All language subtitles for Hard Times 1977 EP4

The world is collapsing for
Bounderby and Gradgrind,

whose lives are governed by
facts and figures and ironclad rules.

The millionaire Bounderby's bank
has been robbed by, he thinks,

Stephen, the worker he dismissed
and who was forced to leave the town.

And Bounderby's wife, Louisa,

tied to him in a
loveless marriage,

has met James Harthouse,

who has asked her
to go away with him.

Leaving her husband's home,

Louisa has returned
to her father to tell him

that the upbringing
she has endured,

forced to deny love, feeling,
imagination, has brought her to this point.

- Beg your pardon, sir.
- YES?

- You mentioned a young lady, sir.
- Yeah.

What, is she here?

Well there's a
young lady outside

- asking for you, sir.
- Outside where?

- Outside that door, sir.
- Well show her in.

Yes sir.

No, leave that mess,
man. Show her in.

Yes sir, straight away, sir.

Mr Harthouse.

Ah, yeah?

Who are you?

My name's Sissy Jupe.

I've just left someone.

If you mean a lady, I follow you.

She sent you to fetch me?

No. No one has.

But you know about me.

And you've heard it from her.

I'm young, sir.

I'm alone.

In coming to see you I have no advice
or encouragement beyond my own hope.

Well. Where is she?

At her father's house.

And what is her message?

It's mine, Mr Harthouse, not hers.

Though I know
I'm telling the truth.

You will never see her again
as long as you live.

Oh?

That's strong.

And what is your
place in this lady's life?

I live at her father's.

Oh.

Is this a message from him?

No.

But you've taken this
upon yourself, have you?

I'm telling you
what I know is true.

You will never see her again.

You know this from herself?

You know her mind on this?

I know something of her character.

And of her marriage.

Oh? Well what
about my character?

You think I'm a man
who takes orders?

You will never see her again.

How do you know this?

I've been with her
most of the night.

Nearly all day
until an hour ago.

You have the same chance of seeing her again
as you would if she had died last night.

I have two more
things to say to you.

The first is that I am sure
your honor as a gentleman

will keep you from ever
mentioning that I was here today,

and that we had
this conversation.

Do you have enough
honor for that, Mr Harthouse?

This is very strong.

Well, what's your next thing?

I hope you can see that you owe
it to her, to leave here immediately.

And also never to come back.

I don't see how there's
any alternative for you.

You had her trust.

You set out to deceive her.

Deceive her?

Her husband's a bear.

Her father's a machine.

Her brother's a whelp.

And her own life is dry as ashes.

Tell me.

Why should I need to deceive her?

Mr Harthouse, the only
choice that remains with

you is to leave here,
immediately and finally.

It's not enough reparation.

But it's something.

And it is necessary.

Therefore I ask you to
depart from this place tonight.

Under an obligation
never to return to it.

Do you know what you're asking?

I'm here on public business.

Preposterous it may be, but I've—

I've gone in for it
and sworn by it.

It's absurd for me to back out
now in this incomprehensible way.

I'm sure it's the only thing
in your power to do, sir.

Oh?

And if I refuse?

Whether you refuse or not,

you will never see her again.

That, madam, is your English general.

That's your politician.

That's your polite company.

That's your James Harthouse, Esquire.

That's your high birth
and your costly schooling

and your wealth without work.

Sir, I fear you may
endanger your health—

My health, madam, is my own for
Josiah Bounderby to treat as he thinks fit.

I'm chafed and plundered by high and low,

and then I'm told that
I endanger my health.

A hand steals my money,

a gentleman, so-called,

runs off with my wife,

how do you make out, madam,

that I am ruining my health?

At your leisure, Mr Edwards.

Did I pay 100 guineas
for a pair of donkeys?

Good morning, sir.

Send my fellow up.

He's gone out sir.
He's gone to your—

Go out and get him.

And bring my shaving water.

And get me a glass of ratafia,

if such a thing
exists in this pig pen.

