“It’s twenty-seven feet high and weighs four tons,” George said.
At the center, a column like a splinter from an iceberg glittered with rainbow iridescence. Water cascaded into an enormous, overflowing crystal basin. As we moved on, George said to me, “Queen Victoria and Prince Albert held a grand opening ceremony for the Great Exhibition. I wish you could have come to that. But maybe you’ll see them here some other time. I hear they plan to make frequent appearances.”
I did not tell him that I was acquainted with the royal couple. They had played a part in my secret adventures of 1848.
The Smiths and I explored the displays arranged in courts beneath the upper galleries. Each was dedicated to a particular nation or subject. We saw silk carpets, shawls, and a model of a snake charmer in the Indian Pavilion. The United States Pavilion contained a nude statue of a Greek slave that caused much furor. In the Medieval Court we inspected an altar, vestments, candelabra, and chalices. We wandered among railway locomotives, hydraulic presses, farm and mill machinery, and a zinc Amazon on horseback. We saw vases made of human hair and of mutton fat. The grandeur of the Great Exhibition did not lie in one thing, but in the unique assemblage of all things, arranged with colorful, marvelous power of effect.
“What do you think?” George asked me as we listened to a bellows that played “God Save the Queen.”
“It’s very fine, gorgeous, animated, and bewildering,” I said.
He smiled and agreed. “They say that thirty thousand people visit every day. Some come back again and again.”
One would have to, in order to see everything. Three hours later, we had barely scratched the Great Exhibition’s surface. Everything began to blur together. The only thing that stood out in my mind was a model of a steam-powered airship-a hot air balloon combined with a boiler, engine, and propeller. Overwhelmed and fatigued by so much ingenuity, I was glad to sit in the refreshment court and eat strawberry ice. Even gladder was I to visit what I considered the most wonderful attraction of all-the “retiring rooms,” the first public conveniences in Britain. A penny bought me a clean seat in a water closet, a towel, a comb, and a shoeshine.
I was also glad for a few moments alone, to think. Perhaps it was too big a coincidence that Slade should have been in Bedlam on the day I happened by. Perhaps the man I’d seen wasn’t he. But I firmly believe that coincidences do occur. One could call them fate. It was fate when Jane Eyre was rescued by her long-lost cousins after she ran away from Mr. Rochester. Fate had brought Slade and me together the first time. I realized then that I could not help believing that the madman in Bedlam was Slade, and that fate had brought us together again.
As I walked through the park to meet the Smiths, I heard someone call, “Miss Bronte!” It was a man perhaps twenty-eight years old, brown-haired, dressed in a brown coat and trousers. He hurried up to me, smiling radiantly.
“It is Miss Charlotte Bronte, the authoress, isn’t it?” he said.
“It is,” I said warily. I was often recognized by strangers who’d read Jane Eyre, but it usually happened at literary gatherings or in Yorkshire, where everyone knew everyone else. It had never happened in a public place in London. “Have we met?”
“We shook hands after Mr. Thackeray’s lecture last night.”
I took a closer look at him. He had pink, boyish features, a slight build, and a habit of tilting his head. His eyes were large, brown, protuberant, and shining with earnestness. His clothing was neat and clean, but frayed at the collar and cuffs, his shoes polished but worn. He didn’t look familiar, but there had been such a big crowd at the salon, I could easily have forgotten him. “Well, it’s a pleasure to see you again, Mr…?”
“Oliver Heald.” Seizing my hand in both of his, he pumped it vigorously. His hands were warm and moist. “I’m so glad we ran into each other! I’ve been so wanting a chance to talk to you. I love Jane Eyre. I’ve read it ten times. It’s my favorite book.”
He held my hand too long. He stood too close, leaning toward me, his earnest brown eyes gazing into my face. As I stammered my thanks, I backed away, but he followed.
“I can’t wait to tell everyone at school that I met you.” Mr. Heald added, “I teach geography.” That he was a teacher didn’t surprise me. His diction was that of an educated man, and I could imagine him with a class of boys who did mocking imitations of him. “I heard that you were once a teacher, too. Is it so?”
“Yes.”
“But you went on to become a famous authoress.” He confided, “I write a little, too. Were you also a governess?” When I admitted as much, he seemed gratified. “I hope you’ll pardon me for saying that you are exactly as I pictured Jane Eyre.”
Too many people have likened me to her. Although I am aware of the resemblances, it embarrasses me. I made polite, modest disclaimers as I sought a chance to escape.
“You are unmarried?” Mr. Heald inquired.
I owned that I was, although my spinsterhood is a tender subject that I don’t care to discuss. People assume that it is due to my plain appearance. They don’t know that I have turned down four marriage proposals, including Slade’s. I was beginning to be annoyed by Mr. Heald.
He greeted my admission with delight. “I, too, am unattached.”
This conversation was going in a direction that I did not like. “Sir, it’s been a pleasure speaking with you, but my friends are waiting for me. I must go now.”
When I joined the Smiths at our carriage, I forgot Mr. Heald. He was a chance encounter of no significance-or so I believed at the time. My thoughts returned to John Slade.
I knew I must go back to Bedlam, for another look at that lunatic.
4
As I write my story, I become ever more aware that there is much more to it than what I personally experienced. The whole of it includes crucial dimensions that I can never know as intimately as do the people who shaped them. I can only conjecture at the scenery, sensations, and emotions involved. That is the limitation of writing from the first-person point of view, as I did when I wrote Jane Eyre. The characters other than Jane, the narrator, could be portrayed only as she saw them. They depended on her to bear witness to their actions and feelings and bring them to life. I faced the same problem when I penned the story of my adventures of 1848. Many things important to understanding the big picture happened to people besides myself; yet I am the sole narrator. My solution was to recreate the story’s hidden dimensions using my imagination, my knowledge of the facts, and my skill as an author. I will employ the same strategy now.
Reader, forgive me if I take liberties with the details. Be assured that my narrative captures the essential truth. Here I will begin with the story of the man around whom my story revolves.
The secret adventures of John Slade
1848 December. A blizzard assailed Moscow. Its rooftops, domes, turrets, and spires disappeared into the swirling white sky. Snow from earlier falls mounded the walls of the buildings, lay piled along every street. Sleighs zoomed through the city, their runners creaking, their harnesses jingling, their horses blowing jets of vapor out of ice-caked nostrils.
John Slade leaned into the wind that blew cold, stinging snowflakes against his face as he strode along Tverskaya Street. After two months in Moscow, he blended perfectly with the Russians. He appeared to be one among hundreds of men muffled in fur-lined greatcoat, hat, and boots. No one could tell he was English. After days spent exploring the city and striking up conversations with strangers, he had learned where to find the people he wanted to meet.