All language subtitles for A.Quiet.Passion.2016.WEB-DL.x264-FGT

You have now come to the end
of your second semester.

Some of you will remain here
to complete your education.

Some of you will go out
into the world.

And as is my custom,

I put to you a question
of the utmost importance

which concerns
your spiritual well-being.

Do you wish to come to god
and be saved?

Those of you who wish to be Christian
and saved will move to my right.

To those of you who remain
and hope to be saved,

you will move to my left.

Have you said your prayers?

Yes.

Though it can't make much
difference to the creator.

Do I understand you correctly?

Do you believe that your creator
is indifferent to your sins,

that, in his mercy,
he sees you slumber?

No, you misunderstand me.

I've not got so far.

I am not even awakened yet.

And how should I repent?

I am somewhat troubled,
to be sure,

but my feelings
are all indefinite.

The question is not
how far you have advanced,

but how far
you ought to have advanced,

not how you feel,
but how you ought to feel.

I don't feel anything.

I have no sense of my sins.
And how can I?

I wish I could feel
as others do,

but it is not possible.

A sinner against a holy god
and under condemnation

and liable every moment to drop
into a burning, hopeless eternity,

yet cannot feel,
cannot be alarmed,

cannot flee
from the wrath to come.

The true question is,

are you in the ark of safety?

I fear I am not.

You are alone in your rebellion,

miss Dickinson.

I fear that
you are a no-hoper.

Yes, miss Lyon.

For each ecstatic instant

we must an anguish pay

in keen and quivering ratio

to the ecstasy.

For each beloved hour

sharp pittances of years,

bitter contested farthings

and coffers heaped with tears.

Father!
Austin! Vinnie!

My happiness would be complete
if only mother were with you.

The journey would have been
too fatiguing for her.

We have come
to take you home, Emily.

We were concerned by your last letter.
You spoke of being ill.

Yes. What is it that
you are suffering from?

An acute case of evangelism.

Am I really to go home?

Yes.

We will go to Amherst via Boston

and stay for a short while
with aunt Elizabeth.

I fear you don't
approve, father?

I do not like to see a
woman upon the stage.

But she has a gift.

A gift is no excuse for a female
to exhibit herself in that way.

And what would you have her do?

Perform an act
of congress aloud?

That would depend upon
what key it was in.

Well, the rest of her program
is in respectable German.

And the Germans are wonderful in music.
That's true.

English, thank heaven, is not
a language that can be sung.

But, aunt Elizabeth,
you love your hymn tunes.

Hymns are different. They have
absolutely nothing to do with music.

Ah.
The devil in music.

Don't be trite, Emily.

O life! O home!

How wonderful you are!

Emily.

Why are you up so late?

- May I speak with you, father?
- Of course.

As you may know,
I like to write.

Letters, mostly,
but sometimes poetry.

Yes.

May I have your permission

to write during the night,
for quiet's sake?

I shall not disrupt
the rest of the household.

I promise.

Yes, you may.

It was very considerate
of you to ask.

It is your house, father.

But it is our home, Emily.

I... I have one more favor
to ask of you, father.

What is it?

You are, I believe,

on cordial terms
with Dr. Holland,

the editor of
the Springfield republican.

And the Springfield republican
publishes poetry.

I'll write to him.

And if he agrees, you may
send him some of your work.

Dear miss Dickinson,

I have decided to publish
"sic transit Gloria Mundi,"

as it is the least wayward
and shows some wit.

As to the rest of the poetry,
it is in the common meter,

childish, like nursery rhymes.

But I must confess that the genuine
classics of every language

are the work of men,
not of women.

Women, I fear, cannot create the
permanent treasures of literature.

Where's Emily?

Emily!

Come here at once!

Remember, aunt Elizabeth

has celebrated the Dickinson
dynasty in 55 stanzas.

And every one of them dull.

Aunt Elizabeth.

At last, Emily.
I was nearly kept waiting.

And what is your opinion
of my poem, Emily?

I'm sure your verse
is equal to your talent, aunt.

If I were clever enough, I should probably
take offense at that dubious compliment.

Oh, but, aunt, all the best
compliments are dubious.

That's part of their charm.

Did you enjoy my verses, Austin?

Very much, aunt. They put
paradise lost to shame.

Your children are far too
sophisticated, Edward.

I'm sure part of me disapproves.

- Disapproval is a heavy thing.
- Oh!

Besides, if I had to choose between
having sophisticated children

and ones
that were merely docile,

I should choose the former.

Docility is
too much like slavery.

That sounds like abolitionist talk.
No, it is not.

But no Christian could ever
make a case for slavery.

Please. Let us not
discuss the subject.

It is both improper
and tiresome.

Not to those who are enslaved.

I see we have a Robespierre
in our midst.

No, not Robespierre.

Charlotte Corday, perhaps.

Edward, they're as
bad as you are.

I believe you've had
your first poem published.

Yes.

In the Springfield republican.

It was printed anonymously.

That seems a little eccentric.

But in the circumstances,
probably a good thing.

We can't all be Milton.

Don't pout, Emily.
It's unbecoming.

Poems are my solace for the
eternity which surrounds us all.

- Who said that?
- I did.

Well, don't.
It sounds unchristian.

But where's Vinnie?

Here, aunt.

And what of you?

Oh.

I am like pilgrim,
trying to improve.

A pilgrim should only ever be conscious
of other people's self-improvement.

Consciousness of his own
is mere vanity.

But, aunt, vanity
is such a harmless vice.

It's as shallow as the
people who indulge in it.

