The Last Man
endeavoured to hold communion with his distant pain. I remembered in
one of her harshest moments a quotation of mine had roused her to anger
and disdain. “Perdita,” I had said, “some day you will discover that
you have done wrong in again casting Raymond on the thorns of life.
When disappointment has sullied his beauty, when a soldier’s hardships
have bent his manly form, and loneliness made even triumph bitter to
him, then you will repent; and regret for the irreparable change
“will move
In hearts all rocky now, the late remorse of love.”[1]
The stinging “remorse of love” now pierced her heart. She accused
herself of his journey to Greece—his dangers—his imprisonment. She
pictured to herself the anguish of his solitude; she remembered with
what eager delight he had in former days made her the partner of his
joyful hopes— with what grateful affection he received her sympathy in
his cares. She called to mind how often he had declared that solitude
was to him the greatest of all evils, and how death itself was to him
more full of fear and pain when he pictured to himself a lonely grave.
“My best girl,” he had said, “relieves me from these phantasies. United
to her, cherished in her dear heart, never again shall I know the
misery of finding myself alone. Even if I die before you, my Perdita,
treasure up my ashes till yours may mingle with mine. It is a foolish
sentiment for one who is not a materialist, yet, methinks, even in that
dark cell, I may feel that my inanimate dust mingles with yours, and
thus have a companion in decay.” In her resentful mood, these
expressions had been remembered with acrimony and disdain; they visited
her in her softened hour, taking sleep from her eyes, all hope of rest
from her uneasy mind.
Two months passed thus, when at last we obtained a promise of Raymond’s
release. Confinement and hardship had undermined his health; the Turks
feared an accomplishment of the threats of the English government, if
he died under their hands; they looked upon his recovery as impossible;
they delivered him up as a dying man, willingly making over to us the
rites of burial.
He came by sea from Constantinople to Athens. The wind, favourable to
him, blew so strongly in shore, that we were unable, as we had at first
intended, to meet him on his watery road. The watchtower of Athens was
besieged by inquirers, each sail eagerly looked out for; till on the
first of May the gallant frigate bore in sight, freighted with treasure
more invaluable than the wealth which, piloted from Mexico, the vexed
Pacific swallowed, or that was conveyed over its tranquil bosom to
enrich the crown of Spain. At early dawn the vessel was discovered
bearing in shore; it was conjectured that it would cast anchor about
five miles from land. The news spread through Athens, and the whole
city poured out at the gate of the Piraeus, down the roads, through the
vineyards, the olive woods and plantations of fig-trees, towards the
harbour. The noisy joy of the populace, the gaudy colours of their
dress, the tumult of carriages and horses, the march of soldiers
intermixed, the waving of banners and sound of martial music added to
the high excitement of the scene; while round us reposed in solemn
majesty the relics of antient time. To our right the Acropolis rose
high, spectatress of a thousand changes, of ancient glory, Turkish
slavery, and the restoration of dear-bought liberty; tombs and
cenotaphs were strewed thick around, adorned by ever renewing
vegetation; the mighty dead hovered over their monuments, and beheld in
our enthusiasm and congregated numbers a renewal of the scenes in which
they had been the actors. Perdita and Clara rode in a close carriage; I
attended them on horseback. At length we arrived at the harbour; it was
agitated by the outward swell of the sea; the beach, as far could be
discerned, was covered by a moving multitude, which, urged by those
behind toward the sea, again rushed back as the heavy waves with sullen
roar burst close to them. I applied my glass, and could discern that
the frigate had already cast anchor, fearful of the danger of
approaching nearer to a lee shore: a boat was lowered; with a pang I
saw that Raymond was unable to descend the vessel’s side; he was let
down in a chair, and lay wrapt in cloaks at the bottom of the boat.
I dismounted, and called to some sailors who were rowing about the
harbour to pull up, and take me into their skiff; Perdita at the same
moment alighted from her carriage—she seized my arm—“Take me with you,”
she cried; she was trembling and pale; Clara clung to her—“You must
not,” I said, “the sea is rough—he will soon be here—do you not see his
boat?” The little bark to which I had beckoned had now pulled up;
before I could stop her, Perdita, assisted by the sailors was in
it—Clara followed her mother—a loud shout echoed from the crowd as we
pulled out of the inner harbour; while my sister at the prow, had
caught hold of one of the men who was using a glass, asking a thousand
questions, careless of the spray that broke over her, deaf, sightless
to all, except the little speck that, just visible on the top of the
waves, evidently neared. We approached with all the speed six rowers
could give; the orderly and picturesque dress of the soldiers on the
beach, the sounds of exulting music, the stirring breeze and waving
flags, the unchecked exclamations of the eager crowd, whose dark looks
and foreign garb were purely eastern; the sight of temple-crowned rock,
the white marble of the buildings glittering in the sun, and standing
in bright relief against the dark ridge of lofty mountains beyond; the
near roar of the sea, the splash of oars, and dash of spray, all
steeped my soul in a delirium, unfelt, unimagined in the common course
of common life. Trembling, I was unable to continue to look through the
glass with which I had watched the motion of the crew, when the
frigate’s boat had first been launched. We rapidly drew near, so that
at length the number and forms of those within could be discerned; its
dark sides grew big, and the splash of its oars became audible: I could
distinguish the languid form of my friend, as he half raised himself at
our approach.
