The Last Man
that which is the parent of the imagination and the nurse of poetry;
that which bestows benevolent intelligence on the visible mechanism of
the world, and makes earth a temple with heaven for its cope. Such
happiness, goodness, and religion inhabited the mind of Perdita.
During the five years we had spent together, a knot of happy human
beings at Windsor Castle, her blissful lot had been the frequent theme
of my sister’s conversation. From early habit, and natural affection,
she selected me in preference to Adrian or Idris, to be the partner in
her overflowings of delight; perhaps, though apparently much unlike,
some secret point of resemblance, the offspring of consanguinity,
induced this preference. Often at sunset, I have walked with her, in
the sober, enshadowed forest paths, and listened with joyful sympathy.
Security gave dignity to her passion; the certainty of a full return,
left her with no wish unfulfilled. The birth of her daughter, embryo
copy of her Raymond, filled up the measure of her content, and produced
a sacred and indissoluble tie between them. Sometimes she felt proud
that he had preferred her to the hopes of a crown. Sometimes she
remembered that she had suffered keen anguish, when he hesitated in his
choice. But this memory of past discontent only served to enhance her
present joy. What had been hardly won, was now, entirely possessed,
doubly dear. She would look at him at a distance with the same rapture,
(O, far more exuberant rapture!) that one might feel, who after the
perils of a tempest, should find himself in the desired port; she would
hasten towards him, to feel more certain in his arms, the reality of
her bliss. This warmth of affection, added to the depth of her
understanding, and the brilliancy of her imagination, made her beyond
words dear to Raymond.
If a feeling of dissatisfaction ever crossed her, it arose from the
idea that he was not perfectly happy. Desire of renown, and
presumptuous ambition, had characterized his youth. The one he had
acquired in Greece; the other he had sacrificed to love. His intellect
found sufficient field for exercise in his domestic circle, whose
members, all adorned by refinement and literature, were many of them,
like himself, distinguished by genius. Yet active life was the genuine
soil for his virtues; and he sometimes suffered tedium from the
monotonous succession of events in our retirement. Pride made him
recoil from complaint; and gratitude and affection to Perdita,
generally acted as an opiate to all desire, save that of meriting her
love. We all observed the visitation of these feelings, and none
regretted them so much as Perdita. Her life consecrated to him, was a
slight sacrifice to reward his choice, but was not that sufficient—Did
he need any gratification that she was unable to bestow? This was the
only cloud in the azure of her happiness.
His passage to power had been full of pain to both. He however attained
his wish; he filled the situation for which nature seemed to have
moulded him. His activity was fed in wholesome measure, without either
exhaustion or satiety; his taste and genius found worthy expression in
each of the modes human beings have invented to encage and manifest the
spirit of beauty; the goodness of his heart made him never weary of
conducing to the well-being of his fellow-creatures; his magnificent
spirit, and aspirations for the respect and love of mankind, now
received fruition; true, his exaltation was temporary; perhaps it were
better that it should be so. Habit would not dull his sense of the
enjoyment of power; nor struggles, disappointment and defeat await the
end of that which would expire at its maturity. He determined to
extract and condense all of glory, power, and achievement, which might
have resulted from a long reign, into the three years of his
Protectorate.
Raymond was eminently social. All that he now enjoyed would have been
devoid of pleasure to him, had it been unparticipated. But in Perdita
he possessed all that his heart could desire. Her love gave birth to
sympathy; her intelligence made her understand him at a word; her
powers of intellect enabled her to assist and guide him. He felt her
worth. During the early years of their union, the inequality of her
temper, and yet unsubdued self-will which tarnished her character, had
been a slight drawback to the fulness of his sentiment. Now that
unchanged serenity, and gentle compliance were added to her other
qualifications, his respect equalled his love. Years added to the
strictness of their union. They did not now guess at, and totter on the
pathway, divining the mode to please, hoping, yet fearing the
continuance of bliss. Five years gave a sober certainty to their
emotions, though it did not rob them of their etherial nature. It had
given them a child; but it had not detracted from the personal
attractions of my sister. Timidity, which in her had almost amounted to
awkwardness, was exchanged for a graceful decision of manner;
frankness, instead of reserve, characterized her physiognomy; and her
voice was attuned to thrilling softness. She was now three and twenty,
in the pride of womanhood, fulfilling the precious duties of wife and
mother, possessed of all her heart had ever coveted. Raymond was ten
years older; to his previous beauty, noble mien, and commanding aspect,
he now added gentlest benevolence, winning tenderness, graceful and
unwearied attention to the wishes of another.
The first secret that had existed between them was the visits of
Raymond to Evadne. He had been struck by the fortitude and beauty of
the ill-fated Greek; and, when her constant tenderness towards him
unfolded itself, he asked with astonishment, by what act of his he had
merited this passionate and unrequited love. She was for a while the
sole object of his reveries; and Perdita became aware that his thoughts
and time were bestowed on a subject unparticipated by her. My sister
was by nature destitute of the common feelings of anxious, petulant
jealousy. The treasure which she possessed in the affections of
Raymond, was more necessary to her being, than the life-blood that
animated her veins—more truly than Othello she might say,
To be once in doubt,
Is—once to be resolved.
