by Homer
Alfonso saw his wife, and thought of Job’s;
He saw too, in perspective, her relations,
And then he tried to muster all his patience.
CLXIII
He stood in act to speak, or rather stammer,
But sage Antonia cut him short before
The anvil of his speech received the hammer,
With “Pray, sir, leave the room, and say no more,
Or madam dies.” — Alfonso mutter’d, “D — n her,”
But nothing else, the time of words was o’er;
He cast a rueful look or two, and did,
He knew not wherefore, that which he was bid.
CLXIV
With him retired his “posse comitatus,”
The attorney last, who linger’d near the door
Reluctantly, still tarrying there as late as
Antonia let him — not a little sore
At this most strange and unexplain’d “hiatus”
In Don Alfonso’s facts, which just now wore
An awkward look; as he revolved the case,
The door was fasten’d in his legal face.
CLXV
No sooner was it bolted, than — Oh shame!
Oh sin! Oh sorrow! and oh womankind!
How can you do such things and keep your fame,
Unless this world, and t’ other too, be blind?
Nothing so dear as an unfilch’d good name!
But to proceed — for there is more behind:
With much heartfelt reluctance be it said,
Young Juan slipp’d half-smother’d, from the bed.
CLXVI
He had been hid — I don’t pretend to say
How, nor can I indeed describe the where —
Young, slender, and pack’d easily, he lay,
No doubt, in little compass, round or square;
But pity him I neither must nor may
His suffocation by that pretty pair;
‘T were better, sure, to die so, than be shut
With maudlin Clarence in his Malmsey butt.
CLXVII
And, secondly, I pity not, because
He had no business to commit a sin,
Forbid by heavenly, fined by human laws,
At least ‘t was rather early to begin;
But at sixteen the conscience rarely gnaws
So much as when we call our old debts in
At sixty years, and draw the accompts of evil,
And find a deuced balance with the devil.
CLXVIII
Of his position I can give no notion:
‘T is written in the Hebrew Chronicle,
How the physicians, leaving pill and potion,
Prescribed, by way of blister, a young belle,
When old King David’s blood grew dull in motion,
And that the medicine answer’d very well;
Perhaps ‘t was in a different way applied,
For David lived, but Juan nearly died.
CLXIX
What’s to be done? Alfonso will be back
The moment he has sent his fools away.
Antonia’s skill was put upon the rack,
But no device could be brought into play —
And how to parry the renew’d attack?
Besides, it wanted but few hours of day:
Antonia puzzled; Julia did not speak,
But press’d her bloodless lip to Juan’s cheek.
CLXX
He turn’d his lip to hers, and with his hand
Call’d back the tangles of her wandering hair;
Even then their love they could not all command,
And half forgot their danger and despair:
Antonia’s patience now was at a stand —
“Come, come, ‘t is no time now for fooling there,”
She whisper’d, in great wrath— “I must deposit
This pretty gentleman within the closet:
CLXXI
“Pray, keep your nonsense for some luckier night —
Who can have put my master in this mood?
What will become on ‘t — I’m in such a fright,
The devil’s in the urchin, and no good —
Is this a time for giggling? this a plight?
Why, don’t you know that it may end in blood?
You’ll lose your life, and I shall lose my place,
My mistress all, for that half-girlish face.
CLXXII
“Had it but been for a stout cavalier
Of twenty-five or thirty (come, make haste) —
But for a child, what piece of work is here!
I really, madam, wonder at your taste
(Come, sir, get in) — my master must be near:
There, for the present, at the least, he’s fast,
And if we can but till the morning keep
Our counsel — (Juan, mind, you must not sleep).”
CLXXIII
Now, Don Alfonso entering, but alone,
Closed the oration of the trusty maid:
She loiter’d, and he told her to be gone,
An order somewhat sullenly obey’d;
However, present remedy was none,
And no great good seem’d answer’d if she stay’d:
Regarding both with slow and sidelong view,
She snuff’d the candle, curtsied, and withdrew.
