Clarissa's Sisters: The Consequences of Rape in Three Neoclassic Tragedies of María Rosa Gálvez

Daniel S. Whitaker

In the eighteenth century, a small but highly visible group of Enlightened women -epitomized by the Marquise de Pompadour- began to encroach for the first time on the political and cultural power of their European masculine contemporaries. Impressed by the contributions of the Enlightened women in France, the nineteenth-century novelists Edmond and Jules de Goncourt enthusiastically if inexactly wrote in La Femme au Dix-Huitième Siècle (1862) that «La femme, au dix-huitième siècle, est le principe qui gouverne, la raison qui dirige, la voix qui commande» (371). On the other hand, the fact that the sexual aggression against women was a common theme of eighteenth-century fiction betrays the presence of entrenched and reactionary patriarchy, a male-dominated society unwilling to acknowledge the new role of women (Weber). In fact, one of the most celebrated novels of the century was Samuel Richardson's Clarissa (1747-1748), the story of the seduction, rape, and eventual vindication of a nineteen-year-old upper class Englishwoman. This novel, according to Linda S. Kauffman, characterizes rape not as an act of passion «but a vicious act of violence by a man bent on revenge» (140).

Spanish Enlightened women likewise contributed to the intellectual life of the Spain of the Bourbons as poets, translators, novelists, and patrons of the arts¹. Similarly, however, these same women faced familiar masculine opposition to their newly claimed freedom, perhaps exemplified most clearly in the famous debate over the participation of women in the Madrid chapter of Los Amigos del País, an important economic advisory counsel². In like manner, the European fascination with the theme of violence against women was not unnoticed in Spain. Richardson's Clarissa was translated in Madrid in 1794-95; and in 1804 the novel was converted to a play by Antonio Marqués y Espejo under the title of Miss Clarissa Harlowe (Montesinos 278; McClelland 572). In that same year, the Spanish dramatist María Rosa Gálvez (1768-1806) published three tragedies which, like Richardson's Clarissa, address the theme of rape. Taken as a whole, these plays form one of the most thorough literary inquiries of the Spanish Enlightenment into the topic of the sexual abuse of women by men³.

The three tragedies -Amnón, Blanca de Rossi, and Florinda- respectively address the subject of rape from a Biblical, historical, and legendary perspective⁴. Amnón expands the Old Testament story (2 Samuel 13.1-13.39) of the rape of Thamar by her brother, Amnón, the son of David. The second half of the tragedy depicts Thamar's unsuccessful search for justice as her father and brothers remain unsympathetic to her plight. In Blanca de Rossi, Gálvez employs the period of the crusades to highlight the terrible predicament of Blanca, a woman of the Italian city of Bazano who was celebrated for both her accomplishments as a warrior and for her beauty. The entire tragedy centers on Blanca's refusal to be possessed by the Germán Acciolino, whose forces have occupied the city.

Turning next to Spain, Gálvez in Florinda analyzes perhaps the most famous case of rape of her country's past: that of Florinda «la Cava», daughter of Count Julián, by the King of the Goths, Rodrigo⁵. The plot of this drama is based on various Spanish romances which narrate how Count Julián -in order to regain the lost honor of his family- allows the Moors to invade Spain and defeat Rodrigo. The Moorish forces quickly overrun most of the Iberian Peninsula and remain there for nearly eight centuries. In her tragedy, Gálvez focuses on Florinda's role as the victim of Rodrigo's sexual violence and underlines the tragic heroine's opposition to the traitorous actions of her father.

In addition to the varied settings of these tragedies, each one offers a different angle on the act of rape itself. In Amnón, the rape of Thamar takes place in the exact center of the play (Act III); in Blanca de Rossi, the tragic heroine succeeds in hindering the rape altogether; and in Florinda, the assault of Rodrigo on the daughter of Count Julián occurs before the action of the drama begins. Yet despite the differences in story and approach, the three tragedies of Gálvez provide a rich commentary on a subject of growing concern for her Spanish contemporaries.

