Don Juan Part 49

As Juan mused on mutability, Or on his mistress--terms synonymous-- No sound except the echo of his sigh Or step ran sadly through that antique house; When suddenly he heard, or thought so, nigh, A supernatural agent--or a mouse, Whose little nibbling rustle will embarra.s.s Most people as it plays along the arras.

It was no mouse, but lo! a monk, array'd In cowl and beads and dusky garb, appear'd, Now in the moonlight, and now lapsed in shade, With steps that trod as heavy, yet unheard; His garments only a slight murmur made; He moved as shadowy as the sisters weird, But slowly; and as he pa.s.s'd Juan by, Glanced, without pausing, on him a bright eye.

Juan was petrified; he had heard a hint Of such a spirit in these halls of old, But thought, like most men, there was nothing in 't Beyond the rumour which such spots unfold, Coin'd from surviving superst.i.tion's mint, Which pa.s.ses ghosts in currency like gold, But rarely seen, like gold compared with paper.

And did he see this? or was it a vapour?

Once, twice, thrice pa.s.s'd, repa.s.s'd--the thing of air, Or earth beneath, or heaven, or t' other place; And Juan gazed upon it with a stare, Yet could not speak or move; but, on its base As stands a statue, stood: he felt his hair Twine like a knot of snakes around his face; He tax'd his tongue for words, which were not granted, To ask the reverend person what he wanted.

The third time, after a still longer pause, The shadow pa.s.s'd away--but where? the hall Was long, and thus far there was no great cause To think his vanishing unnatural: Doors there were many, through which, by the laws Of physics, bodies whether short or tall Might come or go; but Juan could not state Through which the spectre seem'd to evaporate.

He stood--how long he knew not, but it seem'd An age--expectant, powerless, with his eyes Strain'd on the spot where first the figure gleam'd; Then by degrees recall'd his energies, And would have pa.s.s'd the whole off as a dream, But could not wake; he was, he did surmise, Waking already, and return'd at length Back to his chamber, shorn of half his strength.

All there was as he left it: still his taper Burnt, and not blue, as modest tapers use, Receiving sprites with sympathetic vapour; He rubb'd his eyes, and they did not refuse Their office; he took up an old newspaper; The paper was right easy to peruse; He read an article the king attacking, And a long eulogy of 'patent blacking.'

This savour'd of this world; but his hand shook-- He shut his door, and after having read A paragraph, I think about Horne Tooke, Undrest, and rather slowly went to bed.

There, couch'd all snugly on his pillow's nook, With what he had seen his phantasy he fed; And though it was no opiate, slumber crept Upon him by degrees, and so he slept.

He woke betimes; and, as may be supposed, Ponder'd upon his visitant or vision, And whether it ought not to be disclosed, At risk of being quizz'd for superst.i.tion.

The more he thought, the more his mind was posed: In the mean time, his valet, whose precision Was great, because his master brook'd no less, Knock'd to inform him it was time to dress.

He dress'd; and like young people he was wont To take some trouble with his toilet, but This morning rather spent less time upon 't; Aside his very mirror soon was put; His curls fell negligently o'er his front, His clothes were not curb'd to their usual cut, His very neckcloth's Gordian knot was tied Almost an hair's breadth too much on one side.

And when he walk'd down into the saloon, He sate him pensive o'er a dish of tea, Which he perhaps had not discover'd soon, Had it not happen'd scalding hot to be, Which made him have recourse unto his spoon; So much distrait he was, that all could see That something was the matter--Adeline The first--but what she could not well divine.

She look'd, and saw him pale, and turn'd as pale Herself; then hastily look'd down, and mutter'd Something, but what 's not stated in my tale.

Lord Henry said his m.u.f.fin was ill b.u.t.ter'd; The d.u.c.h.ess of Fitz-Fulke play'd with her veil, And look'd at Juan hard, but nothing utter'd.

Aurora Raby with her large dark eyes Survey'd him with a kind of calm surprise.

But seeing him all cold and silent still, And everybody wondering more or less, Fair Adeline enquired, 'If he were ill?'

He started, and said, 'Yes--no--rather--yes.'

The family physician had great skill, And being present, now began to express His readiness to feel his pulse and tell The cause, but Juan said, 'He was quite well.'

'Quite well; yes,--no.'--These answers were mysterious, And yet his looks appear'd to sanction both, However they might savour of delirious; Something like illness of a sudden growth Weigh'd on his spirit, though by no means serious: But for the rest, as he himself seem'd loth To state the case, it might be ta'en for granted It was not the physician that he wanted.

Lord Henry, who had now discuss'd his chocolate, Also the m.u.f.fin whereof he complain'd, Said, Juan had not got his usual look elate, At which he marvell'd, since it had not rain'd; Then ask'd her Grace what news were of the duke of late?

Her Grace replied, his Grace was rather pain'd With some slight, light, hereditary twinges Of gout, which rusts aristocratic hinges.

Then Henry turn'd to Juan, and address'd A few words of condolence on his state: 'You look,' quoth he, 'as if you had had your rest Broke in upon by the Black Friar of late.'

'What friar?' said Juan; and he did his best To put the question with an air sedate, Or careless; but the effort was not valid To hinder him from growing still more pallid.

'Oh! have you never heard of the Black Friar?

The spirit of these walls?'--'In truth not I.'

'Why Fame--but Fame you know 's sometimes a liar-- Tells an odd story, of which by and by: Whether with time the spectre has grown shyer, Or that our sires had a more gifted eye For such sights, though the tale is half believed, The friar of late has not been oft perceived.

