All language subtitles for Wild.Nights.With.Emily.2019.1080p.WEB-DL.H264.AC3-EVO_track1_[eng]

Speaking of the life
of Emily Dickinson

and her famous reclusivity...

Susan.

Too much has been made of late of
Emily Dickinson's girlhood friendship

with her brother's wife, Susan,
the daughter of a tavern keeper.

But first, let me tell my story.

I had just moved to town
with my husband,

who had taken a job
at the university,

and my young daughter,
Millicent.

Austin and Susan Dickinson
were the social center of the village.

Even at the first party
I attended,

I heard whispers about an
unusual sister of Mr. Dickinson.

They called her "the myth."

She never attended
these gatherings,

even though
she lived right next door.

I also met Mr. Dickinson's sister,
Lavinia,

who was having
a gay time at the party.

Lavinia invited me
to come play the piano

at the house that she shared
with her sister Emily.

I met all the members of
the Dickinson family that night.

All but one.

I've just been reading
an excerpt

from the galleys
of my upcoming book

entitled Scurrilous But True,

which details how I assembled
the first-ever volumes of work

by the undiscovered
American poet Emily Dickinson.

I'm often asked to share
my memories of Emily Dickinson,

since I was so often
at her house,

where the spinster recluse
never left her bedroom

and I never saw her.

I did look on her face
but one time...

When she was in her coffin.

As I gazed upon her lying there,

I knew that I had to be the one
to publish her first book of poetry,

and I did exactly that in 1890.

Which makes me the first-ever
editor of Emily Dickinson's work.

Hello!

Look what I have for you,
children!

- Thank you.
- -Like that?

Thank you!

Bye.

When Emily's sister, Lavinia,

went into Emily's room
after Emily had passed,

Lavinia opened a trunk.

She was surprised to find
thousands of poems.

She had no idea that Emily
had been writing so much.

It was quite
overwhelming for her.

So, she brought
all the poems to me.

Since no one would publish
a book of Emily's poems,

which was rejected many times,

Lavinia had to pay a publisher
to publish Emily's poems.

It was a vanity publication.

Thank you.

Every publication needs promotion,
however, and I was not ashamed.

I must go forward, sharing my
special memories of this special poet,

who wrote her words in secret
and did not show them to a soul.

These are for you.

So many.

It doesn't rhyme.

I know.

I like it.

When Emily was a young girl,

Emily's house
was right next to a cemetery.

And she would look out the
window and watch the funerals,

one after another.

I think this partially accounts
for her morbid curiosity,

or at least her tendency to think
about death more than the rest of us.

Funerals were her entertainment.

You promised me pages today.

I'm sorry. I didn't finish.

Emily... I rearranged my
schedule to meet with you.

I don't have anything.

I want you to show me
whatever you have.

All right.

Here.

And have this too.

- "One cup flour, add milk..."
- No, it's on the other side.

- "My Sue..."
- That's my letter. To you.

It's right beneath that,
at the bottom.

"As strange as the thing
I know not."

It were as possible for me to
say I loved nothing so well as you.

But believe me not,
and yet I lie not.

I confess nothing,
nor I deny nothing.

"I am sorry for my cousin."

"By my sword, Beatrice,
thou lovest me."

"Do not swear by it,
and eat it."

"I will swear by it,
that you love me,

and I will make him eat it,
that says, I love not you."

"Will you not eat your word?"

"With no sauce that
can be deserved to it."

No sauce!

"I protest, I love thee."

"Why, then, God forgive me."

"What offence, sweet Beatrice?"

"You have stayed me
in a happy hour.

I was about to protest
I loved you."

"And do it with all thy heart?"

"I love you
with so much of my heart

that none is left to protest."

"Come, bid me
do anything for thee."

Susan? It is your line.

Oh, um...

"Kill Claudio."

You were quite dashing.

Do you think so, really?

I, myself,
was ready to marry you.

But unfortunately, the Ladies' Shakespeare
Society must end at a reasonable hour.

And the play was over.

We must, for next time,
pick a story

where the marriage happens
earlier in the play.

Romeo and Juliet, perhaps?

It would be no good
if we die in the end.

Would you like it
if I played opposite you again?

You've said nothing
of my performance.

Oh, it was wonderful, it was.

So witty and arch.

I cannot imagine that it was
played better by the original actress.

- Thank you.
- Except in Shakespeare's time, the part was played by a man.

- By a man?
- Yes.

