by Tim Rayborn
Cato was admired in Europe as well, where antimonarchist, republican sympathies grew ever stronger during the eighteenth century. The play offered role models for virtuous behavior and adherence to the ideals of liberty, both of which had enduring appeal—versions of Cato circulated well into the nineteenth century.
Addison himself probably would have been horrified to think that his work would inspire sedition against the British government, but he had more immediate concerns. Over the next few years, he entered into an unhappy marriage with Charlotte, Dowager Countess of Warwick, whose son from her previous marriage was Edward Rich, seventh Earl of Warwick, who, according to many, was a rakish, obnoxious little jerk. Political rivalries abounded. Addison’s health failed him and he died at the young age of forty-seven, never knowing how influential his Roman play would eventually become.
Charles Macklin (1690/99–1797)
A poke in the eye II
There is some dispute about just how long Macklin lived. Either way, ninety-seven or well over a century, was hugely impressive for the time. Born in Northern Ireland, where records were not always accurate, he maintained that he had been born “in the last year of the last century,” but biographers have found some evidence that he may have made his debut almost a decade earlier.
Macklin was a renowned stage actor and dramatist, best known and praised for his portrayal of Shylock from Shakespeare’s Merchant of Venice. Shylock had previously been portrayed as a comic relief character (it was an age of freely adapting and reinterpreting old plays, even Shakespeare’s), more akin to someone from the Italian Commedia. Instead of merely following stereotyped conventions from the time, Macklin actively sought out Jews in London and learned about their clothing, customs, and manners. He brought a level of seriousness to the role that had not been seen before, and it was a huge hit. Shylock became his signature character (though he played hundreds of other roles), and Macklin portrayed him for decades, ceasing only a few years before his death as his memory faded.
Macklin advocated for a more naturalistic way of acting, one that made the characters into real people, rather than just figures reciting lines to the audience in a declamatory manner, as was often the practice at the time. He taught this new realism to his students and was responsible for a change in acting techniques.
Unfortunately, Macklin had a number of run-ins with the law (most often legal disputes), the most notorious being the accidental murder of another actor, Thomas Hallam. The incident happened at the famed Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, in London. The two quarreled over a costume wig, of all things, backstage during a performance of a farce called Trick for Trick. Hallam was wearing it, and Macklin wanted it. In a fit of anger, Macklin struck at Hallam with his cane. The object hit Hallam in the face, pierced his eye, and entered his brain. Macklin was immediately remorseful and called for a doctor, but the damage was done, and Hallam died the next day. Macklin was brought to trial for murder and acted as his own lawyer. His genuine remorse and skillful oratory (he was an actor, after all!) resulted in the sentence being reduced to manslaughter. Normally, he would have been branded on his hand with a letter “M,” but he also seems to have escaped this punishment.
An interesting story about his death is also worth noting, but may be nothing more than fanciful legend. It is said that on his last day (which may have also been his birthday), he awoke and took a bath in warm brandy, as you do. He then changed clothes and bed linens, and retired again to bed later. At some point he turned to his wife and said, “Let me go,” and so he died, whether or not she had any say in it.
Voltaire (1694–1778)
Pissing off the establishment
Voltaire is best known as a philosopher and writer, perhaps the embodiment of French Enlightenment ideals. He is famous for his satirical novel Candide, but he was also a prolific playwright, penning more than fifty dramas during his long life. His biography would fill a volume or four, so here we will just look at his dramatic activities and a few of the more unusual highlights from his life.
Voltaire was born François-Marie Arouet. His father wanted him to become a lawyer, but he resisted and pursued writing instead; typical young rebel. His acid tongue and wit soon landed him in trouble. He satirically suggested that the country’s regent, Philippe II, Duke of Orléans, who oversaw the minority of the young King Louis XV, had an incestuous relationship with his own daughter, and this got him promptly sent off to the charming Bastille for an eleven-month vacation, er, imprisonment between 1717 and 1718. This was a miserable confinement in a windowless cell. However, he emerged otherwise unscathed and was able to salvage his reputation by writing the play Œdipe (“Oedipus”), a new version of the ancient Greek tragedy. Incest also features in this play, of course, but Voltaire wisely downplayed the theme somewhat after his prison experience.
