As the setting of gothic novels is rarely Britain, the portraiture of Nature in them is mainly oriented by foreign geography. Displacing anxieties in time and space was a way of projecting on to the ‘other’, issues the Protestant tradition[1] did not want to approach in its own territory. From the margins of an Enlightenment culture, dramatising conflicts and uncertainties in the face of a fast-changing social and economic world, gothic became the standard vehicle for authors to address the aesthetic and political questions raised by the events of 1789 in France. British novelists re-interpreted the ghost of the 1688 revolution through the French Revolution, transferring their anxieties to distant countries and past times, setting their horror stories predominantly in Italy, and also in France and in Spain.
The development of capitalism, in this period of internal realignment and external revolution, would explain the success of this fiction which questions the constitution of the ‘real’, making way for a blend of fear and attraction, anxiety and desire, which seem to have characterised the relationship between the bourgeoisie and the aristocracy. The gothic novel exposes its ambivalences, by the intention of consolidating bourgeois values, such as domesticity, sentiment, virtue and family; alongside a fascination for medieval architecture, customs and values. Expressing admiration for a feudal world which was at the same time a source of tyranny, barbarism, and autocracy; lead to the creation of cruel and malevolent villains, who were either aristocrats or religious elements.
The events that take place in gothic novels are frequently depicted in an ironic manner. Outbursts against the inequities of overseas nations were a familiar cliché for the 18th century British reader. In this light, gothic novels can be considered novels of nationality, conveyed through the notion of ‘otherness’ in the story which contrasted with the ‘English’ beliefs. The gothic obsession with the Catholic clergy and aristocracy as repositories of evil represents the danger from the outside. By doing that, novelists helped to consolidate a national identity by creating a dichotomy between the multitude of British readers and the Continental, Catholic and often infamous characters. “Your picture is complete’, said he, ‘and I cannot but admire the facility with which you have classed the monks together with banditti” (The Italian, p.50) says the wicked friar Schedoni, outwitting the young hero Vivaldi and relativising the certainties. Only gothic villains are capable of great evil and yet maintain certain majesty of demeanour. In Northanger Abbey (1818), Jane Austen points out the limits of these conventions by reinscribing a parodical gothic novel in her own idiosyncratic form. She exposes the structure of gothic novels by satirising their stereotypical aspects.[2]
The reader usually takes sides from the very first description, in which they are made complicit with an ideological point of view. Frequently older and more experienced than the hero and heroine (as those Romanic nations were in relation to Britain), the villain’s physical complexion is described as dark, and usually there is something disturbing or magnetic about him. Drawing attention to the features is a way of proposing contrast with the ‘fair’ English type. This initial cue serves as a hook to introduce a whole national statement, where the narrator will make use of images and linguistic subtleties to create a rapport with the readers. The appearance of the padre Ambrosio in The Monk (1796)[3] exemplifies:
He was a Man of noble port and commanding presence. His stature was lofty, and his features uncommonly handsome. His Nose was aquiline, his eyes large black and sparkling, and his dark brows almost joined together. His complexion was of a deep but clear Brown; Study and watching had entirely deprived his cheek of colour. Tranquillity reigned upon his smooth unwrinkled forehead; and Content, expressed upon every feature, seemed to announce the Man equally unacquainted with cares and crimes.
(The Monk, vol. I, chapter I, pp. 8-9)
Ambrosio personifies the Mediterranean physical stereotype, although he is young and rather inexperienced at this point in the novel, all his wickedness will soon show through. His respectable public persona contrasts with his depraved intimacy. The villain’s corruption, allied with his obsessive fiery nature, inclined to outbreaks of rage, is a constant in almost all gothic novels. In spite of the antagonists’ studied self-control, they are naturally aggressive and their untamed ardour will often breakthrough the veneer of their composed appearance, taking them from the ‘summit of exultation to the abyss of despondency’ (The Romance of the Forest, p.317), note the metaphor of the landscape here. The propensity for violence, immorality and general tantrums by the villain underpins a central idea in the construct of ‘otherness’ that characterises the gothic. The way these novels debate alterity and differences is by demonising the other. Depicting the ‘other’ in such a sinful manner has implications. It leads readers to believe in, or at least entertain the idea of a general ‘righteousness’ on behalf of the British nation, in which ‘virtue’ is a code for ‘civilisation’. In that light, gothic novels contributed to the construction of the British national and institutional identity. Ultimately, they address the question of nationality by means of promoting racial, religious, cultural and institutional distinctions.
