Chapter-By-Chapter Commentary of The Scarlet Pimpernel - Part 2
(Here's Part 1, if you're curious.)
Chapter II:
Dover: “The Fisherman's Rest”
Just to let you know, not much happens in this chapter. Not much that's of interest to me, anyway. I'm reading this strictly for the Pimpernel, and the Pimpernel doesn't appear here. It's what I'd call a “filler” chapter-you're impatient to get it over with as you read, and you only see its real purpose in the book after you've read it through. And then you think you might have been able to do it better.
We begin with Sally, the innkeeper's daughter. She's up to her plump arms in work in the kitchen, while patrons of her father's, like all good Englishmen, are yelling “What ho!” for booze in the coffee room outside.
If you have guessed that Sally is pretty and buxom and good-natured, you are absolutely right. I don't know why, but innkeeper's daughters are almost always pretty and buxom and good-natured in books-especially those written over a hundred years ago. Must have been the fashion of the time. If the innkeeper's own daughter is well-fed and happy, and nice to look at, then that inn must be a wonderful place.
(Today, fashion dictates that models look ill-fed and ill-tempered, so we ladies will want to buy the clothes and jewelry they're wearing, the accessories they're carrying, and the products they're promoting. Honestly, a lot of models exude an attitude that suggests they want to kick you in the crotch. And guys somehow find that attractive. Weird.)
But I digress . . .
Sally eventually leaves the complaining Jemima and simpering maids to manage by themselves in the kitchen, bringing out the beer for which the Fisherman's Rest has long been well-known. She's met with cheers, and she jokes that Jimmy Pitkin's acting as anxious and impatient as if his grandmother was dying. I'm not quite sure I like jokes about dying grandmothers, even presented by good-natured, pretty, buxom innkeeper's daughters.
Now Orczy introduces us to Sally's father, big, bald Mr. Jellyband. (I keep thinking it's Jellybland. Was there a family of that name in a Dickens novel somewhere? Bleak House, maybe?) In addition to being corpulent and shiny-headed, Mr. Jellyband is rather lazy, leaving nearly all the real work to Sally as he discusses politics with his guests. All political talk and nothing real accomplished . . . my metaphor senses are tingling big time over here. “Mine worthy host”, as Orczy calls the innkeeper, also has a very low opinion of anyone that's not of good, English stock.
I'm assuming that Jellyband is pretty easy-going, too, because the innkeeper doesn't seem to mind his daughter flirting with a young patron named Harry Waite. Well, he sure isn't one to wait, is he?
Next, like all well-bred writers of her day, Orczy reverts to the weather. The September in question had started out high and dry, then suddenly become dripping wet.
Mr. Hempseed, renowned at the Fisherman's Rest for sagely Scripture quotations, asks Jellyband if he'd ever seen such a wet September before.
I would be prodigiously amused if Jellyband were to snap back, “No! I hate wet Septembers! I won't stand another minute of this one! Wake me up when September ends!” (In my minds' eye, I imagine him saying this with a Bill Nighy accent, like the one my brothers are fond of adopting whenever I least-and most-suspect it.)
But, of course, Jellyband doesn't say what I'm longing to read. He just says he hasn't seen such a wet September before-and he 's been around for threescore years.
Mr. Hempseed sees a flaw in Jellyband's observation, and pounces on it like any self-respecting nitpicker. Being around for sixty years doesn't count as remembering sixty Septembers end, because nobody can remember their baby years. So, at most, Jellyband can only boast recollection of fifty-seven years. (Good thing Jellyband doesn't have my memory for weather. If he did, he'd only remember about five or six years.)
Hempseed, however, can brag about being around for seventy-five years and remembering seventy-two Septembers end. Try to best that, Jellyband.
Jellyband can't best that. Orczy observes, and I quote, “The superiority of this wisdom was so incontestable that for the moment Mr. Jellyband was not ready with his usual flow of argument.”
Then Hempseed reverts back to the weather again, and Jellyband recovers to make a sally of his own. (Pun absolutely not intended. I actually didn't see that until days after I wrote it.) He blames the government for the unpleasant weather, so he can get going on the subject of his forte. Hmm. There's a lot of things the government can own responsibility for, but I don't think the weather is one of them. Yet.
Hempseed agrees that “Lunnon” isn't as attentive to the layman as it ought to be, and uses this as an introduction to one of his famous Scripture quotations. Jellyband cuts him off to talk about the arguments of Pitt, Fox, and Burke, leading members of Parliament at the time, if my history lessons have served me right. Hempseed hastily sides with Burke, on the subject of not meddling with the ghastly new government in France, and tries to continue his quotations.
This time, he's interrupted by Sally saying something to Harry Waite. She says he made her jump, so I can only assume this is her way of remonstrating him for cheekiness of some sort, which well-bred Orczy does not explain.
