All language subtitles for La note bleue (1991) English

I love you my love.

The Blue Note

It's him!

I recognize his touch.
No one in the world,

that fluidity, that grace...
Demonic!

God speaks through his fingers.

A piece that I don't know.

That means he's on the top.

Top?

Topper!

A barcarolle.

I would say a dove instead.

I'm surprised he is playing so early.

He always gets up at aurora.

Here, he gets up with Aurore.

Aurore Dupont, Baronnes du Devant,

Literary pseudonym, George.

How witty!

Wait till you know him,
Sweetie, you'll see some wit!

What a man!

- Where is my fiancée?
- Ivan is leaving.

- Where is everyone?
- Ivan.

My Grzymala!

My Tubby!

Are you going to tell me
your war adventures again?

It was not a war but an insurrection.

- That crazy charge you Hulots made!
- Lancers.

- Wasn't it wild romanticism Louis?
- Wild!

And the boy?

Chip-chip, a lark.

Good fairy!

A little flour. Today,
even your wife is in the kitchen.

Pauline? What an extraordinary
change of manners.

- My hat.
- Imagine what's happening.

The funniest misfortune,
we no longer have any servants.

- None at all?
- Yes, my little Fernand.

We will have to do
everything by ourselves.

The great, the only,
the genius of woman!

You, whose liberating works
showed women

the path to independence.

The Countess Czosnowska.

In Ukraine, I have all your novels...
By heart.

Mr. Turgenev.

- Russian
- Writer.

Slave to Pauline's genius, dear Louis.
Ivan has Russian sorrows.

The Russians are
always too sad or too gay.

- Especially when slitting throats.
- I forbid you! I'll walk back with you.

I'll make a crayfish omelette.

Are crayfish here?

- There is a small river.
- If river there crustaceans.

And I, if I may, will go hunting.

A splendid idea.

I'm sorry to impose these comings
and goings on your horses.

It doesn't matter.

Give Frédéric and Eugene my regards,

I haven't seen them this morning,
and I haven't really looked for them.

- Paris?
- St. Petersburg.

Is it that bad?

When things go wrong, I feel terrible
and I've lost hope,

when I no longer understand life
and have lost desire,

- when it hurts, when the sky is empty,
- Yes?

I go to the end of the garden,
and I call him, I call Co-ram-bé.

- Who?
- Co-ram-bé.

3 syllables born
from a child's dream.

Corambé has no sex, though
I used to dress him like a woman.

He's kind,
a bit ironic but devoid of contempt.

I see.

Don't look at me
with those sheep's eyes.

I'd Louis detained in Paris
and put Pauline in my son's bed.

- Why?
- Because she is the greatest singer.

I've followed her through Europe.

She's a superior woman
and Maurice needs to become a man.

And I never will?

Don't Ivan.

It's only in theory
that this world is for good people.

- What about you?
- Me?

I'm not good.

I'm a Socialist.

Such a Socialist
that I dismissed my servants.

I hate you
because you own serfs in Russia.

- I shall free my serfs.
- Don't, Ivan.

Lie.

To write, lie.

Certainly,
this is a top-hat by Dupreuil.

Her room is above... (Polish)

- Did you see Maurice, Louis?
- Not yet.

The Countess Czosnowska...
Maurice...

- My God, you're a man now.
- Is he not?

Czosnowska Countess...
Pauline...

It's your pigeon.

Adalbert, I will show you
to your rooms later on.

You know the house,
if you want to freshen up...

Shouldn't it be cleaned
with potato flour, Jean?

Me no speak Sir.

- Bashi-bouzouk.
- Little rascal, my family noble.

Oh yeah, come off it, pal.

Me, great-great-grand-son
King of Poland, knew it you?

- That's enough, Maurice!
- Mother, tell him...

- We are the descendants of...
- Enough!

What do you want, Jean?

Mr. Frédéric me sent ask permission

Miss Pauline this do not sing.

Mr. Frédéric piano.

- Of course...
- Sorry.

Why "of course"?
Haven't you the right to sing?

One does not pit oneself
against a genius.

Thank you for the artist, dying.

What does he mean by "dying"?

He has an inflammation
of the tonsils,

the countryside makes him
perfectly hysterical.

You laugh?

Or cry.

- Jean
- Madame?

Will you help us cook,
now that we are alone?

I don't do general cooking,
me look after Mr. Frédéric.

And what will Mr. Frédéric eat?

Eat his heart, drink his tears.

Good God.

Where?

I'll put that one in the play.

- It looks divine.
- Maurice was hungry.

Him too? It seems that Augustine...
By the way, where is she?

- Do you need something, Mr. Louis?
- Titinne?

No, that was on the streets,
here it's Augustine

What's more,
George's legally adopted me.

Augustine's fromentée is to die for,
a fromentée just for me.

- Go and get her, Maurice.
- I'm running...

What grace, what a zephyr, oaf!

You, take care of your shit.

Sir, if you were not
my fiancée's brother...

Your fiancée?

That's a laugh.

Do you want to bet you won't
still be engaged by the end of the day?

Name your place and time, Sir.

Fernand, damn it!

Maurice, apologize to the gentleman.

Fernand, now you have
potato flour in your hat.

What about choosing a gun?
They're hanging in the entrance.

This is the perfect day
to show off your shooting.

I will, Mother, I will.

I'll make some casse-museau
for Frédéric.

He who always has a toothache,
he'll hate it.

Solange!

Die!

Solange, your fiancé's here.

He can go hang.

Augustine?

No, here it's Solange.

- Haven't you seen her?
- Look for her in the bog.

Bitch.

It runs in the family.

Augustine?

He's playing...
he's already playing,

and I, moron, I was sleeping.

Ah, you're playing, it's true...

Oh joy, my joy, my only joy.

I'll never make it.

Never.

But what?

I'm a wash out.

I've no idea what I'm doing.

I've no talent, no ear.

If Jean would remove his hands,
you might get both of them back.

Yet, it should be so easy.

Yes.

You're all crumpled. Your hairdo,
you look like a little savage.

I haven't done my hair.

What I say is,
a girl should not appear...

Like that?

Like what?

As she is?

Come and dress me, do my hair
as when I was a child.

