Restoration Comedy: Three Plays E-Book

Aphra Behn

• Herausgeber: Nick Hern Books
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Serie: NHB Drama Classics
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Seitenzahl: 564

Beschreibung

'One no more owes one's beauty to a lover, than one's wit to an echo.' With the Restoration of the monarchy in 1660, the republican ban on organised theatre was lifted – and plays exploded back onto the public stage with newfound relish. The arrival of actresses for the first time encouraged a great sense of release, which expressed itself in the form of sophisticated comedies exploring the sexual behaviour and moralities of society. This volume features three of the most popular Restoration Comedies: The Country Wife by William Wycherley - a supremely bawdy comedy in which the aptly named Horner pretends to be a eunuch in order to seduce women under the noses of their husbands. The Way of the World by William Congreve - a brilliant comedy of manners, complete with dashing suitor, rich heiress and vengeful aunt. The Rover by Aphra Behn - the classic Restoration comedy by one of the earliest and most celebrated female playwrights. There is also a full introduction about the plays, playwrights and the period, and a glossary of unfamiliar words. The Drama Classic Collections bring together the most popular plays from a single author or a particular period. They offer students, actors and theatregoers a series of uncluttered, accessible editions, accompanied by comprehensive introductions.

Leseprobe

RESTORATION

COMEDY

WILLIAM WYCHERLEY

The Country Wife

APHRA BEHN

The Rover

WILLIAM CONGREVE

The Way of the World

edited and introduced by

TREVOR R. GRIFFITHS

and

SIMON TRUSSLER

NICK HERN BOOKS

London

www.nickhernbooks.co.uk

Contents

Introduction

The Country Wife

The Rover

The Way of the World

Key Dates

Further Reading

THE COUNTRY WIFE

THE ROVER

THE WAY OF THE WORLD

Glossary

Copyright Information

Introduction: the Restoration

Restoration Society

When Charles II was invited back as king in 1660, eleven years after a republican government had executed his father, Charles I, the world had changed. The old social order had been based on a relatively static world view in which wealth and power derived from the ownership of land and where religion, rank, and social duty constituted a pyramid of interlocking social obligations, with the king at its apex. But the growth of trade and the rise of a wealthy merchant class had gradually imposed strains that ultimately led to the Civil War, the breakdown of the old absolutes and a search for a new order. The very fact that Charles I had been deposed, tried, and executed meant that the world could never be the same again.

The term ‘Restoration’ tends to be associated with a vision of the merry monarch surrounded by his courtiers, his spaniels and his bevy of mistresses, including the one-time orange-seller and actress Nell Gwyn, and a general atmosphere of libertinism. However, this grossly oversimplifies the complex interactions of a period which also saw the publication of John Milton’s epic poems, John Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress, John Locke’s philosophy, Newton’s physics and Thomas Hobbes’s political theory – all attempts to map out the terrain of a new world in which old certainties had been displaced by new doubts.

Plays had been banned in the republican period of the Commonwealth and the theatres closed down. When they reopened officially at the Restoration there were two significant departures from the past: the old, large, open-air amphitheatres such as the Globe, where many of Shakespeare’s plays had been staged, were finally abandoned in favour of much smaller, indoor theatres; and actresses were introduced for the first time to play female roles instead of the trained youths familiar from the Elizabethan and Jacobean theatre.

Restoration Comedy

The term ‘Restoration Comedy’ has sometimes been used very loosely to cover almost any comedy written between 1660 and 1737, the date of the Licensing Act that introduced effective pre-production censorship of plays. A modern equivalent might be to call all the dramatists writing from 1956 to the millennium ‘Angry Young Men’. Nevertheless, there is enough common ground between, say, Etherege at one end of the period and Congreve and Vanburgh writing at the turn of the eighteenth century – in terms of shared approaches to the business of comedy, to characterisation, motifs and themes – to justify the use of the term ‘Restoration Comedy’ for the whole period.

The ending of the ban on organised theatre, the return of monarchical rule and the arrival of actresses encouraged a great sense of release, which expressed itself in the form of a cynical and sophisticated comedy of sexual intrigue. ‘Restoration Comedies’ deal almost obsessively with the sexual behaviour and moralities of a very narrow section of late seventeenth-century society, the fashionable, leisured gentlefolk found in a contemporary London of chocolate houses, parks, fashionable soirées, and theatres (in which they could watch versions of themselves on stage). The plays repeat themes, situations, character types (even actual characters), locations and images in such a down-to-earth manner that critics (though not always audiences) have regularly accused the drama of obscenity and pornographic intent or, alternatively, rescued it from such charges by denying it any connection with reality. By 1700, social conditions had changed considerably from those of 1660, and the satirical excess of the immediate Restoration period was under considerable pressure from both inside and outside the theatre. Early Restoration Comedies tend to reflect the turmoil of the times, the feeling that the world doesn’t make sense any more, the difficulties of finding a way to reconcile social pressure with personal desire, through satire. Later comedies, including The Way of the World, also attempt to suggest ways forward, to reconcile the conflicting desires to protect inherited wealth and to achieve personal fulfilment through love.

Comedy of Manners

In the English theatre, Restoration Comedy virtually inaugurated the genre of Comedy of Manners, preoccupied with showing the social behaviour of the contemporary rich and leisured class. From the Restoration onwards there is a rich vein of Comedies of Manners which runs through Sheridan and Goldsmith to Boucicault, Wilde, Coward, and Ayckbourn. Sometimes the plays simply reflect their society uncritically, sometimes they are savagely critical of its manners, as in The Country Wife. Many of the finest Comedies of Manners, including The Way of the World, explore social codes in ways that lead to a critique of society and the suggestion of modifying those codes to deal with the hypocrisies that the manners can hide.

Marriage in the Restoration

For the aristocracy and gentry who form the Dramatis Personae of most Restoration Comedies, and for their counterparts in the audience, marriage was not primarily, or even necessarily, a matter of romantic attachments between individuals. As the contemporary poet Samuel Butler wrote, ‘Matrimony’s but a bargain made/To serve the turns of interest and trade;/Not out of love or kindness, but designs/To settle lands and tenements like fines’. The transfer of wealth, property and land between families was a key factor in determining who married whom, and the romantic inclinations of the bride and groom were often entirely secondary to any financial or dynastic advantages that might arise from a marriage. This led to many loveless relationships and to cynicism about the institution of marriage as a whole. By concentrating on courtship and marriage, the comic dramatists of the Restoration were able to investigate discrepancies between the social code and underlying emotional realities. In a society effectively without divorce, how could marriage be arranged on anything other than a commercial basis?

