All language subtitles for Penny Dreadful S02E04 Evil Spirits in Heavenly Places.DVDRip.NonHI.cc.en.SHOW

Previously on Penny Dreadful...

Why are you here?

I believe I'm
cursed to see things.

If you think you are
touched by the demon

then you best
walk out that door.

The man concerns me.

She has a protector.

Mr. Chandler?

Lupus Dei.

He shall be your
challenge, daughter.

I want to know
who did this to you.

Get better, Mr. Roper. We
have much to talk about.

My name is Dorian Gray.

Angelique. This is where I work.

I hope you know
what you've bought.

I do.

Cosmetically,
she is transformed.

Lily, may I introduce...

John Clare.

Come and meet the
new man we've hired.

It is good to meet you.

That face will make our fortune.

- Mrs. Poole.
- Sir Malcolm.

- What do they know?
- Nothing.

I can misdirect
them as you see fit.

No. Let her follow the
bread crumbs to me.

You have to learn
to protect yourself.

From whom? Legions.

- Remember this.
- No!

When Lucifer fell,
he did not fall alone.

They will hunt you
until the end of days.

♪

And then?

They burned her alive.

When I left the moors,

I thought I would never hear
that wicked language again.

Or confront that evil.

Mr. Chandler felt
you needed to know.

"For thee are not fighting

against flesh-and-blood
enemies...

but against mighty
powers in this dark realm."

"And against evil spirits
in heavenly places."

So these Nightcomers
practice a form of black magic,

while you practice a form of...

Practicing any form of
magic is unbelievable enough,

do we need to parse it?

We need to know
what these things are.

Yes, they're
witches, understood.

Witchcraft has a long history
in many cultures, Doctor,

as well you know.

As do fairies and sprites,
but they don't walk about

- Greater London, do they?
- These do.

My apologies.

And their goal?

They're servants to the Devil.

Doing his bidding to
serve their own ends...

whatever those may be.

All of which leaves
us where, exactly?

A threat to which we
can now give a name.

And a language
we need to decipher.

Oh. I'm on.

Take a look, won't you?

Mr. Chandler was
more right than he knew.

It is a puzzle.

And more complicated
than it first appeared,

which just about gave me
the vapors, I can tell you.

It's not so much
an actual language

as a collection of
known languages

forming new patterns.

But within this
thicket of obfuscation,

our old friends Greek and Latin.

Translating the Greek
was easy enough,

though the idiom is
decidedly pre-grammar,

if you will.

And one fragment...
emerged to me, here.

"So God looked down on
His defeated angels and..."

That "and" suggests what?

- More to come.
- Precisely.

So I started hunting
for the continuation...

and I found this, in Latin.

So, Mr. Chandler,
care to test your skill?

"Found them to be evil angels,

so He cast them out. He took..."

Took what?

Aren't you all dying to know?

It's a story.

A narrative that continues.

Language to language.

Greek to Latin to
Sumerian to Arabic

to 10 other obscure
languages and pictographs,

changing language
from relic to relic.

Is it the story
of Lucifer, then?

The angel cast out by God?

Time will tell.

How could this one monk
know all these languages?

- He didn't. The demon did.
- Exactly.

Recall, Brother Gregory

was only writing
down what he heard,

apparently in whatever
language it came to him.

Do you know
what I think this is?

Yes, I think it's a story.

But you made one
mistake in your translation,

Mr. Chandler, more
than understandable

given the archaic
script and usage.

Look again.

Not "them..."

"us."

"Found us to be evil
angels, so He cast us out."

It's not just a story.

It's an autobiography.

The memoirs of the Devil.

This is all giving
me a headache.

You should talk to a doctor.

You know, once I
would have thought

all of this impossible.

And now?

I know nothing's impossible.

Whatever we can
imagine, far worse is true.

- And far better.
- You think so?

I choose to.

Miss Ives, I've a...

personal favor to ask of you.

Would you mind accompanying
me somewhere tomorrow?

On, well...

an errand of sorts.

Of course, Doctor.

- May I call at 10:00?
- Gladly.

Thank you.

What are you doing?

Watching.

For what?

Those things that hunt at night.

Lions.

The train stops in the tunnel.

