Don Juan (Canto I)

Lyrics

Young Juan now was sixteen years of age Tall, handsome, slender, but well knit: he seem'd Active, though not so sprightly, as a page; And everybody but his mother deem'd Him almost man; but she flew in a rage And bit her lips (for else she might have scream'd) If any said so, for to be precocious Was in her eyes a thing the most atrocious Amongst her numerous acquaintance, all Selected for discretion and devotion There was the Donna Julia, whom to call Pretty were but to give a feeble notion Of many charms in her as natural As sweetness to the flower, or salt to ocean Her zone to Venus, or his bow to Cupid (But this last simile is trite and stupid) The darkness of her Oriental eye Accorded with her Moorish origin (Her blood was not all Spanish, by the by; In Spain, you know, this is a sort of sin); When proud Granada fell, and, forced to fly Boabdil wept, of Donna Julia's kin Some went to Africa, some stay'd in Spain Her great-great-grandmamma chose to remain She married (I forget the pedigree) With an Hidalgo, who transmitted down His blood less noble than such blood should be; At such alliances his sires would frown In that point so precise in each degree That they bred in and in, as might be shown Marrying their cousins—nay, their aunts, and nieces Which always spoils the breed, if it increases This heathenish cross restored the breed again Ruin'd its blood, but much improved its flesh; For from a root the ugliest in Old Spain Sprung up a branch as beautiful as fresh; The sons no more were short, the daughters plain: But there's a rumour which I fain would hush 'Tis said that Donna Julia's grandmamma Produced her Don more heirs at love than law However this might be, the race went on Improving still through every generation Until it centred in an only son Who left an only daughter; my narration May have suggested that this single one Could be but Julia (whom on this occasion I shall have much to speak about), and she Was married, charming, chaste, and twenty-three Her eye (I'm very fond of handsome eyes) Was large and dark, suppressing half its fire Until she spoke, then through its soft disguise Flash'd an expression more of pride than ire And love than either; and there would arise A something in them which was not desire But would have been, perhaps, but for the soul Which struggled through and chasten'd down the whole Her glossy hair was cluster'd o'er a brow Bright with intelligence, and fair, and smooth; Her eyebrow's shape was like th' aerial bow Her cheek all purple with the beam of youth Mounting at times to a transparent glow As if her veins ran lightning; she, in sooth Possess'd an air and grace by no means common: Her stature tall—I hate a dumpy woman Wedded she was some years, and to a man Of fifty, and such husbands are in plenty; And yet, I think, instead of such a ONE 'Twere better to have TWO of five-and-twenty Especially in countries near the sun: And now I think on 't, 'mi vien in mente,' Ladies even of the most uneasy virtue Prefer a spouse whose age is short of thirty 'Tis a sad thing, I cannot choose but say And all the fault of that indecent sun Who cannot leave alone our helpless clay But will keep baking, broiling, burning on That howsoever people fast and pray The flesh is frail, and so the soul undone: What men call gallantry, and gods adultery Is much more common where the climate 's sultry Happy the nations of the moral North! Where all is virtue, and the winter season Sends sin, without a rag on, shivering forth ('Twas snow that brought St. Anthony to reason); Where juries cast up what a wife is worth By laying whate'er sum in mulct they please on The lover, who must pay a handsome price Because it is a marketable vice Alfonso was the name of Julia's lord A man well looking for his years, and who Was neither much beloved nor yet abhorr'd: They lived together, as most people do Suffering each other's foibles by accord And not exactly either one or two; Yet he was jealous, though he did not show it For jealousy dislikes the world to know it Julia was—yet I never could see why— With Donna Inez quite a favourite friend; Between their tastes there was small sympathy For not a line had Julia ever penn'd: Some people whisper but no doubt they lie For malice still imputes some private end That Inez had, ere Don Alfonso's marriage Forgot with him her very prudent carriage; And that still keeping up the old connection Which time had lately render'd much more chaste She took his lady also in affection And certainly this course was much the best: She flatter'd Julia with her sage protection And complimented Don Alfonso's taste; And if she could not (who can?) silence scandal At least she left it a more slender handle I can't tell whether Julia saw the affair With other people's eyes, or if her own Discoveries made, but none could be aware Of this, at least no symptom e'er was shown; Perhaps she did not know, or did not care Indifferent from the first or callous grown: I'm really puzzled what to think or say She kept her counsel in so close a way Juan she saw, and, as a pretty child Caress'd him often—such a thing might be Quite innocently done, and harmless styled When she had twenty years, and thirteen he; But I am not so sure I should have smiled When he was sixteen, Julia twenty-three; These few short years make wondrous alterations Particularly amongst sun-burnt nations Whate'er the cause might be, they had become Changed; for the dame grew distant, the youth shy Their looks cast down, their greetings almost dumb And much embarrassment in either eye; There surely will be little doubt with some That Donna Julia knew the reason why But as for Juan, he had no more notion Than he who never saw the sea of ocean Yet Julia's very coldness still was kind And tremulously gentle her small hand Withdrew itself from his, but left behind A little pressure, thrilling, and so bland And slight, so very slight, that to the mind 'Twas but a doubt; but ne'er magician's wand Wrought change with all Armida's fairy art Like what this light touch left on Juan's heart And if she met him, though she