All language subtitles for To.Walk.Invisible.Part.1.2016.1080p.BluRay.x264-HANDJOB_track3_[eng]

CHARLOTTE:
We wove a web in childhood,

A web of sunny air;

We dug a spring in infancy
of water pure and fair;

We sowed in youth
a mustard seed,

We cut an almond rod;

We are now grown up
to riper age--

Are they withered in the sod?

Are they blighted, failed
and faded,

Are they mouldered back
to clay?

For life is darkly shaded;

And its joys fleet fast away.

What the hell is going on?

Qui sont ces gens?!

They'll tear us limb from limb.

I've crossed the Arctic
and seen nothing like it.

Down on them!
Instantly!

Run!

(men groaning)

Know you that I give
into your protection,

but not for your own,

these mortals whom you hold
in your hands.

What's yours called?
Wellesley.

This is Gravey.
Because he looks a bit grave.

Mine's called...
Waiting Boy.

Is it?
Why?

Because he's a queer looking
little thing, Anne.

Much like yourself.

Look who's talking.

This is Sneaky.

Thou art under my protection,
I will watch over thy life,

for I tell you all--

one day...

you shall be kings.

Yes!
Yes!

(tower bell ringing)

(dog barking)

(din of the crowd)

(bell continues ringing)

(birds cawing)

CHARLOTTE:
Dear Ellen.

It was 10:00 when I got home.

I found Branwell ill.

He is so very often these days
owing to his own fault.

I was not therefore surprised
at first,

but when Anne informed me
of the immediate cause

of his present illness,
I was greatly shocked.

(gate opens)

(door opens)

Charlotte!
How was the journey?

Pleasant.

How was Miss Nussey?

Well.
Did my box arrive safely?

In our room,
we took it up, me and Emily.

What's...?

Branwell-- he's been drinking.

He's had a letter
from Mr. Robinson.

This last Thursday.

He's been dismissed.

How does he do it?

It's every job
he's ever had.

I know,
but this is different.

How?

(whispering): Nothing was
spelled out in the letter.

But he...

Him and Mrs. Robinson,
I had reason to know

that they were...
carrying on.

With one another.

And I don't know,
I can only assume

that Mr. Robinson's found out,
and that's what it's about.

Carrying on, how?

(whispering):
Congress?

Mr. Robinson's wife?

It's why I resigned.

I couldn't look
people in the face.

I've known for months.

Papa doesn't know.

He just knows
he's been dismissed,

he doesn't know why.

Emily does; I told her.

And of course we don't know
that that is the reason.

Where is Emily?

(Patrick shouting in other room)

...what this is about!
You think repeating

the question enough times,
over and over,

it's suddenly gonna make me
able to answer it?

And if not, then someone
must write to the man

and ask for an explanation.

He hates me!

He's not going to give any kind
of an explanation.

It's an excuse to get rid of me!

He's a monster, he's a bully,
he's a law unto himself.

He's an idiot.

Why does he hate you?

Why does he need a reason
to get rid of you?

Because he's old, he's ill
and he's jealous of me.

No,no,no.

That doesn't make any sense,

There must have been
a misunderstanding, hm?

Has... has someone
misrepresented you to him?

Just...! God!

This house!

Just go to bed
and stop asking me

fucking questions!

If you don't like this house,
don't stay in it.

There's none of us'II

miss you,
not when you're like this.

I need to know what happened!

Tell him!

Branwell's been at it.

With his employer's wife.

She was lonely.

She was lonely!

(thunder crackling)

(girls playfully yelling)

'Tis a shame you're embarked
on this course

of myopic self—destruction,

for I imagine
you and I might--

under better circumstances--

have made very stimulating
company for one another!

I despise everything
you stand for!

Revolution is in the air!

And only a fool like you, sir,
would ignore it!

If the parson
and your Aunt Branwell were in

you'd non make so much din!

They all think you're right
quiet and studious

down in the village, you know!

(sighs)

(children continue
shouting and banging)

(footsteps approaching)

Mr. Brown's here.

(barks)

(Charlotte reading aloud
in other room)

You fit, lad?

Yeah, I'll just...

"...conducting themselves
with propriety."

