Brideshead Revisited (1981): Season 1, Episode 10 - A Twitch Upon the Thread - full transcript

Do you remember the storm?

The bronze doors banging.

The roses in cellophane.

The man who gave the “get-together” party
and was never seen again.

Do you remember how the sun came out
on our last evening,

just as it has done today?

So much to remember.

How many days
have there been since then,

when we haven’t seen each other;

- a hundred, you think?
- Oh, not so many.

Two Christmases, to keep up appearances
for the sake of the children.



Oh, and the three days of good taste
before I followed you to Capri.

Our first summer.

Remember how I hung about
in Naples and then followed,

how we met by arrangement
on the hill path and how flat it fell?

I went back to the villa and said,

“Papa, who do you think
has arrived at the hotel?”

and he said, “Charles Ryder, I suppose.”

and I said,
“Whatever made you think of him?”

and he said, “He seems to have
a penchant for my children.”

There was the time you had jaundice
and wouldn’t let me see you.

And when I had flu
and you were afraid to come.

Yes.

A hundred days
out of two years and a bit...

not a day’s coldness or mistrust
or disappointment.



Never that.

Let’s go and change.

How many more, do you think?

- Another hundred?
- A lifetime.

I want to marry you, Charles.

One day; why now?

War, this year, next year,
sometime soon.

I want a year or two with you
of real peace.

Isn’t this peace?

What do you mean by “peace”,
if not this?

So much more.

Marriage isn’t a thing we can take
when the mood strikes us.

There must be a divorce – two divorces.

We must make plans.

Plans, divorce, war –

on an evening like this.

Sometimes I feel the past and the future
pressing so hard on either side

there doesn’t seem room
for the present at all.

Yes, Wilcox?

Lord Brideshead’s just
telephoned, my Lady.

He says not to wait dinner for him, please,
he’ll be a little late.

Thank you, Wilcox.

It seems months since he was last here.

- Yes.
- What does he do in London?

It was often a matter
for speculation between us –

giving birth to many fantasies,
for Bridey was a mystery;

the talk of his going into the army
and into parliament

and into a monastery,
had all come to nothing.

All that he was known
with certainty to have done –

and this because
in a season of scant news

it had formed the subject of a newspaper
article entitled “Peer’s Unusual Hobby” –

was to form a collection of match-boxes.

- Hello, Bridey.
- Bridey, we’re almost finished.

Well, well, only you two?

I hoped to find Rex here.

How are you?
What’s the news?

Well, as a matter of fact
I do have some news.

- But it can wait.
- Tell us now.

How’s the painting, Charles?

- Which painting?
- Whatever you have on the stocks.

Well, I’ve begun a picture of Julia,
but the light was difficult all day today.

Julia? Haven’t you done her before?

I suppose it’s a change from architecture,
and much more difficult.

- The world is full of different subjects.
- Very true, Bridey.

If I were a painter I should choose
an different subject every time.

Really?

What sort of subjects?

Oh, I don’t know really,

subjects with plenty of
action in them, like...

Macbeth, perhaps.

By the way, I’ve been meaning to ask you:
what happened to mother’s jewels?

Cordelia and I had most of her things.

This was hers.

And this.

The rest went to the bank.

Aren’t there some rather famous rubies,
someone was telling me?

Yes, a necklace. Mummy often
used to wear it, don’t you remember?

Why, anyway?

I just thought I’d like to
take a look at them some day.

I say, papa isn’t going to pop them, is he?
He’s not in debt again?

No, no, nothing like that.

Come on, Bridey, don’t be so mysterious.
Out with it.

Well, you have only to wait until Monday

to see it in black and white
in the newspapers.

I am engaged to be married.
I hope you’re pleased.

Bridey! How very exciting!
Who to?

- Oh, no one you know.
- Is she pretty?

I don’t think you would
exactly call her pretty;

“comely” is the word I think of
in her connexion.

She’s a big woman.

Fat?

No, big.

She is called Mrs Muspratt;
her Christian name is Beryl.

