Bright Star Script - Dialogue Transcript

Bright Star Script

  

  
It's mine.

  
-Get down.
-You're not allowed!

  
-Good day, Mr. Phipps.
-You're not allowed!

  
Get down.

  
You'll have no supper if you keep that up.

  
-Hello, Joy.
-Hello.

  
-Is all well?
-Very good. Thank you.

  
-Hello.
-Hello.

  
-Good morning, Joy.
-Hello.

  
-Sorry.
-Welcome.

  
Where is Mr. Keats?

  
I'm afraid he is not joining us.

  
He's in Mr. Brown's half of the house.

  
Hello.

  
Hello.

  
The very well stitched Little Miss Brawne
in all her detail.

  
Good morning.

  
What is this? What have I done?
How have I offended?

  
I don't shake hands with the enemy.

  
An enemy? What have I done to you?

  
You do nothing to me or for me,
and that's how I'd prefer to keep it.

  
What?

  
Your offense is to my fashion, Mr. Brown.

  
Oh, dear.

  
To which I'm ''so helplessly slavish.''

  
I have been ill-quoted.

  
''Her obsession
with flounce and cross-stitch''?

  
Cross-stitch? Miss Brawne,

  
-I don't even know what that means.
-For goodness' sake. Baiting, baiting.

  
I feel the same about your poems,
Mr. Brown.

  
I know nothing of what they mean.

  
They puff smoke, dissolve,
leaving nothing but irritation.

  
Fanny, take this tea to Mr. Keats.
He is in very poor spirits.

  
Mr. Keats is composing
and does not want disturbing.

  
It's my finding in the business of disturbing,
you're the expert.

  
Fanny, why not speak to one of us
you hold in higher favor?

  
I'm praising him!

  
-Fanny.
-Please, Fanny.

  
I'm wanting to know what you shall say
about Mr. Keats.

  
I've been waiting two weeks
that I may enjoy your opinion.

  
I cannot look upon him without smiling.

  
And he is quick with his thoughts,
though now they are mostly sad.

  
His brother Tom's not at all better.

  
Very diminished.

  
Mr. Keats nurses him alone.
It's difficult work.

  
Mr. Keats nurses him alone.
It's difficult work.

  
-Is there no other family member?
-No. The parents are both dead.

  
There is only a much younger sister
and a brother who lives in America.

  
Come in.

  
You like jokes, Mr. Keats?

  
I like jokes.

  
Mr. Brown, I warn you,
does not like my jokes.

  
He complains I care for nothing but fashion.

  
Would you like biscuits?

  
You've come to spy.

  
Spy?

  
How will you describe me? My character?

  
I am not the least interested
in your character.

  
My jacket, then? Or my pantaloons?

  
You need a new jacket,
that's what I would say.

  
Is that all?

  
It should be of velvet, blue velvet.

  
Tell me, Miss Brawne,
how can you be so sure?

  
Well, all I wear,
I've sewn and designed myself.

  
I'm often told
I am clever to exception about design.

  
I originated the pleats on my dress,
which are charming...

  
Has she annoyed you sufficiently?
She has done brilliant well with me.

  
Men's room, out.

  
Poets got to do a bit of writing.

  
My stitching has more merit and admirers
than your two scribblings put together.

  
Goodbye, minxstress.

  
And I can make money from it.

  
Yes?

  
Have you got John Keats' poem book...

  
-Endymion?
-Endymion, yes.

  
Yes, I've not heard much good about it.

  
I've not sold one and took 20.

  
My sister has met the author,
and she wants to read it for herself

  
to see if he is an idiot or not.

  
Unwrap it.

  
Read it.

  
''A thing of beauty is a joy for ever
Its loveliness increases. It will never

  
''Pass into nothingness, but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep

  
''Full of sweet dreams, and health
and quiet breathing''

  
-Stop.
-''Therefore, on...''

  
''Yes, in spite of all

  
''Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits''

  
I'd love to speak with Mr. Keats.

  
''A thing of beauty is a joy forever
Its loveliness increases. It will never

  
''Pass into nothingness''

  
You've read Endymion.

  
I wanted to adore it.

  
-But you hated it?
-I can't say.

  
Are you frightened to speak truthfully?

  
-Never.
-Well, tell me then.

  
No. I'm not clever with poetry.

  
Well, neither, it seems, am I.

  
-Still I have some hope for myself.
-I think hope useful.

  
-But...
-Hope and results are different.

  
One doesn't necessarily create the other.

  
Would practice help?

  
It might.
I wasn't always able to stitch so well.

  
This is the first frock
in all of Woolwich or Hampstead

  
to have a triple-pleated mushroom collar.

  
Isn't that an identical one behind you?

  
My card's completely full.

  
But you don't dance, Mr. Keats.
I love to dance.

  
I don't feel like dancing.

  
Is your brother still ill?

  
He's no better.

  
My father was ill
for as long as I can remember.

  
He died when I was still very young.

  
Excuse me.

  
Miss Brawne, may I?

  
Mama!

  
Fanny has cut my ribbon,
and she never asked.

  
What are you doing, Fanny?

  
Trying to bring some comfort
to a dying man.

  
What dying man?
Where are you taking them?

  
I cannot offer poor Mr. Keats' brother
anything that's not perfect.

  
It's me. Miss Brawne.

  
I have something to deliver to Mr. Keats.

  
Leave it at the door.

  
-Is he not there?
-We're working, Miss Brawne.

  
I have something for your brother, Mr. Keats.

  
Invite her in. Brown!

  
You disgusting ape.

  
Be careful as you enter the ape's cage.

  
Sit next to me, Miss Brawne.

  
My prospects in the world feel very faint.

  
This room is so poorly cared for.

  
Please try one.

  
I'm anxious they'll cause him to choke.

  
No! Try another and I swear I shall bite you.

