Penny Dreadful (2014–2016): Season 3, Episode 1 - The Day Tennyson Died - full transcript

Last season on Penny Dreadful...

Do you believe the past can return?

It never leaves us.

It is who we are.

When Lucifer fell, he
did not fall alone.

One brother to Earth
and the other to Hell.

Both in an eternal quest
for the Mother of Evil.

You'll understand I find
it difficult to accept

I'm the object of an
eternal satanic quest.

You have to learn to protect yourself.

They will hunt you
until the end of days.



She has a protector.

Lupus Dei.

And he is powerful.

Mr. Chandler? Inspector
Bartholomew Rusk.

We've had some trouble here in London.
Murders.

I know you're involved.

And your proof?

I'll find it. I always find it.

Lily, you must come home.

I love you.

I am home, darling.

When our day has come...

you will know terror.

She's the one the
Master seeks above all.



End the torment, Vanessa.

Be who you were meant to be.

I know what I am.

The Wolf of God.

Stand alongside the great winged Lucifer

as he reconquers heaven's bloody throne.

I belong away from mankind.

When you have stood in
blood long enough...

what is there left?

Sir Malcolm is going to Africa.

This dreadful house will soon be empty.

We can lock the doors
and walk away forever.

Walk with me.

There's no walking away from what I am.

- You'll confess?
- Yes.

It's an extradition order.

You're going home, Ethan.

Dear Vanessa...

your many kindnesses I
will always carry with me.

But I am made for the dark.

Your road may be difficult.

But mine is doomed.

So we walk alone.

So we walk alone.

My dear Miss Ives. I know you're there.

I shan't go away.

I am singularly persistent, my dear.

I shall stay here all day and

bloody my poor knuckles in
the endeavor if necessary.

I love what you've done with the place.

Ah, you can hear the bells.

They're tolling all over the city.

A fitting tribute to our fallen hero.

Oh, you would not have
heard of it, I'll hazard.

Tennyson has died.

He who dined with Coleridge
and walked with Wordsworth,

our great poetic link to ages gone...

"I hold it true, whate'er befall;

I feel it, when I sorrow most;

'Tis better to have loved and lost,

Than never to have loved at all."

You've ignored my letters and cards.

I should be capaciously insulted

but for my understanding of your...

unique nature.

My dear, dear Miss Ives.

My heart is saddened to see you in these

lowered circumstances,

amongst the spiders and flies.

Shall we not at least try
to bring you back to

the mammalian community?

There was a time in my life...

when I fell into a state
of ennui beyond compare.

I was quite divorced from the
man I was or wanted to be.

But my...

unique nature...

left me feeling loathed and loathsome.

And then I was introduced to
a woman who saved my life.

A mental doctor of a sort.

I was skeptical but the
proof is in the pudding,

and here I sit before you...

resplendently who I am,

entirely because of her ministrations.

I beg you to see her.

Life, for all its anguish,
is ours, Miss Ives.

It belongs to no other.

I'll make you an
appointment, if I may and

we shan't have another word about it.

Though you might want to...

you know, fix up your hair.

I've never seen so much nothing.

Look closer.

Recognize the patterns of nature.

Snake holes. Wolf dens.

And the animal bones.

This whole country is
built on skeletons.

One would like a cup of tea, though.

Is there a club car, Marshal?

In the back.

You will excuse us, Mr. Talbot?

Do you have tea?

I do.

Two, please.

You with that prisoner back there?

Yes.

You're British, though.

We are extraditing him to stand trial.

Ah, he doesn't look so dangerous to me.

What'd he do?

He butchered a lot of people

and ate a fair number of them.

Hey!

Hey, you can't go up there!

Please, no.

No! Ah.

Please, sir.

You would not harm a defenseless female?

Welcome home, Ethan.

Hyah.

Sixth of October, 1892.

My dear Vanessa.

So it's done.

I've buried our friend
Sembene in the mountains

from whence he came.

