by Robert Reed
died; and he was left destitute . He accepted the offer of a gentleman
to go to India with him, feeling secure that he should soon acquire
an independence, and return to claim the hand of his beloved . He
became involved in the war carried on there, was taken prisoner,
and years elapsed before tidings of his existence were received in
his native land . In the meantime disastrous poverty came on Lucy .
Her little cottage, which stood looking from its trellice, covered
with woodbine and jessamine, was burnt down; and the whole of
their little property was included in the destruction . Whither betake
them? By what exertion of industry could Lucy procure them another
abode? Her mother nearly bed-rid, could not survive any extreme of
famine-struck poverty . At this time her other admirer stept forward,
and renewed his offer of marriage . He had saved money, and was
going to set up a little inn at Datchet . There was nothing alluring to
Lucy in this offer, except the home it secured to her mother; and she
felt more sure of this, since she was struck by the apparent generos-
ity which occasioned the present offer. She accepted it; thus sacrific-
ing herself for the comfort and welfare of her parent .
It was some years after her marriage that we became acquainted
with her . The accident of a storm caused us to take refuge in the
inn, where we witnessed the brutal and quarrelsome behaviour of
her husband, and her patient endurance . Her lot was not a fortunate
one. Her first lover had returned with the hope of making her his
own, and met her by accident, for the first time, as the mistress of
his country inn, and the wife of another . He withdrew despairingly
to foreign parts; nothing went well with him; at last he enlisted,
and came back again wounded and sick, and yet Lucy was debarred
from nursing him . Her husband’s brutal disposition was aggravated
by his yielding to the many temptations held out by his situation,
and the consequent disarrangement of his affairs . Fortunately she
had no children; but her heart was bound up in her brothers and
sisters, and these his avarice and ill temper soon drove from the
house; they were dispersed about the country, earning their liveli-
hood with toil and care . He even shewed an inclination to get rid of
THE LAST MAN, by Mary Shelley | 1150
her mother—but Lucy was firm here—she had sacrificed herself for
her; she lived for her —she would not part with her—if the mother
went, she would also go beg bread for her, die with her, but never
desert her . The presence of Lucy was too necessary in keeping up
the order of the house, and in preventing the whole establishment
from going to wreck, for him to permit her to leave him . He yielded
the point; but in all accesses of anger, or in his drunken fits, he re-
curred to the old topic, and stung poor Lucy’s heart by opprobrious
epithets bestowed on her parent .
A passion however, if it be wholly pure, entire, and reciprocal,
brings with it its own solace . Lucy was truly, and from the depth of
heart, devoted to her mother; the sole end she proposed to herself
in life, was the comfort and preservation of this parent . Though she
grieved for the result, yet she did not repent of her marriage, even
when her lover returned to bestow competence on her . Three years
had intervened, and how, in their pennyless state, could her mother
have existed during this time? This excellent woman was worthy
of her child’s devotion. A perfect confidence and friendship existed
between them; besides, she was by no means illiterate; and Lucy,
whose mind had been in some degree cultivated by her former lover,
now found in her the only person who could understand and appre-
ciate her . Thus, though suffering, she was by no means desolate, and
when, during fine summer days, she led her mother into the flowery
and shady lanes near their abode, a gleam of unmixed joy enlight-
ened her countenance; she saw that her parent was happy, and she
knew that this happiness was of her sole creating .
Meanwhile her husband’s affairs grew more and more involved;
ruin was near at hand, and she was about to lose the fruit of all her
labours, when pestilence came to change the aspect of the world .
Her husband reaped benefit from the universal misery; but, as the
disaster encreased, the spirit of lawlessness seized him; he deserted
his home to revel in the luxuries promised him in London, and found
there a grave. Her former lover had been one of the first victims of
the disease . But Lucy continued to live for and in her mother . Her
courage only failed when she dreaded peril for her parent, or feared
THE LAST MAN, by Mary Shelley | 1151
that death might prevent her from performing those duties to which
she was unalterably devoted .
When we had quitted Windsor for London, as the previous step
to our final emigration, we visited Lucy, and arranged with her the
plan of her own and her mother’s removal . Lucy was sorry at the
necessity which forced her to quit her native lanes and village, and
to drag an infirm parent from her comforts at home, to the home-
less waste of depopulate earth; but she was too well disciplined by
adversity, and of too sweet a temper, to indulge in repinings at what
was inevitable .
