Chapter 2
[Picture: Sketch of man in old street]
THE BURGHERS (17–)
THE sun had wheeled from Grey’s to Dammer’s Crest, And still I mused on that Thing imminent: At length I sought the High-street to the West.
The level flare raked pane and pediment And my wrecked face, and shaped my nearing friend Like one of those the Furnace held unshent.
“I’ve news concerning her,” he said. “Attend. They fly to-night at the late moon’s first gleam: Watch with thy steel: two righteous thrusts will end
Her shameless visions and his passioned dream. I’ll watch with thee, to testify thy wrong— To aid, maybe.—Law consecrates the scheme.”
I started, and we paced the flags along Till I replied: “Since it has come to this I’ll do it! But alone. I can be strong.”
Three hours past Curfew, when the Froom’s mild hiss Reigned sole, undulled by whirr of merchandize, From Pummery-Tout to where the Gibbet is,
I crossed my pleasaunce hard by Glyd’path Rise, And stood beneath the wall. Eleven strokes went, And to the door they came, contrariwise,
And met in clasp so close I had but bent My lifted blade upon them to have let Their two souls loose upon the firmament.
But something held my arm. “A moment yet As pray-time ere you wantons die!” I said; And then they saw me. Swift her gaze was set
With eye and cry of love illimited Upon her Heart-king. Never upon me Had she thrown look of love so thorough-sped! . . .
At once she flung her faint form shieldingly On his, against the vengeance of my vows; The which o’erruling, her shape shielded he.
Blanked by such love, I stood as in a drowse, And the slow moon edged from the upland nigh, My sad thoughts moving thuswise: “I may house
And I may husband her, yet what am I But licensed tyrant to this bonded pair? Says Charity, Do as ye would be done by.” . . .
Hurling my iron to the bushes there, I bade them stay. And, as if brain and breast Were passive, they walked with me to the stair.
Inside the house none watched; and on we prest Before a mirror, in whose gleam I read Her beauty, his,—and mine own mien unblest;
Till at her room I turned. “Madam,” I said, “Have you the wherewithal for this? Pray speak. Love fills no cupboard. You’ll need daily bread.”
“We’ve nothing, sire,” said she; “and nothing seek. ’Twere base in me to rob my lord unware; Our hands will earn a pittance week by week.”
And next I saw she’d piled her raiment rare Within the garde-robes, and her household purse, Her jewels, and least lace of personal wear;
And stood in homespun. Now grown wholly hers, I handed her the gold, her jewels all, And him the choicest of her robes diverse.
“I’ll take you to the doorway in the wall, And then adieu,” I to them. “Friends, withdraw.” They did so; and she went—beyond recall.
And as I paused beneath the arch I saw Their moonlit figures—slow, as in surprise— Descend the slope, and vanish on the haw.
“‘Fool,’ some will say,” I thought. “But who is wise, Save God alone, to weigh my reasons why?” —“Hast thou struck home?” came with the boughs’ night-sighs.
It was my friend. “I have struck well. They fly, But carry wounds that none can cicatrize.” —“Not mortal?” said he. “Lingering—worse,” said I.
LEIPZIG (1813)
_Scene_: _The Master-tradesmen’s Parlour at the Old Ship Inn_, _Casterbridge_. _Evening_.
“OLD Norbert with the flat blue cap— A German said to be— Why let your pipe die on your lap, Your eyes blink absently?”—
—“Ah! . . . Well, I had thought till my cheek was wet Of my mother—her voice and mien When she used to sing and pirouette, And touse the tambourine
“To the march that yon street-fiddler plies: She told me ’twas the same She’d heard from the trumpets, when the Allies Her city overcame.
“My father was one of the German Hussars, My mother of Leipzig; but he, Long quartered here, fetched her at close of the wars, And a Wessex lad reared me.
“And as I grew up, again and again She’d tell, after trilling that air, Of her youth, and the battles on Leipzig plain And of all that was suffered there! . . .
“—’Twas a time of alarms. Three Chiefs-at-arms Combined them to crush One, And by numbers’ might, for in equal fight He stood the matched of none.
“Carl Schwarzenberg was of the plot, And Blücher, prompt and prow, And Jean the Crown-Prince Bernadotte: Buonaparte was the foe.
