THE GREEK THEATRE AND THE PRODUCTION OF PLAYS
I. THE OCCASIONS OF PERFORMANCE
Greek drama was looked upon not only as a form of entertainment and
culture, but as an act of worship offered to the god Dionysus. It was,
in consequence, restricted to his festivals; performances of a quite
secular character are unknown. Three Attic festivals are connected with
the tragic drama: the City Dionysia, the Lenæa, the Rural Dionysia. The
City or Great Dionysia were the most splendid of the three, held in
the precinct of Dionysus Eleuthereus on the south-eastern slope of the
Acropolis, where the ruined theatre still lies. Tragedies, comedies, and
dithyrambs were performed, but of these tragedy was the most important.
The time was the month of Elaphebolion (March to April). The Lenæa or
“Wine-Press Festival” which occurred in Gamelion (January to February)
was the great occasion for comedy, though tragedies were also to be seen.
It was held at first in the Lenæon, a sacred enclosure, the site of which
is still uncertain, later in the same theatre as tragedy. The Rural
Dionysia fell in Poseideon (December to January), and were celebrated by
the various Attic townships, especially the Peiræus; most of the dramas
performed were probably such as had been successful in Athens itself;
companies of actors travelled about the country for this purpose.
Of these three celebrations the City Dionysia were the most important
for tragedy. The tyrant Pisistratus greatly increased the splendour of
this festival and instituted the tragic contest. Each year during the
fifth century three tragedians submitted each a tetralogy, and five
comedians one play apiece. Tragedies were given in the mornings, comedies
in the afternoon, and the celebration continued for at least five days.
II. THE BUILDINGS
Since the performance was a state-function, the whole nation was
theoretically expected to be present, and in point of fact enormous
audiences attended: the great theatre accommodated perhaps 30,000[149]
spectators. This fact governs the nature of the whole presentation. The
theatre could not be roofed, and the acting therefore differed greatly
from that customary in modern buildings.
A Greek theatre consisted of three parts—the auditorium, the orchestra,
and the “stage-buildings”. The heart of the whole is the orchestra or
“dancing-ground” (ὀρχήστρα) upon which the chorus, throughout the action,
were stationed—a circular area of beaten earth, later paved with marble.
Beside the altar in this orchestra stood, in the earliest days of the
theatre, the sacrificial table upon which the single actor mounted.
This table in the fixed theatre is the descendant of the waggon from
which the peripatetic actor of Thespis delivered his lines. In addition
to the celebrants the passive worshippers were needed—the audience.
Therefore the orchestra was placed at the bottom of a slope; and the
spectators stood or sat on the higher ground. On the farther side rose
the “stage-buildings,” whatever from time to time they were. The general
plan, then, of any Greek theatre was this:—
[Illustration]
A is the circular orchestra, B the altar (θυμέλη) of Dionysus which
invariably stood in the middle of it. C represents the “stage-buildings”;
D, E, F, are the doors which led from the building to the open air. The
building usually projected into side-wings (G, G), called παρασκήνια. H,
H, are the passage-ways (πάροδοι), by which the chorus generally entered
the orchestra, and by which the audience always made its way to the
seats. J, J, J, is the auditorium, a vast horseshoe-shaped space rising
up a hillside from the orchestra, and filled with benches. This space
was intersected by gangways,[150] K, K, L, L, etc., called, perhaps,
κλίμακες; the areas M, M, N, N, etc., so formed, had the name “pegs”
(κερκίδες). In most theatres a longitudinal gallery O, O, O, was made
for further convenience in getting to the seats. In the strictly Greek
type the front line of “stage-buildings” never encroached on the circle
of the orchestra. But these theatres were used in Roman times also, and
altered to suit certain needs. The front of C was thrown forward so that
it cut into the orchestra and obliterated the passages H, H. To replace
these, entrances were tunnelled through the auditorium. Thus at Athens
the orchestra is now only little more than a semicircle, though amid
the ruins of the “stage-buildings” can still be seen a few feet of the
kerbstone which surrounded the original dancing floor—the only surviving
remnants of the Æschylean theatre; this masonry shows that the diameter
of the whole was about 90 feet.
The “stage-buildings,” as we have called them for convenience, require
a longer discussion. Originally there stood in that place only a tent,
called _scēnē_ (σκηνή), which took no part in the theatrical illusion,
but was used by the one actor simply as a dressing-room. Soon, no doubt,
came the important advance of employing it as “scenery”—the tent of
Agamemnon before Troy, for example. Later a wooden booth was erected, and
Sophocles’ invention of scene-painting—that is, of concealing this booth
with canvas to represent whatever place or building was needed—added
enormously to the playwright’s resources. This booth was afterwards built
of stone and became more and more elaborate; Roman “stage-buildings”
survive which are admirable pieces of dignified architecture. The
building of course contained dressing-rooms and property-rooms. There
were doors at the narrow ends. The front of the building was pierced by
three, later by five, doors.
Upon what did these doors open? Was there a stage in the Greek theatre?
This problem has aroused more discussion than any other in Greek
scholarship save the “Homeric Question”. That all theatres possessed a
stage (λογεῖον) in Roman times is certain; the Athenian building—which
in its present condition dates from the alterations made by Phædrus in
the third century after Christ—shows quite obviously the front wall of
a stage about 4½ feet high. But did the dramatists of the fifth and
fourth centuries before Christ write for a theatre with a stage or not?
There is a good deal of _prima-facie_ evidence for a stage, and a good
deal to show that the actors moved to and fro on that segment of the
orchestra nearest to the booth. That is, the question lies between
acting on top of the proscenium (or decorated wall joining the faces of
the _parascenia_ G, G) and acting in front of it. A brief _résumé_[151]
of the evidence is all that can be attempted here. It is confined to the
consideration of the fifth and fourth centuries B.C., to which belongs
practically all the extant work. For the period after 300 B.C. the use of
a stage seems indisputable.
A. ARGUMENTS FOR A STAGE
§ 1. _A High Stage._—Vitruvius, the Roman architect, who wrote at the end
of the first century B.C., in his directions for building a Greek theatre
says: “Among the Greeks the orchestra is wider, the back scene is farther
from the audience, and the stage is narrower.[152] This latter they call
_logeion_ (speaking-place), because the actors of tragedy and comedy
perform there close to the back scene, while the other artistes play
in the ambit of the orchestra, wherefore the two classes of performer
are called _scænici_ and _thymelici_ respectively.” [Literally, “those
connected with the booth” and “those connected with the central altar”.]
“This _logeion_ should be not less than 10, and not more than 12, feet
in height.”[153] This, says Dörpfeld, applies to the Greek theatre of
Vitruvius’ own time, but has been extended by modern writers to the fifth
century. Supposing, however, that Vitruvius was thinking of the fifth
century, then:—
(_a_) The stage is too narrow for performances, viz. 2·50 to 3 mètres,
from which 1 mètre must be subtracted for the background. The remaining
space is not enough for actors and mutes, not to mention any combined
action of players and chorus.
