by Lord Byron
The usual progress of intrigues between
Unequal matches, such as are, alas!
A young lieutenant’s with a not old queen,
But one who is not so youthful as she was
In all the royalty of sweet seventeen.
Sovereigns may sway materials, but not matter,
And wrinkles, the d—-d democrats! won’t flatter.
XXV
And Death, the sovereign’s sovereign, though the great
Gracchus of all mortality, who levels
With his Agrarian laws the high estate
Of him who feasts, and fights, and roars, and revels,
To one small grass-grown patch (which must await
Corruption for its crop) with the poor devils
Who never had a foot of land till now, —
Death’s a reformer — all men must allow.
XXVI
He lived (not Death, but Juan) in a hurry
Of waste, and haste, and glare, and gloss, and glitter,
In this gay clime of bear-skins black and furry —
Which (though I hate to say a thing that’s bitter)
Peep out sometimes, when things are in a flurry,
Through all the “purple and fine linen,” fitter
For Babylon’s than Russia’s royal harlot —
And neutralize her outward show of scarlet.
XXVII
And this same state we won’t describe: we would
Perhaps from hearsay, or from recollection;
But getting nigh grim Dante’s “obscure wood,”
That horrid equinox, that hateful section
Of human years, that half-way house, that rude
Hut, whence wise travellers drive with circumspection
Life’s sad post-horses o’er the dreary frontier
Of age, and looking back to youth, give one tear; —
XXVIII
I won’t describe, — that is, if I can help
Description; and I won’t reflect, — that is,
If I can stave off thought, which — as a whelp
Clings to its teat — sticks to me through the abyss
Of this odd labyrinth; or as the kelp
Holds by the rock; or as a lover’s kiss
Drains its first draught of lips: — but, as I said,
I won’t philosophise, and will be read.
XXIX
Juan, instead of courting courts, was courted, —
A thing which happens rarely: this he owed
Much to his youth, and much to his reported
Valour; much also to the blood he show’d,
Like a race-horse; much to each dress he sported,
Which set the beauty off in which he glow’d,
As purple clouds befringe the sun; but most
He owed to an old woman and his post.
XXX
He wrote to Spain: — and all his near relations,
Perceiving he was in a handsome way
Of getting on himself, and finding stations
For cousins also, answer’d the same day.
Several prepared themselves for emigrations;
And eating ices, were o’erheard to say,
That with the addition of a slight pelisse,
Madrid’s and Moscow’s climes were of a piece.
XXXI
His mother, Donna Inez, finding, too,
That in the lieu of drawing on his banker,
Where his assets were waxing rather few,
He had brought his spending to a handsome anchor, —
Replied, “that she was glad to see him through
Those pleasures after which wild youth will hanker;
As the sole sign of man’s being in his senses
Is, learning to reduce his past expenses.
XXXII
“She also recommended him to God,
And no less to God’s Son, as well as Mother,
Warn’d him against Greek worship, which looks odd
In Catholic eyes; but told him, too, to smother
Outward dislike, which don’t look well abroad;
Inform’d him that he had a little brother
Born in a second wedlock; and above
All, praised the empress’s maternal love.
XXXIII
“She could not too much give her approbation
Unto an empress, who preferr’d young men
Whose age, and what was better still, whose nation
And climate, stopp’d all scandal (now and then): —
At home it might have given her some vexation;
But where thermometers sunk down to ten,
Or five, or one, or zero, she could never
Believe that virtue thaw’d before the river.”
XXXIV
Oh for a forty-parson power to chant
Thy praise, Hypocrisy! Oh for a hymn
Loud as the virtues thou dost loudly vaunt,
Not practise! Oh for trumps of cherubim!
Or the ear-trumpet of my good old aunt,
Who, though her spectacles at last grew dim,
Drew quiet consolation through its hint,
When she no more could read the pious print.
XXXV
She was no hypocrite at least, poor soul,
But went to heaven in as sincere a way
As any body on the elected roll,
Which portions out upon the judgment day
Heaven’s freeholds, in a sort of doomsday scroll,
Such as the conqueror William did repay
His knights with, lotting others’ properties
Into some sixty thousand new knights’ fees.
XXXVI
I can’t complain, whose ancestors are there,
Erneis, Radulphus — eight-and-forty manors
(If that my memory doth not greatly err)
Were their reward for following Billy’s banners:
And though I can’t help thinking ‘t was scarce fair
To strip the Saxons of their hydes, like tanners;
Yet as they founded churches with the produce,
You’ll deem, no doubt, they put it to a good use.