The lights go out
for a brief moment.

No one in the carriages
on either side saw anything.

No one came and no one went.

So how did he do it?

- Sir?
- How did he come and go?

Carrying a baby, no less...

which apparently didn't
squall or cry out in transit.

- Perhaps he killed it here.
- Then why take it?

And the wounds...
like a surgeon.

Precise and elegant...

unlike the other animal
butchery we've seen.

No, we're going
about this all wrong.

We're pursuing
patterns of logic...

when the answer lies elsewhere.

Where?

Magic.

Evening Star! Mother
and father killed!

And how are we to
afford another exhibition?

It'll pay for itself in time.

What makes you
think that Harry Public's

going to plunk down two bob
to see those bloody things?

Go to the corner right
now, you'll find the answer.

They line up three deep

for the Police Gazette
and the penny dreadfuls.

And those are only pictures.

We give 'em it fully formed.

Horror in all its horror.

Yeah, time will prove it, eh?

A husband could use a
show of support from his wife.

Besides, with this, we're
not simulating anything...

because it's all real.

Flesh and blood and
pumping hearts and all.

Here. Look at this.

We add another entrance
here, at the corner.

Two attractions, two
gates... two admissions.

Give 'em a discount
for buying both.

They go down the stairs here.

I don't follow. Where
are you keeping them?

In this half of the cellar,

if I can rent it off
the tobacconist.

You see?

You're going to keep them
in the cellar? All the time?

Of course.

They don't need the light.

They're freaks.

I know you're there.

Sorry, miss.

Everyone does it.

A chance to observe
life at its most natural,

being unobserved.

I can always tell.

The molecules change
in the air, you see.

Everything vibrates.

Oh, I'll... I'll go.

Mr. Clare, don't
be such a mouse.

Now, tell me...

does this look
like Mr. Gladstone?

He's been Prime
Minister so many times

we have to keep
making him older.

I think he does.

Aging them is easy.

Everyone knows you
have to add wrinkles

and sagging skin and such...

but the trick... is the eyes.

They get cloudy
as you get older.

You have to change the eyes.

What do your eyes look like?

Um...

They're not beautiful.

Are they cloudy?

No.

What color are they?
No. Let me guess.

- Miss...
- Blue?

No, you're no blue-eyed boy.

Not green, I sense.

I'll say brown.

Feathery brown
like an owl's wing.

No, not brown.

Well, tell me.

They're...

yellow.

Well, that makes a change!

Not a lemon yellow, I hope.
That would be alarming.

More of a turmeric,
would you say?

Yes.

I heard the most wonderful
story about Mr. Gladstone.

That almost every evening
he goes out walking...

and if he comes
across a fallen woman

he stops and talks to
her and gives her money.

A very kind man.

Anyone who's
kind to the suffering

deserves a proper place
in the museum, I say.

And what about the
others you work on?

Which?

Those that aren't kind.

Yes.

Father's murderers.

All those figures screaming
in his new crime scenes.

Ah, Mr. Clare...

it hurts me to create them.

Like I'm bringing them to
life and then torturing them.

Like some sort of terrible
African voodoo doll.

They're all fresh when
they come out of the molds...

and then I make them suffer.

Some people think
that's what life is.

Born fresh to suffer.

Do you think that?

Uh... I did.

Now I'm not sure.

There's hope for you anyway.

Don't give up on life just yet.

No, miss, I won't.

Family murder on
the Underground!

Baby missing!

Family murdered.

All horrors on the Underground!

Read about it.

Thank you, sir.

- Are you all right, miss?
- Why... I...

It's all right.

It's okay. You're...

Come on, now. It's all right.

I understand your memory

may not be completely
clear, Mr. Roper.

I'll take that into account.

Will you describe what
happened at the Mariner's Inn?

Anything you can remember

would be a boon
to my investigation.

With your help...

we can find the man
who did this to you.

I don't remember.

Nothing?

- I find that hard to credit.
- Credit what you like.

The pathologists
tell me your wounds

were likely inflicted by
some sort of animal claw.

Perhaps a tomahawk or ritual
club from your own country.

I don't remember.

Then perhaps you can remember
why you were wearing this.

Protection.

From what?

