THE INFLUENCE OF FESTIVAL ARRANGEMENTS[291]
We have already seen that the performance of plays at Athens was
confined to two festivals of Dionysus, and the time when the various
dramatic genres began to be presented at each has been stated (see pp.
119 f., above). Since the Lenaea came at the end of January (Gamelion),
when navigation was not yet considered entirely safe, few strangers
were present; and in consequence this festival became more private and
intimate, more like a family gathering of the Athenians by themselves.
On the contrary the City Dionysia took place toward the end of March
(Elaphebolion), when the allies were accustomed to send their tribute
to Athens and the city was crowded with visitors from all parts of the
Greek world. As a result this occasion was more cosmopolitan than the
other, and every effort was expended to make it as splendid as possible.
All this explains an episode in the life of Aristophanes. At the City
Dionysia of the year 426 B.C. was produced his _Babylonians_, in which
he represented the Athenian state as a mill where the allies suffered
from the tyrannous exactions of Cleon, its manager. Cleon accordingly
lodged with the senate an information (εἰσαγγελία) charging lèse majesté,
aggravated by being committed in the presence of strangers (παρόντων
τῶν ξένων). Therefore, in his next play, the _Acharnians_, produced at
the Lenaea of 425 B.C., Aristophanes prefaced some frank expressions
of opinion with the following statement: “And what I shall say will be
dreadful but just, for Cleon will not be able _now_ to malign me for
defaming the state to alien ears. For we are alone; this is the Lenaea,
and the aliens are not yet here, nor the tribute from the federated
states, nor our allies; but we are alone _now_.”[292] Similarly,
Demosthenes tried to make Midias’ assault upon him at the City Dionysia
of 350 B.C. seem more heinous by pointing out that it was committed “in
the presence of many, _both strangers_ and citizens.”[293]
Since we have no exact information as to when the City Dionysia began or
ended, we are in doubt as to its duration.[294] But it is probable that
it lasted for six days, certainly five. The first day was occupied with
the procession, as already described (see pp. 121 f., above). The second
day, and possibly the third, was devoted to dithyrambs, the literary type
from which tragedy had sprung. There were five choruses of boys and five
of men, each of the ten tribes annually standing sponsor for one chorus.
We happen to know that the contest of men was added to this festival in
508 B.C. Inasmuch as each chorus consisted of fifty amateur performers,
it will be seen that no inconsiderable portion of the free population
received every year a musical training which could not but enhance their
appreciation of the choral and lyrical parts of the dramas and likewise
improve the quality of the material from which the dramatic choruses were
chosen.
The last three days of the festival seem to have been given over to the
dramatic performances, but just what the arrangements were is not known.
In Aristophanes’ _Birds_, vss. 786 ff., the chorus, praising the use
of wings, remarks that “if one of you spectators were so provided and
became wearied with the tragic choruses, he might fly away home and dine
and then fly back again to us.” From this passage it has been plausibly
concluded that the comedies came later in the day than the tragedies. It
would seem as if the three tragic playwrights must have produced their
plays on as many successive mornings, the comedies following later each
day in similar rotation.
It is well known that at the City Dionysia each of three tragic poets
brought out four plays in a series, three tragedies and one satyric
drama (see pp. 23 f., above). Such a group was termed a _didascalia_
(“teaching”). It was Aeschylus’ frequent practice to have all four plays
treat different aspects of the same general theme, the levity of the
concluding piece counterbalancing somewhat the seriousness of the three
tragedies. In that case the set of four was called a tetralogy; but
if the satyric drama dealt with a different topic than the tragedies,
the latter were said to form a trilogy. No tetralogy or didascalia is
extant and only one trilogy, the _Agamemnon_, _Libation-Bearers_, and
_Eumenides_, which Aeschylus brought out in 458 B.C. The satyric drama
in this series is not preserved but was entitled _Proteus_. It may have
dealt with the shipwreck of Menelaus, Agamemnon’s brother, on his return
from Troy. After Aeschylus the four pieces in a didascalia were usually
unrelated in subject.
According to canonical doctrine satyric drama was the intermediate stage
in the development of tragedy from the dithyramb and was retained in the
festival program as a survival. Within recent years, as this hypothesis
has been subjected to searching criticism, its supports have slowly
crumbled away. My own opinion is that tragedy and the satyr-play are
independent offshoots of the dithyramb (see pp. 1-35, above). In either
case, since the dramatic performances were part of a Bacchic festival
and since the Bacchic element had long since been discarded by tragedy
(see p. 123, above), it is no doubt true that the satyric drama was in
the program partly in order to keep up the religious associations, as
revealing its connection with Dionysus more plainly than did mature
tragedy. Nevertheless the same tendencies which had broken down the
exclusively Dionysiac themes in tragedy were at work here also and would
not be denied. We have already seen (see pp. 126 f., above) how the
writers of satyr-plays arbitrarily superimposed Silenus and a chorus of
satyrs upon some non-Dionysiac subject. Both in Euripides’ _Cyclops_
and in Sophocles’ _Trackers_, the sole extant representatives of the
genre, the Bacchic element is restricted to these followers of his, and
Dionysus himself figures only as he is apostrophized or mentioned by
them. In 438 B.C. Euripides introduced a further innovation by bringing
out the _Alcestis_ as the last play in his didascalia. Neither Silenus
nor the chorus of satyrs appears in this piece, the theme being entirely
non-Dionysiac; but the drunkenness of Heracles and the brutal frankness
in the quarrel between Admetus and his father suggest the spirit of the
old satyric drama, while the happy ending and the humor remind us of a
comedy. These incongruities and the exceptionable circumstances under
which the play was produced have occasioned the controversy, which
began in antiquity and still continues, as to how the _Alcestis_ is to
be classified as a literary type. Is it a tragedy, comedy, satyr-play,
tragi-comedy, melodrama, _Schauspiel_, _Tendenz-Schrift_, or what?[295]
How far Euripides’ innovation in substituting such a play for the usual
satyric drama may have met with the approval and emulation of his
fellow-playwrights we have no means of knowing; but an extant inscription
of a century later shows that the satyr-play had then been degraded
still further (Fig. 76). At the City Dionysia of 341, 340, and 339 B.C.
the poets were no longer compelled each to conclude his group of pieces
in the old way, but a single satyric drama was performed, before the
tragedies began at all, as ample recognition of the Dionysiac element
which had once been all-pervasive in the festivals.
