In fact he had just been looking over the lyrics of “That’s What Astonishes Me,” made famous by the male impersonator Bessie Bonehill, when on that foggy evening in September he heard the tread of Karl Marx upon the stairs. They greeted each other with a firm handshake, in the English fashion, and Marx apologized for arriving after the customary hour but, on a night such as this … They both employed an agreeable argot of German and English, with the occasional use of Latin and Hebrew terms for an exact or particular sense; that is why certain elusive textures and atmospheres of their conversation must necessarily be lost in an English reproduction. Their meal was simple enough—some cold meat, cheese, bread and bottled beer—and as they ate Marx was describing his failure to make progress on the long epic poem about Limehouse which he had recently begun. Had he not, as a young man, written nothing but poetry? He had even completed the first act of a verse drama when he was still at university.
“What did you call it?” Weil asked him.
“Oulanem.”
“It was in German?”
“Naturally.”
“But it is not a German name. I thought it was perhaps related to Elohim and Hule. Between them they represent the conditions of the fallen world.”
“That never occurred to me at the time. But, you know, when we look for hidden correspondences and signs …”
“Yes. They are everywhere. Even here in Limehouse we can see the tokens of the invisible world.”
“You will forgive me, I know, but I am still more concerned with what is visible and material.” Marx went over to the window, and looked down into the yellow fog. “I know that, to you, all this is considered to be the Klippoth, but these hard dry shells of matter are what we are forced to inhabit.” He could see a woman hurrying down Scofield Street, and there was something about her nervous haste which disturbed him. “Even you,” he said. “Even you have an affection for the lower world. You have a cat.”
Solomon Weil laughed at his friend’s sudden metaphysical leap. “But she lives in her own time, not in mine.”
“Oh, she has a soul?”
“Of course. And when you live as much in the past and in the future as I do, it is good to share lodgings with a creature who exists entirely for the present. It is refreshing. Here, Jessica, come here.” The cat uncurled itself among some scattered books and papers, and slowly advanced towards Weil. “And it impresses my neighbors. They think I am a magician.”
“In a sense, you are.” Marx came back into the room, and resumed his seat by the fireside opposite Weil. “Well, as Boehme taught us, opposition is the source of all friendship. Tell me now. What have you been reading today?”
“You would not believe me if I told you.”
“Oh, you mean some hermetic scroll long hidden from the sight of men?”
“No. I have been reading the song sheets from the music halls. Sometimes I hear them sung in the streets, and they remind me of the old songs of our forefathers. Do you know ‘My Shadow Is My Only Pal’ or ‘When These Old Clothes Were New’? They are wonderful little ditties. Songs of the poor. Songs of longing.”
“If you say so.”
“But there is also an extraordinary gaiety within them. Look at this.” On the front of one sheet was a photograph of Dan Leno dressed as “Widow Twankey, a Lady of the Old School.” He had a vast wig of curled brown hair, a gown that swirled down over his ankles, and he was holding a very large feather in his tightly gloved hands. The expression was at once domineering and pathetic; with his high arched eyebrows, his wide mouth, and his large dark eyes, he looked so droll and yet so desperate that Marx put down the music sheet with something like a frown. Then Solomon Weil took out from a pile of sheets another photograph of Leno beside a song entitled “Isabella with the Loose Umbrella” in which he was dressed as “Sister Anne” in Bluebeard. “He is what they call a screamer,” Weil explained as he placed the sheet neatly back in its place within the pile.
“Yes. I might well scream. It is the Shekhina.”
“Do you believe so? No. It is not the shadow female. It is male and female joined. It is Adam Kadmon. The Universal Man.”
“I see there is no end to your wisdom, Solomon, if you can make a cabbala out of the music hall. No doubt the gas lamps in the gallery become the Sephiroth of your vision.”
