Parade's End (2012): Season 1, Episode 2 - Episode #1.2 - full transcript

Sylvia.

Good of you to come yourself.

You don't know.

I'm so sorry, Christopher.

There was a telegram
from the office, from Macmaster.

Your mother died yesterday.

I did not expect it quite yet.

I killed your mother.

She died of a broken heart
because I left you.

No, she didn't.

Then it was because I asked you
to take me back.



My mother died from a medical
condition, not a literary convention.

I suppose it's all over town that
I went off with Potty Perowne.

I told Vincent Macmaster.
No one else knows.

That was nearish, though.

Oh, Christopher,
has it been awful for you?

It is thought that you went abroad
to look after your mother.

You'll get your own back.

Only I wish you wouldn't do it
by punishing me

with your meal sack Anglican sainthood.

Give me Father Consett any day.
He called me a harlot

and refused to shake my hand
till he confessed me.

Father Consett is here?

I showed him your telegram.

I want him to know
that your condition for taking me back



is to have your son damned
for all eternity.

If it bothers you so much...

Thank you.

I saw Gerald Drake somewhere,
and I thought, "What a brute."

How would I possibly have...

Pretty box, though.

The pictures no doubt
belong to the hotel's former existence.

Was it an abattoir?

So very sad.

In the midst of life.

Oh, here we are.

There is a night express, you're right.

Wagons-lit, dining car,

and you'll be at Groby with
a day to spare before the funeral.

A public appearance together
couldn't be more timely.

My cousin Westershire
got wind of something

and I was forced to lie to him.

As head of the family, the Duke takes it
personally when lives become untidy.

I'm not going back to Christopher
if I have to be in bed by 9:00.

My own bed, I mean, of course.

This was the last place
Christianised in Europe.

The old pagan demons
are still at their work

and the sooner you are away from here

the sooner you'll not have
such wicked thoughts.

They are yours, not mine,

I meant my own bed
as distinct from my husband's.

Father Consett and I will return
at leisure by road.

- He has business in Berlin.
- Irish business?

Now, why would you think that?

I will not interfere
in your social life.

But our old life, with a town house
to keep up and entertain in,

I could not accept
your generosity as before.

I'm not going to live in Yorkshire.

Macmaster has found a suitable flat

across the way
from his rooms in Gray's Inn.

A flat in Holborn?

I couldn't have imagined
anything more humiliating.

Ah, it is supposed to be a penance.
It's not a reward.

- You mind your own business.
- Your soul is my business!

But my dear boy,

the whole world will understand exactly
what we have managed to keep from it.

You would not be the first landowner
to give up a house in town

in protest against the new tax.

The Duke would applaud you.

I shouldn't wonder if he lends you
the Westershire box at the opera.

I never heard such bosh!

I will be in my room praying for death,
or at least packing for it.

Would you send me your maid?

I'd better go myself.

Sylvia hit my maid with a hairbrush
and I only borrowed her.

I don't want to return her damaged.

Now, then, Christopher,
your son is Roman Catholic born

and that's the fact of the matter.

But Michael will grow up
with my sister's children

in an Anglican parsonage and the facts
must jostle as they may.

Slainte.

And by the way, Father,
your Republican friends should know

that Germany is looking
for a European war

and will find a reason for one,
probably in the next two years,

so don't fill your
dance card in Berlin.

Damnable business.

Do you want a pipe?

Thank you, no.

Oh.

Uh, there's a boy
I'm putting through Eton.

Gilbert Wannop's boy.

- Hmm.
- For old times' sake.

Eton and then his father's old college.
Nothing in writing.

But, uh,

you'll see to it if it comes to that?

Of course, Father.

- By God. She looks like...
- Yes, sir.

It doesn't do. Stealing the
show from her mother-in-law.

The cedar will have to come down
before it knocks over the house.

Father would sooner take down the house.

Young men and maidens
have made their marriage vows

under the Groby Tree
for longer than memory.