(knock at door, door opens)

John's here.

We're off.

Don't get up.

No, no, I'd like to see him.

PATRICK:
How are you today, John?

JOHN: I'm very well,
thank you, Mr. Brontë,

PATRICK:
Good, good.

Well.

Travel safely.

Picked a fine day for it, eh?

(chuckles)

You look after yourself.

Thank you.

(door closes)

Well...

I think with kindness
and understanding

and prayer,

we might still be able--

in spite of his naiveté

and his nonsense...

be able to get him back
onto a proper path.

Will you bring us all something
back from Liverpool, father?

You behave yourself.

And then we'll see.

You dozy bastard.

(chuckling):
Getting caught.

EMILY: Anne left her
situation at Thorp Green

of her own accord, June 1845.

Branwell left.

We are all in decent health
only that Papa has a complaint

in his eyes, and with
the exception of Branwell,

who I hope will be better
and do better hereafter.

I am seldom or ever troubled
with nothing to do

and merely desiring
that everybody could be

as comfortable as myself
and as undesponding of them

we should have
a very tolerable world of it.

(footsteps approaching)

They've set off.

Good.

Call me old fashioned,
but I think it's nice

having everybody back at home.

In theory.

What happened?

You heard the shouting.

I had me pillow over me ears,

so I didn't catch the details.

Lucky you.

So he's been mucking about,
by way of punishment,

he's packed off on holiday

for a week
with Martha's father?

Packed off on holiday
for a week,

or got shut off
for a few days.

It's all a question

of how you might choose
to look at it, Tabby.

Well, if that's how you feel.

(barking)

(softly):
Sit down.

Do you still write stories?

Sometimes.

About Gondal?

When we can.

Emily as well?

You've been here with her
more than I have.

Surely...
We never talk about it.

Never?

Do you?

Write?

Still?
Not so much.

(whispering):
What about the infernal world?

I relinquished my pen.

Why?

Because it frightened me.

It threatened to make
the real world seem pointless,

and colorless and drab.

And that way lies madness.

You know the real world
is what it is,

but we must live in it, so.

You should write
if it makes you happy.

I worry about my eyes.

And I think as well,

When I got that reply
from Southey.

"Literature cannot be the
business of a woman's life."

At the time,
I brushed it off.

But the longer I've dwelt on it,
the older I've got,

the more I've thought...

What's the point?

The point.

For me.

I'm never more alive
than when I write.

You're the same.

Surely.

But with no prospect
of publication?

It's just playing at it,
isn't it?

Are we playing then,
or what?

Does it ever bother you that
we might be getting a bit old?

For that.

You weren't saying that
two weeks ago in York.

No, well...

I didn't want
to spoil things in York.

It's something I've been
thinking for a while.

Well, what did you come out
with me for, then?

To talk.

What about?

Things.

At home.

Do you never
think about...?

What?

The future.

What are we without
Papa and Branwell?

Papa won't...

He won't live forever,
and he's blind,

and that house--
our house--

it belongs to the church
trustees, not us.

And Branwell!

What's he doing?
What's he thinking?

That he has such
a hopeless grasp

on the realities
of what comes next?

Are we nothing to him?

Does he even see us?

If we don't make
something of ourselves,

and God knows
we've been trying.

I've been trying.

I was a governess at that
ludicrous place for five years!

What will we do, Emily?

What will...?

What will we be?

(birds chirping)

EMILY: It was when I
came back from Roe Head.

And he was there
at home, Branwell.

And he wasn't
supposed to be.

You'd gone,
you and Charlotte.

You'd gone off
back to Roe Head.

And he was supposed
to be in London,

trying to get his foot in the
door at the Royal Academy.

And that's when I knew
the liar he was.

Sharpers?
Thieves!

So what?
They attacked you?

You were robbed?

Four of them?
I think four.

In broad daylight?

That's... surely someone
saw what happened?

And you didn't
even get there?

No!

It was just after I arrived
at the coaching inn

at St. Martin Ie Grand,
and I knew my way around.

From the maps
in my head.

But London,

the whole thing is so much
bigger than I imagined.

And you didn't tell me

how big it was, did ya!

