Honorable Toxicity – Fall 2022
Generally, when one talks about plays, they are able to divide most works into one of two broad categories–tragedy or comedy. Many intelligent people have come up with certain traits and criteria a play must meet in order to fit one of the two–Aristotle’s Arte De Poetica being, perhaps, the most notable and referenced. However, different cultures sometimes misinterpret the missives of great scholars, or manage to come up with a completely different genre all by themselves. One such culture was 17th-century Spain, or, more specifically, one man by the name of Lope De Vega.
A prolific writer with hundreds of plays, Vega devised his own genre of plays by blending the tragic and comic together, in what he called “lo tragico y lo comico mezclado,” or “the tragic and comic combined.” Since this statement, scholars have come up with a shorter term for the idea: tragicomedy. This idea, per J. C. J. Metford, an author of some Christian novels, is “the Spanish view of literature is that, if it is to reflect life, it cannot be compartmentalized into sacred or secular, high or low, tragic or comic, but that it must reveal the interpenetration of opposites” (Metford 81). This view seems to be shared by other critics in the Lope De Vega arena, such as Jonathan Thacker, who writes in his chapter in A Companion to Lope De Vega that “There is not a rigid separation of the high-born from lesser mortals, as a classical ‘art’ would require from tragedy and comedy” (Thacker 159). This difference in genre is an understandable one, considering language barriers and translation variance. Lope’s tragicomedies vary from play to play, though some of them veer more towards one genre or the other–this holds true for several of his most known plays, Fuenteovejuna (also called Fuente Ovejuna) and Punishment Without Revenge (which also has several different titles, such as Lost in A Mirror). These two plays have male characters who, despite having some important social title, live in debauchery, taking women as they please (as with the Commander in Fuenteovejuna) or…still wooing a plethora of women (as with the Duke in Punishment Without Revenge). Perhaps Vega was a feminist. At any rate, the similarity is there in both plays, but the lesson to be learned is not immediately relevant. Certainly, kidnapping and raping women–or anyone–is something everyone should agree is a horrible act–but, Adrian Mitchell, a poet, playwright and pacifist, has another interpretation behind these plays.
In Mitchell’s introduction to an Absolute Classics reproduction of the two plays in question, he first discusses the history of piece and how it was presented onstage, eventually asking a poignant question as to whether or not history matters at all when the audience is entertained. He eventually answers his question several pages later, writing, “While obviously the aim of seventeenth-century Spanish drama was to entertain and give pleasure, there was also an evident belief that the drama taught its audiences lessons about life” (Mitchell 14). Therefore, Vega’s plays were not just fluff, or merely political rants–as good literature, they attempt to point out wrongfulness in the world (or society) and bring it to people’s attention. In Mitchell’s opinion, both of the aforementioned plays are about the honor system. During the 17th century, the honor system was not what we think of now, where we sell things and expect people to pay for them without the seller physically being there to sell. The honor system of Vega’s time is more akin to what we think of as duels–it encompasses an almost machismo masculine pride. Mitchell writes about it, saying, “Honour, or the public respect due to the virtuous man, was seen in theory at least as important as life itself” (Mitchell 21). He goes on to discuss how losing virtue (or honor) is equal to becoming socially dead, and “grounds for mortal combat” (21).
These attributes are thoroughly exemplified in each play. Fuenteovejuna’s Commander receives much of his social honor (or virtue) from the battles he fights; losing a battle equates to a loss of reputation–losing a lusted after woman does the same. At the end of Act 1, the Commander says, “Am I to turn my back upon a village churl? Shoot! Shoot, you knave” (Puchner 611). He would rather Frondoso shoot him than take the hit of losing a fight–he would rather die than lose his honor. Meanwhile, in Punishment Without Revenge, the Duke is obsessed with living honorably, saying near the end of the first scene that all the characters in a play “act as models of how life can be and how to live it honorably” (Vega & Mitchell 107). Then, later, once he’s found out the travesty between his young wife and son, he says in a particularly well-written monologue, “But how can I find out what has gone on without witnesses knowing my honour has gone?” (165). This emphasis on witnesses knowing what has happened makes this honor code a public delusion. The Duke is more afraid of what people will think of him than how to handle the situation smartly. This fear leads him to irrational behavior, which results in the Duke tricking his son, Frederico, into killing the Duke’s wife, Cassandra, and then the Duke tricks some guards into killing Frederico for murdering Cassandra. Clearly, this honor code is bad news if someone likes to be a living and breathing human being.