No vice is harmless, Vinnie.

Look no further than Babylon
for that.

What of you, Austin?

Oh, I'm on no pilgrimage at all.

And what of vice?

Surely vice is only
virtue in disguise.

And what is your opinion of your
children's moral laxity, Emily?

Oh, I prefer to listen
and remain silent.

That way a prejudice doesn't
seem like an opinion.

That reply was so sphinx-like
I'm none the wiser.

Oh, Cherish
your ignorance, aunt.

You never know
when you will need it.

Edward!

Your children astound me.

They ought to be sent to their
rooms and pummeled. Hourly.

Calm down, aunt Elizabeth.

Have a glass of currant wine.

- Turn vice into medicinal pleasure.
- Medicinal?

For your circulation.

There is nothing wrong
with my circulation.

The heart asks pleasure first,

and then excuse from pain,

and then those little anodynes
that deaden suffering,

and then to go to sleep,

and then, if it should be
the will of its inquisitor,

the Liberty to die.

Would you play something, Emily?

One of the old hymn tunes.

Of course.

When I was very young,

a young man who
used to go to our church

used to sing that.

He had a lovely voice.

So pure.

He was only 19 when he died.

There.

There.

God keep you well.

When he is ready,
he will call me.

I hope you live
for a hundred years.

What a repellent idea.

Oh, aunt, don't say that.

I'm not afraid of death, Emily.

Nor should you be.

If we keep our souls in readiness
for god, there can be no fear.

He will smooth our way.

I shall pray for you all.

And remember,
keep atheism at bay.

And watch the clock
that ticks for us all.

Tick.

Tock.

Tick.

Oh, you are all impossible!

I went to thank her,

but she slept,

her bed a funneled stone,

with nosegays
at the head and foot

that travelers had thrown...

Who went to thank her.

But she slept.

'Twas short to cross the sea,

to look upon her like alive,

but turning back 'twas slow.

You think you might smile,
Mr. Dickinson?

I am smiling.

Emily! Emily!

We have a guest.

This is miss Vryling Buffam.

It sounds like an anagram,
doesn't it?

You see before you
a life blighted by baptism.

I hope you brought to the
attention of your parents

their lack of thought
in that respect.

I have.
It makes them very cross.

But surely
they will forgive you.

Ah, but will I forgive them?

Weren't you at a ladies seminary
at fort Sumter or somewhere?

Mount Holyoke.
Yes.

I thought it had a military ring to it.
But that was years ago.

And were your studies
as disciplined?

Algebra, geometry,
the natural sciences

and, for the sake of decorum,
ecclesiastical history.

I believe all women should have the
same educational advantages as men.

But ecclesiastical history?

It sounds as dreary as paradise.

We brought her home.

Did you dislike mount
Holyoke so much?

She was bullied there.

There's bullying
and there's coercion.

And which did you suffer?

A unique combination of both.
It was appalling.

Yes, but... it puts
iron in the soul.

But what is the point of that when,
in the end, we are all extinguished?

Do you fear death? No.

But I fear heaven.

I'm afraid it will seem
like an anticlimax.

Perfection usually does.

And what of hell?

I'm sure that will be
even duller than heaven.

That will be the agony.

Will you go with us
to church, miss Buffam?

Of course not.

Going to church
is like going to Boston.

You only enjoy it
after you've gotten home.

We are to pray for the repose
of our late pastor's soul.

Doesn't that rather depend
on where its gone?

We shall become fast friends.

Of course we shall.
I'm irresistible.

Everyone says so.

When the new pastor does arrive,
you must point him out to me.

So that you, too, may be saved?

No.

So that I will know
whom to avoid.

Don't enjoy your praying
too much.

It might become
habit-forming.

Do you come to god, sir?

We do, sir.

Do you come humbly, sir?

I come as myself, pastor.

You want to come to Christ
as a lawyer?

You need to come
as a poor sinner.

Get down on your knees
and let me pray for you.

And then you can
pray for yourself.

- And you, miss Dickinson. What of you?
- What of me, sir?

Will you not kneel
and give yourself to god?

No, sir, I will not kneel,

though I think that god has
already given himself to me.

- That was profane.
- It was not meant so, sir.

Do you guard your soul, Emily?

As best as I am able, sir.

And hell?
What of hell?

Avoid it if I can.
Endure it if I must.

That was irreligious,
young lady.

Then I beg god's pardon
for my impiety.

Let us pray for all sinners.

How dare you conduct
yourself in such a manner!

It is both unchristian
and unseemly!

I will not be forced to piety!

You will do
as you are instructed.

I know your Christian shore
is safer, father,

and I know
I must seem recalcitrant,

but my soul is my own.

Your soul is god's!

You neglect it at your peril.

Yes, father.

And in future you will
conduct yourself in a manner

that is befitting the station in life to
which it has pleased god to call you.

Yes, father.

Good night, Emily.

Good night, father.

This plate is dirty.

It is dirty no longer.

I wouldn't have gone that far.

If I had, father would have packed
me off to a good military school

and mother would have tearfully
embroidered something.

Ah!

The eternal miss Buffam.

Alas, no, sir.

Father time
knocks at my door also.

And what precautions
do you take?

I contrive never to be
at home when he calls.

All women should aspire
to that state of readiness.

No. Women should only aspire to
be younger than their waistlines.

Then the unpleasant topic of age

becomes almost irrelevant.

And what should men aspire to?

Tobogganing.

And in warmer weather?
Philately.

It has all the dangers of sport
without any of the rigor.

Your banter, miss Buffam,
is, as always, delightful.

