All language subtitles for Upstairs Downstairs S01E02 The Mistress

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Good.

Good.

Now, if... if you would
stand over here again,

just between the
chair and the fireplace.

That's it.

And draped a little,

as it were pensive or,
um... or languorous, hmm?

- Um...
- Oh, yes. Please.

Question of getting
the right pose, you see.

Making these quick
sketches to brood on,

then having selected the one,

getting it down
with... With passion.

Quite.

I've no time for
Sargent's method

of painting a face a
dozen different ways

and then going
back to the first one.

Isn't the, uh, the
jawline a little angular?

Well, I see what
you're getting at.

It's... It's very
strong, of course.

Your husband
wants you drawn soft

to flatter him, Lady Marjorie,

whereas I see you as a
woman of personality, decision...

Strong-willed, even.

Well, you're entitled
to your opinions, Scone.

Shall we turn him out?

Husbands are a
great trial to artists.

They look on their
wives as possessions

and a portrait as a
kind of display case.

And wives, Mr. Scone?

They don't pay the fee.

Besides, they
like their husbands

to appear strong
men of the world,

which is much
easier to comply with.

I mean, if I-I saw your
husband as a-a lily

and wanted to paint him like
that, what would you say, hmm?

Send for the
police, I should think.

I've just come back... Could
you turn this way a little?

Just come back from Paris,

where there's an exhibition
of the best in French painting,

which you really must try and
see next time you're over there.

And what shall I see, Mr. Scone?

Light and colors you've
never seen before.

I sent my cousin,
young John Strathcairn,

over to buy a Degas

for that drafty seat
of theirs in Perthshire.

But the fool bought one
of Renoir's lush pieces.

Said the dowager

wouldn't have a servant
hanging in the drawing room.

Old Lady Abercraven?

Yes, my unsainted aunt.

Head this way a little.

You'll be going up to
Abercraven for the 12th?

My dear Bellamy, since
I ran aw... I'm sorry...

Since I ran away to Paris to
become a disreputable painter,

I've managed, thank God,

to see as little of
my family as I wish.

- Um...
- Oh.

Besides, the
destruction of small birds

doesn't really interest me.

Yes.

Ah.

Now...

how shall we clothe
the portrait, hmm?

- Would you like me...
- My dear Lady Marjorie...

an artist and a woman
would never agree

on such a delicate matter.

Besides, an artist's
vision is quite different

from that of a lady of fashion.

Will you join me in an
honorable compromise?

The two words rarely
go together, Mr. Scone,

at least not in politics.

And so?

So if you would select one or
two of your most favored dresses

and have them sent 'round
to me to examine for texture...

Something light
and frothy, perhaps.

Oh, but leave the
final decision to me.

Yes. Certainly.

There. Wouldn't you call that
an honorable compromise?

Giving us both the
freedom of decision

yet without the
indignity of a battle.

Yes, I don't think I'd like to
fight with you, Mr. Scone...

At least not yet.

Well, as much as I'm enjoying

the carefree atmosphere
of the artist's studio,

I'm afraid that affairs
of state beckon.

I'm due at the Admiralty in...
Oh, goodness... half an hour.

And the First Sea Lord
dislikes unpunctuality.

In fact, I require your
wife's patience no longer.

The sketches are done.

Oh, good. Then you'll
begin the painting?

- Tomorrow afternoon.
- Capital!

Uh, Mr. Scone, I'm
sure you'll produce

something quite outstanding.

With such a charming
subject, how could I fail?

Hudson, will you call a
hansom? Mr. Scone is leaving.

- Very good, sir.
- Uh, no, not for me, thank you.

I'll, uh, walk back to my
studio across the park.

Till tomorrow, then.

And you, uh, you won't
forget the dresses?

They shall be sent
'round this afternoon,

and I'll expect you
here tomorrow at 3:00?

Indeed.

Lady Marjorie, Mr. Bellamy.

Well?

Well, I-I hope you've
chosen the right man.

Oh, he's an exciting
painter, Richard.

Of that I've no doubt.

But is it necessary for a
painter to talk quite so much?

I find his conversation very
interesting and stimulating.

Oh, rather you than me.

I don't have to
listen to him all day.

Well, I must go.

Now, uh, dinner at 8:30, I
believe, and a white waistcoat.

You won't be late, will
you? The Cecils are coming.

I will not be late.

And if that talkative fellow

does not do justice to
my wife's beauty, I shall...

What will you do?

