All language subtitles for Hard Times 1977 EP3

Louisa Gradgrind has become the young
wife of mill owner Josiah Bounderby

in a loveless marriage
arranged by her father.

But a new presence has arrived in
her life, Captain James Harthouse,

a young aristocrat who comes to
Coketown as a parliamentary candidate.

Bounderby, the industrialist, faced
with growing unrest among his workers,

refuses to intervene
when one of them, Stephen,

is ostracized by his workmates
for refusing to join the union.

And Stephen is forced to leave the
town, and Rachel, the woman he loves.

Harthouse, meanwhile, has become a frequent
visitor to the Bounderby's townhouse,

and is asked to become
a permanent guest

at their country retreat

away from the Coketown mills.

Thank you Lily.

Mr Bounderby's in the sitting room.

Ah, Harthouse, come and
get yourself a glass of sherry.

How'd the meeting go?

Let them know where you stand?

Oh, hardest work I've ever done.

They seem to be taking to you
in the town, the word is.

Well I've never known a town this
size to have as many shopkeepers,

house builders and

druggists and drapers,

and bakers and butchers.

To say nothing of their
wives and giggling daughters.

I'm sure I've taken
weak tea and bad sherry

with the entire list of
voters three times round.

Ah, Mrs Bounderby.

Mr Harthouse.

Oh, your chosen duty, Harthouse.

He's a hard taskmaster.

Ah, duty's a word for their ears.

There's no need to
pretend it among my friends.

It is a tedious game, Bounderby.

One man calls
himself a philanthropist,

another a moralist,

and some other reckons
he's a human rights man.

The only difference between them
and me is that I'm prepared to say

that it's all so much
worthless wordage.

But we all know it is.

Quite right.

But if the country's
got to have all this—

wordage of yours, then it seems that,
as with all the profit it all adds up to,

it's a good thing that some
of it comes from your quarter,

since your crowd and mine
share the same interests,

which are minding the law and the
order of the property of the country.

That's why I say it's your duty.

Well, call it what you like,

but I do know that
I'm stuck with it.

I think the town can
count itself very fortunate

to have someone so well connected who
is prepared to look after its interests.

Mr Harthouse seems to be applying
himself admirably to the realities.

Oh yes, I make no pretence
to the nobler intentions.

It seems, Mr Harthouse, you
pursue all your life without pretense.

I believe we all should.

If nothing is pretended,
everything is the better understood.

Why don't you bring
your horses down here?

Now you're going to settle in with
us, there's stabling for a dozen here.

Don't want to spend more time in
that railway hotel than you have to.

Well it's very agreeable here.

The town does choke a man.

Agreeable!

I should hope it is.

Decent enough accommodation
for a self-made man, eh?

No, the town's for work.

Can't expect trees and flowers
and nightingales in a working town—

there were a sight too many flowers here
for my taste, when I took possession.

Turned half an acre of them over
to cabbages to help feed the servants.

The man I bought this place from—

Nickits, his name is—

he lost his way in the
manufacturing business.

He had no sense at all.

Flowers and pictures
and all the rest of the

frills and follies, that's
all he was good for.

Started life with
all the advantages.

While I was living in market
baskets he was at Westminster School.

Where's that man now?

Driveling on the fifth floor in
some dark back street in Antwerp.

What do you think of that?

The man overreached
himself, did he?

Only to the tune of two
hundred thousand pounds.

I had to foreclose
the mortgage on him.

Spent all his money
on things like that.

I reckon it's a—

a seascape.

Nickits says he paid
seven hundred pound for it.

I only leave it up because I
can't be bothered to take it down.

I'll tell you plainly,

if I ever, in the whole
course of my life,

take seven looks at it,

at one hundred pound a look,

it's much as I'm
to ever have out of it.

Mrs Bounderby!

I'm so sorry.

I hope I didn't startle you.

I saw you from the window.

Is this a favorite place of yours?

Yes it is.

But you are not intruding.

Good.

I suspect you find us all

very dull here.

I hope I have never
given the impression

that I found your company
anything of the kind.

I hope I'm not being too direct.

That we agree on preferring
straightforwardness, don't we?

Of course.

Well then I'll say that I
didn't find you by chance.

I was looking for you.

Your brother,

my young friend Tom,

You love him deeply, don't you?

