Part 33

O, enviable Briareus! with thy hands And heads, if thou hadst all things multiplied In such proportion!—But my Muse withstands The giant thought of being a Titan’s bride, Or travelling in Patagonian lands; So let us back to Lilliput, and guide Our hero through the labyrinth of love In which we left him several lines above.

He went forth with the lovely Odalisques, At the given signal join’d to their array; And though he certainly ran many risks, Yet he could not at times keep, by the way (Although the consequences of such frisks Are worse than the worst damages men pay In moral England, where the thing ’s a tax), From ogling all their charms from breasts to backs.

Still he forgot not his disguise:—along The galleries from room to room they walk’d, A virgin-like and edifying throng, By eunuchs flank’d; while at their head there stalk’d A dame who kept up discipline among The female ranks, so that none stirr’d or talk’d Without her sanction on their she-parades: Her title was ‘the Mother of the Maids.’

Whether she was a ‘mother,’ I know not, Or whether they were ‘maids’ who call’d her mother; But this is her seraglio title, got I know not how, but good as any other; So Cantemir can tell you, or De Tott: Her office was to keep aloof or smother All bad propensities in fifteen hundred Young women, and correct them when they blunder’d.

A goodly sinecure, no doubt! but made More easy by the absence of all men— Except his majesty, who, with her aid, And guards, and bolts, and walls, and now and then A slight example, just to cast a shade Along the rest, contrived to keep this den Of beauties cool as an Italian convent, Where all the passions have, alas! but one vent.

And what is that? Devotion, doubtless—how Could you ask such a question?—but we will Continue. As I said, this goodly row Of ladies of all countries at the will Of one good man, with stately march and slow, Like water-lilies floating down a rill— Or rather lake, for rills do not run slowly— Paced on most maiden-like and melancholy.

But when they reach’d their own apartments, there, Like birds, or boys, or bedlamites broke loose, Waves at spring-tide, or women anywhere When freed from bonds (which are of no great use After all), or like Irish at a fair, Their guards being gone, and as it were a truce Establish’d between them and bondage, they Began to sing, dance, chatter, smile, and play.

Their talk, of course, ran most on the new comer; Her shape, her hair, her air, her everything: Some thought her dress did not so much become her, Or wonder’d at her ears without a ring; Some said her years were getting nigh their summer, Others contended they were but in spring; Some thought her rather masculine in height, While others wish’d that she had been so quite.

But no one doubted on the whole, that she Was what her dress bespoke, a damsel fair, And fresh, and ‘beautiful exceedingly,’ Who with the brightest Georgians might compare: They wonder’d how Gulbeyaz, too, could be So silly as to buy slaves who might share (If that his Highness wearied of his bride) Her throne and power, and every thing beside.

But what was strangest in this virgin crew, Although her beauty was enough to vex, After the first investigating view, They all found out as few, or fewer, specks In the fair form of their companion new, Than is the custom of the gentle sex, When they survey, with Christian eyes or Heathen, In a new face ‘the ugliest creature breathing.’

And yet they had their little jealousies, Like all the rest; but upon this occasion, Whether there are such things as sympathies Without our knowledge or our approbation, Although they could not see through his disguise, All felt a soft kind of concatenation, Like magnetism, or devilism, or what You please—we will not quarrel about that:

But certain ’tis they all felt for their new Companion something newer still, as ’twere A sentimental friendship through and through, Extremely pure, which made them all concur In wishing her their sister, save a few Who wish’d they had a brother just like her, Whom, if they were at home in sweet Circassia, They would prefer to Padisha or Pacha.

Of those who had most genius for this sort Of sentimental friendship, there were three, Lolah, Katinka, and Dudu; in short (To save description), fair as fair can be Were they, according to the best report, Though differing in stature and degree, And clime and time, and country and complexion; They all alike admired their new connection.

Lolah was dusk as India and as warm; Katinka was a Georgian, white and red, With great blue eyes, a lovely hand and arm, And feet so small they scarce seem’d made to tread, But rather skim the earth; while Dudu’s form Look’d more adapted to be put to bed, Being somewhat large, and languishing, and lazy, Yet of a beauty that would drive you crazy.

A kind of sleepy Venus seem’d Dudu, Yet very fit to ‘murder sleep’ in those Who gazed upon her cheek’s transcendent hue, Her Attic forehead, and her Phidian nose: Few angles were there in her form, ’tis true, Thinner she might have been, and yet scarce lose; Yet, after all, ’twould puzzle to say where It would not spoil some separate charm to pare.

