If you asked me now who I am,
the only answer I could give with any certainty
would be my name, Charles Ryder.
For the rest, my loves, my hates,
down even to my deepest desires,
I can no longer say whether these emotions are my own
or stolen from those I once so desperately wished to be.
On second thoughts, one emotion remains my own,
alone among the borrowed and the second-hand,
as pure as that faith from which I am still in flight.
Been away, sir? Anywhere interesting?
Jungle. - Jungle.
Explorer, are we?
Painter. - Painter?
So, bye-bye beardy, hello smooth.
Famous for his impressive architectural portraits,
British artist Charles Ryder has taken New York by storm
with a series of gripping jungle studies.
To own a Ryder is currently the dream
of every self-respecting East Coast millionaire.
You must be so proud of him.
Was he away long? - Two years,
and it doesn't feel like a day. - You must feel positively bridal.
I can't paint to save my life.
I can't even hold a buggering brush!
But I know what I like. Lots of color. Nice and bright.
I see the jungle in your work as a metaphor.
Not least, the metaphysical semblance of the chaos at the heart of civilization.
Make an effort, Charles.
You're not in South America now. You're amongst civilized people.
Mr. Ryder, I wonder if I could... - I'm so sorry. Excuse me.
Excuse me. Thank you very much. ...just have a conversation...
You're wearing a coat! - Yes, Father, I am.
I'm going up to Oxford. - Ah. Yes.
Remind me. What are you taking? - History.
And what allowance have I given you? - A hundred pounds.
How very indulgent of me. Mind you, it all comes out of capital.
Oh, I suppose this is the time I should give you advice.
Your mother was always so good at that.
Who's meeting you?
Cousin Jasper offered to show me around.
Out of the way, you silly fool.
There you are, Charles.
This way, please.
Come along. As an only child, you will, of course, have much to learn.
Though I am only your cousin, Charles, you must look upon me as a brother.
Older, wiser, but a brother nevertheless.
Now, it is no secret that our families are not rich in material wealth.
Keep off the grass.
But I like to think that we Ryders are, all of us, rich in the striving of minds.
Now, then... Not that way.
Clothes. Dress as you do in a country house.
Never wear a tweed coat and a flannel trousers, always a suit.
And go to a London tailor. You'll get a better cut.
Protocol. First and foremost, behaving with restraint...
Nine adulteries, 12 liaisons, 6♥4♥ fornications,
and something approaching a rape
rest nightly upon the soul of our delicate friend Florialis,
and yet the man is so quiet and reserved in demeanor
that he passes for both bloodless and sexless.
Sodomites, all of them. Steer well clear.
Treat all dons as you would the local vicar.
Oh, dear, oh, dear. This won't do at all. You must change your rooms.
I've seen many a man ruined
through having ground floor rooms in the front quad.
People start dropping in.
They leave their gowns here and come and collect them before hall.
You start giving them sherry and before you know it they're...
Sebastian, come along. Look at the state of him.
Come on, you're nearly clean.
Oh, no, no, no, sir, stop.
You don't clear up after yourself. That's my job.
Sorry, Lunt. What's all this?
From the gentleman last night, sir. He just called. Left a note for you.
"I am very contrite.
"Please come to luncheon today. Sebastian Flyte."
The Lord Sebastian Flyte, don't you know?
I'm sure it's quite a pleasure to clear up after him.
I take it you'll be out to lunch today, then, sir.
Yes, Lunt. I think I shall be.
I've just counted them.
There's five each and two over, so I'm having the two.
I'm unaccountably hungry today.
I put myself unreservedly in the hands of Dolbear and Goodall
and feel so drugged I've begun to believe
the whole of yesterday evening was a dream.
Please don't wake me.
Do try one. - Thank you.
What are they? - Plover's eggs. The first this year.
Mummy sends them from Brideshead. They always lay early for her.
You would, too, if you knew my mother.
Are you terribly angry with me about last night?
No, not at all. Thank you for the flowers.
Aloysius, you can't go there. Do sit down.
Tell me about you. - Me?
I'm in my first year, reading history,
but really what I most want to be is a painter.
Would you like to paint me?
Well, yes. Yes, if you like.
It's so clever of you, knowing what you want.
I've no idea what I want.
Except to be happy.
If I can.
Let's have some champagne.
A glass each before the rowdies arrive.
You don't want to join the Old Boys.
They're all bloody drugged bogs or collegers.
Top me up, will you, old man?
I don't remember you from Eton. - I didn't go to Eton.
Oh, really. Where then? Harrow or winchester?
Rugby? Oh, not Charterhouse, I hope?
You wouldn't have heard of it.
There are other schools, you know, Boy.
Yes, I suppose there must be.
My dears. - Hello, Blanche.
I couldn't get away before.
I was lunching with my preposterous tutor.
I told him I had to change for footer.
Anthony, you remember Charles. From last night?
Charles is reading history, but he wants to be an artist.
No! - Why ever not?