During the latter part of its history five comic poets competed each
year at the City Dionysia, and each presented but a single play; there
is some reason for believing that the number was five also at the
beginning, but possibly there were then only three competitors. At any
rate there were certainly not more than three for a while during the
Peloponnesian War (431-404 B.C.).[296] When the comedies were restricted
to three they were naturally performed one on each of the last three
days, after that day’s tragedies and satyr-play, as we have just seen.
But what the arrangement was when the larger number was presented is not
so obvious. Was a second comedy crowded into the program on two of the
days? Or were comedies produced also on the second and third days of the
festival, after the dithyrambic choruses? The latter alternative would be
my choice, and this would explain why in the inscriptional records the
comedies preceded the tragedies, though in the chronological sequence of
the last three days they followed them. When Aristophanes brought out his
_Women in Council_ he was so unfortunate in the drawing of lots as to be
forced to perform his play first in the series of comedies. Therefore he
had his chorus say (vss. 1158 ff.):
Let it nothing tell against me, that my play must first begin;
See that, through the afterpieces, back to me your memory strays;
Keep your oaths, and well and truly judge between the rival plays.
Be not like the wanton women, never mindful of the past,
Always for the new admirer, always fondest of the last.
[Rogers’ translation]
This close juxtaposition of tragedy and comedy at the same festival
must have strengthened a practice which in any case would have been
inevitable, viz., that the comic poets should parody lines, scenes, or
even whole plots of their tragic confrères. In a community as small as
Athens it was impossible that advance knowledge of a tragic plot or even
the exact wording of striking lines should not sometimes reach the ears
of a comic playwright and be turned to skilful account by him. Even when
the secret had been guarded until the very moment of presentation, it
must have been feasible for a comedian whose play was to be produced
on a subsequent day of the festival to incorporate a few lines or a
short scene in his comedy overnight. But this is mere theorizing, for I
remember no passage where such “scoops” are mentioned. The parodying of
tragedies brought out at previous festivals, however, was exceedingly
common. The extant plays preserve some instances of this, and the
scholiasts tell us of many others. Parodies of no less than thirty-three
of Euripides’ tragedies are preserved in the remains of Aristophanes’
comedies. But the situation is too well known to merit further
amplification here, cf. Murray, _op. cit._, _passim_.
On the other hand, though tragedy, comedy, and satyric dramas were
juxtaposed at the festivals, they were not intermingled. The lines
of demarcation were kept distinct. With very rare exceptions, like
the _Alcestis_, the audience always knew what kind of a play it was
about to hear, and (what was even more important) the poet always
knew what kind of a play he was supposed to write. Of course, this is
not the same as saying that all Greek tragedies were alike or that
all Greek comedies seemed to be poured from the same mold. Within the
type there was room for the greatest diversity, but the types did not
overlap or borrow much from one another. This practice was a natural
outgrowth of the Greek love for schematizing which displayed itself
in the formulation and observance of rigid laws in every branch of
art and especially in literature; in the field of drama this tendency
was strengthened by the festival arrangements. Contrast with this the
modern confusion of all the arts and all the literary genres which, in
the sphere of drama, results in plays harder to classify than Polonius’
“tragical-comical-historical-pastorals.” This is one of the things that
Voltaire had in mind when he declared that Shakespeare wrote like “a
drunken savage.”
The simplicity of the Greek effect is aptly characterized by Mr. Clayton
Hamilton:[297] “Although the ancient drama frequently violated the three
unities of action, time, and place, it always preserved a fourth unity,
which we may call unity of mood.” Possibly regard for this fourth unity
caused Euripides to employ the _deus ex machina_ at the conclusion of
his _Iphigenia among the Taurians_. It is well known that this is the
play that lends least support to the frequent charge that Euripides used
the _deus_ to cut the inextricable tangle of his plots. Here the final,
insurmountable difficulty is of the poet’s own choosing. Orestes and
his party have at last got their vessel free of the shore, and all the
playwright needed to do was to allow them to sail on in safety and thus
bring his play to a close. But arbitrarily he causes a contrary wind
and sea to drive their ship back to land, making divine intervention
indispensable. Of course this device enabled him to overleap the unity
of time and bring events far in the future within the limits of his
dramatic day, and frequently that was all that Euripides had in mind
in having recourse to this artifice (see p. 295, below). But in the
present instance I think he had an additional motive, one which has a
place in this discussion. The gist of the matter is well expressed by
Mr. Prickard:[298] “If the fugitives had simply escaped, snapping their
fingers at Thoas, the ending would have been essentially comic: perhaps,
after the grave and pathetic scenes which have gone before, we should
rather call it burlesque. But the appearance of the _deus ex machina_, a
device not itself to be praised, enables the piece to be finished after
all with dignity and elevation of feeling.”
