All language subtitles for Brideshead Revisited - S01E11 - Brideshead Revisited

In the winter of 1939,
Lord Marchmain,

in view of
the international situation,

declared his intention
of returning to England

and passing his declining years
in his old home.

Whatever harsh voices

might be bawling into the
microphones of Central Europe

and whatever lathes spinning
in the armament factories,

the return of Lord Marchmain

took precedence
in his own neighborhood.

Julia and I,

who had left Brideshead
a month before

thinking we should not return,

moved back for the reception.

It's-it's the cold.

I'd forgotten how cold it is
in England.

Quite bowled me over.

Can I get you anything, my lord?

Nothing, thank you.

Cara, where are
those confounded pills?

The doctor said not more
than three times a day.

Damn the doctor!

I feel quite bowled over.

- A glass of water.
- Yes, sir.

I don't feel at all
a thing today.

The journey took it out of me.

Ought to have waited a night
at Dover.

Wilcox, which rooms
have you prepared for me?

Your old rooms, my lord.

Oh, it won't do. It's too...

Not till I'm fit again.

Too many stairs.

It has to be
on the ground floor.

Plender, get a bed
made up for me downstairs.

Very good, my lord.

Which room shall we put it in,
my lord?

Ahh...

The Chinese drawing room.

Very good, my lord.

And, Wilcox?

The queen's bed.

The Chinese drawing room,
my lord,

and the queen's bed.

Yes, yes.

Yes.

Few things could have caused
more stir in the house.

The Chinese drawing room
was one I'd never seen used.

The queen's bed
was an exhibition piece,

a vast brocade tent

like the baldachino
at Saint Peter's.

So what had been foreseen
as a day of formality

became one of fierce exertion.

The estate carpenters
were collected

to dismantle the bed,

and it came down
the main staircase

at intervals
during the afternoon.

Lord Marchmain
seemed to derive comfort

from the consequences
of his whim.

And as he showed
no inclination to move,

tea was brought to us
in the hall.

I daresay
I shan't really be fit again

until the summer comes.

I look to you four to amuse me.

Tell me the circumstances
of Brideshead's courtship.

It seems he met
her late husband first.

They shared the same hobby.

What was that?

Matchboxes.

Admiral Muspratt apparently had
one on the finest collections

in the country.

Matchboxes.

Matchboxes.

I think she's past childbearing.

Thank you.

In ltaly, no one believes
there's going to be a war.

They think
it'll all be arranged.

I suppose, Julia,
you no longer have access

to political information.

Cara here is fortunately
a British citizen by marriage.

It's not a thing
she customarily mentions,

but it may prove valuable.

She is legally Mrs. Hicks,
are you not, my dear?

We know little of Hicks,

but we shall be grateful to him
nonetheless

if it comes to war.

And you, you will, I suppose,
be an official artist?

No, as a matter of fact.

I am negotiating now

for a commission
in the Special Reserve.

Oh.

Well, you should be an artist.

I had one with me
during the last war for weeks,

till we went up the line.

Ohl.

Ohl.

Oh, it really looks
remarkably well.

Oh, I do congratulate you.

Ah, yes, indeed.

Wilcox, I seem to remember
a silver basin and ewer.

It stood in what we used to call
"The lrish Dressing Room."

Suppose we put it here
on the console.

Very good.

Send Plender and Gaston to me.

Tell them not to worry
about the luggage.

Just my dressing case
and things for the night.

Oh, Plender will know.

Now, if you'll all leave me,

I'll go to bed.

We'll meet later.

You'll all come
and dine with me here

and keep me amused.

Of course, Papa.

Charles?

It really looks very well,
doesn't it?

Very well.

You might paint it, eh?

Call it The Death Bed.

Did he mean that?

Yes. He has come home to die.

But this afternoon,

he was speaking so confidently
of recovery.

That's because he was so ill.

When he is himself,

he knows he's dying
and accepts it.

His sickness is up and down.

One day, sometimes several days,

he is strong and lively
and then ready for death.

Other days,
he is down and afraid.

I don't know how it will be
when he is more and more down.

That will come in good time.

The doctors in Rome
gave him less than a year.

There is someone coming
from London, I think, tomorrow,

who will tell us more.

What is it?

His heart,

some long word of the heart.

He is dying of a long word.

I've not been much moved
by family piety until now,

but I am frankly appalled
at the prospect

of Beryl taking
what was once my mother's place

in this house.