Take it, Mr. Dickinson, as the mere
outpourings of a poor, tormented soul.

Ladies.

Now you go too far.

We were trying to be ironic.

Come in.

Will you come to church, Emily?

No, father.

Why will you not come?

God knows what is in my heart.

He doesn't require me to
be in a pew to remind him.

I hope that remark isn't
as frivolous as it sounds.

Your soul is no trivial matter.

I agree, father.

That's why I'm so meticulous
in guarding its independence.

I reckon,
when I count out all...

First poets, then the sun,

then summer,
then the heaven of god,

and then the list is done.

But looking back
the first so seems

to comprehend the whole.

The others look a needless show,

so I write poets all.

Their summer lasts a solid year.

They can afford a sun

the east would deem extravagant.

And if the further heaven

be beautiful as they prepare

for those who worship them,

it is too difficult a grace

to justify the dream.

What is it?
From Austin.

Likenesses of Austin and his
bride-to-be, Susan Gilbert.

Oh!

Austin as handsome as ever.

But she looks terrified.

We must welcome her

and reassure her we are
not all forbidding.

Oh, Emily, my own!

This is a luxury
that is almost Parisian.

Let's not be anything today
except superficial.

Yes. And superficiality
should always be spontaneous.

If it is studied,
it is too close to hypocrisy.

We may be superficial, but we
aren't stupid. Heaven forbid.

This is my third commencement
ball and not a hint of romance.

Do you suppose that men are
frightened of a woman who teaches

and is used to her independence?

Men are supposed to be
fearless, aren't they?

In war, yes.
In religion, always.

In love...
Never.

Look at that divine creature.

What a noble head he has.

Like a Roman emperor.
Nero.

Let's hope he's just as wicked.

As long as he has a fortune,

we can take his wickedness
as merely a lapse in virtue.

I think you must prepare
yourself for a polka.

May I be permitted to have the next
dance on your card, miss Buffam?

I don't have a dance card, sir.

I prefer to...
Improvise.

Isn't that rather dangerous?

That is precisely why I do it.

Ladies.

How was the divinity?

He dances like a polar bear.

And a prig.

Did you say something
to him to shock him?

Only that I'd just finished
reading Wuthering heights.

And he was scandalized.

Had he read it?
No.

So I told him that to condemn
a novel he had not read

would be like going to
Sodom or Gomorrah

and being disappointed that
neither were Philadelphia.

I hope he had the presence
of mind to laugh.

He didn't.

He went very silent,

and the air became charged
with unspoken profanity.

It was delicious.

Now I must go.

Miss Buffam has a tryst.

That sounds sinful.

I was told once, by a clergyman,

that I should repent my sins.

Otherwise I would be
pursued by the devil.

"Oh, a sort of spiritual
Wells Fargo," I said.

He promptly went silent,

like Patience on a monument...

Appalled but dumb.

For the lost soul,
there will be no tomorrow.

For the lost soul,
today is quite enough.

Oh, I shall miss you
if you ever go.

Your honesty is sublime.

In the long term, honesty
is not the best policy.

Is dishonesty?

I prefer to call it diplomacy.

That way one can turn a
tactical defeat into a victory.

Who proposed that?
Oh, I don't know.

Probably George Washington

as he was crossing the
Delaware the wrong way.

Now, my own.

I must fly.

Drive carefully, and don't
do anything against god.

I'll stop yodeling then.

Very wise.

Quickly, Pendennis, before
second thoughts set in.

Oh, come in, Emily.

Shall I close the door?
No.

Leave it open.

It's lovely to hear the music.

It makes me recollect when your father and
I went to our first commencement ball...

All those years ago.

This is my sister Lavinia.

But everyone calls me Vinnie.

And this is
my other sister Emily.

And everyone calls me Napoleon.

You come back married
and a lawyer.

Harvard has clearly
agreed with you, Austin.

Even more agreeable is that
we now shall be neighbors.

Susan and I are moving into
the evergreens next door.

Another thunderbolt!

But a most welcome one.

Austin and I are to
practice law together.

"Shingle" has never
sounded so lovely.

Is there no end
to these wonders?

I welcome you both.

My son

and his lovely bride.

His very lovely bride.

And this is
the greatest wonder of all...

Mother coming down from
mount Olympus. Oh.

Emily, as usual, dramatizes.

I live a very quiet life.

No one would know I was here.

But if you weren't, oh, what
a chasm you would leave.

Bees in the lavender.

Then the lazy owl.

Will you marry?

I suppose in time I shall.

Isn't that what we all do...
In the end?

I don't know.

I can't imagine myself
beyond my family.

Amongst strangers.

You are a strange creature

with more depth,
I suspect, than any of us.

How can you say that?

I haven't demonstrated
that at all.

Oh, my dear,
you don't demonstrate.

You reveal.

When you eventually do go away,
will you write?

I do not possess the propensity
for long correspondence.

I suspect I have a trivial mind.

But a good heart.

Don't let sentiment cloud
your judgment, Emily.

Should my future husband
put me out of humor,

he will think he has married
one of the minor Borgias.

Will you marry?

I only want my family.

It is not perfect.

It is not paradise.

But it is far better
than anything I could know.

Or want.

When you do marry...

I shall miss you.

Of course you shall miss me.

I refuse to be forgotten.

Emily!

Make sure your bread is ready

for the agricultural
fair tomorrow.

Yes. I haven't forgotten.

They feel swollen.

They are swollen.

Like my feet.

Miss Emily?

Will you please
get my bread out of the oven?

