Part 17

‘You, Lolah, must continue still to lie Alone, for reasons which don’t matter; you The same, Katinka, until by and by; And I shall place Juanna with Dudu, Who ’s quiet, inoffensive, silent, shy, And will not toss and chatter the night through. What say you, child?’—Dudu said nothing, as Her talents were of the more silent class;

But she rose up, and kiss’d the matron’s brow Between the eyes, and Lolah on both cheeks, Katinka, too; and with a gentle bow (Curt’sies are neither used by Turks nor Greeks) She took Juanna by the hand to show Their place of rest, and left to both their piques, The others pouting at the matron’s preference Of Dudu, though they held their tongues from deference.

It was a spacious chamber (Oda is The Turkish title), and ranged round the wall Were couches, toilets—and much more than this I might describe, as I have seen it all, But it suffices—little was amiss; ’Twas on the whole a nobly furnish’d hall, With all things ladies want, save one or two, And even those were nearer than they knew.

Dudu, as has been said, was a sweet creature, Not very dashing, but extremely winning, With the most regulated charms of feature, Which painters cannot catch like faces sinning Against proportion—the wild strokes of nature Which they hit off at once in the beginning, Full of expression, right or wrong, that strike, And pleasing or unpleasing, still are like.

But she was a soft landscape of mild earth, Where all was harmony, and calm, and quiet, Luxuriant, budding; cheerful without mirth, Which, if not happiness, is much more nigh it Than are your mighty passions and so forth, Which some call ‘the sublime:’ I wish they’d try it: I’ve seen your stormy seas and stormy women, And pity lovers rather more than seamen.

But she was pensive more than melancholy, And serious more than pensive, and serene, It may be, more than either—not unholy Her thoughts, at least till now, appear to have been. The strangest thing was, beauteous, she was wholly Unconscious, albeit turn’d of quick seventeen, That she was fair, or dark, or short, or tall; She never thought about herself at all.

And therefore was she kind and gentle as The Age of Gold (when gold was yet unknown, By which its nomenclature came to pass; Thus most appropriately has been shown ‘Lucus a non lucendo,’ not what was, But what was not; a sort of style that ’s grown Extremely common in this age, whose metal The devil may decompose, but never settle:

I think it may be of ‘Corinthian Brass,’ Which was a mixture of all metals, but The brazen uppermost). Kind reader! pass This long parenthesis: I could not shut It sooner for the soul of me, and class My faults even with your own! which meaneth, Put A kind construction upon them and me: But that you won’t—then don’t—I am not less free.

’Tis time we should return to plain narration, And thus my narrative proceeds:—Dudu, With every kindness short of ostentation, Show’d Juan, or Juanna, through and through This labyrinth of females, and each station Described—what ’s strange—in words extremely few: I have but one simile, and that ’s a blunder, For wordless woman, which is silent thunder.

And next she gave her (I say her, because The gender still was epicene, at least In outward show, which is a saving clause) An outline of the customs of the East, With all their chaste integrity of laws, By which the more a haram is increased, The stricter doubtless grow the vestal duties Of any supernumerary beauties.

And then she gave Juanna a chaste kiss: Dudu was fond of kissing—which I’m sure That nobody can ever take amiss, Because ’tis pleasant, so that it be pure, And between females means no more than this— That they have nothing better near, or newer. ‘Kiss’ rhymes to ‘bliss’ in fact as well as verse— I wish it never led to something worse.

In perfect innocence she then unmade Her toilet, which cost little, for she was A child of Nature, carelessly array’d: If fond of a chance ogle at her glass, ’Twas like the fawn, which, in the lake display’d, Beholds her own shy, shadowy image pass, When first she starts, and then returns to peep, Admiring this new native of the deep.

And one by one her articles of dress Were laid aside; but not before she offer’d Her aid to fair Juanna, whose excess Of modesty declined the assistance proffer’d: Which pass’d well off—as she could do no less; Though by this politesse she rather suffer’d, Pricking her fingers with those cursed pins, Which surely were invented for our sins,—

Making a woman like a porcupine, Not to be rashly touch’d. But still more dread, O ye! whose fate it is, as once ’twas mine, In early youth, to turn a lady’s maid;— I did my very boyish best to shine In tricking her out for a masquerade; The pins were placed sufficiently, but not Stuck all exactly in the proper spot.