In connection with the foregoing arises another point: when the line
between tragedy and comedy was drawn so sharply, we should hardly expect
to find the writer of tragedies and the writer of comedies united in
one and the same person. As a matter of fact not a single case is known
in all Greek drama. “The sock and buskin were not worn by the same
poet”;[299] the Greek theater knew no Shakespeare. This very versatility
of the Elizabethan poet helps to explain why his tragedies contain much
that is humorous and his comedies much that is painful, a characteristic
which has been so offensive to his French critics. Very similar is the
situation among the actors. At the City Dionysia, beginning with 449
B.C., a prize was awarded to the best actor in the tragedies brought out
each year, and about 325 B.C. a contest was established for comic actors.
At the Lenaea, prizes were offered for comic and for tragic actors from
about 442 B.C. and about 433 B.C., respectively. These arrangements would
tend still further to keep each actor within his specialty. No performer
in both tragic and comic rôles is indubitably known until Praxiteles, who
performed at Delphi in 106 B.C. as a comedian and nine years later as a
tragedian. Two other instances occurred a little later. In the second
century B.C. Thymoteles seems to have been both a tragic poet and a comic
actor. These examples exhaust the list in pre-Christian times.
In the preceding discussion some changes in the festival program have
already been mentioned, for the program was not, like Athena, fully
grown at birth. For example, the requirement that each tragic poet
should present three tragedies and a satyric drama in a group did not go
back to the introduction of tragedy by Thespis in 534 B.C. and cannot
be established for any poet before Aeschylus. It is likely that this
regulation, together with the main outlines of the program as known at
a later period, dates from about 501 B.C., when the festival seems to
have been reorganized (see p. 319, below). This is the period with which
the official records began, when also the κῶμοι, that is, the volunteer
performances from which formal comedy was derived, were first added to
the festival. In addition to the changes that have already been noticed
we may now mention the following: It was not customary for plays to be
performed more than once at Athens. It is true that the more successful
plays in the city might be repeated at the Rural Dionysia, which
were held in the various demes (townships) during the month Posideon
(December), and that some of these provincial festivals, notably that at
the Piraeus, were almost as splendid as those at Athens itself; yet the
fact remains that at Athens the repetition of a play was an exceptional
thing. Thus, when Aeschylus died in 456 B.C., honor was shown him by
the provision that his plays might be brought out in rivalry with the
new productions of living tragedians, and they are said to have won the
prize in this way several times.[300] This explains what Aeschylus is
represented as saying in Aristophanes’ _Frogs_ (vss. 866 ff.), where he
protests against contending with Euripides “here in Hades” on the ground
that they will not be on equal terms, “for his poetry,” he says, “died
with him [and came down to Hades], so that he will be able to recite it,
but mine did not die with me.” There is here not only the obvious meaning
that Aeschylus thought his poems had achieved an immortality which
Euripides’ never could, but also an allusion to the special privileges
bestowed upon them. Again, the Athenians conceived such an admiration
for the parabasis of Aristophanes’ _Frogs_, doubtless on account of the
sensible and patriotic advice therein given the citizens to compose their
differences, that the play was given a second time by request. As a
result of such precedents, in 386 B.C. the repetition of one old tragedy
was given a regular place in the program, as a separate feature, however,
no longer in rivalry with new works; and in 339 B.C. this arrangement
was extended also to old comedies. It must further be remembered that
the program was susceptible of considerable modification from year to
year. When a single satyr-play was brought out as a substitute for one
in each poet’s group (see p. 199, above), naturally each playwright
presented three tragedies and nothing more, and this actually happened in
341 B.C. But in the following year each of the three poets produced but
two tragedies. The program was therefore flexible enough to meet special
needs or emergencies.
It must be understood that the discussion of the festival program up to
this point applies as a whole to the City Dionysia alone and only in
part to the Lenaea. For example, at the Lenaea there were no dithyrambic
contests, and there is no evidence for the presentation of old plays or
even of satyric dramas. Our most tangible information is an inscription
for the years 419 and 418 B.C. (see p. 184, above). On these occasions
there were two poets and each brought out two tragedies.
Possibly the first thing, apart from physical conditions, which would
strike the modern theatergoer’s attention after entering an ancient
Greek theater would be the fact that he was provided with no playbill.
For this lack he received compensation in three ways: The first was the
_proagon_ (προαγών; πρό “before” + ἀγών “contest”), i.e., the ceremony
before the contest. This was held in the nearby Odeum on the eighth
day of the month Elaphebolion (end of March), which was probably the
second day before the City Dionysia proper began. In this function the
poets, the actors (without their masks and stage costumes), the choregi
(see pp. 270 f., below), and the choruses participated. As the herald
made announcement each poet and choregus with their actors and chorus
presented themselves for public inspection. It was therefore possible
for anyone interested, simply by being present on this occasion, to
learn what poets were competing, the names of their actors and plays,
the order of their appearance, and similar details. Moreover, the mere
titles of the plays by themselves would often convey considerable
information to the more cultured members of the audience. Thus, names
like Aeschylus’ _Seven against Thebes_, Sophocles’ _Oedipus at Colonus_,
and Euripides’ _Iphigenia at Aulis_ or _Iphigenia among the Taurians_
indicate the locale and general theme of the play on their face, and to
the more cultivated spectators titles such as Sophocles’ _Oedipus the
King_ or Euripides’ _Alcestis_ would be equally significant. On the other
hand, such names as Euripides’ _Suppliants_ or _Phoenician Maids_ would
be either mystifying or misleading, especially if the hearer was well
enough versed in Greek drama to remember that Aeschylus and Phrynichus,
respectively, had applied these titles to plays which actually dealt with
entirely different incidents.
