Part 5

Young Juan wander’d by the glassy brooks, Thinking unutterable things; he threw Himself at length within the leafy nooks Where the wild branch of the cork forest grew; There poets find materials for their books, And every now and then we read them through, So that their plan and prosody are eligible, Unless, like Wordsworth, they prove unintelligible.

He, Juan (and not Wordsworth), so pursued His self-communion with his own high soul, Until his mighty heart, in its great mood, Had mitigated part, though not the whole Of its disease; he did the best he could With things not very subject to control, And turn’d, without perceiving his condition, Like Coleridge, into a metaphysician.

He thought about himself, and the whole earth Of man the wonderful, and of the stars, And how the deuce they ever could have birth; And then he thought of earthquakes, and of wars, How many miles the moon might have in girth, Of air-balloons, and of the many bars To perfect knowledge of the boundless skies;— And then he thought of Donna Julia’s eyes.

In thoughts like these true wisdom may discern Longings sublime, and aspirations high, Which some are born with, but the most part learn To plague themselves withal, they know not why: ’Twas strange that one so young should thus concern His brain about the action of the sky; If you think ’twas philosophy that this did, I can’t help thinking puberty assisted.

He pored upon the leaves, and on the flowers, And heard a voice in all the winds; and then He thought of wood-nymphs and immortal bowers, And how the goddesses came down to men: He miss’d the pathway, he forgot the hours, And when he look’d upon his watch again, He found how much old Time had been a winner— He also found that he had lost his dinner.

Sometimes he turn’d to gaze upon his book, Boscan, or Garcilasso;—by the wind Even as the page is rustled while we look, So by the poesy of his own mind Over the mystic leaf his soul was shook, As if ’twere one whereon magicians bind Their spells, and give them to the passing gale, According to some good old woman’s tale.

Thus would he while his lonely hours away Dissatisfied, nor knowing what he wanted; Nor glowing reverie, nor poet’s lay, Could yield his spirit that for which it panted, A bosom whereon he his head might lay, And hear the heart beat with the love it granted, With—several other things, which I forget, Or which, at least, I need not mention yet.

Those lonely walks, and lengthening reveries, Could not escape the gentle Julia’s eyes; She saw that Juan was not at his ease; But that which chiefly may, and must surprise, Is, that the Donna Inez did not tease Her only son with question or surmise: Whether it was she did not see, or would not, Or, like all very clever people, could not.

This may seem strange, but yet ’tis very common; For instance—gentlemen, whose ladies take Leave to o’erstep the written rights of woman, And break the—Which commandment is ’t they break? (I have forgot the number, and think no man Should rashly quote, for fear of a mistake.) I say, when these same gentlemen are jealous, They make some blunder, which their ladies tell us.

A real husband always is suspicious, But still no less suspects in the wrong place, Jealous of some one who had no such wishes, Or pandering blindly to his own disgrace, By harbouring some dear friend extremely vicious; The last indeed ’s infallibly the case: And when the spouse and friend are gone off wholly, He wonders at their vice, and not his folly.

Thus parents also are at times short-sighted; Though watchful as the lynx, they ne’er discover, The while the wicked world beholds delighted, Young Hopeful’s mistress, or Miss Fanny’s lover, Till some confounded escapade has blighted The plan of twenty years, and all is over; And then the mother cries, the father swears, And wonders why the devil he got heirs.

But Inez was so anxious, and so clear Of sight, that I must think, on this occasion, She had some other motive much more near For leaving Juan to this new temptation; But what that motive was, I sha’n’t say here; Perhaps to finish Juan’s education, Perhaps to open Don Alfonso’s eyes, In case he thought his wife too great a prize.

It was upon a day, a summer’s day.— Summer’s indeed a very dangerous season, And so is spring about the end of May; The sun, no doubt, is the prevailing reason; But whatsoe’er the cause is, one may say, And stand convicted of more truth than treason, That there are months which nature grows more merry in,— March has its hares, and May must have its heroine.

’Twas on a summer’s day—the sixth of June:— I like to be particular in dates, Not only of the age, and year, but moon; They are a sort of post-house, where the Fates Change horses, making history change its tune, Then spur away o’er empires and o’er states, Leaving at last not much besides chronology, Excepting the post-obits of theology.

