Alfonso was the name of Julia’s lord,
A man well looking for his years, and who
Was neither much beloved nor yet abhorred:
They lived together as most people do,
Suffering each other’s foibles by accord,
And not exactly either one or two;
Yet he was jealous, though he did not show it,
For Jealousy dislikes the world to know it.
LXVI
Julia was—yet I never could see why—
With Donna Inez quite a favourite friend;
Between their tastes there was small sympathy,
For not a line had Julia ever penned:
Some people whisper (but, no doubt, they lie,
For Malice still imputes some private end)
That Inez had, ere Don Alfonso’s marriage,
Forgot with him her very prudent carriage;
LXVII
And that still keeping up the old connection,
Which Time had lately rendered much more chaste,
She took his lady also in affection,
And certainly this course was much the best:
She flattered Julia with her sage protection,
And complimented Don Alfonso’s taste;
And if she could not (who can?) silence scandal,
At least she left it a more slender handle.
LXVIII
I can’t tell whether Julia saw the affair
With other people’s eyes, or if her own
Discoveries made, but none could be aware
Of this, at least no symptom e’er was shown;
Perhaps she did not know, or did not care,
Indifferent from the first, or callous grown:
I’m really puzzled what to think or say,
She kept her counsel in so close a way.
LXIX
Juan she saw, and, as a pretty child,
Caressed him often—such a thing might be
Quite innocently done, and harmless styled,
When she had twenty years, and thirteen he;
But I am not so sure I should have smiled
When he was sixteen, Julia twenty-three;
These few short years make wondrous alterations,
Particularly amongst sun-burnt nations.
LXX
Whate’er the cause might be, they had become
Changed; for the dame grew distant, the youth shy,
Their looks cast down, their greetings almost dumb,
And much embarrassment in either eye;
There surely will be little doubt with some
That Donna Julia knew the reason why,
But as for Juan, he had no more notion
Than he who never saw the sea of Ocean.
LXXI
Yet Julia’s very coldness still was kind,
And tremulously gentle her small hand
Withdrew itself from his, but left behind
A little pressure, thrilling, and so bland
And slight, so very slight, that to the mind
’Twas but a doubt; but ne’er magician’s wand
Wrought change with all Armida’s70 fairy art
Like what this light touch left on Juan’s heart.
LXXII
And if she met him, though she smiled no more,
She looked a sadness sweeter than her smile,
As if her heart had deeper thoughts in store
She must not own, but cherished more the while
For that compression in its burning core;
Even Innocence itself has many a wile,
And will not dare to trust itself with truth,
And Love is taught hypocrisy from youth.
LXXIII
But Passion most dissembles, yet betrays
Even by its darkness; as the blackest sky
Foretells the heaviest tempest, it displays
Its workings through the vainly guarded eye,
And in whatever aspect it arrays
Itself, ’tis still the same hypocrisy;
Coldness or Anger, even Disdain or Hate,
Are masks it often wears, and still too late.
LXXIV
Then there were sighs, the deeper for suppression,
And stolen glances, sweeter for the theft,
And burning blushes, though for no transgression,
Tremblings when met, and restlessness when left;
All these are little preludes to possession,
Of which young Passion cannot be bereft,
And merely tend to show how greatly Love is
Embarrassed at first starting with a novice.
LXXV
Poor Julia’s heart was in an awkward state;
She felt it going, and resolved to make
The noblest efforts for herself and mate,
For Honour’s, Pride’s, Religion’s, Virtue’s sake:
Her resolutions were most truly great,
And almost might have made a Tarquin quake:
She prayed the Virgin Mary for her grace,
As being the best judge of a lady’s case.71
LXXVI
She vowed she never would see Juan more,
And next day paid a visit to his mother,
And looked extremely at the opening door,
Which, by the Virgin’s grace, let in another;
Grateful she was, and yet a little sore—
Again it opens, it can be no other,
’Tis surely Juan now—No! I’m afraid
That night the Virgin was no further prayed.72
LXXVII
She now determined that a virtuous woman
Should rather face and overcome temptation,
That flight was base and dastardly, and no man
Should ever give her heart the least sensation,
That is to say, a thought beyond the common
Preference, that we must feel, upon occasion,
For people who are pleasanter than others,
But then they only seem so many brothers.
LXXVIII
And even if by chance—and who can tell?
The Devil’s so very sly—she should discover
That all within was not so very well,
And, if still free, that such or such a lover
Might please perhaps, a virtuous wife can quell
Such thoughts, and be the better when they’re over;
And if the man should ask, ’tis but denial:
I recommend young ladies to make trial.
LXXIX
And, then, there are such things as Love divine,
Bright and immaculate, unmixed and pure,
Such as the angels think so very fine,
And matrons, who would be no less secure,
Platonic, perfect, “just such love as mine;”
Thus Julia said—and thought so, to be sure;
And so I’d have her think, were I the man
On whom her reveries celestial ran.
LXXX
Such love is innocent, and may exist
Between young persons without any danger.
A hand may first, and then a lip be kissed;
For my part, to such doings I’m a stranger,
But hear these freedoms form the utmost list
Of all o’er which such love may be a ranger:
If people go beyond, ’tis quite a crime,
But not my fault—I tell them all in time.
LXXXI
Love, then, but Love within its proper limits,
Was Julia’s innocent determination
In young Don Juan’s favour, and to him its
Exertion might be useful on occasion;
And, lighted at too pure a shrine to dim its
Ethereal lustre, with what