The proagon furnished the name and scene for one of Aristophanes’ (or
Philonides’) comedies, but unfortunately we have no inkling as to how
the theme was treated. In 406 B.C. the news of Euripides’ death came
from Macedonia just before this ceremony. Sophocles appeared in garments
indicative of mourning and had his chorus leave off their accustomed
crowns. The spectators are said to have burst into tears. In Plato’s
_Symposium_ (194B) Socrates is represented as referring to the proagon
at the Lenaean festival of the year 416 B.C. as follows: “I should be
forgetful, O Agathon, of the courage and spirit which you showed when
your compositions were about to be exhibited, when you mounted the
platform with your actors and faced so large an audience altogether
undismayed, if I thought you would on the present occasion [a celebration
in honor of his first victory] be disturbed by a small company of
friends.”
The second compensation for the absence of a playbill was provided
within the plays themselves. First, with reference to the imaginary scene
of action. The mythological stories which uniformly supplied the tragic
playwrights with their themes were always definitely localized, and the
tragic poets seemed to feel the necessity of indicating the place of
action. This was commonly done by having an actor refer to “this land
of so-and-so,” or even address it or some conspicuous object. At the
beginning of Sophocles’ _Electra_ the aged servant says to Orestes, “This
is ancient Argos for which you longed” (vs. 4); in the _Bacchanals_,
Dionysus in a typical Euripidean prologue states, “I come to this land of
the Thebans” (vs. 1); Apollo begins Euripides’ _Alcestis_ with the words,
“O house of Admetus!” (vs. 1); and Eteocles in Aeschylus’ _Seven against
Thebes_ addresses the spectators, “O citizens of Cadmus” (vs. 1). When
the scene is changed within a play each locality is clearly identified.
Thus at the beginning of Aeschylus’ _Eumenides_, Delphi is indicated as
the scene in the usual way; a little later Apollo bids Orestes “go to the
city of Pallas” (vs. 79), and still later, when the shift is supposed to
have taken place, Orestes enters and says, “O Queen Athena, I come at the
bidding of Loxias” (vs. 235). Euripides was most punctilious about this
matter: he usually identified his scene within the first five lines and
always within the first fifty. Aeschylus and Sophocles were not always
so particular: in the _Antigone_, Thebes is not mentioned until vs. 101;
and in the _Persians_, though it early becomes apparent that the action
is laid in Persia, Susa is not actually shown to be the place of action
before vs. 761. On the other hand, Euripides sometimes plays a little
joke upon his audience; for example, the _Andromache_ begins, “O pride of
Asia, city of Thebe, whence I came to Priam’s princely halls as Hector’s
bride,” as if the scene were laid in Asia Minor; but in vs. 16 we learn
that the scene is really placed in Phthia!
In comedy the situation was somewhat different. Except in mythological
parodies the stories are independent of tradition and newly invented, and
usually are very slightly attached to any definite locality. As a result
the plays of Old Comedy are generally thought of, somewhat vaguely, as
taking place in Athens, though this fact is seldom expressly stated,
and we rarely have any indication as to precisely where in the city the
scenic background is supposed to stand. Occasionally we hear of the Pnyx
(_Acharnians_, vs. 20) or Chloe’s temple (_Lysistrata_, vs. 385). But
there is not a word in the _Clouds_ or in the _Women at the Thesmophoria_
to show where in Athens Socrates’ thinking-shop or Agathon’s house is
situated. A shift of scene is not uncommon. At the beginning of the
_Frogs_, Dionysus visits his brother Heracles. Since no other location
is specified, this scene is probably laid in Athens.[301] At vs. 182 the
orchestra represents the subterranean lake, and at vs. 436 the chorus
informs Dionysus that he has reached Pluto’s door (see pp. 88-90, above).
By the time of New Comedy, unless we are definitely informed to the
contrary, the scene is so uniformly laid in Athens that there was no
necessity of saying so. It is true that Athens is mentioned in Plautus’
_The Churl_, vss. 1 ff.: “Plautus asks for a tiny part of your handsome
walls where without the help of builders he may convey Athens,” but
it is evident that these words were added by the Roman poet to the
original and so are no exception to the Greek practice. That the action
did customarily take place in Athens is expressly stated in Plautus’
_Menaechmi_, vss. 8 ff.: “And this is the practice of comic poets: they
declare that every thing has been done at Athens, so that their play may
seem more Greek to you.” So thoroughly was this principle ingrained in
the playwrights’ consciousness that they were in danger of a lapse when
they evaded it. Thus Calydon is the imaginary scene of Plautus’ _The
Carthaginian_ (cf. vs. 94); nevertheless at vs. 372 one character says
to another, “If you will but have patience, my master will give you your
freedom and make you an Attic citizen,” as if they were in Athens! When
the poet, as in this instance, deviated from the usual scene of action,
he had one of the actors, generally the prologus, warn the audience by
saying, “This town is Ephesus” (Plautus’ _The Braggart Captain_, vs. 88);
“Diphilus wished this city to be named Cyrene” (Plautus’ _The Fisherman’s
Rope_, vs. 32), etc. It is only natural that this same period should
witness the rise of the convention that the side entrance (parodus) at
the spectators’ right led to the harbor or the market place and that at
their left into the country, since the scene was regularly placed in
Athens and since these were the actual topographical relationships in
the Athenian theater (see p. 233, below). So firmly was this convention
established that in Plautus’ _Amphitruo_, Thebes, an inland town, is
represented as having a harbor like Florence, Milan, Rome, etc., in
Shakespeare, or as Bohemia has a seacoast in _The Winter’s Tale_.