smiled no more She look'd a sadness sweeter than her smile As if her heart had deeper thoughts in store She must not own, but cherish'd more the while For that compression in its burning core; Even innocence itself has many a wile And will not dare to trust itself with truth And love is taught hypocrisy from youth But passion most dissembles, yet betrays Even by its darkness; as the blackest sky Foretells the heaviest tempest, it displays Its workings through the vainly guarded eye And in whatever aspect it arrays Itself, 'tis still the same hypocrisy; Coldness or anger, even disdain or hate Are masks it often wears, and still too late Then there were sighs, the deeper for suppression And stolen glances, sweeter for the theft And burning blushes, though for no transgression Tremblings when met, and restlessness when left; All these are little preludes to possession Of which young passion cannot be bereft And merely tend to show how greatly love is Embarrass'd at first starting with a novice Poor Julia's heart was in an awkward state; She felt it going, and resolved to make The noblest efforts for herself and mate For honour's, pride's, religion's, virtue's sake; Her resolutions were most truly great And almost might have made a Tarquin quake: She pray'd the Virgin Mary for her grace As being the best judge of a lady's case She vow'd she never would see Juan more And next day paid a visit to his mother And look'd extremely at the opening door Which, by the Virgin's grace, let in another; Grateful she was, and yet a little sore— Again it opens, it can be no other 'Tis surely Juan now—No! I'm afraid That night the Virgin was no further pray'd She now determined that a virtuous woman Should rather face and overcome temptation That flight was base and dastardly, and no man Should ever give her heart the least sensation; That is to say, a thought beyond the common Preference, that we must feel upon occasion For people who are pleasanter than others But then they only seem so many brothers And even if by chance—and who can tell? The devil 's so very sly—she should discover That all within was not so very well And, if still free, that such or such a lover Might please perhaps, a virtuous wife can quell Such thoughts, and be the better when they're over; And if the man should ask, 'tis but denial: I recommend young ladies to make trial And then there are such things as love divine Bright and immaculate, unmix'd and pure Such as the angels think so very fine And matrons who would be no less secure Platonic, perfect, 'just such love as mine;' Thus Julia said—and thought so, to be sure; And so I'd have her think, were I the man On whom her reveries celestial ran Such love is innocent, and may exist Between young persons without any danger A hand may first, and then a lip be kist; For my part, to such doings I'm a stranger But hear these freedoms form the utmost list Of all o'er which such love may be a ranger: If people go beyond, 'tis quite a crime But not my fault—I tell them all in time Love, then, but love within its proper limits Was Julia's innocent determination In young Don Juan's favour, and to him its Exertion might be useful on occasion; And, lighted at too pure a shrine to dim its Ethereal lustre, with what sweet persuasion He might be taught, by love and her together— I really don't know what, nor Julia either Fraught with this fine intention, and well fenced In mail of proof—her purity of soul— She, for the future of her strength convinced And that her honour was a rock, or mole Exceeding sagely from that hour dispensed With any kind of troublesome control; But whether Julia to the task was equal Is that which must be mention'd in the sequel Her plan she deem'd both innocent and feasible And, surely, with a stripling of sixteen Not scandal's fangs could fix on much that 's seizable Or if they did so, satisfied to mean Nothing but what was good, her breast was peaceable— A quiet conscience makes one so serene! Christians have burnt each other, quite persuaded That all the Apostles would have done as they did And if in the mean time her husband died But Heaven forbid that such a thought should cross Her brain, though in a dream! (and then she sigh'd) Never could she survive that common loss; But just suppose that moment should betide I only say suppose it—inter nos (This should be entre nous, for Julia thought In French, but then the rhyme would go for naught.) I only say suppose this supposition: Juan being then grown up to man's estate Would fully suit a widow of condition Even seven years hence it would not be too late; And in the interim (to pursue this vision) The mischief, after all, could not be great For he would learn the rudiments of love I mean the seraph way of those above So much for Julia. Now we'll turn to Juan Poor little fellow! he had no idea Of his own case, and never hit the true one; In feelings quick as Ovid's Miss Medea He puzzled over what he found a new one But not as yet imagined it could be Thing quite in course, and not at all alarming Which, with a little patience, might grow charming Silent and pensive, idle, restless, slow His home deserted for the lonely wood Tormented with a wound he could not know His, like all deep grief, plunged in solitude: I'm fond myself of solitude or so But then, I beg it may be understood By solitude I mean a sultan's, not A hermit's, with a haram for a grot 'Oh Love! in such a wilderness as this Where transport and security entwine Here is the empire of thy perfect bliss And here thou art a god indeed divine.' The bard I quote from does not sing amiss With the exception of the second line For that same twining 'transport and security' Are twisted to a phrase of some obscurity The poet meant, no doubt, and thus appeals To the good sense and senses of mankind The very thing which every body feels As all have found on trial, or may find That no one likes to be disturb'd at meals Or love.