I’ve known her for quite a long time,

but until last year she had a husband;

now she’s a widow.

Why do you laugh?

I’m sorry. It’s not in the least funny.

It’s just so unexpected.

Is she...

is she about your own age?

Just about, I believe.

She has three children,
the eldest boy has just gone to Ampleforth.

- She is not at all well off.
- Where did you find her?

Her late husband, Admiral Muspratt,
collected match-boxes.

You’re not marrying her
for her match-boxes?

No, the whole collection went
to Falmouth Town Library.

I have a great affection for her.

In spite of all her difficulties
she is a very cheerful woman,

very fond of acting.

She is a member of the
Catholic Players’ Guild.

Does papa know?

I had a letter from him this morning
giving me his approval.

He’s been urging me
for some time to marry.

Well...

Congratulations, Bridey.

Yes.

Congratulations.

Thank you. Thank you.

I think I’m very fortunate.

Bridey, when are we going to meet her?

I do think you might have
brought her down with you.

Bridey. You sly, smug old brute,
why didn’t you bring her here?

- Oh, I couldn’t do that, you know.
- Why couldn’t you?

I’m dying to meet her.

Let’s ring her up and ask her.

She’ll think us most peculiar
leaving her alone at a time like this.

She has the children.

Besides, you are peculiar, aren’t you?

What can you mean?

I couldn’t ask her here, as things are.
It wouldn’t be suitable.

After all, I’m only a lodger here.

This is Rex’s house at the moment,
so far as it’s anybody’s.

What goes on here is his business.
But I couldn’t bring Beryl here.

I simply don’t understand.

Of course, Rex and I
want her to come.

Oh, yes, I don’t doubt that.
But the difficulty is quite otherwise.

You must understand that Beryl is a woman
of strict Catholic principle

fortified by the prejudices
of the middle classes.

I couldn’t possibly bring her here.

It is a matter of indifference
whether you choose to live in sin

with Rex or Charles or both –

I have always avoided inquiry
into the details of your ménage –

but in no case would Beryl consent
to be your guest.

Why, you pompous ass...

I may have given the impression
that this was a marriage of convenience.

I cannot speak for Beryl;

no doubt the security of my position
has some influence on her.

Indeed, she has said as much.

But for myself, let me emphasise,
I am ardently attracted.

Bridey, what a bloody offensive thing
to say to Julia!

There was nothing she should object to.

I was merely stating a fact
well known to her.

Aren’t you cold?

My darling, what is it?

Why do you mind?

What does it matter
what the old booby says?

I don’t; it doesn’t.

It’s just the shock.

Don’t laugh at me.

How dare he speak to you like that?

The cold-blooded old humbug...

No, it’s not that.
He’s quite right.

They know all about it,
Bridey and his widow;

they bought it for a penny
at the church door.

You can get anything there
for a penny, in black and white,

and nobody to see that you pay;
just take your tract. There you’ve got it.

All in one word, too, one little, flat,
deadly word that covers a lifetime.

“Living in sin”; not just doing wrong,
as I did when I went to America;

doing wrong, knowing it is wrong,
stopping doing it, forgetting.

That’s not what they mean.
That’s not Bridey’s pennyworth.

He means just what it says.

Living in sin, every hour,
every day, year in, year out.

Always the same.

It’s like an idiot child carefully nursed,
guarded from the world.

“Poor Julia,” they say, “she can’t go out.
She’s got to take care of her little sin.

A pity it ever lived,” they say,
“but it’s so strong.

Children like that always are.

Julia’s so good to her little, mad sin.”

All those years when I was trying
to be a good wife,

in the cigar smoke;

when I was trying
to bear his child,

torn in pieces
by something already dead;

putting him away, forgetting him,

finding you,
the past two years with you,

all the future with you
or without you,

war coming,

world ending –

sin.

It’s a word from so long ago,

from Nanny Hawkins
stitching by the hearth

and the nightlight burning
before the Sacred Heart.