Now Jellyband finally decides he's not good-humored enough to let this flirting with a poor, impudent young fisherman continue. He shoos Sally back to kitchen with fatherly firmness. Atta boy, Jellyband. Er, atta man; atta boy isn't quite respectful enough for a man who can recall fifty-seven Septembers end. At any rate, pretty, happy, buxom Sally deserves better, doesn't she? Somebody that won't make her jump, at least. How inconsiderate.
While telling Sally to skiddoo, Jellyband makes a reference to Lord Tony's supper not being able to make itself. Hempseed asks for exposition, and Jellyband explains that Lord Tony, his friend Sir Andrew Ffoulkes (two f's in a row! Isn't that ffunny?), and some aristocratic refugees from France will be joining them later in the evening.
Ah. Now we're getting somewhere.
Hempseed uses the subject of foreigners to call up yet another Scripture reference. Jellyband cuts him off again with a sarcastic political remark. Mr. Hempseed isn't sure how to defend himself, and Mr. Jellyband starts up a political barrage against poor old Hempseed that even his memory of seventy-two Septembers can't save him from.
Is Orczy trying to tell us that religion and politics cannot mingle successfully? (Personally, I think it's pretty tough to keep 'em separate. Seems to me that politics is all about religion. And I'll end my aside comment here, 'cause this isn't Blogging Religion.) Or maybe the baroness is just saying that politics likes to speak loudly while hitting religion with a big stick?
Suddenly, without warning, Orczy calls our attention to a domino-playing pair of strangers at a table all to themselves. Hmm. That's interesting. Wonder what's up . . .
One of the strangers smilingly asks Jellyband to explain how some Frenchmen succeeded in turning an Englishman named Peppercorn from royalist to revolutionist, for such was one of the things Jellyband had been ranting about. Jellyband simply says Frenchies are manipulative and “'ave got the gift of the gab.” The stranger says they should all hope the gab-gifted Frenchies never persuade Jellyband to turn coats.
Jellyband all but rolls on the floor laughing at the very idea of being converted by revolutionists. Mr. Hempseed rallies and quotes Scripture about the susceptibility of the standing to falling. Good old Hempseed.
Jellyband says he'll never fall to French persuasion, claiming that he'll always be able to tell they're trying to poison his mind by their speaking French (or English with thick French accents).
The stranger applauds the innkeepers' wit, and offers to share his bottle of wine with his worthy host. Jellyband accepts jovially. The stranger makes a remark about them all being loyal Englishman and that even they can recognize that the French wine they're drinking is good, at least. (All loyal Englishmen. Catch that?) He proposes a toast in Jellyband's honor, and everyone follows his lead. Jellyband chuckles right up till the chapter's end.
Chapter II:
Dover: “The Fisherman's Rest”
Just to let you know, not much happens in this chapter. Not much that's of interest to me, anyway. I'm reading this strictly for the Pimpernel, and the Pimpernel doesn't appear here. It's what I'd call a “filler” chapter-you're impatient to get it over with as you read, and you only see its real purpose in the book after you've read it through. And then you think you might have been able to do it better.
We begin with Sally, the innkeeper's daughter. She's up to her plump arms in work in the kitchen, while patrons of her father's, like all good Englishmen, are yelling “What ho!” for booze in the coffee room outside.
If you have guessed that Sally is pretty and buxom and good-natured, you are absolutely right. I don't know why, but innkeeper's daughters are almost always pretty and buxom and good-natured in books-especially those written over a hundred years ago. Must have been the fashion of the time. If the innkeeper's own daughter is well-fed and happy, and nice to look at, then that inn must be a wonderful place.
(Today, fashion dictates that models look ill-fed and ill-tempered, so we ladies will want to buy the clothes and jewelry they're wearing, the accessories they're carrying, and the products they're promoting. Honestly, a lot of models exude an attitude that suggests they want to kick you in the crotch. And guys somehow find that attractive. Weird.)
But I digress . . .
Sally eventually leaves the complaining Jemima and simpering maids to manage by themselves in the kitchen, bringing out the beer for which the Fisherman's Rest has long been well-known. She's met with cheers, and she jokes that Jimmy Pitkin's acting as anxious and impatient as if his grandmother was dying. I'm not quite sure I like jokes about dying grandmothers, even presented by good-natured, pretty, buxom innkeeper's daughters.
Now Orczy introduces us to Sally's father, big, bald Mr. Jellyband. (I keep thinking it's Jellybland. Was there a family of that name in a Dickens novel somewhere? Bleak House, maybe?) In addition to being corpulent and shiny-headed, Mr. Jellyband is rather lazy, leaving nearly all the real work to Sally as he discusses politics with his guests. All political talk and nothing real accomplished . . . my metaphor senses are tingling big time over here. “Mine worthy host”, as Orczy calls the innkeeper, also has a very low opinion of anyone that's not of good, English stock.
I'm assuming that Jellyband is pretty easy-going, too, because the innkeeper doesn't seem to mind his daughter flirting with a young patron named Harry Waite. Well, he sure isn't one to wait, is he?
