Beppo, adnotated

Saturday, 15 July, Year 9 d.Tr. | Author: Mircea Popescu

I'll wageri that you don't know Byron, at least not moreso than in the manner of that one true Euterpe of our colonies. Let us therefore indulge, captive audience squarely underfoot and superior firepower securely in hand, for why shouldn't we ?

'Tis known, at least it should be, that throughout all countries of the Catholic persuasion,
Some weeks before Shrove Tuesday comes about the people take their fill of recreation,
And buy repentance, ere they grow devout, however high their rank, or low their station,
With fiddling, feasting, dancing, drinking, masking, and other things which may be had for asking.ii

The moment night with dusky mantle covers the skies (and the more duskily the better),
The time less liked by husbands than by lovers begins, and prudery flings aside her fetter;
And gaiety on restless tiptoe hovers, giggling with all the gallants who beset her;
And there are songs and quavers, roaring, humming, guitars, and every other sort of strumming.

And there are dresses splendid, but fantastical, masks of all times and nations, Turks and Jews,
And harlequins and clowns, with feats gymnastical, Greeks, Romans, Yankee-doodles, and Hindoos;iii
All kinds of dress, except the ecclesiastical, all people, as their fancies hit, may choose,
But no one in these parts may quiz the clergy, — therefore take heed, ye Freethinkers! I charge ye.

But saving this, you may put on whate'er you like by way of doublet, cape, or cloak.
Such as in Monmouth-street, or in Rag Fair, would rig you out in seriousness or joke;
And even in Italy such places are, with prettier name in softer accents spoke,
For, bating Covent Garden, I can hit on no place that's called "Piazza" in Great Britain.

This feast is named the Carnival, which being interpreted, implies "farewell to flesh:"iv
So call'd, because the name and thing agreeing, through Lent they live on fish, both salt and fresh.
But why they usher Lent with so much glee in, is more than I can tell, although I guess
'Tis as we take a glass with friends at parting, in the stage-coach or packet, just at starting,

And thus they bid farewell to carnal dishes, and solid meats, and highly spiced ragouts,
To live for forty days on ill-dress'd fishes, because they have no sauces to their stews;
A thing which causes many "poohs" and "pishes," and several oaths (which would not suit the Muse),
From travellers accustom'd from a boy to eat their salmon, at the least, with soy;v

And therefore humbly I would recommend "the curious in fish-sauce," before they cross
The sea, to bid their cook, or wife, or friend, walk or ride to the Strand, and buy in gross
(Or if set out beforehand, these may send by any means least liable to loss)
Ketchup, Soy, Chili-vinegar, and Harvey, or by the Lord! a Lent will well nigh starve ye;

That is to say, if your religion's Roman, and you at Rome would do as Romans do,
According to the proverb, — although no man if foreign, is obliged to fast; and you
If Protestant, or sickly, or a woman, would rather dine in sin on a ragoutvi
Dine and be damned! I don't mean to be coarse, but that's the penalty, to say no worse.vii

Of all the places where the Carnival was most facetious in the days of yore,
For dance, and song, and serenade, and ball, and masque, and mime, and mystery, and more
Than I have time to tell now, or at all, Venice the bell from every city bore, —
And at the moment when I fix my story, That sea-born city was in all her glory.viii

They've pretty faces yet, those same Venetians, black-eyes, arch'd brows, and sweet expressions still;
Such as of old were copied from the Grecians, in ancient arts by moderns mimick'd ill;
And like so many Venuses of Titian's (The best's at Florence — see it, if ye will),
They look when leaning over the balcony, or stepp'd from out a picture by Giorgione,ix

Whose tints are truth and beauty at their best; and when you to Manfrini's palace go,
That picture (howsoever fine the rest) is loveliest to my mind of all the show;
It may perhaps be also to your zest, and that's the cause I rhyme upon it so:
'Tis but a portrait of his son, and wife, and self; but such a woman! love in life!

Love in full life and length, not love ideal, no, nor ideal beauty, that fine name,
But something better still, so very real, that the sweet model must have been the same;
A thingx that you would purchase, beg, or steal, were 't not impossible, besides a shame:
The face recalls some face, as't were with pain, you once have seen, but ne'er will see again.

One of those forms which flit by us, when we are young, and fix our eyes on every face;
And, oh! the loveliness at times we see in momentary gliding, the soft grace,
The youth, the bloom, the beauty which agree, in many a nameless being we retrace,
whose course, and home we knew not, nor shall know, like the lost Pleiad seen no more below.xi

I said that like a picture by Giorgione Venetian women were, and so they are,
Particularly seen from a balcony (for beauty's sometimes best set off afar),
And there, just like a heroine of Goldoni, they peep from out the blind, or o'er the bar;
And truth to say, they're mostly very pretty, and rather like to show it, more's the pity!xii

For glances beget ogles, ogles sighs, sighs wishes, wishes words, and words a letter,
Which flies on wings of light-heel'd Mercuries, who do such things because they know no better;
And then, God knows what mischief may arise, when love links two young people in one fetter,
Vile assignations, and adulterous beds, elopements, broken vows, and hearts, and heads.