Amnón, Blanca de Rossi, and Florinda verify Susan Brownmiller's assertion that the action of rape is an exercise of male power over the female victim, and that «some rapists have an edge that is more than physical» (256)⁶. In this regard, Gálvez's three plays coincide in delineating the very elements that magnify the might of their male assailants. To begin with, in addition to being strong young men, each holds a position of authority within his respective society. Amnón is the heir to the throne of David, Rodrigo is King of the Goths, and Acciolino is a high official in the Army of the German Emperor. Consequently, the men who assault women in these works of Gálvez are not isolated figures, estranged from the societies in which they live; rather, they are essential figures in their respective social and political milieux. Above all, the physical and institutional aspect of the power of these males is framed by a desire to be obeyed blindly, not only by the women in their lives but also by their subordinates (especially in the case of Rodrigo and Acciolino). The German invader himself states: «¿Acciolino obedece?... No; que manda» (143).

Another significant aspect of the power of the male aggressors in Amnón, Blanca de Rossi, and Florinda is that each is a leader of an armed force in the field: Amnón assists King David in the defeat of the Ammonites; Acciolino leads his soldiers to victory over the citizens of Bazano; and Rodrigo marshals the Goths against the troops of Count Julián and the Arab leader Tariq -in fact, the entire action of Florinda occurs in the military camp of Rodrigo. In each play, the military potential of its respective assailant enhances the perceived power that each enjoys: armed victory in the field is expected to facilitate the conquest of the women who are related to the vanquished (Blanca) or simply happen to be in the area of combat (Thamar, Florinda). Brownmiller captures the import of the relation between masculine power, war and rape -reiterated in the theater of Gálvez- when she writes, «Down through the ages, triumph over women by rape became a way to measure victory, part of a soldier's proof of masculinity and success, a tangible reward for services rendered» (35).

In Blanca de Rossi, nevertheless, the relationship between military conqueror and female victim is complicated by the fact that Blanca is a fierce warrior and challenges the aggressor Acciolino not only in the field of forced love but also on the battlefield in full armor. At first, not knowing that his valiant opponent is Blanca -she is wearing a helmet- Acciolino orders the fighter's death after pardoning others of the city: «[...] pero no puedo / perdonar de un guerrero la arrogancia / que defiende los muros [...]» (142). Later, Blanca loses her helmet as she defends herself against the troops of Acciolino and her identity is revealed, much to the surprise of the male German invaders. The General Leopoldo is so astonished at the fact that the most ferocious soldier of the Bazanos is a woman that he cannot articulate fully his amazement; he states, «[...] ¿Quién creyera / que tan bizarra acción [...]», and then falls silent (146).

The revelation that Blanca is in fact the mysterious warrior intensifies Acciolino's desire to have her by any means. For the German aggressor, the possession of this notable woman will signify a dual victory: the conquest of a beautiful woman and the punishment of a female who dared to participate in a male theater of action -namely, combat. In this regard, Gálvez's message in Blanca de Rossi approaches a common one found in the eighteenth-century European novel, in which, according to Nancy K. Miller, «there is no room for the exceptional woman who calls into question the ground rules of the oldest game in the world» (43)⁷. Accordingly, the usurpation of male power by Blanca in Blanca de Rossi is also reminiscent of the infringement of masculine authority by Richardson's Clarissa. To his surprise, Lovelace learns that the young Englishwoman is his mental equal; this knowledge increases his desire to conquer her.