Me and Cordelia with the catechism, in
mummy’s room, before luncheon on Sundays.

Mummy carrying my sin with her to church,

bowed under it.

Mummy dying with my sin
eating at her,

more cruelly than her
own deadly illness.

Mummy dying with it;

Christ dying with it,
nailed hand and foot,

high among the crowds
and the soldiers;

no comfort except a sponge of vinegar

and the kind words of a thief;

hanging forever

over the bed in the night nursery.

There’s no way back;

the gate’s barred;

all the saints and angels
posted along the wall.

Thrown away, scrapped, rotting down;

Nameless and dead,

like the baby they wrapped up
and took away

before I had a chance to see her.

Well, Bridey is one
for bombshells, isn’t he?

Considering that I’ve just recovered
from a fit of hysteria,

I don’t call that at all bad.

Most hysterical women look
as if they’ve got a bad cold.

Come on.

- We’re not going down again?
- Of course.

We can’t leave Bridey alone
on his engagement night.

Can’t we?

I’m sorry about that
appalling scene, Charles.

I can’t explain it.

Was it nice out?

If I’d known you were going
I’d have come too.

Rather cold.

I hope it’s not going to be inconvenient
for Rex moving out of here.

You see, Barton Street is much too small
for us and the three children.

Besides, Beryl likes the country.

In his letter papa proposed making over
the whole estate right away.

I’m sure he’ll be sorry to leave.

Oh, don’t worry.
Rex’ll find another bargain somewhere.

Trust him.

Beryl has some furniture of her own
she’s very attached to.

I don’t think it would go very well here.

You know, oak dressers
and coffin stools and things.

I thought she could put it
in mother’s room.

Yes, that would be the place for it.

Of course nobody has used
that room for years.

So brother and sister sat and talked about
the arrangement of the house until bed-time.

“An hour ago,” I thought
“by the fountain,

she wept her heart out
for the death of her God;

now she is discussing
whether Beryl’s children

shall take the old smoking-room
or the school-room for their own.”

I was all at sea.

I won’t believe that great spout of tears
came just from a few words of Bridey’s.

You must have been
thinking about it before.

Hardly at all;

now and then;

more, lately,
with the Last Trump so near.

Of course it’s a thing
psychologists could explain;

a preconditioning from childhood;

feelings of guilt from all the nonsense
you were taught in the nursery.

You do know in your heart
that it’s all bosh, don’t you?

How I wish it was.

Do you know, Sebastian once said
almost the same thing to me.

He’s gone back to the Church, you know.

Of course, he’s never left it
as definitely as I did.

I’ve gone too far;

there’s no turning back;

I know that, if that’s what you mean
by thinking it all bosh.

Let’s go out again.

It’s like the setting for a comedy.

Scene: a Baroque fountain
in a nobleman’s grounds.

Act one, sunset;

act two, moonlight;

act three, towards dawn.

The characters keep assembling
at the fountain for no very clear reason.

Comedy?

Drama. Tragedy. Farce.

What you will.

This is the reconciliation scene.

Was there a quarrel?

Misunderstanding
and estrangement in act two.

Don’t talk in that damned bounderish way.

Why must you see
everything second-hand?

Why must this be a play?

It’s a way I have.

I hate it.

Now do you see how I hate it?

Did that hurt?

Yes.

Did it?

Did I?

Cat on the roof-top.

Beast!

Cat in the moonlight.

Your poor face.

Will there be a mark tomorrow?

I... I expect so.

Charles, am I going crazy?

What’s happened here tonight?

I’m so tired.

So tired,

tired and crazy
and good for nothing.

All I can hope to do
is put my life in some sort of order.

That’s why I want to marry you.

I should like to have a child.

That’s one thing I can do.

So you’re being divorced.

Isn’t that rather unnecessary,
after being happy together all these years?

We weren’t particularly happy, you know.

Weren’t you?
Were you not?

I distinctly remember last Christmas

seeing you together and thinking
how happy you looked, and wondering why.