What about Tom?

Well I think you're
concerned about him.

Because, let me
be frank with you,

I think that Tom may be
gradually falling into trouble.

Gambling?

Well it's no irrevocable offense
in a young man of his years.

Now let me be
frank with you again.

I imagine that there's not much
confidence between him and his father.

No.

Nor, would I be right in thinking,
between him and his brother-in-law.

Well then the boy needs
help from someone else.

Do you know how much
he's being pressed for?

Has he borrowed from you?

Wnen I married, I found
he was already in debt, I—

had to sell some—

trinkets to help him, they
were gifts from my husband.

They didn't matter to me,
I got rid of them easily.

Since then, I've

given him, in

different sums, very nearly
all the money I've had, and—

now he's asked for
money and I have none.

He's wanted as much as one
hundred pounds on occasions, I

can't help him anymore.

Well perhaps too much was
suppressed in him before.

So now he seizes the chance
at pleasure and excitement.

I can't blame him for that.

But I cannot forgive him,

for not being more attentive in every
word, look, and act of his life, to you.

He doesn't value
your affection enough.

Your devotion to him deserves
more tenderness, and more love.

I shall try to
correct him of that.

Along with other advice I shall
offer about handling his affairs.

But you should not
be so much occupied

by a young man's callow
mistakes, Mrs Bounderby.

Your nature

asks for more
adult concerns.

Ah, Mr Gradgrind!

We have summat to settle,
haven't we?

Tom!

Hello Jem.

Where have you been?

Nowhere particular.

I'd say that was a guilty look about your
brother though, wouldn't you Mrs Bounderby?

Shall we speak a few girls'
names and see if we strike a bell?

Do you know one with a slashing fortune?

Oh your brother is
misanthropical today.

As all bored people
are, now and then.

Is that the problem, Tom?

But then, what man of
spirit wouldn't be bored

half out of his mind
by the banking life?

All respect to your exceptional
husband, Mrs Bounderby.

But Tom can't be blamed
for what's so natural.

I have to go back to the
house, there are things to see to.

I know my way, Mr Harthouse.

Tom.

What's the matter?

Come on man, you're
in trouble. I can tell.

Or you wouldn't speak
to your sister like that.

Well tell me about it.

It's money.

You blame your sister for that?

She could get me out of it
if she wanted to.

But you've had money out of
her, you dog. You know you have.

I've had some.

Where else would I get it?

My father's tied me down
with his miserable allowance,

my mother's never
had a penny of her own,

and old Bounderby
pays me next to nothing.

Keeps telling me he could live
on tuppence a month at my age.

What else can I get
money except from her?

Your sister hasn't got
it to give, dear fellow.

But she could get it.

I've told you already she didn't
marry Bounderby for her own sake,

she married him for mine.

So why won't she go and
get what I want out out of him?

That's why we're here.

She doesn't even have to
tell him what she wants it for.

She could get whatever she's a
mind to out of the men if she'd only—

coax him a bit.

But she's wrecked the whole scheme.

There she sits with
him like a stone.

She's turning him as
cold to her as she is to him.

Tom, let me be your banker.

But how much do you need?

Is it, uh,

three figures?

Name the sum.

She can help
if she wants to.

If she'll just deal with him.

I wish I'd known you sooner.

There's no other
man here any use.

Well ask me about things before
you start laying at cash pot next time.

I've seen much more of that
side of the world than you.

Now then,

you do something for me.

I'm desperately intent on your
softening towards your sister.

You make yourself a loving
and agreeable brother, you hear?

Make the lady smile again.

That's your job.

We've a bargain then?

A letter for you, ma'am.

- From my father?
- No, he's still in London.

It's from Miss Jupe.

A man brought it.

Mother.

Mother?

It's Louisa.

Louisa, mother.

Tom is here as well.

Mrs Gradgrind.

Mrs Bounderby is here.

It's Louisa.

And Tom.

Sissy.

Is it morning yet?

It's dark.

Such a dark night.

All the time.

It's Louisa.

And Tom.

Louisa?

No.

Oh she's with—

Mr Bounderby.

Mr Gradgrind wanted it.

Mother.

Do you know me now?

Louisa. Yes.

Your father set his heart on it.

He—he ought to
know what's right.

Are you in pain, mother?

I think there's a pain—

somewhere in the room.

