All language subtitles for The.Bronte.Sisters.1979

They went like beasts of burden
to the knitting mills:

men, women and children.

From dawn to dusk, they worked
in there like animals.

When you live a life like that,

it's only routine,
with a regular paycheck,

the men
like to drink and gamble.

It's about clinging to the
impression of still living.

But the Brontés, during
that time, wrote and blackened

pages with their fine
illegible handwriting.

THE BRONTE SISTERS

That's it! You can come and see.

I've finished.

The likeness is striking,
he's a real artist.

I'm very pleased, Branny.
Really, very pleased.

Annie and Emily,
I sketched right off.

Charlotte and I
gave me the most trouble.

But, that's it, exactly.
We have an artist in the family.

Emily, your jacket and pants
are still all muddy.

Walking on the heath,
garbed like a boy,

you look like a scarecrow.

What's more, your aunt
finds that indecent.

It simply allows me
to go faster and farther.

Anyway, where I go,
no one sees me.

Come and see, Emily.

Look how pretty, a rose.

It's a wild rose.
We also call it a dog rose.

- So, you like it?
- No.

I prefer this holly bush.

Holly.

But it's a humble plant.
And sad, and ordinary.

You merely see
the appearances of things.

Right now, you're entranced with this
wild rose,

resplendent in all its glory.

But soon, it will lose
all its flowers,

because they fall early.

And this winter,
will you still find it lovely?

Whereas the holly
will still be green.

The wild rose is love. Love that
only lasts as long as a bloom.

I scorn and trample it,
I spit on love and its vanity.

Holly stands for friendship,

and it will last
into the winter of our lives.

Charlotte works in Aunt's room,
Anne and I are writing.

Anne pens a poem that begins:

"The evening would be lovely,
the sun shone radiantly,"

and I write the biography
of Augustus Almeida I.

A nice, crisp day, with
thin gray clouds, but sunny.

Aunt works in the small room.
Papa's gone out.

Tabby's in the kitchen.

And Branwell? You have to say
he met Leyland, the sculptor.

Yes.

What did his letter say?

In his letter, he wrote...

he wrote:

"I would like to be like him,

he's wildly talented,

elegant

and poised,

something emanates from him,

a glow that strikes
at first glance,

that cannot be mistaken."

Anyway, I'd simply like
to give you my address,

in case you pass by,
it's not too far off.

And it's a small world.

I'd be honored to receive you
and introduce you to my sisters.

Here, I would never dare
suggest a meal in your company,

or even a beer.

You're uncommonly short
on courage, must I show it?

I needed to be in town.
Even a small town like Bradford.

To measure my chances
in this world.

Joe Leyland was a precious ally,
he says I have to find my way,

and stop vacillating
between painting and poetry.

At the museum,
I saw his most powerful work,

"Satan, Milton's Paradise Lost."

If a man such as he
could have confidence in me,

it meant that fame gazed
expectantly at me.

He paints very quickly,
as done these days,

from a new device,
calotype plates.

I can't rival him,

so I showed
him my Gondal Kingdom poems.

You can entrust a small portion
of your secrets to such a man.

Unrecognized, my talent
cannot grow. But I'll be famous.

You've no idea what town life
is like, little sister.

It's as different from here
as life is from death,

or day from night.

Here, you rot in a cave.

You rot away like potatoes,

whereas there everything
moves faster, infinitely faster.

Let me tell you, Charlotte,

I still don't know
the ins and outs of society,

but big Joe Leyland will
teach me the rules, one by one.

And when I master them,
you will bask in my victory.

That's my plan, and I will
pursue it with all my strength.

That will be my life.

Stop, Branny, you're tiring us.

Branwell!

Can you smell the sulfur?

Should I let him in, Emily?

- Not while I'm still here.
- Who is it?

It's John Brown, the sexton.
I doubt he wants in.

No, you're right, little sister.

And since I tire you,
some fresh air might do me good.

Branwell!

What is it, big sister?

Fresh air... the Black Bull is so
smoky you can't see your nose!

What are you doing there
at this hour?

Don't you feel well?
Answer me, Emily, are you ill?

Don't worry, Charlotte.
I'm fine.

I often stay up late.

I beg you, go to sleep.
It's after one.

