Part 46

But I am apt to grow too metaphysical: ‘The time is out of joint,’—and so am I; I quite forget this poem ’s merely quizzical, And deviate into matters rather dry. I ne’er decide what I shall say, and this I call Much too poetical: men should know why They write, and for what end; but, note or text, I never know the word which will come next.

So on I ramble, now and then narrating, Now pondering:—it is time we should narrate. I left Don Juan with his horses baiting— Now we’ll get o’er the ground at a great rate. I shall not be particular in stating His journey, we’ve so many tours of late: Suppose him then at Petersburgh; suppose That pleasant capital of painted snows;

Suppose him in a handsome uniform,— A scarlet coat, black facings, a long plume, Waving, like sails new shiver’d in a storm, Over a cock’d hat in a crowded room, And brilliant breeches, bright as a Cairn Gorme, Of yellow casimere we may presume, White stocking drawn uncurdled as new milk O’er limbs whose symmetry set off the silk;

Suppose him sword by side, and hat in hand, Made up by youth, fame, and an army tailor— That great enchanter, at whose rod’s command Beauty springs forth, and Nature’s self turns paler, Seeing how Art can make her work more grand (When she don’t pin men’s limbs in like a gaoler),— Behold him placed as if upon a pillar! He Seems Love turn’d a lieutenant of artillery:—

His bandage slipp’d down into a cravat; His wings subdued to epaulettes; his quiver Shrunk to a scabbard, with his arrows at His side as a small sword, but sharp as ever; His bow converted into a cock’d hat; But still so like, that Psyche were more clever Than some wives (who make blunders no less stupid), If she had not mistaken him for Cupid.

The courtiers stared, the ladies whisper’d, and The empress smiled: the reigning favourite frown’d— I quite forget which of them was in hand Just then; as they are rather numerous found, Who took by turns that difficult command Since first her majesty was singly crown’d: But they were mostly nervous six-foot fellows, All fit to make a Patagonian jealous.

Juan was none of these, but slight and slim, Blushing and beardless; and yet ne’ertheless There was a something in his turn of limb, And still more in his eye, which seem’d to express, That though he look’d one of the seraphim, There lurk’d a man beneath the spirit’s dress. Besides, the empress sometimes liked a boy, And had just buried the fair-faced Lanskoi.

No wonder then that Yermoloff, or Momonoff, Or Scherbatoff, or any other off Or on, might dread her majesty had not room enough Within her bosom (which was not too tough) For a new flame; a thought to cast of gloom enough Along the aspect, whether smooth or rough, Of him who, in the language of his station, Then held that ‘high official situation.’

O, gentle ladies! should you seek to know The import of this diplomatic phrase, Bid Ireland’s Londonderry’s Marquess show His parts of speech; and in the strange displays Of that odd string of words, all in a row, Which none divine, and every one obeys, Perhaps you may pick out some queer no meaning, Of that weak wordy harvest the sole gleaning.

I think I can explain myself without That sad inexplicable beast of prey— That Sphinx, whose words would ever be a doubt, Did not his deeds unriddle them each day— That monstrous hieroglyphic—that long spout Of blood and water, leaden Castlereagh! And here I must an anecdote relate, But luckily of no great length or weight.

An English lady ask’d of an Italian, What were the actual and official duties Of the strange thing some women set a value on, Which hovers oft about some married beauties, Called ‘Cavalier servente?’—a Pygmalion Whose statues warm (I fear, alas! too true ’tis) Beneath his art. The dame, press’d to disclose them, Said—‘Lady, I beseech you to suppose them.’

And thus I supplicate your supposition, And mildest, matron-like interpretation, Of the imperial favourite’s condition. ’Twas a high place, the highest in the nation In fact, if not in rank; and the suspicion Of any one’s attaining to his station, No doubt gave pain, where each new pair of shoulders, If rather broad, made stocks rise and their holders.

Juan, I said, was a most beauteous boy, And had retain’d his boyish look beyond The usual hirsute seasons which destroy, With beards and whiskers, and the like, the fond Parisian aspect which upset old Troy And founded Doctors’ Commons:—I have conn’d The history of divorces, which, though chequer’d, Calls Ilion’s the first damages on record.

And Catherine, who loved all things (save her lord, Who was gone to his place), and pass’d for much Admiring those (by dainty dames abhorr’d) Gigantic gentlemen, yet had a touch Of sentiment; and he she most adored Was the lamented Lanskoi, who was such A lover as had cost her many a tear, And yet but made a middling grenadier.