  
Take care. She has sharp teeth.

  
She has sunk her fangs into my poor poem
and shook it apart.

  
I am very sorry I couldn't love
your Endymion completely, Mr. Keats.

  
Perhaps I did not say,

  
but I thought the beginning of your poem
something very perfect.

  
But don't leave us. You can see for yourself,
nothing is happening.

  
All we do is lie about the room all day,
begging for inspiration.

  
Please, tell me what I should do.

  
Miss Brawne,
we monkeys just want a little company.

  
Well, I gave him the biscuits.

  
Mr. Brown kept...

  
If we've finished tiffing,
come and say hello to Tom.

  
It might cheer him.

  
We'll have to ask Mama.

  
-No, we don't, Toots.
-Yes, we do.

  
Isn't that so, Samuel?

  
We have to stick together.

  
I'm going. You'll have to come with me.

  
Would you like to go by the pond
or through the woods?

  
I've explored all these paths, which are more
in number than your eyelashes.

  
My eyelashes?

  
You know, it amazes me
you can sit opposite Mr. Brown all day.

  
I've never heard him say one thing of wit.
Not one.

  
-You favor wit?
-I rate it the highest.

  
-You like the fashionables?
-Yes, I do.

  
Men who say things that make you start
without making you feel?

  
Things that are amusing.

  
I know these dandies.

  
They have a mannerism in their very eating
and drinking, their handling of a decanter.

  
You are making an attack on me?

  
No, I am defending
Mr. Brown's generous, good heart.

  
By attacking myself.

  
Forgive me.

  
I've been too long at my brother's sickbed.

  
Can we not still appreciate clever humor?

  
Thank God! He's been calling out for you.

  
Come in.

  
John.

  
-I didn't... I didn't...
-Tom.

  
-What?
-Tom, get back into bed.

  
-I don't know. I was having this dream.
-It's all right. I'm here now.

  
-I'm here.
-Where have you been, John?

  
-I just... I was worried.
-Calm now. Calm.

  
It's all right. I'm here.

  
It's so hot in this bed.

  
I was so scared for a while.

  
-Calm down.
-I just panicked.

  
I want to go. I want to leave. It smells.

  
Or I'II cut your hair in the night.

  
-Good evening, John.
-Young man, how are you?

  
Good evening.

  
Well, Keats,
I hope you've not forgotten your bassoon.

  
Of course not. It's in my waistcoat pocket.

  
-Hello, Mr. Keats.
-Hello, Minx.

  
How's Tom?

  
Gentlemen of the orchestra,
just through here.

  
Ladies, straight ahead, please. Thank you.

  
Hurry on, gentlemen.

  
Is he showing any signs of improvement?

  
Don't ask me of Tom, Minx.

  
The only good I can do
is say how I love him.

  
Hurry on, gentlemen.

  
Shall we open the claret?

  
Someone submitted anonymously
to The Examiner a most exquisite sonnet

  
composed on the subject of whether
Love itself could be the 10th muse. Severn!

  
-Come on.
-En garde!

  
Right.

  
That's my sword, you brute.

  
Love the 10th muse?

  
It's full of the most perfect allusions
and really beautifully realized.

  
I thought at first it might be one of yours.

  
We were just telling Mrs. Brawne
of John Keats' review in Blackwood's.

  
Was it so very bad?

  
''No man could have profaned and vulgarized

  
''every association in the manner which has
been adopted by this 'son of promise.'''

  
Did they not admire the opening?
It was perfect. Even I could know that.

  
-Do you Like poetry, Miss Brawne?
-No.

  
Poems are a strain to work out.

  
John, we are talking, or are about to talk,

  
of your defense
of Mr. Keats' poem Endymion.

  
Yes.

  
''I have clung
To nothing, lov'd a nothing, nothing seen

  
''Or felt but a great dream! O I have been

  
''Presumptuous against Love
against the sky

  
''Against all elements, against the tie
Of mortals each to each''

  
The rhythm is beautiful and unique.

  
There are rhymes, but not on the beat.
They're quiet, but binding.

  
And the repetitions set you up to fly.

  
''I have clung
To nothing, lov’d a nothing, nothing seen''

  
And here you come out
''Or felt but a great dream!''

  
It's beautiful.

  
Well, there are immaturities,
but there are also immensities,

  
and that is what they didn't say.

  
It was said. You said it, Brother.

  
Thank you.

  
Very bravely.

  
Ladies, the Hampstead Heathens
are about to begin.

  
-Reynolds?
-I thought I'd been expelled.

  
No. I think not. You're very much needed.

  
Mr. Keats is dead.

  
Mr. Keats is dead. So young.

  
Is it Tom?

  
I woke with the strange sensation
of someone holding my hand.

  
I opened my eyes, and there was John.

  
I knew immediately what had happened,
and then he said,

  
''Tom died at 8:00, quietly and without pain.''

  
Of course, he can't go on living there,

  
so I have invited Mr. Keats
to come and stay with me.

  
Well, we do have a Long schedule of visits.

  
I don't want to interfere with your city plans,

  
but you are most welcome
to have dinner with us.

  
-Minx? Are you unwell?
-We have provided and set the table.

  
No, no, no, not at all.

  
-I've never seen you so quiet.
-I would appreciate it.

  
We do have some city business.

  
She sewed it all night Long.

  
It's a pillow slip.

  
Then I will rest Tom's head upon it.

  
Keats, the Reynolds are expecting us.

  
I'II catch you up. Thank you.

  
Invite me again, alone.

  
Come for Christmas.

  
Yes, please do join us, Mr. Keats, please.

  
But Marianne Reynolds invited us
for Christmas. Remember?

  
You were there when she said it.
They're having musicians.

  
I am sorry to spoil things.

  
Not at all. Wherever Mr. Keats is happy,
we're happy for him.

  
-Thank you, Mrs. Brawne.
-But why can't he be happy with us?

