These are not plays preserved in aspic, but works that offer abstract depictions of humanity which speak to us all; the RSC production of Tartuffe, for instance, worked brilliantly when set among Pakistani Muslims in Birmingham. True, they might not have the psychological richness of great tragedy, but they are not mere fripperies: there is a depth of thought which often belies the lightness of the text. Molière once wrote: “Life is a tragedy to those who feel and a comedy to those who think.” The cerebral nature of his work must not be underestimated.

Understandably, these plays have often endured a bad reputation on account of versions that swim in the intellectual shallow-end, play for (mild) laughs and fail to anchor any real meaning. Surely, then, it is time for a talented director such as Robert Icke or Carrie Cracknell to prove that this needn’t be so. Nicholas Hytner occasionally took the bold move of giving credence to old comedies when he was at the National in the 2000s: I remember splendid versions of Etherege’s The Man of Mode and Boucicault’s London Assurance, keen-eyed but still incredible fun, relevant but never striving to be so. Yet the mere sight of a periwig or pair of cream breeches on the South Bank is today incredibly rare.

I also think, however, that there is a more pernicious reason for this current distaste for an important part of theatrical heritage, and that is our unease with middle-class-ness. Playwrights such as Molière and Sheridan are chroniclers of bourgeois manners, and that has become a deathly thing among artistic directors who think that theatre needs to expand its social canvas. (Of course, this is true up to a point, though might it not also be the case that working-class people might actually quite like to laugh at middle-class mores?) A play such as The Rivals, with its depiction of fashionable types taking the waters at Bath Spa, might cause anxiety for those worrying about their next outreach programme, but that is no reason to banish it from the repertoire.