And I didn't know
who to turn to with no money.

So I came home!

Well, witnesses, surely
someone must have seen

what happened.

No, there were no witnesses.

Everyone just turned around
and went about their business.

So all 30 shillings?

Gone?

(groans angrily)

(items clattering to the floor)

(Aunt Branwell crying)

Then when Aunt Branwell
went to bed

and Papa went back
to his study,

I said to him,
"You're lying."

And he admitted it.

He didn't even make it
to London,

never mind any business
at any Royal Academy.

He said he was about
to get on the high-flyer

in Bradford with his paintings
and his sketches.

But then when he was faced
with the reality

of setting off for London,

he realized that they just
weren't that good.

They might look
well enough at home,

but next to a Lawrence,
or a Gainsborough...

So he fortified himself,
he said.

To get the courage to get
on the next coach,

which was his intention.

But he didn't.

He spent four days
in Bradford.

Drunk and miserable
and dreaming up some trash

that he thought
everyone at home

would be blown enough
to believe.

He spent 30 shillings
on drink in four days?

I could've cheerfully
murdered him, to start with.

And then...

Actually I felt
sorry for him.

They always expected
so much of him.

More, probably,
than he was ever capable of.

And I just thought,
"Thank God I'm not you."

It's disappointing, I know.

And I'm angry with him too.

He humiliated me at Thorp Green,

and he knew what he was doing.

But we shouldn't give up on him,
should we?

No, we shouldn't give up on him.

But we should see him
for what he is.

Not what he isn't.

It's not fair on him.

I sometimes think Charlotte
despises him.

Mm...

Well.

Charlotte has her own demons.

What demons?

Well, you know how low
she's been?

For months.

It's to the point
of making herself ill,

and convincing herself
she's going blind.

Yes.

Well, you know when we were
in Brussels?

Monsieur Heger.

Yes.

Well, she... was very...

taken with him.

Not when I was there.

This was after Aunt Branwell
died when I stayed home.

She became...

(whispering):
...obsessed with him.

He was married.

It's why she left at finish.

I don't think she'd have told me
unless she felt guilty.

Having feelings for a married
man, well, yes, I suppose.

Oh, well,
not that, exactly, it was...

she went to confession.

To confess her guilt.

Confession as in,
in a...

Yes.

Catholic church?

She had no one to talk to.

Of course then,
she felt guilty

about setting foot
inside a Catholic church.

She wrote to me,
"Don't tell Papa."

So she went
to a Catholic church

to confess her guilt

about having feelings
for Monsieur Heger?

Then she had to write to you

to confess her guilt
about going to confession?

I don't like
the Catholic church

any more than I like any other
kind of organized hypocrisy

but I do think there's
something to be said

for being able

to get something
off your chest.

Of course I absolved her.

(laughing)

She actually spoke
to a priest?

And the point is, she's made
herself ill with obsession,

guilt and God knows
what else...

Disappointment.

Over a married man
and then Branwell

blithely wades in
and does that,

never mind the consequences.

So if she is animated
about it,

then that's why.

Oh shut up, people, hide.

(horse whinnying)

BRANWELL:
My dear Leyland.

I returned yesterday from
a week's journey to Liverpool

and North Wales.

But I found during my absence

that wherever I went,
a certain woman robed in black

and calling herself "misery"
walked by my side,

and leant on my arm as
affectionately as if she were

my legal wife.

Like some other husbands,

I could have spared
her presence.

PATRICK: For the food
we are about to receive

may the Lord make us
truly thankful.

Amen.
Amen.

(sighs)

Is she feeding
those clogs again?!

No.

Branwell.

Yeah?

Tell us something
about Liverpool.

Oh.

Well, the docks
were extraordinary.

Uh-huh.

We saw a black man.

A Blackamoor, a Creole.

He really was black.

So dark, Papa.
Uh-huh.

And I spoke to him.

Didn't really understand
what he was saying

and I don't think
he understood a word

I was saying either,
but it was just fascinating.

I think he was something
on one of the ships.

(wind whistling)

(faint snickering)

(snickering)

Yes?

If you...

If you don't...

get on top of...

of this habit

when things don't go
right for you.