Why should that uncouth couple
sit here childless

while the house crumbles
about their ears?

I will not disguise from you

that I have taken a dislike
to Beryl.

Perhaps it was unfortunate
that we should meet in Rome.

Almost any other place

would have been
more sympathetic.

Yet, when one considers it,

where could I have met her
without repugnance?

We dined at Raineri's,
a quiet little restaurant

which I have frequented
for years.

No doubt you know it.

Beryl seemed to fill the place.

L, of course, was host,

but to hear Beryl
press my son with food,

you would have thought
otherwise.

Brideshead was always
a greedy boy.

A wife with his best interests
at heart

would rather have tried
to restrain him.

But that's a matter
of small importance.

No doubt she had heard of me
as a man of irregular life.

I can only describe
her manner to me as roguish.

A naughty old man,
that's what I was.

I suppose she's met
naughty old admirals

and knew how they were
to be humored.

I will not attempt
to describe her conversation.

But I will give you one example.

They had been to an audience
at the Vatican that morning,

a blessing on their marriage.

And do you know
what she said to me?

"Lord Marchmain," she said,

"I felt as though it was I
who was leading the bride."

it was said
with great indelicacy.

I can't yet quite fathom
what she meant.

Was she making a play
on my son's name,

or was she, do you think,

referring to
his undoubted virginity?

I fancy the latter.

I don't think she would quite be

in her proper element here,
do you?

Who shall I leave it to?

The entail ended with me,
you know?

Sebastian, alas,
is out of the question.

Who wants it?

A quiz!

Would you like it, Cara?

Huh?

No, of course you would not.

Cordelia?

Mm...

I think I shall leave it
to Julia and Charles.

Of course not, Papa.
It's Bridey's.

And Beryl's?

I shall have Gregson down
one day soon

and go over the matter.

It's time I brought my will
up to date.

It's full of anomalies
and anachronisms.

I have taken a fancy to the idea
of installing Julia here.

So beautiful this evening,
my dear.

So beautiful always.

Much more suitable.

Do you think he really means
to leave it to us?

Yes, I think he does.

But it's monstrous for Bridey.

Is it?

I don't think he cares much
for the place.

I do, you know?

He and Beryl
will be much more content

in some little house somewhere.

So you mean to accept?

Certainly.

It's Papa's to leave
as he likes.

I think you and I
could be very happy here.

Brideshead and his wife
returned from their honeymoon

and stayed a few nights.

It was one of the bad times,

and Lord Marchmain
refused to have them near him.

"Mr. Chamberlain opened
his speech in Birmingham

"by saying that tomorrow

"he would attain
his 70th birthday

"and that as he felt
still sound in mind and limb,

"he hoped he might have
a few more years before him

in which to give what service
he could to the state."

"This remark was greeted
with cheers."

Shall I go on?

Yes, do, if it's not boring you.

No.

Chamberlain...

I knew him.

Mediocre fellow.

Bridey, I'm sorry.

He's terribly tired.

He can't see anyone else today.

Oh, dear.

How very disappointing.
Are you quite sure?

He's very exhausted.

Yes, I do see.

Perhaps tomorrow,
he'll be brighter.

Well, I'm afraid Beryl
simply can't wait any longer.

She has to get back
to the children.

As you can imagine,

this is very distressing
for her.

She was most anxious to see him.

You know, she formed an instant
liking to him in Rome.

One morning, Father Mackay,

the parish priest from Melstead,

came to call
as a matter of politeness.

No, don't bother.
I'll be all right.

Good morning.

Cordelia put him off
with apologies and excuses,

but when he was gone,
she said, "Not yet."

Papa doesn't want him yet."

Charles, I see
great church trouble ahead.

Can't they even let him die
in peace?

They mean something
so different by peace.

It would be an outrage.

No one could have
made it plainer in his life

what he thought of religion.

They come to him now
when his mind's wandering

and he hasn't the strength
to resist

and claim him
as a death bed penitent.

I've had some respect
for their religion up to now,

but if they do that,

then I'll know that
what stupid people say is true,

that it is all superstition
and trickery.

Don't you agree? Hmm?

I don't know, Charles.
I simply don't know.

The weeks of illness wore on,

and the life of the house
kept pace

with the faltering strength
of the sick man.

Oh, hol Oh, ho, no, no.

It's too good.
I don't believe it.

I don't-don't.

Cordelia, you didn't let me win
on purpose, did you?

