Part 16

To call men love-begotten or proclaim Their mothers as the antipodes of Timon, That hater of mankind, would be a shame, A libel, or whate’er you please to rhyme on: But people’s ancestors are history’s game; And if one lady’s slip could leave a crime on All generations, I should like to know What pedigree the best would have to show?

Had Catherine and the sultan understood Their own true interests, which kings rarely know Until ’tis taught by lessons rather rude, There was a way to end their strife, although Perhaps precarious, had they but thought good, Without the aid of prince or plenipo: She to dismiss her guards and he his haram, And for their other matters, meet and share ’em.

But as it was, his Highness had to hold His daily council upon ways and means How to encounter with this martial scold, This modern Amazon and queen of queans; And the perplexity could not be told Of all the pillars of the state, which leans Sometimes a little heavy on the backs Of those who cannot lay on a new tax.

Meantime Gulbeyaz, when her king was gone, Retired into her boudoir, a sweet place For love or breakfast; private, pleasing, lone, And rich with all contrivances which grace Those gay recesses:—many a precious stone Sparkled along its roof, and many a vase Of porcelain held in the fetter’d flowers, Those captive soothers of a captive’s hours.

Mother of pearl, and porphyry, and marble, Vied with each other on this costly spot; And singing birds without were heard to warble; And the stain’d glass which lighted this fair grot Varied each ray;—but all descriptions garble The true effect, and so we had better not Be too minute; an outline is the best,— A lively reader’s fancy does the rest.

And here she summon’d Baba, and required Don Juan at his hands, and information Of what had pass’d since all the slaves retired, And whether he had occupied their station; If matters had been managed as desired, And his disguise with due consideration Kept up; and above all, the where and how He had pass’d the night, was what she wish’d to know.

Baba, with some embarrassment, replied To this long catechism of questions, ask’d More easily than answer’d,—that he had tried His best to obey in what he had been task’d; But there seem’d something that he wish’d to hide, Which hesitation more betray’d than mask’d; He scratch’d his ear, the infallible resource To which embarrass’d people have recourse.

Gulbeyaz was no model of true patience, Nor much disposed to wait in word or deed; She liked quick answers in all conversations; And when she saw him stumbling like a steed In his replies, she puzzled him for fresh ones; And as his speech grew still more broken-kneed, Her cheek began to flush, her eyes to sparkle, And her proud brow’s blue veins to swell and darkle.

When Baba saw these symptoms, which he knew To bode him no great good, he deprecated Her anger, and beseech’d she’d hear him through— He could not help the thing which he related: Then out it came at length, that to Dudu Juan was given in charge, as hath been stated; But not by Baba’s fault, he said, and swore on The holy camel’s hump, besides the Koran.

The chief dame of the Oda, upon whom The discipline of the whole haram bore, As soon as they re-enter’d their own room, For Baba’s function stopt short at the door, Had settled all; nor could he then presume (The aforesaid Baba) just then to do more, Without exciting such suspicion as Might make the matter still worse than it was.

He hoped, indeed he thought, he could be sure Juan had not betray’d himself; in fact ’Twas certain that his conduct had been pure, Because a foolish or imprudent act Would not alone have made him insecure, But ended in his being found out and sack’d, And thrown into the sea.—Thus Baba spoke Of all save Dudu’s dream, which was no joke.

This he discreetly kept in the background, And talk’d away—and might have talk’d till now, For any further answer that he found, So deep an anguish wrung Gulbeyaz’ brow: Her cheek turn’d ashes, ears rung, brain whirl’d round, As if she had received a sudden blow, And the heart’s dew of pain sprang fast and chilly O’er her fair front, like Morning’s on a lily.

Although she was not of the fainting sort, Baba thought she would faint, but there he err’d— It was but a convulsion, which though short Can never be described; we all have heard, And some of us have felt thus ‘all amort,’ When things beyond the common have occurr’d;— Gulbeyaz proved in that brief agony What she could ne’er express—then how should I?