—I won't say more about 'entwined' Or 'transport,' as we knew all that before But beg 'Security' will bolt the door Young Juan wander'd by the glassy brooks Thinking unutterable things; he threw Himself at length within the leafy nooks Where the wild branch of the cork forest grew; There poets find materials for their books And every now and then we read them through So that their plan and prosody are eligible Unless, like Wordsworth, they prove unintelligible He, Juan (and not Wordsworth), so pursued His self-communion with his own high soul Until his mighty heart, in its great mood Had mitigated part, though not the whole Of its disease; he did the best he could With things not very subject to control And turn'd, without perceiving his condition Like Coleridge, into a metaphysician He thought about himself, and the whole earth Of man the wonderful, and of the stars And how the deuce they ever could have birth; And then he thought of earthquakes, and of wars How many miles the moon might have in girth Of air-balloons, and of the many bars To perfect knowledge of the boundless skies;— And then he thought of Donna Julia's eyes In thoughts like these true wisdom may discern Longings sublime, and aspirations high Which some are born with, but the most part learn To plague themselves withal, they know not why: 'Twas strange that one so young should thus concern His brain about the action of the sky; If you think 'twas philosophy that this did I can't help thinking puberty assisted He pored upon the leaves, and on the flowers And heard a voice in all the winds; and then He thought of wood-nymphs and immortal bowers And how the goddesses came down to men: He miss'd the pathway, he forgot the hours And when he look'd upon his watch again He found how much old Time had been a winner— He also found that he had lost his dinner Sometimes he turn'd to gaze upon his book Boscan, or Garcilasso;—by the wind Even as the page is rustled while we look So by the poesy of his own mind Over the mystic leaf his soul was shook As if 'twere one whereon magicians bind Their spells, and give them to the passing gale According to some good old woman's tale Thus would he while his lonely hours away Dissatisfied, nor knowing what he wanted; Nor glowing reverie, nor poet's lay Could yield his spirit that for which it panted A bosom whereon he his head might lay And hear the heart beat with the love it granted With—several other things, which I forget Or which, at least, I need not mention yet Those lonely walks, and lengthening reveries Could not escape the gentle Julia's eyes; She saw that Juan was not at his ease; But that which chiefly may, and must surprise Is, that the Donna Inez did not tease Her only son with question or surmise: Whether it was she did not see, or would not Or, like all very clever people, could not This may seem strange, but yet 'tis very common; For instance—gentlemen, whose ladies take Leave to o'erstep the written rights of woman And break the—Which commandment is 't they break? (I have forgot the number, and think no man Should rashly quote, for fear of a mistake.) I say, when these same gentlemen are jealous They make some blunder, which their ladies tell us A real husband always is suspicious But still no less suspects in the wrong place Jealous of some one who had no such wishes Or pandering blindly to his own disgrace By harbouring some dear friend extremely vicious; The last indeed 's infallibly the case: And when the spouse and friend are gone off wholly He wonders at their vice, and not his folly Thus parents also are at times short-sighted; Though watchful as the lynx, they ne'er discover The while the wicked world beholds delighted Young Hopeful's mistress, or Miss Fanny's lover Till some confounded escapade has blighted The plan of twenty years, and all is over; And then the mother cries, the father swears And wonders why the devil he got heirs But Inez was so anxious, and so clear Of sight, that I must think, on this occasion She had some other motive much more near For leaving Juan to this new temptation; But what that motive was, I sha'n't say here; Perhaps to finish Juan's education Perhaps to open Don Alfonso's eyes In case he thought his wife too great a prize It was upon a day, a summer's day.— Summer's indeed a very dangerous season And so is spring about the end of May; The sun, no doubt, is the prevailing reason; But whatsoe'er the cause is, one may say And stand convicted of more truth than treason That there are months which nature grows more merry in,— March has its hares, and May must have its heroine 'Twas on a summer's day—the sixth of June:— I like to be particular in dates Not only of the age, and year, but moon; They are a sort of post-house, where the Fates Change horses, making history change its tune Then spur away o'er empires and o'er states Leaving at last not much besides chronology Excepting the post-obits of theology 'Twas on the sixth of June, about the hour Of half-past six—perhaps still nearer seven— When Julia sate within as pretty a bower As e'er held houri in that heathenish heaven Described by Mahomet, and Anacreon Moore To whom the lyre and laurels have been given With all the trophies of triumphant song— He won them well, and may he wear them long! She sate, but not alone; I know not well How this same interview had taken place And even if I knew, I should not tell— People should hold their tongues in any case; No matter how or why the thing befell But there were she and Juan, face to face— When two such faces are so, 'twould be wise But very difficult, to shut their eyes How beautiful she look'd! her conscious heart Glow'd in her cheek, and yet she felt no wrong O Love! how perfect is thy mystic art Strengthening the weak, and trampling on the strong How self-deceitful is the sagest part Of mortals whom thy lure hath led along— The precipice she stood on was immense So was her creed in her own innocence She thought of her own strength, and Juan's youth And of the folly of all prudish fears Victorious virtue, and domestic truth And then of Don Alfonso's fifty years: I wish these last had not occurr'd, in sooth Because that number rarely much endears And through all climes, the snowy and the sunny Sounds ill in love, whate'er it may in money When people say, 'I've told you fifty