All the parts
were played by men.

In the love scenes,
two men would kiss each other?

Yes. That is not so strange.

You and I have kissed.

That is different.

I have not kissed you
as I would kiss a man.

How would you kiss a man?

I will not show you.

And why not?

I cannot kiss you
as I would kiss a man.

I could.

You have not kissed
a man, Emily.

Well, perhaps I have.

I do not believe it,
or you would have told me so.

I have kissed many men.

In fact, I have kissed every man in
all of Amherst, several times over.

Now I know you are not honest.

And I wish to kiss you.

And I will. Right now.

Unless you stop me. I will.

Go ahead.

Emily, are you sure you do not
wish to come to Washington?

Your mother, Lavinia
and Austin are all going.

You might be lonely.

I've invited Susan
to stay with me.

Your cousin John
will stay downstairs,

and you and Susie can
share the upstairs bedroom.

Thank you, Mother.

Are you sure? We might
be gone a full month.

Susie will keep me company.

Her breast is fit for pearls,
but I was not a "Diver".

Her brow is fit for thrones.

But I have not a crest.

Her heart is fit for home.

I... a Sparrow... build there.

Sweet of twigs and twine.

My perennial nest.

Susan Dickinson was also
known to share tales

of the remarkable sister
of Austin's who never went out

and saw no one who called.

On one occasion,
Susan warned me,

"I went in there one day,
and in the drawing room,"

I saw Emily reclining
in the arms of a man.

"What can you say to that?"

I had no explanation, of course.

But I could only imagine.

I would say...

I would say, uh...

Emily, I...
I so enjoy our visits.

I notice you have several editions
of the Brontës on your shelves.

- Are you a reader of theirs?
- Oh, yes.

- Oh.
- Yeah, let's see.

Uh, the Gypsy boy...

adopted by a family, who...
Who then take in a governess...

who is plain.

She is very plain.
I... I remember that part.

And they marry.
Fire consumes the house.

He condemns her ghost
to walk the moors forever.

And when they have children,
his eyesight returns.

I... I'm so sorry.

Which Brontë story are you referring to,
Judge Lord?

Wuthering Jane.

Do you like it?

Uh, yes. Yes, and... and especially
to hear your abridged version of the...

And especially to hear your
abridged version of... of the book.

It shows, I think,
the point of the story,

which is a plain woman
can be loved by a fire victim.

As a judge, the book appeals
to my sense of fairness.

I remember... I remember
your father would say to me,

"If I die before you, Judge..."

look after my daughter.

She will never marry.

And it is not because
she's so plain, uh,

or because
of her nervous condition,

"but because she is so clever."

And no man would want
to marry a woman

who is more clever
than he, Jane.

Emily.

Emily.

Well, I believe enough
has been said for today.

I must take my leave.

My carriage awaits.

Oh, oh, oh!

I believe Emily
did have a fondness

for the venerable old judge.

I think it possible
she hoped to marry him.

However, Judge Lord was to die
abruptly, after five years.

It may be that he never found
quite the right time to ask.

Cheers.

Promise me you will never again
take a teaching post so far away.

Emily, you know
I am due to go west again.

Share your work with me. Please.

But I write so many different
versions of one poem.

Send it all to me. If you write it,
I will read it.

"I am sick today, dear Susie,
and I've not been to church."

There has been a pleasant quiet
in which to think of you.

And I have not been sick enough
that I cannot write to you.

I love you as dearly, Susie,

as when love first began on the step at
the front door and under the evergreens.

If it is over, tell me,

and I shall raise the lid of my box of
phantoms and lay one more love in.

But if it lives and beats still,
still lives and beats for me,

say me so,
and I will strike the strings

"of one more strain of happiness
before I die."

"Never mind a letter, Susie."

You have so much to do.

Just write me
every week one line.

"And let it be,
'Emily, I love you.'"

Another letter for you
from Miss Susie!

- Any mail for me?
- No.

Emily, there's an article
in The Atlantic Monthly.

It is a call for young contributors
to send in their material.

Who wrote it?

Colonel Thomas Wentworth
Higginson, you may call me.

My experience,
since you inquired,

is that I edited poems
for The Atlantic Monthly,

as well as for
several anthologies,

and I helped start a petition to
free the slaves in the Boston area.

Excuse me, I meant the petition I
circulated in the Boston area, of course.

There were no slaves
in the Boston area.

No, I meant...

what is
your military experience?