If you can't exercise
some restraint.

And it'll take over

your life, Branwell.
Don't be ridiculous.

I'm not being ridiculous.

It'll destroy you.

Mm.

Potentially, you still
have so much to offer, Branwell.

You need a plan.

I've got plans.

Have you?

And can you share them?

With anyone.

Do you know
what I've realized?

What?

There's no money in poetry.

Novels.

That's where
the money is.

Whilst the composition
of a poem

demands the utmost stretch
of a man's intellect.

And for what?

Ten pounds at best.

I could hum a tune,

smoke a cigar,

and I'd have a novel written.

No one will publish a novel
by an unknown author.

I've had nine poems published
in the Halifax Guardian.

It's only Halifax, I know,
but it is widely enough read.

You'd need a good story
for a novel.

Oh, when was I ever short
of a story?

(din of the crowd outside)

(Branwell snoring softly)

(bell ringing)

(dog barking, children laughing)

EMILY: Are you still
thinking about going to Paris?

CHARLOTTE:
I don't think it's likely.

At the moment.

Why?

It might do you good.

Are you still hell-bent
on making yourself poorly?

I'm...

not poorly.

I'm just struggling to...

Why is it that a woman's lot
is so very different to a man's?

I've never felt inferior.

Have you?

Intellectually.

Why is it that we have
so very few opportunities?

You or I could do almost
anything we set our minds to.

But no.

All we can realistically plan
is a school--

a modest enough school--
that no one wants to come to.

(sighs)

Why is it that the woman's lot

is to be perpetually
infantilized?

Or else invisible
and powerless

to do anything about it?

Did he never
write back to you, then?

Heger?

No.

Hm.

Anne says you've
written some poems.

Have you ever thought
about publishing them?

No.

It's just the...

The thing is, you see,

I've written
some verses too,

and if between us we could
accumulate enough material

to think about publishing
a small volume...

And have it pored over
and rubbished

and ridiculed by anyone
might choose

to waste their money on it?

Not likely.

(birds chirping,
horses whinnying)

(sheep bleating)

♪ ♪

♪ ♪

EMILY: He comes with Western
winds, with evening's wandering airs,

with that clear dusk of heaven
that brings the thickest stars:

winds take a pensive tone,
and stars a tender fire,

and visions rise and change
that kill me with desire.

High waving heather
'neath stormy blasts bending,

midnight and moonlight
and bright shining stars;

darkness and glory
rejoicingly blending,

Earth rising to heaven
and heaven descending,

man's spirit away
from its drear dungeon sending,

bursting the fetters
and breaking the bars.

Then dawns the Invisible,
the Unseen its truth reveals;

My outward sense is gone,
my inward essence feels--

Its wings are almost free,
its home, its harbor found;

Measuring the gulf, it stoops
and dares the final bound!

O, dreadful is the check--
intense the agony

When the ear begins to hear
and the eye begins to see;

When the pulse begins to throb,
the brain to think again,

The soul to feel the flesh and
the flesh to feel the chain.

Yet I would lose no sting,
would wish no torture less;

The more that anguish racks
the earlier it will bless;

And robed in fires of Hell,
or bright with heavenly shine

If it but herald Death,
the vision is divine.

(door slams in the distance)

(footsteps approaching)

(door slams)

What's the matter?

What's the matter?

Somebody has been in my room.

Somebody?

Somebody has been
through my things.

And not had the wit,
when they put them back,

to realize that everything
was in a certain order.

Well, who?
We haven't, I haven't.

You haven't, you wouldn't.

I know that.

Branwell's in Halifax.

It's safe to assume Papa

couldn't see to do it,

and anyway,
why would he bother?

Tabby's got
better things to do,

and Martha can't read
that well.

Yet.

She also has
too much dignity and respect

for other people's things!

I shouldn't have.

I know.

But I'm not sorry.

I mean I am sorry.

Look, Emily.

Your poems are...

They're extraordinary.

I know they're private,

I know they're personal,
they're 1,001 things,

but they're not something
to keep hidden!

I admit it was curiosity

but not idle curiosity,
I hope,

but something more noble.

Noble?!
Going in people's bedrooms?

