All language subtitles for Pandora.And.The.Flying.Dutchman.1951.1080p.BluRay.x264.AAC-[YTS.MX]

[speaking spanish]

[speaking spanish]

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 at what it

is required to believe in 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 had 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.

[singing in spanish]

[singing in spanish]

I knew I might
find Pandora there

with Reggie Demarest, who
was drinking himself to death,

for 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 her
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.

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, stillborn.

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,
Janet-- 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.

♪ Oh ♪

♪ How am I to know ♪

♪ if it's really love ♪

♪ that found its way here? ♪

♪ Oh ♪

♪ How am I to know? ♪

♪ Will it linger on ♪

♪ and leave me then? ♪

♪ I dare not guess ♪

♪ at this strange ♪

♪ happiness. ♪

♪ For, oh... ♪

♪ 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 tens
thousand several doors for men

to make their exits,
and they move

on such strange
geometrical engines,

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, dear.

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 they'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 deny--

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.

You finally 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 is 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?

Mm-hmm, 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.

It never was intended
to climb mountains.

Don't worry, Angus.

You take the hills all right.

Keep it in second, or you'll
find yourself in the ocean.

Remember you've
only got a hand brake.

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

is onboard 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 who
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 would 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 9th.

The 9th day of the 3rd month.

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

I promise to marry you,
Stephen, on the 3rd day

of the 9th 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 have agreed to marry
him on September the 3rd.

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,
and so does Stephen,

harder than people who have to.

She didn'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.

Oh, that's wonderful.

Stephen gave up his car for
me as 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 been 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.

It's not likely.

No, 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 unless he

can find a woman who loves
him enough to die for him.

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, and so have you.

You are to bring aboard
no stranger uninvited.

It might be very embarrassing.

If he's rich enough
to earn 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 this
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,

who dragged those
stones up to the cliff

where your car
went over, Stephen.

This is Phoenician.

It antedates those
statues by 1,000 years.

Ancient peoples travel
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, just hitherto

been regarded as pure legend.

Never dismiss the
legends, Pandora.

Actually, where is she?

Pandora!

It's all this talk of the Flying
Dutchman and those old legends.

She'll swim to his 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 you 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 have
posed for this painting.

Speaking of coincidences.

What is coincidences?

I don't believe in coincidences.

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

coincidence imaginable that
you've painted the likeness

of a woman you've never seen?

Still more remarkable that
I've 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 and points east.

I am not interested
in mythology.

What 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 perfect a coincidence.

I'm not impressed.

I'm sure there must be a natural
explanation to 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'd 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 help
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?

Not at all.

Shall I do it then?

By all means.

Aren't you angry?

I was angry once, long ago.

I can never be angry again.

You've made me feel ashamed.

It's a new sensation.

I'm not sure I like it.

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

has entered into it.

The unexpected and
surprising are indispensable.

Pandora was the first woman,
the Eve of Greek legend,

whose curiosity cost
us our Earthly paradise.

I was wrong to portray
her as a particular girl,

no matter how beautiful.

Pandora should appear
as woman in the abstract--

bride, and mother, the
original and generic egg head

from which we can imagine
the whole human race

to have been hatched.

By sheer chance,
you've contributed

the unexpected element
which my panting needed,

and now it really is Pandora.

The original egg head?

And you call that
an improvement?

Maybe Pandora, but
it's certainly not me.

As 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 and our hearts desire.

Pandora!

Pandora!

Pandora, are you all right?

Of course I'm all right.

This is Hendrik van der Zee.

My friends, Stephen
Cameron and Geoffrey Fielding.

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 shall be delighted.

The Hotel Isabella at 8 o'clock.

Good night.

Good night.

Isn't it a bloomin' shame?

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.

It's the rich what
gets the pleasure.

It's the poor what
gets the blame.

It's the same the
whole world over.

Isn't it a bloomin' shame?

Lunch.

Ah, what have 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 a 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 now know 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 can help me with it.

Manuscript in Spanish?

Dutch, early 17th
century, I should judge.

A Dutch manuscript in Esperanza?

Oh, 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 Dutch 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 will
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 upon
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 her 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."

"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 there no
peace to shroud me.

I beseech no mercy
nor plead any justice.

Eternal penance be my comfort.

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 men 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
never 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 were to 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 had 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 helmsman 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 had 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 the noise of thunder.

I sailed through canyons
of ice whose walls rise up

and up into a measureless mist.

Unharmed, I sailed,
through fields of ice

where the frozen crags
crashed and mount each other,

howling like souls in hellfire.

Beyond the ice, I
sailed 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 hurried movement.

