Perceptions of Heroes and Villains in European Literature

It is tempting to classify literary, cinematic, and historical characters into groups. The trouble of course, is that such labels can be misleading at best, and severely subjective and variable. When using terms such as hero, villain, anti-hero, anti-villain, or adventurer, it is important to remember how vague and movable the borders really are, and to ask why a certain label is or should be placed on a specific character. It is never enough to simply classify a character or a person. One must take into consideration what the creator of this character had in mind, what circumstances affected this person’s actions, what culture or society this person came from, what his or her own beliefs or intentions may be, and finally, how our own principles, prejudices, and associations may influence our perceptions.

One of the harshest fates that can be allotted to a historical figure is misinterpretation through both historical and literary sources, especially if such sources manage to excite public interest and admiration. Two excellent examples of this principle are Richard II and Richard III. Both deposed and killed, and both destined to be used as subjects in the plays of William Shakespeare, these two kings have suffered much from misinterpretation.

Richard II has been branded as a weak-natured tyrant who betrayed his family and practically ruined England by his extravagance. He was far from modest, but he was hardly a villain in the classical sense of the term. Crowned at the age of eleven, Richard hardly had time to establish his reputation before it was methodically mangled by his own uncles, who felt cheated by his coronation. He was raised in a stifling atmosphere thick with intrigue and murder threats, in which his uncle John of Gaunt (the “time-honored Lancaster” of Shakespeare’s play) was one of his biggest problems. Richard’s confiscation of the Lancastrian estates after John of Gaunt’s death was a gesture of self-defense rather than of idle greed. His fears were more than justified when he was deposed and probably murdered by John of Gaunt’s son, the future Henry IV. The beauty of Shakespeare’s play, as well as the effects of propaganda both before and after Richard’s death have all but eliminated his chances of ever being assessed fairly for his intellect, his refined taste, and his fascinating personality, rather than his family squabbles.

Richard III suffered an even harsher fate at Shakespeare’s hands. He is now the anti-Christ, the epitome of villainy. Shakespeare has created a villain so fascinating, twisted, malicious, and irresistible, that hardly anyone even wants to know what he was really like. As in the case of Richard II, he who wins has the last word. After the Battle of Bosworth, Tudor sources overflowed with the most outrageous descriptions and accusations of Richard, ultimately turning him into a hideous monster who destroyed his entire family out of sheer malice. Shakespeare immortalized this vision through the medium of his play, giving life to the myth. Few of the people who read and enjoy Shakespeare’s play ever learn that Richard was a talented administrator, with neither a hump nor a club foot, who also happened to be a caring family man and a loyal brother. Both men overcame enormous obstacles in their lives and did many noble and productive things. Richard II transformed every aspect of English culture, from cookery to fashion, and enthusiastically supported Chaucer. Richard III united his war –torn country and helped end the Wars of the Roses long before Henry Tudor claimed that honour for himself. Are these men heroes or villains, and is it really fair to judge at all? But if we are going to be judgmental, why not form our opinions for ourselves before letting someone else feed them to us?

Some historical figures though not technically vilified by history may take a new and interesting turn for the worst through faulty identification. The infamous figure of Napoleon Bonaparte has influenced an unlimited number of books, films, and people. People want to understand Napoleon, to compete with Napoleon, and most of all – to be Napoleon. His incredible political and social rise through his own talents and ambition has made him an almost mythic figure. The trouble is, that many are inspired for all the wrong reasons, and abuse his name to cover their own odd fantasies and egomaniacal schemes. Identification with Napoleon has been used to justify tyranny, deception, treason, treachery, insanity, even murder. Poor Napoleon who never had half of the thoughts or intentions ascribed to him by his ardent disciples would have cringed at the horrid things they did in his name. He may have been no saint, but he was definitely not Raskolnikov from Fyodor Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment. Raskolnikov randomly sets out to murder a helpless old woman, just to see if he can. He seems to feel that the success of this type of experiment will give him superiority over mankind, as if lack of a conscience somehow makes him a stronger and more efficient human being. He seems to be under the illusion that Napoleon was able to achieve what he did because he did possess this laudable trait. He neglects to note that Napoleon had very clear goals and purposes that he fought for, and that killing in battle for a cause, is vastly different from the idle murder of an unarmed opponent. It is not surprising that this act gives Raskolnikov neither the unlimited power, nor the satisfaction that he imagined. Unfortunately, he is not the first or the last to deliberately misinterpret Napoleon to fit his own desires, and this usage does Napoleon’s public image no favours.

