All language subtitles for Brideshead Revisited - S01E09 - Orphans of the Storm

It's no use.

That woman beat hell out of me,
and I feel limp anyway.

Let's go in.

Ohl

I'd better take my shoes off.
All right.

Ohl.

Well, bravol.

Bravo.

I confess I came round
the other way.

Yes, I wasn't sure
about that door, somehow.

They've been working at it
all morning, you know.

Well, bravo.

Do you know you're
the first lady that I've seen?

I'm very lucky.

No, we are the lucky ones.

Charmed.

Your usual, sir?

Scotch and tepid water, I think.

Thank you.

And for the lady,

might I suggest
a nip of champagne?

Do you know, the awful thing is,

I would like champagne
very much.

I'll have some champagne too.

Very good, sir.

What a life of pleasure-

roses, half an hour
with a female pugilist,

and now champagne.

I wish you wouldn't keep
going on about the roses.

It wasn't my idea
in the first place.

Somebody sent them to Celia.

Oh, that's quite different.
That lets you out completely.

But it does make
my massage worse.

Well, I did have
the barber shave me

in my room this morning.

I'm glad about the roses.

Frankly, they were a shock.

They made me think
we were starting the day

on the wrong foot.

All the next day

Julia and I spent together
without interruption,

talking,
sometimes scarcely moving,

held by the swell of the sea.

After luncheon,

the last hardy passengers
went to rest,

and we were alone,

as though the place
had been cleared for us,

as though tact
on a titanic scale

had sent everyone tiptoeing out
to leave us to one another.

We thought Papa
might come back to England

after Mummy died

or that he might marry again.

But he lives just as he did.

Rex and I often go
and see him now.

I've grown very fond of him.

And Sebastian?

He's disappeared completely.

Cordelia's in Spain
with an ambulance.

Bridey leads his own
extraordinary life.

He wanted to shut Brideshead
after Mummy died,

but Papa wouldn't hear of it
for some reason,

so Rex and I live there now.

And Bridey too?

He has two rooms
next to Nanny Hawkins,

part of the old nurseries.

One meets him, sometimes,
coming out of the library

or on the stairs.

I never know when he's at home,

and now and then,
he suddenly comes in to dinner

like a ghost,
quite unexpectedly.

He's like a character
from Chekov.

You know, Charles,

Rex has never been unkind to me
intentionally.

It's just that he isn't
a real person at all.

He's a few faculties
of a man highly developed.

The rest simply isn't there.

He couldn't imagine
why it hurt me to find out,

two months after we came back
to London from our honeymoon,

that he was still keeping up
with Brenda Champion.

I was glad when I found
that Celia was unfaithful.

I felt it made it all right
for me to dislike her.

Is she?

Do you?

I'm glad.
I don't like her either.

Why did you marry her?

Oh...

physical attraction, ambition.

Everybody agrees

she's the perfect wife
for a painter.

Loneliness.

Missing Sebastian.

You loved him, didn't you?

Oh, yes.

He was the forerunner.

She told me,

as though
fondly turning the pages

of an old nursery book,

of her childhood.

And I lived long sunny days
with her in the meadows,

with Nanny Hawkins
on her camp stool

and Cordelia asleep in the pram.

She told me of her life with Rex

and of the secret, vicious,
disastrous escapade

that had taken her to New York.

She, too,
had had her dead years.

At first,
I used to stay away with Rex

in his friends' houses.

He doesn't make me anymore.

He was ashamed of me
when he found

I didn't cut
the kind of figure he wanted,

ashamed of himself
for having been taken in.

I wasn't at all
the article he bargained for.

He can't see the point of me.

But whenever
he's made up his mind

there isn't a point

and he's begun
to feel comfortable,

he gets a surprise.

Some man, or even woman,
he respects

takes a fancy to me,
and he suddenly sees

there's a whole world of things
we understand that he doesn't.

He was upset when I went away.

