“What is the use of vows? They are not what binds people. If you feel in a certain way about a thing, that binds you to it; if you don’t feel that way, nothing else can bind you.”
– Arthur Burton, The Gadfly

The Gadly and the revolutionary tradition

The Gadfly (1897)¹ is a novel about revolutionaries written by a revolutionary. Author Ethel Voynich was born in Ireland in 1864, worked for the Narodnik newspaper Free Russia, married a Polish revolutionary, and founded the English Society of Friends of Russian Freedom. Her experiences in these organizations are undoubtedly woven into this novel.

The Gadfly found great success in socialist countries in the 20th century. In China and in the USSR it entered the literary canon, selling millions of copies and inspiring dramatic adaptations, musicals and films.² It continues to inspire solidarity; China’s President Xi Jinping and Ireland’s Taoiseach Micheál Martin recently bonded over their shared memories of reading it in their formative years.³ But there’s something curious about this book: although it was written in English, the Anglosphere has largely forgotten it.⁴ On Goodreads, discussion of the novel is predominantly Iranian. It’s great to see art captivate the hearts of people from such different parts of the globe. But it makes me wonder, where does The Gadfly fit into the Western socialist literary canon of today?

It is not, technically, a socialist novel: the revolutionaries of The Gadfly fight for national liberation and political freedoms, but not socialism or economic rights. The story is set in the 1840s in territory controlled by Austria, and our protagonists work to establish an independent and unified republic of Italy. The book found popularity in countries that struggled for national liberation (China, USSR, Iran), while England and the United States—both countries Voynich called home—are instead colonizers. Of the Anglosphere, Ireland may be the exception that proves the rule: it fought for centuries for liberation from British rule, and it is one of the few English-speaking countries where the book has found similar cultural attachment.⁵

The book is not without flaws. First, there are some stylistic concerns: while the climax is tightly written, much of the novel meanders, and the secret of the Gadfly’s identity is prolonged long past a reasonable suspension of disbelief. Second, while the narrative revolves around the timeless dramas of surprise parentage, star-crossed lovers, secret identities and martyrdom, several passages have not stood the test of time. The novel’s hero bemoans having had to work for (or work side-by-side with) people of non-white races, repeatedly pointing to these experiences to demonstrate his degradation and suffering. The narrative doesn’t challenge him on this point; instead, he is ultimately elevated into a Christ-like martyr. Moreover, what would have made the novel radical when it was published is now taken for granted. Catholicism and theocracy—or, in the words of the Gadfly, “the mental disease called religion”—are not the big villains of the 21st century West. The book’s staunch insistence on women as capable revolutionaries seems obvious in a world that remembers Rosa Luxemburg, Nadezhda Krupskaya, Leila Khaled, and Assata Shakur.

On the other hand, as our comrades elsewhere in the world have discovered, The Gadfly tackles issues rarely found in literature, and executes them compellingly.

The Gadfly and the business of revolution

Voynich traces the development of her revolutionaries from their first curious explorations of radical reading groups, to operating a revolutionary newspaper that draws the ire of those in power, to early forays in militant action. As they respond to their changing conditions, Voynich’s characters fervently debate revolutionary tactics. Does vitriolic rhetoric excite the masses or put off possible converts? How should an organization pursue its revolutionary goals while ensuring security from infiltration or discovery? Should we limit ourselves to non-violent methods, or do militant attacks achieve results? These debates are portrayed with realism, almost certainly rooted in the experiences of Voynich and her comrades in Russia and England. I’ll explore one here, on the role of targeted violence.

Just five years after The Gadfly was published, Lenin’s What Is to Be Done? would take aim at political groups like the Socialist Revolutionaries—inheritors of the Narodniks, with which Voynich was affiliated—and the newspaper Svoboda who pushed for assassinations as part of their political programs. While recognizing the importance of underground organizing, Lenin polemicized against their wrongheaded insistence on the need for such stunts:

Svoboda advocates terror as a means of ’exciting’ the working class movement and of giving it ‘strong impetus’. It is difficult to imagine an argument that more thoroughly disproves itself. Are there not enough outrages committed in Russian life without special ’excitants’ having to be invented?⁶

The answer to the question Lenin poses in the title of his pamphlet was an “all-Russian political newspaper”, which he saw as the “most practical plan” for organizing disciplined political activity and carrying out “the principal thing” of “propaganda and agitation among all strata of the people.” Journalism is also the principal activity that unites the revolutionaries of The Gadfly⁷ and editorial decision-making and discussion of the reactions to their agitation fills many scenes.

Like the revolutionaries of Voynich and Lenin’s time, Gemma and the Gadfly debate the relative roles of propaganda versus violence for achieving political ends. The Gadfly, who is strongly implied to be behind several violent events, argues that “Knives are very useful in their way; but only when you have a good, organized propaganda behind them.” Gemma emphasizes propaganda over assassination; in her view, the task of the revolutionary is to not to scare the State into acquiescing to minor demands, but to reshape social relationships, and violence is corrosive towards this end:

If you look upon the work of the revolutionist as the mere wresting of certain definite concessions from the government, then the secret sect and the knife must seem to you the best weapons, for there is nothing else which all governments so dread. But if you think, as I do, that to force the government’s hand is not an end in itself, but only a means to an end, and that what we really need to reform is the relation between man and man, then you must go differently to work. Accustoming ignorant people to the sight of blood is not the way to raise the value they put on human life.

