Why I Love The Glass Menagerie [and you should too]

[WARNING: this contains MAJOR spoilers]

Hello, my dear readers! I was seized by a sudden fit of creative ardour [if you’ll forgive the flowery language], so here I am! As you probably know already, The Glass Menagerie is one of my favourite plays, so I’m here to explain, once and for all, why I love it so much. For further reference, you can read the previous posts I’ve written, based on the characters of The Glass Menagerie. I hope you enjoy reading this article!

As I’ve stated earlier as well, The Glass Menagerie is a “memory play”, a play in which the lead character narrates the events of the play, relying wholly on their memories [or, as I like to put it, the character looks back at their past through an invisible screen]. The Glass Menagerie, which premiered in 1944, was the play that lead to Tennessee Williams’ rise to fame. It hasn’t been very long since I first read The Glass Menagerie—I read it in December 2018—and I instantly fell in love with it. I, as an ardent admirer of Williams’ work, can see why this play was his break-through—there’s something incredibly magnetic about the Glass Menagerie. Aptly named, the play is as fragile as glass itself, delicately, lovingly, carefully pieced together, while still containing traces of brutal realism, leading to the climax of the play. Characteristic of Williams’ plays, it contains characters who are unable to accept the harsh reality they have found themselves in; they cannot move on with their lives and have come to a standstill. You see the warning signs long before the climax hits the audience: the Wingfields’ little world shatters completely, just like Laura Wingfield’s precious, delicate little glass unicorn.

In his famous opening narration, Tom Wingfield declares that he is about to show the audience “truth in the pleasant guise of illusion”, indicating that his view-point cannot entirely be relied on [he is one of the most famous unreliable narrators of modern literature]. The Wingfields have their own little “retreats”, especially Laura, an extremely non-social and emotionally fragile girl who spends all her time polishing her quaint collection of glass animals and playing her absent father’s old gramophone records. Apart from this menagerie of glass animals, she is also associated with blue roses; she is a creature of rare, other-worldly beauty, just like those unique and eye-catching flowers. However, as seen in the play, her beauty, while uncommon, is not permanent; it is fleeting.

There is barely anything “real” in the Wingfields’ lives; the “gentleman caller”,  Jim O’ Connor, who only makes one [but very crucial] appearance in the play, is the only one who has realistic views of life. It’s his coming that tears the Wingfields apart; the signs were there since the beginning, as the little family was very dysfunctional [due to the mother’s over-ambitious hopes, the son’s surliness, and the daughter’s fragility], but the family openly falls apart at this juncture. The most common interpretation of the title is, of course, a reference to Laura’s glass animals, but the interpretation I most favour is: it’s obviously not just Laura who has a fragile world—it’s Tom and Amanda, too. Hence, the title refers to the three of them, it doesn’t just refer to the pretty little menagerie; these three are very flawed [and rather relatable] people—the people who inhabit Williams’ world. Tom is forced to work at a shoe warehouse to support his family, but he is extremely dissatisfied with his lot in life, and is an aspiring poet. To deal with his depression, he drinks heavily and goes to the movies every night [or so he says]. Eventually, he is fired for writing a poem on the lid of a shoebox, and leaves his mother and sister to fend for themselves [he loves them, but has cracked under all the pressure. I’m not exactly condoning his actions, but that’s just the thing—I have mixed feelings about Tom]. Amanda, a faded Southern belle and a doting mother, is trying her best to raise her children under harsh financial conditions; her husband deserted her sixteen years ago. [I’ll come to the social background of the play soon]. She loves her children deeply, and is more pragmatic than them, but she demands too much, and she’s delusional and extremely emotionally unstable.

She attempts to evade reality by slipping into her past as a much-desired beauty; as expected, the play ends sadly for both her and her daughter. It’s largely due to her incessant nagging that Tom eventually throws in the towel and leaves her and Laura to look after themselves. In fact, Amanda is a rather tragic figure—in spite of her many faults, one can’t help but sympathise with her, especially at this stage. She tries to be strong and cheerful for her children, but does she cry her heart out at night? I bet she does. She shouldn’t have rushed into such a bad marriage. Due to her mental state, she has often been compared to Blanche Dubois from “A Streetcar Named Desire”, another of Williams’ plays; however, it must be noted that while Blanche is actually psychotic, Amanda is merely in denial of her situation.

