by Homer
I recommend as much to every wife.
XLIX
Young Juan wax’d in goodliness and grace;
At six a charming child, and at eleven
With all the promise of as fine a face
As e’er to man’s maturer growth was given:
He studied steadily, and grew apace,
And seem’d, at least, in the right road to heaven,
For half his days were pass’d at church, the other
Between his tutors, confessor, and mother.
L
At six, I said, he was a charming child,
At twelve he was a fine, but quiet boy;
Although in infancy a little wild,
They tamed him down amongst them: to destroy
His natural spirit not in vain they toil’d,
At least it seem’d so; and his mother’s joy
Was to declare how sage, and still, and steady,
Her young philosopher was grown already.
LI
I had my doubts, perhaps I have them still,
But what I say is neither here nor there:
I knew his father well, and have some skill
In character — but it would not be fair
From sire to son to augur good or ill:
He and his wife were an ill-sorted pair —
But scandal’s my aversion — I protest
Against all evil speaking, even in jest.
LII
For my part I say nothing — nothing — but
This I will say — my reasons are my own —
That if I had an only son to put
To school (as God be praised that I have none),
‘T is not with Donna Inez I would shut
Him up to learn his catechism alone,
No — no — I’d send him out betimes to college,
For there it was I pick’d up my own knowledge.
LIII
For there one learns— ‘t is not for me to boast,
Though I acquired — but I pass over that,
As well as all the Greek I since have lost:
I say that there’s the place — but Verbum sat.
I think I pick’d up too, as well as most,
Knowledge of matters — but no matter what —
I never married — but, I think, I know
That sons should not be educated so.
LIV
Young Juan now was sixteen years of age,
Tall, handsome, slender, but well knit: he seem’d
Active, though not so sprightly, as a page;
And everybody but his mother deem’d
Him almost man; but she flew in a rage
And bit her lips (for else she might have scream’d)
If any said so, for to be precocious
Was in her eyes a thing the most atrocious.
LV
Amongst her numerous acquaintance, all
Selected for discretion and devotion,
There was the Donna Julia, whom to call
Pretty were but to give a feeble notion
Of many charms in her as natural
As sweetness to the flower, or salt to ocean,
Her zone to Venus, or his bow to Cupid
(But this last simile is trite and stupid).
LVI
The darkness of her Oriental eye
Accorded with her Moorish origin
(Her blood was not all Spanish, by the by;
In Spain, you know, this is a sort of sin);
When proud Granada fell, and, forced to fly,
Boabdil wept, of Donna Julia’s kin
Some went to Africa, some stay’d in Spain,
Her great-great-grandmamma chose to remain.
LVII
She married (I forget the pedigree)
With an Hidalgo, who transmitted down
His blood less noble than such blood should be;
At such alliances his sires would frown,
In that point so precise in each degree
That they bred in and in, as might be shown,
Marrying their cousins — nay, their aunts, and nieces,
Which always spoils the breed, if it increases.
LVIII
This heathenish cross restored the breed again,
Ruin’d its blood, but much improved its flesh;
For from a root the ugliest in Old Spain
Sprung up a branch as beautiful as fresh;
The sons no more were short, the daughters plain:
But there’s a rumour which I fain would hush,
‘T is said that Donna Julia’s grandmamma
Produced her Don more heirs at love than law.
LIX
However this might be, the race went on
Improving still through every generation,
Until it centred in an only son,
Who left an only daughter; my narration
May have suggested that this single one
Could be but Julia (whom on this occasion
I shall have much to speak about), and she
Was married, charming, chaste, and twenty-three.
LX
Her eye (I’m very fond of handsome eyes)
Was large and dark, suppressing half its fire
Until she spoke, then through its soft disguise
Flash’d an expression more of pride than ire,
And love than either; and there would arise
A something in them which was not desire,
But would have been, perhaps, but for the soul
Which struggled through and chasten’d down the whole.
LXI
Her glossy hair was cluster’d o’er a brow
Bright with intelligence, and fair, and smooth;
Her eyebrow’s shape was like th’ aerial bow,
Her cheek all purple with the beam of youth,
Mounting at times to a transparent glow,
As if her veins ran lightning; she, in sooth,
Possess’d an air and grace by no means common:
Her stature tall — I hate a dumpy woman.
