Young Vaudracour was brought by years that had 565
A little overstepped his stripling prime.
A town of small repute in the heart of France
Was the youth’s birthplace; there he vowed his love
To Julia, a bright maid from parents sprung
Not mean in their condition, but with rights 570
Unhonoured of nobility — and hence
The father of the young man, who had place
Among that order, spurned the very thought
Of such alliance. From their cradles up,
With but a step between their several homes, 575
Th pair had thriven together year by year,
Friends, playmates, twins in pleasure, after strife
And petty quarrels had grown fond again,
Each other’s advocate, each other’s help,
Nor ever happy if they were apart. 580
A basis this for deep and solid love,
And endless constancy, and placid truth —
But whatsoever of such treasures might,
Beneath the outside of their youth, have lain
Reserved for mellower years, his present mind 585
Was under fascination — he beheld
A vision, and he loved the thing he saw.
Arabian fiction never filled the world
With half the wonders that were wrought for him:
Earth lived in one great presence of the spring, 590
Life turned the meanest of her implements
Before his eyes to price above all gold,
The house she dwelt in was a sainted shrine,
Her chamber-window did surpass in glory
The portals of the east, all paradise 595
Could by the simple opening of a door
Let itself in upon him — pathways, walks,
Swarmed with enchantment, till his spirits sunk
Beneath the burthen, overblessed for life.
This state was theirs, till — whether through effect 600
Of some delirious hour, or that the youth,
Seeing so many bars betwixt himself
And the dear haven where he wished to be
In honorable wedlock with his love,
Without a certain knowledge of his own 605
Was inwardly prepared to turn aside
From law and custom and entrust himself
To Nature for a happy end of all,
And thus abated of that pure reserve
Congenial to his loyal heart, with which 610
It would have pleased him to attend the steps
Of maiden so divinely beautiful,
I know not — but reluctantly must add
That Julia, yet without the name of wife,
Carried about her for a secret grief 615
The promise of a mother.
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 620
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, 625
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. 630
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, 635
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.
640
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, 645
And of the lark’s note heard before its time,
And of the streaks that laced the evening clouds
In the unrelenting east. ‘Tis mine to tread
The humbler province of plain history,
And, without choice of circumstance, submissively 650
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, 655
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. 660
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, 665
In hearing of his father, Vaudracour
Persisted openly that nothing less
Than death should make him yield up hope to be
A bless`ed husband of the maid he loved.
Incensed at such obduracy, and slight 670
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 675
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. 680
Retiring to his chamber for the night,
While he was entering at the door, attempts
Were made to seize him by three arm`ed men,
The instruments of ruffian power. The youth
In the first impulse of his rage laid one 685
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. 690
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 695
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: 700
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 705
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 by procured.
Back to his father’s house he went, remained 710
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 715
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 720
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 725
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 730
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 735
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, 740
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 745
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 750
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 755
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 760
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, 765
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 770
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, 775
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, 780
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. 785
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 790
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 795
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, 800
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 805
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. 810
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, 815
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 820
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 825
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 830
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 835
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, 840
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 845
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 850
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, 855
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 860
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) 865
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 870
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 875
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. He quitted this same town 880
For the last time, attendant by the side
Of a close chair, a litter or sedan,
In which the child was carried. To a hill
Which rose at a league’s distance from the town
The family of the house where he had lodged 885
Attended him, and parted from him there,
Watching below until he disappeared
On the hill-top. His eyes he scarcely took
Through all that journey from the chair in which
The babe was carried, and at every inn 890
Or place at which they halted or reposed
Laid him upon his knees, nor would permit
The hands of any but himself to dress
The infant, or undress. By one of those
Who bore the chair these facts, at his return, 895
Were told, and in relating them he wept.
This was the manner in which Vaudracour
Departed with his infant, and thus reached
His father’s house, where to the innocent child
Admittance was denied. The young man spake 900
No words of indignation or reproof,
But of his father begged, a last request,
That a retreat might be assigned to him —
A house where in the country he might dwell
With such allowance as his wants required — 905
And the more lonely that the mansion was
‘Twould be more welcome. To a lodge that stood
Deep in a forest, with leave given, at the age
Of four and twenty summers he retired,
Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth Page 104