The Trial of Elizabeth Cree (8 page)

“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.

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 tiptoe 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:

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.”

“And never was. What about diggings, Lizzie?” It was clear that I did not understand what he meant. “Do you have a lovely palace to hide in, or only a hole in the ground?”

Now that I felt so transformed, I did not want to return to Lambeth Marsh. And I could see no harm in playing the orphan girl. “I am quite alone in the world, and the landlord will not see his way to letting me stay unless I—share his rooms with him.”

“That’s really rubbing it in. That’s the kind of thing that makes me volcanically mad.” Dan walked around the stage for a moment, and then turned to me. “We’ve got some nice little lodgings in the New Cut. Why don’t you pack up your bag and join us?”

This was a wonderful chance, and of course I seized it at once: “May I?”

“You may.”

“It will take me no more than an hour or so. I have only a very few possessions of my own.”

“Write it down now then. Number 10 at the New Cut. Ask for Austin.”

So all was settled, and I made haste to leave before I discovered that the whole business was some dream of my own. I had just reached the theater entrance when I heard Uncle calling down to Dan. “Couldn’t we put her in a living picture, Dan? Now that Elspeth wants to try the wires?”

There was a moment’s silence. “Too soon, Uncle. Too soon. Anyway she might make a good gagger. You can never tell. She’s got the dial for it.”