Representations of Female Identity in Italy : From Neoclassism to the 21st Century [1 ed.] 9781443892728, 9781443873352

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Representations of Female Identity in Italy

EDITORIAL ADVISORY BOARD Silvia Giovanardi Byer, Park University, USA Fabiana Cecchini, Texas A&M, College Station, USA Melinda Cro, Kansas State University, USA Ioana L. Larco, University of Kentucky, USA Jared Byer, Park University, USA Giovanna S. Summerfield, Auburn, USA

Representations of Female Identity in Italy: From Neoclassism to the 21st Century Edited by

Silvia Giovanardi Byer and Fabiana Cecchini

Representations of Female Identity in Italy: From Neoclassism to the 21st Century Edited by Silvia Giovanardi Byer and Fabiana Cecchini This book first published 2017 Cambridge Scholars Publishing Lady Stephenson Library, Newcastle upon Tyne, NE6 2PA, UK British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Copyright © 2017 by Silvia Giovanardi Byer, Fabiana Cecchini and contributors All rights for this book reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner. ISBN (10): 1-4438-7335-7 ISBN (13): 978-1-4438-7335-2

To the women in our lives, present and past: Elisa, Nicoletta and Rita

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Acknowledgments ...................................................................................... ix Foreword ..................................................................................................... x Introduction ................................................................................................. 1 Giovanna Summerfield Part One: Early and Modern Literature: The Not-So-Obvious Role Chapter One ................................................................................................. 8 “Fanciulla tanto sciocca quanto bella”: Women in Early Modern Italian Pastoral Melinda A. Cro Chapter Two .............................................................................................. 27 Antigone Contended: Hegel, Cavarero and Butler on Repression and Vulnerability between Kinship and Politics Andrea Sartori Chapter Three ............................................................................................ 51 The Insider’s Voice, or l’abito non fa la monaca: Arcangela Tarabotti’s Revised Representation of the Nun Elisa Modolo Chapter Four .............................................................................................. 76 Boccaccio Reinvented in Maria de Zayas’s Female Characters Silvia Giovanardi Byer Part Two: Reconsidering the Roles Chapter Five .............................................................................................. 94 Mother Tongue and the Body: Navigating the Female Space in Ferrante and Serao’s Naples Pia L. Bertucci

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Table of Contents

Chapter Six .............................................................................................. 113 The Stolen Identities in Maria Messina’s Novel A House in the Shadow Silvia Tiboni-Craft Chapter Seven.......................................................................................... 132 Class Conflict and “Upward Mobility” in Ada Negri’s Stella Mattutina (1921) Ioana R. Larco Chapter Eight ........................................................................................... 149 Television and Cinema: Contradictory Role Models for Women in 1950s Italy? Valeria Federici Chapter Nine............................................................................................ 170 The Empty Space of Sorrentino’s Female Characters in The Great Beauty and The Consequences of Love Annachiara Mariani Chapter Ten ............................................................................................. 187 Forging Female Identity: From Transnational to Italian, Edith Bruck’s Italianness Fabiana Cecchini Contributors ............................................................................................. 205

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

My sincere appreciation goes to all of the chapter authors for their contribution to the book. Thanks to the advisory board members for their reviews and advice. Fabiana Cecchini, Texas A&M, College Station, USA Melinda Cro, Kansas State University, USA Ioana L. Larco, University of Kentucky, USA Jared Byer, Park University, USA Giovanna S. Summerfield, Auburn, USA Thank you to Angela Porcarelli for the initial inspiration and encouragement. Thank you to Cambridge Scholars staff, particularly Victoria Carruthers and Amanda Millar for their editorial assistance. Thank you to Brian Shawver, Associate Dean, School of Liberal Arts and Dr. Emily Sallee, Associate Vice President for Faculty Affairs at Park University for their continued support. Silvia Giovanardi Byer Park University, USA

FOREWORD

In contemplating what to write in the foreword for this collection, it became apparent to me that I owe a debt of gratitude to the female characters and protagonists of the works of fiction you’ll read in this collection. Through their efforts and vision, women now occupy the highest pinnacles of their professions. They are elected to lead countries; they conduct unique and inspired research in the arts and sciences; and they nurture their own daughters to pursue their dreams, less burdened by the gender barriers so prevalent in our collective history. This collection of essays is worthy for a number of reasons. Perhaps the most important is the revelation that despite significant gains, women of today struggle with many of the same issues that they faced in Ancient Greece, Medieval Italy and Post-Modern Europe. The effort was launched after I distributed a call for papers (CFP) for the 2014 SAMLA conference. I received so many applications to present, that SAMLA expanded one panel to two panels. Both were marked by enthusiastic engagement that I decided to ask fellow panelists if they were interested in publishing their work. As evidenced by the resulting article, they were very interested. During this same period, Cambridge Scholars Publishing contacted me to determine interest in publishing the panel’s work. We were interested and shortly afterward the wheels were set in motion and we began working on our articles. Park University generously granted me a sabbatical in Fall 2015 which allowed me to devote significant time to developing this publication. The research presented in these essays provides several unique approaches to women’s identity and its representation in various modalities through literature, film, drama, history, theory in the humanities, media and cultural studies. The central theme of the volume involves the characterization of women, either by female or male authors, and women as consumers of artistic production in Italian culture or in relationship to. Some articles take a cross-disciplinary approach to the topic are particularly innovative because explore ideologies that have not been yet discussed within their particular realm. Working with many contributors is always a challenge; however, this is a fantastic group to work with. I am indebted to all the participants for

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working countless hours and redoing the many suggested corrections and re-writing. This book is a blind, peer-reviewed, edited book, where all articles were looked at by two or more reviewers. Silvia Giovanardi Byer



INTRODUCTION GIOVANNA SUMMERFIELD

Whereas woman continues to remain “the dark continent” even for the most inquisitive minds (Freud, The Question of Lay Analysis, 1926, p. 212), attempts have endured the passing of time and relegated her within specific parameters of vulnerability, subordination, and dependence. These subjective perceptions and roles peers and authors have upheld and imposed from antiquity to our contemporary years have been paralleled by female agency and self-actualization on the part of women writers, their works and/or characters. Whereas Sophocles’ male protagonists insisted on pushing the women “inside the house… [for] from now on they must be women and not wander unrestrained” (Antigone, transl. by R. Blondell, 1998, pp.578-9), some of the female protagonists took action, spoke and acted publicly, transgressing the established laws. This volume, which successfully adopts an intemporal, intermedial, and interdisciplinary approach to female subjectivity, brings to the fore the tragedy of Antigone for the readers to witness one of the first puzzling deviations by a strong woman who not only questions reason, law, power, and kinship but at the end destroys the man-centered world created by a selfish Creon, now physically alone and deprived of the earthly authority he had seized. Andrea Sartori, author of the relevant essay here presented, means not to produce a philological reading of this tragedy. Instead he focuses on the influence Sophocles extended beyond literature to philosophy and psychology, drawing the attention of Western thinkers, from Hegel, Freud, and Lacan to feminists like Beauvoir, Kristeva, Cavarero, and Butler. The latter posits Antigone’s death as a beginning rather than an end: in spite of the fact that it was ordered that she be buried alive in a cave, Antigone’s sacrifice represents an “unbending”(hence her name), uncompromising future. Antigone speaks with the voice of the patriarchal order she resists and opposes (Butler, p.5); she is the voice of the silenced women of Greece who could not attend theatrical performances, who could not act in these performances, and could not actively collaborate in the life of the city. Contrary to the local culture where women were under the guardianship of a male adult, or kyrios, father, brother, or husband.



Introduction

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Antigone, not only frees herself of the yoke of such a monitoring (she kills herself prior to being married to her betrothed, Creon’s son), but she advocates for the rights of her dead brother. A similar counterpart to the early-modern damsel in distress is proposed by Isabella Canali Andreini in her Mirtilla (1588). During the 16th century, after having celebrated the inner and ethereal physical beauty of fair maidens, whose influence on others was ennobling, according to the chivalric code of courtly love, praising the unattainable love object, and following the precepts of a Platonic love, that has no expectation, Italy boasted a score of distinguished women artists and intellectuals who stood out for their talents and their active participation in everyday life, some of them brandishing their pens to prescribe gender equality and valuing female bonding. The readers will definitely recognize the names of Vittoria Colonna, Veronica Gambara, Gaspara Stampa, Veronica Franco, Maddalena Campiglia, Moderata Fonte, and Isabella Andreini. Andreini was a successful actress, who had taken on even male roles in some of the leading plays of the time, one of them being the pastoral Aminta by Torquato Tasso. In her “revisited” version, known as Mirtilla, Andreini makes sure to underscore a different side of the female characters. Unlike Tasso’s protagonist and other contemporary literary heroines threatened with rape, murder, and bad reputation until rescued by their beloved, Andreini’s nymph is wily, independent, and resourceful. She pretends to have feelings for the satyr (and wrong-doer) while she ties him up and tortures him, pulling his goatee and asking him to eat some bitter herb and then abandoning him as prey for the wild animals of the forest. Above all, Andreini challenges the depiction of the female characters by proposing a real community: “Mirtilla concludes with a hymn to female friendship and implies that women can surmount the pains of unrequited love by constructing a world of togetherness and sharing” (Valeria Finucci, 2007, p.39). Melinda Cro, author of this volume’s first essay gives us a more comprehensive picture of the role of women in early modern Europe, both as literary subjects and creators, examining also Campiglia’s Flori (published the same year of Mirtilla), where virginity is not presented as a restriction but as an effective means to attain independence. The following centuries were not any easier for women in Europe. On one hand, fathers were coldheartedly sentencing their daughters to a life of solitude and pain by banishing them to convents; on the other hand, artists were warning their female readers about masterful male deceits to gain favors. Elena Cassandra Tarabotti, also known as suor Arcangela Tarabotti, is one of the many young women forced by their fathers, for



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familial and patrimonial planning, to a monastic life, a phenomenon started during the Italian Renaissance and unfortunately continuing on to the very end of the 19th century. These miserable conditions are reported in details even in the most popular literature, see Stendhal’s L’Abbesse de Castro (1839), Verga’s Storia di una capinera (1871) and La vocazione di suor Agnese (1890), as well as de Roberto’s I Vicerè (1893), just to name a few. The trilogy of suor Arcangela Tarabotti (Tirannia paterna, Inferno monacale, and Antisatira) mirrors the works of other young ladies who wrote sitting at a desk at a convent, and, in particular, of suor Isabella Dorotea Bellini, from Catania, praised by Santi Correnti for being one of the very first feminists in the European scene (he states 50 years prior to the first feminist responses in France), and author of Sintimenti in difisa di lu sessu femminu (1735), engaged in a true debate with local male intellectuals like Luigi Sarmento, also known as Antonio Damiano, and his work Lu vivu mortu. Just like Bellini, Tarabotti, involved in the “querelle des femmes,” in one of her three writings, responds with a rereading of the role of Eve in creation, and in the last, directly to a male counterpart, Buonisegni and his Contro 'l lusso donnesco satira menippea (1638). In this volume, Elisa Modolo analyzes Antisatira to underscore the attempt of Tarabotti to reverse the typical arguments of the male tradition and to uncover the biases of the time, insofar as Tarabotti unveils the social hypocrisy that had seen adornment and ornament as feminine and defined masculinity in oppositional terms to the bad feminine other … she defends a woman’s right to fashion and luxury linking this to the intellectual work that can be considered parallel to the care of the body… and considers the care of self, body, soul, and brain as acts intertwined with, not separate from, the controlling of women’s lives (Elena Paulicelli, 2014, p. 201).

The violations of the female bodies narrated in the novelas of writer Maria de Zayas, who is the focus of Silvia Byer’s last essay of part one of this volume, in comparison to famous Italian author Boccaccio and his Decameron, are clear and serious opportunities to expose the misogyny of patriarchal Spain. According to Marina Brownlee, Zayas was deeply concerned about the intellectual neutering of women imposed by men and believed, as proved by the forceful monastic wave so popular across Europe, that the primary source of violence was the family: fathers, brothers, husbands. With scores of domestic abuses sometimes culminating in murders, the countless femminicidi of recent years taking place across the Italian peninsula, this topic unfortunately should sound familiar to all the readers.



Introduction

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Family ties are yet again an important theme to better situate and assess the identities of the iconic female characters and authors of modern literature and cinema described in chapter two of this volume. The indissoluble, almost haunting, mother-daughter bond, in Serao’s and Ferrante’s works discussed here by Pia Bertucci, is detrimental in unraveling the deep-seeded secrets in the mind and identity of a woman. It is an intermingling of past and present, a laborious puzzle assembling, a superimposition or life existing in different stages, simultaneously, as Bertucci states, with a morbid and continuous influence of the genitrix, even if physically removed. It is a reconstruction of one’s identity even to the point of questioning it and challenging motherhood itself, in a feverish attempt to delve into inner worlds, almost at the verge of a breakdown and in comparison and in union with other women. In the works authored by Ada Negri, this intertwining of generations and unique portrayal of mother-daughter relationship is openly more a point of departure: as Ioana Raluca-Larco asserts in her essay, Stella mattutina’s protagonist Dinin, although indebted to her grandmother’s and mother’s experiences, is able to attain an “upward mobility,” breaking the chains of social injustices perpetuated within the matrilineal genealogy. Coming to grips with the past in order to go forward is also the theme of Edith Bruck's work: a Hungarian "Translingual Writer Who Found a Home in Italy" (Maria Cristina Mauceri), Edith moved to Rome (Italy) from Israel in 1954 to start a new life. The essay by Fabiana Cecchini analyzes the author's sense of Italianness, her newly acquired female identity, as a Holocaust survivor, a woman and writer who came to feel progressively more Italian through her writing. Where mothers are absent, sisters are at the fore of the scene in the pages of the books penned by Maria Messina, a talented Sicilian verista. Unlike Vanna, female protagonist of Casa paterna whose self-determined response to her family’s reaction of betrayal and disrespect upon her return home due to her failed marriage, is suicide, as a voluntary abandonment of a life of submission and misplacement, the sisters of “Il telaio di Caterina” and of La casa nel vicolo consciously make the decision to stay within the four walls of their home. They opt to be outside of time in an imagined space created by themselves or deliberately chosen for themselves: Parlano anch’esse di desiderio di libertà; pur seguitando a camminare per le vietracciate dall’esperienza dei vecchi, sognando bimbi da cullare, una casetta da governare… […] ciascuna esce talora dal cerchio della vita, per entrare, sola e non vista, nel piccolo mondo spirituale che custodisce intatte le forze più fresche, le aspirazioni più nobili […] (“Il Congedo” in Ragazze Siciliane, 1997, p. 110).



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Silvia Tiboni Craft underscores here the necessity for women to create fantastic spaces to define and understand for the process of reappropriation of their own bodies to start. Two essays examine different artistic spaces used to impose or challenge gender identities in our modern times: television and cinema. The article by Valeria Federici reminds us of the ever so popular signorine buonasera and the role they played not only within the medium but the culture of the time. They portrayed the venerated donna acqua e sapone, the girl next door, the perfect woman to marry, devoid of physicality – their face and bust were the only visible body parts on the screen – thus sensuality and, who, for 65 years, sat with generations and generations of Italians at dinner time and then bid good night upon the conclusion of all TV programs. A very limited to no space at all is provided by director Paolo Sorrentino to his female characters. Annachiara Mariani points out that oftentimes women are not only relegated to a small cinematic space in Sorrentino’s medial stories but also to a very restrictive psychological one. The two films here examined, and not fortuitously, are Le consequenze dell’amore and La grande bellezza. The Oscar-winning film-maker is undoubtedly interested in the bourgeois, aged, male, who is forcibly enjoying some peace and quiet and reflects on his life, “interrupted” here and there by a memory or a vision that involves a younger woman. This sporadic and marginal presence of women is equated by Mariani to a celebration of male dominance. Both Ramona and Sofia ultimately exit the screen, physically disappearing due to suicide and car accident, respectively, leaving the male protagonist unaccompanied and free to his indifferent and empty existence. As a scholar well-versed in the field and an administrator leading academic programs that highlight and celebrate diversity and inclusion, I am not only inspired by the work, tenacity, and talent of our predecessors - within societies that could only offer restrictions and debilitations, they were able to have a voice and to give voice to the innumerable women that shared their conditions – but I am also grateful to the essayists who passionately uncovered, re-read, and re-assessed the works of male and female artists to join and/or expand the current conversation and scholarship on female identity and its representations in the arts and humanities across time, space, and discipline. This volume will be a great resource to faculty and students interested in gender studies, cultural studies, media studies, literature, and art. In a time where one takes for granted the progress reached in gender emancipation, this collection grants us the opportunity to ponder upon and appreciate our past to act accordingly, in the present. It is a great testimony



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of the creative talents here (re)presented but also a modest and genuine expression of gratitude to all the women who have fought and continue to fight for equality and for individual self-gratification in both the professional and personal realms. Though this might seem overly trite and melodramatic, I consider it to be a small token for a giant accomplishment. There is still significant work to be done ahead of us, and for this, dear readers, this volume serves as an invitation for you to unearth deserving and forgotten stories and story-tellers and to spotlight this “dark continent” called woman.



PART ONE: EARLY AND MODERN LITERATURE: THE NOT-SO-OBVIOUS ROLE

CHAPTER ONE “FANCIULLA TANTO SCIOCCA QUANTO BELLA”: WOMEN IN EARLY MODERN ITALIAN PASTORAL

MELINDA A. CRO

In act 2, scene 2, the “wise” Dafne refers to Silvia as a simple girl who is as foolish as she is beautiful because she resists the honest love of the young shepherd, Aminta, in Tasso’s eponymous play. This is but one of several problematic portrayals of women in early modern Italian pastoral works. In Sannazaro’s Arcadia, for example, women appear either as objects of desire after which the shepherd lusts or as motherly figures commemorated and commended by pastoral society. In Guarini’s Il Pastor fido, the nymphs develop greater agency, yet their representation remains problematized by the inherent poetics of pastoral that, according to Renato Poggioli, valorize and prioritize male fulfillment, often at the expense of the female character.1 Recent scholarship has made great strides in the development of our understanding of the role of women in early modern Europe, both as subject and creator of literary production.2 One such area, within the Renaissance Italian landscape, is the role of women in the pastoral mode. However, while work has been done to expand our knowledge of female playwrights of pastoral plays like Maddalena Campiglia and Isabella Andreini and to consider their relationship to Tasso, scholarship has yet to more fully integrate their work into larger modal considerations of pastoral. Lisa Sampson, in her work Pastoral Drama in Early Modern Italy: The Making of a New Genre, while making reference to the larger framework of the pastoral mode and acknowledging the importance of literary production in the mode beyond drama, focuses primarily on the plays that make up the genre and their intertextuality rather than examining how those plays might dialogue with modal concerns.3 Maria Galli Stampino also follows this manner of inquiry,

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underscoring the “need to inject the consideration of genre into the study of the pastoral, specifically pastoral plays”.4 While generic concerns are valid, I propose to examine the depiction and representation of women in the mode as a whole, starting with the most influential pastoral work in Italian, Jacopo Sannazaro’s Arcadia (1504), one that would not only provide an example for imitation across genres in Italian but also in Spanish and French. Having established the manner in which female characters are depicted in the Arcadia, I will examine how these depictions are either confirmed or challenged in Tasso’s Aminta. Finally, in order to dialogue with the “other” voice, I will examine how two plays, Campiglia’s Flori and Andreini’s La Mirtilla (both published in 1588) received and challenged the depictions of female characters in the Aminta.

Arcadian Women: Objectifying through the Male Gaze The issue of the depiction of women in Sannazaro’s Arcadia has received relatively little critical attention.5 The narrator and the shepherds who “speak” or “sing” in the text are men. Female characters are depicted, but only through the male lens, underscoring the phallocentric nature of the work, and of the pastoral in general if we accept Poggioli’s assertions regarding the primacy of the fulfillment of male desire in the pastoral mode. Thus, women remain depicted as primarily silenced objects with little or no agency of their own. In the Arcadia, women fall predominantly into two categories: either the young and beautiful object of male desire or the maternal figure of consolation, taking the form primarily of Massilia. Each serves as a nexus of artistic creation within the work. The act of sexual desire, often physically denied the shepherd, is enacted or echoed in artistic terms within the text. According to Ricciardelli, the women in the Arcadia are real, of flesh and blood, and the desires expressed are sensual, reflective of this “reality.” Ricciardelli sees the true protagonist as woman: Il vero protagonista, la forza motrice di questo romanzo non è Sincero, Carino o Opico, ma la donna. E la donna non è affatto un essere astratto, ma un essere presentato solo nella sua essenza fisica, corporale, reale. La donna è la causa causantis della felicità o infelicità dei pastori.6

He goes on to insist that Sannazaro’s love for and loss of Carmosina Bonifacio, his childhood beloved who passed away, is the impetus for Sincero’s journey and the entirety of the pastoral composition.7 Nash expresses doubt as to the veracity of the motivation behind the highly conventional inclusion of the love story as Sincero describes it in Prose

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Chapter One

VII.8 In truth, there is a duality in the description of the Arcadian woman, one that speaks at once of the physical reality of the flesh and also conceives of the feminine in terms of Petrarchan lyric tradition that distances the object of desire from the physical towards the allegorical, underscoring the function of the woman to serve as muse for male poetic inspiration. Nonetheless, there is a definite emphasis on sensuality and physicality in the descriptions of the nymphs throughout the Arcadia that results in a dual conclusion: (1) the woman is considered a material good and (2) feminine beauty is often responsible for rendering the male unable to control himself: Interessante è notare che Elpino, prima del suo canto, aveva descritto le scene sensuali dipinte sul suo vaso, tra cui “Priapo, che strettissimamente abraccia una Ninfa,” […] e la Ninfa che cerca di difendersi dal “libidinoso Idio,” […] quasi a mostrare che un dio, quanto l’uomo, non è capace di resistere avanti al potere della bellezza fisica.9

Thus, the feminine beloved is seen as the source of ills and blessings depending on whether she consents to or rejects her lover’s advances. This is especially true for Ergasto, a shepherd who laments throughout the Arcadia the cruelty of his beloved. In the first verse section (Eclogue I), Ergasto tells Selvaggio of the moment he fell in love, a moment that coincides with the beginning of his suffering. His description of seeing her from a distance emphasizes the physical reality of the shepherdess, with her skirts lifted to her knee while washing a garment and singing, evocative of the medieval pastorella/pastourelle: Io vidi prima l’uno e poi l’altro occhio; fin al ginocchio alzata, al parer mio, in mezzo al rio si stava, al caldo cielo; lavava un velo, in voce alta cantando.10

The corporality of the shepherdess is particularly underscored not only through the mention of the knee and eyes above, but in the fact that she covers herself (“tutta si coverse,” line 78) and falls silent (“la canzonetta sua spezzando, tacque,”line 76), actions that displease the shepherd although he seems to place specific displeasure in the fact that she covers herself (“e mi dispiacque che, per piú mie’affanni, / si scinse i panni e tutta si coverse,” lines 77-78). Ergasto, overcome, faints, and she rushes to him, calling for help. Upon recovering, however, she turns away and is characterized as “pietosa e fella” (line 90) as well as “spietata e rigida” (line 91) and “soperba e piú che ghiaccio frigida” (line 93). While she is beautiful she is at once “piteous” and “cruel,” seen as almost worse than

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solely cruel for she is capable of pity, yet chooses not to have any for the lover. Beyond the emphasis on the aloof beloved that becomes a commonplace in pastoral, women also form the nexus for artistic creation. While characterizing the woman as the protagonist as Ricciardelli does is not exactly representative of the reality of the feminine experience in the novel,11 the female characters do form the focus of the work through the male gaze. This is particularly clear in Prose III. The shepherds celebrate the feast of Pales. As the narrator enters the temple, he is taken by the murals on the walls. He embarks on a description of pastoral-themed tableaux, including a landscape with bucolic scenes and depictions of several mythological stories associated with pastoral and the esthetic of beauty.12 However, of particular importance, at least for the narrator, is a scene that virtually comes to life before his eyes—a group of nymphs, laughing at a little ram, are surprised by lustful satyrs who give chase as the nymphs attempt to flee. The emphasis on corporality in Ergasto’s description, evocative of his raw, physical desire, is embodied in the satyrs, and the narrator’s fascination exemplifies the hedonistic poetics of male sexual fulfillment that characterize pastoral happiness.13 The narrator, Sincero, takes true pleasure in viewing the painting of the nymphs and the satyrs, indicating that the reader, too, by extension, should delight in this description: “Ma quel che piú intentamente mi piacque di mirare erano certe ninfe ignude […]” (p. 76). The male gaze is inextricably linked to pleasure as he views the mural, and the location in which they are found (the temple of Pales, the goddess of the shepherds) seems to give license to this pleasure. The flight of the nymph is recalled in Prose X wherein two female figures form the focus: Syrinx and Massilia, representative of the two female archetypes that Sannazaro envisions in the pastoral. Syrinx is introduced in conjunction with Pan’s grotto and the sampogna, the pipes that Pan plays. The priest explains that Pan wrought the pipes from Syrinx herself once she was transformed into the reeds. Ovid tells that the nymph had attempted to escape Pan’s amorous advances, but after her metamorphosis she was taken nonetheless by Pan who sang, “This sylvan pipe will enable us always to talk together!”14 Following this reference is a genesis of the pastoral mode, including references to Virgil and Theocritus. Sannazaro, hence, implies that the flight of Syrinx and her union with Pan gives birth to the pastoral mode.15 Thus, the subjugation of the feminine will to the male desire creates the framework for the creation of the mode itself and intrinsically defines any reading thereof.

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Chapter One

Syrinx, as “mother” (albeit unwilling) to the pastoral, presents a bridge between the two archetypes of the feminine that Sannazaro introduces: a reluctant nymph who is in the end united with her lover and then transformed into a mother figure. It is no coincidence that immediately following the episode in the grotto as the shepherds begin to return home they happen upon the tomb of Massilia, Ergasto’s mother, and the final, ideal iteration of woman, one who accepted love and bore witness of this acceptance through the birth of her child. The tomb, an art object covered in images, was designed by Massilia herself before her death: “[…] lei medesma, essendo già viva, aveva in onore de’ suoi antichi avoli fatte dipingere, e quanti pastori ne la sua prosapia erano in alcun tempo stati famosi e chiari per li boschi, con tutto il numero de’ posseduti armenti.”16 This final act of artistic creation, a motif that is associated with the feminine throughout the novel, is inevitably evocative of the act of promulgation and reproduction in the presence of Ergasto at his mother’s tomb. In the description of Massilia, the emphasis is upon her character and is immensely positive, revealing profound respect on the part of the shepherds and narrator: “[…] e vide l’alto sepolcro ove le riverende ossa di Massilia si riposano con eterna quiete; Massilia, madre di Ergasto, la quale fu, mentre visse, da’ pastori quasi divina sibilla riputata”.17 The entire area surrounding the tomb has been transformed by the shepherds who created a veritable jardin des délices in honor of Massilia. There is a stark contrast between the portrayal of Massilia, the mother-figure, and that of the young beloved. While the latter is lamented and depicted graphically, identified for inciting pleasure and desire in the male viewer, the former is given a quasi-deistic status, accentuating the fact that Massilia exemplifies and reinforces heteronormative social values: she accepted love. The act of artistic creation in the case of both Syrinx and Massilia is paralleled with the physical act of reproduction, each “giving birth” to, respectively, the pastoral literary tradition and a shepherd-poet who sings within the tradition. These two character types (the young beloved and the motherfigure) will form the basis for the pastoral feminine archetypes that Tasso offers in the Aminta.

Silvia and Dafne: Pastoral Feminine Archetypes Tasso’s Aminta is the best-known of the Italian pastoral plays and certainly one of the most influential and imitated.18 As Ultsch affirms: “For any dramatist of pastoral in the late sixteenth century […] the Aminta was an ineluctable presence, as was the genre’s traditional happy ending”.19 The story is a simple one: the shepherd Aminta loves the nymph Silvia who, as

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a follower of Diana, values the hunt and her chastity above all else and rejects his offer of love. Dafne, Silvia’s companion and one versed in the ways of love, chastises Silvia and tries to convince her to give into Aminta’s honest love. Eventually, after several false deaths and miscommunications, Silvia recognizes that she loves Aminta and the two are united, seeking her father’s permission to marry. The possible tragedy is transformed into a comedy and the audience is meant to celebrate. However, the way in which Silvia’s “cruelty” is dealt with is problematic, to say the least, and her companion, Dafne, advocates that Aminta, if he cannot convince Silvia in any other way, take what he desires forcefully. Given the play’s place in theater history and in the genesis of the pastoral mode, the dynamics between these two characters serves as an example, an archetype, for how female characters “should” function in the pastoral play. The silent object of admiration in Sannazaro’s Arcadia has been replaced with one that speaks, but whether the function and agency of the character has changed remains dubious. Silvia is depicted throughout the play in negative terms, most noticeably by Dafne. In the opening scene of act I, Dafne exhorts Silvia to change: “Ah, cangia, / cangia, prego, consiglio, / pazzarella che sei”.20 The exhortation to change and the characterization of “pazzarella” is repeated two more times in the same scene (lines 37-38, 165-166), underscoring the wrongness of Silvia’s position and foreshadowing the inevitable transformation that Love has promised in the opening monologue. Throughout the first scene, Dafne underscores the unnatural aspect of Silvia’s refusal to love, providing scores of examples from nature demonstrating that to succumb to the power of love is natural (and, hence, good), contrasting these examples with negative characterizations of Silvia as cruel (“Piacevol padre di figlio crudele,” line 107), dispiteous (“[…] che dispettosa giovinetta!” line 116) and comparing her twice to fearsome beasts, once in line 109 (“Ma quando mai dai mansueti agnelli / nacquer le tigri?) and again in lines 145-146 (“[…] e tu sol, fiera / più che tutte le fere […]”).The implication is clear—all of the natural world loves except for Silvia, hence Silvia is out of place in this natural, pastoral realm where natural law reigns, a natural law that dictates “S’ei piace, ei lice” as sung by the Chorus at the end of act I, scene 2 (line 343). Ultsch also underscores such a reading: The rejection of Aminta’s love is […] unnatural and represents an unreasonable or insane/unhealthy (insano) defiance of the natural order of the universe. Indeed, in the experienced nymph’s view, an inordinate resistance to love in the name of preserving chastity dehumanizes those

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Chapter One dissenting nymphs who would deny natural instincts and self-fulfillment in the “abbracciamenti” of a male.21

Moreover, Silvia’s declaration that she takes pleasure in the hunt above all else and hence scorns any declaration of love also seems unnatural: Altri segua i diletti de l’amore, (se pur v’è ne l’amor alcun dilette): me questa vita giova, e ’l mio trastullo è la cura de l’arco e degli strali; seguir le fere fugaci, e le forti atterrar combattendo; e, se non mancano saette a la faretra, o fere al bosco, non tem’io che a me manchino diporti.22

Ironically, the chase she describes recalls the amorous hunt as lover pursues beloved and as Cupid “fells” the strong with his own arrows. This blind pursuit of the chase is a topos that Guarini will capitalize on in Il pastor fido with Silvio (the name is no doubt not coincidental), the avid hunter who rejects all idea of love in pursuit of a chase that is, ultimately, fruitless in a pastoral realm where love is valued above all else. One might consider whether Tasso toys with the idea that this blind devotion to the hunt as well as the characterizations of Silvia as more proud and wild than the beasts are indications that Silvia tends towards the virile, so much so that union with a shepherd whose behavior is so far removed from her own, who so completely represents her opposite in passion, is impossible until Silvia’s nature is “tamed” or “feminized.” Thus, the male gaze once more determines how the feminine experience should be categorized and designates what is natural and unnatural, always in terms of male gratification. Throughout the first scene of act I, Dafne is Silvia’s complete inverse—she succumbed to love, was “conquered” (“vinta,” line 68ff) and, after a night of pleasure, foregoes following Cynthia.23 Dafne emphasizes a physical union and sexual gratification, not marriage. The importance of marital bliss is left unanswered, or rather pushed aside, in Tasso’s work. Tirsi, in act 2, scene 2, rejects the possibility of marriage as the bitter part of love, but insists he partakes in the “sweet” (i.e. the physical): “I diletti di Venere non lascia / l’uom che schiva l’amor, ma coglie e gusta / le dolcezze d’amor senza l’amaro” (lines 128-130). Dafne and Tirsi’s characters are adamant in what they find most entertaining—love without commitment, pursuant to the natural laws of love that govern Arcadia. Moreover, Tirsi praises Dafne’s wisdom in 2.2, sharply contrasting his later condemnation of Silvia in act 3, and serving as a reminder of the

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importance of observing the laws of love in Arcadia: “A te non manca / né saper né consiglio. Basta sol che / ti disponga a voler” (lines 107-109). While physical passion is not solely what Aminta seeks, it is represented by Dafne and Tirsi as a means by which to access the beloved when the beloved is as cruel and immoveable as Silvia. Hence, violence against and subjugation of the feminine are deemed acceptable when female behavior errs from the “norm.” The means by which Dafne and Tirsi envision this union taking place is further problematized by the decision that the only way to awake love in Silvia is through rape. They plot to have Aminta surprise Silvia in a nearby spring where she bathes, nude, and to let nature take its course. In Dafne’s mind, force is the only way to secure Silvia’s conversion to the ways of love: È spacciato un amante rispettoso: consiglial pur che faccia altro mestiero, poich’egli è tal. Chi imparar vuol d’amare, disimpari il rispetto: osi, domandi, solleciti, importuni, al fine involi; e se questo non basta, anco rapisca. Or non sai tu com’è fatta la donna? Fugge, e fuggendo vuol che altri la giunga; niega, e negando vuol ch’altri si toglia; pugna, e pugnando vuol ch’altri la vinca.24

Dafne’s characterization of women is contradictory and particularly disturbing in light of what immediately precedes it: the satyr’s monologue wherein he, too, comes to the same conclusion as Dafne—if he cannot have what he desires from Silvia, he will take it by force: io, perché non per mia salute adopro la violenza, se mi fe’ Natura atto a far violenza ed a rapire? Sforzerò, rapirò quel che costei mi niega, ingrata, in merto de l’amore … (2.1.78-82)

Both Dafne and the satyr, using similar lexical choices, advocate violence in order to attain their desired ends, an end that seems to be sexual gratification veiled as love. Tirsi transmits this plan to Aminta, who rejects such a plan initially. Tirsi frames taking Silvia as corresponding to her true, inner desire: Perché dunque non osi oltra sua voglia prenderne quel che, se ben grava in prima,

Chapter One

16 al fin, al fin le sarà caro e dolce che l’abbi preso? (2.3.68-71)

Despite protestation, Aminta gives in and follows Tirsi. The beloved, unnaturally cruel and cold, is unable to determine her own desire and mind and is in need of male subjugation in order to integrate into pastoral society. The violation of Silvia’s body with the idea that her mind/heart will follow is not expressly carried out. While the satyr does capture her, nude, and tie her to a tree with her own hair, he is interrupted by Aminta who scares him off. However, the shepherd then hesitates to untie her, taking advantage of the satyr’s escape to gaze upon that which has long been denied to him: Come la fuga de l’altro concesse spazio a lui di mirare, egli rivolse i cupidi occhi in quelle membra belle, che, come suole tremolare il latte ne’ giunchi, sì parean morbide e bianche. (3.1.72-76)

As Campbell points out, “one has the sense that she has been violated anyway” by the masculine gaze, despite how “respectful” Tirsi assures the audience it was.25 In essence, the male gaze carries out what the satyr threatened and violates Silvia’s modesty. Her flight upon being freed is characterized by Tirsi as cruel and lacking in gratitude for Aminta, but if we follow Campbell’s indication, then Silvia was ravished, not only by the satyr, but by Aminta as well, and Silvia’s reaction (“Nulla rispose, / ma disdegnosa e vergognosa a terra / chinava il viso, e ‘l delicate seno / quanto potea torcendosi celava”, 3.1.87-90), indicates as much. Her silence recalls that of the shepherdess before Ergasto’s gaze and juxtaposes with Andreini’s comic reversal of the scene in her play, La Mirtilla, wherein Filli uses speech and wit to extricate herself and imprison the satyr (act 3, scene 2).26 Ultimately, it is not violence but rather the power of guilt and compassion that will lead Silvia to pity and, then, convert to love. The shepherd, believing the false report of Silvia’s death, throws himself from a mountain (but is saved by a miraculous fall) and Silvia, going to retrieve his “lifeless” body but finding him living, rejoices and declares her love. The principle action of the play (the satyr’s rape, Aminta’s rescue, Silvia’s false death, Aminta’s false death, the lovers’ reunion) takes place offstage and is reported back by use of messengers dialoguing with the shepherds’ chorus. Action is removed from the play, focusing the stage on the poetic

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exhortation and rhetorical games of persuasion centered on love. Structurally reliant on report and description,27 the play underscores passivity and a lack of agency that is firmly contrasted in Andreini and Campiglia’s works. This manner of structuring the play recalls the Arcadia of Sannazaro that emphasizes narrations of past actions, reporting female action through the male voice, always mediating the feminine with the masculine. Moreover, despite the loud voices of Dafne and Tirsi, and even the Chorus, resonating with a purported desire to love freely, the ultimate or final message of the play reaffirms heteronormative social practices through the union and anticipated marriage of Silvia and Aminta, a reaffirmation in line with Sannazaro’s work. Tasso creates of Silvia and Dafne two archetypes that will become important for proto-feminist revisions of the pastoral play. In defining these archetypes, roles by which other playwrights will be inspired, we might define Silvia as the “unloving beloved nymph” and Dafne as a revision of the mother-figure from Sannazaro, now acting as a “counselorcompanion,” related to the “theatergram,” as Louise George Clubb terms it, of the balia or nurse in comedy.28 Opposed completely to the comedic theatergram of the giovane innamorata, Silvia is the nymph who, sought after by the shepherd, rejects his love (and any type of romantic love in general). In descriptions by other characters, she is described primarily, as are the nymphs and shepherdesses in Sannazaro’s Arcadia, as incredibly beautiful, capitalizing upon Petrarchan lyric imagery, but when it comes to describing her personality, little is said that is not reflective of a negative view. She is cold and cruel, has little agency of her own, and is often depicted as needing to be manipulated in order to return her to the “natural order” as Tasso and Sannazaro envision it—one which reinforces heteronormative values and conceives of the pastoral universe as a realm wherein women should accept love and marriage as the most advisable path. In this light, Silvia’s “cruelty” throughout reflects the male perception of a woman who refuses to reciprocate love. Her unattainability at the outset of the play colors the way in which she is read, further problematizing feminine representations in the pastoral play.29 Dafne is the companion who, versed in the ways of love, attempts to persuade her young friend to embrace Love’s path and forego her foolish and naïve fascination with the hunt and chastity (in essence, to convert from Diana to Venus). These two archetypes are modified and multiplied in the works of Andreini and Campiglia, two female playwrights who draw upon the Aminta for inspiration in their own pastoral plays.

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Chapter One

Revising Archetypes and Recuperating Feminine Agency: Flori and La Mirtilla Whereas romantic love remains the dominating force of the Aminta and earlier conceptions of the male pastoral, women writers experiment with other forms of love, weaving a new contribution into the already complex tapestry of pastoral conceptions of love. The male writers focus upon romantic love and the means by which fulfillment of that desire may be obtained, typically through the subjugation of the beloved. The women writers, however, present a more nuanced and varied view of love, subverting the phallocentric norms by returning agency to the female characters. The beloved nymph in the feminine pastoral loves also, sometimes with a passion that challenges that of the shepherd. Moreover, romantic union (and sexual union) is not the priority for the nymphs in these plays. Rather, they seek to maintain friendships, show mercy and compassion, and, in the case of Flori, prize chaste love over sexual gratification. Through the plays by Campiglia and Andreini, we have the opportunity to examine the revision of the pastoral feminine archetypes set out by Tasso in the Aminta and to establish how these women writers recuperate feminine agency. Campbell and Stampino identify the female characters of the Aminta as being of particular interest for revision among female playwrights who “sought to subvert some of the play’s key elements” (48). The pastoral is particularly suitable to subversion given the highly codified and conventional nature of the mode. The possibility for subversion in the pastoral mode, for example, is capitalized upon later in the French tradition in the form of Charles Sorel’s scathing satirical take on the Astrée, the Berger extravagant (1627). Indeed, even in Tasso’s play we can identify double discourses that lead to ambiguity in meaning (for example, in the Mopso speech)30 Campiglia and Andreini capitalize upon the multivalent possibilities of the conventional form to create new dialogues surrounding the female characters that form the central focus of the bucolic realm. The first indication of the shift in focus and agency can be noted in the choice of title. Where Sannazaro places emphasis on the pastoral land itself that formed the poetic landscape to which Sincero escapes, Tasso relocates the attention from the setting to Aminta, the faithful lover-shepherd. In appropriating the pastoral form, the women writers select female characters’ names for their titles, a practice seen in the Spanish tradition with Montemayor’s Diana (1559) and echoed in the French tradition with Honoré d’Urfé’s Astrée (1607-1627). The subtle shift is nonetheless important in that it refocuses the work on the feminine rather than the

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masculine gaze through which the work will be produced. Campiglia focuses on the nymph Flori who is singular in that she loves passionately a dead nymph, Amaranta, and has no interest in the shepherds who are in love with her. Andreini selects Mirtilla, a nymph who loves Uranio although he is desperately in love with Ardelia, who loves only herself. In each of these works the emphasis is on the female experience in love in various degrees rather than on the male lament at the hands of the cruel beloved. This inversion subverts the pastoral’s dynamic, creating space for discussion of topics that affect women in Renaissance society such as marriage, love, and independence.

Flori: Inverting the Archetype Maddalena Campiglia’s pastoral play Flori (1588) at once acknowledges and challenges the rules of the genre as conceived by Tasso and the mode in general.31 In a mode wherein phallocentric desire and hedonistic, heteronormative concerns dominate, Campiglia introduces her version of the “unloving beloved nymph” with Flori, a nymph who spends the first part of the play fulfilling the traditional role of the “cruel” and rejecting beloved,32 but for an entirely different reason: she already loves, and it is the object of her love that leads to her social segregation, frequent references to her madness, and the central action of act 3 (a ceremony of spiritual cleansing to rid her of her “madness”): she loves a fellow nymph who is dead, Amaranta. Once she is “cleansed,” she falls in love with a stranger shepherd, Alessi, as foretold by the priest, Damone, and Love himself at the beginning of the play. However, the love she seeks with Alessi is not the romantic union resulting in marriage bonds and sexual reproduction but rather a chaste love, and the way in which she describes this chaste love contrasts starkly with the emphasis on corporality heretofore presented in male writers’ works: Ma non già di beltate solamente (Licori) esterna il mio desir s’appaga, O di bearmi in lei sol cura pongo. Passo a cosa più degna, penetrando Di lui l’interno con la mente, ed indi L’ali impiumando al vago mio desire A’ sommi giri salgo, ove m’è dato Poi d’acquetare a pieno i miei desiri. La sua bellezza esterna vo’ che vaglia Solo a guidarmi (o dolci gradi!) al cielo …33

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Flori advocates a Neoplatonic relationship wherein the beloved will lead her to a greater truth, very reminiscent of Beatrice as Dante’s guide to Paradise. Pastoral drama relies on the marriage bond to reinforce social norms in Tasso and Guarini. Campiglia subverts the social norm and heteronormative expectations of the mode in fashioning a new form of union for her recalcitrant nymph. As opposed to Silvia’s blindness in matters of the heart in the Aminta, Flori sees clearly, but does not seek to give up her independence nor her devotion to Diana. Rather, she seeks a path that “problematizes the traditional trajectory of the initiation to love that moves from refusal, insanity and social marginalization to acceptance, sanity and social insertion”.34 Flori inverts and subverts the pastoral feminine archetype represented by Silvia in numerous ways. Not only does she refuse to conform to prescribed and socially accepted behavior, but she also recuperates agency and voice denied to the pastoral woman in male-scripted inclusions in the mode. Whereas the Aminta relies on messengers telling the action, the audience or reader of Flori is privy to the action, witnessing Flori contemplate and act. Her thoughts and actions are not mediated through a masculine-imposed gaze, but rather privilege the female voice and a path that values female independence, inviting the male to enter the feminine sphere of worship of Diana and mutual devotion to an intellectual union deemed more important than the matrimonial union that Licori, Flori’s friend and companion, prizes and achieves.

Loving Women Andreini and Campiglia each explore various modes of love, including the importance of loyalty and friendship among women and romantic love of women. In Flori, the title character is hopelessly in love with her fellow nymph, Amaranta, and inconsolable at her death. While she does eventually transfer her affection to a shepherd and acknowledge that she was mad, she does not dismiss her feelings completely: […] Amai purtroppo, è vero, E viva e morta la più chiara ninfa, Per grazia e per virtù, ch’unqua Diana Seguisse in selva o ‘n prato. Né già con brame più d’affetto calde Alcun amante il suo pregiato oggetto Seguì, né meno in terra Cosa mortal fu mai più riverita;35

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She continues to characterize her love as pure and honest (line 146), highlighting the merit of her feelings. The rarity of this form of desire being depicted, in particular by a woman, should not be overlooked. As Cox and Sampson point out, “Explicit depictions of female-female desire were extremely rare in the Italian Renaissance, both in literature and in theoretical writings on love; indeed, lesbianism is infrequently mentioned even in scientific or legal writings or in religious manuals listing condemned sexual practices”.36 Campiglia avoids censure by playing with the motif of “return from madness” that allows one to read the love for Amaranta as a mistake that is remedied by returning to a female-male relationship, albeit an unusual one that still challenges accepted conceptions of romantic love and happy comedic endings. However, as Cox and Sampson observe as well, Flori’s regret does not seem to be at having loved a woman, but at having loved her after her death.37 This further underscores Flori’s preference for a chaste love with Alessi—she seeks a lover who, like her, will remain devoted to Diana and to her virginity and seeks a different type of relationship, one between equals for whom spiritual union is of prime importance. Another instance of female-female desire is portrayed in Andreini’s La Mirtilla, in the narcissistic love of Ardelia. In the Mirtilla, the title character and her friend-companion Filli, are both hopelessly in love with Uranio, a shepherd who loves only Ardelia, the reluctant nymph who refuses to return his affection. Interestingly, it is Ardelia who most closely parallels Tasso’s Silvia, yet she is not the primary focus of the play. The play focuses primarily on the love, pity, and agency of Filli and Mirtilla. Ardelia, however, reenacts the Narcissus myth in act 4, scene 4, and, in so doing, provides an example of female-female desire and of love of self above all else. Coming upon a spring, Ardelia looks upon her own image and is immediately besotted. As Doglio notes, “La versione al femminile del mito di Narciso insinua una nota voluttuosa, sottilmente ambigua, di un’audacia sconcertante” and qualifies it as an example of “passione lesbica”.38 This scene echoes 2.2 in the Aminta where Dafne describes Silvia taken by her own reflection. However, where action is reported in the Aminta, Andreini puts it onstage and records the torment of discovery when the nymph realizes that she loves her own image: o mio vano pensiero, amo un’ombra e un’ombra invan desio. O piagge, o colli, o boschi, o selve, o valli vedeste mai, udiste mai che ninfa provasse più di me dolente sorte?39

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Maria Galli Stampino offers an excellent analysis of this scene and its corresponding scene in the Aminta and, while focusing on the importance of the staging of these two plays in order to draw out similarities and differences between the texts, suggests that such a scene “bestows a higher degree of agency on the female character uttering it than the once-removed description in Aminta. Narcissism seems a sine qua non condition for selfawareness; Ardelia acquires the latter at the exact moment when she understands that she is looking at her own reflection”.40 While she does gain a deeper awareness of self once she recognizes herself, the first part of the monologue underscores the lesbian undertones that permeate the scene, leading one to wonder how the audience might have received such a scene. Stampino’s reading emphasizes the theatricality of the work and its performative nature, an emphasis important for considering the response to this question. Laura Giannetti, in her study of comedies of the Cinquecento, has argued that the theatrical texts are “cultural documents of great interest that enriched and are enriched by their social and cultural moment”.41 She proposes that comedies reveal a great deal about the audience that views them, in particular with regard to sex, gender, and marriage.42 Given the popularity of the pastoral drama, we might argue similarly that these texts serve as reminders of how gender might be constructed and conceived. There is no doubt that each playwright, while giving the audience a glimpse of female-female desire, returns the character to a “normative” stance by pairing her with a male lover. Nonetheless, one cannot help but wonder if, in that moment of anxiety as the audience questions how the play will end and the dynamic of femalefemale desire is held in limbo, whether or not a flash of social unrest or consideration of the status quo might take place. How the audience would have “read” the scene is impossible to say; however, both Flori and Ardelia represent characters that challenge traditional sexual conduct and hint at a homosexual attraction present in the classical constructions of pastoral.43 In conclusion, pastoral women writers challenge the modal archetypes presented by Sannazaro and Tasso in a number of ways: they increase the number of female characters, reverse situations, and multiply conceptions of love. While the current study does not leave room for a fuller consideration, a fuller comparison of Flori and the Arcadia would be of great interest given the parallels between Sincero and Flori, both coming to terms with the death of a beloved. Moreover, the centrality of ritual in the Arcadia is echoed in both Andreini and Campiglia while overlooked in Tasso. Such parallels would be lost without a modal approach. Having been relegated to secondary or minor status, it is important to recuperate

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these works and insert them once more into the larger modal dialogue of which they took part, lending a deeper richness and further complexity to our understanding of pastoral as a whole.

Notes 1

Renato Poggioli, The Oaten Flute (Cambridge: Harvard UP, 1975), 42. Through the series, “The Other Voice in Early Modern Europe,” its editors have worked to make works by women writers in the period 1300 to 1700 more widely available in translation and in bilingual editions and the scholarship engaging with questions of gender and its representation has grown significantly in recent years. Moreover, Virginia Cox’s study, Women’s Writing in Italy, 1400-1650 (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins UP, 2008), examines the context in which women authors worked during the early modern period. 3 Lisa Sampson, Pastoral Drama in Early Modern Italy: The Making of a New Genre (London: Legenda, 2006), 4. 4 Maria Galli Stampino, “Pastoral Constraints, Textual and Dramatic Strategies: Isabella Andreini’s La Mirtilla and Torquato Tasso’s Aminta,” Italian Culture 22 (2004): 1. 5 Michele Ricciardelli examines the depiction of women in the Arcadia in “La Donna nell’Arcadia: ideale o realtà?” Italica 44, no. 4 (Dec. 1967): 425-432. 6 Michele Ricciardelli, “La Donna nell’Arcadia: ideale o realtà?,” 425. All use of italics in citations reflects the original author’s choices. 7 Michele Ricciardelli, “La Donna nell’Arcadia: ideale o realtà?,” 428. 8 Ralph Nash, introduction to Arcadia and Piscatorial Eclogues, by Jacopo Sannazaro, trans. Ralph Nash (Detroit: Wayne S UP, 1966), 8. 9 Michele Ricciardelli, “La Donna nell’Arcadia: ideale o realtà?,” 427. 10 Jacopo Sannazaro, Arcadia (Milano: Gruppo Ugo Mursia Editore, 1990), eclogue I, lines 71-74, p. 63. Verse sections will be referenced with line numbers and page numbers whereas prose sections will be referenced with page numbers solely. Text references follow this formatting. 11 The emphasis in Arcadia is primarily on the male shepherd and how he delights or suffers at the hand of the female. 12 The pictorial depictions Sannazaro includes are the tale of Apollo guarding Admetus’s herd and the Judgement of Paris. 13 Melinda Cro, “Ekphrasis and the Feminine in Sannazaro’s Arcadia,” Romance Notes 52, no. 1 (2012): 72. 14 Ovid, Metamorphoses, trans. David Raeburn (London: Penguin Books, 2004), bk. 1, line 710. 15 For a fuller explanation, see Melinda Cro, “Ekphrasis and the Feminine in Sannazaro’s Arcadia”. 16 Jacopo Sannazaro, Arcadia, 178. 17 Jacopo Sannazaro, Arcadia, 177. 2

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Julie D. Campbell, Julie D. and Maria Galli Stampino, “Contexts and Canonical Authors,” in In Dialogue with the Other Voice in Sixteenth-Century Italy, (Toronto: Iter Inc. Center for Reformation and Renaissance Studies, 2011), 47. 19 Lori J. Ultsch, “Epithalamium Interruptum: Maddalena Campiglia’s New Arcadia,” MLN 120 (2005): 72. 20 Torquato Tasso, Aminta, ed. Charles Jernigan and Irene Marchegiani Jones (New York: Italica P, 2000), 1.1.5-7. References are to act, scene, and line. 21 Lori J. Ultsch, “Epithalamium Interruptum: Maddalena Campiglia’s New Arcadia,” 79. 22 Tasso, Aminta, 1.2.9-16. 23 In pastoral texts, the deity is referred to alternately as Diana, Artemis or Cynthia. 24 Tasso, Aminta, 2.2.84-93. 25 Julie D. Campbell, introduction to La Mirtilla: A Pastoral, by Isabella Andreini, trans. Julie D. Campbell (Tempe, AZ: Arizona Center for Medieval and Renaissance Studies, 2002), xix. Maria Galli Stampino, in her excellent analysis of this scene, comparing it to the corresponding scene in La Mirtilla, notes similarities between the satyr and Aminta’s “nature-based” reactions. See Stampino, “Pastoral Constraints, Textual and Dramatic Strategies: Isabella Andreini’s La Mirtilla and Torquato Tasso’s Aminta,” 5. 26 See Maria Galli Stampino, “Pastoral Constraints, Textual and Dramatic Strategies: Isabella Andreini’s La Mirtilla and Torquato Tasso’s Aminta” for a fuller analysis and comparison of these two scenes. 27 Maria Galli Stampino, “Pastoral Constraints, Textual and Dramatic Strategies: Isabella Andreini’s La Mirtilla and Torquato Tasso’s Aminta,” 12. 28 A theatergram is a dramaturgical concept created by Louise George Clubb and introduced in her important work on Italian Renaissance Theater, Italian Drama in Shakespeare’s Time (New Haven: Yale UP, 1989). The term designates a structural unit, such as a character type, that can and often was repeated or transferred between genres, like comedy and pastoral. 29 My most sincere thanks to Silvia Byer for her careful reading of this essay as a whole and her invaluable advice in this section in particular. 30 Charles Jernigan and Irene Marchegiani Jones, introduction to Aminta, by Torquato Tasso (New York: Italica P, 2000), xix. 31 That Campiglia was aware of Tasso’s Aminta and consciously works with the text in creating her own play seems evident from a letter Tasso sent the playwright praising her work, discussed in Ultsch, “Epithalamium Interruptum: Maddalena Campiglia’s New Arcadia”, 72. 32 This topos is found again in the pastoral episode of Marcela in Cervantes’s Don Quixote. 33 Campiglia, Maddalena. Flori, a Pastoral Drama. A Bilingual Edition, trans. Virginia Cox, eds. Virginia Cox and Lisa Sampson (Chicago: U Chicago P, 2004), 5.1.103-112. 34 Lori J. Ultsch, “Epithalamium Interruptum: Maddalena Campiglia’s New Arcadia,” 78. 35 Isabella Andreini, La Mirtilla, Ed. by Maria Luisa Doglio, (Lucca: Maria Pacini Fazzi Editore, 1995), 3.5.138-145.

