As we rode through Hyde Park Gardens, Mr. Thackeray said, “Which play have you chosen for our enjoyment, Miss Brontë?”
“The Wildwood Affair,” I said.
“I’ve not heard of that one,” Mrs. Brookfield said.
“At which theater is it playing?” Mrs. Crowe asked.
“The Royal Pavilion,” I said.
Mrs. Brookfield said, “Where, pray tell, is that?”
“In Whitechapel.” I could tell that neither Mrs. Brookfield nor Mrs. Crowe wanted to attend a play not endorsed by the critics, in a poor part of town. I confess that I was a little amused by their discomfiture. They turned entreatingly to Mr. Thackeray.
Mr. Thackeray said, “I told Miss Brontë that she could choose the play, and a man must keep his promises.”
The ladies conceded with good grace. They chatted politely with me until we reached Whitechapel. The bright Saturday afternoon bustle was gone. Harlots posed under the flickering gas lamps along the high street and called to passing men. Drunkards filled gin palaces, from which spilled rowdy laughter and discordant music. The crowds were still thick around the stalls, but new attractions had sprung up, like plants that only bloom at night. Curtained enclosures housed a freak show, whose signs advertised hairy men and hairless dogs, gorillas and giants, Aztecs and bearded women. Excitement and danger laced the foul, smoky air. The back streets were dark, fearsome tunnels.
It wasn’t hard to believe that a murderer had stabbed and mutilated his victims there.
Mrs. Brookfield murmured, “My heavens.” Mrs. Crowe’s huge eyes grew huger with fright. Even Mr. Thackeray looked uncertain. The carriage stopped outside the Royal Pavilion Theater. With its Grecian columns and dingy white plaster façade, it resembled a ruined classical temple. The people who poured in through the door hailed from the lower classes, the men in laborers’ clothes, the women in cheap finery. When we alit from the carriage, a crowd gathered to watch. We were ridiculously overdressed. Boys jeered and whistled at us. We walked toward the theater, surrounded by coarse, staring faces, jostled by the other patrons. Mr. Thackeray nodded, smiled, and bowed as if making an appearance at Buckingham Palace. Mrs. Brookfield and Mrs. Crowe cringed. I searched the crowd for Slade, but in vain.
At the ticket booth, Mr. Thackeray bought four seats in front boxes. Inside, the shabby auditorium was dimly lit by guttering lamps around the stage. Our shoes stuck to the floor as we walked down the aisle. Most of the seats were already filled. A roar of conversation and laughter resounded up to the galleries. The air smelled of gas, tobacco smoke, urine, and the crowd’s breath, which reeked of beer, onions, and bad teeth. People stared and pointed at us as we took our seats. We were the center of attention until the play started.
The first scene featured a miserly old man who owned a mill in a fictional town called Wildwood. Sporting a black mustache and hat, he cut the wages of his workers; he strutted, sneered, and counted piles of cash. He was a ludicrous caricature, whom the audience booed with great gusto. Mr. Thackeray chuckled tolerantly. Mrs. Brookfield and Mrs. Crowe looked bored.
When the mill owner called for his wife, an expectant hush settled over the audience. A young woman walked out onto the stage. She was as slim as a wraith, dressed in a white, diaphanous gown that clung to her full breasts. Black, curling hair streamed down her back. Her features were distinctly Slavic, her deep-set eyes aglow with passion. The portrait on the playbill had not done her beauty justice. All gazes were riveted on her. Whispers of “Katerina the Great” swept the audience. Someone murmured, “A Jewess from Russia.” I’d never seen her before, but I was so shocked by recognition that I uttered a cry I couldn’t stifle. For the second time since I’d arrived in London, the dead had been resurrected. Katerina the Great was my sister Emily.
She did not resemble Emily in physical appearance, but rather in spirit. She burned with the same inner fire. She looked as I imagine Emily would have, had she traveled to Heaven and Hell and returned.
Katerina spoke her first line: “Here I am, Husband.”
