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The League of the Scarlet Pimpernel is a secret society of English aristocrats who are determined to rescue their French counterparts from execution. Their leader is the mysterious Scarlet Pimpernel, whose name comes from the drawing of a red flower he uses to sign his messages.
Table of Contents:
Chapter 01: Paris: September, 1792
Chapter 02: Dover: "The Fisherman's Rest"
Chapter 03: The Refugees
Chapter 04: The League Of The Scarlet Pimpernel
Chapter 05: Marguerite
Chapter 06: An Exquisite Of '92
Chapter 07: The Secret Orchard
Chapter 08: The Accredited Agent
Chapter 09: The Outrage
Chapter 10: In The Opera Box
Chapter 11: Lord Grenville's Ball
Chapter 12: The Scrap Of Paper
Chapter 13: Either
Chapter 14: One O'Clock Precisely!
Chapter 15: Doubt
Chapter 16: Richmond
Chapter 17: Farewell
Chapter 18: The Mysterious Device
Chapter 19: The Scarlet Pimpernel
Chapter 20: The Friend
Chapter 21: Suspense
Chapter 22: Calais
Chapter 23: Hope
Chapter 24: The Death
Chapter 25: The Eagle And The Fox
Chapter 26: The Jew
Chapter 27: On The Track
Chapter 28: The Pere Blanchard's Hut
Chapter 29: Trapped
Chapter 30: The Schooner
Chapter 31: The Escape
Baroness Emma Magdolna Rozália Mária Jozefa Borbála "Emmuska" Orczy de Orczi (1865–1947) was a Hungarian aristocrat, raised in Britain.
Baroness Orczy was a novelist and painter, famed for her Scarlett Pimpernel series about an English aristocrat who donned a disguise to rescue French aristocrats threatened by the guillotine.
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By John on 02-24-14
Great Performance, Awful Production
There are a round dozen recordings of The Scarlet Pimpernel available at Audible. Unabridged, abridged, a radio play featuring the great Leslie Howard and even a version in Italian. I chose the one by David Thorn for three reasons: it is unabridged, it is by far the cheapest and, to my ear anyway, it is the best performance. I’ll add a fourth: it isn’t in Italian.
These impeccable reasons overcame my uneasiness at the cover art: a sort of CGI nightmare of two humanoids in non-period costumes swooning woodenly toward each other (if that’s possible) in the sort of faux-medieval atmosphere familiar to dedicated gamers (or “Barbie Princess” video viewers). But the real problems started when I hit “play”.
First, my eager ears were saluted by a gaggle of kids chanting, “This is Audible Kids!” Really? This tale of intrigue and guillotines, set in the complex political atmosphere of Revolutionary, Republican France, riddled with references to Gluck and Burke and Fox, is a kid’s story? Granted, what the good baroness wrote is not great literature—in the pantheon I’d put her somewhere near Ian Fleming: a gifted spinner of tales, observer of people and writer of dialogue. Her book is one of the best examples of an iffy genre: popular historical fiction. I can’t recall another story I’ve seen spoofed more often. Still, this isn't kid’s stuff.
Next came the musical accompaniment at the beginning and end of every chapter. I suppose it’s meant to cast a spell of mystery and intrigue. What sounds like a synthesized guitar (or harp?) wanders up and down the scale hand-in-hand with a toy piano—or possibly a miniature xylophone? I didn’t know what it reminded me of. And then I got it: 70’s lounge music. I could see the shag-carpeted electric piano, the cocktails with little umbrellas. Next thing I expected was Bill Murray belting out, “Sta-a-a-a-a-r Wars, nothing but Sta-a-a-a-a-r Wars!” (Youtube it if you’re too young to remember.)
Then I discovered that the chapter divisions on my iPod didn’t sync up with the chapter divisions in the book. Instead, my menu showed eight “chapters”, each an hour-and-some-odd minutes long, each containing several actual chapters. In other words, lose your place and you’re lost.
And in between every chapter was wedged a generous slab or two of the lounge music. But I shouldn't complain. Those oases of synthesized smarminess served as the next best thing to chapter divisions, making the job of finding your place a little easier.