Perdita’s questions had ceased; she leaned on my arm, panting with
emotions too acute for tears—our men pulled alongside the other boat.
As a last effort, my sister mustered her strength, her firmness; she
stepped from one boat to the other, and then with a shriek she sprang
towards Raymond, knelt at his side, and glueing her lips to the hand
she seized, her face shrouded by her long hair, gave herself up to
tears.
Raymond had somewhat raised himself at our approach, but it was with
difficulty that he exerted himself even thus much. With sunken cheek
and hollow eyes, pale and gaunt, how could I recognize the beloved of
Perdita? I continued awe-struck and mute—he looked smilingly on the
poor girl; the smile was his. A day of sun-shine falling on a dark
valley, displays its before hidden characteristics; and now this smile,
the same with which he first spoke love to Perdita, with which he had
welcomed the protectorate, playing on his altered countenance, made me
in my heart’s core feel that this was Raymond.
He stretched out to me his other hand; I discerned the trace of
manacles on his bared wrist. I heard my sister’s sobs, and thought,
happy are women who can weep, and in a passionate caress disburthen the
oppression of their feelings; shame and habitual restraint hold back a
man. I would have given worlds to have acted as in days of boyhood,
have strained him to my breast, pressed his hand to my lips, and wept
over him; my swelling heart choked me; the natural current would not be
checked; the big rebellious tears gathered in my eyes; I turned aside,
and they dropped in the sea—they came fast and faster;—yet I could
hardly be ashamed, for I saw that the rough sailors were not unmoved,
and Raymond’s eyes alone were dry from among our crew. He lay in that
blessed calm which convalescence always induces, enjoying in secure
tranquillity his liberty and re-union with her whom he adored. Perdita
at length subdued her burst of passion, and rose, —she looked round for
Clara; the child frightened, not recognizing her father, and neglected
by us, had crept to the other end of the boat; she came at her mother’s
call. Perdita presented her to Raymond; her first words were: “Beloved,
embrace our child!”
“Come hither, sweet one,” said her father, “do you not know me?” she
knew his voice, and cast herself in his arms with half bashful but
uncontrollable emotion.
Perceiving the weakness of Raymond, I was afraid of ill consequences
from the pressure of the crowd on his landing. But they were awed as I
had been, at the change of his appearance. The music died away, the
shouts abruptly ended; the soldiers had cleared a space in which a
carriage was drawn up. He was placed in it; Perdita and Clara entered
with him, and his escort closed round it; a hollow murmur, akin to the
roaring of the near waves, went through the multitude; they fell back
as the carriage advanced, and fearful of injuring him they had come to
welcome, by loud testimonies of joy, they satisfied themselves with
bending in a low salaam as the carriage passed; it went slowly along
the road of the Piraeus; passed by antique temple and heroic tomb,
beneath the craggy rock of the citadel. The sound of the waves was left
behind; that of the multitude continued at intervals, supressed and
hoarse; and though, in the city, the houses, churches, and public
buildings were decorated with tapestry and banners—though the soldiery
lined the streets, and the inhabitants in thousands were assembled to
give him hail, the same solemn silence prevailed, the soldiery
presented arms, the banners vailed, many a white hand waved a streamer,
and vainly sought to discern the hero in the vehicle, which, closed and
encompassed by the city guards, drew him to the palace allotted for his
abode.
Raymond was weak and exhausted, yet the interest he perceived to be
excited on his account, filled him with proud pleasure. He was nearly
killed with kindness. It is true, the populace retained themselves; but
there arose a perpetual hum and bustle from the throng round the
palace, which added to the noise of fireworks, the frequent explosion
of arms, the tramp to and fro of horsemen and carriages, to which
effervescence he was the focus, retarded his recovery. So we retired
awhile to Eleusis, and here rest and tender care added each day to the
strength of our invalid. The zealous attention of Perdita claimed the
first rank in the causes which induced his rapid recovery; but the
second was surely the delight he felt in the affection and good will of
the Greeks. We are said to love much those whom we greatly benefit.
Raymond had fought and conquered for the Athenians; he had suffered, on
their account, peril, imprisonment, and hardship; their gratitude
affected him deeply, and he inly vowed to unite his fate for ever to
that of a people so enthusiastically devoted to him.
Social feeling and sympathy constituted a marked feature in my
disposition. In early youth, the living drama acted around me, drew me
heart and soul into its vortex. I was now conscious of a change. I
loved, I hoped, I enjoyed; but there was something besides this. I was
inquisitive as to the internal principles of action of those around me:
anxious to read their thoughts justly, and for ever occupied in
divining their inmost mind. All events, at the same time that they
deeply interested me, arranged themselves in pictures before me. I gave
the right place to every personage in the groupe, the just balance to
every sentiment. This undercurrent of thought, often soothed me amidst