by Mary Shelley
It has been said that every clever person is, to a certain degree, mad. By which it is to be understood, that every person whose mind soars above the vulgar, has some exalted and disinterested object in view to which they are ready to sacrifice the common blessings of life. Thus, from the moment that Elizabeth had brought Falkner to consent to her accompanying him to Greece, she had devoted herself to the task, first of saving his life, if it should be in danger; and, secondly, of reconciling him in the end to prolonged existence. There were many difficulties which presented themselves, since she was unaware of the circumstances that drove him to seek death as a remedy and an atonement; nor had she any desire to pry into her benefactor’s secrets: in her own heart, she suspected an overstrained delicacy or generosity of feeling, which exaggerated error, and gave the sting to remorse. But whatever was the occasion of his sufferings, she dedicated herself to their relief; and resolved to educate herself so as to fulfil the task of reconciling him to life, to the best of her ability.
Left at Zante, while he proceeded to join the patriot bands of Greece, she boarded in the house of a respectable family, but lived in the most retired manner possible. Her chief time was spent in study. She read to store her mind — to confirm its fortitude — to elevate its tone. She read also to acquire such precepts of philosophy and religion as might best apply to her peculiar task, and to learn those secrets of life and death which Falkner’s desire to die had brought so home to her juvenile imagination.
If a time is to be named when the human heart is nearest moral perfection, most alive and yet most innocent, aspiring to good, without a knowledge of evil, the period at which Elizabeth had arrived, — from thirteen to sixteen, — is it. Vague forebodings are awakened; a sense of the opening drama of life, unaccompanied with any longing to enter on it — that feeling is reserved for the years that follow; but at fourteen and fifteen we only feel that we are emerging from childhood, and we rejoice, having yet a sense that as yet it is not fitting that we should make one of the real actors on the world’s stage. A dreamy delicious period, when all is unknown; and yet we feel that all is soon to be unveiled. The first pang has not been felt; for we consider childhood’s woes (real and frightful as those sometimes are,) as puerile, and no longer belonging to us. We look upon the menaced evils of life as a fiction. How can care touch the soul which places its desires beyond lowminded thought! Ingratitude, deceit, treason — these have not yet engendered distrust of others, nor have our own weaknesses and errors planted the thorn of self-disapprobation and regret. Solitude is no evil, for the thoughts are rife with busy visions; and the shadows that flit around and people our reveries, have almost the substance and vitality of the actual world.
Elizabeth was no dreamer. Though brought up abstracted from common worldly pursuits, there was something singularly practical about her. She aimed at being useful in all her reveries. This desire was rendered still more fervent by her affection for Falkner — by her fears on his account — by her ardent wish to make life dear to him. All her employments, all her pleasures, referred themselves, as it were, to this primary motive, and were entirely ruled by it.
She portioned out the hours of each day, and adhered steadily to her self-imposed rules. To the early morning’s ride, succeeded her various studies, of which music, for which she developed a true ear and delicate taste, formed one; one occupation relieved the other; from her dear books she had recourse to her needle, and, bending over her embroidery frame, she meditated on what she read; or, occupied by many conjectures and many airy dreams concerning Falkner, she became absorbed in reverie. Sometimes, from the immediate object of these, her memory reverted to the melancholy boy she had seen at Baden. His wild eyes — his haughty glance — his lively solicitude about the animal he had hurt, and uncomplaining fortitude with which he had endured bodily pain, were often present to her. She wished that they had not quitted Baden so suddenly: if they had remained but a few days longer, he might have learnt to love them; and even now he might be with Falkner, sharing his dangers, it is true, but also each guarding the other from that rash contempt of life in which they both indulged.
Her whole mind being filled by duties and affection, each day seemed short, yet each was varied. At dawn she rose lightly from her bed, and looked out over the blue sea and rocky shore; she prayed, as she gazed, for the safety of her benefactor; and her thoughts, soaring to her mother in heaven, asked her blessing to descend upon her child. Morning was not so fresh as her, as she met its first sweet breath; and, cantering along the beach, she thought of Falkner — his absence, his toils and dangers — with resignation, mingled with a hope that warmed into an ardent desire to see him again. Surely there is no object so sweet as the young in solitude. In after years — when death has bereaved us of the dearest — when cares, and regrets, and fears, and passions, evil either in their nature or their results, have stained our lives with black, solitude is too sadly peopled to be pleasing; and when we see one of mature years alone, we believe that sadness must be the companion. But the solitary thoughts of the young are glorious dreams, —
— their state,
Like to a lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven’s gate.
To behold this young and lovely girl wandering by the lonely shore,
her thoughts her only companions; love for her benefactor her only passion, no touch of earth and its sordid woes about her, it was as if a new Eve, watched over by angels, had been placed in the desecrated land, and the very ground she trod grew into paradise.
