by Robert Reed
even now that Evadne’s visitor was Lord Raymond . Perdita dreaded
a fall from his horse, or some similar accident—till the woman’s
answers woke other fears . From a feeling of cunning blindly ex-
ercised, the officious, if not malignant messenger, did not speak of
Evadne’s illness; but she garrulously gave an account of Raymond’s
frequent visits, adding to her narration such circumstances, as, while
they convinced Perdita of its truth, exaggerated the unkindness and
perfidy of Raymond. Worst of all, his absence now from the festival,
his message wholly unaccounted for, except by the disgraceful hints
of the woman, appeared the deadliest insult . Again she looked at the
ring, it was a small ruby, almost heart-shaped, which she had her-
self given him . She looked at the hand-writing, which she could not
mistake, and repeated to herself the words—“Do not, I charge you, I
entreat you, permit your guests to wonder at my absence:” the while
the old crone going on with her talk, filled her ear with a strange
medley of truth and falsehood . At length Perdita dismissed her .
The poor girl returned to the assembly, where her presence had
not been missed . She glided into a recess somewhat obscured, and
leaning against an ornamental column there placed, tried to recover
herself. Her faculties were palsied. She gazed on some flowers that
stood near in a carved vase: that morning she had arranged them,
they were rare and lovely plants; even now all aghast as she was,
she observed their brilliant colours and starry shapes .—“Divine
infoliations of the spirit of beauty,” she exclaimed, “Ye droop not,
neither do ye mourn; the despair that clasps my heart, has not spread
contagion over you!—Why am I not a partner of your insensibility,
a sharer in your calm!”
She paused . “To my task,” she continued mentally, “my guests
must not perceive the reality, either as it regards him or me . I obey;
they shall not, though I die the moment they are gone . They shall be-
hold the antipodes of what is real—for I will appear to live—while
I am—dead .” It required all her self-command, to suppress the gush
of tears self-pity caused at this idea . After many struggles, she suc-
ceeded, and turned to join the company .
THE LAST MAN, by Mary Shelley | 944
All her efforts were now directed to the dissembling her internal
conflict. She had to play the part of a courteous hostess; to attend to
all; to shine the focus of enjoyment and grace . She had to do this,
while in deep woe she sighed for loneliness, and would gladly have
exchanged her crowded rooms for dark forest depths, or a drear,
night-enshadowed heath . But she became gay . She could not keep
in the medium, nor be, as was usual with her, placidly content . Ev-
ery one remarked her exhilaration of spirits; as all actions appear
graceful in the eye of rank, her guests surrounded her applaudingly,
although there was a sharpness in her laugh, and an abruptness in
her sallies, which might have betrayed her secret to an attentive ob-
server . She went on, feeling that, if she had paused for a moment,
the checked waters of misery would have deluged her soul, that
her wrecked hopes would raise their wailing voices, and that those
who now echoed her mirth, and provoked her repartees, would have
shrunk in fear from her convulsive despair . Her only consolation
during the violence which she did herself, was to watch the motions
of an illuminated clock, and internally count the moments which
must elapse before she could be alone .
At length the rooms began to thin . Mocking her own desires,
she rallied her guests on their early departure . One by one they left
her—at length she pressed the hand of her last visitor . “How cold
and damp your hand is,” said her friend; “you are over fatigued,
pray hasten to rest .” Perdita smiled faintly—her guest left her; the
carriage rolling down the street assured the final departure. Then, as
if pursued by an enemy, as if wings had been at her feet, she flew
to her own apartment, she dismissed her attendants, she locked the
doors, she threw herself wildly on the floor, she bit her lips even
to blood to suppress her shrieks, and lay long a prey to the vulture
of despair, striving not to think, while multitudinous ideas made a
home of her heart; and ideas, horrid as furies, cruel as vipers, and
poured in with such swift succession, that they seemed to jostle and
wound each other, while they worked her up to madness .
At length she rose, more composed, not less miserable . She stood
before a large mirror—she gazed on her reflected image; her light
THE LAST MAN, by Mary Shelley | 945
and graceful dress, the jewels that studded her hair, and encircled her
beauteous arms and neck, her small feet shod in satin, her profuse
and glossy tresses, all were to her clouded brow and woe-begone
countenance like a gorgeous frame to a dark tempest-pourtraying
picture . “Vase am I,” she thought, “vase brimful of despair’s dir-
est essence . Farewell, Perdita! farewell, poor girl! never again will
you see yourself thus; luxury and wealth are no longer yours; in the
excess of your poverty you may envy the homeless beggar; most
truly am I without a home! I live on a barren desart, which, wide
and interminable, brings forth neither fruit or flower; in the midst is
a solitary rock, to which thou, Perdita, art chained, and thou seest
the dreary level stretch far away .”
