Read Online The Trial of Elizabeth Cree by Peter Ackroyd - Free Book Online Page A

Israelite who believed that the English nation represented the lost tribe of Israel. But there was one less predictable element in his library: he also had a passion for the popular theater of London, and had acquired a collection of sheet music from a printer’s in Endell Street which specialized in the newest songs from the halls.
    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 ‘MyShadow 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