The Scarlet Pimpernel

“[…] for those aristos were such fools! They were traitors to the people of course, all of them, men, women, and children, who happened to be descendants of the great men who since the Crusades had made the glory of France: her old noblesse. Their ancestors had oppressed the people, had crushed them under the scarlet heels of their dainty buckled shoes, and now the people had become the rulers of France and crushed their former masters—not beneath their heel, for they went shoeless mostly in these days—but beneath a more effectual weight, the knife of the guillotine.”

The French Revolution of 1789 against the king had devolved, by 1792, into a festival of executions of aristocrats killed, not because they had done bad things, but because they were part of the loathed upper classes. The author, herself an exile from an anti-noble uprising in Hungary, took a dim view of such revolutions, especially when they celebrated revenge killings. Her opinion of the French peasants—who, in the book, watch with glee as their former masters get their heads lopped off—was even darker.

“Mr. Jellyband was indeed a typical rural John Bull of those days—the days when our prejudiced insularity was at its height, when to an Englishman, be he lord, yeoman, or peasant, the whole of the continent of Europe was a den of immorality, and the rest of the world an unexploited land of savages and cannibals.”

The author shows a keen sense of English attitudes in the decades when their worldwide empire begins to expand. Of their chief competitors, France and the other countries of Europe, the English feel serene contempt. They’re united in this opinion, from the top to the bottom of the social ladder. The comment is another of the book’s reminders that the English of the time are loyal to their noble class, by sharp contrast to the French

“The coffee-room indeed, lighted by two well-polished lamps, which hung from the raftered ceiling, looked cheerful and cosy in the extreme. Through the dense clouds of tobacco smoke that hung about in every corner, the faces of Mr. Jellyband’s customers appeared red and pleasant to look at, and on good terms with themselves, their host and all the world, from every side of the room loud guffaws accompanied pleasant, if not highly intellectual, conversation—while Sally’s repeated giggles testified to the good use Mr. Harry Waite was making of the short time she seemed inclined to spare him.”

The jovial atmosphere at the well-stocked dining room of The Fisherman’s Rest is meant to contrast sharply with the seething crowds of peasants who, at that hour, roar with bloodlust as heads fall from aristocrats’ shoulders beneath a guillotine’s blade. Paris is all danger and violence, while little Dover, on the coast of England, enjoys the prosperous peace of England.

“There’s all them Frenchy devils over the Channel yonder a-murderin’ their king and nobility, and Mr. Pitt and Mr. Fox and Mr. Burke a-fightin’ and a-wranglin’ between them, if we Englishmen should ’low them to go on in their ungodly way. ‘Let ’em murder,’ says Mr. Pitt. ‘Stop ’em!’ says Mr. Burke.”

The English are well aware of the uprisings in France, and the revolution there has turned so bloody that it strains their conscience. Pitt, Fox, and Burke are prominent figures representing the various factions of English politics. Much as nations today debate whether to intervene in bloody actions beyond their borders, the English of 1792 argue over whether to step in during the turmoil in France. Not only do they find it hard to stand idly aside while an entire class of people is systematically slaughtered, many English worry that the revolutionary fervor that recently took America from them and now roils France might also inspire their population to rise up.

“The young man’s face had become almost transfigured. His eyes shone with enthusiasm; hero-worship, love, admiration for his leader seemed literally to glow upon his face. ‘The Scarlet Pimpernel, Mademoiselle,’ he said at last ‘is the name of a humble English wayside flower; but it is also the name chosen to hide the identity of the best and bravest man in all the world, so that he may better succeed in accomplishing the noble task he has set himself to do.’”

Sir Anthony Ffoulkes expresses his admiration for his secretive leader, whose symbol, the humble pimpernel flower, bespeaks a willingness to perform, anonymously and from the shadows, good deeds that outwit the self-righteous tormentors of innocent people. Ffoulkes’s loyalty is to the Scarlet Pimpernel’s honest and daring concern for others. 

“‘Money and titles may be hereditary,’ she would say, ‘but brains are not […]’”

Marguerite St Just, a supporter of the French Revolution, appreciates the quality of people’s minds rather than the quantity of their wallets, and her Paris salons honor that attitude in the high intellectual and artistic level of its guests. She believes those attributes matter vastly more than the artificial prestige of hereditary titles or large bank accounts.

“Idyllic follies never last […]. They come upon us like the measles...and are as easily cured.”

Marguerite tells her friend Chauvelin of her boredom in England, now that the love she shared with Sir Percy has faded. Her sardonic words are as much an attempt to laugh off her anguish as to reveal a great truth about the fragility of romance. They also raise the stakes of the story, as the lady’s sentiments encourage the French spy to exploit her access to English high society.

“It was one of the gala nights at Covent Garden Theatre, the first of the autumn season in this memorable year of grace 1792. The house was packed, both in the smart orchestra boxes and in the pit, as well as in the more plebeian balconies and galleries above. Glück’s Orpheus made a strong appeal to the more intellectual portions of the house, whilst the fashionable women, the gaily-dressed and brilliant throng, spoke to the eye of those who cared but little for this ‘latest importation from Germany.’”