The Restoration Theatre

‘They altered at once the whole face of the stage by introducing scenes and women’ – or so John Dennis claimed nostalgically, writing in 1725 of the events of 1660, when play-acting was once more permitted after being banned by the puritans since 1642. The court masques of the Jacobean and Caroline theatre had employed quite elaborate scenery, and the open-air theatres of the Elizabethans had long been giving way to indoor ‘private’ theatres, with greater potential for technical effects. The difference now was that the proscenium arch formed a ‘picture-frame’ for painted perspective scenery, which provided a formalised background to Restoration Comedy and Tragedy.

The scenery was made up of shutters that moved in grooves, so that scenes could be changed by opening and closing these shutters behind the actors. In The Country Wife, for example, the painted scenery for the first act would have represented Horner’s lodgings and would have opened at the start of Act Two to reveal the next scene, Pinchwife’s lodgings. In The Way of the World, the first act scenery would have represented the Chocolate House and would have opened for Act Two to reveal a picture of St James’s Park. Actors entered through doors at either side of the proscenium arch, or from between the scenery shutters at the side, or, sometimes, were discovered as the shutters parted, the actors then coming forward onto the large forestage to act the scene. This meant that, although the performers still shared the same space as the audience, they were now acting against a background of pictures that in some way illustrated the play.

But it was only a background: the actors performed on the extensive apron stage in front of the proscenium, in a relationship with their audiences no less intimate and uncluttered than their forebears. Indeed, Restoration theatres, which seated from around five to eight hundred, were actually smaller than Elizabethan public playhouses, and their audiences, although not drawn quite so exclusively from a courtly elite as has sometimes been suggested, certainly felt themselves to be part of a social as much as a theatrical occasion. Also, since both the auditorium and the stage were evenly lit (by candelabra) throughout the performance, the audience could see each other as well as they could see the actors. This would have added an extra dimension to the sense of theatre as a reflection of contemporary life, and hence also that ‘crossing of the boundary’ between actor and character so clearly felt in many Restoration prologues and epilogues, where the player speaks simultaneously in character and in his or her own person.

How this affected the acting of the play itself is not certain: but the style would certainly have been presentational rather than realistic – at a time when rituals of ‘presentation’ were, of course, prominent in everyday behaviour as well. So, with directors unthought of, and playwrights far less involved in the practical business of mounting a play than their Elizabethan counterparts, the influence of the dancing-master was probably strong in matters of movement and stage grouping. As Jocelyn Powell aptly summed it up: ‘The atmosphere of the Restoration theatre was that of a sophisticated cabaret.’

Of those managers seeking the ‘patents’ which would permit them to create theatrical companies amidst the political confusion of Charles’s return, the two successful bidders were both men of influence at court, who had had experience of theatre before the Civil Wars: Sir William Davenant and Thomas Killigrew. Davenant had even succeeded in getting ‘plays with music’ produced under Cromwell’s guard. After the Restoration, Davenant was given his royal patent to manage the Duke’s Company (so called because it enjoyed the patronage of the Duke of York), which first played in a converted ‘real’ tennis court at Lincoln’s Inn Fields – the older theatres having been pulled down or left derelict during the Civil Wars. They moved in 1671 to a playhouse purpose-built by Christopher Wren – the Dorset Garden Theatre, beside the Thames, where many of Aphra Behn’s plays, including The Rover, were performed. Killigrew’s company, known as the King’s Company on account of enjoying the king’s own patronage, played in another converted tennis court until the first Theatre Royal was completed in 1663, to be replaced after its destruction by fire by a new playhouse in 1674, which is where The Country Wife was first performed. (The foundations of this 1674 theatre are still visible under the stage of the present Theatre Royal Drury Lane.)

With just two companies of less than thirty players apiece – reduced to a single ‘united’ company from 1682 to 1695 – acting was thus an exclusive though not prestigious profession, its members as well-known personally to many in the audience as their own acquaintances in the pit or boxes. And, although the patents stressed that the introduction of actresses was a matter of morality – to correct the abuse of men appearing ‘in the habits of women’ – intimacy between these players and their audiences was not confined to closeness in the auditorium. It was probably inevitable that, in the absence of a traditional route for women into the profession, some actresses in a licentious age should have achieved their positions through sexual patronage – though it’s also indisputable that Elizabeth Barry, despite her path being smoothed by the notorious rake Lord Rochester, became a truly great tragic actress, while Nell Gwyn, although she owed her early chances to being the mistress of a leading player, Charles Hart, became no less striking a comic actress before she caught the eye of the king.

Other actresses, such as the great Thomas Betterton’s wife Mary, were nonetheless able to lead lives of untainted virtue at a time when such behaviour in courtly society was almost eccentric. The fine comic actress Anne Bracegirdle even managed to sustain a reputation for excessive prudishness in private life. This did not, however, prevent her being thought fair game for predatory males: as late as 1692, an assault on her honour was compounded by the murder of the actor William Mountford, who had tried to intervene on her behalf. Those guilty were not severely punished.

This was an age when Rochester might order Dryden to be beaten up in a back alley for an imagined satirical slight; when the king himself could instigate an assault upon a parliamentarian who had dared to criticise his mistresses; and when Rochester and Sedley could attempt the rape of an heiress in broad daylight. The mixture of violence and casual sexuality which Aphra Behn presents even less discreetly than most of her contemporaries – in Willmore, almost with pride – is thus a reflection on the stage of the very brittle veneer of politeness which barely concealed the viciousness of much high-society life.

The King, the Court, and the Courtesans

The character of Charles II might very easily have been conceived as the hero of a Wycherley play – dour, cynical, and introverted at heart, yet capable of a pretty wit, and sexually attractive beyond the advantages of force majeure. Whether his personality was shaped by exile, or simply well adapted to it, the fact remains that, before the Restoration, Charles enjoyed the semblance of both power and responsibility without the reality of either: life became, in short, a form of play-acting. Later, when the king strolled, supposedly incognito but recognised by all, into the House of Lords to listen to a debate, he would declare the entertainment as good as a play, and sardonically join in the laughter at veiled references to himself.

