Brideshead Revisited (1981): Season 1, Episode 8 - Brideshead Deserted - full transcript

Charles returns to London, leaving Sebastian in Morocco. Bridey gives Charles a commission to paint a number of small oils of Marchmain House, the family's London townhouse which is about to be torn down. Having successfully established himself as an artist Charles sets off for Central America sketching and painting for two years. Returning to New York he is reunited with his wife Celia. On the ocean liner returning to England, he meets Julia.

When I left Sebastian in Morocco
I had intended to return directly to Paris,

but the business of his allowance

meant that I had to travel
to London to see Bridey.

We met in the library of Marchmain House.

Do you consider there is anything vicious

about my brother’s connection
with this German?

No.
I’m sure not.

It’s simply a case of two waifs
coming together.

You say he’s a criminal?

A “criminal type”.

He’s been in the military prison
and he was dishonourably discharged.



Well, the doctor says Sebastian
is killing himself with drink.

Weakening himself.
He hasn’t D.T.s or cirrhosis.

- He’s not insane?
- Certainly not.

He’s found a companion
he happens to like

and a place that he happens
to like living in.

Then he must have his allowance
as you suggest.

The thing’s quite clear.

Would you like to paint this house?

My father wants it done for a record,
to be kept at Brideshead.

One picture of the front,

one of the back from the park,

one of the staircase,

and one of the large drawing room.

Four small oils.



I don’t know any painters.

Julia sayd you specialised
in architecture.

Yes.

I should like to very much.

You know they’re pulling it down?
My father’s selling it.

They’re going to put up
a block of flats here.

They’re keeping the name –
we can’t stop them, apparently.

What a very sad thing.

Well, of course I’m sorry.

But do you think it good
architecturally?

One of the most beautiful houses I know.

Can’t see it.
I’ve always thought it rather ugly.

Perhaps your pictures
will make me see it differently.

I began in the long drawing-room,

for they were anxious to shift the furniture,
which had stood there since it was built.

I had set out the perspective in pencil,

but held back from the painting,
like a diver on the water’s edge;

once in I found myself buoyed
and exhilarated.

I was normally a slow
and deliberate painter;

that afternoon and all next day,
and the day after, I worked fast.

I could do nothing wrong.

At the end of each passage I paused,
tense, afraid to start the next,

fearing, like a gambler, that luck
must turn and the pile be lost.

Bit by bit, minute by minute,
the thing came into being.

There were no difficulties;

the intricate multiplicity of light
and colour became a whole;

each brush stroke,
as soon as it was complete,

seemed to have been there always.

May I stay here and watch?

Yes,

so long as you don’t talk.

This was my first commission;

I had to work against time,

for the contractors were only waiting
for the final signature

to start their work of destruction.

In spite, or perhaps because of that –

for it is my vice to spend too long on a
canvas, never content to leave well alone –

those four paintings of Marchmain House
are particular favourites of mine,

and it was their success,
both with myself and others,

that confirmed me in what has since
been my career.

It must be lovely
to be able to do that.

It is.

I’m tired.

I bet you are.

Is it finished?

Practically.

I shall have to go over it again
in the morning.

D’you know it’s almost dinner time?

There’s no one here
to cook anything now.

I only came up today,

I didn’t realise how far
the decay had gone.

You wouldn’t take me out
to dinner, would you?

All right.

Oh, thank you!

I’ll go and get changed.

We let ourselves out by a side door
and walked to the Ritz Grill.

- You’ve seen Sebastian?
- Yes, I have.

He won’t come home, even now?

I didn’t realise you understood so much.

Well, I love him more than anyone.

- It’s sad about Marchers, isn’t it?
- Very sad.

Do you know they’re going
to build a block of flats,

and that Rex wants to take what he calls
a “penthouse” at the top?

Isn’t that like him?

Poor Julia, that was too much for her.

He couldn’t understand at all.

He thought that she’d like
to keep up with the old home.

Things have all come to an end
very quickly, haven’t they?

Apparently, papa has been
terribly in debt for a long time,

and selling Marchers
has put him straight again.

But what’s going to happen to you?

What indeed?
There are all kinds of suggestions.

Aunt Fanny Roscommon
wants me to live with her,

and then Rex and Julia talk of taking over
half of Brideshead and living there.

But won’t your father come back?

We thought he might,
but no.

They’ve closed the chapel at Brideshead.

Did they?

Bridey and the Bishop;

mummy’s Requiem
was the last mass said there.