She stood a moment as a Pythoness Stands on her tripod, agonised, and full Of inspiration gather’d from distress, When all the heart-strings like wild horses pull The heart asunder;—then, as more or less Their speed abated or their strength grew dull, She sunk down on her seat by slow degrees, And bow’d her throbbing head o’er trembling knees.

Her face declined and was unseen; her hair Fell in long tresses like the weeping willow, Sweeping the marble underneath her chair, Or rather sofa (for it was all pillow, A low soft ottoman), and black despair Stirr’d up and down her bosom like a billow, Which rushes to some shore whose shingles check Its farther course, but must receive its wreck.

Her head hung down, and her long hair in stooping Conceal’d her features better than a veil; And one hand o’er the ottoman lay drooping, White, waxen, and as alabaster pale: Would that I were a painter! to be grouping All that a poet drags into detail O that my words were colours! but their tints May serve perhaps as outlines or slight hints.

Baba, who knew by experience when to talk And when to hold his tongue, now held it till This passion might blow o’er, nor dared to balk Gulbeyaz’ taciturn or speaking will. At length she rose up, and began to walk Slowly along the room, but silent still, And her brow clear’d, but not her troubled eye; The wind was down, but still the sea ran high.

She stopp’d, and raised her head to speak—but paused, And then moved on again with rapid pace; Then slacken’d it, which is the march most caused By deep emotion:—you may sometimes trace A feeling in each footstep, as disclosed By Sallust in his Catiline, who, chased By all the demons of all passions, show’d Their work even by the way in which he trode.

Gulbeyaz stopp’d and beckon’d Baba:—‘Slave! Bring the two slaves!’ she said in a low tone, But one which Baba did not like to brave, And yet he shudder’d, and seem’d rather prone To prove reluctant, and begg’d leave to crave (Though he well knew the meaning) to be shown What slaves her highness wish’d to indicate, For fear of any error, like the late.

‘The Georgian and her paramour,’ replied The imperial bride—and added, ‘Let the boat Be ready by the secret portal’s side: You know the rest.’ The words stuck in her throat, Despite her injured love and fiery pride; And of this Baba willingly took note, And begg’d by every hair of Mahomet’s beard, She would revoke the order he had heard.

‘To hear is to obey,’ he said; ‘but still, Sultana, think upon the consequence: It is not that I shall not all fulfil Your orders, even in their severest sense; But such precipitation may end ill, Even at your own imperative expense: I do not mean destruction and exposure, In case of any premature disclosure;

‘But your own feelings. Even should all the rest Be hidden by the rolling waves, which hide Already many a once love-beaten breast Deep in the caverns of the deadly tide— You love this boyish, new, seraglio guest, And if this violent remedy be tried— Excuse my freedom, when I here assure you, That killing him is not the way to cure you.’

‘What dost thou know of love or feeling?—Wretch! Begone!’ she cried, with kindling eyes—‘and do My bidding!’ Baba vanish’d, for to stretch His own remonstrance further he well knew Might end in acting as his own ‘Jack Ketch;’ And though he wish’d extremely to get through This awkward business without harm to others, He still preferr’d his own neck to another’s.

Away he went then upon his commission, Growling and grumbling in good Turkish phrase Against all women of whate’er condition, Especially sultanas and their ways; Their obstinacy, pride, and indecision, Their never knowing their own mind two days, The trouble that they gave, their immorality, Which made him daily bless his own neutrality.

And then he call’d his brethren to his aid, And sent one on a summons to the pair, That they must instantly be well array’d, And above all be comb’d even to a hair, And brought before the empress, who had made Inquiries after them with kindest care: At which Dudu look’d strange, and Juan silly; But go they must at once, and will I—nill I.

And here I leave them at their preparation For the imperial presence, wherein whether Gulbeyaz show’d them both commiseration, Or got rid of the parties altogether, Like other angry ladies of her nation,— Are things the turning of a hair or feather May settle; but far be ’t from me to anticipate In what way feminine caprice may dissipate.

