All language subtitles for Pandora and the Flying Dutchman 1951 REMASTERED 1080p BluRay H264 AAC-RARBG2_English

Geoffrey.

Uncle Geoffrey!

Yes, Janet?

What is it, Janet?

The fishermen,
we've been afraid they would,

afraid they wouldn't.

Get the car out, Janet.

Stephen, darling, don't look.

Please don't look.

Go with him, Janet.

Stephen!

Stephen!

The measure of love is what one
is willing to give up for it.

Who said that?

To understand one
human soul is like--

like trying to empty
the sea with a cup.

When I first met
Hendrik van der Zee

it never occurred to me that
he was not like other men.

Even now my reason
rebels of what it

is required to believe of him.

If I could fit the events
together incident by incident--

I've spent my life
piecing together

the fragments of old
mysteries, perhaps I can make

a new one surrender its secret.

It began one night
in early spring.

I'd stumbled on a curious
manuscript written by hand

in 17th century Dutch, and
purporting to be the confession

of the Flying Dutchman.

I was having some difficulty
with the translation.

It was not a night for work.

The moon was at the
full, high over the sea,

erotic and disturbing.

I could hear the
voice of the gypsy

singer coming up from the
tavern of The Two Turtles.

Ha!

Ha!

Ha!

I knew I
might find Pandora there

with Reggie Demarest, who is
drinking himself to death,

or Pandora, people said.

And Stephen Cameron, who
lived for two things, Pandora,

and the racing car with
which he hoped to break

the world's speed record.

I was as much a slave
as either of them.

Hello, Geoffrey!

Geoffrey, hello.

You heard the news, Geoffrey.

The social register's appeared
without my name in it.

Congratulations.

You owe that to me, Reggie.

And that's not all I owe to you.

Celebrating an anniversary.

Met Pandora for the first
time a year ago tonight.

I suppose you made up some
verses for the occasion?

Ephemeral doggerel still born.

She was singing at the
Hanover Club in London.

She's promised to sing
the same song for me tonight.

I'm not very much good
without a microphone.

I'll say it for you,
Jenny, or with one.

Come over to the piano, Reggie.

This is strictly between us.

She never could sing.
It was just publicity and personality.

So sorry.

♪ How-- ♪

♪ How am I to know ♪

♪ If it's really love ♪

♪ That found its way here? ♪

♪ How-- ♪

♪ how am I to know? ♪

♪ Will it linger on,
and leave me then? ♪

♪ I dare not guess ♪

♪ At this strange happiness ♪

♪ For all ♪

♪ How am I to know? ♪

♪ Can it be that love ♪

♪ Has come to stay here? ♪

You sang that as
though you meant it.

I do.

But not for me.

No, Reggie, not for you.

For Stephen, perhaps?

No. Not for Stephen.

For whom then?

I don't know.

You haven't met him yet.

Will you marry me?

No, Reggie.

I thought not.

Please don't drink
anymore tonight.

Not tonight,
or any other night.

I know death hath
10,000 several doors

for men to make their exits.

And they move on such
strange geometrical hinges.

You may open them both ways.

Any way so I were out
of your whispering.

He passed out again.

He's dead.

Pandora.

I'll walk back to
the hotel, Stephen.

You don't want me
to come with you?

No.

I'll be all right.

He's beyond doctors,
but I'll fetch one.

It'll look better.

Pandora.

Do you think what Reggie did was
because he found out about us?

What Reggie did
had nothing to do

with us, Stephen, only with me.

Stephen!

Coming.

Pandora made a
brief appearance at the inquest,

but it was several days before
she would see any of us.

We imagined her moping
in morbid solitude.

Come in and toast
yourself a marshmallow.

Marshmallows?

Where on Earth did you get
marshmallows in Esperanza?

Oh, I have an old admirer
back in Indianapolis.

He hopes he'll make me homesick.

- Do they?
- A little.

I was a Girl Scout
once in Indiana

toasting marshmallows
around a campfire

and singing "Juanita"
in close harmony.

How can you forget
Reggie so easily?

Have you no feelings at all?

Yes, I have.
I feel relieved.

Why didn't you stop him?

It was his life.

He loved you.

What is love?

You're old enough to know.

Oddly enough, I don't.

Everyone knew about
you and Reggie

when you left London together.

- Do you mean to--
- I'm not denying anything.

I was sorry for Reggie,
and I was fond of him.

How many times do
you think Pandora

kept that miserable
young man from suicide?

Why do you make
yourself out so bad?

I don't have to.
I leave that to others.

Reggie was always
talking about suicide.

I coaxed him out of
it night after night.

Funny, you get fed up with
alcoholic self-pity and threats

of self-destruction.

I was bored with it.

It's over now,
and I'm not sorry.

Anyhow, life is not important.

Not when it's
somebody else's life.

Can you truthfully say that
it matters to you in the least

whether Reggie Demarest
is alive or dead?

You're not honest.

You're not concerned about
Reggie, but about yourself.

What do you mean?

You're afraid that now
Reggie's out of the way,

I might turn my
attentions to Stephen.

I wish you would.

Perhaps I will.

Would you take me for a drive
in the big car, Stephen?

What, now?

Mhm, right now.

There's nothing I'd like better.

Take me home, Uncle Geoffrey.

Do Geoffrey, take your niece's
beautiful and slightly blue

nose home and leave
me to my marshmallows.

I like you, my dear.

Thank you, Geoffrey.

But life is important.

You will discover that some day.

This car wasn't
built to hold two people!

I don't mind, Angus!

Think it over, miss!

She never was intended
to climb mountains!

Don't worry, Angus!

She'll take the hills all right.

Keep her in second,
or you'll find yourself in the ocean!

Remember, you've
only got a handbrake!

Women.

It was wonderful, Stephen.

There's a strange
yacht in the bay.

It doesn't take much
to set you reeling.

