Don Juan Part 31

I think I can explain myself without That sad inexplicable beast of prey-- That Sphinx, whose words would ever be a doubt, Did not his deeds unriddle them each day-- That monstrous hieroglyphic--that long spout Of blood and water, leaden Castlereagh!

And here I must an anecdote relate, But luckily of no great length or weight.

An English lady ask'd of an Italian, What were the actual and official duties Of the strange thing some women set a value on, Which hovers oft about some married beauties, Called 'Cavalier servente?'--a Pygmalion Whose statues warm (I fear, alas! too true 't is) Beneath his art. The dame, press'd to disclose them, Said--'Lady, I beseech you to suppose them.'

And thus I supplicate your supposition, And mildest, matron-like interpretation, Of the imperial favourite's condition.

'T was 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 pa.s.s'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 s.p.a.cious, Her face was n.o.ble, 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 amus.e.m.e.nt 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.

'T is 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 G.o.d'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 G.o.d-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 b.u.mpers; 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 pa.s.sion, Self-love--which, when some sort of thing above Ourselves, a singer, dancer, much in fas.h.i.+on, Or d.u.c.h.ess, princess, empress, 'deigns to prove'

('T is 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 a.s.suage 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 b.l.o.o.d.y, was the kind of thing Whose temporary pa.s.sion 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 d.a.m.n'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 't is a mere insanity, A maddening spirit which would strive to blend Itself with beauty's frail inanity, On which the pa.s.sion'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 G.o.d, 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 G.o.ddess, 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 n.o.blest 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 flouris.h.i.+ng 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 a.n.a.lyse--our story must Tell for itself: the sovereign was smitten, Juan much flatter'd by her love, or l.u.s.t;-- 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 rivals.h.i.+p rose in each clouded eye Of all the standing army who stood by.

All the amba.s.sadors 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 't is 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 disburs.e.m.e.nts 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 s.e.x and station.

But when the levee rose, and all was bustle In the dissolving circle, all the nations'

Amba.s.sadors began as 't were 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 unembarra.s.s'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.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Canto 10]