In addition to the physical, political, and military aspects of masculine power in Amnón, Blanca de Rossi, and Florinda there are still further elements that buttress masculine authority. In each drama, the masculine economic right to hold and control property -lands, buildings, farm animals- is extended to include the person of each intended female victim. The theme of women as property to be controlled, defended, and taken by men is above all developed in Florinda. In Act I, for example, Florinda is brought under armed guard to her lover Pelayo's tent; when the jealous Rodrigo finds out that Florinda is in the camp, he orders his guards to seize her and remove her to his royal tent; «A Florinda conduce a mi presencia; / arráncala del seno de su amante» (72). As Rodrigo and Pelayo battle for the possession of Florinda, the daughter of Count Julián is treated as if she were owned by each male, without any consideration of her personal feelings. In Florinda, Gálvez allots still further support to Haunani-Kay Trask's assertion that historically, «rape has never been viewed as a violation of the person. It has always been seen as a violation of one man's property (woman) by another man» (36)⁸.

Nevertheless, if the men of Gálvez's three plays treat the crime of rape as the theft of valuable assets, the female victims supply a radically different evaluation of this most savage act. First and foremost, Thamar and Florinda are tormented by an unrelenting physical and psychological suffering as a result of the attack, exemplified in the initial appearance of Thamar after being assaulted by Amnón (the stage directions read: «Thamar con el cabello suelto cubierto de ceniza, el velo roto» 55). Moreover, not only will the women lose all hope of marriage -the only path to secure limited social and economic rights in their cultures- but they will also be spurned by other women and forced to live out their days in isolation and poverty. Consequently, Thamar and Florinda exemplify a familiar eighteenth-century theme analyzed by Donna-Lee Weber: that rape «really is "a fate worse than death" and the ideal heroine should prefer to die rather than suffer it» (111).

In the case of Blanca, even though she is never actually molested by Acciolino, the fear of this violence produces the same anxiety as it does in her less fortunate companions. Thus, it comes as no surprise that Blanca (as in the case of Thamar and Florinda) continually reminds her interlocutors throughout Blanca de Rossi that she prefers death over living with the consequences of rape. In Act I, the tragic heroine confesses that «tengo valor; mas temo la violencia, / si no puedo morir antes que llegue» (155). In Act IV, Blanca follows words with deeds and unsuccessfully attempts to stab herself -her attacker Acciolino snatches the knife away from her before she can do any harm (201). Finally, following the example of Florinda, she takes her own life at the side of her husband's tomb in Act V. In short, Gálvez meticulously cultivates a uniquely female perspective on rape in her three tragedies: the serious nature of this violent act is not that it is a crime against masculine property but rather that it is an attack against human dignity itself. As Thamar sobs to Absalón after being ravaged by Amnón, «[...] ya he perdido / la gloria de mi vida» (55).

Furthermore, as a dramatist, María Rosa Gálvez utilizes her medium to underline the violence that women confront during acts of male sexual aggression. Appropriately, a key stage prop is the knife, a phallic symbol employed in Blanca de Rossi and especially in Florinda. In the latter tragedy, the heroine commits suicide in the last act with Rodrigo's dagger, which was given to her by Tariq. Thus Rodrigo's sexual assault on Florinda (which took place before the play began) now is reenacted by the daughter of Count Julián on stage in full view. In addition, Gálvez employs clothing and colors to underline the pain of her heroines. Blanca wears a black dress from Act III to the end of the play; Thamar's torn veil is telling evidence of the loss of her virginity. Finally, the stage directions of the three tragedies require that the rape of Thamar and suicides of Blanca and Florinda take place during reduced lighting. Thus, the absence of light -a common metaphor of the Enlightenment for the absence of reason- underscores the hopeless predicament of the three women.

Up to this juncture, we have seen that the power of the male adversaries in Amnón, Blanca de Rossi, and Florinda is considerable, enhanced not only by their physical strength but also by their prestigious social and economic position and by a military command. The female victims in Gálvez's three tragedies find themselves in a less advantageous light.

