by Tim Rayborn
On her hand I saw a colour rise a little ruddy, and run for the length of an inch upon her vein, and in that a great many red specks; and they contracted into letters which made a distinct word; and it was the fame she spake, “Joseph.” … This, as I live, I saw; nor could I find the least argument to question the reality of this miracle. The priest then told us, that the Devil would have wrote his own name when he went out, but that he enjoined him to write “Joseph;” for to that saint the priest had addressed himself with a vow, to have his aid in the expelling of him.
Grandier was interrogated by an ecclesiastical tribunal but acquitted. This was not satisfactory for Richelieu, who brought him to trial again and produced new “evidence,” including a remarkable contract, written backwards in Latin and “signed” by various devils, including Satan himself. It read in part:
We, the influential Lucifer, the young Satan, Beelzebub, Leviathan, Elimi, and Astaroth, together with others, have today accepted the covenant pact of Urbain Grandier, who is ours. And him do we promise the love of women, the flower of virgins, the respect of monarchs, honors, lusts and powers.
It continued by noting that Grandier was obligated to defile holy things and as a result, would live happily for twenty years before joining them in hell. Each demon had his own elaborate signature and the whole thing was completely ridiculous, but it was enough for Grandier to be burned at the stake in 1634.
Killigrew seems to have been pretty unsettled by the whole affair, but surprisingly, it never formed the basis for a play, which would seem a natural thing to do. The subject matter may have been distasteful in Protestant England, or perhaps it had something to do with the Civil War, which erupted during the next decade.
Killigrew was a Royalist and subject to the Puritan crackdown on plays during their tenure as stewards of the nation. He followed the future Charles II into exile in 1647 and traveled extensively, apparently writing a new play in each city that he visited.
With the Restoration, Killigrew got in good with the returning King Charles II and was appointed Groom of the Bedchamber (a kind of valet). He was also given a royal license to reform and manage the King’s Company, which was Shakespeare’s former company. Samuel Pepys records that Killigrew had been given the position of the king’s court jester in 1668:
Tom Killigrew hath a fee out of the Wardrobe for cap and bells, under the title of the King’s Foole or jester; and may with privilege revile or jeere any body, the greatest person, without offence, by the privilege of his place.
This was not some silly position (“cap and bells” notwithstanding) but rather a tremendous honor, one that allowed Killigrew almost free rein to say whatever he liked in the context of political commentary; what writer wouldn’t envy that? He is even reported to have said directly to the king that he (the king) was “Charles Stuart—who now spends his time in employing his lips and his prick about the court and has no other employment.” Well, that’s actually kind of true.
In the theatrical world, Killigrew may have been one of the first to hire an actress for one of his productions, and he also brought in foreign performers, including castrati from Italy. One of his plays, The Parson’s Wedding, was written way back in the late 1630s in Switzerland but enjoyed a revival, with some rewrites, in the Restoration era. It was a bawdy comedy, and many thought it was fairly vulgar, which only enhanced its popularity. Female wantonness is a major theme in the play, such as in the description of the character of Lady Freedom, a female surgeon who represents those women who helped during the civil war. Jolly, a courtier, observes that her motives are more for sexual gratification than rendering assistance: “She converses with naked men, and handles all their members, though never so ill-affected, and calls the Fornication Charity.”
As an experiment, he had the play performed with an all-female cast more than once, something that would have been unthinkable when it was first written, but which was received with much amusement by audiences eager to see the novelty of actresses. The comedy even makes a note of this at one point, challenging the restrictions of the preceding eras:
Now, to oppose the humour of that Age,
We have this day, expell’d our Men the Stage.
Why cannot we as well perform their Parts?
The play goes even further, recalling the earlier practice of boys taking women’s roles—and the Puritans’ fear that this practice could incite homosexual lust in male audience members—and suggesting that men took boys as lovers:
When boys play’d women’s parts, you’d think the Stage
Was innocent in that untempting Age.
No: for your amorous Fathers then, like you
Amongst those Boys, had Play-house Misses too …
Despite commercial successes, Killigrew’s attempts at theater management were not always successful, and there were quarrels over ownership issues (he lost control of his theater to his son in 1677) and issues with actors showing up on time. Killigrew attempted to correct the latter problem by hiring a company prostitute as an incentive to good attendance. Despite his business and personal problems, he was regarded highly enough to be buried in Westminster Abbey when he died in March 1683, a testament to his value to the decadent king who, when not busy employing his prick, entrusted Killigrew with helping to revive English theater.
Molière (1622–1673)
The not-so-imaginary invalid
Born Jean-Baptiste Poquelin but preferring his stage name, Molière was the greatest French playwright of the seventeenth century and one of the greatest masters of theatrical comedy who ever lived. He elevated comedy to a respectable art form and was much in demand, despite the controversies that surrounded him. He was proficient with farce, producing comic masterpieces such as Tartuffe, The Misanthrope, and The Imaginary Invalid.