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

Once, in a storm,
the main, 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 utter
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 who
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 3rd
is the date we've set.

Then I shall miss the wedding.

I sail on September the 3rd.

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 has 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 3rd.

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 in the local arena.

And now I remember

that some years ago, there
had been talk of Montalvo

and an American girl.

Juanito.

Senorita.

Senor van der
Zee, Juan Montalvo.

Senor.

I'm sure you know
Geoffrey Fielding.

Welcome home, senor.

Then you've not forgotten me.

When I go to Ecija, to
Valencia, to Seville, to San

Sebastian, to Granada, it
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, senor, 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 did not like.

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

What brings Montalvo
to Esperanza?

He come 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,
senor, 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 is Montalvo's mother.

You will meet my
mother, senorita?

Are you sure I
deserve such an honor?

I am not sure.

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

because you have
forgotten what is a brave man.

But Montalvo will show you.

Hey!

Hey!

Hey!

Ole, Juanito, ole.

Ha ha.

Hey 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 cabana

at the Hotel Isabella.

I could not shake off a
sense of mingled excitement

and foreboding.

To you, Janet.

Hey, what--

You'll listen to me
whether you want to or now.

Now, look here, Janet--

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.

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!

You're 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.

The hero and host

of the 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
made everything hazy,

clouding the skies of blue.

How true were the friends
who were near me to cheer me?

Believe me, they knew.

But you were the kind
that would that would hurt

Me desert me when I needed you.

Yes, you--

What did I do?

What did I do to you?

What do you see out there?

The past, or the future, or some
fabulous land beyond the maps?

I am 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

has 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,

but 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 loved 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 what
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 seem
to have found them.

I've 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'd 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've 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.

Why, that's even more than life.

But you 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've
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.

And now, you've made
even that impossible.

This sort of thing disgusts me.

You seem to have
forgotten that you're 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 3rd.

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 recognized the magnitude
of the Dutchman's 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
is on his way over.

Montalvo?

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

The senorita, she
knows that I am here?

She won't be long, getting 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.

Cleverly 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 senor will
have the goodness?

I'm sure it must
be very important.

Well.

See you at dinner.

Goodbye, darling.

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

It's a very thick skull.

Senor.

Senor.

You will be surprised, senorita.

It is how, you say,
extraordinary In Madrid,

there will be excitement,
very big excitement.

And 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, senorita,
to pay my addresses to you.

Your addresses?

You will be Senora 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 forgotten what
happened in Granada,

when you threw a knife at a man
because you were jealous of me?

Save your courage for the bulls.

There are 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 wished to be
sure, now I am sure.

Of what are you sure?

The other one, he is for you.

But I am sorry,
you are not for him.

Adios, senorita.

Montalvo.

It was the eve of Montalvo's

appearance in the bull ring.

Van der Zee was returning
after midnight to his cabana

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 is so young, so beautiful,
do not let her die to save me.

This was the doom, I know.

Forgive me her doom
and 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.

It could not be the dog.

He's in here if you want--

but you don't want to see him.

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.

Montalvo had
swallowed a large mugful,

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 will 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.

Hey hey, toro.

Ole!

Ole!

Hey hey.

Ole!

Ole!

Ole!

Ole!

Ole!

Ole!

Ole!

Ole!

Ole!

Ole!

Ole!

Ole!

Hey hey.

Ole!

Ole!

Ole!

Ole!

Ole!

Ole!

Juanito.

It is God's punishment.

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 very surprised,
and the bull--

my madre said how it would be.

It is God's punishment.

God is good.

He giveth me time
to make confession.

The priest thinks I am--

but it is well.

I have made confession.

I am clean.

It is too bad.

I am sorry.

You will not be Senora Montalvo.

But it was the dog you killed.

The dog, yes.

The dog also.

He make very much noise.

It is necessary.

Adios.

Adios.

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 is on her way up.

She wants to talk to you.

Everything under control?

Perfectly.

Good girl.

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

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
Adeline," stick to the melody.

Let the others do
the harmonizing.

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

I hope it'll 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 onboard.

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 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 at 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.

Then one night, I
woke up absolutely

certain he'd killed Hendrik.

You were frightened.

You only had a nightmare.

I went there.

His room was in shambles.

He said it was only
the dog that had been

killed, the 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.

Loved?

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 will
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
wit, 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've 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
that 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
like to hear me say it.

I've 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 could have a year,
a month, a week, even.

Pandora.

Yes?

How long do you think it's

been since you came in here?

Oh, I don't know.

Not very long.

It seems timeless.

Yes, timeless, as if
we were enchanted.

Yes.

And all my
centuries of solitude,

or 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 and
has no sense of time.

Darling, 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.