I shall hang him... next
to one of his own portraits.

Entre!

Come in, damn you!

What the devil?

He said to bring
these on up, sir?

- "He"?
- The foreign chap downstairs.

My servant. My servant.

Why didn't he bring
them up himself?

What are they, anyway?

Lady Marjorie
Bellamy's dresses, sir.

Oh.

Would that be all, sir?

What's your name?

Sarah... sir.

You can drop the "sir" with me.

You don't like saying it anyway.

How do you know
what I don't like saying?

Hold that.

I want you to show
me these dresses.

Hold that. Come on.

Hold it up. Hold it up.

Ugh. Looks like a dust sheet.

Next.

Ah, the simple milkmaid.

I might have known
there'd be one of those.

It never works over 40.

Why will they never learn?

Oh, come off it.

She's ever so
nice-looking for her age.

But a tyrant
underneath, I'll bet, hmm?

I don't think you
ought to ask me that.

What about the butler?
Does he whip you?

Ooh, I'd like to see him try.

No.

But you're afraid of him?

I'm not afraid of no
one. He's not bad, really.

He gives us a night off every
week, and that's more than most.

- When's yours?
- Wednesdays.

What do they pay you?

Mind your own business.

10 pounds a year and a
bed in a basement, eh?

No, old clever dick.

It's twice that much
and a room in the attic.

And Rose gets 30.

- Who's Rose?
- She's my friend.

We've got this lovely
room up top together.

And when we've got a
bit of money together,

we're going to open a
boardinghouse in Brighton.

No. Next.

Uh, you'd better
fancy this one...

Yes, put it on. Put it on.

Because it's the last.

It might do.

Now, come over
here. Come over here.

Oh.

Now, look.

Will you bury all that beauty
in a boardinghouse in Brighton?

Hmm?

I rather fancy Brighton.

Balls at the Pavilion and a
gentleman to hand me out

of my bathing
machine into the water.

And perhaps a drive
along the front in a motorcar.

Mm.

These tuppenny
novelettes you girls read.

You've never been to Brighton.

Oh, resorts are all the same.

You've seen one,
you've seen 'em all.

- Yes, that's the one.
- Pardon?

That's the one.

Tell your mistress that's
the one I want her to wear.

Now, put them all back
in the box and off you go.

I've been to Southend.

Rose!

Rose!

Where ever have you been?

You've only got five
minutes to change.

It's time to serve
drawing-room tea!

Rose, I've got a letter.

Look. It says "by hand."

I've managed to
read that much meself.

You'll have to do the rest.

- You try.
- You know I can't.

You can if you persevere.

Oh, Rose, it's not like print.

Real writing's different,
with all them squiggles.

It's too hard for me.

Please, Rose.

If you don't hurry up,
you'll be late downstairs.

Where'd you get it, then?

Well, I was going
down the area steps

and this chap handed it to me.

What sort of chap?

Oh, nobody special,
just ordinary-looking.

And he gave it to
you, just like that?

Yeah, just like that.

Well, don't you believe me?

Well, come on. Open it.
Maybe it'll say who it's from.

What's it say?

If this is one of your games...

Who'd you get to
write it for you, then?

Same person who's wrote
your French reference, I suppose.

Well, you may have fooled
Lady Marjorie and the agency,

but you can't fool me.

Rose, honest to God and
cut me throat if I tell a lie.

"Divine Sarah."

Divine Sarah.

"There will be a cab waiting
for you at the end of your street

on the corner of the square
on Wednesday at 7:00.

The cabbie will bring you to me.

Ask no questions."

Who's it from?!

It's signed "an admirer."

Where?

There!

"Ad-mirer."

You expect me to believe that?

Well, why shouldn't
I have an admirer?

Who is he, then?

Oh, um, probably someone

who's seen me around
in the park or something.

Oh? And how does
he know your name?

"Divine Sarah."

Sarah Bernhardt. She's
an actress. Frenchwoman.

He's laughing at you.

It's all a bit of a
laugh, really, isn't it?

Oh, I won't sleep tonight

for wondering who it's
gonna turn out to be.

- You're not going?
- Why not?

Gentlemen don't make
assignations with housemaids

for the charm of their
conversation, you know.

An assignation!

Oh, that sounds very romantic.

Not so romantic when
you're turned off in disgrace

- and the father won't marry you.
- Oh.

They never do, you know.

When it's all over,
you're thrown in the corner

like a rag doll the
moths have been at.