But these are foolish things to all the wise, And I love wisdom more than she loves me; My tendency is to philosophise On most things, from a tyrant to a tree; But still the spouseless virgin Knowledge flies. What are we? and whence came we? what shall be Our ultimate existence? what ’s our present? Are questions answerless, and yet incessant.

There was deep silence in the chamber: dim And distant from each other burn’d the lights, And slumber hover’d o’er each lovely limb Of the fair occupants: if there be sprites, They should have walk’d there in their sprightliest trim, By way of change from their sepulchral sites, And shown themselves as ghosts of better taste Than haunting some old ruin or wild waste.

Many and beautiful lay those around, Like flowers of different hue, and clime, and root, In some exotic garden sometimes found, With cost, and care, and warmth induced to shoot. One with her auburn tresses lightly bound, And fair brows gently drooping, as the fruit Nods from the tree, was slumbering with soft breath, And lips apart, which show’d the pearls beneath.

One with her flush’d cheek laid on her white arm, And raven ringlets gather’d in dark crowd Above her brow, lay dreaming soft and warm; And smiling through her dream, as through a cloud The moon breaks, half unveil’d each further charm, As, slightly stirring in her snowy shroud, Her beauties seized the unconscious hour of night All bashfully to struggle into light.

This is no bull, although it sounds so; for ’Twas night, but there were lamps, as hath been said. A third’s all pallid aspect offer’d more The traits of sleeping sorrow, and betray’d Through the heaved breast the dream of some far shore Beloved and deplored; while slowly stray’d (As night-dew, on a cypress glittering, tinges The black bough) tear-drops through her eyes’ dark fringes.

A fourth as marble, statue-like and still, Lay in a breathless, hush’d, and stony sleep; White, cold, and pure, as looks a frozen rill, Or the snow minaret on an Alpine steep, Or Lot’s wife done in salt,—or what you will;— My similes are gather’d in a heap, So pick and choose—perhaps you’ll be content With a carved lady on a monument.

And lo! a fifth appears;—and what is she? A lady of a ‘certain age,’ which means Certainly aged—what her years might be I know not, never counting past their teens; But there she slept, not quite so fair to see, As ere that awful period intervenes Which lays both men and women on the shelf, To meditate upon their sins and self.

But all this time how slept, or dream’d, Dudu? With strict inquiry I could ne’er discover, And scorn to add a syllable untrue; But ere the middle watch was hardly over, Just when the fading lamps waned dim and blue, And phantoms hover’d, or might seem to hover, To those who like their company, about The apartment, on a sudden she scream’d out:

And that so loudly, that upstarted all The Oda, in a general commotion: Matron and maids, and those whom you may call Neither, came crowding like the waves of ocean, One on the other, throughout the whole hall, All trembling, wondering, without the least notion More than I have myself of what could make The calm Dudu so turbulently wake.

But wide awake she was, and round her bed, With floating draperies and with flying hair, With eager eyes, and light but hurried tread, And bosoms, arms, and ankles glancing bare, And bright as any meteor ever bred By the North Pole,—they sought her cause of care, For she seem’d agitated, flush’d, and frighten’d, Her eye dilated and her colour heighten’d.

But what was strange—and a strong proof how great A blessing is sound sleep—Juanna lay As fast as ever husband by his mate In holy matrimony snores away. Not all the clamour broke her happy state Of slumber, ere they shook her,—so they say At least,—and then she, too, unclosed her eyes, And yawn’d a good deal with discreet surprise.

And now commenced a strict investigation, Which, as all spoke at once and more than once, Conjecturing, wondering, asking a narration, Alike might puzzle either wit or dunce To answer in a very clear oration. Dudu had never pass’d for wanting sense, But, being ‘no orator as Brutus is,’ Could not at first expound what was amiss.

At length she said, that in a slumber sound She dream’d a dream, of walking in a wood— A ‘wood obscure,’ like that where Dante found Himself in at the age when all grow good; Life’s half-way house, where dames with virtue crown’d Run much less risk of lovers turning rude; And that this wood was full of pleasant fruits, And trees of goodly growth and spreading roots;

And in the midst a golden apple grew,— A most prodigious pippin,—but it hung Rather too high and distant; that she threw Her glances on it, and then, longing, flung Stones and whatever she could pick up, to Bring down the fruit, which still perversely clung To its own bough, and dangled yet in sight, But always at a most provoking height;—

That on a sudden, when she least had hope, It fell down of its own accord before Her feet; that her first movement was to stoop And pick it up, and bite it to the core; That just as her young lip began to ope Upon the golden fruit the vision bore, A bee flew out and stung her to the heart, And so—she awoke with a great scream and start.

