Jeanne of the Marshes — Edition Insights
Edition facts
This digital edition of Jeanne of the Marshes — Edition Insights is described by source-level measurements including 80,493 words, 5 hr 50 min estimated reading time, and 10 detected text sections.
The text analysis averages about 12.2 words per sentence, while the detected sections provide another way to judge how the source is divided.
Project Gutenberg metadata also associates the work with “Detective and mystery stories,” connecting these edition facts with the source record’s subject description.
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- Description quality20 pts
- Title & short description10 pts
- Source metadata20 pts
- Text length15 pts
- Chapters / structure15 pts
- EPUB file integrity20 pts
Total of 100 points, scaled to a 2.5-5.0 range. Editions with an empty description or a missing EPUB file are not scored.
Read the Text
Annette was the picture of despair. Eyebrows and hands betrayed alike both her agitation of mind and her nationality.
"Madame," she said, "did I not say so to monsieur? I begged him to call again. I told him that madame was lying down with a bad headache, and that it was as much as my place was worth to disturb her. What did he answer? Only this. That it would be as much as my place was worth if I did not come up and tell you that he was here to see you on a very urgent matter. Indeed, madame, he was very, very impatient with me."
"Of whom are you talking?" the Princess asked.
"But of Major Forrest, madame," Annette declared. "It is he who waits below."
The Princess closed her eyes for a moment and then slowly opened them. She stretched out her hand, and from a table by her side took up a small gilt mirror.
"Turn on the lights, Annette," she commanded.
The maid illuminated the darkened room. The Princess gazed at herself in the mirror, and reaching out again took a small powder-puff from its case and gently dabbed her face. Then she laid both mirror and powder-puff back in their places.
"You will tell monsieur," she said, "that I am very unwell indeed, but that since he is here and his business is urgent I will see him. Turn out the lights, Annette. I am not fit to be seen. And move my couch a little, so."
"Madame is only a little pale," the maid said reassuringly. "That makes nothing. These Englishwomen have all too much colour. I go to tell monsieur."
She disappeared, and the Princess lay still upon her couch, thinking. Soon she heard steps outside, and with a little sigh she turned her head toward the door. The man who entered was tall, and of the ordinary type of well-born Englishmen. He was carefully dressed, and his somewhat scanty hair was arranged to the best advantage. His features were hard and lifeless. His eyes were just a shade too close together. The maid ushered him in and withdrew at once.
"Come and sit by my side, Nigel, if you want to talk to me," the Princess said. "Walk softly, please. I really have a headache."
"No wonder, in this close room," the man muttered, a little ungraciously. "It smells as though you had been burning incense here."
"It suits me," the Princess answered calmly, "and it happens to be my room. Bring that chair up here and say what you have to say."
The man obeyed in silence. When he had made himself quite comfortable, he raised her hand, the one which was nearest to him, to his lips, and afterwards retained it in his own.
"Forgive me if I seem unsympathetic, Ena," he said. "The fact is, everything has been getting on my nerves for the last few days, and my luck seems dead out."
She looked at him curiously. She was past middle age, and her face showed signs of the wear and tear of life. But she still had fine eyes, and the rejuvenating arts of Bond Street had done their best for her.
"What is the matter, Nigel?" she asked. "Have the cards been going against you?"
He frowned and hesitated for a moment before replying.
"Ena," he said, "between us two there is an ancient bargain, and that is that we should tell the truth to one another. I will tell you what it is that is worrying me most. I have suspected it for some time, but this afternoon it was absolutely obvious. There is a sort of feeling at the club. I can't exactly describe it, but I am conscious of it directly I come into the room. For several days I have scarcely been able to get a rubber. This afternoon, when I cut in with Harewood and Mildmay and another fellow, two of them made some sort of an excuse and went off. I pretended not to notice it, of course, but there it was. The thing was apparent, and it is the very devil!"
Again she looked at him closely.