They were ordinary words, not the stuff of great playwriting, but Katerina imbued them with her vibrant spirit. Her deep voice, free of any foreign accent, filled the theater. Such power had Emily’s voice possessed. Emily rarely spoke, but when she did, one was compelled to listen. Now the audience listened, with all ears. We watched with fascination and horror as the mill owner made Katerina wait on him at dinner as if she were a slave. When she accidentally spilled the soup, he threw the bowl at her. Because the roast was overcooked, he slapped her face. Then he embraced her with cruel, wanton lust. Katerina endured her humiliation with the dignity of a saint. Alone at night, she sang a lament that would break the hardest heart. I could feel the audience’s sympathy toward her and its hatred of her husband. But my emotions were aroused for another reason.
Thus had Emily endured the trials of her life. She had been happy only at home, and the occasions she’d been compelled to leave Haworth had caused her much anguish. When she’d accompanied me to school in Belgium, when she’d ventured out into the world to assist me during the course of my adventures of 1848, she had displayed the same courage as Katerina did now. I could hardly bear to watch and remember.
The story took a dramatic turn when the mill owner’s son, a handsome young soldier named Richard, arrived home from the war against Napoleon. Richard and Katerina fell in love and wanted to marry; but they could not, as long as the mill owner was alive. Hence, they began plotting his murder. The story owed something to the Greek myth of Phaedra, and more to the tales in the newspapers that sold for a penny. The actor who played Richard was a rank amateur, but Katerina’s acting raised the cheap, sordid drama to the very level of Shakespeare. One moment she was as pure and selfless as a nun, resisting temptation; the next, a brazen seductress. She enchanted.
“Not bad at all,” was Mr. Thackeray’s muttered opinion.
Mrs. Brookfield sniffed. “I think her exceedingly vulgar.”
Mrs. Crowe beheld Katerina with terrified awe. “I can sense the spirit in her, and an evil spirit it is,” she whispered. “It’s the very Devil!”
I sat on the edge of my seat as Richard shot the mill owner. Having stolen the dead man’s money, the lovers fled. The police discovered them hiding at an inn. Richard was killed while attempting to escape. Katerina was arrested and tried for her husband’s murder. During the trial, the audience hissed at every witness who testified against Katerina. They booed the jury that found her guilty. When the judge sentenced Katerina to death, they hurled beer bottles. Standing on the gallows, Katerina said her final lines.
“I confess that I murdered my husband.” Her voice was tuned to a note of torment. “I am guilty in deed, but not in spirit. Evil must be repaid by evil, an eye exacted for an eye. So says the Bible.” Katerina’s face contorted into a demonic mask. “Vengeance is mine.”
Her words sent shivers through me: she was hate and madness incarnate. Katerina said, “God is my ultimate judge.” Her expression altered; she looked as holy as an angel. “I shall go to meet Him with the courage of the innocent.”
The hangman placed the noose around her neck. An awful thump echoed in the theater. By some magic of stagecraft, Katerina hung from the rope, her limp body supported by no means I could see. The curtain fell. The audience rose up from its seats in a frenzy of applause. I was on my feet, with tears running down my face, clapping so hard that my hands hurt. The spell Katerina had cast was shattered, and the effect was almost unbearably cathartic. The curtain rose. The actors marched out to take their bows. When Katerina appeared, the audience went wilder. Mr. Thackeray yelled, “Brava! Brava!”
Mrs. Crowe cried, “I feel the spirits!” and fainted in Mrs. Brookfield’s arms.
Mrs. Brookfield looked shaken in spite of herself. “Take us out of here, William,” she begged Mr. Thackeray.
The house lights came on; the audience headed for the exit. I swam against the tide, fighting my way toward the stage: I
must speak to Katerina. I went through a door that led backstage and found myself in a dim passage. Light from a room near the end beckoned me. I walked to the threshold. Inside the room, Katerina sat at her dressing table. Her back was to me, but I could see her reflection in the mirror. She was wiping the makeup off her face. I realized that she was older than I’d thought—perhaps my own age.
Her deep, black eyes blazed as she saw me. “No one is allowed to disturb me after a performance. Get out.” I heard in her voice the Russian accent she’d suppressed while on stage. When I didn’t move, she demanded, “Who are you?”
I could still see a shade of Emily in her. “My name is Charlotte Brontë,” I stammered.
“What do you want?”
“I’m looking for someone,” I said. “A mutual friend, I believe.”
Katerina turned and regarded me with surprise, as if she thought the likes of me couldn’t possibly have any acquaintances in common with the likes of her. “Who is it?”