Of course not, Papa.

Wilcox says
the painted parlor's ready.

Do you really want to do this?

What's that, Julia?

Apparently Papa told Wilcox
this morning

he wants to move
to the painted parlor.

Well, I've changed my mind.

Why should you move?

You're comfortable here.

Where's she going?

Where's she going?

Don't worry, Alex.
She's coming back.

Do you want me to read to you?

No.

I'll get my revenge first.

I suppose you want the whites
to win this one.

Once, at the end of February,
he called for a car

and got as far
as the north front steps.

Then suddenly he lost interest
in the drive.

No, not now.

Later.

Sometime... in the summer.

The bad spells became longer
and more frequent.

Days and nights became
indistinguishable to him.

A nurse was engaged.

I have a very serious
complaint to make,

Lady Cordelia.

I've never seen such a room,

nothing like it anywhere
in all my experience.

How can I possibly nurse
his lordship

in conditions like this?

I must insist
that my patient is moved

where there's running hot water,

a small, narrow bed
that I can get round,

and a dressing room for myself.

It's only what I'm used to.

I'm sorry, Nurse.

We have tried,
but it's hopeless.

He won't be moved.

Then I can't answer
for the consequences.

Presently,
there were no good spells,

merely brief fluctuations
in the speed of his decline.

Bridey was called back.

It was the Easter holidays,

and Beryl was busy
with her children.

He came alone.

Papa must see a priest.

Oh, Bridey,
do you think he would?

I shall see that he does.

I've just asked Father Mackay
to come tomorrow.

I'll take him in myself.

Although none of us
had spoken of it,

I felt the question ever present

through the weeks
of Lord Marchmain's illness.

I saw it when Cordelia

drove off early in the mornings
to Mass.

I saw it as Cara
took to going with her.

Now Brideshead,
in his own ruthless way,

had planted the problem down
before us.

Well, now, Lord Brideshead,

do you think the poor soul
would be ready to see me?

I'm sure, Father.

The nurse said
he had a good night.

Would you care to come with me?

This is all so serious.

Listen, "April events
on the Riviera:".

"There will be a fête
in Monte Carlo,

and Mrs. Reginald Fellows
has organized a charity gala."

Indefatigable old bagl.

I've brought Father Mackay
to see you, Papa.

Who?

Father Mackay, Papa.

Father Mackay.

I'm afraid
you've been brought here

under a misapprehension.

I am not in extremis,

and I have not been

a practicing member
of your church for 25 years.

Brideshead...

I think you should
see Father Mackay out,

don't you?

Do go on reading, darling.

Please, love.

"The Russian ballet season
will open

"under the direction
of Monsieur Massine,

and the Battle of Flowers
will take place at Nice."

Father, I can only apologize.

Poor soul.

Mark you, it was seeing
the strange face.

You may depend on it.

The unexpected stranger.

Indeed I can understand
it well myself.

I'm sorry, Father.

It's wretched to have
brought you all this way.

Don't talk about it at all,
Lady Cordelia.

Why, I've had bottles
thrown at me in the Gorbals.

Give him time.

I've known worse cases
make beautiful deaths.

Now, if you'll excuse me,

I'll pay a visit
to Mrs. Hawkins.

I'll call again.

Pray for him.

Do you know your way, Father?

Indeed I do.

Do I gather the visit
was not a success?

It was not.

Cordelia, will you
drive Father Mackay home

when he comes down from Nanny's?

I'm going to telephone Beryl
to see if she needs me at home.

Bridey...

it was horrible.

What are we going to do?

We've done all we can
for the moment.

Damn Bridey.

I knew it wouldn't work.

I felt triumphant.

I had been right.
Everyone else had been wrong.

Truth had prevailed.

The threat I had felt

hanging over Julia and me
at the fountain

had been averted,
perhaps dispelled forever.

Mumbo jumbo's off.

The witch doctor's gone.

Poor Papa.

It's great sucks to Bridey.

I can't quite see why
you've taken it so much to heart

that my father shall not have
the last sacraments.

Well, it's such a lot
of witchcraft and hypocrisy,

isn't it?

Is it?

It's been going on
for nearly 2,000 years.

I really don't know why

you should suddenly
get so excited about it now.

For Christ's sake,

write a letter to The Times,

get up and make a speech
in Hyde Park,

start a "No Popery" riot,

but don't bore me about it.

