THE GREEK THEATER AND ITS DRAMA
[Illustration]
THE UNIVERSITY OF CHICAGO PRESS
CHICAGO, ILLINOIS
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LONDON AND EDINBURGH
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SHANGHAI
[Illustration: FIG. 1
THE THEATER OF DIONYSUS ELEUTHEREUS AT ATHENS AS SEEN FROM THE ACROPOLIS
See p. 62, n. 1]
THE GREEK THEATER
AND ITS DRAMA
ROY C. FLICKINGER, PH.D.
_Professor of Greek and Latin
Northwestern University_
[Illustration]
THE UNIVERSITY OF CHICAGO PRESS
CHICAGO, ILLINOIS
COPYRIGHT 1918 BY
THE UNIVERSITY OF CHICAGO
All Rights Reserved
Published May 1918
Composed and Printed By
The University of Chicago Press
Chicago, Illinois, U.S.A.
MATRI CARAE
PIETATIS CAUSA
Greek, Sir, is like lace; every man gets as much of it as he
can.—DR. SAMUEL JOHNSON
PREFACE
Prior to the outbreak of the world-war in Europe it seemed that America
was about to pass through a period of great popular interest in the
drama. With the return of normal activities consequent upon the coming
of peace it is to be hoped that this interest may be revived and may
continue to grow. So far as such interest is hysterical or manifested
by attempts at play-writing on the part of those without training,
experience, or natural aptitude it has little to commend it. On the other
hand, nothing can be more wholesome than a widespread comprehension of
the origin, history, and basic principles of tragedy and comedy. Thus,
we are deeply indebted to the successive scholars who have undertaken
to analyze Elizabethan drama and assign to Seneca, the Latin comedians,
Aristotle, the Greek playwrights, and the various mediaeval elements
their respective shares of influence. But, as the ultimate source of
all other dramatic art, the Greeks’ contribution, whether in precept or
example, must ever occupy a unique position. Accordingly, no effort,
however humble, to make the theater and drama of the Greeks more widely
known ought to require an apology.
In the following pages I have tried to do three things:
First, to elaborate the theory that the peculiarities and conventions
of the Greek drama are largely explicable by its environment, in the
broadest sense of that term. Some aspects of this fundamental proposition
have already been developed by others. But, so far as results have
been sought in the field of classical drama, it has been done less
comprehensively than is here attempted; and the earlier work has
been, for the most part, antiquated by the momentous accession of new
information during the last twenty-five years.
Secondly, to emphasize the technical aspect of ancient drama. Technique
has largely escaped the attention even of our playwrights, some of whom
attempt to produce plays that will have none. Most of our classical
scholars, also, study and teach and edit the ancient dramatists as if
they, too, had been equally slipshod. Our handbooks on scenic antiquities
and the classical drama have been written from the same point of view.
Of late years the Germans have awakened to the real situation, and many
of their recent monographs deal with various phases of the subject.
Nevertheless, so lately as 1911 a German dissertation began with these
words:
As yet not very many investigations into the technique of the
Greek tragedians are available. In addition to the incidental
hints that are scattered here and there, especially in the
commentaries, two works in this field are above all to be
mentioned and they are both very recent: Adolf Gross, _Die
Stichomythie in der griechischen Tragödie und Komödie_ (1905),
and Friedrich Leo, _Der Monolog im Drama_ (1908).[1]
In what terms, then, ought the indifference, not to say the unawareness,
of American scholars with regard to these matters to be characterized?
It is true that quite recently the German publications have caused some
attention to be devoted, in this country, to the dramaturgy of the
classical playwrights; but as yet such researches have gained only scant
recognition from the generality of classical students.
Thirdly, to elucidate and freshen ancient practice by modern and
mediaeval parallels. This is an old and deeply worked mine, and
I am under heavy obligations to my predecessors; but the vein is
inexhaustible, and I have striven to keep the point in mind more
steadfastly than is sometimes the case. It is of a piece with this to add
that I have endeavored to treat the ancient plays as if they were not
dead and inert, belonging to a world apart, but as if their authors were
men as real as Ibsen or Galsworthy, who had real problems and met them in
a real way. The desirability of this point of view surely ought not to
be a matter of question; yet in fact it is exemplified with surprising
rareness. To many, Sophocles and Euripides seem to possess scarcely more
historicity than the heroes of Greek mythology.
To a varying degree all these aims run afoul of a historic controversy
among dramatic critics. In the _Poetics_ Aristotle recognized the
distinction between studying tragedy “by itself” and in reference also
to the audience (or theater).[2] He included “spectacle” (ὄψις) or “the
equipment of the spectacle” (ὁ τῆς ὄψεως κόσμος) among the six parts
which every tragedy must have, but proceeded to declare that “this,
though emotionally attractive, is least artistic of the parts and has
least to do with the art of poetry, since the power of tragedy exists
even apart from a public performance and actors and since, furthermore,
it is the art of the costumer (or stage machinist) rather than that
of the poet to secure spectacular effects.” He granted that “fear and
pity may be excited by the spectacle, but they may be excited also by
the inner structure of the play, which is the preferable method and is
typical of a better poet,” etc. “The power of a tragedy,” he thought,
“may be made manifest by merely reading it.” Finally, he pointed out that
music and spectacle are just the accessories in which tragedy surpasses
epic poetry and that they constitute no inconsiderable addition to its
effect by rendering its pleasures most vivid. These citations suffice to
show Aristotle’s attitude, which was consistently maintained: he believed
the spectacle to be one of the indispensable elements of drama, but
that it ought also to be a comparatively subordinate element. This was
an eminently sane position to take, and it would have been well if his
successors had been equally judicious.
Dr. Spingarn has tried to break down the force of Aristotle’s
recognition of spectacular effects by saying that he could not “help
thinking of plays in connection with their theatrical representation, any
more than most of us can think of men and women without clothes. They
belong together by long habit and use; they help each other to be what
we commonly think them. But he does not make them identical or mutually
inclusive.”[3] In other words, Aristotle had no acquaintance with the
“closet-drama,” and so did not take it into account. But there is an
allowance to be made also on the other side. There is some doubt as to
just what Aristotle meant by “spectacle,” whether merely “the visible
appearance of the actors when got up in character by the costumier” or
“scenery, dresses—the whole visible apparatus of the theater.” Even
if he had the larger meaning in mind he could not have realized its
full significance. He knew but a single type of theatrical building,
which must therefore have seemed to him as integral a part of dramatic
performances as the Greek climate. He could not look down the ages and
contrast the simple arrangements of the Greek theater with the varying
lighting effects and scenic splendor of modern and intervening types. He
could not avoid, then, underestimating the importance of this factor.
Furthermore, when he states that of the six parts the spectacle has least
to do with the art of poetry and is more closely related to the art of
the costumer than to that of the poet, he means what he says and no
more. As its title indicates, his treatise was concerned with the art of
poetry, not with that of dramaturgy. Hence he stressed the factors that
dealt with the essence of tragedy rather than those which influenced only
its accidental features and external form. Even so, he conceded to the
latter elements no negligible value. Considered from the dramaturgical
standpoint as well, he must have allowed them a much greater importance.
As it happens, Spingarn confines his examination of Aristotle’s views to
the _Poetics_, but in the _Rhetoric_ occurs the interesting observation
that “on the stage the actors are at present of more importance than the
poets.”[4] Aristotle did not state that this was the proper relationship,
but as a practical man he simply recognized the facts before his eyes.
And these words utterly repudiate Spingarn’s attempt to subvert the
obvious implication of Aristotle’s statements in the _Poetics_.
I have given so much space to Aristotle’s opinions because Spingarn did.
But, after all, it does not greatly matter. Times have changed since
Roger Bacon placed the crown of infallibility on the Stagirite’s brow
with the words: “Aristotle hath the same authority in philosophy that the
apostle Paul hath in divinity.” The investigation of such questions no
longer begins and ends with “the master of those that know.”
Nevertheless I conceive Aristotle’s position in the present matter to
have been a sensible one, though it has oftentimes been sadly disregarded
and even flouted. One school has ignored the spectacle as a factor in
dramatic criticism. The other school has exalted it to the chief place.
In my opinion both attitudes are erroneous. The former party is the
older and more numerous. I fancy that most adherents of this view err
unconsciously. It is particularly easy in dealing with the dramatic
remains of bygone ages to ignore or minimize the effect which the manner
of presentation must have exercised and practically to confine one’s
attention to literary criticism in the narrowest sense of the term. To
this tendency classical scholars have been peculiarly prone. But there
are many others who are quite aware of the full meaning of the position
they occupy. One of these is Spingarn, who roundly declares: “A play is a
creative work of the imagination, and must be considered as such always,
_and as such only_.”[5]
The opposing view seems to have been promulgated first by Castelvetro
(1570) and enjoyed no particular popularity until recently. It was
adopted by the Abbé d’Aubignac in the seventeenth century, by Diderot
in the eighteenth century, by A. W. Schlegel during the first half of
the nineteenth century, and by Francisque Sarcey during the latter
half. There is no space here to trace the developments of the doctrine;
for that the interested reader may consult Spingarn’s article. But
the general position of the school is as follows: “A play is a story
(_a_) devised to be presented (_b_) by actors (_c_) on a stage (_d_)
before an audience.”[6] These are not merely important elements or
essential elements; they are the prime elements. They outweigh all
other considerations. It was Diderot’s central idea that the essential
part of a play was not created by the poet at all, but by the actor.
The “closet-drama” they hold up to scorn as a contradiction in terms.
The “psychology of the crowd,” long before that name for it had been
invented, was an integral part of this teaching. The inadequacy of this
point of view is aptly expressed in Goethe’s words concerning Schlegel:
“His criticism is completely one-sided, because in all theatrical pieces
he merely regards the skeleton of the plot and arrangement, and only
points out small points of resemblance to great predecessors, without
troubling himself in the least as to what the author brings forward of
graceful life and the culture of a high soul.”[7]
To me neither of these theories is satisfactory. I conceive the truth to
lie between them. Etymologically the word “drama” means “action,” and the
practice of the Greek theater for centuries shows that an action carried
on by living impersonators is involved. Action narrated on a printed page
is not enough. I am willing to concede that by a natural extension of
meaning a piece which was confessedly written for the closet and which
does not and cannot succeed upon the stage may nevertheless deserve to be
called a “drama.” But despite its poetic charm and other merits such a
drama _qua_ drama is indeed a _vie manquée_. On the other hand, against
the materialistic school I maintain the self-evident proposition that
it is possible for a play to observe all the technical rules arising
from the conditions of performance in a theater and before an audience
and yet be so lacking in poetry, in truth to life, in inherent worth,
as to be undeserving of the name of “drama.” It is evident, then,
that craftsmanship must be the medium of the playwright, not his sole
possession. But, in truth, the issue here is more apparent than real.
It does not confront us in practice. Both these extremes constitute a
negligible fraction of our dramatic literature. Students of the drama in
university seminars, dramatic reviewers in the theaters, and playwrights
at their desks, at least those who aspire to an enduring fame, alike draw
upon the same body of plays for their knowledge of dramatic lore—upon
Shakespeare, Euripides, Molière, Lessing, Sophocles, Ibsen. All these
masters had a close and practical knowledge of the theater for which they
wrote. On the other hand, they were infinitely more than mere technicians.
But Spingarn would maintain that the aesthetic value of a play is
entirely independent of theatrical conditions or the conventions arising
therefrom. “For aesthetic criticism the theater simply does not exist”
(cf. _op. cit._, p. 89). Surely, if Sophocles were writing plays for
the present-day public he would find it necessary to dispense with the
choral odes which have been at once the delight and the despair of Greek
students from his generation to this. Would not such an omission and the
consequent readjustments affect the aesthetic value of his tragedies?
Or if one of our dramatists could be set down in a Greek theater of
some twenty-four hundred years ago, which was incapable of representing
an interior scene and had never contained a box set, certainly his
dramas would have to be turned literally inside out before they could
be produced at all. Would this recasting in no wise affect their
aesthetic criticism? Spingarn is anxious to protect Aristotle from the
imputation of believing that plays and their theatrical representation
are “mutually inclusive.” But his own position makes them mutually
exclusive. Both theories are extreme and unwarranted. I have already
quoted Spingarn’s conception of a play. In my opinion, Mr. Galsworthy’s
putting of the matter is not only broader, but far preferable, for the
reason that it duly recognizes, as Spingarn’s dictum does not, the facts
of existence. He writes: “For what is Art but the perfected expression
of self in contact with the world?”[8] While this definition takes full
cognizance of aesthetic and spiritual values, it yet does not exclude
such unmentioned but implicit factors as the medium of expression chosen
by the artist, the circumstances under which his work is created and is
to be exhibited, the past history and inherited conventions of the genre,
etc. On the contrary, it is apparent that Galsworthy would not, after the
fashion of the materialistic school, elevate these indispensable, though
subordinate, matters to the exclusion of all else.
It thus appears that I array myself neither with the aesthetic nor
with the materialistic school of critics, but occupy middle ground.
Nevertheless, my book is devoted, in the main, to a consideration of
the more materialistic and external factors in the development of Greek
drama. These factors are different manifestations of Environment, which
is a far broader term than Aristotle’s Spectacle (ὄψις). I entertain no
illusion as to the comparative importance of environment in the criticism
of drama. It is distinctly of secondary importance. If it were possible
to study Greek drama from but one point of view, perhaps this would not
deserve to be that one. But since no such restriction obtains, it is my
contention that a consideration of these factors, too, is not merely
valuable, but essential to a complete survey of the field.
It will now be seen why I have no chapter on the “Influence of the
Poet.” He can hardly be considered a part of his own environment. But
there were also other reasons for the omission. Partly it was because
every chapter shows the mastermind of the dramatist adapting himself to
the situation therein outlined, and partly because an adequate treatment
of this topic would involve a presentation of the poets’ ideas and
teaching—a subject which is amply discussed in other treatises and which
would swell this volume beyond the limits at my disposal. I am aware
that to some the result will seem to give the uninitiated a lopsided
view of the Greek drama. For example, a reviewer of Signor Francesco
Guglielmino’s _Arte e Artifizio nel Dramma Greco_ (Catania, 1912)
maintains that “for the reader who is not technically a scholar” such a
study of dramatic technique presents “a subtly distorted picture.”[9] To
this criticism my reply would be that the standard handbooks are guilty
of much the same error in largely ignoring the phase of the subject which
is here presented. But however that may be, for the language and style
or for the political, moral, ethical, and religious ideas of ancient
playwrights, I must recommend such invaluable works as Haigh’s _Tragic
Drama of the Greeks_ (1896), Decharme’s _Euripides and the Spirit of His
Dramas_, Croiset’s _Aristophanes and the Political Parties at Athens_,
Legrand’s _The New Greek Comedy_ (the last three translated by Loeb,
1906, 1909, and 1917), Sheppard’s _Greek Tragedy_ (1911), Murray’s
_Euripides and His Age_ (1913), etc. I must add, however, that to a
certain extent these books treat also of the matters discussed in this
volume and have freely been consulted.
In this connection I wish to comment upon another objection. Several
of my articles which are incorporated in the present volume antedate
Guglielmino’s work, and my whole book was blocked out and large parts
of it were written before his _Arte e Artifizio_ came to my attention.
Nevertheless my plan of treatment bears some points of resemblance to
his. In particular, he employs the chauvinistic passages in Greek tragedy
to show the poets striving for “immediate effects,” i.e., deliberately
exciting the patriotic sentiments of their audiences. It will be observed
that I go a step farther and maintain that the winning of the prize was
the ultimate object, to which the other motive was contributory (see
pp. 213 ff., below). I believe that the tag at the end of Euripides’
_Iphigenia among the Taurians_, _Orestes_, and _Phoenician Maids_ and the
parallels from Greek comedy confirm my interpretation. But the reviewer
just cited declares it
unfair to the dramatist and his art to forget that he and his
audience were all Athenians together.... When the Athenian
dramatist, sharing the Athenian pride in their country’s
history or legend, makes a character express a common patriotic
emotion or belief, we cannot properly call that flattery of the
audience, or an artifice for effect, even though the words were
sure to call out rapturous applause. The bit of truth in such a
view is so partial as to be false.
But, as Professor Murray says of the choral ode in the _Medea_, “They are
not at all the conventional glories attributed by all patriots to their
respective countries.”[10] Moreover, these passages usually rest upon no
popular belief, for the simple reason that they frequently corresponded
neither to history nor to traditional mythology, but dealt with incidents
that had been newly invented by the poet’s fancy or had at least been
invested by him with new details and setting.
At the beginning of the European conflagration in August, 1914, London
managers hastened to bring out such plays as _Drake_, _Henry V_, and
_An Englishman’s Home_. Was this merely the prompting of genuinely
patriotic fervor on their part, or a misdirected attempt to exploit the
emotions of their countrymen? The fact that this class of plays was soon
withdrawn after it became apparent that the public heard enough about the
war elsewhere without being reminded of it also in the theaters favors
the latter explanation. Now, that Aristophanes frankly angled for the
suffrages of his audiences cannot be denied. When, then, we remember how
Euripides began to write for the stage when he was only eighteen, how he
had to wait for a chorus in the great contest until he was thirty and
then gained only the last place, how his first victory was deferred until
441 B.C. when he was forty-four years of age, how few were the victories
that he won, how he courted his public by seeking out unhackneyed themes,
by inventing sensational episodes, by reverting to the mannerisms of
Aeschylus, by introducing sex problems—when we remember all this, can it
be doubted that his chauvinistic passages were part and parcel of the
same policy and were deliberately written with the same motives as are
revealed in the choice of plays by Sir Herbert Tree and the other London
managers of today?
But perhaps it may be said that the psychology of managers is utterly
unlike that of poets. In reply it would be possible and sufficient to
cite the not infrequent concessions which Shakespeare and many another
have made to the groundlings in their audiences, but I prefer to quote
the words of a dramatist who has declared himself on the subject more
explicitly. Mr. Henry Arthur Jones has recently written:
A dramatist is often reproached for producing plays that are
obviously below the standard of his aspirations, and obviously
below the level of his best work. This assumes that the
dramatist is, like the novelist, always free to do his best
work. There could not be a greater mistake. The dramatist is
limited and curbed by a thousand conditions which are never
suspected by the public. The drama will always remain a popular
art.... The dramatist who writes plays too far ahead, or too
far away from the taste and habits of thought of the general
body of playgoers, finds the theatre empty, his manager
impoverished, and his own reputation and authority diminished
or lost. No sympathy should be given to dramatists, however
lofty their aims, who will not study to please the general
body of playgoers of their days.... The question to be asked
concerning a dramatist is—“Does he desire to give the public
the best they will accept from him, or does he give them the
readiest filth or nonsense that most quickly pays?” He cannot
always even give the public the best that they would accept
from him. In sitting down to write a play, he must first ask
himself, “Can I get a manager of repute to produce this, and
in such a way and at such a theatre that it can be seen to
advantage? Can I get some leading actor or actress to play this
part for the benefit of the play as a whole? Can I get these
other individual types of character played in such a way that
they will appear to be something like the persons I have in my
mind?” These and a hundred other questions the dramatist has
to ask himself before he decides upon the play he will write.
A mistake in the casting of a secondary character may ruin a
play, so narrow is the margin of success.... I hope I may be
forgiven for intruding this personal matter by way of excuse
and explanation. In no case do I blame or arraign the public,
who, in the theatre, will always remain my masters, and whose
grateful and willing servant I shall always remain.[11]
It should be recognized that my book is intended for two very diverse
types of readers, whose demands likewise are dissimilar:
First, for a general reading public which has little or no acquaintance
with the Greek and Latin classics in the original but has a deep and
abiding interest in the drama together with a desire to learn more of
the prototypes and masterpieces of the genre. This situation has made
necessary an amplitude of explanatory matter which, I fear, will at
times prove irksome to my professional confrères. On the other hand,
I have felt that intellectual honesty required me to treat the topics
discussed in my Introduction and to meet the problems there raised
at some length and without evasions. But to do so necessitated the
interpretation of Greek texts and the presentation of much jejune
material. Perhaps, therefore, some of my non-classical readers will
prefer to omit the Introduction. By cross-references and slight
repetitions I have endeavored to make the rest of the book intelligible
without it. The English word “stage” is too convenient to be avoided in
discussing theatrical matters, but those who omit the third section of
the Introduction are to understand that its use in my text does not mean
that I believe that the Greek theater of the fourth and fifth centuries
B.C. had a raised stage for the exclusive use of actors.
Secondly, although much that I have written is necessarily well known
to classicists, still, since I have striven to incorporate the results
of the latest investigations and have arranged under one co-ordinating
principle phenomena which are usually regarded as unrelated, and since I
have combined points of interpretation which are scattered through scores
of books and monographs, I venture to hope that my discussion will not be
without interest even for specialists.
Inasmuch as the comedies of Plautus and Terence are but translations
and adaptations of Greek originals, and since Seneca’s tragedies are
constructed upon the Greek model, I have not hesitated to cite these
Latin plays whenever they seemed to afford better illustrations than
purely Greek productions.
I must express my constant indebtedness to such invaluable storehouses
of data as Müller’s _Lehrbuch der griechischen Bühnenalterthümer_
(1886) and _Das attische Bühnenwesen_ (1902), Navarre’s _Dionysos_
(1895), and especially Haigh’s _The Attic Theatre_, third edition by
Pickard-Cambridge (1907); also to Butcher’s _Aristotle’s Theory of Poetry
and Fine Art_, fourth edition with corrections (1911), and Bywater’s
edition of Aristotle’s _Poetics_ (1909).
I desire to thank the editors for permission, graciously granted, to
use material which I have already published in _Classical Philology_, V
(1910), VII (1912), and VIII (1913), the _Classical Weekly_, III (1910),
VIII (1915), X (1917), and XI (1918), and the _Classical Journal_, VII
(1911) and X (1914). Needless to state, these papers have not been
brought over into the present volume verbatim, but have been curtailed,
expanded, revised, and rearranged according to need. Furthermore, fully
two-thirds of the book are entirely new.
Permission to quote from Mr. A. S. Way’s translation of Euripides in the
“Loeb Classical Library,” Dr. B. B. Rogers’ translation of Aristophanes,
and Professor J. S. Blackie’s translation of Aeschylus in “Everyman’s
Library” has been courteously granted by William Heinemann, London (G.
P. Putnam’s Sons, New York), G. Bell & Sons, and J. M. Dent & Sons,
respectively.
To my friends, Professor D. M. Robinson of Johns Hopkins University and
Dr. A. S. Cooley of Bethlehem, Pa., I am indebted for having placed
at my disposal their collections of photographs of Greek theaters. My
colleague, Professor M. R. Hammer of the Northwestern University College
of Engineering, has put me under deep obligation by supervising the
preparation of several of the drawings.
In conclusion, my heartiest thanks are due to Professor Edward Capps, who
first introduced me to the study of scenic antiquities. Several parts
of this book, when originally published as articles, have enjoyed the
benefit of his invaluable suggestions and criticisms. It is unnecessary
to add, however, that he must not be held responsible for any part of
them in their present form.
ROY C. FLICKINGER
EVANSTON, ILL.
CONTENTS
PAGE
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS xxv
INTRODUCTION 1
The Origin of Tragedy 1
The Origin of Comedy 35
The Greek Theater 57
CHAPTER
I. THE INFLUENCE OF RELIGIOUS ORIGIN 119
II. THE INFLUENCE OF CHORAL ORIGIN 133
III. THE INFLUENCE OF ACTORS 162
IV. THE INFLUENCE OF FESTIVAL ARRANGEMENTS 196
V. THE INFLUENCE OF PHYSICAL CONDITIONS 221
VI. THE INFLUENCE OF PHYSICAL CONDITIONS (_Continued_):
THE UNITIES 246
VII. THE INFLUENCE OF NATIONAL CUSTOMS AND IDEAS 268
VIII. THE INFLUENCE OF THEATRICAL MACHINERY AND DRAMATIC
CONVENTIONS 284
IX. THEATRICAL RECORDS 318
INDEX OF PASSAGES 341
GENERAL INDEX 349
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
MEDALLION OF ATHENIAN COIN (see p. 63, n. 1) _Front Cover_
FIG. 1.—THE THEATER OF DIONYSUS ELEUTHEREUS AT ATHENS
AS SEEN FROM THE ACROPOLIS _Frontispiece_
PAGE
FIG. 2.—SKETCH MAP OF ATTICA AND THE PELOPONNESUS, SHOWING
EARLY CENTERS OF DRAMATIC ACTIVITIES IN GREECE 3
FIG. 3.—CAPRINE SILENI UPON THE FRANÇOIS VASE, 600-550
B.C. _facing_ 26
FIG. 4.—PREPARATIONS FOR A SATYRIC DRAMA FROM A NAPLES CRATER
OF ABOUT 400 B.C. 25
FIGS. 5, 6.—VIEWS OF A SATYR-PLAY FROM A DINOS IN ATHENS _facing_ 26
FIG. 7.—VIEWS OF A SATYR-PLAY FROM A DINOS IN BONN _facing_ 26
FIG. 8.—POET AND CHOREUTAE OF A SATYRIC DRAMA FROM A POMPEIAN
MOSAIC 28
FIG. 9.—SATYRS ON A BRITISH MUSEUM CRATER OF ABOUT 450 B.C. 30
FIG. 10.—A BRITISH MUSEUM PSYKTER BY DURIS OF ABOUT 480 B.C.,
PROBABLY SHOWING INFLUENCE OF CONTEMPORANEOUS SATYRIC
DRAMA _facing_ 31
FIG. 11.—A SATYR UPON A WÜRZBURG CYLIX OF ABOUT 500 B.C. _facing_ 32
FIG. 12.—A COMUS UPON A BERLIN AMPHORA _facing_ 32
FIG. 13.—A COMUS UPON A BRITISH MUSEUM OENOCHOE _facing_ 38
FIG. 14.—A COMUS UPON A BERLIN AMPHORA 39
FIGS. 15, 16.—COMUS SCENES UPON A BOSTON SKYPHOS 40
FIG. 17.—COMIC ACTORS AND FLUTE PLAYERS UPON AN ATTIC VASE IN
PETROGRAD 47
FIG. 18.—AN ATTIC TERRA COTTA IN BERLIN REPRESENTING A COMIC ACTOR 48
FIG. 19.—AN ATTIC TERRA COTTA IN MUNICH REPRESENTING A COMIC ACTOR 48
FIG. 20.—ACTORS OF DORIAN COMEDY UPON A CORINTHIAN CRATER IN PARIS 49
FIG. 21.—ACTORS OF DORIAN COMEDY UPON A CORINTHIAN VASE 50
FIG. 22.—GROUND PLAN OF A GREEK THEATER WITH NAMES OF ITS PARTS 57
FIG. 23.—CROSS-SECTION OF A GREEK THEATER WITH NAMES OF ITS PARTS 58
FIG. 24.—CROSS-SECTION OF THE GRAECO-ROMAN THEATER AT EPHESUS
WITH NAMES OF ITS PARTS 61
FIG. 25.—THEATER AT OENIADAE IN ACARNANIA _facing_ 62
FIG. 26.—THEATER AND TEMPLE OF APOLLO AT DELPHI _facing_ 62
FIG. 27.—THEATER AT MEGALOPOLIS IN ARCADIA _facing_ 62
FIG. 28.—THEATER AT PERGAMUM IN ASIA MINOR _facing_ 62
FIG. 29.—PLAN OF THE ACROPOLIS AT ATHENS 62
FIG. 30.—ATHENIAN COIN IN THE BRITISH MUSEUM SHOWING THE
PARTHENON AND OUTLINE OF THE THEATER OF DIONYSUS
ELEUTHEREUS 63
FIG. 31.—PARTHENON AND THEATER OF DIONYSUS; IN FOREGROUND
ALTAR IN PRECINCT OF DIONYSUS ELEUTHEREUS _facing_ 64
FIG. 32.—PRECINCT OF DIONYSUS ELEUTHEREUS IN ATHENS, SHOWING
DÖRPFELD’S RESTORATION OF THE EARLY ORCHESTRA AND
OF THE LYCURGUS THEATER 64
FIG. 32_a_.—CROSS-SECTION OF PRECINCT OF DIONYSUS ELEUTHEREUS
IN ATHENS, SHOWING LATER AND EARLY TEMPLES AND EARLY
AND LATER ORCHESTRAS 65
FIG. 33.—EAST FRAGMENT OF WALL BELONGING TO THE EARLY
ORCHESTRA IN ATHENS _facing_ 64
FIG. 34.—WEST FRAGMENT OF WALL BELONGING TO THE EARLY
ORCHESTRA IN ATHENS _facing_ 64
FIG. 35.—OUTLINE OF THE OLDEST WALLS OF THE SCENE-BUILDING
IN ATHENS 67
FIG. 36.—THEATER OF DIONYSUS IN ATHENS LOOKING NORTH: CHOREGIC
MONUMENT OF THRASYLLUS IN THE BACKGROUND _facing_ 68
FIG. 37.—THEATER OF DIONYSUS IN ATHENS LOOKING NORTH
AND WEST _facing_ 68
FIG. 38.—GROUND PLAN OF THE HELLENISTIC THEATER IN ATHENS
ACCORDING TO DÖRPFELD 71
FIG. 39.—NERO BALUSTRADE AND PAVEMENT, AND PHAEDRUS STAGE OF
THE THEATER IN ATHENS _facing_ 72
FIG. 40.—PLAN OF THE ROMANIZED THEATER IN ATHENS ACCORDING
TO DÖRPFELD 73
FIG. 41.—FRIEZE OF THE PHAEDRUS STAGE IN ATHENS _facing_ 72
FIG. 42.—VITRUVIUS’ _Theatrum Latinum_ ACCORDING TO DÖRPFELD 76
FIG. 43.—VITRUVIUS’ _Theatrum Graecorum_ ACCORDING TO DÖRPFELD 77
FIG. 44.—MOVEMENTS OF THE ACTORS IN ARISTOPHANES’ _Frogs_,
VSS. 1-460 89
FIG. 45.—STONE CHAIR OF THE PRIEST OF DIONYSUS OPPOSITE THE
CENTER OF THE ORCHESTRA IN ATHENS _facing_ 90
FIG. 46.—PLAN OF THE THEATER AT EPIDAURUS IN ARGOLIS 102
FIG. 47.—EPIDAURUS—THE AUDITORIUM FROM THE NORTH _facing_ 104
FIG. 48.—EPIDAURUS—ORCHESTRA AND SCENE-BUILDING FROM
THE SOUTH _facing_ 104
FIG. 49.—EPIDAURUS—THE WEST PARODUS _facing_ 104
FIG. 50.—EPIDAURUS—THE EAST PARODUS _facing_ 104
FIG. 51.—EPIDAURUS—THE GATEWAY IN THE WEST PARODUS _facing_ 104
FIG. 52.—EPIDAURUS—LOOKING THROUGH THE WEST PARODUS _facing_ 104
FIG. 53.—GROUND PLAN OF THE THEATER AT ERETRIA IN EUBOEA 105
FIG. 54.—CROSS-SECTION OF THE THEATER AT ERETRIA 106
FIG. 55.—THE THEATER AT ERETRIA AS SEEN FROM THE
NORTHWEST _facing_ 106
FIG. 56.—GROUND PLAN OF THE THEATER AT OROPUS IN ATTICA 109
FIG. 57.—THE SCENE-BUILDING OF THE THEATER AT OROPUS _facing_ 106
FIG. 58.—GROUND PLAN OF THE GRAECO-ROMAN THEATER AT TERMESSUS 110
FIG. 59.—THE PROSCENIUM OF THE GRAECO-ROMAN THEATER AT
EPHESUS _facing_ 111
FIG. 60.—GROUND PLAN OF THE EARLY HELLENISTIC THEATER AT EPHESUS 112
FIG. 61.—THE LATER HELLENISTIC THEATER AT EPHESUS: ABOVE,
ELEVATION OF PROSCENIUM AND EPISCENIUM; BELOW,
GROUND PLAN OF PROSCENIUM AND PARODI 113
FIG. 62.—GROUND PLAN OF THE GRAECO-ROMAN THEATER AT EPHESUS 114
FIG. 63.—GROUND PLAN AND CROSS-SECTION OF THE THEATER AT PRIENE 115
FIG. 64.—THE THEATER AT PRIENE AS SEEN FROM THE SOUTHEAST _facing_ 111
FIG. 65.—A “WAGON-SHIP” OF DIONYSUS AND PROCESSIONAL UPON
AN ATTIC SKYPHOS IN BOLOGNA OF ABOUT 500 B.C. _facing_ 120
FIG. 66.—IVORY STATUETTE OF A TRAGIC ACTOR _facing_ 162
FIG. 67.—DISTRIBUTION OF RÔLES TO ACTORS IN SOPHOCLES’
_Oedipus at Colonus_ 180
FIG. 68.—MASK OF A SLAVE IN NEW COMEDY _facing_ 212
FIG. 69.—TERRA COTTA MASK IN BERLIN REPRESENTING A
COURTESAN IN NEW COMEDY _facing_ 212
FIG. 70.—GROUND PLAN OF THE THEATER AT THORICUS IN ATTICA 227
FIG. 71.—AUDITORIUM AND ORCHESTRA OF THE THEATER AT
THORICUS _facing_ 228
FIG. 72.—HORIZONTAL SECTIONS OF PROSCENIUM COLUMNS AT
MEGALOPOLIS, ERETRIA, EPIDAURUS, DELOS, AND OROPUS 236
FIG. 73.—A FOURTH-CENTURY VASE IN MUNICH REPRESENTING THE
VENGEANCE OF MEDEA 237
FIG. 74.—THE ATHENIAN THEATER OF ABOUT 460 B.C., SHOWING THE
EARLIER TYPE OF ECCYCLEMA 286
FIG. 75.—WILHELM’S TRANSCRIPTION AND RESTORATION OF TWO
FRAGMENTS OF THE ATHENIAN FASTI 320
FIG. 76_a_.—WILHELM’S TRANSCRIPTION AND RESTORATION OF TWO
FRAGMENTS OF THE STONE DIDASCALIAE AT ATHENS 322
FIG. 76_b_.—TRANSLATION OF INSCRIPTION IN FIG. 76_a_ 323
FIG. 77_a_.—A FRAGMENT OF THE ATHENIAN VICTORS’-LIST _facing_ 324
FIG. 77_b_.—WILHELM’S TRANSCRIPTION AND RESTORATION OF TWO
FRAGMENTS OF THE ATHENIAN VICTORS’-LIST _facing_ 324
FIG. 78.—WILHELM’S TRANSCRIPTION AND RESTORATION OF FOUR
FRAGMENTS OF THE ATHENIAN VICTORS’-LIST 328
FIG. 79.—WILHELM’S TRANSCRIPTION AND RESTORATION OF FIVE
FRAGMENTS OF THE ATHENIAN VICTORS’-LIST 329
FIG. 80.—THE VILLA ALBANI STATUE OF EURIPIDES IN THE LOUVRE
WITH THE BEGINNING OF AN ALPHABETICAL LIST OF HIS PLAYS 333
Some day a benefactor of his kind may prove beyond cavil
that the problem of the origin of tragedy is as incapable of
solution as is that of squaring the circle.—W. S. BURRAGE.
INTRODUCTION
In undertaking to treat of a subject concerning hardly a detail of
which can any statement be made without the possibility of dispute, the
unfortunate necessity rests upon me of beginning with three topics which
are the most controversial of all—the origin of tragedy, the origin of
comedy, and the Greek theater. Instead of trying to conceal our ignorance
on these matters by vague generalities, I shall set forth such data as
are known, and attempt, clearly and frankly, to erect hypotheses to
answer the questions that most naturally arise, even though this very
striving for clearness and frankness will expose me to attack. I believe
with Bacon that “truth emerges sooner from error than from confusion,”
or, as a recent writer has expressed it, that “the definitizing of
error is often the beginning of its disappearance.” Limits of space
will require, at many points, a dogmatic statement of my views without
stopping to examine the evidence from every angle. It must be understood,
however, that no account of these subjects, whoever its author or however
detailed his treatment, could find universal acceptance or anything
approaching it.
_The Origin of Tragedy._[12]—It is still the canonical doctrine, though
its modern history goes back no farther than Welcker’s book on the
_Satyrspiel_ in 1826 and though no conclusive testimony for this view can
be cited more ancient than Byzantine times, that satyric drama was the
intermediate stage in the derivation of tragedy from the dithyramb. The
argument runs somewhat as follows: The dithyramb was an improvisational
song and dance in honor of Dionysus (Bacchus), the god of wine, and
was performed by a band of men provided with goatlike horns, ears,
hoofs, and tails and clad in a goatskin (or in a goat-hair loin-band)
in imitation of Dionysus’ attendant sprites, the satyrs; on account of
this costume the choreutae (members of the chorus) were sometimes called
_tragoi_, which is the Greek word for “goats”; in certain localities,
as the dithyramb became quasi-literary and took on a dramatic element,
its name was changed to satyric drama; still later, as these tendencies
increased, especially through the addition of an actor, the satyr-play
came to be called _tragoidia_ (“goat-song”), derived from the nickname
applied to the caprine choreutae; the chorus still consisted of satyrs
and, since these were licentious, bestial creatures, the performance was
yet crude and undignified; Aeschylus (525-456 B.C.) was possibly the
first to abandon satyric choreutae and was certainly the first to raise
tragedy to the rank of real literature; during the fifth century each
poet was required to follow his group of three tragedies at the dramatic
festival with a satyr-play as a concession to the satyric origin of the
performance.
[Illustration: FIG. 2.—Sketch Map of Attica and the Peloponnesus, Showing
Early Centers of Dramatic Activities in Greece.]
In recent years, essential supports of this doctrine have slowly
crumbled away before searching investigation; at present, scarcely a
single clause in the foregoing sketch would escape unchallenged by some
scholar of deserved standing. An ever-increasing number of students
believe that tragedy is not the child of the satyr-play, but that the two
are separate in their origin. Unfortunately, however, these dissenters,
including such men as Dr. Emil Reisch of Vienna, Mr. Pickard-Cambridge
of Oxford, Professor Wilhelm Schmid of Tübingen, and Professor William
Ridgeway of Cambridge, though they are unanimous in rejecting Welcker’s
hypothesis, cannot agree among themselves as to a constructive policy.
My own view is that tragedy and satyric drama are independent offshoots
of the same literary type, the Peloponnesian dithyramb. The former came
to Athens from Corinth and Sicyon by way of Icaria. Somewhat later the
latter was introduced directly from Phlius by Pratinas, a native of that
place. My reasons for these opinions will develop in the course of the
discussion.
Very recently, notable efforts have been put forth to interpret the
religious practices of the Greeks, partly in the light of anthropology
and partly in accordance with the new psychological method which
inquires, not what the god is, but what are the social activities and
the social organization of his devotees. Whatever may be said for
these avenues of approach in other respects, in practice those who
employ them have shown more eagerness to assemble data which might be
considered confirmatory of their theories than to reach an unprejudiced
interpretation of the whole body of ancient evidence. Thus, much has
been made of present-day carnivals in Thessaly, Thrace, and Scyrus,[13]
and these ceremonies are employed as if they were assured survivals of
the primitive rites from which Greek drama developed and as if their
evidence were of greater value than the most firmly established data in
the ancient tradition. Now the a priori possibility that these carnivals
should retain their essential features unchanged through two and a half
millenniums amid all the vicissitudes which have come upon these regions
must be pronounced infinitesimal. And an examination of the details
confirms this impression. Certain parts of the ceremonies are parodies
of the Christian rites of marriage and burial. Not only an Arab but also
a Frank appear in the cast of characters. Though Phrynichus is said to
have been the first to represent female rôles,[14] such rôles abound in
these modern plays. Yet there is another defect in this assumption which
is still more serious. If there is one well-authenticated fact in the
history of Greek drama, expressly stated in ancient notices and fully
substantiated by the extant plays, it is that tragedy arose from a choral
performance and only gradually acquired its histrionic features. On the
contrary, these carnivals are predominantly histrionic; there is either
no chorus or its rôle is distinctly secondary. Had Aristotle been guilty
of such a _faux pas_, we can easily imagine the derisive comments in
which modern investigators would have indulged at his expense.
Of course, our evidence is far from being as complete as we could
wish, and must therefore be supplemented at many points by conjecture
pure and simple; but this fact does not justify us in throwing all
our data overboard and in beginning _de novo_. In this matter we have
been too prone to follow a practice which the late Professor Verrall
characterized, in a different connection, as follows: “We are perhaps too
apt, in speculations of this kind, to help a theory by the convenient
hypothesis of a wondrous simpleton, who did the mangling, blundering,
or whatever it is that we require.”[15] Now, whatever may be true in
other cases, Aristotle at least was no “simpleton,” competent only to
mangle his sources of information; and furthermore, apart from certain
ethnographic parallels which are of only secondary importance after
all,[16] our fund of knowledge in this field is in no wise comparable
with his. In fact, except for the extant plays our information is almost
confined to what we derive, directly or indirectly, from him. Since this
is so, what can be more absurd than to reject his conclusions and have
recourse to unhampered conjecture?
But if we are to hold fast to Aristotle, one precaution is necessary—we
must be sure that we do not make him say more or less than he does say.
He wrote for a very different audience from that which now reads his
words and with a very different purpose from that to which his book is
now put. And these factors often render him enigmatical. This resulted
also from his frequently assuming a familiarity with things which now
cannot always be taken for granted. As Professor Bywater expressed it:
“It is clear from Aristotle’s confession of ignorance as to comedy that
he knows more of the history of tragedy than he actually tells us, and
that he is not aware of there being any serious lacuna in it.”[17]
Thus, Aristotle says that tragedy was “improvisational by origin” and,
more specifically, was derived “from the leaders of the dithyramb.”[18]
Though this expression unhappily is somewhat lacking in precision, the
main item, that the dithyramb is the parent of tragedy, emerges from any
interpretation. Ridgeway may proceed to dissociate the dithyramb from
Dionysus and to derive it from ceremonies at the tombs of heroes if he
choose; however unwarranted, that is at least logical. But to ignore
this statement of Aristotle’s and to seek, as many do, to trace tragedy
back to δρώμενα (“ritual acts”) of various kinds by another line of
development transgresses good philological practice.
