by Robert Reed
sense of woe . Having determined to make Rome my abode, at least
for some months, I made arrangements for my accommodation—I
selected my home . The Colonna Palace was well adapted for my
purpose. Its grandeur— its treasure of paintings, its magnificent
halls were objects soothing and even exhilarating .
THE LAST MAN, by Mary Shelley | 1262
I found the granaries of Rome well stored with grain, and particu-
larly with Indian corn; this product requiring less art in its prepara-
tion for food, I selected as my principal support . I now found the
hardships and lawlessness of my youth turn to account . A man can-
not throw off the habits of sixteen years . Since that age, it is true, I
had lived luxuriously, or at least surrounded by all the conveniences
civilization afforded . But before that time, I had been “as uncouth
a savage, as the wolf-bred founder of old Rome”—and now, in
Rome itself, robber and shepherd propensities, similar to those of its
founder, were of advantage to its sole inhabitant . I spent the morn-
ing riding and shooting in the Campagna—I passed long hours in
the various galleries—I gazed at each statue, and lost myself in a
reverie before many a fair Madonna or beauteous nymph . I haunted
the Vatican, and stood surrounded by marble forms of divine beauty .
Each stone deity was possessed by sacred gladness, and the eternal
fruition of love . They looked on me with unsympathizing compla-
cency, and often in wild accents I reproached them for their supreme
indifference—for they were human shapes, the human form divine
was manifest in each fairest limb and lineament . The perfect mould-
ing brought with it the idea of colour and motion; often, half in bitter
mockery, half in self-delusion, I clasped their icy proportions, and,
coming between Cupid and his Psyche’s lips, pressed the uncon-
ceiving marble .
I endeavoured to read . I visited the libraries of Rome . I selected a
volume, and, choosing some sequestered, shady nook, on the banks
of the Tiber, or opposite the fair temple in the Borghese Gardens,
or under the old pyramid of Cestius, I endeavoured to conceal
me from myself, and immerse myself in the subject traced on the
pages before me . As if in the same soil you plant nightshade and
a myrtle tree, they will each appropriate the mould, moisture, and
air administered, for the fostering their several properties—so did
my grief find sustenance, and power of existence, and growth, in
what else had been divine manna, to feed radiant meditation . Ah!
while I streak this paper with the tale of what my so named oc-
cupations were—while I shape the skeleton of my days—my hand
THE LAST MAN, by Mary Shelley | 1263
trembles—my heart pants, and my brain refuses to lend expression,
or phrase, or idea, by which to image forth the veil of unutterable
woe that clothed these bare realities . O, worn and beating heart, may
I dissect thy fibres, and tell how in each unmitigable misery, sad-
ness dire, repinings, and despair, existed? May I record my many
ravings—the wild curses I hurled at torturing nature—and how I
have passed days shut out from light and food—from all except the
burning hell alive in my own bosom?
I was presented, meantime, with one other occupation, the one
best fitted to discipline my melancholy thoughts, which strayed
backwards, over many a ruin, and through many a flowery glade,
even to the mountain recess, from which in early youth I had first
emerged .
During one of my rambles through the habitations of Rome, I
found writing materials on a table in an author’s study . Parts of a
manuscript lay scattered about . It contained a learned disquisition
on the Italian language; one page an unfinished dedication to poster-
ity, for whose profit the writer had sifted and selected the niceties
of this harmonious language —to whose everlasting benefit he be-
queathed his labours .
I also will write a book, I cried—for whom to read?—to whom
dedicated? And then with silly flourish (what so capricious and
childish as despair?) I wrote, DEDICATION TO THE ILLUSTRI-
OUS DEAD . SHADOWS, ARISE, AND READ YOUR FALL!
BEHOLD THE HISTORY OF THE LAST MAN .
Yet, will not this world be re-peopled, and the children of a saved
pair of lovers, in some to me unknown and unattainable seclusion,
wandering to these prodigious relics of the ante-pestilential race,
seek to learn how beings so wondrous in their achievements, with
imaginations infinite, and powers godlike, had departed from their
home to an unknown country?
I will write and leave in this most ancient city, this “world’s sole
monument,” a record of these things . I will leave a monument of the
existence of Verney, the Last Man. At first I thought only to speak of
plague, of death, and last, of desertion; but I lingered fondly on my
THE LAST MAN, by Mary Shelley | 1264
early years, and recorded with sacred zeal the virtues of my com-
panions. They have been with me during the fulfilment of my task.
I have brought it to an end—I lift my eyes from my paper—again
they are lost to me . Again I feel that I am alone .