Shakespeare described the sex in Desdemona as very fair, but yet suspect in famexiii,
And to this day from Venice to Verona such matters may be probably the same,
Except that since those times was never known a husband whom mere suspicion could inflame
To suffocate a wife no more than twenty, because she had a "cavalier servente."xiv

Their jealousy (if they are ever jealous) is of a fair complexion altogether,
Not like that sooty devil of Othello's, which smothers women in a bed of feather,
But worthier of these much more jolly fellows, when weary of the matrimonial tether
His head for such a wife no mortal bothers, but takes at once another, or another's.

Didst ever see a Gondola? For fear you should not, I'll describe it you exactly:
"Tis a long cover'd boat that's common here, carved at the prow, build lightly, but compactly,
Row'd by two rowers, each call'd "Gondolier," it glides along the water looking blackly,
Just like a coffin clapt in a canoe, where none can make out what you say or do.xv

And up and down the long canals they go, and under the Rialto shoot along,
By night and day, all paces, swift or slow, and round the theatres, a sable throng,
They wait in their dusk livery of woe, — but not to them do woeful things belong,
For sometimes they contain a deal of funxvi, like mourning coaches when the funeral's done.xvii

But to my story. — 'Twas some years ago, it may be thirty, forty, more or less,
The Carnival was at its height, and so were all kinds of buffoonery and dress;
A certain lady went to see the show, her real name I know not, nor can guess,
And so we'll call her Laura, if you please, because it slips into my verse with ease.xviii

She was not old, nor young, nor at the years which certain people call a "certain age,"
Which yet the most uncertain age appears, because I never heard, nor could engage
A person yet by prayers, or bribes, or tear, to name, define by speech, or write on page,
The period meant precisely by that word, — which surely is exceedingly absurd.

Laura was blooming still, had made the best of time, and time return'd the compliment,
She look'd extremely well where'er she went. A pretty woman is a welcome guest,
And Laura's brow a frown had rarely bent. Indeed, she shone all smiles, and seem'd to flatter
Mankind with her black eyes for looking at her.xix

She was a married woman; 'tis convenient, because in Christian countries 'tis a rule
To view their little slips with eyes more lenient; whereas if single ladies play the fool
(Unless within the period intervenient a well-times wedding makes the scandal coolxx),
I don't know how they ever can get over it, except they manage never to discover it.

Her husband sail'd upon the Adriatic, and made some voyages, too, in other seas,
And when he lay in quarantine for pratique (a forty days' precaution 'gainst disease),
His wife would mount, at times, her highest attic, for thence she could discern the ship with ease;
He was a merchant trading to Aleppo, his name Giuseppe, call'd more briefly, Beppo.

He was a man as dusky as a Spaniardxxi, sunburnt with travel, yet a portly figure;
Though colour'd, as it were, within a tan-yard, he was a person both of sensexxii and vigour —
A better seaman never yet did man yard, and she, although her manners show'd no rigour,
Was deem'd a woman of the strictest principle, so much as to be thought almost invincible.

But several years elapsed since they had met; some people thought the ship was lost, and some
That he had somehow blunder'd into debt, and did not like the thought of steering home;
And there were several offer'd any bet, or that he would, or that he would not come;
For most men (till by losing render'd sager) will back their own opinions with a wager.

'Tis said that their last parting was pathetic, as partings often are, or ought to be,
And their presentiment was quite prophetic, that they should never more each other see,
(A sort of morbid feeling, half poetic, which I have known occur in two or three,)
When kneeling on the shore upon her sad knee he left this Adriatic Ariadne.xxiii

And Laura waited long, and wept a little, and thought of wearing weeds, as well she might;
She almost lost all appetite for victual, and could not sleep with ease along at night;
She deem'd the window-frames and shutters brittle against a daring housebreaker or sprite,
And so she thought it prudent to connect herxxiv with a vice-husband, chiefly to protect her.

She chose, (and what is there they will not choose, if only you will but oppose their choice?)
Till Beppo should return from his long cruise, and bid once more her faithful heart rejoice,
A man some women like, and yet abuse — a coxcombxxv was he by the public voice;
A Count of wealth, they said, as well as quality, and in his pleasures of great liberality.

And then he was A Count, and then he knew music, and dancing, fiddling, French and Tuscan;
The last not easy, be it known to you. For few Italians speak the right Etruscan.xxvi
He was a critic upon operas, too, and knew all niceties of the sock and buskin;
And no Venetian audience could endure a song, scene, or air, when he cried "seccatura!"

