All language subtitles for CARRINGTON.Christopher Hampton.1995.DVDRip.Xvid.Clayton

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ONE: LYTTON & CARRINGTON 1915

- Hello.
- Sir.

Taxi or a fly, sir?

I don't think we ought to make
too hasty a decision. Do you?

I believe I'll take...

that one.

Vanessa.

- I'm dropping.
- The kettle's on.

- Ah!
- Clive.

We're fending for ourselves.
The servants are off till Monday.

- Oh, dear.
- We've put you in the front bedroom.

- There's a fire in the sitting room.
- Jolly good.

- I'll get you a cup of tea.
- Oh, please.

Oh!

- I've brought you my ration cards.
- Thanks.

Vanessa.

Yes?

Who on earth is that ravishing boy?

I take it you're not referring
to either of my sons.

No.

Him.

Carrington!

Good God.

- Someone I want you to meet.
- Coming.

This is Lytton Strachey.

Hello.

I'll fetch the tea.

- So, you're Carrington.
- Yes.

Mark Gertler's friend.

Well, I know him.

Ah.

They'll be bringing in
conscription in a matter of weeks.

We'll all be dragged in front
of some appalling tribunal.

You'll have to be conscientious objectors.

I'd rather go to prison, or down the mines.

It'd be warmer. You'd meet
a much nicer class of person, I'm sure.

Ottoline says she'll be able to help.

There must be compensation
for having friends in high places.

Don't you like Ottoline?

I'm devoted to Ottoline.

She's like the Eiffel Tower: she's very
silly, but she affords excellent views.

Will knitting scarves for the troops
be classified as essential war work?

I'm so busy nowadays.
I've been learning German as well.

- It's a most disagreeable language.
- Then why learn it?

Well, my dear, I mean,
suppose they win.

Oh!

Ye gods.

Can you imagine what
the war must be like?

As Nessa and Clive are both
having affairs with cousins of mine,

I can't help thinking theirs is
a peculiarly civilised marriage.

Do you really like to be called Carrington?

- Yes.
- Why?

My first name is Dora.

Ah. I see.

- Can you hear them?
- What?

The guns.

Oh, yes.

I have three brothers over there.

I can't tell you how angry
it makes me feel.

I'd have joined up if I'd been a man.

- You don't believe...?
- No, I don't believe in it.

But I'd still have joined up.

I wish I'd been born a boy.

You have such lovely ears.

Don't! Stop it!
Would you mind not?!

Sorry.

Have you brought my breakfast?

No, I haven't.

I was going to cut your beard off.

- Why?
- To punish you.

Oh, I see.

Do you still want to punish me?

No. No.

I don't.

TWO: GERTLER 1916-1918

That's enough. That's enough.

- Why?
- I'll have to go soon anyway.

Why don't you stay the night?

- Let's not go through all this again.
- I'm only asking.

It makes me think you're
only interested in me sexually.

Oh, God! You make me so angry!
Of course I'm interested in you sexually!

It doesn't mean I'm only interested
in you sexually. I can get it anywhere.

I'm interested in you, in your opinions.
What you think of me.

So naturally I'm interested in you
sexually too. I did ask you to marry me.

- I know, Mark, but...
- I'd understand if you thought I was ugly.

- You'd not like me, and you say you do.
- Of course I do.

Well, then.

It's you I like, not your body.

Except I am my body.

Good night.

You can't expect
to stay a virgin all your life.

What's the matter?

I was just thinking... about
that disgusting old man with the beard.

Well, I really shouldn't
brood about it, if I were you.

After all, he is a bugger.

- What?
- Lytton.

He's a bugger.

- I never know what that means.
- He's a homosexual.

Call Mr Strachey.

Giles Lytton Strachey.

- Mr Strachey?
- No. Phillip Morrell.

- MP for Burnley.
- Ah. I...

I believe Mr Strachey
is marshalling his documents.

Mr Strachey.

One moment.

I'm a martyr to the piles.

You're a writer by profession.
Is that correct?

It is. I am.

Now, according to this report
from the advisory committee,

you've made a statement to the effect
that you have a conscientious objection

to taking part in the war.

- Did you make such a statement?
- Yes. Yes.

- Mr Strachey.
- Yes?

Are we to understand that you have
a conscientious objection to all wars?

Oh, no, no. Not at all. Only this one.

Then would you care to tell us
what you would do

if you saw a German soldier
raping your sister?

I believe I should attempt
to come between them.

I will not assist, by any deliberate
action of mine, in carrying on this war.

