A Quiet Passion Page #2

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Don't pout, Emily. It's unbecoming.

Poems are my solace

for the eternity which surrounds us all.

- Who said that?

- I did.

Well, don't. It sounds unchristian.

And where's Vinnie?

Here, Aunt.

And what of you?

Oh, I am like Pilgrim, trying to improve.

A pilgrim should only ever be conscious

of other people's self-improvement.

Consciousness of his own is mere vanity.

But, Aunt, vanity is such a harmless vice.

It's as shallow as

the people who indulge in it.

No vice is harmless, Vinnie.

Look no further than Babylon for that.

- What of you, Austin?

- Oh, I'm on no pilgrimage at all.

And what of vice?

Surely vice is only virtue in disguise.

And what is your opinion

of your children's moral laxity, Emily?

Oh, I prefer to listen and remain silent.

That way, a prejudice

doesn't seem like an opinion.

That reply was so Sphinx-like,

I'm none the wiser.

Oh, cherish your ignorance, Aunt.

You never know when you will need it.

Edward!

Your children astound me.

They ought to be sent to their rooms

and pummelled.

- Hourly.

- Calm down, Aunt Elizabeth.

Have a glass of currant wine.

Turn vice into medicinal pleasure.

- Medicinal?

- For your circulation.

There is nothing wrong

with my circulation.

The heart asks pleasure first,

And then, excuse from pain;

And then, those little anodynes

That deaden suffering;

And then, to go to sleep;

And then, if it should be

The will of its Inquisitor,

The liberty to die.

Would you play something, Emily?

One of the old hymn tunes.

Of course.

When I was very young,

a young man

who used to go to our church

used to sing that.

He had a lovely voice.

So pure.

He was only 19 when he died.

The--

There.

God keep you well.

When He is ready, He will call me.

I hope you live for a hundred years.

What a repellent idea.

Oh, Aunt, don't say that.

I'm not afraid of death, Emily.

Nor should you be.

If we keep our souls in readiness

for God, there can be no fear.

He will smooth our way.

I shall pray for you all.

And remember, keep atheism at bay.

And watch the clock that ticks for us all.

Tick.

Took.

Tick.

Oh, you are all impossible!

I went to thank her,

But she slept;

Her bed a funnelled stone,

With nosegays at the head and foot,

That travellers had thrown,

Who went to thank her;

But she slept.

'Twas short to cross the sea

To look upon her like, alive,

But turning back 'twas slow.

You think you might smile, Mr Dickinson?

I am smiling!

Emily! Emily!

- We have a guest.

This is Miss Vryling Buffam.

It sounds like an anagram, doesn't it?

You see before you a life

blighted by baptism.

Yeah, I hope you brought

to the attention of your parents

their lack of thought in that respect.

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