Stop making yourself
more ridiculous than you are.

It stinks so much, through the walls.

Come into my room, it doesn't stink.

Did you even wash yourself?

If you could stop
acting the moralist.

Your mother wouldn't like
your coming into my room.

Stay there in your stench,
with my mother.

At ease!

My God, it's you...
Treasure, my soul!

Some ice, Jean!

Don't lie him down, he'll suffocate!

Oh this stench's killing him.
Let's take him into my room.

I found it, Mother-in-law.

Where oh where would the buckshot be?

You used to have
more heart, Mr. Louis.

Take it, that's instead of the heart.

I've got to make a living, Mr. Louis.

For you it's a caprice.

For me... it's...

Thank you my angel.

Angel, Solange.

How do you feel?

I'm sorry, to make
an exhibition of myself,

subjecting, young, crumpled, cold.

Young, yes.

Crumpled

Cold? Hot.

It's this wretched angina pain
I get when I walk.

George said...
It is to do me good...

And coming back...
everything is upside down...

Even the wallpaper's been changed,

the carpets, the furniture...
everything.

It's a frenzy of change
that has gripped Aurore.

We have to change as well, Solange,

for ten o'clock... I told you so.

Just for once don't scold me.

Jean will bring
your beautiful clothes here

We'll help you to get changed.

- And I...
- My God... do you hear.

She got it all... heard all of it.

I was afraid she'd sing Bellini.

When he can, Eugène
makes her sing Bellini.

He's only a minor maestro.

- Here...
- It's...

I'd love to tell you it's Bach.

But that's me.

Only by me.

Do you hear that phrase?

Solange, can I play
on your horrible little piano.

It'll be honoured.

There it is... I am working on it...

It's been working on me since
the beginning of summer.

Don't turn round.

Don't turn round,
you'd offend my modesty

Play, Frederic.

Imagine I haven't grown up.

I'm so happy
that you play in my room.

That you stay here.

For me...

with me.

Sir!

Come on Jean, kill me,
without thinking, as in the war.

Damned Fernand!

If Mr. Préault hadn't missed me,

only one pianist would be missing
on earth.

One pianist? Indeed...

- Wouldn't that be right, Jean?
- It would.

If I had bothered to aim at you,
Sir...

Chopin.

- What is it anyway?
- It's from Lorraine.

Like your accent?

No, Polish,
my father settled in Poland.

My mother was Polish.

- And what did he do?
- He's still a private tutor.

With decent people I hope?

With people like you.

Everyone knows when I met Frédéric,
my children's tutor was my lover.

Mr. Malfille brought them up
carefully.

He even hunted down
the brave Frédéric with a gun.

He didn't fire well enough.

Yes he did,
I remember him extremely well.

So what, have I offended you...
Frankness, even brutal...

When I met Frédéric...

It was I who first declared my love.

I wanted him... I hounded him...
And I got him.

Veni, vidi, vici.

I even wrote a letter
to his friend Grzymala,

to ask for his hand.

Didn't I, Fatty?

In love as in war, I never lie.

- What are you saying?
- I'm saying nothing.

- Well, Line?
- Goodbye, Mr. Eugène.

Why goodbye?

I won't be able to pose for you.

- It's not that I have liked it not.
- That I haven't liked it.

I've been fired by Madame,

it seems we were too noisy
while Madame was sleeping.

We should restrain ourselves.

You'll know how to find me in Paris,
Line?

Yes.

Do you like my bouquet?

Flowers won't feed me.

Hello hello Maurice.

Don't move.
Hello Pauline, Adalbert.

Here, it's for you.

- This is for you.
- Liar.

Do not trust this maid.

She'll get on, she already has.

Jealous?

Definitely!

Fernand, you know Eugène.

- Eugène?
- Delacroix.

De Préault.

Would he be the great, the only...

The revolutionary?

Not that awful word.

I have all your daguerreotypes
in Ukraine.

By heart.
For me, little goose of Poland,

this house of genius, it is...

And what's more she can dance.

She's expressing herself.

- Sorry to be so late but my watch...
- It's a Bréguet.

- No idea, a gift from my father.
- The real one or the fake?

I beg your pardon?

You're a bastard, Eugène. Maybe
that's why you are such a painter.

I regret you think it
fitting to spread

these hussar ways
disfigure you, Lucile.

Lucile?

My hussar ways are more wholesome
than those of a scented moralist.

You haven't tried my cakes,
I made them especially for you.

I can't, they're too hard.

You could perhaps ask Jean.

I'm sure Jean has jaws of steel.

I, steel.

I'd rather have
some of this delicious soufflé.

With tea tea tea...

and ta ta ta tapioca.

Is it enough?

Madame, would you have
a second helping?

I'm carried away
by the loftiness of your conversation.

- Augustine, the fromentée, please.
- It is a peasant dish, isn't it?

- Yes, it is.
- Don't you like them?

- It's just that at the moment...
- Yes?

Peasants are not in fashion.

- Where?
- At home.

- Leave it...
- No no on the contrary.

When I left Krakow, a week ago,

the country was torn apart.

Poland always is, isn't it Frédéric?

That's why you're never there.

It's different, peasants are slitting
the throats of the nobility.

- At last!
- And why, all of a sudden?

The aristocracy, as usual...

has taken the lead in an uprising
against the occupying forces,

who have found
a simple way of stopping it.

A large sum of Thalers is paid
for each aristocrat's head.

So the peasants cut off the heads
and sell them, it's radical.

It's revolutionary!

It's butchery!

The leader of the killers
then raped the wives of the victims.

Aristocratic women.

- At last a good lay, lucky them.
- George!

Give me a break.

You don't agree that you've enslaved

your peasants and women too,
but that...

doesn't give you the right
to raise your voice.

Any revolt by an oppressed people,
however ill-judged it may be

is beneficial,

even, even though...
It's horrible

Because I didn't sleep.

And the cook left.

And Line too.

I worked all night, I'm tired.

My friends, it's silly, you're
what I hold dearest,

I want us to love one another,

and us to be happy.

And I'm fat and unworthy
and nasty and...

I feel old.

You're the most beautiful,
the sweetest, the most...

delicate, the most courageous,
the most adored of mothers.

