from Canto II

161

And then fair Haide tried her tongue at speaking,
     But not a word could Juan comprehend,
Although he listen’d so that the young Greek in
     Her earnestness would ne’er have made an end;
And, as he interrupted not, went eking
    Her speech out to her proteg and friend,
Till pausing at the last her breath to take,
She saw he did not understand Romaic.

162

And then she had recourse to nods, and signs,
     And smiles, and sparkles of the speaking eye,
And read (the only book she could) the lines
     Of his fair face, and found, by sympathy,
The answer eloquent, where the soul shines
     And darts in one quick glance a long reply;
And thus in every look she saw exprest
A world of words, and things at which she guess’d.

163

And now, by dint of fingers and of eyes,
     And words repeated after her, he took
A lesson in her tongue; but by surmise,
     No doubt, less of her language than her look:
As he who studies fervently the skies
     Turns oftener to the stars than to his book,
Thus Juan learn’d his alpha beta better
From Haide’s glance than any graven letter.

164

‘Tis pleasing to be school’d in a strange tongue
     By female lips and eyes—that is, I mean,
When both the teacher and the taught are young,
     As was the case, at least, where I have been;
They smile so when one’s right, and when one’s wrong
     They smile still more, and then there intervene
Pressure of hands, perhaps even a chaste kiss;—
I learn’d the little that I know by this:

165

That is, some words of Spanish, Turk, and Greek,
     Italian not at all, having no teachers;
Much English I cannot pretend to speak,
     Learning that language chiefly from its preachers,
Barrow, South, Tillotson, whom every week
    I study, also Blair, the highest reachers
Of eloquence in piety and prose—
I hate your poets, so read none of those.

166

As for the ladies, I have nought to say,
     A wanderer from the British world of fashion,
Where I, like other “dogs, have had my day,”
     Like other men too, may have had my passion—
But that, like other things, has pass’d away,
     And all her fools whom I could lay the lash on:
Foes, friends, men, women, now are nought to me
But dreams of what has been, no more to be.

167

Return we to Don Juan. He begun
     To hear new words, and to repeat them; but
Some feelings, universal as the sun,
     Were such as could not in his breast be shut
More than within the bosom of a nun:
     He was in love,—as you would be, no doubt,
With a young benefactress—so was she,
Just in the way we very often see.

168

And every day by day-break—rather early
     For Juan, who was somewhat fond of rest—
She came into the cave, but it was merely
    To see her bird reposing in his nest;
And she would softly stir his locks so curly,
     Without disturbing her yet slumbering guest,
Breathing all gently o’er his cheek and mouth,
As o’er a bed of roses the sweet south.

169

And every morn his colour freshlier came,
     And every day help’d on his convalescence;
‘Twas well, because health in the human frame
     Is pleasant, besides being true love’s essence,
For health and idleness to passion’s flame
     Are oil and gunpowder; and some good lessons
Are also learnt from Ceres and from Bacchus,
Without whom Venus will not long attack us.

170

While Venus fills the heart (without heart really
     Love, though good always, is not quite so good)
Ceres presents a plate of vermicelli,—
     For love must be sustain’d like flesh and blood,—
While Bacchus pours out wine, or hands a jelly:
     Eggs, oysters too, are amatory food;
But who is their purveyor from above
Heaven knows,—it may be Neptune, Pan, or Jove.