If Mark won't do it, it'll have
to wait for Michael, then.

Michael?

I want you to meet
a new friend, Cleo.

Don't be frightened.

Come say hello.

You see?

She won't bite.

Has he stopped wetting the bed?

Oh, yes, sir.
It just needed a little firmness.

I remember, Marchie.

Your bath, madam.

Do you know, Evie, there isn't
a water closet in the whole damn house.

I got a flea in my ear.

No ashtrays, either. Master's orders.

Thank you.

- Are they looking after you?
- Yes'm.

Mr Jenkins, the butler,
chose me to sit next to him at Lunch

on account of your turn out.

First hobble skirt at Groby.

They've only seen them
in the picture papers.

Mmm, I rang down for a housemaid.
I won't have you emptying chamber pots.

Here.

May I speak with my wife?

She's in the dressing room, sir.

Oh, it's all right,
you can come in here.

Sorry, I didn't...

Effie is waiting with her family
to go home.

You want to say goodbye to Michael?

Yes. Yes, of course.

She took the towel.

Oh, go away if you can't bear to look!

Higher than the beasts,
lower than the angels.

Stuck between the two
in our idiot's Eden.

God, I'm so bored of it all.

Guarding or granting admission
to a temple

no decent butcher would give room to
on his offal tray.

I'd rather be a cow in a field.

Ask someone to bring Michael to me,
will you, please?

I'll bring him.

You're hurting yourself for no reason,
keeping the boy in Yorkshire.

I'm going to live chaste,
just because I want to.

It'll be Swedish exercises
and occasional retreats.

Father Consett knows a convent
where you can bring your own maid.

A suite?

But darling, what does one do here
a whole weekend?

I don't think that's an ashtray.

No, I don't think Johnnie would wear it.

He'd just look at me as if I'd gone off
to Maidenhead with someone,

and we both knew it.

I've had some rotten times
at Maidenhead.

Evie, would you take Mrs Pelham's
cigarette outside and put it somewhere?

Yes, madam.

So she does have a name.

It was decent of you to come with me

but, um, I don't know why,

I don't believe my retreat
can begin until you go.

I bet you'll be on the up train
tomorrow, not enough men here.

If there's one thing
that drove me out of London,

it's the way I can't enter a room
without all the little women

instantly cleaving to
their men as though to say, "Hands off."

And then hating me all the more
when they realise

I have no use
for their treasured rubbish.

No more "he and she" for me.

I owe it to myself
to be fair to Christopher.

He's up in Yorkshire again,
seeing Michael.

The move to Gray's Inn
has been a success.

He knows his stuff
with furniture and pictures.

He'll walk into a saleroom

and sniff out what everybody else
has missed.

He just knows everything.

Of course, he wants to make me suffer.

What man wouldn't?

Oh, I'll make him realise his failure by
living with him in perfect good humor.

And then...

...one day,
after a whisky or two,

he must want to, sometimes.

Why, you're soppy about him.

Take that, Dalrymple!

Can someone tell me why I am here,

watching the ruling class
in its death throes?

- Where else would you be?
- I would be at a lecture

on "Imperialism,
the Last Stage of Capitalism"

at the Working Men's College
in Camberwell.

Well, since you're here, why don't you
introduce us to your friends?

Because both my friends
are at the lecture.

Perhaps you should go up to the
Working Men's College in Camberwell

in September instead of Oxford.

Some of us are working to destroy
the citadels of privilege from within.

Well, that's lucky for some of us.

Catch it!

Oh! Well done, Val!

Well done.

You beastly little show-off!

Of course, it had to be Miss Wannop.

General, are we on speaking terms?

You still owe me ?50

for driving your motor
into my mare last year.

Tietjens had the rig on the wrong
side of the road, that's what.

Tietjens?

So it was him,
driving your rig at daybreak?

Good morning, Lady Claudine.