But the plays not only informed the audience where the scene was laid,
but also made known the identity of the dramatic characters. It is
obvious that the first character to appear would have to state his
own name with more or less directness and then introduce the next
character. The latter he might do (_a_) by announcing bluntly “Here comes
so-and-so,” (_b_) by addressing the newcomer by name, (_c_) by himself
inquiring his name and so eliciting his identity, or (_d_) by loudly
summoning him out of the house or from a distance. All four of these
means are actually resorted to. Now the earliest Greek plays have no
prologue, but begin with the entrance song of the chorus (the parodus,
see p. 192, above). Accordingly, in Aeschylus’ _Persians_ the very first
words are intended to reveal the personnel of the chorus:
We are the Persian watchmen old,
The guardians true of the palace of gold,
Left to defend the Asian land,
When the army marched to Hellas’ strand.
[Blackie’s translation]
At the conclusion of their ode, as Atossa enters they address her as
follows:
Mistress of the low-zoned women, queen of Persia’s daughters, hail!
Aged mother of King Xerxes, wife of great Darius, hail!
[Blackie’s translation],
thus removing all possibility of doubt as to the identity of the new
arrival. In this connection it ought to be said that introducing an
actor did not necessarily involve a proper name; often it was enough to
indicate the station, occupation, or relationship of the new character.
This rule applies not only to the humbler folk, such as messengers,
herdsmen, nurses, heralds, etc.—in fact Sophocles usually ignored the
entrance of servants, since their costume showed their position clearly
enough—but it sometimes applies also to those of the highest rank, as in
this instance to Atossa.
Aeschylus’ earlier play, the _Suppliants_, resembles the _Persians_
in having no prologue, and so at vs. 12 of the parodus the choreutae
disclose their identity by declaring that Danaus is their father.
Moreover, since Danaus enters the orchestra simultaneously with the
chorus, this statement serves to introduce him also, though he has no
chance to speak until vs. 176. When he does speak, however, he makes
assurance doubly sure by addressing the chorus as his “children.” Still
again, in the fourth-century _Rhesus_, which also has no prologue, the
chorus marches in and summons Hector by name from his quarters (vs. 10).
Thus from the fact that the early plays had no prologues, there grew up
the practice of having the chorus (or coryphaeus) introduce not merely
the first actor but every new character, as he appeared. For example,
when the king of Argos makes his entrance in the _Suppliants_ he engages
in conversation with the Danaids, ignoring their father, and in reply to
their question declares his name and station (vss. 247 ff.). Originally
this technique was doubtless due in part also to the exigencies of the
one-actor period (see p. 165, above), and it continued to be the regular
practice, even after prologues were _en règle_, in all the plays of
Aeschylus and in the earlier ones of Sophocles and Euripides. In comedy
this method of procedure was less common, partly because this was no
longer the usual convention in contemporaneous tragedy and partly because
comedy closely approximates the manners of everyday life, which do not
indorse this kind of introduction. When employed in comedy it was often
intended to give a tone of tragic parody. For instance, in Aristophanes’
_Acharnians_, vss. 1069 f., the approach of a messenger is announced by
the chorus as follows: “Lo, here speeds one ‘with bristled crest’ as
though to proclaim some message dire,” the tragic tone of which in the
original is unmistakable.[302]
Phrynichus’ _Phoenician Women_ was the first play which we know to
have had a prologue (476 B.C.). Aeschylus’ _Seven against Thebes_ has
the earliest extant prologue (467 B.C.). Of course, this change in the
economy of the play involved a change also in dramatic technique. Now
the entrance of actors preceded that of the chorus. If one actor came
alone he had to introduce himself, as Eteocles does in the _Seven_:
“If we succeed, the credit belongs to heaven; but if we fail, Eteocles
alone will loudly be assailed throughout the town.” If two actors enter
together at the beginning of the play they may by alternately addressing
each other by name make their identity clear to the audience, as Cratus
and Hephaestus do in Aeschylus’ _Prometheus Bound_. Moreover, before his
exit Cratus calls Prometheus, whom he has helped to nail to the rocky
background, by name (vs. 85). We have seen that when the chorus opened a
play they introduced the actors who followed them. It would be natural
that when the relative position of actors and chorus was interchanged
the technique of introduction should also be reversed; in other words,
that one of the actors in the prologue should now introduce the on-coming
chorus as the latter had previously introduced the actors. This actually
occurs in this play: when the choreutae appear, the bound Prometheus
addresses them as “children of Tethys and Oceanus,” vss. 136-40. The
same artifice recurs in Aeschylus’ _Libation-Bearers_, vss. 10-16 (see
below). But it is self-evident that this manner of introducing the chorus
would seldom be satisfactory. In truth, as the chorus gradually but
unmistakably lost its importance, its individuality faded away, and the
need of formally introducing or identifying it almost disappeared.
The chorus soon lost the exclusive privilege of introducing actors by
_addressing_ them. We have seen that Cratus and Hephaestus exercise this
function for one another, and the former does the same for Prometheus.
But the poets continued much longer to use the chorus in _announcing_
the approach of a new character. Dr. Graeber (_op. cit._, p. 26) claims
that Euripides was the first to employ an actor for this purpose. In his
_Alcestis_ (vss. 24 ff.), Apollo says:
Lo, yonder Death;—I see him nigh at hand,
Priest of the dead, who comes to hale her down
To Hades’ halls, etc.
[Way’s translation]
But just twenty years before, in Aeschylus’ _Libation-Bearers_ (vss.
10-17), Orestes announced the approach of the chorus and Electra as
follows:
What see I now? What company of women
Is this that comes in mourning garb attired?
...
Or am I right in guessing that they bring
Libations to my father, soothing gifts
To those beneath? It cannot but be so.
I think Electra, mine own sister, comes,
By wailing grief conspicuous.
[Plumptre’s translation]
Possibly Graeber did not consider the last instance formulaic enough to
count. But however this may be, at last the actors largely took over the
function of announcing new characters, as they previously had that of
addressing them.