Your days are
as long as Tabby's.

I'm waiting for Branwell,

I don't him to awaken
Papa or Auntie when he enters.

But what are you
doing up so late?

You're waiting for Branwell?
So it's you who lets him in.

I thought he'd arranged
it with Tabby. That's odd.

You look a little odd yourself.

Did something happen?

Yes.

Does it concern Branwell?

In a way...

What is it?

A letter.

Not just any letter.

A letter to lose sleep over.

A letter from Southey.

From Southey?

But that's fantastic,
Branwell will be ecstatic!

After all the poems
he's sent him,

the great man
finally deigns to reply.

Oh, Charlotte,
we have to surprise him.

Charlotte?

You're acting strange.

Did you read it?

All in all,
it's rather complimentary.

I couldn't get back to sleep.
I wanted to reread it here.

It's not addressed to Branwell.

It's not addressed...?

My God, how foolish of me.
You wrote him too.

Under a pseudonym,
but he deduced I was a woman.

Here, you can read it.

"You evidently have what we
might call a talent for poetry.

I won't depreciate it by saying
it's not rare these days.

Therefore, anyone who
seeks distinction in this way

must expect setbacks.

Having made literature
my profession,

I feel obliged to warn you:

I exhort you to write poetry
only for the pleasure of it

and not in a manner
competing for celebrity.

Literature cannot be a feminine
pursuit, nor should it be.

The busier a woman
is with her real duties,

the less leisure
she will have to write,

even for her pleasure
or as a pastime.

I don't depreciate your talent."

Emily!

So I now have
two sisters of charity.

Wonderful!

What have you two been plotting?

You were hunched over
some papers

that seemed
to interest you greatly.

We were re-reading
Papa's sermon.

From last Sunday,
on pardoning sins.

Mathew, XVIII, 21. True, you
still listen to such platitudes.

I doubt if the old man
still believes them.

Not so loud, Branwell.

To be opened four years
to the day from now.

I wonder where we'll be, how
we'll be, and what day it'll be.

Let's hope for the best.

Will you sign?

I think that in four years
to the day we'll be here,

sitting comfortably.

I think we'll all
be away somewhere together.

Where?

Charlotte and I earn our living,

but at home Emily
is as busy and works as hard.

I have the same faults
as four years ago,

but I've gained wisdom
and have more self-control.

I don't forget Gondal's Kingdom.

I wonder if these characters
and their destinies

will preoccupy us as much in
four years and where they'll be.

Miss Bronte?

Excuse me for interrupting,
but the children are alone.

It's well past time
to bring them back.

Don't make me
constantly remind you.

Be nice, Marie,
tell me the word.

Will you read me "The Tale
of Tom Kitten" later in bed?

Yes, of course.

Providing you tell me the word.

So, Marie, tell me right away
so it'll all be settled.

No.

Some more tea? Cakes?

We have to offer
greater advantages, but how?

We know some French, enough
to read it, but not to teach it.

We've no German or music theory.

In short, we have a great need
to improve ourselves.

My students' parents think
six months of study abroad is...

You wouldn't bear it.

With your upright, Protestant,
English upbringing.

With the Jesuits, papists!

Only 6 months, Auntie. We have
acquaintances at boarding school

in Brussels who are enchanted.

That would cost a fortune!

If you let us go to Brussels,
it'd only be Emily and I.

Anne would come later.
Since Miss Wilier will lend us

school supplies,
we wouldn't need the full sum

you're so kind as to offer us.

Part could pay for the
journey and room and board.

What would your father think?

He'll find this project
very ambitious and audacious.

No one ever got ahead
without ambition.

I want us all to succeed.
We all have talents

and I'd really like us
to accomplish something.

Maybe nothing big,
but something.

Emily, come here.

Stand there in front of me.

You'll have to be coiffed,
and attired.

The suite.

Aren't you playing the suite?

No, I'm not playing the suite.

Miss Bronte,
let me congratulate you.

You've none of the languidness
characteristic of your sex,

in your way of playing.

If that's a compliment,
thank you, Mr. Héger.

It's not really a compliment.

What would you
have become if you were a man?

I beg your pardon?

Don't feel obliged to reply.

You're a skilled navigator.

As I haven't a ship, I could
hire you as a piano teacher.

