Walk Invisible: The Brontë Sisters (2016) - full transcript
In 1845 at Haworth on the Yorkshire moors sisters Anne, Charlotte and Emily Bronte and their father, a retired parson with failing eye-sight, are continually troubled by their drunken, irresponsible brother Branwell, who wastes every opportunity given him to become an artist. Charlotte fears for her own sight whilst Emily seeks refuge in writing about the imaginary land of Gondor but all three are fearful for their future should their menfolk die. Charlotte is impressed by Emily's work and encourages her to write a novel, inspired by a story told her by a former employer, which will become 'Wuthering Heights' All three sisters write novels, loosely based on their own experiences using androgynous masculine pen-names which are ultimately accepted for publication. Their success allows them to identify their true gender and to save the roof over their heads but Branwell's self-indulgence leads to his early death and both Emily and Anne succumb to sickness, dying young. An end title informs of Charlotte's continued success but she too will not survive middle age with their elderly father ironically left as the last of the Bronte family.
(chickens clucking)
(horse neighs)
Emily. Uh?
Yeah, straight.
Straight, straight ahead.
Emily.
Good luck.
And you.
Keep him wrapped up, see.
PATRICK: Are all the bags on?
Everything's
under control, Papa.
Has she heard?
Yes, I've heard.
Emily, Emily.
You know where the gun is?
Yes.
We're all in, thank you.
Aye, yeah.
I'll send you the address
as soon as we know what it is.
DRIVER: Walk, yeah.
Branwell doesn't know
where the gun is.
Does he?
Not anymore.
Is he still abed?
Daft question.
You give him no money,
whatever sob stories
he comes up with.
All right?
He won't hit you.
And if he hits me,
I'll hit him back, harder.
CHARLOTTE: Dear Ellen,
Papa and I came here
on Wednesday.
We saw Mr. Wilson the oculist
the same day.
He pronounced Papa's eyes
quite ready for an operation
and has fixed next Monday
for the performance of it.
(Patrick gasps)
Think of us on that day,
dear Nell.
Mr. Wilson says we will have
to stay here a month at least.
It will be dreary.
I wonder how poor Emily
and Anne will get on at home
with Branwell.
(knock at door, bell rings)
Thank you.
"Not able at present
to consider publication."
Do you think they actually
read them?
Do they look like
they've been read?
(sighs)
Who's next on the list?
Chapman and Hall,
186 Strand, London.
(thunder rolling, rain pounding)
There was no possibility
of taking a walk that day.
(fire crackling)
Do you think it's wrong
to write about something
that's very close to home?
Like what?
A woman.
Forced to abandon her home,
a good, well-off home,
to protect her child...
And herself...
Because of a change
in her husband's character
when he sinks into...
You know.
Addictive behavior.
And then forced to make
her own way in the world.
No, I don't think it's wrong.
I'd never have invented Hindley
if I hadn't been set
such a fine example at home.
Have you seen Branwell today?
No.
Have you heard him?
BRANWELL: I see a
corpse upon the waters lie,
With eyes turned swelled
and sightless to the sky,
And arms outstretched to move,
as wave on wave.
Upbears it
in its boundless billowy grave.
Not time, but Ocean thins
its flowing hair;
Decay, not sorrow, lays
its forehead bare;
Its members move,
but not in thankless toil,
For seas are milder
than this world's turmoil;
Corruption robs its lip
and cheeks of red,
But wounded vanity grieves not
the dead;
And, though those members
hasten to decay,
No pang of suffering takes
their strength away;
With untormented
eye, and heart, and brain,
Through calm and storm,
it floats across the main:
Though love and joy
have perished long ago,
Its bosom suffers
not one pang of woe.
(sniffles)
Though weeds and worms
its cherished beauty hide,
It feels not wounded vanity
or pride.
(sniffles, cries softly)
(wind howling)
Where's ye going, lad?
Haworth.
(horse neighs)
Whoa, whoa.
(driver clicks tongue): Go it.
(fire crackling)
(gasps)
Oh, hello.
Branwell!
EMILY: Branwell's here!
He's collapsed!
He's outside!
Branwell!
Branwell.
Branwell.
(grunts)
One of you go and fetch
Dr. Wheelhouse.
Get a cloak on!
Here, let's get him inside.
Branwell, hey?
Come on, son, sit up.
There, hey?
Let's get him
in the house, come on.
(door opens)
You know where I am.
Yes, yes.
(door opens)
PATRICK:
Thank you for coming, doctor.
(door closes)
There is hope.
He's home, he's back with us.
And with nourishment
and abstinence,
and prayer,
and peace and quiet,
we may yet hope
for better things.
His body has suffered
the ravages of gross neglect
and abuse.
Self-inflicted.
And I cannot in all conscience
do other than blame that woman.
That sinful, hateful woman.
Who with her more mature years
and social advantages
surely should have shown
better responsibility.
He's come very low,
but, you know,
sometimes a man must sink
to the bottom
before he can turn
his life around.
And perhaps that's
what's happened.
What's happening, here.
Where's he been?
ANNE: How's he been living?
Does he want to abstain?
Oh, he has to.
He has to abstain.
Halifax, I assume...
I don't know.
That's where John
always imagined he was.
Or where John knew
damn well he was.
Have you talked to him?
About abstention?
He's asleep.
It'll only work if he's
determined to do it himself.
Yeah.
Well...
(door closes)
Ssshhh...
(crying softly)
(whispers): Anne.
I should have done more.
At Thorp Green.
I should have stopped him,
I should've told someone,
I should've...
I'm...
complicit in their sin.
No, you're not.
You were in
an impossible position.
No, I let it happen.
All I did was leave in the end.
I was a coward.
A moral coward before God.
(people laughing)
(laughter continues)
(laughter continues)
You all right, lad?
Lydia.
(gasping)
(laughter continuing)
EMILY: Wake up!
Wake up!
There's a fire!
I think I've put it out.
PATRICK: Branwell!
Branwell!
Branwell, look at me!
Branwell!
Delirium tremens.
It's when someone who's been
drinking solidly for weeks
suddenly stops.
Either through choice or,
more usually, lack of funds.
The body doesn't know how to
respond, so it goes into spasm.
Will it happen again?
With care, no.
But you do need
to keep an eye on him.
He's lucky.
You could've been sending
for the undertaker this morning,
Mr. Brontë, not me.
I think, rather than
come back in here,
he should stay in my bedroom
with me.
For the time being.
I wrote a rhyme for you.
Did you?
Well, I wrote it,
and I was thinking about you
after I'd written it, so...
It goes...
Do you want to hear it?
Yes.
It starts, it's...
The first line is...
It goes...
No coward soul is mine.
No trembler in the world's
storm-troubled sphere.
I see Heaven's glories shine.
And Faith shines equal,
arming me from Fear.
Take your time.
Oh, God within my breast...
