Brideshead Revisited (1981): Season 1, Episode 4 - Sebastian Against the World - full transcript

I returned to Brideshead
in the spring of 1924.

The Easter party was a bitter time,

culminating in a small
but unforgettably painful incident.

- Hadn’t you better go up and change?
- Five more minutes, Charles.

Look. That’s a chow.

Sebastian had been drinking very hard
for a week. Only I knew how hard.

And drinking in a nervous, surreptitious way,
quite unlike his old habit.

Most of the guests knew him
too slightly to notice the change in him.

While his own family were occupied
into their particular friends.

So it was not until the evening of the day,
when the main party had left,

that he had to face his family
at close quarters.



Haven’t they brought the cocktails yet?

Where have you been?

Up with nanny.

I don’t believe you.
You’ve been drinking.

I’ve been reading in my room.

My cold’s much worse today.

Just a minute.

Sebastian!

Sebastian, let me in.

What’s the matter?

Sebastian’s drunk.

He can’t be.

He’s been drinking in his room
all afternoon.

How very peculiar.



What a bore he is!

- Will he be all right for dinner?
- No.

Well, you’ll have to deal with it.
It’s no business of mine.

Does he often do this?

He has lately, yes.

I suppose it must be
something chemical in him.

How very boring.

Hello.

Are you feeling any better?

Charles...

What you said was quite true.

Not with Nanny.

Been drinking whisky up here.

Feeling rather drunk.

Go to bed.

I’ll say your cold’s worse.

Yes.

Much worse.

I should get into bed.

No.

In a minute.

You put that down!

Don’t be an ass, Sebastian.
You’ve had quite enough.

What the devil’s it got to do with you?

You’re only a guest here –

my guest.

I shall drink what I want to
in my own house.

All right.

Only for God’s sake, keep it out of sight.

Why don’t you mind your own business?

You came here as my friend;

now you’re spying on me
for my mother, I know.

Well, you can get out of here
and you can tell her from me

that I’ll choose my friends
and she her spies in future.

- Mr Ryder?
- No, thank you.

What’s become of Sebastian?

He’s gone to bed.
His cold’s rather worse.

Oh dear, I hope he isn’t getting ’flu.

I thought he looked
a little feverish, lately.

Is there anything he wants?

No, he particularly asked
not to be disturbed.

I think he needs a glass of hot whisky.
I’ll go and have a look at him.

- No don’t, Mummy. I’ll go.
- May I go?

Please, Mummy, if he’s not well.

I’ve only just been in to him.
His cold really has come on rather badly.

He says there’s nothing that he wants.
I think he just needs to get some sleep.

Well, I’ll just have a look at him.
He’s probably feeling awful.

Cordelia...

I promise I won’t disturb him
if he’s sleeping.

No, he doesn’t want anything.

How was he?

I don’t know,

but I think he’s very drunk.

Cordelia!

“Marquis’ son unused to wine.”

“Model student’s career at stake.”

Cordelia...

Charles, is this true?

Yes.

Dinner is served, my Lady.

Thank you, Wilcox.

I don’t think Sebastian’s been
very well for some time.

I first noticed it when we
came home from the retreat.

He seemed very depressed,

quite the reverse effect
from what one would have expected.

Benedictus, benedicat per Jesum Christum,
Dominum nostrum. Amen.

As we sat down to dinner that night,
the subject was not mentioned.

I had no stomach for the food,
and silently mourned my friend upstairs.

When Brideshead and I
were left alone over the port,

he brought up the subject again.

Did you say Sebastian was drunk?

Yes.

Extraordinary time to choose.

Couldn’t you stop him?

No.

No, I don’t suppose you could.

I once saw my father drunk, in this room.

I can’t have been
more than ten at the time.

You can’t stop people
if they want to get drunk.

My mother couldn’t
stop my father, you know.

I shall ask my mother
to read to us tonight.

Father Brown got to his feet,
putting his hands behind him.

“Odd, isn’t it,” he said, “that a thief
and a vagabond should repent,

when so many who are rich and secure
remain hard and frivolous,

and without fruit for God or man?

But there, if you will excuse me,
you trespass a little upon my province.

If you doubt the penitence
as a practical fact,

there are your knives and forks.

You are The Twelve True Fishers,
and there are all your silver fish.

But He has made me a fisher of men.”