In a few quick sentences, the author sketches a central event in the London social whirl. She notes the various classes of audience members, the complex motivations of the attendees, the importance of fashionable clothing, and how the subtle suspicion of anything foreign is eclipsed by a more compelling interest in a universally beloved opera.

“Lady Blakeney may or may not be in sympathy with those Ruffians in France; she may or may not have had anything to do with the arrest and condemnation of St. Cyr, or whatever the man’s name is, but she is the leader of fashion in this country; Sir Percy Blakeney has more money than any half-dozen other men put together, he is hand and glove with royalty, and your trying to snub Lady Blakeney will not harm her, but will make you look a fool.”

Lady Portarles lectures the refugee Comtesse de Tournay on her harsh treatment of Marguerite. The comtesse’s outrage at Lady Blakeney’s part in the death of a marquis won’t get her very far in upper-class London, where the attitude toward French royalty is at once much more genial and much less concerned than that currently held by French citizens. If she wants continued support from English nobility, she’ll have to refrain from openly condemning the most admired lady in England.

“‘His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales and suite, Sir Percy Blakeney, Lady Blakeney.’ Lord Grenville went quickly to the door to receive his exalted guest. The Prince of Wales, dressed in a magnificent court suit of salmon-coloured velvet richly embroidered with gold, entered with Marguerite Blakeney on his arm; and on his left Sir Percy, in gorgeous shimmering cream satin, cut in the extravagant ‘Incroyable’ style, his fair hair free from powder, priceless lace at his neck and wrists, and the flat chapeau-bras under his arm.”

The Blakeneys live in luxury at the top of the London social heap. Their best friend is the heir apparent to the throne of the British Empire; their clothes set the standard of English fashion. It’s a life only to be fantasized about by most people. Amid all that elegance and finery, however, Marguerite must pretend to be happy while she anguishes over the most difficult and deadly decisions of her life. The scene tantalizes the reader, while her ironically dangerous situation puts an edge of excitement on the evening.

“[…] there is no doubt—and psychologists actually assert it—that there is in us a sense which has absolutely nothing to do with the other five: it is not that we see, it is not that we hear or touch, yet we seem to do all three at once.”

Marguerite’s awareness—tuned to a high pitch by her desperate need to learn information that might save her brother—rises to the occasion: Without thinking, she pretends to be ill in Andrew’s presence and, in the process, manages to get hold of a secret message he’s reading from the Scarlet Pimpernel. The author’s purpose is to suggest that the greatest players in this game of life and death succeed, not through cleverness but because of the innate quality of their instincts.

“In two hours [Marguerite] must make up her mind whether she will keep the knowledge so cunningly gained to herself, and leave her brother to his fate, or whether she will wilfully betray a brave man, whose life was devoted to his fellow-men, who was noble, generous, and above all, unsuspecting. It seemed a horrible thing to do. But then, there was Armand! Armand, too, was noble and brave, Armand, too, was unsuspecting. And Armand loved her, would have willingly trusted his life in her hands, and now, when she could save him from death, she hesitated. Oh! it was monstrous […].”

Marguerite wrestles with her conscience, torn between protecting the identity of the beloved hero, the Scarlet Pimpernel, or saving her brother from the guillotine. Either way, for her, it’s a disaster. Her dilemma is the central ethical issue of the book. As an alter ego of the author, Marguerite has more than enough smarts to meet the most difficult challenges, even as she enjoys the adoration of London and Parisian high society, but even she must do her utmost to survive the dangers. Her centrality to the story as a formidable heroine is an early example in fiction of a powerful and enticing woman character whose decisions affect history.

“Half-empty glasses littered the table, unfolded napkins lay about, the chairs—turned towards one another in groups of twos and threes—very close to one another—in the far corners of the room, which spoke of recent whispered flirtations, over cold game-pie and champagne; there were sets of three and four chairs, that recalled pleasant, animated discussions over the latest scandal; there were chairs straight up in a row that still looked starchy, critical, acid, like antiquated dowagers; there were a few isolated, single chairs, close to the table, that spoke of gourmands intent on the most recherché dishes, and others overturned on the floor, that spoke volumes on the subject of my Lord Grenville’s cellars.”

The author displays her skill at using inference to describe people through the objects they’ve used, an indirect literary effect that evokes a nostalgic wistfulness about good things that have come and gone. The scene, observed by the perceptive French spy Chauvelin, also reminds the reader that the story involves espionage and, with it, the intelligent people whose tasks are to think beyond appearances and deduce hidden meanings.

“A woman’s heart is such a complex problem—the owner thereof is often most incompetent to find the solution of this puzzle.”

Marguerite muses on the difficulties of a world where women must be masters of diplomacy while managing their feelings on the fly. Deep emotions can overwhelm, and, under stress, a person may become lost in their maze. Even Marguerite, as brilliant and skilled as anyone, sometimes finds herself at her wit’s end.

“No! no! no! a thousand times no!”

