Kat Meads
Drama
SYNOPSIS
Under duress/contractually obligated, Emily Dickinson and Emily Brontë appear onstage for a publicity event. Failing to meet the audience’s expectations, they disappoint the crowd, who quickly turn on their idols.
CHARACTERS
HOST/CARNY BARKER: male, drab appearance; exceptionally resonant voice
HECKLER: male, stationed anywhere in audience
EMILY D: petite; pale; dressed entirely in white
EMILY B: tall, thin; dark dress with leg of mutton sleeves; mud on nose and boots
WOMAN IN SECOND ROW
SETTING
The stage as stage. Two oversized portraits of the authors. Podium. Table and two chairs. Two glasses of water.
(Lights up on empty stage. HOST enters, waves/grins at non-existent applause as he crosses to podium, stage left.)
HOST
Good evening, good evening! And welcome, everyone, to this extraordinary, momentous, once-in-a-lifetime event! For here, tonight, on this stage, together, in the flesh, as never before and never again, the uber-reclusive Emily Dickinson of Amherst and equally standoffish Emily Brontë of Haworth will unite to reveal the most intimate details of their supremely cloistered lives. Love! Work! Strife! Ambition!—and who knows what-all?!? The possibilities are endless!
HECKLER
Only if they show up.
HOST
Rest assured, each party’s representative has accepted our terms of engagement and sworn, under threat of legal reprimand, that his client will indeed show up and answer questions. Do bear in mind, however, that the Guidelines for Discussion you received at the door (flaps sheet of paper) serve as a suggestions’ sheet only. The Emilys have been informed they need not confine their remarks to the guideline topics.
HECKLER
So why hand out the list?
(HECKLER noisily rips Guidelines sheet in two, drops pieces.)
HOST
(ignoring HECKLER, to audience at large) Are you as mad, mad, MAD with anticipation as I? Does the very prospect of sharing the same ether with such magnificent, legendary beings make it difficult to hold your water?
(The curtain at the back of the stage balloons.)
HOST (cont.)
My friends! Is the time finally at hand? Are the Emilys already in house? Are we literally on the verge of…
HECKLER
Go on, then!
(A white shoe—visible beneath the curtain.)
HOST
Yes! Yes! Be still my thumping heart!
(EMILY D timidly enters stage left, head down.)
HOST (cont.)
(golf-game-reporter whisper) Our inaugural glimpse of the Maid of Amherst. Virginal white dress. Red hair. Smattering of freckles. Exquisitely neat, tidy and petite. A step so light we scarcely record her progress.
(EMILY D pivots suddenly, exits.)
HOST (cont.)
Miss Dickinson! Miss Dickinson! Come back, come back! Oh, do, please! We beg you!
(EMILY D returns with her dog, represented by the image of a Newfoundland on rollers.)
HOST (cont.)
Ooooo – ahhhh. I didn’t realize… But what an unexpected treat! Celebrity pets! How delightful! Welcome, Miss Dickinson! Welcome to you and your canine! (loudly applauds)
(At such vulgarity, EMILY D averts her face, raises a hand to her cheek as if slapped, scurries to her seat, directs her gaze stage right.)
HECKLER
There’s the one. Where’s the other?
(As if responding to that insult, leading with her chin, EMILY B enters stage right, dragging her dog, the recalcitrant Keeper, represented by the image of a bullmastiff on rollers.)
HOST
(golf-game-reporter whisper) Joining us now, the statuesque Miss Brontë who, it must be said, is less careful in her toilette than Miss Dickinson. Those limp petticoats! Those muddy boots!
(As EMILY B takes her seat, EMILY D dips sideways in reverential swoon. EMILY B snaps her fingers, forces Keeper flat.
EMILY D
(to EMILY B, visibly trembling) Forgive me if I seem frightened. I never see strangers and hardly know what I say.
EMILY B
It is not absolutely necessary to speak. With Charlotte, in Brussels, I sat in drawing room after drawing room and made not a sound.
EMILY D
(brightening in agreement) A constant interchange wastes thought and feeling. And then we are obliged to repair and renew.
EMILY B
There is nothing cowardly in retreat.
HOST
(to the audience, conspiratorially) We have now heard their voices. We can now boast to anyone: we have seen AND heard the Emilys!
(Their tête-à-tête interrupted, both authors fall silent: EMILY D’s silence is resigned; EMILY B’s is sullen. EMILY B tears a sprig of heather from her hair; EMILY D recommences trembling.)
HECKLER
Affected!
(The EMILY(s) affect not to hear. HOST flaps his Guidelines sheet at them until, with extreme distaste, both pick up copies of same from the table, read.)
HOST
(to audience) The questions put before Misses Brontë and Dickinson represent a compilation of need-to-know demands from scholars, readers and fans. To wit: The effect of living in houses that overlook graveyards? The consequence of fathers who shut themselves in their studies, who dine alone in their rooms? Justify: the staunch defense of drunkard brother Branwell, of adulterous brother Austin. Define “eccentric.” Favorite recipe? Whose handwriting is tinier? Which of you is the better mimic? Publication: why/why not? Why no Civil War poems? Why no Industrial Revolution poems? Least favorite domestic chore? Your opinion of relatives who tamper with an artist’s work, postmortem?
(EMILY B hands her list to Keeper to chew; EMILY D pushes hers to the edge of the table as if fearing contagion.)
HOST (cont.)
Laaaa-dies…? Don’t leave us hanging!
EMILY B
(curtly) My brother has been ill-used by life.
EMILY D
What fortitude the Soul contains/That it can so endure.
