All language subtitles for a.sense.of.history.1992.internal.bdrip.x264-manic

The great house behind me
is the ancestral seat of my family.

We have lived in a house,
on or near this site, since the 11th century.

I am the 23rd Earl.

From the roof of the house,

any land one can see, in any direction,
is part of our domain.

It is my responsibility to conserve,
nurture and develop the estate,

until such a time
as I can pass it on to the 24th Earl,

secure in the knowledge
that it is substantially larger

and more productive
than when it came into my care

on the death of the 22nd Earl, my father.

I want to tell my story.

In doing this,

I want more than anything else
to demonstrate

that at the very centre of my life,

there has been a sense of history.

We came over
with William the Conqueror

and here we have lived and farmed
in direct male line ever since.

The nature of the holding has changed
a great deal over the centuries.

The principal influences being,

one, the enclosure of vast tracts of land
in the 15th and 16th centuries,

which increased the size of the estate
quite substantially,

and two, the gradual but significant
diminution of the ancient woodland.

Successive generations
have been variously adept

and I was able to inerit from my father

some 10,000 acres
of mixed arable and pasture.

This was considerably less
than he inerited from my grandfather.

But more of that anon.

We're looking now
at a field of some 200 acres.

This is a truly vast expanse

and as little as 35 years ago,
this was upwards of ten fields.

The economic demands of creating
ever more efficient and productive land

has meant that in many areas,

we have ripped out the hedges
and filled in the ditches

in order that the diesel-powered leviathans
of modern agriculture

may move with ease over more and more
acres of chemically-enriched soil.

I'm not greatly proud of my own role

in this brutalisation
of my green and pleasant heritage,

but having said that,

I sincerely believe, that for me
to have taken any other course

would have been frankly irresponsible.

This land is not mine to squander.

It is held in trust
for all future generations of my family.

For us still to be here after
900 and some years is an achievement,

but I don't doubt that my forebears
fought some pretty torrid battles

to hang onto what was rightfully theirs.

And I have a massive debt.

A debt to them, to do my darndest
to ensure that I do not flunk my heritage.

My brother and I were born and brought up
between the wars,

my brother being four years older
than myself.

Our parents were an unfortunate couple.

Mother was a great, great beauty,
of that there can be no doubt,

but as far as her qualities are concerned,
that is quite simply the end of the story.

She was stupid and vain, lazy and craven.

We adored her
but she paid us scant attention.

I do remember her, particularly her smell.

It was a heady, exotic mixture
of expensive toilet water,

fine talc, exquisite perfume

and something else
which was sweet and mysterious.

I now know what that was.

For a great many years,
until it was taken off the market,

she was addicted
to a certain proprietary cough medicine,

of which the active ingredient
was some sort of opiate.

I think as a child,
it was her odour I craved most.

I'd manoeuvre myself so that I could bury
my head in her blouse or skirts,

and inale as deeply
as was humanly possible,

that I might experience her
more intensely, more completely.

But I was usually asked to refrain.

My father was as handsome
as she was beautiful.

The 21st Earl, my grandfather,
had been a formidable man.

Soldier, politician, farmer, acclaimed
and respected in all these spheres.

A difficult act to follow for the best of men,
which my father most decidedly wasrt.

Where grandfather excelled,
father disappointed.

He was a perilously inadequate soldier,

a master of the misguided heroic gesture,

which, during the Great War, proved fatal
to his men on more than one occasion.

He had no interest in
or understanding of politics,

and as a farmer,
he was catastrophically inept.

He had no feeling for the land

and the science and economics of estate
management completely passed him by.

And worst of all,

he was loathed and detested by
every single person who worked for him.

He was, in short, a bully

who gloried in the abasement
of the weak and defenceless.

My brother and I suffered his indignities
no less than the staff.

Upon the slightest pretext, he would let
loose upon us torrents of withering abuse.

He would crack our skulls together,

slap us, pinch us, punch us,

pull our hair, hold our heads underwater.

