Part 8

Haidee was Nature’s bride, and knew not this; Haidee was Passion’s child, born where the sun Showers triple light, and scorches even the kiss Of his gazelle-eyed daughters; she was one Made but to love, to feel that she was his Who was her chosen: what was said or done Elsewhere was nothing. She had naught to fear, Hope, care, nor love, beyond, her heart beat here.

And oh! that quickening of the heart, that beat! How much it costs us! yet each rising throb Is in its cause as its effect so sweet, That Wisdom, ever on the watch to rob Joy of its alchymy, and to repeat Fine truths; even Conscience, too, has a tough job To make us understand each good old maxim, So good—I wonder Castlereagh don’t tax ’em.

And now ’twas done—on the lone shore were plighted Their hearts; the stars, their nuptial torches, shed Beauty upon the beautiful they lighted: Ocean their witness, and the cave their bed, By their own feelings hallow’d and united, Their priest was Solitude, and they were wed: And they were happy, for to their young eyes Each was an angel, and earth paradise.

O, Love! of whom great Caesar was the suitor, Titus the master, Antony the slave, Horace, Catullus, scholars, Ovid tutor, Sappho the sage blue-stocking, in whose grave All those may leap who rather would be neuter (Leucadia’s rock still overlooks the wave)— O, Love! thou art the very god of evil, For, after all, we cannot call thee devil.

Thou mak’st the chaste connubial state precarious, And jestest with the brows of mightiest men: Caesar and Pompey, Mahomet, Belisarius, Have much employ’d the muse of history’s pen; Their lives and fortunes were extremely various, Such worthies Time will never see again; Yet to these four in three things the same luck holds, They all were heroes, conquerors, and cuckolds.

Thou mak’st philosophers; there’s Epicurus And Aristippus, a material crew! Who to immoral courses would allure us By theories quite practicable too; If only from the devil they would insure us, How pleasant were the maxim (not quite new), ‘Eat, drink, and love, what can the rest avail us?’ So said the royal sage Sardanapalus.

But Juan! had he quite forgotten Julia? And should he have forgotten her so soon? I can’t but say it seems to me most truly Perplexing question; but, no doubt, the moon Does these things for us, and whenever newly Strong palpitation rises, ’tis her boon, Else how the devil is it that fresh features Have such a charm for us poor human creatures?

I hate inconstancy—I loathe, detest, Abhor, condemn, abjure the mortal made Of such quicksilver clay that in his breast No permanent foundation can be laid; Love, constant love, has been my constant guest, And yet last night, being at a masquerade, I saw the prettiest creature, fresh from Milan, Which gave me some sensations like a villain.

But soon Philosophy came to my aid, And whisper’d, ‘Think of every sacred tie!’ ‘I will, my dear Philosophy!’ I said, ‘But then her teeth, and then, oh, Heaven! her eye! I’ll just inquire if she be wife or maid, Or neither—out of curiosity.’ ‘Stop!’ cried Philosophy, with air so Grecian (Though she was masqued then as a fair Venetian);

‘Stop!’ so I stopp’d.—But to return: that which Men call inconstancy is nothing more Than admiration due where nature’s rich Profusion with young beauty covers o’er Some favour’d object; and as in the niche A lovely statue we almost adore, This sort of adoration of the real Is but a heightening of the ‘beau ideal.’

’Tis the perception of the beautiful, A fine extension of the faculties, Platonic, universal, wonderful, Drawn from the stars, and filter’d through the skies, Without which life would be extremely dull; In short, it is the use of our own eyes, With one or two small senses added, just To hint that flesh is form’d of fiery dust.

Yet ’tis a painful feeling, and unwilling, For surely if we always could perceive In the same object graces quite as killing As when she rose upon us like an Eve, ’Twould save us many a heartache, many a shilling (For we must get them any how or grieve), Whereas if one sole lady pleased for ever, How pleasant for the heart as well as liver!

