Don Juan
Page 37
Let this one toil for bread, that rack for rent;
He who sleeps best may be the most content.
16
‘To be or not to be?’ Ere I decide,
I should be glad to know that which is being.
’Tis true we speculate both far and wide
And deem because we see, we are all-seeing.
For my part, I’ll enlist on neither side
Until I see both sides for once agreeing.
For me, I sometimes think that life is death,
Rather than life a mere affair of breath.
17
Que sais-je? was the motto of Montaigne,
As also of the first academicians.
That all is dubious which man may attain
Was one of their most favourite positions.
There’s no such thing as certainty; that’s plain
As any of mortality’s conditions.
So little do we know what we’re about in
This world, I doubt if doubt itself be doubting.
18
It is a pleasant voyage perhaps to float
Like Pyrrho on a sea of speculation.
But what if carrying sail capsize the boat?
Your wise men don’t know much of navigation,
And swimming long in the abyss of thought
Is apt to tire. A calm and shallow station
Well nigh the shore, where one stoops down and gathers
Some pretty shell, is best for moderate bathers.
19
‘But heaven,’ as Cassio says, ‘is above all.
No more of this then – let us pray!’ We have
Souls to save, since Eve’s slip and Adam’s fall,
Which tumbled all mankind into the grave,
Besides fish, beasts, and birds. ‘The sparrow’s fall
Is special providence’, though how it gave
Offence, we know not; probably it perched
Upon the tree which Eve so fondly searched.
20
Oh ye immortal gods, what is theogony?
Oh thou too mortal man, what is philanthropy?
Oh world, which was and is, what is cosmogony?
Some people have accused me of misanthropy,
And yet I know no more than the mahogany
That forms this desk of what they mean. Lycanthropy
I comprehend, for without transformation
Men become wolves on any slight occasion.
21
But I, the mildest, meekest of mankind
Like Moses or Melancthon, who have ne’er
Done anything exceedingly unkind,
And (though I could not now and then forbear
Following the bent of body or of mind)
Have always had a tendency to spare,
Why do they call me misanthrope? Because
They hate me, not I them. And here we’ll pause.
22
’Tis time we should proceed with our good poem,
For I maintain that it is really good,
Not only in the body, but the proem,
However little both are understood
Just now, but by and by the Truth will show’em
Herself in her sublimest attitude,
And till she doth, I fain must be content
To share her beauty and her banishment.
23
Our hero (and I trust, kind reader, yours)
Was left upon his way to the chief city
Of the immortal Peter’s polished boors,
Who still have shown themselves more brave than witty.
I know its mighty empire now allures
Much flattery, even Voltaire’s, and that’s a pity.
For me, I deem an absolute autocrat
Not a barbarian, but much worse than that.
24
And I will war at least in words (and should
My chance so happen – deeds) with all who war
With thought; and of thought’s foes by far most rude,
Tyrants and sycophants have been and are.
I know not who may conquer. If I could
Have such a prescience, it should be no bar
To this my plain, sworn, downright detestation
Of every despotism in every nation.
25
It is not that I adulate the people.
Without me, there are demagogues enough
And infidels to pull down every steeple
And set up in their stead some proper stuff.
Whether they may sow scepticism to reap hell,
As is the Christian dogma rather rough,
I do not know. I wish men to be free
As much from mobs as kings – from you as me.
26
The consequence is, being of no party,
I shall offend all parties. Never mind.
My words at least are more sincere and hearty
Than if I sought to sail before the wind.
He who has nought to gain can have small art. He
Who neither wishes to be bound nor bind
May still expatiate freely, as will I,
Nor give my voice to slavery’s jackal cry.
27
That’s an appropriate simile, that jackal.
I’ve heard them in the Ephesian ruins howl
By night, as do that mercenary pack all,
Power’s base purveyors, who for pickings prowl
And scent the prey their masters would attack all.
However, the poor jackals are less foul
(As being the brave lions’ keen providers)
Than human insects, catering for spiders.
28
Raise but an arm!’Twill brush their web away,
And without that, their poison and their claws
Are useless. Mind, good people, what I say
(Or rather peoples), go on without pause!
The web of these tarantulas each day
Increases, till you shall make common cause.
None, save the Spanish fly and Attic bee,
As yet are strongly stinging to be free.
29
Don Juan, who had shone in the late slaughter,
Was left upon his way with the dispatch,
Where blood was talked of as we would of water;
And carcasses, that lay as thick as thatch
O’er silenced cities, merely served to flatter
Fair Catherine’s pastime, who looked on the match
Between these nations as a main of cocks,
Wherein she liked her own to stand like rocks.
