Original subtitles

Speaking of the life of Emily Dickinson

and her famous reclusivity...

Susan.

Too much has been made of late of Emily Dickinson's girlhood friendship

with her brother's wife, Susan, the daughter of a tavern keeper.

But first, let me tell my story.

I had just moved to town with my husband,

who had taken a job at the university,

and my young daughter, Millicent.

Austin and Susan Dickinson were the social center of the village.

Even at the first party I attended,

I heard whispers about an unusual sister of Mr. Dickinson.

They called her "the myth."

She never attended these gatherings,

even though she lived right next door.

I also met Mr. Dickinson's sister, Lavinia,

who was having a gay time at the party.

Lavinia invited me to come play the piano

at the house that she shared with her sister Emily.

I met all the members of the Dickinson family that night.

All but one.

I've just been reading an excerpt

from the galleys of my upcoming book

entitled Scurrilous But True,

which details how I assembled the first-ever volumes of work

by the undiscovered American poet Emily Dickinson.

I'm often asked to share my memories of Emily Dickinson,

since I was so often at her house,

where the spinster recluse never left her bedroom

and I never saw her.

I did look on her face but one time...

When she was in her coffin.

As I gazed upon her lying there,

I knew that I had to be the one to publish her first book of poetry,

and I did exactly that in 1890.

Which makes me the first-ever editor of Emily Dickinson's work.

Hello!

Look what I have for you, children!

- Thank you. - -Like that?

Thank you!

Bye.

When Emily's sister, Lavinia,

went into Emily's room after Emily had passed,

Lavinia opened a trunk.

She was surprised to find thousands of poems.

She had no idea that Emily had been writing so much.

It was quite overwhelming for her.

So, she brought all the poems to me.

Since no one would publish a book of Emily's poems,

which was rejected many times,

Lavinia had to pay a publisher to publish Emily's poems.

It was a vanity publication.

Thank you.

Every publication needs promotion, however, and I was not ashamed.

I must go forward, sharing my special memories of this special poet,

who wrote her words in secret and did not show them to a soul.

These are for you.

So many.

It doesn't rhyme.

I know.

I like it.

When Emily was a young girl,

Emily's house was right next to a cemetery.

And she would look out the window and watch the funerals,

one after another.

I think this partially accounts for her morbid curiosity,

or at least her tendency to think about death more than the rest of us.

Funerals were her entertainment.

You promised me pages today.

I'm sorry. I didn't finish.

Emily... I rearranged my schedule to meet with you.

I don't have anything.

I want you to show me whatever you have.

All right.

Here.

And have this too.

- "One cup flour, add milk..." - No, it's on the other side.

- "My Sue..." - That's my letter. To you.

It's right beneath that, at the bottom.

"As strange as the thing I know not."

It were as possible for me to say I loved nothing so well as you.

But believe me not, and yet I lie not.

I confess nothing, nor I deny nothing.

"I am sorry for my cousin."

"By my sword, Beatrice, thou lovest me."

"Do not swear by it, and eat it."

"I will swear by it, that you love me,

and I will make him eat it, that says, I love not you."

"Will you not eat your word?"

"With no sauce that can be deserved to it."

No sauce!

"I protest, I love thee."

"Why, then, God forgive me."

"What offence, sweet Beatrice?"

"You have stayed me in a happy hour.

I was about to protest I loved you."

"And do it with all thy heart?"

"I love you with so much of my heart

that none is left to protest."

"Come, bid me do anything for thee."

Susan? It is your line.

Oh, um...

"Kill Claudio."

You were quite dashing.

Do you think so, really?

I, myself, was ready to marry you.

But unfortunately, the Ladies' Shakespeare Society must end at a reasonable hour.

And the play was over.

We must, for next time, pick a story

where the marriage happens earlier in the play.

Romeo and Juliet, perhaps?

It would be no good if we die in the end.

Would you like it if I played opposite you again?

You've said nothing of my performance.

Oh, it was wonderful, it was.

So witty and arch.

I cannot imagine that it was played better by the original actress.

- Thank you. - Except in Shakespeare's time, the part was played by a man.

- By a man? - Yes.

All the parts were played by men.

In the love scenes, two men would kiss each other?

Yes. That is not so strange.