He'll be delighted
to have me back.

I was faithful to him until
this last thing came along.

When, before dinner,
she went to get ready,

I came with her,

uninvited, unopposed, expected.

I recalled the courtships
of the past ten dead years,

how, knotting my tie
before setting out,

putting the gardenia
in my buttonhole,

I would plan
an evening of seduction

and think,
"At such and such a time,

"at such and such
an opportunity,

"I shall cross the start line

"and open my attack
for better or worse.

This phase of battle
has gone on long enough,"

I would think.

"A decision must be reached."

With Julia,
there were no phases,

no start line,

no tactic at all.

I'll see you at dinner.

There's nothing like
a good upbringing.

Do you know, last year,

when I thought
I was going to have a child,

I'd decided to have it
brought up a Catholic?

I hadn't thought
about religion before.

I haven't since.

But just at that time,

while I was waiting
for the birth,

I thought, "That's the one thing
I can give her."

"It doesn't seem
to have done me much good,

but my child shall have it."

it was odd,

wanting to give something
one had lost one's self.

Then, in the end,
I couldn't even give her that.

I couldn't even give her life.

I never saw her.

I was too ill to know
what was going on,

and afterwards
for a long time, until now,

I didn't want to speak
about her.

She was a daughter,

so Rex didn't so much mind
about her being dead.

We'd argued endlessly

about whether I should have
a child in the first place.

At first, I wanted one.

After a year or so, I discovered

that I'd have to have
an operation

to make it possible.

By that time,
Rex and I were out of love.

But he still wanted an heir.

It's late.

Perhaps we'd better go to bed.

I have been punished a little
for marrying Rex.

You see, I can't get
all that sort of thing

out of my mind quite-

death, judgment, heaven, hell,

Nanny Hawkins,
and the catechism.

It becomes part of one's self

if they give it one
early enough.

And yet I wanted my child
to have it.

Now I suppose
I shall be punished

for what I've just done.

Perhaps that's why you and I
are here together like this.

Part of a plan.

No, Charles, not yet.

Perhaps never.

I don't know.
I don't know if I want love.

Love?

I'm not asking for love.

Oh, yes, Charles.

You are.

Charles, are you there?

Yes.

I'll come in.

Oh, I've been asleep
such a long while.

What time is it?

It's half past 3:00.

It's no better, is it?

It's worse.

I feel a little better, though.

Do you think they'd bring me
some tea or something

if I rang the bell?

I expect so.

Did you have an amusing evening?

Everyone's sick.

Oh, poor Charles.

It was going to be
such a lovely trip too.

It may be better tomorrow.

Perhaps.

Next day, the wind had dropped,

and again we were wallowing
in the swell.

That day,

because we had talked so much
the day before

and because what we had to say
needed few words,

we spoke little.

Thank you.

When, after long silences,
we spoke at all,

our thoughts, we found,

had kept pace together,
side by side.

You're standing guard
over your sadness.

It's all I've earned.

You said so yesterday.

My wages.

An lOU from life.

A promise to pay on demand.

It's the end of our day.

Let's go on deck.

Yes, now.

Oh, dear, where can we hide,

we orphans of the storm?

- Good morning.
- Morning, sir.

Charles?

Charlesl.

Good morning.

I feel so well.

What do you think I'm having
for breakfast?

Good Lord.

I've fixed up a visit
to go to the hairdresser.

Do you know
they couldn't take me

till 4:00 this afternoon,
they're so busy suddenly?

Mm-hmm.

So I shan't appear
till this evening,

but all sorts of people are
coming this morning to see us.

I'm afraid I've been
a worthless wife to you

these last few days.

What have you been up to?

Have you been behaving yourself?

You haven't been
picking up sirens?

There was scarcely
a woman about.

No, I've been talking to Julia.

Oh, good.

I always wanted
to get you two together.

She's one of my friends
I knew you'd like.

You must have been
a godsend to her.

