Loredano was suspended over the abyss by his hand; it was in his power to save him or to hurl him into the chasm; yet, even under these circumstances, Ruy feared him. He did not understand the cause of that irresistible terror, but he felt it like an evil spirit besetting him, or a nightmare. Meantime the image of bright and sparkling riches, radiating splendor and magnificence, passed before his eyes and dazzled him; a little courage, and he would be the sole possessor of the fabulous treasure of whose secret the Italian was the depository. But courage was what he lacked. Two or three times he was seized with an impulse to suspend himself to the beam, and let the plank roll into the chasm; it did not go beyond a desire. Finally he overcame the temptation. He had a moment of giddiness; his knees bent, and the plank oscillated so violently that he wondered how the Italian had been able to keep his feet.
Then his fear passed away; it was replaced by a sort of frenzy and rage. His first effort, though involuntary, had given him boldness, as the sight of blood excites a wild beast. A second movement, more violent than the first, agitated the plank, which tilted on the edge of the precipice, but no sound of a falling body was heard, only the noise of the wood upon the rock. Ruy, rendered desperate, was on the point of letting the plank go, when the voice of the Italian, faint and hoarse, scarcely audible in the deep silence of the night, reached his ear. “Are you tired, Ruy? You can take away the plank; I have no further need of it. (The Guarany, part III, chapter III, p. 90)
Despite Ruy’s attempt to make him fall, Loredano walks over the abyss, suggesting the possession of infernal powers. His feat not only defies the laws of probability but claims mastery over the symbol of destruction. A gothic moment of bewilderment above reason is alluded to. The scene does not come without warning; it is a construction of hints fostered from the very beginning about the villain’s malevolence. The villain is called a condottiere, an ‘adventurer of low extraction’ (p.20) who talks ‘with a slight Italian accent, and a half smile whose expression of irony was concealed by a suspicious air of friendliness’ (p. 5). Alencar capitalizes on the Italian stereotype of the British gothic villain. Although Loredano is eloquent and well-spoken, his foreignness is made to stand out in the accent. Loredano is twice the ‘outsider’, both for being the villain and for not being Portuguese or Indian. His appearance is described in the following way:
A swarthy face, covered by a long black beard, through which his contemptuous smile permitted the whiteness of his teeth to glisten; sharp eyes, a wide forehead, which his broad brimmed hat falling upon his shoulders left uncovered; a tall stature, and a strong, active, and muscular constitution: these were the chief traits of this adventurer. (The Guarany, part I, chapter I, p. 6)
He undergoes a gradual process of ‘animalisation’ which begins with ‘an ardent, hard, incisive look, while his dilated nostrils inhaled the air with the delight of a beast scenting its prey’ (p. 15). This transformation of man into beast becomes more and more frequent. In another moment, it is said that ‘his eyes shone in the darkness like those of a wildcat’ (p. 21). He is also called ‘an enemy perhaps more terrible than the Aymorés, because if these were wild beasts, the other might be a serpent concealed among the flowers’ (p. 35).[1]
As the novel develops, Loredano’s plan is revealed and his treason gains blasphemous contours. His lust for Cecy is so strong that he can say: ‘even when a corpse, contact with this woman must be an infinite delight to me’ (p. 89). With the introduction of necrophilia, he begins to transcend the condition of ‘beast’ to become ‘bestial’. On walking over the abyss Loredano becomes the very devil. The narrator concludes that ‘clearly this man was an infernal spirit, hovering over the abyss, and laughing danger to scorn; a superior being, whom death could not touch’ (p. 90). The control he exercises over some of the adventurers is uncanny, described as an ‘irresistible terror’, ‘a nightmare’. Despite the moment of disorientation, not long after, the narrator comes in again to demystify the action. A Radcliffean solution comes in to elucidate the trick (a safety rope), subordinating the improbable to the physical laws and the fantastic to a rational explanation of the facts. It is remarkable here that while Alencar appropriated some of Radcliffe’s ‘poetical’ gothic, based on pictorial Nature and explained supernatural, his villain’s impious behaviour has great similarities to Lewis’ Ambrosio, as both antagonists cannot control their lust.