“His name is John Slade. But he may also call himself Josef Typinski.”
“I don’t know anyone by either of those names.” Katerina spoke indifferently, but I had seen what a talented actress she was. “What makes you think I know your friend?”
“He had a playbill with your picture on it in his room.”
“Those playbills are scattered all over London. Many men keep them because they admire me. It doesn’t mean I know them.”
“But you are from Russia,” I persisted. “John Slade went to Russia three years ago. Perhaps you met him there?”
Her eyes darkened at the mention of her native country. “I came to England ten years ago, to escape the persecution of the Jews,” she said coldly. “I sang on the streets for a living, until I was discovered by the director of the Royal Pavilion Theater. I have never been back to Russia. I have wiped its dirt off my feet. I don’t know John Slade. If you don’t leave this instant, I’ll have you thrown out.”
There seemed no point in staying. I apologized for bothering Katerina, then exited the theater by a back door. I trudged up an alley to the high street, where I found Mr. Thackeray and his friends.
“Ah, Miss Brontë,” he said. “I thought we’d lost you.”
Mrs. Brookfield supported the pale, quaking Mrs. Crowe. “If only we could get a carriage.”
That proved difficult. Carriages for hire were snapped up by other folk in the crowd. We waited for half an hour, my companions impatient and I depressed because my search for Slade was at a dead end. Then I heard someone shout, “Here comes Katerina the Great!”
Out of the alley emerged Katerina, with a man at her side. She wore a crimson, hooded cloak. She walked down a path lined by gawkers, as regally poised as if she were the Queen. But I hardly noticed her. The man captured all my attention.
It was Slade.
Dressed in an elegant black evening suit, brilliant white shirt, and black top hat, he appeared miraculously restored to sanity. His face was clean-shaven, his hair neatly trimmed and combed; his gray eyes were as clear as when I’d said goodbye to him three years ago. My breath came hard and fast and my heart clamored as I gazed upon my long-lost love. My emotions skyrocketed from misery to joy.
“John Slade!” I called.
He didn’t react. I hurried forward and stood before him and Katerina. They stopped. Both eyed me, she with annoyance, he with mild puzzlement.
“I beg your pardon, madam?” he said politely.
His accent was as Russian as Katerina’s. That didn’t surprise me; in order to spy in Russia, he would have had to learn the language. What surprised me was the lack of recognition he showed toward me.
“It’s Charlotte Brontë,” I said.
He flicked his gaze over my person. His eyes showed no recollection of me, or of the fact that three years ago he’d asked me to marry him. As I stood stunned, he said, “Madam, I’m afraid you’ve mistaken me for someone else.”
He led Katerina to a carriage, helped her in, then sat beside her. As the carriage moved off, I caught a last glimpse of them through the window. Slade turned away from me, toward Katerina. He put his arm around her and kissed her passionately.
Then the carriage was gone, and I was left alone with my companions. Mr. Thackeray said, “What was that all about?”
8
THE SECRET ADVENTURES OF JOHN SLADE
1849 March. Winter gradually released its frosty grip on Moscow. Snow fouled by ashes and manure gradually thawed. People filled the city streets, basking in the weak sunlight. They savored the warming air and dreamed of the long-awaited spring.
In the Presnya quarter, wagons laden with coal rattled past factories whose machinery clanged, pounded, and roared incessantly. Smoke and steam issued from a bathhouse near the workers’ barracks. John Slade entered, stripped off his clothes in the changing room, then lay on a marble table in a bath chamber. An attendant sprinkled him with boiling water, lathered him with soap, and scrubbed him down. Slade endured a vigorous massage, then a whipping with a broom made of twigs, to stimulate blood circulation. He rinsed himself in a pool of ice-cold water, then went to the steam room. He sat on a bench, one towel draped over his lap, another over his head and shoulders to protect him from hot clouds of steam, and he waited.
The three Russian intellectuals joined him, one at a time. These days they were careful not to be seen together in public. They met at different places where nobody knew them. When they were all seated, Peter the poet said, “Bad news, comrades. There was a raid on a meeting last night. Sasha, Ilya, and Boris were arrested.”
