Part 8

Alfonso paused a minute—then begun Some strange excuses for his late proceeding; He would not justify what he had done, To say the best, it was extreme ill-breeding; But there were ample reasons for it, none Of which he specified in this his pleading: His speech was a fine sample, on the whole, Of rhetoric, which the learn’d call ‘rigmarole.’

Julia said nought; though all the while there rose A ready answer, which at once enables A matron, who her husband’s foible knows, By a few timely words to turn the tables, Which, if it does not silence, still must pose,— Even if it should comprise a pack of fables; ’Tis to retort with firmness, and when he Suspects with one, do you reproach with three.

Julia, in fact, had tolerable grounds,— Alfonso’s loves with Inez were well known, But whether ’twas that one’s own guilt confounds— But that can’t be, as has been often shown, A lady with apologies abounds;— It might be that her silence sprang alone From delicacy to Don Juan’s ear, To whom she knew his mother’s fame was dear.

There might be one more motive, which makes two; Alfonso ne’er to Juan had alluded,— Mention’d his jealousy but never who Had been the happy lover, he concluded, Conceal’d amongst his premises; ’tis true, His mind the more o’er this its mystery brooded; To speak of Inez now were, one may say, Like throwing Juan in Alfonso’s way.

A hint, in tender cases, is enough; Silence is best, besides there is a tact (That modern phrase appears to me sad stuff, But it will serve to keep my verse compact)— Which keeps, when push’d by questions rather rough, A lady always distant from the fact: The charming creatures lie with such a grace, There’s nothing so becoming to the face.

They blush, and we believe them; at least I Have always done so; ’tis of no great use, In any case, attempting a reply, For then their eloquence grows quite profuse; And when at length they’re out of breath, they sigh, And cast their languid eyes down, and let loose A tear or two, and then we make it up; And then—and then—and then—sit down and sup.

Alfonso closed his speech, and begg’d her pardon, Which Julia half withheld, and then half granted, And laid conditions he thought very hard on, Denying several little things he wanted: He stood like Adam lingering near his garden, With useless penitence perplex’d and haunted, Beseeching she no further would refuse, When, lo! he stumbled o’er a pair of shoes.

A pair of shoes!—what then? not much, if they Are such as fit with ladies’ feet, but these (No one can tell how much I grieve to say) Were masculine; to see them, and to seize, Was but a moment’s act.—Ah! well-a-day! My teeth begin to chatter, my veins freeze— Alfonso first examined well their fashion, And then flew out into another passion.

He left the room for his relinquish’d sword, And Julia instant to the closet flew. ‘Fly, Juan, fly! for heaven’s sake—not a word— The door is open—you may yet slip through The passage you so often have explored— Here is the garden-key—Fly—fly—Adieu! Haste—haste! I hear Alfonso’s hurrying feet— Day has not broke—there’s no one in the street:

None can say that this was not good advice, The only mischief was, it came too late; Of all experience ’tis the usual price, A sort of income-tax laid on by fate: Juan had reach’d the room-door in a. trice, And might have done so by the garden-gate, But met Alfonso in his dressing-gown, Who threaten’d death—so Juan knock’d him down.

Dire was the scuffle, and out went the light; Antonia cried out ‘Rape!’ and Julia ‘Fire!’ But not a servant stirr’d to aid the fight. Alfonso, pommell’d to his heart’s desire, Swore lustily he’d be revenged this night; And Juan, too, blasphemed an octave higher; His blood was up: though young, he was a Tartar, And not at all disposed to prove a martyr.

Alfonso’s sword had dropp’d ere he could draw it, And they continued battling hand to hand, For Juan very luckily ne’er saw it; His temper not being under great command, If at that moment he had chanced to claw it, Alfonso’s days had not been in the land Much longer.—Think of husbands’, lovers’ lives! And how ye may be doubly widows—wives!

Alfonso grappled to detain the foe, And Juan throttled him to get away, And blood (’twas from the nose) began to flow; At last, as they more faintly wrestling lay, Juan contrived to give an awkward blow, And then his only garment quite gave way; He fled, like Joseph, leaving it; but there, I doubt, all likeness ends between the pair.

Lights came at length, and men, and maids, who found An awkward spectacle their eyes before; Antonia in hysterics, Julia swoon’d, Alfonso leaning, breathless, by the door; Some half-torn drapery scatter’d on the ground, Some blood, and several footsteps, but no more: Juan the gate gain’d, turn’d the key about, And liking not the inside, lock’d the out.

