Don Juan Part 47

And wherefore not? A reasonable reason, If good, is none the worse for repet.i.tion; If bad, the best way 's certainly to tease on, And amplify: you lose much by concision, Whereas insisting in or out of season Convinces all men, even a politician; Or--what is just the same--it wearies out.

So the end 's gain'd, what signifies the route?

Why Adeline had this slight prejudice-- For prejudice it was--against a creature As pure as sanct.i.ty itself from vice, With all the added charm of form and feature, For me appears a question far too nice, Since Adeline was liberal by nature; But nature 's nature, and has more caprices Than I have time, or will, to take to pieces.

Perhaps she did not like the quiet way With which Aurora on those baubles look'd, Which charm most people in their earlier day: For there are few things by mankind less brook'd, And womankind too, if we so may say, Than finding thus their genius stand rebuked, Like 'Anthony's by Caesar,' by the few Who look upon them as they ought to do.

It was not envy--Adeline had none; Her place was far beyond it, and her mind.

It was not scorn--which could not light on one Whose greatest fault was leaving few to find.

It was not jealousy, I think: but shun Following the 'ignes fatui' of mankind.

It was not--but 't is easier far, alas!

To say what it was not than what it was.

Little Aurora deem'd she was the theme Of such discussion. She was there a guest; A beauteous ripple of the brilliant stream Of rank and youth, though purer than the rest, Which flow'd on for a moment in the beam Time sheds a moment o'er each sparkling crest.

Had she known this, she would have calmly smiled-- She had so much, or little, of the child.

The das.h.i.+ng and proud air of Adeline Imposed not upon her: she saw her blaze Much as she would have seen a glow-worm s.h.i.+ne, Then turn'd unto the stars for loftier rays.

Juan was something she could not divine, Being no sibyl in the new world's ways; Yet she was nothing dazzled by the meteor, Because she did not pin her faith on feature.

His fame too,--for he had that kind of fame Which sometimes plays the deuce with womankind, A heterogeneous ma.s.s of glorious blame, Half virtues and whole vices being combined; Faults which attract because they are not tame; Follies trick'd out so brightly that they blind:-- These seals upon her wax made no impression, Such was her coldness or her self-possession.

Juan knew nought of such a character-- High, yet resembling not his lost Haidee; Yet each was radiant in her proper sphere: The island girl, bred up by the lone sea, More warm, as lovely, and not less sincere, Was Nature's all: Aurora could not be, Nor would be thus:--the difference in them Was such as lies between a flower and gem.

Having wound up with this sublime comparison, Methinks we may proceed upon our narrative, And, as my friend Scott says, 'I sound my warison;'

Scott, the superlative of my comparative-- Scott, who can paint your Christian knight or Saracen, Serf, lord, man, with such skill as none would share it, if There had not been one Shakspeare and Voltaire, Of one or both of whom he seems the heir.

I say, in my slight way I may proceed To play upon the surface of humanity.

I write the world, nor care if the world read, At least for this I cannot spare its vanity.

My Muse hath bred, and still perhaps may breed More foes by this same scroll: when I began it, I Thought that it might turn out so--now I know it, But still I am, or was, a pretty poet.

The conference or congress (for it ended As congresses of late do) of the Lady Adeline and Don Juan rather blended Some acids with the sweets--for she was heady; But, ere the matter could be marr'd or mended, The silvery bell rang, not for 'dinner ready, But for that hour, call'd half-hour, given to dress, Though ladies' robes seem scant enough for less.

Great things were now to be achieved at table, With ma.s.sy plate for armour, knives and forks For weapons; but what Muse since Homer 's able (His feasts are not the worst part of his works) To draw up in array a single day-bill Of modern dinners? where more mystery lurks, In soups or sauces, or a sole ragout,

There was a goodly 'soupe a la bonne femme,'

Though G.o.d knows whence it came from; there was, too, A turbot for relief of those who cram, Relieved with 'dindon a la Parigeux;'

How shall I get this gourmand stanza through?- 'Soupe a la Beauveau,' whose relief was dory, Relieved itself by pork, for greater glory.

But I must crowd all into one grand mess Or ma.s.s; for should I stretch into detail, My Muse would run much more into excess, Than when some squeamish people deem her frail.

But though a 'bonne vivante,' I must confess Her stomach 's not her peccant part; this tale However doth require some slight refection, Just to relieve her spirits from dejection.

Fowls 'a la Conde,' slices eke of salmon, With 'sauces Genevoises,' and haunch of venison; Wines too, which might again have slain young Ammon-- A man like whom I hope we shan't see many soon; They also set a glazed Westphalian ham on, Whereon Apicius would bestow his benison; And then there was champagne with foaming whirls, As white as Cleopatra's melted pearls.

Then there was G.o.d knows what 'a l'Allemande,'

'A l'Espagnole,' 'timballe,' and 'salpicon'- With things I can't withstand or understand, Though swallow'd with much zest upon the whole; And 'entremets' to piddle with at hand, Gently to lull down the subsiding soul; While great Lucullus' Robe triumphal m.u.f.fles (There 's fame) young partridge fillets, deck'd with truffles.

What are the fillets on the victor's brow To these? They are rags or dust. Where is the arch Which nodded to the nation's spoils below?

Where the triumphal chariots' haughty march?

Gone to where victories must like dinners go.

Farther I shall not follow the research: But oh! ye modern heroes with your cartridges, When will your names lend l.u.s.tre e'en to partridges?