These antagonists will fulfil their cultural role. As they are expected to be, villains are shifty characters, a mark of their cunning. Their behaviour and discourse will mould itself to suit the occasion. Gothic antagonists will rely on intimidation, trickery, and even flattery to achieve their aims. Spurred by deceitfulness Schedoni adopts a suave tone with the Marchesa di Vivaldi.
‘To what do you allude, righteous father’ enquired the astonished Marchesa; ‘what indignity, what impiety has my son to answer for? I entreat you will speak explicitly, that I may prove I can lose the mother in the strict severity of the judge.’
‘That is spoken with the grandeur of sentiment, which has always distinguished you, my daughter! Strong minds perceive that justice is the highest of the moral attributes, mercy is only the favourite of weak ones’
(The Italian, vol. I, chapter X, p. 111)
This scene shows how Schedoni appropriates the sentimental jargon of the heroine and uses it for his own benefit. His rhetorical mastery induces the Marchesa to side with him. On the narrative level, Schedoni’s sudden mockery of the hero and heroine’s naiveté reveals Radcliffe’s command of her writing. In these moments, she is exposing her structure with this teasing, showing that ‘moral attributes’ are a pose rather than a genuine feeling. In the villain, this kind of self-interested wickedness is largely linked to the study of the history of the Venetian Serenissima Republica, then an archetypal example of oligarchic despotism outside the Far East.[4] The Venetian ‘republic’ was based on slavery, midwifery of finances and totalitarism. To a certain extent gothic novelists constructed this ‘other’ by capitalising on notions of political expediency stemming from the trade practices of Venice. Texts like Machiavelli’s The Prince (1513) also contributed to this stereotyping of Italians, frequently represented as shady and deceitful people. Shakespeare also used the theme in Othello, the Moor of Venice (16o1) and the idea lingered at least as far as Schiller’s ‘gothic’ re-reading of the subject in Der Geisterseher (1786-9), published in three parts over three years. In 1792, Heinrich Zschokke created a double aristocrat/mercenary antagonist in The Bravo of Venice (1805), a gothic type tale translated from the German by Mathew Lewis. The story confirms Venice as a centre of political corruption and treachery, but it also addresses a noteworthy shift in the villain’s typical identity. The dual character Abellino/Flodoardo represented simultaneously the dark side of nobility and a rich thirst for adventure. He is an entrepreneurial fortune seeker, in a bourgeois way.
In this respect, the Italian villain functions as a depository for social apprehensions, fluctuating between the evil aristocrat and the evil bourgeois (or both in Zschokke’s case), depending on the writer’s view. However, as Fred Botting points out, villains are rarely the cause of evil themselves; real vice is identified as an institutional problem.[5] The power of Venetian cultural and political ideology reached down into the modern era, even after the Serenissima collapsed. Paradoxically, it became the precise method of the British nation’s imperial project, encapsulated in the guiding principle dividi et impera (divide and rule). In the 19th century, the winged lion from Piazza di San Marco turned into the British lion at the service of the Queen, continuously vigilant in several public places and buildings in London.[6]
Watchful eyes were a preferred symbol of authoritarian behaviour, an attribute particularly suitable when dealing with themes related to power, oppression and tyranny. In fact, piercing eyes seem to be a common feature employed to represent these degenerate gothic banditti who ‘seemed to penetrate, at a single glance, into the hearts of men, and to read their most secret thoughts; few persons could support their scrutiny, or even endure to meet them twice’ (The Italian, p. 35). Throughout gothic novels we can find examples of browbeating, overpowering eyes. Ambrosio, in The Monk, exhibits ‘a certain severity in his look and manner that inspired universal awe and few could sustain the glance of his eye at once fiery and penetrating’ (p. 9). Melmoth had a ‘full-lighted blaze of those demon eyes’ (Melmoth, the wanderer,1820, p. 12).[7] The caliph Vathek (Vathek, 1786)[8] was a pleasing figure, but when enraged ‘one of his eyes became so terrible, that no person could bear to behold it’ (p. 2). It is curious that Vathek seems to have just one menacing eye, perhaps a bit of Beckfordian humour jesting at the cyclopic nature of totalising, authoritarian governments.