Everything about you's beautiful,
your hair, your eyes,

your hands so plump,

your feet so small.

You've the prettiest little feet.

Bunnies from the moon, all white.

Eugène.

Forgive a lost one.

- She have hot flushes.
- She has!

- Thanks Augustine.
- Some vinegar water on the temples.

Oh my friend I owe you so much.

I'm so nervous.

- That was that... I hardly dared...
- Took good cooking vinegar.

Beast!
May I, Mother-in-law?

I have some "eau de Londres"
in my luggage.

Excuse me.

Mother-in-law? Not yet. Rat!

That's enough.

I have your latest one, my Tubby,
the editor asked me to surprise you.

My God, my book's arrived.

Misprints, typos,
they'll have to be corrected.

- I'm going to change, it's too hot.
- Because you're sweating?

- Am I?
- Everybody's sweating. I am.

Frédéric is sweating,
isn't he Augustine?

- If you say so.
- Really?

- Frédéric is sweating.
- You're spiteful.

But what's wrong with that?
It's human.

You'll understand this word,
when you go and live your life

and stop making comments on mine.

But I...

We must make a battle plan
for dinner.

Where's my shoe?

Battle?
I, know.

I'll make gnocchi, my speciality,
with Augustine's help.

Beefsteak pudding.

- Italian Iced Coffee.
- I'll make a Bigos.

Mr. Frédéric need sauerkraut.

I love you.

I love you.

- With Solange's help.
- Chestnuts for dessert.

Barszcz!

- What?
- The national soup.

- I need beetroots.
- Everywhere in the fields.

- Me beat it, fill beets in the field.
- Still...

One more word, I'll kill him.

What is it now?

- Peasants?
- At last!

It's for Frédéric's room.
I'll show them.

- Friends.
- Hello Jean.

My proletarian brothers!

Gentlemen, if you'd follow me.

It's true that Line gone, sir,
I won't have a model.

We'll paint tigers.

Drapes.

But...

"Buts" don't make a painter.

It's hands.

Well.
I'm going to clear the table.

Excuse me, sir...

- Pauline.
- Yes, Frédéric.

Is it true that I smell?

You smell of grace.

Music.

I'm dying.

I'm still full of music.

I don't remember
any Polish landscape.

Here it is... my dove.

What is this book, is it from her?

- You never tell me anything.
- Reproaches, already?

This is her latest novel,
Lucrezia Forlani.

He's very much weaker.

He does not even notice me anymore.
While once...

What about you?
Adalbert.

Please make as little noise
as possible...

Will it be finished tonight?

Without noise making,
promise you not.

This terrible smell,
we still don't know what that is?

Rotten glue or paper.

Solange.

Yes, Mother, yes.

Solange.

- Yes, Mother.
- He's doing it again.

Yes.

Tell him to stop.

No, it's too beautiful.

It's twisting my nerves.

He's composing, it's like that.

Actually his music comes to him
suddenly, complete.

He calls me, plays it,
eyes closed, in a trance.

I applaud, well done,
now write it down.

Then the horror begins, he can't.

For days he pummels the notes, changing
them, adding some, removing some.

Shaken by doubts.

He wants to change the idea,
the theme, the purpose of it.

He says Haydn is better,
and Bach is unsurpassable anyway.

Then after a month,

ten hours of piano a day,

the maestro produces
his piece on paper,

just as he played it to me
the first time.

It's beautiful.

It's useless, all this suffering.

Uselessness is never beautiful.

You can no longer stand anything
difficult, can you, Mother?

No.

Even a Mazurka,
I can't, I'd go insane.

Do I make changes?

I, personally...

Not a word, not a line.

If I could, I wouldn't even reread.

You should.

If I had,

I wouldn't have written the 100 books
which have kept us alive up to now.

Didn't write 100,

yet great artist, not you,
you have no right...

I have, it's my home.

It's mine as well,
it's called a family, Mother.

A family?

Well, let's talk about family then,
if you feel like it.

The first time I escaped
my husband's bed,

that idiot Baron,

who bored me to tears,

it's you who was born.

You're born of nothing,

a mere puff of air.

So, Father...

But I am your family, I alone.

I've a hundred thousand francs
of debt,

and an insatiable craving

to smoke cigars.

By the way this is Eugène's room.

So what?

I forbid you, Solange.

I forbid you to forbid me.

My little girl, you've always wanted
who knows what, the moon.

Not the moon, love.

You always trampled those
offering you some.

I beg your pardon,
who offered me any?

All your numerous friends
in transit in your warm bed?

When we came to say good morning,

we had to recall their first names
and forget it before...

committing a blunder
with the next one.

So you see me as a monster.

I don't see you as one,

you are one.

My little, little one.

You're too hard on her, George.

You are on fire.

Come.

Help me, Pauline.

What to?

Nobody understands
your music anymore.

Do you see.

Listen.

The resolution of this phrase,
a banality.

A waltz, Frédéric.

- I play easy music when I need money.
- This is an order.

- Whom from, pleases?
- From me.

Why have you become so hard, Maurice.

Remember what we did together?

I thought, George...

This is not the season for chestnuts,

then, for my sweets...

unless you have some canned.

You'll find some
in the little cellar.

I'm a bit scared of cellars.

In a stoneware bowl,

on the left.

Is it because of women?

What has she in common with all
these women, my mother. That's it.

A Waltz?

Whenever

a woman left me,

I composed a waltz.

Mmm, red.

Yellow.

It's you?

Is it not the right tune, yes it is!
Ah, you...

Do you like his music, Augustine?

No illusion in his music.

Just a kind of rape
on a threadbare velvet

While there are so many illusions
in these flowers.

Hey, you observe well.

But now that Line is gone,

you,

your beautiful dead virgin's face,

your icy eyes,

Your impudent and stupid laughter.

And I, what do I smell of?

Blue?

Pink?

Sweat

Don't you like it?

My God!

Well, God, God, if you will?

Take this.

Isn't it Démogorgon?

Who is Démogorgon?

Démogorgon?

He's my little old God,

who's been with me since childhood.

It's because of him
that I put up with my two fathers,

the real one and the fake one,

and it was he who helped me

to stay cold.

What are you doing?