In exile, Charles had pursued his women with no less fervour then Willmore in The Rover – choosing his mistresses from among his own camp-followers, the nobility of the French court, or the brothels of Paris with the impartiality of a glutton for sex rather than a connoisseur of beauty. Back home, Charles’s male companions were drawn largely from a promiscuous, hard-drinking, but highly literate set which included – besides the notorious Earl of Rochester – the Duke of Buckingham, Sir George Etherege and Charles Sedley, all playwrights, as much probably from fashion as inclination, just as in other ages courtiers might have been concerned to excel at hunting deer, jousting, or grouse-shooting.

These were men to whom casual violence came readily, and who trod with equanimity that uneasy tightrope between rape and seduction, between brutality and the defence of honour, which is so often reflected in the plays they wrote and watched. A regular attender at the theatres, Charles himself is said to have lent a hand in the writing of plays, and he also interested himself in matters of casting. He both encouraged and emulated the Restoration ‘style’, in dramatic art as in life – and apparently displayed it as freely among women of good breeding as among his male cronies or his concubines. It made for sexual equality, of a sort.

When the dynastic imperative finally cornered the king into marriage, he took to wife the unfortunate princess Catherine of Braganza – in part to safeguard the alliance with her native Portugal, in part to produce for the nation an unquestionably legitimate heir. This she failed to do – so perpetuating the long drawn-out crisis over the ever-likelier succession of Charles’s Catholic brother, James. The king’s treatment of his wife in many ways epitomised the double standards of Restoration Comedy. In private, he humiliated her by appointing his own mistresses – successively, Barbara Villiers, Countess of Castlemaine, and Louise de Kéroualle, Duchess of Portsmouth – as ladies of her bedchamber. Yet in public he allowed a curious sense of honour to guide his political instinct, and when the Whigs backed Titus Oates’s allegations of Catherine’s complicity in a plot to poison her husband, they misjudged their man. Charles refused to put away his wife, the allegations collapsed – and the Whigs, by then espousing the cause of Charles’s illegitimate son, Monmouth, lost all credibility, along with their hopes of excluding James from the succession.

Aphra Behn flayed the Whigs with impunity in The City Heiress in 1682, but when she widened her target to include Monmouth himself, in her prologue to Romulus and Hersilia later that year, she was arrested, and at least severely reprimanded. Charles’s affection for his unruly bastard son, or some perverse sense of his far-flung family’s dignity, never entirely deserted him – nor, of course, did he forget his mistresses, of whom two of the most prominent came from the theatre. Mary Davis he took from the Duke’s company, and the almost legendary Nell Gwyn from the King’s – where her position was due to real talent and wit as well as to her undoubted beauty. When, at the height of the crisis over the succession to the throne, Nell’s coach was mistaken for that of Charles’s Catholic mistress, the Duchess of Portsmouth, Nell Gwyn famously won over a jostling mob by declaring from the window, ‘Pray, good people, be civil. I am the protestant whore!’ The line displays all the wry, self-aware sexuality of one of Aphra Behn’s new women. Aphra and Nell were, in fact, close friends.

Even in death, Charles exhibited something like the last-act repentance of a rake from Restoration Comedy: at the prompting of Lady Portsmouth, he was attended by a priest, and made a deathbed conversion to Catholicism – the priest, by a fine irony, taking the covert, backstairs route to his bedchamber well-worn by so many of Charles’s mistresses. And among his last words were those of commendation to his brother James: ‘Let not poor Nelly starve.’ In a room filled with as many illegitimate offspring as could be hastily assembled, neither Nell Gwyn nor any of his other women were permitted to pay their last respects. ‘Poor Nelly’ died of an apoplexy soon after. There is little in Restoration Comedy which exceeds Charles’s personal excesses, or typifies better than his own conduct the mixture of calculation and generosity – and, to our sensibility, the sexual double-standards – which cloaked the Restoration ‘wit’.

The Country Wife

William Wycherley (1641-1715)

William Wycherley was baptised on 8 April 1641 at Clive, near Shrewsbury. He was educated as a gentleman and sent to France to complete his education in 1656, returning to England in 1660. He briefly attended Oxford University before entering the Inner Temple, which offered the legal equivalent of a university education. Wycherley probably accompanied the British ambassador to Spain in January 1664 and served in a naval battle, probably the battle off Harwich in 1665. His first published work was a satirical poem, Hero and Leander in Burlesque (1669), but he achieved considerable success with his first play, Love in a Wood: or, St James’s Park (1671). Its success led to an affair with the Duchess of Cleveland that gained Wycherley entry to court circles and established him as a wit alongside such figures as the Earl of Rochester and Sir Charles Sedley. Wycherley’s second, less successful, play, The Gentleman Dancing Master (1672), adapted from Calderón, was followed by what is now generally regarded as his masterpiece, The Country Wife (1675). His 1676 drama The Plain Dealer gained him the epithet ‘Manly’ after its leading character. His career was virtually ended in 1678 by a severe illness, probably encephalitis, that appears to have affected his memory and his writing skills. He wrote no more plays and many of his subsequently published poems may have been polished by the young Alexander Pope, who befriended him in the early eighteenth century.

Although the last half of Wycherley’s life was theatrically unproductive, aspects of it were themselves highly theatrical, offering proof that the world of Restoration drama was not as remote from reality as some later critics have tried to claim. In 1679 Wycherley married the Countess of Drogheda, who, according to the seventeenth-century critic John Dennis, insisted that if he went to the local tavern he should always be visible from their lodgings across the road so that she could check that there were no women with him. When she died in 1681 her family made every effort to prevent Wycherley from getting hold of her estate, and the various claims and counter-claims were not settled until 1700. Wycherley fell out of favour at court as a result of his marriage and was even imprisoned for debt for several years. On his eventual release he lived quietly at Clive until his father’s death in 1697 when he returned to London. Intrigue and domestic drama re-entered his life just before his death almost twenty years later. Apparently as part of a plot to disinherit his nephew, Wycherley married a much younger woman, Elizabeth Jackson. After Wycherley’s death she married Thomas Shrimpton, who had introduced her to Wycherley in the first place and whose mistress she had been. Wycherley’s nephew subsequently alleged that he had been coerced into the marriage but lost his case. Wycherley died on New Year’s Eve, 1715.