There is an unfortunate facility in such attempts. Tragedy embraced many
diverse elements in its material and technique. Accordingly, whatever
anyone sets out to find, he can be almost certain of discovering there.
Thus, Dieterich with his theory of the development of tragedy from
funeral dirges, the Eleusinian mysteries, and various aetiological
sources; Ridgeway with his tomb theory; Miss Harrison with her “Year
Spirit” (the Eniautos-Daimon) and sympathetic magic; and Murray with his
attempt to reconcile and expand the Dieterich-Harrison theories, all find
confirmation for their views in the same body of dramatic literature. The
very facility of such analyzing is its undoing.
Moreover, despite numerous attempts to the contrary, the real nature of
the primitive dithyramb can scarcely be a matter of doubt. Plato, who was
also no “simpleton,” defined it as a song in celebration of the birth of
Dionysus.[19] Now since the dithyramb is known to have been opened up to
a wider range of themes considerably before Plato’s time, his definition
must apply to the original meaning of the term. This interpretation does
not remain unsupported. Thus, the first extant instance of the words
occurs in a fragment of Archilochus (_ca._ 680-640 B.C.), who declares
that he “knows how, when his heart is crazed with wine, to lead lord
Dionysus’ dithyramb.”[20] It should be observed that Archilochus does not
say that he knows how to write a dithyramb, but how to take part in one
as a drunken ἐξάρχων (“leader”). Such a performance was doubtless, as
Aristotle said, largely improvisational, being perhaps coupled with the
rendition of some ritual chant (καλὸν μέλος). Dionysus is characterized
as θριαμβο-διθύραμβος (“celebrated in dithyrambs”) by Pratinas,[21] and
addressed as διθύραμβος by Euripides in his _Bacchanals_, vs. 526. In
an ode in honor of the victories which were won by Xenophon of Corinth
in 464 B.C. Pindar inquires, “Whence appeared the charms of Dionysus in
connection with the ox-driving dithyramb?”[22] Here, also, the author
is not referring to the Corinthian dithyramb of his own day but to
the period when it was put upon a quasi-literary level by Arion (see
below). Finally, Epicharmus went so far as to declare that “when you
drink water, it isn’t a dithyramb,”[23] showing that the more primitive
meaning of the term was not crowded out by later developments. These
passages are sufficient to show that the dithyramb was at all times
intimately associated with Dionysus and at the beginning belonged to him
exclusively; their force is not invalidated by the acknowledged fact that
at an early period (see p. 11, below) the restriction was broken down.
It was not until after the middle of the seventh century that the
dithyramb became “poetized.” This step was taken by Arion of Methymna
in Lesbos, then resident in Corinth. His connection with the dithyramb
and early tragedy is vouched for by irrefutable evidence. Solon of
Athens (639-559 B.C.) is said in a recently discovered notice[24]
to have declared in his _Elegies_ that “Arion introduced the first
drama of tragedy.” The question immediately arises as to exactly what
language Solon had employed. The words τῆς τραγῳδίας πρῶτον δρᾶμα are,
of course, only a paraphrase, for no form of the word τραγῳδία can be
used in elegiac verse. This objection does not lie against the word
δρᾶμα, however, and it will be remembered that the Dorians based their
claims to tragedy partly upon this non-Attic term.[25]. Thus, we obtain
an explanation of the cumbersome circumlocution “the first drama of
tragedy.” In Solon’s _Elegies_ the author of this notice (or his source)
found only the ambiguous term δρᾶμα. A desire to retain the terminology
of the original prevented his frankly substituting τραγῳδία. Accordingly,
he kept δρᾶμα but inserted the qualifying genitive τῆς τραγῳδίας. I do
not understand that Aristotle either indorses or rejects the Dorian
pretensions with respect to this word; but in view of our present
evidence I am of the opinion that Arion called his performances “dramas”
and was the first to use the word in this sense and that there is so much
of justice in the Dorian claims. It is not necessary to believe, however,
that they were ever called _satyric_ dramas, see p. 22, below.
Now, Dr. Nilsson has objected that Solon would have had no occasion to
express his opinion upon a matter of this kind (_op. cit._, p. 611,
note). But the mention of the title of the work from which the citation
purports to come goes far to substantiate its genuineness. Furthermore,
Solon was incensed at Thespis (see pp. 17 f., below), and therefore it
was only natural that he should take an interest in the matter, assign
the distinction to another, and state his opinion in as public a manner
as possible. The fact that he lived in the days before real (Aeschylean)
tragedy and before the importance of Thespis’ innovations was understood
explains the error in his judgment. But at the very least, this notice
proves that the tradition of Arion’s connection with tragedy was current
as early as the first half of the sixth century.
Pindar’s reference to the development of the dithyramb at Corinth has
already been mentioned. In the next generation Herodotus characterized
Arion as follows: “Arion was second to none of the harpists of that
time and was the first of the men known to us to compose (ποιήσαντα)
a dithyramb and to give it a name (ὀνομάσαντα) and to represent it at
Corinth” (I, 23). It is customary nowadays to seek to explain such
notices as arising from the rival claims of jealous cities; but be it
noted that here are two Attic sympathizers, Solon and Herodotus, granting
full recognition to the literary achievements of a neighboring city. In
fact, Herodotus is apparently too generous, for Arion could not have been
the inventor of the dithyramb, broadly speaking. But ποιεῖν denotes not
only “to compose” but also “to poetize,” and the latter translation is
in better accord with what else we know of Arion’s contribution to the
history of the dithyramb. On the other hand, ὀνομάσαντα probably means
that in Herodotus’ opinion Arion was the first to give names (titles) to
his performances.[26]
A Byzantine writer repeats and amplifies Herodotus’ statements but
adds one interesting clause to the effect that Arion “introduced satyrs
speaking in meter.”[27] In this there is nothing surprising. In the
Peloponnesus caprine satyrs were regular attendants upon Dionysus, and
in consequence the dithyrambic choreutae must usually have been thought
of as satyrs. Their improvisations, also, must always have engaged the
speaking as well as the singing voice. This fact, however, did not at
this time involve histrionic impersonation (μίμησις) for the reason
that they would not attempt to say what was appropriate to satyrs but
to themselves _in propria persona_ as revelers and worshipers. The word
ἔμμετρα (“in meter”), therefore, is the important one. The use of meter
marked the coming of artistic finish and the passing of a performance
largely extemporaneous. Some idea of the technique of Arion’s productions
may be drawn from a dithyramb by Bacchylides (first half of the fifth
century) in honor of Theseus. This is in the form of a lyric dialogue and
was doubtless influenced somewhat by contemporaneous tragedy. The chorus
of Athenians, addressing Aegeus, king of Athens, inquires why a call to
arms has been sounded (vss. 1-15), and the _coryphaeus_ (“chorus-leader”)
replies that a herald has just arrived and summarizes his message (vss.
16-30). The chorus asks for further details (vss. 31-45), and once more
the king’s reply is borrowed from the herald (vss. 46-60). Here Theseus,
not Dionysus, is the theme of the poem; the choreutae do not represent
satyrs, but appear in their true character as plain citizens of Athens;
and the coryphaeus is given a dramatic character, that of Aegeus. These
are all developments later than the time of Arion; nevertheless, the
general effect must have been much the same.
Before the close of the sixth century the dithyramb had become a regular
form of literature—a chorus of fifty, dancing and singing formal
compositions. In 508 B.C. a contest of dithyrambic choruses of men was
made a standing feature of the program at the City Dionysia in Athens.
Simonides (556-467 B.C.) is known to have composed a dithyramb entitled
_Memnon_, the exclusively Dionysiac character of the genre being then, if
not earlier, abandoned. But it is important to remember that originally
the dithyramb was extemporaneous and confined to the worship and
exaltation of Dionysus.
In the new notice concerning Solon and Arion, von Wilamowitz finds “die
Bestätigung dass die τραγῳδοί vor Thespis bestanden” (cf. _op. cit._,
p. 470). This development could scarcely have taken place at Corinth in
Arion’s time, for there was no need of coining a new word to designate
the performers so long as they appeared as satyrs. And if a term had then
been derived from the choreutae to designate their performance, it must
have been *σατυρῳδία and not τραγῳδία. Neither could the new term have
been derived at this period from the _prize_, for then the goat was only
the third award.[28] Let us therefore turn to Sicyon.
In a well-known passage (v. 67) Herodotus tells how the Sicyonians used
to honor their former king, Adrastus, in other ways, and in particular
celebrated his sorrows with “tragic” (or “goat”) choruses (τραγικοῖσι
χοροῖσι) and how their tyrant Clisthenes in anger at Adrastus assigned
these choruses to Dionysus and the other features of the rites to
Melanippus. Melanippus in his lifetime had killed Adrastus’ brother
and son-in-law, and Clisthenes had brought his bones from Thebes and
transferred to him part of the honors which had previously been paid to
Adrastus, in order to insult the latter as outrageously as possible. The
superimposition of the worship of Dionysus upon that of the local hero
and the reference to tragic choruses have furnished Ridgeway a foundation
upon which to rear his theory that tragedy developed from ceremonies at
the tombs of heroes. In this passage the meaning of the word τραγικοῖσι
has provoked much discussion. I believe that Herodotus meant τραγικός
here in the sense current in his own day, viz., tragic, but I do not
believe that he stopped to consider whether these Sicyonian dances “were
sufficiently like the choruses in the tragedies of his contemporaries
to be called ‘tragic.’”[29] I think he employed that adjective simply
because τραγικοὶ χοροί was the Sicyonians’ own designation for their
performances. If so, whatever τραγικοῖσι χοροῖσι connoted to Herodotus,
or even to contemporaneous Sicyonians, originally τραγικός in this phrase
must have meant “goat,” and these choruses must originally have been, for
whatever reason, “goat” choruses.
Some considered Epigenes of Sicyon the first tragic poet, Thespis being
second (or as others thought, sixteenth) in the list.[30] In connection
with Epigenes another tradition must be mentioned. Several explanations
are preserved of the proverb oὐδὲν πρὸς τὸν Διόνυσον (“nothing to do with
Dionysus”). These are somewhat vague in details and need not be taken
too seriously; but at least they are valuable as showing the general
periods in which their authors thought that the proper situation for
the rise of such a proverb had existed. According to one account, this
expression was uttered “when Epigenes had composed a tragedy in honor
of Dionysus.”[31] In just what particular Epigenes’ performance seemed
alien to the worship of Dionysus the retailers of the anecdote do not
specify. Ridgeway supposes that Epigenes “did not confine himself to
Dionysiac subjects.”[32] But surely that development came much later. In
my opinion, the explanation is simpler. We have no information as to the
costume which the choreutae wore in honoring the sorrows of Adrastus.
There was, of course, no reason for their appearing as satyrs. But were
satyric choreutae introduced at the same time that the dances were
given over to Dionysus? If we answer this question in the negative, the
situation becomes clear. The audience, or part of it, was sufficiently
acquainted with the performances instituted by Arion at Corinth to expect
a chorus of satyrs in the Sicyonian dances after they were transferred
to Dionysus. And when Epigenes brought on his choreutae in the same
(non-satyric) costume as had previously been employed, they naturally
manifested their surprise with the ejaculation: οὐδὲν πρὸς τὸν Διόνυσον.
By this they meant: “Why, these choreutae are just what we have had all
the time; there is nothing of the satyrs about them. They have nothing to
do with Dionysus.”
Practically everyone is convinced that τραγῳδία means “goat-song.” The
only difficulty consists in explaining how this name came to be applied.
We have already noted (see p. 2, above) that Welcker explained it on the
basis of costume, and this is now the prevailing view. But though the
choreutae at Corinth were satyrs, there were good reasons why no new term
should be coined there to designate them (see p. 11, above), and in fact,
τραγῳδία, τραγῳδός (“goat-singer”), and τραγικός (in a technical sense)
apparently did not originate there. On the other hand, in Sicyon (where
at least the expression τραγικοὶ χοροί, if not the others, seems to have
been in use at an early day) the costume of the choreutae was assuredly
not caprine before the dances were transferred from Adrastus to Dionysus
and probably was not thereafter. Consequently, Welcker’s explanation must
be rejected.
But the earliest and favorite explanation of these terms in antiquity
derived them from the fact that a goat was given to the victorious poet
as a prize.[33] Knowledge and approval of this interpretation can be
traced almost uninterruptedly from the high authority of the _Parian
Chronicle_[34] in the third century B.C. onward, and there is no cogent
reason for doubting its truth. The other suggestion that the name was
derived from the goat which was offered in sacrifice in connection
with the performances will be seen not to conflict with this view when
it is remembered that in the later dithyrambic contests the prize (a
tripod) was not regarded as the personal possession of the victor but
was customarily consecrated in some temple or other public place. In my
opinion, these explanations have been most unwarrantably abandoned in
modern times, and I think a reaction in their favor has set in. They
are spoken of respectfully by Dr. Reisch,[35] and Mr. Pickard-Cambridge
mentions them exclusively.[36]
Now the transfer of the Sicyonian dances from Adrastus to Dionysus
would probably happen early in the reign of Clisthenes (_ca._ 595-560
B.C.), and for this very period Eusebius preserves a notice to the
effect that “a goat was given to contestants among the Greeks, and from
this fact they were called τραγικοί.”[37] I therefore believe that
Herodotus, Eusebius (Jerome), and Suidas all refer to the same event:
that Clisthenes of Sicyon established the goat prize about 590 B.C. when
he surrendered to Dionysus the dances which had previously been performed
in honor of Adrastus,[38] that Epigenes was the poet whom Clisthenes
employed to initiate this innovation, and that non-satyric choreutae
and the terms τραγικός, τραγῳδός, etc., arose in this manner, time, and
place. The neatness with which these notices fit together to produce
this result renders them comparatively secure from the critical assault
which might more successfully be directed against them individually. In
any case, it is incumbent upon any skeptic, not merely to reject the
later authorities, but also to provide a more satisfactory explanation of
Herodotus.
If this series of conclusions is accepted, we have an answer to the
question under consideration—the occasion of the term τραγῳδοί. We must
conclude that honoring Adrastus with choruses either did not involve
the giving of a prize or that the prize was other than a goat. With
the transfer to Dionysus, a goat (for some reason) was chosen as the
object of competition, and was doubtless immediately consumed in a
sacrificial feast. We have seen that at Corinth, where the choreutae were
satyrs, there was no reason to coin a new term to designate them. But
at Sicyon the situation was different. What more natural than that from
the new prize should be derived new names (τραγικοὶ χοροί and τραγῳδοί
respectively) for the new-old performances and their choreutae.[39] It is
not enough to pass this tradition of Sicyonian tragedy by in silence or
to brand it as aetiological or as arising from the partisanship of rival
cities. It must first be shown to be inconsistent, either with itself or
with other established facts.
Hitherto we have dealt with the Peloponnesus, which was inhabited by
the Dorian branch of the Greek stock; at this point we pass to Attica,
which was Ionic. We are indebted to the late Professor Furtwängler (_op.
cit._, pp. 22 ff.) for having pointed out that among the Dorians the
attendant sprites of Dionysus were caprine satyrs, but that among the
Ionians he was attended by sileni, creatures with equine ears, hoofs,
and tails. Caprine satyrs do not appear upon Attic vases until about
450 B.C. (see p. 24, below). Although the sort of dances from which
tragedy developed had existed in Attica from time immemorial,[40] yet
they did not emerge into prominence and literary importance until the
age of Thespis and in Icaria. Evidently Thespis’ innovations were partly
borrowed from the Peloponnesus and partly his own. Included among the
former would be the dropping of improvisation, the use of meter, the goat
prize, and such terms as δρᾶμα and τραγῳδός. Most distinctive among the
latter was his invention of the first actor. In early choral performances
it was customary for the poet himself to serve as coryphaeus, and in
Bacchylides’ dithyramb we have seen how the coryphaeus was set apart
from the other choreutae, answering the questions which they propounded.
It was inevitable that to someone should come the happy thought of
developing this rôle still further and of promoting the coryphaeus to
a position independent of the chorus. It is significant that the verb
which was first used to designate the actor’s function was ἀποκρίνεσθαι
(“to answer”), and that until the time of Sophocles all playwrights were
actors in their own productions. We are now in a position to realize
the true inwardness of Aristotle’s phrase: he does not say merely that
tragedy was derived from the dithyramb but from the “leaders” of the
dithyramb.
We have noted that the early dithyramb did not require impersonation
(see p. 10, above). Even at an advanced stage it was probably much like
a sacred oratorio of modern times in which the performers may sing words
which are appropriate to characters and yet make no attempt by costume,
gestures, or actions to represent those characters. Thespis changed all
this. Since he assumed an actor’s rôle himself, first of all probably
that of Dionysus, the choreutae could no longer conduct themselves as
worshipers in disguise, but must now not merely look like real attendants
of Dionysus but also behave as such. This is a fundamental matter.
Only after this step had been taken could real drama in the modern
sense become possible. Neither honoring the sorrows of Adrastus nor
the “fore-doing” of imitative magic, not even the primitive δρώμενα at
Eleusis or elsewhere demanded or presupposed actual impersonation. This
development took place at Icaria and by the agency of Thespis. I cannot
do better than to quote certain sentences of Miss Harrison’s:
We are apt to forget that from the _epos_, the narrative, to
the _drama_, the enactment, is a momentous step, one, so far
as we know, not taken in Greece till after centuries of epic
achievement, and then taken suddenly, almost in the dark, and
irrevocably. All we really know of this momentous step is that
it was taken sometime in the sixth century B.C. and taken in
connection with the worship of Dionysus. Surely it is at least
possible that the real impulse to the drama lay not wholly in
“goat-songs” and “circular dancing places” but also in the
cardinal, the essentially dramatic, conviction of the religion
of Dionysus, that the worshipper can not only worship, but can
become, can _be_, his god. Athene and Zeus and Poseidon have
no drama, because no one, in his wildest moments, believed he
could become and be Athene or Zeus or Poseidon. It is indeed
only in the orgiastic religions that these splendid moments of
conviction could come, and, for Greece at least, only in an
orgiastic religion did the drama take its rise.[41]
Thespis’ invention of impersonation probably provides the clue for
understanding the clash between him and Solon:
Thespis was already beginning to develop tragedy, and on
account of its novelty the matter was engaging general
attention but had not yet been brought into a public contest.
Now Solon, who by nature was fond of hearing and learning, to
a still greater extent in old age gave himself up to leisurely
amusement and even to conviviality and music. Therefore,
he went to see Thespis himself act, as was customary for
the earlier poets. And when the spectacle was over, Solon
addressed him and inquired if he had no sense of shame to lie
so egregiously before so many. Moreover, when Thespis said that
it was no crime to say and enact such things in sport, Solon
struck the ground violently with his staff and said: “Yet if
we praise and honor this ‘sport’ under these circumstances, it
will not be long before we discover it in our contracts.”[42]
To so straightforward a man as Solon such a facile abandonment of one’s
own personality might well seem like barefaced lying, and to augur and
even encourage similar shuffling prevarications in the more serious
affairs of life.
To Ridgeway, however, all this appears in a different light. In the
first place, after citing Diogenes Laertius to the effect that “in
ancient times the chorus at first carried on the action in tragedy
alone, but later Thespis invented an actor in order to allow the chorus
intervals of relief,”[43] he declares flatly: “But this cannot mean,
as is commonly held, that Thespis first separated in some degree the
coryphaeus from the chorus and made him interrupt the dithyramb with
epic recitations, for, as we have seen above, before his time the
poet or coryphaeus used to mount a table and hold a dialogue with the
chorus.”[44] In the cross-reference Ridgeway had quoted Pollux iv.
123: “The ἐλεός was a table in the olden days upon which in the period
before Thespis some one mounted and made answer to the choreutae,” and
_Etymologicum Magnum_, _s.v._ “θυμέλη”: “It was a table upon which they
stood and sang in the country when tragedy had not yet assumed definite
form.” These late notices are manifestly vague and inexact references
to rudimentary histrionicism among the choreutae themselves or between
them and their coryphaeus. The first of them is probably due to a false
inference from a scene in some comedy.[45] It is true that the invention
of the first actor is expressly attributed to Thespis only by Diogenes,
yet it may be inferred in several other connections. Evidently the
matter is largely one of definition. Ridgeway himself concedes all that
is important, when he continues: “There seems no reason to doubt that
Thespis in some way defined more exactly the position of the actor,
especially by the introduction of a simple form of mask.”
In the second place, Ridgeway considers that Thespis made the “grand
step” in the evolution of tragedy when he
detached his chorus and dithyramb from some particular shrine,
probably at Icaria, his native place, and taking his company
with him on wagons gave his performances on his extemporised
stage when and where he could find an audience, not for
religious purposes but for a pastime. Thus not merely by
defining more accurately the rôle of the actor but also by
lifting tragedy from being a mere piece of religious ritual
tied to a particular spot into a great form of literature,
he was the true founder of the tragic art. This view offers
a reasonable explanation of Solon’s anger on first seeing
Thespis act. A performance which he would have regarded as fit
and proper when enacted in some shrine of the gods or at a
hero’s tomb, not unnaturally roused his indignation when the
exhibition was merely “for sport,” as Thespis himself said (and
doubtless also for profit), and not at some hallowed spot, but
in any profane place where an audience might conveniently be
collected [_op. cit._, p. 61].
Not only does such an interpretation find no support in Plutarch’s
anecdote but it is highly improbable as well. It may be granted
that after long neglect Thespis’ “wagon”[46] seems to be enjoying a
recrudescence of favor. Dieterich and von Wilamowitz have referred
to it in all seriousness.[47] There is nothing improbable about the
tradition nor any compelling reason for supposing it borrowed from the
history of early comedy. It is natural to suppose that Thespis did not
restrict his activities to Icaria, but extended them to such other
demes as were interested or found them appropriate to their festivals.
In that case, means of transportation for performers and accessories
became imperative. The use of such a vehicle in the _Prometheus Bound_
of Aeschylus shows that it need not necessarily have served also as a
stage, as has sometimes been thought. Now, as a matter of fact, several
Attic vases, dating from the close of the sixth century B.C., represent
the “wagon-ship” of Dionysus (Fig. 65). Just what relationship subsisted
between primitive drama and the scenes depicted upon these vases has yet
to be definitely established. Dr. Frickenhaus would associate them with
the preliminary procession at the City Dionysia (see p. 121, below). But
at least, until such time as any connection with Thespis’ wagon has been
shown to be impossible, the suggestion can scarcely be laughed out of
court as utterly ridiculous. On the other hand, to suppose that Thespis
entirely dissociated his performances from shrines and festivals not only
rests upon no evidence but is so out of harmony with other data as to be
incredible.
Whether the innovation of treating non-Dionysiac themes in tragedy must
also be credited to Thespis before he brought his career to a close must
remain a matter of doubt, though personally I am inclined to suppose
so. Suidas[48] reports _Phorbas or the Prizes of Pelias_, _Priests_,
_Youths_, and _Pentheus_ as the titles of four of his plays. Of these the
last is clearly Dionysiac, the first probably is not, and the other two
are noncommittal. This evidence, however, cannot be relied upon, for the
reason that Aristoxenus is said to have declared that Heraclides Ponticus
wrote tragedies and attributed them to Thespis.[49]
But as we are not told that these plays bore the same titles as
those ascribed to Thespis by Suidas, it does not by any means
follow that the latter are spurious. But even if the titles
were the same, it is not unlikely that Heraclides would have
chosen as titles for his spurious compositions names declared
by tradition to be those of genuine works of the Father of
Attic Tragedy. The titles as they have reached us indicate
that the ancients most certainly did not believe that Thespis
confined himself to Dionysiac subjects.[50]
In any case, this development could not have been long deferred after 534
B.C. To the more conservative it is said to have given offense; according
to some authorities, the expression “Nothing to do with Dionysus” took
its rise at this juncture.[51] Simultaneously, or at least only a little
subsequently, the tragic choreutae were no longer dressed to represent
sileni but whatever the needs of the individual play demanded, often
plain citizens of Athens, Corinth, Thebes, etc.
Even after all that Thespis did for it tragedy must still have been a
crude, coarse, only semi-literary affair. Nevertheless, in 534 B.C., when
Pisistratus, tyrant of Athens, established a new festival called the
City Dionysia, in honor of Dionysus Eleuthereus,[52] he made a contest
in tragedy the chief feature of its program. As was but fitting, Thespis
won the first goat prize ever awarded in this Athenian festival.[53] It
is unnecessary to enlarge upon this recognition except to protest against
a not uncommon tendency to assume that terms like τραγῳδία and τραγῳδός
were not in use before this date. Of course, the matter can not be
definitely proved, but the evolution which I have been tracing at Sicyon
and Icaria distinctly favors the other view.
We have seen that Aristotle’s statements ought not to be ignored or
lightly rejected. On the other hand, it is no less important to read
nothing into his language which does not belong there. Thus, when he
declares: “Discarding short stories and a ludicrous diction, through
its passing out of its satyric stage, tragedy assumed, though only at a
late point in its progress, a tone of dignity,”[54] the phrase διὰ τὸ ἐκ
σατυρικοῦ μεταβαλεῖν ὀψὲ ἀπεσεμνύνθη has generally been taken to mean
that tragedy developed out of a form like the satyric dramas known to us,
in the next century, from Sophocles’ _Trackers_ and Euripides’ _Cyclops_.
For such a historical development no other testimony can be cited until
Byzantine times (see p. 29 and n. 2, below). Now this interpretation of
Aristotle’s phrase has always involved certain difficulties and has been
pronounced inconsistent with his other statement that tragedy developed
“from the leaders of the dithyramb.” But in my opinion we must accept
Reisch’s interpretation: “We are certainly not warranted in translating
ἐκ σατυρικοῦ baldly as ‘from the satyr-play.’ On the contrary, Aristotle
is speaking only of the ‘satyr-play-like origin’ and of the ‘satyr-like
poetry’ (as Theodor Gomperz suitably renders it in his translation); and
from this, first of all, only a family relationship between primitive
tragedy and the satyr-play, not an identity, may be inferred.”[55]
The same thought recurs in Aristotle’s next sentence, when he says:
“The iambic measure then replaced the trochaic tetrameter, which was
originally employed _when the poetry was of the satyric order_, and
had greater affinities with dancing.”[56] In other words, though early
Attic tragedy never received the name of “satyric drama,” and though its
choreutae were probably sileni and not satyrs, nevertheless, since the
Thespian and pre-Thespian performances, by reason of their obscenities,
grotesque language, ludicrous and undignified tone, the predominance of
choral odes, etc., bore a certain resemblance to the contemporaneous
exhibitions of satyrs in the Peloponnesus and to Pratinas’ satyric drama
in Athens at a later period, it can truthfully be said that tragedy had
passed through a “satyric stage” and had had a “satyric” tinge which it
was slow to lose.
What, then, was the origin of the performance which in the fifth century
constituted the final member of tetralogies? Such tetralogies cannot
be made out for any playwright before Aeschylus; and the number of
plays attributed to Pratinas, eighteen tragedies and thirty-two satyric
dramas, throws additional doubt upon the probability that the early
poets were required to present four plays together.[57] We have thus far
considered three types of performances: the improvisational dithyramb,
which was still continued in rural and primitive districts; the improved
dithyramb (in 508 B.C. dithyrambic choruses of men were added to the
program of the City Dionysia at Athens), and tragedy. The last two had
by this time become semi-literary types. Now we are expressly told,
and there is no reason to discredit the information, that Pratinas of
Phlius in the Peloponnesus was “the first to write satyr-plays.”[58]
The general situation is clear. After tragedy had lost its exclusively
Bacchic themes and had considerably departed from its original character,
Pratinas endeavored to satisfy religious conservatism by introducing a
new manner of production, which came to be called satyric drama. This was
a combination of the dramatic dithyramb of his native Phlius, which of
course had developed somewhat since the days of Arion and Epigenes, and
of contemporary Attic tragedy; and it had the merit of continuing, at
least for a while, the Dionysiac subjects which were so appropriate to
the god’s festival. It appears that at first satyr-plays were brought out
independently of tragedy and in greater numbers, comparatively, than was
afterward the case. But about 501 B.C. the City Dionysia was reorganized:
the goat prize was abandoned; κῶμοι, i.e., the volunteer performances
from which comedy was later to develop, were added to the program; and,
in particular, the regulation was established that each tragic poet must
present three tragedies and one satyr-play in a series. Pratinas is
known to have competed against Aeschylus about 499 B.C. His innovation
doubtless fell somewhere between the institution of the tragic contest
in 534 B.C. and the reorganization of the festival program in 501 B.C.,
possibly about 515 B.C.
There remains the difficult problem as to the appearance of the choreutae
in the satyric drama at different periods in Athens. Fortunately the
aspect of non-dramatic sileni and satyrs is fairly certain. Already
on the François vase, an amphora signed by Clitias and Ergotimus and
belonging to about 600-550 B.C., there are representations of three
ithyphallic creatures with equine ears, hoofs, and tails (Fig. 3).[59] An
inscription ΣΙΛΕΝΟΙ leaves no doubt as to the identity of the figures.
Mr. A. B. Cook lists six other inscribed vases from Attica which tell
a similar story.[60] None of these seven vases, however, betrays any
relationship to the theater.
On the other hand, a list[61] of fifteen Attic vases has been drawn
up on which goat-men appear. None of these antedates 450 B.C., so that
it is clear that such figures did not go back to a remote period in
Athenian history. In fact, they can hardly be conceived of as preceding
Pratinas’ introduction of the satyric drama toward the close of the
sixth century. Unfortunately none of these vases is inscribed, but the
caprine ears, hoofs, horns, and tails scarcely leave room for doubt
that these creatures, like similar figures of Hellenistic and Roman
times, were known as satyrs. With one possible exception (Fig. 9), which
will be discussed presently, these representations also have no direct
relationship to the theater. It would thus appear that from first to
last a clear distinction was drawn, outside the sphere of theatrical
influence, between the equine sileni and the caprine satyrs.
[Illustration: FIG. 4.—Preparations for a Satyric Drama from a Naples
Crater of About 400 B.C.
See p. 25, n. 1]
Of the vases which may certainly be regarded as representing scenes
from satyric drama the best known and most pretentious is a crater in
Naples (Fig. 4).[62] This and a crater at Deepdene were painted about
400 B.C. Somewhat earlier are another crater at Deepdene, a dinos at
Athens (Figs. 5 and 6), and fragments of two dinoi at Bonn (Fig. 7).[63]
The last three are derived from the same original. On the Naples crater
preparations for a satyr-play are being made in the presence of Dionysus
and Ariadne, who are seen in an affectionate embrace in the center of
the top row. The names of the figures are made known by inscriptions in
most cases but are not always significant. Just beyond Ariadne, Love
(Ἵμερος) hovers above an uninscribed actor in women’s costume, whose mask
is provided with a Scythian cap. The next figure is Heracles (inscribed)
and the next is thought to be Silenus. Beyond Dionysus is an uninscribed
actor in royal costume. Except Love, all these figures carry masks and
constitute the histrionic personages in the drama. It has been claimed
with great plausibility that the play dealt with Heracles’ exploits at
Troy.[64] In that case the king is Laomedon and the maiden is Hesione,
his daughter, who was rescued from the sea monster by Heracles. To the
right of the dancing choreutes in the lower row is the flute-player
(Pronomus), who will furnish the accompaniment for the lyrical portions
of the play; to the left is Demetrius with a roll in his hand, probably
the poet. The remaining twelve figures are probably choreutae and bear
more directly upon our present investigation. Most of them carry masks,
and they have human feet and no horns. They resemble sileni in having
long equine tails. The sole resemblance to satyrs is found in the fact
that nine of them wear a shaggy covering about the loins, supposedly a
goatskin. The waistband upon the choreutes in the extreme upper left-hand
corner, however, resembles cloth trunks more than a skin. Yet this
divergence is probably to be explained as due to carelessness or a whim
on the part of the draftsman instead of to an essential difference in
material. This appears plainly from a study of the other vases in this
series, on which the loin-bands resemble the trunks of the last-mentioned
choreutes on the Naples crater rather than the skins of his nine
companions. None the less, a multitude of short dashes on the waistbands
in one of the Bonn dinoi (Fig. 7) is plainly intended to characterize
them as skins, and the bands on the Deepdene craters are “patterned in
such a way as to suggest a fringed or shaggy edge.” An illuminating
side light upon the freedom which the painter exercised is afforded by
a comparison of the left-hand choreutae in Figs. 6 and 7. These are
identical figures in different copies of the same original; yet the
shagginess of the loin-band is clearly indicated in the one and entirely
omitted in the other. Moreover, the choreutes on the other dinos at Bonn
seems to wear no waistband at all![65] In conclusion, it will be observed
that, except for variations in the representation of the conventionalized
goatskin, the choreutae upon all these vases are exactly alike:[66] they
all have human feet, no horns, and equine tails. It is evident that
by 400 B.C. or a little earlier this type had become standardized for
theatrical purposes. That it suffered no material modification thereafter
appears from a Pompeian mosaic (Fig. 8).[67]
[Illustration: FIG. 8.—Poet and Choreutae of a Satyric Drama from a
Pompeian Mosaic
See p. 27, n. 3]
It is plain that this was the type of satyr which the unknown source
of the notice in _Etymologicum Magnum_ had in mind when attempting to
explain the etymology of τραγῳδία: “... or because the choruses generally
consisted of satyrs whom they called ‘goats’ in jest either _on account
of the shagginess of their bodies_ or on account of their lasciviousness,
for the animal is of such a sort; or because the choreutae plaited their
hair, imitating the form of goats.”[68] This passage has been used to
support the canonical doctrine that tragedy was the child of satyric
drama (see pp. 2 and 22 f., above), but is far from adequate for that
purpose. The words after δασύτητα (“shagginess”) are often ignored
or even omitted. But it is necessary to interpret the final phrase,
“imitating the form of goats,” in terms of the details stated in the
context. So far as we are now concerned, the only point of resemblance
mentioned is their “shagginess.” This and Horace’s expression about
the tragic poet “stripping his satyrs” for the satyr-play[69] would be
entirely suitable in describing the choreutae on the Naples crater.
Furthermore, it will be noted that this explanation occurs only in a
late Byzantine notice and that no earlier source is mentioned. The
only way in which a respectable antiquity can be claimed, by means of
literary evidence, for this interpretation consists in maintaining that
it is implicit in Aristotle’s phrase ἐκ σατυρικοῦ μετέβαλεν. But we have
already seen (see p. 22, above), that this expression need not, and
probably does not, support this view. The only other passage which can be
cited in this connection occurs in three other Byzantine writers.[70] The
conclusion is irresistible that both the goat-men explanation of the word
τραγῳδία and the supposed development of tragedy from satyric drama are
due to “reconstructions” of literary history at an extremely late period.
[Illustration: FIG. 3.—Caprine Sileni upon the François Vase, 600-550 B.C.
See p. 24, n. 1]
[Illustration: FIG. 5.—View of a Satyr-Play from a Dinos in Athens
See p. 25, n. 2]
[Illustration: FIG. 6.—View of a Satyr-Play from a Dinos in Athens
See p. 25, n. 2]
[Illustration: FIG. 7.—Views of a Satyr-Play from a Dinos in Bonn
See p. 25, n. 2]
Evidently this standard type of theatrical satyr took its genesis
from an amalgamation of the caprine satyrs and the equine sileni. It
is significant that in Euripides’ _Cyclops_ and Sophocles’ _Trackers_
Silenus is one of the characters and _is the father of the chorus_.
These satyr-plays were brought out in the vicinity of 440 B.C.[71]
The question now arises: Was this conventional type the invention of
Pratinas or did it develop later? It will be remembered that in the list
of fifteen fifth-century vases from Attica on which representations of
goat-men occur (see p. 25, above), one was mentioned as having a possible
connection with the theater. The single exception is a crater in the
British Museum of about 450 B.C. (Fig. 9).[72] The larger design on
the same side of the vase represents the decking of Pandora, and it is
commonly thought that the two scenes belong together and are derived from
a satyr-play dealing with Pandora. However that may be, the presence of a
flute-player would seem to indicate that at least Fig. 9 is theatrical.
If so, the choreutae are not of the type which we have been studying, but
true satyrs with caprine hoofs, horns, and tails.[73] About their loins
they wear trunks, which in three cases are painted black (to represent
a goatskin?) but in one case are left unpainted. Now from Aeschylus’
satyric drama entitled _Prometheus the Fire-Kindler_ is preserved a
line “O goat, you will mourn (lose) your beard,” which was addressed by
Prometheus to a satyr who wished to kiss a flame and which has been used
as proof that the choreutae were caprine in appearance.[74] Again, in
Sophocles’ _Trackers_ occur the words: “For though you are young with a
flourishing beard, you revel as a goat in the thistles.”[75] Finally, in
Euripides’ _Cyclops_ the chorus speak of wandering about “with this poor
goatskin cloak.”[76] Although these passages do not constitute proof that
the dramatic satyrs were of caprine appearance, they gain considerably in
point if we may suppose that they were, and to that extent they confirm
the evidence of the British Museum crater.
[Illustration: FIG. 9.—Satyrs on a British Museum Crater of About 450 B.C.
See p. 30, n. 1]
[Illustration: FIG. 10
A BRITISH MUSEUM PSYKTER BY DURIS OF ABOUT 480 B.C., PROBABLY SHOWING
INFLUENCE OF CONTEMPORANEOUS SATYRIC DRAMA
See p. 31, n. 3]
Such, then, is the penultimate stage in the evolution of the satyric
chorus, and many authorities are content to stop here. But there remains
evidence for a still earlier stage. A British Museum psykter by Duris
(Fig. 10)[77] represents ten “choreutae” and a herald, and a British
Museum cylix by Brygus contains two scenes, in one of which three
“choreutae” are attacking Iris before Dionysus and his altar and in the
other Hermes and Heracles are protecting Hera from four “choreutae.”[78]
These vases belong to about 480 B.C., and the “choreutae” upon them have
human feet, no horns, no loin-bands, and equine ears and tails. Reisch
is undoubtedly correct in recognizing in these scenes at least the
indirect influence of the satyr-play.[79] Furthermore, a similar figure
appears upon a Würzburg cylix of about 500 B.C. (Fig. 11).[80] This bears
the inscription ΣΑΤΡΥΒΣ, a manifest mistake for σάτυρος. Here we have
the earliest representation of a satyr in Attica. And though it does
not belong to a theatrical scene, its divergence from contemporaneous
satyrs of the Peloponnesus and from Attic satyrs of a later period can
be explained only on the basis of the appearance of the choreutae in
contemporaneous satyr-plays. The Duris psykter and the Brygus cylix show
that this type did not at once disappear.
To my mind the meaning of all this is fairly clear. When Pratinas
attempted to restore the Dionysiac element to contemporaneous drama at
Athens, he kept the Peloponnesian name but did not venture to shock
conservatives still further by disclosing to their eyes creatures so
foreign and strange as the Dorian goat-men would have been. Accordingly,
he transformed his satyrs so as to approximate the sileni of native
tragedy.[81] After fifty or sixty years, however, satyric drama had
become so thoroughly at home in Athens that the experiment was tried of
imposing the Peloponnesian type unchanged upon the Attic choruses. But
the reaction could not and did not endure. In two or three decades the
final type had emerged, such as we see it in the Naples crater. Except
for the goatskin about the loins, which is often highly conventionalized,
the native sileni are at every point victorious.
[Illustration: FIG. 11.—A Satyr upon a Würzburg Cylix of About 500 B.C.
See p. 31, n. 6]
[Illustration: FIG. 12.—A Comus upon a Berlin Amphora
See p. 38, n. 2]
The Greeks were inordinately fond of associating every invention or new
literary genre with some one’s name as discoverer (εὑρετής). In the case
of tragedy the problem was unusually complicated. In later years Arion,
Epigenes, and Thespis all had their partisans. The last named is the one
most frequently mentioned, and strictly speaking this view is correct.
But more broadly considered, the question largely depends upon the stage
of development to which one is willing to apply the word “tragedy.” To
many moderns, with almost two and a half millenniums of dramatic history
as a background, Aeschylus will seem the first tragic playwright. At
least, in his hands tragedy became for the first time real literature.