His "bravo" was decisive, for that sound hush'd "Academie" sigh'd in silent awe;
The fiddlers trembled as he look'd around, for fear of some false note's detected flaw;
The "prima donna's" tuneful heart would bound, dreading the deep damnation of his "bah!"
Soprano, basso, even the contra-alto, wish'd him five fathom under the Rialto.xxvii

He patronised the Improvisatori, nay, could himself extemporise some stanzas,
Wrote rhymes, sang songs, could also tell a story, sold pictures, and was skilful in the dance as
Italians can be, though in this their glory must surely yield the palm to that which France has;
In short, he was a perfect cavaliero, and to his very valet seem'd a hero.xxviii

Then he was faithful too, as well as amorous; so that no sort of female could complain,
Although they're now and then a little clamourous, he never put the pretty souls in pain;xxix
His heart was one of those which most enamour us, wax to receive, and marble to retain:
He was a lover of the good old school, who still become more constant as they cool.

No wonder such accomplishments should turn a female head, however sage and steady —
With scarce a hope that Beppo could return, in law he was almost as good as dead, he
Nor sent, nor wrote, nor show'd the least concern, and she had waited several years already;
And really if a man won't let us know that he's alive, he's dead, or should be so.

Besides, within the Alps, to every woman, (although, God knows, it is a grievous sin,)
'Tis, I may say, permitted to have two men; I can't tell who first brought the custom in,
But "Cavalier Serventes" are quite common, and no one notices nor cares a pin;
And we may call this (not to say the worst) a second marriage which corrupts the first.

The word was formerly a "Cicisbeo," but that is now grown vulgar and indecent;
The Spaniards call the person a "Cortejo," for the same mode subsists in Spain, though recent;
In short, it reaches from the Po to Teio, and may perhaps at last be o'er the sea sent:
But Heaven preserve Old England from such courses! Or what becomes of damage and divorces?

However, I still think, with all due deference to the fair single part of the creation,
That married ladies should preserve the preference in tête-à-tête or general conversation —
And this I say without peculiar reference to England, France, or any other nation —
Because they know the world, and are at ease, and being natural, naturally please.

"Tis true, your budding Miss is very charming, but shy and awkward at first coming out,
So much alarm'd, that she is quite alarming, all Giggle, Blush; half Pertness, and half-Pout;
And glancing at Mamma, for fear there's harm in what you, she, it, or they, may be about,
The nursery still lisps out in all they utter — besides, they always smell of bread and butter.xxx

But "Cavalier Servente" is the phrase used in politest circles to express
This supernumerary slave, who stays close to the lady as a part of dress,
Her word the only law which he obeys. His is no sinecure, as you may guess;
Coach, servants, gondola, he goes to call, and carries fan and tippet, gloves and shawl.

With all its sinful doings, I must say, that Italy's a pleasant place to me,
Who love to see the Sun shine every day, and vines (not nail'd to walls) from tree to tree
Festoon'd, much like the back scene of a play, or melodrame, which people flock to see,
When the first act is ended by a dance in vineyards copied from the south of France.

I like on Autumn evenings to ride out, without being forced to bid my groom be sure
My cloak is round his middle strapp'd about, because the skies are not the most secure;
I know too that, if stopp'd upon my route, where the green alleys windingly allure,
Reeling with grapes red waggons choke the way, — in England 't would be dung, dust, or a dray.

I also like to dine on becaficas, to see the Sun set, sure he'll rise tomorrow,
Not through a misty morning twinkling weak as a drunken man's dead eye in maudlin sorrow,
But with all Heaven t'himself; the day will break as beauteous as cloudless, nor be forced to borrow
That sort of farthing candlelight which glimmers where reeking London's smoky caldron simmers.xxxi

I love the language, that soft bastard Latin, which melts like kisses from a female mouth,
And sounds as if it should be writ on satin, with syllables which breathe of the sweet South,
And gentle liquids gliding all so pat in, that not a single accent seems uncouth,
Like our harsh northern whistling, grunting guttural, which we're obliged to hiss, and spit, and sputter all.

I like the women too (forgive my folly), from the rich peasant cheek of ruddy bronze,
And large black eyes that flash on you a volley of rays that say a thousand things at once,
To the high dama's brow, more melancholy, but clear, and with a wild and liquid glance,
Heart on her lips, and soul within her eyes, soft as her clime, and sunny as her skies.

Eve of the land which still is Paradise! Italian beauty! didst thou not inspire
Raphael, who died in thy embrace, and vies with all we know of Heaven, or can desire,
In what he hath bequeath'd us? In what guise, though flashing from the fervour of the lyre,
Would words describe thy past and present glow, while yet Canova can create below?