I suppose you imagine
your destiny's

on board that boat along with
Nelson or the Flying Dutchman.

Who is the Flying
Dutchman, Stephen?

Haven't the vaguest idea.

Geoffrey could tell you.

You know, there
are lots of girls

who think that a fellow can
build and drive a racing

car is pretty romantic.

Janet, for instance.

Why don't you marry
Janet, Stephen?

She's a wonderful girl,
and she adores you.

But I adore you.

Is there any reason in the world
why you shouldn't marry me now?

Why don't you come
down to Earth, Pandora?

Happiness lies in
the simple things.

I love you, Pandora.

I lie awake at night wondering
what I can do to make you

believe how much I love you.

What would you do
for me, Stephen?

What perfectly incredible
thing would you do for me?

I would do anything.

Anything.

How long have you been
building this car, Stephen?

Two years, why?

Is there anything in the
world more precious to you

than this car?

One thing.

If I were to ask you, Stephen,
would you push your car

off this cliff into the sea?

Yes.

Do it, Stephen.

When do you want to
marry me, Stephen?

Tomorrow.

What is today's date, Stephen?

March the ninth.

The ninth day of
the third month.

It's a wonderful day and I
shall always remember it.

I promise to marry you,
Stephen, on the third day

of the ninth month, if
you still want me that is.

Or do you hate me now?

I want you.

I'm afraid we have a
long walk home, darling.

I was eavesdropping
through my telescope

when I could hardly
believe my eyes.

Have you two gone
stark staring mad?

Stark staring gloriously mad.

Stephen has destroyed
his car for me,

and I've agreed to marry
him on September the third.

We're engaged.
You may kiss me, Geoffrey.

You rich people might have
a little more sense if you

had to work for your living.
- I work for my living.

So does Stephen, harder
than people who have to.

She doesn't want a
racing car as a rival.

I can't say I blame her.

The measure of love is what one
is willing to give up for it.

That's wonderful.

Stephen gave up his car for me.

It's a measure of his love.

Who said it, Geoffrey?
It sounds like a quotation.

Some Greek said it.
I can't remember who.

Move these stones.

Climb in.

On second thought, what you
did tonight may have mad,

but it was also
magnificent, Stephen.

It has the stuff
of legends in it.

In the old days they'd
make up ballads about you.

Speaking of legends, Geoffrey,
who is the Flying Dutchman?

Strange you're asking that.

I've just stumbled on an
obscure version of the story.

Stephen seems to think he might
be in that ship in the bay.

I accused her of hoping he was, but...

I take it back now.

Not likely.

Though the legend says
the Flying Dutchman

is allowed to land
once in seven years

to look for the woman
who can redeem him.

Redeem him from what?

His curse.

He's doomed to wander the
sea until judgment day

as captain of a ghost ship.

And if he can find
a woman who loves

him enough to die for it--

Now, that's a measure of love
even greater than yours, Stephen.

You gave your car, but she
has to give up her life.

Well, I've got you.
He's still looking.

Stephen, let's take the outboard
motorboat, and pay him a call.

Welcome to Esperanza and
all that sort of thing.

I've done enough for
one night to serve you.

Climbing aboard no
strange yacht uninvited.

It might
be very embarrassing.

If he's rich enough to own that schooner,
he's fat and bald-headed.

You won't like him at all.

If you're interested in legends,
I've got something to show you.

It was a legend that
brought me to Esperanza

in the first place.

A legendary treasure on
the bottom of the sea.

I found all these statues in
deep water just off that point.

Everyone has been in the
seaport down through the ages.

It's been one of the crossroads
of the world for more than 20

centuries, Greeks,
Romans, Moors,

and even the mysterious Celts.

Well, drag those stones
up to the cliff where

your car went over, Stephen.

This is Finnish.

It antedates those
statues by 1,000 years.

Ancient peoples travelled
far greater distances

than is generally supposed.

We've always known the
Phoenicians were on this coast,

but this is a rare find
because of the inscription.

The text on this tablet
corroborates a passage

in the Bible from the Book
of Kings, which is hither

to be regarded as pure legend.

Never dismiss the
legends, Pandora.

Actually, where is she?

Pandora!

It's all this talk
with the Flying

Dutchman and those old legends.

She'll swim over
to that yacht and--

Drive me to the pier, will you?

There are times I get so
mad at Pandora I could--

Hello there!

Ahoy there on deck!

Hello there!

Hello?

Sailor on watch!

Where are you?

Is there nobody there?

Hello.

The dressing room
is to your right.

You'll find towels there.

And there's a robe
in the cupboard.

Didn't you hear me calling?

Where's your crew?

I suppose you gave
them shore leave.

You might at least have
left a sailor on watch.

As a matter of fact, I
think the law requires it.

I'm Pandora Reynolds.

How do you do?

One good name deserves another.

My name is Hendrik van der Zee.

Oh, then you're Dutch.

You know, that's
quite a coincidence.

But I could've posed
for this painting.

Speaking of coincidences.

What is coincidence?

I don't believe in coincidences.

Do you mean to tell me that
it isn't the most fantastic

coincidence imaginable that
you have painted the likeness

of a woman you've never seen?

Still more remarkable that
I painted her as Pandora,

darling of the gods.

They gave her the
precious box which

she was forbidden to open.

I am Pandora Reynolds of
Indianapolis in Points East.

I'm not interested
in mythology, but I'd

like to know is how my face and
my name got into this painting.

Allow me to make a few small
changes from the living model?

You still haven't told
me how you know my name.

To know the face
and not the name?

I'd hate to be guilty of
so imperfect a coincidence.

I'm not impressed.

I'm sure there must be a natural
explanation for your painting.

I'm sure there is.

It's simple enough.

You've seen me singing in a
nightclub somewhere in New York

or in London.

That's possible.

Or perhaps you've cut my
picture out of a magazine.

If I'd look around,
I'd probably find it.

Turn your head this
way just a little.

Thank you.

