Brideshead Revisited (1981): Season 1, Episode 6 - Julia - full transcript

- Bonjour, madame.
- Bonjour, Monsieur Ryder.

In the spring of 1925, I returned to Paris,

to the friends I had found there
and the habits I had formed.

I thought I should hear
no more of Brideshead,

but life has few separations
as sharp as that.

Rex!

Where is he, Charles?

I came by this morning.
They told me where you usually lunched,

but I couldn’t find you.

Have you got him?

So he’s given you the slip, too, has he?



We got here last night and were
going to go onto Zürich today.

I left him at the Lotti after dinner,
as he said he was tired,

and went round
to the Travellers’ for a game.

And when you came back
you found he was gone?

Not at all.

I wish I had.

No, he was waiting up for me.

I had a run of luck at the Travellers’
and cleaned up a packet.

Sebastian pinched the lot
while I was asleep.

All he left me was two
first-class tickets to Zürich

stuck in the edge of the looking-glass.

There was close on
three hundred quid, blast him!

So now he may be anywhere?

Anywhere.



You’re not hiding him,
by any chance?

My dealings with that family are over.

I think mine are just beginning.

I’ve got a lot to talk to you about,
but I promised this chap

I’d give him his revenge
back at the Travellers’.

- Will you dine with me?
- Yes. Where?

- I usually go to Ciro’s.
- Why not Paillard’s?

Never heard of it.
I’m paying, you know.

I know you are.

- I’ll order the dinner.
- Oh, I see.

What’s the name of that place again?

I’ll write it down for you.

It was not expensive
to live in France then.

It was very seldom, however, that I had
an opportunity for a dinner like this,

and if I had to spend an evening with Rex,
it should, at any rate, be in my own way.

Did you stay long at Brideshead
after I left?

Was my name mentioned much?

Was it mentioned?
I got sick of the sound of it, old boy.

The Marchioness got what she called
a “bad conscience” about you.

She piled it on pretty thick,
I gather, at your last meeting.

“Callously wicked”, “wantonly cruel”.

Ouch! Hard words.

Well, "it doesn’t matter
what people call you,

as long as they don’t call you pigeon pie
and eat you up."

What?

It’s a saying.

Oh.

Ah. I like a bit of onion with my caviar.

Chap-who-knew said
it brought out the flavor.

Try it without first.

And tell me more news of myself.

Well, Greenacre, or whatever
he was called – the snooty don –

Samgrass.

He came a cropper.
That was well received by all.

He was the blue-eyed boy
for a day or two after you left.

He was always being
pushed down our throats,

so in the end Julia couldn’t bear it
anymore and gave him away.

That was the end of Samgrass.

I’ll tell you a thing, Charles,
that Ma Marchmain hasn’t let on to anyone.

She’s a very sick woman.
Might peg out at any minute.

George Anstruthers saw her in the autumn
and put it at two years.

What is this soup?

It’s sorrel.

I thought you’d find it
interesting after the caviar.

Is that true?

How do you know?

It’s the kind of thing I hear.

With the way her family are going on
at the moment, I wouldn’t give her a year.

I know just the man for her in Vienna,

but she won’t do anything about it.

I suppose it has something to do
with that crackbrain religion of hers,

not to take the body seriously.

You know, the food here isn’t half bad;

someone ought to take this place up
and make something out of it.

I’ll tell you another thing –

they’re in for a jolt financially
if they don’t look out.

But I thought they were enormously rich.

They’re rich in the way people are
who just let their money sit quiet.

Everyone of that sort is poorer
than they were in 1914,

and the Flytes don’t seem to realize it.

Look at the way they live.

I closed my mind to him
as best I could

and gave myself
to the food before me,

but sentences came
breaking in on my happiness,

recalling me to the harsh, acquisitive
world which Rex inhabited.

Those were the kind of things
he dealt with –

mortal illness, debt, and greed.

Julia’s just rising twenty.

I don’t want to wait till she’s of age.

But I don’t want to marry her
without doing the thing properly...

nothing hole-in-corner...

I have to see she isn’t jockeyed
out of her proper settlement.

His theme was plain.

He wanted a woman; he wanted
the best on the market,

and he wanted her cheap.

I’ve got to the time when
notoriety has done its bit,

I need setting up solidly, you know.

St Margaret’s, Westminster,
whatever Catholics have.