My objection is based not upon religious
belief, but upon moral considerations.

And I'll not act against those convictions
whatever the consequences may be.

Well, after all that, the prospect
of jail seems positively soothing.

They'll never send you to jail. Too many
of them went to school with you.

I only hope you're right.

Any luck with the famous
Carrington conundrum?

It's only ignorance. Fear and ignorance.

It has been going on for four years.
I'm at my wits' end.

Well, it's no use asking my opinion.

When it comes to a creature with a cunt,
I'm always infinitely desoriente.

All the same I've decided,
if anyone can help me, you can.

I? How?

Well, I don't know exactly.
I just mean if you'd just...

be with her a little.

A man like you - she has no older friends,
you see - she's bound to learn.

Keats's letters, of course, are
very poignant on the subject of virginity.

- And my work.
- What?

Take this, for example.

This is a radical painting.

This is my statement on
the soulless mechanisms of war.

She won't understand that.

Harmonies, for example.
I mean, they're like Bach.

- Don't you agree?
- But the critics.

Surely the papers are full of
nothing but Gertler nowadays.

That's no good to her.
Someone must explain to her -

someone that she respects -
that I'm an important artist.

- You think, if she realises that, she'll...?
- I'm sure of it.

To begin with, I'm still compelled,
at my age, to live in my mother's house,

simply because
I'm more or less sans le sou.

You probably think of me
as a man of letters. Hm?

All I've ever managed to publish is a few
reviews and a slim volume of criticism.

Can't write half the things I want to write.

If I did, I wouldn't dare publish them
for fear of killing my mother.

Furthermore, I now find myself, despite
my great age and notorious health,

being harassed by the government
to take part

in some entirely ridiculous war
they seem quite unable to grasp

is resulting in large numbers
of people dying.

So I'm now reduced to writing pamphlets
for the No-Conscription Fellowship,

which may very possibly
land me in prison.

In other words: I'm obscure, decrepit,
terrified, penniless, and fond of adjectives.

Surely it's not that bad.

No. No, you're quite right.

Looked at another way, I'm a respectable
elderly bugger of modest means.

I suppose you ought to be going soon,
before it gets dark.

Oh, no. No, no, no.
No, I adore the blackout.

The most thrilling encounters...

You mustn't deny us our few pleasures.

We've not much else
to look forward to, except old age.

Dear God, can you imagine it?

The rain, the loneliness, the regret.

- No, I can't imagine it.
- You wait till it's staring you in the face.

How old are you, anyway?

I'm 36 next birthday.

Oh, Ottoline's invited me
up to Garsington next weekend.

- Me too.
- Oh. I'll go if you'll go.

Last time I was there,
everyone was either deaf or French.

Well, how is the campaign proceeding?

- Campaign?
- The Carrington matter.

I take it you're still working on her.

Really, Ottoline, must you
put things quite so baldly?

I prefer to think of myself
as an educator, rather than as a...

What?

- As a pimp.
- Oh, now don't be silly.

You know as well as I do
it's a sickness with Carrington.

A girl of that age still a virgin.
It's absurd.

I was still a virgin at her age.

But that's my whole point.
Don't you see? So was I.

Is there to be no progress?

Now I must have a serious talk
with you before Mark arrives.

I know how difficult it is, my dear,

to reconcile puritanism
with a love of beauty.

It's a consideration that's never far
from my thoughts when I'm in Burnley.

I mean, take this garden, for example.

Surely it wouldn't be right to plant
nothing but cabbages and cauliflowers.

Or do you think it's wanton of us to love
the bastard tulip or the Turk's-head lily?

Of course not. No.

One can't have it all ways.

Remember that.

And I firmly believe it's high time
you took the bull by the horns.

We can't always live under glass,
like a cucumber.

We have to engage with life.

Ah, there you are, Carrington.

I was hoping to find an opportunity to
talk to you in private before Mark's arrival.

Then Pipsey harangued me
for half an hour on the perils of virginity.

He got all breathy and the hairs
in his nostrils became horribly agitated.

Finally, he said it was someone like me
had driven his brother Hugh to suicide.

Ah, semen.

What is it about that
ridiculous white secretion

that pulls down the corners
of an Englishman's mouth?

You see, I'm not against it in theory.
It's just the thought of Mark, somehow.

Well, I can't, of course,
agree with you, but... there we are.

- Lytton.
- Hm?

I love being with you.

You're so cold and wise.

These last few months, whenever
I know I'll see you, I get so excited inside.

If you... were to kiss me again,
I don't think I'd mind at all.

