Triple-Decker Blogging, Volume I: The Inquisitor

If you were to ask which Victorian publishing house would have been most likely to bring out a Christian historical novel about the Reformation, Tinsley Brothers--now best known for publishing authors like Thomas Hardy and Mary Elizabeth Braddon--would probably not be in anybody's top ten.  Nevertheless, in 1870, the firm published William Gilbert's The Inquisitor; Or, the Struggle in Ferrara: A Historical Romance, which had been previously serialized in the Sunday Magazine.   Gilbert, the father of W. S. Gilbert, was strongly anti-Catholic, so the novel's subject matter is much less startling than the publisher's identity.  The Inquisitor follows the adventures of Capuchin friar-turned-Protestant reformer Bernardino Ochino (recently glimpsed on this very blog in Anne Manning's The Duchess of Trajetto), Renée de France (wife of Ercole II, the Duke of Ferrara), and the eponymous Inquisitor, Matthieu Ory (here called Matteo Oriz).  Like most of the other novels set during the Italian Reformation, this one owes a lot to Thomas M'Crie's History of the Progress and Suppression of the Reformation in Italy During the Sixteenth Century, which singles out the Italian response to the Inquisition as the most significant factor in Protestantism's implosion: "The ease with which it was introduced into Italy, shewed that, whatever illumination there was among the Italians, and how desirous soever they might be to share in those blessings which other nations had secured to themselves, they were destitute of that public spirit and energy of principle which were requisite to shake off the degrading yoke by which they were oppressed" (233).  Indeed, Gilbert's first volume establishes that the Protestants in Ferrara have already been successfully reduced to rare clandestine meetings, despite some sympathy from the more liberal Catholics in the region.

So far, unlike most controversial historical novels, The Inquisitor spends almost no time on staging doctrinal debates--although Ochino offers up a sermon and a prayer, the closest thing to a debate so far has involved Renée telling Oriz that, under the circumstances, she really can't be bothered to, well, have a debate.  Instead, it primarily concerns itself with the sociopolitical effects of Roman Catholicism, emphasizing in particular the Inquisition's international reach.  When the Duke hears Oriz's plans for the Duchess, as mandated by Henry II of France, his conflicted response is driven, in part, by his pride in Ferrara's political autonomy: "Still, the naturally proud feelings of a Prince of the house of Este revolted at the idea of any foreign powers, even those as influential as the King of France, or the Pope of Rome, interfering with the domestic affairs of his principality. And this feeling was further increased by the natural sentiment of manhood which prompted him to stand forward and defend his wife from the powerful conspiracy which he could easily perceive had been formed against her, much as he objected to the principles of the religion she had adopted" (I.183).  In the context of 1870s politics, the Duke's annoyance at this outside interference may indirectly allude to the ongoing unification of Italy; the conflict between familial and Roman Catholic obligations, however, is one of the most familiar tropes in anti-Catholic literature.  Besides separating from his wife on account of her religious obduracy, the Duke has forbidden her to discuss religion with her daughters.  As a result, "[t]enderly attached as they were, and happy in each other's society, that great bond of family love—unity of religious opinions—was utterly wanting" (I.147).  Not only does religious conflict undo the bonds of wife and husband, mother and child, but also domestic privacy itself is nowhere to be found: the Inquisitor's information-gathering service penetrates both Renée's letters and her household itself, exposing its innermost workings to the inquisitorial gaze.  Life in Ferrara is, for lack of a better term, entirely "public," readily accessed, analyzed, and cataloged by the local Dominicans.  (Where's Foucault when you need him?)

Genre-wise, Gilbert yokes the adventure tale and the romance to the Inquisition novel.  In volume one, most of the excitement comes from Ochino's stealthy entrances and exits in both Capuchin and secular garb.  (There's a brief deviation from standard-issue anti-Catholicism when the local Jesuit, who recognizes Ochino, pointedly informs him that he will have to tell the Duke about his presence the next day.  Ochino takes the hint and scarpers.)  Meanwhile, a young French Protestant lawyer attempts to woo the Protestant judge's daughter, Teresa, who is clearly, albeit not yet consciously, in danger from the Inquisition as well.  All of this is set against the background of the Inquisition's apparently irresistible and frequently undetectable presence, which turns Ferrara's independence into a farce: "'A power—that of the Inquisition —has been established in Ferrara, which overrules all laws but its own; a power which claims to carry with it its own absolution, sanctifying, as a service acceptable to God, acts which set all God's laws at defiance'"(I.50).  By the end of volume one, then, Gilbert establishes a series of irreconcilable conflicts between Roman Catholic power, manifested on local ground in the Inquisition, and domestic liberty (in both the political and familial senses).