“City and plain had felt his reign From the North to the Middle Sea, And he’d now sat down in the noble town Of the King of Saxony.
“October’s deep dew its wet gossamer threw Upon Leipzig’s lawns, leaf-strewn, Where lately each fair avenue Wrought shade for summer noon.
“To westward two dull rivers crept Through miles of marsh and slough, Whereover a streak of whiteness swept— The Bridge of Lindenau.
“Hard by, in the City, the One, care-tossed, Gloomed over his shrunken power; And without the walls the hemming host Waxed denser every hour.
“He had speech that night on the morrow’s designs With his chiefs by the bivouac fire, While the belt of flames from the enemy’s lines Flared nigher him yet and nigher.
“Three sky-lights then from the girdling trine Told, ‘Ready!’ As they rose Their flashes seemed his Judgment-Sign For bleeding Europe’s woes.
“’Twas seen how the French watch-fires that night Glowed still and steadily; And the Three rejoiced, for they read in the sight That the One disdained to flee . . .
“—Five hundred guns began the affray On next day morn at nine; Such mad and mangling cannon-play Had never torn human line.
“Around the town three battles beat, Contracting like a gin; As nearer marched the million feet Of columns closing in.
“The first battle nighed on the low Southern side; The second by the Western way; The nearing of the third on the North was heard: —The French held all at bay.
“Against the first band did the Emperor stand; Against the second stood Ney; Marmont against the third gave the order-word: —Thus raged it throughout the day.
“Fifty thousand sturdy souls on those trampled plains and knolls, Who met the dawn hopefully, And were lotted their shares in a quarrel not theirs, Dropt then in their agony.
“‘O,’ the old folks said, ‘ye Preachers stern! O so-called Christian time! When will men’s swords to ploughshares turn? When come the promised prime?’ . . .
“—The clash of horse and man which that day began, Closed not as evening wore; And the morrow’s armies, rear and van, Still mustered more and more.
“From the City towers the Confederate Powers Were eyed in glittering lines, And up from the vast a murmuring passed As from a wood of pines.
“‘’Tis well to cover a feeble skill By numbers!’ scoffèd He; ‘But give me a third of their strength, I’d fill Half Hell with their soldiery!’
[Picture: Sketch of town square, Leipzig?]
“All that day raged the war they waged, And again dumb night held reign, Save that ever upspread from the dark deathbed A miles-wide pant of pain.
“Hard had striven brave Ney, the true Bertrand, Victor, and Augereau, Bold Poniatowski, and Lauriston, To stay their overthrow;
“But, as in the dream of one sick to death There comes a narrowing room That pens him, body and limbs and breath, To wait a hideous doom,
“So to Napoleon, in the hush That held the town and towers Through these dire nights, a creeping crush Seemed inborne with the hours.
“One road to the rearward, and but one, Did fitful Chance allow; ’Twas where the Pleiss’ and Elster run— The Bridge of Lindenau.
“The nineteenth dawned. Down street and Platz The wasted French sank back, Stretching long lines across the Flats And on the bridge-way track;
“When there surged on the sky an earthen wave, And stones, and men, as though Some rebel churchyard crew updrave Their sepulchres from below.
“To Heaven is blown Bridge Lindenau; Wrecked regiments reel therefrom; And rank and file in masses plough The sullen Elster-Strom.
“A gulf was Lindenau; and dead Were fifties, hundreds, tens; And every current rippled red With Marshal’s blood and men’s.
“The smart Macdonald swam therein, And barely won the verge; Bold Poniatowski plunged him in Never to re-emerge.
“Then stayed the strife. The remnants wound Their Rhineward way pell-mell; And thus did Leipzig City sound An Empire’s passing bell;
“While in cavalcade, with band and blade, Came Marshals, Princes, Kings; And the town was theirs . . . Ay, as simple maid, My mother saw these things!
“And whenever those notes in the street begin, I recall her, and that far scene, And her acting of how the Allies marched in, And her touse of the tambourine!”
