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.
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, you can't go up there!
Please, no.
No!
Please, sir.
You would not harm a defenseless female?
Welcome home, Ethan.
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!
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.
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?
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.
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.
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.