"England! with all thy faults I love thee still," I said at Calais, and have not forgot it;
I like to speak and lucubrate my fill; I like the government (but that is not it);
I like the freedom of the press and quill; I like the Habeas Corpus (when we've got it);
I like a parliamentary debate, particularly when 'tis not too late;

I like the taxes, when they're not too many; I like a seacoal fire, when not too dear;
I like a beef-steak, too, as well as any; have no objection to a pot of beer;
I like the weather, when it is not rainy, that is, I like two months of every year,
And so God save the Regent, Church, and King! Which means that I like all and everything.

Our standing army, and disbanded seamen, poor's rate, reform, my own, the nation's debt,
Our little riots just to show we are free men, our trifling bankruptcies in the Gazette,
Our cloudy climate, and our chilly women, all these I can forgive, and those forget,
And greatly venerate our recent glories, and wish they were not owing to the Tories.

But to my tale of Laura, — for I find digression is a sin, that by degrees
Becomes exceeding tedious to my mind, and, therefore, may the reader too displease —
The gentle reader, who may wax unkind, and caring little for the author's ease,
Insist on knowing what he means, a hard and hapless situation for a bard.

Oh that I had the art of easy writing what should be easy reading! could I scale
Parnassus, where the Muses sit inditingxxxii those pretty poems never known to fail,
How quickly would I print (the world delighting) a Grecian, Syrian, or Assyrian tale;
And sell you, mix'd with western sentimentalism, some samples of the finest Orientalism!

But I am butxxxiii a nameless sort of person, (a broken Dandy lately on my travels)
And take for rhyme, to hook my rambling verse on, the first that Walker's Lexicon unravels,
And when I can't find that, I put a worse on, not caring as I ought for critics' cavils;
I've half a mind to tumble down to prose, but verse is more in fashion — so here goes.xxxiv

The Count and Laura made their new arrangement, which lasted, as arrangements sometimes do,
For half a dozen years without estrangement; they had their little differences, too;
Those jealous whiffs, which never any change meant; in such affairs there probably are few
Who have not had this pouting sort of squabble, from sinners of high station to the rabble.

But on the whole, they were a happy pair, as happy as unlawful love could make them;
The gentleman was fond, the lady fair, their chains so slight, 'twas not worth while to break them;
The world beheld them with indulgent air; the pious only wish'd "the devil take them!"
He took them not; he very often waits, and leaves old sinners to be young ones' baits.xxxv

But they were young: Oh! what without our youth would love be! What would youth be without love!
Youth lends it joy, and sweetness, vigour, truth, heart, soul, and all that seems as from above;
But, languishing with years, it grows uncouth — one of few things experience don't improve,
Which is, perhaps, the reason why old fellows are always so preposterously jealous.

It was the Carnival, as I have said some six and thirty stanzas back, and so
Laura the usual preparations made, which you do when your mind's made up to go
To-night to Mrs. Boehm's masquerade, spectator, or partaker in the show;
The only difference known between the cases is — here, we have six weeks of "varnish'd faces."

Laura, when dress'd, was (as I sang before) a pretty woman as was ever seenxxxvi,
Fresh as the Angel o'er a new inn door, or frontispiece of a new Magazine,
With all the fashions which the last month wore, colour'd, and silver paper leaved between
That and the title-page, for fear the press should soil with parts of speech the parts of dress.

They went to the Ridotto; — 'tis a hall where people dance, and sup, and dance again;
Its proper name, perhaps, were a masqued ball, but that's of no importance to my strain;
'Tis (on a smaller scale) like our Vauxhall, excepting that it can't be spoilt by rain;
The company is "mix'd" (the phrase I quote is as much as saying they're below your notice);

For a "mix'd company" implies that, save yourself and friends, and half a hundred more,
Whom you may bow to without looking grave, the rest are but a vulgar set, the bore
Of public places, where they basely brave the fashionable stare of twenty score
Of well-bred persons, call'd "The World;" but I, although I know them, really don't know why.xxxvii

This is the case in England; at least was during the dynasty of Dandies, now
Perchance succeeded by some other class of imitated imitators: — how
Irreparably soon decline, alas! The demagogues of fashion: all below
Is frail; how easily the world is lost by love, or war, and now and then by frost!xxxviii

Crush'd was Napoleon by the northern Thor, who knock'd his army down with icy hammer,
Stopp'd by the elements, like a whaler, or a blundering novice in his new French grammar;
Good cause had he to doubt the chance of war, and as for Fortune — but I dare not damn her,
Because, were I to ponder to infinity, the more I should believe in her divinity.

She rules the present, past, and all to be yet, she gives us luck in lotteries, love, and marriage;
I cannot say that she's done much for me yet; Not that I mean her bounties to disparage,
We've not yet closed accounts, and we shall see yet; How much she'll make amends for past miscarriage.
Meantime the Goddess I'll no more importune, unless to thank her when she's made my fortune.