[Picture: Sketch of person standing outside bay window, looking in]
THE PEASANT’S CONFESSION
“Si le maréchal Grouchy avait été rejoint par l’officier que Napoléon lui avait expédié la veille à dix heures du soir, toute question eût disparu. Mais cet officier n’était point parvenu à sa destination, ainsi que le maréchal n’a cessé de l’affirmer toute sa vie, et il faut l’en croire, car autrement il n’aurait eu aucune raison pour hésiter. Cet officier avait-il été pris? avait-il passé à l’ennemi? C’est ce qu’on a toujours ignoré.”
—THIERS: _Histoire de l’Empire_. “Waterloo.”
GOOD Father! . . . ’Twas an eve in middle June, And war was waged anew By great Napoleon, who for years had strewn Men’s bones all Europe through.
Three nights ere this, with columned corps he’d crossed The Sambre at Charleroi, To move on Brussels, where the English host Dallied in Parc and Bois.
The yestertide we’d heard the gloomy gun Growl through the long-sunned day From Quatre-Bras and Ligny; till the dun Twilight suppressed the fray;
Albeit therein—as lated tongues bespoke— Brunswick’s high heart was drained, And Prussia’s Line and Landwehr, though unbroke, Stood cornered and constrained.
And at next noon-time Grouchy slowly passed With thirty thousand men: We hoped thenceforth no army, small or vast, Would trouble us again.
My hut lay deeply in a vale recessed, And never a soul seemed nigh When, reassured at length, we went to rest— My children, wife, and I.
But what was this that broke our humble ease? What noise, above the rain, Above the dripping of the poplar trees That smote along the pane?
—A call of mastery, bidding me arise, Compelled me to the door, At which a horseman stood in martial guise— Splashed—sweating from every pore.
Had I seen Grouchy? Yes? Which track took he? Could I lead thither on?— Fulfilment would ensure gold pieces three, Perchance more gifts anon.
“I bear the Emperor’s mandate,” then he said, “Charging the Marshal straight To strike between the double host ahead Ere they co-operate,
“Engaging Blücher till the Emperor put Lord Wellington to flight, And next the Prussians. This to set afoot Is my emprise to-night.”
I joined him in the mist; but, pausing, sought To estimate his say. Grouchy had made for Wavre; and yet, on thought, I did not lead that way.
I mused: “If Grouchy thus instructed be, The clash comes sheer hereon; My farm is stript. While, as for pieces three, Money the French have none.
“Grouchy unwarned, moreo’er, the English win, And mine is left to me— They buy, not borrow.”—Hence did I begin To lead him treacherously.
By Joidoigne, near to east, as we ondrew, Dawn pierced the humid air; And eastward faced I with him, though I knew Never marched Grouchy there.
Near Ottignies we passed, across the Dyle (Lim’lette left far aside), And thence direct toward Pervez and Noville Through green grain, till he cried:
“I doubt thy conduct, man! no track is here— I doubt thy gagèd word!” Thereat he scowled on me, and pranced me near, And pricked me with his sword.
“Nay, Captain, hold! We skirt, not trace the course Of Grouchy,” said I then: “As we go, yonder went he, with his force Of thirty thousand men.”
—At length noon nighed; when west, from Saint-John’s-Mound, A hoarse artillery boomed, And from Saint-Lambert’s upland, chapel-crowned, The Prussian squadrons loomed.
Then to the wayless wet gray ground he leapt; “My mission fails!” he cried; “Too late for Grouchy now to intercept, For, peasant, you have lied!”
He turned to pistol me. I sprang, and drew The sabre from his flank, And ’twixt his nape and shoulder, ere he knew, I struck, and dead he sank.
[Picture: Sketch of landscape]
I hid him deep in nodding rye and oat— His shroud green stalks and loam; His requiem the corn-blade’s husky note— And then I hastened home, . . .
—Two armies writhe in coils of red and blue, And brass and iron clang From Goumont, past the front of Waterloo, To Pap’lotte and Smohain.
The Guard Imperial wavered on the height; The Emperor’s face grew glum; “I sent,” he said, “to Grouchy yesternight, And yet he does not come!”
’Twas then, Good Father, that the French espied, Streaking the summer land, The men of Blücher. But the Emperor cried, “Grouchy is now at hand!”
And meanwhile Vand’leur, Vivian, Maitland, Kempt, Met d’Erlon, Friant, Ney; But Grouchy—mis-sent, blamed, yet blame-exempt— Grouchy was far away.
