All language subtitles for Jolety bglabbo

(church bell ringing)

- Huh!

(tinkling)

- Miss Angelica!
(tinkling)

Come along! Quickly now.

Now remember,
Miss Angelica,

finish your studies.

Come on, in you go.

(horses neighing)
Come on!

Nice clear voices, please.

(knocking)
Come in.

Well, well, Miss Deverell returns.

I hope this time

you have a better excuse
for your absence.

- I've been sick, Miss Dawson.

- And being sick has prevented
you from writing your essay.

- No. I've done it.

- Then perhaps you'd care
to share it with the class.

- Of course I will.

- Shh, shh, shh...!

(girl coughing)

- "In the depths of the forest,

"sheltered from the four winds

"by ancient oaks

"whose leaves in summertime
offer a blessed shade,

"stands, stark against the vast
vacuity of the empyrean,

"a great house

"cherished by the gods,
on whose steps

"iridescent-feathered peacocks
sometimes strut,

sheltered from the furious
lightening-veined storm--"

- You obviously read
a great deal, Miss Deverell.

- No, I never read.

- You're quite sure you haven't
been stealing from Mr Dickens

or Miss Corelli?

- Books don't interest me.

- So what do you do
in your spare time?

- I play the harp, mostly.

(class laughing)

- You'll get no marks
for this essay, Miss Deverell.

Your homework
was to describe where you live,

and unless I'm mistaken,

you do not live in a great house
cherished by the gods,

but over your mother's
grocery shop.

(class laughing)

And now the next one.

Miss Brown, I think.

- Angel!

Uh, I'm so sorry,
I won't be a minute.

Robert, would you take over
here for me, please? Thank you.

I want a word with you,
young lady.

- What is it now?
- You wicked girl.

How dare you say those things
about your father!

"Not my real father"?
"Daughter of an aristocrat"?

How d'you think this makes me
look in front of my customers?

- Who cares
about your customers?

- We'd have nothing today
if your father hadn't set up

this business.
D'you understand?

- What I understand
is that one day, because of me,

the name of Deverell will shine
throughout the world with glory.

- That's enough! Your lies
will be the death of me!

(laughing)
- I can just see the headlines:

"Grocer found dead -

suicide suspected as mother
of literary prodigy is discov--"

How dare you hit me!?

- I'm sorry, but I'm sick of it.

- "In 1885,

"into one of the oldest
and most illustrious families

"in all England...

"... was born a lively
and adorable-looking child,

"who, in later years,

"at the pinnacle of her glory
and renown,

"would be known to the world

as Lady Irania."

- Angel, your dinner's ready.

You're still angry with me?

- Leave me alone.

- Madam says she's looking
for a servant for her daughter,

Miss Angelica.

I'm wondering
if I should mention Angel.

She's always dreamed of going
to Paradise House, hasn't she?

- Why, Lottie...

that would be
a wonderful opportunity!

- And that way,
if she gives up school,

people won't think
she's been expelled -

which could be bad
for business, Emmy.

- Angel,

sweetheart, your aunt's got
some wonderful news.

- I shall never go
to Paradise House.

- Really?

Because school told me
you've been writing

all about your little visits.

- Never like that!
- Never like what?

- Never like you, Aunt Lottie:

serving other people.

- Serving other people's
nothing to be ashamed of.

We're all servants of God.

- Well, you won't make me
a servant of any kind.

- Of course, I was forgetting.

Humility and selfishness

count for nothing in this world!

- Calm down, Lottie. And, Angel,
apologize to your aunt.

(laughing)

She's only trying
to find you a job.

There's no reason to insult her.

- I don't want her apologies,
Emmy.

She can be out on the streets
starving for all I care.

- I am starving,

as it happens.
Mother, would you bring me up

some tea and toast,

assuming dear Aunt Lottie

has left us any.
(laughing)

- How dare you talk like that!

- Please, Lottie,
let's not get angry.

- Exactly! Both of you
keep your voices down,

so I can concentrate
on my writing.

- Coward...

(panting)

I love thee...

(panting)

I love thee

and now you wouldn't...

... she loved...

his soul...

as she looked...

into the eyes

of her lover...

(panting)

... and call...

and call...

too fast...

... and wept...

with desperation.

(exhaling heavily)

The... End.

(sighing)

- Hmm...

Nothing wrong with your heart.

Nothing wrong with you at all,
in fact.

- Are you sure?

- Why don't you want
to go back to school?

Problems with your lessons?

- No.

- Your friends?
- No.

I've written a novel.

- A novel?

Well, that's no reason
to miss school.

- I'm waiting to hear
from a publisher.

- You do realize
that publishers

are very busy people.

- Oh, yes - but I've already had
three replies.

- And?

- Well, they're still
thinking about it.

But they're all
really interested.

- Well, I'm sure
that's all very splendid,

but in the meantime,

don't you go
worrying your mother.

You must go back to school -
and tell her the truth.

(knocking)
- Angel?

There's a letter for you.

- Who's it from?

- How do I know?

It's from London.
- London?

"Dear Miss Deverell,

"it gives me great pleasure
to be able to inform you...

"the company... Lady Irania...

suitable for publication."

Oh!
- Whatever's the matter?

- A publisher wants to meet me.

- Whatever for?

- To publish my book, Mummy!

I've done it!
I'm going to be a writer!

I'm going to be a famous writer!
Ah!

(continues reading letter
very quickly)

"... market
for this kind of material...

"... depending, of course,

on the success
of the publication,

we would be happy
to consider any further..."

(continues reading: inaudible)

- Mr. Gilbright
will see you now.

- I know I'm late - I got lost
on the way from the station.

- Miss Deverell. Theo Gilbright.
Don't worry. Please sit down.

It must be your first time
in London.

- Yes.

- I have to say,

I was really expecting
someone a good deal older.

- You mean now you've seen me,

you won't publish my book?
- No, not at all.

Your age
is a delightful surprise.

Although I do have to say

that the style
and imaginative skill

of your novel
had all of us here guessing.

Some of us thought

"old lady in rural retreat,"

others were more inclined
towards "bald-headed man

in his fifties."

- Do I look like a man?

- No, it's just that, uh
- ahem -

we get a lot of submissions
under pseudonyms.

- Well, mine wasn't.
I've got nothing to hide.

I'm very proud of my book.
- Absolutely.

And do you think
you'll write another one?

- Oh, yes! I can let you have it
in a couple of weeks.

- Oh! And what will
the new book be about?

- It's about an actress.

- Are you interested
in the theatre, Miss Deverell?

- Not really.

I've never been.

- Well, I imagine
you must be a great reader.

- No. I don't have the time.

I prefer writing.

The minute I start,
my head's full of ideas.

- But you must at least have
some favourite authors.

- I quite like Shakespeare.

Except when
he's trying to be funny.

- Miss Deverell,

I personally find
your very special...

... style totally compelling.

And I'm sure
many readers will too.

Which is why -

as I wrote to you -

we'd be delighted
to publish your novel.

Given one or two
minor adjustments.

- What adjustments?

- Well, for example, chapter nineteen:

your - ahem - description of childbirth

is a little on the shocking side.

I'm not sure the "pints of blood" passage

is strictly necessary.