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36

Virginia Cox and Lisa Sampson, introduction to Flori, a Pastoral Drama, A Bilingual Edition (Chicago: U Chicago P, 2004), 23. 37 Virginia Cox and Lisa Sampson, introduction to Flori, 25. 38 Maria Luisa Doglio, introduzione to La Mirtilla, by Isabella Andreini, ed. Maria Luisa Doglio (Lucca: Maria Pacini Fazzi Editore, 1995), 14. 39 Isabella Andreini, La Mirtilla, 4.4.2557-2561. 40 Maria Galli Stampino, “Pastoral Constraints, Textual and Dramatic Strategies: Isabella Andreini’s La Mirtilla and Torquato Tasso’s Aminta,” 11. 41 Laura Giannetti, Leila’s Kiss. Imagining Gender, Sex, and Marriage in Italian Renaissance Comedy (Toronto: U of Toronto P, 2009), 10. 42 Laura Giannetti, Leila’s Kiss, 13. 43 John T. Cull, “Androgyny in the Spanish Pastoral Novels,” Hispanic Review 57, no. 3 (Summer 1989): 318.

Bibliography Andreini, Isabella. La Mirtilla, Edited by Maria Luisa Doglio. Voci di Repertorio. Serie Rosa. Lucca: Maria Pacini Fazzi Editore, 1995. Campbell, Julie D. Introduction to La Mirtilla: A Pastoral. by Isabella Andreini, Translated by Julie D. Campbell. Medieval and Renaissance Texts and Studies Vol. 242. Tempe, AZ: Arizona Center for Medieval and Renaissance Studies, 2002. Campbell, Julie D., and Maria Galli Stampino. “Contexts and Canonical Authors.” In In Dialogue with the Other Voice in Sixteenth-Century Italy. Edited by Julie D. Campbell and Maria Galli Stampino. The Other Voice in Early Modern Europe: The Toronto Series. Toronto: Iter Inc. Center for Reformation and Renaissance Studies, 2011. Campiglia, Maddalena. Flori, a Pastoral Drama. A Bilingual Edition. Edited by Virginia Cox and Lisa Sampson. Translated by Virginia Cox. The Other Voice in Early Modern Europe. Chicago: U Chicago P, 2004. Cox, Virginia and Lisa Sampson. Introduction to Flori, a Pastoral Drama, A Bilingual Edition, by Maddalena Campiglia, 1-35. Edited by Virginia Cox and Lisa Sampson. Translated by Virginia Cox. The Other Voice in Early Modern Europe. Chicago: U Chicago P, 2004. Cro, Melinda. “Ekphrasis and the Feminine in Sannazaro’s Arcadia.” Romance Notes 52, no. 1 (2012): 71-78. Cull, John T. “Androgyny in the Spanish Pastoral Novels.” Hispanic Review 57, no. 3 (Summer 1989): 317-334. Doglio, Maria Luisa. Introduzione to La Mirtilla by Isabella Andreini, Edited by Maria Luisa Doglio. Voci di Repertorio. Serie Rosa. Lucca: Maria Pacini Fazzi Editore, 1995.

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Giannetti, Laura. Leila’s Kiss. Imagining Gender, Sex, and Marriage in Italian Renaissance Comedy. Toronto: U of Toronto P, 2009. Jernigan, Charles and Irene Marchegiani Jones. Introduction to Aminta by Torquato Tasso, ix-xxvii. New York: Italica P, 2000. Nash, Ralph. Introduction to Arcadia and Piscatorial Eclogues, by Jacopo Sannazaro, 7-26. Translated by Ralph Nash. Detroit: Wayne S UP, 1966. Poggioli, Renato. The Oaten Flute: Essays on Pastoral Poetry and the Pastoral Ideal. Cambridge: Harvard UP, 1975. Ricciardelli, Michele. “La Donna nell’Arcadia: ideale o realtà?” Italica 44, no. 4 (Dec. 1967): 425-432. Sampson, Lisa. Pastoral Drama in Early Modern Italy: The Making of a New Genre. Italian Perspectives Series. London: Legenda, 2006. Sannazaro, Jacopo. Arcadia. Edited by Francesco Erspamer. Milano: Gruppo Ugo Mursia Editore, 1990. Stampino, Maria Galli. “Pastoral Constraints, Textual and Dramatic Strategies: Isabella Andreini’s La Mirtilla and Torquato Tasso’s Aminta.” Italian Culture 22 (2004): 1-20. Tasso, Torquato. Aminta. Edited and translated by Charles Jernigan and Irene Marchegiani Jones. New York: Italica P, 2000. Ultsch, Lori J. “Epithalamium Interruptum: Maddalena Campiglia’s New Arcadia.” MLN 120 (2005): 70-92.

CHAPTER TWO ANTIGONE CONTENDED: HEGEL, CAVARERO AND BUTLER ON REPRESSION AND VULNERABILITY BETWEEN KINSHIP AND POLITICS ANDREA SARTORI

Why Antigone? As it is well known, Sigmund Freud built his theory about the functioning of the psyche upon Oedipus’s vicissitudes and heinous fate. In more recent times, Judith Butler has suggested that, because of its paradigmatic figure (Oedipus), Freud’s psychoanalysis is gendered and therefore much more telling of the male identity and the kin relationships associated to it, rather than of the female one. This chapter shifts the focus to Oedipus’s daughter, Antigone, as the archetypal figure onto which Western culture has projected its ideas about what woman is or could be. Following Butler on this issue, this essay argues that an Antigonean revision of psychoanalytic theory should accordingly call into question the normalized notion of kinship derived from the Oedipal framework of psychoanalysis. Such a notion, in Butler’s words, is “based in biological reproduction and the heterosexualization of the family.”1 This chapter does not provide a philological reading of Sophocles’ tragedy because it postulates Antigone as an empty screen that – over the years – has reflected what our society thinks of women and their role within the family and in politics. In the light of this premise, this essay discusses three key readings of Sophocles’ Antigone produced at different moments in the history of Western culture. The goal of such an investigation is to explore the shifting understanding of women’s role in a traditionally patriarchal culture like ours, where the subordination of the

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female identity to a stereotyped model of masculinity has begun to be openly questioned. According to the first, traditional (and patriarchal) reading of Sophocles’ tragedy – expounded by Georg W. F. Hegel in the Phenomenology of Spirit (1807) – the figure of Antigone is deprived of any political legacy because she stands for femininity and for kinship itself, both of which are perceived as expressions of irrationality, of something opposed to the law of men. However, based on personal documents researched by Hegel’s biographer Terry Pinkard, this chapter argues that Hegel’s reading is conditioned by his own biographical and affective background, in particular by a very close relationship – and possible family romance – with his sister Christiane. In such a perspective, Hegel’s view on Antigone can be said to be affected by the fundamental repression of the incestuous nature of Antigone’s love for her brother Polyneices. Conversely, the second reading, by the Italian feminist thinker Adriana Cavarero (1995), does not neglect the enigmatic and uncanny dimension of Antigone’s love. As Cavarero points out, the tragedy’s protagonist perpetuates the principle of maternal symbiosis originally embodied by her incestuous mother Jocasta. Although Cavarero recognizes that modern politics and the law of men are affected by the repression of what Antigone represents, this chapter argues, however, that the Italian author remains sympathetic with Hegel at a deeper level, because she still maintains that Antigone is a completely apolitical figure. Finally, Judith Butler’s post-modern and feminist reading of the tragedy (2000) allows us to move a step forward: Antigone is now not merely the dividing line between the political and apolitical domains, but also the dialectic limit that problematically connects the two spheres. Butler’s reading of the tragedy provides reasons in favor of the frailty of such a limit, that is to say of the porousness of kinship and human relations. In this way, Butler also alludes to the intimate feelings of pity and compassion as the possible fundamental elements for an ethics of vulnerability. In conclusion, Antigone’s femininity no longer stands for an identity that politics –conceived as the law of men– has to repress. Rather, her identity becomes the model for rethinking the relationship between intimacy and politics in a radically different way. Before moving to Hegel’s interpretation, let us briefly recall the plot of the tragedy. Antigone introduces Oedipus’s offspring: his two sons, Polyneices and Eteocles, and his two daughters, Antigone and Ismene. Eteocles holds the power in Thebes, but Polyneices claims the throne for himself. Polyneices therefore leads an attack on the city, and in the ensuing fighting the brothers are killed. Creon, brother of Jocasta, who

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was both mother and spouse of Oedipus, assumes power. As the new ruler of Thebes, Creon maintains that Polyneices had been a traitor, and thus denies the proper burial rituals for Polyneices’ body. He does, however, allow a proper burial to Eteocles, the other brother. In defiance of her uncle Creon’s edict, Antigone performs the burial rites on her wrongfully accused dead brother Polyneices, but is caught, and Creon sentences her to be entombed alive. While entombed, in the darkness of her grave, Antigone commits suicide, just before a repentant Creon – prompted by the Chorus – gives the orders to free his niece, and to give proper burial to Polyneices. This is the first in a series of catastrophes affecting Creon’s life in the aftermath of these events. As a result of Antigone’s death, Creon’s son Haemon, who had been betrothed to Antigone, kills himself, and Creon’s wife Eurydice, upon learning of their son’s death, commits suicide as well. Creon at this point begs death for himself, as the cause of his own family’s destruction: Let it come, let it come! May it appear, the best of deaths for me, bringing my final day, the best fate of all! Let it come, let it come, so that I may never look upon another day!2

A Pure Love: Hegel Hegel discusses the figure of Antigone in the Phenomenology of Spirit, where he remarks upon Antigone’s awareness of the essential norms required by the law of the gods: immediately and without any doubt, she acknowledges her duty to perform the burial rites for her brother Polyneices. The divine laws that regulate family duties are completely clear to Antigone’s consciousness: “The relationship of self-consciousness to them [the divine prescriptions] is […] simple and clear. They are, and nothing more.”3 Nobody knows where exactly those divine laws come from, precisely because they just are. While arguing this, Hegel quotes two lines from the tragedy: For these have life, not simply today and yesterday, but forever, and no one knows how long ago they were revealed.4

By performing the burial rites prescribed by the divine laws and accordingly by the family duties, Antigone’s ethical consciousness willingly infringes the law of the polis and her uncle’s edict: “ethical consciousness,” Hegel writes, “knows beforehand the law and the power which it opposes, if it takes them to be violence and wrong, to be ethical

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merely by accident, and, like Antigone, knowingly commits the crime.”5 Antigone consciously contradicts Thebes’ law, therefore her crime – consisting in taking care of Polyneices’ corpse – is more inexcusable to the eyes of the public sphere (to the polis) than if it had been accomplished without awareness. Hegel discusses extensively Antigone’s relationship with her brother Polyneices and the impact of kinship on politics and on the law in another portion of his text. In those paragraphs, Hegel strangely enough does not refer to Antigone by name, although the references to an unnamed sister and to her role within the family make clear that the philosopher still has in mind Sophocles’ tragedy and its female protagonist. In Hegel’s analysis, Antigone and Polyneices, as brother and sister, are “free individualities in regard to each other” because their relationship is not built on sexual desire, on those natural constraints which would diminish and limit their freedoms: “They are the same blood which has […] in them reached a state of rest and equilibrium.”6 In such a condition of rest and equilibrium – of pure love – only “the feminine, in the form of the sister, has the highest intuitive awareness of what is ethical.”7 Antigone’s understanding of the laws regarding kinship is intuitive, and her household ethics is an “inner feeling,” which “is not exposed to the daylight of consciousness.”8 The dichotomies between darkness of intuition and enlightened consciousness, between inward and outward world (where only the latter is linked to the public laws of the city), shape the relationship between sister and brother as well as between niece and uncle: they assign the realm of the household to the woman (“The woman is associated with these household gods [Penates] and beholds in them both her universal substance and her particular individuality”).9 She is the one who is in charge of regulating the events and the intimate acts pertaining to death (the burial rites) as well as to sexuality and birth because she has the highest insight into what is supposed to be ethical. Hegel indeed writes that “the law of the Family is an implicit, inner essence which […] is exempt from an existence in the real world”10 – that is to say, from an existence in the public sphere regulated by men, where female intuition is superseded by male reason. Furthermore, according to Hegel, the fact that there is no sexual desire between the two siblings allows Antigone to be fully recognized – thus becoming a self-conscious subject – by Polyneices but by no one else, neither outside nor within her family. She indeed could not attain a similar recognition in politics (where Creon is the ruler) because the political sphere is not her proper place in society, given that she is unrelated to the “daylight of consciousness”11 – which is the public dimension regulated by

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the city laws. In addition, in Hegel’s view, a relationship built on sexual desire (like that between husband and wife within the family) would not lead to the kind of mutual recognition that permits the woman to be an individual – for an individual is an individual only insofar as she is recognized by someone else (“Self-consciousness exists in and for itself when, and by the fact that, it so exists for another; that is, it exists only in being acknowledged”).12 Polyneices is, therefore, essential to Antigone’s identity precisely because there seems to be no incestuous bond between the two, and this absence of sexual desire allows Antigone the only measure of recognition that the Greek form of life grants her. This means we now face another dichotomy, the one between, on the one hand, desire, and on the other hand, the kind of recognition required to have one’s own identity, to be an individual. Antigone, in order to be an individual, needs to be recognized as such by her brother, but in order for her to be recognized, the complications of (unconscious) desire have to be set apart. Hegel summarizes the matter in this way: “the moment of the individual self, recognizing and being recognized, can here assert its right, because it is linked to the equilibrium of the blood and is a relation devoid of desire. The loss of the brother is therefore irreparable to the sister and her duty [the duty of the burial rites] towards him is the highest.”13 Accordingly, in Sophocles’ tragedy, Antigone exclaims: with my mother and my father in Hades below, I could never have another brother. Such was the law for whose sake I did you special honor, but to Creon I seemed to do wrong and to show shocking recklessness, O my own brother.14

What makes the Antigone a tragedy is that – as Terry Pinkard writes in his interpretation of Hegel’s Phenomenology – “each (Creon and Antigone) did what each had to do, and both sides were in the right: Creon as city ruler had the absolute obligation to protect it from attack by traitors […], whereas Antigone had the absolute duty to perform the proper burial rites on her brother.”15 No negotiation between the two sides is possible within the Greek form of life, and precisely the fact that both the positions are legitimate makes the whole story tragic. In order to begin to resolve the dichotomy between the law of the gods (accomplished by Antigone’s conduct) and the law of the city (dictated by Creon), the relationship between man and woman (brother and sister) within the family has to be broken up and to go beyond itself, toward a political dimension finally emancipated and detached from narrow and suffocating kinship’s ties.16 In such a political dimension, in the end,

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Creon should not have to invoke death for himself for having ignored the laws of the gods and the family duties. The Greek form of life therefore has to be transformed into a more modern way of dealing with politics (which means, in Hegel’s view, into the Roman law and its abstract category of persona). Regarding Antigone, Hegel holds that the character who could be in charge of accomplishing this deed – the one who could overcome the limits of “the self-contained life of the Family”17 and pursue a community life and more modern and rational idea of politics – is the brother, not the sister. “The brother,” Hegel writes, “leaves this immediate, elemental, and therefore, strictly speaking, negative ethical life of the Family, in order to acquire and produce the ethical life that is conscious of itself and actual.”18 Nonetheless, the emancipation of the brother (the man) from the selfcontained family’s ties, from the elemental and immediate negativity of the closest kin relationships, paves the way for a politics that will be oblivious to its origin in the conflict with the household ethics – with femininity and kinship – and thus ambiguously freed from it. Kinship – as embodied in its archetypical and post-Oedipal feminine figure, Antigone – indeed seems doomed to resurface as a haunting reminder, and not to be definitively silenced by the public law of men. It’s not by chance that, in Antigone’s conclusion, the law of the gods has a sort of posthumous revenge. The Chorus – as a figure of Greek fate – convinces Creon to perform the rituals on Polyneices’ body even though they are at that point untimely, and in so doing, brings the legitimate ruler to despair, precisely because the untimeliness of those rituals causes the destruction of the ruler’s family.

With Hegel, Beyond Hegel: The Unnamed Sister With reference to Antigone, Hegel upholds the platonic idea – broadly accepted through the 19th and 20th century – according to which the domain of politics is grounded on the repression and the breaking up of family ties. However what does it mean, to Hegel, that kinship ties are repressed in favor of the flourishing of the state? Does this repression have anything to do with the fact that the central figure of Antigone, in the most decisive passages of the Phenomenology, is never mentioned by name? If we turn our focus to some salient aspects of Hegel’s biography, we discover that –to Hegel– family ties not only matter, but they might even have affected his own interpretation of Sophocles’ tragedy. In his reconstruction of Hegel’s family environment, Pinkard recalls the figure of Christiane Hegel, the philosopher’s sister. Christiane was a strong-willed

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and intelligent woman, who “looks much like the strong-willed woman exemplified in the figure of Antigone, a figure of femininity that Hegel both celebrated and feared and whom he tried to explain as motivated by pure [not incestuous] love of her brother.”19 In the context of this entanglement of fear and awe, “Christiane also stepped into the role that Hegel’s mother had played,” to the point that “Hegel’s relationship with his sister was heavily colored by his reverential attitude toward his mother”; he indeed “maintained the memory of his mother through her.”20 These personal affections are even more remarkable if we consider that, according to Pinkard, outside the relationship with Christiane, Hegel “seems to have had virtually no contact at all with his family”: there are no records attesting to any particular closeness to his father or to his brother, and it seems – by Hegel’s own account – that nobody from his family attended his wedding.21 Furthermore, the way in which Christiane transferred her interest and her caring from her father (after his death) to her elder brother “also suggests (to use Freud’s term) a ‘family romance’ of somewhat strained relations.”22 It is even possible, on the basis of the biographical elements provided by Pinkard, to speculate that Hegel’s speech impediment –brought on by an anxiety about speaking in public– was a symptom of the (repressed) sense of guilt for having survived the same illness from which the philosopher’s mother died: the presumed “family romance” with Christiane as a substitute to make up for the loss of the mother would be consistent with the awe for Christiane herself and with the projection of these ambivalent feelings on the figure of Antigone in the Phenomenology. From this perspective, the choice of leaving Antigone unnamed – at least in the crucial passages where her relation to Polyneices is evoked – and the choice of considering her relationship to her brother a pure one, might be the result of Hegel’s bourgeois concern about his own family romance. We are trying to uncover here a repressed and yet resilient content, as much in Hegel’s biography as in his analysis of the unnamed Antigone. The exposure of that content allows us at least to formulate the following question: if Antigone’s love is not as pure as Hegel maintains, couldn’t the shift from the life of the family to a modern idea of the state be affected unconsciously to a certain extent by its own genealogy, by the origin it represses and that it claims to depart from? Hegel, in other words, seems to have set aside Antigone, so excluding her from the public sphere of the polis, because her femininity – her representing kin relations – reminded him of his ambivalent feelings for his sister Christiane. Perhaps also for this reason, Hegel disregarded the lines of the tragedy where – as we will soon see – the uncanny and potentially incestuous nature of Antigone’s

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affect is clearly stated. The text, in this case, it seems, acts like a mirror reflecting the unacceptable and disturbing dimension of Hegel’s own love, causing him then to repress what, to him, is too evident and therefore unbearable.

Maternal Whirlpool: Cavarero In his short and dense paper entitled Negation (1925), Sigmund Freud draws upon a detective story by Edgar Allan Poe, The Purloined Letter (1845), to explain that a repressed content is not concealed in some hidden corner of one’s consciousness: on the contrary, the repressed content is negated insofar as it is indeed on display, potentially under everybody’s eyes, though in a reversed, displaced, condensed form. The stolen letter of Poe’s short story, for example, is invisible precisely because it has always been in plain sight, in the Minister D.’s room, and not because it has been buried in some secret place. Things can go unseen when they are too evident: this counter-intuitive feature of the Freudian idea of negation has intrigued a series of thinkers, including Jacques Lacan and Jacques Derrida, among others. Hegel’s disregard for the incestuous characterization of Antigone’s love is glaringly undermined by the following lines, which assume the role of Poe’s stolen letter in defining Antigone’s family romance: O tomb, O bridal chamber, O deep-dug home, to be guarded forever, where I go to join those who are my own.23

Antigone has just been sentenced to be entombed alive, and she addresses her tomb as a “deep-dug home,” because she is going to join her parents in the after-life. Nonetheless, the same tomb is identified also as a “bridal chamber,” and in this case the only spouse she, once dead, could marry is her brother Polyneices, already dead himself. Adriana Cavarero has called attention to this quite visible although repressed impulse of Antigone, and in her interpretation of the tragedy, she points out that “the degree of blood kinship […] is radicalized, in Antigone, by the endogamous model of a generation whose sole source is maternal incest.”24 “The son of my own mother” (Antigone, lines 466-67), as Antigone identifies him, is in need of being buried, a son and a brother who carried within himself the hallmark of a family’s disaster; as Antigone says in dialogue with the Chorus, recognizing herself as descending from the same ill-fated mother:

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You have touched on a thought most painful for me, the fate of my father […]. Ah, the disaster of marriage with his mother, and my father’s incestuous couplings with his ill-fated mother! From what parents was I born, miserable one!25

We have here the principle of a maternal symbiosis previously embodied by Jocasta, who is “so much a mother, in fact, that she is mother not only of her ill-starred last four children, but also of their father.”26 When Antigone speaks of the point of departure of her lineage, she first identifies Jocasta, and not Oedipus, as the origin: My brother with the same mother and the same father.27 With my mother and my father in Haedes below, I could never have another brother.28

On the contrary, when Creon speaks, a patriarchal view is predominant: These are the rules by which I make our city great; and now in consonance with them I have made to the citizens this proclamation touching the sons of Oedipus.29

Creon’s edict is contrasted by a maternal “whirlpool” (risucchio) that brings the individualities of Antigone’s family back to a “symbiotic substance”30 whose goal is preserving the maternal blood, not the political laws of the city. In Cavarero’s interpretation there is no trace of the “state of rest and equilibrium”31 that Hegel writes of when he addresses the nature of the relationship between Antigone and her brother. In place of a mutual recognition between the siblings, and in place of a brother and a sister taken as free individualities in regard to each other, instead we have here the collapse of both into the paralyzing and engulfing maternal origin. Both of them, indeed, are affected by the archetypical and heinous family romance first incorporated into the figure of Jocasta. While analyzing the death drive, Freud pointed out something very similar to this idea of maternal whirlpool, which could be understood as the nostalgia towards being a single mass of flesh and blood. This instinct, Freud writes in Beyond the Pleasure Principle (1920), is “the expression of the inertia inherent in organic life,” the drive “to return to the inanimate state.”32 The other feminine figure in the tragedy, Ismene, sister of Antigone, is a completely different character, one who reflects the symbolic order of

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the father. Ismene has accepted the subordination of the woman, and this further underscores Antigone’s isolation: we must remember – Ismene says to her sister – that we are women, who cannot fight against men, and then that we are ruled by those whose power is greater, so that we must consent to this and to other things even more painful!33

On the contrary, Antigone – as Steiner writes – “speaks, literally as it were, ‘out of the womb’, out of timeless centrality of carnal impulse and of domesticity with death.”34 Antigone stands for a femininity that – along with kinship ties – is thrown out of and rejected from the domain of politics, but her body too “is symbolically expelled from the polis along with the women.”35 It is not a coincidence that the dispute between Creon and Antigone revolves around Polyneices’ dead body, and not instead around any platonic essence separated from his corporeity. To Polyneices’ body – in the form of a corpse – burial rites are denied. Indeed, throughout the entire tragedy, though the word psyche appears, it is never used to denote any entity that separates from the body in order to migrate to Hades.36 Femininity, kinship and body are equally repressed by patriarchal politics, by the law of men, in the sense that for all of them – femininity, kinship and body, at least in Antigone – political significance is ultimately denied. In Cavarero’s reading, Antigone’s diversity is so radical as to result in a substantially antipolitical (or unpolitical) stance. “Antigone,” Cavarero writes, “is completely antipolitical, she fulfills a double function as a radical otherness in relation to both contemporary democratic Athens and the tyrannical polis.”37 Creon, the tyrant, does suffer from the nemesis (the posthumous revenge) of the repressed blood ties, but, Cavarero further states, all his conclusive and ruinous adversities are “essentially unpolitical punishments.”38 This is why Cavarero says that in modern politics the body can resurface only as a metaphor, for example through the organ-like expressions employed to address and to explain what a political body is and how it is articulated: “…politics expels the body from its founding categories while for thousands of years the political order has been figured precisely through the metaphor of the body.”39 Even though Cavarero unmasks the incestuous and disturbing nature of Antigone’s love, it could be argued that Cavarero remains sympathetic with Hegel at a deeper level. In her writings, there is no way in which Antigone’s repressed family ties can be meaningful to politics and there is no chance for them to have any sort of political legacy. Repression of

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kinship, as a preliminary step for entering into politics, is truly regarded, in Cavarero’s reading, in a negative way, as the result of a patriarchal strategy that sublimates the body (along with the corporeal ties) into a set of metaphors –figures– functional to the political discourse of men. Nevertheless, similarly to Hegel, in Cavarero’s analysis the character of Antigone herself has no possibility of counteracting her antipolitical characterization. In line with Aristotle’s Poetics (1149b), on the tragic stage femininity can only instill fear and pity – sentiments not allowed to assume any political relevance.

Butler’s Claim Judith Butler’s step forward consists in interrogating those feelings – pity, in particular – along with the very nature of the line separating kinships from politics. The fact that, in her view, that line not only divides but also connects the two fields (body and law, kinships and politics) allows us to consider the terrifying maternal “whirlpool” in a more comprehensive light: that of human frailty and vulnerability. At this point, the question will not be about the metaphors that sublimate the unspeakable origins of politics, rather, it will be: what can human vulnerability, along with the frailty of its unstable kin relationships, mean to politics? In Antigone’s Claim, Butler radically questions the extent to which politics actually manages to repress kin relations and the body. According to her, Antigone is representative of the limit between public law and kinships, but in her view Antigone’s liminal position does not only separate the domain of politics from the one that Cavarero calls the antipolitical (the household ethics in Hegel’s Phenomenology), it also problematically links the two. So, Antigone’s speech does have political implications. First of all, Butler underlines that Antigone is not as unpolitical– in keeping with Hegel’s and Cavarero’s readings – as she might appear: “after all, she speaks, and speaks in public, precisely when she ought to be requested in the private domain”40. She has to be surpassed, expelled by the state, and yet she is able to speak in public. This happens, for example, when she addresses her sister Ismene by undisguisedly stating her will to bury their brother, with or without Ismene’s help.41 She contradicts the logic of exclusion outlined by Hegel, for whom, in Butler’s words, “Antigone figures the threshold between kinship and state, a transition in the Phenomenology that is not precisely an Aufhebung [the untranslated German is in Butler’s text], for Antigone is surpassed without ever being preserved when ethical order emerges.”42 Indeed, the terms used by Hegel

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to address the brother’s departure from the life of the family (the negation of the family) are to break up (auflösen) and to go beyond itself (außer sich gehen), not to supersede (aufheben). The latter (related to the substantive Aufhebung) is the verb with which Hegel usually denotes the negation that does not completely exclude, but, on the contrary, preserves the determination to be negated into a different concept’s configuration (English translators of Hegel often resort to sublation to render the German substantive Aufhebung). Antigone, in Butler’s view and against Hegel’s intentions, is somehow maintained within the law of the state, precisely while she is negated by it (she does speak in public). This is, from Butler’s perspective, her resilience, her irreducible antagonism, her ability to posit an essential contrastive relation between kinship and state, without actually absorbing the latter into the former. Antigone, rather, “absorbs the very language of the state against which she rebels, and hers becomes a politics not of oppositional purity but of the scandalously impure.”43 In Butler’s analysis, Antigone – through the language of sovereignty employed by the legitimate ruler as well – renegotiates the limits separating and assigning gender and power roles. Creon himself recognizes this, when he says: This girl knew well how to be insolent then, transgressing the established laws […]. Indeed, now I am no man, but she is a man.44

While speaking with Ismene –who complies with her inferior role in a patriarchal society– Antigone pronounces manly words, stating her will without hesitation: Well, I will bury my brother, and yours, if you will not; I will not be caught betraying him.45

Even more significantly, when Creon discovers Antigone going against his decree, she faces him and claims with fierce valor the authorship of the defiant act: I say that I did it and I do not deny it.46

Accordingly, the Chorus points out that –for Antigone– traditional gender’s distinctions vacillate:

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It is clear! The nature of the girl is savage, like her father’s, and she does not know how to bend before her troubles.47

Antigone speaks and acts her own mind in a way that was precluded to women in ancient Greece. Butler underlines that Antigone does this by adopting the same (male) language and behavior by which she is (and all women are) repressed. Antigone’s opposition, in Butler words, is scandalously impure, because she does not withdraw into the presumed purity of a totally antipolitical stance, as instead Cavarero and Hegel, in the last analysis, both argue. Hence, Antigone is a figure of the limit, of the boundary between kinship and politics, household and state, not because she keeps the two sides rigidly distinct one from another, but, rather, because she connects them without resolving either of them into the other. “She assumes the voice of the law,” Butler writes, “in committing the act against the law,” “thus her autonomy is gained through the appropriation of the authoritative voice of the one she resists, an appropriation that has within it traces of a simultaneous refusal and assimilation of that very authority.”48 Antigone’s borderline position has to be understood in those terms, as both a refusal and at the same time an assimilation of the political authority against which she is fighting. For Butler, therefore, it cannot be affirmed that she “represents the sanctity of kinship.”49 If she is able to assimilate at least some measure of political authority, she cannot be consigned exclusively to the presumed sanctity of (unpolitical) family bonds. Here Butler’s argumentation is remarkably distant from the traditional discussion of Sophocles’ tragedy, one that has been primarily molded by Hegelian oppositions. Quite ironically, refusing Hegel’s interpretation of Antigone, Butler implicitly affirms that Polyneices’s sister herself has a dialectical – that is, Hegelian – characterization, because dialectics captures relationships between different features and the mobility from one to the other, not binary juxtaposition. In this sense, Antigone cannot be exclusively identified with the sanctity of kinship, she cannot be resolved into such an immutable and formulaic image. Antigone is more Hegelian than Hegel allows her to be. Do we have here another motivation for Antigone being unnamed? Does Hegel refuse to identify the dialectical nature of his thought with Antigone, because she, as a woman who recalls Hegel’s family romance, stands by default for that which is unthinkable (and cannot be thought by the universal, by reason, by philosophy)? There is one more reason why Antigone cannot be identified with the sanctity of kinship, with an immutable image of family. Antigone, Butler maintains, is willing to defy Creon’s edict not in name of a general law,

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the law of the gods, but rather only in the name of her beloved brother. Her household (gods’) law does not apply to every kin relationship, but only to Polyneices, who is not reproducible. Therefore, the law of the family at the end “appears to have but one instance of application […]. This is a law of the instant and, hence, a law with no generality and no transposability.”50 It is a self-undermining law followed and performed by Antigone “not in the name of the god of kinship” – of its sanctity – “but by transgressing the very mandates of those gods, a transgression that gives kinship its prohibitive and normative dimension but that also exposes its vulnerability.”51 Antigone’s disturbing love for Polyneices is not allowed; it is prohibited not only by Creon’s edict but by kinship laws as well as by the sanctity of the household. Hegel could not point out this implication of Antigone’s love because in his view that love was pure, and thus intelligible only within the framework of the accepted kin laws and relations; it was not an exception to that domain. Incestuous characterization of Antigone’s love apart, the point here is the paradox of an individual law, as Butler writes, of a law that has only one instance of application and that applies to a singular and not reproducible human being. That paradox, in Butler’s analysis, is revelatory of the vulnerability of kinship ties, of them being exposed to something unpredictable and yet claiming to be intelligible. That the individual law applies to a non-reproducible singularity demonstrates “the socially contingent character of kinship”;52 Butler then connects her interpretation of Antigone to our contemporary age, “a time” –that of multiply layered family situations– “in which kinship has become fragile, porous, and expansive”:53 the opposite of a sanctity to be preserved immutable. The frailty of kinship, its porousness, are deeply connected to contemporary uncertainties. For example, what does it mean, today, that a son can have parents who are both mothers, in place of a mother and a father? What does it mean that in certain family conditions a brother de facto assumes the role of the father? What does all of this mean to politics, to the public, shared law? Confronting – in a radical way – the limit that connects kinship to the public sphere of rights and law, Antigone brings sexuality, life and death into politics. And yet, her purpose is not to impose the law over bare life, as in the case of Michel Foucault’s idea of biopolitics; it is rather to find in body and kinship issues the opportunity for a new –more inclusive and comprehensive– articulation of law and political devices. Antigone’s main problem, indeed, is “trying to grieve, to grieve openly, publicly, under conditions in which grief is explicitly prohibited by an edict.”54 Her condition is not far from that of many unconventional couples who have

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never experienced the right to openly mourn a partner. This is why, at the root of Butler’s thoughts on Antigone, we find an interrogation of the elemental feelings of pity and compassion, an interrogation of human vulnerability, and its inevitable proximity to mourning and death.

Limit Antigone, once entombed, is dying but is still alive, and thus embodies the ultimate limit upon which any human experience is constructed: the limit between life and death – where death is foreshadowed by the regression to the maternal symbiosis, by the flashing appearance of the uncanny whirlpool to which Jocasta and Oedipus lend their tragic masks. The issue of the limit is addressed by Butler in discussing Lacan’s interpretation of Antigone in his Seminar VII (The Ethics of Psychoanalysis, 1959-1960). Lacan’s general subject in the seminar is the border between Symbolic and Real. It is precisely in discussing Lacan that Butler’s conception of the limit will be revealed as quite Hegelian. For Butler, Creon’s niece personifies two contradictory and always fragmentary qualities. On the one hand, she separates the household ethics from the rational law, the elemental family ties from politics. However, on the other hand, she links both dimensions to each other. Antigone lives in and of this dialectic between one side and the other of the limit – the limit that she is. What, then, is a limit in Hegel’s view –a view adopted, although to a certain extent reluctantly, by Butler? In his Science of Logic (1812-1816), Hegel addresses the topic of the most restless determination of thought, that of “finitude,” which is always on the point of trespassing into its opposite, the infinite. “Something” and “Other” are the categories employed to develop the apparently simple matter of what the finite is. Finitude, indeed, is not a ready-made determination of thought, as it seems to be at first glance. Finitude is not just something, but something that is in some sort of relationship to an other, to something else. Clark Butler, in order to explain this issue in Hegel’s logic, writes: “The sky is determinately dark only if it is alternately light, or if something else is so. Apart from daylight, the darkness of the night falls into indeterminateness. A twenty-four-hour Arctic night could be dark by contrast to a purely imagined daylight of the same night.”55 In order for the finitude to be something determinate, it needs to be related – or opposed, as opposition itself is a kind of relation – to another determination, even if only a purely imagined one. In Hegel’s words: “Something is in itself, as opposed to its Being-for-Other.”56 The contrasting relationship between something and other, which forms a determination, “passes over into Modification, which

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is identical with the determination and constitutes the immanent and simultaneously negated Being-for-Other, which is the limit of Something.”57 When a determination is modified, and turns into something different, it becomes clear that the contrasting relationship opposing, and hence relating, something and other, is immanent to something, as a negation that simultaneously negates and constitutes the something itself. Something therefore is transformed into something different and at the same time it remains itself, as constituted, and affected, by other. Focusing on the reading of the figure of Antigone implicitly provided by Lacan in The Other Side of Psychoanalysis (Seminar XVII, 19691970),58 Rebecca Colesworthy poignantly argues that “the point here is not to collapse the distinction between gender norms and sexual difference.”59 And even more clearly: “the transgression of classical gender norms figures the hysteric’s [Antigone’s] question of sexual difference by revealing sexual difference […] to be internal to the individual subject.”60 Antigone indeed speaks with the manly voice of the ruler, but she remains Creon’s niece. Accordingly: Antigone experiences death in life, but she is still alive; Antigone’s love questions the symbolic order of politics, and forces the symbolic order to rearticulate itself differently. All this means that something unveils the limit by which it is internally constituted, precisely because it is something limited, exposed to its immanent negation (to its opposite), as constitutionally vulnerable as everything that is finite. As Hegel states, such a “limit is the immanent determination of Something itself, which accordingly is the Finite.”61 Here Hegel uses the German word Grenze in discussing “limit.” When addressing a different, abstract, rigid conception of limit, the one pertaining to Kantian moralism, to the Ought in moral philosophy, Hegel refers instead to Schranke, that is to a “barrier.” A limit is a barrier when it is determined “only as opposed to its Other in general, that is something unrestricted: for the Other of a barrier is just the beyond.”62 The Other of a barrier is vague and indeterminate, it is “something unrestricted.” It is the abstract Ought professed by Kantian moral philosophy, and it is not determinate like the daylight opposed, and related, to the Arctic night. It is not determinate like the affirmation of Antigone’s will against Creon’s edict. It is not determinate like the specific affection that begins to become intelligible from within the established order of kin relationships, an order that previously repressed the public acknowledgment of that specific affection, making it unintelligible, unthinkable, unspeakable. A barrier relates, and opposes, something to its indeterminate, unrestricted beyond. Therefore, overcoming a barrier, rather than a limit, easily results into being thrown back to the starting point, to the initial

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determination we intended to question, because beyond it we face only the vagueness of a vast territory where there is no sense of direction. The Kantian moral imperative (the Other of a barrier) orders: “You ought.” Broadly speaking, the constant Hegelian objection to this is: “What should I do?.” The access to this specific what is granted, in Hegel’s perspective, by an ethics centered on the Other of a limit (not on the Other of a barrier), that is to say, on an Other that structures intersubjective and finite (vulnerable) relationships, not merely requiring abstract and indeterminate moral injunctions, as the beyond (the Other) of a barrier does. The Other of a limit is something concrete, internal to the finite and not beyond (external to) it, not vague nor indeterminate, because it is embodied in this specific finite determination, claiming attention and care from me. However, the fact that in Antigone’s Claim, Butler employs a Hegelian conception of the limit (Grenze) is not enough to maintain that her project as a whole is Hegelian. Indeed, notwithstanding the unexpected twists of his reflections on the logic of thought, Hegel has pretty common and conventional ideas about what a family is or what it should be. From his early works tracing back to the period of Jena (1801-1807), to the later years in Berlin, he maintained the repression of the unnamed, the rigid separation between female identity and family on the one hand, and the public dimension of politics on the other one. In addressing the System of Ethical Life (1802), and later the relationships between family, civil society and the state, Hegel never escaped the traditional views on gender roles of his times. Nonetheless, the philosophical issue of the limit brings with itself the historiographical problem of Hegel’s heritage, even in regards to his interpretation of Antigone. In this case, it’s worth repeating what Foucault said in his conference Orders of Discourse, delivered in 1971 at the Collège de France. “Truly to escape Hegel,” Foucault said, “involves an exact appreciation of the price we have to pay to detach ourselves from him. It assumes that we are aware of the extent to which Hegel, insidiously perhaps, is close to us; it implies a knowledge in that which it permits us to think against Hegel, of that which remains Hegelian. We have to determine the extent to which our anti-Hegelianism is possibly one of his tricks directed against us, at the end of which he stands, motionless, waiting for us.”63 Whether Butler’s partial Hegelianism is something she wittingly pursues or not, it is at any rate possible to say that thinking about Antigone in dialectical terms, as a woman who speaks in public with manly voice, for example, is precisely what Hegel, for whatever reason, did not accomplish.

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Towards an Ethics of Vulnerability At this point, the following question could be asked: what could happen, in the future, to generations of human beings whose psychic life cannot be easily forced into an archetype regulating kinship in patriarchal terms, in terms of the law of the father? Trying to answer these questions, Butler argues for the necessity of a re-articulation of both politics and of the oedipal framework of psychoanalysis, for new ways of living one’s affections and of shaping one’s family that for a long time were not recognized in the public sphere have surfaced. Nevertheless, a doubt about Butler’s proposal might still persist, and it could be roughly summarized as follows: does Butler argue in favor of the liberation of the regressive, if not psychotic, power of individual impulses within human relationships, and accordingly within politics? The answer is “no,” and Butler is clear about this: “It is no doubt important […] to refuse the conclusion that the incest taboo must be undone in order for love to freely flourish everywhere.”64 On the other hand, it is true that, for Butler, psychoanalysis has rarely “addressed the question of how new forms of kinship can and do arise on the basis of the incest taboo,” and this field of investigation might be considered appropriate for an “Antigonean revision of psychoanalytic theory.”65 Butler’s point, indeed, is that “from the presumption that one cannot – or ought not to – choose one’s closest family members as one’s lovers and marital partners, it does not follow that the bonds of kinship that are possible assume any particular form.”66 In fact, when non heterosexual couples claim rights about their family life, which the law still denies them in many places, what happens is similar to Sophocle’s tragedy. The claim is unthinkable in the language it resists, unthinkable in terms of the same laws it aims at abrogating. Yet that same claim is the beginning of intelligible discourse, a discourse that tries to renegotiate the limits of its own exclusion, that argues against its being unthinkable: “the impossible emerges in the language of the law and makes its claim precisely there in the sphere of legitimate kinship that depends on its exclusion or pathologization.”67 A revision of the oedipal psychoanalytic framework, as well as a reformulation of the boundaries between kinship and politics, are necessary. Both should take into account the idea of vulnerability as it emerges from Butler’s discourse. An ethics centered on the awareness of the frailty of kinship can counteract the liberation of deregulated impulses into both politics and the field of human relationships. After all, it is precisely because the symbolic order of kinship is vulnerable and frail that someone can make her own public claim, and thus ask for the recognition

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of her own desire – at least inasmuch as that desire can counter the devices of a repression historically blind to the elemental feelings of pity and compassion. An ethics of vulnerability therefore should be at the basis of any “struggle to rearticulate the very terms of symbolic legitimacy and intelligibility,”68 where these “terms” are nothing other than the socially constructed and accepted norms of kinships, human relationships, and politics. Since the publication of Bodies that Matter, Butler has had clearly in mind the “paradox of subjectivation” related to radical social constructivism – and then projected onto the figure of Antigone as a resistant – a paradox which is “precisely that the subject who would resist such norms is itself enabled, if not produced, by such norms.”69 If everything, the subject and the norms, is the result of a social construction and nothing more than that, what, then, can guide us and help us to distinguish what is worthwhile from what is repulsive, what is repulsive from what is entirely unacceptable? Who is able to make such a decision? And what about the normativity that the subject needs in order to find an orientation among those questions? The idea of an ethics of vulnerability, as it seems to be alluded to in Antigone’s Claim, should be seen as a tool that enables us to soften the paradox of subjectivation, or rather the paradox of social constructivism itself, because the sensitivity to the vulnerability of the other is something more and at the same time something less than a socially constructed norm. It is the elemental awareness of being – collectively – exposed to an unexpected, potentially wounding event, to an instance that we are called to come to terms with. In the aftermath of the events of 9/11, Butler has further highlighted the political potential of such a collective vulnerability, an idea which was already present in the essay on Antigone. In Precarious Life Butler indeed writes that she proposes “to consider a dimension of political life that has to do with our exposure to violence and our complicity in it, with our vulnerability to loss and the task of mourning that follows, and with finding a basis for community in these conditions.”70 Being vulnerable, in other words, means experiencing, together, the limitation and finitude of our lives. In Antigone’s perspective, it means to be exposed both to the power of sovereignty – whose language we, at any rate, have to be able to speak – and, to the other extreme, to the radical danger of a psychotic collapse, of being engulfed – given the frailty of kinship – into unbearable, suffocating affective bonds. Into a figure of death. Being vulnerable, on the other hand, also entails responsibly negotiating the limits that constitute our vulnerability, our finitude, having pity and compassion (the sensitivity to the vulnerability of another human

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being) as milestones of any attitude towards the other. This seems to be the original inspiration at the basis of Butler’s seminal theorizations in Bodies that Matter, where the resignification of social exclusion rests upon a deeply felt affective commitment that is “crucial to creating the kind of community in which surviving with AIDS becomes more possible, in which queer lives become legible, valuable, worthy of support, in which passion, injury, grief, aspiration become recognized without fixing the terms of that recognition in yet another conceptual order of lifelessness and rigid exclusion.”71 Oedipus’ heirs, in the aftermath of his daughter Antigone’s death, are, after a long history of repression, asked to face the frailty of their kinship ties in order to challenge politics to move towards new configurations of gender relationships, and not merely towards regressive and fusional forms of parental attachments, as many detractors of feminist and post-modern theories (queer and transgender, for example) maintain. In all of this, Antigone still occupies a fundamental role, at least in Butler’s interpretation, where she – maybe surprisingly – is seen as a figure opening the future and not entombing the past. Cavarero’s reading, on the other hand, seems to point toward the latter; it takes Antigone’s sterility, her impossibility of generating new life, as a conclusive feature of her character: “Antigone is denied generative power altogether. Hers is only a backward gaze, concerned with those already born.”72 Part of Butler’s post-modern and feminist claim also lies in the fact that there is future, in the Antigone, for both affections and politics, even if the generative power of femininity – the birth from the womb – is radically questioned by the vulnerability of kinship relations.

Conclusion In this chapter we have addressed Sophocles’ Antigone from three different cultural perspectives, each of them portraying the female identity – personified in Antigone’s archetype – in different ways. According to Hegel’s reading of Sophocles’ tragedy, at its very origin the political sphere negates and overpowers everything that Antigone represents: body, femininity, kinship. The public sphere denies these aspects associated with Antigone any political legacy because they are perceived as an expression of irrationality, as something radically different from the law of men. As we have seen, Hegel might have had deeply rooted personal reasons to deny the tragedy’s protagonist any political, public role. A presumed family romance with his sister Christiane could have motivated the philosopher both to keep Antigone’s ambiguous love for her brother

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Polyneices at bay, and to repress any significance kinship and family ties might have for politics. Cavarero’s feminist reading opposes Hegel’s traditional and patriarchal interpretation in as much as it unveils the uncanny nature of Antigone’s love, a feeling that –in Cavarero’s view– reconnects Antigone’s figure to the symbiotic and psychotic whirlpool originally engendered by her incestuous mother Jocasta. However, by identifying Antigone with such an elemental and suffocating drive, Cavarero is still sympathetic with the Hegelian idea that Antigone is an antipolitical figure: Antigone does criticize the manly domain of politics, but she does that from outside of it. Conversely, in Butler’s reading of Antigone, the protagonist is capable of a more refined dialectical stance, which allows her to speak with the voice of the patriarchal order she resists and actively opposes. From such a perspective, Antigone is a figure of the limit between the antipolitical and the political, never completely assimilated into either of the two realms, while having a lot to say about both. In conclusion, as Antigone is exposed both to the uncanny whirlpool taking root in the closest kin relations and –at the same time– to the language of power exerted by men, this chapter has argued that Sophocles’ female archetype amounts to an icon for an ethics of vulnerability.

Notes 1

Judith Butler, Antigone’s Claim. Kinship Between Life and Death (New York: Columbia University Press, 2000), 66. 2 Sophocles, Antigone (Cambridge-London: Harvard University Press, 1994), lines 1328-32. 3 Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel, Phenomenology of Spirit (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1977), 261. 4 Sophocles, Antigone, lines 456-57. 5 Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel, Phenomenology of Spirit, 284. 6 Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel, Phenomenology of Spirit, 274. 7 Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel, Phenomenology of Spirit, 274. 8 Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel, Phenomenology of Spirit, 274. 9 Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel, Phenomenology of Spirit, 274. 10 Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel, Phenomenology of Spirit, 274. 11 Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel, Phenomenology of Spirit, 274. 12 Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel, Phenomenology of Spirit, 111. 13 Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel, Phenomenology of Spirit, 275. 14 Sophocles, Antigone, lines 910-14. 15 Terry Pinkard, Hegel’s Phenomenology. The Sociality of Reason (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994), 144. 16 Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel, Phenomenology of Spirit, 275. 17 Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel, Phenomenology of Spirit, 275.

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Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel, Phenomenology of Spirit, 275. Terry Pinkard, Hegel. A Biography (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), 317-18. 20 Terry Pinkard, Hegel, 315-16. 21 Terry Pinkard, Hegel, 711, note 122. 22 Terry Pinkard, Hegel, 711, note 122. 23 Sophocles, Antigone, lines 891-93. 24 Adriana Cavarero, Stately Bodies. Literature, Philosophy and the Question of Gender (Ann Arbor: The University of Michigan Press, 2002), 26. “Il grado di parentela consanguinea […] si radicalizza in Antigone nel modello endogamico di una generazione che ha l’incesto materno a sua unica fonte,” Adriana Cavarero, Corpo in figure. Filosofia e politica della corporeità (Milano: Feltrinelli, 1995), 32. 25 Sophocles, Antigone, lines 857-66. 26 Adriana Cavarero, Stately Bodies, 26. “Tanto ossessivamente madre da essere madre non solo dei suoi ultimi quattro infelici figli, ma anche del padre di questi,” Adriana Cavarero, Corpo in figure, 33. 27 Sophocles, Antigone, line 513. 28 Sophocles, Antigone, lines 910-11. 29 Sophocles, Antigone, lines 192-93. 30 Adriana Cavarero, Stately Bodies, 29. 31 Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel, Phenomenology of Spirit, 274. 32 Sigmund Freud, Beyond the Pleasure Principle (New York-London: W. W. Norton & Company, 1989), 43and 46. 33 Sophocles, Antigone, lines 61-67. 34 George Steiner, Antigones (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1984), 185. 35 Adriana Cavarero, Stately Bodies, 25. “Con le donne è stato […] simbolicamente espulso dalla polis anche il corpo,” Adriana Cavarero, Corpo in figure, 31. 36 Adriana Cavarero, Stately Bodies, 19. 37 Adriana Cavarero, Stately Bodies, 14. “Antigone, in quanto del tutto antipolitica, ha la duplice funzione di comparire come un’alterità radicale, sia nei confronti dell’Atene contemporanea [e democratica], sia nei confronti della polis tirannica,” Adriana Cavarero, Corpo in figure, 19. 38 Adriana Cavarero, Stately Bodies, 40. “Contrappassi sostanzialmente impolitici,” Adriana Cavarero, Corpo in figure, 48. 39 Adriana Cavarero, Stately Bodies, 4. “La politica, pur scacciando il corpo dalle peculiari categorie su cui viene a fondarsi, lo recupera come metafora figurale del suo ordine,” Adriana Cavarero, Corpo in figure, 8. 40 Judith Butler, Antigone’s Claim, 4. 41 Sophocles, Antigone, lines 45-46. 42 Judith Butler, Antigone’s Claim, 5. 43 Judith Butler, Antigone’s Claim, 5. 44 Sophocles, Antigone, lines 480-84. 45 Sophocles, Antigone, lines 45-46. 46 Sophocles, Antigone, line 443. 47 Sophocles, Antigone, lines 471-72. 19

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Judith Butler, Antigone’s Claim, 11. Judith Butler, Antigone’s Claim, 9. 50 Judith Butler, Antigone’s Claim, 10. 51 Judith Butler, Antigone’s Claim, 10. 52 Judith Butler, Antigone’s Claim, 6. 53 Judith Butler, Antigone’s Claim, 22. 54 Judith Butler, Antigone’s Claim, 79. 55 Clark Butler, Hegel’s Logic. Between Dialectic and History (Evanston, Illinois: Northwestern University Press, 1998), 50. 56 Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel, Science of Logic. Vol. 1 (New York: The Macmillan Company, 1929), 129. 57 Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel, Science of Logic. Vol. 1, 129. 58 In general terms, Lacan’s interpretation of Sophocles’ tragedy provided in Seminar VII (1959-1960) sees in Antigone a figure that works against the libidinal economy, that is against the self-preservation of the subject and of its functions. In Freudian vocabulary, Lacan argues that Antigone is beyond the pleasure principle, and establishes an uncanny intimacy with the death drive, which dissipates, rather than maintaining and protecting, the libidinal energies of the individual. Different is the case of Butler’s interpretation, according to which Antigone critically dwells both the darkness of the feminine realm and the manly spheres of politics, law and production. 59 Rebecca Colesworthy, “Antigone as Figure.” Angelaki: Journal of the Theoretical Humanities 18, no. 4 (2013): 35. 60 Rebecca Colesworthy, “Antigone as Figure,” 35. 61 Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel, Science of Logic. Vol. 1, 129. 62 Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel, Science of Logic. Vol. 1, 146-47. 63 Michel Foucault, “Orders of Discourse.” Social Science Information 10, no. 7 (1971): 28. 64 Judith Butler, Antigone’s Claim, 24. 65 Judith Butler, Antigone’s Claim, 66. 66 Judith Butler, Antigone’s Claim, 66. 67 Judith Butler, Antigone’s Claim, 68. 68 Judith Butler, Bodies that Matter: On the Discursive Limits of Sex (New York: Routledge, 1993), 3 69 Judith Butler, Bodies that Matter, 13. 70 Judith Butler, Precarious Life. The Powers of Mourning and Violence (LondonNew York: Verso, 2004), 19. 71 Judith Butler, Bodies that Matter, 21. 72 Adriana Cavarero, Stately Bodies, 30. “Ad Antigone è negato un generare che riaprirebbe in avanti la stirpe […]: il suo sguardo è chiamato soltanto all’indietro, alla cura del già generato,” Adriana Cavarero, Corpo in figure, 37. 49

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Bibliography Butler, Clark. Hegel’s Logic. Between Dialectic and History. Evanston, Illinois: Northwestern University Press, 1998. Butler, Judith. Bodies that Matter: On the Discursive Limits of Sex. New York: Routledge, 1993. —. Antigone’s Claim. Kinship Between Life and Death. New York: Columbia University Press, 2000. —. Precarious Life. The Powers of Mourning and Violence. London-New York: Verso, 2004. Cavarero, Adriana. Corpo in figure. Filosofia e politica della corporeità. Milano: Feltrinelli, 1995. —. Stately Bodies. Literature, Philosophy and the Question of Gender. Translated by R. de Lucca and D. Shemek, Introduction by D. Shemek. Ann Arbor: The University of Michigan Press, 2002 [Translation of Corpo in figure]. Colesworthy, Rebecca. “Antigone as Figure.” Angelaki: Journal of the Theoretical Humanities 18, no. 4 (2013): 23-42 Freud, Sigmund. Beyond the Pleasure Principle. Translated and Edited by J. Strachey. New York-London: W. W. Norton & Company, 1989. Foucault, Michel. “Orders of Discourse.” Social Science Information 10, no. 7 (1971): 7-30. Hegel, Georg Wilhelm Friedrich. Science of Logic. Translated by W. H. Johnston and L. G. Struthers. Vol. 1. New York: The Macmillan Company, 1929. —. Phenomenology of Spirit. Translated by A. V. Miller. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1977. Pinkard, Terry. Hegel’s Phenomenology. The Sociality of Reason. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994. —. Hegel. A Biography. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000. Sophocles. Antigone. The Women of Trachis. Philoctetes. Oedipus at Colonus. Edited and Translated by H. Lloyd-Jones. CambridgeLondon: Harvard University Press, 1994. Steiner, George. Antigones. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1984.

