Chapter 4

None can say that this was not good advice, The only mischief was, it came too late; Of all experience ’tis the usual price, A sort of income-tax laid on by fate: Juan had reach’d the room-door in a. trice, And might have done so by the garden-gate, But met Alfonso in his dressing-gown, Who threaten’d death—so Juan knock’d him down.

Dire was the scuffle, and out went the light; Antonia cried out ‘Rape!’ and Julia ‘Fire!’ But not a servant stirr’d to aid the fight. Alfonso, pommell’d to his heart’s desire, Swore lustily he’d be revenged this night; And Juan, too, blasphemed an octave higher; His blood was up: though young, he was a Tartar, And not at all disposed to prove a martyr.

Alfonso’s sword had dropp’d ere he could draw it, And they continued battling hand to hand, For Juan very luckily ne’er saw it; His temper not being under great command, If at that moment he had chanced to claw it, Alfonso’s days had not been in the land Much longer.—Think of husbands’, lovers’ lives! And how ye may be doubly widows—wives!

Alfonso grappled to detain the foe, And Juan throttled him to get away, And blood (’twas from the nose) began to flow; At last, as they more faintly wrestling lay, Juan contrived to give an awkward blow, And then his only garment quite gave way; He fled, like Joseph, leaving it; but there, I doubt, all likeness ends between the pair.

Lights came at length, and men, and maids, who found An awkward spectacle their eyes before; Antonia in hysterics, Julia swoon’d, Alfonso leaning, breathless, by the door; Some half-torn drapery scatter’d on the ground, Some blood, and several footsteps, but no more: Juan the gate gain’d, turn’d the key about, And liking not the inside, lock’d the out.

Here ends this canto.—Need I sing, or say, How Juan naked, favour’d by the night, Who favours what she should not, found his way, And reach’d his home in an unseemly plight? The pleasant scandal which arose next day, The nine days’ wonder which was brought to light, And how Alfonso sued for a divorce, Were in the English newspapers, of course.

If you would like to see the whole proceedings, The depositions, and the cause at full, The names of all the witnesses, the pleadings Of counsel to nonsuit, or to annul, There’s more than one edition, and the readings Are various, but they none of them are dull; The best is that in short-hand ta’en by Gurney, Who to Madrid on purpose made a journey.

But Donna Inez, to divert the train Of one of the most circulating scandals That had for centuries been known in Spain, At least since the retirement of the Vandals, First vow’d (and never had she vow’d in vain) To Virgin Mary several pounds of candles; And then, by the advice of some old ladies, She sent her son to be shipp’d off from Cadiz.

She had resolved that he should travel through All European climes, by land or sea, To mend his former morals, and get new, Especially in France and Italy (At least this is the thing most people do). Julia was sent into a convent: she Grieved, but, perhaps, her feelings may be better Shown in the following copy of her Letter:—

‘They tell me ’tis decided; you depart: ’Tis wise—’tis well, but not the less a pain; I have no further claim on your young heart, Mine is the victim, and would be again; To love too much has been the only art I used;—I write in haste, and if a stain Be on this sheet, ’tis not what it appears; My eyeballs burn and throb, but have no tears.

‘I loved, I love you, for this love have lost State, station, heaven, mankind’s, my own esteem, And yet can not regret what it hath cost, So dear is still the memory of that dream; Yet, if I name my guilt, ’tis not to boast, None can deem harshlier of me than I deem: I trace this scrawl because I cannot rest— I’ve nothing to reproach, or to request.

‘Man’s love is of man’s life a thing apart, ’Tis woman’s whole existence; man may range The court, camp, church, the vessel, and the mart; Sword, gown, gain, glory, offer in exchange Pride, fame, ambition, to fill up his heart, And few there are whom these cannot estrange; Men have all these resources, we but one, To love again, and be again undone.

‘You will proceed in pleasure, and in pride, Beloved and loving many; all is o’er For me on earth, except some years to hide My shame and sorrow deep in my heart’s core; These I could bear, but cannot cast aside The passion which still rages as before— And so farewell—forgive me, love me—No, That word is idle now—but let it go.

