We all miss Anne Rice since she crossed over to the good side and gave up writing fiction that bites. But Rice would be nowhere without the influence of her predecessor, Ann Radcliff, the true and evermore grandmother of Gothic literature. Explore with me the making of Radcliffe’s fascinating villains, all templates for future bad guys throughout several genres. You might even see a bit of Darth Vader in there…
From Marquises to Monks: An Evolution of Ann Radcliffe’s Antagonists
Radcliffe used the full spectrum of extreme behavioral stereotypes, with her lofty heroes perched firmly at the top of the totem pole of morality while her villains lurked in the mud somewhere near its base. Secondary characters tended to hover close to either end, with only a few distinct individuals wavering in the median, possessing characteristics of both ends. This paper will focus on the bottom of the pole, the deep end where the muck accumulates and the monsters lie in waiting. We’ll see how her antagonists developed over the course of her four main novels – A Sicilian Romance, The Romance of the Forest, The Mysteries of Udolpho, and The Italian, and when we’re done, we’ll perhaps understand a little better how those villains, the polar opposites of her virtuous heroes, thought and why they behaved the way they did.
Starting in chronological order, our first subject is Ferdinand, the 5th Marquis of Mazzini and the antagonist of Radcliffe’s 1790 work A Sicilian Romance. Mazzini’s biggest mistake in life was forsaking his first wife, the loyal and gentle Louisa, for the capricious but more lovely and lethal Maria de Vellorno. As uninterested in being a good father to his children as he was in being a good husband to Louisa, he left the care of his two young girls to Madame de Menon, a woman he respected and appeased because he knew Maria could never raise the children herself. The instinct of motherhood escaped her as readily as the concept of faithfulness, but, somewhat of a sadomasochist, the warped Mazzini didn’t mind; he seemed to enjoy being dominated by the cheating Maria and worked harder for her affections when she slept with other men. Yet, for his virtuous first wife, though he had not the heart to murder her outright, he reserved a cold cavern for her secret imprisonment. An excellent liar, he went so far as to invent a carefully crafted ghost story to explain away the mysterious movements in that supposedly abandoned region of the castle. So, for fifteen years, Louisa was confined as he waited for her to expire from natural causes and thus, she was impotent to aid her daughter against her husband’s scheming designs, just as other mothers were also missing from Radcliffe’s later stories. As noted in the introduction to A Sicilian Romance, “Mothers are, of course, notoriously absent in Gothic texts, or rather…displaced, so that the topos of the Gothic heroine fleeing the tyrant…can be seen to represent…female anxieties about male penetration” (Milbank, Sicilian xx-xxi). But it was not incestuous rape from the Marquis that his daughter Julia feared, but rather marriage to Duke de Louvo. Concerning this, Mazzini cared not a wit for his own daughter’s happiness; he willingly submitted her hand in marriage to a man she did not love. At this point, let’s remember that this story is set at the end of the 16th century, about 250 years after the Black Death wiped out one-fourth of Europe, seriously eroding the power of the feudal system. Nonetheless, the ancient customs of the diminished nobility lived on and the nobility itself still held great, though no longer incontrovertible, powers. Thus, “anyone who dared to challenge it, risked severe punishment” (World 116). Julia dared, but the Marquis was used to getting his way. Ignoring her pleas, his cold, “noble” heart was only interested in the advantage to his own fortune that the marriage might bring, and when Julia escaped, and the marriage was jeopardized by the threat of blackmail from the Abate, who knew of Louisa’s imprisonment, Mazzini’s true nature revealed itself further. Under pressure, his final remaining shred of humanity disintegrated and he determined to murder, at last, his imprisoned first wife. But Fate always has a different plan in mind for the wicked in Radcliffe’s works. The Marquis was himself poisoned following the suicide of Maria, and from his death, new bonds were free to form “to allow a new and larger social grouping to emerge, on which a broader range of familial relations are displayed and sibling and parental affections can reach expression” (Milbank, Sicilian xxiv).
As mentioned, the secondary characters are generally not much better or worse than the primary ones. Here, the secondary villain of the story, though higher in terms of precedence of Italian nobility (Mendola), was obviously the reprehensible Duke de Louvo himself, who was so enamored with Mazzini’s daughter that he chased her through the countryside. Despite her escaping imprisonment from the castle and eloping with Hippolitus, her true love, Louvo determined to possess her by any means, willing, if necessary, to force her submission. Even the thought of murdering Hippolitus was not a deterrent. This obsession, coupled with complete disregard for the feelings of the person obsessed after, is perhaps stranger than Mazzini’s own disregard of Julia’s wants, as the Duke professed to actually be in love with her. It was a strange sense of love, but mixed with the pride of his blue blood, the unhinged Duke knew no better.
