French Revolution Book #2

The Scarlet Pimpernel
by Baroness Orczy

Do you know, I never realized until the other day that the Baroness wrote an entire series of novels and shorts about her Scarlet Pimpernel. I don't believe they were in print back when I first read this book, but they are back in print now.

I believe I first read this novel after watching the Anthony Andrews/Jane Seymour movie version of the story, and my high opinion of the novel was definitely flavored by the superb acting of Anthony Andrews. Interestingly enough, he patterned his Sir Percy after that of Leslie Howard--the similarity is striking!

The above movie features the marvelous Leslie Howard in the role, with Merle Oberon as Marguerite St. Just.

And this one features Anthony Andrews and Jane Seymour in the same roles.

You can no-doubt guess that I am a long-time fan of this classic story line: The swash-buckling hero concealing his true identity behind that of a dull or foppish alter ego. It has popped up in various forms in novels, television, comic books, and movies. I grew up loving Tyrone Power in the movie version of The Mark of Zorro (although I have never read the novel). I am a fan of Batman, Superman, and other super-heroes in the Sir Percy mold. I wrote my own version of this story line more than ten years ago and won two major CBA awards with it!

Now, on to the Book Review:

I hope I don't step on any toes with this review, but I must be entirely honest. As I said at the beginning of this post, I thoroughly enjoyed this novel the first time I read it as a young woman with a taste for adventure and romance. I entirely understand its appeal!

However, time, maturity, and historical study have dimmed its glow in my eyes. The author writes cleverly, particularly when one takes into account that English was not her first language, yet she wrote all of her novels in English! (The author's life alone is a fascinating tale, by the way.) She wrote in a style popular around the turn of the twentieth century, which is to say, melodrama to the max! Her descriptions are colorful, her characters are extremes, and the Paris she depicts is thrilling.

However, her attention to historical detail is sadly lacking. The novel opens in September 1792 with aristocrats being guillotined by the hundreds every day. Years ago, when I researched for a novella set during the Revolution, I was surprised to learn that the Reign of Terror did not begin until a year later. Thousands of people were killed in September of 1792, but few were guillotined. The entire novel is set in the wrong year for the events depicted to have occurred.

Another problem for me involves Sir Percy Blakeney, Bart., himself. He is described as unusually tall and massively built, with broad shoulders. (Consider this: Would a man with that build easily pass himself off as a woman? as a shriveled old man? It works well enough in the above movie versions because neither actor fits the author's description of our hero!) He is also unusually good-looking or would have been had he not maintained an affected expression (his disguise). He is a man without flaw--gorgeous, brilliant, athletic, clever, etc. Yet he leaps to the conclusion that his wife, whom he adores, has committed an evil act. Does he seriously question her on the subject? Um.

And Marguerite, who is exquisitely beautiful beyond the lot of mortals (okay, I am exaggerating, but not by much), and is also brilliant and clever--does she penetrate her adored husband's flimsy disguise and confide in him when she gets herself into trouble? I won't give away spoilers, but you can imagine where this leads.

Therein lies the problem with this entire story line--including in my own novel, mind you. The plot rests almost exclusively on stupidity and poor communication. Yes, these mistakes are explained within the novel (in all its various versions), yet the author has to stretch a reader's credulity to make it work. (How dumb WAS Lois Lane?)

All these critiques notwithstanding, I still enjoy The Scarlet Pimpernel and recommend it for escape reading! Just don't base your understanding of history on it. Sir Percy Blakeney is an enduring character of modern popular fiction.

For a truly classic novel based on the French Revolution, check back for my review next week! You can probably guess which book is #3, but I will pretend to be mysterious because melodrama is fun!

The Scarlet Pimpernel movies are good fun too--several versions are available for viewing on YouTube and on Netflix, including the two I mentioned above.

Enjoy!

Distractions

Yes indeed, I have finished rewrites on the third draft of my story, but this triumph involved the overcoming of serious, even say momentous obstacles and distractions.

Such as this one:

Am I alone in hating the way my voice sounds on a video? Myles is usually willing to do all the talking, but never when a camera is involved. And yes, I was wearing my pajamas and robe while working--the costume is part of the genius.

