led, for a moment, to the belief that the importation of this singular
worship dated back to the early days of the little city; but we now know
that it was introduced by Sylla into the Roman world. Isis was Nature,
the patroness of the Pompeians, who venerated her equally in their
physical Venus. This form of religion, mysterious, symbolical, full of
secrets hidden from the people, as it was; these goddesses with heads of
dogs, wolves, oxen, hawks; the god Onion, the god Garlic, the god Leek;
all that Apuleius tells about it, besides the data furnished by the
Pompeian excavations, the recovered bottle-brushes, the basins, the
knives, the tripods, the cymbals, the citheræ, etc.,--were worth the
trouble of examination and study.
Upon the door of the temple, a strange inscription announced that
Numerius Popidius, the son of Numerius, had, at his own expense, rebuilt
the temple of Isis, thrown down by an earthquake, and that, in reward
for his liberality, the decurions had admitted him gratuitously to their
college at the age of six years. The antiquaries, or some of them, at
least, finding this age improbable, have read it sixty instead of six,
forgetting that there then existed two kinds of decurions, the
_ornamentarii_ and _prætextati_--the honorary and the active officials.
The former might be associated with the Pompeian Senate in recompense
for services rendered by their fathers. An inscription found at Misenum
confirms this fact. (See the _Memorie del l'Academia Ercolanese, anno_
1833)--The minutes of the Herculaneum Academy, for the year 1833.]
VIII.
THE THEATRES.
THE ARRANGEMENT OF THE PLACES OF AMUSEMENT.--ENTRANCE TICKETS.--THE
VELARIUM, THE ORCHESTRA, THE STAGE.--THE ODEON.--THE HOLCONII.--THE
SIDE SCENES, THE MASKS.--THE ATELLAN FARCES.--THE MIMES.--JUGGLERS,
ETC.--A REMARK OF CICERO ON THE MELODRAMAS.--THE BARRACK OF THE
GLADIATORS.--SCRATCHED INSCRIPTIONS, INSTRUMENTS OF TORTURE.--THE
POMPEIAN GLADIATORS.--THE AMPHITHEATRE: HUNTS, COMBATS, BUTCHERIES,
ETC.
We are now going to rest ourselves at the theatre. Pompeii had two such
places of amusement, one tragic and the other comic, or, rather, one
large and one smaller, for that is the only positive difference existing
between them; all else on that point is pure hypothesis. Let us, then,
say the large and small theatre, and we shall be sure to make no
mistakes.
The grand saloon or body of the large theatre formed a semicircle, built
against an embankment so that the tiers of seats ascended from the pit
to the topmost gallery, without resting, on massive substructures. In
this respect it was of Greek construction. The four upper tiers resting
upon an arched corridor, in the Roman style, alone reached the height on
which stood the triangular Forum and the Greek temple. Thus, you can
step directly from the level of the street to the highest galleries,
from which your gaze, ranging above the stage, can sweep the country and
the sea, and at the same moment plunge far below you into that sort of
regularly-shaped ravine in which once sat five thousand Pompeians eager
for the show.
At first glance, you discover three main divisions; these are the
different ranks of tiers, the _caveæ_. There are three caveæ--the
lowermost, the middle, and the upper ones. The lowermost was considered
the most select. It comprised only the four first rows of benches, or
seats, which were broader and not so high as the others. These were the
places reserved for magistrates and other eminent persons. Thither they
had their seats carried and also the _bisellia_, or benches for two
persons, on which they alone had the right to sit. A low wall, rising
behind the fourth range and surmounted with a marble rail that has now
disappeared, separated this lowermost cavea from the rest. The duumviri,
the decurions, the augustales, the ædiles, Holconius, Cornelius Rufus,
and Pansa, if he was elected, sat there majestically apart from common
mortals. The middle division was for quiet, every-day, private citizens,
like ourselves. Separated into wedge-like corners (_cunei_) by six
flights of steps cutting it in as many places, it comprised a limited
number of seats marked by slight lines, still visible. A ticket of
admission (a _tessera_ or domino) of bone, earthenware, or bronze--a
sort of counter cut in almond or _en pigeon_ shape, sometimes too in the
form of a ring--indicated exactly the cavea, the corner, the tier, and
the seat for the person holding it. Tessaræ of this kind have been found
on which were Greek and Roman characters (a proof that the Greek would
not have been understood without translation). Upon one of them is
inscribed the name of Æschylus, in the genitive; and hence it has been
inferred that his "Prometheus" or his "Persians" must have been played
on the Pompeian stage, unless, indeed, this genitive designated one of
the wedge-divisions marked out by the name or the statue of the tragic
poet. Others have mentioned one of these counters that announced the
representation of a piece by Plautus,--the _Casina_; but I can assure
you that the relic is a forgery, if, indeed, such a one ever existed.
