What Happened at the Theatre of Dionysus.
“Forth came, with slow and measured tread,
The ancient chorus, solemn, dread,
And through the theatre’s ample bound
Stately they took their wonted round.”
Schiller.
After the passage of a few weeks, Zopyrus became convinced of a fact
which caused him great concern. It was the growing love for him which
Eumetis could ill conceal. An alliance with the house of the
aristocratic poet would be an honor. Zopyrus believed and rightly, that
he had found favor with Pasicles and Cleodice. Still he knew that while
he respected and admired Eumetis for the many desirable qualities which
she possessed, he did not love her as a man should love the woman whom
he chooses out of all others to be his mate. The cognizance of this
unreturned affection and his inability to rediscover the maiden who was
the object of his love were the only obstacles which disturbed the
course of an otherwise peaceful existence.
Sparta’s pernicious ambitions were timely frustrated and Athens
surrounded by seven miles of solid masonry and with Themistocles as its
temporary idol, settled down to its pre-war mode of life. In the Agora
the fishmonger’s bell announced the opening of fish-market, artisans
went to their trade, the wealthy sought the shops and other public
places or gossiped while they rested in the comfortable seats in the
shady arcades. But the ordinary routine was frequently interrupted by
judicial duties or public services pertaining to religious festivals,
Olympiads or theatrical performances, and it was upon the latter
occasion that on this day the crowds were leaving the market-place and
pursuing a westward direction to the theatre of Dionysus which was an
amphitheatre situated on the southern slope of the Acropolis.
Entrance was procured for the public through great gates on the right
and left which opened into the orchestra or circular pit where the
chorus marched and sang between the acts. The orchestra was situated
between the stage and the auditorium which had a seating capacity of
thirty thousand. The stone seats which rose tier upon tier were very
wide and actually consisted of three distinct parts; the first as a
seat, the second as a gangway for those walking, and the third part was
hollowed out a little for the feet of those sitting above. The whole
semi-circular structure was cut by stairs which like radii divided it
into sections to facilitate the locating of seats. At the top of each
division upon a pedestal stood the bust of some god or goddess, that of
Dionysus occupying the middle section or place of honor.
Considerably to the right and about half way down in the section of
Aphrodite sat Pasicles, Cleodice, Polygnotus, Corinna, Zopyrus, Eumetis
and the lad Mimnermus. Bright colored kerchiefs adorned the heads of the
women all over the assemblage, giving a gala appearance to the scene. At
intervals over the theatre there were raised seats with high ornate
backs, arm-rests and cushions. These were reserved for judges and
officials or for any who were deemed deserving to occupy them. In one of
these seats near the front of the section of Dionysus sat the tragedian,
Phrynichus, so privileged as the composer of the tragedy, “The Capture
of Miletus,” which was about to be enacted. Next to him was seated
Aeschylus, his younger contemporary and staunch admirer.
Above the vast assembly stretched the azure sky across which an
occasional fleecy cloud moved with the gentle breeze. Behind and above
rose the Acropolis crowned with its marble ruins, and to the front of
the audience, visible in the distance a little to the left of the stage
was clearly discernible the conical outline of Hymettus, while farther
to the east stretched the purple range of Anchesmus.
In his play, Phrynchius vividly presented to his spectators, the sad
events of the downfall of the beautiful city of Miletus. He did not
hesitate to blame certain Greek leaders who allowed themselves to be
influenced by secret agents from the enemy, so that many ships
treacherously sailed away at the opening of the battle. As the play
proceeded the poet in gifted language put into the mouths of his actors,
the tragic tale of the plunder of its dwellings, the conflagration of
its peerless temples and the captivity of its citizens. There arose in
Zopyrus’ memory the pale, tear-stained face of his mother when she
learned from the lips of her stern husband, the fate of her native city.
Sixteen years before she had been taken to Sardis as the bride of the
Persian satrap, but she had never forgotten the city of her birth, nor
did she ever recover from the effect of its sad fate and the probable
doom of friends and relatives. Zopyrus recalled how as a lad of fourteen
he stood beside his mother’s death-bed and received from her lips the
request to avenge the destruction of Miletus. Scalding tears filled his
eyes as he sat with bowed head. Hearing a stifled sob he looked up and
saw that Eumetis was likewise in tears. Thus encouraged, to discover
that he was not alone moved to tears by the memory of a past tragedy
that lived again before thousands, he scanned the multitude around him,
to learn that many were weeping. Scarcely was there one who had not lost
a loved one, or who was not in some way painfully reminded of disasters
through conflict with the Persians. In this great common grief Zopyrus
felt himself to be truly one in heart with the people about him.