Military?-

♪ Lilly, lilly, who told you... ♪

- "Dilly, dilly," Austin.
- Dilly, dilly. Yes, yes. No, I remember.

♪ Who told you so? ♪

♪ Was my own heart
Dilly, dilly ♪

♪ That told me so ♪

Austin, you and Susan
sing so well together.

One ought to think you are
preparing for an engagement.

Austin is to be married
to Susan.

I'm glad I could be the bearer
of such happy, happy tidings.

She has a weak constitution.

I know it was unexpected.
I'm sorry.

I care for your brother...

Your dear brother,
of whom you are so fond.

But my heart
belongs only to you.

Emily, you cannot but have
expected that I would marry.

I cannot make a fair wage
as a school teacher,

and my appointments
have set us apart many miles.

I will be near you always,
just as I have promised.

And my brothers will give money to
Austin so that we may build a house.

And the greatest part is we are
planning to build it right next door.

You will be next door?

Yes.

And you see, Emily,
then we will be sisters.

And it is quite normal
for sisters

to spend many hours alone
in each other's company.

I have contrived a way for us to be
together always, and no one can prevent it.

I've missed you.

You know,
I... I wonder about Austin.

If he'll go to the war? No, Austin will
pay for someone to stand in his place.

No, but I wonder...

Have you said anything?

- About what?
- We have to take precaution.

I mean, if somebody
were to find out, we could...

Nobody will find out.

Susan, you have to be careful.

I have to be more careful?

You are the one who writes the poems,
puts it in ink.

"Sue Forevermore." You
think that has another meaning?

"Sue Forevermore." That hardly
speaks to the larger audience.

Are you showing your poems
about me to that Higginson?

You don't think he knows
what they are about?

I think he does not.

After all, I even published my poem,
"I Taste a Liquor Never Brewed."

That poem was not about...

Oh. Oh.

I need to be more clever.

Wait, is Austin in the house?

Let's go.
Uh, take your bloomers.

Certainly, my greatest find
were these three letters

addressed to
a very mysterious figure

who is known only as "Master."

Now, perhaps
it wasn't just a man.

Perhaps it was several men.

Multiple men at the same time.

Mm-hmm.

What a lovely wedding it is.

Too bad Miss Gilbert's
friend Miss Dickinson

couldn't have joined her
at her nuptials.

Invitation clearly said
Geneva, New York.

She must have thought
it was Geneva, Switzerland.

"I have intended
to write you, Emily, today,"

but the quiet has not been mine.

I send you this, lest I should seem
to have turned away from a kiss.

If you have suffered
this past summer, I am sorry.

I, Emily, bear a sorrow
that I never uncover.

If a nightingale sings with her
breast against a thorn, why not we?

"When I can, I shall write. Sue."

Susan!

Oh.

- Susan.
- Kate. Katie Jane.

Ohh. It's The Widow Kate now.

Oh, so kind of you
to host me on my travels.

I just met
your charming sister-in-law.

Why have you been hiding her
from me all these years?

Emily is extremely busy.

Funny, that's exactly
what she said about you...

That you were too busy for her.

"Shut out" was, I believe,
the expression used.

She said she was surprised
that you even had time for my visit.

You invited yourself, Kate.

I shall pay her a call.

Emily does not broach an interruption
when she is working at her desk.

Is it the house on the left?

You will not go there, I hope.

She said I was welcome.

She will not receive you.

Emily experienced
a love disaster

that inspired her to draft
at least three letters

of heart-wrenching eloquence
and infantile neediness.

This was long after Emily had
settled as a spinster at the homestead.

Who was this steamy stranger who
traveled from outside New England?

"Come to New England,"
one draft said,

"Open your life wide,
and let me in."

No.

Where is Kate?

She's already left.

She's already left?

And she had no message for me?

What's that in your hand?

Oh, it was just something
I was going to give her.

Are those a pair of garters?

Did you sew her
a pair of garters?

It doesn't take that long.

Were you going to put them
on her legs for her as well?

So, she had no message for me?

No.

- Nothing?
- Nothing.

Did she say she's coming back?

Maybe.

Maybe?

She said she wasn't.

- Oh.
- And then she said July.

And then she said she wasn't.

Okay.

You never made me garters.

Hmm.

"Susan knows she is a siren,"

"and at a word from her,
Emily would forfeit righteousness."

Thank you so much for coming.
We'll see you again. Goodbye.

What do you think?
You like them?

These...

These poems are
too idolatrous to print.