No, I don't think so, Mr. Héger.
Please excuse me.

Emily doesn't like to travel,
Mr. Héger, or the sea.

You spoke of hiring her
as a teacher.

I would like...

I'd like to teach English here,
under your supervision.

I think I'm cut out
for teaching,

I'm sure I won't disappoint you,

I'm convinced!

We'll see about that later,
if you don't mind.

You may return to the garden.

In England they only like
lamb shank, with potatoes!

Why lamb shank?

Her sleeves - like lamb!

Well, it seems
Bronte's taken the bait!

Yet another expression
I don't know.

Meanwhile, you take that!

Give me that.

I forbid you
from loitering near the kitchen.

You'll be held
to account for this later.

Outside, Miss, now!

I don't care
to know what happened.

April, quit sniveling,
nobody feels sorry for you.

Moreover,you deserved it.

Silence !

I won't tolerate any whispering.

Be seated!

Your papers
on the death of Napoleon.

Bronte, Charlotte,
to the blackboard.

Napoleon was born in Corsica,
and died in St. Héléne.

Between these two islands,

lay only a vast
and burning desert,

A vast and burning desert,
and the immense ocean...

What'd the doctor say?

He said "exhaustion
due to constipation."

I still can't believe it.

And yet, I can still
hear her screams.

She was a mother to me,
for ten years.

John Brown,

I stayed by her bedside
for two nights

and witnessed
such abominable suffering

I wouldn't wish it
on my worst enemy.

I wrote to Charlotte and Anne,

when we learned
nothing more could be done.

They'll arrive too late.

You haven't eaten anything.
It'll be cold.

Charlotte and Emily
will soon be here.

We won't start without them.

In weather like this,

I wouldn't be surprised
if the coach was stuck in the mud.

Branwell, come.

Come with me, Branwell.

I'll walk you to the Black Bull.

I hated Brussels.

I'm happy to be here, you know.

I'm already drunk
on the wine you'll drink,

that I'll never taste.

How terrible!

He's shaken, he saw her die.

It'll pass, Charlotte.
But he can't stay here.

I'll take him
with me to the Robinson's.

They need a tutor
for little Edmond.

If I'm there,
I'm sure it'll be for the best.

My God, was I stupid.
I was so stupid!

But Why?

I was stupid to come back.

She's dead and buried,
what good is it?

I never should have
come back, never.

I knew it! I knew
I should have stayed there!

I have to leave
for Brussels right away!

Are you ready to meet
the Robinsons, Branwell?

That suit looks marvelous.
You'll make a fine impression.

Thanks to you,
little sister, thanks to Emily.

Without you fixing my collars
and sleeves, how would I look?

It's true,
you're aglow this morning.

How are the Robinsons?

Cultivated enough
to appreciate our talents,

and intelligent enough
not to step on our toes,

and generous enough
to offer us a decent salary!

Sounds like a dream!

Branwell, you should be a
professor at our boarding school

and all the students
will fall in love with you.

If you leave this afternoon,
accept my thanks.

Your thanks?
For what, what's with you?

Not much.
For allowing me to stay here.

I wanted to show my gratitude
and wish you all a good journey.

Did you hit it?

Did you hit it, Emily?
I didn't hear the glass break.

You really don't see anything,
at that distance?

I just hope to be able
to see my son next month.

As for Anne, she doesn't matter.

No, that's not what
I meant to say.

You well know it'd be a joy
to see Anne and Charlotte,

but they seem weary of writing.

Yes, it's strange.

"I fear thee, ancient Mariner!

I fear thy skinny hand!"

Write, Edmond:
"I fear thy skinny hand!"

I'm tired.

You have to finish. What'll
you say to your father? Write.

No!

Listen.

If you finish your dictation,

I'll play a game of croquet
with you before dinner, okay?

What's for lunch?

A turkey and a black grouse.

And what else?

Fish.

What kind of fish?

I don't know.

You don't know?

No. I told the cook to buy fish,
without telling him which kind.

That's the limit! Madam runs the
house and doesn't even know what

fish is for lunch! Ordering
fish, without saying which fish!

Perhaps you would find it
more sensible to order lunch

yourself in future?

Miss Bronte, I am shocked by how
you've fixed my daughter's hair.