We lived in dread
of his diminishing humiliations.

We would run to Mama for protection,

but she had already taken her own refuge
in a self-induced narcosis.

So there we were, two little chaps
with hopelessly inadequate parents.

My father, this nasty booby of a man,
whom I hated ferociously,

and my mother,
this astoundingly beautiful woman

with whom we sometimes had tea.

Big deal, as my children would say.

I was a solitary unlovable boy,
but I was blessed with a keen intelligence.

I knew that we were somehow special

and I was fascinated, I suppose,
by the whole ethos of the elite families.

I desperately wanted to know
how it all worked and how I fitted in,

so I took to eavesdropping
on adult conversations

and what I learned
was very alarming indeed.

It was clear that my father was making the
most frightful hash of running the estate

and vast tracts of land
had already been sold off.

I knew that by some degree
I was the cleverest person in the family,

and I knew that my brother
would inerit the earth.

I liked my brother, we got on well,
given the difference in our ages.

But at the age of seven
I realised two quite dreadful things.

Firstly, he was simple-minded.

Not backward as such, but decidedly dim.

There was no way he would ever be able
to rebuild the estate to its former glory

and left to his own devices, he would in all
likelihood oversee its continuing decline.

Now, this was troublesome,

but it was my second realisation
that was more ominous.

I knew... with a terrifying clarity,
that he was a homosexual.

How I could be so certain of the sexual
proclivities of an 11-year-old boy,

when only seven and a half myself,
I don't know.

I don't know how I knew a lot of things,
but know them I did.

Now, as I saw it, the family
would be extremely hard-pressed

to survive two generations
of duffers at the helm.

And this, combined with the fact
that my brother would, in all probability,

prove incapable
of keeping the dynastic ball rolling,

convinced me that we were
in a very, very parlous state indeed.

It seemed to me that my whole world
was in serious danger of collapse.

Something had to be done.

The best hope would be for me to inerit.

The only way this could happen,
given my brother's rude health,

would be for me to kill him,
and the sooner the better.

For one thing, were I to be found out,

any penalty incurred
would be less the younger I was,

and secondly, small boys lead notoriously
dangerous lives in any case,

and an accident would never be
easier to contrive than now.

So it was, that at the age of seven,

I committed myself
to the murder of my brother.

He was walking along here
with his double-barrelled.410 shotgun.

Pigeon and rabbit shooting
was something he liked to do.

On this occasion, I had followed him,

making quite certain
that I was seen by no one.

It was a warm summer's evening

and there was no danger...
of my leaving unwanted footprints,

with the ground being so hard.

I ran down the other side
of that copse there,

came in through the gate there,

and met him here, as if totally by chance,

and we chatted easily.

I showed him a beetle
I had in a matchbox.

It was a devil's coach-horse, I believe,

and he told me of an area of woodland

where he thought
a cracking tree house could be built.

At that time,
this fence here was in good repair

and I climbed over...

and bade him follow me.

He was reluctant to change his course,
but I begged him.

He passed me the gun.

I was wearing little yellow
knitted string riding gloves,

in order not to leave any fingerprints.

At the very moment
he was astride the fence,

I shot him under the chin
at point-blank range.

He wasrt looking.

He never saw it coming.

He never suspected a thing.

I suppose
he was the best friend I ever had.

Until the Reformation,
these fields here were church land,

and then, with the dissolution
of the monasteries,

thousands upon thousands of acres, were
as it were, thrown onto the open market,

and the 6th Earl snapped
quite a lot of it up.

The effect of my brother's death
on my parents was frankly astonishing.

One might have thought they'd barely notice,
but they were shattered.

It was really quite moving.

They even came together somewhat
in their grief,

and they gave one attention
for the first time in one's life,

which was stifling and embarrassing.

But I was due to be packed off to school
in any case,

so I didn't have to endure for too long
their awkward kindnesses.

- (Engine)
- What have we here?