An interesting contrast to Raskolnikov is the character of Marcello from Alberto Moravia’s The Conformist. Where Raskolnikov is ready to kill to prove that he is special, Marcello goes to the same lengths to prove the opposite. He is obsessed with being the same as everybody else. He is constantly torn between his violent, subconscious urges, and a desperate desire to be “normal”. He draws his conception of what is “normal” from observing the surface appearances and attitudes of those around him. He generalizes what he sees, almost denying the potential for individuality. When he is faced with the necessity to deal with people on an individual basis, he cringes in horror and disgust. He wants to be just like “everyone”, but not like any of the specific people he sees. He is terrified of being unique on any level, and he fears his own bloodthirstiness, not for its own sake, but because he is unable to identify the same types of instincts in anyone he knows.

If these are villains, what constitutes a hero? If a hero is defined merely as someone who sacrifices himself for the good of others (at least up to a certain point), there are many “heroes” that hardly stand up to scrutiny. Just because someone does good to others doesn’t mean he/she gets nothing from it for him/herself. In fact one may bring an enormous amount of benefit to someone without sacrificing oneself at all. Does that make them any less of a hero? Also, just because a person is defined as hero, either in the context of a literary work, or through historical interpretation, doesn’t mean that on closer inspection they may not prove to be controversial at best. The interpretation of the reader is bound to color every aspect of the work itself.

Just as historical figures can be vilified unjustly through literature, they can also be elevated to a position they do not deserve. In William Shakespeare’s Richard II and Richard III, the “heroes” Henry IV and Henry VII, are shown as liberators, freeing England from oppression, tyranny, and discord. Regardless of how bland these actual characters are in the plays (Shakespeare himself was evidently more interested in the “villains”), they are meant to be admired for what they’ve done for England. What have they done? By destroying the direct line of succession, Henry IV sparked a centuries-long civil conflict, which all but annihilated every descendant of Edward III within eighty-six years. As aptly noted by the Bishop of Carlisle in Act IV of Richard II, “…Disorder, horror, fear, and mutiny/ Shall here inhabit, and this land be called/ The field of Golgotha and dead men’s skulls”. Now, who wouldn’t want to be rescued from tyranny that way? Henry VII virtuously united England by killing Richard III – the last legitimate heir to the throne. He also took care to destroy all of Richard’s illegitimate children, as well as his nephews (the children of George, Duke of Clarence, and Richard’s sisters). Wholesale slaughter of potential heirs to the throne – doesn’t that sound just like the popular image of Richard III? These two heroes certainly left quite a trail of “dead men’s skulls” in their wake.

It seems like a heroic thing to do, when a woman sacrifices her own pride and integrity to fight the prejudices of society and support herself and her impoverished sister. In fact, in Wilkie Collins’s novel No Name, Magdalen Vanstone is presented by the author as a self-sacrificing heroic figure. The revelation of an awful secret casts the youthful Magdalen and her sweet but helpless sister, Norah into the street after their parents’ untimely demise. It is discovered that the Vanstone daughters are illegitimate – an awful position for Victorian-era England. As they are entitled to none of their parents’ money, it passes to their father’s estranged brother, who refuses to help the two desolate girls. Magdalen’s unscrupulous and tireless efforts to reclaim her father’s fortune by any means would seem like an almost noble quest, considering her position. Wilkie Collins himself is full of admiration for his character’s ability to defy the restrictions of society and break down all social barriers to save her sister and herself from poverty. But do the ends justify the means? As various relatives meet their deaths and the money is passed on from person to person, Magdalen follows it in a number of guises intriguing against each person the money comes to. The original thought may have been noble. Seducing her ill and romantically inexperienced cousin, Noel, and marrying him under an assumed name is not. She uses all of his weakness against him, deliberately neglects his frail health, mercilessly exploits his love for her to get him to sign a will in her name, and finally drives him to his death at the age of thirty – hardly the actions of a heroine. A case could be made for seeing her as an adventurer, but she doesn’t gain any enjoyment from her journey, and there is no venturesome thrill in her actions. Throughout the novel she wallows in self-pity, seeing herself as a tragic figure abused by fate and society. She never stops to think of the people whose skulls she crushes beneath her feet as she defends her lost rights. Any means at her disposal are acceptable if they can defeat her enemies – even enemies who have no idea she is fighting them. An adventurer need not have impenetrable moral principles, but at least some moral boundaries are expected. Pitilessly destroying an opponent who doesn’t fight back is one of those boundaries.