Part 27

‘My third—’—‘Your third!’ quoth Juan, turning round; ‘You scarcely can be thirty: have you three?’ ‘No—only two at present above ground: Surely ’tis nothing wonderful to see One person thrice in holy wedlock bound!’ ‘Well, then, your third,’ said Juan; ‘what did she? She did not run away, too,—did she, sir?’ ‘No, faith.’—‘What then?’—‘I ran away from her.’

‘You take things coolly, sir,’ said Juan. ‘Why,’ Replied the other, ‘what can a man do? There still are many rainbows in your sky, But mine have vanish’d. All, when life is new, Commence with feelings warm, and prospects high; But time strips our illusions of their hue, And one by one in turn, some grand mistake Casts off its bright skin yearly like the snake.

‘’Tis true, it gets another bright and fresh, Or fresher, brighter; but the year gone through, This skin must go the way, too, of all flesh, Or sometimes only wear a week or two;— Love ’s the first net which spreads its deadly mesh; Ambition, Avarice, Vengeance, Glory, glue The glittering lime-twigs of our latter days, Where still we flutter on for pence or praise.’

‘All this is very fine, and may be true,’ Said Juan; ‘but I really don’t see how It betters present times with me or you.’ ‘No?’ quoth the other; ‘yet you will allow By setting things in their right point of view, Knowledge, at least, is gain’d; for instance, now, We know what slavery is, and our disasters May teach us better to behave when masters.’

‘Would we were masters now, if but to try Their present lessons on our Pagan friends here,’ Said Juan,—swallowing a heart-burning sigh: ‘Heaven help the scholar whom his fortune sends here!’ ‘Perhaps we shall be one day, by and by,’ Rejoin’d the other, when our bad luck mends here; Meantime (yon old black eunuch seems to eye us) I wish to God that somebody would buy us!

‘But after all, what is our present state? ’Tis bad, and may be better—all men’s lot: Most men are slaves, none more so than the great, To their own whims and passions, and what not; Society itself, which should create Kindness, destroys what little we had got: To feel for none is the true social art Of the world’s stoics—men without a heart.’

Just now a black old neutral personage Of the third sex stept up, and peering over The captives, seem’d to mark their looks and age, And capabilities, as to discover If they were fitted for the purposed cage: No lady e’er is ogled by a lover, Horse by a blackleg, broadcloth by a tailor, Fee by a counsel, felon by a jailor,

As is a slave by his intended bidder. ’Tis pleasant purchasing our fellow-creatures; And all are to be sold, if you consider Their passions, and are dext’rous; some by features Are bought up, others by a warlike leader, Some by a place—as tend their years or natures; The most by ready cash—but all have prices, From crowns to kicks, according to their vices.

The eunuch, having eyed them o’er with care, Turn’d to the merchant, and begun to bid First but for one, and after for the pair; They haggled, wrangled, swore, too—so they did! As though they were in a mere Christian fair Cheapening an ox, an ass, a lamb, or kid; So that their bargain sounded like a battle For this superior yoke of human cattle.

At last they settled into simple grumbling, And pulling out reluctant purses, and Turning each piece of silver o’er, and tumbling Some down, and weighing others in their hand, And by mistake sequins with paras jumbling, Until the sum was accurately scann’d, And then the merchant giving change, and signing Receipts in full, began to think of dining.

I wonder if his appetite was good? Or, if it were, if also his digestion? Methinks at meals some odd thoughts might intrude, And conscience ask a curious sort of question, About the right divine how far we should Sell flesh and blood. When dinner has opprest one, I think it is perhaps the gloomiest hour Which turns up out of the sad twenty-four.

Voltaire says ‘No:’ he tells you that Candide Found life most tolerable after meals; He ’s wrong—unless man were a pig, indeed, Repletion rather adds to what he feels, Unless he ’s drunk, and then no doubt he ’s freed From his own brain’s oppression while it reels. Of food I think with Philip’s son, or rather Ammon’s (ill pleased with one world and one father);

I think with Alexander, that the act Of eating, with another act or two, Makes us feel our mortality in fact Redoubled; when a roast and a ragout, And fish, and soup, by some side dishes back’d, Can give us either pain or pleasure, who Would pique himself on intellects, whose use Depends so much upon the gastric juice?

The other evening (’twas on Friday last)— This is a fact and no poetic fable— Just as my great coat was about me cast, My hat and gloves still lying on the table, I heard a shot—’twas eight o’clock scarce past— And, running out as fast as I was able, I found the military commandant Stretch’d in the street, and able scarce to pant.