’Twas on the sixth of June, about the hour Of half-past six—perhaps still nearer seven— When Julia sate within as pretty a bower As e’er held houri in that heathenish heaven Described by Mahomet, and Anacreon Moore, To whom the lyre and laurels have been given, With all the trophies of triumphant song— He won them well, and may he wear them long!

She sate, but not alone; I know not well How this same interview had taken place, And even if I knew, I should not tell— People should hold their tongues in any case; No matter how or why the thing befell, But there were she and Juan, face to face— When two such faces are so, ’twould be wise, But very difficult, to shut their eyes.

How beautiful she look’d! her conscious heart Glow’d in her cheek, and yet she felt no wrong. O Love! how perfect is thy mystic art, Strengthening the weak, and trampling on the strong, How self-deceitful is the sagest part Of mortals whom thy lure hath led along— The precipice she stood on was immense, So was her creed in her own innocence.

She thought of her own strength, and Juan’s youth, And of the folly of all prudish fears, Victorious virtue, and domestic truth, And then of Don Alfonso’s fifty years: I wish these last had not occurr’d, in sooth, Because that number rarely much endears, And through all climes, the snowy and the sunny, Sounds ill in love, whate’er it may in money.

When people say, ‘I’ve told you fifty times,’ They mean to scold, and very often do; When poets say, ‘I’ve written fifty rhymes,’ They make you dread that they’ll recite them too; In gangs of fifty, thieves commit their crimes; At fifty love for love is rare, ’tis true, But then, no doubt, it equally as true is, A good deal may be bought for fifty Louis.

Julia had honour, virtue, truth, and love, For Don Alfonso; and she inly swore, By all the vows below to powers above, She never would disgrace the ring she wore, Nor leave a wish which wisdom might reprove; And while she ponder’d this, besides much more, One hand on Juan’s carelessly was thrown, Quite by mistake—she thought it was her own;

Unconsciously she lean’d upon the other, Which play’d within the tangles of her hair: And to contend with thoughts she could not smother She seem’d by the distraction of her air. ’Twas surely very wrong in Juan’s mother To leave together this imprudent pair, She who for many years had watch’d her son so— I’m very certain mine would not have done so.

The hand which still held Juan’s, by degrees Gently, but palpably confirm’d its grasp, As if it said, ‘Detain me, if you please;’ Yet there’s no doubt she only meant to clasp His fingers with a pure Platonic squeeze: She would have shrunk as from a toad, or asp, Had she imagined such a thing could rouse A feeling dangerous to a prudent spouse.

I cannot know what Juan thought of this, But what he did, is much what you would do; His young lip thank’d it with a grateful kiss, And then, abash’d at its own joy, withdrew In deep despair, lest he had done amiss,— Love is so very timid when ’tis new: She blush’d, and frown’d not, but she strove to speak, And held her tongue, her voice was grown so weak.

The sun set, and up rose the yellow moon: The devil ’s in the moon for mischief; they Who call’d her CHASTE, methinks, began too soon Their nomenclature; there is not a day, The longest, not the twenty-first of June, Sees half the business in a wicked way On which three single hours of moonshine smile— And then she looks so modest all the while.

There is a dangerous silence in that hour, A stillness, which leaves room for the full soul To open all itself, without the power Of calling wholly back its self-control; The silver light which, hallowing tree and tower, Sheds beauty and deep softness o’er the whole, Breathes also to the heart, and o’er it throws A loving languor, which is not repose.

And Julia sate with Juan, half embraced And half retiring from the glowing arm, Which trembled like the bosom where ’twas placed; Yet still she must have thought there was no harm, Or else ’twere easy to withdraw her waist; But then the situation had its charm, And then—God knows what next—I can’t go on; I’m almost sorry that I e’er begun.

O Plato! Plato! you have paved the way, With your confounded fantasies, to more Immoral conduct by the fancied sway Your system feigns o’er the controulless core Of human hearts, than all the long array Of poets and romancers:—You’re a bore, A charlatan, a coxcomb—and have been, At best, no better than a go-between.

And Julia’s voice was lost, except in sighs, Until too late for useful conversation; The tears were gushing from her gentle eyes, I wish indeed they had not had occasion, But who, alas! can love, and then be wise? Not that remorse did not oppose temptation; A little still she strove, and much repented And whispering ‘I will ne’er consent’—consented.