'The Gadfly' by Ethel Lilian Voynich
This is 'the wildest nineteenth-century novel you've never heard of.'—Review #245
My newsletter-writing friends frequently tease me that I always seem to be reading an obscure book no one’s ever heard of. Well, this week’s novel, ‘The Gadfly’ by Ethel Lilian Voynich, may be the most obscure yet. And the way I found it proves that if you keep your eyes open, the universe will guide you to literature that’s truly dazzling.
Here’s the book’s cover:
Books on GIF subscribers voted for me to review of ‘The Gadfly’ in a previous newsletter where I recounted the serendipitous way the novel came into my hands. In case you missed it, I was browsing McNally Jackson’s Rockefeller Center location when I spotted a book that appeared to be mislaid. It had a translucent dust jacket with an image of a switchblade knife, but no discernible title. Through the jacket, I could see two blurbs—one about the book, the other about its indie publisher,
—and I made out a few words: ‘wildest,’ ‘mysterious,’ ‘Italy,’ ‘lady-radical’ and ‘BIG secret.’ On the back, I saw artwork depicting some weird medieval guys. I had never seen a book designed like this before. (I’d love to know your thoughts, .) Here’s a GIF for a better look:
Closer inspection of the cover blurbs revealed that Mandylion Press ‘unearths lost literary gems by women & weirdos in the (very) long nineteenth century.’ Then, I flipped the book open to find a stamp indicating the copy I held was 240 of 250. There also was an epigraph on the inside flap of the dust jacket that read, ‘I am not a man; I am a knife. If you let me live, you sanction knives.’ After seeing all this, despite being on a book-buying hiatus at the time, I was like:
‘The Gadfly’ is set during the Risorgimento, an era of nineteenth-century Italian history when the country that we know today didn’t exist. The peninsula is controlled by various factions, including Austria in the north and the Pope in the midsection. Revolutionary fervor is everywhere, stoked by secret societies that use underground publications and violence to oppose repressive forces foreign and domestic, and to push for Italian unification. Here we find a studious and deeply religious teenager named Arthur Burton, who’s living in Tuscany with his imperious step-family (his actual family’s origin is shrouded in mystery) and who is under the mentorship of a local priest, Montanelli. He’s also connected to young Italians and British ex-pats involved in seditious activities. Among them is Gemma, one of the few women in the scene who’s a bright, passionate and wise leader on the rise. Arthur has a huge crush on Gemma, and awkwardly tears at flower petals when they meet. He also has deep affection for the priest, who, in turn, dotes on the teen. Their relationship had me like:
But I can’t reveal that or a whole bunch of other twists and turns that happen at the beginning of the novel because it would ruin the surprising and riveting drama. But I can say this: After the opening section, the story jumps ahead more than a decade. Montanelli has been elevated to cardinal, and styles himself as a defender of peace and an advocate for social justice under a new, more progressive Pope. But political change in Rome hasn’t greatly altered the mission of Gemma and her revolutionaries. Even so, they are perplexed at how to advance their cause under the new paradigm. Should they continue to be aggressive activists pushing for progressive change? Or should they adopt a more centrist approach to avoid alienating potential allies? They end up hiring a mysterious man called ‘The Gadfly’ to write pamphlets and propaganda to troll their adversaries, particularly the Catholic Church. The Gadfly has seen a lot of action. He’s allegedly from South America, and he’s got a sword-slash scar across his face, is missing a few fingers and walks with a limp. The Gadfly becomes a prolific and popular provocateur, and we follow his journey for the rest of the book. The fates of Gemma, Montanelli, Arthur and The Gadfly become increasingly intertwined, and their propulsive journey includes intense personal conversations, spycraft, betrayals, traumatic humiliations, brutal secrets revealed, gun battles and daring prison escapes. There is so much excitement, and I want to tell you everything, but, again:
Ethel Lilian Voynich was born in 1864 in Ireland, according to a short bio included in the book, and married a Polish revolutionary/antiquarian book dealer, worked as a music teacher and translator in New York, had her ashes scattered in Central Park and had an asteroid named after her by the Soviet scientist who discovered it in 1970. ‘The Gadfly’ was originally published in 1897, but went out of print in the United States shortly thereafter, according to an introduction written by one of Mandylion Press’s cofounders. But the book had a second life in the Soviet Union and elsewhere, the intro says, perhaps because ‘the narrative is driven by an almost religious conviction that a better world is only a revolt away.’ Voynich was apparently unaware of this second-wave popularity until a Russian journalist found her in 1955 living in obscurity in New York (a story that echoed the experience of Jean Rhys). The introduction also offers insight into how Mandylion Press grappled with some of the thornier issues in the book, particularly the racist speech uttered by a main character. The backstory about Voynich, and the glimpse into the thinking behind both the original book and its resurrected form, had me like:
Even though ‘The Gadfly’ was written more than 125 years ago, it feels current and relevant. It highlights the destructive power of misunderstandings, secrets and lies, and it speaks to how hardline political differences can turn families and friends against each other. The book poses tough questions: Is unwavering devotion to an ideal worth the toll it takes on your relationships and on your soul? Is there a point where those differences can or should be put aside? If so, how do we know? And is it a sign of strength or of weakness if we find that point? I know many people may be struggling with anxiety and doubt around these questions as we face potentially uncomfortable Thanksgiving dinners:
‘The Gadfly’ is one of the most interesting, unpredictable and intense novels I’ve read all year. Voynich’s writing is clear and straightforward, and she tells a powerful, emotional and, yes, wild story that I couldn’t put down. I was often surprised by the choices the characters made and was deeply invested in their fates; the ending left me shaken and speechless. I’m so grateful the universe put ‘The Gadfly’ in my path. I hope it puts the book in your path, too. It is very hard to find right now—if you see a copy, grab it—but I hope more copies get into circulation soon. It’s a tremendous book that should be more widely read. I’m also grateful for finding Mandylion Press, and I look forward to seeing what gems they unearth next.
An opening excerpt:
Arthur sat in the library of the theological seminary at Pisa, looking through a pile of manuscript sermons. It was a hot evening in June, and the windows stood wide open, with the shutters half closed for coolness. The Father Director, Canon Montanelli, paused a moment in his writing to glance lovingly at the black head bent over the papers.
‘Can’t you find it, carino? Never mind, I must rewrite the passage. Possibly it has got torn up, and I have kept you all this time for nothing.’
Montanelli’s voice was rather low, but full and resonant, with a silvery purity of tone that gave to his speech a peculiar charm. It was the voice of a born orator, rich in possible modulations. When he spoke to Arthur its note was always that of a caress.
‘No, Padre, I must find it; I’m sure you put it here. You will never make it the same by rewriting.’
Montanelli went on with his work. A sleepy cockchafer hummed drowsily outside the window, and the long, melancholy call of a fruit seller echoed down the street: Fragola! Fragola!
‘On the Healing of the Leper; here it is.’ Arthur came across the room with the velvet tread that always exasperated the good folk at home. He was a slender little creature, more like an Italian in a sixteenth-century portrait than a middle-class English lad of the thirties. From the long eyebrows and sensitive mouth to the small hands and feet, everything about him was too much chiseled, overdelicate. Sitting still, he might have been taken for a very pretty girl masquerading in male attire; but when he moved, his lithe agility suggested a tame panther without the claws.
My rating:
‘The Gadfly’ by Ethel Lilian Voynich was originally published in 1897 by Henry Holt & Company and by Mandylion Press in 2024. 328 pages. $25 from Mandylion Press. Note: Their edition is currently sold out, but I understand Mandylion Press plans to do another print run in 2025. In the meantime, you also can find a copy from another publisher for $17.19 at Bookshop.org.
What’s next:
Before you go:
ICYMI: Review #244
Read this: I enjoyed
’s recent essay ‘On Culling My Books’ (subscription required), which is about paring back her book collection ahead of a big move. I particularly loved this sentence: ‘The shelves tell me about who I’ve been and who I want to be, and they tell me that I can be easily broken down into categories, and it strangely doesn’t feel like a bad thing: It feels clarifying.’ I’ve often felt this way when looking over my shelves for books to donate. Certain books can take me back to college days, or to earlier points in my career or to my aspirations to be a book reviewer. A bookshelf is a living record of our identity.Watch this: I can’t stop laughing at this Instagram reel! (HT
.)If you enjoyed this review:
Thanks for reading, and thanks especially to Donna for editing this newsletter!
Until next time, Donna and I wish you a:
MPV
Happy Thanksgiving to you and Donna and so glad you loved this book. Unlike everyone else in this thread, I am not tracking this down. It sounds too intense for me. I need easier reads right now.
Such a great review! I'm definitely chasing this one down.