Oh, God within my breast,
Almighty, ever-present
Deity, Life.
That in me hast rest,
As I, Undying Life,
have power in Thee,
Vain are the thousand creeds.
That move men's hearts,
Unutterably vain,
Worthless as withered weeds.
Or idlest froth
amid the boundless main.
To waken doubt in one...
To waken doubt in one.
Holding so fast by thy infinity,
So surely anchored on the
steadfast rock of Immortality.
With wide-embracing love,
Thy spirit animates
eternal years,
Pervades and broods above,
Changes, sustains, dissolves,
creates, and rears.
Though earth and moon were gone.
And suns and universes
ceased to be.
And Thou wert left alone,
Every existence
would exist in thee.
There is not room for Death.
Nor atom that his might
could render void.
Since thou art Being and Breath,
And what thou art may never
be destroyed.
There's nothing
to be frightened of.
Not for someone like you.
I love you.
Good.
I love you.
PATRICK: Who?
MAN: Currer, Bell.
PATRICK: There's no
one of that name here.
MAN: No, I know that Mr. Brontë,
only it's addressed to here,
so I...
PATRICK: That's a mystery.
There's no one of that name
in the entire parish,
as far as I'm aware.
MAN: No, well, that's why
I thought happen a visitor.
PATRICK: No, no.
No visitors.
Not at the moment.
MAN: Fair enough, I'll take it
back to the sorting office, then.
(door closes)
(footsteps)
(door closes)
Ah, morning, Miss Brontë.
Did I hear the name?
Currer Bell?
Yes! Good.
That's not me, obviously.
But if I could take it, I could
make sure it reaches him.
Him.
You see, he, Papa, he forgets.
He's, uh, Mr. Bell,
he's not here.
He was here,
but, but now he isn't.
So I can forward it to him,
I have his address.
It's a funny name.
Currer... I thought happen
it were summat
to do with Mr. Nicholls,
Arthur Bell Nicholls.
No, no, no, no, no,
that's, it's just...
That's just coincidental...
Can I take it?
Good... well, that saves me
filling in a docket
back at the sorting office, then.
I'm much obliged.
And so will he be. How's your...
Brother? Is he...
Oh, he... he's... yeah.
Till tomorrow, then!
Miss Brontë.
Bye, bye, bye.
(cow moos)
(door opens)
Where's Emily?
Kitchen... do you want her?
Letter from a publisher.
(whispers): Emily!
(softly):
Thomas Cautley Newby...
is offering to publish Wuthering
Heights and Agnes Grey.
His terms are steep,
but he's offering to publish -
them, which is more than
anyone else has done...
What about The Professor?
No.
No, he's not offering to publish that.
Why?
So you need to think about
how you want to approach this.
No, that's...
We should publish them all
together or not at all, surely.
That's sentimental.
It's kind, but it's nonsense.
This is a solid offer...
Not a generous one, as I say,
but I'll persevere
in sending out The Professor.
And with the other one
that I've been writing.
But in the meantime,
you've got a choice to make.
Read it.
He's asking for you to provide
an advance of 50 pounds
towards the cost of publication.
But clearly he believes
it's viable,
or he wouldn't make the offer.
This is addressed
to Currer Bell.
Yes... that was interesting.
You didn't...
Of course not.
I had to...
Fib.
50 pounds.
Perhaps that's normal.
Perhaps whoever undertook
to publish it
would ask for an advance
of that sort.
We're a risk, we're unknown,
despite the poems.
Because of the poems...
Two copies sold.
You will persist.
Oh, yes.
(church bell ringing)
(pounding at door)
Yes?
I'd like to speak to Mr. Brontë.
The Reverend Brontë?
Mr. Patrick Brontë.
TABBY: Well, what
shall I say it's to do with?
MAN: Is he in?
TABBY: Who wants to know?
MAN: I'm a bailiff of the county,
appointed by Mr. Rawson,
the magistrate at Halifax.
I'm here about an unpaid debt.
Is Mr. Brontë in?
I'll...
You'll just have
to give me a minute.
(knocks)
PATRICK: Yes?
There's a man at the door,
Mr. Brontë.
Says he's here
about an unpaid debt.
Says he's been sent by
a magistrate at Halifax.
Now then, gentlemen,
how may I help you?
Mr. Patrick Brontë? Yes.
I'm appointed by
the magistrate at Halifax
to collect a debt of 14 pounds,
10 shillings and sixpence
owing to Mr. Crowther
of the Commercial Inn,
Northgate, Halifax,
and now outstanding
for a total of eight months.
What's going on?
Branwell, what's going on?
Branwell.
Shift, shift!
No, Branwell, ooh! Shift!
Whoa, whoa, whoa.
Not so fast, little fella.
Steady now.
You don't want me to hurt you.
And you don't want to hurt me,
because if you do, there'll be bother.
(grunts)
I think it must be my son
that you want.
Your son?
Right, well, where is
your son, Mr. Brontë?
MAN: I've got him, Mr. Riley!
Emily, get him off me...
I can't breathe, Emily!
Stop wriggling, stop struggling,
you're not going anywhere.
I haven't done anything wrong...
You've got the wrong man!
Get off me!
What were you legging it for, then?
And why did you try
and hit me, you little twat?
It's not...
Get your hands off me!
RILEY: Are you Patrick Brontë?
Are you Patrick Branwell Brontë?
Answer the man.
I have no idea
who these people are.
You owe money.
To some publican in Halifax.
And if the debt isn't paid,
they'll take you
to the debtors' prison.
We must pay up then, eh?
Take him.
What? No!
Papa, I'm sorry!
I'm sorry, I'm sorry,
I didn't mean it, I'm sorry!
Charlotte! Emily!
CHARLOTTE: We have money.
We have money, we have money...
Please stop them.
Please. Hang on, boys.
Bring him back.
If it's all right with you,
Reverend,
my colleagues'll keep
hold of him
until I've got the remittance.
I shall require a receipt.
I shall give you one.
Come on.
It's all right.
(fire crackling)
CHARLOTTE: Gentlemen,
I have received
your communication
of the fifth instant,
for which I thank you.
Your objection to the want
of varied interest
in The Professor
is, I am aware,
not without grounds.
I have a second narrative
in three volumes now completed,
to which I have endeavored
to impart
a more vivid interest
than belongs to The Professor.
I send you per rail a manuscript
entitled Jane Eyre,
a novel in three volumes,
by Currer Bell.
BRANWELL (in another room):
I keep telling you.
You keep being told!
One day, one of us is not
going to leave that room alive!
I will either kill you
or else kill myself.
Do you want me to kill myself?
Eh?
Because if I do, old man,
you can rest assured that
you'll have driven me to it
with your endless
prayers and your drivel!
Can you not understand,
can you not get the idea
that the only only respite
I have
from the misery of my existence
is being allowed a little bit
of something to drink?