As mentioned before, gothic characters are generally not psychologically profound; the great majority remains unchanged in thought and resolution throughout the story. Their thoughts are rarely disclosed to the reader and their voices are heard mostly within dialogues. The use of the third person, instead of the first, makes the whole reading experience less dramatic. Although these subjective incursions are not taken very far, perhaps the villains can be considered as the only characters that undergo some internal conflict. These poor psychological deliberations (a step back in comparison to Lovelace) become especially evident in their final punishment, when their personalities swing between sinfulness and absolution. Unfortunately, all the defiance the villains displayed throughout the novel is invariably subdued at the end. It is my opinion that some of the skilful construction of gothic villains is harmed ultimately due to a ‘Puritan’ regret and exoneration.
Although he manages to poison his rival friar, a dying and weak Schedoni ends his participation as a bent and curbed antagonist. Overthrown, Manfred (The Castle of Otranto, 1764) also regrets his vileness and withdraws to a life of seclusion. The caliph Vathek blames his mother for putting boundless ambition in his heart. His repentance comes too late, as his heart will burn forever in the Hell of the Giaour. The padre Ambrosio, who sold his soul to the devil, also cries for divine mercy. The Daemon, infuriated by his sobbing, takes him for a vertiginous flight and then drops him from the heights. In agony, he is left to die for seven days, pestered by flies and scavengers, until a torrent finally washes his carcase away. Public confessions, sudden changes of heart and final repentances bend these narratives to moral conclusions. In order to re-establish balance in the social fabric, it is not enough to punish Evil, but it is also necessary to end the villains participation with a penitent ‘I am sorry for what I have done’ in order to secure the appropriate ethical conditions in the dénouement. This apologetic condition is prevalent in the ‘classical’ English gothic, despite the minor variations concerning how it happens. As a reaction against the international power represented by the Catholic Church, the repentance of the villain reaffirms the honourable political, social and religious track of British identity. It reinforces the idea of national construction by opposition of values and cultures. These sometimes rather blunt, last minute accommodations of interests, seem also to mirror political resolutions taken at the time, which assisted the ‘landed’ and the ‘monied’ interests[9] in finding ways to keep the upper classes in power.
[1] Sage interprets Protestantism as a social ‘cement’, ‘a common set of doctrines which hold English culture together’. IN: Victor Sage. Horror Fiction in the Protestant Tradition. London: Macmillan, 1988 (p. xiii).
[2] I am referring here to the famous passage in which Henry Tilney reprehends Catherine Morland for indulging in absurd gothic fantasies, after all she should ‘Remember the country and the age in which we live. Remember that we are English, that we are Christians.’ IN: Jane Austen. Northanger Abbey. Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1985 (chapter XXIV, p. 199).[3] Mathew Lewis. The Monk. London: The Folio Society, 1984. All subsequent quotations taken from this edition. References in parenthesis.
[4] There are many different literary images in the depiction of Venice. Sage discusses paradoxes in the city’s literary representations (e.g. Venice the Rich, Venice the Wise, Venice the Just, Venice, citta galante and Black Venice). I take here the ‘Black Venice’ as a part of the representational model of the gothic. IN: ‘Black Venice: Conspiracy and Narrative Masquerade in Schiller, Zschokke, Lewis, and Hoffman’. Still unpublished.
[5] Fred Botting. The Gothic. London: Routledge, 1996 (p. 89).[6] The similarities between the Venetian and the British symbols are my observations.
[7] Charles Maturin. Melmoth, the wanderer. London: Penguin, 2000. All references from this edition.
