Chapter 12
The other evening (’twas on Friday last)— This is a fact and no poetic fable— Just as my great coat was about me cast, My hat and gloves still lying on the table, I heard a shot—’twas eight o’clock scarce past— And, running out as fast as I was able, I found the military commandant Stretch’d in the street, and able scarce to pant.
Poor fellow! for some reason, surely bad, They had slain him with five slugs; and left him there To perish on the pavement: so I had Him borne into the house and up the stair, And stripp’d and look’d to—But why should I ad More circumstances? vain was every care; The man was gone: in some Italian quarrel Kill’d by five bullets from an old gun-barrel.
I gazed upon him, for I knew him well; And though I have seen many corpses, never Saw one, whom such an accident befell, So calm; though pierced through stomach, heart, and liver, He seem’d to sleep,—for you could scarcely tell (As he bled inwardly, no hideous river Of gore divulged the cause) that he was dead: So as I gazed on him, I thought or said—
‘Can this be death? then what is life or death? Speak!’ but he spoke not: ‘Wake!’ but still he slept:— ‘But yesterday and who had mightier breath? A thousand warriors by his word were kept In awe: he said, as the centurion saith, “Go,” and he goeth; “come,” and forth he stepp’d. The trump and bugle till he spake were dumb— And now nought left him but the muffled drum.’
And they who waited once and worshipp’d—they With their rough faces throng’d about the bed To gaze once more on the commanding clay Which for the last, though not the first, time bled: And such an end! that he who many a day Had faced Napoleon’s foes until they fled,— The foremost in the charge or in the sally, Should now be butcher’d in a civic alley.
The scars of his old wounds were near his new, Those honourable scars which brought him fame; And horrid was the contrast to the view— But let me quit the theme; as such things claim Perhaps even more attention than is due From me: I gazed (as oft I have gazed the same) To try if I could wrench aught out of death Which should confirm, or shake, or make a faith;
But it was all a mystery. Here we are, And there we go:—but where? five bits of lead, Or three, or two, or one, send very far! And is this blood, then, form’d but to be shed? Can every element our elements mar? And air—earth—water—fire live—and we dead? We whose minds comprehend all things? No more; But let us to the story as before.
The purchaser of Juan and acquaintance Bore off his bargains to a gilded boat, Embark’d himself and them, and off they went thence As fast as oars could pull and water float; They look’d like persons being led to sentence, Wondering what next, till the caique was brought Up in a little creek below a wall O’ertopp’d with cypresses, dark-green and tall.
Here their conductor tapping at the wicket Of a small iron door, ’twas open’d, and He led them onward, first through a low thicket Flank’d by large groves, which tower’d on either hand: They almost lost their way, and had to pick it— For night was closing ere they came to land. The eunuch made a sign to those on board, Who row’d off, leaving them without a word.
As they were plodding on their winding way Through orange bowers, and jasmine, and so forth (Of which I might have a good deal to say, There being no such profusion in the North Of oriental plants, ‘et cetera,’ But that of late your scribblers think it worth Their while to rear whole hotbeds in their works Because one poet travell’d ’mongst the Turks)—
As they were threading on their way, there came Into Don Juan’s head a thought, which he Whisper’d to his companion:—’twas the same Which might have then occurr’d to you or me. ‘Methinks,’ said he, ‘it would be no great shame If we should strike a stroke to set us free; Let ’s knock that old black fellow on the head, And march away—’twere easier done than said.’
‘Yes,’ said the other, ‘and when done, what then? How get out? how the devil got we in? And when we once were fairly out, and when From Saint Bartholomew we have saved our skin, To-morrow ’d see us in some other den, And worse off than we hitherto have been; Besides, I’m hungry, and just now would take, Like Esau, for my birthright a beef-steak.
‘We must be near some place of man’s abode;— For the old negro’s confidence in creeping, With his two captives, by so queer a road, Shows that he thinks his friends have not been sleeping; A single cry would bring them all abroad: ’Tis therefore better looking before leaping— And there, you see, this turn has brought us through, By Jove, a noble palace!—lighted too.’