I'm only asking for a shilling,
for God's sake!
PATRICK: Just, just take it.
(door opens and closes)
He'll just go on and on
until he gets what he wants,
anyway,
and I just...
I don't always have the energy.
Anymore.
(clock ticking)
(door opens)
I know this is contradicting
what I've said before,
but my second thoughts
are occasionally better
than my first ones.
I think you should tell Papa
about Jane Eyre.
About how successful it's been.
Why?
I think it would help him
to know.
That we now seem to have found
a means of supporting ourselves,
possibly, in the event of...
Whenever something happens
to him.
Why Jane Eyre?
No, we'll tell him about
everything, but just...
As a way in.
But then...
(whispers): He'll read it.
(laughs)
Now?
(knocks softly)
PATRICK: Yes?
Papa.
Huh?
Have you got a moment?
Yeah, quickly.
I've...
I've, uh...
I've been writing a book.
A book, and... Well, well!
Would you like to read it?
No, I can't.
I don't have time.
And you know,
with your tiny little writing,
I can't see it, but well done!
The thing is, you see.
It's published.
It's been published.
It's a properly published...
It's a book in three volumes.
Well, well!
Oh! Currer Bell! No.
He's famous, he's...
No, that's me.
That's you? What's you?
That...
I've published
under a pseudonym.
Currer Bell.
You see, it's the same initials.
And the thing is, it's just about
to go into a second edition.
It's sold a lot of copies.
It's been really
quite unusually successful.
There's a stage play of it
in rehearsal as we speak
at a theater in...
the Victoria Theater, in fact.
In London.
It's been so, um,
hugely well received.
(muttering)
So you...
You're...
You're...!
Yes.
And... I've made money.
With the prospect of
making quite a lot more.
And if we...
If I continue to work hard,
and produce the kind of writing
that people are prepared
to pay money for,
then it should furnish us
with a comfortable existence.
Oh, dear.
(laughs)
Would you like me to read you
some of the reviews?
Well...
(laughs)
Why have you kept it
such a secret?
To protect ourselves.
We've been accused
of vulgarity and coarseness.
I've forfeited my right
to be called
a member of the fairer sex,
according to Lady Eastlake,
who speculates that Currer Bell
might actually be a woman.
(chuckles): Well.
I'm complicit in the revolutions
throughout Europe.
"We do not hesitate to say that
the tone of mind and thought"
which has overthrown authority
and violated every code...
Human and divine... abroad,
and fostered Chartism
and rebellion at home,
"is that which has also
written Jane Eyre."
Jane Eyre.
And why is it vulgar?
It isn't, Papa!
People are just squeamish
about the truth,
about real life.
Our work is clever.
It's truthful,
it's new, it's fresh,
it's vivid and subtle
and forthright...
But...
More importantly...
The point is...
We didn't want Branwell to know.
That's first and foremost
why we've kept it a secret.
It's not that he'd be scathing,
we can stand that.
It's because it's what
he's always wanted to do.
And now it looks less and less
likely that he ever will.
It'd be like rubbing
salt into a wound.
No one can ever know who we are.
We've agreed.
We just didn't want you
to worry that we weren't...
doing anything with ourselves,
because we have been.
We are!
So who else knows, besides me?
No one.
I've not even told Ellen.
Tabby. No one.
The publishers don't
even know who we are.
ANNE: They think
we're three men.
EMILY: We'd like
to keep it that way.
We just wanted you to know.
(sighs)
Little Helen Burns, hmm?
That's your little sister Maria.
Maria was our big sister.
Yeah.
Of course she was.
(sniffs)
Of course she was.
(sighs): Not a day that passes
when I don't think about her.
And little Elizabeth.
And your mother.
(sighs)
I am very proud of you.
I always have been.
(church bells pealing)
BRANWELL: Sunday.
Dear John,
I shall feel very much obliged
to you
if you can contrive to get me
five pence worth of gin
in a proper measure.
Should it be speedily got,
I could perhaps take it from
you or Billy at the lane top,
or what would be quite as well,
sent out for, to you.
I anxiously ask the favor
because I know the good
it will do me.
Punctually at half past nine
in the morning,
you will be paid the five pence.
I'll have a shilling
given me then.
Yours, P.B.B.
(church bells pealing)
(Branwell coughing)
(inhaling weakly)
Come on.
Have you got a minute?
What?
We're going to have
to go to London.
Who is?
We are.
All three of us.
When?
Today.
Why?
Your... Mr. Newby...
must have, I don't know,
sold the first few pages of
The Tenant of Wildfell Hall
to an American publisher
on the understanding...
that it was written
by Currer Bell.
Well, it's obviously
a misunderstanding.
(stammering)
No, will you...
Please, see that this man
is a con man! A rogue!
How...
How many mistakes did he print
in Wuthering Heights?
Proofs that you painstakingly
corrected that he ignored!
And now this!
My publisher is livid
that I could have sold my next
novel to another publisher!
They have first refusal
on my next two novels,
and now they think I'm some sort
of unscrupulous double-dealer!
Well, just write and explain.
No.
No.
We have to go to London
and give ocular proof
that we are three
separate people,
the novels are not all
the work of one person,
and that this is absolute trash.
Well, I'm not going.
Why?
EMILY:
Because you can write a letter
and explain all that,
and just say
that Newby's made a mistake.
This is not a mistake!
This is a deliberate and
deceitful attempt
to cash in on the success
of Jane Eyre... sorry.
EMILY: It isn't.
CHARLOTTE: It is.
Newby has made the mistake,
along with a lot
of other people,
of assuming
that we're all one person.
That is all it is.
Why are you so obtuse?
Why are you so melodramatic?
Emily.
I don't want.
The Tenant of Wildfell Hall
promoted and sold
on a deceitful cl...
- misunderstanding, whichever,
- that it's by anyone
other than me.
We have to go to London.
Now.
Today.
And explain to Mr. Smith and
Mr. Smith Williams what's happened.
It's intolerable to imagine they
think that I could be so slippery.
But wait, look, you can't.
You can't go to London and explain
who you are, because they will see you.
Well, that's the whole point.
Yes, and you promised...
You promised me
that we would never reveal
ourselves to anyone, ever.
Well...
I'm afraid because of your...
Mr. Newby,
we now find ourselves
in a... situation.
Emily, I think we should go.
No... you're not going, either.
No, I am. No, you're not.
Newby's compromised my integrity
just as much as Charlotte's.
I shan't publish with him again.
If you won't come with us,
that's your choice.
We don't need to fall out
about this, Emily.
It's about your novel
and your name.
It's got nothing to do with me.
Don't be like that, Em...
What's the matter?
Emily.
Yes, but you do know her bark's
worse than her bite,
don't you?
(train whistles blowing)
(bell tolls)
Charlotte.
Jane Eyre.
Look.
MAN: Could I help you, ladies?