You know, it's a strange thing,

but I'd rather like to.

Your skin is like ivory.

That day I came in - you remember
- to cut your beard off... I knew then.

I don't think this is
what Mark had in mind.

- He's not to know.
- Still, I can't help feeling rather shifty.

What I knew was
that I was in love with you.

I heard from the military doctors' board
this morning.

They've rejected me.

"Medically unfit for any kind of service."

But, Lytton, that's wonderful.

Wonderful for me.

Thousands of boys are dying
every day to preserve this.

- Did you know?
- Yes.

God damn, blast, confound
and fuck the upper classes.

Let's see if we can't
avoid all this, shall we?

Go and read some Rimbaud.

You're the lady,
I'm the Jew-boy from the East End.

- That's it, isn't it?
- Of course not.

- Don't know why you don't admit it.
- Because it's not true!

You don't understand. I need my freedom.

Freedom? How can you have that when
you're frightened to use your own body?

You must have patience.

What do you mean, patience?
It is killing me, all this.

It is killing me.

I'm sorry.

Think how much your body's deteriorated
in the past four years.

All that time, just wasted.

- Keats's letters...
- Don't talk to me about Keats's letters!

What the hell use is Keats to me?!

I have a suggestion.

- What?
- I'm planning a holiday in Wales.

Why don't I take her with me?

You see, I've been teaching her French.
We're about to get on to the French poets.

I've a feeling they may prove decisive.

I've come to the sad conclusion there's
no such thing as a beautiful Welsh boy.

At any rate, I've seen nothing
but the most unparalleled frumps.

Wouldn't it be lovely to live
in the country? I'm sick of towns.

Yes.

Perhaps we should set up house together.

Do you really mean that?

Well, yes, I did. Yes.

No, I don't think so.

Probably just as well.
Anyway, I couldn't afford it.

I see.

I'm sorry. I tend to be
rather impulsive in these matters.

Like the time I asked
Virginia Woolf to marry me.

- She turned you down?
- No. No, she accepted.

It was ghastly.

And if I'd accepted, I suppose
that would have been ghastly.

No. I don't think it would.

What's that you're taking?

Doctor Gregory's rhubarb pills.
I find them sovereign.

One bed is warmer than two.

Anything you like, Lytton.

Anything.

Well... It's all very well...

It doesn't matter.

Really, it doesn't.

Mark's borrowed Gilbert Cannan's
place at Cholesbury.

He wants me to spend
a few days with him.

Then you must go.

I'm not sure I want to.

Then you mustn't go.

Can't you see, Lytton,
I'm asking you to help me?

My dear, as we both know,
I'm supposed to be bringing you together.

But in these matters, above all,
you must make your own decisions.

- Ready?
- It's too big, Mark.

I can't get it in.
I've tried and tried, but I can't.

Don't come in!

Lytton.

Yes?

What you said about us
living together in the country...

Yes?

Did you really mean it?

Yes.

Yes, but a pound a week -
I don't see how I can manage it.

Our own Roman bath, look.

Most hygienic.

And this will be your room.

- An electric light in every room, look.
- Oh, yes. That is a blessing.

Now, don't worry. By the time I've
finished with it, you won't recognise it.

Are you... going to live with him?

No. I just felt I had to tell him
I was in love with him.

What did he say?

He said he was sorry.

Is that all?

Well, it's not his fault.
What else could he say?

Good God.

Er...

I never want to see you again.

So, would you mind
if I left you directly after dinner?

- No.
- No?

I've always said life
was a crooked business.

After all these years, you fall in love
with a man like Strachey, twice your age.

I thought I'd better tell Mark,
as it was so difficult going on.

- Tell him what?
- That it couldn't go on.

So I told him. I told him.

That I was in love with you.

Aren't you being rather romantic?

Are you certain?

There's nothing romantic about it.

What did Mark say?

He was terribly upset.

Oh, it's all too incongruous.

I'm so old and diseased.
I mean, I wish I was more able.

It doesn't matter.

What ought we to do about the physical?

- I don't mind about that.
- Ah, but you should.

All this is quite deliberate, you know.

I wish I was rich.

- Then I could keep you as my mistress.
- What difference would that make?

Will you stay?

Well...

Won't you spoil me, just this once?

Tonight?

I come bearing gifts.

- Oh, globes!
- Looted from Mother.

Oh, what a hero! If I were bigger,
I'd carry you over the threshold.

Well done.

Oh, don't go in there.

The pipes seized up. Then they burst.