You should, then, before entering, provide yourself with a real tessera,
which you may purchase for very little money. Plautus asked that folks
should pay an _as_ apiece. "Let those," he said, "who have not got it
retire to their homes." The price of the seats was proclaimed aloud by a
crier, who also received the money, unless the show was gratuitously
offered to the populace by some magistrate who wished to retain public
favor, or some candidate anxious to procure it. You handed in your
ticket to a sort of usher, called the _designator_, or the _locarius_,
who pointed out your seat to you, and, if required, conducted you
thither. You could then take your place in the middle tier, at the top
of which was the statue of Marcus Holconius Rufus, duumvir, military
tribune, and patron of the colony. This statue had been set up there by
order of the decurions. The holes hollowed in the pedestal by the nails
that secured the marble feet of the statue are still visible.
Finally, at the summit of the half-moon was the uppermost cavea,
assigned to the common herd and the women. So, after all, we are
somewhat ahead of the Romans in gallantry. Railings separated this tier
from the one we sit in, so as to prevent "the low rabble" from invading
the seats occupied by us respectable men of substance. Upon the wall of
the people's gallery is still seen the ring that held the pole of the
_velarium_. This velarium was an awning that was stretched above the
heads of the spectators to protect them from the sun. In earlier times
the Romans had scouted at this innovation, which they called a piece of
Campanian effeminacy. But little by little, increasing luxury reduced
the Puritans of Rome to silence, and they willingly accepted a velarium
of silk--an homage of Cæsar. Nero, who carried everything to excess,
went further: he caused a velarium of purple to be embroidered with
gold. Caligula frequently amused himself by suddenly withdrawing this
movable shelter and leaving the naked heads of the spectators exposed to
the beating rays of the sun. But it seems that at Pompeii the wind
frequently prevented the hoisting of the canvas, and so the poet Martial
tells us that he will keep on his hat.
Such was the arrangement of the main body of the house. Let us now
descend to the orchestra, which, in the Greek theatres, was set apart
for the dancing of the choirs, but in the Roman theatres, was reserved
for the great dignitaries, and at Rome itself for the prince, the
vestals, and the senators. I have somewhere read that, in the great
city, the foreign ambassadors were excluded from these places of honor
because among them could be found the sons of freedmen.
Would you like to go up on the stage? Raised about five feet above the
orchestra, it was broader than ours, but not so deep. The personages of
the antique repertory did not swell to such numbers as in our fairy
spectacles. Far from it. The stage extended between a proscenium or
front, stretching out upon the orchestra by means of a wooden platform,
which has disappeared, and the _postscenium_ or side scenes. There was,
also, a _hyposcenium_ or subterranean part of the theatre, for the
scene-shifters and machinists. The curtain or _siparium_ (a Roman
invention) did not rise to the ceiling as with us, but, on the
contrary, descended so as to disclose the stage, and rolled together
underground, by means of ingenious processes which Mazois has explained
to us. Thus, the curtain fell at the beginning and rose at the end of
the piece.
You are aware that in ancient drama the question of scenery was greatly
simplified by the rule of the unity of place. The stage arrangement, for
instance, represented the palace of a prince. Therefore, there was no
canvas painted at the back of the stage; it was _built_ up. This
decoration, styled the _scena stabilis_, rose as high as the loftiest
tier in the theatre, and was of stone and marble in the Pompeian
edifice. It represented a magnificent wall pierced for three doors; in
the centre was the royal door, where princes entered; on the right, the
entrance of the household and females; at the left, the entrance for
guests and strangers. These were matters to be fixed in the mind of the
spectator. Between these doors were rounded and square niches for
statues. In the side-scenes, was the moveable decoration (_scena
ductilis_), which was slid in front of the back-piece in case of a
change of scene, as, for instance, when playing the _Ajax_ of Sophocles,
where the place of action is transferred from the Greek camp to the
shores of the Hellespont. Then, there were other side-scenes not of much
account, owing to lack of room, and on each wing a turning piece with
three broad flats representing three different subjects. There were
square niches in the walls of the proscenium either for statues or for
policemen to keep an eye on the spectators. Such, stated in a few lines
and in libretto style, was the stage in ancient times.