[8] William Beckford. Vathek. London: Oxford University Press, 1970. All references from this edition.
[9] The ‘landed’ interest was represented by the aristocracy and the ‘monied’ interest by the up-and-coming bourgeoisie. IN: Edmund Burke, Reflections on the Revolution in France (p. 52).
The development of capitalism, in this period of internal realignment and external revolution, would explain the success of this fiction which questions the constitution of the ‘real’, making way for a blend of fear and attraction, anxiety and desire, which seem to have characterised the relationship between the bourgeoisie and the aristocracy. The gothic novel exposes its ambivalences, by the intention of consolidating bourgeois values, such as domesticity, sentiment, virtue and family; alongside a fascination for medieval architecture, customs and values. Expressing admiration for a feudal world which was at the same time a source of tyranny, barbarism, and autocracy; lead to the creation of cruel and malevolent villains, who were either aristocrats or religious elements.
The events that take place in gothic novels are frequently depicted in an ironic manner. Outbursts against the inequities of overseas nations were a familiar cliché for the 18th century British reader. In this light, gothic novels can be considered novels of nationality, conveyed through the notion of ‘otherness’ in the story which contrasted with the ‘English’ beliefs. The gothic obsession with the Catholic clergy and aristocracy as repositories of evil represents the danger from the outside. By doing that, novelists helped to consolidate a national identity by creating a dichotomy between the multitude of British readers and the Continental, Catholic and often infamous characters. “Your picture is complete’, said he, ‘and I cannot but admire the facility with which you have classed the monks together with banditti” (The Italian, p.50) says the wicked friar Schedoni, outwitting the young hero Vivaldi and relativising the certainties. Only gothic villains are capable of great evil and yet maintain certain majesty of demeanour. In Northanger Abbey (1818), Jane Austen points out the limits of these conventions by reinscribing a parodical gothic novel in her own idiosyncratic form. She exposes the structure of gothic novels by satirising their stereotypical aspects.[2]
The reader usually takes sides from the very first description, in which they are made complicit with an ideological point of view. Frequently older and more experienced than the hero and heroine (as those Romanic nations were in relation to Britain), the villain’s physical complexion is described as dark, and usually there is something disturbing or magnetic about him. Drawing attention to the features is a way of proposing contrast with the ‘fair’ English type. This initial cue serves as a hook to introduce a whole national statement, where the narrator will make use of images and linguistic subtleties to create a rapport with the readers. The appearance of the padre Ambrosio in The Monk (1796)[3] exemplifies:
He was a Man of noble port and commanding presence. His stature was lofty, and his features uncommonly handsome. His Nose was aquiline, his eyes large black and sparkling, and his dark brows almost joined together. His complexion was of a deep but clear Brown; Study and watching had entirely deprived his cheek of colour. Tranquillity reigned upon his smooth unwrinkled forehead; and Content, expressed upon every feature, seemed to announce the Man equally unacquainted with cares and crimes.
(The Monk, vol. I, chapter I, pp. 8-9)
Ambrosio personifies the Mediterranean physical stereotype, although he is young and rather inexperienced at this point in the novel, all his wickedness will soon show through. His respectable public persona contrasts with his depraved intimacy. The villain’s corruption, allied with his obsessive fiery nature, inclined to outbreaks of rage, is a constant in almost all gothic novels. In spite of the antagonists’ studied self-control, they are naturally aggressive and their untamed ardour will often breakthrough the veneer of their composed appearance, taking them from the ‘summit of exultation to the abyss of despondency’ (The Romance of the Forest, p.317), note the metaphor of the landscape here. The propensity for violence, immorality and general tantrums by the villain underpins a central idea in the construct of ‘otherness’ that characterises the gothic. The way these novels debate alterity and differences is by demonising the other. Depicting the ‘other’ in such a sinful manner has implications. It leads readers to believe in, or at least entertain the idea of a general ‘righteousness’ on behalf of the British nation, in which ‘virtue’ is a code for ‘civilisation’. In that light, gothic novels contributed to the construction of the British national and institutional identity. Ultimately, they address the question of nationality by means of promoting racial, religious, cultural and institutional distinctions.