She's been through
a rather gloomy time lately.

I don't expect she mentioned it,

but she got into trouble
with an awful man.

I hear you've been looking after
my husband for me.

Yes, we've become very matey.

Oh, Charles, do let's go
and see what's going on.

We'll catch you up.

What are your plans?

London for a bit.

Celia's going straight down
to the country.

She wants to see the children.

You too?

No.

In London, then.

Charles, the little
red-haired man, Foulenough.

Did you see?

Two plainclothes police came
and took him off.

Oh, I missed it.

There was such a crowd
that side of the ship.

I found out about trains
and sent a telegram.

- All right.
- We shall be home by dinner.

The children will be asleep.

Well, perhaps we could wake
John-John up just this once.

Uh, you go down.

I really have to stay in London.

Oh, Charles, you must come.
You haven't seen Caroline.

Will she change much
in a week or two?

Oh, darling,
she changes every day.

Then where's the point
of seeing her now?

I'm sorry, my dear,

but I must get
the pictures unpacked

so I can see
how they've traveled.

I must get the exhibition
fixed up.

Must you?

It's very disappointing.

Besides, I don't know
if Andrew and Cynthia

will be out of the flat.

They took it
till the end of the month.

Oh, I can go to a hotel.

Oh, but that's so grim.

I can't bear you to be alone
your first night home.

I'll stay and go down tomorrow.

Now, you mustn't disappoint
the children.

No.

Will you come down
at the weekend?

If I can.

All British passport holders
to the smoking room, please.

Oh.

I've arranged for that sweet
foreign office man at our table

to get us off early.

Good.

Hello? Cavendish Hotel?

Mr. Charles Ryder, please.

Charles.

Are you off to the gallery?

I'm sick of the pictures
already,

and I never want
to see them again,

but I suppose I better put in
an appearance.

Do you want me to come?

I'd much rather you didn't.

Celia sent a card

with "bring everyone" written
across it in green ink.

When do we meet?

In the train.

You could pick up my luggage.

If you'll have it packed soon,
I'll pick you up too

and drop you at the gallery.

I've got a fitting next door
at 12:00.

Lovely.

See you in about an hour, then.

Bye.

Good morning, Mr. Fisher.

Good morning, sir.

How's it going?

Now, Charles, darling,
do remember:

Be nice to the critics.

Yes, darling.

No one's come yet.

I've been here since 10:00,
and it's been very dull.

Whose car was that you came in?

Julia's.

Julia's?
Why didn't you bring her in?

Oddly enough, I've just been
talking about Brideshead

to a funny little man who seemed
to know it very well.

He said he was called
Mr. Samgrass.

Apparently, he's one
of Lord Copper's

middle-aged young men
on The Daily Beast.

I tried to feed him
some paragraphs,

but he seemed to know more
about you than I do.

He said he met me years ago
at Brideshead.

I wish Julia had come in;

We could have asked her
about him.

- You know, I-
- Your whisky, darling.

Thank you.

I remember him. He's a crook.

Yes, that stuck out a mile.

He's been talking about what
he calls the "Brideshead set."

Apparently, Rex Mottram
has turned the place

into a nest of party mutiny.

Did you know?

What would Teresa Marchmain
have thought?

I'm going up there tonight.

No, not tonight, Charles.

You can't go tonight.

You're expected at home.

You promised as soon
as the exhibition was ready,

you'd come home.

John-John and Nanny have made
a banner with "welcome" on it,

and you haven't
seen Caroline yet.

I'm sorry; It's all settled.

Besides, Daddy
will think it so odd.

And Boy is home for Sunday.

And you haven't seen
the new studio.

Charles, you can't go tonight.

Did they ask me?

Of course.

But I knew
you wouldn't be able to come.

No, I can't now.

I could have,
if you'd let me know earlier.

I should adore to see
the "Brideshead set" at home.

I do think
you're perfectly beastly,

but this is no time
for a family rumpus.

