All language subtitles for Pandora.And.The.Flying.Dutchman.1951.720p.BluRay.x264-x0r

Thank you.

Thank you.

And what do you think we have here?

A whale?

A lot of whales.

Pere, come help us, we've caught a
whale.

Ah, Jovent, if I were your age... We
already know that you've caught a bottle

wine and you don't give it to fish.

Yesterday I drank so much that I closed
the door to the chida.

And I went to take the trout.

Uncle Jeffrey?

Yes, Dennis?

What is it, Jenny? The fishermen.

We've been afraid they would.

Afraid they wouldn't.

Stephen, darling, don't look. Please
don't look.

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 Henrik 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

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

turtles.

Thank you.

That's it.

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 speed record.

I was as much a slave as either of them.

Hello, Geoffrey.

Geoffrey, hello.

You heard the news, Jeffrey. The social
registers appeared without my name in

it. Congratulations.

You owe that to me, Ratchet. 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.

A femoral 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, 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.

Sir, sorry.

If it's really love that found its way

here Oh,

how am I to know

Will it linger on

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.

I haven't met him yet.

Will you marry me?

No, Reggie.

I thought not.

Please don't drink any more tonight.

Not tonight, or any other night.

I know death hath ten thousand several
doors for men to make their exits, and

they move on such strange geometrical
hinges you may open them both ways.

Anyway, so I will out of your mystery.

He packed out again.

He did.

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 it 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 do you get
marshmallows in Esperanza? Oh, I have an

old admirer back in Indianapolis. He
hopes they'll make me homesick. Do they?

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.

Are they 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.

Finally get fed up with alcoholic self
-pity and threaten 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?

Mm -hmm, right now.

There's nothing I'd like better.

Take me home, Uncle Jeffrey.

Do, Jeffrey. Take your niece's beautiful
and slightly blue nose home and leave

me to my marsh fellows.

All right, Q, my dear.

Thank you, Jeffrey.

But life is important.

You'll discover that someday.

This car wasn't built to hold two
people.

I don't mind Angus.

Think it over, miss. Geneva was intended
to climb mountains.

Don't worry, Angus. You'll take the
hills, all right?

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

Remember, you've only got a hand.

What wonderful things.

There's a strange yacht in the bay.

It doesn't take much to set you
dreaming.

I suppose you imagine your destiny is on
board that boat along with Nelson or

the Flying Dutchman.

Who is the Flying Dutchman, Stephen?

Haven't the biggest 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 Steven?

She's a wonderful girl and she adores
you I adore you Is there any reason in

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

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.

Good night, Steve.

Thank you.

When do you want to marry me, Stephen?

Tomorrow.

What is today's date, Stephen?

March the 9th.

The ninth day of the third month.

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

I promised 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

the 3rd. We're engaged.

You may kiss me, Jeffrey.

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 doesn't want a racing car as a
rival.

I can't say I'll blame her.

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

Oh, it'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.

Moody Stone.

Diamond.

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

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

Strange you're asking that.

I've just stumbled on a pure version of
the story.

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

I accused of hoping he was, but I take
it back now.

Not likely.

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 seas till
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

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 Esperanto and all that sort
of thing. I've done enough for one night

to serve you.

Taking 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 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.

We'll drag those stones up to the cliff
where your car went over, Stephen.

This is Phoenician.

It antedates those statues by a thousand
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, which has hitherto been regarded
as pure legend.

Never dismiss the legends, Pandora.

That's your wish.

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

She'll swim out of that yacht and...
Drive me to the pier, will you?

There are times when I get so mad at
Pandora I could...

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 Charlie.

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.

have 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?

It's still more remarkable that I
painted her as Pandora, the darling of

gods, who 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 faith and my name got into this

painting. Would it 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 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 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

to?

None 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 heard 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,

unexpected and the 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 woman, no matter how

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

hatched.

By sheer chance, you've contributed the
unexpected element which my painting

needed.

And now it really is Pandora.

The original egghead, 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.

You may inspire me to paint in the face
and form of Pandora Reynolds, the secret

goddess whom all men in their hearts
desire.

Are you all right? Of course I'm all
right.

This is Hendrick Van Der Zee, my friend
Stephen Cameron and Jeffrey Fielding.

Ah, how do you do?

How do you do?

Jeffrey'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.

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 one gets the pleasure.

It's the poor one gets the blame.

It's the same the whole world over.

Isn't it a pretty shame?

What have we got?

Hands. Good.

Hooray!

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 antiquity succeeding
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.

A 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 apprehension 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

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

Does. 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.

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

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...

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

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 and pockets full of earrings
and necklaces and saplets for her

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

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 ten thousand times before I

tomorrow. Send me then no priest to
shrive me. I beseech no mercy nor plead

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
wonder for all the generations of man

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.

and upon me proved. Let the divinity
that I reject make what spot he will of

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.

carried us soundlessly to the safety of
the open sea.

In the last darkness before the dawn,
while I was sleeping in my familiar

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 unjust today 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...

announced 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 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 were to
fall from his hand, And if waking, he

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

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

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 long boat...

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
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 crack before me with a

of thunder.

I sail through canyons of ice whose
walls rise up and up into measureless

Unharmed, I sail through fields of ice
where the frozen crags crash and mount

each other, howling like souls in
hellfire.

Beyond the ice, I sail into tropical
calms.

Where the ship's timbers become trees
again with roots in the bottom of the

The sun breeds maggots as if water were
carrion.

And vermin swarm upon us in sheets of
hurried movement.

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

Once in a storm, the main to gallant
cliff 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've 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.

Give us our trespasses as we forgive
them. 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, Jeffrey.

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

Jeffrey, are you there?

