The best is that in shorthand ta’en by Gurney,
Who to Madrid on purpose made a journey.
190
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 vowed (and never had she vowed in vain)
To Virgin Mary several pounds of candles.
And then by the advice of some old ladies,
She sent her son to be embarked at Cadiz.
191
She had resolved that he should travel through
All European climes by land or sea,
To mend his former morals or get new,
Especially in France and Italy
(At least this is the thing most people do).
Julia was sent into a nunnery,
And there perhaps her feelings may be better
Shown in the following copy of her letter:
192
‘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 was 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.
193
‘I loved, I love you, for that love have lost
State, station, heaven, mankind’s, my own esteem,
And yet cannot 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.
194
‘Man’s love is of his 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.
Man has all these resources, we but one,
To mourn alone the love which has undone.
195
‘You will proceed in beauty 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 rends it as before.
And so farewell – forgive me, love me – no,
That word is idle now, but let it go.
196
‘My breast has been all weakness, is so yet;
I struggle, but cannot collect my mind.
My blood still rushes where my spirit’s set,
As roll the waves before the settled wind.
My brain is feminine nor can forget;
To all, except your image, madly blind.
As turns the needle trembling to the pole
It ne’er can reach, so turns to you my soul.
197
‘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 flies 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.’
198
This note was written upon gilt-edged paper
With a neat crow quill, rather hard but new.
Her small white fingers scarce could reach the taper,
But trembled as magnetic needles do,
And yet she did not let one tear escape her.
The seal a sunflower; Elle vous suit partout,
The motto, cut upon a white cornelian;
The wax was superfine, its hue vermilion.
199
This was Don Juan’s earliest scrape; but whether
I shall proceed with his adventures is
Dependent on the public altogether.
We’ll see, however, what they say to this;
Their favour in an author’s cap’s a feather,
And no great mischief’s done by their caprice,
And if their approbation we experience,
Perhaps they’ll have some more about a year hence.
200
My poem’s epic and is meant to be
Divided in twelve books, each book containing,
With love and war, a heavy gale at sea,
A list of ships and captains and kings reigning,
New characters; the episodes are three.
A panoramic view of hell’s in training,
After the style of Virgil and of Homer,
So that my name of epic’s no misnomer.
201
All these things will be specified in time
With strict regard to Aristotle’s rules,
The vade mecum of the true sublime,
Which makes so many poets and some fools.
Prose poets like blank verse; I’m fond of rhyme.
Good workmen never quarrel with their tools.
I’ve got new mythological machinery
And very handsome supernatural scenery.
202
There’s only one slight difference between
Me and my epic brethren gone before,
And here the advantage is my own, I ween
(Not that I have not several merits more,
But this will more peculiarly be seen).
They so embellish that’tis quite a bore
Their labyrinth of fables to thread through,
Whereas this story’s actually true.
203
If any person doubt it, I appeal
To history, tradition, and to facts,
To newspapers, whose truth all know and feel,
To plays in five, and operas in three acts.
All these confirm my statement a good deal,
But that which more completely faith exacts
Is that myself and several now in Seville
Saw Juan’s last elopement with the devil.
204
If ever I should condescend to prose
I’ll write poetical commandments, which
Shall supersede beyond all doubt all those
That went before. In these I shall enrich
My text with many things that no one knows
And carry precept to the highest pitch.
I’ll call the work ‘Longinus O’er a Bottle,
Or Every Poet His Own Aristotle.’
205
Thou shalt believe in Milton, Dryden, Pope;
Thou shalt not set up Wordsworth, Coleridge, Southey;
Because the first is crazed beyond all hope,
The second drunk, the third so quaint and mouthey.
With Crabbe it may be difficult to cope,
And Campbell’s Hippocrene is somewhat drouthy.
Thou shalt not steal from Samuel Rogers, nor
Commit – flirtation with the Muse of Moore.
206
Thou shalt not covet Mr Sotheby’s Muse,
His Pegasus, nor anything that’s his.