  
Perhaps Mr. Brown wants
Mr. Keats all to himself.

  
I am merely remembering to Mr. Keats
a previous engagement.

  
Miss Brawne, I thought we were conversing.

  
''Dear Mrs. Brawne.
May I yet join you for Christmas?

  
''I have not the health
nor the heart to be anywhere

  
''but with a family such as your own.
John Keats.''

  
Thank you.

  
I was wondering this morning
if you're sleeping in my bed.

  
Pardon?

  
You see, I believe you are.

  
We rented Mr. Brown's half of the house
this summer

  
while you were journeying in Scotland.

  
Which room do you sleep in?

  
The one overlooking the back garden.

  
That was my bed.

  
For proof, pull it from the wall

  
and by the pillow, you will find a figure
I drew with pin holes.

  
Is the figure you?

  
It's a fairy princess.

  
-Should I be feeding her?
-She refuses to eat.

  
Would you teach me poetry?

  
I'd... I'd Like to understand it.

  
I don't know how to begin.

  
And it's three to the right.

  
Two, three. Three to the left.

  
Two, three.

  
And down. And keep it going.

  
So that's the English drawing room.

  
And this is something
that I saw in Scotland.

  
They kick,

  
and they jump,

  
and they twirl it,

  
and they sweat it,
and they tattooed the floor Like mad!

  
What about a poem?

  
-Yes. Please, Mr. Keats.
-A short one.

  
''When I have fears that I may cease to be

  
''Before my pen has glean'd
my teeming brain

  
''Before high-piled books, in charact'ry

  
''Hold Like rich garners the full-ripen'd grain

  
''When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face

  
''Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance''

  
-I do apologize. I've gone blank.
-You're tired.

  
Should you Like some sweet?

  
Shall we have coffee and sweet?

  
Come through to our side.

  
I've come for my poetry class.

  
Your poetry class?

  
Poetry classes!
Keats, are we teaching poetry today?

  
I hope I don't disturb.

  
Take a seat.

  
Have a look at that.

  
A poet is not at all poetical.

  
He is the most un-poetical thing
in existence.

  
He has no identity.

  
He is continually filling some other body,
the sun, the moon.

  
I cannot restrain my credibility longer.

  
Miss Brawne,
is this really you or are you acting?

  
-It's really me.
-Is it?

  
Charles, I have a pupil.

  
-Desist or depart.
-Apologies.

  
My modest hope is that the cost
of the lesson will not be the poet.

  
The cost of the lesson is that Mr. Keats
will forthwith discuss poetry with me.

  
You don't mean to read the poems?

  
Until I know all the poets and poems
in the world,

  
since I've nothing to do,
as you so many times have noted.

  
I bow to your ambition.

  
Now he's gone, I shall find it easier to talk.

  
Can you say something
of the craft of poetry?

  
Poetic craft is a carcass, a sham.

  
If poetry does not come as naturally
as leaves to a tree,

  
then it had better not come at all.

  
I am mistaken.

  
I am not sure I can teach you.

  
Was I too rude? I... I can apologize.

  
I'm not sure I have
the right feelings towards women.

  
I'm suspicious of my feelings.

  
Do you not Like me?

  
I'm attracted to you without knowing why.

  
AII women confuse me, even my mother.

  
I yearn to be ruined by shrews
and saved by angels,

  
and in reality,
I've only ever really loved my sister.

  
I'm annoyed by my sister
as often as I Love her.

  
I still don't know how to work out a poem.

  
A poem needs understanding
through the senses.

  
The point of diving in a lake

  
is not immediately to swim to the shore

  
but to be in the Lake,
to luxuriate in the sensation of water.

  
You do not work the lake out.

  
It is an experience beyond thought.

  
Poetry soothes and emboldens
the soul to accept mystery.

  
I Love mystery.

  
I found your fairy princess
on the wall in my room.

  
And you could make her out?

  
She wears a butterfly frock.

  
Shall we continue?

  
Mr. Keats is very brilliant.

  
I'm not sure he really likes me.

  
He prefers Toots and Samuel, even our cat,
who he is always petting to death.

  
Mr. Keats knows he cannot Like you.

  
He has no Living and no income.

  
Mr. Keats isn't here.

  
He said to tell you he had a sore throat
and thought it best to stay on in Chichester.

  
Samuel, hello.

  
You don't believe me. Come in.

  
Come in.

  
There, no Keats.

  
Tell us, what Chaucer did you read?

  
AII of it.

  
Also, Mr. Spenser,
Mr. Milton, and The Odyssey.

  
That's a lot to read in one week.

  
What did you think of The Odyssey?

  
Thank you.

  
I am yet partway through it,
but I have read all Mr. Keats has written.

  
Have you?

  
''Out went the taper as she hurried in

  
''Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine, died

  
''She clos'd the door, she panted, all akin

  
''To spirits of the air, and visions wide''

  
And... And what, Miss Brawne,
did you make of Paradise Lost?

  
-I... I liked it.
-Did you?

  
You didn't find Milton's rhymes
a little pouncing?

  
No.

  
-Did you not?
-Not very.

  
Is it the material of her dress that makes
Miss Brawne's eyes so amber-Like?

  
Yes, they are golden.

  
-Amber almost.
-Yes, yes.

  
What color are yours, Mr. Brown?

  
Mine?

  
-Suitcase brown.
-Fanny!

  
Did you see Mr. Brown? He was amazed.

  
Well, all those authors in just one week
is a bit incredible.

  
I know.

  
But he sees I'm serious.
And I will read them.

  
Fanny, it's a letter.

  
I think it's a valentine.

  
''Darling Valentine, I am not sure
if you should have a kiss

  
''for your amber enchantress eyes
or a whipping.

  
''Yours, the Suitcase.''

  
Fanny,

  
Mr. Keats is behaving very oddly.