The foregoing treatment will show that I do not believe a study of the
origin of religion to be indispensable for a discussion of the origin of
Greek tragedy. Prior to Arion and Epigenes there was nothing which the
most fanciful could recognize as akin to modern tragedy. After the work
of Thespis and Aeschylus no one can fail to note its presence. To trace,
so far as we may, the gradual unfolding of the new genre from a state
of nonexistence to a period of vigorous growth seems to me a concrete
problem and distinctly worth while. The songs and dances from which
tragedy and the satyr-play developed were associated, _at the period when
they became truly dramatic_, with the worship of Dionysus, and _at that
same period_ Dionysus was as truly a “god” (as distinct from a “hero”) as
any that the Greeks ever knew. To abandon these plain facts and others
like them in favor of vague theorizing on religious origins will never
bring us satisfactory results. Now, in his _Origin of Tragedy_ Ridgeway,
who may serve as a protagonist of this method, recognized only the
satyr-play as Dionysiac in origin, and attempted to dissociate tragedy
and the dithyramb from that deity and to derive them from ceremonies
at the tombs of heroes, i.e., from ancestor worship. I cannot conceive
that many classical scholars will believe him to have succeeded in this
attempt. Ridgeway evidently foresaw this and tried to forestall it by
saying that “as Dionysus himself had almost certainly once been only
a Thracian hero, even if it were true that Tragedy had risen from his
cult, its real ultimate origin would still be in the worship of the dead”
(_op. cit._, p. 93). What, then, was the point in his conceding that
satyric drama was Dionysiac in origin? In that case the ultimate origins
of tragedy and satyric drama must, after all, have been identical, and
the differences in their origins must have consisted only of the minor
divergencies in the final stage of their development. In practice, how
does this result differ from the more usual procedure, which ignores
the ultimate sources and concentrates attention upon the last stage of
development? So far as I can see, it would differ only to the extent
that the underlying religion of both genres would now be understood to
be ancestor worship. But this distinction loses all meaning, for the
reason that in his last volume Ridgeway maintains that “Vegetation, Corn,
and Tree spirits, as well as those of rocks, mountains, and rivers,
and what are collectively termed Totemistic beliefs,” fertility-rites,
initiation-rites, mana, “the worship of Demeter and almost[82] all other
Greek deities” are “not primary phenomena but merely secondary and
dependent on the primary belief in the immortality and durability of the
soul,” and consequently that tragedy and serious drama (being everywhere
associated with some form of religion) not only in Greece but “wherever
they are found under the sun have their roots in the world-wide belief
in the continued existence of the soul after the death of the body.”[83]
How much of truth there may be in Ridgeway’s contention that ancestor
worship is prior to and the ultimate source of other forms of religion
I shall not stop to discuss. But the practical value of so universal a
generalization has been well expressed by another: “Even if it can be
shown that your far-off ancestor was an ape, it does not follow that your
father was an ape.”[84] In other words, in spite of any resemblance which
may have obtained between the ultimate forms of Dionysiac worship and
the true veneration of heroes, _at the time when tragedy actually came
into being_ the existing differences between them were of much greater
significance than any alleged identity of origin in the far-distant past
could have been. If it were possible for Ridgeway to substantiate his
first position, viz., that tragedy arose _directly_ from the worship of
the hero Adrastus at Sicyon, or the like, there would be some meaning
in his work. But his doctrine of _ultimate_ derivation loses itself in
primeval darkness.
_The Origin of Comedy._[85]—The difficulty of this problem was recognized
as early as Aristotle:
Now the successive changes in tragedy and the persons who
were instrumental thereto have not passed into oblivion,
but comedy did suffer oblivion for the reason that it was
not at first taken seriously. And a proof of this is found
in the fact that it was relatively late [viz., 486 B.C.]
before the archon granted a chorus of comic performers;
they used to be volunteers. And comedy already had certain
forms when the aforementioned comic poets [i.e., Chionides
and Magnes, the first comedians after official recognition
was granted] appear in the records. Who furnished it with
“characters” (πρόσωπα)[86] or prologues or number of actors
and the like remains unknown. Developing a regular plot was a
Sicilian invention, but of the Athenians the first to abandon
the “iambic” or lampooning form and to begin to fashion
comprehensive themes and plots was Crates.[87]
But whatever uncertainties may obscure the various stages in the history
of comedy, fortunately there is little doubt as to the source from which
it came. Aristotle states that “comedy also sprang from improvisations,
originating with the leaders of the phallic ceremonies,[88] which still
survive as institutions in many of our cities.”[89] Mr. Cornford (_op.
cit._, pp. 37 ff.) finds the best illustration of these ceremonies in
the well-known passage in Aristophanes’ _Acharnians_, vss. 237 ff.
Dicaeopolis has just concluded a private peace with Sparta and prepares
to celebrate a festival of Dionysus on his country estate. He marshals
his meager procession as if it contained a multitude, his daughter
carries upon her head a sacred basket with the implements of sacrifice,
two slaves hold aloft a pole which is surmounted by the phallic symbol,
and Dicaeopolis himself brings up the rear with a large pot in his arms,
while the wife and mother constitutes the watching throng. At vss. 246
ff. a sacrifice is offered to the accompaniment of an invocation to
Dionysus. Finally Dicaeopolis re-forms his procession with various coarse
remarks and starts up a phallic ballad of an obscene nature in honor of
Phales, “mate of Dionysus and fellow-reveller” (ξύγκωμε). The proceedings
thus consist of a procession to the place of sacrifice, the sacrifice
itself, and the phallic song or _comus_ (κῶμος). The last is important
for our present purpose because comedy (κωμῳδία) etymologically means
“comus-song” (κῶμος + ᾠδή). Κῶμος denotes both a revel and the band of
masqueraders participating therein. The comus was the particular type of
phallic ceremony from which comedy developed.
The comus in Aristophanes’ _Acharnians_ is sung by Dicaeopolis alone for
the reason that the lack of suitable helpers compelled him to act as both
priest and congregation. But Cornford is right (_op. cit._, pp. 38 ff.)
in recognizing this song as belonging to a widely spread type in which
the improvisations of one or more leaders (ἐξάρχοντες) are interrupted at
more or less regular intervals by a recurrent chantey on the part of the
chorus. In this instance the song is not continued to a length natural
to the type, but is cut short by the real chorus of the play which has
been hiding but now bursts forth and stops proceedings with a shower of
stones. From the standpoint of contents Cornford detects two elements in
the comus: an invocation to the god to attend his worshipers in their
rites, and an improvisational “iambic” element of obscene ribaldry,
which often took the form of satire directed against individuals by name
(_ibid._, p. 41). These two elements exactly correspond to the double
object of all phallic ceremonies, which were both a “positive agent of
fertilization” and a “negative charm against evil spirits.” The former
result was obtained by the invocation of friendly powers; as to the
latter,
the simplest of all methods of expelling such malign influences
of any kind is to abuse them with the most violent language. No
distinction is drawn between this and the custom of abusing,
and even beating, the persons or things which are to be rid of
them, as a carpet is beaten for no fault of its own, but to get
the dust out of it.... There can be no doubt that the element
of invective and personal satire which distinguishes the Old
Comedy is directly descended from the magical abuse of the
phallic procession, just as its obscenity is due to the sexual
magic; and it is likely that this ritual justification was well
known to an audience familiar with the phallic ceremony itself
[_ibid._, pp. 49 f.].
It is possible to cite many examples of ritualistic scurrility among
the Greeks, such as that indulged in by the Eleusinian procession as it
approached “the bridge,” that of the riders upon the carts on the Day of
Pots (χόες) at the Anthesteria, that at the Stenia festival, and many
others. Sometimes these involved physical violence as well as mere abuse,
and this element (or the threat of it) frequently recurs in Old Comedy.
Perhaps the most interesting parallel is afforded by Herodotus v. 82 f.
In the sixth century B.C., in order to avert a famine, the Epidaurians
set up wooden statues of Damia and Auxesia, goddesses of fertility.[90]
Somewhat later, the Aeginetans stole these images and set them up in
their own country; “they used to appease them with sacrifices and female
satiric choruses, appointing ten men to furnish the choruses for each
goddess; the choruses abused no man but only the women of the country;
the Epidaurians also had the same rites.”
The comus frequently took the form of a company marching from house to
house to the music of a flute-player and rendering a program of singing
and dancing at every dwelling. From what has already been said it will
be understood that the improvisations of the comus leaders would rarely
redound to the credit of the householders. These scurrilous attacks upon
their neighbors combined with other motives to induce the comus revelers
to assume disguises, which varied from year to year. Now, according to
the _Parian Chronicle_, comic choruses were the invention of Susarion
and were first performed at Icaria. This doubtless means that Susarion
transformed the ceremonies of an old ritual procession in the country
into a “stationary” performance in an orchestra. The same authority
informs us that this innovation was introduced into Athens between 580
and 560 B.C.[91] This notice must refer to the Lenaean festival, since
the program of the City Dionysia did not receive this addition until
about 501 B.C. At both festivals the performances still continued for
some time to be called comuses (κῶμοι), comedy being a name of later
date, and were produced by “volunteers.” Five Attic vase paintings of
about 500 B.C. depict comus revelers as cocks, birds, or as riding upon
horses, dolphins, or ostriches (Figs. 12-16).[92] The state did not
assume official supervision of comedy until 486 B.C. at the City Dionysia
and about 442 B.C. at the Lenaea.[93]
[Illustration: FIG. 13
A COMUS UPON A BRITISH MUSEUM OENOCHOE
See p. 38, n. 2]
[Illustration: FIG. 14.—A Comus upon a Berlin Amphora
See p. 38, n. 2]
Before we can proceed further, it will be necessary to consider the
nature of ancient comedy. In the time of Hadrian the history of literary
comedy at Athens was divided into three periods, called Old, Middle, and
New Comedy, respectively. Old Comedy came to a close shortly after the
beginning of the fourth century B.C. Politics and scurrilous attacks
upon contemporaneous personages made up the bulk of its subject-matter.
Living men, such as Pericles, Socrates, Euripides, and Cleon were
represented by actors on the stage and were lampooned with the utmost
virulence. Sometimes their identity was thinly disguised under a
transparent pseudonym, but oftentimes the very name of the victim was
retained along with the other marks of identification. Middle Comedy was
a transitional period of about half a century’s duration between Old and
New. It renounced the political and personal themes of its forerunner and
was largely given up to literary criticism, parodies, and mythological
travesty. New Comedy, in turn, abandoned such subjects for the most
part and devoted itself to motives drawn from everyday life. Except for
the occasional presence of the chorus, it does not greatly differ in
structure, theme, or technique from the comedy of manners today, _mutatis
mutandis_.
[Illustration: FIGS. 15-16.—Comus Scenes upon a Boston Skyphos
See p. 38, n. 2]
For the study of origins, however, we must turn back to the earliest
type, Old Comedy, which is entirely unlike any present-day genre. We are
fortunate in possessing eleven complete plays of Aristophanes, the chief
poet of Old Comedy; and though no two of them are exactly alike in the
details of their structure, yet the general outline is clear. The leading
features are as follows:[94]
1. The _prologue_ (πρόλογος) spoken by the actors and serving both as an
exposition and to set the action of the play in motion.
2. The _parodus_ (πάρoδος), or entrance song of the chorus. Originally
this division must have been exclusively choral, but by Aristophanes’
time it has been developed so as sometimes to include lines spoken by
actors.
3. The _agon_ (ἀγών, “contest”), a “dramatized debate” or verbal duel
between two actors, each supported by a semi-chorus; see p. 43, below.
4. The _parabasis_ (from παραβαίνω, to “come forward”), a “choral agon”
in which the chorus, the actors being off stage, march forward to address
the audience. When complete, the parabasis consists of seven parts which
fall into two groups: the first group contains three single parts, which
were probably rendered by the first coryphaeus. Dropping all dramatic
illusion and all connection with the preceding events of the play, he
sets forth the poet’s views concerning his own merits and claims upon
the public, ridicules the rival playwrights, announces his opinions
on civic questions, etc. The second group contains four parts in the
form of an epirrhematic syzygy, i.e., a _song_ (ᾠδή) and _epirrheme_
(ἐπίῤῥημα, “speech”) by one semi-chorus and its leader, respectively,
are counterbalanced by an _antode_ (ἀντῳδή) and an _antepirrheme_
(ἀντεπίῤῥημα) by the other semi-chorus and its leader; here the chorus
usually sing in character once more, the knights praising their “horses,”
the birds their manner of life as compared with men’s, etc.[95]
5. There follows a series of _episodes_ (ἐπεισόδια), histrionic scenes
separated (6) by brief _choral odes_ (στάσιμα or χορικά). The episodes
portray the consequences of the victory won in the agon (3). For example,
in the _Acharnians_ the subject of controversy is whether Dicaeopolis
shall be punished for the alleged treason of having made a private peace
with Sparta, and part (5) represents him, in a succession of burlesque
scenes, as enjoying the fruits of that peace.
7. The _exodus_ (ἔξοδος), or recessional of the chorus. Properly
speaking, this should contain only the final, retiring song of the chorus
(the ἐξόδιον), but the term came to include the histrionic passage just
preceding it, also.
This is a very incomplete sketch of a highly complicated subject, but it
will suffice for present purposes.
Now in the scurrility of the primitive (non-literary) comus Professor
Navarre (_op. cit._, p. 248) would recognize three stages. In the
first, the ribaldry of the comus received no answer from the crowd of
spectators. This is doubtless to be explained by supposing that all who
were competent to participate were already members of the comus; the
spectators consisted only of women and children, who frequently had no
more right of speech in religious ritual than in law. So Dicaeopolis’
wife is present but speechless in Aristophanes’ _Acharnians_ (see p. 36,
above). In the second stage, the bystanders retorted to the assaults of
the comus revelers. This probably indicates that membership in the comus
has been restricted in some way, leaving others free to retaliate in
kind from the crowd. The third stage was reached when this new element
was formally recognized and brought within the comus itself, which was
thus divided into antagonistic halves for mutual recrimination. Thus may
be explained a peculiar feature of Old Comedy. Its chorus was a double
chorus of twenty-four members, always divided into two semi-choruses,
which often were hostile during a large portion of the play. Sometimes
this division between them was shown by their masks or costumes, as when
the chorus represented men and women, horses and their riders, etc. But
sometimes the division was one of sentiment—one semi-chorus, for example,
favoring peace and the other being opposed to it. The result of this
division of the early comus revelers into semi-choruses is a parallelism
of structure in certain parts of comedy, ode being matched by antode, and
the epirrheme of one chorus leader by the antepirrheme of the other. It
is clear that all the divisions which show this duality of arrangement
descend from the comus.[96]
One of these divisions is the parabasis (4). Though one of the most
ancient features of Old Comedy, it was also one of the first to decay:
complete in Aristophanes’ earlier plays, it is always mutilated in
some way during his middle period and in his last two comedies has
disappeared entirely. We have seen (p. 37, above) that the essential
characteristics of the phallic ceremonies were the induction of the good
influences by invocation and the aversion of the bad by vituperation.
Now in the epirrhematic syzygy which constituted the second half of the
parabasis, even as late as Aristophanes, when it naturally must have
changed considerably in function, “the ode and antode normally contain an
invocation, either of a muse or of gods, who are invited to be present
at the dance, the divine personages being always selected with reference
to the character of the chorus. The epirrheme and antepirrheme often
contain the other element of satire or some milder form of advice and
exhortation.”[97]
Another division of Old Comedy which was carefully balanced and which
ought, therefore, to be a derivative of the comus is the agon (3).
Normally this division was epirrhematic in structure and fell into nine
parts, as follows: First comes the ode sung by one half-chorus, then
the _cataceleusmus_ (κατακελευσμός, “encouragement”) in which their
leader exhorts one of the actor contestants, thirdly this actor delivers
his speech (epirrheme), concluding with a peroration (πνῖγος, “choke,”
so called because it was all to be delivered in one breath and left
the performer speechless). Next came the antode, anticataceleusmus,
antepirrheme, and antipnigus rendered by the other half-chorus, their
leader, and the second actor, respectively. Finally, in the _sphragis_
(σφραγίς, “seal”) is given the unanimous verdict of the whole chorus.
At first glance it would seem that too important a rôle is here played
by actors for the agon ever to have been derived from the comus, which
was purely choral. The comus consisted of an undifferentiated band of
revelers and its choreutae assumed no distinct parts. In fact, there
is no reason to suppose that their performances involved dramatic
impersonation (μίμησις) at all. They might be dressed to represent
birds or animals, but with few or no exceptions they sang and spoke and
conducted themselves as would be appropriate for men engaged in such a
rite to do. As we have already seen (p. 38, above) their costumes were
for disguise.
Nevertheless, the situation is not so impossible as it seems. The fact
that the masks and costumes of the choreutae were all alike, or at most
of two types to correspond to the two semi-choruses, did not prevent each
member of the chorus from speaking, or singing, apart from the rest.
This was sometimes done even in fully developed tragedy, where the line
of distinction between chorus and actors was usually a sharp one. Thus,
in Aeschylus’ _Agamemnon_, vss. 1348 ff., each of the choreutae in turn
pronounces two iambic lines. In particular, the rôles of the two chorus
leaders must have been developed in the comus and early comedy so as
partly to compensate for the lack of actors. Note that Aristotle does
not state merely that comedy sprang from phallic ceremonies but from the
_leaders_ (ἐξάρχοντες) of the phallic ceremonies. An illustration of what
may result from participation in the action on the part of individual
choreutae is afforded by Aristophanes’ _Women in Council_. I believe that
the “First Woman” and the “Second Woman” who appear in our editions as
uttering brief remarks at the beginning of this play are not actors but
the leaders of the two half-choruses.[98] In function they are not at
first distinguishable from Praxagora. Indeed, it does not transpire until
later that Praxagora herself is an actor, not the coryphaeus. The fact is
that in all his plays Aristophanes seems to have assigned his two chorus
leaders more extensive participation both in lyrics and in recitative
than has been generally recognized (cf. White, _op. cit., passim_). In
my opinion this sort of thing was even more common at an earlier period,
and in this way it was possible for the comus to have a quasi-agon from
which the later histrionic agon could easily develop. Of course, the
chorus leaders could not appear in individualized rôles, as the actors
did in the Aristophanic agon, for characters had not yet been introduced
into comedy; but they could engage in a contest of perfectly general,
depersonalized billingsgate or, at a later period, speak as the poet’s
mouthpiece for the pros or cons of any question. Thus, they would not
represent individual men, with an individual’s name and characterization,
but _any_ men. Their sentiments would have been equally appropriate in
the mouths of any of the other choreutae.
The agon and parabasis must necessarily have been flanked on either
side by a processional and a recessional. In their simplest form, these
need not have involved more than silent marching in and out again; but
probably the flute accompaniment was always present, and singing would
soon be added. Even when words and singing were employed, there was
no necessity of these being newly composed for each occasion or even
original at all. It will be remembered that in Aristophanes’ earliest
and latest plays he did not write special exodia but borrowed from
earlier poets any popular airs that suited his purpose.[99] Moreover,
Aristophanes’ exodi lack the balanced structure which is characteristic
of all divisions which descend directly from the primitive comus; but
in this instance that fact has no significance, for the reason that by
the end of a comedy (or comus) the two half-choruses would always be
reconciled and go marching off together. Nevertheless, the intrusion of
the histrionic element, the comparative rarity of the earliest dramatic
meter (the trochaic tetrameter), and the absence of a canonical structure
make it plain that the recessional of the primitive comus never developed
into a regular division—in other words, that the exodus of Aristophanic
comedy was the product of a later period.
On the other hand, the Aristophanic parodus resembles the agon and the
parabasis in making a large use of the tetrameter (_op. cit._, p. 185).
Moreover, it contains distinct survivals of epirrhematic composition
(_ibid._, pp. 159 and 366), so that, in spite of its histrionic elements
and the absence of a canonical form, the parodus ought to be considered
as having been exclusively choral by origin and as having developed out
of the simple processional before the comus became histrionic.
The theatrical comus, then, must have been something as follows: first
a choral parodus, next a semi-histrionic agon, then a parabasis, and
finally a recessional which ultimately developed into an exodus. A late
notice,[100] if correctly emended, informs us that at one time comedies
contained no more than three hundred verses. I am of the opinion that
this is the type of performance alluded to and that comedy did not, in
essence, greatly depart therefrom until actors, as distinct from the
chorus, were added.
How did this addition come to be made? It is impossible that the comic
playwrights, with the actors of tragedy ever before them, should never
have thought of taking this step. Nevertheless, the main impulse seems
to have come from another direction. We have seen (p. 36, above) that in
the non-theatrical comus the phallus was borne on a pole in the ritual
procession with which the comus was originally associated; it was not
worn. Neither is it worn by the comus choreutae as represented on Attic
vase paintings (Figs. 12-16). But in Old Comedy it is clear that at least
some of the characters wore the phallic emblem. That this was in fact the
general practice appears from the language in which Aristophanes boasts
of the modesty of his _Clouds_:
And observe how pure her morals: who, to notice first her dress,
Enters not with filthy symbols on her modest garments hung,
Jeering bald-heads, dancing ballets, for the laughter of the young.[101]
And Dr. Körte (_op. cit._, pp. 66 ff.) has collected ten passages
in other plays of our poet which indicate that Aristophanes was not
always so puritanical as he claims to be here. These conclusions are
confirmed also by numerous representations, of Attic workmanship, which
are plausibly thought to depict actors in Old and Middle Comedy (Figs.
17-19).[102] By the time of New Comedy, on the contrary, the phallus was
apparently no longer worn, and the characters were garbed in the dress
of everyday life. Now the Dorian mime or farce was widely cultivated in
the Peloponnesus and Magna Graecia. The performers were individualized
actors, not welded into a chorus. They wore the phallus, had their bodies
stuffed out grotesquely both in front and behind by means of copious
padding, and in general bear a very close resemblance to the comic
actors at Athens (Figs. 20 and 21).[103] Their performances were loosely
connected, burlesque scenes, abounding in stock characters and enlivened
by obscenity and ribald jests. Most authorities agree that the burlesque
episodes (5) of Old Comedy are derived from this source. According to
Aristotle,[104] the Megarians claimed that comedy originated with them
about 600 B.C. when a democracy with its resultant freedom of speech was
established among them. It was even asserted that Susarion, the reputed
founder of Attic comedy (see p. 38, above), came from Megara, but this
claim is apparently unwarranted.[105] The fact remains, however, that
Aristophanes and his confrères often speak of stupid, vulgar scenes or
jokes as being “stolen from Megara.”[106] Though these words have been
otherwise explained,[107] I believe that Megara, which is the nearest
Dorian city to Attica, had something to do with the introduction of the
histrionic element into Attic comedy. Of course, this does not mean
that Megara is to be regarded as the inventor of Athenian comedy, for
the comus was indigenous and received its development on Attic soil and
the type of performance which came into being after the introduction
of actors was quite unlike anything in Megara or any other part of the
Dorian world.
[Illustration: FIG. 17.—Comic Actors and Flute-Players upon an Attic Vase
in Petrograd
See p. 47, n. 1]
[Illustration: FIG. 18.—An Attic Terra Cotta in Berlin Representing a
Comic Actor.
See p. 47, n. 1]
[Illustration: FIG. 19.—An Attic Terra Cotta in Munich Representing a
Comic Actor.
See p. 47, n. 1]
[Illustration: FIG. 20.—Actors of Dorian Comedy upon a Corinthian Crater
in Paris
See p. 47, n. 2]
With actors, impersonation became possible for the first time in Attic
comedy. Besides the nondescript chorus and chorus leaders, there were now
performers who could assume the identity of real or imaginary characters
and carry a rôle or, by a change of mask, several rôles through the play.
The importance of all this is too obvious to require amplification. It
marked the birth of dramatic comedy at Athens. Through the introduction
of actors, comedy became amenable to several other influences. Tragedy
could at once make itself felt. A histrionic prologue could now be
added, the comic prologue corresponding in length and function to the
tragic prologue and first episode combined.[108] A real agon of actors
now became possible, whatever use may have been made previously of the
chorus leaders for this purpose. Furthermore, the new Megarian burlesque
episodes (5) would naturally be separated by stasima (6) in imitation of
tragedy. It would also be possible to insert an episode[109] between the
parodus and the agon, as is done in Aristophanes’ _Plutus_, vss. 322-486;
or between the agon and the parabasis, as in Aristophanes’ _Knights_,
vss. 461-97; or to compose a second parabasis and to insert an additional
episode between them, as in Aristophanes’ _Peace_, vss. 1039-1126, etc.
In addition to all this, tragedy would exert a constant influence in
elevating and standardizing all parts of comedy alike.
[Illustration: FIG. 21.—Actors of Dorian Comedy upon a Corinthian Vase
See p. 47, n. 2]
But the restricted and even disconnected method of elaboration employed
in earlier comedy, with its invective, lampoons, and obscene jests, would
not suffice to fill so ample a framework. Therefore, it became necessary
to broaden and deepen the plots; in fact, now for the first time in Attic
comedy was it possible to have a plot worthy of the name. All this is
implied in the words which have already been quoted from Aristotle (p.
35, above): “Developing a regular plot was a Sicilian invention, but of
the Athenians the first to abandon the ‘iambic’ or lampooning form and to
begin to fashion comprehensive themes and plots (καθόλου ποιεῖν λόγους
καὶ μύθους) was Crates.” The reference in the first half of this sentence
is to Epicharmus, whose name actually appears in Aristotle’s text at this
point but without grammatical construction. Epicharmus was a resident of
Megara Hyblaea in Sicily, whence he migrated to Syracuse about 485 B.C.
Like the Megarians on the Greek mainland, also the Sicilian Megarians
laid claim to the honor of having invented comedy.[110] They based
their pretensions on the fact that Epicharmus flourished and won his
reputation before 486 B.C., which was the _terminus post quem_ for the
beginning of the official careers of Magnes and Chionides, who were the
first poets of state-supported (as opposed to volunteer) comedy, at the
City Dionysia in Athens. Epicharmus raised the Dorian mime in Sicily
to literary importance, and seems to have improved upon the detached
or but loosely connected scenes of his predecessors by stringing them
together upon the thread of a common plot-interest. His plays had no
chorus and did not touch upon his contemporaries or politics. Now
Aristotle’s words concerning Crates must certainly be understood as
indicating a resemblance between him and Epicharmus in at least some of
these particulars. The expression which I have translated “to fashion
comprehensive themes and plots” has been rendered “generalized his themes
and plots” by Butcher, “to frame stories of a general and non-personal
nature, in other words, Fables or Plots” by Bywater, and “composed plots
or fables of a ‘universal’ character” by Cornford (_op. cit._, p. 217).
Whatever other meaning may inhere in this phrase, I think that it must be
taken to mean, first of all, that Crates, like Epicharmus, made all or,
at least, most of the parts of his plays subservient to one connecting
idea or plot; and it seems to me that the previous clause which refers
to his abandonment of the “iambic” or lampooning form looks in the same
direction. In my opinion, the invective of his predecessors had been
episodic and unrelated to its context by any sequence of thought, often
being expressed in passages like the following:
Shall we all a merry joke
At Archedemus poke,
Who has not cut his guildsmen yet, though seven years old;
Yet up among the dead
He is demagogue and head,
And contrives the topmost place of the rascaldom to hold?
And Clisthenes, they say,
Is among the tombs all day,
Bewailing for his lover with a lamentable whine.
And Callias, I’m told,
Has become a sailor bold,
And casts a lion’s hide o’er his members feminine.[111]
Here this abuse is dragged in a propos of nothing, and the three
citizens who are assailed within a score of lines have no connection
with the main theme of the play. It was this sort of thing, I venture
to believe, that Crates discontinued; and Aristotle’s language does not
require us to conclude that he relinquished scurrility altogether. It is
usually thought, however, that Crates made no assaults of any kind upon
his contemporaries but “generalized” his plots by treating imaginary,
“ideal” characters in his plays. In other words, he is supposed to have
anticipated to some extent the manner and material of New Comedy. I have
no desire to combat this view, which simply advances a step beyond my
own. The main fact, that of Crates’ having invented plot sequence in
Attic comedy, can hardly be made a matter of dispute.
We are indebted to a late authority, Tzetzes, for the following
statements:
But also Old Comedy differs from itself [i.e., falls into
two types], for those who first established the institution
of comedy in Attica (and they were Susarion and his
successors) used to bring on the characters (πρόσωπα) in an
undifferentiated crowd (ἀτάκτως), and laughter alone was
the object sought. But Cratinus [a contemporary of Crates],
succeeding them, put a stop to the confusion (ἀταξίαν) and set
the characters (πρόσωπα) in comedy for the first time at three;
and he added profit to the pleasure of comedy, lampooning the
evildoers and chastising them with comedy as with a public
scourge. But even he still shared in the archaic qualities and,
slightly, in the confusion (ἀταξίας).[112]
Whatever the ultimate source of this notice, it contains much of value.
In the first place, a distinction is correctly drawn between primitive
comedy (Susarion to Cratinus; _ca._ 565 to _ca._ 450 B.C.) and Old Comedy
(450 to _ca._ 385 B.C.). The earlier period is marked by ἀταξία, which I
refer to the practice of having characterless choreutae take part singly
as if they were actors (see p. 44, above). Though still occasionally
guilty of this practice, as even Aristophanes sometimes was, Cratinus
regularly withdrew his choreutae from participation in the dialogue
and reduced the performers to three. These three, however, were now
real actors, as distinct from the chorus and chorus leaders, and played
individualized rôles which demanded dramatic impersonation. The number
three was doubtless due to contemporaneous tragedy in which the number of
actors had recently been increased by Sophocles from two to three (see p.
167, below).[113]
A second difference between primitive comedy and Old Comedy is found
in the use which was made of invective. If this development had not
taken place, Old Comedy would not occupy the unique place which it now
holds in the dramatic literature of the world. As we have just seen, the
lampooning of primitive comedy was probably episodic and detached from
the context, like that in Aristophanes’ _Frogs_, vss. 416-30; a whole
play was not devoted to one person, and no citizen was impersonated by an
actor. Its object was merely to cause a laugh and it rarely served any
useful purpose, certainly none for the public interests of the state.
It was a natural outgrowth of the magical abuse of the old phallic
processions. Now Old Comedy, on the whole, was just the reverse of this,
and Cratinus seems to have been the innovator who, “generalizing” his
plots by giving them a single theme, after the fashion set by Crates,
devoted them solely or mainly to political and social questions and
dragged his victims in person upon his stage.
When did these changes take place? First let it be noted how they
mutually depend one upon another: neither tragedy nor the Sicilian mime
could greatly influence early Attic comedy until actors, as distinct from
a chorus, were introduced, nor could their influence be long delayed
after the actors came. I think that these factors came to fruition not
long before 450 B.C.
_a_) Reverting to Aristotle’s words (quoted on p. 35, above), when are we
to suppose that the Athenians began to “treat comedy seriously”? The most
obvious answer would be, “486 B.C., when comedy first received official
recognition.” Chionides and Magnes are the poets of this period, and
there is no reason to believe that they improved upon their immediate
predecessors of the “volunteer” comedy otherwise than in a more worthy
literary treatment of their plays. Aristophanes describes Magnes’ efforts
in the following terms:
All voices he uttered, all forms he assumed, the Lydian, the
fig-piercing Fly,
The Harp with its strings, the Bird with its wings, the Frog
with its yellow-green dye.[114]
It is plain that these words refer to plays by Magnes which were called
_The Lydians_, _The Gall-Flies_, _The Harpists_, _The Birds_, and _The
Frogs_. These titles at once remind us of the animal masks which were so
common in the comus (Figs. 12-16). Of course, state supervision implies
a certain amount of serious attention. Nevertheless I think that in this
passage Aristotle had a later period in mind.
It was long ago pointed out that Attic comedies were not published
before the time of Cratinus. The fact of publication shows that comedy
was at last being treated with true seriousness and helps to explain the
ignorance, in later times, with respect to certain points. Though the
state records gave the names of comic victors from 486 B.C. on, they did
not include information upon matters of mere technique. For knowledge
of this sort Aristotle (the ultimate source of Tzetzes) and all other
ancient investigators were almost entirely dependent upon what they could
glean from the editions of Cratinus, Crates, and their successors. Now
the earliest texts available revealed the use of characters, prologues,
and three actors as well as of the parodus, agon, parabasis, and exodus.
Why did Aristotle specifically name the first group and not the second?
In my opinion, Professor Capps[115] has provided the correct answer. He
maintains that Aristotle distinguished two kinds of ignorance concerning
the history of comedy. In the first place, there was the Egyptian
darkness which covered the period previous to 486 B.C. For example, when
Aristotle declared that comedy “already had certain forms” (σχήματά τινα)
at this time, he could not have specified what these forms were; he was
merely surmising that the fact of state supervision presupposed more or
less definiteness of form. In the second place, there was the period of
semi-darkness immediately after 486 B.C. Tradition must have placed in
this period the introduction of characters, prologues, and three actors,
and so Aristotle singled them out for mention. But tradition had not
handed down also the names of the innovators, and in the absence of texts
it was impossible to probe the matter further. Needless to state, the
situation regarding the other innovations, whether of this period or
earlier, was much worse.
_b_) Though Thespis is said to have invented the prologue in tragedy,
this statement is justly discredited (see p. 298, below); and no tragedy
is actually known to have had one before Phrynichus’ _Phoenician Women_
(476 B.C.). Aeschylus’ _Suppliants_ (about 490 B.C.) and _Persians_ (472
B.C.) have none. It is most unlikely that comedy should have anticipated
tragedy in this feature.
_c_) Capps[116] has plausibly suggested that knowledge of Epicharmus’
achievements in comedy was brought to Athens by Aeschylus, who is known
to have been in Sicily _ca._ 476 B.C., shortly after 472 B.C., and for
about two years before his death there in 456 B.C.
_d_) The third actor was introduced into tragedy between about 468 and
458 B.C., and it is more probable that the use of three actors in comedy
was borrowed from tragedy than vice versa.
_e_) Cratinus won his first victory at the City Dionysia of 452 B.C. and
(_f_) Crates at that of 450 B.C. Doubtless the activity of both men began
somewhat earlier.
_g_) It is incredible that the state should have postponed official
control of comedy at the Lenaean festival until about 442 B.C., if the
developments which we have been sketching had taken place long before.
_h_) The earliest comedian to refer to Megarian comedy is Ecphantides,
whose first victory was won between 457 and 453 B.C. Whenever
Aristophanes “names any writers of ‘vulgar comedy’ who used the stale
antics which he repudiates, these writers are his own predecessors and
contemporaries of the Attic stage.”[117] This implies that the borrowing
was a fairly recent occurrence.
_i_) Finally, Megara was actually under the sway of Athens during
460/59-446/45 B.C. The opportunity for the exchange of ideas between
Megara and Athens would naturally be most favorable at that time.
In view of the preceding considerations, I am of the opinion that actors
were introduced into Athenian comedy shortly before 450 B.C.
[Illustration: FIG. 22.—Ground Plan of a Greek Theater with Names of Its
Parts
See p. 57, n. 3]
[Illustration: FIG. 23.—Cross-Section of a Greek Theater with Names of
Its Parts
See p. 57, n. 3]
_The Greek Theater._[118]—Since, as we have seen, both tragedy and
comedy among the Greeks were choral by origin, the center of their
theaters was a circular “dancing place” called an _orchestra_[119]
(ὀρχήστρα), in the middle of which stood a _thymele_ (θυμέλη) or “altar”
(Figs. 22 f.).[120] When an actor was added to the tragic choreutae, it
became necessary to provide a dressing-room where he might change his
mask and costume. This temporary structure was called a σκηνή (“hut”: our
English word “scene”), and at first stood outside the spectators’ range
of vision. Afterward it was brought immediately behind the orchestral
circle and then served also as a background in front of which the
dramatic action was performed. Its face was pierced by doors, usually
three but sometimes only one, which were conventionally thought of as
leading into as many different houses. The scene-building often had two
projecting side wings called _parascenia_ (παρά, “beside” + σκηνή). The
front of the scene-building and of the parascenia came to be decorated
with a row of columns, the _proscenium_ (πρό, “before” + σκηνή). The top
of this proscenium was used by actors when they had occasion to speak
from the housetop or were thought of as standing upon some elevation.
In the course of time it was employed also for divinities, especially
in epiphanies at the close of tragedies (see p. 292, below). Since this
spot was never invaded by the singing or dancing of the chorus and was
the only place reserved for actors exclusively, it came to be called the
_logium_ (λογεῖον, from λέγειν to “speak”) or “speaking place.”[121]
Behind the logium was the second story of the scene-building, known as
the _episcenium_ (ἐπισκήνιον; ἐπί, “upon” + σκηνή); its front wall was
pierced by one or more large doorways. Past each parascenium a “side
entrance” or _parodus_ (πάροδος; παρά, “beside” + ὁδός, “passage”) led
into the orchestra. These entrances were used by the audience before and
after the play, and during it by the actors (who could use also the doors
in the scene-building) and the chorus. The parodi were often framed by
beautiful gateways (Figs. 51 f.). The remainder of the orchestral circle
was surrounded by the auditorium, the “theater” proper.[122] Chorus and
actors stood on the same level in the orchestra or in the space between
it and the scene-building. There was no stage in the Greek theaters until
about the beginning of the Christian era.
But when the Greek theaters came under Roman influence and were provided
with a stage, these technical terms naturally acquired a somewhat
different significance (Figs. 24 and 62-64).[123] The proscenium was
still the columned wall in front of the scene-building, but it now
stood upon the stage (at the rear), and the stage itself was the
logium. Whenever theophanies required a still higher level, this was
furnished by the top of the proscenium,[124] which was called the
_theologium_ (θεολογεῖον; θεός, “god” + λογεῖον) or “speaking place of
divinities.”[125] The space beneath the stage, or its front wall alone,
was known as the _hyposcenium_ (ὑποσκήνιον; ὑπό, “beneath” + σκηνή).[126]
There were now two sets of parodi, leading upon the stage and into the
orchestra respectively. These two paragraphs are meant for purposes of
orientation and are written from the standpoint of one who believes with
Dörpfeld that in Greek theaters of the classical period actors and chorus
normally moved upon the same level.[127]
[Illustration: FIG. 24.—Cross-Section of the Graeco-Roman Theater at
Ephesus with Names of Its Parts.
See p. 60, n. 2]
[Illustration: FIG. 25.—Theater at Oeniadae in Acarnania
See p. 61, n. 3]
[Illustration: FIG. 26.—Theater and Temple of Apollo at Delphi
See p. 61, n. 4]
[Illustration: FIG. 27.—Theater at Megalopolis in Arcadia
See p. 61, n. 4]
[Illustration: FIG. 28.—Theater at Pergamum in Asia Minor
See p. 61, n. 4]
[Illustration: FIG. 29.—Plan of the Acropolis at Athens
See p. 62, n. 2]
A Greek town could hardly be so small or so remote as not to have its
own theater and dramatic festival (Figs. 25 and 70 f.).[128] The Greek
theaters were regularly built upon a hillside and often commanded an
outlook over a scene of great natural beauty and picturesqueness (Figs.
26-28).[129] So far as such structures have come down to us, the oldest
is the theater of Dionysus Eleuthereus at Athens, and this is also the
one of greatest interest to us, for the reason that in it were produced
practically all the masterpieces of the greatest Greek dramatists (Figs.
1 and 31-41).[130] It seems strange that this building should not have
remained continuously known to men from ancient times until the present
hour, but in fact its very location passed into oblivion for centuries.
During mediaeval times and until well into the modern era it was thought
that the theater or odeum of Herodes Atticus, a Roman structure of the
second century A.D. and situated at the opposite end of the Acropolis,
represented the Dionysiac theater of the classical period (Fig. 29).[131]
The correct site was first pointed out by R. Chandler in 1765, and is
clearly indicated by a bronze coin of imperial times which shows the
relation subsisting between the theater of Dionysus and the Parthenon
(Figs. 30 f.).[132] Excavations were conducted desultorily from time to
time, beginning in 1841, but were not completed until the work under
Dörpfeld’s direction in 1886, 1889, and 1895.
The oldest structure in the precinct of Dionysus Eleuthereus is the
earlier temple (Fig. 32).[133] This was built in the sixth century B.C.,
possibly in 534 B.C., when Pisistratus established the tragic contest.
Here was housed the cult image of Dionysus which had been brought from
Eleutherae.
[Illustration: FIG. 30.—Athenian Coin in the British Museum Showing the
Parthenon and Outline of the Theater of Dionysus Eleuthereus.
See p. 63, n. 1]
[Illustration: FIG. 31.—Parthenon and Theater of Dionysus; in Foreground
Altar in Precinct of Dionysus Eleuthereus.
See p. 63, n. 1]
[Illustration: FIG. 32.—Precinct of Dionysus Eleuthereus in Athens,
Showing Dörpfeld’s Restoration of the Early Orchestra and of the Lycurgus
Theater.
See p. 63, n. 2]
[Illustration: FIG. 33.—East Fragment of Wall Belonging to the Early
Orchestra in Athens.
See p. 65, n. 1]
[Illustration: FIG. 34.—West Fragment of Wall Belonging to the Early
Orchestra in Athens.
See p. 65, n. 1]
Somewhat later are the remains of the early orchestra. According to
late notices,[134] the original place of holding theatrical performances
in Athens was an orchestra in the old market place, the location of which
has not yet been determined. At that period the audience sat upon “wooden
bleachers” (ἴκρια), which are said[135] to have collapsed on the occasion
of a contest between Aeschylus, Pratinas, and Choerilus in the seventieth
Olympiad (about 499 B.C.). In consequence, a new theater was constructed
in the precinct of Dionysus, where the seats, though still of wood, could
be supported in part by the south slope of the Acropolis. When the stone
theater on this site was first brought to light, it was erroneously
supposed that this was the structure which had been erected as a result
of the accident just mentioned. As a matter of fact, practically all
that remains of the first theater are certain fragments of the orchestra
(Figs. 33 f.).[136] These are sufficient to indicate that this orchestra
was over seventy-eight feet in diameter and stood nearly fifty feet
farther south than the later orchestra (Figs. 32 and 32_a_).[137] As it
receded from the Acropolis it was banked up to a maximum of about six and
a half feet, leaving a declivity immediately behind it. The extant plays
of this period show that for about thirty years no background of any kind
stood in this declivity (see p. 226, below). Theatrical properties, such
as a tomb, might be temporarily built at the center or to one side of
the orchestra. If dressing-rooms were then provided for the actors and
chorus they must have stood some distance away. In the absence of a back
scene, the performers could enter only at the sides. These same entrances
were used also by the spectators in assembling. The seats, being of
wood until the fourth century, have left no trace; but there can, of
course, be no doubt of their position on the slope. Well up the side an
ancient road cut the auditorium into an upper and lower section[138] and
permitted ingress and egress for the audience at two additional points.
The Athenian theater was somewhat unusual in having these upper entrances.
[Illustration: FIG. 32_a_.—Cross-Section of Precinct of Dionysus
Eleuthereus in Athens, Showing Later and Early Temples and Early and
Later Orchestras.