By even, slain or struck, Michel the strong, Bold Travers, Dnop, Delord, Smart Guyot, Reil-le, l’Heriter, Friant, Scattered that champaign o’er.
Fallen likewise wronged Duhesme, and skilled Lobau Did that red sunset see; Colbert, Legros, Blancard! . . . And of the foe Picton and Ponsonby;
With Gordon, Canning, Blackman, Ompteda, L’Estrange, Delancey, Packe, Grose, D’Oyly, Stables, Morice, Howard, Hay, Von Schwerin, Watzdorf, Boek,
Smith, Phelips, Fuller, Lind, and Battersby, And hosts of ranksmen round . . . Memorials linger yet to speak to thee Of those that bit the ground!
The Guards’ last column yielded; dykes of dead Lay between vale and ridge, As, thinned yet closing, faint yet fierce, they sped In packs to Genappe Bridge.
Safe was my stock; my capple cow unslain; Intact each cock and hen; But Grouchy far at Wavre all day had lain, And thirty thousand men.
O Saints, had I but lost my earing corn And saved the cause once prized! O Saints, why such false witness had I borne When late I’d sympathized! . . .
So now, being old, my children eye askance My slowly dwindling store, And crave my mite; till, worn with tarriance, I care for life no more.
To Almighty God henceforth I stand confessed, And Virgin-Saint Marie; O Michael, John, and Holy Ones in rest, Entreat the Lord for me!
[Picture: Silhouette of solder standing on hill]
THE ALARM (1803)
_See_ “_The Trumpet-Major_”
IN MEMORY OF ONE OF THE WRITER’S FAMILY WHO WAS A VOLUNTEER DURING THE WAR WITH NAPOLEON
IN a ferny byway Near the great South-Wessex Highway, A homestead raised its breakfast-smoke aloft; The dew-damps still lay steamless, for the sun had made no sky-way, And twilight cloaked the croft.
’Twas hard to realize on This snug side the mute horizon That beyond it hostile armaments might steer, Save from seeing in the porchway a fair woman weep with eyes on A harnessed Volunteer.
In haste he’d flown there To his comely wife alone there, While marching south hard by, to still her fears, For she soon would be a mother, and few messengers were known there In these campaigning years.
’Twas time to be Good-bying, Since the assembly-hour was nighing In royal George’s town at six that morn; And betwixt its wharves and this retreat were ten good miles of hieing Ere ring of bugle-horn.
“I’ve laid in food, Dear, And broached the spiced and brewed, Dear; And if our July hope should antedate, Let the char-wench mount and gallop by the halterpath and wood, Dear, And fetch assistance straight.
“As for Buonaparte, forget him; He’s not like to land! But let him, Those strike with aim who strike for wives and sons! And the war-boats built to float him; ’twere but wanted to upset him A slat from Nelson’s guns!
“But, to assure thee, And of creeping fears to cure thee, If he _should_ be rumoured anchoring in the Road, Drive with the nurse to Kingsbere; and let nothing thence allure thee Till we’ve him safe-bestowed.
“Now, to turn to marching matters:— I’ve my knapsack, firelock, spatters, Crossbelts, priming-horn, stock, bay’net, blackball, clay, Pouch, magazine, flints, flint-box that at every quick-step clatters; . . . My heart, Dear; that must stay!”
—With breathings broken Farewell was kissed unspoken, And they parted there as morning stroked the panes; And the Volunteer went on, and turned, and twirled his glove for token, And took the coastward lanes.
When above He’th Hills he found him, He saw, on gazing round him, The Barrow-Beacon burning—burning low, As if, perhaps, uplighted ever since he’d homeward bound him; And it meant: Expect the Foe!
[Picture: Sketch of person riding with wide landscape behind]
Leaving the byway, And following swift the highway, Car and chariot met he, faring fast inland; “He’s anchored, Soldier!” shouted some: “God save thee, marching thy way, Th’lt front him on the strand!”
He slowed; he stopped; he paltered Awhile with self, and faltered, “Why courting misadventure shoreward roam? To Molly, surely! Seek the woods with her till times have altered; Charity favours home.