LXII
Wedded she was some years, and to a man
Of fifty, and such husbands are in plenty;
And yet, I think, instead of such a one
‘T were better to have two of five-and-twenty,
Especially in countries near the sun:
And now I think on ‘t, “mi vien in mente”,
Ladies even of the most uneasy virtue
Prefer a spouse whose age is short of thirty.
LXIII
‘T is a sad thing, I cannot choose but say,
And all the fault of that indecent sun,
Who cannot leave alone our helpless clay,
But will keep baking, broiling, burning on,
That howsoever people fast and pray,
The flesh is frail, and so the soul undone:
What men call gallantry, and gods adultery,
Is much more common where the climate’s sultry.
LXIV
Happy the nations of the moral North!
Where all is virtue, and the winter season
Sends sin, without a rag on, shivering forth
(‘T was snow that brought St. Anthony to reason);
Where juries cast up what a wife is worth,
By laying whate’er sum in mulct they please on
The lover, who must pay a handsome price,
Because it is a marketable vice.
LXV
Alfonso was the name of Julia’s lord,
A man well looking for his years, and who
Was neither much beloved nor yet abhorr’d:
They lived together, as most people do,
Suffering each other’s foibles by accord,
And not exactly either one or two;
Yet he was jealous, though he did not show it,
For jealousy dislikes the world to know it.
LXVI
Julia was — y
et I never could see why —
With Donna Inez quite a favourite friend;
Between their tastes there was small sympathy,
For not a line had Julia ever penn’d:
Some people whisper but no doubt they lie,
For malice still imputes some private end)
That Inez had, ere Don Alfonso’s marriage,
Forgot with him her very prudent carriage;
LXVII
And that still keeping up the old connection,
Which time had lately render’d much more chaste,
She took his lady also in affection,
And certainly this course was much the best:
She flatter’d Julia with her sage protection,
And complimented Don Alfonso’s taste;
And if she could not (who can?) silence scandal,
At least she left it a more slender handle.
LXVIII
I can’t tell whether Julia saw the affair
With other people’s eyes, or if her own
Discoveries made, but none could be aware
Of this, at least no symptom e’er was shown;
Perhaps she did not know, or did not care,
Indifferent from the first or callous grown:
I’m really puzzled what to think or say,
She kept her counsel in so close a way.
LXIX
Juan she saw, and, as a pretty child,
Caress’d him often — such a thing might be
Quite innocently done, and harmless styled,
When she had twenty years, and thirteen he;
But I am not so sure I should have smiled
When he was sixteen, Julia twenty-three;
These few short years make wondrous alterations,
Particularly amongst sun-burnt nations.
LXX
Whate’er the cause might be, they had become
Changed; for the dame grew distant, the youth shy,
Their looks cast down, their greetings almost dumb,
And much embarrassment in either eye;
There surely will be little doubt with some
That Donna Julia knew the reason why,
But as for Juan, he had no more notion
Than he who never saw the sea of ocean.
LXXI
Yet Julia’s very coldness still was kind,
And tremulously gentle her small hand
Withdrew itself from his, but left behind
A little pressure, thrilling, and so bland
And slight, so very slight, that to the mind
‘T was but a doubt; but ne’er magician’s wand
Wrought change with all Armida’s fairy art
Like what this light touch left on Juan’s heart.
LXXII
And if she met him, though she smiled no more,
She look’d a sadness sweeter than her smile,
As if her heart had deeper thoughts in store
She must not own, but cherish’d more the while
For that compression in its burning core;
Even innocence itself has many a wile,
And will not dare to trust itself with truth,
And love is taught hypocrisy from youth.
LXXIII
But passion most dissembles, yet betrays
Even by its darkness; as the blackest sky
Foretells the heaviest tempest, it displays
Its workings through the vainly guarded eye,
And in whatever aspect it arrays
Itself, ‘t is still the same hypocrisy;
Coldness or anger, even disdain or hate,
Are masks it often wears, and still too late.