At this time, he also adopted the pen name “Voltaire,” though its exact meaning is unclear. It may be a Latinized version of “Arouet,” or perhaps a play on his childhood nickname, le petit volontaire (“the determined little thing”). Voltaire explained that he used it so as not to be confused with another similarly named poet.
Over the next few years, he wrote a mixture of drama (mainly tragedies, with varying degrees of success), as well as poetry and prose, always eager to mock society’s many faults. In 1726, he ran afoul of the Chevalier de Rohan-Chabot, who then paid some hired hands to beat him up. Enraged, Voltaire challenged the nobleman to a duel, but instead he was arrested and once again thrown into the Bastille. He feared that since he had not been tried, he might be detained indefinitely, so he offered to go into exile in England instead, and this was permitted. While in London, he was a hit, and he mingled with the best and most prominent figures in society.
Voltaire was able to return to France less than three years later and in 1729, hatched a scheme with mathematician Charles Marie de La Condamine to work the national French lottery in their favor. This lottery was meant to collect money and hand out prizes as a way for the government to pay for its debts and services (then as now), but La Condamine and some professional gamblers were able to exploit it to win often, and Voltaire walked away with as much as a million French livres. This set him up for life so that he could pursue writing exclusively. All writers should be so lucky!
He continued to write plays and produced his Letters Concerning the English Nation, published in London in 1733. The work lauded the British government for its forward-looking views on human rights, religious toleration, and limited monarchy. A French version was published the next year, but it was never approved by the censor, and so all hell broke loose for Voltaire once again. The work was condemned, banned, and burned; Voltaire had to flee Paris for eastern France. This would be a recurring pattern for him, and he frequently lived with the fear of arrest.
In 1742, he wrote Mahomet, a play that on the surface seems to be purely a critique of Islam and its prophet, but underneath, it condemns the actions of the Catholic Church and religious hypocrisy in general. Voltaire was a committed Deist and believed in religious toleration, but condemned what he saw as superstition and excess peddled by adherents of all religions: “Mahomet, I know, did not actually commit that particular crime which is the subject of this tragedy … but what is not that man capable of, who, in the name of God, makes war against his country? … Above all it was my intention to show the horrid schemes which villainy can invent, and fanaticism put in practice.”
This criticism of religion, especially Christianity, never abated. Many years later, he expressed an admiration for Muhammad in contrast to Jesus: “Mahomet had the courage of Alexander … your Jesus sweated blood and water as soon as he was condemned by his judges.”
Such attitudes obviously didn’t go down well with some leaders, religious or secular. In an effort to be free of such interference, he settled in Ferney on the Swiss-French border. Here he wrote Candide and spent much of the rest of his life. He also established a successful watchmaking business and befriended Benjamin F
ranklin by correspondence. He finally returned to Paris in February 1778 to see the production of one of his plays, became a Freemason at Franklin’s request in April, and died a month later—there was no connection between these two events, so no conspiracy theories, please. Stories of his last days differ; his enemies said that he was reconciled with the Catholic Church and received Last Rites, while his supporters denied that any such thing had happened. He was denied a Christian burial in any case, but in 1791, the National Assembly of France had his remains interred in the Panthéon in Paris, regarding him as a forerunner to the French Revolution.
Carlo Goldoni (1707–1793)
The last laugh?