- Then you clearly don't know
anything about having babies.

- No, but I am a father,

and I can assure you childbirth
is an extremely beautiful thing.

- That's because you're not the one bleeding.

- Now, chapter twenty-five.

Lady Irania's dinner party.

Just a detail, but you don't actually

need a corkscrew to open champagne.

- I think you're wrong.

- I don't think I am wrong, actually.

Well, look, it's nothing hugely important.

But what do you say: I give you
back the manuscript,

you make these changes
and then we publish.

- No.

- I'm sorry?

- I won't change a single word
or comma of my book.

- Final boarding!
Final boarding!

(background chatter)

- Miss Deverell.

- Oh. Mr. Gilbright.

What're you doing here?

- I came to apologize
for what happened just now.

It was... clumsy of me.
- That's really no need.

They're plenty of other
publishers who are interested.

- The fact is, I've been
speaking to my colleague

and we're prepared to take a risk

and publish Lady Irania
just as it is.

- I don't see that is a risk.

- I just wanted to protect you
from the critics, that's all.

- I'm not frightened of critics.

- Splendid.

Well, what time is your train?
- In an hour.

- What about travelling back tomorrow?

We could have dinner.

My wife would be delighted
to meet you.

Or perhaps another time,

when you've spoken
to your mother.

- I don't need
my mother's permission.

I've never tasted wine before.

- Hmm. Does it come up
to your expectations?

- I never really had any.

- That's Theo's
favourite claret.

We have it shipped over specially

from France.

(laughing)

- My mother would be
so shocked.

She wears
this funny little badge

to show she'd never touch
a drop of alcohol

even if offered it by Christ in Heaven.

- I don't like to think

we've given you something
your mother would disapprove of.

- I want to live my own life.

- For someone
who's never tasted wine,

you describe the effects

of drunkenness remarkably well.

- I know I do.

- Theo's read me parts
of Lady Irania.

You must've done
a great deal of research.

- Oh, no. I made the whole thing
up in my own head.

- I see. Which is presumably
why some of it

seems the fruit of a somewhat
youthful imagination.

- Miss Deverell and I

have already discussed
all of that, Hermione.

- Some of Miss Deverell's
descriptions are...

well, to say the least, daring.

- I didn't realize you were
my publisher, Mrs. Gilbright.

I thought you were my publisher's wife.

- Right...
Splendid.

Shall we go through for coffee?

I'm sure Miss Deverell
would appreciate some music.

(classical music)

- Are those real pearls

your wife's wearing,
Mr. Gilbright?

- Well, yes, I... I think so.

- And has your wife
ever met the Queen?

(meowing)

Oh! Isn't he adorable?!
I love animals.

- You'll make her sick
if she drinks that.

She's already been fed.

In the kitchen.
- It's good for him.

- Don't stop playing, Hermione.

- Oh, isn't that sweet?

Look, the poor little thing,
he's lapped it all up.

- She!
- Let's have another piece.

What about Scarlatti?

- No. If Miss Deverell
will excuse me,

I need to feed the canaries.

- Oh, canaries? I love birds.
Can I go and see?

- I'm afraid not.

- Well, I wish you'd tell me
something about your family,

Miss Deverell.

What does your father do?

- My father?
- Yes.

- He's dead.

- I'm so sorry.
- Don't be. I didn't know him.

- And you were born in Norley?

I don't think I know Norley.

What's it like?

- I don't want to talk about it.

- Really?

- I hate Norley.

It's hideous.

Miles and miles of ugly streets

and ugly brick houses.

The people
are all mean and stupid.

My mother owns a grocery shop
and we live upstairs.

But please, please,
I don't want anyone to know.

I don't want anyone
to find out where I'm from.

- I-I... I understand.

- You see...

... nothing I'm telling you...

seems real.

And one day...

... I might even stop
believing it myself.

- Where does she come from?
- Oh...

no idea.

- And how you can be so blind
about her talent -

or lack of it.

- Sweetheart,
she's just a child;

don't be cross.

- Darling, you know
I never interfere, but...

... she's so horribly
precocious.

And, well, her book...
(scoffing)

I find it ridiculous

and I'm worried people
will laugh at you.

- Well, they very well may,
but, um...

Look, I know she's still
very young and ignorant.

But I think there's a kind of...

power and imagination there

that might just possibly
touch people.

- The thing is, Lottie...

... what if Angel
really is very gifted

and we just don't understand?

- A mother might be excused
for thinking that,

but the fact is, Emmy,
she's embarrassing us both

and it's got to be
put a stop to.

- Stop? She just writes
and writes.

It makes me shudder to think
what's coming out of that pen.

- And where in heaven's name
did she find out about...

you know...

the facts of life?

- Well, certainly not from me!

- Thank you very much.
- It's a pleasure.

Nice to meet you.

Who shall I make it out to?
- Alice.

- Just one more, please!

- ... the pleasure
of awarding this prize

to Miss Angel Deverell.
(applause)

- Where am I?

Where am I?

- You're here with me,
Lady Irania,

safe in the Castle
of Silver Tears.

- Oh, my darling Sebastian!

My eyes!

I can no longer see!

No longer see the silver tears!

- Rest now.

Let sweet sleep
possess your heart.

- Oh, my faithful Sebastian,

you who have never
once betrayed me,

say, has my whole life
been lived in vain?

(snoring)

Was it a dream?
A mere illusion?

- No, my Lady Irania, it was no dream.

Your life has been one
of beauty and magnificence.

And you live in the Castle of Silver Tears!

- Ah, Sebastian!

Only you...

have truly loved me.
- ... have truly loved me.

(audience): Ah....

(applause)

- Ladies and gentlemen,

it is my great pleasure
to announce

that we have
here with us tonight

the author of our play,
Miss Angel Deverell.

(crowd reacting)
(applause)

- Stand up, Angel.
They want to see you.

(cheering)

- Thank you for coming.

- Truly marvellous.
- Thank you.

It's nice to meet you.
Thank you very much.

- Why don't you say hello
to her? She'd be so glad.

- Oh, I daren't.

- Why not?
She's your niece.

- Yes, but what if
she still hates me?

- Congratulations,
Miss Deverell.

- Oh, thank you, Lord Norley.

- A most magnificent evening.

- I'm glad you enjoyed it.

This is my publisher.
- Norley.

- Theo Gilbright.

- I was just saying to Theo--
- I'm so sorry. Allow me

to introduce my niece, Nora.
A most fervent admirer.

Come on now, Nora.
Up off the floor.

Homage from one writer
to another and so on.

- Uncle, you're not to mention
my feeble scribblings

in front of Miss Deverell.
- You're a writer too?

- I write a little verse, yes.
- Under what name?

- My own.

Nora Howe-Nevinson.

It's nothing compared
to your own...

astonishingly beautiful work,
Miss Deverell.

- Thank you, you're very kind.

- May I also present
my nephew,

Mr Esme Howe-Nevinson.

- So you must be...

- Nora's brother. Exactly.

- It was Miss Deverell, Esme,
who gave us the Watts.

- Most generous.
- Presented a very fine painting

by Watts

to the City Art Gallery.

One of the town's
great treasures.

