The Last Man
“Your remarks are like yourself, dear love,” replied I, “gentle and
good; let us cherish such a belief, and dismiss anxiety from our minds.
But, sweet, we are so formed, (and there is no sin, if God made our
nature, to yield to what he ordains), we are so formed, that we must
love life, and cling to it; we must love the living smile, the
sympathetic touch, and thrilling voice, peculiar to our mortal
mechanism. Let us not, through security in hereafter, neglect the
present. This present moment, short as it is, is a part of eternity,
and the dearest part, since it is our own unalienably. Thou, the hope
of my futurity, art my present joy. Let me then look on thy dear eyes,
and, reading love in them, drink intoxicating pleasure.”
Timidly, for my vehemence somewhat terrified her, Idris looked on me.
My eyes were bloodshot, starting from my head; every artery beat,
methought, audibly, every muscle throbbed, each single nerve felt. Her
look of wild affright told me, that I could no longer keep my
secret:—“So it is, mine own beloved,” I said, “the last hour of many
happy ones is arrived, nor can we shun any longer the inevitable
destiny. I cannot live long—but, again and again, I say, this moment is
ours!”
Paler than marble, with white lips and convulsed features, Idris became
aware of my situation. My arm, as I sat, encircled her waist. She felt
the palm burn with fever, even on the heart it pressed:—“One moment,”
she murmured, scarce audibly, “only one moment.”—
She kneeled, and hiding her face in her hands, uttered a brief, but
earnest prayer, that she might fulfil her duty, and watch over me to
the last. While there was hope, the agony had been unendurable;—all was
now concluded; her feelings became solemn and calm. Even as Epicharis,
unperturbed and firm, submitted to the instruments of torture, did
Idris, suppressing every sigh and sign of grief, enter upon the
endurance of torments, of which the rack and the wheel are but faint
and metaphysical symbols.
I was changed; the tight-drawn cord that sounded so harshly was
loosened, the moment that Idris participated in my knowledge of our
real situation. The perturbed and passion-tossed waves of thought
subsided, leaving only the heavy swell that kept right on without any
outward manifestation of its disturbance, till it should break on the
remote shore towards which I rapidly advanced:—“It is true that I am
sick,” I said, “and your society, my Idris is my only medicine; come,
and sit beside me.”
She made me lie down on the couch, and, drawing a low ottoman near, sat
close to my pillow, pressing my burning hands in her cold palms. She
yielded to my feverish restlessness, and let me talk, and talked to me,
on subjects strange indeed to beings, who thus looked the last, and
heard the last, of what they loved alone in the world. We talked of
times gone by; of the happy period of our early love; of Raymond,
Perdita, and Evadne. We talked of what might arise on this desert
earth, if, two or three being saved, it were slowly re-peopled.—We
talked of what was beyond the tomb; and, man in his human shape being
nearly extinct, we felt with certainty of faith, that other spirits,
other minds, other perceptive beings, sightless to us, must people with
thought and love this beauteous and imperishable universe.
We talked—I know not how long—but, in the morning I awoke from a
painful heavy slumber; the pale cheek of Idris rested on my pillow; the
large orbs of her eyes half raised the lids, and shewed the deep blue
lights beneath; her lips were unclosed, and the slight murmurs they
formed told that, even while asleep, she suffered. “If she were dead,”
I thought, “what difference? now that form is the temple of a residing
deity; those eyes are the windows of her soul; all grace, love, and
intelligence are throned on that lovely bosom—were she dead, where
would this mind, the dearer half of mine, be? For quickly the fair
proportion of this edifice would be more defaced, than are the
sand-choked ruins of the desert temples of Palmyra.”
CHAPTER III.
Idris stirred and awoke; alas! she awoke to misery. She saw the signs
of disease on my countenance, and wondered how she could permit the
long night to pass without her having sought, not cure, that was
impossible, but alleviation to my sufferings. She called Adrian; my
couch was quickly surrounded by friends and assistants, and such
medicines as were judged fitting were administered. It was the peculiar
and dreadful distinction of our visitation, that none who had been
attacked by the pestilence had recovered. The first symptom of the
disease was the death-warrant, which in no single instance had been
followed by pardon or reprieve. No gleam of hope therefore cheered my
friends.
While fever producing torpor, heavy pains, sitting like lead on my
limbs, and making my breast heave, were upon me; I continued insensible
to every thing but pain, and at last even to that. I awoke on the
fourth morning as from a dreamless sleep. An irritating sense of
thirst, and, when I strove to speak or move, an entire dereliction of
power, was all I felt.
For three days and nights Idris had not moved from my side. She
administered to all my wants, and never slept nor rested. She did not
hope; and therefore she neither endeavoured to read the physician’s
countenance, nor to watch for symptoms of recovery. All her thought was
to attend on me to the last, and then to lie down and die beside me. On
the third night animation was suspended; to the eye and touch of all I
was dead. With earnest prayer, almost with force, Adrian tried to draw
Idris from me. He exhausted every adjuration, her child’s welfare and
his own. She shook her head, and wiped a stealing tear from her sunk
cheek, but would not yield; she entreated to be allowed to watch me
that one night only, with such affliction and meek earnestness, that
she gained her point, and sat silent and motionless, except when, stung
by intolerable remembrance, she kissed my closed eyes and pallid lips,
and pressed my stiffening hands to her beating heart.