Now, let me elaborate on the social background—in his opening narration, Tom gives the audience an insight into the harsh social conditions of that time; he refers to the Spanish Civil War and the Great Depression [which began in 1929]. Just try to imagine it: the Great Depression, which came on the heels of the Wall Street Crash, was the world’s most severe economic crisis; the USA was very badly hit and suffered greatly as a result. Those of you who are aware of the complete extent to which the Great Depression damaged USA’s economy will need no further explanation; Amanda was trying to raise two grown children at a time when thousands of workers were laid off without any unemployment benefit; several families were struggling to make ends meet, the Wingfields being no exception.

The Glass Menagerie is perhaps Williams’ most autobiographical play, making it that much more impactful and graphic. Williams [whose real name was Thomas] closely based Tom on himself; Amanda is based on his mother. His mentally fragile older sister, Rose, is the inspiration for Laura; however, it has been suggested by some critics [and I must say I agree] that Laura also resembles Williams himself, representing his deeply introverted nature and obsession with just one aspect of life [glass animals for Laura and writing for Williams—though he frequently suffered from “writer’s block”].

These personal emotions make the play that much more special, and whenever I write about The Glass Menagerie, I feel like I’m at my creative peak. It’s a play only a few people these days would appreciate—honestly, had I been a little younger, it wouldn’t have been to my taste either. Williams was a genius, no doubt, but a saddened, bruised, scarred genius—and it shows in his writing. He had the saddest strains of music in his soul.  I’m a major fan of tragedies [which, I’m certain, says a lot about me], but I do enjoy happy stuff too, so while this little masterpiece is my favourite piece of modern literature, Williams isn’t my favourite playwright. Give me someone a little more diverse—like Shakespeare or Brian Friel.

This article has been written straight out of my heart, and it was a spur-of-the moment thing, so… I hope you liked it! I’ve done my best to keep it straightforward, and I hope I’ve done this beauty justice! Thank you for reading!

I’d just like to say:

This play’s imperfection is beautiful.

See ya!

My Most Beloved Fictional Characters [Part 2]

Announcement: 
This is my 52^nd blog post of the year! Woo-hoo!!
 I’m over the moon! Thank you so much for your support, 
and I promise to work even harder!

Hello, dear reader! As promised, I’m back with another post on fictional characters! Writing about them is my hobby, and if you let me ramble on and on, I might never stop… anyways, last week I wrote about characters from books and manga—this time, I shall write about William Shakespeare’s characters. This post is centred around Portia from “The Merchant of Venice” [she’s one of Shakespeare’s most iconic female characters, and has garnered much critical acclaim]; Viola from “Twelfth Night” [I love her. I really do. Twelfth Night is a pretty amazing play]; and Hamlet from “The Tragedy of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark” [I’ve always liked Shakespeare’s tragedies more than his comedies, and The Tragedy of Hamlet is one of my favourite tragedies. Of course, “to be, or not to be?” is an iconic line, but apart from that, the play shows us the emotional complexities of human nature very well]. I hope you enjoy reading this article!

Portia:

There’s a lot that can be said about Portia. As the female protagonist of The Merchant of Venice, she is introduced to the audience as the rich, sharp-witted, and extremely beautiful heiress of Belmont. She is depicted as having a very close relationship with her companion, Nerissa.  Her late father, wanting nothing less than the best for his wonderfully accomplished daughter, devised a lottery for her many suitors; this lottery gives them the chance to choose between three caskets [gold, silver, and lead]. Should they choose the correct casket, they shall win her hand in marriage. If they choose the incorrect the incorrect casket, they must depart immediately, never reveal to anyone which casket they chose, and never seek another woman’s hand in marriage [pretty harsh, huh?]. Since the beginning, there’s this “forbidden fruit” vibe to her. She rejects all her potential suitors, favouring a young and handsome [but rather prodigal] Venetian noble, soldier and scholar, Bassanio. She’s somewhat superstitious, referring to the Prince of Morocco as “The Devil” [not in his hearing, obviously]; I wasn’t pleased with her here—everyone has their faults, yes, but I’m not going to excuse this.