  
Should I invite him inside?

  
-Mr. Brown sent you a Valentine?
-I think it was a joke.

  
Keats! Keats! John, wait.

  
-John.
-I was away but 10 days, Brown,

  
with you encouraging me
to stay on and get well.

  
-John, easy.
-Now,

  
you write Miss Brawne a valentine card.
Are you lovers?

  
-John.
-Is that the truth?

  
-Easy.
-You sent a card, Charles!

  
You have the income to marry,
where I have not.

  
Did you accept him, Miss Brawne?

  
John, I sent that valentine...

  
It was only a jest.

  
For whom? I'm not laughing.
Miss Brawne is not Laughing!

  
John, I wrote the valentine to amuse Fanny,
who makes a religion of flirting.

  
John, she's what?
A poetry scholar one week

  
-and, what, a military expert the next?
-You disgust me.

  
It is a game. It is a game to her.
She collects suitors. John... John...

  
There is a holiness to the heart's affections.
Know you nothing of that?

  
Believe me, it's not pride!

  
You're in Love with Mr. Brown?

  
Why don't you speak?

  
She can't speak because she only knows
how to flirt and sew.

  
Isn't that right?

  
Yes, and read all Milton,
whose rhymes do not pounce, Miss Brawne,

  
because there are none!

  
John, there are one or two of her kind

  
in every fashionable drawing room
of this city,

  
gasping over skirt lengths.

  
I'm sorry.
We can have a poetry Lesson tomorrow.

  
No! I want to dance and flirt,

  
talk of flounces and ribbons
till I find my old happiness and humor.

  
What if the dwarf were to die in Act 2?

  
And then we could introduce
the princess sooner.

  
The princess.

  
Perhaps Act 3 could begin with a tempest.

  
What else do you think?

  
We're going to live next door.

  
The Dilkes are moving to Westminster,
and we get six months half rent!

  
So we'll be in the same house.
We can all play football.

  
It's a great economy for Mama.

  
But only if you Like.

  
Have we broken for the day, Keats?

  
Keats!

  
-Throw the rope up.
-Excuse me, miss.

  
There should be another one of them.

  
But if the princess has already abandoned
the dwarf,

  
I mean, cannot we keep his Love speech?

  
We have to change it.
Find another place for it.

  
-We could give the Love speech to...
-Look out!

  
Sorry, right in the face.

  
Brown? Brown!

  
Oh, no!

  
-What was that, Toots?
-Oh, no!

  
If Mr. Keats and myself
are strolling in a meadow,

  
lounging on a sofa or staring into a wall,
do not presume we're not working.

  
Doing nothing is the musing of the poet.

  
Are these musings what we common people
know as thoughts?

  
Thoughts, yes, but of a weightier nature.

  
Sinking thoughts?

  
Not really, Miss Brawne. Musing,
making one's mind available to inspiration.

  
Mr. Brown?

  
As in amusing?

  
Mr. Brown, our thoughts are all very simple,

  
so you never need worry
about interrupting us.

  
And we should be happy
if you would join us for dinner on any day.

  
Can I choose which bed?

  
Mr. Keats.

  
They're sniffing all the flowers in the garden
to try and find the best scent.

  
Mr. Keats is being a bee.

  
Thank you.

  
Fanny!

  
Come in.

  
I need your help.

  
Lie to me.
Tell me you did not dance last night.

  
I did not sit down a single tune.

  
You can see the truth in my slippers,
completely scuffed.

  
I don't know how I could have prevented it.

  
I don't want to sit and wait under the trees
while you talk.

  
-I want to go and play on the swing.
-AII right.

  
-Lovely.
-I'm not! Don't go lower. Go higher. Higher.

  
No. A bit Lower.

  
I had such a dream last night.

  
I was floating above the trees

  
with my lips connected
to those of a beautiful figure

  
for what seemed Like an age.

  
Flowery treetops sprang up beneath us,

  
and we rested on them
with the lightness of a cloud.

  
Who was the figure?

  
I must have had my eyes closed,
because I can't remember.

  
And yet, you remember the treetops.

  
Not so well as I remember the Lips.

  
Whose lips? Were they my lips?

  
Fanny?

  
Fanny?

  
Fanny?

  
Fanny!

  
Mr. Brown bet I couldn't find
the nightingale's nest.

  
There is no nest and no bet.

  
That one over there.

  
You couldn’t have seen it in a tree.
They don't nest in trees.

  
I know what I saw. It was a nightingale.

  
''Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly nest

  
''In sort of wakeful swoon, perplexed she lay''

  
See, here, there are tears.

  
You're so far ahead of me and above me.

  
Brown, I'm amazed.

  
Your writing is the finest thing in my life.

  
You wrote this, Little hand, did you do it?

  
As one who truly loves you,

  
I must warn you kindly
of a trap that you are walking into, John.

  
If you are going to speak of Miss Brawne,
we have never agreed and cannot agree.

  
For one or two of your ''slippery blisses,''
you'll lose your freedom permanently.

  
You will be slaving at medicine
15 hours a day and for what?

  
To keep Mrs. Keats in French ribbon.

  
I cherish your talent. I truly do.

  
Then allow me my happiness,
for I am writing again.

  
''My heart aches,
and a drowsy numbness pains

  
''My sense, as though of hemlock
I had drunk

  
''Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains

  
''One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk

  
'''Tis not through envy of thy happy lot
But being too happy in thine happiness

  
''That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees

  
''In some melodious plot
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless

  
''Singest of summer in full-throated ease

  
''Darkling I listen,

  
''and, for many a time

  
''I have been half in Love with easeful Death

  
''CaII'd him soft names
in many a mused rhyme''

  
''...rhyme...''

  
''To take into the air my quiet breath''

  
''...breath...''

  
''To cease upon the midnight with no pain

  
''While thou art pouring forth
thy soul abroad

  
''In such an ecstasy!''