We've got some brandy, sir.

And tell him to get
up here and pack up.

Pack up, sir?

Everything.

I don't understand sir.

- If there's anything to be put—
- How long have you lived here?

Where, sir, in this hotel, sir?

No, no, not in this
house of correction.

In this town.

In this little-known but
delightful watering place.

All my life, sir.

Ah. Well that
explains a great deal.

There's a London
train at noon, I think.

I think so, sir.

Er, would you require the
room again next week?

Oh no no, not at the moment, eh.

You can put the straw down,
let the pigs in again.

Give them the run of the place.

Here?

You say my wife is here?

Yes, my dear Bounderby.

Why is she here,
and who is with her?

She arrived alone,

and only Sissy Jupe and I
have been with her since.

Madam,

I hope the information you
gave me does not turn out

to carry no substance
beyond that of cock and bull.

(coughs) Sir, I told you.

If you can't get it out, madam,
just leave me to get it out.

This is no time for a
lady, however well-connected,

to be fully inaudible and
seemingly swallowing marbles.

Mrs Sparsit recently
overheard, by accident,

a conversation between my wife and your
precious gentleman friend, James Harthouse.

Now that conversation brings
me here with some questions.

I know all that
passed between them.

And I can understand how this lady
would come to a certain conclusion.

It is not the correct
one, Bounderby.

I suggest, madam, that you return to
the coach and gather your thoughts,

and collect your wits and remain
there until I show you my hand, madam.

We will discuss this later, madam.

Grandgrind, can we talk
somewhere else but in your hall?

I am not in a very agreeable
state, I tell you plainly.

I do not consider myself to have
been dutifully and submissively treated

by your daughter as Josiah
Bounderby of Coketown

has a right to be treated by his wife.

My dear Bounderby—

Excuse me but I don't
want to be too dear, not dear.

When I begin to be dear
to a man, I generally find

his intention is to put
something over on me.

I am not speaking
to you politely.

But then, as you are
well aware, I am not polite.

If you want politeness,
you know where to find it.

You have your gentleman
friends, you know.

They'll serve you with as much

of the commodity as you
want. I don't keep it myself.

Please.

Bounderby,

I see reason to doubt that we've
ever quite understood Louisa.

We? What you mean by we?

Let me say then I doubt
whether I have understood her.

And with that, whether I've been quite
right in the manner of her education.

But I shall seek to repair
what is amiss, if I can.

And I hope you will
assist me, in a good spirit.

Because I've been
much distressed.

I don't understand you yet and
therefore I don't make any promises.

In the course of
the last few hours,

it appears to me that I
become better informed

as to Louisa's character
than in previous years.

Enlightenment has
been forced upon me,

the discovery is not mine.

I think there are—

Bounderby, you will be
surprised to hear me say this—

I think there are, in Louisa,

qualities, which have been

harshly neglected.

And a little perverted.

I would suggest to you,

that if you would kindly
meet me in this endeavor,

it would be the better
for the happiness of us all

if Louisa were left
to herself for a while.

I would like her given time to allow
that better nature to develop itself.

Encouraged by tenderness
and consideration.

Louisa has always
been my favorite child.

You want to keep her here?

I'd like her to stay for awhile
and be looked after by Sissy.

I mean, of course, Cecelia Jupe.

She understands her

in a way, I'm afraid, I never did.

Louisa trusts her

in a way she's never trusted me.

I gather from all this, Tom Gradgrind, that
you are of the opinion that there exists

what some people would call an
incompatibility between my wife and myself.

Bounderby, I fear there is at present a
general incompatibility between Louisa and

all she's been
allowed to know of life—

Now look here, Gradgrind,

This is Josiah Bounderby
you're talking to.

And it's clear to him
what your daughter wants.

Your daughter wants turtle soup
and venison with a gold spoon

and to be set up
in a coach and six.

And since you're of the opinion
that ought to have what she wants,

then I recommend you to provide for
her because she won't get it from me.