What's it got to do
with you or me

whether my father sees
his parish priest?

There was also-

I can now confess it-

another unexpressed,
inexpressible,

indecent little victory

that I was furtively
celebrating.

I guessed that
the morning's business

had put Brideshead
some considerable way further

from his rightful inheritance.

In that, I was correct.

A man was sent for

from the solicitors in London
that afternoon.

It soon became known
throughout the house

that Lord Marchmain
had made a new will.

But I was wrong in thinking

that the religious controversy
was quashed.

It flared up again that evening
after dinner.

What Papa said was,
"I am not in extremis.

"I have not been
a practicing member

of the church for 25 years."

Not "the church," "your church."

I don't see the difference.

There's every difference.

Bridey, it is perfectly plain
what he meant.

I presume he meant what he said.

He meant he was not accustomed

regularly to receive
the sacrament,

and since he was not
at that moment dying,

he did not intend
to change his ways yet.

But that's simply a quibble.

Why do people always think
one is quibbling

when one tries to be precise?

His plain meaning was that

he did not wish
to see a priest that day

but that he would
when he was in extremis.

I wonder if there's
any more coffee.

I wish somebody
would explain to me

what the significance
of these sacraments is.

Do you mean that
if he dies without a priest,

quite alone,
that he goes to hell?

And that if the priest is there
and puts oil on him-

- No, it's not the oil.

That heals him.

Odder still.

Well, whatever it is he does,

that then he goes to heaven?

Now, is that what you believe?

I think my nurse told me,
or someone did anyway,

that if the priest got there
before the body was cold,

it was all right.

That's so, isn't it?

No, Cara. It isn't.

Certainly not.

You've got it all wrong.

Do any of you Catholics
know exactly what good

you think this priest will do?

Do you simply want to arrange it

so that your father
can have a Christian burial?

Or do you want
to keep him out of hell?

I only want to be told.

They're the same thing.

To keep out of hell,
as you put it,

and to have a Christian burial,

he must make an act of the will.

He has to be contrite
and wish to be reconciled.

Only God knows whether
he has made that act of will.

You mean sometimes
the priest doesn't know?

Not necessarily.

So it's quite possible

that the will
may still be working

when a man is too weak
to make any outward sign of it?

He may be lying as though dead.

Yes, and willing all the time
to be reconciled.

God understands that.

So does the Church.

So she is able to give him
the last sacraments.

I never heard that before.

So if the priest isn't there,

and he makes
the act of will alone,

that's as good
as if there is a priest.

Is that right?

More or less.

Well, for heaven's sake,

what's the priest for?

All that I know

is that I shall take
very good care

to have a priest.

Bless you.

I believe
that's the best answer.

I wish you wouldn't start
these religious arguments.

I didn't start it.

You don't convince anyone else,

and you don't really
convince yourself.

I only want to know
what these people believe.

They say it's all based
on logic.

If you'd let Bridey finish,

he would have made it all
quite logical.

There were four of you.

Cara didn't know
the first thing it was about

and may or may not
have believed it.

You knew a bit
and didn't believe a word.

Cordelia knew about as much
and believed it madly.

Only poor Bridey
both knew and believed,

and I thought
he made a pretty poor show

when it came to explaining.

And people go about saying,

"At least Catholics know
what they believe."

Well, we had a fair
cross section there tonight.

Oh, Charles, don't rant.

I shall begin to think
you're getting doubts.

The weeks passed,

and still Lord Marchmain
lived on.

In June, my divorce
was made absolute.

Julia would be free
in September.

The nearer our marriage got,

the more wistfully I noticed
Julia spoke of it.

War was growing nearer too.

But Lord Marchmain's mind
was far from world affairs.

It was there on the spot,
turned in on himself.

He had no strength
for any other war

than his own solitary struggle
to keep alive.

Better today.

Better today.

I can see now,

where the geese are flying
over the lilies,

where yesterday I was confused

and took the lilies for swans.

Soon I shall see
where the geese are headed

when they gather to fly over
the looking glass.

Better tomorrow.

We live long in our family
and marry late.

73.

No great age.

Aunt Julia, my father's aunt,

lived to be 88.

Born and died here.

Never married.

Saw the fire on Beacon Hill
for the battle of Trafalgar.

Always called it
"the new house."

That was their name for it
in the nursery

and in the fields
when unlettered men

had long memories.

You can see where
the old house stood

near the village church.