Going through
people's things?

No woman-- no one has ever
written poetry like this!

Nothing I've read,
nothing I can think of,

nothing published,
is its equal.

Emily, they're exceptional.

They're astonishing.

I couldn't breathe
when I was reading them.

I know you're angry,

and I know what I did
is unforgivable.

Except please see
that it isn't.

You disgust me.

You can't begin
to imagine how much.

You stay out of my room

and you don't speak to me.

You don't speak to me
generally,

and you don't speak to me
specifically

about your misguided,

tedious, grubby little
publishing plans.

What on earth is the matter?

She has been in
people's bedrooms

going through people's things.

I'm putting a lock
on that door!

She?

What happened?

Charlotte?

Nothing.

It's nothing,
I went in her bedroom.

(chuckles)

(sighs)

And where
is Branwell?

Halifax.

He's where?

Halifax.

Is he due in?

Tonight?

Or have we to lock
the back door?

I imagine
he's taken a key.

Right.

All right!

I made a mistake.

Except I didn't.

They're...

Have you read them?

No.

She's never asked me to.

What did she mean

about your "grubby little
publishing plans"?

They're not without charm.

It's not just the poems,
you see.

I've been writing this too.

It's a novel.

It's not Gondal
and Gaaldine.

It's more about how things are
in the real world.

It's about being a governess.

It's all...
things I've seen and heard.

And witnessed.

The thing is, you see, I...

This is beautifully written.

I would be ready.

To try and publish.

I would be ready
to risk failure.

And who knows?

This is what we've done
all our lives.

Write.

We've lived in our heads.

I don't regard the attempt to do
something with it as venal.

I think it's more venal
selling ourselves as governesses

when we find it such a trial.

So long as we approached it
carefully, wisely,

and not make fools
of ourselves, then surely...

The plan.

Would be to try to publish
a volume of poetry first.

And then if that met with
a modicum of success,

and something of a name
was established,

we could each risk
a work of fiction.

I've toyed with writing
something about Brussels.

I mean, I don't even know
if that's the etiquette, but...

Perhaps I could write to a
publishing house and find out.

Your poems are competent,

and charming.

And I'm no great poet myself.

But Emily's contribution
could elevate

a small volume into something...

actually worth spending
a few shillings on.

I feel sorry for her.

Why?

Same reason I feel sorry
for Branwell.

So much is expected of her.

Being the eldest.
And not even the eldest.

By accident the eldest.
Bossiest.

She was bossy when Maria
and Elizabeth were still alive,

I remember it.

Vividly.

It's being so bossy
that's stunted her growth.

She's ambitious.

For all of us, and I can see
nothing wrong with that.

(whispering): I realize some people
might think it's vulgar, but Emily,

we were born writing.

And if we're cautious,
if we're clever-- and we are--

and if we disguise our real
selves and our sex...

(loudly):
Right, that's done.

Tabby!

I'm off, down the hill.

It's wonderful how quiet
they all think she is

in the village,
and how loud she is at home.

You can come with me
if you want.

Have you ever thought
about writing something

that's not Gondal?

Something more.

Not princesses
and emperors, more just...

what happens
in the real world.

You know when I worked
in Halifax?

At that school at Law Hill.

Yes.

Miss Patchett that ran it,
she told me this tale,

and I've often thought
it would make a story.

A novel.

What was it about?

This man, this lad, Jack Sharp.

Have I never told you this?

It serves us well enough,

but it's not an attractive
building, I know.

It has a rather
curious history.

It was built
out of spite, apparently.

60 years ago by a man
called Jack Sharp.

So, there's this family,
the Walkers.

They own Walterclough Hall,

this big house,
just above Halifax.

It's been in the family
for generations.

They're woolen manufacturers--
aren't they all?

Anyway, John Walker has
four children,

two boys and two girls,

and he's adopted this nephew,
Jack Sharp.

(thunder cracking loudly)

Richard and John--
the two sons--

were educated well,
and they ended up

making their livings
in London.

Jack stayed at home with
the girls-- Grace and Mary--

and he was trained up to take
over the family business,

which suited everyone,
because it seems

he'd always been
old Mr. Walker's favorite,

the truth be told.

