by Robert Reed
mighty a calamity as the loss of our adored infant made the current
of my blood pause with chilly horror; but the remembrance of the
mother restored my presence of mind . I sought the little bed of my
darling; he was oppressed by fever; but I trusted, I fondly and fear-
fully trusted, that there were no symptoms of the plague . He was not
three years old, and his illness appeared only one of those attacks
incident to infancy . I watched him long—his heavy half-closed lids,
his burning cheeks and restless twining of his small fingers—the
fever was violent, the torpor complete—enough, without the greater
fear of pestilence, to awaken alarm . Idris must not see him in this
state . Clara, though only twelve years old, was rendered, through
extreme sensibility, so prudent and careful, that I felt secure in en-
trusting the charge of him to her, and it was my task to prevent Idris
from observing their absence. I administered the fitting remedies,
and left my sweet niece to watch beside him, and bring me notice of
any change she should observe .
I then went to Idris, contriving in my way, plausible excuses for
remaining all day in the Castle, and endeavouring to disperse the
traces of care from my brow . Fortunately she was not alone . I found
Merrival, the astronomer, with her . He was far too long sighted in
his view of humanity to heed the casualties of the day, and lived
in the midst of contagion unconscious of its existence . This poor
man, learned as La Place, guileless and unforeseeing as a child, had
often been on the point of starvation, he, his pale wife and numer-
ous offspring, while he neither felt hunger, nor observed distress .
His astronomical theories absorbed him; calculations were scrawled
with coal on the bare walls of his garret: a hard-earned guinea, or
THE LAST MAN, by Mary Shelley | 1093
an article of dress, was exchanged for a book without remorse; he
neither heard his children cry, nor observed his companion’s ema-
ciated form, and the excess of calamity was merely to him as the
occurrence of a cloudy night, when he would have given his right
hand to observe a celestial phenomenon . His wife was one of those
wondrous beings, to be found only among women, with affections
not to be diminished by misfortune . Her mind was divided between
boundless admiration for her husband, and tender anxiety for her
children—she waited on him, worked for them, and never com-
plained, though care rendered her life one long-drawn, melancholy
dream .
He had introduced himself to Adrian, by a request he made to
observe some planetary motions from his glass . His poverty was
easily detected and relieved . He often thanked us for the books we
lent him, and for the use of our instruments, but never spoke of his
altered abode or change of circumstances . His wife assured us, that
he had not observed any difference, except in the absence of the
children from his study, and to her infinite surprise he complained
of this unaccustomed quiet .
He came now to announce to us the completion of his Essay on
the Pericyclical Motions of the Earth’s Axis, and the precession of
the equinoctial points . If an old Roman of the period of the Republic
had returned to life, and talked of the impending election of some
laurel-crowned consul, or of the last battle with Mithridates, his
ideas would not have been more alien to the times, than the conver-
sation of Merrival . Man, no longer with an appetite for sympathy,
clothed his thoughts in visible signs; nor were there any readers left:
while each one, having thrown away his sword with opposing shield
alone, awaited the plague, Merrival talked of the state of mankind
six thousand years hence . He might with equal interest to us, have
added a commentary, to describe the unknown and unimaginable
lineaments of the creatures, who would then occupy the vacated
dwelling of mankind . We had not the heart to undeceive the poor old
man; and at the moment I came in, he was reading parts of his book
to Idris, asking what answer could be given to this or that position .
THE LAST MAN, by Mary Shelley | 1094
Idris could not refrain from a smile, as she listened; she had al-
ready gathered from him that his family was alive and in health;
though not apt to forget the precipice of time on which she stood, yet
I could perceive that she was amused for a moment, by the contrast
between the contracted view we had so long taken of human life,
and the seven league strides with which Merrival paced a coming
eternity . I was glad to see her smile, because it assured me of her
total ignorance of her infant’s danger: but I shuddered to think of
the revulsion that would be occasioned by a discovery of the truth .
While Merrival was talking, Clara softly opened a door behind Id-
ris, and beckoned me to come with a gesture and look of grief . A
mirror betrayed the sign to Idris—she started up . To suspect evil,
to perceive that, Alfred being with us, the danger must regard her
youngest darling, to fly across the long chambers into his apartment,
was the work but of a moment . There she beheld her Evelyn lying
fever-stricken and motionless . I followed her, and strove to inspire
more hope than I could myself entertain; but she shook her head
mournfully . Anguish deprived her of presence of mind; she gave
up to me and Clara the physician’s and nurse’s parts; she sat by the
bed, holding one little burning hand, and, with glazed eyes fixed
on her babe, passed the long day in one unvaried agony . It was not
the plague that visited our little boy so roughly; but she could not
listen to my assurances; apprehension deprived her of judgment and
reflection; every slight convulsion of her child’s features shook her
frame —if he moved, she dreaded the instant crisis; if he remained
still, she saw death in his torpor, and the cloud on her brow darkened .