You and I have kissed.

That is different.

I have not kissed you as I would kiss a man.

How would you kiss a man?

I will not show you.

And why not?

I cannot kiss you as I would kiss a man.

I could.

You have not kissed a man, Emily.

Well, perhaps I have.

I do not believe it, or you would have told me so.

I have kissed many men.

In fact, I have kissed every man in all of Amherst, several times over.

Now I know you are not honest.

And I wish to kiss you.

And I will. Right now.

Unless you stop me. I will.

Go ahead.

Emily, are you sure you do not wish to come to Washington?

Your mother, Lavinia and Austin are all going.

You might be lonely.

I've invited Susan to stay with me.

Your cousin John will stay downstairs,

and you and Susie can share the upstairs bedroom.

Thank you, Mother.

Are you sure? We might be gone a full month.

Susie will keep me company.

Her breast is fit for pearls, but I was not a "Diver".

Her brow is fit for thrones.

But I have not a crest.

Her heart is fit for home.

I... a Sparrow... build there.

Sweet of twigs and twine.

My perennial nest.

Susan Dickinson was also known to share tales

of the remarkable sister of Austin's who never went out

and saw no one who called.

On one occasion, Susan warned me,

"I went in there one day, and in the drawing room,"

I saw Emily reclining in the arms of a man.

"What can you say to that?"

I had no explanation, of course.

But I could only imagine.

I would say...

I would say, uh...

Emily, I... I so enjoy our visits.

I notice you have several editions of the Brontës on your shelves.

- Are you a reader of theirs? - Oh, yes.

- Oh. - Yeah, let's see.

Uh, the Gypsy boy...

adopted by a family, who... Who then take in a governess...

who is plain.

She is very plain. I... I remember that part.

And they marry. Fire consumes the house.

He condemns her ghost to walk the moors forever.

And when they have children, his eyesight returns.

I... I'm so sorry.

Which Brontë story are you referring to, Judge Lord?

Wuthering Jane.

Do you like it?

Uh, yes. Yes, and... and especially to hear your abridged version of the...

And especially to hear your abridged version of... of the book.

It shows, I think, the point of the story,

which is a plain woman can be loved by a fire victim.

As a judge, the book appeals to my sense of fairness.

I remember... I remember your father would say to me,

"If I die before you, Judge..."

look after my daughter.

She will never marry.

And it is not because she's so plain, uh,

or because of her nervous condition,

"but because she is so clever."

And no man would want to marry a woman

who is more clever than he, Jane.

Emily.

Emily.

Well, I believe enough has been said for today.

I must take my leave.

My carriage awaits.

Oh, oh, oh!

I believe Emily did have a fondness

for the venerable old judge.

I think it possible she hoped to marry him.

However, Judge Lord was to die abruptly, after five years.

It may be that he never found quite the right time to ask.

Cheers.

Promise me you will never again take a teaching post so far away.

Emily, you know I am due to go west again.

Share your work with me. Please.

But I write so many different versions of one poem.

Send it all to me. If you write it, I will read it.

"I am sick today, dear Susie, and I've not been to church."

There has been a pleasant quiet in which to think of you.

And I have not been sick enough that I cannot write to you.

I love you as dearly, Susie,

as when love first began on the step at the front door and under the evergreens.

If it is over, tell me,

and I shall raise the lid of my box of phantoms and lay one more love in.

But if it lives and beats still, still lives and beats for me,

say me so, and I will strike the strings

"of one more strain of happiness before I die."

"Never mind a letter, Susie."

You have so much to do.

Just write me every week one line.

"And let it be, 'Emily, I love you.'"

Another letter for you from Miss Susie!

- Any mail for me? - No.

Emily, there's an article in The Atlantic Monthly.

It is a call for young contributors to send in their material.

Who wrote it?

Colonel Thomas Wentworth Higginson, you may call me.

My experience, since you inquired,

is that I edited poems for The Atlantic Monthly,

as well as for several anthologies,

and I helped start a petition to free the slaves in the Boston area.

Excuse me, I meant the petition I circulated in the Boston area, of course.

There were no slaves in the Boston area.

No, I meant...

what is your military experience?

Military?-

♪ Lilly, lilly, who told you... ♪

- "Dilly, dilly," Austin. - Dilly, dilly. Yes, yes. No, I remember.