See p. 65, n. 2]
About 465 B.C., as the plays indicate,[139] a wooden scene-building
was set up behind the orchestra, where the declivity had been.[140]
The front of this was probably pierced by three doors, which might be
conventionally thought of as leading to as many different buildings,
and thus the number of entrances available for the actors’ use was more
than doubled. This seemingly simple alteration produced profound changes
in dramatic technique (see pp. 228-31, below). The scene-building of
this period must be thought of as quite unpretentious: its material
was wood, it probably consisted of but a single story, and I think it
had neither parascenia nor a columned proscenium (Fig. 74; see p. 235,
below). Its construction was flimsy enough for it to be capable of
being easily rebuilt or remodeled to meet the scenic requirements of
each drama, for of course it was not until long after the introduction
of a scenic background that the plays were uniformly laid before a
palace or temple. According to Aristotle, Sophocles was the inventor of
scene-painting, and this is also said to have been invented during the
lifetime of Aeschylus.[141] If these notices are correct, we must suppose
that scene-painting was invented in the decade ending in 458 B.C. and so
under theatrical conditions such as have just been described. This would
mean that at first the scenery must have been attached directly to the
scene-building itself and not inserted between the intercolumniations of
the proscenium columns.
The next building in the precinct seems to have been the later temple,
slightly south of the earlier one (Fig. 32). Its substructure was of
breccia (conglomerate), and its erection must be assigned to about the
last quarter of the fifth century B.C.[142] An image of Dionysus by
Alcamenes found its home here.
[Illustration: FIG. 35.—Outline of the Oldest Walls of the Scene-Building
in Athens
See p. 67, n. 2]
Of the same material are the foundations of the parascenia and of the
front and back walls of the scene-building (Fig. 35),[143] and perhaps
they are to be assigned to the same period as the temple which has just
been mentioned.[144] The superstructure was still of wood, since the
wide variation of scenic setting called for a background which could
readily be adapted to changing needs. It is likely that the ten square
holes in the rear foundation wall (Fig. 38) were intended to receive
the supporting beams of such an adjustable structure.[145] Probably
the scene-building now rose to a second story, a supposition which is
confirmed by the use of the crane or μηχανή (“machine”) in the extant
plays of this period (see pp. 289 and 292 f., below). At about the same
time a proscenium (also of wood) was erected before the parascenia
and the intermediate front of the scene-building (see pp. 235 f.,
below), and painted panels of scenery could be fastened between its
intercolumniations. In my opinion, we must suppose that such a proscenium
stood far enough removed from the front of the scene-building[146]
so that, when there was no occasion to fill the intercolumniations
with panels, a porch or portico was automatically produced (its floor
probably raised a step or two above the orchestra level), in which
semi-interior scenes might be enacted (see pp. 238 f., below). It has
even been maintained that a projecting vestibule was sometimes built out
from the center of the proscenium in order to provide additional space
of a semi-private sort (see pp. 236 f., below and Fig. 73). Of course,
no foundations for such a structure are found either at this period or
subsequently, for the reason that permanent foundations for something
which was only occasionally employed would have been unsightly and in
the way for the greater part of the time. No fragments belonging to the
orchestra of this period have been discovered (see next paragraph and p.
73). Moreover, the seating arrangements belong to the Lycurgus theater
of the next century. Fortunately, however, there can be no doubt as to
the relative position of these parts: it is apparent that the whole
theater has been pushed some fifty feet farther north (Fig. 32), and the
causes of this alteration are not hard to guess. In the first place,
room was thus secured for the scene-building without occupying the space
immediately in front of the earlier temple of Dionysus. In the second
place, the slope of the Acropolis could now be employed more extensively
as a support for the seats of the spectators. There are no means of
determining whether this slight change in site was made at this period or
about 465 B.C., when the first scene-building was erected.
[Illustration: FIG. 36
THEATER OF DIONYSUS IN ATHENS, LOOKING NORTH; CHOREGIC MONUMENT OF
THRASYLLUS IN THE BACKGROUND
_Copyright, Underwood & Underwood_]
[Illustration: FIG. 37
THEATER OF DIONYSUS IN ATHENS, LOOKING NORTH AND WEST
_Copyright, Underwood & Underwood_]
Slight as may seem the theater remains which have been discussed up to
this point, it must be noted before proceeding that they entirely exhaust
the field. There is not a stone outside of Athens which can be assigned
to any Greek theater before 400 B.C.[147] Yet all the plays of Aeschylus,
Sophocles, and Euripides, and all the extant comedies of Aristophanes,
except two, were performed before this date! In the latter half of the
fourth century Lycurgus, who was finance minister of Athens between
338 and 326 B.C., “completed”[148] the theater which is reproduced so
clearly in Dörpfeld’s plan (Fig. 32) that it is unnecessary to describe
it at length. Most of the stone remains now upon the site belong to
this structure. So far as the auditorium is preserved, its arrangements
and furnishings are almost entirely those of Lycurgus’ time. Most of
the inclosing walls, the stone thrones in the front row for the use of
dignitaries, and the stone seats for the rest of the audience all belong
to this period (Fig. 36). The only part of the present orchestra which
goes back to the fourth century is the gutter just inside the balustrade
(Fig. 37), but this is sufficient to show that the Lycurgus orchestra
was sixty-four feet and four inches in diameter or exactly sixty Greek
feet. This figure is significant as showing that the orchestra was the
starting-point in the measurements and not incidentally derived from
some other part of the theater. Behind the orchestra and upon the old
foundations was now erected a scene-building of stone, one hundred and
fifty-two feet in breadth and twenty-one feet deep at its shallowest
part. About its parascenia stood a row of stone columns, from which it
can be estimated that the first story was about thirteen feet in height.
But the stone connecting columns which Dörpfeld restored before the
central part of the scene-building (Fig. 32) have been assailed on every
hand and have now been relinquished by their sponsor.[149] This part of
the proscenium was still of wood, for though the scenic requirements
by this time were fairly standardized for each genre, the conventional
setting for tragedy was quite different from that for comedy or satyric
drama. Furthermore, the Greeks seem to have been slow to lose the notion
that a wooden background was necessary in order to secure the best
acoustic results.[150] This wooden proscenium probably did not stand so
close to the scene-building as the drawing would indicate, but formed a
portico as in the Hellenistic theater (Fig. 38). At the same time, or
possibly at the close of the fifth century, a colonnade was built just
behind the scene-building as a place of refuge from heat and sudden
showers. There are two considerations which make the Lycurgus theater
highly important to us: in the first place, here were produced the plays
of the Greek New Comedy which furnished the originals of Plautus’ and
Terence’s Latin plays and which has partially been restored to us by the
recent discovery of large fragments of Menander’s comedies; and in the
second place this fourth-century structure probably reproduced in stone
the main outlines of the earlier theater in which the later tragedies
of Sophocles and Euripides and all the plays of Aristophanes were
performed. This supposition is strengthened by the fact that the extant
fifth-century dramas could readily be “staged” in the Lycurgus theater.
Further alterations were made in the Athenian theater during the first
or second century B.C. (Fig. 38).[151] So far as can now be established,
this Hellenistic theater differed from its immediate predecessor only in
two particulars. The front of the parascenia was moved back about six
and a quarter feet,[152] the parodi being thereby enlarged to the same
extent. What advantage was gained by this alteration has not yet been
discovered. The other change consisted in the erection, at last, of a
stone proscenium, about thirteen feet in height, between the parascenia
and about six and a half feet in front of the central fore wall of the
scene-building. At Epidaurus, Eretria, Delos, etc., the supports of the
proscenium were only half-columns, and sometimes they had grooves or rims
running vertically along their sides or had the rear half of the column
cut into an oblong for the purpose of providing a firmer fastening for
the painted panels (πίνακες) in the intercolumniations (Fig. 72). But at
Athens the proscenium columns were whole and were not equipped with any
of these devices.
[Illustration: FIG. 38.—Ground Plan of the Hellenistic Theater in Athens
According to Dörpfeld.
See p. 70, n. 2]
We have already passed far beyond the time when masterpieces of Greek
drama were receiving their premier performances in the Athenian theater;
after the third century the dramatic productions in Attica were no longer
of consequence. Yet for the sake of completeness it will be necessary to
record briefly two later periods in the history of this structure.
The result of the earlier of these remodelments is commonly known
as Nero’s theater, for the reason that its façade originally bore an
inscription of dedication to Dionysus and Nero. The motive for the
alteration and dedication is doubtless to be found in the Emperor’s
visit to Greece and “artistic” triumphs there in 67 A.D. Under the
circumstances it is not surprising that two features of Roman theaters
were now for the first time introduced into Athens: a stage was built
before the scene-building, and the hitherto full orb of the orchestral
circle was thereby infringed upon. At the back of the stage rose a new
proscenium, probably no longer in the form of a straight and simple
colonnade but an elaborate façade with projecting and receding members,
such as was common in the Roman and Graeco-Roman theaters (Figs. 40 and
59). The depth of the stage cannot be exactly determined,[153] but its
front wall is usually thought to have coincided with that of the stage
now standing, which belongs to the next period. But we shall presently
find reasons for believing that, though the Nero stage was deeper than
the Hellenistic proscenium, it was shallower than the later (Phaedrus)
stage (see pp. 75 and 99, below). Space would thus be left for the parodi
still to lead directly into the orchestra. Dörpfeld first estimated the
height of the Neronian stage at about four feet nine and a half inches
(see next paragraph), but is now inclined to think that it belonged to
the high Graeco-Roman type.[154] In my judgment, however, his earlier
position is to be preferred. I consider it probable that stone steps led
from the orchestra to the center of the stage, as in the Phaedrus theater
(Fig. 40). Just outside the gutter of the Lycurgus theater was erected a
marble balustrade (Fig. 39),[155] which stood about three and a half feet
above the orchestra level and protected the spectators from accident when
gladiatorial combats (another Roman institution) or the like were being
exhibited in the orchestra. In order to compensate for the curtailment of
the orchestra by the stage, the gutter, which had been left open except
opposite the vertical aisles of the auditorium, was covered over, except
for occasional rosette-shaped openings. Up to this time the orchestra
seems to have had no covering but hard-pressed earth, but it was now
paved with marble slabs. In the middle of the pavement is a rhomboid
design (Fig. 40), and in its central block is a depression about twenty
inches in diameter, by means of which an altar of Dionysus (the thymele)
was doubtless held in place.
[Illustration: FIG. 39.—Nero Balustrade and Pavement, and Phaedrus Stage
of the Theater in Athens.
See p. 72, n. 3]
[Illustration: FIG. 41.—Frieze of the Phaedrus Stage in Athens.
See p. 74, n. 2]
[Illustration: FIG. 40.—Plan of the Romanized Theater in Athens According
to Dörpfeld
See p. 74, n. 1]
The final alterations in the Athenian theater (Fig. 40)[156] were made in
the third or fourth century A.D. by Phaedrus, governor of Attica (Ἀτθίδος
ἀρχός), who dedicated the “platform of the theater” (βῆμα θεήτρου) to
Dionysus in an inscription which still stands on the uppermost of the
stone steps leading from the orchestra to the stage. The gutter was
now filled up with earth and refuse, and the rosette-shaped openings
in its covering were carefully closed. Plaster was used as needed, and
the balustrade and the front wall of the stage (the hyposcenium) were
reinforced and made water-tight by supporting walls. The intention was
plainly to enable the orchestra to be flooded for the representation of
mimic sea fights. The stage was partially rebuilt and was lowered. The
hyposcenium was adorned with a frieze (Figs. 39 and 41),[157] the extant
portion of which is interrupted at three points by two blank spaces and a
recess. The latter is filled by a kneeling Silenus. It is clear that the
frieze had been used before and that its slabs had originally been placed
in immediate juxtaposition. Moreover, the heads of the figures have been
cut away, so that the frieze, when complete, must have been about half a
foot higher than at present. The Phaedrus stage is four feet three and
a half inches high; and as Dörpfeld was originally inclined to believe
that this same frieze had at first stood before the Neronian stage, he
estimated the height of the latter at about four feet nine and a half
inches. In my opinion, this estimate ought to be retained. But though
Dörpfeld now considers the Nero stage to have been higher than this, he
has not indicated whether he still believes its front wall to have been
the original position of the frieze.
It has been suggested that after the lapse of two centuries or more the
Neronian stage was perhaps in need of repair or renewal and that the
changes for which Phaedrus was responsible are thus to be explained.
However that may be, other influences were plainly at work. I think
that at this period the Athenian theater was at last thoroughly
Romanized. That is to say, I think that the Nero stage did not project
so far into the orchestra (see p. 72, above), but was now enlarged so
as to accommodate all the performances, and that at the same time the
Roman custom of placing seats in the orchestra was for the first time
introduced into Athens. But in order that the orchestra might find
occasional continuance of its function as a place of exhibition, or
possibly because of interest in the sport per se, all openings were
closed up and the old dancing place was made capable of being flooded. It
follows that the parodi no longer debouched into the orchestra but led to
steps at either side of the stage, as shown in Fig. 40. The participants
in the mimic sea fights and gladiatorial combats and the spectators at
other performances could enter the orchestra only by passing over the
stage and down the front steps. Of course, the presence of spectators
so close to the performers would permit no type of stage except one of
moderate height; evidently even the low Nero stage was a little too high
under these conditions.
[Illustration: FIG. 42.—Vitruvius’ _Theatrum Latinum_ According to
Dörpfeld
See p. 75, n. 1]
[Illustration: FIG. 43.—Vitruvius’ _Theatrum Graecorum_ According to
Dörpfeld
See p. 76, n. 2]
The foregoing account of the Athenian theater is founded, in the
main, upon Dörpfeld’s conclusions, but the reader needs to be warned
that not all of his conclusions are acceptable to everyone. Until
about half a century ago our information concerning Greek theaters
was largely restricted to literary tradition. There was no theater of
the earlier Greek types above ground, and even the exact location of
the Athenian theater had been, during many centuries, forgotten. The
literary tradition was mainly derived from Vitruvius, a Roman architect
at the beginning of the Christian era, who devoted two chapters of Book
V in his work _On Architecture_ to a description of Greek and Roman
theaters. According to him, the front and back walls of the Roman stage
were determined by the diameter of the orchestral circle and one side of
an inscribed equilateral triangle; in other words, its depth would be
one-half the radius of the orchestra (Fig. 42).[158] Its height was not
to exceed five feet,[159] since all the performers stood on the stage and
the unelevated front half of the orchestral circle was reserved for the
seats of senators. In the Greek theater, on the other hand, Vitruvius
asserted that the front wall of the stage was marked by one side of
an inscribed square, and its back wall, which he calls the _scaenae
frons_, by the parallel tangent, its depth being thus about three-tenths
of the radius (Fig. 43).[160] Its height was to range between ten and
twelve feet. Vitruvius expressly states that this stage in the Greek
theater was called a logium, that the tragic and comic actors performed
_in scaena_[161] and the “other artists” _per orchestram_, and that
for this reason the Greeks drew a distinction between the adjectives
“scenic” and “thymelic” as applied to performances and performers.[162]
The differences between the two types of structure are obvious: (1) the
auditorium and orchestra in Vitruvius’ Roman theater occupied exactly
a semicircumference, in his Greek theater distinctly more than this;
(2) the Roman stage was deep and low, the Greek high and comparatively
shallow; (3) in the Greek theater both orchestra and stage were employed
(separately) by different forms of entertainment; in the Roman theater
all performers stood on the stage and the semicircular orchestra was
occupied by the seats of senators.
Moreover, Pollux (second century A.D.) states that in the Greek theater
“the σκηνή belongs to the actors and the orchestra to the chorus.”[163]
Everyone used to think (and some still do) that σκηνή here signified
“stage” and that Vitruvius’ reference to _scaenici_ and _thymelici_ was
to be interpreted in a similar fashion. Accordingly, it was supposed
that Greek actors performed (and had always performed) upon a ten- or
twelve-foot Vitruvian stage and the dramatic chorus in the orchestra
below. Confirmation was found for this theory in Pollux’ further
mention of ladders rising from the orchestra to the σκηνή.[164] The use
of both orchestra and stage is mentioned a few times also in scholia
(ancient commentaries) upon the Greek plays. The possibility of other
interpretations of these passages will be considered later (see pp. 97
ff., below). For the present this should be said: We are interested in
the Greek theater mainly because of Aeschylus, Sophocles, Euripides,
and Aristophanes, all of whom lived in the fifth century B.C., and
Pollux and Vitruvius, who flourished many centuries later, nowhere
assert that they are attempting to describe the theater of this earlier
period. Nevertheless, this initial assumption used tacitly to be taken
for granted, and these Procrustean conditions were arbitrarily imposed
upon the extant Greek dramas by all editors and commentators alike.
As a matter of fact, such a difference of level between orchestra and
stage, chorus and actors, with no convenient connection between the
two, presented an insuperable obstacle to the (imaginary) “staging”
of the fifth-century plays. Various expedients were proposed to evade
the difficulty. One of the most popular was that of G. Hermann, who
in 1833 suggested that the Greek orchestra was covered with a wooden
platform to within a few feet of the stage level and that thus a more
intimate connection between the two was established, and Wieseler
(1847) proposed to identify this platform with the thymele. Nonsensical
as this suggestion appears to everyone without exception now, it
enjoyed a tremendous vogue for some time. In the eighties the news
began to seep through to Western Europe and this country that Dörpfeld
had evolved a new theory, to the effect that actors and chorus had
performed in the orchestra on the same level until Roman times.[165]
Again, Mr. A. E. Haigh (1889) maintained that a low stage was employed
uninterruptedly until the fourth century B.C., when a high Vitruvian
stage was introduced. Dr. Bethe (1896) contends that at first actors and
chorus performed in the orchestra but that about 427 B.C. a low stage
was introduced, which in the fourth century was raised to the Vitruvian
level. On the other hand, Dr. Puchstein (1901), who stated in his Preface
that he ignored the literary evidence, argued for a Vitruvian stage
already in the fifth century. And now Professor Fiechter (1914) has
given his adherence to Bethe’s hypothesis that a low stage at the end
of the fifth century was raised to a high one in the fourth. It will be
seen that all authorities are in substantial agreement that the Greek
theater had a stage, even a high Vitruvian stage, but they are hopelessly
divided with regard to the important detail as to when this stage was
introduced—at the very first, at the close of the fifth century, in the
time of Lycurgus, in the Hellenistic period, or in the reign of Nero.
But before taking up the question of the stage in the Greek theater,
it will first be necessary to determine Vitruvius’ relationship to the
matter. The Roman architect’s description of the Roman theater does
not coincide precisely with any extant Roman theater. Nevertheless,
there has never been any doubt as to the general type of structure
which he had in mind. It is evident, however, that he is describing no
particular, actually existent, theater but is giving directions for
an ideal structure. Indeed, he declares: “Whoever wishes to use these
directions will render the perfect qualities of theaters faultless.”[166]
There is, therefore, no reason to expect that his directions for Greek
theaters would agree any more closely with any extant Greek theater,
and in fact they do not. During the last two decades of the nineteenth
century the ancient theaters at Epidaurus, Oropus, Thoricus, Eretria,
Sicyon, Megalopolis, Delos, Assus, Pergamum, etc., were unearthed. The
first result of this activity was to show that no two of these structures
were entirely alike and that none exactly corresponded to Vitruvius’
directions. Furthermore, it has become evident that all ancient theaters
are no longer to be classified under the two general Vitruvian types,
“Greek” and “Roman,” but rather under a larger number of categories
according to time, place, and conditions of use. But the question which
one of these types Vitruvius had in mind still remains, and unfortunately
the answer has not been so clear as to compel everyone’s acceptance. In
Vitruvius’ day many Hellenistic, stageless theaters were still standing,
and the modern attempt to identify these with Vitruvius’ Greek type and
to force them into conformity with his prescriptions has wrought great
confusion in the field of scenic antiquities. But Vitruvius nowhere
professes to be writing a _history_ of Greek theaters nor had he any
intention of presenting antiquarian lore. His book was planned for
distinctly practical purposes. Now in his day only two kinds of new
theaters were being erected, the Roman and what Dörpfeld has christened
the Graeco-Roman.[167] Dörpfeld supposes the latter type to have
originated with the theater which Pompey had built in Rome in 55 B.C.
This is said to have been modeled upon the Greek theater at Mitylene in
the island of Lesbos,[168] and Dörpfeld supposes that the orchestra of
Pompey’s theater was kept free of seats, after the Greek fashion, and
devoted to thymelic performances, but that the top of the proscenium,
despite its height and narrowness, was converted into a stage, to which,
according to Roman practice, the comic and tragic actors were now
elevated. However this may be, the fact remains that from about this
time theaters of this type were so extensively built or created by a
remodeling of Hellenistic theaters that they became the only rivals of
purely Roman structures. Such theaters are found in the Nero theater at
Athens (according to Dörpfeld’s present but questionable view), Pompeii,
Segesta, Syracuse, Taormina, and extensively in Asia Minor. Early in the
nineteenth century Schönborn and Wieseler correctly recognized buildings
of this type as representing Vitruvius’ Greek theater.[169] But later
on, when the earlier Greek theaters were revealed by new excavations
at Athens and elsewhere, an attempt was made to identify these with
Vitruvius’ Greek type. Dörpfeld himself fell into this error and in _Das
griechische Theater_ maintained that Vitruvius had misunderstood the
function of the Hellenistic proscenium, interpreting as a stage what in
fact was only a background. But though Dörpfeld thus incurred a large
share of blame for confusing the situation, he soon came to recognize his
error and frankly recanted.[170] Unhappily the pro-stage writers still
persist in it.
It might be supposed that Vitruvius’ Greek theater could readily be
identified by comparing his directions for the height and depth of the
stage with the actual measurements of various Greek theaters. Dörpfeld
and Fiechter have both attempted this but without any great success.[171]
For the sake of convenience and clearness I have drawn up their figures
in the form of tables. Dörpfeld cited six Graeco-Roman structures
as affirmative arguments and two Hellenistic buildings as negative
arguments. Of course, the figures for the Hellenistic theaters refer
to the proscenium, in which some would recognize a stage. The problem,
therefore, is not merely as to what type of Greek theater Vitruvius was
describing, but the function of the proscenium in Hellenistic theaters is
also involved. On the other hand, Fiechter, whose object is diametrically
opposed to Dörpfeld’s, cites four Hellenistic and six Graeco-Roman
theaters as positive and negative arguments respectively.
TABLE I (Dörpfeld)
==============+=========+============+==============+================
Buildings |Radius of|Three-tenths|Depth of Stage|Height of Stage
|Orchestra| of Radius |or Proscenium | or Proscenium
--------------+---------+------------+--------------+----------------
Graeco-Roman: | | | |
Termessus |11.00 m. | 3.30 m. | about 4.00 m.| 2.45 m.
Sagalassus |12.75 m. | 3.80 m. | 5.70 m. | 2.77 m.
Patara |11.85 m. | 3.55 m. | 3.50 m. | 2.50 m.
Myra |17.50 m. | 5.20 m. | 3.50 m. |
Tralles | | | | about 3.00 m.
Magnesia | | | |
(rebuilt) | | | |at least 2.30 m.
Hellenistic: | | | |
Eretria | | | 2.40 m. |
Oropus | | | 1.95 m. |
--------------+---------+------------+--------------+----------------
TABLE II (Fiechter)
==============+=========+============+============+===========+==========
| |From Center | | |
| |of Orchestra| | Depth of |Height of
Buildings |Radius of|to _Scaenae |Three-tenths| Stage or | Stage or
|Orchestra| Frons_ | of Radius |Proscenium |Proscenium
--------------+---------+------------+------------+-----------+----------
Hellenistic: | | | | |
Priene | 9.32 m. | 9.31 m. | 2.79 m. | 2.74 m. | 2.72 m.
Ephesus |12.33 m. | 12.25 m. | 3.69 m. | | 2.62 m.
Delos | about | 10.60 m. | 3.16 m. | 3.60 m. | 3.00 m.
|10.55 m. | | | |
Magnesia | | | | | more than
| | | | | 2.30 m.
Graeco-Roman: | | | | |
Termessus | 9.90 m. | 12.60 m. | 2.97 m. |4.00-5.5 m.|
Sagalassus |12.73 m. | 17.94 m. | 3.80 m. | 7.54 m. | 2.77 m.
Patara |11.85 m. | 14.50 m. | 3.55 m. | 6.00 m. | 2.50 m.
Tralles |13.20 m. | | 3.96 m. | 6.50 m. | at least
| | | | | 2.50 m.
Magnesia |10.65 m. | | 3.20 m. | 6.00 m. | more than
(rebuilt) | | | | | 2.30 m.
Ephesus |14.47 m. | 12.50 m. | 4.34 m. | 6.00- | 2.62 m.
(rebuilt) | | | | 9.00 m. |
--------------+---------+------------+------------+-----------+----------
It will be observed that five theaters appear in both tables, and
that for three of them the figures do not altogether agree. This is
to be explained as due to differences in the manner of taking the
measurements. Thus, for Termessus, Fiechter gives for the depth 4 m.
(Dörpfeld’s figure) and 5.5 m. Similarly, for Ephesus he gives 6 m.
and 9 m., and explains that the former does not include the socle
projections. Evidently Fiechter still believes that the _scaenae frons_
in Vitruvius’ description of the Greek theater ran behind the proscenium
and did not include it (see p. 76, n. 2, above). The same difference
of interpretation probably accounts for 6 m. (Fiechter) and 3.50 m.
(Dörpfeld) being reported as the depth of the stage at Patara.
A similar opportunity for variance of measurement occurs also in
connection with the orchestra. In my opinion, Vitruvius used this term in
its broadest sense, viz., as including all the space between the lowest
tier of seats[172] (Fig. 43). Fiechter’s measurement of the Hellenistic
orchestra at Priene is given on this basis. Sometimes, however, the term
is used with reference to the space bounded by the gutter.[173] Fiechter
states that this was his method in measuring the Hellenistic orchestras
at Ephesus and Delos. The discrepancy in the reports concerning the
orchestra at Termessus (9.90 m. and 11 m.) is also to be explained thus.
But whatever allowance may be made for variations of this sort, I think
that whoever impartially examines these figures with the expectation
of obtaining a clear answer to the problem involved will be doomed to
disappointment. Vitruvius’ Greek stage should range between ten and
twelve feet (Roman) in height, or 2.959 m. and 3.55 m., respectively.
Only one Graeco-Roman stage and one Hellenistic proscenium in both tables
fall within these limits.[174] On the other hand, though Dörpfeld is
clearly right in maintaining that the proscenia at Eretria and Oropus
are too shallow to accommodate the entire histrionic action of a play,
Fiechter makes it appear that Vitruvius’ rule that the stage of the Greek
theater should be about three-tenths of the orchestra radius in depth
is satisfied more closely by the Hellenistic proscenium than by the
Graeco-Roman stage. It should be emphasized, however, that he obtains
this result only by shifting the value of the word “orchestra,” taking it
now in the largest and now in a narrower sense.
Fiechter has tried to utilize Vitruvius’ diagram still further by
pointing out that in Vitruvius’ Greek theater the distance from the
center of the orchestra to the front wall of the stage (the hyposcenium)
plus the depth of the stage, i.e., the distance from the center of the
orchestra to the _scaenae frons_, ought to equal one radius (Fig. 43).
The figures in the first two columns of his table apparently show that
this condition is met by the Hellenistic theaters and is not met by the
Graeco-Roman theaters. But here again we encounter a variable quantity
caused by a dispute as to whether the proscenium is to be counted a part
of the _scaenae frons_ (see above). In the Patara theater the distance
from the center of the orchestra to the hyposcenium is 8.50 m. (14.50 m.
- 6.00 m., Fiechter’s figures), and the depth of the stage according to
Dörpfeld, who measures from the proscenium, is 3.50 m. Therefore, the
total distance is 12 m. as against a radius of 11.85 m. Again, in the
Termessus theater the distance from the center of the orchestra to the
hyposcenium is 7.10 m. (12.60 m. - 5.50 m., Fiechter’s figures), and the
depth of the stage is 4 m. according to Dörpfeld, measuring as before.
Therefore, the total distance is 11.10 m. as against a radius of 11 m.
according to the largest (Vitruvian) measure of the orchestra. These
correspondences are close enough so as not to be unworthy of comparison
with those obtained by Fiechter.
In my opinion, the net result of the above must be the frank recognition
that such data concerning the Greek theaters as are at present known to
us do not afford convincing proof as to the type which Vitruvius was
describing. Nor need this conclusion surprise us, if we accept Dörpfeld’s
theory that Pompey’s theater was the first example of the Graeco-Roman
type. We have no information concerning the Mitylene theater, upon which
Pompey’s building was modeled, nor concerning the number or extent
of its departures from that model. But any theater in Asia Minor at
that time must have belonged to the Hellenistic type. Consequently,
a certain resemblance between Hellenistic and Graeco-Roman theaters
was inevitable. If Vitruvius was describing an old type, viz., the
Hellenistic, its variations in regard to the particulars just discussed
must have been too great for him to be able to find any single formula
which would comprehend them all, and he had to content himself with
recording a theoretical ideal. Or if he was describing a contemporaneous
but developing type, viz., the Graeco-Roman, we must suppose that his
authority was not sufficient to secure the adoption of his rules by later
architects.
Are we, then, unable to determine which type of Greek theater was the
subject of Vitruvius’ discussion? I think that we can, but that we must
depend upon other arguments. I mention a few of the many which have
been advanced: (_a_) In the Hellenistic and earlier Greek theaters the
orchestra, in the narrowest sense (see p. 83, n. 2, above), usually
formed a complete circle, or at least, if its boundary was not actually
continued into a complete circle, there was room for one without
infringing upon the proscenium. Examples of this are found at Epidaurus
(Fig. 46), Athens (Fig. 38), Eretria (Fig. 53), Oropus (Fig. 56),
Magnesia, Piraeus, etc. Fiechter denies this (_op. cit._, p. 65), but
only because he chooses to understand the word “orchestra” in a larger
sense. Now though Vitruvius used the term in the largest sense (measured
from the lowest seats, see p. 83, above) he nowhere informs us what
relative size the most restricted orchestra should or might have as
compared with the largest space passing under that name.[175] But his
directions require the stage to intrude so far upon his orchestra that
it is apparent that, if the same proportions were to be observed as in
the Hellenistic theaters, there could be no such full orchestra with a
smaller diameter. This is also true of Graeco-Roman structures, and in
this important respect they resemble Vitruvius’ Greek theater and the
Hellenistic theaters do not.
_b_) The logium of Graeco-Roman theaters is never supported by columns
along its front wall. The only exception to this statement is found at
Priene (Figs. 63 f.), where the columns of the Hellenistic proscenium
were left standing when the theater was remodeled. The reason why columns
were not set in this place is obvious—the floor of the Graeco-Roman stage
naturally was thought of as representing earth or a street and it was
manifestly improper for either to be supported on columns.[176] On the
contrary, so fundamental an aesthetic principle would have been violated
if the actors had regularly appeared upon the top of the Hellenistic
proscenium. But there is no doubt that Vitruvius’ Greek theater had a
stage for actors. It is, therefore, more likely that this corresponds
to the Graeco-Roman logium than to the colonnade-like proscenium of the
Hellenistic theaters. Moreover, the columns of the Hellenistic proscenia
were in some cases unmistakably equipped to hold painted panels. But if
the actors had stood on top of the Hellenistic proscenium, this scenery
would have been beneath their feet and not behind them!
_c_) Vitruvius discussed the _theatrum Latinum_ in chapter 6 of his fifth
book and his _theatrum Graecorum_ in chapter 7. The former chapter is
longer than the latter by more than a half, and the latter begins with
these words: “In the theaters of the Greeks not all things are to be done
in the same way” (as in the Roman theaters). The implication is plain
that some of the directions in chapter 6 are to be understood as applying
also to the Greek theater of chapter 7, and of course the particulars
involved would be those which are not modified by the discussion in
chapter 7. One of these is the injunction that, for acoustic reasons, the
roof of the portico at the top of the auditorium shall be of the same
height as the scene-building (v. 6. 4). The scene-building is never built
so high as this in Hellenistic theaters, but the rule is often observed
in Graeco-Roman and purely Roman theaters.[177]
Dörpfeld has advanced several other arguments bearing upon this
problem,[178] but in my opinion those just mentioned are sufficient. Now
if Vitruvius’ Greek theater is to be identified with the Graeco-Roman
structures dating from just before the beginning of the Christian era,
it becomes impossible to cite Vitruvius in support of a stage or the use
of the proscenium as a stage in Greek theaters of Hellenistic or earlier
times. It will be necessary, therefore, to turn back to the fifth century
and examine without prejudice the conflicting claims with reference to
the presence or absence of a stage at that period. Our discussion of
the extant theatrical remains of that century has already made it plain
that there is nothing in them which can be employed to prove that there
was a stage for the exclusive use of actors. But fortunately the paucity
of such evidence is compensated for by the preservation of forty-odd
tragedies and comedies of this period. A leading by-product of the stage
controversy has been the recognition of the fact that these plays are
not only to be taken into consideration together with other evidence
but that they must be the final test of all theories based on evidence
drawn from other sources. If a given theory will not permit these plays
to be “staged” easily and naturally, that theory _ipso facto_ falls to
the ground. As von Wilamowitz wrote: “Von dem, was in den Stücken selbst
steht, lässt sich nichts abdingen.”[179] Whatever judgment may ultimately
be formulated with respect to Dörpfeld’s contributions to scenic
antiquities, one of his principal achievements must ever be recognized
as the minute, searching, and unprejudiced re-examination of the plays
themselves which he provoked.
An illuminating exemplification of the use that may be made of the
plays in the study of such problems has been given by Professor Edward
Capps.[180] He showed that if chorus and actors be thought of as
separated by a clearly marked line such as the edge of a ten-foot stage
would afford, the action of the forty-four extant dramas requires the
chorus alone to pass over this boundary at least sixty-eight times, the
chorus and actors together nine times, and the actors alone thirty-nine
times. Actors and chorus are repeatedly brought into the closest possible
contact. For example, in Euripides’ _Iphigenia among the Taurians_, vss.
1068-70, Iphigenia appeals to each member of the chorus in turn, touching
the hand of one and the chin and knees of another, begging for their help.
[Illustration: FIG. 44.—Movements of the Actors in Aristophanes’ _Frogs_,
vss. 1-460]
Again, the incidents of many plays come into harmony with theatrical
conditions only if we suppose that there was no stage. Perhaps the best
and clearest illustration of this is afforded by Aristophanes’ _Frogs_
(405 B.C.). Xanthias and Dionysus, engaged in conversation, enter the
orchestra at one of the side entrances (Fig. 44_a_). At vs. 35 the latter
calls attention to the nearest of the three doors in the proscenium,
saying: “I am already near this door where I must turn in.” It transpires
that this is the house of Heracles (Fig. 44_b_), and Dionysus’ knock
brings his brother in person to the door. From him they receive
directions for their trip to the lower world—that first they will come
to a large lake which they must cross in a tiny boat, then they will see
perjurers, thieves, and criminals of the deepest dye, and finally will be
received by happy bands of initiates (the chorus), who “dwell alongside
the very road at the doors of Pluto” (vss. 162 f.). Scarcely have they
left Heracles’ door when they behold a trundle-boat pushed from the
opposite parodus into the orchestra (_CC′_) and hear Charon’s “Yo-heigh,
Yo-ho” (vs. 180). He approaches the edge of the orchestra where they now
stand, but when they prepare to embark Charon refuses to receive a slave
on board and poor Xanthias is ordered to run around the lake (_C′C″D_;
vs. 193). Meanwhile Dionysus and Charon direct their boat across the
orchestra (_C′D_) to where, in the center of the front row of seats, the
priest of Dionysus and other functionaries always sat (Fig. 45);[181]
and from behind the scenes, to accompany their rowing, the choreutae
sing a “frog” chorus as if from the bottom of the lake (vss. 209-69).
Upon disembarking (at _D_) Dionysus calls for his slave and catches his
faint reply as he comes into sight (!) from his “arduous” trip around
the orchestra’s semicircumference. Xanthias now points out to his master
the perjurers, etc., in the nearby audience (vs. 275). Presently they
are badly frightened and Dionysus appeals to his priest, who is within
arm’s length of him, to protect him (vs. 297). Now the sound of flutes
is heard and the chorus of initiates enter. Dionysus and Xanthias crouch
down, where they are, to listen (vs. 315). Immediately the orchestra,
which has just been a subterranean lake, is changed to the imagination
into a flowery meadow (vss. 326, 351, etc.). At vs. 431 Dionysus starts
up from his lurking-place and inquires of the chorus, “Could you tell
us where Pluto dwells hereabouts?” and the coryphaeus promptly replies:
“Know that you have come to the very door” (vs. 436). Dionysus orders his
slave to pick up the baggage, walks across the orchestra (_DE_), and raps
at the central door (_E_), which represents the palace of Pluto (vss. 460
ff.). We need continue no further, for the remainder of the play contains
nothing that is noteworthy for our present purpose; but it is already
evident how closely the successive situations of the comedy correspond
to the physical conditions and arrangements of a stageless theater. To
those who would apply Vitruvius’ account to the fifth-century theater,
this play presents ineluctable difficulties; there is insufficient room
for Charon’s boat on a Vitruvian or any other kind of a Greek stage,
Dionysus must appeal to his priest who is some eighty feet away,[182]
Xanthias has no lake to run around, and Dionysus must inquire the way to
Pluto’s palace when he would be standing considerably nearer to it than
the chorus.
[Illustration: FIG. 45
STONE CHAIR OF THE PRIEST OF DIONYSUS OPPOSITE THE CENTER OF THE
ORCHESTRA IN ATHENS
See p. 90, n. 1]
It was a convention in the earlier fifth-century plays that if the chorus
and one actor were before the audience, an incoming actor should speak
first to the chorus and ignore the other actor for the time being (see
pp. 165 f., below). This convention was oftentimes extremely awkward and
unnatural; but if both actors had stood on a stage several feet above the
chorus it surely would have been altogether impossible.[183]
The only tangible argument for a stage of any height in the fifth
century is afforded by the occurrence of the words ἀναβαίνειν (“to
ascend”) in Aristophanes’ _Acharnians_ (vs. 732), _Knights_ (vs. 149),
and _Wasps_ (vs. 1342), and καταβαίνειν (“to descend”) in his _Wasps_
(vs. 1514) and _Women in Council_ (vs. 1152). All of these plays, except
the last, were performed prior to Aristophanes’ _Frogs_, which we have
already seen to be incapable of presentation in a staged theater. In my
opinion, then, these words are best explained on the basis of the slight
difference in level between the orchestra and the floor of the proscenium
colonnade, which was probably elevated a step or two above the orchestra
and was often used by the dramatic performers (see p. 68, above, and pp.
238 f., below).[184] Since the _Acharnians_ was produced in 425 B.C.,
the appearance of ἀναβαίνειν in that play is valuable as affording a
_terminus ante quem_ for the introduction of a wooden proscenium at
Athens.
The chorus of the fifth-century plays is fatal to any suggestion of a
Vitruvian stage, and except Puchstein, who frankly ignored the literary
evidence, no recent writer has advocated a high stage for the theater of
that period. The advocates of a high stage have clearly seen that they
can make headway only by the sacrifice of the dramatic chorus. They are
assisted in this attempt by the fact that only three complete plays of
the fourth century are extant, the pseudo-Euripidean _Rhesus_ and two
comedies of Aristophanes, and that the rôle of the chorus in the latter
happens to be curtailed. Aristotle,[185] also, speaks of irrelevant
_embolima_ in the work of Agathon, who won his first victory in 416 B.C.
From these facts it has been declared that at the close of the fifth
century or early in the fourth the chorus was either given up altogether
or “its functions were merely those of the modern band” or “of mere
interlude-singers.” Accordingly, it has been argued that the actors at
the end of the fifth century stood upon a low stage (which for the kind
of plays then exhibited was only less impracticable than a Vitruvian
stage) and that they were suddenly elevated to the full height of the
proscenium before the close of the fourth century. It must be added that
even among those who accept Dörpfeld’s theory for the fifth century
there is a tendency to go over to Vitruvius for the period represented
by the Lycurgus theater at Athens and by the theater at Epidaurus—the
last quarter of the fourth century.[186] So far as Vitruvius himself is
involved in this, the matter has already been disposed of. The alleged
disappearance or waning of the chorus, however, furnishes no better
ground of support for pro-stage writers. To trace the history of the
chorus in detail will not be feasible at this point.[187] It will be
sufficient to state that there is no reason to believe that the tragic
chorus failed to participate in the action or to bear a respectable share
of the spoken lines until Roman times. Even in New Comedy, in which the
chorus is now known to have appeared only for the _entr’actes_, its
on-coming is often used to motivate the withdrawal of the actors. Such a
motivation could scarcely have become common if the actors stood so far
above the choreutae as to be safe from their drunken words and acts.[188]
Another argument in favor of a stage has been drawn from the phrases
ἐπὶ τῆς σκηνῆς and ἀπὸ τῆς σκηνῆς, which occur in two fourth-century
authors, Aristotle and Demosthenes.[189] It has been claimed that ἐπί
“naturally means ‘on’ and implies elevation” and that σκηνή means
“stage.” If this exegesis were correct, there could be no doubt as to
the presence of a stage in the fourth-century theater; but as a matter
of fact neither claim is warranted. Everyone would concede that the
primary, untechnical meaning of σκηνή is “hut” or “tent,” and that the
word was applied to the scene-building, which was erected back of the
orchestra and which came to be increasingly substantial in construction.