Actually, it was partly the fog

and partly that your brother
didn't sound his horn.

I was a witness.

A witness, indeed. So was I.

A witness to what, I wouldn't know.

Do excuse me.

- I've just been complaining about you.
- Good lord.

Uh, why, what have I done?

Your lot, I mean.

Some of us have had to rusticate
ourselves for the season.

My milliner has let go
of three of her girls

and it serves you right
if you lose the footman vote, too.

Oh, Miss Wannop.
Do you know Mrs Satterthwaite?

How do you do?

She's our friend Tietjens
mother-in-Law.

Oh, is that my fame?

- You know Christopher?
- Hardly.

But I did meet Mr Tietjens last year
in Rye. I haven't seen him since.

Actually, this tea is for my mother,

and I mustn't inflict myself on
Mr Waterhouse with my inferior mind

and my general incapacity
for anything much except motherhood,

so if you'll excuse me.

That's not at all what I...

Oh, that's my first suffragette.

Got it! You're Tietjens' feminist.

If you're thinking
of starting something,

I've a good mind
to smack your bare bottom.

I'm sure you think of little else.

You have a nerve showing your face here.

I know you're Tietjens' whore,

you're all gasping for it,
you militant bitches.

How dare you say something about a man
you're not fit to serve as a boot boy?

About him?

Good God, the girl's in love.

I wanted to write
about the Woman's Bill,

but the editor said,
"Oh, dear Mrs Wannop,"

"our readers already know
the Lords are going to chuck it back."

What they have no grasp of
is the Balkan crisis.

Where did you get all this from?

Christopher Tietjens.

Oh, you... You spoke to Mr Tietjens?

Is he an expert on
the Balkan situation?

I suppose he is.

Because his father boodled me into
this job in the first place

having shares in the paper,

it would reflect very badly on him if I
were to make a bish of this article.

Not to mention losing five
guineas a week.

Oh! Bother it.

I meant to say that Serbia has no more
right to demand access to the sea

than Berkshire.

Christopher, of course.

Well, it's men waving their spears.

As if war were only about maps.

Now, time's up,
I'm expected with Mrs Duchemin.

So, it's in the box.

I don't wish
to come between a country parson,

albeit a gentleman of means,
to say the least.

And one, moreover, with a distinguished
association with a great university.

"Breakfast" Duchemin of Cambridge.

Between even such a man
and the organ of the parish.

Organ.

What?

You refer to my organ?

No.

Yes. I refer to the parish magazine.

Of course.

I think it's going to be all right.
He had a cooked breakfast, thank God.

It's the fasting that brings it on.

But the parish magazine is not

self-evidently the appropriate platform

from which to condemn
restrictive female undergarments

as being a danger to the sexual health
of our women.

You think so?

Oh, it's sweet of you to come
and hold my hand.

Edith, are you sure you're safe here?

There's nothing to be done.
I just run a bath and think of Browning.

Drowning?

The poet Browning, and the Rossettis.

Mr Macmaster has taken
to coming down at the weekends

to talk to my husband about
the poets he knew in his young days.

I'd like you to know
Mr Macmaster better.

He has opened worlds to me.

I have the honor

of receiving for him on what
are becoming known as Macmaster Fridays.

We might find a little job for you,

by the tea table. What do you think?

Well, I, I...

Vincent, Mr Macmaster, has rooms
in Gray's Inn,

right across from some people you know,
I think.

Mr and Mrs Tietjens?

Does he?

Ah, my dear.

His Grace was most complimentary
about the Lapsang Souchong.

He enjoys the aroma of smoke.

Thank you. Delightful.

I do hope your little convocation,
should I call it, was...

Oh, indeed, yes.

Sweetness and light.

All well.

I hadn't dared hope.

What is it, dear?

Sulphur. Can't you smell it?

Brimstone.

I smelt him out the minute he came in!

Who, dear?

Beelzebub.

He thought I was taken in.