Mr. Roper.

My city is choked with bodies.

A baby is missing.

You will help me, or by
God, I will grind you to bone.

I am a citizen of the
United States of America.

I know my rights.

Soon as I'm able, I'll be
gone from your goddamn city,

you can be assured.

Honestly, Doctor, this is
the last thing I expected.

Yes, well...

what's life without surprises?

It's my cousin, you see,
she's coming to visit me

and she's a simple girl,
not slow, you understand,

not retarded in any way...

just from the country, you know?

Your cousin, how lovely.

Yes. My cousin. Second cousin.

Lily is her name.

Lily Frankenstein.
Yes, that's her name.

Excuse me. Oh!

Not a real woman at all.

The mannequin, I
mean, not my cousin.

She's a real woman.

So your second cousin
Lily is coming to visit you.

Yes. That's it entirely. Yes.

And... what are we doing here?

Yes, yes, of course.

Being a country girl,

I thought I might
buy her a dress or two

so she'll fit in.

And you've never shopped
for women's clothing before.

In a nutshell, yes.

Then I shall be
delighted to assist you.

You always dress so...

You know, with
the collars and the...

- black things with the...
- Mmm?

Always very completely dressed.

- Good morning.
- Good morning.

Vanessa Ives,
pleased to meet you.

Mr. and Mrs. Ives.

Oh, God, no. No,
we're not married.

Oh, I see.

No, it's not like that either.

I assure you, sir, discretion
is the watch-cry of my trade.

We'll look around
for a bit if we may,

my non-husband and I.

This is worse than I
knew it was going to be.

Now, is she fair or dark?

Very fair. Golden blonde hair.

And her size?

Precisely five
feet, five inches.

Very exact.

I had cause to
measure her height.

I shan't ask.

And her general body type?

More rounded than yours.
Fuller hips, larger bust.

Ah.

How about this?

It would work nicely on
a young girl with fair hair.

Guipure lace is very popular

and the mousseline de soie
would flatter an ample bosom.

Can you... hold it up?

Hmm. I've never
seen you wear white.

- Not my color.
- No.

I'm not sure about the...

- Decolletage.
- Precisely.

Then we'll move on.

And... would you be willing...

if it's not too much trouble...

to have tea with us
sometime, when she's in?

I shall be honored, Doctor.

She's very shy.

I'll whisper.

There is one more
thing to consider.

Yes?

When we've bought
the dress, we'll need...

undergarments.

You're going to laugh.

I won't, I promise.

I hate to even say it aloud.

- Hecate Livingstone.
- Hecate.

I know!

It's the name of a
Greek sea goddess,

Mistress of the Waves.

My parents went through
a classical learning phase.

My name is the hideous result.

Why don't you just go
by your middle name?

- I can't.
- Why?

Aphrodite.

I'm sorry, I've been
wanting to do that.

God, I'm hopeless.

And I'm supposed to
be going to Spain next.

How am I going to survive
the brigands of the Alhambra

if I can't cross a
damn street in Soho?

I think those brigands
better watch out for you...

Hecate Aphrodite Livingstone.

So, how did you end up here?

Because I'm trying to
be a liberated woman.

Not too successfully
thus far, it seems.

I grew up in Maine

but when I graduated
from Northwestern,

I decided I'd had enough
of the great cow pastures

of Indiana and lobster
fields of New England

and deserved some
proper civilization...

among properly civilized people.

And you're traveling alone?

Yes, Mr. Chandler,

American women
sometimes do travel abroad

without armed guards.

I have a degree in botany...

a sensible pair of shoes,
and a very generous account

at the American Express.

You're studying Latin.

I'm trying to make
myself into one of those

civilized people
you're hoping to meet.

Just don't go crazy
naming your kids.

Are you a scholar of some sort?

Do I look like a scholar?

No, you look like a...

I don't know what you look like.

A train robber.

Have you ever been out West?

You mean like California?

- And the New Mexico territory.
- Not yet.

Adventures to come.

Then he must have
come to see you.

Who?

My father.

Your accent's good, but
no trace of a Yankee in it

for a girl who says
she grew up in Maine.

Northwestern is in
Illinois, not Indiana.