Referring to the use of corrupt nobility in her work, there is a “focus …on those characters who indulge their passions with particular ruthlessness” (Chard, Romance x-xi). 1791’s The Romance of the Forest was no exception and introduced another marquis, the Marquis de Montalt, a slightly more developed version of his predecessor, Mazzini. Montalt also ruled his domain the old fashioned way, with an iron fist. He, too, cowed anyone who dared oppose his will, similar in style, though on an obviously smaller scale, to King Henry VIII, who once proclaimed, “This country should be under one God, and God should be under me” (De Guillaume 89). Yet despite his despotism, Montalt was also a man of some sophistry, “characterized by an overt and relatively frivolous form of hedonism” (Chard, Romance xv). In fact, “the elegance of his manners had so effectually veiled the depravity of his heart, that he was a favorite with his Sovereign” (Radcliffe, Romance 338). But though his depravity was veiled, depraved he was. To Montalt, killing was perfectly justifiable, a natural means to an end, and not necessarily “murder.” This sentiment reinforces our knowledge of his belief that he, like the outcast Byronic villains of future writers, lived outside or was elevated above the rule of law. And when the time came to dispose of his niece, Adeline, he showed no compunction about it at all; it was merely a small inconvenience which he attempted to exploit La Motte to handle. This was not the first time he had commissioned a murder; his own brother, Henry, had been waylaid, kidnapped, and killed by his order in 1642 (an act which would come back to haunt Montalt years later). Thus, he was guilty of two major crimes – “The first was more immediately gratified by the title of his brother; the latter by the riches which would enable him to indulge his voluptuous inclinations” (Radcliffe, Romance 342-343). Fortunately, his final scheme failed and, like Mazzini, Montalt met with an ignoble end. He took his own life to avoid prosecution and, on his deathbed, he found the decency to confess his sins. He had “resolved to make all the atonement that remained for him” (Radcliffe, Romance 353) and for these confessions, his niece regained her estates and another Radcliffean happy ending ensued.
We now come to 1794’s The Mysteries of Udolpho and the infamous Count Montoni. Montoni is “an archetypal ‘Gothic villain’” (Castle, Udolpho i). The medieval precursor to The Godfather’s Vito Corleone and Scarface’s Tony Montana, the Italian Montoni is the secret head of a band of condottieri, or mercenaries. A man in constant search of a quarrel, he and his men lived only profit, pillaging, and fighting. Imagining he could enhance his fortune through marriage, he wedded the aunt and caretaker of our heroine, Emily St. Aubert, and whisked them both away from France to his remote and “sublime” Italian castle. Some critics of Udolpho suggest Montoni had incestuous desires for Emily; this was not the case, in my opinion. Even in the introduction to the novel, it is pointed out that “Montoni’s interest in her is more economic than libidinous; he simply wants her money” (Castle, Udolpho x). Never was he shown to pay much regard to her one way or another until he wanted her signature releasing her estates, which she refused to give. This occurred after he had already locked up Madame Montoni, using a recent assassination attempt as a pretext, when, in reality, he imprisoned her only because she would not release her estates, either. Her refusal led to her demise, though she died more of starvation from love than from food. “When Montoni was informed of the death of his wife, and considered that she had died without giving him the signature so necessary to the accomplishment of his wishes, no sense of decency restrained the expression of his resentment” (Radcliffe, Udolpho 375). If Madame’s death seemed unusual, Montoni’s was even more so. He was arrested and, though found innocent of specific charges, was deemed a “very dangerous person,” was again confined, and soon met his death in a “doubtful and mysterious manner, and not without suspicion of having been poisoned” (Radcliffe, Udolpho 569).
A secondary villain and relative to Montoni was revealed in the telling of the story of Laurentini di Udolpho. She had so loved the foreign Marquis de Villeroi that, after being spurned by him and later discovering he had married in France, Laurentini schemed to make him so jealous as to murder his innocent wife. The tale is reminiscent of the deception of Othello by Iago, who convinced Othello to murder his own wife, the innocent Desdemona. But Iago had little time to lament his deception whereas Laurentini, changing her name and joining a convent, had the rest of her life to suffer her guilty conscience. So here, like Duke de Louvo, is another character (a woman this time) transformed into a villain by spurned love. Radcliffe, of course, is careful not to make such characters worthy of our sympathy.
Though the Gothic or Byronic villain is sometimes seen as an anti-hero, or possessed of some heroic attributes, Radcliffe’s bad guys never quite fit the mold. They are bad, through and through, displaying some miniscule level of humanity only towards the end of the novels and then, usually only to save their hides from eternal damnation. Such was the case with Father Schedoni from 1796’s The Italian. Here, Radcliffe’s style was polished to a high luster, her characterizations much fuller, in particular regarding her antagonist. At last, “Radcliffe can…focus upon the machinations and mixed motives of the villain, the monk Schedoni, without upsetting the moral balance of the novel” (Milbank, Romance xxii). If young Valancourt from The Mysteries of Udolpho epitomized Radcliffe’s virtuous hero, Schedoni the Confessor did the same for her lowly scoundrel. As the British Critic wrote, “The mind of Schedoni is subtle and enterprising; his boldness and barbarity are equal in any purpose which villainy and ambition could project” (Radcliffe, Italian 498).
