To Walk Invisible: The Bronte Sisters Page #4

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,

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