“But don’t you understand why they love it so? For them it is so sacred that they talk of the gods and of the pit. I even discovered, quite by chance, that many of these halls and little theaters were once chapels and churches. You were the one who talked of hidden connections, after all.” So Karl Marx and Solomon Weil continued their conversation into the night and, while Jane Quig was being mutilated, the scholars discussed what Weil called the material envelope of the world. “It can assume whatever shape we please to give it. In that respect it resembles the golem. You know of the golem?”
“I have a vague recollection of the old tales, but it has been so long …”
Already Solomon Weil had gone over to his bookcase and taken down a copy of Hartlib’s Knowledge of Sacred Things. “Our ancestors thought of the golem as an homunculus, a material being created by magic, a piece of red clay brought to life in the sorcerer’s laboratory. It is a fearful thing and, according to the ancient legend, it sustains its life by ingesting the spirit or soul of a human being.” He opened a page to the description of this creature, beside a large engraving of a doll or puppet with holes for the eyes and for the mouth. He brought it over to Marx, and then resumed his seat. “Of course we do not have to believe in golems literally. Surely not. That is why I read it in an allegorical sense, with the golem as an emblem of the Klippoth and a shell of degraded matter. But then what do we do? We give it life in our own image. We breathe our own spirit into its shape. And that, don’t you see, is what the visible world must be—a golem of giant size? Do you know Herbert, the cloakroom attendant at the Museum?”
“Of course I know him.”
“Herbert is not a man of any great imagination. I think you would agree with me there?”
“Only in the expectation of tips.”
“He really only understands coats and umbrellas. But the other day our friend told me a curious story. One afternoon he was walking with his wife down Southwark High Street—taking his constitutional, as he put it—when they passed the old almshouses set back from the road there. Now Herbert and his wife happened to glance that way, when both of them glimpsed—just for a moment, you understand—a hooded figure bent over towards the ground. And then it was gone.”
“And what are you going to tell me about Herbert’s story?”
“The figure was there. They did not imagine it. They could not have imagined anything so appropriate to a medieval dwelling.”
“So you, Solomon Weil, are telling me that it was a ghost?”
“Not at all. You and I do not believe in ghosts any more than we believe in golems. It was more interesting than that.”
“Now you are engaging in paradox, like a good Hebrew scholar.”
“The world itself took that form for a moment because it was expected of it. It created that figure in the same way that it creates stars for us—and trees, and stones. It knows what we need, or expect, or dream of, and then it creates such things for us. Do you understand me?”
“No. I do not.” The fog had begun to disperse as they talked, and Marx roused himself from the fireside. “How late it is now,” he said, going over to the window once more. “Even the fog has decided to retire.” They parted with a handshake, and saluted one another, in German, for the last time upon this earth. Marx buttoned up his topcoat as he walked out into the street and looked in vain for a cab; he was passed by one or two inhabitants of the neighborhood, who later remembered the small foreign-looking gentleman with the untrimmed beard.
SIXTEEN
MR. LISTER: Now, Elizabeth. May I call you Elizabeth?
ELIZABETH CREE: I know you are defending me, sir.
MR. LISTER: Tell me,
Elizabeth, what possible reason could you have for murdering your own husband?
ELIZABETH CREE: None, sir. He was a good husband to me.
MR. LISTER: Did he ever beat you, or strike you in any way?
ELIZABETH CREE: No, sir. He was always gentle with me.
MR. LISTER: But you do profit financially from his death, do you not? Tell me about that.
ELIZABETH CREE: There was no life insurance, sir, if that is what you mean. We had an income from the railway shares, which he had inherited from his father. There was also a hosiery business, which we sold.
MR. LISTER: He was a faithful husband?
ELIZABETH CREE: Oh, very faithful.
MR. LISTER: I find that easy to believe when I look at you.
ELIZABETH CREE: I’m sorry, sir? Do you wish me to say something else?
MR. LISTER: If you would oblige me a little, Elizabeth. I would like you to tell the court how you and your husband first met.