I'd hoped you might
understand what I was saying.

Well what you've said in this room
can be summed up in one sentence.

That your daughter doesn't properly
understand the marriage of her husband

and is dishonoring the marriage,
and thats it, in plain speaking.

- That's unreasonable.
- Is it?

I think not.

Not when I consider the behavior of your
daughter towards me since the wedding.

It has not been the
behavior of a wife—

now that is plain speaking.

There are
born ladies,

of families,

who next to worship
the ground I walk on,

and your daughter, Gradgrind,

is very far from
being a born lady.

And,

there are highly
connected females

who have been astonished

at the way your daughter has
conducted herself towards me,

and they've wondered
how I've suffered it.

I wonder myself, now.

And I won't suffer it.

I do feel the less we
say today the better.

Do you? Well I don't!
I'll settle this business in my own way.

I am pretty well known to be a
rather uncommon man, I believe;

and most people
understand fast enough,

it must be a woman rather out of
the common, to come up to my mark.

I've no wish to quarrel with you,
Tom Gradgrind, but what I say is this.

Twelve noon tomorrow.

Twelve noon exactly.

Twelve noon,

and if there's no longer a Louisa
Bounderby back in my house by then,

then there no longer
is a Loo Bounderby.

As far as I'm concerned, she can
be Loo Gradgrind till her dying day.

Certainly till mine.

Mark twelve noon, madam.

You can give the orders
about her clothes and effects.

And all her belongings
to be brought back here.

And her father can take care of her for the
future, and have charge of her bringing up.

And if there's to be
no more Loo Bounderby,

then you can leave
the bank, madam,

and resume the management of
my house in town, if that suits you.

You can have the keys again.

I don't see why a female
should be permitted

to badger and bother
a man in my position.

Hey, Mrs Sparsit?

Protect the poor, for
they want support,

that they may have some leisure,
some intellectual development,

in order to advance in virtue.

Protect the poor,

for the greatest danger to law,

public peace,

and stability,

is the belief of the poor
that they are oppressed,

and their hatred of government.

Protect the poor if you
wish industry to flourish,

for the poor are the most
important consumers.

Protect the poor if your
revenue requires to be increased,

for after you have
carefully guarded—

If you please, sir, there
is a working woman,

asking to speak to you, Miss.

A woman from one
of the mills, Miss.

Well did she give her name?

She said I was to say
her name was Rachel, sir.

I know the woman, father.
I'll go and speak with her.

Well if you know her,
let her come in here.

Sit down, my dear,
don't tire yourself.

Bring the woman in.

Good evening, Rachel.

This is my father.

And my friend,
Miss Jupe.

Good evening, Mrs Bounderby.

Good evening sir.

Mrs Bounderby,

you've seen me once before.

Yes Rachel.

You came—

with your brother—

to the house where
Stephen lodged.

You offered him money,

and he took two pounds only,
to pay back whenever he could.

This is all true.

Young lady,

did that seem to you
the behavior of a thief?

Stephen has been named as a thief
in print all over this town and beyond.

There was a meeting
at the union tonight,

and he was spoken
about in the same way.

I am very sorry.

I hope you may be.

I don't know.

I can't say what
you might have done.

You don't know us.

You don't care about us,
you don't belong with us.

I don't know why
you came that night.

I don't know if you came with some

aim of your own, not minding what
trouble you brought on my Stephen.

I said then,

"Bless you for coming,"

and I said it from my heart
because you seemed to take

pitifully to him.

Sit down here.

You're tired and worried.

You're saying
such strange things.

When I mind

how grateful the
poor lad was to you,

how good he thought
you were to him,

My dear, what does this
woman think you've done?

Rachel,

I pity Stephen from my heart.

What do you want of me?

Some help for Stephen,
someone to speak for him.

There have been lies told about
him, and I want the truth said.

I—

expected him to come back to clear himself,
because I wrote and told him to come back

and don't know why he isn't here yet.