Another, of course,

being Miss Deverell herself.
- I'm sorry to say,

I wasn't acquainted
with your work, Miss Deverell.

- Oh, well, the play
is just an adaptation.

It hardly does justice

to the complexities
of the novel.

- And why Watts?

- I'm sorry?

- Out of all the painters
in this world,

why would you choose Watts?

I'd always wondered how these
awful pictures found their way

into provincial galleries.
Now I understand.

- Esme!
- What?

It must've cost
a great deal of money;

in a few years,
it'll be worth nothing.

I'm simply letting
Miss Deverell

know the facts.

- Well, in future,
I must ask your advice.

- Please do.

To offer it
would give me great pleasure.

- You must forgive my nephew.

Esme is a painter himself,
you know.

Such miserable pictures.

Back streets
in the pouring rain...

No sparing the sordid details.

- That was quite a compliment
Miss Howe-Nevinson paid you.

I'm always pleased to see
writers being appreciated.

The brother, though...

Rather rude.

Good-looking, though.

- Stop!
- What?

- Stop the car!

- What is it?

- Turn off to the right.

- Splendid old place.
D'you know it?

- Yes.

- Is it empty?

- My aunt used to work there,

but the family lost everything
and had to move to London.

- Did you go there as a child?
- Never.

When I was little,

I used to think I would live
at Paradise House.

It was all I ever dreamed of.

Everyone told me
my dreams were lies -

because I said out loud

the things
I should've kept secret.

But all I wanted
was to make it true.

To wish and to wish
and to wish -

and to make it true.

- A gift from Paradise.

- Thank you.

- It's getting rather cold.

Perhaps we should go.

- Come on!

- Don't you think
it's too big for us, Angel?

- Of course not.
It just needs furniture.

- Just to think of your aunt
Lottie being a servant here...

- Well, I'm not a servant.
I'm the mistress.

You should be proud of me.

- Oh, of course
I'm proud of you, Angel.

It's just so big...

- Round to the left.
- Yes, madam.

- Be careful,
they're very expensive.

Oh...

Oh, good! Come on!

Lovely!

Oh, excellent!

Yes, be very careful...

Oh, did you see your bedroom?

- Oh, yes, yes,
it's beautiful. It's...

(playing some notes)

- "She knew...

"... from the first...

"moment...

in her short--"

- Angel, Miss Howe-Nevinson
is here.

She wants to see you.
- Who?

- I think she's the sister

of that young painter
you talked about.

- And he is here?
- No, just the sister.

- I brought you the poems,
like you asked me to.

- Oh, yes... of course.

- Please don't be too critical.

They're really
just first attempts.

- Oh, no doubt.

- But the real reason I...
I wanted to see you again,

Miss Deverell,
is that I have the...

... the hugest... hugest favour
to ask.

- I... Mother! I thought
I told you not to do that.

It is the servants' job.

- But you know
how I like to help.

- It would be much more helpful
if you went upstairs

and rested.
You know what the doctor said.

- Alright, sweetheart.

- You were saying, Nora?

- I wanted to offer you
my services.

- Services?

- I mean as personal secretary.
I could help

with all the trivial things

a great novelist like yourself
should be protected from.

- But I already have
all the servants I need.

- But not someone
who understands your genius.

Not someone
who really respects you.

Do they even
read your books?

- No, I suppose not.

- Then please take me on.

To work for you
would be the most beautiful...

beautiful way
to serve literature.

There are so many things,
Miss Deverell,

I could do for you.

- You still haven't told me
anything about your brother.

- Don't talk to me about Esme.
- Why ever not?

- When my uncle paid for
the two of us to go to Italy,

my brother behaved so badly
I'm ashamed to mention it.

- In Italy? What do you mean?
- Seducing women, of course.

There was one who was
only too happy to let herself

be ruined on his account -

until her husband found out.
He threatened to kill Esme,

and we had to pack up
and rush back to London.

- What was this woman like?

- Beautiful - a countessa -

but with Esme,
she had absolutely no shame.

- Was he in love with her?

- Oh! Love? My brother's
never loved anyone -

other than himself, that is.

And it was all
such a horrid mess,

I was forced to sell my own
jewelry to pay the fare home.

- You mustn't be
too hard on him, Nora.

One day he'll find his feet
and live from his painting,

just as I live
from my writing.

- But you've never even seen
his paintings.

- No, but I've imagined them.

- Perhaps I should be
on my way.

- We shall expect you
to move in here with us

at Paradise tomorrow.

- Oh, thank you so much,
Miss Deverell!

- Good morning, madam.
- Good morning.

- Sir.

(dog barking)

(parrot screeching)

- Where are the canaries?
- Hermione, please.

(bird squawking)

(harp playing)

- Oh!

And there was me
listening for the car.

I'd so hoped to come
rushing out to meet you.

- Angel, how are you?

- Surviving, as you can see.

Working on the new novel.

It's set in Italy.
I've been thinking

of nothing else
night and day!

Oh, allow me
to introduce my mother.

Mother, you remember
Mr. Gilbright, my publisher.

And this is Mr. Gilbright's
wife, Penelope.

- Hermione.

- Oh, Hermione, of course.

- Pleased to meet you, I'm sure.

- Will you tell the servants
to take the Gilbrights' things?

- Oh, I can do that.
- Don't be ridiculous!

That is what
we pay the servants for.

Would you ask Nora to come down
to meet our guests?

- Yes, Angel.

- Nora?

- Oh, Miss Howe-Nevinson.

She's moved in with us
here at Paradise;

she's keeping an eye
on my business affairs.

Royalties, that sort of thing.

- I see. Excellent.

- A lovely house.

I imagine the decoration
was Angel's idea.

- My daughter's very particular.

- Clearly.

You must be happy here.
- Oh, yes.

But I do miss my grocery.

- But aren't you
still working there?

- Angel won't let me -

or see my sister anymore.

- Oh, that's horrid.

- Oh, no.
Angel's a good girl, really.

She thinks all these servants
will make my life easier.

And she'd so like to turn me
into a proper lady.

(Angel's voice outside)

Do you know
what Angel's doing?

- No. What's that?

- Paying a gentleman
to teach me the piano.

- How kind.

- Nora was in the biggest
bookshop in Norley

and couldn't find a single copy
of An Eastern Tragedy!

Could you, Nora?
- No.

- And it was exactly the same
yesterday!

Disappointed readers
are being turned away!

- Then the bookshop
should re-order.

- Well, yes, the bookshop
should re-order,

but the publisher
should encourage them.

That shop should have everything

from Lady Irania onwards
on permanent display.

- Lady Irania's out of print.

- Well, get it back into print.

And another thing: I don't see
why Miss Corelli's books

are getting so much publicity

and mine hardly any at all.
- That's because your books

don't need publicity.
They sell themselves.

- Oh, so the money
you're making out of me

goes to subsidize
the pitiful efforts

of your other writers,
is that what you mean?

- Of course not.
- And please, please,

will you use your influence

to stop that pathetic
Rowland Pearce

from writing those
horrible things about me?

- You mustn't rise
to the bait, Angel.

The days of intelligent
criticism are over.

The modern critic just wants
to score points, that's all.

- Isn't Mr. Pearce an...

... important novelist
in his own right?