Then, when Richard,
the eldest son, dies

in some tragic accident
somewhere, old Mr. Walker

decides to leave the district
and he leaves Jack

in charge of his business
and Walterclough Hall.

Eventually, some years later,
old Mr. Walker himself dies,

and the remaining son, John,
in London, inherits everything

and gives Jack Sharp,
who he'd never liked,

notice to vacate
the property forthwith.

But, John Walker Jr.
has the law on his side,

and after enough
wrangling in court,

Jack Sharp has to vacate
the property

whether he likes it or not.

But not before
he's trashed the place

and taken anything of value.

Furniture...

...the silver,
the plate, the linen.

You can only imagine
what they all went through.

The anger
and the bitterness.

And then he built
his own home, a new house,

here at Law Hill.

EMILY: The spot chosen very
carefully, people believed,

because it looks down
on Walterclough Hall.

And then he filled it
with the stash

he'd purloined from the Hall.

Like he was goading John Walker
to come and fetch it.

If he dared.

And did he dare?
I doubt it.

But, the worst thing
that Jack Sharp did.

One of old Mr. Walker's
sisters had a son,

grown up by then,
called Sam Stead.

And Jack Sharp apprenticed him
in the trade,

just like he himself
had been apprenticed

by old Mr. Walker.

And he cleverly,
calculatedly, bit-by-bit,

indulged and degraded Sam Stead
with gambling and drink,

and the lad was too feckless
to know any better.

Why would you do that?

He did it to cause
as much misery and humiliation

to the Walkers
as he could.

That's...
I know.

All that anger.

It's so rich.

Anyway,
if we're writing novels,

I imagine we'll need more paper.

(shop door bells jangling)

(tower bells pealing)

Of course we're not going
to use our real names!

But must they be men's names?

When a man writes something,

it's what he's written
that's judged.

When a woman writes something,
it's her that's judged.

We must select the poems
we want to use and then...

Yes, if we're to be taken
seriously and judged fairly

and make anything
resembling a profit,

we must walk invisible.

(bells ringing in the distance)

What about names that are
neither men's nor women's?

(bells ringing)

(sheep bleating)

CHARLOTTE:
Dear Ellen.

I reached home
a little after 2:00

all safe and right yesterday.

Emily and Anne were gone
to Keighley to meet me.

Unfortunately I had returned
by the old road

while they were gone by the
new, and we missed each other.

(knocking)
I'm back home.

PATRICK:
Ah, Charlotte.

Miss Brontë!

Mr. Nicholls.

I went into the room where
Branwell was, to speak to him.

It was very forced work
to address him.

I might have spared myself the
trouble as he took no notice...

Branwell?

...and made no reply.

Branwell!

He was stupefied.

What's this?

Branwell?
What's this?

That's for you.

I opened it by mistake.

It said "Esquire."

Give me that!

Proof pages.

How much are you paying
them for the privilege

of being published?

I assume you're
paying them.

I assume you've all
clubbed together.

I assume they're not
paying you, hm?

You've been sick.

(door closes)

(chuckles)

CHARLOTTE: I didn't confirm
or deny, I made no reply.

EMILY: I don't care about him
knowing we're paying them,

it's a means to an end
as far as I'm concerned.

I care about him
talking to people about us.

Where's he got
the money from anyway?

To get into that state?

He screwed a sovereign
out of Papa yesterday.

He claimed to have some
pressing matter, and Papa said no.

And the next thing you know
he's given it to him.

God knows how or why,
and he's trotting off

down the hill to get it changed
in the Black Bull.

Perhaps when he's sober
he'll not even remember

he's seen
our proof sheets.

I'll write to Aylott and Jones
and ask them to address

their correspondence
differently in future.

Was he angry?
Branwell.

CHARLOTTE:
What can we do?

We can't include him,
the way he is now.

He's unmanageable.

We'd never get anything
agreed or done.

And anyway,
why would "Northangerland"

want to publish
with his sisters?

Well, he certainly couldn't
afford

to contribute to the costs.

We're doing
the right thing, Anne.

It's hard, it's tough,
but I'm sorry.

He'd drag us down with him
if we let him.