Royalty, the Prime Minister
being photographed going into the church.

So as the Marchioness
won’t play ball

I’m off to see the old man
and square things with him.

I gather he’s likely to agree
to anything that will upset her.

He’s at Monte Carlo at the moment.

I’d planned to go on there
after dropping Sebastian off in Zürich.

That’s why it’s such a bloody bore
having lost him.

Now, brandy is one of the things
I do know a bit about.

Now, this color is too pale,
and I can’t taste it in this thimble.

Waiter!

Garçon!

Are you sure you won’t join me?

No, thanks. I’m quite happy with this.

Well, it’s a crime to drink it,
if you don’t really appreciate it.

The wedding was at the beginning of June.

I saw the notice
in the Continental Daily Mail

and assumed that Rex had
"squared the old man".

But things did not go as expected.

No royalty was present;
nor was the Prime Minister;

nor were any of Julia’s family.

It sounded like
a "hole-in-the-corner" affair,

but it was not for several years
that I heard the full story.

It is time to speak of Julia,
who till now has played an intermittent

and somewhat enigmatic part
in Sebastian’s drama.

It was thus she appeared to me
at the time, and I to her.

But as Sebastian in his sharp decline
seemed daily to fade and crumble,

so much more did Julia
stand out clear and firm.

When I first met her, when she
met me in the station yard

and drove me home through the twilight,
that high summer of 1923,

she was just eighteen
and fresh from her first London season.

Some said it was the most
brilliant season since the war,

and that things were getting
into their stride again.

Through those halcyon weeks
she darted and shone,

part of the sunshine
between the trees,

part of the candle-light
in the mirror’s spectrum.

She outshone by far
all the girls of her age,

but she knew there were grave disabilities
from which she suffered.

There was the scandal of her father;

that slight, inherited stain
upon her brightness

that seemed deepened by something
in her own way of life –

a waywardness and wilfulness,

a less disciplined habit
than most of her contemporaries.

There was also her religion.

Wherever she turned, it seemed to stand
between her and her natural goal.

But having been
brought up a Catholic,

if she renounced her religion now,
she would go to hell,

while Protestant girls of her acquaintance,
schooled in happy ignorance,

could marry eldest sons,
live at peace with their world,

and get to heaven before her.

There could be no eldest son for Julia.

Perhaps in a family
of three or four boys,

a Catholic might get the youngest
without opposition.

but younger sons who would not inherit
were indelicate things,

not to be much spoken of.

There were of course Catholics themselves,

but these came seldom into the little world
Julia had made for herself.

What was there left?

That was Julia’s problem
after her weeks of triumph in London.

I was not her man.

She told me as much, without a word,
when she accepted the cigarette from my lips.

When Julia left Sebastian and me alone
for that first summer at Brideshead,

she went to stay with an aunt,
Lady Rosscommon, in her villa at Cap Ferrat.

There she pondered her problem.
She knew it was not insurmountable.

There must, she thought, be a number
of people outside her own world

who were well qualified
to be drawn into it;

the shame was
that she must seek them.

Rex Mottram and Brenda Champion were
staying at the next villa on Cap Ferrat,

taken that year by a newspaper magnate,
and frequented by politicians.

They would not normally have come
within Lady Roscommon’s ambit,

but, living so close,
the parties mingled

and at once, Rex began
warily to pay his court.

Rex’s age was greatly in his favour,

for among Julia’s friends, young men
were held to be gauche and pimply.

his seniors thought him
a pushful young cad,

but Julia recognised
the unmistakable chic –

the flavour of the Prince of Wales,
of the big table in the Sporting Club,

the second magnum,
and the fourth cigar,

of the chauffeur kept waiting hour
after hour without compunction –

which her friends would envy.

His social position had an air of mystery,
even of crime, about it;

people said Rex went about armed.

And certainly the fact of his
being Brenda Champion’s property

sharpened Julia’s appetite.

All that summer
he had been feeling restless.

Mrs Champion had proved a dead end;

it had all been intensely
exciting at first,

but now the bonds began to chafe.

Rex demanded a wider horizon.
He wanted to consolidate his gains.

It was time he married.

There was little
Rex could do at Cap Ferrat

except establish a friendship
which could be widened later.

He was never
entirely alone with Julia,

but he saw to it that she was included
in most things they did;

and that was enough to make Lady
Roscommon write to Lady Marchmain

and Mrs Champion move him, sooner
than they had planned, to Antibes.