(_b_) It is also too high. Many passages in the plays show that chorus
and actors are on the same level; in all these cases the chorus would
have to mount steps, or the actors descend. This is absurdly awkward;
nor is there evidence for steps. An attempt has been made[154] to meet
the difficulties by the assumption of another platform about half the
height of the stage, erected on the orchestra for the chorus. But the
various objections to such a subsidiary platform are so strong that it is
no longer believed in. With it, however disappears the only way by which
plays with a chorus could be performed on the high stage of Vitruvius.
§ 2. _A Low Stage._—Many scholars, abandoning Vitruvius as evidence for
the fifth century, postulate a low stage. Their arguments are:—[155]
(_a_) Aristotle in the fourth century calls the songs of the actors τὰ
ἀπὸ τῆς σκηνῆς, and says that the actor performed ἐπὶ τῆς σκηνῆς, phrases
which seem to mean “from the stage” and “on the stage” respectively.
And though Dörpfeld would take σκηνή as “background” (not “stage”)
translating Aristotle’s phrases by “from the background” and “at the
background,” there remains the difficulty that Aristotle plainly thinks
of actors and chorus as occupying quite distinct stations, which scarcely
suggests that they move on contiguous portions of the same ground.
(_b_) The side-wings or _parascenia_ must have been meant to enclose a
stage. What else could have been their use?
(_c_) There are five phrases used by Aristophanes. Three times[156] an
actor, on approaching other actors, is said to “come up”; twice[157] he
is said to “go down”. Nothing in the context implies raised ground as
needed by the drama, so that we seem forced to refer these expressions to
the visible stage itself. Dörpfeld and others would translate these two
verbs by “come here” and “go away”; but there is no evidence for these
meanings.
(_d_) The existing plays throw incidental light on the problem:—
(i) Certain characters[158] complain of the steepness of their path as
they first come before the audience. Do they not refer to an actual
ascent from orchestra to stage?
(ii) Ghosts sometimes appear. How can they have ascended out of “the
ground” unless action took place on a raised area? This argument is,
however, not strong. In later theatres such spectres did rise from below.
But in the fifth century they may well have walked in.
(iii) A more striking[159] argument is that on several occasions the
chorus, though it has excellent reason to enter the back scene, remains
inert. In the _Agamemnon_ the elders talk of rushing to the king’s aid; a
similar thing happens in the _Medea_; there are a number of such strange
features. The inference is that there was a stage, to mount which would
have appeared odd.
(iv) A stage was needed to make the actors visible, instead of being
hidden by the chorus.[160] But, though there is no evidence that the
chorus grouped themselves about the orchestra (as in the performances at
Bradfield College), and they apparently stood in rows facing the actors,
they could have been placed far forward enough to enable all to see the
actors. Anyone who has visited a circus will appreciate this.
(v) Plato[161] remarks that Agathon and his actors appeared on an
ὀκρίβας, a “platform”. But the word suggests a slight structure: Dörpfeld
objects that this appearance was probably in the Odeum, or Music Hall,
not the Theatre of Dionysus; if it was in the theatre, the passage rather
tells against a stage, for a temporary platform would not have been used
if there was a stage.
(vi) Horace[162] says that “Æschylus gave his modest stage a floor of
beams” or “gave the stage a floor of moderate-sized beams”. Dörpfeld
alleges (without evidence) that _pulpitum_ (translated “stage” in the
last sentence) may mean “booth,” and suggests that the poet assumes a
stage as matter of course: he is marking the advance made by Æschylus
upon Thespis, who (according to Horace himself), performed his plays
upon a waggon. But the proper answer is surely that Horace is regularly
unreliable when he deals with questions of Greek scholarship, and that
he is no doubt arbitrarily combining his knowledge of contemporary Greek
theatres with his knowledge that Æschylus advanced in theatrical matters
beyond Thespis.
Such are the main arguments in favour of a stage in the fifth and fourth
centuries before Christ.
B. ARGUMENTS AGAINST A STAGE
(i) The evidence of the extant dramas. This, already adduced by many
to prove that a stage was used, is taken by Dörpfeld[163] as “showing
unmistakably that no separation existed between chorus and actors, that
on the contrary both played on the same area”. He refers to action where
people pass between house and orchestra with no apparent difficulty or
hesitation. The chorus enter from the “palace” in the _Choephorœ_, the
_Eumenides_, and Euripides’ _Phaethon_; the chorus of huntsmen enter it
in the _Hippolytus_. There are other probable or possible instances.
Particularly noteworthy is the fact that in _Helena_ the chorus in the
midst of the play enter the building, and later reappear from it.
(ii) The tradition in later writers. It is true, says Dörpfeld, that we
have no express assertion that there was no stage—it never occurred to
the older writers to say so, for they knew of no such thing. The later
writers imply that there was none. Timæus,[164] commenting on ὀκρίβας,
says: “for there was not yet a _thymele_”. _Thymele_ there means “stage”.
Several late writers tell us that the Roman _logeion_ (“speaking-place”
or “stage”) was once called “orchestra”: this supports the view that the
stage is part of the old orchestra, higher than the other portion (see
below). The scholiast on _Prometheus Vinctus_, 128, remarks: “They (the
chorus) say this as they hover in the air on the machine; for it would
be absurd for them to converse from below [_i.e._ from the orchestra] to
one aloft”. Now, the pro-stage theory makes all choruses do this. The
scholiast on Aristophanes’ _Wasps_, 1342, writes: “The old man stands
on a certain height (ἐπί τινος μετεώρου) as he summons the girl”. The
word “certain” (τινός) implies that he knew nothing of a regular stage.
Finally, if there was a definite and regular difference of position
between actors and chorus, is it not astonishing (_a_) that there is in
Greek literature no certain allusion to the fact, (_b_) that the older
literature contains no word for the stage, the place where the acting
was performed being referred to merely by reference to the _booth_ (ἐπὶ
σκηνῆς and ἀπὸ σκηνῆς)?
(iii) The architectural remains. Dörpfeld sums up his celebrated
architectural researches thus. No theatre survives from the fifth
century, but the theatre of Lycurgus (fourth century) belongs to a period
when the plays of that century were still acted in the old manner. Also
we possess numerous buildings which represent the rather later form of
the theatre (the building with fixed proscenium), and which belong to
that period to which the remarks of Vitruvius apply. From the Lycurgean
theatre we learn that there was no stage high or low. A platform for
actor or orator is only necessary when the audience are all on a flat
area. If they sit on a slope, a stage is more inconvenient than if the
speaker stands on the ground.[165] And so, in the earliest times, when
there was no sloping auditorium, Thespis, for example, performed upon a
cart. In Italy the slope came into use only late, and the stage had been
widely adopted before that time—for there was no chorus to provide for.