Hmm.

You name me.

Every poet has a muse.

You can't use my name.

Yes, I can. Do you like them?

Yes. I like them...

very much.

In truth, Emily had many
influences over her work.

She was inspired by
the great Ralph Waldo Emerson.

- Is Mr. Emerson here?
- Yes.

Can I come in? I'd like to
hear what he has to say.

We all would.

Nature is the fullness
of individuality.

Within the flora and fauna are
present many of the world's...

Within the flora and the fauna are
present many of the world's essences.

The spring is a reminder
that all can be redeemed.

Emily Dickinson wished to be
published posthumously.

"Posthumous" refers to the soul
that finds more glory

in the recognition
after death than in life.

It's the heaven
of the literary world.

Ten or more poems copied into each book,
800 poems altogether.

Wow. Emily. It's so strange

not to see your poems
written on scraps of paper.

It was a lot of work copying all
of the poems into these booklets.

- It's beautiful.
- Thank you, Susan.

I'm so nervous
to show it to Higginson.

You can't be that nervous.
You will do just fine.

Many people ask me,

"How did you succeed at
getting Emily's work into the world

when so many before you
have failed?"

Well, I had the help
of the renowned...

Thomas Wentworth Higginson
to see Miss Emily Dickinson.

- She'll be right down, sir.
- Oh. Thank you.

- These are my introduction.
- Oh.

How was your trip? It was probably
long. Or short. Or was it long?

Are you surprised by my appearance,
or am I as I describe myself?

- I wasn't...
- It's so wonderful to have the editor

of The Atlantic Monthly
pay me a visit,

but I would imagine
you must do that

with all of your young contributors,
but I'm certainly not young.

How admirable of you
to call for submissions

to give practical advice to
those wishing to break into print.

And also, I would imagine how burdensome
to have to judge whose writing has merit.

I mean, who can really have
the final say on the...

The worth of a...
Of a thought or an idea?

I would imagine that's a very
difficult position for you to be in

as the editor
of The Atlantic Monthly.

Uh, that's a good question.

I always ask myself,
"What is poetry in essence?"

If I feel physically like the top of my
head is taken off, I know that is poetry.

If it makes my body so cold no fire
can ever warm me, I know that is poetry.

The question was intended
to be a rhetorical one, largely,

but allow me to answer it.

Wordsworth says of poetry
that it is

"emotion recollected
in tranquility."

When I try to organize,
my little force explodes.

Now, I noticed that you remarked
on how many submissions

you receive with masculine
names in very feminine handwriting.

For women to use the pen names
of men in submission,

don't you think this must
come out of an impulse

for their writing to be seen
without a jaundiced eye?

For if it is women's authorship,

even you realize that what
is called "women's authorship"

is somehow different
from what we call "authorship"

and yet would never call "men's
authorship." And why is that?

Why is it with the phrase
"women's writing,"

we are led to believe
that perhaps a rescue effort

from our troops
needs to be sent to its aid?

You mention it in your article.

Why, yes, I am a supporter.

The 19th century
is the women's century.

Change is afoot.

You support the right to vote?

I do, but I believe
the suffragists should wait

until there is no more political
corruption and politics has become civil.

You also mention that...

And what and how
do you distinguish...

I read seven newspapers...

Are you a champion
of posthumous recognition?

Are you?

Mm.

Certainly not. We can't delay
in recognizing those who are...

Who are...

Who are what?

Those with talent.

When I recognize those with talent,
especially women...

Women's voices
are so seldom heard,

we need to hear
intelligent women's voices.

But I am barely able
to find any.

I am hoping you might seek to publish
one of my poems in The Atlantic Monthly.

I have these new poems.

Hmm.

Well, I will read your poems.

But I do not think
you are ready to publish.

You are...

Oh, you are, uh...

What?

When I read your poems,
so many of them...

make me feel unclear.

I believe poetry should leave
you with a trembling sensation,

but when I read your poetry,
Miss Dickinson, I'm left feeling...

I'm not sure what.

All men say "what" to me,
but I thought it a fashion.

If you're published
before your time

and showered with
negative attention,

you will see how little good
it does you when it comes to...

Various... Various limbs
of your poems need removal.

Here, take this poem right here.

If you take this line here

and you cut this line,
and remove that line altogether,

and then you move
this line here.

And these dashes... Hmm? Are they
really necessary? Hmm? You see?

Do you see how it is improved?

This is what you must think of
every time you write.