CHAPTER THREE THE INSIDER’S VOICE, OR “L’ABITO NON FA LA MONACA”: ARCANGELA TARABOTTI’S REVISED REPRESENTATION OF THE NUN ELISA MODOLO

Arcangela Tarabotti, seventeenth-century Venetian nun and polemicist, provided with her life and writings an essential contribution to the Querelle des femmes and to our knowledge of women’s life and gender restrictions in the Early Modern era. Her literary works represent the first vigorous and compelling attack launched by a woman writer toward the patriarchal system embodied by social, religious, and political institutions. By intervening in defense of women, she reshaped their literary representations. To thoroughly comprehend the subversive nature of Tarabotti’s arguments, we need to examine her literary production in the light of traditional representations of nuns, following a line that extends from the Middle Ages to present day. The convent, as an enclosed place separated from the outside world, has always been surrounded by a nuance of mystery. This is true especially in regard to nunneries, as virginal, women-only spaces governed by seclusion, which forbade their inhabitants from leaving the building and strongly limited external contacts. Outsiders, therefore, strove to penetrate the secrets of these places, if only with their imagination. They peeked into a private space to catch a glimpse of the forbidden, with a gaze that assumed voyeuristic implications. The external male gaze, thus, eroticize nuns as the object of a prohibited desire. The pleasure of looking at another person as an erotic object, especially in the duality of ‘male as observer’ and ‘woman as observed’, constitutes an instance of the so-called scopophilic pleasure.1

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The fact that convents worked also as centers that disciplined natural instincts contributed to attach an erotic aura to their inhabitants: as Laven highlights, “nunneries have always been deemed to serve an important function in containing the lust of women. But it was well known that even the highest and most secure walls could be penetrated and that enclosure failed to obliterate sexuality in the convent” (183). The widespread phenomenon of monacazione forzata (coerced monacation) exacerbated this situation, as women forced to profess a vocation against their will were the most likely to misbehave and betray their vows, including that of chastity. Giovanni Tiepolo, Venetian Patriarch from 1619 to 1631, recognized the sacrifice of noblewomen obligated to enter the cloister, given that, had they been born male, they would have probably been rulers. Nevertheless, he considered this measure a necessary evil to control women and preserve order in the society.2 He thus exemplified the stance of the seventeenth-century Catholic Church toward this phenomenon. In seventeenth-century Venice, moreover, the Catholic Church increased its efforts to monitor the conduct of its members, on the wave of the reforms that the Council of Trent (1545 – 1563) promulgated. These reforms included implementing a stricter discipline and seclusion that further burdened the life of unwilling nuns (Sperling 157-158). Venice records several examples of nuns’ misbehavior concerning chastity in that period: in 1564 two Corner sisters at San Maffio in Mazzorbo became pregnant, provoking a scandalized reaction among their fellow sisters, who strove to distance themselves from those women’s conduct (Laven 184). In 1614 nun Laura Querini and her conversa Suor Zaccaria from San Zaccaria arranged for their two lovers, Andrea Foscarini and Alvise Zorzi, to consummate their relationship within the walls of the convent, causing a scandal with penal repercussions on the involved participants (Laven 179-182). Claustration also favored homoerotic episodes among inhabitants of the convent: in 1594 authorities uncovered a series of love affairs between nuns and boarding girls at Santa Marta, the following year the nuns of Santa Croce in Giudecca engaged in sensual practices among themselves, and in 1626 three nuns of San Iseppo convent were accused of engaging in intimate relationships with each other. Strict rules of chastity coupled with forced enclosure, thus, ignited lay people’s voyeurism toward nunneries, perceived as reservoirs of repressed sexual desire. Male authors explored and exploited this phenomenon in their narratives: nuns’ secluded life often became the white screen into

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which they projected their transgressive fantasies. A tradition that presented nuns as brimming with unsatisfied sexual impulses was born. This article explores Arcangela Tarabotti’s reinterpretation of the figure of the nun: the relevance of her contribution lies in its ability to revise the model created and promoted by a male literary and iconographic tradition. I argue that Tarabotti, a nun herself, provides the insider’s perspective, giving voice to the female version, in a powerful reversal of the dominant viewpoint. Tarabotti’s discourse develops around the disparity between lay women and nuns, determined by patriarchal institutions, and reflected in the symbolic value of women’s clothes. I will thus concentrate on two of the nun’s worksAntisatira in risposta al lusso donnesco and Inferno monacale that delve into these themes, identifying a shared topic (Tarabotti’s interest in clothing) that connects these two different texts. In the Middle Ages, a notable example of the male literary tradition that eroticizes nuns emerges with Giovanni Boccaccio’s first novella of the third day of his Decameron. It establishes a connection between nuns and eroticism by depicting an entire nunnery—abbess included—involved in the seduction of the young gardener Masetto di Lamporecchio.3 The Tuscan author explicitly refers to the nuns’ habit, drawing attention to its interplay with the female identity: “[people] who are so stupid as to believe that when the white veil is placed on a girl’s head, and her body covered in a black habit, she is no longer a woman and does not feel the feminine appetites, as if in becoming a nun she had been turned into stone” (318). We can thus infer that, by drawing attention to the function of the uniform, Boccaccio connects women’s religious habits and sexual impulses. A milestone in this field is Pietro Aretino’s Ragionamento della Nanna e dell’Antona (1534) where, in the “first day” of the dialogue Nanna, who experienced each of the three social statuses available for a woman (nun, wife, and courtesan), describes her entrance into a nunnery as a novice. After the solemn oath with all the regular procedures, the novice discovers that nuns and friars spend their time enjoying themselves cheerfully: her first lunch in the refectory becomes an orgy and, during the night, man and women exchange dresses, as they exchange sexual roles. The parlor of this convent even displays frescoes depicting allusive scenes: the legendary Santa Nafissa (a fictional saint who provided free sensual comfort to the needy), Boccaccio’s short story on Masetto, several portraits of nuns with their lovers and children, and a figurative catalogue of sexual positions that serves as a model (128-131).4

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Aretino’s emphasis on the nun who violates the chastity vow appealed to the male’s erotic imagination, deeply influencing the following literature. In the libertine period, the Letters of a Portuguese Nun (1669) attributed to Gabriel-Joseph de Guilleraguesmerged sensuality with feelings, whereas Diderot’s La Religieuse (The Nun, 1796) introduced the topos of same-sex eroticism through the character of a lustful prioress attracted to her fellow nuns. These last two works are presented as a series of letters written by a nun in first person, but they actually are fictional texts written by lay, male authors. Giacomo Casanova’s love affair with an unidentified noble nun from S. Maria degli Angeli in Murano constitutes the most resounding among this bon vivant’s endeavors, since he managed to seduce not just a mere bride of man, but the bride of Christ. This particular transgression played a role in Casanova’s trial and condemnation as it constituted a crime of disregard for religion.5 The markedly sexual nuance that these authors applied to their representations of nuns, however, is not a gratuitous addition, but rather a step in a more general critique of their contemporary society. Boccaccio and Aretino point to the immorality of the convents in order to reproach the corruption and the worldliness of the clergy. Diderot rebukes the Church as a coercive organization by warning against the repression of innate desires that can trigger their deviations toward un-natural and depraved ends. A shared trait unifies the aforementioned texts: their authors are male, thus not directly involved neither with clausura, nor with monacazione forzata. Their narrations convey the imagery surrounding the figure of the nun as seen from the outside. But what about the real nuns? How does their reversed point of view change the dominant perspective? Do they concentrate on their circumscribed world or, on the contrary, are they attracted by the unreachable outside? Tarabotti’s passionate examination of coerced enclosure and of clothes as a status symbol provides the answer. She emerges as a first-hand example of the female, internal perspective on this subject. Elena Cassandra Tarabotti (24 February 1604 – 28 February 1652) was the eldest of nine children of a Venetian merchant family.6 Her father decided to send her to the conventprobably deeming her unfit for marriage, owing to her being crippledthus forging her destiny. She became a nun (choosing the name Arcangela) against her will in the cloister of Sant’Anna and held a grudge toward this coercion. She also felt deprived

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of her rights as first born daughter, which usually granted a privileged treatment in the family. In addition, the Benedictine order that she joined required also the vow of stability, a commitment to never leave her cloister, not even when dead, since she would be buried within its walls (Panizza, Tirannia, 4). This restrictive measure affected Tarabotti’s attitudes and filtered through her literary production via the metaphor of the convent as a tomb (Panizza, Tirannia, 4). Arcangela Tarabotti can be seen as the historical counterpart of the seventeenth-century coerced nun that Alessandro Manzoni’s portrait of Suor Gertrude immortalized in I Promessi Sposi (The Bethroted). The Venetian nun retained and even amplified the goal of social criticism that permeates the writings of the aforementioned male authors: Boccaccio, Aretino, Gabriel-Joseph de Guilleragues and Diderot. Critics often praise her detailed and precise accusations to contemporary sociopolitical institutions.7 By wrapping her invective in a more general commentary about society, the female author de facto inserts her work within the literary tradition that goes from Boccaccio to Diderot. Whereas Boccaccio, Aretino and Diderot attacked the Church, Tarabotti turned against fathers and their accomplice, the government. Her Tirannia paterna (published posthumously in 1654 as La semplicità ingannata under the pseudonym Galerana Baratotti) represents a fierce tirade against the institution of the pater familias: Tarabotti identifies stingy fathers as the true culprit of their daughters’ suffering and of the moral degeneration those women undergo once they are closed in cloisters against their will.8 The Inferno monacale (written around 1643, recovered by Francesca Medioli and first published in 1990) renders this theme a leitmotif of Tarabotti’s literary production. The feminist’s words send a clear message regarding fathers’ responsibilities toward their daughters: “Elle [figlie] son degne di scusa, ma indegni ne siete voi [padri], come causa prencipale de’ loro eccessi!” [they {daughters} are worthy of pardon, but you {fathers} are not, as main cause of their behavior (53)]. Fathers are “Tiranni avari di poco denaro ma prodighi dell’altrui libertà.” [Tyrants, stingy with their money, but profligate with other people’s freedom] and should be blamed not only for their own sins, but also for the ones that their daughters commit (“Hor a questi sceleratissimi mostri, … nel condanar i corpi alla prigion d’un monastero, commettono … l’eccidio del’anima, e propria e d’altri” [now these most heinous monsters … by condemning bodies to the prison of the cloister, perpetrate … the murder of other people’s soul and of their own 32]).

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According to Tarabotti the government, which endorses the practice of forced monacation, also shares the guilt: I miei detti non sono intentionati a biasmar la religione né a ragionar se non contro quei padri e parenti che con violenza imbavarano le figliole … proporcionata è la mia dedicatione al vostro gran Senato, che, con incarcerar le figliole vergini, acciò si maccerino, salmeggino et orino in cambio loro, spera d’etternar voi, Vergine belissima, Regina dell’Adria. Ell’è una grand’ingratitudine che quella patria che è protetta parcialmente dalla Vergine … più di qual si vogl’altro dominio del mondo avvilisca, inganni e privi di libertà con forza le sue vergini e donne” (27-28). 9

Very appropriately, Tarabotti connected the misdeed of the Republic against its female citizens to the imagery of the Virgin Mary, the patron of the city, highlighting the inherent paradox that this course of action produced.10 The nun’s accusations, thus, emphasize the hypocrisy and collusion of institutions outside of the Church (“Ragion di Stato et honore mondano” 37). The phrase “i miei detti non sono intentionati a biasmar la religione (27)” explicitly states the author’s position, protecting her from possible negative repercussions. The reason that pushed the Venetian nun to spare the Church from her criticism most probably lay in the risk of being silenced by censorship. The Council of Trent imposed a restriction on literary expression, especially concerning religious matters and subjects, through the imposition of the Index Librorum Prohibitorum (Index of Forbidden Books), first promulgated in 1559. Tarabotti’s use of the pseudonym Galerana Barcitotti for her last work, Che le donne sieno della stessa specie che gli uomini (1651), and the variation Baratotti for the Tirannia overtly signal the hindrance she encountered in publishing her explosive and controversial texts.11 Tarabotti shares with male authors the sociopolitical critique, but breaks with the tradition in regards to the representation of nuns and of their most evident symbols, the veil and the tunic. As sexualized nuns fascinated writers and readers alike, so did their uniform, whose barrenness and modesty evoked eroticism by contrast. Jean-Jacques Le Queu’s 1794 engraving portraying a nun powerfully conveys this perspective: a garment that should enhance modesty by covering the woman’s body is actually lifted to reveal it, charging the image with a sensual tone.12 The breast—a symbol of both the figures of the woman and the mother—returns the body to the woman, reversing the cancellation of the physical and of womanhood that the uniform performs. The sentence that accompanies this engraving“we, too, shall be

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mothers”ppowerfully hiighlights the woman in fllesh and bloo od buried underneath tthe nun. Fig. 1 Jean-Jaacques Le Queuu, we, too, shalll be mothers, 17794.

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K nun reecto, c. 1731 Fig. 2 Martin van Meytens, Kneeling

Even more transgressive is the libertine representaation of a nun n that the Dutch-Sweddish artist Maartin van Meytens creates in his pair of paintings entitled Kneeeling nun recto and verrso (c. 1731)).13 The recto o version displays a seemingly devvoted nun kneeeling on the pprie dieu with h clasped hands and thhe prayer boook. Her eyes wandering w tow ward her back k provide

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the impression that an approaching nunbarely visible in the background has distracted her from her prayers. The verso version, though, dispels the illusion of piousness, by showing the literal “behind the scenes”: the nun’s garment is lifted up to the belt, revealing a naked bottom that dominates the center of the painting. Apparent religiousness becomes allusive sensuality in a brusque and unexpected reversal that shocks the viewer and emphasizes the carnality of the body, which manages to escape the constrictions of the modest religious uniform. The fortune of this interpretation continues in our days through images that play with religious accessories eroticizing them. An example is the Spanish actress Paz Vega posing for the Lambertz calendar in a controversial photo that combines religion with eroticism. This image evokes the composition of Meytens’ painting, but heightens its clash between piety and impiety. In the picture the model kneels down on a prie dieu, her hands clasped in prayer, in front of an altar dedicated to Our Lady of the Incarnation, patron of Gerena, in Seville. However, Paz Vega is covered only by a thin black veil that barely shades her naked curves. The seethrough fabric that wraps her body reverses the purpose of the veil, which shifts from a means for hiding to one for revealing.14 This eroticization of a religious symbolthe veilhas sparked a heated debate and provoked the public’s indignant reaction, especially from the Archdiocese of Seville, which perceived this image as offensive (Catholicvs Blogspot, 2011). A similar emphasis on the clothes emerges in the words of contemporary writer and editor Régine Deforges, the first woman to own and operate a publishing house in France, defined the “high priestess of French erotic literature.” In an interview she declared that “for me the most satisfying [outfit] of all is a nun’s habit—plus the breeze” (Hamilton 161). Clothes, therefore, played and continue to play a pivotal role in shaping the imagery that surrounds the figure of the nun.15 Interestingly, Tarabotti’s discourse on nuns tends to coalesce precisely around clothes. Both the Tirannia and the Inferno rail against forced claustrations, but the latter ties it more firmly to the theme of clothes. Tarabotti’s gaze emerges as figuratively double: on the one hand it focuses on everyday life in the nunnery; on the other hand, it strives to catch glimpses of the outside world. Whereas male authors tended to concentrate on religious clothes as the emblem of the prohibited object of desire (nuns), Tarabotti reverses the paradigm: she longs for the secular attire, in particular the one that represents the exact opposite of the nun’s unadorned habit, namely the bride’s dress. The opposite color of the clothes (white for the bride and black for the nun) contributes to make the opposition even more clear. The female author, therefore, opposes the bride of men to

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the bride off Christ. For a secluded nun, it is the muundane, the symbol s of the outside w world that incarnates the forbidden. Fig. 3 Martin van Meytens, Kneeling K nun verso, c. 1731

Tarabotti’s fascination with w secular clothes emergees in particullar in her Antisatira inn risposta al lusso l donnescco (1644) andd her Inferno monacale m (Monastic H Hell), which circulated ass a manuscrip ipt in the sev venteenth century andd was retrievedd and then pu ublished only in 1990 by Francesca F Medioli.16 T The Antisatiraa consists in a point-by-pooint reply to Francesco F Buoninsegni’s satire thaat ridicules women’s w luxxury (Contro 'l lusso donnesco saatira menippea, 1638). In her h response, Tarabotti’s meticulous m

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attention to every accessory denotes both the nun’s expertise in the latest fashion, and a longing for something that stands in stark opposition to the austerity of the nun’s outfit.17 The Antisatira, therefore, presents Tarabotti’s take on women’s dresses: clothes indicate modesty, as they cover the body, and should be luxurious since even the most pious among men (the members of the clergy) are allowed to wear richly decorated garments.18 The Venetian feminist exposes the double standard applied to women, whose luxury was perceived as a sin, in an era when even men’s fashion exalted ornamentation and excess. Her description of clergymen’s sacred robes highlights the passion for luxury that pervaded even the Church: “I bissi più fini, l’oro più puro, le più candide perle, e le più preziose gioie, e s’altro di più vago ed eccellente qua giù si trova son giudicati degne di fregiare le vestimenta de’ sacri sacerdoti” (42).19 These words also manifest the nun’s acute awareness of another discrimination that opposed nuns to clergymen: men who entered the Church could retain access to an elegant and aesthetically pleasing wardrobe, whereas women were tied to their black (and bleak) uniform. Daniela De Bellis, in her analysis of the Antisatira, notes Tarabotti’s unusual thematic choice of concentrating on women’s fashion, which seems hardly fitting for a nun condemned to spend her life removed from the aesthetic pleasure of an elegant wardrobe (De Bellis 227). However, if we consider the Antisatira as the literary expression of the author’s obsession with clothes, which appears also in the Inferno, we can identify this apparently bizarre thematic choice as a fil rouge that flows like an underground river in the nun’s literary production, resurfacing in correspondence with key topoi. Although Arcangela professed her vocation, she refused to wear the religious garments and to cut her hair (Panizza, Tirannia, 3). The female author’s rebellion, therefore, assumes from its very beginning the concrete form of a resistance to the nullification of the individuality that occurs through wearing the religious uniform. The literary monk Angelico Aprosio confirms Arcangela’s attitude by reprimanding her for taking liberties: not wearing a veil, leaving her bonnet unlaced and her bosom only partially hidden by a light veil. He concludes that she is a “follower of the deplorable fashion of her times” (De Bellis 232). Tarabotti’s involvement with fashion stems not only from her nonconformist nature and her protest against forced seclusion, but also from her indirect contact with contemporary fashion trends.20 For example, it was customary for newlywed women to visit their female relatives on their wedding day, thus exposing nuns to the bridal gown (Ray 67). Nunneries

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moreover, often run embroidery and lace-making activities to allow its members to support themselves economically. Nuns, therefore, needed to know which styles conformed to current fashion trends and often ended up sewing bridal dresses for their relatives. Tarabotti’s role as intermediary in the trade of embroidery and the presence of skilled lace-makers in Sant’Anna (Ray 61-62) demonstrate that she had the opportunity to see— although not to wear —the latest fashion in terms of crochet, lace, and textile embellishments.21 The Inferno monacale represents a harsh critique of every aspect of monastic life, presented as a pathway to damnation, because of the vices and sins that flourish therein. In this text, Tarabotti’s reflection on clothes develops further from a general defense of women’s luxury, to the selection of specific models that vividly illustrate the discrimination that nuns suffer. The nun’s uniform surfaces in the Inferno through an evocative metaphor that describes each element of convent life. It is a metaphoric filiation, a Baroque figure of speech in which every item of the comparison derives semantically from a central core: the convent is a prison (“Misere sventurate, non venute per altro alla luce del mondo che per star sempre, ancorché innocenti, fra le prigioni!” 38), the nuns become innocent prisoners, their vows the ultimate judgment that condemns them to lifelong detention (“il sepolcro della libertà … l’ultima sentenza irrevocabile del’etternità del … carcere” 65), and finally their habits turn into unbreakable chains that keep every woman bound to her cell (“non coperte d’habiti religiosi, ma legate d’indissolubili catene” 32). This last expression shows Tarabotti’s insightful understanding of what the religious garment means: it indicates the institution (the Church) exactly the way a uniform does, classifying the wearer as a member of a specific community subdued by binding rules. This interpretation removes every libertine or transgressive connotation from the nuns’ clothes, since it emphasizes adherence to a repressive norm. A similar awareness will echo centuries later in Verga’s description of the nun’s tunic in his Storia di una capinera (1871): “…Se mi facessero una bella vestina color cannella…senza crinolina, veh! […] Ma una vestina che non fosse nera, […] che non mi rammentasse ad ogni momento, come questa brutta tonaca, che […] mi attende il convento!” (12).22 These lines convey the protagonist’s longing for a more feminine and customizable attire starting from its color that would not constantly remind her that she unwillingly belongs to the Church. Two passages from the Inferno are particularly effective in epitomizing Tarabotti’s double gaze, directed toward the convent and outside of it.

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Both passages appear in correspondence with the female author’s discourse on clothes. 1) [i padri] Scelgono le più grosse e ruvide tele per le camise delle sventurate—che sovente non riescono di bastevole lunghezza —e le maniche sono taluna diverse dal rimanente, per poter poscia, con prodiga mano, adoprarsi che le prime spoglie destinate al maritaggio siano di finissimi bissi d’Olanda, adornate di punti in aria e guarnite de’ più ingegnosi lavori che mandi la Fiandra a questi nostri lidi: due sole di queste potrebbero stare di prezzo in equilibrio a tutti i mobili e altre cose della monacata! Il vestito delle più infime parti non che altro è ricco di ricami a cui succedono legami pomposi d’oro che stringono alla gamba il superbo e serico cotturno, la superba e gentilissima calzetta; più e più vagliono interi tesori le pianelle, guanti, fiocchi, stringhe della destinata a sposo terreno. Le più preziose perle dell’Oriente son chiamate ad adornarle il collo, i grossi e lucidi diamanti fioriscono in forma di rosa per cingerle le dita, gl’ori sottilmente lavorati da industre mano le pendono dall’orecchie e non v’è lusso, delizia o dispendio superfluo che non concorra alle di costei satisfazioni o grandezze; si veggono su le mense cibi poco inferiori a gli apprestati nelle cene di Cleopatra. Ma per il contrario, la condannata alla tomba d’un chiostro è necessitata a coprirsi la gamba di rozza rassa e adattarsi ai piedi un zoccolo di legno mal vestito di cuoio e cingersi al collo un bavero così nemico della ricchezza che la priva dei tesori donatele dalla natura; … è bisogniosa insino d’un infelice ago, o spilla, … ma essendole negato o prolungato il dargliele, resta a 23 penare fra’ suoi disagi. (46) 2) Quei genitori che, nel maritar una figlia—sirocchia dell’insidiata e mal condotta —non ebbero riguardo a verun dispendio, in aggiunta d’una dote esorbitante …, scialaquano in ogni occorenza per fare che la novella sposa pompeggi fra gl’ori e fra le gemme. Non v’è artefice o mercadante che non si veda porre in scompiglio le drapperie più fini dalla costoro ardenza e aggravarsi l’arche della lor professione. Le sete e i colori per contessere le vesti sono chiamati dalla Siria … Il velluto, la felpa, che non è d’opera più che humana, è stimato indegno di coprir quelle membra che pur sono uscite da quel medesimo ventre di dove naque l’altra sfortunata che, al suo dispetto coperta d’una veste lugubre e semplice … sente rimproverarsi dal genitore e parenti l’eccessiva e soverchia spesa. (77) 24

These passages develop an extended and detailed parallel between the two kinds of attires: every item—or lack thereof —in the nun’s simple garment is jarringly opposed to the luxurious articles of the secular bridal costume, making the discrepancy between the two quite striking. Tarabotti’s passion for fashion is visible in her painful lingering on every detail of the bridal gown, and in her use of a “professional” jargon to designate materials,

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accessories, and sartoriall techniques (with terms ssuch as bissi, punti in aria, serico, coturno, piannelle, drapperrie, felpa, velluuto). Fig. 4 Frans P Pourbous the Young, Maria dee’ Medici, earlyy 17th-century

A Arcangela Taraabotti’s Revised d Representationn of the Nun Fig. 5 Frans P Pourbous the Young, Maria dee’ Medici, earlyy 17th-century

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Tellingly, some of these details constitute an accurate testimony of Baroque fashion: for instance, Venice was renowned all over Europe for its lace embroidered precisely with punti in aria (Ray 53).25 The remark about rose-shaped diamonds, moreover, attests to an existing trend in diamond cutting that drew inspiration from nature: Petrus Marchant in 1623 Paris was the first to cut a diamond in a way that resembled the flower rose, initiating a style that reached the peak of success at the end of the seventeenth century.26 Baroque fashion aggravated the already sharp opposition between religious and secular clothes, since it exalted pompousness and sumptuousness in the latter. Exemplary in this sense are the lavishly decorated dresses that Maria de Medici, the Florentine bride of King Henry IV of France, wears in her royal portraits.27 All of them sport a large and finely inlaid lace collar that stands out among the other ornaments. The bride’s dress, hence, becomes for Tarabotti the symbol of the forbidden, the un-reachable object of desire that stands for the “freedom” of the newly wed. The Renaissance saw a flourishing and a diversification of textile manufacture in Venice (Rosenthal 889), reflected in the social value that clothing assumed. Fashion, therefore, expressed the financial means, social status, ethnicity and gender of the wearer (Rosenthal 889). In particular, women’s attire signaled the economic power and the social rank of their family, thus performing an important social function (De Bellis 234).28 Whereas the bride’s elegance enhances femininity and presents that woman as a member of a certain family, the nun’s anonymous tunic erases both womanhood and individuality, assigning that person to the institution of the Church. Tarabotti’s comment on the fact that nuns’ uniform steal the beauty that nature gave women (“un bavaro così nemico della ricchezza che la priva dei tesori donatele dalla natura,” 46) efficiently conveys the extent of this erasure. The Venetian nun, condemned to a life in the cloister, strove to exit from those walls, at least metaphorically, through any means available, in particular thanks to her correspondence with lay people and cultural figures, and her literary production. The nun’s intense correspondence with relatives, boarded girls, their parents, foreign ambassadors, and other male and female authors represents an attempt to maintain ties with the external world and fight the isolation and impermeability of the cloister.29

A Arcangela Taraabotti’s Revised d Representationn of the Nun Fig. 6 Spose nnobili moderne

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68 Fig. 7 Modernne veneziane

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Moreover, although a good part of her works was published only posthumously, Arcangela actively tried to make her voice heard: she contacted illustrious patrons (such as the Tuscan Grand Duchess Vittoria della Rovere) and Venetian as well as foreign publishers to propose her manuscripts.30 In this way, at least her authorial persona could leave the convent and be known in national and international literary circles (Westwater 307). To conclude, Arcangela Tarabotti, as the voice of the insider and the direct beholder of the female gaze, reverses the paradigms built by a long male tradition. The Venetian nun dismantles the transgressive suggestions that men attached to the nun’s clothes, re-inscribing its value as the symbol of an institution. Moreover, she opposes these dresses to the bridal gown, the emblem par excellence of secular clothes, which represents for her the forbidden, the unfulfilled desire. At the same time, Tarabotti’s condemnation of the social issue of coerced claustration draws attention to the guilt that the pater familias and the government share in applying and authorizing this malpractice. If secular male authors projected their gaze inside the walls of the convent to spy on this mysterious place, Tarabotti’s double gaze accounts for the space of the cloister, while striving to reach the external world. Therefore, analyzing the traits and suggestions that literary and artistic traditions associate with nuns, enables us to stress the importance of recovering and highlighting the women’s voice, which provides “the other side of the coin”, given its potentially original, heterodox and subversive nature in comparison to the predominant (male) canon.

Notes 1

See Laura Mulvey "Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema," Screen. 16.3 (1975). “Se duemille e più nobili, che in questa città vivono rinserrate nei monasterii quasi in pubblico deposito avessero potuto o volute altramente disponere di loro stesse, che confusione! che danno! che disordine! quali pericoli, quali scandali, e qual male conseguenze si sariano vedute per le case, e per la città, e quanti riflessi di molestie e di indecentie alla pubblica pace e servitio.” Emilio Zanette, Suor Arcangela, monaca del Seicento veneziano (Rome-Venice: Istituto per la Collaborazione Culturale, 1960): 36. 3 This article is indebted to Fabio Finotti’s course “The Monk, the Priest, the Nun” and the homonym international conference (March 22 and 23, 2013), which provided an extremely useful overview of literary and artistic renditions of members of the clergy. 4 Referencing to Boccaccio allows Aretino to metaphorically nod at the renowned author as well as to create continuity with his short story. Aretino, thus, masterfully 2

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inserts himself into an illustrious literary genealogy and into a fertile literary trend that focuses on representing female religious life. The edition of reference for this article is: Pietro Aretino, RagionamentoDialogo (Milano: Biblioteca Universale Rizzoli, 1998). 5 See Giacomo Casanova, Histoire de ma vie (Wiesbaden: F.A. Brockhaus, 1960). 6 For bio-bibliographical information on Arcangela Tarabotti see at least these foundational texts: the aforementioned Emilio Zanette, Suor Arcangela, monaca del Seicento veneziano, and Elissa Weaver, Arcangela Tarabotti: A Literary Nun in Baroque Venice (Ravenna: Longo, 2006). 7 See for example Natalia Costa-Zalessow, "Tarabotti's La Semplicità Ingannata and Its Twentieth-Century Interpreters, with Unpublished Documents Regarding Its Condemnation to the Index," Italica: Bulletin of the American Association of Teachers of Italian, 78 (2001): 316-317; and Emilio Zanette, Una monaca femminista del Seicento (Suor Arcangela Tarabotti), (Venice: Ferrari, 1943): 494: “Ella è pur giunta a colpire, accanto al privato cittadino, l’autorità pubblica, accanto al padre di famiglia, il governo: il governo che non solo permette, ma giustifica, anzi favorisce e sollecita le monacazioni.” 8 For an English translation see Arcangela Tarabotti, Paternal Tyranny, ed. Letizia Panizza (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2004). 9 My words do not aim at criticizing religion, they only reprimand those fathers and relatives that violently silence their daughters … I likewise dedicate [this criticism] to your Senate, which hopes to immortalize you [Venice], beautiful Virgin, Queen of the Adriatic sea by incarcerating virgins so that they consume themselves, sign psalms, and pray for you. It is a real ingratitude that that land which the Virgin Mary protects … more than any other city in the world degrades, deceives, and forcedly deprives of freedom its own virgins and women. My translation. 10 For the appropriation of the figure of the Virgin Mary by Venice see David Rosand, Myths of Venice: The Figuration of a State (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2001): 13-16. 11 Let’s also consider the fact that La semplicità ingannata was inscribed to the Index owing to its numerous statements against holy institutions (Costa-Zalessow 319-324). 12 For an analysis of this image see Natalie Z. Davis and Arlette Farge, A History of Women in the West: Renaissance and Enlightenment paradoxes (Cambridge, Mass: Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 1993): 207-208. Appendix, Fig. 1. 13 Appendix, Fig. 2 and 3. 14 See Jose Manuel Ferrater’s photo of Paz de Vega for Lambertz Group 2012 calendar. 15 In the 20th century, Luigi Pirandello’s short story “Il viaggio” (the trip) masterfully describes the powerful psychological effects of clothes: the protagonist, Adriana, wears a new, fashionable and elegant dress for her first travel. Both her and her children are shocked by the transformation that the outfit determines in her: she looks so young and beautiful that she seems an entirely different woman (“Erano abiti neri, da lutto anche quelli, ma ricchissimi e lavorati

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con meravigliosa maestria. … Quando, tutta confusa, accaldata, levò gli occhi e si vide nello specchio dell’armadio, provò un’impressione violentissima, quasi di vergogna. Quell’abito, disegnandole con procacissima eleganza i fianchi e il seno, le dava la sveltezza e l’aria d’una fanciulla. Si sentiva già vecchia: si ritrovò d’un tratto in quello specchio, giovane, bella; un’altra!” Novelle per un anno, 1889, ed. Pietro Ghibellini, 1994). 16 For a critical edition of Tarabotti and Buoninsegni’s satires see Satira e Antisatira, ed. Elissa B. Weaver, (Rome: Salerno, 1998). On this text see also Daniela De Bellis, “Attacking Sumptuary Laws in Seicento Venice: Arcangela Tarabotti,” Women in Italian Renaissance Culture and Society, ed. Letizia Panizza (Oxford: European Humanities Research Center, University of Oxford, 2000); and the chapter dedicated to the Venetian nun (“Sister Arcangela Tarabotti: Hair, Wigs, and other Vices“) in Eugenia Paulicelli, Writing Fashion in Early Modern Italy: From Sprezzatura to Satire (Farnham, Surrey, England: Ashgate, 2014): 177-193. For the Inferno see L''Inferno monacale' di Arcangela Tarabotti, ed. Francesca Medioli (Turin: Rosenberg & Sellier, 1990)—which is also the reference edition for this article —and Emilio Zanette’s chapter 4 “L’ Inferno monacale” in Suor Arcangela, 113-178. 17 In her Antisatira, Tarabotti also talks about the pianelle or “chopines” (a particular kind of platform shoes, as high as 24 inches) which became extremely famous in Renaissance Venice. They are also known as mules échasses (mules on stilts) and pied de vache (cow feet) [Bossan 35]. Noble women wore them, given their incompatibility with chores and their cost. Wood or cork constituted the materials used for the platform itself, but they were then covered with velvet or richly decorated leather (Bossan 35). The rest of Italy abandoned this model by the seventeenth century, but Venice continued to use until the eighteenth century (DeMello 112). While Buoninsegni deprecates this fashion that hinders women’s movements as a foolish luxury, Arcangela responds by claiming that women are “moving altars” (altari mobili) so they need a pedestal to keep them elevated from the soil (54-55). Those shoes are therefore instrumental in displaying women’s sublime, celestial nature and their distance from earthly and lowly matters. 18 “La veste, dunque, nella donna è un argomento e una testimonianza della modestia sua” (45); “Di ciò nasce che, senza dare un’evidente testimonianza d’animo poco ben affetto verso le donne, non potete negare ch’elle per propria natura vadano arricchite dal manto della religione, della pietà e bontà, mentre sino nelle vesti imitano i sacerdoti allora che nello stato della piú fervida divozione stanno offerendo a S[ua] D[ivina] M[aestà] sacrifici, voti, e preghiere” (55). 19 The finest laces, the purest gold, the whitest pearls and the most precious jewels and anything else beautiful and excellent in this world are considered worthy of decorating the holy priests’ outfits.” 20 Cesare Vecellio, in his book on Renaissance fashion (Habiti antichi et moderni di tutto il mondo, 1589), provides an eloquent example of women’s luxury while talking about Winter clothing for Venetian noblewomen: “The clothing … displays the great extent to which Venetian women wear ornaments of precious gold, rich in pearls and other jewels, and how much effort and care they put into their coiffeuses … every precious thing dangles from them, from their necks their breast,

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complementing and embellishing the bodice, and forming a necklace composed of large pearls of considerable value… Over their camicia they wear a carpetta, most often of broccatello, and in winter it is lined with precious fur” quoted from A Companion to Venetian History, 1400-1797 ed. Eric Dursteler (Leiden; Boston: Brill, 2013): 901. For a modern edition see Cesare Vecellio, Habiti Antichi et Moderni: La Moda nel Rinascimento: Europa, Asia, Africa, Americhe, eds. Margaret F. Rosenthal and Ann R. Jones (Roma: Istituto poligrafico e Zecca dello Stato, Libreria dello Stato, 2010). 21 Tarabotti had to renounce wearing lace (De Bellis 232). 22 The edition of reference for this article is: Giovanni Verga, Storia di una Capinera, ed. Maura Brusadin (Pordenone: Studio Tesi, 1985). 23 “… [Fathers] choose the thickest and roughest cloth for the wretched women’s shirts, which are usually not long enough and whose sleeves have different lengths. Then, they overexert themselves with prodigality to make sure that the first clothes for the bride are made of the finest Dutch silk, decorated with stitches in air and with the most elaborate damask linen that the Flanders send to Venice. Just two of these [clothes] would match the price of all the furniture and other belongings of the nun! Even the lowest parts are rich of embroideries, followed by pompous golden laces that tie to the leg the sublime and silk-like footwear and the sublime and delicate stock. Shoes, gloves, bows and laces for the woman destined to an earthly husband are worth many treasures. The most precious oriental pearls are summoned to ornate her neck, big and shining diamonds flourish in a rose-like shape to embrace her fingers, gold finely wrought by a skillful hand hangs from her ears, and every luxury, extravagance or excessive expense contribute to her satisfaction and pompousness. … On the contrary, the woman condemned to the grave of a convent has to cover her leg with a shag rug, and adapt her foot to a wooden clog roughly patched with leather, and tie at her neck a collar so at odds with beauty that steals the treasures that nature gave her.” My own translation. 24 “Those parents who do not mind any expense, beside an exorbitant dowry, to marry a daughter, which is the sister of the wretched one and is not well behaved, take every chance to dissipate, so that the new bride can shine through jewels and precious stones. … The silks and colors to weave the dresses are summoned by Syria … Velvet and fleece, even if they were hand-woven by divine beings, are still considered not worthy of wrapping that body which came out from the same womb that carried the other unfortunate woman, who is forced to wear gloomy and barren clothes … and is rebuked by her parents for such an excessive and exorbitant expense.” My own translation. 25 Lace-making was a highly gender specific activity almost exclusively reserved to women. The lace that nuns and charitable institutions produced in early modern Venice consisted in two main kinds: needle lace, or punto in aria, for which Venice was most famous; and the slightly heavier bobbin lace, which would eventually come to predominate. See Meredith K. Ray, “Letters and Lace: Arcangela Tarabotti and Convent Culture in Seicento Venice,” Early Modern Women and Transnational Communities of Letters, eds. Julie D. Campbell and Anne R Larsen (Farnham, England; Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2009): 51-53. On Venetian lace-making see also Ann R Jones, "Labor and Lace: The Crafts of

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Giacomo Franco's «Habiti Delle Donne Venetiane»" I Tatti Studies / Villa I Tatti, the Harvard University Center for Italian Renaissance Studies, 17.2 (2014). See also a brief history of lace production in Europe focusing on Renaissance Venice in Lidia Sciama, “Lacemaking in Venetian Culture,” Dress and Gender: Making and Meaning in Cultural Contexts, eds. Ruth Barnes and Joanne B. Eicher (New York: Berg, 1992), especially 127-133. 26 Seventeenth-century Antwerp diamond cutters specialized in crafting roses, flatbottomed pointed cuts. From 1630s on this kind of cut dominated fashion jewelry throughout Europe. Flemish manufacturers created several different versions: the full rose cut or Amsterdam rose, double rose cut (with 24 facets), flat rose, the zesplak, the schildje, and the Antwerp or à la mode rose (with 12 facets). Bert De Munck and Karel Davids, Innovation and Creativity in Late Medieval and Early Modern European Cities (Farnham: Ashgate Publishing Ltd, 2014): 280. 27 Painted by Frans Pourbous the Young (also known as Scipione Pulzone) in the early seventeenth century. For Maria de Medici’s role in spreading the fashion of lace wearing in France, see Mrs. F. Nevill, Jackson, A History of Hand Made Lace (L. Upcott Gill, 1900): 156-157. Appendix, Fig. 4 and 5. 28 See for instance the engravings of modern noble brides (Spose nobili moderne) and of modern Venetian women (Moderne veneziane) in Cesare Vecellio’s aforementioned Habiti antichi et moderni. Appendix, Fig. 6 and 7. 29 See Arcangela Tarabotti, Lettere familiari e di complimento della sign. Arcangela Tarabotti, eds. Meredith Ray and Lynn Westwater (Turin: Rosenberg & Sellier, 2004). Meredith Ray, in her aforementioned article Letters and Lace, offers a contextualization of Tarabotti’s life that accounts for the nun’s contacts with the outside world. Tarabotti received the visits in the cloister parlor of French ambassadors together with their wives and friends (Ray 55), sold lace to the French ‘Madame Anna d’Amò’ (Anne des Hameaux) and the Marchioness Renata di Claramonte (Renée de Clairmont-Galerande) [Ray 55-57], wrote letters to boarded girls—among whom the daughters of the French ambassador Bretel de Grémoville —(Ray 63-64), and to female writers (the Venetian Aquila Barbaro and the Bolognese noblewoman and nun Guid’Ascania d’Orsi, Ray 69) . 30 For an in depth account of Tarabotti’s publishing attempts in Venice, Florence, Rome, and France, see Lynn L. Westwater, “A Cloistered Nun Abroad: Arcangela Tarabotti’s International Literary Career,” Women writing back/writing women back: transnational perspectives from the late Middle Ages to the dawn of the modern era. Eds. Anke Gilleir, Alicia Montova, and Suzanna Van Dijk (Boston, Mass.: Brill, 2010), especially pages 283-303.

Bibliography Arcangela Tarabotti’s cited works Tarabotti, Arcangela. Antisatira. In Satira e Antisatira, ed. Elissa B. Weaver. Rome: Salerno, 1998. —. Che le donne sieno della stessa specie che gli uomini. Ed. Letizia

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Panizza. London: Institute of Romance Studies, 1994. —. L'inferno monacale di Arcangela Tarabotti. Ed. Francesca Medioli. Turin: Rosenberg & Sellier, 1990. —. Lettere familiari e di complimento della sign. Arcangela Tarabotti. Ed. Meredith Ray and Lynn Westwater. Turin: Rosenberg & Sellier, 2004. —. Paternal Tyranny. Ed. Letizia Panizza. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2004.

General bibliography Aretino, Pietro. Ragionamento e dialogo, Edited by Giorgio Bàrberi Squarotti. Milano: Biblioteca Universale Rizzoli, 1988. Bossan, Marie-Josephe. The Art of the Shoe. New York: Parkstone, 2004. Casanova, Giacomo. Histoire de ma vie. Wiesbaden: F. A. Brockhaus, 1960. Catholicus Blogspot. Más laicismo y ofensas a los católicos: las fotos de Paz Vega desnuda en una iglesia sevillana y del Papa Benedicto XVI besando a un imán islámico. December 21, 2011. Accessed on January 5, 2016. http://catholicvs.blogspot.com/2011/12/mas-laicismo-y-ofensaslos-catolicos.html Costa-Zalessow, Natalia. "Tarabotti's La Semplicita Ingannata and Its Twentieth-Century Interpreters, with Unpublished Documents Regarding Its Condemnation to the Index," Italica: Bulletin of the American Association of Teachers of Italian, 78 (2001). Davis, Natalie Z. and Arlette Farge, A History of Women in the West: Renaissance and Enlightenment paradoxes. Cambridge, Mass: Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 1993. De Bellis, Daniela. “Attacking Sumptuary Laws in Seicento Venice: Arcangela Tarabotti,” Women in Italian Renaissance Culture and Society, ed. Letizia Panizza. Oxford: European Humanities Research Center, University of Oxford, 2000. DeMello Margo, Feet and Footwear: A Cultural Encyclopedia. Santa Barbara, Calif: Greenwood Press/ABC- CLIO, 2009. De Munck Bert and Karel Davids, Innovation and Creativity in Late Medieval and Early Modern European Cities. Farnham: Ashgate Publishing Ltd, 2014. Dursteler, Eric. A Companion to Venetian History, 1400-1797. Leiden; Boston: Brill, 2013. Ferrater Jose Manuel, 2012 Lambertz Group Calendar, 2012. Hamilton, Alex. Writing Talk: Conversations with Top Writers of the Last Fifty Years. Leicester: Matador, 2012.

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Jackson, Mrs. F. Nevill. A History of Hand Made Lace. L. Upcott Gill, 1900. Jones, Ann R. "Labor and Lace: The Crafts of Giacomo Franco's «Habiti Delle Donne Venetiane»" I Tatti Studies / Villa I Tatti, the Harvard University Center for Italian Renaissance Studies, 17.2 (2014). Laven, Mary. Virgins of Venice: Broken Vows and Cloistered Lives in the Renaissance Convent. New York: Viking, 2003. Le Queu, Jean-Jacques. “Et nous aussi nous serons mères, car…..! We too shall be mothers, because….!” Bibliothèque Nationale de France, c. 1794. Mulvey, Laura. "Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema," Screen. 16.3 (1975). Paulicelli, Eugenia. Writing Fashion in Early Modern Italy: From Sprezzatura to Satire. Farnham, Surrey, England: Ashgate, 2014. Pirandello Luigi, Novelle per un anno, ed. Pietro Ghibellini. Firenze: Giunti, 1994. Ray, Meredith K. “Letters and Lace: Arcangela Tarabotti and Convent Culture in Seicento Venice,” Early Modern Women and Transnational Communities of Letters, eds. Julie D. Campbell and Anne R Larsen. Farnham, England; Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2009. Rosand, David Myths of Venice: The Figuration of a State. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2001. Sciama, Lidia “Lacemaking in Venetian Culture,” Dress and Gender: Making and Meaning in Cultural Contexts, eds. Ruth Barnes and Joanne B. Eicher. New York: Berg, 1992. Sperling, Jutta G. Convents and the Body Politic in Late Renaissance Venice. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1999. Van Meytens, Martin. Kneeling nun, recto and verso. National Museum Stockholm, Sweden, c. 1731. Verga, Giovanni. Storia di una Capinera, ed. Maura Brusadin. Pordenone: Studio Tesi, 1985. Westwater, Lynn L. “A Cloistered Nun Abroad: Arcangela Tarabotti’s International Literary Career,” Women writing back/writing women back: transnational perspectives from the late Middle Ages to the dawn of the modern era. Eds. Anke Gilleir, Alicia Montova, and Suzanna Van Dijk. Boston, Mass.: Brill, 2010. Zanette, Emilio. Suor Arcangela, monaca del Seicento veneziano. RomeVenice: Istituto per la Collaborazione Culturale, 1960. —. Una monaca femminista del Seicento (Suor Arcangela Tarabotti). Venice: Ferrari, 1943.