But the real problem, the thing that makes this recording a tragedy, is that there are words missing.
At first it wasn’t so bad. At the end of chapter 5, the last few words of the final sentence actually begin to fade away in order to make room for the dreadful muzak. But at least I could hear them.
Then, at the end of chapter six, the final sentence didn’t make sense at all. Looking up The Scarlet Pimpernel on the Guttenberg Project, I discovered that the sentence was missing its entire second half—words that reveal a detail I very much needed to hear if the story was to make any sense later on. The same thing happens at the end of chapter seven, the middle of chapters thirteen and fourteen and, I have no doubt elsewhere in places I didn’t notice. Admittedly, these later gaps are not nearly as crucial. Still, they’re flaws any competent producer would have caught.
I called this a tragedy but that’s too strong a word. This is simply a waste. Because David Thorn’s performance—his delineation of character, his pacing, his ability to keep several simultaneous voices (and the narration) distinct and vivid—is very good. It is a shame that his fine performance should be marred by such slipshod production. And it’s a shame that such a good yarn—a story that has come, like the Three Musketeers, to define our collective image of the period in which it is set—should be robbed of it’s full vigor.
I can give you no better proof of that vigor than by saying that, in spite of all the production flaws, I persevered because I was hopelessly hooked. It really is a glorious, swashbuckling rip-snorter of a story. Yes, at heart it is a bodice-ripper. The horns of Lady Blakeney’s various dilemmas are dwelt upon ad nauseum. One more reference to “a woman’s heart” and I probably would have given up. But there is good writing here and even shrewd insights.
For example, this description of an empty dining room is something of a tour de force:
“When Chauvelin reached the supper-room it was quite deserted. It had that woebegone, forsaken, tawdry appearance, which reminds one so much of a ball-dress, the morning after.
“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 dowager; there were a few isolated, single chairs, close to the table, that spoke of gourmands intent on the most recherche dishes, and others overturned on the floor, that spoke volumes on the subject of my Lord Grenville's cellars.
“It was a ghostlike replica, in fact, of that fashionable gathering upstairs; a ghost that haunts every house where balls and good suppers are given; a picture drawn with white chalk on grey cardboard, dull and colourless, now that the bright silk dresses and gorgeously embroidered coats were no longer there to fill in the foreground, and now that the candles flickered sleepily in their sockets.”
Not bad. Not bad at all.
Then there are keen observations that get at the heart of the paradoxes of the French Revolution and, indeed, of all modern totalitarianism:
“On seeing the strangers…[the innkeeper] paused in the middle of the room… looked at them, with even more withering contempt than he had bestowed upon his former guests, and muttered, "Sacrrree soutane!"
“[One of the newcomers] had taken a quick step forward towards Brogard. He was dressed in the soutane, broad-brimmed hat and buckled shoes habitual to the French cure, but as he stood opposite the innkeeper, he threw open his soutane for a moment, displaying the tri-colour scarf of officialism, which sight immediately had the effect of transforming Brogard's attitude of contempt, into one of cringing obsequiousness.”
In other words, the political saviors have quickly become even more terrifying (and hateful) than even the Church that had supposedly been oppressing everyone so ruthlessly up until then.
Long story short: this is a good book and a very good performance, hampered by lamentable production. Which is probably why it was the cheapest.
12 of 13 people found this review helpful
By Jean on 12-23-13
I got this book with my Audible coupon that was recently given to me by Audible. I remember we read this book in high school way back in the early 50’s along with Sherlock Holmes stories. This is a book about the French Revolution. It also illustrates that you cannot judge a person by their appearance. Lord Percy Blakeney is a fancy dresser often starting current fads and plays the general flakey fancy party boy who married a famous French actress Marguerite St. Just. It turns out that Lord Percy is the Scarlet Pimpernel who rescues French aristocrats from the guillotine. Percy is a master of disguises and he and is merry ban give the French agent Chauvelin the slip as they continue to escape from his clutches. The book has lots of humor, action, and romance written in the style of the 19th century. Over all it is an interesting story placed in the middle of the French revolution. The book was written by Hungarian Baroness Orczy who lived in England. David Thorn did a good job narrating the story.
4 of 4 people found this review helpful