- Good God.
- Come upstairs.

It's remarkable.

Yes, it seems that Eminent Victorians is
about to burst upon an astonished world.

- That's marvellous, Lytton.
- And not before time.

Chatto and Windus
claim to find it enchanting.

Not absolutely the adjective
I had in mind...

My God!

What?

You're living with him.

Yes.

How could you lie to me like that?

- Did you think I wouldn't find out?
- I didn't want to hurt you.

Oh!

Do you know, when I found out,

just thinking about you
and that half-dead eunuch,

I vomited all night.

You have poisoned my life.

Haven't you any self-respect?

Not much.

But he's just a disgusting pervert!

You always have to
put up with something.

It's very bright tonight.

Do you think there'll be a raid?

Mark!

No!

Have you managed it yet? Have you?!

I'll kill him!

That was all rather thrilling.

I'll kill him!

Anything more cinematographic
could scarcely be imagined.

THREE: PARTRIDGE 1918-1921

Rex Partridge,
the man I was telling you about,

is coming down to see us on Friday.

After the war, he plans to sail
a schooner to the Mediterranean islands,

and trade in wine,
and dress like a brigand.

- You mean that you enjoy it?
- Well, no, it's not that I enjoy it.

Of course not. But it does seem
a good deal more real over there.

And it's a relief to get out of range
of all those Bolsheviks and malingerers,

who spend all their time complaining
about subjects they know nothing about.

- If you mean conscientious objectors...
- I do. That's exactly what I mean.

Only I call them skulkers.

A lot of them are prepared
to suffer for their beliefs.

- Bertie Russell's in jail.
- Best place for him, I dare say.

Anyway, he's better off there
than in the trenches, isn't he?

- That's not the point.
- Of course it is.

What are you supposed to do
if you're a pacifist? What?

- What would you suggest?
- What would I suggest?

I'd suggest they were
put up against a wall and shot.

That's what I'd suggest.

- I'm so sorry.
- What for?

I thought you'd like him.

- What do you mean?
- I'm sorry he was so awful.

Oh, but I thought he was wonderful.

"Thanks to the brilliancy of his style,
Eminent Victorians is a fascinating book."

I suppose this is what's meant
by the phrase "to wake up famous".

Chatto say the book is selling so well,
they're forced to consider a reprint.

That's bad luck, isn't it?

There.

I can't claim it was my intention
to destroy Victorian values,

but if that's what I've done,
I'm not in the least sorry.

It seems I am in distinct danger
of becoming a man of means.

Oh.

A terrible review by Gosse.

I can't tell you what a relief it is
to be denounced at last.

It hasn't been easy remaining calm in the
face of praise from the Daily Telegraph.

The curse of it all is, I can't see how to
get out of writing another book. Can you?

I don't know why you're so good to me.

It's a constant mystery.

- That's how I feel, Lytton.
- Hm?

You must always remember that.

I'm your pen wiper.

I know it was an obscene
and ridiculous war,

but I suppose it's
quite convenient to have won.

Now we shall see
some real progress, Lytton.

We're on the threshold of a golden age.

You know, Ottoline,
given the circumstances,

I really think we ought to dance.

Very well.

I wish he'd worn his pullover.

To look at him, you wouldn't
think he'd written that book.

- Why not?
- I read it the other day.

Couldn't see what all the fuss was about.

"Cardinal: I'll leave you.
Ferdinand: Nay, I have done."

"I am confident, had I been damn'd in hell,
and should have heard of this,

it would have put me into a cold sweat."

"In, in, I'll go sleep."

"Till I know who leaps my sister,
I'll not stir."

"That known, I'll find scorpions
to string my whips,

and fix her in a general eclipse."

"Exeunt."

I've been meaning to tell you,
I can't say I really approve of Rex.

- What do you mean?
- As a name.

That's not my real name.

- My real name is Reginald.
- Ah.

Myself, I'm very much in favour of Ralph.

Ralph Partridge.
Rrrrralph Partridge.

Sounds very fine. Don't you agree?

Ralph.

What's the matter?

I don't know.

I seem to be in rather a... flux.

It's really not fair.

Why aren't I a rowing blue,
with eyes to match?

But his conversation's
so dull. He's like a Norwegian dentist.

I suppose your privileges
give you the right to judge.

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

Women in love with buggers and
buggers in love with womanisers.

And what with the price of coal...

Do you think your major would stay more
often if you had a more comfortable bed?

Your bed's all right.

Let me put it another way.

I wish he would stay more often.

When you go up to London...

Hm?