CHAPTER FOUR BOCCACCIO REINVENTED IN MARIA DE ZAYAS’S FEMALE CHARACTERS SILVIA GIOVANARDI BYER

Scholars often compare María de Zayas’s Novelas Amorosas y Ejemplares with one of its most famous sources, Boccaccio’s Decameron. Aside from the obvious similarities in frame and the use of devices for capturing or rejecting love, the two hold additional, defined similarities with one another. The characteristics of Zayas’s Novelas that stem from the Decameron are an indicator of how Boccaccio’s work continued to influence the European literary scene, even after 300 years.1 Patsy Boyer, in her masterful translation of the Novelas, remarks that the author was a notable woman in 17th century Spain and she is recognized by Hispanist María Pardo Bazán, as one of the foremost writers of Spain's Golden Age. It is likely that Zayas became familiar with the writings of Italian protofeminists such as Moderata Fonte while she lived in Naples in her youth. She wrote in Spanish; however, the rich influence of a childhood spent in the cultural melting pot of Naples had undeniable influence on her identity as a young woman. It is most likely that she participated in the “Accademia degli Oziosi,” the literary group that gathered in Naples around Pedro Fernández de Castro, the seventh Count of Lemos, a notable patron of the arts, promoter of the Accademia and Naples viceroy from 1610-1616. From her daily life in a thriving cultural center and engagement with elite intellectual and writers, Zayas emerged as one of the first secular women writers in Spain and is certainly the first to achieve such great popularity.2 (iv) Zayas was a woman of advanced ideas for the world of seventeenth century Europe. As a general custom, education for women was rare. In recognition of equal rights for both sexes and respect for women in the eyes of men, she advocated for general education of women. In the preface

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to the first part of her novelas, she characterizes the challenges that women had to face. The major challenge women faced was tyranny imposed by men to keep women repressed and locked away: The real reason why women are not learned, is not because they lack mindset, but because they are not given the opportunity to apply themselves to study. If, in childhood, they gave us books and masters instead of lace-making and fine embroidery, we should be just as well prepared for positions of state and for professorships as are the men, and perhaps we should have more discernment, being more dispassionate in our temperaments. (Preface)

Maria de Zayas wrote some poetry, at least one play, The Betrayal of Friendship, and two best-selling collections of framed novellas: Novelas amorosas y ejemplares (The Enchantments of Love: Amorous and Exemplary Novels, 1637); and its sequel, Desengaños amorosos (The Disenchantments of Love,1647). The Novelas was referred to as the Spanish Decameron during Zayas’s lifetime. (Foa 35 and Sylvania 7)

The Frame In this article I will illustrate the correlations between Boccaccio and Zayas framed works and will focus on the analogies between Boccaccio’s fifth novella of the tenth day and Zayas’s tenth, and last, story “El Jardín engañoso” [The Magic Garden] of the first part of the Novelas, is found in Zayas’s collection of framed Novelas Amorosas y ejemplares (Amorous and Exemplary Novels) published in 1637.3 Imitation of Boccaccio was not unusual. For example, Cervantes emulated Boccaccio in his Novelas Ejemplares. Likewise, Maria de Zayas gave her audience what they desired: women-centered, factual conflict that featured love, betrayal and male dominance. It is true that Zayas appropriated portions of the plots presented in the Decameron, she concomitantly demonstrated her own talents by writing cautionary tales that empowered women to resist the social constraints created specifically to hold them in submission. In her introduction, Boyer asserts that Zayas’s art, as is the case with all Renaissance literature, reflects the ingenious reworking of accepted plots and literary conventions to create a new work. We recognize in her stories the motifs that are reminiscent of Boccaccio, Moliere, Cervantes and Shakespeare's Italianate plays. All are derived from the same Renaissance tradition. Zayas, in contrast to the male centrism that defined that genre, developed tales that told the plight of women living in a world that limited them through deceit, betrayal and violence. (xvi) We know

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that Zayas’s Novelas were a great success in Spain and remained so for two hundred years and were only rivaled by Cervantes's Novelas Ejemplares in popularity.4 Antonio García Velasco underlines that the few contemporary references to Zayas relate to her literary activity and the acceptance of her work in popular culture.5 (39) Her works were warmly received by her peers, including Lope de Vega, who praised: “her rare and unique genius.” (Matulka, 196) Honor, enforced by violence, is the filo rosso (red thread) that links all of Zayas’s Novelas. Each of Zayas’s tales evokes some aspect of this unhappy theme and although Zayas’s characters typically adhere to the honor code, several accuse men of exploiting its importance in order to oppress women.6 In the Novelas, honor represents women's vulnerability and men exploit this vulnerability to obtain power over women. For this reason, Boyer states there is an insistence that women assume responsibility for their own honor to the extent that they should be trained in swordsmanship so they can properly defend themselves and their honor. This message underlies the Enchantments and becomes explicit in the Disenchantments. (54) Zayas recognized the importance of educating women and granting them freedom of expression. Through her commitment to these beliefs, Zayas is rightfully recognized as an advocate for women and described as a feminist in the modern sense of the term. (Boyer vii) Zayas skillfully analyzed the roles and relationships between men and women and she does so in a manner that is unique to the genre. Although earlier writers, like Boccaccio and Marguerite de Navarre, playfully exploited the battle of the sexes and a less rigid version of the honor code, Zayas’s approach is serious, direct and generally tragic. Sandra Foa comments that “María de Zayas concentrates on a particular contention to reflect her feelings of restlessness and disillusionment: the conflict between men and women.” (78) The inspiration to Boccaccio, her renowned predecessor as the model who influenced Zayas’s Novelas, is notable. The first similarity between Zayas and Boccaccio is the calculated use of the literary frame within a frame. Zayas’s two collections are centered on one fundamental theme (love), which gradually develops into a novella esemplare in itself.7 In reality, her framed characters are more richly described and amorously involved in comparison to Boccaccio’s Decameron. Lysis, the protagonist of the frame, is engaged to Don Juan. The plot created to support Zayas’s frame rests upon the amorous intrigue created by Don Juan’s change of affection, starting with the hostess Lysis, moving on to her cousin Lisarda and then returning to Lysis. In contrast, the characters within the frame of Boccaccio’s Decameron, are not romantically involved and the choice of

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seven women and three men is witness to Boccaccio’s avoidance of l’intreccio amoroso. While both Zayas’s collections clearly come from the same pen, the plot of each short story consistently differs from the others while retaining violence against women as the underlying theme. In Zayas the Novelas include ten courtly novellas narrated by five women and five men at a series of five Christmas soirées held for the purpose of entertaining the lovely Lysis, ill with the quartan fever (malaria). The symmetry of this arrangement is suggestive of Zayas’s innate predilection for balance and equality – elements required for romantic love and enduring relationships. In contrast, Boccaccio chose seven women and three men to narrate his stories. This asymmetrical configuration allows him to avoid the amorous “intreccio” among the characters of the frame. Zayas changes this scenario on purpose to give ample latitude for the frame characters to develop a love story within the frame. The courtly framework develops the character of the ten narrators, provides opportunity for commentary on the stories and, because it continues throughout the second part, unifies Zayas’s two collections of novellas. The Disenchantments repeats the structure of the Enchantments in that there are ten more novelas ejemplares narrated by the same characters from the first set of framed story. Zayas’s second set of stories was planned for New Year's Day to celebrate Lysis's marriage to Don Juan. The occasion is postponed for over a year in the frame, whereas ten years separate the publication of the two parts. On this occasion, the hostess Lysis establishes rules, i.e., only women will narrate; the tales must be true situations to enlighten and warn women about men's dishonesty; in addition, they must be in defense of women's good name. A principal difference between the two parts, then, is the way the Disenchantments unfolds from the Enchantments; as Lisa Vollendorf explains, the framed story elaborates a coherent and stronger feminist message, which produces a greater unity and homogeneity in the ten stories. (52) The Enchantments, on the other hand, is characterized by the variety of the ten stories and as Boyer observes an adept “subtle feminism.” (xviii) Furthermore, Inés Dolz-Blackburn observes that besides raising provocative questions, each of the ten Enchantments relies on some sort of memorable device intended to enchant and amaze (maravillar). (79) New in Zayas’s work is the conscious feminization of a tremendous assortment of motifs taken from a male-created literature. In her Novelas, this feminization is seen in the difference between the five stories narrated by women and the five narrated by men, in the perspective of the

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protagonists, in the way the character-narrators portray male and female characters, and in a pervading irony. (Fuss, 89) All five of the women's stories have strong female protagonists who are noble in character, constant in love, and perform some heroic deed. The men's protagonists reveal serious moral flaws. In tone, the five women's stories seem more serious, intimate, and human, allowing the reader to identify more closely with the characters, which are better developed than in the men's stories. In women's tales as well as men's, female characters tend to be depicted as helpless and dependent upon magic or a compassionate man to rescue them. Contrary to Boccaccio’s tradition, in Zayas, the only women who deceive men occur either in the men's tales or as secondary, and evil, characters (as you’ll read about the protagonist’s sister). Once enamored, the women's protagonists are invariably constant in their love. (Boyer xiii)

The Novelle The contrast between Boccaccio’s Decameron and Zayas’s Enchantments is enhanced by the fact that men's and women's tales occur on alternate nights, except for the last night where there is one tale told by Don Juan and the last and final story is told by Laura the oldest of the women. Laura is the one that introduces: The Magic Garden (El jardin engañoso), the reworking of Decameron the fifth novella of day ten (X.V). To the modern reader, these two may seem the most contrived, however, as the final of the Enchantments, they represent a culminating irony in the way they treat their sources and in the position of their narrators. This Magic Garden, further exemplifies the feminism which must be extrapolated from the action, characters, narrative points of view, ironies, and from what is “unsaid” as Margaret Greer adeptly suggests throughout her article.8 At the end of this exemplum, the frame characters debate, who is the noblest: the husband, the lover, or the devil? Each has behaved ignobly. Interestingly none of the frame characters, however, defend the genuine nobility of the faithful wife, Costanza, who would have chosen death over dishonor. Indeed, they blame her for setting an impossible price on her honor when the true cause of the crisis is the lover who courted an honorable married woman and resorted to a pact with the devil to get his way with her. This tale, narrated by the hostess's mother, is in fact a prototypical masculine story recounted in similar form by Boccaccio (The tenth day, fifth novella) and by Chaucer (Franklin's Tale). Since it is told by the most important female narrator of the group, and it is the concluding story in the first set of Novelas, we must not fail to perceive

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that the true protagonist is Costanza; the other characters for instance, including Costanza's sister, Theodosia, reveal serious moral flaws. Neither can we overlook the irony of the frame characters' misinterpretation of the story which culminates in the arrogant Don Juan's winning the prize for playing the devil's advocate so "divinely." (His name may be ironic as well, since Tirso de Molina's famous Don Juan play was produced in 1630, only seven years before the publication of Zayas’s Novelas). The subtlety of the subversion of a male-centered story and a malecentered interpretation of it, keeps Zayas’s readers alert. Both stories share the same – in the most general sense – storyline. In fact, after reading both, it is reasonable to assert that Zayas was familiar with Boccaccio’s work. No one can synthetize the storyline better than the author. In the Decameron Boccaccio always provides a synopsis for each of his novelle. The following is the summation of the fifth novella of day tenth, that I analyze in this article: Madonna Dianora domanda a messer Ansaldo un giardino di gennaio bello come di maggio; messer Ansaldo con l'obligarsi a uno nigromante gliele dà; il marito (Gilberto) le concede che ella faccia il piacere di messer Ansaldo, il quale udita la liberalità del marito, l'assolve della promessa, e il nigromante, senza volere alcuna cosa del suo, assolve messere Ansaldo. 9 (Decameron X.V)

The most significant difference between the two writers is the development of the subplot. In the Magic Garden Zayas creates an elaborate sub-plot, in comparison to the novella of Boccaccio. Zayas’s story focuses on the relationship between two sisters and two brothers whose love unravels a deadly intrigue. Costanza, the main character, reciprocates the love of Don Jorge; however Theodosia, who is loved by Federico, the second (younger) brother, is secretly in love with Don Jorge. Reciprocal Love: One way love: Secret love:

Costanza Don Jorge Federico => Theodosia Theodosia =>Don Jorge

Boccaccio’s X.V lacks the artful subplots. The reader is left to his/her own devices to create the tension that motivates the story’s characters. With Zayas, the reader is attracted toward the characters because their personalities are so strongly formed. It can also be reasonably argued that both tales are exemplary, because the authors – through their works – are attempting to warn their audience about the danger of duplicity (Zayas) or misdirected love (Boccaccio and Zayas). Of the two, Zayas is more

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obvious in her intent to warn her female reader about how men use deceit to gain favors and fortune. The gender-centric perspectives are evident when the two works are compared. Boccaccio writes almost exclusively from the male perspective and avoids giving equal character depth to women. His tale is dominated by men; the thoughts of men and the actions of men. Zayas, as female author, devotes much of her art to the development of female character. However, unlike Boccaccio, she does not do so at the expense of minimizing male characters. Although the resolutions to each tale are similar, the journey to those resolutions is markedly different. This is due to the differences (intricacy or lack thereof) in the subplots. Much of the friction in Zayas’s Magic Garden is created by the younger sister (Theodosia), who suffers from the unrequited love of Don Jorge. She adeptly turned the brothers against each other through carefully created deceits that were designed to turn Don Jorge’s love away from Costanza and toward herself. Don Jorge’s jealousy inspired Theodosia with a plan to reject her sister. […] If Don Jorge came to hate Costanza, then she could fill the place her sister had formerly occupied. This kind of wrong-headed thinking is typical of people who do evil. […]With this plan in mind and not imagining the bloody conclusion it might lead to, Theodosia decided to tell Don Jorge that Federico and Costanza were in love with each other.10(298)

With Zayas –the resolution of Don Jorge’s (the older brother) jealousy is not achieved until fratricide is committed. Don Jorge, blinded by his feelings, plots to kill his brother in a simulated ambush near Zaragoza, then after the lethal act takes place, remorseful and ashamed, he escapes leaving his hometown and Costanza. Federico agreed to meet his brother, although he wasn't so incautious that he didn't fear his brother, considering the bad blood between them. When Federico came to the designated place, which was very isolated, Don Jorge drew his sword, without giving Federico time to draw his. The unfortunate Federico instantly surrendered his soul to God and dropped to the ground stone dead. (301) The errant brother then roams throughout Europe for four years until his separation becomes unbearable. When Don Jorge returns home he finds Costanza happily married to Carlos.11 This fact does not stop Don Jorge from openly courting her and subsequently making a fool of himself. He (Don Jorge) haunted her street, sent her gifts, serenaded her, and courted her so attentively that people in the city began to gossip. The lady

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was deaf to all Don Jorge's advances. She wouldn't accept a single gift or letter, nor did she acknowledge his attentions. (Zayas 304)

It is at this moment in the plot that Boccaccio’s and Zayas’s tales begin to share similarities. In both stories the lady protagonist assigns an impossible task to the foolish gallant, i.e.: to create a spring-like garden in the middle of the winter.12 Likewise, in both novelle, an original character is introduced: in Boccaccio a necromancer is sought by Messer Ansaldo to produce the wondrous garden that would, win his love, whereas Zayas, in keeping with her tendency to develop strong characters, chooses the devil to serve as the new antagonist.13 In Zayas’s Magic Garden, the devil appears when he discerns Don Jorge’s distress. The devil makes the terms of the agreement so compelling that Don Jorge cannot resist. The devil even produces the pen and paper needed to write the contract. The devil had brought the necessary implements, and he placed paper and pen in Don Jorge's hand. Don Jorge wrote out the agreement as the devil had commanded. He signed it without thinking about what he was doing: to satisfy his monstrous appetite he was giving away his most priceless possession, which had cost its Creator such a dear price. (307)

Boccaccio’s necromancer is subtle and not particularly frightening to the characters (or the reader). Il cavaliere, udita la domanda e la proferta della sua donna, quantunque grave cosa e quasi impossibile a dover fare gli paresse e conoscesse per niun'altra cosa ciò essere dalla donna addomandato se non per torlo dalla sua speranza, pur seco propose di voler tentare quantunque fare se ne potesse e in piú parti per lo mondo mandò cercando se in ciò alcun si trovasse che aiuto o consiglio gli desse; e vennegli uno alle mani il quale, dove ben salariato fosse, per arte nigromantica profereva di farlo.14 (D.X.V, 009)

In both novelle, we see the creation of a garden and the intervention of sorcery. Both require payment: with Boccaccio it is money, with Zayas, it is nothing short of the soul of Don Jorge. Zayas fully embraces Boccaccio’s tale, like a specular image, her novela similarly unfolds; though with a feminine perspective. When Boccaccio’s Dianora sees the spring-like garden magically appeared, she is taken by surprise and disbelief: La donna, veduti i fiori e frutti e già da molti del maraviglioso giardino avendo udito dire, s'incominciò a pentire della sua promessa, ma con tutto

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In Zayas’s tale, Carlos, the husband, discovers the enchanted garden in their backyard when he opens the window. “The instant he opened the window; he beheld the garden built by the devil to vanquish the fortress of his wife's honor. Carlos stood there astounded.” Costanza on the other hand is incredulous and she does not remember her fateful agreement with Don Jorge. Carlos called out to his wife and everyone else in the house, telling them to get up and come look at the most marvelous wonder that had ever been seen. The lady didn't remember her offer to don Jorge, since it was impossible and so, without thinking, she went to see what her husband wanted. When she looked out and saw the garden filled with flowers and trees, the price of her honor. […] Suddenly Costanza realized what she'd promised. She fell to the floor in a mortal swoon. (308)

While Costanza is the model wife, Carlos is the model husband. He defies, as Marina Brownlee states, the stereotypical formulations of gender, race, sexuality, and class. This characteristic is amplified by the fact that both are of lower noble rank compared to Don Jorge as Zayas constant underlying factor.16 (34) In Boccaccio the resolution comes quickly, without significant passage of time or, more notably, loss of life. Now the liberality shown by Giliberto, Messer Ansaldo, and also by Messer Ansaldo towards the lady, culminates with the generosity of the necromancer. This sequence of events exceeds the expectations of real life, which is the goal that Boccaccio wants to achieve. Messere Ansaldo, se prima si maravigliava, udendo la donna molto piú s'incominciò a maravigliare: e dalla liberalità di Gilberto commosso il suo fervore in compassione cominciò a cambiare.17 (D X.V)

As Lena Sylvania comments, Boccaccio creates a “denouement”, forming “ties of a deep friendship are cemented between the two men, who perceive in each other traits of extraordinary nobility and generosity of character”. (27) It continues a few lines down: Il nigromante, al quale messer Ansaldo di dare il promesso premio s'apparecchiava, veduta la liberalità di Gilberto verso messer Ansaldo e

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quella di messer Ansaldo verso la donna, disse: “ Già Dio non voglia, poi che io ho veduto Gilberto liberale del suo onore e voi del vostro amore, che io similmente non sia liberale del mio guiderdone; e per ciò, conoscendo quello a voi star bene, intendo che vostro sia.”18 (D X. 5)

Similarly, in Zayas, Don Jorge is moved by the magnanimity of the husband and absolves Costanza from her promise just as the devil absolves Don Jorge from his pact. Your wife is hereby free of her obligation to me: I release her from her promise. May Costanza enjoy Carlos, and Carlos Costanza. (310)

The devil himself is moved by this generosity of spirit as several critics have suggested as contagious magnanimity: He (devil) shouted loudly: "No matter how you try, you won't get the best of me! Where a husband tramples his own desire and, by conquering himself, seeks to put an end to his own life, giving his wife permission to keep her promise; where a crazy lover feels obligated by the husband's act and so releases his beloved from her promise, which has cost him no less than his soul, as you can see here in this pact in which don Jorge promises his soul to me; I can do no less than they. So that the whole world will be amazed that the devil can be virtuous, here, don Jorge, takes this back your pact! I don't want the soul of a man who's learned to conquer himself. I release you from your obligation." (311)

Hence, Zayas creates five paradoxical elements that expand upon Boccaccio’s tale. The first offers a non-realistic perspective: Carlos, the husband, tells his wife to maintain her word and willingly succumb to Don Jorge’s desire for her. The second element has Costanza asking for forgiveness and her own death. In the third, Carlos – aware of his inferior social status – proposes to take his own life to resolve this regrettable situation.19 Carlos is ready to die for the sake of the family’s honor. The fourth, and most ludicrous scene, has Don Jorge expressing his desire to take his own life. He understands that his pact with the devil has exacerbated an already intractable problem. The last and most implausible element is the magnanimity of the devil, who grants pardons to all and as a result, becomes the “hero” of the story. Zayas’s tale is full of exaggerations that are so implausible and construed that their combined impact creates conditions and situations that are dramatically different from reality. By weaving this tapestry of colorfully illogical story elements, Zayas utilizes inverse imagery, and as

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Boyer suggests, “Zayas’s genius lies in her masterful use of masculine discourse to subvert masculine literature.” (xvii) Unlike any other tale of this framed Novelas, in the Magic Garden the women are treated with respect and Zayas creates a “happily ever after” scenario. Zayas’s concluding tale suggests that stories with happy endings are impossible in real life. For example, what husband would allow his wife to comply with an act that goes against his/her honor? Who would kill himself to allow his wife’s suitor to possess her? And who could possibly believe the devil is capable of magnanimity and forgiveness? Sylvania further describes that at “the end of the story we are told that the Magic Garden was found after Teodosia's death written by her and designating the laurel of wisdom as prize for the one who shall decide which of the three was most virtuous, Carlos, Don Jorge or the Devil.” (30) After some discussion, the assembled company of young men and women within the frame, agree that the Devil is the one to whom most praise is due, because it is an unheard-of thing for him to do good. We can reasonably conclude that, in a first reading, Zayas diminishes the value of Costanza. For example, in the debate about who is most virtuous, Costanza is notably absent. The only nominees are Carlos, Don Jorge, and the Devil. By omitting Costanza, Zayas seems to contradict her own feminist viewpoints.20 With the exception of The Magic Garden, all Zayas’s Novelas look for opportunities to vindicate women against the misapprehending judgment of men. Historical accounts of life in 17th century Europe suggest women, despite their social status, lived in slavelike conditions.21 Zayas’s intention is to create more options for women. It is her position that a successful future does not need to be linked to marriage. This stance is echoed during the end of the sequel to her tales, wherein Lysis – the true protagonist of the framed Novelas - comprehends the depth and possible consequences should she commit to marry Don Juan. As a result, she decides against marrying her adoring suitor and opts, instead, for a lay existence in the convent. Thus, the strength of her decision is inspirational and four other women join her in her life of seclusion. Lysis’s choice is liberating. Indeed, at the conclusion of both sets of her Novelas, when the soirées end, Zayas urges her readers to perceive beauty in the simplicity of Lysis’s chosen path. The conclusion is not tragic, she writes, it is “the happiest that one could have asked for, because she (Lysis) – wanted and desired by many – did not subject herself to anyone."22

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Notes 1

Boccaccio’s works were translated into Spanish as early as 1496 yet their influence was not strongly felt until the middle of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. 2 Maria de Zayas lived in a time where Italy and Spain coexisted as a sole sovereignty under the Spanish flag. The diffusion of Boccaccio’s tales was infectious. Many writers succumbed to a veritable epidemic of retelling them wholly or in fragments, adapting them to their own use as best pleased them. This as Green states was the case in Italy itself. (293) 3 Cottino-Jones, Marga. “Magic and Superstition in Boccaccio's Decameron.” Italian Quarterly, 18, (1975): 5-32. 4 During the 17th century, the novelty of the press and the novelty of her insightful themes helped divulge Zayas’s work. 5 With these references, Zayas locates her novellas in their time, place, and culture. Coinciding with this historical grounding offered by the texts, the narrative reflects the practices surrounding criminal justice (particularly as they were implemented by the Inquisition), complete with excesses of punishment, the presumption of guilt upon accusation, and the injustices that accompany such practices. (See Garcia Velasco 39) 6 In Zayas’s Novelas, explains Boyer, honor conforms to the rigid literary code of honor, which reflects social attitudes that still persist in our society—namely, that men (father, brother, husband, church, and state) have the right and the responsibility to control women's sexuality. The tension derives from the fact that a woman's purity, her chastity, must remain intact while men, whether single or married, devote their energy and their cunning to the conquest of that fortress. Traditionally, a promise of marriage made in the presence of a witness was considered binding. (It was not until 1545 that marriage became a sacrament.) In Zayas’s work, a man's most vile deception was the abuse of this sacred promise that allowed him to have his pleasure while it left the trusting woman dishonored. (Boyer, xv) 7 As Robert Clements comments: “the use of a cornice or frame-like tale is a narrative situation that plausibly motivates the relation of and lends structural unity to a series of otherwise diverse and unrelated stories.” (36) 8 See the online article by Margaret Greer, 2001. 9 Translation by J.M. Rigg. “Madonna Dianora asks humbly for Messer Ansaldo a garden that shall be as fair in January as in May Messer Ansaldo binds himself to a necromancer, and thereby gives her the garden. Her husband gives her leave to do Messer Ansaldo's pleasure: he, being apprised of her husband's liberality, releases her from her promise; and the necromancer releases Messer Ansaldo from his bond, and will take note of his.” 10 All quotes of the tale are taken from Novelas ejemplares y amorosas, published by Baudry, Paris, 1847. 11 With Zayas, the focus on deceit has its rewards, as skillfully illustrated by the success and acceptance by Costanza and her family, of Carlos’s bold deception.

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Our Carlos […] had noble ancestors, what he lacked was money, so there was no way he could ask for Costanza's hand in marriage; he knew that her family wouldn't give her to him […].Therefore, Carlos thought up a stratagem that he hoped would get him what he wanted i.e. Costanza. To put it into effect, he began by making friends with Fabia, Costanza's mother. (Zayas 301) He would shower the women with presents and even pretended to fall ill to attract pity and make himself more “vulnerable” in the eyes of the women. Vulnerability was part of his strategy to fake his intentions as trick since “lo scopo giustifica i mezzi.” Costanza was discreet so, instead of his resenting his deception, she considered herself fortunate to have such a husband and felt thankful for his trick. (Zayas 303) Deanna Mihaly in her dissertation on Maria de Zayas explains this change in social ranking; as the sale of titles, nobility, and commissions accentuated the decay of the old society’s values, greater emphasis was given to economic values. 12 The “garden” for Boccaccio assumes various meanings, it is the topos of an ideological choice or is - Mirko Bevilacqua comments - “l’invenzione del luogo di raccolta dei dieci giovani, si situa in una parte separata e circoscritta rispetto alla città. Ma ancora il giardino in tutte le sue varianti è il centro della produzione letteraria: è il centro della fiction […].” Furthermore “il giardino è continuamente visto come luogo di “sollazzo”: come centro di una pratica artistica del plaisir, di una deviazione costante dalle norme sessiste delle istituzioni sociali. (72) (My translation: “the invention of the meeting point of the ten young people is located in a separate and limited part, compared to the city. But yet again the garden in all its variations is the center of literary production: it is the center of the fiction [...].Furthermore the garden’; should read: “My translation: “the invention of the meeting point of the ten young people is located in a separate and limited part, compared to the city. But yet again the garden in all its variations is the center of literary production: it is the center of the fiction [...]. Furthermore the garden is constantly seen as a place of "solace" as the center of an artistic practice of plaisir, of a constant deviation from sexist norms of social institutions.”) 13 This is how Arturo Graf synthesizes the image of the devil in literature: “Il diavolo quando non può adoperare la violenza per venire ai suoi fini, si ripromette guadagno. Dove non gli è dato rubare, patteggia e traffica; stipula contratti, e assume obblighi e li osserva.” (158) (my translation: “The devil, when it cannot use violence to achieve his ends, he chooses the profit. Where he is not allowed to steal, he negotiates and deals; signs contracts, assumes obligations and keeps them.”) 14 Translation by J.M. Rigg. “The gentleman being apprised of his lady's stipulation and promise, notwithstanding that he deemed it no easy matter, nay, a thing almost impossible, to satisfy her, and knew besides that 'twas but to deprive him of all hope that she made the demand, did nevertheless resolve to do his endeavor to comply with it, and causing search to be made in divers parts of the world, if any he might find to afford him counsel or aid, he lit upon one, who for a substantial reward offered to do the thing by necromancy.” 15 Translation by J.M. Rigg. “When she saw the flowers and fruits, the lady, who had already heard not a few folk speak of the wondrous garden, began to repent her

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of her promise. But for all that, being fond of strange sights, she hied her with many other ladies of the city to see the garden, and having gazed on it with wonderment, and commended it not a little, she went home the saddest woman alive, bethinking her to what it bound her.” 16 Mihaly observes that William H. Clamurro and John Rosenberg place the text within the context of seventeenth-century Spain, to better understand the author’s reaction against the breakdown of aristocratic society. According to Clamurro’s observations, Zayas excludes all women from her moral message: instead, she addresses the noblemen in her society, in the hopes that the horror of her stories will make them aware of the need to return to their former values. John Rosenberg perhaps unintentionally defends Clamurro’s thesis by emphasizing that Zayas finished her Novelas ejemplares (1637) and Desengaños amorosos (1647) during a time of “deterioramiento de valores e ideales.” (73) 17 Translation by J.M. Rigg. “If Messer Ansaldo had marvelled to hear of the lady's coming, he now marvelled much more, and touched by Giliberto's liberality, and passing from passion to compassion.” 18 Translation by J.M. Rigg. “Now the liberality shown by Giliberto towards Messer Ansaldo, and by Messer Ansaldo towards the lady, having been marked by the necromancer, when Messer Ansaldo made ready to give him the promised reward: “ Now God forbid, ” quoth he, “ that, as I have seen Giliberto liberal in regard of his honor, and you liberal in regard of your love, I be not in like manner liberal in regard of my reward, which accordingly, witting that 'tis in good hands, I am minded that you keep.” ” 19 Carlos is the model husband who seems to invalidate Lena Sylvania’s statement toward men “They are incapable of loving as deeply as does a woman. A woman's love is so great and unselfish that it stands all tests, enabling her to suffer insults, ingratitude and the sacrifice of her own good name.” 20 As Diana Fuss mentioned and Deanna Mihaly indicates “the exposure of the difficulties women face when trying to preserve their honor in a patriarchal society that only allows for their degradation in amorous, heterosexual relationships.” (98) 21 Brunei states: ”Au reste, les maris qui veulent que leurs femmes vivent bien, s'en rendent d'abord si absolus, qu'ils les traitent presque en esclaves, de peur qu'ils ont qu'une honnête liberté ne les fasse émanciper au de la des lois de la pudicité, qui sont fort peu connues et mal observées parmi ce sexe. On m'a assuré qu'en Andalousie, les maris les traitent comme des enfants ou comme des servantes. Car quand ils prennent leur repas, s'ils les font approcher de la table, ce n'est pas pour y manger avec eux, mais pour les servir, et s'ils ne leur donnent pas cette permission, et qu'ils veuillent les tenir dans un degré de sujétion plus honnête, ils leur donnent à manger de leur table à terre, ou elles sont assises sur des tapis, ou sur des carreaux la mode des Turcs". (157) (my translation: “For the rest, husbands who want their wives to live well, at first become so absolute, that they treat them almost as slaves, lest they have an honest liberty to emancipate them from the laws of pudicity, which are very little known and poorly observed among this sex. I have been assured that in Andalusia husbands treat them as children or as maidservants. For when they take their meal, if they bring them near to the table, it is not to eat with them, but to serve them, and if they do not give them permission,

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and if they desire to keep them to a degree of more honest subjection, they give them to eat from their table to the ground, or they sit on carpets, or on tiles in the fashion of the Turks.”) 22 This surprising conclusion, so similar to the end of M.me de La Fayette's Princesse de Cleves, was published some thirty years prior to the French masterpiece.

Bibliography Bevilacqua, Mirko. “Il giardino come struttura ideologico-formale del Decameron”. La rassegna della letteratura italiana, Ser. 7, vol. 80 (1976) p. 70-79. Boccaccio, Giovanni. Decameron. Milano, Mursia, 1978. —. The Decameron of Giovanni Boccaccio Faithfully Translated by James M. Rigg, London: The Navarre Society, 2 Vols. 1903. Boyer, Patsy. The Enchantments of Love: Amorous and Exemplary Novels, Introduction and translation of Zayas’s Novelas amorosas y ejemplares. María de Zayas y Sotomayor. Berkeley: U of California P, 1990. —. “The Other Woman in Cervantes’s Persiles and Zayas’s Novelas.” Cervantes vol.10 (1990):59-68. Brownlee, Marina. The Cultural Labyrinth of María de Zayas. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press. 2000. Brunei, Antoine. Ed. Charles Clavérie: Revue Hispanique, vol. 30, p. 157. Cottino-Jones, Marga.“Magic and Superstition in Boccaccio’s Decameron.” Italian Quarterly 18 (1975): 5-32. Dolz-Blackburn, Inés, “María de Zayas y Sotomayor y sus Novelas ejemplares y amorosas.” Explicación de Textos Literarios 14.2 (1985– 6): 73–82. Foa, Sandra M. Feminismo y forma narrativa: Estudio del tema y las técnicas de doña María de Zayas y Sotomayor. Valencia: Albatross, 1979. —. “Humor and Suicide in Zayas and Cervantes”. Anales Cervantinos XVI (1977): 71- 83. Fuss, Diana. Essentially Speaking: Feminism, Nature and Difference. New York: Routledge, 1989. Garcia Velasco, Antonio. La Mujer en la Literatura Medieval Española. Ediciones Aljaima, Málaga, 2000. Graf, Arturo. Il diavolo. Salerno Editore, 1980. Green, Otis. The Literary Court of the Count of Lemos at Naples, 16101616. Hispanic Review 1.4 (1933): 290-308.

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Greer, Margaret. María de Zayas: The Said and the Unsaid., edited by Barbara Simerka and Christopher B. Weimer, Laberinto, vol. 3 (2001) Matulka, Barbara. “The Feminist Theme in the Drama of the Siglo de Oro.” Romanic Review, XXVI, 3, (1935): 191-231. Mihaly, Deanna. Socially Constructed, Essentially Other: Servants and Slaves in Maria de Zayas’s Desengaños amorosos. Dissertation, Tulane University, 1998. Pardo Bazán, Emilia. Biblioteca de la Mujer. Tomo III. 1891 Sylvania, Lena Evelyn. Doña María de Zayas: A Contribution to the Study of her Works. NY: AMS, 1966. Vollendorf, Lisa. Reclaiming the Body: Maria de Zayas’s Early Modern Feminism. University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill Press, 2001. Zayas y Sotomayor, María de. Novelas ejemplares y amorosas. Paris: Baudry, 1847. —. Novelas amorosas y ejemplares. Ed. Agustín G. de Amezúa y Mayo. Madrid, Aldus, S. A. de Artes Gráficas, 1948.

PART TWO: RECONSIDERING THE ROLES

CHAPTER FIVE MOTHER TONGUE AND THE BODY: NAVIGATING THE FEMALE SPACE IN FERRANTE’S AND SERAO’S NAPLES PIA L. BERTUCCI

More than a century separates the career of the contemporary writer known as Elena Ferrante1 from that of the writer and journalist Matilde Serao (1856-1927.) What these two writers have in common, however, is largely untouched by the passing of time. My chapter explores the motherdaughter dyad in four emblematic novels: Serao’s Il delitto di via Chiatamone (1908) and La mano tagliata (1912) and Ferrante’s L’Amore molesto (1992) and La figlia oscura (2006). These novels depict the mother-daughter bond as being directly connected to the city of Naples and the Neapolitan dialect. There is a special intimacy in the motherdaughter relationship that is represented by the Neapolitan vernacular, a sort of code that separates them from the rest of the world. Both Ferrante and Serao render the relationship between mothers and daughters as one of identity confusion that ultimately reveals a fusion of identities. Along with deeply rooted psychological motivations, my study examines how the relationship between Neapolitan mothers and daughters is uniquely defined by the city of Naples itself. Serao’s and Ferrante’s narratives set in Naples reveal a substratum of that urban culture; a liminal sphere forever caught between the past and the future, the real and the imaginary. Naples is a space Walter Benjamin once defined as, “in between,” a space in which parallel or simultaneous realities can coexist (Ponzi 76). Serao and Ferrante’s female heroines inhabit this marginal dimension, a sensory threshold defined by the imperious presence of the mother (living or dead,) and governed by language; in this case the intimate mother tongue of the Neapolitan vernacular. Professors of human geography have studied the significance of urban centers for a people’s emotional and social history. One of the most notable and recent scholars in this discipline, Steve Pile, has applied

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the term, phantasmagoria to this study.2 Phantasmagoria describes the city as a confluence of imagination, emotions, ghosts, and physical space, all of which shape the identities of the city dwellers. This concept, particularly, the connection between ghostlike apparitions and urban spaces, is particularly relevant to the mother-daughter relationship in Serao and Ferrante’s Neapolitan novels. Furthermore, the mystery or noir genre, that typifies or influences the four narratives in this study, serves as an ideal vehicle to convey the immortal influence of the mother in physical as well as metaphysical terms.3 Serao effectively uses the Gothic mystery genre to convey the indissoluble maternal bond in her novels Il delitto di via Chiatamone and La mano tagliata. Ferrante’s L’amore molesto and La figlia oscura are first person introspective narratives told by a protagonist who is both a daughter and a mother. In L’amore molesto, a noir-type thriller, the protagonist chases the ghost of her deceased mother and unlocks secrets to her own identity. La figlia oscura combines gritty realism with the bizarre, as a child’s stolen doll serves as a proxy for memories of loss as well as the mother’s body. Although not a mystery in the traditional sense, La figlia oscura contains elements stylistically associated with the noir genre, particularly in its enigmatic ring composition. It is interesting to note the shift in narrative voice from one novel to another over the course of the two writers’ careers. Serao wrote Il delitto di via Chiatamone and La mano tagliata from the perspective of a vulnerable and grieving daughter. However, Serao’s conception of maternity became less idealized with time, culminating in the stark portrayal of broken relationships and children lost to war in her last novel, Mors tua (1926). This later shift in perspective could possibly be attributed to Serao’s maturity or own role as a mother, and the former as a tribute to the mother she lost at a young age. Ferrante’s shifting point of view is more difficult to pin down as she indiscriminately writes from either perspective, depending on the narrative. However, narrative voice does not convey an advantage: Ferrante presents mothers and daughters who are equally flawed in L’amore molesto and in La figlia oscura. Regardless of perspective or idealization of the mother, what all four novels share is the immutable force and influence of the Neapolitan mother. In Serao’s and Ferrante’s writings, Naples is an urban space with both liminal and physical features, characterized by a fiercely protected cultural and linguistic uniqueness. The topography—real and supernatural—of the city and its relationship to the mother figure can be conceptually explained within Julia Kristeva’s studies that link language with the physical body of the mother. Kristeva interprets the chora, a semiotic dimension that is

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configured in womb-like imagery, as the “mother’s time and space,” in several of her works, most notably in her Revolution in Poetic Language: Plato himself [. . .] calls this receptacle or chora nourishing and maternal. [. . .] The mother’s body is [. . .] what mediates the symbolic law organizing social relations and becomes the ordering principle of the semiotic chora. (26-27).

Kristeva’s theory of the chora draws on the original spatial category from the Timaeus, Plato’s dialogue between Socrates and Timaeus, an astronomer and mathematician. In this dialogue, Timaeus proposes a third nature, that of the chora, to be considered along with the properties of being and becoming, a receptacle that Elysabeth Burns Gamard summarizes as “eternal,” suggesting “the space of genesis and intercession” (158). Kristeva points out that Plato is ambiguous as to whether chora is a “thing” or a “mode of language” (26); her interpretation incorporates both. Kristeva’s linguistic formulation of chora is based on the semiotic and symbolic aspects of language. Peter Barry identifies Kristeva’s treatment of the symbolic as being “paternal,” synonymous with “authority, order, fathers, repression and control,” corresponding to Lacan’s conception of the symbolic realm. The semiotic is then defined as “maternal,” characterized by disorder and “slippage;” as a sort of linguistic “unconscious” that is closer to Lacan’s imaginary realm (Barry 128-129). Kristeva’s model of the chora, as a matriarchal and linguistically subversive realm, corresponds closely with the Neapolitan substrata portrayed by Ferrante and Serao. Such an interpretation might seem counter-intuitive, as Neapolitan society has always projected a patriarchal image, brimming with masculine bluster. Furthermore, this image is superficially borne out through the literary representations of Serao and Ferrante, in which fathers, if they are not wholly absent, lurk in the shadows as pitiless bullies, tormenting their wives and daughters. However, within the course of the narrative, both Serao and Ferrante eventually expose a very different setting: that of an exclusively female enclave controlled by a formidable maternal force, where male dominance is ultimately an illusory construct. In the narratives of these two scrittrici, this female community is primarily structured around the mother-daughter relationship, represented in radically divergent, yet equally compelling modalities. These tales range from more conventional representations between living mothers and their daughters to metaphysical relationships that include deceased mothers and even dolls serving as proxies for the daughter-mother dyad.

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Mothering is a recurring theme in Matilde Serao’s short stories and novels, and one that she frequently wrote about in her newspaper pieces. For Serao, motherhood was not a choice, but an instinct ingrained in all women, whether they had given birth or not. In Parla una donna, for example, Serao refers to all women as having viscere materne (xii). According to Serao’s perspective, this maternal nature also serves to unite all women. In Il ventre di Napoli and the novel Il paese di cuccagna, Serao delineates examples of women providing free childcare, food for other mothers’ children, and even breastfeeding babies whose own mothers are unable to do so. While many of Serao’s contemporaries were exploring the idea of the onset of maternity as the end of a woman’s individual existence, Serao’s conception was entirely different. For Serao, motherhood not only enhanced a woman’s existence, it defined it.4 While the inevitability of marriage and its accompanying grief and frustration are themes that Serao repeated in her short stories and novels, it is clear that many of Serao’s heroines see marriage as a sure course to achieve the only “pure love” by Serao’s definition: maternity. Serao’s concept of motherhood, while exalted to an almost sacred status, is far from uncomplicated. Marie Martin Gistucci sums up Serao’s depiction of the mother-child relationship as one of authority and of dependence that implies sacrifice, but also maternal imperialism. Gistucci declares, First of all, there are the mothers. Matilde Serao does not take maternity lightly. [. . .] It is a relationship of authority and dependence that involves sacrifice, but also maternal imperialism.5 (190)

Other critics comment on this imperialism of the Neapolitan mother. Marotti, referencing the Neapolitan writer Fabrizia Ramondino (19362008,) concludes, “Neapolitan mothers are powerful matriarchs who rule over their children. Rather than subverting male dominance, they indirectly undermine it through their own power in the family” (26). Paradoxically, both Serao and Ferrante configure the imperialism of Neapolitan mothers most strongly in narrative representations in which the mother’s physical presence is absent. Throughout the 17 novels and 165 short stories penned by Matilde Serao, the mother-daughter relationship figures prominently. In particular, Cuore Infermo (1881,) Il romanzo della fanciulla (1886,) Il paese di cuccagna (1891,) and the short story Terno secco (1888) all establish the unequivocal significance of the mother’s influence. However, in her later Gothic detective novels Il delitto di Via Chiatamone (1908) and La mano

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tagliata (1912,) Serao’s expression of the mother’s dominance reaches its apex. Il delitto di via Chiatamone was Serao’s first foray into the mystery genre. Her constructed web of intrigue and suspense provided her with a platform to explore the maternal bond with an innovative approach. At the onset, the novel’s protagonist Teresa Gargiulo’s mother Cecilia is already dead, but has left her a portentous Saint Teresa medal upon which she has engraved the cautionary inscription, temi il leone. The lion refers to the coat of arms for a powerful and aristocratic Neapolitan family named Vargas. Teresa’s mother had been victimized by Francesco, a prominent male member of the Vargas family and now, decades later, Teresa is poised to be an unwitting victim to Francesco’s nephew, Giorgio. In an attempt to seize Teresa’s fortune, Giorgio employs an underworld associate to assassinate Teresa. However, the attempt on Teresa’s life is unsuccessful: the intended bullet ricochets off the St. Teresa medal Cecilia left to her daughter. Undeterred by the foiled assassination attempt, Giorgio hatches an even more nefarious plan. Seizing upon Teresa’s ignorance of her impending fortune as well as her fervent desire for social status, Giorgio seduces her with the promise of security and noble stature. Meanwhile, the spirit of Cecilia continues to serve as a protective force as she appears to her daughter in a series of cautionary dreams that warn her of Giorgio’s evil intentions. Teresa only realizes the significance of the dreams and her tragic fate ࡳ parallel to that of her late mother ࡳ after she has given birth to Giorgio’s child and finds herself isolated and completely at the mercy of the man she now recognizes as evil: Il mio destino è simile al suo, [. . .] Ella è stata sedotta…e io come lei. [. . .] Ella ha avuto una figliuola … e io un figlio [. . .] io sono una bastarda…e mio figlio che è? [. . .] Mia madre è stata abbandonata … ed io… ed io? (II. 185)

Teresa will ultimately replicate her mother’s fate completely and tragically, dying and thereby abandoning her newborn child. This fatalistic motif regarding mothers and daughters figures prominently in Ferrante’s L’amore molesto as well. In a sense, Ferrante’s narrative trajectory picks up where Serao was unable to continue in Il delitto di Via Chiatamone. The seeds of empowerment and agency that were planted in Serao’s early 20th Century novel cautiously bloom in Ferrante’s Neapolitan heroines. Delia, the protagonist of Ferrante’s Neapolitan understated noir, L’amore molesto, has managed to successfully shed her impoverished roots and is a relatively successful, albeit reclusive, middle-aged illustrator in Bologna. The daughter of a cruel, abusive artist and a long-suffering

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seamstress, Delia is forced to confront her past when she returns to Naples for her mother’s funeral. As she endeavors to unravel the mystery surrounding her mother’s untimely and undignified death, Delia finds herself on a journey of self-discovery as her identity and that of her mother become hazily blurred. Although Amalia, Delia’s mother, is dead at the start of the novel, her presence is not the ethereal spirit of Serao’s Gothic tales. Instead, there is an emphasis on Amalia’s physicality that is perpetuated to the very culmination of the novel. Amalia’s body is found virtually naked, washed up on the beach, a presumed suicide. As Delia follows the trail of Amalia’s last days, she has several encounters involving the clothing of her deceased mother, including her mother’s underwear, all of which serve as proxies for the mother’s body. Delia is first confronted with her mother’s corpse at what is presumably an identification at the morgue. Immediately Delia feels a need to connect with the body, a sensation that will recur throughout the narrative: “Vidi il corpo e di fronte a quell’oggetto livido sentii che forse dovevo aggrapparmici per non finire chissà dove.” (L’Amore Molesto: 13) Although nebulous and inexplicable, Delia has already begun to perceive a coalescing of her identity with that of Amalia, her mother. At the same time, this assimilation leaves her feeling vulnerable, as though subject to a complete relinquishment of self. While Delia feels the need to establish physical contact with the mother’s body to guarantee her own existence, physical contact with her sisters during the funeral has the opposite effect: Le mie due sorelle mi si stringevano ai lati. Ne sorreggevo una per un braccio perché temevo che svenisse. L’altra si afferrava a me come se gli occhi troppo gonfi le impedissero di vedere. Quel disciogliersi involontario6 del corpo mi spaventò come la minaccia di una punizione. (L’Amore Molesto: 14)

The fusion of mother and daughter intensifies as Delia returns to her mother’s apartment, ostensibly to clean it out. While there, Delia discovers a cache of her mother’s old and mended undergarments that have been stuffed into a bag with the express purpose, Delia soon learns, of serving as part of an aberrant exchange. The man ultimately responsible for her parents’ divorce, who is rumored to have been Amalia’s recent companion, had arranged to drop off Amalia’s suitcase ࡳ missing since her disappearance ࡳ in exchange for the old underwear. Several things are significant in this exchange. Many years earlier Delia’s family disparagingly had dubbed this man, “Caserta,” a reference to the nearby city, grandiose with its preserved palace and ornate statues. With this

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name, the mother’s love interest is immediately relegated to the role of the other, and his own pomp and pretentiousness are established as well. Caserta is referred to by Delia in this first-person narrative alternatively as the city itself, the man, and then as a blending of the two: Da decenni per me Caserta era una città della fretta, un luogo dell’inquietudine dove tutto va più veloce che in altri luoghi. [. . .] ciò che le mie emozioni meno verbalizzabili registravano sotto la voce Caserta, custodiva soprattutto una nausea da girotondo, il capogiro e la mancanza d’aria [. . .] Caserta era un posto dove non dovevo andare [. . .] Nemmeno mia madre doveva entrarci, altrimenti mio padre la uccideva. Caserta era un uomo, una sagoma di stoffa scura. [. . .] Amalia stessa [. . .] parlava in segreto di lui, di quell’uomo-città7 fatto a cascate e a fratte e a statue di pietra e a pitture di palmizi con cammelli. (38-39)

Another significant point in this episode is Caserta’s confusion over Delia’s identity when he calls Amalia’s apartment. He is so convinced that Delia is Amalia that he resorts to mocking Delia’s words in harsh Neapolitan dialect. In a distorted sort of narrative loop, Delia will experience a similar incredulous reaction from Caserta’s son, the manager of the shop where Amalia bought all the fine clothing now left behind by Caserta in the peculiar underwear exchange. Delia attempts to return her mother’s unworn purchases without a receipt, producing her mother’s identity card, in the hopes that it will jog the memory of the store manager, who she has not yet recognized as Caserta’s son, Antonio. Delia is initially puzzled by Antonio’s violent reaction to her mother’s ID until she makes a chilling discovery: Gli strappai il documento di mano con calcolato disprezzo per capire cosa l’aveva fatto innervosire tanto lanciai uno sguardo alla foto-tessera di mia madre. I lunghi capelli baroccamente architettati sulla fronte e intorno al viso erano stati accuratamente raschiati via. Il bianco emerso intorno alla testa era stato mutato con una matita in un grigio nebuloso. Con la stessa matita qualcuno aveva lievemente indurito i lineamenti del viso. La donna della foto non era Amalia: ero io. (72) The identity confusion between mother and daughter is further complexified as a parallel emerges in the identities of Caserta and his son Antonio Polledro: Mi resi conto [. . .] che [. . .] col moto dello sguardo dal Polledro a Caserta e viceversa, avevo composto un terzo uomo che non era Caserta e nemmeno Polledro. Si trattava di un uomo giovane, olivastro, nero di capelli, con un capotto di cammello. Quell’ectoplasma, subito di sfatto, era il risultato di uno slittamento di tratti somatici, come se il mio sguardo

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avesse causato una confusione accidentale tra gli zigomi di Caserta e quelli del buttafuori del negozio Vossi, tra la bocca dell’uno e quella dell’altro. (86)

This parallel identity extends further, as Delia’s attempt to unravel the mystery surrounding her mother’s last days reactivates memories, long buried since she left Naples. One such memory involves Delia’s sexual experimentation with Antonio when they were children. This experimentation is ultimately revealed as an acting out of Delia’s juvenile curiosity regarding her mother’s sexuality. Once again, the mother’s body dominates the foreground of the narrative through Delia’s vivid memories such as shielding her mother from the attention of men on the funicular: Era un viaggio che mi piaceva, all’andata in tram, al ritorno in funicolare [. . .] io e lei soltanto. [. . .] Ma se la vettura era affollata, ogni godimento era precluso. Allora mi prendeva la smania di proteggere mia madre dal contatto con gli uomini, come avevo visto che faceva sempre mio padre in quella circostanza. Mi disponevo come uno scudo alle sue spalle e me ne stavo crocefissa alle gambe di lei, la fronte contro le sue natiche, le braccia protese, una mano stretta all’appoggio di ghisa del sedile di destra, l’altra a quello di sinistra. Era uno sforzo inutile, il corpo di Amalia non si lasciava contenere. (62)

Delia recreates these memories while on her circuit of Neapolitan public transportation in pursuit of the unanswered questions Amalia’s untimely death has left behind. In one of several such instances, Delia summons a vision of her mother in her mind’s eye that is so vivid, we have no trouble believing that this ghostly hallucination is real: Pochi minuti dopo apparve la stazione di Chiaia [. . .] Mi preparai a scendere ma non mi sentivo ancora tranquilla. Amalia, dentro la mia testa, ora fissava a sua volta quell’estrosa composizione somatica che avevo ottenuto poco prima. Mi rassegnai. Era lì ferma, esigente, in un angolo della vecchia stazione di quarant’anni fa. [. . .] Ora Amalia era definitivamente comparsa a tutto campo, giovane e flessuosa, nell’atrio di una stazione che, come lei, non c’era più. (86-87)

The apparition of her mother continues to appear as Delia navigates her mother’s former stomping grounds, slipping through a narrow passageway in a rough part of town that she knows her mother used to traverse. Eventually there is a merging of the mother’s younger self with the adult Delia: “Era possibile che il suo corpo di sedicenne, vestito d’una veste a

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fiori fatta in casa, passasse per la penombra servendosi del mio [. . .]” (132-133) For Delia, Naples is her last conduit to and connection with her mother. The ghosts and emotions that each tram, building, street, or storefront conjure up are, for her, as much a part of the urban experience as a part of her tenuous hold on the memory of her mother. Although educated and eloquent, Delia appropriates the Neapolitan dialect as a way into her mother’s world. It is interesting that the most dominant male figure in the narrative, Amalia’s lifelong suitor, is identified by the name of a city other than Naples, Caserta. By calling him a “man-city,” Delia is reinforcing his position as outside. By returning to all her previous haunts, Delia reclaims her former identity as a young girl in Naples. This identity, shaped and formed by her mother, is becoming increasingly indistinguishable from that of Amalia. In the end, Delia finds her mother’s handmade suit, laid out in a disconcertingly anthropomorphic arrangement in Caserta’s room. She changes into the suit, one of several instances of changing into her mother’s clothes, including undergarments, that are documented in the narrative. With this move, Delia’s assimilation of her mother’s identity is almost complete. The final stage in this transformation comes as Delia, still wearing her mother’s suit, sits on the beach where Amalia died. With a pen, Delia alters her own identity card to resemble her mother, just as Amalia’s card had been altered to resemble her daughter’s image: Mi allungai i capelli corti muovendo dalle orecchie e gonfiando due ampie bande che andavano a chiudersi in un’onda nerissima, levata sulla fronte. Mi abbozzai un ricciolo ribelle sull’occhio destro, trattenuto a stento tra l’attaccatura dei capelli e il sopracciglio. Mi guardai, mi sorrisi. [. . .] Amalia c’era stata. Io ero Amalia. (171)

Mother and daughter’s identities commingling, or at least following the same trajectory, can also be seen in other stories by Serao and Ferrante. The last two I would like to consider, La mano tagliata by Serao and La figlia oscura by Ferrante, exhibit instances of this fusion of identities, as well as examples of the city’s relationship to the body of the mother. Among Serao’s narratives that explore the theme of the mother’s lifesaving guidance, only La mano tagliata has a happy conclusion for the daughter. In this dark mystery, the protagonist Rachele is spared precisely because she heeds her mother’s counsel. It is important to note that this counsel defies the direct command of Rachele’s living father, Mosè Cabib. Rachele’s father has ordained that Rachele will marry the very successful and much older Marcus Henner. Rachele is repulsed by a sinister figure

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who stalks her, watching her through her window at night. It escapes the father’s perception that not only is Marcus Henner a sinister character, but he is the very man who abducted Sara (his wife, and Rachele’s mother), and subjected her to the most barbarous treatment by severing her hand, eventually killing her. Moreover, Mosè becomes an accomplice by attempting to facilitate the wedding of his daughter to this villain: “Io l’amo e la odio.” egli [Henner] disse [. . .]. “Ma ella respinge la vostra offerta sempre. [. . .] Vi teme, ma vi sfida.” “E tu, suo padre, non puoi fare nulla? Che uomo sei?” “Ella ha minacciato di uccidersi, Maestro, se io tentavo di costringerla [. . .] è capacissima di farlo. E mi è figlia, Maestro.” “Tu l’ami! E la daresti a me?” “La darei.” (La mano tagliata: 38)

Marcus Henner proceeds to threaten to kill Rachele’s fiancé, a threat that should awaken paternal feelings of protection for his daughter, but instead only reinforces his commitment to foster this union. The father’s pathetic weakness is revealed in his warning to his daughter: “Lo ucciderà, lo ucciderà! Egli ha tante armi che uccidono bene, tanti veleni che non lasciano traccia: il Maestro è il signore della morte. Ranieri Lambertini è un ostacolo, a lui, al suo amore, alla sua felicità ; Ranieri Lambertini morrà.” (La mano tagliata: 54)

By portraying the father’s complicity early in the narrative, Serao creates a hostile and cold environment in which the oppressive elements of the patriarchal society are magnified and which the daughter is ill-equipped to navigate alone. The influence of the mother thereby becomes all the more imperative. Throughout her young life, Rachele is unaware of what actually happened to her mother. Her father is vague on the matter, telling her in one instance that she had simply disappeared, and later that she is buried in a small cemetery in Germany. Rachele is consumed by the mystery enshrouding her mother’s memory, emphasizing that “her mother should not have abandoned her as she did” (67). Desperate for answers, Rachele implores her mother in the form of a prayer: Ora la pregava, come si prega una santa, a volerla soccorrere dal cielo o dalla terra, dove si trovava, a voler darle un consiglio, una guida, una luce! [. . .] “Madre, madre mia, se tu vivi, vieni a me! Se sei morta, prega per me!” — implorava così, inginocchiata, Rachele Cabib. (La mano tagliata: 67)

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Once again, the daughter’s life mirrors her mother’s. Tragically Rachele is aggressively pursued by Henner because of her striking resemblance to her mother, his first object of desire. In the end, however, Rachele’s prayers are answered as the mother takes on a more vigilant role in this text, appearing to her daughter in dreams, as well as leaving relics, such as a crucifix and letters. In the end, Rachele escapes Henner and is thus saved from certain death by heeding the words of her mother. In all three novels discussed thus far, the connection between the mother and daughter is firm, and remains so even after the mother’s death. The mother’s body figures prominently in La mano tagliata, as it did in L’amore molesto. In the former example, the severed hand serves as an ex voto of sorts, a relic of maternal sacrifice that binds the daughter to her mother. The female-female relationship, particularly that of the mother and daughter, is presented through Serao’s textual depiction as the only true, dependable relationship worthy of a woman’s faith and trust. Laura Salsini, in her study of Serao in Gendered Genres credits the Gothic mystery as a unique genre that permits Serao to explore this solidarity of female characters: Serao’s Gothic texts subversively allow women to become actively involved in each other’s destinies. Heroines do not turn toward their lovers, husbands or fathers for support and the resolution of their stories but, rather toward the maternal figure. (147)

There is a striking difference, however, between the mother’s role in Serao’s narratives and in Ferrante’s. Serao’s deceased mothers hover over their daughters, intending to shield them from inevitable misery and disappointment, should they submit, body and soul, to the life and expectations generated by a patriarchal society. The mother figure in Ferrante’s novels, while still occupying a central role, does not carry an explicit objective for her interference in her daughter’s life. Ostensibly, the mother’s only function is to control her daughter in mind, body and soul. The pathological fusion of identities in Ferrante’s mother-daughter relationships far surpasses the parallel fates of mother and daughter in Serao. The aforementioned literary expressions of pathological closeness between mother and daughter also figure prominently in many Freudian and PostFreudian studies. Nancy Chodorow, a sociologist and psychoanalyst, in her study The Reproduction of Mothering, insightfully identified this connection as “boundary confusion”:

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Because they are the same gender as their daughters and have been girls, mothers of daughters tend not to experience these infant daughters as separate from them in the same way as do mothers of infant sons. In both cases, a mother is likely to experience a sense of oneness and continuity with her infant. However, this sense is stronger, and lasts longer, vis–à–vis daughters. Primary identification and symbiosis with daughters tend to be stronger and cathexis of the daughter as a sexual other usually remaining a weaker, less significant theme. (109)

Chodorow maintains that the daughter’s identification with her mother is so strong that the daughter will struggle throughout her adolescence and young adulthood to break free from this influence and create her own identity. She cites Signe Hammer who confirms this virtual oneness between mothers and daughters in her book Daughters and Mothers, Mothers and Daughters: “At some level mothers and daughters tend to remain emotionally bound up with each other in what might be called a semi-symbiotic relationship, in which neither ever quite sees herself or the other as a separate person.” (109) Chodorow also uses the term “internalization,” referring to the daughter absorbing so much of the mother’s characteristics that she herself essentially becomes her mother. (97) The concept of internalization would certainly be applicable to Delia, and to a lesser extent to Teresa and Rachele in Serao’s novels. The connection of daughter to mother in Ferrante’s La figlia oscura is much more difficult to comprehend. This is due, in part, to the complexity and sheer number of different relevant relationships in the narrative that are all, in some way, connected to the protagonist Leda, in her role as both mother and daughter. Both respective relationships are problematic, but easier to define than Leda’s connection to Nina, a young woman she meets on the beach, Nina’s daughter Elena, also known as Lenuccia, and “Nani,” the little girl’s doll. These relationships in some decisive way are layers of Leda’s complex sense of self, and are all interconnected. As the novel opens, Leda, a middle-aged, divorced mother of two grown daughters is retreating from her life as an academic in Florence, to a beach resort on the Ionian Sea. Much of what transpires is a fluctuation between Leda’s actual encounters with people at the resort, and her own internal monologue, both of which reveal, episode by episode, and memory by memory, her character. Leda’s role as a mother is introduced almost immediately in the narrative as she thinks about her daughters living across the ocean with their father: Quando le mie figlie si trasferirono a Toronto, dove da anni viveva e lavorava il padre, scoprii con imbarazzata meraviglia che non provavo alcun dolore, ma mi sentivo leggera [. . .] (6)