‘My breast has been all weakness, is so yet; But still I think I can collect my mind; My blood still rushes where my spirit ’s set, As roll the waves before the settled wind; My heart is feminine, nor can forget— To all, except one image, madly blind; So shakes the needle, and so stands the pole, As vibrates my fond heart to my fix’d soul.

‘I have no more to say, but linger still, And dare not set my seal upon this sheet, And yet I may as well the task fulfil, My misery can scarce be more complete: I had not lived till now, could sorrow kill; Death shuns the wretch who fain the blow would meet, And I must even survive this last adieu, And bear with life, to love and pray for you!’

This note was written upon gilt-edged paper With a neat little crow-quill, slight and new: Her small white hand could hardly reach the taper, It trembled as magnetic needles do, And yet she did not let one tear escape her; The seal a sun-flower; ‘Elle vous suit partout,’ The motto cut upon a white cornelian; The wax was superfine, its hue vermilion.

This was Don Juan’s earliest scrape; but whether I shall proceed with his adventures is Dependent on the public altogether; We’ll see, however, what they say to this: Their favour in an author’s cap ’s a feather, And no great mischief ’s done by their caprice; And if their approbation we experience, Perhaps they’ll have some more about a year hence.

My poem ’s epic, and is meant to be Divided in twelve books; each book containing, With love, and war, a heavy gale at sea, A list of ships, and captains, and kings reigning, New characters; the episodes are three: A panoramic view of hell ’s in training, After the style of Virgil and of Homer, So that my name of Epic ’s no misnomer.

All these things will be specified in time, With strict regard to Aristotle’s rules, The Vade Mecum of the true sublime, Which makes so many poets, and some fools: Prose poets like blank-verse, I’m fond of rhyme, Good workmen never quarrel with their tools; I’ve got new mythological machinery, And very handsome supernatural scenery.

There’s only one slight difference between Me and my epic brethren gone before, And here the advantage is my own, I ween (Not that I have not several merits more, But this will more peculiarly be seen); They so embellish, that ’tis quite a bore Their labyrinth of fables to thread through, Whereas this story ’s actually true.

If any person doubt it, I appeal To history, tradition, and to facts, To newspapers, whose truth all know and feel, To plays in five, and operas in three acts; All these confirm my statement a good deal, But that which more completely faith exacts Is that myself, and several now in Seville, Saw Juan’s last elopement with the devil.

If ever I should condescend to prose, I’ll write poetical commandments, which Shall supersede beyond all doubt all those That went before; in these I shall enrich My text with many things that no one knows, And carry precept to the highest pitch: I’ll call the work ‘Longinus o’er a Bottle, Or, Every Poet his own Aristotle.’

Thou shalt believe in Milton, Dryden, Pope; Thou shalt not set up Wordsworth, Coleridge, Southey; Because the first is crazed beyond all hope, The second drunk, the third so quaint and mouthy: With Crabbe it may be difficult to cope, And Campbell’s Hippocrene is somewhat drouthy: Thou shalt not steal from Samuel Rogers, nor Commit—flirtation with the muse of Moore.

Thou shalt not covet Mr. Sotheby’s Muse, His Pegasus, nor anything that ’s his; Thou shalt not bear false witness like ‘the Blues’ (There’s one, at least, is very fond of this); Thou shalt not write, in short, but what I choose: This is true criticism, and you may kiss— Exactly as you please, or not,—the rod; But if you don’t, I’ll lay it on, by G—d!

If any person should presume to assert This story is not moral, first, I pray, That they will not cry out before they’re hurt, Then that they’ll read it o’er again, and say (But, doubtless, nobody will be so pert) That this is not a moral tale, though gay; Besides, in Canto Twelfth, I mean to show The very place where wicked people go.

If, after all, there should be some so blind To their own good this warning to despise, Led by some tortuosity of mind, Not to believe my verse and their own eyes, And cry that they ‘the moral cannot find,’ I tell him, if a clergyman, he lies; Should captains the remark, or critics, make, They also lie too—under a mistake.

The public approbation I expect, And beg they’ll take my word about the moral, Which I with their amusement will connect (So children cutting teeth receive a coral); Meantime, they’ll doubtless please to recollect My epical pretensions to the laurel: For fear some prudish readers should grow skittish, I’ve bribed my grandmother’s review—the British.