Subsequent circumstances, my illness and that of Idris, drove her
from our remembrance; and we called her to mind at last, only to
conclude that she made one of the few who came from Windsor to
join the emigrants, and that she was already in Paris . When we ar-
rived at Rochester therefore, we were surprised to receive, by a man
just come from Slough, a letter from this exemplary sufferer . His
account was, that, journeying from his home, and passing through
Datchet, he was surprised to see smoke issue from the chimney of
the inn, and supposing that he should find comrades for his journey
assembled there, he knocked and was admitted . There was no one
in the house but Lucy, and her mother; the latter had been deprived
of the use of her limbs by an attack of rheumatism, and so, one by
one, all the remaining inhabitants of the country set forward, leaving
them alone . Lucy intreated the man to stay with her; in a week or
two her mother would be better, and they would then set out; but
they must perish, if they were left thus helpless and forlorn . The man
said, that his wife and children were already among the emigrants,
and it was therefore, according to his notion, impossible for him to
remain . Lucy, as a last resource, gave him a letter for Idris, to be de-
livered to her wherever he should meet us . This commission at least
he fulfilled, and Idris received with emotion the following letter:—
“HONOURED LADY,
“I am sure that you will remember and pity me, and I dare
hope that you will assist me; what other hope have I? Pardon
THE LAST MAN, by Mary Shelley | 1152
my manner of writing, I am so bewildered . A month ago my
dear mother was deprived of the use of her limbs . She is
already better, and in another month would I am sure be able
to travel, in the way you were so kind as to say you would
arrange for us . But now everybody is gone—everybody—as
they went away, each said, that perhaps my mother would
be better, before we were quite deserted . But three days ago
I went to Samuel Woods, who, on account of his new-born
child, remained to the last; and there being a large family of
them, I thought I could persuade them to wait a little longer
for us; but I found the house deserted . I have not seen a soul
since, till this good man came . —What will become of us?
My mother does not know our state; she is so ill, that I have
hidden it from her .
“Will you not send some one to us? I am sure we must
perish miserably as we are . If I were to try to move my
mother now, she would die on the road; and if, when she
gets better, I were able, I cannot guess how, to find out the
roads, and get on so many many miles to the sea, you would
all be in France, and the great ocean would be between us,
which is so terrible even to sailors . What would it be to me,
a woman, who never saw it? We should be imprisoned by it
in this country, all, all alone, with no help; better die where
we are . I can hardly write—I cannot stop my tears—it is not
for myself; I could put my trust in God; and let the worst
come, I think I could bear it, if I were alone . But my mother,
my sick, my dear, dear mother, who never, since I was born,
spoke a harsh word to me, who has been patient in many
sufferings; pity her, dear Lady, she must die a miserable
death if you do not pity her . People speak carelessly of her,
because she is old and infirm, as if we must not all, if we
are spared, become so; and then, when the young are old
themselves, they will think that they ought to be taken care
of . It is very silly of me to write in this way to you; but, when
I hear her trying not to groan, and see her look smiling on
THE LAST MAN, by Mary Shelley | 1153
me to comfort me, when I know she is in pain; and when I
think that she does not know the worst, but she soon must;
and then she will not complain; but I shall sit guessing at
all that she is dwelling upon, of famine and misery—I feel
as if my heart must break, and I do not know what I say or
do; my mother—mother for whom I have borne much, God
preserve you from this fate! Preserve her, Lady, and He will
bless you; and I, poor miserable creature as I am, will thank
you and pray for you while I live .
“Your unhappy and dutiful servant,
“LUCY MARTIN .
“Dec . 30th, 2097 .”
This letter deeply affected Idris, and she instantly proposed, that
we should return to Datchet, to assist Lucy and her mother . I said
that I would without delay set out for that place, but entreated her to
join her brother, and there await my return with the children . But Id-
ris was in high spirits, and full of hope . She declared that she could
not consent even to a temporary separation from me, but that there
was no need of this, the motion of the carriage did her good, and the
distance was too trifling to be considered. We could dispatch mes-
sengers to Adrian, to inform him of our deviation from the original
plan . She spoke with vivacity, and drew a picture after her own dear
heart, of the pleasure we should bestow upon Lucy, and declared,
if I went, she must accompany me, and that she should very much
dislike to entrust the charge of rescuing them to others, who might
fulfil it with coldness or inhumanity. Lucy’s life had been one act of
devotion and virtue; let her now reap the small reward of finding her
excellence appreciated, and her necessity assisted, by those whom
she respected and honoured .