After she was buried,
the priest came in –

I was there alone.
I don’t think he saw me –

he took up the altar stone
and put it in his bag;

then he burned the wads of wool
with the holy oil on them

and threw the ash outside;

he emptied the holy-water stoop,
blew out the lamp in the sanctuary,

and left the tabernacle
open and empty,

as though from now on
it was always to be Good Friday.

I suppose none of this makes any sense
to you, Charles, poor agnostic.

I stayed there till he was gone.

Then, suddenly, there wasn’t
any chapel there any more,

just an oddly decorated room.

I can’t tell you what it felt like.

You’ve never been
to Tenebrae, I suppose?

No.

Well, if you had you’d know
what the Jews felt about their temple.

Quomodo sedet sola civitas...

It’s the most beautiful chant.

You ought to go there once,
just to hear it.

Are you still trying
to convert me, Cordelia?

No. That’s all over, too.

D’you know what papa said
when he became a Catholic?

Mummy told me once.

He said, “You have brought back my family
to the faith of their ancestors.”

Pompous, you know.
It takes people in different ways.

Anyhow, the family haven’t been
very constant, have they?

There’s him gone,
Sebastian gone, Julia gone.

But God won’t let them
go for long, you know.

I wonder if you remember
the story that Mummy read us

the evening Sebastian
first got drunk –

I mean, that bad evening.

- Father Brown?
- Yes.

He said something like

“I caught him” (the thief) “with an
unseen hook and an invisible line,

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

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

First time I’ve ever been taken out
to dinner alone at a restaurant.

Do you know what Julia said
when she heard about Marchmain being sold?

She said, “Poor Cordelia, won’t have
her coming-out ball there after all.”

It’s a thing we used to talk about –
like me being her bridesmaid.

That didn’t come off either.

When Julia had her ball
I was allowed down for an hour,

to sit in the corner with Aunt Fanny,

and she said to me,
“In six years’ time you’ll have all this.”

I hope I’ve got a vocation.

I don’t know what that means.

It means you can be a nun.

If you haven’t a vocation it’s no good
however much you want to be;

and if you have a vocation, you can’t get
away from it, however much you hate it.

Bridey thinks he has a vocation and hasn’t.

I used to think
Sebastian had and hated it –

but I don’t know now.

Everything has changed
so much suddenly.

You’ll fall in love.

Oh, I pray not.

I say, do you think I could have another
one of those scrumptious meringues?

My theme is memory,

that winged host that soared about me
one grey morning of war-time.

These memories,
which are my life –

for we possess nothing certainly
except the past –

were always with me.

For nearly ten dead years
after that evening with Cordelia

I was borne along a road
outwardly full of change and incident,

but never during that time,
except sometimes in my painting,

did I come alive as I had been during
the time of my friendship with Sebastian.

I became an architectural painter.

But, as the years passed,
I began to mourn the loss of something

I had known in the drawing-room
of Marchmain House –

the intensity and singleness

and the belief that it was
not all done by hand –

in a word, the inspiration.

In quest of this fading light
I went abroad,

travelling, by slow but not easy stages,
through Mexico and Central America.

There, in great labour, sickness,
and occasionally in some danger,

I made the first drawings for
Ryder’s Latin America.

I was in no great pains
to keep in touch with England.

I followed local advice for my itinerary
and had no settled route,

so that much of my mail never reached me
and the rest accumulated

until there was more
than could be read at one sitting.

But despite this isolation and this
long sojourn in a strange world,

I remained unchanged,

still a small part of myself
pretending to be whole.

I discarded the experiences
of those two years with my tropical kit

and returned to New York,
as I had set out.

Ritchie!

- Howie, oh how much...
- Honey, will you stop annoying me?

I have a suite booked.

- The name is Ryder.
- Yes, sir.

Has my wife arrived yet?

646 and 7.
Mr And Mrs Charles Ryder.

Your wife has checked in, sir.

Would you care
to sign the register, please?

Your wife went out earlier, sir.
She said to say she’d be back after lunch.

Thank you.

- 646 and 7.
- Any messages for Paul Moore?

- No, sir.
- Thank you.

- Thank you very much.
- Thank you, sir.

- Goodnight.
- Goodnight.

I don’t believe you read my letters.

Well, some of them went astray.

I remember distinctly your telling me that
the daffodils in the orchard were a dream,

and that the new nursery-maid was a jewel,

but frankly I cannot remember you telling me
that your new baby was called Caroline.

Why did you call it that?

After Charles, of course.

Ah.

I made Bertha Van Halt godmother.

I thought she was safe for a good present.

What do you think she gave?

Bertha Van Halt is a well-known trap.

What?

A fifteen shilling book-token.

Now that Johnjohn has a companion,
I think perh...

Who?

Your son, darling.
You haven’t forgotten him, too?

