The Last Man
visitor, who said that he perfectly understood, and would work at it at
home. At length Raymond suffered him to depart.
The next day he returned. The design had been re-drawn; but many
defects still remained, and several of the instructions given had been
misunderstood. “Come,” said Raymond, “I yielded to you yesterday, now
comply with my request—take the pencil.”
The Greek took it, but he handled it in no artist-like way; at length
he said: “I must confess to you, my Lord, that I did not make this
drawing. It is impossible for you to see the real designer; your
instructions must pass through me. Condescend therefore to have
patience with my ignorance, and to explain your wishes to me; in time I
am certain that you will be satisfied.”
Raymond questioned vainly; the mysterious Greek would say no more.
Would an architect be permitted to see the artist? This also was
refused. Raymond repeated his instructions, and the visitor retired.
Our friend resolved however not to be foiled in his wish. He suspected,
that unaccustomed poverty was the cause of the mystery, and that the
artist was unwilling to be seen in the garb and abode of want. Raymond
was only the more excited by this consideration to discover him;
impelled by the interest he took in obscure talent, he therefore
ordered a person skilled in such matters, to follow the Greek the next
time he came, and observe the house in which he should enter. His
emissary obeyed, and brought the desired intelligence. He had traced
the man to one of the most penurious streets in the metropolis. Raymond
did not wonder, that, thus situated, the artist had shrunk from notice,
but he did not for this alter his resolve.
On the same evening, he went alone to the house named to him. Poverty,
dirt, and squalid misery characterized its appearance. Alas! thought
Raymond, I have much to do before England becomes a Paradise. He
knocked; the door was opened by a string from above—the broken,
wretched staircase was immediately before him, but no person appeared;
he knocked again, vainly—and then, impatient of further delay, he
ascended the dark, creaking stairs. His main wish, more particularly
now that he witnessed the abject dwelling of the artist, was to relieve
one, possessed of talent, but depressed by want. He pictured to himself
a youth, whose eyes sparkled with genius, whose person was attenuated
by famine. He half feared to displease him; but he trusted that his
generous kindness would be administered so delicately, as not to excite
repulse. What human heart is shut to kindness? and though poverty, in
its excess, might render the sufferer unapt to submit to the supposed
degradation of a benefit, the zeal of the benefactor must at last relax
him into thankfulness. These thoughts encouraged Raymond, as he stood
at the door of the highest room of the house. After trying vainly to
enter the other apartments, he perceived just within the threshold of
this one, a pair of small Turkish slippers; the door was ajar, but all
was silent within. It was probable that the inmate was absent, but
secure that he had found the right person, our adventurous Protector
was tempted to enter, to leave a purse on the table, and silently
depart. In pursuance of this idea, he pushed open the door gently—but
the room was inhabited.
Raymond had never visited the dwellings of want, and the scene that now
presented itself struck him to the heart. The floor was sunk in many
places; the walls ragged and bare—the ceiling weather-stained—a
tattered bed stood in the corner; there were but two chairs in the
room, and a rough broken table, on which was a light in a tin
candlestick;—yet in the midst of such drear and heart sickening
poverty, there was an air of order and cleanliness that surprised him.
The thought was fleeting; for his attention was instantly drawn towards
the inhabitant of this wretched abode. It was a female. She sat at the
table; one small hand shaded her eyes from the candle; the other held a
pencil; her looks were fixed on a drawing before her, which Raymond
recognized as the design presented to him. Her whole appearance
awakened his deepest interest. Her dark hair was braided and twined in
thick knots like the head-dress of a Grecian statue; her garb was mean,
but her attitude might have been selected as a model of grace. Raymond
had a confused remembrance that he had seen such a form before; he
walked across the room; she did not raise her eyes, merely asking in
Romaic, who is there? “A friend,” replied Raymond in the same dialect.
She looked up wondering, and he saw that it was Evadne Zaimi. Evadne,
once the idol of Adrian’s affections; and who, for the sake of her
present visitor, had disdained the noble youth, and then, neglected by
him she loved, with crushed hopes and a stinging sense of misery, had
returned to her native Greece. What revolution of fortune could have
brought her to England, and housed her thus?
Raymond recognized her; and his manner changed from polite beneficence
to the warmest protestations of kindness and sympathy. The sight of
her, in her present situation, passed like an arrow into his soul. He
sat by her, he took her hand, and said a thousand things which breathed
the deepest spirit of compassion and affection. Evadne did not answer;
her large dark eyes were cast down, at length a tear glimmered on the
lashes. “Thus,” she cried, “kindness can do, what no want, no misery
ever effected; I weep.” She shed indeed many tears; her head sunk
unconsciously on the shoulder of Raymond; he held her hand: he kissed
her sunken tear-stained cheek. He told her, that her sufferings were
now over: no one possessed the art of consoling like Raymond; he did
not reason or declaim, but his look shone with sympathy; he brought
pleasant images before the sufferer; his caresses excited no distrust,
for they arose purely from the feeling which leads a mother to kiss her
wounded child; a desire to demonstrate in every possible way the truth
of his feelings, and the keenness of his wish to pour balm into the
lacerated mind of the unfortunate. As Evadne regained her composure,
his manner became even gay; he sported with the idea of her poverty.