Show me what a Pole can do.

Mr. Frédéric Polish.

Only half.

- Mr. Grzymala.
- What? You look well aware...

- Mr. Grzymala very good officer.
- What about you?

I very good rider.

And me very good filly.

Stay here.

Too many people ride his mare.

What a shame.

Mocambé.

- Good (Polish).
- Very good.

This is strange.
It looks like... a landscape

from Tatra

As in the Tatra Mountains,
do you say?

Darling, I'll show you the Giewont.
(in the Tatra)

It's cold.

Cold? You, shut up.

Your husband put a bullet
in his head, didn't he?

Because of you.

I've had some success, once.

Anybody there?...
No... Ah... Well... Sorry...

I, Solange, have to be truer.

Even truer still,
one cannot be truer.

I've nothing in common
with my mother.

Don't you understand?

What's the matter, poppet?

Nothing.

Admire the knack.

You'll notice it's always the adults

who do the hard work,
not the children.

Where is this mighty hunter?

Hunting the goddess of love.

The tall Amazon.

A great rider,
takes after her mother.

I'll need Cognac, nutmeg,

truffles, bread, bacon.

So far so good...
Augustine, the cellar.

- I'm afraid.
- I'll go with you.

Brave.

The crayfish omelet
can wait till the last minute.

But for the beef,
you need brandy and rum.

Pauline.

What have you done?

A rat bit me till I bled.

This terrible music,
as if it were our fault.

But what?

Everything.

I love you Pauline.

I know.

How do you prepare your dish?

Hold on.

You make a dough with flour...
eggs, warm water,

sprinkle with beef fat, fold in 3,

- wait 10 min, fold again, wait.
- I'm lost.

Not yet.

- What are you doing?
- What I'm told.

Then, poke the fire.

- What are these red things in the way?
- They're Jean's beetroots.

Do you like it? It's musk.

Lucky Frédéric's not here...

The way he splashes himself,
you wouldn't compete.

In competition with him,
I wasn't thinking.

It sounds very gay in there.

There you are.

Help me with the gnocchi,
Augustine's not come back.

Has she vanished?

Yes, with Maurice.

I've pitched in.

Something happened to Solange.

Nothing will ever happen to her.

So?

Take two eggs, keep the yolks.

I quite like yellow.

Stir it with the sugar
until it turns white.

The noblest colour.

- We'll add it later.
- White.

Now it has to cool for 2 hours.

Mi mi mi mi chestnuts are cooked
in a few minutes.

- D'you want to check?
- How?

If you can crush them
with your fingers.

You're nuts!
He's scalded himself.

- What came over you, my love?
- Tell me again.

My Love.

Quick, first-aid kit,
alcohol, ointment.

I have drink alcohol pharmacy.

You've what?

- Pure Alcohol.
- I blues.

Give me that, my plum brandy.

You're in the way.

You're in the way.

I don't recognize you my Tubby.

What if you were to marry me.

- George, your milk is boiling.
- Ah damn.

Pauline, go on.

- Can you pass me the brandy, Mother?
- Yes, take care, my Bouli.

Fire is beautiful.

Clever with your hands!

- He can do everything.
- But paint.

No, painting's all right,
it's that...

God is not with me.

Not God... gods... and goddesses.

I'll brush the entrée,
at least I can do that.

Sauerkraut Mr. Frédéric, cut!

And now?

Me wash feet brandy.

Crush sauerkraut basin.

Old Polish custom.

Leave it dolly, please.

I feet very clean,
Mr. Frédéric not allow.

No doubt, my friend,
but there must be another way.

That, way.

Your feet may be a little too small.

One might ask Laure.

I love your little feet, Laure.

I can sing and I am a countess,
not as well as Pauline...

For example, the mazurka,

albeit peasant, I know, I know too.

If only I had wings like the goose

I would fly to my Jas to Silesia

Oh women!

I fly over mountains, over...

I'm dreaming!

But Jean.

At ease!
If you trample your sauerkraut,

how long will it take
for it to be sober?

A month.

How do you expect Poland
ever to manage?

Frédéric, play, play the bitch.

I love you very much.

She kissed me.

Are you sane?

Frédéric never, never again.

Look! Such glorious weather.

Mr. Frédéric cavalry charge.

Frédéric, I looked at you,
your eyes closed.

- Were you in hell?
- I was in great pain.

One must control pain.

You must make it refined
for the others.

And if the public isn't behind you?

The salons already are, the rest
is the crowd and it scares me.

I wanted to tell you about George,
if you think I must...

I know, don't say anything.

She tries hard, works as hard
at love as others do at their job.

She writes with such ease.

The harshness and evil in things

must get their own back somehow?

No one escapes, no one is free.

You know, when I met her
for the first time,

- I thought she was terribly ugly.
- Even her eyes?

She had a basilisk's smile,
that look,

overwhelming, cold, devouring.

Dressed like a man, smoking a cigar
that made me cough.

She was so real.

Like the witch in fairy tales,
like a Gorgon.

- Why, are witches real to you?
- Everything is.

- Even Music?
- Especially Music.

I was so afraid, you,
you left so suddenly.

You are so abrupt with me,
so remote, so...

so willing?

I'm glad to have found you, but I...

Look for me! A family habit!

- You were so delicious.
- The masks are coming off.

No, so bright.

I'm hideous, if I don't fidget,

I'm ugly and deformed.

How can you?

See for yourself... see.

You cannot not see.

I have to move, laugh,
make noises, fool everyone,

because if I stand like this, as is

I'm a brute, a beast,

I get fat, lazy, tiring.

My arms are covered with hair,
my legs as well.

And my nose, is getting longer.

But you're adorable.

No you poor fool, I don't exist.

You have your mother's eyes, and...

No, not at all!

When you don't know what to say,
you talk of woman's eyes,

but I'm not a woman, I am a tomboy.

You're joking?

If I showed you, here.

If I told you.

Please.

Did I scare you?

We are engaged, Solange,

things in their proper order.

That is, I love you, I...

You're a good man, Fernand.

I was wrong to lead you on,
just like my mother.

I've been diabolical.

It's not difficult, a few feminine wiles
and you're so naive

Fernand, you're rich,
handsome, manly.

