Chapter 20

And thus I supplicate your supposition, And mildest, matron-like interpretation, Of the imperial favourite’s condition. ’Twas a high place, the highest in the nation In fact, if not in rank; and the suspicion Of any one’s attaining to his station, No doubt gave pain, where each new pair of shoulders, If rather broad, made stocks rise and their holders.

Juan, I said, was a most beauteous boy, And had retain’d his boyish look beyond The usual hirsute seasons which destroy, With beards and whiskers, and the like, the fond Parisian aspect which upset old Troy And founded Doctors’ Commons:—I have conn’d The history of divorces, which, though chequer’d, Calls Ilion’s the first damages on record.

And Catherine, who loved all things (save her lord, Who was gone to his place), and pass’d for much Admiring those (by dainty dames abhorr’d) Gigantic gentlemen, yet had a touch Of sentiment; and he she most adored Was the lamented Lanskoi, who was such A lover as had cost her many a tear, And yet but made a middling grenadier.

O thou ‘teterrima causa’ of all ‘belli’— Thou gate of life and death—thou nondescript! Whence is our exit and our entrance,—well I May pause in pondering how all souls are dipt In thy perennial fountain:—how man fell I Know not, since knowledge saw her branches stript Of her first fruit; but how he falls and rises Since, thou hast settled beyond all surmises.

Some call thee ‘the worst cause of war,’ but I Maintain thou art the best: for after all From thee we come, to thee we go, and why To get at thee not batter down a wall, Or waste a world? since no one can deny Thou dost replenish worlds both great and small: With, or without thee, all things at a stand Are, or would be, thou sea of life’s dry land!

Catherine, who was the grand epitome Of that great cause of war, or peace, or what You please (it causes all the things which be, So you may take your choice of this or that)— Catherine, I say, was very glad to see The handsome herald, on whose plumage sat Victory; and pausing as she saw him kneel With his despatch, forgot to break the seal.

Then recollecting the whole empress, nor forgetting quite the woman (which composed At least three parts of this great whole), she tore The letter open with an air which posed The court, that watch’d each look her visage wore, Until a royal smile at length disclosed Fair weather for the day. Though rather spacious, Her face was noble, her eyes fine, mouth gracious.

Great joy was hers, or rather joys: the first Was a ta’en city, thirty thousand slain. Glory and triumph o’er her aspect burst, As an East Indian sunrise on the main. These quench’d a moment her ambition’s thirst— So Arab deserts drink in summer’s rain: In vain!—As fall the dews on quenchless sands, Blood only serves to wash Ambition’s hands!

Her next amusement was more fanciful; She smiled at mad Suwarrow’s rhymes, who threw Into a Russian couplet rather dull The whole gazette of thousands whom he slew. Her third was feminine enough to annul The shudder which runs naturally through Our veins, when things call’d sovereigns think it best To kill, and generals turn it into jest.

The two first feelings ran their course complete, And lighted first her eye, and then her mouth: The whole court look’d immediately most sweet, Like flowers well water’d after a long drouth. But when on the lieutenant at her feet Her majesty, who liked to gaze on youth Almost as much as on a new despatch, Glanced mildly, all the world was on the watch.

Though somewhat large, exuberant, and truculent, When wroth—while pleased, she was as fine a figure As those who like things rosy, ripe, and succulent, Would wish to look on, while they are in vigour. She could repay each amatory look you lent With interest, and in turn was wont with rigour To exact of Cupid’s bills the full amount At sight, nor would permit you to discount.

With her the latter, though at times convenient, Was not so necessary; for they tell That she was handsome, and though fierce look’d lenient, And always used her favourites too well. If once beyond her boudoir’s precincts in ye went, Your ‘fortune’ was in a fair way ‘to swell A man’ (as Giles says); for though she would widow all Nations, she liked man as an individual.

What a strange thing is man? and what a stranger Is woman! What a whirlwind is her head, And what a whirlpool full of depth and danger Is all the rest about her! Whether wed Or widow, maid or mother, she can change her Mind like the wind: whatever she has said Or done, is light to what she’ll say or do;— The oldest thing on record, and yet new!

O Catherine! (for of all interjections, To thee both oh! and ah! belong of right In love and war) how odd are the connections Of human thoughts, which jostle in their flight! Just now yours were cut out in different sections: First Ismail’s capture caught your fancy quite; Next of new knights, the fresh and glorious batch; And thirdly he who brought you the despatch!