Loredano shares this ‘animal’ dimension with the Aymoré Indians. Unlike the continual transformation suffered by the villain, the natives are dehumanised from the beginning, but do not come to personify the devil. The Aymorés’ animal-like appearance and behaviour indicate brutality and total absence of civilized customs. They are the image of a savage country Alencar intends to subdue, the ‘children of the woods’, as they are called below, still in the infancy of the race.
While they were busy with this work a savage pleasure lighted up the sinister countenances of the Aymorés, from which ferocity, ignorance, and thirst for blood, had almost wholly blotted out the human type. Their neglected hair fell over their foreheads, and entirely concealed the noblest part of the visage, created by God as the seat of intelligence and the throne from which the mind is to reign over matter. Their misshapen lips, drawn back by a contraction of the facial muscles, had lost the soft and pleasing expression that laughter and speech impart; from human lips they had been transformed into the mandibles of the beast, accustomed to cries and roars. Their teeth, sharp as the fangs of a jaguar, no longer retained the enamel nature had given them, - weapons as well as instruments of mastication, blood had tinged them with the yellowish hue that the teeth of carnivorous animals have. Their long, black, and hooked nails, the rough and callous skin, made their hands rather terrible claws than the members designed to minister to the wants of man.
Skins of animals covered the gigantic bodies of these children of the woods, who, but for their erect posture, might have been considered some species of quadrumana indigenous to the new world. Some were ornamented with feathers and collars of bones; others, completely naked, had their bodies anointed with oil to keep off the insects. (The Guarany, part III, chapter VIII, p. 114)
Stylistically, the adjectives become macabre, but they are no less poetic, if understood under an aesthetic of horror. The indigenous description carries ideological implications underpinned by a horror discourse which performed an important function in this sensibility. Here, Alencar employs strategies that connect body with deformation, creating tensions and contrasts. Traditionally, these narrative techniques, which associate flesh with pain, were a basic strategy for the gothic novelist and constituted the very essence of the Burkean sublime.
After the first moment of consternation, the savages, with wild cries, threw themselves in a single mass, like a wave of the sea, upon the Indian who dared to attack them openly. There was a confusion, a dreadful whirlwind of men jostling each other, falling and twisting; of heads rising and disappearing; of arms and backs moving and contracting, as if they were all parts of a single body, members of some unknown monster writhing in convulsions. (The Guarany, part III, chapter VIII, p. 114)
The gargantuan monster of flesh above refers to a dichotomy of civilization and barbarism. This idea runs alongside a discourse of horror which verifies the preference for rational European habits instead of the rudimentary instinct of the native. Alencar’s persuasiveness comes through by skilfully displacing this discussion in the figure of the hero Pery. The intention is to project the ‘rational’ model as a universal standard, above ethnicity and culture, and Pery would exemplify this proposal. Ideally, he is the synthesis of two worlds, incorporating the nobility of the European with the empiricism of the Indian. However, he is hardly recognisable as an Indian character; his behaviour resembles more the codes of honour followed by a medieval knight. He is even called ‘a Portuguese cavalier in the body of a savage’ (p. 17). Pery is a ‘friend’ as long as he upholds these codes. The climax of his cultural defeat happens when he adopts Christianity. Receiving the name of Mariz is his final acceptance of the coloniser’s belief. His direct opposite and counterpart is Loredano, who is ethnically aligned with the Europeans but moves to the uncivilised, paganistic dimension of the Aymorés, bearer of a ‘rage and fury of Satan hurled into the abyss’ (p. 43). Responsible for sabotaging the Portuguese colonisation project, Loredano rebels against the social configuration in the house of Mariz. Greed for fortune and lack of social mobility seems to trigger his discontent. Being the bearer of a treasure map he does not feel he has to submit to aristocratic rules, but his love for Cecy is his disgrace. Since the Aymorés represent uncivilised brutality, the author discards the love-struck, dissatisfied villain, as being inadequate for his project of nation.