Comedy of Humours

Like many of his contemporaries, Wycherley draws heavily on Ben Jonson’s satirical Comedy of Humours in choosing for his characters names that are an often ironic guide to dominant facets of their personalities. ‘Horner’, for example, suggests someone who gives cuckolds the horns that were metaphorically associated with their state. ‘Pinchwife’ indicates a man whose wife will be pinched, in the sense both of being sexually teased and of being stolen from him. ‘Dainty’ and ‘Squeamish’ belie their names in not being fastidious about anything except pretending to an outward appearance of sexual modesty and honourable behaviour (women’s honour was conceived of as resting entirely in their sexual fidelity). ‘Fidget’ applies differentially to Sir Jaspar and Lady Fidget: he is always rushing off to another appointment, she is itching for sex. ‘Sparkish’ is formed from ‘spark’, a term for the kind of witty gentlemen also called ‘wits’, but he is only spark-ish because he is a pretender to wit, whereas Harcourt and Horner and the shadowy Dorilant are true wits. Even the doctor (Quack) who acts as Horner’s confidant has a name that contributes to the general atmosphere of pretension and hypocrisy.

Such names point to a kind of debasement of values in the world of the play, but there are others that stand outside this mechanistic world. The name ‘Alithea’ suggests ‘other goddess’, and has associations with truth (and in the form ‘Althea’, with wholesomeness); it quite literally elevates her nominal status above the other characters whose names are almost all associated with physical activity. Since Alithea is Pinchwife’s sister, her name is presumably Alithea Pinchwife, but she is never referred to by this name. This contrasts with the way that Margery Pinchwife tends to have her identity obscured by being thought of as ‘the country wife’, being dressed as her supposed brother, or being taken to Horner in the belief that she is Alithea. She seems to exist in terms of definitions imposed on her by others. Alithea, on the other hand, is much more of a free agent: she is known by her first name, thus defining herself as her own person rather than someone else’s. Alithea as a name also indicates the character’s separation from the majority of the other characters. Something similar happens with Frank Harcourt, who is indeed normally frank and open about his feelings but finds it hard to court Alithea because of her misplaced confidence that Sparkish’s lack of jealousy is based on a genuine respect for her. Their names suggest that Alithea and Frank are a corrective to the materialistic/mechanical cynicism of the other characters.

Love, Marriage and Money

Many men and women were trapped in unions without affection, and the inevitable result was distrust, jealousy, and contempt. Sir Jaspar Fidget, for example, needs someone to entertain his wife without causing any scandal, a task Horner is apparently perfectly suited to since he is socially acceptable but, so he says, physically incapable of having sex with Lady Fidget. Sir Jaspar’s bargain with Horner is purely economic, a kind of service contract in which Horner acts as a surrogate non-sexual husband in return for free meals. He is quite happy to purchase the outward appearance of a husband because he is unwilling to make the necessary commitment himself. It is this that makes Horner’s sexual relationship with Sir Jaspar’s wife an apt punishment for Sir Jaspar’s posturing: Horner offers his wife more services than Sir Jaspar had bargained for, the substance as well as the appearance. The cuckolding of Sir Jaspar Fidget is a dramatic comment on the lack of any emotional ties in the marriage; and, of course, Lady Fidget is quite happy to follow her husband’s example, providing her outward honour is not compromised.

Similarly, the Pinchwife marriage is a matter of convenience rather than love. The ageing Pinchwife’s motives for marrying the young Margery are cynical, self-centred and devoid of anything like emotional commitment. Pinchwife marries a ‘country wife’ in order to avoid the pitfalls associated with sophisticated London women and to profit from the presumed innocence of a girl brought up in the country. Pinchwife’s first line to Margery is ‘You’re a fool’ (p. 23). He then instructs her to love him as a matter of duty, and there is never a suggestion that the relationship should be reciprocal. Since he knows that Margery has no reason to be faithful, he becomes increasingly jealous, possessive and violent, thus driving her ever faster into the arms of a lover.

Alithea is Pinchwife’s sister and thus has first-hand experience of a jealous man. She is taken in by Sparkish because he appears to be constitutionally incapable of jealousy, whereas he is simply stupid. Harcourt poses a problem not only because Alithea finds herself attracted to him, but also because Sparkish’s obstinate refusal to be jealous of Harcourt seems in itself to be a proof of his trust in her. Finally, when Sparkish immediately believes Pinchwife’s allegations against her, Alithea feels free to respond to Harcourt, who has consistently courted her on the basis that mutual love is more important than mercenary considerations.

Marriage is, then, a vital component of the play. Only Harcourt and Alithea’s relationship seems to suggest a future happy marriage because it is based on mutual esteem rather than on the purely economic and social factors that define the other relationships in the play. The ways in which The Country Wife exposes the failings of one set of approaches to human relationships transcends the immediate context to suggest the dangers of any view of human relationships in which partners are seen either in terms of the property they bring with them or as sex objects.

Horner

Although the treatment of marriage is crucial, the satire of pretensions to honour incarnated in Horner is the most dynamic aspect of the play. Much of the pleasure in watching or reading The Country Wife depends on dramatic irony, the way that the audience shares Horner’s superior position. Because we share his perspective for much of the play, we tend to align ourselves with the satirical attack on those who hide a voracious sexual appetite behind a screen of hypocritical respectability. Horner is clearly the medium for Wycherley’s satire, but is he himself the object of satirical attacks?

Perhaps Horner’s obsession with collecting sexual scalps cuts him off from the kind of happiness that we might postulate for Harcourt and Alithea at the end of the play. Perhaps, isolated and reduced simply to a source of sexual gratification (as in the ‘china’ scene where his sexual supplies are soon exhausted), he becomes just as much a victim of his own stratagem as the Fidgets and the Pinchwifes. His revenge on husbands who treat their wives like objects is to reduce himself to an object, a kind of sex machine. He is not interested in the quality of the sex he gets but rather in its quantity, a glutton rather than a gourmet.

Horner does stand alone in the play: Harcourt and Dorilant are apparently his friends, yet he never shares his secret with them, allowing them to be completely misled, and he is apparently prepared to sacrifice Alithea and Harcourt to preserve his cover. Even at the end of the play, only the audience, Margery, the three hypocritical ladies and the quack know the nature of his pretence. He has quite deliberately cut himself off from other types of social intercourse, in favour of a kind of production-line orgasm. So it is just possible to see him as a kind of victim of his own trick, a man condemned to mechanical sexual encounters at the expense of a full life, but this is to ignore the ways in which Horner appears on stage in the course of the play in production.