The most salient feature of Thamar, Blanca, and Florinda is their aloneness. Florinda is the only woman in her tragedy; Thamar has the single female speaking part in Amnón, the only other women present being a chorus of Israelite maidens. In Blanca de Rossi Blanca receives limited support from her servant, and the two are the only women in the play. The isolation of these female protagonists can best be summed up by a desperate Thamar, who laments, appropriately in a soliloquy, that «[...] yo gimo abandonada / en mi angustia cruel del universo» (83). Moreover, the solitude of each woman increases after the abusive action of the masculine aggressors. Thamar tells David that she now wishes to live alone: «una caverna ignota a los mortales / sea mi asilo, y mi sepulcro a un tiempo» (96). Before her death, Florinda also desires to live in «un claustro / o una caverna ignota a los mortales» (34) and passionately describes her seclusion: «[...] Abominada / del universo, odiada de la misma / patria que me dio el ser, aborrecida / aun de mi propia sangre [...]» (75).

Furthermore, these isolated tragic heroines receive little support from sympathetic males. In the case of Amnón, Thamar wins only the half-hearted backing of her brother Absalón against Amnón, primarily because the former wants to eliminate a rival to the throne of Israel. David, Thamar's father, refuses to act on her charges against Amnón (the monarch dearly loves his oldest son). In contrast, the only male support of Florinda's call for justice against Rodrigo is her father, Count Julián; but, likewise, he is more motivated by the loss of his personal honor and his own political ambition than by the violence against his daughter. Of all Gálvez's abused women, Blanca in Blanca de Rossi receives the most sympathy from the masculine members of her family against the anticipated sexual attack of Acciolino. This backing, however, is ineffectual. Before Blanca takes her own life to insure that Acciolino does not assault her, he kills her husband, and her aged father cannot control the illicit desires of the German invader; even the kind German soldier Leopoldo ultimately fails to curb the headstrong Acciolino. Thus, in the three tragedies, the men who could oppose the aggression against women by their own sex are unwilling, absent, or vanquished by the aggressors themselves.

In Amnón and Florinda, moreover, the solitary female victims are left not only with violated bodies but with the heavy burden of unreasonable guilt, a well-known reaction to rape as analyzed by many modern observers⁹. In addition, the two tragedies of Gálvez expose the source of this feeling of culpability: the guilt is largely a consequence of the comments of the other masculine characters of the plays. In Amnón, for example, Thamar at first is outraged at her brother and in Act V complains to David at length of her brother's violence; she boldly affirms, «Vuestra justicia como Rey espero» (87). Yet, by the end of the conversation, David has successfully persuaded Thamar that Amnón should not be punished because he is heir to the throne and because he is admired by all of the Tribes of Israel. He asks Thamar to forgive her brother and she does. Furthermore, the monarch convinces his daughter that her behavior in the affair has been shameful (she disturbed David's court with loud laments). After these arguments, Thamar humbly states that «Postrada a vuestras plantas me arrepiento / de mi delirio» (95).

In Florinda, the daughter of Count Julián similarly commences with a spirited defense of her innocence, but as the tragedy progresses, she more and more censures her own conduct both in her relation with Rodrigo and in the loss of Gothic Spain to the Moors. In Act II, Florinda firmly and unequivocally asserts that she is not the cause of the unfolding disaster around her, upholding her blamelessness to the respected warrior Tugla: «Lo soy [inocente]; Dios es testigo» (89). Nevertheless, by Act III, Florinda begins to feel that she is the cause of the war between Rodrigo and the Arab invaders, confessing that «[...] por mi causa sufren sin remedio / millares de inocentes» (119). The weight of her perceived wrongdoing increases a few moments before her death. The daughter of Count Julián now blames herself instead of her assailant for all that has happened and calls on God to punish her:

Her suicide a few moments later -with the knife of Rodrigo- is the fatal result of her guilt.