Goldoni was an Italian playwright who specialized in comedies. Some credit him with nothing less than the renewal of Italian comedy in the eighteenth century—he altered and improved the Commedia dell’Arte, using Moilère as a model. He did away with the traditional masks worn by the stock characters, allowing for greater emotional and comic expression. He is perhaps best known for The Servant of Two Masters, which, as the title suggests, follows the adventures of the always-hungry Truffaldino (a variant of Harlequin) in trying to serve two different employers at once, without the other knowing. The highlight of the play comes when both are staying at the same inn and Truffaldino dashes back and forth between them to provide his services, trying to make sure that each never learns of the other. It is a masterpiece of physical comedy, everything that the Commedia excels at, featuring high-energy running about the stage, jumping and acrobatics, throwing food and other objects, and desperately trying to avoid detection by the opposite master.
While Goldoni was a man with a funny reputation in front of crowds, his personal life was often less humorous. From a young age, he had been attracted to drama, though in his youth, he wrote a libelous poem about some of the local nobility, and/or visited a brothel with friends, which caused him to be expelled from Ghislieri College in Pavia in northern Italy. So he went on to study law instead. Still, his first love was the theater, and he ultimately wrote a huge number of plays. Not all of his countrymen were thrilled with his changes to the structure of their beloved Italian comedy, however. His first effort had been a tragedy, Amalasunta, which he submitted to an opera director. When told that it did not properly take into account the needs of the performers, Goldoni thanked him, took the manuscript home, burned it, ate a hearty meal, and slept a good sleep.
Maybe it was because of this failure that he decided that comedy was more his thing. Regardless of his chosen genre, he was always very self-critical. Even when one of his plays was successful, he would tell himself, “Good, but not yet Molière.” Now that’s a phrase that needs to be revived in modern theater!
In 1757, he was embroiled in a bitter feud in Venice with Carlo Gozzi, a playwright who favored the older Italian styles and deeply resented Goldoni’s Frenchified updates. The rivalry became bitter, but Gozzi gained the upper hand, with audiences preferring his approach over Goldoni’s, at least at that time. Goldoni was so disgusted that he left Venice and Italy forever, settling in Paris in 1761, ironically being put in charge of Italian theater, but now writing his plays in French. He was given a generous pension by the king, and everything seemed set.
Oh, except that little hiccup known as the French Revolution. The burgeoning revolutionary government was suspicious of everything and everyone tied to the Old Regime, and Goldoni was no exception. He was deprived of his income by the Convention in 1789, and he struggled terribly afterward, dying in poverty in 1793. To show that they weren’t heartless monsters, however, the government voted to restore his pension … the day after he died.
Pierre Beaumarchais (1732–1799)
Multitalented wife murderer?
Pierre-Augustin Caron de Beaumarchais was a remarkable polymath. At various stages in his life, he was: a playwright and writer, musician, watchmaker, inventor, spy, diplomat, and supporter of revolutions (both the French and the American), among other things. As far as drama is concerned, he is most remembered for his Figaro plays: Le Barbier de Séville, Le Mariage de Figaro, and La Mère coupable (“The Guily Mother”). Mozart, of course, set The Marriage of Figaro to music as a splendid opera, and Rossini’s operatic version of the Barber of Seville is unsurpassed.
Beaumarchais rose to prominence in King Louis XV’s court as a music teacher (harp for Louis’s daughters), and later worked in espionage; he was involved in the smuggling of arms and supplies to the Americans during the revolution, financed by the French and Spanish governments, who were only too eager to stick it to the British. So important was this work that the United States might not exist without his help. He was also valued as an inventor, having apprenticed with his father, a watchmaker, and devised new ways to make timepieces into reliable instruments, rather than expensive fashion accessories.
A ten-month visit to Spain in 1764 would inspire his dramatic works and a lifelong love for the country. He hoped to become consul to Spain, but he was rejected for this post. He began to devise ways of writing about the country, which culminated in his entertaining but controversial works about Figaro. He may actually have thought up the title character during his stay, and there are autobiographical qualities in these stories. In fact, if one looks at one name by which Beaumarchais was known, fils Caron (“son of Caron”), pronounced roughly as “fee Karoh,” the origin of the name “Figaro,” suddenly becomes obvious.