Why do you call him that?

It’s the name he invented for himself.
Don’t you think it sweet?

Now that Johnjohn has a companion,

I think we’d better not have any more
for some time, don’t you?

Just as you like.

Johnjohn talks about you such a lot.

He prays every night for your safe return.

I hope you admire my self-restraint.

Restraint?

I’m not asking any awkward questions.

I may say I’ve been tormented by visions
of voluptuous half-casts

ever since you went away.

But I’m determined not to ask...

and I haven’t.

That suits me.

Shall I put my face to bed?

No, not just yet.

I don’t believe
you’ve changed at all, Charles.

No, I’m afraid not.

Do you want to change?

It’s the only evidence of life.

But you might change so that
you didn’t love me anymore.

There is that risk.

- Charles?
- Hm?

You haven’t stopped loving me?

You said yourself I hadn’t changed.

Well, I’m beginning to think you have.

- I haven’t.
- No.

No, I can see that.

Were you at all frightened
at meeting me today?

Not the least.

You didn’t wonder if I should have fallen
in love with someone else in the meantime?

No.

Have you?

You know I haven’t.

Have you?

No.

I’m not in love.

Bloody central heating!

Lights out?

The garden’s come on a lot.

The box-hedges you planted
grew five inches last year.

Of course, darling, I can see
your new pictures are perfectly brilliant,

and really rather beautiful
in a sinister sort of way,

but somehow I don’t feel
they’re quite you.

We’ve got a first-class cook at the moment.

You’ll be really impressed.

Just like old times.

- I’m not worrying anymore, Charles.
- Good.

I was so terribly afraid that two years
might have made a difference.

Now I know we can start again
exactly where we left off.

When?

What?

When we left off what?

When you went away, of course.

You’re not thinking of something else,
a little time before?

Oh, Charles, that’s old history.

It was nothing.

It was never anything.

It’s all over and forgotten.

I just wanted to know.

So we’re back where we were
the day I went abroad, is that it?

So we started that day exactly
where we left off two years before,

with my wife in tears.

Hello?

Hello?

In the dressing room, please.

Charles! I’m just arranging
our little party this evening.

Julia?

Celia – Celia Ryder.

Oh, it’s lovely to find you on board.
What have you been up to?

Come and have a cocktail this evening
and tell me all about it.

Good! See you then.

Julia who?

Mottram.
I haven’t seen her for y...

Hello?
Operator, could you get me...

I had not seen Julia since the
private view of my first exhibition

where the four canvasses of
Marchmain House, lent by Bridey,

had hung together
attracting much attention.

Those pictures were my
last contact with the Flytes.

Our lives, so close for a year or two,
had drawn apart.

Sebastian, I knew, was still abroad.

Rex and Julia, I sometimes heard it said,
were unhappy together.

Rex was not prospering quite as well
as had been expected.

I saw their faces now and again
peeping from the Tatler,

but they and I had fallen apart
into separate worlds.

Can I get you anything, sir?

- A whisky soda, no ice.
- I’m sorry, sir, all the soda’s iced.

- Is the water iced?
- Oh yes, sir.

That will do.

Charles.

Hello.

I heard you were here.
Celia telephoned to me.

It’s delightful.

- Will you join me for a drink?
- Thank you.

- What are you doing?
- Waiting. My maid’s unpacking;

she’s been so disagreeable
ever since we left England.

She’s complaining now about the cabin.

I can’t think why.
It seems the lap of luxury to me.

He brought two jugs,

one of iced water,
the other of boiling water;

I mixed them to the right temperature.

I’ll remember that’s how you take it, sir.

Thank you.

What can I get for you, madam?

- Oh, a hot chocolate.
- Very good, madam.

I never see you now.
I never see anyone I like.

I can’t think why.

- What have you been doing in America?
- Don’t you know?

I’ll tell you about it sometime.

I’ve been a mug.

I thought I was in love with someone,
but it didn’t quite work out that way.

What about you, Charles?
What have you been up to?

Oh, I’ve just been painting –
trying different styles.

- I’m just back from a trip.
- Where have you been?

Mexico, Central America –
quite a way from anywhere.

I felt I needed a change of scene,
I was getting stale.

It sounds thrilling.
I’m longing to see the pictures.

Celia wanted me to unpack them
and stick them around the cabin

for her cocktail party,
but I couldn’t do that.

No.

Is Celia as pretty as ever?

I always thought she had the most
delicious looks of any girl in our year.

She hasn’t changed.

You have, Charles.

So lean and grim;

not at all the pretty boy
Sebastian brought home with him.

Harder, too.

And you’re softer.

Yes, I think so.

And more patient now.

