Michael Cox (25 page)

I
Mr Lazarus

T
HE BOOK
that Mr Thornhaugh had sent contained the privately printed recollections of a London shipping-agent, the aforementioned Mr John Lazarus, of Billiter Street, who had spent several years in the Atlantic wine trade.
This gentleman was unknown to me, the connexion of his profession with what little Madame had told me of my father unclear. Questions and uncertainties began to jostle in my head; but when I turned to the first chapter indicated for my attention by Mr Thornhaugh, I became instantly gripped.
There, on the very first page, was my father’s name:
Edwin Gorst
.
To have his name printed there, for all the world to see, sent a thrill through me. I had never seen it set down anywhere, except on that shadowed slab of stone in the Cemetery of St-Vincent. I remembered sometimes as a child having the curious notion that only three living persons – Madame, Mr Thornhaugh, and myself – remembered that my father had even existed. But of course he had been a man living in the world of men, playing his part – large or small – in the dramas of other people’s lives; he had made friends and acquaintances – perhaps even enemies; and here was Mr John Lazarus to prove it.
To stand on the threshold, as it then seemed, of possessing the knowledge concerning myself, and of the people who had given me life, which I had secretly yearned to possess for so long, was a most solemn moment, and I felt it to be so to my very soul. I sat for some minutes, hardly daring to begin reading, heart beating, apprehensive of what I was about to discover.
For the past hour or more, a wind had been gusting noisily round the eaves; but now it had fallen quite away, and all was deathly silent, as if the great rambling house, and the wide world beyond, of which I knew so little, was – like me – holding its breath.
It is a most singular sensation to eavesdrop on one’s own life. Lacking my own memories of my father, I was now obliged to appropriate those of a complete stranger. Would it not be better to remain in ignorance? Mr Lazarus’s recollections – imperfect and fragmentary as they must be – could claim to be only the dimmest of reflections of the living, breathing being who had once walked the earth as Edwin Gorst. Could they even be trusted?
Thus I held back until, at last, after getting up to lock my door against intrusion, and clearing my throat in a business-like manner, as if I were about to begin conning some piece of work set for me by my tutor, I began to read.
Read? No. I was soon devouring the words before me, like some starving animal who has been tossed a few scraps of meagre sustenance. So sit with me now for a while, as I let Mr John Lazarus, of Billiter Street, City, tell you, in his own words, what I had never known until that late December afternoon: the circumstances by which my father – through the agency of Mr Lazarus – reclaimed his life from certain decline and death; how he met my mother, on the island of Madeira, in the year 1856; and the consequences of their union.

II
From J.S. Lazarus,
My Atlantic Life: Recollections of Portugal, the Canary Islands, the Azores, and the Island of Madeira, during the years 1846 to 1859
*

AFTER ATTENDING MY mother’s funeral, as related in the previous chapter of these recollections, I left English shores once more, in the last week of July 1856, first to undertake some brief business in Madeira, and then to sail on to the Canaries, having affairs to conduct there with my old friend, Señor J—, in Teguise, on the island of Lanzarote.
After only three days, however, I was obliged to take ship back to Madeira; but I did not wish to leave the Canaries without paying a further visit to the English gentleman, Mr Edwin Gorst, to whom I had been introduced the previous year, and for whom, as already recounted, I had been able to do some little service by taking a box of papers to England, which he desired to be placed in the hands of his solicitor for safe-keeping.
If it should seem strange to the little circle of family members, friends, and former colleagues, for whom this book is intended, that I should devote so many words to this gentleman, it is because my acquaintance with him, although brief, was one of the most memorable of my life. I have never forgotten this remarkable individual, and never shall. I therefore make no apology for presenting a full account of that acquaintance (of which I have never spoken, except to my dear departed wife), believing that it may be of interest to my readers in many ways.
Having always been a punctilious diary-keeper, I have every confidence of the accuracy of my record, although I acknowledge that it has been necessary, at many points, to compose my own renderings of conversations, whilst always drawing on my diary for substantiation.

