Even when we go looking to fill out the narrative by finding history’s great women, often the story still unavoidably hangs on the men in their life – the fathers who bequeathed them kingdoms or fortunes, the husbands who allowed them or impeded them or just died conveniently early. Aphra Behn is a rarity in that we don’t know for sure who her father was, or whether she even married. But we do know that – so far as the record states, anyway – she was English’s first professional female writer. Oh, and also a spy, because hey, why leave it at merely groundbreaking when you can be even more thoroughly badass? Beyond that I mainly know her life from a Faction Paradox novel, and I’m not saying they’re not unimpeachable historical sources, but I don’t want Behn’s oblique role in the Time War to distract us from her artistic endeavours. So – onwards!
First appearing in 1677, The Rover follows some Banish’d Cavaliers (its alternate title) who, fleeing the grim reign of King Oliver*, have ended up in Naples. Where, in the manner of British #ladsontour ever since, they’re looking to get laid and have a scrap. Oh, and it's Carnival - meaning plenty of opportunities for masks, misunderstandings, deceit and confusion. So far, so conventional – and indeed, the introduction explains that The Rover is a remix of Thomas Killigrew’s The Wanderer – not a play I’d ever heard of, but apparently Behn goes beyond even the normal freeness of the time with borrowing plots and characters, including much of Killigrew verbatim. But, crucially, always recontextualised, in a manner not unlike Pierre Menard's treatment of Cervantes. Most obviously, the female characters – as you might expect – are far more full-blooded than you’d normally get at that time, without ever tipping over into comedy wenchdom. And, again as you might expect, each of them finds her very clear ideas about what she wants to do with her life obstructed by men. The young woman who wants to marry for love is promised to another by her domineering hypocrite of a brother; their sister who wants to play the field is to be sent to a nunnery; the courtesan who prudently treats her charms as commodity is instead cozened into giving her heart away, by a man who next day proves faithless. And it’s this man, Willmore, who’s the rover of the title. He’s generally reckoned to be based on Rochester, and accurately captures both the charm we associate with the notorious libertine, and his more unpleasant qualities. Because it can be easy to forget, when considering the sexual outlaws of an earlier age, that they didn’t necessarily know to break only the laws we now consider outmoded or monstrous. So Wilde would still be in trouble on account of how many of his ‘panthers’ were underage; and Rochester…well, at best he would be felt a little lacking in his grasp of consent. But Behn, despite the fact she quite probably had to put up with Rochester in person, never makes his avatar a straightforward monster either. He’s annoying, entitled, overbearing – but compared to the other exemplars of toxic masculinity here (which is to say, all the male characters), he does at least have a certain something about him. The men in general, though... they're vile. If they see a woman, their first thought is to fuck her by any means necessary. If a man, they'll find any bullshit pretext for a fight, including but not limited to unwillingness to share a woman. Even with supposed friends, the humour tends easily to tip from joshing into bullying. More than anything it leaves a sense of how tiring life must have been among these swaggering arseholes, even closer to ape behaviour than the default man of our own time.
You can see why after its initial success this play rather faded out for some centuries - first tidied up, Nahum Tate-style, and then dropped altogether until a late 20th century rediscovery. Even now, it tends to be adapted, slanted or otherwise prodded at more often than played straight, and perhaps that’s because its take on sex and the sexes sits as uneasily with our sensibilities as it did those of the intervening centuries. And yet, Behn herself... I feel sure that, more than any author for a century either side, if she fetched up in the present she'd take it in her stride.
A note on the edition: the New Mermaid’s critical apparatus isn’t great – intro and notes draw attention to some fairly obvious stuff, while failing to point out quite how smutty (and at times, queer with it) the play is. Something which will be obvious to anyone with a developed sense for historical bawdy, or probably just anyone who reads Viz, but could easily escape the sober student, or anyone not raised with a British ear for smut.
*As I delight in calling Cromwell, not least to spite all those ahistorical anti-monarchists who see him as anything more than a murderous, hypocritical and fun-hating enforcer of the vast majority of the worst bits of the status quo.