That would explain the name and
the likeness and everything.

It would, wouldn't it.

You planned the whole
thing, because you

thought it would intrigue me.

Has it intrigued you?

Not in the least.

Then I've taken a great deal
of trouble to no purpose.

You may look at yourself
now, if you like.

I've done all I can with you.

It's not me as I am at all,
but it's what I'd like to be.

Why am I not like that?

Perhaps because
you're unfulfilled.

Perhaps you've not
found what you want.

Perhaps you do not even
know what you want.

Perhaps you're discontented.

And discontent appeases itself
by fury and destruction.

Fury and destruction,
is that your opinion?

Well, perhaps I can find
something here to destroy.

I have no doubt you will.

Your painting of me for
example, would you like

me to destroy your painting?

If it would've helped
to quiet your soul.

How long have you worked at it?

Does it matter?

Is there any reason
why I shouldn't

remove my face from your
painting if I wish to?

None at all.

Shall I do it then?

By all means.

Aren't you angry?

I was angry once, long ago.

I could never be angry again.

You've made me feel ashamed.

It's a new sensation
I'm not sure I like.

You haven't hurt my
painting, you've helped it.

In a moment I'll
show you what I mean.

No work of art is complete
until the element of chance

is entered into
it-- the unexpected

and the surprising are indispensable.

Pandora was the first woman
on the eve of Greek legend

whose curiosity cost us
our earthly paradise.

I was wrong to portray
her as a particular woman,

no matter how beautiful.

Pandora should appear as
woman in the abstract, bride

and mother, the original
and generic egghead

from which we can imagine
the whole human race

to have been hatched.

By a sheer chance
you have contributed

the unexpected element
which my painting needed.

And naturally as Pandora.

The original egghead and you
call that an improvement?

Maybe Pandora, but
it's certainly not me.

Because I know you
better, perhaps I

should be able to restore
your likeness to the painting

without losing the symbolism.

Not that I'm so good an artist,
but I have the advantage

of an extraordinary model,
who may inspire me to paint

in the face and form
of Pandora Reynolds,

the secret goddess whom all
men in their hearts desire.

Pandora!

Pandora!

Pandora, are you all right?

Of course I'm all right.

This is Hendrik van der
Zee, my friend Stephen

Cameron and Geoffrey Fielding.

Hi, how do you do?

How do you do?

Geoffrey's an
archaeologist and Stephen

holds the world's
record for racing cars.

He was going to
try to better it,

but he gave up
that idea tonight.

I hope you'll remember I
gave it up for a better idea.

He means that we're
engaged to be married.

You were partly right, Stephen.

Mr. van der Zee is
a Dutchman, but he's

not the Flying Dutchman.

You're not the Flying Dutchman,
Mr. van der Zee, are you?

At any rate, he isn't flying
away from here for some time.

He's agreed to have dinner
with us tomorrow evening.

Haven't you?

I should be delighted.

The Hotel Isabella at 8 o'clock.

Good night.

Goodnight.

Pandora seemed
to regret the sacrifice

she'd required of Stephen.

And agreed to let him
salvage his racing car.

It was brought up from the sea
battered, but intact.

And Stephen was working day
and night to put it into shape

for his attempt at the record.

♪ If the rich
won't gets the pleasure ♪

♪ It's the poor what
gets the blame ♪

♪ It's the same
the whole world over ♪

♪ Ain't it all a bloomin' shame? ♪

Lunch!

Ah!
What do we got?

- Ham.
- Good.

Hooray!

Thank you.

Good woman.

Pandora's new
friend Hendrik van der Zee

had moved into a cottage in the
gardens of the Hotel Isabella.

And was accepted without
question in the circle

that revolved about Pandora.

He was a man of vast culture
with the knowledge of

antiquities exceeding my own.

I often consulted
him about a difficult

coin or a doubtful inscription.

Something in his manner as
he listened to Pandora's

playing arrested my attention.

He seemed rapt,
transported to another world.

I sensed an almost desperate
ecstasy in his enjoyment.

I was moved without
quite knowing why.

The sense of doom
took hold of me.

I did not ask him about my coin.

I know now
how much they were in love,

but I have the idea
they never spoke of it.

My apprehensions gradually
subsided until an incident

occurred so astonishing
that I could

not have believed
it if I had not

witnessed it with my own eyes.

I'm glad you dropped in.

I'm having some difficulty
with a manuscript

I found in the local archives.

- I think you could help me with it.
- Manuscript in Spanish?

Dutch, early 17th
century I should judge.

Dutch manuscript in Esperanza?

No, that's not surprising.

The Netherlands
belonged to Spain.

Of course.

It's surprising
for another reason.

It purports to be the story
of the Flying Dutchman written

by the doomed man himself.

Now I can read
Dutch fairly well,

but I'm having some
trouble with some

of the archaic
expressions, and since it's

in your native language,
I thought you might be

able to clear them up for me.

The story is an
obvious invention.

A literary hoax of the period.

The death ship legend goes all
the way back to the Egyptians.

Of course, if it's
too much trouble.

I do hope I haven't
offended you.

You are Dutch, and you seem so
interested in my antiquities.

You're looking at me
in the strangest way.

I'm sorry. Forgive me.
It's nothing.

Nothing at all.

Of course, I have an interest
in your antiquities--

a great interest-- and I'll be
delighted to translate

the manuscript for you.

The language will present
no difficulties to me.

None, whatsoever.

"The Flying Dutchman,
his own story

told in the hope of divine
grace and merciful absolution.

Shun blasphemous rage and
pity him his punishment.

It was her face.

It was her face still though
now white and cold as marble.

She would not smile at me
anymore in the sweet way

she had of smiling.

But it was still her face.

The face I had seen
in my mind's eye

carried in my heart of hearts
through the days, weeks,

months of my long voyage.

I had my own ship now, and
was vain of two things,

my captaincy and my
beautiful young wife whose

face was as innocent as a flower,

and as transparent as a child's.