You’ll find it very disturbing, you know,
starting off again.

How old are you – thirty-four?

That’s no time to be starting.
You ought to be settling down.

Have you made any plans?

Yes.

I intend to get married again
as soon as the divorce is through.

Well, I do call that a lot of nonsense.

I can understand a man, wishing he hadn’t
married and trying to get out of it –

though I never felt
anything of the kind myself –

but to get rid of one wife and take up with
another immediately, is beyond all reason.

I’ve seen a few divorces in my time.

I’ve never known one work out
so happily for all concerned.

Almost always,
however matey people are at the start,

bad blood crops up
as soon as they get down to detail.

Mind you, I don’t mind saying there have
been times in the last couple of years

when I thought you were
a bit rough on Celia.

’Course it’s different
when it’s one’s own sister,

but I’ve always thought her
a jolly attractive girl,

the sort of girl any chap
would be glad to have –

artistic, too,
just down your street.

But I must admit
you’re a good picker.

I’ve always had a soft spot for Julia.

Well, I suppose if Julia
insists on a divorce,

she must have one.

My God, she couldn’t have chosen
a worse time.

Things had not gone as smoothly
for Rex as he had planned.

Only war could put his fortunes right
and carry him into power.

A divorce would do him
no great harm,

but he was like a gambler
with a big bank running –

he could not look up from the table.

Tell her to...

tell her to hang on a bit, Charles,
there’s a good fellow.

I met the widow at luncheon.

Did you?

Do you know what she said to me?

“So you’re divorcing one divorced man
and marrying another.

It sounds rather complicated,

but my dear” – she called me
“my dear” about twenty times –

“I’ve usually found that every
Catholic family has one lapsed member,

and it’s often the nicest.”

What’s she like?

Majestic and voluptuous;

common, of course –

I’ll tell you one thing,
she’s lied to Bridey about her age.

She’s a good forty-five.
I don’t see her providing an heir.

Bridey can’t take his eyes off her.

He was gloating on her in the most
revolting way all through luncheon.

- Was she friendly?
- Goodness, yes,

in a condescending way.

I think it put her rather at ease
to have me there as the black sheep.

She concentrated on me in fact,
said, rather pointedly,

she hoped to see me often in London.

I think Bridey’s scruples only extend
to her sleeping under the same roof with me.

Apparently I can do her no serious harm
in a hat-shop or hairdresser’s.

The scruples are all on Bridey’s part,
anyway. The widow is madly tough.

- Does she boss him?
- Not yet, much.

He’s in an amorous stupor, poor beast,
and doesn’t know where he is.

She’s just a good-hearted woman
who wants a good home for her children

and isn’t going to let
anything stand in her way.

A telephone message, my Lady,
from Lady Cordelia.

Lady Cordelia? How marvellous!

- Where is she?
- In London, my Lady.

Wilcox, how lovely!
Is she coming home?

Just starting for the station, my Lady,
she’ll be here after dinner.

Thank you.

I haven’t seen her
since I took her to dinner at the Ritz

and she talked about becoming a nun.

It must be twelve years.

She was an enchanting child.

She’s had an odd life.

First, the convent; and when that
was no good, the war in Spain;

then staying on when the war was over
and helping in the camps.

She’s grown up quite plain, you know.

- Does she know about us?
- Yes.

She wrote me a sweet letter.

It hurt to think of Cordelia
growing up “quite plain”;

to think of all that burning love

spending itself on serum-injections
and delousing powder.

When she arrived,
tired from her journey,

rather shabby, moving in the manner
of one who has no interest in pleasing,

I thought her an ugly woman.

It was odd, I thought, how the same
ingredients, differently dispensed,

could produce Brideshead,
Sebastian, Julia, and her.

It’s wonderful to be home.

My job’s over in Spain.

The authorities were very polite, thanked me
for all I’d done, gave me a medal,

and sent me packing.

Mind you, it looks as though
there’ll be plenty

of the same sort of work over here soon.

Rex seems pretty certain.

