The Last Man

What happens when humanity’s future is reduced to a single fragile survivor? 'The Last Man' by Mary Shelley is a pioneering science fiction and apocalyptic novel that follows the emotional and psychological struggles of a small group of friends as they face a devastating plague that sweeps across the world. First published in 1826, the novel blends dystopian fiction, romance, political reflection, and philosophical speculation into a haunting vision of a civilization slowly being destroyed.

The story is set in a future version of the late twenty-first century and centers on Lionel Verney, an orphan who grows from an unruly young man into an educated and thoughtful observer of a rapidly changing world. His life becomes closely connected with several remarkable figures, including the idealistic Adrian, Earl of Windsor; the ambitious and charismatic Lord Raymond; and the intelligent and independent Perdita. Their friendships, rivalries, ambitions, and romances unfold against a backdrop of political uncertainty and social change, giving the novel a deeply personal dimension.

As an unexplained plague begins spreading from one country to another, the world’s confidence in science, government, and human progress gradually collapses. Families are separated, communities disappear, and survivors struggle with fear, grief, loneliness, and the desperate search for safety. Lionel witnesses how extraordinary circumstances expose both the kindness and selfishness within people, while the bonds between his friends are tested by loss and impossible choices.

More than a tale of catastrophe, 'The Last Man' is a moving meditation on friendship, mortality, isolation, ambition, and the limits of human power. Mary Shelley combines intimate emotional storytelling with a sweeping vision of humanity’s possible future, creating a novel that feels surprisingly relevant even today. As Lionel’s world grows quieter and more uncertain, readers are left wondering what it truly means to be human when there may be no one left to share the world with.

Mary Shelley remains one of the most fascinating figures in English literature, a writer whose imagination helped shape modern science fiction long before the genre had a name. Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley was an English novelist, short-story writer, and biographer best known for 'Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus', a groundbreaking work that blends Gothic fiction, Romanticism, and philosophical questions about science and human ambition.

Born on August 30, 1797, in London, Shelley grew up surrounded by influential ideas. She was the daughter of philosopher William Godwin and pioneering feminist writer Mary Wollstonecraft, who died shortly after her birth. Raised in an intellectually stimulating household, Shelley developed a deep interest in literature, history, and philosophy from an early age. In 1814, she began a relationship with the poet Percy Bysshe Shelley, and the couple later married. Their travels across Europe exposed her to new cultures and experiences that influenced her writing.

The idea for 'Frankenstein' famously emerged during the summer of 1816, when Mary Shelley stayed near Lake Geneva with Percy Shelley, Lord Byron, and others. Challenged to create a ghost story, she imagined a scientist who brings a lifeless body to life, only to confront the terrible consequences of his creation. Published anonymously in 1818, 'Frankenstein' eventually became recognized as a landmark of English literature and one of the earliest major works of science fiction.

Shelley's later works included 'Valperga', 'The Last Man', and 'Lodore', along with biographies and travel writing. Her style combined emotional depth, vivid Gothic imagery, intellectual curiosity, and thoughtful explorations of isolation, responsibility, identity, and human progress. After Percy Shelley died in 1822, she devoted herself to preserving his literary legacy while continuing her own career as a writer.

Mary Shelley's influence has only grown with time. 'Frankenstein' continues to inspire novels, films, theater, and popular culture, ensuring that her bold vision and enduring questions about creation, ambition, and humanity remain relevant to readers today.

Mary Shelley's "The Last Man" is a remarkable blend of science fiction, philosophical reflection, and emotional drama that tells the story of humanity's gradual extinction through the eyes of one surviving witness. Set in the late twenty-first century, the novel follows Lionel Verney, a man born into poverty after the fall of his noble family. Orphaned at a young age, Lionel grows up isolated, bitter, and disconnected from society. His life changes forever when he meets Adrian, the noble and compassionate son of England's last king. Adrian recognizes Lionel's intelligence and goodness, offering him friendship, education, and hope. Under Adrian's guidance, Lionel transforms into a thoughtful, educated man who learns the value of love, loyalty, and responsibility. Through this friendship, Shelley introduces readers to a future where monarchies have faded, republics have risen, and humanity believes it is entering an age of peace and progress.

