I
After a lapse of nearly fifteen centuries, the Roman theatre at
Orange--founded in the time of Marcus Aurelius and abandoned, two
hundred years later, when the Northern barbarians overran the
land--seems destined to arise reanimate from its ruins and to be the
scene of periodic performances by the Comedie Francaise: the first
dramatic company of Europe playing on the noblest stage in the world.
During the past five-and-twenty years various attempts have been made to
compass this happy end. Now--as the result of the representations of
"Oedipus" and "Antigone" at Orange, under government patronage and by
the leading actors of the National Theatre--these spasmodic efforts have
crystallized into a steadfast endeavour which promises to restore and
to repeople that long-abandoned stage.[4]
[Illustration: GENERAL VIEW OF THE THEATRE]
If they know about it--over there in the Shades--I am sure that no one
rejoices more sincerely over this revival than do the Romans by whom the
theatre at Orange was built, and from whom it has come down to us as one
of the many proofs of their strong affection for that portion of their
empire which now is the south-east corner of France. To them this
region, although ultimately included in the larger Narbonensis, always
was simply Provincia--_the_ Province: a distinguishing indistinction
which exalted it above all the other dependencies of Rome. Constantine,
indeed, was for fixing the very seat of the Empire here; and he did
build, and for a time live in, the palace at Arles of which a stately
fragment still remains. Unluckily for the world of later periods, he
was lured away from the banks of the Rhone by the charms of the
Bosporus--and so, without knowing it, opened the Eastern Question: that
ever since has been fought over, and that still demands for its right
answering at least one more general European war.
Thus greatly loving their Province, the Romans gladly poured out their
treasure in adding to its natural beauties the adornments of art.
Scattered through this region--through the Provence of to-day, and, over
on the other side of the Rhone, through Languedoc--are the remnants of
their magnificent creations: the Pont-du-Gard; the arena, and the baths,
and the Tour-Magne, and the beautiful Maison-Carree, at Nimes; at Arles
the arena, the palace of Constantine, and the wreck of the once
exquisite theatre; the baths at Aix; the triumphal arches at Orange and
Carpentras; the partly ruined but more perfectly graceful arch, and the
charming monument, here at Saint-Remy--all these relics of Roman
splendour, with many others which I have not named, still testify to
Roman affection for this enchanting land.
The theatre at Orange--the Arausio of Roman times, colonized by the
veterans of the Second Legion--was not the best of these many noble
edifices. Decidedly, the good fortune that has preserved so large a part
of it would have been better bestowed upon the far more beautiful,
because more purely Grecian, theatre at Arles: which the blessed Saint
Hilary and the priest Cyril of holy memory fell afoul of in the fifth
century and destroyed because of its inherent idolatrous wickedness, and
then used as raw material for their well-meant but injudicious
church-building. But the Orange theatre--having as its only extant rival
that at Pompeii--has the distinction of being the most nearly perfect
Roman theatre surviving until our day; and, setting aside comparisons
with things nonexistent, it is one of the most majestic structures to be
found in the whole of France. Louis XIV., who styled it "the most
magnificent wall of my kingdom," placed it first of all.
The unknown architect who wrought this great work--traversing the Roman
custom of erecting a complete building on level ground--followed the
Grecian custom of hollowing out a hill-side and of facing the open
cutting with a structure of masonry: which completed the tiers of seats
cut in the living rock; provided in its main body the postscenium, and
in its wings the dressing-rooms; and, rising in front to a level with
the colonnade which crowned and surrounded the auditorium, made at once
the outer facade and the rear wall of the stage.[5] The dominant
characteristic of the building--a great parallelogram jutting out from
the hill-side into the very heart of the town--is its powerful mass. The
enormous facade, built of great blocks of stone, is severely simple: a
stony height--the present bareness of which formerly was a little
relieved by the vast wooden portico that extended along the entire
front--based upon a cornice surmounting open Tuscan arches and broken
only by a few strong lines. The essential principle of the whole is
stability. It is the Roman style with all its good qualities
exaggerated. Elegance is replaced by a heavy grandeur; purity by
strength.
The auditorium as originally constructed--save for the graceful
colonnade which surmounted its enclosing wall, and for the ornamentation
which certainly was bestowed upon the rear wall of the stage and
probably upon the facing-wall of the first tier of seats--was as severe
as the facade: simply bare tiers of stone benches, divided into three
distinct stages, rising steplike one above another in a great
semi-circle. But when the theatre was filled with an eager multitude its
bareness disappeared; and its brilliant lowest division--where sat the
nobles clad in purple-bordered white robes: a long sweep of white dashed
with strong colour--fitly brought the auditorium into harmony with the
splendour of the permanent setting of the stage.
It was there, on the wall rising at the back of the stage and on the
walls rising at its sides, that decoration mainly was bestowed; and
there it was bestowed lavishly. Following the Grecian tradition (though
in the Grecian theatre the sides of the stage were open gratings) that
permanent set represented very magnificently--being, indeed, a
reality--a royal palace, or, on occasion, a temple: a facade broken by
richly carved marble cornices supported by marble columns and pilasters;
its flat surfaces covered with brilliantly coloured mosaics, and having
above its five portals[6] arched alcoves in which were statues: that
over the royal portal, the _aula regia_, being a great statue of the
Emperor or of a god.
Extending across the whole front of this wall, entirely filling the
space between the wings, was the stage. Ninety feet above it, also
filling the space between the wings, was a wooden roof (long since
destroyed) which flared upward and outward: at once adding to the
acoustic properties of the building and protecting the stage from rain.
Still farther to strengthen the acoustic effect, two curved
walls--lateral sounding-boards--projected from the rear of the stage and
partly embraced the space upon which the action of the play usually went
on.
I shall not enter into the vexed question of scenery. It is sufficient
to say that this permanent set, in regard to which there can be no
dispute--a palace, that also would serve as a temple--made an entirely
harmonious framework for most of the plays which were presented here.
Indeed, a more fitting or a more impressive setting could not have been
devised for the majority of the tragedies of that time: which were
filled with a solemn grandeur, and which had for their chief personages
priests or kings. Above all, the dignity of this magnificent permanent
scene was in keeping with the devotional solemnity of the early
theatre: when an inaugural sacrifice was celebrated upon an altar
standing in front of the stage, and when the play itself was in the
nature of a religious rite.