All this she told with some confusion and Dismay, the usual consequence of dreams Of the unpleasant kind, with none at hand To expound their vain and visionary gleams. I’ve known some odd ones which seem’d really plann’d Prophetically, or that which one deems A ‘strange coincidence,’ to use a phrase By which such things are settled now-a-days.

The damsels, who had thoughts of some great harm, Began, as is the consequence of fear, To scold a little at the false alarm That broke for nothing on their sleeping car. The matron, too, was wroth to leave her warm Bed for the dream she had been obliged to hear, And chafed at poor Dudu, who only sigh’d, And said that she was sorry she had cried.

‘I’ve heard of stories of a cock and bull; But visions of an apple and a bee, To take us from our natural rest, and pull The whole Oda from their beds at half-past three, Would make us think the moon is at its full. You surely are unwell, child! we must see, To-morrow, what his Highness’s physician Will say to this hysteric of a vision.

‘And poor Juanna, too—the child’s first night Within these walls to be broke in upon With such a clamour! I had thought it right That the young stranger should not lie alone, And, as the quietest of all, she might With you, Dudu, a good night’s rest have known; But now I must transfer her to the charge Of Lolah—though her couch is not so large.’

Lolah’s eyes sparkled at the proposition; But poor Dudu, with large drops in her own, Resulting from the scolding or the vision, Implored that present pardon might be shown For this first fault, and that on no condition (She added in a soft and piteous tone) Juanna should be taken from her, and Her future dreams should all be kept in hand.

She promised never more to have a dream, At least to dream so loudly as just now; She wonder’d at herself how she could scream— ’Twas foolish, nervous, as she must allow, A fond hallucination, and a theme For laughter—but she felt her spirits low, And begg’d they would excuse her; she’d get over This weakness in a few hours, and recover.

And here Juanna kindly interposed, And said she felt herself extremely well Where she then was, as her sound sleep disclosed When all around rang like a tocsin bell: She did not find herself the least disposed To quit her gentle partner, and to dwell Apart from one who had no sin to show, Save that of dreaming once ‘mal-a-propos.’

As thus Juanna spoke, Dudu turn’d round And hid her face within Juanna’s breast: Her neck alone was seen, but that was found The colour of a budding rose’s crest. I can’t tell why she blush’d, nor can expound The mystery of this rupture of their rest; All that I know is, that the facts I state Are true as truth has ever been of late.

And so good night to them,—or, if you will, Good morrow—for the cock had crown, and light Began to clothe each Asiatic hill, And the mosque crescent struggled into sight Of the long caravan, which in the chill Of dewy dawn wound slowly round each height That stretches to the stony belt, which girds Asia, where Kaff looks down upon the Kurds.

With the first ray, or rather grey of morn, Gulbeyaz rose from restlessness; and pale As passion rises, with its bosom worn, Array’d herself with mantle, gem, and veil. The nightingale that sings with the deep thorn, Which fable places in her breast of wail, Is lighter far of heart and voice than those Whose headlong passions form their proper woes.

And that ’s the moral of this composition, If people would but see its real drift;— But that they will not do without suspicion, Because all gentle readers have the gift Of closing ’gainst the light their orbs of vision; While gentle writers also love to lift Their voices ’gainst each other, which is natural, The numbers are too great for them to flatter all.

Rose the sultana from a bed of splendour, Softer than the soft Sybarite’s, who cried Aloud because his feelings were too tender To brook a ruffled rose-leaf by his side,— So beautiful that art could little mend her, Though pale with conflicts between love and pride;— So agitated was she with her error, She did not even look into the mirror.

Also arose about the self-same time, Perhaps a little later, her great lord, Master of thirty kingdoms so sublime, And of a wife by whom he was abhorr’d; A thing of much less import in that clime— At least to those of incomes which afford The filling up their whole connubial cargo— Than where two wives are under an embargo.

He did not think much on the matter, nor Indeed on any other: as a man He liked to have a handsome paramour At hand, as one may like to have a fan, And therefore of Circassians had good store, As an amusement after the Divan; Though an unusual fit of love, or duty, Had made him lately bask in his bride’s beauty.