(Angel coughing)

- He's a fat-headed hack
who knows nothing about manners,

and even less about literature!

(laughing)
Just you wait - just you wait -

I'll put him into my next novel:

portrait of the artist as a
twisted and incompetent failure

whose one sick pleasure

in his sad little loveless life

is demolishing the work of women

who are more talented,
more productive

and more successful than he is!

(Nora giggling)

- What about the new book,
Angel?

How's it going?

- I'm not sure about Italy.

All I know is I want this book
to be completely different

from anything
I've ever done before.

I was thinking
of setting it into another era;

like maybe ancient Greece.

- That sort of book needs
very specific knowledge.

- But, Theo, you know
Miss Deverell is blessed

with an overactive imagination.

- Angel, listen,

whatever the critics say,
the public loves you.

You've had another
very successful year.

Why not take a break and--

- I don't need a holiday.

I am planning
on coming to London, though.

And I was very much wondering

whether you could book me
a hotel, Mrs. Gilbright.

It would be such a help.
- Certainly.

- So why are you so keen

on coming to London?

- I've decided to have
my portrait painted.

I've commissioned a portrait

by a rather fashionable
young London painter,

Nora's brother.

Here.
- Thank you.

(door opening)

(distant voices)

- Yes?

Well, well...

Miss Deverell.

This is... unexpected.

- I was in the neighbourhood,

and seeing as your sister
had given me your address,

I just thought--
- Absolutely. Please. Come in.

Forgive the mess,

but I've only
just got out of bed.

If I'd known a lady was coming,
I'd have...

cleared some of this up.

- Oh, you mustn't worry.

I-I'm something
of a Bohemian myself.

- And... how's my sister?

- Nora is very well
and very happy.

- I can imagine.

She's always had a gift

for living
in another person's shadow.

Please.

- Well, she certainly
doesn't live in mine.

I've always encouraged her

to share in the brilliance
of my success.

- So... to what do I owe
the pleasure

of this visit?

- I've come
to see your paintings.

- Really?

- Well, since you were so cruel
to me that time about the Watts,

I thought I could make amends
by having them hang

one of your paintings
next to it.

(laughing)
- Well, they'd never let you.

Anyway, I don't think
you'd like my kind of work.

- That's what I'm here
to find out.

Ah.
- Italy.

I can't paint Italy.
It's too much colour.

- Yes. Of course.

Italy is so banal.

You're much more inspired
in England.

- I'm so pleased you say that.

I didn't think you'd like
my smudge-paintings,

as Nora calls them.

- My favourite's the, uh...

level-crossing.

- Mine as well.
That's why I showed it first.

- I'd like to buy it,
if it's for sale.

- I don't know.

- Would you be prepared
to accept... 300 pounds?

Well, I... paid 300
for the Watts,

and I'm sure your paintings
are worth

at least as much,
if not more.

- Considering all your kindness
towards my Nora,

you can have it for...

... shall we say 400?

- Four-hundred pounds?

- I'm glad you didn't like the Italian one.

- There's something about Italy

which brings out the vulgar
in all of us.

Don't you think?

And...

what are your fees
for a portrait?

- For a portrait?

I don't paint portraits.

- Not even mine?

- I wouldn't want to be accused

of making a smudge-painting
out of you.

- Maybe being smudged

is nicer than it sounds.

- Let's see.

Very beautiful eyes...

Very clear skin...

And hair...

that glistens in the light...

(laugh shyly)

Don't tell me you're not used
to compliments, Miss Deverell.

- I really should be going.
- Of course.

And shall we say tomorrow,

at the same time?

- You don't mean

to paint the portrait here?

- Why not? I like the light.

- I... I'd just imagined
somewhere more--

- Trust me, this is perfect.

- And what about clothes?

I was thinking something
low-cut, with lace.

Or maybe something

completely simple like...
like a Greek toga.

(scoffing)

- No, come just as you are
today.

- But this dress is so drab.

- It's not the dress
I'm interested in, it's you.

I read one of your books,
by the way.

- Oh, really?

Aspasia.

My landlady lent it to me.

I read it straight through.
From cover to cover.

(Angel laughing slightly)

And I realized
what your secret is.

- My secret?

- I think the secret
of your power over people

is that you communicate
with yourself,

not your readers.

Am I right?

- Yes. Possibly.

Are... are you tired?
- No.

The thing is, Angel,

I find you utterly surprising
and delightful.

But how can I paint you

if I don't know
what's really going on inside?

Because you give me little hints
about yourself -

about your childhood,
growing up -

but none of it connects.

Something's missing.

How can I paint you
if I don't know what it is?

- Maybe I don't know
what it is myself.

- What happened to you in Italy?

- I've never been to Italy.

- Alright, maybe not in Italy,

but to do with Italy.

What was it?

Was it love?

I'm sure it was something
to do with love.

- It was jealousy.

(knocking)

(sighing)

- Who is it?
- It's Nora.

- Oh, Nora!
What a wonderful surprise!

Come in, come in!

What on earth are you doing
in London?

- I'm really sorry
to disturb you, Angel,

but you have to come home.

- Why? Is it the house?

- It's your mother.
She's not well.

(laughing)
- It's always a crisis with her,

but underneath
she's as strong as an ox.

- The doctor's very worried,
Angel.

I really think you ought
to consider coming home.

- It's very sweet of you to be
so concerned about my mother,

but I've lots of professional
commitments here,

particularly now.

As soon I'm finished
I'll come home, alright?

- You're seeing him,
aren't you?

- Seeing who? Theo?
- No - my brother.

- What makes you say that?

- Be careful.
He could hurt you.

(laughing)
- Hurt me?

I'm not a child, Nora.

And I hardly see Esme

as life-threatening.

I was pleasantly
surprised by his pictures.

They may not match

my own ideas of beauty,
but they have a definite--

- I'm not talking
about his paintings,

I'm talking about him.

- You're not jealous, are you?

- Jealous?

- Of my interest
in your brother's paintings.

- But it's not
just his paintings...

- It's true.

I do like Esme.

But in the same way
that I like you.

Come.

I hated being an only child.

I would have loved
to have had a sister, Nora.

A sister like you.

But what did the doctor say?
- He says her condition

is more dangerous
than he'd thought.

He's not sure she'll recover,
especially if she can't eat.

- Well, what's he doing about it?

There must be some kind
of medicine she can take.

- I'm just telling you
what he said.

- You're here...!

Angel...

My darling.

- Your hands are freezing.

- Have you told Aunt Lottie?

- Of course.
Nora sent a telegram.

- Why isn't she here?

- I don't know.
It is a long way.

- I'm frightened
I'll never see her again.

- Don't say that.

I used to love it...

when she could come
and visit us so often...

at the grocery.

Remember?

- Of course.

But you'll get better
and you'll see her again.

- You're so sweet to me.

Angel...
- Yes?

- I want you to forgive me

for bringing you up
the way I did.

I know it was hard for you,

and even harder
when your father died.

You were such
a pretty little thing.

So cheeky...

and clever.

He worshipped you.
(crying)

You know what I regret most?
- No?

- It's not having the time

to see you marrying

and have a child.

- But I don't have time
for a child, Mother.

I have my work.

- Your work...

your books...