It doesn't need all three
of you to pick it up!

I believe you spoke sharply to Thomas,
Margaret and Maggie yesterday.

Yes, father.

They must be treated
with respect.

They are not servants
but employees.

What was that for?

For pointing out so eloquently
the distinction between the two.

I was very impolite yesterday.

I would like to apologize
to all three of you.

No offense taken.

Then may I take it
that I am forgiven?

For I am truly sorry.

But we have good news, miss.

Your bread won five dollars.

Then you must keep the money.

It will ease my conscience.

It took second prize.

Oh.

Second prize.

What does it feel like
to be a father, Austin?

Fatherly.

May I hold him?

- We're calling him Edward.
- Ned for short.

I'm nobody.
Who are you?

Are you nobody too?

Then there's a pair of us.

Don't tell.

They'd banish us, you know.

How dreary to be somebody.

How public, like a frog,

to tell one's name the livelong
day to an admiring bog.

Father? What is it?

Fort Sumter has been fired upon.

What does this mean?

It is thought that the south
will secede from the union.

Then it means civil war.

Does this mean
you will be drafted, Austin?

Almost certainly.

You will remain here.

Father, my friends will fight.
I cannot stay at home.

I will pay the $500 bond so that a
substitute may fight in your place.

What about my honor, sir?

Your honor, sir,
will be safe in my hands.

And my conscience, father?
What of that?

It will be best if your conscience found
solace in you doing your filial duty.

For those who will die in this civil war,
filial duty will seem like cowardice.

No young man of breeding
would make such a remark.

No gentleman would provoke it!

Austin.

You are my only son.

I cannot see your life
put at risk.

Please, father.

Don't make me stay.

You are not to go!
I forbid it!

I will remain here.

To fight aloud is very brave,

but Gallanter, I know,

who charge within the bosom
the cavalry of woe,

who win, and nations do not see,

who fall, and none observe,

whose dying eyes no country
regards with patriot love.

We trust, in plumed procession,

for such the angels go,

rank after rank,
with even feet...

And uniforms of snow.

There is a word

which bears a sword

can Pierce an armed man.

It hurls its barbed syllables

and once is mute again.

But where it fell
the saved will tell

on patriotic day,

some epauletted brother
gave his breath away.

Wherever runs
the breathless sun,

wherever roams the day,

there is its noiseless onset,

there its victory.

We went to Gettysburg
to hear the speeches.

Mr. Edward Everett
spoke for nearly two hours.

- Very rousing.
- And the president's speech?

Mr. Lincoln was shocking
in his brevity.

He spoke for about three minutes.
Not memorable.

Were there many there
to hear the orations?

Some said 15,000.

Most of them
looking for breakfast

or trying to find
souvenirs of the battle.

Macabre.

They say that over 600,000
men have perished.

And for what?

To end slavery,

which should never have flourished
in this country in the first place.

Miss Buffam has had too great
an influence over you, Emily.

If more men were as outspoken as miss
Buffam, we may not have had a war.

How dare you
trivialize it in that way.

The conflict
was not about gender.

Any argument about gender is war
because that, too, is slavery.

That's a contemptible thing
to say.

Live as a woman
for a week, Austin.

You will find it neither
congenial nor trivial.

So you leave tomorrow?

How long will you be gone?

Two months, maybe.

Both cases are difficult and both
are being tried by judge lord.

And you know
how fierce he can be.

Must you go for
such a length of time?

Yes.

A man must make his way
in the world.

He can't be merely decorous.

And a woman?
What should she do?

Or is she destined
only for decorousness?

Let's not argue.

Not on my last night at home.

I'll write.

It will ease my unhappiness.

But increase mine.

What are you doing at this hour?

It is my time for writing.

Between 3:00 A.M.
and morning.

My father allows it.

No husband would.

I came over.

I thought something was amiss.
No.

It is the best time,

when it feels as if the whole
world is asleep and still.

Why did you take so long
to consent to marry Austin?

In truth,

the thought of men
in that particular respect...

Turned me to stone.

Although Austin is...

Very tender...

And yielding to my...

Reservations.

Is that particular part of
married life so terrible?

I do my duty.

But I have not only
gained a husband,

but two sisters also.

Yes.

We will be sisters.

And we shall share
and read everything.

The Bront�s.

George Eliot.

And, heaven save us,
Mrs. Gaskell also.

And you have your poetry.

But you have a life.

I have a routine.

It is god's one concession
to a no-hoper.

Does nothing give you solace?

For those of us
who live minor lives

and are deprived of...

A particular kind of love...

We know best how to starve.

We deceive ourselves,

and then others.

It is the worst kind of lie.

But in matters of the soul...

You are rigorous.

Rigor is no substitute
for happiness.

Oh, what a call is this?

The dear ones whose names are
written in the lamb's book of life

cry, "come, come."

And the church below, Christ's
witness unto the world,

and the church above,

with a rustling
of the white robes

and the sweeping
of the golden harps,

cries, "come, come."

And the angels of heaven,

lo, rank above rank,

immortal principalities

as they circle
the eternal throne.

They have caught up
the sound and cry...

"Come, come."

Reverend Wadsworth's sermons

take the breath away.

That kind of religious ecstasy
is wonderful.

But back in the quiet of one's own room,
it seems as remote as Spitsbergen.

Still, he is as handsome
as he is ecstatic.

And he is so clean,
like a cherub after bathing.

And happily married.

To be betrothed
without the swoon.

But a person may hope.

If you're too quick to hope,
you'll always be disappointed.

And if I am too quick
to despair, what then?