It was indeed a wide extensive building Which open’d on their view, and o’er the front There seem’d to be besprent a deal of gilding And various hues, as is the Turkish wont,— A gaudy taste; for they are little skill’d in The arts of which these lands were once the font: Each villa on the Bosphorus looks a screen New painted, or a pretty opera-scene.
And nearer as they came, a genial savour Of certain stews, and roast-meats, and pilaus, Things which in hungry mortals’ eyes find favour, Made Juan in his harsh intentions pause, And put himself upon his good behaviour: His friend, too, adding a new saving clause, Said, ‘In Heaven’s name let’s get some supper now, And then I’m with you, if you’re for a row.’
Some talk of an appeal unto some passion, Some to men’s feelings, others to their reason; The last of these was never much the fashion, For reason thinks all reasoning out of season. Some speakers whine, and others lay the lash on, But more or less continue still to tease on, With arguments according to their ‘forte;’ But no one ever dreams of being short.—
But I digress: of all appeals,—although I grant the power of pathos, and of gold, Of beauty, flattery, threats, a shilling,—no Method ’s more sure at moments to take hold Of the best feelings of mankind, which grow More tender, as we every day behold, Than that all-softening, overpowering knell, The tocsin of the soul—the dinner-bell.
Turkey contains no bells, and yet men dine; And Juan and his friend, albeit they heard No Christian knoll to table, saw no line Of lackeys usher to the feast prepared, Yet smelt roast-meat, beheld a huge fire shine, And cooks in motion with their clean arms bared, And gazed around them to the left and right With the prophetic eye of appetite.
And giving up all notions of resistance, They follow’d close behind their sable guide, Who little thought that his own crack’d existence Was on the point of being set aside: He motion’d them to stop at some small distance, And knocking at the gate, ’twas open’d wide, And a magnificent large hall display’d The Asian pomp of Ottoman parade.
I won’t describe; description is my forte, But every fool describes in these bright days His wondrous journey to some foreign court, And spawns his quarto, and demands your praise— Death to his publisher, to him ’tis sport; While Nature, tortured twenty thousand ways, Resigns herself with exemplary patience To guide-books, rhymes, tours, sketches, illustrations.
Along this hall, and up and down, some, squatted Upon their hams, were occupied at chess; Others in monosyllable talk chatted, And some seem’d much in love with their own dress. And divers smoked superb pipes decorated With amber mouths of greater price or less; And several strutted, others slept, and some Prepared for supper with a glass of rum.
As the black eunuch enter’d with his brace Of purchased Infidels, some raised their eyes A moment without slackening from their pace; But those who sate ne’er stirr’d in anywise: One or two stared the captives in the face, Just as one views a horse to guess his price; Some nodded to the negro from their station, But no one troubled him with conversation.
He leads them through the hall, and, without stopping, On through a farther range of goodly rooms, Splendid but silent, save in one, where, dropping, A marble fountain echoes through the glooms Of night which robe the chamber, or where popping Some female head most curiously presumes To thrust its black eyes through the door or lattice, As wondering what the devil a noise that is.
Some faint lamps gleaming from the lofty walls Gave light enough to hint their farther way, But not enough to show the imperial halls, In all the flashing of their full array; Perhaps there’s nothing—I’ll not say appals, But saddens more by night as well as day, Than an enormous room without a soul To break the lifeless splendour of the whole.
Two or three seem so little, one seems nothing: In deserts, forests, crowds, or by the shore, There solitude, we know, has her full growth in The spots which were her realms for evermore; But in a mighty hall or gallery, both in More modern buildings and those built of yore, A kind of death comes o’er us all alone, Seeing what ’s meant for many with but one.
A neat, snug study on a winter’s night, A book, friend, single lady, or a glass Of claret, sandwich, and an appetite, Are things which make an English evening pass; Though certes by no means so grand a sight As is a theatre lit up by gas. I pass my evenings in long galleries solely, And that ’s the reason I’m so melancholy.