I sent it in a letter to the Editor, Who thank’d me duly by return of post— I’m for a handsome article his creditor; Yet, if my gentle Muse he please to roast, And break a promise after having made it her, Denying the receipt of what it cost, And smear his page with gall instead of honey, All I can say is—that he had the money.

I think that with this holy new alliance I may ensure the public, and defy All other magazines of art or science, Daily, or monthly, or three monthly; I Have not essay’d to multiply their clients, Because they tell me ’twere in vain to try, And that the Edinburgh Review and Quarterly Treat a dissenting author very martyrly.

‘Non ego hoc ferrem calida juventa Consule Planco,’ Horace said, and so Say I; by which quotation there is meant a Hint that some six or seven good years ago (Long ere I dreamt of dating from the Brenta) I was most ready to return a blow, And would not brook at all this sort of thing In my hot youth—when George the Third was King.

But now at thirty years my hair is grey (I wonder what it will be like at forty? I thought of a peruke the other day)— My heart is not much greener; and, in short, I Have squander’d my whole summer while ’twas May, And feel no more the spirit to retort; I Have spent my life, both interest and principal, And deem not, what I deem’d, my soul invincible.

No more—no more—Oh! never more on me The freshness of the heart can fall like dew, Which out of all the lovely things we see Extracts emotions beautiful and new, Hived in our bosoms like the bag o’ the bee: Think’st thou the honey with those objects grew? Alas! ’twas not in them, but in thy power To double even the sweetness of a flower.

No more—no more—Oh! never more, my heart, Canst thou be my sole world, my universe! Once all in all, but now a thing apart, Thou canst not be my blessing or my curse: The illusion ’s gone for ever, and thou art Insensible, I trust, but none the worse, And in thy stead I’ve got a deal of judgment, Though heaven knows how it ever found a lodgment.

My days of love are over; me no more The charms of maid, wife, and still less of widow, Can make the fool of which they made before,— In short, I must not lead the life I did do; The credulous hope of mutual minds is o’er, The copious use of claret is forbid too, So for a good old-gentlemanly vice, I think I must take up with avarice.

Ambition was my idol, which was broken Before the shrines of Sorrow, and of Pleasure; And the two last have left me many a token O’er which reflection may be made at leisure: Now, like Friar Bacon’s brazen head, I’ve spoken, ‘Time is, Time was, Time ’s past:’—a chymic treasure Is glittering youth, which I have spent betimes— My heart in passion, and my head on rhymes.

What is the end of Fame? ’tis but to fill A certain portion of uncertain paper: Some liken it to climbing up a hill, Whose summit, like all hills, is lost in vapour; For this men write, speak, preach, and heroes kill, And bards burn what they call their ‘midnight taper,’ To have, when the original is dust, A name, a wretched picture, and worse bust.

What are the hopes of man? Old Egypt’s King Cheops erected the first pyramid And largest, thinking it was just the thing To keep his memory whole, and mummy hid; But somebody or other rummaging, Burglariously broke his coffin’s lid: Let not a monument give you or me hopes, Since not a pinch of dust remains of Cheops.

But I being fond of true philosophy, Say very often to myself, ‘Alas! All things that have been born were born to die, And flesh (which Death mows down to hay) is grass; You’ve pass’d your youth not so unpleasantly, And if you had it o’er again—’twould pass— So thank your stars that matters are no worse, And read your Bible, sir, and mind your purse.’

But for the present, gentle reader! and Still gentler purchaser! the bard—that ’s I— Must, with permission, shake you by the hand, And so ‘Your humble servant, and good-b’ye!’ We meet again, if we should understand Each other; and if not, I shall not try Your patience further than by this short sample— ’Twere well if others follow’d my example.

‘Go, little book, from this my solitude! I cast thee on the waters—go thy ways! And if, as I believe, thy vein be good, The world will find thee after many days.’ When Southey’s read, and Wordsworth understood, I can’t help putting in my claim to praise— The four first rhymes are Southey’s every line: For God’s sake, reader! take them not for mine.

CANTO THE SECOND.