They called the field
Castle Hill,

Horlick's Field,
where the ground's uneven,

and most of it waste,

nettle, and briar

in hollows too deep for plowing.

Those were our roots,

in the waste hollows
of Castle Hill.

We were knights then,

barons since Agincourt.

The larger honors came the last,

and they'll go the first.

The barony goes on.

When Brideshead's buried,

Julia's son will be called

by the name his fathers bore

before the fat days.

The days of wool shearing

and the wide corn lands

to the days of growth
and building

when the marshes were drained

and the waste land
brought under the plow.

When one built the house,

his son added the dome.

His son spread the wings

and dammed the river.

He's got a wonderful will
to live, hasn't he?

Would you put it like that?

I'd say a great fear of death.

Is there a difference?

Oh, dear me, yes.

He doesn't derive any strength
from his fear.

It's wearing him out.

Good-bye, Mr. Ryder.

Good-bye, Doctor.

I'll call in tomorrow morning.

Mm.

Better today.

I've lived carefully,

protected myself
from the cold winds,

eaten moderately
of what was in season,

drunk fine claret,

slept in my own sheets.

I shall live long.

When I was 50,

they dismounted us
and sent us up the line.

"Old men stay at the base,"
the orders said.

Walter Venables,
my commanding officer,

my nearest neighbor, he said,

"You are as fit
as the youngest of them, Alex."

So I was.

So I am now,

if l...

If I could breathe.

When summer comes,

I shall leave my bed

and... sit in the open air,

breathe more freely.

When the wind
comes down the valley

and a man can turn to meet it

and fill himself with air

like a beast at water.

I'll take it.

Why have they
dug this hole for me?

Must a man stifle to death
in his own cellar?

Plender, Gaston,
open the windows.

The windows are all wide open,
my lord.

It's empty.

Look, Nurse.
There's nothing comes out.

No, Lord Marchmain,
it's quite full.

You can tell
from this dial here.

It's at full pressure.

Listen, can't you hear it hiss?

Now...

try and breathe slowly,
Lord Marchmain,

quite gently.

Then you'll get the benefit.

There.

Free as air.

That's what they say.

Free as air.

Now they bring me my air
in an iron barrel.

I was free once.

I committed a crime

in the name of freedom.

Cordelia,

what became of the chapel?

They locked it up, Papa,

when Mummy died.

It was hers.

I built it for her.

There was a chaplain here
until the war.

Do you remember him?

I was too young.

Then I went away.

I left her
praying in the chapel.

It was hers.

It was the place for her.

I never came back
to disturb her prayers.

They said we were
fighting for freedom.

I had my victory.

Was that a crime?

I think it was, Papa.

Do you think that, child?

Thus Lord Marchmain lay dying,

wearing himself down
in the struggle to live.

Since there was no reason
to expect an immediate change,

Cordelia went to London
to see her women's organization

about the coming emergency.

That day, when Julia and I
were alone with Cara,

he became suddenly worse.

Is he dying?

It's difficult to say.

When he does die,
it will probably be like this.

He may recover
from the present attack.

The only thing
is not to disturb him.

The least shock will be fatal.

I'm going to telephone
Father Mackay.

Dr. Grant, we must stop
this nonsense.

My business is with the body.

It's not my business to argue

whether people are better
alive or dead

or what happens to them
after death.

I only try to keep them alive.

And you said just now

that the least shock
would kill him.

What could be worse for a man
who fears death, as he does,

than to have a priest
brought to him?

A priest he turned out
when he had the strength?

I think it may kill him.

Then you will forbid it?

I have no authority
to forbid anything.

I can only give an opinion.

Doctor?

Excuse me.

Cara, what do you think?

I don't want him made unhappy.

That is all there is
to hope for now,

that he'll die
without knowing it.

But I should like the priest
there all the same.

But will you
try and persuade Julia

to keep him away until the end?

Then he can do no harm.

I will ask her
to leave Alex happy.

Yes.

I've telegraphed
Bridey and Cordelia.

I hope you agree that

nothing should be done
until they arrive.

I wish they were here now.

You can't take
the responsibility alone.

Everyone else is against you.

Dr. Grant,

tell her what you told me
just now.

I said that the shock
of seeing a priest

might well kill him.

Without that,
he may survive this attack.

As his medical man,

I must protest against anything
being done to disturb him.

Cara?

I know you are doing
for the best, Julia,

but you see,
Alex was not a religious man.

He scoffed always.