When the Greek theatre was introduced into Italy, the Roman form was
invented. They did not abandon their own stage, but divided the Greek
orchestra into two parts of different height. The farther half, now
superfluous (the chorus having vanished) could be used for spectators or
gladiators. This portion was (in earlier theatres of the true Greek type)
excavated and filled with fresh seats. The stage was, of course, not made
higher than the lowest eyes.
The nature of the proscenium in Greek theatres was not suitable for
the supporting wall of a stage. It would be absurd to see a temple in
the air above a colonnade.[166] Again, it was impossible to act on top
of the proscenium. The fear of falling, when the actor wore a mask and
was forced to approach the edge in order to be well seen by the lowest
spectators, would spoil his acting. Finally, why was the proscenium-front
not a tangent of the orchestra circle? It should have been brought as far
forward as possible if they acted on top of it.
To sum up. The orchestra in the earliest period was the place of the
chorus and the actors. It kept that function when the _scēnē_ was
erected beside it as a background. The chorus used the whole circle, the
actors only part of it and the ground which lay in front of the _scēnē_.
No change in this arrangement was made later. The actors in Roman times,
of course, stood above the level of the excavated semicircle. But they
remained throughout at the same distance from the spectators[167] and at
the same level—that of the old orchestra.
How then are we to deal with Vitruvius’ statement about the height of the
stage? Dörpfeld suggested[168] that Vitruvius used plans and descriptions
made by a Greek; Vitruvius, in absence of any warning, taking it (as a
Roman) for granted there was a stage, saw it in the proscenium; or he may
have misunderstood the phrase ἐπὶ σκηνῆς in his Greek authority. But such
a fundamental error made by a professional architect, who even if he had
never been in Greece, must have known many persons familiar with Greek
acting, is extremely hard to assume.[169] Yet the mistake is credible as
regards the Greek theatre of the fourth and fifth centuries.
Amidst the mass of evidence and argument, only an outline of which is
here presented, it is difficult to decide. The majority of inquirers will
probably be swayed as regards the theatre of Sophocles and Astydamas
by two considerations: the acting exigencies of the plays we now read
or know of, and their own feeling as to how the performance would look
with a stage and without. It seems, perhaps, most likely that Dörpfeld
is right: that there was no stage, though when the façade represented a
palace or temple a few steps might naturally appear.
III. SUPERVISION OF DRAMATIC DISPLAYS
The authority superintending dramatic performances was the Athenian
State, acting through the archon basileus for the Lenæa, the archon
eponymus for the City Dionysia. The archon allotted the task of producing
the three annual series of dramas to three persons for each series: the
poet, the choregus, the protagonist. We will consider these persons in
turn.
Playwrights submitted their work to the archon, who himself selected
three: to each he was said to “give a chorus”. The applications were
many, and distinguished poets sometimes failed to “receive a chorus”.
The poet’s business was not only to write the play and the music,
(but in early times) to train actors and chorus. Near the end of the
fifth century B.C. it became the practice to employ an expert trainer.
Occasionally the poet caused some other person to “produce” the play.
This was frequently done by Aristophanes, and we hear that Iophon
competed with tragedies written by his father Sophocles.
The name “choregus” means “chorus-leader,” but the choregus actually had
quite other functions. He was a rich citizen who as a “liturgy” or public
service bore all the special cost of the performance. To each choregus
a flute-player was allotted, and it seems likely that the poet too was
regarded as assigned to the choregus rather than the latter to the poet.
The mounting of plays, which depended on the choregus, greatly influenced
the audience, and their expressed opinion cannot but have had weight with
the ten judges.[170] The wealthy Nicias, for example, obtained success
for every tetralogy which he mounted.[171]
The third person with whom the archon concerned himself was the
“protagonist” (the chief actor)—after the middle of the fifth century;
before then it appears that poets chose their protagonists. In the
middle of the fifth century a protagonist was selected by the archon
and one assigned to each tragic poet by lot. (The chief actor provided
his subordinates himself.) This change came at about the time when three
actors were regularly employed in each tragedy and when the contests
in acting were instituted; a prize for acting was awarded, and the
successful actor had the right to perform the following year. As the
importance of the actor increased—Aristotle tells us that in his time the
success of a play depended more upon the actor than upon the poet[172]—it
was considered unfair that one poet should have the best performer for
all his plays. In the middle of the fourth century the arrangement was
introduced that each protagonist should play in one tragedy only of each
poet.
Each dramatist competed with a tetralogy[173] (that is, “four works”)
consisting of three tragedies and a satyric play, and the claims of
these three tetralogies were decided by five[174] judges. Some days
before the competition began, the Council of the State and the choregi
selected a number of names from each of the ten tribes. These names were
sealed up in urns, which were produced at the opening of the festival.
The archon drew one name from each urn, and the ten citizens so selected
were sworn as judges and given special seats. After the conclusion of
the performances each of the ten gave his verdict on a tablet, and five
of these were drawn by the archon at random; these five judgments gave
the award. In this method the principle of democratic equality and the
necessity to rely on expert opinion were well combined. When the votes
had been collected, a herald proclaimed the name of the successful
poet and of his choregus, who were crowned with ivy (a plant always
associated with Dionysus). There is no evidence that a dramatic choregus
was given any further reward: the prize of a tripod was only for
dithyramb. The poet received, tradition said, a goat[175] in early times;
after the State-supervision began, a sum of money from public funds was
paid to each of the competitors. Records of the results were inscribed
upon tablets and set up both by the victorious choregi and by the State.
It is from these, directly or indirectly, that our knowledge of the facts
is obtained; directly, because such inscriptions have been discovered in
Athens, indirectly, because they were the basis of written works on the
subject. Aristotle wrote a book called _Didascaliæ_ (διδασκαλίαι), that
is, “Dramatic Productions”; though it is lost, later works were based
upon it, and it is from these that the Greek “Arguments” to the existing
plays are derived.
IV. THE MOUNTING OF A TRAGEDY
Scenery was painted on canvas or boards and attached to the front of
the buildings. In satyric drama it appears to have varied little—a wild
district with trees, rocks, and a cave. Tragedy generally employed a
temple or palace-front, though even in the extant thirty-two there
are exceptions—the rock of Prometheus, the tent of Ajax, the cave
of Philoctetes, and so forth. In a façade there were three doors,
corresponding to the three permanent doors in the buildings; when a cave
or tent was depicted, its opening was in front of the central door.
Statues were placed before the temple or palace—those of the deities, for
instance, in the _Agamemnon_ to whom the Herald utters his magnificent
address. Individuality would be given to a temple by the statue of
a particular god. Scene-painting was probably not very artistic or
scrupulous of details. We never read any praise of splendid theatrical
scenery such as is familiar to-day; and clever lighting effects were
of course out of the question when all was performed in the daylight.