Poor fellow! for some reason, surely bad, They had slain him with five slugs; and left him there To perish on the pavement: so I had Him borne into the house and up the stair, And stripp’d and look’d to—But why should I ad More circumstances? vain was every care; The man was gone: in some Italian quarrel Kill’d by five bullets from an old gun-barrel.

I gazed upon him, for I knew him well; And though I have seen many corpses, never Saw one, whom such an accident befell, So calm; though pierced through stomach, heart, and liver, He seem’d to sleep,—for you could scarcely tell (As he bled inwardly, no hideous river Of gore divulged the cause) that he was dead: So as I gazed on him, I thought or said—

‘Can this be death? then what is life or death? Speak!’ but he spoke not: ‘Wake!’ but still he slept:— ‘But yesterday and who had mightier breath? A thousand warriors by his word were kept In awe: he said, as the centurion saith, “Go,” and he goeth; “come,” and forth he stepp’d. The trump and bugle till he spake were dumb— And now nought left him but the muffled drum.’

And they who waited once and worshipp’d—they With their rough faces throng’d about the bed To gaze once more on the commanding clay Which for the last, though not the first, time bled: And such an end! that he who many a day Had faced Napoleon’s foes until they fled,— The foremost in the charge or in the sally, Should now be butcher’d in a civic alley.

The scars of his old wounds were near his new, Those honourable scars which brought him fame; And horrid was the contrast to the view— But let me quit the theme; as such things claim Perhaps even more attention than is due From me: I gazed (as oft I have gazed the same) To try if I could wrench aught out of death Which should confirm, or shake, or make a faith;

But it was all a mystery. Here we are, And there we go:—but where? five bits of lead, Or three, or two, or one, send very far! And is this blood, then, form’d but to be shed? Can every element our elements mar? And air—earth—water—fire live—and we dead? We whose minds comprehend all things? No more; But let us to the story as before.

The purchaser of Juan and acquaintance Bore off his bargains to a gilded boat, Embark’d himself and them, and off they went thence As fast as oars could pull and water float; They look’d like persons being led to sentence, Wondering what next, till the caique was brought Up in a little creek below a wall O’ertopp’d with cypresses, dark-green and tall.

Here their conductor tapping at the wicket Of a small iron door, ’twas open’d, and He led them onward, first through a low thicket Flank’d by large groves, which tower’d on either hand: They almost lost their way, and had to pick it— For night was closing ere they came to land. The eunuch made a sign to those on board, Who row’d off, leaving them without a word.

As they were plodding on their winding way Through orange bowers, and jasmine, and so forth (Of which I might have a good deal to say, There being no such profusion in the North Of oriental plants, ‘et cetera,’ But that of late your scribblers think it worth Their while to rear whole hotbeds in their works Because one poet travell’d ’mongst the Turks)—

As they were threading on their way, there came Into Don Juan’s head a thought, which he Whisper’d to his companion:—’twas the same Which might have then occurr’d to you or me. ‘Methinks,’ said he, ‘it would be no great shame If we should strike a stroke to set us free; Let ’s knock that old black fellow on the head, And march away—’twere easier done than said.’

‘Yes,’ said the other, ‘and when done, what then? How get out? how the devil got we in? And when we once were fairly out, and when From Saint Bartholomew we have saved our skin, To-morrow ’d see us in some other den, And worse off than we hitherto have been; Besides, I’m hungry, and just now would take, Like Esau, for my birthright a beef-steak.

‘We must be near some place of man’s abode;— For the old negro’s confidence in creeping, With his two captives, by so queer a road, Shows that he thinks his friends have not been sleeping; A single cry would bring them all abroad: ’Tis therefore better looking before leaping— And there, you see, this turn has brought us through, By Jove, a noble palace!—lighted too.’

It was indeed a wide extensive building Which open’d on their view, and o’er the front There seem’d to be besprent a deal of gilding And various hues, as is the Turkish wont,— A gaudy taste; for they are little skill’d in The arts of which these lands were once the font: Each villa on the Bosphorus looks a screen New painted, or a pretty opera-scene.

And nearer as they came, a genial savour Of certain stews, and roast-meats, and pilaus, Things which in hungry mortals’ eyes find favour, Made Juan in his harsh intentions pause, And put himself upon his good behaviour: His friend, too, adding a new saving clause, Said, ‘In Heaven’s name let’s get some supper now, And then I’m with you, if you’re for a row.’