The heart is like the sky, a part of heaven, But changes night and day, too, like the sky; Now o’er it clouds and thunder must be driven, And darkness and destruction as on high: But when it hath been scorch’d, and pierced, and riven, Its storms expire in water-drops; the eye Pours forth at last the heart’s blood turn’d to tears, Which make the English climate of our years.

The liver is the lazaret of bile, But very rarely executes its function, For the first passion stays there such a while, That all the rest creep in and form a junction, Life knots of vipers on a dunghill’s soil,— Rage, fear, hate, jealousy, revenge, compunction,— So that all mischiefs spring up from this entrail, Like earthquakes from the hidden fire call’d ‘central,’

In the mean time, without proceeding more In this anatomy, I’ve finish’d now Two hundred and odd stanzas as before, That being about the number I’ll allow Each canto of the twelve, or twenty-four; And, laying down my pen, I make my bow, Leaving Don Juan and Haidee to plead For them and theirs with all who deign to read.

[Illustration]

CANTO THE THIRD.

Hail, Muse! et cetera.—We left Juan sleeping, Pillow’d upon a fair and happy breast, And watch’d by eyes that never yet knew weeping, And loved by a young heart, too deeply blest To feel the poison through her spirit creeping, Or know who rested there, a foe to rest, Had soil’d the current of her sinless years, And turn’d her pure heart’s purest blood to tears!

O, Love! what is it in this world of ours Which makes it fatal to be loved? Ah, why With cypress branches hast thou Wreathed thy bowers, And made thy best interpreter a sigh? As those who dote on odours pluck the flowers, And place them on their breast—but place to die— Thus the frail beings we would fondly cherish Are laid within our bosoms but to perish.

In her first passion woman loves her lover, In all the others all she loves is love, Which grows a habit she can ne’er get over, And fits her loosely—like an easy glove, As you may find, whene’er you like to prove her: One man alone at first her heart can move; She then prefers him in the plural number, Not finding that the additions much encumber.

I know not if the fault be men’s or theirs; But one thing ’s pretty sure; a woman planted (Unless at once she plunge for life in prayers) After a decent time must be gallanted; Although, no doubt, her first of love affairs Is that to which her heart is wholly granted; Yet there are some, they say, who have had none, But those who have ne’er end with only one.

’Tis melancholy, and a fearful sign Of human frailty, folly, also crime, That love and marriage rarely can combine, Although they both are born in the same clime; Marriage from love, like vinegar from wine— A sad, sour, sober beverage—by time Is sharpen’d from its high celestial flavour Down to a very homely household savour.

There’s something of antipathy, as ’twere, Between their present and their future state; A kind of flattery that ’s hardly fair Is used until the truth arrives too late— Yet what can people do, except despair? The same things change their names at such a rate; For instance—passion in a lover ’s glorious, But in a husband is pronounced uxorious.

Men grow ashamed of being so very fond; They sometimes also get a little tired (But that, of course, is rare), and then despond: The same things cannot always be admired, Yet ’tis ‘so nominated in the bond,’ That both are tied till one shall have expired. Sad thought! to lose the spouse that was adorning Our days, and put one’s servants into mourning.

There’s doubtless something in domestic doings Which forms, in fact, true love’s antithesis; Romances paint at full length people’s wooings, But only give a bust of marriages; For no one cares for matrimonial cooings, There’s nothing wrong in a connubial kiss: Think you, if Laura had been Petrarch’s wife, He would have written sonnets all his life?

All tragedies are finish’d by a death, All comedies are ended by a marriage; The future states of both are left to faith, For authors fear description might disparage The worlds to come of both, or fall beneath, And then both worlds would punish their miscarriage; So leaving each their priest and prayer-book ready, They say no more of Death or of the Lady.

The only two that in my recollection Have sung of heaven and hell, or marriage, are Dante and Milton, and of both the affection Was hapless in their nuptials, for some bar Of fault or temper ruin’d the connection (Such things, in fact, it don’t ask much to mar): But Dante’s Beatrice and Milton’s Eve Were not drawn from their spouses, you conceive.

