly Review rates his merits at too low a standard. We do not agree that he "cannot admit us within the gates of horror and thrilling fear." On the contrary, we think that much of his power results from his mastery over these emotions. We can scarcely allow that "the sacred source of sympathetic flows not at his command." The simply pathetic is certainly not his characteristic; but the tears may start forth in sympathy for the grandeur of soul exhibited by the Constant Prince; the heart be charmed and interested by the sweetness of Justina, and he touched by the fatherly sorrows of David, in "Los Cabellos de Absolom."
Calderon is much more readable, much more interesting than Lope. He rises higher. It is not only complexity of plot, endless variety of situations, and well sustained dialogue, there is interest of a higher kind; and, though it is true that perfect harmony is wanting in his compositions, and that he riots too much "without constraint or control," yet the colours of his poetry are so bright, and the music of his verse so grand and enthralling, that we feel as we read that he is one of the master geniuses of the world.
[122]Fama Vida y Escritos de Don Pedro Calderon de la Barca por Don Juan de Vera Tassis y Villarroel.
[123]Bouterwek and Sismondi give 1600 as the date of Calderon's birth.—His Spanish biographer mentions 1601.
[124]Shelley's Posthumous Poems.—Translations. There is a beautiful passage, drawn from the "Purgatorio de San Patricio," introduced into this author's tragedy of the Cenci.