Right, come on, you big oaf.

That way, shift.

(birds chirping)

(faint hammering)

Hello,Joe.

Well, I never.

Eh?

(laughing)

How you doing, lad?

I've resolved this morning
to keep myself busy.

Good.

Good!

Me too.

(laughs)

I thought I would go and see
John Frobisher.

I thought I might write
something to set to music.

And he'd be the man.

He is still here, isn't he,
at the church?

So far as I know, yeah.

Have you not thought any more
about going abroad?

Not...
no.

I haven't seen any vacancies,
at least nothing, you know...

Not with the way things are
at the moment.

How are things at home?

It's like living with people
who don't speak

the same language as I do.

Honestly, Joe.

I could be with some tribe
from some far-flung corner

of the globe, for all I have
in common with them.

They despise me,
and I...

I only live there

because I'm such
a fucking pauper.

They need to get married,
those three.

Only who'd have them?

Who'd have any of us?

What a ridiculous set
we've become.

And we used to be quite
a nice little family.

She... she does love me,
you know, Joe.

Lydia.

Yeah, well, you know,
I don't know.

I wasn't there,
I can't say.

I know everyone thinks I'm...
God knows.

But if you saw her,
if only for a moment,

you'd get it, you'd see.

What would I see?

That she's the kind of woman
that can change a man's life.

His whole... everything.

You've got to look
forward though, eh?

Not back.

We've talked about this.

Am I boring you, Leyland?

No, lad, no,
you're not boring me.

I worry that
you're kidding yourself.

Eh?

A woman her age,
in her position.

My only hope is that
he'll be dead soon

and I'll be asked back.

Hello.

Hello.

Look.

I know.

(grunts)

(dogs barking)

(sighs)

It's beautiful.

The same moon that's shone down
since we were children.

Since our ancestors
were children.

We're so tiny really.

Aren't we?

So unimportant.

All of us.

That's right.

(barking continues)

Bloody dogs.

(dogs barking)

(howling)

(howling)

(both howling)

(dogs barking louder)

(laughing)

(howling)

(dogs barking loudly)

(howling, laughing)

(birds chirping)

(baby crying)

(cow mooing)

(panting)

There's a fella in Black Bull
looking for thee.

Who?

He says he's from Thorp Green.

Who?

I'm gonna get my coat.

(various farm animals stirring)

Shift!

(dog barking)

There's a fellow
looking for me?

Aye, he's through there.

Mr. Brontë.

Someone's dead.

Mr. Robinson.

He passed away three weeks
this last Tuesday.

Did you not know?

No, how could I?

Well, it's been in the papers.

We don't get
the York papers.

You're advised...
to stay away.

Does she not...
want me to go to her?

(sighs)

She didn't say that.

No, it isn't her.

It's Mr. Evans.

One of the trustees
of Mr. Robinson's will.

Apparently...

he's said if he sees you,
he'll shoot you.

Did he send you?

No. No.

She did.

She was concerned
you might turn up and...

Mr. Evans might feel obliged
to do as he's threatened.

But as well as that,
you should know,

by the terms of the will,

that if she marries again,
she'll forfeit any right

to her husband's fortune.

What?

Every penny.

And the house.

She, um...

She asked me not to tell you
how wretched she is.

You'd not recognize her,
Mr. Brontë.

She's worn herself out
these past few months

in attendance upon him.

And then in the last few days
before his death

his manner was so mild.

So... conciliatory.

It's a pity to see her,
kneeling at her prayers.

In tears.

I suppose
we can only guess

at what torments of conscience
she might be going through.

Now.

But...

she sent you.

Mm.

To beg you to think
of your own safety, Mr. Brontë.

And her sanity.

Which-- below stairs--
we fear hangs by a thread.

I don't give a damn
about my own safety.

No.

But thing is...

It's never going to happen,
Mr. Brontë.

Do you understand?

You're advised to stay away.

BOY:
Mr. Brown!

Mr. Brown!

Mr. Brown!

What do you want,
you little bugger?

You've to come!

Mr. Thomas at Black Bull
says you've to come!

Now what?

God knows.
There were a fella here.

Paddy? Come on, lad.

