Untitled Essay, Research Paper

By: Monika Zofia Mezyk

: In Ann Radcliffe’s “The Italian”, the very first thing that we see described

is a veiled woman:

“It was in the church of San Lorenzo at Naples, in the year 1758, that Vincentio

di Vivaldi first saw Ellena di Rosalba. The sweetness and fine expression

of her voice attracted his attention to her figure, which had a distinguished

air of delicacy and grace; but her face was concealed in her veil. So much

was he fascinated by the voice, that a most painful curiosity was excited

as to her countenance, which he fancied must express all the sensibility

of character that the modulation of her tones indicated” (5).

Even without knowing anything about Gothic elements, this indicates very

clearly what the quality and tone of the book are going to be like. Vivaldi’s

pursuit of the veiled woman is a signal that his is the pursuit of the

mysterious, with the certainty that it will be beautiful. This certainly

does seem to be a great fascination in the novel; it is a component and often

a catalyst for that anxiety which runs throughout.

It is this anxiety which causes the heightening of our emotions; our emotions

are heightened as we watch the characters’ pursuit of the mysterious; and

our curiosity is excited more and more until we are nearly begging for its

gratification. But Radcliffe heightens our emotions without satisfying our

curiosity, or at least not enough. For example, the very first chapter

establishes a sense of mystery about the assassin in the Church. The Englishman

inquires as much for himself as for us about the assassin. His concern and

state of shock invoke our own inquiry into this odd circumstance and then

his Italian friend tells him a mystery without actually telling him anything:

“‘He [the assassin] sought sanctuary here’, replied the friar; ‘within these

walls he may not be hurt’”(2).

He makes it clear that there is a story here but that it is long and suspenseful,

maybe shocking:

“‘It is much too long to be related now; that would occupy a week; I have

it in writing, and will send you the volume’” (3).

What it is exactly, or what the tale is going to be is only hinted at in

a very curiosity invoking way: as if it is a secret.

Instead of the Englishman and his Italian friend going down to the street

café and relating the story, the Italian friend says that he will

send him something written the following day and then the passage stops.

We are tempted, as is the Englishman, by these curious circumstances and

yet nothing is revealed to us other that the implication that soon all will

be revealed (after a couple hundred pages). What Radcliffe does is that she

creates our sensation of terror; she suspends our disbelief that much longer,

building our curiosity and our need to know to a brilliant height and

then-nothing: the story takes a different turn and gratification is postponed

while our expectation and anticipation is increased.

This happens in the very beginning passage in which Radcliffe starts “The

Italian” by providing just enough information to suck us into her tale and,

then, just as we expect pay off, she postpones it a little further while

providing just enough information to keep us intrigued. And, before we know

it, we, the reader, are entangled in her Gothic quicksand and greedily reading

in search of the secrets she buries before our eyes. When Vivaldi rushes

into the Villa after the mysterious cloaked figure that has escaped him,

he emerges pale: we know something has happened and await his tale but he

tells us nothing, he refuses to say anything and, thus, we are left suspended

in the wake of mystery. Another example when we are suspended in the wake

of mystery occurs when Vivaldi and Paolo are in the dungeon imagining the

garments lying on the floor to be moving. We do not find out whether or not

these garments belong to someone murdered until the end of the novel; so

this i!

ncident leaves us in a state of suspense:

‘It moves!’ exclaimed Paolo; ‘I see it move!’ as he said which, he started

to the opposite side of the chamber. Vivaldi stepped a few paces back, and

as quickly returned; when, determined to know the event at once, he raised

the point of his sword, and perceived, beneath, other remains of dress, heaped

high together, while even the floor below was stained with gore (77).

This leads me to speak of imagination, which is such a huge part in telling

the story. There is such an enormous emphasis on perceptions, belief and

feelings. It seems that everything that happens is filtered through the lens

of one of the various characters. There is a constant projection of their

thoughts into what is happening:

“As they passed, Paolo observed, that the walls were stained with what appeared

to be blood…” (74).

It did not necessarily have to be blood, but we see it through Paolo’s

perceptions, which leads us to the most sordid conclusion. Immediately after

this, they see a figure standing in the shadows which disappears by the time

they arrive; Vivaldi and Paolo conclude that it must have been an evil spirit

to haunt them.

Although it can be argued that is the sense of the impending danger that

gives the book its impetus, it is more probable that it is the perception

of the impending danger, of the gruesome, of the revealing that which is

dark, which is the impetus. That is a significant difference. By doing this,

Radcliffe wants to make sure that we are in sync with the characters thought

by thought and breath by breath. A cloudy sky cannot just be shown as a cloudy

sky, which would seem depressing to some or not important to others; it has

to take the perception and imagination of Vivaldi to make it foreboding.

It is also significant that Radcliffe purposefully constructs characters

of a susceptible nature, characters that are easily swayed by appearances

and not facts.

By creating the character of Vivaldi, it seems that Radcliffe has created

a character that is more susceptible than the average person to the “sublime”

and the “gothic”. He calls the strange monk “super-human” on numerous occasions,

overly excited to prove himself correct. The narrator even says as much,

hinting that after all the trouble Vivaldi put himself through to discover

the identity of the monk, a simple, rational explanation would be disappointing.

It seems as if Vivaldi is searching for trouble, in a sense, and he does

not shy away from dangers. It also seems that he enjoys the clandestine nightly

excursions to the “arch” where the strange monk appears.

To Ellena, just like to Vivaldi, a simple rational explanation would also

be disappointing. In volume 2, when Ellena is taken to Spalatro and locked

in her room overnight, she begins to suspect an attempt on her life. In the

darkness, she imagines moving shadows and creaking floors, yet she is unable

to confirm her fears. Instead of using her common sense by thinking that

if they really wanted to her dead, they would have killed her before she

reached the cabin, she prefers the non-rational explanation of Spalatro trying

to assassinate her. Like to Vivaldi, to Ellena just a rational explanation

would be disappointing and, to us, the audience, such a rational explanation

would decrease our sensation of terror instead of increasing it, which would,

in turn, be disappointing to our expectations.

Ellena’s fears certainly do not seem to be based on evidence. Even when Spalatro

brought her the meal, I was not sure if Ellena’s fears were justified. It

seemed that Ellena was looking for someone to assassinate her, so anything

she saw would be a part of that conspiracy; everything Spalatro did would

be suspect and it was. Her susceptible nature often led her into the suspicion

out of which the novel’s Gothic tone is constructed; just like Vivaldi’s

and Paolo’s susceptible natures lead them to jump to most horrifying conclusions

earlier in the novel.

When talking about perceptions, it is impossible to omit the distinction

between the real and unreal in “The Italian”. The strand of reality, interwoven

with fantasy, seems to be a driving force in the plot. In the episode involving

Ellena, her suspicions are confirmed; her fantasy becomes confirmed as reality

as her fears about Spalatro’s intentions are confirmed (although not until

the end). Of notice is also Vivaldi’s constant desire to solidify his fantasy

(getting married) with Ellena; as if the real thing will finally restrict

the fearful possibilities into a single reality. Yet it is this reality from

which Vivaldi derives his fearful fantasies. It is this drama between what

is real and unreal that gives the novel its impetus. For example, when Marchesa

is speaking to Schedoni, they are both thinking of murder, but both refuse

to ’say’ it, as if doing so would make it more ‘real’ than merely thinking

about it.