♪ Who told you so? ♪

♪ Was my own heart Dilly, dilly ♪

♪ That told me so ♪

Austin, you and Susan sing so well together.

One ought to think you are preparing for an engagement.

Austin is to be married to Susan.

I'm glad I could be the bearer of such happy, happy tidings.

She has a weak constitution.

I know it was unexpected. I'm sorry.

I care for your brother...

Your dear brother, of whom you are so fond.

But my heart belongs only to you.

Emily, you cannot but have expected that I would marry.

I cannot make a fair wage as a school teacher,

and my appointments have set us apart many miles.

I will be near you always, just as I have promised.

And my brothers will give money to Austin so that we may build a house.

And the greatest part is we are planning to build it right next door.

You will be next door?

Yes.

And you see, Emily, then we will be sisters.

And it is quite normal for sisters

to spend many hours alone in each other's company.

I have contrived a way for us to be together always, and no one can prevent it.

I've missed you.

You know, I... I wonder about Austin.

If he'll go to the war? No, Austin will pay for someone to stand in his place.

No, but I wonder...

Have you said anything?

- About what? - We have to take precaution.

I mean, if somebody were to find out, we could...

Nobody will find out.

Susan, you have to be careful.

I have to be more careful?

You are the one who writes the poems, puts it in ink.

"Sue Forevermore." You think that has another meaning?

"Sue Forevermore." That hardly speaks to the larger audience.

Are you showing your poems about me to that Higginson?

You don't think he knows what they are about?

I think he does not.

After all, I even published my poem, "I Taste a Liquor Never Brewed."

That poem was not about...

Oh. Oh.

I need to be more clever.

Wait, is Austin in the house?

Let's go. Uh, take your bloomers.

Certainly, my greatest find were these three letters

addressed to a very mysterious figure

who is known only as "Master."

Now, perhaps it wasn't just a man.

Perhaps it was several men.

Multiple men at the same time.

Mm-hmm.

What a lovely wedding it is.

Too bad Miss Gilbert's friend Miss Dickinson

couldn't have joined her at her nuptials.

Invitation clearly said Geneva, New York.

She must have thought it was Geneva, Switzerland.

"I have intended to write you, Emily, today,"

but the quiet has not been mine.

I send you this, lest I should seem to have turned away from a kiss.

If you have suffered this past summer, I am sorry.

I, Emily, bear a sorrow that I never uncover.

If a nightingale sings with her breast against a thorn, why not we?

"When I can, I shall write. Sue."

Susan!

Oh.

- Susan. - Kate. Katie Jane.

Ohh. It's The Widow Kate now.

Oh, so kind of you to host me on my travels.

I just met your charming sister-in-law.

Why have you been hiding her from me all these years?

Emily is extremely busy.

Funny, that's exactly what she said about you...

That you were too busy for her.

"Shut out" was, I believe, the expression used.

She said she was surprised that you even had time for my visit.

You invited yourself, Kate.

I shall pay her a call.

Emily does not broach an interruption when she is working at her desk.

Is it the house on the left?

You will not go there, I hope.

She said I was welcome.

She will not receive you.

Emily experienced a love disaster

that inspired her to draft at least three letters

of heart-wrenching eloquence and infantile neediness.

This was long after Emily had settled as a spinster at the homestead.

Who was this steamy stranger who traveled from outside New England?

"Come to New England," one draft said,

"Open your life wide, and let me in."

No.

Where is Kate?

She's already left.

She's already left?

And she had no message for me?

What's that in your hand?

Oh, it was just something I was going to give her.

Are those a pair of garters?

Did you sew her a pair of garters?

It doesn't take that long.

Were you going to put them on her legs for her as well?

So, she had no message for me?

No.

- Nothing? - Nothing.

Did she say she's coming back?

Maybe.

Maybe?

She said she wasn't.

- Oh. - And then she said July.

And then she said she wasn't.

Okay.

You never made me garters.

Hmm.

"Susan knows she is a siren,"

"and at a word from her, Emily would forfeit righteousness."

Thank you so much for coming. We'll see you again. Goodbye.

What do you think? You like them?

These...

These poems are too idolatrous to print.

Hmm.

You name me.