“Did you catch this man?”
asked the colonel, frowning.

Father Brown looked him full
in his frowning face.

“Yes,” he said, “I caught him,
with an unseen hook and an invisible line

which is long enough to let him
wander to the ends of the world,

and still to bring him back
with a twitch upon the thread.”

There was a long silence.
All the other men present drifted...

All the other men present
drifted away

to carry the recovered silver
to their comrades,

or to consult the proprietor
about the queer condition of affairs.

But the grim-faced colonel
still sat sideways on the counter,

swinging his long, lank legs
and biting his dark moustache.

At last he said quietly to the priest:
“He must have been a clever fellow,

but I think I know a cleverer.”

“He was a clever fellow,”
answered the other,

“but I am not quite sure...”

I’ve come to...
come to apologise.

Sebastian, dear, go back to bed.
We can talk about this in the morning.

Not to you.

Come to apologise to Charles.

I was bloody to him

and he’s my guest.

He’s my guest,

he’s my only friend
and I was bloody to him.

Go back to bed, Sebastian.

It’s all right, Bridey.
Come on.

“I mean you,” said the colonel,
with a short laugh.

“I don’t want to get the fellow jailed;
make yourself easy about that.

But I’d give a good many
silver forks to know exactly

how you fell into this affair and
how you got the stuff out of him.

I reckon you’re the most up-to-date
devil of the present company.”

Father Brown seemed rather to like
the saturnine candour of the soldier.

“Well,” he said, smiling,

“I mustn’t tell you anything of the man’s
identity, or his own story, of course;

but there is no particular reason
why I shouldn’t tell you

of the more outside facts
which I found out for myself.”

Come on, off to bed.

Why do you spy on me?

Why do you take their side against me?

I knew it would happen
if I let you meet them.

Sebastian...

Sebastian, you’ll be better
when you come upstairs...

I think I’d like to go to chapel now.

Bridey, Cordelia,
will you come with me?

Yes, of course, mama.

What’s the time?

Seven.

Well, how do you feel?

Rather odd.

I think perhaps I’m still a little drunk.

I’ve just been down to the stables
to see if we could get a car,

but everything is locked.

We’re off.

Where?

Oh, I don’t know.

London, I suppose.

Can I come and stay with you?

Of course.

Well, come on then,

get dressed and we can get them
to send our luggage on by train.

We can’t just go like that.

We can’t stay.

There’s some smoke coming
from some of the chimneys.

The stables must be open by now.

Come on.

I can’t go.
I must say goodbye to your mother.

Sweet bulldog.

I don’t happen to like running away.

And I couldn’t care less.

And I’m going to go on running,
as far and as fast as I can.

You can hatch out whatever
plot you like with my mother;

I shan’t come back.

That’s how you were talking last night.

I know, Charles, I’m sorry.

I told you I was still drunk.

If it’s any comfort to you,
I absolutely detest myself.

It’s no comfort at all.

It should be a little,
I should have thought.

Well, if you’re not coming,
give my love to nanny.

- Are you really going?
- Of course.

Will I see you in London?

Yes, I’m coming to stay with you.

I wish I had not seen him.

That was cruel.

I do not mind the idea
of his being drunk.

It is a thing all men do
when they are young.

I am used to the idea of it.
My brothers were wild at his age.

What hurt last night was that
there was nothing happy about him.

I know.
I’ve never seen him like that before.

And last night of all nights...
when there were only ourselves here.

You see, Charles, I think of you
very much as one of ourselves.

Sebastian loves you.

When there was no need for him
to make an effort to be happy.

And he wasn’t happy.

I slept very little last night, and all the
time I kept coming back to that one thing;

how unhappy he was.

It was horrible.

But please don’t think
that’s his usual way.

Mr Samgrass tells me
he was drinking too much all last term.

Yes, but not like that –
never before.

Then why now?
Here? With us?

All night I have been thinking and praying
and wondering what to say to him,

and now, this morning,
he isn’t here at all.

That was cruel of him,
leaving without a word.

I don’t want him to be ashamed –

it’s being ashamed
that makes it so wrong of him.

But he’s ashamed of being unhappy.

Mr Samgrass tells me
he is noisy and high-spirited.

I believe you and he
tease Mr Samgrass rather.

It’s very naughty of you.
I’m very fond of Mr Samgrass,

and you should be too,
after all he’s done for you.