And isn't he the cutest? I know the fangs are goofy, but I love them.

I do need to write my second book review, but it has been so long since I've read the second book that I need to, well, re-view it.

Have a great weekend, one and all!

French Revolution Novel, #1

Hello, faithful believers who have held out hope that I might return someday to the blogging world! Your optimism has proven worthy, for here I am. I hope it also proves to be worth the wait!

I promise to explain my absence in greater detail one of these days, but here is the short version: a major rewrite undertaken during the holiday season and a slow recovery from illness. Bleah.

Enough of that and on to the fun stuff!

I have mentioned three of my favorite novels set during the French Revolution, all of which have inspired me as an author at some time or other. You have probably read or at least heard of all three of these books, but I will write my thoughts on them anyway!

The first ranks among my favorite novels, and I own the complete works of this author on my Nook (haven't yet read them all, but I fully intend to!). I introduce to you the amazing and marvelous . . .

Scaramouche by Rafael Sabatini

Description, taken from Goodreads:

Once he was André-Louis Moreau, a lawyer raised by nobility, unconcerned with the growing discontent among France’s lower class—until his best friend is mercilessly struck down by a member of the aristocracy. Now, he is Scaramouche. Speaking out against the unjust French Government, he takes refuge with a nomadic band of acting improvisers where he assumes the role of Scaramouche the Clown—a comic figure with a very serious message...

Set during the French Revolution, this novel of swashbuckling romance is also a thought-provoking commentary on class, inequality, and the individual’s role in society—a story that has become Rafael Sabatini’s enduring legacy.

Jill's thoughts:

Have many of you read this story? If you enjoy adventurous historical fiction and a dashing hero, you will adore this book just like I do. André-Louis is in many ways the standard “unlikely hero” character. He is, in many ways, too good to be true, and yet Sabatini wrote him with such dash and style that I love him anyway.

When the story opens, André-Louis is a young man with very little ambition. A tragic encounter lights a fire beneath him, and he becomes a political activist, an ardent Republican, at a time when such views are dangerous. He discovers that he possesses the gift of oratory, but its rash use places his life in danger. Revenge is his driving motivation.

So he goes into hiding among a company of traveling actors. And he discovers that he possesses a gift for acting and for writing plays, adding into them a bit of political satire that again puts his life in danger. The book's title is taken from the character André plays on stage, the boastful Scaramouche. He falls madly in love with a fellow player and intends to marry her. Once again, his "nemesis" strikes, but when André-Louis seeks revenge, his enemy escapes.

His cover is blown, so he goes into hiding in a fencing academy, and (surprise!) after plenty of practice he becomes the greatest fencer alive. In order to pursue his goal of revenge, he becomes a deputy in the Assembly, but once again his attempt at revenge is thwarted.

All this brilliant achievement, yet he cannot seem to kill his enemy! Read the story to discover the layered reasons for André's frustration, jealousy, and failures--and fall more in love with him than ever!

This story ends in August of 1792, before the worst blood-baths in Paris begin, but the danger to our hero and other characters is very real. Plenty of heart-pounding action and suspense here!

Rating: Includes swearing, many violent deaths, and off-scene sexual implications. However, our hero is a moral and upstanding young man.

Try it! You won't be sorry.

Merry Christmas to all!

I do love this time of year! We have lived in a Winter Wonderland all month, since a heavy snowfall in November was closely followed by freezing rain that "glued" the snow to the tree branches. Every snowfall since just rests on top of this frozen base coat. Not so fun for the poor trees, with their heavy boughs weighted nearly to the ground, but ever so beautiful for us to enjoy!

I had an oncology check-up this past week and got the "all-clear," both for cancer and for pneumonia. My four fractured ribs are healing nicely--I feel only a few twinges now and then. (No exuberant hugs, please!) I am enjoying renewed energy and a heightened appreciation for good health. Yay!

Sorry for the silence on my blog! I am in the midst of intensive rewrites to my rewrites, and this time I believe the story is finally becoming what it is meant to be. Once I turn in the manuscript, I intend to explain my learning process in all its lumpy, ugly detail. Heh. And I have some fun blog posts in mind about research and inspiration.