- Hello, Giddy, how are you?
- All right, thank you.

- Where are you taking the plough?
- Up Longbottom.

That's right. How are you getting on
with this brute? Do you like it?

- Best I've ever 'ad.
- Good. Mind you, it should be at that price.

- How's your pa?
- All right, thank you.

Do give him my regards,
he's a good old chap.

All right, Giddy, I'll see you later.

Keep me informed about the tractor.

If you think they're any good,
I might get a couple more.

Jolly good, keep going.

When I was 14, my father
hanged himself and I took the title.

It may be that he never got over
the death of my brother.

It was the best thing he could've done.

Another five years and there'd have been
precious little for me to inerit.

He hanged himself from this tree.

It was three days before he was found,

and the sad thing is,
no one had missed him.

Oh, look... some of the rope is still here.

That's rather gruesome.

So, a manager was hired to run the estate
until I could take over,

and thank the lord,
the chap we got was first-rate,

and the situation stabilised somewhat,

which, given this was the '30s,
was no mean achievement.

My mother retreated further and further
into a weird world of her own invention,

which seemed to comprise
three parts malice to two parts euphoria.

Any visit to her rooms
was a delicate exercise in timing.

Then came the war.

At the outbreak of hostilities,
I was still a schoolboy, of course,

but it was naturally assumed
that when one became of age,

one would follow the course
of previous generations

and fight for king and country.

But when it came to it,

I chose not to be part of this war
with the Germans.

Quite simply,
I did not feel I could, in all conscience,

take up arms against Adolf Hitler.

Now, there has been an awful lot
of the most frightful tosh

written and said about this chap,
but suffice it to say,

that here was a man
who'd single-handledly

brought a bankrupt country to prosperity

within a very few years.

And as a farmer, I had to respect that.

Of course, there were aspects to
his approach which I found questionable,

and there is no doubt I'd have taken issue
with him on a number of counts,

but at the end of the day, I felt very strongly,
and I still do, as a matter of fact,

that we should've been batting
on the same side.

Moreover,
my deciding not to go into battle

meant that I was able to immerse myself
in the farm.

I had some excellent advisors
and I was a quick and ready study.

The estate was once again
on a sound footing

and it became a preoccupation of mine

that we should acquire
neighbouring farms

as and when they became available.

This we did.

Now, historically,
the quickest and cheapest way

to increase the size of one's holding
is through marriage.

The proviso being, of course,

that one mustrt allow that awful monster,
sentiment, to poke her wet nose in.

No, I was quite clear.

I'd make a methodical search until
I found a girl who was wealthy and fertile.

There followed an interminable round of
tortuous balls and so forth, but I got her.

By whatever criteria one chose
to judge her, she was a catch.

She was passably attractive,

an excellent hostess,

and she slipped easily
into the running of the household.

She bore me two fine sons

and all was well with the world.

But there's always something
round the corner, isn't there?

As I trundled along,
happy in the knowledge

that our position of wealth and privilege
was relatively secure,

the gods were preparing to toss
the golden apple of chaos into my path.

She was younger than my wife.

She was a student who'd come to work
in the stables during the holidays.

She was very, very pretty,

and extraordinarily vital.

I was quite overwhelmed.

We enjoyed each other's company so.
She made me laugh.

And to my astonishment,
I made her laugh.

And she teased me,
which I found a very novel experience.

I fell hopelessly, wondrously in love.

It was a very frightening thing to happen
to a cold old fish like myself.

As far back as one could remember,
one had been in control,

yet here one was being thrown around
by great breakers of love,

that would deposit one
on some fantastic beach

where everything was new and exciting.

Then one would be dragged back
into the maelstrom,

only to be tossed up
onto some other shining shore.

However, the light this blessed creature
brought to my life

shone also on my marriage.

It exposed every detail of its drab tedium.

I knew what I had to do.
It was very simple. I had to get a divorce.

It would be expensive,
but won'th every penny,

if it would allow me to remarry.