In comedy proper names, and consequently introductions, are less
important. The names of tragedy were largely traditional and conveyed a
meaning to all educated persons in the audience as soon as they heard
them (see pp. 127 f., above); but in comedy a character might almost
as well have no name at all as one which had no associations for the
spectators. Accordingly, Aristophanes and Plautus left many of their
characters nameless. Of course when well-known citizens of Athens, such
as Socrates, Euripides, or Lamachus, were ridiculed, they were definitely
named at their first appearance. When a significant comic name was
employed it was not mentioned until the audience was in a position to
appreciate the point of the joke, sometimes not until well along in the
play. Thus in Aristophanes’ _Birds_ the names of Pisthetaerus (Plausible)
and Euelpides (Hopeful) are first mentioned at vss. 644 f.
I conclude this section with three examples of clever introductions. In
Euripides’ _Bacchanals_ (vss. 170 ff.) the blind Tiresias cries:
Gate-warder, ho! call Cadmus forth the halls
... Say to him that Tiresias
Seeks him—he knoweth for what cause I come,
and Cadmus, coming out, replies:
Dear friend, within mine house I heard thy voice,
And knew it, the wise utterance of the wise.
[Way’s translation]
The announcement of a new character’s coming was usually a pretty
artificial device, but it is plausibly employed a little farther on (vss.
210 ff.) in this same play, when Cadmus says:
Since thou, Tiresias, seest not this light,
I will for thee be spokesman of thy words.
Lo to these halls comes Pentheus hastily.
[Way’s translation]
Again, at the beginning of Sophocles’ _Oedipus at Colonus_, Oedipus
inquires: “To what place have we come, Antigone? Who will receive the
wandering Oedipus?” In a blind man these questions are especially
natural, and the use of the proper names identifies the actors’ rôles.
Soon a stranger approaches, and to him Oedipus repeats his first question
(vs. 38). His replies reveal the location and significance of the scenic
setting. The directness of the play’s first line finds a parallel in
Shakespeare’s _Twelfth Night_, Act I, scene 2:
VIOLA. What country, friends, is this?
CAPTAIN. This is Illyria, lady.
[Illustration: FIG. 68.—Mask of a Slave in New Comedy.
See p. 213, n. 1]
[Illustration: FIG. 69.—Terra Cotta Mask in Berlin Representing a
Courtesan in New Comedy.
See p. 213, n. 1]
The third compensation for the lack of a playbill was afforded by the
use of masks (see pp. 221 ff., below). In Old Comedy contemporaneous
personages were often introduced, and we are told that their masks
were true enough to life for their identity to be recognizable before
the actors had uttered a word. According to a late anecdote, at the
presentation of Aristophanes’ _Clouds_, Socrates rose from his place
and remained standing during the whole performance so that strangers
in attendance might recognize the original of his double on the stage.
In the _Knights_ (vss. 230 ff.), Aristophanes explains the absence of
a portrait-mask for Cleon on the ground that the mask-makers were too
apprehensive of that demagogue’s vengeance to reproduce his features.
But the playbill value of masks was seen more fully in the case of more
or less conventionalized characters, especially in New Comedy (Figs.
68 f.).[303] Pollux, a writer of the second century A.D., describes
twenty-eight such masks for tragedy and forty-four for New Comedy. The
hair, of varying amount, color, coiffure, and quality, seems to have been
the chief criterion, but dress, complexion, facial features, etc., were
also taken into account. The make-up of every stock character was fixed
with some definiteness and must have been well known to all intelligent
spectators. Thus the first glimpse of approaching actors enabled an
ancient audience to identify the red-headed barbarian slave, the pale
lovelorn youth, the boastful soldier, the voracious parasite, the
scolding wife, the flatterer, the “French” cook, the maiden betrayed or
in distress, the stern father, the designing courtesan, etc., much more
easily than a playbill of the modern type would have done.
If our modern playgoer in ancient Athens were an American and so
accustomed to staid conduct in a theatrical audience, he would be
surprised at the turmoil of an Athenian performance. A Frenchman,
familiar with the riots which greeted Victor Hugo’s _Hernani_ or
Bernstein’s _Après Moi_, would be better prepared for the situation. But
in any case he would soon discover that a prize was to be awarded both
in tragedy and in comedy, and that each poet had his friends, partisans,
and claque. The comic poets at least made no attempt to conceal the fact
that there was a prize and that they were “out” for it. In almost every
play Aristophanes’ choruses advance reasons, sometimes serious, sometimes
fantastic, for favoring their poet and giving him the victory. A few
examples will suffice. In the _Women in Council_ (vss. 1154 ff.) the
chorus says:
But first, a slight suggestion to the judges.
Let the wise and philosophic choose me for my wisdom’s sake,
Those who joy in mirth and laughter choose me for the jests I make;
Then with hardly an exception every vote I’m bound to win....
Keep your oaths, and well and truly judge between the rival plays.
[Rogers’ translation]
_Birds_, vss. 1101 f.:
Now we wish to tell the judges, in a friendly sort of way,
All the blessings we shall give them, if we gain the prize today.
[Rogers’ translation]
Aristophanes was bald-headed, and therefore the chorus humorously appeals
for the votes of all those similarly afflicted; cf. _Peace_, vss. 765 ff.:
It is right then for all, young and old, great and small,
Henceforth of my side and my party to be,
And each bald-headed man should do all that he can
That the prize be awarded to me.
[Rogers’ translation]
The _Birds_ (vss. 1763 ff.) concludes with a sort of “Lo the conquering
hero comes,” an adaptation of Archilochus:
Raise the joyous Paean-cry,
Raise the song of Victory.
Io Paean, alalalae,
Mightiest of the Powers, to thee!