At dead of night, when, though it was mid winter, the cock crowed at
three o’clock, as herald of the morning change, while hanging over me,
and mourning in silent, bitter thought for the loss of all of love
towards her that had been enshrined in my heart; her dishevelled hair
hung over her face, and the long tresses fell on the bed; she saw one
ringlet in motion, and the scattered hair slightly stirred, as by a
breath. It is not so, she thought, for he will never breathe more.
Several times the same thing occurred, and she only marked it by the
same reflection; till the whole ringlet waved back, and she thought she
saw my breast heave. Her first emotion was deadly fear, cold dew stood
on her brow; my eyes half opened; and, re-assured, she would have
exclaimed, “He lives!” but the words were choked by a spasm, and she
fell with a groan on the floor.
Adrian was in the chamber. After long watching, he had unwillingly
fallen into a sleep. He started up, and beheld his sister senseless on
the earth, weltering in a stream of blood that gushed from her mouth.
Encreasing signs of life in me in some degree explained her state; the
surprise, the burst of joy, the revulsion of every sentiment, had been
too much for her frame, worn by long months of care, late shattered by
every species of woe and toil. She was now in far greater danger than
I, the wheels and springs of my life, once again set in motion,
acquired elasticity from their short suspension. For a long time, no
one believed that I should indeed continue to live; during the reign of
the plague upon earth, not one person, attacked by the grim disease,
had recovered. My restoration was looked on as a deception; every
moment it was expected that the evil symptoms would recur with
redoubled violence, until confirmed convalescence, absence of all fever
or pain, and encreasing strength, brought slow conviction that I had
recovered from the plague.
The restoration of Idris was more problematical. When I had been
attacked by illness, her cheeks were sunk, her form emaciated; but now,
the vessel, which had broken from the effects of extreme agitation, did
not entirely heal, but was as a channel that drop by drop drew from her
the ruddy stream that vivified her heart. Her hollow eyes and worn
countenance had a ghastly appearance; her cheek-bones, her open fair
brow, the projection of the mouth, stood fearfully prominent; you might
tell each bone in the thin anatomy of her frame. Her hand hung
powerless; each joint lay bare, so that the light penetrated through
and through. It was strange that life could exist in what was wasted
and worn into a very type of death.
To take her from these heart-breaking scenes, to lead her to forget the
world’s desolation in the variety of objects presented by travelling,
and to nurse her failing strength in the mild climate towards which we
had resolved to journey, was my last hope for her preservation. The
preparations for our departure, which had been suspended during my
illness, were renewed. I did not revive to doubtful convalescence;
health spent her treasures upon me; as the tree in spring may feel from
its wrinkled limbs the fresh green break forth, and the living sap rise
and circulate, so did the renewed vigour of my frame, the cheerful
current of my blood, the new-born elasticity of my limbs, influence my
mind to cheerful endurance and pleasurable thoughts. My body, late the
heavy weight that bound me to the tomb, was exuberant with health; mere
common exercises were insufficient for my reviving strength; methought
I could emulate the speed of the race-horse, discern through the air
objects at a blinding distance, hear the operations of nature in her
mute abodes; my senses had become so refined and susceptible after my
recovery from mortal disease.
Hope, among my other blessings, was not denied to me; and I did fondly
trust that my unwearied attentions would restore my adored girl. I was
therefore eager to forward our preparations. According to the plan
first laid down, we were to have quitted London on the twenty-fifth of
November; and, in pursuance of this scheme, two-thirds of our
people—_the_ people— all that remained of England, had gone forward,
and had already been some weeks in Paris. First my illness, and
subsequently that of Idris, had detained Adrian with his division,
which consisted of three hundred persons, so that we now departed on
the first of January, 2098. It was my wish to keep Idris as distant as
possible from the hurry and clamour of the crowd, and to hide from her
those appearances that would remind her most forcibly of our real
situation. We separated ourselves to a great degree from Adrian, who
was obliged to give his whole time to public business. The Countess of
Windsor travelled with her son. Clara, Evelyn, and a female who acted
as our attendant, were the only persons with whom we had contact. We
occupied a commodious carriage, our servant officiated as coachman. A
party of about twenty persons preceded us at a small distance. They had
it in charge to prepare our halting places and our nightly abode. They
had been selected for this service out of a great number that offered,
on account of the superior sagacity of the man who had been appointed
their leader.
Immediately on our departure, I was delighted to find a change in
Idris, which I fondly hoped prognosticated the happiest results. All
the cheerfulness and gentle gaiety natural to her revived. She was
weak, and this alteration was rather displayed in looks and voice than
in acts; but it was permanent and real. My recovery from the plague and
confirmed health instilled into her a firm belief that I was now secure