But I couldn't positively say that—

I've got it.

Sissy?

I'm here.

Oh, you've been

such a blessing, dear.

Louisa.

There's something
I must tell you.

Yes.

You know

that your father
is nearly always

away now,

in London.

So I

I must

I must write to him,

and ask him about it.

About what, mother?

What is it?

You've learnt

a great deal Louisa.

You, and your brother.

Ologies of every sort.

Ologies—

ologies from morning to night.

But—

there is something
your father missed out,

or forgot.

I don't know what it is.

I've often sat with

Sissy behind me—

Sissy,

dear Sissy—

and

and thought about it.

I shall never get its name.

But your father may,

if I write and ask him about it.

I want so much
to know what it is.

Sissy,

give me a pen.

I don't know what to call it.

But he missed it out.

Sissy.

Give me a pen.

The bank's been
robbed! Where's Louisa?

I haven't seen her today.

Louisa?

Robbed with a false key,
what do you think of that?

False key?

A false key.

Robbed! Much?

Well no, not of very much,
but it might have been.

How? Of how much?

- Might I help myself—
- Yes, yes.

Yes, don't stint yourself.

As to how much it is, if you want
a sum, the sum's not so very much,

one hundred and fifty
pounds, that's how much.

But never mind the
sum, it's the fact—

the bank's robbed,
that's the thing to mind—

I'm surprised you don't see it.

My dear Bounderby, I do see it.

And I was overcome as you
could possibly wish me to be.

However,

I hope that I may be
allowed to congratulate you,

which I do with all
my soul, I assure you,

on your not having
sustained a greater loss.

I'll tell you what, Harthouse, it might
have been twenty thousand pounds.

Well, I suppose it might.

By the lord, you may suppose
so, it might have been twice twenty.

But Bounderby,
when was this done?

Sometime over the weekend,

could have been yesterday, could have
been Saturday. Now you know that lady?

I've had the honor.

She lives at the bank,
you know that, too.

The main door's kept
double-locked at night,

and the key stays
under that lady's pillow.

- Now, young Bitzer—
- Bitzer?

Bitzer, Bitzer,
the light porter man—

he sleeps outside the iron room
where there's, never mind how much.

Now, in the small safe
in young Tom's room,

the safe that's used
for the petty cash,

there was one hundred
and fifty pound odd.

One hundred and
fifty four, seven shillings,

and one penny.

No more of your interruptions,

it's enough that I'm robbed while
Bitzer's snoring, and probably you as well—

what do you think
you're there for?

You're too comfortable,
that's your trouble, Mrs Sparsit.

Sir, I can honestly say, I've
never actually heard Bitzer snore.

I will say,

on winter evenings, when
he's fallen asleep on his table,

I've heard him, what I would
prefer to describe as, partially choke.

I have heard him,
on such occasions,

produce sounds of a nature

similar to what may
be sometimes heard

in Dutch clocks.

Well, while he was
snoring or partially choking

or Dutch clocking or whatever else
he was doing besides being asleep,

someone got to young Tom's safe,

forced it open, and
abstracted the contents.

And then that somebody, or those
somebodies, we don't know how many,

let themselves out
by the front door

and double locked behind
them using the false key,

and that key was picked up
in the street outside the bank

at twelve o'clock today;
now what do you think of that?

Bounderby.

Is anybody suspected?

I should just think they
were—Josiah Bounderby of

Coketown's not to be
plundered and nobody suspected.

What would you say
to a hand being in it?

What, not your old friend Blackpot?

Say Pool instead of
Pot, sir, and you've got it.

I paid him off, didn't I?

And three days later
he bolted, didn't he?

And what's in between?

Mrs Sparsit sees him

lurking outside the bank

after dark.

Not one night, but—

two.

But that's conjecture, surely.

Oh yes, I know, these hands
are the finest fellows in the world,

aren't they? I've
heard all that before.

They've got the gift of the gab, they
only want their rights explaining to them,

Mrs Sparsit, what warning
did I give that fellow,

in your presence,

when he came to me seeking to know how he
could lay aside the ties of his marriage?

Did I not then tell him
that he'd come to no good?

Assuredly, sir.

You gave him that admonition.

You're disturbed, ma'am.

And so you should be.

You'll stay here a while, ma'am.

Recover your nerves.

