Collective Memory and Performance

COLLECTIVE MEMORY AND PERFORMANCE
COLLECTIVE MEMORY AND PERFORMANCE:
AN ANALYSIS OF TWO ADAPTATIONS OF THE LEGEND OF BEATRICE CENCI
By
AMANDA MONTAGUE, B.A.
A Thesis Submitted to the School of Graduate Studies
in Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements
for the Degree Master of Arts
McMaster University
© Copyright by Amanda Montague, August 2011

MASTER OF ARTS (2011) McMaster University
(English) Hamilton, Ontario
TITLE: Collective Memory and Performance: An Analysis of Two Adaptations of the

Legend of Beatrice Cenci
AUTHOR: Amanda Montague, B.A. (University of Waterloo)
SUPERVISOR: Professor Grace Kehler
NUMBER OF PAGES: v, 71pp.
ii
ABSTRACT
This study focuses on two incarnations of the Cenci legend: Percy Bysshe
Shelley’s 1819 verse drama The Cenci and George Elliott Clarke and James Rolfe’s 1998
chamber opera Beatrice Chancy. Shelley composed The Cenci after he discovered an
Italian manuscript recounting the life of Beatrice Cenci who, after being raped by her
father, plotted the murder of the debauched patriarch and was subsequently executed for
parricide. Nearly two centuries later, Clarke and Rolfe created Beatrice Chancy, an
Africadianized adaptation of the Cenci legend inspired by Shelley’s play. This study
investigates they way in which multiple performance genres re-embody history in order to
contest collective memory and reconfigure concepts of nationhood and citizenship. It
examines the principles of nineteenth-century closet drama and the way in which
Shelley's play questions systems of despotic, patriarchal power by raising issues of speech
and silence, public and private. This is followed by a consideration of how Clarke and
Rolfe's transcultural adaptation uncovers similar issues in Canadian history, where
discourses of domestic abuse come to reflect public constructs of citizenship. Particularly
this study examines how, through the immediacy of operatic performance and the
powerful voice of the diva, Beatrice Chancy contests Canada’s systematic silencing of a
violent history of slavery and oppression.
iii
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I would first like to offer my sincere thanks to Dr. Grace Kehler, who has been an
instrumental part of this thesis project. I am grateful for her generosity, her support, her
expertise, her counsel, and her friendship. I feel truly blessed to have been able to work
with her over the last two years. I would also like to thank Dr. Lorraine York who, from
my very first day at McMaster, has been an absolute pleasure to know and to work with.
Thanks also to Dr. Susan Fast for her interest in this project and for her participation as a
member of the examination committee.
I am especially thankful to my family for their unfailing support (which I certainly
tested the limits of with this project). And to my grandmother, Muriel Blomeley, for her
prayers and for the constant phone calls of encouragement that gave me the strength to
push on. I could never have done this without you.
iv
TABLE OF CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION: NARRATIVE MIGRATION ................................................ 1

CHAPTER 1: THE CENCI ..................................................................................... 7
"The Act Seals All": From Suppression to Action................................................... 10
The Stage: From Action to Spectacle....................................................................... 14
Mental Theatre: Resistence From The Closet .......................................................... 20
Double Consciousness and Diva Citizenship: Resistence Within The Self............. 25
CHAPTER 2: BEATRICE CHANCY .................................................................... 36
Staging Acts of Collective Memory......................................................................... 40
Abjection to Agency: Place/Dispalcement in Discourses of Corporeal Control...... 48
Conclusion: Songs of Sorrow and of Citizenship .................................................... 55
CONCLUSION: BEATRICE CHANCY AS POSTNATIONAL OPERA ........... 61
Bibliography ......................................................................................................... 62
v
M.A. Thesis – A. Montague McMaster – English
Narrative Migration: Transcultural Adaptations of the Legend of Beatrice Cenci
The history of the Cenci family dates to sixteenth century Rome where, in 1577,
Beatrice Cenci was born to the violent and sadistic Roman nobleman, Francesco Cenci.
Throughout Beatrice’s life, Cenci subjected her, her siblings, and her stepmother
Lucretia, whom Cenci married in 1595, to ongoing persecution. This oppression took the
form of various degrees of physical and mental abuse, including the alleged incestuous
rape of Beatrice. In a radical act of rebellion in response to this subjugation Beatrice, with
the assistance of her family, orchestrated the murder of the corrupt patriarch. But the
family’s conspiracy is subsequently discovered and leads to their execution by papal
decree in 1599. The history of Beatrice Cenci became an integral part of Italian national
consciousness, while the tragic and sensational elements of her story served to catapult it
to mythic status.1 It has been claimed that “the ‘legend of Beatrice’ was born on the day
she died” (Ricci 271), by the spectacle of her funeral that “resemble[d] a popular
demonstration” and “an equivocal report of the case and execution” (v). As a legend, the
1
It’s status as legend has created a preoccupation with historical veracity in several
adaptations and translations of the Cenci history. Appeals to they story’s historicity are
repeatedly used as a way to circumvent the extreme nature of the subject matter. See
Corrado Ricci’s introduction to his history of the Cenci family: “Let none of these readers
blame me if I have been forced to relate a story that is gloomy, sinister, and at times
unedifying by reason of the depravity of the figures it summons forth from the past and
the times in which they lived. My desire has been to change nothing, to attenuate nothing,
never to recede from my duty of setting down facts in all their harsh sincerity” (viii). A
similar sentiment appears in a letter Shelley wrote to Peacock in September 1819: “If my
Play should be accepted don’t you think it would excite some interest, and take off the
unexpected horror of the story by shewing that the events are real, if [the manuscript]
could appear in some Paper in some form” (L. ii. 102).
1
tragic themes of patriarchal tyranny, incest, personal and social corruption, and systemic
exploitation of disenfranchised bodies have garnered global appeal for Beatrice’s story. It
has traversed through centuries and across nations and has undergone dozens of
translations, adaptations, and remediations.
While visiting Italy in 1818, Percy Bysshe Shelley encountered a manuscript
account of the history of the Cenci family. Upon reading her story, Shelley was moved by
the pathos of Beatrice, whom he saw as “violently thwarted from her [gentle] nature by
the necessity of circumstance” (727). A year later, inspired by the story’s themes of
domestic and social injustice under patriarchal authority, Shelley composed a verse drama
entitled The Cenci, with the object of bringing Beatrice’s tragedy “home to [the] hearts”
of the British people (729). More than a century and a half later, in 1992, the Canadian
poet George Elliott Clarke encountered Shelley’s verse drama while studying at Queen’s
University. His interest in the play instigated a collaboration with composer James Rolfe
that led to the creation of the chamber opera, Beatrice Chancy. Their adaptation relocates
Beatrice’s story to the Annapolis Valley, Nova Scotia, and introduces the themes of
Canadian slavery and racial violence. In doing so, Clarke and Rolfe bring the violent
history of Beatrice Chancy “home,” to Canada by using it to reveal a history of racial
oppression that has been carefully suppressed in national discourse.2
2
Cf: “In Beatrice Chancy this diasporan history is brought home, as it were, and made to
confront hegemonic national narratives that would seek to stop it at the Canada-U.S.
border” (Moynagh 116).
2
There have been countless adaptations of the legend of Beatrice Cenci in the years
between 1819 and 1998, but my project is confined to Shelley’s verse drama and Clarke
and Rolfe’s opera, particularly because Shelley’s play is cited as the primary source text
for the opera. I am interested in Shelley’s thematic treatment of speech and silence in the
movement from abjection to agency that occurs in the Cenci legend and in Clarke and
Rolfe’s continuation of this theme. Specifically, in the latter text, I am interested in how
the theme of speech and silence is addressed through the figure of the opera diva and
constructs of the diva’s voice as well as how it is applied to issues of African Canadian
identity. Beatrice Chancy is not the first operatic adaptation of the Cenci legend.3 But I
am interested in it both as a generic remediation of Shelley’s play and for its value
specifically as a Canadian opera, in terms of what it reveals about the state of opera in
contemporary Canadian culture.
Both The Cenci and Beatrice Chancy are instances of transcultural adaptation
(The Cenci from Italian manuscript history to British verse drama, and Beatrice Chancy
from British verse drama to Canadian chamber opera) and, as such, are in constant
dialogue with their respective adapted text(s) and contemporary context.4 Clarke
3
There are four other operas based on the Cenci history, all of which are based on
Shelley’s verse drama: Guido Pannain and Vittorio Viviani’s Beatrice Cenci (1942),
Berthold Goldschmidt and Martin Esslin’s Beatrice Cenci (1949/1950), Havergal Brian’s
The Cenci (1962), and Alberto Ginastera and William Shand’s Beatrix Cenci (1971).
4
“There is a kind of dialogue between the society in which the works, both the adapted
text and the adaptation, are produced and that in which they are received, and both are in
dialogue with the works themselves” (Hutcheon 149).
3
explicitly acknowledges this complex dialogue as a central part of the creative process
behind Beatrice Chancy. He cites both Shelley’s play and the legend upon which it is
based as primary sources for the opera in his introduction to the libretto, and then appends
the work with a list of more than fifty additional influences, twenty-six of which are
textual adaptations of the Cenci legend, including six plays, three operatic adaptations, a
screenplay, and a sculpture. Clarke also sources other Beatrices, including Dante’s
Beatrice in La Vita Nuova and Shakespeare’s Beatrice in Much Ado About Nothing, as
well as Harriet Jacobs’s slave narrative, Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl, and two
Beatrice restaurants. By deliberately distinguishing each of these adaptation of the Cenci
legend, Clarke emphasizes the interpretive diversity among them, implying that each
work resonates with his adaptation in its own unique way, and confirms the doubled
nature of adaptation: a work that is a distinct entity but also connected to a prior text. As
Hutcheon contends, adaptation is “repetition but without replication…it involves both
memory and change, persistence and variation” (173).
Transcultural adaptations often involve a change of place, time period, politics,
and language (Hutcheon 145). In Beatrice Chancy, a recontextualization of place occurs
from Clarke and Rolfe’s mutual desire to “Canadianize” their project (Clarke, Beatrice
Chancy 63). In addition, the opera exhibits a change in language, though not in the
conventional dialectic sense laid out by Hutcheon. In contrast to The Cenci, the language
of Beatrice Chancy is much more explicit as the opera emphatically exposes violence and
violation through what Clarke terms a “demotic that hurts” (63). Moreover, with its
4
onstage depictions of rape and torture, Clarke and Rolfe’s adaptation is not subject to the
censorship restrictions in Shelley’s text. Beatrice Chancy directly expresses hate and
violence in a way that The Cenci refuses. In this sense, Beatrice Chancy, to a certain
extent, “de-represses” the politics of The Cenci (Hutcheon 147). Their politics do,
however, converge on a structural level. Even though a remediation from closet drama to
chamber opera occurs in Beatrice Chancy, both adaptations exploit intimate spaces of
performance to raise issues of despotic injustice and national abjection in order to
generate an affective response in their audiences. As a closet drama The Cenci can, as
Shelley suggests, “teach the human heart, through its sympathies and antipathies, the
knowledge of itself” (“Preface” 730). It generates this kind of affective knowledge
because “the closet is the specific location of the hearts of that class which the plays try to
convene as a group” (Simpson 309). Similarly, as Linda Hutcheon suggests, opera is an
“emotionally powerful” form that “owes much of its power to music,” which has the
capacity to generate an affective emotional response in the listener (“Opera in Canada”
186). In Beatrice Chancy, the limited size of the chamber opera necessitates a small
number of characters and musicians, which serves to increase the intimacy between the
performers and the audience. This study encompasses an analysis of both genres as they
bring issues of identity, nationhood, and citizenship into the realm of affective encounter.
In Chapter One I examine The Cenci, as a verse drama, in relation to formal
structures of nineteenth-century closet drama. I contend that these constructs enhance the
thematic discourse of suppression in the text. I also consider Beatrice’s movement from
5
abjection to agency in the context of trauma theory, namely the way in which trauma can
generate resistance. The chapter concludes with an examination of voice. Drawing on
Lauren Berlant’s concept of Diva Citizenship, I explore how private acts of abuse and
abjection are representative of public discourses of hegemonic control.
Chapter Two contains an analysis of Beatrice Chancy. My reading of the opera is
not limited to Clarke’s libretto. It also necessarily undertakes a musical analysis (to the
best of my ability) of Clarke’s score. In addition to these concomitant parts, I also
consulted several reviews of the opera after its staging by The Queen of Puddings Music
Theatre Company in 1998. This aspect was particularly important to my reading of
Beatrice Chancy, as through it I was able to gain an understanding of the opera’s cultural
reception. The chapter begins with an exploration of how the opera re-embodies history,
where voices from the past are recalled through the singing voices in the present
performance. I consider how this performative invocation of the past contests collective
memory in order to re-narrate a dominant history that has marginalized the experiences of
African Canadians. I examine the relationship between public and private in the rape of
Beatrice and her subsequent acts of vocal and physical insurrection following Berlant’s
contention that discourses of sexual violence and national citizenship intersect at
“complexly related sites of subjectivity, sensation, affect, law, and agency” (243). Finally,
I extend Maureen Moynagh’s application of Diva Citizenship to Beatrice Chancy by
integrating it into an analysis of Beatrice as an opera diva in order to assess the extent of
Beatrice’s vocal power and its limits in liberationist discourse.