Alas! man makes that great which makes him little: I grant you in a church ’tis very well: What speaks of Heaven should by no means be brittle, But strong and lasting, till no tongue can tell Their names who rear’d it; but huge houses fit ill— And huge tombs worse—mankind, since Adam fell: Methinks the story of the tower of Babel Might teach them this much better than I’m able.
Babel was Nimrod’s hunting-box, and then A town of gardens, walls, and wealth amazing, Where Nabuchadonosor, king of men, Reign’d, till one summer’s day he took to grazing, And Daniel tamed the lions in their den, The people’s awe and admiration raising; ’Twas famous, too, for Thisbe and for Pyramus, And the calumniated queen Semiramis.
That injured Queen by chroniclers so coarse Has been accused (I doubt not by conspiracy) Of an improper friendship for her horse (Love, like religion, sometimes runs to heresy): This monstrous tale had probably its source (For such exaggerations here and there I see) In writing ‘Courser’ by mistake for ‘Courier:’ I wish the case could come before a jury here.
But to resume,—should there be (what may not Be in these days?) some infidels, who don’t, Because they can’t find out the very spot Of that same Babel, or because they won’t (Though Claudius Rich, Esquire, some bricks has got, And written lately two memoirs upon’t), Believe the Jews, those unbelievers, who Must be believed, though they believe not you,
Yet let them think that Horace has exprest Shortly and sweetly the masonic folly Of those, forgetting the great place of rest, Who give themselves to architecture wholly; We know where things and men must end at best: A moral (like all morals) melancholy, And ‘Et sepulchri immemor struis domos’ Shows that we build when we should but entomb us.
At last they reach’d a quarter most retired, Where echo woke as if from a long slumber; Though full of all things which could be desired, One wonder’d what to do with such a number Of articles which nobody required; Here wealth had done its utmost to encumber With furniture an exquisite apartment, Which puzzled Nature much to know what Art meant.
It seem’d, however, but to open on A range or suite of further chambers, which Might lead to heaven knows where; but in this one The movables were prodigally rich: Sofas ’twas half a sin to sit upon, So costly were they; carpets every stitch Of workmanship so rare, they made you wish You could glide o’er them like a golden fish.
The black, however, without hardly deigning A glance at that which wrapt the slaves in wonder, Trampled what they scarce trod for fear of staining, As if the milky way their feet was under With all its stars; and with a stretch attaining A certain press or cupboard niched in yonder— In that remote recess which you may see— Or if you don’t the fault is not in me,—
I wish to be perspicuous; and the black, I say, unlocking the recess, pull’d forth A quantity of clothes fit for the back Of any Mussulman, whate’er his worth; And of variety there was no lack— And yet, though I have said there was no dearth, He chose himself to point out what he thought Most proper for the Christians he had bought.
The suit he thought most suitable to each Was, for the elder and the stouter, first A Candiote cloak, which to the knee might reach, And trousers not so tight that they would burst, But such as fit an Asiatic breech; A shawl, whose folds in Cashmire had been nurst, Slippers of saffron, dagger rich and handy; In short, all things which form a Turkish Dandy.
While he was dressing, Baba, their black friend, Hinted the vast advantages which they Might probably attain both in the end, If they would but pursue the proper way Which fortune plainly seem’d to recommend; And then he added, that he needs must say, ‘’Twould greatly tend to better their condition, If they would condescend to circumcision.
‘For his own part, he really should rejoice To see them true believers, but no less Would leave his proposition to their choice.’ The other, thanking him for this excess Of goodness, in thus leaving them a voice In such a trifle, scarcely could express ‘Sufficiently’ (he said) ‘his approbation Of all the customs of this polish’d nation.
‘For his own share—he saw but small objection To so respectable an ancient rite; And, after swallowing down a slight refection, For which he own’d a present appetite, He doubted not a few hours of reflection Would reconcile him to the business quite.’ ‘Will it?’ said Juan, sharply: ‘Strike me dead, But they as soon shall circumcise my head!
‘Cut off a thousand heads, before—’—‘Now, pray,’ Replied the other, ‘do not interrupt: You put me out in what I had to say. Sir!—as I said, as soon as I have supt, I shall perpend if your proposal may Be such as I can properly accept; Provided always your great goodness still Remits the matter to our own free-will.’