Thou shalt not bear false witness like the Blues
(There’s one at least is very fond of this).
Thou shalt not write, in short, but what I choose.
This is true criticism, and you may kiss,
Exactly as you please, or not, the rod,
But if you don’t, I’ll lay it on, by God!
207
If any person should presume to assert
This story is not moral, first, I pray
That they will not cry out before they’re hurt,
Then that they’ll read it o’er again and say
(But doubtless nobody will be so pert)
That this is not a moral tale, though gay.
Besides, in canto twelfth I mean to show
The very place where wicked people go.
208
If after all there should be some so blind
To their own good this warning to despise,
Led by some tortuosity of mind
Not to believe my verse and their own eyes,
And cry that they ‘the moral cannot find’,
I tell him, if a clergyman, he lies.
Should captains the remark or critics make,
They also lie too – under a mistake.
209
The public approbation I expect
And beg they’ll take my word about the moral,
Which I with their amusement will connect
(So children cutting teeth receive a coral).
Meantime, they’ll doubtless please to recollect
My epical pretensions to the laurel.
For fear some prudish readers should grow skittish,
I’ve bribed my grandmother’s review – the British.
210
I sent it in a letter to the editor,
Who thanked me duly by return of post.
I’m for a handsome article his creditor;
Yet if my gentle Muse he please to roast
And break a promise after having made it her,
Denying the receipt of what it cost,
And smear his page with gall instead of honey,
All I can say is that he had the money.
211
I think that with this holy new alliance
I may ensure the public and defy
All other magazines of art or science,
Daily or monthly or three monthly. I
Have not essayed to multiply their clients,
Because they tell me’twere in vain to try,
And that the Edinburgh Review and Quarterly
Treat a dissenting author very martyrly.
212
‘Non ego hoc ferrem calida juventa
Consule Planco,’ Horace said, and so
Say I; by which quotation there is meant a
Hint that some six or seven good years ago
(Long ere I dreamt of dating from the Brenta)
I was most ready to return a blow
And would not brook at all this sort of thing
In my hot youth when George the Third was King.
213
But now at thirty years my hair is grey
(I wonder what it will be like at forty?
I thought of a peruke the other day);
My heart is not much greener, and in short I
Have squandered my whole summer while’twas May,
And feel no more the spirit to retort. I
Have spent my life, both interest and principal,
And deem not, what I deemed, my soul invincible.
214
No more – no more – oh never more on me
The freshness of the heart can fall like dew,
Which out of all the lovely things we see
Extracts emotions beautiful and new,
Hived in our bosoms like the bag 0’ the bee.
Think’st thou the honey with those objects grew?
Alas,’twas not in them, but in thy power
To double even the sweetness of a flower.
215
No more – no more – oh never more, my heart,
Canst thou be my sole world, my universe!
Once all in all, but now a thing apart,
Thou canst not be my blessing or my curse.
The illusion’s gone forever, and thou art
Insensible, I trust, but none the worse,
And in thy stead I’ve got a deal of judgement,
Though heaven knows how it ever found a lodgement.
216
My days of love are over, me no more
The charms of maid, wife, and still less of widow
Can make the fool of which they made before;
In short, I must not lead the life I did do.
The credulous hope of mutual minds is o’er,
The copious use of claret is forbid too,
So for a good old-gentlemanly vice,
I think I must take up with avarice.
217
Ambition was my idol, which was broken
Before the shrines of Sorrow and of Pleasure;
And the two last have left me many a token
O’er which reflection may be made at leisure.
Now, like Friar Bacon’s brazen head, I’ve spoken,
‘Time is, Time was, Time’s past.’ A chymic treasure
Is glittering youth, which I have spent betimes,
My heart in passion and my head on rhymes.
218
What is the end of fame?’Tis but to fill
A certain portion of uncertain paper.
Some liken it to climbing up a hill,
Whose summit, like all hills, is lost in vapour.
For this men write, speak, preach, and heroes kill,
And bards burn what they call their midnight taper,
To have, when the original is dust,
A name, a wretched picture, and worse bust.