These antagonists will fulfil their cultural role. As they are expected to be, villains are shifty characters, a mark of their cunning. Their behaviour and discourse will mould itself to suit the occasion. Gothic antagonists will rely on intimidation, trickery, and even flattery to achieve their aims. Spurred by deceitfulness Schedoni adopts a suave tone with the Marchesa di Vivaldi.
‘To what do you allude, righteous father’ enquired the astonished Marchesa; ‘what indignity, what impiety has my son to answer for? I entreat you will speak explicitly, that I may prove I can lose the mother in the strict severity of the judge.’
‘That is spoken with the grandeur of sentiment, which has always distinguished you, my daughter! Strong minds perceive that justice is the highest of the moral attributes, mercy is only the favourite of weak ones’
(The Italian, vol. I, chapter X, p. 111)
This scene shows how Schedoni appropriates the sentimental jargon of the heroine and uses it for his own benefit. His rhetorical mastery induces the Marchesa to side with him. On the narrative level, Schedoni’s sudden mockery of the hero and heroine’s naiveté reveals Radcliffe’s command of her writing. In these moments, she is exposing her structure with this teasing, showing that ‘moral attributes’ are a pose rather than a genuine feeling. In the villain, this kind of self-interested wickedness is largely linked to the study of the history of the Venetian Serenissima Republica, then an archetypal example of oligarchic despotism outside the Far East.[4] The Venetian ‘republic’ was based on slavery, midwifery of finances and totalitarism. To a certain extent gothic novelists constructed this ‘other’ by capitalising on notions of political expediency stemming from the trade practices of Venice. Texts like Machiavelli’s The Prince (1513) also contributed to this stereotyping of Italians, frequently represented as shady and deceitful people. Shakespeare also used the theme in Othello, the Moor of Venice (16o1) and the idea lingered at least as far as Schiller’s ‘gothic’ re-reading of the subject in Der Geisterseher (1786-9), published in three parts over three years. In 1792, Heinrich Zschokke created a double aristocrat/mercenary antagonist in The Bravo of Venice (1805), a gothic type tale translated from the German by Mathew Lewis. The story confirms Venice as a centre of political corruption and treachery, but it also addresses a noteworthy shift in the villain’s typical identity. The dual character Abellino/Flodoardo represented simultaneously the dark side of nobility and a rich thirst for adventure. He is an entrepreneurial fortune seeker, in a bourgeois way.
In this respect, the Italian villain functions as a depository for social apprehensions, fluctuating between the evil aristocrat and the evil bourgeois (or both in Zschokke’s case), depending on the writer’s view. However, as Fred Botting points out, villains are rarely the cause of evil themselves; real vice is identified as an institutional problem.[5] The power of Venetian cultural and political ideology reached down into the modern era, even after the Serenissima collapsed. Paradoxically, it became the precise method of the British nation’s imperial project, encapsulated in the guiding principle dividi et impera (divide and rule). In the 19th century, the winged lion from Piazza di San Marco turned into the British lion at the service of the Queen, continuously vigilant in several public places and buildings in London.[6]
Watchful eyes were a preferred symbol of authoritarian behaviour, an attribute particularly suitable when dealing with themes related to power, oppression and tyranny. In fact, piercing eyes seem to be a common feature employed to represent these degenerate gothic banditti who ‘seemed to penetrate, at a single glance, into the hearts of men, and to read their most secret thoughts; few persons could support their scrutiny, or even endure to meet them twice’ (The Italian, p. 35). Throughout gothic novels we can find examples of browbeating, overpowering eyes. Ambrosio, in The Monk, exhibits ‘a certain severity in his look and manner that inspired universal awe and few could sustain the glance of his eye at once fiery and penetrating’ (p. 9). Melmoth had a ‘full-lighted blaze of those demon eyes’ (Melmoth, the wanderer,1820, p. 12).[7] The caliph Vathek (Vathek, 1786)[8] was a pleasing figure, but when enraged ‘one of his eyes became so terrible, that no person could bear to behold it’ (p. 2). It is curious that Vathek seems to have just one menacing eye, perhaps a bit of Beckfordian humour jesting at the cyclopic nature of totalising, authoritarian governments.