I thought I best
send for ya.

What's up?
State he's in.

No, you've done right.

Come on, lad.

(sniffles)

Come on, you're all right.

(weeping)

What I did...

You're just tired.

Nothing I do works.

Hey, let's get you home.

Why are we going up here?

It's where you live.

I don't want to go home,
I don't wanna go home.

Well, where do you
want to go, then?

Keighley.

I think meself you'd
be better off at home.

No, I need to go
to Thorp Green, John.

I need to go to Thorp Green.

Fair enough,
but not just now,

not today,
not in this state.

Yes, in this state.

This is the right state.

Well, you can,
I can't, obviously.

It's 2:00 in the afternoon.

I have to get to work.

Ah, Mr. Nicholls.

He's... he's had a bad do.

(straining):
He's had a bit of bad news.

Down you go.

(grunting)

(metal clangs)

Careful.

(crying)

Calm down.

(crying):
Lay off me.

Please,
keep your voice down.

Shut up, I hate you!

(Branwell shouting downstairs)

Get your hands off me!
Calm down.

Don't tell me to calm down.

I don't want you
to tell me anything.

My house!

Nothing wrong with me.

Look at them, looking at me!

They're always
looking at me!

With your stupid, empty faces!

Just please stop looking at me!

Just stop.

(Branwell sniffles)

(crying, laughing):
And him!

What do you want?

You've had everything!

You've had everything
you're getting!

Will you just stop

shouting at me
all the time!

I hate you!

(whimpering and wailing)

(sniffles)

BROWN: Come on
upstairs, have a lie down.

Have a few
knock-out drops, eh?

(exhaling)

(groaning)

Feel sick.

Come on.

You heard him,
up, lift me up.

BRANWELL:
I can do it.

(grunting)

Sorry.

Sorry.

(door closes)

CHARLOTTE:
Dear Ellen.

We have been somewhat more
harassed than usual lately.

The death of Mr. Robinson has
served Branwell for a pretext

to throw all about him
into hubbub and confusion.

He has become intolerable.

To Papa he allows rest
neither day nor night

and he is continually
screwing money out of him,

sometimes threatening
that he'll kill himself

if it's withheld from him.

(doorbell rings)

(Branwell and Patrick
arguing nearby, indistinct)

Morning, Miss Brontë.

Thank you.

(nearby arguing continues)

CHARLOTTE: He says Mrs.
Robinson is now insane,

that her mind
is a complete wreck,

owing to remorse for her
conduct towards Mr. Robinson,

whose end it appears was
hastened by distress of mind,

and grief for having lost him.

I do not know how much
to believe of what he says.

He now declares
that he neither can nor will

do anything for himself.

Good situations have been
offered more than once,

For which by a fortnight's work

he might have
qualified himself,

but he will do nothing except
drink and make us all wretched.

(shouting escalates)

PATRICK:
Not for you.

I beg you to recognize

that you are ill.

(whispering):
Two reviews.

One from the Critic,
one from the Athenaeum.

Both anonymous,
but both really...

Really quite good.

Especially about you.

" . . . Refreshing,
vigorous poetry--

"no sickly affectations,
no namby-pamby,

no tedious imitations
of familiar strains."

Are they still fighting?

Are you going
to be all right?

When I go to Manchester
with Papa?

It's only three weeks.

I'm more concerned
about when he comes back.

He'll need rest
and quiet.

Not...

Oh, did you get
what you wanted?

Yeah! You!

Are you proud
of yourself? Eh?

Wangling money
out of a blind man?

A man practically
in his seventies!

Fuck off.
Hey!

Come back here
and say that!

Yeah, 90 on,
have a go.

See what happens!

I haven't time.

No, just the blind
and the elderly then, is it?

Otherwise I would.

Of course you would.

(door opens)

It's nothing.

Did he just hit you?

Don't make a fuss.

(whispering): I am still
aiming to get my story finished

by the end of this week.

There's a handful of passages
I'd like to look at again,

but then, depending on where
you and Anne are with yours...

Oh, The Professor's
finished.

As much as it ever will be.

Perhaps we could aim
to get them off to a publisher

before you set off
for Manchester.