Loredano seems to be the only character capable of promoting changes to his fate in a novel where most characters are ‘flattened’ representatives of social function instead of expressing their individuality. In this sense, their psychological processes are inexpressive, the subjective exploration of the soul does not deepen and the characters do not become ‘humanized’, remaining on the level of caricature. To some extent, Loredano’s personality seems to contain a certain degree of antagonism. It is represented in the opposition between a life of purity and sin; the disagreement between spirit and body is a psychological drama inside the contradictory complex that is the human soul.
Looking at elements of the character’s composition, a few aspects link his profile to those conventions established by the early gothic villains: the dark physical complexion, the threatening eyes, the obscure past, the Italian origins and clerical connections, the double identity, the violent inclinations and the excessive greed. Alencar seems to use the villain popularised in the early gothic to stir feelings of estrangement and alterity among Brazilian readers. Like the gothic novelists he is seeking to raise questions of nationality. However, if the concept of ‘foreigner’ was easily recognisable, proposing a patriotic question around which everyone was able to join in, the project needed acclimatising to make sense in a Brazilian reality. While the traditional gothic novel incorporated the subject of British national identity by speaking in the name of a Protestant, democratic, traditional and modern nation, the same could not be simply transferred to Brazil.
Despite absorbing some gothic elements and conventions, The Guarany deviates from the formula principally by not dislocating its national questions. The conflict is set to be resolved inside the country. Loredano’s foreigner condition is made to stand out in his accent and in his usual jargon such as ‘per Dio’ or ‘per Bacco’. Also while all the Europeans in the house have a Portuguese name, the villain is noticed because of his unusual name.
Then his fear passed away; it was replaced by a sort of frenzy and rage. His first effort, though involuntary, had given him boldness, as the sight of blood excites a wild beast. A second movement, more violent than the first, agitated the plank, which tilted on the edge of the precipice, but no sound of a falling body was heard, only the noise of the wood upon the rock. Ruy, rendered desperate, was on the point of letting the plank go, when the voice of the Italian, faint and hoarse, scarcely audible in the deep silence of the night, reached his ear. “Are you tired, Ruy? You can take away the plank; I have no further need of it. (The Guarany, part III, chapter III, p. 90)
Despite Ruy’s attempt to make him fall, Loredano walks over the abyss, suggesting the possession of infernal powers. His feat not only defies the laws of probability but claims mastery over the symbol of destruction. A gothic moment of bewilderment above reason is alluded to. The scene does not come without warning; it is a construction of hints fostered from the very beginning about the villain’s malevolence. The villain is called a condottiere, an ‘adventurer of low extraction’ (p.20) who talks ‘with a slight Italian accent, and a half smile whose expression of irony was concealed by a suspicious air of friendliness’ (p. 5). Alencar capitalizes on the Italian stereotype of the British gothic villain. Although Loredano is eloquent and well-spoken, his foreignness is made to stand out in the accent. Loredano is twice the ‘outsider’, both for being the villain and for not being Portuguese or Indian. His appearance is described in the following way:
A swarthy face, covered by a long black beard, through which his contemptuous smile permitted the whiteness of his teeth to glisten; sharp eyes, a wide forehead, which his broad brimmed hat falling upon his shoulders left uncovered; a tall stature, and a strong, active, and muscular constitution: these were the chief traits of this adventurer. (The Guarany, part I, chapter I, p. 6)
He undergoes a gradual process of ‘animalisation’ which begins with ‘an ardent, hard, incisive look, while his dilated nostrils inhaled the air with the delight of a beast scenting its prey’ (p. 15). This transformation of man into beast becomes more and more frequent. In another moment, it is said that ‘his eyes shone in the darkness like those of a wildcat’ (p. 21). He is also called ‘an enemy perhaps more terrible than the Aymorés, because if these were wild beasts, the other might be a serpent concealed among the flowers’ (p. 35).[1]
As the novel develops, Loredano’s plan is revealed and his treason gains blasphemous contours. His lust for Cecy is so strong that he can say: ‘even when a corpse, contact with this woman must be an infinite delight to me’ (p. 89). With the introduction of necrophilia, he begins to transcend the condition of ‘beast’ to become ‘bestial’. On walking over the abyss Loredano becomes the very devil. The narrator concludes that ‘clearly this man was an infernal spirit, hovering over the abyss, and laughing danger to scorn; a superior being, whom death could not touch’ (p. 90). The control he exercises over some of the adventurers is uncanny, described as an ‘irresistible terror’, ‘a nightmare’. Despite the moment of disorientation, not long after, the narrator comes in again to demystify the action. A Radcliffean solution comes in to elucidate the trick (a safety rope), subordinating the improbable to the physical laws and the fantastic to a rational explanation of the facts. It is remarkable here that while Alencar appropriated some of Radcliffe’s ‘poetical’ gothic, based on pictorial Nature and explained supernatural, his villain’s impious behaviour has great similarities to Lewis’ Ambrosio, as both antagonists cannot control their lust.