(exhaling)
- Oh!

Oh, no!

Oh, no!
(sobbing)

No!

No, don't leave me!

Oh, please don't leave me...

(sobbing):
No...

please don't leave me.

- Well?
- It's over.

- Oh, my God...
(crying)

(crying)

- On behalf
of the Norley Gazette,

I would like to offer
my sincerest condolences

on the death of your mother,

a woman well known by us all
for her excellent grocery shop.

- My mother was above all else
a very great artist.

- Was she?

- She played the piano.

She was considered to be

one of England's
finest concert pianists.

- I see. That's something
I wasn't aware of.

- Her natural humility

prevented her
from advertising her...

... exceptional musical gift.

- And like yourself,
she was born here in Norley?

- My childhood
is wrapped in mystery.

It's true I was brought
to Norley at a very tender age,

but from where,
nobody knows.

I always thought
I had noble blood,

perhaps from my father's side.

But my mother passed away

before she could divulge
the true secret.

(background chatter)

(laughing mockingly)

- Well... I wonder
when we can expect her

to make an appearance.

- She should be already here.

- She's probably anxious.

- Oh, I think
she's more irritated

about the people
who haven't come.

- I did explain nobody
stays in London for summer.

It's not personal.
- Anyway, they're just snobs.

They resent the fact
that she's popular.

Have you seen my brother?

- Oh, yes.

Excuse me.
- Certainly.

- Mr. Howe-Nevinson,
Theo Gilbright.

- Of course.
Will you excuse me?

- Well, I think it's wonderful

that your sister's working
for Angel.

She seems absolutely devoted.
- In love with her, you mean.

- In love with her?

- Oh, yes. Passionately.

- Are you by any chance Miss
Howe-Nevinson's famous brother,

whose talents Miss Deverell
never ceases to impress on us?

- I am, actually.

- Then allow me
to introduce myself -

Hermione Gilbright,

"the publisher's wife."

- Delighted to meet you.

- My wife's a great devotee
of painting.

She's extremely keen
to see your work.

- Particularly your portrait
of Miss Deverell.

I can't wait to see it.

- Angel made off with it
the moment it was finished.

I believe she wants to use it
for one of her books.

- Haven't you been told?

- Told what?
- I think you'll find

she intends to unveil it here
in front of her guests.

- Didn't you know,
Mr. Howe-Nevinson?

(piano playing)

(applause)

Well, your darling Angel
seems to have gotten over

her mother's death
remarkably well.

- Oh, thank you for coming.

Thank you so much.

Thank you so much for coming.

It's my pleasure. Thank you.

Thank you.

- Tell her
I wasn't feeling very well.

- So kind.
Thank you so...

- Angel, you're beautiful.

- Where's Esme?

- Drinking, I should imagine.

- Actually, I think he left.
Wasn't looking at all well...

- How incredibly rude.

Angel arranged all this for him
specially.

- When did he leave?
- Just a moment ago.

- Angel!
(crowd reacting)

- Whatever's got into her?

- Could it be love?

- Esme!

Esme!

Esme!

Why did you leave?

I wanted to surprise you.
The painting...

- Why do you want
to humiliate me?

I hate those people.

- I thought
it would make you happy.

- Make me happy?

Make yourself happy,
more like it.

- No, that's not true.
I love the way you paint.

I want everyone else
to love you too.

- You're wasting your time,
Angel.

My paintings are worthless!
Nobody cares.

- Don't say that!
You're an artist, Esme.

You just need someone
to believe in what you do!

- When I look
into those eyes of yours,

I could almost believe it.

- You have to believe it, Esme,
you have to believe it.

(thunder crashing)
I could make you happy.

I could pay off all your debts.

You'd be free from all
the horrible sordid things

that keep you here.

Come with me
to Paradise House.

Marry me, Esme.

- Marry you?

Isn't that what the man's
supposed to ask?

- Who cares? I love you.

- You love me?

- I've loved you
since the moment we met,

and I'll go on loving you
until the day I die.

Continue please, Nora.

(crowd, shocked): Oh...!

(donkey braying)

- Oh...

I'm so pleased you're back.

I was so worried,
with all this talk about war...

- It's not because
of that nonsense.

I just missed Paradise!
- And I really missed you.

- Oh, it's so good to be home!

But where's Sultan?

I imagined him bounding down
the steps to meet me.

- Edwina, fetch Sultan
from the library.

- Yes, miss.

- Oh, you put the portrait here.

I'd rather imagined it
in the dining room.

- It's easily moved.

- And the curtains. I thought
we said the drawing room?

- I don't believe so. Of course
that can easily be changed.

(dog barking)

- Oh, Sultan! Hello, boy! Hello.

Oh, Sultan, have you forgotten
your poor mistress?

(laughing)

(dog whimpering)

That's not Sultan.
- I'm sorry, Angel,

I didn't want to spoil things
when you were away.

But Sultan...
unfortunately died.

- No!

- But I tried to find
another one the same.

(Esme laughing)

- Oh, well. Thank you, Nora.
(whispering): Is it ready?

(whispering): Yes, the workmen
finished this morning.

- Come, my darling.

- How exciting.
(Angel giggling)

- My word.

- Well, you've never
really had a proper studio.

(Esme whistling)

- Extraordinary.

- You're happy?
- Leave us alone.

- Oh, but I haven't shown you
what I've done to my bedroom.

- Later.

So? What do you think?

- It's... wonderful.

(Angel laughing)

But all this sunlight...
- What?

- It's not really normal
for a studio.

A studio normally faces north.

- So? You can finally have
some sunshine and colour

in your paintings!
- You're right. Fantastic idea.

- Aren't you happy?
- Yes, of course I am.

- This is where you're going
to paint your masterpiece.

- Nobody has ever given me
anything like this before.

Thank you, Angel.

- Theo sent me
your last royalty statements,

but unfortunately they still
don't cover the advance

he gave you to buy Paradise.

- You've made sure
he's still promoting my work?

- Sorry to be showing you this
the minute you get back,

but the thing is, we can't go on
spending money like this.

- Well, I shall stop writing
cheques, then. Simple.

- Please, at least do the bill

for the peacocks.
The man wrote a horrid letter.

- Well, I shall write
a horrid letter back.

I never saw such a pair
of ugly, lifeless-looking birds.

Peacocks!
Vultures, more like.

- And how was it with Esme?
He must've made life difficult.

- Of course he didn't.

We had a marvellous time.

And I think he's changed.

I have a feeling that our trip
has wiped away the past.

That loving me
has made him a new man.

- Well, it certainly hasn't
made him into a new painter.

His drawings are as dull
and uninspired as ever.

- But Esme's right.
That is what Greece looks like:

heaps of old rocks

with dusty olive trees
poking out of them.

And all that revolting food

has made me put on weight.

- You're not pregnant, are you?

- Pregnant?

- Can I come in?
- Not yet!

- Ready?
- Almost!

You can come in now.

- Oh. What is it?

- Water from the sacred spring
at Delphi.

Legend says
it has magical powers

and it used to inspire
the greatest of the Greek poets.

(laughing)

I brought it back
especially for you.

- Oh, thank you, Angel.

Oh...
(breathing deeply)

- Good night, sweet, sweet Nora.