But in the comparative freedom of London
Rex became abject to Julia;

he planned his life about hers,
going where he would meet her,

ingratiating himself with those
who could report well of him to her.

He was always ready in his Hispano Suiza
to drive her wherever she wanted to go,

and all the time
he never once made love to her.

By that time at Brideshead,
between Christmas and Easter,

he had become indispensable.

And then,
without in the least expecting it,

she found herself in love.

This disturbing and unsought revelation
came to her one evening in May,

when Rex had told her
he would be busy in the Commons.

Driving by chance down Charles Street,

she saw him leaving what she knew to be
Brenda Champion’s house.

Yes, my lady?

Wilcox, I’m starving.

Will you bring me some bread and milk?

Bread and milk.
Is that all, my lady?

Yes.

Oh, and, Wilcox,

when Mr Mottram
telephones in the morning,

whatever time it is,
say I’m not to be disturbed.

Very good, my lady.

I’m shopping with her Ladyship
this afternoon,

so will you tell Lady Roscommon
I won’t be there till teatime?

Oh, and Beddoes, tell Wilcox
I’m motoring to the Chasms on Friday,

so I’ll need the car.

Did Mr Mottram ring up
by any chance?

Oh yes, my lady, four times.

Shall I put him through
when he rings up again?

Yes.

No.
Tell him I’m out.

Mr Mottram is waiting, my lady.

I’ve shown him into the library.

Oh, mummy, I can’t be bothered with him.
Do tell him to go away.

Thank you, Wilcox.

That’s not at all kind, Julia.

I’ve often said he’s not my favourite
among your friends,

but I have grown quite used to him,
almost to like him.

You really cannot take people up
and drop them just like that –

particularly people like Mr Mottram.

Oh, mummy, must I see him?
There’ll be a terrible scene if I do.

Nonsense, Julia, you twist that
poor man round your finger.

Have you been waiting long?

I had to have lunch with mummy.
She wanted me to go shopping with her.

- How was the House last night?
- Best described as dull.

Did you sit late?

I was home by half past one.

Why didn’t you answer my calls?

- What time did you get there?
- About eight o’clock.

Maybe a bit later.
I had somewhere to go first.

Oh?

- And where was that?
- Julia...

It’s finished.

What is?

You know very well.

She wanted me to tell her
face to face.

I don’t give a damn about Brenda Champion,
and I don’t give a damn if you see her.

You can do just what you like.

Can I?

Can I?

I’ll never see her again,
if that’s what you want.

So Julia came out of the
library an hour later

engaged to be married.

I warned you this would happen
if I went in there.

You did nothing of the kind.
You merely said there might be a scene.

I never conceived of a scene of this kind.

Anyway, you do like him, mummy.
You said so.

He has been very nice
in a number of ways.

I consider him entirely
unsuitable as your husband.

- So will everyone.
- Damn everyone.

We know nothing about him.

Darling, the whole thing is impossible.

I can’t see how you could
have been so foolish.

Well, what right have I got
otherwise to be angry with him

if he goes with that horrible old woman?

You make a great thing
about rescuing fallen women.

Well, I’m rescuing a fallen man
for a change.

- I’m saving Rex from mortal sin.
- Don’t be irreverent, Julia.

Well, isn’t it a mortal sin
to sleep with Brenda Champion?

Or indecent.

He’s promised never to see her again.

I couldn’t ask him to do that unless
I admitted I was in love with him, could I?

Mrs Champion’s morals, thank God,
are not my business.

Your happiness is.

If you must know, I think Mr Mottram
a kind and useful friend,

but I wouldn’t trust him an inch and I’m sure
he’ll have very unpleasant children.

They always revert.

I’ve no doubt you’ll regret
the whole business in a few days.

Meanwhile nothing is to be done.

No one must be told anything
or even allowed to suspect.

You must stop lunching with him.

You may see him here of course,
but nowhere in public.

You’d better send him to me
and I’ll have a little talk with him about it.

Thus began a year’s
secret engagement for Julia;

a time of great stress,

for Rex made love to her
that afternoon for the first time;

not, as had happened to her
once or twice before

with sentimental
and uncertain boys,

but with a passion that disclosed
the corner of something like it in her.

Their passion frightened her,

and she came back
from the confessional one day

determined to put an end to it.