6
Chapter One: The Cenci
Shelley was first introduced to the story of Beatrice Chancy while in Italy in 1818.
But it was not until seeing a portrait of Beatrice by Guido Reni at Palazzo Colonna in
1819 that he became enraptured by the prospect of turning her story into a play.
According to Mary Shelley, after seeing the portrait:
Shelley’s imagination became strongly excited, and he urged the subject to me as

one fitted for a tragedy. More than ever I felt my incompetence; but I entreated
him to write it instead; and he began and proceeded swiftly, urged on by intense
sympathy with the sufferings of the human beings whose passions, so long cold in
the tomb, he revived and gifted with poetic language. (Shelley, “Poetical” 274)
As Mary suggests, Shelley’s interest in composing The Cenci stemmed from the desire to
reinstate Beatrice with a voice. Moreover, Beatrice’s history entails the contestation of
gendered injustice. By writing the tragedy, Shelley recalls this history and insists upon a
reconsideration of its politics by bringing it into conversation with his contemporary
context. However, Mary’s conviction that the Cenci story is “long cold in the tomb” is not
entirely accurate, particularly in Italy. Shelley indicates this in his preface when he
discusses his fascination with the national interest that Beatrice’s story occasions. He
writes: “On my arrival at Rome, I found that the story of the Cenci was a subject not to be
mentioned in Italian society without awakening a deep and breathless interest…All ranks
of people knew the outlines of this history, and participated in the overwhelming interest
which it seems to have the magic of exciting in the human heart” (729). Shelley seems to
desire the creation of a similar kind of national experience by bringing the tragedy to the
British stage, which in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries was a popular site for the
7
promotion of national discourse. But before Shelley returned home, the play was declared
too “objectionable” to be performed on the British stage and immediately relegated to the
closet.5 The Cenci therefore is characterized by a discourse of suppression as a result of
censorship laws. This discourse not only operates structurally, but also historically and
thematically.
Shelley addresses the historic suppression that characterizes the Cenci legend in a
footnote to the preface of the play in which he reveals that “the Papal Government
formerly took the most extraordinary precautions against the publicity of facts which
offer so tragical a demonstration of its own wickedness and weakness; so that the
communication of the [manuscript] had become, until very lately, a matter of some
difficulty” (728). In emphasizing the past oppression of the Cenci’s story, Shelley calls
attention to the silences that have been imposed on Beatrice’s history and then employs
these silences thematically throughout the play. In The Cenci, Shelley explores a system
of patriarchal power where the male voice is sanctioned by a firmly entrenched network
of tyrannical power relations, rooted in religious authority. Consolidated on three levels
(the divine, the papal, and the domestic), this network of socio-political patriarchal
control systematically silences the female voice. This tripartite structure of patriarchal
5
According to M. Shelley, the manager of Covent Garden, Thomas Harris, “pronounced
the subject to be so objectionable, that he could not even submit the part to Miss O’Neil
for perusal” (279). The Cenci did, however, achieve success as a verse drama. Its first
printed edition was so popular that it was printed again in 1821, “the only one of
Shelley’s works to be published in an authorized second edition in his lifetime”
(Rossington 718).
8
power is particularly toxic as it allows tyrannical contagions to permeate all aspects of
life, making it difficult for the marginalized to breathe, let alone speak. Furthermore, at
the centre of The Cenci there is an incestuous rape enacted on Beatrice by her father that
is never actually named. By pursuing the incest motif which, as Groseclose notes, Shelley
is the first to do, Shelley’s play calls attention to another discourse of suppression: that of
trauma.6 But by centralizing the character of Beatrice, who threatens the patriarchal
system with vocal and physical insurrection, Shelley’s prevailing interest in the Cenci
legend seems to lie not simply in silence, but in the interstices between speech and
silence, action and inaction, power and oppression; particularly Shelley explores how
liminal spaces (the stage, the closet, the reflexive self, the castle at Petrella, the scaffold)
simultaneously serve as sites of violence and sites of personal change and political
revolution.
6
According to Groseclose, all other adaptations of the Cenci legend prior to Shelley
“including the one from which Shelley worked, mention Francesco Cenci's attempt to
seduce his daughter but no consummation” (Incest 225). Additionally, at the trial of the
Cenci family, Roman lawyer Prospero Farinacio used the incestuous rape as justification
for the parricide in his defense of Beatrice. But, as Groseclose notes, his appeal “was
rejected by the adjudicating Roman Catholic prelates as unproven” (225). See
“Translation of the Pleading of Prospero Farinacio in Defence of Beatrice Cenci and her
Relatives” from A Dissertation on the Statutes of the Cities of Italy pp. 73-115.
9
“The Act Seals All”: From Suppression to Action
To begin, I would like to address Shelley’s use of incest in The Cenci
and consider the thematic implications of the rape of Beatrice and its
suppression. The incestuous rape is simultaneously an instance of action and
non-action. As the climax of the drama, first alluded to by Count Cenci at the
beginning of the play, the rape motivates the subsequent action—the parricide,
the trial, and the execution—yet, paradoxically, remains silenced as, concealed
off stage, it is neither seen nor heard. After the act is committed, Beatrice returns
to her stepmother, Lucretia, unable to name the deed that has left her “veins”
“contaminated” and her “limbs” “putrefy[ed]” (3.1.26, 96). In Justice in The
Cenci, Laurence Lockridge suggests that by “not naming the incest, [Beatrice]
tries to lend it an unreality” (97) in an attempt to evade and nullify the trauma of
the incestuous sexual assault. But this evasion is not sufficient as Beatrice’s
refusal to articulate the act in answer to Lucretia’s persistent questions still
leaves her mentally and physically debilitated. Lucretia notes: “Thou art unlike
thyself; thine eyes shoot forth / A wandering and strange spirit. Speak to me, /
Unlock those pallid hands whose fingers twine with one another” (3.1.81-84). In
fact, it is the conflation of physical and psychic defilement that makes it
particularly difficult for Beatrice to articulate what has occurred. Her first words
immediately following the rape, “Reach me that handkerchief! –My brain is
hurt; / My eyes are full of blood” (3.1.1-2), suggest that she cannot locate the
10
wound because it is both a physical infestation (signified, metaphorically, by the
blood / tears) and a mental trauma (signified by the brain). Likewise, Beatrice
later exclaims, “The air is changed to vapours such as the dead breath in charnel-
pits! Pah! I am choked!” (3.1.14-16). Here again Beatrice conflates the
finite/physical (choking/death) with the infinite/metaphysical (vapour).
Ostensibly, this passage indicates that Beatrice has encountered death in the
form of incestuous sexual defilement—a death that is engendered by blood (a
blood relation), infects through blood (incest/intercourse), and one that she
considers resolving through an act of blood-letting.7 But it also covertly signals
the miasma of oppression that the hegemonic discourse of patriarchal power
generates for those who fall outside its system of privilege.
In light of this, it becomes apparent that the act of incest is concealed
in silence in an attempt to, as Lockridge suggests, “lend it an unreality” (97), but
also because its dual effects exceed verbal comprehension: Beatrice cannot name
the act because it cannot be atoned by words: “no law…can adjudge and execute
the doom of that which I suffer” (3.1.135-7). This generates a paradox of
language within the play evidenced by Beatrice’s conviction before the rape—
“You see I am not mad: I speak to you” (2.1.34)—and its reversal after: “If I try
7
Oh blood, which art my father’s blood,
Circling though these contaminated veins,
If thou, poured fourth on the polluted earth,
Could wash away the crime, and punishment
By which I suffer—no, that cannot be! (3.1.95-99)
11
to speak / I shall go mad” (3.1.85-6). Michael Worton suggests that, in her first
conviction, Beatrice “accept[s], as Cenci does, that language dominates
thoughts” (111) but then later, upon being violated by her father, realizes “the
language of speech breaks down when faced with the necessity to express
extreme emotion, since language serves only to structure thought” (111). But
this change in sentiment also attests to the trauma of the sexual encounter. As I
suggested earlier, by incorporating the incest motif, Shelley introduces another
discourse of suppression, that of trauma. According to Cathy Caruth, trauma
manifests itself as a paradox between destruction and survival, silence and
speech. Specifically, the traumatic experience is the “oscillation between a crisis
of death and the correlative crisis of life (Caruth 7, italics original). Caruth goes
on to analyze “what Freud encounters in the traumatic neurosis” as “not the
reaction to any horrible event but, rather, the peculiar and perplexing experience
of survival” (60). In other words trauma asks the question: “What does it mean
to survive?” (60). In this sense, trauma begins not as a discourse of suppression,
but one of expression, evidenced by the fact that a traumatic experience is one
that cannot be fully repressed—a notion that, Caruth indicates, perplexes Freud
in Beyond the Pleasure Principle—as the traumatic dream is “the literal return
of the event against the will of the one it inhabits” (59). Therefore, the
experience of trauma is the experience of having survived, of encountering death
but eluding it so that one can actually talk about the confrontation. But to code
12
an experience that occurs in extremis into an ordered system of language is not
easy. The “enigma of survival” (58) often leaves one incapable of articulating
the encounter with death. In fact, Caruth suggests, “It is only by recognizing
traumatic experience as a paradoxical relation between destructiveness and
survival that we can also recognize the legacy of incomprehensibility at the heart
of catastrophic experience” (58). It is in this sense that trauma becomes a
discourse of suppressions, where one “get[s] through an overwhelming
experience by numbing oneself to it” (58, 2n), which is how Beatrice initially
responds to her traumatic experience. Yet, Beatrice eventually resolves:
Something must be done;

…something which shall make
the thing that I have suffered but a shadow
In the dread lightening which avenges it;
Brief, rapid, irreversible, destroying
The consequences of what it cannot cure” (3.1.86-91).
That something is the bold act of parricide, which “put[s] off, as garments
overworn, [mental preoccupations with] forbearance and respect, remorse and
fear” (3.1.208-9). This new conviction that the “act seals all” (3.1.4.3.7) is
problematic in that it directly contradicts Beatrice’s initial claim that the
consequences of the rape cannot be cured, and ultimately produces consequences
that are incurable—specifically her and her family’s execution. But this move to
action is significant in that it points to Shelley’s interest in the permeability of
silence, or the tensions that arise when dialogues (or acts) emerge from within a
13
discourse of suppression. Shelley’s preoccupation with these tensions extends
back to the preface where he raises the question of perseverance verses violence
as it relates both thematically and formally to tragedy. In the preface, Shelley
suggests that “no person can be truly dishonoured by the act of another” and that
“revenge, retaliation, atonement, are pernicious mistakes” (“Preface” 730), but
goes on to conclude, “if Beatrice had thought in this manner she would have
been wiser and better; but she would never have been a tragic character” (731).
Endurance in the face of oppression answers to a higher moral ideal, yet acts of
violence are necessary for the action of the play and for its tragic form. This
statement seems to project tragedy as a metonym for political insurrection,
where a moral ideal of behaviour is sacrificed in favour of immediate action. But
though this connection between tragedy and political insurrection works to
justify Beatrice’s rebellion, it also implicitly posits the parricide as a form of
spectacle—a point that will become problematic upon further analysis of
Shelley’s engagement with the nineteenth-century stage.
The Stage: From Action to Spectacle