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The relief Leda experiences over not having to concern herself with the care of her daughters on the surface seems excusable given the girls’ maturity: they are twenty-two and twenty-four-years old. However, as the storyline unfolds, Leda reveals a much darker secret. Somewhat unrepentantly, she reflects on her decision eighteen years earlier to walk out on her husband and two young daughters for what would be three years with no contact. In a painful but revealing scene, Leda recalls her last moments with her two little daughters in the kitchen before she left: Bianca prese un’arancia dal vassoio della frutta, aprì un cassetto, mi porse un coltello. Non capii, correvo dietro alle mie furie, non vedevo l’ora di fuggire da quella casa e dimenticare tutto. Ci fai il serpente, chiese allora lei [. . .] e Marta mi sorrise incoraggiante. [. . .] Va bene, dissi, presi l’arancia, cominciai a tagliare la buccia. Le bambine mi fissavano. Sentivo i loro sguardi che volevano ammansirmi, ma più forte sentivo il fulgore della vita fuori di loro, nuovi colori, nuovi corpi, nuova intelligenza, una lingua da possedere finalmente come se fosse la mia vera lingua, e niente, niente che mi paresse conciliabile con quello spazio domestico dal quale entrambe mi fissavano in attesa. Ah, renderle invisibili, non sentire più le richieste della loro carne come domande più pressanti, più potenti di quelle che venivano dalla mia. Finii di sbucciare l’arancia e me ne andai. Da allora, per tre anni, non le ho viste né sentite più. (100)

This heart-rending scene is puzzling, as two different streams of motivation seem to be pushing Leda in this direction away from her children. The first is the simple and straightforward answer that she gives in the passage itself, which is also bolstered by her earlier discovery and celebration of self while overseas at a conference, “Fui sopraffatta da me stessa. Io, io, io: questo sono, questo so fare, questo devo fare.” (94) The other stems from Leda’s own relationship with her mother when she was a child. Hers was an upbringing marred by socioeconomic struggle in urban Naples and compounded by her childish, but very real fear that her mother would abandon her and her sisters as she often threatened: Comandi, urla, insulti, un tendersi della vita, nelle sue parole, come un nervo logoro che appena sfiorato raschia via ogni compostezza. Una volta, due, tre ci ha minacciate, noi figlie, che se ne sarebbe andata, vi sveglierete la mattina e non mi troverete più. Mi svegliavo ogni giorno tremando di paura. Nella realtà c’era sempre, nelle parole, spariva di casa in continuazione. (17)

In a perverse twist on the above-mentioned fatalistic narratives between mother and daughter, where there is a love bonding the two, La figlia

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oscura presents a very different dynamic. Leda ultimately fulfills the horrible prophecy of her mother. Whether it was her mother’s threat or Leda’s ensuing fear of abandonment, Leda labors throughout her adult life to sever all ties with her mother and anything associated with her, including Naples and the Neapolitan dialect. L’esistenza a volte ha una sua geometria ironica. A partire dai trediciquattordici anni avevo aspirato al decoro borghese, a un buon italiano, a una buona vita colta e riflessiva. Napoli mi era sembrata un’onda che mi avrebbe annegata. [. . .] Ero andata via come un’ustionata che urlando si strappa di dosso la pelle bruciata credendo di strapparsi di dosso la bruciatura stessa. (85)

Despite her lifelong efforts to sever all ties with everything she associates with the maternal including Naples and the local dialect, Leda finds herself gravitating back to this small, protected sphere. This too, like the boundary confusion and internalization studied by Chodorow, is a common feature of the mother-daughter relationship; as daughters tend to “seek to escape from their mother as well as return to her” (195). Apropos of the “ironic geometry” she mentions, Leda soon finds herself drawn to a group of Neapolitans on the beach, in particular, the young mother Nina, and her daughter Elena. What captures Leda’s attention immediately is the seemingly indissoluble bond between mother and daughter, and in turn, between daughter and her somewhat shabby doll that she carries with her everywhere. As she initially watches the interaction between the pair, her reaction is one of amazement and almost bewilderment: [. . .] Mi colpì il tempo lento che madre e figlia passavano insieme in acqua, l’una che se la stringeva contro, l’altra che le teneva le braccia strette intorno al collo. Ridevano tra loro godendosi il piacere di sentirsi corpo contro corpo, toccarsi il naso col naso, sputarsi fiotti d’acqua, baciarsi. (15)

Leda’s pull towards Nina is predominantly favorable; in her she sees both a glimmer of the idealized maternal with a voice that exudes a musical Neapolitan. Nina’s maternal dialect clashes stridently with that of Leda’s mother: [Nina] parlava alla bambina e alla sua bambola con una cadenza dialettale gradevole, il napoletano che amo, quello tenero del gioco e delle dolcezze. Ero incantata. Le lingue per me hanno un veleno segreto che ogni tanto schiuma e per il quale non c’è antidoto. Ricordo il dialetto nella bocca di

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Leda’s focus on Nina and her large and raucous extended family (relatives, Leda learns, of Nina’s gangster husband) develops into a sort of obsession. She follows the moods, interactions and activities of the young woman in this controlled family atmosphere and is drawn into their nimbus by chance when she finds and returns little Elena who had been lost on the beach. What could have been a tragedy of unparalleled proportions—the loss of the child at the sea—is quickly overshadowed by the overly dramatized circus when Elena loses her doll. Aunts, uncles, cousins, and even staff on the beach join in the search to no avail. Meanwhile, Elena becomes distraught, inconsolable, and develops a fever. In an eerie twist, we discover that Leda has taken the doll for reasons she ultimately does not understand herself. She describes it initially as “priva di senso” (41) and ascribes it to an almost childish impulse to rescue the mangy doll that Elena had carelessly buried in the sand. Instantly horrified by her action, Leda contemplates the question, “Cos’è una bambola per una bambina?” and reflects on her own doll, Mina, as well as the act of the mother playing at being the doll: Mina, mammina. Mammuccia, mi venne in mente, una parola per dire bambola che da tempo non si usa più. Giocare con la mammuccia. Mia madre si era sempre concessa pochissimo ai giochi che cercavo di fare col suo corpo. Si innervosiva subito, non le piaceva fare la bambola. [. . .] Si arrabbiava. La indispettiva che la pettinassi, le mettessi nastrini, le lavassi la faccia e le orecchie, la svestissi, rivestissi. Io invece no. [. . .] Sono stata pazientemente la bambola di Bianca, nei suoi primi anni di vita. (43)

Eventually, Leda comes to terms with her real motivation for taking the doll: Perché l’avevo presa. Custodiva l’amore di Nina e di Elena. Il loro vincolo, la reciproca passione. Era il testimone lucente di una maternità serena. Me la portai al petto. [. . .] Sentii nitidamente che non volevo restituire Nani, anche se avvertivo il rimorso, la paura di tenerla con me. La baciai sul viso, sulla bocca, la strinsi come avevo visto fare a Elena. (59)

Leda’s fixation on the doll continues as she cleans the doll, working fastidiously to expel the sandy sludge the doll has ingested via Elena, as well as the “baby” Elena planted in the doll’s belly:

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C’era qualcosa nella bocca della bombola che non voleva uscire. [. . .] Accettarla per quello che è. Povera creatura senza niente di umano. Ecco il bambino che Lenuccia ha inserito nella pancia della sua bambola per giocare a renderla pregna come quella di zia Rosaria. Lo estrassi delicatamente. Era un verme della battigia [. . .] (122-123)

The worm implanted in the baby doll’s belly serves as an allegory for the revulsion Leda’s character fundamentally associates with pregnancy and childbirth. Throughout the narrative, there are at least twenty-four instances of the word “pancia,” or a variation thereof, most of which convey a negative connotation as they refer to the womb. There are two examples that are particularly striking. The first is Leda’s description of her own birth: Ricordavo fin troppo bene com’ero convinta [. . .] che mia madre, nel farmi, si fosse levata da me come quando si ha un moto di repulsione e si allontana il piatto con un gesto. Sospettavo che avesse cominciato a sfuggirmi fin da quando mi teneva in grembo, anche se crescendo tutti mi dicevano che le assomigliavo. (55)

The other notable episode is Leda’s gruesome memory of her pregnancy with Marta, her second child: Ma poi venne Marta. Fu lei ad aggredire il mio corpo costringendolo a rivoltarsi senza controllo. Lei si manifestò non come Marta, ma come un pezzo di ferro vivo nella pancia. Il mio organismo diventò un liquore sanguigno, con una feccia poltigliosa in sospensione dentro cui cresceva un polipo violento, così lontano da ogni umanità da ridurmi, pur di nutrirsi lui ed espandersi, a una putrilagine senza più vita. Nani che sputa nero assomiglia a me quando restai incinta per la seconda volta. (121)

Leda recalls that her love for her daughters was a fleeting “alien closeness,” (57) in that she was truly only able to love those traits or qualities that resembled their father, rather than any similarities to herself. Throughout the narrative, Leda’s existential quest is one of regret and longing. She acknowledges the existence of pure maternal love and affection and realizes that through some defect she is incapable of possessing or expressing such a love. Particularly telling is her declaration regarding her daughters, “Poveri esseri venuti dalla mia pancia.” (59) In the end, Leda reveals to Nina her theft of the doll. This loss of the doll, Nina reminds Leda, caused the young mother untold hours of discomfort due to her daughter’s inability to be consoled. Searching for an explanation, Leda is only able to tell her that she is “una madre snaturata.”

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Nina reacts violently to Leda’s flippant excuse, discarding her pretense of serenity and refinement, swearing at Leda in dialect, and stabbing her with the ornamental pin Leda had given her as a gift. Leda seems to take the stabbing willingly, stoically driving off in her car alone until she lapses into unconsciousness. Later, in the hospital, she will tell her concerned daughters over the phone, “Sono morta, ma sto bene.” (139) Leda’s last words could be interpreted in many ways. The fact that she is deeply moved by her daughters’ concern suggests a sort of rebirth of self and identity for Leda. Over the course of her stay near the beach, Leda has followed an idealized vision of maternity in the body of Nina, and with great regret chased all her bitter memories of maternal failures. Leda’s interaction with Nina and the other Neapolitans, their language and their aggressive mannerisms, frames her memories of her own mother, a connection she worked so hard to dissolve that she lost a part of herself in the process. While more negative than positive, La figlia oscura is a powerful testament to the fusing of the daughter’s identity with her mother’s. In all four of these narratives, references to the city of Naples and the local dialect serve as unifying threads that connect Neapolitan daughters to their lost mothers, and mothers to their estranged daughters. Returning to Kristeva’s definition of the chora, the magnitude and intensity of the mother-daughter bond, for better or for worse, suggests a suspended realm, or a “threshold,” to use Walter Benjamin’s term8. It is an alternate dimension of Naples; what quantum physicists would call a superposition, or life existing in different states, simultaneously. This realm of Neapolitan mothers and daughters is populated with the living as well as ghosts of the past, with the mother’s body serving as the epicenter of this exclusive universe.

Notes 1

At the time of publication, the true identity and birthdate of Elena Ferrante remain unknown. 2 “Phantasmagoria implies a peculiar mix of spaces and times: the ghost-like or dream-like procession of things in cities not only comes from all over the place [ . . .], but it also evokes very different times (be they past, present or future; be they remembered or imagined). [ . . .] What is real, then, about cities is as much emotional as physical, as much visible as invisible, as much slow moving as ever speeding up, as much coincidence as connection.” Pile, Steve. Real Cities: Modernity, Space, and the Phantasmagorias of City Life. London: Sage Publications, 2005. (2-3)

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3

The relationship between ghostlike apparitions and urban spaces has a long academic history, having been formalized as a subject of study and debate since Walter Benjamin’s renowned 1926 article on Naples. In the 1950’s, Guy Debord and other French scholars launched the discipline of psychogeography to study the impact of geography on human emotions and behavior. 4 For examples of other Italian woman writers’ conceptions of motherhood, see I divoratori, by Vivanti, and Aleramo’s Una donna. One of the most powerful excerpts in support of this idea is from Una donna, in the form of a letter written by a mother, read by her daughter, who is now also a mother and experiences the same drama: “Debbo partire [. . .] qui impazzisco [. . .] Ed io soffro tanto che non so più voler bene ai bambini [. . .] debbo andarmene […]. Poveri figli miei, forse è meglio per loro!” (180-81). 5 “Et tout d’abord il y a les mères. Matilde Serao ne prend pas la maternité à la légère. [. . .] C’est un rapport d’autorité et de dépendance qui implique le sacrifice, mais aussi l’impérialisme maternel” (190). 6 My emphasis. 7 My emphasis. 8 See Ponzi, 70.

Bibliography Barry, Peter. Beginning Theory. An Introduction to Literary and Cultural Theory. Manchester UP, 1995. Chodorow, Nancy. The Reproduction of Mothering. Berkeley: California UP, 1999. Ferrante, Elena. L’amore molesto. Roma: Edizioni e/o, 1999. —. La figlia oscura.Roma: Edizioni e/o, 2006. Gamard, Elysabeth Burns. “Virgil/Beatrice: Remarks on Discursive Thought and Rational Order in Architecture.” Journal of Architectural Education (1984). 48.3 (1995): 154-67. Gistucci, M.G. L’Oeuvre Romanesque de Matilde Serao. Grenoble UP, 1973. Kristeva, Julia. Revolution in Poetic Language. Columbia UP 1984. Marotti, Maria Ornella, ed. Italian Women Writers from the Renaissance to the Present: Revising the Canon. University Park: Pennsylvania State UP, 1996. Pile, Steve. Real Cities: Modernity, Space, and the Phantasmagorias of City Life. London: Sage Publications, 2005. Ponzi, Mauro. “Naples as Topography in Spaces in Between. Walter Benjamin and the Spaces Between Old and New.” Eds. Fabio Vighi, Alexis Nuselovici, Mauro Ponzi. Between Urban Topographies and

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Political Spaces: Threshold Experiences. Lanham: Lexington Books, 2014. Salsini, Laura. Gendered Genres. Female Experiences and Narrative Patterns in the Works of Matilde Serao. Madison: Farleigh Dickinson UP, 1999. Serao, Matilde. Il delitto di via Chiatamone. 1908. Firenze: Salani, 1916. —. La mano tagliata. 1912. Firenze: Salani, 1936. —. Parla una donna. Milano: Treves, 1916.

CHAPTER SIX THE STOLEN IDENTITIES IN MARIA MESSINA’S NOVEL A HOUSE IN THE SHADOW SILVIA TIBONI-CRAFT

Right after the Unification of Italy (1861), the Risorgimento’s mentality wanted to redefine the new Italian citizen segregating once again women1 within the domestic walls and to the role of the Angel of the House.2 Even though women writers started subtly to denounce women’s conditions of domestic tyranny through their novels since the late 19th century, the situation did not improve much in the Italian context until the second half of the 20th century. The literary work of Maria Messina well testifies to this situation of domestic seclusion through her female characters and the acknowledgement of their imprisonment, particularly in her best known novel A House in the Shadow,3 which is the main focus of my investigation. Maria Messina was born in a small town in Sicily in 1887. Even though she travelled a lot because of her father’s job in central Italy, she spent the majority of her life in the southern part of the peninsula. Messina was a self-educated woman: she taught herself how to read and write, and as a writer she achieved a little fame by the beginning of the last century. At the age of twenty-two she started an intense exchange of letters with Giovanni Verga, who can be considered her mentor. The influence of Verismo is very evident in her work A House in the Shadow.4 Although this is not the place to discuss the details of this professional bond, it is interesting to underline in the context of my investigation that in the novel the literary remarks are made only by men. It seems that the author very finely tries to declare the difficulty for women to be educated, to learn, and consequently to be in charge of their own lives and thoughts. Conversely these opportunities were given to all men, even to the ones not so sophisticated such as the male main protagonist of the novel, Don Lucio. Messina’s intention seems to be to declaim the fear that the patriarchal system has of female emancipation and therefore of the power that women can gain through education. Even in the first two decades of the 20th

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century, the patriarchal system wanted to keep women ignorant and yoked to its domestic tyranny. As Maria Serena Sapegno points out,5 through her work Messina denounces not only the aggressive rules imposed on women by the patriarchal system but also the beginning of the decline of the patriarchy. This old system was suffocating for women and even for those male figures that embodied a different representation of masculinity, as the male figure of Alessio shows in the novel. Contrary to the female characters, Sapegno continues, the young man is able to reach a “coscienza piena di sé” (Sapegno:12), but it clashes with the expectations of the male dominated world, and this leads Alessio to kill himself. The patriarchal system therefore even rejects certain male figures and only protects the idea of the man as oppressor to maintain his control over society. In my investigation of Messina’s novel A House in the Shadow written in 1921, I aim to demonstrate that, while men have the opportunity to fully explore and define their own identities and even though sometimes they do not fit the narrow mentality of the patriarchy, women first need to reappropriate their own “stolen bodies” 6 before starting to define and understand who they really are. The male tyranny not only cloistered women within the house but also deprived them of the possibility of building up their own selves through the prefabricated gender role they are expected to perform, to use Butler’s words.7 Messina’s female protagonists of the novel, Nicolina and Antonietta, segregated within the house and the closed mentality of a Sicilian small town, feel the necessity to create a parallel, fantastic space within the domestic domain, where they can start to daydream in order to survive the secluded life. The fantastic space is therefore a specific space within the house that women had to create in order to survive the restrictions imposed upon them by the patriarchal system. This space is their one and only private space. As I will show, this fantastic space is the first step for women not only to proclaim the necessity of a change that must start in and from the house8 but also to start the process of building up their own selves so that they might gain an identity later in the century. In this space Nicolina and Antonietta begin the necessary step of doing and undoing their own selves.9 Through the creation of their own parallel spaces within the house which they inhabit, the two female protagonists begin to change the domestic space. Through their daydreams Nicolina and Antonietta give a new meaning to the closed and defined space of the house; they collect new memories and thoughts aimed at reflecting upon their actual lives and on the lives they would like to experience. The exploration of themselves happens, however, within the fantastic space they create in the house and

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therefore it is here that they silently begin to denounce the “crime” committed by the patriarchy: the theft of women’s bodies and consequently the annihilation of female identity. In this parallel space the women become aware of the necessity to kill the image of the Angel of the House, which as Woolf well stated was imposed on women for centuries by the patriarchal system.10 My analysis will therefore mainly focus on showing the struggle for women in the first two decades of the 20th century to understand who they really are and what they really want. A House in the Shadows11 tells the story of Don Lucio Carmine, his wife Antonietta, and his sister-in-law Nicolina. The family lives together in a small town in Sicily where Don Lucio manages the land of a rich baron of the area, and where, later, unbeknown to his family, he will become a usurer. Don Lucio, a very arrogant and selfish man who, although married to Antonietta, will seduce the young sister-in-law Nicolina transforming the space of the house into a promiscuous space. The promiscuous space of the house that Don Lucio creates, not only will affect and change the dynamic within the house but will also destabilize the dynamic between the two beloved sisters. Within this secluded space Antonietta and Nicolina only have their daydreams and their parallel world to escape the daily and aphetic routine. The scenario did not really change, as compared to other authors of the time, but the originality of this novel is that women start to outline a space for their own within the house. We are still very far from the concept expressed by Virginia Woolf.12 However, through her female characters, Messina begins to delineate the necessity of having this space within the domestic walls, so that women can define their identities and build their own self to leave traces within the house. Nicolina's and Antonietta's fantastic space is certainly not revolutionary but it is a way of coping with the house and the pain of seclusion. Since the very beginning of the novel the balcony is a recurring space which opens and concludes the narration in a cyclical process. This space that first belonged to Nicolina and her sister Antonietta will be occupied at the end of the story by Antonietta’s two daughters, Carmelina and Agata. From the beginning until the end it will remain a female space. Katharine Mitchell has recently noticed that spaces like windows and balconies are public spaces that once were used by women secluded within the domestic walls as a way to establish contact with the outside world in order to get married (Mitchell:59-93). Even though I agree with Mitchell in considering balconies and windows public spaces most of the time, I believe, however, that the balcony assumes a different meaning in this novel. Considering that a balcony always gives a limited view of the

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outside world even when it is exposed to the main street where women can connect with said world, the view of the balcony of the casa del vicolo is purposely portrayed as “enclosed, almost smothered, between the narrow little street” (Shepley: 1).13 This is the space where Nicolina, the young and unmarried character, can be alone with her thoughts and daydreams. This is certainly not a space for a young woman where she can encounter a future husband but a space where she can evoke her secret thoughts after “all her chores were done” (Shepley:1).14Alone on the balcony Nicolina first unwittingly thought of the contrast between the claustrophobic view of the balcony of la casa nel vicolo and the balcony of her childhood’s house la casa tranquilla “that overlooked the fields, under the open sky” (Shepley:1).15 The contrast between the two balconies is a specular image of Nicolina’s life. The young Nicolina who was full of hope and desires at her parents' house now lives the imprisoned life that Antonietta chose for her when she took her to the house in the shadow to have company. The balcony is not a joyful place, but it is the place where “her vague, and unfinished soliloquies” (Shepley:2) 16 can surface in her mind for a few minutes escaping the monotony of the daily routine as we read: “then it seems that her thoughts, regrets, and hopes came forward bathed in the same uncertain light that illuminated the sky” (Shepley:1). 17 Nicolina’s thoughts are in a dream state. They are not clear since the young woman does not have the chance to experience life and the outside world. This uncertain and unfinished image of life will stay with her until the end. Muscariello sharply observes that Nicolina, as well as her sister Antonietta, are trapped in their imposed roles and they neither want nor know how to walk away from them (Muscariello:331).18 At the beginning, I believe that Nicolina would like to leave the house to have her own life and consequently to find her own identity. She does not want to live her whole life as her sister's shadow but, because of Don Lucio’s selfish sense of control over her, she does not have a choice. Nicolina has a passive and active role in the novel since she becomes the object of contemplation of the reader and at the same time the main character who observes the surrounding reality.19 Nicolina sees and wants to see; she also wants to explore and understand life. Nicolina observes the married life from outside with the desire of having one for her own but she will end up getting older in the gloomy house to the point that she will get very attached to it. The house is the only world she knows. Through the entire novel, she tries to experience life with her daydreams in her fantastic space. It is here that the young woman will try to reflect on what life could be outside the restricted place she inhabits. Her daydreams are a tool for her to think of what life could have been for her if she had left the

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paternal house to start her own life instead of just following her older sister’s whims. Therefore, the daydreams are for her a way to escape the only adult life she experienced within Don Lucio’s house and the sick idea of love she encountered in it. The balcony also recurs in the novel as a different image because this time Nicolina does not sit alone, doing her needlework, but with her beloved sister Antonietta. The balcony is portrayed as the place where the two sisters go back in their minds to “the uniform past that now appeared in their memories with beautiful things never seen, never felt ‘back then’”20 (Shepley:25), and that clashes with the unhappiness they both are experiencing in the dark house. The suffocated view of the balcony reflects the castrated lives of the two sisters. Sitting outside on the balcony they can see the quiet building in front of it and a very confused partial view of the city: “They had a confused, painful impression of the city, which they had barely glimpsed. The city … was still remote, unknown, almost frightening"(Shepley:26).21 The two women were living their lives like nuns in their cloisters. The dark house is far from the happy nest and, in the first two decades of the 20th century, the house for women still bears the same resemblance of a prison as it did in the second half of the 19th century. During the narration, the balcony becomes primarily Nicolina’s space. The young woman, who ironically describes herself as “a bride with no ring and no groom (Shepley: 24),22 deprived of a personal life, soon starts to daydream of something she will never have, of a life she will never fully experience or ever get to know. Her mind begins to race as we can read: “She lost herself completely in a tumult of sensations full of emotion and joy. She felt as though she were sleeping and waking, waking and sleeping” (Shepley:42). 23 Through her daydreams, Nicolina is still in contact with reality and not in a state of complete unconsciousness.24 The images that Nicolina has lived and experienced are in a timeless space. Through this crepuscular state of mind Nicolina can fantasize of someone to love, she can think of what she is for her brother-in-law, she can have different emotions, and go back to the memories of her cheerful childhood with her sisters and her family. These thoughts, even if they are produced by a profound sense of loneliness, allow her for a few minutes to live for herself and not just to serve others. It must be said here that for women of the time, marriage was what shaped and defined them as a person. Marriage was the only way to leave the paternal house and to be socially accepted and not rejected. Women, like Nicolina, did not have the possibility to experience the outside world so that for her the fantastic space is crucial in order to begin to understand and define who she really

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is. It is here that she thinks of her roots and of a “prince charming” who could save her and give her “love”. A woman in this era does not exist as an individual but only first in her connection to the marriage and second to the family she creates after. She does not have her own identity and her role is to complete the man, to be his helpmate as Ruskin stated in his lecture Lilies of Queens' Gardens (1899). This is also the reason why the “un-married woman” is rejected by society since she is considered a threat to the equilibrium imposed by the patriarchy. The “un-married woman” is mostly un-controlled and she can have visibility within the society and consequently creates disorder.25 Nicolina is completely deprived of both situations since she is trapped in the gloomy house and she wonders what her life will be like to not give up hope and to overcome her loneliness: “And would her life always be spent in this way? Always? Like one of these silent, heavy, everlasting evenings? There are times in one’s youth when the soul is so weak that it cannot bear solitude. And solitude seems like a visible creature, a creature from a nightmare that squeezes the heart in its two opened hands” (Shepley: 44).26 The balcony therefore is the different there, as De Certeau would say, separated by the here which is the house where she lives with the family. Her life on the balcony is not regulated by the dictated time of the dark house where everything is ruled by Don Lucio’s habits: “just as he kept his accounts and personal articles in order, Don Lucio kept his habits systematic. Life too was divided--like his little room and his ledgers--into several parts, each containing an activity, a habit, a need. For him there were no dark or uncertain sides to the future. Everything was methodically fixed, everything foreseen” (Shepley:37). 27 Nicolina’s life, as well as Antonietta’s, is bound by Don Lucio’s habits. Don Lucio fears change, his house is a well-regulated mechanism and women are just designed parts meant to make this mechanism work. For this reason, the house, according to Nicolina, is not the place that protects the intimate images of the dreamer, as Bachelard would say, and the balcony now becomes the image of intimacy. 28 The balcony is the space in between the public and the private spheres and is not fully controlled by Don Lucio.29 It is only in this space that Nicolina can be herself. At the end of the novel, because of the change in the dynamic of the house, the balcony returns again but this time it is no longer the space occupied by Nicolina. Don Lucio creates a dissonance between the domestic walls, seducing the innocent Nicolina and starting a relationship with her right after the birth of his last daughter. Antonietta was forced in bed after a very difficult delivery that almost killed her. It is within this context that Don Lucio cannot restrain his sexual instincts and he abused

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Nicolina’s innocence and curiosity of experiencing “love”. The order that the bourgeois mentality wants to restore within the house is broken here.30 Each member of the family no longer has his own place since Don Lucio demands the affection of the two sisters within the same house. The two sisters will become enemies and will develop a sense of resentment towards each other. Through the two sisters Messina demonstrates that she is “interested in the complex and subtle dynamics of these relations” (Kroha and Haedrich: 67). The balcony therefore is no longer the space where Nicolina is accustomed to daydream and spend peaceful time with her beloved sister, now it belongs to her two nieces. The two little sisters, Agata and Carmelina, who hold hands and love each other, seem at the same time to represent what Antonietta and Nicolina used to be: “the two girls linger on the terrace, where aunt Nicolina used to sit… They hold each other by the hands and say nothing. What they think, and what swells their young hearts, which on calm summer evenings beat like leaves caressed by the wind, is too soft and vague, and they have no idea how to express it” (Shepley: 124). 31 The balcony is passed along to the new generation of women, who are yet to experience life. Nicolina is the “inept woman” as Kroha and Haedrich would define, since she would like to experience the life outside the house but does not have the courage to leave. She will continue to serve Don Lucio in the house but with resentment for letting him steal her life and imposing a role on her that she did not want. Nicolina’s character is not yet so progressive as to rebel against a system which, although in decline, is still strong. It is also necessary to mention that the view which the two young girls see from the terrace is very different from the one which is portrayed in Nicolina’s daydreams. It is no longer claustrophobic and gloomy but vast and full of hope as they gaze upon the starry sky. The balcony, the space between public and private, harbors the hope for a change in women's conditions within society. The vastness of the outside world, represented here by the immensity of the sky which the two girls admire, contrasts the constricted space inside the domestic walls ruled by Don Lucio. Even though the sky is portrayed during the nighttime the author underlines that it is illuminated by the stars. This testified the hope for change in women’s lives for the new generation. The use of the balcony as a space, therefore, shifts from Nicolina to the young girls, and at the end of the story, Nicolina tested by life will cut every contact with the outside world. The only place where she is now able to let her herself come out is her small bedroom. This becomes the place where she works and thinks, but her thoughts are only painful, and she is no longer curious and hopeful to daydream of what life will bring

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her: “Nicolina is in her own little room in the garret. No one needs her at this hour. She sews and thinks. Her thoughts are bitter, like a lump of tears that she cannot succeed in shedding” (Shepley:124). 32 The journey that Nicolina undertakes from la casa tranquilla of her childhood to la tetra casa del vicolo to help her sister represents the confiscation of women’s bodies by the patriarchal system. The author compares women to travelers who are looking for a better life, usually through marriage, but for most of them this journey culminates in a disappearance of their own selves: “the whole house, the old ship rotting in the port, full of travelers who have never seen the broad horizon, is soon wrapped in the shadow of night” (Shepley:124).33 The other female character in the novel is Antonietta, Nicolina’s older sister and Don Lucio’s wife. Since she is married to Don Lucio, Antonietta’s life within the house is different than that of Nicolina. The two sisters share a sense of nostalgia for their childhood in the happy house where they lived with their parents, and they also suffer from a strong sense of loneliness that they feel in Don Lucio’s house. Towards the end of the novel Antonietta will be able to create within the house her own little space: a space that only she will inhabit. In the presence of her husband, Antonietta does not venture to have hopes or desires; she is a human being without will. Antonietta is chosen by Don Lucio for her character “meek and docile, made to be molded like fresh clay” (Shepley: 20).34 Docility is the main characteristic that Don Lucio is looking for in his future wife. The soul of a woman must be open so that people can enter and shape it to their liking. A woman must surrender to men in her life.35 At the beginning of the novel the docile Antonietta is caught by a strong sense of guilt, because she needs to take care of her sick child and does not have enough time for her husband. Antonietta is in awe of Don Lucio and completely lives for others. It is only in the second part of the story that Antonietta will develop her own private space within the domestic walls. Her space appears as her real private space only after her son’s death and after Don Lucio’s creation of a promiscuous space destroyed the peaceful dynamic of the family. The house for the two sisters is now even farther away from the protected space, the happy nest. The womb of the house contains only anger and resentment inside of it. Don Lucio’s narcissism of possessing both sisters creates a strong sense of discomfort between them, and consequently within the house. In the novel, it is interesting to note that there is a regression in the use of the adjectives that the author uses to describe the house. At the beginning the house was called the house in the shadow or the dark house in contrast with the calm house of the two sisters’ shared childhood.

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Although it slowly becomes a bad dream it also becomes the place that reinforces the bond between the two women: “the two sisters [Nicolina and Antonietta], finding themselves in the house in the city as though after a bad dream, became more closely attached to each other than ever” (Shepley: 27). 36 The two sisters do not know each other anymore. The only identity they have, the common routes and memories, is torn apart by Don Lucio. Towards the end of the story, the degeneration of the family's interactions gives to the house the connotation of being a space where people live like perfect strangers. Nothing is familiar to them anymore, and they live every day like automatons: “Each person resumed their old habits, which were followed mechanically, like the movements of a hand as it sews. They all lived for themselves, with a great solitude in their souls; alien, indifferent to those who breathed the same air and cut the same bread, like people who live in the same hotel without knowing each other” (Shepley:123).37 The two sisters who before were intimate with each other are now foreign and full of hate as it emerges in Nicolina’s words of accusation against her sister: “There, she said while returning, you see what you have accomplished by letting your children hear your outbursts. They repeat your words. I’m an outsider. An enemy, in your house” (Shepley: 68).38 The wound that Don Lucio inflicted upon the two sisters cannot be mended, Antonietta and Nicolina cannot relate to this uncommon situation. What happened cannot be changed, but the two sisters need to find a new way to live within the house. In the new dynamic, Nicolina abandoned the balcony and reserved her small room for her thoughts, while Antonietta created her own private space within Don Lucio’s house. This space is not, as we are accustomed to seeing, secret and temporary, but it is the space where Antonietta lives the rest of her life: “Antonietta did not leave her room unless summoned… Antonietta, who had arranged a peculiar little altar next to her bed, thanked the Lord in her prayers, happy that her husband was finally leaving her in peace in her little refuge. She took notice of nothing and was not interested in anything” (Shepley: 117). 39 Antonietta created her little shelter within the gloomy house to reduce the dissonance of the house. As I anticipated this is far from Woolf’s concept of having a room of one’s own: Antonietta’s space is a shelter she creates after having a nervous breakdown due to the death of her only male child and due to the unconventional sexual relationship between her husband and her sister. She now lives in a state of mental insanity and only talks to sacred images escaping her everyday reality: “in the twilight beside the closed window, she goes on knitting and talking to

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the holy images, which she sees as kindly and beloved persons who have not betrayed her” (Shepley:123).40 It is true that Antonietta can now live in her own space, but this space is only a consequence of her depression and not a free choice, a possibility that the domestic walls offer to women. Antonietta in her isolation creates a new persona for herself but this is just a consequence of the brutalities imposed on her by her husband. She is now in charge of a body that feels the pain of the “crime” committed on her by the patriarchy; therefore, it is not free. Her docile personality as desired by the male dominated world is here substituted by the insanity of her new self who lives in a small space surrounded by imaginary people and thoughts. I believe that differently from Nicolina, Antonietta never desired to really leave the gloomy house. Her character is more passive than active and for this reason, at the end she becomes insane having suffered so much. Don Lucio, the representative of the patriarchal system, is in control of the two women and imposes his domestic tyranny on them. He thinks women have to be creatures of habit and they have to be trained for the life the patriarchal system prescribed for them: “Nothing, nothing. It's better that life should run like clockwork, while women remain in their place” (Shepley:29).41 In his thoughts Don Lucio compared women’s lives to a clock that beats the time without changing, and if it stops or does something uncommon, it has to go back to its constructed routine. Women have to perform according to their prescribed gender role; they have to continue to be Angels of the House, without trying to change their habit. The performance of domestic tyranny within the house keeps women within their prescribed role. Women are the “other” to be controlled and subdued. In the figure of Don Lucio evinces the beginning of the failing of the patriarchal system that wants to keep the society structured according to its prescribed and inflexible order. Throughout the whole novel Messina depicts the figure of Don Lucio as a very despotic husband who takes pleasure in being feared by his family members and particularly by the two women: “He felt a renewed pleasure every time he noticed how profound an influence he had on the two women, especially on Nicolina, who in the beginning had shown an almost exuberant and unpleasing vivacity” (Shepley: 4). 42 He needs to be in control of everything and feels that everything within the house belongs to him, and for this reason not only does he seduce Nicolina but also prevents her from having her own life by refusing her the possibility of getting married. Don Lucio owns Nicolina’s life and warns his wife against fostering her sister's fantasies: “Don’t put it into your head to tell your sister about this! Girls start imagining all kinds of things” (Shepley:46).43 Don Lucio wants to be in charge of Nicolina’s

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thoughts and daydreams as well. He fears the fantastic space that women can possibly create within the domestic walls since he does not know how to control them. For this reason, he secluded the women of the house and kept them invisible and confined in his controlled space. In this way, he can see them, and they can neither be seen by others nor can they see what is around them. As a creature of habit the invisibility of the women guarantees his constructed order. His wife, so docile and malleable, is his trophy and nothing more than another decoration for the house: “Don Lucio watched with satisfaction as his wife made two trips back and forth. Admiring the supple movements of his woman’s strong full hips, he was pleased with himself, just as he was pleased every time he paused to contemplate the expensive furniture with which he had embellished his house” (Shepley:4).44 Everything runs according to the habits he imposes in his domestic tyranny. Don Lucio does everything to please himself and his ego, and that he even takes pleasure in owning other people’s lives can be gleaned from his job as usurer. Women need to be shaped to the house according to the rules dictated inside of it “like a snail taking the shape of its shell” (Shepley: 58).45 Even his only son’s death does not change Don Lucio other than to make him nastier. He imposes his supremacy on his young daughters and segregates them within his house so that he can shape them as he wants: “And he sought every opportunity to instill fear in his daughters… He meant to keep an eye on them. He intended to raise them himself, in his own way, to be docile, simple, ignorant, and without wishes, the way women should be” (Shepley:116). 46 Ultimately, Don Lucio’s thoughts reveal the patriarchal system's fear of giving visibility to women and losing its power and control. The author does not give to Antonietta a chance to escape Don Lucio’s tyranny, nor to Nicolina who continues to serve her brother-in-law. However, hope is given to the two young girls Carmelina and Agata who, even though secluded within the house, are able to see the vastness of the starry sky from the balcony. To conclude, I believe that the fantastic space, for the two characters, is the only place where they can find their own female identity. As Judith Kegan Gardiner states, women struggle to find their own self, their twin because “female identity is a process” (On Female Identity and Writing by Women: 349). This is evident in Messina’s novel where the two sisters at a very young age move from the control of their father’s house to Don Lucio’s house. They know nothing about the outside world, only the restricted reality of the two houses. For Nicolina, in particular, the fantastic space is a crucial way to try to address her curiosities and understand who she is and what life could be. In the beginning of the 20th century, a woman would even shape her identity to the one of her husband

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because of the tyranny of the patriarchy. Through this novel, Messina gives a voice to women which slowly starts the process of understanding who they really are within the domestic walls and the necessity to leave traces of their identity within them. They start to acknowledge that in order to be complete and to be a good example for their offspring they must have the chance to see what the world offers to them and cease living in some sort of eternal childhood. Taking their identity from men is a failure as Heilbrun says (Reinventing Womanhood:46). In starting this process of defining female identity, women will later move toward the feminist main principle of “I am my own person”47 to re-appropriate their own bodies. The house, therefore, is far from representing the nest that protects women; rather, it is a place where women have to abandon their real selves and live for others. In addition to neglecting their real selves, women are exposed to physical and psychological oppression by men, who not only force upon them a specific role, but also try to suffocate their desires and aspirations so as to not lose control over them. The instrumentalization of women deprives them of the possibility of being in charge of their own bodies and expresses the patriarchal system's fear of losing control over them. Nicolina and Antonietta will not gain their bodies back, but they denounce the necessity of shaping a female identity thus giving hope for the future generation.

Notes 

1 It is to be clarified that in my analysis I only address bourgeois women since the working-class women were mostly obligated to work because of their impoverished conditions. 2 Virginia Woolf’s essay “The Profession for Women” came out two years after the publication of A Room of One’s Own. This essay reinforces what Woolf stated in her previous book as the author expresses the necessity of killing the pernicious image of the Angel of the House. Woolf admits that she had to go through this process in order to write. The Angel of the House is pure, caring, altruistic, sympathetic, incredibly charming, and unselfish: she needs to be killed. Her death allows the women writers to be free and to produce their work abandoning this alter ego which constantly reminds them of the submissive role of women in the patriarchal society. 3 A House in the Shadows (La Casa nel vicolo) was translated in 1989 by John Shepley. I use Shepley’s English version for all quotes from the novel. 4 Literary allusions to Giovanni Verga are clear in the novel A House in the Shadow. They particularly refer to the Ideale dell’ostrica as it states “Here was



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aunt Nicolina, clinging to the house the way lichen clings to the rock and doesn’t let it breathe” p.87. And to the Teoria dei vinti as we can read at: “He had been a weakling. Soon he would have been defeated” p.115. On the relationship between Messina and Verga and for the biographical information about the author see Gochin Raffaelli, Lara. “Tradition and Progress, Future and Past in the Novels of Maria Messina” in Italian Studies in Southern Africa, XXII, 1, (2009); Bartolotta, Lucio. Maria Messina (1887-1944), (2006); Muscariello, Mariella. “Una straniera di passaggio”. Lettura della novella Casa paterna di Maria Messina”, in AA. VV., L’occhio e la memoria. Miscellanea di studi in onore di Natale Tedesco, (2004); Of the same author see also Anime sole. Donne e scrittura tra Otto e Novecento (2002) and “Una scrittura in transito. Maria Messina tra Verga e Pirandello” in AA. VV., La civile letteratura (2002) pp. 1-11; Pausini, Cristina. Le «briciole» della letteratura: le novelle e i romanzi di Maria Messina. (2001); Kroha, Lucienne and Haedrich, Alexandra. “Modernity and Gender-Role Conflict in Maria Messina” in AA. VV., With a Pen in her Hand. Women and Writing in Italy in the Nineteenth Century and Beyond, (2000); Bonofiglio, Anna Maria. “Maria Messina” in AA. VV., Figure femminili del Novecento a Palermo (2000); Barbarulli, Clotilde and Brandi, Luciana. “Le voci del corpo e il gioco della similitudine nelle novelle di Maria Messina” in AA. VV., Reinventare la natura. Ripensare il femminile, (1999); Magistro, Elise. “Narrative Voice and the Regional Experience: Redefining Female Images in the Works of Maria Messina”, in AA. VV., Italian Women Writers from the Renaissance to the Present: Revising the Canon, (1996); Barbarulli, Clotilde and Brandi, Luciana. I colori del silenzio. Strategie narrative e linguistiche in Maria Messina (1996); Mazza, Antonia. “Maria Messina, tra Verga e Pirandello (1887-1944)”, in “Letture”, XLIX, 505, (1994); Di Giovanna, Maria. “La testimone indignata e le trappole del sistema. Il percorso narrativo di Maria Messina”, in AA. VV., Donne e scrittura (1990) and of the same author La fuga impossibile. Sulla narrativa di Maria Messina (1989); Magistro, Elise. Introduction of Behind Closed Doors: Her’s Father House and Other Stories of Sicily pp.14-16, (1989); Maugeri Salerno, Mirella. “Maria Messina”, in AA. VV., Letteratura siciliana al femminile: donne scrittrici e donne personaggio (1984); Leotta, Vincenzo. “Maria Messina”, in AA. VV., Gli eredi di Verga, (1984); Egle, Palazzolo. “Maria Messina: una riscoperta” in “Palermo”, II n.s., 12, (1982); Cataldo, Salvatore. “Una dimenticata scrittrice del primo Novecento: Maria Messina”, in “Archivio storico siciliano”, IVs., VIII, (1982); Garra Agosta, Giovanni. Un idillio letterario inedito verghiano: lettere inedite di Maria Messina e Giovanni Verga, (1979). 5 Sapegno, Maria Serena. “Sulla soglia: la narrativa di Maria Messina” in Altrelettere, I, 3, (2012). 6 In her work The Laugh of Medusa, the Feminist scholar Hélène Cixous analyzes the power of the phallocentrism in literature which makes women feel ashamed of externalizing their own internal desire and consequently of producing literature. Cixous argues that men’s desire to control women is connected to their fear of being castrated. The mythic tale about Medusa and her power to turn men to stone coupled with the enchanting sound of the Sirens clearly illustrate this fear. She



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asserts that only the fear of castration can explain the aggressiveness of men and the crimes they committed against women. The most horrendous crime committed by men against women is to put women one against the other, to make them their own enemies. For this reason, women need to write, they need to kill the Old Woman (the Angel of the House) and to let the New Woman come out and shine. In the Italian context, this process slowly starts at the end of the19th century. Through writing women began the process of the re-appropriation of their own bodies which were confiscated since birth by men. Men had buried women into their own bodies and it is now time for women, Cixous claims, to take them back. 7 Judith Butler with her work Gender Trouble was the first scholar to deeply analyze the question of difference between gender and sex. Her work is fundamental within this debate and she clearly states that it is gender that forces certain norms on the individual. Butler also affirms that these norms can be dangerous for an individual there where the individual cannot stay within the norms. This is the case, for example, of homosexual and transgender people that do resemble those norms and for this reason are rejected by and from society. 8 In her article “Domestic Space and the Idea of Home in Auto/Biographical Practices” Kathy Mezei says that the house is the medium for investigating the writer’s personality because it is the place inhabited by the author “in and from which one writes". The domestic effects reflect the writer’s self and, according to Mezei, are vital to shape one’s self. 9 In her book, Undoing Gender, Judith Butler deals with the topic of gender from a different perspective, exploring a way to undo the restrictive norms of society that are the cause of women’s undoing. As a human being, woman is subdued to a constant process of doing and undoing who she is in order to find her real self. Butler affirms that gender norms are performative and the subject is in fact obligated to act. However, this performance is temporary, as Butler writes, and “it is opened to a displacement and subversion from within”. For this reason, the gender norms are a “social power” imposed on women by the male tyranny. 10 Refer to note 2. 11 It is very interesting to note that Shepley's English translation of the title does not translate the Italian word vicolo (alley-way) literally but instead uses the word “shadow”. I believe that Shepley perfectly captures in the title the meaning of the novel which denounces how the two sisters live their lives to serve and complete the desires of Don Lucio, the “man” of the family. Nicolina and Antonietta are just ombre (shadows) since they function according to the rules of patriarchal system. That said, I think that the English translation can add something more if we consider that the word “shadow” can also be translated into Italian in a figurative way as fantasma (ghost). This fantasma is, as I show in my analysis, that parallel space they create through their daydreams in order to survive and to start to define who they really are. The word fantasma is to be interpreted in its purely etymological sense as “something that appears”. 12 In 1928 Virginia Woolf was invited to give several lectures at Cambridge University. These lectures were published in a book in 1929. In this work, Woolf addresses the problem of women for centuries being less prolific than men in



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literature. The book is a reflection of this problem and Woolf does not try to offer a solution, but her intent is to incite her audience to think about it. For her the answer is very simple: in order to write women need money and a room for themselves where they can be alone. 13 [… Era chiusa, quai soffocata, fra il vicoletto.] 14 [Tutte le faccende erano sbrigate.] 15 […Spalancato sui campi, davanti al cielo libero.] 16 [… I vaghi, incompiuti soliloqui.] 17 [Allora pareva che i pensieri, i rimpianti, le speranze, si facessero innanzi circonfusi della luce incerta che rischiarava il cielo.] 18 [non sanno o non vogliono sottrarsi] 19 See Poulet “Flaubert” in Le Metamorfosi del cerchio pp. 347-368. 20 [Dell’uniforme passato che ora si presentava alla memoria con bellezze non mai vedute, non mai sentite prima!.] 21 [Ebbero una confusa penosa impressione della città intraveduta appena. La città, la città rimase lontana, ignota, quasi paurosa.] 22 [La sposa senza anello e senza sposo.] 23 [Si smarrì tutta in tumulto di sensazioni piene di turbamento e di gioia. La pareva di dormire e di svegliarsi, di svegliarsi e di dormire.] 24 In Nicolina’s “tumult of sensations full of emotion and joy” it is also possible to read a sort of auto-eroticism especially when she thinks of what her brother-in-law could be for her. The self-discovery of sexuality has been very common in Italian women writers' narratives since the end of the 19th century as K. Mitchell investigates in “Neera refiguring of hysteria as nervosismo in Teresa and L’Indomani” pp.8-11. 25 Lucy Hosker, “The Spinster in the Works of Neera and Matilde Serao. Other or Mothers?”, in Women and Gender in Post-Unification Italy pp.67-91. Hosker retraces the concept of the spinster within the Italian society after the Unification where the spinster was considered an individual who failed according to social rules. This was particularly stressed in the historical period of the Unification which promoted the importance for a woman to be a good wife and mother. In addition to this Hosker points out that the spinster threatened the male world because of her relative independent position from men. 26 [E la sua vita sarebbe trascorsa sempre così? Sempre? Simile a una di quelle serate eterne pesanti e silenziose? Ci sono ore nella giovinezza in cui l’anima è così debole che non sa sopportare la solitudine. E la solitudine pare una creatura visibile; una creatura d’incubo che ci prema il cuore con le mani aperte.] 27 [Così, come teneva in ordine i conti e gli oggetti d’uso, Don Lucio teneva sistemate le proprie abitutini. La vita era divisa anch’essa – come lo stanzino e come i registri – in tante parti, ognuna delle quali conteneva un’occupazione, un’abitudine, un bisogno. Per lui non c’erano lati scuri nell’avvenire. Tutto era metodicamente stabilito tutto provveduto.] 28 Bachelard in “The House. From Cellar to Garret. The Significance of the Hut” (The Poetics of Space pp.3-37) analyzes the house as a private space for individuals and the place where our memories and daydreams are protected.



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According to Bachelard, in the shelter of the house the non-I that is the one who we show to the outside world, protects the real-I that appears only in the shelter of the house. The house is viewed as a protected space where the real-I can be liberated. In this novel not the house but only the parallel space they create through their daydreams within the domestic walls can protect and liberate it. 29 On public and private spheres see Mitchell, Katharine. “Gendering Private and Public Spheres” in Italian Women Writers. Gender and Everyday Life in Fiction and Journalism 1870-1910, (2014) pp.59-93. See also Mitchell, Katharine and Sanson, Helena. Women and Gender in Post-Unification Italy: Between Public and Private Spheres. (2013); Wilson, Perry. Gender, Family and Sexuality. The Private Sphere in Italy 1860-1945. (2004); Attfield, Judy. Wild Things: The Material Culture of Everyday Life. (2000); Davidoff, Leonore. Worlds Between. Historical Perspective on Gender and Class. Pp. 227-276 (1995); De Certeau, Michel. The Practice of Everyday Life (1984); Habermas, Jürgen. The Structural Transformation of the Public Sphere: An Inquiry into a Category of Bourgeois Society (1969). 30 In Tracce silenziose dell’abitare. La donna e la casa Gisella Bassani differentiates between spazio ordinato (organized space) and spazio disordinato (disorganized space). She defines spazio disordinato as a small space open to an extended number of people. In this kind of space everything is mixed up: private and public, men and women. The secrets of private life are shared with everybody else in the spazio disordinato and lived by the community within the house. On the other hand the spazio ordinato (organized space) is a space where each room has its own place and role. This last one she states is the bourgeois house. The intent of the 19th century is to put order where there was only disorder to eliminate the promiscuity of the spazio disordinato. 31 [Le due fanciulle indugiano nel terrazzo dove un tempo sedeva zia Nicolina… Si tengono per mano e non si dicono nulla. Ciò che pensano, e gonfia i loro piccoli cuori, che battono nelle calme sere d’estate come foglioline accarezzate dal vento, è troppo vago e dolce e non sanno esprimerlo.] 32 [Nicolina è nella propria cameretta, di sopra. A quest’ora non hanno bisogno di lei. Lavora e pensa. Il suo pensiero è amaro, come un nodo di lacrime che non riesce a piangere.] 33 [La casa tutta, la vecchia nave che marcisce nel porto, piena di viaggiatori che non hanno mai veduto l’ampio orizzonte, è presto avviluppata nell’ombra della notte]. 34 [… docile mansueto, fatto per essere plasmato come l’argilla fresca.] 35 Grazia Livi in Da una stanza all’altra states that the main characteristic for a woman has to be “docility”. A woman, she says, has to be there for everyone, she cannot and does not own her body but she has to stand there waiting for a male who will conquer her so that she will become his property. During her life, a woman is trained to develop within herself a certain malleability of her soul. She is trained to be ready to accept an enemy who will subdue her. She has to leave her soul opened so that everyone can have access to it.



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[Le due sorelle ritrovandosi nella casa del vicolo come dopo un sogno pauroso, si attaccarono più fortemente l’una all’altra.] 37 [Ciascuno visse, per sé, con una gran solitudine dentro l’anima; estraneo, indifferente a quelli che respiravano la stessa aria e tagliavano lo stesso pane, come gente che vive nello stesso albergo senza conoscersi.] 38 [-Ecco- disse rientrando- quel che hai ottenuto facendo arrivare i tuoi sfoghi alle orecchie dei tuoi figli. Ripetono le tue parole. Io sono un’estranea, una nemica, nella tua casa.] 39 [Antonietta non lasciava la propria camera se non chiamata… Antonietta s’era fatta un bizzarro altarino accanto al letto, ringraziò il Signore, nelle sue preghiere, lieta che il marito la lasciasse finalmente in pace nel suo piccolo rifugio. Non si curava di nulla, non si interessava di nulla. ] 40 [Nella luce crepuscolare, dietro la finestra chiusa, essa continua a lavorare, parlando con le immagini sante, nelle quali vede care e buone persone che non l’hanno tradita.] 41 [Niente, niente. Meglio che la vita scorra come un orologio e le donne siano assestate.] 42 [Egli provava una compiacenza sempre nuova ogni qual volta si avvedeva come fosse profonda la soggezione che ispirava alle due donne, specie a Nicolina che, sul principio, aveva mostrato di avere una vivacità quasi irruente e sgradevole.] 43 [- Non ti venga in mente – le disse, - di parlare di questo fatto a tua sorella! Le ragazze fanno presto a lavorar di fantasia!]. 44 [Don Lucio guardava compiaciuto la moglie che andò e tornò due volte. Ammirando le molli movenze dei fianchi forti e pieni della sua donna, era contento di se stesso, così come era contento ogni volta che si soffermava a contemplare i mobili costosi de’ quali aveva abbellito la casa.] 45 [Come la lumaca che ha la forma del suo guscio.] 46 [E cercava tutte le occasioni per incutere timore alle figlie… Le voleva custodire. Le voleva formare lui, a suo modo, docili, semplici, ignoranti, senza desideri, come debbono essere le donne.] 47 Patrizia Magli in Corpo e linguaggio reconsiders Descartes' postulate “Cogito, ergo sum” (I think, therefore I am), which Birdenbaum also explains in Chapter 17 pp.247-248 of her book, with “Io sono mia” (I am my own person).

Bibliography Bachelard, Gaston. The Poetics of Space. New York: The Orion Press, 1964. —. The Poetics of Reverie. New York: The Orion Press, 1969. Benjamin, Walter. Reflections: Essay, Aphorisms, Autobiographical Writings. Edited byPeter Demez. Translated by Edmund Jephcott. New York and London: Harcourt BraceJavanovich, 1978.