As I fell more and more deeply in love,

so, a profound distaste for my lumpen wife
grew to nothing short of hatred.

And she indeed began to show
her true colours.

She would not consider
even a trial separation, far less a divorce.

Now this put one
in a very difficult position.

and given the situation, her obdurate,
intractable stance was deeply offensive.

It was a petty emotional response,

calculated to cause me
as deep a hurt as possible.

I cannot stress too strongly that there was
absolutely nothing at all that I could say

that could make her shift her position
one iota.

Any door I tried to open was slammed shut
in my face with insolent scorn.

I found my plight quite untenable.

One had but one option.

As we came along the bank here,

I was mouthing all sorts of drivel
about wanting to make a go of it

for the childrers sake and so forth.

Just here, I grabbed her round the waist,

put one hand over her mouth

and I launched us both into the lake.

She put up a terrific struggle,

but I was bigger and stronger than she,

and I managed to keep her head
under the water.

She fought and fought
and it seemed to take forever,

but gradually
the spasms got less and less...

and finally she was still.

Then, I saw standing just there,
at the corner of the boathouse,

my two sons, aged eight and six,
their faces studies of bewildered shock...

their possibly having been witness
to the whole thing.

I said to them,
"There's been a bit of an accident,

"come and help Daddy get Mummy out."

They came to the bank,
offered me their hands,

and I pulled them in
and drowned them too.

Their struggle was not so great.

I made it look like a boating accident.

There was an inquiry and a degree
of suspicion, but nothing too serious.

My alibi proved watertight.

And the beautiful girl
for whom I'd done all this,

I never saw her again.

After the killings, I left a decent amount
of time before getting in touch.

And when I could resist no longer,

I was told that she'd married some
Austrian count and was living abroad.

I was shattered.

I just assumed
that things would go my way.

There it is. I don't know, perhaps
I hadrt declared myself sufficiently.

It may be that she didn't know how I felt.

Ah, my children!

Come here, my darlings.

I've just been telling the men a story
about a water rat.

I acted it out for them. I got rather wet.

Have you been in your den?

- No.
- Of course we have.

Have you? Could you do me a favour?

Run up to the house
and tell Mummy we'll be up soon,

but don't tell her about the story.

It's going to be a surprise for her.

Bless you, my darlings, off you go.

Come on.

So eventually, I married again.

Somewhat late in life, I suppose,
but she's an excellent woman.

The children are sound, the line continues.

Oh, blast!

Has anyone got a ciggy?

The other day, I was rummaging around
in one of the attics for something or other,

and down at one end, behind a pile of junk,

I came across
the most perfect little corner.

Armchair, table, books, toys, rugs,
pictures, an oil lamp and some candles,

all arranged very neatly and tastefully
and covered with a thick layer of dust.

It was my brother's secret place.

There was a diary.

I read it.

I don't know if he was queer or not.
Unlikely, I suppose.

There was certainly no evidence of it
from his journal.

But one thing was very plain.

He wasrt dim.

He was an extremely intelligent,
rather private, modest boy.

I can't think how I got him wrong.

An unspoilt corner of the estate like this

gives me more pleasure
than almost anything I can think of.

At least here, I'm at one with my ancestors.

Here, I have been able to raise a hand
to the meddlers,

the accountants, the economists,
the euro-bureau-Brussels sprouts,

the... the motorway builders, the town
planners, the property developers,

the golf course designers, the parachutists,

the bloody Ramblers' Association,
et cetera, et cetera!

I raise a hand to them all and I said,
"Stop, go away. Thus far and no further."

"Bugger off out of it.
Sod off, this is my land,

"my forefathers' land
and my descendants' land,

"and what we do with it is our business."

And it's so beautiful.

And it's always here...

absorbing the wind and the rain
and what have you.

And we've kept those other bastards out!

And that's good, isn't it?

Isn't it?

Erm...

If anything should happen to me,
I do want this film to be shown.