When I went to confession at school

I used to make up stories about my sins
because they seemed so dull.

Once I was in there
for an hour and a quarter.

The rest of the class were kneeling
outside waiting their turn.

Sister Goddard was furious.
We all missed going swimming.

But she couldn’t ask me
what I had said.

It’s sacred, you see.

Today it only took five minutes.

What did they give you?

Three Hail Mary’s.

And a clean slate?

That sounds very attractive to me.

It’s not really clean, though.

To be forgiven you have to have
a good intention.

Julia, you always have
the best intentions.

That’s the point, Rex.
It can’t go on like this.

Otherwise I must stop seeing you.

I have no desire to make you unhappy.

I know that.

I don’t want to be unhappy.

I can’t help it.

Neither can I.

- Hello, Wilcox.
- Good afternoon, sir.

- Are you well?
- Very well, thank you, sir.

For six weeks they remained
at arm’s length,

kissing when they met and parted,
sitting meantime at a distance,

talking of what they would do
and where they would live

and of Rex’s chances
of an under-secretaryship.

Julia was content, deep in love,
living in the future.

Then, just before
the end of the session,

she learned that Rex had been staying the
week-end with a stockbroker at Sunningdale,

and that Mrs Champion
had been there too.

- How was the constituency?
- How do you mean?

The weekend.

You said you had a meeting
at your constituency.

Well, as a matter of fact,
the plans were changed.

I got trapped into a week-end
with Teddy Behrens down at Sunningdale.

Bankers and stockbrokers, Julia.

Not your style. You’d have hated it.

How was your weekend?

I missed you a lot.

Did Brenda Champion
hate her weekend too?

I don’t know.
I barely spoke with her.

It was quite a crowd.
Teddy had a house full.

I see.

What an extraordinary coincidence.

You must have been
pleasantly surprised.

No.

Oh, I was surprised to find her there.

I had no idea
that she knew Teddy that well.

Rex, please don’t lie to me.

Julia...

Sometimes I find you
very hard to understand.

What the hell do you expect?

Don’t you ever try to see it my way?

Now, what right have you to ask so much
when you give so little?

I’ll telephone you later.

But surely, Father, it can’t be wrong
to commit a small sin myself

in order to keep him
from a far worse one?

The Church would regard, Lady Julia,
that you would have committed a mortal sin –

not a small one; a mortal sin –

and that the behaviour of the gentleman
in other circumstances

would in no way alter or lessen
your degree of sin.

I would like to be able to say
what you would like to hear, but I cannot.

It is my duty to tell you
the Church’s view.

And to remind you that Our Lord
understands your tribulations

and loves you all the more
for striving against them.

And now I think it’s time
to hear your confession.

No, thank you.

I don’t think I want to today.

Goodbye, Father.

From that moment she shut her mind
against her religion.

That Christmas Julia had refused
to take Holy Communion

and Lady Marchmain
found herself betrayed

first by me,
then by Mr Samgrass,

in the first grey days of 1925.

She decided to act.
She forbade all talk of an engagement;

she forbade Julia and Rex ever to meet.

It was characteristic that,
even in this crisis,

she did not think it unreasonable
to put Sebastian in Rex’s charge

on the journey to Dr Borethus,

and Rex, having failed her
in that matter,

went on to Lord Marchmain
in Monte Carlo,

where he completed her rout.

You say my brother’s lost?

Do you mean literally?
How very odd.

That’s right.
Vanished into thin air,

along with three hundred quid
that he took to help him on his way.

We shall reimburse you
at once, of course.

No need for that, Bridey.

Are you sure
you can’t find him again?

I understood you knew how to go about
this sort of thing.

This time it may be difficult.

Alcoholics develop great cunning.

Yes, I can see that.

This will come as a very great worry
for my mother. It’s a bad time for her.

You know she intends to take Julia
abroad with her almost immediately.

- I don’t think that will happen, Bridey.
- I don’t understand you.

My mother plans to take Julia
away for most of the winter.

I’m afraid she feels that it’s time that
your association with Julia came to an end.

Julia and I are getting married.

I don’t think that’s possible.

It’s hardly likely that my mother
would change her views.

Bridey, I’ve talked with your father.
I saw him in Monte Carlo.

And I have his written consent.

You know, he seemed delighted
with the whole idea.