She threw open her window, which looked on the palace-garden .
Light and darkness were struggling together, and the orient was
streaked by roseate and golden rays . One star only trembled in the
depth of the kindling atmosphere . The morning air blowing freshly
over the dewy plants, rushed into the heated room . “All things go
on,” thought Perdita, “all things proceed, decay, and perish! When
noontide has passed, and the weary day has driven her team to their
western stalls, the fires of heaven rise from the East, moving in their
accustomed path, they ascend and descend the skiey hill . When
their course is fulfilled, the dial begins to cast westward an uncer-
tain shadow; the eye-lids of day are opened, and birds and flowers,
the startled vegetation, and fresh breeze awaken; the sun at length
appears, and in majestic procession climbs the capitol of heaven .
All proceeds, changes and dies, except the sense of misery in my
bursting heart .
“Ay, all proceeds and changes: what wonder then, that love has
journied on to its setting, and that the lord of my life has changed?
We call the supernal lights fixed, yet they wander about yonder plain,
and if I look again where I looked an hour ago, the face of the eternal
heavens is altered . The silly moon and inconstant planets vary night-
ly their erratic dance; the sun itself, sovereign of the sky, ever and
anon deserts his throne, and leaves his dominion to night and winter .
Nature grows old, and shakes in her decaying limbs,—creation has
THE LAST MAN, by Mary Shelley | 946
become bankrupt! What wonder then, that eclipse and death have
led to destruction the light of thy life, O Perdita!”
CHAPTER IX.
THUS sad and disarranged were the thoughts of my poor sis-
ter, when she became assured of the infidelity of Raymond. All her
virtues and all her defects tended to make the blow incurable . Her
affection for me, her brother, for Adrian and Idris, was subject as it
were to the reigning passion of her heart; even her maternal tender-
ness borrowed half its force from the delight she had in tracing Ray-
mond’s features and expression in the infant’s countenance . She had
been reserved and even stern in childhood; but love had softened the
asperities of her character, and her union with Raymond had caused
her talents and affections to unfold themselves; the one betrayed,
and the other lost, she in some degree returned to her ancient dis-
position . The concentrated pride of her nature, forgotten during her
blissful dream, awoke, and with its adder’s sting pierced her heart;
her humility of spirit augmented the power of the venom; she had
been exalted in her own estimation, while distinguished by his love:
of what worth was she, now that he thrust her from this preferment?
She had been proud of having won and preserved him—but another
had won him from her, and her exultation was as cold as a water
quenched ember .
We, in our retirement, remained long in ignorance of her misfor-
tune . Soon after the festival she had sent for her child, and then she
seemed to have forgotten us . Adrian observed a change during a visit
that he afterward paid them; but he could not tell its extent, or divine
the cause . They still appeared in public together, and lived under
the same roof . Raymond was as usual courteous, though there was,
on occasions, an unbidden haughtiness, or painful abruptness in his
manners, which startled his gentle friend; his brow was not clouded
but disdain sat on his lips, and his voice was harsh . Perdita was all
kindness and attention to her lord; but she was silent, and beyond
words sad. She had grown thin and pale; and her eyes often filled
THE LAST MAN, by Mary Shelley | 947
with tears . Sometimes she looked at Raymond, as if to say—That it
should be so! At others her countenance expressed—I will still do
all I can to make you happy . But Adrian read with uncertain aim the
charactery of her face, and might mistake .—Clara was always with
her, and she seemed most at ease, when, in an obscure corner, she
could sit holding her child’s hand, silent and lonely . Still Adrian was
unable to guess the truth; he entreated them to visit us at Windsor,
and they promised to come during the following month .
It was May before they arrived: the season had decked the forest
trees with leaves, and its paths with a thousand flowers. We had
notice of their intention the day before; and, early in the morning,
Perdita arrived with her daughter . Raymond would follow soon, she
said; he had been detained by business . According to Adrian’s ac-
count, I had expected to find her sad; but, on the contrary, she ap-
peared in the highest spirits: true, she had grown thin, her eyes were
somewhat hollow, and her cheeks sunk, though tinged by a bright
glow . She was delighted to see us; caressed our children, praised
their growth and improvement; Clara also was pleased to meet again
her young friend Alfred; all kinds of childish games were entered
into, in which Perdita joined . She communicated her gaiety to us,
and as we amused ourselves on the Castle Terrace, it appeared that a
happier, less care-worn party could not have been assembled . “This
is better, Mamma,” said Clara, “than being in that dismal London,
where you often cry, and never laugh as you do now .”—“Silence,
little foolish thing,” replied her mother, “and remember any one that
mentions London is sent to Coventry for an hour .”