It was a private ceremony
with no ornamentation.

Most of the local natives
have been run off

or captured by the Germans
and the Belgians,

for the rubber and ivory trade.

For slaves in all but name.

What romance I saw in
Africa is done for me.

The land is tainted now, beyond repair

and I want to be quit
of the filthy place.

What then?

Are there no fresh wonders left?

No worlds yet to conquer?

When I have my itinerary
in mind, I'll cable.

I hope this finds you well and at peace,

or such a peace as those
as we can summon.

Yours sincerely, Malcolm Murray.

Sir, money for my baby.

Money. Yes.

- Here.
- More!

You're a rich Briton.

Come with me. I let you fuck me.

Any way you want, John Bull.

No. Sorry.

Maybe I let them fuck you, John Bull!

Ah!

Old traditions die hard,
don't they, Sir Malcolm?

It's an unholy thing,

eating human flesh.

Better to starve.

I'll not starve.

We've eaten the goddamn leather...

and the fucking wood

and every goddamn rat and bug.

There's nothing left but them on deck.

So I say we eat.

Better to die.

We draw lots.

So eke out a few more
days and then what?

If we're gonna die, let us die as men,

not animals.

That amuses you?

He's not long for it.

Hasten the end...

and let us eat then.

You want him to suffer?

Let us put him out of
it, you cruel bastard.

Let us eat!

♪ Guardian angels God will send thee ♪

♪ All through the night ♪

♪ Soft the drowsy hours Are creeping ♪

♪ Hill and dale In slumber sleeping ♪

♪ I my loved ones' Watch am keeping ♪

♪ All through the night ♪

How long does he have?

A few days. Less.

They won't give him that.

Better he die quickly.

I wish you luck.

Where are you going?

Home.

I don't drink spirits.

As you like.

American Indian?

Chiricahua Apache by birth and right.

Are you familiar with the West?

Only through the newspapers.

It is not what it was.

But then what is, Sir Malcolm?

How do you know me?

I've been following you.

In Africa?

I missed you in London,
so I came to this place.

I waited for your return
from the Interior.

How'd you know I'd return?

Because you can't die until
you've served your purpose.

And what's that?

To fight the great
demons of earth and sky

until you are dead.

I'm done with that.

Better say you're done with breathing.

You must come with me.

- Where?
- America.

Ethan Chandler needs your help.

And you expect me to come
with you to America?

I demand it.

My name is Kaetenay.

Come with me and I'll
tell you the story.

To where?

The New Mexico Territory.

My home... and his home.

He who is almost my son.

You know you have a further destiny.

Let this be it.

Our son needs us.

Where is your heart, Malcolm Murray?

Be who you are.

Mr. Talbot.

- Who are you?
- Hell, we're your liberators.

From those Federals who
would have hung you

from the neck until dead,
as the warrant goes.

You work for my father.

He killed all those people on that train

just to get to me.

Man wants to see you again.

Well, maybe it's about time he did.

Cheer up, Ethan. We're taking you home.

Good luck.

Look at this black bastard!

Not from around here, is he?

Go home, you dirty wog!

Don't need no bloody niggers here.

Back to fucking Calcutta with
every one of you, say I.

Victor!

Dr. Frankenstein.

Dr. Jekyll.

Thank you for coming.

I had no one else, you see.

No one.

Is it love or work?

Both.

Love, work, and narcotics.

Where do we begin, Victor?

There is much I...

I have been working.

That is the root of it.

The old work?

Yes.

And?

Success.

When we were in school we dreamed,

you remember,

of walking into the
Royal Society together

with our triumph

of presenting our evidence
with a glorious flourish.

And how all those who had hated us,

and laughed at us, would be silenced.

And we, heroes both,

would conquer the world
and beat back death.

I have conquered death.

And have created monsters.

None more so than the man
who sits before you.

I've told no one this.

I am your true friend.

Then, now, and always.

Then I'll unfold a tale better
suited to black midnight.

When I left school, I came to London.