Every poet has a muse.

You can't use my name.

Yes, I can. Do you like them?

Yes. I like them...

very much.

In truth, Emily had many influences over her work.

She was inspired by the great Ralph Waldo Emerson.

- Is Mr. Emerson here? - Yes.

Can I come in? I'd like to hear what he has to say.

We all would.

Nature is the fullness of individuality.

Within the flora and fauna are present many of the world's...

Within the flora and the fauna are present many of the world's essences.

The spring is a reminder that all can be redeemed.

Emily Dickinson wished to be published posthumously.

"Posthumous" refers to the soul that finds more glory

in the recognition after death than in life.

It's the heaven of the literary world.

Ten or more poems copied into each book, 800 poems altogether.

Wow. Emily. It's so strange

not to see your poems written on scraps of paper.

It was a lot of work copying all of the poems into these booklets.

- It's beautiful. - Thank you, Susan.

I'm so nervous to show it to Higginson.

You can't be that nervous. You will do just fine.

Many people ask me,

"How did you succeed at getting Emily's work into the world

when so many before you have failed?"

Well, I had the help of the renowned...

Thomas Wentworth Higginson to see Miss Emily Dickinson.

- She'll be right down, sir. - Oh. Thank you.

- These are my introduction. - Oh.

How was your trip? It was probably long. Or short. Or was it long?

Are you surprised by my appearance, or am I as I describe myself?

- I wasn't... - It's so wonderful to have the editor

of The Atlantic Monthly pay me a visit,

but I would imagine you must do that

with all of your young contributors, but I'm certainly not young.

How admirable of you to call for submissions

to give practical advice to those wishing to break into print.

And also, I would imagine how burdensome to have to judge whose writing has merit.

I mean, who can really have the final say on the...

The worth of a... Of a thought or an idea?

I would imagine that's a very difficult position for you to be in

as the editor of The Atlantic Monthly.

Uh, that's a good question.

I always ask myself, "What is poetry in essence?"

If I feel physically like the top of my head is taken off, I know that is poetry.

If it makes my body so cold no fire can ever warm me, I know that is poetry.

The question was intended to be a rhetorical one, largely,

but allow me to answer it.

Wordsworth says of poetry that it is

"emotion recollected in tranquility."

When I try to organize, my little force explodes.

Now, I noticed that you remarked on how many submissions

you receive with masculine names in very feminine handwriting.

For women to use the pen names of men in submission,

don't you think this must come out of an impulse

for their writing to be seen without a jaundiced eye?

For if it is women's authorship,

even you realize that what is called "women's authorship"

is somehow different from what we call "authorship"

and yet would never call "men's authorship." And why is that?

Why is it with the phrase "women's writing,"

we are led to believe that perhaps a rescue effort

from our troops needs to be sent to its aid?

You mention it in your article.

Why, yes, I am a supporter.

The 19th century is the women's century.

Change is afoot.

You support the right to vote?

I do, but I believe the suffragists should wait

until there is no more political corruption and politics has become civil.

You also mention that...

And what and how do you distinguish...

I read seven newspapers...

Are you a champion of posthumous recognition?

Are you?

Mm.

Certainly not. We can't delay in recognizing those who are...

Who are...

Who are what?

Those with talent.

When I recognize those with talent, especially women...

Women's voices are so seldom heard,

we need to hear intelligent women's voices.

But I am barely able to find any.

I am hoping you might seek to publish one of my poems in The Atlantic Monthly.

I have these new poems.

Hmm.

Well, I will read your poems.

But I do not think you are ready to publish.

You are...

Oh, you are, uh...

What?

When I read your poems, so many of them...

make me feel unclear.

I believe poetry should leave you with a trembling sensation,

but when I read your poetry, Miss Dickinson, I'm left feeling...

I'm not sure what.

All men say "what" to me, but I thought it a fashion.

If you're published before your time

and showered with negative attention,

you will see how little good it does you when it comes to...

Various... Various limbs of your poems need removal.

Here, take this poem right here.

If you take this line here

and you cut this line, and remove that line altogether,

and then you move this line here.

And these dashes... Hmm? Are they really necessary? Hmm? You see?

Do you see how it is improved?

This is what you must think of every time you write.

Well, I must go.

