A tiresomely interesting tale
The Mysteries of Udolpho was the prototype of gothic novel. Radcliffe definitely showed her strengths as a writer, and her strongest one is scenery. One could easily imagine that she must have been a painter when reading the pages and pages, and pages, AND pages of scenic fest ranging from awe-inducing to sublime. It was really a fine piece of travelogue, if it hadn’t clogged up half of the novel. Unfortunately, Radcliffe’s poems were much less enjoyable, yet she insisted on dropping them throughout the story. A number of these were about innocents embarking on a journey ending in tragedy, which supposedly echoes an impending omen, although they were so straight-forward they did nothing to me at all. However, the detailed atmospheric descriptions in the story proper deserved praise for painting the various moods – the serene Gascony, the extravagant Paris, the eerie Languedoc, the majestic Alpines, the colorful Venice, the gloomy and barbaric Udolpho. And mood is everything in this novel.
I do like Emily, though she was but yet another wise, virtuous, kind, extremely beautiful, multi-talented girl surrounded by an army of crazy admirers. Because she was already impossibly perfect at the start, there was no room for her character to grow at all. She remained as impossibly perfect at the end, with added knowledge of the imperfect world. Montoni was a classic gothic villain: cunning, ambitious, unscrupulous, charismatic, and a bit too civil. Make no mistake, he never hesitated in employing any horrific violence to achieve his dark aim, such as confinement in a forlorn chamber (a cold and windy one!), which can certainly prove fatal to dainty ladies in the 16th century. While congratulating our heroine on her (mis)fortunes, one starts to find humor in the never-ending cycle of perceived danger, sight-seeing, exhausting day and sleepless night, more sight-seeing and mood-feeling, pining for the missing hero and lost happiness, heightened apprehension, and then… nothing. And after following Emily for a frightful night with assassins surely ready to murder her, I almost broke into laughter the next moment when she went for a leisure walk by the sunny beach, under guard by the same frightful assassin, to once again indulge in beautiful scenery and pensive thoughts. By that time, I can no more dispel the suspicion that all the hinted mysteries will also eventually come to… nothing. Well, at least we tasted the mood.
On the other hand, with all the mysteries and villainy mounting to ridiculous romance, Radcliffe surprised this reader by revealing the painful realities of romantic love. It was a cruelly common love story. Valancourt was a cute, pseudo-spiritual, nature-hugging guy who makes a nice friend in fun hours but a terrible husband in critical times. Armed with the will of a bunny, he quickly degenerated in Emily’s absence, while she continued to think of him in bitter-sweet memory as her only hope during her hardships. I credit Radcliffe for the intentional irony of this, and also of the fact that Emily’s beloved father, whom Valancourt resembled, actually caused all of Emily’s miseries by his own weak judgment. Of course, he was the one who used to lecture Emily on fortitude. In the end, the novel sounds its lesson well: that it is best for a girl, whether in ancient or modern times, to search and realize her independent value rather than place all her hopes and worth on a man.
Udolpho is the kind of novel that frustrates the good-natured reader, in that whenever one recognizes a commendable strength, the joy was quickly smothered by a glaring flaw. And 500+ pages was too long a frustration to justify a long review.
The Mysteries of Udolpho was the prototype of gothic novel. Radcliffe definitely showed her strengths as a writer, and her strongest one is scenery. One could easily imagine that she must have been a painter when reading the pages and pages, and pages, AND pages of scenic fest ranging from awe-inducing to sublime. It was really a fine piece of travelogue, if it hadn’t clogged up half of the novel. Unfortunately, Radcliffe’s poems were much less enjoyable, yet she insisted on dropping them throughout the story. A number of these were about innocents embarking on a journey ending in tragedy, which supposedly echoes an impending omen, although they were so straight-forward they did nothing to me at all. However, the detailed atmospheric descriptions in the story proper deserved praise for painting the various moods – the serene Gascony, the extravagant Paris, the eerie Languedoc, the majestic Alpines, the colorful Venice, the gloomy and barbaric Udolpho. And mood is everything in this novel.
I do like Emily, though she was but yet another wise, virtuous, kind, extremely beautiful, multi-talented girl surrounded by an army of crazy admirers. Because she was already impossibly perfect at the start, there was no room for her character to grow at all. She remained as impossibly perfect at the end, with added knowledge of the imperfect world. Montoni was a classic gothic villain: cunning, ambitious, unscrupulous, charismatic, and a bit too civil. Make no mistake, he never hesitated in employing any horrific violence to achieve his dark aim, such as confinement in a forlorn chamber (a cold and windy one!), which can certainly prove fatal to dainty ladies in the 16th century. While congratulating our heroine on her (mis)fortunes, one starts to find humor in the never-ending cycle of perceived danger, sight-seeing, exhausting day and sleepless night, more sight-seeing and mood-feeling, pining for the missing hero and lost happiness, heightened apprehension, and then… nothing. And after following Emily for a frightful night with assassins surely ready to murder her, I almost broke into laughter the next moment when she went for a leisure walk by the sunny beach, under guard by the same frightful assassin, to once again indulge in beautiful scenery and pensive thoughts. By that time, I can no more dispel the suspicion that all the hinted mysteries will also eventually come to… nothing. Well, at least we tasted the mood.
On the other hand, with all the mysteries and villainy mounting to ridiculous romance, Radcliffe surprised this reader by revealing the painful realities of romantic love. It was a cruelly common love story. Valancourt was a cute, pseudo-spiritual, nature-hugging guy who makes a nice friend in fun hours but a terrible husband in critical times. Armed with the will of a bunny, he quickly degenerated in Emily’s absence, while she continued to think of him in bitter-sweet memory as her only hope during her hardships. I credit Radcliffe for the intentional irony of this, and also of the fact that Emily’s beloved father, whom Valancourt resembled, actually caused all of Emily’s miseries by his own weak judgment. Of course, he was the one who used to lecture Emily on fortitude. In the end, the novel sounds its lesson well: that it is best for a girl, whether in ancient or modern times, to search and realize her independent value rather than place all her hopes and worth on a man.
Udolpho is the kind of novel that frustrates the good-natured reader, in that whenever one recognizes a commendable strength, the joy was quickly smothered by a glaring flaw. And 500+ pages was too long a frustration to justify a long review.