- Good night, Angel.

Good night, Esme.

- I'm not sure there's room
for me and Nora

under the same roof.

- Of course there is.
Paradise is big enough.

And I need you both,
don't you think?

Where did you go?

- Walking in the garden.

- And did you find
a vista to inspire you?

- It's too dark to see,

but it's certainly ideal
for shooting.

- Oh, no!

Please don't hunt
the little animals.

Poor defenceless creatures.

- Take care,

I'm about to attack
a defenceless little creature

right now.

- No, Esme! Don't!
Don't! Stop it!

(giggling)

Oh, no, let him stay.
We've all got to be friends.

(dog whimpering)

Not in front of the dog.

- Dogs are used to it.

- "Her pale eyelids

"fluttering down

"over her huge blue eyes...

"... and the great love
of her life...

"... slumbering sweetly
at her side...

"... she whispered
these immortal words:

"'This is the most beautiful day
of my life.

"Together forever...

... living in Paradise'."

And how are my lovely flowers?

Why do you have
to make everything so dark?

What's wrong with using colour?

- But these are colours.

Look: grey, burnt umber...

This part here's violet.

- But it's ridiculous.

They don't look anything
like that - all faded.

- All I'm doing
is painting what I see.

- In which case, what you see
has nothing to do with reality.

- Since when was my darling
Angel so interested in reality?

Everything you write's
a complete fantasy.

- But I'm not interested
in what's real,

but what's beautiful.

- As far as I'm concerned,
my flowers are beautiful.

- Do you know where Esme is?

- I think he is with Marvell.
- In the grounds?

- Maybe, or at the races.

(knocking)
- What is it?

- Excuse me, madam.
- Did I tell you to come in?

- No, madam. Sorry, madam.

But something terrible's
happened.

- Well? What is it?

- War!

They've declared war!

- Oh, my God, is she ever
going to stop crying?

- Angel, show some compassion.

Her fiance's joining the army.

- John, the gardener?
- Yes.

- Well, I hope he doesn't come
crawling back here

wanting his job back
in a couple of months.

- A couple of months?

A war can last for years.
- Oh, my darling!

Please forgive us,
we've started without you.

- Don't worry.

I've just come
to collect my things.

- To do what?

- I'm going to London.

I'm enlisting.

- Esme!
When are you leaving?

- This afternoon.

- You can't!

You can't do this to me.

We've just moved
into the new house!

- Angel, please don't.

This is not personal.

- Not personal?

- The country's at war.

I can't stay here cut off
from the rest of the world.

It wouldn't be right.

- Oh! So killing animals
isn't enough for you!

You need a war to satisfy
your thirst for blood!

- Don't be so ridiculous.

You don't know
what you're talking about.

It's got nothing to do with it.

- You're all the same:
violent, destructive,

needing to kill
just to prove you're a man!

- Well, if men
are so disgusting,

you'll be much better off
with my sister.

- You have no right

to do this!
You can't!

- Yes, I can.

- I warn you!

If you walk out that door,

you'll find it
slammed in your face!

- Please, Angel...

(sobbing)

... that's enough.

- Take care of her.

She's not as strong as we think.

- Of course I will.

I'm proud of you, Esme.

- I'm doing my duty, that's all.

- God knows how she'd go on
if he was killed.

- You're not to talk like that.

Esme will be back.

(sobbing)

I thought you'd be asleep.

Oh, you're looking much better.

- Don't touch me!

- What is it you're writing?

- I'm transforming my novel.

- What do you mean?

- Into an allegory against war,
violence,

and the bloodthirstiness of men!

A novel in the name of peace.

- Good afternoon.
Is my niece at home?

- Oh, I'm sorry, sir,
but Miss Nora's just left.

- Oh.

- Don't tell Miss Deverell,
but she's helping out

with the war-wounded
in the infirmary.

- Well, good.

I do so wish I'd seen Esme
before he left for the front.

- Oh, really?

See, I thought
he was an idle degenerate

that you disinherited.

I had no idea his uniform
made him a hero.

- What a wonderful thing
the war is.

- I'm simply saying,
Miss Deverell,

that I'm glad to see Esme

finally becoming a man.

You must miss him a great deal.
- Yes.

- If there's anything I can do--

- There's nothing anyone can do!

I have my work.

- There's a great loss
to literature

every time we drag you
from your desk, Miss Deverell.

But I do believe that
by helping us in the war effort,

you might feel
that in your own small way

you were fighting
at Esme's side.

- What do you mean,
the war effort?

- Well, for example,

you could allow us

to set up a second hospital
here in Paradise.

- Paradise? A hospital?

- Yes.

You have a great deal
of space here.

It would be extremely useful
to us.

- This war...

has separated me
from my husband.

It has been the cause
of our first disagreement.

I do not allow Nora
or anyone else

to mention it in my presence.

And I will never let Paradise

fall into the hands
of warmongers and criminals.

More tea, Lord Norley?

- I think perhaps it would be
as well if I were to go.

- Better for the war effort,
certainly.

- Madam?
- Yes?

- I'm leaving.

(crying in pain)

- Oh!
(gasping)

- How advanced was it?
- Less than three months.

- If only my brother
had been here.

- I suppose it could've made
a difference.

- And what should I do now?

- Once she's over the shock,
she'll start to recover.

She just needs rest.

- You're feeling better?
- Not bad.

- Do you want me
to write and tell Esme?

- Tell him to come home...

... even if it's just on leave.

Tell him that I miss him

and that I forgive him.

But nothing about the baby.

- He has a right to know, Angel.

- He has no right to know.

He deserted me.

- He didn't desert you.

He just, for the first time
in his life,

made a grown-up decision.

- He's ruined everything.

Everything.

- He hasn't ruined everything.

- I'm still here.
And we've just got

to wait for him to come home.

- Esme's desperate
to become a father.

If he finds out I lost his baby,
he'll never come home.

Please...

promise me you won't tell him.

- I promise.

(train whistle blowing)

- Oh, darling!

(background chatter)

- Mr. Gilbright.
- Miss Howe-Nevinson.

Did you have a good trip?

- A long one,
but at least I'm here.

- Very good of you to come.
- I feel bad. I lied to Angel.

I said I was visiting
an elderly aunt in Kensington.

(chuckling)

- I had to lie to my wife
as well.

Thank you.

I don't know
what we're going to do.

Her last book, I'm afraid,
was a terrible disappointment.

- I thought
that was because of the war.

- No, I'm afraid
it was because of the book.

Her readers are disturbed

by this new-found pacifism.
They don't see what place it has

in a romantic novel.
And frankly, I agree with them.

I've said this to Angel,
naturally, but she won't listen.

- But she's still
a great writer.

Nothing can alter that.

- What she needs to do
is to get back

to the way she used to write
and give people something

to distract them
from this wretched war.

If she doesn't, I ask myself
what's going to happen.

And I'm not just saying this
as her publisher,

but as her friend.

Miss Howe, are you alright?
- Look behind you.

Carefully.

- Who on earth is she?

- She's an old acquaintance.

My God, what if Angel finds out
he was on leave?

How could Esme do this to her?

I'm going to talk to him.

- No, no, no! Nora, Nora, Nora.

