A beggar and a queen’, or was (of late
The latter worse used of the two we’ve seen,
But we’ll say nothing of affairs of state)
A difference ‘’twixt a bishop and a dean’,
A difference between crockery ware and plate,
As between English beef and Spartan broth,
And yet great heroes have been bred by both.
85
But of all Nature’s discrepancies, none
Upon the whole is greater than the difference
Beheld between the country and the town,
Of which the latter merits every preference
From those who have few resources of their own
And only think or act or feel with reference
To some small plan of interest or ambition,
Both which are limited to no condition.
86
But en avant! The light loves languish o’er
Long banquets and too many guests, although
A slight repast makes people love much more,
Bacchus and Ceres being, as we know,
Even from our grammar upwards, friends of yore
With vivifying Venus, who doth owe
To these the invention of champagne and truffles.
Temperance delights her, but long fasting ruffles.
87
Dully past o’er the dinner of the day,
And Juan took his place he knew not where,
Confused in the confusion and distrait
And sitting as if nailed upon his chair.
Though knives and forks clanged round as in a fray,
He seemed unconscious of all passing there,
Till someone with a groan exprest a wish
(Unheeded twice) to have a fin of fish.
88
On which, at the third asking of the banns,
He started, and perceiving smiles around
Broadening to grins, he coloured more than once
And hastily – as nothing can confound
A wise man more than laughter from a dunce –
Inflicted on the dish a deadly wound
And with such hurry that ere he could curb it,
He had paid his neighbour’s prayer with half a turbot.
89
This was no bad mistake, as it occurred,
The supplicator being an amateur,
But others who were left with scarce a third
Were angry, as they well might, to be sure.
They wondered how a young man so absurd
Lord Henry at his table should endure,
And this and his not knowing how much oats
Had fallen last market cost his host three votes.
90
They little knew, or might have sympathized,
That he the night before had seen a ghost,
A prologue which but slightly harmonized
With the substantial company engrossed
By matter, and so much materialized
That one scarce knew at what to marvel most
Of two things: how (the question rather odd is)
Such bodies could have souls, or souls such bodies.
91
But what confused him more than smile or stare
From all the squires and squiresses around,
Who wondered at the abstraction of his air,
Especially as he had been renowned
For some vivacity among the fair,
Even in the county circle’s narrow bound
(For little things upon my Lord’s estate
Were good small talk for others still less great)
92
Was that he caught Aurora’s eye on his
And something like a smile upon her cheek.
Now this he really rather took amiss.
In those who rarely smile, their smiles bespeak
A strong external motive, and in this
Smile of Aurora’s there was nought to pique
Or hope or love with any of the wiles
Which some pretend to trace in ladies’ smiles.
93
’Twas a mere quiet smile of contemplation,
Indicative of some surprise and pity.
And Juan grew carnation with vexation,
Which was not very wise and still less witty,
Since he had gained at least her observation,
A most important outwork of the city,
As Juan should have known, had not his senses
By last night’s ghost been driven from their defences.
94
But what was bad, she did not blush in turn
Nor seem embarrassed. Quite the contrary;
Her aspect was as usual, still, not stern,
And she withdrew, but cast not down her eye,
Yet grew a little pale. With what? Concern?
I know not, but her colour ne’er was high,
Though sometimes faintly flushed and always clear,
As deep seas in a sunny atmosphere.
95
But Adeline was occupied by fame
This day, and watching, witching, condescending
To the consumers of fish, fowl and game,
And dignity with courtesy so blending,
As all must blend whose part it is to aim
(Especially as the sixth year is ending)
At their lord’s, son’s, or similar connexion’s
Safe conduct through the rocks of re-elections.
96
Though this was most expedient on the whole
And usual, Juan, when he cast a glance
On Adeline while playing her grand role,
Which she went through as though it were a dance
(Betraying only now and then her soul
By a look scarce perceptibly askance
Of weariness or scorn), began to feel
Some doubt how much of Adeline was real,
97
So well she acted all and every part
By turns with that vivacious versatility
Which many people take for want of heart.
They err; ’tis merely what is called mobility,
A thing of temperament and not of art,
Though seeming so from its supposed facility,
And false though true, for surely they’re sincerest
Who are strongly acted on by what is nearest.