All the same, I think if I were
your age and a man,

I might be just a little inclined
to tease Mr Samgrass myself.

No, I don’t mind that,

but last night and this morning
were something quite different.

You see, it’s all happened before.

Well, I can only say
that I’ve seen him drunk often

and I’ve been drunk with him often,
and last night was quite new to me.

I don’t mean with Sebastian.
I mean years ago.

I’ve been through it all before
with someone else whom I loved.

Well, you must know who I mean –
with his father.

He used to get drunk in just that way.

Someone told me
he is not like that anymore.

I pray God it is true and I thank God
for it with all my heart, if it is.

But the running away –
he ran away, too, you know.

It was as you said just now,
he was ashamed of being unhappy.

Both of them unhappy,
ashamed and running away.

It’s too pityful.

The men I grew up with
were not like that.

I simply don’t understand it.

Do you, Charles?

Only very little.

And yet Sebastian is fonder of you
than any of us, you know.

You’ve got to help him.
I can’t.

Well, if I’m going to catch my train

Tell me, have you read my brothers’ book?
It has just come out.

Yes, I glanced through it
in Sebastian’s room.

I should like you to have a copy.

May I give you one?

They were three splendid men;
Ned was the best of them.

He was the last to be killed,

and when the telegram came,
as I knew it would come, I said to myself:

“Now it’s my son’s turn
to do what Ned can never do now.”

I was alone then,
he was just going to Eton.

If you read Ned’s book
you’ll understand.

She had a copy lying ready on her bureau.

I thought at the time, “She planned
this parting before ever I came in.

Had she rehearsed all the interview?

If things had gone differently,

would she have put the book
back in the drawer?”

Thank you.

I prayed for you, too, in the night.

Go on, you’ll miss your train.

I was no fool;

I was old enough to know that an
attempt had been made to suborn me

and young enough to have found
the experience agreeable.

- Will you be seeing Sebastian?
- Yes, of course.

Please, will you give him my special love?

Will you remember?
My special love.

I won’t forget.

- Bye, Charles.
- Bye.

- Hayter, is my father in?
- No, he went out early.

Lord Sebastian has arrived.

Good, where is he?

Charles! How are you?

I’ve been waiting for you for hours.
What kept you?

I’m so glad you’re here.

Are you being looked after?

- Is everything all right?
- Blissful. Hayter?

By the way, before I forget,
Cordelia sends her special love.

Did you have your little talk with Mummy?

Yes.

Have you gone over to her side?

No.

I’m with you.

“Sebastian contra mundum”.

Good.
Then you find me a drink.

Ah. Well, I don’t know
whether I am going to be able to.

But the shadows
were closing round Sebastian.

We returned to Oxford

and once again the gillyflowers
bloomed under my college windows

and the chestnut lit the streets

and the warm stones strewed
their flakes upon the cobbles;

but it was not as it had been;

there was mid-winter
in Sebastian’s heart.

The weeks went by, and we looked
for lodgings for the coming term

and found them in Merton Street,

a secluded, expensive little house
near the tennis court.

Thank you.

Charles!
How nice to see you. How are you?

Hello, Mr Samgrass.
Haven’t seen you for long time.

How’s Sebastian?

He’s very well.

We’ve just found some rooms together
in Merton Street.

You’re sharing digs with Sebastian?
So he is coming up next term?

I suppose so, I don’t see why not.

I don’t either; it’s just that I
somehow thought perhaps he wasn’t.

I’m always wrong
about things like that.

I like Merton Street.

Schlegel! Do you know these
fascinating essays, Charles?

No.

Don’t think me interfering, you know,

but I wouldn’t make any definite arrangement
in Merton Street until you’re sure.

It’s just conceivable his mother
may have different ideas.

Yes, there’s a plot on.

Mummy wants me
to live with Monsignor Bell.

Why didn’t you tell me before?

Because I’m not going to live
with Monsignor Bell.

But I still think you might have told me.

When did it start?

Oh, it’s been going on.

Mummy’s so clever, you know.

She saw she’d failed with you.

I expect it was the letter you wrote
after reading uncle Ned’s book.

But I hardly said a thing.

Well, that was it.

If you were going to be any use to her,
you have said a lot.

Uncle Ned is the test, you know.

- Uh, Mr Ryder?
- Yes?