Now, it may be easy to think that these two plays are merely lessons from the past–things we know not to do now and have already fixed in our society. However, these traits of “virtuous” men have a lot in common with an attitude that, today, we term “toxic masculinity.” This subset of masculinity is mostly just exaggerated traits of typical masculinity, or, as Jennifer Harriger, a social science researcher at Pepperdine University, says, “Toxic masculinity is described as a harmful form of traditional masculinity characterized by the drive to dominate and compete aggressively with others, particularly women and minority groups and misogynistic and homophobic attitudes” (Harriger 354). This definition fits our protagonists in the sense that they are misogynistic and a solid case can be made that their aggressiveness is, too, out of control to the extent that it would qualify as toxic. Consider, for example, the Commander’s reaction to Jacinta refusing him–he captures her anyway and gives her to his men–or the Duke’s reaction to finding Cassandra unfaithful–he has her murdered. Neither of these reactions are socially acceptable and indicative of vengefulness and hyper aggression. Finally, to really drive the point home, Harriger also notes, “Adherence to toxic masculinity norms, such as dominance over women, has also been linked to increased sexual aggression toward intimate partners” (354) which goes to show a connection between sexuality and aggression.
Tying this back into Mitchell’s discussion about honor, we already know that to lose one’s virtue is to become socially dead. So, a man’s honor is dependent on his “readiness to defend and, if necessary, fight for the respect of others” (Mitchell 17). The Commander and the Duke fought for the respect they so desperately needed, ultimately coming across as misogynistic murderers, led more by what was between their legs than their brains. However, this is not necessarily the character’s fault. This system was widely accepted, and, as Mitchell points out, the heroes of Greek legend (which is where he thinks the code started) are “ruthless, competitive, prepared to step on others in order to get what he wants […] and judged […] [by] his status in the eyes of others, [and] his own honour” (Mitchell 18). He then goes on to explain how the advent of Christianity changed all of that, though there are definitely traces of this kind of attitude in our culture today–think of the mindset many people in the workplace must have in order to climb up the ladder: they must be competitive, and, in some cases, ruthless. It’s no wonder some extra traits of the honor system worked their way into being normalized, or got rebranded as toxic masculinity.
Whether you see his plays as tragic, comedic, or a mixture of the two, Lope De Vega’s plays are sure to entertain while, of course, teaching a moral lesson or pointing out a problem within society. The two plays studied here are most commonly considered tragedies as a whole, though as with all Vega plays they contain humorous aspects. And it is fortunate they do, with such heavy topics as the honor code and disastrous characters as the Commander and the Duke. However, despite the age of the piece, these topics and character types are still with us today–just hiding under different names. Hopefully, as time goes on and we talk about more of the issues in society that have always been under wraps, we will outgrow them and the messages of plays like Fuenteovejuna and Punishment Without Revenge will not hit as close to home.
Works Cited
Harriger, Jennifer A., et al. “With Great Power Comes Great Responsibility: A Content Analysis of Masculinity Themes in Superhero Movies.” Psychology of Men & Masculinities, vol. 23, no. 4, Oct. 2022, pp. 353–61. EBSCOhost, https://doi-org.cumberland.idm.oclc.org/10.1037/men0000398.
Metford, J & Howarth, William D. Comic Drama. St. Martin’s Press, 1978, p. 81-101.
Puchner, Martin, et al. “Fuenteovejuna.” The Norton Anthology of World Literature, 4th ed., A, W.W. Norton & Company, 2012, pp. 588-651.
Thacker, Jonathan & Samson, Alexander. A Companion to Lope De Vega. Tamesis, 2010, 159-170.
Vega, Lope de, and Mitchell Adrian Christopher William. Fuente Ovejuna ; Lost in a Mirror (It Serves Them Right): Two Plays. Absolute Classics, 1990.
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