As a site of contact for a variety of political, social, and commercial
discourses, the stage is an informative place to explore the tensions that emerge
from discursive conflict. What attracts this variety of discourse is what Julie
Carlson calls theatre’s “indissociability from the social” (195). Since the time of
Greek tragedy, dramatists assumed that staged corporeal action generates a
14
potent visceral response in the spectator. Particularly with the burgeoning of
Britain’s imperial enterprise in the eighteenth century, the period leading up to
Shelley’s composition of The Cenci, English drama became an influential site
for the enactment of national and imperialist fantasies. As colonial expansion
was continually calling concepts of nationhood into question, dramatic fantasies
of Britishness presented idealized historical narratives of British supremacy and
stability.8 Theatre’s ability to create this affective sense of nationhood relates to
the power of spectacle: “Where readers are scattered up and down the
country…an audience is concentrated in once place, and as the feelings of each
individual are communicated to his neighbour the mass emotion may rapidly
become overwhelming" (Sutherland qtd. in Conolly 180-1). In fact, it was
thought that the “social experience of audience interaction” (O’Quinn 11) would
be powerful enough to render the audience, when stimulated by patriotic images,
into a surrogate nation.9 However, these images of British harmony, and the
nationalism they were thought to occasion, only amounted to an idealist
discourse—a fantasy of Britishness—that had “little, if any, value beyond [the]
confines” of the theatre (Marshall 183). Not only were the various histories of
British supremacy in constant contradiction with one another (which, as
Marshall notes, simultaneously disavows the stability they attempt to create), but
8
See Louise H. Marshall, National Myth and Imperial Fantasy.
9
See Kruger, “ ‘Our National House’: The Ideology of the National Theatre of
Great Britain,” pp. 37.
15
also their efficacy depended upon “the assumption that the audience would
spontaneously recognize itself as a unified nation” (Kruger 36). But, as Marshall
contends, “beyond the simple act of looking, there is no imperative to assume
any further cohesive act within the transient community of the theatre audience”
(2). The stage is, after all, a site of various discourses, each with the potential to
generate diverse meanings for the spectator.10 For example, Friedrich Schiller’s
hope that the theatre could be “a moral institution (moralische Anstalt) [and] a
provider of aesthetic education” (qtd. in Kruger 37) is complicated by the fact
that the stage was a source of income and a place to profit from spectacle:
“Theatrical activity was driven by the needs of managers, performers and writers
to make money, to capitalize on the desire of audiences to be entertained”
(Marshall 3). For those who maintain a higher moral purpose for drama (and
Shelley is included in this camp), these conflicts become a source of anxiety as
they suggest the loss of the stage’s moral potency to vulgar interests in spectacle.
For Shelley, this anxiety is a central preoccupation in both his theory of drama
and in The Cenci. In A Defence of Poetry, Shelley calls for a return to “drama of
the highest order,” exemplified in “the tragedies of the Athenian poets” (285), in
10
Likewise, the theatre itself is a site of multiple stages, where “the entire house,
and not merely the stage, [can operate] as a performance space” (O’Quinn 11).
O’Quinn suggests that the “most obvious” example of the house as a playing
space is “when the theatre erupted into violence either aimed at the production
itself or, more routinely, among the audience” (11)—further evidence that the
concept of a unified and controlled/controllable audience is an illusion. See, for
example, the Old Price Riots (1809).
16
contrast to drama where “the accumulation of the materials of external life
exceeds the quantity of the power of assimilating them to the internal laws of
human nature” (293). Mark Bruhn suggests that in the latter description of
drama, Shelley points “most immediately to the eighteenth century. With its
ever-expanding market economy and all-consuming ethos of economic
individualism, it cultivated, as no previous age had, both selfishness and
materialism, a preoccupation with the bodily and external at the expense of the
intellectual, spiritual, or otherwise internal qualities of human nature” (717). In
The Cenci, Shelley is critical of a fixation on the bodily and physical aspects of
spectacle in the moments following Beatrice’s trial. Not a true exercise of justice
but a charade set up to systematically destroy Beatrice, the trial scene becomes a
spectacle of exploitation that attests the tyrannical power of the patriarchy. After
she is sentenced to the scaffold, Beatrice challenges the judge’s decree by calling
attention to the vulgarity of spectacle:
What! Will you give up these bodies to be dragged

At horses’ heels, so that the vain and senseless crowd,
Who, that they may make our calamity
Their worship and their spectacle, will leave
The churches and the theatres as void
As their own hearts? (5.3.33-40)
By conflating the scaffold with other institutional spectacles, Beatrice signals
the emptiness of the observer (specifically the mass observer) and also the
emptiness of the spectacles themselves. Likewise, Shelley seems to imply that
17
the moral decline of the theatre will lead to a decline in other institutional
spectacles or that other sites of public exchange could lose their ability to serve
higher moral purposes. This becomes particularly significant in relation to the
scaffold because it calls into question the efficacy of forms of public
punishment, especially when spectators are, as Beatrice suggests, more
concerned with displays of physical entertainment rather than with questions of
justice or the political significance of execution.
But as much as Shelley aspires to an elevated moral ideal in the play, its
content is also highly sensational. 11 The sensationalism is particularly apparent
in the eroticism of the young, suffering “bella parracida” (Carlson 198).12
Therefore, what Shelley creates in The Cenci is what Bruhn terms a “‘modern’
mixed style” (714) of dramatic representation that combines neoclassical
elements, such as an emphasis on “passion and psychology” (731), with
decidedly non-neoclassical representations of the sexual and the “human-
11
Moreover, in a letter to Leigh Hunt Shelley describes The Cenci as “totally different
from anything you might conjecture that I should write, of a more popular kind”
(Rossington 714).
12
In the preface Shelley exhibits a deep interest in Beatrice’s physiognomy. His
description of Guido Reni’s portrait of Beatrice discusses at length her “exquisitely
delicate” face and her eyes, “swollen with weeping and lusterless, but beautifully tender
and serene” (735). (The veracity of the attributions of the portrait, in both the identity of
the subject matter and the artist, has been heavily disputed. See Barbara Groseclose, “A
Portrait.”) Moreover, in public reception Beatrice was similarly eroticized as Groseclose
notes ,“The trade in copies of Guido's portrait becomes virtually a mania after 1819;
tellingly, this is accompanied by a noticeable mutation of sweet to sensual in Beatrice's
physiognomy” (“Incest” 235).
18
creatural” (732). Bruhn postulates that Shelley hoped this mixed-style form
“would finally expose and subvert itself in favour of ‘ancient’ standards”
(714).13 But, in fact, it is Shelley’s aspirations for the stage that are ultimately
subverted by censorship laws. Shelley composed The Cenci with his eye on the
stage, evidenced by his employment of the conventions of the star system, his
explicit visioning of Edmund Kean and Eliza O’Neill in the main roles, and by
the fact that his preface directly affirms his interest in the story’s “fitness for
dramatic purpose” (“Preface” 729); yet, his use of non-neoclassical elements in
the mixed style tests the limits of nineteenth-century dramatic decorum and
creates problems for the Censor. Because of this, the play was relegated to the
closet as soon as it was printed and for a hundred years thereafter.14 Yet even in
its relegation to the closet, or—perhaps more precisely, because of its closet
status—the thematic and formal tensions of speech and silence gain emphasis.
13
Bruhn concludes that this self-subversion actually miscarries—that Shelley
“ironically engendered not a dramatic return to the first principles of classicism
but rather…a truly radical departure from them” (715) that anticipates later
adaptations of the Cenci legend, including the work of Antonin Artaud and
George Elliott Clarke.
14
On Shelley’s commission, Thomas Love Peacock took The Cenci to Thomas
Harris, manager of Covent Garden, to solicit its performance, but Harris
“pronounced the subject to be so objectionable, that he could not even submit
the part to Miss O’Neil [sic] for perusal” (L. ii. 279).
The first public mounting of The Cenci in England was at the New Theatre in
1922, as “…a censor’s decree became void a hundred years after a play’s
publication” (Curran, Shelley’s Cenci 223). Prior to this, there was an enactment
of the play by the Shelley Society in 1886, but this was staged unbeknownst to
the Censor under the guise of a private production for members and friends of
the Shelley Society only.
19
Mental Theatre: Resistance From The Closet
In the early nineteenth century, English “literary drama”
experienced a significant decline that Daniel Watkins and other scholars
attribute to a “crisis of social class,”(9) or the movement “from an aristocratic to
a middle-class social order” (6).15 According to Watkins, traditional literary
drama began to lose popularity with English audiences because “it carried with it
too much ideological baggage from the past that denied the new content and
consciousness of social life, and was thus formally unable to envision that past—
or the present—in terms of the bourgeois ideology that had become dominant”
(9). Consequently, the isolated success in romantic literary drama was “usually,
though not always, confined to the closet…where the genre thus seemed more
manageable” (7). But Watkins is quick to add that “the closet did not insulate the
drama from the social energies of the age; their works reveal the same anxiety
and sense of crisis pervading the period that are found in the melodramas and
spectacles favored by the theatergoing public” (7). In fact, closet drama could, as
Louise Marshall suggests, “by its very nature…be more defamatory and explicit
in its approach to political comment” (13). Certainly, in the case of The Cenci,
its relegation to the closet enhances the discourse of suppression that operates
15
By “literary drama” Watkins is referring to “legitimate” or “traditional” drama
as defined by Raymond Williams in The Long Revolution. In this sense, the
decline of the genre refers to a movement away from the themes and style of
English Renaissance drama, it is not to suggest that there was a decline in the
production of plays in the nineteenth century.
20
within the play. This occurs in two ways. Frist, as a text that is structured as a
drama but denied stage presence, the play implicitly insists upon performance by
this very denial. Similarly, Simpson contends that a verse drama’s “confinement
in the closet allows [it] to assert the political necessity for action more
vehemently, precisely because the denial of this action makes it more
imperative” (5-6). Throughout the play, Beatrice struggles to achieve vocal and
physical liberation from patriarchal oppression. Yet her attempts to gain
visibility in the system in which she is marginalized are constantly stymied, first
by her father, and later by the system that sentences her to death for parricide.
Moreover, the banning of the play from the British stage reinforces the public
suppression of Beatrice’s voice. In this way, the play itself serves as an
extension of the political exercise of control over abject bodies and their voices
and thus emphasizes the problems with this kind of censorship.
Second, the confinement of The Cenci in the closet enhances the
complex relationship between public and private that the play thematically
explores. The components of the closet encompass both the private and the
public. For example, Michael Simpson likens the literary closet to the “private
room of the gentleman” (310, italics original), which functions as both a study,
“a place of reading and writing for one person alone (Kerr qtd. in Simpson 309)
and as a place “where he conducts his less than private affairs” (310): that is,
where he receives both business and personal visitors. Similarly, the dramatic
21
closet embodies this negotiation between both the public and the private as acts
that are censored from the external stage are endorsed and explored on the
closet’s mental stage.
A similar negotiation of space occurs thematically in The Cenci, where
the public and the private are distinguished but also intricately connected by a
complex network of tyrannical power relations. I have already considered how
the triumvirate of male power sanctions the authority of the father where, as
Groseclose succinctly notes, “an autocratic Pope such as Clement VIII…rel[ies]
on the derivation of the authority of the “Holy Father” from God the Father and,
at the same time, refuses to discipline Cenci [for his crimes] who is also a
father” (Incest 228-9). The authority of the father indicates a clear distinction
between voices that are publically permissible (the voice of the patriarch) and
those that are not (voices of subjugated individuals—usually women, though not
exclusively as poor, unemployed men, like Giacomo, who are also marginalized
within this discourse). But at the same time, the authority of the father suggests
an essential link between the public and the private as it points to the reciprocal
sanctioning of fathers within the system. In other words, if the domestic father is
dependent on the Holy Father for socio-political power in the same way that the
Holy Father depends on God the Father for the sanction of his power, it follows
that the stability of the father’s control in the home comes to represent the
stability of the papal government. Therefore, papal authority publically sanctions