The theme of cross-dressing, which is often seen in Shakespeare’s plays, is a very prominent part of The Merchant of Venice [… for some reason, it’s always only the women who cross-dress though]. Well, Bassanio manages to choose the correct casket, thereby earning himself Portia’s hand; sadly, it’s not happily ever after for them. It is soon revealed that Bassanio’s bosom friend, Antonio, who’d taken a loan from of three thousand ducats from a cruel and vindictive money-lender called Shylock [in order to finance Bassanio’s travel expenses], is now in deep danger as he is unable to repay the money; according to the agreement between him and Shylock, the former will have to sacrifice a pound of flesh. This unpleasant news puts Portia’s sharp brain cells to work; unlike Bassanio, she does not panic. As soon as Bassanio leaves for Venice, she sends her servant to Padua, to seek the advice of her cousin Bellario, a well-renowned lawyer. Determined to wrest Antonio’s life from Shylock’s clutches, she disguises herself as a man and assumes the role of a lawyer’s apprentice [taking on the name of “Balthazar”], before travelling to Venice with Nerissa [who is disguised as a clerk]. She then proceeds to swiftly thwart Shylock’s evil intentions; in spite of her lack of formal legal training, she uses her wits and her eloquent language to turn the tables in her favour, making her famous “quality of mercy” speech and moving almost everyone present to tears [it has no effect on Shylock, but she finds another way to defeat him]. Using the tactics of a “Philadelphia lawyer”, she focuses on the minute details and loopholes, and eventually declares that while Shylock is entitled to his pound of flesh, he can only extract flesh, not blood. Should he spill a single drop of Antonio’s blood, all his property will be confiscated. Shylock is soundly defeated; Portia has single-handedly saved Antonio’s life!

This is why I’m so awed by her character. [Honestly, the men in this play seem so lame, especially when compared to her]; however, her character, critics argue, has also been used to highlight the fact that unjust arguments can be won through eloquence, loopholes, and technicalities, regardless of whether they’re morally correct or not. Food for thought, huh? What do you think?

Viola:

Oh dear, I could talk about Viola all day, every day! I admire her very much, and she is one of Shakespeare’s greatest creations [even if she does have to cross-dress to protect herself. Seriously, Shakespeare…]. I have a feeling that Shakespeare had a lot of fun while writing her dialogues; she displays great intelligence, wit, and wisdom [besides, she’s calm and level-headed. Wise beyond her years]. Viola is the protagonist of Twelfth Night, and her actions in the first scene set the play into motion; she is introduced to the audience as a young lady of Messaline. She has been shipwrecked on the coast of Illyria—her twin brother was on the same ship, but they have been separated, and she does not know whether he is alive or dead. The Sea Captain who rescued her informs her that the place is governed by the virtuous Duke Orsino, who is in love with the beautiful Countess Olivia; Viola decides to serve her, but upon learning that Olivia is a recluse, she dresses up as a lad named Cesario, determined to serve the Duke. She becomes his pageboy and closest advisor.

Twelfth Night has a very deep, meaningful message about the differences between love and infatuation; you’ll see why this is relevant shortly. As Viola [or perhaps I should call her Cesario for now] is quite silver-tongued, Orsino entrusts her to carry his dramatic messages of love to Olivia, who has steadfastly been rejecting him. “Cesario” performs her duty faithfully, passing messages back and forth between Olivia and Orsino, but this eventually puts her in a bit of a fix, as Olivia [like everyone else around her] has mistaken her for a boy, and has—supposedly—fallen in love with her [!!!]. Moreover, while duty forces her to utilise all her persuasive skills to plead Orsino’s case to Olivia, she has fallen in love with the Duke herself, finding him to be a quiet, responsible, intelligent, and rational man—except when it comes to his infatuation with Olivia. It isn’t love; it’s infatuation. And both Viola and Olivia know it. Olivia gives Viola a ring as a present; Viola is torn between amusement and despair, as she can’t even reveal her true identity to Olivia. She concludes that only time can clear up the muddle and the love triangle her disguise has created.

