A Quiet Passion
1
You have now come
to the end of your second semester.
Some of you will remain here
to complete your education.
Some of you will go out into the world.
And, as is my custom,
I put to you a question
of the utmost importance,
which concerns your spiritual wellbeing.
Do you wish to come to God
and be saved?
Those of you who wish to be Christian
and saved will move to my right.
To those of you who remain
and hope to be saved...
you will move to my left.
Have you said your prayers?
Yes.
Though it can't make much
difference to the Creator.
Do I understand you correctly?
Do you believe that your Creator is
indifferent to your sins?
That, in His mercy,
He sees you slumber?
No, you misunderstand me.
I've not got so far.
I am not even awakened yet.
And how should I repent?
I am somewhat troubled, to be sure,
but my feelings are all indefinite.
The question is not
how far you have advanced,
but how far you ought to have advanced.
Not how you feel,
but how you ought to feel.
I don't feel anything.
I have no sense of my sins.
And how can I?
I wish I could feel as others do,
but it is not possible.
and under condemnation,
and liable every moment to drop
into a burning hopeless eternity,
yet cannot feel, cannot be alarmed,
cannot "flee from the wrath to come".
And the true question is...
Are you in the Ark of Safety?
I fear I am not.
You are alone in your rebellion,
Miss Dickinson.
I fear that you are a no-hoper.
Yes, Miss Lyon.
For each ecstatic instant
We must an anguish pay
In keen and quivering ratio
To the ecstasy.
For each beloved hour
Sharp pittances of years,
Bitter contested farthings
And coffers heaped with tears.
Father. Austin. Vinnie!
My happiness would be complete,
if only Mother were with you.
too fatiguing for her.
We have come to take you home, Emily.
- We were concerned by your last letter.
Yes. What is it that
you are suffering from?
- An acute case of evangelism.
- Am I really to go home?
- Yes.
We will go to Amherst, via Boston,
and stay for a short while
with Aunt Elizabeth.
I fear you don't approve, Father?
I do not like to see a woman
upon the stage.
But she has a gift.
A gift is no excuse for a female
to exhibit herself in that way.
And what would you have her do?
Perform an act of congress aloud?
That would depend
upon what key it was in.
Well, the rest of her programme
is in respectable German.
And the Germans
are wonderful in music.
That's true.
English, thank heaven,
is not a language that can be sung.
But, Aunt Elizabeth,
you love your hymn tunes.
Hymns are different. They have
absolutely nothing to do with music.
Ah, the devil in music.
Don't be trite, Emily.
Oh, life!
Oh, home!
How wonderful you are!
Emily.
Why are you up so late?
- May I speak with you, Father?
- Of course.
As you may know, I like to write.
Letters, mostly... but sometimes poetry.
Yes.
May I have your permission to write
during the night, for quiet's sake?
I shall not disrupt
the rest of the household, I promise.
Yes, you may.
It was very considerate of you to ask.
It is your house, Father.
But it is our home, Emily.
I... I have one more favour
to ask of you, Father.
What is it?
You are, I believe, on cordial terms
with Dr Holland,
the editor of the Springfield Republican.
And the Springfield Republican
publishes poetry.
I'll write to him.
And if he agrees,
you may send him some of your work.
"Dear Miss Dickinson,
"I have decided to publish
"as it is the least wayward
and shows some wit.
"As to the rest of the poetry,
it is in the common metre,
"childish, like nursery rhymes.
"But I must confess that the genuine
classics of every language
"are the work of men, not of women.
"Women, I fear, cannot create
the permanent treasures of literature."
Where's Emily?
- Emily!
Come here at once!
Remember, Aunt Elizabeth has
celebrated the Dickinson dynasty
- in 55 stanzas.
- And every one of them dull.
Aunt Elizabeth!
Oh, at last, Emily.
I was nearly kept waiting.
And what is your opinion of my poem,
Emily?
I'm sure your verse is equal
to your talent, Aunt.
If I were clever enough, I should probably
take offence at that dubious compliment.
Oh, but, Aunt, all the best compliments
are dubious.
That's part of their charm.
Did you enjoy my verses, Austin?
Very much, Aunt.
They put Paradise Lost to shame.
Your children are far too sophisticated,
Edward.
I'm sure part of me disapproves.
- Disapproval is a heavy thing.
- Oh.
Besides, if I had to choose between
having sophisticated children
and ones that were merely docile,
- Docility is too much like slavery.
- That sounds like abolitionist talk.
No, it is not. But no Christian
could ever make a case for slavery.
Please, let us not discuss this subject.
It is both improper and tiresome.
Not to those who are enslaved.
I see we have
a Robespierre in our midst.
No, not Robespierre.
Charlotte Corday, perhaps.
Edward, they're as bad as you are.
I believe you've had your first poem
published.
Yes.
In the Springfield Republican.
It-- it was printed anonymously.
That seems a little eccentric.
But in the circumstances,
probably a good thing.
We can't all be Milton.
Don't pout, Emily. It's unbecoming.
Poems are my solace
for the eternity which surrounds us all.
- Who said that?
- I did.
Well, don't. It sounds unchristian.
And where's Vinnie?
Here, Aunt.
And what of you?
Oh, I am like Pilgrim, trying to improve.
A pilgrim should only ever be conscious
of other people's self-improvement.
Consciousness of his own is mere vanity.
But, Aunt, vanity is such a harmless vice.
It's as shallow as
No vice is harmless, Vinnie.
Look no further than Babylon for that.
- What of you, Austin?
- Oh, I'm on no pilgrimage at all.
And what of vice?
Surely vice is only virtue in disguise.
And what is your opinion
of your children's moral laxity, Emily?
Oh, I prefer to listen and remain silent.
That way, a prejudice
doesn't seem like an opinion.
That reply was so Sphinx-like,
I'm none the wiser.
Oh, cherish your ignorance, Aunt.
You never know when you will need it.
Edward!
They ought to be sent to their rooms
and pummelled.
- Hourly.
- Calm down, Aunt Elizabeth.
Turn vice into medicinal pleasure.
- Medicinal?
- For your circulation.
There is nothing wrong
with my circulation.
The heart asks pleasure first,
And then, excuse from pain;
And then, those little anodynes
That deaden suffering;
And then, to go to sleep;
And then, if it should be
The will of its Inquisitor,
The liberty to die.
Would you play something, Emily?
One of the old hymn tunes.
Of course.
When I was very young,
a young man
who used to go to our church
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