22
private acts of abuse and abjection, such as the physical and verbal abuse Count
Cenci inflicts on his wife and children, as they serve to maintain the socio-
political control of the patriarchy. Evidence of this is found in the allusions to
the variety of payoffs Cenci makes to the papal government in order to cover his
murderous and debauched acts. In turn, the papacy, as Orsino notes, graft the
“revenue of many a wealthy” (1.2.65-5) in order to sustain their treasuries.
Despite their inherent co-dependability, the prospect of the boundary between
the public and the private being traversed is a key source of anxiety for those in
power.
This is most apparent when Beatrice speaks out against her father at the
banquet he gruesomely holds in celebration of the deaths of his two elder sons.
In this scene, which explicitly conflates the public and the private, as public
dignitaries are brought into the Cenci household, Beatrice presents herself before
the patriarchy as a physical and vocal challenge to the system of privilege. In
appealing to the guests to relieve her and her family from Cenci’s tyranny,
Beatrice’s act of vocal insurrection endangers the stability of the patriarchal
order and generates anxiety for her father, driving him to quickly suppress the
moment by dismissing the guests: “Goodnight, farewell: I will not make you
longer spectators of our dull domestic quarrels” (1.3.162-3). Because Beatrice’s
voice threatens to undermine Cenci’s control as domestic patriarch and expose a
vulnerability that he does not want transmitted into the public sphere, he
23
dismisses the situation as “a dull domestic quarrel” in an attempt to maintain a
distinction between public and private.
The patriarchy’s fear of social insurrection points to a more general
relationship between word and deed, specifically the idea that speech equals
action, or the potential to act and is, therefore, a form of power. In fact, as
Watkins observes, the “near obsession with language, particularly the
relationship between language and power” is one of the central preoccupations
of romantic drama (11). In The Cenci, this relationship operates as a “hoary hair”
anxiety where members of the patriarchy feel vulnerable to voices that challenge
despotic power. In relaying the Pope’s final death sentence to the Cenci family,
Camillo communicates the Pope’s fear:
Parricide grows so rife

That soon, for some just cause no doubt, the young
Will strangle us all, dozing in our chairs.
Authority and power and hoary hair,
Are grown crimes capital. (5.4.20-24)
In order to ease their fears and defend their power, the patriarchy, as I have
already shown, adopts tactics of smothering or closeting voices that threaten the
authority of the father. Likewise, the links between speech and action are of
concern within the Cenci household, evidenced when Count Cenci accuses
Lucretia of teaching Bernardo “by rote / Parricide with his alphabet…” (2.1.131-
2). Here Cenci suggests language itself constitutes a weapon of potential
insurrection. This accusation also reinforces the notion that, in Cenci’s mind,
24
only the solitary voice of the father should be heard in the home. When
challenges arise, Cenci sends his family to the enclosed Castle of Petrella in an
effort to keep them silent:
Safely walled, and moted round about:

Its dungeons underground, and its thick towers
Never told tales; though they have heard and seen
What might make dumb things speak. (2.1. 168-172)
Ironically, this move does not achieve its purpose because Petrella ultimately
becomes the stage for insurrection, as it is within its ‘safe walls’ that the
parricide occurs. Although Cenci sees a connection between speech and power,
he does not realize that silence can also generate action. It is to these moments,
when silence is transformed into action, and rebellion, that I now direct my
analysis.
Double Consciousness and Diva Citizenship: Resistance Within the Self
In addition to the duality of silence as it operates both thematically and
formally in The Cenci, Shelley is also concerned with another kind of doubling:
double consciousness. Shelley’s interest in double consciousness extends back to
what he saw as the driving tragic force behind the Cenci family history, what he
calls in the preface the “restless and anatomising casuistry with which men seek
the justification of Beatrice, yet feel that she has done what needs justification”
(“Preface” 731). But double consciousness, or self-consciousness, also operates
on the level of character, as it is the trait that sets Beatrice above the multitude.
25
This is not to suggest that Beatrice is the only character who is self-reflexive, for
Orsino brings it to our attention that self-scrutiny is a “trick of this same family”
(2.2.108), manifest in both Cenci and Giacomo (and even Orsino himself shows
a penchant for the same “trick”). But what is distinctive about Beatrice’s acts of
self-reflection is the sublime fearlessness with which she turns the “wide gaze of
day” (2.2.90) on herself and the transcendent morality to which her acts of self-
reflection constantly aspire—a morality that transposes “hate” and murder into
“the only worship I could lift to our great father” (5.2.127-9). 16 Scholars have
attempted to define the theme of double consciousness in The Cenci in a variety
of terms. Lockridge posits it as a “split in [Beatrice’s] consciousness between
being and doing…and a “doubleness, not duplicity” that he sees as
“characteristic of her throughout” (97). Michael Scrivener in Radical Shelley
addresses self-consciousness by demarcating Shelley’s characters into two
groups: “those who are naïve, at one with their social role and self-concept, and
those who are self-conscious, having undergone a process of doubling the self
into knower and known, analyzer and analyzed” (188-9). Julie Carlson attributes
16
Beatrice’s fearless self-scrutiny only falters once, in my estimation, after she
is raped by her father: “Misery has killed its father: yet its father / Never like
mine—O, God! What thing am I?” (3.1.37-8). But the abject fear expressed in
this moment is the effect of the physical and psychological trauma engendered
by the circumstance (the violence Cenci inflicts on Beatrice’s body) and, in this
sense, exterior to the self. Moreover, I would suggest Beatrice’s inability to self-
reflect in this moment of crisis is one of the motivating factors for the
subsequent insurrection. In other words, Beatrice’s act of rebellion is motivated,
in part, by her need to reclaim self-consciousness and, by extension, the self.
26
the theme to the romantic theatre’s proto-psychoanalytic preoccupation with
remorse, as delineated by Coleridge: “For remorse as mental trait exemplifies
the psychic state of theatre—double consciousness, or the ability to ‘know’ one
thing and ‘feel’ another”(206). Likewise, to return for a moment to a discussion
of the constructs of eighteenth- and nineteenth-century theatre, “beginning in the
eighteenth century, European theorists of the stage developed the idea of double
consciousness as a psychological explanation for the paradox of acting. Hence
Diderot: ‘One is oneself by nature; one is another by imitation; the heart you
imagine for yourself is not the heart you have’ (Roach, Cities 82-3). The paradox
Diderot presents also speaks to the socio-political climate of The Cenci in that it
calls attention to how social identities are constructed or imagined.17 In light of
this theory of identity, the system of political and domestic privilege that the
members of the patriarchy adopt is not a network of natural entitlements (even
though the system claims to rest on the divine sanction of the Pope) but one of
imagined constructs. Likewise, those who are disenfranchised by the system are
not naturally inferior, but systematically subordinated. In this sense, oppression
becomes a site of trauma as, according to Caruth, “in trauma, there is an
17
In the preface to the play Shelley alludes to the links between professional and social
acting. He posits the stage as a place to re-embody history and to examine human nature
through this re-embodiment: “Such a story, if told so as to present to the reader all the
feelings of those who once acted it, their hopes and fears, their confidences and
misgivings, their various interests, passions and opinions, acting upon and with each
other, yet all conspiring to one tremendous end, would be as a light to make apparent
some of the most dark and secret caverns of the human heart” (728).
27
incomprehensible outside of the self that has already gone inside without the
self’s mediation, hence without any relation to the self, and this consequently
becomes a threat to any understanding of what a self might be in this context”
(131-132, 5n). Both oppression and trauma therefore are forms of double
consciousness as they give rise to moments when one’s self-concept is
incongruous with how others (or a society) perceive him or her. This duality of
self generates a sublime, even Gothic, trauma of identity. Double consciousness
operates as a site of trauma in The Cenci most clearly in Beatrice’s “doubled”
relationship to her father after the rape. The act of incestuous rape is, quite
literally, an incomprehensible, unmediated physical intrusion, or penetration,
that threatens the victim’s concept of self. In the act of incest, the boundaries in
the familial relationship deemed natural or permissible become blurred through
doubling; Beatrice is now forced to see herself through the eyes of her father
who acknowledges her as both a daughter and a sexual object. The combination
of a natural (familial) relationship with her father an unnatural one (as an object
of sexual abuse) propels Beatrice into a state of trauma that borders on madness.
Beatrice, however, does not let this trauma destroy her. Instead, she recovers her
power of self-scrutiny and uses it to manipulate her double-conscious state into a
source of liberation and rebellion. In other words, the psychic state of double
consciousness is a liminal mental place suspended between knowing and feeling.
This state, as I have already suggested, can elicit psychological trauma when
28
one’s knowledge of the self becomes challenged or limited by external forces of
power. But by contrast, this state of double consciousness also provides room for
resistance because the ability to know one thing and feel another allows the
individual to imagine alternate possibilities for the self. In this way, the
individual can assert his or her value in a system where he or she is essentially
valueless and can feel empowered despite knowing he or she has been socially
relegated to a position of powerlessness. It is precisely the tenuousness of
liminal spaces that creates a sense of flexibility and “transparency in the
otherwise opaque surfaces of regular, uneventful, social life” (Roach, “Culture
and Performance” 54-5), which allows narratives of power and privilege to be
called into question. The resistance that double consciousness occasions allows
for actions to become reactions, opening the door for insurrection.
This is exactly what happens for Beatrice when the initial trauma of the
rape subsides. After a moment “absorbed in thought” (3.1.179), Beatrice
concludes:
And lest I be reserved, day after day,

To load with crimes an overburdened soul
And be –what ye can dream not. I have prayed
To God, and I have talked with my own heart,
And have unravelled my entangled will,
And have at length determined what is right (3.1.216-221).
29
Through an act of self-scrutiny Beatrice resolves to not submit herself, and her
soul, to what she perceives as a destined state of social abjection. Instead, she
uses the moment to imagine the possibility of an alternate course of action and
ultimately determines to have her father murdered, an act that momentarily
overturns the systems of power and privilege which has reduced her to a position
of political, vocal, and sexual subordination. The tension felt in this moment of
double consciousness—the tension that generates reflective action—is similar to
the tension that turns the closet into an “echo chamber in which the developing
specificity of its own silence can be detected” (Simpson 313). In this moment of
tension, voices that are forced into silence within the closet’s imagined walls
begin to echo, reverberate, and gain energy until, with nowhere to go but out,
they break through the closet walls in an act of self-assertion.
Beatrice’s movement from silence to speech echoes Lauren Berlant’s
notion of “Diva Citizenship” where “a person stages a dramatic coup in a public
sphere in which she does not have privilege. Flashing up and startling the public,
[the Diva Citizen] puts the dominant story into suspended animation…[and]
renarrates the dominant history…[where] abjected people have once lived sotto
voce” (223).18 Ostensibly, Shelley’s Beatrice participates in three acts of Diva
18
I was introduced to Berlant’s concept of Diva Citizenship in an article by Maureen
Moynagh entitled, “‘This History’s Only Good For Anger’: Gender and Cultural Memory
in Beatrice Chancy.” Moynagh applies Berlant’s work on Diva Citizenship to the
30
Citizenship. The first, and the most debatable under Berlant’s terms, is the
murder of her father. I am classifying this event as an act of Diva Citizenship
because it is clearly a dramatic coup in the most extreme and violent sense, as
the murder of Count Cenci is the most corporeal moment of rebellion against
tyranny in the play. But the problem in regards to Diva Citizenship lies in the
fact that in Shelley’s play, even though Beatrice has a substantial role in
planning the murder of her father, she does not actually kill him; she hires
assassins to commit the act. But as tenuous as this moment as an act of Diva
Citizenship is, Shelley’s Beatrice participates in two other acts that definitively
mark her as a Diva Citizen—the first is when she speaks out against her father at
the banquet and the second is at her trial, where she voices a direct challenge to
patriarchal tyranny.
Berlant categorizes acts of Diva Citizenship as “moments…[where] acts
of language can feel like explosives that shake the ground of collective
existence” (223). Similarly, Beatrice’s acts of vocal insurrection shake the
foundation of the socio-political system of privilege that marginalizes her,
particularly because this system of power is predicated on her subordination and,
quite literally, built on her back. In her first act of vocal insurrection, at Cenci’s
character of Beatrice Chancy in George Elliott Clarke’s libretto adaptation of the Cenci
legend.
31
banquet, Beatrice takes advantage of the presence of religious and political
dignitaries in her home to address the injustice of her situation:
I have borne much, and kissed the sacred hand