Leave him be. Really.

- Well? What's it like?

- Not wonderful.

- Such a shame.

- Don't tell me
you're feeling sorry for Angel.

- Now everybody's
criticizing and rejecting her,

I do feel
a kind of pity for her.

Perhaps I understand you more.

- Understand me?
- Yes.

Because you had
the courage to publish her

when no one else would.
And you were right.

- I'm pleased to hear you
finally taking her side.

(scoffing)

- I can't take her side
as a writer.

There's not one of her books
I could ever enjoy.

But I've come
to admire the woman.

Despite all her bad taste
and absurdities,

she fought for her dreams

and got everything she wanted:
success, fame...

Even the man she loved.

- The man she loved.

- Are you still
in love with her?

(scoffing)
- What makes you say that?

- Your eyes.

- Angel!

A telegram!

- Well, open it.

Oh, my God, he's been killed.

- He's wounded.

They're sending him home.

They're sending him home!
- Oh! Oh!

(giggling)

He could be here next week!

- And what will you do
now you're home, Esme?

- Paint! I'd love you
to paint my peacocks.

You should see them
when they fan out their tails.

- I'm not sure Esme is going
to want to paint your pet birds.

Not after
what he's just been through.

- But we have
to forget all that.

None of it matters now.

Things'll be just as they were.

- Just as they were?

- Yes. You've lost your leg,
but it's not like you're dead.

And I'll buy you a wheelchair,

and then you can go
wherever you like.

Do you want me to help you?

- No.

- Good night.

What're you doing? What is it?

(sighing heavily)

- I've missed you, Angel.

- Are you sure
this is a good idea?

With your leg...?
(Esme breathing heavily)

(grunting)

What's the matter?

(crying)

Are you alright?

(sobbing)

- When I close my eyes...

I see faces.

Dead men's faces.
(crying)

- Don't speak about it,
don't even think about it.

- If this hadn't happened,

I'd have put
the bullet in myself.

(crying)

- It doesn't matter now.

You're here,

with me,

in Paradise.

(sobbing)

- I am sorry, Esme, but...

... what you're asking me
is just not possible.

- But I'm her husband.

- Of course.

But even if I could
make you an advance

without telling her,

Angel's literary standing
currently is so catastrophic,

there's simply
no money available.

The war's turned
everything upside down,

I'm afraid -
you, me, the country,

the whole of society -

but not Angel.

She still has no idea
about reality.

- So you've stopped
believing in her?

- I just don't know anymore.

What about your paintings?

Surely they're bringing
some money.

- The only painting
I ever sold... was to Angel.

- Actually, I don't think
Angel could bear it

if you left a second time.

- So what do you expect me
to do here in this mausoleum?

Try to bury me alive?

- No, I expect you
to use the studio to paint.

- Paint what?

Sultan?

Angel's cats?

- Paint what you saw in the war.

- Nobody's interested in that.

They'd rather forget.

- I was looking
at your Greek sketchbooks

and there were
some loose drawings--

- So what? Throw them away.
What's the point?

- I liked them.

(laughing)

- Come on, Nora.
Spare me your pity.

You've never liked
a single thing I've ever done.

You saw me in London,
didn't you?

- Yes.

- Did you tell her?

- No.

- "... at certain moments
of my life,

"your books have rescued me
from despair

and lifted my soul
onto a higher plane..."

How kind of him to write,

and what an educated hand.

You read the next one.

(Angel giggling)

- "Dear madam,

"having had personal experience
of the horrors of war,

"I would ask you
to spare your readers

"those sadistic descriptions
and stylistic mannerisms.

As a lover of literature
I feel the--"

(Angel laughing)
- Oh, stop!

That's enough. Burn it.

Thank you, my darling.

- Angel...
- Mm-hmm?

- There's something
I have to ask you.

- Oh?
- It's about money.

- What do you mean?

- I've got none left
and I'm drowning in debt.

I'm very, very sorry.

I realize how much
you must regret

having married a gambler.

A chronic one, at that.

- I've never regretted it.

Have you?

- You're the one
who has every reason to.

Nora always said
I married you for your money.

- I don't have any money.

- That's it, then,

I'm finished.

- Of course not.

I can get money.

It's just a case of giving
the public what they want.

- I feel despicable
asking you like this.

- How soon?
How soon do they want it?

- Well, with gambling debts,
I can always stall

for a little while,
but eventually...

- Don't worry,
I'm going to start writing,

and I'm not going
to leave this room

until I've written "The End."

- Oh!

Angel, it's magnificent.

Theo's going to be so pleased.

- Going to make even more money
out of me, you mean.

(whispering words)

- "... of what he had..."

- Marvell! Marv!

Just in time!

(panting)

- You write too much.

- Oh, get off.
You stink of alcohol.

Oh! What are you doing?!

- Giving you a little present

for writing all your lovely,
romantic stories.

(Angel screaming)

(screaming)
- No! No!

- A little baby...!

A little baby boy!
(grunting)

With one little leg.

(Angel screaming and crying)

A little baby...
- Oh, my God!

Esme, stop it! Stop it!

Esme!
(Angel screaming)

You...!

Get off! You pig!

(sobbing)

How could you be such a fool?

Can't you see
what he's doing to us?

(Angel crying)

- It's alright.

He's gone.

- Gone? What do you mean?

- With Marvell.
First thing this morning.

- To the races? Hunting?

- I don't think so.
He took his suitcase.

- What did he say?

- Nothing. He wouldn't talk.

- You alright, sir?
- We're leaving.

- Oh, my darling!
Oh, you came back!

You came back!
I knew you would.

Nora said you'd be gone forever,
but I knew she was lying.

You won't ever leave me again,
you won't desert me?

- No.

- And look what came for you
today.

- "... then, as Dusk
swept across the horizon

"in her shadowy dress
of deepest blue,

"the beautiful Volodia,
who had abandoned her crown,

abandoned her jewels
and Czarina's throne,

"abandoned
her revolutionary lover,

"climbed into the troika
and departed all alone

"along the snowbound road
edged with pine trees,

"which appeared to hail her
as she went,

"as in the blessed time
of her glorious reign.

"And struck by
a lightning-flash of lucidity,

"she suddenly understood
that this was the end.

The end of her very self
and soul."

- No applause?

Do you know what this means?

Weren't you listening?

This means money.

All the money
you could ever need.

My darling.

Don't forget to send it to Theo
in the morning.

- Yes, Angel.

(cat meowing)

(liquid gurgling)

- Are you asleep?

Or just pretending?

Sweet dreams, then.

I hope that whatever they are,

they're full of pretty colours.

(door opening and closing)

(dog barking)

- Sultan!

What's the matter?

Hey...?

(gasping)

(screaming)

- "... and when our bodies...

"still burning
with the indescribable desire

"of star-crossed lovers

"were at last sundered,

"Esme lifted my heavy hair
from the pillow

"and whispered,

"like voluptuous caresses,

"these fatal words...

"'May this infinite love

"'join us body and soul

"'even beyond death...

"'... and may our hearts
be forever united."

- Thank you, Miss Deverell.

Grant Esme eternal peace.

Let us reflect upon psalm 39,
verses four and five.