But when, at last, I
spoke to Mr Bounderby,

he and your brother
said it made no difference,

Stephen was still suspected.

Why did he go away?

Well what else
was there for him?

The masters against him on one side,
the men shunning him on the other, and

he only wanting to work hard and honest
in peace and do what he thought right.

Can a man have
no spirit of his own,

no mind of his own,

that he must be wrong every way he
turns, while he's hunted like a hare?

Well he must come back.

- Face these things.
- We will.

But things must come out.

Things that have happened.

Perhaps I've
done no good coming here.

But I needed to face
you, Mrs Bounderby.

Not everything's clear my mind.

This is something that worries
at me, and I can't quite grasp it.

It goes against my nature
to feel anger and bitterness.

And I know it's wrong to
be suspicious without cause.

But there's something
bad in all this.

It will come right.

Will it?

Good night to you.

Good night, sir.

Good night then,

Rachel.

Louisa?

What does she want of us?

I've never seen this man.

Do you believe him
implicated in the robbery?

Other people assumed it.

I didn't question it.

Why did you go and see
this man? Whose idea was it?

Mine.
Entirely mine.

Tom was reluctant.

But why did you go there?

To help them, Mr Gradgrind.

I would like to
say that was so.

Simply that and no more.

I was inquisitive as well.

I know so little of
the work people.

They appear brutish in the mass, but
seen individually they have more interest.

They live so miserably yet I
found a surprising richness.

Perhaps there was also

shame in what I did, and—

spite in what I intended.

Mr Bounderby, my husband's
actions seemed offensive.

Our conduct derives from more
complexity than we imagine.

- Sometimes—
- You wanted to help them, Louisa.

Rest.

Where's my living if I rest?

The machines don't rest.

The machines don't
care who's lost or found,

who's grieving,
who's blamed,

who's tired, who's
dead, even that.

Don't say that.
You mustn't think it.

When bad things happen
to you, one after the other,

you get used to
facing what's bad.

And then what's worse,

and then what's worse still.

It's eleven days since I
last wrote to Stephen and

five days since I gave his
address to Mr Bounderby,

and Stephen had already
gone from that place.

Everyone's calling him a thief;

now they say he's run
away twice to prove it.

He's been kept from coming back.

I know it, he's been kept by force.

He could have fallen
sick on the way,

and to stop and be looked after.

There'd be news, Mr Bounderby's
had everywhere looked into.

You must think about
yourself as well.

You must eat.

For Stephen.

When he comes back, he'll need
you to be strong to stand by him.

You'll take these few things
I've brought, won't you?

When he comes back,
will you look after him here?

Well there can be
no harm, I'm sure of it.

We'll see.

I'll do what he wants.

Hey, what're you
doing down there?

Do you need any help?

We'll go to the village.

Can you hear me?

You alright?

Rachel!

Rachel!

Driver, stop, stop!

Well, is it him?

It's him alright.

We'll go down to him.

But it's a long way down.

Looks bad.

Please, God.

We need more rope!

We need more rope!

Come on, lad.

Come on [unintel]

There's air down there.

He's still got air.

Hello! Stephen! Stephen!

Alive!

He's alive.

But he's hurt bad.

God knows how we're
going to get him up.

He's not moving.

I couldn't give it him.

Quickly.

Stephen.

Stephen.

Do you know me?

Can you see me?

Rachel.

It's over now.

Come on, miss.

Get her away, quickly.

Rachel, we must get him away.

We must.

Come on, quickly, take him.

Don't let go.

I won't.

All a muddle, lass.

From first to last, a muddle.

Hush, lad.

Don't hurt yourself talking.

We're taking you
where you'll be safe.

That old shaft where I fell,

how many days?

I don't know.

I remember it now,

the men who worked the pit below.

They prayed to the law makers.

Sake of Christ, not to let
their work be murder to them.

Save them for their wives
and children that love them.

When it was in work,
it killed without need.

Now it's let alone,
it kills without need.