Then you will be
too slow to hope.

I set too much store
by friendships.

When we lose friends to death,

that is the most profound loss.

When we lose them to marriage,

the grief is subtler
but just as keenly felt.

We cannot keep the world,
or life, at bay, Emily.

Neither can we ignore it.

We can do better than that.
We can be vigilant against it.

But when that vigil is over,
what then?

Eternity.

And in that place
no loss is felt.

But what of the kingdom to come?

That may be a gain,
but only after the fact.

One day you may marry.

I think not.

You and Austin
are the handsome ones.

I am a kangaroo
amongst the beauties.

No. You have a lovely face
and a fine soul.

Then let us hope
the man who courts me

will have an interest in zoology
and all things spiritual.

Let us invite
the reverend Wadsworth to tea.

And Mrs. Wadsworth.

Very well.

And you must promise me
you'll behave.

I know how provocative
you can be.

I will muster
all the dignity I can.

That's what I'm afraid of.

Will you take coffee,
Mrs. Wadsworth?

Uh, tea then?

No, thank you. Mrs.
Wadsworth is an abstainer.

I thought abstention
was only for alcohol.

For me, it extends to tea also.

They say the Chinese drink
tea for remedial purposes.

I am glad to say
that I'm not Chinese.

Some lemonade then?

Surely god would not
disapprove of lemonade.

Levity and the will of god
are, I think, incompatible.

Almost improper.

Just plain water
would be pleasant.

Reverend Wadsworth?

Just a cup of hot water
for me, thank you.

I understand from Vinnie
that you are a poet.

I write verses, yes.

And what of your contemporaries?

Mr. Longfellow,
for instance.

His genius lies
in stating the obvious.

Oh, that is too harsh.

There are many fine things
in Hiawatha.

I'm sorry I was cruel.

But, madam, I must say in
truth, Hiawatha is but gruel.

Read just one stanza
for the proof.

No.

Give me something pressed from
truth, and that is poetry.

I suppose you feel
the Bront�s do that?

Yes.
And a few others.

What do you find
in all that Yorkshire gloom?

The beauty of truth.
The poetry of the known.

But why can't they dwell
on something wholesome?

If they wished to be wholesome, I
would imagine they would crochet.

Would you like to take
a turn in our garden?

No, thank you.

I find this heat oppressive.

But Charles
loves to be out of doors.

I myself prefer the shade.

In that case,

I will take the Liberty of escorting
your husband around our modest garden,

and my sister...
Mmm.

Can have you all to herself.

More water?

Thank you for your
invitation, miss Dickinson.

I was very moved
by your sermon, sir,

and wanted very much
to tell you.

This...

Is all I have to give in return.

Please say something.

Does my poetry have any worth?

They are remarkable.

Uncompromising, yes, but...

This is wonderful poetry.

How many have been published?

Seven.

Eleven?

I cannot recall.

And no more?

And no more.

How can you be so stoic?

It's easy to be stoic when no one
wants what you have to offer.

There is, I suppose,
always posterity.

But posterity
is as comfortless as god.

That sounds like despair.

No, it's bitterness.

Besides,

a posthumous reputation is only for those
who, when living, weren't worth remembering.

Still...

Oh...

To be racked by success.

But I would like
some approval before I die.

If you were coming in the fall,

I'd brush the summer by

with half a smile
and half a spurn,

as housewives do a fly.

If I could see you in a year,

I'd wind the months in balls

and put them each
in separate drawers,

until their time befalls.

If only centuries delayed,

I'd count them on my hand,

subtracting
till my fingers dropped

into Van Diemen's land.

If certain,

when this life was out,

that yours and mine should be,

I'd toss it yonder like a rind

and taste eternity.

But now,

all ignorant of the length
of time's uncertain wing,

it goads me...

Like the goblin bee
that will not state its sting.

I must have someone
with a sense of humor,

someone who can laugh
at the world.

Taking life seriously is the
shortest route to disaster.

And have you found such a one?

Someone has found me.

A Mr. Wilder,
a professor of mathematics.

And if he can find comedy
in a vulgar fraction, I'm his.

But do you love him?

Love? I cannot say.

It's a very beguiling idea.
They even say it exists.

But how will you know?

What if you make an error?

If he is a bad choice,
I'll have him killed quietly

and tell everyone he died of
some sort of algebraic shock.

I hope you will be happy.

That cannot be guaranteed.

I'll settle for consideration.

That sounds like surrender. No.

It's practicality.

And who knows? Perhaps love
will come in its wake.

Then I can relax into smugness.

You could never be smug.

Life catches you out, Emily.

In the end we all become
the thing we most dread.

Then I will reject the world

and not fulfill that prophecy.

Then you will be making
the greatest of mistakes,

for you will deny yourself
what your spirit needs most.

And what is that?

Truth. And experience.

Otherwise your vow
will be an act of cowardice.

- That was hurtful.
- But honest.

Don't resist your vices, Emily.

It is your virtues
you should be wary of.

Austin once told aunt Elizabeth that our
virtues are just vices in disguise.

Now there is a man
with a sense of humor.

And does your Mr. Wilder
possess one?

Of a kind.

He proposed to me by letter,
so if the marriage is unhappy,

I shall blame the us mail.

Always conform.
Keep disobedience secret.

Be outwardly docile,

but in your heart you can be
as revolutionary as you like.

But isn't that hypocrisy?
Of course it is.

But in America we Cherish it.

We think it makes us
incorruptible.

You must never confuse
the outer with the inner piety.

Only Episcopalians do that.