Remember what I have told you,

and it will serve your writing greatly.

Thank you. Thank you for your surgery.

Ah, well, it is my profession, Miss Dickinson.

Good day. It was delightful meeting you.

I will come back again sometime.

Say a long time that is nearer. Some time is no time.

Emily had met Higginson, but she failed to make a good impression.

Higginson, reflecting on their meeting, said,

"She drained my nerve power.

I am glad I do not live near her."

Ladies.

It's true Higginson did not publish Emily Dickinson during her lifetime,

but she didn't quite send Higginson enough poems for him to understand

that she was ready for publication.

- How many did she send? - Ninety.

That's quite a lot.

Not if you consider that she wrote nearly 2,000.

Did she not send her good ones?

No, she sent many of the same ones

that are causing quite the sensation today.

I'm not sure I understand.

Well, Higginson wasn't the only one she sent her poems to.

She also sent them to the Roberts Brothers Publishing.

They also passed.

Emily Dickinson's work

is devoid of any true poetical qualities.

And she sent them to Josiah Holland, also a publisher.

And the husband of her childhood friend Elizabeth.

So, I understand your husband is publishing poetry now.

He never acknowledged receiving them.

Higginson was a colonel in the war.

He witnessed legs, arms, heads ripped from the human body.

Maggots infesting the food,

and yet, it was Emily Dickinson

who exhausted him more than the horrors of war.

Emily, I saw his carriage leave.

He met with you for three hours.

- Yes. - He must think highly of your writing

to spend so much of his time with you.

He's an esteemed and important man.

Is he going to publish you in The Atlantic Monthly?

- No. - No?

That can't be right. That can't be. He came all the way here.

He doesn't think I'm ready.

- He doesn't? - No.

I'm certain that it's because you're a woman.

Helen Hunt Jackson is a woman.

Higginson discovered her, and he made her famous.

"Mother..."

I see you

with your nursery light,

Leading your babies,

all in white,

to their sweet rest.

Christ, the Good Shepherd, carries mine tonight,

"and that is best."

America's greatest lady poet!

Emily, we will get you into print.

Lavinia.

Can you not quiet your cat?

I think I will go play the piano.

Oh, thank you.

Lavinia, does your sister, Emily, love cats as much as you?

Well, I'm sure nobody loves cats as much as I do,

but Emily does love cats.

One time, she found a litter of kittens that didn't have a home,

and she knew they weren't going to have a home,

so she did the kindest thing.

She drowned them in a vat, and then she pickled them.

- Lavinia. - They're in our basement right now.

In barrels.

I'm sure you jest.

No. They're there. I'll show you.

- So they're preserved. - Mm-hmm. In case their mother comes back.

Would you like me to buy you another dress?

No, it's all right.

You wear that same dress every day.

I don't want to spend any part of my brain thinking about what to wear.

I want to save all my deciding for my writing.

Imagine if Helen Hunt Jackson wore the same thing every day.

What would people say about that?

Maybe they'd say her poetry was better.

Higginson might not be interested in her anymore.

Oh.

Did you hear?

- Hmm? - Higginson said he does not blame Walt Whitman

for writing Leaves of Grass.

He blames him for not burning it immediately afterwards.

Susan, do you know that when Higginson first read the poems that I had sent him,

he asked if I had read Whitman?

As in, he thinks they are similar.

That's how little he thinks of my writing.

Whose work do you think we'll be reading in 100 years?

Higginson's or Whitman's?

- Well, Whitman's. - Whitman's and yours.

I don't know.

I'll have to get a book in print first.

Emily, when I saw the first woman doctor in America graduate...

When was this? You never told me about this.

It was near my aunt's house, during the time you were not speaking to me.

Mm.

Was this the time after I learned

you had hid your engagement with my brother?

Yes.

For almost a whole year?

- Yes, it was at that juncture. - Then continue.

When the first woman doctor in America

graduated from medical school, everyone hated her.

And the only reason she got into medical school

was they asked the incoming class,

"Would it be agreeable to have a lady study among them?"

They thought it was a joke and voted yes.

And that's why we have our first woman doctor.

I would like a strawberry now.

Emily, your poems are ever-marvelous to me.

When you come to me, with your fresh pages, and I read them,

they're full of things... Things that are startling.