The plot only gets thicker when Sebastian, Viola’s twin brother, arrives in Illyria with a pirate named Antonio [her brother is alive! Yaaay!]. Absolute chaos ensues, with people mistaking Sebastian for Viola and vice versa; their resemblance to each other is made more prominent by Viola’s disguise. The confusion simply keeps building until Sebastian and Viola [“Cesario”] come face-to-face for the first time, recognising each other at once [obviously, haha]. It is revealed that Olivia—who mistook Sebastian for Cesario—has secretly married him; Sebastian was obviously oblivious to the “love triangle”, and agreed to marry her simply because she is beautiful and wealthy [would you look at that? He’s daft, isn’t he?]. Orsino [finally] realises that he was never truly in love with Olivia; furthermore, he realises that Viola’s love for him is tenacious, pure, and true. Agreeing to love Olivia as his sister, he decides to take Viola as his wife once she discards his disguise. She’s worth ten of Olivia, and he knows it. [Well, happy late realisation, Duke Orsino…].

It is noteworthy that, while Viola is the play’s protagonist, her real name is not spoken by any character [including herself] until the final scene of the play, when she reveals her true identity.

Isn’t her character rich and intriguing? My heart’s overflowing with love for her right now [but you probably know that already, haha]. I’d like to know what you think of her, too!

Hamlet:

Alright-y! Before I begin talking about Hamlet [who is perhaps the most depressed and unstable character ever], let me clarify that I do not like him as a person; as a character, he’s extremely interesting, and is definitely one of the most well-sketched and graphic characters in the history of literature, but as a person? Saying “he’s not a great person” is a massive understatement. He is depicted as someone who is always dithering; someone who does not know his own mind [the 1948 movie adaptation opens thus: “This is the tragedy of a man who could not make up his mind.” I agree whole-heartedly. The play opens with him being deeply depressed over his father’s sudden death, and his uncle Claudius’ ascension to the throne and unwise, hasty marriage to Hamlet’s mother, Queen Gertrude. One night, Hamlet’s father’s ghost appears to him, revealing that Claudius, due to avarice and a massive inferiority complex, killed him. He disappears after commanding Hamlet to avenge his death; this entire scene sets the tone for the rest of the play, as Hamlet contemplates the spirit’s words. Though he hates and despises his uncle, he is unable to bring himself to carry out the dreary revenge without any proof; he steadily begins descending into insanity. This leads to his soliloquy of “to be, or not to be”; he wonders about death and suicide, denouncing the pain and unfairness of life, but acknowledging that the alternative might be far worse. While his speech is gloomy and morbid, it is one of the most well-known speeches in literature [particularly due to its expressive language. I must say, it’s a very well-written piece of work, accurately showing Hamlet’s state of mind].

Eventually, Hamlet, determined to test whether his late father’s words regarding his uncle are true or not, puts on a play about the murder of a king in front of the royal court, and has his close companion Horatio gauge Claudius’ reaction. Claudius, feeling extremely guilty, quickly gets up and leaves half-way through the play, confirming Hamlet’s suspicions;  he follows his uncle into his chambers, but decides not to kill Claudius at that moment, as the latter has attempted to wash away his sin through confession [and Hamlet wants him to burn in purgatory].  Another attempt on Claudius’ life results in the accidental death of Polonius, a courtier [and the father of Hamlet’s love interest, Ophelia. Feminist critics have tried to reconstruct her character, as she is a very wronged character; no “voice” is given to her in the play, and she is only interpreted in relation to other characters, particularly Hamlet].