XXXVII
The gentle Juan flourish’d, though at times
He felt like other plants called sensitive,
Which shrink from touch, as monarchs do from rhymes,
Save such as Southey can afford to give.
Perhaps he long’d in bitter frosts for climes
In which the Neva’s ice would cease to live
Before May-day: perhaps, despite his duty,
In royalty’s vast arms he sighed for beauty:
XXXVIII
Perhaps — but, sans perhaps, we need not seek
For causes young or old: the canker-worm
Will feed upon the fairest, freshest cheek,
As well as further drain the wither’d form:
Care, like a housekeeper, brings every week
His bills in, and however we may storm,
They must be paid: though six days smoothly run,
The seventh will bring blue devils or a dun.
XXXIX
I don’t know how it was, but he grew sick:
The empress was alarm’d, and her physician
(The same who physick’d Peter) found the tick
Of his fierce pulse betoken a condition
Which augur’d of the dead, however quick
Itself, and show’d a feverish disposition;
At which the whole court was extremely troubled,
The sovereign shock’d, and all his medicines doubled.
XL
Low were the whispers, manifold the rumours:
Some said he had been poison’d by Potemkin;
Others talk’d learnedly of certain tumours,
Exhaustion, or disorde
rs of the same kin;
Some said ‘t was a concoction of the humours,
Which with the blood too readily will claim kin;
Others again were ready to maintain,
“‘T was only the fatigue of last campaign.”
XLI
But here is one prescription out of many:
”Sodæ-Sulphat. 3vj.3fs. Mannæ optim.
Aq. fervent. f. /3ifs. 3ij. tinct. Sennae
Haustus” (And here the surgeon came and cupp’d him)
“Rx Pulv. Com. gr. iij. Ipecacuanhæ”
(With more beside if Juan had not stopp’d ‘em).
“Bolus Potassæ Sulphuret. sumendus,
Et haustus ter in die capiendus.”
XLII
This is the way physicians mend or end us,
Secundum artem: but although we sneer
In health — when ill, we call them to attend us,
Without the least propensity to jeer:
While that “hiatus maxime deflendus”
To be fill’d up by spade or mattock’s near,
Instead of gliding graciously down Lethe,
We tease mild Baillie, or soft Abernethy.
XLIII
Juan demurr’d at this first notice to
Quit; and though death had threaten’d an ejection,
His youth and constitution bore him through,
And sent the doctors in a new direction.
But still his state was delicate: the hue
Of health but flicker’d with a faint reflection
Along his wasted cheek, and seem’d to gravel
The faculty — who said that he must travel.
XLIV
The climate was too cold, they said, for him,
Meridian-born, to bloom in. This opinion
Made the chaste Catherine look a little grim,
Who did not like at first to lose her minion:
But when she saw his dazzling eye wax dim,
And drooping like an eagle’s with clipt pinion,
She then resolved to send him on a mission,
But in a style becoming his condition.
XLV
There was just then a kind of a discussion,
A sort of treaty or negotiation
Between the British cabinet and Russian,
Maintain’d with all the due prevarication
With which great states such things are apt to push on;
Something about the Baltic’s navigation,
Hides, train-oil, tallow, and the rights of Thetis,
Which Britons deem their “uti possidetis.”
XLVI
So Catherine, who had a handsome way
Of fitting out her favourites, conferr’d
This secret charge on Juan, to display
At once her royal splendour, and reward
His services. He kiss’d hands the next day,
Received instructions how to play his card,
Was laden with all kinds of gifts and honours,
Which show’d what great discernment was the donor’s.
XLVII
But she was lucky, and luck’s all. Your queens
Are generally prosperous in reigning;
Which puzzles us to know what Fortune means.
But to continue: though her years were waning
Her climacteric teased her like her teens;
And though her dignity brook’d no complaining,
So much did Juan’s setting off distress her,
She could not find at first a fit successor.
XLVIII
But time, the comforter, will come at last;
And four-and-twenty hours, and twice that number
Of candidates requesting to be placed,
Made Catherine taste next night a quiet slumber: —
Not that she meant to fix again in haste,
Nor did she find the quantity encumber,
But always choosing with deliberation,
Kept the place open for their emulation.
XLIX
While this high post of honour’s in abeyance,
For one or two days, reader, we request
You’ll mount with our young hero the conveyance
Which wafted him from Petersburgh: the best
Barouche, which had the glory to display once
The fair czarina’s autocratic crest,
When, a new lphigene, she went to Tauris,
Was given to her favourite, and now bore his.