The poor little thing’s fever encreased towards night . The sensa-
tion is most dreary, to use no stronger term, with which one looks
forward to passing the long hours of night beside a sick bed, espe-
cially if the patient be an infant, who cannot explain its pain, and
whose flickering life resembles the wasting flame of the watch-light,
Whose narrow fire
Is shaken by the wind, and on whose edge
THE LAST MAN, by Mary Shelley | 1095
Devouring darkness hovers.14
With eagerness one turns toward the east, with angry impatience
one marks the unchequered darkness; the crowing of a cock, that
sound of glee during day-time, comes wailing and untuneable—the
creaking of rafters, and slight stir of invisible insect is heard and
felt as the signal and type of desolation . Clara, overcome by weari-
ness, had seated herself at the foot of her cousin’s bed, and in spite
of her efforts slumber weighed down her lids; twice or thrice she
shook it off; but at length she was conquered and slept . Idris sat
at the bedside, holding Evelyn’s hand; we were afraid to speak
to
each other; I watched the stars —I hung over my child—I felt his
little pulse—I drew near the mother—again I receded . At the turn
of morning a gentle sigh from the patient attracted me, the burning
spot on his cheek faded—his pulse beat softly and regularly—torpor
yielded to sleep . For a long time I dared not hope; but when his
unobstructed breathing and the moisture that suffused his forehead,
were tokens no longer to be mistaken of the departure of mortal
malady, I ventured to whisper the news of the change to Idris, and at
length succeeded in persuading her that I spoke truth .
But neither this assurance, nor the speedy convalescence of our
child could restore her, even to the portion of peace she before
enjoyed . Her fear had been too deep, too absorbing, too entire, to
be changed to security . She felt as if during her past calm she had
dreamed, but was now awake; she was
As one
In some lone watch-tower on the deep, awakened
From soothing visions of the home he loves,
Trembling to hear the wrathful billows roar;15
as one who has been cradled by a storm, and awakes to find the
vessel sinking . Before, she had been visited by pangs of fear—now,
she never enjoyed an interval of hope . No smile of the heart ever
14
The Cenci
15
The Brides’ Tragedy, by T . L . Beddoes, Esq .
THE LAST MAN, by Mary Shelley | 1096
irradiated her fair countenance; sometimes she forced one, and then
gushing tears would flow, and the sea of grief close above these
wrecks of past happiness . Still while I was near her, she could not be
in utter despair— she fully confided herself to me—she did not seem
to fear my death, or revert to its possibility; to my guardianship she
consigned the full freight of her anxieties, reposing on my love, as a
wind-nipped fawn by the side of a doe, as a wounded nestling under
its mother’s wing, as a tiny, shattered boat, quivering still, beneath
some protecting willow-tree . While I, not proudly as in days of joy,
yet tenderly, and with glad consciousness of the comfort I afforded,
drew my trembling girl close to my heart, and tried to ward every
painful thought or rough circumstance from her sensitive nature .
One other incident occurred at the end of this summer . The Count-
ess of Windsor, Ex-Queen of England, returned from Germany . She
had at the beginning of the season quitted the vacant city of Vienna;
and, unable to tame her haughty mind to anything like submission,
she had delayed at Hamburgh, and, when at last she came to London,
many weeks elapsed before she gave Adrian notice of her arrival .
In spite of her coldness and long absence, he welcomed her with
sensibility, displaying such affection as sought to heal the wounds of
pride and sorrow, and was repulsed only by her total apparent want
of sympathy . Idris heard of her mother’s return with pleasure . Her
own maternal feelings were so ardent, that she imagined her parent
must now, in this waste world, have lost pride and harshness, and
would receive with delight her filial attentions. The first check to
her duteous demonstrations was a formal intimation from the fallen
majesty of England, that I was in no manner to be intruded upon her .
She consented, she said, to forgive her daughter, and acknowledge
her grandchildren; larger concessions must not be expected .
To me this proceeding appeared (if so light a term may be per-
mitted) extremely whimsical . Now that the race of man had lost
in fact all distinction of rank, this pride was doubly fatuitous; now
that we felt a kindred, fraternal nature with all who bore the stamp
of humanity, this angry reminiscence of times for ever gone, was
worse than foolish . Idris was too much taken up by her own dreadful
THE LAST MAN, by Mary Shelley | 1097
fears, to be angry, hardly grieved; for she judged that insensibility
must be the source of this continued rancour . This was not altogether
the fact: but predominant self-will assumed the arms and masque of
callous feeling; and the haughty lady disdained to exhibit any token
of the struggle she endured; while the slave of pride, she fancied that
she sacrificed her happiness to immutable principle.