We mustn't take advantage
of him, now he's weak,

to comfort our own consciences.

If Father Mackay comes to him
when he is unconscious,

then he can be buried
in the proper way,

can he not, Father?

I'll go and see how he is.

Father Mackay, do you remember

how Lord Marchmain greeted you
last time?

Do you think it possible
he can have changed now?

Thank God, by His grace,
it is possible.

Perhaps you could go in
while he is sleeping,

say the words of absolution
over him.

He would never know.

I've seen
so many men and women die.

I never knew them sorry
to have me there at the end.

Yes, but they were Catholics.

Lord Marchmain has never
been one except in name.

Well, at any rate,
not for years.

He was a scoffer.

Cara said so.

There's no change.

Now, Doctor, how could I be
a shock to anyone?

Do you know
what I'm going to do?

It's something so small.

There's no show about it.

I don't wear special clothes,
you know?

I go just as I am.

He knows the look of me now.
It's nothing alarming.

Oh, Julia. What are we to say?

Let me speak to him.

Father, I really think we-

- I just want him to make
some little sign of assent.

I want him, anyway,
not to refuse me,

then I want to give him
God's pardon.

Alex?

You remember the priest
from Melstead?

Father Mackay?

You were very naughty with him
when he came to see you.

You hurt his feelings very much.

Now he's here again.

I want you to see him
just for my sake...

To make friends.

Though it's not essential,
I wanted to anoint him.

It's nothing,
a touch of the fingers,

a little oil from this box,

nothing to hurt him.

I don't think he heard me.

I thought I knew
how to put it to him,

but he didn't answer me.

If he is unconscious,

it couldn't make him unhappy
to see the priest,

could it, Doctor?

Thank you for your advice,
Doctor.

I take full responsibility
for whatever happens.

Father Mackay, will you please
come and see my father now?

You won't disturb him now.

- Do you mean...
- No, no.

But he is past
noticing anything.

Now, I know that you are sorry

for all the sins
of your life, aren't you?

Make a sign, if you can.

You are sorry, aren't you?

Try and remember your sins,

and tell God that you are sorry.

I'm going to give you
absolution.

And while I'm giving it,

tell God that you are sorry
that you have offended Him.

Ego te absolvo ad ómnibus
censuria et peccatis...

I recognized
the words of absolution

and saw the priest
make the sign of the cross.

Then I knelt too and prayed.

Oh, God, if there is a God,

forgive him his sins,

if there is such a thing as sin.

Per istam sanctan unctionem
et suma

piissimam misericoriam
indulgeat tibi.

Dominus quidquid deliquisti.
Amen.

I suddenly felt
the longing for a sign,

if only of courtesy,

if only for the sake
of the woman I loved

who knelt in front of me
praying, I knew, for a sign.

It seemed so small a thing
that was asked,

the bare acknowledgement
of a present,

a nod in the crowd.

I prayed more simply.

God, forgive him his sins,

and, please, God, make him
accept Your forgiveness.

So small a thing to ask.

Ego, facultate mihi ab
Apostolica Sede tributa.

Indulgentiam plenarium

et remissionem omnium
pessatorum tibi concedo.

Et benedico te in nominee Patris

et Fillii et Spiritus Sancti.

Amen.

Then I knew that the sign
I had asked for

was not a little thing,

not a passing nod
of recognition.

And a phrase came back to me
from my childhood

of the veil of the temple
being rent from top to bottom.

Will you see Father Mackay out?

I'm staying here for a little.

Now, that was
a beautiful thing to see.

I've seen it happen that way
again and again.

The devil resists
to the last moment,

and then the grace of God
is too much for him.

You're not a Catholic, I think,
Mr. Ryder,

but you'll be glad
for the ladies

to have the comfort of it.

Father,

we should give you something
for your trouble.

Oh, don't think about it,
Mr. Ryder.

It was a pleasure.

But anything you care to give
is useful in a parish like mine.

Is this all right?

Well, that's more than
generous, Mr. Ryder.

God bless you.

I'll call again later,

but I don't think the poor soul
has long for this world.

Good-bye.

Julia remained
in the Chinese drawing room

until, at 5:00 that evening,
her father died,

proving both sides right
in the dispute,

priest and doctor.

Lord Marchmain's
passed away, sir.

It was very peaceful.

If you will excuse me, sir.

Julia?

L...

Not now.

I'm taking Cara to her room.

Later.