  
What?

  
Have you told Miss Brawne
of our summer holiday, or shall I?

  
Not as yet.

  
Mr. Brown is doing his summer rental,
so we both have to Leave.

  
We're meeting up on the Isle of Wight
for some undisturbed writing and carousing.

  
Mrs. Brawne, may I speak to Fanny, please?

  
No, I will not speak to him.

  
Fanny, I was going to tell you.

  
Fanny, I have no money.

  
In fact, I am in debt.

  
I must earn. I must write and make a Living.

  
If I fail, though I hate to think on it,

  
then I must make way so another may marry
and adore you as I wish to.

  
No! I will not be adored ever again
by you or by anyone!

  
I hate you!

  
Anything?

  
No. Nothing.

  
Nothing.

  
Fanny, will you check my stitch?
It's an open-work seam.

  
God.

  
No, Toots. I don't care a damn for stitches!

  
-No letter?
-Not today.

  
Am I in Love?

  
Is this Love?

  
I shall never tease about it again.

  
So sore I believe one could die of it.

  
''My dearest lady,

  
''I am now at a very pleasant cottage window

  
''looking onto a beautiful hilly country,
with a view of the sea.

  
''The morning is very fine.

  
''I do not know how elastic
my spirit might be,

  
''what pleasure I might have in living here

  
''if the remembrance of you
did not weigh so upon me.

  
''Ask yourself, my love, whether you are
not very cruel to have so entrammelled me,

  
''so destroyed my freedom.

  
''For myself, I know not how to express
my devotion to so fair a form.

  
''I want a brighter word than bright,
a fairer word than fair.

  
''I almost wish we were butterflies
and lived but three summer days.

  
''Three such days with you
I could fill with more delight

  
''than 50 common years could ever contain. ''

  
I Love you.

  
I Love you, Toots.

  
''Will you confess this in a letter

  
''you must write immediately
and do all you can to console me in it,

  
''make it rich as a draft of poppies
to intoxicate me,

  
''write the softest words and kiss them

  
''that I may at least touch my lips
where yours have been. ''

  
''My dear Mr. Keats, thank you for your letter.

  
''Lately I have felt so nervous and ill
that I had to stay five days in bed.

  
''Having received your letter, I am up again,
walking our paths on the heath.

  
''I've begun a butterfly farm
in my bedroom in honor of us.

  
''Sammy and Toots are catching them for me.

  
''Samuel has made a science of it

  
''and is collecting both caterpillars
and chrysalises

  
''so we may have them fluttering about us
a week or more. ''

  
''I have two luxuries
to brood over in my walks,

  
''your loveliness and the hour of my death.

  
''O that I could have possession of them
both in the same minute. ''

  
''I never knew before what such a love
as you have made me feel was.

  
''I did not believe in it.

  
''But if you will fully love me,
though there may be some fire,

  
''it will not be more
than we can bear when moistened

  
-''and bedewed with pleasures. ''
-''Bedewed with pleasures.''

  
''Bedewed with pleasures.''

  
-There's no air.
-No, Mama, they Love the heat.

  
We're going to lose them.

  
Listen, ''I Love you more in that I believe
you've Liked me for my own sake.

  
''I have met with women whom I really think
would Like to be married to a poem,

  
''to be given away by a novel.''

  
Mama, don't be cross.

  
When I don't hear from him,
it's as if I've died,

  
as if the air is sucked out from my lungs

  
and I am Left desolate,
but when I receive a Letter,

  
I know our world is real.
It's the one I care for.

  
Watch the butterfly.

  
Well, move it.

  
-Fanny wants a knife.
-What for?

  
To kill herself.

  
It's all over.

  
I have such a short letter after all this time.

  
No, Topper!

  
Saying he was in London, in London,

  
and couldn’t bring himself to visit
for fear it would burn him up!

  
He's made no fortune and is ashamed of it.

  
If only he knew how Little I, even you,
care for that now.

  
You missed that one.

  
-Hello.
-Hello.

  
Mama asked me to welcome you home
and introduce you to Miss O'Donoghue,

  
our new maid who may also do for you.

  
Please, sir, call me Abigail or Abby.

  
Very well. Be sure you do not enter
if the door is closed.

  
Yes, sir.

  
Mr. Keats is not coming back.
He has gone to Live in London.

  
Please tell Mr. Keats that we Brawnes
have kept safe all his things.

  
Mr. Brown has said that
I could learn to read still.

  
I said to him, ''Sure, what would I read?''

  
And he said, ''Abigail, even the Bible
is not so dull as you might believe.''

  
And that in the Songs of Solomon,
there are some bits so juicy,

  
they'd make even a churchman blush.

  
And he said that when I get down
to the reading myself,

  
I'II see he tells not one word of a lie.

  
Hello, Toots.

  
Hello, Mr. Keats.

  
Hello, Miss Brawne.

  
Mother? We found it.
Fanny had the key, Like I thought.

  
What do you need for London?

  
Your vest has no lining.

  
And your coat

  
has a small hole.

  
I could mend it so you wouldn’t see it.

  
''My sweet girl,
I am living today in yesterday.

  
''I was in a complete fascination all day.

  
''I feel myself at your mercy.

  
''Write me ever so few lines and tell me

  
''you will never forever be less kind to me
than yesterday.

  
''You dazzled me.

  
''There is nothing in the world
so bright and delicate.

  
''You have absorbed me.

  
''I have a sensation at the present moment
as if I was dissolving. ''

  
Fanny, Mrs. Dilke is telling me that

  
Mr. Keats is proposing
to move in next door again,

  
and she wants to know
if I have any objections.

  
Of course you don't.

  
Mr. Brown is Mr. Keats' best friend.
Why would we object?

  
Fanny, Mr. Dilke and I are worried

  
that such close connection
may prove restrictive for you.