I'm sure you will conquer
many women with those eyes.

I would hurt you so badly,
I'd cheat on you all the time,

when hunting,
isn't it what you prefer?

I mean, yes, a little blow...

I'm not a good shot, Fernand,
with a gun or anything else.

I'm venomous like my brother,

I can't stand still,
I'm hot, I'm cold.

I despise you as much as I like you,
I pity you and...

I want to... hit you...

Run!

Never.

You don't believe me?

It's for your own good, Fernand...
Clear off!

It's for your own good, Fernand,
if I dishonour you, bugger off!

Frédéric...

Mother...

Oh, I love you.

Here.

I don't get these salon people
who find your music elegant.

I prefer Ingres to your painting,
he is more restful.

You torture yourself.
I scorn the easy way

My painting,
it's only literature with colour.

I have no illusions about
what will remain of me.

I will be outdated
before having created a fashion.

Stop moaning, the court worships you,
the King pins medals on you.

At least you've created
a jacket fashion.

Because I am a snob.

Me too...
I've two hundred pairs of gloves.

They commissioned me to do...

the ceilings of the Luxembourg Palace,
I see them as in Dante,

crossing the Styx on his...

The river of death.

Jean I want to go home.
Home.

Frédéric!
He has an attack again.

Watch out his leg.

My only home.

My only home

Home

George wants me
to send you back home.

- Me thought me.
- We're no longer romantic, exotic,

young, handsome, delicate.

Now that I'm weaker,
I earn less money.

We're burdens.
I'm heavy, am I not?

Heavy as a leaf in the wind.

In Polish we don't say to sack,
we say: I love you.

Us parasites,

emigrants, trash.

What is beautiful does not last.
What is beautiful does not last.

Mrs. Aurore mean.

No, no, nine years.

A miracle.

- No miracle, war, me know.
- Insurrection, civil war.

Insurrection, know me.

Exile, loneliness.

Solange will take care of me.

Love kill you.

Everything kills me, even the donkey.

Not know good French when I die.

You've come back to me.

I stink the donkey. I'm going to change.
When will things be back to normal here?

Too low.

Too high.

Jean, take a cushion from the sofa.

Here.

I'll be behind you, lean
against me, I won't move at all.

I'm strong and patient.

Me finish barszcz and me leave.

You must be very tired,

you can lean on me,
more firmly, you know.

You don't support me well.
What I do is worthless.

I'd like to have milk to feed you.

You can go back to your lessons now.

I play like a pig.

A young girl must learn
to play the piano.

She should not make comments.

She should have nice hair,
be elegant and reserved.

I'll never get married.

Solange, where is your fiancé?

Looking for another fiancée,
I'd think.

- My God, did you...
- I did, Frédéric... I did.

Is it hard to be with someone?

It's hard to live.

You're only 36 years old.

Already?

I only need a friend like you,
Frédéric.

My hair will always look nice.

Later, when we get married.

- I'll have a girl's hands.
- Your fingernails are dirty.

They can be cleaned.

Conventionality, doesn't appear,
I'm conventional.

I've lived
with the least conventional of women.

I'll be even more so than you.

If I had not met George,
if there hadn't been such a house,

- I wouldn't have written it all
- You might have written...

A mass.

If I let go...

you'll fall.

So.

I'm never bored with you.

I'm a damned nuisance, Solange,
I sweat.

I must wash off this music.

It's so heavy.

No, I'm heavy.

Lift Me.

I'll never make it.

So, just touch me.

You won't ever wash me off.

What are you doing?

Nothing, I'm doing nothing, I'm doing
what I love most, I'm listening to you.

- Is Madame here?
- Yes, no, she left for a walk.

Won't be long.

To be hanged and strangled,
On the, can you hear me...

To be hanged and strangled,
On the market square.

Up on the gallows, I watched France.

There I saw my companions,
In the shade of a...

- This is a brigand's song.
- Oh, I understand.

We'll all sing in turn.
A contest.

Lovely. They won't laugh at me anymore
once they hear my voice.

Do not bother Frédéric, I must fly.

- Vol-au-vent.
- At ease, Jean.

- Will you have something?
- No, thanks. Some coffee, maybe.

- I've come straight from Spain.
- Your father wrote to us.

Even travelling, the old ogre
can't help writing.

Solange?

So quickly?

- Mr. Alexandre Dumas the younger.
- I remember.

- The Lady of the Camellias
has just died... - Who?

I got a dispatch,
and left straight away.

- Was she a florist?
- She was a whore.

If you like.

So it was a woman

- Little girl.
- Don't say that.

She won't see me again,
I'm a lost child.

What is next, another verse?

Hey, the rapid waters.

These little rapids.

Our mountaineers' song,
a special voice for it carries.

Hey, the rapid waters.

She was born in the toughest, poorest,
most backward part of the country.

Among people who live
like beasts of burden.

She was born like a flower
on a dungheap. These miracles do happen.

Very beautiful.

She sold the only thing
that distinguished her, her beauty.

When she entered a room,
women stopped talking.

And men...
men went mad.

She was the most divine woman
you've ever seen, ever had.

And she was very expensive.

But she had a secret.

There's always a mystery
at the heart of beauty.

A tear.

A weak spot, vulnerable,
or if you prefer, just...

She spat blood.

The more refined she became,
elegant, smooth and white,

the more she rotted from within.

She made a living, forgive me,

with this lower mouth
which bleeds every month.

She told her worshipers that
she wore white camellias

on the days when she was available,
when she wasn't bleeding.

And wore red camellias,
on the days she was menstruating.

Do I shock you, Solange?

No.

She lied.

Bleeding from the lower mouth
did not matter at all to her.

They meant blood was
from the mouth of the top.

- Is she dead?
- Yes.

- I'll...
- Write this story.

That's what my father says.

- It's a beautiful story.
- A terrible story.

Frédéric, what did you think of it?

Wind. I wasn't listening.

It's quiet here.

I would like,
when you leave my forest,

my garden, my house,

I'd like you to take
Frédéric with you.

What are you saying, Tubby?

I mean that he's taking
an interminable time to die,

and it scares me.

Corambé! Corambé!

I hope they haven't
ruined everything.