Here and there the persons allude to the landscape, as in Sophocles’
_Electra_, where the aged attendant of Orestes points out to the prince
striking features of the Argolid plain. Such things were mostly left to
the imagination of the audience, like the forest of Arden and the squares
of Verona or Venice in Shakespeare. Undoubtedly, a Greek tragedy provided
a beautiful spectacle, but this resulted from the costumes, poses, and
grouping of actors and chorus.
Change of scene was rarely needed in tragedy; the peculiar arrangements
of comedy do not concern us. Only two extant tragedies need it. In the
_Eumenides_ of Æschylus the change from the temple of Apollo at Delphi
to Athena’s temple in Athens is vital to the plot but need not have
caused much trouble; probably convention was satisfied by changing the
statue. In _Ajax_ the scene shifts from that hero’s tent to a deserted
part of the sea-shore; no doubt the tent was simply removed. One reason
against change of scene was the continuous presence of the chorus;
when the playwright found he must shift his locality the chorus were
compelled to retire and reappear. We read[176] of a permanent appliance
by which scenery could be altered; there is, however, no evidence that
it was known in the great age of Athenian drama. This consisted of the
_periacti_ (περίακτοι). At each end of the scene stood wooden triangular
prisms standing on their ends and revolving in sockets, so arranged
that one of the narrow oblong sides continued the picture. A different
subject was painted on each side. A twist given to either marked a change
of place; the alteration of one _periactus_ meant a change of locality
within the same region, while the alteration of both meant a complete
change of district. Thus, had this contrivance been used in the fifth
century, one _periactus_ would have been moved in the _Ajax_, both in the
_Eumenides_. Another and stranger use of this contrivance is mentioned
by Pollux: “it introduces sea-gods and everything which is too heavy for
the machine”. We shall return to this when we come to the “eccyclema” and
the “machine”. No curtain is known for the classical age.
Stage-properties were few and for the most part simple. Much the most
important was the tomb of some great person; that of Darius in the
_Persæ_, and of Agamemnon in the _Choephorœ_, are fundamental to the
plot, and there are many other examples.[177] Statues have already been
mentioned. The spaciousness of the orchestra made it easy to introduce
chariots and horses, as in _Agamemnon_, Euripides’ _Electra_ and
_Iphigenia at Aulis_.
Various contrivances were employed to permit the appearance of actors
in circumstances where they could not simply enter the orchestra or
_logeion_. We need not dwell upon certain quaint machinery which it
is fairly certain was not used in the great age—“Charon’s steps,” by
which ghosts ascended, the “anapiesma” which brought up river-gods and
Furies, the “stropheion” which showed heroes in heaven and violent
deaths, the “hemicyclion” by which the spectators were given a view of
remote cities or of men swimming, the “bronteion,” or thunder machine,
consisting of a sheet of metal and sacks of stones to throw thereon,
the “ceraunoscopeion” or lightning machine, a black plank with a
flash painted upon it, which was shot across the stage. In the fifth
century the theatrical contrivances amounted to four—the distegia, the
theologeion, the “machine,” and the eccyclema.
The distegia was employed when human beings showed themselves above the
level of the “stage,” for example on a roof or cliff. Such appearances
are not common—the watchman (_Agamemnon_), Antigone and her nurse
(_Phœnissæ_), Orestes and Pylades (_Orestes_), Evadne (Euripidean
_Supplices_), are all the occasions in existing tragedy; comedy supplies
a few more. Probably it was “a projecting balcony or upper story, which
might be introduced when required”;[178] the word appears to mean “second
story”. The arrangement would then correspond closely to the gallery used
at the back of the Elizabethan stage.
Similar to this was the “theologeion” (“speaking-place for gods”), on
which gods or deified heroes appeared when they were not to be shown
descending through the air. The arrangement seems to have been a platform
in the upper part of the scenery. Whether it was fixed there and the
actors entered through an opening to take their place, or whether it was
used like the eccyclema (see below), is not clear.
We hear much more of the “machine” (μηχανή) by which actors descended as
from Heaven or ascended. It was a crane from which cords were attached to
the actor’s body; a stage-hand hauled the actor up or down by a winch.
There are a good many instances of its use. The apparition of Thetis at
the close of _Andromache_ exemplifies the most customary happening. But
sometimes the machine had to carry a greater burden; both the Dioscuri
appear in Euripides’ _Electra_, both Iris and Frenzy in _Hercules
Furens_. Æschylus no doubt sent Oceanus on his four-legged bird by this
route; possibly Medea, and the chariot containing her sons’ bodies, were
also suspended by it; and it has even been thought that the chorus of
_Prometheus Vinctus_ and their “winged chariot” enter in this way. But
the last suggestion is very questionable. The weight would be excessive,
and probably the car is supposed to be left outside, or may have been
painted on a _periactus_. Aristophanes gets excellent fooling out of
the machine. The celebrated basket in which Socrates “walks the air and
contemplates the sun”[179] is attached to it; and in the _Peace_ there is
a delightful parody of Bellerophon’s ascent to Heaven.
Far more puzzling is the eccyclema. This celebrated device was employed
to reveal to the spectators events which had just taken place “within”.
After the murders in the _Agamemnon_ the palace doors are opened and
Clytæmnestra is shown standing axe in hand over the corpses of Cassandra
and the king. There are a good many instances of precisely the same
type: the scene exhibited is a small _tableau_. But there are dissimilar
examples which shall be discussed later. The construction of this machine
is usually described thus. Inside the middle[180] door was a small oblong
platform on wheels, upon which the _tableau_ was arranged; then the
platform was thrust out upon the stage and in a few minutes drawn back
again. Two quite different objections have been raised to this account.
First, it seems ridiculous to reveal what is supposed to be inside a
building—not to come out, be it observed, but to stay inside—by thrusting
forth one or two people on a species of dray. But we must remember the
enormous and rightful influence of convention. If Greek audiences wished
to see such _tableaux_ and were convinced that by no other means could
they be shown, then it was their business to accept the eccyclema; that
in such circumstances they would accept and soon fail even to notice
it, is proved by the whole history of art. We see nothing ludicrous
in the spectacle of a man telling his deepest secrets in a study one
wall of which is replaced by a vast assembly of eavesdroppers. The
Elizabethan theatre accepted precisely this contrivance of the eccyclema.
In our texts of _Henry VI_ (Pt. II, Act III, Sc. ii.) we read this
stage-direction: “The folding-doors of an inner chamber are thrown open,
and Gloucester is discovered dead in his bed: Warwick and others standing
by it”. Instead of all this, the old direction merely says: “Bed put
forth”. In another early drama we find the amusing instruction: “Enter
So-and-So in bed”. The æsthetic objection to the eccyclema has no force
whatever.