times,' They mean to scold, and very often do; When poets say, 'I've written fifty rhymes,' They make you dread that they'll recite them too; In gangs of fifty, thieves commit their crimes; At fifty love for love is rare, 'tis true But then, no doubt, it equally as true is A good deal may be bought for fifty Louis Julia had honour, virtue, truth, and love For Don Alfonso; and she inly swore By all the vows below to powers above She never would disgrace the ring she wore Nor leave a wish which wisdom might reprove; And while she ponder'd this, besides much more One hand on Juan's carelessly was thrown Quite by mistake—she thought it was her own; Unconsciously she lean'd upon the other Which play'd within the tangles of her hair: And to contend with thoughts she could not smother She seem'd by the distraction of her air 'Twas surely very wrong in Juan's mother To leave together this imprudent pair She who for many years had watch'd her son so— I'm very certain mine would not have done so The hand which still held Juan's, by degrees Gently, but palpably confirm'd its grasp As if it said, 'Detain me, if you please;' Yet there's no doubt she only meant to clasp His fingers with a pure Platonic squeeze: She would have shrunk as from a toad, or asp Had she imagined such a thing could rouse A feeling dangerous to a prudent spouse I cannot know what Juan thought of this But what he did, is much what you would do; His young lip thank'd it with a grateful kiss And then, abash'd at its own joy, withdrew In deep despair, lest he had done amiss,— Love is so very timid when 'tis new: She blush'd, and frown'd not, but she strove to speak And held her tongue, her voice was grown so weak The sun set, and up rose the yellow moon: The devil 's in the moon for mischief; they Who call'd her CHASTE, methinks, began too soon Their nomenclature; there is not a day The longest, not the twenty-first of June Sees half the business in a wicked way On which three single hours of moonshine smile— And then she looks so modest all the while There is a dangerous silence in that hour A stillness, which leaves room for the full soul To open all itself, without the power Of calling wholly back its self-control; The silver light which, hallowing tree and tower Sheds beauty and deep softness o'er the whole Breathes also to the heart, and o'er it throws A loving languor, which is not repose And Julia sate with Juan, half embraced And half retiring from the glowing arm Which trembled like the bosom where 'twas placed; Yet still she must have thought there was no harm Or else 'twere easy to withdraw her waist; But then the situation had its charm And then—God knows what next—I can't go on; I'm almost sorry that I e'er begun O Plato! Plato! you have paved the way With your confounded fantasies, to more Immoral conduct by the fancied sway Your system feigns o'er the controulless core Of human hearts, than all the long array Of poets and romancers:—You're a bore A charlatan, a coxcomb—and have been At best, no better than a go-between And Julia's voice was lost, except in sighs Until too late for useful conversation; The tears were gushing from her gentle eyes I wish indeed they had not had occasion But who, alas! can love, and then be wise? Not that remorse did not oppose temptation; A little still she strove, and much repented And whispering 'I will ne'er consent'—consented 'Tis said that Xerxes offer'd a reward To those who could invent him a new pleasure: Methinks the requisition 's rather hard And must have cost his majesty a treasure: For my part, I'm a moderate-minded bard Fond of a little love (which I call leisure); I care not for new pleasures, as the old Are quite enough for me, so they but hold O Pleasure! you are indeed a pleasant thing Although one must be damn'd for you, no doubt: I make a resolution every spring Of reformation, ere the year run out But somehow, this my vestal vow takes wing Yet still, I trust it may be kept throughout: I'm very sorry, very much ashamed And mean, next winter, to be quite reclaim'd Here my chaste Muse a liberty must take— Start not! still chaster reader—she'll be nice hence— Forward, and there is no great cause to quake; This liberty is a poetic licence Which some irregularity may make In the design, and as I have a high sense Of Aristotle and the Rules, 'tis fit To beg his pardon when I err a bit This licence is to hope the reader will Suppose from June the sixth (the fatal day Without whose epoch my poetic skill For want of facts would all be thrown away) But keeping Julia and Don Juan still In sight, that several months have pass'd; we'll say 'Twas in November, but I'm not so sure About the day—the era 's more obscure We'll talk of that anon.—'Tis sweet to hear At midnight on the blue and moonlit deep The song and oar of Adria's gondolier By distance mellow'd, o'er the waters sweep; 'Tis sweet to see the evening star appear; 'Tis sweet to listen as the night-winds creep From leaf to leaf; 'tis sweet to view on high The rainbow, based on ocean, span the sky 'Tis sweet to hear the watch-dog's honest bark Bay deep-mouth'd welcome as we draw near home; 'Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark Our coming, and look brighter when we come; 'Tis sweet to be awaken'd by the lark Or lull'd by falling waters; sweet the hum Of bees, the voice of girls, the song of birds The lisp of children, and their earliest words Sweet is the vintage, when the showering grapes In Bacchanal profusion reel to earth Purple and gushing: sweet are our escapes From civic revelry to rural mirth; Sweet to the miser are his glittering heaps Sweet to the father is his first-born's birth Sweet is revenge—especially to women Pillage to soldiers, prize-money to seamen Sweet is a legacy, and passing sweet The unexpected death of some old lady Or gentleman of seventy years complete Who've made 'us youth' wait too—too long already For an estate, or cash, or country seat Still breaking, but with stamina so steady That all the Israelites are fit to mob its Next owner for their double-damn'd post-obits 'Tis sweet to win, no matter how, one's laurels By