Well, I must go.

Remember what I have told you,

and it will serve
your writing greatly.

Thank you.
Thank you for your surgery.

Ah, well, it is my profession,
Miss Dickinson.

Good day.
It was delightful meeting you.

I will come back again sometime.

Say a long time that is nearer.
Some time is no time.

Emily had met Higginson,
but she failed to make a good impression.

Higginson,
reflecting on their meeting, said,

"She drained my nerve power.

I am glad
I do not live near her."

Ladies.

It's true Higginson did not publish
Emily Dickinson during her lifetime,

but she didn't quite send Higginson
enough poems for him to understand

that she was ready
for publication.

- How many did she send?
- Ninety.

That's quite a lot.

Not if you consider
that she wrote nearly 2,000.

Did she not send her good ones?

No, she sent many
of the same ones

that are causing
quite the sensation today.

I'm not sure I understand.

Well, Higginson wasn't the
only one she sent her poems to.

She also sent them to
the Roberts Brothers Publishing.

They also passed.

Emily Dickinson's work

is devoid
of any true poetical qualities.

And she sent them to Josiah Holland,
also a publisher.

And the husband of her
childhood friend Elizabeth.

So, I understand your husband
is publishing poetry now.

He never acknowledged
receiving them.

Higginson
was a colonel in the war.

He witnessed legs, arms,
heads ripped from the human body.

Maggots infesting the food,

and yet, it was Emily Dickinson

who exhausted him
more than the horrors of war.

Emily, I saw his carriage leave.

He met with you for three hours.

- Yes.
- He must think highly of your writing

to spend
so much of his time with you.

He's an esteemed
and important man.

Is he going to publish you
in The Atlantic Monthly?

- No.
- No?

That can't be right. That can't
be. He came all the way here.

He doesn't think I'm ready.

- He doesn't?
- No.

I'm certain that it's
because you're a woman.

Helen Hunt Jackson is a woman.

Higginson discovered her,
and he made her famous.

"Mother..."

I see you

with your nursery light,

Leading your babies,

all in white,

to their sweet rest.

Christ, the Good Shepherd,
carries mine tonight,

"and that is best."

America's greatest lady poet!

Emily, we will
get you into print.

Lavinia.

Can you not quiet your cat?

I think I will go
play the piano.

Oh, thank you.

Lavinia, does your sister,
Emily, love cats as much as you?

Well, I'm sure nobody
loves cats as much as I do,

but Emily does love cats.

One time, she found a litter of
kittens that didn't have a home,

and she knew they weren't
going to have a home,

so she did the kindest thing.

She drowned them in a vat,
and then she pickled them.

- Lavinia.
- They're in our basement right now.

In barrels.

I'm sure you jest.

No. They're there.
I'll show you.

- So they're preserved.
- Mm-hmm. In case their mother comes back.

Would you like me
to buy you another dress?

No, it's all right.

You wear that
same dress every day.

I don't want to spend any part of
my brain thinking about what to wear.

I want to save all my deciding
for my writing.

Imagine if Helen Hunt Jackson
wore the same thing every day.

What would people
say about that?

Maybe they'd say
her poetry was better.

Higginson might not be
interested in her anymore.

Oh.

Did you hear?

- Hmm?
- Higginson said he does not blame Walt Whitman

for writing Leaves of Grass.

He blames him for not burning
it immediately afterwards.

Susan, do you know that when Higginson
first read the poems that I had sent him,

he asked if I had read Whitman?

As in, he thinks
they are similar.

That's how little he thinks
of my writing.

Whose work do you think
we'll be reading in 100 years?

Higginson's or Whitman's?

- Well, Whitman's.
- Whitman's and yours.

I don't know.

I'll have to get a book
in print first.

Emily, when I saw the first
woman doctor in America graduate...

When was this?
You never told me about this.

It was near my aunt's house, during
the time you were not speaking to me.

Mm.

Was this the time
after I learned

you had hid your engagement
with my brother?

Yes.

For almost a whole year?

- Yes, it was at that juncture.
- Then continue.

When the first woman doctor
in America

graduated from medical school,
everyone hated her.

And the only reason she got
into medical school

was they asked
the incoming class,

"Would it be agreeable to have
a lady study among them?"

They thought it was a joke
and voted yes.

And that's why we have
our first woman doctor.

I would like a strawberry now.

Emily, your poems
are ever-marvelous to me.