Who do you see?

Well, nobody you know.

Yes, but who?

I like to keep a bit of privacy
in my life. You know?

And...

if you're going to
cross-examine me all the time,

that seems very much like jealousy,
and I don't believe in that.

If you don't believe in it, why should you
mind telling me who you see in London?

- Yes, but will I like him?
- Gerald? I don't see why not.

As long as you don't frighten him.

- I can't imagine what you mean.
- Well, he's shy.

I used to take him
to the brothel in Amiens.

He always used to wait downstairs
or slope off to look at the cathedral.

You must be Gerald Brenan.

- Miss Carrington?
- Carrington.

Rex - that is to say, Ralph -
tells me you're a Bolshevik.

He tells me you're an idealist.

- I'm going to look for a house in Spain.
- Why?

- To educate myself.
- Unlikely reason.

I'm too old for university. I must do
something to repair my ignorance,

- so I'm eloping with 2,000 books.
- Why Spain?

- Because it's hot and cheap.
- True.

- And the women are beautiful.
- Sounds worse and worse.

Oh, my God. Here, help me.

Got you.

You mustn't believe everything
Ralph tells you about me.

- Why do you say that?
- He invents everyone he meets.

You must have noticed.

He gives them a character and a set
of opinions so he can argue with them.

I suppose you're right.

I don't mean to attack Ralph.
He's my closest friend.

But he lives entirely by his instincts,
and I can't do that.

I wish I could.

You're going off to live in Spain
following your instincts.

Not really.

I'd say it was very calculated.

It has to be.

You mean money?

I'm told you can rent a house
there for five pounds a year.

Whereabouts in Spain are you going?

No idea.

I have a map.

- Well, I hope you'll write to me.
- Of course. I'll write to both of you.

Separately.

How do you spell "intangible"?

I- n-t-a-n-g-i-b-I-e.

Oh. Well, never mind.

Won't you be
just some glorified typesetter?

- No. And that's not really the point, is it?
- Oh? What is the point?

The point is I shall have to live in London.

And I want Carrington to come with me.

Oh, I see.

We'll come back here every weekend and
the servants will look after you all week.

It's not the same.

- I shall miss you terribly.
- Oh, it won't be so very different.

All your gallivanting about, you know
you're only here about half the time.

Except when you're working, and then
it'll be an advantage to be on your own.

Suppose she doesn't agree.

Then I think it would be best for me
to make a complete break.

My darling, I don't think I could face that.

Why do you think I moved away
from London? I hate London.

- That's a selfish attitude.
- I can't just abandon Lytton.

- He doesn't quite see it in that light.
- What do you mean?

There are times when I feel like
a character in a farce by Moliere.

Le Bougre Marie.

I do wish you weren't
quite so single-minded, dearest.

I mean, I have tried.

I can't help it.

Women's bodies I find
somehow subtly offensive.

Or reproachful, would it be?

- Lytton said a strange thing last night.
- Oh, yes? What?

He told me he thought
women's bodies were disgusting.

- Can I come in?
- Of course.

Two indispensable items you've forgotten.

These.

Very handy for boy-watching in Italy.

And...

You are wonderful. You think
of everything. I shall give you a kiss.

What am I going to do, Lytton?

He's very determined, my dear.

He tells me, if you don't marry him,
he's resolved to go and live abroad.

If only I wasn't so... plural.

Especially when people
seem to want me so conclusively.

I'm sure you'll do the right thing.

I can't see what difference
getting married would make.

- A great deal of difference.
- It's just a piece of paper.

For one, think how much easier
it would be travelling abroad, and...

- And what?
- If that's the way you feel,

there's only one thing for it!

- I shall go to Bolivia.
- What?

A man I know in Oxford wants me
to run a sheep farm in Bolivia.

Oh, I'm quite serious.
I can't go on like this.

- Don't be ridiculous.
- I will not be treated like a child!

If I go, he won't let you live with him
any more. You know that, don't you?

He's never said that.

I don't think he wants to see you again
when he gets back from Italy.

My dearest Lytton,

There is a great deal to say, and I feel
very incompetent to write it today.

You see, I knew there was nothing
really to hope for from you,

well, ever since the beginning.

All these years, I have known all along
that my life with you was limited.

Lytton, you are the only person who
I ever had an all-absorbing passion for.

I shall never have another.
I couldn't, now.

I had one of the most self-abasing
loves that a person can have.

It's too much of a strain to be
quite alone here, waiting to see you,

or craning my nose and eyes out of
the top window at 44, Gordon Square,

to see if you were
coming down the street.

