Love: Amateur Theater

The 17th century was still capable of transforming science and philosophy into stimulants. Its sole desire was to turn life into enjoyment, to arrange paradise here on Earth. They wanted to savor life without paying its price. They sought to enjoy the fruits of wealth without the toil of labor, the dazzling brilliance of social power without its responsibilities, and the pleasures of love without its pains. Thus, they fled from great passions—it was not fashionable—and skimmed only the sweet, airy cream of love. Always flirting, but never seriously in love. Love and hatred are passions, and passions are inconvenient—they are signs of a lack of wit.

Eroticism became a light social game, amusingly imitating love, and was subjected to strict rules. Love turned into amateur theater, a staged comedy where everything was foreseen and predetermined. The roles were cast—the lady always played the whimsical queen, and the gentleman, the chivalrous admirer—and the words and gestures that marked each phase—courtship, reluctance, consent, happiness, disillusionment, separation—were carefully scripted. This tradition, shaped over time, allowed everything except genuine scenes; even jealousy could only take on a playful character.

This greenhouse love flourished only in the sultry atmosphere of illegality, with no reminders of family life. Pregnancy was ridiculed and, whenever possible, avoided; if it did occur, it was concealed for as long as possible. Love within marriage was considered old-fashioned and absurd—and, even worse, tasteless.

Marital fidelity was deemed improper, tolerated only in "quadrilateral marriages" where partners swapped. If a woman had no lover, it was said she lacked charm; a husband without mistresses was presumed either impotent or bankrupt. A society lady's proper conduct required indulging in forbidden pleasures, even publicly displaying traces of her amorous nights: dark circles under her eyes, a languid expression, or staying in bed all day. Every well-bred person was obligated to acknowledge this state with ironic wonder. Meanwhile, the husband's role demanded wit, charm, and grace.

Every woman was expected to have at least one lover; otherwise, she was socially compromised. In Italy, many women secured the right to one or even two lovers in their marriage contracts. Prospective husbands rarely objected, as they often had their own lovers formalized in separate agreements. The public lover followed his mistress like a shadow during visits, walks, at the theater, church, or balls. He sat beside her in the carriage, walked alongside her sedan chair, cared for her lapdog, held her parasol, woke her in the morning, served her chocolate, assisted with her toilette, and greeted visitors at her bedside—even attending her morning baths.

They indulged without hesitation in not-so-innocent stimulants: everyone took "love pills," "Spanish flies," and similar aphrodisiacs. Yet the Rococo era was more devoid of true eroticism; it merely refused to forgo the pleasures of love. It was not the content but the form, not the essence but the method, that became paramount—a sure sign of decline. The Rococo lacked erotic geniuses but was abundant in great flirts, unparalleled artists of the art of love, which was cultivated into a witty and meticulous science of the time. Such virtuosos included Madame Pompadour and Casanova.

Egon Friedell "Az újkori kultúra története III." Holnap Kiadó, Budapest, 1989