Some persons say that Dante meant theology By Beatrice, and not a mistress—I, Although my opinion may require apology, Deem this a commentator’s fantasy, Unless indeed it was from his own knowledge he Decided thus, and show’d good reason why; I think that Dante’s more abstruse ecstatics Meant to personify the mathematics.

Haidee and Juan were not married, but The fault was theirs, not mine; it is not fair, Chaste reader, then, in any way to put The blame on me, unless you wish they were; Then if you’d have them wedded, please to shut The book which treats of this erroneous pair, Before the consequences grow too awful; ’Tis dangerous to read of loves unlawful.

Yet they were happy,—happy in the illicit Indulgence of their innocent desires; But more imprudent grown with every visit, Haidee forgot the island was her sire’s; When we have what we like, ’tis hard to miss it, At least in the beginning, ere one tires; Thus she came often, not a moment losing, Whilst her piratical papa was cruising.

Let not his mode of raising cash seem strange, Although he fleeced the flags of every nation, For into a prime minister but change His title, and ’tis nothing but taxation; But he, more modest, took an humbler range Of life, and in an honester vocation Pursued o’er the high seas his watery journey, And merely practised as a sea-attorney.

The good old gentleman had been detain’d By winds and waves, and some important captures; And, in the hope of more, at sea remain’d, Although a squall or two had damp’d his raptures, By swamping one of the prizes; he had chain’d His prisoners, dividing them like chapters In number’d lots; they all had cuffs and collars, And averaged each from ten to a hundred dollars.

Some he disposed of off Cape Matapan, Among his friends the Mainots; some he sold To his Tunis correspondents, save one man Toss’d overboard unsaleable (being old); The rest—save here and there some richer one, Reserved for future ransom—in the hold Were link’d alike, as for the common people he Had a large order from the Dey of Tripoli.

The merchandise was served in the same way, Pieced out for different marts in the Levant; Except some certain portions of the prey, Light classic articles of female want, French stuffs, lace, tweezers, toothpicks, teapot, tray, Guitars and castanets from Alicant, All which selected from the spoil he gathers, Robb’d for his daughter by the best of fathers.

A monkey, a Dutch mastiff, a mackaw, Two parrots, with a Persian cat and kittens, He chose from several animals he saw— A terrier, too, which once had been a Briton’s, Who dying on the coast of Ithaca, The peasants gave the poor dumb thing a pittance; These to secure in this strong blowing weather, He caged in one huge hamper altogether.

Then having settled his marine affairs, Despatching single cruisers here and there, His vessel having need of some repairs, He shaped his course to where his daughter fair Continued still her hospitable cares; But that part of the coast being shoal and bare, And rough with reefs which ran out many a mile, His port lay on the other side o’ the isle.

And there he went ashore without delay, Having no custom-house nor quarantine To ask him awkward questions on the way About the time and place where he had been: He left his ship to be hove down next day, With orders to the people to careen; So that all hands were busy beyond measure, In getting out goods, ballast, guns, and treasure.

Arriving at the summit of a hill Which overlook’d the white walls of his home, He stopp’d.—What singular emotions fill Their bosoms who have been induced to roam! With fluttering doubts if all be well or ill— With love for many, and with fears for some; All feelings which o’erleap the years long lost, And bring our hearts back to their starting-post.

The approach of home to husbands and to sires, After long travelling by land or water, Most naturally some small doubt inspires— A female family ’s a serious matter (None trusts the sex more, or so much admires— But they hate flattery, so I never flatter); Wives in their husbands’ absences grow subtler, And daughters sometimes run off with the butler.

An honest gentleman at his return May not have the good fortune of Ulysses; Not all lone matrons for their husbands mourn, Or show the same dislike to suitors’ kisses; The odds are that he finds a handsome urn To his memory—and two or three young misses Born to some friend, who holds his wife and riches,— And that his Argus—bites him by the breeches.