As mentioned before, gothic characters are generally not psychologically profound; the great majority remains unchanged in thought and resolution throughout the story. Their thoughts are rarely disclosed to the reader and their voices are heard mostly within dialogues. The use of the third person, instead of the first, makes the whole reading experience less dramatic. Although these subjective incursions are not taken very far, perhaps the villains can be considered as the only characters that undergo some internal conflict. These poor psychological deliberations (a step back in comparison to Lovelace) become especially evident in their final punishment, when their personalities swing between sinfulness and absolution. Unfortunately, all the defiance the villains displayed throughout the novel is invariably subdued at the end. It is my opinion that some of the skilful construction of gothic villains is harmed ultimately due to a ‘Puritan’ regret and exoneration.
Although he manages to poison his rival friar, a dying and weak Schedoni ends his participation as a bent and curbed antagonist. Overthrown, Manfred (The Castle of Otranto, 1764) also regrets his vileness and withdraws to a life of seclusion. The caliph Vathek blames his mother for putting boundless ambition in his heart. His repentance comes too late, as his heart will burn forever in the Hell of the Giaour. The padre Ambrosio, who sold his soul to the devil, also cries for divine mercy. The Daemon, infuriated by his sobbing, takes him for a vertiginous flight and then drops him from the heights. In agony, he is left to die for seven days, pestered by flies and scavengers, until a torrent finally washes his carcase away. Public confessions, sudden changes of heart and final repentances bend these narratives to moral conclusions. In order to re-establish balance in the social fabric, it is not enough to punish Evil, but it is also necessary to end the villains participation with a penitent ‘I am sorry for what I have done’ in order to secure the appropriate ethical conditions in the dénouement. This apologetic condition is prevalent in the ‘classical’ English gothic, despite the minor variations concerning how it happens. As a reaction against the international power represented by the Catholic Church, the repentance of the villain reaffirms the honourable political, social and religious track of British identity. It reinforces the idea of national construction by opposition of values and cultures. These sometimes rather blunt, last minute accommodations of interests, seem also to mirror political resolutions taken at the time, which assisted the ‘landed’ and the ‘monied’ interests[9] in finding ways to keep the upper classes in power.
[1] Sage interprets Protestantism as a social ‘cement’, ‘a common set of doctrines which hold English culture together’. IN: Victor Sage. Horror Fiction in the Protestant Tradition. London: Macmillan, 1988 (p. xiii).
[2] I am referring here to the famous passage in which Henry Tilney reprehends Catherine Morland for indulging in absurd gothic fantasies, after all she should ‘Remember the country and the age in which we live. Remember that we are English, that we are Christians.’ IN: Jane Austen. Northanger Abbey. Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1985 (chapter XXIV, p. 199).[3] Mathew Lewis. The Monk. London: The Folio Society, 1984. All subsequent quotations taken from this edition. References in parenthesis.
[4] There are many different literary images in the depiction of Venice. Sage discusses paradoxes in the city’s literary representations (e.g. Venice the Rich, Venice the Wise, Venice the Just, Venice, citta galante and Black Venice). I take here the ‘Black Venice’ as a part of the representational model of the gothic. IN: ‘Black Venice: Conspiracy and Narrative Masquerade in Schiller, Zschokke, Lewis, and Hoffman’. Still unpublished.
[5] Fred Botting. The Gothic. London: Routledge, 1996 (p. 89).[6] The similarities between the Venetian and the British symbols are my observations.
[7] Charles Maturin. Melmoth, the wanderer. London: Penguin, 2000. All references from this edition.
[8] William Beckford. Vathek. London: Oxford University Press, 1970. All references from this edition.
[9] The ‘landed’ interest was represented by the aristocracy and the ‘monied’ interest by the up-and-coming bourgeoisie. IN: Edmund Burke, Reflections on the Revolution in France (p. 52).
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