He’s made up his mind
there’s going to be a war.

I wonder what papa will do?

Where is Rex? Is he coming down?

No, the lawyers insisted on a formal
separation, so he’s moved back to London.

I’m only staying until Bridey is installed
with the widow and her children.

He wrote to me and said if I was homeless,
I could stay here after they’ve moved in.

I don’t know, though –
Mrs Muspratt and the three boys.

Maybe I’ll get myself a flat in London.

Hello, nanny.

I knew you’d be up.
Mr. Wilcox sent to tell me you were coming.

I brought you some lace.

Oh, that is nice, dear.

Just like her poor Ladyship
used to wear at mass.

Though why they made it black
I never did understand,

seeing lace is white naturally.

Well, that’ll be very welcome, I’m sure.

- May we turn the wireless off, nanny?
- Why, of course;

I didn’t notice it was on,
in the pleasure of seeing you.

Isn’t it splendid about Julia
and Charles getting married?

Well, I hope it’s all for the best.

Brideshead has certainly taken long enough
to make up his mind.

I’ve hunted all through Debrett
and I couldn’t find any mention

of Mrs Muspratt’s connections.

She caught him, I daresay.

- What have you done to your hair?
- Oh, I know, it’s terrible.

I must get all that put right
now I’m back.

Darling nanny.

I saw Sebastian last month.

What a time he’s been gone!
Was he quite well?

Not very. That’s why I went.

It’s quite near you know,
from Spain to Tunis.

He’s with the monks there.

Oh, well, I hope
they look after him properly.

I expect they find him a regular handful.

He always sends to me at Christmas,

though it’s not the same
as having him home.

He’s got a beard now,
and he’s very religious.

That I won’t believe,
not even if I see it.

He was always a little heathen.

Brideshead was one for church,
not Sebastian.

And a beard, only fancy;

such a nice fair skin as he had;

always looked clean though he’d
not been near water all day,

while Brideshead there was no doing
anything with, scrub as you might.

Cordelia...

What?

Come and tell me about Sebastian.

Not now, Charles.
It’s a long story. Tomorrow.

Goodnight.

Goodnight.

I had not forgotten Sebastian.

He was with me daily in Julia;

or perhaps it was Julia I had known in him,
in those distant Arcadian days.

Every stone of the house
had a memory of him,

and hearing him spoken of by Cordelia
as someone she had seen a month ago,

my lost friend filled my thoughts.

I heard he was dying.

A journalist in Burgos told me,
who’d just arrived from North Africa.

A down-and-out called Flyte,

whom the people said was an English lord,

had been found starving
and taken into a monastery near Carthage.

That was how the story reached me.

I knew it couldn’t quite be true –

however little we did for Sebastian,
at least he got his money sent to him.

But I started off at once.

It was quite easy to find him.

I just went to the consulate.

Apparently he’d turned up
in Tunis one day,

and applied to be taken on
as a missionary lay-brother.

The Fathers took one look at him
and turned him down.

Then he started drinking again.

He lived in a little hotel
on the edge of the Arab quarter.

I went to see the place later;

it was a bar with a few rooms over it,

smelling of hot oil and garlic
and stale wine.

He stayed there a month
drinking Greek absinthe.

They loved him there.

He’s still loved, you see,

whatever he does,
whatever condition he’s in.

It’s a thing about him
that he’ll never lose.

They thought very ill of his family
for leaving him like that;

it wouldn’t happen
with their people, they said,

and I daresay they’re right.

Anyway, that was later;

after the consulate I went straight
to the monastery and saw the Superior.

He told me his part of the story.

So I sent him away.

He kept coming back –
two or three times a week,

always drunk –

until I gave orders to the porter
to keep him out.

He must have been
a terrible nuisance to you.

I don’t know what I can do to help him,
except pray.

Finally, we found him unconscious
outside the main gate,

he had fallen down
and had lain there all night.

At first we thought
that he was merely drunk again.

then we realised that he was very ill,

so we took him to the infirmary.

He has been there ever since.