The other objection rests on the fact that a more elaborate _tableau_ is
sometimes indicated than could be accommodated on so narrow a platform.
The most serious example is provided by the _Eumenides_, where we are
to imagine upon the eccyclema an altar, Orestes kneeling by it, Apollo
and Hermes standing beside him, and the whole chorus of Furies sleeping
around them. In Aristophanes’ _Clouds_ the interior of Socrates’ school
is exhibited, with pupils at work amid lecture-room appliances. A
brilliant scene of the same poet’s _Acharnians_ depicts Dicæopolis’
interview with Euripides, who is too busy to come downstairs from his
study-attic, but consents to be “wheeled out”. Thus the eccyclema
shows him outside and also aloft: how could this be represented on the
dray? Perhaps by elevating poet and furniture upon posts? Even this is
not inconceivable.[181] Nor is it impossible that the Furies of the
_Eumenides_ were arranged on two eccyclemata of their own, thrust out
of the side doors, while Orestes and the gods were upon the central
platform. For Pollux does say that there were three.
Other views of this machine have been offered, which explain the
“wheeling” of which we read as the working of wheeled mechanism, such
as a winch. Some would have it that the scenery opens, whether doors
are flung wide, or the canvas is rolled back like curtains. In this
way a considerable area behind the scenes could be revealed. This
is, of course, infinitely more in accordance with modern ideas. But
it will not fit all the available evidence, which talks of “wheeling
in” and “wheeling out,” “Roll this unhappy man within”[182] and the
like. Moreover, in such a simple operation there would be nothing for
Aristophanes to parody. A third explanation is that a considerable
part of the back scene was cut out and replaced so as to swing on
a perpendicular axis. Projecting from this at the back was a small
platform, upon which the _tableau_ was grouped; this oblong portion was
twisted round so that the platform pointed towards the spectators. It
resembled, in fact, that contrivance in the modern Japanese theatre by
which one scene is prepared while the preceding action takes place, and
is swung into position when needed. A grave objection to this is that
some of the groups—those in _Eumenides_ and _Acharnians_—would be too
large for such a contrivance. The best view seems to be the traditional,
to which the evidence strongly points. As for the large scenes so
displayed, various tolerable explanations may be found. Only one or two
Furies and Socratic novices may have appeared on the platform, and the
others may have simply walked in through the right and left doors, or
even been shown on subsidiary platforms at those entrances.
All other appurtenances of a performance were provided by the
choregus—such things as chariots and animals, and, far the most
important, costumes of chorus and actors. All dramatic performers, both
actors and chorus in tragedy, comedy, and satyric drama alike, wore
disguise throughout the whole history of the ancient theatre. The reason
in the first place was that masks or some kind of facial disguise—in
Thespis’ time the face was anointed with lees of wine—was a feature of
Dionysiac worship. The dressing of a tragic chorus was generally a simple
matter. It often represented a company of people from the district with
no special characteristics. The dress was therefore the usual dress of
Greek men or women, with a special shoe, the _crēpis_ (κρηπίς), said to
have been introduced by Sophocles. There were also obvious indications of
circumstances; old men wore beards and carried staves; suppliants bore
olive-branches twined with wool. The occasional choruses of peculiar
character were of course equipped specially. In Euripides’ _Bacchæ_ they
were dressed in fawn-skins and carried timbrels. When Æschylus brought
out his _Eumenides_ he designed the Furies’ costume himself; their
terrible masks and the snakes entwined in their hair are said to have
terrified the spectators and produced most untoward effects on the more
susceptible. The equipment of satyric choristers was very different. They
were always dressed as satyrs or goat-men. A tight garment, representing
the naked flesh, covered their bodies. Their masks were surmounted
by horns, their feet were shod in hoof-shaped shoes, and round their
middle they wore a woollen girdle like goatskin to which were attached
the phallus and a tail, which, however, after about 400 B.C., resembled
the tail of a horse, not a goat, the satyr-type being superseded by the
Silenus-type. Satyric actors seem to have worn much the same costume
as the tragic, save that the dress of Silenus represented the hides of
animals.
The dress of tragic actors was mostly the invention of Æschylus and
showed little change throughout ancient times. Everything was done to
make the actor’s appearance as stately as possible. His robes were heavy,
sweeping, and of brilliant colours. His size was increased by various
devices. The boot, the famous _cothurnus_ (κόθορνος) or buskin, had an
immensely thick sole; the limbs were padded and the height was further
increased by an _oncus_ (ὄγκος) or projection of the mask above the
forehead. The mask itself was modelled and painted to correspond with the
character: a tyrant’s mask wore a frown, that of a suppliant a distorted
look of misery, and so forth. Increased power was given to the voice by a
large orifice at the mouth. Identity was indicated wherever possible by
some obvious mark: Apollo was known by his bow, Heracles by his lion’s
skin and club, kings by crowns and sceptres. It was a joke against
Euripides that his heroes so often entered in the rags of beggary.
Such a cumbersome equipment would be fatal to acting as we understand it.
The mask at once destroys all chance of that facial play which we deem
essential; the padded limbs, heavy garments, and gigantic boots made all
life-like motion and _élan_ impossible. This is no doubt one great reason
why the playwrights rarely exhibit exciting physical action. Even so, the
ludicrous sometimes occurred. Æschines when acting Œnomaus fell and had
to be helped up by the chorus-trainer.[183] A natural supposition is that
these impedimenta date not from Æschylus but from the period of vulgar
elaboration. Certainly, it is not easy to imagine how such scenes as the
delirium of Orestes, or the departure of Pentheus in the _Bacchæ_, could
have been reasonably carried out—so to say—on stilts; indeed the whole
spirit of such plays as _Orestes_, _Ion_, and _Iphigenia at Aulis_ seems
utterly alien to such equipment. But it is hard to set aside the voice
of all the evidence. The best way would be to surmise that Euripides
sometimes dispensed with buskins and the rest—though we should surely
expect some allusion to so remarkable a change—for noble as is the work
of his predecessors, it could be so performed without too absurd an
effect. If Garrick’s audience did not object to his playing Macbeth in a
periwig and knee-breeches, it is likely enough that Athens was content
with such a Clytæmnestra as Pollux would have us imagine.
V. THE PERFORMERS AND THEIR WORK
A tragic performance was carried out by actors, extra performers,
flute-player, and chorus. All these were men.