These, and many other arguments, were urged with gentle per-
tinacity, and the ardour of a wish to do all the good in her power,
by her whose simple expression of a desire and slightest request
had ever been a law with me . I, of course, consented, the moment
that I saw that she had set her heart upon this step . We sent half our
THE LAST MAN, by Mary Shelley | 1154
attendant troop on to Adrian; and with the other half our carriage
took a retrograde course back to Windsor .
I wonder now how I could be so blind and senseless, as thus
to risk the safety of Idris; for, if I had eyes, surely I could see the
sure, though deceitful, advance of death in her burning cheek and
encreasing weakness . But she said she was better; and I believed
her . Extinction could not be near a being, whose vivacity and intel-
ligence hourly encreased, and whose frame was endowed with an
intense, and I fondly thought, a strong and permanent spirit of life .
Who, after a great disaster, has not looked back with wonder at his
inconceivable obtuseness of understanding, that could not perceive
the many minute threads with which fate weaves the inextricable net
of our destinies, until he is inmeshed completely in it?
The cross roads which we now entered upon, were even in a
worse state than the long neglected high-ways; and the inconve-
nience seemed to menace the perishing frame of Idris with destruc-
tion . Passing through Dartford, we arrived at Hampton on the sec-
ond day . Even in this short interval my beloved companion grew
sensibly worse in health, though her spirits were still light, and she
cheered my growing anxiety with gay sallies; sometimes the thought
pierced my brain—Is she dying?—as I saw her fair fleshless hand
rest on mine, or observed the feebleness with which she performed
the accustomed acts of life . I drove away the idea, as if it had been
suggested by insanity; but it occurred again and again, only to be
dispelled by the continued liveliness of her manner .
About mid-day, after quitting Hampton, our carriage broke down:
the shock caused Idris to faint, but on her reviving no other ill conse-
quence ensued; our party of attendants had as usual gone on before
us, and our coachman went in search of another vehicle, our former
one being rendered by this accident unfit for service. The only place
near us was a poor village, in which he found a kind of caravan,
able to hold four people, but it was clumsy and ill hung; besides this
he found a very excellent cabriolet: our plan was soon arranged; I
would drive Idris in the latter; while the children were conveyed by
the servant in the former . But these arrangements cost time; we had
THE LAST MAN, by Mary Shelley | 1155
agreed to proceed that night to Windsor, and thither our purveyors
had gone: we should find considerable difficulty in getting accom-
modation, before we reached this place; after all, the distance was
only ten miles; my horse was a good one; I would go forward at a
good pace with Idris, leaving the children to follow at a rate more
consonant to the uses of their cumberous machine .
Evening closed in quickly, far more quickly than I was prepared
to expect . At the going down of the sun it began to snow heavily . I
attempted in vain to defend my beloved companion from the storm;
the wind drove the snow in our faces; and it lay so high on the
ground, that we made but small way; while the night was so dark,
that but for the white covering on the ground we should not have
been able to see a yard before us . We had left our accompanying
caravan far behind us; and now I perceived that the storm had made
me unconsciously deviate from my intended route . I had gone some
miles out of my way . My knowledge of the country enabled me to
regain the right road; but, instead of going, as at first agreed upon,
by a cross road through Stanwell to Datchet, I was obliged to take
the way of Egham and Bishopgate . It was certain therefore that I
should not be rejoined by the other vehicle, that I should not meet a
single fellow-creature till we arrived at Windsor .
The back of our carriage was drawn up, and I hung a pelisse
before it, thus to curtain the beloved sufferer from the pelting sleet .
She leaned on my shoulder, growing every moment more languid
and feeble; at first she replied to my words of cheer with affectionate
thanks; but by degrees she sunk into silence; her head lay heavily
upon me; I only knew that she lived by her irregular breathing and
frequent sighs . For a moment I resolved to stop, and, opposing the
back of the cabriolet to the force of the tempest, to expect morning
as well as I might . But the wind was bleak and piercing, while the
occasional shudderings of my poor Idris, and the intense cold I felt
myself, demonstrated that this would be a dangerous experiment .
At length methought she slept—fatal sleep, induced by frost: at this
moment I saw the heavy outline of a cottage traced on the dark ho-
rizon close to us: “Dearest love,” I said, “support yourself but one
THE LAST MAN, by Mary Shelley | 1156
moment, and we shall have shelter; let us stop here, that I may open
the door of this blessed dwelling .”
As I spoke, my heart was transported, and my senses swam with
excessive delight and thankfulness; I placed the head of Idris against
the carriage, and, leaping out, scrambled through the snow to the
cottage, whose door was open . I had apparatus about me for procur-
ing light, and that shewed me a comfortable room, with a pile of