Trigger Warnings: abuse, homophobia, racism, alcohol, some violence, mentions of suicide.
I devoured The Gentleman’s Guide to Vice and Virtue in a single sitting, a feat made easier by a lengthy road trip. To be unequivocally clear, I genuinely enjoyed this book. The narrative was engaging, the romantic subplot was appealing, and the premise itself was strong. However, several elements prevented me from wholeheartedly embracing it as a favorite.
The plot is undeniably one of the book’s strengths. It unfolds at a rapid pace, brimming with mischief and adventure. The budding romance and the inclusive LGBTQ+ representation are definite highlights. The central concept of Henry “Monty” Montague embarking on a Grand Tour of Europe alongside his best friend and secret crush, Percy, and his sharp-witted younger sister, Felicity, is inherently appealing.
However, the storyline progressively veers into the realm of implausibility. It escalates into a series of increasingly fantastical and outlandish events. While the initial premise of a Grand Tour is grounded in historical context, the subsequent developments – being pursued across kingdoms, captured by pirates, and stumbling upon an alchemical invention – feel excessively exaggerated. While fiction allows for creative license, these plot points stretch the boundaries of believability.
“Oh no.” Percy glances sideways at me, a hint of apprehension in his eyes. “Oh no what?” I swallow, attempting nonchalance. “I’d first like it to be formally noted for the record that I am most assuredly not a smuggler.” “Monty…” Percy says, my name heavy with a sense of foreboding. “And,” I continue, overriding his impending protest, “I’d like you both to take a moment to remember just how deeply you adore me and contemplate the sheer dullness and utter gloom your lives would descend into without my vibrant presence.” “What exactly did you do, Monty?” Felicity asks, her voice laced with a mixture of exasperation and morbid curiosity.
Adding to the sense of disconnect is the writing style. Set in the 1700s, I anticipated a more historically resonant prose and dialogue. Yet, Monty and Percy often speak and behave as if they were plucked straight from the 2010s. It’s primarily Felicity and the societal constraints she faces as a woman that serve as consistent reminders of the Baroque era setting.
“Do you even begin to comprehend the utter injustice of watching my brother, who was summarily expelled from the finest boarding school in England, be rewarded with a grand tour of the Continent, while I remain confined, forbidden from pursuing the same academic pursuits, denied access to the same literary works, and even restricted from visiting the same locations while we are abroad, simply by virtue of the unfortunate circumstance of my birth as a girl?”
The writing also carries a distinctly British flavor, reminiscent of the style found in the Harry Potter series. However, the pervasive use of words like “bloody” feels somewhat excessive. While it establishes Monty’s London origins, its constant repetition becomes distracting. Furthermore, the choice of stronger profanities feels anachronistic. Considering the rigid social hierarchies of the 18th century, Monty’s casual use of such language seems incongruous with the expected decorum of a gentleman, even a rebellious one. Were there no more colorful or period-appropriate expletives available?
This issue extends to the setting as well. It was challenging to fully immerse myself in the 1700s. The slang, the narrative voice, the descriptive passages – all leaned towards a contemporary sensibility. Where were the characteristic interjections and elaborate metaphors of the 18th century? Where were the voluminous ballgowns and a stronger commitment to historical accuracy in the finer details?
The 18th-century atmosphere felt diluted. During a ball at Versailles, Monty’s description of the nobles as (paraphrased) “wearing ridiculous panniers and foolishly constructed wigs, in a poor imitation of French style” struck a jarring note. French nobles at Versailles would be at the apex of fashion; their attire would hardly be considered “ridiculous” or “a mockery.” This description feels more like a modern observer’s cynical take on historical dress rather than an authentic reflection of the period’s aesthetic sensibilities.
Adding to the somewhat jarring moments, there’s a lengthy passage where Monty fixates on the difficulties of undressing a woman he desires after a ball. This felt out of place and contributed to the sense of disconnect with the historical setting. Firstly, the level of detail felt gratuitous. Secondly, it overlooks the practicalities of 18th-century attire. Noblewomen’s elaborate gowns, with their layers of corsets, petticoats, and hoops, were designed to be put on and taken off with the assistance of servants. Monty’s frustration at navigating these complexities while attempting intimacy seems to miss the point entirely. It inadvertently highlights a modern, privileged male perspective complaining about the very structures of formality and class that defined the era.
A recurring pattern emerges throughout the book: Monty, a privileged young Englishman, frequently dwells on his personal inconveniences without acknowledging the broader context or the experiences of others. When his sister, Felicity, articulates her aspirations to become a doctor and confronts him with the systemic prejudice she faces as a woman in academia, met with dismissiveness because “no one wants an academic girl,” Monty’s response further underscores his self-absorption.
“Just contemplating all that blood.” I recoil slightly, a theatrical shudder running through me. “Doesn’t the sheer volume of it make you a tad squeamish?” “Ladies,” she retorts, her tone laced with dry irony, “haven’t the luxury of indulging in squeamishness when it comes to blood,” and both Percy and I find ourselves flushing crimson in unison, belatedly recognizing the depth of her statement.