blood or ink; 'tis sweet to put an end To strife; 'tis sometimes sweet to have our quarrels Particularly with a tiresome friend: Sweet is old wine in bottles, ale in barrels; Dear is the helpless creature we defend Against the world; and dear the schoolboy spot We ne'er forget, though there we are forgot But sweeter still than this, than these, than all Is first and passionate love—it stands alone Like Adam's recollection of his fall; The tree of knowledge has been pluck'd—all 's known— And life yields nothing further to recall Worthy of this ambrosial sin, so shown No doubt in fable, as the unforgiven Fire which Prometheus filch'd for us from heaven Man 's a strange animal, and makes strange use Of his own nature, and the various arts And likes particularly to produce Some new experiment to show his parts; This is the age of oddities let loose Where different talents find their different marts; You'd best begin with truth, and when you've lost your Labour, there's a sure market for imposture What opposite discoveries we have seen! (Signs of true genius, and of empty pockets.) One makes new noses, one a guillotine One breaks your bones, one sets them in their sockets; But vaccination certainly has been A kind antithesis to Congreve's rockets With which the Doctor paid off an old pox By borrowing a new one from an ox Bread has been made (indifferent) from potatoes; And galvanism has set some corpses grinning But has not answer'd like the apparatus Of the Humane Society's beginning By which men are unsuffocated gratis: What wondrous new machines have late been spinning! I said the small-pox has gone out of late; Perhaps it may be follow'd by the great 'Tis said the great came from America; Perhaps it may set out on its return,— The population there so spreads, they say 'Tis grown high time to thin it in its turn With war, or plague, or famine, any way So that civilisation they may learn; And which in ravage the more loathsome evil is— Their real lues, or our pseudo-syphilis? This is the patent-age of new inventions For killing bodies, and for saving souls All propagated with the best intentions; Sir Humphry Davy's lantern, by which coals Are safely mined for in the mode he mentions Tombuctoo travels, voyages to the Poles Are ways to benefit mankind, as true Perhaps, as shooting them at Waterloo Man 's a phenomenon, one knows not what And wonderful beyond all wondrous measure; 'Tis pity though, in this sublime world, that Pleasure 's a sin, and sometimes sin 's a pleasure; Few mortals know what end they would be at But whether glory, power, or love, or treasure The path is through perplexing ways, and when The goal is gain'd, we die, you know—and then— What then?—I do not know, no more do you— And so good night.—Return we to our story: 'Twas in November, when fine days are few And the far mountains wax a little hoary And clap a white cape on their mantles blue; And the sea dashes round the promontory And the loud breaker boils against the rock And sober suns must set at five o'clock 'Twas, as the watchmen say, a cloudy night; No moon, no stars, the wind was low or loud By gusts, and many a sparkling hearth was bright With the piled wood, round which the family crowd; There's something cheerful in that sort of light Even as a summer sky 's without a cloud: I'm fond of fire, and crickets, and all that A lobster salad, and champagne, and chat 'Twas midnight—Donna Julia was in bed Sleeping, most probably,—when at her door Arose a clatter might awake the dead If they had never been awoke before And that they have been so we all have read And are to be so, at the least, once more.— The door was fasten'd, but with voice and fist First knocks were heard, then 'Madam—Madam—hist! 'For God's sake, Madam—Madam—here's my master With more than half the city at his back— Was ever heard of such a curst disaster! 'Tis not my fault—I kept good watch—Alack! Do pray undo the bolt a little faster— They're on the stair just now, and in a crack Will all be here; perhaps he yet may fly— Surely the window 's not so very high!' By this time Don Alfonso was arrived With torches, friends, and servants in great number; The major part of them had long been wived And therefore paused not to disturb the slumber Of any wicked woman, who contrived By stealth her husband's temples to encumber: Examples of this kind are so contagious Were one not punish'd, all would be outrageous I can't tell how, or why, or what suspicion Could enter into Don Alfonso's head; But for a cavalier of his condition It surely was exceedingly ill-bred Without a word of previous admonition To hold a levee round his lady's bed And summon lackeys, arm'd with fire and sword To prove himself the thing he most abhorr'd Poor Donna Julia, starting as from sleep (Mind—that I do not say—she had not slept) Began at once to scream, and yawn, and weep; Her maid Antonia, who was an adept Contrived to fling the bed-clothes in a heap As if she had just now from out them crept: I can't tell why she should take all this trouble To prove her mistress had been sleeping double But Julia mistress, and Antonia maid Appear'd like two poor harmless women, who Of goblins, but still more of men afraid Had thought one man might be deterr'd by two And therefore side by side were gently laid Until the hours of absence should run through And truant husband should return, and say 'My dear, I was the first who came away.' Now Julia found at length a voice, and cried 'In heaven's name, Don Alfonso, what d' ye mean? Has madness seized you? would that I had died Ere such a monster's victim I had been! What may this midnight violence betide A sudden fit of drunkenness or spleen? Dare you suspect me, whom the thought would kill? Search, then, the room!'