唐璜 Don Juan 07

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 '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.


     '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.


     '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.


     '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 't is 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;


     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 't were 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 't was 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! 't was 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? 't is 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—'t would 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—
     'T were 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.