A Quiet Passion Page #7

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as a delightful pastime.

A kind of musical adultery.

Real artists cannot be confined

by narrow convention.

Real artists don't deceive themselves

or their public.

When you have any public to speak of,

I'm sure your reputation

will no doubt be very secure.

In all this, Susan is the innocent party.

If you take the trouble to look,

you'd see there is more to that innocence

than meets the eye.

That is a despicable thing to say!

Oh, stop bickering!

My sympathies are entirely with Susan.

If she had a liaison with a married man,

how would you respond?

I would not forgive her.

Yet you "admire" Mrs Todd.

An admirable woman is one thing,

a wife quite another.

I don't think I've ever been this close

to despising you.

- Don't lecture me on how to live!

- And don't try to justify your position!

It is both immoral and vicious.

Susan is a good and intelligent wife.

Or do you prefer more obvious charms?

By that I assume you mean

Mabel Loomis Todd?

Mrs Todd, yes. And don't tell me your

intentions toward her are merely fraternal!

Especially

in that semi-recumbent position!

Sometimes, Emily,

you are as ugly as your poetry!

I wonder if she is that percussive

with her husband!

There's nothing to be done.

Mabel's made up her mind

to continue the status quo.

She is incapable of making up her mind

because she is too stupid to have one!

That is a horrible thing to say.

You see what a vile person I've become.

That is too harsh.

You lash out

because you are hurt or angry.

Your anger is, I think,

a defence against the world.

How can you go on loving me

when I don't deserve it?

Because you are so easy to love.

Oh, Vinnie.

Vinnie.

You are not the only one

who has had horrible thoughts.

Yes. Me also.

I once hoped that Mabel

would go up in a balloon, then explode.

Oh, Vinnie, if that is

the extent of your wickedness,

your sainthood is assured,

explosions notwithstanding.

Try not to provoke him.

Have you read this article

in the Springfield Republican, Emily?

No. Why?

It is by Mr Bowles,

who publishes some of your work.

And whom you admire, I think.

And who is also married.

What does it say?

"Why should we write?

"There is another kind of writing,

only too common,

"appealing to the sympathies

of the reader

"without recommending itself

to its subject.

"It may be called the literature of misery.

"The writers are chiefly women,

gifted women, maybe,

"full of thought and feeling and fancy,

"but poor, lonely and unhappy.

"Also, such suffering

is so seldom healthful.

"It may be a valuable discipline

in the end,

"but for the time being,

it too often clouds, withers, distorts.

"It is so difficult to see objects distinctly

through a mist of tears.

"The sketch or poem is..."

That was cruel.

- Life is cruel.

- And cruelty knows no morality.

Are you all right?

Austin was cruel.

He was, I suppose,

defending his position.

Or should we call it

poetic licentiousness?

I must confess, I cannot understand

his infatuation with her

when she already has a husband

who should satisfy her

in every aspect of married life.

They say that with Mr Todd,

it is a venereal case.

- How do you know this?

- There are rumours.

Perhaps now you can view Mabel

in a more favourable light.

I doubt that.

Mrs Todd may have her private troubles,

but it is no excuse for Austin's infidelity.

The brother I once adored has betrayed

Susan in the vilest way imaginable!

People are not saints, Emily.

You judge too harshly

because you judge too highly.

Lowering a standard

is the first excuse for every villainy.

And keeping to one high principle

is the last refuge of the intolerant.

And what of integrity?

Austin was once fierce

in his defence of it,

and now it seems an encumbrance

to be easily put aside!

Integrity, if taken too far,

can be equally ruthless.

- And do I fit into that category?

- Sometimes, yes!

We're only human, Emily.

Don't pillory us for that.

You're right. Of course.

I wish I had your gentle spirit.

If I castigate Austin,

it is because

my own failings are equally as great.

We become the very thing we dread,

and I have become embittered.

Despite your vehemence,

you have a soul

anyone would be proud of.

Oh, Vinnie. Vinnie.

Why has the world

become so ugly?

Our journey had advanced;

Our feet were almost come

To that odd fork in Being's road,

Eternity by term.

Our pace took sudden awe,

Our feet reluctant led.

Before where cities, but between,

The forest of the dead.

Retreat was out of hope, -

Behind, a sealed route,

Eternity's white flag before,

And God at every gate.

- Shhh, shhh, shhh. Emily.

Shhh, calm. Emily, calm yourself.

Shhh.

Is there nothing we can do, Doctor?

Hold her down,

I'll give her some more chloroform.

Shhh. Emily, Emily.

- Emily. Shhh, shhh, shhh.

Shhh, Emily. Shhh.

- Shhh.

- Emily, we're here.

- Emily.

- Shhh.

- Easy, calm.

- Shhh.

- Shhh.

- Easy. Yes, yes.

- Breathe, Emily. Emily.

- It's all right. It's all right.

- Shhh. Shhh.

Shhh.

- Shhh.

- Doctor?

- Shhh.

- Easy.

She buried him before the prime

But there, she was dead herself

ere evensong time

God send every gentleman

Such hawks, such hounds,

And such a Leman

My life closed twice

before its close;

It yet remains to see

If Immortality unveil

A third event to me,

So huge, so hopeless to conceive,

As these that twice befell.

Parting is all we know of Heaven,

And all we need of Hell.

Goodbye to the life I used to live,

And the world I used to know;

And kiss the hills for me, just once;

Now I am ready to go!

Because I could not stop for Death -

He kindly stopped for me -

The carriage held but just ourselves -

And Immortality.

We slowly drove - he knew no haste

And I had put away

My labour and my leisure too,

For His civility.

We passed the school,

where children strove,

At recess - in the ring -

We passed the fields of grazing grain -

We passed the setting sun -

Or rather - he passed us -

The dews drew quivering and chill -

For only gossamer, my gown -

My tippet - only tulle -

We paused before a house that seemed

A swelling of the ground -

The roof was scarcely visible -

The cornice - in the ground -

Since then - 'tis centuries - and yet

Feels shorter than the day

I first surmised the horses' heads

Were toward eternity -

This is my letter to the world,

That never wrote to me, -

The simple news that Nature told,

With tender majesty.

Her message is committed

To hands I cannot see;

For love of her, sweet countrymen,

Judge tenderly of me!

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