O thou ‘teterrima causa’ of all ‘belli’— Thou gate of life and death—thou nondescript! Whence is our exit and our entrance,—well I May pause in pondering how all souls are dipt In thy perennial fountain:—how man fell I Know not, since knowledge saw her branches stript Of her first fruit; but how he falls and rises Since, thou hast settled beyond all surmises.

Some call thee ‘the worst cause of war,’ but I Maintain thou art the best: for after all From thee we come, to thee we go, and why To get at thee not batter down a wall, Or waste a world? since no one can deny Thou dost replenish worlds both great and small: With, or without thee, all things at a stand Are, or would be, thou sea of life’s dry land!

Catherine, who was the grand epitome Of that great cause of war, or peace, or what You please (it causes all the things which be, So you may take your choice of this or that)— Catherine, I say, was very glad to see The handsome herald, on whose plumage sat Victory; and pausing as she saw him kneel With his despatch, forgot to break the seal.

Then recollecting the whole empress, nor forgetting quite the woman (which composed At least three parts of this great whole), she tore The letter open with an air which posed The court, that watch’d each look her visage wore, Until a royal smile at length disclosed Fair weather for the day. Though rather spacious, Her face was noble, her eyes fine, mouth gracious.

Great joy was hers, or rather joys: the first Was a ta’en city, thirty thousand slain. Glory and triumph o’er her aspect burst, As an East Indian sunrise on the main. These quench’d a moment her ambition’s thirst— So Arab deserts drink in summer’s rain: In vain!—As fall the dews on quenchless sands, Blood only serves to wash Ambition’s hands!

Her next amusement was more fanciful; She smiled at mad Suwarrow’s rhymes, who threw Into a Russian couplet rather dull The whole gazette of thousands whom he slew. Her third was feminine enough to annul The shudder which runs naturally through Our veins, when things call’d sovereigns think it best To kill, and generals turn it into jest.

The two first feelings ran their course complete, And lighted first her eye, and then her mouth: The whole court look’d immediately most sweet, Like flowers well water’d after a long drouth. But when on the lieutenant at her feet Her majesty, who liked to gaze on youth Almost as much as on a new despatch, Glanced mildly, all the world was on the watch.

Though somewhat large, exuberant, and truculent, When wroth—while pleased, she was as fine a figure As those who like things rosy, ripe, and succulent, Would wish to look on, while they are in vigour. She could repay each amatory look you lent With interest, and in turn was wont with rigour To exact of Cupid’s bills the full amount At sight, nor would permit you to discount.

With her the latter, though at times convenient, Was not so necessary; for they tell That she was handsome, and though fierce look’d lenient, And always used her favourites too well. If once beyond her boudoir’s precincts in ye went, Your ‘fortune’ was in a fair way ‘to swell A man’ (as Giles says); for though she would widow all Nations, she liked man as an individual.

What a strange thing is man? and what a stranger Is woman! What a whirlwind is her head, And what a whirlpool full of depth and danger Is all the rest about her! Whether wed Or widow, maid or mother, she can change her Mind like the wind: whatever she has said Or done, is light to what she’ll say or do;— The oldest thing on record, and yet new!

O Catherine! (for of all interjections, To thee both oh! and ah! belong of right In love and war) how odd are the connections Of human thoughts, which jostle in their flight! Just now yours were cut out in different sections: First Ismail’s capture caught your fancy quite; Next of new knights, the fresh and glorious batch; And thirdly he who brought you the despatch!

Shakspeare talks of ‘the herald Mercury New lighted on a heaven-kissing hill;’ And some such visions cross’d her majesty, While her young herald knelt before her still. ’Tis very true the hill seem’d rather high, For a lieutenant to climb up; but skill Smooth’d even the Simplon’s steep, and by God’s blessing With youth and health all kisses are ‘heaven-kissing.’

Her majesty look’d down, the youth look’d up— And so they fell in love;—she with his face, His grace, his God-knows-what: for Cupid’s cup With the first draught intoxicates apace, A quintessential laudanum or ‘black drop,’ Which makes one drunk at once, without the base Expedient of full bumpers; for the eye In love drinks all life’s fountains (save tears) dry.

He, on the other hand, if not in love, Fell into that no less imperious passion, Self-love—which, when some sort of thing above Ourselves, a singer, dancer, much in fashion, Or duchess, princess, empress, ‘deigns to prove’ (’Tis Pope’s phrase) a great longing, though a rash one, For one especial person out of many, Makes us believe ourselves as good as any.