The roles of violence and propaganda for achieving revolutionary ends are still debated today. In the weeks after Elias Rodriguez assassinated two employees of the Israeli embassy in Washington DC and called for a free Palestine, revolutionary organizations argued how such spontaneous acts of consciousness should be interpreted and responded to. The Southern Coalition for Revolutionary Consciousness saw it as a symptom of the “organizational insufficiency” of the communist movement, and that the principal task is to “cultivate revolutionary class consciousness among the exploited masses”—that is, propaganda. The Red Clarion responded that “spontaneous acts [of violence] can heighten the struggle” provided that they are “guided by the organized party of the revolutionary proletariat,” and further that “the masses must be made ready to do violence.”⁸ The Gadfly—but not Gemma—would concur; he asks Gemma, “What do you think will happen when the revolution comes? Do you suppose the people won’t have to get accustomed to violence then?”

Voynich does not present these debates to teach her readers the business of revolution or push for a particular strategy; many debates have no clear winner. We could contrast her approach with the dialogues of The Iron Heel.⁹ Jack London’s socialist Übermensch Ernest Everhard rhetorically crushes foes ranging from academia to the bourgeoisie to teach the reader about the need for materialist philosophy and seizing the means of production. London’s writing is very fun, and these passages concisely but compellingly explain big concepts, like why merely breaking up monopolies is insufficient for tackling the consequences of capitalism.¹⁰ But London’s characters are largely stand-ins for political positions, not realistic portrayals of the sorts of people who hold them. Voynich’s characters are multi-faceted, and their debates reveal how their personalities and circumstances mediate their political positions and arguments. History is made by individuals, and none of us are immune to subjectivity.

The Gadfly and the emotional side of revolution

Voynich’s care in creating complex, sympathetic, revolutionary characters is what makes this novel stand out. Her characters face emotional challenges particular to radical organizing that rarely make their way into literary works. The Gadfly simmers with jealousy that his love interest likes another man’s writing. He later faces his execution with bravery, staying true to his principles to the end.¹¹ Gemma struggles with overcoming her guilt at abandoning a comrade she incorrectly surmised had ratted out their party, steeling herself with her duty to the cause to get through the pain.¹²

The Gadfly has real flaws, ones that threaten the success of his party’s plans and that often render him unlikeable, or even cringey—a rare trait in a protagonist.¹³ Beneath his swash-buckling bravado and despite his flourishing successes, the Gadfly is a confused, unconfident, and spiteful man. In pursuing his personal vendetta against Cardinal Montanelli, the Gadfly puts his organization and his comrades’ lives at risk. A revolutionary’s motivation will always have a personal element; humans are emotional and social creatures. But for the Gadfly, the struggle ceases to be about the system, and instead becomes his fight against an officer of it.

The enemies of the revolution are also believable humans, and recognizable in our foes of today: Montanelli is saintly and caring, and twists himself into knots to try to absolve himself of his complicity in the violent and oppressive Austrian state.¹⁴ While the Governor tortures the captured Gadfly, the narrative emphasizes his humanity and his regret for his complicity in the system, without exonerating him.¹⁵ Even the State’s foot soldiers are shown to be thinking, empathetic people who develop their own opinions about the injustice of the Gadfly’s treatment.

The Gadfly and the socialist literary canon

So where does The Gadfly land in the western socialist canon? I opened by describing the novel as one about revolutionaries, which we could contrast with books about revolution. Returning again to The Iron Heel, Jack London argues for the necessity of socialist revolution to solve the ills of capitalism, and vividly portrays a climactic clash of the masses versus the bourgeois state. Upton Sinclair’s The Jungle documents the oppression and misery of meat factory workers, and also presents socialism as the solution.¹⁶ R.F. Kuang’s Babel, or the Necessity of Violence uses a fantastical magic system to show how capitalism is inextricably linked with imperialism; her protagonists seize the means of production, posing a real threat to the imperial system.¹⁷

The Gadfly does not feature a revolution. Or at least, it does not give us a big, climactic clash that threatens to tear down the oppressive, decaying system. Instead, it details all the small but essential tasks that go into the making of a revolution: writing propaganda and polemics, a couple skirmishes with the law, and so on. The Gadfly spends scant time building a compelling case for the necessity of revolution. The plight of the masses features very little in the novel, and the occupying Austrian forces are only briefly and rarely mentioned. Instead, oppression appears primarily through how the theocracy restricts our protagonists: censorship, unfair trials, and brutal punishment. The Gadfly builds a case for liberal political rights like freedom of speech, rather than the economic rights like food and shelter typically emphasized by socialist movements.

Instead, the emotional impulse for bringing about a revolution is deeply personal. The Gadfly is betrayed twice over by priests violating the most foundational tenets of Catholicism. His thirst for vengeance drives his decision-making throughout the novel, and his contradictory feelings of anger and love lead to his tragic end. The climax of the novel is similarly personal: it takes the form of a philosophical debate about faith and morality, but one that tests the limits of personal convictions and the love between the Gadfly and a father figure.

While The Gadfly is not socialist in its political platform, it vividly portrays the interior lives of its flawed revolutionaries. Revolutions are not made by abstract ideas or inevitable historical forces, but by people with complex inner worlds, driven by love, resentment, hatred and hope. Despite its titular character’s tragic ending, The Gadfly is also genuinely optimistic about the possibility of revolution. In this, it stands apart from novels like The Iron Heel and Babel, which, for all their criticism of capitalism and imperialism, struggle to imagine a clear path forward beyond their failed climactic clashes. It may be precisely this faith in the possibility of revolution that has contributed to the novel’s marginalization in the Anglosphere. Recovering The Gadfly from its relative obscurity, we find a work that complements more overtly ideological texts in the socialist canon: an account of the emotional challenges and labour of revolution-making.

Last modified on 2026-02-11