The first of the Figaro plays, The Barber of Seville, is a farce in the Commedia dell’Arte tradition. It tells of a certain Count Almaviva, who falls in love with a young woman named Rosine and tries to think up ways to woo her. He disguises himself as a poor student, Lindor, and schemes to get into her house, where she is being held against her will by Bartholo, to whom she is engaged against her will. Almaviva runs into a former servant, Figaro, now working as a barber, who helps him with his plan. They eventually succeed, and the happy couple wed at the play’s end.
All of this would seem innocuous and even charming, but Beaumarchais laced his narratives with satire and commentary that were critical of the established order. Indeed, an earlier appearance by these two characters in the play Le sacristain (“The Sacristan”) upset King Louis XVI and he would not allow it to be performed. Further, The Marriage of Figaro initially passed the censor in 1781, but the king was not pleased by the content and banned it. Marie Antoinette did not find it as offensive and asked her husband to relent, but he refused. The story of the play tells that, three years after the events in The Barber of Seville, Figaro is due to be married (hence the title), but the count whom he helped to win the love of Rosine in the first play, being fickle, is already looking elsewhere, and takes a liking to Figaro’s fiancée, Suzanne. Soon, he is hoping to enact an ancient primae noctis law and take Suzanne for himself on her wedding night.
Louis felt that the work stirred up bad feelings between the classes and was particularly upset by a scene in the fifth act, wherein Figaro castigates the count for believing that he is so superior simply because he was born into rank and privilege:
Just because you are a great nobleman, you think you are a great genius—Nobility, fortune, rank, position! How proud they make a man feel! What have you done to deserve such advantages? Put yourself to the trouble of being born—nothing more. For the rest—a very ordinary man! Whereas I, lost among the obscure crowd, have had to deploy more knowledge, more calculation and skill merely to survive than has sufficed to rule all the provinces of Spain for a century!
In the years leading up to the French Revolution, these were obviously not the words that a nervous king wanted to hear. Beaumarchais made a number of corrections and deletions, and Louis finally permitted the play to be performed in 1784.
With the advent of the French Revolution, things heated up for Beaumarchais. He was at one point accused of being a loyalist to the Old Regime, so he took refuge in Germany. He was finally able to return to Paris in 1796 and lived out his life without further trouble.
One o
f the more interesting—and sinister—theories about Beaumarchais pertains to his personal life. He was married three times, and his first two wives died under mysterious circumstances. The first, Madeleine-Catherine Franque, died ten months after they were married, while the second, Geneviève-Madeleine Lévêque, passed away about two years into the marriage. His third wife, Marie-Thérèse de Willer-Mawlaz, was his lover for about twelve years before they tied the knot, so perhaps she passed the test; she lived until 1816.
So what happened? Well, rumors circulated, then and now, that Beaumarchais poisoned his first two wives to inherit their wealth. He had lifted the title “de Beaumarchais” from his first wife’s equally dead husband, which is a bit crass and opportunistic, and may have led some to suspect that he was ambitious enough to have planned their deaths. Both wives came from prosperous families, and Beaumarchais certainly enjoyed the financial benefits of legally joining with them, but was he cold-blooded enough to kill them merely for their money and titles? It would have been a terrible risk, but if so, he got away with it and prospered despite the many other dangers of the time. No charges were ever brought against him, so if he was guilty, he took his secrets with him to the grave.
The obnoxious Licensing Act of 1737
The butt of many jokes
We’ve seen that Collier and his cronies were none too happy about the lewdness and permissive behaviors that pervaded the Restoration stage. While the particularly bawdy comedies that held sway for three decades had begun to wane by 1700, other subversive topics did not, including social and political satire, even when critical of the government. And this was a bigger concern. Despite the fuming of offended theologians, the greater threat came in the form of support for restoring the Stuarts to the throne. You may recall that James II, the last Stuart king, was deposed, and while he was a Catholic, many still felt that he was the divinely ordained monarch.