Loredano shares this ‘animal’ dimension with the Aymoré Indians. Unlike the continual transformation suffered by the villain, the natives are dehumanised from the beginning, but do not come to personify the devil. The Aymorés’ animal-like appearance and behaviour indicate brutality and total absence of civilized customs. They are the image of a savage country Alencar intends to subdue, the ‘children of the woods’, as they are called below, still in the infancy of the race.
While they were busy with this work a savage pleasure lighted up the sinister countenances of the Aymorés, from which ferocity, ignorance, and thirst for blood, had almost wholly blotted out the human type. Their neglected hair fell over their foreheads, and entirely concealed the noblest part of the visage, created by God as the seat of intelligence and the throne from which the mind is to reign over matter. Their misshapen lips, drawn back by a contraction of the facial muscles, had lost the soft and pleasing expression that laughter and speech impart; from human lips they had been transformed into the mandibles of the beast, accustomed to cries and roars. Their teeth, sharp as the fangs of a jaguar, no longer retained the enamel nature had given them, - weapons as well as instruments of mastication, blood had tinged them with the yellowish hue that the teeth of carnivorous animals have. Their long, black, and hooked nails, the rough and callous skin, made their hands rather terrible claws than the members designed to minister to the wants of man.
Skins of animals covered the gigantic bodies of these children of the woods, who, but for their erect posture, might have been considered some species of quadrumana indigenous to the new world. Some were ornamented with feathers and collars of bones; others, completely naked, had their bodies anointed with oil to keep off the insects. (The Guarany, part III, chapter VIII, p. 114)
Stylistically, the adjectives become macabre, but they are no less poetic, if understood under an aesthetic of horror. The indigenous description carries ideological implications underpinned by a horror discourse which performed an important function in this sensibility. Here, Alencar employs strategies that connect body with deformation, creating tensions and contrasts. Traditionally, these narrative techniques, which associate flesh with pain, were a basic strategy for the gothic novelist and constituted the very essence of the Burkean sublime.
After the first moment of consternation, the savages, with wild cries, threw themselves in a single mass, like a wave of the sea, upon the Indian who dared to attack them openly. There was a confusion, a dreadful whirlwind of men jostling each other, falling and twisting; of heads rising and disappearing; of arms and backs moving and contracting, as if they were all parts of a single body, members of some unknown monster writhing in convulsions. (The Guarany, part III, chapter VIII, p. 114)
The gargantuan monster of flesh above refers to a dichotomy of civilization and barbarism. This idea runs alongside a discourse of horror which verifies the preference for rational European habits instead of the rudimentary instinct of the native. Alencar’s persuasiveness comes through by skilfully displacing this discussion in the figure of the hero Pery. The intention is to project the ‘rational’ model as a universal standard, above ethnicity and culture, and Pery would exemplify this proposal. Ideally, he is the synthesis of two worlds, incorporating the nobility of the European with the empiricism of the Indian. However, he is hardly recognisable as an Indian character; his behaviour resembles more the codes of honour followed by a medieval knight. He is even called ‘a Portuguese cavalier in the body of a savage’ (p. 17). Pery is a ‘friend’ as long as he upholds these codes. The climax of his cultural defeat happens when he adopts Christianity. Receiving the name of Mariz is his final acceptance of the coloniser’s belief. His direct opposite and counterpart is Loredano, who is ethnically aligned with the Europeans but moves to the uncivilised, paganistic dimension of the Aymorés, bearer of a ‘rage and fury of Satan hurled into the abyss’ (p. 43). Responsible for sabotaging the Portuguese colonisation project, Loredano rebels against the social configuration in the house of Mariz. Greed for fortune and lack of social mobility seems to trigger his discontent. Being the bearer of a treasure map he does not feel he has to submit to aristocratic rules, but his love for Cecy is his disgrace. Since the Aymorés represent uncivilised brutality, the author discards the love-struck, dissatisfied villain, as being inadequate for his project of nation.