Extra performers, though they take up very little space in our text,
were important to the spectacle. Mutes were often needed. Not only did
these figure as attendants, crowds, and the like; they are sometimes
important to the plot though they do not happen to speak. The jury of
Areopagites in _Eumenides_ is vital; children such as Eurysaces in
_Ajax_, and the sons[184] of Medea, are important. Other extra performers
were those who had very small speaking or singing parts, such as Eumelus
in _Alcestis_. This would seem to mean a fourth actor, but, so slight
was the part always[185] allotted, that it is not an unreasonable
statement that there were never more than three actors. Thirdly, an extra
chorus was occasionally needed for a short scene, as the Propompi in
_Eumenides_ and the Huntsmen in _Hippolytus_. Any such extra performer
was called a _parachoregema_ (παραχορήγημα, “extra supply”) and was paid
by the choregus, as the name shows. (The regular chorus was paid by the
State.) At times a chorus sang behind the scenes and was then called a
“parascenion”; this function would, if possible, be performed by members
of the regular chorus.
Instrumental music was supplied by a single flute-player, paid by the
choregus. He was stationed in the orchestra, very likely upon the step of
the thymele, and accompanied all songs. At times a harpist was added to
the flute-player; Sophocles had great success with that instrument in his
own _Thamyris_. At the end of a play the flute-player led the chorus out
of the orchestra. The music itself is a subject complicated and obscure.
Practically none of it has survived, and the details are naturally
difficult to determine; but some main facts are clear. Though there
was much singing and dancing the music composed by the tragedians was
vastly more simple than that of a modern opera. All choral singing was
in unison, and as a rule the words dominated the music.[186] The result
was that an audience followed the language of an ode with ease, nor is it
likely that such lyrics as those of the _Agamemnon_ or the Colonus-song,
not to mention many others, which are masterpieces of literature, would
have been written were they fated to be drowned by elaborate music.
Nevertheless a distinct change took place even in the fifth century,
owing chiefly to the eminent composer Timotheus, whose innovations
were of course looked upon by conservative taste as corrupt; the comic
playwright Pherecrates grumbles about the way in which his notes scurry
hither and thither like ants in a nest,[187] a charge repeated almost in
the same words by Aristophanes against Agathon. Euripides followed the
new manner, and his novelties are brilliantly caricatured in the _Frogs_:
the elaborate but thin _libretto_ and the trills.[188] The increasing
use of monodies, or solos by an actor, which we find in Euripides—the
exotic but effective performance of the Phrygian slave in _Orestes_
is a conspicuous instance—also points to the growing importance of
musical virtuosity. Greek music was composed in certain modes (νόμοι),
the precise difference between which is not clear, though the ethical
distinctions are known. The Dorian mode was austere and majestic, the
Lydian and Mixolydian plaintive, the Phrygian passionate.
We come now to the actors. These three performers were able to present
more than three persons, since they could change mask and costume behind
the scenes. One of them far outshone the others in importance—the
“protagonist” (πρωταγωνιστής, “first competitor”). He alone was allotted
to the poet by the archon; the “deuteragonist” and “tritagonist,”
he selected himself; he alone could be a competitor for the acting
prize. The most important rôle was of course performed by him. In many
dramas this was a vast responsibility; Hamlet himself—the proverbial
instance—is not more vital to his play than Prometheus, Œdipus, or Medea
to theirs. The other two divided the minor parts among them; it was the
custom to give a tritagonist the rôle of a king when only spectacularly
important—the Doge in _The Merchant of Venice_ would have been just the
part. In earlier dramas it is plain which rôle would be given to the
protagonist; there is no mistaking the pre-eminence of Clytæmnestra in
_Agamemnon_ or of Philoctetes. But in some later works it is not clear
who is the outstanding character. In the _Bacchæ_ Dionysus and Pentheus,
in the _Orestes_ Electra and her brother, have parts of fairly equal
importance. In such cases the protagonist would take an important rôle
and a minor rôle. Change of costume took little time, as examination of
structure sometimes shows.[189]
This restriction of the “company” to three actors had important influence
upon both plot and presentation. As for plot, however many persons a
dramatist used, he clearly could not bring more than three of them
forward together. But the power to do even this was frugally used: there
are but few instances of a genuine three-cornered conversation; one of
the three in turn is generally silent. In the Recognition-scene of the
_Tauric Iphigenia_, Orestes, Pylades, and Iphigenia are all present, but
though the _éclaircissement_ fills about two hundred lines, the only
part of it in which all three share is but twenty lines in length. This
frugality indicates that the simplicity of Greek tragedy is a result not
only of external conditions, but of the poets’ deliberate choice. As for
presentation, the restriction to three actors would result in excellent
playing of minor parts: a thoroughly competent performer would discharge
such short but important rôles as that of the Butler in _Alcestis_ and
the Herald in _Agamemnon_. Anyone who has been depressed by wooden
Macduffs and Bassanios will realize the value of this method.
A Greek actor combined the functions of a modern actor and of an
operatic performer. Lyrics performed by actor and chorus together were
called “commi” (κομμοί): the most elaborate instance is the great and
lengthy invocation of Agamemnon’s shade in the _Choephorœ_. A solo by an
actor was known as a “monody”; Euripides is particularly fond of these;
Ion’s song is perhaps the most attractive. Finally, two or three actors
might sing alternately to each other without the chorus; no name for this
has been preserved. Certain other passages were neither sung nor spoken,
but delivered in recitative: in tragedy these were the dialogue-trochaics
and anapæsts. Iambics were spoken (or “declaimed”). Obviously the voice
is of great importance to an actor’s proficiency, above all in a vast
open-air theatre, but Greek writers lay even more stress upon it than
we should have expected. Both volume and subtlety were demanded. This
is illustrated by a famous story.[190] An actor named Hegelochus ruined
the sick-bed scene in _Orestes_ by a slip in pronunciation. Orestes, on
recovering from delirium, says (v. 279):—
ἐκ κυμάτων γὰρ αὖθις αὖ γαλήν’ ὁρῶ
“after the billows once more I see a calm”. The unlucky player instead
of saying γαλήν’ said γαλῆν, “once more do I see a weasel coming out of
the waves”. The theatre burst into laughter, for correct pronunciation
was far more insisted upon than in the English theatre of to-day.[191]
The status of the acting profession rose steadily as time went on. At
first the poet acted as protagonist, but this practice was dropped by
Sophocles, owing to the weakness of his voice. From that time acting was
free to develop as a separate profession. In the middle of the fifth
century a prize for acting was instituted, and the actor’s name began to
be added in the official records of victories. In the fourth century the
importance of the player increased still more. We have seen that he was
so vital to the success of a playwright that for fairness’ sake the three
protagonists each acted in a single tragedy of each poet. We often hear
of brilliant acting successes. In the fourth century an Actors’ Guild was
formed at Athens and continued in existence for centuries. Its object was
to protect the remarkable privileges held by the “artists of Dionysus”.
They were looked upon as great servants of religion, and were not only
in high social esteem but possessed definite privileges, especially
the right of safe-conduct through hostile states and exemption from
military service. About the beginning of the third century before Christ
the Amphictyonic Council, at the instance of the Guild itself, renewed
a decree, the terms of which have fortunately been preserved,[192]
affirming the immunity of person and property granted to the Athenian
actors.