O ye! who teach the ingenuous youth of nations, Holland, France, England, Germany, or Spain, I pray ye flog them upon all occasions, It mends their morals, never mind the pain: The best of mothers and of educations In Juan’s case were but employ’d in vain, Since, in a way that ’s rather of the oddest, he Became divested of his native modesty.

Had he but been placed at a public school, In the third form, or even in the fourth, His daily task had kept his fancy cool, At least, had he been nurtured in the north; Spain may prove an exception to the rule, But then exceptions always prove its worth— A lad of sixteen causing a divorce Puzzled his tutors very much, of course.

I can’t say that it puzzles me at all, If all things be consider’d: first, there was His lady—mother, mathematical, A—never mind; his tutor, an old ass; A pretty woman (that ’s quite natural, Or else the thing had hardly come to pass); A husband rather old, not much in unity With his young wife—a time, and opportunity.

Well—well, the world must turn upon its axis, And all mankind turn with it, heads or tails, And live and die, make love and pay our taxes, And as the veering wind shifts, shift our sails; The king commands us, and the doctor quacks us, The priest instructs, and so our life exhales, A little breath, love, wine, ambition, fame, Fighting, devotion, dust,—perhaps a name.

I said that Juan had been sent to Cadiz— A pretty town, I recollect it well— ’Tis there the mart of the colonial trade is (Or was, before Peru learn’d to rebel), And such sweet girls—I mean, such graceful ladies, Their very walk would make your bosom swell; I can’t describe it, though so much it strike, Nor liken it—I never saw the like:

An Arab horse, a stately stag, a barb New broke, a cameleopard, a gazelle, No—none of these will do;—and then their garb! Their veil and petticoat—Alas! to dwell Upon such things would very near absorb A canto—then their feet and ankles,—well, Thank Heaven I’ve got no metaphor quite ready (And so, my sober Muse—come, let ’s be steady—

Chaste Muse!—well, if you must, you must)—the veil Thrown back a moment with the glancing hand, While the o’erpowering eye, that turns you pale, Flashes into the heart:—All sunny land Of love! when I forget you, may I fail To—say my prayers—but never was there plann’d A dress through which the eyes give such a volley, Excepting the Venetian Fazzioli.

But to our tale: the Donna Inez sent Her son to Cadiz only to embark; To stay there had not answer’d her intent, But why?—we leave the reader in the dark— ’Twas for a voyage that the young man was meant, As if a Spanish ship were Noah’s ark, To wean him from the wickedness of earth, And send him like a dove of promise forth.

Don Juan bade his valet pack his things According to direction, then received A lecture and some money: for four springs He was to travel; and though Inez grieved (As every kind of parting has its stings), She hoped he would improve—perhaps believed: A letter, too, she gave (he never read it) Of good advice—and two or three of credit.

In the mean time, to pass her hours away, Brave Inez now set up a Sunday school For naughty children, who would rather play (Like truant rogues) the devil, or the fool; Infants of three years old were taught that day, Dunces were whipt, or set upon a stool: The great success of Juan’s education, Spurr’d her to teach another generation.

Juan embark’d—the ship got under way, The wind was fair, the water passing rough: A devil of a sea rolls in that bay, As I, who’ve cross’d it oft, know well enough; And, standing upon deck, the dashing spray Flies in one’s face, and makes it weather-tough: And there he stood to take, and take again, His first—perhaps his last—farewell of Spain.

I can’t but say it is an awkward sight To see one’s native land receding through The growing waters; it unmans one quite, Especially when life is rather new: I recollect Great Britain’s coast looks white, But almost every other country ’s blue, When gazing on them, mystified by distance, We enter on our nautical existence.

So Juan stood, bewilder’d on the deck: The wind sung, cordage strain’d, and sailors swore, And the ship creak’d, the town became a speck, From which away so fair and fast they bore. The best of remedies is a beef-steak Against sea-sickness: try it, sir, before You sneer, and I assure you this is true, For I have found it answer—so may you.

Don Juan stood, and, gazing from the stern, Beheld his native Spain receding far: First partings form a lesson hard to learn, Even nations feel this when they go to war; There is a sort of unexprest concern, A kind of shock that sets one’s heart ajar: At leaving even the most unpleasant people And places, one keeps looking at the steeple.