Loredano seems to be the only character capable of promoting changes to his fate in a novel where most characters are ‘flattened’ representatives of social function instead of expressing their individuality. In this sense, their psychological processes are inexpressive, the subjective exploration of the soul does not deepen and the characters do not become ‘humanized’, remaining on the level of caricature. To some extent, Loredano’s personality seems to contain a certain degree of antagonism. It is represented in the opposition between a life of purity and sin; the disagreement between spirit and body is a psychological drama inside the contradictory complex that is the human soul.
Looking at elements of the character’s composition, a few aspects link his profile to those conventions established by the early gothic villains: the dark physical complexion, the threatening eyes, the obscure past, the Italian origins and clerical connections, the double identity, the violent inclinations and the excessive greed. Alencar seems to use the villain popularised in the early gothic to stir feelings of estrangement and alterity among Brazilian readers. Like the gothic novelists he is seeking to raise questions of nationality. However, if the concept of ‘foreigner’ was easily recognisable, proposing a patriotic question around which everyone was able to join in, the project needed acclimatising to make sense in a Brazilian reality. While the traditional gothic novel incorporated the subject of British national identity by speaking in the name of a Protestant, democratic, traditional and modern nation, the same could not be simply transferred to Brazil.
Despite absorbing some gothic elements and conventions, The Guarany deviates from the formula principally by not dislocating its national questions. The conflict is set to be resolved inside the country. Loredano’s foreigner condition is made to stand out in his accent and in his usual jargon such as ‘per Dio’ or ‘per Bacco’. Also while all the Europeans in the house have a Portuguese name, the villain is noticed because of his unusual name.
The villain’s newly assumed identity seems to be a reference to the family name of two of the Doges of Venice, but unlike many gothic villains, Loredano is no noble. This constitutes an important distinction between the British and the Brazilian forms. The antagonist’s past is partially revealed in a tense and mysterious chapter, full of torrential rain and lightning. This story is a sub-plot of the main narration, very similar to both the story of Spalatro and the Baróne di Cambrusca in The Italian.[2] The interpolation (metanarrative) here follows the gothic labyrinthine plot structure. These are stories that resist being told and ultimately conceal rather then reveal their intentions. Loredano is the son of a Venetian fisherman, who enters the Capuchin order, perhaps to escape the same fate as the father. He searches for a better social position in society by assuming the priesthood. The former Angelo di Lucca comes to Brazil to work as a Christian missionary, converting Indians. His possible economic deprivation as a child turns into psychological deprivation, a side effect of monastic imprisonment where his sexuality was repressed. This is revealed the day he discovers a map of the silver mines and abandons the habit for a life of adventures. Reborn as Loredano (l’ore dano, the evil metal?), he now goes to pursue the share of woman and wealth the world owes him. His resentment of society surfaces with the possibilities of enrichment, and the beautiful Cecília becomes a repository of his desire for love. Poverty, excessive ambition and sexual abstinence constitute the Alencarian formula for a villain.
Loredano’s humble origins distinguish him from his potential gothic models, Ambrosio and Schedoni. While most gothic villains, at some point in their lives, benefit from riches and prestige, the ambition in Loredano stems from a life of deprivation which points to what he represents in that context. In this sense the villain gains his own personality. Moreover, further differences push Loredano away from his ‘British’ counterparts. While a sudden change of heart assails the British gothic villains, introducing the moralising tone, public confessions and last minute regrets, Loredano remains unchanged in his final moments.