Next, like all well-bred writers of her day, Orczy reverts to the weather. The September in question had started out high and dry, then suddenly become dripping wet.
Mr. Hempseed, renowned at the Fisherman's Rest for sagely Scripture quotations, asks Jellyband if he'd ever seen such a wet September before.
I would be prodigiously amused if Jellyband were to snap back, “No! I hate wet Septembers! I won't stand another minute of this one! Wake me up when September ends!” (In my minds' eye, I imagine him saying this with a Bill Nighy accent, like the one my brothers are fond of adopting whenever I least-and most-suspect it.)
But, of course, Jellyband doesn't say what I'm longing to read. He just says he hasn't seen such a wet September before-and he 's been around for threescore years.
Mr. Hempseed sees a flaw in Jellyband's observation, and pounces on it like any self-respecting nitpicker. Being around for sixty years doesn't count as remembering sixty Septembers end, because nobody can remember their baby years. So, at most, Jellyband can only boast recollection of fifty-seven years. (Good thing Jellyband doesn't have my memory for weather. If he did, he'd only remember about five or six years.)
Hempseed, however, can brag about being around for seventy-five years and remembering seventy-two Septembers end. Try to best that, Jellyband.
Jellyband can't best that. Orczy observes, and I quote, “The superiority of this wisdom was so incontestable that for the moment Mr. Jellyband was not ready with his usual flow of argument.”
Then Hempseed reverts back to the weather again, and Jellyband recovers to make a sally of his own. (Pun absolutely not intended. I actually didn't see that until days after I wrote it.) He blames the government for the unpleasant weather, so he can get going on the subject of his forte. Hmm. There's a lot of things the government can own responsibility for, but I don't think the weather is one of them. Yet.
Hempseed agrees that “Lunnon” isn't as attentive to the layman as it ought to be, and uses this as an introduction to one of his famous Scripture quotations. Jellyband cuts him off to talk about the arguments of Pitt, Fox, and Burke, leading members of Parliament at the time, if my history lessons have served me right. Hempseed hastily sides with Burke, on the subject of not meddling with the ghastly new government in France, and tries to continue his quotations.
This time, he's interrupted by Sally saying something to Harry Waite. She says he made her jump, so I can only assume this is her way of remonstrating him for cheekiness of some sort, which well-bred Orczy does not explain.
Now Jellyband finally decides he's not good-humored enough to let this flirting with a poor, impudent young fisherman continue. He shoos Sally back to kitchen with fatherly firmness. Atta boy, Jellyband. Er, atta man; atta boy isn't quite respectful enough for a man who can recall fifty-seven Septembers end. At any rate, pretty, happy, buxom Sally deserves better, doesn't she? Somebody that won't make her jump, at least. How inconsiderate.
While telling Sally to skiddoo, Jellyband makes a reference to Lord Tony's supper not being able to make itself. Hempseed asks for exposition, and Jellyband explains that Lord Tony, his friend Sir Andrew Ffoulkes (two f's in a row! Isn't that ffunny?), and some aristocratic refugees from France will be joining them later in the evening.
Ah. Now we're getting somewhere.
Hempseed uses the subject of foreigners to call up yet another Scripture reference. Jellyband cuts him off again with a sarcastic political remark. Mr. Hempseed isn't sure how to defend himself, and Mr. Jellyband starts up a political barrage against poor old Hempseed that even his memory of seventy-two Septembers can't save him from.
Is Orczy trying to tell us that religion and politics cannot mingle successfully? (Personally, I think it's pretty tough to keep 'em separate. Seems to me that politics is all about religion. And I'll end my aside comment here, 'cause this isn't Blogging Religion.) Or maybe the baroness is just saying that politics likes to speak loudly while hitting religion with a big stick?
Suddenly, without warning, Orczy calls our attention to a domino-playing pair of strangers at a table all to themselves. Hmm. That's interesting. Wonder what's up . . .
One of the strangers smilingly asks Jellyband to explain how some Frenchmen succeeded in turning an Englishman named Peppercorn from royalist to revolutionist, for such was one of the things Jellyband had been ranting about. Jellyband simply says Frenchies are manipulative and “'ave got the gift of the gab.” The stranger says they should all hope the gab-gifted Frenchies never persuade Jellyband to turn coats.
Jellyband all but rolls on the floor laughing at the very idea of being converted by revolutionists. Mr. Hempseed rallies and quotes Scripture about the susceptibility of the standing to falling. Good old Hempseed.
Jellyband says he'll never fall to French persuasion, claiming that he'll always be able to tell they're trying to poison his mind by their speaking French (or English with thick French accents).
The stranger applauds the innkeepers' wit, and offers to share his bottle of wine with his worthy host. Jellyband accepts jovially. The stranger makes a remark about them all being loyal Englishman and that even they can recognize that the French wine they're drinking is good, at least. (All loyal Englishmen. Catch that?) He proposes a toast in Jellyband's honor, and everyone follows his lead. Jellyband chuckles right up till the chapter's end.