See how we die and no need.

Every day.

Look up yonder, Rachel.

Look above.

That star has shined on me
in my pain and in my fear,

every night as I lay.

Shined into my mind.

Told me that in our
judgments we must

bear

and forbear.

With it shining on me,
I've seen more clear.

I made it my dying prayer that

people may only
come together more.

See each other better.

Hush lad,

we must go.

Often as I came
to myself and—

found it shining on me down there, I—

thought it might be the—

star that guided to
our Savior's home.

Think it'd be the very same star.

Rachel.

I'm here.

It's over now.

I must tell that young lady for me,

the one that came
with her brother.

When I fell, I was in anger.

Hurrying on to be as unjust to
her as others have been to me.

All a muddle, lass.

But I pray I was wrong about her.

Never mind it now, lad.

There's no more time.

Who will clear me?

The young lady's here.

And her father.

Will you make my

name good again, sir?

Make it good with all men?

Tell me how.

Your son will tell you.

Ask him.

I make no charges, I—

I want to leave none against me.

We spoke together one—

one night.

Ask him.

Then clear me.

I can trust you.

Yes.

Yes.

- Rachel?
- Yes?

Hold me lass.

Bless you.

Don't let go.

We'll walk—

together tonight, dear lass.

Louisa,

where is Tom?

Ladies and gentlemen,

we now offer for your entertainment,

late of Paris and the Prussian court,

the tragical-comical performance

of Jack the Giant-Killer.

Cecilia.

Cecilia, my dear.

You are a lady.

A credit to us all.

Though this isn't the happiest
of moments for you, Squire.

You'll forgive my joy.

- Josephine!
- Sissy!

- Harry!
- Come now, Cecelia.

There's time enough for that.

Lots of catching up to be done.

Come with me Squire,
Come to the office.

This isn't the place for you.

What'll it be, Squire?

Brandy, Squire?

Thank you, no.

I have to take the brandy
for the voice, Squire.

- This is Miss Squire, eh?
- This is Louisa.

Is my brother safe?

He's safe with us.

We've kept him hidden.

He's the blackamoor
in Jack the Giant-Killer

Piece of comic
infant business.

Squire.

I don't know what scrape or
skylarking your boy has got himself into,

and I don't care to know.

All that I can see is
that whatever it is,

it has put him
in dire trouble.

And it just made you look as sad
and as sorry a man as ever I've seen.

I can say this as well.

That you stood right
and kindly by Cecilia.

So I stand by you, Squire,

and your son.

Sissy has been as dutiful
and as loving as I could wish.

As a daughter might've been.

I'm deeply indebted to her that she
should still know where you could be found.

My road, like my ways,
hasn't altered much.

I'm long in the tooth
for making changes.

Might I say, Squire, that the same
words could be spoken about you,

and yet you look a different man from
the proud one I remember when last we met.

Ah,

time for the horse's quadrille.

That's the end, Squire.

I'll get them out sharpish,

then you'd best see
your young blackamoor.

Father.

I'm here.

Why are you looking
at me like that?

You used to be the ringmaster once.

Now I've got Sleary.

How'd you think he put
me through my paces?

Better than you did?

How was it done?

You mean my face?

I mean the robbery
of Bounderby's bank.

I forced the safe myself, overnight.

And then left the
door half open.

I got a key specially made, and I dropped
it near the front door when I went out.

You took advantage
of that man's situation.

That man, Blackpool.

To have him loitering about the
bank at night to throw suspicion on him.

I told him there might be a message
for him, perhaps about possible employment.

That was the implication.

No remorse?

If x number of people are
employed in positions of trust,

then y numbers out
of the x will be thieves.

Isn't that a reasonable
proposition?

Haven't I heard you talk a thousand
times a week about the laws of probability?

There's one.

The man is dead.

Tricked.

Now dead.

If he'd stayed away
in his new work,

which would have
been the logical course,

instead of responding
to impulse—

You always despised impulse.