I could have sworn
upon that innocence

as one swears by the
Holy Mother of God.

It was this face
that I had before me

when I withdrew from my ship's
officers and their carousing.

It was to this face that I had
yearned in the endless hours

of the night watch.

It was to her that
I'd returned at last.

My hands in pockets
full of earrings

and necklaces and circlets
for her delicate arms.

Souvenirs of strange lands
to beguile and delight her.

How I adored her
pleasure in my gifts.

And to have found her faithless.

It was incredible.

And yet, I could not doubt it.

My mind was a hive of swarming
gadflies whose stings were

my remorseless
thoughts-- visions

of our unchastity, mad,
shameful, bestial imaginings.

There was no cure for
this, but the knife.

With one bloody
blow, I killed all

that I loved on God's Earth."

Halt!

"It was still her face.

So pure.

How could it be so pure?

It was not a man, but a walking
emptiness that they led away

to dungeons and courtrooms.

And when my judgment
was pronounced

and the magistrate asked me
whether I had anything to say,

I found words to speak
so vain, so extravagant,

so mad, such fateful words:"

The evil is done and
cannot be undone.

This bloody death I still
shall do and do again 10,000

times before I hang tomorrow.

Send me then no priest to
shroud me, I beseech no mercy

nor plead any justice.

Eternal penance be my comforts.

Let mortal fools live
in a wicked world.

Faith is a lie and
God himself is chaos.

Silence!

Faith is a lie and
heaven a deception!

Silence, I say!

Silence!

A man might have
immortal life and wander

for all the generations
of man over all

the oceans of the world!

Let him sail to the
edge of Doomsday!

He will find no woman
faithful and fair.

If this be folly
then upon me proved

let the divinity that I
reject make what sport

he will of my immortal soul!

I tremble for the soul that
will depart your body tomorrow.

For the God you have blasphemed
will judge your words

as I have judged your deed.

You have taken a life
and yours is forfeit.

Tomorrow you will die.

But the part of you
that does not die,

the immortal part, what of that?

He who knows our thoughts,
will he not hear our words?

I pity you, not my
doom, but God's!

"I awoke in the dead of
night from a deep sleep.

A sleep it seemed of
unearthly oblivion.

The door of my cell was open.

My guards were sleeping as
if they were under a spell.

I thought some unknown
friend pitying my misfortune

had drugged them,
so that I might

flee the death that the
morning sun would bring me.

My ship was still
anchored in the bay.

My loyal crew received me.

A small wind carried
us soundlessly

to the safety of the open sea.

In the last darkness
before the dawn,

while I was sleeping
in my familiar cabin,

a dream came to me.

A voice spoke to me in words
that passed like flames

through my tortured ears to take
possession of my burning brain.

I knew without any doubt
that what the voice told me

was true, with an awful truth.

My wife had not been faithless.

What I thought unchastity
had been kindness merely,

the warmth and sweet
friendship and joy

with which her
gentle soul sought

to encompass all creatures.

I had killed sweet
innocence, and with it

my hopes of earth and heaven.

I wanted to die.

I wanted to plunge the
knife into my own heart

as I had in hers.

But a power greater
than my own held my arm.

The voice spoke again.

In my madness in the courtroom,
I had pronounced my own doom.

I would have immortal
life, and wander

for all the generations
of man over all

the oceans of the world.

It might be that I should
sail till Doomsday.

I would long for death, but
death would be denied me.

Yet I might be redeemed.

After seven years and ever
again after seven years,

I might live as a mortal
man among mortal men.

For half a year I might seek
the woman faithful and fair, who

could restore to me the grace
of God and the gift of peace,

but she must be
willing to die for me.

The words echoed in my mind.

'Willing to die?'

The answer came,
'So that I might

know the meaning of love.'

The voice faded away.

This was my dream.

Was it a dream?

I could hear the
noise of the sea

and the straining of
the ship's timbers.

It was a dream, a dreadful
dream and nothing more.

But if a man should have
a dream, and in that dream

should take a knife
to destroy himself,

and the knife would fall from
his hand, and if waking he

saw that knife where it
had fallen, what then?

But this was absurd.

The knife had fallen to the
floor in some other way,

not in a dream.

Or perhaps in the manner of
sleepwalkers, I'd left my bed

and taken the knife
and let it fall.

My imagination was
overwrought with the events

of the past days.

I would rest, and
the dream would

be forgotten in the
morning as vapors

vanish in the rising sun.

But in the morning,
the memory of my dream

was disturbingly vivid.

There was no one to be seen.

No watch on deck.

No helmsmen at the wheel.

No one aloft in the yards."

Ahoy!

Ahoy, there!

"No sailor to answer my call.

It was very strange.

Only a few hours
ago I'd seen them.

Could they have abandoned
ship while I slept?

But the longboat was secure.

I had seen my crew
the night before.

Was it my crew I'd seen, or
demons sent to deceive me?

This was not a dream.

I was alone, unspeakably alone.

Was I alone?

The helm was firm and the
ship held to its course.

I looked aloft with
an unspoken command.

For now we were carrying
too much canvas.

Unseen hands obeyed my thought.

I was captain of a ghostly crew.

Was it true then, the
doom that I had dreamed?

The words of the vision rang
in my mind like a funeral bell.

Would I sail alone till
Doomsday longing for death,

with death denied me?

Above the main mast I saw
a white gull circling,

its wings were
stained with blood.

Seven years and seven
times seven years

I have sailed, my ship without
anchor, my heart without hope.

The mountains of ice that
guard the southern pole

cracked before me with
a noise of thunder.

I sailed through canyons
of ice whose walls rise up

and up into a measureless mist.

Unharmed I sail
through fields of ice

where the frozen crags crash
and mount each other, howling

like souls in hell fire.

Beyond the ice I sail
into tropical calms

where the ship's timbers
become trees again with roots

in the bottom of the sea.

