Original subtitles

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