This is not to suggest that Monty’s struggles are insignificant. As a wealthy Englishman in the 1700s grappling with bisexuality (or perhaps homoflexibility, given his pronounced preference for men, particularly Percy), he faces considerable societal pressures. The pervasive homophobia of the era, exemplified by his abusive and homophobic father and the broader societal prejudice, presents genuine challenges.
“Oh yes, a sodomite, am I? Well, I have been with lads, so… yes, I suppose that designation applies.” She purses her lips, a disapproving frown etching itself onto her face, and I instantly regret my candor. “If you were to simply cease this behavior, Father might not be so…rough in his corrections, you know.” “Oh my, thank you for that earth-shattering wisdom, Aunt. I am utterly astounded I hadn’t conceived of such a brilliantly simple solution myself.”
Yet, Monty’s portrayal as deeply closeted feels somewhat at odds with his actions. He demonstrates a surprising degree of openness about his attraction to men, especially considering the historical context. Despite societal disapproval and attempts to curtail his same-sex encounters, he seems to largely disregard these restrictions and pursue his desires.
This doesn’t diminish the severity of societal homophobia, but it does lessen the impact of the “closeted” narrative thread in Monty’s character arc. The book sets up an expectation of profound societal restraint and stifling expectations, which doesn’t fully materialize in Monty’s behavior. One might argue that even today, individuals face harsher restrictions and societal judgment regarding their sexuality, highlighting a potential disconnect between the historical setting and the character’s actions.
“Have you ever…?” “Have I ever what, Monty?” “Ever fancied someone? Romantically, I mean.” “Oh. Well, yes, I suppose I have.” “Girls?” “Yes, certainly.” “Lads?” “Also yes, as it happens.”
The book also gestures towards a mental health message, although its execution is somewhat underdeveloped. The narrative touches upon themes of healing and self-worth, offering a glimpse into trauma representation and the importance of recognizing one’s inherent value. This aspect, while present, could have been explored with greater depth and nuance.
The romance between Monty and Percy is undeniably charming. It avoids excessive reliance on tired tropes and unfolds with a reasonable degree of development. However, it also feels somewhat artificially drawn out. Nearly every moment of connection between them is swiftly followed by separation or conflict. While this is presumably intended to heighten the tension leading up to their eventual union, its repetitive nature becomes tiresome. It feels less like natural relationship development and more like a contrived push-and-pull, hindering the organic progression of their connection. They are meant to have romantic tension, not be perpetually caught in a cycle of almost-but-not-quite moments.
Despite these manufactured obstacles, their relationship is undeniably endearing. Monty’s obliviousness to Percy’s affections strains credulity. Their dynamic often resembles a modern, slightly exaggerated portrayal of close male friendship, complete with playful physical contact and constant banter. Yet, when romantic tension surfaces, it’s palpable. Percy’s frequent casual touches and their constant interplay of flirtation and bickering clearly indicate a deeper connection.
“A subtle shift in the gravitational force between us, almost imperceptible yet profoundly impactful, and suddenly all the constellations within my personal universe are thrown into disarray, planets careen from their established orbits, and I am left adrift, utterly disoriented, without any celestial map or navigational heading, lost in the bewildering and uncharted territory of being irrevocably in love with my dearest friend.”
This leads to a central issue with the book: Monty himself. He is presented as a sassy, devil-may-care bisexual icon. While he embodies some of these traits, much of his “sass” manifests as an inability to control his temper and a tendency to engage in needless arguments.
While Monty exhibits moments of relatability, he is frequently exasperating.
“Several hours hence, after agonizing reflection and meticulous crafting of the perfect rejoinder, I will undoubtedly conceive of a devastatingly witty retort to this insufferable pronouncement, a flawless fusion of sharp wit and defiant indignation that would leave him utterly speechless and intellectually vanquished. But alas, in this immediate moment, my mind is frustratingly devoid of inspiration; I am rendered utterly dumbfounded, forced to stand there in impotent silence, and endure his patronizing scolding as if I were a mere child caught in a transgression.”
Monty is, in many respects, a deeply flawed and problematic character. While some leniency might be granted considering the historically skewed perspectives prevalent in the 1700s, Monty’s pervasive selfishness, ignorance, and insensitivity are difficult to overlook. He prioritizes his own desires above all else, often twisting arguments and selectively omitting crucial information to rationalize his actions and beliefs. Even when he attempts to “help” Percy, his motivations are often rooted in possessiveness rather than genuine empathy or understanding of Percy’s needs and perspective.
In one instance, Monty becomes inexplicably angry at Percy. Instead of attempting to understand Percy’s perspective or offering support, Monty reacts with petulant anger, fueled by his self-righteous conviction that he is in the right, even when the matter is clearly personal and outside of his purview.
