To conceal

The threatened shame the parents of the maid

Found means to hurry her away, by night

And unforewarned, that in a distant town

She might remain shrouded in privacy

Until the babe was born. When morning came

The lover, thus bereft, stung with his loss

And all uncertain whither he should turn,

Chafed like a wild beast in the toils. At length,

Following as his suspicions led, he found –

O joy! – sure traces of the fugitives,

Pursued them to the town where they had stopped,

And lastly to the very house itself

Which had been chosen for the maid's retreat.

The sequel may be easily divined:

Walks backwards, forwards, morning, noon, and night

(When decency and caution would allow),

And Julia, who, whenever to herself

She happened to be left a moment's space,

Was busy at her casement as a swallow

About its nest, erelong did thus espy

Her lover; thence a stolen interview

By night accomplished, with a ladder's help.

 

I pass the raptures of the pair, such theme

Hath by a hundred poets been set forth

In more delightful verse than skill of mine

Could fashion – chiefly by that darling bard

Who told of Juliet and her Romeo,

And of the lark's note heard before its time,

And of the streaks that laced the severing clouds

In the unrelenting east. 'Tis mine to tread

The humbler province of plain history,

And, without choice of circumstance, submissively

Relate what I have heard. The lovers came

To this resolve – with which they parted, pleased

And confident – that Vaudracour should hie

Back to his father's house, and there employ

Means aptest to obtain a sum of gold,

A final portion even, if that might be;

Which done, together they could then take flight

To some remote and solitary place

Where they might live with no one to behold

Their happiness, or to disturb their love.

Immediately, and with this mission charged,

Home to his father's house did he return,

And there remained a time without hint given

Of his design. But if a word were dropped

Touching the matter of his passion, still,

In hearing of his father, Vaudracour

Persisted openly that nothing less

Than death should make him yield up hope to be

A blessèd husband of the maid he loved.

 

Incensed at such obduracy, and slight

Of exhortations and remonstrances,

The father threw out threats that by a mandate

Bearing the private signet of the state

He should be baffled of his mad intent –

And that should cure him. From this time the youth

Conceived a terror, and by night or day

Stirred nowhere without arms. Soon afterwards

His parents to their country seat withdrew

Upon some feigned occasion, and the son

Was left with one attendant in the house.

Retiring to his chamber for the night,

While he was entering at the door, attempts

Were made to seize him by three armèd men,

The instruments of ruffian power. The youth

In the first impulse of his rage laid one

Dead at his feet, and to the second gave

A perilous wound – which done, at sight

Of the dead man, he peacefully resigned

His person to the law, was lodged in prison,

And wore the fetters of a criminal.

 

Through three weeks' space, by means which love devised,

The maid in her seclusion had received

Tidings of Vaudracour, and how he sped

Upon his enterprize. Thereafter came

A silence; half a circle did the moon

Complete, and then a whole, and still the same

Silence; a thousand thousand fears and hopes

Stirred in her mind – thoughts waking, thoughts of sleep,

Entangled in each other – and at last

Self-slaughter seemed her only resting-place:

So did she fare in her uncertainty.

 

At length, by interference of a friend,

One who had sway at court, the youth regained

His liberty, on promise to sit down

Quietly in his father's house, nor take

One step to reunite himself with her

Of whom his parents disapproved – hard law,

To which he gave consent only because

His freedom else could nowise be procured.

Back to his father's house he went, remained

Eight days, and then his resolution failed –

He fled to Julia, and the words with which

He greeted her were these: »All right is gone,

Gone from me. Thou no longer now art mine,

I thine. A murderer, Julia, cannot love

An innocent woman. I behold thy face,

I see thee, and my misery is complete.«

She could not give him answer; afterwards

She coupled with his father's name some words

Of vehement indignation, but the youth

Checked her, nor would he hear of this, for thought

Unfilial, or unkind, had never once

Found harbour in his breast. The lovers, thus

United once again, together lived

For a few days, which were to Vaudracour

Days of dejection, sorrow and remorse

For that ill deed of violence which his hand

Had hastily committed – for the youth

Was of a loyal spirit, a conscience nice,

And over tender for the trial which

His fate had called him to. The father's mind

Meanwhile remained unchanged, and Vaudracour

Learned that a mandate had been newly issued

To arrest him on the spot. Oh pain it was

To part! – he could not, and he lingered still

To the last moment of his time, and then,

At dead of night, with snow upon the ground,

He left the city, and in villages,

The most sequestered of the neighbourhood,

Lay hidden for the space of several days,

Until, the horseman bringing back report

That he was nowhere to be found, the search

Was ended. Back returned the ill-fated youth,

And from the house where Julia lodged – to which

He now found open ingress, having gained

The affection of the family, who loved him

Both for his own, and for the maiden's sake –

One night retiring, he was seized.