Baba eyed Juan, and said, ‘Be so good As dress yourself—’ and pointed out a suit In which a Princess with great pleasure would Array her limbs; but Juan standing mute, As not being in a masquerading mood, Gave it a slight kick with his Christian foot; And when the old negro told him to ‘Get ready,’ Replied, ‘Old gentleman, I’m not a lady.’
‘What you may be, I neither know nor care,’ Said Baba; ‘but pray do as I desire: I have no more time nor many words to spare.’ ‘At least,’ said Juan, ‘sure I may enquire The cause of this odd travesty?’—‘Forbear,’ Said Baba, ‘to be curious; ’twill transpire, No doubt, in proper place, and time, and season: I have no authority to tell the reason.’
‘Then if I do,’ said Juan, ‘I’ll be—’—‘Hold!’ Rejoin’d the negro, ‘pray be not provoking; This spirit ’s well, but it may wax too bold, And you will find us not top fond of joking.’ ‘What, sir!’ said Juan, ‘shall it e’er be told That I unsex’d my dress?’ But Baba, stroking The things down, said, ‘Incense me, and I call Those who will leave you of no sex at all.
‘I offer you a handsome suit of clothes: A woman’s, true; but then there is a cause Why you should wear them.’—‘What, though my soul loathes The effeminate garb?’—thus, after a short pause, Sigh’d Juan, muttering also some slight oaths, ‘What the devil shall I do with all this gauze?’ Thus he profanely term’d the finest lace Which e’er set off a marriage-morning face.
And then he swore; and, sighing, on he slipp’d A pair of trousers of flesh-colour’d silk; Next with a virgin zone he was equipp’d, Which girt a slight chemise as white as milk; But tugging on his petticoat, he tripp’d, Which—as we say—or, as the Scotch say, whilk (The rhyme obliges me to this; sometimes Monarchs are less imperative than rhymes)—
Whilk, which (or what you please), was owing to His garment’s novelty, and his being awkward: And yet at last he managed to get through His toilet, though no doubt a little backward: The negro Baba help’d a little too, When some untoward part of raiment stuck hard; And, wrestling both his arms into a gown, He paused, and took a survey up and down.
One difficulty still remain’d—his hair Was hardly long enough; but Baba found So many false long tresses all to spare, That soon his head was most completely crown’d, After the manner then in fashion there; And this addition with such gems was bound As suited the ensemble of his toilet, While Baba made him comb his head and oil it.
And now being femininely all array’d, With some small aid from scissors, paint, and tweezers, He look’d in almost all respects a maid, And Baba smilingly exclaim’d, ‘You see, sirs, A perfect transformation here display’d; And now, then, you must come along with me, sirs, That is—the Lady:’ clapping his hands twice, Four blacks were at his elbow in a trice.
‘You, sir,’ said Baba, nodding to the one, ‘Will please to accompany those gentlemen To supper; but you, worthy Christian nun, Will follow me: no trifling, sir; for when I say a thing, it must at once be done. What fear you? think you this a lion’s den? Why, ’tis a palace; where the truly wise Anticipate the Prophet’s paradise.
‘You fool! I tell you no one means you harm.’ ‘So much the better,’ Juan said, ‘for them; Else they shall feel the weight of this my arm, Which is not quite so light as you may deem. I yield thus far; but soon will break the charm If any take me for that which I seem: So that I trust for everybody’s sake, That this disguise may lead to no mistake.’
‘Blockhead! come on, and see,’ quoth Baba; while Don Juan, turning to his comrade, who Though somewhat grieved, could scarce forbear a smile Upon the metamorphosis in view,— ‘Farewell!’ they mutually exclaim’d: ‘this soil Seems fertile in adventures strange and new; One ’s turn’d half Mussulman, and one a maid, By this old black enchanter’s unsought aid.’
‘Farewell!’ said Juan: ‘should we meet no more, I wish you a good appetite.’—‘Farewell!’ Replied the other; ‘though it grieves me sore; When we next meet we’ll have a tale to tell: We needs must follow when Fate puts from shore. Keep your good name; though Eve herself once fell.’ ‘Nay,’ quoth the maid, ‘the Sultan’s self shan’t carry me, Unless his highness promises to marry me.
