‘Ferrandino’ the Sequel to Rinaldo Rinaldini – Review.

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It took me ages to find an English translation of the sequel to ‘Rinaldo Rinaldini Captain of Bandetti’ by Christian August Vulpius. In fact, it wasn’t me who finally tracked it down; it was an obliging colleague on Goodreads, who directed me to the site where it can be downloaded google books

The problem with sequels is often that however much readers who love the first in the series may request one, they are not always a good idea. If some of the main conflicts have been resolved, then colflict has to be introduced artificially.

In this,in fact, Rinaldo Rinaldini’s problem in the first two volumes – how to abandon being a robber captain and lead a good life when his past keeps on catching up with him -has not been resolved.

In the original version, he was stabbed to death by his menor, the Old Man of Fronteja.  Vulpius brought him back to life to satisfy public demand, rather like Conan Doyle with Sherlock Holmes.

I read the first two volumes of the novel back in 2013, when I was writing my own robber novel ‘Ravensdale’.

I loved the first book in this series, wholly tacky and gothic as it was in tone. Vulpius strives to reproduce that  blood and thunder effect here, but does not qute come up to it. Grotesque features, such as Rinaldini’s adoring voluntary servant Rosalia’s body being preserved by the Old Man as a skeleton are added, true. Yet, they seem to have been included in the plot in an atempt to capture some of the gothic excitement of the first volume rather than as a necessary part of the story.

maxresdefaultThese skeletal remains of poor Rosalia are in defiance of the rules of time. It is mentioned that the equally devoted Countess, Dianora, has an infant by Rinaldini. From this we may assume that little more than a a couple of years have passed since the events in the last volume, where the unlucky Rosalia died not long before Rinaldini was attacked by the Old Man, to save him from the disgraceof being taken as a robber. Yet we are are asked to believe that her body has decomposed to the extent of being reduced to bones. That is, unless the Old Man has reduced it to this form by some magical process.

There are some more independent women in this novel, besides adoring ones like Dianora. There are a couple of ‘man haters’ who dwell in a castle where Rinaldini stays, and they expose him as the dreaded brigand in a splendidly dramatic ending to one chapter, where he is offered the services of a dancer who has entertained the company:

‘Ferrdanino looked at the girl in silence. She smiled and cast her eyes on the ground. At this moment, the Countess entered the hall, and enquired: “What is the matter here?”
Ferrandino replied ernsetly, “I have engaged this maiden.” The Countess laughed aloud, and said in an undertone, “Whither?”
Ferrnadino without confusion, and very dryly, replied; “To my companions and fellow travellers.”
“Indeed! My cousin must know that.”
The cousin came, and the Countess told her laughing, of Ferrandino’s intention- the cousin turned to the dancer, and said, “You will go with this man?”
“Why not?” replied the other, with great naivite.
“You do not know who he is.”
“Do you then know?” asked Ferrandino, quickly.
“O yes!” replied the cousin, in the same tone.
Ferrandino looked round him in astonishment- the women laughed aloud. The musicians and the dancer left the hall. The cousin took the dancer by the hand, led her to Ferrandino, and said, “There is the bride – Take her to your den.”
Ferrandino stared at her, and would have asked her meaning, when she held a minature before his eyes.He cast a look at it, and trembling violently, started a few steps back.
“Have you,” said the cousin, “read the writing beneath this portrait? – It is the likeness of RINALDO RINALDINI THE ROBBER CHIEF!”

Then, another woman, Serena,who met Rinaldini and fell for him in the earlier novel, jeers at his faithlessness, which was depicted without comment in the first volume:
‘I cannot desire that you should love me better than you have loved the dearest of your mistresses, Aurelia, Rosalia, Olympia, Dianora, Ersilie, and who knows how many more, as you would and will love, even Serafina. You love very inconstantly. Like as the moon loves the earth, sometimes not at all, generally half, and only on a few days with full adhesion.’

41ZYpCCMnoL._AA160_To be fair to Rinaldini, though he has some sort of compulsion to be promiscuous, he does seem to genuinely fall in love with all of these women in turn, and often at the same time.

Oddly enough, we are informed that he at one point writes to Aurelia, whom he never did manage to win after his abduction attempt failed. She unaccountably turned up to be present at the dramatic stabbing in the last volume. We are never told what her connection was with the Old Man. I may have missed something here. I am far from sure that there wasn’t a connection between her uncle and guardian and the Old Man.

Rinaldo looking poshAnyway, Rinaldini somehow has her address.

Sadly, Rinaldini’s devoted henchman Ludovico, one of my favourtie characters, is killed off in this volume, fighting to liberate some oppressed people, a cause which Rinaldini undertakes and at which he is defeated.