When you come to me,
with your fresh pages, and I read them,

they're full of things...
Things that are startling.

It's so good.

Why don't more people
feel as you do, then?

The way you write... it's new.

People don't know
what to make of it.

They've never seen it before.

- That was late!
- -That was fun.

- Is that the children?
- Oh, they're home early. Oh, uh...

- Should I?
- No, it's too late.

Gib and I want to come in.

I have a headache. I...

don't feel well,
and I'm going to lie back down on my bed.

- All right.
- You and your brother can go have some cookies.

- Cookies!
- Yes.

Say hello to Aunt Emily.

About here, of course,
is where I enter everyone's lives.

Ah, hello! How are ya?

I'm Mrs. Todd. I've come
to visit Miss Dickinson.

She requested
I play piano for her.

Ah,
yes. Here's the piano you'll be wantin'.

Sit down. Here. Take a seat.

All set.

Will Miss Dickinson be joining
me here in the drawing room?

No, but don't worry. She
can hear ya fine from upstairs.

- Oh.
- Here's the music she'd like. She left it for ya.

I'm not to see her at all?

No, ma'am. And I'd like to
make a request of me own.

I did help
Emily's poems rhyme more.

Why don't you come
to church with us?

"Consider the lilies" is
the only commandment I keep.

That's not a real commandment.

Well, I guess I keep none, then.

Can I stay here with Aunt Emily?

Looks like you have a convert.

We can bake some bread.

I'll take this convert's coat.

- Goodbye, my darlings.
- Goodbye, Susan. We'll see you later.

Goodbye, Mother.

Susan entertained relentlessly

in the manner of her saloon.

Excuse me.

I meant salon.

It created a terrible racket,

and it made it
impossible for Austin

to get any serious work done.

- Hello, Susan!
- Emily!

Vinny.
Joseph Lyman back in Amherst!

Have you returned to make an honest
woman of Lavinia after all these years?

Joseph recently got married,
Susan, in Omaha.

Oh! Well,
where is your lovely wife?

Oh, she's too
delicate to travel.

May I take your coats?

- Uh, Emily, would you kindly help me with these?
- Of course.

I'll just take those.

- Thank you.
- Thank you.

Let's put the coats on the bed.

- Mm.
- Mm.

What happened with Lavinia?

She's heartbroken.

Oh. Why didn't you tell me?

- I tried to signal you.
- Oh.

Oh.

Guess who's downstairs.

Who?

Kate.

Has she come to see you or me?

I don't know.

I don't like it.

I'm sorry.

We should go down.

I want to stay here
on the coats.

I know.

Forever.

Come on. Come on.

Did you know we posed
for a daguerreotype together?

- No.
- It was quite remarkable, really.

- Susan!
- Samuel Bowles,

I had no idea you'd be
joining us this evening.

Well, I adore you,
and I adore parties, so of course.

Are you still teaching
poor children in Logtown?

Yes, I am. It's, uh, very...

Um, that's Emily's sister.

- Lavinia.
- Lavinia. Lavinia, yes.

- She's a dear.
- Yes.

When are you going to publish
more of Emily's poems in your paper?

Emily has sent you so many.

Yes, well, I was just speaking
about this with your lovely friend Kate.

I advised Emily not to seek
publication in general.

The rhymes are a bit off,
don't you think?

She could work on them.

That is an excellent point, yes.

She's very devoted to her
poems and to her writing.

She is. She is.

I know it would
mean so much to her

to see them in the paper.

Well, a paper, perhaps.
Maybe not my paper.

Well, your father
did give you your paper.

Yes, and now
it's my paper, so...

And you're the editor, correct?

Is there food?

Is Emily here?
I should like to say hello.

Where is Emily?

- Austin.
- What is it, my dear?

- Your sideburn is in my eye.
- Oh. Sorry.

I wish you paid as much
attention to the work I do

going over
the town's ledger books

as you do
to her poetry fascicles.

I know nothing
about financial matters

and cannot be helpful
in that regard.

The children say that they carry messages
back and forth three and four times a day.

So? What of it?

Well, in this town,
one is paid for delivering the mail,

and I do not wish my
children to act as postmasters.

I would have thought of
note passing between girls

as an activity chiefly
confined to school days.

You are passing an awful lot
of time in Mrs. Todd's company.

Of course, at Harvard,
we played amber,

but that's not a game
for the ladies.

Something I know little about,
having gone to only boys' school.

Ah, Lavinia.
You know Parson Mudd.