Maybe the Pinkertons
are hiring women now,

if so, I applaud them for it,

because I am all
for emancipation.

My father failed with
them and he failed with you.

So go back and tell
him to leave me be

or the next time he sees
me, I'll have a gun to his head

with my finger on the trigger.

I hope you enjoy the Alhambra...

it's supposed to
be very dramatic.

And honestly...

those aren't very
sensible shoes.

But I'm frightened.

What horrors might it contain?

Behold the evil
wonders of Lucifer.

Unleashing his dark
powers onto the world.

I don't admit to my real
name, it's beneath contempt.

Let me guess then. Bartholomew?

Oh!

Tarquin?

- Ahab?
- Never you mind.

And "Dorian" isn't the
most fetching name either.

My parents were
aspiring to status.

- You weren't born rich?
- Not by a far cry.

Well, at least tell
me how old you are.

Older than I look.

- Then tell me your secret.
- Ah...

be careful what you wish for.

Should be ashamed.

You're raising a few eyebrows.

You don't mind?

Let them stare.

Provocation is food
and drink to me.

Here we are.

Are you ready for an adventure?

Something brand new?

Are there any other
kind of adventures?

The soldiers brought
it back from India,

it's called gossamer
tennis. All the rage.

They say there'll be
parlors all over London soon.

God, electrical lighting.

What that does to
a girl's complexion.

Champagne, please. Your best.

Sir.

Now, as I understand
it, we bounce the ball

back and forth for a bit.

Yes, I'd gathered that.

Shall we keep score?

Why else live?

Oh!

One for me.

I made ridiculous
errors... but it wasn't that.

He smelled me.

You might have
suspected as much.

Lupus Dei.

There's no doubt now.

Then we shall
have to meet him...

tooth for claw.

I'll prepare the
enchantment for tonight.

Take the others.

- You know what to bring me?
- Yes.

Don't disappoint me again, girl.

Caution, daughter.

You over-reach.

I don't trust that little man.

Mr. Lyle is distinctly
untrustworthy.

But as weak as a lily.
Have no fear of him.

And the others?

Do with them as you like.

Only Miss Ives matters.

Bring me what I need.

That's made from
a champagne cork.

What is?

The ball.

How can you tell?

Darling, I can smell
champagne at 30 yards

locked in a steamer trunk
at the bottom of the ocean.

I do believe that
makes 12 games to...

- How many is it?
- None.

None, that's right, poor lamb.

Another game?

Do you think your
pride can take it?

Losing again to a
defenseless female?

And you are neither
of those things,

as we both well know.

And where would we be
without our little deceptions?

I think we should
be very uninteresting.

It's the subterfuge

that makes it all
the more delicious.

Knowing the
secrets others don't.

Being who we want to be...

not who we are.

How's it feeling?

It's very tight.

That's meant to be the point.

I can barely breathe.

I think that's meant
to be the point, too.

Ladies aren't supposed
to exert themselves.

I won't be able to walk.

Lots of young ladies do.

You shall as well.

Are you going to
teach me that, too?

I'll do my best.

Trust me, you've
quite a challenge.

I feel like a mule.

All right, I'm finished.
Are you ready?

Have on.

I can't believe you've
ever been this silent

in your entire life.

Lily...

you look beautiful.

- I can't breathe.
- That's the corset.

Yes, I know what it is, cousin,

I'm wearing it.

Can you help me? I think
I'm going to topple over.

The shoes are awfully high.

Yes... I picked them for that.

Why?

I... like that in a woman.

Displays the talocrural region
and the leg's dorsiflexion.

That's flattering.

Do all women wear corsets?

Most... of a certain
class anyway.

It seems...

I don't have the
word, um... cruel.

The bone's
sticking into my skin.

I believe you can
adjust it around a bit.

Are you going to
fix that yourself?

Of course.

I'm good with stitching.

So, women wear corsets so
they don't exert themselves?

Partly.

What would be the
danger if they did?

They'd take over the world.

The only way we men prevent that

is by keeping women corseted...

in theory... and in practice.

They're meant to
flatter the figure.

To a man's eye, anyway.

All we do is for men, isn't it?

Keep their houses...

raise their children,
flatter them with our pain.

No.

Does this corset flatter me?