Rex gave himself to the
preparations with gusto.

He bought her a ring, not, as she
expected, from a tray at Cartier’s,

but in a back room in Hatton Garden

from a man who brought the stones
out of a safe in little bags

and displayed them on a writing-desk.

She was daily surprised
by the things Rex knew

and the things he did not know;

both, at the time,
added to his attraction.

There was trouble about
the marriage settlement

with which Julia refused
to interest herself.

I don’t care what Bridey says,
I’m not settling up my capital.

And what the hell do I want
with trustee stock?

I don’t know, darling.

The lawyers were in despair.

Rex absolutely refused
to settle any capital.

You see, I make money work for me.

I expect fifteen or twenty per cent
and I get it.

It’s pure waste tying up capital
at three and a half.

I’m sure it is, darling.

I mean, these fellows act
as though I were trying to rob you.

They’re the ones
who do all the robbing.

They wanna rob you of two thirds
of the income I can make for you.

Does it matter, Rex?
We’ve got heaps, haven’t we?

There’s another thing your damn
fool brother can’t get into his head.

I want a decent wedding.

I went to the Bourbon-Parma wedding
in Madrid.

That’s the sort of thing
I want for you.

It’s one thing your Church can do –
is put on a good show.

You never saw anything
to equal those cardinals.

How many d’you have here in England?

- Only one, darling.
- One?

Can we hire some others from abroad?

Well, Rex, a mixed marriage is usually
conducted very quietly – no splash.

How d’you mean “mixed”?
I’m not a nigger or anything.

No, darling, between
a Catholic and a Protestant.

Oh, if that’s all, it’s soon unmixed.
I’ll become a Catholic.

- How does one go about it?
- Belgrave Square, please.

Lady Marchmain was dismayed
and perplexed by this new development;

it brought back memories of her own
courtship and another conversion.

Rex...

I wonder if you realise how big a thing
you are taking on in the Faith.

It would be a very wicked step to take
without believing sincerely.

Lady Marchmain...

I don’t pretend
to be a very devout man,

and I am not much of a theologian,

but I do know it’s a bad plan
to have two religions in one house,

and a man does need a religion.

If your Church is good enough for Julia,
then it’s good enough for me.

Very well. I will see about
having you instructed.

Lady Marchmain, I haven’t the time.

Instruction will be wasted on me.

Just give me the form
and I’ll sign on the dotted line.

It usually takes some months –

often a lifetime.

Well, I’m a quick learner.
Try me.

So Rex was sent to Farm Street
to Father Mowbray,

a priest renowned for his triumphs
with obdurate catechumens.

Of course, you will know
in a general way

what is meant by prayer
and the power of prayer.

Now, I’d like you to tell me
what you yourself mean by prayer.

Well, I don’t mean anything.
You tell me.

Well...

Through prayer, every man – be he
the most humble or the most exalted –

is able to feel some sort of communion
with God the Father,

to ask His forgiveness
and to beg for His mercy.

Right.

Well, so much for prayer.
Now, what’s the next thing?

Well, would you say Our Lord
had more than one nature?

Just as many as you say, Father.

Let me try another question.
Supposing...

Supposing the Pope
looked up and saw a cloud

and said it’s going to rain,
would that be bound to happen?

Oh, yes, Father.

But supposing it didn’t?
Supposing there was no rain?

I suppose it would be sort of
raining spiritually,

only we were too sinful to see it.

He’s the most difficult convert
I’ve ever met.

Oh dear, I thought he was going
to make it so easy.

I can’t get anywhere near him.

He doesn’t seem to have the least
intellectual curiosity or natural piety.

In fact, he doesn’t even correspond
to any degree of paganism

known to the missionaries.

Julia, are you sure Rex isn’t doing this thing
purely with the idea of pleasing us?

I don’t think it enters his head.

He’s really sincere in his conversion?

He’s absolutely determined
to become a Catholic, mummy.

Our Father, Who art in Heaven,
hallowed be Thy Name;

Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done,
on earth as it is in Heaven.

Give us this day our daily bread,
and forgive us our trespasses,

as we forgive those
who trespass against us;

lead us not into temptation,
but deliver us from evil. Amen.

Hail Mary, full of grace.
our Lord is with thee.

Blessed art thou among women,

and blessed is the fruit
of thy womb, Jesus.