He was the son of a furniture merchant and upholster to the king; his father’s official title was “valet of the king’s chamber and keeper of carpets and upholstery”—how’s that for an unusual job description? Molière studied classics and law, but turned away from both his father’s profession and an academic life to embrace the world of the theater. He created a company, the Illustre Théâtre, in 1643 and took as his mistress the young actress Madeleine Béjart; her brother and sister also became collaborators in the company. Yes, they were all set to show the world what they could do, and what they did do was fail, so much so that they ran up huge debts. Molière spent a day in prison before his debts were paid, possibly by his father. He may have adopted his stage name about then, to spare his family the shame of having an actor using their name.
With their Paris venture a failure, they went off on a short tour of the provinces that ended up lasting for twelve years. During that time (1646–1658), Molière honed his skills to a considerable degree, acquired wealthy patrons, and moved away from being influenced by the Commedia dell’Arte to create works that stood the test of time. When the company eventually returned to Paris and began performances there, his reputation was solid.
However, he also made enemies and inspired controversy. He was not above satirizing his detractors, and many in the clergy felt that his work was lampooning them, as well, especially among the adherents of Jansenism, a Catholic theological movement that was at odds with the Jesuits and even the Church itself at times over the Jansenists’ rigid teachings. However, he was able to survive their challenges because he had found favor with King Louis XIV, who had the last word on the subject.
Still, he was attacked from various sources. One major accusation concerned his personal life. In 1662, he married Armande Béjart, supposedly the much younger sister of his former lover, Madeleine. However, some accused Molière of in fact marrying his own illegitimate daughter, saying that she was his and Madeleine’s child, and that Madeleine was only pretending to have a sister. The actor Montfleury was a particular devotee of this conspiracy theory, since Molière had mocked his large belly in one of his farces, and he had taken great offense over it. Montfleury was destined for
a dramatic death of his own, as we will see in “The Bloody Theater” chapter. In any case, the king seems not to have taken this charge seriously, and Molière escaped punishment. The truth will probably never be known.
He was in for more trouble with his play Tartuffe, produced in 1664. The story concerns the plight of Orgon and his mother, who are being badly influenced by Tartuffe, a vagrant, con man, and now their boarder. Tartuffe outwardly appears pious but is actually a fraud, and he schemes to become Orgon’s sole heir. Other members of Orgon’s family try to free him from Tartuffe’s influence and ultimately succeed. On the surface, the play is a comedy, but it has many darker satirical elements, and the religious authorities were not at all pleased. Tartuffe represents religious hypocrisy; his outward shows of piety and underlying immorality are intended as a critique of the then-current religious establishment. Tartuffe notes, for example, when he speaks of possibly inheriting money:
The treasures of this world I quite despise;
Their specious glitter does not charm my eyes;
And if I have resigned myself to taking
The gift which my dear Brother insists on making,
I do so only, as he well understands,
Lest so much wealth fall into wicked hands.
He puts on a show of being a holy man not desiring wealth, when in fact he has been scheming for it all along. The implication is that this is exactly what the religious hierarchy in France does, flaunting wealth while claiming to have no interest in it except to put it to good use for the church.
It isn’t only money that Tartuffe is after. He lusts for Orgon’s wife, but foolish Orgon thinks he is simply watching out for her, the typical mark of a cuckolded fool:
His interest in my wife is reassuring,
She’s innocent, but so alluring.
He tells me whom she sees and what she does.
He’s more jealous than I ever was.
It’s for my honor that he’s so concerned.
When Orgon eventually learns of Tartuffe’s deceit, he angrily denounces him, pointing to the contrast between his façade and his behavior:
Ah! Ah! You are a traitor and a liar!
Some holy man you are, to wreck my life
Marry my daughter? Lust after my wife?
Though the play was performed at Versailles and the king enjoyed it, the archbishop of Paris was not pleased by these kinds of accusations. He came down hard on it, issuing an edict that threatened excommunication for anyone viewing or acting in the play, or even reading it. This was a serious charge, and it was probably only the king’s protection that kept Molière from being excommunicated. Molière tried to defuse the situation by rewriting certain sections to make them less offensive, but such appeasements almost never work, and they didn’t in this situation. The play remained effectively banned from public performance (private shows still took place) for some years, until the king gained the upper hand in power over the French clergy and allowed it to be shown again.
By the 1660s, Molière was showing signs of a serious lung condition, pulmonary tuberculosis, which he may have contracted many years earlier, perhaps during his brief stay in prison. It was a condition that would lead to his dramatic (quite literally) death. In 1673, ironically while performing in his play The Imaginary Invalid, he collapsed in a fit of coughing, but insisted on finishing the show. He somehow managed to carry on, but collapsed again after the play was over and was taken to his home. His condition was not so imaginary after all.