The Clarences said
they'd look in before luncheon.

They may be here any minute.

Good.

Mr. Ryder?
Pamela Lomax, Daily Mail.

Oh, yes.

I wondered
if I might have a word.

Oh, here they are.

So pleased to meet you.

Lovely to see you again.

What a very charming hat.

Oh, sir, you are sweet.

Interesting,
this trip down the Amazon.

One of my brothers
has just got back.

Got pretty bitten.

Looking forward
to seeing the pictures.

How kind of you to come, sir.

Very good to see you.

Ma'am.

Would you care
for some champagne?

Not for me, thank you.

Pretty hot out there,
I should think.

Yes, it was, sir.

Was it terribly uncomfortable?

Well, ma'am, there were
one or two sticky moments.

Awfully clever,
the way you've hit off

the impression of heat.

Makes me feel quite
uncomfortable in my great coat.

Just a little bit closer,
please.

That's it. Fine, lovely.

Can you see the picture?

That's all right, now.

I'm not interested
in the picture.

That's fine.
Just a tiny bit closer.

Lovely, lovely.

Now smile, please.

Thank you.

How kind, Sir John.
I'm delighted to hear it.

Oh, Charles, Charles.

Sir John has been saying the
most marvelous things about you.

Oh, good. I'm glad.

I think it's safe to say

that we can look forward
to another Ryder at the Tate.

And now, if I may,
I should like to mark down

the following ones
for further consideration.

Number seven.

You see, Charles lives
for one thing:

Beauty.

I think he got bored

with finding it ready-made
in England.

He had to go and create it
for himself.

He wanted new worlds to conquer.

After all, he has said
the last word

about country houses, really,
hasn't he?

Not, I mean, that he's
given that up altogether.

I'm sure he'll always do
one or two more for friends.

Of course, he's going to be
frightfully busy at the moment,

getting the book ready.

From fashionable
and unfashionable lips alike,

I heard fragments of praise.

They all thought
they had found something new.

It had not been thus
at my last exhibition

in these same rooms
shortly before going abroad.

Then, there had been

an unmistakable note
of weariness.

Then, the talk
had been less of me

than of the houses,
anecdotes of their owners.

I remembered
that last exhibition, too,

for another reason.

It was the week I had detected
my wife in adultery.

Then, as now,
she was a tireless hostess.

Whenever I see
anything lovely nowadays,

a building,

I think to myself,
"That's by Charles."

Throughout our married life,
again and again

I had felt my bowels shrivel
within me

at the things she said.

But today, in this gallery,

I heard her unmoved
and suddenly realized

that she was powerless
to hurt me anymore.

I was a free man.

She had given me my manumission

in that brief, sly lapse
of hers.

My cuckold's horns made me
lord of the forest.

Darling, I must go.

It's been a terrific success,
hasn't it?

I'll think of something
to tell them at home,

but I wish it hadn't had
to happen quite like this.

Good afternoon.

No, I have not brought
a c-c-card of invitation.

I do not even know
whether I received one.

I have not come
to a social function.

I do not seek to scrape
acquaintance with Lady Celia.

I do not want my photograph
in the Tatler.

I haven't come
to exhibit myself.

I've come to see the pictures.

Perhaps you are unaware that
there are any pictures here.

I happen to have a p-p-personal
interest in the artist,

if that word has any meaning
for you.

Antoine.

Come in.

My dear, there is a gorgon here

who thinks I'm gate-crashing.

Dear Charles.

How are you?

I only arrived in London
yesterday,

and I heard quite by chance
at luncheon

that you were having
an ex-exhibition

so of course I dashed
impetuously to the shrine

to pay homage.

Have I changed?

Would you recognize me, hmm?

Now, where are the pictures?

Let me explain them to you.

Hmm.

Where, my dear Charles,

did you find
this sumptuous greenery?

In the corner of some hothouse
at Trent or Tring?