The chorus, we have seen, was originally the only celebrant of the
Dionysiac festival. As the importance of the actors increased it became
less and less vital to the performance. Its numbers, its connexion
with the plot, and the length and relevance of its songs, all steadily
diminished.
Originally there were fifty choristers, but we learn that early in the
fifth century there were only twelve, and it is suggested that this
change was due to the introduction of tetralogies—the fifty choreutæ
being divided as equally as possible between the four dramas. Sophocles,
it is said, raised the number to fifteen. This account is doubtful. It is
not in the nature of things likely that Æschylus (if it was he) caused
or approved such an immense drop in numbers, from fifty to twelve: for
the notion that the original chorus was split up into four is frivolous.
Is it not obvious that a poet would employ the same choristers for each
play of his tetralogy? Again, that Sophocles should chafe at Æschylus’
twelve singers and alter the number, and that by a mere trifle of
three, is quite unlikely. There is, moreover, strong evidence that the
elder poet used fifty choreutæ, at any rate in his earlier time. The
_Supplices_ has for chorus the daughters of Danaus, and their exact
number, fifty, was a familiar _datum_ of the legend. The natural view
is that Æschylus began with fifty, that Sophocles ended with fifteen,
and that between these two points the number gradually sank. Whether the
choreutæ after the fifth century became still fewer is not clearly known;
there is some evidence that at times they were only seven.
Next, the dramatic value of the chorus steadily went down. In our
earliest tragedy, the Æschylean _Supplices_, the chorus of Danaids is
absolutely vital; they are the chief, almost the sole, interest. In other
works of the same poet their importance is certainly less, but still very
great; everywhere they are deeply interested in the fate of the chief
persons—Xerxes, Eteocles, Prometheus, Agamemnon, Orestes; the chorus of
the _Eumenides_ is even more closely attached to the plot. In Sophocles
a certain change is to be felt. The connexion between chorus and plot
is of much the same quality as in the five plays just mentioned, but
the emotional tie and (still more) the tie of self-interest are weaker.
The chorus of Greek seamen in _Philoctetes_ are (in the abstract) as
deeply concerned in the issue as the Oceanids in _Prometheus_, but most
readers would probably agree that they show it less; we can “think away”
the chorus more easily from the _Philoctetes_. In all the other six
Sophoclean dramas the interest of the chorus in the action is about the
same as in the _Philoctetes_—strong but scarcely vital. Euripides’ work
shows more variety. _Alcestis_, _Heracleidæ_, _Hecuba_, _Ion_, _Troades_,
_Iphigenia in Tauris_, _Helen_, and _Rhesus_ all possess choruses which
are _prima-facie_ Sophoclean in this regard, though their language tends
to show less personal concern. In other dramas, _Medea_, _Hippolytus_,
_Andromache_, _Electra_, _Phœnissæ_, _Orestes_, _Iphigenia at Aulis_,
the chorus is simply a company of spectators. Thirdly, in two plays,
_Supplices_ and _Bacchæ_, the importance of the chorus is thoroughly
Æschylean. In Euripides, then, there is found on the whole a weakening
in the dramatic value of the chorus: in some instances the singers
are little more than random visitors. In the fourth century Aristotle
protests against this: “the chorus too should be regarded as one of the
actors; it should be an integral part of the whole, and share in the
action, in the manner not of Euripides but of Sophocles”.[193]
A precisely similar change operated in the length of the ode. The
lyrics of Æschylus’ _Supplices_ form more than half the work, those of
_Orestes_ only one-ninth. Even at the end of Æschylus’ career we find
in the _Agamemnon_ odes magnificent, elaborate, and lengthy. Sophocles
composed shorter songs which were still closely germane to the plot. But
in Euripides there frequently occur lyrics whose connexion with the plot
is slight, sometimes difficult to make out. Agathon carried this still
further: his odes are mere interludes, quite outside the plot.[194]
The fifteen choristers usually entered through the _parodos_, marching
like soldiers.[195] Drawn up in ranks upon the orchestra, they followed
the action with their backs to the audience but faced about when they
sang. Their work fell into two parts, the odes sung between the episodes,
and participation in the episodes. The entrance-song was called the
_parodos_ or “entrance,” and was written in anapæstic rhythm, suitable
for marching. If so, it was chanted in recitative; lyrics were sung.
Songs between episodes were called _stasima_. This means “stationary
songs,” not because the singers stood still but because they had taken
up their station in the orchestra. As they left at the end they sang
an _exodos_ or “exit” in anapæsts. Besides these, there were occasional
_hyporchemes_ (ὑπορχήματα, “dances”), short, lively songs expressing
sudden joy. All lyrics were rendered by both song and dance. Singing was
generally executed by all the choreutæ, but some passages were divided
between them. The most frequent division was into two semi-choruses
(ἡμιχόρια), but now and then individuals sang a few words. Incidental
iambic lines were spoken by one person, and the short anapæstic system
which at the end of the lyric often announces the approach of an actor
was no doubt assigned to the _coryphæus_, or chorus-leader alone.
Dancing was also an essential feature, but both Greeks and Romans meant
more by dancing than do we, or than we did before the rise of “Salome”
performances. It was in fact a mimetic display, giving by the rhythmic
manipulation of all the limbs an imitation of the emotions expressed,
or the events described, by the song. The whole company, moreover, went
through certain evolutions over the surface of the orchestra. When
they sang the _strophe_[196] they moved in one direction, back again
for the _antistrophe_,[196] and perhaps stood still when there was an
_epode_.[196] But nothing is known as to details here. The centre of
all the dancing was the coryphæus (κορυφαῖος, “top man”), the leader
of the chorus; when two semi-choruses acted separately each had its
leader. As was natural, choric dancing flourished mightily in the early
days, and went down with lyrical performance in general. Thus Phrynichus
congratulated himself on having devised “as many figures of the dance as
are the billows on the sea under a dread night of storm”. Æschylus too
was a brilliant ballet-master. But Plato, the comic playwright, at the
end of the same century grumbles[197] amusingly:—
There was something to watch when the dancing was good,
But now there’s no acting to mention—
Just a paralysed row of inflexible singers,
Who howl as they stand at attention.
During the best period of the chorus its mimetic dancing must have been
a wonderful spectacle. We hear of highly-skilled performers who could
reproduce action so that the audience followed every detail. They seem
to have “accompanied” some portions of the episodes in this manner; and
that fact may account for a rather curious feature in the _Ion_. The
messenger gives a remarkably detailed description of the designs upon
the embroideries wherewith Ion roofed his great banqueting-marquee—the
constellations and “Dawn pursuing the stars” are all described. Possibly
this was written for the sake of an unusually brilliant mimetic evolution
by groups of choreutæ.
