Chapter-By-Chapter Commentary of The Scarlet Pimpernel - Part 3
(Here is Part 1 and Part 2.)
Chapter III
The Refugees
First off, the reader is expected to wade through the usual filler about politics, which said filler I skip through without even thinking.
Things finally get interesting after a few paragraphs have passed and my Lord Antony Dewhurst arrives. Take note that I'm not claiming Lord Tony as my own when I refer to him as “my.” I'm just trying to be consistent with the language of Orczy's novel. Remember, she calls Jellyband “mine worthy host” and we know he is definitely not the sort of strapping lad that girls fight over. So saying “my Lord Tony” is just as non-possessive as “His Lordship.” Just wanted to make sure everybody was on the same page as I. (Apologies for another impromptu pun.)
Sally, pretty Sally, buxom Sally, spots my Lord Tony before anyone else.
I know this is totally off-topic, but I'm really becoming fond of this “my lord So-and-so-many-moneybags” and “my Lord What's-his-noble-face” business. Perhaps I should do this all the time, with regard to all book characters, and maybe some movie characters as well.
When gushing about Jane Austen, I can speak of my Mr. Darcy and my Mr. Knightley. When discussing Star Wars, I can rave about my Master Obi-Wan Kenobi and my Lando McSmoothie.
When geeking out about Star Trek, I can applaud the logic of my Mr. Spock.
When trying to infect everyone with Lord of the Rings fever, I can refer to my Heffalump-slaying Prince of Mirkwood and my Master Samwise and my Sharpe Gondor Warrior and my Totally Awesome Book!Faramir (totally separate from the Ring-tempted movie Faramir, who, though excellently portrayed by David Wenham, just isn't as awesome) and my Haldir Who Did NOT Die and my Lord Glorfindel Who Was NOT Knocked Out By Arwen and . . . oh, okay, I'll give it a rest.
Just be glad I didn't slip into the Silmarillion and start gushing about Fingolfin (by the way, how's your foot doin', Morgoth?) and Finrod and Maedhros and the rest. I'll have to save Blogging Amazing Tolkien Men and Elves for another time, I guess.
Back to good-humored Sally. No sooner does she announce my Lord Tony's presence, than my Lord Tony is already among those in the coffee room, slipping his arm round Sally's waist and kissing her on the cheek first thing. He remarks that her father must be kept pretty busy keeping guys from grabbing her round the waist, and looks to Harry Waite for confirmation. Harry grunts. He probably wants to do more than that, but he can't, since Tony is my lord, and Harry isn't.
My lord Tony greets Mr. Hempseed and asks after the state of the local fruit. Mr. Hempseed gives a negative answer, and then, to my amazement, instead of quoting Scripture, he brings politics back to the reader's attention, blaming a government too favorable to guillotine-happy Frenchies.
Why, Mr. Hempseed, whatever happened to you? Did Jellyband brainwash you between the last chapter and this one? Or was it just Orczy, tweaking your mind for the plot's sake? Shall I ever know?
My Lord Antony Dewhurst mentions that he has brought along some friends that were happy to escape the guillotine.
Ha! I knew it! It was the plot that got to Mr. Hempseed! Well, that's one less burning question to fester in my brain. I'm still waiting to find out why Spock's mother had to be eliminated in Star Trek XI, along with the entire planet of Vulcan. (Who does Nero think he is? Grand Moff Tarkin?)
Jellyband makes a thoughtless remark that the credit of the aristocrats' escape is all due to my Lord Antony and company. My lord Tony shushes him, but Jellyband won't be shushed. He vouches for the trustworthiness everyone present, including the two strangers who were, or maybe still are, playing chess. Whoops, I mean, dominoes.
My lord Tony's bad guy sense is still tingling, but Jellyband soothes him into complacency, claiming to be a good face-reader because he runs an inn. Sorry, Mr. Jellyband, but it's mind-readers whose skills should be trusted in these dangerous circumstances, not face-readers.
After more chat and bustle, the French refugees for which this chapter is named finally arrive.
First, there is the Comtesse. Everything about her, her hands, her face, everything, is described as aristocratic. Multiple times. Like we don't already know she's an aristocrat. Oh, well, better to say it right out loud than to say nothing and leave us hanging. But, on a less sarcastic note, the Comtesse has a strength and dignity suffused with suffering that I can't help but admire.
Next is the Comtesse's daughter. If you have guessed she is small and sweet, pale and pretty, child-like and doe-eyed, you've nailed it yet again. That's Suzanne all over. Sir Andrew Ffoulkes cannot ffocus on any of his other ffellow creatures, so ffixed is his ffond gaze on her ffine, ffair fface.
My Lord Tony gallantly tells Suzanne that he is at her service, and then later says the whole of England is also at her service. Atta gent, my Lord Tony. If only it was protocol for guys to act that way today as well. The tradition should be revived, I think. Consider all the wonderful benefits.
SCENARIO #1
LADY: I've got too many groceries and only two arms.
GENT: At your service, madam. Now you have four arms, and an extra pair of legs. Watch me dodge the cars in the parking lot while Mission Impossible music plays in my head!