A year has passed since I have been thus occupied . The seasons
have made their wonted round, and decked this eternal city in a
changeful robe of surpassing beauty . A year has passed; and I no
longer guess at my state or my prospects—loneliness is my familiar,
sorrow my inseparable companion . I have endeavoured to brave the
storm—I have endeavoured to school myself to fortitude—I have
sought to imbue myself with the lessons of wisdom . It will not do .
My hair has become nearly grey—my voice, unused now to utter
sound, comes strangely on my ears . My person, with its human
powers and features, seem to me a monstrous excrescence of nature .
How express in human language a woe human being until this hour
never knew! How give intelligible expression to a pang none but
I could ever understand!— No one has entered Rome . None will
ever come . I smile bitterly at the delusion I have so long nourished,
and still more, when I reflect that I have exchanged it for another as
delusive, as false, but to which I now cling with the same fond trust .
Winter has come again; and the gardens of Rome have lost their
leaves— the sharp air comes over the Campagna, and has driven its
brute inhabitants to take up their abode in the many dwellings of
the deserted city—frost has suspended the gushing fountains—and
Trevi has stilled her eternal music . I had made a rough calculation,
aided by the stars, by which I endeavoured to ascertain the first day
of the new year . In the old out-worn age, the Sovereign Pontiff was
used to go in solemn pomp, and mark the renewal of the year by
driving a nail in the gate of the temple of Janus . On that day I as-
cended St . Peter’s, and carved on its topmost stone the aera 2100,
last year of the world!
My only companion was a dog, a s
haggy fellow, half water and
half shepherd’s dog, whom I found tending sheep in the Campagna .
His master was dead, but nevertheless he continued fulfilling his
duties in expectation of his return . If a sheep strayed from the rest,
THE LAST MAN, by Mary Shelley | 1265
he forced it to return to the flock, and sedulously kept off every
intruder . Riding in the Campagna I had come upon his sheep-walk,
and for some time observed his repetition of lessons learned from
man, now useless, though unforgotten . His delight was excessive
when he saw me . He sprung up to my knees; he capered round and
round, wagging his tail, with the short, quick bark of pleasure: he
left his fold to follow me, and from that day has never neglected to
watch by and attend on me, shewing boisterous gratitude whenever
I caressed or talked to him . His pattering steps and mine alone were
heard, when we entered the magnificent extent of nave and aisle
of St . Peter’s . We ascended the myriad steps together, when on the
summit I achieved my design, and in rough figures noted the date of
the last year . I then turned to gaze on the country, and to take leave
of Rome . I had long determined to quit it, and I now formed the plan
I would adopt for my future career, after I had left this magnificent
abode .
A solitary being is by instinct a wanderer, and that I would be-
come . A hope of amelioration always attends on change of place,
which would even lighten the burthen of my life . I had been a fool
to remain in Rome all this time: Rome noted for Malaria, the fa-
mous caterer for death . But it was still possible, that, could I visit the
whole extent of earth, I should find in some part of the wide extent
a survivor . Methought the sea-side was the most probable retreat to
be chosen by such a one . If left alone in an inland district, still they
could not continue in the spot where their last hopes had been extin-
guished; they would journey on, like me, in search of a partner for
their solitude, till the watery barrier stopped their further progress .
To that water—cause of my woes, perhaps now to be their cure,
I would betake myself . Farewell, Italy!—farewell, thou ornament
of the world, matchless Rome, the retreat of the solitary one during
long months!—to civilized life—to the settled home and succession
of monotonous days, farewell! Peril will now be mine; and I hail her
as a friend—death will perpetually cross my path, and I will meet
him as a benefactor; hardship, inclement weather, and dangerous
tempests will be my sworn mates . Ye spirits of storm, receive me! ye
THE LAST MAN, by Mary Shelley | 1266
powers of destruction, open wide your arms, and clasp me for ever!
if a kinder power have not decreed another end, so that after long
endurance I may reap my reward, and again feel my heart beat near
the heart of another like to me .