As Lionel becomes part of Adrian's close circle, he also meets several influential figures whose lives become deeply connected with his own. His sister Perdita falls passionately in love with the ambitious Lord Raymond, a celebrated soldier and political leader who dreams of achieving lasting glory. Raymond's courage and charisma make him a national hero, but his restless ambition often leads him into dangerous situations. Lionel himself marries Idris, Adrian's gentle and loving sister, and together they build a warm family filled with affection and hope. For a time, life appears joyful despite political disagreements and personal struggles. Shelley carefully develops these relationships to show that even in a rapidly changing world, human happiness depends on friendship, love, trust, and family rather than power or wealth.

Political conflicts continue to shape England as different leaders compete over the nation's future. Raymond briefly becomes the country's leader, but his desire for military greatness eventually draws him away from domestic life. His personal ambitions strain his marriage with Perdita, creating emotional distance and heartbreak. Adrian, in contrast, represents wisdom, compassion, and peaceful leadership. He believes that kindness and understanding are stronger than violence and conquest. Lionel often finds himself torn between these two powerful personalities, admiring Raymond's bravery while respecting Adrian's moral character. Their contrasting ideals reflect Shelley's broader exploration of leadership, ambition, and the responsibilities carried by those who hold influence over others.

The story takes a darker turn when mysterious reports begin arriving from distant lands about a deadly plague spreading across the world. At first, many people dismiss the disease as a problem affecting foreign nations. Governments remain confident that science, medicine, and political organization will prevent disaster from reaching their own shores. However, the illness spreads relentlessly across continents, ignoring borders, wealth, and social class. Entire cities begin to empty as fear replaces confidence. Shelley portrays the plague not simply as a medical catastrophe but as a force that exposes the fragility of civilization. Institutions that once seemed permanent quickly begin to collapse as ordinary people struggle to survive.

As the epidemic reaches England, society slowly disintegrates. Businesses close, governments lose control, and law and order begin to disappear. Many people flee cities in search of safety, while others abandon hope altogether. Lionel and his companions try to protect their families and help those around them, but they soon realize that neither courage nor intelligence can stop the disease. One by one, friends, relatives, and loved ones fall victim to the plague. Every loss leaves deep emotional wounds, forcing the survivors to confront grief on an unimaginable scale. Shelley focuses less on dramatic scenes of horror and more on the emotional impact of watching an entire civilization fade away. The growing silence of abandoned towns and empty landscapes becomes as frightening as the disease itself.

Throughout their journey, the remaining survivors refuse to surrender completely to despair. Adrian continues to inspire hope, encouraging the small group to preserve their humanity even when the world around them is collapsing. They travel across England and later through Europe, searching for places untouched by the plague and hoping to find other survivors. Their travels reveal magnificent cities reduced to empty monuments and once-busy countryside transformed into lonely wilderness. The contrast between humanity's former achievements and its present ruin gives the novel a haunting atmosphere. Shelley repeatedly reminds readers that civilizations, no matter how advanced or powerful, remain vulnerable to forces beyond human control.

The emotional heart of the novel lies in Lionel's personal journey through overwhelming loss. He watches nearly everyone he loves disappear, including family members whose deaths leave him increasingly isolated. Despite his suffering, Lionel refuses to lose his compassion. He continues caring for those who remain alive, helping friends through illness and sharing every burden that fate places before them. His resilience becomes one of the novel's most inspiring qualities. Rather than portraying heroism through battles or political victories, Shelley presents endurance, kindness, and loyalty as humanity's greatest strengths. Even when hope becomes almost impossible to sustain, Lionel chooses to act with dignity and love.

