The Browning Version Page #2

If you knew more about

the classics, you scientists,

you might be less keen

to destroy this little

planet of ours.

Wasn't it Einstein who said,

"We don't understand

science properly"?

No, I believe he said, "We don't

know how to use it sensibly."

Have a nice day, Mr. Gilbert.

If only he had

a little more discipline.

Of course, he's an American,

you know.

Sh*t, he's coming.

Now, boys, Mr. Crocker-Harris is

not here yet?

No, sir.

Six minutes to go, yet, sir.

Ah, six minutes.

Hello, Watson.

How's your father?

Um, he's quite well,

thank you, sir.

But my name's Wilson, sir.

Wilson, is it really?

But your father's all right

just the same, is he?

Yes, thank you, sir.

He's quite dried out now.

Well, well.

Now, boys, this is Mr. Gilbert.

He's going to be the head

of our new languages department.

I trust those of you who will

remain in this class next term

will be as well behaved

with Mr. Gilbert

as I'm sure you were

with Mr. Crocker-Harris.

Good morning, boys.

It might interest you to sit in

on this period, Mister...

Mister...

Gilbert.

...Gilbert, yes... Mr. Gilbert,

and observe your future pupils

in action.

Yes, if I see him,

I'll warn him.

Thank you, sir.

Pay attention to Mr. Gilbert,

boys.

He doesn't take over his

official duties until next term,

but he can still report

your misdoings to me today.

I put 150 milliliters

of hydrogen peroxide solution

in this water bottle.

Biggles, had a nosebleed

this morning

and was kind enough

to donate this blood.

So we'll just mix this with

the hydrogen peroxide solution.

Biggles, what do we got

in this jar here?

Iron sulfate.

That's right.

Nick, could you tell me

the chemical formula

for iron sulfate?

FeSO4, sir.

That's very good.

Now, hang on.

Well... now this has never

happened before.

Um, boys, I think

you ought to just back off now.

What do you got

in your blood, Biggs?

Okay, boys,

what do you want to do next?

You there.

What do you want?

Piss off, Taplow.

All right, knock it off.

You tried to see me

this morning.

Yes, sir.

Well, why are you

following me around?

You with the CIA?

KGB? Ml-5?

No, sir, the lower fifth, sir.

Same thing.

What's your name, boy?

Taplow, sir.

I'll be in your class

next term if I get my switch.

This isn't next term.

This is this term.

Vamoose.

Get out of here.

Taplow.

What's the, uh, the chemical

formula for ethanol?

C2H5OH, sir.

Rouse! Get out of here!

Oy, Taplow.

You'll know.

What's up

with the Crock?

Why's he being forced

to retire?

There's nothing wrong with him.

The head just wanted

to give him the chop,

that's all.

I know exactly what it is.

One night...

first time for about ten years...

he had it away with his wife,

and it gave him a heart attack.

That's you, I should think.

No, it's not his heart.

If there's anything wrong

with him, it's probably piles.

Of course, it's piles.

It always gets 'em in the end.

Grow up, Buller.

It's not piles. It's his heart.

It can't be his heart.

He hasn't got one.

Right. Hitler's a sadist.

Cut it out, boys.

I'm not really interested.

It is his heart, sir.

I have extra lessons

with him.

Thank you.

Sadists don't have hearts

anyway.

Are you going to be running

special projects?

Yes, I believe so.

Well, the fact is, we both want

to start a magazine,

and you allocate

the funds, sir.

Mr. Crocker-Harris is

still in charge, isn't he?

So he should settle this.

Well, sir, you see,

Mr. Crocker-Harris always

says no to anything new.

I don't think

he does hate people.

I don't think

he likes people, either.

And he doesn't care

whether people like him.

Then I'd say he hasn't a care

in the world.

"You've obtained exactly

what you deserve...

no less, and certainly no more."

I think...

if he gave us a chance...

"...no less, and certainly..."

I think we'd quite like him.

And now, I won't tell you again.

The fact is...

I feel sorry for him.

Sorry for old Hitler?

You little ass crawler, Taplow!

Stop... Stop it now!

That's enough!

Good morning, sir.

I'm Gilbert.

Good morning.

Wilson.

Sir?

Apparently you were late

for chapel.

Just a few seconds.

I- I was in the library,

and you can't hear

the bell.

No doubt you will recount

those excuses

to your housemaster.

I fear I'm not interested

in them.

Sir.

These are your Latin verses.

Only one boy's efforts,

Bullers', had any merit

and that somewhat doubtful.

The rest were mainly abominable.

It seems to me that the best way

of employing the first part

of this period

would be for all of you

to attempt the verse again.

And if you should find

the disturbance

from the upper fifth science

too distracting,

you may console yourselves,

as good classicists,

with the thought that,

to amend an aphorism...

Taplow?

Yes, sir.

You laughed

at my little epigram.

Yes, sir.

I'm flattered

at the obvious advance

your Latin has made

that you should

so readily understand

what the rest

of the class did not.

Perhaps you would be good enough

to explain it to them

so that they can share

your pleasure.

Come along, Taplow.

Don't be so selfish

as to keep a good

joke to yourself.

Tell the others.

I didn't hear it properly, sir.

You didn't hear it?

Indeed. Then why,

may I ask, did you laugh?

Why did you laugh

at what you did not hear?

Politeness, sir.

I beg your pardon.

Politeness, sir.

Toujours la politesse.

I'm touched, Taplow.

But if you really wish

to show me politeness,

you will do so now

by translating verses

less appalling

than the ones I corrected

this morning.

Sit.

Sir.

Still feel sorry for him?

Finish now.

As this is the, uh...

last time

we shall meet as a class,

it may not be amiss

for me to say good-bye

and wish you all

the best of good fortune.

And now the end of term treat.

We will read a scene

from the Agamemnon by Aeschylus.

Agamemnon is perhaps

the greatest play ever written.

The scene I have selected

starts with Clytaemnestra

standing over the bodies

of Agamemnon her husband

and the prophetess Cassandra,

both of whom

she's just murdered.

Very well, Laughton, begin.

Uh, forgive me for interrupting,

but I have the impression

you understand nothing

of what you're reading.

No, sir. I...

Clytaemnestra has

just committed murder.

She is describing

her foul deed.

She's unrepentant.

Hmm?

Do you not think she would show

some emotion?

Well, of course, sir.

I was just...

I realize, Laughton,

that you may not have met a wife

who has destroyed her husband.

Nor perhaps had Aeschylus.

Nevertheless, he knew, alas,

that such wives do exist.

He used his imagination,

Laughton.

Imagination... a word I think

not in your vocabulary.

For example...

"I stand upon mine act.

Yea, where I struck."

Do you not think, uh,

in saying those words

she might reveal

a flash of, uh, cruelty

and of pride?

Hmm?

Defiant creature.

And then here...

"And I confess it,

"I did use such craft

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