I leave them for the present with good wishes, Though doubts of their well doing, to arrange Another part of history; for the dishes Of this our banquet we must sometimes change; And trusting Juan may escape the fishes, Although his situation now seems strange And scarce secure, as such digressions are fair, The Muse will take a little touch at warfare.

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CANTO THE SEVENTH.

O Love! O Glory! what are ye who fly Around us ever, rarely to alight? There’s not a meteor in the polar sky Of such transcendent and more fleeting flight. Chill, and chain’d to cold earth, we lift on high Our eyes in search of either lovely light; A thousand and a thousand colours they Assume, then leave us on our freezing way.

And such as they are, such my present tale is, A non-descript and ever-varying rhyme, A versified Aurora Borealis, Which flashes o’er a waste and icy clime. When we know what all are, we must bewail us, But ne’ertheless I hope it is no crime To laugh at all things—for I wish to know What, after all, are all things—but a show?

They accuse me—Me—the present writer of The present poem—of—I know not what— A tendency to under-rate and scoff At human power and virtue, and all that; And this they say in language rather rough. Good God! I wonder what they would be at! I say no more than hath been said in Dante’s Verse, and by Solomon and by Cervantes;

By Swift, by Machiavel, by Rochefoucault, By Fenelon, by Luther, and by Plato; By Tillotson, and Wesley, and Rousseau, Who knew this life was not worth a potato. ’Tis not their fault, nor mine, if this be so— For my part, I pretend not to be Cato, Nor even Diogenes.—We live and die, But which is best, you know no more than I.

Socrates said, our only knowledge was ‘To know that nothing could be known;’ a pleasant Science enough, which levels to an ass Each man of wisdom, future, past, or present. Newton (that proverb of the mind), alas! Declared, with all his grand discoveries recent, That he himself felt only’like a youth Picking up shells by the great ocean—Truth.’

Ecclesiastes said, ‘that all is vanity’— Most modern preachers say the same, or show it By their examples of true Christianity: In short, all know, or very soon may know it; And in this scene of all-confess’d inanity, By saint, by sage, by preacher, and by poet, Must I restrain me, through the fear of strife, From holding up the nothingness of life?

Dogs, or men!—for I flatter you in saying That ye are dogs—your betters far—ye may Read, or read not, what I am now essaying To show ye what ye are in every way. As little as the moon stops for the baying Of wolves, will the bright muse withdraw one ray From out her skies—then howl your idle wrath! While she still silvers o’er your gloomy path.

‘Fierce loves and faithless wars’—I am not sure If this be the right reading—’tis no matter; The fact ’s about the same, I am secure; I sing them both, and am about to batter A town which did a famous siege endure, And was beleaguer’d both by land and water By Souvaroff, or Anglice Suwarrow, Who loved blood as an alderman loves marrow.

The fortress is call’d Ismail, and is placed Upon the Danube’s left branch and left bank, With buildings in the Oriental taste, But still a fortress of the foremost rank, Or was at least, unless ’tis since defaced, Which with your conquerors is a common prank: It stands some eighty versts from the high sea, And measures round of toises thousands three.

Within the extent of this fortification A borough is comprised along the height Upon the left, which from its loftier station Commands the city, and upon its site A Greek had raised around this elevation A quantity of palisades upright, So placed as to impede the fire of those Who held the place, and to assist the foe’s.

This circumstance may serve to give a notion Of the high talents of this new Vauban: But the town ditch below was deep as ocean, The rampart higher than you’d wish to hang: But then there was a great want of precaution (Prithee, excuse this engineering slang), Nor work advanced, nor cover’d way was there, To hint at least ‘Here is no thoroughfare.’

But a stone bastion, with a narrow gorge, And walls as thick as most skulls born as yet; Two batteries, cap-a-pie, as our St. George, Case-mated one, and t’ other ‘a barbette,’ Of Danube’s bank took formidable charge; While two and twenty cannon duly set Rose over the town’s right side, in bristling tier, Forty feet high, upon a cavalier.