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Birnbaum, Lucia Chiavola. Liberazione della donna: Feminism in Italy. Middletown, CT:Wesleyan University Press, 1986. Blunden Katherine. Il lavoro e la virtù. L’ideologia del focolare domestico. Firenze:Sansoni Editore. 1988. Butler, Judith. Gender Trouble. Feminism and the Subversion of the Identity. New York:Routledge, 1990. —. Undoing Gender. New York, NY: Routledge, 2004. Cixous, Hélène. “Castration or Decapitation?” in Sign, 7,1: 41-55. Cixous, Helene, Colen Keith, Paula Cohen. “The Laugh of the Medusa” Sign, Vol 1, No4. Chigago: The University of Chgigago Press, 1976: 875-893. De Certeau, Michel. The Practice of Everyday Life. Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1984. Foucaul, Michel. Discipline and Punish. New York: Pantheon Books, 1977. Heilbrun, Carolyn. Reinventing Womanhood. New York: Norton, 1979. Hosker, Lucy “The Spinster in the Works of Neera and Matilde Serao: Other or Mother? in Mitchell, Katharine and Helena, Sanson (eds). Women and Gender in Post-unification Italy: Between Private and Public Spheres. Bern: Peter Lang, 2013: 67-91. Livi, Grazia. Da una stanza all’altra. Milano: Garzanti. 1984:13-15. Messina, Maria. La casa del vicolo. Milano: Treves, 1921. —. A House in the Shadow. Translated by John Shepley. Marlboro, VT: Marlboro, VT, 1989. Mezei, Kathy. “Domestic Space and the Idea of Home in Auto/Biographical Practices.” in Kandarm Marlene Warley, Linda Perreault, and Jeanne, Egan, Susanna, eds. Tracing the Autobiographical. Waterloo, Ontario, Canada: Wilfrid Laurier University Press, 2005. Mitchell, Katharine. Italian Women Writers: Gender and Everyday Life in Fiction and Journalism, 1870-1910. Toronto: Toronto University Press, 2014. Poulet, George. Le metamorfosi del cerchio. Translated by Giovanni Bogliolo. Milano: Rizzoli, 1961. Kegan Gardiner Judith “On Female Identity and Writing by Women” in Critical Inquiry, Vol. 8, No. 2, Writing and Sexual Difference (Winter, 1981): 347-361. Kroha Lucienne and Haedrich Alexandra. “Modernity and Gender-Role Conflict in Maria Messina” in Jones Verina R. and Lepschy Anna Laura (eds.), With a Pen in Her Hand. Women and Writing in Italy in



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the Nineteenth Century and Beyond. Leeds: The Society for Italian Studies, 2000: 63-75. Re, Lucia. “Passion and Sexual Difference. The Risorgimento and the Gendering of Writing in Nineteenth-Century Italian Culture”, in Aa. Vv., Making and Remaking Italy. The Cultivation of National Identity around the Risorgimento. Oxford-New York: Berg, 2001. Sapegno, Maria Serena. “Sulla soglia: la narrativa di Maria Messina”, in Altrelettere, 2012, DOI: 10.5903/al_uzh-3 [consultato in data 25/04/2015 sul sito www.altrelettere.uzh.ch]. Woolf, Virginia. A Room of One’s Own. New York: Hartcourt, 1991. —. “Profession for Women” in The Death of the Moth and Other Essays. New York: Harcourt Brace, 1942.

CHAPTER SEVEN CLASS CONFLICT AND “UPWARD MOBILITY” IN ADA NEGRI’S STELLA MATTUTINA (1921) IOANA R. LARCO

Drawing on the emerging socialist movement at the turn of the century, Ada Negri described in her poetry and narrative the condition of the newly industrialized classes thus calling the readers’ attention to the double burden for women in their productive and reproductive roles. Ada Luigia Teresa was born in Lodi, Lombardy, on February 3, 1870, into a poor family; “Plebe triste e dannata è mia famiglia” reads one of her first poems, Senza nome.1 Her father, Giuseppe Negri, was a coachman and her mother, Vittoria Cornalba, was a seamstress and later worked as a weaver in a wool factory. Left without a father when she was only one year old, Ada Negri spent her childhood and adolescence in a porter’s lodge where her grandmother, Giuseppina Panni, worked for the Barni family, a rich family from Cremona, and after, for the new owners, the Cingia family. Thanks to the sacrifices of her mother, Ada obtained in 1887 an elementary school teacher’s diploma from the Scuola Normale Femminile in Lodi but she received her teaching license only after turning 18. The following year, she started teaching in Motta Visconti, a small town near Milan, where she also published her first poems in the Milanese newspaper “Illustrazione Popolare” edited by Raffaello Barbiera. Just like her first poem, “Gelosia,” her first volume of poetry, Fatalità (1892), published by Treves with an introduction by the famous writer of the time, Sofia Bisi Albini, had a strong social message. This entailed some major criticism; for example, in his entry on Ada Negri in Letteratura della nuova Italia (1921), Benedetto Croce, adopting the perspective of art for art’s sake and autonomous from all other disciplines, criticized her socialist poetry as unartful because, according to him, it was artistically insincere. The critic disagreed with Negri’s choice to use her poetry as an instrument for practical purpose, more precisely to incite people to action and noble sentiments through her art, and concluded: “La Negri sacrifica a

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un dovere immaginario, qual è servire col verso alla causa degli oppressi e degli afflitti, un dovere reale, che è quello che l'artista ha verso l'arte: l’«imperativo categorico» di far opera bella e nient'altro che opera bella.”2 For the same reason, Camillo Pellizzi called the love, social and humanitarian poetry of Negri no less than fake.3 The great success of Fatalità—this book had five editions within a period of only two years—contributed significantly to Negri winning the Milli Prize for poetry in 1894. In her second collection of poems, Tempeste (1895), her revolutionary beliefs became more subdued, as new themes, such as love and family memories, emerged. Instead, some of the protagonists of the poems in Maternità (1904) demonstrate class consciousness and offer us a broader social perspective. For instance, one of its sections, “Le Dolorose,” talks about working women who experience their pregnancies “con fatica, con fame e con paura” only to give birth to babies who have their same “guasto sangue […] e il peso [delle loro] catene.”4 Once they become mothers, these women can rarely see their children, as they are forced to spend most of their days working in degrading conditions at the factory or in the fields. Along these lines, Negri’s first work of fiction in prose, Le solitarie (1917), depicted the modest everyday life and silent suffering of the country women. This same theme will emerge in her autobiographical novel, Stella mattutina, which appears as an example of female text about the working class. After its publication with Mondadori in 1921, Stella mattutina was very well received by both readers and critics, and soon became a best-seller during Fascism, with nine Italian editions between 1921 and 1945, and an English translation in 1930. Mussolini himself spoke highly of Negri’s autobiography in his review published in the issue of “Il popolo d’Italia” from July 9, 1921; he also wrote a forward to the 1941 edition, republished in 1945 and 1952, indicating thus another contradiction between ideology and practice during the fascist regime.5 Between 1919 and 1921—the period in which Negri wrote her autobiographical narrative–Italy was becoming more and more divided by class conflict between the working class, on the one hand, and industrialists and large estate owners, on the other. This was aggravated by the growing activity in urban and rural areas of fascist squadristi who destroyed the economic and political power of workers within socialist organizations and peasant leagues. In Stella mattutina, the story covering three generations of women illustrates class struggle as Negri presents the difficulties and injustices her grandmother Peppina, a servant and gate keeper for a rich family, her mother Vittoria, a worker in a wool factory, and herself as a child had to face when dealing with the upper-class people they served. Pickering-Iazzi

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notices the importance that the author gives to her working-class origin, which is clearly referred to in the name Dinin, used for the autobiographical protagonist; this is a constant reminder of the bell from the gate that her grandmother and later the girl herself has to open for the masters of the house.6 Using clues to their social origin as commoners, the narrator comments on the harmonious connection that exists between mother and daughter; although she does recognize the dissimilarity between them, the narrator emphasizes the caliber of the impact that Vittoria has on little Dinin: she means the world to the little girl and only in her mother’s presence can the girl be and act like herself: La fanciulla, […], ama infinitamente la madre. La madre è l’unica creatura che possa entrare nella sua realtà senza turbarla. Così dissimile da lei, le è necessaria come il senso d’essere al mondo; e formano insieme uno di quei monotoni ma armoniosi cori a due voci, terza sopra e terza sotto, che, cantati da gente del popolo, riempiono le campagne di pacata felicità.7

Feminist writer Adrienne Rich talks about the crucial influence that one’s mother exerts on his/her life as individual. In her book Of Woman Born (1976), she explains that, given the culturally constructed division of labor according to gender, humans interact more with their mothers in the first years of life and also remain dependent of them for a longer period. Therefore, most of us get to know for the first time love and disappointment, tenderness and power through our mothers. In other words, the nature of motherhood and the way in which we experienced it in our mothers will leave its indelible imprint on our lives, namely on the manner in which we will experience the external reality, as well as ourselves as part of this reality.8 I argue that Negri, the (ex) socialist, focuses in her autobiographical narrative on the figure of the mother–in addition to the other women in her life (her grandmother, the landlady with her three daughters, the protagonists of her mother’s stories)–in order to talk about herself and represent the formation process of her own class and gender identity which will ultimately converge in her identity as a writer. Negri’s work in general and Stella mattutina in particular appear as an exceptional case for the period as motherhood is so closely tied with class/social struggle. Framed by feminist and social studies, my analysis will look at evidence in the narrative for class conflict and self-awareness in the development of the autobiographical protagonist. I will also discuss how Dinin, although indebted to her grandmother’s and her mother’s experience but above all, to her mother’s language and stories, follows an ascendant trajectory when searching for her class and gender identity. All this will ultimately assist her in breaking the chain of social injustices and

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daily sufferings perpetuated within the matrilineal genealogy where she belongs. Dinin’s grandmother served the same family for forty years and, before her last job as a gate-keeper, she was a devoted and well-appreciated maid for a famous opera singer, Giuditta Grisi. As a proof of gratitude, the singer gifted Peppina with a self-portrait, a coach-box and a small case covered with red velvet. These objects are kept in the family, cherished as precious heirlooms and passed on to the granddaughter who loves them and dreams about their story. They also prompt the girl’s first artistic manifestations and stir her prodigious imagination as she incorporates them in her plays that she performs for the daughters of her masters. Hence, these objects connect the destiny of both grandmother and granddaughter: on the one hand, they evoke the glamorous and adventurous life, in an artistic environment, of which Peppina was part, even though from an underprivileged position; on the other, they anticipate the artistic talent and the future career of little Dinin, thus implying also an evolution, throughout generations, in the social hierarchy. As feminist critic Teresa De Lauretis points out in her introductory essay to the collection Sexual Difference. A Theory of Social-Symbolic Practice (1990) published by The Milan Women’s Bookstore Collective, the genealogic mode of identification has been commonly associated with patriarchal structures and male (autobiographical) identity. Additionally, the scholar notes that, in our culture, women are not only excluded from these structures, but also lack a similar tradition.9 She states: The word genealogy—whose root links it with gender, generation, and other words referring to birth as a social event—usually designates the legitimate descent, by social or intellectual kinship, of free male individuals. The intellectual and social traditions of Western culture are male genealogies where, as in Lacan’s symbolic, women have no place: […] (2).

In Stella mattutina, Negri seems to abandon such a(n autobiographical) tradition or, one might say, to lay the foundations for a new one. The autobiographical protagonist, Dinin, develops within a matrilineal/female genealogy that begins with her grandmother, Peppina, who worked hard as a servant her entire life, continues with her mother, Vittoria, a dedicated worker in a wool factory, and then ends with her daughter, Bianca, to whom her autobiography is dedicated (“A te Biancolina gioia mia”).10 In the porter’s lodge, grandmother, mother and granddaughter share the same small dark room. The magic happens though after her mother turns off the light and, thinking that the little girl is already asleep, she starts

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reading aloud for the grandmother’s and for her own pleasure. It is through her mother that Dinin first experiences the enchanting adventures depicted in the serials published on the cultural page of the newspaper. Her imagination carries her away to a fantastic world populated with fascinating characters, irrevocably mixed with the voice of her mother and watched over by the portrait of Giuditta Grisi. This pastime of her mother has a strong and long-lasting influence on the girl, as it gives rise, later on, to her passion for novels and reading in general. However, her enthusiasm for literature comes in obvious contrast with her extreme dislike of school and the whole education system in general. Moreover, we discover that her only reason for studying is to escape a female lineage that seems to be troubled by perpetual servitude, injustice and poverty. The girl wants to become a school teacher not necessarily for passion but, above all, because she does not want to endure the dehumanizing work conditions in a factory, like her mother, or to be a servant her entire life, like her grandmother. This refusal to follow a predetermined path is materialized in the acute class conflict that dominates the young girl. The following passage is representative of her intolerance for the upper-class and the work she needs to do for her masters. She manages, however, to control her anger and counterbalance it with dignity and pride for who she is: Ora che è quasi una giovinetta, si sente diventar di brace, poi del color dell’erba, quando deve aprire il cancello grande alla carrozza dei padroni di casa, [...]; e inghiotte acido e respira male, quando deve portare le lettere o far qualche commissione. Non invidia il lusso delle sale padronali: non le guarda nemmeno. Né le fanno gola gli squisiti mangiari, tanto l’abito della sobrietà s’è fatto natura in lei. Solo, non vuol servire.11

We see here quite a vivid depiction of her feelings which are presented through the description of their equivalent physical symptoms (i.e., she changes color, can hardly swallow and experiences shortness of breath). Negri uses similar images–although, with even stronger tones–in her earlier recollections of her childhood which also refer to her position in the social hierarchy and reveal the self-consciousness and struggle of the character. For instance, while playing different games with the three daughters of the estate owners, little Dinin already demonstrates a disquieting awareness of her inferior social status. She then wants to make up for this shortcoming through an almost obsessive desire to win, just because she is poor. The narrator informs us: “La scarna portinaretta non si dà vinta a nessuno: dimostra a volte il freddo coraggio d’una funambula: vuole ad ogni costo sorpassar la Pia, ch’è la più svelta e par fatta di

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gomma. Miracolo se non si spezza una caviglia o l’osso del collo; ma vuole esser la prima, deve esser la prima, perché è povera.”12 The discrimination she has to face in her daily interaction with the owners of the estate continues to mortify her sensitive spirit. The marginalization of Dinin as a member of the working class moves to the realm of her artistic achievements when Negri mentions the accusations that the rich woman brings against the writing of the little girl. The lady believes that Dinin’s stories contain passages and images stolen from other–possibly male–authors. This comment produces a violent sense of rebellion in the young girl and also foreshadows all the injustices that she will have to endure as a writer throughout her career: La bambina, che in quel momento si sente una donna, risponde di no, di no, più con il gesto del capo che con la voce. Di no, di no: che non ha rubato. Ma ha il viso color ramarro, e gli occhi cattivi. E le sembra che nella vita l’avrà sempre dinanzi, la grossa signora energica che puzza di sigaro, a strapparle di mano il quaderno, e a dirle: «Non è roba tua: hai mentito.» E l’odia, come odia la portineria. Ma più sente il rancore crescerle dentro una mattina: – la mattina dei gigli.13

The famous “mattina dei gigli” lingers in Negri’s memory as the moment when her hatred of the rich and of the social and economic inequalities attained its highest point. While Dinin ecstatically admires the beauty of blooming lilies in the estate’s garden, the mistress of the house forbids the child to touch the flowers and scolds her, implying that the intention of the little gatekeeper is to steal. Dinin then feels like she is not entitled to even enjoy beauty only because of her underprivileged social origin. Thus, the distrust that the lady demonstrates towards her deepens even more the irreconcilable gap between Dinin and her masters. Moreover, this detestation she feels for them, extends to all the members of the high class, to all those who need someone to open the gate for them. Non voleva toccare. Stava in adorazione, soltanto. Quella donna ha bestemmiato. Vi sarà sempre una ruvida voce che l’accuserà d’essere una ladra, ogni qual volta ella tenderà le braccia e l’anima verso la bellezza? Amare la bellezza è un peccato? Vi è fra lei e la signora qualcosa d’inconciliabile, che più cresce con il crescere degli anni: inimicizia senza remissione, fra lei e tutti coloro i quali han bisogno di qualcuno che apra loro il cancello quando tornano a casa in carrozza, e non vogliono essere derubati dei fiori che rallegrano gli occhi di tutti.14

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The narrator’s socialist views emerge here in the suggestion that beauty, and implicitly art and literature, can have a positive impact on the lives of people and therefore should be accessible to everyone. The transformative power of art and its social message are clearly conveyed in the poetry of the young girl. Through her mother’s confessions, she becomes acquainted with the suffering of the working class and its continuous exploitation. Her revolt grows to be uncontainable one day when her mother, seriously injured at work, sends her to the factory to collect her sick-day pay. The girl is profoundly moved by the terrible work conditions that she sees there and by the indifference of the owners towards the illness of Vittoria who is, after all, one of their best and most reliable workers. The young artist decides then to voice in her poetry all her frustration and rage against the rich people, “[…] il suo cervello somiglia ad un foglio murale stampato a grandi caratteri rossi;”15 consequently, she writes “Mano nell’ingranaggio” which is the story of her mother’s accident at work. In this poem, the author expresses her rebellion against the injustice that workers have to suffer by dramatizing her sources; as a result, her mother becomes a beautiful and blond young woman, and her wounded hand is completely cut off by the machine. The girl thinks that her mother is the best teacher of all: she is always right and, through her attitude, she offers her daughter a priceless example of human dignity and nobility of character;16 it is from her that little Dinin learns how to love nature, during their wanderings in the fields to pick up spring flowers, and to feel close to people, during their strolls around town in the summer evenings. Among these simple people with whom they belong, mother and daughter seem to be of the same age, due to their contagious joyfulness and spontaneous gestures. During her visits to the hospital to see her sick mother, the girl immerses herself in the life of simple people and experiences for the first time the cruel reality of human pain. Consequently, her sense of belonging grows even stronger and her desire to comfort the suffering of others emerges naturally in her heart. Hence, Negri juxtaposes sisterhood/matrilineal lineage to the brotherhood– exalted in the reference to Saint Francis–she feels in all people around her and which functions as a suggestion to her humble social origin. Nonetheless, after her first reaction of loss and disorientation due to the absence of her mother, an increasing and invigorating sensation of freedom and self-sufficiency takes possession of the girl. Moreover, she finds her strength in this solitude; and soon, she appeases her need of communication–previously satisfied by the daily conversations with her mother, before bedtime–in the act of praying, “Non con umiltà” because “Più che preghiera, la sua è comunione.”17 The legitimacy of her new

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feelings and of the satisfaction she finds in them is supported and highlighted in the immediately following description of her brother’s new drinking habit and of the deterioration of his marriage, regardless of the new baby that he and his wife, Daria, are expecting. The social component of the mother-daughter relationship is once again emphasized in the passage where the girl is immersed in her studies, while her mother is busy with her work at the factory and the house chores. The narrator further elaborates this aspect by associating Vittoria’s songs, which are scanned by the rhythm of the loom at the factory, to the songs of Homer that the girl passionately reads in her room. The binomial structure of this image reminds us of the “terza sopra e terza sotto” type of choir, sung by the common people in the fields, and formerly mentioned in reference to the harmonious relation that connects mother and daughter. Nevertheless, the ‘up-down’ opposition from the first quote is inverted and recast here in order to illustrate the girl’s aspiration to rise above her mother’s social and economic status. It is also suggested that this evolution will be accomplished through poetry and the girl’s love for poetry; in this sense, it is noteworthy that her mother is referred to with the title of her profession: “Ai canti dell’operaia Vittoria, scanditi sul respiro dei telai giù nella fabbrica, rispondono dalle stanzette verso il giardino del palazzo di via Roma i canti di Omero. La fanciulla è finalmente penetrata, sangue ed anima, nella poesia.”18 In addition to Homer’s Odyssey, Leopardi or Foscolo’s Sepulchers, the girl finds herself under the spell of her mother’s stories. Vittoria is a very skillful storyteller, gift of which she is not even aware. However, her daughter notices it and loves her mother’s stories; the artistry of the mother’s storytelling shapes the girl’s literary taste, but most importantly, it helps her become acquainted with all the places and the characters evoked in the stories to the point where they become part of Dinin’s own essence and experience of the world. Through her mother’s stories and, implicitly, language, the daughter discovers the world and, at the same time, manages to know her mother and to communicate with her, by learning about the mother’s world. Vittoria’s stories remind of her past life, as she is the one who heard them during the encounters with the other servants; also, they are accounts about the people for whom her own mother, Peppina, and herself worked. The narrator explains: “La mamma sa molte storie. Vere: di famiglie nobilesche, amiche o parenti della casa in cui nacque e visse fin dopo i trent’anni: vedute con i propri occhi, oppure udite dalle bocche dei servi, o respirate nell’aria come leggende.”19 In this passage, the narrator stresses the characteristic of authenticity of these stories: they, and their value, stem from the direct experience of the

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mother and are transmitted to the daughter by means of the same voice of her mother, with its unchanged freshness and youth. Hence, Negri situates the patriarchal tradition, along with its literary canon (Homer, for world’s literature, and Leopardi and Foscolo, in the Italian context), next to oral tradition and to popular culture. In his essay, “Working-class women’s literature,” Paul Lauter explains how working-class literature has often taken oral forms and, together with women’s literature, has been considered a type of subculture. He argues further that this classification is mainly due to the narrow approach to what can be considered “literature” but also to the main characteristics and functions of the working-class art: i.e., a work is rather a variation of an older one than totally new and unique, the use of commonly accepted assumptions about characters, simple language, the individual creator is less important than the group and the common stock, and the immediate consumption of this art in particular situations relevant to the everyday life. Yet, what is maybe even more important, some of the working-class literature intended “to change the social and political status quo” given that “[…] by clarifying working men’s relationships with those who held cultural and political power,” these artists “helped to shape individual and class consciousness” and to instill “a sense of class solidarity that encouraged working people to fight for social and political equality.”20 In the context of Stella mattutina, by including such stories in her narrative and by emphasizing their importance for her artistic formation, Negri contributes to the creation of class consciousness and pays tribute to her class of origin. She learns these stories from her mother who thus becomes a creator in the sense used in popular culture (she creates variations of a theme/story). Therefore, I maintain that Negri attempts here a revalorization of both the working-class art and women’s literature; and, by doing so, she challenges the status quo imposed by the so-called high culture, which is also a male-dominated culture. In fact, her mother’s stories are built around unconventional female figures who force the reader to reassess the conservative models of femininity so prevalent during the interwar period. They also criticize rather trenchantly the patriarchal institution of marriage by giving a rather satirized depiction of the relation between husband and wife. The mother is not concerned that such stories and too much suffering might trouble the fragile spirit of the young girl. On the contrary, Vittoria has unlimited confidence in her daughter’s judgment and in her ability to discern good from evil. The narrator acknowledges several times throughout the text the pride that her mother takes in her; she is certain that her daughter is special and that she will accomplish great things in

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life–unlike her brother, Nani. Given this trust, the mother is convinced that her sacrifice is worthwhile, which produces a sense of overwhelming responsibility in the girl. In the eyes of her mother, Dinin is a cerebral human being, capable of understanding and learning everything. Therefore, she makes continuous efforts to expose her to every aspect of life and to teach her all that she can. She does this mostly through her stories. In my reading, it is through these stories that her mother presents her own aspirations and passes them to her daughter. Consequently, these stories encourage a progress in her daughter, in both class and gender terms. For instance, the girl refers to the story of Donna Augusta and to her suffering as the future source of her artistic endeavor, while the story of Donna Teodosia promotes the daughter’s development as a woman beyond patriarchal models. In their essay, “Our mother’s daughters. Autobiographical inheritance through stories of gender and class,” feminist sociologists Sara Scott and Sue Scott name this phenomenon “upward mobility” (132). Taking their own case as an illustrative example and starting from the premise that their mother had a precise impact on their development as women, the authors explore here the function that the stories of their mother had in relation to the mother’s identity, to the daughters’ identities and to the formation of their entire family as a community. Sara Scott and Sue Scott argue that, by presenting versions of her daughters in her stories, their mother managed to engage them in such a way that they would become co-authors and continuators of the same narrative; thus, they were not just simple consumers of these family stories, but inevitably they turned into active readers as well. This co-participation is due also to the fact that in storytelling, just like in popular art, the focus is not on the text in itself, or the single artist, but on the interconnectivity that is established among text, creator and the listeners, and which Sara Scott and Sue Scott call “intertextuality” (130). On the same note, the scholars argue further that “Life-stories couple the individual and the social through a nexus of roles and make possible the exposure and exploration of contradictions within the self. They incorporate aspiration and desire as well as actuality […].”21 In other words, the story teller does not expound only an external story but, at the same time, he or she ‘tells’ him or herself. In so doing, the story teller becomes part of a process of both engagement and separation in relation to categories of identification, such as: family, class and gender. In conclusion, Sara Scott and Sue Scott maintain that it is important to understand the mechanism of this process, because it provides us with a more ample view of the “differences within broad patterns of social change” (139) and it helps us better understand how this change does not

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stem only from the trajectory of single individuals; on the contrary, its roots should be searched for in personal experience as well as in a relational context. Returning to the context of Stella mattutina, although the stories of the mother do not focus solely on her life and experiences, they do portray female protagonists exclusively and plots that suggest gender rebellion and class “mobility;” consequently, these tales encourage in her daughter a development beyond the mother’s experience in terms of class and gender. While preserving class awareness, the stories of the mother can be interpreted as a precursor to the stories of the daughter, and the trajectory of Dinin as an artist and a woman can be looked at as a continuation of Vittoria’s trajectory.22 In short, we could say that the mother’s stories constitute the means through which her aspirations are incorporated into the daughter’s subjectivity. Additionally, I believe it is worthy of note here the fact that Vittoria never tells stories about her father or her husband, Dinin’s father. When she does mention her husband briefly, the mother talks mostly of his death at the hospital and of the dreadful poverty he left behind. Also, it is clear from her behavior that such memories are painful for the mother. Hence, Dinin’s father represents a period in her mother’s life and incarnates values that Vittoria refuses to transmit to her daughter. Therefore, he is excluded from this female lineage, just like Nani, because he is not what the mother wants for her daughter, he does not fit her project. This divergence and elimination of the male component from her genealogy are later elaborated in the narrator’s reflection on the physical resemblance between daughter and mother. The girl makes the pleasant discovery that her hands are as soft and delicate as those of her mother. She then places her own origin and that of her mother within an aristocratic lineage; in the mind of the girl, she and her mother cannot belong in the same family with her mother’s father and husband who were simple and boorish people, physically marked by the signs of their hard work in the fields. Instead, the girl explains the presence of hers and her mother’s delicate hands as a direct inheritance from the opera singer Giuditta Grisi whose portrait watched over the girl’s entire childhood; and her childhood was imbued by the numerous stories that the portrait stirred in her imagination, stories about fabulous trips and adventures, about glamorous theaters and people. Thus, the narrator situates once more her origin and development not only as part of a female genealogy, but more specifically, within the artistic realm. The tie with her mother is once again highlighted; for example, the girl likes to create and tell stories just like her mother. However, the tales of Dinin are entirely the creation of her

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own imagination as a result of her secret dialogue with Giuditta Grisi. The girl did not hear these stories from her grandmother who instead knew the singer very well and accompanied her everywhere. Drawing a parallel with the stories of her mother, the girl considers hers true not because they have any connection to reality and lived experience, but just because they are the product of her own fantasy which enables her to enjoy full ownership in these stories. In this way, she also offers her own concept of truth in art: “Per lei, romanzo e realtà sono la stessa cosa: ciò che esiste nella sua fantasia le appare blocco di vera vita.”23 I am able to identify here the signs of yet another “upward” movement when the girl develops towards self-assertiveness as an artist/writer by presenting her art as the creation of her own making. This process of self-affirmation continues when the girl decides to choose her own genealogy, which is an artistic one. She then draws a direct connection between her mother’s artistic inclinations and her own prodigious fantasy on the one hand, and the presence of a far ancestor who was an artist of noble origin, on the other. The narrator explains: Ha un antenato, che fu grande artista e gran signore. Ne ignora il nome, la persona, il volto. Ma non importa. Le piace immaginarselo. Sua madre e lei portano gl’intimi segni del suo spirito, i visibili segni della sua figura. I singolari contrasti che risaltano nella persona dell’operaia Vittoria hanno la loro ragione in lui: quella delicatezza e quella forza, quell’amore della poesia e del canto, quel far della vita un’opera d’arte, con gli elementi del travaglio più umile. Ella trova anche, in lui, la ragione logica di se stessa: della propria sensibilità: della ricchezza interiore che a volte l’ingorga.24

The girl’s self-assertiveness as a writer is later expanded upon through her self-affirmation as a woman. She discovers her destiny is not love and, one night, she has a dream: on her way to the train station, she gets lost; while trying to find her path, she first meets Daria and then countess Augusta, representations of motherly love and passion, respectively. The trouble that these encounters produce in the girl will trigger her water phobia: the dream ends with the girl standing in water as its level is rising ominously. Confident in her own artistic talent, aspirations and inner strength, the character rejects, however, the traditional roles suggested by these figures and embarks on a path of her own. In her essay “Maternal role and personal identity,” feminist psychoanalyst Silvia Montefoschi places the emphasis on the child’s process of formation as a subject and his/her creative freedom. She also moves the discussion to the specific realm of female identity and gender roles. The author affirms that, in our society and in the context of the family, it is the mother who dominates

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affectively, and thus, has the most influence on the children’s individual and social development. Nonetheless, the domination of the mother also entails the incapacity of the individual to ever reach the ability to govern him or herself, thus handing over to others the liberty to decide for him or herself. This will facilitate the child’s acceptance of the gender roles imposed by society and transmitted through the parental figures from one generation to the next. Montefoschi argues further that the only possibility for the human subject to break away from this “affective conditioning”25 is by “refusing maternal mediation, an act that would enable him or her to find in themselves the ability to control their own desires and needs. With this act, the individual empowers him/herself by taking power away from the mother, and, at the same time, liberates him/herself from the need to subjugate his or her existence to the law of the father, […] from blindly following social norms and claims the autonomous right to judge and question stereotypical roles, and to find new ways of existence […].”26 So, the child has to recover from all these projected attitudes and recognize them as manifestations of his/her own existence and will. According to Montefoschi, the key to success is the acknowledgement of a new relational model which is an intersubjective one, based on both giving and receiving. Ultimately, this intersubjectivity “induces a transformation in the human subject; it motivates the human subject to embark on a voyage of progressive transformation.”27 Stella mattutina concludes with Dinin’s impending departure to the house of her aunt Nunzia, in the countryside, where she is supposed to spend her vacation before starting her first teaching job. By elaborating on the theme of the journey, Negri exemplifies Dinin’s quest for knowledge and self-consciousness: Porterà con sé il suo giardino. […] E anche un nascosto prezioso bene, da poco riconosciuto, ch’ella confonde spesso con il battito del cuore, la necessità del respiro, del passo, del lavoro quotidiano; [...] Più che un bene: una forza: se stessa: non quella che la madre adora, la vita allinea con gli altri, e una rustica scoletta di villaggio attende per maestra. L’Altra: la Vera: che nessuno vedrà nel viso, nemmeno la mamma: inviolabile, inviolata: senza principio, senza fine: ricca d’inestinguibile calore al pari delle correnti sotterranee. Disgrazie, umiliazioni d’ogni sorta possono accadere alla pallida, povera Dinin; ma l’Altra, la Vera, è al disopra di tutto e di tutti, [...] La sente, a volte, rivelarsi e sovrapporsi alla persona circoscritta respirante camminante, con la potenza d’un getto di lava.28

While preparing for and reflecting on her future trip, the character acknowledges her double subjectivity: the “I” available to everybody from the external world, including her mother, and her true self, “l’Altra, la Vera,” the only one capable of rising above the hardship and the

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discrimination of her condition as a woman and as a member of the low class. On this occasion, Negri brings back the image of water when the narrator states that the girl will also take with her the river Adda which, therefore, becomes her river; and “questo è il più bello – perché è il suo.”29 In the above-mentioned passage, (her) Adda is replaced by a jet of lava which symbolizes an invincible force that can both destroy and create. Pickering-Iazzi identifies in this association with a volcano a possible reference to the role of “the woman writer as an agent of social change.”30 I am also able to identify here a metaphor for the character’s journey of personal transformation and self-consciousness. It is significant that the confined space of the estate’s garden, previously brought up several times throughout the narrative in relation to the girl’s predisposition for day-time dreaming and to her passion for beauty and freedom, is replaced, at the end of the novel, by the open space of the fields and the infinite horizon. Feeling already detached from her country relatives due to their life style and unpolished language, the girl goes outside at dawn to watch the morning star. She realizes in that moment that “il cielo era in lei, come lei nel cielo” and suddenly has a “sensazione d’eternità.”31 The narrative concludes with Dinin’s pleasant self-discovery that morning, while everything else–people, houses, animals–is still veiled in darkness: “௅ Sono io, son qui ௅ ella pensa, riconoscendosi nello spazio come in uno specchio.”32 The text does not suggest that, by leaving her mother, the girl finally rejects her influence or love completely. However, it does give hints that her mother is no longer a satisfactory point of reference for the girl; Dinin’s accomplished “upward” movement reflects now her new class and gender identities, as a result of her own aspirations. Transgressing the resignation of her grandmother and the lighthearted attitude towards suffering of her mother, Dinin breaks free and continues her own narrative; through the present autobiography, she creates her own story which is also the story of her life.

Notes 1

Ada Negri, Fatalità (Milano: Treves, 1897), 5. Benedetto Croce, La letteratura della nuova Italia, vol. 2 (Bari: Laterza, 1921), 351. 3 Camillo Pellizzi, Le lettere italiane del nostro secolo (Milano: Libreria d’Italia, 1929), 75. 4 Ada Negri, Maternità (Milano: Treves, 1920), 22. 5 The correspondence between Mussolini and Negri can be found in Salvatore Comes, Ada Negri da un tempo all’altro (Milano: Mondadori, 1971). 2

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Robin Pickering-Iazzi, “The Politics of Gender and Genre in Italian Women’s Autobiography of the Interwar Years,” Italica 71.2 (1994): 184. 7 Ada Negri, Stella mattutina, con una presentazione di Benito Mussolini (Verona: Mondadori, 1941), 57. 8 Adrienne Rich, Of Woman Born. Motherhood as Experience and Institution (New York: Norton, 1976), 11. 9 We can identify a similar view on the subject in Luisa Muraro, L’ordine simbolico della madre (Roma: Editori Riuniti, 1992), 70. Additionally, Muraro argues that the lack of such maternal genealogy has entailed the common occurrence in which the figure of the mother is used exclusively as a metaphor. 10 Along these lines, we cannot help but notice that her brother—whom she calls Nani—is presented and develops at the margins of this genealogy. Although they share the same love for books, brother and sister symbolize two different ways of thinking and of envisioning life. The girl believes that Nani’s life is “l’esistenza dei deboli e dei ciechi, travolti nella ridda, mangiati vivi dalle passioni;” she refuses this kind of life and “Preferisce l’acqua pura bevuta dietro la minestra di riso e latte, il buon sonno riparatore dopo lo studio e il lavoro sereno, i poveri conti di casa, chiusi senza il debito d’un soldo, l’ordine che è pace, la solitudine che è indipendenza” (Ada Negri, Stella mattutina, 85-86). 11 Ada Negri, Stella mattutina, 31. 12 Ada Negri, Stella mattutina, 26. 13 Ada Negri, Stella mattutina, 32-33. 14 Ada Negri, Stella mattutina, 34. The emphasis is mine. 15 Ada Negri, Stella mattutina, 144. 16 The mother’s carefree and moral approach to poverty are presented in conspicuous contrast to the moral decline that transpires from the much wealthier house of her brother; this is also a reference to his drinking problem which will eventually lead to the ruin of his entire household and to his death. 17 Ada Negri, Stella mattutina, 100. 18 Ada Negri, Stella mattutina, 88. 19 Ada Negri, Stella mattutina, 103. 20 Martha Vicinus, The Industrial Muse. A Study of Nineteenth Century British Working-Class Literature (New York: Harper, 1974), 1-2. 21 Sara Scott and Sue Scott, “Our mother’s daughters: autobiographical inheritance through stories of gender and class,” in Feminism and Autobiography. Texts, theories, methods, edited by Tess Cosslett, Celia Lury, and Penny Summerfield (London and New York: Routledge, 2000), 131. 22 Referencing Anna Folli in “Lettura di Ada Negri,” Robin Pickering-Iazzi points out the meaning of these stories as illustrative examples of the relations to language that the three generations of women develop: the grandmother speaks mostly dialect, the mother tells her stories in Italian and the daughter masters the literary Italian (Pickering-Iazzi, “The Politics of Gender,” 186) 23 Ada Negri, Stella mattutina, 136. 24 Ada Negri, Stella mattutina, 136-37. 25 Sandra Kemp and Paola Bono, The Lonely Mirror. Italian perspectives on feminist theory (London and New York: Routledge, 1993), 108.

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26

Sandra Kemp and Paola Bono, The Lonely Mirror, 105-106. Sandra Kemp and Paola Bono, The Lonely Mirror, 111. 28 Ada Negri, Stella mattutina, 155-56. 29 Ada Negri, Stella mattutina, 151. 30 Robin Pickering-Iazzi, “The Politics of Gender,” 187. 31 Ada Negri, Stella mattutina, 187. 32 Idem. 27

Bibliography Comes, Salvatore. Ada Negri da un tempo all’altro. Milano: Mondadori, 1971. Cosslett, Tess. “Matrilineal narratives revisited.” In Feminism and Autobiography. Texts, theories, methods, 141-53. Edited by Tess Cosslett, Celia Lury, and Penny Summerfield. London and New York: Routledge, 2000. Croce, Benedetto. La letteratura della nuova Italia, vol. 2. Bari: Laterza, 1921. Jelinek, Estelle C., ed. Women’s Autobiography: Essays in Criticism. Bloomington: Indiana UP, 1980. Kaplan, Cora. “Pandora’s Box: Subjectivity, Class and Sexuality in Socialist Feminist Criticism.” In Feminisms. An Anthology of Literary Theory and Criticism, 857-77. Edited by Robyn R. Warhol and Diane Price Herndl. New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers UP, 1991. Kemp, Sandra, and Paola Bono, eds. The Lonely Mirror. Italian perspectives on feminist theory. London and New York: Routledge, 1993. Lauter, Paul. “Working-Class Women’s Literature: An Introduction to Study.” In Feminisms. An Anthology of Literary Theory and Criticism, 837-56. Edited by Robyn R. Warhol and Diane Price Herndl. New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers UP, 1991. Merry, Bruce. “Ada Negri (1870-1945).” In Italian Women Writers. A BioBibliographical Sourcebook, 295-301. Edited by Rinaldina Russell. Westport, CT-London: Greenwood P, 1994. The Milan Women’s Bookstore Collective. Sexual Difference. A Theory of Social-Symbolic Practice. Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana UP, 1990. Muraro, Luisa. L’ordine simbolico della madre. Roma: Editori Riuniti, 1992 Negri, Ada. Fatalità. Milano: Treves, 1897. —. Maternità. Milano: Treves, 1920.

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—. Stella mattutina. Con una presentazione di Benito Mussolini. Verona: Mondadori, 1941. Pellizzi, Camillo. Le lettere italiane del nostro secolo. Milano: Libreria d’Italia, 1929. Pickering-Iazzi, Robin. “The Politics of Gender and Genre in Italian Women’s Autobiography of the Interwar Years.” Italica 71.2 (1994): 176-97. Podenzani, Nino. Il libro di Ada Negri. Milano: Ceschina, 1969 Rich, Adrienne. Of Woman Born. Motherhood as Experience and Institution. New York: Norton, 1976. Russo, John, and Sherry Lee Linkon, eds. New Working-Class Studies. Ithaca and London: Cornell UP, 2005. Scott, Sara, and Sue Scott. “Our mother’s daughters: autobiographical inheritance through stories of gender and class.” In Feminism and Autobiography. Texts, theories, methods, 128-40. Edited by Tess Cosslett, Celia Lury, and Penny Summerfield. London and New York: Routledge, 2000. Smith, Sidonie. A Poetics of Women’s Autobiography. Marginality and the Fictions of Self-Representation. Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana UP, 1987. Vicinus, Martha. The Industrial Muse. A Study of Nineteenth Century British Working-Class Literature. New York: Harper, 1974. Zambon, Patrizia. “Leggere per scrivere. La formazione autodidattica delle scrittrici tra Otto e Novecento: Neera, Ada Negri, Grazia Deledda, Sibilla Aleramo.” Studi novecenteschi 16.38 (1989): 287-324.

CHAPTER EIGHT TELEVISION AND CINEMA: CONTRADICTORY ROLE MODELS FOR WOMEN IN 1950S ITALY? VALERIA FEDERICI

Although experiments with television started in the mid-1920s, it was only in 1954 that RAI (Italian national broadcasting company) finalized a structure that allowed television to be potentially seen from anywhere.1 At that point, decisions had to be made on programming, announcers, content, and issues like language versus dialect. The results of these decisions contributed to the construction of models for women that then entered domestic life through the mesmerizing luminescence of the medium. By exploring who decided on these models and whether they were targeting women of a specific class, I highlight how the proper, upstanding woman of television represented by Signorine Buonasera (female TV announcers) apparently clashed with the more attractive and tempting diva of cinema. I compare images, scripts and ways of speaking of the Signorine Buonasera, with similar features of female characters in three Italian movies released in 1954. The movies considered are: Pane, amore e gelosia by Luigi Comencini, starring Gina Lollobrigida, who at this point in her young career is characterized simply as an object of desire; L'oro di Napoli by Vittorio De Sica, starring Sophia Loren, still yet to become a cinema icon; and Senso by Luchino Visconti, starring Alida Valli, which made use of highly sexualized opera costumes. In addition, I explore material from popular newspapers and posters used during the national elections of 1953. Through an analysis of all these elements, I contend that although the image of Signorine Buonasera is used to display good morals in contrast to the image of movie divas, both representations form a monolithic identity of a woman who is ultimately described as occupying a secondary place in

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the Italian society, subordinate to men. Finally, I consider the role of the major political parties of the time, the Christian Democracy party and the Communist party, in defining how women ought to have been portrayed in the media, and the influence of the Catholic Church in providing censorship guidelines for both television and cinema. On January 3, 1954, RAI started its nationwide programming, and the first person to ever appear on the only channel available at the time was a woman. Her name was Fulvia Colombo, she was the first of the Signorine Buonasera (Miss Good Evening) who welcomed the public every night, greeting her viewers by saying “ladies and gentlemen, good evening.” From 1954 until 2009, the role of the TV program announcer in Italy remained exclusively a female job. Being there from day one, women have a long history on Italian television; nonetheless, the way they have been represented over the years follows a not always so enlightened trajectory.2 In order to better explore social, political, and historical events that led to specific gender politics regarding women on television, I will try to answer the following questions: What type of woman did Signorina Buonasera represent? To whom was she talking? Who was her audience? In 1954, the average monthly salary of a proletarian was 40.000 Italian lire, and the cost of a television set was more than six times that at 270.000 Italian lire. Initially, only the wealthier could afford a TV set. That same year, only 170,000 televisions were sold, however prices soon started to go down, and as a result, sales numbers skyrocketed.3 Due to initial costs and meager sales, watching television became a collective experience to enjoy in public places. Bars, restaurants or other gathering sites, including theatres and cinemas, used television to attract customers. For instance, many used to watch the popular game show Lascia o raddoppia? either at the house of an acquaintance or at the bar down the street.4 Lascia o raddoppia? was so popular and had so many followers that a theatre in Lucca allowed the public to watch it in the foyer before the performance. In the rest of Italy, cinemas stopped movie screenings to allow the audience to see Lascia o raddoppia? and resumed screening after the program. Although few people owned a television, the audience was broader than what was revealed by statistics.5 Communities of spectators congregated in front of the television just as if they were at a screening in a theatre, and although at a smaller scale, television promised to deliver the same excitement as movies did. Therefore, in the early 1950s, cinema and television shared the same audience and there was a direct competition between the two mediums.6 Meanwhile, it is important to consider that by the time every household had a TV set the Christian Democracy party (DC) had reached a wellestablished control over the medium. Both, the DC and the Church

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understood television could have an important role in educating the masses. As pointed out by historian Stephen Gundle, “television... was a government-controlled medium that... had as one of its objectives the formation of an audience that was positively oriented towards the particular type of modernity that was being elaborated under the ChristianDemocrats.”7 Indeed, the self-regulation (auto-regolamentazione) law of the time–a series of rules defined by RAI Director, Filiberto Guala–expected TV programs to re-affirm religious and family morals with sexual scenes strictly forbidden. Accordingly, the first woman to appear on the small screen, Fulvia Colombo, did not resemble an object of sexual desire but was rather, a reassuring and ladylike character, who could easily be recognized as the good-girl-next-door. By delivering a mitigated image of the woman such as the one suggested by Signorine Buonasera, the new medium contributed to undermine the influence of feminine role models coming from other competing platforms such as cinema.8 Nonetheless, the clash of these two contiguous representations of woman–the proper, wellmannered, upstanding figure of the TV vs. the more attractive and tempting diva of cinema–was only illusory. Before going into case studies, it is important to clarify that this analysis takes into consideration the Catholic ideology applied to the family as spread in Italy at the time (which was not only conveyed by just Christian Democrats) and according to which there are only two possible fixed genders as part of a nuclear family: woman and man.9 As noted by Maria Casilini in her volume, Famiglie comuniste: ideologie e vita quotidiana nell’Italia degli anni cinquanta, notwithstanding the ideal of “the professional revolutionary” emerging in the Italian Communist Party (PCI), the latter had to cope with the reality of many militants who had and believed in a traditional family. I will refer to statements by the Catholic Church, which aimed to reinforce such gender dichotomy as well as to reaffirm the biological paradigm, according to which “a woman has the obligation to be mother and wife because her social identity is implicit in her biological ability to conceive, give birth, suckle, and feed little human beings.”10 When I began to write this essay, Catholic Church bishops were expected to convene for a Holy Synod, which took place in October 2015: family was the central topic. It was announced via the Instrumentum Laboris, the Church was not going to open to gender theory or other topics such as abortion.11 The Holy Synod did not result in a revisiting of such position. In the report published by the Vatican after the Synod one can read: “Man and woman as a couple are the image of God,” further “the Church firmly rejects coercive interventions by the State in favor of contraception, sterilization, or even abortion.”12

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Good morals By the time television entered the house of Italians, the entertainment industry was primarily dominated by cinema, followed by radio, theatre, and music. In order to compete with these other forms of enjoyment, RAI had to decide whether to emulate other mediums or to offer an alternative to them. RAI management decided immediately that television was entertainment as much as cinema, and left out of the programming political talk shows as well as explicit propaganda. Show schedules were very similar to the ones in use for the three radio channels, which were under the control of the government. A law issued in 1951 regulated the quantity of political content to be included in the programming. Fundamentally, during elections there were more political discussions to which otherwise was given little attention.13 TV shows directly addressing political issues with talking politicians will be aired years later, starting in 1961. For almost a decade after its initial appearance, television remained, for the most part, a form of pure recreation except for the brief news segments. RAI management, under the guidance of the leading party, i.e. the Christian Democracy party, strictly regulated how politics were presented to viewers in order not to disrupt “the serenity of the family.”14 But factors such as audience’s leisure time and family structure were shifting rapidly. In contrast with the earlier years of television, by the time Tribune elettorali (later Tribune politiche) were introduced, audience’s fruition of the medium had changed.15 Little by little, the initial collective visions (or tele-visions) were replaced by private visions as more families could afford a TV set and enjoy the show at home. In terms of family structure, as pointed out by historian Franca Bimbi, although this change did not follow a linear trajectory, it is possible to notice that after World War II, numbers of family members decreased. In previous decades, a family might have included grandparents, parents, children, and other relatives, whereas after the war more and more families consisted of two generations, including only parents and children.16 In addition, although in the 1950s female labor-force participation rates in Italy dropped, starting in 1960, women went back to work in a trend that has never looked back since.17 Therefore, when first emerged, the figure of Signorina Buonasera was talking to a broad family audience, the female portion of which spent time at home taking care of a still considerably large family. Simultaneously, work habits and needs had started to change, and to impact Italian society at large. Through which characteristics, then did Signorine Buonasera become one of the faces of Italian TV?

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As mentioned, Fulvia Colombo was the one who on the morning of January 3, 1954 at 11 a.m. from a television studio in Milan announced the beginning of the transmissions. Other announcers were Nicoletta Orsomando, Marisa Borroni, and Maria Teresa Ruta. In a video of the time, Nicoletta Orsomando announces, with an impeccable diction, the program to follow: a theatre play of Medea by Apollonius.18 Theatre was largely featured on Italian television at this time. Interestingly or ironically enough, the representation of a classical piece such as Medea, about a female figure who embarked on numerous adventures to help her beloved, fitted within the trope of a woman who sacrifices herself for her male companion as if she has no other interests in life but following him and his fate. Another video shows Nicoletta Orsomando, along with Marisa Borroni, and Fulvia Colombo exceptionally co-presenting. In this occasion, their script reads: “Tonight we too are… characters… and as characters we too have been asked to express our preference about various TV programs.”19 What they are saying is that they can express an opinion only because they have been elevated to the role of “characters,” which implies a position of inferiority otherwise where their opinions are not normally expressed. However, this statement contrasts with the position of women outside of the TV screen. In fact, after World War II women are officially asked to express their opinion, at least politically, as they acquired the right to vote in 1945. Curiously, in an election poster dated 1953, published in the volume Le donne al muro by Adriana Sartogo, two women are portrayed next to the sentence: “Italian woman… Your femininity depends also on your vote” (“fig. 1”).20 The two women depicted represent a DC female voter, and a Communist Italian Party (PCI) female voter. They differ in their outfits and posture, but more explicitly, the poster shows a certain femininity of the DC voter, and it is striking because of the differences between the appearance of the former, and the appearance of the PCI voter, who does not conform to that same femininity. Femininity emerges here as a series of visual characteristics implied by the DC poster itself that suggests that a feminine woman should be thin, with make up, earrings, and hair tied back from the face. Most importantly, she should not be openly expressing political ideas such as that seen in the raised left fist of the PCI female voter. A DC female voter should not only vote for the Christian Democracy, she must embody or, in Judith Butler’s words “perform or act” her gender, in accordance to DC’s idea of woman.21 Starting with her hairstyle, makeup, pose and smile, the DC voter seems to be taking care of her look in detail. She holds the election card with a hand whose nails are polished. On the contrary, the image of the female PCI voter represents a woman who does not seem to care about conforming to a certain idea of

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femininity. Her red figure is smaller than the blue figure next to her. Her skin color is as red as the overall brush of paint from which she flatly rises. The image of the female DC voter instead is depicted using chiaroscuro, which gives depth to her silhouette. In addition, her skin is lighter than the overall blue tone surrounding her. Within this scenario, it is worth noticing how in 1954, Signorine Buonasera appear on television characterized by an image very similar to the one of the female DC voter as per the election poster of the previous year. The message is clear: a woman must be feminine, and her femininity depends on the way she looks. And to whom does she show this femininity? Who is watching? Who is judging? Men, of course. Another example of this type of representations emerges from a comparison between an image of Fulvia Colombo (“fig. 2”) with an image of a woman from La Domenica del Corriere, (“fig. 3”) –a Sunday illustrated magazine published by the same editor of the popular newspaper Corriere della Sera, a conservative Italian outlet. In this image, Fulvia Colombo is shown from the breasts up while performing as a Signorina Buonasera. Female TV announcers were usually framed as half bust, their lack of bodies reflecting their lack of full identities as persons with opinions. In other words, her image while personifying a Signorina Buonasera seems to represent a canon of bodylessness, to convey a woman’s weightless presence with little relevance on television as well as in life. At the same time, in the back cover illustration of La Domenica del Corriere, a family is shown in front of the new medium, the mother is partially partaking in the action of watching television. Her eyes are mainly but not exclusively on the children, one sitting on the father’s lap, and the other on the ground. She oversees a reassuring image of domestic tranquility while taking a break from her cooking duty (stove is visible on the far back on the right), although this temporary distraction could cause her to burn the meal. The caption suggests in fact that the new device distracts everyone. The cover was used to comment on the beginning of TV transmissions. Once again, both images show a woman whose role is marginal, “proper,” and subordinate in her position of assistant to either the family (the woman in La Domenica del Corriere) or the audience (Signorina Buonasera). Interestingly, Fulvia Colombo’s sweptback hair makes her appear similar to the woman in the magazine illustration. And, they both are very close in appearance to the lady in the poster representing the female DC voter. The visual resemblance of all these women makes them interchangeable. That seems to suggest that there is only one place for them all. In fact, as historian Daniela Brancati noticed, after World War II, women–who had taken the places of men in factories

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Figure 8-1. Election poster by the Christian Democracy Party n. 208, 1953, “Donna italiana… anche la tua femminilità è affidata al tuo voto.” ©Archivio Luigi Sturzo

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Figure 8-2. Fulvia Colombo–still from screen during the TV show Tempo di musica, 1961 ©Archivio Teche Rai

and other positions, and obtained the right to vote–were asked to go back and “stay home to raise children in full compliance with the will of God.”22 The main effort that seems to be required of women is then to conform. Television would teach them how to cook, how to use appliances, along with the basic rules of housekeeping while they dedicated themselves to raising children, and take care of their husband. This was an “ideal” model of family growing around the wife and the mother, according to which such roles belong “naturally” to women.23 Television was a way to convey this model, and encourage conformism. Pope Pius XII himself, took the chance to address what the role of television should be in this social narrative in a statement dated January 1, 1954, in which he warned of a proper moralization of the medium: “The beginning of regular programming by Television poses a series of sensitive and urgent problems about morals, about a vigilant and active presence and organization. First of all, we recognize the value of this scientific luminous conquest, which, once again, it is a manifestation of the greatness of God. It is not hard to realize which advantages television brings, in particular in relation to the development of the human being. Lately, cinema, sports, and the hard necessity of work are taking men and

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women away from the family, disturbing the natural course of domestic life. Therefore, we are happy to see television re-establishing this balance. If well-regulated television can be an efficient medium of wise and Christian education, it can also be dangerous because of profanities and abuses that can be applied to it by human malice. Television is for family groups of every age and sex; although the youths are more subjected to perceive its images and sounds as real. Therefore we are horrified to think that images of materialism, facts and hedonism as portrayed in movie theatres, can enter the home. We hope that television programs and shows will be regulated by specific rules in order to offer a proper form of recreation to citizens and to contribute to their development and moral elevation.”24

The last sentence regarding “specific rules,” “proper form of recreation,” and “development and moral elevation,” can be found with the same wording in the Norme di autodisciplina per le trasmissioni televisive, (selfdiscipline rules of television programs), adopted in 1954.25 Despite the control over television by the Christian Democracy party, and despite censorship over cinema, the Catholic Church seemed extremely worried about the effects of both mediums on the population. To oversee such concerns in 1954 RAI hired as CEO Filiberto Guala, a member of Azione Cattolica–a Catholic youth organization. In an interview with historian Brancati, Guala declared: “When I was asked to run this company [RAI]… I felt a great sense of duty in doing it in a Catholic way.”26 His Catholic way to run television was, among other things, to control the image of women, and to respond to the threat of an up and coming consumerism and hedonist society as feared by the Pope. Television portrayed and was made for women to adhere to the role of housewife, whose realization was in her domestic functions, and who did not look for distractions or satisfaction outside of this realm. But this traditional idea of woman continually clashed, first and foremost, with economic needs. Historian Bruno Wanrooij pointed out that in both pre- and post- World War II Italy, women looked for jobs mostly for economic needs, and less for a concrete search of emancipation.27 Nonetheless, they were exiting the domestic realm. For this reason, the Church and the DC aimed to convey a monolithic image of what the role of women in society ought to be, i.e. back in the house. In 1950, Alcide De Gasperi, founder and leader of DC and Prime Minister of Italy from 1948 to 1953, affirmed: “Women go to work only to buy silk stockings.” These words, among other prejudices and judgments, implied the fear of the sexually corruptive nature of women, which is a trope of Catholic morality.28

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Figure 8-3. Back cover illustration of La Domenica del Corriere, January 3, 1954 ©Archivio Storico, Fondazione Corriere della Sera

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In a 1978 interview, Marina Magaldi, who was hired by RAI in the 1950s, remembered that she was asked by her supervisor to wear a smock. The reasoning, in her supervisor’s words: “I know you are different from your colleagues, and you know how to properly dress in an office environment. Do you think the other women are like you? If we do not impose the smock, how many of them will wear eccentric, low neck dresses so to distract their male colleagues?”29

How can we interpret this rebuke to Ms. Magaldi, and why did her supervisor see women as distracting for men? Was he concerned about the women’s behavior or the men’s behavior? Many years later, historian Brancati rightly labels these remarks as classist and sexist.30 But back in the 1950s, the idea of women as dangerously tempting, distracting, and corruptive to men was a trope, which manifested itself not only in political, and social instances, but in cultural representations such as the aforementioned movies from 1954 I will now analyze.