If single, probably his plighted fair Has in his absence wedded some rich miser; But all the better, for the happy pair May quarrel, and the lady growing wiser, He may resume his amatory care As cavalier servente, or despise her; And that his sorrow may not be a dumb one, Write odes on the Inconstancy of Woman.

And oh! ye gentlemen who have already Some chaste liaison of the kind—I mean An honest friendship with a married lady— The only thing of this sort ever seen To last—of all connections the most steady, And the true Hymen (the first ’s but a screen)— Yet for all that keep not too long away, I’ve known the absent wrong’d four times a day.

Lambro, our sea-solicitor, who had Much less experience of dry land than ocean, On seeing his own chimney-smoke, felt glad; But not knowing metaphysics, had no notion Of the true reason of his not being sad, Or that of any other strong emotion; He loved his child, and would have wept the loss of her, But knew the cause no more than a philosopher.

He saw his white walls shining in the sun, His garden trees all shadowy and green; He heard his rivulet’s light bubbling run, The distant dog-bark; and perceived between The umbrage of the wood so cool and dun The moving figures, and the sparkling sheen Of arms (in the East all arm)—and various dyes Of colour’d garbs, as bright as butterflies.

And as the spot where they appear he nears, Surprised at these unwonted signs of idling, He hears—alas! no music of the spheres, But an unhallow’d, earthly sound of fiddling! A melody which made him doubt his ears, The cause being past his guessing or unriddling; A pipe, too, and a drum, and shortly after, A most unoriental roar of laughter.

And still more nearly to the place advancing, Descending rather quickly the declivity, Through the waved branches o’er the greensward glancing, ’Midst other indications of festivity, Seeing a troop of his domestics dancing Like dervises, who turn as on a pivot, he Perceived it was the Pyrrhic dance so martial, To which the Levantines are very partial.

And further on a group of Grecian girls, The first and tallest her white kerchief waving, Were strung together like a row of pearls, Link’d hand in hand, and dancing; each too having Down her white neck long floating auburn curls (The least of which would set ten poets raving); Their leader sang—and bounded to her song, With choral step and voice, the virgin throng.

And here, assembled cross-legg’d round their trays, Small social parties just begun to dine; Pilaus and meats of all sorts met the gaze, And flasks of Samian and of Chian wine, And sherbet cooling in the porous vase; Above them their dessert grew on its vine, The orange and pomegranate nodding o’er Dropp’d in their laps, scarce pluck’d, their mellow store.

A band of children, round a snow-white ram, There wreathe his venerable horns with flowers; While peaceful as if still an unwean’d lamb, The patriarch of the flock all gently cowers His sober head, majestically tame, Or eats from out the palm, or playful lowers His brow, as if in act to butt, and then Yielding to their small hands, draws back again.

Their classical profiles, and glittering dresses, Their large black eyes, and soft seraphic cheeks, Crimson as cleft pomegranates, their long tresses, The gesture which enchants, the eye that speaks, The innocence which happy childhood blesses, Made quite a picture of these little Greeks; So that the philosophical beholder Sigh’d for their sakes—that they should e’er grow older.

Afar, a dwarf buffoon stood telling tales To a sedate grey circle of old smokers, Of secret treasures found in hidden vales, Of wonderful replies from Arab jokers, Of charms to make good gold and cure bad ails, Of rocks bewitch’d that open to the knockers, Of magic ladies who, by one sole act, Transform’d their lords to beasts (but that ’s a fact).

Here was no lack of innocent diversion For the imagination or the senses, Song, dance, wine, music, stories from the Persian, All pretty pastimes in which no offence is; But Lambro saw all these things with aversion, Perceiving in his absence such expenses, Dreading that climax of all human ills, The inflammation of his weekly bills.

Ah! what is man? what perils still environ The happiest mortals even after dinner— A day of gold from out an age of iron Is all that life allows the luckiest sinner; Pleasure (whene’er she sings, at least) ’s a siren, That lures, to flay alive, the young beginner; Lambro’s reception at his people’s banquet Was such as fire accords to a wet blanket.