And sadder, too.

Oh yes, much sadder.

Facing in to the room, please.

My wife was in exuberant spirits when,
two hours later, I returned to the cabin.

There you are.
I’ve had to do everything.

How does it look?

You must go and get dressed.
Where’ve you been all this time?

Talking to Julia Mottram.

D’you know her?

Oh, of course, you were a friend
of the dipso brother.

Goodness, her glamour!

She greatly admires your looks, too.

She used to be a girlfriend of Boy’s.

Surely not?

He always said so.

Have you considered how your guests
are going to eat this caviar?

I have.
It’s insoluble.

But I suppose there’s always this.

Oh anyway, people always find ways
of eating things at parties.

D’you remember how we once ate
potted shrimps with a paper knife?

Did we?

Darling, it was the night
you popped the question.

As I remember it, you popped.

Well, the night we got engaged.

Well, you haven’t said
what you think about the arrangements.

It’s a cinema actor’s dream.

Cinema actors,
that’s what I want to talk about.

Charles, I’ve been thinking.

I do believe you’re absolutely cut out
to be a set designer for the cinema.

I’ve invited two very important Americans,
real Hollywood magnates.

Do promise you’ll be sensible
and talk to them.

- Ah, here is Father Christmas!
- Oh, dear Lady Celia!

- Is everything all right, madam?
- We were just in raptures over your swan.

If you’ll put on your warmest clothes

and come on an expedition with me
to the cold storage,

I can show you a whole Noah’s Ark
full of such objects.

The toast for the caviar
will be along shortly.

They’re keeping it hot.

Toast! Do you hear that, Charles?
Toast!

- I do believe you’ve taken against my swan.
- Well, we were just wondering about...

Now don’t be beastly about it
in front of the purser.

I think it was sweet of him to think of it.

You know, if Charles had read about it

in a description of a sixteenth century
banquet in Venice,

he would have said,
“those were the days to live.”

In sixteenth century Venice it would
have been a somewhat different shape.

Hello, how are you?
I’m so glad you could come.

- Celia, what a beautiful swan!
- Isn’t it heavenly?

Well, I hate to spoil the fun,
but it looks like we’re in for a storm.

How can you be so beastly?

Anyway, storms don’t affect
a ship this size, do they?

- Well, it might hold us back a bit.
- But it won’t make us sick?

Well, that depends
on how good a sailor you are.

I’m always sick in storms,
ever since I was a boy.

I don’t believe a word of it,
he’s simply being sadistic.

I must show you
a photograph of the children.

D’you know Charles
hasn’t even seen Caroline yet?

- Isn’t it thrilling for him?
- Oh! How old is she now?

I’m Gloria Stuyvesant Oglander.
I feel I know you through and through –

Celia’s told me so much about you.

There were no friends of mine there,

but I knew about a third of the party
and talked a way civilly enough.

But all the time I thought only
of when Julia would come.

Been waiting to do that for a long time.

Bet you don’t know
how many drops to the minute.

I do. I’ve counted.

- I’ve no idea.
- Well, guess.

Look, a tanner if you get it wrong
and half a dollar if you get it right.

- That’s fair isn’t it?
- Three.

Coo!

You’re a sharp chap, aren’t you?

Been counting too, haven’t you?

Tell me, how do you work this one out?

I’m an Englishman born and bred,

this is my first time on the Atlantic.

- You flew out?
- No.

Came round the world the other way
and across the Pacific.

You are a sharp chap and no mistake.

I’ve made quite a bit
out of arguing on that topic.

Well...

I better skedaddle.

Toodle loo.

Still Julia did not come,

and the noise of twenty people
in that tiny room

was the noise of a multitude.

Charles, this is Mr Kramm
of International Films.

So you’re Mr Charles Ryder?

- Yes.
- Well, well, well.

Our purser says we’re in
for some pretty dirty weather.

- Now, what d’you know about that?
- Rather less than the purser.

Uhm, I’m sorry, Mr Ryder,
I don’t quite get you.

I mean I know less about that
than... the purser.

Is that so? Well, well, well.

...and go on meeting
every half-hour for days?

I... I’ve enjoyed our talk.
I hope it’ll be the first... of many.

You must promise to bring that
distinguished-looking husband of yours

- to my little do on Tuesday.
- Oh, we’d love to!

- You’re having one, too?
- Yes!

Do tell me, how did it feel
meeting Celia after two years?

I know that I should feel
indecently bridal.

But then, Celia has never quite got the
orange blossom out of her hair, has she?

Julia never came.

No, she telephoned.

Couldn’t quite hear what she said,
there was so much noise going on –

something about a dress.