Before obeying Dom Antônio’s order, they had executed the sentence pronounced against Loredano, and any one at that moment crossing the esplanade would have seen the flames ascending around the post to which the friar was bound. The Italian already felt the fire drawing near and the smoke gathering in a dense cloud about him. It is impossible to describe the rage, anger, and fury, that took possession of him in these moments preceding his punishment. (The Guarany, part IV, chapter IX, p. 137)
In the face of death there is no declared regret that would moralise Loredano’s end, but his punishment is an example for all who diverge from the Christian religion. Burned as a medieval heretic (to be purified by the flames) the ex-friar does not appeal to the mercy of man, beg reconciliation with God or review his conscience. His last moments are silent, frustrated and enraged by a dream of wealth and love that did not materialize. This public burning of heretics at stake is a prime gothic motif used here by Alencar,[3] the Catholic Inquisition adopted this punishment, known as Auto da Fé (an act of faith), as an interpretation of the principle Ecclesia non novit sanguinem (the Church is untainted with blood). Similar to the British model, Alencar does not leave Evil unpunished, albeit he does not force final accommodations, or reconciliations which were common to the British fiction. These differences in the villains’ background, motivations and death seem to be fundamental in revealing who the antagonist is. When assimilating some traces of the gothic mode, Alencar does not reproduce the ideology. He seems to support, above all, values of civilization, rationalism and honour, rather than primitivism, brutality and treachery. Furthermore, the novel proposes principles of domesticity, family and Christianity, while discarding licentiousness, impiety and greed for riches.
After exorcising the Portuguese house of the savage Aymorés and the Italian villain, Alencar seems to be indicating that old aristocratic values, primitivism and greedy ‘foreigners’ in search of wealth, were no longer welcome in 1857 Brazilian society. The gothic is the entitled language, the most suitable discourse for this kind of ‘exorcising’. Loredano differs from his British gothic counterparts; he does not represent fear of a distant French Revolution but Alencar’s unique response to Brazilian anxieties. Alencar’s gothic villain and images represent a cultural response imbricated with imperialist discussion, as the transforming Brazilian society was making way for republican thought. Very much in tune with his time, Alencar saw the possibilities of a country which did not wish to support the anachronic colonial model or foreign exploitation. Loredano is a symbol of this discontent (exorcised by the gothic discourse) along with people who saw Brazil as a place of enterprise enrichment.
‘I will be rich and powerful, though the whole world oppose!’ (p. 43), says Loredano. It is customary to represent the colonialist as a rich man, usually dressed in beige clothes, wiping sweat away with a handkerchief. If British, he might have been wearing a hunter’s hat and a monocle, perhaps drinking tea served in fine white china. Even with a fair amount of postcolonial criticism this rich colonist representation seems to be commonly employed, perpetuating an idea that is not completely correct. Of course some colonialists were very rich and sophisticated, and became even richer in trade while others lost everything in their gamble for wealth. Nevertheless, a significant number of these men actually came from deprived backgrounds. On the docks of Liverpool, for example, they would be recruited by trading and shipping companies to become masters abroad, under this very criterion of poverty. The company knew that their humble origins would constitute the drive in them to make the most of the opportunity. Then, once rich, they would imitate upper class habits and manners. I understand Loredano to be this type of disfavoured adventurer, aspiring to build his fortune. Born into a dispossessed family, he is prepared to invest everything in the possibility of becoming successful; even if it means turning to violence, kidnap and murder. In fact, Loredano could have walked away from the house of Mariz at any time and conquered fortune with his silver mine map. However, as the villain of a romantic novel, his utmost claim is Love. ‘Only I warn you that he who shall cross the threshold of Cecília’s door is a dead man; she is my share of the booty, the lion’s share!’ (p. 39).
Loredano’s humble origins distinguish him from his potential gothic models, Ambrosio and Schedoni. While most gothic villains, at some point in their lives, benefit from riches and prestige, the ambition in Loredano stems from a life of deprivation which points to what he represents in that context. In this sense the villain gains his own personality. Moreover, further differences push Loredano away from his ‘British’ counterparts. While a sudden change of heart assails the British gothic villains, introducing the moralising tone, public confessions and last minute regrets, Loredano remains unchanged in his final moments.