—Alfonso said, 'I will.' He search'd, they search'd, and rummaged everywhere Closet and clothes' press, chest and window-seat And found much linen, lace, and several pair Of stockings, slippers, brushes, combs, complete With other articles of ladies fair To keep them beautiful, or leave them neat: Arras they prick'd and curtains with their swords And wounded several shutters, and some boards Under the bed they search'd, and there they found— No matter what—it was not that they sought; They open'd windows, gazing if the ground Had signs or footmarks, but the earth said nought; And then they stared each other's faces round: 'Tis odd, not one of all these seekers thought And seems to me almost a sort of blunder Of looking in the bed as well as under During this inquisition, Julia's tongue Was not asleep—'Yes, search and search,' she cried 'Insult on insult heap, and wrong on wrong! It was for this that I became a bride! For this in silence I have suffer'd long A husband like Alfonso at my side; But now I'll bear no more, nor here remain If there be law or lawyers in all Spain 'Yes, Don Alfonso! husband now no more If ever you indeed deserved the name Is 't worthy of your years?—you have threescore— Fifty, or sixty, it is all the same— Is 't wise or fitting, causeless to explore For facts against a virtuous woman's fame? Ungrateful, perjured, barbarous Don Alfonso How dare you think your lady would go on so? 'Is it for this I have disdain'd to hold The common privileges of my sex? That I have chosen a confessor so old And deaf, that any other it would vex And never once he has had cause to scold But found my very innocence perplex So much, he always doubted I was married— How sorry you will be when I've miscarried! 'Was it for this that no Cortejo e'er I yet have chosen from out the youth of Seville? Is it for this I scarce went anywhere Except to bull-fights, mass, play, rout, and revel? Is it for this, whate'er my suitors were I favor'd none—nay, was almost uncivil? Is it for this that General Count O'Reilly Who took Algiers, declares I used him vilely? 'Did not the Italian Musico Cazzani Sing at my heart six months at least in vain? Did not his countryman, Count Corniani Call me the only virtuous wife in Spain? Were there not also Russians, English, many? The Count Strongstroganoff I put in pain And Lord Mount Coffeehouse, the Irish peer Who kill'd himself for love (with wine) last year 'Have I not had two bishops at my feet The Duke of Ichar, and Don Fernan Nunez? And is it thus a faithful wife you treat? I wonder in what quarter now the moon is: I praise your vast forbearance not to beat Me also, since the time so opportune is— O, valiant man! with sword drawn and cock'd trigger Now, tell me, don't you cut a pretty figure? 'Was it for this you took your sudden journey Under pretence of business indispensable With that sublime of rascals your attorney Whom I see standing there, and looking sensible Of having play'd the fool? though both I spurn, he Deserves the worst, his conduct 's less defensible Because, no doubt, 'twas for his dirty fee And not from any love to you nor me 'If he comes here to take a deposition By all means let the gentleman proceed; You've made the apartment in a fit condition: There's pen and ink for you, sir, when you need— Let every thing be noted with precision I would not you for nothing should be fee'd— But, as my maid 's undrest, pray turn your spies out.' 'Oh!' sobb'd Antonia, 'I could tear their eyes out.' 'There is the closet, there the toilet, there The antechamber—search them under, over; There is the sofa, there the great arm-chair The chimney—which would really hold a lover I wish to sleep, and beg you will take care And make no further noise, till you discover The secret cavern of this lurking treasure— And when 'tis found, let me, too, have that pleasure 'And now, Hidalgo! now that you have thrown Doubt upon me, confusion over all Pray have the courtesy to make it known Who is the man you search for? how d' ye cal Him? what 's his lineage? let him but be shown— I hope he 's young and handsome—is he tall? Tell me—and be assured, that since you stain My honour thus, it shall not be in vain 'At least, perhaps, he has not sixty years At that age he would be too old for slaughter Or for so young a husband's jealous fears (Antonia! let me have a glass of water) I am ashamed of having shed these tears They are unworthy of my father's daughter; My mother dream'd not in my natal hour That I should fall into a monster's power 'Perhaps 'tis of Antonia you are jealous You saw that she was sleeping by my side When you broke in upon us with your fellows: Look where you please—we've nothing, sir, to hide; Only another time, I trust, you'll tell us Or for the sake of decency abide A moment at the door, that we may be Drest to receive so much good company 'And now, sir, I have done, and say no more; The little I have said may serve to show The guileless heart in silence may grieve o'er The wrongs to whose exposure it is slow: I leave you to your conscience as before 'Twill one day ask you why you used me so? God grant you feel not then the bitterest grief!— Antonia! where's my pocket-handkerchief?' She ceased, and turn'd upon her pillow; pale She lay, her dark eyes flashing through their tears Like skies that rain and lighten; as a veil Waved and o'ershading her wan cheek, appears Her streaming hair; the black curls strive, but fail To hide the glossy shoulder, which uprears Its snow through all;—her soft lips lie apart And louder than her breathing beats her heart The Senhor Don Alfonso stood confused; Antonia bustled round the ransack'd room And, turning up her nose, with looks abused Her master and his myrmidons, of whom Not one, except the attorney, was amused; He, like Achates, faithful to the tomb So there were quarrels, cared not for the cause Knowing they must be settled by the laws With prying snub-nose, and small eyes, he stood Following Antonia's motions here and there With much suspicion in his attitude; For reputations he had little care; So that a suit or action were made good Small pity had he for the young and fair And ne'er believed in negatives, till these Were proved by competent false witnesses But Don Alfonso stood with downcast looks And, truth to say, he made a foolish figure; When, after searching in five hundred nooks And treating a young wife with so much rigour He gain'd no point, except some self-rebukes Added to those his lady with such vigour Had pour'd upon him for the last half-hour Quick, thick, and heavy—as a thunder-shower At first he tried to hammer an excuse To which the sole reply was tears and sobs And indications of hysterics, whose Prologue is always certain throes, and throbs Gasps, and whatever else the owners choose: Alfonso saw his wife, and thought of Job's; He saw too, in perspective, her relations And then he tried to muster all his patience He stood in act to speak, or rather stammer But sage Antonia cut him short before The anvil of his speech received the hammer With 'Pray, sir, leave the room, and say no more Or madam dies.'