Sometimes the day was sadly chequered by bad news brought from the continent of Greece. Sometimes it was rendered joyous by the arrival of a letter from her adored father. Sometimes he was with her, and he, animated by the sense of danger, and the knowledge of his usefulness to the cause he espoused, was eloquent in his narrations, overflowing in his affection to her, and almost happy in the belief that he was atoning for the past. The idea that he should fall in the fields of Greece, and wash out with his heart’s blood the dark blot on his name, gave an elevation to his thoughts, a strained and eager courage and fortitude that accorded with his fiery character. He was born to be a soldier; not the military man of modern days, but the hero who exposed his life without fear, and found joy in battle and hard-earned victory, when these were sought and won for a good cause, from the cruel oppressor.
CHAPTER X.
During Falkner’s visits to Zante, Elizabeth had been led to remark the faithful attentions of his chief follower, an Albanian Greek. This man had complained to his young mistress of the recklessness with which Falkner exposed himself — of the incredible fatigue he underwent — and his belief that he must ere long fall a victim to his disdain of safety and repose; which, while it augmented the admiration his courage excited, was yet not called for by the circumstances of the times. He would have been termed rash and fool-hardy, but that he maintained a dignified composure throughout, joined to military skill and fertility of resource; and while contempt of life led him invariably to select the post of danger for himself, he was sedulous to preserve the lives of those under his command. His early life had familiarized him with the practices of war. He was a valuable officer; kind to his men, and careful to supply their wants, while he contended for no vain distinctions; and was ready, on all occasions, to undertake such duties as others shrunk from, as leading to certain death.
Elizabeth listened to Vasili’s account of his hair-breadth escapes, his toils, and desperate valour, with tearful eyes and an aching heart. “Oh! that I could attach him to life!” she thought. She never complained to him, nor persuaded him to alter his desperate purpose, but redoubled her affectionate attentions. When he left her, after a hurried visit, she did not beseech him to preserve himself; but her tearful eyes, the agony with which she returned his parting embrace, her despondent attitude as his bark left the shore; and when he returned, her eager joy — her eye lighted up with thankful love — all bespoke emotions that needed no
other interpreter, and which often made him half shrink from acting up to the belief he had arrived at, that he ought to die, and that he could only escape worse and ignominious evils, by a present and honourable death.
As time passed on — as by the arrival of the forces from Egypt the warfare grew more keen and perilous — as Vasili renewed the sad tale of his perils at each visit, with some added story of lately and narrowly escaped peril — fear began to make too large and engrossing a portion of her daily thoughts. She ceased to take in the ideas as she read — her needle dropped from her hand — and, as she played, the music brought streams of tears from her eyes, to think of the scene of desolation and suffering in which she felt that she should soon be called upon to take a part. There was no help or hope, and she must early learn the woman’s first and hardest lesson, to bear in silence the advance of an evil, which might be avoided, but for the unconquerable will of another. Almost she could have called her father cruel, had not the remembrance of the misery that drove him to desperation, inspired pity, instead of selfish resentment.
He had passed a few days with her, and the intercourse they held, had been more intimate and more affectionate than ever. As she grew older, her mind enriched by cultivation, and developed by the ardour of her attachment, grew more on an equality with his experienced one, than could have been the case in mere childhood. They did not take the usual position of father and child, — the instructor and instructed — the commander and the obedient — They talked with open heart, and tongue
Affectionate and true,
A pair of friends. —
And the inequality which made her depend on him, and caused him to regard her as the creature who was to prolong his existence, as it were, beyond the grave, into which he believed himself to be descending, gave a touch of something melancholy to their sympathy, without which, in this shadowy world, nothing seems beautiful and enduring.
He left her; and his little bark, under press of sail, sped merrily through the waves. She stood to watch — her heart warmed by the recollection of his fervent affection — his attentive kindness. He had ever been brave and generous; but now he had become so sympathising and gentle, that she hoped that the time was not far off when moral courage would spring from that personal hardihood which is at once so glorious and so fearful. “God shield you, my father!” she thought, “God preserve you, my more than father, for happier thoughts and better days! For the full enjoyment of, and control over, those splendid qualities with which nature has gifted you!”
Such was the tenor of her thoughts. Enthusiasm mingled with fond solicitude — and thus she continued her anxious watchings. By every opportunity she received brief letters, breathing affection, yet containing no word of self. Sometimes a phrase occurred directing her what to do if any thing fatal occurred to him, which startled and pained her; but there was nothing else that spoke of death — nor any allusion to his distaste for life. Autumn was far advanced — the sounds of war were somewhat lulled; and, except in small skirmishing parties, that met and fought under cover of the ravines and woods, all was quiet. Elizabeth felt less fearful than usual. She wrote to ask when Falkner would again visit her; and he, in reply, promised so to do, immediately after a meditated attack on a small fortress, the carrying of which was of the first import to the safe quartering of his little troop during the winter. She read this with delight — she solaced herself with the prospect of a speedier and longer visit than usual; with childish thoughtlessness she forgot that the attack on the town was a work of war, and might bring with it the fatal results of mortal struggle.
A few days after, a small, ill-looking letter was put into her hands — it was written in Romaic, and the meaning of its illegible ciphers could only be guessed at by a Greek. It was from Vasili — to tell her, in few words, that Falkner was lying in a small village, not far from the sea coast, opposite Zante. It mentioned that he had been long suffering from the Greek fever; and having been badly wounded in the late attack, the combined effects of wound and malady left little hopes of recovery; while the fatal moment was hastened by the absence of all medical assistance — the miserable state of the village where he was lying — and the bad air of the country around.