“He presents a picture of utter desolation, curled into himself on his side of the narrow berth, his face turned resolutely towards the pillow, bathed in the pale, diffused sunlight filtering through the cabin door. His usually meticulously styled hair is now matted and disheveled on one side, bearing the imprint of the pillow, and his complexion appears pallid and unnaturally waxy. But despite this evident distress, I stubbornly refuse to be moved, my resolve unyielding.”
PERCY IS CLEARLY UNWELL. HIS APPEARANCE IS NOT MEANT TO ELICIT PITY SOLELY FOR MONTY’S FORGIVENESS.
Furthermore, many of Monty’s pronouncements are jarringly insensitive. During a conversation about poetry with Percy, Monty dismisses poetry as dull, depressing, and tedious, asserting that no one could genuinely care for it. He goes on to make a flippant remark (paraphrased) that “it’s no wonder all poets end up killing themselves.” This insensitive comment is made after Percy has confided in Monty about his own struggles with suicidal ideation.
While historical context might explain a general societal stigma surrounding mental health, Monty’s personal struggles with similar issues should, one would expect, foster greater empathy and sensitivity. His callous remark about suicide reveals a significant lack of self-awareness and consideration for Percy’s emotional vulnerability.
In essence, Monty is a frustratingly flawed protagonist. Had he possessed a modicum of self-awareness and empathy, a significant portion of the conflict and chaos in the book could have been easily avoided.
Fortunately, the other two primary characters, Percy and Felicity, significantly elevate the narrative.
Percy is a biracial Englishman who endures systemic racism and prejudice due to his skin color. The book’s portrayal of racism, while present, sometimes feels somewhat surface-level, failing to fully capture the insidious and pervasive nature of racial discrimination in the 18th century. Despite this, Percy emerges as a deeply sympathetic character. He is consistently portrayed as understanding, kind, and remarkably patient, often exhibiting far more maturity and emotional intelligence than Monty.
Felicity, Monty’s fifteen-year-old sister, is a standout character. Initially dismissed by Monty as a contrary and intellectually limited girl with no prospects, Felicity is revealed to be intelligent, academically inclined, and fiercely independent. Her sharp wit and blunt demeanor are consistently entertaining, often drawing comparisons to a “Muggle Hermione Granger.” She faces constant condescension and dismissal due to her gender and intellectual ambitions, her aspirations to become a doctor consistently undermined because it is deemed “not a woman’s place.” Felicity is a compelling and admirably resilient character.
“God truly bless the bookish souls, for the boundless reservoir of knowledge they accumulate from their steadfast companionship with words, a far more reliable and enriching source of wisdom than the fickle and often disappointing nature of human friendships.”
On a less thematically central but nonetheless jarring note, a particular detail regarding setting proved distracting. When Monty and Percy contemplate running away, Monty lists various “faraway” destinations they could escape to: Constantinople, London (a perplexing choice, given that they are currently in London), Marseilles, and inexplicably, Jakarta.
This inclusion of Jakarta as a plausible 18th-century escape destination is historically inaccurate to the point of being jarring.
As an American author, Mackenzi Lee might not fully grasp the historical context of Jakarta and Indonesia. However, this geographical and historical inaccuracy significantly detracts from the book’s already tenuous commitment to historical plausibility.
JAKARTA, as a recognizable modern city, DID NOT EXIST IN THE 1700s.
Or rather, it existed, but not in the way the book seems to imply. It was not some exotic, far-off metropolis comparable to Marseilles. Indonesia was under the brutal colonial rule of the Netherlands for over three centuries, a period of oppression and exploitation often glossed over in Western historical narratives. Under Dutch colonial administration, the Indonesian people endured immense suffering and enslavement.
While the geographical location of Jakarta has existed for over 1500 years, the city as we know it today is a relatively modern construct. And crucially, it was not called Jakarta for the majority of its history. The city’s historical layers are starkly visible: the crumbling colonial-era structures stand as stark reminders of Dutch oppression, a legacy that continues to shape Indonesian identity.
Indonesia did not achieve independence until after World War II.
Jakarta as a city, and Indonesia as a nation, were not realities during Monty’s lifetime. It was known as the Dutch East Indies, a designation that clearly reflects its colonial status. The name Jakarta (or Djakarta in older Indonesian orthography) only came into common usage after Indonesian independence.
Copied from Wikipedia for factual clarity:
Under the Dutch, it was known as Batavia (1619–1945).
The casual inclusion of Jakarta as an escape destination reinforces the book’s overall ahistorical feel.
In conclusion, The Gentleman’s Guide to Vice and Virtue grapples with a range of significant themes, including racism, homophobia, and societal expectations. However, it also suffers from historical inaccuracies, anachronistic language and sensibilities, and a deeply flawed protagonist. While the book is undeniably humorous, engaging, and features compelling supporting characters in Percy and Felicity, it ultimately feels somewhat uneven and tonally inconsistent.
Despite its flaws, the book possesses a certain undeniable charm and entertainment value. Whether it warrants a reread is debatable, but it certainly offers a diverting and thought-provoking, if imperfect, literary journey.
