[gentle instrumental music]
♪ ♪
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.
Merci, Madame.
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 lunch,
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 we're going to go on to Zurich today.
I left him at the Lotti after dinner,
as he said he was tired,
then went round to the Travelers' 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 Travelers'.
I cleaned up a packet.
Sebastian pinched the lot while I was asleep.
All he left me was two first-class tickets to Zurich
stuck in the edge of the looking glass.
It was close under 300 quid, blast him.
So now he may be anywhere?
Yeah. 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 Travelers'.
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.
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, now, 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,
the Ma Marchmain hasn't let on to anyone.
She's a very sick woman.
Might peg out at any minute.
George Anstruther 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 crack-brained 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 that people are
who just let their money sit quiet.
Everyone of that sort's a lot 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 20.
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 Zurich.
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 18
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 candlelight 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 willfulness,
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 the 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 could 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 Rosscommon'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 favor,
for among Julia's friends,
young men were held to be gauche and pimply.
His seniors thought him a pushful young cad,
but Julia recognized the unmistakable chic,
the flavor of the Prince of Wales
at 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 Rosscommon
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 the Hispano-Suiza
to drive her wherever she wanted to go,
and all the time, he never once made love to her.
Ladies and gentlemen, please.
[flash bulb poofs]
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.
[door rattles]
Yes, milady?
Wilcox, I'm starving.
Will you bring me some bread and milk?
Bread and milk. Is that all, milady?
Yes.
Oh, and, Wilcox,
when Mr. Mottram telephones in the morning,
whatever time it is, say I'm not to be disturbed.
Very good, milady.
I'm shopping with her ladyship this afternoon,
so will you tell Lady Rosscommon I won't be there till teatime?
Oh, and, Beddoes,
tell Wilcox I'm motoring to the Chasms' on Friday,
so I'll need a car.
Did Mr. Mottram ring up, by any chance?
Oh, yes, milady, four times.
Shall I put him through when he rings up again?
Yes.
No. Tell him I'm out.
Mr. Mottram is waiting, milady.
I showed 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 favorite 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 about half past 1:00.
Why didn't you answer my calls?
What time did you get there?
About 8:00.
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?
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's 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 it 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.
And what did they give you?
Three Hail Marys.
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 l.
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 undersecretaryship.
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 weekend
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.
As a matter of fact, the plans were changed.
I got trapped into a weekend
with Teddy Behrens down in 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 houseful.
I see.
What an extraordinary coincidence.
You must have been pleasantly surprised.
No.
No, 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 behavior 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's 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.
Now I think it's time to hear your confession.
No, thank you.
I don't think I want to today.
Good-bye, Father.
From that moment,
she shut her mind against her religion.
That Christmas,
Julia refused to take Holy Communion,
and Lady Marchmain found herself betrayed,
first by me, then by Mr. Samgrass,
in the first gray 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 300 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'll 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,
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.
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 15% or 20%, and I get it.
It's pure waste tying up capital at 3 1/2.
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 want to rob you of 2/3 of the income
that 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 do 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 do 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 realize 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'm not much of a theologian.
I do know it's a bad plan to have two religions in one house,
and a man does need religion.
If your church is good enough for Julia,
then it's good enough for me.
Very well.
I'll see about having you instructed.
Lady Marchmain, I haven't time.
Instruction will be wasted on me.
Just give me the form. 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'll 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. What's the next thing?
Well, would you say our Lord has 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, which art in heaven,
hallowed by 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
that trespass against us.
Lead us not into temptation,
and deliver us from evil.
Amen.
Hail Mary, full of grace.
The 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...
Pray for us sinners now and in 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.
Well, that's really quite encouraging.
We'll continue next time.
But before you go, Mr. Mottram,
is there anything particular troubling you?
Look, Father, I don't think you're being straight with me.
I want to 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 and 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 do 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 may not be a good reason for all this,
but you ought to tell me about it
and not let me go and 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 have swallowed it?
I told him such a lot besides
about 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.
It's 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, milady.
Aren't they hideous?
They were on the stairs at Buckborne.
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 sakes, 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 realize, 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?
He said I wasn't to be divorced from you.
Well, I don't want to be.
I can't remember all Father Mowbray told me.
Sacred monkeys and plenary indulgences
and the four last things.
If I remembered all he told me,
I shouldn't have time for anything else.
Now, how about your ltalian cousin, Francesca?
She married twice.
She had an annulment.
All right, then. Then I'll get an annulment.
What does it cost, and who do I get it from?
Or does Father Mowbray have one?
Look, I only want to do what's right.
Nobody told me.
What do you want me to do?
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?
Why not 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.
But 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 is anything more to say,
I suggest we discuss it later.
There's nothing to discuss,
except what's 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 the 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 weddingl.
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 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.