On the present occasion she did not suspect any alienation of
affection; but she conjectured that some circumstance connected with
his high place, had occasioned this mystery. She was startled and
pained. She began to count the long days, and months, and years which
must elapse, before he would be restored to a private station, and
unreservedly to her. She was not content that, even for a time, he
should practice concealment with her. She often repined; but her trust
in the singleness of his affection was undisturbed; and, when they were
together, unchecked by fear, she opened her heart to the fullest
delight.
Time went on. Raymond, stopping mid-way in his wild career, paused
suddenly to think of consequences. Two results presented themselves in
the view he took of the future. That his intercourse with Evadne should
continue a secret to, or that finally it should be discovered by
Perdita. The destitute condition, and highly wrought feelings of his
friend prevented him from adverting to the possibility of exiling
himself from her. In the first event he had bidden an eternal farewell
to open-hearted converse, and entire sympathy with the companion of his
life. The veil must be thicker than that invented by Turkish jealousy;
the wall higher than the unscaleable tower of Vathek, which should
conceal from her the workings of his heart, and hide from her view the
secret of his actions. This idea was intolerably painful to him.
Frankness and social feelings were the essence of Raymond’s nature;
without them his qualities became common-place; without these to spread
glory over his intercourse with Perdita, his vaunted exchange of a
throne for her love, was as weak and empty as the rainbow hues which
vanish when the sun is down. But there was no remedy. Genius, devotion,
and courage; the adornments of his mind, and the energies of his soul,
all exerted to their uttermost stretch, could not roll back one hair’s
breadth the wheel of time’s chariot; that which had been was written
with the adamantine pen of reality, on the everlasting volume of the
past; nor could agony and tears suffice to wash out one iota from the
act fulfilled.
But this was the best side of the question. What, if circumstance
should lead Perdita to suspect, and suspecting to be resolved? The
fibres of his frame became relaxed, and cold dew stood on his forehead,
at this idea. Many men may scoff at his dread; but he read the future;
and the peace of Perdita was too dear to him, her speechless agony too
certain, and too fearful, not to unman him. His course was speedily
decided upon. If the worst befell; if she learnt the truth, he would
neither stand her reproaches, or the anguish of her altered looks. He
would forsake her, England, his friends, the scenes of his youth, the
hopes of coming time, he would seek another country, and in other
scenes begin life again. Having resolved on this, he became calmer. He
endeavoured to guide with prudence the steeds of destiny through the
devious road which he had chosen, and bent all his efforts the better
to conceal what he could not alter.
The perfect confidence that subsisted between Perdita and him, rendered
every communication common between them. They opened each other’s
letters, even as, until now, the inmost fold of the heart of each was
disclosed to the other. A letter came unawares, Perdita read it. Had it
contained confirmation, she must have been annihilated. As it was,
trembling, cold, and pale, she sought Raymond. He was alone, examining
some petitions lately presented. She entered silently, sat on a sofa
opposite to him, and gazed on him with a look of such despair, that
wildest shrieks and dire moans would have been tame exhibitions of
misery, compared to the living incarnation of the thing itself
exhibited by her.
At first he did not take his eyes from the papers; when he raised them,
he was struck by the wretchedness manifest on her altered cheek; for a
moment he forgot his own acts and fears, and asked with
consternation—“Dearest girl, what is the matter; what has happened?”
“Nothing,” she replied at first; “and yet not so,” she continued,
hurrying on in her speech; “you have secrets, Raymond; where have you
been lately, whom have you seen, what do you conceal from me?—why am I
banished from your confidence? Yet this is not it—I do not intend to
entrap you with questions—one will suffice—am I completely a wretch?”
With trembling hand she gave him the paper, and sat white and
motionless looking at him while he read it. He recognised the
hand-writing of Evadne, and the colour mounted in his cheeks. With
lightning-speed he conceived the contents of the letter; all was now
cast on one die; falsehood and artifice were trifles in comparison with
the impending ruin. He would either entirely dispel Perdita’s
suspicions, or quit her for ever. “My dear girl,” he said, “I have been
to blame; but you must pardon me. I was in the wrong to commence a
system of concealment; but I did it for the sake of sparing you pain;
and each day has rendered it more difficult for me to alter my plan.
Besides, I was instigated by delicacy towards the unhappy writer of
these few lines.”
Perdita gasped: “Well,” she cried, “well, go on!”
“That is all—this paper tells all. I am placed in the most difficult
circumstances. I have done my best, though perhaps I have done wrong.
My love for you is inviolate.”
Perdita shook her head doubtingly: “It cannot be,” she cried, “I know
that it is not. You would deceive me, but I will not be deceived. I