The Last Man
spoke, yet was beautiful in every change. The usual expression of his
eyes was soft, though at times he could make them even glare with
ferocity; his complexion was colourless; and every trait spoke
predominate self-will; his smile was pleasing, though disdain too often
curled his lips—lips which to female eyes were the very throne of
beauty and love. His voice, usually gentle, often startled you by a
sharp discordant note, which shewed that his usual low tone was rather
the work of study than nature. Thus full of contradictions, unbending
yet haughty, gentle yet fierce, tender and again neglectful, he by some
strange art found easy entrance to the admiration and affection of
women; now caressing and now tyrannizing over them according to his
mood, but in every change a despot.
At the present time Raymond evidently wished to appear amiable. Wit,
hilarity, and deep observation were mingled in his talk, rendering
every sentence that he uttered as a flash of light. He soon conquered
my latent distaste; I endeavoured to watch him and Perdita, and to keep
in mind every thing I had heard to his disadvantage. But all appeared
so ingenuous, and all was so fascinating, that I forgot everything
except the pleasure his society afforded me. Under the idea of
initiating me in the scene of English politics and society, of which I
was soon to become a part, he narrated a number of anecdotes, and
sketched many characters; his discourse, rich and varied, flowed on,
pervading all my senses with pleasure. But for one thing he would have
been completely triumphant. He alluded to Adrian, and spoke of him with
that disparagement that the worldly wise always attach to enthusiasm.
He perceived the cloud gathering, and tried to dissipate it; but the
strength of my feelings would not permit me to pass thus lightly over
this sacred subject; so I said emphatically, “Permit me to remark, that
I am devotedly attached to the Earl of Windsor; he is my best friend
and benefactor. I reverence his goodness, I accord with his opinions,
and bitterly lament his present, and I trust temporary, illness. That
illness, from its peculiarity, makes it painful to me beyond words to
hear him mentioned, unless in terms of respect and affection.”
Raymond replied; but there was nothing conciliatory in his reply. I saw
that in his heart he despised those dedicated to any but worldly idols.
“Every man,” he said, “dreams about something, love, honour, and
pleasure; you dream of friendship, and devote yourself to a maniac;
well, if that be your vocation, doubtless you are in the right to
follow it.”—
Some reflection seemed to sting him, and the spasm of pain that for a
moment convulsed his countenance, checked my indignation. “Happy are
dreamers,” he continued, “so that they be not awakened! Would I could
dream! but ‘broad and garish day’ is the element in which I live; the
dazzling glare of reality inverts the scene for me. Even the ghost of
friendship has departed, and love”——He broke off; nor could I guess
whether the disdain that curled his lip was directed against the
passion, or against himself for being its slave.
This account may be taken as a sample of my intercourse with Lord
Raymond. I became intimate with him, and each day afforded me occasion
to admire more and more his powerful and versatile talents, that
together with his eloquence, which was graceful and witty, and his
wealth now immense, caused him to be feared, loved, and hated beyond
any other man in England.
My descent, which claimed interest, if not respect, my former
connection with Adrian, the favour of the ambassador, whose secretary I
had been, and now my intimacy with Lord Raymond, gave me easy access to
the fashionable and political circles of England. To my inexperience we
at first appeared on the eve of a civil war; each party was violent,
acrimonious, and unyielding. Parliament was divided by three factions,
aristocrats, democrats, and royalists. After Adrian’s declared
predeliction to the republican form of government, the latter party had
nearly died away, chiefless, guideless; but, when Lord Raymond came
forward as its leader, it revived with redoubled force. Some were
royalists from prejudice and ancient affection, and there were many
moderately inclined who feared alike the capricious tyranny of the
popular party, and the unbending despotism of the aristocrats. More
than a third of the members ranged themselves under Raymond, and their
number was perpetually encreasing. The aristocrats built their hopes on
their preponderant wealth and influence; the reformers on the force of
the nation itself; the debates were violent, more violent the
discourses held by each knot of politicians as they assembled to
arrange their measures. Opprobrious epithets were bandied about,
resistance even to the death threatened; meetings of the populace
disturbed the quiet order of the country; except in war, how could all
this end? Even as the destructive flames were ready to break forth, I
saw them shrink back; allayed by the absence of the military, by the
aversion entertained by every one to any violence, save that of speech,
and by the cordial politeness and even friendship of the hostile
leaders when they met in private society. I was from a thousand motives
induced to attend minutely to the course of events, and watch each turn
with intense anxiety.
I could not but perceive that Perdita loved Raymond; methought also
that he regarded the fair daughter of Verney with admiration and
tenderness. Yet I knew that he was urging forward his marriage with the
presumptive heiress of the Earldom of Windsor, with keen expectation of
the advantages that would thence accrue to him. All the ex-queen’s
friends were his friends; no week passed that he did not hold
consultations with her at Windsor.