Elizabeth read as if in a dream — the moment then had come, the fatal moment which she had often contemplated with terror, and prayed Heaven to avert — she grew pale and trembling; but again in a moment she recalled her presence of mind, and summoned all the resolution she had endeavoured to store up to assist her at this extremity. She went herself to the chief English authority in the island — and obtained an order for a vessel to bring him off — instantly she embarked. She neither wept nor spoke; but sitting on the deck, tearless and pale, she prayed for speed, and that she might not find him dead. A few hours brought her to the desired port. Here a thousand difficulties awaited her — but she was not to be intimidated by all the threatened dangers — and only besought the people about her to admit of no excuses for delay. She was accompanied by an English surgeon and a few attendants. She longed to outspeed them all, and yet she commanded herself to direct every thing that was done; nor did her heart quail when a few shot, and the cry of the men about her, spoke of the neighbourhood of the enemy. It proved a false alarm — the shots came from a straggling party of Greeks — salutations were exchanged, and still she pushed on — her only thought was:—”Let me but find him alive — and then surely he will live!”
As she passed along, the sallow countenances and wasted figures of the peasants spoke of the frightful ravages of the epidemic by which Falkner was attacked — and the squalidness of the cabins and the filth of the villages were sights to make her heart ache; at length they drew near one which the guide told her was that named by Vasili. On inquiring they were directed down a sort of lane to a wretched dilapidated dwelling — in the court-yard of which were a party of armed Greeks, gathered together in a sort of ominous silence. This was the abode of Falkner; she alighted — and in a few minutes Vasili presented himself — his face painted with every mark of apprehension and sorrow — he led her on. The house was desolate beyond expression — there was no furniture — no glass in the windows — no token of human habitation beyond the weather-stained walls. She entered the room where her father lay — some mattrasses placed on the divan were all his bed — and there was nothing else in the room except a brazier to heat his food. Elizabeth drew near — and gazed in awe and grief. Already he was so changed that she could scarcely know him — his eyes sunk — his cheeks fallen, his brow streaked with pallid hues — a ghastly shadow lay upon his face, the apparent forerunner of death. He had scarcely strength sufficient to raise his hand — and his voice was hollow — yet he smiled when he saw her — and that smile, the last refuge of the soul that informs our clay, and even sometimes survives it, was all his own; it struck her to the heart — and her eyes were dimmed with tears while Vasili cast a wistful glance on her — as much as to say, “I have lost hope!”
“Thank you for coming — yet you ought not to be here,” hoarsely murmured the sick man. — Elizabeth kissed his hand and brow in answer — and despite of all her endeavours the tears fell from her eyes on his sunken cheek; again he smiled. “It is not so bad,” he said—”do not weep, I am willing to die! I do not suffer very much — though I am weary of life.” —
The surgeon was now admitted. He examined the wound, which was of a musket ball, in his side. He dressed it, and administered some potion, from which the patient received instant relief; and then joined the anxious girl, who had retired to another room.
“He is in a very dangerous state,” the surgeon remarked, in reply to her anxious looks. “Nothing certain can be pronounced yet. But our first care must be to remove him from this pestiferous place — the fever and wound combined, must destroy him. — Change of air may produce an amelioration in the former.”
With all the energy, which was her prominent characteristic, Elizabeth caused a litter to be prepared — horses hired and every thing
arranged so that their journey might be commenced at day-break. Every one went early to rest, to enjoy some repose before the morrow’s journey, except Elizabeth; she spent the livelong night watching beside Falkner, marking each change, tortured by the groans that escaped him in sleep, or the suppressed complaints that fell from his lips — by the restlessness and fever that rendered each moment full of fate. The glimmering and dreary light of the lamp increased even the squalid and bare appearance of the wretched chamber in which he lay — Elizabeth gazed for a moment from the casement to see how moved the stars — and there, without — nature asserted herself — and it was the lovely land of Greece that met her eyes; the southern night reigned in all its beauty — the stars hung refulgent lamps in the transparent ether — the fire-flies darted and wheeled among the olive groves or rested in the myrtle hedges, flashing intermittingly, and filling for an instant a small space around them with fairy brightness; each form of tree, of rocky fragment, and broken upland, lay in calm and beautiful repose; she turned to the low couch on which lay all her hope — her idolized father — the streaked brow — the nerveless hand — half open eye, and hard breathing, betokened a frightful stage of weakness and suffering.
The scene brought unsought into her mind the lines of the English poet, which so touchingly describes the desolation of Greece, — blending the idea of mortal suffering with the long drawn calamities of that oppressed country. The words, the lines, crowded on her memory; and a chord was struck in her heart, as she ejaculated, “No! no, not so! Not the first day of death — not now, or ever!” As she spoke, she dissolved in tears — and weeping long and bitterly, she became afterwards calmer — the rest of her watch passed more peacefully. Even the patient suffered less as night verged into morning.