The Last Man
painful idea to the winds.
It had often occurred, that, when, as I said, Raymond quitted Perdita’s
drawing-room, Clara came up to me, and gently drawing me aside, said,
“Papa is gone; shall we go to him? I dare say he will be glad to see
you.” And, as accident permitted, I complied with or refused her
request. One evening a numerous assembly of Greek chieftains were
gathered together in the palace. The intriguing Palli, the accomplished
Karazza, the warlike Ypsilanti, were among the principal. They talked
of the events of the day; the skirmish at noon; the diminished numbers
of the Infidels; their defeat and flight: they contemplated, after a
short interval of time, the capture of the Golden City. They
endeavoured to picture forth what would then happen, and spoke in lofty
terms of the prosperity of Greece, when Constantinople should become
its capital. The conversation then reverted to Asiatic intelligence,
and the ravages the plague made in its chief cities; conjectures were
hazarded as to the progress that disease might have made in the
besieged city.
Raymond had joined in the former part of the discussion. In lively
terms he demonstrated the extremities to which Constantinople was
reduced; the wasted and haggard, though ferocious appearance of the
troops; famine and pestilence was at work for them, he observed, and
the infidels would soon be obliged to take refuge in their only
hope—submission. Suddenly in the midst of his harangue he broke off, as
if stung by some painful thought; he rose uneasily, and I perceived him
at length quit the hall, and through the long corridor seek the open
air. He did not return; and soon Clara crept round to me, making the
accustomed invitation. I consented to her request, and taking her
little hand, followed Raymond. We found him just about to embark in his
boat, and he readily agreed to receive us as companions. After the
heats of the day, the cooling land-breeze ruffled the river, and filled
our little sail. The city looked dark to the south, while numerous
lights along the near shores, and the beautiful aspect of the banks
reposing in placid night, the waters keenly reflecting the heavenly
lights, gave to this beauteous river a dower of loveliness that might
have characterized a retreat in Paradise. Our single boatman attended
to the sail; Raymond steered; Clara sat at his feet, clasping his knees
with her arms, and laying her head on them. Raymond began the
conversation somewhat abruptly.
“This, my friend, is probably the last time we shall have an
opportunity of conversing freely; my plans are now in full operation,
and my time will become more and more occupied. Besides, I wish at once
to tell you my wishes and expectations, and then never again to revert
to so painful a subject. First, I must thank you, Lionel, for having
remained here at my request. Vanity first prompted me to ask you:
vanity, I call it; yet even in this I see the hand of fate—your
presence will soon be necessary; you will become the last resource of
Perdita, her protector and consoler. You will take her back to
Windsor.”—
“Not without you,” I said. “You do not mean to separate again?”
“Do not deceive yourself,” replied Raymond, “the separation at hand is
one over which I have no control; most near at hand is it; the days are
already counted. May I trust you? For many days I have longed to
disclose the mysterious presentiments that weigh on me, although I fear
that you will ridicule them. Yet do not, my gentle friend; for, all
childish and unwise as they are, they have become a part of me, and I
dare not expect to shake them off.
“Yet how can I expect you to sympathize with me? You are of this world;
I am not. You hold forth your hand; it is even as a part of yourself;
and you do not yet divide the feeling of identity from the mortal form
that shapes forth Lionel. How then can you understand me? Earth is to
me a tomb, the firmament a vault, shrouding mere corruption. Time is no
more, for I have stepped within the threshold of eternity; each man I
meet appears a corse, which will soon be deserted of its animating
spark, on the eve of decay and corruption.
Cada piedra un piramide levanta,
y cada flor costruye un monumento,
cada edificio es un sepulcro altivo,
cada soldado un esqueleto vivo.”[3]
His accent was mournful,—he sighed deeply. “A few months ago,” he
continued, “I was thought to be dying; but life was strong within me.
My affections were human; hope and love were the day-stars of my life.
Now— they dream that the brows of the conqueror of the infidel faith
are about to be encircled by triumphant laurel; they talk of honourable
reward, of title, power, and wealth—all I ask of Greece is a grave. Let
them raise a mound above my lifeless body, which may stand even when
the dome of St. Sophia has fallen.
“Wherefore do I feel thus? At Rodosto I was full of hope; but when
first I saw Constantinople, that feeling, with every other joyful one,
departed. The last words of Evadne were the seal upon the warrant of my
death. Yet I do not pretend to account for my mood by any particular
event. All I can say is, that it is so. The plague I am told is in
Constantinople, perhaps I have imbibed its effluvia—perhaps disease is
the real cause of my prognostications. It matters little why or
wherefore I am affected, no power can avert the stroke, and the shadow
of Fate’s uplifted hand already darkens me.
“To you, Lionel, I entrust your sister and her child. Never mention to
her the fatal name of Evadne. She would doubly sorrow over the strange
link that enchains me to her, making my spirit obey her dying voice,
following her, as it is about to do, to the unknown country.”
I listened to him with wonder; but that his sad demeanour and solemn
utterance assured me of the truth and intensity of his feelings, I
should with light derision have attempted to dissipate his fears.
