To Walk Invisible: The Bronte Sisters Page #2

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?

10 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 -

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