—Alfonso mutter'd, 'D—n her,' But nothing else, the time of words was o'er; He cast a rueful look or two, and did He knew not wherefore, that which he was bid With him retired his 'posse comitatus,' The attorney last, who linger'd near the door Reluctantly, still tarrying there as late as Antonia let him—not a little sore At this most strange and unexplain'd 'hiatus' In Don Alfonso's facts, which just now wore An awkward look; as he revolved the case The door was fasten'd in his legal face No sooner was it bolted, than—Oh shame! O sin! Oh sorrow! and oh womankind! How can you do such things and keep your fame Unless this world, and t' other too, be blind? Nothing so dear as an unfilch'd good name! But to proceed—for there is more behind: With much heartfelt reluctance be it said Young Juan slipp'd half-smother'd, from the bed He had been hid—I don't pretend to say How, nor can I indeed describe the where— Young, slender, and pack'd easily, he lay No doubt, in little compass, round or square; But pity him I neither must nor may His suffocation by that pretty pair; 'Twere better, sure, to die so, than be shut With maudlin Clarence in his Malmsey butt And, secondly, I pity not, because He had no business to commit a sin Forbid by heavenly, fined by human laws At least 'twas rather early to begin; But at sixteen the conscience rarely gnaws So much as when we call our old debts in At sixty years, and draw the accompts of evil And find a deuced balance with the devil Of his position I can give no notion: 'Tis written in the Hebrew Chronicle How the physicians, leaving pill and potion Prescribed, by way of blister, a young belle When old King David's blood grew dull in motion And that the medicine answer'd very well; Perhaps 'twas in a different way applied For David lived, but Juan nearly died What 's to be done? Alfonso will be back The moment he has sent his fools away Antonia's skill was put upon the rack But no device could be brought into play— And how to parry the renew'd attack? Besides, it wanted but few hours of day: Antonia puzzled; Julia did not speak But press'd her bloodless lip to Juan's cheek He turn'd his lip to hers, and with his hand Call'd back the tangles of her wandering hair; Even then their love they could not all command And half forgot their danger and despair: Antonia's patience now was at a stand— 'Come, come, 'tis no time now for fooling there,' She whisper'd, in great wrath—'I must deposit This pretty gentleman within the closet: 'Pray, keep your nonsense for some luckier night— Who can have put my master in this mood? What will become on 't—I'm in such a fright The devil 's in the urchin, and no good— Is this a time for giggling? this a plight? Why, don't you know that it may end in blood? You'll lose your life, and I shall lose my place My mistress all, for that half-girlish face 'Had it but been for a stout cavalier Of twenty-five or thirty (come, make haste)— But for a child, what piece of work is here! I really, madam, wonder at your taste (Come, sir, get in)—my master must be near: There, for the present, at the least, he's fast And if we can but till the morning keep Our counsel—(Juan, mind, you must not sleep).' Now, Don Alfonso entering, but alone Closed the oration of the trusty maid: She loiter'd, and he told her to be gone An order somewhat sullenly obey'd; However, present remedy was none And no great good seem'd answer'd if she stay'd: Regarding both with slow and sidelong view She snuff'd the candle, curtsied, and withdrew Alfonso paused a minute—then begun Some strange excuses for his late proceeding; He would not justify what he had done To say the best, it was extreme ill-breeding; But there were ample reasons for it, none Of which he specified in this his pleading: His speech was a fine sample, on the whole Of rhetoric, which the learn'd call 'rigmarole.' Julia said nought; though all the while there rose A ready answer, which at once enables A matron, who her husband's foible knows By a few timely words to turn the tables Which, if it does not silence, still must pose,— Even if it should comprise a pack of fables; 'Tis to retort with firmness, and when he Suspects with one, do you reproach with three Julia, in fact, had tolerable grounds,— Alfonso's loves with Inez were well known But whether 'twas that one's own guilt confounds— But that can't be, as has been often shown A lady with apologies abounds;— It might be that her silence sprang alone From delicacy to Don Juan's ear To whom she knew his mother's fame was dear There might be one more motive, which makes two; Alfonso ne'er to Juan had alluded,— Mention'd his jealousy but never who Had been the happy lover, he concluded Conceal'd amongst his premises; 'tis true His mind the more o'er this its mystery brooded; To speak of Inez now were, one may say Like throwing Juan in Alfonso's way A hint, in tender cases, is enough; Silence is best, besides there is a tact (That modern phrase appears to me sad stuff But it will serve to keep my verse compact)— Which keeps, when push'd by questions rather rough A lady always distant from the fact: The charming creatures lie with such a grace There's nothing so becoming to the face They blush, and we believe them; at least I Have always done so; 'tis of no great use In any case, attempting a reply For then their eloquence grows quite profuse; And when at length they're out of breath, they sigh And cast their languid eyes down, and let loose A tear or two, and then we make it up; And then—and then—and then—sit down and sup Alfonso closed his speech, and begg'd her pardon Which Julia half withheld, and then half granted And laid conditions he thought very hard on Denying several little things he wanted: He stood like Adam lingering near his garden With useless penitence perplex'd and haunted Beseeching she no further would refuse When, lo! he stumbled o'er a pair of shoes A pair of shoes!