30
And there in a kibitka he rolled on
(A cursèd sort of carriage without springs,
Which on rough roads leaves scarcely a whole bone),
Pondering on glory, chivalry, and kings
And orders and on all that he had done
And wishing that post-horses had the wings
Of Pegasus or at the least post chaises
Had feathers, when a traveller on deep ways is.
31
At every jolt, and they were many, still
He turned his eyes upon his little charge,
As if he wished that she should fare less ill
Than he, in these sad highways left at large
To ruts and flints and lovely Nature’s skill,
Who is no paviour, nor admits a barge
On her canals, where God takes sea and land,
Fishery and farm, both into his own hand.
32
At least he pays no rent and has best right
To be the first of what we used to call
‘Gentleman farmers’, a race worn out quite,
Since lately there have been no rents at all,
And gentlemen are in a piteous plight,
And farmers can’t raise Ceres from her fall.
She fell with Buonaparte. What strange thoughts
Arise when we see em
perors fall with oats!
33
But Juan turned his eyes on the sweet child
Whom he had saved from slaughter. What a trophy!
Oh ye who build up monuments, defiled
With gore, like Nadir Shah, that costive Sophy,
Who after leaving Hindustan a wild
And scarce to the Mogul a cup of coffee
To soothe his woes withal, was slain, the sinner!
Because he could no more digest his dinner.
34
Oh ye or we or he or she! reflect
That one life saved, especially if young
Or pretty, is a thing to recollect
Far sweeter than the greenest laurels sprung
From the manure of human clay, though decked
With all the praises ever said or sung.
Though hymned by every harp, unless within
Your heart joins chorus, fame is but a din.
35
Oh ye great authors luminous, voluminous!
Ye twice ten hundred thousand daily scribes,
Whose pamphlets, volumes, newspapers illumine us!
Whether you’re paid by government in bribes
To prove the public debt is not consuming us,
Or roughly treading on the ‘courtier’s kibes’
With clownish heel, your popular circulation
Feeds you by printing half the realm’s starvation –
36
Oh ye great authors! Apropos des bottes,
I have forgotten what I meant to say,
As sometimes have been greater sages’ lots.
’Twas something calculated to allay
All wrath in barracks, palaces, or cots.
Certes it would have been but thrown away,
And that’s one comfort for my lost advice,
Although no doubt it was beyond all price.
37
But let it go. It will one day be found
With other relics of a former world,
When this world shall be former, underground,
Thrown topsy-turvy, twisted, crisped, and curled,
Baked, fried, or burnt, turned inside out, or drowned,
Like all the worlds before, which have been hurled
First out of and then back again to chaos,
The superstratum which will overlay us.
38
So Cuvier says. And then shall come again
Unto the new creation, rising out
From our old crash, some mystic, ancient strain
Of things destroyed and left in airy doubt,
Like to the notions we now entertain
Of Titans, giants, fellows of about
Some hundred feet in height, not to say miles,
And mammoths and your wingèd crocodiles.
39.
Think if then George the Fourth should be dug up!
How the new worldlings of the then new East
Will wonder where such animals could sup.
(For they themselves will be but of the least.
Even worlds miscarry when too oft they pup,
And every new creation hath decreased
In size, from overworking the material.
Men are but maggots of some huge earth’s burial.)
40
How will – to these young people, just thrust out
From some fresh paradise and set to plough
And dig and sweat and turn themselves about
And plant and reap and spin and grind and sow
Till all the arts at length are brought about,
Especially of war and taxing – how,
I say, will these great relics, when they see’em,
Look like the monsters of a new museum?
41
But I am apt to grow too metaphysical.
‘The time is out of joint’, and so am I.
I quite forget this poem’s merely quizzical
And deviate into matters rather dry.
I ne’er decide what I shall say, and this I call
Much too poetical. Men should know why
They write and for what end; but note or text,
I never know the word which will come next.
42
So on I ramble, now and then narrating,
Now pondering. It is time we should narrate.
I left Don Juan with his horses baiting;
Now we’ll get o’er the ground at a great rate.
I shall not be particular in stating
His journey; we’ve so many tours of late.