Sometimes girls
don't come back at all.

They end up on a
slab in the morgue.

Don't.

You make me feel all funny.

How can you bear
anyone pawing you about?

Oh, it's only you says he will.

If he's a gent...

If he's a gentleman,
he'll paw you about.

Sarah, don't go.

Don't worry, Rose.
I'm ever so strong.

Yes, well, he'll get you tipsy.

Yeah, that's right... on bubbly.

Very refreshing, I must say.

What's that bed doing
there? It wasn't there before.

For models, posing.

Sometimes I use it myself.

I'll bet.

Um, what was this proposition

that you wanted
to talk to me about?

I only take propositions
from gentlemen, mind.

How do you know
I'm not a gentleman?

'Cause you're a painter.

Oh, cousin to an earl.

Oh, and I'm Marie Lloyd.

- It's true!
- Prove it.

I'm not going to parade my
family tree for your inspection.

Well, go on.

Off you go.

Finish your champagne.
Back home to Rose.

Isn't it a little late for
you to be out, hmm?

Course, you won't
have much to tell,

but I'm sure you'll make up
something as you go along.

Here. Is your
cousin really an earl?

Um, Rose said that if
you turned out to be a gent,

I wasn't to trust you.

Rose is a very wise girl.

Rose says this Sarah...
What's her name?

- Bernhardt.
- Yeah.

Uh, is a French actress.

The divine Sarah.

I thought you wouldn't
be able to resist that.

Sarah Bernhardt... the
greatest actress in the world.

Mm.

A consummate artist.

Are you a consummate artist?

Of course.

Well, you look
healthy enough to me.

What's your Christian name?

I never use it. Everybody
calls me Scone.

Scone.

Scones for tea,
buttered, please.

Yes.

Now, let's get down to
my proposition, shall we?

All right. What is it?

I want to paint you.

- Paint me?
- Mm-hmm.

You mean like Lady Marjorie?

- That's right.
- Why?

Your face... It interests me.

- My face?
- Mm-hmm.

Uh, would I be hung up on a
wall for everybody to look at?

If I paint you well enough, yes.

- I can't pay you nothing.
- It won't cost you a farthing.

Oh, you'll have to come
on your afternoons off.

All right.

Good.

We'll start...

at once.

What? Now?

Right now, at once.

- Now, get into that bed.
- Oh, come on.

- You... Stop it!
- Take your hat off.

We'll have to put
your hair down.

- Leave me...
- Take your blouse off.

- Oh!
- That's it.

- No! Don't touch me!
- Now into bed. Go on. Into bed.

Lady Marjorie never
takes her clothes off.

Now then, look. There you are.

That's how I want to paint you.

Your pale face
against the shadows.

Now, my divine Sarah,

all you have to do
is to keep very still.

Mm.

- Here. Do...
- Keep still!

I thought you'd be asleep.

You told me to wait up.

You'll be ever so
tired in the morning.

What you reading?

"The Dove in the Eagle's Nest."

Not the Bible?

It's by Charlotte M. Yonge.

Is it a tuppenny novelette?

Um, my friend

said that all servant girls
read tuppenny novelettes.

Well, aren't you going to
ask me what happened?

It's your life.

Yes, but half the
fun's telling you, Rosie.

- Is it?
- I haven't done nothing wicked.

Come here.

Breathe.

You've been
drinking, haven't you?

Champagne!

That's not a drink.
That's nectar.

The nectar of the gods,
the milk of Bacchus.

Shh. You'll wake Alfred.

Oh, never mind Alfred.

Well, aren't you going to ask me
who my friend turned out to be?

Go on. Ask me.

All right.

Who did your
friend turn out to be?

Scone.

Who?

Scone... the gentleman
who's painting Lady Marjorie.

He's gonna paint me and
all. He thinks I'm beautiful.

Paint you?

He wanted the
other, but I was firm.

I mean, you know
what artists are.

But he still wants to set me
up in a little flat of my own.

But if that's what he wants,
why does he bother painting you?

Oh, well, you see, he's
been in Paris all this while,

where all the artists have
their mistresses as models.

And they go and paint
them till they become famous.

I told him all about you and
how we share this room together.

I'm going there every
Wednesday when I get them off...

And on Sundays, too.

But what for?

To sit for him,

like Lady Marjorie
does when he paints her.

Incidentally, he's ever so
rich and the cousin to an earl.

And he thinks I'm beautiful.

Isn't it a lark?

Now, you listen to me, Sarah.