But from the river the town ’s open quite, Because the Turks could never be persuaded A Russian vessel e’er would heave in sight; And such their creed was, till they were invaded, When it grew rather late to set things right. But as the Danube could not well be waded, They look’d upon the Muscovite flotilla, And only shouted, ‘Allah!’ and ‘Bis Millah!’

The Russians now were ready to attack: But oh, ye goddesses of war and glory! How shall I spell the name of each Cossacque Who were immortal, could one tell their story? Alas! what to their memory can lack? Achilles’ self was not more grim and gory Than thousands of this new and polish’d nation, Whose names want nothing but—pronunciation.

Still I’ll record a few, if but to increase Our euphony: there was Strongenoff, and Strokonoff, Meknop, Serge Lwow, Arsniew of modern Greece, And Tschitsshakoff, and Roguenoff, and Chokenoff, And others of twelve consonants apiece; And more might be found out, if I could poke enough Into gazettes; but Fame (capricious strumpet), It seems, has got an ear as well as trumpet,

And cannot tune those discords of narration, Which may be names at Moscow, into rhyme; Yet there were several worth commemoration, As e’er was virgin of a nuptial chime; Soft words, too, fitted for the peroration Of Londonderry drawling against time, Ending in ‘ischskin,’ ‘ousckin,’ ‘iffskchy,’ ‘ouski: Of whom we can insert but Rousamouski,

Scherematoff and Chrematoff, Koklophti, Koclobski, Kourakin, and Mouskin Pouskin, All proper men of weapons, as e’er scoff’d high Against a foe, or ran a sabre through skin: Little cared they for Mahomet or Mufti, Unless to make their kettle-drums a new skin Out of their hides, if parchment had grown dear, And no more handy substitute been near.

Then there were foreigners of much renown, Of various nations, and all volunteers; Not fighting for their country or its crown, But wishing to be one day brigadiers; Also to have the sacking of a town,— A pleasant thing to young men at their years. ’Mongst them were several Englishmen of pith, Sixteen call’d Thomson, and nineteen named Smith.

Jack Thomson and Bill Thomson; all the rest Had been call’d ‘Jemmy,’ after the great bard; I don’t know whether they had arms or crest, But such a godfather ’s as good a card. Three of the Smiths were Peters; but the best Amongst them all, hard blows to inflict or ward, Was he, since so renown’d ‘in country quarters At Halifax;’ but now he served the Tartars.

The rest were Jacks and Gills and Wills and Bills; But when I’ve added that the elder Jack Smith Was born in Cumberland among the hills, And that his father was an honest blacksmith, I’ve said all I know of a name that fills Three lines of the despatch in taking ‘Schmacksmith,’ A village of Moldavia’s waste, wherein He fell, immortal in a bulletin.

I wonder (although Mars no doubt ’s a god I Praise) if a man’s name in a bulletin May make up for a bullet in his body? I hope this little question is no sin, Because, though I am but a simple noddy, I think one Shakspeare puts the same thought in The mouth of some one in his plays so doting, Which many people pass for wits by quoting.

Then there were Frenchmen, gallant, young, and gay: But I’m too great a patriot to record Their Gallic names upon a glorious day; I’d rather tell ten lies than say a word Of truth;—such truths are treason; they betray Their country; and as traitors are abhorr’d Who name the French in English, save to show How Peace should make John Bull the Frenchman’s foe.

The Russians, having built two batteries on An isle near Ismail, had two ends in view; The first was to bombard it, and knock down The public buildings and the private too, No matter what poor souls might be undone. The city’s shape suggested this, ’tis true; Form’d like an amphitheatre, each dwelling Presented a fine mark to throw a shell in.

The second object was to profit by The moment of the general consternation, To attack the Turk’s flotilla, which lay nigh Extremely tranquil, anchor’d at its station: But a third motive was as probably To frighten them into capitulation; A phantasy which sometimes seizes warriors, Unless they are game as bull-dogs and fox-terriers.