Nevertheless, as in the case of Thamar, Florinda's fatal feeling of guilt is the result of the continuous accusations of the men surrounding her. The first time her name is mentioned in the tragedy, the daughter of Count Julián is blamed for the present war; Tulga affirms that Florinda is «causa de nuestro daño» (61). Rodrigo, her assailant, claims that Florinda is the source «del funesto / destino de la España» (110). Another soldier, Egérico, accuses Florinda of being receptive to Rodrigo's advances («sensible a sus afectos», 113). Even the lover of Florinda -Pelayo- whom she was to marry before Rodrigo's violent assault, abandons her (in Act V), condemning her for the loss of Spain. Incredibly, he also reproaches her for the anticipated abuse of women by the Moorish invaders («Vivid, para que el bárbaro Agareno / a vuestra vista imponga sus cadenas, / las vírgenes reduzca al vituperio [...]» (124). In Florinda, then, the tragic heroine is overwhelmed by the accusations of the males around her and at the end of the play believes them to be true¹¹. Florinda has turned against herself; and the act of rape, in Mieke Bal's words, once again has alienated «the victim from herself and is meant to do so» (20).

Considering the above discussion of Gálvez's unrelenting focus on the aloneness and the guilt of her female protagonists, some readers/ theatergoers may contend that the dramatist from Málaga paints the lives of her abused women in an excessively negative manner. Commenting on Florinda, for example, the nineteenth-century critic Ramón Menéndez Pidal maintains that Gálvez falls to take pity on the unfortunate daughter of Count Julián («mirar a su heroína con ojos de compasiva ternura», Floresta de leyendas, XXXII). He even concludes that «[...] el espectador de la tragedia de María Rosa compadece a la hija de Julián muchísimo más que la autora [...]», Floresta de leyendas, XXXI). In other words, what Florinda appears to lack, in Don Ramón's view, is the submissive, naive adolescent of the romances or the idealized, self-sacrificing and sentimental Florinda of later nineteenth-century drama. In Florinda, Gálvez rejects both these simplistic depictions of the victim of rape and opts to draw her in a more realistic light, underlining the consequences of male sexual violence in one of Spain's most celebrated legends¹².

At first glance, then, the tragic heroines of Amnón, Blanca de Rossi, and Florinda appear to confront a granite wall of male power, an abusive authority wielded not only by their assailants but also by the other men in each play. In addition, these women -under armed guard, locked in bedrooms, abandoned by their families- must oppose male domination alone and contend with a feeling of unjustified guilt, a product itself of their patriarchal world. Nevertheless, the seemingly unconquerable male power in María Rosa Gálvez's tragedies is fatally flawed; it is an unwarranted control which will corrupt and even destroy the very societies which sanction such power.

In their indictments of a culture that approves abusive masculine authority, Gálvez's tragedies -especially Amnón and Florinda- parallel a similar criticism of the tainted world in Richardson's Clarissa. As Elizabeth Brophy has written, the eighteenth-century society of Lovelace and the Harlowes «had lost its vision of truth, of justice, and of charity», and it «hypocritically ignores in action the values that it proclaims in words» (81; 124). It is a culture whose lack of moral fibre will ultimately be the cause of its downfall. Similarly, the Hebrew world of Amnón is fatally flawed. David -the most significant King of the Old Testament and patriarch of the family of the promised Messiah- fails to support his abused daughter and refuses to chastise her assailant, who happens to be his successor. At the end of Amnón, David's family is left in a sad state of total division. Likewise, Israel itself is threatened by civil war as Absalón moves away from Jerusalem to organize his supporters and challenge the rule of his father.

Whereas the breakdown of a morally bankrupt society is only foreshadowed in Amnón, in Gálvez's Florinda the patriarchal civilization of the Goths disintegrates at the conclusion of the tragedy. In that drama, the Christian-Gothic Spain of Rodrigo and his followers is replaced by the new regime of the Arab Tariq, who boasts that «ya mis gloriosas armas consiguieron / el dominio de España» (126). Moreover, the abusive treatment of women is the chief cause of the downfall of Rodrigo's Spain. Count Julián, who considers the assault on his daughter as a violation of his personal property as well as his personal honor, wages war with his Moorish allies against Rodrigo, who believes that he as a man has a right to enjoy the beauty of any woman in his kingdom. Thus, the seeds of destruction are sown as masculine members of the patriarchal Gothic society turn on each other; the rape of Florinda by Rodrigo has caused the annihilation of this very same society¹³.