  
No.

  
Mr. Keats can't afford to marry.

  
His situation is really quite hopeless,

  
and if he is next door,
how will you meet anyone else?

  
How will you go to dances?

  
But you are engaged?

  
It's his mother's ring.
It's not an engagement ring.

  
You were not to wear it.

  
I wear it on the finger next door.

  
Do not even discuss it.

  
You taught me to Love. You never said
only the rich, only a thimbleful.

  
Attachment is such a difficult thing to undo.

  
''Pillowed upon
my fair love's ripening breast

  
''To feel forever its soft swell and fall

  
''Awake forever in a sweet unrest

  
''Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath''

  
That's new.

  
From which poem?

  
Yours.

  
''Bright star,

  
''would I were steadfast as thou art

  
''Not in Ione splendor hung aloft the night''

  
Why do you say ''not''?

  
''Not in Ione splendor''?

  
You fear I am not steadfast because
I oblige Mama by going to a dance?

  
Don't tease, Fanny.

  
Why are you Laughing?

  
I shall tell her I am unwell.

  
No, go.

  
Go.

  
Go.

  
Good Irish Abigail,

  
who never did fail to make a scone
as good as a swan.

  
Would you Like some jam with that, sir?

  
Please.

  
Delicious.

  
Fanny! Come in. It's turned cold.

  
Mr. Keats has gone to London with no coat.

  
John, have you had wine?

  
I was severely chilled.

  
I was on the outside of the coach,

  
but now I don't feel it.

  
Abigail!

  
Abigail! Get up, dress yourself.
We need a doctor.

  
Abigail, bring the water.

  
I need a basin and a towel.

  
And glasses, I need glasses.

  
-Let me help. I can...
-Stand back, stand back.

  
Keats has already asked to see Miss Brawne,

  
but I've managed him
and said that she had gone into town.

  
But I have not.

  
I am speaking of keeping Mr. Keats calm.

  
This is a deception I will not join.

  
No, no, it is not a deception.

  
I am simply determined
to preserve the Life of my friend.

  
You would have it that
I kill Mr. Keats with affection.

  
-Fanny!
-Perhaps you will.

  
Apparently, there is nothing I can do to
persuade you of the gravity of the situation,

  
but Keats is in my care
and all visits will follow my regime

  
or they will not happen at all.

  
Please, we Brawnes will do whatever we can
to restore Mr. Keats to health.

  
I was wondering where you were.

  
I have been waiting
to be with you the whole day.

  
Last night there was a...

  
There was a great rush of blood,

  
such that I thought that I would suffocate.

  
And I said to Mr. Brown,
''This is unfortunate.''

  
My thoughts were of you.

  
''My sweet creature, when I send this round,
I shall be in the front parlor,

  
''watching to see you show yourself
for a minute in the garden.

  
''When I look back upon the ecstasies
in which I have passed some days

  
''and the miseries in their turn,

  
''I wonder the more at the beauty
which has kept up the spell so fervently.

  
''How horrid was the chance of slipping
into the ground instead of into your arms.

  
''The difference is amazing, love. ''

  
-Go on! Go on, now!
-No, Brown. Brown. Brown.

  
I get anxious if I don't see her.

  
Why not bed her?

  
She'd do whatever you wished.

  
It might relieve your condition.

  
''Do not take the trouble of writing much.

  
''Merely send me my good night
to put under my pillow. John Keats. ''

  
''Let me no longer detain you
from going to town.

  
''There may be no end
to this imprisoning of you.

  
''Perhaps you had better not come
before tomorrow evening.

  
''You know our situation. I am recommended
not even to read poetry, much less write it.

  
''I wish I had even a little hope.

  
''I cannot say forget me,

  
''but I would mention that
there are impossibilities in the world. ''

  
John, why do you say ''impossibilities''?

  
I have coughed blood again.

  
I fear the disease has the upper hand

  
and I will not recover.

  
I can't Leave you.

  
I have such clear hope
for your new book of poems.

  
John, they are more beautiful than
any I have read of Mr. Coleridge,

  
Mr. Wordsworth, even Lord Byron.

  
''O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms

  
''Alone and palely loitering?

  
''The sedge has wither'd from the Lake
And no birds sing''

  
''I met a lady in the meads

  
''Full beautiful, a faery's child

  
''Her hair was Long, her foot was light

  
''And her eyes were wild

  
''I set her on my pacing steed

  
''And nothing else saw all day Long

  
''For sidelong would she bend and sing
A faery's song''

  
''She found me roots of relish sweet

  
''And honey wild, and manna dew

  
''And sure in language strange she said
'I Love thee true'''

  
''She took me to her elfin grot''

  
''And there she wept, and sigh'd full sore''

  
''And there I shut her wild wild eyes
With kisses four

  
''And there she lulled me asleep

  
''And there I dream'd, ah! woe betide!

  
''The latest dream I ever dream'd

  
''On the cold hill side''

  
Abigail?

  
Here it is.
Mr. Brown said to give it to you tomorrow,

  
but I'II not wait.

  
He is the most cruel,

  
dead-hearted man in this entire world.

  
Oh, my God!

  
Oh, my God, I wish I were dead.

  
I am boiling with fury.

  
John, you must not convulse again.

  
Abigail is with child,
but to whom, out of fear or shame,

  
she would not say.

  
We, Brown, must find out who it is,
and when we have his name,

  
then butcher or baker,
he shall face up to his indecency.

  
-Will you call her?
-It's not necessary.

  
She has me believe I'm the father.

  
My God, I had no notion of a Love affair.

  
There was none,
or I must have slept through it.

  
With what ease you help yourself.

  
I have agreed to pay for the child.

  
And the worst thing is
I can't keep this place.

  
I have to start my summer rental early.

  
And I feel wretched turning you out
while you are so unwell,

  
but, John, I can't do anything else.