To turn, — and return; — the devil take it! This story slips for ever through my fingers,
Because, just as the stanza likes to make it, it needs must be, and so it rather lingers:
This form of verse began, I can't well break it, but must keep time and tune like public singers;
But if I once get through my present measure, I'll take another when I'm at leisure.

They went to the Ridotto ('tis a place to which I mean to go myself to-morrow,
Just to divert my thoughts a little space, because I'm rather hippish, and may borrow,
Some spirits, guessing at what kind of face may lurk beneath each mask; and as my sorrow
Slackens its pace sometimes, I'll make, or find, something shall leave it half an hour behind).

Now Laura moves along the joyous crowd, smiles in her eyes, and simpers on her lips;
To some she whispers, others speaks aloud; to some she curtsies, and to some she dips,xxxix
Complains of warmth, and this complaint avow'd, her lover brings the lemonade, she sips;
She then surveys, condemns, but pities still her dearest friends for being dress'd so ill.xl

One has false curls, another too much paint, a third — where did she buy that frightful turban?
A fourth's so pale she fears she's going to faint, a fifth's look's vulgar, dowdyish, and suburban,
A sixth's white silk has got a yellow taint, a seventh's thin muslin surely will be her bane,
And lo! an eighth appears, — "I'll see no more!" for fear, like Banquo's kings, they reach a score.

Meantime, while she was thus at others gazing, others were leveling their looks at her;
She heard the men's half-whisper'd mode of praising, and, till 'twas done, determined not to stir;
The women only thought it quite amazing that, at her time of life, so many were
Admirers still, — but men are so debased, those brazen creatures always suit their taste.

For my part, now, I ne'er could understand why naughty women — but I won't discuss
A thing which is a scandal to the land, I only don't see why it should be thus;
And if I were but in a gown and band, just to entitle me to make a fuss,
I'd preach on this till Wilberforce and Romilly should quote in their next speeches from my homily.

While Laura thus was seen, and seeing, smiling, talking, she knew not why, and cared not what,
So that her female friends, with envy broiling, beheld her airs and triumph, and all that;
And well-dress'd males still kept before her filing, and passing bow'd and mingled with her chat;
More than the rest one person seem'd to stare with pertinacity that's rather rare.

He was a Turk, the colour of mahogany; and Laura saw him, and at first was glad,
Because the Turks so much admire phylogyny, although their usage of their wives is sad;
'Tis said they use no better than a dog any poor woman, whom they purchase like a pad;xli
They have a number, though they ne'er exhibit 'em, four wives by law, and concubines: ad libitum."

They lock them up, and veil, and guard them daily, they scarcely can behold their male relations,
So that their moments do not pass so gaily as is supposed the case with northern nations;
Confinement, too, must make them look quite palely; and as the Turks abhor long conversations,
Their days are either pass'd in doing nothing, or bathing, nursing, making love, and clothing.xlii

They cannot read, and so don't lisp in criticism; nor write, and so they don't affectxliii the muse;
Were never caught in epigram or witticism, have no romances, sermons, plays, reviews, —
In harams learning soon would make a pretty schism, but luckily these beauties are no "Blues;"xliv
No bustling Botherbys have they to show 'em "That charming passage in the last new poem;"

No solemn, antique gentleman of rhyme, who having angled all his life for fame,
And getting but a nibble at a time, still fussily keeps fishing on, the same
Small "Triton of the minnows," the sublime of mediocrity, the furious tame,
The echo's echo, usher of the school of female wits, boy bards — in short, a fool!xlv

A stalking oracle of awful phrase, the approving "Good!" (By no means good in law,)
Humming like flies around the newest blaze, the bluest of bluebottles you e'er saw,
Teasing with blame, excruciating with praise, gorging the little fame he gets all raw,
Translating tongues he knows not even by letter, and sweating plays so middling, bad were better.

One hates an author that's all author, fellows in foolscap uniforms turn'd up with ink,
So very anxious, clever, fine, and jealous, one don't know what to say to them, or think,
Unless to puff them with a pair of bellows; of coxcombry's worst coxcombs e'en the pink
Are preferable to these shreds of paper, these unquench'd snufflings of the midnight taper.

Of these same we see several, and of others, men of the world, who know the world like men,
Scott, Rogers, Moore, and all the better brothers, who think of something else besides the pen;
But for the children of the "mighty mother's," the would-be wits, and can't-be gentlemen,
I leave them to their daily "tea is ready," smug coterie, and literary lady.

The poor dear Mussulwomen whom I mention have none of these instructive pleasant people,xlvi
And one would seem to them a new invention, unknown as bells within a Turkish steeple;
I think't would almost be worth while to pension (though best-sown projects ver often reap ill)
A missionary author, just to preach our Christian usage of the parts of speech.