I'm used to seeing her with a
triple braid tied with ribbons.

May I ask you to go up
and fix her hair properly?

My dear, from now on, I ask you
to do this child up decently.

Papa, can I play croquet
in the garden with Mr. Bronte?

I finished my dictation.

There's no reason for Mr. Bronte
to play croquet with you,

nor play anything at all
in this household.

Mr. Bronte's sole role is to
help you study your lessons,

correct your errors
and help you progress.

And make me proud of you,
which I not always am.

To do so, he is paid the exact
sum of 20 pounds quarterly,

which most
would deem comfortable.

I am surprised that you think
of playing with Mr. Bronte.

I am surprised that Mr. Bronte
thinks of playing with you.

It's not because we do him the
honor, as well as Miss Bronte,

of dining at our table
that he must believe himself

one of the family.

Mr. Bronte, though he appears
wise, differs from our servants

solely in that regard...
and in his remuneration.

Mr. Robinson!

Go now, Mr. Bronte, it's
your turn to receive a lesson.

Don't take it too badly
and let us hope it's useful.

Come along, Edmond, I'll help
you mount Andy, the red pony'

No, I prefer to ride Joanna,
the dappled mare.

You'll mount Andy, the red pony

Mr. Bronte!

Don't leave directly.

Mr. Bronte, I don't approve of
the way my husband spoke to you.

That's kind of you, Madam.

Wait!

I am ashamed...

of the rudeness
Mr. Robinson showed you.

Mr. Robinson is a hard man,
a proud man, who thinks less of God

and those close to him
than of his position in society.

I must tell you I've never
considered you as a servant,

but as a man of science,
intellect and refinement...

I saw that right away... That's
what I wanted to tell you.

It's been a long time since
I had such a pleasant stroll.

Thurston,
look after the flowers.

They say the tower's haunted.

On certain wintry nights,

Mr. Robinson's grandfather's
leg hops up and down the tower.

We hear it very clearly.

What's he looking for?
What happened up there?

That's what no one knows.

Edmond, who fears nothing,
except his father's riding crop,

comes to play here
from time to time.

What is it?

I'm picturing a hairy leg
hopping in this empty room.

A little decency, please!
That's in very poor taste.

Enough, I won't stand much more
of your coquetry and disdain.

I've enough with your charming
husband you find so strong.

Lydia Robinson, I have to stay
here for weeks, and I refuse

to spend my time being
roasted alive like St. Laurence.

Once and for all, will you make
my stay in this house bearable?

No.

Let's go down.

Thanks be to God for the bounty
we are about to receive,

for all he gives us,
for all he has given us,

and all he will give us.

Amen.

Amen.

It's inedible.

Bring the cold roast beef.

What's wrong with the lamb,
my dear?

It's overdone,
good only for the cat.

Can't you smell that
its entire flavor is gone?

Don't you see its tender pink
center, the best part, is lost?

The lamb's overdone. Take it
back and tell the kitchen.

Serve the cold roast beef.

Velvet paws,
amber eyes, pretty animal.

Why are you coming to see me?

Show me your face,
you want a kiss, hmm?

But no, you won't
get one now. No, not now.

My, what a rumble
you're making with your throat,

sounds like a bee's nest.
Off you go, cat! Down!

Mama, why are there
flowers today?

And why is Mr. Bronte all red?

Enough impertinence! Children
shouldn't speak at the table!

What is it, Mr. Bronte?
Are you unwell?

I'm a little close
to the fireplace, that's all.

Thank you, Madam.

Mr. and Mrs. Robinson, I'd
like your permission to retire.

I have a dreadful migraine.

Go ahead, would you like Nancy
to make you some herb tea?

No, thank you. I think
it'll go away if I lie down.

They're under
your sister's care.

They don't know what
a dreadful mother I am.

You're not dreadful.

Why do you stay like that,
like a corpse?

A corpse that breathes
like a cat.

Look at the cat,
how calm he is. Stay calm.

Hold me.

I've never heard
of such a thing.

What kind of a man are you?

- The kind that...
- Don't speak. You're mad.

A poet, and I'm old.

Old and lost.

May God forgive me,
how I've angered Him.

No, let Him be up there.

Old Man Nobody
doesn't care about us.