Thus, I come
to the broken sentences

which were the last words spoken

between Julia and me,

the last memories.

While she was still upstairs,

Brideshead and Cordelia
arrived from London.

When at last we met alone,

it was by stealth...

Like young lovers.

Here on the stairs,
a minute to say good-bye.

So long

to say so little.

You knew?

Since this morning.

Since before this morning,
all this year.

I didn't know till today.

Oh, my dear,
if you could only understand,

then I could bear to part
or bear it better.

I'd say my heart were breaking

if I believed in broken hearts.

I can't marry you, Charles.

I can't be with you ever again.

I know.

How can you know?

What will you do?

Just go on.

Alone.

How can I tell what I shall do?

You know the whole of me.

You know I'm not one
for a life of mourning.

I've always been bad.

Probably I shall be bad again,

punished again.

But the worse I am,

the more I need God.

I can't shut myself out
from His mercy.

That is what it would mean,
starting a life with you,

without Him.

One can only see one step ahead.

But I saw today,
there's one thing unforgivable.

Like things in the schoolroom

so bad they're unpunishable,

that only Mummy could deal with.

The bad thing
I was on the point of doing

that I'm not quite bad enough
to do,

to set up a rival good to God's.

It may be because of Mummy,

Nanny, Sebastian, Cordelia,

perhaps Bridey and Mrs. Muspratt

keeping my name
in their prayers.

Or it may be a private bargain
between me and God,

that if I give up
this one thing I want so much,

however bad I am,

He won't quite despair of me
in the end.

Now we shall both be alone...

And I shall have no way
of making you understand.

I don't want
to make it easier for you.

I hope your heart may break.

But I do understand.

The worst place
we've struck yet.

No facilities, no amenities,

and brigade headquarters
arriving next week,

sitting right on top of us.

Marchmain, the town,

is ten miles away
and damn-all when you get there.

It will therefore be
the first concern

of company officers

to organize recreation
for their men.

M.O., I want you to take a look
at the lakes

to see if they're fit
for bathing.

Very good, sir.

Brigade expects us
to clean up the house for them.

I should have thought

some of those half-shaven
scrim-shankers

I see lounging around
headquarters

might have saved us the trouble.

However...

Ryder, you will find
a fatigue party

and report to
the quartering commandant

at the house at 10:45 hours.

He'll show you
what we're taking over.

Very good, sir.

Anyone happen to know
this district?

That's all, then. Get cracking.

- Good morning, sir.
- Morning.

Fatigue party
reporting for duty.

Well done.

Ah, it's wonderful place
in its way.

Pity to knock it about too much.

Come in. I'll show you over.

Thank you, sir.

It's a vast warren,

but we've only requisitioned
the ground floor

and half a dozen bedrooms.

So everything else upstairs
is private property.

There's a caretaker and a couple
of old servants live at the top.

They won't be any trouble
to you.

The chapel is open,
in bounds to the troops,

and a surprising number use it.

The place belongs
to Lady Julia Flyte,

as she calls herself now.

She used to be married
to Mottram,

the minister for whatever it is.

She's abroad
on some women's service.

I try to keep an eye
on things for her.

Surprising, the old marquis
leaving everything to her.

Bit rough on the boys.

Mm.

Thank you.

This is the signals room.

Plenty of space, anyway.

The last lot made absolute hay
of the place.

Rather a shame.

Pity we didn't have
those paintings covered up.

Modern work, I think,

but if you ask me,

quite the prettiest
in the place.

Somebody's made rather a beast
of himself there.

Destructive beggars
soldiers are.

See that fountain out there?

Rather a tender spot
for our landlady.

The young officers
used to lark about in it

on guest nights,

and it was all looking
a bit the worse for wear,

so I boarded it up
and turned the water off.

Florid great thing, isn't it?

They put the clerks in here.

Don't know why, really.

Gets bloody cold in winter.

Tried these oil heaters,
but it didn't do much good.

Now, keep an eye on the busts.

Some bright spark managed

to knock the head off
one of them,

playing indoor hockey,
if you please.

Don't worry.

It won't be charged to your lot.

I'd advise you to give this room
to the brigadier for his office.

The last one took it.

Next door's no good.

It's got a bloody great bed
in it

and a load of Chinese furniture.

Always reminds me of one
of the costlier knocking shops.

You know?

La Maison Japonaise.

Well, I'm only here to clear up.

Someone from brigade
will allot the rooms.