Yes.

Do you want me to wear it?

I want nothing to
cause you pain.

Not for flattery,
or... my vanity...

or anything under the sun.

Now, please...
go and take it off.

The dress will
look fine without it.

Thank you.

But I'll keep the
shoes on if I may.

I thought they hurt your feet.

Yes. But you like them.

Fortunately for her, you
were there, otherwise...

I'm fluent in Arabic,

but this script's
highly obscure.

I can only make
out certain words.

These might help.

Oh, yes. That's much better.

I don't know if they
entirely suit you...

a bit de trop.

Look, it's something like...

"Us by our winged backs

and raised us over
His head. Thence..."

"Found us to be evil angels,
so He cast us out. He took..."

"Us by our winged backs

and raised us over
His head. Thence..."

You're enjoying
this, aren't you?

Now that you've
given up the Nile,

you need a new quest.

Perhaps I do.

And you shouldn't be vain

about needing
spectacles, you know.

You're a strapping
sort of man all told.

Well, I suppose I'm...

courting after a fashion.

Sir Malcolm, you vanquish
me. Who's the lucky lady?

You know her, in fact.

I first met her at your house.

Mrs. Poole.

Oh, yes, our clairvoyant friend.

You might... well,
proceed with caution, eh?

I have no choice but
to. I remain married.

All for the best then.

Those little dalliances
can get so Byzantine.

My past is littered with
overly Byzantine dalliances

from Stoke-on-Trent to Budapest.

Hmm.

I think she came from my father.

Why?

He wants me to come
home. He's sent others before.

What was her name?

Alias, more like.

Hecate, she said.

It's some kind of
Greek sea goddess.

Oh. That was a lie as well.

Hecate wasn't a sea goddess.

She was a moon goddess,
and bringer of magic.

And also a character in Macbeth,

the Protector of Witches.

She didn't look like a witch.

And would an old crone
have attracted your eye?

No, Mr. Chandler,

they can assume many guises,
like a chameleon on a leaf.

In their natural state,
they're more... memorable.

She was some chameleon then.

Do you feel like some coffee?

No, thank you.

I'll be right back.

Vanessa... come
and look at this.

Well, don't you look fetching?

I'll do that.

I don't mind. Pays for my keep.

Pays for my keep.

She should eat more.

You worry about her, don't you?

She's a lioness. She
does not worry me.

But you worry about Sir Malcolm.

- Can I ask you a question?
- Can I stop you?

Were you a hunter
where you came from?

Partly.

What was the other part?

Private.

I should get you an apron.

"In the great war

for the Heavenly Throne,
we were vanquished..."

"So God looked down on
His defeated angels and He..."

"Found us to be evil angels,

so He cast us out. He took..."

"Us by our winged backs

and raised us over
His head. Thence..."

- Thence?
- Cast us to Hell?

Does any of this strike
a chord in you, Vanessa?

Yes.

My friend, the Cut
Wife, said to me...

"When Lucifer fell,
he did not fall alone."

And the Demon's
purpose in telling his tale?

A prophecy.

Give it a thought.

Lucifer tells a past tense
narrative to a monk. Why?

Just so his history
can be recorded?

No.

If we accept the Devil
walks amongst us today...

we must consider
this is meant to be part

of an ongoing story,

that it has relevance now.

It's possible he wasn't
just recounting the past

but foretelling the future.

Whose future?

I think most likely yours.

You don't know that.

- Vanessa...
- You don't know that!

Are there any
references to a woman?

- To anyone like me?
- We're not done yet.

You'll understand I
find it difficult to accept

I'm the object of an
eternal Satanic quest

that's so far only demonstrated

in something that's
half-poetry, half-gibberish.

I'm sorry. No!

I'm tired. I apologize.

No need.

I think I should turn
in. You'll excuse me?

- Good night.
- Sleep well, my dear.

As I can.

Good night, gentlemen.

Don't tell me you're
going to miss Sembene's...

- What is that?
- Buttercream torte.

Two words I
thought I'd never hear

coming out of your mouth.

Save me some for breakfast.

Good night.

Does she really eat
dessert for breakfast?

Always.

No sensible shoes
now, Mr. Chandler.

♪