  
I'm overloaded with debt.

  
Don't concern yourself.

  
-I shall manage.
-Stupid. Stupid.

  
In what stumbling ways a new soul is begun.

  
I'd very much value your opinion, Mr. Keats,

  
on a new painting of mine,
The Cave of Despair. I was...

  
If you are suggesting he won't survive
another winter in England,

  
then we must do something.

  
Gentlemen, I think we should hear
Dr. Bree on the issue of climate

  
for Keats' health.

  
Well, a move to a gentler climate
is essential.

  
I would recommend Italy.

  
-Rome?
-Rome is good.

  
-Does he want to go to Rome?
-Well, he has to go.

  
He won't Live through another winter
in England.

  
How do you feel about Italy, John?

  
I do think there is an issue of finance.

  
Could we not, between us,
start a fund or a coIIection?

  
It seems possible.

  
Of course, he'll need a traveling companion.
Brown, you’ll go?

  
Absolutely, absolutely.

  
Someone must go.
I'm not sure I shall be able.

  
-Is that a ''no''?
-Miss. Miss.

  
I can help find a room for the summer,
John, if you want.

  
Sammy, walk behind.

  
I want to go to Italy with you.

  
We can marry, and I'II go with you.

  
My friends talk of going to Italy,
but I have so Little money.

  
Spare a penny, sir?

  
I can barely afford
these Kentish Town rooms.

  
Farewell me here.

  
Why?

  
We don't do linen.

  
AII right, I'm coming!

  
Mr. Hunt can't have meant this room.

  
I told you not to come.

  
Go now.

  
Go.

  
Please start.

  
-Please start.
-Where's Fanny?

  
Thank you.

  
She's not eating.

  
Are you all right?

  
How Long has Mr. Keats been away?

  
Five weeks.

  
Perhaps it is for the best.

  
Whose best?

  
I thought it might be a relief to be separated
when the circumstances are so difficult.

  
You all wish I would give up, but I can't.

  
Even if I wanted to, I cannot.

  
John!

  
Keep away from me if you do not Love me,

  
if you have not a crystal conscience
this past month.

  
Oh, my Love.

  
I thought my heart was breaking.

  
Mama! Mama!

  
Mr. Keats?

  
Toots, the door.

  
Take care.

  
John. John?

  
Thank you.

  
-Was there any blood?
-No.

  
Is he staying here?

  
Yes, yes. Tonight.

  
Well, I need to examine the patient.

  
May he stay tomorrow?
Till he Leaves for Italy?

  
But you are not even officiaIIy engaged.

  
Can't we be?

  
There is no end to this.

  
Next, you’ll want to marry
then travel to Rome.

  
I should never have moved into this house.

  
I have let this happen.

  
Just until Italy.

  
You are already the source
of so much gossip.

  
Well then, Let us be engaged.

  
Toots.

  
Have you been eating rosebuds again?

  
So where do your cheeks get their blush?

  
I confirmed your ship,
the Maria Crowther, sailing for Naples.

  
When does she Leave?

  
-In 10 days.
-So soon?

  
Autumn is coming.

  
I'm afraid if you delay
there'll be less and less reason to hope.

  
Then there's no putting it off.

  
I must march against the battery.

  
Allow me to pour you another, Mr. Severn.

  
Really? Well, perhaps I might just tip it back.

  
-Is his passage fully paid for?
-Yes, yes.

  
Everything's taken care of.

  
What if something should happen
to Mr. Keats

  
or even to you, in a foreign country?

  
How would you survive?

  
It shouldn’t be Severn. He barely knows him.

  
Where is that fool Mr. Brown
when he is needed?

  
And why hasn't he written?

  
I found a goose for Mr. Keats' Last dinner.

  
Don't say ''Last.''

  
...two, three. One, two, three.
One, two, three. And one, two, three.

  
One, two, three. One, two, three.
One, two, three.

  
One, two, three. One, two, three.
One, two, three. One, two, three.

  
Toots?

  
Mr. Keats?

  
One, two, three...

  
-She's gone.
-What happened there?

  
One, two, three. One, two, three.
One, two, three.

  
Very good.

  
And don't come back.
There's no autumn around here.

  
Careful.

  
Are you all right?

  
Shall we sit down?

  
Mrs. Brawne, that's for you.

  
It's beautiful.

  
My dear, mad boy.

  
Is it successful?

  
There were two very positive reviews,
by friends,

  
and six mainly positive and four hostile.

  
I don't know, is that successful?

  
Yes, extremely so.

  
So they're selling well?

  
Come back. Live with us.

  
Marry our Fanny.

  
I Love you.

  
We should say our goodbyes now.

  
Shall we awake

  
and find all this is a dream?

  
There must be another Life.

  
We can't be created
for this kind of suffering.

  
I doubt that we will see each other again
on this earth.

  
Then why are you leaving?

  
Why must you go?

  
Because my friends have paid my way.

  
It is a hopeless hope,
but how can I refuse them?

  
Say you are too ill.

  
We have woven a web, you and I,

  
attached to this world

  
but a separate world of our own invention.

  
We must cut the threads, Fanny.

  
No.

  
No.

  
I can't.

  
I never will.

  
You know I would do anything.

  
I have a conscience.

  
-Let's pretend I will return in spring.
-You will return.

  
We will Live in the country.

  
Close to Mama.

  
And our bedroom will Look out
onto a Little apple orchard

  
and, beyond that, a mountain in a mist.

  
We can make a garden
where every sort of wildflower grows.

  
And we will go to bed
while the sun is still high.

  
And when it becomes dark,
the moon will shine through the shutters.

  
And I will hold you close
and kiss your breasts,

  
your arms, your waist.

  
Everywhere.

  
Touch has a memory.

  
I know it.

  
Not a word.

  
Mama, Mr. Brown's baby has red hair.