Horner is the character who most engages our attention. While he may be a sexual glutton, he does appear to relish his successes. Moreover, he can scarcely be a tragic figure if he doesn’t reach self-knowledge of his predicament or if it is not revealed to other characters. Within the world of the play, we enjoy watching a witty man triumph over ineffective opposition, but his amatory successes are achieved in a world he despises. The way in which we react to Horner parallels the way Wycherley presents his vision of a rotten society: we may well applaud Horner’s technical skill in dealing with his society but simultaneously deplore the heartless nature of his and its behaviour. This polarity in our attitude to Horner reflects two central disjunctions in the society within the play: a) between marriage as practised by Fidget and Pinchwife and marriage as seen by Alithea and Harcourt, and b) between techniques or conventions on the one hand and the reality on the other. In other words, we can distinguish between two separate attitudes to Horner: on the one hand we admire his skill but, on the other, we deplore his approach to sex. This duality of response reflects the way in which this society has separated the outward from the inner reality. Horner not only exposes the other characters’ corruption, but he also comments on their corruption. By contrast, no one ever comments on Horner; his satirical superiority to the other characters is unchallenged, and he remains consistent in his disguise. None of the other characters is able to penetrate his ruse without his help. Our attention is always being directed by him rather than at him.

The Visual and the Verbal

All the characters reveal the true nature that lies under their masks to Horner; the play’s action is organised to manifest this linguistically as well as visually. It is particularly concerned with the questions of disguise and unmasking (as in the case of Margery being dressed as a boy) and with the demonstration of self-deception and hypocrisy (as in the ‘china’ scene where Horner conceals the Quack so that he can watch the process in action and comment on it like a chorus). At the end of 5.1 when Margery manages to pretend to be Alithea so that she can escape from Pinchwife, the jealous husband unwittingly brings his wife to the man who wants to make love to her because his jealousy has made him blind to the deception. The outward appearance that Margery is Alithea takes Pinchwife in, just as elsewhere in the play, people are taken in by Horner’s outward appearance of being a eunuch or by Lady Fidget’s pretence to honour. When Pinchwife cannot see beyond his sister’s gown to his wife beneath, we have an actual embodiment of the kind of blinkered perception that prevents most of the characters penetrating the others’ surface pretensions to honour and chastity.

The actual language of the play is important for the way in which it consistently suggests differences between outward appearance and inner realities. The many references to the theatre, for example, remind us that what we are watching - and tacitly assuming to be ‘real’ - is a fiction. The whole play is also peppered with similes and analogies, particularly between animal and human life. The use of nature imagery tends to be reductive: when Harcourt and Horner talk of drones, or Horner compares women and spaniels, or Alithea and Margery talk of their existence in terms of being caged birds, we are asked to see animal life as a degradation of human potential. This reductive approach in nature imagery is matched by a consistent reduction of human emotions and values to questions of appetite, disease or economic value. Everyone except Alithea and Harcourt sees love, marriage, emotion and honour in strictly pragmatic terms, as sex, contract, appetite and pretence. Alithea and Harcourt stand somewhat outside this linguistic pattern, as they stand somewhat outside the world of cuckoldry. Harcourt refers to Alithea in terms which suggest her quasi-divine status, and, in a comedy where disguises are rife, his is as a priest.

Town and Country

Pinchwife is under the impression that the country is a virtuous place just as the town is vicious. Often in seventeenth-century literature the country was held up as a superior place. This partly reflects the classical interest in pastoral, partly the sense that towns were increasingly large and complex places in contrast to which the country could be seen as a kind of idyllic escape from urban pressures and vices. In part it related to disquiet with the growth of trade and a conservative nostalgia for a simpler life, in part to the complex interactions of the post-Commonwealth period. However, as Horner remarks, ‘I have known a clap gotten in Wales’, and the very innocence of the country is betrayed by the sexual pun in the word itself. The difference between country values and town values is the difference between Margery and Lady Fidget, between an honest delight in sex and a hypocritical one. Pinchwife is wrong in his assumptions about the merits of town and country because he does not understand that what matters is the human nature under the mask of manners; that it is the individual heart and mind that produce chastity, not the physical stress on chastity that produces chaste attitudes.

The Country Wife on Stage

In the nineteenth century, Macaulay wrote that Wycherley’s ‘indecency’ ‘protected him against critics in the same way that a skunk was protected against hunters: it is safe because it is too filthy to handle and too noisome even to approach’. In the theatre this view held from the mid-eighteenth century when Garrick produced his sanitised The Country Girl. The Country Wife itself was not revived until the 1920s, and its theatrical reputation has grown steadily ever since, even surviving a Glasgow Citizens’ Theatre 1970s version reduced to mono-dimensional satire without the Alithea/Harcourt plot.

Although Macaulay’s view still has some supporters, it confuses explicit interest in sex with pornography. The Country Wife does present human relationships reduced to the mechanical and materialistic, but its world is not a pornographic one: it is very clearly aware of the dangers of promiscuous sex in the form of venereal disease, since Horner’s whole stratagem is based on being impotent as the result of treatment for just such a disease. Equally, Alithea and Harcourt offer a marked contrast to the mechanistic Newtonian attitudes of the Fidgets, the Pinchwifes and Horner.

The Country Wife survives as a challenging theatrical work because it explores a basic question of timeless relevance in a sophisticated and memorable way: how should men and women relate to one another? It adopts a memorable comic and satirical form to demonstrate how one society organised itself and what was wrong with that organisation. It does pose problems for those who want certainty from their plays: is Horner a hero, a villain, a satirical mouthpiece or a satirical butt? This very ambivalence is a measure of the way in which Wycherley has managed to produce an open-ended, sceptical play whose careful construction operates to make us ask ourselves the same fundamental question: how should I act? The mirror that Wycherley holds up to nature contains not only an image of his own times but a reflection of our own and any age that questions its own motivations and beliefs.

The Rover

Aphra Behn (1640–1689)

Aphra Amies, Johnson or Cooper (her maiden name is uncertain) is thought to have been born near Canterbury, in Kent, in the summer of 1640. In her early twenties her father was appointed Lieutenant-General of the then British colony of Surinam, in South America, but died on the voyage out to the Guianas. She stayed long enough to absorb the experiences which were later to shape her novel Oronooko but returned home to England in the spring of 1664. Within a year she was married to Mr Behn – an elusive figure, possibly a Dutch merchant with Guianese connections, who died soon afterwards, perhaps during the Great Plague of 1665. One of the managers of London’s two theatre companies, Thomas Killigrew, an intimate of the recently restored king, Charles II, was evidently instrumental in Aphra Behn being briefly employed as a spy during the Dutch wars (which saw Surinam ceded to the Netherlands), but by 1667 she was again in London – and in the following year was imprisoned for debt, despite Killigrew’s intercession on her behalf.