No chemistry for them unfolds her gases, no metaphysics are let loose in lectures,
No circulating library amasses religious novels, moral tales, and strictures
Upon the living manners, as they pass us; no exhibition glares with annual pictures;
They stare not on the stars from out their attics, nor deal (thank God for that!) in mathematics.xlvii

Why I thank God for that is no great matter, I have my reasons, you no doubt suppose,
And as, perhaps, they would not highly flatter, I'll keep them for my life (to come) in prose;
I fear I have a little turn for satire, and yet methinks the older that one grows
Inclines us more to laugh than scold, though laughter leaves us no doubly serious shortly after.

Oh, mirth and innocence! Oh, milk and water! Ye happy mixtures of more happy days!
In these sad centuries of sin and slaughter, abominable Man no more allays
His thirst with such pure beverage. No matter, I love you both, and both shall have my praise;
Oh, for old Saturn's reign of sugar-candy! — meantime I drink to your return in brandy.

Our Laura's Turk still kept his eyes upon her, less in the Mussulmanxlviii than Christian way,
Which seems to say, "Madam, I do you honour, and while I please to stare, you'll please to stay!"
Could staring win a woman, this had won her, but Laura could not thus be led astray;
She had stood fire too long and well, is boggle even at this stranger's most outlandish ogle.

The morning now was on the point of breaking a turn of time at which I would advise
Ladies who have been dancing, or partaking in any other kind of exercise,
To make their preparations for forsaking the ball-room ere the sun begins to rise,
Because when once the lamps and candles fail, his blushes make them look a little pale.

I've seen some balls and revels in my time, and stay'd them over for some silly reason,
And then I look'd (I hope it was no crime) to see what lady best stood out the season,
And though I've seen some thousands in their prime, lovely and pleasing, and who still may please on,
I never saw but one (the stars withdrawn) whose bloom could after dancing dare the dawn.xlix

The name of this Aurora I'll not mention, although I might, for she was nought to me
More than that patent work of God's invention, a charming woman, whom we like to see;
But writing names would merit reprehension, yet if you like to find out this fair she,
At the next London or Parisian ball you still may mark her cheek out-blooming all.

Laura, who knew it would not do at all to meet the daylight after seven hours' sitting
Among three thousand people at a ball, to make her curtsy thought it right and fitting;
The Count was at her elbow with her shawl, and they the room were on the point of quitting,
When lo! those cursed gondoliers had got just in the very place where they should not.

In this they're like our coachmen, and the cause is much the same — the crowd, and pulling, hauling,
With blasphemies enough to break their jaws, they make a never intermitted bawling.
At home, our Bow-street gemmen keep the laws, and here a sentry stands within your calling;
But for all that, there is a deal of swearing, and nauseous words past mentioning or bearing.

The Count and Laura found their boat at last, and homeward floated o'er the silent tide,
Discussing all the dances gone and past; the dancers and their dresses, too, beside;
Some little scandals eke; but all aghast (as to their palace-stairs the rowers glide)
Sat Laura by the side of her Adorer, when lo! the Mussulman was there before her.

"Sir," said the Count, with brow exceeding grave, "your unexpected presence here will make
It necessary for myself to crave its import? But perhaps 'tis a mistake;
I hope it is so; and, at once to waive all compliment, I hope so for your sake;
You understand my meaning, or you shall," "Sir" (quoth the Turk), "'tis no mistake at all:

"That lady is my wife!" Much wonder paints the lady's changing cheek, as well it might;
But where an Englishwoman sometimes faints, Italian females don't do so outright;
They only call a little on their saints, and then come to themselves, almost or quite;
Which saves much hartshorn, salts, and sprinkling faces, and cutting stays, as usual in such cases.

She said, — what could she say? Why, not a word: but the Count courteously invited in
The stranger, much appeased by what he heard: "Such things, perhaps, we'd best discuss within,"
Said he; "don't let us make ourselves absurd in public, by a scene, nor raise a din,
For then the chief and only satisfaction will be much quizzing on the whole transaction."

They enter'd, and for coffee call'd — it came, a beverage for Turks and Christians both,
Although the way they make it's not the same. Now Laura, much recover'd, or less loth
To speak, cries "Beppo! what's your pagan name? Bless me! Your beard is of amazing growth!
And how came you to keep away so long? Are you not sensible 't was very wrong?l

"And are you really, truly, now a Turk? With any other women did you wive?
Is't true they use their fingers for a fork? Well, that's the prettiest shawl — as I'm alive!
You'll give it me? They say you eat no pork. And how so many years did you contrive
To — Bless me! did I ever? No, I never saw a man grown so yellow! How's your liver?

"Beppo! That beard of yours becomes you not; it shall be shaved before you're a day older:
Why do you wear it? Oh! I had forgot — pray don't you think the weather here is colder?
How do I look? You shan't stir from this spot in that queer dress, for fear that some beholder
Should find you out, and make the story known. How short your hair is! Lord! How grey it's grown!"