But Juan had got many things to leave, His mother, and a mistress, and no wife, So that he had much better cause to grieve Than many persons more advanced in life; And if we now and then a sigh must heave At quitting even those we quit in strife, No doubt we weep for those the heart endears— That is, till deeper griefs congeal our tears.

So Juan wept, as wept the captive Jews By Babel’s waters, still remembering Sion: I’d weep,—but mine is not a weeping Muse, And such light griefs are not a thing to die on; Young men should travel, if but to amuse Themselves; and the next time their servants tie on Behind their carriages their new portmanteau, Perhaps it may be lined with this my canto.

And Juan wept, and much he sigh’d and thought, While his salt tears dropp’d into the salt sea, ‘Sweets to the sweet’ (I like so much to quote; You must excuse this extract, ’tis where she, The Queen of Denmark, for Ophelia brought Flowers to the grave); and, sobbing often, he Reflected on his present situation, And seriously resolved on reformation.

‘Farewell, my Spain! a long farewell!’ he cried, ‘Perhaps I may revisit thee no more, But die, as many an exiled heart hath died, Of its own thirst to see again thy shore: Farewell, where Guadalquivir’s waters glide! Farewell, my mother! and, since all is o’er, Farewell, too, dearest Julia!—(Here he drew Her letter out again, and read it through.)

‘And, oh! if e’er I should forget, I swear— But that ’s impossible, and cannot be— Sooner shall this blue ocean melt to air, Sooner shall earth resolve itself to sea, Than I resign thine image, oh, my fair! Or think of any thing excepting thee; A mind diseased no remedy can physic (Here the ship gave a lurch, and he grew sea-sick).

‘Sooner shall heaven kiss earth (here he fell sicker), O, Julia! what is every other wo? (For God’s sake let me have a glass of liquor; Pedro, Battista, help me down below.) Julia, my love! (you rascal, Pedro, quicker)— O, Julia! (this curst vessel pitches so)— Beloved Julia, hear me still beseeching!’ (Here he grew inarticulate with retching.)

He felt that chilling heaviness of heart, Or rather stomach, which, alas! attends, Beyond the best apothecary’s art, The loss of love, the treachery of friends, Or death of those we dote on, when a part Of us dies with them as each fond hope ends: No doubt he would have been much more pathetic, But the sea acted as a strong emetic.

Love ’s a capricious power: I’ve known it hold Out through a fever caused by its own heat, But be much puzzled by a cough and cold, And find a quincy very hard to treat; Against all noble maladies he ’s bold, But vulgar illnesses don’t like to meet, Nor that a sneeze should interrupt his sigh, Nor inflammations redden his blind eye.

But worst of all is nausea, or a pain About the lower region of the bowels; Love, who heroically breathes a vein, Shrinks from the application of hot towels, And purgatives are dangerous to his reign, Sea-sickness death: his love was perfect, how else Could Juan’s passion, while the billows roar, Resist his stomach, ne’er at sea before?

The ship, call’d the most holy ‘Trinidada,’ Was steering duly for the port Leghorn; For there the Spanish family Moncada Were settled long ere Juan’s sire was born: They were relations, and for them he had a Letter of introduction, which the morn Of his departure had been sent him by His Spanish friends for those in Italy.

His suite consisted of three servants and A tutor, the licentiate Pedrillo, Who several languages did understand, But now lay sick and speechless on his pillow, And rocking in his hammock, long’d for land, His headache being increased by every billow; And the waves oozing through the port-hole made His berth a little damp, and him afraid.

’Twas not without some reason, for the wind Increased at night, until it blew a gale; And though ’twas not much to a naval mind, Some landsmen would have look’d a little pale, For sailors are, in fact, a different kind: At sunset they began to take in sail, For the sky show’d it would come on to blow, And carry away, perhaps, a mast or so.

At one o’clock the wind with sudden shift Threw the ship right into the trough of the sea, Which struck her aft, and made an awkward rift, Started the stern-post, also shatter’d the Whole of her stern-frame, and, ere she could lift Herself from out her present jeopardy, The rudder tore away: ’twas time to sound The pumps, and there were four feet water found.