L
A bull-dog, and a bullfinch, and an ermine,
All private favourites of Don Juan; — for
(Let deeper sages the true cause determine)
He had a kind of inclination, or
Weakness, for what most people deem mere vermin,
Live animals: an old maid of threescore
For cats and birds more penchant ne’er display’d,
Although he was not old, nor even a maid; —
LI
The animals aforesaid occupied
Their station: there were valets, secretaries,
In other vehicles; but at his side
Sat little Leila, who survived the parries
He made ‘gainst Cossacque sabres, in the wide
Slaughter of Ismail. Though my wild Muse varies
Her note, she don’t forget the infant girl
Whom he preserved, a pure and living pearl.
LII
Poor little thing! She was as fair as docile,
And with that gentle, serious character,
As rare in living beings as a fossile
Man, ‘midst thy mouldy mammoths, “grand Cuvier!”
Ill fitted was her ignorance to jostle
With this o’erwhelming world, where all must err:
But she was yet but ten years old, and therefore
Was tranquil, though she knew not why or wherefore.
LIII
Don Juan loved her, and she loved him, as
Nor brother, father, sister, daughter love.
I cannot tell exactly what it was;
He was not yet quite old enough to prove
Parental feelings, and the other class,
Call’d brotherly affection, could not move
His bosom, — for he never had a sister:
Ah! if he had, how much he would have miss’d her!
LIV
And still less was it sensual; for besides
That he was not an ancient debauchee
(Who like sour fruit, to stir their veins’ salt tides,
As acids rouse a dormant alkali),
Although (‘t will happen as our planet guides)
His youth was not the chastest that might be,
There was the purest Platonism at bottom
Of all his feelings — only he forgot ‘em.
LV
Just now there was no peril of temptation;
He loved the infant orphan he had saved,
As patriots (now and then) may love a nation;
His pride, too, felt that she was not enslaved
Owing to him; — as also her salvation
Through his means and the church’s might be paved.
But one thing’s odd, which here must be inserted,
The little Turk refused to be converted.
LVI
‘T was strange enough she should retain the impression
Through such a scene of change, and dread, and slaughter;
But though three bishops told her the transgression,
She show’d a great dislike to holy water:
She also had no passion for confession;
Perhaps she had nothing to confess: — no matter,
Whate’er the cause, the church made little of it —
She still held out that Mahomet was a prophet.
LVII
In
fact, the only Christian she could bear
Was Juan; whom she seem’d to have selected
In place of what her home and friends once were.
He naturally loved what he protected:
And thus they form’d a rather curious pair,
A guardian green in years, a ward connected
In neither clime, time, blood, with her defender;
And yet this want of ties made theirs more tender.
LVIII
They journey’d on through Poland and through Warsaw,
Famous for mines of salt and yokes of iron:
Through Courland also, which that famous farce saw
Which gave her dukes the graceless name of “Biron.”
‘T is the same landscape which the modern Mars saw,
Who march’d to Moscow, led by Fame, the siren!
To lose by one month’s frost some twenty years
Of conquest, and his guard of grenadiers.
LIX
Let this not seem an anti-climax: — “Oh!
My guard! my old guard exclaim’d!” exclaim’d that god of day.
Think of the Thunderer’s falling down below
Carotid-artery-cutting Castlereagh!
Alas, that glory should be chill’d by snow!
But should we wish to warm us on our way
Through Poland, there is Kosciusko’s name
Might scatter fire through ice, like Hecla’s flame.
LX
From Poland they came on through Prussia Proper,
And Königsberg the capital, whose vaunt,
Besides some veins of iron, lead, or copper,
Has lately been the great Professor Kant.
Juan, who cared not a tobacco-stopper
About philosophy, pursued his jaunt
To Germany, whose somewhat tardy millions
Have princes who spur more than their postilions.
LXI
And thence through Berlin, Dresden, and the like,
Until he reach’d the castellated Rhine: —
Ye glorious Gothic scenes! how much ye strike
All phantasies, not even excepting mine;
A grey wall, a green ruin, rusty pike,
Make my soul pass the equinoctial line
Between the present and past worlds, and hover
Upon their airy confine, half-seas-over.
LXII
But Juan posted on through Mannheim, Bonn,
Which Drachenfels frowns over like a spectre
Of the good feudal times forever gone,
On which I have not time just now to lecture.
From thence he was drawn onwards to Cologne,
A city which presents to the inspector
Eleven thousand maidenheads of bone,
The greatest number flesh hath ever known.
LXIII
From thence to Holland’s Hague and Helvoetsluys,
That water-land of Dutchmen and of ditches,
Where juniper expresses its best juice,