Though the term acquired a variety of other theatrical meanings, I
agree with those who maintain that at no period did it mean “stage”
in classical Greek. It is manifestly impossible to discuss the matter
here, but I shall presently have occasion to show that even in Pollux,
who lived in the second century A.D., it had not gained this meaning
(see p. 98, below). If σκηνή does not mean “stage,” it is unnecessary
to argue that ἐπί does not mean “on,” for actors could speak from the
porch or from between the columns of the proscenium, and so could be said
to speak “from the scene-building” (ἀπὸ τῆς σκηνῆς) or to be standing
“on the scene-building” (ἐπὶ τῆς σκηνῆς) without being “on top of the
scene-building.” Just so the teachings of the Stoic philosophers are
referred to as οἱ ἀπὸ τῆς στοᾶς λόγοι[190] without any implication that
the Stoics spoke from a platform, let alone from the top of the stoa.
Nevertheless, it is a fact that ἐπί does not always mean “on.” For
example, Diodorus and Plutarch both employ ἐπὶ σκηνῆς in a non-technical
sense with reference to an occurrence “before” or “at the quarters” of a
commander. And Lucian’s metamorphosed ass was mortified at being shown to
be a thief and glutton “before his master” (ἐπὶ τοῦ δεσπότου)[191]—surely
there was no superposition there. Such passages, however, come from later
Greek, when the prepositions were less clear-cut in meaning, and it is
better, as Professor Gildersleeve has suggested[192], to “repose quietly
on the phraseological use of ἐπί; ‘on the playhouse side’ is all the
Dörpfeld theory demands.”
This being the theoretical situation with regard to the original
meaning of ἐπὶ τῆς σκηνῆς, it is important to observe that already
in its fourth-century usage the phrase was employed vaguely, often
meaning little more than “in the theater” or “in a play.” In fact, in
one Aristotelian passage, as frequently in later writers, it clearly
includes both chorus and actors within its scope. “We ought, therefore,
to represent the marvelous in tragedy, but in epic there is greater room
for the improbable (by which the marvelous is most often brought to pass)
on account of our not actually beholding the characters. For example,
Achilles’ pursuit of Hector, if enacted in a play (ἐπὶ τῆς σκηνῆς), would
appear absurd—the Greeks (οἱ μὲν) standing still instead of joining in
the pursuit and Achilles (ὁ δ’) motioning them back—but in epic verse
the absurdity escapes notice.”[193] It is evident that Aristotle was
thinking of Homer’s _Iliad_ xxii, vss. 205 f.: “But Achilles shook his
head to the people in refusal and did not permit them to cast their
sharp weapons at Hector,” and was trying to show why a scene that was
excellent in an epic could not be dramatized with success. In Homer
there are two groups of characters: (_a_) Achilles and Hector, and (_b_)
the Greek army. In Aristotle’s imaginary dramatization of the incident
these groups are represented by the actors (ὁ δέ) and the chorus (οἱ
μέν), respectively. Consequently, if σκηνή here means an elevated stage,
chorus as well as actors must have stood thereon. Nor did the incongruity
consist in the mere position of the chorus inactive in the orchestra
and the actors running on the stage, but in the action itself, since
the action is equally irrational in the epic (where orchestra and stage
assuredly play no part) but is there more tolerable because the scene is
not distinctly visualized. I do not insist upon σκηνή here meaning “play”
or “performance,” though that is a frequent use and gives the indefinite
sense required; but at least until this passage can be shown capable
of another interpretation, believers in a stage cannot fairly cite
Aristotle’s use of ἐπὶ τῆς σκηνῆς in support of their opinion.
But though ἐπὶ (ἀπὸ) τῆς σκηνῆς was broad enough to comprise both
chorus and actors, it naturally did not always include them both.
Particularly, if it were desired to distinguish between the two kinds of
dramatic performers, since οἱ ἐπὶ (ἀπὸ) τῆς θυμέλης could be used of the
dithyrambic choruses and other “thymelic” (i.e., orchestral) performers,
and could not possibly be applied to the actors, that phrase would
naturally be used to designate the dramatic chorus as well, and οἱ ἐπὶ
(ἀπὸ) τῆς σκηνῆς would be used in the restricted sense for the actors
alone, even in opposition to the dramatic chorus. This was especially
common in the case of οἱ ἀπὸ σκηνῆς, doubtless because the scene-building
was thought of as the home of the characters “from” which they came, as
the choreutae, whether dramatic or dithyrambic, did not. Thus, a lyrical
duet between the dramatic chorus and the actors (a _commus_—κομμός) is
defined as a “dirge shared by the χοροῦ καὶ <τῶν> ἀπὸ σκηνῆς.”[194] But
neither the original meaning of ἐπὶ (ἀπὸ) τῆς σκηνῆς nor this secondary
development which brought it into opposition to the thymelic performers
and even to the dramatic choreutae presupposes a raised stage for the
exclusive use of actors, still less requires that σκηνή should have meant
“stage.”
Now οἱ ἐπὶ (ἀπὸ) τῆς σκηνῆς and οἱ ἐπὶ (ἀπὸ) τῆς θυμέλης are exactly
equivalent to the more common expressions οἱ σκηνικοί and οἱ θυμελικοί.
For example, Euripides is called both ὁ ἐπὶ τῆς σκηνῆς φιλόσοφος and
_philosophus scaenicus_.[195] The relationship is an obvious one, but
is worth noting because one of Bethe’s pupils has made σκηνικός and
θυμελικός the basis of an attempt to prove the existence of a stage in
the fourth-century theater at Athens. But since the earlier expressions
ἐπὶ (ἀπὸ) τῆς σκηνῆς and ἐπὶ (ἀπὸ) τῆς θυμέλης were used with the same
distinctions of meaning but without presupposing a stage, there is
obviously no need of one to explain the later expressions. Moreover, Dr.
Frei is guilty of an egregious _petitio principii_: he first accepts
Bethe’s hypothesis that the Lycurgus theater had a stage and consequently
concludes that the distinction between σκηνικός and θυμελικός must be
explained on the basis of difference in the place of performance there,
and then uses these conclusions to prove a stage at that period.[196] All
attempts to forge a pro-stage argument out of any of these expressions
must be pronounced a failure. But of course in the Roman era, after most
Greek theaters had been provided with a raised stage, the differentiation
between ἐπὶ (ἀπὸ) τῆς σκηνῆς and σκηνικός, on the one hand, and ἐπὶ (ἀπὸ)
τῆς θυμέλης and θυμελικός, on the other, became doubly appropriate,
because the difference in levels now reinforced a distinction which had
already existed without it.
Vitruvius, of course, made no philological or archaeological study of
the two adjectives but explained them in terms of the theater which
was known to him (see pp. 76 f., above). It should be noted, however,
that Vitruvius mentions only the tragic and comic actors under the term
_scaenici_ and includes under _thymelici_ “the other artists” who perform
in the orchestra. Does the dramatic chorus belong among the latter? Or
is it simply ignored here? The answer is far from certain. If we were
dealing only with new plays, it is conceivable that the choruses were
so detached from the histrionic action as to be able to stand ten or
twelve feet below the actors. But it is well known that some of the
fifth-century tragedies were still popular and frequently acted; and
as we have already seen, they were not amenable to any such method of
staging. In revivals of early masterpieces, then, did all the performers,
actors and chorus alike, appear in the orchestra, as in the old Greek
theaters? Or was the chorus so reduced in size, and its manner of
performance so altered, that it could stand with the actors on the high
and narrow Graeco-Roman stage, as they all certainly did on the low and
broad Roman stage? It is impossible to determine. All that can truthfully
be said is that Vitruvius does not clearly indicate the place of the
dramatic chorus in the Graeco-Roman theater. My own opinion is that he
is speaking of two distinct types of performance and is ignoring the
dramatic chorus.
The same question arises in connection with Pollux. He catalogues
eleven parts of a theater. Of these, only six concern us at present:
σκηνή, orchestra, logium, proscenium, parascenia, and hyposcenium (IV,
123). Dörpfeld thinks that Pollux is describing the Greek Hellenistic
theater,[197] but Pollux was for many years a professor at Athens
and dedicated his work to the emperor Commodus (161-92 A.D.). Unless
his language prevents it, it is more natural to suppose that he had
the Athenian structure of his own day in mind, and this would be the
Nero theater. In that case, every term falls into place. For the Nero
theater logium could refer to the stage alone; and as there would be
no sense in Pollux mentioning two words for stage, and since no other
term for scene-building as a whole (including logium, proscenium, and
parascenia) appears in his list, σκηνή must still mean scene-building
and not stage. Pollux then proceeds to say that “the scene-building
belongs to the actors and the orchestra to the chorus,” and a little
later that “entering at the orchestra they mount to the scene-building
on ladders (steps?).”[198] Believing that Pollux is describing the
Hellenistic theater, Dörpfeld interprets the first of these passages much
as Aristotle’s use of ἐπὶ (ἀπὸ) τῆς σκηνῆς has just been explained. The
second passage he considers a reference to some such unusual incident
as occurs in Aristophanes’ _Clouds_, where an actor is bidden to climb
(from the orchestra) by means of a ladder to the housetop (i.e., to the
top of the scene-building) and destroy the roof.[199] There is much
merit in this explanation, and it is not necessarily inconsistent with
a belief that Pollux is in general dealing with the contemporaneous
theater; such learned digressions occur not infrequently in his text.
Nevertheless, since stone steps leading from the orchestra to the stage
of the scene-building are a part of the Phaedrus theater at Athens, it is
not improbable that they belonged also to the Nero stage, if, as Dörpfeld
first thought, this was only about six inches higher than the present
stage (see p. 74, above). On the other hand, the pro-stage writers boldly
cite these passages in support of their views and as if they pertained
to the earlier periods of the theater’s history. But though Pollux is
probably discussing a theater with a stage, σκηνή does not mean stage in
these two sentences any more than in his catalogue of theater parts; and
his testimony, however it is to be interpreted, should not be applied to
fifth- and fourth-century conditions unless confirmatory evidence for so
doing can be produced from these periods. Now the last of these sentences
from Pollux concludes a discussion of the conventional significance of
the parodi in the ancient theater (see p. 233, below). In my opinion,
the Nero stage, though much deeper than the Hellenistic proscenium, was
shallow enough so that the parodi still led directly into the orchestra.
In that case, when the characters entered by either parodus, as they
would when they were thought of as coming from the market place, harbor,
or country, they would have to pass through the orchestra first and
mount from there upon the stage by means of the steps, exactly as Pollux
says. Furthermore, if actors could traverse this route it must have been
available also for the chorus. In other words, although at this period
the orchestra was the exclusive sphere of the dithyrambic choruses and
other thymelic performers and was the normal place for the dramatic
chorus, and though the actors regularly stood upon the stage, yet both
the actors and the dramatic chorus appeared in either orchestra or stage
according to the requirements of the plays. It must be understood,
however, that this manner of staging was confined to the Nero theater
at Athens; the stage of the Graeco-Roman theaters and the proscenium of
the Hellenistic theaters were too high to make it feasible, and in the
purely Roman theaters all performers appeared upon the stage. But why is
it permissible to accept a low stage for the Nero theater and reject it
for the fifth century? In the first place, the stage in Roman times is
attested by incontrovertible evidence, both literary and archaeological,
but for the fifth century it rests upon pure hypothesis. In the second
place, there is no reason to believe that the Athenian chorus in Roman
times was brought into actual contact with the tragic actors or had to
pass to their place of action so frequently as in fifth-century drama
(see p. 88, above).
There is still another sentence in Pollux which needs to be discussed.
He declares that “the hyposcenium is adorned with columns and sculptured
figures turned toward the audience, and it lies beneath (ὑπό) the
logium.”[200] There is no doubt as to the general position of the
hyposcenium—it is the room[201] immediately behind the orchestra and
on the same level—but there is a division of opinion as to the type
of theater which had one and as to its function. In accordance with
his belief that Pollux is describing the Hellenistic theater, Dörpfeld
understands it as the first story of the scene-building in a theater
of this type.[202] The columns and statuary would then refer to the
proscenium just in front of it and to the figures which were sometimes
placed in the intercolumniations thereof. In Hellenistic theaters
Dörpfeld believes the top of the proscenium to have been used by speakers
in the public assemblies and for that reason to have been known as a
logium (see p. 59, n. 1, above); the hyposcenium, of course, lay on a
lower level. Pollux’ statement could not refer to a theater with a stage
because the wall beneath the front of the stage was not decorated with
columns or statuary (see p. 86, above), the proscenium now being raised
one story and appearing at the back of the stage. On the contrary, the
pro-stage writers maintain that Pollux refers to the space under a stage.
In this instance I agree with them as against Dörpfeld, though I would
not look upon Pollux’ statement as applying to the theaters before his
own day. Accepting Dörpfeld’s opinion that the Hellenistic theaters had
no stage, I think that the first story of their scene-buildings had no
special name and that the term “hyposcenium” had not yet come into use;
Pollux, however, is referring to the space under the stage in the Nero
theater. The front of this was probably adorned with the same frieze as
now stands before the Phaedrus stage, and we may not dogmatically assert
that no columns stood there as well.[203] The Athens theater was inclined
to be _sui generis_ at all periods, and these would not be the only
particulars in which the Nero theater differed from the Graeco-Roman type.
There remains for discussion a passage in Plutarch. It concerns an
episode in the career of Demetrius Poliorcetes (337-283 B.C.) and has
been thought to refer to the theater of his day. But a study has been
made of Plutarch’s practice in such matters and it has been found
that many times he deliberately sought vividness of presentation by
modernizing his accounts and picturing his scenes amid the familiar
surroundings of contemporaneous life; in other words, the references to
the theater in connection with his anecdotes never presuppose any other
type of building than the stage-equipped buildings of his own day, and
in several instances this method resulted in patent anachronisms. One
example will suffice.[204] Plutarch declares that Lycurgus, the Spartan
lawgiver of about the ninth century B.C., believed that the minds of
assemblymen were distracted by “statues and paintings or the proscenia
of theaters or the extravagantly wrought roofs of council chambers,” and
so caused the Spartans to hold their assemblies in an open space. The
author has here modernized his account in two particulars: he speaks as
if Lycurgus were familiar with a fully developed theater building and as
if it had already come to be used, elsewhere in Greece, as a place of
meeting for the popular assembly. Of course, Lycurgus antedated the Greek
drama and all but the crudest forms of choral performances by centuries,
and this fact was as well known to Plutarch as it is to us.
[Illustration: FIG. 46.—Plan of the Theater at Epidaurus in Argolis
See p. 104, n. 1]
Now Plutarch says[205] that “Demetrius came into the city (Athens)
and ordered the entire population to be assembled into the theater and
hedged in the scene-building (σκηνήν) on every side with troops and
surrounded the stage (λογεῖον) with guards, and himself descending
(καταβάς), like the tragic actors, through the upper parodi (διὰ τῶν
ἄνω παρόδων) he ended their fears with his very first words.” In my
opinion, the word καταβάς (“descending”) clearly shows that λογεῖον
means “stage.” The “upper parodi,” then, must be the passages opening
upon the logium from the parascenia. As Plutarch visualized the scene
and wished his readers to do so, Demetrius came out upon the stage from
one of the side entrances but did not address the people from there, as
an orator of Plutarch’s own day would have done.[206] Instead, in his
desire to show the Athenians his good-will he passed on down the central
steps, as Plutarch had often seen the actors do in that theater (see p.
99, above), and addressed the assemblage from the orchestra. Since he
could have passed through only one side entrance, the plural (παρόδων)
must be due to a sort of zeugma, to imply that he came through one upper
parodus and one upper entrance, viz., the central steps. The pro-stage
writers who seek to apply Plutarch’s words to the Lycurgus theater in
which the incident really happened, and who use them as an argument for
a stage at that period, are forced to ignore the word καταβάς, for they
cannot allow that “tragic actors” regularly descended from the Lycurgus
proscenium into the orchestra. If we go back of Plutarch’s words and
inquire what Demetrius actually did in the Lycurgus theater, the answer
is plain: he simply advanced from the scene-building into the orchestra,
and expressions consistent with this must have appeared in the source
from which Plutarch derived his account. In fact, in describing a similar
scene at Corinth, Plutarch retained words which are vague enough to be
applicable to either type of theater.[207] He has simply modernized one
account and brought over the other unchanged.
The zenith of Attic drama had passed by, entirely for tragedy and
almost so for comedy, before the remains of theaters outside of Athens
become frequent.[208] Nevertheless, these sometimes aid materially in
reconstructing or interpreting the Athenian theater, and it will be
necessary to dwell briefly upon a few of them. Perhaps the earliest and
most primitive is found at Thoricus in southern Attica (Figs. 70 f.).
This was built in the fifth or fourth century B.C. and was subsequently
enlarged somewhat. The orchestra is oblong rather than circular, being
bounded at one side by a temple, at the other side by a greenroom or
storage chamber, and at the rear by a retaining wall. There is no reason
to believe that a permanent scene-building was ever erected behind the
orchestra. It is apparent that this structure has several points of
resemblance to the Athenian theater of the period between _ca._ 499 B.C.
and _ca._ 465 B.C. (see pp. 65 f., above).
The most symmetrical of all the Greek theaters and one of the best
preserved is that at Epidaurus (Figs. 46-52 and 72, 2).[209] Its
architect was the younger Polyclitus, and it was built toward the
close of the fourth century B.C. If we are right in believing that the
proscenium was not used as a stage, then the Epidaurus theater never had
a stage. At any rate, it was not rebuilt and provided with one in Roman
times. In the center of the orchestra stands a block of stone with a
circular cavity, doubtless the foundation of the thymele. There is not
only space for the full circle of the orchestra (in the narrowest sense;
see p. 83, n. 2) but the bounding stones are actually continued for the
full distance. The stone proscenium, containing half-columns (Fig. 72,
2) of the Ionic order and once eleven feet seven inches or about twelve
Roman feet in height, was erected in the second or third century B.C.
and replaced a wooden proscenium. The parascenia were rebuilt at the
same time and seem originally to have been broader and to have projected
farther from the scene-building. In either parodus stood a handsome
double gateway (Figs. 49 and 51 f.), one door of which led into the
orchestra and the other opened upon a ramp, somewhat sharply inclined,
which debouched on the top of the proscenium. Ramps are found also in the
Sicyon theater.
THE THEATER AT EPIDAURUS
See p. 104, n. 1
[Illustration: FIG. 47.—The Auditorium from the North]
[Illustration: FIG. 48.—Orchestra and Scene-Building from the South]
[Illustration: FIG. 49.—The West Parodus]
[Illustration: FIG. 50.—The East Parodus]
[Illustration: FIG. 51.—The Gateway in the West Parodus]
[Illustration: FIG. 52.—Looking through the West Parodus]
[Illustration: FIG. 53.—Ground Plan of the Theater at Eretria in Euboea
See p. 104, n. 2]
[Illustration: FIG. 54.—Cross-Section of the Theater at Eretria
See p. 104, n. 2]
The theater at Eretria, on the west coast of Euboea, is not only
one of the earliest but also presents several unusual features (Figs.
53-55 and 72).[210] It falls into three periods. The old scene-building
was erected early in the fourth century B.C. A later scene-building was
erected in front of the other about 300 B.C. The white marble proscenium
belongs to the first century B.C. or later. The precinct of Dionysus
at Eretria was situated on level ground, and this fact necessitated
different arrangements than were feasible on the usual hillside site.
The highest ground in Fig. 55 shows the original level on which the
first scene-building, orchestra, and auditorium were erected (Fig. 54).
This scene-building was of the common type with projecting parascenia
between which the proscenium must have been constructed of wood. The
seats at this period apparently were wooden bleachers like the ἴκρια
of the primitive orchestra in the old market place at Athens (see pp.
63 f., above); and when they proved unsatisfactory, it seemed easier
to excavate the center of the area than to throw up a mound around
it. Accordingly, earth to a depth of ten and a half feet was removed
to form a new orchestra somewhat north of the old one. In order that
the old scene-building might not have to be taken down or lose its
serviceability, the earth just in front of it was left standing and
was held in place by a retaining wall. Over this space was built a new
scene-building, really only an episcenium. Communication between the
old level and the new was secured by means of a vaulted passageway and
stone steps. Before the retaining wall stood a wooden proscenium, the
top of which doubtless continued the floor of the scene-buildings at the
original ground level. The boundary of the orchestra (in the narrowest
sense) stopped at the semicircumference, but there was sufficient room
before the proscenium for the complete circle. A tunnel, six and a
half feet high and three feet wide and with stone steps at either end,
led from behind the proscenium to the center of the orchestra. Such an
arrangement is probably what Pollux referred to as “Charon’s steps”[211]
and was convenient when an actor was to make an appearance from the
earth or, like the ghost of Darius in Aeschylus’ _Persians_, from some
structure which might temporarily be erected in the orchestra. Somewhat
similar passages have been found in several other theaters, including
Athens, but because of their size or other considerations seem not to
have been used by actors. The downward pitch of the parodus, owing to
the excavations, is clearly seen in Fig. 55. The marble proscenium is
thought to have been about eleven and a half feet high and was supported
by rimmed columns (Fig. 72, 1_b_). The parascenia did not project from
this but merely continued the line of the proscenium, as in many of the
Asia Minor theaters. Traces of tracks for the wheels of an eccyclema (see
pp. 284 ff., below) are said to have been found in this theater on a
level with the logium,[212] but the stones have now disappeared and their
purpose is not free from doubt.
[Illustration: FIG. 55.—The Theater at Eretria as Seen from the Northwest
See p. 104, n. 2]
[Illustration: FIG. 57.—The Scene-Building of the Theater at Oropus
See p. 108, n. 1]
Inscriptions in the island of Delos[213] show that contractors received
payment for a scene-building and proscenium in 290 B.C. Panels (πίνακες)
for the proscenium are mentioned in 282 B.C. Wood for the “logium of
the scene-building” was paid for in 279 B.C. Extensive repairs and
improvements seem to have been carried through in 274 B.C. Stone was
provided for the parascenium in 269 B.C. Wood was used for “panels for
the logium” in 180 B.C. These were probably used to close large openings
in the episcenium (see the θυρώματα at Oropus on p. 109, below). Most
of these entries refer to wooden construction and antedate the extant
remains in stone. There is no orchestra in the more restricted sense, but
a gutter extends for about two-thirds of a circumference. If prolonged,
this would just reach the front wall of the scene-building but would have
a large segment subtended by the proscenium. The scene-building is an
oblong with three doors in front and one in the rear. It is bounded on
all four sides by a portico about nine and a third feet high. The front
of this formed the proscenium, and it is clear that what was an ornament
and certainly not a stage on the other three sides was primarily an
ornament and certainly not a stage also on the fourth side. The oblong
pillars, which were left plain on the other three sides of the building,
on this side have their front surfaces rounded off into half-columns,
and a vertical rim expedited the insertion of panels (Fig. 72, 3). There
were no parascenia in the stone theater except as these were provided by
the ends of the side porticos. The inscriptions, however, would seem to
indicate that the situation had previously been different. From the front
corners of the colonnade slanting doorways extended across the parodi. In
the orchestra several bases stand in front of the proscenium, probably
for the erection of statues or votive offerings.
There are theaters also at Delphi (Fig. 26), Megalopolis (Figs. 27 and
72, 1_a_), and Sicyon, but it is not possible to discuss every theater
on the Greek mainland. We must not, however, pass by the small theater
at Oropus in northern Attica (Figs. 56 f. and 72, 4).[214] It stood in
the precinct of Amphiaraus and dates from the first and second centuries
B.C. The auditorium is almost completely destroyed; evidently the seats
were always wooden bleachers. Five marble thrones, however, stand within
the orchestra, an unusual arrangement which recurs at Priene (see p. 113,
below). Another peculiarity is that no orchestra, in the narrowest sense,
is marked out, either in whole or in part. But if a circle is drawn
through the seats of honor, as has been done in Fig. 56, it falls just
outside the proscenium. On the contrary, a circle as determined by the
lowest row of seats cuts into the proscenium slightly. The parodi have
been banked up so that their outer entrances are on a level with the top
of the proscenium. The chief merit of this theater consists in the fact
that the superior preservation of its scene-building and the presence
of two inscriptions enable us to form a fairly clear picture of how a
proscenium and an episcenium looked at this period. The front wall of
the scene-building is pierced by one door; the side walls are continued
so as to frame the proscenium but themselves turn sharply back along the
parodi without forming projecting parascenia. The proscenium consisted
of Doric half-columns and was eight and a quarter feet high. Its central
intercolumniation was intended to be filled by a door, but the four on
either side were so made as to be readily filled in with painted panels
(Fig. 72, 4). Across the architrave ran an inscription: “... having been
agonothete, dedicated the proscenium and the panels.” Another inscription
ran along the top of the episcenium: “... having been priest, dedicated
the scene-building and the doors.”[215] The last item refers to five
(or three) large openings in the front wall of the episcenium. Similar
doors are found at Ephesus, and they were doubtless used in connection
with the crane (μηχανή, see pp. 67 f., above, and p. 289, below). All in
all, Oropus contributes very materially to our knowledge of the ancient
theater.
[Illustration: FIG. 56.—Ground Plan of the Theater at Oropus in Attica
See p. 108, n. 1]
[Illustration: FIG. 58.—Ground Plan of the Graeco-Roman Theater at
Termessus
See p. 110, n. 1]
Beginning with the first century B.C. the only kind of Greek theater
which was newly built was what Dörpfeld calls the Graeco-Roman type, cf.
the theaters at Termessus (Fig. 58)[216] and Aspendus in Asia Minor.
During this period several Hellenistic theaters (e.g., those at Priene,
Magnesia, Tralles, Pergamum [Fig. 28], Athens [?], Syracuse, Pompeii,
etc.) were remodeled to the Graeco-Roman type. That this is a Greek and
not a Roman form of theater is proved by the fact that its orchestra,
though no longer a complete circle, yet exceeded a semicircumference
(see p. 77, above). These theaters had a stage varying from eight to
ten feet in height and from eleven and a half to twenty in depth. The
scene-buildings were of three stories—hyposcenium, logium, and theologium
(Fig. 24). The first presented to the spectator an undecorated wall
with doors leading into the orchestra; the second was terminated by a
proscenium with columns and statues. The proscenium was seldom so simple
as in the earlier theaters but was an ornamental façade with projections
and recesses (Fig. 59), which added materially to the area of the stage.
[Illustration: FIG. 59.—The Proscenium of the Graeco-Roman Theater at
Ephesus
See p. 111, n. 2]
[Illustration: FIG. 64.—The Theater at Priene as Seen from the Southeast
See p. 113, n. 1]
Hellenistic theaters could be remodeled either (_a_) by building a new
(undecorated) wall in front of the old proscenium and roofing the two
over to form a stage or (_b_) by moving back the front wall of the
scene-building slightly and constructing a stage between this and the
old proscenium.[217] In either case, a new (decorated) proscenium would
be erected at the back of the stage. In the latter case, the columns
of the old proscenium would either be removed and a blank surface
built in their stead or they would be walled up. As already explained
(see p. 86, above) this was done because the floor of the stage was
thought of as representing earth or a street. At Priene (Fig. 64) the
Hellenistic columns were left standing, but this is the sole instance of
a Graeco-Roman hyposcenium having columns.
Method (_a_) is illustrated at Ephesus (Figs. 24 and 59-62),[218] where
the first permanent scene-building was built about 300 B.C. (Fig. 60).
The dotted lines show the position of the stone proscenium, eight and
a half feet high and nine feet ten inches deep, which was erected in
the first century B.C. (Fig. 61). There were no parascenia. The seven
openings (θυρώματα) in the episcenium furnish an interesting parallel to
the five at Oropus (see p. 109, above). In the last half of the first
century A.D. this structure was converted into a Graeco-Roman type
(Figs. 24 and 62). The new logium was left of the same height as the old
proscenium, but was made nearly twenty feet deep; and at certain points
this depth received a considerable accession from the recesses of the
new proscenium (Fig. 59). These changes were made at the expense of the
orchestra, which derived some compensation from the fact that several
rows of the lowest seats were removed; as a result the orchestra became a
sort of pit (Fig. 24). The hyposcenium was plain and was pierced by three
doors leading into the orchestra. The top story of the proscenium in Fig.
59 was not added until the third century A.D.
[Illustration: FIG. 60.—Ground Plan of the Early Hellenistic Theater at
Ephesus
See p. 111, n. 2]
[Illustration: FIG. 61.—The Later Hellenistic Theater at Ephesus: Above,
Elevation of Proscenium and Episcenium; Below, Ground Plan of Proscenium
and Parodi.
See p. 111, n. 2]
Method (_b_) was employed at Priene (Figs. 63 f.).[219] This theater
enjoys the distinction of being the only one in which an altar was
found, and this was not situated in the center of the orchestra, as
the foundations at Athens and Epidaurus would seem to indicate was the
case there, but on its circumference. Seats of honor were placed in
the orchestra, as at Oropus (see p. 108, above); but in Roman times
new seats for dignitaries were erected in the center of the fifth
row of seats (Fig. 63). The proscenium was of the same age as the
scene-building and belongs to the third century B.C. At the Graeco-Roman
rebuilding the columns of this proscenium were left standing, but the
intercolumniations, except the three which served as doors, were walled
up. The front wall of the Hellenistic episcenium was torn down and a
new proscenium was built about six and a half feet farther back (see
cross-hatched wall in Fig. 63).
[Illustration: FIG. 62.—Ground Plan of the Graeco-Roman Theater at Ephesus
See p. 111, n. 2]
The height of the Graeco-Roman stage as compared with the low Roman
stage was partly due to convenience in remodeling when it was kept at
the same figure as the earlier proscenium, but mostly to the conditions
of exhibition.[220] The Greeks did not, like the Romans, sit in their
orchestras. Choral and musical competitions still were held there, as
well as such Roman sports as gladiatorial and animal combats. It was
necessary, therefore, that the orchestra should be accessible from the
hyposcenium, and the doors could scarcely be lower than six and a half or
seven feet. Accordingly, the stage could hardly be less than eight feet
high.
[Illustration: FIG. 63.—Ground Plan and Cross-Section of the Theater at
Priene
See p. 113, n. 1]
But the seats of honor in Greek theaters had always been in the lowest
tier (nearest the orchestra), and from there the view of dramatic
performances, when presented upon an eight- or ten-foot stage, would be
seriously obstructed.[221] Usually when such theaters were remodeled,
as at Ephesus, Assus, Pergamum, and Delphi, enough tiers were removed
so that the lowest seats would be only about five feet below the stage
level. The orchestra thus became like a pit and was inclosed with
vertical walls (Fig. 24). At Side the space from which seats had been
removed was built over with a six-foot wall, which was especially
suitable in view of the gladiatorial and animal fights of Roman times.
Where the auditorium was not altered, as at Priene and Magnesia, it is
supposed that the lowest seats were unoccupied at dramatic performances,
but were put to use, as the best places, at orchestral sports and
contests.
As to the function of the dramatic chorus in the period of the
Graeco-Roman theaters, especially in Asia Minor, we have little
information. Nevertheless, it is necessary to consider the question.
Already in Hellenistic (New) Comedy the chorus appeared only between acts
(see p. 147, below). It is possible that by this time it had disappeared
entirely or that it was so detached that, though the comic actors stood
on a stage, the _entr’actes_ could be given in the orchestra, or that its
numbers were so reduced (see p. 135, below) that it could perform upon
a Graeco-Roman stage—in any case, the chorus in contemporaneous comedy
is negligible. The number of the tragic choreutae had probably been
reduced also (see p. 134, below). But what is still more significant is
that, if the fragments of Roman drama are any criterion[222], the tragic
choruses had abandoned the strophic responsions of the old Greek tragedy,
and this means the abandonment of the complicated evolutions which had
carried the chorus over the full expanse of the ancient orchestra. It
was quite feasible for a small chorus which sang astrophic odes, spoke
through its coryphaeus, and danced in a restricted fashion to appear
upon a Graeco-Roman stage with the actors, to be closely connected with
the plot, and even to participate in the action. As to the reproduction
of old plays, the situation was not especially different. Fifth-century
comedies were probably never repeated at this period. New Comedy, as we
have just seen, would present little difficulty. As to old tragedies,
the choral parts could be excised _ad libitum_ or sung on the stage by
a reduced chorus without dancing (or at least without evolutions). It
will be remembered that I do not accept Dörpfeld’s opinion that the Nero
stage at Athens was of the Graeco-Roman type. Accordingly, I believe that
different physical conditions and the glory of their traditions kept up
a livelier interest in the dramatic chorus at Athens than elsewhere and
still retained the Athenian orchestra as the normal place of activity for
the dramatic choreutae (see p. 99, above).
The foregoing account shows that there are many points of dispute with
regard to the Greek theater and many points concerning which no one can
do aught but guess. In closing, let me repeat that we are interested in
the Greek theater mainly because of the Greek drama and that the extant
pieces belong almost exclusively to the fifth century B.C. Now for that
century the irreducible minimum, as shown by the plays themselves, is
that there can have been no place, elevated much or little, which was
reserved exclusively for the actors.
In the case of the drama the religious origin and the
persisting religious meaning are self-evident. Performed at a
festival of Dionysus, beside his temple, in the presence of
his altar and his priest, tragedy and comedy are the natural
response to that Greek demand for the enrichment of worship by
art.—ARTHUR FAIRBANKS.
CHAPTER I
THE INFLUENCE OF RELIGIOUS ORIGIN[223]
If a modern theatergoer could be suddenly set down in ancient Athens,
perhaps one of the first things to surprise him would be the discovery
that he could not have recourse to his favorite recreation any day
that he might choose. Of course, this situation resulted from the
fact that ancient drama was connected with religion, was part of some
god’s worship, and as such could be presented only at the time of his
festivals. This patron deity was uniformly Dionysus (Bacchus), god of
wine, for the reason that tragedy and satyric drama were offshoots of
the Dionysiac dithyramb (see pp. 2-4 and 6 f., above) and that the
_comus_ (κῶμος), from which comedy had developed (see p. 36, above) had
a meaning and function similar to those of certain rites of Dionysus
and in the course of time was brought into connection with his worship.
At Athens, Dionysus had several festivals, but only two at which plays
were performed, viz., the City Dionysia and the Lenaea. Thanks to the
labors of many scholars and the finding of additional inscriptional
evidence our information concerning these occasions, though still far
from complete, is somewhat less scanty than it has been.[224] At the
City Dionysia tragedy dated from 534 B.C., while comedy was not given
official recognition there until 486 B.C. Though the Lenaea was the older
festival, its dramatic features were later, comedy being added about 442
B.C. and tragedy about 433 B.C. It ought to be stated, however, that
at both festivals there had been volunteer, unofficial performances of
primitive comedy (κῶμοι) prior to the dates just given, when the state
took them under its formal protection. The comus was introduced into the
Lenaean festival between 580 B.C. and 560 B.C., and into the program of
the City Dionysia about 501 B.C. (see p. 24).
Now if our imaginary modern visitor to ancient Athens chanced to
be somewhat acquainted with the history of mediaeval drama, he would
probably surmise that the close connection between Greek drama and
religious festivals would result in the plays being performed in temples,
just as mysteries and miracle plays were originally presented in the
churches. But in this he would be much mistaken. There is a fundamental
difference in function between a Greek temple and a Christian church.
The latter is primarily intended as a place for congregational worship,
and its size and interior arrangements are chosen accordingly. On the
other hand, the temple was pre-eminently thought of as the earthly abode
of some divinity; it was, therefore, uniformly too small to accommodate
any considerable crowd, neither was its interior well adapted for that
purpose. In the second place, the worshipers at an ancient shrine were
not more or less rigidly restricted to a list of members with their
more intimate relatives, neighbors, and friends, as is the case with
a Protestant church today. In most cases, any free-born citizen would
feel as free to worship at any particular temple or to take part in its
festivals as could any other citizen, and on no infrequent occasions
practically the whole body of citizens was present. In fact, so important
was it deemed that everyone should attend the dramatic festivals that
toward the end of the fifth century it was provided that whoever felt
unable to pay the daily admission fee of two obols[225] should, upon
application, receive a grant for this purpose from the state. “The
whole city kept holiday, and gave itself up to pleasure, and to the
worship of the wine-god. Business was abandoned; the law-courts were
closed; distraints for debt were forbidden during the continuance of
the festival; even prisoners were released from jail, to enable them to
share in the common festivities.”[226] Boys and slaves were admitted, if
their fathers or their masters were willing to pay their way. It seems,
though the evidence is inconclusive,[227] that despite the oriental-like
seclusion of Greek households even women and girls might attend. They
certainly participated in the ceremonies of the first day. Plato and
Aristotle favored restricting the attendance, but their views seem to
have had no effect. Thus, children and respectable women who would have
invited divorce by being present at real scenes of that character were
allowed to witness the indecencies of satyric drama and Old Comedy and
to listen to the broadest of jokes. Such is the power of religious
conservatism.
[Illustration: FIG. 65
A “WAGON-SHIP” OF DIONYSUS AND PROCESSIONAL UPON AN ATTIC SKYPHOS IN
BOLOGNA OF ABOUT 500 B.C.
See p. 121, n. 2]
From these considerations it follows that the attendance upon the
dramatic performances was enormous, and that the use of temples to
accommodate the spectators was entirely out of the question. Therefore it
became necessary to provide a separate structure, which in fourth-century
Athens could seat as many as seventeen thousand. From this fact arose the
further necessity for an annual procession, in order to escort the statue
of Dionysus from his temple to his theater. Since the two buildings were
situated in the same precinct on the south slope of the Acropolis and
within a few feet of each other (Figs. 29 and 32), there was no need
of the processional ceremony being other than a very simple one. As a
matter of fact, from the spectacular standpoint this was one of the most
splendid features of the festival and consumed the whole first day. It
has been claimed that several Attic vases, dating from the close of the
sixth century B.C. and depicting the “wagon-ship” of Dionysus, give a
hint as to the character of this part of the City Dionysia (Fig. 65).[228]
The car is drawn by two men representing attendant sprites of Dionysus.
The tip of the long equine tail of one of them is clearly indicated.
In the car are two other sprites, whether sileni or satyrs, playing on
flutes, and the god himself is seated between them. Alongside of the
sacrificial bull are two citizens standing. Farther forward are two
youths with branches (θαλλοφόροι), then a youth with a censer, another
with a basket (κανηφόρος), and finally, at the head of the procession, a
boy who is perhaps to be regarded as a trumpeter. Whatever relationship
may subsist between such vase paintings and contemporaneous drama (see p.
20, above) the entire free population, from the chief magistrate of the
city (the archon eponymus) down, participated in the procession at the
City Dionysia and took the god’s statue by stages from his temple to a
point near the Academy on the road to Eleutherae (Fig. 2). This direction
was chosen because, as the Athenian god’s cognomen of Eleuthereus shows,
this image and its cult were supposed to have been introduced from this
town on Attica’s northern border (see p. 21 and n. 3, above) and because
the return of the processional was intended to imitate the final portion
of the original entry. After the remainder of the day had been spent
in rites and festivities the procession escorted the sacred relic back
to its precinct by torchlight and placed it near the orchestra in the
theater, where it remained during the rest of the festival. Thus the
god was supposed to have witnessed every play presented at the City
Dionysia from 534 B.C. on, and it is as a connoisseur and critic of wide
experience that he is appointed to judge between the rival claims of
Aeschylus and Euripides in Aristophanes’ _Frogs_, vss. 810 f. Our English
and Protestant ideas concerning the nature of a religious ceremony are
only too likely to give us a misleading conception of the whole festival
and especially of its first day. The _festa_ of some popular saint in
Southern Europe, who demands the veneration of his people and yet is
broad-minded enough to enter into the spirit of the occasion and is not
offended even by being made the subject of rollicking jests, would afford
a far better parallel, and even this falls short. Drunkenness combined
with the darkness at the close of the day’s proceedings to intensify
the license natural on such an occasion. Children born as the result of
chance meetings at these annually recurring processions are frequently
mentioned in New Comedy and often motivate the action.[229]
Nevertheless, the religious character of these festivals and of the
dramatic exhibitions connected with them was a very real thing to the
Greeks, and everyone in attendance would fully realize that he was
present at no secular proceeding. To a mediaeval spectator of miracle
plays and mysteries this feeling would seem perfectly natural, but it
would be another occasion of surprise to a modern visitor. Already in
Elizabethan times Shakespeare could assure his audience: “Our true
intent is all for your delight.” So exclusively is this now the motive
of theatrical performances that we seldom think of the theater as a
place for the inculcation of religious truths or for teaching the facts
of religious history. It follows that the subject-matter of Greek drama
was drawn from their mythology as inevitably and uniformly as the text
of a modern sermon is drawn from the Bible. In fact, freedom of choice
was originally still more restricted. Whether tragedy was derived from
satyric drama and satyric drama from the dithyramb or whether, as I
believe, both tragedy and satyric drama were independent offshoots of
the dithyramb (see pp. 2-4), this remains true—the early dithyramb was
exclusively devoted to the exaltation of Dionysus, and in consequence the
themes of tragedy and of satyric drama were likewise, at the beginning,
entirely Dionysiac. By the time of Thespis or soon thereafter (see pp.
20 f., above) tragedy broadened out so as to treat any mythological
theme. Of the thirty-two extant Greek tragedies Dionysus appears in only
one, Euripides’ _Bacchanals_, and even in that he is disguised during
most of the play. But the playwrights were not content to stop at this
point. Phrynichus, who was a pupil of Thespis and won his first victory
in 511 B.C., introduced the innovation of dramatizing contemporaneous
history. In 494 B.C. the Persians captured and destroyed the Ionic city
of Miletus. Shortly thereafter Phrynichus treated this subject in a
tragedy. Though it moved the Athenians to tears, they were so indignant
at being reminded of the misfortunes of their kinsmen that they fined
the poet one thousand drachmae. Undeterred by this rebuff, however, in
476 B.C. Phrynichus brought out his _Phoenician Women_, dealing with
the Persian invasion of Greece in 480-479 B.C. This play served as a
model for Aeschylus’ _Persians_ (472 B.C.) on the same subject. But by
laying the scenes of these plays in Asia Minor or Persia the dramatists
gained remoteness of place instead of the usual remoteness of time. As
Racine[230] wrote on a similar occasion: “The general public makes hardly
any distinction between that which is removed from them by a thousand
years or by a thousand leagues.” A still further innovation was made
toward the close of the fifth century by Agathon, in whose _Antheus_ both
incidents and character names were entirely fictitious. A very similar
development can be traced in mediaeval times. Originally the gospel story
was the theme, then subordinate incidents of Scripture, then the lives of
saints since Bible times, then allegorical tales, etc.