You remember Miss Wannop?

He takes a pleasing shape.

I have just been telling Miss Wannop

about Mr Macmaster's circle
of beautiful intellect.

All devoted to the higher things...

But I was ready for him.

Beauty, truth, the shepherd's pipe,
the gem-like flame, the wine-dark sea...

Lord, your servant slept
when your handmaiden

was taken into bondage with the corset,
but he wakes now.

And the soul,
the beautiful soul, souls in harmony

with our little gathering of the
finer minds, quite the finest, really.

The very best young writers...

...artists...

And cast out the Devil's
new contraption, the brassiere

and all the swaddling and strapping

that constricts the freely flowing
and God-glorifying bounty of belly

- and breast, of airy buttock...

Why, Mr Duchemin, you are one of us.

All we new women, united against
the corset. It is the very devil.

You must write an article for our paper.

How splendid.

Sylvia, good morning.

- Merry Christmas.
- Merry Christmas, General.

You don't know my ABC, Major Perowne.

Of course I do. Merry Christmas, Potty.

Potty? You've been keeping that
one under your hat, Peter.

Yeah. Merry Christmas.

Ah, look here. I want to talk to that
husband of yours. Where is he?

- What has he done?
- Never you mind.

But you can tell him that the War Office

wants the entire Department
of Statistics lined up and shot.

He's in Yorkshire over the New Year
with his sister's family.

Happy New Year.

- Happy New Year, Marchie.
- Happy New Year.

Happy New Year.

- Happy New Year.
- Happy New Year.

- Happy New Year.
- Happy New Year.

- Happy New Year.
- Happy New Year.

Well, it's up the stairs to
Bedfordshire for me. Good night, sir.

Good night, Marchie.
You'll look in on Michael?

I go back to town tomorrow
to face the warmongers.

Are they after your blood?

No one was counting in the cost
of losing our export trade

to the Continent.

Do you think there will be a war?

If Germany puts it off for much longer,

Russia will have enough
railway to put her army

on the frontier in 20 days.

So the Germans are in a panic.

It'll take them
twice that long to beat France.

And they don't want to be fighting
on two fronts.

Goodness.
Things you chaps in London know.

Hmm.

Would you like me
to come and tuck you up?

No, thank you very much.

- Well, it's only for a minute.
- No, Brownlie.

- Dash it, Sylvia.
- Happy New Year.

Darling?

Christopher?

I hope you had a lovely evening, madam.
Happy New Year.

What are you doing waiting up?
Go to bed!

Well, now you're here...

- Votes for women!
- Shame on the Lords!

Votes for women!

Votes for women!

Votes for women!

You can't do that here, ladies.
Be off with you now.

Well, it's open to the public
and we are the public.

No, you don't. No!

Nobody gets in, no!

What are you all gawping at?

Do you think that is all
women are good for?

Hey! What are you doing?
Madam, please! Please!

No need to manhandle me!

Put it down, then!

There you are, at last, Brownlie.

Dash it, Sylvia,
I don't know what you mean.

I've been waiting ages.

- I said let's meet at the Ritz.
- Well, it's near the Ritz.

Don't sulk or I'll be sorry
I came at all.

What shall I look at?

Well, I don't much care for any of them.

They're well past, if you ask me.

Past Impressionism, you see.
They're called Past Impressionists.

You stay with the banking,
Brownlie, that's what I advise.

Aren't they?

I might buy one to annoy Christopher.

I'm all for that.

I'll buy it for you
if you stop being so cruel to me.

Yes. Yes.

Where did you find this?

In Dover Street.

I've no doubt it's young Tom Girtin

on one of his topographical
tours in the 17905.

You must have it in your bedroom.

Now I'm hurt.

Oh?

No, I like it very much!

The breakfast room, then.

Yes,

Perhaps

I'll leave it for you.

- Good night.
- Good night.

You would marry Mrs Duchemin,

of course, if she were free?