Before obeying Dom Antônio’s order, they had executed the sentence pronounced against Loredano, and any one at that moment crossing the esplanade would have seen the flames ascending around the post to which the friar was bound. The Italian already felt the fire drawing near and the smoke gathering in a dense cloud about him. It is impossible to describe the rage, anger, and fury, that took possession of him in these moments preceding his punishment. (The Guarany, part IV, chapter IX, p. 137)
In the face of death there is no declared regret that would moralise Loredano’s end, but his punishment is an example for all who diverge from the Christian religion. Burned as a medieval heretic (to be purified by the flames) the ex-friar does not appeal to the mercy of man, beg reconciliation with God or review his conscience. His last moments are silent, frustrated and enraged by a dream of wealth and love that did not materialize. This public burning of heretics at stake is a prime gothic motif used here by Alencar,[3] the Catholic Inquisition adopted this punishment, known as Auto da Fé (an act of faith), as an interpretation of the principle Ecclesia non novit sanguinem (the Church is untainted with blood). Similar to the British model, Alencar does not leave Evil unpunished, albeit he does not force final accommodations, or reconciliations which were common to the British fiction. These differences in the villains’ background, motivations and death seem to be fundamental in revealing who the antagonist is. When assimilating some traces of the gothic mode, Alencar does not reproduce the ideology. He seems to support, above all, values of civilization, rationalism and honour, rather than primitivism, brutality and treachery. Furthermore, the novel proposes principles of domesticity, family and Christianity, while discarding licentiousness, impiety and greed for riches.
After exorcising the Portuguese house of the savage Aymorés and the Italian villain, Alencar seems to be indicating that old aristocratic values, primitivism and greedy ‘foreigners’ in search of wealth, were no longer welcome in 1857 Brazilian society. The gothic is the entitled language, the most suitable discourse for this kind of ‘exorcising’. Loredano differs from his British gothic counterparts; he does not represent fear of a distant French Revolution but Alencar’s unique response to Brazilian anxieties. Alencar’s gothic villain and images represent a cultural response imbricated with imperialist discussion, as the transforming Brazilian society was making way for republican thought. Very much in tune with his time, Alencar saw the possibilities of a country which did not wish to support the anachronic colonial model or foreign exploitation. Loredano is a symbol of this discontent (exorcised by the gothic discourse) along with people who saw Brazil as a place of enterprise enrichment.
‘I will be rich and powerful, though the whole world oppose!’ (p. 43), says Loredano. It is customary to represent the colonialist as a rich man, usually dressed in beige clothes, wiping sweat away with a handkerchief. If British, he might have been wearing a hunter’s hat and a monocle, perhaps drinking tea served in fine white china. Even with a fair amount of postcolonial criticism this rich colonist representation seems to be commonly employed, perpetuating an idea that is not completely correct. Of course some colonialists were very rich and sophisticated, and became even richer in trade while others lost everything in their gamble for wealth. Nevertheless, a significant number of these men actually came from deprived backgrounds. On the docks of Liverpool, for example, they would be recruited by trading and shipping companies to become masters abroad, under this very criterion of poverty. The company knew that their humble origins would constitute the drive in them to make the most of the opportunity. Then, once rich, they would imitate upper class habits and manners. I understand Loredano to be this type of disfavoured adventurer, aspiring to build his fortune. Born into a dispossessed family, he is prepared to invest everything in the possibility of becoming successful; even if it means turning to violence, kidnap and murder. In fact, Loredano could have walked away from the house of Mariz at any time and conquered fortune with his silver mine map. However, as the villain of a romantic novel, his utmost claim is Love. ‘Only I warn you that he who shall cross the threshold of Cecília’s door is a dead man; she is my share of the booty, the lion’s share!’ (p. 39).
[1] On talking about Terror in his treatise about the Sublime, Burke says that many animals are capable of invoking these ideas of transcendence. IN: Edmund Burke. A Philosophical Inquiry into the Origin of our Ideas about the Sublime and the Beautiful. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1958 (p. 57).
[2] See Ann Radcliffe, The Italian, pp. 131-255.
[3] Like Loredano, Ambrosio was also going to be burned alive but he escapes the trial by selling his soul to the Devil. IN: Matthew Lewis, The Monk, pp. 298-300. Maturin also account for the burning of heretics as a source of horror in the English gothic. IN: Charles Maturin. Melmoth, the wanderer, 2000.
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