[Illustration: The Smaller Theatre at Pompeii.]
I confess that I have a preference for the smaller theatre which has
been called the Odeon. Is that because, possibly, tragedies were never
played there? Is it because this establishment seems more complete and
in better preservation, thanks to the intelligent replacements of La
Vega, the architect? It was covered, as two inscriptions found there
explicitly declare, with a wooden roof, probably, the walls not being
strong enough to sustain an arch. It was reached through a passage all
bordered with inscriptions, traced on the walls by the populace waiting
to secure admission as they passed slowly in, one after the other. A
lengthy file of gladiators had carved their names also upon the walls,
along with an enumeration of their victories; barbarian slaves, and some
freedmen, likewise, had left their marks. These probably constituted the
audience that occupied the uppermost seats approached by the higher
vomitories. On the other hand, there were no lateral vomitories. The
spectators entered the orchestra directly by large doors, and thence
ascended to the four tiers of the lower (_cavea_) which curved like
hooks at their extremities, and were separated from the middle cavea by
a parapet of marble terminating in vigorously-carved lion's paws. Among
these carvings we may particularly note a crouching Atlas, of short,
thick-set form, sustaining on his shoulders and his arms, which are
doubled behind him, a marble slab which was once the stand of a vase or
candlestick. This athletic effort is violently rendered by the artist.
Above the orchestra ran the _tribunalia_, reminding us of our modern
stage-boxes. These were the places reserved at Rome for the vestal
virgins; at Pompeii, they were very probably those of the public
priestesses--of Eumachia, whose statue we have already seen, or of Mamia
whose tomb we have inspected. The seats of the three cavea were of
blocks of lava; and there can still be seen in them the hollows in which
the occupants placed their feet so as not to soil the spectators below
them. Let us remember that the Roman mantles were of white wool, and
that the sandals of the ancients got muddied just as our shoes do. The
citizens who occupied the central cavea brought their cushions with them
or folded their spotless togas on the seats before they took their
places. It was necessary, then, to protect them from the mud and the
dust in which the spectators occupying the upper tiers had been walking.
The number of ranges of seats was seventeen, divided into wedges by six
flights of steps, and in stalls by lines yet visible upon the stone. The
upper tiers were approached by vomitories and by a subterranean
corridor. The orchestra formed an arc the chord of which was indicated
by a marble strip with this inscription:
"M. Olconius M.F. Vervs, Pro Ludis."
This Olconius or Holconius was the Marquis of Carabas of Pompeii. His
name may be read everywhere in the streets, on the monuments, and on
the walls of the houses. We have seen already that the fruiterers
wanted him for ædile. We have pointed out the position of his statue in
the theatre. We know by inscriptions that he was not the only
illustrious member of his family. There were also a Marcus Holconius
Celer, a Marcus Holconius Rufus, etc. Were this petty municipal
aristocracy worth the trouble of hunting up, we could easily find it on
the electoral programmes by collecting the names usually affixed
thereon. But Holconius is the one most conspicuous of them all; so, hats
off to Holconius!
I return to the theatre. Two large side windows illuminated the stage,
which, being covered, had need of light. The back scene was not carved,
but painted and pierced for five doors instead of three; those at the
ends, which were masked by movable side scenes served, perhaps, as
entrances to the lobbies of the priestesses.
