To Walk Invisible: The Bronte Sisters Page #3

its home, its harbour found,

"Measuring the gulf, it stoops

and dares the final bound."

"O dreadful is the check -

intense the agony -

"When the ear begins to hear,

and the eye begins to see;

"When the pulse begins to throb -

the brain to think again -

"The soul to feel the flesh,

and the flesh to feel the chain.

"Yet I would lose no sting,

would wish no torture less;

"The more that anguish racks

the earlier it will bless;

"And robed in fires of hell,

or bright with heavenly shine,

"If it but herald Death,

the vision is divine."

BANGING:

FOOTSTEPS ON STAIRS

What's the matter?

What's the matter?

Somebody has been in my room!

Somebody?

Somebody has been through my things.

And not had the wit,

when they put them back,

to realise that everything was

in a certain order Well, who?

We haven't, I haven't.

You haven't.

You wouldn't. I know that.

Branwell's in Halifax.

It's safe to assume

Papa couldn't see to do it,

and anyway why would he bother?

Tabby's got better things to do

and Martha can't read that well.

Yet, she also has too much dignity

and respect

for other people's things!

I shouldn't have...I know.

But I'm not sorry.

I mean, I am sorry!

Look, Emily.

Your poems are...

They're extraordinary.

I know they're private,

I know they're personal -

they're 1,001 things, but they're

not something to keep hidden.

I admit it was curiosity,

but not idle curiosity, I hope,

but something more...noble. Noble?!

Going in people's bedrooms?

Going through people's things?

No woman, no-one, has ever

written poetry like this!

Nothing I've read,

nothing I can think of,

nothing published, is its equal.

Emily...they're exceptional.

They're...astonishing.

I couldn't breathe

when I was reading them.

I know you're angry and

I know what I did is unforgivable.

Except, please, see that it isn't.

You...disgust me.

You can't begin to imagine how much.

You stay out of my room

and you don't speak to me.

You don't speak to me generally and

you don't speak to me specifically

about your misguided, tedious,

grubby little publishing plans.

What on earth is the matter?

She has been in people's bedrooms

going through people's things!

I'm putting a lock on that door!

She? What happened?

Charlotte? Nothing.

It was nothing.

I went in her bedroom.

Oh!

HE SIGHS:

And, um, where is Branwell?

Halifax. He's where? Halifax.

Oh. And is he due in? Tonight?

Or have we to lock the back door?

I imagine he's taken a key.

Right.

All right! I made a mistake.

Except I didn't!

They're...

Have you read them?

No.

She's never asked me to.

What did she mean about your

"grubby little publishing plans?"

They're not without charm.

It's not just the poems, you see.

I'm writing this, too.

It's a novel.

It's not Gondal and Gaaldine.

It's more about how things are

in the real world.

It's about being a governess,

it's all...

things I've seen and heard

and witnessed.

The thing is, you see, I...

This is beautifully written.

I would be ready.

To try and publish.

I would be ready to risk failure.

And who knows? This is what

we've done all our lives.

Write. We've lived in our heads.

I don't regard the attempt

to do something with it as venal.

It's more venal selling ourselves

as governesses

when we find it such a trial.

So long as we approached

it carefully, wisely,

and not make fools of ourselves,

then surely... The plan...

would be to try to publish

a volume of poetry first.

And, then, if that met with

a modicum of success,

and something of a name

was established,

then we could each risk

a work of fiction.

I've toyed with writing

something about...Brussels.

I mean, I don't even know

if that's the etiquette.

But I could write to

a publishing house and find out.

Your poems are competent...

and charming.

And I'm no great poet myself,

but Emily's contribution could

elevate a small volume

into something...

..actually worth spending

a few shillings on.

I feel sorry for her. Why?

Same reason I feel sorry

for Branwell.

So much is expected of her.

Being the eldest.

And not even the eldest.

By accident the eldest.

Bossiest. She was bossy when Maria

and Elizabeth were still alive,

I remember it. Vividly.

It's being so bossy

that's stunted her growth.

She's ambitious.

For all of us.

And I can see

nothing wrong with that.

I realise some people might think

it's vulgar, but, Emily,

we were born writing, and if we're

cautious, if we're clever,

and we are, and if we disguise

our real selves and our sex...

Right, that's done.

Tabby! I'm off down the...hill.

It's wonderful how quiet they all

think she is in t'village

and how loud she is at home.

You can come with me, if you want.

Have you ever thought about writing

something that's not Gondal?

Something more...not princesses

and emperors, more just...

what happens in the real world.

You know when I worked in Halifax?

At that school at Law Hill.

Yes. Miss Patchett, that ran it,

she told me this tale.

And I've often thought

it'd make a story. A novel.

What was it about?

This man, this lad. Jack Sharp.

Have I never told you this?

It serves us well enough, but it's

not an attractive building, I know.

It has a rather curious history.

It was built out of spite,

apparently, 60 years ago,

by a man called Jack Sharp.

So, there's this family,

the Walkers.

They own Walterclough Hall,

this big house, just above Halifax,

it's been in the family

for generations.

They're woollen manufacturers -

aren't they all?

Anyway, John Walker has four

children - two boys and two girls -

and he's adopted this nephew,

Jack Sharp.

Richard and John, the two sons,

were educated well,

and they ended up

making their livings in London.

Jack stayed at home with the girls,

Grace and Mary,

and he was trained up

to take over the family business

which suited everyone, because,

it seems, he'd always been

old Mr Walker's favourite,

the truth be told.

Then when Richard,

the eldest son, dies

in some tragic accident somewhere,

old Mr Walker decides to leave

the district and he leaves Jack

in charge of his business

and Walterclough Hall.

Eventually, some years later,

old Mr Walker himself dies,

and the remaining son, John,

in London, inherits everything

and gives Jack Sharp,

who he'd never liked, notice

to vacate the property forthwith.

But John Walker Jr

has the law on his side,

and after enough wrangling,

in court, Jack Sharp has to

vacate the property,

whether he likes it or not.

But not before he'd trashed the

place and taken anything of value.

Furniture...

..the silver, the plate, the linen.

You can only imagine

what they all went through.

The anger and the bitterness.

And then he built his own home,

a new house.

Here, at Law Hill.

The spot chosen very carefully,

people believed,

because it looks down

on Walterclough Hall.

And then he filled it with the stash

he'd purloined from the Hall.

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