They should be preserved,
because in fact, they are admirable.

Yes, basically, admirable.

And Frédéric?
What's he playing?

I'm a little hard of hearing.

He's not playing anything now.

Yes, he is...

a concerto.

It's just a breath of wind, passing.

Thank you, Solange.

You, here.

- I don't know you.
- I thought you were a goddess.

Private hunting, Alexandre.

- Maurice.
- Countess Grzymala.

No, my name is Czosnowska.

Baron Grzymala.

Mr. and Mrs. Viardot.

- Hello
- ha, hat.

Hat.

Incorrigible.

I just heard the news.

What a novel
your father'd make of it!

I'll write a better one.
If you pinch it, ogre...

No, for me it is too naturalistic.

My mother prefers to lie
in her novels.

Don't talk about it to Frédéric,
this kind of story makes him sick.

I would like to change now.

I stopped by only for a moment,
if it was a faux pas, I'll leave.

The sunset will soak
the sky with blood.

Like in these ballades
I wrote when I was young,

when the dead kept appearing
all the time.

Come, my delicate genius,
my invalid, my music.

That's enough!
First of all, where did you go?

Country air is invigorating
for you...

- I fired Jean.
- What?

He was insolent.

He carried you,
spoke to you in Polish.

He was a mother to you.

You cannot have two mothers.

You're as unfair as mine.

Actually, you're
wicked and capricious...

and you're meant to be together.

But we are together.

I'm also writing a novel,
it's not difficult to do.

Simply write everything down,
play at being different.

Why don't you slap me?

Slap me.

Alexandre, you'll stay to dinner?

No, I'll just take some

of your delicious pie
for the journey, George.

Me steal books, autographed Polish
Madame Sand, her does not deserve.

Jean.

Mr. Frédéric is much too responsible
to tell you he loves you,

that's all.

Does he love me?

But, then.

Be kind enough to finish barszcz.

- But Jean, I won't know.
- You will.

One hour cooking, add the bouillon
to the beetroot juice, ready.

Serve with Madame's gnocchi.

- In.
- In.

Forgive me the bad French,

It pleases Mr. Frédéric so much
to correct me.

I'll see you soon, Jean.

May God be with you,

because Mr. Frédéric
only loves you for your faults.

Not these, the salmon-coloured.

I can speak French now.

Which is treacherous and shameful.

The day you met Madame Sand

is cursed above all other days.

Still, she put up with us
for another day.

I slept with her, Fritz.

She's my refuge...
my shelter... my cocoon.

I'll die if that disappears,

However contemptible

that may seem.

Kill me.

What with?

My piano?

You're still Polish.

Solange, learns Polish for you.

Take her with you, save yourself.

She's a diamond... uncut.

I know all about it.

It's Jean!
Are you running away?

Good evening Sir, me desert.

Get in.

Me go brothel Chateauroux.

Is there one?

Brothel everywhere.

Who seeks...

finds.

Do you take me along?

Aurore?

Lucile Aurore Amantine George

is no more.

This is sun... rising.

Soleil... Solange.

- You are so...
- No.

Fresh.

I?

I'm not bleeding.

I love you,

I'm yours.

Not for much longer,
my little transvestite.

So you're going through
my things now, are you.

You will leave...

wherever, Rome, Paris, Chateauroux.

You will leave my home
and my poor friend.

Your enemy yes, your wheeping boy,

through whom you'll stay famous
instead of being forgotten.

You don't like anyone
except yourself.

Maurice and you
have always been here.

I've done everything for you.
Ask Chip.

Why Chip, he has a name!

Yes, me too.

What about you?

What if you were just a dung fly?

Jesus Maria.

Let's see, this infamous clay.

Is it a David d'Angers?

But what's this?

It's a Delacroix!
A failed Delacroix,

completely failed.

A bad George Sand?

- No worse than...
- Listen:

He lowered his big eyes
with long quivering eyelashes,

Then I quivered, that night Waldemar
the friend became Waldemar the lover.

I accept your proposal.

I'll divorce the Baron
I'll marry you.

You didn't promise anything to her.

It would be the end
of a scandalous love affair.

Because a love like ours is unique,
isn't it?

I don't know, not decide.

Chip-Chip, for once try deciding.

I know nothing.

Ask her to see your room.

We've finished, Madame Baroness,

as we promised Miss Solange.

Good, give me the key.

I'm stronger than you.

No, I still have to put in
some flowers and ornaments.

Perfect as usual.

- What was the horrible smell?
- Go and show them.

It was behind the gray paper,
so obviously...

Would you have done that?

Wouldn't you?

I'll see my room now.

- Now.
- But hold on.

You're not going to terrorize everybody
again with your childish whims.

I'm afraid of red,
you know that very well.

Frédéric,

you cannot change people.

You did not become a woman,
and I did not become a man.

A struggle of eight years.

You are going with Solange,
aren't you?

Yes.

Good.

I only ask one favour.

Tonight let's act
as if nothing happened.

I would like to read
some pages of my novel.

I would like you to play

to the last note, you know?

So delicate,

almost inaudible,

the one I call the blue note.

Enough!

What did she say?

- What does she want?
- I don't know.

It's me that you're going to marry.

Yes.

My Homeland

You are like health

I appreciate you only when I lose you

You that will make us miraculously
meet again, within our homeland

Carry my lost soul
towards these green meadows

broad along the blue Niemen

in an eagle flight
to these hills covered with forests

these fields painted
with golden rye, silver wheat, oats

flowered in white, red of blood

No, it's nothing.

Aurore.

No, here it's Solange.

Solange...

My love...

my little,

my life.

What are we going to do, Frédéric?

I love you.

I will always love you.

But...

It will not be Christian.

And if I no longer wanted
to be Christian?

You are.

Go away, I beg you... Go away.

This is Frédéric.

He has got Solange.

He's dying.

A little more sugar and cinnamon.

I need 4 to 6 truffles.

Dried?

- Yes.
- In the cellar.

- Louis.
- Yes?

Could you cut the bacon into bards...

Forgive me, Adalbert.

Are you getting sentimental, Tubby?

I've always been.

Dick of ass, shit, goatskin.

One does not pit oneself
against a genius, Maurice.