Furthermore, Gálvez's development of the theme of rape in Amnón, Blanca de Rossi, and Florinda differs markedly from perhaps the other most notable treatment of the subject, that of Lucrecia (1763) by Nicolás Fernández de Moratín¹⁴. First of all, in contrast to the isolated victims in Gálvez's plays, Lucrecia is surrounded by several noble women sympathetic to her dilemma. More significantly, the masculine members of her society -her father, husband, and even the noble Bruto- readily assume responsibility for the punishment of the aggressive Tarquino, who assaulted Lucrecia. In addition, instead of focussing on the woman as tragic victim of masculine sexual violence, a topic Gálvez highlights in her tragedies, Moratín underlines Lucrecia's role as faithful wife. The drama of the noble Roman matron, in René Andioc's words, «alcanza la universalidad como símbolo de fidelidad conyugal» (414). Thus, in her first appearance on the stage in Act I, Lucrecia appropriately is knitting a cloak for Colatino, her spouse. Even her suicide at the end of the play is less an action of personal anguish than an action to restore lost honor to her husband. A few moments before her death, Lucrecia affirms that her death will be a lesson for future wives:

Nevertheless, without doubt the greatest divergence of Moratín's Lucrecia from Gálvez's Amnón and Florinda, and from Richardson's Clarissa, is that Moratín's tragedy falls to depict a society in crisis, mortally threatened by a weakening moral foundation¹⁵. On the contrary, in Lucrecia the patriarchal Roman culture works efficiently, punishing the evil Tarquino and propagandizing the virtues of an obedient wife. Moratín's tragedy thus neglects to address the most crucial aspects of rape, which are well developed by María Rosa Gálvez: that sexual violence against women severs the bonds that unite families and spouses; and that a society that institutionalizes the subservience of women to men is fatally flawed. Thus, Moratín's effort in Lucrecia to create yet another play in the Spanish Enlightenment that would serve as a role model for obedient wives inexactly mirrors the origins and consequences of sexual violence against women¹⁶.

Similarly, if a man (Nicolás Fernández de Moratín) fails to portray accurately the horror and disorder of rape, can another man (this critic) coherently analyze literary renditions of this savage act?¹⁷ In listening to the desperate voices of Blanca, Thamar, and Florinda, I have endeavored to follow Elaine Showalter's advice to those male critics who hope to enter the critical world of feminist criticism, a process which involves «a confrontation with what might be implied by reading as a man and with a questioning or a surrender of paternal privileges» (127). As the works of María Rosa Gálvez become more available, I look forward to the comments of other critics, both female and male; only then will I be able to expand further these very preliminary thoughts concerning the theme of sexual violence in the theater of Spain's first successful female dramatist¹⁸.

In general, the flawed patriarchal societies depicted in Amnón, Blanca de Rossi, and Florinda parallel another notable but constant blemish: the flawed character of the masculine protagonists themselves. Indeed, throughout the theater of Gálvez, males disrupt the harmony of their world through an inability to control a negative personal trait, such as ambition (Lord Arlington in La Delirante), avarice (Sidney in El egoísta), or jealousy (Saúl in Saúl). In the three plays that deal with rape, Amnón, Acciolino, and Rodrigo fail to dominate their lust. Invariably, in both her comedies and her tragedies, Gálvez's female characters suffer at the hands of these imperfect males and only infrequently manage to correct their behavior. Moreover, despite the biblical, historical, and legendary settings of Gálvez's rape plays, one suspects that the dramatist from Málaga is portraying the contemporary reality of her times, a period in which the increasing public role of women was troubling for many males. Consequently, Thamar, Blanca, and Florinda could very well be contemporaries of Richardson's Clarissa. In any event, in Amnón, Blanca de Rossi, and Florinda María Rosa Gálvez allots us a pessimistic view of the treatment of women by men, a gloomy picture quite at odds with the prevailing optimism of the Spanish Enlightenment.

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