But in practice Greek tragedians did not avail themselves of their
liberty. Agathon’s innovation was not followed up; and though the Greeks
did not sharply differentiate mythology and history,[231] they did not
take kindly to the treatment of contemporary events in tragedy. The
three plays above mentioned exhaust the instances at Athens. Even in
mythological subjects experimentation soon led them to confine themselves
to the stories of a few houses—to the misfortunes of Oedipus, Orestes,
Meleager, Thyestes, etc. This tendency is illustrated by the fact that
three of the extant tragedies, Aeschylus’ _Libation-Bearers_, Sophocles’
_Electra_, and Euripides’ play of the same name, ring the changes upon
the same topic. Since almost every playwright of consequence would
turn his hand to these oft-tried themes, the only chance of success
necessarily lay in improving upon the dramatic technique and the
elaboration of character and plot already displayed by one’s rivals.
As Aristotle wrote,[232] each poet was expected “to surpass that which
was the strong point of each of his predecessors.” We are therefore
not surprised to learn from the same source that in his day the finest
tragedies were based upon these hackneyed subjects. Furthermore, the
practice is commended by so high a modern authority as Goethe: “If I were
to begin my artistic life over again, I should never deal with a new
story. I should always invest the old stories with new and more vital
meanings.”
The poets’ choice of tragic themes from traditional mythology does
not mean that their material was rigid and intractable. They enjoyed
entire freedom to revamp the old tales, by invention, alteration, or
suppression, in order to suit their own purposes. Here again the practice
of the mediaeval playwrights, though more restricted to minor matters,
affords the best clue. On the other hand, the fact that most spectators
knew at least the general outline of his plot in advance allowed the
ancient dramatist to introduce numerous subtleties that are quite beyond
the reach of modern playwrights (see pp. 315 f., below). It is true, as
Aristotle[233] warns us, that “even the known stories were known only to
a few.” Nevertheless, the more intelligent in the audience would always
be well informed, and of the oft-repeated tragic themes even the most
stupid could hardly remain in ignorance.
In the case of satyric drama the situation was naturally somewhat
different. Whatever the relationship between the dithyramb, satyr-play,
and tragedy, the fact remains that the satyr-play was placed in the
program of the City Dionysia largely as a concession to the Dionysiac
element. Consequently, Bacchic themes were retained in the satyric drama
long after they had been abandoned by tragedy. Even so, it did not
take long to develop a secondary stage in which the Dionysiac element
is practically restricted to the appearance of Bacchus’ attendant
sprites, the chorus of satyrs, who are harshly superimposed upon some
non-Dionysiac subject. Until recently our direct information concerning
the satyr-play was derived solely from Euripides’ _Cyclops_, the only
extant representative of this genre, but now the major portion of
another, _The Trackers (Ichneutae)_ by Sophocles, has been revealed to
us.[234] Both in the _Cyclops_ and now in the _Trackers_ the Bacchic
element is restricted to Silenus and the chorus of satyrs, and Dionysus
himself figures only as he is appealed to or mentioned in the choral
odes or episodes. How generally Bacchus was omitted from his own special
brand of play we have no means of knowing, but it was inevitable that
this should not be a rare occurrence. The myths in which the wine-god
could appropriately appear in person must soon have been exhausted; and
the playwrights, more concerned in producing an interesting performance
than in maintaining an outworn custom, would yearn to exercise in this
field the same freedom that they had already won for themselves in the
composition of tragedies. Even in the two plays now before us the new
wine is fairly bursting the seams of the old wineskins. In the _Cyclops_,
Silenus and his children are joined to the story of Odysseus’ adventures
in Polyphemus’ cave, in which neither earlier mythology nor rhyme or
adequate reason had vouchsafed them a place. Their presence is explained
by the statement that they had set sail in search of Dionysus, after
learning that he had been seized by pirates, were shipwrecked near Mt.
Aetna, and enslaved by the Cyclops (vss. 11 ff.). The situation in
the _Trackers_ is still more forced. The play deals with the theft of
Apollo’s cattle by the infant Hermes. Upon the offer of a reward, the
satyrs turn detectives in order to track down the stolen beasts. Thus it
will be seen that in both plays the Dionysiac element is a mechanical,
extraneous feature in the plot. It is not surprising that the dramatic
poets should chafe under the limitations of so clumsy a compromise.[235]
Yet again, in the case of comedy the situation was still different. The
embryonic form of comedy, the comus, was originally intended by a sort
of sympathetic magic to superinduce friendly powers and to expel malign
spirits, and involved neither plot, unity of theme, nor fiction. When
these features were introduced, they were influenced by mature tragedy
and by the Sicilian mime, which had already reached a high stage of
development (see pp. 36 f. and 46-52, above). As a result, though comedy
had become as much a part of Dionysiac worship as was tragedy or satyric
drama, it did not go through a stage of Bacchic or semi-Bacchic themes,
but passed at once to fictitious subjects. The difference between tragedy
and comedy in this regard is clearly indicated by Antiphanes, a poet of
Middle Comedy:[236]
Tragedy is a happy creation in every respect, since the
audience knows the plot before ever a word has been spoken. The
tragic poet needs only to awaken their memories. If I barely
mention Oedipus, they know all the rest: that his father is
Laius, his mother Jocaste, who are his sons and daughters, what
he has done, and what will befall him.... This is not possible
for us, but we must invent everything: new names, preceding
events, the present circumstances, the catastrophe, and the
exposition.
Furthermore, the Sicilian mime seems to have been unassociated with
religious worship, and perhaps this fact has a share in explaining the
irreverent, almost atheistic, tendency which Attic comedy manifested.
Though it was part of divine worship, it treated the divinities with
the utmost disrespect. Even Dionysus himself, the patron deity of
the festivals, is represented in Aristophanes’ _Frogs_ as cowardly,
lecherous, and foolish, beaten with many stripes before the eyes of his
worshipers.
The Greek theater suffered no scene of bloodshed to be enacted before
its audience. When the plot of the play, as was not infrequently the
case, required such an incident, the harrowing details were narrated
by a messenger who had witnessed the event. In Aeschylus’ _Persians_
the combats between Greeks and Asiatics are all narrated. In Aeschylus’
_Seven against Thebes_ and Euripides’ _Phoenician Maids_ the fatal
duel between the brothers occurs off-stage. Similarly, in Euripides’
_Bacchanals_ the report is brought to Thebes that Pentheus has been
torn to pieces on Mt. Cithaeron. In these and numerous other cases
the incidents related took place at some distance from the imaginary
scene. When it is remembered that the action of Greek plays is usually
laid before a palace or temple, it will at once occur to everyone how
conveniently located such a structure was for violence nearer the scene
of action. Thus, in Aeschylus’ _Libation-Bearers_ (vs. 904) Orestes
drives his mother indoors to dispatch her, and in Sophocles’ _Electra_
he is lucky enough to enter the palace and find her there alone and
off her guard. This situation recurred again and again, and a further
refinement lay close at hand. The hearts of the spectators were often
thrilled with tragic fear or pity by hearing from behind the scenes the
screams of the dying, their cries for help, even their death rattle.
So Agamemnon dies in Aeschylus’ play of that name (vss. 1343-45); so
Clytemnestra in Sophocles’ _Electra_ (vss. 1404 ff.) and Euripides’ play
of the same title (vss. 1165-67); so Lycus in Euripides’ _Madness of
Heracles_ (vss. 749 and 754); and so many another. The murder of Duncan
in _Macbeth_ shows that such scenes must have been far more effective
than any attempt at a realistic representation could possibly have
been. An additional effect is sometimes secured by flinging open the
back scene and disclosing the dead forms within; cf. the slaughtered
children of Heracles (Euripides’ _Madness of Heracles_, vss. 1029 ff.),
Eurydice (Sophocles’ _Antigone_, vs. 1293), etc. Sometimes death-cries
and the opened scene are combined, as in Aeschylus’ _Agamemnon_, vss.
1343-45, 1372 ff. Still another artifice for avoiding seen violence is
found in Euripides’ _Children of Heracles_, which ends by Alcmene and her
attendants dragging Eurystheus off to his doom.
The rule of Greek dramaturgy which has just been described is liable
to one notable exception—the dramatic characters may not commit murder
before the eyes of the spectators but they may commit suicide there.
Not, of course, that all suicides must take place within the audience’s
vision; most of them, like all cases of manslaughter, are reported. But
the important fact remains that at least in some instances suicide is
enacted before the spectators’ very eyes. So, in Sophocles’ _Ajax_ that
hero falls upon his sword (vs. 865), and in Euripides’ _Suppliants_ (vs.
1071) Evadne flings herself from the rocks upon her husband’s funeral
pyre. It thus appears that it is neither the bare fact of death nor yet
its mere hideousness which was obnoxious to ancient taste. The first
conclusion is confirmed by the fact that the life-strength of Alcestis
is allowed to ebb away upon the stage (Euripides’ _Alcestis_, vs. 391),
and the second by the sight of Heracles racked by agonizing tortures in
Sophocles’ _Maidens of Trachis_, vss. 983 ff. The distinction between
what is permissible and what is forbidden seems to hinge upon a trivial
matter, viz., whether only one character is involved or several.
Passing now to the _raison d’être_ of this practice I will first mention
some minor considerations. The paucity of actors in Greek drama (see p.
182, below) made any representation of mass effects, such as a battle,
quite impossible. The lack of complicated stage machinery prevented the
melodramatic actualism that modern audiences love so well. Being thus
unaccustomed to the more difficult feats of realism, the ancients had not
learned to demand it in lesser matters. Without a sigh they dispensed
with that which everyone knew to be incapable of actual enactment before
their eyes. Furthermore, in the absence of a drop curtain (see pp. 243
f., below) it would have been necessary for characters slain upon the
stage either to rise and walk casually off, as in the Chinese theaters
of today, or to be carried off. The first alternative is unthinkable in
ancient Greece and the second would have been too monotonous.
It has also been claimed[237] that the use of masks, each with its own
unchanging features, would have been an insuperable obstacle to scenes of
violence, as normally presupposing great and rapid changes in the facial
expressions of the characters. But in connection with other scenes the
Greeks frequently ignored and frequently evaded the difficulties caused
by the immobility of their masks (see pp. 222 f., below); so there is
no reason to believe that the use of masks would by itself have driven
incidents of this nature from the Greek stage.
Ludovico Castelvetro (1570) alleged that the high and narrow stage of
the Greek theater was too cramped for the dignified representation of
violence. Whatever plausibility this suggestion may previously have
enjoyed has been lost since Dörpfeld has shown that the fifth-century
theater at Athens had no raised platform for the exclusive use of actors
and that actors and chorus stood alike in the broad expanse of the
orchestra (see pp. 79 and 117, above) (Figs. 22 f.).
It is customary to explain the Greek avoidance of violence upon
aesthetic grounds; to assert that the susceptibilities of the Greeks
were so refined as to have been offended by scenes of bloodshed. That
which would be disagreeable or painful to see in real life should never
be presented to an audience. This is the French position. In the first
place the French took over the Greek practice on faith. It was only when
they were called upon to explain it that they proceeded to evolve this
justification. Then the logic of their argument carried them beyond
their models. “A character in <French> tragedy could be permitted to
kill himself, whether he did it by poison or steel: what he was not
suffered to do was to kill someone else. And while nothing was to be
shown on the stage which could offend the feelings through the medium
of the eyes, _equally was nothing to be narrated with the accompaniment
of any adjuncts that could possibly arouse disagreeable sensations in
the mind_.”[238] They were therefore under the necessity of attempting
to paint the lily—“they took exception to the way in which Philoctetes
speaks of the plasters and rags which he applied to his sores; and
equally so to the description which Tiresias gives in the _Antigone_
of the filth of the ill-omened birds which had fed on the carcass of
Polynices.”[239] I would not be understood as altogether rejecting this
aesthetic explanation; doubtless the practice of the Greek playwrights
created, if it did not find ready made, such taste concerning these
matters. It certainly applies to cases of blinding, which, whether
self-imposed (Sophocles’ _Oedipus the King_) or wrought by others
(Euripides’ _Hecabe_), always take place off-scene—the later sight of
the bloody masks and ghastly eyes is harrowing enough and to spare.
Nevertheless, however strong a case may be made out for it, the aesthetic
interpretation cannot, because of one cogent objection, provide the real,
ultimate reason for the convention. Is suicide so much less revolting
than homicide that the same taste can consistently shrink from the sight
of one but tolerate the other?
The same objection lies against another suggestion, viz., that the
theater precinct was sacred ground which would be polluted by murder,
though done in mimicry. To those who remember the taint which the Greeks
thought to be brought upon a land by manslaughter, this theory will not,
at first, seem lacking in plausibility. But unfortunately, accidental
homicide and suicide were thought to involve pollution no less than did
murder. Even a natural death, in the Greeks’ opinion, brought a taint.
Consequently, this suggestion fails to explain how suicides and natural
deaths could occur on the Greek stage.
My own interpretation of the phenomena under consideration is somewhat
similar to that just mentioned. Not only was the theater sacred ground
but all who were connected with the dramatic performances—those who
bore the expenses (the choregi; see p. 270, below), poets, actors, and
chorus—“were looked upon as ministers of religion, and their persons
were sacred and inviolable.”[240] Even the audience shared in this
immunity. Any outrage at such a time and in such a place was not viewed
in its usual light but was visited with severe penalties as an act of
desecration. Thus, when Demosthenes acted as choregus for a dithyrambic
chorus in 350 B.C. and was assaulted by Midias, he wished the latter
to be punished, not merely for assault (ὕβρις) but for sacrilege
(ἀσέβεια).[241] In the speech which he prepared for this suit Demosthenes
cited some of the precedents (§§ 178-80). He reminded his auditors how
Ctesicles had been put to death for striking a personal enemy with a whip
during the procession and how in 363 B.C. the archon’s own father had
only by a natural death avoided punishment for having violently ejected a
spectator from a seat which he had unwarrantably occupied. In like manner
the person of an actor was for the time being sacrosanct. Of course, the
Greeks were not fools; they knew that a single blow in genuine anger
was a greater outrage than murder itself in make-believe. Convention
allowed the audience to express their disapproval of actors or of their
performances by pelting them with figs, olives, or even stones. Custom
had dulled their sanctity to this extent. Nevertheless, the taboo which
had been derived from ancient ritual prevented one actor from murdering
another upon the stage. But this taboo did not protect an actor against
himself or against the assaults of nature or of the gods. Hence suicides
and natural deaths were permissible within the audience’s sight, though
homicides were not.
In comedy the influences which tended to prevent the enacting of scenes
of violence were partly nullified by the fact that one of the purposes
of the comus and other fertility rites had been the expulsion of malign
powers by violence, not only of language but also of conduct (see p. 37,
above). Of course the comic playwrights rarely had occasion to treat of
death or murder. But scenes of physical violence and horseplay, such as
the lashes administered to Xanthias and Dionysus (at his own festival!)
in Aristophanes’ _Frogs_, vss. 644 ff., are common.
That most wonderful of Greek dramatic instruments, the
chorus.—GILBERT MURRAY.
A really great artist can always transform the limitations of
his art into valuable qualities.—OSCAR WILDE.
CHAPTER II
THE INFLUENCE OF CHORAL ORIGIN[242]
Tragedy and satyric drama were derived from the dithyramb; comedy
from the comus (see pp. 6, 23 f., 36, and 43 f., above). Now both the
dithyramb and the comus were entirely choral. Consequently early tragedy
and comedy were also choral. No other fact in the history of Greek drama
is better authenticated, both by literary tradition and the extant plays,
than this.[243] The dithyrambic chorus consisted of fifty dancers, and
this seems to have been the size of the chorus also in early tragedy.
So the chorus in Aeschylus’ _Suppliants_ (between 500 and 490 B.C.) was
made up of the fifty daughters of Danaus. Whether this was still the
regular practice or a reversion, on this occasion, to the earlier number
cannot now be determined. At least by 487 B.C. the tragic chorus had been
reduced to twelve. It is supposed that this came about as follows: During
the fifth century each tragic poet was required to present four plays at
a time in the annual competition at the City Dionysia, three tragedies
and one satyric drama. This grouping of plays cannot be proven for any
poet before Aeschylus (525-456 B.C.) and probably was introduced at a
rearrangement of the festival program which took place about 501 B.C.
The members of the chorus (the choreutae) must have found it irksome to
memorize the words, music, dance steps, and stage business for so many
plays. To relieve this burden Aeschylus or a contemporary divided the
choreutae at his disposal into four groups of twelve each, assigning
one group as a chorus for each of his four plays. Whether the dramatist
continued to be provided with forty-eight or fifty choreutae or whether,
as the rôle of the chorus lost its bulk and importance, a single group of
twelve choreutae appeared in all four pieces is unknown. In the former
case, the three groups of choreutae that would normally be idle during
any one play could be conveniently employed as a supplementary chorus,
mute attendants, etc. But however this may be, twelve was the size of
the chorus in the three extant tragedies of Aeschylus which followed
the _Suppliants_; and it continued to be such until the middle of the
fifth century, when Sophocles raised the number to fifteen.[244] This
innovation enabled the chorus to enter the orchestra in three files of
five men each and to retain this formation for their dance movements.
This gave better results than to draw them up, as was previously
necessary, in two files of six men each or three files of four each.
Furthermore, the chorus leader (the _coryphaeus_) could now stand to one
side occasionally without spoiling the symmetry of the two half-choruses,
each of which had a sub-leader of its own. Aeschylus probably adopted
Sophocles’ innovation in the three plays which he brought out in 458
B.C. One of the test passages is _Agamemnon_, vss. 1344-71, where a
single tetrameter line seems to be assigned to each of three choreutae
and an iambic couplet to each of the remaining twelve. There is no
reason to believe that the number was altered again for a long time; but
further information of a change is lacking until Roman times—at Cyrene a
wall-painting of a tragic chorus represents but seven choreutae.
It is unlikely that the chorus in the early comus consisted of any fixed
number. Toward the end of the fifth century the comic chorus contained
twenty-four choreutae. Probably this number was chosen at the time that
comedy was granted the official recognition of the state, 486 B.C. If
such was the case the comic chorus was just twice as large as the tragic
chorus of that period. The reason for doubling the number is found in
the hostility which frequently rent the chorus of ancient comedy and in
the parallelism which is an outstanding feature of its choral odes (cf.
p. 42, above). About the close of the fourth century, when the functions
of the comic chorus had been greatly curtailed, it is likely that its
size was also reduced. At any rate, the chorus at the Soteric festival at
Delphi from 272 to 269 B.C. contained but seven or eight choreutae and at
Delos in the next century only four.
The chorus of Greek comedy was Protean in the forms that it assumed.
In accordance with the animal disguises which were so popular in the
early comus (see p. 54, above), we hear of choruses representing wasps,
birds, frogs, goats, snakes, bees, gall-insects, fishes, ants, storks,
etc. A suggestion as to the appearance of such choruses is afforded by
five Attic vase paintings of about 500 B.C. (Figs. 12-16). Still more
fantastic were choruses of clouds, dreams, cities, seasons, islands,
laws, ships, sirens, centaurs, sphinxes, dramas, etc. Less grotesque
would be choruses of Persians, knights, graces, athletes, poets, etc.
These lists convey but a slight hint of the diversity which the fancy
of the poets provided for the choruses of Old and Middle Comedy. The
choreutae, of course, were always men, but some or all of them might
be dressed to represent women. Thus, the clouds in Aristophanes’ play
are thought of as women, and in his _Frogs_ the chorus of initiates
comprises both men and women. At the beginning of Aristophanes’ _Women
in Council_ the choreutae are men dressed to represent women who
have tried to disguise themselves as men! By the time of New Comedy
the chorus had sunk to a position of comparative insignificance and
had become more conventional, usually consisting of men engaged in a
carousal (κῶμος). In the earliest form of Attic tragedy the chorus was
invariably composed of sileni.[245] But when its themes were no longer
exclusively Dionysiac (see p. 123, above), the choruses became more
sedate, generally consisting simply of men or women. In most cases these
are citizens of the imagined scene of action. In addition to sex it was
customary to indicate whether they were thought of as being young or old.
Sometimes they are characterized as foreigners. For example, the scene
of Euripides’ _Phoenician Maids_ is laid in Thebes; but dress, accent,
and the habit of oriental prostration mark the women in the chorus as
non-Hellenic. The staid character of tragic choruses is abandoned in the
unique furies of Aeschylus’ _Eumenides_. According to tradition their
black garments, bloody faces, and snaky locks produced so frightful an
impression that boys fainted and women miscarried. In satyric drama the
chorus always consisted of satyrs (see pp. 125 f., above).
One of the first problems that confronted the Greek dramatist was the
choice of such a character for his chorus as would make it an integral
part of the play’s action. The never-changing character of the chorus in
the satyr-plays prevented, for the most part, anything but the loosest
of connections between chorus and actors there, as we have already
noted (pp. 126 f., above). In tragedy the task was somewhat easier, yet
still most difficult. In the earliest Greek tragedy extant, Aeschylus’
_Suppliants_, the chorus, the fifty daughters of Danaus who have fled
from Egypt to Argos in order to escape marriage with their fifty cousins,
are themselves the story. The actors are of secondary importance. From
the standpoint of dramatic interest Danaus himself, the king of Argos,
and the suitors’ herald do not compare with the girls themselves. In the
_Persians_ and the _Seven against Thebes_, Aeschylus has been nearly
as successful. In these plays the fate of the chorus, though not the
prime object of interest, is almost inextricably bound up with that of
the other dramatic characters. In the former the Persian elders, for
patriotic as well as personal motives, are no less concerned than the
queen mother (Atossa) or King Xerxes himself in the fate of the army
invading Greece. Similarly, in the _Seven against Thebes_ the possibility
of the city’s being captured has as vital a meaning to the chorus of
Theban girls as to the others, and frightens them more. Here we find a
new note; for whereas in the first part of the play the thought of the
danger threatening themselves and the city swallows up all else, in
the last part their hearts are torn with fear for Eteocles as he fares
forth to single combat with his brother. This latter motivation, viz.,
that the chorus should be moved by a more or less sentimental interest
in some actor rather than by a vital fear for itself, or for others and
itself, was destined to play a prominent part in the history of the
dramatic chorus. It recurs in Aeschylus’ _Prometheus Bound_, _Agamemnon_,
and _Libation-Bearers_ (not to mention the plays of Sophocles and
Euripides), in all of which the interest of the chorus in the action
is more or less adventitious. Even in such cases, however, it was the
practice of Greek playwrights, if possible, to bind the chorus more
intimately to the hero in the final catastrophe. Thus, in _Prometheus
Bound_ the daughters of Oceanus, who constitute the chorus, bear no real
relationship to the leading character; nevertheless, at the close (vs.
1067) they declare their wish to share his fate, mount the crag where
he is fastened, and with him are hurled to Tartarus. A final refinement
is found in Aeschylus’ _Eumenides_. Here the chorus of furies, so far
from fearing for or sympathizing with one of the characters, is set in
deadly opposition to Orestes and is bent upon tracking the guilty man
down. Inasmuch as this was the especial duty of furies the chorus is
raised once more to a point of primary importance. Thus it appears that
from the standpoint of choral technique Aeschylus’ earliest play, the
_Suppliants_, and his last play, the _Eumenides_, are the most successful.
In general, the chorus in Sophocles and Euripides is less intimately
related to the plot than in Aeschylus. Yet there are notable exceptions
to this statement. Thus, the chorus of Euripides’ _Suppliants_ consists
of Argive women together with their handmaids—the mothers of the seven
chieftains who fell in the attack upon Thebes. They implore the aid of
Theseus to force the Thebans to surrender the bodies of their sons for
burial. According to ancient thought this was a matter of paramount
importance and the whole play is occupied with it. The mothers are in
fact the chief personages of the drama; the other characters speak and
act only in their behalf. Not even the Danaids of Aeschylus’ _Suppliants_
are more indispensable to the mechanism of the piece. On the other
hand, the connection between chorus and plot in Euripides’ _Phoenician
Maids_ is of the flimsiest. This tragedy deals with the same subject as
Aeschylus’ _Seven against Thebes_. But the Aeschylean chorus consists,
as we have observed, of Theban girls who are vitally concerned in the
outcome of the battle. Euripides’ chorus is made up of Tyrian virgins
on their way to Delphi. They have no personal interest in the possible
capture of Thebes or in the fratricidal strife of Eteocles and Polynices.
The same sort of thing occurs also in Old Comedy. Dr. Fries (_op. cit._,
p. 35) correctly points out that the knights in Aristophanes’ play of
that name are present rather to listen than to act. In Aristophanes’
_Clouds_ and _Frogs_ the connection between chorus and action is of the
slightest and entirely artificial. In general it can be said that the
character of comic choruses is chosen rather to fit into some fantastic
situation, and may be largely ignored toward the end of the play. Thus,
in Aristophanes’ _Women at the Thesmophoria_ the women of Athens assemble
to contrive a punishment for Euripides, who has been maligning their sex.
Euripides’ father-in-law, made up as a woman, tries to defend him but is
detected. During vss. 871-1160 Euripides under various disguises attempts
to rescue his relative, but each time is frustrated. But the chorus of
Euripides-haters assist in balking him neither by word nor deed. Their
original character, if retained throughout these lines, would have too
effectually thwarted the humor of his stratagems.
It is possible, however, to detect more subtle effects in the relations
between chorus and actors. Since the chorus is usually friendly to the
principal character, the bond of sympathy is often strengthened by having
the chorus of the same sex and of about the same age as that character.
So, in Aeschylus’ _Libation-Bearers_ the choreutae are Trojan slave
women who are cognizant of conditions in the palace and fully share
Electra’s eagerness to avenge her father’s murder. In Sophocles’ _Maidens
of Trachis_ the chorus of girls is in thorough accord with the gentle,
unsophisticated Deianira. Furthermore, men or older women might have
warned her against sending to her husband a robe dipped in the centaur’s
blood, an act which is so essential to the plot; but such innocence is
made to seem entirely plausible by reason of the youth and inexperience
of the chorus. On the contrary, sometimes the run of the plot requires
an effect precisely the opposite. In Sophocles’ _Antigone_, for example,
the isolation of the heroine is intensified by a chorus, not only of men
but of old men, who would be least sympathetic with her violation of a
public edict. In Aeschylus’ _Prometheus Bound_ the defiant Titan would
have scorned the overtures of a group of men, whoever they might be, but
the feminine tact and sympathy of the Oceanides reach his heart at once.
Such a chorus, moreover, is an effective foil the better to emphasize
the hero’s indomitable strength and will-power. In Aeschylus’ _Persians_
the chorus of Persian elders is not only natural in itself, but such
experienced men’s fear for the army and their grief at its misfortunes
produce an impression of utter collapse beyond the power of any chorus
of women to effect. In Aristophanes’ _Knights_ the chorus, in spite of
criticisms, was appropriately constituted, since it represented a body of
men who are said to have entertained a special grudge against Cleon. It
would be easy to extend this topic to a great length. Suffice it to state
that both the extant plays and the ancient commentaries upon them[246]
prove that the Greek poets expended no little thought upon this detail of
their dramaturgy.
Having once selected his chorus, the necessity rested upon the poet of
composing choral odes appropriate to the character chosen. In this they
were not always successful. In Euripides’ _Electra_ the chorus consists
of virgins from the Argive countryside. At vss. 434-78 they give an
elaborate description of Achilles’ armor. Such women would have had no
opportunity of seeing Achilles at Troy themselves, and hearsay would
scarcely have been so circumstantial. Again, in Euripides’ _Phoenician
Maids_, vss. 638-75, 801-27, and 1019-67, the Tyrian girls unroll the
scroll of Theban history like antiquarians. Their knowledge is not
justified by the fact that Thebes had been founded, some five generations
before, by a Phoenician prince. Again, in Euripides’ _Hippolytus_, vss.
1102-19, women of Troezen, the intimates of a local washerwoman (!),
discourse upon the conflict between faith and reality! Still again, in
Euripides’ _Iphigenia at Aulis_, vss. 794-800, a band of unassuming
women from Chalcis throw doubt upon the mythological tradition that Zeus
had appeared unto Leda in the form of a swan. The first two examples
are somewhat different from the last two. The former arise simply
from failure to find a satisfactory solution for the problem under
consideration. But the latter reveal the poet dropping his mask and using
the chorus as a mouthpiece for his own philosophizing and skepticism.
Lest anyone suppose that I exaggerate the difficulty or attribute to
Greek playwrights a perplexity which they did not experience, let me
point out the confessed failure of a modern poet. Concerning the close of
Act III in the second part of _Faust_, Goethe said: “You have observed
the character of the chorus is quite destroyed by the mourning song:
until this time it has remained thoroughly antique, or has never belied
its girlish nature; but here of a sudden it becomes nobly reflecting, and
says things such as it has never thought or could think.” And to this
Eckermann, uncontradicted, replied: “These little inconsistencies are of
no consequence, if by their means a higher degree of beauty is obtained.
The song had to be sung, somehow or other; and as there was no other
chorus present, the girls were forced to sing it.”[247] That Euripides
was equally conscious of what he was doing is proven by the fact that
in some cases he makes only too patent an attempt to gloss over the
difficulty. Thus, he makes the chorus in the _Electra_ explain that they
had heard of Achilles’ shield in the nearby harbor of Nauplia “from one
who had fared from Troy” (vss. 452-55); and the Tyrian maidens justify
their knowledge of Theban history by saying that they “had received
an account at home in an alien tongue” (_Phoenician Maids_, vs. 819).
A curious self-consciousness seems to obsess dramatic poets and force
them to call to the hearer’s attention the very difficulty that they are
striving to avoid. Like some scientists who think they have explained a
phenomenon if they have provided a name for it, playwrights sometimes act
as if they had justified an incongruity if they mention it. An excellent
modern illustration of this occurs in _Twelfth Night_, II, 5. In order to
extract the full humor from the scene it is necessary that Malvolio read
aloud the forged letter which he has just found. Therefore, Shakespeare
makes Sir Toby say: “The spirit of humours intimate reading aloud to
him!” Since these words are uttered in an aside, they can have no real
effect. Nevertheless, the dramatist eased his conscience by inserting
them.
Sometimes the difficulty of finding motifs suitable for the rôle of
the chorus caused the playwrights to introduce a second chorus of a
different type. Phrynichus seems to have done this in 476 B.C., bringing
on a chorus of elders as well as one of Phoenician women.[248] Likewise,
in Euripides’ _Hippolytus_ that hero’s comrades in the chase appear
and sing a short ode (vss. 61-72) before the arrival of the regular
chorus. Several other instances are known of in Euripides’ lost plays.
In Seneca’s _Agamemnon_ there is a chorus of Mycenaean women and another
of Trojan captives. In the same writer’s _Hercules on Mt. Oeta_, Dr.
Fries (_op. cit._, p. 49) maintains that three choruses are introduced,
one of Oechalian captives at vs. 104, another of Deianira’s companions
at vs. 583, and a third of Hercules’ comrades at vs. 1031. The same sort
of thing occurs also in comedy. Thus, from Terence’s _Self-Tormentor_,
which is a Latin translation of Menander’s play of the same name, it
would appear that in the Greek original a chorus of banqueting companions
performed at vs. 171 and another chorus of maidservants at vss. 409 and
748.[249] Occasionally, before making its appearance, the chorus sings,
from behind the scenes, in a different character from that which it
later assumes. Aristophanes’ _Frogs_, for example, derives its name from
a chorus which never is seen. At vs. 209 the chorus, from behind the
scenes, delivers a batrachian strain as an accompaniment to Dionysus and
Charon when they row across the subterranean lake (see p. 90, above). It
is not until after vs. 315 that this chorus actually appears and reveals
its true character, that of men and women who had, when on earth, been
initiated into the mysteries. This method of procedure gained one of two
results—it obviated the necessity either of a lightning change of costume
on the part of the chorus or that of hiring extra choreutae. As to the
latter alternative, whatever may have been true of the tragic poets (see
p. 134, above), there is no reason to suppose that the comic poets always
had spare choreutae at their disposal.
But not only should choral odes be appropriate to the dramatic character
of the chorus; they ought also to be closely connected with the theme of
the play. And this requirement is no less difficult than the other. The
ode on the inventive spirit of man in Sophocles’ _Antigone_, vss. 334-75,
is so vague that an audience might well be in doubt as to which one of
the dramatic characters it was intended for. Verses 1115-52 in the same
play, a hymn to Dionysus, is quite irrelevant, except in so far as that
divinity was the patron of the dramatic festival. Other instances are
found in Euripides. Verses 1301-68 of _Helen_ deal with Demeter’s search
for her lost daughter and are so alien to the subject of the tragedy that
many have considered them an interpolation. An adventitious connection is
sought, at the close, by the suggestion that Helen’s misfortunes are due
to her neglect of Demeter’s worship (vss. 1355-57). Again, the chorus’
eulogy of Apollo in _Iphigenia among the Taurians_, vss. 1234-83, is so
disconnected with the story that Professor Decharme (_op. cit._, pp. 312
f.) could defend it only by saying: “If, therefore, the chorus wishes not
to rouse the suspicion of Thoas, it must speak of something else than
that which really engrosses its attention. Hence the eulogy of Apollo
that compromises nobody, whose purport Thoas would not understand were
he to appear suddenly, but which the spectator comprehends, provided he
reflects.” The description of Achilles’ armor in Euripides’ _Electra_,
vss. 434-78, has already been mentioned (pp. 139 f., above). It is as
little connected with the plot as it is appropriate to the chorus of
that play. Nevertheless, Euripides brought the ode back to the theme
with a jerk by saying: “The lord of such warriors didst thou slay, O
Clytemnestra” (vss. 479 f.). There are but two things that can be said
to palliate this offense. The first is to indicate the difficulty of
the problem; the other, to point out that the ingenuity of the ancient
playwrights fell short in only a few plays and seldom more than once in
any one piece.
There are certain ways, however, in which the lack of an organic
relationship between chorus and actors or the failure of the odes to
spring naturally from the dramatic situation may be compensated for or
glossed over. One is by giving the choreutae an active participation in
the action. The scene of Euripides’ _Helen_ is laid in Egypt and the
chorus consists of Greek slaves, who assist the heroine in her deception
mainly because she is a fellow-Greek and her victim a barbarian. Their
connection, therefore, is only moderately close and, as we have seen (p.
142, above), one of their odes is by some considered an interpolation.
Yet, apart from their choral songs, they take an active and important
part in the play. It is they who persuade Helen not to believe Teucer’s
announcement of her husband’s death but to consult the seeress Theonoe
concerning the matter (vss. 306 and 317). Again, it is they who, when the
Egyptian king avows his intention of murdering Theonoe for abetting his
deceivers, grasp his garments and declare: “We are your slaves and you
can slay us, but slay us you must ere you can kill Theonoe” (vss. 1629
ff.). Similarly, in Euripides’ _Orestes_ the chorus of Argive women is
friendly toward Electra and her brother but does not share the danger
which threatens them. Yet when Helen is being murdered behind the scenes,
at Electra’s request, in order to guard against surprise, it divides into
semi-choruses, which picket the two roads leading before the palace (vss.
1251 ff.). A little later they attempt to make noise enough to prevent
the tumult from within the palace attracting the notice of the Argive
citizens (vss. 1353 ff.). Thus, a chorus may actively participate in a
plot to which it is but loosely joined. In fact, Professor Capps has
boldly declared: “In every play whose chorus has been criticized for the
irrelevancy of its songs, whether the criticisms have been just or not,
are found indications of direct participation in the action” (_op. cit._,
p. 295).
In this connection certain words of Aristotle[250] are usually cited:
“The chorus ought to be regarded as one of the actors; it ought to be an
integral part of the whole and take a share in the action, in the manner,
not of Euripides but of Sophocles. The choral songs of the successors of
Euripides and Sophocles have no more to do with the subject of the piece
than with that of some other tragedy. They are therefore sung as mere
intercalary numbers (ἐμβόλιμα), a practice first begun by Agathon. Yet
this is no more justifiable than to transfer a speech or a whole act from
one tragedy to another.” Aristotle’s praise of Sophocles at the expense
of Euripides probably refers to the choice and setting of Sophoclean
choruses and to the relevancy of their songs—points in which Sophocles
usually surpassed his rival. Aristotle failed to notice or did not value
the other characteristic of Euripidean choruses, viz., that they have
more effect upon the plot and come into more direct contact with the
actors, that is to say, that they really “act” more, than is the case in
Sophocles. In fact, it is Sophocles’ use of the chorus which is mainly
responsible for the modern notion that the Greek chorus was merely the
“ideal spectator.”
The precise meaning of the latter part of this passage from the
_Poetics_ has not until recently become clear. It is evident that
Aristotle brings the same charge, that of irrelevancy, against the
choruses of both Euripides and Agathon. But if the difference between
them were merely one of _degree_, he would hardly have said that Agathon
“began” a practice which he had really borrowed from Euripides and only
“developed” or “extended.” Therefore, Aristotle must mean that Agathon
was guilty of a different _kind_ of irrelevancy than Euripides, and we
are now in a position to see whereof this consisted. Recently discovered
fragments of Menander show that often in New Comedy the chorus did not
appear in the course of the action at all, but only between acts, and
that the poets did not write down the words of these _entr’actes_ but
simply indicated where they should come by writing the word ΧΟΡΟΥ (“of
the chorus”) at the places required. To the stage manager ΧΟΡΟΥ in the
manuscript would be simply a hint to use anything he chose or to refer to
the poet or that he could rely upon the latter to provide the choreutae
with a libretto, according to whatever arrangement they had between them
on the subject. To the reader it was convenient, as marking off the
divisions of the play. A parallel to this custom is found in Greene’s
_James the Fourth_, where at the beginning of Act IV the stage directions
read “Enter certain huntsmen (if you please, singing),” and again at
the close of the same act, “Enter a round, or some dance at pleasure.”
A passage in the ancient _Life of Aristophanes_ had already mentioned
this practice of the writers of New Comedy but had received scant
consideration until substantiated by the Menander fragments.
Now, since embolimon means “something thrown in,” it seems clear that
the songs of the chorus in the intermissions marked by ΧΟΡΟΥ (if songs
not recorded in the text were sung) would be embolima in Aristotle’s
use of the term. I believe that this was the innovation which Agathon
introduced. This conclusion will be strengthened if we ask ourselves
what sort of evidence enabled Aristotle to attribute the invention
of embolima to Agathon. It is fairly certain that he never saw one
of Agathon’s tragedies actually performed in the theater. Then his
knowledge of Agathon’s dramatic art must have depended upon the latter’s
published works. Therefore, if Agathon’s choral numbers were notable
rather for the music than for the libretto, or consisted of music and
dancing without words, or were borrowed from other poets, or if for any
reason whatsoever Agathon preferred not to copy them down with the rest
of the text, but merely to mark their location by ΧΟΡΟΥ or some other
symbol, then we can understand how Aristotle could know that Agathon had
inaugurated something new in dramatic technique. Whatever their defects
of irrelevancy, Euripides’ odes were not “thrown in” in this sense; they
were right there in the text. But in Agathon’s manuscripts, on the other
hand, there were gaps indicated between acts. In actual performance
suitable odes were “thrown in.” A “thrown-in” ode then would be one not
appearing in the text. It is self-evident that this interpretation throws
a flood of light upon Aristotle’s statements.
That ΧΟΡΟΥ was so used in tragedy prior to the time of New Comedy is
attested by its occurrence in a recent fragment of a fourth-century
_Medea_.[251] Moreover, by inference its use can be safely traced still
further back, even close to the period of Agathon. We have seen that
tragedy exercised a profound influence upon Old Comedy (see pp. 49 f.,
above); and Professor Navarre[252] has correctly pointed out that the
influence of tragedy was more quickly and strongly felt in the second
half of a comedy (that after the parabasis or, when that is lacking,
after the agon; see p. 41, above). Accordingly a strong reason for
believing that this use of ΧΟΡΟΥ originated in tragedy is found in the
fact that ΧΟΡΟΥ occurs in this part of Aristophanes’ last two (extant)
comedies; cf. _Women in Council_, vss. 729 and 876 (393-392 B.C.), and
_Plutus_, vs. 770 (388 B.C.). It is significant that Aristophanes’ use
of embolima is still embryonic, has not yet been carried to the logical
issue found in New Comedy. That is to say, the chorus of these two plays
still figures in the action and converses with the actors. In the _Women
in Council_ it even has, in addition to embolima, several choral songs,
the words of which are preserved. The fragments of the fourth-century
_Medea_, scanty as they are, nevertheless suffice to indicate that
its author employed embolima and the chorus in the same fashion as
Aristophanes.
But by the time of New Comedy a great change had taken place. In
comedies of this period, or at least in many of them, the chorus appeared
only to furnish entertainment between acts, withdrawing again at the
end of its performance. It bore no speaking part and from the nature of
the case could exercise no influence upon the plot. Occasionally it was
brought into formal relationship with one of the actors. For example, in
Menander’s _Girl with the Shorn Locks_ the chorus seems to consist of
Polemon’s boon companions, who took breakfast with him in the country
and have now come to his house in the city to be on hand for the dinner
in the evening. This is the most frequent type of chorus in New Comedy.