EMILY B
I shall never renounce my brother. Never.
EMILY D
The heart wants what it wants. I collect flowers. To Mr. Higginson, I offered lilies.
EMILY B
As everyone knows, I walk the moors.
EMILY D
On occasion, I cross the garden to Austin’s house. I have been called eccentric.
(The authors revert to speaking only to each other.)
EMILY B
My father called himself eccentric in a letter to Mrs. Gaskell. I am, of course, my father’s child.
EMILY D
My sister-in-law is an exceptional hostess.
EMILY B
Charlotte would so love to be.
EMILY D
It is not as if we hide from our families.
EMILY B
Our families see us daily.
EMILY D
My valentines first exposed me.
EMILY B
It is Charlotte who refuses to write in secret.
HECKLER
Bor-ing. Tell us something we don’t know.
(EMILY B’s face turns stony. She offers her glass of water to Keeper. EMILY D bows her head. Sounds of audience exodus.)
HOST
(panicked by dwindling crowd) Misses Dickinson and Brontë, please remember the audience has paid a stiff price to—
(Both dogs “growl.” HOST skitters to the corner of podium.)
EMILY D
My wars are laid away in books.
EMILY B
I can simultaneously sweep the kitchen and dream of Gondal.
EMILY D
My black cake is much sought after. Also my gingerbread.
EMILY B
I peel apples for Charlotte, potatoes for Taby. I shall never teach again.
EMILY D
I have asked Vinnie to destroy my letters to the world.
EMILY B
Charlotte will assume she knows best. Charlotte does not heed requests.
HECKLER
Losing paaaatienceeee…
EMILY D
My father’s heart is pure and terrible. He cannot abide loquacious women.
EMILY B
My mother went first to her grave. My father, I predict, will see all his children buried.
EMILY D
My Master will forever be misidentified.
EMILY B
Heathcliff will forever be maligned.
HECKLER
Okay. That’s ripped it for me. (pushing toward the aisle/crawling over legs) Tootles.
HOST
(equally disappointed) A most odd turn of events. (golf-game-reporter whisper) Why are the genuine articles so unprepossessing? Why do they deliver their comments so flatly? Why, in person, do these legends appear so utterly unremarkable?
(The EMILY(s) sit silent, motionless. Someone in the audience sneezes. WOMAN IN THE SECOND ROW abruptly stands, tries in conflicted/stop-and-go fashion to attract HOST’s attention.)
HOST (cont.)
(pointing, relieved) You! Miss! Or is it Mrs.? You have a question?
WOMAN IN SECOND ROW
(extremely self-conscious) I…do. I have a question.
HOST
From the Guidelines sheet?
WOMAN IN SECOND ROW
No…from my head.
(Interests piqued, for the first time EMILY B and EMILY D look directly at WOMAN IN SECOND ROW, who cannot bring herself to look at them. As if this late addition will save the evening, HOST also perks up.)
HOST
Then proceed! By all means, proceed!
WOMAN IN SECOND ROW
I’d like to ask, to…hear—if possible?—from Miss Brontë and Miss Dickinson….
HOST
What? What exactly would you like to hear?
(On the spot, WOMAN IN SECOND ROW twists, turns—a fast-paced pantomime of THE EMILY(s) spotlight miseries.)
WOMAN IN SECOND ROW
I’d like to know…
HOST-turned-HECKLER
Out with it, woman!
WOMAN IN SECOND ROW
(blurts) What story about themselves they’d prefer suppressed?
(In striking contrast to their usual mode, both authors eagerly answer.)
EMILY D
Inviting a visitor to choose between wine and a rose.
EMILY B
The dog beating. (glances at Keeper) The violence of that episode was greatly exaggerated.
HOST
(sarcastically to WOMAN IN THE SECOND ROW) Is that all?
WOMAN IN SECOND ROW
Um. Well… (nervous glance at the EMILY(s)) Would each of you—maybe?—recite a poem?
HOST
Not an entire poem? Surely you don’t mean an entire poem?
WOMAN IN SECOND ROW
(browbeaten) Or—maybe?—just a couple of lines?
(EMILY D puts a hand to her cheek; EMILY B viciously bites her lip. They look at each other, sigh. Without the least inflection, each in turn recites.)
EMILY B
The night is darkening round me/The wild winds coldly blow;/But a tyrant spell has bound me/And I cannot, cannot go.
(Sounds of hissing.)
EMILY D
Because I could not stop for Death—/He kindly stopped for me—/The carriage held but just Ourselves—/And Immortality.
(Outright booing.)
HECKLER
(at the theatre door) You call that a performance? Your dogs are more entertaining!
(Agreeing with the HECKLER, HOST forlornly shakes his head, exits. Contractually obligated, the EMILY(s), with dogs, remain onstage. They do not move. They do not speak. An excruciating nothing happens for several prolonged beats.)
(Stage dark.)
Kat Meads’s short plays have been staged in New York, Los Angeles, Toronto (Canada) and elsewhere. She lives in California.
Photo Credit: Max Cavitch is a photographer, writer, and teacher in Philadelphia. His photographs have been published in several journals, and exhibited in galleries around the world. In April 2025, his first solo exhibition, featuring works from his series “Leinwände: Wien,” was mounted by Decagon Gallery (Brooklyn). Since 2019, he has been a contributing photographer for the public-science project, iNaturalist, and in 2024 he was elected as a member of the Philadelphia arts collective, InLiquid. His work is currently represented by Haze Gallery (Berlin) and Artsy.net.
L'Esprit Literary Review 