What answer Beppo made to these demands is more than I know. He was cast away
About where Troy stood once, and nothing stands; became a slave of course, and for his pay
Had bread and bastinadoes, till some bands of pirates landing in a neighbouring bay,
He join'd the rogues and prosper'd, and became a renegado of indifferent fame.

But he grew rich, and with his riches grew so keen the desire to see his home again,
He thought himself in duty bound to do so, and not be always thieving on the main;
Lonely he felt, at times, as Robin Crusoe, and so he hired a vessel come from Spain,
Bound for Corfu: she was a fine polacca, mann'd with twelve hands, and laden with tobacco.

Himself, and much (Heaven knows how gotten!) cash, he then embark'd, with risk of life and limb
And got clear off, although the attempt was rash; He said that Providence protected him —
For my part, I say nothing — lest we clash in our opinions: — well, the ship was trim,
Set sail, and kept her reckoning fairly on, except three days of calm when off Cape Bonn.

They reach'd the island, he transferr'd his lading and self and live stock to another bottom,
And pass'd for a true Turkey-merchant, trading with goods of various names, but I've forgot'em.
However, he got off by this evading, or else the people would perhaps have shot him;
And thus at Venice landed to reclaim his wife, religion, house, and Christian name.

His wife received, the patriarch re-baptised him (he made the church a present, by the way);
He then threw off the garments which disguised him, and borrow'd the Count's small clothes for a day:
His friends the more for his long absence prized him, finding he'd wherewithal to make them gay,
With dinners, where he oft became the laugh of them, for stories — but I don't believe the half of them.

Whate'er his youth had suffer'd, his old age with wealth and talking made him some amends;
Though Laura sometimes put him in a rage, I've heard the Count and he were always friends.
My pen is at the bottom of a page, which being finish'd, here the story ends;
'Tis to be wish'd it had been sooner done, but stories somehow lengthen when begun.

There's worse fates, you know ?

———
  1. For most men, 'till by losing render'd sager, will back their own opinions with a wager. []
  2. Specifically, cunt. []
  3. Third place. Hey, at least they beat the Indians, this time around. []
  4. Quite literally : carne, vale! []
  5. I discover not without some surprise that my culinary habits have scarcely changed since the times they had actual Counts physically walking the land (as the case may have been, usually in search of credit). []
  6. A holdout medieval dish -- very finely chopped meat, lots of spices, stewed with vegetables until paste. []
  7. Not to mention in the slightest how it rhymes so very well. []
  8. For some reason he seems to think the glory days of Venice were not in the 1400s. []
  9. Apparently he is aware it was 1400s. Anyway, not exactly my cup -- especially Laura is terrifyingly hambeastly.

    And speaking of the cultural supremacy of porn -- you will perhaps notice how sparsely fuckable apparitions are seen in classical paintings (made, say, before 1800, we're not counting the later masters in this sad lot). []

  10. You see that ? A thing. The sentiment is strongly this, that had they had a way to get a car they very much would have had the car instead.

    For what else can you do, in that insane world where women aren't conventionally allowed to produce, nor live or even for that matter breathe at all ? You'll go insane, just as he did, a strange sort of inverse-pygmalion, a sad Midas cursed to turn any woman of flesh and blood he might touch into a marble statue thereof, all the while whining on a tinny note about "love real not ideal beauty" and so forth.

    To add irony to misery, he even references the supposedly alien Othello. Remember always the sad fate of these barbarians, and never hold in any esteem the whore who tries to price herself out of the fucking. []

  11. He is on to something here. Now imagine, in an argumentation line muchly similar to the drug discussion, what'd the world be like should fucking kids be opened up : those fixations fixed by fleeting apparition would instead be fixed by naive imprimation. Does the eventual necessary result sound healthy to your ear ? []
  12. For the record, and for the same reason, also never trust a man that even permits -- let alone encourages! -- his womenz dress modestly. []
  13. "Look upon her, Moor, if thou hast eyes to see -- she hath deceived her father, and one day thee." []
  14. This is a very poor read of Shakespeare. Othello kills Desdemona because her confident dedication overwhelms him and for no other reason. The здреанца is incidental. []
  15. That ancient dream of the adolescent male, action without responsibility, deed without effect, existence bereft of its weight.

    At least the adolescent has the excuse of the forced mistake, as his... gracile (let's call it) frame could not support much of anything anyway. []

  16. Here's a point easily missed by the mighty, by the wealthy, by the harem'd : throughout the history of this sad race, and perhaps still very much today, the practical consideration of where to do it overshadowed the more ideal concern of whom to do it with. Because no, you couldn't just bring a woman along to the front desk of a hotel in soviet lands and hire a room, they'd want to see your marriage certificate first. Nor could you simply have beds in your house in Venice, just like that. They had to be blessed by a priest, and had to have their paperwork in order, and evidently before there could be a bed there had to be someone who'd be sleeping in it first. And on and on.