Shakspeare talks of ‘the herald Mercury New lighted on a heaven-kissing hill;’ And some such visions cross’d her majesty, While her young herald knelt before her still. ’Tis very true the hill seem’d rather high, For a lieutenant to climb up; but skill Smooth’d even the Simplon’s steep, and by God’s blessing With youth and health all kisses are ‘heaven-kissing.’

Her majesty look’d down, the youth look’d up— And so they fell in love;—she with his face, His grace, his God-knows-what: for Cupid’s cup With the first draught intoxicates apace, A quintessential laudanum or ‘black drop,’ Which makes one drunk at once, without the base Expedient of full bumpers; for the eye In love drinks all life’s fountains (save tears) dry.

He, on the other hand, if not in love, Fell into that no less imperious passion, Self-love—which, when some sort of thing above Ourselves, a singer, dancer, much in fashion, Or duchess, princess, empress, ‘deigns to prove’ (’Tis Pope’s phrase) a great longing, though a rash one, For one especial person out of many, Makes us believe ourselves as good as any.

Besides, he was of that delighted age Which makes all female ages equal—when We don’t much care with whom we may engage, As bold as Daniel in the lion’s den, So that we can our native sun assuage In the next ocean, which may flow just then, To make a twilight in, just as Sol’s heat is Quench’d in the lap of the salt sea, or Thetis.

And Catherine (we must say thus much for Catherine), Though bold and bloody, was the kind of thing Whose temporary passion was quite flattering, Because each lover look’d a sort of king, Made up upon an amatory pattern, A royal husband in all save the ring— Which, being the damn’dest part of matrimony, Seem’d taking out the sting to leave the honey.

And when you add to this, her womanhood In its meridian, her blue eyes or gray (The last, if they have soul, are quite as good, Or better, as the best examples say: Napoleon’s, Mary’s (queen of Scotland), should Lend to that colour a transcendent ray; And Pallas also sanctions the same hue, Too wise to look through optics black or blue)—

Her sweet smile, and her then majestic figure, Her plumpness, her imperial condescension, Her preference of a boy to men much bigger (Fellows whom Messalina’s self would pension), Her prime of life, just now in juicy vigour, With other extras, which we need not mention,— All these, or any one of these, explain Enough to make a stripling very vain.

And that ’s enough, for love is vanity, Selfish in its beginning as its end, Except where ’tis a mere insanity, A maddening spirit which would strive to blend Itself with beauty’s frail inanity, On which the passion’s self seems to depend: And hence some heathenish philosophers Make love the main spring of the universe.

Besides Platonic love, besides the love Of God, the love of sentiment, the loving Of faithful pairs (I needs must rhyme with dove, That good old steam-boat which keeps verses moving ’Gainst reason—Reason ne’er was hand-and-glove With rhyme, but always leant less to improving The sound than sense)—beside all these pretences To love, there are those things which words name senses;

Those movements, those improvements in our bodies Which make all bodies anxious to get out Of their own sand-pits, to mix with a goddess, For such all women are at first no doubt. How beautiful that moment! and how odd is That fever which precedes the languid rout Of our sensations! What a curious way The whole thing is of clothing souls in clay!

The noblest kind of love is love Platonical, To end or to begin with; the next grand Is that which may be christen’d love canonical, Because the clergy take the thing in hand; The third sort to be noted in our chronicle As flourishing in every Christian land, Is when chaste matrons to their other ties Add what may be call’d marriage in disguise.

Well, we won’t analyse—our story must Tell for itself: the sovereign was smitten, Juan much flatter’d by her love, or lust;— I cannot stop to alter words once written, And the two are so mix’d with human dust, That he who names one, both perchance may hit on: But in such matters Russia’s mighty empress Behaved no better than a common sempstress.

The whole court melted into one wide whisper, And all lips were applied unto all ears! The elder ladies’ wrinkles curl’d much crisper As they beheld; the younger cast some leers On one another, and each lovely lisper Smiled as she talk’d the matter o’er; but tears Of rivalship rose in each clouded eye Of all the standing army who stood by.

All the ambassadors of all the powers Enquired, Who was this very new young man, Who promised to be great in some few hours? Which is full soon—though life is but a span. Already they beheld the silver showers Of rubles rain, as fast as specie can, Upon his cabinet, besides the presents Of several ribands, and some thousand peasants.