And thus they parted, each by separate doors; Baba led Juan onward room by room Through glittering galleries and o’er marble floors, Till a gigantic portal through the gloom, Haughty and huge, along the distance lowers; And wafted far arose a rich perfume: It seem’d as though they came upon a shrine, For all was vast, still, fragrant, and divine.
The giant door was broad, and bright, and high, Of gilded bronze, and carved in curious guise; Warriors thereon were battling furiously; Here stalks the victor, there the vanquish’d lies; There captives led in triumph droop the eye, And in perspective many a squadron flies: It seems the work of times before the line Of Rome transplanted fell with Constantine.
This massy portal stood at the wide close Of a huge hall, and on its either side Two little dwarfs, the least you could suppose, Were sate, like ugly imps, as if allied In mockery to the enormous gate which rose O’er them in almost pyramidic pride: The gate so splendid was in all its features, You never thought about those little creatures,
Until you nearly trod on them, and then You started back in horror to survey The wondrous hideousness of those small men, Whose colour was not black, nor white, nor grey, But an extraneous mixture, which no pen Can trace, although perhaps the pencil may; They were mis-shapen pigmies, deaf and dumb— Monsters, who cost a no less monstrous sum.
Their duty was—for they were strong, and though They look’d so little, did strong things at times— To ope this door, which they could really do, The hinges being as smooth as Rogers’ rhymes; And now and then, with tough strings of the bow, As is the custom of those Eastern climes, To give some rebel Pacha a cravat; For mutes are generally used for that.
They spoke by signs—that is, not spoke at all; And looking like two incubi, they glared As Baba with his fingers made them fall To heaving back the portal folds: it scared Juan a moment, as this pair so small With shrinking serpent optics on him stared; It was as if their little looks could poison Or fascinate whome’er they fix’d their eyes on.
Before they enter’d, Baba paused to hint To Juan some slight lessons as his guide: ‘If you could just contrive,’ he said, ‘to stint That somewhat manly majesty of stride, ’Twould be as well, and (though there’s not much in ’t) To swing a little less from side to side, Which has at times an aspect of the oddest;— And also could you look a little modest,
‘’Twould be convenient; for these mutes have eyes Like needles, which may pierce those petticoats; And if they should discover your disguise, You know how near us the deep Bosphorus floats; And you and I may chance, ere morning rise, To find our way to Marmora without boats, Stitch’d up in sacks—a mode of navigation A good deal practised here upon occasion.’
With this encouragement, he led the way Into a room still nobler than the last; A rich confusion form’d a disarray In such sort, that the eye along it cast Could hardly carry anything away, Object on object flash’d so bright and fast; A dazzling mass of gems, and gold, and glitter, Magnificently mingled in a litter.
Wealth had done wonders—taste not much; such things Occur in Orient palaces, and even In the more chasten’d domes of Western kings (Of which I have also seen some six or seven), Where I can’t say or gold or diamond flings Great lustre, there is much to be forgiven; Groups of bad statues, tables, chairs, and pictures, On which I cannot pause to make my strictures.
In this imperial hall, at distance lay Under a canopy, and there reclined Quite in a confidential queenly way, A lady; Baba stopp’d, and kneeling sign’d To Juan, who though not much used to pray, Knelt down by instinct, wondering in his mind, What all this meant: while Baba bow’d and bended His head, until the ceremony ended.
The lady rising up with such an air As Venus rose with from the wave, on them Bent like an antelope a Paphian pair Of eyes, which put out each surrounding gem; And raising up an arm as moonlight fair, She sign’d to Baba, who first kiss’d the hem Of her deep purple robe, and speaking low, Pointed to Juan who remain’d below.
Her presence was as lofty as her state; Her beauty of that overpowering kind, Whose force description only would abate: I’d rather leave it much to your own mind, Than lessen it by what I could relate Of forms and features; it would strike you blind Could I do justice to the full detail; So, luckily for both, my phrases fail.