A Quiet Passion Page #4

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Any argument about gender is war,

because that, too, is slavery.

- That's a contemptible thing to say.

- Live as a woman for a week, Austin.

You will find it neither congenial nor trivial.

So you leave tomorrow?

How long will you be gone?

Two months, maybe.

Both cases are difficult,

and both are being tried by Judge Lord.

- And you know how fierce he can be.

- Must you go for such a length of time?

- Yes.

A man must make his way in the world.

He can't be merely decorous.

And a woman? What should she do?

Or is she destined

only for decorousness?

- Let's not argue.

Not on my last night at home.

I'll write.

- It'll ease my unhappiness.

- But increase mine.

What are you doing at this hour?

It is my time for writing.

Between three am and morning.

My father allows it.

No husband would.

I came over.

- I thought something was amiss.

- No.

It is the best time,

when it feels

as if the whole world is asleep and still.

Why did you take so long

to consent to marry Austin?

In truth...

the thought of men in

that particular respect...

turned me to stone.

Although Austin is...

very tender...

and yielding to my...

reservations.

Is that particular part of married life

so terrible?

I do my duty.

But I have not only gained

a husband,

but two sisters also.

Yes.

We will be sisters.

And we shall share and read everything.

The Bronts.

George Eliot.

And, Heaven save us, Mrs Gaskell also.

And you have your poetry.

But you have a life.

I have a routine.

It is God's one concession

to a no-hoper.

Does nothing give you solace?

For those of us who live minor lives,

and are deprived of...

a particular kind of love,

we know best how to starve.

We deceive ourselves, and then others.

It is the worst kind of lie.

But in matters of the soul...

you are rigorous.

Rigour is no substitute for happiness.

Oh, what a call is this?

The dear ones, whose names are written

in the Lamb's Book of Life,

cry "Come, come!"

And the church below, Christ's witness

unto the world and the church above,

with the rustling of the white robes,

and the sweeping of the golden harps,

cries "Come, come!"

And the angels of Heaven, lo! Rank

above rank, immortal principalities,

as they circle the eternal throne.

They have caught up the sound,

and cry "Come, come!"

Reverend Wadsworth's sermons

take the breath away!

That kind of religious ecstasy

is wonderful,

but back in the quiet of one's own room,

it seems as remote as Spitsbergen.

Still, he is as handsome

as he is ecstatic.

And he is so clean.

Like a cherub after bathing.

And happily married.

Ah, to be betrothed

without the swoon.

But a person may hope.

If you're too quick to hope,

you'll always be disappointed.

And if I am too quick to despair,

what then?

Then you will be too slow to hope.

I set too much store by friendships.

When we lose friends to death,

that is the most profound loss.

When we lose them to marriage,

the grief is subtler, but just as keenly felt.

We cannot keep the world, or life,

at bay, Emily. Neither can we ignore it.

We can do better than that.

We can be vigilant against it.

But when that vigil is over, what then?

Eternity. And in that place,

no loss is felt.

But what of the kingdom to come?

That may be a gain,

but only after the fact.

One day, you may marry.

I think not.

You and Austin are the handsome ones.

I am a kangaroo amongst the beauties.

No! You have

a lovely face and a fine soul.

Then let us hope the man who courts me

will have an interest in zoology...

- and all things spiritual.

Let us invite the Reverend Wadsworth

to tea.

And Mrs Wadsworth.

Very well.

And you must promise me you'll behave.

I know how provocative you can be.

I will muster all the dignity I can.

That's what I'm afraid of.

Will you take coffee, Mrs Wadsworth?

Er, tea, then?

No, thank you.

Mrs Wadsworth is an abstainer.

I thought abstention was only for alcohol.

For me, it extends to tea, also.

They say the Chinese drink tea

for remedial purposes.

I'm glad to say that I'm not Chinese.

Some lemonade, then?

Surely God would not

disapprove of lemonade?

Levity and the will of God are, I think,

incompatible. Almost improper.

Just plain water would be pleasant.

Reverend Wadsworth?

Just a cup of hot water for me, thank you.

I understand from Vinnie

that you are a poet?

I write verses, yes.

And what of your contemporaries?

Mr Longfellow, for instance.

His genius lies in stating the obvious.

Oh, that is too harsh.

There are many fine things in Hiawatha.

I'm sorry I was cruel.

But, madam, I must say in truth,

Hiawatha is but gruel.

Read just one stanza for the proof.

No.

Give me something pressed

from truth, and that is poetry.

I suppose you feel the Bronts do that?

Yes. And a few others.

What do you find

in all that Yorkshire gloom?

The beauty of truth.

The poetry of the known.

But why can't they dwell

on something wholesome?

If they wished to be wholesome,

I would imagine they would crochet.

Would you like to take a turn

in our garden?

No, thank you.

I find this heat oppressive.

But Charles loves to be out of doors.

I myself prefer the shade.

In that case, I will take the liberty

of escorting your husband

around our modest garden.

And my sister

can have you all to herself.

More water?

Thank you for your invitation,

Miss Dickinson.

I was very moved by your sermon, sir,

and wanted very much to tell you.

This is all I have to give in return.

Please say something.

Does my poetry have any worth?

They are remarkable.

Uncompromising, yes,

but this is wonderful poetry.

How many have been published?

Seven.

Eleven?

I cannot recall.

- And no more?

- And no more.

How can you be so stoic?

It's easy to be stoic when no one

wants what you have to offer.

There is, I suppose, always posterity.

But posterity is as comfortless as God.

That sounds like despair.

No, it's bitterness.

Besides...

a posthumous reputation

is only for those who, when living,

weren't worth remembering.

Still... Ah!

To be racked by success!

But I would like some approval

before I die.

If you were coming in the fall,

I'd brush the summer by

With half a smile and half a spurn,

As housewives do a fly.

If I could see you in a year,

I'd wind the months in balls,

And put them each in separate drawers,

Until their time befalls.

If only centuries delayed,

I'd count them on my hand,

Subtracting till my fingers dropped

Into Van Diemen's land.

If certain, when this life was out,

That yours and mine should be,

I'd toss it yonder like a rind,

And taste eternity.

But now, all ignorant of the length

Of time's uncertain wing,

It goads me, like the goblin bee,

That will not state its sting.

I must have someone

with a sense of humour,

someone who can laugh at the world.

Taking life seriously

is the shortest route to disaster.

And have you found such a one?

Someone has found me.

A Mr Wilder, a Professor of Mathematics.

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