SEVENTEEN
I found the Washington just by the old Cremorne Gardens, as Dan Leno had told me. I could hardly have mistaken it: its walls were painted with life-size figures of actors and clowns and acrobats, and I imagined myself as one of the pictures here, sauntering along the fresco with my blue gown and yellow umbrella, singing my own especial song for which the world loved me. But what song could that be?
“You must be giddy Godiva,” someone said behind me. “The maid who was sent to Coventry.” It was my new “uncle,” Tommy Farr, but he no longer had the flash check jacket which had so impressed me. He was wearing a lovely black topcoat, with all its fur trimmings, and a silk hat. He must have seen my look of wonder, because he tipped his hat back a fraction and winked at me. “At the Washington,” he said, “we all have to be a bit of an artiste. It’s not so free and easy. Can you read the English language, dear?”
“Yes, sir. Like a native.” My mother had taught me to do so, with her Jeremiahs and her Jobs and her Isaiahs, and now I could read as well as anyone living; I soon grew tired of spouting her nonsense, though, and read copies of the Woman’s World which a neighbor passed on to me.
Uncle had appreciated my little joke about “a native” and patted me on the shoulder. “Well, read that there, then.”
There was a poster on the wall behind me, and so I turned to it and spoke in clear, firm voice. “At this unequaled establishment—”
“There aren’t any capitals in your voice, dear. Put in the capitals.”
“At this Unequaled Establishment there will appear on Monday the twenty-ninth Miss Celia ‘She Can Be Rather Sultry’ Day. Following the very successful reception of her ditty, ‘Hurrah for the Dog of the Fire Brigade,’ she will be joined for the chorus of that Renowned Confabulation with the Lion Comique himself, the White-Eyed One.”
“I wrote all that myself,” Uncle said. “In the best possible style. I could have been another Hamlet. Or do I mean Shakespeare?” He seemed to be close to tears, and I felt quite alarmed for him. “Alas, poor Celia, I know her well.” He sighed and raised his hat. “She’s an old-timer. She shouldn’t be playing all this blue bag stuff.” His mood then changed abruptly. “Tell me, dear, what does it say at the very bottom of the bill?”
“Tonight. A Benefit for the Friends in Need Philanthropic Society.”
“That’s us, you see. We’re the friends in need. And we’re very philanthropic, if you know what I mean.” He raised his eyebrows like an old-style Harlequin, and took me firmly by the arm. “Let’s perambulate upon the stage.”
We walked into the Washington and, as we passed through the vestibule, I found myself in the most wonderful scene—finer by far than the one in the Craven Street theater. There were so many mirrors and glass lamps all around me that I held on to his arm more tightly. I might have been in a cathedral of light, and I was afraid of losing all sense of myself among this brightness. “That’s a good girl,” he said, patting my hand. “This really takes the bun, doesn’t it?” We walked up some steps and onto the stage itself. It had not been swept, and I glimpsed little pieces of star dust lodged between the wooden boards. Someone had left three chairs and a table here, but they were so brightly painted that they did not resemble any furniture I had ever seen; they looked like children’s toys, and I would have been afraid to sit on them in case they turned into something else. Suddenly I felt myself lifted off my feet and whirled around: Uncle was spinning me faster and faster, until his silk hat dropped off the stage and he dumped me on the painted table. I felt so giddy that I could hardly speak, and looked up at the ropes and the canvas floating above me. “I had to feel the weight of you,” he said, gasping as he clambered from the stage to retrieve his hat. “Just in case I can get you into a rope dance. A spin does you good, anyway. It sends the blood racing, doesn’t it, as the surgeon said to the jockey.”
“Don’t let him chaff yer.” I looked down into the theater and, to my surprise, saw Dan Leno standing at the back. “He can be a terrible one for chaffing the ladies, can’t you, Uncle?”