(Angel crying)

(sobbing)

- Thank you.
- Right this way.

- Ah, so this will be a whole
article devoted just to Esme?

- Yes, absolutely.

I think his work deserves
to be more widely recognized.

And I think the public
are really ready

for this kind
of restricted palette.

- Restricted palette?
What's that? Not a criticism?

- Uh, no...

n-not at all.

I simply mean painting
using very few colours.

In this case,
mainly browns and greys.

- Ah, yes.

Poor Esme never liked painting
sunshine or bright colours.

He much preferred scenes...

in pubs or factories.

- Um, I wonder
whether I might be able

to photograph any of his
canvases in your possession?

- Well, of course.

If it will help
my husband's reputation.

- Thank you.

- I'm planning to write a book
about him myself.

I shall have to give you a copy.

- Uh... Um, that would be
very kind, thank you.

I don't... I'm not familiar
with your work myself,

but I had an old aunt

who was a great admirer
of your books.

- For the time
that Esme lived at Paradise,

he was completely happy.

That is my one consolation
now that he has passed on.

- And how...
how did he die, exactly?

- A heart attack.

- It must've been
a great comfort

having his sister here with you.

- So unlike her brother.

But then she always has been.

What is this flower called?
I've forgotten its name.

- Uh... I'm afraid
I can't help you.

I... I've never known
very much about plants.

- Esme would've known.

- Ah!

Here is Esme's dictionary
of wild flowers.

His favourite book -
after mine, of course.

Oh!

Thank you.

- Here's the flower.
- Go away.

- Sorry?

- Go! Leave!

- Um, we...
we were going upstairs

to photograph the canvas?

- Leave this house! Go now!

- "... nor could you and I
ever be

"as ecstatically happy together
as we were on that last leave.

Don't try
and write to me again."

I don't understand.
He didn't ever have leave.

It makes no sense.

- Unless he lied to me.

Unless he came back from France,
but he lied to me.

Came back to England,
but saw someone else.

Is that what happened?

- Listen,
Esme was never given leave.

I'm sure of it.

That's just some old letter
from before you were married.

Look - it's not even signed.

- Then why does it say "leave"?

Those are the words:
"on that last leave."

Meaning there was more than one.

- Esme did not come home
on leave, Angel.

It's absurd.

- Your brother lied to me.

I give everything
to the man I love

and he deceives me.

- Angel, you've got to remember

how much Esme loved you.

And it's only
by remembering his love

that you will see
that you're wrong,

completely wrong.
- Oh, really?

But then that's what
I'd expect you to say.

You're his sister,

you're two of a kind.

And you've both done very well
out of me.

Out of living off my money,

off my success,

out of living here in my house!

- Angel, don't.
That isn't true.

- You're a disgusting pair
of leeches

who've sucked my life out!

Go on,

tell me.

Tell me.

- You want the truth?

- Yes.

- Alright, then - I knew.

But, Angel, I wanted
to protect you because...

I know how much
you loved Esme

and I also knew
he would never change.

Perhaps that was wrong of me.

Esme did have a mistress, yes.

And he came home on leave
a number of times

to visit her in London.

And the money he asked you for
wasn't to pay debts.

It was to keep her...

... and her child.

Until she got married.

And he never got over it.

- Wait for me here, Marvell.

(knocking)

- She's just coming.

- Do you recognize Paradise?

- Paradise...?

- That's right -
I used to live there once.

A long time before you did.

- You're Angelica?

- Yes.

I drew that when I was little.

Miss Deverell, I'm so happy
to have finally met you.

I've always been
a great admirer.

In fact, I think I've read
nearly all of your books.

But please do sit down.
Would you like some tea?

- No, thank you.

- How strange it is to meet now,
when our paths might so easily

have crossed before.
- Yes...

- I did so love your aunt.

She took such good care of me.

And dear Esme
so often talked about you.

I was so happy
when he married you

and found his feet again.

- He... he talked about me?

- Well, of course.

We'd known each other
since we were tiny children

and I was a kind of confidante
to him.

But you knew that, naturally.

- Of course.

- His death came
as a terrible shock.

He was so young,

and there were so many
wonderful things

he might've achieved.

- I brought you
your letter back.

- Thank you.

I'm very touched.

- I should go.

- You're sure you won't...

- You're alright, ma'am?

- Why are we going this way?

- Oh, through Norley?

Well, it's the quickest way.

(Theo): My dearest Nora,
you know as well as I do

how strong she is and how many
obstacles she has managed

to overcome in life,
from earliest childhood.

So don't worry - unlike
the heroines in her novels,

she is far too sensible
to die of a broken heart,

I can assure you.

So look after her
like you always have,

and she'll pull through

and live to bury us all.

Your ever devoted Theo.

- Angel?!

What are you doing?

The doctor said to rest.

- I was lonely.

- Oh, come on.

Get this 'round you,
or you'll catch your death.

Then you're having a cup of tea
and going straight back to bed.

(cats meowing)

- Where's Silky Boy?

- Why? Isn't he here?

- I can't see him.

- He's probably outside
with Marvell.

He's chopping wood.

- He can't be outside
in all this snow.

- He'll soon be mewing
to come back in.

- But you know
how delicate he is.

- Angel?

Angel!

- Silky Boy? Silky Boy?

- Angel!

- Silky Boy, where are you?

- Are you completely mad?

Go back up into your room.

I'll tell Marvell
to look for him.

- I knew something terrible
was going to happen.

I've known it all day.

(meowing)

(meowing)

(panting)

(meowing)

Hello.

Don't worry, Silky Boy.

Mummy's here now.

It's so cold outside.

You mustn't worry.

I won't leave you outside again.

- Thank you, Marvell.

(gasping)

(wheezing)

- Where am I?

Where am I?

- You're here with me.
You're at home.

- The grocery.

Not the grocery!

- No, of course
you're not in the grocery.

You're in Paradise House
with me, with Nora.

- Nora... I can't see! My eyes!

I can't see!

- Just go to sleep.
You need rest, that's all.

- Nora...

Do you think...

if I had had a baby...

... that Esme...

would still be alive?

- Of course not.

Don't say such foolish things.

- Nora?

Do you think
I've lived the wrong life?

Do you think
it's all been a dream?

None of it... was real?

- No.

No, my sweet Angel.

Of course it was real.

Your life has been magnificent.

You live in Paradise House,

and you're a very great writer.

And you were passionately,
passionately loved.

- The only person...

who ever really loved me,

Nora,

was you.

(Nora crying quietly)

I am Angel Deverell.

- Please... please!

Angel? Angel!

No! No! No!

(crying and screaming)

Please... No!

(sobbing)

- Nora, tell me.

What will you do now?

- I don't know.

I've had offers for Paradise.

There's talk of turning it
into a museum for Esme's work;

showing the paintings.

- Well, that would please Angel.

She always believed in him.

- Hmm, perhaps.

But all of her books -

who cares about them now?

- Fashion changes,

and time can be cruel.

- I'd always imagined her lying
in state in Westminster Abbey.

Speeches and crowds filing past.

- Why don't you write
some kind of tribute to her?

You knew her so well, Nora.

Not just her work,
but her life.

- Her life? Which life?

The life she lived,

or the life she dreamed?