Lydia...

Only when the law sleeps
can we believe in happiness.

You're beautiful.

You're beautiful.

Come.

Can't you see that
it's wrong to do such things?

Birds can feel like you do.

Would you like it
if someone did that to you?

I'm not a bird and I don't
feel their suffering.

Maybe one day you will
feel it, Edmond.

You know where bad people
go after they die...

If you don't stop torturing...

Don't be so childish!

Papa knows how I treat them.
He never scolded me for it.

Last summer, he gave me
a nest of baby sparrows.

And he saw me pull off their
legs, their wings and heads.

He just said they're dirty
and I shouldn't stain my pants.

And what does your mother say?

She's no time to bother.

Besides, she does worse
than trap sparrows.

Ask your brother, Miss Bronte,
or go look in the tower,

they're both there.

I hope you'll come back soon.

I hope your husband gets well
soon, Lydia... Madam Robinson.

I hope it's nothing serious.

He often feels unwell
during vacations or holidays.

Some persons can't tolerate
the festive ambiance.

But he will surely be back on
his feet today, I wish it too.

You can't imagine how miserable
I feel to have to leave.

Yes, I know.

Branwell, the luggage is loaded,
it's time to go.

Farewell.

Farewell.

See you soon!

Why don't you say anything?

Don't judge me, little sister.
You know nothing of life.

You and your sisters were
raised like potatoes in a cave.

You don't know
what true love is.

You don't know real passion,
which burns and tears

and mocks the law.

Be quiet!

No more ungodly prattle
and smugness, I beg you!

It was hard enough there.
Spare me your speeches.

Little dear, fragile soul,
perfect Methodist!

Bear your cross,
you were raised for it.

But don't brandish it
under my nose.

I'm free, like the wind, and
the wind blows where it wants.

The wind!

Anne! What is it? Are you ill?

It's nothing. Sometimes
it stabs me like a spear.

Oh yes, the famous spear.

It's a village
lost on the heath,

like an oasis in the desert.

The wind howls.

The wind howls incessantly
and the winters are atrocious.

I prefer the weather here.

I like Brussels,
I don't miss my homeland.

I feel like I could teach
and study here all my life.

However, you told me
you must leave.

I'll come back.

I return out of duty,
the duty of birthright.

I received bad news
about my father.

His sight is worse by the day.

And, there's something else.

Your sister, Emily?

My brother.

You have a brother?
What might he be like?

He's as chaotic as the wind
and secretive about his nights.

But I'll come back.
It would be cruel for me not to.

You don't know
what you're saying.

You students in English class
make your life intolerable.

If I didn't know it,
one look would tell me.

You have circles under your
eyes, the look of an insomniac.

- I know I'm no beauty.
- I never said that!

You're wrong. My students
don't cause me any trouble.

I despise their agitation
and try to dominate it.

I like this profession, sir,
more than anything in the world!

Don't get excited,
I believe you.

I think some rest with
your family would do you good.

You seem to be on edge.

I'll do as you say, sir.

You're the master. I'm your
student and I must obey you.

What are you telling me?

You announced your departure
to me, I didn't order it.

Have a pleasant journey,
Miss Bronte.

It's you? Come in,
I thought it was Branwell.

You're not happy to see me?

Yes, of course.
But don't stay there. Come in.

I'll bring you dry clothes,
Charlotte.

I can't take it any more.

Are you mistreated?

No, it's much worse.

He covers me with flowers
and gifts, like these gloves.

And a clingy tenderness that's
more unbearable than blows.

I think I'll go mad.
I've only one hope.

Tell me.

It's awful to say it. He's ill.

He's already had four attacks.

And the doctor says
the next one could be fatal.

I'm taking advantage of his
being bedridden at the moment.

That's good news, Lydia.

Don't say that.

Don't say it like that.

He could die, that's true.

But he could survive, for years,
ever calling me to his bedside.

Whimpering like a sick dog.

And what would become of me?

Don't cling to that vile hope.

It's a hope.

I must cling to it.

Forgive me.

Do you know where we are here?
We're at the crossroads,

one of those places
where they still bury

those who've put an end
to their days voluntarily,

without a ceremony or tombstone.

If I took a spade... and dug
at the base of that horse pole...