Bye-bye.

This came for you, sir.

“I shall be passing through Oxford
on Tuesday

and hope to see you and Sebastian.

I would like to see you alone
for five minutes before I see him.

Is that too much to ask?

I will come to your rooms
at about 12:00.”

These ground floor rooms
are really most attractive.

My brothers, Simon and Ned,
were here, you know.

Ned had rooms on the garden front.

I wanted Sebastian to come here too,
but my husband was at Christ Church

and, as you know, it was he
who took charge of Sebastian’s education.

These really are delightful, Charles.

Thank you.

Everyone loves your paintings
in the garden room.

We would never forgive you
if you didn’t finish them.

Well, I hope...

I expect you’ve guessed already
what I’ve come to ask.

Quite simply,
is Sebastian drinking too much this term?

If he was, I shouldn’t answer.

As it is, I can say no.

I believe you.

Thank God!

Is that the time?
Sebastian’s expecting us at one.

That night Sebastian
had his third disaster.

Mr Ryder, sir.
Mr Ryder.

What on earth is it?

Oakes... Oakes?
What’s the time?

It’s Lord Sebastian Flyte, sir.
I reckon he was climbing in to see you.

- Where is he?
- He’s in the back quad.

Had a bit of a nasty fall.

The “Bulldogs” have got ’em
and the proctors are there.

I believe they’ve got
the Principal up, too.

But I... I only left him an hour ago.
He can’t have!

- Now then, sir, take it quietly, please.
- All right, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

Now if you want to turn around, sir.

Look, I just... I just wanted to...

I don’t seem to be entirely myself.

I seem to have hurt my leg.

There’s blood all over my hand.

- I’m sorry, I don’t think it’s very serious.
- Sebastian, are you all right?

Charles, come.
It seems I’ve had a bit of a fall.

Look, I’m all right.
It’s bleeding a lot, but I’m all right.

- I just wanted to see you. I just...
- All right. All right, fine.

It’s all right, sir, he’s a friend of mine.
I’ll take care of him.

I told you, I told you.
I told you I wanted to see you.

Have you been doing that a lot,

drinking by yourself after I’ve gone?

About twice.

Well, maybe four times.

It’s only when they start bothering me.

I’d be all right
if only they’d leave me alone.

- They won’t now.
- I know.

Really, Sebastian, if you are going
to embark on a solitary bout of drinking

every time you see
a member of your family

it’s hopeless.

I know it’s hopeless.

- Well, what do you propose to do?
- Nothing.

I shan’t do a thing.

They’ll do it all.

You must believe that when I told you
he was not drinking,

I was telling you the truth, as I knew it.

I know you wish to be a good friend to him.

That’s not what I mean.
I believed it to be true.

I still believe it to some extent.

I believe he’s been drunk
two or three times before, no more.

It’s no use, Charles, all you can mean
is that you have not as much influence

or knowledge of him as I thought.

It is no good either of us
trying to believe him.

I’ve known drunkards before.

One of the most terrible things
about them is their deceit.

Love of truth
is the first thing that goes.

And after lunch, when you left,
he was so sweet to me.

Just as he used to be as a little boy,
and I agreed to all he wanted.

You know I had doubts about
his sharing rooms with you.

I know you’ll understand me
when I say that.

You know how fond we all are of you
apart from your being Sebastian’s friend.

We would miss you so much
if you stopped coming to stay with us.

But I want Sebastian to have
all sorts of friends, not just one.

Monsignor Bell tells me he never
mixes with the other Catholics,

rarely goes to church even.

Heaven forbid he should
know only Catholics,

but he should know some.

It takes a very strong faith to stand
entirely alone and Sebastian isn’t strong.

But I was so happy at luncheon
that I gave up all my objections;

I went round with him to see the rooms
you had chosen. They are charming.

We decided on some furniture you could
have sent from London to make them nicer.

And then, on the very night
after I had seen him!

No, Charles, it is not
in the Logic of the Thing.

Well, have you a remedy?

The college are being extraordinarily kind.

They’ve said they will not send him down,
provided he goes to live with Monsignor Bell.

It’s something I could have suggested
myself, it was the Monsignor’s own idea.

Lady Marchmain, can’t you see that

if you want to turn him into a drunkard
that’s the way to do it?

Any idea of his being watched
would be fatal.