219
What are the hopes of man? Old Egypt’s King
Cheops erected the first pyramid,
And largest, thinking it was just the thing
To keep his memory whole and mummy hid;
But somebody or other rummaging,
Burglariously broke his coffin’s lid.
Let not a monument give you or me hopes,
Since not a pinch of dust remains of Cheops.
220
But I being fond of true philosophy
Say very often to myself, ‘Alas!
All things that have been born were born to die,
And flesh (which Death mows down to hay) is grass.
You’ve passed your youth not so unpleasantly,
And if you had it o’er again,’twould pass;
So thank your stars that matters are no worse
And read your Bible, sir, and mind your purse.’
221
But for the present, gentle reader, and
Still gentler purchaser, the bard – that’s I –
Must with permission shake you by the hand,
And so your humble servant, and good-bye.
We meet again, if we should understand
Each other; and if not, I shall not try
Your patience further than by this short sample.
’Twere well if others followed my example.
222
‘Go, little book, from this my solitude!
I cast thee on the waters, go thy ways!
And if, as I believe, thy vein be good,
The world will find thee after many days.’
When Southey’s read, and Wordsworth understood,
I can’t help putting in my claim to praise.
The four first rhymes are Southey’s every line;
For God’s sake, reader, take them not for mine.
Canto II
1
Oh ye who teach the ingenuous youth of nations,
Holland, France, England, Germany, or Spain,
I pray ye flog them upon all occasions;
It mends their morals, never mind the pain.
The best of mothers and of educations
In Juan’s case were but employed in vain,
Since in a way that’s rather of the oddest, he
Became divested of his native modesty.
2
Had he but been placed at a public school,
In the third for
m or even in the fourth,
His daily task had kept his fancy cool –
At least had he been nurtured in the north.
Spain may prove an exception to the rule,
But then exceptions always prove its worth.
A lad of sixteen causing a divorce
Puzzled his tutors very much, of course.
3
I can’t say that it puzzles me at all,
If all things be considered: first, there was
His lady mother, mathematical,
A – never mind; his tutor, an old ass;
A pretty woman (that’s quite natural,
Or else the thing had hardly come to pass);
A husband rather old, not much in unity
With his young wife; a time and opportunity.
4
Well – well, the world must turn upon its axis,
And all mankind turn with it, heads or tails,
And live and die, make love and pay our taxes,
And as the veering wind shifts, shift our sails.
The king commands us, and the doctor quacks us,
The priest instructs, and so our life exhales,
A little breath, love, wine, ambition, fame,
Fighting, devotion, dust – perhaps a name.
5
I said that Juan had been sent to Cadiz,
A pretty town, I recollect it well.
’Tis there the mart of the colonial trade is
(Or was, before Peru learned to rebel),
And such sweet girls – I mean, such graceful ladies.
Their very walk would make your bosom swell;
I can’t describe it, though so much it strike,
Nor liken it – I never saw the like.
6
An Arab horse, a stately stag, a barb
New broke, a cameleopard, a gazelle –
No, none of these will do. And then their garb,
Their veil and petticoat! Alas, to dwell
Upon such things would very near absorb
A canto. Then their feet and ankles – well,
Thank heaven I’ve got no metaphor quite ready
(And so, my sober Muse, come, let’s be steady,
7
Chaste Muse – well, if you must, you must) – the veil
Thrown back a moment with the glancing hand,
While the o’erpowering eye that turns you pale
Flashes into the heart. All sunny land
Of love, when I forget you, may I fail
To – say my prayers; but never was there planned
A dress through which the eyes give such a volley,
Excepting the Venetian fazzioli.
8
But to our tale. The Donna Inez sent
Her son to Cadiz only to embark;
To stay there had not answered her intent.
But why? We leave the reader in the dark.
’Twas for a voyage that the young man was meant,
As if a Spanish ship were Noah’s ark,
To wean him from the wickedness of earth
Don Juan Page 12