He'll dangle his money and
his position in front of you

till you can't hold out no more.

The painting's just an
excuse to keep you going there

while he works on you.

Can't you see that?

Look, Rose, what
else have I got to do?

It isn't as if you and me
have the same night off.

I'm lonely by meself.
I'm not used to it.

Rosie, rather than go walking
in the streets on my own,

I might just as well
be there with him.

Don't be cross with me, Rose.

I can't help how I'm made.

Come to bed.

Rose?

Yeah?

Am I beautiful?

Go to sleep, Sarah.

Head up a little.

Right.

Now hold it perfectly still.

Oh.

It's worse than
dining at Windsor.

The light's fading fast.

In a moment, your
servant will come in

and shut it all out
with the curtains.

That will be the end of us.

I like you best by sunset.

What the French
painters call soleil.

Yes. Sunset.

That's your moment.

Are you a poet as
well as a painter?

You have very fine
hands, Lady Marjorie.

I shall make them pieces of mist

yet with a touch of
bone underneath,

because that's how you are.

Do you get to know
your subjects that well

simply by painting them?

I know what you mean
to me in terms of paint.

Oh, that's not very flattering.

Women like to be
known for themselves.

Rubbish, if I may say so.

You don't want
anybody to know you.

Nobody does.

We all want our mystery...
Our own and everyone else's.

So we arrange our surfaces,
give our chosen impression.

And the painter?

Rearranges them to give his.

Ah, but supposing he's wrong?

He can't be.

That's his.

A product of a
trained mind and eye.

Is that what your
friends are trying to do

in those French paintings
you want me to see?

Perhaps.

You may say you see them
quite differently, of course.

There's no neat
nugget of a moral

you can take away
and forget the picture.

That's not art.

It's not even life anymore.

Life itself is a series
of colorful moments.

And morality?

Largely hypocrisy.

You know, you talk more
like a Fabian than like the...

Than the nephew of the
Countess of Abercraven, hmm?

Would you take up the
pose just a little while longer?

- Sorry.
- Thank you.

Head up, this way.

I think I'm a little frightened

of what your picture may
show, of what you see.

Good.

We'll keep the
mask dropped a little.

There.

We're to be left
alone no longer.

Shall I draw the
curtains, milady?

- Mr. Scone?
- Yeah.

Yes, Sarah, you may.

Reposez vous, madame.

Finished, good lady.

The bright day is done.

And we are for the dark.

You'll stay for tea?

If I may.

All right.

You can have a rest.

- Scone?
- Mm?

Bring me some champagne.

Very good, milady.

To the divine Sarah.

The divine Sarah.

It's funny to be in
bed with your boots on.

Here. Do you think
I've got nice legs?

What are you up to now, hmm?

What dreamworld are
you concocting for yourself,

you little fantasist?

What's a fantasist?

Someone who lives
on airy nothings,

on tomorrows that never come.

Yes!

Airy nothings and
tomorrows that never come.

Oh, God, how much longer
must I wait for tomorrows?

My noble earl of tomorrows
who never bloody comes,

for he is the father
of my luckless child,

my vile seducer.

And it is my Lord
Tomorrow's fault

that I am cast
out into the storm

in my rags and
tatters, cold and...

Ow!

I've dropped the baby.

There, there, child.

Do not cry.

You are unharmed.

All right, Madame Bernhardt.

- Ow!
- That will do.

Is that my applause, fellow?

No, it's your signal
to get back to work.

Now, come on.

I saw one of them dramas
at the Lyceum once.

- There was this lord and...
- And keep your mouth shut.

What about the
boardinghouse in Brighton?

I asked you a question.

You can move your mouth now.

Thank you.

Well?

I don't know. Rose hardly
talks to me nowadays.

She don't like me
coming here with you.

Does she still think
I'm after your virtue?

She doesn't trust you.

- She says...
- Yes?

If you were honest,
you'd pay me.

Do you think I should?

Models get paid.

So do prostitutes.

Here, you!

What do you think you're worth?

Oh, keep your
money. I'm not like that.

No. Rose is right.

I ought to reward you.

Maybe I should take
you out somewhere

or buy you a new hat or
something... I don't know.

- What do girls like, hmm?
- You should know.

What do French girls like?

It's what English girls like.

That's the problem.

I've been away so long.

You'll have to help me.

Now, what's it to be?

Anything?

Within reason.

The Bioscope.

The what?

The Daily Bioscope
in Bishopsgate Street.

