Laura Rowland - Bedlam - The Further Secret Adventures of Charlotte Bronte

“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 Bronte,” 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 Bronte,” 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 Bronte,” 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?”

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.”