The Scarlet Pimpernel’s wife, Marguerite, realizes that she has betrayed him to the French, a thought so horrible that she expresses one of the most famous phrases in English. Widely overused in early movie melodramas, it was spoofed in a popular 1935 Betty Boop cartoon, and it appeared in the satirical political novel Animal Farm by George Orwell. It’s an old saying: Even Shakespeare used it in an altered form. The phrase also occurs in other languages. In the present story, it’s meant to be taken seriously since, at the time of its publication in 1905, it had not yet become so overused in popular entertainment as to become trite.

“How could she imagine that a man who could love with so much intensity as Percy Blakeney had loved her from the first?—how could such a man be the brainless idiot he chose to appear? She, at least, ought to have known that he was wearing a mask, and having found that out, she should have torn it from his face, whenever they were alone together.”

Because love is blind, it is also foolish. Had Marguerite realized sooner that Percy was playing the fool to hide his work as the Scarlet Pimpernel, she might have confronted him, won his confidence, and prevented the dire predicament in which they’re both trapped. Seeing through her prior ignorance, she knows that the road ahead must be paved with love, dedication, and the willingness to risk herself for her beloved.

“‘Oh, I hope there are risks!’ she murmured softly, ‘I hope there are dangers, too!—I have so much to atone for.’”

Though her sins against her husband are inadvertent, for Marguerite, they must be set right, and she will gladly face any danger as a penance if it helps her save him from the danger she has caused. If death is her fate, she’ll accept it as absolution. Her determination makes her more than a match for any foe; her fearlessness makes her into a threat that others must face.

“She was in the mood when the sea has a saddening effect upon the nerves. It is only when we are very happy, that we can bear to gaze merrily upon the vast and limitless expanse of water, rolling on and on with such persistent, irritating monotony, to the accompaniment of our thoughts, whether grave or gay. When they are gay, the waves echo their gaiety; but when they are sad, then every breaker, as it rolls, seems to bring additional sadness, and to speak to us of hopelessness and of the pettiness of all our joys.”

Frustrated by a sudden sea storm in her attempt to reach Percy, Marguerite feels a gnawing tension that turns the sound of breakers to drumbeats of doom. The author takes this moment to ponder, almost as an aside to the reader, how the human psyche, in its many moods, interacts with the ever-changing state of the natural world. That the sea can look different every day is a testament, not merely to the infinite shifts of water and weather, but to the endless variety of emotions that move like shifting clouds through people’s minds.

“Every [French] man nowadays was a spy upon his fellows: the most innocent word uttered in jest might at any time be brought up as a proof of aristocratic tendencies, or of treachery against the people. Even the women went about with a curious look of fear and of hate lurking in their brown eyes […].”

The French revolution requires strict obedience to its cause and beliefs; citizens strive, whatever their views, to appear compliant. Where a wrong word might, in today’s Western countries, at the worst cause a lawsuit, loss of employment, or social ostracism, a poor choice of words during the Reign of Terror could get a person’s head removed. 

“Marguerite was as calm, as clear-headed as any man. There was no fear of her doing anything that was rash.”

Working with Marguerite to find and warn Percy, Sir Andrew realizes that she has a head perhaps more capable than his own. The story makes an early literary assertion that women’s minds are as strong, if not stronger, than men’s.

“‘I had forgotten,’ repeated Chauvelin, with a weird chuckle, as he rubbed his bony, talon-like hands one against the other, with a gesture of fiendish satisfaction. ‘The tall stranger may show fight. In any case no shooting, remember, except as a last resort. I want that tall stranger alive...if possible.’ He laughed, as Dante has told us that the devils laugh at the sight of the torture of the damned.”

Chauvelin’s chortling, hand-rubbing glee lacks only the twisting of mustache ends to be a complete example of the classic bad guy in early 20th-century entertainment. Though today considered clichéd, such a description remains the template for modern-day baddies, each of whom still displays one or more portions of Chauvelin’s behaviors.

“The road lay some distance from the sea, bordered on either side by shrubs and stunted trees, sparsely covered with meagre foliage, all turning away from the North, with their branches looking in the semi-darkness, like stiff, ghostly hair, blown by a perpetual wind.”

The distant sea at night and the trees warped by a lifetime of strong winds suggest a dark and frightening landscape through which Marguerite must travel, barefoot and silent, as she follows the cart that carries Chauvelin to his showdown with the Scarlet Pimpernel. The brooding, moody scene reflects her troubled thoughts and foreshadows the dangers to come.

“The physical pain of utter weariness was so great, that she hoped confidently her tired body could rest here for ever, after all the turmoil, the passion, and the intrigues of the last few days—here, beneath that clear sky, within sound of the sea, and with this balmy autumn breeze whispering to her a last lullaby. All was so solitary, so silent, like unto dreamland.”

Lying on the steep ocean cliff after the stress of the past two days, overcome by her miles-long walk, her vain attempt to save Percy and the escapees, and the anguish of not knowing the fate of those she loved, Marguerite sinks into a half-swoon from which she hopes merely to die. The author’s vivid, if flowery, description of the scene and Marguerite’s state of mind is typical of the writing style: It’s at once captivating and somewhat overdone. This is a characteristic of much of the romantic literature of the period; more recent authors tend to take a drier, more concise approach.