Brideshead Revisited (1981): Season 1, Episode 11 - Brideshead Revisited - full transcript

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 neighbourhood.

Julia and I, who had left
Brideshead a month before,

thinking we should not return,
moved back for the reception.

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 the 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, won’t do;
not till I’m fit again.

Too many stairs;
it has 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?

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.

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 St 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 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?
- Match-boxes.

Admiral Muspratt apparently had one of
the finest collections in the country.

Match-boxes.

Match-boxes.

I think she’s past child-bearing.

In Italy no one believes
there’s going to be a war.

They think it will 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’s legally Mrs Hicks,
are you not, my dear?

We know little of Hicks, but we shall be
grateful to him none the less,

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, but you should be an artist.

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

till we went up the line.

Oh, it really looks remarkably well.

Oh, I do congratulate you.
Yes, indeed.

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

it stood in what we used to call
“the Irish dressing-room” –

suppose we put it here on the console.

- Very good, my Lord.
- 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’s down and afraid.

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

That will come in good time.

The doctors in Rome
gave him less than a year.

There’s someone coming from London,
I think tomorrow, who will tell us more.

What is it?

His heart;

some long word at 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, if one comes to consider it, where
could I have met her without repugnance?

We dined at Ranieri’s;

a quiet little restaurant which I have
frequented for years – no doubt you know it.

Beryl seemed to fill the place.

I, 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 humoured.

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?

Quis?

Would you like it, Cara?

No, of course you would not.

Cordelia?

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 is 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 seventieth 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.

Chamberlain...

I knew him –

a 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.

Oh, 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’ll come 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 its all superstition and trickery.
Don’t you agree?

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.

No, it’s too good. I don’t believe it.
I don’t... Look, look...

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

Of course not, papa.

Wilcox says the Painted Parlour’s ready.

- Oh...
- Do you really want to do this?

What’s that, Julia?

Apparently papa told Wilcox this morning
he wants to move to the Painted Parlour.

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.

Oh, 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.
Nurse said he had a good night.

If you’d care to come with me?

This is all so serious.

Listen...

“April events on the Rivièra.

There will be a fête in Monte Carlo,

and Mrs Reginald Fellows
has organised a charity gala.”

Indefatigable old bag!

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’ve not been a practising member
of your Church for twenty-five years.

Brideshead, I think you should
see Father Mackay out, don’t you?

Go on reading, darling.
Please.

“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 apologise.
- Poor soul.

Mark you, it was seeing a strange face;

you may depend on it, that’s what it was –
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 know 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 to 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 that I had felt hanging over Julia
and me at the fountain had been averted,

perhaps dispelled for ever;

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 two thousand years.

I really don’t know why you should
suddenly get so excited about it now.

For Christ’s sake,
write a lettter 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 practising member
of the Church for twenty-five years.”

Not “the Church”,
“your Church”.

I don’t see the difference.

There’s every difference.

Bridey, it’s 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 a 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
was 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 round saying,
“At least Catholics know what they believe.”

- Well, we had a fair cross-section 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 now 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.

Seventy-three
is no great age.

Aunt Julia, my father’s aunt,
lived to be eighty-eight,

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 call the field “Castle Hill”,

Horlick’s field where the ground’s uneven

and most of it waste,
nettle, and brier

in hollows too deep for ploughing.

Those were our roots

in the waste hollows of Castle Hill.

We were knights then,

barons since Agincourt,

The larger honours 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,

the days of growth and building,

when the marshes were drained

and the waste land
brought under the plough,

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.

Better today.

I have 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 fifty 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 neighbour,

he said, “You’re as fit
as the youngest of them, Alex.”

So I was;

so I am now,
if only I could breathe.

When the summer comes

I shall leave my bed

and sit in the open air

and 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.

God 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 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 organisation

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 will you forbid it?

I’ve 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 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 the 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 is 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’s 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.

- D’you mean he...?
- No, no, but he’s past noticing anything.

Asperges me, Domine, hyssopo et mundabor:
lavabis me, et super nivem dealbabor.

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;
tell God that you are sorry.

I am going to give you absolution.

And while I am giving it, tell God that
you are sorry that you have offended him.

Ego te absolvo ab omnibus censuris
et peccatis, in nomine Patris...

I recognised the words of absolution

and saw the priest
make the sign of the cross.

Then I knelt, too, and prayed:

“O God, if there is a God,
forgive him his sins,

if there is such a thing as sin.”

Per istam sanctam unctionem
et suum piissimam

misericordiam indulgeat tibi, Dominus,

quidquid delequisti. 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 plenariam et remissionem
omnium peccatorum tibi concedo,

et benedico te in nomine Patris,
et Filii, et Spíritus 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.

Goodbye.

Julia remained in the Chinese drawing-room

until, at five o’clock 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...

- I...
- 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 was
one thing unforgivable –

like things in the school-room,
so bad they are 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 organise 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 1045 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 a wonderful old place in its way;

pity to knock it about too much.

Come in. I’ll show you over.

Thank you, sir.

Now, 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.

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 in some woman’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.

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.

You 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?

Oh, they put the clerks in here.

Don’t know why, really,
gets bloody cold in winter.

We 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,
there’s 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 work-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-oh.

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

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.

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 am sure we all are,

though whether I live to see it,
is another story.

Where on earth are the men, Hooper?

They had to go off
to draw the bed-straw.

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 six this evening.

Oh, Lor...
Sorry, Ryder.

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 till the job’s done.

Righty-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 find 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
C.O.’s way, if he’s back from his recce.

Okay, Ryder.

And Hooper, don’t let on to anyone
that we’ve made a nonsense of this morning.

The chapel showed no ill-effects
of its long neglect;

the paint was as fresh
and as 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

re-lit 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.