What gorgeous usurer
nurtured these fronds

for your pleasure?

I've been in South America
for two years.

Haven't you heard?

I know all about that.

Hmm.

But they tell me, my dear,

that you are happy in love,

and that is everything,
is it not?

Or nearly everything.

Are they as bad as that?

My dear, let us not expose
your little imposture

before these good plain people.

Let us not spoil
their innocent pleasure.

We know, you and I, that this
is all terrible tripe.

Let's go before we offend
the connoisseurs.

I know of a louche little bar
quite near here.

Let's go there and talk
of your other conquests.

Good-bye, sir.

Thank you for everything.

Not quite your milieu, my dear,

but mine, I assure you.

After all, you have been
in your milieu all day.

I was given the address
by a dirty old man

in the Boeuf sur le Toit.

I'm most grateful to him.

I've been out of England
so long,

and, really, sympathetic
little joints like this

change so fast.

I presented myself here for the
first time yesterday evening,

and already I feel
quite at home.

Good evening, Cyril.

Tony, back again?

Can't keep away, my dear.

What are you having, dear?

What would you like, Charles?

A gin and dry vermouth.

Two of those, please.

- Hello, Tony.
- Ah, good evening.

- How are you?
- Fine, thank you.

Do you know Mr. Charles Ryder,
the artist?

- Pleased to meet you.
- How do you do?

Thank you.

We'll take our drinks
and sit down.

You must remember, my dear,

that here
you are just as conspicuous

and, may I say, abnormal,
my dear,

as I should be in Bratt's club.

Would your friend care
to rhumba?

No, Tom, he would not,

and I'm not going to give you
a drink-

not yet, anyway.

That's a very impudent boy,

a regular little gold digger,
my dear.

Well, Antoine,

what have you been up to
all these years?

My dear,
it's what you have been up to

that we are here to talk about.

I've been watching you, my dear.

I'm a faithful old body,

and I've k-kept my eye on you.

I went to your first exhibition,
my dear.

I found it... charming.

There was an interior
of Marchmain House-

very English, very correct,
but quite delicious.

"Charles has done something,"
I said.

"Not all he will do,
not all he can do,

but something."

Even then, my dear,
I wondered a little.

It seemed to me there was
something a little gentlemanly

about your painting.

You must remember, my dear,
that I am not English.

I cannot understand
this keen zest to be well-bred.

English snobbery
is even more macabre to me

than English morals.

However, I said, "Charles
has done something delicious."

What will he do next?"

lmagine, then, my excitement
at luncheon today.

Everyone was talking about you,

how you had broken away,
my dear,

gone to the tropics,
become a Gauguin, a Rimbaud.

You can imagine
how my old heart leapt.

"Poor Celia," they said.

"After all she's done for him.

"He owes everything to her.
It's too bad.

"And with Julia," they said,

"after the way she behaved
in America

and just as she was going back
to Rex."

"But the pictures," I said.
"Tell me about them."

"Oh, the pictures," they said.

"They're most peculiar,

"not at all
what he usually does.

Very forceful, quite barbaric."

"I call them
downright unhealthy,"

said Mrs. Stuyvesant Oglander.

My dear, I could hardly
keep still in my chair.

I wanted to dash
out of the house,

leap into a taxi,

and say, "Take me to Charles'
unhealthy pictures."

Well, my dear, I went,
and what did I find?

I found a very naughty
and successful practical joke.

It reminded me of dear Sebastian

when he liked so much
to dress up in false whiskers.

It was charm again, my dear-

simple, creamy English charm
playing tigers.

You're quite right.

Of course I'm right, my dear.

I was right years ago-

more years, I am happy to say,
than either of us shows-

when I warned you.

I took you out to dinner
to warn you of charm.

I warned you expressly
and in great detail

of the Flyte family.

Charm is the great English
blight.

It does not exist
outside these damp islands.

It spots and kills
anything it touches.

