Don Juan Part 33

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.

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 disorders 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.'

But here is one prescription out of many: 'Sodae sulphat. 3vj. 3fs. Mannae optim.

Aq. fervent. f. 3ifs. 3ij. tinct. Sennae Haustus' (And here the surgeon came and cupp'd him) 'Rx Pulv Com gr. iij. Ipecacuanhae'

(With more beside if Juan had not stopp'd 'em).

'Bolus Pota.s.sae Sulphuret. sumendus, Et haustus ter in die capiendus.'

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.

Juan demurr'd at this first notice to Quit; and though death had threaten'd an ejection, His youth and const.i.tution 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.

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.

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.'

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.

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.

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 quant.i.ty enc.u.mber, But always choosing with deliberation, Kept the place open for their emulation.

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.

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;--

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

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.

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 cla.s.s, 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!

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.

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.

'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 pa.s.sion 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.

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.

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.

Let this not seem an anti-climax:--'Oh!

My guard! my old guard exclaim'd!' exclaim'd that G.o.d 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.

From Poland they came on through Prussia Proper, And Konigsberg 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.

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 pa.s.s the equinoctial line Between the present and past worlds, and hover Upon their airy confine, half-seas-over.

But Juan posted on through Manheim, 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.

From thence to Holland's Hague and Helvoetsluys, That water-land of Dutchmen and of ditches, Where juniper expresses its best juice, The poor man's sparkling subst.i.tute for riches.

Senates and sages have condemn'd its use-- But to deny the mob a cordial, which is Too often all the clothing, meat, or fuel, Good government has left them, seems but cruel.

Here he embark'd, and with a flowing sail Went bounding for the island of the free, Towards which the impatient wind blew half a gale; High dash'd the spray, the bows dipp'd in the sea, And sea-sick pa.s.sengers turn'd somewhat pale; But Juan, season'd, as he well might be, By former voyages, stood to watch the skiffs Which pa.s.s'd, or catch the first glimpse of the cliffs.

At length they rose, like a white wall along The blue sea's border; and I Don Juan felt-- What even young strangers feel a little strong At the first sight of Albion's chalky belt-- A kind of pride that he should be among Those haughty shopkeepers, who sternly dealt Their goods and edicts out from pole to pole, And made the very billows pay them toll.

I 've no great cause to love that spot of earth, Which holds what might have been the n.o.blest nation; But though I owe it little but my birth, I feel a mix'd regret and veneration For its decaying fame and former worth.

Seven years (the usual term of transportation) Of absence lay one's old resentments level, When a man's country 's going to the devil.

Alas! could she but fully, truly, know How her great name is now throughout abhorr'd: How eager all the earth is for the blow Which shall lay bare her bosom to the sword; How all the nations deem her their worst foe, That worse than worst of foes, the once adored False friend, who held out freedom to mankind, And now would chain them, to the very mind:--

Would she be proud, or boast herself the free, Who is but first of slaves? The nations are In prison,--but the gaoler, what is he?

No less a victim to the bolt and bar.

Is the poor privilege to turn the key Upon the captive, freedom? He 's as far From the enjoyment of the earth and air Who watches o'er the chain, as they who wear.

Don Juan now saw Albion's earliest beauties, Thy cliffs, dear Dover! harbour, and hotel; Thy custom-house, with all its delicate duties; Thy waiters running mucks at every bell; Thy packets, all whose pa.s.sengers are booties To those who upon land or water dwell; And last, not least, to strangers uninstructed, Thy long, long bills, whence nothing is deducted.

Juan, though careless, young, and magnifique, And rich in rubles, diamonds, cash, and credit, Who did not limit much his bills per week, Yet stared at this a little, though he paid it (His Maggior Duomo, a smart, subtle Greek, Before him summ'd the awful scroll and read it); But doubtless as the air, though seldom sunny, Is free, the respiration's worth the money.

On with the horses! Off to Canterbury!

Tramp, tramp o'er pebble, and splash, splash through puddle; Hurrah! how swiftly speeds the post so merry!

Not like slow Germany, wherein they muddle Along the road, as if they went to bury Their fare; and also pause besides, to fuddle With 'schnapps'--sad dogs! whom 'Hundsfot,' or 'Verflucter,'

Affect no more than lightning a conductor.

Now there is nothing gives a man such spirits, Leavening his blood as cayenne doth a curry, As going at full speed--no matter where its Direction be, so 't is but in a hurry, And merely for the sake of its own merits; For the less cause there is for all this flurry, The greater is the pleasure in arriving At the great end of travel--which is driving.

They saw at Canterbury the cathedral; Black Edward's helm, and Becket's b.l.o.o.d.y stone, Were pointed out as usual by the bedral, In the same quaint, uninterested tone:-- There 's glory again for you, gentle reader! All Ends in a rusty casque and dubious bone, Half-solved into these sodas or magnesias; Which form that bitter draught, the human species.

The effect on Juan was of course sublime: He breathed a thousand Cressys, as he saw That casque, which never stoop'd except to Time.

Even the bold Churchman's tomb excited awe, Who died in the then great attempt to climb O'er kings, who now at least must talk of law Before they butcher. Little Leila gazed, And ask'd why such a structure had been raised:

And being told it was 'G.o.d's house,' she said He was well lodged, but only wonder'd how He suffer'd Infidels in his homestead, The cruel Nazarenes, who had laid low His holy temples in the lands which bred The True Believers:--and her infant brow Was bent with grief that Mahomet should resign A mosque so n.o.ble, flung like pearls to swine.