“Else, my denying He would come she’ll read as lying— Think the Barrow-Beacon must have met my eyes— That my words were not unwareness, but deceit of her, while trying My life to jeopardize.
“At home is stocked provision, And to-night, without suspicion, We might bear it with us to a covert near; Such sin, to save a childing wife, would earn it Christ’s remission, Though none forgive it here!”
While thus he, thinking, A little bird, quick drinking Among the crowfoot tufts the river bore, Was tangled in their stringy arms, and fluttered, well-nigh sinking, Near him, upon the moor.
He stepped in, reached, and seized it, And, preening, had released it But that a thought of Holy Writ occurred, And Signs Divine ere battle, till it seemed him Heaven had pleased it As guide to send the bird.
“O Lord, direct me! . . . Doth Duty now expect me To march a-coast, or guard my weak ones near? Give this bird a flight according, that I thence know to elect me The southward or the rear.”
He loosed his clasp; when, rising, The bird—as if surmising— Bore due to southward, crossing by the Froom, And Durnover Great-Field and Fort, the soldier clear advising— Prompted he wist by Whom.
Then on he panted By grim Mai-Don, and slanted Up the steep Ridge-way, hearkening betwixt whiles; Till, nearing coast and harbour, he beheld the shore-line planted With Foot and Horse for miles.
Mistrusting not the omen, He gained the beach, where Yeomen, Militia, Fencibles, and Pikemen bold, With Regulars in thousands, were enmassed to meet the Foemen, Whose fleet had not yet shoaled.
Captain and Colonel, Sere Generals, Ensigns vernal, Were there; of neighbour-natives, Michel, Smith, Meggs, Bingham, Gambier, Cunningham, roused by the hued nocturnal Swoop on their land and kith.
But Buonaparte still tarried; His project had miscarried; At the last hour, equipped for victory, The fleet had paused; his subtle combinations had been parried By British strategy.
Homeward returning Anon, no beacons burning, No alarms, the Volunteer, in modest bliss, Te Deum sang with wife and friends: “We praise Thee, Lord, discerning That Thou hast helped in this!”
HER DEATH AND AFTER
’TWAS a death-bed summons, and forth I went By the way of the Western Wall, so drear On that winter night, and sought a gate— The home, by Fate, Of one I had long held dear.
And there, as I paused by her tenement, And the trees shed on me their rime and hoar, I thought of the man who had left her lone— Him who made her his own When I loved her, long before.
The rooms within had the piteous shine That home-things wear when there’s aught amiss; From the stairway floated the rise and fall Of an infant’s call, Whose birth had brought her to this.
Her life was the price she would pay for that whine— For a child by the man she did not love. “But let that rest for ever,” I said, And bent my tread To the chamber up above.
She took my hand in her thin white own, And smiled her thanks—though nigh too weak— And made them a sign to leave us there Then faltered, ere She could bring herself to speak.
“’Twas to see you before I go—he’ll condone Such a natural thing now my time’s not much— When Death is so near it hustles hence All passioned sense Between woman and man as such!
“My husband is absent. As heretofore The City detains him. But, in truth, He has not been kind . . . I will speak no blame, But—the child is lame; O, I pray she may reach his ruth!
“Forgive past days—I can say no more— Maybe if we’d wedded you’d now repine! . . . But I treated you ill. I was punished. Farewell! —Truth shall I tell? Would the child were yours and mine!
“As a wife I was true. But, such my unease That, could I insert a deed back in Time, I’d make her yours, to secure your care; And the scandal bear, And the penalty for the crime!”
—When I had left, and the swinging trees Rang above me, as lauding her candid say, Another was I. Her words were enough: Came smooth, came rough, I felt I could live my day.
Next night she died; and her obsequies In the Field of Tombs, by the Via renowned, Had her husband’s heed. His tendance spent, I often went And pondered by her mound.
All that year and the next year whiled, And I still went thitherward in the gloam; But the Town forgot her and her nook, And her husband took Another Love to his home.
And the rumour flew that the lame lone child Whom she wished for its safety child of mine, Was treated ill when offspring came Of the new-made dame, And marked a more vigorous line.
[Picture: Sketch of cemetery]
A smarter grief within me wrought Than even at loss of her so dear; Dead the being whose soul my soul suffused, Her child ill-used, I helpless to interfere!