Thomas!

What did you expect from me?

Who taught me?

Facts, father.

Who instructed me
to stick to reason,

and never stoop to
sentiments and affections?

I needed money,
money was available.

So were the means.

Facts, father.

Thomas, please.

Go and tell the
people the facts of this.

I will.

I made a promise.

This will pay your way.

For a while.

Louisa has persuaded me
you must be got abroad.

Write to me.

Let me know your progress.

- Louisa wants to—
- No.

She loves you, Tom.

No, I won't see her.

I don't want to see her, ever.

Are you going now?

Goodbye, Tom.

He's leaving directly.

- He refuses to see me, doesn't he.
- He hasn't the time, my dear.

I thought, because of
our childhood feelings—

He's confused and frightened.

To be enabled—I just want
him to face me one last time.

I suppose we have to accept the fact
we may never speak to him again.

Did you confirm
what we suspected?

Yes.

I have to blame him less because
of the blame I have to put on myself.

I failed you both.

Now I've lost my son.

Father,

you still have two daughters.

Our lives will be different,

and we'll be different.

Don't offer me money, Squire.

I don't want money for myself.

But, Childers, now—

who is to put your boy
aboard ship in Liverpool—

now Childers is a family man.

And if you was to offer
him a five pound note,

I don't say it wouldn't
be unacceptable.

Likewise,

if you was to stand a new
collar for our performing dog,

or a set of bells for the
Emperor of Japan's horse,

I shall be very
glad to take them.

Brandy and water I always take.

Mr Sleary,

of course.

Squire,

if you'll only give
us horse-riding people

a good word among
respectable society,

you'll have more than
balanced the account.

I give you my word.

Thank you.

Now Squire,

I'd like a parting
word with you.

I don't suppose
you need to be told

that dogs

is wonderful animals.

They can certainly be trained to
do the most remarkable things.

I am blessed if I know
what to call it, Squire.

And yet I've had dogs
find me in such a way,

as to make me think that
one dog hasn't gone to another,

and has said,

"You don't happen to know a
person of the name of Sleary, do you?

A stout-made man in
the horse-riding way."

And whether that
dog mightn't have said,

"Well.

I can't say that
I know him myself,

but I may know a dog—

who's acquainted
with another dog—

who could put you in his way."

And whether that dog
hasn't thought the matter

over in his mind and
has said to himself,

"Sleary?

Sleary?

Oh yes, of course.

A friend of his mentioned
him to me only the other day."

I don't entirely
follow you, Mr Sleary.

Well it's like this, Squire.

About a year ago,

down near Chester,

a dog came to our tent.

He was old, and had
traveled a long way,

and he was lame and near blind,

and he went around to our children,

as if he was looking
for a child that he knew,

and he couldn't find the
one he was looking for.

He came to me,

and stood on his front legs.

That dog

was Merrylegs.

He died the next day.

Sissy's father's dog?

That's right.

Now I'll take my oath that dog
would not have left that man,

unless Jupe was dead.

I didn't tell Sissy.

So we'll never
know, will we Squire?

Whether her father
deserted her in cruelty,

or whether he
broke his heart alone,

rather than pull
her down with him.

She still keeps the bottle.

The nine oils, in
case he comes back.

Seems to tell us, doesn't it,

that there is still
love in the world,

and not just self
interest after all.

Seems to tell us, too,

that love has a way of
calculating on its own, doesn't it.

That's what I want
to say to you, Squire.

Yes.

In the future,

Mr Sleary, if you
ever want my help—

There's only one
thing you can do, sir.

And that is to stop the law makers
from being cross with us poor vagabonds.

People must be amused.

They can't always be working.

They can't always be learning.

They're not made for it.

You must have us, Squire.

Do the wise thing,

and do the kind thing.

Make the best of us,

not the worst.

Thank you Sissy.

He'll be safe.

They'll get him away.

Come on.

We'll go home now.

Subtitles by:
The Hampstead Titlebats