LVI
Since then she had sparkled through three glowing winters,
Admired, adored; but also so correct,
That she had puzzled all the acutest hinters,
Without the apparel of being circumspect:
They could not even glean the slightest splinters
From off the marble, which had no defect.
She had also snatched a moment since her marriage
To bear a son and heir—and one miscarriage.
LVII
Fondly the wheeling fire-flies flew around her,
Those little glitterers of the London night;
But none of these possessed a sting to wound her—
She was a pitch beyond a coxcomb’s flight.
Perhaps she wished an aspirant profounder;
But whatsoe’er she wished, she acted right;
And whether Coldness, Pride, or Virtue dignify
A Woman—so she’s good—what does it signify?
LVIII
I hate a motive, like a lingering bottle
Which with the landlord makes too long a stand,
Leaving all-claretless the unmoistened throttle,
Especially with politics on hand;
I hate it, as I hate a drove of cattle,
Who whirl the dust as Simooms whirl the sand;
I hate it as I hate an argument,
A Laureate’s Ode, or servile Peer’s “Content.”
LIX
’Tis sad to hack into the roots of things,
They are so much intertwisted with the earth;
So that the branch a goodly verdure flings,
I reck not if an acorn gave it birth.
To trace all actions to their secret springs
Would make indeed some melancholy mirth:
But this is not at present my concern,
And I refer you to wise Oxenstiern.1081
LX
With the kind view of saving an éclat,
Both to the Duchess and Diplomatist,
The Lady Adeline, as soon’s she saw
That Juan was unlikely to resist—
(For foreigners don’t know that a faux pas
In England ranks quite on a different list
From those of other lands unblest with juries,
Whose verdict for such sin a certain cure is;—)1082
LXI
The Lady Adeline resolved to take
Such measures as she thought might best impede
The farther progress of this sad mistake.
She thought with some simplicity indeed;
But Innocence is bold even at the stake,
And simple in the World, and doth not need
Nor use those palisades by dames erected,
Whose virtue lies in never being detected.
LXII
It was not that she feared the very worst:
His Grace was an enduring, married man,
And was not likely all at once to burst
Into a scene, and swell the clients’ clan
Of Doctors’ Commons; but she dreaded first
The magic of her Grace’s talisman,
And next a quarrel (as he seemed to fret)
With Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet.
LXIII
Her Grace, too, passed for being an intrigante,
And somewhat méchante in her amorous sphere;
One of those pretty, precious plagues, which haunt
A lover with caprices soft and dear,
That like to make a quarrel, when they can’t
Find one, each day of the delightful year:
Bewitching, torturing, as they freeze or glow,
And—what is worst of all—won’t let you go:
LXIV
The sort of thing to turn a young man’s head,
Or make a Werter of him in the end.
No wonder then a purer soul should dread
This sort of chaste liaison for a friend;
It were much better to be wed or dead,
Than wear a heart a Woman loves to rend.
’Tis best to pause, and think, ere you rush on,
If that a bonne fortune be really bonne.
LXV
And first, in the overflowing of her heart,
Which really knew or thought it knew no guile,
She called her husband now and then apart,
And bade him counsel Juan. With a smile
Lord Henry heard her plans of artless art
To wean Don Juan from the Siren’s wile;
And answered, like a statesman or a prophet,
In such guise that she could make nothing of it.
LXVI
Firstly, he said, “he never interfered
In anybody’s business but the King’s:”
Next, that “he never judged from what appeared,
Without strong reason, of those sort of things:”
Thirdly, that “Juan had more brain than beard,
And was not to be held in leading strings;”
And fourthly, what need hardly be said twice,
“That good but rarely came from good advice.”
LXVII
And, therefore, doubtless to approve the truth
Of the last axiom, he advised his spouse
To leave the parties to themselves, forsooth—
At least as far as bienséance allows:1083
That time would temper Juan’s faults of youth;
That young men rarely made monastic vows;
That Opposition only more attaches—
But here a messenger brought in despatches:
LXVIII
And being of the council called “the Privy,”
Lord Henry walked into his cabinet,
To furnish matter for some future Livy
To tell how he reduced the Nation’s debt;
And if their full contents I do not give ye,
It is because I do not know them yet;
But I shall add them in a brief appendix,
To come between mine Epic and its index.
LXIX
But ere he went, he added a slight hint,
Another gentle common-place or two,
Such as are coined in Conversation’s mint,
And pass, for want of better, though not new:
Then broke his packet, to see what was in ’t,
And having casually glanced it through,
Retired: and, as he went out, calmly kissed her,
Less like a young wife than an agèd sister.
LXX
He was a cold, good, honourable man,
Proud of his birth, and proud of everything;
A goodly spirit for a state Divan,
A figure fit to walk before a King;
Tall, stately, formed to lead the courtly van
On birthdays, glorious with a star and string;
The very model of a chamberlain—
And such I mean to make him when I reign.
LXXI
But there was something wanting on the whole—
I don’t know what, and therefore cannot tell—
Which pretty women—the sweet souls!—call soul.
Certes it was not body; he was well
Proportioned, as a poplar or a pole,
A handsome man, that human miracle;
And in each circumstance of Love or War
Had still preserved his perpendicular.
LXXII
Still there was something wanting, as I’ve said—
That undefinable “Je ne sçais quoi”
Which, for what I know,
