Original subtitles

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.