It was quite lucky, actually,
there wasn’t room for a cat.

It was a lovely party, wasn’t it?

Did you hate it very much?

You behaved beautifully
and you looked so distinguished.

Who was your red-haired chum?

- No chum of mine.
- How very peculiar.

Did you say anything to Mr Kramm
about working in Hollywood?

Of course not.

Oh, Charles, you are such a worry to me.

It’s no good just standing around looking
distinguished and being a martyr for Art.

Come on, let’s go to dinner.

We’re at the Captain’s table.
I don’t suppose he’ll dine down tonight,

but it’s polite to be fairly punctual.

I just hope I can find the dining room.
This place is an absolute maze.

We were a gruesome circle at dinner;

even my wife’s high social spirit faltered.

Wherever Celia is, you’ll find
she knows all the significant people.

I’m miserable about the party,

my beastly maid totally disappeared
with every frock I have.

She only turned up half an hour ago.

I’ve made it my aim to reconcile the so-called
Anarchists and the so-called Communists.

There is no fundamental diversity
in their ideologies.

It is a matter of personality, Mr Ryder,

and what personalities have put asunder
personalities may unite.

Of course.

But I understood you to say, Lady Celia,
that you were unacquainted with him.

Oh, I meant that he was
like Captain Foulenough.

Ah, I begin to comprehend.

He impersonated this friend of yours
in order to come to your party.

No, no. Captain Foulenough is simply
a comic character in an English paper.

You know, like your “Popeye”.

To recapitulate:

an imposter came to your party
and you admitted him

because of a fancied resemblance
to a fictitious character in a cartoon.

Yes, I suppose that was it, really.

Do you not agree, Mr Ryder?

- Yes. Yes.
- I mean, what are words?

What indeed?

My mind reeled;

after the months of solitude,
this was too much.

I felt like Lear on the heath,

like the Duchess of Malfi
bayed by madmen.

I summoned cataracts and hurricanes,

and as if by conjury
the call was immediately answered.

Either I am a little drunk
or it’s getting rough.

This is where I say
good night to you all.

Like King Lear.

Only each of us is all three of them.

What can you mean?

Lear, Kent, Fool.

Oh dear, it’s like that agonizing
Foulenough conversation over again.

Don’t try and explain.

I’m not sure that I could.

Well, we’ve set a fine example of British
phlegm, but I think I’ve taken all I can.

This is making my head ache
and I’m tired, anyway.

I’m going to bed.

Are you coming, Julia?

Yes.

Will you be joining
in the tombola this evening, sir?

No.
No, thank you.

But if somebody could bring me
some more brandy?

Certainly, sir.
I’ll get a steward for you.

Charles, is that you?

Yes.

I feel terrible.

I didn’t know a ship of this size
could pitch like this.

Oh, can’t you do something?

Can’t you get something from the doctor?

I’ll call the steward.
He’ll have something.

Look, why don’t I sleep next door?
Then I won’t disturb you.

Excuse me, sir, but these have come
for you and her Ladyship.

What would you like me
to do with them, sir?

Oh, put them over there.

What news of the storm?

Well, the wind’s dropped a little, sir,
but it’s still blowing quite hard,

and there’s a heavy swell.

Nothing like a heavy swell
for the enjoyment of the passengers.

There weren’t many breakfasts
wanted this morning.

Just a moment, steward.

Would you have these delivered
to Lady Julia Mottram’s cabin?

Certainly, sir.

And steward...

Would you ask the barber to call?

Very good, sir.

Thank you.

Hello?

Charles, what a deplorable thing to do!
How unlike you!

Don’t you like them?

What can I do with roses
on a day like this?

Smell them.

They’ve got absolutely no smell at all.

What have you had for breakfast?

Muscat grapes and cantaloupe.

When am I going to see you?

Before lunch?
I’m busy till then with a masseuse.

- A masseuse?
- Yes, isn’t it peculiar?

I’ve never had one before, except once
when I hurt my shoulder hunting.

What is it about being on a boat
that makes everyone behave like a film star?

Well, I don’t.

How about these
very embarrassing roses?

- I’ll see you on deck about twelve thirty.
- Marvellous. You might not recognise me.

What do you mean?

I’m having my beard removed.

How dreadful.
It sounds like an operation.

Can I come in?

I thought these might cheer you up.

How sweet people are.

I take it you’re not going to get up.

Oh, no.

Mrs Clark is being so sweet.

Don’t bother.

Come in and tell me
what’s going on, sometimes.

Now, now, my dear. The less we are
disturbed today the better.

Charles...

your beard.

Yes, I know.

What a pity.
I thought it looked so distinguished.