Until she reached the age of thirty, Behn’s life was full of false starts and uncertainties. In that year, 1670, however, she not only established her career as a playwright – with a tragi-comedy called The Forced Marriage, which enjoyed a moderate success at the theatre in Lincoln’s Inn Fields – but began a relationship with the dissolute lawyer John Hoyle, one of several supposed originals for Willmore in The Rover. For the following twelve years she became a fully professional playwright – an exceptional career for a woman at that time – writing some twenty plays, most of them comedies for the new Dorset Garden Theatre.

By the early 1680s, however, fashionable London was becoming more preoccupied with politics than with theatre. The then emerging Whig and Tory factions were at odds over the right of the king’s Catholic brother, James, to succeed to the throne in the event of Charles remaining without a legitimate heir. In 1682 Aphra Behn contributed an allegedly ‘abusive’ and ‘scandalous’ prologue to an anonymous anti-Whig play, and found herself again under arrest. She was let off with a caution, but thereafter turned increasingly to the safer forms of fiction and poetry – though she enjoyed a final stage triumph in 1687 with a highly original, commedia-style farce, The Emperor of the Moon, before publishing what was for long her best-known work, the novel Oronooko, in 1688. The death of Charles in the same year, and the ‘Bloodless Revolution’ which saw off the hapless James, marked the end of the world Aphra Behn had known, and she died the following April, just before her forty-ninth birthday.

The Return of the Banished Cavaliers

The events which restored Charles II to the English throne in May 1660 were fast-moving: as late as September 1659, both Charles and his brother James had appeared to be making plans for an indefinite exile. Much had to be done during the new king’s ‘honeymoon’ with his people, and it is a measure of the importance attached by Charles to theatrical matters that he seems to have given as much urgent attention to sorting out the squabbles between the various entrepreneurs vying to form new theatrical companies as to reconciling the old enemies of the civil wars. After his apparently final defeat at Worcester in 1651, exile for Charles had been a relatively comfortable affair, passed mainly in the civilised if often conspiratorial surroundings of Paris and Brussels: but for many of the followers of the king and his ‘martyred’ father, the interregnum was spent in a constant struggle against hardship. Some laid low at home, their estates confiscated or sold off piecemeal to meet fines for their ‘delinquency’. Others, like Belvile and Willmore in The Rover, became soldiers or sailors of fortune, accumulating mistresses, booty, or battle honours with equally offhand loyalty.

Most of the young Restoration gallants, now returning to England along with their king, would thus in all probability have spent a childhood or adolescence in the turbulent atmosphere of civil war, the early years of their adult life cut off from both family traditions and the sense of service which possession of land could still, on occasion, instil. Nor did the compromise between the old and new interests we call the ‘Restoration settlement’ return to the original owners the estates that had been sold off by persecuted royalists to puritan land-grabbers. Lacking roots, but often bearing a load of such grudges, these ‘rovers’ saw little reason not to pursue in England the kind of sexual and economic opportunism which had ruled their life-style in exile. Such opportunism was duly reflected in the plays they watched and wrote.

Besides, there was even a sort of moral justification for living out the belief that ‘debauchery was loyalty, gravity rebellion’: for inverting the detested values of puritanism was surely to be commended. And an open delight in sexual dalliance (as in theatricality) happily coincided with the tastes of the restored monarch. No wonder that Charles’s court in Whitehall proved such a magnet, and that its values permeated the life and attitudes of ‘the town’ – the residential and shopping area of the fashionable West End, of which Covent Garden was then the youthful heart and the Strand the main artery.

By contrast, ‘the city’ was the City of London, further east, whose tradesmen and financiers, tainted with puritan sympathies, became the ‘cits’ so often mocked in the prologues, epilogues and cuckoldings of Restoration Comedy. That the king, no less than his courtiers, was often dependent on the financial assistance of these worthies made it, of course, all the more necessary to display them as semi-illiterate upstarts in the theatre – which the ‘cits’ nonetheless attended, sometimes in such numbers as to spoil Samuel Pepys’s enjoyment. In the ‘party’ system now for the first time emerging in British politics, it was from the ‘cits’ and the interests of money that the Whigs drew their main strength, with the ‘Tories’ representing the more traditional and largely rural interests of ‘land’.

The tensions of a nation and a capital which remained so divided were reflected in its theatre. Although the setting of The Rover is one of exile in a faraway country, its values are those of men restored to their country, but not to their own. Thus, the thwarting of an aged father’s wish to marry his daughter to a rich but geriatric suitor is an age-old theme of comedy: but whereas the contemporary commedia made prominent characters of its Pantaloons and their doddering friends, it is significant that Behn keeps Florinda’s stern father and the dyspeptic Don Vincentio permanently offstage. The traditional struggles between the values of youth and age, poverty and wealth, give way here to just the kind of internecine sexual warfare in which the ‘banished cavaliers’ of real life continued to drown – or to sublimate – their sorrows.

The Professionalism of Aphra Behn

The theatre of the period differed from Shakespeare’s in that most playwrights were not formally attached to a particular company. Dryden’s contract to write three plays a year in return for becoming a ‘sharer’ in the King’s Company was unusual – and unfulfilled. Generally, the professional writer was dependent upon the benefit system, whereby the profits of the third night’s performance – and perhaps of the sixth, and exceptionally of the ninth – were allocated to the author. A good benefit could reap as much as £100, with a further lump sum possible for publication: but there was no guarantee that any play would even reach the third night, and it was thus as important that a sympathetic audience should give a rousing reception on the first night as that a rich one (perhaps willing to pay well over the expected price for their seats) should fill the house on the third.

Those males scandalised by Aphra Behn, who dared to affront ‘the modesty of her sex’ by writing as bawdily as they, did not even deign to consider the element of economic necessity that drove her to satisfy the prevailing tastes of the town. She was among the more prolific of Restoration playwrights in part because she had to be – and the total of at least sixteen plays performed during her lifetime is thus in marked contrast with, say, Wycherley’s four, or Congreve’s six. When she declared in the preface to her late comedy The Lucky Chance (1686) that she was ‘not content to write for a third night only’, she may have been staking a conventional claim to be writing for posterity as well as for money: but her long association with Dorset Garden and the regularity of her output may suggest some more formal financial arrangement with the Duke’s Company than the chances of the benefit system allowed.