Yes.

Why doesn't she have
her husband certified?

Well, she's loyal.
Do you find that contradictory?

No, I don't. But no disrespect,
surely a better reason is

that the Lunacy Commissioners
would hold the purse strings.

- Yes.
- Whereas, as things are...

I wanted ask your advice.
Suppose she lent me the money?

Only a thousand or two.

I want to live in a manner
worthy of Edith, naturally.

Chrissie, it's only timing.

The money will come to her
in the end. What's the difference?

None, except as to how you are
perceived as a gentleman.

Don't touch the Duchemins' money.
I'll give you what you need.

- Chrissie!
- It's of no consequence.

I came into some funds from my mother,
rather a lot by my standards.

Chrissie, it would be a loan.

I'm afraid I never lend money.

- I won't take it otherwise.
- Think of it as you wish.

Come up, I'll write you a cheque.

Thank you, Chrissie.

I'm about to be handing out
sums of money, too,

small sums from the Royal Literary Fund.

It seems some poor beggar
has to supervise the disbursements.

And the King's gold stick
of the bed chamber or some such

liked my little book on Browning.

Congratulations. You'll be
in the honors list soon enough.

Do you think so?

Oh, Chrissie, I wish you'd
come to one of my Fridays.

I wouldn't want to be rude
to your aesthetes.

You know, I'm taking August
in Scotland this year.

What about you?

Sylvia has accepted
to join the Duke's house party

at his place in Northumberland.

You remember telling me once,
two years ago at Rye,

we'd be at war about the time
the grouse shooting began in 1914?

- Time's running out.
- Yes, I'm afraid so.

Make the most of Scotland.

And do be circumspect.

I know what it is that makes a man
want to get away with a woman he likes,

but that desire, which is to be allowed
to finish his conversations with her,

must be resisted.

Oh, Chrissie.

What you know!

Open the car door
for the lady-wife, I don't think.

Welcome!

Oh, thank you, sir.

Oh. Mr and Mrs Macmaster, is it?

Welcome!

- Ah, thank you, sir.
- Thank you.

Ah, you will of course let Mrs Mackenzie
know if you need anything.

They know. They know!

Oh, no, they don't.

Darling. Darling, it'll be all right.

We've dreamed of this.
To be away together.

Lock the door.

Lock the door!

Darling.

Oh, no, no, don't mess up the bed!

My love!

Are you expecting a good season, jack?

Yes. Plenty of birds.

Won't be long now, eh?

No good asking me.

Bertram says Asquith and Lord Grey
never discuss war in cabinet.

Not in front of the children.

- The cabinet talks about women.
- Women?

- Oh. Women.
- Women and Ireland.

Mother's priest has
turned her Republican.

That's just Sylvia pulling
the strings of the shower bath.

What war, Glorvina?
It isn't going to be our war.

If it had been us
in a tin pot country like Serbia,

we'd have declared war three weeks ago.

Exactly.
What are the Austrians waiting for?

For an assurance that Russia won't
come in on the Serbian side.

And Russia is waiting for an assurance
that Germany won't come in

on the Austrian side.

There you are! No stomach for a fight.

There's not going to be any war.

This isn't our own chutney.

Why are they all in...

What's frightening them?
They're all in a...panic.

Up there, look. It's a fish eagle.

Not even on duty.

Listen, Sylvia, they're all
living in cloud cuckoo land.

I want to see Michael before we
find ourselves on a train south.

A fish eagle.

What?

The Germans are itching
to get at the Russians.

France will declare war on Germany,

that's what
the French-Russian pact is for.

Then it's us.
Germany will invade through Belgium.

If you don't stop, I'm going to jump.

Britain is committed
to defend Belgian neutrality.

That's what I'd like to come back as.

A fish eagle.

I say. Isn't that...

Mrs Duchemin!

We're... We're not leaving here
together, you oaf!

Yes, but... How... How will you...