But I am rebellious
and far from the grace of god.

You are closer to him
than anyone I know.

Always look below the surface, Emily, but
don't be afraid of what you find there.

Chaos?
Yes.

Then I shall confront
everything.

Don't be too radical, Emily. Radicals
don't thrive in this country.

- But you are a radical.
- But I'll eventually conform.

For the sake of peace
or a quiet life.

But I know that you will not,
and I envy you your courage.

I suppose you shall carry
lovely flowers

and have Mr. Mendelssohn's
"wedding march."

Flowers, yes.

Mendelssohn, no.

Never play happy music at a wedding, Emily.
It's too misleading.

But you shall be
forever gone from us.

You make it sound like dying.

Isn't it?
No.

And even if it were, you must force
yourself to think otherwise.

America is the only country
in the world

that looks upon death as some
kind of personal failure.

May I get you something, mother?

No, Emily.

You've always seemed
so sad, mother.

My life has passed
as if in a dream.

As if I'd never been part of it.

After Vinnie was born,

a kind of melancholia
settled over me

which I mistook for contentment.

Were we such
a terrible price to pay?

No.

I wouldn't be without
all three of you.

To have my children about me,

there could be
no better medicine.

But sometimes...

At a certain hour...

When the sun is low,

the shadows lengthen.

I am filled with
such a sense of longing.

I feel such a weight
on my heart.

Oh, how it aches.

Oh, my dear.

Oh, my dear.

There, my lamb.
There.

Oh!

Reverend Wadsworth has
sailed for San Francisco.

They all go.

They all leave.
They all desert you.

Do not touch me!

I will not be pitied.

It makes me feel repulsive.

You set too much store
by physical beauty, Emily.

The only people who can be
sanguine about not being handsome

are those who are
beautiful already.

The rest of us have only
our envy to keep us warm.

You have an exquisite nature.

What's the use of that
in this world?

I sometimes think you are
too harsh with yourself.

I have many defects!
There is much to rectify.

It is just as punitive to admit to too many
faults as it is to deny too few virtues.

The reverend Wadsworth
is a married man.

This kind of attachment
is improper.

We can't all possess
your smug rectitude.

Don't sneer at anyone's morals when your
own could do with some little correction.

By that I assume you mean
reverend Wadsworth?

He's married!

You should not attach yourself to someone
who is not free to return that attachment.

You hardly know the man,
except through his sermons.

Besides, he and Mrs.
Wadsworth are very happy.

She has led a blameless life.

She hasn't led a life at all!
She's too inert for that.

If docility were love, we would
all live happily ever after.

She's a good wife!

And, to be truthful, I have never understood
the attraction of her husband for you.

He is hardly a Mr. Rochester, and
you are certainly not Jane Eyre.

That was... unkind.

I'm sorry too.

You're not smug.

But I do sermonize.

And I do over dramatize.

But it was news that was...

Is... Hard to bear.

Oh, you are a wretched creature.

Will you never achieve anything?

We outgrow love,
like other things

and put it in the drawer,

till it an antique fashion shows

like costumes grandsires wore.

May the lord
make his face shine upon you

and be gracious unto you.

May the lord lift up his countenance
unto you and give you peace.

We wish you all the
happiness in the world.

No tears, Emily.
No tears.

Will you come?
No.

Wave her my good-bye.

The dying need but little, dear.

A glass of water's all.

A flower's unobtrusive face
to punctuate the wall.

A fan, perhaps,
a friend's regret,

and certainly that one no color in the
rainbow perceives when you are gone.

Look back on time
with kindly eyes,

he doubtless did his best.

How softly sinks
his trembling sun

in human nature's west.

Of so divine a loss

we enter but the gain,

indemnity for loneliness

that such a bliss has been.

If we reach into the silence
then we cannot be afraid,

for where there is nothing...
There is god.

Emily?

Emily.

You must eat.

You must come down now.

It's been three days.

You are wearing white.

Yes.

But we're still in mourning.

So am I.

Emily?
It's Mr. Bowles.

He's come to Amherst
specially to see you.

Well, come down, damn you.

I refuse to speak to someone who's
a flight of stairs above me.

Forgive me, sir,
if I'm frightened.

I never see anyone and I
hardly know what to say.

You could say "thank you" for my
publishing some of your verse.

For that, sir, you have more than
my thanks, you have my gratitude,

but... sir...

You have altered
some of my punctuation.

Good lord. What's a hyphen
here or a semicolon there?

To many, nothing.

But, to me, the alteration of my
punctuation marks is very hard to endure.

Then I apologize.

I was merely trying to make your
meaning clearer to my readers.

Clarity is one thing, sir.
Obviousness quite another.

The only person qualified to interfere
with the poet's work is the poet herself.

From anyone else
it feels like an attack.

Miss Dickinson, this is no
way to speak or behave.

If you treated a suitor
like this, he would not return.

Are you sure there will be one?
Of course.

Even for someone as hard
to please as yourself.

Well, if he does come,

he will have to be
as spectacular as Disraeli

and as Sincere as Gladstone.

And as upright
as George Washington?

George who?

Emily? Mr. Emmons
is coming to see us.

Our beautiful friend?

Will you come down?
No.

This is discourteous. Why will
you not come down and meet him?

Because he is so beautiful
and I am not beautiful enough.

He's read some of your published
poems and admires them.

Admiration always masks envy.

What does envy mask?

Oh, that masks admiration.

He may come
to the foot of the stairs.

- Miss Dickinson?
- Yes?

I cannot see you.

That, sir, is no matter.