They’d given him a room to himself,
just off the cloisters.

He looked terrible,
any age.

At first he couldn’t talk much,

But I stayed a fortnight with him
till he was over the worst of his illness.

And then he told me
what had been happening to him.

It was mostly about Kurt,
his German friend.

Well, you’ve met him,
so you know all about that.

He sounds gruesome.

He said they went to Greece,

and Kurt had got arrested after some brawl
and sent back to Germany.

It was the time when they were
rounding up all their nationals

from all parts of the world,
to make them into Nazis.

Sebastian followed.

For a year he couldn’t find
any trace of him.

Then in the end he ran him to earth
dressed as a storm-trooper

in a provincial town.

At first he wouldn’t have
anything to do with Sebastian;

spouting all that official jargon
about the rebirth of his country.

But it was only skin deep with him.

Six years of Sebastian had taught him more
than a year of Hitler;

eventually Kurt chucked it
and admitted he hated Germany

and wanted to get out.

I don’t know how much it was simply
the call of the easy life,

sponging on Sebastian.

He said it wasn’t entirely that;

that Kurt had just begun to grow up.

Maybe he’s right.

Anyway, it didn’t work.

Kurt always got into trouble
whatever he did.

Finally they caught him and they
put him in a concentration camp.

Sebastian couldn’t get near him;

he didn’t even know what camp he was in.

So he hung about in Germany
for another year,

drinking again,

until one day in his cups

he took up with a man who’d just been
out of the camp where Kurt had been,

and learned that he had hanged himself
in his hut in the first week.

So that was the end of Europe
for Sebastian.

He went back to North Africa,

where he had been happy.

I once had a governess who jumped off
this bridge and drowned herself.

I know.

How could you know?

It was the first thing
I ever heard about you,

before I ever met you.

How very odd...

Have you told Julia this about Sebastian?

The substance of it;

not quite as I told you.

She never really loved him, you know,
as we do.

Poor old Sebastian!

It’s quite pitiful.

How will it end?

I think I can tell you exactly, Charles.

I’ve seen others like him,

and I believe they are
very near and dear to God.

They’ll let him stay there,

living half in and half out
of the community.

He’ll be a great favourite
with the old fathers,

and something of a joke
with the novices.

There’s usually a few odd hangers-on
in a religious house, you know;

people who don’t quite fit in
to either the world or the monastic rule.

I suppose I’m something
of that sort myself.

But as I don’t happen to drink,
I’m more employable.

He’ll disappear for two or three days
every month or so,

and they’ll all nod and smile and say,
“Old Sebastian’s on the spree again.”

Then one day,
after one of his drinking bouts,

he’ll be picked up at the gate dying,

and show by the mere flicker of his eyelids

that he is conscious when they
give him the last sacraments.

Not such a bad way
of getting through one’s life.

It’s not what one would have foretold.

I suppose he doesn’t suffer?

Oh, yes, I think he does.

One has no idea
what the suffering may be

to be as maimed as he is –

no dignity,

no power of will.

No one is truly holy without suffering.

Holy?

Yes,

that’s what you’ve got to understand
about Sebastian.

He’s in a very beautiful place, you know –

white cloisters, a bell tower,
rows of green vegetables,

and a monk watering them
when the sun is low.

You knew I wouldn’t understand.

You and Julia...

Tell me, Charles,

when you met me last night,

did you think, “Poor Cordelia,
such an engaging child,

grown into a plain and pious spinster,
full of good works”?

Did you think “thwarted”?

Yes, I did.

But now I’m not so sure.

It’s funny, you know,

that’s exactly the word
that I thought for you and Julia

when I saw you
up in the nursery with nanny.

“Thwarted passion,” I thought.

My divorce case,
or rather my wife’s,

was due to be heard at about the same time
as Brideshead was married.

But he was to have
no triumphal return –

Lord Marchmain. with a taste
for the dramatically inopportune,

declared his intention,
in view of the international situation,

of returning to England and passing
his declining years in his old home.