- Holy Mary, Mother of God...
- Pray for us sinners...

pray for us sinners, now and at
the hour of our death. Amen.

Will you tell me now, Mr Mottram,
who it is who merits heaven?

Whosoever is good merits heaven.
That is, whosoever loves

and serves God faithfully
and dies in his Grace.

Good.

And what do the wicked, who serve not God
and die in mortal sin deserve?

The wicked who serve not God
and die in mortal sin deserve hell.

Ah, that’s really quite encouraging.

Well, we’ll continue next time.

Now, before you go, Mr Mottram,
is there anything particular troubling you?

Look, Father, I don’t think
you’re being straight with me.

I wanna join your Church
and I’m going to join your Church,

but you’re holding too much back.

What do you mean,
"holding too much back"?

I’ve had a long talk with a Catholic –
a very pious well-educated one

and I’ve learned a thing or two.

For instance, you have to sleep
with your feet pointing East

because that’s the direction of Heaven,

so if you die in the night
you can walk there.

Now, I’ll sleep with my feet
pointing any way that suits Julia,

but d’you expect a grown man
to believe about walking to Heaven?

And what about the Pope who made
one of his horses a Cardinal?

And what about the box
you have in the church porch,

where, if you put in a pound note
with somebody’s name on it,

- they get sent to hell.
- Mr Mottram...

I’m not saying there mayn’t be
a good reason for all this,

but you ought to tell me about it
and not let me find out for myself.

But who can he have been talking to?

Did he dream it all?

Cordelia, what’s the matter?

What a chump!

What a glorious chump!

Cordelia, it was you.

Oh, mummy, who would have believed
that he would swallow it?

I told him such a lot besides.

About the sacred monkeys in the Vatican –
and all kinds of things.

Well, you’ve very considerably
increased my work.

Poor Rex. You know, I think it makes him
rather loveable.

You must treat him like an idiot child,
Father Mowbray.

I’m no expert, but this looks good.

Mr and Mrs and Miss Pendle-Garthwaite,
one afternoon tea set.

Oh, sorry.

Buntings, thirty bob, I should think.
Jolly mean.

Another tea set from the Chasms.

Cordelia, please don’t mix the cards up.
We’re trying to make a list.

I was just looking.

It’s going to be enough agony
thanking people as it is.

In the end, Rex’s instruction
was continued

and Father Mowbray consented
to receive him into the Church

just before his wedding.

Thus things stood; the cards had gone out
and presents were coming in fast.

Then came what Julia called
“Bridey’s bombshell”.

Chinky vases from Aunt Betty.

More replies, my lady.

Aren’t they hideous?

They were on the stairs at Buckbourne.

I’m sure Rex will like them.

You’d better pack all this stuff up again.

Bridey, what do you mean?

Only that the wedding’s off.

Bridey!

I thought I’d better make some investigations
into my prospective brother-in-law,

as no one else seemed interested.

I’ve just got the answer.

He was married in Montreal in 1915

to a Miss Sarah Evangeline Cutler,
who is still living there.

Rex, is this true?

Sure it’s true. What about it?

What about it?
What about it, you say?

Have you taken leave of your senses?
Are you quite mad?

Whoa!
Steady, Bridey.

You’d better explain, Rex.

I don’t know why you’re all
looking so het up.

I mean, she isn’t a thing to me.

I was just a kid.

It’s the sort of mistake
anyone could make.

You think that, do you?

We got our divorce back in 1919.

Look, for God’s sake,
what’s all the rumpus?

You might have told me.

You never asked.

Honestly, I haven’t given her
a thought in years.

But don’t you realise,
you poor sweet oaf,

you can’t be married as a Catholic
when you’ve got a wife still living?

But I haven’t. Didn’t I just tell you?
I was divorced six years ago.

But you can’t be divorced as a Catholic.

I wasn’t a Catholic and I was divorced.

Now, I’ve got the papers somewhere.

But didn’t Father Mowbray
explain to you about marriage?

Well, he said I wasn’t
to be divorced from you.

Well, I don’t wanna be.

I can’t remember all
Father Mowbray told me –

sacred monkeys and plenary
indulgences, the four last things –

if I remember all he told me
I shouldn’t have time for anything else.

Now, how ’bout your Italian cousin,
Francesca? – she married twice.

She had an annulment.

All right, then I’ll get an annulment.

Now, what does it cost
and who do I get it from?