LXXIV
Then there were sighs, the deeper for suppression,
And stolen glances, sweeter for the theft,
And burning blushes, though for no transgression,
Tremblings when met, and restlessness when left;
All these are little preludes to possession,
Of which young passion cannot be bereft,
And merely tend to show how greatly love is
Embarrass’d at first starting with a novice.
LXXV
Poor Julia’s heart was in an awkward state;
She felt it going, and resolved to make
The noblest efforts for herself and mate,
For honour’s, pride’s, religion’s, virtue’s sake;
Her resolutions were most truly great,
And almost might have made a Tarquin quake:
She pray’d the Virgin Mary for her grace,
As being the best judge of a lady’s case.
LXXVI
She vow’d she never would see Juan more,
And next day paid a visit to his mother,
And look’d extremely at the opening door,
Which, by the Virgin’s grace, let in another;
Grateful she was, and yet a little sore —
Again it opens, it can be no other,
‘T is surely Juan now — No! I’m afraid
That night the Virgin was no further pray’d.
LXXVII
She now determined that a virtuous woman
Should rather face and overcome temptation,
That flight was base and dastardly, and no man
Should ever give her heart the least sensation;
That is to say, a thought beyond the common
Preference, that we must feel upon occasion
For people who are pleasanter than others,
But then they only seem so many brothers.
LXXVIII
And even if by chance — and who can tell?
The devil’s so very sly — she should discover
That all within was not so very well,
And, if still free, that such or such a lover
Might please perhaps, a virtuous wife can quell
Such thoughts, and be the better when they’re over;
And if the man should ask, ‘t is but denial:
I recommend young ladies to make trial.
LXXIX
And then there are such things as love divine,
Bright and immaculate, unmix’d and pure,
Such as the angels think so very fine,
And matrons who would be no less secure,
Platonic, perfect, “just such love as mine;”
Thus Julia said — and thought so, to be sure;
And so I’d have her think, were I the man
On whom her reveries celestial ran.
LXXX
Such love is innocent, and may exist
Between young persons without any danger.
A hand may first, and then a lip be kist;
For my part, to such doings I’m a stranger,
But hear these freedoms form the utmost list
Of all o’er which such love may be a ranger:
If people go beyond, ‘t is quite a crime,
But not my fault — I tell them all in time.
LXXXI
Love, then, but love within its proper limits,
Was Julia’s innocent determination
In young Don Juan’s favour, and to him its
Exertion might be useful on occasion;
And, lighted at too pure a shrine to dim its
Ethereal lustre, with what sweet persuasion
He might be taught, by love and her together —
I really don’t know what, nor Julia either.
LXXXII
Fraught with this fine intention, and well fenced
In mail of proof — her purity of soul —
She, for the future of her strength convinced.
And that her honour was a rock, or mole,
Exceeding sagely from that hour dispensed
With any kind of troublesome control;
But whether Julia to the task was equal
Is that which must be mention’d in the sequel.
LXXXIII
Her plan she d
eem’d both innocent and feasible,
And, surely, with a stripling of sixteen
Not scandal’s fangs could fix on much that’s seizable,
Or if they did so, satisfied to mean
Nothing but what was good, her breast was peaceable —
A quiet conscience makes one so serene!
Christians have burnt each other, quite persuaded
That all the Apostles would have done as they did.
LXXXIV
And if in the mean time her husband died,
But Heaven forbid that such a thought should cross
Her brain, though in a dream! (and then she sigh’d)
Never could she survive that common loss;
But just suppose that moment should betide,
I only say suppose it — inter nos.
(This should be entre nous, for Julia thought
In French, but then the rhyme would go for naught.)
LXXXV
I only say suppose this supposition:
Juan being then grown up to man’s estate
Would fully suit a widow of condition,
Even seven years hence it would not be too late;
And in the interim (to pursue this vision)
The mischief, after all, could not be great,
For he would learn the rudiments of love,
I mean the seraph way of those above.
LXXXVI
So much for Julia. Now we’ll turn to Juan.
Poor little fellow! he had no idea
Of his own case, and never hit the true one;
In feelings quick as Ovid’s Miss Medea,
He puzzled over what he found a new one,
But not as yet imagined it could be
Thing quite in course, and not at all alarming,
Which, with a little patience, might grow charming.
LXXXVII