The Last Man
firmness peculiar to her disposition. She could not divine, that the
breach which she had occasioned between Raymond and Perdita was already
irreparable: but she knew, that under the present system it would be
widened each day, and that its result must be to destroy her lover’s
happiness, and to implant the fangs of remorse in his heart. From the
moment that she perceived the right line of conduct, she resolved to
adopt it, and to part from Raymond for ever. Conflicting passions,
long-cherished love, and self-inflicted disappointment, made her regard
death alone as sufficient refuge for her woe. But the same feelings and
opinions which had before restrained her, acted with redoubled force;
for she knew that the reflection that he had occasioned her death,
would pursue Raymond through life, poisoning every enjoyment, clouding
every prospect. Besides, though the violence of her anguish made life
hateful, it had not yet produced that monotonous, lethargic sense of
changeless misery which for the most part produces suicide. Her energy
of character induced her still to combat with the ills of life; even
those attendant on hopeless love presented themselves, rather in the
shape of an adversary to be overcome, than of a victor to whom she must
submit. Besides, she had memories of past tenderness to cherish,
smiles, words, and even tears, to con over, which, though remembered in
desertion and sorrow, were to be preferred to the forgetfulness of the
grave. It was impossible to guess at the whole of her plan. Her letter
to Raymond gave no clue for discovery; it assured him, that she was in
no danger of wanting the means of life; she promised in it to preserve
herself, and some future day perhaps to present herself to him in a
station not unworthy of her. She then bade him, with the eloquence of
despair and of unalterable love, a last farewell.
All these circumstances were now related to Adrian and Idris. Raymond
then lamented the cureless evil of his situation with Perdita. He
declared, notwithstanding her harshness, he even called it coldness,
that he loved her. He had been ready once with the humility of a
penitent, and the duty of a vassal, to surrender himself to her; giving
up his very soul to her tutelage, to become her pupil, her slave, her
bondsman. She had rejected these advances; and the time for such
exuberant submission, which must be founded on love and nourished by
it, was now passed. Still all his wishes and endeavours were directed
towards her peace, and his chief discomfort arose from the perception
that he exerted himself in vain. If she were to continue inflexible in
the line of conduct she now pursued, they must part. The combinations
and occurrences of this senseless mode of intercourse were maddening to
him. Yet he would not propose the separation. He was haunted by the
fear of causing the death of one or other of the beings implicated in
these events; and he could not persuade himself to undertake to direct
the course of events, lest, ignorant of the land he traversed, he
should lead those attached to the car into irremediable ruin.
After a discussion on this subject, which lasted for several hours, he
took leave of his friends, and returned to town, unwilling to meet
Perdita before us, conscious, as we all must be, of the thoughts
uppermost in the minds of both. Perdita prepared to follow him with her
child. Idris endeavoured to persuade her to remain. My poor sister
looked at the counsellor with affright. She knew that Raymond had
conversed with her; had he instigated this request?—was this to be the
prelude to their eternal separation?—I have said, that the defects of
her character awoke and acquired vigour from her unnatural position.
She regarded with suspicion the invitation of Idris; she embraced me,
as if she were about to be deprived of my affection also: calling me
her more than brother, her only friend, her last hope, she pathetically
conjured me not to cease to love her; and with encreased anxiety she
departed for London, the scene and cause of all her misery.
The scenes that followed, convinced her that she had not yet fathomed
the obscure gulph into which she had plunged. Her unhappiness assumed
every day a new shape; every day some unexpected event seemed to close,
while in fact it led onward, the train of calamities which now befell
her.
The selected passion of the soul of Raymond was ambition. Readiness of
talent, a capacity of entering into, and leading the dispositions of
men; earnest desire of distinction were the awakeners and nurses of his
ambition. But other ingredients mingled with these, and prevented him
from becoming the calculating, determined character, which alone forms
a successful hero. He was obstinate, but not firm; benevolent in his
first movements; harsh and reckless when provoked. Above all, he was
remorseless and unyielding in the pursuit of any object of desire,
however lawless. Love of pleasure, and the softer sensibilities of our
nature, made a prominent part of his character, conquering the
conqueror; holding him in at the moment of acquisition; sweeping away
ambition’s web; making him forget the toil of weeks, for the sake of
one moment’s indulgence of the new and actual object of his wishes.
Obeying these impulses, he had become the husband of Perdita: egged on
by them, he found himself the lover of Evadne. He had now lost both. He
had neither the ennobling self-gratulation, which constancy inspires,
to console him, nor the voluptuous sense of abandonment to a forbidden,
but intoxicating passion. His heart was exhausted by the recent events;
his enjoyment of life was destroyed by the resentment of Perdita, and
the flight of Evadne; and the inflexibility of the former, set the last
seal upon the annihilation of his hopes. As long as their disunion
remained a secret, he cherished an expectation of re-awakening past
tenderness in her bosom; now that we were all made acquainted with
these occurrences, and that Perdita, by declaring her resolves to
others, in a manner pledged herself to their accomplishment, he gave up
the idea of re-union as futile, and sought only, since he was unable to
influence her to change, to reconcile himself to the present state of
things. He made a vow against love and its train of struggles,
disappointment and remorse, and sought in mere sensual enjoyment, a
remedy for the injurious inroads of passion.