False was all this—false all but the affections of our nature, and
the links of sympathy with pleasure or pain . There was but one good
and one evil in the world—life and death . The pomp of rank, the as-
sumption of power, the possessions of wealth vanished like morning
mist . One living beggar had become of more worth than a national
peerage of dead lords— alas the day!—than of dead heroes, patriots,
or men of genius . There was much of degradation in this: for even
vice and virtue had lost their attributes—life—life—the continua-
tion of our animal mechanism— was the Alpha and Omega of the
desires, the prayers, the prostrate ambition of human race .
CHAPTER IX.
Half England was desolate, when October came, and the equi-
noctial winds swept over the earth, chilling the ardours of the un-
healthy season . The summer, which was uncommonly hot, had been
protracted into the beginning of this month, when on the eighteenth
a sudden change was brought about from summer temperature to
winter frost . Pestilence then made a pause in her death-dealing ca-
reer . Gasping, not daring to name our hopes, yet full even to the
brim with intense expectation, we stood, as a ship-wrecked sailor
stands on a barren rock islanded by the ocean, watching a distant
vessel, fancying that now it nears, and then again that it is bearing
from sight . This promise of a renewed lease of life turned rugged
natures to melting tenderness, and by contrast filled the soft with
harsh and unnatural sentiments . When it seemed destined that all
were to die, we were reckless of the how and when—now that the
virulence of the disease was mitigated, and it appeared willing to
spare some, each was eager to be among the elect, and clung to life
THE LAST MAN, by Mary Shelley | 1098
with dastard tenacity . Instances of desertion became more frequent;
and even murders, which made the hearer sick with horror, where
the fear of contagion had armed those nearest in blood against each
other . But these smaller and separate tragedies were about to yield to
a mightier interest—and, while we were promised calm from infec-
tious influences, a tempest arose wilder than the winds, a tempest
bred by the passions of man, nourished by his most violent impulses,
unexampled and dire .
A number of people from North America, the relics of that popu-
lous continent, had set sail for the East with mad desire of change,
leaving their native plains for lands not less afflicted than their own.
Several hundreds landed in Ireland, about the first of November, and
took possession of such vacant habitations as they could find; seiz-
ing upon the superabundant food, and the stray cattle . As they ex-
hausted the produce of one spot,
they went on to another . At length
they began to interfere with the inhabitants, and strong in their
concentrated numbers, ejected the natives from their dwellings, and
robbed them of their winter store . A few events of this kind roused
the fiery nature of the Irish; and they attacked the invaders. Some
were destroyed; the major part escaped by quick and well ordered
movements; and danger made them careful . Their numbers ably ar-
ranged; the very deaths among them concealed; moving on in good
order, and apparently given up to enjoyment, they excited the envy
of the Irish . The Americans permitted a few to join their band, and
presently the recruits outnumbered the strangers—nor did they join
with them, nor imitate the admirable order which, preserved by the
Trans-Atlantic chiefs, rendered them at once secure and formidable .
The Irish followed their track in disorganized multitudes; each day
encreasing; each day becoming more lawless . The Americans were
eager to escape from the spirit they had roused, and, reaching the
eastern shores of the island, embarked for England . Their incursion
would hardly have been felt had they come alone; but the Irish, col-
lected in unnatural numbers, began to feel the inroads of famine, and
they followed in the wake of the Americans for England also . The
crossing of the sea could not arrest their progress . The harbours of
THE LAST MAN, by Mary Shelley | 1099
the desolate sea-ports of the west of Ireland were filled with vessels
of all sizes, from the man of war to the small fishers’ boat, which lay
sailorless, and rotting on the lazy deep . The emigrants embarked by
hundreds, and unfurling their sails with rude hands, made strange
havoc of buoy and cordage . Those who modestly betook themselves
to the smaller craft, for the most part achieved their watery journey
in safety . Some, in the true spirit of reckless enterprise, went on
board a ship of an hundred and twenty guns; the vast hull drifted
with the tide out of the bay, and after many hours its crew of lands-
men contrived to spread a great part of her enormous canvass—the
wind took it, and while a thousand mistakes of the helmsman made
her present her head now to one point, and now to another, the vast
fields of canvass that formed her sails flapped with a sound like that
of a huge cataract; or such as a sea-like forest may give forth when