A habit rather blamable, which is That of despising those we combat with, Common in many cases, was in this The cause of killing Tchitchitzkoff and Smith; One of the valorous ‘Smiths’ whom we shall miss Out of those nineteen who late rhymed to ‘pith;’ But ’tis a name so spread o’er ‘Sir’ and ‘Madam,’ That one would think the first who bore it ‘Adam.’

The Russian batteries were incomplete, Because they were constructed in a hurry; Thus the same cause which makes a verse want feet, And throws a cloud o’er Longman and John Murray, When the sale of new books is not so fleet As they who print them think is necessary, May likewise put off for a time what story Sometimes calls ‘murder,’ and at others ‘glory.’

Whether it was their engineer’s stupidity, Their haste, or waste, I neither know nor care, Or some contractor’s personal cupidity, Saving his soul by cheating in the ware Of homicide, but there was no solidity In the new batteries erected there; They either miss’d, or they were never miss’d, And added greatly to the missing list.

A sad miscalculation about distance Made all their naval matters incorrect; Three fireships lost their amiable existence Before they reach’d a spot to take effect: The match was lit too soon, and no assistance Could remedy this lubberly defect; They blew up in the middle of the river, While, though ’twas dawn, the Turks slept fast as ever.

At seven they rose, however, and survey’d The Russ flotilla getting under way; ’Twas nine, when still advancing undismay’d, Within a cable’s length their vessels lay Off Ismail, and commenced a cannonade, Which was return’d with interest, I may say, And by a fire of musketry and grape, And shells and shot of every size and shape.

For six hours bore they without intermission The Turkish fire, and aided by their own Land batteries, work’d their guns with great precision: At length they found mere cannonade alone By no means would produce the town’s submission, And made a signal to retreat at one. One bark blew up, a second near the works Running aground, was taken by the Turks.

The Moslem, too, had lost both ships and men; But when they saw the enemy retire, Their Delhis mann’d some boats, and sail’d again, And gall’d the Russians with a heavy fire, And tried to make a landing on the main; But here the effect fell short of their desire: Count Damas drove them back into the water Pell-mell, and with a whole gazette of slaughter.

‘If’ (says the historian here) ‘I could report All that the Russians did upon this day, I think that several volumes would fall short, And I should still have many things to say;’ And so he says no more—but pays his court To some distinguish’d strangers in that fray; The Prince de Ligne, and Langeron, and Damas, Names great as any that the roll of Fame has.

This being the case, may show us what Fame is: For out of these three ‘preux Chevaliers,’ how Many of common readers give a guess That such existed? (and they may live now For aught we know.) Renown ’s all hit or miss; There’s fortune even in fame, we must allow. ’Tis true the Memoirs of the Prince de Ligne Have half withdrawn from him oblivion’s screen.

But here are men who fought in gallant actions As gallantly as ever heroes fought, But buried in the heap of such transactions Their names are rarely found, nor often sought. Thus even good fame may suffer sad contractions, And is extinguish’d sooner than she ought: Of all our modern battles, I will bet You can’t repeat nine names from each Gazette.

In short, this last attack, though rich in glory, Show’d that somewhere, somehow, there was a fault, And Admiral Ribas (known in Russian story) Most strongly recommended an assault; In which he was opposed by young and hoary, Which made a long debate; but I must halt, For if I wrote down every warrior’s speech, I doubt few readers e’er would mount the breach.

There was a man, if that he was a man, Not that his manhood could be call’d in question, For had he not been Hercules, his span Had been as short in youth as indigestion Made his last illness, when, all worn and wan, He died beneath a tree, as much unblest on The soil of the green province he had wasted, As e’er was locust on the land it blasted.

This was Potemkin—a great thing in days When homicide and harlotry made great; If stars and titles could entail long praise, His glory might half equal his estate. This fellow, being six foot high, could raise A kind of phantasy proportionate In the then sovereign of the Russian people, Who measured men as you would do a steeple.