Oh dear, it’s no use. Protestants
always think Catholic priests are spies.

That’s not what I mean.
He must feel free.

But he’s been free,
always, up till now,

and look at the result.

I’m going to cable papa.

He won’t let them force me
into that priest’s house.

What if they make it a condition
of your coming up?

I shan’t come up.

Can you imagine me –
serving mass twice a week,

helping at tea parties
for shy Catholic freshmen,

dining with a visiting lecturer,
with Monsignor Bell’s eye on me

just to make sure
I don’t get too much port?

Being explained away as the
rather embarrassing local inebriate

who’s been taken in
because his mother is so charming?

I told her it wouldn’t do.

Charles, let’s get really drunk tonight.

It’s the one time it could do
no conceivable harm.

Promise me you haven’t
gone over to their side?

“Contra mundum”?

“Contra mundum”.

Bless you, Charles.

There are not many evenings left to us.

Damn Monsignor Ding Dong!

The next day, Lady Marchmain left Oxford

taking Sebastian with her.

Brideshead and I went to his rooms
to sort out what he would have sent on

and what to leave behind.

It’s a pity Sebastian doesn’t know
Monsignor Bell better.

He’d find him a charming man to live with.
I was there myself in my last term.

My mother believes Sebastian
is a confirmed drunkard.

- Is he?
- He’s in danger of becoming one.

I believe God prefers drunkards
to a lot of respectable people.

For God’s sake...

Why do you have to bring
God into everything?

Oh, I’m sorry, I forgot.

But you know,
that’s an extremely funny question.

- Is it?
- Oh, to me, not to you.

No.

Not to me.

It seems to me that
without your religion

Sebastian might have had a chance
to be a happy and a healthy man.

It’s arguable, I suppose.

Do you think Sebastian will need
this elephant’s foot again?

Hello, I haven’t seen you all term.

Why have you deserted the smart set?

I’m the loneliest man in Oxford.

Sebastian Flyte’s been sent down.

Have you got digs for next term?

I’m sharing with Tyngate.
But there’s one room we still haven’t let.

Barker was coming in, but now he’s
standing for President of the Union,

he feels he ought to be nearer.

Where are you going?

I was going to Merton Street
with Sebastian.

But that’s no good now.

I’d better go and do my packing.

I hope you find someone for Iffley Road.

I hope you find someone for Merton Street.

That very good-looking friend,
is he not with you?

- No.
- I’m sorry. I liked him.

Father, do you particularly
want me to take my degree?

“I want you to?” Good gracious,
why should I want such a thing?

No use to me. Not much use
to you either, as far as I’ve seen.

That’s exactly what I was thinking.

I thought perhaps it was rather
a waste of time going back to Oxford.

You’ve been sent down.
My brother warned me of this.

- No, I’ve not.
- Well then, what’s all the talk about?

Everyone stays up at least three years.

I knew one man who took seven
to get a pass degree in theology.

I only thought that
if I wasn’t going to take up

one of the professions
where a degree is necessary,

it might be better to start now
on what I intend doing.

I intend being a painter.

- You’ll need a studio.
- Yes.

Well, there’s no studio here. I’m not going
to have you painting in the gallery.

No, I never meant to.

Nor will I have undraped models
all over the house,

or critics with their horrible jargon.

And I don’t like the smell of turpentine.

I presume you intend to do the thing
properly and paint with oils?

Well, I probably shouldn’t
paint much in the first year.

Anyway, I should be at a school.

Abroad? There are some excellent
schools abroad, I believe.

Well, abroad or here.
I should have to look round first.

Look round abroad.

Anyhow, you agree to my leaving Oxford?

Agree? Agree?
My dear boy, you’re twenty-two.

Twenty, father.

Twenty-one in October.

Is that all you are?

It seems much longer.

I did not see Sebastian again that year.

Towards the end of the summer I took up
a place in a small art school in Paris

and found rooms in the Île Saint-Louis.

A letter from Lady Marchmain
completes this chapter.

“My dear Charles, Sebastian’s
stay here has not been happy.

Mr Samgrass has very kindly consented
to take charge of him,

and they go together to the Levant,
where Mr Samgrass has long been anxious

to investigate a number
of orthodox monasteries.

I hope your arrangements for next term
have not been too much upset

and that everything
will go well with you.

I went to the garden-room this morning

and was so very sorry.”