Be quiet!
I forbid you to talk like that.

You can forbid me from talking,
but not from thinking.

I dream of you, Lydia.
You always have your hair down,

so that I can't see your face.

What an incorrigible fibber! Do
you believe what you're saying?

Lydia...

Listen to me, I'm serious.

While you dream,
pathetically pitying yourself,

I endure an atrocious situation

between a husband I abhor
and cruel, heartless children.

Do you think I made you
come to this forlorn inn

to bemoan our fate together?

What do you want me to do?

You're a poet,

You write novels.

What do they do in novels?

What do they do in novels?

Act like a man.

Kidnap me.

Night and day, I can find
neither rest nor peace.

If I sleep, I am troubled
by agonizing dreams...

where I see you,
always severe,

Always serious,

always irritated, with me...

With the bad weather, the mail
will be late more often.

But the boats cross as often in
winter as in summer, don't they?

Want to talk about storms?

No, come in. I've been waiting
so long for this letter.

I've waited for this so long,
I don't dare believe it.

Sorry to say, it looks like
it's for your brother.

I expect you
were awaiting other news.

But people are afraid
of a lost corner like this.

You won't see
too many folks in your school.

Our school? Oh, yes, the school.

Good day Mr. Rasbell.

It's too bad! You three,
you'd be good at teaching kids.

I'm sure of it.

Branwell!

A letter for you.

He's dead. Mr. Robinson is dead!

It'll change my life, he's dead!
We're free, Lydia, free!

An unexpected will
obliges me to choose between

my heart and my fortune.

Had I met with more resolution,
my choice could have been other.

Do not attempt to see me again.

Emily?

So, have you seen a ghost?

Yes.

"Earlier, I saw a spirit pause,
a man, where you pause.

At his feet,
three rivers flowed."

Filthy spy, you'll be sorry!

I'll make you regret it!

Emily! I went in by accident.
Listen, you must listen to me.

I forbid you from entering here.
I'll never speak to you again!

You're nothing to me any more,
nothing.

I knew you'd be furious,
but I took that risk knowingly.

Let me in...

I've never read anything
like that. Will you let me in?

Insufferable, stubborn mule!
It must be published, you ninny!

Never! Never!

I can't live in your company
any more, never again!

How I hate you.
I hate you so much.

That's what
we always wanted, Emily.

We've always written.

The boarding house,
the Bronte maidens,

that was a mask,
a cardboard mask.

As futile as the mask of truth
Papa used to wear.

You must publish that poem.
You must!

Publish! Idiot!

With your dreams of glory
as real as your dreams of love!

No... no...

Anne! Emily!

But why didn't he wake up?

It's the opium.

He procured laudanum
at the pharmacy.

My dear, like all of England, we
ask ourselves just one question.

- Who's Currer Bell?
- Yes, Who is Currer Bell?

Is it a man, a woman?

You know Mrs. Martineau and Mr.
Lewis differ on that question.

I only stand with the opinions
of persons as competent

as Mr. Thackeray
and Mr. Dickens.

If the authors of "Barry Lyndon"
and "Mugby Junction"

detect a woman's hand
in this story of a governess,

it seems to me we must concur.

Good sense could also
consider a woman's opinion.

There are certain things
in "Jane Eyre", such as

the love this governess
feels for her master,

that a man couldn't have
written, or not alone.

However, the harshness
of certain passages

cannot be attributed
to a woman's hand.

That's why I lean
towards collaboration.

Be that as it may,
Newby, our direct competitor,

has just published
two novels signed Bell.

An abominably botched edition,
by the way.

Two novels that appear after our
second edition of "Jane Eyre",

which he pretends to have sent
to press over six months ago...

That's not all.

"Jane Eyre"
is now all the rage in America.

The American editors are eager
to acquire the rights

to Currer Bell's next novel.

In fact, we have concluded an
agreement with Faver & Johnson

of New York to that effect.

But, I've just learned that
Newby reached the same agreement

with their competitor.

Now what?

Now, he's releasing
a new novel signed Acton Bell,

"The Tenant of Wildfell Hall",
a dark story of alcoholism,

Newby claims is better
than the first three.

And he sells his wares.

He also claims,
and that's the catastrophe,

to be able to prove that
Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell

are one and the same person.