Oh, Chrissie, thank God you're here.

Your telegram bounced.
I was in Yorkshire, seeing Michael.

- What's happened?
- Edith'll explain on the train.

I won't forget today in a hurry.

Well, none of us will.
Haven't you heard?

We're at war with Germany.

Well, the French are saying
that we're not pulling our weight.

And the Prime Minister wishes to show
that, when measured against

respective populations of single
men of fighting age and suchlike,

that our contribution compares
very favorably to the French.

Does it?

This document lumps together

72 battalions of Kitchener's volunteers
who aren't even on the Western Front

because they're still in training
without half their kit.

That's a million men under arms
committed to the fight!

This is all about who is in control
of strategy, I suppose.

Our masters take the view the Western
Front must be under dual command, not,

repeat not, under a single command,

which would mean
French command, obviously.

Why would it mean that, sir, obviously?

Lord, I thought you
were supposed to be clever.

Because the French army is 10 times
the size of the British army,

because the war is being fought on
French soil, not British soil,

because... Now, look here, Tietjens,
I took you for a sound man.

This Department exists to show that

just as there are different ways
to put things in words,

there are different ways
to put things in numbers!

I detest and despise the work I
am asked to do in the Department,

whose purpose seems to be
to turn statistics into sophistry.

I am resigning. Good morning.

Resigning? Don't you want to be
a man of influence?

No. I'd prefer to be in the trenches.

Oh, God, give me the strength

to strangle the Kaiser
with my bare hands!

You innocent! It's the soldiers
who betrayed the cause.

- You are talking rubbish!
- Class traitors!

And the German socialists, too.
Voting for war like lickspittle lackeys.

Stop it! Stop it!

I hope they die with blood
spouting out of their lungs.

- I thought you were a pacifist?
- Yes!

I refuse to fight, but let the guilty
get what they deserve!

You are nothing but
a lily-livered coward!

As for you, I hope both sides
rape every woman who they can get...

...Edith?

I thought of you because you're mixed in
with the kind of woman who...

What is it? What can I do?

How do you get rid of a baby?

Mr Duchemin?

Hasn't he...

Duchemin's been in the asylum
for months and I'm caught

by that jumped-up
son of an Edinburgh fishwife

who didn't know his business
better than to...

You mean Mr Macmaster?

I never dreamt.

Well, what did you think we were doing?
Comparing our beautiful souls?

Well, yes! That is what I thought.

And poetry.

Oh, Edith! Your prince, your chevalier!

That guttersnipe, shooting off
like a tomcat in heat.

Don't, Edith!

I know when it was.

I suppose you must.

When what was?

Valentine, you do know
how babies are made, don't you?

Of course I do!

But do you mean...

You mean, you can do it
without making a baby?

Oh, go home, you goose!

I'm sorry. Oh...

I'm so pointless.

Everything is so horrible.

Beastliness everywhere
and I live like an ant

but I thought at least there was you,
living for love.

Someone rising clear
above the muck for me,

reaching for beautiful things.

Loving,

being loved.

Now there's no one left

and nothing.

Christopher Tietjens
to see General Campion.

Follow me, sir.

After which,

the adjutant will stand
the battalion at ease

and the band will play
Land of Hope and Glory.

Sit down, Chrissie, you damn fool.

Then the adjutant will call out,

"There will be no more parades"

and fall out. And so on.
Try that on them.

I'm supposed to invent a ceremonial for
disbanding the Kitchener battalions.

Disbanding?

Well, we don't want them clogging up
the army when the war is over.

So don't hitch your wagon to me
if you want to see some fighting.

You can see where
my opinions have got me.

The single command business?

That's what did it for me at the office.

But what the hell has
it got to do with you?

And now you think you'll be
some use as a soldier?

- Have you told Sylvia?
- Not yet.

She'll say the same thing
as you, I suppose.

Well, I think you're a fool.

The office is going to
get me out, anyway.