But for the present, my writing time is dedicated to the book itself, and all the fun peripherals like blogs must wait another week or two. Much as I love writing this book, I look forward to having a bit more time for other creative endeavors!

Plus, when I am finished I get to read through the next Goldstone Wood novel. Yes indeed, I am soooo lucky!

Cover Reveal: Until That Distant Day

I can hardly believe this day is here! I'm so excited to share with you the cover of my upcoming novel. I've had several of my old stories repackaged in recent years, but it's been a long time since I've had a new book published. And I've never before taken part in a cover reveal!

So without further delay, may I present the cover of Until That Distant Day:

Paris, France

1792

Colette DeMer and her brother Pascoe are two sides of the same coin, dependent upon one another in the tumultuous world of the new Republic. Together they labor with other leaders of the sans-culottes to ensure freedom for all the downtrodden men and women of France.

But then the popular uprisings turn bloody and the rhetoric proves false. Suddenly, Colette finds herself at odds with Pascoe and struggling to unite her fractured family against the lure of violence. Charged with protecting an innocent young woman and desperately afraid of losing one of her beloved brothers, Colette doesn’t know where to turn or whom to trust as the bloodshed creeps ever closer to home.

Until that distant day when peace returns to France, can she find the strength to defend her loved ones . . . even from one another?

Coming April 25, 2014

_____________________

This is easily the prettiest book cover I've ever had! I just love it.

And here is an excerpt from the story . . .

Opening of Chapter 1

I was born believing that the world was unfair and that I was the person to make it right.

One of my earliest memories is of Papa setting me atop a nail keg in the forge; I could not have been older than two at the time.

“Colette, give Papa a kiss,” he said, tapping his cheek.

“Why?”

“Come and sit on my knee.”

“Why?”

My response to every order was the same, asked with genuine curiosity. I did not understand why his watching friends chuckled. Why should I press my lips to Papa’s sweaty, prickly cheek? Why should I hop down from the keg, where he had just placed me, and run to sit on his knee, a most uncomfortable perch? I felt justified in requesting a reason for each abrupt order, yet he never bothered to give me one.

Mama, when thus questioned, provided an answer in the form of a sharp swat. This I could respect as definitive authority, although the reasoning behind it remained dubious.

My little brother Pascoe was born believing that the world was his to command. As soon as he acquired his first vocabulary word, “No,” he and I joined ranks in defiance of established authority.

Many impediments cluttered the path of destiny in those early years: parents, thirteen other siblings, physical ailments, and educational difficulties. And as we grew into adulthood, more serious matters intervened, even parting us for a time. But I will speak more of that later. For now, let me assure you that, no matter the obstacles thrown in our way, our sibling bond seemed indissoluble; the love between us remained unaffected by any outside relationship.

Pascoe and I were young adults when revolutionaries in Paris threw aside the tyranny of centuries and established a new government based on the Rights of Man. From the seclusion of our little village in Normandy we rejoiced over each battle fought and won; and when our local physician, Doctor Hilliard, who had first mentored then employed Pascoe for several years, was elected as deputy to the National Assembly from our district, a whole new world opened at our feet.

My story truly begins on a certain day in the spring of 1792, in the little domain I had made for myself in the kitchen at the back of Doctor Hilliard’s Paris house. Perhaps it wasn’t truly my domain, for it did not belong to me. I was merely the doctor’s housekeeper and could lay no real claim. Nevertheless, the kitchen was more mine than anything had ever been, and I loved that small, dark room; especially during the hours when sunlight slanted through the bubbled-glass kitchen windows, making bright, swirling shapes on the whitewashed walls, or each evening when I arranged my latest culinary creation on a platter and left it in the warming oven for the doctor to discover whenever he arrived home. That kitchen was my home. Not the home I had grown up in, but the home I had always craved.

On that particular day, however, it did not feel the safe haven I had always believed it to be. Loud voices drifted down from the upper floor where the doctor and Pascoe were in conference, disturbing my calm. When I closed the connecting door to the dining room, the angry voices drifted in through the open kitchen windows. I couldn’t close the windows; I might smother of heat. Yet I needed to block out the sound, to make it stop.