Very annoying. Mrs. Martineau
and Lewis, what do you think?

Is it possible that these three
authors may be just one?

I think it's a man and a woman.

You have an address. Write.

Maybe he or she or they
will consent to go public?

The mere idea of this trip makes
me quake from head to foot.

I'm afraid for Branwell.

If this reaches his ears,
it'll finish him.

There's no chance.
Branwell's ears have been deaf

to the outside world for
a long time.

He sleeps all day.

Maybe he's just pretending?

Then, it's too late.
He already knows.

Only, I wonder if this trip
to London is really necessary.

Why should we get involved
in these editors' quarrels?

Either they agree to publish us
or they refuse, that's all.

Don't start again.
Your wish will be respected.

We'll say nothing about you,
Emily.

We'll simply say
that Ellis Bell exists too.

Not a word more.

All aboard!

Am I at least presentable?

Tell me, Emily.
Am I a frightful sight?

You see, if it's really him,
not some other,

he came a long way
to see me and...

I mustn't disappoint him.

You won't disappoint him.

Unbelievable!
That your father's jacket?

You're really Leyland,
Joe Leyland?

As you can see.

Yes.

When I heard you were coming,
at first I couldn't believe it.

As you haven't written
in a long time,

I admit I thought
it was a trick.

Really?

A trick?

I thought so for a moment.
But I'm reassured.

I'm reassured.

Lydia is surrounded
with powerful people

who hate me
like the devil himself.

You've hardly eaten.

Yes, I ate a bit.
I hadn't done so in a long time.

To be honest,
I've been too spoilt.

And in my last situation,
I was so much my own master,

that I freely indulged
in pleasures of the most...

With time, you'll erase
the images that obsess you.

You're kind, Leyland.

But I've no more time.

At 28, I'm an old man.

More than an old man.

What's an old man?

A man who keeps yearning
and hasn't the strength to try.

As for me,
I don't even yearn any more.

I return your brother to you,
Miss.

It's very late
and I didn't see the time pass.

I hope that you aren't upset
with me for keeping him so long.

To be honest, I have to be in
Bradford early in the morning.

Good bye, Patrick.
I'll write soon.

You can make it.

Frankly, I don't think so.
I'll never make it up the hill.

And I say you can.

Let me insist.
Mr. Smith is in his office?

Can you tell him
we wish to speak to him?

Whom shall I announce?

I already told you,
we do not wish to give our name.

Simply tell him we have
something that may interest him.

Excuse me, sir.
I can see you're French.

Quite so, miss.
Do you know France?

No, only Belgium.

- And you, miss?
- No...

So, Belgium?
Were you in Brussels?

Yes, I was in Brussels.

How may I help you?

I think this is from you.

Where did you get this?

I'm Currer Bell
and this is Acton.

We are three sisters.

There is no man.

Nothing could have saved him.

"Marasmus" is the name
we give to this affliction.

He wasn't eating any more.
There's no remedy for that.

Do you have any ribbon
or string?

This time, we are forced
to meet the challenge.

The Guiseley Chapel meeting
is a real provocation

to the Church of England.

If we feign to ignore them,
they'll take it as a victory

for them and... a defeat for us.

I refuse to let the church
become a political forum.

We live in a world
of affliction.

Our task consists more
in alleviating suffering...

than inspiring fear
of the Lord.

The less I do,
the more I need your help.

Go and try not to catch cold.
Dusk is fast upon us.

See you tomorrow.

Miss, excuse me.

Whatever consolation I can
offer to a sister who's lost

her brother, I will try.

Thank you very much,
Mr. Nichols.

Charlotte gave me
the reviews of your book,

-would you like to hear them?
- Yes.

"America is no better
than England." Listen,

"The author of Wuthering
Heights' seems to think

human depravity is the sum
of several animal ferocities.

He has thus chosen the most
striking traits of the wolf,

jackal and wildcat

to create the demonic brute
who is the hero of his novel."

- Shall I go on?
- Yes.

"Great writers
succeed infinitely better

with effects using
a greater economy of means."

That's enough. Thank you.

You can give that to Charlotte.

A creature worse than you
I've never seen.

Your father worries and wastes
away before your eyes.