Does Father Mowbray have one?

Look, I only want to do what’s right.
Nobody told me.

What do you want me to do?

Now, don’t tell me there isn’t someone
who can fix this.

There’s nothing that can be done, Rex.

It simply means your marriage
cannot now take place.

I’m sorry from everyone’s point of view
that this has come so suddenly.

You should have told us yourself.

Look, maybe what you say is right;

maybe, strictly by law,
I shouldn’t be married in your cathedral.

But the cathedral is booked
and no one there is asking any questions.

The Cardinal and Father Mowbray
don’t know about it.

Nobody except us knows a thing.

Why make trouble?

I wanna just stay mum
and let the thing go through.

Who loses anything by that?

Well, maybe I risk going to hell.

Well, I’ll risk it.

What’s it got to do with anyone else?

Why not?

I don’t believe
these priests know everything.

I don’t believe in hell
for things like that.

I don’t know that I believe in it
for anything.

Anyway, that’s our look out.

We’re not asking you to risk your souls.

Just keep away.

Julia, I hate you.

I think we’re all very tired.

We should talk.

If there’s anything more to say,
I suggest we discuss it later.

There’s nothing to discuss,

except what is the least offensive way
we can close the whole incident.

Mother and I will decide that.

We must put a notice
in The Times and The Morning Post;

presents will have to go back.

I don’t know what is usual about
the bridesmaids’ dresses, do you, Julia?

Oh, shut up, Bridey!

Just a moment, just a moment.

Maybe what you say is right.

Maybe you can stop us
marrying in your cathedral. All right.

To hell, we’ll be married
in a Protestant church.

I can stop that too.

But I don’t think you will, mummy.

You see, I’ve been Rex’s mistress
for some time now,

and I shall go on being,
married or not.

Is this true?

No, damn it, it’s not.
But I wish it were.

I see.

I can’t go on any longer just now.

We must discuss this later.

What on earth made you
tell your mother that?

That’s exactly what Rex wanted to know.

I meant I was much too deep with Rex
just to be able to say,

“the marriage arranged will not now
take place,” and leave it at that.

I wanted to be made an honest woman.

I’ve been wanting it ever since,
come to think of it.

So the talks went on and on.

Poor mummy.

In the middle of it
Rex just telegraphed to papa:

“Julia and I prefer wedding ceremony
take place by Protestant rites.

Have you any objection?”
He answered, “Delighted”.

Oh, Charles, what a squalid wedding!

The Savoy Chapel was the place where
divorced couples got married in those days –

a poky little place,
not at all what Rex had intended.

I wanted just to slip
into a registry office one morning

and get the thing over with a couple
of charwomen as witnesses,

but nothing else would do
but Rex had to have bridesmaids

and orange blossom
and the Wedding March.

It was gruesome.

Poor mummy behaved like a martyr

and insisted on my having her lace
in spite of everything.

Well, she more or less had to –
the dress had been planned round it.

My own friends came, of course,

and the curious accomplices
Rex called his friends;

the rest of the party
were very oddly assorted.

None of mummy’s family came,
of course,

one or two of papa’s.

All the stuffy people stayed away –

you know, the Anchorages and Chasms
and Vanbrughs – and I thought,

“Thank God for that, they always
look down their noses at me, anyhow,”

but Rex was furious, because it was
just them he wanted apparently.

Poor Cordelia took it hardest.
At first she wouldn’t speak to me.

Then on the morning of the wedding
she came bursting in before I was up,

straight from Farm Street,
in floods of tears, begged me not to marry,

then hugged me, gave me
a dear little brooch she’d bought,

and said she prayed
I’d always be happy.

Always happy, Charles.

So, you see, things never looked
like going right.

There was a hoodoo on us from the start.

But I was still nuts about Rex.

Funny to think of, isn’t it?

You know, Father Mowbray
saw the truth about Rex at once,

that it took me a year of marriage to see.

He simply wasn’t all there.

He wasn’t a complete
human being at all.

He was a tiny bit of one,
unnaturally developed;

something in a bottle,
an organ kept alive in a laboratory.

I thought he was
a sort of primitive savage,

but he was something absolutely
modern and up-to-date

that only this ghastly age could produce.

A tiny bit of a man
pretending he was whole.

Well, it’s all over now.

It was ten years later
that she said this to me,

in a storm in the Atlantic.