I HAD RETURNED to the Canary Islands on one previous occasion since undertaking the original commission for Mr Gorst, and had made an attempt then to call at his house in the village of Y—, only to find him away from home. I wished, naturally, to assure him that the papers had been safely delivered, as he had requested, and also to inform him that I had been given, in return, a letter from his solicitor, which he had asked me, most particularly, to hand to Mr Gorst in person; but my time was short, and so, being unable to wait more than five minutes, I opened the door of the tiny house in the Calle E—S—, placed the letter, with a short covering note of my own, on a nearby table, and departed.
The next day, however, on board the ship that was to take me back to Madeira, I began to regret that I had not waited a little longer, against Mr Gorst’s return to the house, so that he might have received the letter directly from my hands, as his solicitor had been anxious for him to do. I thus determined that, when next I had occasion to return to the Canaries, in three months’ time, I would make every effort to call again at the house in the Calle E—S—, in order to make myself comfortable that he had indeed found the letter where I had left it.
Mr Gorst had exerted a powerful fascination over me from our first brief meeting, when I had been introduced to him at a small gathering of English residents. I knew nothing of his history, or of why he had come to such a remote place, apparently to live out his days; but I gleaned enough to be convinced that some great calamity had befallen him, requiring a permanent removal from the country of his birth.
At the time when I took possession of the box of papers he wished to place in my temporary charge, he had been living in Y—for only a few months. In appearance, he was exceptionally tall and well-made, with luxuriant moustachios, and a remarkable pair of limpid brown eyes. Altogether, my new acquaintance cut a most striking and imposing figure. (The local people, I later learned, called him
Il emperador inglés
.) He was, besides, a most stimulating conversationalist, exhibiting an unusually wide knowledge of many abstruse subjects.
Yet though he affected a casual vivacity in his manner, it was clear to me from the first that this was but a carapace or mask, intended to cover over a deeply wounded spirit. From time to time, he would display signs of acute nervousness, which sat oddly with his powerful physical presence. His great hands shook as he poured out a glass of wine, or when he passed one of them, as he did frequently, through his long hair, which, whilst I judged him to be perhaps only thirty-five or thirty-six years of age, was receding fast from his temples.
My initial curiosity concerning Mr Gorst – and, although I could not say why, my compassion for his situation – increased as the afternoon wore on, and was roused, in particular, by something he said as he handed over the box of papers that he wished me to take back to England.
He had been speaking fondly, and with great gusto, of old times in London, a city for which he cherished an apparently unbounded affection.
‘It’s the very greatest city on earth,’ he maintained. ‘You cannot imagine how much I miss stepping out of a morning – a bright, sharp, English morning, with the early mist just lifting off the dear old river – and striding down the Strand again, with no particular purpose in view, other than to go where the fancy takes me, and to feel the breath of the great heaving city on my face.’
‘You have a romantic notion of the metropolis,’ I observed with a smile. ‘You speak as though it were a living creature, rather than a thing built by men.’
‘But it
is
a living creature!’ he exclaimed, with a sudden burst of passion. ‘That’s the very thing about it that makes it like no other city. It has a heart that beats, and a soul, too. But I dare say you’re right.’
He fell silent, passed a trembling hand through his hair once more, and turned away to look out of the window at the little patch of dusty earth that separated the back of the house from a dreary desert of black volcanic ash stretching away into the distance.
‘I do have a rather original view of London,’ he admitted, ‘made more so, perhaps, by absence.’
Then he opened a cupboard and brought out a wooden box, on which was affixed a label bearing the name and address of his solicitor.
‘I am placing my life in your hands, Mr Lazarus,’ he said, setting the box down on a table. ‘You will, I know, guard it well, and see it delivered safely to its destination. What remains here is no life at all, only the merest shred of existence, which I pray will not be long sustained; for I am weary of the world, and long to be out of it.’
He spoke these words in an accent of such unmitigated sorrow and regret that my heart was wrenched to hear him.
‘But surely,’ I objected, ‘you cannot say so. You are a young man still – younger than me, at any rate, and I hardly consider
my
life to be over, far from it. Of course I do not know what has brought you here, nor why you choose to stay in such an inhospitable place, and I would not presume to enquire; but you speak as though you were prevented by some force or other from leaving this place. Why can you not seek out a more congenial haven of retirement, if you are set on sequestering yourself from the world?’
‘Because,’ he replied, with a strange light in his eyes, ‘I
am
a prisoner here, despite the appearance of freedom; and the truth is that I am growing sick and dispirited, as any prisoner must who daily contemplates the removal of those simple but infinitely precious liberties that he once took for granted, but which can never more be enjoyed. Yet I cannot, and do not, complain. I am my own gaoler, you see, and remain incarcerated here by the constant exertion of my own will.’
With these strange and – to me – incomprehensible words, he handed me the box of papers, we shook hands, and I took my leave.