It is the first time I've conducted
a visit in this fashion.

It seems unfair that you can see
me but I can only hear you.

That can be no hardship, sir, for
I am best heard and not seen.

Will you take a ride
with Vinnie and me?

I do not cross my father's
ground to any house or town.

That seems such a shame,
especially in such lovely weather.

The weather will remain lovely

whether I drive
through it or not.

Then I wish you good day, miss Dickinson.
Good day, Mr. Emmons.

He will mount the stairs
at midnight...

The looming man in the night.

No ordinary bridegroom, he.

But I will wait...
All my days.

And he will come
before the afterlife.

Oh, please, let him come.

Let him not forget me!

Oh, Emily, you should have come.
It was radiant.

Yes, and I'm sure you would have made
it even more radiant, miss Emily.

Ridicule is not the way to any woman's
heart, sir. Least of all mine.

It was meant sincerely. Or should I
judge beauty by the common standard?

Any standard may be common. Familiarity,
as they say, breeds contempt.

Perhaps contempt
breeds familiarity.

At any rate, beauty is in
the eye of the beholder.

That is no longer true, sir,

for that truism
has become a clich�.

Miss Dickinson, you are
just a little too sharp.

And you, sir, are a little too
quick to play the martyr.

Then I'll take my leave
before any blood is spilt.

There are wounds

which do not bleed...

But which aggrieve nonetheless.

I just assumed that
you wanted to be rid of me.

I meant no injury.

Nor did I, sir.

I only wish to be honest.

May I call again?

If it gives you no
pleasure, what is the point?

I had hoped that my company
wouldn't be a burden.

A burden can always
be laid down, sir.

You are not required
to be another Sisyphus.

Oh, Emily,
why do you behave like this?

He is a kind man,
and he was hurt.

I don't know.

As soon as they get too close,
I feel as if I'm suffocating.

I long for... something.

But I'm afraid of it.

A man may love and then cool,
but it is not that way with me.

But you cannot be equal
to a man.

If I cannot have equality,
then I want nothing of love.

I will not be so confined
that I cannot breathe.

But a rebellious spirit
invites only retribution.

Then I will be silent
in my rebellion,

so that no one will know
what my true feelings are.

God will know.

But I will not be
married to god.

But you are his possession
and answerable to him.

He will know of my struggle
and be merciful.

And if he does not exist...

Then I will be eternally free.

We never know we go,

when we are going.

We jest and shut the door.

Fate following behind us
bolts it,

and we accost no more.

He fumbles at your spirit,
as players at the keys

before they drop full music on,

he stuns you by degrees,

prepares your brittle substance

for the ethereal blow,

by fainter hammers,
further heard,

then nearer, then so slow.

Your breath has time
to straighten,

your brain to bubble cool...

Deals one imperial thunderbolt

that scalps your naked soul.

Have you noticed any blood
in your urine?

Yes, doctor.

Back pain?
Yes, doctor.

Severe?
Very severe.

She's had a fever and vomiting.

And your breathing?

It's very restricted.

You have all the common
symptoms of bright's disease.

It's a disease of the kidneys.
Is there a cure?

Not to my knowledge.

What is the prognosis, doctor?

Diuretics and laxatives

can ease some of the symptoms.

But there is definitely no cure?

No.

Thank you, doctor.

I'll
s-see you out.

This world is not conclusion,

A sequel stands beyond,

invisible, as music,

but positive, as sound.

It beckons and it baffles.

Philosophies don't know.

And through a riddle,
at the last,

sagacity must go.

To guess it puzzles scholars.

To gain it, men have shown

contempt of generations,

and crucifixion known.

I can hear her sigh
before she makes one.

Emily, mother has had a stroke.

There.

There.

We've come to say
good night, mother.

Why?

Why?

Father believed.

And mother loved.

She achieved in sweetness
what she lost in strength.

Your wife plays
beautifully, Mr. Todd.

My wife does everything
beautifully...

And with her whole being.

They say every man that meets
her falls in love with her.

No. She says that.

Oh!

Is this a private rehearsal or is
it open to the general public?

Mrs. Todd,
the exit is to your right.

Emily?

Mrs. Todd
is about to depart.

- This life? Or just this house?
- Stop it. She'll hear you.

Good-bye, Emily.

Good-bye, Mrs. Todd.

Please give my regards
to Mr. Todd,

a man of rare Patience
and fortitude.

I'll remember you to him.

Perhaps next time, Emily, when you
wish to say good-bye to a guest,

you might consider
using semaphore.

There aren't enough flags
to say what I wish to say.

Use the back stairs, Austin.
It's quicker.

Oh, Emily, why do you
behave like this?

Now there'll be hostility
for days.

How is Susan?

Well, thank you.

She's taking tea with Mabel.

Ah, Mrs. Todd.
And her dull narcissism.

You mistake confidence
for narcissism,

and womanly reticence
for dullness.

Whatever else can be said
of Mrs. Todd,

no one could ever
accuse her of reticence.

Or does one only require
reticence in a wife?

My wife is perfectly happy.

Yes, of course.

I'm sure she sees infidelity,

when accompanied by Schubert,
as a delightful pastime.

A kind of musical adultery.

Real artists cannot be confined
by narrow convention.

Real artists don't deceive
themselves or their public.

When you have any public
to speak of,

I'm sure your reputation
will no doubt be very secure.

In all this,
Susan is the innocent party.

If you take the trouble to look, you'd see there
is more to that innocence than meets the eye.

That is a despicable thing
to say!

Oh, stop bickering!

My sympathies
are entirely with Susan.