She was not violently lively, but Stole on your spirit like a May-day breaking; Her eyes were not too sparkling, yet, half-shut, They put beholders in a tender taking; She look’d (this simile ’s quite new) just cut From marble, like Pygmalion’s statue waking, The mortal and the marble still at strife, And timidly expanding into life.

Lolah demanded the new damsel’s name— ‘Juanna.’—Well, a pretty name enough. Katinka ask’d her also whence she came— ‘From Spain.’—‘But where is Spain?’—‘Don’t ask such stuff, Nor show your Georgian ignorance—for shame!’ Said Lolah, with an accent rather rough, To poor Katinka: ‘Spain ’s an island near Morocco, betwixt Egypt and Tangier.’

Dudu said nothing, but sat down beside Juanna, playing with her veil or hair; And looking at her steadfastly, she sigh’d, As if she pitied her for being there, A pretty stranger without friend or guide, And all abash’d, too, at the general stare Which welcomes hapless strangers in all places, With kind remarks upon their mien and faces.

But here the Mother of the Maids drew near, With, ‘Ladies, it is time to go to rest. I’m puzzled what to do with you, my dear,’ She added to Juanna, their new guest: ‘Your coming has been unexpected here, And every couch is occupied; you had best Partake of mine; but by to-morrow early We will have all things settled for you fairly.’

Here Lolah interposed—‘Mamma, you know You don’t sleep soundly, and I cannot bear That anybody should disturb you so; I’ll take Juanna; we’re a slenderer pair Than you would make the half of;—don’t say no; And I of your young charge will take due care.’ But here Katinka interfered, and said, ‘She also had compassion and a bed.

‘Besides, I hate to sleep alone,’ quoth she. The matron frown’d: ‘Why so?’—‘For fear of ghosts,’ Replied Katinka; ‘I am sure I see A phantom upon each of the four posts; And then I have the worst dreams that can be, Of Guebres, Giaours, and Ginns, and Gouls in hosts.’ The dame replied, ‘Between your dreams and you, I fear Juanna’s dreams would be but few.

‘You, Lolah, must continue still to lie Alone, for reasons which don’t matter; you The same, Katinka, until by and by; And I shall place Juanna with Dudu, Who ’s quiet, inoffensive, silent, shy, And will not toss and chatter the night through. What say you, child?’—Dudu said nothing, as Her talents were of the more silent class;

But she rose up, and kiss’d the matron’s brow Between the eyes, and Lolah on both cheeks, Katinka, too; and with a gentle bow (Curt’sies are neither used by Turks nor Greeks) She took Juanna by the hand to show Their place of rest, and left to both their piques, The others pouting at the matron’s preference Of Dudu, though they held their tongues from deference.

It was a spacious chamber (Oda is The Turkish title), and ranged round the wall Were couches, toilets—and much more than this I might describe, as I have seen it all, But it suffices—little was amiss; ’Twas on the whole a nobly furnish’d hall, With all things ladies want, save one or two, And even those were nearer than they knew.

Dudu, as has been said, was a sweet creature, Not very dashing, but extremely winning, With the most regulated charms of feature, Which painters cannot catch like faces sinning Against proportion—the wild strokes of nature Which they hit off at once in the beginning, Full of expression, right or wrong, that strike, And pleasing or unpleasing, still are like.

But she was a soft landscape of mild earth, Where all was harmony, and calm, and quiet, Luxuriant, budding; cheerful without mirth, Which, if not happiness, is much more nigh it Than are your mighty passions and so forth, Which some call ‘the sublime:’ I wish they’d try it: I’ve seen your stormy seas and stormy women, And pity lovers rather more than seamen.

But she was pensive more than melancholy, And serious more than pensive, and serene, It may be, more than either—not unholy Her thoughts, at least till now, appear to have been. The strangest thing was, beauteous, she was wholly Unconscious, albeit turn’d of quick seventeen, That she was fair, or dark, or short, or tall; She never thought about herself at all.

And therefore was she kind and gentle as The Age of Gold (when gold was yet unknown, By which its nomenclature came to pass; Thus most appropriately has been shown ‘Lucus a non lucendo,’ not what was, But what was not; a sort of style that ’s grown Extremely common in this age, whose metal The devil may decompose, but never settle: