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:

"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 f***ing 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

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