Don Juan Part 3

'T was 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.

'T was 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, 't would 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, 't is 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.

'T was 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 't is 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 't was placed; Yet still she must have thought there was no harm, Or else 't were easy to withdraw her waist; But then the situation had its charm, And then--G.o.d 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 c.o.xcomb--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.

'T is 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 d.a.m.n'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, 't is 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 pa.s.s'd; we 'll say 'T was in November, but I 'm not so sure About the day--the era 's more obscure.

We 'll talk of that anon.--'T is 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; 'T is sweet to see the evening star appear; 'T is sweet to listen as the night-winds creep From leaf to leaf; 't is sweet to view on high The rainbow, based on ocean, span the sky.

'T is sweet to hear the watch-dog's honest bark Bay deep-mouth'd welcome as we draw near home; 'T is sweet to know there is an eye will mark Our coming, and look brighter when we come; 'T is 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 Baccha.n.a.l 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 pa.s.sing 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-d.a.m.n'd post-obits.

'T is sweet to win, no matter how, one's laurels, By blood or ink; 't is sweet to put an end To strife; 't is 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 pa.s.sionate 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 ant.i.thesis 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.

'T is said the great came from America; Perhaps it may set out on its return,-- The population there so spreads, they say 'T is 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; 'T is 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: 'T was in November, when fine days are few, And the far mountains wax a little h.o.a.ry, 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.

'T was, 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.

'T was 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 G.o.d'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!

'T is 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 enc.u.mber: 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 p.r.i.c.k'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: 'T is 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!