That's within reason.

- Moving pictures?
- Yeah!

Alfred went once
on his night off,

and he told us all about it.

They're real people...

Not painted and
still, but moving

and motorcars and
horses and the king himself.

I know.

Have you been? Oh,
take me. You promised.

What is so exciting

about a series of
flickering shapes, huh?

Because they're real!

They happen just like that.

Nobody made them
up. They're true.

And what about art?

Oh, art's all right for
those that can afford it,

but it's not true, is it?

Ah. Well, I'll tell
you something.

- Yes, but can we go?
- Now, be quiet and listen.

They've betrayed art.

All the academicians that
have spent a lifetime painting

a-a chair so exact that
you could almost sit on it

and now take 60 pictures first

to make sure they
get every angle right.

They are destroying
artistic imagination.

Do you know what will happen?

We will be so sickened by these
pictures that ape photographs

that we won't be able to
paint a human being at all.

And it'll be your fault... with
your naïve demand for the truth.

It's not my fault.

- Get dressed.
- Are we going?

Who am I to stop the
march of civilization?

- Allons!
- Pardon?

- Au Bioscope.
- Huh?

Get dressed.

- Oh, we're going?!
- Yes.

- Oh!
- Go on.

It was kind of you to take it
away and frame it yourself.

Not at all.

To the inexperienced eye,

an unframed canvas
always looks like rough work.

Also, I wish to
give you pleasure.

You're very
courteous, Mr. Scone.

- Ah, Richard.
- I hope I'm not too late.

Lady Marjorie tells me
that she's as impatient

as a child before
a coveted treat.

Well, I must say, I'm
a little curious myself.

We've never had
a portrait before.

Well, now, where
would you like us to stand

for the, um, for the unveiling?

Oh, well, just there I think.

I must admit to,
uh, feeling a little like

a conjuring uncle
at a birthday party.

Well, here goes.

Abracadabra.

Oh, Richard, say you like it.

Well, I-I don't
know what to say.

Uh, it takes a little
getting used to.

Uh...

It... It... It's almost glowing.

"Tawny." Is that the word?

Makes you look
a bit of a wildcat.

It... It... It's
certainly unusual.

Distinguished, in a way.

Maybe it would... It...
It... It does grow on one.

Is... Is your hair
really that color?

I think so.

You don't think
you've gone too far?

It's, um... It's a
bit blurry, isn't it?

Richard, that's
the new brushwork.

Mr. Scone will think
us such Philistines.

Lady Marjorie, I'm
afraid you won't convert

your husband to the
new Impressionists.

No, no, no, no, no. I like it.

I've made up my mind.

Thank you, Scone.

Now, then... where
shall we hang it?

Uh, first I would
like to borrow it.

- To borrow it?
- If I may, yes.

I would like to submit it

to the Hanging Committee
of the Royal Academy.

Academy?

Aren't they rather
more traditional

in their requirements?

I think if you leave that
to me, it can be arranged.

I, uh, guarantee a
safe return, of course.

Oh, yes, Richard. I
think it's a wonderful idea.

Here!

Artistic license.

Cheeky sod.

Do I really look like that?

That's our room, all right.

But how do you know?
You've never been there.

I didn't need to.

Who's that behind me?

Rose.

You've never seen Rose.

I have... through your eyes.

Oh, there's all my things
where I leave them lying around.

Rose hangs hers
up. She's the tidy one.

I know.

Um, if you don't
mind me mentioning it,

but here there should
be a little plaque

with "To Work Is
To Pray" written on it.

Ah. "To Work Is..." Yes. Mm-hmm.

What you gonna call it?

"The Maids."

Ooh.

That's not very romantic, is it?

Why don't you call it
something nice, like...

"Waiting for Dawn"
or something like that.

Ooh.

Well, other pictures
have titles like that.

Yes. They have
other artists, too.

What you gonna do with it now?

Sell it.

Sell me and Rose?

Mm-hmm.

You won't need me
anymore now, will you?

Now you've finished
your rotten old picture.

Cast off like an old shoe.

You've used me.

No. Art has used you, Sarah.

And it's used me, too.

There.

- Just a minute, Mr. Scone.
- Hmm?

Why aren't I your mistress?

What's the matter with me?

I was good enough for
your bleeding picture!

Oh, such language,
Madame Bernhardt.

- Oh!
- Damn you!

W... Now, wait a minute.

I wouldn't be your mistress if
you were the last man on earth,

but you might've
bleedin' asked me!