Bad morals As previously stated, cinema was the most popular form of entertainment in Italy at this time. Its success after World War II was also due to an increasing quality of life. In 1949, the entertainment industry as a whole registered an increase in attendance while movie theatres, in particular, doubled their audience.31 In 1955, cinema industry scored a record of 819 million Italian lire in tickets sales (approximately over one billion US dollars today).32 In the theatre, Italian audience could certainly find different content than on television. Hereby, I consider three movies featuring female characters pursuing economic independency, and feeling sexually free. However, economic independency was either pursued out of economic needs or out of misfortune, rather than out of a desire for emancipation. For instance, in Pane, amore e gelosia (Frisky), Maria (Gina Lollobrigida) decides to seek a career as a performer after her reputation is compromised, and she can no longer marry her fiancé. In a particular scene, she is dancing and singing on stage, making a series of alluring moves echoed by other girls gathered around the maresciallo, the male police officer, interpreted by Vittorio De Sica. Many of the elements of the scene serve to reiterate gender binary and roles as typical in the Italian society of the time. For instance, Maria is an unruly young woman who aims to make money working for a nomadic theatre company after her chance of marrying a young official is vanished because of malicious gossip. Her moral integrity is damaged. As a consequence, she can only

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make a profit by dancing, showing off her legs, and by singing seductive songs. The maresciallo Antonio (Vittorio De Sica) is the one who can fix the situation, who can return her to her promised husband by virtue of his authority. He is the ruling character, who can break rules in order to reinforce them. He is a single (older) man who would like to marry a single mother, but the army corps does not allow him to wed a woman with an illegitimate child. In order to do so, he is ready to retire from his position, but the return of the biological father will stop him. Antonio is a savior; he would have saved the single mother from her wrongful situation (highlighted by the army corps’ code). He is also the one who saves young Maria by her life choice as a performer. He clarifies the malicious gossip with the young officer who eventually accepts to marry her. The temporary wrongful situation of both women is soon resolved with a return to legal union and family. Antonio, literally the law, is the one who re-establishes the rules. Both women find their life path in building a family, which reiterates the idea of the “happy ending.” In L’Oro di Napoli (The Gold of Naples), things are only slightly different. Directed by Vittorio De Sica, the movie features Sophia Loren. Towards the end of the movie, Sophia (the character is named after the actress) is shown walking down the street in a stroll so famous it is now part of Italian cinematic history.33 The walking is emblematic because it lingers on the carefully amplified body of Sophia, who was considered a maggiorata (well-endowed), in a way the camera would have never done to the body of a Signorina Buonasera on television.34 Further, it is interesting to observe that the walking takes place almost exclusively under a male gaze (except for one lady under an umbrella walking towards Sophia). Everyone in the scene who is actively looking at Sophia is a man. The director pays particular attention to the actress’ physicality not only from the front, but also from the back. What was absolutely impossible to witness on television at the time, is gratuitously highlighted on the movie screen. From these two examples, we can start to draw some conclusions about the simple differences in the way female body could be and was shown. I am not referring here only to the visual message conveyed, but to very simple differences between television and cinema. For instance, women in cinema speak in dialect, while Signorine Buonasera must speak a flawless Italian. As pointed out by historian Francesca Anania, one third of the Italian population in the 1950s (about 15 million people) had dropped the use of dialect as their only language, but only one sixth of the population had abandoned the use of dialect completely. By using a standard Italian, television attempted to unite its audience. By 1966, RAI had extended its reach to eighty per cent of the Italian territory, registering

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an audience of over 20 million people in prime time.35 The ability to spread its message was increased by the use of a standardized language, which helped the medium to distance itself from cinema. In terms of other differences between television and cinema, the latter allows for and largely utilizes a certain type of camera movement, the “close up” for instance, which television at this time uses more conservatively. Signorine Buonasera only show their smiling faces and, as noted, rarely their entire body. The aforementioned video, where the four Signorine speak together, was an exception as they themselves stated. Furthermore, women portrayed in these films live outside of what is traditionally considered a good family life. Maria (Gina Lollobrigida) wants to run away and make her own money, as she can no longer count on the support of a man; Sophia (Sophia Loren) betrays her husband, loses her wedding ring (the symbol par excellence of a committed wife, and husband, for that matter), which is returned to her by her lover. Both, Maria and Sophia eventually reinforce traditional gender roles by hinting at a sexual offer, which is always directed to men, and it was absolutely prohibited on television. The sexual allusions of these movie characters, although extremely bland (cinema was highly censored at the time), as well as the complete absence of sex on television, fed the overall sexual discourse in accordance to a “mechanism of incitements” as later elaborated by Foucault. In his The History of Sexuality, he writes: “What is peculiar to modern societies, in fact, is not that they consigned sex to a shadow existence, but that they dedicated themselves to speaking of it ad infinitum, while exploiting it as the secret.”36

In Comizi d’Amore, a documentary made by Pier Paolo Pasolini in 1964, the interviewed Italian writer Alberto Moravia states that a documentary about sexuality “is a good thing to do… because for the first time in Italy a documentary talks about sexuality, which is a taboo not only on the screen, but in daily conversations.”37 By representing the female body through partially different aspects of women’s lives, experience, desires, goals, and hinted sexuality, cinema and television both reiterated the same morality and ideology. Finally, we move to Senso, which is probably the most complex of these three movies, as it does not reflect the same canon we have just observed. Also released in 1954, directed by Luchino Visconti, Senso features Alida Valli in the role of Livia Serpieri. The movie is about the Third War of Independency of Italy against Austria (1866). Relevant to this analysis is the scene taking place in a hotel room where Franz, the lover (Farley Granger) and Countess Livia (Alida Valli) are conversing

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just after they had sexual intercourse which is of course only hinted at. Livia is lying in bed, with her hair undone, wearing only a chemise. Her lover represents her break with family ties, but also with ideology. Following the plot, Countess Livia (Alida Valli)–the cousin of an Italian nationalist she is supposed to help–falls in love with Franz, an Austrian soldier, who represents the enemy. When assigned the task of guarding some money to give to her cousin for the war, she decides to give it to the soldier instead. When her lover disappears, leaving her behind, she travels to Verona searching for him only to find out he has used the money to escape his duty as a soldier, and to live his life with a younger lover. Overwhelmed and resentful, Livia reports him to the Austrian authorities, and he is killed as a deserter. Apparently, Livia is breaking all the rules: she is featured in a hotel room with a man who is not her husband (an older man who does not support the revolution); she is the corruptor, not only with flesh, but also with money. Her figure stands in dramatic contrast to portrayal of women represented by Signorine Buonasera, but she could be compared to Medea. Livia is depicted as a woman whose feelings forbid her to act rationally for the higher cause of revolution and Italian independency. Therefore, in addition to resembling Catholic fear of corruption through flesh, an even more traditional trope of weakness of women is conveyed. After drastic censorship, the movie became a heartrending love story, where a princess-like Livia, with her fairy tale dresses, seduces Franz in the wonderful, natural setting of a decadent Venice. Nonetheless, on the bodies of Italian women there was also a political struggle to be fought. Visconti was a militant intellectual, member of the Communist party. What he was trying to convey in Senso was that the revolution of 1866 was betrayed and lost, much like the Resistance revolution during World War II (1943-45). Due to DC monopoly over television, cinema was an alternative political platform to reach a broader audience. Cinema has also been a vehicle of propaganda under Fascism. The persuasive potential of moving images was well known and utilized more or less explicitly well beyond World War II. Some might argue than only a few years earlier, Neo-realism cinema delivered a very different image of the woman: Anna Magnani in Rome Open City (1945) might be the most appropriate example. Nonetheless, in the mid-1950s, many considered the experience of Neo-realism over. Further, if we look at the first twenty-five most viewed movies of 1954, Pane, amore e gelosia ranked as number 3, L’Oro di Napoli number 17, and Senso number 25.38 These were among the most popular movies of the time. In addition, the majority of screenings are of American productions, even though many are filmed in Italy. For a variety of reasons–which are beyond the scope of this

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study to analyze–American movies shown in Italy in these years do not reflect the kind of woman that Neo-realist movies used to. Beside numbers, to establish how a movie was received remains a difficult task, as does the measure of whether women in front of the television felt like they should resemble a Signorina Buonasera. Nonetheless, these representations of female models and roles were brought to the public, and they embedded gender bias, which probably had an effect on female identity in Italy on the long run. Even though one could avoid looking at these models, they certainly had a resonance among the public. After all, every woman cited in this chapter did become a celebrity based on what she represented on the small and big screen.

Conclusions In conclusion, representation of good morals on television and bad morals in movies in the 1950s constituted two sides of the same coin, which contributed in shaping female gender identity in Italy according to the leading Catholic morality of the time. However, something threatened that narrative, as both, the Church and DC remained obsessed with the “corrupting” cinema, and focused on delivering, via television, a certain image of woman in relation to her role exclusively within the family. Another Christian Democracy’s poster dated 1958, (“fig. 4”) features a woman holding a white carnation, next to the words: “Family’s serenity; future for children.”39 The poster thus suggests that both, family and children are woman’s primary concerns. Some might argue that television, being initially an elitist media, especially in the 1950s, is reasonable for spreading a conservative, bourgeois narrative but I argue the narrative was not so entirely predictable. As Forgas and Gundle have noticed, cultural activities were affected by the “competition between Catholics and the left for the loyalty of the middle and working classes.”40 Further, an apparently elitist medium was meant to reach everyone, and it indeed reached many, not only the elite. What remained predictable was the dichotomy of gender roles, which featured only two possibilities: woman and man or wife and husband. This dichotomy is so deeply rooted in Italian culture and language that even writing wife before husband sounds awkward. For the Christian Democratic leadership that controlled television in 1954, woman meant Signorine Buonasera. Their political and moral identity never challenged their gender role or the biological paradigm. Would a television under a different political leadership have shown a different woman? Maybe. Would gender roles be challenged? Probably not.

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Figure 8-4. Election poster by the Christian Democracy Party n. 393, 1958, “Serenità della famiglia avvenire dei figli.” ©Archivio Luigi Sturzo

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Italian society in the 1950s presented profound contrasts between the two main political fronts, the DC–which ruled the country having won the general elections in 1948 and 1953–and the Communist (PCI) and Socialist parties. According to a system put in place by the Fascist regime, following the elections, the DC-led government was in control of every state institution, including the state-run communications industry, i.e. radio and television.41 DC operations were clearly intertwined with the Catholic Church, which, as pointed out by Forgacs and Gundle, “after the decisive victory of the Christian Democrats in 1948, made a great effort to reestablish hegemony by seizing influence within the state and by promoting Catholic morality.”42 Television became another platform from which to fight anti-clericalism, and communism in primis. As a consequence, images of women delivered by the government multiple outlets–television, newspapers, weeklies, and posters–coincided with this agenda. Although left wing parties were the only alternative to DC at the time in Italy, they seemed to have ignored television, maybe due in part to a cultural prejudice, maybe for the lack of a Marxist theory of the media, or maybe because DC monopoly was impossible to contrast until parliament changed the pluralism law in 1975.43 It would be interesting to analyze these factors further. What is relevant to this research is that DC, and its beacon, the Church, knew what they wanted from television: to educate masses within the respect of Catholic morality, and to adhere to progress without much change. In order to do so, it was necessary to control women.44 Television was one of the elements of the fight through which Catholics remained attached to an anti-modern ideology and “archaic moral codes.”45 But things were soon to change. As Italy was about to enter a new capitalist era and to face the biggest economic growth of her modern times, more spending was required to raise a family and therefore more earnings necessary. As noted, although in the 1950s the participation of women in labor-force had decreased, starting in 1960, women went back to work following a constantly increasing trend.46 While the Church and DC gathered all their efforts to rule women, women themselves were drawn towards different interests than the ones assigned to them. As pointed out by historian Luisa Passerini, an “informal emancipatory movement” had started. Changes in women’s consumption and their self-presentation in everyday life occurred.47 Notwithstanding, role models for Italian women had been established by men, and remained so based on the binary opposition between the two sexes.48 As demonstrated, this opposition was reinforced by both early television and popular cinema, which were only apparently in contrast with each other.

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Notes 1

RAI: Radio Televisione Italiana (Italian Radio and Television). Cfr Anania, Francesca, Breve Storia della Radio e della Televisione Italiana, Carocci, Roma 2004, 14 2 The documentary by Serena Povia and Derek Jones titled Women’s body (2009), offers an overview on how women are portrayed on Italian television, http://www.ilcorpodelledonne.net/english-version/, accessed September 2016 3 Monteleone, Franco, Storia delle Televisione Italiana: Societa’: Politica, Strategie e Programmi, Marsilio, 1992, 277 4 “Lascia o Raddoppia” was a remake of the French TV game show “Quitte ou double?” which was a remake of the American TV game show “The $64,000 Question.” 5 Cfr Anania, Francesca, Davanti allo schermo, Roma 1997, 25-33; by the same author, Breve Storia della Radio e della Televisione Italiana, Carocci, 75 6 Anania, F., Davanti allo schermo, 25 7 Gundle, Stephen, Signorina Buonasera, Images of Women in Early Italian Television, in Women in Italy 1945-1960: An interdisciplinary study, New York, 2006, pp. 65-76 8 Monteleone, F., 282-4 9 Cfr Casilini, Maria, Famiglie comuniste: ideologie e vita quotidiana nell’Italia degli anni cinquanta, Il Mulino, 2010 10 Bimbi, Franca, Three Generations of Women: Transformations of Female Identity Models in Italy, in Visions and Revisions: Women in Italian Culture, Berg, Providence 1993, 149 11 Source Corriere della Sera, June 23, 2015 – http://roma.corriere.it/notizie/cronaca/15_giugno_23/i-vescovi-chiesa-vicinafamiglie-ferite-tradimenti-risposati-96b8e12a-1990-11e5-9779e399e180b2ac.shtml, accessed September 2016 12 Source https://press.vatican.va/content/salastampa/it/bollettino/pubblico/2015/10/24/0816/ 01825.html “Synod15 - Relazione Finale del Sinodo dei Vescovi al Santo Padre Francesco (24 ottobre 2015), 24.10.2015”, accessed September 2016 (Translations are my own) 13 Anania, F., Breve Storia della Radio e della Televisione, 45-52 14 Ibid. 70 15 Ibid. 70. Titles translate as Elections Debates and Political Debates. (Translations are my own) 16 Bimbi, F., 149-165 17 Kertzer, D., and Barbagli, M., Family Life in the Twentieth Century: The History of the European Family, Yale University Press, 2003, 79 18 Video currently available at this link – https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l57Th0DC65k, accessed September 2016 19 Video currently available at this link – http://www.rai.tv/dl/RaiTV/programmi/media/ContentItem-18978854-e6ba-40fd8a38-6686a8935939.html, accessed September 2016 (00:00:20). Emphasis added

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(Transcript and translations are my own) 20 Cfr Sartogo, Adriana, Le donne al muro: l’immagine femminile nel manifesto politico italiano 1945-1977, Savelli, Roma 1977. The poster is also available online on the Luigi Sturzo’s archive - http://digital.sturzo.it/manifesto/1041749, accessed September 2016 21 In her seminal book Gender Trouble, Judith Butler writes: “As the effects of a subtle and politically enforced performativity, gender is an “act,” as it were, that is open to splittings, self-parody, self-criticism, and …hyperbolic exhibitions of “the natural” that in their very exaggeration, reveal its fundamentally phantasmatic status.” Therefore, through a process of imitation, internalization and assimilation, a person performs a gender identity that an environment external to the self induces. See Butler, Judith, Gender Trouble, Routledge, 1990 (2010), 200 22 Brancati, Daniela, Occhi di Maschio: Le donne e la televisione in Italia, Donzelli, 2011, 7 23 See Wanrooij, Bruno, Storia del Pudore: La questione sessuale in Italia, Marsilio, 1990 24 Doc. 1 – 1 Gennaio 1954. Esortazione I rapidi progressi, in Baragli, Enrico, Cinema Cattolico: documenti della S. Sede sul cinema, Citta’ Nuova Editrice, 1965, 163. In this interesting volume, Baragli noted that between 1936 and 1957, Pope Pius XII issued 89 documents targeting cinema, radio or television versus 15 of his predecessor (Pius XI) and 25 of his successor (John XIII). Emphasis added. (Translations are my own.) 25 Brancati, 53 26 Brancati, 11 27 Wanrooij, 108 28 Brancati, 9 29 Brancati, 10 – (Translations are my own) 30 Ibid. 31 Crainz, Guido, Storia del miracolo italiano, Donzelli, 1996, 142 32 Monteleone, 282-4 33 Video currently available at this link – https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wSzzIecxGMQ, accessed September 2016 34 Maggiorata is an Italian word to define a big-breasted woman. 35 Anania, 75 – (Translations are my own.) 36 Foucault, Michel, The History of Sexuality, Volume 1: An introduction, 1977 (1990), 35 37 Pasolini, Pier Paolo, Comizi D’Amore (1964), http://www.veoh.com/watch/v17920989gFbTsAaY, accessed September 2016. (Transcript and translations are my own) 38 Source http://www.hitparadeitalia.it/bof/boi/boi1954-55.htm, accessed September 2016 39 Source Luigi Sturzo’s digital archive, http://digital.sturzo.it/manifesto/1041934,accessed September 2016. (Translations are my own) 40 Forgacs, David, and Gundle, Stephen, Mass Culture and Italian Society, Indiana University Press, 2007, 198; and Crainz, G., Storia del miracolo italiano, 234

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41

Forgacs, and Gundle, 3 Forgacs, and Gundle, 254 43 Cfr Brancati, 22 and Monteleone, 240, 388-9 44 Wanrooij, 127 45 Crainz, 146 46 Kertzer, and Barbagli, 79 47 Passerini, Luisa, The Women’s Movement in Italy and the Events of 1968, in Vision and Revisions: Women in Italian Culture, Berg, 1993, 169 48 As noted by Casalini, even the woman’s page section of the left-wing news daily L’Unita’ in 1950s had only male editors. Cfr, Casalini, Maria, Famiglie comuniste: ideologie e vita quotidiana nell’Italia degli anni ’50, Il Mulino, 2010, 161 42

Bibliography Anania, Francesca, Breve Storia della Radio e della Televisione Italiana, Carocci, Roma 2004. —. Davanti allo schermo, Carocci, Roma 1997. Baragli, Enrico, Cinema Cattolico: documenti della S. Sede sul cinema, Citta’ Nuova Editrice, 1965. Bimbi, Franca, Three Generations of Women: Transformations of Female Identity Models in Italy, in Visions and Revisions: Women in Italian Culture, Berg, Providence 1993. Brancati, Daniela, Occhi di Maschio: Le donne e la televisione in Italia, Donzelli, 2011. Butler, Judith, Gender Trouble, Routledge, 1990 (2010). Crainz, Guido, Storia del miracolo italiano: Culture, Identita’, Trasformazioni fra anni Cinquanta e Sessanta, Donzelli, 1996. Casalini, Maria, Famiglie comuniste: ideologie e vita quotidiana nell’Italia degli anni ’50, Il Mulino, 2010. Forgacs, David, and Gundle, Stephen, Mass Culture in the Italian Society: From Fascism to the Cold War, Indiana University Press, 2007. Foucault, Michel, The History of Sexuality, Volume 1: An introduction, 1977 (1990). Gundle, Stephen, Signorina Buonasera, Images of Women in Early Italian Television, in Women in Italy 1945-1960: An interdisciplinary study, New York, 2006. Kertzer, David and Barbagli, Marzio, Family Life in the Twentieth Century: The History of the European Family, Yale University Press, 2003. Monteleone, Franco, Storia delle Televisione Italiana: Societa’, Politica, Strategie e Programmi, Marsilio, 1992. Passerini, Luisa, Vision and Revisions: Women in Italian Culture, Berg,

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1993. Sartogo, Adriana, Le donne al muro: l’immagine femminile nel manifesto politico italiano 1945-1977, Savelli, Roma 1977. Wanrooij, Bruno, Storia del Pudore: La questione sessuale in Italia, Marsilio, 1990.

Image Archives Archivio Teche Rai Archivio Storico – Istituto Luigi Sturzo Archivio Storico – Fondazione Corriere della Sera

CHAPTER NINE THE EMPTY HETEROTOPIC (NON-)SPACE OF SORRENTINO’S FEMALE CHARACTERS IN THE GREAT BEAUTY AND THE CONSEQUENCES OF LOVE ANNACHIARA MARIANI

Sorrentino’s 2014 Academy Award-winning film The Great Beauty has received much critical attention, mostly because of its detrimental image of the modern Italian social dissolution. Rachel Donadio wrote in The New York Times: The Roman rooftop terrace parties in “The Great Beauty” show a culture that is blocked, resigned, embalmed in elegant decline, where some seek religion and others cocaine, and intellectuals talk endlessly about what’s wrong and yet inertia overwhelms all forward momentum.1

Similarly, Chiara Spagnoli specified on Indiwire: Sorrentino’s latest film, "The Great Beauty," echoes some of the best Italian classics of the fifties that denounced the social malaise of their time. "La Grande Bellezza" (the Italian title), recalls Fellini’s savory depictions of Rome in all its sumptuousness, flightiness and gimmick. The circus portrayed by the parties, the preposterous conversations, the efforts to overcome the city’s loitering, are overlooked with cynicism and conscience by Jep, a journalist and socialite, whose one novel, "The Human Apparatus," haunts him as a reminder of unrealized promise.2

The Neapolitan movie director depicts “a sprawling impressionistic portrait of contemporary Rome and the cultural malaise afflicting Berlusconi-era Roman society” and portrays a long list of disillusioned and broken individuals, each enacting aspects of the disenchanted reality of their existence (Crowdus 2014: 8). However, most critical studies on

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Sorrentino’s films have focused on the male characters without pointing out the unfavorable treatment given to women in his highly gendered reality. Although both genders struggle with the consequences of their painful and useless existence in his films, only male characters possess the privilege of a final redemption and catharsis. Unsurprisingly, the final shot of each of Sorrentino’s films centers on men, underscoring the notion of a phallocentric-dominated world. Even if Sorrentino’s men do not obtain the answers to all of their existential quests, they can still find a way out of their misery, whereas women inevitably capitulate to their ruthless fate. In the ensuing pages, I intend to show how women in both The Consequences of Love (2004) and The Great Beauty (2013) live in a fluctuating existence, appearing and disappearing without leaving behind a meaningful legacy. They exist in some sort of limbo, which, like images on a mirror or a ship sailing on the open sea, vanish, leaving an empty space or rather, a non-space behind them. In some instances they suffer from contractions of, and restrictions within, their space, which ultimately suffocates them and leads to the loss of their dignity and, in some instances, the loss of their lives. The psychological and physical space of Sorrentino’s female characters is similar to what Foucault calls “heterotopia,” that is, the manner in which the spaces that surround the subject in social existence can reduce his or her autonomy and even his or her sense of identity (Foucault 1970: xviii).3 This type of space may be mental, verbal, or physical, manifested by actions such as a phone call or the act of looking at oneself in a mirror. In a male-dominated world, these spaces are created and determined by men who often use them to define women and differentiate themselves from the rest of their social milieu. 4 In this heterotopian spatial setting, female characters are trapped in a semi-virtual dimension, which automatically excludes them from acquiring an independent identity. In Sorrentino’s cinematic world, the signifier of this type of space is often conveyed through the use of mirrors that reflect women in their (non) naked bodies, thus locating them in a virtual space, where they act and live detached from the heavily male-gendered filmic society Sorrentino has sustained. This mere specular existence denies women their full human status and condemns them as an unwanted deviation from the righteousness and order established by the male characters. These women are therefore nested in a traditional patriarchal discourse that classifies them as the “Insignificant Other,” and thus subordinate to the males, as defined by Simone de Beauvoir in 1949 in The Second Sex.5 In Sorrentino’s films, the female becomes “the other,” an object whose existence is defined and legitimized by men who clearly hold the dominant gaze in his cinematic

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creation. Always subordinate to the male, the female finds herself at most a secondary or even nonexistent player in his cinematic construction, which thoroughly aligns with De Beauvoir’s theory. Lacking full identity, which depletes their psychological strength, Sorrentino’s women succumb to the male’s urges and requests, and finally crumble under the dominant role of the male characters. It is crucial to highlight that for Sorrentino the physical space trapping most female characters morphs into an imagined reality that slowly takes its shape in female consciousness, compelling women to appear and disappear from the legitimized (cinematic) space monopolized by men. Specifically, both Sofia in The Consequences of Love and Elisa in The Great Beauty share the same narrowing and crumbling cinematic and psychological sphere. The limited space or heterotopia granted to the two women reflects their progressive decline into a non-space, or rather, a virtual oneiric space where their voice and their body slowly vanish. Sofia’s spatial domain has a rather circular trajectory. At the beginning of the film, her body is invisible to the main character, Titta Di Girolamo, a mysterious middle-aged businessman who lives in a hotel in Switzerland and who leads a very tedious and desolate life. Sofia is the bar maid at the hotel, and although she tries to establish some basic social contact with him, he never returns her greetings and rudely turns his head from her every time they meet. 6 Titta acts as a rude misogynist whose life is centered around his well-established and monotonous routine: work, heroin use, hospital visits (where he has a monthly blood transfusion), a few telephone calls, card playing and monthly rent payments for his hotel room.7 Although he refuses to establish verbal contact with Sofia, he does show a voyeuristic interest in her since he soaks in glimpses of her through mirrors and glasses. Laura Mulvey refers to this practice as visual scopophilia and voyeurism in her “Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema” (Mulvey, 1989). Accordingly, at the beginning of this film, Sofia acts as an object of the peeping male gaze. Sofia’s life intrigues Titta, but from a psychoanalytical perspective, she still represents the fear of castration,8 so his voyeuristic fantasy must be removed and suffocated. 9 Titta’s fear embodied by Sofia triggers his reluctance to approach her, and at first he manages to resist and chase away his attraction towards her. 10 This need of banishment forces him to project and enclose her in a heterotopian unattainable space, where she cannot be reached or touched but only looked at and used for visual enjoyment. As a matter of fact, Titta’s voyeuristic gaze is always hindered by glasses, doors or mirrors, which represent the inaccessible (non-)space that belongs to the female character. This hampered portrayal

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of Sofia expresses how, at first, she does not belong to the cinematic development of the narrative; rather, she is seen as a bothersome presence which disarrays the stagnant life of the main male character. Moreover, the viewer does not know where exactly to locate her in the development of the film diegesis, which once again places her in a hererotopic narrative (non) place.11 The turning point of the film occurs when Titta decides to break his wall of indifference, surrender to her gaze and allow her into his life. Visually, Titta enters the enclosed female space, opens the door of her “cage” and releases her into the outer male territory. However, Titta's decision to free Sofia from her enclosed hotel space (i.e. the beast released from its cage) has devastating consequences, reflected in the title The Consequences of Love: Titta steals money from the Mafia (for whom he is a money carrier) to buy a car for her and ease her into a better life; predictably the Mafiosi hunt him down and brutally execute him. Metaphorically speaking, when he releases Sofia from her heterotopic dimension, she invades his real sphere and shatters it. From a feminist and psychoanalytical point of view, this collapsing of Titta’s space can be interpreted as the effect of the intrusion of a female presence in a phallocentric world order. The woman is seen as a malefic and polluting presence, as an evil force that has to be contained in a virtual (non-) space; otherwise, if released, she could cause a radical upheaval and ruin the phallocentric systematic reality. Once she has spread her poison over the ordered male space, she disappears from the scene. Shortly after, Sofia has a car accident but the viewer is not sure whether she dies or not, which repositions her inside her heterotopic initial spatial dimension, as a cinematic complete circle. Sofia converts into an oneiric image at the end of the film, reappearing through a single non-diegetic insert that visualizes Titta’s ante mortem reveries. She continues to live in his dreams (virtual space) while he is being dunked inside a container filled with fresh cement (part of a contrapasso Mafia-style execution.) 12 Unmistakably, Titta’s punishment is twofold: first, and more concretely by the Mafia for stealing its money and breaking his pact of trust with its boss; second and more abstractly, by his creator (the writer-director of the film) for allowing a female presence to shatter and destroy his protected phallocentric and orderly existence. Nine years after The Consequences of Love, Sorrentino releases his sixth feature film The Great Beauty (2013), which won the Academy Award for the best foreign language film in March 2014. Besides portraying the elegant decline of the present day Italian bourgeois society (a concept widely explored by film critics),13 Jep Gambardella personifies

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the alter ego of his ancestor Titta. They both have unusual names for Italians, perhaps symptomatic of their eccentric lifestyles and of their social status as outsiders. They are both disillusioned with life and at first they seem to be misogynists and even misanthropes.14 Even though they share a similar cynical world perception, they face their existential malaise and restlessness in different ways. While Titta traps himself in many enclosed spaces or “boxes,” 15 Jep is the diametrical opposite. He lives most of his days and nights in the outdoors: he is an educated boulevardier, a decadent dandy, and a hedonist who prefers spending most of the time partying with his friends on the elegant and ostentatious rooftop terrace of his apartment overlooking the Coliseum. At times, he wanders around the oddly and unnaturally deserted streets of Rome in the middle of the night.16 However, both Titta and Jep live in an inherent dichotomy between love and hate towards women; they are at times attracted and repulsed by them: as a matter of fact, they often look at women with voyeurism and attraction, but eventually they try to resist their charm. Unlike Titta, who abstains from any physical contact with women, Jep incarnates the perfect dandy womanizer since he sleeps with them and immediately leaves them, exacerbating the utilitarian circle of female use and abuse. As in Michael Powell’s Peeping Tom, 17 he finds pleasure in looking at the opposite sex (during parties, at strip clubs, in Roman streets) but he refrains from establishing long-term relationships with it. This pattern of attraction and rejection can be elucidated with Mulvey’s explanation of the two contradictory aspects of looking in films, specifically: scopophilia (pleasure in looking at another as sexual object) and identification (association of the ego identity with the object on the screen). She insists that the main paradox is that looking can be pleasurable in its form but threatening and traumatic in its content, since women are active threats of castration (Mulvey 1989: 16, 17). Therefore, there is an inherent paradox that connects visual pleasure (directed towards women) with the dangers it entails, since women de facto represent the threat of castration, and on a narrative cinematic level, they also threaten to destroy the unity of the diegesis (as I already pointed out regarding The Consequences of Love). As Mulvey maintains, “woman as icon, displayed for the gaze and enjoyment of men, the active controllers of the look, always threatens to evoke the anxiety it originally signified,” namely, the castration anxiety (1989: 21). Consequently, women are the signifiers for the loss of manhood, which immediately necessitates their elimination as a sacrificial rite, where the suppression of a lower being is needed for the survival of the stronger.

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In order to repress the castration anxiety and overcome the impasse of a woman who threatens to shatter the diegesis of the film, the male unconscious can take one of two avenues: voyeurism (which can lead him to the source of the anxiety by investigating the woman, thus demystifying her mystery and punishing her) and fetishistic scopophilia (which can allow him to disavow castration altogether by fetishizing the image of the woman or substituting fetish object, making it reassuring and satisfying in itself). Titta and Jep employ both of these techniques as an attempt to try to exorcise and demystify their fear of castration. In The Consequences of Love, the voyeuristic predisposition of Titta leads him to spy on women in order to scorn them. However, the selfcontrol over his gaze is too weak, and a woman easily manages to break his willpower, destroying him and his masculinity. The sexually referential scene of his execution, which can be an allusive metaphor of sexual intercourse18 and his consequent death, symbolizes the petrification of his genitals and the loss of masculinity. In The Great Beauty, Jep looks at many women as a voyeur (as his former alter ego did), and then allows them to enter very briefly into his life. However, he manages to avoid castration while employing the Freudian device of fetishistic scopophilia. As a matter of fact, women in The Great Beauty are not seen as threats of castration because they are either not fully “developed” women (as the dwarf Dadina, the crazy performance artist Talia Concept who lives on vibrations, the old nun Maria and the little girl active painter), or they are oneiric images (such as Elisa) or they are seen as phallic women or hermaphrodite creatures (such as Sister Maria and Ramona) as Marga Cottino-Jones suggest.19 More specifically, Ramona, one of Jep’s friends, who never engages in sexual activity with Jep throughout the course of The Great Beauty, is nevertheless often shot through a fetishistic eye or lens, identifying and overlapping her image with that of the male genitals, projecting her as phallic mother.20 The first time we are introduced to this character, she is in a strip club dancing on a chair and lifting her leg up, reminiscent of the image of an erected penis After a few scenes, Ramona is the object of the voyeuristic eye of Jep, who spies her through the gate of her luxurious villa in Rome while she is relaxing in her swimming pool. Interestingly enough (but not surprisingly), she is floating inside a huge tube, as if her body were a penis inside the female genital. The blatant phallic symbolism that accompanies Ramona’s presence in the mise-enscène allows her to stay in Jep’s life since the fetishistic images and the hermaphrodite identity associated with her persona counteract and repress the castration anxiety in him. As Freud states, “If females, like other living creatures, possess a penis, there is no need to tremble for the continued

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possession of one’s own penis.”21 The idea of a phallic woman is openly discussed and recurs in the film during one of the many bourgeois rendez vous at Jep’s rooftop terrace when Stefania, one of Jep’s friends, refers to Dadina (Jep’s midget editor) as a “donna cazzuta” (literally a phallic woman). Shortly thereafter, Dadina points out that Stefania utilizes this same epithet to describe a female character in one of her books. Thus, this peculiar prototype of woman is often evoked in the diegesis of the film in order to exorcise Jep’s fear of demasculinization. Another type of “phallic” woman who does not threaten to belittle Jep’s masculinity but nevertheless deeply affects his life is Sister Maria, better known as “la santa." She does not represent a danger for Jep’s manliness because she is a centenarian nun who is portrayed as an asexual woman.22 She is able to dismantle his secure psychological space and offer an answer to his personal pursuit of a meaningful life and search for beauty because she possesses a multi-gendered personality. This is something that clearly detaches her from a stereotypical portrayal of women who could be appealing to a philanderer. Besides Sister Maria, two other women manage to leave a long-lasting mark on Jep's life and attempt to break in and creep into his untouchable space: his ex-girlfriend Elisa and his fetishized friend Ramona. Following Sorrentino’s misogynistic directorial style, Elisa is dead (she appears in the film narrative in an oneiric form as nondiegetic inserts) and Ramona dies before the end of the film under unknown circumstances. 23 The eros – thanatos binary opposition resurfaces once again in this film, with a different dénouement: the male character’s ultimate and indisputable victory. As a matter of fact, while Sofia manages to invade Titta’s male safe space and disintegrate it, which causes the death of the male character and her survival, both Elisa and Ramona die before they succeed in shattering Jep’s secure psychological locus amoenus. Jep can survive because he has learned from his predecessor Titta’s unforgivable mistake, specifically to turn his life upside down for a woman and to question his misogynistic certainties. Apparently, Jep seems to care at times for some of his female friends and girlfriends, and enjoys their company, but de facto he only uses them for a very specific selfish and narcissistic purpose: he wants to overcome his writer's-blocked creativity that has trapped him in his mid-60s. He’s fully aware that he needs to find where the great beauty lies in order to recover his inspiration since this discovery will coincide with the rebirth of his creativity. Accordingly, the film offers a progression of scenes (frequently brief cuts) and shots in which Jep desperately looks for a plausible resolution for his pursuit. He looks for the great beauty almost everywhere: in art, parties, sex, money, friendship, and religion. Despite

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his wide search range, however, he mostly seems to look for beauty in women. Thus, all the women displayed in this film, such as Orietta, Ramona, Dadina, Stefania, etc., have a utilitarian function since they solely must help him fulfill his quest and attain his self-regarding goal in life. While he strolls around the “ruins”24 of Rome in search of this ideal beauty, his voyeuristic eye observes the decadent female Roman society wasting their lives partying, taking drugs, performing Botox injections, gabbing in futile conversations, acting out in performance art, participating in action painting, being strippers in clubs, etc. The moral and physical dissolution portrayed in this film is mainly associated with a female sphere, epitomized by the actress Serena Grandi (as a cameo appearance), in a complete “disfacimento psico-fisico”25 making this socially corrosive intent against women even stronger and more realistic.26 In Sorrentino’s Weltanschauung, women are tragic tableaux vivants who are used as fetishes and psychologically mistreated by the male observer and the director who often disintegrates their bodies with close-ups, extreme closeups, and shots isolating various female body parts to display lack of unity and rationality.27 Moreover, women are portrayed as Pirandellian humoristic characters that trigger a desolate reflection after an initial comic reaction. Only the asexual character, Sister Maria, who embodies the antithesis of mundane excess and lust, manages to implicitly trigger the revelation for which Jep is so desperately searching: she tells him that the answer to any existential quest lies in one’s roots. As soon as he begins searching for his roots, he realizes that only his deceased former girlfriend Elisa embodies and fulfills all his quests. His Proustian recollection of Elisa, who continues to live in an oneiric Foucauldian non-space, is “The Great Beauty” for which he had sought throughout the majority of his adult life. This sudden epiphany spurs his inspiration to write his second book after forty years of silence. Unexpectedly, the answer for the great beauty in found in the consequences of love (literally), creating a long trait d’union between the two films separated by nine years. Specifically, this ideal of beauty is not found in the aftermath of a concrete and existent love, but in the reminiscence and memory of it: in its melancholic nostalgia. 28 The great beauty coincides with a Platonic love that is not tangible but continues to live in dreams, reveries and imagination. It does not have a concrete face and a real space, but it is located in this heterotopic space, which entraps each woman in both films. This also can be associated with the proverbial Platonic “World of Ideas” because it exists independently of the human mind and of the world of physical phenomena.29 When female beauty manages to escape this ideal space and take a real form, it only causes the annihilation of the male character (as Sofia caused). Women

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must be kept in this (non-) Platonic space to allow the male success and the release of his inspiration and creation. This informs the misogyny of Titta and Jep, the attraction and the repulsion they feel towards the female characters in both films. This internal struggle of love and hate also substantiates the several attacks on women made by Jep in The Great Beauty, where the character Stefania is the favorite target of Jep’s verbal confrontations. He openly and shamelessly humiliates her during a bourgeois rendez vous using contemptuous and scornful words: Jep: E va bene, Stefania, lo hai voluto tu. In ordine sparso: la tua vocazione civile ai tempi dell’Università non se la ricorda nessuno. Molti ricordano personalmente un’altra tua vocazione a quei tempi, ma che si consumava nei bagni dell’Università. E i tuoi undici romanzi, pubblicati da una piccola casa editrice foraggiata dal partito, ben recensiti solo sui giornali vicini al partito. Mai pubblicati in un’altra lingua. Sono libri irrilevanti, Stefania, e lo dicono tutti. L’educazione dei figli che tu condurresti con “sacrificio” minuto per minuto. Lavori tutto il giorno in televisione. Esci tutte le sere della settimana. Compreso il lunedì, quando non si manifestano nemmeno i consumatori di popper. Eusebio non c’è mai. I ragazzi stanno sempre senza di te, l’ho visto io, anche durante le lunghe vacanze che ti concedi. […] Stefania, madre e donna, hai 53 anni e una vita devastata come tutti noi.”30

Orietta, a wealthy, narcissistic and sophisticated Roman woman, is another target of Jep's love-hate tumultuous relationship with women. Shortly after meeting her, he sleeps with her and leaves immediately afterwards, without even saying good-bye, perfectly in line with his womanizing behavior. To Jep, women are disposable goods used solely for entertainment and to satisfy his sex drive. Just as in The Consequences of Love, women who are appealing to Jep are usually erotized, beautiful and sexy. These are all necessary features to compensate their lack of a phallus, which serves as a psychological tool to exorcise the fear of castration, heightened by Jep’s constant inclination to demean and belittle women. In her reading of Mulvey’s essay “Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema,” Marylin Fabe states: Whatever happens to be the heroine’s function in the plot, a necessary component of her appeal is usually sexual: her appearance pleases the man on the screen and the man in the audience who identify with the camera’s eroticizing gaze. Often the narrative action is suspended, as a woman on the screen becomes primarily an erotic object to be looked at. (2014: 211)

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Feminist film critics argue that women are ambivalent figures in the male psyche because of a lingering fear of castration. Fabe continues: Women are objects of erotic desire but also of scorn and contempt and also fear and dread. Mulvey’s main point is that for men, women signify castration, a disturbing idea that forever threatens to break through into consciousness and thereby interfere with their erotic pleasure. In the medium of film, Mulvey’s goes on to argue, men have found a perfect system of representation, which allows them both maximum erotic pleasure, and disavowal of their castration anxiety. (212-213)

In line with Fabe’s reflections on Mulvey’s theory, Jep disavows his anxiety through the objectification of women: he uses them until he fulfills his quest, and afterwards he pushes them into the heterotopic virtual (non-) space where they continue to live in their separated and segregated fluctuating (non-) existence. The film ends with an irrefutable and solemn victory of the male character Jep, when he finally finds the answer for his aesthetic search for beauty without succumbing to the misleading and catastrophic physical presence of a female referent. Titta’s alter ego learns from his predecessor's mistakes and overcomes the impasse into which he had fallen. Jep learns this aesthetic principle: the great beauty is not to be found in anything tangible; it cannot be discovered in a concrete love or in a woman, but in a metaphysical dimension which exists in one’s memory and mental recollection. Ultimately, the great beauty is an indefinite oneiric trace that a woman, or women, may leave in the man’s conscious reminiscence where she continues to live and to inspire the author, while she is still trapped in a heterotopic, Platonic, and metaphysical dimension. From Bloom’s perspective, 31 we can read The Great Beauty’s final dénouement as a metaphor, which gets directly transposed from the characters to the movie director. Specifically, Jep surpasses his ancestor alter-ego Titta in his surviving skills, and his creator Sorrentino overcomes his predecessor auteur Federico Fellini by presenting to the screen a character who overcomes his creative inspirational crisis. By surpassing his “father” Fellini, Sorrentino elevates his status by acquiring a seat in the auteur Olympus, just as Jep transcends his previous alter-ego in Sorrentino’s filmography.32 In conclusion, the gradual cinematic disappearance of women in Sorrentino’s highly gendered films is necessary for the survival and the ultimate victory of the male character. Men and women have a mutually exclusive relationship (or-or correlation), an attraction and repulsion that persist because the survival of one demands the disappearance of the other.

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This conflicting liaison informs Sorrentino’s cinematography, which is based on contrasts, paradoxes, oxymoron, dichotomies, contradictions and binary oppositions. This contrast is often expressed in oppositions, such as: men versus women, beauty versus decadence, youth versus adulthood, classical music versus disco music, enclosed spaces versus open spaces, life versus death, love versus hate, saints versus prostitutes, old versus new, reality versus illusion, creativity versus hindrance. The Great Beauty, unlike The Consequences of Love, celebrates the ultimate triumph of men over women, of phallocentrism and masculinity over femininity. By highlighting the relationship of causality between the two films, one can see how Titta’s death is vindicated by his successor Jep in The Great Beauty. The imbalance left by the brutal murder of the male character in the previous film is counteracted by the unabridged victory of his nineyear old alter ego. Jep manages to reestablish the male dominance and the phallocentric order of society through the sacrifice of his ancestor, who becomes a martyr for the “rights of males.” Titta’s self-sacrifice allows Jep to find his lost inspiration in “the great beauty” that coincides with an evanescent image of a translucent woman trapped in a Platonic Foucauldian oneiric dimension. 

Notes 1

http://www.nytimes.com/2013/09/09/movies/paolo-sorrentinos-great-beauty-exploresitalys-decline.html?pagewanted=all&_r=0 2 http://www.indiewire.com/article/paolo-sorrentino-on-his-great-beauty-oscar-ride-andthe-future-of-italian-film 3 Foucault’s discourse on heterotopias and utopias is also further elaborated in “Des Espaces Autres” in Architecture/ Movement/ Continuité, October 1984; http://web.mit.edu/allanmc/www/foucault1.pdf 4 Conceived under these parameters, the heterotopic dimension can be associated with the Lacanian Symbolic Order. See Jacques Lacan, Écrits: A Selection (London 1997) p. 95. 5 In The Second Sex, De Beauvoir states, “What is a woman?’ […] The fact that I ask it is in itself significant. A man would never get the notion of writing a book on the peculiar situation of the human male. But if I wish to define myself, I must first of all say: ‘I am a woman’; on this truth must be based all further discussion. A man never begins by presenting himself as an individual of a certain sex; it goes without saying that he is a man. […] It would be out of the question to reply: ‘And you think the contrary because you are a man,’ for it is understood that the fact of being a man is no peculiarity. […]Thus humanity is male and man defines woman not in relation to herself but as relative to him; she is not regarded as an autonomous being. […] He is the Subject, he is the Absolute—she is the Other.” (34-5)

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Initially, it seems that Titta is accidentally at the bar when Sofia is working, Yet the viewer senses that he deliberately plans to be there during her work shifts with voyeuristic intentions. 7 Several scenes in the film give away the misogyny of the main character. For instance, Titta looks upon women who are sitting together in the hotel lounge and ask them to move to a different table because he wants to sit there. 8 Sofia also represents the Lacanian Imaginary Order, which is a direct threat for the male. 9 As Laura Mulvey informs: “Hence the look, pleasurable in form, can be threatening in content, and it is woman as representation/image that crystallizes this paradox. Woman's desire is subjected to her image as bearer of the bleeding wound, she can exist only in relation to castration and cannot transcend it.” Visual and Other Pleasure (London: Macmillan, 1989) 12. 10 On the same topic, see Ron Langerin Sexual Strands: Understanding and Treating Sexual Anomalies in Men (Hillsdale, NJ: L. Erlbaum Associates, 1983). Langerin notes that a self-punitive aspect of voyeurism rests in the fear of castration. The eye equals the penis. Symbolically, the label “Oedipal complex” is applied to this fear since Oedipus himself was punished after killing his father and possessing his mother by blinding himself, which is symbolic of castration. This sadism of the eyes can be displaced from the looker to the victim. 11 The narrative of the film reflects the psychology of the male character, reinforcing the concept of phallocentrism in this film. 12 Titta lived the last years of his life trapped in metaphorical boxes (hotel, bank, hospital, mall) and now he is going to die trapped in a container, which will convert him into a real box. 13 As Carlotta Fonzi Kliemann wrote: “Upon watching La grande bellezza (The Great Beauty, 2013) by Paolo Sorrentino, the first two surfacing feelings are: what a stunning piece of work, and what a desperate country Italy has become. The film is feast for the senses, a synesthetic experience of visual images, words, and music that cannot shade, but rather highlights, the desolation of the world represented.” Cultural and Political Exhaustion in Paolo Sorrentino’s The Great Beauty, Features Articles, Issue 70, March 2014. 14 During a typical bourgeois rendez vous in Jep’s ostentatious terrace overlooking the Coliseum, Jep’s friend Stefania openly calls him a misogynist and he promptly rebuts saying that indeed he’s not a misogynist but rather a misanthrope. 15 Titta’s spaces are similar to boxes, which become smaller and smaller: a town in Switzerland, a bank, an hotel, the hall of the hotel, his room, the cement tank where he’s buried alive. 16 The empty streets of a nocturnal Rome are reminiscent of a few scenes from Fellini’s La Dolce Vita. The main character Marcello Rubini spends his late nights and early mornings getting caught up in the whirlwind of post-war Roman life: trying to chat with girls from a helicopter, driving around the empty streets with depressed heiresses. 17 In reference to 1959 Michael Powell’s film Peeping Tom, the story of a serial killer, whose scopophilia extends to him killing women and filming the agony of their death with his camera.

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More specifically, it recalls the image of a phallus (his body) descending into the vagina (the cement tank). 19 On the topic of phallic mothers/women in Italian cinema, Marga Cottino-Jones writes: “In Italian films mothers may show two different patterns of behavior: by accepting the cultural codes set up as correct patterns of motherly behavior, women fit within the model of “good” motherhood, and by deviating from those cultural codes, women are labeled as “bad” or “phallic” mothers. Literary and cinematic texts provide abundant examples of these two different views of women in their role as mother. In doing so, most texts are “complicit” with the codes of behavior dictated to women by social or psychological pressures.” Marga Cottino-Jones. Women, Desire, and Power in Italian Cinema. (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2010), 4. 20 The phallic mother is a woman who is endowed with a phallus. A theory of it existed in Sigmund Freud's work from his earliest formulations on the sexual theories of children, and it played a constant role throughout later developments regarding the questions of feminine castration and the maternal penis. Among the male child's earliest sexual theories, one such theory Freud posits is that all people have the male genital. By substituting the phallus for the organ that the child thinks the female is lacking, he tries to protect himself from the castration anxiety that arises from the primal fantasies of the mother. The fear of the phallic mother image tacitly affirms the threat of castration, while at the same time defensively negating it along with all its oral and anal pregenital foundations. For this concept see Sigmund Freud. Three essays on the theory of sexuality. (New York: Basic, 1975), 123 et passim. 21 According to Freud’s theory of Fetishism. “The creation of the fetish was due to an attempt to destroy the evidence for the possibility of castration, so that fear of castration could be avoided. If females, like other living creatures, possess a penis, there is no need to tremble for the continued possession of one’s own penis. In fetishists, therefore, the detachment of the ego from the reality of the external world has never succeeded completely.” Sigmund Freud, "Fetishism." Standard Edition 21 (1927): 152-59. 22 It’s necessary to point out that Sister Maria is not included in the female sphere in the film since she is portrayed as an asexual woman. She is too old and too physically repulsive to be associated with the appealing female prototype portrayed in the film. She is merely a symbol of poverty and abnegation that represent the exact opposite of the female moral degradation that the film had previously shown. 23 Ramona’s imminent death is foreshadowed when she tells Jep that she spends all of her money buying medicine for her disease. Seth Abramson explains the visual and filmic correlation between Ramona and her death: “Several scenes in The Great Beauty encapsulate this sense that it's possible to occupy the space between realities—that place where all is neither entirely real nor entirely unreal. In one such scene, the sixty-five year-old Gambardella has just slept with Ramona, the 42-year-old daughter of an old friend, and the two have awakened the next morning with plans of taking a day trip to the ocean. The scene begins with a shot of Ramona's arm hanging limply over the side of a bed; the way her arm hangs, one suspects that the body to which it attaches is now deceased. But then we hear

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Gambardella lazily coaxing Ramona to wake, and we realize that she's merely sleeping. Yet she doesn't stir, so Gambardella calls her name a second time, now with a note of worry, causing us (once again) to suspect Ramona is dead. But after several pregnant moments—during which the camera explores Ramona's entirely still face and upper body—the forty-something beauty opens her eyes. We relax; she's alive. But in the next scene Ramona's father is being consoled by a male customer at the strip-club he manages; "I'm so sorry about your daughter," says the customer. So is Ramona dead or alive? We never find out: she's not seen or spoken of on-screen again.” http://blogs.indiewire.com/pressplay/metamericana-paolosorrentinos-the-great-beauty-is-exactly-that 24 The “ruins” of Rome have a more metaphorical connotation in this film since the cuts of the eternal city only portray an aesthetically impeccable historical city. Jep wanders around a morally devastated city where the décor and elegance are just a nostalgic memory of a glorious past. 25 Serena Grandi is portrayed in psychophysical decay since she appears drastically aged while wearing an obscene bikini when she pops of Jep’s birthday cake as a Jack-in-the-box. The director clearly wants to create a visual cross-reference to the puppet, once again stressing a negative female connotation. 26 In a Pirandellian sense, Serena Grandi is the real world who enters into the fiction breaking the forth wall. 27 Serena Grandi could be viewed as the direct cinematic transposition of the “old woman” in Pirandello’s essay about Humour (1908). Pirandello wrote that “humour negates the comicality, goes over it thanks to comicality itself, penetrates in its opposite and takes so much of its feeling, that destroys it with the representation of its opposite.” In that essay he uses the example of an old woman who pretends to be much younger than she is by wearing a lot of make up in order to catch her husband’s love and attention. So, after the premonition of the opposite, we reflect and then we have a “feeling of the opposite”: humour is derived from the unexpected irony. We can understand from these smiles that they are characteristic of human nature and this attitude leads the men to live a bitter existence. (Luigi Pirandello and Teresa Novel, On Humour, The Tulane Drama Review, Vol. 10, No. 3 (Spring, 1966), pp. 46-59) 28 In an interview to Cineaste, Sorrentino himself confessed, “melancholy is a vital key to the leitmotif in the movie.” In Search of the Great Beauty: an interview with Paolo Sorrentino (Cineaste, Spring 2014: 12) 29 According to Plato, the "Idea" is not a concept in the mind, rather, the Ideas exist in a world independent of the human mind. This platonic concept overlaps with the Foucauldian heterotopic space, which characterized the female space in Sorrentino’s cinematography. 30 Excerpt From: Paolo Sorrentino and Umberto Contarello. La Grande Bellezza. (Milano: Skira, 2013) 93-94 [All right, Stefania, you asked for it. In random order: Your civil vocation during your student days went unnoticed. But many remember another vocation of yours, the one practiced by you then, in the university toilets. And your 11 novels, published by a small publishing house subsidized by the Party, reviewed by minor Party-affiliated newspapers, are insignificant; everyone says so. Your relationship with Eusebio... You work all week in TV, you go out

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every night, even on Mondays, when popper dealers don't even venture out. You're never with your children, not even on the long holidays you take. You're 53, with a life in tatters, like the rest of us]. http://www.springfieldspringfield.co.uk/movie_script.php?movie=la-grandebellezza 31 According to Harold Bloom’s The Anxiety of Influence: A Theory of Poetry (1973), poets are hindered in their creative process by the ambiguous relationship they necessarily maintained with precursor poets. Any strong literary work creatively misreads and therefore misinterprets a precursor text or texts” (Bloom, 1995:18). This relationship established between one text as a hypertext and a previous text, or hypotext informs the anxiety that the new author undergoes while confronting himself with the auteur. A successful misreading of past works allows the new author for his own voice to be heard--and if spectacularly successful, he can dwarf even the precursor, to make us read the precursor in terms of the later poet, rather than vice versa. 32 Although Sorrentino’s Oedipus complex deserves to be explored more in depth, I will just hint at it in this paper. The Neapolitan movie director admitted in an interview to Gary Crowdus to be inspired by Fellini: “Roma and La Dolce Vita are works that you cannot pretend to ignore when you take on a film like the one I wanted to make. They are two masterpieces, and the golden rule is that masterpieces should be watched but not imitated. I tried to stick to that. But it’s also true that masterpieces transform the way we feel and perceive things. They condition us, despite ourselves. So I can’t deny that those films are indelibly stamped on me and may have guided my film. I just hope they guided me in the right direction.” "In Search of The Great Beauty An Interview with Paolo Sorrentino." Cineaste 39 (2). Spring (2014): 10.