Too many black marks against me.

Go, then. Add your little bit
to the suffering,

even if it's only your own.

I can't sleep in the night now because
the pain is worse in the dark.

It spreads into every corner.

Black, like ink.

Printer's ink.

Newspapers dripping,

hate and lies every day.

No, don't touch me now,
when it's too late.

I'm going across to tell Macmaster.

Yes, do.

You're such a paragon of
honorable behaviour, Christopher.

You're the cruelest man I know.

At times like this, one realizes
no one has ever,

ever captured grief like
Michelangelo in his Pieta.

Unhappily, she looks like Stravinsky
and he like Isadora.

Miss Wannop.

Mr Tietjens.

Tietjens!

Hello, Vinnie, um...

I forgot it was a Friday.
I had something to tell you.

What? People will be leaving soon.

Then I'll talk to Miss Wannop,
meanwhile.

Though she's not pleased to see me.

The war has turned her
against men as a sex.

First, you must greet Edith.

Is, uh, everything all right now?

The Bishop turned out to be a Christian.

He knew Duchemin was
a dangerous lunatic!

Hmm.

Is your abortionist here?
I'd like to kiss her.

Guggums! Look who's come.

- Mrs Duchemin.
- Mr Tietjens.

Ah, Chrissie, come and be introduced.

This is Tietjens,
the star of our Department.

Actually, I share rooms
with your brother Mark.

Really? You must be the new lodger.

Miss Wannop, come to the fire
and tell me why you won't talk to me.

What is that smell, do you know?

Chinese incense sticks.

Ah.

So, those were the geniuses.

Well, who am I to judge?

That man over there isn't a genius.
His name's Ruggles.

Something to do with handing
out honors at the Palace.

Macmaster's got his ear.

They're perfectly proper,
the only clean way.

British way.

Well, I came over to tell Macmaster
I'm joining the army.

I hoped we respected each other.

At least, I tremendously respect you

and I hoped you'd respect me, too.

You don't respect me?

Well, I would have liked
you to have said it.

Oh, what difference does it make

when there's all this pain,
this torture?

I haven't slept a whole night since.

I believe pain and fear
must be worse at night.

Dear.

So queer.

My wife used

almost exactly the words you used
not an hour ago.

She too said that she
couldn't respect me.

We have to do everything we can
not to lose our men, don't you see?

Besides, you know
you are more useful here.

They'll never have me back.

The sentimentalist
must be stoned to death.

He makes everyone uncomfortable.

You shouldn't be proud
of despising your country.

Oh, don't believe that!

I love every field and hedgerow.

The land is England, and once
it was the foundation of order.

Before money took over and handed
the country over

to the swindlers and schemers.

Toryism of the pigs' trough.

- Then what is your Toryism?
- Duty.

Duty and service to above and below,
frugality,

keeping your word, honoring the past,

looking after your people

and beggaring yourself if need be,
before letting duty go hang.

If we'd stayed out of it, I'd have gone
over to France to fight for France.

For agriculture against industrialism.

For the 18th century
against the 20th, if you like.

Hoped you'd understand.

Oh, I understand you.

You're as innocent
about yourself as a child.

You would have thought all
the same things in the 18th century.

Of course I would,
and I would have been right!

But you do make one
collect one's thoughts.

Do you remember our ride in the mist,
what you said about me three years ago?

Well, I'm not that man now.

What? I can't remember.

I'm not an English country gentleman

who let the country go
to hell and never stirred himself

except to say, "I told you so."

Yes, I said that.

I said you ought to be in a museum.

I think I wanted to provoke you into
bursting out of your glass cabinet.

Now it's a choice between
bad and worse.

Well, I have this big, hulking body
to throw into the war.

Nothing much to live for.

Because you know
what I want I can't have.

What is it I know?

What I stand for is gone.

But to live for.

You have something to live for.

What's that?

Why didn't you kiss me then?

Why didn't you?