Lord Byron - Delphi Poets Series

by Lord Byron

  Then their relations, who made matters worse.

  (‘T were hard to tell upon a like occasion

  To whom it may be best to have recourse —

  I can’t say much for friend or yet relation):

  The lawyers did their utmost for divorce,

  But scarce a fee was paid on either side

  Before, unluckily, Don Jóse died.

  XXXIII

  He died: and most unluckily, because,

  According to all hints I could collect

  From counsel learnéd in those kinds of laws

  (Although their talk’s obscure and circumspect),

  His death contrived to spoil a charming cause;

  A thousand pities also with respect

  To public feeling, which on this occasion

  Was manifested in a great sensation.

  XXXIV

  But, ah! he died; and buried with him lay

  The public feeling and the lawyers’ fees:

  His house was sold, his servants sent away,

  A Jew took one of his two mistresses,

  A priest the other — at least so they say:

  I ask’d the doctors after his disease —

  He died of the slow fever call’d the tertian,

  And left his widow to her own aversion.

  XXXV

  Yet Jóse was an honourable man,

  That I must say who knew him very well;

  Therefore his frailties I’ll no further scan

  Indeed there were not many more to tell;

  And if his passions now and then outran

  Discretion, and were not so peaceable

  As Numa’s (who was also named Pompilius),

  He had been ill brought up, and was born bilious.

  XXXVI

  Whate’er might be his worthlessness or worth,

  Poor fellow! he had many things to wound him.

  Let’s own — since it can do no good on earth —

  It was a trying moment that which found him

  Standing alone beside his desolate hearth,

  Where all his household gods lay shiver’d round him:

  No choice was left his feelings or his pride,

  Save death or Doctors’ Commons — so he died.

  XXXVII

  Dying intestate, Juan was sole heir

  To a chancery suit, and messuages, and lands,

  Which, with a long minority and care,

  Promised to turn out well in proper hands:

  Inez became sole guardian, which was fair,

  And answer’d but to nature’s just demands;

  An only son left with an only mother

  Is brought up much more wisely than another.

  XXXVIII

  Sagest of women, even of widows, she

  Resolved that Juan should be quite a paragon,

  And worthy of the noblest pedigree

  (His sire was of Castile, his dam from Aragon):

  Then for accomplishments of chivalry,

  In case our lord the king should go to war again,

  He learn’d the arts of riding, fencing, gunnery,

  And how to scale a fortress — or a nunnery.

  XXXIX

  But that which Donna Inez most desired,

  And saw into herself each day before all

  The learnéd tutors whom for him she hired,

  Was, that his breeding should be strictly moral;

  Much into all his studies she inquired,

  And so they were submitted first to her, all,

  Arts, sciences, no branch was made a mystery

  To Juan’s eyes, excepting natural history.

  XL

  The languages, especially the dead,

  The sciences, and most of all the abstruse,

  The arts, at least all such as could be said

  To be the most remote from common use,

  In all these he was much and deeply read;

  But not a page of any thing that’s loose,

  Or hints continuation of the species,

  Was ever suffer’d, lest he should grow vicious.

  XLI

  His classic studies made a little puzzle,

  Because of filthy loves of gods and goddesses,

  Who in the earlier ages raised a bustle,

  But never put on pantaloons or bodices;

  His reverend tutors had at times a tussle,

  And for their Æneids, Iliads, and Odysseys,

  Were forced to make an odd sort of apology,

  For Donna Inez dreaded the Mythology.

  XLII

  Ovid’s a rake, as half his verses show him,

  Anacreon’s morals are a still worse sample,

  Catullus scarcely has a decent poem,

  I don’t think Sappho’s Ode a good example,

  Although Longinus tells us there is no hymn

  Where the sublime soars forth on wings more ample:

  But Virgil’s songs are pure, except that horrid one

  Beginning with “Formosum Pastor Corydon.”

  XLIII

  Lucretius’ irreligion is too strong,

  For early stomachs, to prove wholesome food;

  I can’t help thinking Juvenal was wrong,

  Although no doubt his real intent was good,

  For speaking out so plainly in his song,

  So much indeed as to be downright rude;

  And then what proper person can be partial

  To all those nauseous epigrams of Martial?

  XLIV

  Juan was taught from out the best edition,

  Expurgated by learnéd men, who place

  Judiciously, from out the schoolboy’s vision,

  The grosser parts; but, fearful to deface

  Too much their modest bard by this omission,

  And pitying sore his mutilated case,

  They only add them all in an appendix,

  Which saves, in fact, the trouble of an index;

  XLV

  For there we have them all “at one fell swoop,”

  Instead of being scatter’d through the Pages;

  They stand forth marshall’d in a handsome troop,

  To meet the ingenuous youth of future ages,

  Till some less rigid editor shall stoop

  To call them back into their separate cages,

  Instead of standing staring all together,

  Like garden gods — and not so decent either.

  XLVI

  The Missal too (it was the family Missal)

  Was ornamented in a sort of way

  Which ancient mass-books often are, and this all

  Kinds of grotesques illumined; and how they,

  Who saw those figures on the margin kiss all,

  Could turn their optics to the text and pray,

  Is more than I know — But Don Juan’s mother

  Kept this herself, and gave her son another.

  XLVII

  Sermons he read, and lectures he endured,

  And homilies, and lives of all the saints;

  To Jerome and to Chrysostom inured,

  He did not take such studies for restraints;

  But how faith is acquired, and then ensured,

  So well not one of the aforesaid paints

  As Saint Augustine in his fine Confessions,

  Which make the reader envy his transgressions.

  XLVIII

  This, too, was a seal’d book to little Juan —

  I can’t but say that his mamma was right,

  If such an education was the true one.

  She scarcely trusted him from out her sight;

  Her maids were old, and if she took a new one,

  You might be sure she was a perfect fright;

  She did this during even her husband’s life —

  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 d
islikes the world to know it.

  LXVI

  Julia was — yet 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