There has been much debate about the supernatural aspects of the play, and Hamlet’s views about them; in accordance with traditional religious beliefs, Hamlet meditates on the existence of purgatory, where King Hamlet claims he currently resides; it is said that the king suffers in purgatory [as he died without foreknowledge of his death]. As I stated before, Hamlet refuses to kill his uncle while the latter is confessing; he believes that killing him now would send him straight to heaven [gruesomely ironic, isn’t it? Claudius? Going to heaven?!]. These views are somewhat superstitious; indeed, the concept of purgatory was frowned upon by the Protestant Reformation and was purely a Catholic concept.  

Of course, Hamlet’s end is tragic; it’s Karma. It’s an endless cycle for him. It seems unjust that he should have to die after finally managing to avenge his father’s death [that’s right, Claudius receives his just deserts], but that’s just the way things are… this is why revenge is pointless, fruitless. Besides, there are so many other deaths as well… the one that struck me the hardest is the demise of poor, blameless Ophelia [it’s unclear whether she committed suicide or not—she was drowned, and that’s all we know]. As the play steadily draws to a dark conclusion, Hamlet is fatally stabbed by Ophelia’s brother, Laertes; he manages to retaliate and finishes Laertes off, before stabbing Claudius with Laertes’ poisoned sword. It’s a fitting end for that coward. Just before Hamlet dies, he hears his mother shrieking that she has been poisoned; she mistakenly drank a glass of poisoned wine which was meant for Hamlet. [What’s with this play and poison? Really though, poison is a motif throughout the play].

It was obvious since the beginning that Hamlet’s character arc would have such a terrible conclusion, but… he is one of my favourite characters, and I was filled with a surge of deep, deep bitterness after I’d finished the play. “The Tragedy of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark” gave me more “feels” than any play or book.

[And in case you feel that the play is inconclusive due to the protagonist’s death, it’s not. With his dying breath, Hamlet declares Fortinbras, Prince of Norway, who is currently on his way to Denmark, heir to the throne].

Once again… what are your views? I’d love to know your thoughts on Hamlet!!

See you next time!

My Most Beloved Fictional Characters [Part 1]

 Hello, dear readers! Today’s post, which is centred around the three fictional characters I love most, is dedicated to the authors who allowed me [and the rest of the world] to experience the marvellous creation and storyline of these wonderful fictional people through the genius of their writing. So today, I’ll talk about Himura Kenshin [does this name ring a bell? He’s the protagonist of Rurouni Kenshin by Nobuhiro Watsuki]; Sydney Carton [A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens]; and Marguerite Blakeney [The Scarlet Pimpernel by Baroness Emma Orczy].

Himura Kenshin

Ah, where shall I begin? Kenshin is definitely my ultimate favourite fictional character of all time, no matter how much I read or how many characters I love and respect. If you’ve read my previous posts on Rurouni Kenshin, you already know how much I respect him, and how close he is to my heart [and I simply love writing about him, because that’s when my creativity helps me analyse him thoroughly as both a person and a character. I’ve read a load of manga besides Rurouni Kenshin, but this is the one manga I keep coming back to]. Watsuki has evidently gone out of his way to come up with this masterpiece of a character; it’s been 25 years since Kenshin’s “birth”, and he’s still one of the most well-known and legendary manga and anime protagonists. Old, but gold.

Why do I call him a “masterpiece”? He’s an incredibly complex character, with several paradoxes—the personification of duality [and he’s also a Gemini. I love Geminis]; he can be a cute, soft, unassuming little man, and the next instant he’s a badass, narrow-eyed, fierce warrior. He has the most beautiful eyes I’ve seen—they’re violet, a very rare shade [and, frankly, only seen in anime]. They’re extremely expressive, and one can find out a lot about him just by reading them—he has the weathered look of someone who’s experienced the brutality of the world; having seen much, and lost much as well, his eyes always have a tinge of deep sadness. He was a loner in the beginning, never staying in one place too long for fear of attracting attention or growing too close to people; however, after a young lady called Kamiya Kaoru befriends him and allows him to stay at her swordsmanship school even after finding out about his past, he begins opening up to people to a great extent, and forms several lifelong bonds with them.