“That is my way, Dan. But it’s only the way it’s done on the stage.” He seemed abashed in the boy’s presence and I knew, even then, that Dan was the one who mattered in this company. Yet he was such a little slip of a thing—even shorter than I had remembered him from the night before, and with such a wide mouth that he reminded me of a marionette or a juvenile Punch.
“We were talking about you last night,” he said, coming down the aisle with his pert little step. “Are you out of a shop?”
“Sir?”
“Are you not currently engaged in employment? Are you workless?”
“Oh yes, sir.”
“My name is Dan.”
“Yes, Dan.”
“Can you read?”
“That’s just the point I was putting to her myself, Dan.”
“I know what point you would like to put to her, Uncle.” Dan ignored him after that and carried on talking to me in his brisk, intense fashion. “Our prompter ran off with a slangster comique the other day, and sometimes we need a bit of help from that quarter. Do you understand me? Otherwise we might get ballooned off the stage.” I understood well enough that I was being invited to join them, although I had no notion of what a prompter might be. Dan Leno must have seen the delight on my face, because he gave one of those infectious smiles which I came to know so well. “It’s not all lavender,” he said. “You’ll also have to be a general fetch-and-carry kid. A bit of dressing. A bit of this and that. Do you have a neat hand?” He blushed as soon as he had said it, and tried not to look at my large, raw hands. “You can do some play-copying for us, you see. Now let’s have a bit of fun, shall we?” He was wearing an overcoat which almost came down to his ankles, and from one of its many pockets he took out a small exercise book and a pencil which he handed to me with an elaborately low bow. “Write it down,” he said, “as I spoof it.”
He splayed his legs wide on the stage, put his thumbs in the pockets of his waistcoat, and then tweaked an imaginary mustache. “I’ll tell you who I am, Uncle, I’m a recruiting sergeant. The other day I was standing at the corner of the street when I saw you, Uncle, as is your wont.” Then Uncle stood up very straight, as Dan stalked over to him with as much ferocity as if he were eight feet high. “Do you want to be a soldier?”
“I don’t. I’m waiting for a bus.”
“Oh dear! Oh dear! My word! What a life! But it puts me in mind of a very delicate little story concerned with my profession. A fine young fellow came up to me the other day and said, ‘Governor, will I do for a soldier?’ I said, ‘I think so, my boy,’ and walked around him. But then I noticed that he walked round me at the same time. When I got him before the doctor, the medicine man said, ‘Dan, you do find them.’ Then we discovered that he had only got one arm. I never noticed because we were perpetually walking around one another. Well, what a life!”
I wrote all this down as quickly as I possibly could; then, at the end, he jumped down from the stage and stood on tipto
e to look over my shoulder. “That’s a good girl,” he said. “You’re as neat as a shipping clerk. Uncle, will you sing a nice patter for Lizzie, just to see how fast she can go?” I understood now that part of my new employment was in writing down what Dan called “extempore vocalization,” so that anything said “off the cuff” could be used in later performances. Uncle took off his hat and then squatted upon it, just as if he were about to relieve himself. “Now then,” Dan said, very sternly, “none of your blue stuff here. Not in front of the girl. Do your patter song, or get off the stage.” I had never heard such authority in a young man, but Uncle dutifully put on his hat and, with his hands out in front of him, began to sing:
My love was no foolish girl, her age it was two score—
“Did you get that, Lizzie?”
I nodded.
My love was no spinster, she’d been married twice before …
I was a quick study, and I soon caught up with the words when he started repeating the chorus. Dan was obviously delighted by my progress. “How does a pound a week suit you?” he asked me after he had taken my notes and put them back in the pocket of his overcoat. It was as much as my mother and I had ever earned, and I did not quite know what to say. “That’s settled, then. You get your packet from the money-taker at the entrance on Friday nights.”
“He’s very cute in business, is Dan,” Uncle said. “He’s not in the nursery now.”
The Trial of Elizabeth Cree Page 6