Catherine was generous,—all such ladies are: Love, that great opener of the heart and all The ways that lead there, be they near or far, Above, below, by turnpikes great or small,— Love (though she had a cursed taste for war, And was not the best wife, unless we call Such Clytemnestra, though perhaps ’tis better That one should die, than two drag on the fetter)—

Love had made Catherine make each lover’s fortune, Unlike our own half-chaste Elizabeth, Whose avarice all disbursements did importune, If history, the grand liar, ever saith The truth; and though grief her old age might shorten, Because she put a favourite to death, Her vile, ambiguous method of flirtation, And stinginess, disgrace her sex and station.

But when the levee rose, and all was bustle In the dissolving circle, all the nations’ Ambassadors began as ’twere to hustle Round the young man with their congratulations. Also the softer silks were heard to rustle Of gentle dames, among whose recreations It is to speculate on handsome faces, Especially when such lead to high places.

Juan, who found himself, he knew not how, A general object of attention, made His answers with a very graceful bow, As if born for the ministerial trade. Though modest, on his unembarrass’d brow Nature had written ‘gentleman.’ He said Little, but to the purpose; and his manner Flung hovering graces o’er him like a banner.

An order from her majesty consign’d Our young lieutenant to the genial care Of those in office: all the world look’d kind (As it will look sometimes with the first stare, Which youth would not act ill to keep in mind), As also did Miss Protasoff then there, Named from her mystic office’l’Eprouveuse,’ A term inexplicable to the Muse.

With her then, as in humble duty bound, Juan retired,—and so will I, until My Pegasus shall tire of touching ground. We have just lit on a ‘heaven-kissing hill,’ So lofty that I feel my brain turn round, And all my fancies whirling like a mill; Which is a signal to my nerves and brain, To take a quiet ride in some green Lane.

CANTO THE TENTH.

When Newton saw an apple fall, he found In that slight startle from his contemplation— ’Tis said (for I’ll not answer above ground For any sage’s creed or calculation)— A mode of proving that the earth turn’d round In a most natural whirl, called ‘gravitation;’ And this is the sole mortal who could grapple, Since Adam, with a fall or with an apple.

Man fell with apples, and with apples rose, If this be true; for we must deem the mode In which Sir Isaac Newton could disclose Through the then unpaved stars the turnpike road, A thing to counterbalance human woes: For ever since immortal man hath glow’d With all kinds of mechanics, and full soon Steam-engines will conduct him to the moon.

And wherefore this exordium?—Why, just now, In taking up this paltry sheet of paper, My bosom underwent a glorious glow, And my internal spirit cut a caper: And though so much inferior, as I know, To those who, by the dint of glass and vapour, Discover stars and sail in the wind’s eye, I wish to do as much by poesy.

In the wind’s eye I have sail’d, and sail; but for The stars, I own my telescope is dim: But at least I have shunn’d the common shore, And leaving land far out of sight, would skim The ocean of eternity: the roar Of breakers has not daunted my slight, trim, But still sea-worthy skiff; and she may float Where ships have founder’d, as doth many a boat.

We left our hero, Juan, in the bloom Of favouritism, but not yet in the blush; And far be it from my Muses to presume (For I have more than one Muse at a push) To follow him beyond the drawing-room: It is enough that Fortune found him flush Of youth, and vigour, beauty, and those things Which for an instant clip enjoyment’s wings.

But soon they grow again and leave their nest. ‘Oh!’ saith the Psalmist, ‘that I had a dove’s Pinions to flee away, and be at rest!’ And who that recollects young years and loves,— Though hoary now, and with a withering breast, And palsied fancy, which no longer roves Beyond its dimm’d eye’s sphere,—but would much rather Sigh like his son, than cough like his grandfather?

But sighs subside, and tears (even widows’) shrink, Like Arno in the summer, to a shallow, So narrow as to shame their wintry brink, Which threatens inundations deep and yellow! Such difference doth a few months make. You’d think Grief a rich field which never would lie fallow; No more it doth, its ploughs but change their boys, Who furrow some new soil to sow for joys.

But coughs will come when sighs depart—and now And then before sighs cease; for oft the one Will bring the other, ere the lake-like brow Is ruffled by a wrinkle, or the sun Of life reach’d ten o’clock: and while a glow, Hectic and brief as summer’s day nigh done, O’erspreads the cheek which seems too pure for clay, Thousands blaze, love, hope, die,—how happy they!

But Juan was not meant to die so soon. We left him in the focus of such glory As may be won by favour of the moon Or ladies’ fancies—rather transitory Perhaps; but who would scorn the month of June, Because December, with his breath so hoary, Must come? Much rather should he court the ray, To hoard up warmth against a wintry day.