Soon after, Raymond arrived . He did not join as usual in the play-
ful spirit of the rest; but, entering into conversation with Adrian and
myself, by degrees we seceded from our companions, and Idris and
Perdita only remained with the children . Raymond talked of his new
buildings; of his plan for an establishment for the better education of
the poor; as usual Adrian and he entered into argument, and the time
slipped away unperceived .
We assembled again towards evening, and Perdita insisted on
our having recourse to music . She wanted, she said, to give us a
THE LAST MAN, by Mary Shelley | 948
specimen of her new accomplishment; for since she had been in
London, she had applied herself to music, and sang, without much
power, but with a great deal of sweetness . We were not permitted
by her to select any but light-hearted melodies; and all the Operas
of Mozart were called into service, that we might choose the most
exhilarating of his airs . Among the other transcendant attributes of
Mozart’s music, it possesses more than any other that of appearing
to come from the heart; you enter into the passions expressed by
him, and are transported with grief, joy, anger, or confusion, as he,
our soul’s master, chooses to inspire . For some time, the spirit of
hilarity was kept up; but, at length, Perdita receded from the piano,
for Raymond had joined in the trio of “Taci ingiusto core,” in Don
Giovanni, whose arch entreaty was softened by him into tenderness,
and thrilled her heart with memories of the changed past; it was the
same voice, the same tone, the self-same sounds and words, which
often before she had received, as the homage of love to her—no
longer was it that; and this concord of sound with its dissonance of
expression penetrated her with regret and despair . Soon after Idris,
who was at the harp, turned to that passionate and sorrowful air in
Figaro, “Porgi, amor, qualche risforo,” in which the deserted Count-
ess laments the change of the faithless Almaviva . The soul of tender
sorrow is breathed forth in this strain; and the sweet voice of Idris,
sustained by the mournful chords of her instrument, added to the
expression of the words . During the pathetic appeal with which it
concludes, a stifled sob attracted our attention to Perdita, the ces-
sation of the music recalled her to herself, she hastened out of the
hall—I followed her. At first, she seemed to wish to shun me; and
then, yielding to my earnest questioning, she threw herself on my
neck, and wept aloud:—“Once more,” she cried, “once more on
your friendly breast, my beloved brother, can the lost Perdita pour
forth her sorrows . I had imposed a law of silence on myself; and
for months I have kept it . I do wrong in weeping now, and greater
wrong in giving words to my grief . I will not speak! Be it enough
for you to know that I am miserable—be it enough for you to know,
that the painted veil of life is rent, that I sit for ever shrouded in
THE LAST MAN, by Mary Shelley | 949
my mate!”
I endeavoured to console her; I did not question her! but I caressed
her, assured her of my deepest affection and my intense interest in
the changes of her fortune:—“Dear words,” she cried, “expressions
of love come upon my ear, like the remembered sounds of forgot-
ten music, that had been dear to me . They are vain, I know; how
very vain in their attempt to soothe or comfort me . Dearest Lionel,
you cannot guess what I have suffered during these long months . I
have read of mourners in ancient days, who clothed themselves in
sackcloth, scattered dust upon their heads, ate their bread mingled
with ashes, and took up their abode on the bleak mountain tops, re-
proaching heaven and earth aloud with their misfortunes . Why this
is the very luxury of sorrow! thus one might go on from day to day
contriving new extravagances, revelling in the paraphernalia of woe,
wedded to all the appurtenances of despair . Alas! I must for ever
conceal the wretchedness that consumes me . I must weave a veil of
dazzling falsehood to hide my grief from vulgar eyes, smoothe my
brow, and paint my lips in deceitful smiles—even in solitude I dare
not think how lost I am, lest I become insane and rave .”
The tears and agitation of my poor sister had rendered her unfit
to return to the circle we had left—so I persuaded her to let me
drive her through the park; and, during the ride, I induced her to
confide the tale of her unhappiness to me, fancying that talking of it
would lighten the burthen, and certain that, if there were a remedy,
it should be found and secured to her .
Several weeks had elapsed since the festival of the anniversary,
and she had been unable to calm her mind, or to subdue her thoughts
to any regular train . Sometimes she reproached herself for taking
too bitterly to heart, that which many would esteem an imaginary
evil; but this was no subject for reason; and, ignorant as she was
of the motives and true conduct of Raymond, things assumed for
her even a worse appearance, than the reality warranted . He was
seldom at the palace; never, but when he was assured that his public
duties would prevent his remaining alone with Perdita . They seldom
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