I found work at a
resurrectionist's mortuary.

Thus the tools of my sorry
trade were all around me.

And before long, my mind
turned fully to re-animation

and bringing those sorry lumps
of flesh to renewed life.

Good afternoon. May I help you?

Yes.

Yes, I'm here to see Dr. Seward.

Oh, I see.

- Have you an appointment?
- Yes.

My name is Vanessa Ives.

I was referred by a friend.

He said I ought to come.

Oh, lovely.

Yes. Well, do sit down.

Be back in two shakes.

This way, Miss Ives.

Make yourself at home, please.

I'll be with you in a second.

Take a seat, Miss Ives.

I said, sit down, Miss Ives.

Since I'm sure you're not
familiar with alienism,

I'll tell you how it works.

If I accept your case, I
insist on one-hour sessions

every other day, no exceptions.

Our sessions are strictly confidential.

I don't talk about them and you can't.

No exceptions.

Given we are a new branch of science,

there's no standard scale for fees,

so I charge 10 shillings per session.

As much as a visit to a
halfway-decent dentist.

So you can come see me
or get your teeth fixed.

Your choice.

Why are you scratching your hand?

Why were you doing that?

I had an itch.

No, you didn't.

This is a challenge.

You're seeing if I'm worthy of study.

This is a preliminary
consultation, Miss Ives.

Please call me Vanessa.

I'm not your friend, or your priest,

or your husband.

I'm your doctor.

You come to me to get
better because you are ill,

no other reason.

Do you understand that?

- No exceptions.
- Yes.

Do you understand that you are ill?

Not bad, not unworthy, just ill.

Do you understand that?

Yes.

Are your hands dry?

- Yes.
- Then perhaps you should

invest in some hand cream

and save yourself the
expense of seeing me.

I have money.

You mean your husband has money.

I have no husband.

I have family money.

A small inheritance.

Small or large, really?

Large.

My late father was a solicitor.

Then why did you say small?

I don't know.

Politeness, I suppose.

Is it impolite to have money?

I don't know!

I don't care about politeness.

There are no manners here.

If you want to scream like
an animal, you should.

Or cry. Or yell.

There are no emotions
unwelcome in this room,

and if this process
doesn't appeal to you,

the door is there.

You don't want me to leave.

Why not?

Because I scratch my hand.

You find that telling.

Of what?

Those phobias that interest you.

Do you interest me?

I might.

You're not sure.

You don't need the 10 shillings.

But you do need interesting people.

Why?

- To collect.
- To cure.

Is there a difference?

We've met before.

I'm sure not.

I mean, I've known
someone very like you.

Joan Clayton was her name.

My family name is Clayton.

Devon people.

From the West Country.

My ancestors...

Yes.

Generations ago.

But that's immaterial.

I'm your doctor, nothing
more, understood?

Come tomorrow at 10:00 a.m.

And every other day at the same time.

We'll begin our sessions?
We already have.

But...

but, don't you want to
know what's wrong with me?

I already know what's wrong with you.

You're unhappy.

You're isolated.

You think you're the cause
of this unhappiness

and are unworthy of affection
so you've few friends.

Recently you lost something
you think very important.

Your lover, your faith,
your family, or all three.

You blame yourself for this,

so it makes you neurotic,
and you don't sleep

and don't eat anything healthy anyway.

You used to take care
of your appearance,

but you've lost interest in
that, so you avoid mirrors.

Sunlight bothers you,
so you avoid that too,

about which you're guilty

because you think it's unhealthy

and even immoral not to like the sun.

You're not a woman of convention

or you wouldn't be here, but
you like to pretend you are

so people don't notice you.

But you sometimes like that as well,

and can dress to draw the eye.

But then you think the men
who look at you are fools,

or worse, to be taken in by
such an obvious outward show.

So, instead you're drawn
to dark, complicated,

impossible men,

assuring your own unhappiness
and isolation because,

after all, you're happiest alone.