It kills love.

It kills art.

And I greatly fear,
my dear Charles,

that it has killed you.

It's nice seeing you again,
Anthony.

I've got to go.
I've got a train to catch.

Dommage.

I so enjoy our little talks
together.

A bientot, Charles.

Don't be a tease, Tony.

Buy me a drink.

Hmm?

All right.

This way, milady.

Charles.

Hello, darling.

Thank you, your ladyship.

I'll just go and make sure
the luggage is safely stowed.

Thank you.

I thought you'd missed
the train.

It seems days since I saw you.

Six hours.

And we were together
all yesterday.

You look worn out.

Oh, it's been a nightmare
of a day.

Crowds, critics,
and the Clarences,

ending up with half an hour's
well-reasoned abuse

about my pictures
in a pansy bar.

I think Celia knows about us.

She had to know sometime.

Would you care for a drink
before dinner, madam?

Two very dry martinis, please.

Yes, sir.

Everyone seems to know.

My pansy friend had only been
in London 24 hours

before he found out.

Damn everybody.

Yes, but what about Rex?

Rex isn't anybody at all.

He just doesn't exist.

What we want is a showdown.

Wouldn't work with Baldwin.

Baldwin's too canny,
and Baldwin's too clever,

and Baldwin can rig it.

A chap's just came
from Fort Belvedere,

and what he said
was very interesting.

Absolutely true.

A chap I know
in the Foreign Office

swears it's a fact
that Franco is a German agent.

Charles. Excuse me.

Good to see you.

Grizel's here somewhere.

She saw your show this morning.

Very impressed,

impressed with what she calls
your new style.

Here, help yourself.

I must say, Charles,

the murals are as handsome
as ever.

That was a long time ago.

You seem to have
a pretty good set-up here.

It's a very happy arrangement.

Well, it suits me
down to the ground.

The old boy keeps up the house,

and Bridey takes care
of all the feudal stuff,

you know, with the tenants.

I have the run of the house
rent-free.

All it costs me is the food and
wages for the indoor servants.

Couldn't be fairer than that,
could it?

Rex! Come and support me.

Come and stop Ronnie
losing a bet.

He's put his shirt
on Baldwin winning.

Do you know
Henry or Ronnie Nash?

Come over and say hello.

I'll join you in a minute.

What I'm saying, of course,
is that he could marry her

and make her queen tomorrow.

Would you mind awfully
not doing that?

Why not?

Because I don't much enjoy it.

Who cares about divorce
these days, anyway?

A few old maids?

Charles.

Hello, Grizel.

You were pretty nippy
getting up here.

That exhibition of yours
is divine.

- You enjoyed it?
- Indeed.

And how's that lovely Celia?

Oh, she's well.

Julia.

Darling, you've lost weight,

and it suits you.

Goodness, you look more stunning
than ever.

I could spit.

Hello, everybody.

Do carry on.

I'm sorry I wasn't here
to greet you.

I hope Rex is taking care
of you all.

Good evening, Henry.

How are you?

Evening, darling.

- You look lovely.
- Thank you.

My dear,
you look simply marvelous.

Thank you so much.

Good evening.

Hello. Hello.

How goes the evening gambling?

How was it?

Too bad.

Straight into
a military compound.

We couldn't stop him.

He gave himself up for dead.

But hold on;
This is the funny part.

He drove clean through it.

Hello.

Didn't even scratch his paint.

A brand-new frame
and a painted canvas.

I wonder
which is the more horrible,

Celia's art and fashion
or Rex's politics and money.

Why worry about them?

Oh, my darling,

why is it that love
makes me hate the world?

It's supposed to have
quite the opposite effect.

I feel as though all mankind,
and God too,

were in a conspiracy against us.

They are.

They are.

But we've got our happiness
in spite of them,

here and now.

We've taken possession of it.

They can't hurt us, can they?

Not now.

Not tonight.

Not for how many nights?