The sun breeds
maggots as if water

were carrion and
vermin swarm upon us

in sheets of horrid movement."

I long for death, but
death has been denied me.

Once in the storm, the main
t'gallant, cleft by lightning,

fell upon me.

In that moment of dying--

for in that moment I died--

a great joy filled me.

I was at last to be free
of the burden of my doom,

but life flowed back
into my unwilling brain.

After seven years, and
again after seven years,

I found harbor to see again with
longing the lives of those who

grow old and die, of
those who suffer and die,

of those who die.

Morning and night I pray, up by
star and star my futile prayers

go into the outer
frozen blackness,

down into the unfathomable
deeps where black water

covers the abyss of the sea.

My vain words seek
the ear of God.

You who have the gift of
life, the gift of love,

pity the Flying Dutchman,
his punishment, and pray

that God's grace may grant
him the best of all gifts,

the gift of merciful death.

Forgive us our
trespasses as we forgive

them that trespass against us.

Deliver us from evil
for thine is the kingdom

and the power and the glory--

it's beyond nature.

Beyond reason.

What does it mean?

Why was I chosen to bring
these words back to you?

Hello, Geoffrey!

It's not only the manuscript
that's come back to me.

Geoffrey, are you there?

Pandora, come up, will you?

Is Hendrik with you?

Yes, we're waiting for you.

You mean Pandora?

Do you think that she--

I cannot tell.

She must be willing to die.

What's wrong with
you two philosophers

standing here in the dark?

Is your conversation
so bright that you

don't need other illumination?

You're taking me
to dinner, Hendrik.

Stephen sent word he
can't join us until later.

I'll let Geoffrey tell me
strange stories out of the past

while you go and change.

When are you and
Stephen getting married?

September the third
is a date we've set.

Then I shall miss the wedding.

I sail on September the third.

Couldn't you put it off?

I'm afraid not.

What's happened between
you and Hendrik?

He seems upset.
It's not like him.

Nothing's happened.
You're imagining things.

An interesting old manuscript.

What language is it in?

Dutch, 17th-century Dutch.

Can you read it?

Not fluently.

No one has a right to read
Dutch unless of course you

are Dutch like Hendrik.

Why do you wait, Pandora?

Why don't you marry
Stephen at once?

September's only a month away.

Besides, Stephen's
too busy with his car.

A lot can happen between
now and September the third.

Esperanza
was convulsed with joy.

Its hero had returned.

Juan Montalvo, the
greatest matador

of all Spain, who had
been born in Esperanza,

and whose gypsy mother
still lived here.

It was rumored
that he had agreed

to perform at the local arena.

And now I
remember that some years

ago there had been talk of
Montalvo and an American girl.

- Juanito.
- Señorita.

Señor van der Zee,
Juan Montalvo.

- Señor.
- I'm sure you know Geoffrey Fielding.

Welcome home, Señor.

Then you've not forgotten me.

When I go to Valencia to Seville
to San Sebastián to Granada,

it is no longer to kill
the bulls, but to remember.

I made the whole circuit
with Montalvo one season,

but you mustn't remind me or
you'll make me fall in love

with you all over again.

And that would be
wicked, because you

see I'm engaged to be married.

It is not I, señor, but
someone more fortunate.

He's not here tonight.

He's busy with his racing car.

His name is Stephen Cameron.

I'm sure you've heard of him.

He's going to try for a
new world speed record

before our wedding day.

I'll take you to
meet him if you like.

I do not like.

He's a brave man,
Juanito, just as you are.

What brings Montalvo
to Esperanza?

He comes to visit his mother.

Esperanza is proud to have
given Spain its finest

bullfighter after Belmonte.

After Belmonte?

In point of time, of course.

My mother is a gypsy,
señor, a great woman.

She will not come
to Madrid where

she can live like a queen.

She hates the corrida
so I come to see her.

That is as it should be.

She's Montalvo's mother.

You will meet my
mother, señorita.

Are you sure I
deserve such an honor?

I am not sure.

I am not sure, señorita if
you deserve to meet my mother,

because you have forgotten
how this brave man--

Juan Montalvo will show you.

Heh-hey!

Heh-hey!

Heh-hey!

Olé, Juanito!

Olé!

Heh-ah!

Here, toro!

Heh-hey! Ha-ha!

Montalvo's mother
had abandoned her gypsy

tribe to marry Juan's father.

She did not approve of
her son's profession,

and was full of dark
forebodings about his destiny.

She did not like what she
saw in the cards concerning

her son and his foreign friends.

But she refused to reveal
what it was that she saw.

She wanted Montalvo
to return at once to Madrid

to have nothing more to do
with these strangers who

were destined to bring a
horrible catastrophe upon him.

But Juan's infatuation
for Pandora

had burst into flame again.

He was not to be dissuaded.

A profound
and unconscious jealousy

of his dead father had created
a permanent and incurable

disturbance in the violent
soul of Juan Montalvo.

Montalvo had the
idea, not to say the hope,

that Stephen's great
day might be his last.

There was always the chance
of a hair-raising spill

and a fatal accident.

If anything happened to
Stephen,

more than one life would be changed.

The officials of the
International Automobile Club

had marked out the course and
approved the arrangements.

He was to have a five
mile flying start

before crossing
the electric timing

strip of the measured mile.

30 minutes were granted for
repairs before the return run.

The average time of
the two runs would

determine the official record.

To break the record, he
would have to average

more than 214 miles an hour.

He crossed the timing
strip at 250 miles an hour,

and was gaining speed
with every second.

He had struck a soft
spot in the sand.

He was well ahead of the
record, but on the return run,

the wind would be against him.

There was not time to
repair the leaking radiator.

He ought never to have
attempted the return run.

When he crossed the timing
strip of the measured mile

on the return run,
we could hardly see

him for the smoke and flame.

He had averaged
247 miles an hour.