Yes.
Yes, I'd...
We'd like to speak
to Mr. George Smith, please.
Mr. Smith?
Mr. Smith's very busy.
Yes, yes.
But the thing is, you see,
it's...
It's important.
Can I tell him what it's about?
Just...
Just that it's a matter
of importance.
I'll...
I'll see what...
I'll see if he's got a minute.
Who should I say is
asking to see him?
It's...
That's delicate.
He is a very busy man.
We've been traveling
for 17 hours,
and we'll take up less than
one minute of his time.
Sir, two ladies
asking to see you.
What ladies?
Didn't give a name, sir.
What's it about?
The only thing
I could prise out, sir,
is that it's important.
To me or to them?
They've asked for no more
than a minute of your time.
(whispers): They say
they've traveled for 17 hours.
Ladies, how can I help you?
Am I addressing
Mr. George Smith?
Yes.
It's a confidential matter.
We're...
We're here to address
a misunderstanding,
which, once accomplished, will
be to everyone's advantage,
yours as much as ours.
And so we apologize
for what must be an interruption
to your morning's work.
But perhaps if I gave you this,
it would clarify who we are.
Where did you get this letter?
In the post.
From you.
You sent it to me.
I am...
Currer Bell.
C. Brontë, that's me.
And this is Acton Bell.
Author of Agnes Grey,
and, the point is,
author of The Tenant
of Wildfell Hall... not me.
And Ellis couldn't come.
Ellis didn't want to come...
Ellis is...
Anyway...
The point is,
we are three sisters.
I have not sold the first few
pages of my next novel
to an American publisher,
as claimed
by Mr. Thomas Cautley Newby.
That is not my novel,
it's Acton's.
I, Mr. Smith, have nothing,
exactly nothing,
to do with Mr. Newby.
Nor will my sister, now she's
seen him in his true colors.
We are people of integrity,
and probity.
And that is why we are here.
To set matters straight.
Sorry, you're...
You are Currer Bell?
What makes you doubt it,
Mr. Smith?
My accent?
My gender? My size?
(whispers): Oh, good heavens.
Oh, good Lord.
Forgive me.
I'm, I'm sorry.
I'm sorry, too.
We've caught you off-guard.
You see, we felt it best
to come and see you in person,
given the tone of your letter.
I wanted no room left
for any further
misunderstanding or doubt.
Well, that's deeply, deeply
appreciated, Miss, uh...
BOTH: Brontë.
And a great relief, of course.
Have you really been traveling
for 17 hours?
Through the night.
Such was the tone
of your letter...
You must be exhausted.
Oddly, Mr. Smith,
I feel extraordinarily awake.
Where are you staying?
We've booked into
the Chapter Coffee House,
in Paternoster Row.
Our father stayed there briefly,
before he went up to Cambridge.
And my sister and I,
my other sister, Em... Ellis,
did once, before we traveled
to Brussels.
You've taken my breath away.
Miss Brontë.
Oh, you have to meet people!
Have you any idea
how many people want...
Thackeray!
Thackeray, Thackeray!
Thackeray will have to meet you.
Ah, Kent, Kent.
(door opens): Kent!
Fetch Smith Williams!
You have to meet Smith Williams.
He, he is such an admirer
of-of-of...
He was...
Of your genius.
He was the one that read,
that read The Professor
and saw instantly,
before Jane Eyre...
Which is glorious, by the way...
He saw.
He saw.
He saw, Miss Brontë.
The whole of literary Lon...
The whole of London.
Will fall over itself
to spend a minute
in the company of Currer Bell.
Somebody really needs
to do something
about this Mr. Newby, though,
Mr. Smith.
Absolutely, indeed...
It... he will be dealt with.
Please, please come through
to my office.
Ah, Smith Williams!
This...
This is...
Currer Bell.
Oh, how perfect.
How delightful.
And this is Acton Bell.
Ellis couldn't come.
Do you like opera?
(dog barking)
(coughing violently)
I don't...
I'll see to him...
I'll sit with him.
(Branwell wheezing and coughing)
Are you sure?
You go sleep in their bed.
Branwell.
I'm going to be sick.
(vomits and coughs)
(breathing raspily)
You're back!
That was quick.
All the way to London.
How were things here?
Oh, well.
We've had sad work
with Branwell.
But other than that!
Good!
Good.
(chickens squawking)
You're the last person in the
world I want to fall out with.
I know.
We only told Mr. Smith
and Mr. Smith Williams.
Well, and Newby, later.
No one else,
and we made it clear
they hadn't to tell
anyone else, either.
They took us
to the Royal Opera House,
Mr. Smith and Mr.
Smith Williams did,
along with Mr. Smith's mother
and his sisters,
and us with nothing to wear
but what we'd gone in,
and they'd no idea who we were!
Heaven alone knows what they
must have thought about us.
He's...
What?
Branwell.
He's been vomiting blood.
CHARLOTTE: Dear Ellen, I
received your letter informing us
of the time of your arrival
in Keighley with great delight.
Emily and Anne anticipate
your long-delayed visit
as eagerly as I do myself.
We will be outside
the Devonshire Arms
promptly at 2:00.
Wishing you a safe
and comfortable journey.
MAN: Anyone for Keighley?
Ellen!
Charlotte!
Emily!
Anne! Miss Nussey.
Which one's your box?
Is it this one?
Yes, it's that one there.
How was your journey?
Long, tiresome.
We haven't seen you for so long.
I know, I've missed you.
Shall we go?
Yes!
In the end, I realized
we'd delay your visit forever
if we weren't careful.
And he's so quiet now.
We barely see him
during the day.
He just sleeps.
I think more people have crosses
to bear than we realize.
On the domestic side.
On the quiet.
The oddest thing.
I think I told you.
The Robinson girls, you know,
the youngest two,
Elizabeth and Mary.
They started writing to Anne.
About six months
after their father died.
I mean, they're very fond of
Anne, more than she imagined.
Then they wanted to visit.
Here.
So we let them.
And they came last week.
Of course, Branwell knew
nothing about it.
What were they like?
Oh, you know.
Pretty.
Vacuous, non-stop
yack-yack-yack.
Emily popped her head in,
purely to satisfy her
own curiosity, of course,
and then, after approximately
four seconds, withdrew.
One of the few occasions I've
really enjoyed her surliness.
Anyway, the point is
they told us
last week
that their mother...
What?
Is going to marry.
Sir Edward Scott.
So much for contrition and guilt
and madness and clauses
in people's wills.
He's been very sadly used,
Branwell.
You didn't tell him?
What purpose would it serve?
I'm sorry to inflict
all this on you, Ellen.
Charlotte.
I'm your oldest friend.
You can tell me anything,
you know that.
Look!
CHARLOTTE: What is that?
It's extraordinary.
Three suns!
(gasps)
What is it?
It's beautiful.