I had never seen the sister of Adrian. I had heard that she was lovely,
amiable, and fascinating. Wherefore should I see her? There are times
when we have an indefinable sentiment of impending change for better or
for worse, to arise from an event; and, be it for better or for worse,
we fear the change, and shun the event. For this reason I avoided this
high-born damsel. To me she was everything and nothing; her very name
mentioned by another made me start and tremble; the endless discussion
concerning her union with Lord Raymond was real agony to me. Methought
that, Adrian withdrawn from active life, and this beauteous Idris, a
victim probably to her mother’s ambitious schemes, I ought to come
forward to protect her from undue influence, guard her from
unhappiness, and secure to her freedom of choice, the right of every
human being. Yet how was I to do this? She herself would disdain my
interference. Since then I must be an object of indifference or
contempt to her, better, far better avoid her, nor expose myself before
her and the scornful world to the chance of playing the mad game of a
fond, foolish Icarus. One day, several months after my return to
England, I quitted London to visit my sister. Her society was my chief
solace and delight; and my spirits always rose at the expectation of
seeing her. Her conversation was full of pointed remark and
discernment; in her pleasant alcove, redolent with sweetest flowers,
adorned by magnificent casts, antique vases, and copies of the finest
pictures of Raphael, Correggio, and Claude, painted by herself, I
fancied myself in a fairy retreat untainted by and inaccessible to the
noisy contentions of politicians and the frivolous pursuits of fashion.
On this occasion, my sister was not alone; nor could I fail to
recognise her companion: it was Idris, the till now unseen object of my
mad idolatry.
In what fitting terms of wonder and delight, in what choice expression
and soft flow of language, can I usher in the loveliest, wisest, best?
How in poor assemblage of words convey the halo of glory that
surrounded her, the thousand graces that waited unwearied on her. The
first thing that struck you on beholding that charming countenance was
its perfect goodness and frankness; candour sat upon her brow,
simplicity in her eyes, heavenly benignity in her smile. Her tall slim
figure bent gracefully as a poplar to the breezy west, and her gait,
goddess-like, was as that of a winged angel new alit from heaven’s high
floor; the pearly fairness of her complexion was stained by a pure
suffusion; her voice resembled the low, subdued tenor of a flute. It is
easiest perhaps to describe by contrast. I have detailed the
perfections of my sister; and yet she was utterly unlike Idris.
Perdita, even where she loved, was reserved and timid; Idris was frank
and confiding. The one recoiled to solitude, that she might there
entrench herself from disappointment and injury; the other walked forth
in open day, believing that none would harm her. Wordsworth has
compared a beloved female to two fair objects in nature; but his lines
always appeared to me rather a contrast than a similitude:
A violet by a mossy stone
Half hidden from the eye,
Fair as a star when only one
Is shining in the sky.
Such a violet was sweet Perdita, trembling to entrust herself to the
very air, cowering from observation, yet betrayed by her excellences;
and repaying with a thousand graces the labour of those who sought her
in her lonely bye-path. Idris was as the star, set in single splendour
in the dim anadem of balmy evening; ready to enlighten and delight the
subject world, shielded herself from every taint by her unimagined
distance from all that was not like herself akin to heaven.
I found this vision of beauty in Perdita’s alcove, in earnest
conversation with its inmate. When my sister saw me, she rose, and
taking my hand, said, “He is here, even at our wish; this is Lionel, my
brother.” Idris arose also, and bent on me her eyes of celestial blue,
and with grace peculiar said—“You hardly need an introduction; we have
a picture, highly valued by my father, which declares at once your
name. Verney, you will acknowledge this tie, and as my brother’s
friend, I feel that I may trust you.”
Then, with lids humid with a tear and trembling voice, she continued—
“Dear friends, do not think it strange that now, visiting you for the
first time, I ask your assistance, and confide my wishes and fears to
you. To you alone do I dare speak; I have heard you commended by
impartial spectators; you are my brother’s friends, therefore you must
be mine. What can I say? if you refuse to aid me, I am lost indeed!”
She cast up her eyes, while wonder held her auditors mute; then, as if
carried away by her feelings, she cried—“My brother! beloved, ill-fated
Adrian! how speak of your misfortunes? Doubtless you have both heard
the current tale; perhaps believe the slander; but he is not mad! Were
an angel from the foot of God’s throne to assert it, never, never would
I believe it. He is wronged, betrayed, imprisoned—save him! Verney, you
must do this; seek him out in whatever part of the island he is
immured; find him, rescue him from his persecutors, restore him to
himself, to me—on the wide earth I have none to love but only him!”
Her earnest appeal, so sweetly and passionately expressed, filled me
with wonder and sympathy; and, when she added, with thrilling voice and
look, “Do you consent to undertake this enterprize?” I vowed, with
energy and truth, to devote myself in life and death to the restoration
and welfare of Adrian. We then conversed on the plan I should pursue,
and discussed the probable means of discovering his residence. While we
were in earnest discourse, Lord Raymond entered unannounced: I saw
Perdita tremble and grow deadly pale, and the cheeks of Idris glow with
purest blushes. He must have been astonished at our conclave, disturbed