Besides, he had some qualities which fix Middle-aged ladies even more than young: The former know what ’s what; while new-fledged chicks Know little more of love than what is sung In rhymes, or dreamt (for fancy will play tricks) In visions of those skies from whence Love sprung. Some reckon women by their suns or years, I rather think the moon should date the dears.

And why? because she ’s changeable and chaste. I know no other reason, whatsoe’er Suspicious people, who find fault in haste, May choose to tax me with; which is not fair, Nor flattering to ‘their temper or their taste,’ As my friend Jeffrey writes with such an air: However, I forgive him, and I trust He will forgive himself;—if not, I must.

Old enemies who have become new friends Should so continue—’tis a point of honour; And I know nothing which could make amends For a return to hatred: I would shun her Like garlic, howsoever she extends Her hundred arms and legs, and fain outrun her. Old flames, new wives, become our bitterest foes— Converted foes should scorn to join with those.

This were the worst desertion:—renegadoes, Even shuffling Southey, that incarnate lie, Would scarcely join again the ‘reformadoes,’ Whom he forsook to fill the laureate’s sty: And honest men from Iceland to Barbadoes, Whether in Caledon or Italy, Should not veer round with every breath, nor seize To pain, the moment when you cease to please.

The lawyer and the critic but behold The baser sides of literature and life, And nought remains unseen, but much untold, By those who scour those double vales of strife. While common men grow ignorantly old, The lawyer’s brief is like the surgeon’s knife, Dissecting the whole inside of a question, And with it all the process of digestion.

A legal broom ’s a moral chimney-sweeper, And that ’s the reason he himself ’s so dirty; The endless soot bestows a tint far deeper Than can be hid by altering his shirt; he Retains the sable stains of the dark creeper, At least some twenty-nine do out of thirty, In all their habits;—not so you, I own; As Caesar wore his robe you wear your gown.

And all our little feuds, at least all mine, Dear Jefferson, once my most redoubted foe (As far as rhyme and criticism combine To make such puppets of us things below), Are over: Here ’s a health to ‘Auld Lang Syne!’ I do not know you, and may never know Your face—but you have acted on the whole Most nobly, and I own it from my soul.

And when I use the phrase of ‘Auld Lang Syne!’ ’Tis not address’d to you—the more ’s the pity For me, for I would rather take my wine With you, than aught (save Scott) in your proud city. But somehow,—it may seem a schoolboy’s whine, And yet I seek not to be grand nor witty, But I am half a Scot by birth, and bred A whole one, and my heart flies to my head,—

As ‘Auld Lang Syne’ brings Scotland, one and all, Scotch plaids, Scotch snoods, the blue hills, and clear streams, The Dee, the Don, Balgounie’s brig’s black wall, All my boy feelings, all my gentler dreams Of what I then dreamt, clothed in their own pall, Like Banquo’s offspring;—floating past me seems My childhood in this childishness of mine: I care not—’tis a glimpse of ‘Auld Lang Syne.’

And though, as you remember, in a fit Of wrath and rhyme, when juvenile and curly, I rail’d at Scots to show my wrath and wit, Which must be own’d was sensitive and surly, Yet ’tis in vain such sallies to permit, They cannot quench young feelings fresh and early: I ‘scotch’d not kill’d’ the Scotchman in my blood, And love the land of ‘mountain and of flood.’

Don Juan, who was real, or ideal,— For both are much the same, since what men think Exists when the once thinkers are less real Than what they thought, for mind can never sink, And ’gainst the body makes a strong appeal; And yet ’tis very puzzling on the brink Of what is call’d eternity, to stare, And know no more of what is here, than there;—

Don Juan grew a very polish’d Russian— How we won’t mention, why we need not say: Few youthful minds can stand the strong concussion Of any slight temptation in their way; But his just now were spread as is a cushion Smooth’d for a monarch’s seat of honour; gay Damsels, and dances, revels, ready money, Made ice seem paradise, and winter sunny.

The favour of the empress was agreeable; And though the duty wax’d a little hard, Young people at his time of life should be able To come off handsomely in that regard. He was now growing up like a green tree, able For love, war, or ambition, which reward Their luckier votaries, till old age’s tedium Make some prefer the circulating medium.

About this time, as might have been anticipated, Seduced by youth and dangerous examples, Don Juan grew, I fear, a little dissipated; Which is a sad thing, and not only tramples On our fresh feelings, but—as being participated With all kinds of incorrigible samples Of frail humanity—must make us selfish, And shut our souls up in us like a shell-fish.

This we pass over. We will also pass 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.

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.

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.

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;—

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.

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.

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.

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.