It's you three.
You can go now.
(sniffs)
You'll have to sit him up
to get his shirt off.
(crying softly)
(crying softly)
YOUNG CHARLOTTE:
'Tis a shame you're embarked
on this course of myopic
self-destruction!
YOUNG BRANWELL: I
despise everything you stand for!
Revolution is in the air,
and only a fool like you, sir,
would ignore it!
(woman talking softly)
This is the infamous
dining room table,
at which the sisters used
to sit and write.
♪ ♪
♪ ♪
♪ ♪
(horse neighs)
Emily. Uh?
Yeah, straight.
Straight, straight ahead.
Emily.
Good luck.
And you.
Keep him wrapped up, see.
PATRICK: Are all the bags on?
Everything's
under control, Papa.
Has she heard?
Yes, I've heard.
Emily, Emily.
You know where the gun is?
Yes.
We're all in, thank you.
Aye, yeah.
I'll send you the address
as soon as we know what it is.
DRIVER: Walk, yeah.
Branwell doesn't know
where the gun is.
Does he?
Not anymore.
Is he still abed?
Daft question.
You give him no money,
whatever sob stories
he comes up with.
All right?
He won't hit you.
And if he hits me,
I'll hit him back, harder.
CHARLOTTE: Dear Ellen,
Papa and I came here
on Wednesday.
We saw Mr. Wilson the oculist
the same day.
He pronounced Papa's eyes
quite ready for an operation
and has fixed next Monday
for the performance of it.
(Patrick gasps)
Think of us on that day,
dear Nell.
Mr. Wilson says we will have
to stay here a month at least.
It will be dreary.
I wonder how poor Emily
and Anne will get on at home
with Branwell.
(knock at door, bell rings)
Thank you.
"Not able at present
to consider publication."
Do you think they actually
read them?
Do they look like
they've been read?
(sighs)
Who's next on the list?
Chapman and Hall,
186 Strand, London.
(thunder rolling, rain pounding)
There was no possibility
of taking a walk that day.
(fire crackling)
Do you think it's wrong
to write about something
that's very close to home?
Like what?
A woman.
Forced to abandon her home,
a good, well-off home,
to protect her child...
And herself...
Because of a change
in her husband's character
when he sinks into...
You know.
Addictive behavior.
And then forced to make
her own way in the world.
No, I don't think it's wrong.
I'd never have invented Hindley
if I hadn't been set
such a fine example at home.
Have you seen Branwell today?
No.
Have you heard him?
BRANWELL: I see a
corpse upon the waters lie,
With eyes turned swelled
and sightless to the sky,
And arms outstretched to move,
as wave on wave.
Upbears it
in its boundless billowy grave.
Not time, but Ocean thins
its flowing hair;
Decay, not sorrow, lays
its forehead bare;
Its members move,
but not in thankless toil,
For seas are milder
than this world's turmoil;
Corruption robs its lip
and cheeks of red,
But wounded vanity grieves not
the dead;
And, though those members
hasten to decay,
No pang of suffering takes
their strength away;
With untormented
eye, and heart, and brain,
Through calm and storm,
it floats across the main:
Though love and joy
have perished long ago,
Its bosom suffers
not one pang of woe.
(sniffles)
Though weeds and worms
its cherished beauty hide,
It feels not wounded vanity
or pride.
(sniffles, cries softly)
(wind howling)
Where's ye going, lad?
Haworth.
(horse neighs)
Whoa, whoa.
(driver clicks tongue): Go it.
(fire crackling)
(gasps)
Oh, hello.
Branwell!
EMILY: Branwell's here!
He's collapsed!
He's outside!
Branwell!
Branwell.
Branwell.
(grunts)
One of you go and fetch
Dr. Wheelhouse.
Get a cloak on!
Here, let's get him inside.
Branwell, hey?
Come on, son, sit up.
There, hey?
Let's get him
in the house, come on.
(door opens)
You know where I am.
Yes, yes.
(door opens)
PATRICK:
Thank you for coming, doctor.
(door closes)
There is hope.
He's home, he's back with us.
And with nourishment
and abstinence,
and prayer,
and peace and quiet,
we may yet hope
for better things.
His body has suffered
the ravages of gross neglect
and abuse.
Self-inflicted.
And I cannot in all conscience
do other than blame that woman.
That sinful, hateful woman.
Who with her more mature years
and social advantages
surely should have shown
better responsibility.
He's come very low,
but, you know,
sometimes a man must sink
to the bottom
before he can turn
his life around.
And perhaps that's
what's happened.
What's happening, here.
Where's he been?
ANNE: How's he been living?
Does he want to abstain?
Oh, he has to.
He has to abstain.
Halifax, I assume...
I don't know.
That's where John
always imagined he was.
Or where John knew
damn well he was.
Have you talked to him?
About abstention?
He's asleep.
It'll only work if he's
determined to do it himself.
Yeah.
Well...
(door closes)
Ssshhh...
(crying softly)
(whispers): Anne.
I should have done more.
At Thorp Green.
I should have stopped him,
I should've told someone,
I should've...
I'm...
complicit in their sin.
No, you're not.
You were in
an impossible position.
No, I let it happen.
All I did was leave in the end.
I was a coward.
A moral coward before God.
(people laughing)
(laughter continues)
(laughter continues)
You all right, lad?
Lydia.
(gasping)
(laughter continuing)
EMILY: Wake up!
Wake up!
There's a fire!
I think I've put it out.
PATRICK: Branwell!
Branwell!
Branwell, look at me!
Branwell!
Delirium tremens.
It's when someone who's been
drinking solidly for weeks
suddenly stops.
Either through choice or,
more usually, lack of funds.
The body doesn't know how to
respond, so it goes into spasm.
Will it happen again?
With care, no.
But you do need
to keep an eye on him.
He's lucky.
You could've been sending
for the undertaker this morning,
Mr. Brontë, not me.
I think, rather than
come back in here,
he should stay in my bedroom
with me.
For the time being.
I wrote a rhyme for you.
Did you?
Well, I wrote it,
and I was thinking about you
after I'd written it, so...
It goes...
Do you want to hear it?
Yes.
It starts, it's...
The first line is...
It goes...
No coward soul is mine.
No trembler in the world's
storm-troubled sphere.
I see Heaven's glories shine.
And Faith shines equal,
arming me from Fear.
Take your time.
Oh, God within my breast...
Oh, God within my breast,
Almighty, ever-present
Deity, Life.
That in me hast rest,
As I, Undying Life,
have power in Thee,
Vain are the thousand creeds.
That move men's hearts,
Unutterably vain,
Worthless as withered weeds.
Or idlest froth
amid the boundless main.
To waken doubt in one...
To waken doubt in one.
Holding so fast by thy infinity,
So surely anchored on the
steadfast rock of Immortality.