As for Charlotte,
she daren't say a thing,

but she'd give
her arms and legs,

she'd give her life
to stop the pain you cause her.

Look at Anne.
She's not like you.

Anne is the kindest of you all.

She knows it's for her own good.

She's an angel of patience,
an angel of patience.

I implore you, Emily.

Just once, for your father,
for me, for Charlotte, for Anne.

My God! Why are you so mean?

I'm not mean.
But you're too anxious.

You attach too much importance
to such stupidities.

I'm perfectly all right!

You must take it regularly
until the symptoms disappear.

That pain in your side,
do you feel it all the time?

Often enough.

- Here?
- Yes.

Emily feels the same thing.

I often saw her, when
she thought no one was watching.

And how's the cough? Dry,
intermittent, in short spasms?

Or deep and cavernous?

Deep and cavernous.

The last time
she let me take her pulse,

I counted 115 beats a minute.

Charlotte, come back!
I'm worried sick. Don't go.

Stay. You'll catch cold, too.

I won't go far.
I'll be right back.

What's the point of it?

You don't understand,
she's not like others.

Of course,
something from the heath.

She needs
something from the heath.

She's right,
no stupid medicine can cure her.

She needs magic, a perfume,
a scent, something to touch.

I'll surely find it.

Charlotte, come back!

You won't find anything.

The heath is a desert.

Look what I found, Emily. Look.
Heather. From the heath.

That's all I could find.
The heath was frozen.

Charlotte!

If you call the doctor,
I'll see him.

No, Anne. Not the heath outfit.

We can't bury her
in boy's clothes.

I think we'll all
be away somewhere together.

Where?

I don't know.

By the sea.

I've never seen the sea.
I'd like to see it someday.

Let the favor of the Lord
our God be upon us,

and establish thou
the work of our hands...

yea, the work of our hands
establish thou it.

I feel reinvigorated, joyful.

I've often dreamt of this trip.

I could stay here for hours,
not you?

No. No more here
than on the heath.

Life is so unfathomable.

I've never managed to grasp
a notion of its tricks on us.

It would take forever.

That's why youthful works
are always full of errors.

Not so with Charlotte Bronte,

whose talent is recognized
by all of London,

and whom we will see
tomorrow at the opera.

Life is too short for art.

We need much more time
to harden our shell.

Hard and shiny... ironically,
it's often shiny, rarely hard.

...Showing hostility
to those she would like to love...

...rather than showing hostility
to those she would like to love...

...rather than showing hostility
to those she would like to love...

she preferred equity,

even when this rupture
made her most miserable.

She preferred equity...

Don't look at me.

I prefer your face
to the walls of this hotel.

Don't look at me...

In place of my skull, I feel
I've a relief map of the world,

with place names
pointing to sensitivity,

morality and intelligence.

I see nothing of the sort.
Why do you get that impression?

Mr. Smith, my editor,
took me to see a phrenologist,

passing me off as his daughter,
Miss Fraser.

He found it amusing, as did I.

I'll show you
the professor's report.

Mrs. Arthur Bell Nichols,
Charlotte Bronte?

Come in.

Have you brought me
my portrait by Richmond?

I don't want to abuse
my rights as a husband

and open the portrait
before you.

I won't open it either.

I've no desire to see myself.

Mr. Smith must be
waiting below in his coach

and it'll take us at least
an hour to get to the opera.

Concerning the opera...

I'd like to offer you something.

I know your eyesight is weak...

Here...

No...

They're too lovely.

I'll always have them close by,
on the mantle or the dresser,

but I can't wear them.

Not even this evening?

I prefer to see things
in a fog, it's less...

And, I don't want to pretend,

for Mr. Thackeray,
or anyone else.

But I don't want to hurt you.

It's a magnificent gift,
Mr. Nichols, magnificent.

Mr. Thackeray invites you
to share his box.

- Thank you.
- Let's proceed.

You know nothing of life.

You don't know real passion,
which burns and tears

and mocks the law.

You merely see
the appearances of things.

Love that
only lasts as long as a bloom.

I scorn and trample it,
I spit on love and its vanity.

Holly stands for friendship,

and it will last
into the winter of our lives.

But it's a humble plant.

And sad,

and ordinary.

Translation: James Rae
TV5 Québec Canada