Would you like to go behind the scenes? Passing by the barracks of the
gladiators, we enter an apartment adorned with columns, which was, very
likely, the common hall and dressing-room of the actors. A celebrated
mosaic in the house of the poet (or jeweller), shows us a scenic
representation: in it we observe the _choragus_, surrounded by masks and
other accessories (the choragus was the manager and director); he is
making two actors, got up as satyrs, rehearse their parts; behind them,
another comedian, assisted by a costumer of some kind, is trying to put
on a yellow garment which is too small for him. Thus we can re-people
the antechamber of the stage. We see already those comic masks that were
the principal resource in the wardrobe of the ancient players. Some of
them were typical; for instance, that of the young virgin, with her hair
parted on her forehead and carefully combed; that of the slave-driver
(or _hegemonus_), recognized by his raised eyelids, his wrinkled brows
and his twists of hair done up in a wig; that of the wizard, with
immense eyes starting from their sockets, seamed skin covered with
pimples, with enormous ears, and short hair frizzed in snaky ringlets;
that of the bearded, furious, staring, and sinister old man; and above
all, those of the Atellan low comedians, who, born in Campania, dwell
there still, and must assuredly have amused the little city through
which we are passing. Atella, the country of Maccus was only some seven
or eight leagues distant from Pompeii, and numerous interests and
business connections united the inhabitants of the two places. I have
frequently stated that the Oscan language, in which the Atellan farces
were written, had once been the only tongue, and had continued to be the
popular dialect of the Pompeians. The Latin gradually intermingled with
these pieces, and the confusion of the two idioms was an exhaustless
source of witticisms, puns, and bulls of all kinds, that must have
afforded Homeric laughter to the plebeians of Pompeii. The longshoremen
of Naples, in our day, seek exactly similar effects in the admixture of
pure Italian and the local _patois_. The titles of some of the Atellian
farces are still extant: "Pappus, the Doctor Shown Out," "Maccus
Married," "Maccus as Safe Keeper," etc. These are nearly the same
subjects that are still treated every day on the boards at Naples; the
same rough daubs, half improvised on the spur of the moment; the same
frankly coarse and indecent gayety. The Odeon where we are now, was the
Pompeian San Carlino. Bucco, the stupid and mocking buffoon; the dotard
Pappus, who reminds us of the Venetian Pantaloon; Mandacus, who is the
Neapolitan Guappo; the Oscan Casnar, a first edition of Cassandra; and
finally, Maccus, the king of the company, the Punchinello who still
survives and flourishes,--such were the ancient mimes, and such, too,
are their modern successors. All these must have appeared in their turn
on the small stage of the Odeon; and the slaves, the freedmen crowded
together in the upper tiers, the citizens ranged in the middle cavea or
family-circle, the duumvirs, the decurions, the augustals, the ædiles
seated majestically on the bisellia of the orchestra, even the
priestesses of the proscenium and the melancholy Eumachia, whose statue
confesses, I know not what anguish of the heart,--all these must have
roared with laughter at the rude and extravagant sallies of their low
comedians, who, notwithstanding the parts they played, were more highly
appreciated than the rest and had the exclusive privilege of wearing the
title of Roman citizens.
Now, if these trivialities revolt your fastidious taste, you can picture
to yourself the representation of some comedy of Plautus in the Odeon of
Pompeii; that is, admitting, to begin with, that you can find a comedy
by that author which in no wise shocks our susceptibilities. You can
also fill the stage with mimes and pantomimists, for the favor accorded
to that class of actors under the emperors is well known. The Cæsars--I
am speaking of the Romans--somewhat feared spoken comedy, attributing
political proclivities to it, as they did; and, hence, they encouraged
to their utmost that mute comedy which, at the same time, in the
Imperial Babel, had the advantage of being understood by all the
conquered nations. In the provinces, this supreme art of gesticulation,
"these talking fingers, these loquacious hands, this voluble silence,
this unspoken explanation," as was once choicely said, were serviceable
in advancing the great work of Roman unity. "The substitution of ballet
pantomimes for comedy and tragedy resulted in causing the old
masterpieces to be neglected, thereby enfeebling the practice of the
national idioms and seconding the propagation, if not of the language,
at least of the customs and ideas of the Romans." (Charles Magnin.)
If the mimes do not suffice, call into the Odeon the rope-dancers, the
acrobats, the jugglers, the ventriloquists,--for all these lower orders
of public performers existed among the ancients and swarmed in the
Pompeian pictures,--or the flute-players enlivening the waits with their
melody and accompanying the voice of the actors at moments of dramatic
climax. "How can he feel afraid," asked Cicero, in this connection,
"since he recites such fine verses while he accompanies himself on the
flute?" What would the great orator have said had he been present at our
melodramas?