SCENARIO #2
LADY: AAAAAHHHHH!!! A COCKROACH!!! AN EVIL, EVIL, EVIL COCKROACH!!!
GENT: You screamed?
LADY: COCKROACH!!!
GENT: At your service, madame. Allow me one moment to download my sunglasses into the Matrix. *whack, whack, smash, bang* There is no cockroach.
SCENARIO #3
LADY: Ah. It seems a gigantic tree limb is pinning me to the ground.
GENT: At your service, madame. *whips out giant chainsaw*
LADY: Um, no. That will cut through me as well.
GENT: But I'm a magician. I'll put you back together!
LADY: No.
GENT: But . . .
LADY: NO!
GENT: Alright. I'll just do the old-fashioned heavy lifting. Do you mind if I go get my George of the Jungle loincloth first? It'll help me feel stronger.
LADY: Sure, whatever floats your boat. It's not like I'm going anywhere.
After a little more filler, my lord Antony shouts, “Odds my life, supper at last!” I don't know about you, but I love to say “Odds my life!” now that I've read this book. Be prepared for my randomly saying this at random intervals for totally random reasons.
Now we finally get to the third refugee, Suzanne's elder brother. All that is said of the Vicomte de Tournay is that he's nineteen and so selfish, he doesn't care about the savagery in his own country, so long as he can be safe in England. And that he stares at pretty, buxom Sally even more than anyone else.
He says in broken English that, if this (Sally) is England (Sally), then I am satisfied with it (Sally). Harry Waite fumes and has to be walked out of the room by his friends, probably so he can gnaw out his anger on the trees outside instead of worthy Mr. Jellyband's furniture, or the young Vicomte's ears. He never was one to wait, after all.
This chapter ends with the Comtesse calling Suzanne's attention away from the dreamy depths of Sir Andrew Ffoulkes' eyes. What, she's been just standing there staring at him, while he's been standing there staring at her, nearly all chapter long?
What is it with young people in drama? Do their muscles freeze without warning for certain time intervals? Wouldn't Suzanne get bored? Maybe she was spacing out. I stare intently at boring things when I space out. (I space out all the time-even while writing this.)
I'm making a big assumption here, but I'll take the liberty of guessing what the Comtesse says to her daughter once she gets Suzanne to understand it's time to pay homage to all-engrossing food.
“What came over you, child?”
“I don't know. I ffind myself more and more ffixated on a certain ffellow's ffeatures, moved by a fforce I cannot ffully understand. Especially on Ffridays. My ffancy just takes over and I cease to ffunction.”
And then the Comtesse slaps her fforehead.
Chapter III
The Refugees
First off, the reader is expected to wade through the usual filler about politics, which said filler I skip through without even thinking.
Things finally get interesting after a few paragraphs have passed and my Lord Antony Dewhurst arrives. Take note that I'm not claiming Lord Tony as my own when I refer to him as “my.” I'm just trying to be consistent with the language of Orczy's novel. Remember, she calls Jellyband “mine worthy host” and we know he is definitely not the sort of strapping lad that girls fight over. So saying “my Lord Tony” is just as non-possessive as “His Lordship.” Just wanted to make sure everybody was on the same page as I. (Apologies for another impromptu pun.)
Sally, pretty Sally, buxom Sally, spots my Lord Tony before anyone else.
I know this is totally off-topic, but I'm really becoming fond of this “my lord So-and-so-many-moneybags” and “my Lord What's-his-noble-face” business. Perhaps I should do this all the time, with regard to all book characters, and maybe some movie characters as well.
When gushing about Jane Austen, I can speak of my Mr. Darcy and my Mr. Knightley. When discussing Star Wars, I can rave about my Master Obi-Wan Kenobi and my Lando McSmoothie.
When geeking out about Star Trek, I can applaud the logic of my Mr. Spock.
When trying to infect everyone with Lord of the Rings fever, I can refer to my Heffalump-slaying Prince of Mirkwood and my Master Samwise and my Sharpe Gondor Warrior and my Totally Awesome Book!Faramir (totally separate from the Ring-tempted movie Faramir, who, though excellently portrayed by David Wenham, just isn't as awesome) and my Haldir Who Did NOT Die and my Lord Glorfindel Who Was NOT Knocked Out By Arwen and . . . oh, okay, I'll give it a rest.
Just be glad I didn't slip into the Silmarillion and start gushing about Fingolfin (by the way, how's your foot doin', Morgoth?) and Finrod and Maedhros and the rest. I'll have to save Blogging Amazing Tolkien Men and Elves for another time, I guess.
Back to good-humored Sally. No sooner does she announce my Lord Tony's presence, than my Lord Tony is already among those in the coffee room, slipping his arm round Sally's waist and kissing her on the cheek first thing. He remarks that her father must be kept pretty busy keeping guys from grabbing her round the waist, and looks to Harry Waite for confirmation. Harry grunts. He probably wants to do more than that, but he can't, since Tony is my lord, and Harry isn't.