It should be remembered that the characters in The Italian lived in the year 1758, two decades before the American Revolution, to put the year into context. The Universal Inquisition, established by Pope Paul III in 1542, was in full effect and the Holy Church and those associated with it were held in great fear and awe (World 30). As a Confessor, Schedoni was held in esteem by the noble Marchesa di Vivaldi, though she did not know of his lower position within his own society. Guilty of swaying the Marchesa to agree to a plot to murder her son’s true love, Ellena Rosabla, we see revealed a man willing to sacrifice an innocent and unknown girl only to ingratiate himself further to a wealthy family, since he was unable to advance within his convent. His immediate goal was to make himself look good; there was no quick payoff, like the Marquis de Mazzini hoped to gain by marrying off Julia, or as Count Montoni stood to gain by stealing Emily’s estates. Schedoni was far more patient, calculating, and ruthless. Consider his argument to the Marchesa: “The girl is put out of the way of committing more mischief, of injuring the peace and dignity of a distinguished family; she is sent to an eternal sleep before her time. – Where is the crime, where is the evil of this?” (Radcliffe, Italian 202). He continues, “She is not immortal; and the few years more that might have been allowed her, she deserves to forfeit” (Radcliffe, Italian 203). Is this a very persuasive argument on the monk’s part? No – but it’s not half bad, and it was enough for the Marchesa. Through rationalized and somewhat logical means, Schedoni encourages the Marchesa di Vivaldi to act as Ellena’s judge, jury, and executioner. His is similar in sentiment to Montalt’s assertion that sometimes, killing just makes good sense. But Schedoni the Confessor is possessed of far greater subtlety and finesse than the blunt Montalt, and the monk used his artfulness to pervert the gullible Marchesa, making her not just an accomplice to murder but, in fact, the instigator, if not the originator, of the actual wicked plan. It is here that the Marchesa, who, acting as the novel’s secondary villain, and, though gullible, not totally oblivious to Schedoni’s ulterior and self-interested motives, ultimately makes the call: “But when, and where, good father? Being once convinced, I am anxious to have it settled” (Radcliffe, Italian 204). You could say she was convinced because she allowed herself to be, and she was able to suppress her conscience long enough to order the hit, which Schedoni gladly acknowledged. Thus, she was a sort of willing victim to Schedoni, “who dominates this novel’s structure in a way that none of Radcliffe’s shadowy males previously had” (Tymn 137).
Radcliffe wrote Schedoni like a textbook example for deviant behavior, in particular his “rationalization, or finding an acceptable reason for doing what one wants to do, anyway…” (Fox 175). More than any previous villain, he exhibited several defensive traits of a mentally ill criminal, including an elaborate identity switch. Formerly the Count di Marinella, Schedoni was a fallen nobleman who repressed his old identity out of shame. He chose to isolate himself (by becoming a monk) and turn his anger inwards (through severe penance). In the end, he, too, confessed his many sins just as he lay dying, another suicide victim to add to Radcliffe’s extensive collection.
Although each of Radcliffe’s villains were diminished in power, or perhaps for that very reason, they exercised their rule over those subjects remaining within their grasps more callously than perhaps they might have done otherwise, had their reaches extended to their previous lengths. Now, each man – Mazzini, Montalt, Montoni, and Schedoni – was reduced to being only a “big fish in a little pond.” It was noted by J.M.S. Tompkins that “the raison-d’etre of [Radcliffe’s] books is not a story, nor a character, nor a moral truth, but a mood, the mood of a sensitive dreamer before Gothic buildings and picturesque scenery” (Tymn 135). That may be true to an extent, but without her villains, that mood would have nothing to hang on. They were her bread and butter, the catalysts of their respective stories without whom the heroines, and readers, would have nothing to fear. Though the motives for their behavior varied, each acted according to his nature and, horrible as those natures were, they are not entirely alien to any of us.
Works Cited
Botting, Fred. Gothic. London: Routledge, 1999.
Castle, Terry. Introduction. The Mysteries of Udolpho. By Ann Radcliffe. New York: Oxford UP, 1998.
Chard, Chloe. Introduction. The Romance of the Forest. By Ann Radcliffe. New York: Oxford UP, 1999.
De Guillaume, Andre. How to Rule the World. Chicago: Chicago Review P, 2005.
Encyclopedia of World History. Ed. Jeremy Black. London: Parragon, 1999.
Fox, Vernon. Introduction to Criminology. 2nd ed. New Jersey: Prentice-Hall, 1985.
Mendola, L. “Italian Titles of Nobility.” 1997. <http://www.regalis.com/reg/titles.htm>.
Milbank, Alison. Introduction. A Sicilian Romance. By Ann Radcliffe. New York: Oxford UP, 1998.
Radcliffe, Ann. The Italian. London: Penguin, 2000.
Radcliffe, Ann. The Mysteries of Udolpho. New York: Oxford UP, 1998.
Radcliffe, Ann. The Romance of the Forest. New York: Oxford UP, 1999.
Radcliffe, Ann. A Sicilian Romance. New York: Oxford UP, 1998.
Tymn, Marshall. Horror Literature. New York: R.R. Bowker, 1981.
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