Eventually, only a tiny handful of survivors remain. Adrian, Lionel, and their companions decide to leave England by sea, believing they may discover others somewhere beyond the familiar world. Yet tragedy strikes once more when a violent storm destroys their vessel, claiming the lives of nearly everyone aboard. Lionel alone survives the disaster, washed ashore with no companions left beside him. In this devastating conclusion, he realizes that he may truly be the last human being on Earth. Surrounded by abandoned cities, silent forests, and empty seas, he continues wandering with his faithful dog, recording his experiences so that, if another person should ever exist, humanity's story will not be completely forgotten.

'The Last Man' is far more than a tale about a deadly plague or the end of civilization. It is a profound meditation on love, friendship, mortality, hope, and the enduring spirit of humanity. Written after Mary Shelley had experienced the heartbreaking deaths of many people close to her, including her husband Percy Bysshe Shelley, the novel reflects deep personal grief while exploring universal questions about human existence. Although its vision of the future is bleak, the story ultimately celebrates the emotional qualities that define humanity even in its darkest moments. Lionel's survival is not presented as a triumph but as a testament to memory, resilience, and the importance of preserving compassion when everything else has been lost. Through its moving characters, philosophical depth, and haunting atmosphere, The Last Man remains one of the earliest and most powerful works of apocalyptic fiction, offering readers a timeless reflection on the fragility of civilization and the enduring value of human connection.

Volume I

Chapter 1

I am the native of a sea-surrounded nook, a cloud-enshadowed land, which, when the surface of the globe, with its shoreless ocean and trackless continents, presents itself to my mind, appears only as an inconsiderable speck in the immense whole; and yet, when balanced in the scale of mental power, far outweighed countries of larger extent and more numerous population. So true it is, that man’s mind alone was the creator of all that was good or great to man, and that Nature herself was only his first minister. England, seated far north in the turbid sea, now visits my dreams in the semblance of a vast and well-manned ship, which mastered the winds and rode proudly over the waves. In my boyish days she was the universe to me. When I stood on my native hills, and saw plain and mountain stretch out to the utmost limits of my vision, speckled by the dwellings of my countrymen, and subdued to fertility by their labours, the earth’s very centre was fixed for me in that spot, and the rest of her orb was as a fable, to have forgotten which would have cost neither my imagination nor understanding an effort.

My fortunes have been, from the beginning, an exemplification of the power that mutability may possess over the varied tenor of man’s life. With regard to myself, this came almost by inheritance. My father was one of those men on whom nature had bestowed to prodigality the envied gifts of wit and imagination, and then left his bark of life to be impelled by these winds, without adding reason as the rudder, or judgment as the pilot for the voyage. His extraction was obscure; but circumstances brought him early into public notice, and his small paternal property was soon dissipated in the splendid scene of fashion and luxury in which he was an actor. During the short years of thoughtless youth, he was adored by the high-bred triflers of the day, nor least by the youthful sovereign, who escaped from the intrigues of party, and the arduous duties of kingly business, to find never-failing amusement and exhilaration of spirit in his society. My father’s impulses, never under his own controul, perpetually led him into difficulties from which his ingenuity alone could extricate him; and the accumulating pile of debts of honour and of trade, which would have bent to earth any other, was supported by him with a light spirit and tameless hilarity; while his company was so necessary at the tables and assemblies of the rich, that his derelictions were considered venial, and he himself received with intoxicating flattery.

This kind of popularity, like every other, is evanescent: and the difficulties of every kind with which he had to contend, increased in a frightful ratio compared with his small means of extricating himself. At such times the king, in his enthusiasm for him, would come to his relief, and then kindly take his friend to task; my father gave the best promises for amendment, but his social disposition, his craving for the usual diet of admiration, and more than all, the fiend of gambling, which fully possessed him, made his good resolutions transient, his promises vain. With the quick sensibility peculiar to his temperament, he perceived his power in the brilliant circle to be on the wane. The king married; and the haughty princess of Austria, who became, as queen of England, the head of fashion, looked with harsh eyes on his defects, and with contempt on the affection her royal husband entertained for him. My father felt that his fall was near; but so far from profiting by this last calm before the storm to save himself, he sought to forget anticipated evil by making still greater sacrifices to the deity of pleasure, deceitful and cruel arbiter of his destiny.