Something told him that it was not its real evils that lay heavily at
her heart, but the debasement and disgrace attendant on it; as he
talked, he divested it of these; sometimes speaking of her fortitude
with energetic praise; then, alluding to her past state, he called her
his Princess in disguise. He made her warm offers of service; she was
too much occupied by more engrossing thoughts, either to accept or
reject them; at length he left her, making a promise to repeat his
visit the next day. He returned home, full of mingled feelings, of pain
excited by Evadne’s wretchedness, and pleasure at the prospect of
relieving it. Some motive for which he did not account, even to
himself, prevented him from relating his adventure to Perdita.
The next day he threw such disguise over his person as a cloak
afforded, and revisited Evadne. As he went, he bought a basket of
costly fruits, such as were natives of her own country, and throwing
over these various beautiful flowers, bore it himself to the miserable
garret of his friend. “Behold,” cried he, as he entered, “what bird’s
food I have brought for my sparrow on the house-top.”
Evadne now related the tale of her misfortunes. Her father, though of
high rank, had in the end dissipated his fortune, and even destroyed
his reputation and influence through a course of dissolute indulgence.
His health was impaired beyond hope of cure; and it became his earnest
wish, before he died, to preserve his daughter from the poverty which
would be the portion of her orphan state. He therefore accepted for
her, and persuaded her to accede to, a proposal of marriage, from a
wealthy Greek merchant settled at Constantinople. She quitted her
native Greece; her father died; by degrees she was cut off from all the
companions and ties of her youth.
The war, which about a year before the present time had broken out
between Greece and Turkey, brought about many reverses of fortune. Her
husband became bankrupt, and then in a tumult and threatened massacre
on the part of the Turks, they were obliged to fly at midnight, and
reached in an open boat an English vessel under sail, which brought
them immediately to this island. The few jewels they had saved,
supported them awhile. The whole strength of Evadne’s mind was exerted
to support the failing spirits of her husband. Loss of property,
hopelessness as to his future prospects, the inoccupation to which
poverty condemned him, combined to reduce him to a state bordering on
insanity. Five months after their arrival in England, he committed
suicide.
“You will ask me,” continued Evadne, “what I have done since; why I
have not applied for succour to the rich Greeks resident here; why I
have not returned to my native country? My answer to these questions
must needs appear to you unsatisfactory, yet they have sufficed to lead
me on, day after day, enduring every wretchedness, rather than by such
means to seek relief. Shall the daughter of the noble, though prodigal
Zaimi, appear a beggar before her compeers or inferiors—superiors she
had none. Shall I bow my head before them, and with servile gesture
sell my nobility for life? Had I a child, or any tie to bind me to
existence, I might descend to this—but, as it is—the world has been to
me a harsh step-mother; fain would I leave the abode she seems to
grudge, and in the grave forget my pride, my struggles, my despair. The
time will soon come; grief and famine have already sapped the
foundations of my being; a very short time, and I shall have passed
away; unstained by the crime of self-destruction, unstung by the memory
of degradation, my spirit will throw aside the miserable coil, and find
such recompense as fortitude and resignation may deserve. This may seem
madness to you, yet you also have pride and resolution; do not then
wonder that my pride is tameless, my resolution unalterable.”
Having thus finished her tale, and given such an account as she deemed
fit, of the motives of her abstaining from all endeavour to obtain aid
from her countrymen, Evadne paused; yet she seemed to have more to say,
to which she was unable to give words. In the mean time Raymond was
eloquent. His desire of restoring his lovely friend to her rank in
society, and to her lost prosperity, animated him, and he poured forth
with energy, all his wishes and intentions on that subject. But he was
checked; Evadne exacted a promise, that he should conceal from all her
friends her existence in England. “The relatives of the Earl of
Windsor,” said she haughtily, “doubtless think that I injured him;
perhaps the Earl himself would be the first to acquit me, but probably
I do not deserve acquittal. I acted then, as I ever must, from impulse.
This abode of penury may at least prove the disinterestedness of my
conduct. No matter: I do not wish to plead my cause before any of them,
not even before your Lordship, had you not first discovered me. The
tenor of my actions will prove that I had rather die, than be a mark
for scorn—behold the proud Evadne in her tatters! look on the
beggar-princess! There is aspic venom in the thought—promise me that my
secret shall not be violated by you.”
Raymond promised; but then a new discussion ensued. Evadne required
another engagement on his part, that he would not without her
concurrence enter into any project for her benefit, nor himself offer
relief. “Do not degrade me in my own eyes,” she said; “poverty has long
been my nurse; hard-visaged she is, but honest. If dishonour, or what I
conceive to be dishonour, come near me, I am lost.” Raymond adduced