So I slipped a filet of sole into a greased skillet and let it brown until golden on both sides. The hiss and sizzle did not quite cover the shouting, but it helped. Then I slid the fish onto a waiting plate lined with sautéed vegetables fresh from my kitchen garden; and I topped all with an herbed wine-and-butter sauce. A grind of fresh pepper finished off my creation.

But my hands were still trembling, and I felt as if something inside me might fall to pieces.

Pascoe often shouted. Shouting was part of his fiery nature, a normal event. He shouted when he gave speeches at section meetings. He shouted about overcooked meals or inferior wines. He shouted when his lace jabot refused to fall into perfect folds.

But never before had I heard Doctor Hilliard raise his voice in anger.

Doctor Hilliard was never angry. Doctor Hilliard never displayed emotion. At most, he might indicate approval by the glance of a benevolent eye or disapprobation by the merest lift of a brow. Yet there could be no mistaking the two furious voices overhead. I well knew Pascoe’s sharp tenor with its sarcastic edge; but now I also heard the doctor’s resonant voice crackling with fury.

I managed to slide the hot plate into the warmer alongside a crusty loaf of bread and closed the door, using a doubled towel to protect my shaking hands.

Behind me the connecting door was flung open, and Pascoe burst in as I spun to face him. “Gather your things; we are leaving,” he growled. His eyes blazed in his pale face, and the jut of his jaw allowed for no questions. He clapped his tall hat on his head as he passed through the room.

I donned my bonnet and sabots and picked up my parasol. “What has happened?” I asked just above a whisper.

“I’ll tell you once we are away from this house.” His lips snapped tight. His chest heaved with emotion, and he grasped a portfolio so tightly that his fingers looked white.

I could not recall the last time I had seen my brother in such a rage.

___________________________________

BLOG BUTTON:

Anne Elisabeth, my daughter and publicist, has created a blog button for my novel. Please feel free to share it on your blog and help me spread the word!

Blog Button Link

BOOK PAGE

And this book has its very own blog page! Here is its address, where you can learn more about 

Until That Distant Day and my other books: http://untilthatdistantdaynovel.blogspot.com/

GIVEAWAY!!

I am also delighted to offer a bundle prize of ten print novels and novellas, including my award-winning Faithful Traitor, several novella collections, and my three-book Longtree series. These will all be autographed! (US and Canada only, please.)

a Rafflecopter giveaway

If you would like to visit other hosts of this cover reveal, Anne Elisabeth is posting a list of them on her blog at: anneelisabethstengl.blogspot.com 

Thank you so much for joining me today and sharing in the fun! 

GODDESS TITHE Release Day

I can hardly believe this day is finally here!! For the next three days Goddess Tithe will be available for .99 on Kindle and Smashwords! What a deal. :0)

A beautiful tale of high adventure, courage, honor, and sacrifice, Goddess Tithe will keep you riveted until the last page is turned. I am particularly fond of the illustrations--they add extra life and amusement to the tale of Munny, Leonard the Jester, Captain Sunan, Tu Pich, and the dreadful monster Risafeth.

I'm sorry I've been so quiet here on my blog lately. I came down with pneumonia/pleurisy one month ago today, and I do believe I lost October and half of November somewhere. But although I am still coughing and still sound pretty hoarse, I am feeling better by the day. Yay!

Sunnyside

I hereby present chilling evidence of an overactive imagination. For those curious, I grew up in Long Beach, CA.

Sunnyside Mortuary was the scariest place in the world.

And Joanie knew that her mom would drive through it on their way home from the school Halloween party that night. The road home passed directly through the City of the Dead, as Joanie’s dad said it was often called when he was a boy. Acres of graves, many dating from the 1800's, spread nearly to the horizon on either side of the road; and at the end, O! At the end was . . . the Haunted Tower.

“Mom, could we take a different way home tonight?” Joanie asked as she climbed into her family’s ancient station wagon. A gust of wind caught her headdress and flipped her fabric ears into her eyes just as the door closed.

“Why would we do that?” Mom asked, turning the key. The engine started with a screech of complaint but settled into its usual ratchety rumble.

“I don’t like driving through the cemetery on Halloween,” Joanie admitted. “It’s creepy.”

Mom rolled her eyes, pulled out of the parking lot, and entered the flow of traffic. “After herding wild children all evening, I’m taking the shortest way home. No more of your silliness tonight.”