Which crushed us to the earth, and thought its stroke
Was perhaps some paternal chastisement!
Have excused much, doubted; and when no doubt
Remained, have sought by patience, love and tears,
To soften him; and when this could not be,
I have knelt down through the long sleepless nights,
And lifted up to God, the father of all,
Passionate prayers: and when these were not heard
I have still borne; — until I meet you here,
Princes and kinsmen, at this hideous fest
Given at my brothers’ deaths. Two yet remain,
His wife remains and I, whom if ye save not,
Ye may soon share such merriment again
As fathers make over their children’s graves (1.3. 111-125).
In this moment of elocution, Beatrice becomes a true Diva Citizen as she
“testifies [to]…the muted and anxious history of her imperilled citizenship,” and
trust in the prospect of social change:
Her witnessing turns into a scene of teaching and an act of heroic

pedagogy, in which the subordinated person feels compelled to recognize
the privileged ones, to believe in their capacity to learn and to change; to
trust their desire to not be inhuman; and trust their innocence of the
degree to which their obliviousness has supported a system of political
subjugation. (Berlant 222)
But this act of “heroic pedagogy” is terminated by Count Cenci who threatens
Beatrice’s audience: “I hope my good friends here / Will think of their own
daughters – or perhaps / Of their own throats – before they lend an ear / To this
wild girl” (1.3.129-132). Because of this, Beatrice’s speech is met with silence
32
“Dare no one look on me? / None answer? Can one tyrant overbear / The sense
of many best and wisest men?” (1.3.132-4), and she discovers that it is not
obliviousness that supports this unjust socio-political system, but a lust for
power. Even when directly confronted with injustice, the dignitaries prefer to be
silent spectators opting not to act in order to maintain their positions of privilege
for, as Simpson notes, “[when] oppression seeps inevitably into the exercise of
absolute power, the fictions which shroud its actions must be carefully
maintained” (228-9). Likewise, Scrivener addresses the ethical problems of non-
action and suggests, “Not to admit the full extent of evil and not to act ethically
once confronted with it…both allow the social actor to maintain his privileged
status without questioning his role in the system of privilege” (190). Even in
momentous and courageous acts of elocution, Beatrice’s voice, the voice of the
marginalized that calls the powers that be into question, is ignored out of fear of
its revolutionary potential. Moreover, in Beatrice’s second great moment of
elocution, the scene of her trial, she delivers a captivating defense, calling for
justice and an end to patriarchal oppression; yet her words are entirely lost on
the members of the court. Even Camillo, who in the past was one of the few
members of the patriarchy to register some sympathy for Beatrice’s appeals,
responds to this moment saying, “As that most perfect image of God’s love /
That ever came sorrowing upon the earth. / She is as pure as speechless
infancy!” (5.2.68-70). Although Camillo is not explicitly trying to disavow

33
Beatrice’s voice with this statement, by reducing her arresting vocal
performance to “speechless infancy” he associates her voice with infantile
babble, or sounds that have yet to develop into recognizable words (and are
therefore speechless), which ultimately serves to subvert her voice and the social
change it demands. Additionally, his comment signals what Dunn and Jones cite
as further “associations of the female voice with bodily fluids (milk, menstrual
blood) and the consequent devaluation of feminine utterances as formless and
free-flowing babble, a sign of uncontrolled female generativity” (3). Moreover,
sexualizing the female voice in this way contains it in the female body, and this
embodiment has several implications.19 In one sense, this association suggests,
as does the act of incestuous rape, that social politics are in fact issues of sexual
politics, that intimate sexual encounters are representative of political issues.20 In
fact, Berlant’s concept of Diva Citizenship stems from what she calls a
“genealogy of sex in the nation,” which posits that “the existence of official
sexual underclasses has been [vital] to national symbolic and political
coherence” and that “experiences of violated sexual privacy” are linked “to the
doctrine of abstract national personhood” (221). Acts of Diva Citizenship expose
this exploitation of marginalized bodies. In another sense, the link between the
19
The concept of embodiment in relation to the female voice is taken from the
Introduction to Embodied Voices: Representing Female Vocality in Western Culture (pp.
1-15), edited by Leslie C. Dunn and Nancy A. Jones.
20
The act of incestuous rape physically marks Beatrice as an abject body in the eyes of
the patriarchy and thus consolidates her position of social abjection.
34
female voice and uncontrolled female generativity reinforces the grey hair
anxiety that I discussed earlier as it implies that Beatrice’s voice of revolution
could beget other voices of the same kind. Furthermore, the reproduction of
rebellion can be completed without the assistance of the male; for example,
Lucretia can, according to Cenci, teach Bernardo “parricide by rote” (2.1.132),
behind his back, making the female voice both politically and sexually
threatening. However, regardless of how threatening the female voice may be,
because it is associated with sexuality it is implicitly rooted in the body and is,
therefore, terminable. Even though Beatrice effectively challenges the system of
privilege sustained by the patriarchy through her acts of elocution, it is the
patriarchy that ultimately prevails by terminating her life and extinguishing her
voice, consolidating the discourse of suppression that governs the play.
35
Chapter Two: Beatrice Chancy
George Elliott Clarke’s first encounter with Shelley’s verse drama The Cenci in
1992 during his doctoral studies at Queen’s University marked the beginning of a long
process of transcultural adaptation, and collaboration with composer James Rolfe, that
eventually came to fruition in 1998 as the chamber opera, Beatrice Chancy. This
adaptation not only proved to be groundbreaking in the world of new Canadian opera. 21
It also reshaped the way in which Canadians engaged with their past, as it unveiled the
often silenced or censored history of slavery in Canada. In their interpretation of the
Cenci legend, Clarke and Rolfe draw on the themes of tyranny, oppression, citizenship,
and sexual violence that Shelley explores in his verse drama, but re-imagine Beatrice as
the mixed-race daughter of Francis Chancy, a white slave owner in the Annapolis Valley,
Nova Scotia in the year 1801. This narrative recontextualization employs a European
history of social and domestic violence in order to expose Canada’s historic intimacy with
racial violence and oppression. In doing so, the opera disrupts Canada’s past partiality
towards “a classical African-American discourse…that construct[s] the nation as the
promised land, or Canaan, for fugitive African Americans” (Clarke, “Contesting” 2).
Moreover, this recontextualization re-codes Beatrice’s courageous act of insurrection
21
Beatrice Chancy has been one of the most successful contemporary Canadian operas to
date, achieving a multi-production run across Canada. It has aired on both CBC Radio
and CBC-TV, being “the first Canadian opera broadcast on television in more than 30
years, and the first opera of any sort broadcast on CBC-TV since 1989” (Bernstein B4).
Additionally, the role of Beatrice was the debut performance of Measha Brueggergosman
who has gone on to become one of Canada’s leading internationally acclaimed sopranos.
36
after she is sexually abused as a contestation of the abjection of African Canadians in
Canada’s narrative of national identity. Clarke and Rolfe’s adaptation also generically
reconfigures Shelley’s verse drama into a chamber opera, and one that deftly experiments
with traditional operatic forms.22 It is therefore through the powerful voice of Beatrice as
a diva and the experimentation with the formal structure of opera, that Beatrice Chancy
re-narrates the history of a group that has lived, to borrow Lauren Berlant’s term, sotto
voce in Canadian national consciousness.
The counterdiscourse that this opera offers is an example of “what Toni Morrison
has called ‘re-memory,’” or the “construct[ion] [of] a history of slavery in a nation actively
invested in forgetting that slavery was ever practiced there” (Moynagh 98). This process of
re-memory, or re-narration, is part of Clarke’s larger effort to rebuild and reclaim an
archive of Africadian identity within Canada’s discourse of nationhood. 23 The relegation
of African Canadian experiences to the margins of national narrative has occurred, in part,
because of the selective nature of Canada’s archives. 24 The amount of archived sources
relating to black Canadians is minimal in comparison to the “wealth of public, archived
sources…about ‘white Canada’” (Wyile 148). Likewise, the content that does exist is
22
The opera integrates both traditional operatic forms like the aria, Italian madrigal form,
and English folk songs, with musical forms deriving from African-American music, such
as the ring shout, spirituals, blues and work songs.
23
In the foreword (“Portage”) to Lush Dreams, Blue Exile, Clarke describes the
neologism Africadia as follows: “Merging Africa and Acadia (a word which derives—
like Acadie—from the Mi’kmaq suffix, cadie, which means “abounding in”), Africadia
signifies Black Nova Scotia, an African-American-founded “nation” which has flourished
for more than two centuries” (i).
24
See: “Opera from the soul.” The National. CBC. 5 Oct. 1999. Television.
37
“exclusive or selectively inclusive” (160) in its depictions of African Canadian identity.
For example, in looking for archival photographs of black women in Canada to include in
Whylah Falls, Clarke only discovers images that portray these women in subordinate roles
that “reinforce stereotypes…[and] social inequalities” (160). The strategic positioning of
the black body in the archives, through the inclusion of images that depict subordination
and the contradictory silencing of the nation’s violent exercise of despotic racial power and
privilege, prompts Clarke to turn to what he calls “unconventional sources” (148),
specifically “oral records, folklore, orature” (148) in order to fill the silences of a history
that has not been fully written. 25 In other words, in opposition to a nationally privileged
textual history that he recognizes as fundamentally flawed in its limited depiction of black
Canadians, Clarke seeks out various forms of collective memory to contest this erasure and
re-narrate the dominant history. As Clarke’s work demonstrates, in the transmission of
cultural knowledge “the persistence of collective memory through restored behaviour” in
forms such as rituals, ceremonies, folk songs, and oral story telling, “represents an
alternative and potentially contestatory form of knowledge—bodily knowledge, habit,
custom” (Roach, “Culture and Performance” 47). This notion of collective memory as both
contestatory knowledge and embodied knowledge is particularly appropriate considering
Clarke’s work originates in embodied memories (oral histories) and attempts to recover
25
In a conversation with Herb Wyile on the subject of writing Canadian historical fiction,
Clarke states: “No one has written the history of Black Nova Scotia between 1925 and
1949, or of Black New Brunswick for that matter, but luckily there are plenty of people
still living who have memories…who can give you a perspective on what it was like”
(148).
38
bodies (identities) that have been lost or written out of the dominant cultural narrative. 26
Moreover, the notion of collective memory as a form of restored behaviour positions it
within the discourse of performance, suggesting a link between acts of collective memory
(and the cultural knowledge that these acts relay) and formal performance genres. In this
way, Clarke and Rolfe’s choice of opera as the medium through which to relay their
narrative becomes significant, especially since opera is also regarded as an embodied art
form. 27 By focusing on four scenes— the opening ring shout (1.1), Beatrice’s return to
Francis’s house (1.1), the incestuous rape (2.3), and the resulting trauma Beatrice
experiences from this violation and her subsequent act of insurrection (4.1)—I will explore
how the opera, as an embodied genre, functions as a viable outlet for the contestation of
dominant history and the reconfiguration of concepts of citizenship.
26
Cf: Clarke, George Elliott. “We Have to Recover Their Bodies.” Speaking in the Past
Tense: Canadian Novelists on Writing Historical Fiction. By Herb Wyile. Waterloo,
Ontario: Wilfrid Laurier University Press, 2007. 147. Print.
27
The intense physicality of the genre is seen in the corporeal quality of the voice.
Operatic singing exerts physical stress on the body of the performer. Likewise, the voice
is physically fragile, evidenced by how easily the throat of the performer can be damaged
and the voice lost. But there is also an erotic element to this physicality. Leonardi and
Pope define opera as “fragile throats, open mouths, powerful lungs, swollen epiglottises,
larynxes on the edge” (8). This sexualization extends from the body of the performer to
the visceral response opera evokes in the listener. Opera is embodied in the intimate and
erotic encounter between the singing voice and the receiving body of the listener. See
Leonardi and Pope who pursue Koestenbaum’s question, “At the opera…what does your
body do?” (8), as well as Barthes who posits the reception of the singing voice as “an
internal, muscular, humoral sensuality” that “passes over the entire surface of the
body…[and] can effect orgasm” (S/Z 110). See also Poizat, Abbate, and Clarke and
Rolfe: “Opera to me is an intimate physical experience—the singers should bathe the
audience with their sweat and blood” (Rolfe 78).
39
Staging Acts of Collective Memory
Collective memory is an invaluable resource in the recovery of marginalized
histories for, as Roach concludes, “In opposition to the official voice of history,
which…has tended to emphasize the cultural annihilations of the diaspora, the voice of
collective memory, which derives from performance, speaks of the stubborn
reinventiveness of restored behaviour” (“Culture and Performance” 58). In the context of
Beatrice Chancy, this stubborn reinventivness refers, in one sense, to the opera’s
reinventing of a narrative of African Canadian identity in which a history of violence is
revealed. Beatrice, the daughter of Francis Chancy and one of his deceased black slaves,
is sent by her father and his wife Lustra to a convent in Halifax in an effort to cultivate
her whiteness. Upon her return to the Annapolis Valley Beatrice declares her love for
Lead, one of Francis’s slaves. Enraged by their prospective union, Francis tortures Lead
and rapes Beatrice, reinforcing their abjection within the socio-political system. Beatrice,
Lead, and Lustra then conspire to murder Francis in an attempt to achieve liberation from
the system of despotic power that denies them autonomy. The plot is carried out by
Beatrice and Lead but subsequently leads to the conviction and hanging of all three by
Nova Scotia’s English authorities under the direction of Governor Wentworth.
Although the eponymous opera tells the story of one woman, the narrative
accounts for the history of many as it invokes the memory of the “Many thousand gone”
(Clarke 4.2.9), those lost to the brutality of slavery and to the national erasure of its
existence in Canadian history. Clarke and Rolfe’s recovery project thus reverses
40
censorship and silence, exposing the audience to two deeply unsettling instances of
corporeal abuse. What makes these two scenes particularly disturbing is the way in which
the violence is articulated. Chancy’s language in the torture scene is uncomfortable and
explicit in its disparagement of Lead: “But I’ll decided on love and death- / And on
pain—which is all you’re worth” (Clarke 1.2.108-9). Similarly, Chancy’s sadistic
anticipation of the act itself functions as a violation: “Sex instigating the black rasp of
knives— / To be darkly entered the viscous prize, / Sap-eating triangle, housing noxious
buzzing of incestuous / Insects buys at sex” (2.3.12-15) and Beatrice’s blunt description
of the act immediately after: “His scythe went shick shick shick and cut / My flowers;
they lay in heaps, murdered” (3.1.8-0) heightens the discomfort. Musically, however,
these uncomfortable scenes are both placed in apposition with two poignant spirituals that
contain elements of the blues: “I must walk my lonesome valley” and later, “The sun
burns us / The rain soaks us” (1.2.114-117, 3.1.33-42). The two spirituals, both led by
Deal, contain beautiful, yet sorrowful blues-style bent notes that reference the sound of
the cry. These moments, removed from the immediate violence of the narrative, still
reinforce the articulation of violence as the voice of the blues is characterized by its
ability to express pain and the possible transcendence of this pain through musical form.28
28
“The blues is an impulse to keep the painful details and episodes of a brutal experience
alive in one’s aching consciousness, to finger its jagged grain, and then transcend it, not
by the consolation of philosophy but by squeezing from it a near-tragic, near-comic
lyricism” (Ralph Ellison qtd. in Young 12).
41
In another sense, the stubbornness of “the voice of collective memory” (as
Roach’s aurally charged language connotes) refers to the persistence of voice in its ability
to “speak across [a] crushing plot” (Abbate xi). 29 In other words, in terms of that which is
unique to opera, it can refer to the persistence of the singing voice. As I have shown,
Beatrice Chancy prominently features voices that speak out against and challenge the
dominant discourse of suppression, and these voices resound even more emphatically in
opera because of the visceral power of the singing voice.30 A “physical and sensual
force,” the operatic voice “has the capacity to assail us with its sheer sound” (Abbate x,
12). 31 As a diva, Beatrice’s empowered voice resonates as it speaks of past injustice and
insists on identifying Chancy as her rapist. Before she and Lead are about to carry out the
murder of Francis, Lustra reminds Beatrice that Chancy is her father. Beatrice rejects this
term by stating, “Call him what you like. / I call him my raper” (Clarke (4.1.47-8).32 The
naming of Francis Chancy as raper reconfigures the practice of naming as an imperial tool
for ownership. Particularly by using the noun form of the word, the naming becomes not
an explicit narration of the event but identifies Francis, making its utterance a reciprocal
29
In his critique of Catherine Clément’s Opera, or The Undoing of Women, Paul
Robinson contends that the diva can transcend and triumph over (traditionally
androcentric) narratives of death and destruction by the sonic power of the her singing
voice
30
Linda Hutcheon suggests opera is a “form that is emotionally powerful, that allows
people to connect in a very strong way” (“Opera in Conversation” 186). In opera music
and voice combine to generate an affective response in the listener.
31
See, for example, Deal’s “cry” in the two spirituals cited earlier.
32
This act of naming distinguishes Clarke and Rolfe’s adaptation from Shelley’s verse
drama, where it is left unarticulated.
42
act of ownership through which Beatrice re-claims her body and her past. In naming
Francis as her raper, Beatrice remembers and articulates the violence that has been
inflicted not only upon her, but also upon her mother and her ancestors. This reverse act
of naming creates a shift in power relations that is consolidated by Chancy who later
claims, “In smutting her, I smote myself” (4.1.41), and is an important step in the process
of cultural re-narration that the opera sets out to accomplish.
The association of voice and body is integral to collective memory and to the
cultural re-narration within Beatrice Chancy. The physicality that Abbate stresses in the
reception of music also characterizes its production:
So immediate and inescapable is music’s assault upon us…that we are inclined to