- Oh, hello, Parson.
- Greetings.

How was boys' school?

Ah, Mrs. Todd hath arrived.

Mr. Dickinson was my husband,
David's, boss.

David was quite pleased that
Austin had taken a liking to me.

I suppose nobody in the town
could be born, married,

or buried,
or make an investment,

or buy a house lot,
or a cemetery lot,

or sell a newspaper, or build a house,
or choose a profession

without Austin Dickinson
close at hand.

Will your husband
be joining us tonight?

Unfortunately, he is wrapped
up in work. You know how he is.

And your wife, Susan?

She is in Springfield
for the night.

I moved to Amherst
with my husband,

the internationally renowned
astronomer David Peck Todd,

now hospitalized.

If you were at the house every day,
why did you never see her?

Are you here to give me
my after-dinner treat?

Do you deserve one?

Well, it's difficult to explain

why I never saw
Emily face to face.

Mr. Dickinson.

It was because
she was a recluse.

Why else would she never
come out of her room to greet me?

She was a recluse.
As simple as that.

How else can you explain

why she wouldn't come
downstairs to listen to my piano?

She was a recluse.

Are you crying?

- Hello? Susan?
- Emily!

Lavinia, thank you so much
for meeting me here.

My pleasure.

And thank you so much
for hosting me

and my dear friend Mabel Todd...

- Mm-hmm.
- At the homestead so often.

You do seem fond of Mabel Todd.

She is marvelous company.
I have a question.

Are you satisfied with my
management of your financial affairs?

- Yes.
- I am very pleased to hear that.

The law places a stringent
burden on me in that regard,

and I do want to feel
that I'm doing justice by you.

I wonder
if you could do me a favor

and make it
so that our Mabel Todd

could simply meet our dear sister,
Emily, face to face.

Simply see her.

To see her? What about
if I do a sketch of Emily

and present that to Mabel Todd?

She can even
keep the sketch for herself.

Or one of your lovely
silhouette cuttings.

- Yes.
- Yes. Yes or perhaps...

That should suffice.

A watercolor...
You could learn that

- and then do a painting of her later.
- That would be my pleasure.

That would be marvelous and
it's a very helpful suggestion,

but I wonder if you wouldn't just impose,
suggest, persuade

our Emily to just remain
in the drawing room

while Mabel is playing the piano

for a minute and simply
say, "Pleased to meet you."

What if Mabel dresses like Emily

and looks at herself
in the mirror?

To some degree,
that's already been done,

- and it's not been satisfactory.
- Oh. Oh.

Does Mabel know
that Emily is a person?

Because I do also have a cat
named Emily Dickinson.

So it wouldn't be lying. She
would be meeting Emily Dickinson.

That was my wife.

Emily, I want you to know that Austin
promised he would never touch me.

He wrote a letter to me
before we were married,

saying that if I married him,
he would never touch me.

- He did?
- Yes.

Well, why didn't you ever
speak of this before?

I found the very subject
distasteful.

Well, obviously,
he didn't keep his promise.

- Emily!
- Well, what did you expect during the marriage?

Well, Emily, you enjoy
talking to me.

I thought Austin would
find that to be enough.

Emerson himself said I was brilliant,
and then this Mabel comes along.

I thought you'd be relieved.

Why would I be relieved?

Well, because...

Do you understand that
when my children come to town,

people point at them
and whisper? My children.

People cross the street,
when they see them coming.

They... they feel sorry for them.

He's parading around town
with that strumpet.

I know that Austin would never...

Would never? Would never what?

He's trying to give some land to
her... land that should be theirs.

He's had a lawyer
draw up a deed.

He wants you and Lavinia
to sign it.

Susan, I would never
let that happen.

- Never fear.
- Oh.

Never.

In the month following,

their eight-year-old child,
Gilbert, died.

Oh, my condolences,
my dear friend.

Let me know if there's any
way in which I may be of help.

Mrs. Todd seems very familiar
with Mr. Dickinson.

It's scandalous.
I've never seen anything like it.

I saw her ankle.

Oh, Austin.

You have a wicked turn of mind.

I was re-reading our passionate
correspondence the other night, as I often do.

As I do, too, my sweet.

And as I was
reading these letters

professing our love
for each other,

I was struck with
the inspiration

that these letters
would actually make

a beautiful published book.

You mean bound.

- No.
- You mean a bound volume.

Oh, no, published,

so the whole world
can read our pure love

and inspire everyone around...