Perhaps the most striking thing about Kenshin is his ambiguity. When the story begins, all we know about him is that he was an infamous assassin known as Hitokiri Battousai; he was allied with the revolutionaries during the Bakumatsu, and “slashed open the age of Meiji”. Wishing to redeem himself after having killed so many, he took off after the Meiji Government was established, and became a vagabond, vowing never to kill again and protecting all those who need it. Of course, that’s rather idealistic—throughout the series, he is nearly forced to break this vow several times, as he faces opponents who are insanely strong. I relate to him a lot, because he is, for a long time, unable to let go of the ghosts of his past, just like me. I clung to the past as well. He even bears a physical mark of the past—a cross-shaped scar on his left cheek. When we do come to know his back story, it’s in the last story-arc, Jinchuu.

He’s proof of the fact that the world isn’t just black or white. In today’s world, we need more people like him—people who will fight for what they believe in and protect the weak from being picked off by the “strong”. He represents what’s just, right, and ethical, and how important it is to stand your ground and defend your beliefs, no matter what. That is why he’s the character I admire and look up to the most!

Sydney Carton

I am a huge fan of Dickens; his books are, most often, depressing and rather nihilistic, but A Tale of Two Cities is undoubtedly one of my favourite books. I am not lying when I say that I’ve rarely found a character that satisfied me to this extent… Carton is a self-effacing, self- destructive, highly intelligent and quick-witted barrister; he is known as “The Jackal” in legal circles, a fitting title. He’s full of talent, but is unambitious, and is simply watching his partner Stryver advance [Stryver isn’t particularly smart—he’s making use of Carton’s natural gifts to climb to the top]. Carton’s physical resemblance to Charles Evrèmondè [or Darnay] is one of the most crucial points of the book. Really, their resemblance is uncanny!

This lawyer chooses to let himself waste away by wallowing in drink and maudlin sentiments, yet I find him appealing—why? Carton is by far the most relatable character in A Tale of Two Cities. The book’s plot is one of the best I’ve ever read [being a History nerd], but I don’t particularly find the other characters very interesting—except, perhaps, Dr. Manette and Madame Defarge. Lucie Manette is an excellent person, but she is not that strong a character. Carton, on the other hand, is well-rounded and consistently improved upon; I perfectly understand how it feels when you have the wits and the drive to succeed, but can’t, because of whatever reason. There’s this bitter-sweet feeling whenever I think of Sydney—he didn’t really get his dues, according to me [Mr. Dickens will most probably disagree, though]. He couldn’t win Lucie’s love [ as she loves him platonically], but just the thought of her sweet, angelic, sincere face is enough to bring him off his self-harming tendencies, at least for a while. When he loves someone, he loves them with his whole heart and soul—passionately; deeply; unconditionally. He’s much sharper than Charles, who’s a bit… well… daft [though you can’t help liking him]. Life was very cruel to Sydney; on the surface, he seems to be the least successful of all the characters—since he was also guillotined by the blood-thirsty mob who mistook him for Charles [all of this was manipulated by him, of course. To protect the happiness of Lucie and her child, and to save the life of an innocent man, Sydney gave up his own life. See? He resembles Charles so closely that the crowd didn’t even realise it was an imposter].

He definitely doesn’t need my pity, as he died happy [truly happy for the first time in years], but I outright wept when I saw how selflessly he laid down his life. He really is a very well-constructed character, drawing the audience’s sympathy at several points in the story as well as making us gape in awe and then turn away with a handkerchief pressed to our eyes.

… He’s obviously not a good role model, and he has many, many faults; he’s a defeated, fatigued, cynical young man—I don’t agree with his way of life at all. Sydney is far from perfect, but it’s his imperfection that I actually like so much, and he is that one person who transcended the vibes of hate and violence prevalent in the French Revolution.