The king, who was a man of excellent dispositions, but easily led, had now become a willing disciple of his imperious consort. He was induced to look with extreme disapprobation, and at last with distaste, on my father’s imprudence and follies. It is true that his presence dissipated these clouds; his warm-hearted frankness, brilliant sallies, and confiding demeanour were irresistible: it was only when at a distance, while still renewed tales of his errors were poured into his royal friend’s ear, that he lost his influence. The queen’s dextrous management was employed to prolong these absences, and gather together accusations. At length the king was brought to see in him a source of perpetual disquiet, knowing that he should pay for the short-lived pleasure of his society by tedious homilies, and more painful narrations of excesses, the truth of which he could not disprove. The result was, that he would make one more attempt to reclaim him, and in case of ill success, cast him off for ever.

Such a scene must have been one of deepest interest and high-wrought passion. A powerful king, conspicuous for a goodness which had heretofore made him meek, and now lofty in his admonitions, with alternate entreaty and reproof, besought his friend to attend to his real interests, resolutely to avoid those fascinations which in fact were fast deserting him, and to spend his great powers on a worthy field, in which he, his sovereign, would be his prop, his stay, and his pioneer. My father felt this kindness; for a moment ambitious dreams floated before him; and he thought that it would be well to exchange his present pursuits for nobler duties. With sincerity and fervour he gave the required promise: as a pledge of continued favour, he received from his royal master a sum of money to defray pressing debts, and enable him to enter under good auspices his new career. That very night, while yet full of gratitude and good resolves, this whole sum, and its amount doubled, was lost at the gaming-table. In his desire to repair his first losses, my father risked double stakes, and thus incurred a debt of honour he was wholly unable to pay. Ashamed to apply again to the king, he turned his back upon London, its false delights and clinging miseries; and, with poverty for his sole companion, buried himself in solitude among the hills and lakes of Cumberland. His wit, his bon mots, the record of his personal attractions, fascinating manners, and social talents, were long remembered and repeated from mouth to mouth. Ask where now was this favourite of fashion, this companion of the noble, this excelling beam, which gilt with alien splendour the assemblies of the courtly and the gay – you heard that he was under a cloud, a lost man; not one thought it belonged to him to repay pleasure by real services, or that his long reign of brilliant wit deserved a pension on retiring. The king lamented his absence; he loved to repeat his sayings, relate the adventures they had had together, and exalt his talents – but here ended his reminiscence.

Meanwhile my father, forgotten, could not forget. He repined for the loss of what was more necessary to him than air or food – the excitements of pleasure, the admiration of the noble, the luxurious and polished living of the great. A nervous fever was the consequence; during which he was nursed by the daughter of a poor cottager, under whose roof he lodged. She was lovely, gentle, and, above all, kind to him; nor can it afford astonishment, that the late idol of high-bred beauty should, even in a fallen state, appear a being of an elevated and wondrous nature to the lowly cottage-girl. The attachment between them led to the ill-fated marriage, of which I was the offspring. Notwithstanding the tenderness and sweetness of my mother, her husband still deplored his degraded state. Unaccustomed to industry, he knew not in what way to contribute to the support of his increasing family. Sometimes he thought of applying to the king; pride and shame for a while withheld him; and, before his necessities became so imperious as to compel him to some kind of exertion, he died. For one brief interval before this catastrophe, he looked forward to the future, and contemplated with anguish the desolate situation in which his wife and children would be left. His last effort was a letter to the king, full of touching eloquence, and of occasional flashes of that brilliant spirit which was an integral part of him. He bequeathed his widow and orphans to the friendship of his royal master, and felt satisfied that, by this means, their prosperity was better assured in his death than in his life. This letter was enclosed to the care of a nobleman, who, he did not doubt, would perform the last and inexpensive office of placing it in the king’s own hand.

