antiquity, and even of recent ones like Rabelais, was not likely to upset him, such a green gallant (although now at the age when ladies of pleasure said, âHow young you are, Don Juan!â). No, the fat goose-liver and stuffed olives, the crabs, the eels, the river salmon, the seasonings, pheasants, peacocks, ducks with truffles, and cocks in white wine, the creams, profiterolles, pears, and sugar confections, the pastries, tropical fruits and wines are scarcely likely to upset Don Juanâs stomach. A delicate, Juan, besides, a scrupulous eater, a grammarian of the oesophagus, one who gives a just and nice attention to the mother of organs, but no more; one who bathes but not drowns his wit, one whose refined sensuality is energetic, not muscle-bound, like a saltimbanque, not a strong-man: at the feast which has been his life he has tasted with one eye, smacked his lips and thrown away all but the taste. Then it is not indigestion, Don Juan (thatâs amply proved), which dims your eye instantly, like the nictitating membrane closing the eagleâs eye! Nor age! At forty-four, Don Juan is a fledgling! The Queen-Mother herself in Madrid last year, ambitious, spoiled and vicious, courted you, and when you rejected her, instead of royal vengeance, sheâdiscretion is valourâbut that flower-girl selling bouquets at your door when you came from the theatre was very like, so like her to whom you owe allegiance, valorous Spaniard, that in doubt, you rendered the flower-girl homage for every province in Spain.
Then, not age draws a film over the royal purple heavens where the heraldic sun rides in splendour. Is the weather changing, that minor glissandos and dervish-dancing on the strings issue diabolically from every crevice as you pass by? What ice freezes in your breast, poor hero: what unhorsed harbinger of evil goes whining down the western shades of the arena? What are you dreaming of, Don Juan? The men envy you; the ladies, red and black like lollipops inside their coloured mantillas, paid for, to attract you, by their husbandsâ ventures in the Levant and the Americas, and their lace smuggled over the Pyrenees, the ladies let their fans move slower as you move past with your blue-black curls rolling over your yellow ruff.
Are you asleep still, Cavalier? Yet you awoke bright and early this morning; refreshed, like a copper cup shining by a public fountain, you were, in the lap of your newest mistress. Who was that mistress, that last of a thousand and more? Can you remember now? No, you are without that grey hair, memory. Was she Olga with hair like silver reefs, from the northern fjords, Anna with snowshoe eyes from beneath the Aurora Borealis, Lina the Russian dancer, sly, silly, light-fingered and full of vain dreams, Nadya with rich bosom and heart imprisoned lightly in Balkan embroidery, Eisa the mannered English beauty with ropes of pearls and shares in the Turkey Company, Rosemara the Scottish heiress, fair, hysterical and handy with the dirk, Connemara the elf-locked, slovenly, blueeyed, bluehaired, hopping like a bog-fire, handy with the fist, Lucilla convent-bred in France, dreaming of a dowry and Easter lilies, Freda, flannel-faced from a cloth house in Cologne, Faustina with stiletto tied in ribbons yellow and rose, Isabella of Portugal hobbling in a French negligee, or Margarita the Andalusian beauty, savage and faced like a falcon? Which one was it, or which she among the nameless, that triumphed so over your manhood? No, it was not that! No woman born of woman has mated Don Juan yet.
Or was it that at nightfall, yesterday, Don Juan with Sganarelle wandered lustily singing among the couples that starred the hillside,into the cemetery on the outskirts of the town, and there, laughing over the trick that was played on Elvira the night before, heard an owl hoot in the darkness with a singular hoot? Above sifted the Stardust granted only to the Heaven of Spain: below grated the souldust of
Then, not age draws a film over the royal purple heavens where the heraldic sun rides in splendour. Is the weather changing, that minor glissandos and dervish-dancing on the strings issue diabolically from every crevice as you pass by? What ice freezes in your breast, poor hero: what unhorsed harbinger of evil goes whining down the western shades of the arena? What are you dreaming of, Don Juan? The men envy you; the ladies, red and black like lollipops inside their coloured mantillas, paid for, to attract you, by their husbandsâ ventures in the Levant and the Americas, and their lace smuggled over the Pyrenees, the ladies let their fans move slower as you move past with your blue-black curls rolling over your yellow ruff.
Are you asleep still, Cavalier? Yet you awoke bright and early this morning; refreshed, like a copper cup shining by a public fountain, you were, in the lap of your newest mistress. Who was that mistress, that last of a thousand and more? Can you remember now? No, you are without that grey hair, memory. Was she Olga with hair like silver reefs, from the northern fjords, Anna with snowshoe eyes from beneath the Aurora Borealis, Lina the Russian dancer, sly, silly, light-fingered and full of vain dreams, Nadya with rich bosom and heart imprisoned lightly in Balkan embroidery, Eisa the mannered English beauty with ropes of pearls and shares in the Turkey Company, Rosemara the Scottish heiress, fair, hysterical and handy with the dirk, Connemara the elf-locked, slovenly, blueeyed, bluehaired, hopping like a bog-fire, handy with the fist, Lucilla convent-bred in France, dreaming of a dowry and Easter lilies, Freda, flannel-faced from a cloth house in Cologne, Faustina with stiletto tied in ribbons yellow and rose, Isabella of Portugal hobbling in a French negligee, or Margarita the Andalusian beauty, savage and faced like a falcon? Which one was it, or which she among the nameless, that triumphed so over your manhood? No, it was not that! No woman born of woman has mated Don Juan yet.
Or was it that at nightfall, yesterday, Don Juan with Sganarelle wandered lustily singing among the couples that starred the hillside,into the cemetery on the outskirts of the town, and there, laughing over the trick that was played on Elvira the night before, heard an owl hoot in the darkness with a singular hoot? Above sifted the Stardust granted only to the Heaven of Spain: below grated the souldust of
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