Here ends this canto.—Need I sing, or say, How Juan naked, favour’d by the night, Who favours what she should not, found his way, And reach’d his home in an unseemly plight? The pleasant scandal which arose next day, The nine days’ wonder which was brought to light, And how Alfonso sued for a divorce, Were in the English newspapers, of course.

If you would like to see the whole proceedings, The depositions, and the cause at full, The names of all the witnesses, the pleadings Of counsel to nonsuit, or to annul, There’s more than one edition, and the readings Are various, but they none of them are dull; The best is that in short-hand ta’en by Gurney, Who to Madrid on purpose made a journey.

But Donna Inez, to divert the train Of one of the most circulating scandals That had for centuries been known in Spain, At least since the retirement of the Vandals, First vow’d (and never had she vow’d in vain) To Virgin Mary several pounds of candles; And then, by the advice of some old ladies, She sent her son to be shipp’d off from Cadiz.

She had resolved that he should travel through All European climes, by land or sea, To mend his former morals, and get new, Especially in France and Italy (At least this is the thing most people do). Julia was sent into a convent: she Grieved, but, perhaps, her feelings may be better Shown in the following copy of her Letter:—

‘They tell me ’tis decided; you depart: ’Tis wise—’tis well, but not the less a pain; I have no further claim on your young heart, Mine is the victim, and would be again; To love too much has been the only art I used;—I write in haste, and if a stain Be on this sheet, ’tis not what it appears; My eyeballs burn and throb, but have no tears.

‘I loved, I love you, for this love have lost State, station, heaven, mankind’s, my own esteem, And yet can not regret what it hath cost, So dear is still the memory of that dream; Yet, if I name my guilt, ’tis not to boast, None can deem harshlier of me than I deem: I trace this scrawl because I cannot rest— I’ve nothing to reproach, or to request.

‘Man’s love is of man’s life a thing apart, ’Tis woman’s whole existence; man may range The court, camp, church, the vessel, and the mart; Sword, gown, gain, glory, offer in exchange Pride, fame, ambition, to fill up his heart, And few there are whom these cannot estrange; Men have all these resources, we but one, To love again, and be again undone.

‘You will proceed in pleasure, and in pride, Beloved and loving many; all is o’er For me on earth, except some years to hide My shame and sorrow deep in my heart’s core; These I could bear, but cannot cast aside The passion which still rages as before— And so farewell—forgive me, love me—No, That word is idle now—but let it go.

‘My breast has been all weakness, is so yet; But still I think I can collect my mind; My blood still rushes where my spirit ’s set, As roll the waves before the settled wind; My heart is feminine, nor can forget— To all, except one image, madly blind; So shakes the needle, and so stands the pole, As vibrates my fond heart to my fix’d soul.

‘I have no more to say, but linger still, And dare not set my seal upon this sheet, And yet I may as well the task fulfil, My misery can scarce be more complete: I had not lived till now, could sorrow kill; Death shuns the wretch who fain the blow would meet, And I must even survive this last adieu, And bear with life, to love and pray for you!’

This note was written upon gilt-edged paper With a neat little crow-quill, slight and new: Her small white hand could hardly reach the taper, It trembled as magnetic needles do, And yet she did not let one tear escape her; The seal a sun-flower; ‘Elle vous suit partout,’ The motto cut upon a white cornelian; The wax was superfine, its hue vermilion.

This was Don Juan’s earliest scrape; but whether I shall proceed with his adventures is Dependent on the public altogether; We’ll see, however, what they say to this: Their favour in an author’s cap ’s a feather, And no great mischief ’s done by their caprice; And if their approbation we experience, Perhaps they’ll have some more about a year hence.

My poem ’s epic, and is meant to be Divided in twelve books; each book containing, With love, and war, a heavy gale at sea, A list of ships, and captains, and kings reigning, New characters; the episodes are three: A panoramic view of hell ’s in training, After the style of Virgil and of Homer, So that my name of Epic ’s no misnomer.

All these things will be specified in time, With strict regard to Aristotle’s rules, The Vade Mecum of the true sublime, Which makes so many poets, and some fools: Prose poets like blank-verse, I’m fond of rhyme, Good workmen never quarrel with their tools; I’ve got new mythological machinery, And very handsome supernatural scenery.