In 1682, the two companies merged, in consequence of the decline in theatre attendances in the wake of the political crises of Charles’s later years; and the United Company cut its costs still further by staging a higher proportion of revivals, whose dead authors made no claim upon diminishing receipts. Other playwrights, such as Behn’s friends Thomas Otway and William Wycherley, fared no better, and John Dryden was forced to seek meagre government patronage. Classically educated males could at least turn to publishing translations as an alternative source of income – whereas Aphra Behn, in contributing to a version of Ovid, had to work from someone else’s draft translation. Greek and Latin were no part of the expected female ‘accomplishments’.

Aphra Behn enjoyed renewed stage success in later life – notably with The Lucky Chance and the strikingly original The Emperor of the Moon. But increasingly – and in not dissimilar circumstances to her eighteenth-century successor, Henry Fielding – she turned from plays to writing novels. In 1688, the year before her death, she published Oronooko, the work by which she probably remains best known – its anti-slavery theme anticipating Harriet Beecher Stowe, and its element of noble savagery even foreshadowing Rousseau. Whether or not she was the first ‘true’ novelist, before such aspirants as Defoe, Richardson and Fielding, depends on one’s definition of the novel – a form in which, however, women writers were to overcome assumptions of male supremacy with greater success than (until very recently) they challenged male chauvinism in the theatre.

The Sexual Economics of the Restoration

The ‘values of family life’ may not have been a Victorian invention, but in most earlier drama and literature little love is expected to be lost between fathers and sons, elder and younger brothers, or even (once trapped in marriage) husbands and wives. The death of a wealthy father or elder brother is usually a matter for congratulation among the friends of the fortunate heir – while marriage, of course, has everything to do with the businesslike arrangement of property and dynasties, and very little to do with the affections. True love, before marriage or after, is reserved for a mistress – though in most romantic comedies, where love is actually permitted to culminate in marriage, the hopeful suitor by luck or judgement usually gets a respectable fortune besides.

In real life, the young couple might not even have met before their parents or go-betweens had finished arranging the match. (Ordinary working folk could, ironically, better ‘afford’ to marry for love the less they could afford anything else: but, until quite recently, ordinary working folk have not much figured in great literature or theatre, other than as comic relief.) And the matter was further complicated by the ‘sexual revolution’ which led Charles I to declare in 1664 that ‘the passion of love is very much out of fashion in this country’. Even the once-adored mistress was now regarded as for sexual satisfaction only – an object of that curious combination of arousal and disgust which permeates the poems of such burnt-out rakes as Rochester. And the disgust is perhaps most readily heaped on those women who tried reciprocally to exercise the sexual freedom they had supposedly been granted.

Aphra Behn herself advocated a liberalised sexuality for women. But she acknowledged that the lack of an equivalent economic independence (combined with the fear or actuality of childbirth and the earlier loss of physical charms) constrained women from exercising their ‘freedom’ from a position of any other equality than that of their wits. And freedom of sexual movement was not freedom of social movement: the over-compliant mistress was still widely regarded as no better than a whore – to which status abandonment or decline could all too often reduce her. If Restoration actresses also called themselves ‘Mrs’, it was not because they had all been married, but because ‘Miss’ had come to be suggestive merely of sexual availability. Mrs Behn herself enjoyed the relative independence from male domination that only widowhood could bring – but not the inherited fortune that would have added security to freedom.

Aphra Behn was not above evading the problem in her plays – or rather, not above reconciling it, as many writers had done and would do again, by such a device as she used in The Dutch Lover, where, for all her heroine’s vaunted rebellion against paternal choice, her preferred lover turns out to be her father’s selected suitor as well. And if the very title of Behn’s first play, The Forced Marriage, anticipates the importance of the theme to her writing, by her second, The Amorous Prince, she was falling back on the convention that the most promiscuous rake will assuredly reform when the final curtain looms.

The Town Fop showed the horrific consequences of a forced marriage, from which the participants are only released thanks to the hero’s earlier, legally-binding pledge of marriage to his mistress. The father, meanwhile, has had time to see the consequences of his own preference – which include the hero spending half his unwanted wife’s portion on a debauch. But no resolution is offered by Behn to the economic and sexual plight of the rejected wife – a ‘loose end’ not dissimilar to that in The Rover of the scorned Angellica, in whom the playwright seems to have invested a considerable, perhaps all too personal passion.

Aphra Behn, then, made no pretence of having resolved, dramatically or personally, all the problems posed by the combination of new attitudes to sexuality with very old attitudes to other kinds of freedom. In many ways she was no less equivocal or downright muddled about sex than most of her male counterparts – though she probably did recognise, as her biographer Angeline Goreau expresses it, that the ‘liberated’ wits of the Restoration were fearfully if unconsciously obsessed with ‘the possibility that women might have sexual desires that were independent of their role as passive receptacles of male desire’.

That Hellena in The Rover falls in love with Willmore for all the wrong reasons may tell us more about Aphra Behn’s own unfortunate liaisons than about Hellena: but neither the character nor her creator was a ‘passive receptacle’. What Behn did achieve, in her writing if not in her life, was a triumphant assertion of women’s rights to their own sexuality, and at least the tentative expression – if her plays were to remain commercial, it could be no more than tentative – of her belief that true sexual satisfaction for both men and women lay in close and reciprocal relationships, not in the yoking of sexuality to property rights and family trees.

‘The Injuries of Age and Time’

For a woman whose plays make what appear to us quite proper claims for the independence of her sex, Aphra Behn numbered among her closest acquaintances many men – apart from the king himself, the likes of Sedley, Buckingham, and Rochester – who were liberated in their own sexuality, but unenlightened in their attitudes towards women. Rochester, like most of these courtly wits, was no ‘mere’ rake. Though credited with training one of his mistresses, Elizabeth Barry, for the stage, he undertook the exercise less from interest in her own non-sexual attributes than to win a bet with his male companions. Behn was indebted to Rochester as a patron, but appears genuinely to have liked and admired the man, with whom she exchanged bawdy poems. A chronic drunkard as well as a poet, a ravisher of pretty women and a fancier of young boys, Rochester, who is often named as the model for the fashionable wit Dorimant in Etherege’s The Man of Mode, was capable of scandalising even the king’s sense of decency with some of his more public outrages.