—what then? not much, if they Are such as fit with ladies' feet, but these (No one can tell how much I grieve to say) Were masculine; to see them, and to seize Was but a moment's act.—Ah! well-a-day! My teeth begin to chatter, my veins freeze— Alfonso first examined well their fashion And then flew out into another passion He left the room for his relinquish'd sword And Julia instant to the closet flew 'Fly, Juan, fly! for heaven's sake—not a word— The door is open—you may yet slip through The passage you so often have explored— Here is the garden-key—Fly—fly—Adieu! Haste—haste! I hear Alfonso's hurrying feet— Day has not broke—there's no one in the street: None can say that this was not good advice The only mischief was, it came too late; Of all experience 'tis the usual price A sort of income-tax laid on by fate: Juan had reach'd the room-door in a. trice And might have done so by the garden-gate But met Alfonso in his dressing-gown Who threaten'd death—so Juan knock'd him down Dire was the scuffle, and out went the light; Antonia cried out 'Rape!' and Julia 'Fire!' But not a servant stirr'd to aid the fight Alfonso, pommell'd to his heart's desire Swore lustily he'd be revenged this night; And Juan, too, blasphemed an octave higher; His blood was up: though young, he was a Tartar And not at all disposed to prove a martyr Alfonso's sword had dropp'd ere he could draw it And they continued battling hand to hand For Juan very luckily ne'er saw it; His temper not being under great command If at that moment he had chanced to claw it Alfonso's days had not been in the land Much longer.—Think of husbands', lovers' lives! And how ye may be doubly widows—wives! Alfonso grappled to detain the foe And Juan throttled him to get away And blood ('twas from the nose) began to flow; At last, as they more faintly wrestling lay Juan contrived to give an awkward blow And then his only garment quite gave way; He fled, like Joseph, leaving it; but there I doubt, all likeness ends between the pair Lights came at length, and men, and maids, who found An awkward spectacle their eyes before; Antonia in hysterics, Julia swoon'd Alfonso leaning, breathless, by the door; Some half-torn drapery scatter'd on the ground Some blood, and several footsteps, but no more: Juan the gate gain'd, turn'd the key about And liking not the inside, lock'd the out Here ends this canto.—Need I sing, or say How Juan naked, favour'd by the night Who favours what she should not, found his way And reach'd his home in an unseemly plight? The pleasant scandal which arose next day The nine days' wonder which was brought to light And how Alfonso sued for a divorce Were in the English newspapers, of course If you would like to see the whole proceedings The depositions, and the cause at full The names of all the witnesses, the pleadings Of counsel to nonsuit, or to annul There's more than one edition, and the readings Are various, but they none of them are dull; The best is that in short-hand ta'en by Gurney Who to Madrid on purpose made a journey But Donna Inez, to divert the train Of one of the most circulating scandals That had for centuries been known in Spain At least since the retirement of the Vandals First vow'd (and never had she vow'd in vain) To Virgin Mary several pounds of candles; And then, by the advice of some old ladies She sent her son to be shipp'd off from Cadiz She had resolved that he should travel through All European climes, by land or sea To mend his former morals, and get new Especially in France and Italy (At least this is the thing most people do) Julia was sent into a convent: she Grieved, but, perhaps, her feelings may be better Shown in the following copy of her Letter:— 'They tell me 'tis decided; you depart: 'Tis wise—'tis well, but not the less a pain; I have no further claim on your young heart Mine is the victim, and would be again; To love too much has been the only art I used;—I write in haste, and if a stain Be on this sheet, 'tis not what it appears; My eyeballs burn and throb, but have no tears 'I loved, I love you, for this love have lost State, station, heaven, mankind's, my own esteem And yet can not regret what it hath cost So dear is still the memory of that dream; Yet, if I name my guilt, 'tis not to boast None can deem harshlier of me than I deem: I trace this scrawl because I cannot rest— I've nothing to reproach, or to request 'Man's love is of man's life a thing apart 'Tis woman's whole existence; man may range The court, camp, church, the vessel, and the mart; Sword, gown, gain, glory, offer in exchange Pride, fame, ambition, to fill up his heart And few there are whom these cannot estrange; Men have all these resources, we but one To love again, and be again undone 'You will proceed in pleasure, and in pride Beloved and loving many; all is o'er For me on earth, except some years to hide My shame and sorrow deep in my heart's core; These I could bear, but cannot cast aside The passion which still rages as before— And so farewell—forgive me, love me—No That word is idle now—but let it go 'My breast has been all weakness, is so yet; But still I think I can collect my mind; My blood still rushes where my spirit 's set As roll the waves before the settled wind; My heart is feminine, nor can forget— To all, except one image, madly blind; So shakes the needle, and so stands the pole As vibrates my fond heart to my fix'd soul 'I have no more to say, but linger still And dare not set my seal upon this sheet And yet I may as well the task fulfil My misery can scarce be more complete: I had not lived till now, could sorrow kill; Death shuns the wretch who fain the blow would meet And I must even survive this last adieu And bear with life, to love and pray for you!'