With wide-embracing love,
Thy spirit animates
eternal years,
Pervades and broods above,
Changes, sustains, dissolves,
creates, and rears.
Though earth and moon were gone.
And suns and universes
ceased to be.
And Thou wert left alone,
Every existence
would exist in thee.
There is not room for Death.
Nor atom that his might
could render void.
Since thou art Being and Breath,
And what thou art may never
be destroyed.
There's nothing
to be frightened of.
Not for someone like you.
I love you.
Good.
I love you.
PATRICK: Who?
MAN: Currer, Bell.
PATRICK: There's no
one of that name here.
MAN: No, I know that Mr. Brontë,
only it's addressed to here,
so I...
PATRICK: That's a mystery.
There's no one of that name
in the entire parish,
as far as I'm aware.
MAN: No, well, that's why
I thought happen a visitor.
PATRICK: No, no.
No visitors.
Not at the moment.
MAN: Fair enough, I'll take it
back to the sorting office, then.
(door closes)
(footsteps)
(door closes)
Ah, morning, Miss Brontë.
Did I hear the name?
Currer Bell?
Yes! Good.
That's not me, obviously.
But if I could take it, I could
make sure it reaches him.
Him.
You see, he, Papa, he forgets.
He's, uh, Mr. Bell,
he's not here.
He was here,
but, but now he isn't.
So I can forward it to him,
I have his address.
It's a funny name.
Currer... I thought happen
it were summat
to do with Mr. Nicholls,
Arthur Bell Nicholls.
No, no, no, no, no,
that's, it's just...
That's just coincidental...
Can I take it?
Good... well, that saves me
filling in a docket
back at the sorting office, then.
I'm much obliged.
And so will he be. How's your...
Brother? Is he...
Oh, he... he's... yeah.
Till tomorrow, then!
Miss Brontë.
Bye, bye, bye.
(cow moos)
(door opens)
Where's Emily?
Kitchen... do you want her?
Letter from a publisher.
(whispers): Emily!
(softly):
Thomas Cautley Newby...
is offering to publish Wuthering
Heights and Agnes Grey.
His terms are steep,
but he's offering to publish -
them, which is more than
anyone else has done...
What about The Professor?
No.
No, he's not offering to publish that.
Why?
So you need to think about
how you want to approach this.
No, that's...
We should publish them all
together or not at all, surely.
That's sentimental.
It's kind, but it's nonsense.
This is a solid offer...
Not a generous one, as I say,
but I'll persevere
in sending out The Professor.
And with the other one
that I've been writing.
But in the meantime,
you've got a choice to make.
Read it.
He's asking for you to provide
an advance of 50 pounds
towards the cost of publication.
But clearly he believes
it's viable,
or he wouldn't make the offer.
This is addressed
to Currer Bell.
Yes... that was interesting.
You didn't...
Of course not.
I had to...
Fib.
50 pounds.
Perhaps that's normal.
Perhaps whoever undertook
to publish it
would ask for an advance
of that sort.
We're a risk, we're unknown,
despite the poems.
Because of the poems...
Two copies sold.
You will persist.
Oh, yes.
(church bell ringing)
(pounding at door)
Yes?
I'd like to speak to Mr. Brontë.
The Reverend Brontë?
Mr. Patrick Brontë.
TABBY: Well, what
shall I say it's to do with?
MAN: Is he in?
TABBY: Who wants to know?
MAN: I'm a bailiff of the county,
appointed by Mr. Rawson,
the magistrate at Halifax.
I'm here about an unpaid debt.
Is Mr. Brontë in?
I'll...
You'll just have
to give me a minute.
(knocks)
PATRICK: Yes?
There's a man at the door,
Mr. Brontë.
Says he's here
about an unpaid debt.
Says he's been sent by
a magistrate at Halifax.
Now then, gentlemen,
how may I help you?
Mr. Patrick Brontë? Yes.
I'm appointed by
the magistrate at Halifax
to collect a debt of 14 pounds,
10 shillings and sixpence
owing to Mr. Crowther
of the Commercial Inn,
Northgate, Halifax,
and now outstanding
for a total of eight months.
What's going on?
Branwell, what's going on?
Branwell.
Shift, shift!
No, Branwell, ooh! Shift!
Whoa, whoa, whoa.
Not so fast, little fella.
Steady now.
You don't want me to hurt you.
And you don't want to hurt me,
because if you do, there'll be bother.
(grunts)
I think it must be my son
that you want.
Your son?
Right, well, where is
your son, Mr. Brontë?
MAN: I've got him, Mr. Riley!
Emily, get him off me...
I can't breathe, Emily!
Stop wriggling, stop struggling,
you're not going anywhere.
I haven't done anything wrong...
You've got the wrong man!
Get off me!
What were you legging it for, then?
And why did you try
and hit me, you little twat?
It's not...
Get your hands off me!
RILEY: Are you Patrick Brontë?
Are you Patrick Branwell Brontë?
Answer the man.
I have no idea
who these people are.
You owe money.
To some publican in Halifax.
And if the debt isn't paid,
they'll take you
to the debtors' prison.
We must pay up then, eh?
Take him.
What? No!
Papa, I'm sorry!
I'm sorry, I'm sorry,
I didn't mean it, I'm sorry!
Charlotte! Emily!
CHARLOTTE: We have money.
We have money, we have money...
Please stop them.
Please. Hang on, boys.
Bring him back.
If it's all right with you,
Reverend,
my colleagues'll keep
hold of him
until I've got the remittance.
I shall require a receipt.
I shall give you one.
Come on.
It's all right.
(fire crackling)
CHARLOTTE: Gentlemen,
I have received
your communication
of the fifth instant,
for which I thank you.
Your objection to the want
of varied interest
in The Professor
is, I am aware,
not without grounds.
I have a second narrative
in three volumes now completed,
to which I have endeavored
to impart
a more vivid interest
than belongs to The Professor.
I send you per rail a manuscript
entitled Jane Eyre,
a novel in three volumes,
by Currer Bell.
BRANWELL (in another room):
I keep telling you.
You keep being told!
One day, one of us is not
going to leave that room alive!
I will either kill you
or else kill myself.
Do you want me to kill myself?
Eh?
Because if I do, old man,
you can rest assured that
you'll have driven me to it
with your endless
prayers and your drivel!
Can you not understand,
can you not get the idea
that the only only respite
I have
from the misery of my existence
is being allowed a little bit
of something to drink?
I'm only asking for a shilling,
for God's sake!
PATRICK: Just, just take it.
(door opens and closes)
He'll just go on and on
until he gets what he wants,
anyway,
and I just...
I don't always have the energy.
Anymore.
(clock ticking)
(door opens)
I know this is contradicting
what I've said before,
but my second thoughts
are occasionally better
than my first ones.
I think you should tell Papa
about Jane Eyre.
About how successful it's been.
Why?
I think it would help him
to know.