 

But here

A portion of the tale may well be left

In silence, though my memory could add

Much how the youth, and in short space of time,

Was traversed from without – much, too, of thoughts

By which he was employed in solitude

Under privation and restraint, and what

Through dark and shapeless fear of things to come,

And what through strong compunction for the past,

He suffered, breaking down in heart and mind.

Such grace, if grace it were, had been vouchsafed –

Or such effect had through the father's want

Of power, or through his negligence, ensued –

That Vaudracour was suffered to remain,

Though under guard and without liberty,

In the same city with the unhappy maid

From whom he was divided. So they fared,

Objects of general concern, till, moved

With pity for their wrongs, the magistrate

(The same who had placed the youth in custody)

By application to the minister

Obtained his liberty upon condition

That to his father's house he should return.

 

He left his prison almost on the eve

Of Julia's travail. She had likewise been,

As from the time, indeed, when she had first

Been brought for secresy to this abode,

Though treated with consoling tenderness,

Herself a prisoner – a dejected one,

Filled with a lover's and a woman's fears –

And whensoe'er the mistress of the house

Entered the room for the last time at night,

And Julia with a low and plaintive voice

Said, »You are coming then to lock me up«,

The housewife when these words – always the same –

Were by her captive languidly pronounced,

Could never hear them uttered without tears.

A day or two before her childbed time

Was Vaudracour restored to her, and, soon

As he might be permitted to return

Into her chamber after the child's birth,

The master of the family begged that all

The household might be summoned, doubting not

But that they might receive impressions then

Friendly to human kindness. Vaudracour

(This heard I from one present at the time)

Held up the new-born infant in his arms

And kissed, and blessed, and covered it with tears,

Uttering a prayer that he might never be

As wretched as his father. Then he gave

The child to her who bare it, and she too

Repeated the same prayer – took it again,

And, muttering something faintly afterwards,

He gave the infant to the standers-by,

And wept in silence upon Julia's neck.

 

Two months did he continue in the house,

And often yielded up himself to plans

Of future happiness. »You shall return,

Julia«, said he, »and to your father's house

Go with your child; you have been wretched, yet

It is a town where both of us were born –

None will reproach you, for our loves are known.

With ornaments the prettiest you shall dress

Your boy, as soon as he can run about,

And when he thus is at his play my father

Will see him from the window, and the child

Will by his beauty move his grandsire's heart,

So that it shall be softened, and our loves

End happily, as they began.« These gleams

Appeared but seldom; oftener he was seen

Propping a pale and melancholy face

Upon the mother's bosom, resting thus

His head upon one breast, while from the other

The babe was drawing in its quiet food.

At other times, when he in silence long

And fixedly had looked upon her face,

He would exclaim, »Julia, how much thine eyes

Have cost me!« During daytime, when the child

Lay in its cradle, by its side he sate,

Not quitting it an instant. The whole town

In his unmerited misfortunes now

Took part, and if he either at the door

Or window for a moment with his child

Appeared, immediately the street was thronged;

While others, frequently, without reserve,

Passed and repassed before the house to steal

A look at him. Oft at this time he wrote

Requesting, since he knew that the consent

Of Julia's parents never could be gained

To a clandestine marriage, that his father

Would from the birthright of an eldest son

Exclude him, giving but, when this was done,

A sanction to his nuptials. Vain request,

To which no answer was returned.

 

And now

From her own home the mother of his love

Arrived to apprise the daughter of her fixed

And last resolve, that, since all hope to move

The old man's heart proved vain, she must retire

Into a convent and be there immured.

Julia was thunderstricken by these words,

And she insisted on a mother's rights

To take her child along with her – a grant

Impossible, as she at last perceived.

The persons of the house no sooner heard

Of this decision upon Julia's fate

Than everyone was overwhelmed with grief,

Nor could they frame a manner soft enough

To impart the tidings to the youth. But great

Was their astonishment when they beheld him

Receive the news in calm despondency,

Composed and silent, without outward sign

Of even the least emotion. Seeing this,

When Julia scattered some upbraiding words

Upon his slackness, he thereto returned

No answer, only took the mother's hand

(Who loved him scarcely less than her own child)

And kissed it, without seeming to be pressed

By any pain that 'twas the hand of one

Whose errand was to part him from his love

For ever. In the city he remained

A season after Julia had retired

And in the convent taken up her home,

To the end that he might place his infant babe

With a fit nurse; which done, beneath the roof

Where now his little one was lodged he passed

The day entire, and scarcely could at length

Tear himself from the cradle to return

Home to his father's house – in which he dwelt

Awhile, and then came back that he might see

Whether the babe had gained sufficient strength

To bear removal.