    To quote that woman in Kafka, "she got married to escape fucking in the bushes, and here she is yet again, fucked in the bushes". []

  17. Funerals do in point of fact make those women that still ovulate quite horny, and they yet maidens most of all. Which is why the Irish drink. []
  18. Giorgione's Laura certainly looks greasy enough to slip into anything with all the ease of blubber. []
  19. It was a work in progress, sketch for the later Don Juan, what do you want. []
  20. It's oft said, at least on these pages, that genius in art is told through the passage of time by that sure sign that howsoever the forms may change, the content remains, and well maintains its interest. What say you, then, of genius so profuse it actually foretells the very forms of folly a century into the future ?

    Whatever you may say -- Byron was the first cool daddy-o, in 1817. []

  21. Moorish influence, you see. []
  22. Because the expectation of the 1817 luminaries of the pantsuited crowd was that no dark skinned man would have any sense. As it turns out historical fact is a great disadvantage to a proper socialist worldview. []
  23. This is rather a tragic situation for the frownless girl to find herself in... []
  24. This is terrible. []
  25. A cock's comb, from that land where cocks neigh. []
  26. You realise this, yes ? The Etruscans outlived the Latins ? Toscana is really and quite literally Etruria ? Etcetera ? []
  27. Why do the inept always desire to destroy that which they fear ? []
  28. Incidentally, have you ever wondered why they never came up with the obvious genius move of employing women as valets ? I do, and I wouldn't trade a finely trained slavegirl for any Anthony Hopkins you could come up with. I don't dispute he's very good. I say she's always going to be better. []
  29. This is relatively rare, you know, lovers that do not break that many hearts. Casanova was big on the concept also, maybe they're on to something. []
  30. Nobody likes a virgin, or to more properly put it, nobody likes girls behaving as old women think they should. So don't. []
  31. I don't think the man yet lived who actually liked London, or England, or Englishmen, or anything about that sad shithole, really.

    Though people may be perverse enough to claim the contrary, chiefly to get others hurt, broken and dejected in the same ways they themselves were, nevertheless no one is perverse enough to actually enjoy the taste of sooth and the melody of gravel being mixed. []

  32. Rather old word denoting the act of writing. []
  33. Terrible. Really, really very bad and not good. []
  34. Really, prose / gose ? For shame of a low degree and badly characteree. []
  35. The strange conception of "sin" as fucking a woman you feel like fucking over her entirely absent objections. What nonsense is this ?! []
  36. It is very hard for no-longer-young women who don't go to the gym to keep to the shape when naked. The obvious solution -- going to the god damned gym -- was not on the table at the time, to everyone involved's disqualifying detriment. Moreover the problem of neither lady nor Count sounding all that young in absolutely any sense, but rather in both passion and aspect some long retired country gentry, does not seem to bother the author any, which seems to me a little strange. Has this Lord Byron actually been involved with his chosen subject matter in his own time ever before ? []
  37. The situation has drastically worsened over two centuries. The scum is now in flipflops to boot. I confess I should like nothing better than to demix the companies already. []
  38. Global warming had not yet been discovered as the religion of the left. They still yet believed in frost. []
  39. Incidentally, have you taught your woman how to dip ? She is, from standing on her two feet, to touch her cunt down on the floor, and then on her own power stand again (no, she's not supposed to sit on her weak leg). []
  40. What a total bitch. []
  41. The truth of the matter is that at the time the Turkish marital habit was anal. "Why use a boy, when you can use a woman in that same way ?", and that's exactly what they did. []
  42. The 1800s Turkish harem was actually a more comfortable, happier version of the English textile mill. The women got fucked on occasion, they certainly frolicked, they enjoyed nudity a decent fraction of the time, ate better and now and again loved each other. Pointedly lacking, poverty, desperation, tuberculosis and in general that rainy, flat absence of horizon that is so specifically the mark of anglotardism there as everywhere. []
  43. The word is used in the sense of affectation -- they do not pretend to be involved with the muse ; rather than in the sense of effectuation, impinging upon said muse. []
  44. The up to date color would no doubt be orange. []
  45. If only he had sense enough to go to witless, empty Italy -- he'd be a Count, and everyone'd give a shit when he says "dryness!" or somesuch. I heard it on good authority myself not six and thirty stanzas prior. []
  46. The libertard luminary outright proposes an end to public schooling and the "social worker" class. What now ? []
  47. This is profoundly untrue, there was a lot of math and particularily astronomy going on in the harems of the Sultan's land. Chiefly of the amateurish kind, it's true, but then again... []
  48. You realise that the liberated city of Mosul actually gave the whole race its name for a while. Mosul man, literally.

    Did they liberate it yet, by the way ? []

  49. She probably worked out. []
  50. Her verse is insultingly simple, by the way. []
Category: Trilenciclopedia
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