- Please! Don't! Stop it!
- It's only bloody decent!

What you laughing for?!

- You and your idea of decency!
- I'll bloody kill you!

No! Stop it!

Poncing around and making me...

Now stop shouting.
There's a good girl.

It's our last night together.

I'll take you out to supper.

Then we'll go to the Bioscope.

How about that, huh?

Charmed, I'm sure, Mr. Scone.

♪ Of all the girls
that are so fair ♪

♪ There's none
like pretty Sally ♪

♪ She's the darling
of my heart ♪

I don't know what
the world's coming to.

What's that, Mr. Hudson?

Alf Common, the
Sunderland center forward,

transferred to
Middlesbrough for £1,000.

Ooh.

No footballer is worth
that amount of money.

It's not a game anymore.
It's a blooming trade.

Quite agree, Mr. Hudson.

I didn't ask for
your opinion, Sarah.

Now, buck up
and clear the table.

Great heavens!

- Sarah, what have you done?!
- What do you mean?

I haven't done
nothing, Mr. Hudson.

It's today's paper.

Burn it at once in
the kitchen range.

Do you understand?
Nobody must see it.

- Burn it.
- What's the matter?

Well... Well, don't just
stand there, girl. Burn it.

And you wait in here,
my girl, until I return.

What happened to the
paper this morning, Hudson?

Uh, not come yet, sir.

Would be late this morning...
When I especially wanted it.

I shall send someone
'round to inquire

just as soon as convenient, sir.

Tell the newsagent I'll
get my papers elsewhere

- if they can't deliver on time.
- Very good, sir.

And remind her Ladyship to meet
at the Academy entrance at 4:30.

Should be quite an interesting
afternoon, eh, Hudson?

Quite, sir.

Splendid morning.

I think I'll walk
across the park.

Tell Pearce he can
put the carriage away

- unless her Ladyship wants it.
- Very good, sir.

Now, then.

Just you look at that.

That's my painting.

- It's in the paper.
- Read what it says underneath.

- I can't, Mr. Hudson.
- Come on, girl.

Read what it says.
You've been taught to read.

- Read what it says out loud.
- No. The print's too small.

Picture has turned out
nice, though, hasn't it?

Very well. I'll read it for you.

"Sensation of this
year's Academy

are undoubtedly two striking
pictures by Guthrie Scone..."

- Oh, it's pronounced "Skoon."
- Shut up.

"artist nephew of the
Countess of Abercraven.

Hung side by side in
fascinating counterpoint,

'The Mistress' and 'The Maids, '

as his pair of canvases
are already being called,

are both scenes from the house
of Mr. Richard Bellamy, M.P.,

undersecretary of
state for the Admiralty,

and set a new fashion
for home portraits.

Asked to name the model for
the scantily clad maidservant

in his canvas aptly
entitled 'The Maids, '

Mr. Guthrie Scone
referred our reporter

to the servants' quarters
at 165 Eaton Place."

What a cheek.

How did that man get up
to the maids' quarters, eh?

What has been going on
behind my back, Sarah?

He was here every afternoon,
painting Lady Marjorie.

But not up in the
maids' bedrooms.

No, he was in the
drawing room painting her.

You've been up to your tricks
again, my girl, haven't you?

I haven't, Mr. Hudson.

I went to his studio and
posed for him in his bed.

Um, I mean the
bed in the studio.

- Now, don't lie, Sarah.
- I'm not, Mr. Hudson!

I went there every
Wednesday I had off... honest.

Well, I can tell you
one thing, my girl.

There is going to be
hell to pay in this house

before the day's over.

You mark my words.

Good old Sarah.

Got your face in
the papers. Fancy.

Fancy letting him
paint her servants.

Really, he must have
gone mad to allow it.

It's Liberal propaganda.

Bellamy always did have
an eye for a pretty face.

She's more than a pretty face.

Two naked maids.

The duchesses
will have a field day.

Look out. They've arrived.

- Who?
- The Bellamys.

You can go down
and talk to them now.

Very good, sir.

Believe me, sir, if I'd
had the slightest inkling...

- That will be all, Hudson.
- Yes, sir.

- It's monstrous.
- Yes, it is.

Must have crept up the
back stairs or something

when Hudson wasn't looking.

The point is that we have
been seriously damaged

both socially and politically
by that irresponsible cad.

I never liked the
fellow. Talked too much.

He is a good painter.

Oh, yes, I suppose so.