Suppose him then at Petersburgh; suppose
That pleasant capital of painted snows;
43
Suppose him in a handsome uniform,
A scarlet coat, black facings, a long plume
Waving, like sails new shivered in a storm,
Over a cocked hat in a crowded room,
And brilliant breeches, bright as a cairngorm,
Of yellow cassimere we may presume,
White stockings drawn, uncurdled as new milk,
O’er limbs whose symmetry set off the silk.
44
Suppose him sword by side and hat in hand,
Made up by youth, fame, and an army tailor,
That great enchanter, at whose rod’s command
Beauty springs forth and Nature’s self turns paler,
Seeing how Art can make her work more grand
(When she don’t pin men’s limbs in like a jailor).
Behold him placed as if upon a pillar. He
Seems Love turned a Lieutenant of Artillery.
45
His bandage slipped down into a cravat,
His wings subdued to epaulettes, his quiver
Shrunk to a scabbard, with his arrows at
His side as a small sword, but sharp as ever,
His bow converted into a cocked hat,
But still so like, that Psyche were more clever
Than some wives (who make blunders no less stupid)
If she had not mistaken him for Cupid.
46
The courtiers stared, the ladies whispered, and
The Empress smiled. The reigning favourite frowned.
I quite forget which of them was in hand
Just then, as they are rather numerous found,
Who took by turns that difficult command
Since first Her Majesty was singly crowned.
But they were mostly nervous six-foot fellows,
All fit to make a Patagonian jealous.
47
Juan was none of these, but slight and slim,
Blushing and beardless; and yet ne’ertheless
There was a something in his turn of limb
And still more in his eye, which seemed to express
That though he looked one of the seraphim,
There lurked a man beneath the spirit’s dress.
Besides, the Empress sometimes liked a boy,
And had just buried the fair faced Lanskoi.
48
No wonder then that Yermoloff or Momonoff
Or Scherbatoff or any other off
Or on might dread Her Majesty had not room enough
Within her bosom (which was not too tough)
For a new flame – a thought to cast of gloom enough
Along the aspect whether smooth or rough
Of him who, in the language of his station,
Then held that ‘high official situation’.
49
Oh gentle ladies, should you seek to know
The import of this diplomatic phrase,
Bid Ireland’s Londonderry’s Marquess show
His parts of speech; and in the strange displays
Of that odd string of words, all in a row,
Which none divine and everyone obeys,
Perhaps you may pick out some queer no-meaning,
Of that weak wordy harvest the sole gleaning.
50
I think
I can explain myself without
That sad inexplicable beast of prey,
That sphinx, whose words would ever be a doubt,
Did not his deeds unriddle them each day,
That monstrous hieroglyphic, that long spout
Of blood and water, leaden Castlereagh!
And here I must an anecdote relate,
But luckily of no great length or weight.
51
An English lady asked of an Italian
What were the actual and official duties
Of the strange thing some women set a value on,
Which hovers oft about some married beauties,
Called cavalier servente – a Pygmalion
Whose statues warm (I fear, alas, too true’tis)
Beneath his art. The dame, pressed to disclose them,
Said, ‘Lady, I beseech you to suppose them.’
52
And thus I supplicate your supposition
And mildest, matron-like interpretation
Of the imperial favourite’s condition.
’Twas a high place, the highest in the nation
In fact, if not in rank; and the suspicion
Of anyone’s attaining to his station
No doubt gave pain, where each new pair of shoulders,
If rather broad, made stocks rise and their holders.
53
Juan, I said, was a most beauteous boy
And had retained his boyish look beyond
The usual hirsute seasons, which destroy
With beards and whiskers and the like the fond
Parisian aspect which upset old Troy
And founded Doctors’ Commons. I have conned
The history of divorces, which though checkered
Calls Ilion’s the first damages on record.
54
And Catherine, who loved all things (save her lord,
Who was gone to his place) and passed for much,
Admiring those (by dainty dames abhorred)
Gigantic gentlemen, yet had a touch
Of sentiment; and he she most adored
Was the lamented Lanskoi, who was such
A lover as had cost her many a tear
And yet but made a middling grenadier.
55
Oh thou teterrima causa of all belli –
Thou gate of life and death – thou nondescript!
Whence is our exit and our entrance. Well I
May pause in pondering how all souls are dipt
In thy perennial fountain. How man fell, I
Know not, since knowledge saw her branches stript
Of her first fruit; but how he falls and rises
Since, thou hast settled beyond all surmises.
56
Some call thee ‘the worst cause of war’, but I
Maintain thou art the best, for after all
From thee we come, to thee we go, and why
To get at thee not batter down a wall
Or waste a world, since no one can deny