[Rogers’ translation],
where Rogers comments: “These triumphal cries not only celebrate the
triumph of Pisthetaerus [in the play], but also prognosticate the victory
of Aristophanes in the dramatic competition.” Similarly, at the end of
the _Women in Council_ (vss. 1179 ff.):
Then up with your feet and away to go.
Off, off to the supper we’ll run.
With a whoop for the prize, hurrah, hurrah,
With a whoop for the prize, hurrah, hurrah,
Whoop, whoop, for the victory won!
[Rogers’ translation],
where the same editor and translator again comments as follows: “These
Bacchic cries (_Evoi, Evae_) do not merely celebrate the success of
Praxagora’s revolution, they also prognosticate the poet’s own success
over his theatrical rivals in the Bacchic contest.” In tragedy we
naturally could not expect anything so frank and undisguised as the first
three passages just cited, but for the last two an adequate parallel
is found in the tag which Euripides employed at the conclusion of his
_Iphigenia among the Taurians_, _Orestes_, and _Phoenician Maids_:
Hail, reverèd Victory:
Rest upon my life; and me
Crown, and crown eternally.
[Way’s translation],
which the ancient scholiast and modern editors rightly interpret as a
prayer for victory in the contest.
But if this were the extent of the influence which the fact of there
being a contest exercised upon Greek drama, the matter might quickly be
dismissed. Actually, however, the system involved deeper consequences.
It is unnecessary here to rehearse the cumbersome process by which the
judges were appointed and rendered their decision upon dramatic events
(see p. 272, below). While designed to prevent bribery or intimidation,
it had two other effects as well. One was that, since we have no reason
to believe that the choice of judges was restricted in any way or that
they were not selected from the entire free population, the judges
would therefore represent the average intelligence and taste, and a
poet who cared for victory had to accommodate himself to this situation
and could not make his appeal merely to the superior attainments of the
favored, intellectual class. Secondly, like most officials at Athens, the
judges were liable to be called to account for their conduct. In fact
on the second day after the conclusion of the City Dionysia a special
popular assembly was held in the theater for the express purpose of
airing complaints concerning the management of the festival; and if the
judges were thought to have been recreant to their duties or guilty of
favoritism, action could be taken against them at that time while the
popular anger was still hot and by the votes of the very persons whose
wishes had been balked. The total effect of these arrangements was to
render the judges extremely sensitive to the public’s expression of
opinion, which was manifested by whistling, catcalls, applause, knocking
the heels against the seats, etc. Especially in the dithyrambic contests,
where tribal rivalry entered in, feeling sometimes ran very high and
personal encounters were not infrequent. To quell such riotous disorders
it became necessary to appoint certain officials to maintain order, like
sergeants-at-arms. In view of these conditions, it is not surprising
that Plato[304] complains that the choice of victor had practically been
intrusted to a general show of hands and that the necessity of pleasing
the popular taste had corrupted the very poets themselves. Let us
consider just how this tendency manifested itself.
First of all, then, in the _Knights_, Aristophanes appeals to the
audience to impress the judges by a hearty burst of applause; cf. vss.
544 ff.:
So seeing our Poet began
In a mood so discreet, nor with vulgar conceit rushed headlong
before you at first,
_Loud surges of praise to his honour upraise; salute him, all
hands, with a burst_
_Of hearty triumphant Lenaean applause_,
That the bard may depart, all radiant and bright
To the top of his forehead with joy and delight,
_Having gained, by your favour, his cause._
[Rogers’ translation]
But some of Aristophanes’ contemporaries stooped far lower than this. In
the _Wasps_ he warns the audience not to expect “two slaves scattering
nuts among the spectators out of a basket” (vss. 58 f.), animadverting
upon a scene in a recent play by Eupolis. Again, in the _Plutus_ (vss.
789 ff.) one of the characters refuses an invitation to have titbits
distributed and adds: “It is beneath the dignity of a poet to scatter
figs and delicacies to the spectators, and on these terms to force their
laughter.” In the _Peace_ (vss. 962 ff.) he ridiculed such practices
by providing every spectator with at least one grain of barley! A more
drastic parody was perpetrated by Hegemon, who brought a cloakful of
stones into the orchestra to be thrown at the spectators! It is only
fair to state that Aristophanes did not lower himself by using such
unprofessional appeals, but the point which I am urging is confirmed by
the practice of his rivals and by the fact that he sometimes explains his
own defeats by his unwillingness to resort to their methods.
From the nature of the case, tragedy could exhibit no appeals so
undisguised as the above. To judge from Plato’s language, just cited, in
some of the tragedies of his day we might have found closer parallels to
these artifices of the comic playwrights. Nevertheless, fifth-century
tragedy does reveal how the tragic poets tickled the palates of their
auditors. They did this in two ways: first, they appealed to national
pride by rewriting the mythology in such a way as to assign to Athenian
worthies a part which non-Attic tradition did not recognize; and
secondly, they aroused the chauvinistic spirit by the sentiments, whether
eulogistic of Athens or derogatory to her enemies, which they placed in
their characters’ mouths. These points might be illustrated at great
length; it will suffice to mention a few examples.
According to Attic tradition, Medea sojourned for a while at Athens.
Euripides took advantage of this fact in order to introduce the Aegeus
episode into his _Medea_ and thus bring the Attic king into connection
also with an earlier part of the Colchian’s career. His character in
this play is presented in agreeable contrast to that of both Medea and
Jason, and his chivalry in offering Athens to Medea as an asylum from her
enemies would bring a thrill of pride to every Attic heart. Furthermore,
his presence served to motivate the famous choral ode (vss. 824 ff.)
beginning:
O happy the race in the ages olden
Of Erechtheus, the seed of the blest Gods’ line,
In a land unravaged, peace-enfolden,
Aye quaffing of Wisdom’s glorious wine, etc.[305]
[Way’s translation]
Athens as a place of refuge for suppliants was a favorite note: the
conduct of Demophon in Euripides’ _Children of Heracles_ and that of
Theseus in Euripides’ _Suppliants_ and Sophocles’ _Oedipus at Colonus_
must have given great pleasure to an Athenian audience.