Those truffles too are no bad accessaries, Follow'd by 'pet.i.ts puits d'amour'--a dish Of which perhaps the cookery rather varies, So every one may dress it to his wish, According to the best of dictionaries, Which encyclopedize both flesh and fish; But even sans 'confitures,' it no less true is, There 's pretty picking in those 'pet.i.ts puits.'

The mind is lost in mighty contemplation Of intellect expanded on two courses; And indigestion's grand multiplication Requires arithmetic beyond my forces.

Who would suppose, from Adam's simple ration, That cookery could have call'd forth such resources, As form a science and a nomenclature From out the commonest demands of nature?

The gla.s.ses jingled, and the palates tingled; The diners of celebrity dined well; The ladies with more moderation mingled In the feast, pecking less than I can tell; Also the younger men too: for a springald Can't, like ripe age, in gormandize excel, But thinks less of good eating than the whisper (When seated next him) of some pretty lisper.

Alas! I must leave undescribed the gibier, The salmi, the consomme, the puree, All which I use to make my rhymes run glibber Than could roast beef in our rough John Bull way: I must not introduce even a spare rib here, 'Bubble and squeak' would spoil my liquid lay: But I have dined, and must forego, Alas!

The chaste description even of a 'beca.s.se;'

And fruits, and ice, and all that art refines From nature for the service of the gout-- Taste or the gout,--p.r.o.nounce it as inclines Your stomach! Ere you dine, the French will do; But after, there are sometimes certain signs Which prove plain English truer of the two.

Hast ever had the gout? I have not had it-- But I may have, and you too, reader, dread it.

The simple olives, best allies of wine, Must I pa.s.s over in my bill of fare?

I must, although a favourite 'plat' of mine In Spain, and Lucca, Athens, every where: On them and bread 't was oft my luck to dine, The gra.s.s my table-cloth, in open-air, On Sunium or Hymettus, like Diogenes, Of whom half my philosophy the progeny is.

Amidst this tumult of fish, flesh, and 'fowl, And vegetables, all in masquerade, The guests were placed according to their roll, But various as the various meats display'd: Don Juan sat next 'an l'Espagnole'- No damsel, but a dish, as hath been said; But so far like a lady, that 't was drest Superbly, and contain'd a world of zest.

By some odd chance too, he was placed between Aurora and the Lady Adeline-- A situation difficult, I ween, For man therein, with eyes and heart, to dine.

Also the conference which we have seen Was not such as to encourage him to s.h.i.+ne; For Adeline, addressing few words to him, With two transcendent eyes seem'd to look through him.

I sometimes almost think that eyes have ears: This much is sure, that, out of earshot, things Are somehow echoed to the pretty dears, Of which I can't tell whence their knowledge springs.

Like that same mystic music of the spheres, Which no one bears, so loudly though it rings, 'T is wonderful how oft the s.e.x have heard Long dialogues--which pa.s.s'd without a word!

Aurora sat with that indifference Which piques a preux chevalier--as it ought: Of all offences that 's the worst offence, Which seems to hint you are not worth a thought.

Now Juan, though no c.o.xcomb in pretence, Was not exactly pleased to be so caught; Like a good s.h.i.+p entangled among ice, And after so much excellent advice.

To his gay nothings, nothing was replied, Or something which was nothing, as urbanity Required. Aurora scarcely look'd aside, Nor even smiled enough for any vanity.

The devil was in the girl! Could it be pride?

Or modesty, or absence, or inanity?

Heaven knows? But Adeline's malicious eyes Sparkled with her successful prophecies,

And look'd as much as if to say, 'I said it;'

A kind of triumph I 'll not recommend, Because it sometimes, as I have seen or read it, Both in the case of lover and of friend, Will pique a gentleman, for his own credit, To bring what was a jest to a serious end: For all men prophesy what is or was, And hate those who won't let them come to pa.s.s.

Juan was drawn thus into some attentions, Slight but select, and just enough to express, To females of perspicuous comprehensions, That he would rather make them more than less.

Aurora at the last (so history mentions, Though probably much less a fact than guess) So far relax'd her thoughts from their sweet prison, As once or twice to smile, if not to listen.

From answering she began to question; this With her was rare: and Adeline, who as yet Thought her predictions went not much amiss, Began to dread she'd thaw to a coquette-- So very difficult, they say, it is To keep extremes from meeting, when once set In motion; but she here too much refined-- Aurora's spirit was not of that kind.

But Juan had a sort of winning way, A proud humility, if such there be, Which show'd such deference to what females say, As if each charming word were a decree.

His tact, too, temper'd him from grave to gay, And taught him when to be reserved or free: He had the art of drawing people out, Without their seeing what he was about.

Aurora, who in her indifference Confounded him in common with the crowd Of flatterers, though she deem'd he had more sense Than whispering foplings, or than witlings loud-- Commenced (from such slight things will great commence) To feel that flattery which attracts the proud Rather by deference than compliment, And wins even by a delicate dissent.

And then he had good looks;--that point was carried Nem. con. amongst the women, which I grieve To say leads oft to crim. con. with the married-- A case which to the juries we may leave, Since with digressions we too long have tarried.

Now though we know of old that looks deceive, And always have done, somehow these good looks Make more impression than the best of books.

Aurora, who look'd more on books than faces, Was very young, although so very sage, Admiring more Minerva than the Graces, Especially upon a printed page.