Bibliography Abramson, Seth. "METAMERICANA: Paolo Sorrentino's THE GREAT BEAUTY Is Exactly That." Press Play. Accessed on 23 May 2015. http://blogs.indiewire.com/pressplay/metamericana-paolo-sorrentinosthe-great- beauty-is-exactly-that Beauvoir, Simone de. The Second Sex. Trans. H. M. Parshley. New York: Vintage Books Random House, 1989. Bloom, Harold. The Anxiety of Influence; a Theory of Poetry. New York: Oxford UP, 1973. Cottino-Jones, Marga. Women, Desire, and Power in Italian Cinema. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2010. Crowdus, Gary, and Paolo Sorrentino. "In Search of The Great Beauty An Interview with Paolo Sorrentino." Cineaste 39 (2). Spring (2014): 8-13. Davis, Doug. "Notes on Freud's Theory of Femininity." Notes on Freud's Theory of Femininity. Accessed on 21 May 2015. http://www.haverford.edu/psychology/ddavis/p109g/freudfem.html

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Donadio, Rachel. "La Dolce Vita Gone Sour (and This Time in Color)." The New York Times, 08 Sept. 2013. Accessed on 21 May 2015. http://www.nytimes.com/2013/09/09/movies/paolo-sorrentinos-greatbeauty-explores-italys-decline.html?_r=0 Glick, Peter, and Susan Fiske. "Hostile and Benevolent Sexism." Psychology of Women Quarterly, 21 (1997): 119-35. Dyer, Gwynne. War. New York: Crown, 1985. Fabe, Marilyn. Closely Watched Films: An Introduction to the Art of Narrative Film Technique. Berkeley: U of California, 2004. Fisher, Elizabeth. Woman's Creation: Sexual Evolution and the Shaping of Society. Garden City, NY: Anchor Press/Doubleday, 1979. Foucault, Michel. The Order of Things. New York: Random House Inc., 1970. —. “Of Other Spaces: Utopias and Heterotopias.” Architecture/Mouvement/ Continuité October, 1984. Accessed on May 12, 2015. http://web.mit.edu/allanmc/www/foucault1.pdf Freud, Sigmund "Fetishism." Standard Edition, Ed. James Strachery, vol. 21 (1927): 152-59. Freud, Sigmund, and James Strachey. Three Essays on the Theory of Sexuality. New York: Basic, 1975. Gilbert, Sandra and Gubar, Susan. The Madwoman in the Attic. New Heaven: Yale University Press, 1984. Horne, Ann. "Oedipal Aspirations and Phallic Fears: On Fetishism in Childhood and Young Adulthood." Journal of Child Psychotherapy 29.1 (2003): 37-52. Kerber, Linda K. Toward an Intellectual History of Women: Essays. Chapel Hill: U of North Carolina, 1997. Kuspit, Donald. “Donald Kuspit on Louise Bourgeois: The Phallic Woman - Artnet Magazine." Donald Kuspit on Louise Bourgeois: The Phallic Woman - Artnet Magazine. Accessed on 21 May 2015. http://www.artnet.com/magazineus/features/kuspit/bourgeois-thephallic-woman11-3-10.asp Lacan, Jacques. Écrits: A Selection. London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1977. La Grande Bellezza. [The Great Beauty] Dir. Paolo Sorrentino. Warner Home Video, 2013. Langevin, Ron. Sexual Strands: Understanding and Treating Sexual Anomalies in Men. Hillsdale, NJ: L. Erlbaum Associates, 1983. Le Conseguenze Dell'amore. [The Consequences of Love] Dir. Paolo Sorrentino. Medusa, 2005. Mulvey, Laura. Visual and Other Pleasure. Basingstoke; London:

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Macmillan, 1989. Pirandello, Luigi and Teresa Novel. On Humor. New Heaven: The Tulane Drama Review, Vol. 10, No. 3 (Spring 1966). Reverdito, Guido. "CineCriticaWeb." La Grande Bellezza. Accessed on 21 May 2015. http://www.cinecriticaweb.it/film/la-grande-bellezza Salovaara, Sarah. "“The Misery of Some People:” Paolo Sorrentino on The Great Beauty Filmmaker Magazine." Filmmaker Magazine The Misery of Some People Paolo Sorrentino on The Great Beauty Comments. Accessed on 21 May 2015. http://filmmakermagazine.com/84363-paolo-sorrentino-on-the-greatybeauty/#.VWC0SaZEr4k Spagnoli, Chiara. "Paolo Sorrentino On His 'Great Beauty' Oscar Ride and the Future of Italian Film." Indiewire. Accessed on 21 May 2015. http://www.indiewire.com/article/paolo-sorrentino-on-his-greatbeauty-oscar-ride-and-the-future-of-italian-film

CHAPTER TEN FORGING FEMALE IDENTITY: FROM TRANSNATIONAL TO ITALIAN, EDITH BRUCK’S ITALIANNESS FABIANA CECCHINI

My study aims to examine Edith Bruck’s sense of Italianness as a woman and writer who came to feel progressively more Italian with each book she wrote and each interview she gave, affording her a newly acquired female identity. Born Edith Steinschreiber in Hungary in 1932, she kept the last name of her third husband even though they divorced.1 A Hungarian “Translingual Writer Who Found a Home in Italy,” as the scholar Maria Cristina Mauceri defined her,2 Edith moved to Rome (Italy) from Israel in 1954 to start a new life. She had survived the concentration camps of Auschwitz, Dachau, Christianstadt, Landsberg and Bergen-Belsen, where she lost both her parents and a brother. Italy then became her adoptive homeland, and Italian the language that gave voice to the survivor’s memories and grief: “[…] according to the author, [Italian] provided her with an emotional detachment that enabled her to describe her experiences of the concentration camps.”3 Gabriella Romani made an in-depth analysis of Edith Bruck’s narrative approach and maintains that this “conscious strategy” (Webster & Romani: ix) allowed Bruck to forge a new postHolocaust identity as a woman and writer, gaining “national and international recognition for her writings on Holocaust testimony and more generally, in contemporary Italian literature.”4 Philip Balma observed that Bruck stands as “a unique literary figure in contemporary Italy–a voice that belongs to the cultural patrimony of the nation without being exclusively denied or encompassed by it” (Balma: 5). Although Bruck’s position in the Italian intellectual panorama is difficult to determine, I believe that both novels and essays focused on her personal experiences, along with the many interviews given throughout her career contributed towards composing the pieces of a fragmented identity. Equivalently the

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Jewish and Hungarian components merged into the Italian one, giving birth to Edith Bruck, the writer and intellectual working in Italy today. As a Hungarian “Translingual Writer Who Found a Home in Italy” (Mauceri), Bruck was often asked to explain why she chose to write her books in Italian, how difficult it was, and what it meant. In her first interview ever released in English (in 1993), Bruck told Brenda Webster that “Between a writer and the maternal language there is a sort of shame, a brake that keeps you from saying certain things. The language that isn’t yours removes that brake” (Webster & Romani: ix).5 In a 2002 interview published by Marguerite McGlinn in the English student activity manual accompanying the novel Chi ti ama così [Who loves you like this] (1959), Bruck stated that the “language never was and never has been a problem for me, because what I want to say is already formed inside me and already has its own language” (McGlinn: 34).6 When recently interviewed by Maria Cristina Mauceri (2013), Bruck clarified her feelings for the Italian language further: In ungherese invece ho una certa riluttanza a leggere le mie poesie, perché quando tu dici “miseria” o una brutta parola ne sento la profondità, la volgarità. Mentre in italiano non ho queste sensazioni, così nette e vaste nel senso che assumono una misura molto più ridotta, sembrano una cosa leggera, “merda” è “merda”, e basta, invece se lo dico in ungherese, è un’altra cosa. Ricorda certamente l’infanzia, diventa molto più pesante, in italiano non sento mai così vero ciò che scrivo. Per questo dico una lingua non tua in fondo è una difesa, un nascondiglio e dici molto più facilmente quello che vuoi dire. In ungherese ho un controllo maggiore sulla lingua, in italiano no, non so se è un vantaggio o uno svantaggio [Fernirosso, Cartesensibili].7

In the introduction to Bruck’s first novel Chi ti ama così [Who loves you like this], her husband, the poet, producer, and film director, Nelo Risi, felt that his wife’s style was emotionally “restrained,” nevertheless “the turn of phrase, concise due to the language barrier, had a classical flavor” (Bruck 2001: ix). In her “Introduction” to Bruck’s Letter to my mother (2006), Gabriella Romani stated that Bruck found this kind of “unadorned and concise” Italian to be her most effective method of communication, as it renders the Italian as a “utilitarian mode of self-expression, as if she were an artisan in need of a tool” since it lacks that “emotional ‘brake’ mentioned by the author” (Webster & Romani: ix). On the other hand, Cristina Villa focuses on a more emotional perspective, and believes that the author’s choice to write in Italian as her new language was connected to the friendly, positive atmosphere that she found in Italy in the 1950s, and the idea of italiani brava gente [Italians, good people] as experienced

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when she arrived. Bruck confirmed this in several interviews: “Italians were good people [brava gente], because, they really shared their dinners with people in need at the time. It was all very different from now. I found myself almost at ease with their poverty” (Mauceri: 607).8 According to Cristina Villa, this empathy “permette di cancellare le colpe del passato e vedere l’Italia nel dopoguerra spesso come un luogo di rifugio e ristoro dopo le terribili persecuzioni e la lingua italiana come un mezzo di espressione preferibile alla propria lingua madre, maggiormente ‘confortevole’ e meno traumatico” (Villa 2007: 100).9 In Strangers to Ourselves (1991), the linguist, philosopher, psychoanalyst and writer, Julia Kristeva, a Bulgarian living in France and writing mainly in French since 1965, asserts, “You have a feeling that the new language is a resurrection: new skin, new sex” (15). Therefore, rebirth into a new life by adopting a foreign language is also a process that initiates a journey into knowledge of the new self; this new self, who is “stranger” to the old self, needs to be molded and forged into a new identity. I believe that this process started at the age of twenty for Bruck after her third marriage ended, when Edith Steinschreiber decided to become Edith Bruck despite the divorce from her third husband, and then when she decided to settle in Italy almost two years later, in 1954. The change of her last name is therefore the first step towards that “resurrection” into a “new skin” that Kristeva mentions, and once she got to Italy, Italian became the tool through which Edith Bruck intended to bring that process to completion. The new language would help complete that transformation that the old language (the Hungarian or Yiddish spoken in the Steinschreiber home) did not have the vocabulary to express; Italian, therefore, would also give the right meaning to the many changes that happened and were still to happen.10 However, the acquisition of a new language does not necessarily imply that immigrants feel they belong to the cultural, national, or intellectual life of the new country. Additionally, the newborn persona will not necessarily be recognized by the adopted homeland or its citizens either even though they are law-abiding citizens or esteemed writers. Most of all, the studies on the work and life of Edith Bruck by Gabriella Romani and Philip Balma have shown how hard it is to classify Bruck’s literary output as Italian from the standpoint of literary canons and categories.11 Bruck herself is conscious of this big gap, “both in psycholinguistic as well as in literary terms,” as Philip Balma observed (Balma: 40-41). In a very brief article published in 2003 in Resine, Bruck gave her thoughts on foreign writers in Italy as follows: From experience I would say that neither language nor citizenship make us truly Italian on the same level as someone who is born in Frascati or

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The same concept was reiterated to Elisa Guida during a private conversation: “Scrivo in italiano da cinquant’anni, ma non sono considerata un’autrice italiana. Rimango una straniera.”13 When asked by Maria Cristina Mauceri “Do you consider yourself a transnational writer, an Italian writer, or an author of Jewish diasporic literature?” Edith Bruck answered: Let us say transnational. Unfortunately, I am not regarded as an Italian writer. I think that I will remain a foreigner all my life. This is my experience in a place that is, on the whole, very hospitable, but which does not consider me an Italian, because whenever someone writes about me, I am called the Hungarian Jew or the Hungarian author […]. Learning Italian meant finding a way to express myself, to be reborn, and to say "I am": a new world opened for me […] Writing in Italian meant acquiring a new moral identity, making the burden I was carrying inside lighter […] Before becoming a writer and a poet, I was only a refugee without a language. (Mauceri: 609)

Thus, the analyses of Mauceri and Romani (Bruck, 2010: 184) focus on the transnational aspect of Bruck’s works, while acknowledging the complexity of the author’s body of artistic work and identification as an Italian intellectual. Even though he agrees with the transnational characteristics of Bruck’s work, Philip Balma claims that her place in the Italian cultural scene needs to be redefined since the transnational and translingual aspects are implicit characteristics of Edith Bruck’s writing: Bruck has published as many as twenty books since the release of her autobiographical debut in 1959, and she has also worked in film, television, theater, and radio, but is recognized primarily as a novelist. Her translingual writings operate in a multicultural, hybrid literary environment that defies rigid nationalistic boundaries in favor of a more fluid conception of art. (Balma: 37)

Since she is Hungarian by birth and Italian by adoption, and chose to write her fictional autobiographies in Italian, Bruck can be classified as a kind of “Italophone literature of migration,” a new and more appropriate classification coined by Balma (18). 14 In line with the thoughts expressed by these scholars, I would like to propose that Bruck developed a literary voice that progressively blurred all national boundaries and slowly integrated with Italian culture and literary production. However, at the same time, Bruck’s personal reflections on her Italianness (the feeling of

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belonging to Italy) evolved through a process where her newborn identity had to be forged using a new language, but the very process of using a new language instilled the cultural nuances of that language into her in a type of two-way exchange, whereby the language exerted its cultural influence on the novelist and the novelist, in turn, with her Jewish-Hungarian identity, exerted an influence on the language. As she told Mauceri: “Writing in Italian meant acquiring a new moral identity, making the burden I was carrying inside lighter […]. Before becoming a writer and a poet, I was only a refugee without a language” (Mauceri: 609). Therefore, according to Bruck, the literary text should function both as a privileged place of expression to narrate the events of her life, and also as the territory where she creates the woman that she would like to be recognized as: a Holocaust survivor and a Jewish writer and intellectual, accompanied by that sense of Italianness that was slowly acknowledged by the author in the process of becoming a writer. Nelo Risi, in the introduction to Chi ti ama così states: Edith, who was born on the banks of the Tzisa [Hungary], to settle by the banks of the Tiber and to adopt Italian. The Hasidic tradition not sufficiently cultivated in a family living outside of the ghetto and the Hungarian education interrupted in such a violent manner propelled her to adopt the idiom of the country that would ultimately accept her. A country certainly not at peace with itself much less with the world and perhaps precisely because of that, it provided her with the necessary tools to remember and to invent. (Bruck 2001: x-xi)

In fact, throughout her life, I believe that Bruck was able to give birth to a female identity that--as contradictory as it may seem--found its Italian roots in this undefined, transnational mixture of identities mirrored in the written text. A fragmented Italian nation played host to a fragmented self, carrier of multiple life experiences that needed to be glued together into a single individuality by a language, just like a jigsaw puzzle. In Strangers to Ourselves, Julia Kristeva speaks of a “kaleidoscope of identities” for those living in a foreign country, “thus heralding the art of living in a modern era, the cosmopolitanism of those who have been flayed” (13). We can see Bruck’s Hungarian, Jewish, and Italian “self” coexisting inside that kaleidoscope by reading some of her works and interviews, and the slow progression towards a unified female identity that wishes to be recognized as an Italian Jewish intellectual woman (despite all academic definitions, labels and theories), in the effort to take the process of reconstructing her post-Holocaust self to completion. That is why, after a talk with Bruck, Rabbi Roberto Della Rocca thought that her writing style

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reflected the author’s constant search for a dialogue with the other: “nel cercare di riconoscere nell’altro quell’autenticità che si nasconde dietro la maschera, […] in questa identità ebraica decentrata, caratterizzata dal multilinguismo, dal multiterritorialismo, cioè un’identità che trova il suo centro non in un momento, non in un posto, ma in una continua ricerca identitaria.”15 Edith Bruck herself, questions her feelings of belonging in her adoptive country when she ponders on her relationship with Italy. In Signora Auschwitz (1999), Edith comments on her multiculturaltranslingual identity: […] soprattutto nelle scuole, ovunque fossi stata invitata, citata, interrogata nella veste di sopravvissuta di Auschwitz. Veste che portavo come fosse stata su misura e ritenevo questo normale […] Tra le domande capaci di bloccarmi, di rendermi titubante, a parte quella immancabile sul perdono, c’era quella sul mio sentirmi italiana o cosa. Di solito rispondevo con estremo disagio che io non potevo sentirmi niente, solo ebrea […] o dire che mi sentivo italiana perché vivevo in Italia da oltre quarant’anni, e scrivevo in Italiano. Né ero vista e vissuta come italiana da nessuno. E cosa voleva dire sentirsi italiani o francesi o ungheresi se queste identità comunque per me non potevano contenere alcun sentimento nazionale? (Bruck, 1999: 12, 60, 62) 16

Once again, Julia Kristeva in Strangers to Ourselves, points out: Not belonging to any place, any time, any love. A lost origin, the impossibility to take root, a rummaging memory, the present in abeyance […] As to landmarks there are none. His time? The time of a resurrection, that remembers death and what happened before, but misses the glory of being beyond: merely the feeling of being reprieve, of having gotten away (Kristeva 1991: 7-8).

“Time,” then, is the key to assimilating the new identity and fully completing the “resurrection,” to progress from “Signora Auschwitz” [Mrs. Auschwitz]” into “la sopravvissuta [che] vuole sopravvivere e assaggiare, se mai sarà possibile, la propria terza età e terza esistenza fuori di Auschwitz” (Bruck, 1999: 23), with the chance of being recognized as a member of the Italian panorama of intellectuals and writers.17 I would like to propose that this incorporation - the illusion of the beginning of a life outside Auschwitz - happened when Andrea V. Ciccarelli and Elisa Guida defined Bruck as an Italian writer and Italian narrator and poet in their discussions of immigrant authors writing in Italy. According to Andrea Ciccarelli “Pressburger, Jaeggy, and Bruck are Italian writers, now recognized as such due to their readership and critical and editorial

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success, including the various literary awards conferred upon them.”18 Elisa Guida’s work suggests a portrait of Edith Bruck: “a Hungarian Jewish woman surviving Nazi barbarity, Italian narrator and poet” (Guida: 187). Further in her discussion of “L’etica del sopravissuto nell’estetica di Edith Bruck” [The ethics of the survivor in the aesthetics of Edith Bruck], Guida reiterates the following in a footnote: “Nata in Ungheria, diventa, a pieno titolo, scrittrice italiana [Born in Hungary, she became a fullyfledged Italian writer]” (Guida: 191). It is the expression “a pieno titolo,” that gives Bruck status in the Italian literary academia and territory. Commenting on this new approval, Philip Balma stated that “Although it is too simplistic to describe these migrant writers merely as “Italian” authors, the fact remains that using an imperfect definition of this sort is still preferable to relegating them to a perennial status of ‘artist in limbo’” (Balma: 19). I am inclined to agree with him and accept the qualification of Italian: I think that in Bruck’s case, especially, it would allow her to complete the process of reconstructing her post-Holocaust identity, underscoring that she was able to create a “new moral identity” by “becoming a writer and a poet” and was thus saved from being “only a refugee without a language” (Mauceri: 609). Nevertheless, despite the few academic attempts to include her in the Italian literary canon, Edith Bruck was still very uncertain about her feelings for Italy, her Italianness, and her Jewish Hungarian origins when she gave an interview to Rabbi Roberto Della Rocca during a symposium in Rome on Jewish writers in Italy in 2005. When asked to comment on the meaning of the three main homelands in her life (Hungary, Israel, and Italy), Bruck described her attachment to the first two countries in sad, sentimental tones: “In Ungheria è rimasto un mio cuore ferito” [“I left my wounded heart in Hungary]; and “Ho anche un altro cuore, in Israele, e anche quello è un cuore po’ straziato” [“I also have another heart in Israel, and that one is also torn apart a little bit] (Quercioli Mincer: 28, 29). Bruck explains her emotional state very well in Mauceri’s interviews: This is a very painful story for me, because I am not really able to make peace with my country. I cannot reconcile myself with two countries, Hungary and Israel, with which I am at odds for different reasons. As soon as I arrive in Hungary, I regress dreadfully, I feel as if I were a child again, a persecuted and deported child. I visited Hungary many times, especially when it was still under a communist regime, which liked me very much, I don't know why. They even shot a film on my life, but every time I felt ill at ease, the language was hurting me, the swear words I heard on the streets or at the market. I had already heard those swear words used against me, and they reminded me of my parents, of having been discriminated against, of our poverty, of the unnecessary malevolence, of the fascist

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Chapter Ten regime. For all these reasons, it is very difficult for me to feel at home in Hungary. Among other things, when my sister and I returned from the concentration camps to our village, we were literally rejected. (Mauceri: 607-608)19

Further along in the interview, when encouraged by Mauceri to discuss her “critical attitude toward Israel” developed “because you were hurt and deeply disappointed by it,” she commented: For people like us coming from the terrible experience of the concentration camp, it was terrible not to find a glimpse of humanity. The arrival in the "Promised Land" was the wonderful fable my mother used to tell us, the great myth was becoming true. As soon as we disembarked, men were sent to fight. It was a nightmare: everything was a shock for us, for example, Hebrew was the sacred language for us, but in Israel it was the language used to send us to hell; the Yiddish of the ghettos was despised. It was difficult to live in a transit camp where we had to queue for a piece of bread under the surveillance of a person with a stick who reminded us of a kapo. Today I can understand this: the history of Israel, the continuous war, the difficulty finding accommodation for the immigrants. I can understand that neurotic country now, but I could not then. (613-614)

In comparison, 1954-Italy felt “molto più umana” [much more humane], a more stable place that convinced her to say “io qui ci posso vivere” [I can live here] (Quercioli Mincer: 30), and thus the real process of recovery and reconstruction of her new identity began.20 However, in a conversation with Rabbi Della Rocca, she confided her doubts about her Italian identity and role in today’s Italy right after airing her positive feelings about Italy and Italians: Non so se qui ho trovato una nuova identità, sono sempre alla ricerca di qualcosa […] l’unica identità che mi è stata concessa in questa mia vita è quella di essere ebrea […] Io, qui in Italia, resto sempre un’ebrea ungherese, una sopravvissuta e nient’altro. Ho 15 libri pubblicati, mi sono state fatte decine d’interviste […] Forse non sono neanche una donna, solo una sopravvissuta. In tutte le occasioni pubbliche con me si parla solo della guerra, dei lager, del mio vissuto nei lager […] Forse sono stata io stessa a rinchiudermi in questa specie di ghetto …. (Quercioli Mincer: 30) 21

I believe we can infer that the strong longing for Italianness that Bruck-the Jewish Hungarian survivor--sought was to get rid of that survivor’s “veste” [suit] of Signora Aushwitz, after some time, transformed into a “ghetto,” in the sense that the ordinary woman and literary persona she actively pursued in Italy, in her post-concentration camp existence,

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relegated her into a representative of “testimonial literature:” another frustrating prison from which to escape perpetually, as a woman and writer, or to accept and live through.22 Philip Balma suggests that Bruck managed to come to terms with a sense of belonging to both a nation and literary territory through the concept of casa-paese [home nation], developed through the character Anna in the 1993 novel Nuda Proprietà.23 After an eviction notice, Anna, a Jewish refugee like Edith, is forced to leave her apartment and find a new place. Therefore, as in Bruck’s case, the nation that “offered her a sense of stability and belonging to a society in which she had inserted herself as an immigrant” (Balma: 48) was forcing her to continuously run from place to place, experiencing a deep “sense of loss and disorientation” (Balma: 47) since the house represented her identity. I believe that the parallel that Balma observed between Anna’s feelings of attachment to her apartment and Bruck’s feelings as described to Mauceri, both supports Balma’s perception and reinforces the Italianness that Bruck found while living in Italy and writing in Italian: My country is between Piazza di Spagna and Piazza del Popolo, where I live, this is my village. When I go away from Italy, when I am not in my so-called "fatherland," I miss Rome and my house and I look forward to going back, because I feel lost and uprooted everywhere. This flat, which is not mine, is my country. Here I feel at ease; this is Bruck's bunker, as some people say. This is a house that does not belong to me and that I love so much I could even eat its walls! (Mauceri: 608)

According to Gabriella Romani, Bruck would like to “riaffermare il valore del testo letterario, della creazione artistica che può, anzi deve, tentare di rimediare laddove la politica e la storia hanno fallito. Solo attraverso l’arte, sembrerebbe concludere la scrittrice, è possibile ritrovare un’unità tra i due mondi, a volte impenetrabili, della vita e della cultura” (Bruck, 2010: 78). 24 I believe that the value ascribed to the literary text wishes to both repair the failings of politics and history and also help create a life. In fact, it is through the insistence on the “valore del testo letterario” [the value of the literary text] that Bruck finds her identity, her Italianness, and her feeling of belonging, if not to a nation, to a place that she can call home, story by story, character by character, interview by interview. The value of the literary text, then, for Bruck, resides in its function as a connector between herself and the world, as an effective tool of communication to tell the story of her recovery process and the construction of a post-Holocaust self. Consequently, it performs the double task of narrating how a new identity - Italianness--was forged, while also bearing witness to the atrocities suffered by all Holocaust

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survivors before, during and after the concentration camps, eternally. “Edith Bruck, scrittrice e poeta, sopravvissuta ad Auschwitz, ha dovuto in tutta la sua vita assumersi il peso del ruolo doloroso di testimone, anche oggi:”25 this is “Edith Bruck in the mirror,” to borrow Philip Balma’s expression. This is the woman who is internationally known as one of the most authentic and unique voices among female writers in today’s Italy, despite all literary theories, categories and labels. This explains why the journalist, Maria Cecilia Sangiorgi, felt comfortable using this description to introduce Bruck before the interview release in the TV program Le Frontiere dello Spirito,26 for the 2014 International Holocaust Remembrance Day. In the 1999 interview by Maria Teresa Cinanni, Bruck, after being encouraged to talk about Hungary stated: “Mi manca la mia patria e cerco di andarci spesso. Ma non dimentico che è stata proprio questa a darmi in pasto ai leoni e ad uccidere barbaramente i miei genitori. Credo comunque che la nazione d’appartenenza abbia un’importanza relativa e che ognuno può rimanere se stesso indipendentemente dal contesto in cui vive” (Cinanni 2001).27 Once again, Julia Kristeva in Strangers to Ourselves, helps to illustrate Bruck’s concept of “being true to ourselves independently of the context in which we live” through the idea of cosmopolitanism: I maintain that in the contemporary world, shaken up by national fundamentalism on the one hand and the intensive demands of immigration on the other, the fact of belonging to a set is a matter of choice. Beyond the origins that have assigned to us biological identity papers and a linguistic, religious, social, political, historical place, the freedom of contemporary individuals may be gauged according to their ability to choose their membership, while the democratic capability of a nation and social group is revealed by the right it affords individuals to exercise that choice. Thus when I say that I have chosen cosmopolitanism, this means that I have, against origins and starting from them, chosen a transnational or international position situated at the crossing of boundaries. (Kristeva, 1993: 15-16)

I believe that the Edith Bruck we know today chose to be a member of Italian society and, in exchange, Italians gave her both literary and societal affiliation. We can therefore say that she chose to be cosmopolitan in the way that Kristeva defined it. Nevertheless, Bruck herself and all her readers cannot ignore the sense of Italianness that exists in her, in her “casa-paese [home-nation]” in Rome, the feeling that gave her a language and that shaped her Italian life and identity as it stood out among all the others. Bruck was interviewed after the release of Anita B. by Roberto Faenza (January 16, 2014) which had been based on her novel Quanta

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stella c’è nel cielo (2009). When asked again “Quando è venuta in Italia? Perché ha scelto l’Italia? [When did you arrive in Italy? Why did you choose Italy?],” Bruck answered: Io sono venuta in Italia nel ’54, perché stavo per emigrare in Argentina e come non avevo soldi per prendere la nave, mia sorella non mi mandava questi soldi, e sono per fortuna rimasta in Italia e quindi ho trovato la mia lingua, la mia casa. Non dico nazione o patria, non voglio parlare, però questo è il mio paese dove sto bene … e non potrei vivere da nessun’altra parte, perché questo paese mi ha dato molto, nel senso che la lingua è diventata la mia identità, i miei libri … non ho mai avuto problemi di pubblicarli, sono stata apprezzata, sono stata stimata [...]. (Italics are mine)28

We can see that Bruck’s new identity shaped itself through the Italian language thanks to the urge to tell the world the story of her life and bear witness to the atrocities of the Holocaust, and that evolved into becoming Bruck’s identity over time. In the novel Quanta stella c’è nel cielo, Bruck, through her fictional counterpart, Anita, says: “Io voglio scrivere poesie, racconti, romanzi, favole, inventare un mondo che non c’è, rovesciare quello che sento nella carta [I want to write poems, stories, novels, fables, to invent a world that doesn’t exist, pour into paper what I feel]” (Bruck 2009: 191). In another interview, she stated: “I began writing by telling the truth that struggled inside me, not to invent or reduce my life to fiction” (McGlinn: 33). Bruck said the following to Mauceri: “I live my books and characters to the point that my readers think that what I write is true, even stories that were almost entirely invented” (Mauceri: 611). In any case, whether fiction or real life transformed into novels, I maintain that Edith Bruck was able to construct a life narrative (Smith and Watson: 4)29 throughout her career that linked life and art together, so that her autobiographical memories began a self-representation process involving literature, film, journalism,30 conferences in schools, academic roundtables or TV programs on the theme of testimonial literature. The collection of short stories in Andremo in città (1962) was adapted into film by her husband Nelo Risi (1966) and the novel Quanta stella c’è nel cielo (2009) was adapted into film by Roberto Faenza (2014). All of this contributed towards the birth of Edith Bruck, the literary persona that acquired that sense of Italianness over time by portraying herself through the Italian language; this became her “new skin” in Kristeva’s words again, her reconstructed post-Holocaust self in which her Jewishness and Hungarian origins are merged together and unified under her Italian female identity.

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Notes 1

See Philip Balma, Edith Bruck in the mirror: fictional transitions and cinematic narratives (West Lafayette, IN: Purdue University, 2014): “[Once in Israel] after her marriage to Milan Grün ended, at seventeen, Bruck was briefly married to Dany Roth a violent and abusive partner, whom she quickly divorced. Her third husband was a much kinder man who agreed to marry her so she could put off serving in the Israeli army, which was mandatory. She decided to keep her third husband’s surname, under which she still publishes, even though they were divorced by the time the author was twenty” (3-4). For an in-depth account of Bruck’s life and works, please refer to Philip Balma’s study. The brief biographies available online by Margaret E. Kern and Gabriella Romani are also informative: Margaret E Kern. “Edith Bruck.” The University of Chicago, 2002 http://www.lib.uchicago.edu/efts/IWW/BIOS/A0082.html, accessed on June 15, 2015. Gabriella Romani, Edith Bruck. The Institute of Modern Languages Research 2015. http://modernlanguages.sas.ac.uk/centre-study-contemporarywomens-writing/languages/italian/edith-bruck, accessed on June 15, 2015. 2 Maria Cristina Mauceri, “Edith Bruck, a Translingual Writer Who Found a Home in Italy.” Italica 84. 2-3 (2007): 606-613. Mauceri’s interview in English is a revised translation of an interview that Mauceri conducted in Italian, originally published under the title “Dove abito è il mio villaggio. A colloquio con Edith Bruck.” Kúmá, vol. 11, 2006 [online]. The Italian version of this interview was expanded further and republished in March 10 2013 by Fernirosso in the online journal Cartesensibili, “Due interviste e un libro: Edith Bruck incontra Maria Cristina Mauceri ed Elisabetta Morelli.” https://cartesensibili.wordpress.com/2013/03/10/due-interviste-e-un-libro-edithbruck-incontra-maria-cristina-mauceri-e-elisabetta-morelli/ , accessed June 21, 2015. 3 Gabriella Romani. Edith Bruck. The Institute of Modern Languages Research 2015. http://modernlanguages.sas.ac.uk/centre-study-contemporary-womenswriting/languages/italian/edith-bruck, accessed on June 15, 2015. 4 Ibid. 5 The interview cited is the following: Webster, Brenda. “An interview with Edith Bruck.” 13th Moon 11.1-2 (1993): 170-75. See also Philip Balma, 5. 6 Marguerite McGlinn. “Interview with Edith Bruck.” Who Loves You Like This. A Holocaust Memoir by Edith Bruck. Philadelphia, PA: Paul Dry Book, 2002: 33-37. Chi ti ama così was first published in 1959 (Milano: Lerici). Significantly, this was Bruck’s first work to be translated into English: Edith Bruck. Who Loves You Like This. Trans. Thomas Kelso. Philadelphia, PA: Paul Dry Books, 2001. The “Curriculum guide to Paul Dry Books” by M. McGlinn was published in 2002 (Philadelphia, PA: Paul Dry Books). 7 The following English translation is mine; unless otherwise noted all English translations are mine. “I feel somehow reluctant to read my poems in Hungarian, because when I say “misery” or a rude word I feel the depth of it, the vulgarity. However, I don’t get such sharp, overwhelming feelings in Italian, so the sensation is attenuated and seems lighter; “shit” is “shit” and that’s it, but if I say it in

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Hungarian, it’s a different thing. It definitely reminds me of my childhood and holds more weight; what I write never seems as true when it’s in Italian. That’s why I say that a language that’s not your own is a defense, a hiding place, and you can say what you want more easily. I have a greater control of the language in Hungarian, but not Italian; I don’t know if that’s an advantage or a disadvantage.” 8 See also the interview with Maria Teresa Cinanni: “L’Italia era una nazione impreparata alla ghettizzazione e allo sterminio. Lo testimonia l’aiuto che gli italiani cercarono di dare agli ebrei ricercati, offrendo loro nascondigli e improvvisando sotterfugi, e, ancor di più, il fatto che, anche dopo il lager, noi ebrei fummo accolti benevolmente dalla popolazione italiana. Ricordo la mia esperienza di ragazzina sballottata per l’Europa e poi finalmente accolta in una grande famiglia sconosciuta, disposta a dividere con me la minestrina della cena o il pasto di mezzogiorno.” [Italy was unprepared for the ghetto system and any extermination policies. This is clear from how the Italians tried to help Jews who were wanted: Italians gave them places to hide, they devised subterfuges, and, more significantly, we Jews were warmly welcomed by the Italian people after being freed from concentration camps. I remember being tossed from one place to another in Europe as a teenager and then being taken in by strangers, a family who were willing to share their lunches and dinners with me].” Maria Teresa Cinanni. “Il dovere della testimonianza. Edith Bruck con Maria Teresa Cinanni.” Originally published in 1999, in Caffeeuropa.it [http://www.caffeeuropa.it/attualita/98ebraismo-bruck.html], this interview was revised and republished on the online journal Nonluoghi. Informazione e Democrazia. Maria Teresa Cinanni. “Olocausto. Il peso della testimonianza. La scrittrice Edith Bruck, superstite di Auschwitz: ‘È nostro dovere trasmettere la memoria’.” http://www.nonluoghi.info/old/bruck.html, January 15, 2001. Accessed on June 25, 2015. 9 “allows all the faults of the past to be erased and post-war Italy to often be seen as a refuge where one could regenerate after the terrible persecutions of the war, and Italian as preferable to one’s mother tongue as a means of expression, more ‘comfortable’ and less traumatic.” 10 On the relationship between language and identity, see the study by Ceracchi, Marika, “Lingua madre e lingua straniera: le implicazioni psicoaffettive dell’apprendimento [Native language and foreign language: the psycho-emotional implications of learning languages].” Studi di Glottodidattica 2007, 1: 19-34. For the languages spoken in the family, Maria Cristina Mauceri’ asked: “Which languages did you speak at home?” EB: “Hungarian, but my parents spoke Yiddish’” (Mauceri: 608). 11 In particular, see the chapters in Philip Balma’s book: “Introduction” (1- 35) and “Fictional Transitions: Blurring the Boundaries between Life and Art” (37-68). Romani, Gabriella. “Introduction.” Edith Bruck, Letter to My Mother: vii-xxii. Gabriella Romani. “Scrittrice Italiana per caso [Italian writer by chance].” Edith Bruck. Privato. Postfazione di Gabriella Romani [Private. Afterword by Gabriella Romani] Milano: Garzanti, 2010: 175-185. 12 Edith Bruck. “Restiamo sempre un po' stranieri.” Resine, Anno 2003, 98: 71. For the complete text of Bruck’s article, see Balma: 41.

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“I’ve been writing in Italian for fifty years now, but I’m not regarded as an Italian writer. I’m a foreigner.” See Elisa Guida. “L’Etica del sopravvissuto nell’estetica di Edith Bruck.” Cuadernos de Filología Italiana, 2007, 14 (187204): 190. 14 Both Romani and Balma base their discussion of foreign authors writing in Italian on the article by V. Andrea Ciccarelli. “Frontier, Exile and Migration in the Contemporary Italian Novel.” The Cambridge Companion to the Italian Novel. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 2003: 197-213. Among others, Philip Balma also considers the studies of scholars such as Graziella Parati’s Mediterranean Crossroads: Migration literature in Italy [Madison, NJ: Fairleigh Dickinson University Press, 1999] and Migration Italy. The art of talking back in a destination culture [Toronto, CA: University of Toronto, 2003]; Armando Gnisci’s volume Creolizzare l’Europa: letteratura e migrazione (Roma, Italy: Meltemi Editore srl, 2003). In addition, when consulting the “Banca Dati Scrittori Immigrati in Lingua Italiana -BASILI” [Database of Immigrant writers in Italian Language] compiled by professor Franca Sinopoli from the University of Rome La Sapienza, Balma stated “Although BASILI is both a unique and an important resource, it also fails to acknowledge any work by Edith Bruck published before 1998, listing only six of her books in its limited bibliography” (Balma: 18). Therefore, according to Balma, his new terminology “Italophone literature of migration […] makes the best use of Gnisci and Sinopoli’s research on one side of the Atlantic Ocean, while benefiting from a close reading of Parati’s publications on the other” (Balma: 18). 15 “in the effort to recognize that authenticity that hides under the mask, in the other self, […] in this decentralized Jewish identity, characterized by multilinguism and multiterritorialism, i.e. an identity that does not find its center in a moment or a place, but in the permanent search for an identity.” “Roberto Della Rocca incontra Edith Bruck.” Laura Quercioli Mincer, ed. Per amore della lingua: incontri con scrittori ebrei. Roma: Lithos Editrice, 2005 (23-43): 27. 16 “… above all in schools, wherever I was invited, quoted or questioned as a representative of all of the survivors of Auschwitz. I wore this representation like a tailor-made suit and I thought it was normal […]. Apart from the inevitable questions about forgiveness, one of the questions that could always stop me in my tracks was the one about me feeling Italian, or what I felt. I usually answered very awkwardly that I couldn’t feel anything, only Jewish […] or say that I felt Italian even though I had been living in Italy for more than forty years and writing in Italian for all that time. I was not even seen or experienced as Italian by anyone. And what did it mean to be Italian or French or Hungarian if those identities did not arouse any national feeling?” In the essay-book Signora Auschwitz (Venezia: Marsilio Editori, 1999), Edith Bruck discusses the matter of identity and nationality in depth: see pp. 60-64, in particular. The title Signora Auschwitz was inspired by the name she was called by a shy female student during one of her many school visits (Bruck: 13, 68). 17 “the survivor [who] wants to experience her old age and existence outside Auschwitz, if that can ever be possible.” It is interesting to point out that Stefania Lucamante calls her literary analysis of Bruck’s Chi ti ama così “Signora

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Auschwitz,” in her study Forging Shoah Memories. Italian Women Writers, Jewish Identity and the Holocaust (New York, NY: Palgrave McMillan, 2014): 82-89. 18 I am quoting from Philip Balma: 19. The essay by A. Ciccarelli cited is “La letteratura dell’emigrazione oggi in Italia: definizioni e correnti.” Intersezioni 19, n.1, 1999: 105-24. 19 The film about Bruck’s life mentioned in the interview is La visita [The visit], by Hungarian director J. Tihanyi, 1981. See also the Italian version of the interview in Cartesensibili (2013), the talk with Rabbi Della Rocca in Quercioli Mincer: 23-43, and McGlinn’s interview: 35-37. 20 In a personal interview by Elisa Guida, Bruck reinforced the same concept: “Nonostante le rovine e l’odore della guerra che ancora si respirava, l’accoglienza era familiare; c’era un’atmosfera solidale, lontana dall’indifferenza che avevo trovato in Ungheria e in Cecoslovacchia. Avevo finalmente trovato un posto per poter vivere [Despite the ruins and smell of the war that we still breathed, there was a friendly welcome; a sympathetic atmosphere that was nothing like the indifference that I found in Hungary and Czechoslovakia]” (Guida: 194). See also the interview with Edith Bruck by Maria Crinstina Mauceri: 607. For a brief discussion of Italy’s social and literary panorama in the 1950s see Romani’s “Introduction” in Letter to my Mother (x-xiii). 21 “I don’t know if I found a new identity here, I’m always looking for something […], the only identity that was given to me in this life was the Jewish one […]. Here, in Italy, I will remain a Hungarian Jew, a survivor, and nothing else. I have 15 books published, I’ve been interviewed dozens of times […] Maybe I’m not even a woman, only a survivor. On public occasions, people only talk to me about the war, the concentration camps and how I experienced the concentration camps […]. Maybe I was the one who shut myself into this kind of ghetto.” 22 As Mauceri confirms in the introduction preceding the interview: “I think that Edith Bruck may be considered as the first writer of this genre. But it would not be correct to put Edith Bruck in the "ghetto" of testimonial literature, for she is the first to rebel against this classification.” (Mauceri: 606). 23 For a more in-depth analysis of Nuda Proprietà (Venezia: Marsilio, 1993), see Philip Balma: 46-48. 24 “[…] to reaffirm the value of the literary text, the artistic creation that can and must attempt to make amends where politics and history failed. The writer seems to conclude that only art can find the connection between the two, often impenetrable, worlds of life and culture.” 25 “Edith Bruck, writer and poet, Auschwitz survivor, who had to bear the painful role of witness, even up to now.” Cited from: “Zachor! Ricorda! Testimonianza di Edith Bruck [Zachor! Remember! Testimony of Edith Bruck],” an interview coordinated and conducted by Cardinal Gianfranco Ravasi and the journalist Maria Cecilia Sangiorgi broadcast on January 26, 2014 on the Italian Canale 5 as part of the TV program Le frontiere dello Spirito. The transcription of the above quoted lines from the program is mine. 26 The video of the interview is available on line: http://www.mediaset.it/quimediaset/comunicati/a-le-frontiere-dello-spirito-lagiornata-della-memoria-della-shoah_17148.shtml, accessed on June 29, 2015.

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27 “I miss my country and I try to visit often. Nevertheless, I cannot forget that it was my country that put me in the lions’ cage and that brutally killed my parents. In any case, I believe that one’s country of origin is of relative importance only, and we can remain true to ourselves regardless of the context in which we live.” 28 “I came to Italy in 1954. I had been about to emigrate to Argentina but I didn’t have the money to take the boat and my sister didn’t send me the money so I stayed in Italy, luckily. Here I found my language, my home. I don’t say nation or homeland, I don’t want to talk about that, but this is my country and where I am happy … I couldn’t live anywhere else, because this country gave me a lot, in the sense that the language became my identity, my books … I never found it difficult to publish them, I’ve been appreciated, I’ve been esteemed […].” “Anita B. ad RPrima: dopo la Shoah, verso la vita. Perché vedere Anita B. [Anita B. at RPrima: after the Shoah, towards life. Why watch Anita B].” RepubblicaTV, 24 Gennaio 2014. RepubblicaTV is part of the “Spettacoli” section of the online version of the national newspaper La Repubblica. RPrima. Film libri e musica in anteprima su RepubblicTV is a program that offers reviews and previews of newly released books, films and music, as the subtitles read. The interview was hosted by journalist Laura Pertici, with an introduction and commentary by journalist Simonetta Fiori. The video is available on La Repubblica online: http://video.repubblica.it/spettacoli-e-cultura/anita-b-ad-rprima-dopo-la-shoahverso-lavita/153660/152163, accessed on June 29, 2015. The transcription of the lines from the program is mine. 29 “We understand life narrative, […], as general term for acts of selfrepresentation of all kinds and in diverse media that take the producer’s life as the subject, whether written, performed, visual or digital.” 30 Bruck collaborated with some of the most important national newspapers Il Tempo, Il Messaggero, Il Corriere della Sera.

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accessed on June 29, 2015. Romani, Gabriella. “Introduction.” Edith Bruck, Letter to My Mother. Trans. Brenda Webster and Gabriella Romani. New York: MLA Texts and Translations Series, 2006: vii-xxii. —. Edith Bruck. The Institute of Modern Languages Research 2015. http://modernlanguages.sas.ac.uk/centre-study-contemporary-womenswriting/languages/italian/edith-bruck, accessed on June 15, 2015. Risi, Nelo. “Introduction.” Who Loves You Like This. Trans. Thomas Kelso. Philadelphia, PA: Paul Dry Books, 2001: vii-xii. Smith Sidonie and Julia Watson. Reading autobiography: A guide for interpreting life narratives. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2010. Villa, Cristina. “Perché la Shoah talvolta parla italiano? La letteratura italiana della deportazione razziale nelle opera di Edith Bruck ed Elisa Springer.” Scrittori italiani di origine ebrea ieri e oggi: un approccio generazionale. Eds. Raniero Speelman, Monica Jansen, and Silvia Gaiga. Utrecht: Utrecht Publishing and Archiving Services, 2006: 97105. —. “Patria, Diaspora e lingua materna nell’Europa del XX secolo.” Ebrei migranti: le voci della diaspora. Raniero Speelman, Monica Jansen e Silvia Gaiga. Eds. Italianistica Ultraiectina 7. Utrecht: Igitur Publishing, 2012: 260-275. Webster, Brenda. “An interview with Edith Bruck.” 13th Moon 11.1-2 (1993): 170-75.

CONTRIBUTORS

Silvia Giovanardi Byer is Professor of Modern Languages at Park University where she serves as Program Coordinator of the Modern Language program and Chair for the English and Modern Language Department at Park University, Missouri. Dr. Byer holds a Ph.D. in Romance Languages and Literatures from the University of North Carolina in Chapel Hill. Her research interests vary from Italian Renaissance Literature to Language Acquisition. Byer authored one book, Celestial Crusades and Wars in Heavens (2009) as well as manuals and articles; she is also an assiduous presenter at professional conferences. Dr. Byer has lived in three distinctive cultures: Argentina, Italy and the US. The perspectives Dr. Byer gained through her life experiences give unique depth and texture to her research and teaching. Fabiana Cecchini is Instructional Assistant Professor in the Department of International Studies, at Texas A&M University. She holds a Laurea in Lingue e Letterature Straniere (English and French) from the Università di Urbino and a Ph.D. in Italian Studies from the University of Pennsylvania. Dr. Cecchini main scholarly interests include women’s studies, Italian fiction and poetry, Italian cinema, the relationship between film and literature. She published on Sibilla Aleramo, Veronica Franco, Marco Tullio Giordana, Edith Bruck, Alina Marazzi, Edith Bruck. Besides the present collection, for Cambridge Scholars Publishing, Drs. Cecchini and Larco co-edited a previous anthology of essays on Italian women writers: Italian Women and Autobiography. Ideology, Discourse and Identity in Female Life Narratives from Fascism to the Present (2011). ~~~ Pia L. Bertucci holds a Ph.D. in Romance Languages and Literatures from the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. Currently, Dr. Bertucci is the Director of the Italian Program at the University of South Carolina where she teaches courses on Italian language, literature, and culture. Dr. Bertucci’s dissertation examined female relationships in the works of the early 20th Century Neapolitan writer Matilde Serao. Her research interests include Italian women writers, and the relationship

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between Italian food culture and language. Her article, “Boccaccio on Ennobling Food and Language” will appear in the journal Humanus (2017). She is currently working on a monograph exploring the traditions and innovations of Italian Food Culture. Melinda A. Cro (Ph.D., The University of Georgia) is Associate Professor of French and French Language Program Coordinator for the Department of Modern Languages at Kansas State University in Manhattan, KS. A specialist in early modern French and Italian literature, she is the author of one book, Armas y Letras: la Conquista de Italia (2012), and numerous articles. She has published widely on sixteenth- and seventeenth-century French and Italian literature and her work has appeared in journals such as Oeuvres et critiques, Romance Notes, South Atlantic Review, and Moreana. Currently, she is preparing a comparative study on early modern pastoral literature and aesthetics. Valeria Federici is a Ph.D. candidate In Italian Studies at Brown University. In her thesis, she explored the role of local and central government in controlling the cultural representation to celebrate the fiftieth anniversary of the unification of the Italian kingdom. She has participated in several guest lectures and roundtables about arts management, art, activism, and the role of cultural institutions in placemaking and community-building in post-industrial cities. With the collaboration of the Center for Digital Scholarship at Brown University, she has completed a digital interface that investigates the relationships between the Garibaldi Panorama (a painting, two hundred sixty feet in length, which has been digitized at Brown University) and the visual and textual materials collected in the Harvard Risorgimento Preservation Collection. In 2015, she co-organized Chiasmi, the Brown-Harvard graduate student conference. Ioana R. Larco is Assistant Professor of Italian in the Department of Modern and Classical Languages, Literatures and Cultures at University of Kentucky. She published articles and essays on Italian women writers and autobiography during the interwar period. Her most recent article “(Self)Representations of Motherhood in Ada Negri Stella Mattutina”, appeared in the journal Gender/Sexuality/Italy, 2 (2015). Annachiara Mariani received her Ph.D. in Italian Literature at Rutgers University and she currently teaches Italian at the University of Tennessee, Knoxville. In 2013, Dr. Mariani published a book on Pirandello, and twentieth-century "Grotesque" playwrights entitled The Fragmented Theatre.

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She has published articles on Italian Cinema and Italian Theater in several journals in the United States. Mariani has presented her research at various international conferences and contributed to important journals in the field. Her research interests include nineteenth and twentieth-century Italian poetry, twentieth-century Italian theater and Italian Cinema. Elisa Modolo received her Ph.D. from University of Pennsylvania and is currently teaching Italian language and culture at University of Pennsylvania and Temple University. Dr. Modolo’s dissertation studies Italian textual and visual rewritings of Ovid’s Metamorphoses between the Renaissance and the Baroque. Her interests also encompass women’s literary and cinematographic production, the Venetian culture, translation studies, and visual studies. Her contributions have appeared in Letteratura e dialetti and Lettere Italiane. Andrea Sartori is Ph.D. fellow in Italian Studies at Brown University. He earned a laurea in Philosophy from Ca’ Foscari University, an MA in Digital Humanities from the University of Milan and an MA in Italian Studies from Florida State University. He has published book chapters on G. W. F. Hegel and Antonio Barolini, as well as articles on critical theory. He has also published articles and reviews on Luigi Pirandello, gender studies, anti-Semitism and 21st century Italian literature for various journals. He has presented at conferences in United States, Canada, Switzerland and Spain. He is author of a novel, Scompenso (Exòrma, 2010), finalist at the Perelà Book Award (Florence, 2012). He has co-edited and translated the Italian version (Mimesis, 2013) of Terry Pinkard’s book Hegel’s Phenomenology: The Sociality of Reason (Cambridge University Press, 1994). Giovanna Summerfield, is Professor of Italian and French and associate dean for educational affairs in the College of Liberal Arts at Auburn University. She earned a Ph.D. from the University of Florida, Dr. Summerfield research interests include eighteenth-century French and Italian literature, religious and philosophical movements, Mediterranean studies and women’s studies. Some of her publications are: “Peppa la Cannoniera: Citizen in Action” in Italian Women at War: Sisters in Arms from the Unification to the Twentieth Century (2016), Sicily and the Mediterranean: Migration, Exchange, Reinvention (2015), The Politics of Poetics: Poetry and Social Activism in Early Modern through Contemporary Italy (2013) and Le Siciliane: cosi sono se vi pare (2011).

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Silvia Tiboni-Craft is an Assistant Teaching Professor of Italian at Wake Forest University. She obtained her Ph.D. in Italian at Rutgers University with a dissertation on Italian women writers titled Fantasy of the Domestic Space. Dr. Tiboni-Craft’s research and teaching interests include 19th and 20th century Italian women writers, 20th century Italian poetry, domestic space and feminist theory. She published a book contribution on “L’incontro con Carlo Betocchi” in Le carte “poetiche” di Egidio Mengacci, Fermenti Editrice (2014).