Joanie slumped into her seat, wrapped her arms around herself, and tried to think like a grown-up.

Dad said Sunnyside Mortuary was an architectural work of art in the Spanish style. It had been built long ago out of genuine marble and granite, and it boasted magnificent stained-glass windows, a pipe organ, and a huge pendulum that ticked away the time. A three-tiered tower topped this glorious edifice, a landmark of the city.

And it had dead people buried in its walls.

To Joanie, the dark windows high in that ornate tower seemed to leer down at passersby, as if attempting to lure them inside to be swallowed up in its walls. When she was little she used to hide her eyes whenever the road led past Sunnyside, but more recently she had decided to keep both eyes on it. That way, nothing it did could take her unawares.

Mom stopped at a light and sighed, pushing hair back from her forehead. “Did you enjoy the party?” she asked.

“It was fine,” Joanie said mechanically. One more signal, and then . . . But Mom would drive fast, and soon the horror would be behind them, lost in the windy darkness.

Some of Dad’s relatives were buried at Sunnyside. Almost exactly a year ago, Joanie had attended her great aunt’s funeral. To her profound relief, the service had been held in a church, not at the Haunted Mausoleum, yet to this day Joanie could not forget how Aunt Agnes had looked, lying there in the coffin.

Aunt Agnes had scared Joanie when she was alive. The old lady wore dresses that hung like sacks on her bulgy frame, her thinning hair was dyed orange, and she teetered around on high-heeled pumps. When it came to her thick red lipstick, Aunt Agnes didn’t care about coloring inside the lines; and her eyes were wide and staring, like windows. She would grab Joanie by the arm, haul her close so she couldn’t escape, and talk right in her face.

When she was dead, the lipstick hadn’t made her look any better.

On the next block, Joanie saw groups of trick-or-treaters walking along the sidewalk, carrying pillowcases to catch the candy. The wind blew their costumes around and picked up discarded candy wrappers. One tall skeleton glowed faintly greenish beneath the streetlamps. It turned to watch the station wagon pass, and Joanie shivered at sight of those empty eye holes.

The car turned onto The Street. Soon the mortuary would appear. At night, lights shone up at the Haunted Tower from the outside, making its windows appear blacker than ever against the livid stucco. 

On the sidewalk outside the fence Joanie saw a thick figure tottering along on high heels. It looked like an old woman from behind, but it could have been a trick-or-treater. Except, why would she be alone?

Joanie hunched her shoulders and kept her eyes peeled for that tower. The black iron fence around the cemetery flickered past. Then against the black night appeared the tower’s face, ghastly white above treetops tossing in the wind. Joanie gulped but set her jaw. Only a minute more and the City of the Dead would shrink away in the rearview mirrors.

The station wagon made a groaning noise, and steam starting pouring from beneath its hood. “Oh no!” Joanie’s mother cried. “Not again! Stupid, worthless car.”

The engine sputtered out, and Mom had to steer the gasping car to the side of the road. A long black hearse purred past, ran a yellow light, and vanished into the night.

No other living soul was in sight.

Joanie slowly leaned forward and looked up. Those dark windows peered down with avid interest. “It is watching us, Mom,” she said. Her heart thudded in her chest, and her mouth was too dry to swallow.

“Joanie, I said that’s enough! What do you want to do, scare me silly?” Mom buttoned her coat and gave her daughter a warning look. “You stay here. I’ll be right back. We’ll probably have to walk to a gas station.”

Even though she wouldn’t begin to know how to fix anything wrong with the engine, Joanie’s mother climbed out and opened the car’s hood. Steam poured out on either side, whipped into swirls by the gusting wind. Joanie took another look at the tower, now wreathed in glowing mist. It looked larger, closer.

With the hood up, Joanie couldn’t see her mother through the windshield. The Haunted Tower was her only companion. Panic gripped her throat, and she breathed in short gasps. More than willing to risk Mom’s anger, she fumbled for the door handle and scrambled out, her costume whipping in the wind. The door squealed when she slammed it shut. Knees trembling, she walked around to the front of the car. Her mother wasn’t there.

Hard, icy fingers grabbed hold of her arm and spun her around.