"There is nothing tangible?" she asked. "No complaint, or scandal, or anything of that sort?"
He rejected the suggestion with scorn.
"No!" he said. "I am not such an idiot as that. All the same there is the feeling. They don't care to play bridge with me. There is only young Engleton who takes my part, and so far as playing bridge for money is concerned, he would be worth the whole lot put together if only I could get him away from them--make up a little party somewhere, and have him to myself for a week or two."
The novel opens with a scene of deliberate artifice: the Princess, feigning illness, adjusts her appearance before receiving Major Forrest. Her use of a powder-puff and mirror, combined with her command to turn lights on and off, establishes a motif of performance and concealment. The dialogue is crisp, with the Princess’s cold precision contrasting with Annette’s theatrical despair. This controlled domestic space soon gives way to a different register when Andrew De la Borne appears, fresh from fishing on the Dogger Bank. His physicality and directness disrupt the drawing-room atmosphere, and the Duke’s banter about ‘physical perfection’ introduces a thematic tension between brute strength and cultivated intellect.
Performance and Power in the Opening Scene
The Princess’s first words—‘did you misunderstand me?’—immediately signal a character accustomed to command. Her interaction with Annette is a masterclass in indirect authority: she never raises her voice, yet the maid is reduced to a state of ‘despair.’ The careful choreography of the scene—the darkened room, the mirror, the powder-puff—suggests that the Princess treats her own appearance as a strategic tool. When Major Forrest enters, he is described with clinical detachment: ‘his features were hard and lifeless. His eyes were just a shade too close together.’ The narrative voice remains coolly observational, refusing to align with any character’s perspective. This opening establishes a world where social encounters are tactical maneuvers, and every gesture carries weight.
Contrasting Registers: The Drawing Room and the Dogger Bank
Andrew De la Borne’s entrance shifts the novel’s tone abruptly. Where the Princess’s scene is suffused with incense and controlled lighting, Andrew brings the salt air of the North Sea. His dialogue is blunt—‘Chuck it!’—and his appearance is described in terms of physical transformation: hair cut, beard trimmed, ‘garments of civilization.’ The Duke’s teasing about ‘physical perfection’ and ‘a laurel crown’ is more than banter; it frames Andrew as a representative of a different kind of power. The conversation about work and money introduces a practical concern that contrasts with the Princess’s theatrical languor. Oppenheim uses these two opening scenes to establish a structural opposition between indoor intrigue and outdoor vitality, a pattern that likely recurs throughout the novel.
The Duke’s Ironic Commentary on Brains and Brawn
The Duke’s speech about ‘the faddists of the moment’ who claim ‘brains and genius have had their day’ is a key passage. It is delivered with evident irony—‘You do not believe in your own doctrines,’ Andrew replies—yet it also articulates a central question: what kind of power is most valuable? The Duke’s own position, as a man of intellect and influence, is contrasted with Andrew’s physical prowess. The dialogue is layered: the Duke’s flattery is also a critique, and Andrew’s modesty (‘I don’t want to become quite a clod’) reveals anxiety about his own place in the world. This exchange, occurring early in the narrative, sets up a thematic tension that may drive the plot, though the excerpts do not reveal how it resolves.
Readers should attend to how Oppenheim modulates pace between scenes of domestic tension and broader social commentary. The novel’s voice shifts from the clipped, performative dialogue of the Princess to the more expansive, reflective exchanges between Andrew and the Duke. These early chapters establish a pattern of contrast—between artifice and authenticity, between the drawing room and the wider world—that likely shapes the narrative to come.
That rainy afternoon, Jeanne of the Marshes kept me in its quiet hush—the Princess’s fussy control felt like the gray outside. Funny how the Duke’s mockery of unused muscles led my thoughts to another tale of power flaunted wrongly. I pulled down The Outlet — Themes and Context almost without deciding, and the rain just kept falling.
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