It was a new record.

The triumph called
for a celebration,

which took the form of
a party in the garden

of Stephen's cabaña
at the Hotel Isabella.

I could not shake off a
sense of mangled excitement

and foreboding.

For you, Janet.

Hey, what the--

You'll listen to me
whether you want to or not.

Now look here Janet, you can't...

Why don't you give Stephen up?
You don't love him.

You've never loved him.

It's never been anything
but a game with you.

Listen, what are
you talking about...

You haven't an
honest emotion in your body.

You're interested only in sensation,
not with sentiment.

When will you stop it?

When will you leave him alone?

He doesn't really love you.

He's only infatuated.

He's a fool, a sweet,
blind, trusting fool,

and you're no good for him,
and one day he'll find it out.

Now, shut up, Janet.

You're a fool, a blind fool!

Too trusting, too honest.

You don't understand.

You'll be unhappy with her.

She's not for you.

She's not honest.

She's treacherous.

She'll deceive you.

What's got into her anyway?

Be sweet, Stephen,
go to her now.

She's had too much champagne.

You're a wonderful girl,
Pandora, a very wonderful girl.

Oh,
forgive my pardon.

A hero and host of
a party, as is often the case,

was hardly missed.

The revelry burst its bounds
and spread to the beach.

♪ You-- You're
driving me crazy ♪

♪ What did I do? ♪

♪ Oh, what did I do? ♪

♪ My tears for you
make everything hazy ♪

♪ Clouds in the skies are blue ♪

♪ How true
were the friends ♪

♪ Who were near me to cheer me? ♪

♪ Believe me, they knew ♪

♪ But you were the kind
who would hurt me ♪

♪ Desert me when I needed you ♪

♪ Yes, you ♪

♪ You're driving me crazy ♪

♪ What did I do? ♪

♪ What did I do for you? ♪

What do you see out there,
the past or the future,

or some fabulous
land beyond the maps?

I'm interested in the present
tonight, the here and the now.

The Sea of Faith was
once too at the full.

The world, which seems to lie
before us like a land of dreams

as really neither joy, nor
love, nor light, nor certitude,

nor peace, nor help for pain.

But we are here as on
a darkling plain, swept

with confused alarms
of struggle and flight

where ignorant armies
clash by night.

I know that poem.

It's an English poem.

Yes.

It's odd that a
Dutchman should be

able to quote an English poem.

I got over being surprised
at you a long time ago.

It's a poem about the sea.

I know a great
deal about the sea.

You love the sea.

Love the sea?

If you only knew how long
I've wanted to do that,

but you've been so
remote, so far off from me

as if there were
oceans between us.

There's something
beyond my understanding,

something mystical in the
feeling I have for you.

I feel as if I'd love you always,
not only in this life,

but in lives I've lived
before and do not remember.

It's as if everything that
happened before I met you

didn't happen to me at
all, but to someone else.

And in a way that's true.

I've changed so
since I've known you.

I'm not cruel and
hateful as I used to be.

Hurting people because
I was so unhappy myself.

I know now where
destructiveness comes from.

It's a lack of love.

It's as simple as that.

Come and sit beside me.

You look at me sometimes with
such a strange questioning

in your eyes.

If it's a question of my
love, you have the answer.

No one else exists for
me, no one ever will.

You're so silent.

But it isn't easy to find
words for big emotions.

Although I seemed
to have found them.

I bottled up my emotions for so
long I had to speak or explode.

You have no idea the things I've
imagined myself saying to you.

Geoffrey once said that
the measure of love

is what one is willing
to give up for it.

It was when Stephen
destroyed his car for me.

It was a wonderful gesture,
but then he took it back.

Stephen doesn't realize it,
but when he recovered his car

I felt that he had set me free.

And you, what would you give up?

I've asked myself that question.

Your life for instance,
would you give up your life?

Yes, I would.

I'd die for you without
the least hesitation.

I know that sounds extravagant,
but I thought about it

and I mean it.

I'd give up my life for you.

That's the measure of my love.

And you, what would you give up?

My salvation.

But that's even more than life.

But you've said it in the strangest way.

You've suddenly put
a barrier between us.

I-- I feel shut out.

You've gone away
from me somehow.

I'm afraid you misunderstood me.

And I was wrong to respond,
even for a moment, to your--

to this shocking confession.

We've had a charming
friendship, but I do not

recall having encouraged
you to suppose

that it could be anything more.

Now, you've made
even that impossible.

This sort of thing disgusts me.

You seem to have forgotten
that you are engaged

to marry Stephen Cameron.

What makes you imagine that
I'd be willing to betray him?

The infection of your treachery?

I'm immune to that
sort of disease.

You say you do not
destroy things anymore,

but you invite me to join
you in destroying him.

I find the suggestion
detestable and I

despise you for making it.

You'll be married on
September the third.

It's the date also
of my departure.

I'd prefer not to see you
again in the meantime.

We shouldn't--

Pandora
confided in me

as people do for some reason.

I recognize the magnitude
of the Dutchman sacrifice,

but I was glad.

I wanted to see Pandora
safely married to Stephen.

Open the door, Maria.

Answer that for me,
will you, Stephen?

Hello?

Oh, all right.

It's the reception desk.

Juan Montalvo's on his way over.

Montalvo?

But what do you
suppose he wants?

I can't imagine.

He's being awfully formal having
himself announced like this.

I don't trust that acrobat.

Give him a drink.
Will you, Stephen?

Uh-huh.

Ah, come in, won't you?

Pandora will be out
in a few minutes.

Can I get you a drink or
something while you're waiting?

Perhaps.

If, uh, that's in your way,
just chuck it on the floor.

The señorita, she
knows that I am here?

Oh, she won't be long, having a
fitting for her wedding dress.

We're getting married
a week from today.

You think?

I'm afraid
there's no doubt about it.

There is doubt.

What exactly are you driving at?