That we now seem to have found
a means of supporting ourselves,
possibly, in the event of...
Whenever something happens
to him.
Why Jane Eyre?
No, we'll tell him about
everything, but just...
As a way in.
But then...
(whispers): He'll read it.
(laughs)
Now?
(knocks softly)
PATRICK: Yes?
Papa.
Huh?
Have you got a moment?
Yeah, quickly.
I've...
I've, uh...
I've been writing a book.
A book, and... Well, well!
Would you like to read it?
No, I can't.
I don't have time.
And you know,
with your tiny little writing,
I can't see it, but well done!
The thing is, you see.
It's published.
It's been published.
It's a properly published...
It's a book in three volumes.
Well, well!
Oh! Currer Bell! No.
He's famous, he's...
No, that's me.
That's you? What's you?
That...
I've published
under a pseudonym.
Currer Bell.
You see, it's the same initials.
And the thing is, it's just about
to go into a second edition.
It's sold a lot of copies.
It's been really
quite unusually successful.
There's a stage play of it
in rehearsal as we speak
at a theater in...
the Victoria Theater, in fact.
In London.
It's been so, um,
hugely well received.
(muttering)
So you...
You're...
You're...!
Yes.
And... I've made money.
With the prospect of
making quite a lot more.
And if we...
If I continue to work hard,
and produce the kind of writing
that people are prepared
to pay money for,
then it should furnish us
with a comfortable existence.
Oh, dear.
(laughs)
Would you like me to read you
some of the reviews?
Well...
(laughs)
Why have you kept it
such a secret?
To protect ourselves.
We've been accused
of vulgarity and coarseness.
I've forfeited my right
to be called
a member of the fairer sex,
according to Lady Eastlake,
who speculates that Currer Bell
might actually be a woman.
(chuckles): Well.
I'm complicit in the revolutions
throughout Europe.
"We do not hesitate to say that
the tone of mind and thought"
which has overthrown authority
and violated every code...
Human and divine... abroad,
and fostered Chartism
and rebellion at home,
"is that which has also
written Jane Eyre."
Jane Eyre.
And why is it vulgar?
It isn't, Papa!
People are just squeamish
about the truth,
about real life.
Our work is clever.
It's truthful,
it's new, it's fresh,
it's vivid and subtle
and forthright...
But...
More importantly...
The point is...
We didn't want Branwell to know.
That's first and foremost
why we've kept it a secret.
It's not that he'd be scathing,
we can stand that.
It's because it's what
he's always wanted to do.
And now it looks less and less
likely that he ever will.
It'd be like rubbing
salt into a wound.
No one can ever know who we are.
We've agreed.
We just didn't want you
to worry that we weren't...
doing anything with ourselves,
because we have been.
We are!
So who else knows, besides me?
No one.
I've not even told Ellen.
Tabby. No one.
The publishers don't
even know who we are.
ANNE: They think
we're three men.
EMILY: We'd like
to keep it that way.
We just wanted you to know.
(sighs)
Little Helen Burns, hmm?
That's your little sister Maria.
Maria was our big sister.
Yeah.
Of course she was.
(sniffs)
Of course she was.
(sighs): Not a day that passes
when I don't think about her.
And little Elizabeth.
And your mother.
(sighs)
I am very proud of you.
I always have been.
(church bells pealing)
BRANWELL: Sunday.
Dear John,
I shall feel very much obliged
to you
if you can contrive to get me
five pence worth of gin
in a proper measure.
Should it be speedily got,
I could perhaps take it from
you or Billy at the lane top,
or what would be quite as well,
sent out for, to you.
I anxiously ask the favor
because I know the good
it will do me.
Punctually at half past nine
in the morning,
you will be paid the five pence.
I'll have a shilling
given me then.
Yours, P.B.B.
(church bells pealing)
(Branwell coughing)
(inhaling weakly)
Come on.
Have you got a minute?
What?
We're going to have
to go to London.
Who is?
We are.
All three of us.
When?
Today.
Why?
Your... Mr. Newby...
must have, I don't know,
sold the first few pages of
The Tenant of Wildfell Hall
to an American publisher
on the understanding...
that it was written
by Currer Bell.
Well, it's obviously
a misunderstanding.
(stammering)
No, will you...
Please, see that this man
is a con man! A rogue!
How...
How many mistakes did he print
in Wuthering Heights?
Proofs that you painstakingly
corrected that he ignored!
And now this!
My publisher is livid
that I could have sold my next
novel to another publisher!
They have first refusal
on my next two novels,
and now they think I'm some sort
of unscrupulous double-dealer!
Well, just write and explain.
No.
No.
We have to go to London
and give ocular proof
that we are three
separate people,
the novels are not all
the work of one person,
and that this is absolute trash.
Well, I'm not going.
Why?
EMILY:
Because you can write a letter
and explain all that,
and just say
that Newby's made a mistake.
This is not a mistake!
This is a deliberate and
deceitful attempt
to cash in on the success
of Jane Eyre... sorry.
EMILY: It isn't.
CHARLOTTE: It is.
Newby has made the mistake,
along with a lot
of other people,
of assuming
that we're all one person.
That is all it is.
Why are you so obtuse?
Why are you so melodramatic?
Emily.
I don't want.
The Tenant of Wildfell Hall
promoted and sold
on a deceitful cl...
- misunderstanding, whichever,
- that it's by anyone
other than me.
We have to go to London.
Now.
Today.
And explain to Mr. Smith and
Mr. Smith Williams what's happened.
It's intolerable to imagine they
think that I could be so slippery.
But wait, look, you can't.
You can't go to London and explain
who you are, because they will see you.
Well, that's the whole point.
Yes, and you promised...
You promised me
that we would never reveal
ourselves to anyone, ever.
Well...
I'm afraid because of your...
Mr. Newby,
we now find ourselves
in a... situation.
Emily, I think we should go.
No... you're not going, either.
No, I am. No, you're not.
Newby's compromised my integrity
just as much as Charlotte's.
I shan't publish with him again.
If you won't come with us,
that's your choice.
We don't need to fall out
about this, Emily.
It's about your novel
and your name.
It's got nothing to do with me.
Don't be like that, Em...
What's the matter?
Emily.
Yes, but you do know her bark's
worse than her bite,
don't you?
(train whistles blowing)
(bell tolls)
Charlotte.
Jane Eyre.
Look.
MAN: Could I help you, ladies?
Yes.
Yes, I'd...
We'd like to speak
to Mr. George Smith, please.
Mr. Smith?
Mr. Smith's very busy.
Yes, yes.
But the thing is, you see,
it's...
It's important.
Can I tell him what it's about?
Just...
Just that it's a matter
of importance.
I'll...
I'll see what...
I'll see if he's got a minute.
Who should I say is
asking to see him?
It's...
That's delicate.
He is a very busy man.