The approach of these intermezzic choruses is often mentioned by the
actors who thus motivate their own withdrawal from the scene during the
choral _entr’acte_. For instance, in one case[253] ΧΟΡΟΥ is prefaced by
one character remarking to another: “Let us withdraw into Charisius’
home, for a throng of tipsy youths is approaching whom it is inadvisable
to provoke.” Such an introduction occurs also in a fragment of Alexis,
a poet of Middle Comedy,[254] but the quotation is not long enough to
determine whether Alexis resembled Aristophanes or the New Comedy in
his use of embolima and of the chorus. Racine’s _Athalie_, which has
been pronounced[255] the “one thoroughly satisfactory choric drama” that
modern art has produced, presents several points of likeness to the
later Greek chorus. The Levite maidens do not appear until just before
the close of the first act and are withdrawn several times subsequently,
being thus absent from the scene during long stretches of the dialogue.
Their entrances, also, are sometimes alluded to by the actors. Their
songs, however, are not embolima, but constituent parts of the text.
We have seen that with reference to the plot these intermezzic choruses
of New Comedy are irrelevant. At times they must even have been
disconcerting. Notwithstanding, in the light of modern dramatic theory
they are not utterly defenseless. The principle is the same as that which
is used to justify intermissions between acts. “It would be no gain but
a loss, if a whole two hours’ or three hours’ action could be carried
through in one continuous movement, with no relaxation of the strain upon
the attention of the audience, and without a single point at which the
spectator might review what was past and anticipate what was to come.
The act division positively enhances the amount of pleasurable emotion
through which the audience passes.”[256]
A word of caution is necessary. We have seen that the use of embolima
and of the sign ΧΟΡΟΥ to indicate their position in the play originated
in fifth-century tragedy (Agathon), that an actual instance of ΧΟΡΟΥ in a
fourth-century tragedy is preserved, and that Aristophanes brought this
tragic innovation over into comedy, where it was greatly extended. Now
despite the fourth-century _Medea_ there is good reason for believing
that this practice never had the vogue in later tragedy that it had in
later comedy. The _Rhesus_ has erroneously come down to us under the
name of Euripides, but is generally regarded by scholars as the product
of some fourth-century writer, the only complete tragedy of that century
which is extant. It contains no embolima and is a natural continuation
of the tradition of Aeschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides. The chorus is
made up of the night watch in the Trojan camp. They go to Hector’s tent
and rouse him with the news that the Greek host is on the move. They take
part in the dialogue, almost capture Odysseus, who has entered the camp
as a spy, have a keen personal interest in the proceedings, and sing
choral odes which, though short, are apposite. It is indisputable that
from the beginnings of tragedy to the end the rôle and importance of the
chorus steadily declined, but there is no reason to suppose that it ever
fell so low as was the case in New Comedy. This conclusion is confirmed
by Seneca’s Latin tragedies and by the fragments of earlier Roman
tragedies. In the fragments of Ennius, Pacuvius, and Accius the chorus is
shown to be connected, sometimes even intimately connected, with the plot
and some of the characters. It still conversed with the actors and its
odes were not embolima, but actually written in the text. There are only
two signs of a choral decline. In the first place the odes are no longer
characterized by the elaborate strophic responsion which was seldom
lacking in the choral songs of fifth-century tragedy in Athens. This
doubtless means that the chorus no longer engaged in the complicated,
carefully balanced evolutions which had once carried the choreutae over
the broad expanse of the Greek orchestra, but sang and danced without
moving about so much or occupying so much space. In the second place
there is no evidence that the chorus and actors were brought into actual
physical contact so frequently as in the fifth-century drama (see p. 88,
above). Of course, these changes were not due to physical conditions,
since in the Roman theaters actors and chorus performed together on a
broad, low stage (see p. 78, above). The Romans seem to have had less
appreciation for choral performances than the Greeks, and the chorus
in contemporary Greek tragedy ought to be thought of as playing even a
larger part than appears from the fragments of Roman tragedy.
The difference between tragedy and comedy in their treatment of the
chorus arises from the innermost nature of each, as has been well stated
by Mr. Cornford: “The comic chorus has not, from the standpoint of art,
the justification and utility which kept the chorus alive in tragedy
to the last days of ancient drama. In tragedy it is needed for a high
function, not to be so well fulfilled by any other means. It has to
utter emotions that can be expressed only in lyric poetry, to say things
which the audience longs to have said, but which cannot be said by any
character on the stage.... Their function, too, is integral and need
never decay. Nothing of this applies to the comic chorus. The audience
here can completely relieve their feelings in laughter; there are no
thoughts or emotions stirred that lie too deep for stage dialogue, no
remoter universal meaning to be caught only in the passionate images of
lyric poetry.”[257]
Playwrights experience considerable difficulty in plausibly motivating
the entrances of their characters, and this was a more troublesome
problem in ancient times than it is today. I shall revert to the matter
later in connection with the actors (see pp. 229 f. and 239, below),
but I wish to touch upon it now as regards the chorus. Of course the
chorus was so inevitably present in every Greek drama that it might be
thought needless to account for its presence at all. As Richter[258]
said: “The chorus in Attic tragedy is so firmly established, so much
a matter of course, that its entrance does not need to be motivated.”
Accordingly, in Aeschylus’ _Suppliants_, Sophocles’ _Philoctetes_,
etc., the choral entrance is unmotived. In the _Suppliants_, however,
the audience scarcely required to be explicitly told that the sacred
precinct with its altars, which is what the orchestra represents in this
play, was a natural place of retreat for refugees. Likewise it is quite
unnecessary for Neoptolemus’ sailors, in the _Philoctetes_, to give an
excuse for following their prince and captain ashore. On the contrary,
in Aeschylus’ _Persians_ there is no self-evident reason why the Persian
elders should go to the tomb of Darius or why Atossa should expect
to meet them there rather than at the palace or the council chamber,
and Aeschylus apparently felt no necessity of inventing a pretext.
Nevertheless, in most instances the Greek playwrights did motivate their
choral entrances. In Aeschylus’ _Seven against Thebes_ the chorus of
maidens, through fear of the invading host, has fled for protection to
the images of the gods on the acropolis (vss. 214 and 240). In Aeschylus’
_Prometheus Bound_ the ocean nymphs have been drawn to the hero’s side
by the sound of the shackles being bolted upon him (vss. 133 f.). In
the same writer’s _Libation-Bearers_ the maidservants are sent from the
palace with offerings for the grave of Agamemnon (vss. 22 f.). In his
_Eumenides_ the furies sing their first song behind the scenes within
the temple at Delphi, where they have been besetting the guilty Orestes;
presently Apollo drives them from his sanctuary into the orchestra (vss.
179 ff.). Often the chorus enters in response to the cries of the tragic
heroine,[259] or as the bearer of news,[260] or as the result of hearing
a rumor;[261] still more often in reply to a summons.[262] “After going
through some years of Dionysia it must have been hard not to smile,
when the ‘shrieks’ were raised or the ‘proclamation’ issued.”[263]
In Aeschylus’ _Eumenides_, vs. 244, Sophocles’ _Oedipus at Colonus_,
vss. 117 ff., and Aristophanes’ _Acharnians_, vss. 280 ff., the chorus
comes upon the stage on the track of a transgressor. Occasionally the
pretext is extremely trivial, far-fetched, or improbable. In Euripides’
_Ion_, vss. 234 f., Creusa’s handmaidens have obtained their mistress’
permission to view the sights at Delphi. The chorus in Euripides’
_Phoenician Maids_, vss. 202 ff., are on their way from Tyre to Delphi
to be consecrated to Apollo’s service as a thank-offering and chance to
be caught in Thebes at the time of the country’s invasion. In Euripides’
_Iphigenia at Aulis_, vss. 164 ff. and 187 f., Chalcidian women are
constrained by curiosity to cross the strait and blushingly visit the
Greek camp. In Euripides’ _Electra_, vss. 168 ff., the choreutae come to
invite Electra to participate with them in an Argive festival in honor
of Hera, and when the princess replies that she has “nothing to wear,”
generously offer to lend her raiment from their store! Nothing more is
heard of this motive during the remainder of the play. Finally, the same
heroine in Sophocles’ _Electra_ intimates that the women of the chorus
have come to soothe her woes (vss. 129 f.). Now when Aegisthus was home
Electra was never permitted to leave the palace (cf. vss. 516 ff.). It is
only the accident of his absence which allowed her to pass the doors on
this occasion. But the choreutae were unaware of his absence (vss. 310
ff.). What reason, then, could they have had to expect that they would
be able to meet Electra outside the house and comfort her? Sophocles
supplies no answer to this question. Kaibel[264] seems entirely justified
in writing: “Ihr Kommen ist durch nichts motivirt als dadurch, dass ein
Chor nothwendig ist.”
The history and traditions of the Greek theater required a chorus to
appear in each drama. But they also required it to render several songs
at intervals throughout the play. If we stop to analyze this convention
it will surely appear ridiculous enough. How absurd that the subjects and
well-wishers of kings and princes should resort to singing and dancing
at the crises of their royal fortunes! Dennis[265] sought a _reductio ad
absurdum_ in the dramatization, _à la grecque_, of the Spanish invasion:
“Suppose, then, that an express gives notice to Queen Elizabeth of the
landing of the Spaniards upon our coast, and of great number of subjects
revolting and running in to them. The Queen, upon the reception of this
news, falls a lamenting her condition.... But then, Sir, suppose as soon
as the Queen has left off lamenting, the ladies about her, in their
ruffs and farthingalls, fell a dancing a _Saraband_ to a doleful ditty.
Do you think, Sir, that if this had really happened at White-Hall, it
would have been possible to have beheld it without laughing, though one
had been never so much concerned for his country?” Nevertheless, despite
the incongruity, these odes were so much a matter of course that usually
not even a motivation was provided for them. Occasionally, however, this
was done. For example, in Euripides’ _Alcestis_, vss. 423 f., Admetus
invites the chorus to “chant an antiphonal strain to the implacable god
below,” and to the balanced strophe and antistrophe of their song (vss.
435-76) the remains of his wife are borne into the palace. In Aeschylus’
_Eumenides_ the furies have tracked Orestes from Delphi to Athens and at
last have overtaken him. But since he has invoked Athena’s protection
and is clasping her image, they cannot lay hands upon him. Therefore,
they resort to a magic incantation to prevent his escaping them again: at
vs. 306 they announce “you shall hear this spell to bind you,” referring
to and motivating the long ode (vss. 307-96) which follows. Again, in
Euripides’ _Cyclops_, Odysseus asks the chorus to accompany him and his
comrades with a song of good cheer (see below).
Sometimes the noise of fifteen lusty choreutae lifting their voices
in united song sadly interferes with the verisimilitude of the scene,
especially when the dramatic situation imperatively demands silence. The
stricken Orestes, in Euripides’ play of that name, has at last fallen
asleep, guarded by his devoted sister. Enter the chorus to inquire of
his condition. Electra groans as she catches sight of them, well assured
that they will waken Orestes (vss. 131 ff.). She begs them to be quiet,
to stand far away from his bed, to drop their voices still lower. She
inquires why they have come; warns them that they will be the death of
him if they rouse him; beseeches them to depart, to cease their chanting.
It is all in vain. The chorus enjoin quiet, declare that they are obeying
her biddings, protest that their singing is but a murmur, invoke winged
night to come upon him, etc. They needs must enter and needs must carry
their part of the lyric dialogue with Electra, until finally (vs. 211)
her fears are realized and Orestes’ slumber is broken. Similarly, in
Sophocles’ _Philoctetes_, Neoptolemus suggests that they give Philoctetes
an opportunity to sleep. But the chorus sings an invocation to slumber,
which under like circumstances in real life could hardly have had a very
soporific effect. Nevertheless, Philoctetes succumbs to it; whereupon the
chorus advise Neoptolemus to execute his sinister designs, circumspectly
enjoining that his reply to them should be couched in whispered tones!
An especially striking instance occurs in Euripides’ _Cyclops_. At vs.
601 Polyphemus, well filled with powerful wine, has just entered his
cave; Odysseus prays that the liquor will close the monster’s eyelids in
sleep and follows him in. It is not a moment suitable for any unnecessary
noise, such as might tend to keep the Cyclops awake. But the satyrs,
being alone upon the stage, have no option but to chant an ode (vss.
608-23). At its conclusion Odysseus rushes in with an expostulation:
Hush, you wild things, for Heaven’s sake!—still as death!
Shut your lips tight together!—not a breath!
Don’t wink, don’t cough, for fear the beast should wake
Ere we twist out his eye with that red stake.
[Way’s translation]
Yet it is a foregone conclusion that as soon as he leaves the stage they
will be at it once more. How can this difficulty be glossed over? The
poet makes two suggestions. Odysseus wishes the satyrs to pass in and
help gouge out the Cyclops’ eye, but that, of course, was theatrically
impossible; they prefer to sing an incantation which will plunge the
firebrand, of its own accord, into their victim’s brain (vss. 648 ff.).
We have just seen that magic as a motive passed muster with Aeschylus,
but it was different with Euripides. Odysseus indignantly ignores their
offer, and after a few words of reproach he actually requests them to
cheer on himself and his comrades at their dangerous task (vs. 653). A
choral song in this tenor immediately follows (vss. 655-62). Thus, within
the space of thirty lines, with no essential change in the situation,
Odysseus first commands the chorus to be quiet and then urges them to
sing!
The history and traditions of the Greek theater, the necessity of
delivering songs at frequent intervals, and the difficulty of motivating
the withdrawal of the chorus and its later return to the scene almost
demanded the uninterrupted presence of the chorus upon the stage. The
some half-dozen exceptions that are known to us outside of New Comedy
will be discussed later (see pp. 250 f., below). How unnatural this
convention would be can be realized from Euripides’ _Bacchanals_, in
which Pentheus arrested Dionysus and took active measures against the
Bacchantes upon Mt. Cithaeron and yet allowed a chorus of the new god’s
devotees (and foreigners at that) to remain practically unmolested
before his palace throughout the play. What a baneful effect so rigid
and arbitrary a rule had upon any complication of plot can readily be
imagined. The situation was racily described by Gray:[266] “How could
Macbeth and his wife have laid the design for Duncan’s murder? What could
they have said to each other in the hall at midnight, not only if a
chorus, but if a single mouse, had been stirring there? Could Hamlet have
met the ghost, or taken his mother to task in their company? If Othello
had said a harsh word to his wife before them, would they not have danced
to the window and called the watch?” In the _Agamemnon_, Clytemnestra had
to address to her returning lord words of loyal greeting the falsity of
which she knew the chorus was well aware of. Aeschylus strove to surmount
the difficulty by having the queen turn first to the choreutae: “Reverend
citizens of Argos, I feel no shame to mention my husband-loving ways
before you, for as we mortals grow older we lose such blushing fear”
(vss. 855 ff.) We are to suppose that her effrontery in this and other
respects intimidated the meticulous elders and prevented their denouncing
her to Agamemnon. In Sophocles’ _Oedipus the King_, Creon is bringing
an oracular response from Delphi and meets the king before the Theban
palace. In reply to Oedipus’ eager question he lets his eyes rest on
the choreutae for a moment and says: “If you would hear while these are
near, I am ready to speak; or else to go within.” In real life the second
alternative probably would have been adopted; on the Greek stage it was
impossible (cf. pp. 237-41, below). Accordingly, Oedipus makes answer as
follows: “Speak before all, for I bear more sorrow for these than for
my own life” (vss. 91-94). In Sophocles’ _Electra_, Orestes discovers
himself and his design to his sister in the presence of the chorus, “so
that he entrusts a secret, upon which his empire and life depends, in the
hands of sixteen women.”[267] The implication is that a body of women
cannot keep a secret under any circumstances. Yet Sophocles has done
what he could. At vs. 1202 Orestes’ identity is not yet revealed, but
his sympathy has begun to make Electra suspicious. She inquires: “Can
it be that you are some unknown kinsman?” And when Orestes, glancing at
the chorus, replies: “I would answer, if these as friends were present,”
she reassures him by saying: “But they are friends, so that you can
speak without mistrust.” This device was borrowed by Euripides in his
_Orestes_, vss. 1103 f. Pylades says: “Silence now, for I put small trust
in women,” meaning the chorus; but Orestes replies: “Fear not, for these
are friends to us.”
In general, the constant presence of the chorus bore more heavily upon
Euripides than upon either Aeschylus or Sophocles, since his plots
were more complicated than theirs. Usually the Euripidean choruses are
bound to secrecy by an oath or promise. But this is only to shift the
problem, not to solve it. In real life groups of people do not take such
oaths without an adequate reason. In his _Hippolytus_, vss. 710-14,
the chorus swear by Artemis to conceal their knowledge of Phaedra’s
guilt, and they remain true to their oath, though by their so doing the
innocent Hippolytus is brought to ruin and death before their eyes. But
their willingness to take such an oath is without motive except as one
is implied in their kindly feeling toward the heroine. In Euripides’
_Iphigenia among the Taurians_ and _Helen_ the choruses consist of
Greek slaves, who would naturally, because of racial ties, plot against
their barbarian masters in order to help their fellow-countrywomen.
Other reasons, however, are cited. In both plays the actors promise to
rescue the chorus as well as themselves (vss. 1067 f. and 1387 ff.,
respectively). In the _Iphigenia_ an additional motive for choral secrecy
is found in an appeal to sex loyalty: “We are women,” says Iphigenia,
“a sex most staunch to one another, most trustworthy in keeping common
counsel” (vss. 1061 f.). The same plea recurs, in an intensified form,
in Euripides’ _Medea_. Theatrical conditions compelled Medea to take the
chorus into her confidence, and she bases her request for their silence
not only upon the ground of their common womanhood but also upon the
fact that she is alone, sadly wronged, and in distress (vss. 230-66).
But this chorus consists of Corinthian women in whose sight Medea must
be a foreigner, nay worse, a barbarian. It is so utterly improbable that
womanly sympathy should cause Greek women to acquiesce in a barbarian’s
plans for the assassination of their sovereign and his daughter that
Professor Verrall[268] supposed a chorus to have been mechanically added
in a subsequent revision (our present text) to a play originally written
for private presentation without a chorus. On the other hand, the chorus
are occasionally permitted to act as real people would and communicate
their secret. Thus, in Euripides’ _Ion_, vss. 666 f., Xuthus threatens
his wife’s handmaidens with death if they betray to her the supposed
fact that Ion is his son. Nevertheless, this is exactly what they do,
declaring to her: “It shall be told, though I die twice over” (vs. 760);
and thus they precipitate one of the most thrilling scenes in Greek
tragedy. This is a characteristic product of Greek dexterity. Not content
to surmount a troublesome obstacle, they actually derive an advantage
from it.
We have seen that it was practically impossible for the chorus to leave
the scene of action during the play. This convention was particularly
awkward when circumstances arose which would naturally demand their
presence elsewhere. Such a situation was most frequently brought about
by a murder or suicide just behind the scenes. Up to some thirty years
ago an explanation of the chorus’ failure to pass through the back scene
under such circumstances might be sought in the physical conditions,
since until then it was supposed that the Greek actors had stood upon
a stage ten or twelve feet above the chorus (see p. 78, above). This
interpretation never had more than half a leg to stand upon, inasmuch
as the extant plays prove conclusively that, whatever the physical
conditions, intercourse between actors and chorus was quite feasible and
was often resorted to (see p. 88, above); but it lost the slightest claim
to acceptance after Dörpfeld’s excavations and a re-examination of the
evidence showed that during the classical period of Greek drama chorus
and actors had stood upon the same level (see p. 117, above). Moreover,
it is illuminating to note that the chorus found it as difficult to leave
the scene of action during the play by the side entrances as by the doors
in the background. By vs. 1070 of Sophocles’ _Philoctetes_, Odysseus and
Neoptolemus have gained possession of Heracles’ bow and are preparing
to return to their ship. As the chorus consists of sailors, these would
naturally leave with their commander. But the play was not to end at this
point, and the poet wished the chorus to sing at vs. 1095. Accordingly,
Philoctetes appeals to the chorus not to desert him (vss. 1070 f.),
and upon their referring the request to Neoptolemus he replies, very
improbably, that at the risk of his being considered soft-hearted they
may tarry until the ship is ready to sail and that possibly by that time
Philoctetes will have decided to accompany them to Troy (vss. 1074-79).
No; the convention was derived from the fact that by origin the chorus
was an integral part of Greek drama and had a rôle to play which required
its continual presence; that is to say, leaving the stage is not, with
rare exceptions, “the kind of action that a <Greek> chorus can ever
perform.”[269]
But as already intimated, the difficulty arose most frequently and most
glaringly when murder was threatened or was actually being committed
behind the scenes. In such a case “to say that convention prevented the
chorus from entering the palace may be true; but such a convention was
of little assistance to a great dramatist who keenly felt the force
of cause and effect. Such an artist knows that even convention must
be met in a natural way. Does convention prevent the entrance of the
chorus into the palace? Then common sense and ordinary conduct must
as well, else there is an unreality which is absent in a work of art”
(Stephenson, _op. cit._, p. 44). As successful a solution of the problem
as any Greek dramatist ever devised occurs in Aeschylus’ _Agamemnon_.
The chorus consists of Argive elders, who must not be represented as
cravenly betraying their lord. On the other hand, when Agamemnon’s cry
of agony is heard at vs. 1343, they cannot be allowed to rush in and
prevent his murder. This would alter the whole course of the story and
at the same time would cause an unparalleled lacuna in the action of the
play by leaving the stage, for a considerable interval, absolutely bare
of performers. As soon as Agamemnon’s voice is heard, the choreutae fall
into a wrangle, each declaring his opinion in turn (vss. 1346-71); but
before they can reach a decision and act upon it, Clytemnestra and the
bodies of her husband and of Cassandra are revealed.
Except that the debate is here so extended, the same device occurs
again and again. In Euripides’ _Hecabe_, Polymestor has been enticed
within the tents, and cries out that he has been blinded and his children
slain but that his enemies will not escape (vss. 1034-40). The chorus
of Trojan captive women ask whether they ought not to rush in to help
thwart this counter-stroke (vss. 1042 f.), but at once Hecabe appears
and obviates the need of their entering (vs. 1044). Similarly, in
Euripides’ _Andromache_, vss. 815-19, Hermione’s nurse declares that
her strength has given out in trying to prevent her mistress’ suicide,
and beseeches the chorus to enter the palace and lend their aid. The
slaves acknowledge that they hear the cries of servants from within,
which confirm the nurse’s story; but at this moment Hermione herself
slips from the restraining clutches of her attendants and darts upon
the stage. Less successful is the scene in Euripides’ _Hippolytus_. At
vss. 776 ff. a handmaid raises the cry that Phaedra has hanged herself,
and begs someone to cut her down. One semi-chorus inquires whether they
should not render this service, but the other rejoins that there are
attendants nearer at hand to do so and that officious meddlers often
endanger their own lives! Immediately thereafter a further cry announces
that the queen is dead past recovery (vss. 786 f.). One more illustration
will suffice. The failure of the chorus to rescue Medea’s children is
doubly motived: first, by the Colchian’s threat to anyone that might
interfere (Euripides’ _Medea_, vss. 1053 f.), and secondly, by the fact
that the palace doors are barred, so that Jason’s servants have to break
them down (vss. 1312 ff.). It has also been conjectured that the chorus’
description of Medea as iron-hearted and like a rock (vss. 1279 ff.)
is intended to suggest that they felt unable to cope with so masterful
and relentless a creature. This explanation finds some support in the
undoubted fact that the necessity of comparative inactivity on the part
of the chorus had much to do with the Greek tragedians’ fondness for
choruses of women and old men. In speaking of the elders in Aeschylus’
_Agamemnon_ Cornford[270] says that they “cannot enter the palace; not
because the door is locked, nor yet because they are feeble old men.
Rather they are old men because an impassible barrier of convention is
forming between chorus and actors, _and their age gives colour to their
powerlessness_.” In concluding this paragraph I wish to point out that
the chorus’s inability to enter the background during the play existed
quite independently of the threat of murder. In Euripides’ _Ion_ Creusa’s
maidservants, by the express permission of their mistress, examine and
admire the sculpture on the outer walls of Apollo’s temple at Delphi
(vss. 183-218). In real life it would be inevitable that a crowd bent on
sight-seeing should soon wish to pass inside and view the omphalus and
other objects of interest; and this, of course, the poet cannot allow.
Accordingly, when the point is raised (vss. 219 ff.), Ion replies that it
is forbidden to enter the inner fane except after the offer of sacrifice.
Finally, even at the very end of the play the chorus could not leave the
stage except after the actors or in their company. This convention arose
from the same conditions as have already been mentioned, but produced
some incongruities of its own. For example, in Euripides’ _Iphigenia
among the Taurians_ and _Helen_ the Greek slaves in the choruses are
promised, as a reward for their silence and help, a return to Greece (see
p. 156, above). But since in the latter play Helen and Menelaus make
their final exit nearly five hundred lines before the end of the piece,
it is manifestly impossible for the chorus to be spared. Consequently
they are most unconscionably left in the lurch without a single word
being said of their rescue. In the _Iphigenia_ they fare no better up
to the time when Orestes’ ship is driven back to land; but in the final
outcome Athena appears and includes the chorus among those whom King
Thoas must allow to depart in peace (vss. 1467 f.). Possibly a desire
to keep this promise to the chorus was one of the considerations that
induced the poet to have the ship forced back to shore and thus to make a
divine apparition unavoidable.
So inextricably is the chorus interwoven with Greek drama that its
influence may be detected almost anywhere. I have traced some of the
broader effects, however, and in subsequent chapters minor results will
be mentioned in connection with other factors.
Ἐκεῖ (sc. ἐν τοῖς ἀγῶσι) μεῖζον δύνανται νῦν τῶν ποιητῶν oἱ
ὑποκριταί.—ARISTOTLE.
CHAPTER III
THE INFLUENCE OF ACTORS[271]
The dithyramb and the comus, together with their derivatives, early
tragedy and early comedy, were entirely choral. Actors were first
developed in tragedy (see pp. 16 and 48, n. 1, above). Inasmuch as
the early dithyramb and early tragedy were devoted to the worship of
Dionysus and since their choreutae were his attendant sprites (satyrs
or sileni), it followed that their songs would mostly take the form of
prayers addressed to him, hymns in his honor, or odes descriptive of his
adventures, sufferings, etc. A lyric duet between the coryphaeus and
the other choreutae was also possible. Such performances bore much the
same relationship to later tragedy that the modern oratorio bears to a
sacred opera. That is to say, the choreutae were not differentiated in
character, and there was no dramatic impersonation (μίμησις); despite
their costumes the chorus sang as human worshipers of Dionysus, not in
accordance with their character as sileni. From the duet between the
coryphaeus and the other choreutae it was only a step, but a highly
important one, no longer to think of the coryphaeus as one silenus among
his fellows but as Dionysus himself in the midst of his followers, and
then to set him off by himself as an actor in contradistinction to the
choreutae and their (new) coryphaeus. This innovation was the work of
Thespis, and however long the name “tragedy” may already have been
applied to the previous performances this step marked the first beginning
of tragedy in the modern sense (see p. 16 f., above). Now that the new
actor had to impersonate Dionysus, the necessity rested likewise upon
the sileni in the chorus to live up to their own, previously neglected,
character. It was not long until by a change of mask and costume the
actor was enabled to represent other personages as well as Dionysus
himself. This practice made possible a much more involved type of drama
than the limited resources would at first glance seem to permit.
[Illustration: FIG. 66
IVORY STATUETTE OF A TRAGIC ACTOR
See p. 162, n. 1]
Aeschylus’ earliest extant play, the _Suppliants_, belongs to the
two-actor period, but employs the second actor so sparingly as to afford
a very good idea of the possibilities of the one-actor play. Omitting the
choral odes, the action runs as follows: The fifty daughters of Danaus
(the chorus) seek sanctuary near Argos to escape the unwelcome suit of
their cousins. At vs. 176 Danaus begins to admonish his daughters and
a dialogue (vss. 204-33) ensues between them. At vs. 234 the king of
Argos enters and engages with the chorus in a dialogue and a lyric duet
(vss. 234-417). During this scene Danaus is present, silent, inactive,
and all but unnoticed; cf. vs. 318. Of course in a one-actor play this
character must have been removed so that the single actor might reappear
as the king. But that could easily have been managed and would affect the
present piece in no essential way. After an ode the dialogue between the
king and the chorus is resumed (vss. 438-523), broken in upon only by a
brief conversation between the king and Danaus (vss. 480-503). The former
instructs Danaus how to supplicate the citizens in the town and, upon
the latter’s request for protection, orders attendants to accompany him.
Here for the first time are the two actors simultaneously employed, but
their words serve no more important purpose than to motivate the exit of
one of them. At vs. 523 the king likewise withdraws. At vs. 600 Danaus
reappears and with but a slight interruption on the part of his daughters
(vss. 602-4) informs them that the Argives have decided to shield them
(vss. 600 f., 605-24). At vs. 710 Danaus descries the suitors’ fleet in
the distance and declares, “I will return with helpers and defenders”
(vs. 726). Nevertheless, the scene is continued until vs. 775, when
Danaus departs to spread the alarm, incidentally releasing this actor
to play the part of the suitors’ herald. At vs. 836 the herald enters
and to the accompaniment of a lyric duet between himself and the chorus
tries to drag the Danaids away. At vs. 907 this attempt at violence is
brought to a standstill by the king’s return. The following altercation
between the herald and the king (vss. 907-53) provides the only bit of
genuine dramatic conflict, visually represented, in the play and the only
instance of both actors being fully made use of together. In a one-actor
play such a passage would have been impossible but could have been
presented indirectly by means of a messenger’s narrative. At vs. 953 the
herald withdraws, discomforted, and the king turns to the chorus (vss.
954-65). In reply the chorus ask that their father be returned to them
(vss. 966 ff.). The interval having been sufficient to enable the actor
to shift from the mask and costume of the herald to those of Danaus, the
latter re-enters at vs. 980 and converses with his daughters until the
final ode. Of all the extant plays of Aeschylus the _Suppliants_ probably
makes the slightest appeal to the modern student. Its principal value for
us lies in the fact that it could readily be revamped for presentation
by one actor and in the light which it thus sheds upon the character of
one-actor drama.
Several times in this play, as appears from the foregoing outline,
an actor participates in a dialogue with the chorus. It was not the
practice for the choral part in such dialogues to be spoken by all
the choreutae in unison, but by the chorus leader alone. Thus, though
a sharp distinction was drawn between actors and chorus, the former
being furnished by the state and the latter by private means (cf. pp.
270 f., below), yet the coryphaeus served as a bond of connection
between the two. We have seen how the first actor was developed from
the chorus leader; doubtless the successive additions to the number of
actors were suggested in each case by the advantages arising from this
quasi-histrionic function of the coryphaeus. Thus in addition to the
regular actors, at each stage of development the tragic poet always had
at his disposal also one quasi-actor for carrying on his dialogues. And
the comic poet always had two such quasi-actors, since the leaders of
the two semi-choruses could be used in this way (see p. 44, above). In
the one-actor period this quasi-histrionic function of the coryphaeus
resulted in a convention which continued long after the necessity for it
had passed away. It is obvious that at that juncture the single actor
could converse with no one but the chorus. This practice became so
stereotyped that in the two-actor period whenever a character came into
the presence of the chorus and another actor he directed his remarks to
the chorus before turning to the other character. Of course oftentimes
this was the natural thing to do. But the force of tradition is seen in
the fact that the principle was sometimes observed under unfavorable
conditions. Thus, as we have already observed, in the _Suppliants_ the
king enters at vs. 234 and at once begins a dialogue with the chorus,
ignoring their father until vs. 480. Greek respect for age and partiality
for the masculine sex make this arrangement in a Greek play very
unnatural. Again, in the _Persians_ a messenger from Greece ignores his
queen (vss. 249 ff.) and reports the Persian disaster to the chorus of
elders. Not until vs. 290 does Atossa address him, and in typical Greek
fashion Aeschylus strives to make her words gloss over the unreality
of his characters’ compliance with convention. “For a long time have I
kept silence,” she begins, “dumbfounded by catastrophe. This ill exceeds
my power to tell or ask our woes.” The same convention persisted even
into the three-actor period. Clytemnestra’s husband has been gone ten
years or more, yet she must excuse herself to the chorus (Aeschylus’
_Agamemnon_, vss. 855-78) before greeting her lord (see p. 155, above).
Another instance occurs in Euripides’ _Children of Heracles_, vss. 120
ff. Moreover the coryphaeus sometimes exercises an important influence
upon the plot. For example, in Aeschylus’ _Libation-Bearers_, vss. 766
ff., it is the coryphaeus who induces the servant to alter the wording of
the summons with which she is sent to Aegisthus. By this device he comes
unescorted and falls an easy victim to the conspirators.
In view of the normal employment of the coryphaeus as a quasi-actor,
Aeschylus took an easy and obvious step, or rather half-step, in
advance when he introduced the second actor. We have seen that the
_deuteragonist_ was already made use of, though sparingly, in the
_Suppliants_. Also the _Persians_, the _Seven against Thebes_ (except
possibly the closing scene; see p. 175, below), and the _Prometheus
Bound_ require but two actors for presentation. The great advantage
accruing from the second actor is manifest. Instead of being compelled
to resort to a messenger’s report of an altercation or dialogue between
two personages, the playwright was now enabled to bring the characters
face to face in person upon his stage. On the other hand, so limited a
number of actors often seriously embarrassed the dramatist in the economy
of his play. Perhaps the best example of this is afforded by Aeschylus’
_Prometheus_. In the opening scene Cratos and Bia (Strength and Force)
drag Prometheus to a remote spot in Scythia and Hephaestus nails him to
a crag. How can these four characters be presented by two actors? In the
first place Bia has no speaking part, and mutes were freely employed
in addition to the regular actors. In the second place Prometheus was
represented by a wooden figure. This explains how it was possible for
a nail to be driven right through his breast (vss. 64 f.). It explains
also why so great emphasis is laid upon the fastening process; first
the hands are pinned down (vs. 55), then the arms (vs. 60), the breast
(vs. 65) and sides (vs. 71), and finally the legs (vs. 74). Thus the
immobility and lifelessness of the supposed Prometheus are accounted for.
Neither Hephaestus’ sympathy nor Cratos’ insults elicit a single word
of reply from his lips. Although this silence arises naturally from the
Titan’s unyielding disposition, yet the real reason lies in the use of
a dummy. At vs. 81 Hephaestus retires, and after six lines of further
insults Cratos follows him. A slight pause would naturally ensue, so that
Prometheus might be sure that his enemy had passed beyond the sound of
his voice. These intervals enabled the former actor to take his place
at some crack or opening behind the lay figure and break Prometheus’
speechlessness (vs. 88). The other actor reappears in a succession of
rôles throughout the play, as Oceanus (vs. 284), Io (vs. 561), and Hermes
(vs. 944); but these shifts were easily managed.
Soon after Sophocles’ first appearance (468 B.C. or possibly 471
B.C.)[272] he introduced the third actor. First of all this innovation
permitted a larger number of characters to be presented. In Aeschylus’
two-actor plays the characters number three in the _Suppliants_ in
addition to the chorus and coryphaeus, four in the _Persians_, six in
the _Prometheus_, and five in _Seven against Thebes_. In the three-actor
plays Aeschylus’ characters range from five to seven, Sophocles’ from
five to nine, and Euripides’ from seven to eleven, except that Euripides’
satyr-play, the _Cyclops_, has but three characters. Secondly, a third
actor allowed greater flexibility in handling entrances and exits. An
artificial pause, more or less improbably motived, to enable an actor
to change his mask and costume before appearing in another rôle would
now be less frequently required (see further, p. 231, below). Thirdly,
it allowed three personages to appear side by side in the same scene,
whereby in turn a certain aesthetic effect became possible. I refer to
the varied emotions which one actor’s statements or conduct sometimes
produce in two other characters. An excellent illustration is afforded by
the scene with the Corinthian messenger in Sophocles’ _Oedipus the King_,
vss. 924 ff. As the awful conviction is brought home to Jocaste that
Oedipus is her son as well as her husband, she rushes from the stage to
hang herself; but Oedipus, on the contrary, still lacking the fatal clue,
becomes elated at the prospect of discovering his parents’ identity.
Similarly in the same playwright’s _Electra_, vss. 660 ff., the false
report of Orestes’ death cheers his mother with the assurance that her
murder of Agamemnon must now remain unavenged, but plunges Electra into
the desperation of despair. Such situations would have been impossible
in the two-actor drama. Finally, the introduction of a third actor
contributed to the decay of the chorus. We have already noted in the last
chapter how the importance of the chorus steadily declined, especially
in comedy. But this change was quantitative as well as qualitative. In
the prehistrionic period the chorus and its coryphaeus, from the nature
of the case, monopolized every line. After Thespis had brought in the
first actor the chorus yielded but a small place to its rival. Even in
the two-actor period in our earliest extant play, the _Suppliants_,
the chorus sang five hundred and sixty-five verses out of a total of a
thousand and seventy-four, and in addition to this the coryphaeus spoke
ninety verses. In six of Aeschylus’ seven extant pieces the choral
element varies from three-fifths to about one-half of the whole play. The
_Prometheus_, for special reasons, is exceptional, the fraction being
only one-sixth. The effect of the third actor is seen in the fact that
in Sophocles the proportion varies from one-fourth to one-seventh and in
Euripides from one-fourth to one-eighth.
The question naturally arises, Why were the Greek dramatists so slow in
increasing the number of actors? This was due partly to a paucity of
histrionic talent and partly to difficulty in mastering the dramatic
technique of the dialogue.
In the dithyramb and the prehistrionic drama the poet was his own
coryphaeus. Accordingly when Thespis introduced the first actor he
served in that capacity himself, appointing another as coryphaeus. So
did Phrynichus, Aeschylus, and the other dramatists of that period.
Since there were then no retired actors and no opportunity to serve
an apprenticeship, it is obvious that these early poets had to teach
themselves how to act. At this stage it was not possible for anyone
except a playwright to become an actor, and actors must have been
correspondingly scarce. The situation improved somewhat after Aeschylus
introduced the second actor, for though the poets still carried the major
rôles it now became possible for men with natural histrionic ability to
develop it and gain experience in minor parts. By the time of Sophocles,
actors had become so plentiful, relatively speaking, that he could
increase the number employed by each poet from two to three and could
retire from personal participation in the public presentation of his
works. His weak voice is said to have been responsible for this second
innovation; but he occasionally appeared in scenes where this weakness
was no great hindrance, e.g., as a harp player in _Thamyris_ and as an
expert ball player in _Nausicaa_. By 449 B.C. the profession was so large
and its standing so well recognized that a contest of tragic actors was
made an annual event in the program of the City Dionysia. This course
of development reveals one reason for the long duration of the one- and
two-actor stages in Greek drama.
We shall now pass to the second reason. In the prehistrionic period a
series of lyric questions and answers between chorus and coryphaeus was
the nearest approach to a dialogue that was possible (see p. 10, above).
With the invention of the first actor this interplay of question and
answer, still lyrical in form, could be carried on by the actor and the
chorus (including the coryphaeus). Such a duet, which came to be known
as a _commus_, continued in use, especially for dirges, as long as the
chorus lasted. Side by side with this, however, there quickly developed
a non-lyric interchange of spoken lines between actor and coryphaeus.
But not until the second actor was added did true dialogue in the modern
sense become possible. Yet the poets could not at once make full use of
even these simple resources. Our analysis of Aeschylus’ _Suppliants_
(pp. 163 f., above) shows that in two instances Danaus stood silent
and unaddressed during a conversation between the other actor and the
coryphaeus. Moreover, priority of usage constrained the playwrights
to give the actor-coryphaeus dialogue precedence over actor-actor
dialogue (cf. pp. 165 f., above). They seemed unable to weld the two
types together with a technique which would employ all three persons at
once. In the three-actor period the embarrassment of riches made their
helplessness the more striking. “A” might engage in a dialogue with “B”
while “C” remained inactive; then with “C” while “B” was silent; and
finally “B” and “C” might converse, with “A” remaining passive. Often
the transitions are marked or the longer speeches set off by a few more
or less perfunctory verses (usually two) spoken by the coryphaeus. The
type is not frequently worked out as completely as I have just indicated,
but the principle is illustrated on a lesser scale in almost every
play. Compare, for example, Euripides’ _Helen_, vss. 1186-1300, and
_Andromache_, vss. 547-766. Such an arrangement, needless to say, falls
far short of a genuine trialogue or tetralogue. Yet we must not be unfair
in condemning this practice. The Greek poets were feeling their way and
could not immediately attain to every refinement. Even in Shakespeare and
the modern drama, despite centuries of continuous experimentation and
the numerous examples of superior technique, the tandem arrangement of
dialogue is still not uncommon.
A half-step in advance consisted in the silent actor interrupting the
dialogue with some electrifying utterance. For example, in Aeschylus’
_Libation-Bearers_ (458 B.C.), Clytemnestra’s appeal to Orestes on the
score of her motherhood stays his hand in the very act of murdering her,
and he weakly turns to his trusted friend, Pylades, for guidance. The
latter’s ringing response,
Wilt thou abjure half Loxias’ behest,
The word of Pytho, and thy sacred troth?
Hold all the world thy foe rather than Heaven
[vss. 900-903, Warr’s translation],
is as effective as if uttered by the god in person, and urges Orestes
on to the deadly deed. These are the only words that Pylades utters in
the whole tragedy. In another play belonging to the same trilogy, the
_Eumenides_, Aeschylus rose to the full possibilities of his histrionic
resources—Orestes, the coryphaeus, Apollo, and Athena all participating
in the conversation between vss. 746 and 753. Similarly, in Sophocles’
_Oedipus at Colonus_, Antigone, Oedipus, Ismene, and the coryphaeus
all speak between vss. 494 and 506, and in Euripides’ _Suppliants_ the
herald, the coryphaeus, Adrastus, and Theseus divide four lines among
them (vss. 510-13). But after all, such instances are comparatively rare
and seldom extend over a very long passage.