One week-- who knows what
will become in one week.

You're very tactful.
I'm obliged.

Do not speak of it.

We're looking forward to
your appearance in the arena.

It's a few days off, isn't it?

I shall astonish everyone.

You think?

Juanito.

I wish to speak with
you very private.

Perhaps señor will
have the goodness?

I'm sure it must
be very important.

Yeah.

See you at dinner.

Goodbye, darling.

A bottle's a very good
weapon, but swing it hard.

It's a very thick skull.

Señor.

Señor.

You will be surprised, señorita.

It is how you say,
"extraordinary."

In Madrid, there will
be excitement, very

big excitement.

There will be, you understand?

Many Spanish ladies
very unhappy.

But why will the
ladies be unhappy?

You're going back to
them soon, aren't you?

But I do not go alone.

I have the honor, señorita,
to pay my addresses to you.

Your addresses?

You will be Señora Montalvo.

You will come to Madrid with
Juan Montalvo the matador.

You will be married
in the cathedral.

In the palace, the king
and the queen receive you.

No one have such honor.

You will allow me?

But you just met
Stephen Cameron.

Don't you know that I'm
to marry him next week?

You wish to marry him?

You don't imagine that I'm
doing it against my will?

I do not believe.

I know you're a
great man, Juanito.

Believe me, I understand
the honor you do me.

I'm moved. I thank you,
but it's not possible.

It's simply not as
your prophetic mother

might put it in the cards.

You haven't changed, Juanito.

You still think you can solve
all your problems by violence.

How can you be so foolish?

Have you've forgotten
what happened

in Granada, when you
threw a knife at the man

because you were jealous of me?

Save your courage
for the bulls or laws

after all against murder.

There are even laws, I
guess, against tearing

up other people's magazines.

Laws are not for Montalvo.

I'm afraid the police
will disagree with you.

And besides, it would do you
no good to kill Stephen Cameron.

There is someone else?

I have already the idea
there is someone else.

I don't know what
you're talking about.

Wedding dresses.

What are wedding dresses
when it is the moment

you will not go to the church.

You will not marry this Stephen.

If you're so
certain of that then

you have no need for violence.

I have need, but not for him.

I wish to be sure.

Now I am sure.

Of what are you sure?

The other one, he's for you.

But I am sorry.

You are not for him.

Adiós, señorita.

Montalvo!

It was
the eve of Montalvo's

appearance in the bullring.

Van der Zee was returning
after midnight to his

cabaña at the Hotel Isabella.

The coup de grace, matador.

The stroke of pity.

Forgive
me for I have sinned.

Forgive me.

If I could die--

I pray God's mercy
if I must live again.

She's so young, so beautiful.

Do not let her die to save me.

This was the doom, I know.

Forgive me.
And don't let her forget me.

Let her not love me with this
love that is as deep as death.

If I could die--

What strange dream
have you had to bring

you here at this time of night?

A dreadful dream
that because of me

someone had come to kill you.

And it was done.

That's odd.

I came in quite late and
found that someone had

been here and killed my dog.

The little terrier
that you gave me.

But why should anyone?

Killers have strange reasons
sometimes, or none at all.

I was just about to send over
to the main building for someone

to take him away.

I'm sick about it.

I loved that little dog.

It's very strange all this.

I-- it was not the dog.

Could not be the dog.

He's in here if you want, but
you don't want to see him.

- Buena suerte.
- Buena suerte.

Buena suerte, Montalvo.

Montalvo was upset.

His mother had
prophesied disaster.

In order to protect
him, she had brewed

a powerful potion designed
to make the drinker

invulnerable for 24 hours.

Para la señorita.

Montalvo had
swallowed a large mouthful,

and it had made
him a little sick.

He observed with satisfaction
the empty chair beside Pandora.

He wondered if the body
had been discovered.

There would be plenty of
noise about it soon enough.

He was sure of that.

But no one would connect him
with it, no one except Pandora.

Pandora's attention returned
again and again to the place

reserved for van der Zee.

Heh-hey, toro.

Heh-hey!

Bring you Pandora--

Hey!

Heh-hey!

Heh!

Juanito.

It is God's punishment.

But-- but why?

I kill him.

Last night, it was for you.

And today I see him.

I do not see him,
you understand?

But I think to see him.

I am paying the
price and the bull--

my mother said how it would be.

It is God's punishment.

God is good.

He gives me time
to make a visit.

The priest thinks
I am--

but that is why I
have made confession.

I am clean.

It is too bad.

I am sorry.

You will not be Señora Montalvo.

But it was the dog you killed.

The dog, yes.

The dog also,
he make very much noise.

It is necessary.

Adiós.

Adiós.

All right, Jenny, I'll
be down in a minute.

Is Geoffrey there?

Yes, he's putting
on his white tie

for Stephen's bachelor dinner.

Could I see him for a moment?

Yes, of course.
Come up.

Pandora's on her way up.

She wants to talk to you.

Everything under control?

Perfectly.

Good, dear.

I'll be with you in
a moment, Pandora.

No bystander.

I'll go on with Jenny to
our hen party, shall I?

Geoffrey can drop you off
when you've had your talk.

Are you sure you don't mind?

Not a bit.

I've been hateful
to you, Pandora.

Please forgive me.

There's nothing I
want so much as to be

your friend and Stephen's.

Janet.

Goodbye, Uncle Geoffrey.

When you get to Sweet
Adaline, stick to the melody.

Let the others do
the harmonizing.

It's a long time
since I've worn this.

I hope it will hold together.

Anything wrong apart from the
usual bride's nervousness?

It's Hendrik, Geoffrey.

Hendrik?

What do you know about him?

Who is he really?

You know as much
about him as I do.

You're not hiding
anything from me?

Of course not.

I've had the feeling
for a long time

that you were hiding something.

Ever since that day
you were reading

that old manuscript together.

I remember that evening,
but it wasn't anything.