It's so good.

Why don't more people feel as you do, then?

The way you write... it's new.

People don't know what to make of it.

They've never seen it before.

- That was late! - -That was fun.

- Is that the children? - Oh, they're home early. Oh, uh...

- Should I? - No, it's too late.

Gib and I want to come in.

I have a headache. I...

don't feel well, and I'm going to lie back down on my bed.

- All right. - You and your brother can go have some cookies.

- Cookies! - Yes.

Say hello to Aunt Emily.

About here, of course, is where I enter everyone's lives.

Ah, hello! How are ya?

I'm Mrs. Todd. I've come to visit Miss Dickinson.

She requested I play piano for her.

Ah, yes. Here's the piano you'll be wantin'.

Sit down. Here. Take a seat.

All set.

Will Miss Dickinson be joining me here in the drawing room?

No, but don't worry. She can hear ya fine from upstairs.

- Oh. - Here's the music she'd like. She left it for ya.

I'm not to see her at all?

No, ma'am. And I'd like to make a request of me own.

I did help Emily's poems rhyme more.

Why don't you come to church with us?

"Consider the lilies" is the only commandment I keep.

That's not a real commandment.

Well, I guess I keep none, then.

Can I stay here with Aunt Emily?

Looks like you have a convert.

We can bake some bread.

I'll take this convert's coat.

- Goodbye, my darlings. - Goodbye, Susan. We'll see you later.

Goodbye, Mother.

Susan entertained relentlessly

in the manner of her saloon.

Excuse me.

I meant salon.

It created a terrible racket,

and it made it impossible for Austin

to get any serious work done.

- Hello, Susan! - Emily!

Vinny. Joseph Lyman back in Amherst!

Have you returned to make an honest woman of Lavinia after all these years?

Joseph recently got married, Susan, in Omaha.

Oh! Well, where is your lovely wife?

Oh, she's too delicate to travel.

May I take your coats?

- Uh, Emily, would you kindly help me with these? - Of course.

I'll just take those.

- Thank you. - Thank you.

Let's put the coats on the bed.

- Mm. - Mm.

What happened with Lavinia?

She's heartbroken.

Oh. Why didn't you tell me?

- I tried to signal you. - Oh.

Oh.

Guess who's downstairs.

Who?

Kate.

Has she come to see you or me?

I don't know.

I don't like it.

I'm sorry.

We should go down.

I want to stay here on the coats.

I know.

Forever.

Come on. Come on.

Did you know we posed for a daguerreotype together?

- No. - It was quite remarkable, really.

- Susan! - Samuel Bowles,

I had no idea you'd be joining us this evening.

Well, I adore you, and I adore parties, so of course.

Are you still teaching poor children in Logtown?

Yes, I am. It's, uh, very...

Um, that's Emily's sister.

- Lavinia. - Lavinia. Lavinia, yes.

- She's a dear. - Yes.

When are you going to publish more of Emily's poems in your paper?

Emily has sent you so many.

Yes, well, I was just speaking about this with your lovely friend Kate.

I advised Emily not to seek publication in general.

The rhymes are a bit off, don't you think?

She could work on them.

That is an excellent point, yes.

She's very devoted to her poems and to her writing.

She is. She is.

I know it would mean so much to her

to see them in the paper.

Well, a paper, perhaps. Maybe not my paper.

Well, your father did give you your paper.

Yes, and now it's my paper, so...

And you're the editor, correct?

Is there food?

Is Emily here? I should like to say hello.

Where is Emily?

- Austin. - What is it, my dear?

- Your sideburn is in my eye. - Oh. Sorry.

I wish you paid as much attention to the work I do

going over the town's ledger books

as you do to her poetry fascicles.

I know nothing about financial matters

and cannot be helpful in that regard.

The children say that they carry messages back and forth three and four times a day.

So? What of it?

Well, in this town, one is paid for delivering the mail,

and I do not wish my children to act as postmasters.

I would have thought of note passing between girls

as an activity chiefly confined to school days.

You are passing an awful lot of time in Mrs. Todd's company.

Of course, at Harvard, we played amber,

but that's not a game for the ladies.

Something I know little about, having gone to only boys' school.

Ah, Lavinia. You know Parson Mudd.