Rochester may well have been on Aphra Behn’s mind when she tried to make Willmore in The Rover so sexually magnetic. But there were others in Behn’s circle with a claim to be the model for such a character. There was John Greenhill, the highly talented portrait painter, who, like Rochester, died probably of syphilis in his early thirties. Aphra Behn wrote an elegy to his memory and sent a copy to Rochester: he had at least been spared ‘the injuries of age and time’. In lighter-hearted vein, she made poetic mock of another male acquaintance for his misfortune in contracting syphilis – not an uncommon ailment in her circle, and one from which she was possibly herself a sufferer in later years. If so, she probably picked up the disease during the longest and stormiest of her own love affairs, with the bisexual rake, lawyer, man of letters, and chief claimant to be the original of Willmore – John Hoyle.

Suspected of the republican sympathies which had led his father to take his own life, Hoyle was in other respects entirely a man of the Restoration. He was attractive to women, and appears to have treated all his conquests with the amused contempt which so exasperated Aphra Behn. Her poems suggest that, despite her own previous liaisons, this affair – which would have been at its tempestuous height around the time she was writing The Rover – was the one in which she felt the most complete consummation of her sexual passion. Yet Hoyle kept Behn, like all his mistresses, at a distance, pursuing his other affairs while wishing her to remain faithful to him alone; inflicting casual insults upon her, yet highly sensitive to any imagined slights in her own behaviour. Aphra Behn’s remaining letters to Hoyle seem to be half-persuading, half-pleading for the kind of freedom, combined with commitment of the heart, to which Hellena in The Rover believes she had led Willmore. But Behn’s biographer Angeline Goreau suggests that part of Hoyle’s attraction was precisely the knowledge that she would never be called upon to act out the role of wife for him, any more than that of conventional mistress. She suffered, but she kept her freedom. So, presumably, did her Hellena – who conspicuously fails to appear in the undistinguished sequel to The Rover, The Second Part of The Rover (1680), in which Willmore has conveniently become a widower.

The death of Charles II in 1685 marked the close of an era that was already turning sour. John Hoyle was tried inconclusively for sodomy in 1687, by which time the affair with Behn was probably over. He outlived her only by three years, before being killed in a tavern brawl – for which his murderer successfully pleaded self-defence. Greenhill and Rochester were already dead, burned out by debauchery, and Buckingham was not only out of favour politically but ‘worn to a thread with whoring’. Among Aphra Behn’s playwriting friends, Wycherley was in a debtors’ prison, Nathaniel Lee was on public exhibition in a madhouse, and Otway was starving to death in a slum – despite, it seems, some financial help from Behn, although she was herself in debt. She died – some said of a minor ailment ineptly treated – with a fine sense of timing, a few days after the coronation of William and Mary, whose accession ended the era with whose values Aphra Behn was so closely identified. The Rover, written in 1677, just a year before the ‘Popish Plot’, may in retrospect be seen as one of the last celebrations of the Restoration spirit, in which no real sense of doubt or danger lurks in the darker corners of bedchamber or tavern.

The Rover as Restoration Comedy

Critics of Aphra Behn’s play find themselves in a paradoxical position. The works are inseparably linked with those social and political conditions outlined in earlier sections, as they are also with their author’s personal feelings about those conditions. Yet we know so few details of Behn’s life, outside her purely professional activities, that any conjectural reconstruction inevitably leads us . . . back full circle to the plays themselves.

Perhaps the chief gain from getting caught up in this critical double-bind is the way in which characters in Behn’s plays – which one would otherwise tend to categorise as ‘types’ – come to take on ampler dimensions. Fluent gallants have been sparring in verbal duels with their pert mistresses in a literary lineage which stretches from Shakespeare’s Beatrice and Benedick to Congreve’s Mirabell and Millamant and beyond – for example, to Bernard Shaw’s Jack Tanner and Ann Whitefield in Man and Superman. And critics have conventionally ‘placed’ such couples with references to the ‘enduring’ psychological interest of love-hate relationships, or the downright metaphysical workings of the life-force, rather than to the social contexts within which such sexual masquerades were conducted. But the duels of wit in The Rover – as in the other examples cited, for that matter – are fought within a complex web of sexual, social and economic prejudices inseparable from their time.

Or, to take a different tangent: the character regarded by most critics, even the most sympathetic, as an unsatisfactory loose-end to the plot, Angellica Bianca (though sharing her initials as well as her temperament with her creator), becomes nothing so simple as an authorial mouthpiece, or as theatrically irrelevant as a self-portrait, but a ‘loose end’ left over by society itself. Angellica is the sexually attractive woman who has rejected the loss of independence involved in marriage: she has therefore exploited her only form of inherited ‘capital’ – her looks – in part as revenge against the male sex, which has reduced her to that expedient. But the repudiation by Willmore represents for her not just the scorning of real love painfully exposed, but a first reminder that loss of beauty will leave her with a future of economic uncertainty as well as personal loneliness.

When the critic L.C. Knights launched his influential attack on Restoration Comedy just before the Second World War, he was using the term in its commonly vague sense, to embrace the work of Congreve, Vanbrugh, and even Farquhar – all of whom wrote long after the values of the ‘chronological’ Restoration had been extinguished, and who were all too conscious of the moral critique of their work initiated in 1698 by Jeremy Collier. A century or so later, all that an apologetic Charles Lamb could suggest by way of excuse for these dissolute comedies was that they were ‘artificial’ – set in a ‘Utopia of gallantry’ with ‘no reference whatsoever to the world that is’. Whether or not that is true of the later plays of Congreve and Vanbrugh, Aphra Behn helps us to view the actual world of the Restoration from a new angle which also gives added depth to the work of her closer contemporaries, Etherege, Otway, and Wycherley, and confirms that all are writing about a very ‘real’ if limited range of experience.

The Rover, of course, is unusual in that it is not set in the fashionable West End drawing-rooms and walks of Restoration London, but in a recent past to which a due proportion of its audiences in 1677 probably looked back a mite nostalgically (just as post-Second World War Londoners often looked back fondly to the camaraderie of the Blitz, despite its dangers and deprivations). True, this is still the world of ‘the town’, and the rustic simpleton Ned Blunt can expect to fall into its snares as surely as he would have done in London: but the advantage of ‘foreignness’ also means that Belvile and his companions are less sure-footed socially, just as they are free of the constraints of class expectations or family ties. In such freedoms from traditional constraints the ‘actual’ Restoration sensibility also had its roots.

And so, perhaps a trifle schematically, Aphra Behn shows her exiles spanning a whole spectrum of attitudes to women and to love – from the mere loutishness of Blunt, through the butterfly charm of Willmore and the almost accidental amours of Frederick, to the romantic single-heartedness of Belvile. Each has his theatrical ancestors, but each is also part of an historical moment. Each meets his match, and gets his sexual if not his moral desserts.