And we've helped to
establish his reputation

- at the cost of our own.
- All the same, I do think

the sensible thing is to try and
treat the whole thing as a joke.

It's no joke having one's wife

made the
laughingstock of London.

I agree, but if we're
to survive the ridicule,

we must let our friends
think that we're not annoyed

but amused.

Of course, the
worst thing is to think

that Rose could've
behaved so foolishly,

leading the new girl astray.

They'll both have to
be dismissed, you know,

otherwise the discipline of the
whole household will collapse.

Indeed they will.

What I resent most is the
impudence of that man, Scone.

Coming into this
house and acting

with such monstrous
indiscretion.

You're to pack
your trunks tonight

and be gone in the
morning... The pair of you.

He'll pay you a month's wages,

which is generous,
in my opinion.

I doubt they'll ever want to
set eyes on either of you again.

They were to have gone
out for dinner tonight.

- They've canceled it now.
- It's not fair.

- We haven't done nothing wrong.
- "Nothing wrong," you call it?

Only made this household
the laughingstock of London.

Those are the
master's own words.

Oh, he's in a terrible rage,
and whose to blame him?

"I don't know how you
could, Hudson," he said.

But what have you done?

What have any of us done,
for that matter, even me?

Oh, Rose, I'm sorry.

What did you say?

Oh, I told him I didn't
know anything about it

and what I did not know I
could not be held responsible for.

"Ignorance is no
excuse in law," he said.

"It is your job to know.
It's what you're paid for."

- So I said...
- What?

I told him there was no
knowing with you modern girls.

Not like in my young day, when
girls were properly brought up

and glad to get a good position.

I told him I had no respect
for the changing times,

that you were all as deceitful
as a wagonload of monkeys.

You mean you let
him think what he likes

and let us take the blame.

I've got my own
position to think of.

And the family's.

Oh, Sarah.

Never mind, Rose.

I don't see why
you should suffer.

You didn't even have the fun.

They can't blame you
if I tell them the truth.

- Come on.
- Where to?

I'm going upstairs and
tell them the whole story.

They can get rid of me,
if they like, but not you.

That's not fair.

We can't go up there
without being sent for.

Oh, yes, we can.

Excuse me, milady. Sir?

Send them away please, Richard.

But, milady, it
wasn't our fault.

I didn't know he
was gonna put me up

and show me in
front of everybody.

- I thought he was only doing...
- I really can't stay here

to listen to all these excuses.

When I think that...

Your mistress feels
betrayed in her own home

by people she trusted.

That's all there is to be said.

I beg your pardon,
sir, but it isn't.

- Isn't?
- It isn't just, sir...

Not to Rose.

She never had nothing to
do with him... Scone, I mean.

It was all me.

- It's no use, Sarah.
- Yes, it is.

Now, listen!

He asked me to go to his studio.

I went there every
Wednesday I had off.

He never came
anywhere near this place,

and Rose has never
seen him in her life.

Now, look, sir.

You're a fair man.

You wouldn't want to see
an injustice done, would you?

I will not be badgered by my own
servants in my own drawing room.

And I'll make
him tell the truth.

What good will that do?

No gentleman would
stick up for two servants,

no matter what the truth was.

Night after night,
slumming with a servant girl.

Rose, he's not like that.
He says in Paris, all...

Paris! Paris! Who cares
what goes on there?

This is London.

Oh, a gentleman can
marry a chorus girl.

That's romantic.

But you don't exactly
get it in the papers

if he's carrying
on with a skivvy.

No, he got what he wanted from
you, and you was fool enough

- to give it to him.
- I never did!

- Oh?
- Now, listen, Rose.

I've tried to make
things all right,

and it's no use
being cross with me.

I'll make him tell
old Bellamy the truth.

- How?
- I don't know how!

But I'll think of something.

It's all right for me,
but Rose is different.

She's never done anything else.

She wouldn't know
how to start again.

She's set her heart

on working herself up to
be housekeeper one day.

She wasn't even there.
Why should she suffer?

The survival of the fittest.

And who are you,
Mr. Bleedin' Scone,

to decide whose fit?

If you could keep that
flash for long enough,

I could use you again.

Mr. Scone...

I've been pushed
around all my life.

I wanted a bit of security,
and I thought I'd found it.

Now, you deceive yourself,
and the truth is not in you.

But you don't deceive me.

- You're such a...
- Ah!

Now, now, now! Shh, shh, shh!