It runs in the family.
It runs in the family.

Frédéric is sweating.

Frédéric,

eat his heart,

drink his tears.

What has she in common
with all these women?

I am an artist...

I'll repaint you an eye.

If I want to...

Someone is lurking around the house,
don't you hear it?

Go and see my Bouli.

You've always had
this miraculous ear, Mum.

That's all I've left... and you.

My Bouli, was it good with Augustine.

Now you can tell her
about the marriage, quack!

She'd make an excellent wife.

Mother, do you see me
covered with brats, buried here?

Tumbling the chambermaids
as my father did?

No, Bouli

I am an artist, Mother.

Yes, my Bouli.

- Like you.
- Yes.

Sorry, I must finish
Madame's gnocchi.

Madame?

Madame Sand.

God, so many smells.

Suavity.

Are you the daughter of the house?

- Zounds, what a beauty.
- No, this is just Augustine.

It isn't true?

My name is Auguste.

The same lust for life drives us.

- Except that I'm a sculptor.
- A colleague.

George's daughter.

Same eyes.

Same size.

Same hands.

A happy life...

with an exceptional man,

and so much talent.

- Do you sculpt?
- No, I ride horses.

- Liar.
- I beg your pardon?

Do women beg me?

A lot.

You, who knows? But you sculpt,

and what you do is beautiful,
I know it, feel it.

- Will you show me?
- I don't know.

Everything is sculpture,
this pâté here,

a form of ugliness,
however you can just...

The mind is one.

Bravo.

I too, I, I...

A Queen.

The Queen.

You.

I?

I walked 300 kms
to breathe in the smell of your home.

I've done 3000.

That explains
the size of your little feet.

Iced Italian coffee.

Show your sculptures to the gentleman
while we finish cooking.

- I make a great shepherd's pie.
- Tomorrow.

Am I staying?

We couldn't really throw you
to the wolves at night.

But I am the wolf.

- Which way?
- This way.

Afterwards I'll show you my puppets.

Hot pussy.

Frédéric, you can come with us.

There's no one left
to carry Frédéric upstairs.

What do you have against the stairs?

Me.

Stairs are a perfect sculpture,

like the solidified waves of the sea.

Jacob's Ladder,
the fight with the angel,

at the end, the light,
the gates of heaven.

George, can I give a piece of advice?

No, you can't.

Solange's just had enough
of our opinions, haven't you?

I want to go up with them.

She had that same look.

Yes.

What if we do some cooking?

Do you think so?

What else are we to do?

I'm bursting out from everywhere.

There's so much spirit in this room,

so much art, impatience, I knew it.

To the clear fountain,
Walking there

I found the water so beautiful,
That I bathed in it

I have been loving you for a long time
Never will I forget you

Sing, nightingale sing
You who have a gay heart

You have a heart to laugh,
I have one to cry

Is this what you wanted to sculpt?

Yes.

You're a great sculptor.

Who are you?
What did you do with your life?

Not much.

You'll marry me.

Yes.

With the blessing of my mother.

Yes.

I knew it.

- How bitter my joy is.
- I'm offering you peace, Solange.

- Forever?
- Forever, mother and daughter.

This is the happiest day of my life.

You too?

You go and take charge while
I sort things out with this gentleman.

Yes Mother.

Here, put this round your waist.

Here, come.

Now you tell me what I have to do.

Keep the beetroot juice...
Isn't it Laure?

Aren't you making a peasant dish?

George told me to set the sublime
silverware from the King of Poland.

Hold it.

Leave it, I'll do it better than you.

Augustine, I can't anymore.

Don't... don't...

You again?

Always me.

Poking your big nose into
what doesn't concern you.

I don't poke anything.

We know that.

Take care of Solange.

One does not say Solanche,

you should say Solange,
it's in French.

You're in France,

you've been saying
Solanche for 7 years.

8 years.

Again, not "it", "eight" years.

Eight.

Eight eight.

Hurry up and get to the end, Frédéric,
before you are...

What?

I turn you out.

Just right, as it should be, warm.

Hope it's not
your favourite temperature.

My old bones, are set on fire
when they rub with youth.

Especially one.

- My gnocchi?
- Sculptural.

- Everything's perfect, George.
- Isn't it! Do you mind if I smoke?

I smoke too, tobacco, stimulation.

Won't it bother you, Frédéric?

Everyone has the right
to smoke, especially Aurore.

- Down with manners.
- Down with hypocrisy.

Dear friends, I wanted to announce
a most happy event,

my daughter is getting married.
I mean engaged.

I have just given Auguste
her hand in marriage.

Aren't they incredible,
extraordinary,

revolution, progress, freedom,
the future?

Sculpture!

- Oh, what's your name, Auguste?
- I know his name.

Unfortunately,
I also know him personally.

Would it be a blunder to warn you
he's snowed under with debt.

New times, new morality.

- And a woman...
- Ah, flattering.

Money, abstraction.

Admirable.

Do you have others?
In another pocket?

In mine, I don't.

How do you intend to provide
for Miss Solange?

Mind your own business, Eugène.

I'll work for two if needed.

What a metamorphosis!

Well,

Solange

perfectly entitled to that choice.

Solange... above all has the right...
to be happy...

I hope she will be.

Forgive me.

Have you tried our barszcz, Aurore?

Augustine, can I have some more,
please?

But this is red.

My favorite colour.

If I drool in it...

I don't see the difference.

What?

- A Bone
- Where?

In the pâté.

These noodles are sticky.

I'd like to make a bust of you
and of Solange, obviously in marble.

Only marble does justice.

Or blood.

George is a genius.

They are only geniuses in this house.

You better be a genius.

The geniuses' banquet.

You're all red.

Aren't you well?

He's having a blackout.

On the contrary.

Leave me alone.

What else do we have,
in this so brief so absurd life,

in this hostile landscape,
among these impenetrable people.

Huge fireworks, in a night sky,

Fairies running,

silvery

to explode in showers

of answered prayers, of ecstasies,

of...

music.

That's it Frédéric.

So as not to be afraid anymore...
of dying.

My business,

these bad investments.

You didn't say anything to me.

I say it now.

I am

broke.