Those poor souls
who don't have what we have.

Oh, but, Austin, I don't care.

I want to share the pure
love that you and I have.

- Mabel.
- I was thinking

usually books
of letters are organized

in such a way where
it's chronological...

The correspondence...
Over the years.

But I was thinking maybe
we can do... we can or...

We can organize them
in topics, like...

Like pure love,
unbridled passion,

um, excursions.

What else, sweet?

That, uh, the black mogul...
Your wife.

I myself have connections
in publishing.

I've been published myself.

I've made a little bit
of a name for myself.

Dear Mabel, no.

Oh!

Someday you'll find a proper
outlet for your creative expression,

and then everyone will know
just how brilliant you are.

Hmm.

Why not paint more crockery?

"Emily, all's well."

There were two
or three little things

I wanted to talk with you about
without witnesses,

but tomorrow will do
just as well.

Has girl read Republican?

"'It takes as long to start
our fleet as the burnside.'"

A few newspapers did publish
some of Emily's poems.

But the results were...

disappointing.

This is my poem.

"The Snake"?

They do that. It doesn't
bother the average reader.

Hmm. I don't title my poems.

I always felt that what people
needed to understand.

Emily's poems were titles.

So I gave all the poems titles.

Titles are important

because it's a clue to the
audience of what they're reading.

You can't just sit down
and read jibber-jabber.

It's a clear thesis.
A title is a clear thesis.

I thought you'd be delighted
to see your poem in the paper.

Well, thank you so very much.

I'd also like to make note
of other contributions

that I gave to Emily's
book of poems.

I also did the cover art.

That's my painting...

that I gave to Emily.

That's why it's on
the cover of the book.

I'm sure she would have
chosen it, too...

if she were alive.

It's beautiful, no?

Thank you.

Your poem is in the paper.
Everyone will read it.

The title ruins the experience.

Imagine if they called
Romeo and Juliet.

They Both Die at the End.

Happy Valentine's Day.

No one knew how sick
Emily really was.

We were all shocked...

when we realized

that she would die.

The entire town

felt something was amiss

when our dear,
sweet spinster, recluse poet

left our planet.

Emily's decline was swift.

"And covered up our names."

I think this is about...

I don't think. I know.

"You must let me go first, Sue,"

because I live in the Sea
always and know the Road...

I would have drowned twice
to save you sinking, dear.

If I could only have
covered your Eyes

"so you wouldn't
have seen the Water."

I would like to ask
if you would wash her body.

Austin and I are too distressed.

- Is Austin here?
- No.

I'll expect he's over
at the Todd's.

The basin and sponge
are at the foot of the bed.

The romantic friendshi of my Aunt
Emily Dickinson and my mother, Sue,

extended from girlhood
until death.

Aunt Emily was hardly
a frustrated spinster maid.

Her sweet Sue
was her inspiration.

She wrote her letters and poems

and what my mother
called the letter-poem.

If you go to the letters
and the poems,

you will hear the story
of my mother

and my aunt as I understood it,

starting from when
they were teenage girls.

Thank you.

Wild nights.

Wild nights were I with thee.

Wild nights should be
our luxury!

Futile the winds
to a heart in port.

Done with the compass,
done with the chart!

Rowing in Eden, ah the sea!

Might I but moor
tonight in thee!

Mabel.

I have something for you.

"Amuastablein"?

Yes.

What is it?

Oh, but don't you see?

It's the letters of our names,
Austin and Mabel, intertwined.

I will cherish this forever.
Thank you, Austin.

So, uh, Austin, I...

I've been putting together
Emily's letters

for this book that I'm publishing,
and...

- Hmm?
- Um,

I'm looking at her letters
to you about Susan,

and there seems to be
a very peculiar passion

that Emily has towards Susan.

Well, if it troubles you,
simply leave them out of the collection.

- Oh, no, no, no, no, no.
- She must have written a dozen letters a day.

No, no, no.
The prose is gorgeous.

I'm just simply saying
that the general reader

would find these letters and
the poems more appealing,

if you will, if they were,
say, addressed to a man.

Just imagine, uh,
Emily pining away in her room,

unrequited love.

Why don't I think about that,
and while you think about it,

uh, I need you to erase
Susan's name in these letters,

and we will dedicate them
to other correspondents?

Hmm. Uh, well...

Well, very good, my dear.

Amuastablein.

That's exactly how I feel.

I'll take this to my study.

Thank you.