Ralph said you were nervous lest
I'd feel I had some sort of claim on you,

and that your friends wondered
how you stood me so long,

as I didn't understand
a word of literature.

That was wrong. For nobody, I think,
could have loved the Ballards, Donne,

and Macaulay's Essays and, best of all,
Lytton's Essays, as much as I.

You never knew, or never will know,

the very big and devastating
love I had for you.

How I adored every hair,
every curl of your beard.

Just thinking of you now makes me cry
so I can't see this paper.

Once you said to me - that
Wednesday afternoon in the sitting room -

you loved me as a friend.

Could you tell it to me again?

Yours, Carrington.

My dearest and best,

Do you know how difficult I find it
to express my feelings,

either in letters or talk?

Do you really want me to tell you
that I love you as a friend?

But of course that is absurd.

And you do know very well that I love
you as something more than a friend,

you angelic creature, whose goodness
to me has made me happy for years.

Your letter made me cry.
I feel a poor, old, miserable creature.

If there was a chance that your decision
meant that I should somehow lose you,

I don't think I could bear it.

You and Ralph and our life at Tidmarsh
are what I care for most in the world.

Well, I think I shall spend
all my honeymoons here.

Shouldn't you be wearing a ring?

I lost it, somewhere in the Italian Alps.

Do you ever get terrified of dying?

FOUR: BRENAN 1921-1923

When you've been married for six weeks,

you've no idea how pleasant it is
to get away on your own.

I sometimes wish
I'd met you before Ralph did.

Yes.

I don't suppose I'd have made
much impression on you.

What's the matter?

I don't know.

You know something,
Gerald, you're mad.

Why do you have to go back to Spain
so soon? Why not join us on holiday?

No, I couldn't.

Ready?

This is going very well.
Do you mind awfully?

Not at all.

I must tell Ralph.

- What?
- I must. I can't bear this deceit.

After all, he is one of my oldest friends.

I think I ought to go
and tell him I love you.

That he has nothing to worry about,
that it's just like brother and sister.

- I shouldn't.
- Why not?

- You'd upset him.
- But...

You would. Really, you would. I know.

He's... such a dear.

It wouldn't be fair.

I feel shittish enough about it as it is.

I want you to come back
to Spain with me - now, today -

and live with me.

- I can't, Gerald.
- Why not?

I feel as if I'm drowning.

Well, old chap, I think
this is the parting of the ways.

- Take care of yourself.
- I will.

Oh, I think the lady and gentleman
might be permitted a kiss, don't you?

I really don't understand you.

- A bit of effort.
- What do you mean?

If you'd tried to persuade him, I'm sure
he'd have stayed another couple of days.

Do you know if Ralph's
coming back this evening?

He said he had
some work to do in London.

I don't know who it is, Lytton.

I've had three letters already this week.

I miss him terribly.

- When's he coming back to England?
- He says he can't afford the fare.

It's lovely, Gerald.

I shall always treasure it.

Now this... this is silly.

Ralph has mistresses, you know.
I'm sure he's with one of them now.

So I can't... I can't see the sense in it.

Now will you come back
to Spain with me?

You mustn't spoil things, Gerald.

You want to stay in England with Ralph.

No, not with Ralph.

With Lytton.

Carrington!

Carrington!

Carrington!

- Where's Brenan?
- He's not here.

- I said, where is he?!
- I told you, he's not here.

- I'll kill him.
- Has someone told you something? Who?

- Out of the way!
- He's gone to his parents.

Will you get out of the way?
I'm going to pull his arms off!

Where is he?!

- So, you were in love with her.
- Yes.

And you say you haven't been fucking
her. Do you expect me to believe that?

- Yes.
- Look, I know you're pretty feeble,

but what exactly is the meaning
of this heroic self-restraint?

I was always very aware that
you're my friend and she's my wife.

I mean, your wife.

All right. Let's go through this
step by step, shall we?

Now, presumably, you kissed her.

I mean, well, you must have kissed her.

I suppose so, yes.

And did you, for example, ever put
your hand down the front of her dress?

No. I don't think so.

You don't think so?

I'm asking you
if you ever touched her tits!

No. What's the point of all this?

The point is... The point of it is,
this is all important information,

because I have to decide whether
I ever want to see either of you again!

Ow.

Another thing.

You realise I can't possibly allow you to
see or communicate with her ever again?

Having to lie to him.
That's what I couldn't bear.

Yes, we know that, Gerald.
But you must understand it was essential.