If she had a liaison with a married
man, how would you respond?

I would not forgive her.

Yet you admire Mrs. Todd.

An admirable woman is one thing.
A wife quite another.

I don't think I've ever been
this close to despising you.

Don't lecture me on how to live!

And don't try
to justify your position!

It is both immoral and vicious.

Susan is a good
and intelligent wife.

Or do you prefer
more obvious charms?

By that I assume
you mean Mabel Loomis Todd?

Mrs. Todd, yes.

And don't tell me your intentions
towards her are merely fraternal.

Especially in that
semi-recumbent position!

Sometimes, Emily, you are
as ugly as your poetry!

I wonder if she is that
percussive with her husband!

There's nothing to be done.

Mabel's made up her mind
to continue the status quo.

She is incapable
of making up her mind

because she is
too stupid to have one!

That is a horrible thing to say.

You see what a vile person
I've become?

That is too harsh.

You lash out because
you are hurt or angry.

Your anger is, I think,
a defense against the world.

How can you go on loving me...

When I don't deserve it?

Because you are so easy to love.

Oh, Vinnie.

Vinnie.

You are not the only one

who has had horrible thoughts.

Yes. Me also.

I once hoped that Mabel would go
up in a balloon, then explode.

Oh, Vinnie.

If that is the extent
of your wickedness,

your sainthood is assured...

Explosions notwithstanding.

Try not to provoke him.

Have you read this article in the
Springfield republican, Emily?

No. Why?

It is by Mr. Bowles,
who publishes some of your work.

And whom you admire, I think.
And who is also married.

What does it say?

"Why should we write?

There is another kind
of writing only too common,

appealing to the sympathies
of the reader

without recommending itself
to its subject.

It may be called
the literature of misery.

The writers are chiefly women,

gifted women maybe, full of
thought and feeling and fancy,

but poor, lonely and unhappy.

Also, such suffering
is so seldom healthful.

It may be a valuable
discipline in the end,

but for the time being
it too often clouds,

withers, distorts.

It is so difficult
to see objects distinctly

through a mist of tears.

The sketch or poem is..."

that was cruel.

Life is cruel.

And cruelty knows no morality.

Are you all right?

Austin was cruel.

He was, I suppose,
defending his position.

Or should we call it
poetic licentiousness?

I must confess I cannot understand
his infatuation with her,

when she already has a husband who should
satisfy her in every aspect of married life.

They say...
That with Mr. Todd

it is a venereal case.

- How do you know this?
- There are rumors.

Perhaps now you can view Mabel
in a more favorable light.

I doubt that.

Mrs. Todd may have
her private troubles,

but it is no excuse
for Austin's infidelity.

The brother I once adored
has betrayed Susan

in the vilest way imaginable!

People are not saints, Emily.

You judge too harshly
because you judge too highly.

Lowering a standard is the first
excuse for every villainy.

And keeping to one
high principle

is the last refuge
of the intolerant.

And what of integrity?

Austin was once fierce
in his defense of it.

And now it seems an encumbrance
to be easily put aside!

Integrity, if taken too far,
can be equally ruthless!

- And do I fit into that category?
- Sometimes, yes!

We're only human, Emily.

Don't pillory us for that.

You're right.

Of course.

I wish I had your gentle spirit.

If I castigate Austin...

It is because my own failings
are equally as great.

We become the very thing
we dread.

And I have become embittered.

Despite your vehemence...

You have a soul
anyone would be proud of.

Oh, Vinnie. Vinnie.

Why has the world
become so ugly?

Our journey had advanced.

Our feet were almost come

to that odd fork
in being's road,

eternity by term.

Our pace took sudden awe,

our feet reluctant led.

Before were cities, but between,

the forest of the dead.

Retreat was out of hope...

Behind, a sealed route,

eternity's white flag before,

And god at every gate.

Shh, shh, shh.

Emily. Shh.

Calm.
Emily, calm yourself.

Shh.

Is there nothing
we can do, doctor?

Hold her down. I'll give
her some more chloroform.

Emily, Emily.

Emily.
Shh.

Shh. Shh.

Hush, Emily.
Shh-shh-shh.

Emily, we're here.

It's all right, Emily.
Easy. Calm.

Easy.
Yes, yes.

Breathe, Emily.

It's all right.
It's all right.

Shh-shh-shh.

Doctor?
Shh-shh. Easy.

My life closed twice
before its close.

It yet remains to see

if immortality unveil
a third event to me...

So huge, so hopeless to conceive

as these that twice befell.

Parting is all we know
of heaven,

and all we need of hell.

Good-bye to the life
I used to live,

and the world I used to know.

And kiss the hills for me,
just once...

Now I am ready to go.

Because I could not stop
for death,

he kindly stopped for me.

The carriage held
but just ourselves

and immortality.

We slowly drove,

he knew no haste,

and I had put away
my labor and my leisure too,

for his civility.

We passed the school where children
strove at recess in the ring.

We passed the fields
of grazing grain,

we passed the setting sun.

Or rather, he passed us.

The dews drew quivering
and chill,

for only gossamer my gown,

my tippet only tulle.

We paused before a house

that seemed a swelling
of the ground.

The roof was scarcely visible,

the cornice in the ground.

Since then...

'Tis centuries,

and yet feels shorter
than the day

I first surmised
the horses' heads

were toward eternity.

This is my letter to the world,
that never wrote to me.

The simple news that nature told

with tender majesty.

Her message is committed

to hands I cannot see.

For love of her,
sweet countrymen,

judge tenderly of me.