Well, you've got an easy job,
haven't you?

Well, if you've seen everything,
I'll push off.

Good day to you. Good day, sir.

Hooper?

Is there any chance
I can safely leave you

in charge of the working party
for half an hour?

I was just wondering
if we could scrounge some tea.

For Christ's sake,
you've only just started.

They're awfully browned off.

Keep them at it.

Righty-o.

Go and get the last four crates
out of the truck, will you?

Now, what about a sip of tea?

Why, isn't it Mr. Ryder?

It is.

I was wondering
when I'd meet somebody I knew.

Mrs. Hawkins
is still in her old room.

I was just going
to take her some tea.

I'll take it for you.

Very good, sir.

Nanny?

Hello.

It's me.

Charles Ryder.

Do sit down, Nanny.

I've brought your tea.

Charles Ryder!

Lady Julia's not here,

only myself here
and the two girls

and poor Father Membling,
who was blown up,

not a roof to his head,
not a stick of furniture,

till Julia took him in
with the kind heart she's got,

and his nerves
something shocking.

Ooh.

Did you listen
to Mr. Mottram last night?

Very nasty about Hitler, he was.

I said to Effie,
the girl who does for me,

I said, "if Hitler was listening"

"and if he understands English,

"which I doubt,

he'll feel very small."

Have you heard from Julia?

From Cordelia, only last week.

They're together still,

as they have been all the time,

and Julia sent me love
at the bottom of the page.

They're both very well,
but they couldn't say where,

but Father Membling said,
reading between the lines,

it was Palestine,

which is where
Bridey's yeomanry is,

so that's all very nice
for them.

Cordelia said they
were all looking forward

to coming home after the war,

which I'm sure we all are.

Though, whether I live to see it

is another story.

Well, where on Earth
are the men, Hooper?

Well, they had to go off
to draw the bedstraw.

I didn't know anything about it
till Sergeant Block told me.

I don't know whether
they'll be coming back.

Don't know?
What orders did you give?

Well, I told Sergeant Block
to bring them back

if he thought it was worthwhile,

if there'll be time
between now and dinner.

You've been hotted again,
Hooper.

That straw wasn't to be drawn
till 6:00 this evening.

Oh, Lord. Sorry, Ryder.

It was Sergeant Block.

No, it was my fault
for going away.

Fall in the same party
immediately after lunch,

bring them back here,

and keep them here
until the job's done.

Righty-o.

Oh.

Thanks.

I say,

did you say
you knew this place before?

Yes, very well.

It belongs to friends of mine.

It doesn't make any sense,

one family in a place this size.

What's the use of it?

I suppose brigade
finds it useful.

That's not what
it's built for, though, is it?

No.

It's not what it was built for.

Maybe that's one
of the pleasures of building,

like having a son,
wondering how he'll grow up.

I don't know.

I've never built anything.

And I forfeited the right
to watch my son grow up.

I'm homeless,

childless,

middle-aged,

and loveless, Hooper.

Now go on back to camp
and keep out of the CO's way

if he's back from the recce.

Okay, Ryder.

And, Hooper,
don't let on to anyone

that we made a nonsense
of this morning.

The chapel showed no ill effects
of its long neglect.

The paint was as fresh
and bright as ever.

And the lamp burned once more
before the altar.

I knelt and said a prayer,

an ancient, newly learned
form of words.

I thought, the builders
did not know the uses

to which their work
would descend.

They made a new house with
the stones of the old castle.

Year by year, the great harvest
of timber in the park

grew to ripeness,

until, in sudden frost,

came the age of Hooper.

The place was desolate,

and the work
all brought to nothing.

Quomodo sedet sola civitas.

Vanity of vanities,

all is vanity.

And yet, I thought,

that is not the last word.

It is not even an apt word.

It is a dead word
from ten years back.

Something quite remote

from anything
the builders intended

had come out of their work

and out of the fierce little
human tragedy

in which I played.

Something none of us
thought about at the time:

A small red flame,

a beaten copper lamp
of deplorable design

relit before the beaten copper
doors of a tabernacle.

This flame,

which the old knights saw
from their tombs,

which they saw put out,

the flame burns again
for other soldiers

far from home,

farther in heart
than Acre or Jerusalem.

It could not have been lit

but for the builders
and the tragedians,

and there I found it
that morning,

burning anew
among the old stones.

Morning, Ryder.

You're looking remarkably
cheerful today.