And in Poland before the uprising,

years ago,

I betrayed my friends,

conspirators, to the Russian police,

through weakness.

Do not waste your pleasure,
my friends,

eat, drink.

Pleasure... is fleeting.

Isn't it, Augustine?

Aurore was wanting to read some extracts
from her new novel.

Aurore always read what she's written
after dinner.

Are you sure?

I don't want to bore you.

Bore us, you?

- Augustine.
- Yes, ma'am.

No, dear Solange,
prepare the reading room for me.

- Yes, Mother.
- The new novel, its fight for truth,

for ardour, against this rotten
fake world which has ruined our youth.

The King of Poland's service!

Long live life... naked truth...
The soul, do you love it?

I love it.

Do you?

I love it.

Sit down, sit down please.

Read, genius, may an impure blood...

Let's go.

"He was unbearable.

He was unbearable because he wanted
to theorize about real life,

which he had never understood,

with principles he could not define.

He was mocking, pompous, affected."

Well put, a toff...
it shows.

- It's about the hero of the novel.
- What's his name?

Prince Karol.

Is that a Slav name?

I was sure of it.

"As he was supremely
polite and reserved,

no one ever could even suspect
what was going on inside him."

But it's untrue.

I hate gloss, I love roughness.

"He had neither age nor sex.

He had the obscene beauty
of a tall melancholy woman."

So much hatred.

Such style.

What about the heroine?

"Why this woman who was neither
very young nor very beautiful,

whose character was precisely
the opposite of his,

whose reckless ways,
unbridled devotions,

weakness of heart
and boldness of spirit,

seemed a violent protest against...

the principles of the society
and the official religion.

This excellent woman had
an almost supernatural instinct

for judging
the state of ill people...

and for the necessary treatment...

confiding character...

So you are my mother, went on Karol.

Yes, yes, I am your mother, she said.

Unaware that at this moment,
maybe it was a profanation."

Incest, androgyny, modernity.

"An invincible attraction,

a progression
of delicate and devouring pleasures,

she was intoxicated by it, she felt
all her loves had been orgies."

Orgies, ah orgies,

"I had never been loved, she cried
and you are my first love."

You're mine Solange.

"Without ceasing
to be the good, tender,

the devoted, voluptuous and maternal
Lucrezia, he would have liked her

to be pale, innocent,
severe and virginal."

To each according to his abilities,
to each according to his needs.

- You know that?
- It's by Louis Blanc, by Jove!

The Socialist.

I slept with Louis Blanc last year.

I slept with Pierre Leroux.

Pierre Boccage.

And Arago.

And Charles Poncy.

And the Queen of England.

Go on then.

Your novel is admirable.

- What a waste.
- Let's go, I beg you.

"La Forlani,
who would have thought it

was by nature as chaste
as the soul of a small child."

Now you've gone far, Mother.

"Karol who should have understood

the strength of this simple
and upright character.

Actually...

she no longer loves Karol."

I beg your pardon.

I beg your pardon.

Dear soul, without you I expire.
Chère âme, sans toi j'expire.

Why silence my pain?
Pourquoi taire ma douleur?

My lips want to smile.
Mes lèvres veulent sourire

My eyes tell my misfortune.
Mes yeux disent mon malheur

It's really enough

to sacrifice the main character

without having to reward, punish,

and kill all the others one by one.

I did not know you were an actor.

And what do you play now?

The prayer of a distressed Pole.

The Poles expect
the salvation of the Virgin Mary

when they've spoiled
everything themselves.

The greatest country in the world.

If I were a virgin...

You're much more than that.

I hate music Solange my angel,
it puts me to sleep. Let's enjoy life.

I'll take you between...
I want.

- As excited as a stag just seeing you.
- Never.

Talking, kissing...
a bogeyman, a dying man there

and his piano dead from boredom...
bloodless.

- I'll make you climb up the walls.
- Like a monkey.

Monkeys are right, all the rest
is culture, what a shitty word.

This is the most beautiful,
the noblest animal.

I'm an animal.

Say that again.

You are excellent.

- It's just that I miss my country.
- Poland.

The land of God.

- Do you think Aurore believes in God?
- I don't know.

Most likely everything is fantasy,
isn't it?

Otherwise?...

Nothing.

This is for the theatre tonight.

Mr. Clesinger,
what I'm going to ask you

will not seem too macabre, I hope.

The day I die, well,
in a hundred years.

Yes, yes, later.

Thank you Laure.

Will you be so kind as to make
my death mask?

I will list the people
you should send it to.

- Just to scare them.
- Me?

I'll pay you well in advance
of course. It might help you

to set up home with Miss Solange.

You see, I've seen your work,

and I don't understand
the airs you put on.

Your sculptures seemed to me
delicate and perfectly shaped.

Come quickly, come, come.

What's that thing?
It makes me uneasy.

My God, I'm not dreaming,
there's a fire, fire.

What's more, I'm the chief fireman.
A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do.

Be careful.

Don't worry Mother,
I'll take care of everything.

War, has to help.

- They deserved to be alone.
- Of course.

Come and see the fire, the colours.

A private fire for you and me.

My beetles.

I'll finally get my office back.

- What will become of you, Maurice?
- Mooother...

- He'll write over a dozen books.
- About what?

About everything, ancient to modern,
about mineralogy, agriculture...

Even novels.

And they'll all be forgotten.

And Solange?

Say it, bright one!
Solange will marry the sculptor.

She'll have children,
be poor and unhappy.

The only one to help her,
will be Frédéric.

Then there'll be no one,
her only friends,

a parrot and an old mare.

- It's not that bad.
- Oh yes.

Do not forget my quotations,
let's start!

Let's start again!

Don't make mistakes. Who sleeps
with whom and all the rest.

Leave it, you're not the author.

- By the way, who is he?
- I'll tell you, come.

This is the great fool.

Look.

And Frédéric?

He won't compose any more music

and will die in 3 years.

And Laure?

She'll return to Ukraine.

She won't remarry

And Pauline?

She will meet Turgenev again,
he will move in with her,

he will be her only love.

And Louis?
He will be her only friend.

And Grzymala?

He will take care
of Frédéric's funeral

and will never finish his biography.

Until the blue note, Frédéric?

Until the blue note, George.