While in this mood he felt a light caressing touch upon his arm, and
turning met the eyes of Eumetis looking up to him with sympathetic
understanding, and in their violet depths he read a truth which, because
he was young and life held for him the possibilities which it offers to
all who are ambitious, flattered while yet it sincerely pleased him.
Before he realized what he was doing his hand sought hers and held it,
delighting in the thrill of contact.
At the close of the drama a resonant voice from the stage addressed the
throng. It was the ex-archon, Conon.
“Citizens of Athens,” he cried, “will you let go unpunished the offender
who has this day moved to tears, thousands? Is it without complaint that
you listen to words which cause you to live again the miseries of the
past? Has not Greece borne enough without being thus clearly reminded of
past afflictions? I move you we fine the author one thousand drachmas as
a punishment.”
Aeschylus was upon his feet in an instant.
“Rather should our friend here,” indicating Phrynichus, “be rewarded the
sum of a thousand drachmas for the skill with which he depicted those
scenes of woe.”
“Pay no heed to Aeschylus!” cried a voice. “He is a poet who probably
entertains like ambitions. Phrynichus should be fined, not only for his
own misdeed, but as a warning to aspiring poets that we care not to have
presented to us thus our national tragedies.”
The sympathies of the group who were around Pasicles were with
Phrynichus and Aeschylus, and so likewise were hundreds of others, but
the majority resented the fact that they had been forced to yield to
tears. The motion carried and the tragedian was forced to pay the
penalty inflicted upon him.
As the crowds were leaving the amphitheatre Zopyrus espied Aeschylus and
said as he approached him: “That was a good word you spoke for your
elder friend. Our sympathies were with him.”
“Phrynichus I believe,” answered Aeschylus, “would rather lose the
thousand drachmas than have failed to stir the hearts of the Athenians
as he did today. The light of victory was in his eye, and mark you,
Zopyrus, Conon has not frightened me either, for I intend to work on my
‘Persæ’ with the hope that my audience too will melt into tears! But I
have unpleasant news for you, my friend. I am leaving soon for Sicily to
visit Hiero, tyrant of Syracuse. My promise to escort you to the
Mysteries will have to hold over till another year, however you will
find in the most noble Pasicles a worthy mystagogue, and it is my
earnest desire that you become initiated into the Mysteries at once.”
“Shall I not see you again before you leave?” questioned Zopyrus much
agitated at the thought of his friend’s imminent departure.
“I fear not, but time does not drag on the hands of youth, and,” he
added with a smile, “you may find the girl of the Acropolis! Farewell.”
He was gone and there seemed a chaos in life where Aeschylus had once
been. The truth-seeking poet had meant much to him since he had first
met him in the home of Pasicles. He had known personally many poets and
philosophers who in parasitic fashion drew their nourishment from the
court of King Xerxes. They were neither original in their ideas, fearing
to arouse the wrath of the king by any deviation from customs, nor were
they sincere. Aeschylus would cater to no man, nor did he bow to public
opinion. The truth clothed in forceful language, was what he presented
to the Athenians, and they could take it or spurn it as they chose.
The sight of Eumetis waiting for him filled Zopyrus with a pleasant
consciousness that the chaos might after all be filled with a living,
loving personality, and he hastily joined her. Her slender face, usually
serious, lighted up with joy as she beheld the youth approaching.
“The rest have gone on,” she said, “We must hasten if we are to overtake
them.”
“Is it necessary that we overtake them?” asked Zopyrus in a voice that
sounded unnatural.
Eumetis blushed and shook her head in the negative. “No not if you
prefer to delay.”
“I do, Eumetis, for I have something to say to you.” He paused a moment
then continued: “Will the daughter of the aristocratic Pasicles deign to
look upon Zopyrus whose origin is to her unknown, as a suitor?”
“You are mistaken, Zopyrus, if you think your parentage is unknown to my
father. Aeschylus has revealed your identity to him, though I know not
what it is and care not as long as Pasicles approves.”
For answer Zopyrus drew her arm within his own and together they crossed
the Ceramicus as the shades of evening were beginning to descend.