But not even then because you can't

stop thinking about what you've lost,

again, for which you blame yourself.

So the cycle goes on,

the snake eating its own tail.

Or you can just have your teeth fixed.

I'll come tomorrow.

First, you've something to do.

Break the cycle for this one day.

Do something you've never done before.

Right now.

Doesn't matter what it is.

Eat something new.

Go somewhere different.

Tell me about it tomorrow.

You understand?

Yes.

Pay my secretary on the way out.

Thank you.

The house of pain.

In all its glory.

So this is where your Lily was born.

What a thing, Victor.

To have created life.

Such a miracle.

Yes, my miracle.

Bringing forth horrors.

And every act of my hideous creations,

their every sin, hangs on me.

You wonder why I turn to the needle.

'Twas that or the noose.

You're no suicide.

You think too much of yourself.

Ah, well, if that's what you...

I haven't heard a bloody peep
from you in over five years,

which caused me no small amount of pain,

while we're at it,

as I was never precisely
abundant with friends,

if you remember.

And now you call me here
and tell me all this,

all these dreadful, gorgeous secrets.

Why?

I need your skills.

You need my friendship first, Victor.
Look at you.

That doesn't matter, don't you see?

Only the evil I have spawned matters.

You must help me destroy her.

You want me to help you kill Lily?

Yes. You will do that.

You will help me.

I have no one else.

I am not a killer.

Are you not?

That despised half-caste boy I knew,

crying himself to sleep.

That shunned little wog

who had not a friend in
the world aside from me.

He could kill.

God, he wanted to.

You remember late at night in
our room, over the hookah,

listing the names of all the
boys who had insulted you?

The recitation of your
potential victims.

Your nightly prayers.

That anger inside you,

all that rage.

Have you lost it?

I have learned to control it.

That is the essence of my work now.

The neurologic chemical
reactions of the brain.

Taming the beast within.

You were the most brilliant
chemist I ever knew...

Don't flatter me.

I know what I am.

And you're right to acknowledge it.

But I know you better
than you think, old man.

The lonely boy I met at school
was, above all, romantic.

His heart stirred to poetry

even more than anatomy and Galvanism.

You're still that boy, Victor.

Be honest with yourself and with me.

You don't want to kill Lily,
you want to love her.

That's impossible.

You have no idea of the
depths of her depravity.

What if I could make her as she was?

Before she turned on you?

Before her evil emerged?

What then?

What if I could tame her?

Domesticate her.

Leave her purring like
a kitten on your lap.

What then?

Would you want that?

Can you?

Answer me.

Yes.

Then shall we attempt it?

You and I, brother?

Yes.

I have to go to work now.

But on Saturday I will take
you to my humble laboratory

and you can witness my miracles.

But hear me.

If we should fail,

if we prove incapable of helping her,

we destroy her.

Utterly.

So it will be as if she
never walked this earth.

Death ribbon, ma'am?

What? Sorry?

Death ribbon, ma'am.

For the poet.

The dead poet like.

Penny apiece, honor Mr. Tennyson?

Yes, all right.

You're looking at my face.

Its paleness.

They call it the anemia.

Something to do with my blood...

my blood.

Thank you.

Savor this day, my beautiful
lady, my beloved.

The small ones are the most dangerous.

Leiurus quinquestraitus.

There, in the center, the albino one.

Also known as the Omdurman scorpion

or, more colloquially,
as the "Deathstalker."

Albinoism is exceedingly rare in nature,

a sign of caution to the world.

The absence of color, that is...

signifying what?

Bloodlessness. Uniqueness.

Beware.

He's from the Sudan. I think it's a he.

It's very hard to sex them

unless they're breeding, arachnids.

You'd think this fellow would
be the most dangerous,

with his enormous claws.

Why do you think I'm interested

in the dangerous ones?

Everyone is.

They imagine them crawling
over their bodies

as they sleep.

That's what draws most people in.