We've been traveling
for 17 hours,
and we'll take up less than
one minute of his time.
Sir, two ladies
asking to see you.
What ladies?
Didn't give a name, sir.
What's it about?
The only thing
I could prise out, sir,
is that it's important.
To me or to them?
They've asked for no more
than a minute of your time.
(whispers): They say
they've traveled for 17 hours.
Ladies, how can I help you?
Am I addressing
Mr. George Smith?
Yes.
It's a confidential matter.
We're...
We're here to address
a misunderstanding,
which, once accomplished, will
be to everyone's advantage,
yours as much as ours.
And so we apologize
for what must be an interruption
to your morning's work.
But perhaps if I gave you this,
it would clarify who we are.
Where did you get this letter?
In the post.
From you.
You sent it to me.
I am...
Currer Bell.
C. Brontë, that's me.
And this is Acton Bell.
Author of Agnes Grey,
and, the point is,
author of The Tenant
of Wildfell Hall... not me.
And Ellis couldn't come.
Ellis didn't want to come...
Ellis is...
Anyway...
The point is,
we are three sisters.
I have not sold the first few
pages of my next novel
to an American publisher,
as claimed
by Mr. Thomas Cautley Newby.
That is not my novel,
it's Acton's.
I, Mr. Smith, have nothing,
exactly nothing,
to do with Mr. Newby.
Nor will my sister, now she's
seen him in his true colors.
We are people of integrity,
and probity.
And that is why we are here.
To set matters straight.
Sorry, you're...
You are Currer Bell?
What makes you doubt it,
Mr. Smith?
My accent?
My gender? My size?
(whispers): Oh, good heavens.
Oh, good Lord.
Forgive me.
I'm, I'm sorry.
I'm sorry, too.
We've caught you off-guard.
You see, we felt it best
to come and see you in person,
given the tone of your letter.
I wanted no room left
for any further
misunderstanding or doubt.
Well, that's deeply, deeply
appreciated, Miss, uh...
BOTH: Brontë.
And a great relief, of course.
Have you really been traveling
for 17 hours?
Through the night.
Such was the tone
of your letter...
You must be exhausted.
Oddly, Mr. Smith,
I feel extraordinarily awake.
Where are you staying?
We've booked into
the Chapter Coffee House,
in Paternoster Row.
Our father stayed there briefly,
before he went up to Cambridge.
And my sister and I,
my other sister, Em... Ellis,
did once, before we traveled
to Brussels.
You've taken my breath away.
Miss Brontë.
Oh, you have to meet people!
Have you any idea
how many people want...
Thackeray!
Thackeray, Thackeray!
Thackeray will have to meet you.
Ah, Kent, Kent.
(door opens): Kent!
Fetch Smith Williams!
You have to meet Smith Williams.
He, he is such an admirer
of-of-of...
He was...
Of your genius.
He was the one that read,
that read The Professor
and saw instantly,
before Jane Eyre...
Which is glorious, by the way...
He saw.
He saw.
He saw, Miss Brontë.
The whole of literary Lon...
The whole of London.
Will fall over itself
to spend a minute
in the company of Currer Bell.
Somebody really needs
to do something
about this Mr. Newby, though,
Mr. Smith.
Absolutely, indeed...
It... he will be dealt with.
Please, please come through
to my office.
Ah, Smith Williams!
This...
This is...
Currer Bell.
Oh, how perfect.
How delightful.
And this is Acton Bell.
Ellis couldn't come.
Do you like opera?
(dog barking)
(coughing violently)
I don't...
I'll see to him...
I'll sit with him.
(Branwell wheezing and coughing)
Are you sure?
You go sleep in their bed.
Branwell.
I'm going to be sick.
(vomits and coughs)
(breathing raspily)
You're back!
That was quick.
All the way to London.
How were things here?
Oh, well.
We've had sad work
with Branwell.
But other than that!
Good!
Good.
(chickens squawking)
You're the last person in the
world I want to fall out with.
I know.
We only told Mr. Smith
and Mr. Smith Williams.
Well, and Newby, later.
No one else,
and we made it clear
they hadn't to tell
anyone else, either.
They took us
to the Royal Opera House,
Mr. Smith and Mr.
Smith Williams did,
along with Mr. Smith's mother
and his sisters,
and us with nothing to wear
but what we'd gone in,
and they'd no idea who we were!
Heaven alone knows what they
must have thought about us.
He's...
What?
Branwell.
He's been vomiting blood.
CHARLOTTE: Dear Ellen, I
received your letter informing us
of the time of your arrival
in Keighley with great delight.
Emily and Anne anticipate
your long-delayed visit
as eagerly as I do myself.
We will be outside
the Devonshire Arms
promptly at 2:00.
Wishing you a safe
and comfortable journey.
MAN: Anyone for Keighley?
Ellen!
Charlotte!
Emily!
Anne! Miss Nussey.
Which one's your box?
Is it this one?
Yes, it's that one there.
How was your journey?
Long, tiresome.
We haven't seen you for so long.
I know, I've missed you.
Shall we go?
Yes!
In the end, I realized
we'd delay your visit forever
if we weren't careful.
And he's so quiet now.
We barely see him
during the day.
He just sleeps.
I think more people have crosses
to bear than we realize.
On the domestic side.
On the quiet.
The oddest thing.
I think I told you.
The Robinson girls, you know,
the youngest two,
Elizabeth and Mary.
They started writing to Anne.
About six months
after their father died.
I mean, they're very fond of
Anne, more than she imagined.
Then they wanted to visit.
Here.
So we let them.
And they came last week.
Of course, Branwell knew
nothing about it.
What were they like?
Oh, you know.
Pretty.
Vacuous, non-stop
yack-yack-yack.
Emily popped her head in,
purely to satisfy her
own curiosity, of course,
and then, after approximately
four seconds, withdrew.
One of the few occasions I've
really enjoyed her surliness.
Anyway, the point is
they told us
last week
that their mother...
What?
Is going to marry.
Sir Edward Scott.
So much for contrition and guilt
and madness and clauses
in people's wills.
He's been very sadly used,
Branwell.
You didn't tell him?
What purpose would it serve?
I'm sorry to inflict
all this on you, Ellen.
Charlotte.
I'm your oldest friend.
You can tell me anything,
you know that.
Look!
CHARLOTTE: What is that?
It's extraordinary.
Three suns!
(gasps)
What is it?
It's beautiful.
It's you three.
You can go now.
(sniffs)
You'll have to sit him up
to get his shirt off.
(crying softly)
(crying softly)
YOUNG CHARLOTTE:
'Tis a shame you're embarked
on this course of myopic
self-destruction!
YOUNG BRANWELL: I
despise everything you stand for!
Revolution is in the air,
and only a fool like you, sir,
would ignore it!
(woman talking softly)
This is the infamous
dining room table,
at which the sisters used
to sit and write.
♪ ♪
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