He—being a man who seldom used a word Too much, and wishing gladly to surprise (In general he surprised men with the sword) His daughter—had not sent before to advise Of his arrival, so that no one stirr’d; And long he paused to re-assure his eyes In fact much more astonish’d than delighted, To find so much good company invited.

He did not know (alas! how men will lie) That a report (especially the Greeks) Avouch’d his death (such people never die), And put his house in mourning several weeks,— But now their eyes and also lips were dry; The bloom, too, had return’d to Haidee’s cheeks, Her tears, too, being return’d into their fount, She now kept house upon her own account.

Hence all this rice, meat, dancing, wine, and fiddling, Which turn’d the isle into a place of pleasure; The servants all were getting drunk or idling, A life which made them happy beyond measure. Her father’s hospitality seem’d middling, Compared with what Haidee did with his treasure; ’Twas wonderful how things went on improving, While she had not one hour to spare from loving.

Perhaps you think in stumbling on this feast He flew into a passion, and in fact There was no mighty reason to be pleased; Perhaps you prophesy some sudden act, The whip, the rack, or dungeon at the least, To teach his people to be more exact, And that, proceeding at a very high rate, He show’d the royal penchants of a pirate.

You’re wrong.—He was the mildest manner’d man That ever scuttled ship or cut a throat: With such true breeding of a gentleman, You never could divine his real thought; No courtier could, and scarcely woman can Gird more deceit within a petticoat; Pity he loved adventurous life’s variety, He was so great a loss to good society.

Advancing to the nearest dinner tray, Tapping the shoulder of the nighest guest, With a peculiar smile, which, by the way, Boded no good, whatever it express’d, He ask’d the meaning of this holiday; The vinous Greek to whom he had address’d His question, much too merry to divine The questioner, fill’d up a glass of wine,

And without turning his facetious head, Over his shoulder, with a Bacchant air, Presented the o’erflowing cup, and said, ‘Talking ’s dry work, I have no time to spare.’ A second hiccup’d, ‘Our old master ’s dead, You’d better ask our mistress who ’s his heir.’ ‘Our mistress!’ quoth a third: ‘Our mistress!—pooh!— You mean our master—not the old, but new.’

These rascals, being new comers, knew not whom They thus address’d—and Lambro’s visage fell— And o’er his eye a momentary gloom Pass’d, but he strove quite courteously to quell The expression, and endeavouring to resume His smile, requested one of them to tell The name and quality of his new patron, Who seem’d to have turn’d Haidee into a matron.

‘I know not,’ quoth the fellow, ‘who or what He is, nor whence he came—and little care; But this I know, that this roast capon ’s fat, And that good wine ne’er wash’d down better fare; And if you are not satisfied with that, Direct your questions to my neighbour there; He’ll answer all for better or for worse, For none likes more to hear himself converse.’

I said that Lambro was a man of patience, And certainly he show’d the best of breeding, Which scarce even France, the paragon of nations, E’er saw her most polite of sons exceeding; He bore these sneers against his near relations, His own anxiety, his heart, too, bleeding, The insults, too, of every servile glutton, Who all the time was eating up his mutton.

Now in a person used to much command— To bid men come, and go, and come again— To see his orders done, too, out of hand— Whether the word was death, or but the chain— It may seem strange to find his manners bland; Yet such things are, which I can not explain, Though doubtless he who can command himself Is good to govern—almost as a Guelf.

Not that he was not sometimes rash or so, But never in his real and serious mood; Then calm, concentrated, and still, and slow, He lay coil’d like the boa in the wood; With him it never was a word and blow, His angry word once o’er, he shed no blood, But in his silence there was much to rue, And his one blow left little work for two.

He ask’d no further questions, and proceeded On to the house, but by a private way, So that the few who met him hardly heeded, So little they expected him that day; If love paternal in his bosom pleaded For Haidee’s sake, is more than I can say, But certainly to one deem’d dead, returning, This revel seem’d a curious mode of mourning.