The fear. You don't see them lining up

to look at the sheep, more's
the pity, glorious animals.

They love the tooth and
claw, the predators.

Would you like to touch one?

- A predator?
- A scorpion.

I have.

- You've touched a scorpion?
- Mmm-hmm.

My God. Don't tell me
you're a zoologist.

No, but you are.

Dr. Alexander Sweet, hello.

I'm the boss here, more or less.

Director of Zoological Studies.

Noah in his ark.

Vanessa Ives.

But Noah's animals were living.

Oh, I think of these ones
as alive, just quiet.

Taxidermy!

- What?
- Your hobby.

That's where you touched a scorpion.

No.

Though I practiced it as a child.

So did I.

That's where I fell in
love with all this.

A harmless hobby giving way to, what?

A calling, I suppose.

Did you know there are
certain deep-sea fish

that create their own light

and feed on lethal volcanic gasses?

That's supposed to be impossible.

And bats in Australia as large as dogs.

And that American coyotes mate for life.

And enormous octopi that
can squeeze their bodies

through holes no larger
than a ha'penny coin.

Can you imagine that?

If only we would stop
and look and wonder.

And wonder.

Do you have a favorite?

Not meant to.

But mostly the unloved ones.

The unvisited ones.

The cases that get dusty and ignored.

All the broken and shunned creatures.

Someone's got to care for them.

Who shall it be if not us?

Yes.

Dr. Sweet, may I have a moment?

Of course.

Mr. Dudman, may I present to you Miss...

I'm sorry, I've forgotten your name.

Vanessa Ives. Hello.

In the lab, sir.

I have a question about the tiger.

If you'll excuse me?

Far be it from me to get
between a man and his tiger.

Thank you, Miss Ives.

I do hope you'll enjoy the exhibits.

All the dusty cases.

Give them a glance.
They repay the effort.

Good day to you.

Good day.

Good day.

October the 6th, 1892.

My dear Sir Malcolm,

where this letter shall find you,

I don't know.

I hope, on some far-flung adventure.

I don't want this to
cause you any alarm,

but I've not been entirely
honest in my previous letters.

I didn't want to worry you.

Or perhaps I have lived
too long with secrets

and have become over reliant on them.

All has not gone well with me here.

I've been low and sedentary,
unwilling to go outside.

Sunk into a kind of unhealthy lethargy,

sunk into something like my own sadness.

I haven't heard from Mr. Chandler.

He has quite disappeared
from our lives, I think.

I feel his absence keenly...
it's a cutting void.

If I believed in the old words,

I would pray for him.

But that's gone for me now.

Perhaps that is the root of
what has been troubling me.

I have left my faith.

Or it has left me.

Thus, my prospects seemed

only a long, dark
corridor without an end.

I have done things in
my life for reasons

that seemed right and even moral

in their violent immorality.

And now I stand without that God

upon whom I have always depended.

But please do not fear for me.

I have no fear myself.

The old monsters are gone.

The old curses have echoed to silence.

And if my immortal soul is lost to me,

something yet remains.

I remain.

So I sign off now with hope,
and, as ever, with love...

Vanessa.

Post Script.

I don't know if you've
ready access to news,

but we learned today
that Tennyson has died.

The bells are still tolling.

All the flags are at half-mast,

and there are wreathes and
funeral bands everywhere.

London has gone into mourning.

It's a city of tears.

"Beat, happy stars,
timing with things below;

Beat with my heart

more blessed than heart can tell;

Blessed, but for some
dark undercurrent of woe;

That seems to draw, but
it shall not be so:

Let all be well, be well."

Lord Almighty,

you are pink with blood.

Have no fear, child.

Look at me.

Look at me.

Tell me about her.

She you call Vanessa Ives.

I don't know anything!
I don't know anything!

You will learn more and inform me.

You will open her secrets to me.

Tell me your name.

My name...

My name is Renfield.

Bend your head back.

Give me your neck.

Give me your throat.

Give me your blood.

My name is Dracula.