assign it a source who speaks it. We tend to ask ourselves, even if only
subliminally, where the music comes from. Music is not merely a gaudy
interruption of silence, which converges from ambient space. It is not a text
writing itself, or historical events ‘speaking themselves.’ Music originates from
human bodies. (12)
If collective memory produces alternative, bodily knowledge through performance, then
in the case of opera access to this bodily knowledge comes not only through the physical
presence of the performer, but also through the corporeality of the singing voice. In
employing unconventional generic devices, such as the ring shout, the operatic
performance invokes the historic bodies to which this narrative counter history belongs,
rather than simply relaying their histories. This allows for the performing bodies on stage
to re-embody the suppressed history in an imaginative act of narrative and musical
(re)creation. In this way, the cultural restoration that occurs in the opera is musical as well
as narrative. In researching the diverse musical landscape of early nineteenth-century

43
Nova Scotia, which included “sacred and secular musics of African, American, English,
Irish, Scottish, French and Mi’Kmaq ancestry,” Rolfe discovers a lack in the recorded
history of African-Canadian music of the time, similar to that which Clarke finds
textually (Rolfe 78). Rolfe comments on this in his introduction to the libretto:
The early music of African-Canadians is a matter of conjecture, as neither

recordings nor sheet music exists and written records are scant. I studied
recordings and accounts of African-American music from remote locales—costal
islands, rural areas, and prisons—of the southern United States, in the belief that
they offer the nearest clues as to how African Canadian music of that era might
have sounded and functioned. Recorded and printed sources from Nova Scotia
furnished further clues. (Zapf 65)
In composing the sonic world of the opera, Rolfe must also engage in the process of
reconstituting the sound of the early Africadian community. This entails, as he explains,
piecing together various African diasporic musical histories through imaginative acts of
musical re-creation.
The opening ring shout is a key example of this process of musical adaptation, for
it derives from African American traditions of the southern United States. In terms of its
historic practice, the ring shout is one of the foundational forms of African musical
expression maintained throughout the diaspora. Defined as “an early Negro ‘holy
dance,’” it consists of participants rhythmically shuffling in a circular pattern:
Accompanied by a spiritual, sung by lead singers, ‘based’ by others in the group

(probably with some kind of responsorial device and by hand-clapping and knee-
slapping). The ‘thud’ of the basic rhythm was continuous without pause or
hesitation. And the singing that took place in the shout made use of interjections
of various kinds, elisions, blue-notes, and call-and-response devices, with the
sound of the feet against the floor serving as an accompanying device. (Gordon
qtd. in Floyd 266)
44
The staging of a ring shout in the opening moments of Beatrice Chancy connects the
opera to the deep corporeality of traditional African American music and performance
rituals as well as to the embodied aspect of the ring shout as a funerary ritual. The
funerary associations of the ring shout can be traced to other African funerary practices
such as Louisiana “festivals of the dead” and Jazz Funerals, both of which operate under
the “religious belief in the participation of ancestral spirits in the world of the present”
(Roach, “Culture and Performance” 58). Likewise, the ring shout is defined by the same
principle as it is a predecessor of these practices: “In New Orleans…the ring [shout] was
an essential part of the burial ceremonies of Afro-Americans” and over time “straightened
itself to become the Second Line of jazz funerals, in which the movements of the
participates were identical to those participants in the ring” (Floyd 267). In the ring shout,
voice and ritual movements combine to create a musical performance that conjures the
memory of the dead in the present moment. The integration of this ritual into the
performance of the opera, a ritual that reinforces the cultural understanding that “the dead
stay among us so that we may not forget” (bell hooks qtd. in Roach 57), is significant
considering the cultural re-memory work that Clarke and Rolfe undertake in Beatrice
Chancy.
When the performers participate in the ring shout in the opening moments of the
opera, they invoke the presence of those whose history is being re-narrated through the
renewal of this cultural ritual and being the process of re-embodiment that is carried out
in the rest of the performance. The ring shout, therefore, links history and memory to the
45
process of operatic creation—specifically what Abbate terms a self-reflexive
“coincidence of narrati[on] and enactment” (64).33 This connection is reinforced by the
fact that the ring shout conjures the dramatic narrative of the opera. The shout
commences with Moses leading the group of participants in the spiritual “Massa Winter
be dyin’ now.” As it continues, Lead takes over the improvisational role of the leader and
the shout evolves into the first dialogue of the opera: an argument over whether patience
and religious fortitude or rebellion and insurrection is a more effective means to
overcome oppression—a question that recurs thematically throughout the rest of the
performance. At this point, the self-reflexive performance instigates the dramatic
narrative, a change that is reinforced by the perpetual circling motion of the shout and the
later dispersion of the circle as the argument intensifies. Additionally, the ring shout
marks the transformation of performers into characters as all of the singers, as well as the
musicians and the conductor, participate in the performance of the opening ring shout. 34
As the dramatic roles emerge, the characters not present in the opening act leave the stage
and the musicians take their respective places. The self-reflexivity of this moment in the
opera alerts the audience members to their role as spectators of a performance. Moreover,
33
The musical recovery or production of bodies is a recurring theme in opera. See
Abbate’s analysis of The Marriage of Figaro in Unsung Voices: “The coincidence of
narrating and enactment has, in fact, created a reflexive moment of peculiar force, for the
Count’s act of narrating seems to engender the disaster of which it tells” (64). Narration
becomes reflexive as it produces action (and produces the body of Cherubino) through
the synthesis of time.
34
According to Zapf, this collective participation occurred in “both the live performances
and the performance televised by the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation” but is “a
performance option not indicated in the score” (101).
46
as witnesses to this transformation the audience is implicated in the national performance
of forgetting that the opera brings into play, reinforcing the fact that this history of
violence belongs to all Canadians. But by the same token, the audience is also invited into
the experience of remembering and the process of narrative re-creation. This reflexivity
also serves to remind us of the importance of all voices in the transmission and
preservation of marginalized histories, that we too have a voice that we can use to connect
to the past and to each other.
Urjo Kareda writes of this very connection in a review of the opera:
In the finale, as the singers and musicians stood together on stage chanting the
hymn O Freedom, a black woman just to my left in the audience fervently added
her voice to the singing. She was right: An experience of the magnitude of
Beatrice Chancy brought, for all of us, our hearts into our throats. (C5)
The Freedom Chorus in the finale is another instance of reflexive performance that, like
the opening ring shout, involves all of the opera’s performers. In this moment, the woman
in the audience recognizes her role in the performance and the power of sharing in song
that is created by the expandability of the procession.35 Her experience attests to what
Benedict Anderson calls the “experience of simultaneity” in singing, where “at precisely
such moments, people wholly unknown to each other utter the same verses to the same
melody. The image: unisonance…singing...provide[s] occasions for unisonality, for the
echoed physical realization of the imagined community” (145). Furthermore, the notion
35
Cf: “Opera is a collective art form. It creates a sense of belonging through collective
emotional response” (Hutcheon, “Opera in Conversation” 186).
47
that the opera brings the heart to the throat attests to music’s ability to “evoke and
provoke” (Hutcheon 235) an affective response in its listeners, evidenced by the woman’s
visceral reaction to join in the chorus. Additionally, Beatrice carries her heart in her
throat. After all, her voice is the source of her lifeblood. It is what allows her to become
an active agent in a discourse of oppression because it is through her voice that she
generates a counterdiscourse. And it is the very thing the patriarchy targets in order to
eliminate her, evidenced by the striking image towards the end of the opera of the diva
with the noose positioned forebodingly around her throat while she sings her final
declamation of love and memory. It is to Beatrice as a diva and her powerful voice that I
now turn.
Abjection to Agency: Place and Displacement in Discourses of Corporeal Control
The nation’s tendency to marginalize the histories of African Canadians
problematizes their claims to citizenship. As Crooks asserts, “black subjects [must] jostle
for a meaningful position within the mainstream Canadian social and cultural narrative”
(21). In Beatrice Chancy, the repositioning of black subjects occurs through the figure of
the diva, as Beatrice moves from a position of social and physical abjection to one of
agency by using her voice to indict a system of oppressive racial and sexual hierarchies.
At the beginning of the narrative Beatrice experiences a profound sense of place. In her
first appearance in the opera, upon returning from Halifax, Beatrice greets Lustra saying:
48
Dear Lustra, my second mother,

