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I want a hero, he said, and this is what he has – a boy (at twenty-one Juan remains a boy, his frame still slender and pliant, his cheeks smooth enough to satisfy the most fastidious of Greeks) still foolish with youth and unlikely to grow less so, one who views adversity as an opportunity to display heroic poses yet who blushes furiously at the mention of a cucumber; in short, a boy who serves and does not serve as the focal point in an experiment on metatextual epic-making. Juan is both too fictional and insufficiently so (“And what else should he be”, points out the dry voice of his Conscience, “what else would be the point of your experiment?”).
The Narrator sighs, pinches the skin between his eyes, and glares. Juan is fiddling with his cuffs, as if to further emphasise his spiritual and behavioural pubescence, and ignoring the food and drink before him. He hears the Conscience snicker in his corner (he chooses not to think about the fact that his Conscience has decided to manifest itself in the form of a greying poet with a growing belly) and ignores him. The old fool has been enjoying himself too much lately, and the Narrator suspects it is not only Juan who inspires his mirth.
Juan, who is not a hero, or at least not a Hero, no Achilles or Alexander – this he aims at his Conscience, since the merest reference to Homeric helmets will make him squirm. But Juan is not even a Conrad or a Harold, “and who would be a Harold”, the Narrator raises his voice, “who would sigh and whine and indulge in such excesses of sensibility? Hardly the stuff of heroes.”
The Conscience takes his cue. “Thousands of young ladies, my dear fellow, thousands of them! All of whom would disagree with you. Which rather proves, does it not, that there is nothing excessive about his sensibilities. They are perfectly measured for his purpose.”
The Narrator sneers. The Conscience sneers back. Juan coughs, and lowers a hand which looks suspiciously like it was raised to interrupt. The Narrator rolls his eyes, then catches his Conscience in the same act.
“Yes, Juan?” he says, endeavouring not to grind his teeth.
“What would you have me do? What I did was much what you would do.”
The Narrator narrows his eyes. That has the suspicious ring of a quotation, and Juan has never been talented in forging his own lines. A glance at the Conscience shows him staring at the ceiling with the furious concentration of one who is pointedly Not To Blame For Anything. Which proves that he is, and not just because the Narrator likes to blame him for everything. Well, him and the other fellow, whom we don’t mention because it makes the Conscience froth at the mouth. And come up with the most execrable of puns – naming someone Turdsworth is not the height of wit.
“What I would do? Or what any man would do?”
Juan looks confused. It is a sadly frequent look on him. The Conscience, by contrast, looks smug, which is also a frequent look on his face. The Narrator decides that he hates everyone. And whatever the Conscience is about to say is unlikely to change his mind.
“Was it an everyman you wanted – an everyman with beauty, charm, and wealth, that is, and one who would be – and this is the crucial point – irresistible to women? Or were you hoping to achieve a cipher who would occupy the space for you, so you would receive all the pleasures of his position but also the pleasure of mocking him? How is your gout, by the way?”
The Narrator’s eyebrows are raised to an eloquent, yet dignified, height. “Such criticism is improper from a man who has had a romantic trope named after him.”
Juan’s face is now displaying his discomfort through the combination of a furrowed brow and an upthrust lip. The Narrator is tempted to pull on it, or perhaps place his quill on it. Still, it would probably be best if the argument would not descend into fisticuffs on the floor this time.
The Conscience shakes his head in a parody of sadness. “And now you’ve upset the boy.”
Juan gives him a mournful look. If he comes over, the Narrator decides, to give Juan a consoling pat on the shoulder again, I will smack him with this quill. Or poke him in the eye with it. A fit fate for a poet.
“Pfft,” says the Conscience, “I never read Marlowe or knew his works, except what Gifford told me after Manfred.”
“You have not repeated his mighty line,” the Narrator agrees, “except in your conspiracy to overthrow.”
“Cunning!” The Conscience grumbles, then with a steadier voice. “I have been cunning in mine overthrow.”
“Yes, yes, the careful pilot of your proper woe, very impressive and unique. Not Marlovian in the slightest.”
The Conscience looks wounded, and even Juan gives him a reproachful glare.
The Narrator has had enough of this. “I have had enough of this. Both of you are figments of my imagination. You,” he points at Juan, “will develop some properly heroic characteristics, participate in another war or two…” (“scale a fortress or a nunnery?” whispers the Conscience with a smirk.) “…while you”, the Narrator turns his glare to the man lurking in the corner, “you are a voice in my head. You are to limit yourself to providing occasional inspirational comments, and restrict your sarcastic asides to the objects of my wrath, or at a pinch, Juan.”
“What,” the Conscience stands up, “you are a voice in my head. You are both my creations, made to serve my genius and to bring me fame.”
“I thought this was a dark dream,” pipes Juan. “I often have those after…ahem…after a lady…”
“You are the Don bloody Juan, you cannot stammer at the mention of sex!” The Narrator rises to his feet, his voice increasingly loud.
The Conscience shakes his head, “It appears you have not formed him properly.”
“I thought we were both your creatures? Not that I believe that, since clearly I was here first.” This he is certain of. He remembers this room, how it came to being around him, how he formed it according to his will. This is his favourite wine. This is his cheese.
“I made you to make him,” the Conscience states with magnanimous smugness, “and I for one am entirely satisfied with his process.” He nods at Juan, who smiles shyly back.
“This is not an epic,” argues the Narrator, “and he, he cannot be an epic hero. He has not the constitution for it! Remember the vomiting? And the faintness, and the heaving of his bosom which rivalled that of the young lady? Remember his surrender when the sultana cried?”
“I would rather have been impaled,” states Juan hotly, “than surrender my virtue. But faced with a lady’s fears, a gentleman must oblige.”
To that the Narrator has no answer. The Conscience is still nodding smugly and Juan preens before his praise, like a debutante before a lecherous uncle.
“Sit down, my friend, and have another glass. This is your favourite wine, after all, I had it brought especially for you. In a moment you will surely understand my epic nature of my plan.”
“Man, being reasonable, must get drunk,” agrees Juan.
The Narrator sits, and sighs, and drinks. Bloody Harold, he thinks. It gave him ideas.
The Conscience reseats himself in his corner. After a while, Juan seats himself in his lap.
Bloody lecherous old poets, he thinks. Next time I’ll start with a eunuch. Perhaps in the Persian court. No, Assyrian! Ruling the harem of a king mired in luxury and slothfulness, yet tortured by the indignity of his station. He begins to plot revolution…
In the corner the Conscience smiles, strokes Juan’s beardless chin, and holds him like Ganymede dangling on Jupiter’s knee. It is all going according to plan.