CLXXIV
Alfonso paused a minute — then begun
Some strange excuses for his late proceeding;
He would not justify what he had done,
To say the best, it was extreme ill-breeding;
But there were ample reasons for it, none
Of which he specified in this his pleading:
His speech was a fine sample, on the whole,
Of rhetoric, which the learn’d call “rigmarole.”
CLXXV
Julia said nought; though all the while there rose
A ready answer, which at once enables
A matron, who her husband’s foible knows,
By a few timely words to turn the tables,
Which, if it does not silence, still must pose, —
Even if it should comprise a pack of fables;
‘T is to retort with firmness, and when he
Suspects with one, do you reproach with three.
CLXXVI
Julia, in fact, had tolerable grounds, —
Alfonso’s loves with Inez were well known,
But whether ‘t was that one’s own guilt confounds —
But that can’t be, as has been often shown,
A lady with apologies abounds; —
It might be that her silence sprang alone
From delicacy to Don Juan’s ear,
To whom she knew his mother’s fame was dear.
CLXXVII
There might be one more motive, which makes two;
Alfonso ne’er to Juan had alluded, —
Mention’d his jealousy but never who
Had been the happy lover, he concluded,
Conceal’d amongst his premises; ‘t is true,
His mind the more o’er this its mystery brooded;
To speak of Inez now were, one may say,
Like throwing Juan in Alfonso’s way.
CLXXVIII
A hint, in tender cases, is enough;
Silence is best, besides there is a tact —
(That modern phrase appears to me sad stuff,
But it will serve to keep my verse compact) —
Which keeps, when push’d by questions rather rough,
A lady always distant from the fact:
The charming creatures lie with such a grace,
There’s nothing so becoming to the face.
CLXXIX
They blush, and we believe them; at least I
Have always done so; ‘t is of no great use,
In any case, attempting a reply,
For then their eloquence grows quite profuse;
And when at length they ‘re out of breath, they sigh,
And cast their languid eyes down, and let loose
A tear or two, and then we make it up;
And then — and then — and then — sit down and sup.
CLXXX
Alfonso closed his speech, and begg’d her pardon,
Which Julia half withheld, and then half granted,
And laid conditions he thought very hard on,
Denying several little things he wanted:
He stood like Adam lingering near his garden,
With useless penitence perplex’d and haunted,
Beseeching she no further would refuse,
When, lo! he stumbled o’er a pair of shoes.
CLXXXI
A pair of shoes! — what then? not much, if they
Are such as fit with ladies’ feet, but these
(No one can tell how much I grieve to say)
Were masculine; to see them, and to seize,
Was but a moment’s act. — Ah! well-a-day!
My teeth begin to chatter, my veins freeze —
Alfonso first examined well their fashion,
And then flew out into another passion.
CLXXXII
He left the room for his relinquish’d sword,
And Julia instant to the closet flew.
“Fly, Juan, fly! for heaven’s sake — not a word —
The door is open — you may yet slip through
The passage you so often have explored —
Here is the garden-key — Fly — fly — Adieu!
Haste — haste! I hear Alfonso’s hurrying feet —
Day has not broke — there’s no one in the street:”
CLXXXIII
None can say that this was not good advice,
The only mischief was, it came too late;
Of all experience ‘t is 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.
CLXXXIV
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.
CLXXXV
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!
CLXXXVI
Alfonso grappled to detain the foe,
And Juan throttled him to get away,
And blood (‘t was 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.
CLXXXVII
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.
CLXXXVIII
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.
CLXXXIX
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.
CXC
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.
CXCI
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: —
CXCII
“They tell me ‘t is decided; you depart:
‘T is wise— ‘t is 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, ‘t is not what it appears;
My eyeballs burn and throb, but have no tears.
CXCIII
“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, ‘t is 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.
CXCIV
“Man’s love is of man’s life a thing apart,
‘T is 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.
CXCV
“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.
CXCVI
“My breast has been all weakness, is so yet;
But still I think I can co
llect 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.
CXCVII
“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!”
CXCVIII
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.
CXCIX
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.
CC
My poem’s epic, and is meant to be
Divided in twelve books; each book containing,