Now, look. Now, look. What
do you expect me to do, eh?

I can't employ you
both, now, can I?

I could ask my rich relations

if they could use a couple
of kitchen maids at the castle.

I want you to tell
them the truth.

- What truth?
- They think we let you

come up into our bedroom
and paint us in bed.

What are you laughing for?

The bourgeois mentality!

So they think I've been creeping

through the little green baize
door up to the attic, do they?

Lady Marjorie is terribly upset.

You shouldn't
have done it to her.

- Done what?
- Humiliated her in public.

That is the price of
being in the public eye.

Now, don't pretend
you're sorry for her.

I am!

If it had been me, I'd have...
I'd have died of shame.

Look, I am a painter,
and I paint pictures.

And that's that.

You can all go to hell with
your sickly hothouse emotions.

I'm going back to Paris
first thing in the morning,

where the air's less
damp and cloying.

Don't go like that. You can't.

I am. Now, go away
and leave me alone.

Look.

I'll come and live here with you

and look after
you and be your...

whatever you like.

Only get Rose off.

Just do that.

I'll do anything you want.

Anything?

All right.

Take your clothes off.

All of them.

Go on.

Would you like a drink?

You may need one.

You've no idea how
bizarre my tastes might be.

There... There's someone coming.

I know.

Go on.

Scone!

Oh, no. That's all I need.

You'd better get
behind that screen.

You might learn something.

Ah, Bellamy.

- May I come in?
- By all means.

Now, look here, Scone.

I'd like to get this thing
settled once and for all.

Have you, uh, come to
challenge me to a duel?

Walking sticks or
paintbrushes at 50 yards?

You can drop the flippancy
and tell me why you did it.

Did what?

The paintings.

I painted two pictures
and exhibited them.

- That's what they're for.
- Surely you must know

that to hang those
pictures side by side

would lead to gossip
and comparison.

It never entered my head.

- Would you like a drink?
- No.

I forgot about our
class-conscious society.

I thought they were works
of art, not social comment.

Was it necessary to use
my under-housemaid?

Sarah, of the expressive eyes?

Both girls have got
some cock-and-bull story

about her visiting this studio.

And what do you want me to say?

Sarah came here
on her evenings off.

Oh, she seems to
like you, by the way.

I trust you haven't been
discussing me with my servants.

Really, Bellamy,

there's no pleasing you
this evening, is there?

I thought you would like to know

that a pretty girl thinks
you're a good master.

And which of the two
did you find the prettier?

Which did you?
I've only seen one.

Do you honestly expect
me to believe that you...

Yes, I do.

Do you think I'm
such a poor artist

I can't imagine the interior
of a housemaid's attic?

Are you prepared
to give me your word

that you were never
upstairs in their room?

Yes.

I went to your house every
afternoon for one reason only...

To paint your wife's portrait.

So they were telling the truth?

Your servants? Yes.

I'm afraid you'll
have to keep them.

That will depend
on my wife's attitude.

Oh, I don't know.

Think of the ammunition
it will give the Liberals

when they find out
that a junior minister,

a member of the Committee
for Imperial Defence,

dismissed two of his
servants for no reason at all

except that his wife's
vanity was ruffled.

The Radicals would
call it victimization,

a favorite word of theirs.

I don't think Balfour
would thank you

for adding to his troubles,
even if you offered to resign.

I'd forget all about
it if I were you,

and you'll find everyone
else will do the same.

You sound like a
blackmailer, Scone.

However, I will accept your word

that you painted my
servant in this studio.

Well, I'll leave you to your...

to your work.

Well, thank you
for receiving me.

- Pleasure.
- Good night, Scone.

Good night.

Thank you, Mr. Scone.

And you'd have done that...

for Rose, hmm?

Well, my divine Sarah,

we'll open another bottle
of champagne to celebrate.

Celebrate what?

We'll think of something.

Oh, I wish you'd
seen our picture, Rose.

Just once.

We could still go, you
know. It's open to the public.

We'd be recognized.

No, it's best to
forget all about it.

I don't think I'll ever forget.

Was he that nice?

He's funny.

Rose?

Yeah?

Do you think we could go
on with the reading again?

Yes, if you want to.

You see, at the Bioscope,

there's words
between the pictures.

And if you can't read them,
you don't know what's going on.

Oh.

Oh, we'll go together
some day, Rose.

I'll take you.

I'm sorry I got you
in all that trouble.

Well, you made it
come all right in the end.

Aren't men funny?

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