Carrington Page #6

He's not coming down next week.

He says I've let him mean too much to me.

He says I've oppressed him.

He's right, of course.

One doesn't intend to let it

get out of hand, and then it does.

Then there's this blackness.

Shh.

Sometimes...

Sometimes I think

you don't like me much.

No. No, it's not that.

I'm devoted to you.

You know that.

It's just that, er...

Go on.

It's just that you don't really

attract me sexually, to be honest.

That man from the London Group

who keeps offering you an exhibition,

why don't you take him up on it?

I've told you before,

I don't want an exhibition.

That isn't why I do it.

I paint when I feel well, and it makes me

feel better. I'm not interested in selling.

They're for us.

So you're all right now?

Yes, I am.

At least, it's been a great mercy,

not being in the wrong this time.

I've been thinking

of giving you a little pension.

Just a hundred a year or so.

Do keep still. You're causing havoc.

- I'd better leave you to get on.

- Oh, God, no.

No, please stay a while.

I have heard rumours that there are

people who actually enjoy writing.

Can this be true? I do loathe it.

All that work and,

at the end of it, some slim volume.

- What is the point? I ask myself.

- Think of posterity.

Why? What's posterity ever done for me?

I've done my best to keep it quiet,

but I'm an ambitious man.

I thought if I could cut through

all that atrocious fog of superstition

that poisons so many people's lives,

I might be able to do

some good in the world.

But the truth is, I've always been better

at living than I ever was at writing.

What's wrong with that?

I don't think you have any idea

how happy you've made me.

Anyway, I was about to speak to

this black-haired tart in gumboots

when I suddenly noticed a much prettier

tart, a blond, in the gallery next door.

So, I abandoned the gumboots

and began to sidle up to the blond.

Very fetching he was.

Pink and chubby.

I was about to murmur something

seductive into his delicious ear

when suddenly the light fell on him,

and I realised who he was.

The Prince of Wales.

- Oh, my God.

- I'll fetch a cloth.

I'm terribly sorry.

Come on, Ralph, don't be so gloomy.

There's nothing to worry about.

Well, my dears.

Shall we go to Malaga in the spring?

Carrington.

Where's Carrington?

I'm here.

Why isn't she here?

- I want her.

- Here I am.

Where is she?

I love her.

I always wanted to marry Carrington.

And I never did.

(door opens)

- (whispers) Is there any chance he'll live?

- Oh, no.

I don't think so. Not now.

(Lytton gasps for breath)

(car engine running)

No! No! Go away! Don't! Go away!

No! No!

(doctor) Now, Mrs Partridge.

(wailing)

(sobbing) How could you do this?

(noisy breathing)

If this is dying, I don't think much of it.

(noisy breathing)

(breathing stops)

You're so cold.

It's a wedding present.

From Carrington.

Only two years late.

Do you suppose that's a record?

Strange.

(Carrington) Dear Ottoline,

It is to you I owe the happiness,

probably, of my life with Lytton.

I thank you for those days at Garsington,

when I grew to love him.

Yours, Carrington.

What's she doing?

Planting bulbs.

Well, that's surely a good sign.

- lsn't it?

- Yes.

Yes. Yes, it is.

- What the hell is that?

- It's for the rabbits.

- Now, look here!

- It's for the rabbits!

Look, Ralph, it's no good

going on like this.

- I can't leave you.

- You know I'm off to France next week.

The tickets are bought. It's all arranged.

And I just need to be on my own for a bit.

I can't stand the strain of

worrying about you worrying about me.

- Listen...

- I must be on my own.

Don't worry.

I'll be all right.

Yes.

I want you to be very happy.

No one will ever know

the utter happiness of our life together.

It is impossible to think that

every day of my life you will be away.

I write in an empty book.

I cry in an empty room.

My very darling Lytton.

(gunshot)

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