Fyodor the journalist cursed. Alexander the professor shook his head. Arrests were ever more frequent; the Third Section had intensified surveillance on the dissidents. Slade himself had had a policeman following him around since January, when he’d published an article in a magazine that advocated revolution. He had easily spotted his shadow, and he easily managed to shake it off when he wanted. The rest of the time he led the policeman around town, pretending not to know he was there, keeping him on the string for future use.
“I had a visit from the Third Section last week,” Fyodor said, pale despite the heat. “Three of them came to my rooms. They offered me a job writing propaganda for the Tsar. They said that if I refuse, I’ll be sent to Siberia.”
Banishment to that cold, remote wasteland was a common punishment for opposing the Tsar’s regime. Wagons full of exiles departed from Moscow daily.
“I have bad news, too,” Alexander said. “Today I lost my post at the university. The Third Section convinced the administration that I am a bad influence on my students.”
He removed his spectacles and wiped sweat, or tears, from his eyes. Peter said, “They’re eliminating us one after another! We have to do something!”
“We’ll call a special meeting,” Fyodor said. “We’ll talk about the problem.”
Peter jeered. “Talk has gotten us nowhere.”
“He’s right.” Slade hid his reluctance to speak behind the fiery passion for revolt that was part of his disguise. “It’s time to take action.”
Peter eagerly took the bait. “Yes! We must strike back!” He pounded his fist into his palm. “We must fight fire with fire!”
“But we swore that we would never resort to violence,” Fyodor said. “To do so would make us no better than our enemies.” But Slade could see that he was ready to be persuaded.
“They’ve given us no choice!” Peter persisted.
“This is war,” Slade said. “In war, no holds are barred.”
Even as Fyodor nodded, Alexander said, “How can we fight a war against the Tsar’s regime? It is too strong. We are so few, so weak, and so unorganized. Besides, we don’t have enough guns.”
Here it was, the opportunity for which Slade had been laying the groundwork ever since he’d met Peter, Fyodor, and Alexander. Here the Russians were, at the point toward which Slade had been covertly, carefully urging them. Triumph excited him at the same time he felt ashamed
of how easy it had been. Manipulation was one of his best talents as a spy, one reason he’d drawn this assignment. But never had he been so loath to use it on trusting, unsuspecting subjects.
Slade spoke quickly before his companions, or he himself, could lose heart. “There are acts of war that can be carried out by a few men. And I own a gun. All we need is one.”
Understanding dawned on the Russians’ faces. “You mean assassination,” Fyodor said.
Slade held up his empty palms: What else is left?
“I’m all for it,” Peter declared.
Shocked by the turn the conversation had taken, Alexander said, “If you’re thinking of assassinating the Tsar, that’s impossible. We can’t get to him in the Kremlin.”
“Not the Tsar,” Slade said. “Someone who is not so well guarded but just as much our enemy. Someone whose murder would strike terror into the heart of the regime and inspire the intellectuals, the workers, and the peasants to unite and rise up against the Tsar.”
“Prince Alexis Orlov,” Fyodor suggested. “The Chief of the Third Section.”
Orlov was widely feared and hated. He was exactly the target Slade had in mind.
Fyodor and Peter, excited by their own audacity, set out to convince Alexander that they must assassinate the prince. After much argument, he gave in. “But how should we go about it? We are inexperienced in these matters.”
The three Russians looked to Slade. He felt his heart sink under a guilt as heavy and cold as the snow that had buried Moscow all winter. He reminded himself that his loyalty was not to his Russian friends; his duty lay elsewhere.
“I have a plan,” Slade said. “Listen.”
9
A RECURRING NIGHTMARE OFTEN DISTURBS MY SLEEP. I DREAM that I encounter persons who are dear to me, only to have them greet me with cold indifference. Often they are my two elder sisters, Maria and Elizabeth, who died twenty-five years ago. In that version of the dream, I am at the boarding school where they both fell fatally ill with consumption. The headmistress informs me that I have visitors. When I go to the drawing room, I find Maria and Elizabeth. How overjoyed I am to discover that they are alive! But Maria and Elizabeth are much altered from how I remember them. They are elegant and haughty. They have forgotten everything that once mattered to us. I am crushed. I awaken relieved that it was only a dream.
Bedlam: The Further Secret Adventures of Charlotte Brontë Page 6