(Who watch'd the changes of Don Juan's brow, And from its context thought she could divine Connexions stronger then he chose to avow With this same legend)--'if you but design To jest, you 'll choose some other theme just now, Because the present tale has oft been told, And is not much improved by growing old.'

'Jest!' quoth Milor; 'why, Adeline, you know That we ourselves--'t was in the honey-moon-- But, come, I 'll set your story to a tune.'

Graceful as Dian, when she draws her bow, She seized her harp, whose strings were kindled soon As touch'd, and plaintively began to play The air of ''T was a Friar of Orders Gray.'

'But add the words,' cried Henry, 'which you made; For Adeline is half a poetess,'

Turning round to the rest, he smiling said.

Of course the others could not but express In courtesy their wish to see display'd By one three talents, for there were no less-- The voice, the words, the harper's skill, at once Could hardly be united by a dunce.

After some fascinating hesitation,-- The charming of these charmers, who seem bound, I can't tell why, to this dissimulation,-- Fair Adeline, with eyes fix'd on the ground At first, then kindling into animation, Added her sweet voice to the lyric sound, And sang with much simplicity,--a merit Not the less precious, that we seldom hear it.

Beware! beware! of the Black Friar, Who sitteth by Norman stone, For he mutters his prayer in the midnight air, And his ma.s.s of the days that are gone.

When the Lord of the Hill, Amundeville, Made Norman Church his prey, And expell'd the friars, one friar still Would not be driven away.

Though he came in his might, with King Henry's right, To turn church lands to lay, With sword in hand, and torch to light Their walls, if they said nay; A monk remain'd, unchased, unchain'd, And he did not seem form'd of clay, For he 's seen in the porch, and he 's seen in the church, Though he is not seen by day.

And whether for good, or whether for ill, It is not mine to say; But still with the house of Amundeville He abideth night and day.

By the marriage-bed of their lords, 't is said, He flits on the bridal eve; And 't is held as faith, to their bed of death He comes--but not to grieve.

When an heir is born, he 's heard to mourn, And when aught is to befall That ancient line, in the "we moonshine He walks from hall to hall.

His form you may trace, but not his face, 'T is shadow'd by his cowl; But his eyes may be seen from the folds between, And they seem of a parted soul.

But beware! beware! of the Black Friar, He still retains his sway, For he is yet the church's heir Whoever may be the lay.

Amundeville is lord by day, But the monk is lord by night; Nor wine nor wa.s.sail could raise a va.s.sal To question that friar's right.

Say nought to him as he walks the hall, And he 'll say nought to you; He sweeps along in his dusky pall, As o'er the gra.s.s the dew.

Then grammercy! for the Black Friar; Heaven sain him, fair or foul!

And whatsoe'er may be his prayer, Let ours be for his soul.

The lady's voice ceased, and the thrilling wires Died from the touch that kindled them to sound; And the pause follow'd, which when song expires Pervades a moment those who listen round; And then of course the circle much admires, Nor less applauds, as in politeness bound, The tones, the feeling, and the execution, To the performer's diffident confusion.

Fair Adeline, though in a careless way, As if she rated such accomplishment As the mere pastime of an idle day, Pursued an instant for her own content, Would now and then as 't were without display, Yet with display in fact, at times relent To such performances with haughty smile, To show she could, if it were worth her while.

Now this (but we will whisper it aside) Was--pardon the pedantic ill.u.s.tration-- Trampling on Plato's pride with greater pride, As did the Cynic on some like occasion; Deeming the sage would be much mortified, Or thrown into a philosophic pa.s.sion, For a spoil'd carpet--but the 'Attic Bee'

Was much consoled by his own repartee.

Thus Adeline would throw into the shade (By doing easily, whene'er she chose, What dilettanti do with vast parade) Their sort of half profession; for it grows To something like this when too oft display'd; And that it is so everybody knows Who have heard Miss That or This, or Lady T'other, Show off--to please their company or mother.

O! the long evenings of duets and trios!

The admirations and the speculations; The 'Mamma Mia's!' and the 'Amor Mio's!'

The 'Tanti palpiti's' on such occasions: The 'Lasciami's,' and quavering 'Addio's!'

Amongst our own most musical of nations; With 'Tu mi chamas's' from Portingale, To soothe our ears, lest Italy should fail.

In Babylon's bravuras--as the home Heart-ballads of Green Erin or Gray Highlands, That bring Lochaber back to eyes that roam O'er far Atlantic continents or islands, The calentures of music which o'ercome All mountaineers with dreams that they are nigh lands, No more to be beheld but in such visions-- Was Adeline well versed, as compositions.

She also had a twilight tinge of 'Blue,'

Could write rhymes, and compose more than she wrote, Made epigrams occasionally too Upon her friends, as everybody ought.

But still from that sublimer azure hue, So much the present dye, she was remote; Was weak enough to deem Pope a great poet, And what was worse, was not ashamed to show it.

Aurora--since we are touching upon taste, Which now-a-days is the thermometer By whose degrees all characters are cla.s.s'd-- Was more Shakspearian, if I do not err.

The worlds beyond this world's perplexing waste Had more of her existence, for in her There was a depth of feeling to embrace Thoughts, boundless, deep, but silent too as s.p.a.ce.

Not so her gracious, graceful, graceless Grace, The full-grown Hebe of Fitz-Fulke, whose mind, If she had any, was upon her face, And that was of a fascinating kind.

A little turn for mischief you might trace Also thereon,--but that 's not much; we find Few females without some such gentle leaven, For fear we should suppose us quite in heaven.