All language subtitles for To Walk Invisible - The Bronte Sisters

"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're now grown up to riper age -
Are they withered in the sod?

"Are they blighted failed and faded,

"Are they moulded 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!

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!

BELL TOLLS

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"Dear Ellen.
It was ten o'clock 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."

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?

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?

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 IS the reason. Where is Emily?

You must have some idea
what this is about!

You think repeating the question
enough times, over and over,

is suddenly going to 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.

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'll 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!

THE CHILDREN YELL

'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!

Only a fool like you, sir,
would ignore it!

If the parson and your Aunt Branwell
were in,

you'd noan make so much din!

They all think you're right quiet

and studious down
in t'village, y'know!

YELLING CONTINUES

Mr Brown's here.

"Another outrage
has happened in Ireland.

"A party of Orangemen at Armagh,
on the 12th,

"unhappily disregarding
the advice given them,

"of abstaining from processions..."
Are you fit, lad?

Yeah, I'm just...

"..conducting themselves
with propriety."

KNOCK AT DOOR

John's here. We're off.

Don't get up.
No, no. I'd like to see him.

How are you today, John?
I'm very well, thank you, Mr Bronte.

Good, good.

Well, travel safely.

Picked a fine day for it, eh?

You, er, look after yourself.

Thank you.

Well...

I think, with kindness
and understanding and prayer,

we might still be able...

in spite of his naivety
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 yersen.
And then we'll see.

You dozy bastard.

Getting caught.

"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 here after.

"I am seldom more 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."

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 my pillow over my ears

so I didn't catch the details.
Lucky you.

So he's...been mucking about,

and 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 shot 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.

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.

What about the infernal world?

I relinquished my pen.

Why? Because it frightened me.

Threatened to make
the real world seem...

pointless.
And colourless 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?

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.

That's when I knew
what a liar he was.

Sharpers? Thieves! So what?

They attacked you? You were robbed?
Four of them?! I think four.

In broad daylight? That's...

Well, surely someone saw
what happened?

You didn't even get there? No!

It was just after I arrived
at the coaching inn

at St Martin Le 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, er... Witnesses.

Surely someone must have seen
what happened.

There were no witnesses.

Everyone just turned around
and went about their business!

So all 30 shillings?

Gone? YES!

Oh!

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-flier, in Bradford,

with his paintings and his sketches.

But then, when he was faced with the
reality of setting off for London,

he realised 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 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?

Look, you know how low she's been?
For months.

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 at home.

She became...

..obsessed with him.

He was married.

That's why she left. At finish.

"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."

For the food
we are about to receive,

may the Lord make us
truly thankful. Amen.

Is she feeding those dogs again? No.

Chicken, please.

More tea.

Branwell...

Yeah? Tell us something
about...Liverpool.

All right. Well,
the docks were extraordinary.

Uh-huh? We saw a black man.
A blackamoor, a Creole.

He really was black. So dark, Papa.

Ah? 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.

MUFFLED LAUGHTER

CHUCKLING

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,

then 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?

D'you know what I've realised? 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?
ã10 at best.

I could hum a tune
and 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?

Are you still thinking about going
to Paris? 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.

Why is it that the woman's lot
is to be perpetually infantilised...

..or else invisible and powerless
to do anything about it?

Did he never write back
to you, then?

Heger?

No.

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 who might choose to waste
their money on it? Not likely.

"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 harbour 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."

BANGING

FOOTSTEPS ON STAIRS

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 realise 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 was nothing.
I went in her bedroom.

Oh!
HE SIGHS

And, um, where is Branwell?

Halifax. He's where? Halifax.

Oh. And 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'm 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.

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,

then 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 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.

I realise 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...

Right, that's done.

Tabby! I'm off down the...hill.

It's wonderful how quiet they all
think she is in t'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'd 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 woollen manufacturers -
aren't they all?

Anyway, John Walker has four
children - two boys and two girls -

and he's adopted this nephew,
Jack Sharp.