Tiber, the road which is spread by nature’s own hand, threading
her continent, was at my feet, and many a boat was tethered to the
banks . I would with a few books, provisions, and my dog, embark
in one of these and float down the current of the stream into the sea;
and then, keeping near land, I would coast the beauteous shores and
sunny promontories of the blue Mediterranean, pass Naples, along
Calabria, and would dare the twin perils of Scylla and Charybdis;
then, with fearless aim, (for what had I to lose?) skim ocean’s surface
towards Malta and the further Cyclades . I would avoid Constanti-
nople, the sight of whose well-known towers and inlets belonged
to another state of existence from my present one; I would coast
Asia Minor, and Syria, and, passing the seven-mouthed Nile, steer
northward again, till losing sight of forgotten Carthage and deserted
Lybia, I should reach the pillars of Hercules . And then—no matter
where—the oozy caves, and soundless depths of ocean may be my
dwelling, before I accomplish this long-drawn voyage, or the arrow
of disease find my heart as I float singly on the weltering Medi-
terranean; or, in some place I touch at, I may find what I seek—a
companion; or if this may not be—to endless time, decrepid and
grey headed—youth already in the grave with those I love— the
lone wanderer will still unfurl his sail, and clasp the tiller—and, still
obeying the breezes of heaven, for ever round another and another
promontory, anchoring in another and another bay, still ploughing
seedless ocean, leaving behind the verdant land of native Europe,
adown the tawny shore of Africa, having weathered the fierce seas
of the Cape, I may moor my worn skiff in a creek, shaded by spicy
groves of the odorous islands of the far Indian ocean .
These are wild dreams . Yet since, now a week ago, they came on
me, as I stood on the height of St . Peter’s, they have ruled my imagi-
nation . I have chosen my boat, and laid in my scant stores . I have se-
lected a few books; the principal are Homer and Shakespeare—But
THE LAST MAN, by Mary Shelley | 1267
the libraries of the world are thrown open to me—and in any port I
can renew my stock . I form no expectation of alteration for the bet-
ter; but the monotonous present is intolerable to me . Neither hope
nor joy are my pilots—restless despair and fierce desire of change
lead me on . I long to grapple with danger, to be excited by fear, to
have some task, however slight or voluntary, for each day’s fulfil-
ment . I shall witness all the variety of appearance, that the elements
can assume—I shall read fair augury in the rainbow— menace in the
cloud—some lesson or record dear to my heart in everything . Thus
around the shores of deserted earth, while the sun is high, and the
moon waxes or wanes, angels, the spirits of the dead, and the ever-
open eye of the Supreme, will behold the tiny bark, freighted with
Verney—the LAST MAN .
THE LAST MAN, by Mary Shelley | 1268
A LEGEND, by Lafcadio Hearn
Originally published in 1881.
And it came to pass in those days that a plague fell upon mankind,
slaying only the males and sparing the females for some mysterious
reason .
So that there was only one man left alive upon the face of the
earth; and he was remarkably fair to behold and comely and vigor-
ous as an elephant .
And feeling the difficulties of his position, the man fled away to
the mountains, armed with a Winchester rifle, and lived among the
wild beasts of the forest .…
And the women pursued after him and surrounded the mountain;
and prevailed upon the man, with subtle arguments and pleasant
words, that he should deliver himself up into their hands .
And they made a treaty with him, that he should be defended
from ill-usage and protected from fury and guarded about night and
day with a guard .
And the guard was officered by women who were philosophers,
and who cared for nothing in this world beyond that which is strictly
scientific and matter of fact, so that they were above all the
tempta-
tions of this world .
And the man was lodged in a palace, and nourished with all the
dainties of the world, but was not suffered to go forth, or to show
himself in the streets; forasmuch as he was guarded even as a queen
bee is guarded in the hive .
Neither was he suffered to occupy his mind with grave questions
or to read serious books or discourse of serious things or to peruse
A LEGEND, by Lafcadio Hearn | 1269
aught that had not been previously approved by the committee of
scientific women.
For that which wearieth the brain affecteth the well-being of the
body .
And all the day long he heard the pleasant plash of fountain wa-
ters and inhaled delicious perfumes, and the fairest women in the
world stood before him under the supervision of the philosophers .
And a great army was organized to guard him; and great wars
were fought with the women of other nations on his account, so that
nine millions and more of strong young women were killed .
But he was not permitted to know any of these things, lest it might
trouble his mind; nor was he suffered to hear or behold aught that can
be unpleasant to mortal ears . He was permitted only to gaze upon
beautiful things — beautiful flowers and fair women, and matchless
statues and marvelous pictures, and graven gems and magical vases,
and cunningly devised work of goldsmiths and silversmiths . He was
only suffered the music created by the fingers of the greatest musi-
cians and by the throats of the most bewitching of singers .
* * * *
And once a year out of every ten thousand women in the world
the fairest one and the most complete in all things was chosen; and
of those chosen ones the fairest and most perfect were again chosen;
and out of these again the committee of philosophers selected one
thousand; and out of these thousand the man chose three hundred .
For he was the only man in the whole world; and the commit-
tee of philosophers ordained that he should be permitted to remain
entirely alone for sixty-five days in the year, lest he might be, as it
were, talked to death .
At first the man fell occasionally in love and felt unhappy; but as
the committee of philosophers always sent unto him women more