The chorus had other duties during the episodes. As a body they normally
showed themselves interested spectators; thus the chorus of _Orestes_
enter in order to inquire of Electra concerning her sick brother. Not
infrequently they do more, taking an actual share in events. At the close
of _Agamemnon_ the Argive elders are at point to do battle with Ægisthus
and his henchmen; in _Alcestis_ they join the funeral procession; at
other times they aid the persons of the play, not only by misleading
enemies (_Choephorœ_) or directing friends (_Œdipus Tyrannus_) but by
keeping watch (_Orestes_). Further, the coryphæus almost always delivers
two or three lines at the end of every long speech, save when it ends a
scene. These little interpolations are invariably obvious and feeble.
After Hermione’s tirade against women the coryphæus comments thus: “Too
freely hast thou indulged thy tongue against thy sex. It is pardonable in
thee, but still women should gloss over the weaknesses of women.” Anyone
who has listened to the delivery of some splendid passage in Shakespeare,
an outburst of Lear or Mercutio’s Queen Mab speech, will remember how the
applause which follows it drowns the next speaker’s opening lines. Some
pause is needed. This is provided in Greek tragedy by the insertion of a
line or two which will not be missed if inaudible.
The satyric chorus diverged little from the tragic in the points
discussed under this section. It had, however, a special type of dance
called the “Sikinnis”. “One of the postures used ... was called the owl,
and is variously explained by the old grammarians as having consisted in
shading the eyes with the hands, or in turning the head to and fro like
an owl.”[198]
VI. THE AUDIENCE
The time of the Dionysiac festivals, especially the great Dionysia, was
a holiday for all Athens, and the centre of enjoyment was the show of
tragedies and comedies. At sunrise the theatre was filled with a huge
throng prepared to sit packed together for hours facing the sun with no
interval for a meal or for exercise. It is important to remember that in
Athens that incalculable play-goer, “the average man,” did really enjoy
and appreciate first-class dramatic work.
There were a few rows of special seats for officials and persons
otherwise honoured by the State. All the rest of the space, save for the
separation of men and women, and the possibility that each _cercis_ was
allotted to a distinct tribe, was open to all without distinction of
rank or means. The official seats were in the front rows, and the first
row of all consisted of sixty-seven marble thrones, most of which are
still preserved _in situ_. Of these sixty-seven, fifty belonged—as the
inscriptions show—to ecclesiastics, and the famous middle throne—the
best and most conspicuous[199] place in the theatre—was occupied by the
priest of Dionysus of Eleutheræ. Besides priests, the archons, the
generals, and the ten judges had special places, also benefactors of the
State or their descendants, and the sons of men who had fallen in battle.
Ambassadors from abroad, too, received this compliment of προεδρία
(“foremost seat”).
Behind the dignified front circle of thrones rose tier after tier of
stone benches, all alike and not marked off into separate seats, so that
the audience must usually have been crowded. They were also cramped, for
the height of each seat was but fifteen inches.[200] Spectators brought
with them any cushions they needed. Admission to the theatre was allowed
in the first instance to any Athenian citizen. In spite of the indecency
which was a normal[201] feature of the Old Comedy, there is no doubt that
women and boys were present at the shows both of tragedy and comedy.
Slaves and foreigners also were admitted, obtaining admission, like the
boys and women, through citizens. Foreigners, except the distinguished
persons to whom _proedria_ was granted, seem to have been confined to the
extreme right and left _cercides_, next to the _parodoi_. All the seating
which has been described dates from the time of the orator Lycurgus[202]
in the fourth century; during the fifth Athens was content with wooden
benches, called _icria_ (ἴκρια, “planks”).
Admission was at first free, but the drama was so popular that the rush
for seats caused much confusion; it is said that the more sedulous would
secure places the night before. In the fifth century the custom arose
of charging for admission, and making every one book in advance, save
those dignitaries whose places were reserved. The price for one day was
two obols (about threepence in weight, but of much greater purchasing
power). At the end of that century this sum was paid by the State to any
citizen who claimed it. The money allotted for this purpose was called
the “theoric” fund (τὸ θεωρικόν, “money for the shows”), of which we
hear so much in the speeches of Demosthenes. By his time the system had
grown to a serious danger. Payments were made, not only for the original
purpose, but for all the numerous festivals, and a law was actually
passed that anyone who proposed to apply the fund in any other way should
be put to death. Demosthenes represents the theoric fund and the Athenian
affection for it as preventing Athens from supplying sufficient forces
to check the growing menace from Philip of Macedonia. On paying in his
two obols the spectator received a ticket of lead. The sums taken were
appropriated by the lessee or _architecton_ who in consideration thereof
kept the theatre in repair.
As the auditorium was filled with many thousands of lively Southerners,
who had to sit crammed together from sunrise till late in the day with
no intermission, the question of good order might seem to have been
a hopeless difficulty. It was not so. For, first, the occasion was
religious, and to use blows in the theatre was a capital crime. Next,
stewards (ῥαβδοφόροι, “rod-bearers”) were at hand to keep order among
the choristers, who were numerous, seeing that each dithyrambic chorus
consisted of fifty men. Finally, a good deal of exuberant behaviour was
allowed. Serious disturbance occasionally happened: the high-spirited
Alcibiades once had a bout at fisticuffs with a rival choregus, and
the occasion of Demosthenes’ speech against Meidias was the blow which
Meidias dealt the orator when the latter was choregus.
Though an Athenian audience had no objection, when comedy was played,
to scenes which we should have supposed likely to strike them as
blasphemous, they bitterly objected to any breach of orthodoxy in tragic
drama. Æschylus once narrowly escaped death because it was thought
that a passage in his play constituted a revelation of the mysteries.
Euripides,[203] too, incurred great trouble owing to the opening lines
of _Melanippe the Wise_. Approval and dislike were freely expressed.
If the spectators admired a passage, shouts and clapping showed it: at
times they would “encore” a speech or song with the exclamation αὖθις
(“again”). Still more often do we hear of their proneness to “damn” a bad
play. Hissing[204] was common, and there was a special custom at Athens
of kicking with the heels upon the benches to express disapproval—a
method which must have been effective in the time of wooden seats.
Playwrights were known to take vigorous means to win favour. That
distinguished writer of New Comedy, Philemon, is said to have defeated
Menander himself by securing a large attendance of supporters to applaud
his work, and it is certain that writers of the Old Comedy frequently
directed their actors to throw nuts and similar offerings among the
audience. In the _Peace_ of Aristophanes barley was thus distributed.
The spectators sometimes replied in kind. Bad performers were pelted
with fruit, at any rate in the country, and even stones were used in
extreme cases. The celebrated Æschines, during his career as a strolling
tritagonist, was nearly stoned to death by his public.[205] But the fruit
was generally used in the city itself for another purpose. Aristotle
illustrates a detail of psychology by pointing to the fact that “in
the theatre people who eat dessert do so with most abandon when the
performers are bad”.[206]