I DID NOT see Mr Gorst again until my business with Señor J—required me to sail once more to the Canaries, as I have already described. I found him much changed. His former weight had dropped from him most alarmingly, leaving him thin and stooping, haggard-eyed, with brittle, thinning hair, a sallow complexion, and other unmistakable indications of declining health.
Sitting together in the dusty back-yard of his house, I told him that the box of papers had been safely delivered to his solicitor. To my relief, he confirmed that he had found the letter from that gentleman that I had left for him.
During the course of the ensuing conversation, Mr Gorst confessed that his little store of money had dwindled away almost to nothing. As a result, he had been obliged to support himself as best he could by offering English lessons, and – as pupils were scarce in this volcanic fastness – by becoming a jack-of-all-trades. He said, smiling weakly, that he had surprised himself by discovering a previously unrealized talent for mending fences and painting windows. By such modest shifts, he claimed to earn enough to pay his rent and keep a little food in his cupboard from day to day; but I could see only too clearly that his condition was increasingly desperate, not to say perilous.
Despite our brief acquaintance, and although I could not guess what force – whether that of a tormented conscience, or some debilitating extremity of grief – maintained him in self-enforced exile from his native land, I found it impossible to leave him in this miserable state. It was only too clear that his days were numbered if he remained in his present neglectful way of life; and so, as I was taking my leave, I made a proposal to him, despite having little hope of its being accepted.
Once again, my business required me to spend an extended period on Madeira, an island whose healthful and equable climate would certainly have an immediately beneficial effect on Mr Gorst. If he could be persuaded to join me for the duration of my stay, I considered it possible that he might contemplate residing there permanently; if not, then I had the means to arrange his return to Lanzarote at no cost to himself.
This, then, was my proposal, which I placed before Mr Gorst as we stood in the doorway of his house, shaking hands.
‘Will you give it serious consideration?’ I asked. ‘I can see for myself that your circumstances are not of the best here, and that your means have become – excuse my mentioning them – somewhat straitened. It would, of course, be improper of me to attempt to argue you out of any fixed resolution that you hold to remain here. All I ask is that you do not dismiss my proposition out of hand. Won’t you do that, as a favour from one Englishman to another?’
He smiled, but said nothing; and so I handed him a card on which was printed the address of Señor J—in Teguise, requesting him most earnestly to send word there by the following evening if he wished to take up my offer.
‘I have a charming little villa on Madeira, overlooking the harbour at Funchal,’ I said, ‘where you would be most comfortable, and at complete liberty to come and go, and to do, as you pleased.’
Still he made no reply, but stood regarding the card with a strange intensity of expression. Then he looked up.
‘You are very kind, sir,’ he said quietly, his hands visibly trembling. ‘Kinder than I deserve.’
‘Nonsense,’ I replied. ‘I would regard the arrangement as being entirely in my favour. I’m weary of voyaging about these Atlantic waters on my own; and although I have many old friends on Madeira, I have no English companion there with whom to pass the long evenings. In a word, I would be most grateful for your company – if you are so minded – until it is time for me to leave for England. You’ll send word by tomorrow evening, then, if you wish to join me?’
He nodded, and we parted.
I confess that I had not the least expectation that I would ever hear from Mr Gorst again; but at six o’clock the following evening, a note was delivered to Señor J—’s house in Teguise. I have it yet, and transcribe it here:
MY DEAR MR LAZARUS,—
I am writing, as you kindly invited me to do, to take up yr most generous offer of accompanying you to Madeira.
It is but too true that my present way of going on here has had, & is having, a deleterious effect on my health; & tho’ I have little appetite for life, I find, on considering the matter in the light of yr proposal, & somewhat to my surprise, that I still entertain the natural human aversion for the alternative.
It is therefore with pleasure & gratitude that I look forward to passing a few weeks in yr company on Madeira – time, I hope, that will fortify me to endure the resumption of my life here with something of my former vigour after you have returned to dear old England; for I must own that I feel as weak as a baby at present, & the indefinite prospect of physical toil – which, although undeniably honest, & my sole remaining means of support, is almost more than I can at present bear.
To Madeira, then (which I now recall – with great satisfaction that my memory for these things is not wholly moribund – was the Purpuraria of the Romans). Although it will be but a short respite, it will be a most welcome one.
I must beg yr forgiveness, however, for presuming to impose a condition on my coming with you. I cannot, & will not, speak of my former life in England, nor of why I chose to immolate myself in exile here. That is a closed book, which will never again be opened. We must therefore content ourselves in our conversations with matters of merely general & objective interest. If this is acceptable to you, then I look forward to yr promised communication concerning the practical arrangements for our journey.
I remain, my dear sir, yours most sincerely,
E. GORST
Although I was naturally most curious to know more about my new travelling companion and house-guest, it was impossible not to agree to his condition. Whatever kept Mr Gorst from returning to his native shores, and to those he had left behind, it was a mystery that I must accept might remain forever unfathomed.