What is it?

What's the matter?

Your husband's been robbed.

You've been waiting up for me.

What do you want?

Are you all right?

You look so tired.

Why shouldn't I be tired?

I couldn't get away
until the mail train.

Don't look like that.

I needed something to warm me.

Hanging about all day and night.

Answering policeman.

I want to go to sleep, Loo.

I have to ask you Tom.

Do you have anything to tell me?

If you've ever loved
me in your life, and

if you've concealed anything

from everyone else,

tell me.

Please.

- There's nothing to tell.
- Tell me the truth.

- What do you want to know?
- Tom,

please.

Is there anything
you have to tell me?

If you say no more than yes,

I shall understand.

Just look at me.

Tell me.

How can I say yes or no when
I don't know what you mean?

Have you ever said anything

to anyone at all about

that visit we made

to Stephen Blackpool?

Loo, I'm tired.

Let me get to sleep.

Tom.

I'm so frightened.

Frightened?

Tom, I can save you.

You seem low this
morning, Mr Bounderby.

Won't you try your breakfast?

Mrs Sparsit, ma'am, may I trouble
you to take charge of the teapot?

Yes, madam, would you be good
enough to take that end of the table?

It seems I shall wait till doomsday
to be looked after by my wife.

I'm sure Miss Gradgrind—

I'm so sorry.

I find it so difficult to think
of her as Mrs Bounderby.

Madam,

The teapot, if you please.

Thank you.

Never mind offending
my wife ,madam.

She's not one to be upset by
seeing another woman pouring my tea.

A little thing like that's not important
to Tom Gradgrind's daughter;

you're behind the times,
madam, if you think it is.

Mrs Bounderby, I'm so
embarrassed to be in your place, but

- Mr Bounderby—
- Stop where you are, madam.

Mrs Bounderby'll be glad she's
relieved of the trouble, won't you?

You can take it
quietly, can't you?

Of course.
What does it matter?

It's only that I recalled

how precious Mr. Bounderby's
time is to him in the mornings.

Oh, you'll be corrupted with new ideas
if you stay long in this house, madam.

Tom Gradgrind's
children will educate you.

What's the matter with you?

What's given you offence?

If I'd been given offence, do
you think I wouldn't have said so?

I'd have named it and asked
for it to be corrected, wouldn't I?

You know me; I don't
beat about the bush.

I'm sure no one ever
thought you diffident.

Or delicate.

I've never complained
about that, either as a child,

or as a woman.

I simply don't
understand what you want.

You're incomprehensible
this morning.

Want?

Want.

What do I want?

Pray take no further
trouble to explain yourself.

It doesn't matter.

We live in a
singular world, sir.

A singular world, I would say.

I recall,

when I had the honor of
receiving you at the bank,

you went so far as to
say you were actually

apprehensive of Miss Gradgrind.

Your memory does me more honor
than my insignificance deserves, madam.

Be buoyant, Mr Bounderby.

It's a bold stroke, but I don't mind
spending in the cause of justice.

But the man has fled
the district, hasn't he sir?

There's posters up
with his name on 'em,

and my posters will go up in other
towns; we'll spread a net of them.

Perhaps some where there's women
leave in the morning, young Tom.

One of my women friends
can have them put round for us.

Yorkshire.

How long do you say
you're going to be away?

Three nights. You mind your damned
times in the morning, young Tom,

when I was your age, I knew
the dawn better than my own face.

How soon, sir, do you expect
intelligence of the absconder?

Never mind, soon madam, I can wait.

Rome wasn't built in a day.

If Romulus and Remus can
wait, so can Josiah Bounderby.

They were better off in
their youth than I was.

They had a she-wolf for a nurse, I
only had a she-wolf for a grandmother.

She didn't give milk,
ma'am, she gave bruises.

You'll take the night train.

You're expected to
wait for my instructions.

It's very unusual for
Mr Harthouse to retire

so early after dinner,
wouldn't you say?

He's visiting across
the country tomorrow.

An unusually early start for him.

Indeed.

I didn't hear him mention it.

Should he be asked
about his breakfast?

He would have asked for himself.

If he'd wanted me to

arrange it specially for him.

Forgive me for laboring
the matter, Mrs Bounderby,

but does that mean he
will not be taking breakfast?