In contradistinction to tragic practice Aristophanes in the last quarter
of the fifth century employed not merely three but occasionally even
four comic actors in ensemble scenes. For example, in the _Lysistrata_,
vss. 78-246, Calonice, Myrrhina, Lysistrata, and Lampito engage in a
running fire of conversation quite in the modern manner. Again, in the
_Frogs_, vss. 1411 ff., Dionysus, Aeschylus, Euripides, and Pluto all
have speaking parts, although the last two do not address one another.
In the same play (vs. 555) Dionysus utters three words while three other
participants in the dialogue are present. Under similar circumstances
Pseudartabus interposes two verses (100 and 104) in the _Acharnians_,
and Triballus parts of five verses (1615, 1628 f., and 1678 f.) in the
_Birds_. In these passages the comic coryphaei have no speaking parts.
Trialogues are not so rare in Old Comedy as to justify an enumeration of
the instances, and they are sometimes embellished by the participation of
the coryphaei. Nevertheless, the old tandem arrangement is still the more
common one when three characters are present.
We thus pass from one problem to another: Why this disparity between
the technique of tragedy and comedy? Must we suppose that the comic
dramatists were more clever artists than their tragic confrères? By no
means. Comedy was more mobile and reacted more quickly to the actual
conditions of contemporaneous life; tragedy was more conventional,
never could free itself entirely from the power of tradition, and could
only slowly modify that tradition. The situation is clearly revealed
in the field of meter. In the iambic trimeters written by Aeschylus a
trisyllabic substitution (tribrach, anapaest, or dactyl) for the pure
disyllabic iambus occurs only once in about twenty-five verses. In the
earliest plays of Euripides such resolutions appear once in sixteen
verses but gradually increase to a maximum of one in every alternate
verse.[273] On the contrary, in the comedies of Aristophanes they are
found in almost every line. Now we are not to suppose that Euripides
required a lifetime in order to learn how to use resolutions with freedom
or that he was never able to gain the facility of Aristophanes. Nor are
we to suppose that Sophocles, whose iambics resemble those of Aeschylus,
was never able to master this expedient. In both cases we see merely the
power which convention and tradition exercised over tragedy. And the same
influences made themselves felt in the comparatively archaic technique
of tragic dialogue and tended to keep the tragic playwrights from making
full use of their resources.
But were the resources of the tragic writers as great as those of the
comedians? We have seen how the first, second, and third actors were
added to Greek tragedy. Is there reason to believe that the tragedians of
Athens ever followed the comedians in employing a larger number? Until
recently a negative reply to this has been accepted without serious
question, but in 1908 Professor Rees challenged the tradition. Three
years later the old view was defended by Dr. Kaffenberger. Although
neither has been able fully to establish his contentions, yet the
discussion has helped to clear the air, defined the issues more sharply,
and really settled certain important points. For one thing, since 1844 it
has generally been taken for granted that three actors were the maximum
for Old Comedy as well as for tragedy. But the passages just cited from
Aristophanes would seem to be decisive against this view, and all the
objections to the presentation of Greek tragedy by only three actors
apply with still greater force to Old Comedy. Even Dr. Kaffenberger
(_op. cit._, pp. 9 f.) accepts this conclusion, and it is an invaluable
result of Professor Rees’s investigations that he has banished this phase
of the subject from the field of controversy. Moreover, they are both
agreed[274] that a fourth actor seems sometimes to be required also for
New Comedy. It must be added, however, that Dr. Graf (_op. cit._, pp. 29
ff.) dissents. But in any case the question has been restricted, so far
as the fifth century is concerned, to the practice in tragedy.
It can be said at once that if we are willing to grant that the Greeks
made use of certain desperate expedients it is physically possible to
stage all the extant tragedies with three actors. But these expedients
are so offensive to modern feeling as to be tolerable only as a last
resort. It will be best to begin at a point where comparative agreement
is possible, viz., with Aeschylus’ earlier plays, which nearly everyone
would admit were intended for two actors alone. Do they reveal any
indication of this limitation?
In the analysis of Aeschylus’ _Suppliants_ on p. 164, the reader will
remember that Danaus, having declared “I will return with helpers and
defenders,” took his departure at vs. 775; after an ode, the suitors’
herald arrived on the scene (vs. 836) but was balked by the entrance of
the Argive king (vs. 907). One would surely expect Danaus to accompany
the king, but as a matter of fact he does not reappear until vs. 980.
The reason for this is plain—Danaus and the herald are played by the
same actor, and consequently the former can return only after the
latter’s departure at vs. 953. Moreover, Aeschylus sought to gloss over
the blemish by having Danaus refer in advance to the possibility of his
being slow in spreading the alarm (vs. 730) and by having the chorus
request the king to send their father back to them (vss. 968 ff.), as if
his absence had been perfectly natural. This incident teaches us four
things: (1) A single actor could carry several rôles; the simplicity and
sameness of ancient costumes and the ease of slipping them off and on,
together with the use of masks by the actors, made this practice more
feasible than it is with us. Overzealous classicists have not merely
asked us to tolerate this practice but even to admire its results.
Thus, when one character returns to report the death of another the
spectators are supposed to have been doubly moved if they could penetrate
the messenger’s disguise and from the identity of stature, build, and
voice recognize the ghost, as it were, of the departed visibly before
them (!).[275] (2) This practice oftentimes necessitated the arbitrary
withdrawal of a character from the scene of action and his enforced
absence when he would naturally be present. (3) By inventing an inner
reason for this the poet strove to conceal or gloss over his yielding to
external need. (4) The intervals between the withdrawal of Danaus and the
entrance of the herald (vss. 776-836) and vice versa (vss. 953-80) afford
an inkling as to the length of time required for such shifts in rôles.
Further information is derived from Aeschylus’ _Prometheus Bound_ (see
pp. 166 f., above). (5) Supernumeraries may be employed for silent parts,
e.g., that of Bia. (6) A part may be divided between a lay figure and an
actor, as in the case of Prometheus himself. From the nature of things,
this expedient would not be frequently employed; but an analogous device
(6_a_) is common, viz., to give the silent portions of a rôle to a mute
and the speaking portions to an actor. (7) The stubborn silence of the
mutes and supernumeraries employed according to principles (5) and (6_a_)
is sometimes extremely embarrassing and difficult to motivate. (4_a_)
The interval required for a “lightning” change from one character to
another was much shorter than the _Suppliants_ led us to suppose. Six
verses and a slight pause in the action enabled the actor impersonating
Hephaestus to withdraw by the side entrance after vs. 81 and to get in
position to speak from behind the wooden figure of Prometheus at vs. 88.
This conclusion is confirmed by certain evidence in Plautus’ translation
of Greek comedies, which indicates that about thirteen lines would
suffice.[276]
Still other principles are derivable from Aeschylus’ _Persians_. The
ghost of Darius having requested his widow to meet their son Xerxes with
a change of raiment, Atossa replies (vss. 849 ff.): “I shall endeavor
to meet my son ... and,” turning to the chorus, “if he comes hither
before me, do you comfort him and escort him to his palace.” These words
are clearly intended to prepare us for her failure to appear in the
dénouement, and in fact she does not appear. But since one of the two
actors is disengaged in the final scene, at first glance there seems
to be no external reason for her absence. It is evident that Aeschylus
valued the parts of Atossa and Xerxes so highly that he wanted them both
played by the better of his two actors, the _protagonist_. If Atossa had
appeared with her son, she must have been impersonated by a different
actor than in the opening scenes. The poet preferred to sacrifice
verisimilitude somewhat rather than to “split” Atossa’s rôle in this
fashion. Hence, we must conclude (8) that at any cost star parts were
reserved for the leading actor, (9) that split rôles were to be avoided,
and (10) that sometimes for purely technical reasons the dramatist would
unnaturally keep a character off the stage entirely in certain scenes.
If we could be sure that the final scene of Aeschylus’ _Seven against
Thebes_ is genuine, it would be possible to deduce a final principle.
The main support for the charge of interpolation is that this scene in
a two-actor play apparently requires three actors. From vs. 961 to vs.
1004 Antigone and Ismene engage in a lyric duet; at vs. 1005 a herald
enters and converses with Antigone. From this scene, which I am inclined
to accept as genuine (see p. 283, below), we must concede either that a
supernumerary could occasionally bear a brief singing (or speaking) part
or preferably that the herald, standing in the side entrance concealed
from the spectators and already dressed for his own rôle, sang Ismene’s
share of the duet while a mute went through the dumb show of her part
before the audience; at the conclusion of the duet he promptly appeared
_in propria persona_. Though the latter alternative is offensive to
present-day taste, it is not unparalleled in the annals of the modern
stage.[277] In any case one of these alternatives is the last principle
(11) to be drawn from the two-actor drama.
Now these eleven principles are so manifestly operative in the other
Greek tragedies as to raise an irresistible presumption that some
restriction (to three or at most to four actors) applied also to them. It
would obviously be out of place to pass every play in review here; I must
content myself with a few typical illustrations and then consider the
crucial cases.
In order to avenge his daughter, Menelaus is on the point of murdering
her rival (Andromache) and the latter’s son when he is interrupted by
the arrival of Peleus, Hermione’s father-in-law. There is no reason why
Menelaus should fear the old man’s blusterings; nevertheless he suddenly
leaves Hermione in the lurch and takes his departure with the words:
Now, seeing that my leisure serveth not,
Home will I go; for not from Sparta far
Some certain town there is, our friend, time was,
But now our foe: against her will I march,
Leading mine host, and bow her ’neath my sway.
Soon as things there be ordered to my mind,
I will return, etc.
[Euripides _Andromache_, vss. 732 ff., Way’s translation]
Surely no excuse was ever less convincing than this! No wonder Professor
Verrall’s ingenuity has built up a whole reinterpretation of the play
around it.[278] The real reason for the sudden leave-taking is only
too apparent—Orestes is presently to make his appearance (vs. 881) and
Menelaus’ actor is required for his rôle. This exemplifies principles
(1), (2), and (3).
Again, in Sophocles’ _Maidens of Trachis_, Lichas, Deianira, and
a messenger are on the scene when Deianira spies Iole in a throng
of captives and questions her (vss. 307 ff.). Iole makes no reply
whatsoever. Lichas explains her refusal to answer by stating that from
grief and weeping she has not uttered a word since leaving her fatherland
(vss. 322 ff.). Since the three actors are already occupied in this
scene it is evident that Iole is played by a mute and cannot speak. This
illustrates principles (5) and (7).
Still again, up to vs. 1245 of Euripides’ _Orestes_, when he enters the
palace, Pylades speaks freely. At vs. 1554 Menelaus, Orestes, Hermione,
and Pylades enter the scene. The last two are now played by mutes, the
third actor appearing as Apollo at vs. 1625. Orestes threatens to kill
Hermione; and after vainly striving to deter him Menelaus turns to
Pylades with the query (vs. 1591): “Do you, also, share in this murder,
Pylades?” What is a mute to do under such circumstances? Orestes relieved
the situation by saying: “His silence gives consent; my word will
suffice.” There can be no doubt that the playwright intended Menelaus’
question to create the illusion that Pylades could have spoken had he so
desired, principles (6_a_) and (7).
Euripides avoided an awkward silence of this sort in the _Ion_ by leaving
Xuthus unrepresented in the final scene, where the three actors speak
in other rôles. Xuthus takes his final departure at vs. 675, intending
to celebrate for his new-found son a public feast from which the host
himself is most strangely absent. The poet prepares us in advance for
this contingency by means of Xuthus’ words to his son, as reported by a
servant at vss. 1130 ff.: “If I tarry in sacrificing to the Birth-gods,”
a thin pretext, “place the feast before the friends assembled there,”
principles (1), (2), (3), and (10).
Finally, for the presentation of his _Phoenician Maids_, Euripides
must have had a leading actor of great musical attainments. For such a
performer the rôles of Jocaste and Antigone were especially adapted,
and he seems to have played them both, principle (8). The piece opens
with a soliloquy by Jocaste, who withdraws at vs. 87. Immediately a
servant appears on the palace roof and tells Antigone to tarry upon the
stairs until he can assure himself that there is no one near to see her
and to spread scandalous reports of her indiscretion. Thus, Antigone’s
appearance is delayed for fifteen verses (vss. 88-102), which is
sufficient to enable Jocaste’s actor to shift to the new rôle, principle
(4_a_). The protagonist continues to play both parts without difficulty,
except at vss. 1264 ff. Here Jocaste summons her daughter from the palace
and both are present during vss. 1270-82, the latter speaking some six
verses. Obviously Antigone’s lines in this brief scene must have been
delivered by one of the subordinate players, though such splitting of
a rôle violates Aeschylean practice, see principle (9). Perhaps the
procedure in this case was condoned by the fact that Antigone’s part
previously and (for the most part) subsequently was entirely lyric,
while her few words here are in plain iambics. The difference between
the singing and the speaking voice would help to conceal the temporary
substitution of another actor. It is true that by assigning Jocaste’s
and Antigone’s rôles to different actors throughout it is possible
to distribute the parts in this play among three actors without any
difficulty whatever. But this would require us to ignore the peculiar
technique of the opening scenes, the true inwardness of which was
recognized by ancient commentators.[279]
These examples are by no means exhaustive, but it is high time that we
turn to the passages which are of crucial importance to the three-actor
theory. In Aeschylus’ _Libation-Bearers_ a servant has just informed
Clytemnestra that her paramour is slain, and she cries out: “Let some one
quickly give me an ax to slay a man withal” (vs. 889). We are to suppose
that the slave at once makes his exit to comply with her command. She
speaks two lines more and Orestes enters. They divide seven more lines
between them, and Orestes’ purpose is beginning to waver when he catches
sight of Pylades entering and asks: “Pylades, what shall I do? Shrink
from killing my mother?” Pylades’ electrifying response has already been
quoted (vss. 900-902; see p. 170, above). Here we have four speaking
characters between vss. 886 and 900 and consequently four actors, unless
the servant can be transformed into Pylades within the space of nine
lines, vss. 891-99. This would be a “lightning” change indeed (4_a_),
and it is not surprising that it has been challenged. Yet the ancient
scholiast accepts it and I do not believe we are warranted in pronouncing
it impossible, especially since the shift is merely from one male
character to another.
Another sort of difficulty is presented by Euripides’ _Andromache_.
Menelaus, Andromache, and her son, Molossus, all have speaking (or
singing) parts just before the entrance of Peleus at vs. 547. Since none
of the earlier speakers has withdrawn and since Peleus at once begins to
talk, it would seem at first glance that we had four actors indisputably
before us. Not so, answer the defenders of the traditional view, for it
is significant that Molossus becomes utterly dumb after Peleus enters.
Therefore we are asked to believe that Molossus was played by a mute
throughout, and the actor who is presently to appear as Peleus delivered
from behind the scenes the words which belong to Molossus, the mute
furnishing only the gestures. We have already found support for this
kind of thing in a suspected scene of Aeschylus’ _Seven against Thebes_,
principle (11), second alternative (pp. 175 f.). But we are asked to
go further and believe that this was always the practice when children
seemed to sing or speak upon the Greek stage;[280] and in confirmation
of this it is pointed out that whenever children have a part, as in
Euripides’ _Alcestis_, vss. 393 ff. and _Medea_, vss. 1271 ff., one of
the actors is always off the scene and available for this purpose. The
most difficult example of this problem has recently come to light in
the fragments of Euripides’ _Hypsipyle_, vss. 1579 ff.[281] The heroine
and Amphiaraus converse from the beginning of the fragment to vs. 1589,
where the latter makes his exit. Two lines of farewell (vss. 1590 f.)
are addressed to him and are assigned by the papyrus to “the children of
Hypsipyle.” Moreover, they are of such a nature that one line must have
been spoken by each of the two youths. Next, _one_ of them converses with
his mother until Thoas, who also has a speaking part, appears at vs.
1632. Here, then, if the children’s parts are taken by actors we have
four actors required in two successive scenes. The only alternative lies
in supposing that mutes impersonated the boys and that Thoas’ actor,
already dressed for his introit at vs. 1632, spoke their lines from
behind the scenes. This would include twelve lines for one youth and one
line, _in a different voice_, for the other.
[Illustration: FIG. 67.—Distribution of Rôles to Actors in Sophocles’
_Oedipus at Colonus_]
But the most intractable play of all is Sophocles’ _Oedipus at
Colonus_. Antigone and Oedipus are on the stage continuously for the
first eight hundred and forty-seven verses (the latter until vs. 1555),
while the third actor appears successively as a stranger, Ismene,
Theseus, and Creon (Fig. 67). So far there is no difficulty; but at
this point Creon hopes to bring Oedipus to time by announcing that his
guards have already seized Ismene (off-scene) and by having them now drag
Antigone away. Creon threatens to carry off Oedipus as well, but at vs.
887 Theseus reappears and prevents further outrage. Note, however, that
if only three actors were available Theseus must now be impersonated by
Antigone’s actor, whereas previously he was represented by the actor
who is now playing Creon’s part. Such splitting of a rôle is directly
contrary to Aeschylean practice, principle (9), and has not in this
instance the justification which Euripides had for splitting Antigone’s
part in the _Phoenician Maids_ (p. 178, above). For Theseus’ second actor
participates in the dialogue more extensively than did hers and his
lines are prose throughout, while hers were entirely prose for one actor
and (almost) entirely lyric for the other. But there are still other
obstacles ahead. At vs. 1043 Creon and Theseus withdraw; after a choral
ode Antigone, Theseus, and Ismene rejoin Oedipus (vs. 1099). Inasmuch
as Ismene now has no speaking part she is evidently played by a mute,
principle (6_a_). Presumably the other two are represented by the same
actors as at the beginning, although this second transfer in Theseus’
rôle doubles the chances of the audience noticing the shift. The only
alternative, however, is to split also Antigone’s rôle at this point.
Theseus retires at vs. 1210 and reappears at vs. 1500, his actor having
impersonated Polynices in the interval (vss. 1254-1446). At vs. 1555
all the characters exeunt. In the final act a messenger is on the stage
from vs. 1578 to vs. 1669. Since Antigone and Ismene enter immediately
thereafter (vs. 1670), it is necessary to suppose that they are played
by the same actors as at the beginning and that Oedipus has become the
messenger. At vs. 1751 Theseus makes his final entrance, represented this
time by Oedipus’ actor, so that this important rôle is played in turn by
each of the three actors! This means splitting Theseus’ rôle twice. It is
also possible to split his rôle and Ismene’s (or Antigone’s) once each,
or to split his rôle once and to have the final actor in this part sing
from behind the scenes the few words which fall to Ismene just before
Theseus’ last entrance, principle (11). On the other hand, though a
fourth actor would obviate all these difficulties we should then have no
explanation for the complicated system of entrances and exits and for the
strange silence of Ismene during vss. 1099-1555, especially during vss.
1457-99 (see p. 187, below).
I do not consider it warrantable to draw a categorical conclusion
from the data considered in the last fifteen paragraphs. But in my
opinion the technique of almost every tragedy is explicable only on the
assumption that the regular actors were restricted to three; and, as I
stated at the beginning, it is physically possible to stage every play
with that number. In the case of a few pieces, however, this limitation
imposes practices which so outrage the modern aesthetic sense that we
instinctively long for some manner of escape. According to late and
unreliable evidence an extra performer was called a _parachoregema_. This
name would indicate that he was an extra expense to the man who financed
each poet’s plays (the choregus, see pp. 186 and 270 f., below), and
consequently that his employment would be determined by the wealth or
liberality of the latter. But whether it was in fact possible for the
tragic playwrights occasionally to have the services of such an extra,
and, if so, under what conditions and how, are questions which in the
present state of our knowledge can receive only hypothetical answers. It
must be recognized, however, that the paucity of actors in the early days
resulted, as we have just seen, in conventions of staging which perhaps
were afterward accepted as part of the tradition, however unnecessary
they may in the meanwhile have become. The technique of composition also
makes it clear in my opinion that extra performers, if such were in fact
engaged, were not on a par with the other three nor employed freely
throughout the whole play but merely recited or sang a very few lines
at those crises in the dramatic economy which were occasioned by the
limitation in the number of regular actors.
We have now discovered why the dialogue technique of tragedy was
more restricted than that of comedy, but there still remains a further
question. Why was the number of actors in tragedy usually or always
restricted to three, while four actors were not uncommon in comedy?
So long as the poets did their own acting, there was no occasion for
the state to interfere in the selection of actors. And this situation
would naturally continue for some time after the plays were presented
largely or wholly by actors alone—the poets would still have the matter
in their charge. In fact there is no reason to suppose that the state
interposed its authority before the establishment of the contest for
tragic actors at the City Dionysia in 449 B.C. This supposition affords
the best explanation for certain ancient notices. For example, Aeschylus
is said to have used Cleander as his first actor and afterward to have
associated Mynniscus with him, and Sophocles to have employed Tlepolemus
continuously. Whatever truth or error may lie back of these statements
they imply that in the first half of the fifth century the choice of
actors rested solely with the poets. The same implication is inherent in
the fact that the second and third actors were introduced by Aeschylus
and Sophocles respectively. The poets must have made these additions upon
their own initiative. For the state could not have shown partiality by
providing Sophocles, for example, with more actors than were furnished
the other dramatists in the same contest; and if they were all alike
given an increased number, there would be no reason for crediting any
one of them with the innovation. The state must have assumed supervision
of the histrionic features of the dramatic contests at the same time
that it established a prize for actors, viz., in 449 B.C. And since the
tragedies of this period were presented by three actors, this number
became crystallized, and so was never thereafter, so far as the state
was concerned, exceeded in tragedy. Tragedies were added to the Lenaean
program and a prize for tragic actors established for that festival
simultaneously, about 433 B.C. Naturally the conventional number of
tragic actors would be transferred from the older contest to the newer.
In comedy, however, the development and tradition were entirely different
(see pp. 52 f., above). Primitive comedies in Attica were performed
by a double chorus of choreutae, who constituted an undifferentiated
crowd and assumed no individual rôles, but sang (or spoke) singly,
antiphonally, or in unison. Shortly before 450 B.C. regular actors
were introduced in contradistinction to the choreutae; and Cratinus,
imitating contemporaneous tragedy, set their number at three. Yet the
choreutae did not for a long time entirely give up their old license and
self-assertiveness. Consequently, it is not surprising that the number of
performers did not remain at the tragic norm. The fact that a contest of
comic actors was not established at the Lenaea until about 442 B.C. (at
the City Dionysia not until about 325 B.C.) allowed a slight interval for
this reaction to assert itself before usage became legalized. Such, then,
are the reasons for the number of actors being less restricted in comedy
than in tragedy.
For about a century, beginning with 449 B.C., the state annually engaged
three tragic protagonists to be assigned by lot to the three poets who
were about to compete with plays. Each protagonist seems to have hired
his own subordinate actors (deuteragonist and tritagonist) and with
their assistance presented all the plays (at the City Dionysia three
tragedies and one satyric drama) which his poet had composed for the
occasion. The victorious actor in each year’s contest was automatically
entitled to appear the following year. The other two protagonists were
perhaps selected by means of a preliminary contest, such as is mentioned
for comic actors on the last day of the Anthesteria. These regulations
applied, _mutatis mutandis_, also to the contest of comic actors and
to the tragic and comic contests at the Lenaea. Thus at the Lenaea of
418 B.C. Callippides acted in the two tragedies of Callistratus, and
Lysicrates in the other dramatist’s two plays. And it should be noted
that, whereas Callippides won the prize for acting, Callistratus was
defeated in the competition of tragedies. This must have been a point of
considerable difficulty, for an actor’s chances must have been greatly
hampered by his being required to present a poor series of plays; and a
poet, likewise, must have suffered by reason of an inferior presentation
of his dramas. But sometime in the fourth century, when the playwrights
were no longer required to write satyr-plays (see p. 199, below), a more
equitable system was introduced. Each of the protagonists in turn now
acted one of the three tragedies of each poet, the histrionic talent
at the disposal of each dramatist being thus made exactly the same.
For example, at the City Dionysia of 341 B.C. (Fig. 76) Astydamas was
the victorious playwright; his _Achilles_ was played by Thettalus, his
_Athamas_ by Neoptolemus, and his _Antigone_ by Athenodorus. The same
actors likewise presented the three tragedies of Evaretus and those of
the third dramatist. On this occasion Neoptolemus won; a year later,
under similar conditions, he was defeated by Thettalus.
We have seen how slow was the rise of actors into a profession distinct
from the poets. At a later time, however, they were strongly organized
into guilds under the name of “Dionysiac artists” (οἱ ἀμφὶ τὸν Διόνυσον
τεχνῖται). Their strongest “union” (κοινόν or σύνοδος) was centered
at Athens and it was also the earliest (fourth century B.C.). Others
were situated at Thebes, Argos, Teos, Ptolemais, Cyprus, and in all
parts of the Greek-speaking world. Now already in the fifth century
traveling troupes had presented at the country festivals plays which
had won popular acclaim in Athens. For economic reasons it was to the
advantage both of the players who had to divide their emoluments and of
the communities which hired them to make these traveling companies as
small as possible and consequently to restrict their repertoire to plays
capable of being performed by a minimum of actors. With the organization
of guilds the presentation of dramas “in the provinces” or even at
important festivals would be taken over by them; and the same economic
causes as before would operate to restrict the number of players in a
company. There is reason to believe that a normal troupe in the time of
the _technitae_ consisted of three actors.[282] Inscriptions for the
Soteric festival at Delphi for the years 272-269 B.C. inclusive contain
the names of ten companies of tragic actors and twelve of comic actors.
These performers belonged to the Athenian guild and in every case there
are three names to a company. There is no reason to doubt that this
number was customary also in the wandering troupes of the pre-technitae
period. Some maintain that already in the fifth century a fourth actor
was called a parachoregema, as being an extra burden upon the choregus
(cf. p. 182, above). But Professor Rees has made it seem very probable
that the term took its rise in the time of the technitae. For in later
usage _choregein_ (χορηγεῖν) in most cases no longer meant “to defray the
expense of the chorus,” “to act as choregus,” but simply “to furnish”
without any reference to the choregic system at all. Parachoregema,
therefore, would signify “that which is furnished in supplement,” “an
extra.” In other words, if the officials of a city contracted with the
union for one or more troupes for a dramatic festival they would be
provided with three-actor companies; but if they desired to witness some
four-actor play or to avoid the infelicities arising from the splitting
or ill-assorted doubling of rôles (see pp. 191 f., below) they might _at
extra expense_ secure a parachoregema in the form of a fourth actor and
so gratify their wishes. According to either interpretation, therefore,
the term may refer, _inter alia_, to a fourth actor, but there is a wide
difference as to the theory of the circumstances and situation which
produced this meaning.
Since our extant plays belong exclusively to the fifth and fourth
centuries, the size of the troupes furnished by the guilds could have
exerted no influence upon them. But it is quite possible that the
dramatists of later times deliberately adapted their technique to the
needs of subsequent presentation by such companies. For example, the
number of characters who can have a speaking part in a dialogue naturally
cannot exceed the number of actors at the poet’s disposal. Whatever may
have been the situation previously, in the technitae period this would
be three. Therefore if the technitae did not give rise to, they at least
fixed the so-called aesthetic law that if a fourth character is present
at a conversation between three others he must keep silent. This rule is
expressed by Horace[283] in the words: “Let no fourth character strive to
speak,” and it is often mentioned by writers of the Alexandrian and Roman
periods. The scholiasts belong to this time and their comments frequently
reveal an attempt to foist the aesthetic law upon the fifth-century
dramas. The difficulty which the fifth-century writers encountered in
mastering even the three-part dialogue (see p. 170) lends to such an
attempt a misleading facility. In tragedy the normal restriction of
actors to three makes the task especially easy, but even here the law
is only superficially observed. For the coryphaeus often participates
so freely in a conversation between actors (see pp. 164 f. and 169 f.,
above) that only by courtesy can it be called a three-part dialogue. In
Seneca’s Roman tragedies, on the contrary, the coryphaeus never speaks
if more than one actor is present.[284] Now Professor Rees would trace
the aesthetic law back to fifth-century times, but Dr. Kaffenberger
(_op. cit._, pp. 22 f.) rightly demurs. He points out that in Sophocles’
_Oedipus at Colonus_, vss. 1099-1555, Oedipus, Antigone, and Ismene are
continuously present but that Ismene says never a word. What is the cause
of this silence? During vss. 1099-1210 and vss. 1500-1555 Theseus is also
present and during vss. 1249-1446 Polynices is present. In these scenes,
therefore, it is possible to explain Ismene’s silence on the basis of the
aesthetic law. But during vss. 1447-99 Oedipus and his two daughters are
left alone, and Ismene still remains silent. Consequently the aesthetic
explanation breaks down at this point and we must stand by our earlier
conclusion (see pp. 181 f., above) that throughout these scenes Ismene
is impersonated by a mute. Moreover, since Oedipus forbids his daughters
sharing his final moments with him, why does the poet not let him
take leave of them on the stage instead of resorting to a messenger’s
narrative (cf. vss. 1611 ff.)? The answer is obvious. In such a situation
Ismene simply _must_ have spoken and this a mute could not have done for
her. Moreover, there is no aesthetic reason why the law should not be as
binding in comedy as in tragedy. Nevertheless, fifth-century comedies
indisputably violated it and possibly fourth-century comedies did also
(see pp. 171-73, above). Therefore, if tragedy was more scrupulous it
must have been because its actors were less numerous. But in truth
it was not until the period of the technitae and their three-actor
troupes that a hard-and-fast rule was established. Notwithstanding, the
grammarians as a result of their closet study of Attic drama seized upon
the observance of the law in fifth-century tragedy and usually in New
Comedy, which was greatly influenced by Euripides, as a justification
for tracing the practice back to an earlier origin. Except in one scene
Seneca always observed the law.[285] But when Plautus and Terence
attempted to transplant New Comedy to Italian soil, they encountered a
difficulty. It was the use of masks which enabled the Greek playwrights
to shift their actors from one rôle to another with lightning speed. But
masks are said not to have been employed on the Roman stage until the
next century. Therefore, even if the Greek comedies had been translated
without modification it would have been quite impossible to present
them at Rome with only three or four (maskless) actors. Accordingly,
Plautus and Terence seem to have employed five or six performers and
occasionally even more, and then proceeded to make further use of them
so as to gratify the Roman desire for spectacular effects. By combining
Greek plays into one Latin version (by “contaminating” them, to use the
technical term) and by altering them freely they produced many scenes in
which four or five persons participate in the same dialogue.
The fact that women’s parts in Elizabethan drama were played by boys
has been used to explain the fondness of Elizabethan heroines for
masquerading in masculine attire. Now the Greek theater, likewise, knew
no actresses—all parts, regardless of sex, were presented by men. Can any
effect of this practice be traced in the extant plays? In the first place
Greek drama also was not unacquainted with the spectacle of masculine
performers impersonating women who were disguised as men; cf. the rôle
of Mnesilochus in Aristophanes’ _Women at the Thesmophoria_, and the
chorus and several characters in the same author’s _Women in Council_.
But in the Greek theater this occurrence was too rare to be significant.
Secondly, it has frequently been observed that the heroines of Greek
tragedy are as a rule lacking in feminine tenderness and diffidence
and are prone to such masculine traits as boldness, initiative, and
self-reliance. On the other hand the women who have speaking parts in
comedy are usually either impaired in reputation or disagreeable in
character—courtesans, ravished maidens, shrews, scolds, jealous wives,
intriguing mothers-in-law, etc.[286] Now these facts are doubtless the
resultant of many factors. For example, tragedy has little direct use
for the modest violet type of woman, and the sharp demarcation between
dramatic genres (see p. 201, below) tended to prevent their indirect
employment in scenes meant merely to relieve the tragic intensity of the
main plot. Likewise, social conditions must have had a great deal to do
with the exclusion of women of unblemished reputation and attractive
years from the comic stage (see pp. 277-79, below). Nevertheless when
all is said I consider it quite possible that the representation of
women by men actors was partially responsible for such a choice and
for the delineation of female rôles. At least male performers must
have found such types of women much easier to impersonate. Finally, if
children were represented only in pantomime and their words spoken by
a grown actor from behind the scenes (see pp. 179 f., above) we can
understand why girls never have a speaking part and one reason why the
words put in boys’ mouths are often too old for them. A competent critic
has declared: “Euripides’ children do not sing what is appropriate to
children in the circumstances supposed but what the poet felt for the
children and for the situations. In particular the song of the boy over
the dead body of his mother in the _Alcestis_ is one of his grossest
errors in delineation.”[287] This situation, also, is capable of several
explanations, but who will deny that the practice of having children’s
parts declaimed by adults belongs among them?
In France the court compelled actors to furnish amusement and the
church damned them for complying. In Rome the actors were slaves or
freedmen and belonged to the dregs of society. Only in Greece did no
stigma rest upon the histrionic profession. As we have seen (pp. 131 f.,
above) the actors were active participants in a religious service and
during the festival performances their persons were quasi-sacrosanct. As
such, they were entitled to and received the highest respect, and their
occupation was considered an honorable one. Consequently, they were often
the confidants and associates of royalty and wielded no mean influence
in the politics of their native lands. In particular as they traveled
from court to court they often acted as intermediaries in diplomatic
negotiations. Thus Aeschines, an ex-actor, was almost as influential in
the Athenian faction which favored the Macedonians as was Demosthenes in
that which opposed them. And though the latter in his speeches indulged
in frequent sneers at Aeschines’ theatrical career, this was not on
account of his profession per se but because Demosthenes claimed he had
been a failure at it. Aeschines and Aristodemus, another actor, twice
went as ambassadors from Athens to Philip, king of Macedonia, with whom
the latter was _persona gratissima_. Thettalus was an especial favorite
of Alexander the Great, who sent him as an emissary to arrange his
marriage with a Carian satrap’s daughter. When Thettalus was defeated by
Athenodorus at Tyre in 332 B.C. Alexander said that he would rather have
lost a part of his kingdom than to have seen Thettalus defeated. These
men were contemporaries of Aristotle, who declared in his _Rhetoric_
that in his day actors counted for more in the dramatic contests than
the poets.[288] The huge fees that they received are often mentioned. In
view of all this it is not surprising that they arrogated to themselves
many liberties. Aristotle states that Theodorus always insisted upon
being the first actor to appear in a play, doubtless on a principle
analagous to that which Mr. William Archer[289] mentions: “Where it is
desired to give to one character a special prominence and predominance,
it ought, if possible, to be the first figure on which the eye of the
audience falls.... The solitary entrance of Richard III throws his figure
into a relief which could by no other means have been attained.” This
anecdote may mean merely that Theodorus assumed the rôle of the first
character, however insignificant, in order to appear first upon the
scene. But some have thought that he actually had the plays modified
so that the character which he was to enact might appear first. Even
upon the first hypothesis, however, slight alterations might sometimes
have been necessary. For example, if he wished to impersonate Antigone
in such a play as Euripides’ _Phoenician Maids_ and if no passage were
provided like vss. 88-102 to enable the actor to shift from Jocaste, who
opens the tragedy, to Antigone (see pp. 177 f., above), then perhaps the
simplest solution would have been to interpolate a few such lines for
this purpose. But however this may have been in Theodorus’ case there
can be little doubt that the actors did sometimes take such liberties
with their dramatic vehicles. To correct this abuse Lycurgus, who was
finance minister of Athens in the last third of the fourth century B.C.
and “completed” the theater (see p. 69, above), is said to have had state
copies of old plays provided from which the actors were not allowed to
deviate; and Lycon was fined ten talents, which Alexander paid, for
having interpolated one line in a comedy.
Naturally most actors were peculiarly adapted to certain types of
characters. Thus Nicostratus was most successful as a messenger,
Theodorus in female rôles, etc. The interesting significance of the parts
borne by Apollogenes, an actor of the third century, has only recently
been recognized. At Argos he impersonated Heracles and Alexander, at
Delphi, Heracles and Antaeus, at Dodona, Achilles, etc., in addition
to winning a victory in boxing at Alexandria. Evidently this actor was
a pugilist for whom rôles and plays were carefully chosen which would
display his physique and strength to the best advantage. Now these
special predilections and accomplishments of the actors, as well as their
physical qualities, must often have run afoul of the constant doubling
and the occasional splitting of rôles as required by the restricted
number of players. Professor Rees makes good use of such points in
arguing against the three-actor limitation in fifth-century tragedy.[290]
But in such matters custom is all-important; we cannot be sure to what
extent the Greeks were offended by infelicities of this nature. In my
opinion such considerations are not strong enough to break down the
arguments drawn from dramatic technique (see pp. 173-82, above).
I ought not to conclude this chapter without a few words concerning
the manner in which act divisions arose from the alternation of choral
odes and histrionic passages in ancient drama. The earliest tragedies,
such as Aeschylus’ _Suppliants_ and _Persians_, began with the entrance
song of the chorus, which is called the _parodus_. In later plays it was
customary for one or more actors to appear before the choral parodus
in a so-called _prologue_. The first instance of this which is known
to us occurred in Phrynichus’ _Phoenician Women_ (476 B.C.). After
the parodus came an alternation of histrionic scenes (_episodes_) and
choral odes (_stasima_), concluding with a histrionic _exodus_. These
are nontechnical definitions and do not cover every variation from type,
but they will suffice for present purposes. Thus Aeschylus’ _Prometheus
Bound_ falls into the following divisions: prologue, vss. 1-127;
parodus, vss. 128-92; first episode, vss. 193-396; first stasimon, vss.
397-435; second episode, vss. 436-525; second stasimon, vss. 526-60;
third episode, vss. 561-886; third stasimon, vss. 887-906; exodus, vss.
907-1093. Though the number of stasima (and of episodes) was more usually
three, as in this case, there was originally no hard-and-fast rule on
the subject. In several plays there were four stasima and four episodes,
and in Sophocles’ _Antigone_ five of each. Therefore in a normal
tragedy like the _Prometheus_ the number of histrionic divisions would
be five—prologue, three episodes, and exodus. In the early plays which
had no prologue the histrionic divisions fell to four—three episodes
and an exodus. In several of the later plays, on the other hand, they
rose to six, and in the _Antigone_ to seven. As the lack of connection
between chorus and plot increased and the size and importance of choral
odes diminished (see pp. 126 f., 136-49, and 168, above) there was the
more excuse for ignoring the choral elements and for concentrating
attention upon the histrionic divisions. The development of comedy led
to similar results. The composition of an Old Comedy has already been
discussed (see pp. 40 f., above). So long as the agon and the parabasis
persisted, the structural differences between tragedy and comedy were
unmistakable; but with the disappearance of these features early in the
fourth century (see pp. 42 f., above) the assimilation of the two genres
rapidly proceeded. Moreover, as the activity of the comic chorus was
confined to _entr’actes_ and as their entertainment became so foreign to
the plot as no longer to be written in the manuscripts but merely to be
indicated by ΧΟΡΟΥ (see pp. 147 f.), this tendency to ignore the choral
element in favor of the histrionic became pronounced. Now the number
of histrionic divisions in Old Comedy and in New Comedy was limited to
five even less frequently than in tragedy. And in either literary genre
there was no more reason for such a restriction, whether on historical
or technical grounds, than there would be in modern drama. In every
period such a detail depends, or ought to be left to depend, entirely
upon the requirements of the story chosen for dramatic presentation.
Nevertheless, since the histrionic divisions in tragedy were more usually
five and since comedy fell more and more under the domination of tragedy,
the rigid principle was at last set up for both tragedy and comedy that
each play should contain five acts, no more, no less; cf. Horace’s
pronunciamento: “Let a play neither fall short of nor extend beyond a
fifth act.”
It should be observed, however, that our English word “act” conveys
a misleading impression in this connection. The Greek word was simply
“part” (μέρος) and denoted merely a division of the play as determined by
choral _divertissement_, whether written or interpolated. These “parts,”
therefore, depended upon the more or less accidental and haphazard
activity of the chorus and often two or three of them would be required
to make up an act in the modern sense. In other words the modern notion
of an act as an integral part of the story, marking a definite stage in
the unfolding of the plot, was for the most part yet to be developed,
especially in comedy.
The leveling effect of the five-act rule is seen in the modern editions
of Plautus and Terence. It is certain that neither four nor any other
fixed number of pauses was employed at the premier performances of these
dramatists’ works. In some cases they seem to have been given continuous
representation with neither choral intermezzi nor pauses at the points
where the Greek originals had had _entr’actes_. From this, however, we
must not infer that Plautus and Terence did not know where the acts or
the “parts” began and closed. If for no other reason, the recurrence of
ΧΟΡΟΥ in at least most of the Greek comedies which they were translating
and adapting would not have permitted them to be ignorant on this
point, for in my opinion, so far as pauses were inserted in the Roman
performances, they coincided with the corresponding points of division in
the Greek plays. But by this I do not mean that the Latin divisions were
always as numerous as the Greek; in my judgment, owing to contamination
and other modifying influences they were uniformly fewer. Moreover, when
these comedies were first published for the use of a reading public, it
seems that the manuscripts contained no indication of act divisions.
Within a century of Terence’s death, however, partisans of the five-act
dogma were already attempting to force their Procrustean theory upon his
works. A later effort of this sort is preserved to us in the commentary
of Donatus (fourth century A.D.) and passed into the printed editions,
with some modifications, about 1496 A.D. Likewise, the Renaissance
scholars, obsessed by the tradition of what had come to be considered an
inviolable law, proceeded to divide each of Plautus’ twenty plays into
five acts; cf. Pius’ edition of 1500 A.D. The divisions in both poets
rest upon no adequate authority and are easily shown to be incorrect.
Yet, unfortunately, it is now impossible to re-establish the acts as
known to their Latin authors. If we revert to the Greek terminology,
however, somewhat more definite results may be obtained, though, even
so, agreement is not possible in every case. Technical criteria now at
our disposal would indicate that the original “parts” (μέρη) in these
comedies ranged from a minimum of two or three to a maximum of seven or
eight.
But Aristophanes was at the same time a dramatist contending
for a prize, and had no wish to alienate the greater part of
his audience.—T. G. TUCKER.