Still more striking are the sentiments of the dramatic characters.
When Euripides’ _Children of Heracles_ was produced, the Spartans were
accustomed to invade and ravage Attica every year. To the ancestors of
these pillagers Iolaus says in the play (vss. 309 ff.):
Boys, we have put our friends unto the test:—
If home-return shall ever dawn for you,
And your sires’ halls and honours ye inherit,
Saviours and friends account them evermore,
And never against their land lift hostile spear,
Remembering this, but hold them of all states
Most dear.
[Way’s translation]
Think what indignation at such ingratitude must have welled up in every
spectator’s heart! Later on in the same play (vss. 1026 ff.) the Argive
king, Eurystheus, whom Athens has just defeated in battle, is made to say:
But I bestow
On Athens, who hath spared, who shamed to slay me,
An ancient oracle of Loxias,
Which in far days shall bless her more than seems, etc.
[Way’s translation]
Again, in Euripides’ _Alcestis_ (vs. 452) the chorus of Pheraean elders
drags in an allusion to “wealthy, splendid Athens,” using the adjective
λιπαραί. Aristophanes said (_Acharnians_, vs. 640) that the Athenians
could refuse nothing to anyone who applied this epithet to their city.
In Euripides’ _Trojan Women_ the choreutae are represented as wondering
to what part of Greece the allotment of the spoils will send them, and
express the wish that they “might come to the renowned, heaven-blest land
of Theseus” (vss. 208 f.). There was absolutely no reason why Trojans
should entertain such a partiality toward Athens, and this undramatic
sentiment is frankly directed to the _amor patriae_ of the playwright’s
compatriots. In the same poet’s _Andromache_ the title-character is made
to burst out into the following invective against Sparta (vss. 445 ff.):
O ye in all folk’s eyes most loathed of men,
Dwellers in Sparta, senates of treachery,
Princes of lies, weavers of webs of guile,
Thoughts crooked, wholesome never, devious all,—
A crime is your supremacy in Greece! etc.[306]
[Way’s translation]
Thus, in effect the mythological heroes were dragged upon the stage
before the Athenian populace and forced to affirm: “Your friends shall be
my friends, and your enemies my enemies.”
It would be easy greatly to extend this list, but I shall close with two
instances in which it is particularly obvious that dramatic illusion has
been sacrificed. In Euripides’ _Suppliants_ the Theban herald inquires,
“Who is despot of this land?” which gives Theseus an opportunity to say
(vss. 403 ff.):
First, stranger, with false note thy speech began,
Seeking a despot here. Our state is ruled
Not of one only man: Athens is free.
Her people in the order of their course
Rule year by year, bestowing on the rich
Advantage none; the poor hath equal right.
[Way’s translation]
Equally effective with any jingoes in the audience would be the scene in
the _Persians_. Here Aeschylus “pays a pleasant compliment to Athenian
vanity” by means of the following dialogue (vss. 231 ff.):
ATOSSA. Where, O friends, is famous Athens on the broad face of
the earth?
CHORUS. Far in the west: beside the setting of the lord of
light the sun.
ATOSSA. This same Athens, my son Xerxes longed with much desire
to take.
CHORUS. Wisely: for all Greece submissive, when this city
falls, will fall.
ATOSSA. Are they many? do they number men enough to meet my son?
CHORUS. What they number was sufficient once to work the Medes
much harm.
ATOSSA. Other strength than numbers have they? wealth enough
within themselves?
CHORUS. They can boast a fount of silver, native treasure to
the land.
ATOSSA. Are they bowmen good? sure-feathered do their pointed
arrows fly?
CHORUS. Not so. Stable spears they carry, massy armature of
shields.
ATOSSA. Who is shepherd of this people? lord (ἐπιδεσπόζει) of
the Athenian host?
CHORUS. Slaves are they to no man living, subject to no earthly
name.
ATOSSA. How can such repel the onset of a strong united host?
CHORUS. _How_ Darius knew in Hellas, when he lost vast armies
there.
[Blackie’s translation]
From a dramatic standpoint these questions are out of place, since
Atossa’s ignorance is improbable and is shown to be feigned by vss. 348
and 474 f. The first question is especially artificial. Nevertheless,
point by point Atossa has drawn out all the distinctive points of pride
in her son’s enemies: their commanding influence, their numbers, their
resources, their national weapon, their freedom, and their previous
exploits. Aeschylus valued dramatic verisimilitude less highly than
the fervent response that each of these couplets would evoke in every
Athenian breast.
So we see that the tragic playwrights, more subtly than their comic
confrères but fully as effectively, knew how to commend themselves to
the good graces of the populace by incidents and sentiments no less
palatable than the nuts and figs of comedy. If such conduct seem to some
to be beneath the dignity of transcendent geniuses like Aeschylus and
Euripides, a corrective may be found in the words of Schlegel:[307] “The
dramatic poet is, more than any other, obliged to court external form
and loud applause. But of course it is only in appearance that he thus
lowers himself to his hearers; while, in reality, he is elevating them to
himself.”
For to set up the Grecian method amongst us with success, it
is absolutely necessary to restore, not only their religion
and their polity, but to transport us to the same climate in
which Sophocles and Euripides writ; or else, by reason of those
different circumstances, several things which were graceful
and decent with them must seem ridiculous and absurd to us, as
several things which would have appeared highly extravagant to
them must look proper and becoming with us.—JOHN DENNIS.