I suppose so. I don't know.

I don't approve of jealousy
any more than you do.

But, no doubt, if one's afflicted with it,
there's very little one can do about it.

- Yes, but he's so rational.
- We must proceed with extreme caution.

Let me see what I can do.

- What's this? Visitors?
- No. It's by way of a present.

- Who for?
- Since neither Carrington nor I drive...

I didn't expect you so early.

What's all this?
I thought we were going out.

- Well, I thought...
- Caviar?

- Gerald, you can't afford this.
- I know.

I thought I might induce you
to stay the night.

- You know how careful we have to be.
- Otherwise it seems so sordid.

Don't let's quarrel.

There isn't time to quarrel.

Come on.

He keeps wanting me
to go and live with him.

Why is he so demanding?

No doubt because he hasn't understood

that people in love
should never live together.

When they do, the inevitable result
is that they either fall out of love

or drive one another insane.

Tell him.

He wouldn't believe me.

Idealists are nothing but trouble.

You can never convince them
there's no such thing as the ideal.

I can't see what's going to happen.

It's frightening me.

Well, whatever happens,
my dear, you're safe here.

- I shall have to go in about five minutes.
- Aren't you coming back to the flat?

I'd rather not tonight,
if you don't mind very much.

Then I shall just have to
walk the streets until I find a whore.

Yes, I expect you will.

Shall we have another picnic
on the White Horse Hill?

A sentimental pilgrimage?

Come at ten on Sunday.
I'll meet you there.

I can't bear the thought
of leaving this house.

The orchard, the millrace.

My wonderful room.

The Garden of Eden.

Yes, but the rheumatism, the lumbago.

The rising damp and the falling plaster.

The rats in the wainscot.

Very true.

I keep thinking I've forgotten something.
You know the feeling?

FIVE: HAM SPRAY HOUSE 1924-1931

Ralph!

Ralph!

Ah, Ralph.

This is Roger Senhouse, my young friend
from Oxford. Ralph Partridge.

And this is his friend, Frances Marshall.

- Hello.
- Oh. This is Carrington.

- I'm sure there's a brush here for you.
- Do you think so? I'm horribly bad at it.

Of course you are.
Come, I'll show you the garden.

Good to be on our own again.

I must say I find these new young people
wonderfully refreshing.

They have no morals
and they never speak.

It's an enchanting combination.

I was standing outside a door,
trying to pluck up courage to knock,

when suddenly it... swung open.

I can scarcely believe it's happened.

I thought you were looking
rather sprightly.

No, it's more than that.

It's like being let into paradise.

You wait until Lytton
virtually bankrupts himself,

- and then announce you won't live here!
- I didn't say that.

- I said my life had to be in London.
- Why didn't you tell us this before?

It's only just happened.
We've only just decided!

How can you be so thoughtless?
It's just not fair on Lytton!

It's not fair on any of us to put
our future in the hands of an outsider!

How kind of you to come.

I thought, of the four of us, we were the
ones most likely to discuss this sensibly.

Do sit down.

The fact of the matter is,

if you and Ralph really do plan
to set up permanently in London,

then I shall be forced to resell Ham Spray.

I understand.

You see, Ralph has become
quite indispensable to us.

We rely upon him
for every practical decision.

Well, I certainly have no intention of
stopping Ralph from seeing Carrington,

or interfering in any way.

- It's just that we're...
- I know.

Ralph told me,
when they first got married,

- they lived in London during the week...
- Yes.

It's a question of making
a quite formal arrangement.

Couldn't we do the same?
Come down every weekend?

- I mean, the last thing I want to do is...
- Ha!

I knew you were
the right person to talk to.

Can I get you some tea?

He likes to be called Beacus.

He's not in the least curious -
in fact, rather remote.

In other words, just what I need.
And so beautiful, Lytton.

The brass buckle on his belt.

Oh!

Why don't you wear black stockings?
Or dark brown?

They show off the leg
much better than these things.

And suspenders I like.
Why don't you wear suspenders?

- Hello?
- Hello? Hello. It's me.

Hello.

- I shan't be coming back tonight.
- Oh.

I've done something rather impulsive.

I've taken some rooms at Gordon Square.

It won't make the slightest difference
to our arrangements. Don't worry.

It's just a way of circumventing
these impossible difficulties.

It means I shan't have to
keep depending on friends,

taking hotel rooms, skulking about.

Sounds a very good idea.

Your key.

Oh, no, Lytton.
You know me. I'd only lose it.

You keep it.

What can you be thinking of,
going out in this weather?