He died in debt, and his little property was seized immediately by his creditors. My mother, pennyless and burthened with two children, waited week after week, and month after month, in sickening expectation of a reply, which never came. She had no experience beyond her father’s cottage; and the mansion of the lord of the manor was the chiefest type of grandeur she could conceive. During my father’s life, she had been made familiar with the name of royalty and the courtly circle; but such things, ill according with her personal experience, appeared, after the loss of him who gave substance and reality to them, vague and fantastical. If, under any circumstances, she could have acquired sufficient courage to address the noble persons mentioned by her husband, the ill success of his own application caused her to banish the idea. She saw therefore no escape from dire penury: perpetual care, joined to sorrow for the loss of the wondrous being, whom she continued to contemplate with ardent admiration, hard labour, and naturally delicate health, at length released her from the sad continuity of want and misery.

The condition of her orphan children was peculiarly desolate. Her own father had been an emigrant from another part of the country, and had died long since: they had no one relation to take them by the hand; they were outcasts, paupers, unfriended beings, to whom the most scanty pittance was a matter of favour, and who were treated merely as children of peasants, yet poorer than the poorest, who, dying, had left them, a thankless bequest, to the close-handed charity of the land.

I, the elder of the two, was five years old when my mother died. A remembrance of the discourses of my parents, and the communications which my mother endeavoured to impress upon me concerning my father’s friends, in slight hope that I might one day derive benefit from the knowledge, floated like an indistinct dream through my brain. I conceived that I was different and superior to my protectors and companions, but I knew not how or wherefore. The sense of injury, associated with the name of king and noble, clung to me; but I could draw no conclusions from such feelings, to serve as a guide to action. My first real knowledge of myself was as an unprotected orphan among the valleys and fells of Cumberland. I was in the service of a farmer; and with crook in hand, my dog at my side, I shepherded a numerous flock on the near uplands. I cannot say much in praise of such a life; and its pains far exceeded its pleasures. There was freedom in it, a companionship with nature, and a reckless loneliness; but these, romantic as they were, did not accord with the love of action and desire of human sympathy, characteristic of youth. Neither the care of my flock, nor the change of seasons, were sufficient to tame my eager spirit; my out-door life and unemployed time were the temptations that led me early into lawless habits. I associated with others friendless like myself; I formed them into a band, I was their chief and captain. All shepherd-boys alike, while our flocks were spread over the pastures, we schemed and executed many a mischievous prank, which drew on us the anger and revenge of the rustics. I was the leader and protector of my comrades, and as I became distinguished among them, their misdeeds were usually visited upon me. But while I endured punishment and pain in their defence with the spirit of an hero, I claimed as my reward their praise and obedience.

In such a school my disposition became rugged, but firm. The appetite for admiration and small capacity for self-controul which I inherited from my father, nursed by adversity, made me daring and reckless. I was rough as the elements, and unlearned as the animals I tended. I often compared myself to them, and finding that my chief superiority consisted in power, I soon persuaded myself that it was in power only that I was inferior to the chiefest potentates of the earth. Thus untaught in refined philosophy, and pursued by a restless feeling of degradation from my true station in society, I wandered among the hills of civilized England as uncouth a savage as the wolf-bred founder of old Rome. I owned but one law, it was that of the strongest, and my greatest deed of virtue was never to submit.

Yet let me a little retract from this sentence I have passed on myself. My mother, when dying, had, in addition to her other half-forgotten and misapplied lessons, committed, with solemn exhortation, her other child to my fraternal guardianship; and this one duty I performed to the best of my ability, with all the zeal and affection of which my nature was capable. My sister was three years younger than myself; I had nursed her as an infant, and when the difference of our sexes, by giving us various occupations, in a great measure divided us, yet she continued to be the object of my careful love. Orphans, in the fullest sense of the term, we were poorest among the poor, and despised among the unhonoured. If my daring and courage obtained for me a kind of respectful aversion, her youth and sex, since they did not excite tenderness, by proving her to be weak, were the causes of numberless mortifications to her; and her own disposition was not so constituted as to diminish the evil effects of her lowly station.