Marguerite Blakeney [née St. Just]

Aaaah, Marguerite! That crafty, beautiful, playful, childlike, strong-willed young lady -- the cleverest woman in all of Europe! She’s an incredibly well-constructed character, and I loved her since she was introduced, even if her faults [and she has several of them] were obvious since the beginning. She treated her husband, Sir Percy Blakeney [who is, incidentally, a fop and England’s richest—as well as biggest—fool], with great contempt. Besides, she is a little too aware of her charm, especially her physical beauty [she has red hair and candid blue eyes], and is rigidly haughty and proud. However, she is an extremely charismatic woman, and has a capacity for strong attachments; she doesn’t get her dues sometimes, and at such times she can come off as rather emotionally needy. She does not judge a person by their wealth or social standing, preferring to hold intellectual conversations with them instead; wealth and status may be hereditary, brains are not. As Marguerite is an intuitive woman, the readers see the events of The Scarlet Pimpernel through her eyes. To some readers, she is not a likeable character; she has a tendency to mess up—big-time. In the early days of the French Revolution, she sent a Marquis and his family to the guillotine without meaning or trying to; she was trying to protect her brother, Armand, from the Marquis, who’d had him beaten by ruffians for looking at his daughter. By the time she realised what she’d done, it was too late; her name and reputation were forever besmirched, and she was too proud to attempt to explain her actions, though she deeply regretted them. She even ends up endangering her husband’s life by revealing crucial information about the infamous Scarlet Pimpernel to a diabolical Republican, Chauvelin, who knew her during her ‘days of glory’. [That’s right, dear reader, Sir Percy is the eponymous Scarlet Pimpernel; the daring Englishman who snatches French aristocrats from the jaws of certain death—quite literally]. Even now, she’s trying to protect her brother, whose life is in Chauvelin’s bony, slimy hands. I’m not excusing her actions, of course, as she took hasty decisions due to her feelings of helplessness and anger, but… just put yourself in her shoes for a bit. She didn’t know that her husband was the Scarlet Pimpernel, and while she was reluctant to hand him over to the French authorities, she would choose to save her brother’s life. She knows how intelligent the Scarlet Pimpernel is; she trusted him to be able to defeat Chauvelin on his own.

There is a very brief, but rather touching, if not very realistic, reconciliation scene between her and Percy; he’d distanced himself from her after finding out about her role in the Marquis’ beheading. In a passionate, aggrieved outburst, she gives him a true account of what transpired at the time, and the misconception that she had the Marquis killed on purpose is cleared up, to a great extent. According to me, this also secures the audience’s sympathy toward her [let’s face it, the readers were pretty mad at her just before this scene]. Shortly after, she realises that Percy is the Scarlet Pimpernel, and is extremely horrified at the thought that she has sold him to the devil; no one really expected her to try to remedy the damage she’s caused, but she does, dear readers, she does. She definitely doesn’t lack for wits or courage, but she is rather impulsive in attempting to save her husband and brother from Chauvelin’s clutches; she doesn’t have a proper plan—she just trusts in her intuition [trusting one’s instincts is effective, but I do wish she’d thought a little more before trying to be a knight in shining armour]. Her love and bravery ensure her survival: determined to reach Percy before Chauvelin does [all members of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel are at Calais], she is resolute that she must either warn him of the imminent danger or share his fate. After overcoming a few—ahem— obstacles [a major under-statement], she manages to reach Percy and shriek out a warning to him; not that her warning achieves very much, because Percy already knows Chauvelin is on his way… but this does prove that Marguerite is willing to go to any extent to save those whom she loves, even if it means endangering herself [like I said, she’s not going about this very wisely…]. She eventually secures both her husband and her brother’s lives. Yaaay!

I think it’s wonderful that, in spite of her faults, a naïve, inexperienced socialite risked her life to protect those dear to her. I’d just like to say… hats off to Marguerite!

I need to write a lot more about those fictional characters dear to me… this thread will be continued, so please look forward to it! Thank you!

I hope you enjoyed reading this post!! See you next week!

Toodles!