All language subtitles for 09 Orphans of the storm

It’s no use, that woman beat hell out
of me, and I’m still limp anyway.

Let’s go in.

- I’d better take my shoes off.
- All right.

Well, bravo!

Bravo!

I confess I came
round the other way.

Yes, I was not sure
about that door, somehow.

They have been working on it
all morning, you know.

Well, bravo!

D’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?

D’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.
Someone sent them 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 tip-toeing 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 just 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?

Physical attraction.

Ambition. Everyone 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,
when 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 oneself.

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 oneself,
if they give it to 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 is 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 three.

It’s no better, is it?

It’s worse.

I feel a little better, though.

D’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.

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.

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 I.O.U. 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?

- Morning.
- Morning, sir.

Charles?

Charles!

- 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 four o’clock this afternoon,

they’re so busy suddenly?

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 have 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 plain clothes police
came and took him off.

Oh, I missed it. There was such a crowd
on 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.

Perhaps we could wake Johnjohn up,
just this once.

Ehm, 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?
- 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 travelled.

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 to 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.

Oh no, you mustn’t
disappoint the children.

No.

Will you come down at the week-end?

If I can.

All British passport holders
to the smoking-room, please.

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 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 twelve.

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.

No one’s come yet.

I’ve been here since ten
and it’s been very dull.

Who’s 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 us 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’d 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.

Why yes, that stuck out a mile.

He’s been talking all 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.

Johnjohn 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.

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.
- It’s lovely to be here.

- 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.

Now smile, please.

How kind, sir John.
I’m delighted to hear it.

Oh, Charles, Charles...

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

- Oh good. I’m glad.
- Yes, I think it’s safe to say

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

And now, if I may, I’d 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.

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 my 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 or a piece of scenery –

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 realised that she was
powerless to hurt me any more;

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 card of invitation.

I do not even know
whether I received one.

I’ve 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 personal
interest in the artist –

if that word has any meaning for you.

Antoine, come in!

My dear, there is a g-g-gorgon here
who thinks I am g-g-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 exhibition,

so, of course I dashed impetuously
to the shrine to pay homage.

Have I changed?
Would you recognise me?

Now, where are the pictures?
Let me explain them to you.

Where, my dear Charles,
did you find this sumptuous greenery?

In the corner of a hothouse
at T-t-rent or T-t-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.

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,
this is all t-t-terrible t-t-tripe.

Let’s go, before we
offend the connoisseurs.

I know of a louche little bar
quite near here.

Let us go there and talk
of your other c-c-conquests.

- Goodbye, 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 Bœuf 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.
- Lo, Toni, back again?

Can’t keep away, my dear.

- What you’re having, dear?
- What would you like, Charles?

- A gin and dry Vermouth.
- Ah, two of those, please.

- Hello, Toni.
- Oh, 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 B-b-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’ve been up to
that we’re here to talk about.

I’ve been watching you, my dear.

I’m a faithful old body
and I’ve 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?”

Imagine then my excitement
at luncheon today.

Everyone was talking about you.

How you had broken away, my dear,

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

You can imagine how my old heart lept.

“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’s
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.

À bientôt, Charles.

Don’t be a tease, Toni.
Buy me a drink. Hm?

All right.

This way, m’lady.

- Charles.
- Hello, darling.

Thank 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 Clarence’s,

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 some time.

Would you care for a drink
before dinner, madam?

- Two very dry Martini’s, please.
- Very good, sir.

Everyone seems to know.

My pansy friend had only been in London
twenty-four hours before he’d found out.

Damn everybody.

Yes, but what about Rex?

Rex isn’t anybody at all;
he just doesn’t exist.

Julia.

Charles.

- What we want is a show-down.
- Wouldn’t work with Baldwin.

Baldwin’s too canny.
Baldwin’s too clever,

and Baldwin can rig it.

A chap just came from Fort Belvedere,
and what he said was very interesting.

Absolutely true.

Chap I know in the Foreign Office
swears it’s a fact

that Franco is a German agent.

- Bring some more whisky, Rogers.
- Yes, sir.

Charles!
Excuse me, madam.

Grizel’s here somewhere.
She saw your show this morning.

Very impressed,

impressed with what she calls
your... 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 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 and Ronnie Nash?

- Come on over and say hello.
- I’ll join you in a minute.

What I’m saying, of course,
is that now he can marry her

and make her Queen tomorrow.

Would you mind awfully not doing that?

- Why not?
- ’Cause I don’t much enjoy it.

Who cares about divorces
these days, anyway?

A few old maids?

Good evening.

- Charles!
- Grizel.

That exhibition of yours was divine.

- You enjoyed it?
- I adored it.

- 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.

Evening, darling.

- You look lovely.
- Thank you.

- My dear, you look simply marvellous.
- Thank you so much.

Good evening.

- Hello.
- Hello.

- I guess that you’ve been gambling.
- Well, we did.

- How was it?
- Lost about £4,000.

Too bad.

Hello.

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?