  
Hello!

  
You beautiful boy.

  
Hello. Well done. Well done.

  
Hello.

  
It is so nice to meet you.

  
You've seen the baby?

  
Looks Like Abigail.

  
John's reached Naples.

  
They quarantined his ship.

  
He wrote that he made more puns
out of desperation in two weeks

  
than he had in any year of his Life.

  
I should have Liked to have been there
to have heard them.

  
You could have, had you gone.

  
It's not that simple,

  
with a baby and my funds reduced.

  
And then there is this issue
of the snow and the Alps.

  
And lack of will.

  
Shall I say it aloud?

  
Will that satisfy you?

  
Shall I say it?

  
I have failed John Keats.

  
I failed John Keats.

  
I failed John Keats!

  
I failed him! I failed him!

  
I did not know until now how tightly
he'd wound himself around my heart.

  
It's for you, Mama. It's from Italy.

  
It's from Mr. Keats.

  
He says, ''It looks Like a dream.''

  
Start again.

  
It's cold out.

  
How are you all?

  
We're all quite well enough,
but how is Mr. Keats?

  
Mrs. Brawne, it is as unbearable to me

  
as I know it is to you.

  
Mr. Keats has died.

  
I received an account from Severn,

  
and I've copied it for you, Miss Brawne.

  
Shall I just read it?

  
''Friday, the 23rd of February.

  
''At four in the afternoon, Keats called me,

  
'''Severn, Severn, lift me up for I am dying.

  
'''I shall die easy.

  
'''Don't be frightened.
Thank God it has come. '

  
''At one point, a cold, heavy sweat broke out
over his whole body, and he whispered,

  
'''Don't breathe on me. It comes like ice. '

  
''Keats died imperceptibly. ''

  
No more.

  
Oh, God.

  
Oh, God. John!

  
Mama!

  
Mama!

  
I... I can't breathe.

  
Mama!

  
Mama!

  
Sammy! Samuel!

  
''Bright star,

  
''would I were steadfast as thou art

  
''Not in Ione splendor hung aloft the night

  
''And watching, with eternal lids apart

  
''Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite

  
''The moving waters at their priestlike task

  
''Of pure ablution
round earth's human shores

  
''Or gazing on the new soft fallen masque

  
''Of snow upon the mountains and the moors

  
''No, yet still steadfast, still unchangeable

  
''PiIIow'd upon my fair Love’s ripening breast

  
''To feel for ever its soft swell and fall

  
''Awake for ever

  
''in a sweet unrest

  
''Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath

  
''And so Live ever, or else swoon to death''

  
''My heart aches,
and a drowsy numbness pains

  
''My sense, as though of hemlock
I had drunk

  
''Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains

  
''One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk

  
'''Tis not through envy of thy happy lot
But being too happy in thine happiness

  
''That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees

  
''In some melodious plot

  
''Of beechen green,
and shadows numberless

  
''Singest of summer in full-throated ease

  
''O, for a draft of vintage that hath been

  
''Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth

  
''Tasting of Flora and the country green

  
''Dance, and Provençal song,
and sunburnt mirth!

  
''O for a beaker full of the warm South

  
''Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene

  
''With beaded bubbles winking at the brim

  
''And purple-stained mouth

  
''That I might drink,
and leave the world unseen

  
''And with thee fade away into the forest dim

  
''Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget

  
''What thou among the leaves
hast never known

  
''The weariness, the fever, and the fret

  
''Here, where men sit
and hear each other groan

  
''Where palsy shakes a few,
sad, last gray hairs

  
''Where youth grows pale, and specter-thin,
and dies

  
''Where but to think is to be full of sorrow

  
''And leaden-eyed despairs

  
''Where Beauty cannot keep
her lustrous eyes

  
''Or new Love pine at them
beyond to-morrow

  
''Away! Away! For I will fly to thee

  
''Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards

  
''But on the viewless wings of Poesy

  
''Though the dull brain perplexes and retards

  
''Already with thee! Tender is the night

  
''And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne

  
''Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays

  
''But here there is no light

  
''Save what from heaven
is with the breezes blown

  
''Through verdurous glooms
and winding mossy ways

  
''I cannot see what flowers are at my feet

  
''Nor what soft incense
hangs upon the boughs

  
''But, in embalmed darkness,
guess each sweet

  
''Wherewith the seasonable month endows

  
''The grass, the thicket
and the fruit-tree wild

  
''White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine

  
''Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves

  
''And mid-May's eldest child

  
''The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine

  
''The murmurous haunt of flies
on summer eves

  
''Darkling I listen, and, for many a time

  
''I have been half in love with easeful Death

  
''Call'd him soft names
in many a mused rhyme

  
''To take into the air my quiet breath

  
''Now more than ever seems it rich to die

  
''To cease upon the midnight with no pain

  
''While thou art pouring forth
thy soul abroad

  
''In such an ecstasy!

  
''Still wouldst thou sing,
and I have ears in vain

  
''To thy high requiem become a sod

  
''Thou wast not born for death,
immortal Bird!

  
''No hungry generations tread thee down

  
''The voice I hear this passing night
was heard

  
''In ancient days by emperor and clown

  
''Perhaps the self-same song
that found a path

  
''Through the sad heart of Ruth,
when, sick for home

  
''She stood in tears amid the alien corn

  
''The same that oft-times hath

  
''Charm'd magic casements,
opening on the foam

  
''Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn

  
''Forlorn! The very word is like a bell

  
''To toll me back from thee to my sole self!

  
''Adieu! The fancy cannot cheat so well

  
''As she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf

  
''Adieu! Adieu! Thy plaintive anthem fades

  
''Past the near meadows,
over the still stream

  
''Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep

  
''In the next valley-glades

  
''Was it a vision, or a waking dream?

  
''Fled is that music. Do I wake or sleep?''