We may then imagine what kind of play we please on the little Pompeian
stage. For my part, I prefer the Atellan farces. They were the
buffooneries of the locality, the coarse pleasantry of native growth,
the hilarity of the vineyard and the grain-field, exuberant fancy,
grotesque in solemn earnest; in a word, ideal sport and frolic without
the least regard to reality--in fine, Punchinello's comedy. We prefer
Moliere; but how many things there are in Moliere which come in a direct
line from Maccus!
It is time to leave the theatre. I have said that the Odeon opened into
the gladiators' barracks. These barracks form a spacious court--a sort
of cloister--surrounded by seventy-four pillars, unfortunately spoiled
by the Pompeians of the restoration period. They topped them with new
capitals of stucco notoriously ill adapted to them. This gallery was
surrounded with curious dwellings, among which was a prison where three
skeletons were found, with their legs fastened in irons of ingeniously
cruel device. The instrument in question may be seen at the museum. It
looks like a prostrate ladder, in which the limbs of the prisoners were
secured tightly between short and narrow rungs--four bars of iron. These
poor wretches had to remain in a sitting or reclining posture, and
perished thus, without the power to rise or turn over, on the day when
Vesuvius swallowed up the city.
It was for a long time thought that these barracks were the quarters of
the soldiery, because arms were found there; but the latter were too
highly ornamented to belong to practical fighting troops, and were the
very indications that suggested to Father Garrucci the firmly
established idea, that the dwellings surrounding the gallery must have
been occupied by gladiators. These habitations consist of some sixty
cells: now there were sixty gladiators in Pompeii because an album
programme announced thirty pair of them to fight in the amphitheatre.
The pillars of the gallery were covered with inscriptions scratched on
their surface. Many of these graphites formed simple Greek names
Pompaios, Arpokrates, Celsa, etc., or Latin names, or fragments of
sentences, _curate pecunias, fur es Torque, Rustico feliciter!_ etc.
Others proved clearly that the place was inhabited by gladiators:
_inludus Velius_ (that is to say _not in the game, out of the ring_)
_bis victor libertus--leonibus, victor Veneri parmam feret_. Other
inscriptions designate families or troops of gladiators, of which there
are a couple familiar to us already, that of N. Festus Ampliatus and
that of N. Popidius Rufus; and a third, with which we are not
acquainted, namely, that of Pomponius Faustinus.
What has not been written concerning the gladiators? The origin of their
bloody sports; the immolations, voluntary at first, and soon afterward
compulsory, that did honor to the ashes of the dead warriors; then the
combats around the funeral pyres; then, ere long, the introduction of
these funeral spectacles as part of the public festivals, especially in
the triumphal parades of victorious generals; then into private
pageants, and then into the banquets of tyrants who caused the heads of
the proscribed to be brought to them at table. The skill of such and
such an artist in decapitation (_decollandi artifex_) was the subject of
remark and compliment. Ah, those were the grand ages!
As the reader also knows, the gladiators were at first prisoners of war,
barbarians; then, prisoners not coming in sufficient number, condemned
culprits and slaves were employed, ere long, in hosts so strong as, to
revolt in Campania at the summons of Spartacus. Consular armies were
vanquished and the Roman prisoners, transformed to gladiators, in their
turn were compelled to butcher each other around the funeral pyres of
their chiefs. However, these combats had gradually ceased to be
penalties and punishments, and soon were nothing but barbarous
spectacles, violent pantomimic performances, like those which England
and Spain have not yet been able to suppress. The troops of mercenary
fighters slaughtered each other in the arenas to amuse the Romans (not
to render them warlike). Citizens took part in these tournaments, and
among them even nobles, emperors, and women; and, at last, the Samnites,
Gauls, and Thracians, who descended into the arena, were only Romans in
disguise. These shows became more and more varied; they were diversified
with hunts (_venationes_), in which wild beasts fought with each other
or against _bestiarii_, or Christians; the amphitheatres, transformed to
lakes, offered to the gaze of the delighted spectator real naval
battles, and ten thousand gladiators were let loose against each other
by the imperial caprice of Trajan. These entertainments lasted one
hundred and twenty-three days. Imagine the carnage!