I only ask because it is your custom,
lately, not to preside in the mornings,

and if Mr Harthouse simply doesn't
appear, I'm not to know his wishes.

Or indeed if he's
already left the house.

I'm thinking of the
kitchen arrangements.

The kitchen can cater as
is necessary, Mrs Sparsit.

Mr Harthouse is
quite free to eat,

or not eat,

early or late

as he wishes.

Good night.

Goodnight Mrs Bounderby.

I'm married.

It's nothing to you.

You barely think of the man.

Why think of him now?

- I have a husband.
- Yes, you have a man's name.

What else have you
ever had from him?

Could you ever want from him?

He's nothing to
you—you know that.

I can't go with you.

Then stay.

Be my lover if
that's what you want.

God knows I detest this place,

but I'll stay forever
if I can have you.

- I can't be—
- You want me.

And there's nothing in this
whole country that I want but you.

There's another day and
a half before he'll be back.

We can be in London or
halfway to Paris by then.

Louisa.

You have me more distracted
than I've ever been in my life.

And don't turn me away.

Well then,

we leave tonight.

Together.

Separately then.

It doesn't matter
to me who knows.

We'll meet in the town.

Let go now.

Follow me.

I'll be at the hotel.

Yes.

Louisa.

Yes.

Father.

Father.

Louisa.

I have to speak to you, father.

What's the matter?

What is it?

You trained me from my cradle.

I curse the hour that
I was born to that.

You gave me life

and then took from it everything that might
have made it better than a living death.

I despise and detest myself
for being what you made me.

You killed every impulse that
might have made me happy.

There are hopes, doubts, longing,
struggling to be recognized in me.

If you'd known that, would you have
given me to the husband I now know I hate?

All I've had to live by the belief that
my life is short and will soon pass, as

there's nothing in it worth the
pain of trying to change it.

No. No!

A man has come into my life,
the kind I've had no experience of.

You know him.

You sent him.

He's read my thoughts, he
knows about my marriage

and about me, probably
more than you do.

I've not disgraced you.

But if you ask me
now whether I love him,

I couldn't truthfully say no.

I don't know.

I don't know what is meant by love.

He's been with me tonight,
while my husband's away,

he's expecting me to go away and
join him now and be his mistress.

I said yes.

I could get here no other way.

I don't know that I'm sorry or

ashamed or degraded.

All I know is

your philosophy and everything
you've taught me are useless to me now.

You've brought me to this.

You find some way to help me!

Who's here?

It's Sissy.

Shall I tell Mr Gradgrind you're awake?

How long have I been here?

Since late last night.

It's about eleven
in the morning now.

How do you feel?

Why are you here?

Mr Gradgrind and I have
been taking it in turns.

Did my father tell you

what I told him?

I know a little of it.

Please.

I can't bear to see you hurt any more.

Look at me, Louisa.

You'll be loved here.

Here?

- Love?
- Yes. Truly.

Your father's here.

I'll leave you together.

Louisa.

How are you now?

Won't you look at me?

You look very tired.

I've hurt you, haven't I?

I'm sorry for that.

If you'd been able
to confide in me,

before,

it would have been
better for both of us.

I know it wasn't in my nature.

It wasn't part of the system by
which you and Tom were brought up,

for me to invite confidences.

I can't blame you.

I never shall.

You've always acted sincerely,

I know that.

You asked me,

last night,

to help you.

I shall try.

But you've shown me how wrong
I've been in the past, how can I

trust myself to be right, now?

You must help me.

Some people hold, there's a wisdom
of the head and another of the heart.

I've never felt them.

I thought the head was all-sufficient.

I mistrust all my
old beliefs now.

Perhaps you and I
can help each other.

There are little changes,
here and there in this house.

Sissy started making them the
last months before your mother died.

I've spent much more
time here since then.

I've felt lately that—

perhaps I'm changing as well.

Lightening,

softening, or something.

Something distant.

Like something forgotten
being remembered, but pleasing.

I'm sounding nonsensical.

Maybe it's just an
old man weakening.

But I feel bound to ask because of
what I've seen happen to this house.

Coming from the love and gratitude
that grew between Sissy and your mother.

Perhaps,

what the head leaves undone,
the heart can do silently.

Do you think that can be so?

I'm not too proud
to believe it, Louisa.

There's no pride left in me.