- Oh, hello, Parson. - Greetings.

How was boys' school?

Ah, Mrs. Todd hath arrived.

Mr. Dickinson was my husband, David's, boss.

David was quite pleased that Austin had taken a liking to me.

I suppose nobody in the town could be born, married,

or buried, or make an investment,

or buy a house lot, or a cemetery lot,

or sell a newspaper, or build a house, or choose a profession

without Austin Dickinson close at hand.

Will your husband be joining us tonight?

Unfortunately, he is wrapped up in work. You know how he is.

And your wife, Susan?

She is in Springfield for the night.

I moved to Amherst with my husband,

the internationally renowned astronomer David Peck Todd,

now hospitalized.

If you were at the house every day, why did you never see her?

Are you here to give me my after-dinner treat?

Do you deserve one?

Well, it's difficult to explain

why I never saw Emily face to face.

Mr. Dickinson.

It was because she was a recluse.

Why else would she never come out of her room to greet me?

She was a recluse. As simple as that.

How else can you explain

why she wouldn't come downstairs to listen to my piano?

She was a recluse.

Are you crying?

- Hello? Susan? - Emily!

Lavinia, thank you so much for meeting me here.

My pleasure.

And thank you so much for hosting me

and my dear friend Mabel Todd...

- Mm-hmm. - At the homestead so often.

You do seem fond of Mabel Todd.

She is marvelous company. I have a question.

Are you satisfied with my management of your financial affairs?

- Yes. - I am very pleased to hear that.

The law places a stringent burden on me in that regard,

and I do want to feel that I'm doing justice by you.

I wonder if you could do me a favor

and make it so that our Mabel Todd

could simply meet our dear sister, Emily, face to face.

Simply see her.

To see her? What about if I do a sketch of Emily

and present that to Mabel Todd?

She can even keep the sketch for herself.

Or one of your lovely silhouette cuttings.

- Yes. - Yes. Yes or perhaps...

That should suffice.

A watercolor... You could learn that

- and then do a painting of her later. - That would be my pleasure.

That would be marvelous and it's a very helpful suggestion,

but I wonder if you wouldn't just impose, suggest, persuade

our Emily to just remain in the drawing room

while Mabel is playing the piano

for a minute and simply say, "Pleased to meet you."

What if Mabel dresses like Emily

and looks at herself in the mirror?

To some degree, that's already been done,

- and it's not been satisfactory. - Oh. Oh.

Does Mabel know that Emily is a person?

Because I do also have a cat named Emily Dickinson.

So it wouldn't be lying. She would be meeting Emily Dickinson.

That was my wife.

Emily, I want you to know that Austin promised he would never touch me.

He wrote a letter to me before we were married,

saying that if I married him, he would never touch me.

- He did? - Yes.

Well, why didn't you ever speak of this before?

I found the very subject distasteful.

Well, obviously, he didn't keep his promise.

- Emily! - Well, what did you expect during the marriage?

Well, Emily, you enjoy talking to me.

I thought Austin would find that to be enough.

Emerson himself said I was brilliant, and then this Mabel comes along.

I thought you'd be relieved.

Why would I be relieved?

Well, because...

Do you understand that when my children come to town,

people point at them and whisper? My children.

People cross the street, when they see them coming.

They... they feel sorry for them.

He's parading around town with that strumpet.

I know that Austin would never...

Would never? Would never what?

He's trying to give some land to her... land that should be theirs.

He's had a lawyer draw up a deed.

He wants you and Lavinia to sign it.

Susan, I would never let that happen.

- Never fear. - Oh.

Never.

In the month following,

their eight-year-old child, Gilbert, died.

Oh, my condolences, my dear friend.

Let me know if there's any way in which I may be of help.

Mrs. Todd seems very familiar with Mr. Dickinson.

It's scandalous. I've never seen anything like it.

I saw her ankle.

Oh, Austin.

You have a wicked turn of mind.

I was re-reading our passionate correspondence the other night, as I often do.

As I do, too, my sweet.

And as I was reading these letters

professing our love for each other,

I was struck with the inspiration

that these letters would actually make

a beautiful published book.

You mean bound.

- No. - You mean a bound volume.

Oh, no, published,

so the whole world can read our pure love

and inspire everyone around...

