“ 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 Bronte 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 facade, 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.