Brontë: The World Without, livre ebook

• •While writing the play, Jordi visited the Brontë home in Haworth, UK, now a famous museum, and says it was one of the most incredible experiences of her life.

Emily: You have your work . . . Anne’s work. You have more than enough to create something between the two of you.

Charlotte: We can’t move forward without you.

Anne: If she doesn’t want to be a part of it there’s no point in forcing her.

Emily: Do you . . . Want to be a part of it? Want to publish your —

Anne: Yes. I’ve always wanted this.

Emily: You’d have a better chance if I’m nowhere near it.

Charlotte: That’s not true.

Emily: It is.

Charlotte: We need your work.

Emily: If you’re in such dire need of a third, ask Branwell. He’s the one with the talent.

Charlotte: Oh, Emily! How can you not see it? You have a gift. Do you know how many people spend their lives searching for what you have?

Emily: What I write is . . . Strange. It’s not suitable . . . Or dignified. It in no way reflects how a woman should feel . . . Or think . . . Or write. I know that. No one will understand it. No one will want to —

Charlotte: If you were a man, do you think for a moment you would choose not to pursue —

Emily: If I were a man I wouldn’t have to choose.

Anne: Then just pretend you’re a man and be done with it.

Emily: I can’t pretend to be something I’m not.

Anne: Why not?

Emily: Because it . . . It’s not —

Anne: Because it’s not what?

Charlotte: You can. You can.

Charlotte stands, grabs paper and a quill, and writes.

We could keep our initials . . . Keep the first letters for each of our names. The rest can be whatever we like . . .

Charlotte holds the page up for them to see.

Anne: Currer, Ellis, Aaron Bell?

Charlotte: If they think we’re men they’ll focus on what we write . . . Not who we are. We can send our work out without being afraid of anyone knowing. We can write what we like . . . How we like.

Anne grabs the page from Charlotte.

Anne: Why Bell? Why can’t we use our last name?

Charlotte: People know there’s only one son in our family.

Anne: How many people know that?

Charlotte: Enough.

Anne: Can’t we submit anonymously?

Charlotte: No. Our work could be stolen. And we would have no way to prove it was ours.

Emily: Work with a name is respected far more than anything written anonymously.

Anne: Currer, Ellis, Aaron. Mine doesn’t sound nearly as intriguing as yours. Aaron . . . It’s so plain.

Charlotte: What then?

Anne: Adam, Abram, Andrew, Arthur, Alfred —

Emily: Acton.

Anne: Oh . . . Acton! Yes! Currer, Ellis, Acton Bell.

Charlotte writes the names out again. She holds it up for them to see.

So . . . No one would know it was us?

Charlotte: No one would know it was us.

Anne: What about Papa? We would have to tell him.

Charlotte: Papa would go mad knowing we were trying to be published. He would get too invested. He would want to change everything we wrote.

Emily: He would edit every poem until he was satisfied.

Charlotte: Until he felt it was up to his standards.

Emily: And if it weren’t a resounding success . . . He would never forgive us.

Charlotte: No. We don’t tell him. We don’t tell Branwell. It stays between the three of us.

Anne: Then . . . What’s the point?

Emily: I won’t do it if we tell people . . . That’s the point.

Charlotte: But if we don’t tell people? Then you’ll . . .

Emily looks at the page with their proposed names on it.

Emily: We shouldn’t have to disguise who we are.

Charlotte: Oh, Emily! Does it really matter? It would be a few published copies of a poetry collection. That’s it. That’s all it is.

Emily: I don’t know.

Charlotte: Emily! Can’t you at least try to —

Anne: Just say yes, Emily! For goodness’ sake!

Emily looks at her sisters, and exhales heavily.