I joy to be home again,
After three long years…
How I longed to eye dark-passioned clouds
Sugar snow, rain, over the river. (Clarke 1.1.87-91)
In this moment, Beatrice affirms her mixed racial identity. Textually she roots herself in
the Annapolis Valley through a lush description of its landscape. Musically she signals
her African heritage, as the syncopated melody of her vocal line introduces a distant
rhythm not yet familiar to the sonic world of the opera. This new melody line
distinguishes Beatrice as a new voice, a breath of fresh air, that signals change and
ultimately suggests her revolutionary potential. Moreover, in addressing Lustra as her
second mother Beatrice enters into what she perceives is a safe and stable familial
environment.36 But even more significantly, in this description Beatrice establishes a
home for herself by claiming a position in the natural world of the Annapolis Valley.37 It
is in the landscape that Beatrice experiences a deeply rooted sense of place and it is out of
its lushness that her relationship with Lead comes to fruition.38
36
Beatrice maintains this perspective up until the moment that she first enters Francis’s
house: Our father, Lustra, and all my folk,
I love you through and through.
If I should miss Heaven when I die.
This memory will be my Zion. (1.2.47-50)
37
By extension, this claim establishes the history of African Canadians in eighteenth-
century Nova Scotia and their connection to and presence in the land.
38
Lead also establishes a connection to the landscape, land that he has undoubtedly
cultivated. He says to Beatrice, “I wanna talk ta ya / By the mauve river / Under the plum
sky” (1.1.58-60). His deep knowledge of the land allows him to conjure its saturated
beauty in his description.
49
But when Beatrice declares her love for Lead to her father she experiences an
abrupt displacement as she comes to realize the discourse of corporeal control that
governs the patriarchal racist regime under which she lives, and her lack of autonomy
within this discourse.39 The discourse of corporeal control stems from Lauren Berlant’s
conviction that nations operate on unjust systems of sexual power, where notions of
citizenship and belonging are predicated on the sexual harassment of marginalized bodies,
or what Berlant calls subgroups (238).40 Francis Chancy’s supremacy in the system of
patriarchal power and racial privilege that governs early nineteenth-century Nova Scotia
depends upon his ability to commodify women and slaves as “things” (Clarke 1.2.89-
90).41 Within the slave system, Chancy’s control is not only established on the basis of
servitude, but also as sexual domination. When Beatrice asserts her love for Lead, Chancy
interprets this as an undermining of her whiteness, something that he has bestowed upon
her (both genetically and by, as he claims, sending her to the convent in Halifax), and also
of his sexual entitlement. He attempts to reclaim this entitlement (which, ironically, he
already has by law) in two acts of corporeal violence: his torture of Lead and his rape of
Beatrice. Subsequently, the home that Beatrice originally claimed breaks down and she
39
This concept of corporeal control is taken from Lauren Berlant’s notion of the
corporeal conditions of citizenship, particularly in the context of discourses of nationhood
under slavery.
40
It is not limited to a specific subgroup, for although Berlant focuses on stories of black
and mixed-race women (including Harriet Jacobs and Iola Leroy) she also gestures
towards “many others, whose locations in hierarchies of racism, homophobia, and
misogyny will require precisely and passionately written counterhistories” (239).
41
As his daughter and a mulatto Beatrice is doubly subjected to this systemic
objectification.
50
comes to understand the ways in which her body is controlled through hegemonic
discourses of power and entitlement. After Lead is tortured, Beatrice realizes that as a
mulatto the corporeal conditions of citizenship are physically “mapped onto [her] body”
(Spillers qtd. in Moynagh 109) and serve to limit her mobility and autonomy. She says to
Lustra, “Would my words scorch! My singed skin / Tells white men I’m their whore, /
Tells black men I’m their serf” (Clarke 2.1.18-20).42 In Beatrice’s case, as is the case in
many slave narratives, corporeal control is exercised as physical and sexual exploitation
but also extends to control over sexuality (as Chancy decides whom Beatrice can and
cannot marry), kinship structure, and place. These various forms of control all culminate
in the rape, which is the most explicit instance of the operation of corporeal conditions of
citizenship in Beatrice Chancy. In the act of rape familial decorum is destroyed, as it
becomes incestuous. Moreover, as an act of physical and affective domination, it causes
Beatrice to experience the full extent of her abjection in the system. And it is this
traumatic “desubjectification” that Beatrice boldly resolves to speak out against.43
Immediately after the rape Beatrice exhibits a traumatic loss of self, which she
expresses in the desire to mutilate her body:
42
For further discussion of the racial mapping of (il)legitimacy on the body of mulatto
women see Berlant 229, 238 and Gueye 43.
43
See Berlant pp. 285-6, nt. 5: “Kristeva actually talks about abjection as a structure of
desubjectification—in which ‘ordinary’ subjects lose a sense of their rationality or
legitimacy as subjects in everyday and national life in response to negatively invested
social phenomena. She calls these abjected people ‘dejects’: faced with a substance or
phenomenon that unsettles the constitutive rules of order in their horizon of life
expectation, dejects become shaken, aversive, incompetent to subjectivity. They feel a
traumatic loss—of themselves.”
51
His sweat infests my hair!

Get a knife! I’ll hack it off!
He dug his lips upon my breasts:
Hand me a knife, I’ll slice ‘em off. (3.1.10-13)
However, Beatrice chooses to combat this sense of aversion by harnessing her vocal
power in order to reclaim her agency. This is what makes her a revolutionary. In
declaring Chancy to be her raper, Beatrice uses her voice to expose the system of sexual
power and racial privilege that he embodies. In refusing to remain silent, she disrupts this
system of hegemonic power that renders her body and her being abject. Her naming of
this violence generates a counterdiscourse that testifies to the alternate national
experience of those marginalized by patriarchy and racism. Moreover, her powerful
language instigates action as it prompts the murder of Chancy, a power that Beatrice
openly acknowledges to Moses after articulating the murder plot: “If my words frighten
you I’ll go. / But I’ll not go on, appeasing his lust” (3.2.57-8). By indicting Chancy and
the system that sanctions his power, Beatrice takes on the status of what Berlant terms a
Diva Citizen. The Diva Citizen attempts to “establish an archive for a different history”
(221). Through public acts of “risky dramatic persuasion” (223) the Diva Citizen
dismantles the boundary between the public and the private, exposing the link between
“experiences of violated sexual privacy” and “doctrine[s] of abstract national
personhood” (221). Even though Berlant does not explicitly link the Diva Citizen to the
opera diva, the power that Beatrice’s voice has when she exposes the violence that has
been inflicted upon her, stems from the associations of the voice of the diva.
52
Constructs of the opera diva fall under two categories, as delineated by Leonardi
and Pope: the masculinist and the revisionary. The masculinist discourse projects the diva
in terms of her “traditional representation” as “corrupt, monstrously selfish, ruthless,
competitive…destructive and deadly,” a representation “that goes back to Homer’s
sirens” (13). It is defined as masculinist “because it constantly figures the woman with a
voice as dangerous and ‘unnatural’” and thus serves to “reinforce traditional gender
categories and the compulsory heterosexuality those categories support” (13).
Conversely, the revisionary discourse counters this masculinist tradition: “While
masculinist discourse is preoccupied with what the diva and her voice do to men, the
counterdiscourse is concerned with what the diva does for women” (19). In other words,
the diva is a woman with a voice—a voice that speaks emphatically in the public sphere.
In the revisionary tradition, “the diva’s voice is a political force. It asserts equality and
earns authority in the public masculine world” (19). Like the Diva Citizen, the opera diva
speaks “in a public sphere in which she does not have privilege” (Berlant 223), as in both
the masculinist and revisionary discourses, the power of the diva’s voice stems from the
fact that it disrupts hegemonic constructs of authority.44 As a diva, Beatrice’s voice
disrupts traditional gender constructs as well as sexual constructs, as she unveils the
corruption within the patriarchy by speaking of incest. As a mulatto, Beatrice’s racial
44
As “a loud voice in the public world,” the diva, as Leonardi and Pope suggest, “quite
literally wears the pants” (21).
53
hybridity makes her body a source for the destabilization of monocultural authority. 45
This combination is what allows Beatrice to disrupt the intertwined discourses of both
racial and sexual power. Moreover, Beatrice’s voice is politically disruptive because it
insists upon recognizing the systemic violence that the nation attempts to efface.
But at a crucial moment in the opera Beatrice opts for silence. The diva refuses to
use her voice and all of its threatening power. After Chancy is murdered and the plot is
discovered, Deal warns the three conspirators of the impending presence of troops. The
tension rises as Lustra and Lead anticipate, with growing distress, their imminent
execution. But Beatrice responds saying:
Let them hang me! I’ll not cry out!

My whole life has been a prison.
Soon I will be free. (Clarke 4.1. 109-111)
Musically, Beatrice first asserts strength and confidence in her actions by her lyrical and
emphatic vocal line, but then alternates to a diminuendo staccato when she declares, “I’ll
not cry out!” This is followed by another lyrical flourish and then a return to the staccato
with, “Soon I will be free.” This return to diminuendo staccato reinforces Beatrice’s
silence and links her silence to the silence of death, as the freedom she anticipates in this
line is the freedom from life in death. But this is followed by a repetition of the verse,
only this time in one final lyrical cadence. In refusing to cry out Beatrice acknowledges
the limitless power of the system that oppresses her. Within the network of patriarchal
45
According to Gueye, discourses that privilege monoracialism regard “racial difference”
as “politically frightening” because “mixed identity destabilizes essence, deconstructs
universals, and decenters monocultural authority” (42).
54
and racial authority her voice, like her body, is also objectified.46 Ultimately, the
threatening power of Beatrice’s voice is easily terminated by those in power, evidenced
by the opera’s potent image of the diva and the noose. In this moment, the opera refuses
essentialized notions of the voice. Although powerful, Beatrice’s voice cannot effect an
immediate deliverance of justice. Yet, this is not to suggest that Beatrice is completely
powerless. There is still an evident sense of vocal power in her refusal, but it is a power
that comes from choosing to remain silent. In withholding her voice, Beatrice opts to no
longer be a part of the socially constructed discourse that systematically renders her
utterances and sensations as meaningless. It is in silence that Beatrice achieves a measure
of liberation.
Conclusion: Songs of Sorrow and of Citizenship
The narrative of Beatrice Chancy is one of corporeal stress on both personal and
national levels. The opera portrays this by staging multiple acts of violence—the rape of
Beatrice by Francis, the retaliatory murder of Francis by Beatrice, and the conviction and
hanging of Beatrice by the English authorities. In tracing these acts, the opera depicts the
disturbing escalation of violence as it moves from the domestic to the national, ending in
a spectacle of execution that implicates the law for condoning this violence and the nation
46
Poizat discusses the objectified voice as a prelude to his discussion of the voice object.
In his analysis of objectification he accounts for the multiple ways in which the voice of
the performer can be lost or stolen. Similarly, in Beatrice Chancy, the commodification of
Beatrice’s voice is evident in that it is lost to (or stolen by) the patriarchy when she is
executed.
55
for concealing it. If, as Linda and Michael Hutcheon contend, nationhood is an “affective
sense of belonging” (235), Beatrice experiences an affective sense of domination and
displacement at the hands of the patriarchy through the act of rape and her subsequent
public execution for parricide. Although Francis Chancy violates Beatrice’s body, her
body is not protected by law and she is the one that the system condemns. The
justification of Beatrice is a central preoccupation for Shelley in his adaptation of the
Cenci legend, and Clarke and Rolfe’s opera builds on the moral dilemmas that Shelley’s
text addresses. Shelley’s first concern is with the language of justification. At the trial,
Beatrice refuses to justify the crime for which she has been convicted:
But that which thou hast called my father’s death?