Debasement of character is the certain follower of such pursuits. Yet
this consequence would not have been immediately remarkable, if Raymond
had continued to apply himself to the execution of his plans for the
public benefit, and the fulfilling his duties as Protector. But,
extreme in all things, given up to immediate impressions, he entered
with ardour into this new pursuit of pleasure, and followed up the
incongruous intimacies occasioned by it without reflection or
foresight. The council-chamber was deserted; the crowds which attended
on him as agents to his various projects were neglected. Festivity, and
even libertinism, became the order of the day.
Perdita beheld with affright the encreasing disorder. For a moment she
thought that she could stem the torrent, and that Raymond could be
induced to hear reason from her.—Vain hope! The moment of her influence
was passed. He listened with haughtiness, replied disdainfully; and, if
in truth, she succeeded in awakening his conscience, the sole effect
was that he sought an opiate for the pang in oblivious riot. With the
energy natural to her, Perdita then endeavoured to supply his place.
Their still apparent union permitted her to do much; but no woman
could, in the end, present a remedy to the encreasing negligence of the
Protector; who, as if seized with a paroxysm of insanity, trampled on
all ceremony, all order, all duty, and gave himself up to license.
Reports of these strange proceedings reached us, and we were undecided
what method to adopt to restore our friend to himself and his country,
when Perdita suddenly appeared among us. She detailed the progress of
the mournful change, and entreated Adrian and myself to go up to
London, and endeavour to remedy the encreasing evil:—“Tell him,” she
cried, “tell Lord Raymond, that my presence shall no longer annoy him.
That he need not plunge into this destructive dissipation for the sake
of disgusting me, and causing me to fly. This purpose is now
accomplished; he will never see me more. But let me, it is my last
entreaty, let me in the praises of his countrymen and the prosperity of
England, find the choice of my youth justified.”
During our ride up to town, Adrian and I discussed and argued upon
Raymond’s conduct, and his falling off from the hopes of permanent
excellence on his part, which he had before given us cause to
entertain. My friend and I had both been educated in one school, or
rather I was his pupil in the opinion, that steady adherence to
principle was the only road to honour; a ceaseless observance of the
laws of general utility, the only conscientious aim of human ambition.
But though we both entertained these ideas, we differed in their
application. Resentment added also a sting to my censure; and I
reprobated Raymond’s conduct in severe terms. Adrian was more benign,
more considerate. He admitted that the principles that I laid down were
the best; but he denied that they were the only ones. Quoting the text,
_there are many mansions in my father’s house_, he insisted that the
modes of becoming good or great, varied as much as the dispositions of
men, of whom it might be said, as of the leaves of the forest, there
were no two alike.
We arrived in London at about eleven at night. We conjectured,
notwithstanding what we had heard, that we should find Raymond in St.
Stephen’s: thither we sped. The chamber was full—but there was no
Protector; and there was an austere discontent manifest on the
countenances of the leaders, and a whispering and busy tattle among the
underlings, not less ominous. We hastened to the palace of the
Protectorate. We found Raymond in his dining room with six others: the
bottle was being pushed about merrily, and had made considerable
inroads on the understanding of one or two. He who sat near Raymond was
telling a story, which convulsed the rest with laughter.
Raymond sat among them, though while he entered into the spirit of the
hour, his natural dignity never forsook him. He was gay, playful,
fascinating—but never did he overstep the modesty of nature, or the
respect due to himself, in his wildest sallies. Yet I own, that
considering the task which Raymond had taken on himself as Protector of
England, and the cares to which it became him to attend, I was
exceedingly provoked to observe the worthless fellows on whom his time
was wasted, and the jovial if not drunken spirit which seemed on the
point of robbing him of his better self. I stood watching the scene,
while Adrian flitted like a shadow in among them, and, by a word and
look of sobriety, endeavoured to restore order in the assembly. Raymond
expressed himself delighted to see him, declaring that he should make
one in the festivity of the night.
This action of Adrian provoked me. I was indignant that he should sit
at the same table with the companions of Raymond—men of abandoned
characters, or rather without any, the refuse of high-bred luxury, the
disgrace of their country. “Let me entreat Adrian,” I cried, “not to
comply: rather join with me in endeavouring to withdraw Lord Raymond
from this scene, and restore him to other society.”
“My good fellow,” said Raymond, “this is neither the time nor place for
the delivery of a moral lecture: take my word for it that my amusements
and society are not so bad as you imagine. We are neither hypocrites or