Those poor souls who don't have what we have.

Oh, but, Austin, I don't care.

I want to share the pure love that you and I have.

- Mabel. - I was thinking

usually books of letters are organized

in such a way where it's chronological...

The correspondence... Over the years.

But I was thinking maybe we can do... we can or...

We can organize them in topics, like...

Like pure love, unbridled passion,

um, excursions.

What else, sweet?

That, uh, the black mogul... Your wife.

I myself have connections in publishing.

I've been published myself.

I've made a little bit of a name for myself.

Dear Mabel, no.

Oh!

Someday you'll find a proper outlet for your creative expression,

and then everyone will know just how brilliant you are.

Hmm.

Why not paint more crockery?

"Emily, all's well."

There were two or three little things

I wanted to talk with you about without witnesses,

but tomorrow will do just as well.

Has girl read Republican?

"'It takes as long to start our fleet as the burnside.'"

A few newspapers did publish some of Emily's poems.

But the results were...

disappointing.

This is my poem.

"The Snake"?

They do that. It doesn't bother the average reader.

Hmm. I don't title my poems.

I always felt that what people needed to understand.

Emily's poems were titles.

So I gave all the poems titles.

Titles are important

because it's a clue to the audience of what they're reading.

You can't just sit down and read jibber-jabber.

It's a clear thesis. A title is a clear thesis.

I thought you'd be delighted to see your poem in the paper.

Well, thank you so very much.

I'd also like to make note of other contributions

that I gave to Emily's book of poems.

I also did the cover art.

That's my painting...

that I gave to Emily.

That's why it's on the cover of the book.

I'm sure she would have chosen it, too...

if she were alive.

It's beautiful, no?

Thank you.

Your poem is in the paper. Everyone will read it.

The title ruins the experience.

Imagine if they called Romeo and Juliet.

They Both Die at the End.

Happy Valentine's Day.

No one knew how sick Emily really was.

We were all shocked...

when we realized

that she would die.

The entire town

felt something was amiss

when our dear, sweet spinster, recluse poet

left our planet.

Emily's decline was swift.

"And covered up our names."

I think this is about...

I don't think. I know.

"You must let me go first, Sue,"

because I live in the Sea always and know the Road...

I would have drowned twice to save you sinking, dear.

If I could only have covered your Eyes

"so you wouldn't have seen the Water."

I would like to ask if you would wash her body.

Austin and I are too distressed.

- Is Austin here? - No.

I'll expect he's over at the Todd's.

The basin and sponge are at the foot of the bed.

The romantic friendshi of my Aunt Emily Dickinson and my mother, Sue,

extended from girlhood until death.

Aunt Emily was hardly a frustrated spinster maid.

Her sweet Sue was her inspiration.

She wrote her letters and poems

and what my mother called the letter-poem.

If you go to the letters and the poems,

you will hear the story of my mother

and my aunt as I understood it,

starting from when they were teenage girls.

Thank you.

Wild nights.

Wild nights were I with thee.

Wild nights should be our luxury!

Futile the winds to a heart in port.

Done with the compass, done with the chart!

Rowing in Eden, ah the sea!

Might I but moor tonight in thee!

Mabel.

I have something for you.

"Amuastablein"?

Yes.

What is it?

Oh, but don't you see?

It's the letters of our names, Austin and Mabel, intertwined.

I will cherish this forever. Thank you, Austin.

So, uh, Austin, I...

I've been putting together Emily's letters

for this book that I'm publishing, and...

- Hmm? - Um,

I'm looking at her letters to you about Susan,

and there seems to be a very peculiar passion

that Emily has towards Susan.

Well, if it troubles you, simply leave them out of the collection.

- Oh, no, no, no, no, no. - She must have written a dozen letters a day.

No, no, no. The prose is gorgeous.

I'm just simply saying that the general reader

would find these letters and the poems more appealing,

if you will, if they were, say, addressed to a man.

Just imagine, uh, Emily pining away in her room,

unrequited love.

Why don't I think about that, and while you think about it,

uh, I need you to erase Susan's name in these letters,

and we will dedicate them to other correspondents?

Hmm. Uh, well...

Well, very good, my dear.

Amuastablein.

That's exactly how I feel.

I'll take this to my study.

Thank you.