She was a singular being, and, like me, inherited much of the peculiar disposition of our father. Her countenance was all expression; her eyes were not dark, but impenetrably deep; you seemed to discover space after space in their intellectual glance, and to feel that the soul which was their soul, comprehended an universe of thought in its ken. She was pale and fair, and her golden hair clustered on her temples, contrasting its rich hue with the living marble beneath. Her coarse peasant-dress, little consonant apparently with the refinement of feeling which her face expressed, yet in a strange manner accorded with it. She was like one of Guido’s saints, with heaven in her heart and in her look, so that when you saw her you only thought of that within, and costume and even feature were secondary to the mind that beamed in her countenance.

Yet though lovely and full of noble feeling, my poor Perdita (for this was the fanciful name my sister had received from her dying parent), was not altogether saintly in her disposition. Her manners were cold and repulsive. If she had been nurtured by those who had regarded her with affection, she might have been different; but unloved and neglected, she repaid want of kindness with distrust and silence. She was submissive to those who held authority over her, but a perpetual cloud dwelt on her brow; she looked as if she expected enmity from everyone who approached her, and her actions were instigated by the same feeling. All the time she could command she spent in solitude. She would ramble to the most unfrequented places, and scale dangerous heights, that in those unvisited spots she might wrap herself in loneliness. Often she passed whole hours walking up and down the paths of the woods; she wove garlands of flowers and ivy, or watched the flickering of the shadows and glancing of the leaves; sometimes she sat beside a stream, and as her thoughts paused, threw flowers or pebbles into the waters, watching how those swam and these sank; or she would set afloat boats formed of bark of trees or leaves, with a feather for a sail, and intensely watch the navigation of her craft among the rapids and shallows of the brook. Meanwhile her active fancy wove a thousand combinations; she dreamt “of moving accidents by flood and field”—she lost herself delightedly in these self-created wanderings, and returned with unwilling spirit to the dull detail of common life. Poverty was the cloud that veiled her excellencies, and all that was good in her seemed about to perish from want of the genial dew of affection. She had not even the same advantage as I in the recollection of her parents; she clung to me, her brother, as her only friend, but her alliance with me completed the distaste that her protectors felt for her; and every error was magnified by them into crimes. If she had been bred in that sphere of life to which by inheritance the delicate framework of her mind and person was adapted, she would have been the object almost of adoration, for her virtues were as eminent as her defects. All the genius that ennobled the blood of her father illustrated hers; a generous tide flowed in her veins; artifice, envy, or meanness, were at the antipodes of her nature; her countenance, when enlightened by amiable feeling, might have belonged to a queen of nations; her eyes were bright; her look fearless.

Although by our situation and dispositions we were almost equally cut off from the usual forms of social intercourse, we formed a strong contrast to each other. I always required the stimulants of companionship and applause. Perdita was all-sufficient to herself. Notwithstanding my lawless habits, my disposition was sociable, hers recluse. My life was spent among tangible realities, hers was a dream. I might be said even to love my enemies, since by exciting me they in a sort bestowed happiness upon me; Perdita almost disliked her friends, for they interfered with her visionary moods. All my feelings, even of exultation and triumph, were changed to bitterness, if unparticipated; Perdita, even in joy, fled to loneliness, and could go on from day to day, neither expressing her emotions, nor seeking a fellow-feeling in another mind. Nay, she could love and dwell with tenderness on the look and voice of her friend, while her demeanour expressed the coldest reserve. A sensation with her became a sentiment, and she never spoke until she had mingled her perceptions of outward objects with others which were the native growth of her own mind. She was like a fruitful soil that imbibed the airs and dews of heaven, and gave them forth again to light in loveliest forms of fruits and flowers; but then she was often dark and rugged as that soil, raked up, and new sown with unseen seed.