My own edition of the first volumes has Rinaldini die at the age of sixty, fighting in the American War of Independence: this is, of course, and amended ending from the original. Oddly enough, an expert on Vulpius writing on  JSTOR mentions that Rinaldini is killed fighting in the battle to liberate the Haiduks along with his henchaman, and I am confused about this.  Whether in fact, this is Rinaldini’s end in the original novel is a possible explanation.  The one available on Goodle Book is obviously a later edition, and perhaps Vulpius once again gave his hero a exculpatory ending which he later reversed.

The story ends inconclusively regarding Rinaldini’s love life – we don’t know if he went back to the devoted Dianora, though we do know that the Old Man , who turns out to be a Prince, reveals that he is Rinaldini’s father. He arranges things so that Rinaldini can drop his old identity as a wanted man.  As he is now the son of a prince rather than a low born robber chief, we may assume he can wed whom he wishes.

I found that a shame. I preferred him as a goat herd made bad….

Some Popular Victorian Reading: ‘Jack Sheppard: A Romance ‘ by Harrison Ainsworth.

CRIME/JACK SHEPPARD

These last few days, I have been reading Harrison Ainsworth’s ‘Jack Sheppard.’  I knew little about this writer before, save that he wrote sensationalist literature at about the same time as Charles Dickens, including a novel called ‘Rookswood’ which reputedly featured a highly glamorised version of Dick Turpin.

It seems that he was at one time massively popular with the Victorian reading public for his ‘neck and axe’ adventure novels. ‘Jack Sheppard’ was his third novel, and ran concurrently in serialised form in one of the Victorian literary magazines, ‘Bentley’s Miscellany’, with Charles Dickens’ ‘ ‘Oliver Twist’.  It seemed that there was a controversy between the two men over the subject of ‘Newgate Novels’. Though Dickens left the magazine as a result, he was the eventual victor, for while the public greedily devoured Ainsworth’s melodramatic blood-and-thunder novels, he was despised by critics, and never came to equal Dicken’s stature as a writer. His fame barely outlasted his lifetime. These days he is largely forgotten.

One critic even wrote of him: ‘ Let us start with an opinion fearlessly expressed as it is earnestly felt, that the existence of this writer is an event to be deplored.’  I think this criticism is undeservedly harsh, though of course, this was written around 1875, before Charles Garvice’s romantic melodramas showed critics what successful bad writing truly is.

I can see from the half of the novel that I have read so far that Ainsworth’s prose is often turgid, and he has a passion for the lurid and melodramatic. However, in an age when novels moved along at a snail’s pace, his tales are comparatively eventful and fast moving: I found it difficult as a modern reader not to find this a great relief. His stories are gripping and the action is vividly portrayed.  While Thackeray and Dickens wished to stimalate thought, and often, indignation in the reader, Ainsworth is obviously less out to point a moral than to give the reader an exciting tale.

Not only that, but if Ainsworth’s prose is turgid, his research immediately struck me as impressive. I know how exacting and time consuming research can be, even with the internet to hand. Ainsworth knew all about the topography of  London, the sort of buildings extant in 1703 in  The Mint, the ‘rookery’ where Jack Sheppard was born, and the architecture of the first London Bridge. He could depict the dress and manners of all classes of society in that era, and also, bring to life the famous (or infamous) characters who featured in Jack Sheppard’s tragic history; for instance, the dreaded informer and thief catcher Jonathon Wilde, and the ruffianly Bueskin.

This industrious research is not a quality one associates these days with a poor to mediocre author, and it is intriguing that while Harrison Ainsworth acquired a name as a purveyor of sensationalist tales that tickled popular taste in the Victorian era, Dickens – whose writing also has very strong senstationalist themes – is seen as the writer of a grander form of literature, the ‘social protest novel’.

Well, I promise I won’t rant here about the lurid popular view of the French Revolution, all rolling heads and snapping guillotines, that began with Dickens.

Certainly,  it is true that Dickens was the writer of the Victorian age who set to work to expose social injustice, who attacked hypocrisy and who had a wonderful sense of the ludicrous.

Still, Dicken’s writing also comes with a great supply of  faults – for instance, the infamous sentimentality and male and female leads so dull I wonder that he could bear to  write about them at all.

And I have to say that if you compare Ainsworth’s style with that of various other generally far more respected writers – and the earlier Samuel Richardson and Fanny Burney immediately comes to mind – this novel at least comes out as a good deal less lurid and improbable.

Of course, the tragically short life of the anti-hero  of the story, the eponymous Jack Sheppard, in itself reads like something made up by a writer of ‘Penny Dreadfuls’.  A renegade London apprentice carpenter turned thief, he soon became famous – or infamous, depending on the point of view – for his escapes from prison.