98
This makes your actors, artists, and romancers,
Heroes sometimes, though seldom, sages never,
But speakers, bards, diplomatists, and dancers,
Little that’s great, but much of what is clever,
Most orators, but very few financiers,
Though all Exchequer Chancellors endeavour
Of late years to dispense with Cocker’s rigours,
And grow quite figurative with their figures.
99
The poets of arithmetic are they
Who, though they prove not two and two to be
Five, as they might do in a modest way,
Have plainly made it out that four are three,
Judging by what they take and what they pay.
The Sinking Fund’s unfathomable sea,
That most unliquidating liquid, leaves
The debt unsunk, yet sinks all it receives.
100
While Adeline dispensed her airs and graces,
The fair Fitz-Fulke seemed very much at ease.
Though too well-bred to quiz men to their faces,
Her laughing blue eyes with a glance could seize
The ridicules of people in all places,
That honey of your fashionable bees,
And store it up for mischievous enjoyment,
And this at present was her kind employment.
101
However, the day closed, as days must close;
The evening also waned, and coffee came.
Each carriage was announced, and ladies r
ose
And curtsying off, as curtsies country dame,
Retired. With most unfashionable bows
Their docile esquires also did the same,
Delighted with the dinner and their host,
But with the Lady Adeline the most.
102
Some praised her beauty, others her great grace,
The warmth of her politeness, whose sincerity
Was obvious in each feature of her face,
Whose traits were radiant with the rays of verity.
Yes, she was truly worthy her high place;
No one could envy her deserved prosperity.
And then her dress – what beautiful simplicity
Draperied her form with curious felicity!
103
Meanwhile sweet Adeline deserved their praises,
By an impartial indemnification
For all her past exertion and soft phrases
In a most edifying conversation,
Which turned upon their late guests’ miens and faces
And families, even to the last relation,
Their hideous wives, their horrid selves and dresses,
And truculent distortion of their tresses.
104
True, she said little; ’twas the rest that broke
Forth into universal epigram.
But then ’twas to the purpose what she spoke;
Like Addison’s ‘faint praise’, so wont to damn,
Her own but served to set off every joke,
As music chimes in with a melodrame.
How sweet the task to shield an absent friend!
I ask but this of mine, to – not defend.
105
There were but two exceptions to this keen
Skirmish of wits o’er the departed: one,
Aurora, with her pure and placid mien;
And Juan too in general behind none
In gay remark on what he had heard or seen,
Sate silent now, his usual spirits gone.
In vain he heard the others rail or rally,
He would not join them in a single sally.
106
’Tis true he saw Aurora look as though
She approved his silence. She perhaps mistook
Its motive for that charity we owe
But seldom pay the absent, nor would look
Further. It might or it might not be so.
But Juan, sitting silent in his nook,
Observing little in his reverie,
Yet saw this much, which he was glad to see.
107
The ghost at least had done him this much good,
In making him as silent as a ghost,
If in the circumstances which ensued
He gained esteem where it was worth the most.
And certainly Aurora had renewed
In him some feelings he had lately lost
Or hardened, feelings which, perhaps ideal,
Are so divine that I must deem them real:
108
The love of higher things and better days,
The unbounded hope and heavenly ignorance
Of what is called the world and the world’s ways,
The moments when we gather from a glance
More joy than from all future pride or praise,
Which kindle manhood, but can ne’er entrance
The heart in an existence of its own,
Of which another’s bosom is the zone.
109
Who would not sigh, Aι αι ταν Kυθερειαν!
That hath a memory or that had a heart?
Alas, her star must wane like that of Dian;
Ray fades on ray, as years on years depart.
Anacreon only had the soul to tie an
Unwithering myrtle round the unblunted dart
Of Eros; but though thou hast played us many tricks,
Still we respect thee, alma Venus genetrix.
110
And full of sentiments, sublime as billows
Heaving between this world and worlds beyond,
Don Juan, when the midnight hour of pillows
Arrived, retired to his, but to despond
Rather than rest. Instead of poppies, willows
Waved o’er his couch. He meditated, fond
Of those sweet bitter thoughts which banish sleep
And make the worldling sneer, the youngling weep.
111
The night was as before. He was undrest,
Saving his nightgown, which is an undress,
Completely sans-culotte and without vest;
In short, he hardly could be clothed with less.
But apprehensive of his spectral guest,
He sate with feelings awkward to express
(By those who have not had such visitations),
Expectant of the ghost’s fresh operations.
112
And not in vain he listened. Hush, what’s that?
I see – I see – ah no – ’tis not – yet ’tis –
Ye powers, it is the – the – the – pooh, the cat!