Two priests were summoned to deliver last rites, but given his reputation and the sour history between him and the Church, they refused to come. A more compassionate third priest did agree to perform the rites, but he arrived too late, and Molière was already gone. Thus, the great satirist passed without reconciliation with the Church he had only lightly mocked, and which had taken far more offense that it should have at his ingenious farces. It was said that he was wearing the color green at the time of his death, and some suppose this to be the origin of the theatrical superstition about green’s unluckiness (see the chapter “An Abundance of Superstitions, Curses, and Bad Luck”). Under the law at the time, mere actors were not allowed to be buried in a cemetery’s holy grounds. However, Armande convinced the king to allow his body to be buried in a portion of the cemetery reserved for unbaptized infants, which was something of a compromise. In 1804, Molière’s remains were transferred to the more fitting Père Lachaise Cemetery in Paris; in fact, he was one of the first to be interred in the new grounds, receiving the respect he deserved but didn’t always get in life.
The spectacle of English female actors during the Restoration (1660 onward)
Breeches, breasts, bawdiness, and ’bout time
With the restoration of Charles II to the English throne in 1660 after Cromwell’s grim, no-fun years, the theaters were opened again. The hedonistic new king thought it would be quite the smashing idea to introduce a novelty into the plays, one that would set them apart from their forebears and quite possibly also as an added kick to the groin of the Puritans he had just ousted. He decreed that women would henceforth be allowed to act and share stages with their male counterparts. Charles had spent time in exile in France at the court of Louis XIV, where women had already been players for a long time, and he wanted his court to imitate the splendor of the French model. And to ogle lots of young actresses.
The idea wasn’t completely, stunningly new even in England. English women had always been permitted to perform in masques, which were a blend of dialogue, poetry, music, and dance for courtly audiences at various festivals. As the name implies, the performers wore disguises (masks and opulent clothing) and their audiences were private and upper-class only (unlike the public and often lower-class playhouses), so participation in such festivities was considered an acceptable indulgence for a noble lady.
But a woman’s appearance in the playhouses was something entirely different, unthinkable during the Elizabethan and Jacobean eras, to say nothing of the silent years under Cromwell. The Puritans certainly didn’t like the idea of women actors, but almost just as bad to them was the practice of boys playing women’s roles, because, as we have seen, this situation could tempt some actors into “unnatural” activities that might occur as a result of having to perform love scenes. That’s why they just wanted to shut it all down and be done with it.
Anyway, with the Restoration, women reveled in their newfound freedom and took to the stage with relish and joy. A whole generation of talented actresses sprang up, freed from the constraints previously imposed on them. Undoubtedly, many women had acted in secret before, but now they could openly share the stage with men and play actual female roles, even the classic ones written a half century before.
For better or worse, many actresses used their newfound fame as a way to ingratiate themselves to wealthy men who came to see the new comedies and other theatrical entertainments. The most famous of these was Nell Gwyn (1650–1687), who became King Charles’s mistress from 1668 (some sources say as late as 1670), ultimately beating out a fellow actress, Moll Davis (ca. 1648–1708), for his attention. There were rumors that Gwyn had conspired with female playwright Aphra Behn (ca. 1640–1689) and administered a strong laxative into Davis’s cakes shortly before her evening tryst with the king; well, that’s one way to spoil the mood!
As you might expect, working conditions were hardly ideal for equality. Women were paid less, treated poorly, and often written into plays as sexual objects rather than true characters. Plays began to feature “couch scenes,” wherein women would lie, feigning sleep for a given act, often in a state of at least partial undress. More distasteful were the new rape scenes, which were justified by the idea that they allowed a female character to retain her virtue (i.e., she had not consented) but still be titillating. Women really didn’t have the liberty of protesting these kinds of exploitative scenes, if they wanted to keep their jobs.
One curious turnabout was the “breeches role,” in which women had t
he chance to cross-dress as men; this was usually a part of the story, with a woman secretly pretending to be a man while pursuing some goal. Obviously, this had long been done the other way around, since boys played the major female characters, but these new parts were specifically written as such and appeared in nearly a quarter of all Restoration comedies. The idea of seeing “real” women in these roles was part of the humor, and there was undoubtedly a thrill for both genders in seeing women wearing tight-fitting trousers that clearly showed off their legs and even buttocks, something that was otherwise forbidden. Sometimes these actresses would let loose their hair, or even expose one breast onstage as a part of the reveal that their characters were women pretending to be men, which further added to the novelty and scandal.
These roles were so popular that they were sometimes apparently added to older plays to bring them more up to date. Of course, some older works, such as Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night, already have such a plot device worked in—a female character pretending to be a boy before revealing that said boy was really a woman all along. But in accordance with the “no women onstage” laws of that earlier time, the role was played by an actual boy onstage, pretending to be a woman … pretending to be a boy. The mind boggles.
Charles Rivière Dufresny (1648–1724)
A washed-up marriage
Dufresny was a French dramatist who was born into privilege but encountered troubles after that promising start. His plays are not regarded as masterpieces, but in his time they were popular enough. He was said to be the great-grandson of one La Belle Jardinière d’Anet (“the Beautiful Garden of Anet”), who was a mistress to King Henri IV of France (1553–1610), and people remarked that he bore a certain resemblance to that royal personage. As such, he found favor with King Louis XIV, who made him a valet de chambre, named him comptroller of the royal gardens, and even gave him a patent on the manufacture of looking glasses.