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 favourite,
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'd 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.

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 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,

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.

BELLS PEAL

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.

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

"Dear Ellen. I reached home
a little after 2 o'clock

"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."

KNOCK ON DOOR

I'm back home.

Ah, Charlotte...

Miss Bronte!

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.

You've been sick.

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

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
at 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 our correspondence
differently in future.

Was he angry, Branwell?
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!

Anyway, why would Northangerland
want to publish with his sisters?

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.

TRAIN WHISTLE BLOWS

HAMMERING

Hello, Joe.

Well, I never.

Eh?

How y'doing, lad? I've resolved
this morning to keep myself busy.

Good.

Good!

Me too.

I thought I'd 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 y'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 'em?

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 yerself.

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.

Ahh, 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...

..so unimportant.

All of us.

That's right.

DOGS BARK IN THE DISTANCE

Bloody dogs.

HE HOWLS

SHE JOINS HIM

A CACOPHONY OF HOWLING

HE LAUGHS

THEY CONTINUE HOWLING

There's a fella in Black Bull
lookin' for thee. Who?

He says he's from Thorp Green.

Who?

I'll get my coat.

Shift!

Is there a fella looking for me?
Aye, he's through there.

Mr Bronte.

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 t'papers.

We don't get the York papers.

You're advised...

..to stay away.

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

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 that 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...

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

You'd not recognise her, Mr Bronte.

She's worn herself out these past
few months in attendance upon him.

And then, the last few days
before his death,

his manner was so mild, so, er...

..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.

Hm.

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

And her sanity.

Which...

below stairs,

we fear hangs by a thread.

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

No.

But the thing is...

..it's never going to happen,
Mr Bronte.

Do you understand?

You're advised to stay away.

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. What's up?
I sent for thee.

Look at state he's in...
No, you've done right.

Come on, lad.

BRANWELL WEEPS

Come on, you're all right.

Nothing I do, John.

You're just tired. Nothing I do.

Let's get you home. Come on.

Why are we going up here?
It's where you live.

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

Well, where d'you want to go, then?

Keighley.

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

No, 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 two o'clock in the afternoon,
I've to get to work.

Ah, Mr Nicholls.

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

he's had a bit of bad news.

Down you go.

Nearly there.

Careful. Nearly there.

BRANWELL SOBS

Calm down. Get off me!
Please, keep your voice down.

Shut up, I hate you!

Tell me to calm down
in my own house!

I want to kill you!

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, all looking at me!

They're always looking at me!

With your stupid, empty faces!

Please, stop looking at me!

Just stop.

And him!

What do you want, eh?

You've had everything!

You've had everything
you're getting.

You just stand there
staring at me all the time!

I hate you!

BRANWELL WEEPS
AND MUMBLES INCOHERENTLY

Come on upstairs, have a lie down.

Have a few knock-out drops, eh?

Eh? Come on.

Ohh...I feel sick.

Come on.

Up we go. You heard him. Lift me up.

I can do it!

Sorry. Sorry.

"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's become intolerable.

"To Papa he allows rest
neither day nor night and

"he's continually screwing money
out of him, sometimes threatening

"that he'll kill himself
if it's withheld from him."

BELL RINGS

BRANWELL AND FATHER ARGUE IN ROOM

Morning, Miss Bronte. Thank you.

BRANWELL: Are you stupid
as well as blind?

There's nothing out there!

Not for someone
who's fit for nothing, like me!

"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."

BRANWELL: Just tell me where it is!

BRANWELL AND FATHER CONTINUE ARGUING

I beg you to recognise it -
you are ill!

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 70s.

Fuck off. Eh! Come back here and say
that. Yeah, go on. Have a go.

See what happens. I haven't time.

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

Otherwise I would.

Course you would!

It's nothing.

Did he just hit you?

Don't make a fuss.

I'm still aiming to finish my story
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.