Whatever I was about to reply, was interrupted by the powerful emotions
of Clara. Raymond had spoken, thoughtless of her presence, and she,
poor child, heard with terror and faith the prophecy of his death. Her
father was moved by her violent grief; he took her in his arms and
soothed her, but his very soothings were solemn and fearful. “Weep not,
sweet child,” said he, “the coming death of one you have hardly known.
I may die, but in death I can never forget or desert my own Clara. In
after sorrow or joy, believe that you father’s spirit is near, to save
or sympathize with you. Be proud of me, and cherish your infant
remembrance of me. Thus, sweetest, I shall not appear to die. One thing
you must promise,—not to speak to any one but your uncle, of the
conversation you have just overheard. When I am gone, you will console
your mother, and tell her that death was only bitter because it divided
me from her; that my last thoughts will be spent on her. But while I
live, promise not to betray me; promise, my child.”
With faltering accents Clara promised, while she still clung to her
father in a transport of sorrow. Soon we returned to shore, and I
endeavoured to obviate the impression made on the child’s mind, by
treating Raymond’s fears lightly. We heard no more of them; for, as he
had said, the siege, now drawing to a conclusion, became paramount in
interest, engaging all his time and attention.
The empire of the Mahometans in Europe was at its close. The Greek
fleet blockading every port of Stamboul, prevented the arrival of
succour from Asia; all egress on the side towards land had become
impracticable, except to such desperate sallies, as reduced the numbers
of the enemy without making any impression on our lines. The garrison
was now so much diminished, that it was evident that the city could
easily have been carried by storm; but both humanity and policy
dictated a slower mode of proceeding. We could hardly doubt that, if
pursued to the utmost, its palaces, its temples and store of wealth
would be destroyed in the fury of contending triumph and defeat.
Already the defenceless citizens had suffered through the barbarity of
the Janisaries; and, in time of storm, tumult and massacre, beauty,
infancy and decrepitude, would have alike been sacrificed to the brutal
ferocity of the soldiers. Famine and blockade were certain means of
conquest; and on these we founded our hopes of victory.
Each day the soldiers of the garrison assaulted our advanced posts, and
impeded the accomplishment of our works. Fire-boats were launched from
the various ports, while our troops sometimes recoiled from the devoted
courage of men who did not seek to live, but to sell their lives
dearly. These contests were aggravated by the season: they took place
during summer, when the southern Asiatic wind came laden with
intolerable heat, when the streams were dried up in their shallow beds,
and the vast basin of the sea appeared to glow under the unmitigated
rays of the solsticial sun. Nor did night refresh the earth. Dew was
denied; herbage and flowers there were none; the very trees drooped;
and summer assumed the blighted appearance of winter, as it went forth
in silence and flame to abridge the means of sustenance to man. In vain
did the eye strive to find the wreck of some northern cloud in the
stainless empyrean, which might bring hope of change and moisture to
the oppressive and windless atmosphere. All was serene, burning,
annihilating. We the besiegers were in the comparison little affected
by these evils. The woods around afforded us shade,—the river secured
to us a constant supply of water; nay, detachments were employed in
furnishing the army with ice, which had been laid up on Haemus, and
Athos, and the mountains of Macedonia, while cooling fruits and
wholesome food renovated the strength of the labourers, and made us
bear with less impatience the weight of the unrefreshing air. But in
the city things wore a different face. The sun’s rays were refracted
from the pavement and buildings—the stoppage of the public
fountains—the bad quality of the food, and scarcity even of that,
produced a state of suffering, which was aggravated by the scourge of
disease; while the garrison arrogated every superfluity to themselves,
adding by waste and riot to the necessary evils of the time. Still they
would not capitulate.
Suddenly the system of warfare was changed. We experienced no more
assaults; and by night and day we continued our labours unimpeded.
Stranger still, when the troops advanced near the city, the walls were
vacant, and no cannon was pointed against the intruders. When these
circumstances were reported to Raymond, he caused minute observations
to be made as to what was doing within the walls, and when his scouts
returned, reporting only the continued silence and desolation of the
city, he commanded the army to be drawn out before the gates. No one
appeared on the walls; the very portals, though locked and barred,
seemed unguarded; above, the many domes and glittering crescents
pierced heaven; while the old walls, survivors of ages, with
ivy-crowned tower and weed-tangled buttress, stood as rocks in an
uninhabited waste. From within the city neither shout nor cry, nor
aught except the casual howling of a dog, broke the noon-day stillness.
Even our soldiers were awed to silence; the music paused; the clang of
arms was hushed. Each man asked his fellow in whispers, the meaning of
this sudden peace; while Raymond from an height endeavoured, by means
of glasses, to discover and observe the stratagem of the enemy. No form
could be discerned on the terraces of the houses; in the higher parts
of the town no moving shadow bespoke the presence of any living being:
the very trees waved not, and mocked the stability of architecture with
like immovability.
The tramp of horses, distinctly heard in the silence, was at length