My lord Tony greets Mr. Hempseed and asks after the state of the local fruit. Mr. Hempseed gives a negative answer, and then, to my amazement, instead of quoting Scripture, he brings politics back to the reader's attention, blaming a government too favorable to guillotine-happy Frenchies.
Why, Mr. Hempseed, whatever happened to you? Did Jellyband brainwash you between the last chapter and this one? Or was it just Orczy, tweaking your mind for the plot's sake? Shall I ever know?
My Lord Antony Dewhurst mentions that he has brought along some friends that were happy to escape the guillotine.
Ha! I knew it! It was the plot that got to Mr. Hempseed! Well, that's one less burning question to fester in my brain. I'm still waiting to find out why Spock's mother had to be eliminated in Star Trek XI, along with the entire planet of Vulcan. (Who does Nero think he is? Grand Moff Tarkin?)
Jellyband makes a thoughtless remark that the credit of the aristocrats' escape is all due to my Lord Antony and company. My lord Tony shushes him, but Jellyband won't be shushed. He vouches for the trustworthiness everyone present, including the two strangers who were, or maybe still are, playing chess. Whoops, I mean, dominoes.
My lord Tony's bad guy sense is still tingling, but Jellyband soothes him into complacency, claiming to be a good face-reader because he runs an inn. Sorry, Mr. Jellyband, but it's mind-readers whose skills should be trusted in these dangerous circumstances, not face-readers.
After more chat and bustle, the French refugees for which this chapter is named finally arrive.
First, there is the Comtesse. Everything about her, her hands, her face, everything, is described as aristocratic. Multiple times. Like we don't already know she's an aristocrat. Oh, well, better to say it right out loud than to say nothing and leave us hanging. But, on a less sarcastic note, the Comtesse has a strength and dignity suffused with suffering that I can't help but admire.
Next is the Comtesse's daughter. If you have guessed she is small and sweet, pale and pretty, child-like and doe-eyed, you've nailed it yet again. That's Suzanne all over. Sir Andrew Ffoulkes cannot ffocus on any of his other ffellow creatures, so ffixed is his ffond gaze on her ffine, ffair fface.
My Lord Tony gallantly tells Suzanne that he is at her service, and then later says the whole of England is also at her service. Atta gent, my Lord Tony. If only it was protocol for guys to act that way today as well. The tradition should be revived, I think. Consider all the wonderful benefits.
SCENARIO #1
LADY: I've got too many groceries and only two arms.
GENT: At your service, madam. Now you have four arms, and an extra pair of legs. Watch me dodge the cars in the parking lot while Mission Impossible music plays in my head!
SCENARIO #2
LADY: AAAAAHHHHH!!! A COCKROACH!!! AN EVIL, EVIL, EVIL COCKROACH!!!
GENT: You screamed?
LADY: COCKROACH!!!
GENT: At your service, madame. Allow me one moment to download my sunglasses into the Matrix. *whack, whack, smash, bang* There is no cockroach.
SCENARIO #3
LADY: Ah. It seems a gigantic tree limb is pinning me to the ground.
GENT: At your service, madame. *whips out giant chainsaw*
LADY: Um, no. That will cut through me as well.
GENT: But I'm a magician. I'll put you back together!
LADY: No.
GENT: But . . .
LADY: NO!
GENT: Alright. I'll just do the old-fashioned heavy lifting. Do you mind if I go get my George of the Jungle loincloth first? It'll help me feel stronger.
LADY: Sure, whatever floats your boat. It's not like I'm going anywhere.
After a little more filler, my lord Antony shouts, “Odds my life, supper at last!” I don't know about you, but I love to say “Odds my life!” now that I've read this book. Be prepared for my randomly saying this at random intervals for totally random reasons.
Now we finally get to the third refugee, Suzanne's elder brother. All that is said of the Vicomte de Tournay is that he's nineteen and so selfish, he doesn't care about the savagery in his own country, so long as he can be safe in England. And that he stares at pretty, buxom Sally even more than anyone else.
He says in broken English that, if this (Sally) is England (Sally), then I am satisfied with it (Sally). Harry Waite fumes and has to be walked out of the room by his friends, probably so he can gnaw out his anger on the trees outside instead of worthy Mr. Jellyband's furniture, or the young Vicomte's ears. He never was one to wait, after all.
This chapter ends with the Comtesse calling Suzanne's attention away from the dreamy depths of Sir Andrew Ffoulkes' eyes. What, she's been just standing there staring at him, while he's been standing there staring at her, nearly all chapter long?
What is it with young people in drama? Do their muscles freeze without warning for certain time intervals? Wouldn't Suzanne get bored? Maybe she was spacing out. I stare intently at boring things when I space out. (I space out all the time-even while writing this.)
I'm making a big assumption here, but I'll take the liberty of guessing what the Comtesse says to her daughter once she gets Suzanne to understand it's time to pay homage to all-engrossing food.
“What came over you, child?”
“I don't know. I ffind myself more and more ffixated on a certain ffellow's ffeatures, moved by a fforce I cannot ffully understand. Especially on Ffridays. My ffancy just takes over and I cease to ffunction.”
And then the Comtesse slaps her fforehead.