Pandora, come up, will you? Is Hendrick
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, Hendrick.

Stephen's at work. He can't join us
until later.

I'll let Jeffrey 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
Hendrick?

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 currently.

No one has a right to read Dutch.

Unless, of course, you are Dutch.

Like Henry.

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. Señorita.

Señor Van Der Zee, Juan Montalvo.

Señor. I'm sure you know Jeffrey Feely.
Welcome home, señor.

Then you've not forgotten me.

When I go each year to Valencia, to
Sevilla, to San Sebastian, to Granada,

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, Sonia, 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

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, 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, señorita, if you deserve
to meet my mother.

Because you have forgotten what is a
brave man.

But Montalvo will show you.

Olé, Juanita!

Olé!

Montalvo's mother had abandoned her
gypsy tribe to marry one's father.

She did not approve of her son's
profession and was full of dark

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.

What does that letter say? What do you
read in it?

Responde, madre, te lo pido.

¿Qué negros destinos ves en ellas?

Sí, ya supongo, ya sé.

Demasiada obsesión por el que murió.

Desprecio la profesión de tu hijo.

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

approved the arrangements.

He was to have a five -mile flying start
before crossing the electric timing

strip of the measured mile.

Thirty 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.

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 me whether you want to or not. Why
don't you give Stephen up? You don't

him. You've never loved him. There's
never been anything but a game with you.

You have 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. One day
he'll find it out.

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.

The hero and host of the party, as is
often the case, was hardly missed.

The rebel rebirthed 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.

Tides in the skies are blue.

How true were the friends who were near
me. Jimmy, believe me, they knew.

But you...

The kind that would hurt me, hurt 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 map?

I'm interested in the present tonight.

The here and the now.

The sea of faith was once too at the
fall.

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 helpful 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.

I thought 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?

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

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 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.

Jeffrey once said that the measure of
love is what one is willing to give up

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
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.

That's even more than life.

But you said it in the strangest way.

You suddenly put a barrier between us.

I... I feel shut out. You've gone away
from me somehow.

I'm afraid you misunderstood me.

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 him that impossible.

This sort of thing disgusts me.

You seem to have forgotten that you're
engaged to my Stephen Cameron. What

you imagine that I'd be willing to
betray him? The infection of your

I'm immune to that sort of disease.

You say you do not destroy things
anymore, but you invite me to join you

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

prefer not to see you again in the
meantime.

If we shouldn't...

Pandora

confided in me, as people do for some
reason.

I recognize 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?

It's the reception desk.

Juan Montalvo's on his way over.

Montalvo?

Now, what do you suppose he wants?

Oh, 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?

No, 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 and 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?

I wish to speak with you very private.

Perhaps, senor, we'll have the goodness?

I'm sure it must be very important.

Well.

See you at dinner.

Goodbye, darling.

A bottle's 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.

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 de

Matador. You will be married in the
cathedral.

In the palace, the king and the queen
receive you. No one has 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

me. I moved. I thank you. But it's not
possible.

It's simply not as your prophetic mother
might put it in the cart.

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. Her
laws, after all, are against murder.

They're 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 the

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 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 bullring.

Van Der Zee was returning after midnight
to his cabana at the Hotel Isabella.

to grass matter to you.

The struggle 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, I
do, 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.

Because of me, someone had come to kill
you.

And it was done.

I thought.

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

I'm sick about it. I love that little
dog.

It's very strange, Hollis.

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.

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 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.

Thank you.

Brindo a Pandora la muerte de este toro.
Quiero hacerle una faena tan grande

como mi cariño y tan bonita como tu
cara. Al saber que tus ojos me miran,

torear como nadie.

¡Vaya por Pandora!

Thank you.

Yes! He's here!

I killed him! And he's alive!

Let me go! I killed him!

Yes! I killed him! Let me go! He's
alive!

He's here!

It is God's punishment.

But why?

I killed 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 evil.

My mother.

Said how it would be.

It is God's punishment.

God is good.

He gives 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.

Goodbye, darling.

Goodbye.

be down in a minute. Is Jeffrey 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 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?

Jeffrey 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 Jeffrey.

When you get to sweet Adeline, stick to
the melody. Let the others do the

harmonising.

It's a long time since I've worn this. I
hope it'll hold together.

Anything wrong, apart from the usual
bright nervousness?

It's Hendrick, Geoffrey.

Hendrick?

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's 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

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

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.

loads must be.

His resolution had not wavered.

He 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, 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 Hendrick.

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

They were 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 Hendrick.

You were frightened. You had a
nightmare.

I went there. His room was a shambles.

He said it was only the dog that had
been killed, the terrier I gave him.

Obviously it was the dog since
Hendrick'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, Jeffrey?

Help me, Jeffrey. Please help me.

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

Perhaps he wouldn't mind now.

I think he'd like you to now, and she'd
love to.

Lord.

You can decide that for yourself.

The translation I made of that old Dutch
manuscript.

You can read it now.

It's a story.

Yours too, in a way.

You'll want to be alert, I think.

I'll make your excuses to the women.

Thank you, Jack.

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 which shall lure
it back to cancel half a line.

Nor all your tears washed 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?

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.

A 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 liked to hear me
say it.

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

I love you.

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.

And, uh... 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,

But our love is real. It 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're under a spell.

one of the sudden dangerous summer
storms come into this coast.

She thanked me for revealing the truth
to her.

She hoped that Stephen would remember
her without business.

It was taken for granted that the vessel
had found it.

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 pouring

old legends.

Because we live in a time that has no
faith in legend.

We live in a time that has no faith.

The moving finger writes.

And having wit, moves on.

There's the last fragment.

It's finished.