And now he rose; and after due ablutions Exacted by the customs of the East, And prayers and other pious evolutions, He drank six cups of coffee at the least, And then withdrew to hear about the Russians, Whose victories had recently increased In Catherine’s reign, whom glory still adores, As greatest of all sovereigns and w—s.

But oh, thou grand legitimate Alexander! Her son’s son, let not this last phrase offend Thine ear, if it should reach—and now rhymes wander Almost as far as Petersburgh and lend A dreadful impulse to each loud meander Of murmuring Liberty’s wide waves, which blend Their roar even with the Baltic’s—so you be Your father’s son, ’tis quite enough for me.

To call men love-begotten or proclaim Their mothers as the antipodes of Timon, That hater of mankind, would be a shame, A libel, or whate’er you please to rhyme on: But people’s ancestors are history’s game; And if one lady’s slip could leave a crime on All generations, I should like to know What pedigree the best would have to show?

Had Catherine and the sultan understood Their own true interests, which kings rarely know Until ’tis taught by lessons rather rude, There was a way to end their strife, although Perhaps precarious, had they but thought good, Without the aid of prince or plenipo: She to dismiss her guards and he his haram, And for their other matters, meet and share ’em.

But as it was, his Highness had to hold His daily council upon ways and means How to encounter with this martial scold, This modern Amazon and queen of queans; And the perplexity could not be told Of all the pillars of the state, which leans Sometimes a little heavy on the backs Of those who cannot lay on a new tax.

Meantime Gulbeyaz, when her king was gone, Retired into her boudoir, a sweet place For love or breakfast; private, pleasing, lone, And rich with all contrivances which grace Those gay recesses:—many a precious stone Sparkled along its roof, and many a vase Of porcelain held in the fetter’d flowers, Those captive soothers of a captive’s hours.

Mother of pearl, and porphyry, and marble, Vied with each other on this costly spot; And singing birds without were heard to warble; And the stain’d glass which lighted this fair grot Varied each ray;—but all descriptions garble The true effect, and so we had better not Be too minute; an outline is the best,— A lively reader’s fancy does the rest.

And here she summon’d Baba, and required Don Juan at his hands, and information Of what had pass’d since all the slaves retired, And whether he had occupied their station; If matters had been managed as desired, And his disguise with due consideration Kept up; and above all, the where and how He had pass’d the night, was what she wish’d to know.

Baba, with some embarrassment, replied To this long catechism of questions, ask’d More easily than answer’d,—that he had tried His best to obey in what he had been task’d; But there seem’d something that he wish’d to hide, Which hesitation more betray’d than mask’d; He scratch’d his ear, the infallible resource To which embarrass’d people have recourse.

Gulbeyaz was no model of true patience, Nor much disposed to wait in word or deed; She liked quick answers in all conversations; And when she saw him stumbling like a steed In his replies, she puzzled him for fresh ones; And as his speech grew still more broken-kneed, Her cheek began to flush, her eyes to sparkle, And her proud brow’s blue veins to swell and darkle.

When Baba saw these symptoms, which he knew To bode him no great good, he deprecated Her anger, and beseech’d she’d hear him through— He could not help the thing which he related: Then out it came at length, that to Dudu Juan was given in charge, as hath been stated; But not by Baba’s fault, he said, and swore on The holy camel’s hump, besides the Koran.

The chief dame of the Oda, upon whom The discipline of the whole haram bore, As soon as they re-enter’d their own room, For Baba’s function stopt short at the door, Had settled all; nor could he then presume (The aforesaid Baba) just then to do more, Without exciting such suspicion as Might make the matter still worse than it was.

He hoped, indeed he thought, he could be sure Juan had not betray’d himself; in fact ’Twas certain that his conduct had been pure, Because a foolish or imprudent act Would not alone have made him insecure, But ended in his being found out and sack’d, And thrown into the sea.—Thus Baba spoke Of all save Dudu’s dream, which was no joke.

This he discreetly kept in the background, And talk’d away—and might have talk’d till now, For any further answer that he found, So deep an anguish wrung Gulbeyaz’ brow: Her cheek turn’d ashes, ears rung, brain whirl’d round, As if she had received a sudden blow, And the heart’s dew of pain sprang fast and chilly O’er her fair front, like Morning’s on a lily.