You're exciting yourself
without the least reason.

There are so many
things I can't explain.

I keep going over them in my
mind over and over endlessly.

That's one way of
going out of your mind.

The first night when I
swam out to his yacht,

there wasn't any crew on board.

I thought perhaps he'd
given them shore leave.

What's strange about that?

There wasn't even
a watch on deck.

And I've never seen any of
his men around the village.

Have you?

If I did see them, I
wouldn't know them.

They're strangers
to me after all.

I could see no
one except the Dutchman.

The ship seemed to be making
itself ready for sailing.

I imagined what his
thoughts must be.

His resolution had not wavered.

She was safe.

She would never see him again.

There's something else I've never

told anyone, because no
one would believe it.

I'm not quite sure
I'd believe it myself.

What's that?

He was killed and he
came back to life.

What on earth?

Montalvo killed him the
night before the bullfight.

Stabbed him to death
in his room-- the hotel.

Did Montalvo tell you that?

When he was dying.

He must have been delirious.

He didn't believe I'd
ever marry Stephen.

He was jealous of Hendrik.

He felt that if Hendrik was
out of the way, I'd marry him.

He was dying.

When people are out of their head,
they can't tell dreams from realities.

He all but told me beforehand
he was going to do it.

I tried not to
take it seriously.

And one night I
woke up absolutely

certain he'd killed Hendrik.

You were frightened.
You'd had a nightmare.

I went there.
His room was a shambles.

He said it was only
the dog that had been

killed, a terrier I gave him.

Obviously, it was the dog
since Hendrik's still alive.

When Montalvo saw him at
the bullfight the next day,

he was so stunned.
He couldn't move.

That's how he was killed.

He was raving if he said that.

What are you
keeping from me, Geoffrey?

Help me, Geoffrey.

Please help me.

I'll die if I don't
see him again.

You'll live.

Perhaps he wouldn't mind now.

I think he'd like you to
know how much he loved you.

Love?

You can decide
that for yourself.

It's a translation I made of
that old Dutch manuscript.

You can read it now.

It's his story.

Yours too, in a way.

You'll want to be
alone, I think.

I'll make your
excuses to the women.

Thank you, Geoffrey.

I could see the
Dutchman's ship in the harbor.

His sails hung loose.

He was becalmed.

I had a sudden
sense of fatality.

My fear seemed
absurd, fantastic.

Hello.

The dressing room, you'll
remember, is on your right.

You'll find a robe
in the cupboard.

You seem to have
been expecting me.

Perhaps I have been.

Listen to this.

"The moving finger writes;

and, having writ, moves on.

Nor all your piety,
nor whit shall

lure it back
to cancel half a line.

Nor all your tears,
wash out a word of it."

If you knew it had
to end like this,

why did you try to
run away from me?

It's Geoffrey's
book, but I can't

think how to return it to him.

How did you learn about me?

Did Geoffrey tell you?

Only because he saw
your sails, and thought

that you'd be far away.

I would have been,
but the wind failed.

I could command the
sails, but not the wind.

I thought then that I
might see you again.

And I was so afraid
you wouldn't.

You restored the painting.

From the original this time.

I must have made a
hundred sketches of you.

It's beautiful.

It's like you I think.

Do you know who you are?

Is this the woman of the story?

It's very strange.

Yes.

So that's how my face
got into your painting.

Then when I came here
for the first time,

we weren't strangers.

We were man and wife separated
for centuries and meeting

again.

The moment I saw you, I knew it.

You'd come back to me.

I think I knew it too.

In my heart, I knew it.

I saw my destiny
working itself out.

My punishment ending, if--

If I loved you enough
to give my life.

Yes.

But then I found I loved
you too much to take it.

So you tried to
make me hate you.

And I almost did.

Tonight you've come to me
knowing you'll die for it.

Yes.

And are you happy
in spite of that?

I'm very happy.

You're not afraid to die?

I'm not afraid.

You told me once you'd
liked to hear me say it.

I wanted to say it since
the moment I saw you.

I love you.

How long do you think
it will be before--

before--

You said you were not afraid.

I'm so happy I can't
help wanting it to go on.

If we can have a year,
a month, a week even.

Pandora?

Yes.

How long do you think it's
been since you came in here?

I don't know, not very long.

It seems timeless.

Yes.

Timeless, as if
we were enchanted.

Yes.

All my centuries of solitude,
when my despair was so great,

I prayed to die.

It's as if they'd never been.

My love.

In a moment, you've erased
the memory of so many

years-- so many cruel years.

This joy is so deep.

I've almost forgotten
what went before.

Yes, it's true.

I can hardly think
back even to yesterday.

Because yesterday
and all that went

before was imperfect,
unfulfilled, unreal,

but our love is real.

There's no sense of time.

Darling, I--
I think I understand

what you're trying to tell me.

I have no need to ask for
a week, a month, a year.

No need.

It's as if we were under
a spell, outside of time,

unending.

Unending.

My love.

It was one of
the sudden dangerous summer

storms common to this coast.

She thanked me for
revealing the truth to her.

She hoped that
Stephen would remember

her without bitterness.

It was taken for granted that
the vessel had floundered.

A shocking accident,
everyone said.

And on the eve of her
wedding, poor Stephen.

No one imagined that anything
strange or mysterious

was involved.

No one certainly finds
anything to question

in this book of mine, which
the Dutchman borrowed,

and which now has been returned.

And yet, I wonder,
does this book

come to me from the other
side of time with a message

not of death, but of life?

Hail and farewell, Dutchman.

May the consummation
of your love

endure as long as the punishment
that made you worthy of it.

If I say that I have two
samples of handwriting,

the same handwriting
three centuries apart,

everyone will think poor
Geoffrey's lost his wits poring

over old legends,
because we live in a time

that has no faith in legends.

We live in a time
that has no faith.

The
moving finger writes,

and having writ moves on.

There's the last fragment.

It's finished.