- There's a reason for it, Lytton.
- What? What can it possibly be?

Je suis perdue.

Are you sure?

- And you're sure you don't want it?
- Lytton, I can never have a child.

Unless it was yours.

- Have you told Beacus?
- It's no good telling him.

He'd be angry. I don't know
why he puts up with me as it is.

- I don't know why you put up with him.
- He's the most exciting lover I've known.

And I'm getting old.

- Now you know what it feels like.
- I always did.

Here's the address
of a very good man in London.

Well, this makes a change.

A very different pair of boots.

- How are you feeling?
- Rotten.

- There.
- Thank you.

I know you don't like him,
Lytton, or approve of him.

It's not that.

I'm sure he's as dim
as a blind owl in a holly tree,

but he never says anything,
so you can't really tell.

Do you suppose they're going
to play that wretched game all night?

SIX: LYTTON 1931-1932

What's the matter?

Nothing.

I've had a letter from Roger.

He's not coming down next week.

He says I've let him mean too much to me.

He says I've oppressed him.

He's right, of course.

One doesn't intend to let it
get out of hand, and then it does.

Then there's this blackness.

Shh.

Sometimes...

Sometimes I think
you don't like me much.

No. No, it's not that.

I'm devoted to you.

You know that.

It's just that, er...

Go on.

It's just that you don't really
attract me sexually, to be honest.

That man from the London Group
who keeps offering you an exhibition,

why don't you take him up on it?

I've told you before,
I don't want an exhibition.

That isn't why I do it.

I paint when I feel well, and it makes me
feel better. I'm not interested in selling.

They're for us.

So you're all right now?

Yes, I am.

At least, it's been a great mercy,
not being in the wrong this time.

I've been thinking
of giving you a little pension.

Just a hundred a year or so.

Do keep still. You're causing havoc.

- I'd better leave you to get on.
- Oh, God, no.

No, please stay a while.

I have heard rumours that there are
people who actually enjoy writing.

Can this be true? I do loathe it.

All that work and,
at the end of it, some slim volume.

- What is the point? I ask myself.
- Think of posterity.

Why? What's posterity ever done for me?

I've done my best to keep it quiet,
but I'm an ambitious man.

I thought if I could cut through
all that atrocious fog of superstition

that poisons so many people's lives,

I might be able to do
some good in the world.

But the truth is, I've always been better
at living than I ever was at writing.

What's wrong with that?

I don't think you have any idea
how happy you've made me.

Anyway, I was about to speak to
this black-haired tart in gumboots

when I suddenly noticed a much prettier
tart, a blond, in the gallery next door.

So, I abandoned the gumboots
and began to sidle up to the blond.

Very fetching he was.
Pink and chubby.

I was about to murmur something
seductive into his delicious ear

when suddenly the light fell on him,
and I realised who he was.

The Prince of Wales.

- Oh, my God.
- I'll fetch a cloth.

I'm terribly sorry.

Come on, Ralph, don't be so gloomy.
There's nothing to worry about.

Well, my dears.
Shall we go to Malaga in the spring?

Carrington.

Where's Carrington?

I'm here.

Why isn't she here?

- I want her.
- Here I am.

Where is she?

I love her.

I always wanted to marry Carrington.

And I never did.

- Is there any chance he'll live?
- Oh, no.

I don't think so. Not now.

No! No! Go away! Don't! Go away!

No! No!

Now, Mrs Partridge.

How could you do this?

If this is dying, I don't think much of it.

You're so cold.

It's a wedding present.

From Carrington.

Only two years late.

Do you suppose that's a record?

Strange.

Dear Ottoline,

It is to you I owe the happiness,
probably, of my life with Lytton.

I thank you for those days at Garsington,
when I grew to love him.

Yours, Carrington.

What's she doing?

Planting bulbs.

Well, that's surely a good sign.

- Isn't it?
- Yes.

Yes. Yes, it is.

- What the hell is that?
- It's for the rabbits.

- Now, look here!
- It's for the rabbits!

Look, Ralph, it's no good
going on like this.

- I can't leave you.
- You know I'm off to France next week.

The tickets are bought. It's all arranged.
And I just need to be on my own for a bit.

I can't stand the strain of
worrying about you worrying about me.

- Listen...
- I must be on my own.

Don't worry.

I'll be all right.

Yes.

I want you to be very happy.

No one will ever know
the utter happiness of our life together.

It is impossible to think that
every day of my life you will be away.

I write in an empty book.
I cry in an empty room.

My very darling Lytton.