The devil take that stealthy pace of his!
So like a spiritual pit-a-pat
Or tiptoe of an amatory Miss,
Gliding the first time to a rendezvous
And dreading the chaste echoes of her shoe.
113
Again – what is’t? The wind? No, no, this time
It is the sable Friar as before
With awful footsteps regular as rhyme
Or (as rhymes may be in these days) much more.
Again through shadows of the night sublime,
When deep sleep fell on men, and the world wore
The starry darkness round her like a girdle
Spangled with gems – the monk made his blood curdle.
114
A noise like to wet fingers drawn on glass,
Which sets the teeth on edge, and a slight clatter
Like showers which on the midnight gusts will pass,
Sounding like very supernatural water,
Came over Juan’s ear, which throbbed, alas,
For immaterialism’s a serious matter,
So that even those whose faith is the most great
In souls immortal shun them tête à tête.
115
Were his eyes open? Yes, and his mouth too.
Surprise has this effect, to make one dumb,
Yet leave the gate which Eloquence slips through
As wide as if a long speech were to come.
Nigh and more nigh the awful echoes drew,
Tremendous to a mortal tympanum.
His eyes were open and (as was before
Stated) his mouth. What opened next? The door.
116
It opened with a most infernal creak
Like that of hell. Lasciate ogni speranza
Voi che entrate! The hinge seemed to speak,
Dreadful as Dante’s rima or this stanza,
Or – but all words upon such themes are weak.
A single shade’s sufficient to entrance a
Hero, for what is substance to a spirit?
Or how is’t matter trembles to come near it?
117
The door flew wide, not swiftly, but as fly
The sea-gulls, with a steady, sober flight,
And then swung back, nor close, but stood awry,
Half letting in long shadows on the light,
Which still in Juan’s candlesticks burned high,
For he had two, both tolerably bright,
And in the doorway, darkening darkness, stood
The sable Friar in his solemn hood.
118
Don Juan shook, as erst he had been shaken
The night before, but being sick of shaking,
He first inclined to think he had been mistaken,
And then to be ashamed of such mistaking.
His own internal ghost began to
awaken
Within him and to quell his corporal quaking,
Hinting that soul and body on the whole
Were odds against a disembodied soul.
119
And then his dread grew wrath, and his wrath fierce,
And he arose, advanced. The shade retreated,
But Juan, eager now the truth to pierce,
Followed, his veins no longer cold, but heated,
Resolved to thrust the mystery carte and tierce,
At whatsoever risk of being defeated.
The ghost stopped, menaced, then retired, until
He reached the ancient wall, then stood stone still.
120
Juan put forth one arm. Eternal powers!
It touched no soul nor body, but the wall,
On which the moonbeams fell in silvery showers
Checkered with all the tracery of the hall.
He shuddered, as no doubt the bravest cowers
When he can’t tell what ‘tis that doth appal.
How odd, a single hobgoblin’s nonentity
Should cause more fear than a whole host’s identity.
121
But still the shade remained, the blue eyes glared,
And rather variably for stony death.
Yet one thing rather good the grave had spared;
The ghost had a remarkably sweet breath.
A straggling curl showed he had been fair-haired.
A red lip with two rows of pearls beneath
Gleamed forth, as through the casement’s ivy shroud
The moon peeped, just escaped from a grey cloud.
122
And Juan, puzzled but still curious, thrust
His other arm forth. Wonder upon wonder!
It pressed upon a hard but glowing bust,
Which beat as if there was a warm heart under.
He found, as people on most trials must,
That he had made at first a silly blunder
And that in his confusion he had caught
Only the wall, instead of what he sought.
123
The ghost, if ghost it were, seemed a sweet soul
As ever lurked beneath a holy hood.
A dimpled chin, a neck of ivory stole
Forth into something much like flesh and blood.
Back fell the sable frock and dreary cowl
And they revealed, alas, that ere they should,
In full, voluptuous, but not o’ergrown bulk,
The phantom of her frolic Grace – Fitz-Fulke!
Canto XVII
1
The world is full of orphans: firstly, those
Who are so in the strict sense of the phrase
(But many a lonely tree the loftier grows
Than others crowded in the forest’s maze);
The next are such as are not doomed to lose
Their tender parents in their budding days,
But merely their parental tenderness,
Which leaves them orphans of the heart no less.
2
The next are ‘only children’, as they are styled,
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