His career was short but brief, for he made an enemy of the hated thief taker and informer Jonathan Wild, who schemed to destroy anyone who would not work for him.

At last chained to the stone flooring of his cell, the young man managed to escape again, but was captured when blind drunk.  In gaol in chains and a secure inner cell, he was painted by the king’s painter James Thornhill. The gaolers charged high society figures four shillings a time to view him. There were petitions for leniancy from various well known figures, but these were rejected.

Stealing a sum valued at above five shillings in those days meant a death sentence.  Jack Sheppard was offered a reduced sentence if he informed on his associates, but refused, and huge, admiring crowds turned out to follow the procession to Tyburn on 15 November 1724.

He had planned to cut himself down from the gallows with a penknife, but unluckily the guard found it.   Failing that, he had hoped to be revived following his official death by the gruesome process of hanging by a short drop, and perhaps that is why the crowd did not surge forward to give him a quick death by swinging on his legs, or perhaps the platform was too well guarded for this to be possible. His slow death is not mentioned in the novel, but is in other accounts, and makes a grim end to a likable villain. However, there seems to be some disagreement as to whether or not people who are being hanged are conscious after about twenty seconds, as they usually die of strangling (cutting off the blood to the brain) rather than oxygen strvation (cutting off blood to the lungs) although the body still makes spasmodic movements until brain death, so hopefully he did not suffer as much as the crowd imagined.

To our own age, to hang a man of of such obvious talents and wit at the age of 22 seems an absurd waste.

Harrison Ainsworth, writing 120  years after Jack Sheppard’s death, was hardly the first to recount the dramatic story of his life. Within weeks of his hanging a pantomime was performed about him, and he influenced the depiction of Macheath in  John Gay’s ‘The Beggars’ Opera’ and other dramas.

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I knew well enough that the eighteenth century was a brutal and violent age, but even so, the amount of beatings that this anti-hero endures in the course of one day at the grand old age of twelve is astounding. He is beaten for idling by the master carpenter to whom he is apprenticed, knocked down by the master’s stepson Thames for saying he wants a kiss from that master’s daughter, then slapped in the face by the girl herself (whom he is inclined to worship, as he does Thames himself), slapped much harder by the master’s wife, who resents his being in the house at all, and finally beaten by the constables in Wild’s pay. However, he is still apparently not too stiff to be able to break free from custody.

Such treatment would surely be enough to make a rebel out of anyone, even in an age when thrashings were the general form of chastisment, and in the story it is the slap in the face from his master’s wife which finally tips the balance and makes Jack decide on a life of crime.

Whether this depiction of so much corporal punishment in a day is a matter of sloppy editing on Ainsworth’s part, or was put in by him to indicate the harshness of life among the London poor, it certainly makes the latter point vividly.

Here are a couple of  typical samples of Ainsworth’s writing in ‘Jack Sheppard’, showing both his excellent background information and his lively style.

Here is Jack making his first prison break:

‘As Jack concluded his ditty, the door flew open with a crash, and Thames sprang through the aperture. This manoeuvre was so suddenly executed that it took Abraham completely by surprise. He was standing at the moment close to the hatch, with his ear at the keyhole, and received a severe blow in the face. He staggered back a few paces; and, before he could recover himself, Thames tripped up his heels, and, placing the point of the spike at his throat, threatened to stab him if he attempted to stir, or cry out. Nor had Jack been idle all this time. Clearing the recess the instant after his companion, he flew to the door of the he flew to the door of the inner room, and, locking it, took out the key. The policy of this step was immediately apparent. Alarmed by the noise of the scuffle, Quilt and Sharples rushed to the assistance of their comrade. But they were too late. The entrance was barred against them; and they had the additional mortification of hearing Sheppard’s loud laughter at their discomfiture. “I told you the prison wasn’t built that could hold me,” cried Jack.’

And here is a depiction of his mother’s house:

‘The room in which this interview took place had a sordid and miserable look. Rotten, and covered with a thick coat of dirt, the boards of the floor presented a very insecure footing; the bare walls were scored all over with grotesque designs, the chief of which represented the punishment of Nebuchadnezzar. The rest were hieroglyphic characters, executed in red chalk and charcoal. The ceiling had, in many places, given way; the laths had been removed; and, where any plaster remained, it was either mapped and blistered with damps, or festooned withdusty cobwebs. Over an old crazy bedstead was thrown a squalid, patchwork counterpane…’

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Whatever the criticisms that the critics may have levelled at Ainsworth, he tells an engaging story, and I am puzzled that this book has disappeared so completely from view. In that, of course, it shares the fate of another robber novel,  Christian Auguste Vulpius’ ‘Rinaldo Rinaldini’ (1798).