Which is or is not what men call a crime,
Which either I have done, or have not done;
Say what ye will. I shall deny no more. (Shelley 5.3.83-86)
Michael Worton contends that Beatrice refuses justification because “to speak would be
to accept the constrictions of a socially determined language” (120).47 Shelley’s interest
in the “efficacy of language” (105) makes the movement from verse drama to opera
particularly intriguing, considering opera’s characteristic ability to signify beyond the
limits of conventional language. Moreover, a central distinction between Shelley’s play
and Clarke and Rolfe’s adaptation is Beatrice’s exercise of vocal power in the naming of
the rape.
47
For a similar instance of the way in which patriarchy controls language compare Deal’s
conviction: “We own nothing but our breath-…An’ massa even poison that” (Clarke 3.2.
23-5).
56
In The Cenci, more than simply adhering to the conditions of the nineteenth-
century British stage, where censorship laws required the indirect representation of
indecorous acts, Shelley employs these constrictions of language to thematic effect. In the
moments after the rape, Lucretia attempts to coax out of Beatrice an explanation of what
has happened. After several coded responses from Beatrice, Lucretia continues to
question her. Beatrice finally responds saying, “What are the words which you would
have me speak?” (Shelley 3.1.107). Her question is met with silence. Shelley’s
exploitation of speech and silence during this critical moment attests to the difficulty that
victims of sexual abuse often have in articulating these experiences. Beatrice and
Lucretia’s silence suggests a shared understanding of these discursive limitations and of
the shame involved with exposing, expressing, and reliving instances of sexual violation.
In his analysis of Shelley’s, play Clarke contends that in her struggle to articulate the
abuse, “Beatrice resembles the African American slave narrative author Harriet
Jacobs…[who] dramatizes the difficulties inherent in discussing the savagery of slavery”
(Racing 178). Yet, Clarke and Rolfe’s Beatrice does not seem to experience this linguistic
difficulty. Rather, she insists, without fear and without hesitation, upon full disclosure and
on the term “raper.” Beatrice’s ability to articulate the rape re-locates the problem of
linguistic expression, moving it from one of personal affect to nationally constructed
discourse. Although Beatrice speaks out against oppressive hierarchies, she is still
controlled by them (like Shelley’s Beatrice) for language she employs is already
politically determined. In the end, Beatrice’s conviction of Chancy has no social or

57
political credibility because the language of violation does not register on a nationally
abjected body. She, in an echo of Beatrice Cenci, will refuse justification and “not cry
out” (Clarke 4.1.109).
In this sense, the act of naming in Beatrice Chancy also indicates the first
movement away from socially determined language. By replacing the word father with
raper, Beatrice enacts a complete disavowal of familial structure, and an implicit
disavowal of patriarchy. The act of rape strips Beatrice of all affective attachment to
Francis. Moreover, because she has denied all attachment to him as a father, Beatrice can
refuse the conviction of parricide, and can do so guiltlessly because Francis is the one
responsible for the corruption of sensation. Beatrice affirms this in an intense moment of
conflict with Lustra before the murder. Lustra warns Beatrice that “Murder’s
unforgivable” (4.1.70), while Beatrice retorts, “To destroy love, that’s unforgivable”
(4.1.71). The clashing of their voices in the simultaneous declamation of the word
“unforgivable” emphasizes a deeper conflict in the issue of justification, that of
retributive violence.
The concept of retributive violence is the second aspect of justification that
Shelley explores in his play (and is also pursued in Beatrice Chancy). In his preface to
The Cenci, Shelley evinces his preoccupation with what he calls the “restless and
anatomizing casuistry” of the Cenci legend, where “men seek the justification of Beatrice,
yet feel that she has done what needs justification” (“Preface” 731). Although Beatrice is
a victim of her father’s criminal acts, she too becomes a criminal by orchestrating his
58
murder. Shelley was particularly interested in the moral complexity (and ultimately the
tragic nature) of this circumstance. Can (or should) an audience exonerate Beatrice for the
crime of parricide because of the abuse she suffers at the hands of her father? This is also
a topical question in discourses of slavery in terms of the problems of rebellion: slaves
must fight violence with violence in order to achieve freedom from their oppressors. This
concept of questionable justice is part of the subtext of Beatrice Chancy, first alluded to
in the biblical imagery of the opening ring shout and becomes a pivotal part of the finale.
The opera is ambivalent on the point of violence as a means to achieve liberation;
for although Beatrice succeeds in the elimination of her father, she is still subjected to the
violent control of the law. Yet in the finale, Beatrice is able to envision a new imagined
community and a new existence of equality and freedom. In her final aria Beatrice
entreats the memory of her suffering, “Remember that we craved only love, / That we
were the light that blazed as love died” (4.2.18-19). Memory becomes the foundation for
a new imagined community. Beatrice’s voice projects freedom as a reality, but one that is
linked to the stark reality of death, evidenced by her adoption of the status of martyr:
“Belovèd Jesus, take my blood, / Use it all to scour away our sins” (4.2.20-21). Only in
death can this kind of liberation be achieved. This imagined potential, although it
provides hope, does not excuse or exonerate acts of the past, nor does it subvert the
violence of the narrative. As Clarke contends, “History is a moral force: one that
indicts—and never absolves” (Beatrice Chancy 63).
59
Both Beatrice’s final aria, with its cadences that invoke blues transcendence, and
the final Freedom Chorus share a central characteristic of traditional sorrow songs—a
quality of hope, where “the minor cadences of despair change often to triumph and calm
confidence” (DuBois 194). But to pursue a question initially raised by DuBois: “Is the
hope found within the sorrow songs justified?” (194). The Freedom Chorus draws
attention to a crisis of culture at the heart of Canadian national identity, where acts of
racial violence are effaced in favour of an idealized discourse of tolerance and equality.
But the opera, and particularly the Freedom Chorus, does not allow for these occlusions.
Rather it engages the audience in a self-reflexive performance of communal
remembering. As the performers disembody their characters and come to face the
audience along with the musicians and conductor to finish the chorus, the polyphony of
voices that engage in this traditional spiritual echo the voices of the past. In this act of
embodiment the memory of these voices is brought into dynamic confrontation with the
present and questions the future of liberationist struggle.
60
Conclusion: Beatrice Chancy as Postnational Opera
This study is valuable because it brings Beatrice Chancy into the discussion of
postnational Canadian opera. Linda Hutcheon contends that the state of Canadian opera
since the 1967 Centenary has been decidedly postnational. Her concept of postnational
opera is based on Frank Davey’s text Postnational Arguments and refers to a narrative
preoccupation with ideas of nationhood and nationalism as they exhibit “treachery,
betray, and actual or symbolic violence” (Hutcheon 237). Hutcheon maintains that since
the surge in commissions of opera in 1967, Canadian operatic narratives, such as
Sommers and Moore’s Louis Riel, have evinced a “distrust…of the political, the social,
and the national” (237). Beatrice Chancy similarly falls under this category. By re-
embodying a suppressed history of violence, the opera critiques Canada and its
propagation of a “myth of nation that represents [itself] as a place of refuge, tolerance,
and equality” (Moynagh 105). Many of the current Canadian operas being commissioned
continue to address this postnational struggle including Lillian Alling (2010), by Estacio
and Murrell and Pauline (projected for 2011), by Atwood and Hatzis. It is my intention to
expand this project to encompass these new Canadian operas that continue to utilize the
genre as a viable outlet for the contestation of discourses of Canadian identity.
61
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COLLECTIVE MEMORY AND PERFORMANCE

COLLECTIVE MEMORY AND PERFORMANCE:

AN ANALYSIS OF TWO ADAPTATIONS OF THE LEGEND OF BEATRICE CENCI

AMANDA MONTAGUE, B.A.

A Thesis Submitted to the School of Graduate Studies

in Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements

for the Degree Master of Arts

© Copyright by Amanda Montague, August 2011

TITLE: Collective Memory and Performance: An Analysis of Two Adaptations of the

AUTHOR: Amanda Montague, B.A. (University of Waterloo)

SUPERVISOR: Professor Grace Kehler

NUMBER OF PAGES: v, 71pp.

contest collective memory and reconfigure concepts of nationhood and citizenship. It

Rolfe's transcultural adaptation uncovers similar issues in Canadian history, where

discourses of domestic abuse come to reflect public constructs of citizenship. Particularly

violent history of slavery and oppression.

member of the examination committee.

I am especially thankful to my family for their unfailing support (which I certainly

push on. I could never have done this without you.

INTRODUCTION: NARRATIVE MIGRATION ................................................ 1

Narrative Migration: Transcultural Adaptations of the Legend of Beatrice Cenci

family’s conspiracy is subsequently discovered and leads to their execution by papal

translations, adaptations, and remediations.

While visiting Italy in 1818, Percy Bysshe Shelley encountered a manuscript

history of Beatrice Chancy “home,” to Canada by using it to reveal a history of racial

oppression that has been carefully suppressed in national discourse.2

contemporary Canadian culture.

Beatrice restaurants. By deliberately distinguishing each of these adaptation of the Cenci

Hutcheon contends, adaptation is “repetition but without replication…it involves both

memory and change, persistence and variation” (173).

Transcultural adaptations often involve a change of place, time period, politics,

and language (Hutcheon 145). In Beatrice Chancy, a recontextualization of place occurs

performance to raise issues of despotic injustice and national abjection in order to

knowledge of itself” (“Preface” 730). It generates this kind of affective knowledge

convene as a group” (Simpson 309). Similarly, as Linda Hutcheon suggests, opera is an

capacity to generate an affective emotional response in the listener (“Opera in Canada”

In Chapter One I examine The Cenci, as a verse drama, in relation to formal

generate resistance. The chapter concludes with an examination of voice. Drawing on

abjection are representative of public discourses of hegemonic control.

Chapter Two contains an analysis of Beatrice Chancy. My reading of the opera is

best of my ability) of Clarke’s score. In addition to these concomitant parts, I also

Theatre Company in 1998. This aspect was particularly important to my reading of

contention that discourses of sexual violence and national citizenship intersect at

I extend Maureen Moynagh’s application of Diva Citizenship to Beatrice Chancy by

Beatrice’s vocal power and its limits in liberationist discourse.

Chapter One: The Cenci

According to Mary Shelley, after seeing the portrait:

Shelley’s imagination became strongly excited, and he urged the subject to me as

reconsideration of its politics by bringing it into conversation with his contemporary

closet.5 The Cenci therefore is characterized by a discourse of suppression as a result of

of tyrannical power relations, rooted in religious authority. Consolidated on three levels

power is particularly toxic as it allows tyrannical contagions to permeate all aspects of

“The Act Seals All”: From Suppression to Action

To begin, I would like to address Shelley’s use of incest in The Cenci

suppression. The incestuous rape is simultaneously an instance of action and

“contaminated” and her “limbs” “putrefy[ed]” (3.1.26, 96). In Justice in The

refusal to articulate the act in answer to Lucretia’s persistent questions still

fact, it is the conflation of physical and psychic defilement that makes it

immediately following the rape, “Reach me that handkerchief! –My brain is