From The Scarlet Pimpernel by Baroness Emmuska Orczy
“He had bent his tall figure in a low and ceremonious bow, as she finally, with another bitter little sigh, began to mount the terrace steps.
The long train of her gold-embroidered gown swept the dead leaves off the steps, making a faint harmonious sh—sh—sh as she glided up, with one hand resting on the balustrade, the rosy light of dawn making an aureole of gold round her hair, and causing the rubies on her head and arms to sparkle. She reached the tall glass doors which led into the house. Before entering, she paused once again to look at him, hoping against hope to see his arms stretched out to her, and to hear his voice calling her back. But he had not moved; his massive figure looked the very personification of unbending pride, of fierce obstinacy.
Hot tears again surged to her eyes, and as she could not let him see them, she turned quickly within, and ran as fast as she could up to her own rooms.
Had she but turned back then, and looked out once more on to the rose-lit garden, she would have seen that which would have made her own sufferings seem but light and easy to bear—a strong man, overwhelmed with his own passion and his own despair. Pride had given way at last, obstinacy was gone: the will was powerless. He was but a man madly, blindly, passionately in love, and as soon as her light footsteps had died away within the house he knelt down upon the terrace steps, and in the very madness of his love he kissed one by one the places where her small foot had trodden, and the stone balustrade there, where her tiny hand had rested last.”
“He had bent his tall figure in a low and ceremonious bow, as she finally, with another bitter little sigh, began to mount the terrace steps.
The long train of her gold-embroidered gown swept the dead leaves off the steps, making a faint harmonious sh—sh—sh as she glided up, with one hand resting on the balustrade, the rosy light of dawn making an aureole of gold round her hair, and causing the rubies on her head and arms to sparkle. She reached the tall glass doors which led into the house. Before entering, she paused once again to look at him, hoping against hope to see his arms stretched out to her, and to hear his voice calling her back. But he had not moved; his massive figure looked the very personification of unbending pride, of fierce obstinacy.
Hot tears again surged to her eyes, and as she could not let him see them, she turned quickly within, and ran as fast as she could up to her own rooms.
Had she but turned back then, and looked out once more on to the rose-lit garden, she would have seen that which would have made her own sufferings seem but light and easy to bear—a strong man, overwhelmed with his own passion and his own despair. Pride had given way at last, obstinacy was gone: the will was powerless. He was but a man madly, blindly, passionately in love, and as soon as her light footsteps had died away within the house he knelt down upon the terrace steps, and in the very madness of his love he kissed one by one the places where her small foot had trodden, and the stone balustrade there, where her tiny hand had rested last.”
Response:
The Scarlet Pimpernel was required reading for a class that I took some years ago. At first I was unimpressed with the overly dramatic dialog and the old English diction that laced the novel with words like, “Nay” and “Aye.” As the story progressed, however, I began to enjoy the story a great deal and look back on it now as one of my favorite books. The storyline of the novel is pretty complex with a large cast of characters and many twists and turns to the plotline. In the scene above the title character Percy Blakeney and his wife Marguerite’s marriage is on the rocks. He feels that he is unable to trust her with his “secret life” and she is frustrated and confused by his aloofness. The result is a tender scene which never fails to make me sigh.
The Scarlet Pimpernel was required reading for a class that I took some years ago. At first I was unimpressed with the overly dramatic dialog and the old English diction that laced the novel with words like, “Nay” and “Aye.” As the story progressed, however, I began to enjoy the story a great deal and look back on it now as one of my favorite books. The storyline of the novel is pretty complex with a large cast of characters and many twists and turns to the plotline. In the scene above the title character Percy Blakeney and his wife Marguerite’s marriage is on the rocks. He feels that he is unable to trust her with his “secret life” and she is frustrated and confused by his aloofness. The result is a tender scene which never fails to make me sigh.
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